by Laura Elliot
‘No disturbance. The night doesn’t belong to me.’ A towel is draped over his hips, his chest is bare. Lloyd or Larry…something beginning with L, a reclusive man with green fingers, Cathy said. An insomniac, like herself.
‘Cigarette?’ he asks.
‘No thank you. I try to confine my smoking to daylight hours.’
‘A worthy aspiration. Why don’t you sit down?’
The trunk is smooth against her back, a natural resting place for night wanderers.
‘I think I’ll have that cigarette after all.’
He lights it for her, his craggy features visible in the flame. Grey hair, lank from the salt water, his profile sharp against the moon’s glow. She has assumed he was from New Zealand but his accent is American, a soft Southern drawl.
‘You’re Lauren?’
‘Yes. Do you usually swim at midnight?’
‘Usually.’
She draws on the cigarette but the taste of nicotine is too strong. She stubs it out and wonders what Steve would say if he could see her now. ‘The grounds in Havenswalk are wonderful. Cathy says you’ve transformed the place.’ She gestures vaguely into the distance behind them. ‘Do you live in that house back there? I lost my way when I was trying to find the glow-worm grotto. I’m always losing my way, or so it seems since I came here.’
Perhaps he nods but he makes no other reply. The darkness is absolute. She wraps it around herself, sinks into its silence.
‘We’ve both travelled a long way from home.’ His voice startles her from her reverie.
‘What part of America are you from?’
‘North Carolina.’
‘Do you return home often?’
‘Not since my parents died.’ His voice sinks. He is obviously familiar with her history. ‘I lived in Ireland during the eighties.’
‘Really? Where?’
‘Northern Ireland. A bad scene.’
‘It passed me by,’ she replies. ‘I was too young to care and when I became aware that doorstep shootings and bombing were not part of a natural process, I was too caught up in my own personal tragedy and cared even less.’
‘I admire your honesty.’
‘I’m not an honest person.’
‘Frankness, then.’
‘What were you doing there?’
‘I was a priest.’
‘A priest?’
Amused by her surprise, he slaps his bare chest. ‘As you can see, I no longer wear the collar.’
No wonder the earlier words she overheard sounded familiar. Childhood incantations recited when she was a child. Star of the sea. Pray for us. Mother Most Admirable. Pray for us. Blessed Virgin. Pray for us.
‘Any regrets?’ she asks.
‘Every day. Every night. In between I know I made the right decision.’
‘So you’re happy?’
‘Content. For the moment.’
‘Before then, what did you do?’
‘I served with the US military in Vietnam. After the war ended, I drifted for a few years.’
Alcohol, she thinks, or maybe drugs, probably homelessness. She has no urge to enquire and he does not elaborate.
‘I decided I was suited to the religious life,’ he says. ‘I would save the world through prayer.’
She hears the mockery in his voice and tries to equate the two. A soldier and a priest, each one imposing a particular order on society. Her parents protested against the war, flower power and free love, a heady intoxication. She remembers the photographs taken during the summer when they were students working in San Francisco, her father in a kaftan and beard, her mother with beads and flowers. Iconic images. This man also carries traces, no photographs, just scenes that he can never eradicate.
‘And you?’ he asks. ‘What do you do when you’re not star gazing?’
‘Like you, I run from an ordained life.’
‘Don’t you ever grow tired?’
‘Bone weary at the moment.’ She laughs and lifts a pebble, presses its night cold surface against her skin.
‘What age were you when your parents died?’ The unexpectedness of his question takes her by surprise.
‘Twelve. Cathy was eight. It was a long time ago.’
‘When we are defined by tragedy, time is meaningless.’
‘But we must find the means to pass it,’ she replies. ‘I seldom think about them.’ She senses rather than notices his gaze fastening on her and rushes on. ‘Or else they’re so embedded in my psyche I can’t cut them loose. I’m quite crazy, you see.’
She allows the stone to slip through her fingers, hears the dull thud as it hits the pebbles. Her father used to skim stones across the sea, hop, hop, hop, hop, plop. Echoes everywhere.
