A long time ago Dad had got advice about death duties (back when they were still a tax). He was told that the way to avoid paying duties on a property like the bach would be to change the ownership into Tim's and my name; that way there would be no tax on inheritance. He'd seized on the idea, as he always did when there was a prospect of saving money. Papers were drawn up and the bach was transferred from our parents' names into mine and Tim's.
I didn't know it, but that was the start of the trouble that would separate me from Tim forever.
***
We were a happy family for a long time, and then two blows struck us. My mother collapsed with a heart attack, and seemed to be recovering in hospital, but died a week later. We were wretched, miserable with grief. Dad was completely crushed. We had the funeral in Auckland, then drove her to the graveyard on the hill above the bach. She was buried there, in sight of the sea.
A year later there was a scandal at the church. A woman whom Barry described as 'known to be unstable' got up in church and shouted, 'Barry Weston, tell them what you done to my son!' There were rumours of a misdemeanour, something sexual. It was hushed up, but it had an impact. Barry left the church, and not long after that he died. It was a heart attack, we were told. After that my father seemed to grow older very quickly. He kept his dignity, but you could see that his power was diminished. He became more reliant on Tim. Tim had the big house and the kids, and Alison was always willing to take care of him. They and Dad went regularly to church together, and Dad carried on working on the vestry.
I, on the other hand, didn't offer Dad much. I avoided the church. I still had a fairly tempestuous relationship with Emily. I lived in a series of flats and never got around to buying a house, and was constantly reminded by Dad and Tim that I should get on the 'property ladder' before it was too late. They shook their heads over my erratic love life and my lack of prudence. I thought they talked as if life was one long, dull preparation for a trouble-free transition to heaven — no spending, no risk-taking, no 'living it up'. 'As soon as you're born you start to die,' Dad liked to say. I rebelled against such joylessness. It made me want things, fiercely: love, risk, choice, excitement, life.
***
Emily and I went to dinner at Tim's. Dad was there too. Emily and Alison clashed.
Alison said, 'Walk down Queen Street. You'd think you were in Hong Kong.'
Tim said, 'Keep them out. Someone's got to make the tough decisions.'
'The Nazis were good at tough decisions.' Emily said, glaring.
Dad said vaguely, 'Asians? They eat so many veges. They live for a hundred years.'
Afterwards Emily said, 'Why is Tim so rough with your father?'
I bridled, offended. 'Tim's not rough.'
'He orders your father around. He talks to him as if he's stupid. He jerked his head at him, telling him to get out of the way. You saw.'
I denied it. We had a row. I said, 'No one's closer than Dad and Tim. You don't know them.'
'He's rude, though, Tim. He wants people to know he's in charge. And what a redneck he is.'
'You're rude!' I said.
But it had been a deadly evening — if ever the conversation had promised to get interesting Tim and Alison had grimly dragged it back to their staple subjects: appliances (the best TV or Playstation or stereo), property (house prices) or immigration (how foreigners threaten all this). And Tim did have a new air about him, as though, having been little brother for so long, he was enjoying an expansion of his powers. He'd been fierce and loud, almost shouting, about the importance of 'family', for example. He'd seemed to direct his tirade at Emily, who was smiling insultingly across the table at him. And it was true, he had seemed to jerk his head at Dad when Dad was hesitating in the hall . . .
I dropped Emily off at her flat, refusing her invitation to come in. She tried a few sly persuasions but I froze her off. I thought about Tim and felt uneasy.
I got over sulking after a few days. I asked Emily to move into my flat, and then a couple of months later we raised a deposit and bought a small house in Ponsonby. We were heavily mortgaged. Neither of us earned much yet. But the good thing was that Dad and Tim stopped nagging me about throwing my money away on rent.
One day Dad rang and said, 'Tim's talking about selling the bach.'
I laughed. 'That's a good one.'
There was an odd silence.
My stomach started to feel rough. 'He's not serious?'
Dad said slowly, 'Tim says it's worth a lot of money. Rising property values . . .'
