‘I think you’d make someone a lovely wife,’ Robert said.
Donna went bright red, and hoped he couldn’t see it in the Griddle’s dim lighting.
Whether he had or not, he went on, ‘You’re charming, and you seem rather clever, and you’re very pretty. Not like a lot of nurses.’
Startled, she gawped at him. ‘Crikey, that’s a really unkind thing to say!’
He laughed, possibly at the look on her face. ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to be mean—’
‘Though you just were. Really mean!’
‘It’s just that I’ve often wondered whether some girls go into nursing as a way of excusing them from not being able to get husbands.’
‘That is so rude!’ Donna couldn’t tell whether he was having her on or not. ‘Girls go into nursing because they want to help people who aren’t well! And who says you doctors are all oil paintings?’
‘Of course we’re not. Well, not all of us.’
Their meals arrived. Robert’s steak was quite big but apart from that Donna couldn’t see anything that made it look like it came from New York. And her cheese toasted sandwich was just that, though she suspected there was mustard on it somewhere. They talked constantly throughout their meal. Robert didn’t put his knife and fork down between mouthfuls, which Donna’s mother always said was a bit common, but neither did he speak with his mouth full or chew with his mouth open, which in fact demonstrated good table manners. Personally, Donna had never subscribed to the putting the cutlery down between bites idea — you’d be at the table for hours. And her father talked with his mouth full, burped and sometimes even farted at the table, so she was quite impressed by Robert’s display of etiquette. But with a family full of doctors they must all be quite posh. Good manners or not, Robert still managed to clean his plate before she’d waded through half of her toasted sandwich. She really felt like she might burst and the disgusting wine was going straight to her head and also giving her indigestion.
‘Fancy a sweet?’ Robert asked.
‘A lolly?’ Donna said. Why would she want a lolly?
‘A sweet. Something sweet from the menu,’ Robert clarified.
Oh, a pudding. Why not say a pudding? ‘No thank you. Honestly, I couldn’t eat another thing. I don’t even think I can finish this toasted sandwich.’
‘You don’t eat much, do you?’
‘I had a late afternoon tea.’
‘You must get good afternoon teas. All we get are milk arrowroots. If we’re lucky.’
‘It comes from being homely,’ Donna said. ‘We’ve plenty of time for baking because we’re not out on dates.’
Robert roared with laughter. ‘Touché, Nurse, er . . . I don’t even know your surname.’
‘It’s Roberts.’
‘Very good, Nurse Roberts. And would you like a cup of coffee before I deliver you back to your castle?’
Donna would, though it was so strong she was sure it caused the last of the curl to drop out of her hair. She was rather hoping Robert would drive right up to the nurses’ home — surely no one would see her at this late hour — but he dropped her off on the street outside the hospital ‘just to be safe’. Which was stupid, she thought, as he’d told her he lived in the resident medical officers’ quarters on the top floor of the main hospital building and would be parking in the hospital carpark anyway, but she didn’t say anything.
But before she got out of the car he leant across and kissed her, quite lingeringly. ‘I had a great time tonight, Donna. Thanks for coming out with me. I’m really hoping we can do this again soon. What do you think?’
Donna didn’t hesitate at all. ‘I’d really like that, Robert. Thank you.’
‘Friday night, then? Does that suit you?’
Donna couldn’t be bothered to pretend she had to consult her social diary. ‘That would be lovely.’
He smiled and patted her knee. ‘Good. I’m pleased.’
*
‘Well,’ Sid said, ‘I can tell you we won’t all be retiring in luxury just yet.’
‘You already have retired,’ Colleen remarked, plonking a plate of scones fresh from the oven on the kitchen table.
‘Cheese?’ Allie asked, peeking under the tea towel.
‘And date,’ Colleen said as she carried the teapot across.
‘But she had more squirrelled away than I expected,’ Sid went on.
Colleen glared at him. ‘For God’s sake, have some respect. The poor woman’s not even cold in her grave.’
‘I’m just saying. It’s quite impressive, is all.’
‘Well, you’re not getting your hands on it.’
‘I’m sure I’m not. Pass us one of them scones, love. A date one.’
