‘Don’t you want to assemble it? Aren’t the parts made exactly to scale?’
‘We could go out somewhere, if you like. The three of us. We could go to lunch in town, how about that?’
‘It’s a faithful reproduction,’ said Doreen. ‘An exact replica. It was very expensive.’ She sighed. ‘Lucky old Joyce, going on a cruise. I always wanted to go on a cruise. So romantic, sailing the seas.’
‘Tell you what, Mum,’ said Patrick, ‘I’ll get the Shipbuilding Outfit from the bank and we’ll sell it. We’ll put it together with all of Dad’s other sets and sell them to a collector or a dealer, whoever offers the best price, and then you can buy yourself a few treats. Take a holiday, perhaps.’
Doreen fixed him with a stare. ‘Don’t be ridiculous, I could never sell Graham’s collection,’ she said. ‘It’s worth too much.’
When Patrick did bring Rosemary round, Doreen kept calling her Faye and telling her how much better she was looking.
‘You’ve really filled out again,’ she said. ‘Of course, I always thought you had a lovely figure.’
‘Mum, this is Rosemary,’ said Patrick. ‘Faye’s still in hospital. She’s still very sick.’
‘I don’t know why you thought you needed to lose weight, dear,’ said Doreen. ‘Your mother’s fairly well padded, and she never had any trouble getting boyfriends.’
She watched him from the bed, her eyes taking up too much of her face.
‘Hello, Faye,’ said Patrick. ‘Aunt Joyce thought you might like a visitor. How are you feeling? Have they said when you can go home?’
Faye turned her head and stared out the window. ‘I don’t want to go home.’ The voice was scratched, barely more than a whisper.
‘The food’s that good, is it?’ said Patrick, and bit his tongue. His eyes travelled from Faye’s concave cheeks to the crook of her elbow, where a needle was taped. Above the bed a bottle filled with a colourless solution hung like a hurricane lantern.
Faye followed his gaze. ‘They told me everything I need is in there,’ she said. ‘It could be water, for all I know. Do you think it’s water?’
‘Aunt Joyce is very worried about you. She wants you to get better and come home.’
Faye sighed and laced her fingers together. Her arms were so thin that her hands appeared enormous, like adult hands on a child. And the identity bracelet encircling her wrist would have fitted a child; her name, written in black ink capitals, met its own beginning. If she lost any more weight, Patrick thought, her name would start shrinking, disappearing letter by letter.
‘I don’t want to see my mother. She fusses too much. And Ronnie’s always there. Always,’
‘Is there someone else who can look after you, though? What will you do when they let you out?’
‘Nothing,’ said Faye. ‘I don’t want to do anything.’
‘Well, you’ll need to rest for a while of course—’
‘Sometimes I used to stand at my dressing-table wondering what to wear. How do you know, in the morning, what the rest of the day will be like? How do you even know what it’ll be like across town? And will it rain? And if it’s cool now will it get warmer later? If I wear cotton will I freeze?’
She took a gasp of air. Patrick watched her collarbone moving up and down like gaunt wings and thought of the little-girl dress she’d left at his parents’ house once, of how it had hung outside overnight and frozen on the washing line.
‘I need someone to tell me things,’ she said. ‘There are so many decisions to be made in a day. I wander around at the grocer’s sometimes, not even taking anything from the shelves. Why are there three brands of butter? Are red apples better than green ones?’
Patrick studied the pattern in the linoleum.
‘I just want someone to take over,’ Faye said, her too-large eyes on Patrick now, eating him up. ‘I want someone else to make the decisions. I want someone to tell me what to eat and what to wear, and what I should read and which songs I should enjoy. Is that so bad?’
‘I need to get going now,’ said Patrick, and he bent over and kissed Faye on the cheek. Her skin felt like paper money, and he could smell the hospital bedclothes, her acetone breath. ‘I’ll come again soon,’ he said. ‘As soon as I can manage.’
When he was in bed with Rosemary that night, watching her fingers move over his skin, he thought of Faye’s hands. He saw them locked behind her back, a ball of knuckles, and his own arms attached to her body, performing every task for her, making the decisions. He would look after her when she came out of hospital. Rosemary would just have to put up with it. Faye was family.
