Past Perfect

by Karen Zelas

  ‘I’ll have a word with Jayne when you’re through.’

  ‘She’s … ah, she’s not here at the moment. Out for a meal. I, er, wasn’t hungry.’

  ‘Is everything all right?’

  ‘Yes, yes. Fine. Let me speak to Ben.’ Sue felt a fluttering in her chest as she waited. Her mouth was dry. She was not sure what she was going to say.

  ‘Did you get my letter?’ Ben sounded anxious, too. How ridiculous, she thought, to be so keyed up – as if they were strangers on a first date.

  But there was a lot at stake.

  ‘Yes. Not till this evening.’ Sue paused and took a deep breath. ‘The poem. It … it’s just right.’ It redefined their relationship in a fitting way, one that fitted Sue’s discovery of herself.

  ‘I didn’t know what else to say.’ Ben was speaking softly. Sue heard contrition and diffidence and warned herself not to be too forgiving too soon.

  ‘Only time can say more,’ she said.

  ‘Yes,’ said Ben. ‘You’ll give me time?’

  ‘Yes, Ben.’

  Sue was relieved to hear her own words. She had not known what they would be until they came out. And she was not even tempted to make a confession of her own.

  ‘Thank you.’ Ben sighed.

  Akaroa,

  20th August, 1848.

  Ma chére Maman,

  I have bad news. Claude has had a turn and has become paralysed down his right side. We have no medical assistance here – the doctors left with the Navy ship two years ago. Rose says it is apoplexy. Her father suffered from it, but not at such a young age as Claude.

  My husband is now quite helpless. With Jules’ assistance, I can get him in and out of bed and into a chair. His speech has been affected and he gets so frustrated and angry. He shouts and swears and frightens the children. I should be thankful that the Lord has spared him, but I am ashamed to say that at times I am not.

  The children and I are now dependent on what I can earn with my teaching and from cultivation of our land. I cannot undertake all that Claude used to do, as well as my own tasks, and take care of him, too. So I have employed Tama to take over Claude’s responsibilities on the land. He learns quickly and is a reliable worker. It is good for me and provides a measure of security for his wife and child.

  Maman, I do not wish to write to Claude’s mother with this news. Perhaps you could break it to her gently.

  I cannot write more now.

  Love to you all,

  Bibi

  Sue was drifting to sleep when she heard the key turn in the lock and the door open. ‘Hello,’ she said. ‘I’m not asleep. You can put a light on.’

  ‘You’re back already?’ Jayne sounded incredulous and irritable.

  ‘I didn’t go.’

  ‘Not for my sake?’

  Sue grinned ruefully. ‘I have to admit: not for your sake. For mine. Come and sit here,’ she added, patting the bed, in the crook of her body.

  Jayne hesitated. Then she kicked off her shoes and sat against Sue, leaning into her belly and hips.

  ‘Where did you eat?’ Sue asked.

  ‘I went round to the Café de la Paix. Thought I’d be all right there on my own.’

  ‘Nice meal?’

  ‘Very. Then I wandered around the square and sat watching the merry-go-round, all lit up, tinkly music playing, horses with manes and ribbons. I wanted a ride.’

  ‘Why didn’t you?’

  ‘I probably would have if you’d been there.’

  Sue scrabbled around Jayne and stood up, already pulling her nightdress over her head. ‘Come on. It’ll only take me a minute to get dressed.’

  Three minutes later, they were running, hand in hand, towards the Place de Verdun and its large carousel. A rain-shower had just stopped; the coloured lights of the carousel reflected on the glistening paving stones of the square; moving lights pulsing up and down and round about, as the horses rode their poles and the carousel turned to tinkling music. The French flag flew illuminated from the balcony of the Police headquarters, and people appeared in twos and clusters from the dark perimeter of the square, strolling languorously in the humid atmosphere.

