Blue Smoke

by Deborah Challinor

  ‘Yes,’ she replied adamantly. ‘It is.’

  But he saw in her eyes how much it was hurting her.

  In an elegantly decorated office not even a mile away in town, James sat on a rather uncomfortable chair with his legs awkwardly crossed and a large glass of brandy in his hand. The seat was low — deliberately, James thought, to place whoever was sitting in it at a disadvantage.

  Opposite him, behind an enormous, highly polished mahogany desk, sat Roland Peacocke, leaning back in his high-backed leather chair and pondering James as if he were some sort of unique insect mounted on a card.

  ‘And she said no? Well!’ he said with some amusement. ‘And you were so sure she would be absolutely delighted with the idea!’

  ‘No, sir, I believe that when you made the suggestion I said she could well be interested,’ James replied.

  He hated Roland Peacocke with a passion, and hated even more having to call him ‘sir’. He would give anything to cross the room and deliver a good hard punch to the man’s smirking, imperious, red-veined face. If he had the guts, of course, which he didn’t.

  ‘Now, James, I think you implied more than that,’ Peacocke said, swirling brandy around in his cut-crystal tumbler and sniffing it pretentiously. ‘I think, given what’s at stake, you implied a lot more than that.’

  James said nothing, simply sat and waited for the next snide, derogatory comment.

  ‘If I remember correctly,’ Peacocke went on, ‘you took out the mortgage on your house six months ago. To date you have been unable to meet a single repayment.’

  I know that, you bastard, James answered silently. And you know it too, because you approved the transaction and you’ve dangled the bloody thing over my head like a guillotine ever since. He cringed at the thought of Lucy ever finding out — it would break her heart.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ he said out loud, ‘I’m aware of that, but I’ll be able to pay you soon.’

  Peacocke suddenly leaned forward. ‘You know you can’t pay it, I know you can’t pay it, soon everyone will know you can’t pay it. And nobody admires a bankrupt, do they, James? Especially one from a family as illustrious as yours. And of course you’d lose your position here. So I strongly suggest that you go back and speak to your charming mother again. I’m sure she’ll be very keen to give us her full support if you just try a little harder.’ He reached for the brandy decanter and poured himself another tipple. ‘She’s an imposing and well-respected woman, and her commitment to the cause would be a real incentive for new members. She’s also known to be a very generous benefactor, which would certainly not go amiss as far as the Legion’s coffers are concerned.’

  James nodded in meek agreement. He was being blackmailed and he knew it, but had no idea about how to extricate himself. He’d managed not to gamble for over a month so had avoided losing anything more — not that there was much left to lose these days: his savings had gone long ago and the bank now owned his home. In a way he’d felt immense relief as he had pushed his chair away from the card table that last time, knowing that if he didn’t go near the cards, or the horses, or the dogs, he could not continue to come to grief.

  Some men were ruined by alcohol, and others by women or the poppy, but his nemesis had turned out to be gambling. Only for those brief moments when he was winning — and even, perversely, when he was on the verge of losing — did he feel vital and alive again. It was completely irrational, he knew that, but the terrible elation gambling gave him was almost exactly the same as the dreadful but utterly seductive sensation he’d lived with night and day throughout the war — not knowing whether this time would be the last, whether he would live or die, win or lose. It had driven him insane then, and it was doing the same thing to him now, but he needed it. God only knew how long he would be able to keep himself away from it this time.

  And now there was Peacocke. It had taken James some time to work out what lay behind his boss’s goading and insidious persecution, but he thought he’d finally narrowed the possibilities down to one or two likely motives. There was Peacocke’s commitment to the New Zealand Legion, of course, but James suspected that had only a minor role. More than anything, Peacocke was jealous — jealous of the Murdoch family fortune, of Tamar’s standing in the community and of her reputation as a shrewd businesswoman, and of James’s privileged life. It was rumoured that Peacocke himself had not come from a monied background, that he had clawed his way up through the banking hierarchy to reach his exalted position of manager, and as a result bitterly resented those who, like James, had not had to start at the bottom, and who would ultimately inherit more money than Peacocke could ever hope for.

