by Karen Zelas
Past Perfect
Karen Zelas
Glass House Books
Brisbane
Other than known historical persons, all characters are fictitious. Some liberties have been taken with the inclusion in the story of certain of the actual French settlers of Akaroa.
Copyright © Karen Zelas, 2010
First print edition published 2010 by Wily Publications Ltd
www.wily.co.nz
POD and eBook editions, © Karen Zelas and IP, 2012
Glass House Books
an imprint of IP, Interactive Publications Pty Ltd)
Treetop Studio, 9 Kuhler Court
Carindale, Queensland
Australia 4152
[email protected]
The author has asserted her moral rights in the work.
This book is copyright. Except for the purposes of fair reviewing, no part of this publication (whether it be in any eBook, digital, electronic or traditionally printed format or otherwise) may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, digital or mechanical, including CD, DVD, eBook, PDF format, photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, including by any means via the internet or World Wide Web, or by any means yet undiscovered, without permission in writing from the publisher. Infringers of copyright render themselves liable to prosecution.
National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication entry
Author: Zelas, Karen.
Title: Past perfect / Karen Zelas.
Edition: 2nd ed.
ISBN: 9781922120311 (pbk.)
Dewey Number: NZ823.3
Also by Karen Zelas:
Night’s Glass Table, IP, 2012.
Crest to Crest: Impressions of Canterbury: prose and poetry, Wily Publications, 2009.
For Henry and for Marilyn
Akaroa,
Nouvelle-Zélande,
20th August, 1840.
Ma chère Maman,
How thoughts of you have given me strength by day and sadness by night, these long months past!
You came to me again last night, little Albert held to your bosom, Sophie and young Madeleine clutched at your side, Jacques standing tall at your shoulder. The ship’s deck lurched beneath my feet. Yet you stood steadfast. The spars groaned. Wind and swirls of icy rain swept over us. I reached out to you, clambering up the steep incline, but with every step, you drifted further away, out of my grasp, until you were beyond the ship’s rail, hovering over the waves, becoming more and more distant. How my heart ached!
I woke from the dream to the sound of rain drumming on the makeshift tent fabricated from the sails of our ship. It was still dark. The canvas creaked as the wind rose and I could hear the unfamiliar sound of trees bowing and sighing. My husband lay at my side and I took comfort. I could feel the warmth of his breath on my face and I breathed deeply. I was not the only one awake. All the families are in one tent and the single men in another. I could hear Mme Gendrot gently sobbing nearby and several people coughed a rondelet, still suffering the effects of Rochefort fever developed on the voyage. What a voyage, Maman! Not a dream but a nightmare.
We stepped ashore in New Zealand eleven days ago. What a relief after more than seven months at sea! The “Comte de Paris” anchored first in a place so beautiful you cannot imagine. They call it Pigeon Bay for the native pigeons, which are in abundance: large birds with iridescent red-green feathers over their heads and shoulders and white puffed chests. The green-black bush tumbles down the hills right to the very edge of the sea, so very different from home, and the tops of the mountains are dusted with snow. The colours are clear and hard, straight from a paintbox. And the birds, at dawn and evensong, are like bells! Ah, and the smell, Maman – of earth and trees.
But we had a sad duty to perform at Pigeon Bay. Two little ones had died only the day before land was sighted. A terrible loss for their parents, Messrs Gendrot and Chardin, and a great sadness for us all. The captain’s men dug two tiny graves at the edge of the bush and the children, wrapped in canvas, were placed one in each and small wooden crosses erected. I stood and prayed for their safe passage to the right hand of God and wept in memory of your little Christophe, Cathérine and Cécile, Maman, who were never intended long for this world.
But there is little to be gained by dwelling on the past, is that not so? And events here provide little opportunity.
Friendly natives arrived to meet us. They came in small groups, appearing out of the bush, lining up along the shore to stare at us. The men looked fierce, with intricate designs penned into the skin of their faces, the chiefs with feathers in their hair. Even a few women had designs on their chins. My husband placed his arm around my shoulder, but we were assured we were in no danger. Our Captain Langlois has been here previously and has traded with the natives for possession of the land on which we are to settle.
