The Auckland University Press Anthology of New Zealand Literature

by Jane Stafford

  Crealy laid Popanovich’s open bottle of lemonade on the bed so that it would wet the sleeping man’s feet, and plucked Jenny Pen from Garfield’s bed end and held her briefly aloft. ‘Wake up, Judge,’ he said, and took Mortenson’s nose between Jenny Pen’s hands.

  Mortenson’s good side woke with horror. What time was it? ‘Let’s have poetry tonight,’ said Crealy. He made himself comfortable on the bed with his room-mate. ‘And I want to see you enjoying it, Judge; getting into the swing of it,’ he said.

  And where the silk-shoed lovers ran

  with dust of diamonds in their hair,

  he opens now his silent wing

  began Mortenson indistinctly.

  Crealy put one of Jenny Pen’s fingers into the slack side Mortenson’s mouth and pulled it into the image of a smile. ‘Let’s not be half-hearted about this. Try something else,’ said Crealy. Mortenson wished to disregard the setting his sense made for him, and the only escape was through the words. He did his best with a bit of ‘The Herne’s Egg’.

  Strong sinew and soft flesh

  Are foliage round the shaft

  Before the arrowsmith

  Has stripped it, and I pray

  That I, all foliage gone,

  May shoot into my joy.

  ‘Eh?’ said Crealy. He tired quickly of poetry, even when seasoned with humiliation. ‘Had enough,’ he said. His thoughts turned to Garfield. There were hours to go, years maybe, before it would be day again.

  Blind Mr Lewin was guided by Mrs Munro to the sunroom in the east wing the next afternoon. Mr Lewin loved the warmth, and found that he could sleep easily during the day in full sunlight. Mrs Munro kindly led him down, and Lewin could feel the warmth even as they approached the end of the corridor. Mrs Munro’s head nodded companionably as she pulled a cane chair close to the large window; so close that Lewin was able to put out his hands and feel the glass while sitting comfortably. And she gave him his talking clock to cradle so that he would not be anxious about his meals. Mr Lewin thanked her, and listened to the departing footsteps.

  He had never seen the sunroom, and instead of the meek, faded place that it was, looking out over the crocodile paving and lawns in front of the cottages, he imagined it cantilevered high into the sun’s eye and with only the yellow, benevolent furnace of the sun to be seen from the window. Lewin had known far worse times.

  While Mr Lewin slept, Crealy elsewhere watched Mrs Halliday. Mrs Halliday was only in her sixties, but subject to Huntington’s chorea in recurring spells during which she often came into the Totara Home to relieve her family. Crealy always took a considerable interest in her visits, for her breasts were large, she still had firm flesh, and caught at the right moment she could be used without much recollection of it.

  Towards the end of the long afternoon she was at her most confused, and Crealy watched from outside the television lounge until he saw her talking to herself and constantly folding and unfolding her cardigan. He went in and firmly led her along the trail of mottled lino to the sunroom, which visitors or clergymen sometimes used to have their talks. ‘Has the family come? Has Elaine?’ said Mrs Halliday. Crealy was quite pleased to see blind Lewin there, close to the window, for he could pass as a chaperone at a distance, but not act as one on the spot. Crealy sat Mrs Halliday with her back to the window.

  ‘Your family are coming soon,’ he said, and opened the front of her dress.

  ‘Is that you, Mrs Munro?’ asked Lewin.

  ‘Shut up,’ said Crealy.

  ‘The family you say,’ said Mrs Halliday. She allowed Crealy to unclip her bra at the back, and he scooped out her breasts so they made two full fish heads in the flounce of her dress.

  Lewin was still groggy from his sleep, but he didn’t wish to seem discourteous. ‘Where would we be without families,’ he said gallantly, and fingered his talking clock for reassurance. Crealy stroked Mrs Halliday’s breasts, and clumsily rolled her nipples between thumb and forefinger so that she pursed her lips and put her hands on his wrists.

  ‘You need to get changed for your family,’ said Crealy absently.

