“Not at all,” he replied with a grateful sigh. Out the corner of his eye, he saw Mrs Murdoch bristle. “Perhaps I could have a cup of tea while I’m waiting, though?” He smiled at her over her husband’s shoulder and her face brightened immediately.
As he approached the first hole, he felt his stomach lurch. It was as if somebody had reached into his abdomen and was twisting his insides for all they were worth. He paused, took a couple of deep breaths, and readjusted the bag on his shoulder before he continued. Golf was a game played largely in the mind. If he could just get past the first hole, he knew he would be OK.
He had played the course hundreds of times before. If he tried, he could probably get the ball onto the first green with his eyes closed. But now he wondered whether he would ever be able to tee off again without wanting to vomit.
“Will you just listen to what I’m telling you?” He would never forget the look that Sam had given him as he snatched the golf club out of his hand. He cringed at the memory.
Instead of teeing off, he took a moment to gather his thoughts. Without his having to asking, Stan had pushed back the next group’s start time by a quarter of an hour. “Give you a bit of peace,” Stan had said, slapping him gently on the back as they walked out the double doors, into the sunshine.
In the month following Sam’s death, his sister had insisted he speak with a counsellor—post-traumatic stress, she had called it. He had told her, in no uncertain terms, just what he thought of the idea, but she had gone ahead and made an appointment anyway.
“Embrace your grief,” the counsellor had told him. “Don’t run from your feelings.” Had he embraced his feelings at that particular moment, he would have punched her in the face. He didn’t tell her this, however.
He closed his eyes and breathed in deeply through his nose. Barely a year had passed, yet it was all still crystal clear in his memory—the way Sam had huffed and snatched the club back, the frustrated roll of the eyes he had given him in return. There was a reason partners weren’t the ideal instructors.
“Don’t hold it so—”
“Will you stop nagging me!”
“Just listen—”
He had barely had time to jump out of the way before the head of the club had flown past his face. It had come back down with an impressive whoosh of air but the ball had remained untouched on its wooden tee.
“—to me.” He had finished the sentence between gritted teeth. When he had held out his hand for the club, Sam had thrown it back at him. He had reached down and picked it up off the ground without saying a word.
“Keep your left hand firm, but don’t squeeze the club to death.”
He knew he had hit a blinder just by the sound of the club connecting with the ball. He shielded his eyes with one hand and watched as the ball sailed down the fairway.
As Sam stepped up to the mark, placed his ball on the tee and went through his set-up routine, he had wanted to tell him to bring his arms closer together but he had thought better of it.
Sam had actually started promisingly, his head, shoulders and arms in the correct position, but on the downswing, he had lost it. His head had pulled upwards and the face of the club, instead of skimming the grass and coming up under the tee, had grazed the top of the ball and sent it scudding along the ground into the rough. Sam had stomped off before he could say anything.
They were at opposite ends of the fairway when it happened. From where he was standing, next to the green, it looked as if Sam had fainted. One minute he was standing upright; the next his knees buckled and he went down like a sack of potatoes.
Sam had been out cold for a good five minutes and was still only semi-conscious when they had stretchered him into the back of the ambulance. He didn’t say a word all the way to the hospital, but just as they were turning off Adelaide Road into the hospital car park, he had opened his eyes and groaned.
“What is it?” Tom had asked, jumping to his feet and leaning over him.
“My hand,” Sam had mumbled, turning his head to the side and opening his eyes just a crack. “You’re crushing my fingers.” He had almost elbowed the paramedic as he jerked his hand away.
He couldn’t help but smile at the memory.
The paramedics had ferried Sam into a cubicle within the main triage ward and had hooked him up to a monitoring machine before disappearing for what felt like an eternity.
“How are we feeling now, Mr Wilson?” The curtain screening their cubicle was whipped back and a doctor in green scrubs appeared. He ignored Tom completely as he unhooked the clipboard from the end of the
bed and scanned through Sam’s notes. Sam had
slumped forward in the bed, his chin resting on his chest.
“He took a golf ball to the head, doctor.”
“I see.” The doctor put down the clipboard and leaned over the bed. He pulled Sam’s left eyelid back with his thumb and shone a bright light in his pupil. “Hmm,” he mumbled to himself and then checked the right eye.
“Is everything OK?” Tom had asked. He had been unable to mask the concern in his voice. Sam looked up and gave them both a worried look.
“Slight jaundice to the eyes.” The doctor had felt the sides of Sam’s neck and then scribbled something else in the notes.
By the time he reached the ninth hole, the wind had picked up considerably. A dark blanket of cloud had rolled in off the ocean, plunging the golf course into a wintery twilight. He shivered. The hairs on his arm were standing on end.
“Good round?” Stan’s head popped up above the counter in the office as he walked back through the door.
He shrugged his shoulders. “I’ve played better.”
Stan got to his feet and walked round the desk. He looked behind him, no doubt to check that Mrs Murdoch wasn’t within earshot. “Sorry about earlier. Maggie—she mean’s well, but … you know.”
He smiled and clasped Stan’s outstretched hand. “She’s a good woman, Stan. You treasure her.”
