‘Such lovely sun. We’ve only got old bridge.’
He gave them time to get warmed up. Mercy looked out once and wagged her finger, and Barbie once and kissed him on the cheek.
They would forget him when they were well ahead. His daughters were the top pair in the district and he wished he could feel more pleased with them for it.
When the time came he stood up and walked along the veranda. He went down the path, down the steps, along the footpath to the park, and into the trees. It was twenty-nine minutes past two. He had run away twice before. Today he would outfox them. He would keep away from roads and butcher shops, where he had been caught twice before looking at roasts of beef. They would not think of searching on the hill.
Girls, he wrote in his mind, There are other things than meat. Your father played chess.
At nineteen minutes to three he reached the dairy. ‘Here you children, out of my way,’ he said, and they stood aside with a quickness that pleased him. He did not mind that they giggled. That was proper in children.
‘A bag of Turkish delight,’ he said. He had planned it all morning and it came out with an English sound. ‘And a packet of cigarettes.’
The woman behind the counter had a half-witted face, a nose that seemed to snuffle for scent like a dog’s. She gave a smile and said, ‘It’s Mr Pitt-Rimmer, isn’t it?’
‘My name is not your concern. Turkish delight. And a packet of cigarettes.’
‘Sit down, Mr Pitt-Rimmer. There’s a chair right there. As soon as I’ve served these kiddies I’ll ring Mrs Parsloe.’
‘You will not ring Mrs Parsley. I wish to be served. Am I a customer or am I not? And are you in business? Answer me that.’
He was pleased to see confusion in her eyes. ‘I’ll have de Reszke.’
‘Whosie?’
‘De Reszke. You don’t seem to know your business, madam. Do you make a living? I wonder at it.’
‘There’s nothing here called de Reszke.’
‘Cigarettes. Cigarettes. Named after a great operatic tenor. Before your time, of course. I understand. It’s all Bing Crosby today.’
The woman went suddenly to the telephone. ‘You kiddies wait.’ She started to dial.
‘Very well,’ cried Charles Pitt-Rimmer. ‘You may ring Mrs Parsley. Tell her I’m striking out. I have my life. Tell her I’m smoking again. De Reszke. And eating Turkish delight.’ He stopped at the door. ‘And if she wishes to know where I am you may say that I’ve gone to the butcher’s for a piece of German sausage.’
‘Mrs Parsloe?’ the woman said. ‘It’s the Regal dairy. Your father’s here.’
He was very pleased with himself as he turned up the hill. Capablanca would have been proud of that move.
Girls, bridge is for simple folk. You must think ahead. I’ve never cared for German sausage.
He looked at his watch. It was thirteen minutes to three. Already he had beaten his old record. He pictured the little cars scuttling about Hardinge, driven in a dangerous manner by women with blue and pink hair. Barbie would be crying—he was sorry about that—and Mercy with her eye like a hanging judge’s.
Girls, a man’s a man for a’ that.
He followed a path into the trees and climbed until he stood on the edge of the cliff with the wharves below him. Three minutes past three. He would have liked some Turkish delight. He had not had any since his last day in court, which was twenty-two years ago. His secretary used to bring in a paper bag full with his lunch. The gob-stopper he’d taken from the Regal dairy’s counter would be no substitute. But he found that he enjoyed it once he’d torn the paper off. It tasted of raspberry, a flavour he’d forgotten.
He went to the safety fence and looked down. A girl had jumped down there on Boxing Day because her employer, a well-known man in Hardinge, had put her in the family way. She had lived for two hours but not said a word. He had heard Mercy and Barbie discussing it, in voices hushed but full of glee and dread. The man, Barbie said, was ‘a weed in the garden of life’—which she’d pinched from her mother, who had also believed that such men should be hanged. Women had a poor understanding of certain needs.