  ‘What time is it then?’ asked Mrs Halliday. Lewin pressed his clock.

  ‘The time is 4.42 pm,’ it said.

  Crealy took another minute of satisfaction in the sun, then refilled Mrs Halliday’s bra, and with some difficulty fastened it across her back. Matron Frew might come looking for her soon. ‘Stay here and talk to Lewin,’ he said.

  ‘Am I changed for my family?’

  ‘Good enough,’ said Crealy.

  ‘Who is that?’ said Lewin, turning an ear rather than an eye for better comprehension.

  ‘Jenny Pen rules,’ said Crealy as he left.

  The impartial sun which Mr Lewin blindly enjoyed, shone on Mortenson who sat in his wheel chair on a landscaped hillock which looked over the SRA—the safe recreation area. Within it the bewildered or fretful, the complacent and serene could be left in security. Only the staff could manage the latch. Crealy called it the zoo, but it was pleasant enough, more like a kindergarten. There were seats with foam cushions for thin flesh, and raised garden plots which keen Totarans could work on without stooping or kneeling.

  The SRA was overlooked by the wide windows of the dining room on one side, but to the north side there was a view across the grass and gardens towards the cottages and the spires of the great world. Mortenson could see the goldfish pond in the zoo, and George Oliphant dolefully shaking the back of his trousers because he was in trouble again.

  The Matron and Dr Sullivan stopped beside Mortenson on their round, but finished their conversation before greeting him. ‘I’ve no idea how Mrs Joyce managed to leave the block in the first place,’ said Matron.

  ‘It can’t be helped.’

  ‘It’s a puzzle though.’

  ‘I haven’t told her family the actual circumstances of the death: to minimise the trauma you see. And how are you, Mr Mortenson?’

  ‘Mr Mortenson is brighter every day,’ replied Matron. Mortenson gave his half smile. He could see the exquisite glow on the sunlit tulips, feel the sun’s good will on his faithful side, and hear Miss Hails practising her word for the day. The word was Nell, or perhaps Knell; how was anyone to know but her.

  ‘Nell, nell, nell, nell,’ said Miss Hails. Like a prayer wheel she gave a benediction over all the zoo, the lawn, the cottages, the totality of Totara and beyond. ‘Nell, nell, nell, nell, knell.’

  ‘Well, nice talking to you,’ said Dr Sullivan, and they went on their way. Mortenson felt an itching tic begin at the corner of his eye. In all that ground of apparent pleasure he wondered what Crealy was up to. What time was it? It came to Mortenson that his karma had been assessed; that from the best of lives he was in a spiral descent of reincarnation from which he would emerge perhaps a six-spot lady-bird, as counted by Mrs Munro, and would clamp the stem beneath the wine glow of the sunlit tulip blooms.

  What time was it? Dr Sullivan and Matron were trying to wake Popanovich. ‘It’s always the same. Ah, well, he seems healthy enough and sleep can’t hurt him.’ Dr Sullivan smiled at the other three in the end room, while Matron moved Popanovich in the bed. The doctor was not a dour person; he believed in good spirits and optimism. He looked about for something that would provide an occasion for light-heartedness and rapport.

  Matron sensed that the mood had abruptly changed, though at first she didn’t see that behind her Dr Sullivan had taken Jenny Pen from Garfield’s bed and mounted her on his hand. Garfield began to shiver, and put his hands out, palms uppermost, as if to play patter-cake. Crealy hung his head to one side like an old dog, while the whites of his eyes showed as he kept things in his view. Mortenson felt a sweat break out on his good thigh beneath the rug, and his smile was slow to form and slow to fade. He smiled as a Christian might smile who catches the Devil out walking in the daytime.

  ‘What a good life we lead at Totara,’ said Dr Sullivan in falsetto for Jenny Pen, and he jiggled her to emphasise his humou
r. The only response were those of Matron Frew’s crepe soles on the lino, and at a distance Miss Hails saying her catechism for the day. It drifted to them down the corridor.

