by Fiona Capp
Wearing a grave expression, the boy raises a hand in the classic pose of the orator. At first the recording is too poor to hear what he is saying. But gradually, as his confidence builds, his defiant words emerge from the background crackle.
. . . a tide in the affairs of men,
Which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune;
Omitted, all the voyage of their life
Is bound in shallows and in miseries.
On such a full sea are we now afloat,
And we must take the current when it serves,
Or lose our ventures.
His hand drops and so does the mask to reveal the hesitant face of the child, peering anxiously into the darkness. The camera pans down to the shadowy stalls where a woman and a man, dressed in the smart-casual attire of the 1960s, sit in the front row. They smile and clap and their shoulders touch. The man cries ‘Bravo!’ and the woman ‘Encore!’ They look at each other proudly and clap some more. The camera pans back to the boy who is watching them, utterly rapt by what he sees, as if they are the performance and he the audience.
When the clapping stops, the boy returns to character, calmly removing the laurel wreath from his head and placing it on the bust of Caesar. This time, he raises both his arms as if to draw his beloved audience to him.
Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears;
I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him.
The evil that men do lives after them;
The good is . . .
Angela loses track of the words. She is thinking about the boy’s unguarded expression as he watched the woman and the man: the naked longing there. Clearly they were his mother and father, and the young Richard was basking in the satisfaction of their enthusiastic applause. She turns to the grown man standing beside her to see if she can find any remnants of that boy in the fifty-five-year-old man. He shoots her a rueful smile and in the flickering light she can see tears. He has brought her to this dark space as if inviting her inside his head, to witness something cherished yet painful, something he needs her to understand.
When the boy finishes his speech, Morrow switches the projector off and turns the lights back on.
‘That’s it?’ Angela says.
‘Oh, there’s me and my sisters doing more Shakespeare. But I don’t want to bore you with it.’
‘You wouldn’t.’
‘Another time.’
‘Who shot it?’
‘My uncle.’
As he busies himself with packing the film away, he explains that when his parents sold the house they forgot they’d left it down here. Forty years later the cupboard was still locked, the padlock rusted. The Wainwrights hadn’t disturbed it. The whole room, in fact, appeared undisturbed. Cobwebs and dust everywhere. He could only be grateful they didn’t know the film existed. ‘No doubt they would’ve found it hilarious.’
‘You talk a lot about your great-great-grandfather, but there’s more to it, isn’t there? About you and this place?’
Morrow snaps the lid of the film can shut. ‘What do you think?’
Angela studies him, gathering her thoughts, and then it comes to her quite clearly, as if she had known all along. ‘Your parents’ marriage wasn’t a very happy one, am I right?’
He nods, watching her keenly.
‘But when you were down here on holidays with them, things were always better. They didn’t argue as much. They weren’t as tense as they were at home, although they still went their separate ways. Your father was a gambler, wasn’t he? Perhaps he played poker with his friends until late at night. Perhaps your mother had affairs. What matters is that they were able to tolerate each other when they were here. The size of this house, the view, the bay – it gave them space.
‘And when you and your sisters put on a performance, they would do something they never normally did. They would come down here and sit side by side, like a happily married couple, and watch you, and clap and smile at each other. As long as you were on the stage, holding their attention, you were keeping them together. As long as they were here, in this house, there was hope. That’s why you had to get it back.’
Angela suspects he went into politics because it was another kind of performance, a way of reliving that moment in the spotlight under the adoring gaze of his parents, briefly united by their love for him. You hardly needed to be Freud to see it. If he was a patient, she would never speculate so freely or take such liberties, but he isn’t, and it’s one way of finding things out, regardless of whether she is right or wrong.
Morrow lowers the casing over the projector. He clips it on either side. He hasn’t looked at her since she finished.
When he finally speaks, his voice is wary. ‘You weave quite a story. And the facts are right. You’d make a good detective. But I think you’ve read too much into them.’
‘Why did you show me the film?
He hesitates. ‘I was pleased to have recovered it. I had completely forgotten it existed until I came down here the other day. I wanted to show someone and you happened to be here.’
Angela smiles.
‘Why are you smiling?’
‘It’s a familiar response. The closer you get to the truth of things, the stronger the resistance.’
To her surprise, he laughs. ‘Next thing you’ll be saying I think I’m in love with you.’
‘But I wouldn’t, because you’re not my patient. And that kind of infatuation doesn’t happen after a social chat.’
‘No?’ He smiles.
‘No.’
‘I would have thought it happens all the time.’
He is teasing her, but she can’t help reacting. ‘The infatuation I’m talking about is love-transference in a clinical setting.’ Oh God, what a schoolmarm.
‘Of course.’ His smile grows, then it’s gone and he is suddenly grave. ‘I’ll give some thought to it – your story. And I hope you’ll think seriously about seeing my friend. He’ll be expecting you.’
‘Do you need to know immediately?’
‘He wants to see you tomorrow.’
‘It bothers me, Richard.’ This is the first time she has said his name and it feels odd, almost too intimate. ‘If I don’t foot the bill, who will?’
