by Karen Zelas
Sue let it drop. She had had enough for one evening. ‘We’re off to bed.’ She took Ben by the arm and led him towards the door. ‘Goodnight,’ she called over her shoulder. She nudged Ben.
‘Ah, goodnight.’
‘Night, Mr Spencer.’
As soon as the bedroom door swung closed, Ben asked, ‘Is he her boyfriend?’
Sue nodded. ‘They’re “an item”.’
‘I didn’t know.’ Ben sounded affronted. ‘She doesn’t tell me anything these days.’
‘I wonder why.’
‘You knew.’
Of course she knew. She was Charlie’s mother. She did not have her head in the clouds like Ben. Or in the sand. Ben needed to shake himself up and, as Charlie would say, get over it. ‘He seems a nice enough young man,’ she said. ‘Polite, good looking, intelligent. What more do you want?’
‘Probably only last five minutes.’ His tone was grumpy and dismissive as he clambered into bed.
‘Can’t you be pleased for her? Sometimes I don’t know you.’ Sue turned her back and pulled the duvet over her shoulders. Who was this man, her husband? She had thought she knew him. She stared into the darkened room, her mind racing, sleep deserting her. She wanted to ask him straight out if he was having an affair with Alisha, and yet, she also did not. For, even though she was almost certain, she was protected by a tiny ray of hope and was unsure how she would cope with a “yes”.
There was no movement from Ben for some time. Then, ‘Are you awake?’ he whispered.
‘No.’ Sue snuffled.
‘I do love you, you know,’ he said.
‘No, I don’t,’ she said tearfully. ‘I thought I did, but now … Oh, Ben.’
‘You idiot. Of course I love you.’
Sue allowed herself to be comforted by his words; they were what she wanted to hear. She could have asked more – there were more assurances she would have liked, but she was not sure they would have been forthcoming. Ben snuggled up to her back and wrapped an arm around her. Nestled in the crook of his body, she heard her mother’s voice, “Always meet a person halfway”, and rolled over to meet him. Sue pressed her face close to Ben’s and stroked his cheek; firm, smooth skin with the rasp of stubble against her tender palm. This was the feel of their love.
Ben kissed her eyes. ‘I love you,’ he said. Her nose. ‘I love you.’ Her forehead. ‘I love you.’ Sue could feel her lips lift into a smile.
They fell asleep in each others’ arms, a fistful of Ben’s pyjamas firmly clutched in Sue’s hand.
7.
The smell of freshly ground coffee permeated the house. Sunday morning.
Ben’s side of the bed was empty, the bedding barely disturbed, almost as if he had slept elsewhere. Sue marvelled that he could sleep so soundly, under the circumstances; she took it as an indictment – a lack of conscience and caring. She shrugged on her robe, fingers snagging a cuff in her irritation, red nails like claws caught in white towelling. Ben had said he still loved her and she had taken comfort in his words. But in the light of a new day, she was no longer convinced. Unlike Ben, she had slept restlessly, with weird dreams waking her at intervals. She could no longer remember the content, only the hollow feeling deep within on waking. It was a feeling she knew well, one of loss, emptiness, of no longer being whole, as though a vital organ had been ripped from her body. Sometimes, unlike this morning, it was accompanied by no particular identifying thought, just the sensation of panic. A visceral feeling rather than a mental one. But Sue understood it for what it was. No banner headline needed. It started after losing her mother – the most careless thing she had done in her life, she joked in her more brash moments. This morning, she knew, it was about fear of losing her husband.
Sue glanced in the mirror in passing: dark rings under her eyes. She looked and felt her age. She slid her feet into gaily striped scuffs. Today was different from yesterday: today she knew the identity of Ben’s muse, the inspiration for his doggerel. Drawn again to the mirror, she could not avoid making comparisons that led her to empathise with Ben – why not choose someone young and beautiful if the opportunity arose?
By the time she had doused her face with cold water, she had begun to feel more intact, more able to present a semblance of normality. It was apparent that Ben was continuing as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. She supposed there was some reassurance in that. Perhaps she was making too much of the whole business. But he had been flirting in full view! Once more her mind spun.