Stan returned the smile. “We were both very sad to hear about Sam.”
He didn’t like the direction the conversation was taking at all. He let go of Stan’s hand and swung his golf bag over his shoulder. “I must be going, Stan,” he said, regretting the curtness in his voice. He pressed his lips together into a smile. “Time waits for no man, and all that.”
chapter eleven
Sam’s hands gripped the armrests. The whole plane seemed to be vibrating with the bridled power of the two Rolls-Royce engines. Overhead the luggage bins creaked unnervingly. He half expected one of the compartments to drop open and dump its contents onto the heads of the passengers below. The creaking stopped the instant the captain released the brakes.
Three years in Otago and countless flights up and down the country had failed to cure Sam’s inherent fear of flying. He opened his eyes to steal one last glimpse of the terminal building and then closed them tight as the plane lurched forward, down the runway.
To his relief, the journey was relatively uneventful, and as the plane ascended the east coast of the South Island, he even cracked open the blind to take a peek at the jagged line of mountains thousands of metres below. Stripped of snow, they looked barren and devoid of life.
During his first visit home, three years ago, he had asked after Tom. He had been unable to stop himself. When he discovered, through a friend of a friend, that Tom and his girlfriend had moved to Auckland, he had been both disappointed relieved. And from that point on, he had made a conscious effort to avoid the subject.
Towards the end of his first year at university, he had been offered an internship at a law firm in Christchurch. He had jumped at the chance. For three months that summer, he had lived with his grandparents and had cycled between his work in the city and their house at Sumner.
“We will shortly be commencing our descent into Wellington,” the crackly voice of the purser echoed down the cabin. “Please return to your seats, fasten your seatbelts, and open your window blinds. Tray tables
…”
He had already stopped listening, mesmerised by the scenery below, his anxiety momentarily forgotten. From the air, the Marlborough Sounds were truly breathtaking—a winding maze of deep-blue channels, lush green isles, and turquoise bays.
He removed his headphones, wound the cord round his fingers several times and tucked it away in his pocket. His stomach muscles tensed as the plane banked for its final approach. A strong crosswind shook the cabin violently.
“Fucking hell,” he cursed, gripping the armrests as they lost several metres in altitude. His knuckles turned white. He opened his eyes to find the elderly lady across the aisle glaring at him. “Sorry,” he mumbled and looked away.
Holly was already waiting when they pulled into the drive. She was sitting on the front doorstep, arms clasped round her shins and her chin propped on her knees. Before the car had come to a stop, she was
on her feet and striding across the grass towards him.
“Welcome home, stranger,” she grinned, pulling him into a tight bear hug as he clambered out of the car. They had seen little of each other over the past three years, but whenever they were together, it was as if time had stood still. “Glad to be back?”
He smiled, but he didn’t give Holly an answer. Over her shoulder, he could see the house. In some way, he had expected it to look different. He was slightly unnerved by how little had actually changed—from the blue and white agapanthus along the garden fence to the crack in the rendering beneath the kitchen window.
A car door slammed behind him. He turned just in time to see his mother disappear around the side of the house.
“She still hasn’t forgiven me, then?” Holly asked, following him over to the car.
“Just ignore her,” he replied. “I don’t think she believes the bit in the Bible about forgiveness.” He heaved his suitcase out of the boot. “I’ll just take this inside and then we can go for a walk, eh?”
Holly followed him as far as the doorstep but stopped short of coming inside. When he re-emerged, she was rustling through a brown paper bag. “Want a lolly?”
“How are you not the size of a house already?” he laughed, slipping his hand into the bag and choosing a pineapple lump. His favourite.
Patch pulled on the lead all the way to the beach, and Sam was relieved when he was finally able to let him run free.
“So what’s the deal with you and lover boy? It’s Dan this time, isn’t it?”
He shrugged. “We decided to call it a day,” he replied absently. His eyes scanned the handful of surfers out on the water, but he didn’t recognise any of them.
“How come?” Holly smoothed a patch of sand with one foot and then sat down, facing the ocean.
“It just didn’t work out. We wanted to do different things,” he said, dropping down beside her and clasping his arms round his shins.
He had met Dan at a bar in Dunedin. It had been fun for a couple of months, but it was over. He wasn’t even sure where Dan was now.
“You’ll never guess who I ran into the other day,” Holly said, changing the subject.
Sam was watching Patch work his way methodically along the beach, sniffing each grain of sand. “Who?” he felt obliged to ask.
“That guy you went away with—that New Year before you left for university.”
He turned and looked at her in disbelief. “Tom?”
“Yeah, that’s the one. You know, I couldn’t remember his name.”
“Where?” His heart was racing now. He swallowed. All the moisture in his mouth seemed to have evaporated.
“At a party in Brooklyn,” Holly answered casually. She traced a pattern in the sand and then scrubbed it out. “Are you OK?” she asked, looking up at him.
“Did you speak to him?” he asked, ignoring the question.
Holly chewed on her bottom lip. “For a bit.”
“And what did you say?”
Holly looked as if she regretted having said anything. “Just this and that,” she replied.
“And did you tell him I was coming home?”
