Drawn Out

by Tom Scott

  He also told me about a dream he’d had. It bothered me on the way home but I didn’t share it with Mum. In this dream he is walking along Waitarere Beach in an amazing sunset, the most astonishing sunset he has ever seen. A truly wondrous sunset. There is a ladder rising up into the sky. Michael climbs up this ladder into beautiful gold and crimson clouds.

  I was at my desk on Sunday evening when my phone rang. It was Burton Silver. He was just driving north on Highway One, past the turn-off to Waitarere Beach, and the most amazing sunset he had ever seen was filling the western horizon. It was so beautiful he just had to share it with someone, so he rang me. I paid it no mind and went for a short walk in the town belt. When I got back, a worried Averil said I had to ring a Waitarere number. It sounded urgent. A good friend and neighbour of Michael’s told me my brother had just died.

  It was a terrible moment going downstairs and telling Mum. She rocked and wailed for twenty minutes. I hugged her but it made little difference. It was just like when her father died. Then she stopped and was astonishingly stoic and composed through the long, awful days until the funeral service held at the rugby clubrooms in Feilding’s Johnston Park, just around from Owen Street where our old house was, and across from Nelson Street where Michael and Jan had lived. Sister Jane’s handsome army officer husband Brian Hewson, resplendent in his herbaceous border of medals, did Michael proud as MC. Dapper as he was, Brian only barely eclipsed Mum sartorially. She wanted to cut a dash for Michael, so Averil took her shopping and bought her a beautiful deep crimson Nehru jacket, stylish black pants and smart shoes. She sat in the front row pointedly gripping devastated Annie’s hand, telling everyone, ‘She was the love of his life, you know!’

  I delivered the eulogy. I told them that Michael was a very good guitarist and singer who exuded extraordinary confidence in the limelight. To impress Jan, he was not above appearing on stage with huge amounts of toilet paper stuffed down his tight trousers—giving the appearance he was hung like a Javanese rhino.

  Michael enjoyed an astonishing ease irrespective of the occasion. As a child at posh afternoon teas at the neighbours’, with everyone covetously eying the last wedge of sponge cake, Micky would reach out, squeeze it through his fingers and ask loudly if anyone else wanted it. There would be an annoyed chorus of ‘Not now!’ and he’d say, ‘Shame to waste it’ and polish it off, nosily licking his fingers.

  He didn’t disrespect authority so much as fail to even recognise it. Right from the outset schoolteachers found it unnerving that this undeniably bright, gap-toothed urchin treated them as equals. As his equals they were free to tease him just as much as he teased them. And he did.

  One long, hot afternoon bus-trip home, Micky was goading the driver, Mr Sullivan, who was also his teacher, beyond the point of endurance. Sullivan spun around and hissed that if he didn’t pull his socks up he was in for it. Micky dutifully bent down and did as he was told—hoisting up his socks. Sullivan slammed on the brakes, flew out of his seat and slapped him across the side of the face, leaving an ugly welt. The tears trickling down Micky’s cheeks vanished a few minutes later, however, and were replaced by a sly grin when up ahead, as if by magic, the unmistakable figure of our mother, laden with gifts, loomed up on the side of the road. Sullivan almost shat himself. He was puce and sweating with discomfort when he pulled over and Mum bounded on board with presents of jars of jam and cream for him. Sullivan was terrified Micky would dob him in, but that wasn’t his style. While Sullivan squirmed he sauntered off the bus beaming in sly triumph, pausing to say, with exaggerated politeness, ‘Thanks, driver!’

  Micky even had the confidence to challenge one of the neighbour’s rams to a head-butting competition when he was seven. Mum called out to me as Micky, crouched down on all fours, was stamping the ground and thrusting his head at the ram. The monster took six steps back for a run-up and charged. Micky went down like a sack of shit and wanted a rematch, but Mum wouldn’t let him.

  Had it been a wrist-wrestle it would have been a no-contest. Michael, like our brother Rob, had forearms like Popeye. The Scotts are white Tongans.

  Michael was talking once to four locals in a Texas bar when they took offence at something he said and invited him to step outside. Mike nervously took off his new jacket and rolled up his sleeves. They fled without a word.

  With Michael there were no divisions or social ladders. To borrow a line from Bob Dylan, who he loved, he was better than no one, and no one was better than him.