Allie did, and pushed the butter dish after it.
‘Has Nan left us some money?’ Pauline asked.
‘Wait till I’ve poured the tea, will you?’ Colleen snapped. ‘And don’t be so avaricious.’
Pauline made a face. ‘What’s that mean?’
‘Greedy,’ Donna said.
Allie watched her mother taking her time with the tea. She was still angry, and still taking her grief out on everyone else. She wished she’d stop it because it wasn’t improving matters. It was going to be one of ‘those’ family meetings. Her mother was in a mood, though she had a right to be, Pauline was acting up, and Donna seemed as though she had something on her mind too, though she didn’t appear unhappy. Quite the opposite, actually.
Colleen finally finished buggering about with the teapot and opened an envelope tucked beneath a place mat. ‘As you all know, this is your Nan’s will.’ Her voice cracked slightly. ‘Donna and Pauline, you get one hundred pounds each, but not until you turn twenty-one. And don’t argue about it.’
‘I wasn’t going to,’ Donna said.
Allie eyed Pauline, who didn’t look pleased at all. Just sad.
Colleen looked at Allie. ‘And she’s left you her house.’
Sonny spluttered out a mouthful of tea.
‘Her house?’ Allie was stunned. ‘In Newmarket?’
Sonny apologised and fetched a tea towel.
‘Unless she had another one somewhere I don’t know about,’ Colleen said.
Allie lost her temper. ‘Oh, stop it, Mum. Stop being such a cow. We all miss her, not just you. You’re just making everything worse.’
Shoving her chair back with a horrible squeak, Colleen marched out of the kitchen.
They sat in awkward silence, then Sid said, ‘Don’t be hard on her, love. She just needs time.’
Donna cut a scone in half and by the time she’d buttered it, Colleen was back.
‘I’m sorry. You’re right, I’m not helping.’ She glanced at the will again. ‘Nan wanted you to have her house so you can save on rent and eventually buy a bigger home, something suitable for a family.’
If we ever manage to actually have one, Allie thought bitterly.
‘When that happens, the Newmarket house reverts to me.’ Colleen eyed Pauline and Donna. ‘Then maybe one of you can have it.’
‘But it’s got an outside dunny,’ Donna said.
Sid said, ‘It’s a free outside dunny, though, isn’t it? Never lift a gift horse’s tail.’
Sonny and Donna both laughed, and Donna said, ‘At least Mr De Valera will be pleased to be back home.’
That was true, Allie thought. And they would save a lot by not paying rent. But Nan’s old workers’ cottage was a bit of step down from their nice modern flat with its indoor bathroom. ‘What do you think?’ she asked Sonny.
‘I think it’s the most generous thing I’ve ever heard.’
It was, Allie reflected. It was incredibly generous. Trust Rose to think of everyone else, even after she knew she’d be gone. ‘What did Nan leave you?’ she said to her mother. ‘Can I ask?’
‘Her personal things, and some things of my father’s, and some money. She had more put away than I thought, actually.’
Pauline sat forwards. ‘Mum?’
Coll
een’s eyebrows went up.
‘Can I have Nan’s cloche hat? Please? The one she always wore?’
‘What for?’
‘Because . . .’ Pauline hesitated. ‘Well, because she always wore it.’
Colleen reached out and touched her hand. ‘Of course you can. But look after it.’
‘I will, I promise.’
Allie felt something inside her ease slightly. Perhaps they’d get through this in one piece after all.
Chapter Eight
David had had to go back to work straight after the Christmas break, and had been away now for a week and a half. Ana missed him dreadfully and so did the children. They’d never really been apart on the farm, but now it seemed they were hardly ever together. He came home once a fortnight, or sometimes once a week if he was working within driving distance, but their time together was never enough.
At Christmas she’d wanted to ask him to stay, to look for work that wouldn’t take him away, but the Wool Board job paid well, and she didn’t want to deprive him of involvement with the sheep farming she knew he loved so dearly. So she’d kept quiet and told him that looking after Jack wasn’t really as hard as it might seem, and that she’d made some friends and was settling into life as an Auckland housewife.