“I might have done.”
He flopped back on the sand and looked up at the sky. So Tom was back. He could hear Holly rustling through her bag and snapped, “What are you looking for?”
“My smokes,” she sighed, upending her bag into her lap and sorting through its contents. One by one, she flung keys, lipstick and several other unidentifiable objects back into the bag.
“Since when do you smoke?” he asked. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his own pack of cigarettes. He saw her shoulders relax at the sight of them.
“Since last year,” she said, lighting the end of the cigarette and inhaling deeply. She tilted her head away from him as she exhaled.
“But you were always so against smoking.”
Holly shrugged. “Yeah, well, that was before I’d ever had a university final.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Well?”
“Well what?”
“What did he say to you?”
Holly flung the last of her belongings into her bag before she answered. “Did he ask after you, you mean?”
He averted his gaze. One of the surfers glided into his peripheral vision. “Well, did he?”
“Yeah, he did,” Holly replied. Her face broke into a smile. Sam felt his heart double in size. “But his girlfriend was with him and she wasn’t too happy about him talking to me.” And then it imploded in on itself, like a dying star.
It took him almost a week to find out that Tom had moved back into the same flat.
“Why do you want to know?” Holly had asked.
“So that I can avoid running into him,” he had replied. And he had meant it at the time. But the very next day he found himself climbing the familiar steps up to Tom’s front door.
The front of the house had received a fresh coat of paint and the broken guttering had been repaired; but apart from that, nothing had changed. He gripped the hand rail and took a deep breath before knocking on the door.
“Hello.” The girl he had seen with Tom all those years before answered the door. She looked slightly older, and her hairstyle was different, but he recognised her straight away.
“I—um—” his voice trailed off. He stood and stared, unable to think of what to say next.
“Can I help you?” she asked. The friendly expression on her face quickly changed to one of suspicion.
He shook his head and turned away. Her eyes followed him as he retreated down the steps and along the path.
It was spring before Sam had saved enough money to move out of his parents’ house and into the city. He had found the advertisement one lunchbreak, pinned to the notice board at work.
“Catch!” his new flatmate, Neil, yelled, lobbing a can of beer across the room. He caught it and set it down on the coffee table to wait for the bubbles to settle.
Neil jumped over the back of the faded green sofa and perched on one of the threadbare arms. “Not bad, eh, for twenty bucks!”
They had just lugged the sofa halfway across town and up two flights of stairs. His T-shirt was still damp with sweat and his arms were aching terribly.
“Yeah, not bad,” he agreed, cracking open his beer. He had to clamp his mouth over the can to catch the foam that came bubbling up from inside.
“Shit, sorry, bro,” Neil said, hopping to his feet and standing back to admire the new piece of furniture. “New” would be too generous. They had acquired it from the local second-hand store, and it had clearly seen better days.
“So are we going out tonight?” Neil asked.
He shifted uncomfortably in his seat and took another sip of his drink. For several weeks, he had managed to avoid going out drinking with Neil, but he was fast running out of excuses to stay home.
“I don’t know if I can be bothered tonight,” he said, avoiding Neil’s eye. “I’m whacked from lugging all this stuff back to the flat.” As well as a sofa, they had acquired a ring-marked coffee table and a bookcase wi
th a missing shelf.
“Don’t be a dick all your life, Sam,” Neil replied. “I’m not going out on my own again. What about that sports bar on Courtenay Place?”
He shrugged. “What about it?”
“You’re the local round here. What’s it like? It seemed to be going off last night when I walked past. We’ll start there, have a jug or two, and then move on in search
of some ladies.” He rubbed his palms together and grinned.
“I don’t suppose you see too many of those on the farm, eh,” Sam laughed, raising his right arm to deflect the cushion that came whizzing past his head. Born and raised in Taranaki, Neil had moved first to Auckland, for university, and then to Wellington for work.
“Yeah, it’s OK, I guess. I haven’t been there for years, though.”
“Well then, it’s time you reacquainted yourself.” Neil finished off his beer and immediately opened another. “I’ll teach you how to drink like we do on the farm.”
Neil sat down next to him. He put his hand on his thighs and leaned forward, a serious expression on his face. “But before we do, I think there’s something we need to talk about.”
Sam felt his blood run cold. Nobody in Wellington knew he was gay, apart from Holly. He had gone to great lengths to keep it a secret while he was at university. Could it be that Neil had found out? New Zealand was frustratingly small at times.
“How easy are the girls in Wellington?” Neil asked.
He almost laughed with the relief. He shrugged his shoulders.
Neil seemed to accept the gesture as an adequate answer. “I guess we’ll find out soon enough, eh,” he said and ruffled Sam’s hair as he stood up. “Another beer?”
He smiled and nodded. “Hey, when did you say that fridge was being delivered again?” They were still using a chilly bin topped up with ice from the dairy down the street.
“Next weekend, I think,” Neil answered, handing him another can. “So you rooting anyone at the moment?”
He wanted to say, “Fuck off and mind your own business,” but he shook his head. “Nah, not right now.” For once he wasn’t actually lying, he thought, with a tinge of irony.
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