The Party Line

by Sue Orr

  People had started coming back to the judging ring. Mums and dads dawdling their way across the field, their arms crossed, bodies hunched slightly forward, giving away their hunger for gossip. They slipped in beside each other for a quiet little talk as they got closer. Bits of the conversations reached Nickie. What did she say? I’m sure I heard bashing … His sharemilker’s daughter …

  Whispers and murmurs, all muddled, like when Nickie spun the dial on the wireless and the needle whizzed from the 300s right up to over 1200 and voices from all the stations from all over the world came in and faded out as she left them behind. Clockwise, ’til the dial wouldn’t go any further and she knew she’d hit Outer Space, where the black came down upon her.

  2014

  She passes the college on the left and crosses the black metal bridge over the river and looks to the right, and the big Lemon & Paeroa bottle has disappeared.

  But no, there it is, set back further, that’s all, framed with shrubs and manicured gardens. Nicola remembers now reading something about it in the newspaper, how they decided to move the bottle to allow people to pull over and stop, rather than slow down and stick their cameras out the window and cause a pile-up, all for the sake of a blurry brown and yellow snapshot.

  Kids in school uniform spill out of the school and walk the bridge beside her. As she pulls up to the intersection, they cross in front of her without checking for traffic. Already, they’re dragging their cigarette packets out of their pockets. Nicola grins at the maintenance of old traditions and thinks how much easier it must be for them to have a lunchtime fag, hidden by the new shrubbery. A girl with purple hair and glinting face piercings glares at her and shouts Fuckin perv. Nicola shakes her head and laughs.

  Her name won’t be graffitied at the base of the new bottle. NW and GB friends forever. It’s a relief to know it’s properly gone, even though everyone knew it was Gabrielle, not her, who had painted it on the first bottle. Right underneath the other sample of Gabrielle’s handiwork. JG is a wife beater and a raper. Both the inscriptions appeared one summer — Nicola’s last before starting college — while the Walkers were up the Thames coast on holiday.

  Joy’s back. ‘Raper. Huh? That kid thought she knew everything.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter how you bloody spell it, Mum.’

  ‘She taught you a few things. Disrespect, for a start.’

  ‘For Christ’s sake—’

  ‘Not to mention blasphemy.’

  The patheticness of this monologue is amusing even to Joy, who rolls her eyes and leans forward in her seat. She eyeballs the students, who of course ignore her. ‘Scruffy individuals.’

  ‘Leave it be, Mum. You’re making a scene.’

  The girl with the purple hair has stopped in the middle of the road to stare.

  1972

  Ian Baxter

  He’d told Gabrielle he’d try his best to get to Calf Club Day. But the reality was, he didn’t intend going anywhere near the school. In time, maybe, he could put on the town clothes and get along to Calf Club Days and District Evenings and be a part of things. But he wasn’t ready for it yet.

  Over a sandwich and cup of tea at lunchtime, Bridie sneaked up behind him, prodded him in the small of his back, and growled in his ear.

  What do you mean, you’re not going to Calf Club Day?

  I can’t. I don’t belong here.

  It’s not about you, Ian. It’s about her. It has to be about her now.

  I know. I know that. But not just yet.

  How dare you, after she missed the last one, looking after me?

  He pushed his cup and plate to the centre of the table. It was nearly two. A quick shower, he might be there in time to see the leading. That was the event Gabrielle most wanted him to be there for. Two-thirty? Was that what Gabrielle had said?

  The pipes shuddered as he turned the shower taps off. One last creak, where they joined the water tank outside the bathroom window. Another task to tend to soon, no doubt.

  Voices. Ian pushed open the bathroom window and peered down the outside of the house. There was a car in the driveway, one he didn’t recognise. He was too late to see who had got out — they were already at the front door.

  He pulled the window shut again and quickly dried himself off. His farm clothes were on the floor of the bathroom but they were too dirty to put back on. Tying the towel around his waist, he opened the bathroom door.

  Gabrielle was in the hallway, with a woman Ian didn’t recognise. She looked to be in her early twenties and she had her arm around Gabrielle’s shoulders. She had startling eyes, the exact shade of greenstone, and red hair that swung in a bob around a pixie face.