But, oh, là, Maman! The captain brought the natives gifts of clothes from France and straight away they put them on. Ancient finery from the salons of Paris for the women and old army uniforms for the men. I was forced to cover my face so I should not offend by laughing! Still, we all like to dress up, don’t we, Maman?
A few days later our ship sailed for our new homeland at Akaroa, on the far side of Banks Peninsula from Pigeon Bay. We were all anxious to end the interminable voyage. At the entrance to the Akaroa harbour, the wind failed and we were obliged to anchor. While we were below decks having dinner, an anchor broke free. Mon Dieu! To come all this way just to be dashed upon rocks!
Fortunately, two boys playing on deck noticed we were drifting towards the cliffs that towered above us, surf breaking at their base. The captain summoned assistance from the French warship, “L’Aube”, which was already in the harbour to receive us and to ensure our safe arrival and settlement. Longboats were dispatched and next day, with much effort applied to the oars by the crew of “L’Aube”, we were towed safely to the anchorage, known as Paka-Ariki.
As we came by the shore we were startled to see a British flag flying on French soil. When we asked for an explanation, we were told it was nothing more than a little vainglory on the part of a British farmer, so our minds were set to rest.
Here, too, Maman, natives were gathered, some wearing the very same clothes provided in Pigeon Bay. They must have walked over these magnificent hills and through the dense forest to meet us.
This place is so different and so beautiful! But not to everyone’s liking – le Père Malmanche, a gardener from Rochefort, is so overcome that he has vowed never again to trim his beard until he has once more set foot in France. But my husband and I have come with such high hopes. Hopes of a better life. Hopes of our own land, our own house, and a respected place in the community.
Even so, chère Maman, I sometimes wonder what we are doing here – even the stars are strange.
Give my love to Papa (if he will receive it) and the children – not that Jacques can be referred to as a child any longer. I shall write again as soon as I am able.
Your loving daughter,
Bibi
1.
The call had come as Sue was locking the back door. It was the beginning of what was to be an exhausting day. Should she go back? Ben already had the car engine running, watching her indecision. His toot on the horn was the decider. Sue unlocked the door, deactivated the alarm and snatched the phone from its bed. Now she was wishing she had let it ring. Faced with Ben’s agitation, she had slammed the car door and said it was a wrong number. ‘It was nothing,’ she added, more to soothe herself than inform him.
Sue was to accompany Ben and his colleagues, Gaye and Hank Steinberg, from the US of A, on a day trip to Akaroa. Ben’s standard tour for overseas visitors. As usual, Sue would be the dutiful and support
ive wife. She loved the trip, the place, but would prefer to choose her company. Three hours in a car with three academics, each vying to out-quote the other, would be enough, she thought, to induce ennui in anyone. However, it could be interesting, even entertaining – occasionally it was, in a perverse sort of way; a giggle at someone else’s expense might please her today. Now. Since the phone call.
Sue let her eye be drawn along the footpath as the car moved through the Saturday morning streets; watched a youth saunter, hands in pockets, head lolling forward and bouncing each time he planted a heel on the ground, as if his pendulous lower lip was yanking it down. He looked Maori or Pacific Island – she often found it difficult to distinguish the two. She wondered where he had been and where he was going at such a slow, solitary but deliberate pace. She envied him his purposefulness …
Ben’s voice cut into her reverie.
‘You’re looking very nice today.’
Nice? Sue shuddered at the word. Food was the only thing to be described as “nice”. A high school English teacher had drummed that in.
‘Don’t I usually?’ Her tone was sharp.
‘That’s not what I meant.’ Ben humphed out a puff of air. ‘And you know it,’ he added. ‘I mean you look pretty. Your hair …’ He reached across and squeezed a handful of her brown curls. ‘When the sun catches it …’
The warmth of her husband’s words seeped into Sue and placated her. Ben really was a dear. She should not snap at him. He did his best, though his best could sometimes be very irritating. She squeezed out the word ‘Sorry’ and lapsed into thought.
