by Gee, Maurice
She looked in the shed. Chris was hauling out more nets. She went around the corner to the cellar. Hollis and a woman were standing outside, he in the hunched stance his crutches forced on him, she facing away from Ellie, with one hip jutting and a cigarette burning at the end of her tilted arm.
Ellie thought: It’s Dolores. She approached. Hollis looked at her briefly, then back at the woman, who turned. Sharp eyed, sallow faced, crinkle faced. She sucked on her cigarette and blew out smoke. Not Dolores. In spite of her weathered cheeks, too young.
‘Ellie,’ Hollis said. He swallowed. ‘This is Mrs Johansen. She’s –’
‘Debbie,’ the woman said. ‘Mrs and I don’t agree.’
‘She’s Dolores Wood’s daughter.’
‘Yeah.’ Debbie laughed. ‘A virgin birth.’
‘And she says she’s mine.’
‘I don’t just say it. I am,’ Debbie said. ‘Does your wife shock easy? But –’ she made a calming gesture – ‘I haven’t come looking for a fight. The first thing is just to say hello. No harm in that.’ Again to Hollis: ‘Is she your wife?’
‘We’re not married,’ Ellie said. ‘We’re partners though. And I don’t shock easy. I knew Dolores. I shared a room with her.’ She looked at Debbie Johansen steadily. ‘You look like her.’
‘I was her double growing up.’
‘How old are you?’ Hollis said.
Debbie smiled. ‘Yeah, I thought we might get some arithmetic. 1960 I was born. In the Royal North Shore Hospital in Sydney. I don’t know when you and Mum were having your good time but my guess is round about July 1959. Am I right?’
‘Where’s Dolores? How is she?’ Ellie said.
‘Oh, Mum. She’s fine. Still living in Sydney. Last time I called she was still there.’ The woman was sending narrow glances at Ellie. ‘How come you and her were sharing a room?’
‘Have you got a birth certificate?’ Hollis said.
‘What? Oh, yeah. It’s in the car. It doesn’t name you as my dad though. That’s Raymond Oliffe, now deceased. Do we have to go through all this? Look.’ She went to the car, quick, long striding. Ellie stood beside Hollis. She freed his fingers from their grip on the crutches and held his hand. Debbie Johansen came back with a folding purse. She took out a curved photograph.
‘That’s her and I reckon that’s you.’
They were standing in front of Hollis’s car. She was leaning into him with her arms around his waist. His right hand held her shoulder like a ball. Leather jacket, widow’s peak, thin face grinning. How milky, how serene and expectant Dolores’ face. It was not the way Ellie remembered her.
‘Am I right?’
Hollis handed back the photograph. His face was composed, smiling slightly, but Ellie, her arm inside his, felt his heart thumping.
‘How long have you known about me?’ he said.
‘You specifically? Not long. But I always knew poor old Dad wasn’t my dad.’ She dropped her cigarette and ground it out. ‘They got married a couple of months before I was born. He was twenty years older than her. He was some kind of saint. Do you really want to know all this? I thought you might hug me or something.’
Chris Latta started the tractor and drove away.
‘Come up to the house,’ Hollis said.
They walked side by side, Debbie Johansen getting ahead, febrile in her step, then slowing down.
‘Mum didn’t say you were crippled.’
‘I had polio when I was young,’ Hollis said.
‘Before you knew her?’
‘Yes, before.’
‘You’d think she would have said.’
‘What did she say?’ Ellie asked.
‘Not much. I found that photo. It’s got the date on the back, did you see? 1959. So when I asked she just said, A man in New Zealand. She wouldn’t say your name or anything. It was like you were dead. In fact one time I asked if you were. She just said, Rich people don’t die. So I got “rich” out of her. Good-looking from your photo too. That was pretty nice for a girl of sixteen. I started figuring out ways I could find you. But when I ran away I forgot about all that. I was having too much fun at first and then too much bloody strife.’ She had moved half a dozen steps ahead, but stopped and grinned back. ‘I suppose I’m not every man’s dream of a daughter, eh?’
‘You ran away?’ Ellie said.