  Gabrielle had been crying — black make-up smudged under her eyes and little streams of it coming down her cheeks.

  ‘What’s wrong? What’s happened?’ Ian moved to put his arms around Gabrielle before remembering he was wearing only a towel. ‘Just give me a second.’ He darted into his bedroom and dragged on a shirt and trousers.

  Gabrielle and the woman were in the sitting room, huddled together on the couch. Gabrielle was leaning into the woman’s shoulder and her eyes were closed. He could see she was still crying, silently.

  ‘Mr Baxter, I’m Glenda. Glenda Tremain. I’m the junior teacher at the school.’ She leaned forward to shake Ian’s hand, taking care not to disturb Gabrielle. ‘I brought her home … something happened at Calf Club Day.’

  Ian crouched down in front of Gabrielle. ‘What? Is she hurt?’

  ‘She’s not hurt, no. It’s …’

  Glenda Tremain’s brow was creased and she was shaking her head, as though confused. ‘To be truthful with you, Mr Baxter — I don’t know what happened. It was something to do with the leading competition. Something happened … between her and the judge.’

  Ian squeezed Gabrielle’s hand and felt her squeeze his back. ‘Gabrielle,’ he said. ‘Tell me. Tell me what happened.’

  She opened her eyes. Ian was surprised to see they were clear, free of tears now.

  ‘I can’t,’ Gabrielle said.

  ‘It seems she had a little disagreement with him,’ said Glenda. ‘About what she was wearing. He didn’t like what she was wearing.’

  Ian looked at Gabrielle’s dress, which was Bridie’s orange dress, the one with sequins and flowers. Fight it. But with the dress came Bridie’s voice and her perfume; everything pulsing, sitting hard on his shoulders. He pushed his shoulders back, straightening his spine, to show Bridie he meant it.

  ‘He didn’t like the dress? What’s wrong with it?’

  ‘It wasn’t the dress. That wasn’t the problem, apparently. I wasn’t there myself. But um … I think Gabrielle might have taken the dress off. She was planning on leading her calf wearing a … a bikini.’

  ‘Oh.’

  It was a silly response, Ian knew that, but he just didn’t know whether to be shocked by Gabrielle’s choice of clothing. Wearing togs in the scorching heat didn’t seem a bad idea, especially if they were all going swimming afterwards. He thought that was the plan.

  ‘So, Glenda … it’s Glenda? Sorry—’

  ‘Yes. Glenda.’

  ‘I don’t know what the rules are for Calf Club Day … but I take it none of the other kids were in togs?’

  ‘Well, as I said, I wasn’t there, but normally no. I don’t think any of them would have been in togs. Particularly bikinis.’

  Ian thought he might be starting to understand. Gabrielle didn’t own any bikinis, which meant she would have been wearing one of Bridie’s. Images of Bridie in her sexy, skimpy bikinis flashed before him, flipping like the pages of their photo album. Bridie’s lips pouting in faux kisses, sunhat pulled down provocatively over her eyes, sexy posing in the style of Twiggy and the Shrimp and those other models in the magazines she so loved reading.

  ‘Couldn’t you have just popped your dress back on, if he didn’t like the outfit? Gabrielle?’ Ian ran his hand up and down Gabrielle’s bare arm. She was still staring
at him, but he couldn’t read her eyes.

  ‘I would have. But he didn’t give me the chance.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I asked him where it was in the rules that you couldn’t wear bikinis and he went nuts at me. He called me a slut.’

  Ian swallowed hard and looked again at the young teacher. The woman’s eyes were opened wide in shock. She gestured, with a slight tilt of her head, towards the kitchen.

  ‘I might make us all a cup of tea, if that’s okay?’ She gestured again, as she stood and straightened her skirt. ‘Maybe, Gabrielle, you want to go and wash your face with cold water?’

  Gabrielle nodded and headed for the bathroom, while Ian followed Glenda. The wireless was on, covering their voices.

  ‘What the hell is going on? Calling a kid a slut, because she wore her togs to Calf Club Day?’

  Glenda Tremain leaned against the kitchen bench and crossed her arms.

