The dog knew all the adults here. It knew them because of the way they smelled. In fact, everyone had multiple smells, which the dog mentally placed in order of appeal. It was now sitting beside the Master (roast meat and cigarette smoke, though he hadn’t smelled of the latter for at least a week). The Master fondled the dog’s ears, but no food was forthcoming from his other hand. The dog couldn’t see the Mistress nearby, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t see it and the Master. The Mistress was ever vigilant. The dog wagged its tail and moved on.
‘Here’s trouble. In a hairy fat suit.’
The Master’s best human friend, Gene (sausage rolls and black coffee), and Kerry, the cheerful man with red hair (jam toast and milky tea).
‘Perhaps King should be the Gabriel’s Bay tourist attraction?’ Kerry said. ‘The amazing bottomless dog. Like one of those Welsh caves, in canine form.’
‘You backing out on Littleville?’ said Gene. ‘Realised it’s going to be too much to handle with a full-time job?’
‘I am not! Mainly because I’ve managed to recruit a new project leader. Well, in fact, he offered. I would never have thought of it otherwise.’
‘Oh, yeah? Who?’
Kerry pointed to another part of the Boat Shed. The dog decided to head in that direction. It had noticed that both men had empty plates.
Here was a larger group. The bespectacled, bearded man (All Bran and old books), the grey-haired lady in Victorian dress (whisky and feathers), the young woman with rainbow hair (cupcakes and nail-polish remover), and her boyfriend who worked at the video store (identically cut carrot sticks and Spray’n’Wipe). They were gathered around Doc Love (shortbread and enamel paint), who immediately cemented his position as one of the dog’s favourites by dropping it some shredded chicken.
‘But will we still have our games?’ the older lady was saying. ‘I can’t let Titus Phipps’s last victory go unchallenged.’
‘Of course,’ said Doc Love. ‘One of the perks of my new appointment will be a spare set of keys to the barn.’
‘I’d better remember to give Tinker a lift,’ said the older lady. ‘He fell asleep at the wheel the other day. The car was still in his driveway, but nonetheless.’
‘What can you tell us about the new doctor?’ said the rainbow girl. ‘Is he handsome? That’s important, you know.’
‘I’m flattered you think so, Peg,’ said Doc Love, with a smile.
He turned and brought someone behind him into the group. It was the Mistress (Krispies and soap). She glared at the dog, still angry at something it had done. Or possibly many things.
‘Here’s Mac,’ said Doc Love. ‘She can tell you all about young Doctor Ghadavi …’
But the dog did not linger. Deeming it prudent to put a good distance between its rear and the Mistress’s foot, it ran through the kitchen and out the back door.
On the steps were Devon (horse dung and horses), and Sam (Weetbix and sawdust).
‘Hey, Kingy,’ said Devon.
There was a half-eaten sausage-in-bread on Devon’s plate, and a dollop of potato salad on Sam’s. The dog lay down between the two of them, and waited. The beach and tussock stretched out in front, down to the glittery line of sea. If there were no leftovers, the dog might go down and hunt for rotten fish.
‘Haven’t you ever wanted to leave here?’ Sam asked Devon. ‘I mean, you know, it’s pretty special on a day like today, but …’
‘Gotta finish my study,’ said Devon. ‘No point until then.’
He kneaded the velvety spot behind the dog’s ear.
‘Sorry about your mate,’ he said to Sam. ‘I used to think … I dunno. Sometimes the shadows in people are more sad than bad. If you know what I mean?’
‘Yeah, kind of,’ said Sam. ‘Best not to let either get hold of you, eh?’
‘Ain’t that the truth.’
The two young men stared out towards the sea. The dog was just considering taking advantage of their inattention when Devon got to his feet, scooped up the two paper plates.
‘Dessert?’ he said to Sam. ‘Jacko’s made trifle with a shitload of alcohol. Might have to breathalyse the old folk on their way out.’
‘Yeah, why not …’
Sam stepped over the dog, followed Devon back through the kitchen.
The dog had a choice: a chance of rotten fish on the beach or a certainty of trifle inside.
It had always liked custard. It went inside.
The dog fell in behind a queue of women at the dessert table: Sidney (honey and garden dirt), the woman police officer (avocado and Tiger Balm) and her sister (green tea and wet wipes), plus Sam’s mother (fruit yoghurt and glitter glue) and his auntie (ditto).
‘I’m sending my file, such as it is, to the new Auckland solicitor,’ said the sister.
‘Good riddance, eh?’ said the policewoman.
‘Maybe when it comes to Olivia,’ said Sidney. ‘But whenever I think of Maddie, I want to bawl.’
‘She’s OK,’ said the sister. ‘And I’ve lined up people to keep an eye on her. Any hint of an issue, they’ll step in.’
‘What’s the story with Rick, Casey?’ said Sam’s mother.
‘Can’t say,’ said the police officer.
Everyone accepted that without further comment. The dog was not surprised. The police officer was almost as fierce as the Mistress.