‘Yeah, from Woollongong; that’s where we lived then. Up to the Cross. You don’t want my history. I stayed out of the worst sort of trouble, I’ll tell you that.’ She paused on the path to the front door. ‘This is some house. A vineyard too, eh?’ She looked across the vines at the inlet and said, ‘You’re pretty lucky having this. Mum would have liked it. She’s never got as much as she thinks she’s entitled to.’
‘Come in,’ Ellie said. She led the way into the sitting room. ‘Sit down, please. Would you like some coffee?’
Debbie sat down. She looked in a startled way at the paintings on the walls. Said, ‘I’d rather sample some of the wine you make. If that’s OK?’
Ellie brought an opened bottle from the kitchen and poured three glasses.
‘I don’t know what we should drink to,’ Debbie said. ‘Do you?’
‘No,’ Hollis said.
‘This is not a confrontation, that’s all. So, happy days?’
‘Just drink it,’ Ellie said. ‘And let’s talk properly. Hollis didn’t know Dolores had a baby, you should know that.’
Debbie sipped her wine. She lit a cigarette. ‘Because,’ she said.
‘Because what?’
‘She got sent across to Sydney to have an abortion. She told me about it not so long ago. She drinks too much. It kind of frees her up and she lets things out. She said that’s how rich people handled things back then. Send the girls away on, what’s its name, the Wanganella?’ Debbie blew out a stream of smoke. ‘I suppose I’m lucky to be alive.’
‘Listen –’
‘No, stay out of it, Ellie,’ Hollis said.
‘Yeah,’ Debbie said, and took a mouthful of wine, which made her choke. Ellie, nearer than Hollis, banged her back. She did not like the smell coming from the woman.
‘Thanks,’ Debbie gasped. ‘Hey, I didn’t come to fight. Where’s my smoke?’ She took it from the edge of the tray. ‘Like I said, it’s not a confrontation. And I didn’t come for money, if that’s what you think. You can keep your money. Or to hear him say he’s sorry. Not for a bit of affection either.’ She turned to Hollis. ‘I just thought a guy like you, lawyer and all that – you were one, weren’t you?’
‘Yes.’
‘– might be able, I don’t know, to give me some help. I need someone with a bit of nous and you’re related.’
Hollis lowered himself into his straight-backed chair. Ellie saw him tensing with each throb in his leg, but now was not the time to bring him a pill. She wanted to put herself between him and this woman; wanted to slide between them on runners like a door. Hollis was on the point of some declaration which she must prevent. It could not be of love, it must be of guilt, and that would trap him in some unnatural stance. Too many years had gone by: responsibility should not be asked to travel that long way back. Sorrow would be better. Sorrow was not affected by time. She said, ‘We’ll help you if we can. But you mustn’t expect too much, after forty years.’
Debbie Johansen made a delicate suck. She was clever with her cigarette: timed and punctuated. She picked a non-existent tobacco thread from her tongue. ‘We?’ she asked.
‘Yes, Ellie. It’s not we, it’s only me,’ Hollis said. In spite of that he kept his lawyer’s manner. ‘If you can tell me how, I’ll help if I can,’ he said to Debbie.
‘Yeah. Good.’ She sipped her wine and ran her tongue along her lip. Nervous, Ellie saw, and in some kind of controlled desperation. Coming here must have been a throw.
‘I’ve got a son,’ Debbie said. ‘He’s your grandson. His name’s Dion and he’s twenty-two. Yeah, wait on. I was only seventeen when I had him. And I wasn’t m
arried. You might say I took after Mum.’
‘Where is he?’ Hollis said.
‘I’m coming to that.’ She stubbed out her cigarette, lit another. ‘He’s a good kid. He was never any trouble. But he’s bi-polar. Do you know what that is?’
‘Manic depressive,’ Hollis said.
‘Yeah. Mostly manic. When I said no trouble I meant he takes his medication. He’s bloody bright. He could be a lawyer like you. But there’s times when he just gets so fed up he goes away. Vanishes. And that’s when he really gets down. I reckon it’s more than body chemistry. It’s – deep. It’s, What’s the use? He wants to stop. He wants to die. They take him in for treatment – rehabilitation, that sort of stuff. But they don’t keep them in there these days. Anyway, he doesn’t belong, he belongs out. So, he comes. And the whole thing starts all over again.’ She drank some wine and gave an uncertain smile. ‘Some story, eh?’