  He was with his daughter Milly at a function when he spotted Sir Howard Morrison. ‘Hey, Howard! Howard! Howie! Howie! Over here!’ Mike boomed, waving his large hand at the singing knight of the realm, who excused himself from his group and happily trotted over to make this excited fan’s day. Mike held out his huge hand, which Sir Howard grabbed warmly.

  ‘Mike Scott!’ said Micky loudly, before abruptly turning his broad back on him, leaving Morrison stranded and bewildered in no man’s land. ‘That’s how you treat famous cunts, Milly,’ he told his shocked and appalled daughter, as Sir Howard reeled back the way he came.

  He was a qualified pilot. When he was courting Jan, rather than drive the short distance from Sanson to Whanganui to meet her parents, he thought he would cut more of a dash if they flew there in a Cessna. It was always debatable as to what was more terrifying—being in the cockpit with him, or being on the ground when he pretended to be a Spitfire pilot strafing German supply lines.

  Mike’s love of aircraft came from our father and was so strong that rushing Jan to hospital to have Milly, her contractions coming thick and fast, he just had to stop on the roadside at Ohakea to watch some Skyhawks land.

  When the rest of the Scott clan moved away from Feilding the burden of caring for our ailing father fell mostly on Mike and Jan, which they did with grace and forbearance. In the weeks before he died we talked and joked a lot more on the phone. I was able to tell him I loved him, to which he replied, as only he could, ‘I can’t say that I blame you.’

  ON 1 DECEMBER 2003 WELLINGTON hosted the world premiere of the third movie in the Lord of the Rings trilogy, The Return of the King. The Wellington City Council estimated that 120,000 people lined the streets of the capital to cheer and applaud the key film-makers and the stars as they paraded through the city in open-top classic cars. Led by Māori conch callers, the parade included hobbits, orcs, elves, riders of Rohan, Gondorian soldiers, ringwraith riders, Easterlings and Uruk-hai. The cars stopped at the western end of Courtenay Place and advanced down a red carpet towards the Embassy Theatre, which Peter Jackson had had restored and refurbished above and beyond its former glory.

  Giving media interviews, signing autographs, posing for photographs, chatting with ecstatic fans reaching out from behind the barricades, the colourful, cavorting caravan took several hours to negotiate the last 500 metres. Three giant screens relayed images to massive pressing crowds. Television news crews from major international networks fed footage around the world. New Line studios had three crews and three reporters on the ground as well, providing additional coverage and conducting separate interviews: Madeleine Sami, Raybon Kan and me. I was also the MC before the premiere, introducing the Prime Minister and Peter. It was all wasted on me. I was a zombie half-numb with grief.

  Michael had died barely two weeks earlier. Micky played bass in a number of rock bands. He knew that the show must go on. He would have wanted me to honour my commitment.

  It was the second time I had done the honours for Peter. In 1992 he asked me to MC the premiere of his slapstick comedy-horror film Braindead. He was nervous. He wanted me to get the audience laughing before it started rolling to get them in a receptive mood.

  He needn’t have worried. I was entirely redundant. It was brilliant and hysterically funny from the first few frames.

  I have no clear recollection of how things went at the LOTR premiere, but I did hear later from friends as far afield as Tel Aviv and Vancouver that they had seen me on CNN, so they must have swit
ched to the New Line feed at some point. I had a small advantage over other reporters in that Averil worked on the movie. The producer, Barrie Osborne, and co-producer, Rick Porras, had become good friends. Through Rick and his then wife, Melissa Booth, (both of whom remain adored friends of mine to this day) I had socialised with Andy Serkis, Sean Astin and other cast members. When Averil learned from Sir Ian McKellen that he had long admired Sir Edmund Hillary we arranged a dinner party at our house for Ian to meet Ed and June. It was a great night. When I reconfigured my four-hour TVNZ documentary on Ed to a 75-minute documentary for Channel 4 in the UK, Ian did the voiceover, quite brilliantly, free of charge.

  Plus I knew Peter reasonably well. When he advised me on my Higher Ground treatment I couldn’t help but notice that he had shelves and shelves full of Beatles paraphernalia, memorabilia and scores of bootleg CD and concert DVDs in his study. He was more devoted to the Fab Four than I am—which is saying something.