‘Heard a rumour there’s already a buyer for the vineyard,’ said Sam’s auntie.
‘Better not be bloody Rob Hanrahan and his blight-the-foreshore-with-an-industrial park mates. I might have to actually kill him instead of just roughing him up.’
The Master’s best human friend, Gene, had joined the women, along with Sam’s dad (spicy sausage and woodsmoke), the sister’s husband (also green tea and wet wipes), and cheerful Kerry.
‘Getting seconds already?’ said Sam’s auntie, with a pointed look at Gene’s belly, which was almost as round as the dog’s.
‘It’s the holidays,’ he said. ‘Everyone’s allowed a blow-out.’
‘Well, as it’s the holidays,’ said Sam’s dad, ‘you can take a break from plotting vengeance against old Rob and his cronies. Or at least from harping on about it.’
‘Not likely.’ Gene slapped trifle into his bowl. ‘Come next year, that bastard won’t know what’s hit him.’
‘Is this a good time to remind you,’ said the sister’s husband, ‘that neither Corinna nor I practise criminal law?’
‘He’s all talk,’ said Sam’s auntie. ‘But if he does do anything stupid, you’re all banned from standing him bail.’
The group moved off, leaving small splatters of cream and custard on the floor. The dog tidied them with its tongue. Then it trotted over to where the group were now seated around tables that had been pushed together. Sam and Devon had joined them. The Master and Mistress were at the other set of tables, with Doc Love and his friends. They were all chatting away, except for the bearded bespectacled man, who was staring off towards the front door.
‘Poor old Bernard,’ said Sidney, quietly, to her group. ‘Do any of us buy his story that Patricia’s gone off to nurse a sick relative?’
‘No, but we won’t let on, will we?’ said Kerry. ‘Every man deserves his dignity. Plus he fought for Littleville like a lion at evil Elaine’s council meeting. We owe him.’
‘He told me at the Christmas community lunch that he had no objection to the name change to Onemanawa,’ said the police officer’s sister.
‘Wow,’ said Sidney. ‘He really has been cast low. I’m glad Mac and Jacko invited him,’ she added. ‘It’d be horrible to spend New Year’s all alone.’
‘Speaking of invitations, I’m surprised not to see Meredith and Jonty here,’ said Gene. ‘Or are we beneath them, now that he’s better? Or worse, depending on how you look at it.’
‘They’re celebrating with their daughter,’ said Kerry. ‘And her new boyfriend. Who makes experimental video art.’
Gene chuckled. ‘And who says God doe
sn’t have a sense of humour?’
Kerry’s phone began to play a tune. A loud tune.
‘Begorrah, it’s Ma,’ he said, checking the screen. ‘I’ll take it outside, otherwise she’ll insist on talking to everyone.’
‘Say hi from me,’ Sidney called after him.
As no one seemed to be interested in sending trifle its way, the dog had a short snooze. It awoke when Kerry returned.
‘My parents are planning a trip out next year,’ he announced. ‘For all our sakes, let’s pray that they’re turned back at the border.’
‘Hey, your phone plays “Back in Black”,’ said Devon. ‘You like metal?’
‘AC/DC are not strictly metal,’ said Kerry. ‘More hard rock.’ He snapped his fingers. ‘Which reminds me! Gad, I’ve been meaning to ask this for months now. Well, at least one-and-a-half. Who’s the genius behind the Gabriel’s Bay radio station?’
‘No one knows,’ said Sam’s dad. ‘It’s a pirate frequency.’
‘Most people reckon it’s that recluse guy,’ said Sam, ‘who lives with Oksana.’
‘Well, let’s hope that is his hobby,’ said Gene. ‘If not, we should probably be checking the water supply more regularly.’
Second helping of trifle consumed, Gene leaned back and placed both hands on his belly, let out a satisfied ‘Ahh’.
It was all right for him. The dog had been deprived of food now for a whole ten minutes.
‘I’ll make coffee.’ Devon started to clear the paper plates and plastic cutlery. ‘Then we should turn this place into a dance floor.’
‘I’ll give you a hand,’ said Sam.
The dog saw Sam’s mum and dad exchange a smile. But its interest in this group had waned. Sam and Devon were heading for the kitchen with plates laden with scraps. The dog followed and took up a position by the rubbish bin — close, but not too close, in case the Mistress should decide to pop her head in.
Through the back door, the dog saw the sky had darkened. Stars were out, and the moon, which provoked an instinct in the dog to bark. It chose not to. The Master might send it home for being a noisy dropkick.
Inside, the tables had been pushed back against the wall, and the music put on. As Devon had firmly secured the rubbish-bin lid, the dog decided to lie down beside the front door, out of the way, head on its paws, watching.
All were keen to dance but one. The bearded, bespectacled man sat alone on a chair, politely rebuffing every woman who invited him up onto the floor.
‘I’m fine, really,’ he told them.
But the dog could read human expressions — a necessary skill if you wanted to avoid a boot up the rear. The bearded man was not fine. He was miserable.