‘It seems ridiculous,’ said Rosemary, ‘that she can’t stay with her mother. They have that huge house, while we’re cramped in here like sardines.’
‘I don’t think it’s healthy for her there,’ said Patrick. ‘I don’t think she’ll get better, with Joyce breathing down her neck. And Ronnie.’ He dried a crystal glass—a wedding present from his mother—and filled it with orange juice. Then he placed it on a tray, beside a plate of soft scrambled eggs. ‘The museum wants me to go on a buying trip. They want me to look at some manuscripts that have come up for sale in Italy and Turkey, a couple in Australia.’
‘Australia?’ said Rosemary.
‘It’s an island continent in the south Pacific.’
‘I had a great-uncle who emigrated to Australia. My mother said he went opal mining.’
‘Tell you what,’ said Patrick, gathering up the tray, ‘Faye should be better by then, why don’t you come with me? We could see New Zealand too, while we’re down there.’
Rosemary peered at her reflection in the kitchen window. ‘Do you think these trousers make me look fat?’ she said. ‘The sales girl told me black was very slimming, but then, she was thin as a rake.’
In the end, Patrick went travelling on his own.
‘It’s not that I don’t want to come,’ said Rosemary. ‘I’m just so tired. It’s been very tiring, having a house guest in such a small house. We have so little room.’
‘Watch out for pick-pockets,’ said his mother, who had never been abroad. ‘Don’t carry bags for strangers. And mind the sun, it ‘s very strong. Mind your moles.’
‘I’ll be fine,’ said Rosemary. ‘You deserve a break, looking after your cousin all this time. It’s been months and months. Make it a bit of a holiday. Go.’
He climbed from the water and let the sun dry his skin.
‘This is the end of the world,’ she said, and splashed his back with drops of ocean. She was golden from the sun, not like the women at home. Not like Rosemary or pale Faye. And she smelled different, too. Her skin was muskier, tinged with the outdoors. Every manuscript had its own particular scent, he recalled. He traced a message on her back with his fingertip, scrolled letters across her shoulder-blades, down her spine. Under his touch, tiny hairs raised.
‘After this, there’s only ice,’ she said. He looked out to the horizon, and it was true, there was no other land in sight. She rolled over. Grains of black sand clung to her shoulder, her back. ‘How much longer do you have?’
‘Two days.’ He thought of the purchases he’d made, the fragile manuscripts that would follow him home, packed and sealed to withstand motion, insured against disaster. The museum would be pleased. ‘I’ll keep in touch,’ he said, brushing away the black sand. ‘We can exchange addresses.’ He thought of Rosemary, waiting for him to return. She would be planning his homecoming meal, selecting flowers from the garden, making the bed with clean sheets. He thought of a recipe for ink: Add one third part of pure wine, and putting it into two or three new pots, cook it untilyou see a sort of skin show itself on the surface; then taking these pots from the fire, place them in the sun until the black ink purifies itself from the red dregs. Temper it with wine over the fire, and, adding a little vitriol, write. ‘In Indonesia,’ he said, already rehearsing what he’d tell Rosemary, his colleagues, Faye, ‘I saw a puppet show made of shadows.’ Sand collected under
his fingernails.
‘You can never contact me here,’ she said, writing herself into his book, ‘but take it anyway. In case things change.’ She was silent after that, and wouldn’t name the things that might or mightn’t change. The sun poured and poured.
‘I think I’m burning.’ he said.
When Colette brought Daniel home she found Malcolm sitting alone in the lounge.
‘Sorry we’re a bit late,’ she said. ‘We were at the park and we missed our bus back.’
‘Have you seen Ruth?’
Colette shook her head. ‘Why?’
‘She’s never this late. I rang periodicals and there was no answer, everyone’s long gone. She’s never been this late before.’
‘Daniel,’ said Colette, ‘why don’t you go put your bag away and wash your hands?’
‘If she was going to be late, she would have phoned.’
‘I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about,’ said Colette, but Malcolm wasn’t listening. He was staring past her, to the sideboard, she realised, to the cluster of photographs. ‘I’ll make some tea,’ she said.
