by Murray, Lee
‘Here you go. Hang on, let me get the eggs.’ I open Jack’s fridge, to which Caro’s card and Emma’s footprints are still stuck (albeit a little dog-eared), and pass her out two brown eggs and a pottle of natural yoghurt.
‘Get cracking kiddo!’ Chuckling, Caro cracks the first egg into a green plastic bowl.
‘Hey, Aunty Mel. Did you hear this joke? Egg whites don’t like it when you tease them. Know why?’
‘No. Why?’
‘Because they don’t like yolks. Get it?’
‘Caro… that’s terrible.’ Totally unashamed, Caro giggles loudly, accompanying her snorts with the clatter of the whisk.
And that’s when the power fails. The still warm ring on the stovetop glows red, but quickly fades to nothing, engulfing Jack’s kitchen in inky darkness.
‘Aunty Mel.’ Caro’s voice quavers. ‘Help. I’m falling!’
‘You’re not falling, Caro, you’re just disoriented.’
‘Aunty Mel, please, I’m frightened.’
‘It’s okay, honey. I’m right here.’ I move toward her and promptly bonk my hip on the corner of the kitchen table.
‘Ow!’
‘Aunty Mel!’ Caro’s moan is pure terror, as if I’ve been eviscerated by an unseen extra-terrestrial beside her in the blackness.
‘It’s nothing, sweetie. I walked into the table, that’s all.’
I feel my way across the kitchen and when I reach her I fold her trembling little body into my arms. She clutches to me, her heart playing hip hop under her spindly ribcage. Her forehead is hot and clammy. I feel a jolt of compassion for my normally upbeat goddaughter. She’s showing the same symptoms I do when standing alongside anything remotely altitudinous. Poor little mite. She’s scared witless.
‘It’s okay honey. I’m here and I’ve got you. We’ll have a wee cuddle until the lights come back on and then we’ll finish cooking dinner, okay? There’s absolutely nothing to worry about.’ I realise how stupid it is to be lecturing Caro about how there’s nothing to be frightened of because she knows that. Like my fear of heights, Caro’s terror of the dark isn’t rational. She’s big enough to know there’s no such thing as monsters under the bed or bogeymen coming to get her, although I can imagine how a small girl with no means of moving under her own steam could be petrified of unknown things hiding in the obscurity.
In her panic, Caro is digging her sharp fingernails into the skin on my neck.
‘Honey, can you let go Aunty Mel, a tiny bit? You’re choking me,’ I say.
‘Nooo…’ she screeches, pulling tighter to me in a good imitation of a limpet. She may be drawing blood with those little girl talons. I need to calm her down before she suffocates me, distract her attention away from her fear, like Professor Lupin’s Ridikkulus Charm. Yes, a bit of silliness is what’s called for.
‘Hey, sweetheart,’ I murmur into her ear. ‘Have you heard this one? How do monsters like their eggs?’
No response.
‘No idea? Teri-fried. Get it? Okay, that one was dumb. What about this one? How did the egg get up the hill? I love this...he scrambled up!’
Around my neck, Caro’s arms slacken off.
‘Okay, I know one that’ll make you laugh. It’s my best egg joke. I’ve been saving it for a special occasion. You wanna hear it?’ Her nod is almost imperceptible.
‘Why was the egg scared of the dark? Know this one?’
Again a tiny head shake.
‘No? I don’t really like to give away my best material but I’ll tell you, since I’m your fairy godmother, only I’m younger and more beautiful than Cinderella’s, and I don’t yet have my certificate for turning frogs into the Jonas Bothers. Here goes…the reason the egg was scared of the dark is because….he was a little chicken! Get it? He was a little chicken.’
Caro’s still shaking, but some of the spasms might be laughter. I detect a reduction in the tension as blood-flow to my brain is reinstated.
‘Now for the pièce de résistance, my magic spell for getting the lights to come on. I’ve been practising this one at fairy godmother training camp. It’s extremely effective, and if it doesn’t work then there’s a high probability I could’ve failed my dreams-come-true examination. Want to hear it? You do? Okay. Here goes. What did the light bulb say to his mummy? This is so funny. You haven’t heard it before, have you? No? What did the light bulb say to his mummy? I love you watts and watts….’
And with that, don’t ask me how, the lights go on.
