by Sue Orr
Gabrielle smiled. ‘Of course. Come on,’ she said, holding Nickie’s elbow. ‘Come and see my room.’
Nickie had never seen a kid’s room like this before. The bed was a double. Opposite was a wooden dresser. On top of it was the make-up. Little black plastic cases with eyeshadows — every colour possible. Rows of lipstick — at least ten tubes altogether — and the colours were lined up in order, starting with the palest pink at one end and finishing with the reddest red. Nail polishes, rouges in little round blue cases, creams and of course the mascara. The cases all had swirly writing on them, either gold or silver. Nickie recognised two names from magazines, Helena Rubenstein and Max Factor.
Behind all the make-up, on a little wooden shelf slightly raised from the dresser, there were bottles of perfume. Some of them were really tiny, no bigger than a fat pencil lead, but you could tell it was real perfume inside every one of them.
Nickie knew some of the names — not from real life, but from advertisements in the Woman’s Weekly — Chanel, Je Reviens, Shalimar, Tabu, Arpège, Blue Grass and Musk.
Nickie sat down at the dresser. She ran her fingers over all the smooth little cases, picking up one now and again to click it open and shut. Even that little click was special; it felt as though secrets were being unlocked and set free. Her own mother was not a glamorous person. She had one red lipstick and that was all. Once, when she’d been out, Nickie had sneaked into her bedroom and looked through her drawers, thinking that even if she was boring now, she must have been young once and worn make-up to get a husband. She found nothing.
‘Sit still,’ Gabrielle said. She knelt down beside Nickie and looked across the range of lipsticks. Her fingers took one of the little tubes. She held Nickie’s head with her left hand and carefully painted her lips red. Not a single smudge.
‘Where did it all come from?’ Nickie asked with her new luscious lips.
‘It was Mum’s,’ Gabrielle said.
‘So … why did she need all this make-up?’ Who, Nickie wondered, could need so much make-up? Was she really ugly, Gabrielle’s mother? That didn’t seem likely. Or maybe she needed it when she was nearly dead, to keep her looking human.
‘She didn’t need it,’ said Gabrielle. ‘She wanted it.’
Nickie said nothing. If you needed something, like new undies or socks, then sooner or later you got it, in her experience. If you wanted something, you didn’t get it. Not unless you already needed it as well. An example would be shoes — if you needed new shoes, you might get a say in the type or colour of shoes you ended up with. Something like make-up could never be needed.
Nickie wished she’d met Gabrielle’s mother — a lady who wanted and got beautiful things like make-up and perfume and earrings.
‘She was given most of the stuff for free,’ Gabrielle said. ‘She worked in a chemist shop in town, when she wasn’t too sick. The make-up sellers always brought free samples into the shop. The owner let her have them.’
‘That’s what I’m doing, when I finish school,’ Nickie said. ‘I’m working in a chemist shop. For sure.’
They moved on to the perfume.
‘Go on, choose one,’ said Gabrielle.
Nickie fingered the little bottles, one after another. Some of them had the tiniest little black rubber caps in them. It felt as though she would break the glass, just trying to open them. She picked up a bottle called Tabu.
It fitted into the palm of her hand. The label was black and Tabu was printed in elegant white letters. In the corner of the label, someone called Dana had signed her name. Underneath Dana, New York and Paris were written. Around the black lid of the bottle there was a very thin string.
The liquid was a deep orange colour, almost brown. Nickie held the bottle up to the sunlight and tipped it to one side. The liquid took its time to move; slowly, more like oil in a bottle than water.
‘It’s beautiful,’ Nickie said. ‘Already it’s beautiful, and I haven’t even smelled it yet.’
She looked at Gabrielle.
‘Trust you to choose that one,’ she said, giggling.
‘Why?’
‘Tabu. You know what that means.’
‘No, what’s it mean?’
‘Tabu — it’s French or something for … taboo! T.A.B.O.O.’
Nickie had never heard of the word. ‘Oh, really!’ she said.
Gabrielle was smiling. ‘You’ve got no idea, have you?’