‘You needn’t worry. He’s not going to charge anyone.’ Morrow puts the projector and can of film back in the cupboard. ‘He’s an old friend, we were at school together. He’s happy to do it.’ He bends to take her hand and for a moment she wonders if he is going to kiss it.
‘You won’t regret it,’ he says. ‘I’m so glad you came, Angela. So glad.’
18.
Ned spies her before she sees him. A hunched figure in a billowing, summery dress leaning against the trunk of a plane tree out the front of the Arts Faculty, arms clutching her body against the southerly wind.
The first drops of rain spatter the windscreen. He changes lanes and pulls over, gives her a toot. Mai makes a dash for the Range Rover and climbs in just as the downpour begins. She leans over to kiss him.
‘It was sunny when I left home this morning!’
He has to laugh. She is always complaining about being caught out by the weather as if it’s a mystery she will never fathom. He waits for her to put on her seatbelt before making the announcement.
‘It’s gone in.’
She freezes. ‘The money?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Oh shit.’
Ned gives a jerky shrug. ‘Doesn’t bear thinking about, really.’
Whatever kick he got out of seeing those numbers in the bank account quickly evaporated as soon as he started thinking about the chances of getting caught. How could two nobodies like them pull off something like this and expect to get away with it? They are a glitch in the system, and sooner or later, glitches get found and fixed. The more he thought about it, the more convinced he became. He’s spent most of the day pacing the streets, looking enviously at the people around him going about their business, shopping or sitting in cafés and ch
atting with friends, people who know nothing of greymail or of what it’s like to go out there beyond the law and not know who might find you or if you’ll ever find your way back.
They sit in silence, the traffic stalled. Ned watches the windscreen wipers slashing at the rain. He thought he’d feel elated, triumphant. They’d hit back at the Morrows of the world, at the masters of the universe who think they can’t be touched. But instead of feeling powerful, all he can feel is the weight of it, of what they’ve done.
Mai touches his shoulder. ‘C’mon, Ned. It’s not as if we’re stealing from Morrow. We’re just redistributing a tiny fraction of Stone’s wealth.’
Ned pulls a rictus grin. They might see it that way, the whole Robin Hood fantasy, but they both know it’d sound like bullshit to anyone else. He wishes he could get out of this dinner, meeting her parents is the last thing he needs. He’s sure her stepfather will take one look at him and know that something is up.
The shower has passed by the time they arrive at Mai’s house. A double-storey place built in the seventies by the look of it, all clinker brick and wrought-iron trimmings in a native garden. As they walk up the driveway, a girl and boy who have been playing on a trampoline on the front lawn come rushing over. Mai hugs her sister and brother and introduces them to Ned. Li-Li is six, she explains. Jin is eight.
The children stare shyly up at him and then run towards the house shouting something in Mandarin. Probably warning Mai’s parents, Ned thinks darkly, that the dodgy boyfriend is here.
They pass the shed that Ned slept in and climb a flight of steps to a porch where they are greeted by Mingzhu, a composed thirteen-year-old girl who advises them that dinner won’t be ready for ages.
‘Mum’s doing a banquet and she’s in a flap.’
There are two adjacent doors into the rear of the house, one of which is glass and leads into what looks like a family room. Mai opens the other door and ushers him in.
‘Tradesmen’s entrance,’ she says.
Ned realises that she isn’t joking. They have entered the laundry. Mai takes off her shoes, puts them on a rack and shuffles on a pair of red satin slippers. She points to a larger black pair. ‘You can wear these.’
They move through a beaded curtain into the kitchen where her mother, Annabel Su, a small woman with black hair and a blunt fringe, is kneading dough. She scrutinises Ned over her glasses and measures out a welcoming smile.
‘Forgive me if I don’t shake your hand.’ She turns to Mai. ‘Your father isn’t home yet. Why don’t you show Ned around?’
Mai takes him into the room he saw from the porch. There is a bluestone fireplace, above which hangs a painting of the Su family, the parents unsmiling, the younger children struggling to contain cheeky grins. A teenage Mai stands at the back, looking sullen.
‘Family room,’ Mai announces. She walks back through the kitchen and leads him up the hallway to the stairs. The stairwell is adorned with larger than life headshots of each of the children.
Mai’s eyes sweep over the photographs. ‘Awful, aren’t they?’
Ned casts his mind back to the house he grew up in. As far as he can remember, there were only three photographs on display. They sat on the mantelpiece: his parents on their wedding day, Angela as a baby in a basket, and a similar one of Ned. He and Angela used to joke that they’d been left on the doorstep.
Mai races up the last of the stairs and into her bedroom and shuts the door behind them. ‘Finally!’
‘Your mother won’t mind me being in here?’
Mai shrugs. ‘I’m twenty-four.’
‘Beats the shed.’
Ned picks up a school photograph from her dressing table. Flashes her a depraved grin. ‘Don’t suppose you’ve still got your uniform?’
‘Dirty old man.’
He puts his hands on her hips. ‘Not that old.’ He’s desperate to pounce on her but he’s too conscious of the family downstairs. Until now, it’s as if there’s been a curse or spell on them, keeping them apart even though they’re famished for each other. His palms are tingling at the thought of touching her, not to mention the rest of him.