  ‘I know,’ she said. She put her face in her hands. Her hair fell forward, brushing her shoulders. ‘I can’t believe a man would say that to a child. I’m so sorry, Mr Baxter. That this happened. That the whole thing happened. It ruined it for everyone. Not just Gabrielle.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The competition was called off after Gabrielle and the judge had … had their little moment.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Well, I’m told that after he called her … what he called her, she stood her ground. She called him over and said something to him. He walked off and didn’t come back.’

  ‘So he should have,’ said Ian. ‘He should have been ashamed of himself. Who was this judge?’

  ‘You’re not going to like this. It was Jack Gilbert.’

  Ian sat down at the table. ‘You’re having me on.’

  ‘I wish I was. For your sake. And Gabrielle’s.’

  ‘Jesus.’

  They both sat at the table for a time, saying nothing. From the bathroom came the sound of running water. Gabrielle was in the shower.

  ‘What did she say to him, do you know?’ Ian asked.

  ‘Well, as I said, I wasn’t there. But I think she made up some pretty wild accusations about him.’

  ‘And what? He replied?’

  ‘No. From what I heard, he just turned around, white as a ghost, and walked into the school buildings and didn’t come back.’

  Ian ploughed his memory, trying to recall moments Gabrielle and Jack had shared. Trying to imagine what she might have said that would make him so angry he’d turn on his heels and walk away from the job he had to do. There was only the one time, when she’d made him a cup of tea on the porch, and nothing had happened then.

  ‘So the competition never happened? What about all the other kids?’

  ‘Well, their parents were right there, waiting for the judging to start. After Jack walked away, one of the other girls — Nickie Walker, Gabrielle’s friend — fainted. It was hot, you know, too hot really for everyone to be standing around, just waiting. So, some of the parents were looking after the sick girl, and the others decided just to get their kids and their calves and take them back into the shade.’

  ‘And that was it?’

  ‘That was it. I came outside to see what was going on, and Ewan — Ewan Burgess, you know, the headmaster — met me on his way inside, chasing after Jack. He asked me to look after Gabrielle. So here I am.’

  Ian sighed and closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them, Glenda was looking at her watch.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘Thank you for bringing her home. And … everything. Did you want that cup of tea?’

  ‘No, thanks. I’d better get going,’ she said. She got up from the table and looked at her watch again. ‘It must be hard. For you. For both of you, without a mother for her.’

  Ian said nothing.

  ‘If I can help with things, just let me know.’

  ‘Thanks. I appreciate that.’

  ‘I mean it. I’m not just saying it.’

  ‘Yeah. Yes.’

  As the car rattled over the cattlestop, Ian switched the kettle on again.

  She was nice. Sweet. Nice hair.

  Ian ignored her.

  Don’t ignore me, Ian.

  Leave it be, Bridie.

  She wasn’t wearing a ring. Did you notice, Ian?

  I said, leave it be.

  ‘Who are you talking to, Dad?’

  She gave him a fright. He hadn’t heard the bathroom tap turn off and now she was right behind him.

  ‘It was Mum, wasn’t it? I heard you say her name.’

  Ian sighed and smiled. ‘You caught me.’

  ‘Don’t worry. I talk to her, too.’

  ‘You talk to her. Why won’t you talk to me?’

  ‘I do. I talk to you all the time.’

  ‘I mean, about what happened today. Why won’t you tell me what happened with Jack Gilbert?’

  ‘I did. I told you what he said to me. Fucking jerk.’

  ‘That wasn’t the end of it, though, was it?’

  Gabrielle turned away.

  ‘Gabrielle.’

  When she turned back, her eyes were shining. Ian thought there were more tears coming, but he was wrong. She was angry, her jaw set hard. ‘There’s a good reason I can’t tell you what I said to Mr Gilbert. You just have to believe me.’

  ‘Wrong, Gabrielle. Wrong. You have to tell me because whatever it was, it’s going to affect me. Not just me. It’s going to affect me, and you, and everything that happens from now on.’

  For a minute he thought she was going to relent. Her shoulders slumped and she slid onto a chair. Her hands were in her lap, and she chipped away at the nail polish on her fingertips. Ian waited.