Ben had set the table on the deck. Breakfast for two, a longstanding Sunday ritual – the children were rarely out of bed until late. Today, it seemed, was no exception. A sign, Sue thought, that she would be expected to behave as if nothing untoward had happened; as if seismic activity was not threatening their marriage.
It was a sunny day. The prevailing easterly had not yet risen above a gentle breeze. Late summer roses were still in bloom and the lavender was attracting diligent bees. The espresso pot emitted a gentle wisp of steam. The Sunday paper lay folded by Sue’s plate. Ben poured coffee as Sue spread her toast. She picked up the paper and passed a section to Ben. Everything as usual. But nothing quite real.
A lifetime of habit. Like breathing.
A spouse can become a vital organ, Sue thought. She had not known that when her mother died, but now, as she anticipated losing Ben, she could imagine how horrific the death must have been for her father. Her parents had been close and had worked well together, each with their tacitly accepted roles. Losing his wife must have been like having his right arm chopped off. But once the acute grief had waned, he had appeared to accommodate, learning new skills, becoming rehabilitated like any amputee – cooking, shopping, laundry. Sue suspected now that this healing had been superficial. She could only guess her father’s agony, hinted at from time to time by an embrace held too long, a wistful stare at her features, which so resembled her mother’s. Today, Sue thought she could see her mother’s death from a new angle, her father’s rather than her own. Today, she could imagine the emptiness she would feel without Ben. The sense of being incomplete. Of losing half of a shared memory.
Sue and Ben ate their breakfast in silent communion, the space between only a little fragile. The mutual crunching of toast. The synchronised exchange of crackling newspaper pages.
Ben looked at Sue over the sports section. ‘You should have told me about Patrick.’
‘I should have told you?’ Sue had not expected Ben to take the offensive. ‘I thought … your mind was elsewhere.’ She gesticulated at the distance, towards the bottom of the garden, the compost heap. Ben’s expression fell between puzzlement and irritation. ‘I saw your poem,’ Sue added, emphasising the word heavily.
‘My – ’
‘If you didn’t want me to, you shouldn’t have left the file open.’ Sue’s voice was rising in speed and pitch. She pushed down guilt for reading Ben’s private words, but still felt a need to justify herself. ‘I didn’t go looking for it.’ Her anger of the previous evening was returning. ‘Sometimes criminals want to be caught – you should know that. Sometimes they want someone to stop them.’ She was almost shouting. Toast crumbs spattered across the table.
‘This isn’t about me. It’s about you,’ Ben said. The low morning light emphasised the knot of his eyebrows, casting his eyes in shadow.
‘No. It’s about us.’ Sue’s hand was shaking as she lifted her coffee mug to her lips, hiding her face. Replacing it on the table with a clatter, she flipped open the newspaper. The cut of Ben’s gaze and his stillness accused her; she had not intended to make things worse. She should be able to accept that Ben loved her and let them move on. But why did he not deny a relationship with Alisha, even though she had not asked straight up? He must be able to see that was what she needed to hear. Surely. A convincing denial would fix everything. She stole a glance, a fleeting glance. But Ben seemed composed and self-righteous.
‘I was going to ask you to come to London with me.’ He paused.
‘I’ve got approval to go to a conference in September. On recidivism.’ Sue watched him brush the delinquent wisp of hair from his eyes while studying her face. They were two cats sizing each other up, deciding who was to concede ground. ‘You could spend the time with Jayne,’ he continued.
‘You want me to?’ Sue would wring it out of him.
‘Please.’ Ben’s voice was soft. She wondered if she had misjudged him; it was all so confusing.
‘I’d like to see Jayne.’ She paused. Of course she would go. But she was not going to sound too keen, too grateful for any crumb thrown her way.
‘I’ll think about it.’ She was curious about Ben’s motive for asking. She wondered whether he was trying to distract her; whether he was appeasing her; whether he was saying he was sorry. She could not leave it like this; she needed to know more, to untangle the muddle in her mind.