  In the street parade he shared an open-topped car with the LOTR composer, the hugely talented but difficult Howard Shaw. I thrust a microphone at Peter and asked, ‘What is the best film soundtrack ever, Pete: A Hard Day’s Night or Lord of the Rings?’

  Peter is one of the smartest people I have ever met. He is razor sharp and seldom lost for words. For a few seconds, as Howard looked on, waiting for the verdict, Peter gathered his thoughts, coughed and spluttered a bit, then said diplomatically that you couldn’t really compare the two. Somewhere my brother Michael was grinning, punching the air and shouting, ‘That’s how you treat famous cunts!’

  MICHAEL’S DEATH KNOCKED THE STUFFING out of Mum. After her bravura appearance at the funeral she wilted visibly. An almost permanent sorrow and sadness enveloped her. Wellington’s wet and windy weather didn’t help. She had circulation problems in her hands. She wore mittens all the time and complained constantly about the pain, which I suppose you do when the pain is constant. She became very hard to please. She couldn’t help it, but she started to resent us, and the life we lived if she wasn’t included in it centre stage. It came as no great surprise when Mum announced she wanted to move to a retirement village in Napier.

  INT. RETIREMENT VILLAGE, BEDROOM—DAY

  In a shaft of light, JOAN sits in bed dressed in a cream nightie and pink, crocheted bed jacket, holding a blue diary in oven mitts, squinting and scowling—

  JOAN: Can’t read me own fucking handwriting. I need a stronger prescription. And I’ve just paid a fortune for these!

  JOAN waves her glasses in the air—

  JOAN: When I told Doctor Sandhu the world was getting fuzzy again I got the standard reply:

  What are you expecting, Mum? You are not getting any younger.

  I tink dat when ye get to my age you know dat, don’t you? Yee’ve worked dat out at least. As a matter of interest, can anyone name anything, anywhere in the universe, dat is getting younger? Newborn babies, for fuck’s sake, aren’t getting any younger! And I wish he’d stop calling me Mum. I don’t care if it is the custom in Pakistan.

  JOAN gingerly removes one hand from an oven mitt and slowly flexes her fingers, wincing—

  JOAN: Just in case yer wondering. Me diary’s not piping hot. Me hands are feck’n freezing. I’m not a well woman! I’m not a well woman!

  Doctor Sandhu tells me I have Raynaud’s disease. Something to do with poor circulation in the extremities. Some mornings me hands are as white to the look and as cold to the touch as a Michelangelo marble. The pain is excruciating! You wouldn’t wish it on yer own worst enemy.

  Actually, I do wish it on me own worst enemy.

  And me children, who roll their eyes when I talk about the agony I’m in.

  They tink I’m exaggerating to get attention. One morning of dis would get their fucking attention! One of me few regrets is dat I won’t live long enough to see dem grow old and decrepit and having to put up with the shit I’m going through! I would pay good money to see dat, I would!

  JOAN gently clenches and unclenches her fist—

  INT. REST HOME—DAY

  JOAN: I told Tom and Averil I was shifting to Napier to be closer to the grandchildren I prefer. I didn’t mean it to sound like that. It came out wrong. I wanted to be closer to Michael’s final resting place. When my time comes, and it can’t be far off, I want my ashes scattered there as well. High in the Hawke’s Bay hills, closer to the heaven I no longer believe in.

  JOAN lies back, staring at the ceiling—

  FRANK SINATRA (V.O.) (singing): Blue days, All of them gone, Nothing but blue skies, From now on.

  INT. EPILOGUE: FUNERAL HOME—NOON

  JOAN, in her pink candlewick dressing gown, cream flannelette nightie and fluffy slippers, runs her hand gently along the top of the coffin—

  JOAN: I pick dat colour. Lilac. Blue is too cold and purple too ecclesiastical. I am very clear on the question of religion. NO HYMNS! I don’t want any hymns at my funeral. NO SCRIPTURE! I don’t want any fucking readings from the Gospels or reciting of Psalms at my funeral. AND NO PRIESTS! Is dat clear? I DON’T WANT ANY PRIESTS AT MY FUNERAL! Though if ye happen to see one cycling past ye might like to wave him in.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  HEART MURMURS

  AFTER NEPAL, JAPAN IS MY favourite destination. I can walk through Japanese cities like Kyoto, Sapporo and Nara and say to myself, ‘I could live here’—something I have never felt in Nepal, or few other places actually.