'It's worth practically nothing. And he doesn't need money. He's loaded. You don't want to sell it, do you?'
'Tim's very sensible about these things,' Dad said.
'You don't want to sell it, do you?' I repeated.
'I want to be buried with your mother,' he said in a neutral voice.
I was at the supermarket when I got a message on my cellphone. Tim's voice played back, rugged, brisk: 'We need to meet and talk about selling this . . . house.'
This house. As though it were any old house, instead of our family bach, where our mother was buried. It was the tone Tim used when he said, 'Someone's got to make the hard decisions.'
I was furious. I went to see him. He was pumped up, important. He told me he could get a good price. 'There's money to be made,' he said.
'I don't want money. I want to keep the place.'
'You can be sentimental. But someone's got to make the hard . . .'
I cut him off. 'You and Alison are rich. What do you need the money for?'
He lost his temper. 'I don't have to tell you how I use my money!'
I appealed to Dad. But he wouldn't say anything. He sat on the window seat, leaning his head against the wall. He looked old and furtive and unhappy. He needed Tim.
I threw myself on Tim's mercy. I begged. I reminded him our mother was buried there, and that Emily and I spent our holidays there. I said I couldn't believe Dad really wanted this.
Tim made a little speech. He was sorry he had to be the strong-minded one, the one to make the realistic financial calls. He reminded me that I had never had a serious attitude when it came to money. I listened to him, to the tone of his voice. I'd always been stronger, effortlessly cleverer than he was. Now he was forcing his will upon me. He knew I couldn't stop him. He sounded positively exhilarated. Behind him my father sat silent, leaning his head against the wall.
I said, 'Where will I go for my holidays?'
He smiled. 'Ali and I like Fiji.'
I stood up in a fury. 'You're not selling it.'
He stepped back. 'Ali and I have seen a solicitor,' he said, blinking rapidly. 'Our name is on the title, yours and mine. I've been advised that I can force you to sell.'
I shouted, 'Your name's on the title as a tax dodge. You've got a legal right, but you've got no moral right. It's Dad's bach. You can't demand your inheritance before Dad's dead. Dad!' I turned to him.
He put out his hands. 'It's between you two,' he said. His fingers shook. He wouldn't say anything against Tim.
'If I ever have kids I want to show them the old places, take them to Mum's grave. You're supposed to care about "the family".'
He snapped nastily: 'You look after your kids and I'll look after mine.'
It was hopeless.
'You won't do it,' I said.
Tim smiled angrily. He shot a triumphant glance at Dad.
'I'm sorry,' he said.
I couldn't afford to buy Tim out. The bach was sold. It wasn't worth much. Tim and Alison took winter holidays in Fiji, and rented houses in summer. In the holidays Emily and I couldn't decide where to go. We booked motels in some spots, but they made me feel empty and rootless and I didn't like them much. My mother's grave was abandoned. Dad didn't get to visit it again. His eyesight was too bad for him to drive himself.
Tim started driving a new sports car. He and Alison bought a big house with a pool. They sent their kids to expensive private schools. The tiny bit of profit they
got from the bach sale was swallowed up, meaninglessly, in the vast swirl of money they made themselves. Selling it had been a gratuitous act, without any financial rationale. But perhaps, for Tim, it wasn't just about the money, but more to do with something he'd inherited from Ted and Barry — the quality I thought I'd seen running like a current between them, and that I'd thought of as the will to power.
Dad wouldn't let me go off about it. He said, 'Everyone's got their own opinion.' And 'Tim's very steady about money.'
He still spent a lot of time with Tim, and if he had any thoughts he kept them to himself. It must have hurt him that he couldn't visit his wife's grave. But he was old. He had to look after himself.
I refused to have anything to do with Tim, and avoided our extended family for fear of meeting him. Dad grumbled about it, but he didn't go so far as to try to persuade me to see Tim. He realised that would be useless.
Emily and I decided to get married. We had the wedding in the church, and I invited the whole family except Tim and Alison. After the ceremony we walked outside and I was shocked to see Tim standing near the door, greeting people as if he'd been invited.
