by Karen Zelas
Sue busied herself putting the garden to bed for the winter. With their departure accelerating towards them, there was little time for the library or the microfiches. She would be glad to step onto the aeroplane.
‘Where are my good jeans?’ Charlie asked one evening, as Sue lowered herself into an armchair for the first time that day.
‘Wherever you put them, my love.’
‘I put them in the wash,’ Charlie replied. ‘Yesterday.’ She scowled at her mother.
‘You know how the washing machine works,’ said Sue. ‘What will happen when you go flatting?’
‘You kicking me out?’
‘You’re going to live at home till you marry?’ Sue accompanied the question with a smile and was rewarded by a slow answering smile from her daughter.
‘Well, you might at least tell me if you’re not going to do it, so I know.’
‘Tell you what: I’ll let you know when I am going to do a wash, so you can bring out your dead. Deal?’
‘S’pose so. But what’ll I wear tonight?’ Charlie left the room grumbling gently.
Round one to me, Sue thought, and switched on the television. She had just become ensnared by a drama when Ben entered and sat opposite.
‘Will we get Rachel to baby-sit?’ he asked.
‘Hm?’
‘Rachel. Babysit. While we’re away.’ He sounded impatient. Rachel was Ben’s young sister. An “afterthought”, single, thirty-three, a hip IT technologist, much loved by both their children, their babysitter on previous trips away.
As usual lately, Sue found her immediate response was to disagree. She was becoming more and more like Charlie, she mused. ‘They are hardly babies. Charlie’s got her own man.’
‘But we can’t leave them without an adult.’ Ben made it sound as if she were irresponsible.
‘Charlie’s an adult,’ said Sue, justifying her stance. ‘We could leave her in charge …’ She faltered. Charlie may be an adult in some things, but not in relation to Jason. ‘But perhaps someone else does need to be there for Jason,’ she conceded.
‘He’s okay. His head’s screwed on the right way,’ Ben said, springing to Jason’s defence as if Sue had been criticising their son. They were constantly misunderstanding each other these days, poised to find fault. For every step forward …
‘He is only a kid, though. He needs an adult around,’ she said. ‘And Charlie won’t do,’ noting that they had now switched sides.
‘You mollycoddle him,’ Ben accused. Sue could equally have accused him of being unavailable. ‘He never tells me he has problems,’ he added petulantly, a further accusation.
‘No. No, he doesn’t.’ Sue drew her lips tight and, much as she felt like lashing out, held in her thoughts. Jason would not be able to take problems to his father; she knew that. She recalled Jason as a preschooler more than once smashing down a construction because ‘Daddy will think it’s stupid.’ And still he was reluctant to show Ben his school reports. No, it was no surprise to Sue that Jason did not take problems to his father.
And now she and his father were struggling to resolve even simple problems together.
‘Yes,’ Sue concluded. ‘We’ll ask Rachel.’
Next evening they broached the subject with the children.
‘We finalised the bookings for our trip today,’ Sue announced.
‘Eh? What trip? You didn’t tell me.’ Jason was emphatic.
‘In one ear and out the other,’ said Ben. He flicked open his newspaper with a sharp crack of disapproval. ‘If I’d said, “Do you want a ticket to The Datsuns?” you’d have heard.’
‘There’d be some point, wouldn’t there?’ Jason grinned at his father and drummed a riff on the edge of the table he was leaning against.
‘When are you leaving?’ asked Charlie.
‘The thirteenth of August.’
‘The thirteenth? Not an auspicious date for travel.’ Charlie frowned.
‘Don’t be such a pessimist,’ said Jason.
‘Oooh. Big word.’
No, Sue decided, Charlie certainly could not be left in charge of Jason.
‘We’ll see if Rachel can come and stay.’ She sat back and waited for the reaction, aware she had been living independently at Charlie’s age.
‘Mum. We’re not kids.’ Charlie squinted at her mother and fiddled with her hair.
‘No?’
‘Rachel’s cool and all that, but we’ll be okay on our own this time.’
