by Daphne Clair
'You mean—what's it like having them—or having them?'
He laughed, and settled himself on one elbow to look at her face. 'No, I mean, how does it feel to be a parent? I fancy myself as a father, some day.
I like kids.'
He'd be a good father, too, she thought. He'd be a lot of fun, and kind with it. 'I haven't really thought about it,' she said, 'not to the extent of putting it into words. It just happens. And it's wonderful but scary too.'
'Scary?' he queried.
'They're so small, at first—for a long time really. Even now, sending them off to Australia like that, they seemed so small, such babies, to be making the trip alone. And they depend on me for so much, love, security, everything.'
'Not on you alone, surely?'
'No, of course there's Jason, too. But I'm their mother.'
'
Russel looked at her curiously. 'He's their father, isn't he?'
'He's a very good father. Only he doesn't have a lot of time. And being a father isn't a full-time job.'
'But being a mother is?'
'Until they go to school, anyway.'
'Yours are at school now. So what are you going to do with the rest of your time?'
'I don't know. I guess I could serve on a few more committees. There are plenty of charities wanting voluntary workers.'
'But that isn't what you want.'
'Maybe I'm too selfish.'
'You've spent six years of your life taking care of a couple of fairly helpless, fairly demanding little human beings. I don't think it's selfish if you feel like doing something just for your own sake, for a change.'
A quick flare of excitement, a sense of adventure, flickered and died. 'The trouble is, I don't know what I want to do,' she said ruefully, if I had a specific talent, a career that I'd interrupted for marriage, an ambition—but I don't. Just a feeling that there ought to be more to fife—to me.'
'There isn't anything missing in you.'
'Oh, yes, there is! Sometimes I wonder if I'm me at all. If there is a me.'
'What do you mean?'
'Nothing.' Catherine laughed softly at herself, embarrassed all over again, wanting to pretend she hadn't said it.
But Russel persisted. 'What do you mean? How can you feel that way? As though you don't exist.'
'But I don't,' she explained. 'Not as a person in my own right. I'm the original nobody. Somebody's daughter, then somebody's wife, now somebody's mother. Nobody on my own. Nobody who's ever done anything worthwhile or interesting.'
He frowned, trying to understand. 'The world is full of nobodies,' he said.
'Little faceless people who never make the news. But that doesn't make them unimportant—non-existent. Do you want to be famous?'
'No. Just—effective. Someone who does things, someone who isn't just an extension of other people, living their lives.'
'You mean, you want a life of your own?'
'Oh, it's a cliche, isn't it?' she sighed. 'No, that isn't what I mean, exactly.
But I can—relate to that. I'd like to be my own person. That's a cliche, too, isn't it?'
'Are you a feminist?'
'Not really. At least, not actively. Yes, intellectually, for equal rights and all that. But I don't think that women can dodge the differences, pretend they aren't there, ask doctors to aid and abet when they decide that being a woman is— inconvenient. Being a mother is full of inconveniences, but that's what it's all about, isn't it? Being female. Denying it is cheating, pretending to be like men, not just equal to them.'
'Do you mean every woman should be a mother?'
'Oh, no. No. But I think the ones who are can't just abdicate. It's like—well, you wouldn't know it, but when a woman is having a baby—I mean, in the actual process, there's a time when suddenly you can't go through with it, you want out, now. And you know that's impossible, that there's no way out. You're in it now, and nothing you do is going to change things. You can't stop anything any more. Because it's done, it's too late. And marriage, having a family, it's ---'
'It's like that?' Russel asked quietly.
'Not in the same say. And it isn't anything to do with not loving them—
husband, children. It's just that you're in there now, and there's no way out
... Not without destroying so much, hurting them, hurting yourself.'
'Do you want out?'
'No, I don't. I really don't. I just want—more. Greedy. Wanting to have my cake and eat it, perhaps. Irresponsible. I'm not making sense,' she added quickly, apologetically. 'It's just a mood. Don't take any notice of me.'