I said to Dad, 'What's he doing here?'
'I asked him to come. Say a word to him. Go on.' Dad looked sly, moist-eyed.
'No,' I said. I watched Tim shake hands, smile, 'share' with an admiring group of uncles and aunts.
I was angry, but I tried to put him out of my mind, for Emily's sake. We went to Dad's house, where the reception was to be held. There was catered food and hired waiters and it all looked very nice. Emily was bursting with excitement and good humour. Tim was nowhere to be seen. I cheered up and started enjoying the party.
Then I turned and Tim was walking towards me.
'Dad,' I said, 'tell him to go away.'
'Son, son,' he said, shocked, censorious, laying his hand on my arm.
Tim was followed by a crowd of admirers — aunts, uncles and cousins I hadn't seen for years. He was holding a glass of champagne high as he threaded through the crowd, and the relatives swooped along behind him, chattering excitedly: the common folk following the charming prince. He arrived; the group packed around him. He was buoyed up by the wine and the adoring looks of his aunts and girl cousins. He was wearing a glamorous tailored suit and a bright, stylish tie. His cheeks were flushed, his eyes shone and his forehead was speckled with sweat. He stopped in front of me and tilted his face challengingly. He had never looked so handsome.
He turned and raised his glass. 'To my brother,' he said. He put on his church face: self-righteous, stupid, intransigent.
The group raised their glasses for the toast. Then Tim took the arm of one of the blushing girl cousins and made a little speech.
'Many of you haven't seen my brother for a long time. He's been busy. He's probably been living it up!' He winked. 'Anyway, let's drink to his health.'
Then he added, with a flourish, to a ripple of laughter and applause, 'We welcome home . . . the Prodigal Son!'
I turned on my heel and pushed between the murmuring, bright-eyed women, their faces glowing, it seemed to me, with enjoyment and malice.
In the kitchen, later, my rage was starting to subside. I felt weary, cynical.
Dad came in. He stood, twirling an empty wineglass.
I laughed quietly. 'Oh, that's rich,' I said. 'The Prodigal Son . . . That's good. I didn't think the idiot had it in him, to make a joke like that.'
Dad didn't say anything.
I said, 'He demands his inheritance before you've died. He takes it and squanders it on sports cars and swimming pools. He comes to my wedding and you give him the fatted beef sausages, and tell me to welcome him and to forgive. And he calls me the Prodigal Son. Oh, it's very good.'
My father eyed me steadily. His cheek twitched.
I leaned close to him and said savagely, 'I say he's the Prodigal Son. But he hasn't repented. He's grasping, stupid, cold . . .'
Dad shook his head.
I struggled against myself. I wanted to get control, to go outside to Emily. I said, 'You made him worship money! You told him he was more "good" than other people. And he was too stupid . . . he wasn't bright enough to see when he wasn't being good but bad! He takes your property and sells it, shouts at you, orders you around. He talks down to you, even though you've got twice the brains. You were right about one thing: you reap what you sow. You've reaped that . . . that fraud.' I gestured towards the garden.
Dad kept his face fixed in a sententious smile. 'My place is not to judge,' he said.
I said, 'You only forgive him because you have to. It's not Christian charity or virtue; it's pure animal need. You don't dare fall out with him. If only you'd admit it, if only you'd stop your platitudes and your stories and talk about things as they really are.'
'Animal need! He's my son. I love him. What do you know?'
I laughed coldly. 'Your Prodigal Son.'
'The Prodigal Son is a parable,' Dad began in a smothered voice. He was holding on to the back of a chair. 'It tells us a story of forgiveness and redemption. The Prodigal Son returns, repentant, and the father rejoices, for we must forgive . . .'
'It's all a myth,' I said. 'All of it. The Bible. The parables. Tim's as repentant as a snake. And your forgiveness is . . . need.'
Dad struggled to keep his composure.
'Did any of your Christianity make Tim good? No!'
We were silent, looking at each other.