‘Yeah. Sure.’ Jason drew himself up to his full height. Solidarity. Nothing like a common adversary to draw people together. Sue smiled inwardly.
‘Your father and I have discussed it. We think it’s for the best.’ She and Ben could make a pretence of solidarity, too.
There were a few seconds of silence. Charlie looked from one parent to the other and Sue wondered what was coming.
‘I, er, we – Patrick and me –’
‘Patrick and I,’ said her father from the depths of his newspaper.
‘– Patrick and I were thinking maybe …’ When the words finally came, they tumbled over one another. ‘We were thinking he could come and stay here while you’re away.’
Ben lifted his head abruptly and peered at his daughter from under knit brows. He transferred his gaze to Sue, pleading for help. Sue received the SOS, but her response was not what he might have expected.
‘Your father and I will need to talk about it.’ She knew what Ben’s opinion would be and was struggling herself to appear open-minded.
‘What’s there to talk about? You can just say yes,’ said Charlie, peevishly. They could just say no, Sue thought.
Jason scowled.
‘It’s not as simple as that.’ Not that simple at all. Sue took in her husband’s hunched posture as she gathered coffee mugs off the side table.
‘Why not?’
‘Cause I don’t even know him,’ Jason exclaimed.
‘So? Mum, why not?’
‘You heard your mother.’ Ben had at last found his voice, much to Sue’s relief. ‘We’ll talk about it.’
Winter arrived in a flurry, overtaking autumn. No sooner did the leaves turn, but the southerly wind swept them from the trees and into the Spencer’s doorway to form a crunchy golden doormat for Sue to sweep away. The trees’ skeletons stood black and gaunt, awaiting spring. They always looked sad to Sue, pleading, with upstretched arms.
Winter had descended upon the Spencer household, too. Charlie was giving Sue the silent treatment, unless she was arguing, and she spent more and more time at Patrick’s flat. Jason was also becoming increasingly distant and inarticulate. He returned from school late, very late some days.
‘Where’s Jason?’ Ben asked, frowning at his son’s empty dining chair.
Sue shrugged. ‘I’m only his mother.’ She had extracted a promise that morning that he would be home in good time for dinner.
‘Who is he with?’
‘How should I know?’
‘It’s not good enough. If you weren’t spending so much time –’
‘You ask him. You’re his father.’
‘He wouldn’t want to know,’ said Charlie. ‘Believe me.’ Both Sue and Ben stared at their daughter.
‘What do you mean?’ Sue asked rather more sharply than she intended.
Charlie shrugged. Was she just winding them up at Jason’s expense? When at home, Jason hid behind a sonic screen of pop music. If Sue tried to tackle him about his activities, she got nowhere.
‘Where have you been?’ she asked when he came in, and received the usual eloquent shrug of the broadening shoulders. ‘Your dinner’s in the fridge. I’ll heat it for you,’ she added, in an attempt to mollify him.
‘Not hungry.’
‘But you have to eat.’
‘Had a burger.’
‘I suppose you’ve been with mates,’ she said, fishing. Jason grunted. ‘You know, I don’t even know who they are these days.’
‘No one you know.’
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br /> Talking with him was like grabbing a handful of unset jelly. Nothing of substance, other than ill-feeling. Sue felt increasingly irritable and helpless.
‘You wouldn’t like it if I just took off and didn’t say where I was going and who with. And when I’d be back.’
‘You do.’ Jason glowered at Sue. So that is what he thought. The unfairness of it cut Sue more deeply than the accusation. Why her?
‘Your dad …’ she began, then gave up. It was useless.
Sue and Ben talked Charlie’s request this way and that.
‘I’m not going to sanction this under my own roof,’ Ben stated, switching off the bedside lamp.
‘It’s already happened under your roof.’ Sue watched the blinking red eye of the smoke alarm flicker on the dark ceiling above their bed.
‘Not with my consent. Next thing she’ll be expecting me to buy her a double bed.’ For all the use they were making of this one lately, Sue thought, Charlie could have it; winter seemed to have crept into their bed, too. She sat up and turned on her bedside lamp. Ben turned his back. The space between them felt wide and cold.