She got up and ran back into the water, ashamed of her confidences, her muddled feelings.
Later she showered in Russel's primitive bathroom, the water cool and fresh, and combed out her wet hair before pinning it up.
'Mrs. Clyde,' he said, when she emerged into the other room.
Her lids came down over her eyes as she crossed the bare floor to pick up the basket and put her rolled towel in it, the wet bikini wrapped inside.
She made a task of it, tucking in the loose end of the towel, straightening the wrinkles. And then Russel was standing behind her, his hands on her shoulders turning her to face him. 'I didn't mean to hurt you,' he said. 'I wouldn't.'
'I know.'
'Cathy.' His voice was soft.
But she wasn't Cathy. She was Mrs. Clyde, wife and mother. Quietly she said, 'Please don't, Russ. It's been such a lovely day.'
He smiled faintly, ruefully, and dropped his hands.
This time he didn't accompany her down the path, but stood on the new deck and watched her until she was out of his sight behind the tall flax.
Russel came to the first night of the pantomime by special invitation of the producer. Bridie was flushed with success at the end of it, for the patients had certainly made no secret of their appreciation. But Russel's approval sealed the evening for her. He seemed' genuinely impressed, his praise sincere and not overdone.
He turned to Catherine as Bridie rushed off to help a squirming child get out of a ladybird costume without wrecking it. 'You look ethereal,' he said. 'As though you might vanish any moment.'
'I won't do that,' she promised, it's the dress.'
It was chiffon, pale blue, and she supposed, since he had bought paint that colour for his bach, he must like it. She had taken off the cleverly fashioned wings of cellophane and wire for fear of damaging them. But the dress had been adapted from an old evening frock, and was not as fragile as it appeared.
'I like it,' Russel said warmly. 'And you can act, too.'
'Thank you. Perhaps I could make a career of it.'
'Would you like to?'
She laughed a little, not imagining he was serious. One of the cast came up to speak to them, and soon afterwards Catherine went off to the makeshift dressing room to change.
Jason had waited up for her this time. When she came into the lounge where he sat with a book, he put it down and smiled at her and asked, 'How did it go?'
'Very well, I think. Bridie's pleased, and the patients loved it.'
'Good. Feel like going away for a few days?'
They had discussed it before, concluding that between tonight and a last rehearsal before the second performance of the pantomime didn't give them enough time to make a holiday worthwhile. They had decided that being at home without the children was sufficient break for them.
But Catherine thought she knew why Jason was suggesting a last-minute change of plan. Christmas Day had been flat without the children, and although they had exchanged presents and enjoyed the luxury of lying in, ending the day with dinner and dancing among a crowd of strangers at a city night spot, her mood had been inescapably depressed. Even at dinner, she had sat across the table from him feeling tense and tongue-tied, almost as though he was a stranger instead of her husband. It had been the same the day they had met for their postponed lunch, two people sharing a table who apparently had little to say to each other. Jason ha
d seemed preoccupied, and she had almost immediately begun to feel that he would rather have been back in his office, that he was only lunching with her from a sense of obligation, humouring her because he had promised and he wouldn't go back on a promise. When he spoke to her she answered him stiffly, her eyes wandering over the other people in the room, not meeting his. It had not been a success.
But the thought of going away was immediately attractive, even though it could only be for a short while. The house seemed empty without the children, the unnatural silence almost oppressive. And perhaps if they moved to a different environment for a little while, she and Jason would lose some of the odd constraint that seemed to be growing between them.
'Can we?' she asked eagerly. 'It's a bit late to try and book anything, surely?'
'We should find somewhere, if we're not too choosy about where we go. Any preferences?'
'I don't mind.'
'I'll phone some places in the morning, see what I can do.'
He did, starting early, and eventually was able to tell her he had struck it lucky. 'A cancellation at Paihia,' he told her. 'How do you fancy a visit to the Bay of Islands?'