‘Where’s his father?’ Ellie said.
‘He hasn’t got one. Never had one. Never will.’
For one terrible moment, almost hilarious, Ellie saw Mike. ‘Birth father? He must have had one of those.’
‘Either one of a couple of blokes. I never followed it up, there was no point. And don’t say Johansen, it wasn’t him. He was a Kiwi and we came out here. He’s history.’
‘Is Dion in Australia?’ Hollis said.
‘No. The West Coast.’
‘Down south? That’s where you live?’
‘Does it matter? I live in Auckland. We live in Auckland. I was over in Sydney visiting Mum. That’s when she told me that abortion stuff. And your name. She’s almost an alcoholic, if you must know. Dion was OK when I left but when I got back he was gone.’
‘What part of the West Coast? You want me to trace him, is that it?’
‘No, I’ve traced him. He wrote me a card from Greymouth saying he was all right. He kept in touch and then he stopped. Wouldn’t answer, that sort of thing; and I knew what that meant so I went down there. Flew down, Christchurch, Greymouth. It’s bloody expensive. And don’t think I’m asking for money either.’
‘No,’ Hollis said.
‘He was gone. It was a sort of transient house. Full of what would have been hippies once. You know, kids. I got it out of them that he’d gone to another house in Otira. Where the tunnel goes in. It’s a kind of ghost town. So I went there. He was gone again, but this was just one bloke and one girl and they wouldn’t say where. I told them who I was and what was wrong with Dion but they kept on saying, It’s his choice. I couldn’t get anything, even when I said I’d call the cops. All they said was, Call them. So …’
She was close to tears. She stubbed out her cigarette and gulped her wine; squeezed her eyelids shut.
‘Take your time,’ Hollis said. Was that what lawyers advised or was he a father?
‘I walked around the houses. Jesus, what a place. They’re mostly empty. Ever banged on empty doors, rooms with nothing in them? There’s one crummy cafe in an old pub. I asked in there but they hadn’t heard of him. If I’d had a gun I’d have gone back and shot those bastards in that house. But all I could do was sit and wait for the bus. Three sodding hours sitting on a bench.’ She lit another cigarette, waved smoke away, looked at Hollis. ‘While I was there I started thinking about you. I made up my mind on the plane going home. You weren’t hard to find. So here I am.’
‘What do you want me to do?’
‘Come with me and find him. I need someone who swings a bit of weight. They know where he is. You can say you’re a lawyer. If you say the cops, they’ll know it’s for real.’
‘All right,’ he said.
‘You will?’
‘Yes, I’ll come.’
Ellie detected a lightening, a kind of unknotting in him.
‘Debbie,’ he said.
‘Yeah?’
‘I want Ellie too. Will you come, Ellie?’
He was saying to her, in this way, ‘you and me’ – restoring it.
‘When?’ she said.
‘When, Debbie?’
‘Soon.’ She was crying; had scrabbled a handkerchief from her blouse and was wiping her eyes. ‘Sooner the better …’
‘Are you all right?’ Hollis put his hands in his crutches, trying to rise.
‘I thought you’d say no. Thought you’d kick me out. I would have bet on it. ’Scuse me a minute. Where’s the toilet?’
Ellie showed her. She came back to Hollis. ‘Can you make this trip?’
‘I have to.’
‘I know you have to. But can you, I said. And yes, I’ll come.’ She stood beside him and pressed his head into her breast.
‘It’s not so far. We’ll take the Cruiser.’ He freed himself. ‘Ellie, I don’t just want you for the driver.’
‘I know.’ You and me, she thought. ‘This boy sounds in a bad way.’
He nodded. Sorrow, a haunted sorrow, on his face. That made a safer pathway for responsibility. Guilt, remorse, whatever – keep them out.
‘I think we should go tomorrow. We should start early,’ he said.
‘Can Chris manage everything?’
‘I’ll talk to him.’