The gob-stopper made him feel bilious. He put it in his pocket. Below him ships were tied up at the wharves, all piddling water out of their sides. One of them was a phosphate tub, moored at a wharf that he remembered now was Pitt-Rimmer Wharf. There had been those years on the Harbour Board—a tedious business. Jack Hunt had picked his nose behind the agenda. The Hunts had never been up to much though they liked to believe that they were the bosses of Hardinge. He walked on and the cape came into sight, standing up like Chunuk Bair. He had no wish to be reminded of that. That had been a very great piece of nonsense.
Girls, you persist in reminding me ….
A woman came towards him leading a tiny black dog in a tartan jacket.
‘I don’t care for dogs, madam. Keep him off.’
‘Mr Pitt-Rimmer. Don’t you remember me?’
‘I’ve met many people. Fifteen thousand is my calculation.’
‘But I’m Maisie Transome. Maisie Jack that was. You used to give me lollies.’
‘Your mother was an excellent secretary. And a kindly soul. She had extraordinary bosoms.’
‘Ooh, Mr Pitt-Rimmer, you’re a rogue.’
‘I don’t care for animals sniffing about my feet.’
‘Come here, Bruce. Where are your manners, darling? Mr Pitt-Rimmer, can I walk
home with you? You shouldn’t be out you know, dressed like that. Barbie told me you’re being very naughty.’
‘My daughter has more kindness than sense. She’s a good woman but she’s had a tragic life.’
‘Who? Barbie?’
‘She fell in love with a young man in my office. Parsley was his name. Mercy stole him away. “Mercy” was not my choice. I want that understood. My wife had a poor grip on reality. But Parsley—she married him and broke her sister’s heart. Barbie never married. Parsley was not a good catch, mind you. She was well out of it. He played around as they say. There was a woman in my office called Rona Jack. Her marriage was unsatisfactory. Parsley used to visit there.’
‘Oh Mr Pitt-Rimmer—’
‘He died of course. They nursed him. My daughters are good girls.’
‘But my parents had an ideal marriage. They were in love till the day they died.’
‘Indeed. I congratulate them. You should not speak with strangers. The risks are very great. Good day to you.’
‘But I’m taking you home, remember?’
‘I wish to relieve myself.’
She did not follow him though her dog yapped in an impertinent way. The path led downhill and had many troublesome curves. His legs began to be sore. But a bank of nasturtiums pleased him and a smell of fennel. Fennel made him think of aniseed balls. He stopped at the memory. When sucked an aniseed ball turned white. And Turkish delight left sugar round the mouth.
Girls, when you were children I bought you sweets. Straps of licorice. Be fair. Bags of sherbert. Bags of chocolate fudge.
The path ended by the Salvation Army Eventide Home. Two old men were sitting on a bench. ‘A glorious morning, comrade,’ one of them said.
‘Glorious,’ Charles Pitt-Rimmer agreed, smiling at his better knowledge. It was twenty-nine minutes past three in the afternoon and his daughters were thoroughly bamboozled. He stopped by the reservoir and sat down on a bank. A boy was walking along a pipe, and a smaller boy rode up on a tricycle.
‘Why are you wearing your dressing-gown?’
‘Old men are allowed to.’
‘Mummy makes me get dressed. Have you wet your pants?’
‘I believe I have.’
‘Couldn’t you find a toilet? You could use ours.’
‘The word is lavatory. You should not be frightened of calling things by their names.’
‘Mummy said lavatory’s not nice.’
‘And you should not pay too much attention to women.’
Cha
rles Pitt-Rimmer dozed for a moment. ‘Poor Parsley. They made him eat his vegetables. Curly kale. A weed.’
‘Mummy makes me eat my vegetables.’
‘What do you have for pudding?’
His mind was lucid about food but cloudy about everything else. He was not quite sure where he was. ‘My favourite is lemon meringue pie.’ He felt in his pocket for the gob-stopper and gave it to the child who put it in his mouth at once, leaving only the stick poking out.
‘You speak too much of your mother. The conspiracy starts at the cradle.’