  ‘Mi, mi, mi, mi, mi, mi.’

  ‘Perhaps puppeteer isn’t my calling,’ said Dr Sullivan. He was disappointed by his reception and withdrew into professionalism. Matron knew how to keep that patter going.

  Crealy’s arthritis was giving him gyppo again. To appease it he walked the maze of corridors, and watched from window after window the sunshowers above the grounds. Dramatic clouds were towed across the sky, and when they met the sun they were lit with red and orange embers which glowed and shifted in the deep perspectives. From the dining room Crealy saw a travelling shower fracture the surface of the zoo pond, so that the goldfish lost their shape, and became just carrots in the shallow weeds.

  On his second circuit Crealy noticed that Nurse McMillan had left the office, and that the morning’s mail lay partly sorted on the counter. He eased in, and his stiff hands found envelopes addressed to Mortenson, to Oliphant and Garfield. He pocketed them, and was cheered by the petty malice even though he couldn’t see Mrs Halliday in the TV room as he went past. For the life of him he could not remember when he last had a personal letter. Garfield on the other hand received far too much kind attention from outside, and Crealy decided to give him a hard time until the weather improved. He began to search for Garfield, but George Oliphant saw him checking the TV room, and afterwards went to the window which could be seen by Mortenson and gave a warning by semaphore, which Mortenson passed on to Garfield.

  Garfield began his slow but urgent escape down the corridors of hours towards the bedding store-room. The door there had a plunger and cylinder to draw it closed without slamming. To Garfield the mechanism seemed to take an eternity to work, and the cylinder hissed as his view of the corridor and bathrooms narrowed. Garfield sat in semi darkness, content with the little light entering from a glass strip above the door.

  The broad shelves had stacks of sheets and pillowcases, and on the floor were piled blankets which rose like wool bales. Garfield sat on a half-bale to wait it out. He didn’t trouble himself with the metaphysics of his situation: what he had come to. The former Wellington fullback and general manager for Hentlings sat grinding his teeth in the bedding store-room of Totara Eventide Home, and listening to the perpetual echoing orchestration which his tinnitus inflicted on him.

  Crealy found him there.

  It was nearly four. The showers had become less frequent, and a rainbow stood clearly behind the cottages, fading up towards the sun. Yet Mortenson couldn’t concentrate on his history of Rome; he felt a helpless consideration for Garfield, and a fear of Crealy. He knew that where there are no lions then hyenas rule.

  His chair was very low-geared, and despite the busy noise of its motor, Mortenson moved only slowly along the corridors towards the bedding room. At alternate windows the day’s strange weather was displayed as sunlit promise, then skirts of rain from fiery clouds, then blue sky once again. The door took all the thrust his chair could manage, and sank closed behind him so that the failing light and hiss half hid Crealy’s torture of his friend.

  ‘Hello, Judge,’ said Crealy. Once he found that Mortenson had come alone, he was pleased. He had become almost bored with Garfield. Yet an advantage can be gained or lost quite unexpectedly and with such an absence of drama that it is easy to miss the significance. Crealy moved to get a better leverage, overbalanced on the soft surface and fell backwards just a couple of feet into the comfortable crevasse fashioned by Mrs Munro between the banded blankets. His old arms and legs moved silently in the shadows, as if he were a beetle on his back there. He was too stiff to turn easily.

  Mortenson took a pillow with his better arm and pushed it across Crealy’s face.

  ‘Come on,’ he said to Garfield. It was more a delaying tactic first, with neither of them having much hope of success; even Crealy gave a sort of grin whenever he managed to free his face, as if he recognised his temporary difficulty, but would soon pay them back all right.

  But the more Garfield and Mortenson pushed, and the more Crealy twisted, the deeper his shoulders sank between the blankets. He began to pant and jerk; the others saw a chance indeed and their lips drew back in the dark and they pressed for all their lives. Crealy’s big arms and legs fell in harmless thuds against the embracing blankets. Mortenson felt strength and justice in his good arm even though it trembled with exertion, and Garfield was on his knees to use his body weight upon the pillow.