‘Is that Sue Spencer?’ the woman had asked in a shrill, nasal voice. Surely they could employ someone with a soft, calming voice, who neither called you “dear” or “love”, nor was condescending or over-familiar. Businesslike but understanding was what the job required. Maybe she should apply for a job as a clinic receptionist … But the idea vanished as quickly as it came.
When they arrived at the Grand Chancellor Hotel, Gaye and Hank Steinberg were waiting outside in animated conversation. The left sleeve of Hank’s silver anorak was pushed up and he was stabbing a thick finger at his watch. Sue felt more than saw Ben’s quick gesture of anxiety – his fingers raking his fine, fair hair off his forehead – and she placed a hand on his knee. She watched their guests through the windscreen: Tweedledum and Tweedledee, in matching jackets, matching sneakers, and carrying matching daypacks. They turned and smiled, eyes scanning, as the car drew in to the curb. Ben yanked on the handbrake and flung open the driver’s door, one foot on the tarseal before the engine coughed to silence.
‘Come on,’ he said to Sue, and slammed the door, reaching the pavement in a few long-legged strides.
Sue was reluctant to emerge from her cocoon of steel and glass. She hesitated, her hand on the door handle, watching Hank pump Ben’s limp hand, the ripple travelling all the way to his shoulder. A liveried doorman stood behind them, completing the tableau. Ben glanced over his shoulder and Sue shrank back in her seat; she felt invisible but knew she was not. Gaye stepped to one side to peer around Ben, pulling Sue out of herself, back to reality, back to her duty. She forced a smile and pushed the passenger door open. Each step was an effort; the cool morning air pressed against her, seemingly crammed with more molecules per cubic metre than ever before.
Sue heard the relief in Ben’s voice as he introduced her.
‘We’ve heard so much about you already,’ Gaye said. Perhaps Sue’s surprise showed in her face. ‘All good,’ she added.
‘And you’re just as lovely as expected,’ said Hank, extending a large paw. Sue took it gingerly; it was warm, soft and gentle, in contrast to her expectation. She thought of her father, not as he was now but as he used to be: a big teddy bear. Something shifted inside her and she smiled. Perhaps the day would not be as bad as she had feared.
‘It’s nice to meet you both.’ She touched Ben’s sleeve. ‘Gaye or Hank might like to sit in the front.’ The gratitude in Ben’s grey eyes was Sue’s reward. It said he knew she understood that his surety was a sham, that beneath his authoritative, some might say arrogant, exterior crept a timid little boy, frightened of putting a foot wrong. No matter how high Ben might climb, he would feel a fraud at risk of exposure. And Sue knew, where she believed Ben did not, that this held him back and would never allow him to reach the top of the tree. ‘For the view,’ she added. ‘I can see it any time.’
Sue felt noble offering her place, the favoured position, but also hoped her offer would not be accepted. She could not imagine sharing the back with Gaye or Hank today, being forced into polite conversation, while trying to stop her body merging with a larger-than-life companion. In the front, the seat would curve about her; she could drift with her thoughts and let the academic conversation float by; it was so long now since she had been part of the university world that she did not believe she had anything to contribute.
‘Oh, no, no,’ said Gaye, a tremor passing the length of her squat body as she shook her head. ‘We’ll be just fine in the back. Don’t you worry.’
Sue wondered just how transparent she might be.
The beauty of Banks Peninsula always left Sue giddy: the sculpted landforms, yellow from summer drought, silhouetted against a brilliant sky; wind-carved macro-carpa; bold green pines. And the memories of childhood it evoked – summer holidays with her parents and younger sister, Jayne – walking, sailing, swimming, until …
They crested a ridge and looked down into Akaroa Harbour. Ben pulled into the car park at The Hilltop Café and Bar. The crunch of gravel sounded loud and the intense blues, yellows and splashes of bottle-green seared Sue’s vision. The sun had burnt off the early mist and even the land sparkled.