The dancing went on. The dog snoozed intermittently, dreaming of the moon and rotten fish, steak fat and roast potatoes. The Master’s voice roused him.
‘Right!’ said the Master. Someone silenced the music. ‘Before the witching hour’s upon us, I’d like to raise a toast.’
He lifted his glass. ‘To absent friends!’
‘To absent friends,’ everyone chorused.
‘To you lot!’
‘To us!’
Despite resistance from a blushing Mistress, the Master drew her into a hug.
‘And to my wife! Ma Cherie Amour, the pretty one that I adore. Love of my life!’
‘To Mac!’ said everyone.
Kerry and Sidney were closest to the dog.
‘My God, is that what Mac stands for?’ said Kerry. ‘Ma Cherie?’
‘Why don’t you ask her?’ said Sidney.
‘Ha ha, no,’ said Kerry. ‘Not even when she’s slightly tiddly and cocooned in the rosy glow of love.’
The Master caught a nod from Devon.
‘Ten!’ he said.
And the countdown commenced.
At ‘One! Happy New Year!’, everyone began to hug and kiss. Even the bearded, bespectacled man, the dog noted, was doing his best to enter into the spirit of things, though his miserableness was still evident.
The dog detected a new smell, but a known one. Scones and library books. It was buried under another smell — Chanel No. 5, if the dog was not mistaken. The woman hesitated in the front doorway, as if unsure how to make her presence known.
But then the room went quiet.
The woman spoke.
She said, ‘Bernard.’
Acknowledgements
Love and thanks to my writing group, who made this book much better: Whitney, Simon, Alisha, Meryl, Fiona, Ruby, Johnny, Libby, Redmer, Rijula and Stuart. And to my other MA in Creative Writing peeps and pub-goers, who continue to cheer me on: Pip Adam, my supervisor; Emily Perkins, my teacher; and my fellow writers, Helen C, Jackson, Justine, Nick, Helen H and Louise C, and poets Sarah, Louise W, Nina, Jane, Sam and Alex.
Huge thanks to Jasmyn Pearson of Pūmanawa Consultants, who reviewed my use of te reo Māori and gave me some excellent advice.
Thanks to Harriet and Margaret, and the team at Penguin Random House New Zealand, and my agent, Gaia Banks, who always makes me feel like I’m her favourite writer, even though she represents authors who are vastly more successful.
A shout-out to Matt at Lambanjo, Seatoun, and his dog, the late, much missed King, who ruled the neighbourhood.
And thanks to New Zealand for providing such great material.
CATHERINE ROBERTSON’S novels have all been #1 New Zealand bestsellers. Her fourth novel, The Hiding Places, also won the 2015 Nelson Public Libraries’ Award for NZ Fiction. Catherine reviews books for the New Zealand Listener and is a regular guest on Radio New Zealand’s The Panel and Jesse Mulligan’s Book Critic slot. She is married with two grown sons, two Burmese cats, two rescue dogs and a powerful vacuum cleaner. She divides her time between Wellington and Hawke’s Bay.
Winner of the Nelson Public Libraries’ Award for NZ Fiction 2015
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When April Turner’s small son is killed by a car, she decides she is no longer entitled to anything but the barest existence. Five years on, she has shed everything and everyone she loves, and expects to be this way for ever. Then a letter arrives from an English solicitor, informing April that she is the last surviving heir to Empyrean, a long-abandoned country house.
At first, April resists. But with the letter comes a map full of tiny mysteries, and she is drawn all the way from New Zealand to the English countryside, and into a small but intriguing circle of people: musician Oran, who remains loyal to his faithless wife; Jack, who lives wild in the woods with a dog; and Sunny, Lady Day, approaching ninety but more vital than others half her age.
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A romping chick-lit with heart-ache, misunderstandings, travel and love.
No one knows ‘happy endings’ like romance novelist Darrell Kincaid. She’s delivered eight of them to her readers with pleasure. But it’s not to be with book number nine. In the act of adding the final full stop, Darrell has a revelation: it’s not the ending that really matters but what comes next. Darrell now sees that when her husband Tom died (twenty-one months and three days ago, but who’s counting?), she lost more than the man she loved. She lost her own ‘happy ever after’. The life she expected to live has gone, vanished forever in a puff of fickle, unfair smoke.
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The entertaining companion novel to the best-selling The Sweet Second Life of Darrell Kincaid.
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But change it has, and Michelle now has to deal with Chad’s increasing detachment, while building a new life with her two small children in a place filled with cat-eating coyotes. On top of that, Michelle’s oldest friend is turning against marriage while her newest is a little too obsessed with clean taps. And down the redwood-lined street, there’s Aishe Herne, a woman who could pick a fight with a silent order of nuns. Aishe has designed her own kind of perfect life, in which there’s room for her, her teenage son and no one else. But when cousin Patrick lands in town like a Cockney nemesis, both Aishe and Michelle must begin determined campaigns to regain their grip on the steering wheel of their lives.
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