The boy who had been walking on the pipe ran up to join them.
‘Give us a lick, Tony. Come on.’
Charles Pitt-Rimmer went to sleep. He believed he was in a bath of luke-warm water that was turning cold about his legs. Soon he was wakened by a woman’s voice.
‘Let me see that. Give it to me at once. It’s filthy. It’s got a hair on it.’
She moved her arm violently and the boy on the tricycle cried. Charles did not know what was happening, but he saw that the woman was looking at him with hatred and was astonished at the ease with which people felt this emotion. Forty years of court work had not got him used to it.
‘Beware, madam. It can get to be a habit.’
‘You ought to be ashamed of yourself. And you’—she rounded on the older boy—‘I told you to look after him. Why can’t you listen for once? Get into the washhouse and wait till your father comes home.’
Now the older boy cried. They were an emotional family and seemed to be without reason, Charles decided. They vanished and he was relieved. He lay on the bank and tried to sleep, curled into a ball to defeat the cold. Where were his daughters? Where were the wretched women?
Girls, you’re selfish creatures ….
Again a woman woke him. This time it was Christine Hunt, with her hair like candy floss. He reached out for some.
‘What are you doing? Oh! Mr Pitt-Rimmer. Let go.’
‘Christine Perkins, you were lucky to get off with a fine. If you hadn’t had me to conduct your defence you would have gone to prison.’
‘Oh! Oh! My hair. You’ve ruined it.’
‘Why did you choose such frilly things, Christine? If you remember, I told the court they were for your glory box? A clever touch. But you can tell me. I can be discreet.’
‘You’re a horrible man. Oh, look, you’ve wet your pyjamas. This is dreadful.’
‘I understand, Christine. It’s difficult to be poor. No nice frillies, eh? A girl likes frillies. But I always believed you married beneath you. Your father-in-law picks his nose.’
‘My father-in-law has been dead for twenty years. And you’ve ruined our afternoon. You know that, don’t you? It’s a wonder to me how Mercy and Barbie keep going. They must be saints.’
‘They’re vegetarians. They struggle to ward off despair. I do my best.’
‘Mr Pitt-Rimmer, I’m going to take you home. I am. Now come with me. Come on.’
She put out her hand and he was appalled at the size of it. It went right round his wrist, and her silver nails poked up from the underside. She was appalled too. She jerked away.
‘Barbie will be the invalid when I’m dead,’ said Charles Pitt-Rimmer.
Christine Hunt went away. ‘I’m going to get your daughters. Don’t you move.’ Her little car scuttled off, and Charles lay curled up tightly.
Girls, it’s time for my nap. You’re selfish creatures ….
‘Oh daddums, daddums, why do you do these things?’
‘Put down the rubber sheet, Barbie. No, spread it out, you ninny.’
They put him in the back seat and Barbie sat with him, rubbing his hands.
‘You’re so naughty, so naughty—’
‘I’ve had enough,’ Mercy cried. ‘I’m going to put you in a home. You’ve made a fool of me for the last time. Wipe his mouth Barbie, can’t you see?’
‘You make it so hard for us, daddums. Oh, your hands are so cold.’
‘I walked on the pipe, Mercy. If I’d fallen off you would never have been born.’
They washed him and put him to bed. He slept smiling for two hours, then rang his bell for tea. They propped him up with pillows, and Barbie sat with him while he ate.
‘It’s a special salad, daddums. One Mercy found. It’s got avocados in it. Now drink your apple juice.’
She took away the tray and came back with his library book.
‘Promise me you won’t be naughty again. It makes us so sad.’
‘What was the time when you caught me?’
‘Four o’clock. You were gone for two hours. Oh daddums—’
‘An hour and thirty-one minutes.’ He grinned at her.
When she had gone he finished his book. He corrected one split infinitive and underlined two mentions of female breasts. Then he made his secret sign on page eighty-eight.