  My fondness for Japan began when Averil’s son, Will, completed his degree in philosophy and languages and moved to Tokyo. He wants eventually to join the UN and work on their refugee resettlement programmes. Smart boy. When global warming and sea rise submerge the coastal plains where most of the world’s populations live he will never be out of a job.

  One trip we stayed at the Hilton Tokyo in Shinjuku-ku. The views after sunset from the New York Bar on the fifty-fifth floor were wondrous. A gaudy neon Milky Way marched off into infinity in every direction.

  One evening I was sipping a cocktail, flicking idly through the International Herald Tribune, when I read that 400 Japanese company employees on a junket to the southern Chinese city of Zhunhai had a three-day orgy with 500 Chinese prostitutes. These people have so much to teach the west.

  I looked dreamily out the window. The last rays of the setting sun were hitting the snow-covered upper slopes of Mount Fuji and I suddenly felt ill. We were climbing it in a few days. Averil and Will were excited. I was experiencing a deep dread. Jesus Christ, it was the same bloody height as the hill up to Namche Bazaar; I’d struggled up that the last time and I was in my fifties then.

  It proved to be as hard as I feared. My feet were leaden. Every step was an effort. Going up some steep sections, Will grabbed my belt and heaved me up just as Mingma had done for the Burra Sahib. I spared what little breath I could to thank him. Ever polite, he replied, ‘No problem. We could rest here a bit. I could do with a break myself.’ He was lying.

  We reached the last lodge well after dark. They put me on oxygen but the cylinder was empty. I had seen this movie before.

  We slept in communal bunks like submarine crews. At 3 a.m. alarms sound for the assault on the last 300 feet to the summit—the intention being to get there before sunrise and the start of a brand-new day. I stayed in my sleeping bag as Averil and Will scrambled up in the freezing cold and black. They made it as the sun slipped above the distant horizon. To the delight of the locals, Will stripped to his waist and did a spirited haka.

  I stripped to my waist for my GP when I returned home. He needed a few moments to get the better of his gag reflex then attached a stethoscope to my ribcage. The negative buoyancy invaluable when you are stepping into rotating lawn-mower blades made it difficult to spot, but I definitely had a heart murmur.

  Ken Greer dispatched me to the Heart Centre at Wakefield Hospital, where Malcolm Abernethy and his team conducted an echocardiogram—they bombard your chest cavity with ultrasound waves and scan the results. I had a thickened left
ventricle wall, indicating my heart was working harder than it should. This was followed by an angiocardiogram, where they injected radio-opaque dye into a vein in my right wrist and monitored its transition through my heart on a large X-ray screen. I am not a cardiologist, but when seasoned professionals start screaming ‘FUUUUCK!’, pull out rosary beads or run from the room in tears, you prick up your ears. I’m exaggerating—no one pulled out rosary beads—but Malcolm did suggest very gently that I should go home and fetch my pyjamas and toothbrush, and not run any half marathons on the way.

  OPEN-HEART SURGERY IS NOT SOMETHING you take out full-page ads in newspapers to announce. I kept it quiet, but people found out. I got a lovely text message from All Black coach Steve Hansen wishing me a speedy recovery, and a very amusing one from the then Prime Minister, John Key, wishing me well and saying that it was highly unlikely he would ever need heart surgery because according to Nicky Hager’s book Dirty Politics he didn’t have one.

  I got two emails from John Clarke that made me laugh out loud at the time and fill me with sadness now. They are all the more poignant knowing that he died almost instantly while walking in a pristine wilderness from catastrophic heart failure.

  Dear Tom,

  I understand you’ve recently undertaken some renovations in the central thorax area and I hear that they’ve gone well. Excellent. I would expect nothing less and I’m delighted to hear it. The triathlon season begins in a couple of months and I’ve put you down for a start in the event at Warkworth in mid-December. You’ll be off scratch in the 20–27 age group. Just use the swim leg to limber up a bit, sit somewhere near the front of the peloton during the bike section and mow them down in the run. We salute you and hope all continues to go well.

  All best from all here,

  John