'God is a myth,' I said.
I felt light-headed suddenly. I couldn't talk to him any more. Sooner or later he would try to tell me a 'little story', and I'd realised, long ago, that his stories were as much about avoiding truths as confronting them.
I left him standing there, old and silent, staring out into the garden, and I went in search of Emily.
storms
I was sitting in the car; the radio was playing a song. I was looking at where a lane runs off the main road. The lane lay ahead of me, a long narrow stretch, with a high bank overgrown with agapanthus on one side and houses on the other. The song played loud. There was no other sound. An old woman came out of a driveway, carrying a shopping bag. She started to walk away from me down the lane. There was a yellow line painted on the lane. She walked along it. I watched her going steadily away. The lane, the yellow line, the old woman's bent shoulders. A girl came out of the bushes on the bank and jumped down onto the lane, landing in a crouch, righting herself in a quick athletic whirl of limbs; the old woman, startled, still walking, turned her whole body, shoulders hunched, head sideways, to look at the girl, then kept walking away. The music played. The girl went into a house. There was a bend in the lane. The old woman reached the bend and was gone.
Sun on the asphalt. Figures in the distance. The absence of words. The old woman making her way, the whirling girl. The empty lane, the yellow line, the song.
Rob came out of the house, loaded up with bags. 'What's wrong? What? Why don't you help me? See what I've got here. Everything we need! Everything.'
He opened the boot and packed in the gear, tossing a couple of bags on the back seat.
'You relax! Enjoy the drive. This is going to be good. It won't take long to get there. What a beautiful day. Look at the sky!'
We never had children. I always thought there would be time.
'All set?'
Rob got in. He rubbed my shoulder, shook the hair out of his eyes, glanced in the back seat, briskly checking. He saw the newspaper in my lap. The black headline: Released to Attack Again.
His expression changed. He went solemn. He put his arms around me.
'Oh, darling. Don't read it. Don't think about it. Look, there's dear old Osama at the window waving goodbye!'
My dog's name was Robbie, but Rob called him Osama bin Laden because he was such a villain of an animal, and because he said I couldn't possibly have a dog with his name. Robbie was barking at the window. My housekeeper would feed and walk him while we were away. I didn't feel bad about leaving him. He
was really Raymond's dog.
Rob took the newspaper off my lap and folded it. 'Don't think about anything. No work, no sorrows, just holiday.'
I smiled. 'Okay.'
Everyone said Rob was a lovely man. I met him after a Francis family meeting in Wellington. He was a barrister, a QC. He was divorced, the father of three boys. It was six months since Raymond had left me.
I had been staying at work until late, coming home to the dog and the empty house, sleeping in the study on the top floor because I felt afraid, waking in the night, listening to the whirr of the pool pump and the dog snoring on the floor, and feeling stunned with loneliness. Grief started to feel like fear. I was jumpy. There was an odd side-effect to my rawness: I felt as if every part of me was reaching out for sex. I was washed out, nervous, tired, but I felt I was radiating need and that people — men — were responding. The world was suddenly full of sexual currents, looks, glances.
I was glad to go to the Francis meeting because it meant I could stay in a good hotel and forget myself a bit. The meeting was routine, the usual thrashing-out of issues to do with distribution of the family wealth. I went back to the hotel on the second night and Rob was in the bar. He'd been appearing in the Court of Appeal. He was tall, shabbily dressed, with alert, humorous eyes and messy, wavy hair that fell across his forehead. We started talking. He knew who I was, and that I worked in an arm of the Francis Group of companies. He told me a lot about himself. He was humble and funny. His wife had left him. Had 'despaired' of him, he confessed with a rueful laugh. 'She was terribly respectable. She didn't approve of my cigars or my old car or my messy clothes — or anything, really. She stuck it out for decades. Then she went off with a chap, a hugely wealthy corpse. She met him at tennis.'
We laughed. We drank a fair bit and I told him I lived alone. At the end of the evening he took my hand and held it hard, and I said something, some cliché about not wanting to spend the night alone.
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