by Tim Jones
Heads were counted once the tremor passed and the tumult subsided. Miranda and Sheree were missing. Separately, from Sheree's bed, they phoned in their excuses.
Miranda went home. 'I haven't seen you for days,' her flatmate remarked. It wasn't much of a flat, not really, and the flatmate held the lease.
'You can move in with me,' said Sheree.
Having lugged the last of her boxes up Sheree's steps, Miranda went out on the deck. The harbour view, which she had admired since the first night she spent there, now felt like hers. The weather was grey and cold. Far below, hardy ants, gloved and muffled, scurried to and fro on the beach.
Between Miranda's job and Sheree's funding, they had enough to pay the rent, and a little left over. They each had time to write. Sheree wrote in the morning, after Miranda had left for work, and spent the afternoon completing grant applications and working on a project to deliver sonnets by mobile phone. Some platform-specific issues were still to be resolved.
Miranda wrote on Saturday afternoons, while Sheree played hockey.
They had other interests in common. They both collected earthenware. They both loved tramping. In summer, they joined a party heading south to Nelson Lakes. They were the only writers. It was bliss.
They dealt with literary functions by arriving separately and avoiding each other, though they exchanged sly glances when they thought no one was looking.
It worked for a while. But, inevitably, word got around. A small independent publisher agreed to bring out Miranda's first collection. 'I want to be with you at the launch,' said Sheree. 'I'm not going to pretend.'
The publisher had hired a church hall. A few bankable names came along. When Miranda read, Sheree stood in the front row. When Miranda signed, Sheree sat next to her. 'You must be so proud of her,' someone told Sheree.
Sheree's third collection was launched at Unity. Sheree dragged Miranda along. That didn't go so well. Miranda hung back, feeling like a fraud. Sheree talked with her friends and cast irritated glances Miranda's way.
Miranda retreated to the outer shelves, looking at an omnibus edition of Ursula Bethell. Blanche Baughan was reassuringly close at hand.
Sheree forgave her. They forgave each other. They got drunk. They compared royalty statements. 'It's more about grants and residencies,' explained Sheree.
In the autumn, Miranda was up for reclassification. Without the support of a university press, Miranda had no realistic hope of moving up to Tier One, but she was still disappointed when the envelope came.
'Never mind,' said Sheree. 'I love you anyway.'
Sheree's status was secure for two more years.
Miranda came home from work a few weeks later to find Sheree bouncing off the walls. 'Look at this!' she said.
It was an invitation from the northern festival circuit: Nuuk and Norilsk, Vorkuta, Longyearbyen. Four weeks north of the Arctic Circle, reading, writing, workshopping. And watching out for polar bears — they could kill you. 'I'm to be preceded by a man with a rifle,' said Sheree.
New Zealand literature had never before been represented so far north. It was a feather in everyone's cap.
'I'll miss you so much,' said Miranda. She clung to Sheree, tenderly, fiercely.
Sheree bought Miranda a video-enabled phone before she left. Four weeks of Sheree — blonde hair poking out of her fur-lined hood — cavorting with new friends, silhouetted against snow, standing next to oil drums full of burning blubber to keep warm.
Nuuk, the capital of Greenland, was surprisingly cosmopolitan. Norilsk was one giant chemical dump. In Vorkuta, Sheree won the V. I. Morozov Prize for Best Recital of an Individual Work, for her declamatory piece in the style of Gregory Corso. The prize, thanks to a well connected local businessman, was paid in US dollars. With the news, Sheree sent an air ticket. 'I'm stopping over in the Caribbean on the way home to thaw out,' said Sheree. 'See you in Basseterre!'
It took some nerve to ask, but Miranda's boss was understanding. 'I wish I could go with you,' Miranda's boss said, and Miranda realised, suddenly, that she meant it.
Basseterre! Miranda had never heard of it. Palms shaded the beach, the locals talked about cricket, and once they had circumnavigated the island of St Kitts, there was nothing to do but eat, drink, sleep, and make love. Sheree kept Miranda entertained with tales from the frozen north. Longyearbyen had been the wildest of the lot. 'Those Norwegians!' said Sheree. They were crazy up there on Spitsbergen. So were the bears.