While Sue could manage to summon some sympathy for Ben, the father, the debate felt uncomfortably close to the even more crucial issue of his own sexual behaviour. And, it seemed, he was arguing against his own interests.
To be fair to Charlie, Sue was trying to set aside her parental concerns and put herself in her daughter’s shoes – a young woman in love; an opportunity; a safe and familiar environment. She reminded herself things were different these days. ‘You know students,’ she said, thinking of their own budding romance; she wondered if Ben still remembered it with the fondness she did. ‘If Charlie were flatting, we wouldn’t know what she was up to, or with whom.’
But the argument sounded hollow, even to herself. She doubted that Charlie was ready to be playing house. And they really knew nothing about Patrick. Something could happen; love could easily turn to fear or hatred and she would not be there for her daughter.
Ben was staunch in his disapproval. He was sitting up in the bed now, too. ‘What if she got pregnant? My little girl. I really don’t take to that guy. Don’t know what it is.’
‘I do.’ Sue fixed her gaze on Ben, knowing it would be the same no matter who the boy was. But, rather than insight, all she saw in his eyes were perplexity and hurt. ‘Anyway,’ she said, ‘Jason doesn’t need anything that will unsettle him while we’re away.’ She tousled Ben’s hair and he pulled away. Bugger you, she thought. ‘I’ll tell Charlie in the morning and ring Rachel,’ she said, switching off her lamp and wondering whether she could risk making another foray into the no-man’s-land between them. While her eyes became adjusted to the dark, she lay and listened to the sounds inside her head and out; sounds of happier times – she remembered them as happier times, but were they? Perhaps she had just been tired and malleable, and expected nothing more.
Shadow seemed to be encompassing everything.
Akaroa,
4th September, 1841.
Ma chère Maman,
We have now been in this land for more than one year and have much to celebrate. It is spring again. The days are getting longer and the sun shines warmly when the rain stops. The ground becomes firmer and warmer as the time for planting our carefully stored seeds comes upon us, which is good, since free rations have now ceased and we must be self-sufficient. Fortunately, I have now regained my strength and humour. So both the earth and I are ready and fertile.
The earth is very important to the native people here, as well as to us. They think of it as an ancestor or god – a woman – Papatuanuku. No, it is not a sacrilege, Maman. They see the vitality and life force in nature, and their beliefs reflect their closeness to it: earth, sky, water, mountains, forest, sun. There are abundant tales passed down by word of mouth, partly myth, partly history, celebrating the fertility and wisdom of woman and the strength and power of man.
How do I know? I listen. I hear things; the trees whisper. And Te Marama tells me tales.
When I was so weak, somehow Te Marama heard of this and sent Tama with a bowl of murky green liquid made by boiling leaves chosen for their medicinal properties. My husband wanted immediately to tip out the brackish liquid, but I prevailed upon him, even in my weakened state, to let me drink it. From that day, my strength increased. I sent thanks by one of our men who had business with the natives. Next day, Te Marama herself came with a bowl of the potion. She indicated that it would not only help me, but, through me, the baby. She continued to visit every few days.
Gradually, we have become able to understand each other, by gesture and a mixture of English and Maori words that I have learned from F. Comte, who speaks their language. Rose is rather wary of Te Marama and usually makes an excuse to leave when she arrives, but I notice she watches from the distance.
Te Marama has shown me how to wrap Jules in a shawl and strap him to my back. I carry him this way while I do my chores and when I step out of the cottage. The other women think it strange, but it keeps him secure and warm, while leaving my hands free. He is a contented wee fellow and has slept most of his life so far. We have had a few frights with his breathing, but as long as we keep the air about him warm, he breathes easily.
How I look forward to the lengthening days and the warmth of the sun. It will be good to be able to work outside again. I have recommenced taking pupils. They have waited patiently until I am ready. I am pleased to say that they have encouraged one another to continue practising their reading while I have been indisposed. It is most pleasing to see the progress they have made.