It sounded good, and very fortunate at this time of year.
The North, the 'winterless' North, with its unspoiled beaches, its remnants of the great forests which had once covered the land, its calm waterways and its sense of history, drew them into its heart as they drove later in the day towards the Bay. Here scattered islands dreaming on azure waters shot with purple and green and deep indigo echoed its name. Here the European history of New Zeland had its origins, for after Captain Cook's circumnavigation of these southern islands, the sealers and whalers who plundered the Pacific had found the bay a useful port of call, where they could refurbish their battered ships after long journeys before heading homeward, gather fresh spars for masts from the tall kauri forests, and barter with the local Maoris for supplies of food.
Later the notorious town of Kororareka had catered for the less respectable needs of sailors who had sometimes spent years at sea under brutally strict discipline and in cramped and unhealthy conditions. At one time it was said that every house on the foreshore was a grogshop selling cheap, often poisonous rum. And at the Mission station at Paihia across the water, the good men of the cloth and their intrepid British wives had wrung their hands in dismay and horror when their Maori proteges were enticed into the sailors' arms with the promise of a red calico dress and a string of glass beads.
That history was difficult to credit now, Catherine thought, as, on the day after their arrival at the thriving town of Paihia, they took a ferry to cross over the harbour. Kororareka had long since shed its name and was now called Russell for Lord John Russell, an eminently respectable nineteenth-century Colonial Secretary. And Russell was a quiet little town, its early history carefully preserved in its small museum and its remaining historic buildings.
Those few short days were filled with sunshine and history as they solemnly examined the bullet holes in the little white wooden church that remained from a famous engagement between Maoris and settlers after the town had achieved respectability as the temporary capital of the new nation; climbed Flagstaff Hill to view the breathtaking beauty of the bay and read the plaque commemorating the raising of the staff to symbolise the unity of the two races after a stormy history when the hostile chief Hone Heke had four times chopped down its predecessors in defiance of British authority; and wandered through the beautiful interior and gardens of the 'Treaty House' at Waitangi where the historic treaty between Maori and Pakeha, giving sovereignty to Queen Victoria, had been signed.
They took a cruise about the harbour and past some of the famous islands, viewed the Hole in the Rock, a great natural archway rearing from the water, large enough for tourist launches to go through, and saw dolphins cavorting in the wake of the boat, leaping in graceful curves from the sea behind them, grinning as they came up alongside, apparently hugely enjoying themselves.
And at night they made love in their motel room, locking out the world and history and daytime.
Catherine felt more relaxed and happy than she had for a long time, and Jason was always a considerate and gentle lover. The nights were warm and sea-scented, and they could sleep in the mornings until the sun woke them with its impatient heat. There was no office to claim Jason, and no children clamoured for Catherine's attention. For the first time since the children had left, she ceased to miss them.
CHAPTER SIX
A few days after their return, with Jason back at work again, Catherine answered the phone to find that Russel was on the line. She wasn't really surprised.
'I want to talk to you,' he said. 'Can you make lunch?'
'What about?' she enquired, and was intrigued when he answered, with laughter in his voice, 'Business. I'll tell you about it over lunch.'
When they met she scanned his face with anxious curiosity, but he teased her by insisting on eating first, and only over coffee he looked at her, his eyes smiling at her impatience, and said, 'You'd like to have a job, wouldn't you?'
'What are you suggesting?'
He grimaced. 'Don't be like that.' His eyes were wicked, and Catherine stifled laughter and said, 'Stop it! What are you really getting at?'
'I have a new show to produce. I want you in it.'
. 'Me? Why?
'Because I think you'd be good at it. You needn't look so wary. This is no casting couch.'
'I wasn't ---'
'You were wondering what the angle is. Don't bother to deny it.'
'Russel, will you please get to the point?'