‘Nope.’ Nickie laughed.
‘Well.’ Gabrielle nudged Nickie over and sat on the chair with her. ‘Taboo means forbidden. Completely forbidden,’ she said. She lifted the bottle to her nose and took a deep breath in. Then she held it under Nickie’s nose. Nickie sniffed. She’d never smelled anything like it before. It was like every flower ever grown had been mushed up together, then after that mixed with something else. Sherry or whisky.
‘It was made by a famous perfume maker in Europe,’ Gabrielle carried on. ‘And the story is that he was given a challenge.’
Gabrielle was tipping the little bottle. Her finger was over the hole. She brushed aside Nickie’s hair and gently dabbed her finger against her neck, behind her ear. ‘This is where ladies put it, to attract men,’ she said. ‘For allure.’
Nickie didn’t bother asking what allure meant.
‘So,’ Gabrielle went on. ‘Do you want to know what the challenge was?’
She was breathing closely into Nickie’s ear. Her words seemed to touch the place where she’d dabbed the perfume. It made Nickie feel weird, little shivers went down her back. It was a wonderful thing, this Tabu. One little touch of it and the glamour spread right through her.
‘Tell me,’ Nickie replied.
‘The perfume maker had to make a perfume for a whore.’
Gabrielle stared into the mirror. Her eyes were wide open and her cheeks were red — not just from the rouge.
‘Golly,’ Nickie said. She sniffed. ‘Wow.’
‘You don’t know what a whore is either, do you?’
‘No.’ Nickie was past being embarrassed about what she didn’t know.
Gabrielle took in a deep breath.
‘Ohh kaay. Well you say hore, like John Hore, but it’s actually spelt differently, with a W. So it’s W.H.O.R.E.’
‘Got it,’ Nickie said. ‘So what’s it mean?’
‘A whore,’ said Gabrielle. ‘Is a prozzy. Prostitute.’
‘Wow. So explain it to me again, the thing about the perfume.’
‘So. The guy who makes perfume was asked to create a perfume for a whore. Which if you think about it means he had to make a perfume that would make men choose you, instead of other whores.’
Nickie wanted to say something cool. She wanted to talk about sex, and a perfume that would make men want sex from you. But the smell behind her ear seemed to be getting stronger. It was starting to make her feel sick.
‘Can we wash this stuff off?’ she asked Gabrielle. ‘Mum will go crazy if I come home smelling like a … whore.’
‘We’ll do it later,’ Gabrielle said. ‘Let’s finish the job.’
She swished brushes around Nickie’s face, ordering her to open her eyes, then close them, look up, look down. For the last bits, Nickie had to close her eyes.
‘Don’t open them,’ Gabrielle said. ‘Don’t open them ’til I say it’s okay.’
It seemed to take forever. Nickie tried not to think about the sex perfume but it was hard, it was so strong.
‘Open,’ Gabrielle said finally.
Nickie stared at the mirror, at the amazing person that Gabrielle had turned her into.
‘Oh.’ That was all she could manage. She was so happy, tears were coming. She blinked them away before they leaked onto the make-up. ‘Thank you. Oh my God …’
‘Cool, eh?’ Gabrielle grinned at the reflection.
‘So cool … Does your dad mind you wearing it? All the make-up, I mean?’
‘He doesn’t even notice.’
‘How can he not notice? My fa
ther would go nuts. Actually, he wouldn’t go nuts, because Mum would have already gone nuts and made me wash it off before Dad ever saw it.’
Gabrielle said nothing and Nickie felt bad. It felt as though she’d been rubbing it in that her mother was dead.
‘Um … sorry, I didn’t mean to remind you …’
‘Doesn’t matter.’
It was hard to tell whether Gabrielle cared or not.
They sat and looked in the mirror together for a bit longer.
‘Shame about the hair,’ Gabrielle said. ‘It destroys the look.’
‘Sort of,’ Nickie said, and they both giggled. ‘A glamorous toilet brush.’