‘Last night, you were flirting,’ she said, in as even a voice as she could muster. She sat straight in her chair, the sun warm on her back, and held up her head, prepared to stare Ben down, if need be. The startled expression on his face was gratifying.
‘I … What do you mean?’
So, innocence was to be his defence.
‘You know perfectly well what I mean.’ Sue’s stare was unrelenting; she could feel power growing within her like a foetus. She was not going to let this go.
It was Ben who broke eye contact; gave in; acquiesced. Like a cat, he rolled over and showed his soft underbelly. ‘I … It didn’t … it doesn’t mean anything. She’s my student.’ His brows squeezed together in an inverted ‘v’, pleading for her understanding, forgiveness. But Sue was not ready for that.
‘Yes, she’s your student. You should be ashamed of yourself. Taking advantage of a young woman – barely older than your own daughter, for chrissakes. What’s wrong with you?’ Sue was winding tighter and tighter like an old-fashioned alarm clock, about to go off any minute.
‘I haven’t done anything wrong,’ Ben whined. ‘I wouldn’t –’
‘Even though you wanted to.’ Sue could hear the triumph in her voice; she had him by the balls. ‘No, you’re too much of a wimp. I should have known it.’ No sooner were the words out of her mouth than she regretted them. But there was no going back.
Tao rolled on the warm decking. Automatically, Sue reached down and buried her fingers in his hot fur. She could not look at Ben any longer. Tao writhed and purred; such an uncomplicated, predictable relationship. While the husband she thought she knew and understood was becoming unpredictable, less familiar, less knowable. Sue was not even confident she knew herself any longer. Life should be becoming simpler with time, not more complex. She was about to stand and go indoors, leaving Ben to take the first step towards reconciliation, when a sparkling Charlie appeared in short pyjama pants and camisole top.
‘Morning, Wrinklies,’ she beamed, poised in the doorway.
‘You’re up early.’ Sue forced a smile, hoping Charlie had not overheard their argument. It did not appear that she had. But what about Jason? His room faced the garden, and voices travelled, especially with the breeze behind them. But again, there was no going back.
‘Patrick has to go to church.’ Charlie stepped to one side to reveal Patrick picking sleep from his eyes and running fingers through his tousled hair.
Ben’s head jerked upright and the paper dropped to his lap, pages floating to the deck. He scrabbled to collect them, cursing under his breath. Sue bent to help him and their eyes met in a silent exchange under the table, Sue willing him to keep their own business for later. Surfacing once more, she said with all the calm she could muster, ‘Good morning, Patrick. Do you have time for breakfast before you go?’
‘No, thanks, Mrs Spencer. I’d better be gone.’
‘Yes,’ said Ben. Sue shot him a warning glance.
‘I’ll just see him off.’ Charlie vanished into the house.
‘Don’t make him late for church,’ called Ben.
‘Sssh.’ Sue frowned at him. ‘It looks like our little girl is all grown up.’
Ben appeared to be wrestling with himself, resisting the obvious. Sympathy stirred in Sue. He pushed back his chair. ‘She’s only a kid.’
‘When did you last look at her, really look at her?’ Sue stood. ‘When did you last look at any of us?’ Circling the table, she rested a hand on Ben’s shoulder. ‘You don’t want to lose your princess – or your wife,’ she added.
Sue followed the advice of Glenda at Identity Services and visited the microfiche room at the public library. A dim cave. She paused in the doorway, adapting to the relative darkness. It was a relief to have something new to occupy her mind and keep it from the revolving thoughts of Ben, herself and Alisha, thoughts that led nowhere but the realms of anxiety. She still did not know whether it was safe to believe there was nothing significant going on between her husband and his post-grad. Ben would have to prove himself, and that would take time.
‘Do you need some help?’ Sue turned, mildly overwhelmed. The librarian smiled. ‘Have you used microfiche before? I’ll show you.’ She swept a grey hair behind her ear and wrinkled her small nose; she looked to Sue like a little mouse. The woman walked Sue step by step through the process, seated her at a machine and showed her how to manoeuvre the tray to scan the microfiche. ‘You’ll get the feel for it with a bit of practice. I won’t be far away if you need me,’ she added, in response to Sue’s hesitation.