Ellie picked up her wine and sipped. ‘She is who she says she is, Hollis. There’s no doubt. She’s –’ raddled was the word she might have chosen; said instead, ‘She’s had hard times. But she’s got Dolores in her face.’ She was uncertain whether she should say the next bit, and swallowed more wine. ‘You’re there too.’
‘I don’t care who she looks like,’ Hollis said.
‘No.’
She was uncertain what the cost would be to him of not liking Debbie.
‘I think she should stay here tonight. Debbie –’ as the woman came back – ‘Hollis thinks we should go tomorrow, is that all right? We’ve got plenty of room here, so you can stay the night.’ Then, seeing Debbie draw back, she checked herself.
Let Hollis, she thought.
He said in a courtly way, ‘We’d like to have you here. Dion can stay too, when we bring him back.’
‘No way. I want him in Auckland. That’s where we live. Is there any need …’ She made a nod at Ellie, asking if she had to come.
‘It’s hard for me to travel unless we’re in our own car. Ellie’s the one who drives that. Anyway, I want her.’ He smiled at Debbie. ‘I don’t know how I should behave with you. How do you act with a daughter you’ve never seen? You said a hug.’
Debbie shook her head. ‘I was needling you. You’ve done OK. I can get a hotel room in town.’
‘No. Stay here. Please,’ Hollis said.
‘Get your car and put it in the yard,’ Ellie said. ‘There’s a bed made up.’
She wanted to give Hollis time alone, and went out with Debbie, then waited on the steps while she fetched her car. ‘Is that you? Coco Cleaners?’ she said.
‘Yeah. I pranged my door. Dion painted that on when we got the new one.’
‘You do cleaning?’
‘House cleaning. Do you want some done?’
‘No, no,’ Ellie said, then saw that Debbie was joking. ‘Why Coco?’
‘I dunno. It sounded good. It’s French, isn’t it? You reckon house cleaning’s good enough for the lawyer-man?’
‘Don’t call him that,’ Ellie said.
‘You look out for him, don’t you? I can’t say Dad.’
‘Call him Hollis. He won’t mind.’ She swung between resentment of and sympathy for Debbie; and had, too, a physical revulsion. Not only a sweat smell (but she’d had a long drive), also the mephitic odour heavy smokers get. Dolores had smelled of sweat, as most people did in those days, coming in from work, but later on of soap suds and hot water and – Ellie remembered it for the first time in years – lemon tea with sugar when dressed for going out. Sweetness and astringency.
Debbie lifted her bag from the back seat of the car. ‘When did you share a room with Mum?’
Ellie explained, and told Debbie she’d written to Dolores but had no reply.
‘She’s never mentioned you,’ Debbie said. She jerked her head towards the sitting room. ‘Did she pinch him from you? Or maybe it was the other way round?’
‘It wasn’t like that. Come inside. I’ll show you the bedroom.’ She left her there unzipping her bag. Hollis was still sitting in his chair – perhaps a little punchdrunk, Ellie thought.
‘All right?’
‘Yes, I’m all right.’
‘I’m going to my studio so you can talk to her.’ She was puzzled that she had said ‘studio’. ‘If you want me, call out.’
She tried sketching Dolores, then Debbie, but couldn’t get either. Tried the bi-polar boy, making him up, but found she was doing Hollis in his leather jacket and bitter smile. She went outside and sat on the steps. Hollis was new made. She’d made him over, or so she’d thought, and that was why she’d never told him there was no abortion. It did not fit in with their lives. I’m not feeling guilty any more than him, Ellie said.
The tide had turned since she had walked by the inlet. The dinghy was drifting at the end of its rope. Soon it would tip sideways on the mud. Ellie smiled. She must try not to be afraid.
Later she saw Hollis walking up his new path. Chris was unloading the last nets from the trailer. He had three polytech students arriving in the morning to put them on. We shouldn’t be away for more than one night, Ellie thought. Everything is going to be all right. She went into the sitting room and found Debbie smoking. How many packets does she get through in a day?
‘Hollis tells me you’re a painter,’ Debbie said.
‘Yes, I am.’
‘Are all these yours?’
‘No, they were done by a friend of mine, Fan Anerdi.’
‘Are they modern art?’
‘Well, they were done quite recently so I suppose they are.’