‘I know,’ said Gabrielle. She jumped off the seat again and went to her wardrobe. She dragged a cardboard box out of the bottom of the cupboard. ‘It’s in here somewhere …’
She pulled out a handful of shimmery fabric, the deepest red Nickie’d ever seen. Gabrielle shook it out and laid it on her bed.
The beauty of it made Nickie swallow. ‘Can I touch it?’
Gabrielle nodded. ‘Just watch the sequins.’
The material was silk and, although Nickie’d thought it entirely red, there were other colours hidden in the weave. The sequins were all shades of blue and green and formed the tail of a peacock. The peacock itself was painted in the centre.
‘Mum’s,’ said Gabrielle. ‘Dad bought it for her last birthday before she died. She used to wear it like this—’ Gabrielle flung the peacock across Nickie’s shoulders, letting the sparkle drape down her back — ‘until right at the end, when Mum’s hair came out from the cancer medicine. Then she wore it like this.’
Gabrielle lifted the fabric and gently draped it over Nickie’s head. She knotted it to one side and let the sequins tumble like a waterfall over Nickie’s shoulder. ‘There,’ she said. ‘That sorts out the hair problem.’
They looked at themselves in the mirror. Nickie fingered the scarf. The silk was so light, so fine, it was almost impossible to feel it at all.
‘Is your father alright about it just being stuffed in a box, in your wardrobe?’
‘He doesn’t know I’ve got it,’ Gabrielle said. ‘He put most of Mum’s stuff in the rubbish after she died. Or else he gave it to the Sallies. This was in the Sallies’ box, I took it out when he wasn’t watching.’
‘Neat.’
‘Yeah … so that’s why I have to keep it hidden in the box. It’ll be fine if you want to take it away for a while.’
Nickie looked at herself again. With the neat scarf, and the perfect make-up, and the dangerous perfume, she looked beautiful. The hand of this beautiful person went over her mouth.
‘I can’t believe it, Gabrielle. I think I’m going to cry. Do you really mean it, that I can borrow it?’ Nickie shook her head and watched the fluttering turquoise tail feathers swinging against her shoulders.
‘As long as you like. You’ll take better care of it than me.’
Ian Baxter
He was terrified of sleeping. Between memory and reality was a membrane and Bridie pressed against it all the time. At night, she pressed with her voice, a murmur that ebbed and flowed. Her little hands, those gentle fingers, had found a weak spot in the flimsy veil — she had clawed and prodded and made a tear that could rip wide open at any time.
He sat up late at night, by the lounge window. The cool night breeze blew in, flicking the curtain against his face. He switched the television off and listened to the nocturnal noises. Beasts, massive and tiny, moving through grass. A hedgehog snuffling somewhere close. Miles away, on the highway, trucks rumbled their way north. It was impossible to hear them during the day but late at night even the gear changes were clear.
The moonlight made a monochrome photo of the endless paddocks, the silhouettes of cows sleeping and standing at the same time. Ian stared out across them for a long time. He fell asleep upright, too, in the chair, and woke as dawn filtered the darkness to grey. It was usually too close to milking time to go back to sleep.
One night, the murmuring was interrupted by a hum. It drilled his slumber, gradually drawing him to wakefulness.
He stumbled to find a warm jacket in the darkness and went outside. The noise was coming from the barn, across the paddocks. Ian shook his head, forcing himself awake. It was the sound of a truck. He searched the black horizon and saw flickering lights fading.
There was nothing in the shed worth stealing. Ian went to bed and hoped for sleep.
He remembered the night’s strangeness the next morning, when he got up to milk. Everything was in order at the shed; he wondered if he’d imagined it all. But when he swung open the barn doors, there were four new towering stacks of sweet, dry hay before him.
Later that morning, after he returned from milking, Gabrielle came out of her bedroom in her pyjamas, unsteady in half-sleep.
‘I dreamed about her again, Ian,’ she said, smiling.
‘Me, too,’ he replied. He turned away from her.
‘I’ve been telling Nickie at school how she sends us both the same dreams. She thought it was really neat. She’s so happy, isn’t she? Mum, I mean.’
‘She is.’