37
It’s event number three and we’re all here, stamping and snorting steam in a soggy Rotorua paddock, while Plumley, out of place in a soft grey suit and maroon tie, gives his usual pre-race oratory from the back of a flat-bed truck.
‘Ahem. Today’s 12km event covers two laps of a commando-style course. Today will test your strength, your stamina, your determination. Contestants will negotiate swamp areas, waterways, and bush trails, climb under barbed wire, and scale ropes.’ There’s a round of collective groaning.
‘Ahem,’ says Plumley, keen to get the ceremony over with so he can get out of the drizzle. ‘Today will see survival of the fittest…and the most accurate. Two of you will be eliminated. Ahem! Ms Waters, we need your time predictions, please.’
Over the commotion, Tazza calls, ‘Mate, I thought there was only going to be one elimination?’
‘Indeed. Ahem. Good point, Mr Higgins. The thing is we’ve been counting on there being a certain level of natural attrition’.
‘Sorry?’
‘We expected some of you to give up.’ There’s silence. Plumley ploughs on. ‘Hayleigh, if we’ve all the times recorded…? We have? Okay, good luck, everyone.’ And with that, a gumboot-toting Tony Bloxham counts us down, hoots the hooter, and we begin. Rico races straight into the lead with Tazza close on his heels. Those two must’ve registered some fast times. After last time I’ve been even more conservative with my estimates, and it’s a good thing too because the track’s a quagmire, up to my waist in some places. I’m not so much running as wading, and every sucking, dragging step is slow and exhausting. The sides of my legs and my bum burn, yet my fingers are frozen numb. I’ve mud in my bottom, mud in my shoes, and since I made the mistake of trying to wipe my face, I’ve got mud up one of my nostrils. And it isn’t clean mud! There’s a definite stink of animal manure. Gross!
I’m holding my own with the big boys though. Their greater body mass makes it harder to force their way through the sludge. I snatch a look at Sione. He’s a lumbering sea lion. Hot steam rises off him, like a rugby scrum in midwinter, and effort shines in his face, the parts that aren’t splattered with mud and grime. He surprises me by looking up and winking, his face wrinkling up in a broad grin. At least, this nightmarish terrain appeals to someone. He’s having great fun.
We’re one lap down and Rico and Tazza are out in front, although they’re not so far ahead that Sione and I can’t make them out. I risk a quick look back and catch Carline and Simon trudging some way behind us. I can’t see Asteroïde or Julie at all.
The rain comes down heavier now, washing some of the mud off my fuscia cross-over tank and stupid pink running skirt. The cords of the tank are too long, even crossed over and wrapped around me once, the dangly ends dripping grey water.
In front of the cameras, Sione and I confront a steep decline. Sione uses his body weight to anchor each step. I don’t bother. I slither down on my bum, sending the skirt flying. It’s as if I’m riding a kid’s plastic water slide in the back yard – great fun.
‘Whee!’ I squeal as I slip into a puddle.
That’s when we come across poor Julie, still on her first lap, struggling desperately with the rope climb. It’s only a short climb. Always in contact with the ground, there’s a metre or so where you have to hoist your body while walking your feet up the greasy slope. But the teenager’s upper body isn’t strong enough to lift flanks bogged down in the mire. Each attempt to haul herself over the slippery crest has sapped her ener
gy, and now after a half hour of leaping the girl is shattered. Stubborn hands clutch at the rope, but her spindly girl’s arms lack force.
As we near her, I see Julie’s eyes are wide and her breathing heavy. She’s like a weakened animal, aware she’s done for, but still struggling. Her time predictions will be completely out the window. She’s certain to be eliminated. Sione seems to realise this, too.
He yells at me. ‘Whaddya reckon, Mel?’
‘I reckon, yes!’ Surging forward, we each take hold of Julie, Sione under her right arm, me under her left, and in a mammoth lug we suck the teenager out of the mud, boosting her upwards. The extra thrust sends her barrelling over the crest and onto the trail. What a boost!
‘Hey! Thanks, you guys!’ she calls back over her shoulder. Sione gives me a high five that makes my hand tingle and splatters me with more mud.
I feeeel good. Do do do do do do do. Sione laughs. Whoops! That wasn’t out loud, was it?