Dear Maman, I do hope you are all well and that Jacques and Sophie are progressing in their new positions. How is Papa? I hope to hear further news of you before too long.
All my love,
Bibi
A gust of southerly wind propelled Sue through the front door, laden with supermarket bags, car keys clamped between her teeth. She shivered, acclimatising to the warmer indoor temperature. The red light was flashing on the answerphone. Extending a little finger, she poked the play button in passing.
‘This is Russell. Call me when you can. I have news.’
Sue scrabbled in her wallet for the museum number and dialled. The telephone rang and rang. She shifted from one foot to the other, then tucked the handset under her chin and started unpacking the groceries.
‘Russell? It’s Sue. Sue Spencer. You have news?’ The words gushed out. ‘From the Alexander Turnbull?’
‘No. It’s not that. Are you sitting down? I was searching some records – official letters and deeds; they are in an awful shambles – and came across a reference to a house being built for Claude Dujardin and his wife and family on Rue Balguerie, on a piece of land purchased from M. de Malmanche. From the description of the house, it sounds like the one still standing on the corner of Rue Balguerie and what is now Rue de Malmanche.’ Russell’s voice ended an octave higher than it started. ‘What do you think of that, darling?’ he added, when Sue emitted no sound.
‘Are you sure?’ Sue said at last. He must be mistaken; Brigitte and Claude’s house could not still exist.
‘As sure as when I came out of the closet.’
‘That sure?’ She laughed. If it were true, what would it mean? she wondered. ‘What was the date of the land sale?’
‘I don’t know. But the document is dated May 1845.’
‘You know the house?’
‘From the outside. It’s let out as a holiday cottage these days. Well maintained.’
‘Sounds wonderful. I’ve got to see it. I’ll be over tomorrow.’
‘There it is.’ Russell spread his arms with a flourish as if he had made the cottage appear by sleight of hand – all his own work; master of magic. Sue was suitably awed.
It stood, as Russell had described, on a corner, a block from the main road of Akaroa, Rue Jolie. He had also accurately described the basics of its appearance. But what he had not been able to capture was the beauty,
the charm, the uniqueness accorded it by Sue’s eye.
Sue saw beyond the cutesy sign and mass of cottage-garden flowers, beneath the sparkling white hi-gloss paint, behind the chintz curtains. She saw a simple, unadorned, two-roomed cottage built of hand-sawn timber – probably the attic rooms with their dormer windows peeking out beneath the eaves had been added as the family grew. In her mind’s eye, the cottage stood alone on recently cleared land, the veranda overlooking a dirt track and, beyond, a mix of cultivated and scrub land with, perhaps, other cottages in the distance.
She imagined a woman, younger than herself in years, but older in experience of hardship, walking up the track as briskly as two trailing youngsters would allow, carrying a bucket of water in each hand. She saw her pause on the veranda, set down her buckets and wipe her forehead with her apron before entering her home. The woman stooped over a crude wooden cradle and rocked it gently, cooing to the baby and admonishing the toddlers as they gripped the sides too fiercely. Sue saw her move through to the lean-to scullery at the rear, stow her buckets carefully and commence the preparation of food. Soon smoke would be curling out of the chimney and wholesome, satisfying smells emanating from the large, black iron pot hanging in the fireplace – in time for her husband’s return from the day’s labours.
‘Well?’ asked Russell, after Sue had been absent for some time.
‘Perfect,’ she whispered. ‘I’ll have it.’ She sighed. ‘If only.’
‘You could rent it. Bring your family over for a weekend.’
‘Or escape them for a weekend. I’ll work on it. Although it wouldn’t be before we go overseas.’
‘Overseas? Aren’t you the lucky one. Where are you going?’
‘London. France. I want to see where they came from.’
‘I’ll come as your handmaiden.’
‘I wish.’ What a refreshing travelling companion Russell would make. The way she felt at the moment, she would happily exchange Ben for him. ‘Thanks so much for delving into the archives.’
‘Anything for you.’
12.
Akaroa,
13th September, 1841.
Chère Maman,