The man beside her taps his forehead in a parody of madness.
‘In Vietnam, I killed men and never knew their names. I hear their screams. No matter how fast I run or how much silence I seek, they’re trapped in my memory.’
She should leave now, flit into the darkness. Forget this mad priest with his hooded eyes and the scent of the lake rising from him.
‘You want to run again.’ He laughs, understanding her fear. Not a manic cackle but low, sympathetic. ‘Go now. I’ll direct you back to your chalet. I appreciate the time you’ve given me.’
‘The voices you hear? Are you talking about schizophrenia?’
‘The luminous mind? No, I’m not gifted with visions or divine voices. What I hear are reverberations of the suffering I imposed. It deserves to be heard so I listen.’
‘Do they ever give you rest?’
‘Even in the stillness of prayer, I hear them. But sometimes, yes, I find peace.’
He flicks his cigarette into the dark. She imagines his mind, mauled and stripped of rationality. Yes, she thinks, this is where I would come at night to still the memories, the deprivation in Rebecca’s voice, Julie’s sobs, Cathy’s endless questions about that night. Her fault, all her fault. Sugar plum fairy, selfish, demanding, destructive.
‘We cruised Milford Sound during our tour,’ she says. ‘There are trees growing from moss on the cliffs.’
‘I’ve seen such forests,’ he replies.
‘I feel like those trees since I came here. My roots waiting to be wrenched free and send me hurtling…’
‘Where will you land?’
‘In a ditch with nettles in my mouth.’
He remains silent. What can he say that will not seem banal, inadequate?
‘I used to cut myself,’ she continues. ‘Make myself bleed. It made no difference. It should have, shouldn’t it? Pain? It should bring oblivion but my memories were too dark to penetrate, no matter how deep the cut.’ She thrusts the words defiantly towards him. ‘I want to bleed again but I’m not…I’m not…’
‘And now you will give life?’
‘Yes.’ She is unsure if she uttered the word aloud or if it simply swam into her consciousness, embryonic yet fully formed. ‘I was told I could never have children. But they were wrong.’ She touches her stomach, flat and hard and full.
‘To grow from shallow ground and keep reaching towards the light takes courage,’ he says. ‘You’re wondrously brave.’
Wondrously brave. She repeats his words; the unfamiliar nuances…wondrously brave. Such foolishness. She is brittle and beautiful but never brave.
‘One more swim before I leave.’ He flings the towel from him and strides naked towards the lake.
She pulls her dress over her head. The pebbles are sharp against her feet but she runs quickly and feels no pain. The water is silver-streaked and shockingly cold. She screams as she falls forward, swims until she is breathless, moon jewels falling from her fingers. She turns and floats on her back, unconcerned by his nearness when she hears him splashing close by.
They return together to the shore, their nakedness merging into the shadows. She dresses quickly, dragging her clothes over her wet skin. It is time to leave. Their ships have passed. She has no comforting words to scare aw
ay his demons and he does not demand them. Scrambled brain…tangled…mangled…she will never know if he is crazy or blessed.
They exchange a brief handshake and an unspoken understanding that the secrets they exchanged belong only to them. Above her the stars move in an unfamiliar sphere. No Plough or North Star to guide her way. And such a moon shining tonight, round and golden as a Buddha’s belly.
Chapter Sixty-one
Day Six
In Abel Tasman Park, the llamas peel their thick lips back from their teeth and slit their eyes against the rising flurry of dust and leaves. Apart from their ears, which are laid back inquisitively, their expressions are aloof, almost disdainful as they gaze from behind their fence upon the curious tourists. The wind gusts. Rebecca holds on to her sunhat. The purple dahlias bow into an approaching squall.
‘This’ll scupper our plan,’ says Tim. ‘Pity. I hoped to take a kayak out on the lake.’
‘Conor wanted me to see the llamas. At least we’ve had a chance to do that. It’s been a wonderful few days, Tim.’
‘Yes. It has. And Cathy will be married in two days’ time.’
‘I’m aware of that.’