‘Spectacular!’ exclaimed Hank. He and Gaye stood side by side holding hands, Hank gently stroking Gaye’s dimpled knuckles with his thumb. He let go. ‘Fetch the camera, Hon,’ he said. ‘Nothing quite like it back home.’
Ben stood to one side, leaning on the fence, plucking the top strand of No. 8 wire. Sue stood beside him and slid her hand along the wire to touch his. Since the phone call, she had become insubstantial. As though she might drift away if not anchored. She needed to feel him, assure herself of his solidity, his warmth, his substance; so that she would know for sure she existed.
The woman with the irritating voice had said that her repeat mammogram had revealed a well-defined tumour. ‘It may be benign, but we can’t be sure without a biopsy.’ The first mammogram had been unclear, a technical problem, Sue presumed initially. But a niggling doubt had wriggled at the back of her mind. She had tried to disregard it and decided to say nothing to Ben until she was sure of the result, one way or the other. It was probably nothing. It had been only a routine examination, after all.
Sue butted her hand against Ben’s … and he moved away. To give her more room, she supposed – it was not what she wanted, but she could not explain. Not now. If she were to tell him, how could she broach the subject without making it sound like a death sentence? And she could not believe that. She would not believe that. Besides, they were with strangers; she could not let them into her private world.
‘That’s Akaroa village over there.’ Ben pointed across the harbour. ‘We nearly became a French colony. Lucky escape.’
‘How was that?’ asked Gaye.
‘Sue’s the historian,’ said Ben, giving her a nudge – her cue. ‘Masters in History, First Class Honours.’ He said it with a smile she could think of only as triumphant. He knew Akaroa had been a holiday place to her rather than one of historical interest. Did he want her to make a fool of herself?
Sue knew little about its settlement, just the common knowledge – the race between the French and English in 1840, whaling, timber, farming. She winged it – they would not know the difference. ‘There’s a little museum,’ she finished. ‘It’s supposed to be good, if you’re interested.’ Then honesty prevailed. ‘I blush to say I’ve never been in it. It’s the view – the land, t
he sea – that attracts me most.’
‘The whole of Banks Peninsula is volcanic,’ said Ben. Sue cursed silently; he just could not help himself. ‘This harbour is a crater.’
‘Oh, my,’ said Gaye and Hank in unison.
The sun was directly north, cross-lighting the hills behind Akaroa Village, sculpting them into soft promontories and dark gullies. The sky was the same vivid turquoise as the sea, or vice versa – the colour surprised Sue anew each visit. The harbour lay full and sparkling. Tiny white boats bobbed close to the shore; the long wharf jutted into the water and further round stood the lighthouse.
‘It’s just an historic relic, relocated from the Heads after the switch to automatic lights,’ said Ben.
Sue’s mood paralleled their downward spiral to sea level. The conversation between the three colleagues had no need of her, waxing and waning about her, one voice after another in the ascendency. She was unable to keep her thoughts away from the phone call and its implications. She kept repeating to herself that the lump was benign, but part of her knew that might not be so. Sue was now older than her mother had been when she finally succumbed to breast cancer – thinking about it even now made her eyes sting. The wasted body. The wedding ring loose on her finger. The huge, sunken, clouded eyes beseeching. Sue blinked rapidly and fumbled in the glove box for sunglasses. She would have made her mother whole again if she could – she had tried; every day before leaving for school she had tried. She would lean over the bed and smear rouge across her mother’s taut cheekbones to camouflage the grey translucency, and apply coral lipstick to the pale, limp lips. ‘You’re looking better today, Mumsy,’ she would say. ‘Better still tomorrow.’ And her mother would give a wan smile. How bizarre she must have made her mother look – a brightly painted almost-corpse. Sue had not minded touching the thin skin, which lay in wrinkles and moved, cool and damp, under her fingers, making patterns like sand left by the outgoing tide. She was not going to let her mother give up hope, even once Sue herself had realised the tide was not coming in again.