Gabriel's Bay

by Robertson, Catherine

  ‘Sock Town,’ said Sidney. ‘Norsewood. Or Pottery Town — Temuka!’

  ‘Bra Town,’ Jacko called out. ‘Cardrona.’

  ‘Bras?’ said Kerry.

  ‘There’s a bra fence,’ said Gene. ‘A fence to which people, not necessarily women, have attached bras.’

  ‘It’s now used to raise money for breast cancer,’ said Sidney. ‘There’s a donation box.’

  ‘And people travel specially to see it?’ said Kerry.

  ‘It’s bras on a fence,’ said Gene. ‘What’s not to like?’

  ‘We love eccentricity here,’ said Sidney. ‘And the hokier the better. Like the house decorated entirely with pāua shells, or the one built from glass bottles. The replica Stonehenge. The big carrot—’

  ‘The giant jersey,’ added Gene.

  ‘As in cow?’ said Kerry.

  ‘As in knitted jumper. It’s about five metres wide if you stretch the sleeves out, and two metres high.’

  ‘Too small for Jacko, then,’ said Sidney, with a grin.

  ‘Maybe that’s how we bring visitors to Gabriel’s Bay?’ said Gene. ‘Jacko at the top of a massive beanstalk, chanting “fee, fi, fo, fum”.’

  ‘Put you under a bloody bridge,’ came from the kitchen. ‘Like the troll you are.’

  ‘Now, now,’ said Sidney. ‘Don’t make me get out my wand.’

  ‘As the bishop said to the actress.’ Gene swivelled on the bar stool to face Kerry. ‘So is there a point to all this tourism talk, besides using up oxygen?’

  Kerry had his elbows propped on the bar, hands around but not quite touching the beer bottle at which he stared, as if it were a devotional object he was contemplating.

  ‘What if,’ he began, ‘Gabriel’s Bay united around its own tourist attraction? One that existed, but which would evolve, as townspeople contributed to it?’

  ‘Such as?’ said Gene.

  ‘Oh my God,’ said Sidney. ‘The miniatures! The model railway, the doll’s house, the toy soldiers! We can be Tiny Town!’

  ‘With Jacko as our mayor?’ Gene laughed. ‘Come on,’ he added, as Sidney gave him a look. ‘New Zealanders love irony.’

  Quietly, Kerry said, ‘I’m serious about this, you know.’

  ‘Why?’ Gene’s smile vanished. ‘Why this sudden need to crusade for a place you’ve lived in for all of two minutes?’

  Fair question, Sidney had to admit. She saw Kerry frown, deliberate over his answer.

  ‘Because the opportunity has presented itself,’ he said. ‘And I’d like to take it.’

  Gene sucked in his bottom lip. ‘You want to be the big man?’

  ‘That’s not fair,’ Sidney protested.

  ‘Yeah?’ said Gene. ‘This isn’t New Zealand’s Got Talent. We’re not talking about one person’s shot at their fifteen minutes of fame. We’re talking about people’s lives and livelihoods and, more importantly, their hopes and bloody dreams.’

  He jabbed a finger at Kerry. ‘You come in, spouting promises, saying sure, sure, I can make it rain, the drought will be over, trust me — you do that, and you don’t come through and you’ll have been crueller than if you’d told them right from the start that they were all fucked. You get me?’

  Movement behind Sidney. Jacko in the doorway, silent, listening.

  Kerry’s face had lost colour everywhere except for two bright spots on his cheekbones. Sidney felt a stab of pity; he’d had this great idea, but that was nowhere near as important as having trust. Gene was right — Kerry had been here two minutes. Not long enough to earn him the right to speak, and to be heard by open, willing ears.

  ‘I get you,’ Kerry said.

  He got off the bar stool, drew out his wallet and handed Sidney a five-dollar note. And then, with a quick, terse ‘Good night’, he left.

  ‘You know, it isn’t a bad idea,’ said Sidney, after the door had swung shut.

  ‘If he hasn’t got the balls for a fight,’ said Gene, ‘he hasn’t got a shit show of making even the greatest idea fly.’

  ‘For once, mate,’ said Jacko in the doorway, ‘I agree with everything you say.’