‘The earliest records are over there and proceed chronologically.’ She scuttled away and Sue had a moment of panic. Funny the presence of such a self-effacing person should have felt so comforting.
The woman seated at the next machine paused in her search. She inspected Sue through thick-lensed, bejewelled spectacles. Dead-white teeth, as even as tombstones, gleamed in the subdued lighting. ‘Researching your family tree? I’ve already done one side of my family back to the sixteenth century. Now I’m doing the other. Then I’ll start on my husband’s family. It gets to be a way of life, mark my words,’ she added in the face of Sue’s scepticism.
Sue smiled an apology and crossed the room to the birth records, which marked the beginning of the European settlement of New Zealand.
1840–1845. She withdrew the first microfiche, a transparency covered in a tracery of spider-writing, and took it to her machine. She wondered what secrets it held, and could feel her heart drumming in her chest. Blurred copperplate writing appeared on the screen. Amazing. Adjusting the knobs, she brought the writing into focus. It took her a while to adapt to moving the tray left to see right, up to scroll down. She skimmed the records seeking Akaroa entries and found the first – Charles de Malmanche, born 19 October 1840. Sue felt she was there witnessing the birth of the first infant in a new country. She pictured a reed hut, barely weatherproof, with an earth floor and a mother and baby on a palliasse, thankful father and siblings standing by. Had Brigitte been present at the birth? she wondered. She knew, of course, that babies had already been born here for six hundred years and that the country was not new but had lifted out of the sea millions of years before. But she saw the birth of this French baby as a milestone: his parents had travelled around the world to have him here, believing their child was to be the first in a new nation, a nation which would offer opportunities unable to be realised in their homeland.
It also provided her first tenuous connection with Brigitte and Claude Dujardin.
Akaroa,
19th October, 1840.
Ma chère Maman,
Today new life and hope came among us. Rose de Malmanche gave birth to a fine baby boy, the first child to be born in our wild, new homeland. They are to call him Charles. I was there with her, holding her hand and encouraging her while M. de Malmanche – Emeri – fetched the doctor from “L’Aube”. I thought the labour would never end, Maman, and when I heard Rose scream in final agony, I feared both she and the little one must be leaving us.
But the baby is a miracle – ten fingers, ten t
oes and a little rosebud mouth, which immediately knew where to search for sustenance. To think I had a part in bringing him into this world! One day I, too, will have a son. This is what I want – but I am unsure that I can bear such pain. If only you were here, Maman! Claude and I have become very close, but how can I expect him to understand such a thing? He is very kind but he would not accept this fear and weakness in me. He works so hard and I must not fail him.
With the help of a sailor from “L’Aube” and the advice of another who is a carpenter, Claude has at last started building our cottage. It is to be one room with a window and door, a fireplace and chimney. They have started by making a timber framing over which will be lathes clad in clay. This dries hard, I am told, though it is difficult to imagine, and will keep out the elements. The roof is to be thatched with reeds, which I will help to cut and carry. It will be simple, Maman, but it will be our own, built with our own hands. My husband is so proud of his achievements and I keep any reservations to myself. I fear Papa would be shocked to see how his daughter is living. It would no doubt justify his predictions. But we will make a success of it. My husband is determined, and I will not let him down. This cottage will be our first real home!
I do not wish to be harsh toward Papa, nor bitter. I have much to thank him for. I thank him for allowing Claude to marry me when I know he had higher aspirations. I thank him for insisting his children – and his wife – learn to read and write, otherwise I could not now be telling you these things and you could not reply. Oh, how I long for the day when a ship sails into the harbour bearing a letter with news of you all! How is Papa’s chest? Can he still see to add columns of figures most of his waking hours? I miss his goodwill. I pray that one day he will again be proud of me.
Au revoir, Maman,
Your Bibi
Encouraged and excited, Sue scanned systematically through the first few years of microfiche birth records. It seemed to take forever. Then she saw it: