‘And who might you be?’ said Gran, eyes bulging. ‘The boyfriend, I suppose.’
Asylum? Dead right. Nuthouse. Loony bin. Bedlam. You name it. We’d made it. Everyone at 99 Locksley Ave was barking mad. Certifiable.
Darling Sonny, I wrote (my third letter in as many days). More despatches from the Dallington combat zone. We need peacekeepers, ha ha. The latest plan: according to Brenna’s theory of mega-exposure we take Gran to the Veterans. Have her watch her only forgotten son play several thousand games, see if something goes ping. Finn reckons anything’s worth a try. Brenna has to go back to work so it’ll be me and Finn and Gran, front row seats at Wilding Park. Avec suitcases.
Do you realise I haven’t had a postcard since the day before Xmas? That’s twenty-three days. Is Bosnian mail snow-bound? Hope it hasn’t been held up by Serbs. There’s nothing much in the news at the moment — is that a good thing? Or do we not get the real news? I hope you’re okay. When is your leave? Are you going to Rome?
I think Finn’s hormonal. I think he fancies Brenna. Burble, burble. I miss you heaps. Love, Charlie Mike XXXXXXX
I lay in bed and thought about the conversation Sonny and I had had two nights before he’d left. We were in the same bed in the same motel room.
‘I feel like Lancelot du Lac,’ said Sonny. I laughed, nuzzling his chest; it was hot and slightly damp.
‘Because you’re a bit wet?’
‘No! Bet you didn’t think I knew who Lancelot was. Bet you didn’t think I could pronounce French—’
‘I—’
‘You think I’m some hick brownarse from Greymouth, eh?’ He squeezed me tight and rolled me over on my back, pinned my hands with his, looked down on me from above. I was laughing, weak, a pushover. ‘Eh, Eh?’ His face was mock stern; then his hands softened on top of mine, and he bent his head and kissed me. ‘They’re all red,’ he said, against my lips. ‘Swollen up. From kissing. Gorgeous. Makes me want to do it all over again.’ He put his hand between my thighs. ‘I don’t want to make you sore.’
‘I want to be sore,’ I said, feeling tears coming. Sex made me feel emotionally swollen too. Tears and jubilation welled up, seconds after each other. I felt exultant and witty and bewitchingly beautiful and needy and agitated and prematurely bereft, all at the same time. And behind everything I felt faintly horrified by how much I wanted Sonny. How little anything else seemed to matter. How I never wanted to take my arms from around him. ‘I want to feel you there even when you’ve gone. Especially when you’ve gone.’
Later, I said, ‘Tell me about Sir Lancelot.’
‘I had this book about the knights of the Round Table,’ said Sonny, getting out of bed, going to the toilet. I watched him as he walked to and from the bathroom, his beautiful bare bottom, his smooth thighs, his big, hard, hairless chest. ‘When I was a kid,’ he said, getting back under the covers. ‘It’s probably still at home somewhere. The cover was red and yellow, knights on horses, jousting, beautiful maidens, etcetera. Old Lancelot was the best. Best and bravest fighter, smartest tactician, most loyal knight. And he got the lady.’
‘Guinevere,’ I said happily.
‘Pity about Arthur, of course,’ said Sonny, snuggling into me. ‘I liked Arthur, but he didn’t walk the walk, you know. He was King and he fought, and he was loyal and trusting and all that, but Lancelot was better.’
‘They were meant to be together, Lancelot and Guinevere?’
‘Yeah.’ He sounded sleepy.
‘Are we meant to be together?’
‘We’re here, aren’t we?’
Gran tried the front door at 3 a.m. the night before Veterans. Her loud annoyance woke me and I came into the hall in time to see her give the door a little kick. That was funny. Mrs Patricia Callaghan losing it with an inanimate object. Her suitcases were at the ready.
‘It’s the middle of the night, Gran.’
‘This wretched door’s stuck.’
She had her coat on and an old church-going hat, quite stylish, but also somehow comical — perched rather than worn on her small head. Her legs were bare, her feet in slippers. ‘I don’t want to miss that taxi.’
‘Look, Gran,’ I said, opening the door, showing her the black front yard. ‘It’s still dark, it’s night.’
‘Yes?’ she said, impatient. I picked up one of the cases, put my hand on her arm gently. Her face was cross.
‘It’s only three o’clock.’
Silence.
‘Damn. Must’ve set the alarm wrong.’ She picked up the other case and we started back to her room. ‘Be a good girl, dear. Wake me at 6.30. Just in case. I think I’ve booked the taxi for seven.’
Yes, Gran. Whatever you say, Gran. Three bags full, Gran.
The ‘front row’ seats at Wilding Park were a couple of wooden park benches dating from the dawn of time. At 8.55 a.m. Finn and Gran and I were the entire crowd.
‘And here’s me thinking we’d be like Di and Prince William, tanned and sophisticated in the middle of a throng of beautiful people. As on TV.’
‘I’m cuter than Prince William,’ said Finn. ‘He’s got huge teeth. Plus he doesn’t take his Granny to Wimbledon.’
‘Granny’, resplendent in Mum’s wide-brimmed sunhat and her own Edna Everidge sunglasses, sat a little way along from us, waiting expectantly, smiling, very pleased to have had a car ride so early in the day. The suitcases had come for the outing too, but they were in the boot of the car.
‘She’ll be fine,’ said Dad when we arrived. ‘It’ll be very familiar. She did this often enough when I was young. She loved it when I was in the under-whatevers. And when I was in the Canterbury school team.’
‘Who’s a clever boy?’ I was tired and grumpy and regretting my altruism on Christmas Day. Tennis was boring, in my view. Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. I’d enjoyed watching Sonny and Dad play but that was only because I loved watching Sonny. I could have watched him throw darts.
Dad’s draw was okay, apparently. And so was Neville’s. Gavin’s was a bastard. Apparently. Gav had Stephens from Wanganui and he played Seniors. We listened to Dad and Nev give Gav positive reinforcement for five minutes, then watched them all warm up. Stretches and gentle jogging.
On the benches, waiting for the beginning of the day’s heart-stopping entertainment, I rubbed sunblock into Gran’s bare arms. Her skin was surprisingly taut and smooth. I considered her, as I rubbed, in a way I seldom stopped to do — her face, her body, her bearing. You could see the remnants of the attractive woman in the photo albums. Did she know she was permanently retired from real life, off in some clouded netherworld, the plot lost, meaning just beyond her reach? No, that wasn’t quite right, I decided. She was busy, in her own mind; she was busy manufacturing sense and significance out of her mad repetitions. It was us who struggled to comprehend.
‘Don’t stare and don’t sigh,’ said Gran, frowning. ‘And that is sufficient, thank you.’ She took her arm away.
So much for compassion.
‘Here we go,’ said Finn as Dad and somebody called McBeth-from-Balclutha strolled out onto the court. McBeth-from-Balclutha weighed at least thirty kilos more than Dad and looked about ninety, so I figured he was a walkover.
‘He looks familiar,’ said Gran after Dad had served and won the first game, no trouble.
‘It’s Bob, your son Bobby. Robert Callaghan.’ I looked at Finn as we both remembered this was supposed to be an exercise in exposure.
‘No doubt,’ she said. ‘He plays very good tennis. Had lessons since he was seven.’
‘I used to come here,’ she said, after the second game. McBeth was surprisingly fast on his feet.
‘To watch Bob?’
‘Yes, and his father.’
‘Who was that?’
‘Cunning,’ murmured Finn.
‘Himself. Whatsisname—’ Yeah, what exactly is his name, Gran? ‘Callaghan. My husband, Jim Callaghan. But we separated. No divorce, though. And no remarriage. Definitely
not. He drank. I wasn’t going to have that so I gave him his—’
—marching orders, mouthed Finn and I to each other, grinning.
‘He was a good tennis player, wasn’t he?’
‘Who?’ said Gran.
‘Think I’ll leave this to you,’ said Finn, elbows on knees, attention on the game. Dad had broken McBeth’s serve and led 4–2.
‘Your husband, Jim Callaghan.’
‘Was he?’ said Gran.
‘Yes, he was. You just said you used to watch him here, at this park.’
‘Yes,’ said Gran, as if she’s recalling it for the first time. ‘Yes, I did. And his brother Joe. My brother-in-law, Joe Callaghan, he was a very good player too. Used to come over from Greymouth. He and Jim used to play—’
Joe Callaghan. Sonny’s grandfather. Sonny’s real name is Joseph Callaghan, after his grandad, but he’s always been called Sonny because he wasn’t built lean like his father and grandfather, but big and brown and immensely imposing, like his mother’s side. Got the tennis talent from Joe, though, I thought, not listening to Gran or watching Dad, but launched now on a Sonny daydream. I’d write to him tonight, describe Dad’s game. Hopefully there’d be a card in the box when we got home — there’d been nothing on Saturday.
My mind raced. What if something had happened? In the safety of a bright summer day, people nearby, I allowed my thoughts to wander into territory that was too scary in the seclusion and dark of my bedroom by night. What if Sonny’s road patrol had been ambushed? I imagined swarthy, squat Serbs with Kalashnikovs and no mercy. But it would’ve been in the news, wouldn’t it? Would a peacekeeping lance-corporal’s broken arm be in the news, if he had one? Or concussion? Dysentery? A sudden brain tumour? But then his family would be notified and Johnny and Girlie would ring us … Perhaps he didn’t feel like writing. Perhaps the card was lost. If I let my thoughts go unchecked I was right back at that old time, waiting for his first letter, driven to a diary and nervous speculations. For a moment I almost disliked Sonny for making me anxious. Insecure. Miserable.
That’s your problem, Christy, Brenna would say, quoting the counsellor she’d seen after her parents’ separation. You must own the feeling, Christy. No one else is responsible for your feelings, Christy. Take back th—
‘Yes!’ shouted Finn, jumping up. ‘First set, Callaghan. Waydahgo, Dad!’
‘Who is that boy?’ whispered Gran. ‘He’s got an earring.’
‘Don’t sweat it, Gran,’ I said, making Finn laugh. Dad was looking very pleased. A lean and prancing peacock.
‘I used to come here,’ said Gran, looking round.
‘To watch Bob?’
‘Yes, and his father.’
‘Haven’t we done this?’ said Finn. Dad served an ace for the first game of the second set.
‘Nice,’ said Gran, clapping sedately. ‘He looks familiar.’ Jesus. I looked at my watch and it was only quarter past ten.
‘I used to come here,’ said Gran about thirty seconds later.
Dearest Sonny, I wrote at the end of that week. Dad won The Plate. Technically this makes him third-best tennis veteran in the country.
I didn’t actually see the final because I volunteered to stay home with Gran, since me and Finn were nearly round the bend by the end of the third day with the ‘I used to come here’ number. ‘Exposure’ of mother to son has been an epic failure — not that I thought it would work anyway.
A week until school. Autumn’s hovering to set the scene for every depressed student in the country. I want to be liberated. To be adult! A real person.
Are you all right? I feel as though these letters are being launched into a black hole. The news tells me Bosnia exists and I did used to get letters from you, but what’s happened?
Please write soon, before I expire with worry. Love, Charlie Mike XXXXX
PS. Dad was so stoked this weekend he took us all for a drive to Sunnyside, for a walk around the grounds. Gran liked being in the car, as usual, recognised places, pointed out things, read the signs and billboards out loud. And she liked the azaleas. But as to the real purpose: not a squeak. Not a sausage. Zero. Zilch. Nil. Nada. Nothing.
‘Where you off to, Gran?’
It was 3 a.m. Third night in a week. Gran in her bizarre garb, tiny against the front door, slightly furtive and cross at being sprung.
‘It’s the wee small hours,’ I said. I opened the door and showed her — our custom now.
‘Taxi?’ She looked vaguely at her suitcases.
‘Not now. In the morning. Sleep first.’
‘You’ll go to heaven,’ she said irrelevantly.
‘Thanks.’ We walked down the hall.
‘Taxi?’ she said, turning round.
‘No,’ I said firmly. ‘Bed.’
Heaven, I thought, as I drifted off. My concept of heaven had a distinctly earthly spin. Heaven would be a letter, I thought, a postcard, a word, a blank sheet with nothing but an X on it. Anything, from Sonny.
‘If I had a racquet, I’dplaytennis in the mor-ning,
I’dplaytennis in the eve-ning,
All ov-er this how-owwss.’
BANG BANG BANG BANG. ‘Advantage, Callaghan!’
My wake-up call the first day back at school.
‘SHUT UUUUUP!’
‘Baptism by fire, Buttercup. A bad moment for you, I know, waking up to another school year, but—’
‘Wrong, Dad, it’s the thought of another year at home with you and the rest of this menagerie.’
‘I resent the comparison with lower life forms,’ said Finn, in the kitchen, stuffing Weet-Bix.
‘If I had a ball, I’d bashit in the mor-ning’
BANG BANG BANG—
‘Be all right once you get there,’ said Mum.
I dumped some bread in the toaster and stared out the window at the blue sky. It was going to be a scorcher and I’d be wearing a dress designed in the Ark, with white ankle socks.
‘I’d bang it to the base-line
I’d bang it down and Ace him
I’d bang it till I’d whipped his arse
And he’d wept for mer-cy
Or-or-or-all over this land.’
‘Cushla,’ said Gran, pushing the door open with her suitcase, ‘I’m very concerned we’re going to be late.’
I leaned on the bench with my head in my hands, detesting the world. It was thirty-six days since I’d heard from Sonny.
‘Good morning, Brenna. Good morning, Christy,’ said Sister Colleen smoothly, pouncing on us even as we tried to dematerialise, glide past her unnoticed, join Peta Marie and Gretchen over the other side of the netball courts. ‘All ready for a big year?’
Brenna smothered a sigh.
‘No,’ I said.
‘How’s the family? How’s your grandmother?’ She had a tone. Made my skin crawl.
‘Still fucked in the head,’ I said, not caring about anything.
Sister Colleen assessed me with mean, watery eyes. ‘I will draw a veil over that language and that attitude. I will pretend I neither heard it nor saw it. I will give you an opportunity to rethink and regret.’ She swished away.
‘It’s not that bad,’ said Brenna. But I couldn’t tell Brenna. I couldn’t say, Oh Brenna. I couldn’t say it, because as long as I said nothing to anyone then what I feared and fantasised wouldn’t be true — that I hadn’t heard from Sonny for over a month because he was hurt, or in love with someone else, or worst of all — the unthinkable — that at a distance of five thousand miles, he’d thought long and hard, had doubted and regretted, had read my letters and found them childish and needy, and had just gone off me, dropped me, ended everything. Just hadn’t put it in black and white.
Dear Sonny, I wrote that night, first day back. Bleak. Sister Colleen and I instantly got up each other’s noses.
Dad was in such a haze after the Vets that he couldn’t decide anything about Gran. So now they’ve got Jess Morton to look after her temporarily. A month or so. Jess leapt
at it. Beats me why they didn’t ask her months ago. The Mission was an abject failure, so Nannying wasn’t worth it, all up. Except financially. I’ve earned $2000, less Christmas presents, togs and a couple of tops. Almost enough for a return trip to The Former Yugoslavia. Just kidding.
I wish you were the phoning type. If you were I would ring your parents, get the number, ring you at Santici and say, Hey, boy, what’s happening there? How come I haven’t heard from you? Your writing hand been blown off? Bad joke, I know, but see how desperately I’m trying to be light-hearted? Please write to me, Sonny. I need to know what’s going on. Love, from your puzzled Charlie Mike XXX
I leafed slowly through the remaining Matisse postcards that night, looking at the pictures one by one. There were plenty left, including my favourites, the blue and yellow abstract paper-cuts which I’d been saving for the very right time. Whenever that was.
I wouldn’t send any more, I decided. Not until I heard from Sonny. A girl’s got her pride.
But it wasn’t pride. I didn’t have pride in regard to Sonny. I’d got well past pride all those weeks back when I’d given myself over to that heated physical connection and the voluptuous tranquillity that followed it. Now, where once there’d been that elation and calm, there was a kind of dread. And every time I sent a card and the response was a lengthening silence, the dread got sharper and colder and less able to be borne.
I closed the book of postcards and closed my eyes and mouthed a prayer to the God who might, or might not, believe in me.
Chapter Six
In the middle of the Otira tunnel the sound of the train is amplified. The noise, the words beating in my head, the dull yellow of the carriage lights, they crowd me, make me thick-witted.
I gape and I blink and I almost don’t get it.
I deserve a consolation, she said. My conscience is clear.
My scalp crawls the smallest bit at the word ‘conscience’, but as I’m trying to refocus, grab at the word and follow it, the train whooshes out of the tunnel and it is sheeting down over the other side — constant pulverising rain. The tour party draw audible breath, exclaim at the torrent, the long dark grass and bright dandelions, the broom and the daisies battered by the downpour’s force.
Love, Charlie Mike Page 13