  The carousel stopped and the sisters chose their steeds: Sue a large black horse with a luxuriant mane, Jayne a piebald with silky blonde hair and a coronet. At first Sue felt a little awkward as people stopped to watch, but, as the music began again and the carousel started to move and her horse rose and fell, she was captured by the magic of it. She laughed and called to Jayne; she even waved to a young couple who were moulded together, faces lit up by the warm glow of the carousel lights. She beckoned to them; they should ride the carousel; they should not lose sight of the child in themselves.

  Round and round they went, not so fast as to blur their surroundings, not like riding a merry-go-round as a child, round and round, faster and faster, until everything merged and she felt sick and could not stand up straight when she got off. Sue was sorry when the ride was over; she could have continued for hours. She felt light not only in her body but her mind. She felt like a child again, playing make-believe with her sister. As she stepped down from the platform, she took Jayne’s hand and laughed, swinging their arms.

  Jayne, too, was smiling. She withdrew her hand and slipped it through Sue’s arm, clasping it with the other. She leant into Sue, and Sue could feel her breath against her hair.

  ‘Let’s go for a drink,’ said Jayne. ‘I noticed a little bar across from the hotel.’

  Sue stiffened. When had Jayne noticed it? She wondered if she had also noticed Gérard sitting in the window. But Jayne said no more; there seemed to be no underlying message, no reprimand. They strolled from the Place de Verdun back into Rue du Minage on the side opposite their hotel. The shops there were narrow, old-fashioned. Sue noticed amongst them a second-hand bookshop. She scanned the window out of habit.

  ‘I don’t believe it,’ she exclaimed, pointing. In the centre, was a copy of the book to which the librarian had referred. ‘La France en Nouvelle-Zélande, 1840–1846. Un Vaudeville Colonial,’ Sue read. ‘I must have that. Tomorrow morning, before we leave.’ She expected a cynical remark from Jayne but none was forthcoming. Instead, Jayne scrutinised the shop’s hours.

  ‘You should just manage it,’ she said.

  As they approached the bar, Sue checked the window as if Gérard might still be there. Even though she knew he would not, she was relieved to find no sign of him. The strains of an acoustic guitar and husky male vocals greeted them through the open door. They found a small table set well back where they could hear themselves speak over the music and Jayne signalled the waiter. Sue nibbled nuts as they waited; her appetite had returned with a rush.

  ‘What were you saying to Gérard’ – Sue tensed – ‘about the French settlers? About your … about our ancestors?’ Jayne asked. ‘I couldn’t quite hear in the back of the car.’

  “Our ancestors” – Sue tried not to let surprise show in her face. She wondered if Jayne was still feeling miffed at being left out, or whether she really wanted to know.

  ‘I wonder if you’ll find them mentioned in that book,’ Jayne continued.

  ‘I’m hoping so,’ said Sue. ‘Brigitte was the first French school teacher, after the missionaries left, so there might be a reference to her.’

  ‘Tell me what you know already. Just summarise. I don’t need all the details.’

  Sue smiled across her wine glass and crunched another peanut. She was happy to oblige and Jayne proved an attentive audience. Pausing to take breath, Sue gestured for more wine. Her voice was becoming strained making itself heard above the ambient noise.

  ‘So Dad was part French. Do you suppose he knew?’ asked Jayne.

  ‘Who knows? I could kick myself for not becoming curious earlier, while he was still with it. I suspect he did, but he had more important things on his plate, like a dying wife and two daughters to bring up.’

  ‘It’s funny how we each see him, saw him, so differently.’<
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  ‘He was a fine man and I miss him terribly. I don’t mean miss him like he’s on my mind all the time, but miss his presence, his common sense, his warmth. Do you know what I mean?’ Although Jayne nodded, Sue was not at all sure that she did. ‘Dad gave us everything he had, you know. And you –’

  ‘I broke his heart.’ Jayne’s tone was a parody of Sue’s internal voice. ‘What about mine? I always felt he was judging me, criticising me. I couldn’t be myself. And you didn’t help.’ Jayne pouted.