  Sidney liked to walk for a bit on the beach before heading down the streets that led to home. The boys slept over at Mac and Jacko’s whenever she worked. Tomorrow was Saturday, and Mac said she’d drop them back about ten. A peaceful morning should be a treat, but somehow, to her irritation, Sidney knew she wouldn’t enjoy it. Doing nothing made her feel lazy, unproductive, and on top of that she missed the boys.

  Without them, who was she? The thought made Sidney anxious every time. What had she done with her life apart from be mother to them? She had no professional qualifications and minimal work experience — the odd jobs she did didn’t count. She had no talent for anything creative, so the life of an artist was out. When the boys left home — a few years away yet, but it would happen — she’d be there in an empty house, where she could fill her day watching either the mould spread in the bathroom or the borer beetles eat the last floorboard in the hallway.

  There was the garden, she supposed. But that was a hobby, not a job. Sure, she could make a few bucks here and there from jam and pickles, but that was hardly showing entrepreneurial flair. Maybe she could sell stuff over the internet? Sidney rolled her eyes at her own stupidity. Might as well set up a phone-sex line.

  The moon was out, and Sidney stopped to watch it glimmer on the water, a silver-gilt path on velvety black sea, the sky above more of a steely grey. It was a scene that cried out to be drawn by someone with skill. When Sidney was twelve, she’d been given a set of drawing pencils, all different thicknesses so you could make bold lines or soft shading. She’d been given a sketchbook, too, with beautiful textured paper. She’d tried to draw a leaf — a simple shape that didn’t move; how hard could it be? — but realised after a couple of pencil strokes that she would never be able to render it with even passing accuracy. She gave up both the drawing, and any hope of being competent at art. She put the pencils and sketchbook away in a drawer in her bedroom.

  Even though Sidney had not thought of those pencils in years, their loss felt briefly acute. Another regret. Another path not taken because she’d given up too easily.

  Not having any faith in herself — that was the core of the problem. She had no faith in her ability to overcome obstacles. No faith in her ability to make good decisions — she always believed someone else knew better. That was why she’d followed Fergal so readily. He seemed so sure, so gleamingly, flawlessly positive—

  ‘Shit!’

  ‘It’s OK,’ said the figure that emerged from the dark dunes. ‘It’s me.’

  ‘What are you doing?’ Sidney said, crossly. ‘Have you been there all night?’

  ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Just after nine.’

  ‘Not all night, then,’ said Kerry. ‘Only four hours.’

  Oh, for God’s sake, really? Was he that pitiful? She’d thought Gene unnecessarily cruel, but he could well have underplayed it.

  It occurred to her that her irritation was out of proportion. Should she cut him a bit more slack? Or was that asking to be disappointed?

  ‘In my defence,’ said Kerry, as if she’d spoken aloud, ‘I wasn’t sulking. I was thinking.’

  ‘For four hours?’

  ‘Well, no, I went and got a Chinese takeaway and ate that first.’

  ‘You missed out on Jacko’s once-a-year cassoulet — homemade sausage and confit duck leg from ducks he shot himself,’ said Sidney. ‘Slow-cooked, with home-grown new season’s green beans.’

  ‘My kung pao chicken was perfectly adequate.’

  A soft night wind carried to Sidney the scents of seaweed and ozone, and smoke from someone’s chimney.

  ‘I’m heading home,’ said Sidney. ‘Too cold to hang around here.’

  ‘May I walk with you?’ said Kerry.

  Sidney wanted to say no. He might want to rehash his spat with Gene, and she wasn’t in the mood to listen to justifications a
nd complaints, especially ones that had been brewing for four hours.

  Then again, she enjoyed his company. He made her laugh, and she was a die-hard sucker for people who made her laugh.

  A less welcome thought bobbed up: she found him attractive. Sidney shoved it back down. That was her loneliness talking, and as usual it sounded delusional. He’d shown no signs of being attracted to her, plus, more importantly, he hadn’t yet fully proven himself. The best idea was night air unless you had the gumption to see it through to the end.

  But he did make her laugh …

  ‘Sure,’ she said. ‘If you want.’

  They walked in silence as Sidney led them off the beach, across the beachfront road and down the first side street.

  ‘I don’t know where you live,’ said Kerry.

  ‘Not far. I’m one of the old bungalows with the big back gardens.’