The envelope wasn’t sealed. It was propped against the electric jug, an unobtrusive cream rectangle. It wasn’t even addressed to anyone. Whoever had left it there had been in a hurry to leave. Colette didn’t open it.
‘I found this in the kitchen,’ she said. As Malcolm read the note, she watched his face for clues. She wasn’t expecting him to laugh.
‘She’s gone on holiday,’ he said. ‘Just like that.’ He laughed again.
‘Where is she?’
‘I’ve absolutely no idea.’
Colette looked at the photo of Laura. ‘It must be hard for her, not knowing,’ she said. ‘Even all this time later, it must be very hard.’
‘I used to do a lot of photography,’ said Malcolm. ‘Landscapes, mainly. Mountains, frost. I was never very good at people.’
‘Does she say when she’ll be back?’
Malcolm scanned the single creamy page again and shook his head.
‘It’s just that my cousin’s coming to stay over Easter, from America, and I wondered if I could have some time off. We’ve never met.’
‘Where’s Mummy?’ said Daniel, appearing at the door. ‘I can’t find her.’
‘She’s having a holiday,’ said Colette. ‘She’ll be back soon, there ‘s nothing to worry about.’
‘Hol-i-day, hol-i-day,’ sang Daniel. He sat on the Persian rug and examined a woven flower.
‘I wouldn’t ask,’ said Colette, ‘it’s just that we’ve never met. We used to be pen-pals.’
Malcolm folded the note back into its blank envelope. ‘I’m sure we can cope,’ he said.
While Ruth was away, Malcolm took up the paving stones in the back yard and dug a garden. He planted seedling lettuces, beans, roses. He sowed a row of carrots, a row of snow peas. One corner he reserved for a patch of herbs: mint, rosemary, parsley, coriander, sweet basil. Normally he wouldn’t have planted at that time of year—summer was over, daylight saving had finished—but there was a chance, he told himself, that things would grow.
He left the back door open when he worked outside in the evenings, so he could hear Daniel or the telephone. He was surprised how placid his son was without Ruth there. He didn’t even ask where she’d gone, or when she was coming back, but simply accepted Malcolm’s explanation that she was having a little holiday on her own. He brushed his teeth without being asked, and put away his toys each day so nobody would break their neck.
Malcolm closed his office door and rang the periodicals department again.
‘She didn’t mention where she was going,’ said Jan. ‘I think it was a last-minute decision. Why, is something wrong?’
‘No,’ said Malcolm, ‘no, of course not.’
‘But she didn’t leave you an address, or a phone number?’
‘I’m sure everything’s fine,’ he said. ‘She just needed a break, that’s all. She’s been wanting a holiday for ages,’
‘Well, let me know if you hear from her, won’t you?’ Jan hesitated. ‘She’s seemed a bit distant lately. A bit sad.’
That night Malcolm worked in the garden until late. He erected pyramid-shaped frames for the beans to climb, so they would form a leafy wigwam. The space inside, he thought as he secured twine to the bars, would accommodate a child. He tried to picture what Ruth might be doing: relaxing in a spa pool, watching television, sipping a cocktail. Washing up, removing her make-up, dancing, sleeping. Flirting with rich tourists. Smoking. Gambling, perhaps. He thought about the note she’d left. Don’t worry about me. Its not your fault. Nothing is wrong. It was, though. People didn’t disappear unless something was wrong. And Ruth, he realised, had been disappearing for years, becoming more and more distant from him and Daniel, trickling away from them one grain at a time. When she came back, he decided, he would make a real fuss of her. He would do all the cooking, surprise her with gifts, take her out to dinner. He would stop reading the newspaper in bed, he would send flowers to her at the library. He would make sure she knew she was wanted, loved. He would make her feel so wanted that she would never go away again.
When he finished with the bean frames he made his way to the back porch. The door was shut. He turned the handle quietly, careful not to wake Daniel, but it wouldn’t open. Someone had locked it from the inside. Malcolm felt in his pocket for his keys, his fingers searching for the plastic disc containing Laura, but they were in the house. He’d left them on the kitchen table the way he did each night when he returned home.