Mai pulls him towards her.
Their lips have just met, their bodies surrendering, when there’s a soft tap on the door. Startled, they shove each other away. Ned turns to the bookshelf and pretends to be absorbed. Perhaps they really are cursed.
A little face peers in. It is Li-Li and she’s holding out a stuffed toy dog to show him. She got it for her birthday last week. Ned takes it from her, still jittery from the interruption. He makes admiring noises and with mock reluctance goes to hand it back. Li-Li snatches it and clutches it to her.
‘You can’t have it,’ she says.
Mai is impatient. ‘He’s doesn’t want it, Li-Li. Now leave us alone.’
They listen as Li-Li scuttles back down the stairs. For a moment they look at one another expectantly. All they know is that they have to fuck because if they don’t fuck, they’re going to explode. They’re almost bursting out of their skins, beyond caring that at any moment Mai’s mother or father might fling open the door, beyond caring about getting caught. Apart from occasional gasps, they scramble in silence, swallowing their cries. When it’s over, they stare at each other, stunned by what possessed them, how reckless they’ve been.
Mai’s phone buzzes. A text from Annabel saying dinner’s ready. Back to pretending. Mai checks Ned over and then studies herself in the dressing table mirror. She reaches for some perfume but thinks again.
When they arrive in the kitchen, the whole family are sitting at the table, Mai’s stepfather, Huan, at the head. He stands up and shakes Ned’s hand, an appraising glint in his eyes. Annabel delivers a series of plates to the table, piled high with glistening vegetables, noodles and more. She offers Ned a knife and fork. He wonders if it’s some kind of test. He declines and picks up the chopsticks. The children snicker, watching him eagerly, clearly hoping he’ll make a fool of himself. Ned is tempted to send a dumpling skittering across the table just to amuse them. But if he starts laughing, he might not be able to stop.
Huan is singing his wife’s praises as a cook. He gives the impression of someone who is used to holding court, having his orders obeyed, his jokes laughed at. He pops a small dim sim in his mouth, savours it and, still chewing, turns to Ned.
‘So you work for Richard Morrow.’
‘For the moment.’
‘A good politician. I’ve met him. He’s smart. Knows how business works.’
Mai scowls over her rice. Ned can see that she is biting her tongue. He knows she and Huan don’t get along and that Huan has all sorts of connections with government ministers back in Singapore where he does most of his business. It was inevitable that Morrow would be mentioned. He hopes she’s not going to let something slip about bent politicians. He flashes her a conspiratorial grin and for a moment they are back in her bedroom, rolling half naked on the floor, punch drunk on what they have done.
When the meal is over, Ned can’t get out the door fast enough. Much as he’s glad to be on the road, he’s not looking forward to being back at the Anchorage, never knowing when Morrow will turn up and hover, as if casting around for someone he can really trust. Somehow, Ned has to keep behaving as if he, Ned, is a decent and trustworthy human being. And it sickens him, this game he’s playing. This messy, dangerous game. When it started, he told himself it was like playing poker: you keep a straight face and give nothing away; you let your opponent make all the moves. But he quickly discovered that once you start playing, every move is calculated, even when you think you’re just being yourself. This is what the game does to you. The more you focus on winning, the more you betray yourself – your instincts, your judgement, your values. The game becomes everything, it takes control.
He doesn’t want to play any more.
19.
You couldn’t ask for a more perfect day. Sunshine, blue sky and a garden full of earthy smells after yesterday’s rain. Ange
la tilts her face to the winter sun, waiting for Matthew to arrive. He has been out of hospital for a month now. They have agreed that there will be no rehashing of what went wrong or why or what happened that night. She has been thinking about the good times – excavating. Digging down through the hard years that overlay the good. She can almost feel the dirt under her nails. But now that she has made the effort, she is glad she agreed to do it. There are valuable shards down there, even the odd diamond or two.
It will be beneficial for both of them, salvaging the good. Those times in bed, that neutral territory where, by some miracle, they managed to put everything aside and tend to each other’s needs in a way they couldn’t in everyday life. And the times, watching Matthew on the field, doing what he did best, when her pride felt something like love.
She remembers one football game in particular, his lanky legs stalking the grass, feet barely touching the ground, the goal square open before him. She can see him flying up for the mark and a certain goal when a player from the opposition appears out of nowhere, seconds too late. Matthew’s boot and the man’s skull connect, the ball falls from his grasp. The next moment they are both on the ground, the other man on his knees, holding his head. The ball is within Matthew’s reach but instead of seizing it and kicking the goal – the goal that would have won them the match – he crouches by his opponent, the game forgotten, all his attention on the pain in the other man’s face. He helps him up, puts his hand on his opponent’s shoulder, looks into his eyes. He’s oblivious to the cries of his team mates, the pleas of the crowd. When the uproar finally reaches him, he spins around, confused, but the ball is up the other end now and the game is lost.
She remembers how he walked off the ground, head down, fists balled. When she tried to tell him he did the right thing, he spat the words back in her face. He was supposed to be playing football, not performing pastoral care. All these years later, she would like to make him see it as she does, see that his instincts had been good and that this goodness endures.