  ‘Had enough. Had enough, Crealy old son,’ he kept whispering. The competitive urge in Garfield revived one last time. Crealy’s arms and legs moved less, but his body bucked.

  ‘Now let us play Othello,’ slurred Mortenson.

  ‘Had enough,’ sobbed Garfield.

  For a good time after Crealy was still, they continued to hold the pillow over his face. Accustomed to such full tyranny as his, they could hardly believe that they had beaten him so completely. Even when they heard his sphincter muscles relax, and had the smell of him, they held the pillow down. ‘Had enough?’ said Garfield tenderly.

  ‘Put the pillow back,’ said Mortenson finally, and he wiped the tears from Garfield’s face. They didn’t look again at Dave Crealy, who was a big, stupid man lying well down amongst piles of blankets. Garfield opened the door a little, and when he saw that there was no one outside he held it back for Mortenson’s chair, and the snake hissed behind them in the dark.

  As they went home they met Mrs Munro guiding Mr Lewin to the sunroom. Mrs Munro delighted in being useful, and was thinking also of a nice cup of tea. ‘There’s a rainbow,’ she said, nodding. Mortenson and Garfield could see its thick, childish bands behind the cottages; at the same time the sun was strong enough to cast shadows from the benches in the grounds. Who knows what Lewin saw, but he could hear with them the piping of Miss Hails at a distance.

  ‘Na, na, na, na, na, na, na, na.’ Mr Lewin pushed the button on his clock.

  ‘The time is 4.19 pm,’ the clock said.

  (1992)

  Driving into the Storm

  Ian Wedde, ‘Driving into the Storm: The Art of Poetry’

  The music leads you out

  into a uniform evening landscape

  with a wide shining blue-

  grey body of water

  dark smoky mountains

  in the distance:

  a pale mantle, breath of its

  thousands, reveals the city

  at the far side of the water:

  close up

  the white cotton-head dry flowers

  of Old-Man’s Beard clematis—

  the music takes you out into

  all this—the music plays

  from some radio

  in some house

  behind you up the hillside—

  some ‘semi-classical’

  trash. Next

  it’s the

  flatness of the landscape fools you, so that

  when you first see the mountains

  they seem

  impossible obstacles, until you begin to ascend

  when you realise they’re lifting you up

  into the rainy architecture of the storm.

  All language is a place, all

  landscapes

  mean something. In the back seat

  one passenger is taping up his knuckles.

  A less violent carload of travellers would be hard

  to find, but we too

  have places we arrive at

  and sometimes we can’t

  drive through.

  We have to

  stop, we must let the hidden meanings

  out. The confrontations that may hurt us

  into original thought.

  If you’ve been everywhere

  this was worth waiting for. If you’ve been nowhere, this

  feels like everywhere, your free brochure

  ‘How To Get Lost & Found In
New Zealand’

  where you stop for lunch at a

  ‘tavern’ that plunks you into Europe

  till you get the bill. $8. For two ! Where you

  travel through farmland, ‘cattle

  ranches’ and

  ‘meadows’ full of sheep.

  If you believe this

  you’re really

  nowhere, the language sees to that

  whereas somewhere

  you’re still driving

  into storms the mountains are about

  to hurl down upon the nowhere brochure

  imported trees and washbrick haciendas.

  Places the earth’s crust is so thin

  you may even meet the natives

  and be unable to resist buying their wares.

  The back-seat passengers are checking their

  helmets and groin guards

  and some kind of ignorant fear

  has begun to enter the trip

  the way a conclusion can bleed back toward you

  through a narrative.

  The confrontations where

  you stop driving, you get out and stand

  under hard rain and feel

  storm waters burst through

  the rotten barricades

  of your heart. You’re up there

  you can see

  where you come from.

  André Kostelanetz

  playing footlight favourites

  will not save you now

  though not much art can manage such

  immaculate conjunctions, the uniform blue-

  grey vista