  How delighted the bastard must have been to discover that James was in such financial strife. And — even more rewardingly — why. James should have known from the cloying sympathy in the older man’s voice, the hand of condolence on his shoulder and the assurance that, yes, of course the bank could see its way to some sort of arrangement. But the minute the mortgage documents had been signed, everything had changed. Peacocke had started making thinly veiled remarks about James’s situation in front of other bank staff, men whom James hoped had come to respect him, and sending unnecessary memoranda — inside sealed envelopes, thank God — reminding James when his repayments would fall due. But, James, having paid off a sizeable portion of his gambling debts, had not been able to make even one payment. His incomes from both the bank and the station were going straight to various card-playing opponents and bookies around town, leaving just enough to deter Lucy from becoming suspicious. Or so James hoped.

  He had lost everything and now, just as Peacocke had hoped, his own mother had turned away from him and refused to help. Tamar’s rejection had wounded James to the very depths of his soul. No matter what had happened in the past, she had never shut him out like that before. She did not know the full story, the true magnitude of his problems, but she should have been able to sense that something was severely awry.

  ‘So, what’s it to be, James?’ Peacocke said cheerfully. ‘Another trip out to magnificent Kenmore Station, or do I need to start proceedings to foreclose on your mortgage?’

  ‘My mother made it quite clear that she didn’t want to be involved, sir. It really isn’t her sort of thing.’

  ‘That’s not what you said the other day.’

  ‘I was wrong.’

  ‘Go on, James. One more try, eh? Otherwise I might just be forced to have a very close look at the accounts Kenmore holds at this bank as well. These are hard times, James, hard times.’

  James drained the last of his whisky and closed his eyes for a moment. ‘I’ll see what I can do,’ he mumbled.

  He felt sick, but he couldn’t tell whether it was the alcohol or his conscience.

  His mother would not even speak to him this time, and as he drove away down Kenmore’s long driveway, humiliation, anger and hurt burning in his belly, he knew for certain that he could not rely on her for help.

  But in the end he did not need to. A little over a week later he found himself sitting alone in his study, in the house that was no longer his, weeping hot, muffled tears of relief and shame. In his hand was a note from his brother Thomas, pinned to a personal cheque generous enough to repay what he owed the bank, and most of his remaining debts.

  The note read:

  Dear James,

  I won’t beat about the bush. Keely hinted in her last letter that you might be in some sort of financial strife again. I telephoned Mam, who refused to talk to me about it, so I knew then you must have really excelled yourself this time.

  You have to stop this, James, now. If not for your own sake, then for the sake of Lucy and the children. I know what this is about — I was there too, remember — but it was a long time ago. Let go of it, for God’s sake, before it’s too late. The money is to get you back in the black. If you don’t think you can trust yourself to use it for that, please give it to Lucy and have her sort things out. Or does she not know? Tell her, James, trust her,
she’s a good woman, and very capable.

  Trust yourself — I still do.

  Your brother,

  Thomas

  James reflected for a moment on the inherent goodness and generosity of his younger brother, and burst into tears again, his face in his hands. He didn’t know whether Thomas could afford this gesture or not — he seemed to know so little about his own family these days — and vowed to pay it back as soon as he could. Thomas had always supported him, and Keely and Ian too, even when they’d been children and had all teased him mercilessly for being so sensitive and gentle. Dear Thomas, the one who was always quiet, rational and unfailingly fair. Over the last few years, James had barely given him a second thought.

  Through his tears he felt his shame burn even more intensely, remembering those terrible, surreal, fragmented days he had spent locked in a French farmhouse not far behind the front lines, awaiting court martial for killing his colleague and one-time friend, Ron Tarrant. Suffering from advanced shell shock, he’d barely been able to speak or to make any sense of what was happening to him. But he had recognised Thomas, who’d arrived from his unit as soon as he heard what had happened, and had used his lawyer’s skills before the trial, talking on the quiet to everyone who might help his brother’s case.