'I just did. I've got an interesting assignment. It's a programme for kids—
not toddlers, the slightly older ones, say six to twelve. I want it to be lively and unpredictable and very watchable. And it needs a front person, someone who can talk to kids without patronising them—there'll be a bunch of them in the studio—and someone who can come across as natural and fun to be with.'
'Me?' Catherine said again, doubtfully.
'I've seen you with the kids in that hospital. You're good with them, warm and friendly and funny. And you could write some of your own material, the fill-in bits. I want to make it your show, build it around your personality.
One of the problems, I think, with some of the children's television chat-and-link formats is that the anchor people are interchangeable—clones.'
Catherine laughed. 'I'm flattered you don't see me as a clone.'
Russel didn't laugh with her. For a moment he looked deadly serious. Then he said, 'Will you do it?'
'I'm an amateur,' she protested. 'Surely there must be any number of professional actresses ---'
'The good ones are over-exposed. I want a new face, a fresh talent.'
'Talent?'
He suddenly leaned over and took her hand in a firm grip. 'Stop doubting yourself. You're a beautiful young woman, and you can act—so you're not Bernhardt, who is? You have the particular qualities I need to get this show off the ground. I want you!' He grinned. 'And you want a career, something to make you feel a person again.'
She shook her head. 'You're taking advantage. I talk too much.'
'Are you saying no?'
'I'd like some time to think about it.'
'Will you have to ask your husband's permission?'
'No.' She stared at him. 'But of course I'll have to consult him.'
'Will you?' Without waiting for her reply, he said, 'Yes, I suppose you will.
Don't let him talk you out of it, Cathy—please!'
She didn't answer him, staring down at the empty cup in front of her.
'Surely you can't just give me the job, like that?'
'Not quite. I'll need to see how you go in front of the cameras, of course, but I'm sure you'll be fine.'
'You're so confident,' she murmured.
'I know you'll be terrific. I know it.'
Catherine half-smiled, shaking her head again.
'Trust me, I do know
what I'm doing,' he assured her.
Some of his enthusiastic confidence transferred itself to her. She said, suddenly reckless, 'I won't tell Jason yet. Let's do whatever tests you need first. I—I'll make it a surprise.'
The tilt of his head was faintly sardonic, but he said nothing except, 'Good girl! I'll take you to the studio now, if it's okay?'
When he took her into the building he was taken aback at the vast barnlike space in which the sets were placed. Each set gave the illusion of an enclosed room which was produced by three walls and some furniture, but when she was seated and asked to 'Be natural' while a total stranger asked her questions, she found it difficult to ignore the cameras and lights.
When they played the videotape back later, she was relieved at how natural she seemed, the nervousness hardly showing at all.
Russel was quietly triumphant. He didn't say, 'I told you so,' but his smile and the teasing light in his eyes said it for him.
Not until it was officially confirmed that the job was hers did she tell Jason about it. She knew she had surprised him, although he showed it only in a slight lifting of his dark brows, and a listening stillness while she told him about it.
i didn't know you'd applied for the job,' he said when she had finished.
'I didn't exactly apply.' She hesitated.
'Well? How did you come to get it, then?'
It was a reasonable question. 'Through a friend,' she said. 'Russel Thurston is the producer—you remember, he helped us with the hospital pantomime.'
'Yes, I remember,' Jason said slowly. 'He's a friend?'
'Well—yes. I've met him a few times since. He's nice,' she finished almost defiantly.
Jason's lids hid his eyes. Sounding rather bored, he said, 'I see. Well, good luck in your new career. When shall I see you on television?'
'I'm not sure yet. Jason, you don't mind, do you?'
He looked at her steadily. 'Are you asking my permission?'
Her brows came together. 'Not really. I—I would like your—approval, though.'
'You have it. If it will make you happy, go ahead with my blessing. It might be interesting having a TV star for a wife. Only don't forget the children will be home in a couple of weeks.'