‘Daniel,’ he called, knocking on the door, ‘Daniel, can you come and let Daddy in?’ The outdoor light shone on the neat new garden. There was no sound from inside. ‘Daniel? Can you hear me?’ Malcolm walked round the side of the house and rapped on his son’s window. Daniel peeped out between the curtains, stared at his father for a moment and disappeared again, and no matter how hard Malcolm knocked or how loudly he called, he wouldn’t come back.
As he waited on the neighbours’ front doorstep, Malcolm tried to brush the worst of the dirt from his hands. ‘I’m so sorry to trouble you this late,’ he said when the door opened, ‘but I’m locked out. Would it be possible to use your phone?’
He didn’t even know the woman’s name, he realised as he padded down her hall in his gardening socks. He wondered whether he should introduce himself, but decided it was too late; they’d been living side by side for months now.
‘Hello, Nathan speaking.’
‘Nathan, Malcolm Pearse here. I wonder, would Colette be there at the moment?’
‘Sorry, she’s out with her cousin. I don’t know what time she’ll be back.’
‘Right,’ said Malcolm, ‘it’s just I wanted to use her key. My key, to our house. I’m locked out.’
‘Sorry,’ said Nathan again.
Back in the garden, Malcolm removed his sweatshirt and wrapped one of the uprooted paving stones inside it. Then he swung it at the back door, and some of the frosted glass shattered over his feet, and some of it fell inside.
At lunchtime he took his key to have a copy made.
‘We had a bit of excitement last night,’ he told the man at the Mister Minit stand. ‘I was locked out.’
Mister Minit nodded. ‘You wouldn’t believe the number of people who don’t have a spare. They never think about it till it’s too late.’
Malcolm forced the key-ring apart with his thumbnail.
‘That’s okay,’ said Mister Minit. ‘You don’t have to take it off.’
‘No trouble,’ said Malcolm as the sharp end of the ring dug into his thumb. ‘Here we are.’ And he shut the picture of Laura in his palm.
He watched as Mister Minit selected an uncut key from one of the many hooks. There were rows and rows of them, toothless things, blank tongues of metal. He thought about how he’d broken the glass in the door, how he’d walked over the shards in his gardening shoes and headed for Daniel’s room. Daniel was sitting up in bed, wide awake
. Above his bed hung the silhouette of Laura, a hole in the white wall.
‘Hello,’ said Daniel.
‘That was very naughty,’ said Malcolm. ‘Daddy had to break the glass in the back door.’
Daniel didn’t answer.
‘There’s a big mess in the porch and it’s very dangerous and you mustn’t go there or you’ll cut your feet. It’ll be very expensive to fix.’ He stared at his son, who remained silent. ‘We’ll have to leave it open all night. I’ll have to cover it with paper. It’s very dangerous.’
Daniel lay down, his head dark against the white pillowcase. ‘Good night,’ he said.
‘Do you really do them in a minute?’ said Malcolm. Mister Minit nodded. There was a squealing sound as he traced the machine round Malcolm’s key, and it was done.
A postcard was waiting for him when he got home. Colette had left it bundled up with all the other mail, but Malcolm had the distinct feeling it had been read. He didn’t care. He was relieved. People didn’t put bad news on postcards; they sealed it in envelopes, surrounded it with other information. They cushioned it with roomy details of good health, new babies, pleasing exam results. He looked at the picture, which gave nothing away. It wasn’t a landscape or a building but a single paua shell, available throughout the country. He tried to make out the postmark, but it was too faint.
Dear Malcolm and Daniel,
I’m having a lovely relaxing time and hope you are too. I’ve been going swimming a lot and am getting so brown you might not recognise me! There is a gallery here where you can see glass-blowers at work—I could watch them for hours. I should be back some time next week. Say hi to Colette, lots of love, Mummy
Malcolm wrapped the new key in plastic and sealed it inside a film canister, then buried it in the garden. He chose a spot beside the Italian parsley, because of its key-shaped leaves, and he made sure that the hole was shallow. In an emergency, it would be easy to find the key again, and there would be no shouting, and no broken glass.
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