But she bloody well wasn’t, and she’d hardly met anyone because she’d had neither the time nor the opportunity, and sometimes when Jack was in bed asleep, lying there with his mouth hanging open snoring his head off, she felt like holding a pillow over his face until he stopped breathing, though she’d never admit that to anyone. She swung so wildly between sorrow and sympathy for him, and exasperation and outright anger at his awful behaviour and the fact that she was stuck having to manage it, that some days she thought she was losing her own mind. Her only reprieve came when the kids got home from school and they could help watch him, which was so unfair on them, and her spinning and knitting, which soothed her immensely. She could only do that at night, however, when everyone else was asleep, but it was worth it, and as a result her family possibly had the most extensive and beautiful collection of knitwear in Auckland.
Jack’s latest quirk, which had appeared recently, was endless walking. In a way it was good because it seemed to tire him out and he was sleeping better, but he had to be watched every second in case he marched right off the property and away down the street. Right now he was walking in big circles on the back lawn, and had been for the past two hours. She had housework to do so she’d made the children sit on the steps and watch him, which they’d grizzled about because they’d wanted to ride their bikes with the neighbourhood kids.
She went out to see if Jack was tiring — perhaps she could get him to have a nap, then the kids could go out.
But no, there he was, still trudging round and round in a great big pointless circle.
‘Has he been doing that the whole time?’ she asked.
‘Sometimes he turns round and goes the other way,’ Rowie said. ‘And he did a wee in the feijoas.’
God, Ana thought.
‘He looks silly,’ Peter said. ‘He looks like a horse. Giddy-up, Grandpa!’
Ana hauled him up by the arm and smacked him across the back of the legs. ‘Don’t you be so damn cheeky! He can’t help what he’s doing.’
As Peter burst into tears Jack bellowed, ‘That’s it, Mary, belt the little bugger!’
Ana glared at him. Thanks very much, now the whole street knows I hit my children. ‘Time’s up, Jack. In you come.’
He didn’t hear her, or pretended he didn’t, and darted up the path at the side of the house. Ana raced through the house, out the front door across the lawn, and met him at the front gate where she grabbed hold of his shirt.
‘No you don’t,’ she said. ‘Back inside, please.’
‘Let go. I want to go home.’
‘You are home,’ Ana said. ‘Come inside.’
Jack tried to wrench his arm free, and raised his other hand to her. ‘Fuck off.’
‘Need some help?’
It was Sid. Ana blew out her cheeks with relief. ‘Jack fancies a walk. I’d like him to go inside.’
‘Looks like he fancies thumping you, and that wouldn’t be on, would it?’ Sid slowly reached for Jack’s raised hand and eased his arm down.
‘Who the fuck are you?’ Jack demanded.
‘Sid, from next door. We’ve met but you might have forgotten. I’m the same way meself. Memory like a sieve.’
Jack peered at him through suspicious eyes, his body still tense.
‘Anyway, I’m after a bit of advice,’ Sid went on chattily, ‘I’m thinking about buying a horse and I’m told you’re the man to talk to. What do you reckon?’
Jack’s hands relaxed, his thumbs went into the waistband of his trousers and his shoulders dropped about three inches. ‘Well —’ he began.
‘Not out here, though, eh, it’s too bloody hot,’ Sid said. ‘What about we go inside and yarn over a beer?’
Jack turned and marched towards the house, beckoning over his shoulder.
‘You’re a clever man, Mr Roberts,’ Ana said.
‘It’s Sid. And you’re a bloody saint, Mrs Leonard. I hope you’ve got beers in.’
‘A few. Thank you so much. I thought he was going to get away from me this time.’
‘And I thought he was going to belt you one. I was watching him out the window.’
‘Oh, I doubt he’d actually do it,’ Ana said, then looked quickly away in case Sid could see she was lying.
*
On the fourth Sunday in January, Allie and Sonny visited Louise Taylor, Allie’s friend and survivor of the Dunbar and Jones fire. They went on the Indian, so Sonny and Rob, Louise’s mechanic husband, would have something to stand around on the lawn and talk about while Allie and Louise were inside gossiping. This was according to Sonny, anyway.