  ‘Do you own or rent?’

  ‘Bank owns most of it.’

  ‘Er, look, feel free to tell me to sod off,’ said Kerry, ‘but how do you keep your head above water financially?’

  ‘I don’t really,’ said Sidney. ‘I breathe through a straw called the sole parent benefit, and because the boys are at school I have to find a required number of paid hours of work a week, but I can’t earn more than a certain amount because then our compassionate government starts deducting from my benefit. So I tutor high-school students, work once or twice a week at the Boat Shed, and help Mr Phipps with his bees. And then I barter with neighbours, as my feckless ex intended but never got around to, and I make a few bucks selling sticky stuff in jars.’

  ‘Wait. Did you say — bees?’

  ‘Mr Phipps has hives — not the medical kind. I help with maintenance, bee feeding, disease prevention, honey harvesting — routine tasks like that; he manages swarm control. The hives hunker down for winter between April and August, so there’s not much to do then, but Mr Phipps pays me the same amount anyway, bless him, and in return I cook him meals and do a bit of cleaning, and keep him well stocked with sticky stuff in jars. We’re starting to be busy again now, though — well, the bees are. Come the end of December, we’ll have the first of the honey.’

  ‘Why do I feel I should have known this before?’ said Kerry.

  ‘We haven’t exactly shared our life’s stories, have we?’

  ‘I suppose not, no …’

  The tone of his voice made Sidney wish Gabriel’s Bay had decent street lighting, so she could see the expression on Kerry’s face.

  ‘Something to hide?’

  She kept her voice light, but she really did want to know.

  He drew in a long breath.

  ‘I was going to be married,’ he said. ‘Wedding was aborted. On the day.’

  ‘Oh, God.’

  Jilted. Now, that was bad luck. At least she’d been dumped the ordinary way, and not in front of an audience.

  ‘I’m still ashamed of how clueless I was,’ he said. ‘Of how happy I was to skate over the surface, when I should have been paying proper attention — to the direction my life was heading and to the person I’d committed to spend it with. I hadn’t bothered to really get to know her — it was as simple and as stupid as that.’

  ‘I didn’t know Fergal was going to leave me until he had,’ said Sidney. ‘That’s clueless squared.’

  ‘Your ex’s name was Fergal?’

  ‘Born in Enniscorthy. County Wexford.’

  ‘Can’t trust those Southern Irish,’ said Kerry. ‘Us half-northerners, now …’

  An attempt at a joke, but he didn’t sound happy. Well, it wasn’t her job to cheer him up. In fact, having felt sorry for him only seconds ago, now she felt a perverse need to grill him more about the tourism idea, test his mettle. Test his worthiness, said a small voice. She told the small voice to shut its trap.

  ‘You know, Gene’s right,’ said Sidney. ‘To make your Tiny Town idea work, you’ll have to be committed. So can I ask — what is your motivation?’

  ‘I’m not sure I can give you a definitive answer,’ he replied. ‘I’d say there are a whole slew of reasons sloshing around in the front-loader of my psyche. There’s my dad, who started building his own model railway set before I was born, so I’ve known it all my life. When I was young, it was a real world to me and I gave all the tiny people names and made up stories about them. When I got a bit older, I could appreciate the technical side, the mechanics, the skill involved. And then the historical aspect began to appeal — why this locomotive, this span bridge, this old building? Ultimately, I think the greatest appeal was the romance, the nostalgia, the way my dad and I could retreat to a better place and time. The fact that this Britain never existed was irrelevant — it came to life every time we closed the door to our shed.’

  ‘Is your dad still alive?’

  ‘Still alive, still teaching science to secondary school students who think H2O and CO2 are the symbols for hot and cold water.’

  ‘And your mum?’

  ‘Nurse. The old-school kind who carries a cold spoon about her person.’

  ‘Why on earth?’

  ‘Instant detumescing device.’

  ‘Huh,’ said Sidney. ‘I must remember that.’

  ‘And my other reasons?’ Kerry went on. ‘Run-of-the-mill wanting to prove myself sort. Desire to do something worthwhile, serve a wider purpose — you know, be a force of Nature rather than a feverish, selfish little clod of ailments. Your basic drive not to be scrabbling around at the bottom of Maslow’s hierarchy of needs.’