They came home to the wind and the rain. Sheree set to work completing her fourth collection and editing podcasts from the festivals. She had secured funding for a G5 workstation, her latest pride and joy. Miranda had three poems published in Takahe and two more accepted by JAAM. She read at the Angus Inn. It was a wet night in the Hutt Valley, and some of the locals stayed away. Her collection, which was now heavily discounted, sold three copies. Not bad, considering. She was given a voucher for petrol, though she had conscientiously taken the train.
Sheree's poem about their week together in the Caribbean became justly famous and has been much anthologised.
Miranda's boss gave her a promotion. Miranda and Sheree joined a soccer team. Sheree was the centre forward. Miranda was a holding midfielder.
Delivering sonnets by mobile phone had not been a complete success, but the project hit the jackpot with haiku. Haiku were back, said Sheree.
People grow and change. It's nothing to be ashamed of. A new funding category, Tier Four, was introduced. In consequence, Tier Two poets became eligible to be mentors, and Miranda took on a mentee. She was young, tiny, a wounded bird. Her name was Caroline. She lived in Johnsonville.
Nothing might have come of it, had Sheree's success at Vorkuta not been noticed in high places. It took a public– private partnership, with a mixture of tagged funding, corporate sponsorship in three bands, and matching government contributions, but at last the deal could be announced. Sheree would be New Zealand's first poet in space! She would carry leading New Zealand brands to low earth orbit, and return with a three-book deal.
It was on for young and old. Sheree became public property, meeting the Prime Minister, appearing on Takatāpui and Kiwifruit. In months, in weeks, in days, she was off to Star City to train for her mission.
'I love you,' she told Miranda, from the airport, from Moscow, from Star City. Photos: Sheree in a centrifuge, her compact body whirling round. Sheree hanging weightless in the hydrolab. The two cosmonauts who would be flying her to the International Space Station, Valentina and Vsevolod. Their brave little Soyuz spacecraft. I love you, Miranda, said Sheree.
Miranda's mentee was promising but needy. Miranda allowed herself to engage in conduct that was inappropriate to the mentor–mentee relationship and breached the terms of her contract with the funding agency. She reproached herself late at night, as she watched Caroline sleeping.
Sheree appeared on BBC World, CNN, and Al Arabiya.
Miranda kept writing. A second published collection would be something. Not everyone made it that far.
Live streaming video of the launch, with Russian language commentary, was available. Using high-speed broadband on Sheree's G5, Miranda was able to hear the countdown, see the rocket on the launch pad, watch it vault upwards into space.
Sheree made contact. Docking had been successful, and she was aboard the space station. Three months to do nothing but write, and sleep, and float. (And help around the place; tidiness was especially important in space.) Every ninety-two minutes, she would pass overhead.
The mentoring period finished. Caroline could now be revealed as Miranda's girlfriend. She had dependency issues, but that meant she was usually home.
Miranda broke the news to Sheree by scheduled uplink. Sheree did not respond immediately. One orbit passed, two. Then Sheree said she was sad, but not surprised. Also, two nights ago, she and Valentina . . .
Miranda had three poems published in Bravado. Sport and Landfall regretted to inform. Trout did not reply.
As a result of Miranda's excellent mentoring, Caroline was reclassified to Tier Three. She sold a poem to North & South. You're going places, girl, thought Miranda.
Caroline had an empty room and a double bed. Miranda decided she was going places too. She moved her boxes out of Sheree's house, down the steps, and off to Johnsonville. She promised Sheree that she'd continue to water her plants. Sheree had already asked Miranda and Caroline to come for dinner the first weekend after she got home from Russia. I want to be your best friend, said Sheree.
When the last lot of boxes was safely in Caroline's van, Miranda returned to stand on the balcony for one last look across the harbour. Oh, she would miss the view! On the promenade below, hardy ants rode skateboards, walked dogs, and ate products containing dairy, gluten, and traces of nuts.