‘She told me last night that it never rains up there during the day. Just at night. It rains every night so everything grows properly. But the days don’t get ruined. Heaven days are just non-stop sunshine.’
‘Imagine it, Gabrielle. Isn’t it just something?’ His back to her, always. ‘And did she say to you how it’s usually good rain, a nice heavy downpour so it sinks deep into the ground and lasts? That’s what she said to me.’
‘No,’ said Gabrielle, wide awake, spoon and bowl clattering on the bench. ‘She never told me that. But probably she was going to and I woke up too soon.’
Gabrielle would, sometime soon, catch him out. Instead of rushing to share her dream first, she would drift into the kitchen and, in a sleepy way, ask him what he’d dreamed about the night before.
He might bluff about the weather in Heaven, but Ian couldn’t deny the press of spring, now less than a month away. The cows in the herd were swollen in calf, barely able to drag themselves forward through the muddy pastures to meet the tractor at feeding-out time. Remembering the chilling remark about rotten hay causing abortions, Ian constantly put his hand against the tight bellies, searching for the squirm of life within.
The donor of the new hay remained a mystery. It was obviously not Jack, and Ian sensed it wouldn’t be wise to tell him about it. Jack and Ian went to the cattle sale in Paeroa most weeks — never to buy, but to see what prices other farmers’ stock were fetching. On the Wednesday following the arrival of the bales, Ian had slipped in beside Eugene Walker at the stockyard rails.
‘I just want to say, Eugene, thanks.’
‘For what?’
‘The hay you dropped off. It’s appreciated. And I understand, you know … why you had to do it that way …’
Eugene leaned away from Ian, his arms folded across his chest. ‘I’ve got no idea what you’re talking about.’
Ian nodded. Maybe he’d never understand the rituals around farming, around helping out a neighbour too proud and volatile to accept charity. At least he’d acknowledged the good deed.
Vivid green buds clung to the branches of bare trees. When he stood, shoeless, on the ground near the house, he felt a timid warmth in the soil beneath his feet. He imagined sensing actual movement there, too, just below the surface; tiny grass shoots unfurling, pulsing upwards, seeking light. It was strangely enervating and helped to keep Bridie at bay.
At first Jack had called in every morning to lay down the day’s tasks. But as the season neared its end, his visits became sporadic. The main task, they agreed, was fencing, and there was enough work there to keep a man busy for months.
No matter how the conversations began, they ended on the same note: Jack’s lament at the cost of farming. His demeanour teetered, always, between gruff camaraderie and a barely repressed anger at the world. The change was as
sudden as a skid of black cloud across the face of the sun.
Ian saw how the sinews in Jack’s neck swelled and pumped the rage around his body. He tried to make sense of the man, tried to guess why Jack had hired him — hired anyone — when his hatred of his land was so obvious. Ian watched this mesmerising spectacle and reminded himself that the cost of hiring a sharemilker was expensive. The fact that Jack had hired one who knew very little about farming was not something Ian wanted to draw attention to.
He and Bridie had rented an old cottage on a farm in Silverdale years ago, after Bridie first got sick. They didn’t know it was cancer then.
They got the house cheap, in return for doing odd jobs for the couple who owned it. He did milk the herd — a week at a time, now and again, while the farmer was away on holiday — but you couldn’t call that real farming. He had a job in Orewa, labouring at a wood yard. That’s where he learned to build a fence.
In those first few days after Bridie died, he spent every waking moment fighting the urge to get in the truck and drive away. It wasn’t just the grief, although that’s how everyone saw it. He wanted to get away from Gabrielle.
She was a living, miniature version of Bridie: her face, the way she tilted her chin and looked skywards before saying what she thought about things. It was possible to adore and despise the most precious person left in his life. Finding this out was terrifying and debilitating in equal measures.
One hellish morning he found himself sitting in the car, watching the sun come up. Gabrielle was still asleep inside. He couldn’t remember leaving the house. But he was dressed, and there were random items of his clothing and shoes spread across the back seat. Only his stuff. Nothing of Gabrielle’s. And the key was in the ignition. His hand shook as he took the key out.