  James had been acquitted for lack of evidence, sent to a convalescent hospital in England to recuperate, then returned to New Zealand. Thomas had known he’d killed Ron Tarrant, but he had also known why. And James had never really thanked him for his support, choosing instead to sink further and further into his own anguish, guilt and self-doubt. Yes, there had been a short period after he came home when he’d thought he could manage life after all, but then, without even realising it, he’d slipped gradually and inexorably back into his own private morass of misery. Now, nearly seventeen years later, he was still floundering around, up to his neck in fear, bitterness and bad decisions. For a fleeting, terrifying moment, his thoughts strayed to the shotgun locked in the cupboard behind him.

  He rubbed his wet face with shaking hands and swallowed painfully around the lump in his throat that threatened more tears, and realised he had probably reached his lowest point. He had finally, truly, become what he had always feared being — weak, inadequate, and a coward.

  And, once again, his brother had come to his aid. But could Thomas be right? Could he stop this awful, destructive behaviour and turn himself around? Because perhaps — just perhaps — it wasn’t too late. James felt something deep within himself shift — only a fraction, but it was enough to give him the first prickle of hope he’d felt in years.

  ‘James? Is there something wrong?’

  He lowered his hands to see Lucy poised in the doorway of the darkened room. She was balancing a tray bearing cups and a plate of biscuits, and peering at him worriedly.

  ‘Yes. No. Well, yes.’

  ‘Why is the light off?’

  ‘I wanted it off.’

  ‘Well, I want it on, I can’t see anything.’ She carefully put the tray down on a low table and fumbled across the wall for the light switch, a sharp intake of breath coming when she saw her husband’s swollen red eyes.

  ‘Have you been crying? Why, what’s happened?’

  James blinked hard in the bright electric light. ‘It’s all right, it’s not bad news.’ He hesitated briefly. ‘It’s good, really.’

  Lucy sat down opposite him and began to pour the tea. She knew better than to force him to divulge information — past attempts had usually resulted in him losing his temper and accusing her of nagging or interfering. Passing him a cup with two biscuits balanced on the edge of the saucer, she sat back and waited.

  He put the biscuits aside, took a sip of his tea, then reached for the whisky bottle on his desk.

  Lucy made a pinched face, hoping it wasn’t going to be one of those nights.

  He caught her look and shook his head. ‘No, it really is good news.’ He poured an uncharacteristically small measure of whisky into his tea and replaced the cap. Then he cleared his throat, took another sip and cleared his throat again.

  To Lucy it seemed he was struggling to say something momentous, something that was going to cost him very dearly indeed. Then she glimpsed the immense sadness in his eyes, and her own heart lurched in response.

  ‘Lucy, I need to talk to you about something quite … well, very important.’ He held up Thomas’s letter. ‘This is from Thomas. It’s only a note but he’s sent a cheque too. A rather big cheque.’

  She gazed impassively back at him, her pale, waved hair gleaming in the light and her hands clasped loosely in her lap.

  ‘Look, this is extremely difficult for me to say. But I am saying it, and it’s probably the first really honest thing I’ve said in years. I’m terribly sorry, Lucy, I really am. I’m sorry for my behaviour and I’m sorry for the decisions I’ve made and the way I’ve treated you and the children. But most of all I’m sorry …’ and here he drew a deep ragged breath, ‘I’m sorry for gambling away all of our money. I’ve had to mortgage the house to meet my debts. If this money hadn’t come from Thomas we would have been out in the street.’ Then, almost as an afterthought, he added, ‘And I’m being black mailed by Roland Peacocke at the bank.’

  A silence ensued, into which the ticking of the clock over the fireplace expanded until James thought his head might explode.

  ‘Then all I can say is it’s lucky your mother is paying the children’s school fees, isn’t it?’

  He stared at his wife, his face a picture of confusion. ‘Lucy, did you hear what I just said?’

  ‘Yes, James, I heard. We’ve no money left whatsoever and our house is currently owned by the bank.’