Barbie was doing the dishes and Mercy watching a television show full of American voices. On the final page, below a scene of love, Charles wrote a message:
My daughters are keeping me prisoner. Help! I have not had a piece of meat for twenty years ….
(1975)
Albert Wendt, from Sons for the Return Home
Mind if I sit down?
No.
Why didn’t you help that man? Was it because you didn’t want to get involved with the police?
Yes, but not just the police.
Who then?
With anyone. You get involved if you help people. Or hate them.
Or love them.
Yes. Or love them.
But what about your parents?
I am involved with them. But only them and my own people.
Then you do feel something for someone.
Yes.
What about all those other two-legged creatures outside your chosen circle?
Would you like a sandwich?
What about those other people?
They can take care of themselves.
Is it because most of them are white—pakeha?
That has something to do with it.
Racist.
True. Very true. They turned me into one.
God, how you must despise me. I’m pakeha, in case you’re colour-blind. What an idiot I am. Here I am throwing myself at you and all the time you’re laughing at me!
I’m not laughing at you.
Then you must despise me?
No.
Then what?
What do you mean?
What do you feel about me?
I just don’t want to get involved, that’s all.
Then it’s goodbye, man. Enjoy your self-righteous detachment. By the way, here’s my phone number just in case you want to abuse some pakeha bitch over the phone.
He didn’t ring her for five days, and he didn’t go to the cafeteria. On Saturday night, after getting drunk with his brother at a friend’s flat, he rang her from a phone booth and told her he liked her but he didn’t want to ever see her again.
Two days later, on his way home from university, he met a woman on the crowded bus. She rubbed her belly against his flanks as they stood in the aisle, holding on to the ceiling straps. He followed her out of the bus to her dingy room.
The woman locked the door behind him. The walls of the room were covered with numerous photographs of her. Some showed her nude and much younger. She stood in the middle of the room and started undressing. He noticed that she wasn’t looking at him but into a full-length mirror on the wall in front of her. She examined her profile, then her hands and shoulders, all the while crooning softly to herself. She took off her bra and, caressing her sagging breasts, white like stale milk in the light, she closed her eyes, and her hips moved back and forth almost imperceptibly. ‘Aren’t they beautiful?’ she murmured, holding up her breasts.
He started towards her. She motioned to him to stop where he was. She slid off her pants and, gazing into the mirror, caressed her hips and flanks and between her legs. ‘Wouldn’t you l
ove to do me?’ she moaned.
She tried to move away as he came and pulled her into his arms and pushed her up against the mirror. ‘You love pakeha women, don’t you, boy? Don’t you?’ She stank of dried sweat, and her thick makeup was flaking off her face to reveal wrinkles, pimple scars, and a network of bluish veins.
Her flesh felt flabby and cold against him as he made love to her.
He found himself thinking of the girl.
Where have you been? I’ve been looking for you everywhere. Even tried to find your address. No one in the university seems to know.
Been around.
Where?
Trying to forget you.
Did you succeed?
Did you want me to succeed?
No.
I didn’t. I even made love to another woman to try and find out whether I—whether I liked you.
And what did you find out?
I like you. And I do want to get involved.
By the way, who was she?
Who?
The other woman?
Just someone I met.
Did you enjoy it? Never mind, don’t answer that question if you don’t want to.
I felt sorry for her.
Before or after?
All the time.
Was she pakeha?
Yes.
But I thought you didn’t want to feel sorry for us pink people!
6
After her late English lecture they walked out of the central building into the evening which had risen from the harbour as though it had been born out of the sea’s depths. He held her hand and they talked softly as they walked.
Gnarled pine trees guarded the steep eastern entrance to the university grounds. Under them lay old, moss-stained graves—remnants of pioneer settlement. At university, whenever he wanted solitude, he sat on one of the graves and gazed down at the city, at the houses and buildings, which reminded him of mausoleums and which rolled away from under him in rows of terraces.
The Auckland University Press Anthology of New Zealand Literature Page 92