Allie and Louise actually didn’t do much gossiping as Louise wasn’t that sort of woman and never had been, but they did talk a bit about what they were up to, and Allie told Louise about Rose’s recent passing. This brought up the deaths of Daisy Farr and Irene Baxter, and of Terry Hewitt and Miss Button and Miss Willow and everyone else who had died in the fire, though the women kept their voices low because Susan, Louise and Rob’s five-year-old, was playing on the sitting room floor.
‘Do you think about them often?’ Allie asked.
Louise thought for a moment. ‘I try not to. I’ve tried to put the whole thing behind me. I think it’s for the best, to just move on.’
Allie stared intently at her friend’s face, looking for signs she might be hiding something. She wished she could just move on.
‘You don’t have, I don’t know, sudden thoughts, or memories, about what happened? Just out of the blue? Or bad dreams?’
Louise looked baffled. ‘No. Do you?’
‘Oh, no. I was just wondering.’
‘Yes you do, Mummy,’ Susan piped up. ‘Sometimes you shout out, at night, and Daddy comes to tell me you’ve had a bad dream and I should go back to sleep.’
‘Why don’t you go and see what Daddy’s doing, sweetheart?’ Louise suggested.
Allie said, ‘Uncle Sonny might take you for a tiny ride on his motorbike.’
‘Like hell he will,’ Louise said. ‘Go on, off you go.’
Susan tore out of the room, making loud brrrmmm noises.
Scowling, Louise added, ‘Thanks a lot. Now you’ve turned her into a Widgie.’
‘Sorry. Um, have you had bad dreams?’
After a long moment of silence, Louise sighed. ‘A few. Probably more than a few. Why, have you?’
Allie nodded.
‘Then why did you say you hadn’t?’ Louise asked.
‘Why did you?’
They looked at each other and laughed.
Louise said, ‘I don’t know. It’s just not something I want to harp on about.’
‘I know. It’s been two years — you’d think it’d be behind us now.’
�
��It is behind me. I’m not responsible for what happens in my dreams.’
Allie wondered who was then. How easy to say not my dreams, not my problem to worry about. But her dreams came during waking hours as well as at night, and weren’t so easy to brush aside, not when they dragged you down like a full set of winter clothes pulled a drowning man beneath the waves. Should she tell Louise about everything else? The terrifying smell of smoke when there was no fire, and the constant grinding dread, and the awful, hollow lack of joy in her life?
The rumbling growl of the Indian brought them both to their feet.
Peeking out the sitting room window Louise exclaimed, ‘He bloody well is taking her for a ride!’ She shoved open the window. ‘Rob Taylor, you larrikin, get her off that motorbike!’
Rob waved back gaily.
They went outside and watched as Sonny rode a short distance up the street at a very moderate speed then back again with Susan perched on the seat behind him, her arms wrapped tightly around his waist and the most enormous grin on her shining face.
‘More!’ she shrieked as the Indian came to a stop. ‘More!’
‘Probably not today, love,’ Sonny said. ‘I don’t think your mum’s too happy.’
‘Bloody nice motorcycle,’ Rob said to Louise. ‘I’m thinking of getting one. What do you think?’
‘I think you should bloody well grow up. You’re a married man. Married men don’t tear about on motorbikes. You’ve got responsibilities.’
Allie looked at Louise with genuine fondness and thought that’s typical of you, always practical, always down to earth, always a tiny bit judgmental, and decided she’d keep the rest of her worries to herself.
Laughing, Sonny said, ‘I’m a married man.’
‘Yes, but you don’t have a child, or a business to run,’ Louise retorted, then, mortified, clapped her hand over her mouth. ‘I’m so sorry, that was so tactless of me. I just meant that Rob —’ She shut up, perhaps before she made it worse.
Allie felt sorry for Louise’s discomfort. If people mentioned Hana now it was in the past tense. They’d all moved on. But for her and Sonny she still existed, in their hearts if nowhere else, so to them she hadn’t really gone at all. If another baby ever came along they’d have two children — the new one and their memories of Hana.
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