  ‘But, aren’t you … I thought when I told you, you’d …’ He trailed off.

  ‘Yes, I might have, if I hadn’t known. But I did know, James. I’ve known for the last three months. About the mortgage any way. You shouldn’t leave important documents lying around in your desk drawers.’

  ‘But that drawer was locked!’

  ‘It came open one day when I was dusting in here.’

  ‘You went through my private papers?’ James, momentarily forgetting the magnitude of his own sins, was outraged.

  ‘You mortgaged our home,’ Lucy responded quietly.

  He flushed deeply, unable to meet her eyes. Instead, he handed her the cheque. ‘Take it. Go into the bank tomorrow and have the mortgage discharged.’

  She took the cheque, put it to one side and read the note.

  Moments later she looked up and regarded him steadily. ‘No, you take it, James. Do you trust yourself?’

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘That’s irrelevant at the moment. You go and discharge the mortgage, then you go to each and every person to whom you owe money, and pay them back.’

  James began to grin then, the real, genuine sort of smile he could barely remember. Whether she trusted him or not — and he certainly didn’t blame her if she didn’t — she was giving him the opportunity to salvage at least a shred of his dignity. ‘Yes, I could, couldn’t I? In fact,’ he added excitedly, ‘I could …’

  ‘You could what, James?’

  James didn’t go into the bank the following morning. Instead, he drove out to Kenmore — at a rather reckless speed — to talk to his mother. At first she wouldn’t see him, but in the end, James went thumping up the stairs and barged into her bedroom, where she was reclining on her chaise longue pretending to read a book. She sat up quickly as he appeared breathlessly at the door, but after a single glance at the wide smile and buoyant expression on her son’s handsome face she knew immediately that something had changed.

  ‘I have to talk to you, Mam, please,’ he blurted, before she had a chance to say anything herself. Then he went very red.

  She nodded her agreement and listened as he stood shame-facedly in front of her, like the small boy he had once been, and delivered a litany of his more recent misdemeanours — unvarnished and with not even the smallest unsavou
ry detail left out. She was so relieved at his apparent willingness to at last speak openly and honestly that she didn’t even reprimand him for his appalling behaviour and staggering lack of sense.

  When he’d finished, he sat down on the edge of the big bed his parents had shared all their married life. ‘So that’s it, Mam, all of it. I’m so sorry, and I’m especially sorry for trying to coerce you into that business with the New Zealand Legion. I really believed I had no choice, but that’s no excuse. It was an awful thing to do to you. I know it upset you.’

  Tamar nodded her acceptance of his apology. ‘And what does Lucy say about all of this?’

  James looked uncomfortable again. ‘Well, that’s sort of what I’ve come out to talk to you about.’

  Tamar’s heart sank. ‘She’s not left you, has she?’

  ‘Left me? No, thank God, because I imagine plenty of women would. No, I think she’s relieved.’

  ‘Relieved?’

  ‘Because now she knows exactly what’s been going on, although she already knew about the mortgage on the house. And we want to make some changes, Mam. I want to make some changes.’

  Tamar had heard this before. Warily, she asked, ‘But you will use Thomas’s money to pay off your debts?’

  ‘Today, as soon as I get back into town. And while I’m at the bank I’m going to hand in my notice.’

  Tamar’s eyebrows went up.

  James took a deep breath. ‘Mam, I need to ask something of you. We’d like to move back out to Kenmore, Lucy and I and the children. I’m not cut out to be a banker. I thought it would be the ideal career for me. I thought … well, I thought a lot of things, and I was wrong. I think I’d like, I need, to do something completely different.’

  Tamar was intrigued. ‘Such as?’

  ‘I want to grow fruit.’

  Several moments ticked by as Tamar absorbed this.

  ‘Fruit? You’d like to grow fruit?’

  ‘Yes, peaches and apricots and cherries and that sort of thing, here at Kenmore. Jim Wattie from Hawke’s Bay Fruitgrowers is apparently looking into setting up a cannery and he’s going to need contract growers. I think I could be one of them.’