‘So aware that you’re unable to think of anything else.’
‘Is it so obvious?’
He smiles and turns her towards the Jeep. ‘If we start now, we should be back in Havenswalk by this afternoon.’
Mel taps on the door of his room. The guests plan to spend the day touring the wine galleries in Blenheim. His parents are busy with last-minute preparations and need some time on their own. Mel is dressed in jeans and a navy jumper with a high neck. Only for her jet-black earrings with the crystals in the centre, no one would know she was a Goth. Conor shakes his head when she asks if he would like to come with them.
Last night destroyed everything. He can never look at her again without remembering the humiliation. She hesitates at the door. If she tries to discuss what happened, he will sink through the floor.
‘I’m meeting Oliver later,’ he says.
She nods. ‘Enjoy your day.’
A short while later Conor hears car doors slamming. He looks out the window. His uncle’s Jag and the car his aunts hired are parked in front of Havenswalk. He watches Julie sit behind the wheel, Alma and Mel settle beside her. Robbie sits in the back of the Jag. As Lauren walks from the Kea chalet, her floppy sunhat is whisked away in a sudden gust of wind. She runs across the lawn and retrieves it. The forecast is for storm conditions later in the day.
In the attic Conor shifts broken sun chairs and loungers. He heaves crates of unused crockery to one side, checks boxes of documents, books and magazines. The letters have to be here. Where else would she put them? Havenswalk is an open space for so many people, the attic her only private domain.
An hour later he is covered with dust and still searching. His mother is a hoarder. Has she ever thrown anything out? Next year, when work begins on the attic conversion, she will have some job removing all the junk. He unfastens the leather straps on a large chest and rummages through rows of neatly folded clothes: T-shirts and school uniforms, a pair of 501s he wore until he could no longer breathe in them, parka jackets and anoraks, even baby clothes that smell of mothballs. He finds the picnic basket at the bottom of the chest and removes the bunched sheets of paper. The sun flits in and out of the clouds, slants through the skylight as he crouches among the jumble. A long-dead fly quivers in the centre of an abandoned web. What a dark world she created with her graveyards and fascination with death. What a lost dark world.
She calls his name. Afraid he will sneeze and betray his whereabouts, he stays perfectly still until her voice fades. She always knows where to find him. Wincing from stiffness, he clasps the basket under his arm and clicks the attic door behind him. He descends the staircase to the privacy of his room and continues reading.
She knocks on his door. He checks the bed. The basket is out of sight.
‘Lunch is ready.’ She crosses the floor and sits on the edge of his bed.
‘I’m not hungry.’
‘I hope you don’t intend going out on the lake.’
‘I was out already.’
‘What’s the matter, Conor?’ She always knows when something is wrong. The letter he was reading is under the pillow but he is terrified she will discover it.
‘Nothing.’ He stiffens when she puts her arms around him.
‘I want you always to remember something, Conor. Love expands. You must never be jealous of Kevin. What I feel for him does not take away one iota of the love I have for you. It never will. Do you understand?’ He nods, embarrassed by the tears shimmering in her eyes.
‘Alma keeps saying Rebecca will be back for your wedding.’
‘Perhaps she’s right.’
‘You don’t believe it?’
She shrugs, as if the conversation bores her. ‘Who knows?’
‘You do. It’s your fault that she’s gone.’
‘Oh, Conor, why do you have to be so difficult?’ She rises and walks from the room.
He waits until her footsteps fade before drawing the letter from under his pillow. He hears Sandy barking, the clink and clunk of saucepans from the kitchen, Hannah’s shrieking laughter travelling upwards.
He stops reading and walks the length of his room until his heart stops thumping. He does not want to know anything more about her young, troubled life. But moments later he is reading again, devouring the pages.
Oh Mum…Mum!
I need to tell you what happened. I can’t tell anyone else, never, ever until the day I die. Rebecca will kill me stone dead…what have I done?
He lays the letters to one side and listens to the wind rise, the boughs groan. The rata blossom will flutter across the lawn in drifts and Lyle’s white roses will scatter.