Above, the stars shone steadily. Among them was Sheree. Miranda could see her clearly. She was looking out of a porthole, smiling fondly down.
WHEN SHE CAME WALKING
The first time she walked down our street, pots jumped off stoves, coal leapt from scuttles, wood went rat-a-tattatting down hallways. In our yard, a broom and spade got up and lurched around like drunks, trying to decide which way she'd gone.
I caught my first glimpse of her from the window, and that was enough for me. 'I'll be back soon,' I told Mother, and slipped out the door before the questions could start. It was all I could do to stop the door coming with me, and the street looked like a parade had passed through: everything from Mrs Ormond's wrought-iron railing to Connor O'Brien's henhouse had torn free of its moorings and sashayed down the street after her. Lacking much in the way of legs, the henhouse hadn't got far, but there were frightened hens clucking about and eggs lying hither and yon.
I left Mr O'Brien to sort them out and followed Mrs Ormond and her railing. She was cursing it a blue streak and telling it to get the hell back to where it came from, but it wasn't paying any attention. It clumped down the road on its six metal legs, making a fair speed and leaving her in its wake. Damn, I thought, damn, I'm going to have to stop and help her. Why didn't she fix the damn thing securely in the ground?
I ran after the railing and caught it with one hand as it was turning into Fenton Avenue — and Fenton Avenue was so full of writhing inanimate objects I was happy the railing was there to delay me. 'Come here, you,' I said, and concentrated on it as best I could. Gradually, the railing's struggles eased to a few hopeful twitches. I could barely keep it upright, and I was glad when Mrs Ormond's strong hands came to join mine.
'Thanks, Pat, you're a pal. Help me get this back home, and there's sure to be some cookies and a drink at the end of it.'
I wanted to remind her I wasn't eight any more, but there was no changing some people. 'Give them to Ma for me, would you? I was headed the other way.'
She shook her head. 'If you take my advice, you'll go home and stay there — but there's no chance of that, I suppose.'
'None at all,' I told her.
By the time we had wrestled the railing back to Mrs Ormond's yard, it had given up its dreams of freedom, and it lay down meekly at the foot of her steps. 'Now would you care to fetch Carl Dooley for me, Pat?'
I was already backing away up the street. 'I think you'll find Carl's got his hands full today,' I told her. 'Almond cookies! I'll be back for them!'
Fenton Avenue was full of irate householders, Harvest Lane likewise, and why in the name of the Lord had she chosen to walk through the market? Fruit and vegetables still counted as alive, but empty crates and wooden trestles evidently didn't, where she was concerned. There was real anger here, and calls for vengeance. I began to think Mrs Ormond might have a point, but I hadn't come this far to give up now. I dodged a box, parried a table, and went on.
It was like walking into a fog. One moment, bustle, cries of alarm, the whicker of wood flying end over end; the next, only my footfalls broke the silence.
Then I saw her. The police had encircled her, and all I could see was a glimpse of tousled hair. Half of them were facing her, half facing outwards, frowns of concentration on their brows. What the police lack in power, they make up for in determination, and nothing was moving on this section of the street that didn't have two legs and a legitimate reason.
The legs they could see, and I was working on the legitimate reason as I walked towards her, no more able to resist than the wrought-iron railing.
Next to a police station is the best location in town, and the shops here sold stuff we'd never be able to afford, and dared to keep it behind glass. I veered away from the cops and pretended to look at some furniture while watching the reflected scene behind me. One of the cops was giving me a mighty fierce glare — that, or he was simply trying to stop the glass from breaking.
They were trying to persuade her to come to the station, and she begged to differ. One of the cops lost patience and grabbed her arm. I saw his wooden baton waggle its way free from his belt, float up beside him, and tap him smartly on the head.
That did it. The outward-facing cops turned inwards, and in a moment the street came to life. I ducked and rolled as a shower of glass exploded above my head and a procession of heavy chairs, ornate tables, and long couches made for sinning waddled onto the roadway. The cops and their quarry were moving in a tight little group towards the doors of the police station, currently the only safe place in the neighbourhood. I ran towards them, ducked between two blue-clad bodies, and found myself face to face with her.