He hands me the rope. ‘Ladies first!’ he says. I flash him a smile. On the ridge, I swing the rope back. Sione clambers up after me and we’re off again, quickly passing Julie, the brave battler, and churning our way through lashings of lovely mud toward the finish.
‘Arrgh!’
Sione and I pull up.
‘You hear something?’ Sione says.
‘Tazza! Is that you?’ I call.
‘I’m down here.’
Sione and I slide off the track and down the slippery bank, following the sound. Tazza’s at the bottom of the ditch, as white and cold as a bathroom tile. The worst of it, his lower leg is on an odd angle and - oh fuck - a bit of bone is sticking out.
‘Rico didn’t hear me. Kept running,’ moans Tazza.
‘You hang tight, man. You’re gonna be fine. Mel, we’re gonna need some help.’
‘Ann!’ says Tazza. His voice shakes me to the core.
‘It’s okay, Tazza. We’re going to get you some help and then we’re going to get you to Ann,’ I say, hoping I sound confident. Luckily, there isn’t much bleeding, just the shiniest white bit of bone sticking out of Tazza’s muddied leg.
‘You guys okay down there?’
It’s Julie.
I scramble to my feet and scream up at her. ‘Julie, quick, we need you to run back to the rope climb. Tell the camera people to call the paramedics. Let them know where we are. Tazza’s fractured his leg.’
‘Holy shit!’
‘Julie, can you do that?’
‘Yeah, I’ll be quick.’
‘Ann!’ says Tazza again. ‘I’m real cold.’ The rain has let up, but it’s still drizzling and Tazza’s soaked. I feel a sudden rise of panic. We don’t have anything we can use to keep him warm.
‘I’m on it,’ says Sione. The big man lays himself down in the ditch and wraps Tazza in his arms, sharing his steaming body heat. But moving in as close as he can, Sione bumps the injured leg. Tazza howls in pain.
I want to get up and run away, as far away as I can get from legs with bones sticking out and people howling in pain. I can’t. I’ve got to do something to keep that leg still. Frustrated, I swat away the soggy ties of my fuscia tank, and have a sudden brain wave. Turning away, I undo the tank and tear off the cords, leaving two truncated corners. I re-tie the corners hastily, although they barely meet. Then I kneel down and slip the torn-off cords under Tazza’s legs, above and below the wound, binding his legs crudely together. My fingers are stiff, so it takes a little while, but it’s the best I can do.
‘Ann!’ moans Tazza, like Marlon Brando in A Streetcar Named Desire. Then there’s nothing to do but wait.
‘Hang on, man,’ soothes Sione.
Hang on. Time’s ticking away here. And Plumley said there’d be two eliminations today. I guess Tazza will be eliminated, so that’s one. My times’ll be terrible. Sione’s will too. And Julie’s. It’ll be one of us Samaritans...Jeepers! I’m in up to my ears in bog waiting for help for an unconscious man and all I can think about is whether or not I’ll be eliminated from the race.
Suddenly, there are people all over us, shouting orders, pushing to get to Tazza. Sione and I are shunted out of the way as the medics swarm in. A stretcher descends, passed hand to hand from above us. Two massive cameras lenses invade the ditch whirring in and out, focusing on Tazza, on the bone in his leg, on the pain in his face. Tazza’s accident is television reality heaven.
‘Hey, Mel, c’mon.’ Sione takes my hand and pulls me away from the ditch and the chaos to where a worried-looking Julie is waiting with Carline and Simon.
‘Is Tazza going to be okay?’
‘I think so. The medics are there now. You did well to raise the alarm so quickly, Julie.’
‘Thanks,’ the teenager says, brightening. ‘I’m not going to be able finish the race though. They’ve like closed the course for an accident investigation. One of the marshals told Simon. I still have a lap to go so I suppose I’ll get booted off.’
‘That doesn’t seem fair,’ Carline says.
‘I wasn’t up for the rope climb a second time, anyway,’ Julie says.
‘What do you say we finish this lap together?’ says Sione.
A siren violates the quiet country air, an ambulance pulling away, as our bedraggled group of five reaches the finish line where Rico and Asteroïde are waiting. I’m surprised to see Asteroïde. She must’ve passed us while we were in the ditch helping Tazza.