‘Jeremy Anderson.’ He speaks his father’s name aloud for the first time. Six syllables: Jer-em-y-And-er-son…son…son…son. He should have guessed. Kevin Mulvaney was too neat, too perfect. What happened to his mother was not neat or sweet but something so dreadful she has never been prepared to speak it aloud. Everyone knows. He understands Rebecca’s hostility, Kevin’s hesitation when they first met. He remembers the feline slant of Lauren’s eyes when he told her she was beautiful. Whose voice had she heard prattling? Whose smile had she seen? And Mel in the grotto. The shaky feeling sweeping over him whenever he thinks about her. He wanted to snap her suspenders against her thighs, hitch up her skirt, lift her in his arms and do it to her right there and then. Sick, he is sick like his father, and he can never tell anyone, especially his mother who must have shown Kevin the letters, shared her past with him, left her son in ignorance of the other half of his existence.
She says love conquers everything yet she lived a lie, raped by his father, flash Jeremy Anderson with his flash car and his flash words and his flashing smile. What else can she feel but hatred every time she looks at his son? Her silences make sense now, the way she wrapped herself from him, the photograph she hid, the lost years she denied him, and how she reclaimed them on a lie…a lie. Everything he believes has been snatched from him.
Lyle is not in the garden, nor in the walled herbarium. He comes and goes from Havenswalk as he pleases, his timetable known only to himself. He must have returned home. The marquee billows a warning when Conor runs past on his way to the boathouse. Lyle’s shack is only five minutes away, longer if he goes by road. With Lyle, Conor can talk about anything. Lyle will just nod and smoke his cigarettes, blowing smoke rings, but he will listen, take in every word. Conor always feels good after talking to him, as if clean water has washed through his brain and he knows exactly what to do.
He slides his kayak into the lake and pulls on the oars, his strong arms straining. He no longer understands love. It’s too complicated. He wants hate. It’s a tough, gut feeling he can understand. Lyle was once a soldier and soldiers have to hate to survive. His heart is a drum, thoombing…thoombing…thoombing. The water rears and roars boiste
rously around him.
The wind flattens the ribboned banks of blue hibiscus crowning the coast. Willows swish their green tendrils against the Jeep and the swaying manes of pampas grass bow to the ground. The rain begins to fall as Tim enters Havenswalk. The front door is open. Rain slants into the hall. Rebecca enters, shouts Cathy’s name but hears no answering call. Ruthie and Hannah are not in the kitchen. The wedding cake sits on a stand: tricoloured tiers with a leprechaun on top. Rebecca winces, then laughs. She calls Cathy’s name again.
‘Rebecca!’ She turns around. Tim stands in the doorway. Rain soaks his hair, glistens on his beard. ‘Conor…’ He stops, presses his hand to his chest and gasps.
‘What’s wrong with Conor?’
‘Cathy’s worried sick. She found some stuff in his room—’
‘Drugs?’
‘No. Old letters. He’s on the lake.’
She runs to the entrance and stares through the rain. Figures blur and move through the grey haze.
‘She checked the boathouse.’ Tim grips Rebecca’s hand as they run towards the lake. ‘His kayak is missing.’
‘I’ve seen him handling a kayak. He’s skilled on the water. He’s going to be fine. Don’t dare think otherwise. Don’t dare…’ She speaks with authority–the situation demands it–but her heart pounds as she draws closer to the lake. A dark shape rises from the jetty and hurls itself against her. The fuggy smell of wet fur rises from Conor’s dog. She steadies herself and hurries on. Sandy, whining, runs beside her.
The turquoise sheen of the lake has been replaced by a metallic grey swell that heaves against the jetty and swirls the pebbles, dragging them against the grain of the shore.
‘How long has Conor been missing?’ Her feet skid on the pebbles as she hurries towards Cathy.
Her sister’s hair blows around her but otherwise she is rigid, her arms clasped across her chest. She seems rooted, her feet submerged in the eddying flow, blind to the rain as she screams her son’s name, repeats it like a mantra, defying the wind to toss it back at her.