'You! Out of here!'
'Sorry, sir, I was passing, the street went nuts, nearly lost my head, safest place I could find . . .'
'He was looking in that window just before it blew out!'
'Another one, eh?' An arm descended on my shoulders, and I was hauled inside the building with her. The doors shut behind us and the din ended.
'I'm Patrick,' I said. 'Pleased to meet you.'
'No talking, you!'
So I just grinned. She stopped looking worried long enough to grin back.
How can I tell you how lovely she looked at that moment? She was a head shorter than me, blonde-haired — a rare sight indeed in this town — dishevelled, careworn. I wanted to wrap her in my warmest coat and take her home for soup and Mrs Ormond's almond cookies.
That didn't appear likely any time soon. We were put in separate but adjoining cells, locked, guarded, inert. When I tried to talk to the guard, he snarled, 'Shut up!'
For the first time, I felt afraid. 'We'll be out of here soon,' I told her.
'I hope so,' she said. Then she burst into tears.
I reached through the bars to pat her on the shoulder, but the guard growled, 'Stop that, you!' I took a hasty step backwards and waited for the tears to stop. In a way, I was pleased she was crying, because it meant I could afford a few sniffles myself.
When she'd calmed a little, she looked at me and said, 'Sorry.'
'No need. I'm scared too.'
'I dragged you into all this . . .'
'No you didn't! My mother always said curiosity would be the death of me. I had to find out what was causing such an uproar in our street.'
She looked even gloomier. 'Did I cause a lot of damage?'
'Anything that was damaged should have been tied down better,' I said gallantly. 'But couldn't you have made your way through town a bit more quietly?'
'I was trying to! I come from the country, and I'm not used to great cities like this. I was all right till I started looking around and thinking how grand everything was —'
Grand? Our neighbourhood?
'— and then I noticed things following me, and I got scared and ran, and that made it worse.'
'And the policeman's baton?'
'They had no cause treating me as a criminal!' The bars of her cage flexed a little.
'Enough talking!' barked the guard.
'How long are you going to hold us here?' I countered. 'We have rights, you know.'
'A professor from the college is coming for her. I don't know about you.'
'Can I get a message to my mother, then? She'll be worried sick.'
'Should have thought of that earlier.'
'I know I'm allowed one message.'
Pad and pen produced from pocket. 'Here. Fifty words maximum.'
I was on my third sheet of paper, still trying to phrase things the right way, when a bustle of officialdom arrived. The man at its centre addressed my beloved severely.
'Miss Quigley, I have had to make some very detailed explanations to arrange your release. Substantial reparations have been demanded. In this instance, the value of your unique capacities to our research programme has persuaded the chancellor to pay them in full. Any repetition of this incident will not be tolerated. Captain, if you would be so kind?'
A flourish of keys. She whispered, 'Good luck!' as they led her away.
'Hey, what about me?' I called. 'I'm the innocent victim of forces I don't understand!'
The professorial type focused on me for a moment. 'Then study, young man. You must take responsibility for your own destiny.'
The captain was holding the door open for him. They had forgotten me before it closed.
Crumple sheet three, start sheet four. 'Dear Mother, I know this will come as a shock to you . . .'
They didn't believe me at first. When I started to bring home books, they said I would never read them. When they found me asleep over Mundine's Principles, they woke me and said it was time to cut the firewood — not a job for the absent-minded. When I passed the preliminary entrance test, there might have been a brief mutter of congratulations, but then they went back to the big news of the day: Mrs Ormond and Carl Dooley were to be married, and the late Mr Ormond not yet a year in his grave! 'There was a power of ironmongery in that house even while Mr Ormond still drew breath,' said Mother darkly, but my sisters were already picking out their dresses.
When I told them I would be sitting the final entrance test in four weeks' time, and asked to be relieved of household duties till then, my father took me aside for a talking. The last time that happened, I had been ten, scared and sullen, locked in the storeroom of the greengrocer for filching his oranges. The fear of my father's belt had hung over the whole encounter, though he never used it.