  Finally, she locked eyes with him. ‘No,’ she said.

  Ian didn’t see Jack Gilbert during the days after Calf Club Day. He made no effort to avoid him, telling himself there was no point in worrying about a stoush when he was oblivious to the reason for it. Instead, he waited for a visit, or a phone call. Nothing happened. This was a startling contrast to Jack’s usual habit of hanging over Ian’s shoulder, ensuring he got maximum manpower per twenty-nine per cent of profit. Or turning up out of the blue to try to catch Ian slacking around. Ian enjoyed the solitude.

  It was four days later, early evening, when the phone rang long short long. Ian was gazing at the television, not really following the programme. He waited for Gabrielle to clamber down the hallway to answer it, as she always did. She was in her bedroom, listening to her wireless and singing. It surprised him that she made no move to answer the call.

  He picked up the receiver and put it to his ear. ‘Ian Baxter.’

  No one replied.

  ‘Hello? Are you there?’

  Still no one spoke. Ian knew there was someone on the line. A hollow silence framed by the barest trace of human breath.

  ‘Who’s this?’ he tried again. ‘Hello?’

  There was something else — he could think of it only as an echo of an echo. The breath, for sure, slight and barely discernible, but another sound, too. A closer presence.

  There were two people breathing into telephone receivers, somewhere along the line. But they weren’t together — one was closer to him than the other. The rhythm of the breathing syncopated, as though one was trying to catch up with the other: disguise its presence behind the steady in and out of air.

  Another thing he knew — though he couldn’t say why he was so sure about this — both people were women.

  One might be the exchange operator — what had he heard Gabrielle call her? Shanks? Shanks wanks, that was the taunt he’d overheard.

  ‘Mrs Shanks?’ he tried. ‘Is that you? Are you there?’

  Click. He wouldn’t chastise Gabrielle any more for her tirades against the eavesdropping operator. He waited, held his own breath, trying to hear whether the line had gone dead.

  Silence, and breathing. Ian was about to hang up, when he heard a faint whistle of air sucked through te
eth, as though whoever it was had almost — almost — gathered the courage to speak. Something told him that waiting was the right thing to do.

  ‘Hello.’

  It was not a voice, it was a whisper and, yes, it was a female, though Ian couldn’t tell whether it was a child or adult. It was a whisper so faint that Ian might have easily convinced himself he hadn’t heard it at all.

  ‘Yes. Hello there. Hello,’ he said. He didn’t say more. He was beginning to understand that, whoever this person was, she would speak when she was ready. Or, when she could.

  There it was again, that strange drawing of air, like a kettle coming off the boil, that final wavering, half-hearted note of shrill.

  ‘The girl.’ The words barely formed.

  ‘Pardon me? I couldn’t quite hear you …’

  ‘Put the girl on. Your daughter.’

  ‘Who is this, please?’

  Silence. Ian waited. The words — the abruptness of them — had triggered recognition. Spoken like a man, but by a woman. Where had he heard that strange, empty voice before?

  Gabrielle appeared. Ian held out the receiver to her. ‘It’s for you. I don’t know who it is.’

  He watched Gabrielle’s face as she lifted the receiver to her ear.

  ‘Hello?’ she said.

  Gabrielle gave nothing away and Ian couldn’t tell if the person was speaking to his daughter or not. Gabrielle nodded and chewed her bottom lip. Ian saw her face go pale, then flush red.

  ‘But … I know someone who can help you. I can organise—’

  Whoever it was cut Gabrielle off mid-sentence. Her eyes welled, and Ian reached forward to take the telephone from her hand. Gabrielle stepped backwards, away from him. She held her other hand up, stopping him.

  ‘Okay,’ she said into the phone. ‘I’m sorry. Tell him that. Tell him I’m sorry.’ And she hung up.

  ‘Gabrielle, what’s going on?’ Ian positioned himself between his daughter and her bedroom. Her head was down, he was sure she was crying, but when he touched her chin she lifted her face and he saw no tears. Her face was calm once more. He couldn’t read it. Damn her, damn her mother for passing on the gift of inscrutability.