Rico, looking incredibly hot with his hair slicked back and his muddy clothes plastered to his abs, is finishing up his interview with Good. As we watch, he steps away from the presenter, peels his shirt off in a devil-may-care manner and, grabbing a hose, sets about washing the mud off his body. Languorously. The camera crew run over to catch him enacting the famous Flashdance scene.
Poor Matthew McConaughey will be kicking himself for not thinking of it first.
38
Leaving the church hall ablutions block, my stinky gear crammed into a plastic New World handbag, I make my way to Jack who’s waiting for me in the car.
Poor Jack.
When he saw the ambulance arrive for Tazza, he thought I was injured. According to Martine (who told me later) he stormed over to the control tent demanding answers from Plumley, threatening to scour the course and haul me to safety himself. That’s when he saw me run in with the others. If Martine hadn’t pulled him back by his hoodie (thereby preventing him from stuffing up valuable footage of the competitors’ reactions to Tazza’s accident) Jack would’ve flung himself at me with relief, to hell with the stinking mud. Fortunately, by the time the interviews were done and we were free to go, he was calmer, and still clean.
‘You sure you’re all right, Mel?’
‘I’m fine.’
‘Sione said you scrambled down a bank.’
‘Jack, I’m fine.’
‘Is that blood on your arm?’
‘It’s just mud, and maybe a few scratches. I’m just tired and cold.’
‘Oh heck. You must be freezing. Get yourself showered and I’ll see what I can find out about Tazza. I’ll wait for you in the car?’ He handed me the supermarket bag, kissed my muddy forehead without the slightest wrinkle of his nose, and headed off to where the NZTV crew were packing up.
Derek waylays me on the way to the car. I’m surprised to see him here in the wilderness away from the sleek laptops and custom lighting of the Sportzgirl office.
‘Winston wants you to conduct a publicised affair with Rico Black,’ he declares sans preamble.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘You heard me.’
‘That’s preposterous! You can’t make me do that.’
‘No, but you could allow yourself to be persuaded.’
‘Why?’
‘Because it’d be good for Sportzgirl.’
I snort. ‘Derek you’re delusional. My personal life has nothing to do with Sportzgirl.’
Now it’s Derek’s turn to snort. ‘It has everything to do with Sportzgirl. Face it, Melanie, you’
re the Sportzgirl brand, ergo your personal life has everything to do with Sportzgirl.’
‘That’s ridiculous,’ I huff.
‘Have you heard of Vanessa Hudgens?’ Derek asks.
‘Vanessa who?’ Derek kicks at the gravel. He’s in danger of scuffing up his pointy patent shoes.
‘Hudgens. Dewy-faced heroine of the High School Musical movies?’
‘I didn’t know you watched tweeny movies, Derek.’
‘Topless images of her were posted on the internet.’
‘I’ve no doubt you saw those.’
‘I’m trying to make a point here,’ Derek growls, kicking up more gravel. ‘Going topless in her personal life conflicted with the Disney brand. Hudgens was forced to broadcast a public apology to her pubescent fans. Then she had to grovel to Disney to keep the role.’
‘Rest assured, I’m not going to pose topless and I’m not going to date Rico and I’m not going to grovel either.’
‘You don’t mean that, Melanie. You need this.’
On the other side of the field, Sione throws me a wave as he slings his kit into a battered Ford Ute. I wave back, watch the vehicle pull into the traffic and turn back to Derek. He’s discovered the error of his ways and is now a wiping dusty scuff mark off his shoes with a silk handkerchief.
‘Even if I were to agree,’ I say to the top of his head where the hair is wispy and thinning, ‘who’s to say the publicity would be positive?’ The paparazzi print whatever sells copies. The more scandalous, the better. How’s Winston going to react if the media spin on the affair turns out to be negative?’ Derek straightens up, folds the handkerchief into a neat triangle and slips it back into his top coat pocket.
‘You wouldn’t be thinking of the Ross Sully articles, would you?’
Bum.
‘You’ve seen them then?’
‘Classic muck-raking.’
I frown. ‘What about Winston?’
‘He’s okay with them, Melanie. As long as Ross Sully and his counterparts are focused on you, they’re keeping the Sportzgirl label in the minds of our consumers. It was always part of my strategy. Do you honestly think Rachel Hunter gave a rat’s arse when the US media attacked her for having chunky thighs, years ago on that circus reality show?’