  My God, Sidney thought. Shaw and psychology. Words longer than one syllable. How attractive was that?

  ‘What do you think of it?’ said Kerry. ‘The idea?’

  Good question. Despite her reservations about Kerry, or at least her need to gain further evidence of his character, she judged him so far to be honest.

  ‘I think it has real merit,’ she said. ‘I’m happy to offer my support.’

  ‘Thanks. I appreciate that.’

  He sounded surprised. Fair enough, she hadn’t been exactly gushing.

  ‘And if you give it your all, Gene will come around,’ she added. ‘He won’t stop giving you shit, but as soon as he can see you’ve made real headway, he’ll back you, too.’

  ‘Gene’s support is a mixed blessing, I suspect,’ Kerry said. ‘But I’ll take it.’

  ‘What’s the next step?’

  ‘Talk to Meredith. If I can win her over, everyone else will be a breeze.’

  ‘Don’t forget the Progressive Association. Or the Bunch of Ass as Mac calls them.’

  ‘I have them in my sights.’

  They’d reached Sidney’s gate. Which she’d had to re-attach yet again last weekend. It didn’t help that the boys wrenched it open and slammed it shut. Every. Single. Time.

  ‘Your house is sweet,’ said Kerry. ‘Most appealing.’

  ‘Look again in the harsh light of day,’ said Sidney, with a sigh. ‘It’s like the bit from the movie Psycho where what they think is a sweet little old lady in a chair turns out to be a rotting skeleton.’

  Kerry put his hand on her upper arm, and for one alarming moment Sidney thought he was about to pull her to him. But all he did was give her arm a quick squeeze.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said.

  And then his eyes widened at something behind her. ‘What the hell is that?’

  Sidney turned, saw a large, barrel-like shape saunter across the road.

  ‘King,’ she said. ‘Foraging.’

  ‘And a king is — what type of animal?’

  Sidney laughed. ‘He’s Jacko and Mac’s dog! Chocolate Labrador. On the big side, definitely, mainly because he’s a typical Lab — if it’s food, he’ll eat it. If it isn’t, he’ll eat it anyway. Cardboard, plastic, furniture — all edible as far as King’s concerned.’

  ‘And he roams loose?’

  ‘All the time. And all over, even out into the country. I suppose all that exercise helps keep his weight down.’

 
; ‘I see …’

  He stared down the road, frowning, as if unconvinced.

  ‘Well, best get in.’ Sidney slipped quickly through the gate. ‘I’ll see you next week at training?’

  ‘Right! Yes!’ Kerry’s attention snapped into focus. ‘I’ll make sure young Reuben knows he’s welcome back.’

  Sidney’s urge to grill him about that, too, was overridden by a stronger urge not to prolong their conversation. The arm touch had thrown her — and not because she hadn’t liked it.

  Delusional. He considered her a friend, that’s all. A pal, a mate.

  She grabbed her keys from her pocket, unlocked her front door.

  ‘Good night,’ she called, as she began to shut it.

  ‘Good night!’ she heard Kerry respond. ‘See you soon!’

  Yes, see you soon. Old pal, old buddy …

  Sidney flopped down on her sofa, dislodging more foam from the gap that she must get around to patching up. She should ask Agatha to help her; that woman knew how to wield a needle.

  And maybe she should ask Doc Love to give her some hormone-suppressants — or whatever drug might prevent hopeless, delusional attractions to men she didn’t even really know. Though after tonight, to be fair, she now knew more about him than before.

  Left at the altar. How awful would that be?

  No! She couldn’t think about it — she’d only feel sorry for him, and that was the slippery slope that tipped you headfirst into the quagmire of affection. Best to keep it polite, amicable, nothing more. Just having a laugh. Like mates.

  Silence all around her, except for the ticking of the old mantel clock her grandmother had left her. It was made of dark wood, quite ugly, but it had cost her nothing and it still kept good time.

  Tick. Tick. Tick.

  Sod symbolism. Sod hormones and delusion. Sod being alone in an empty house.

  Despite it not being even ten o’clock, Sidney went to bed. And lay there in the dark until sleep finally sodding came.

  Chapter 14

  Sam

  ‘What does Ohnee-what-the-fuck mean anyway?’