  ‘You’re not a baby any longer. You need to see the world as it is.’

  ‘There. You’re doing it again.’

  ‘Doing what again?’

  ‘You’re the one who needs to open her eyes.’

  Their voices had gradually risen and a woman at a neighbouring table was regarding them with interest. Sue wondered if she spoke English and dropped her voice to little more than a whisper. ‘What do you mean?’ she hissed.

  ‘I’m not a child and you need to stop treating me like one.’

  ‘And you need to be able to look at things from another person’s point of view.’ Once more Sue felt like a parent; she could be talking to Charlie or Jason.

  ‘Talk about the pot calling the kettle black.’ Jayne signalled the waiter for another round. They lapsed into angry silence.

  Sue seethed. How dare she? After all Sue had done for her. After Jayne had pursued her own ambitions with not a thought for anyone else. Jayne was eighteen when she left Christchurch, old enough to be more considerate of others. Sue wondered what she would have done in Jayne’s place. Would she have stayed and gone to university in her home town because that was what her father wanted? Would she have stayed with her father so her older sister could leave home? To be honest, she doubted it. Sue gulped her wine.

  ‘Let’s not fight,’ she said. ‘There’s only us. You and me. You need to know Dad loved you. And I loved you. Still do.’ It was difficult to enunciate clearly and the other patrons were becoming increasingly distant, as if a no-man’s-land surrounded their table. ‘When I think about it now, I’d probably have done the same as you, if I could. It wouldn’t have meant I loved Dad any less, but that I loved me more, I suppose. But I had promised Mum, and I didn’t have the strength.’ She took Jayne’s hand. ‘I’m only starting to learn now,’ she added.

  ‘Have you ever thought what it was like for me not having a mother?’ Jayne asked.

  ‘You had a mother,’ Sue said.

  ‘No, I didn’t. Not really. Not like other kids. As long as I can remember she was sick or tired or taking care of herself. I had to learn to look out for myself.’

  ‘I looked out for you.’

  ‘You bossed me around, and neither Mum nor Dad stopped you. I wanted a mother who could play with me, laugh, take me to the park. I wanted to have birthday parties, have my mother bake me a cake with candles and a fairy on top.’

  Sue regarded her sister as if she were suddenly seeing a different person.

  She had thought about the impact on Jayne of their mother’s death but not of their mother’s life. Mostly she remembered Jayne as a rebellious teenager at loggerheads with their father; that was the relationship she had considered and Jayne had never come out in a favourable light. Now she thought of the child: she, Sue, had always believed she had looked after her little sister’s needs; now, in this dimly-lit French bar, she saw what she had not been able to give her. What she had done had been necessary, life sustaining, but she could not be her mother – she had been only a girl herself; she had been annoyed when Jayne was not appreciative of her efforts.

  ‘Perhaps I was the lucky one,’ said Sue. She had been older. Their mother had been well during her childhood. She had memories Jayne would never have. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she added, putting an arm around Jayne’s shoulders.

  The two women sat in silence, holding each other. Then, in the spirit of new-found openness, Sue said: ‘I lied to you, Jayne. I’m sorry.’

  ‘When?’ Jayne screwed her features into a suspicious frown.

  ‘Tonight. About Gérard.’ Sue covered her face with her hands to hide her shame.

  ‘What about Gérard?’

  ‘He didn’t invite me to dinner. He invited us.’ Sue waited for the explosion. When it did not come, she peeked between her fingers. In the V, she watched her sister’s expression break slowly from a frown into a wide-mouthed laugh. Jayne threw back her head and slapped the table.

  ‘You … you lied. You made out …’ Tears streamed down her cheeks. ‘You wanted him … all to yourself!’ She rocked back and forth, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand.

  It started to sound ridiculous to Sue, too. A guffaw grew deep in her belly and rumbled to the surface. Once she had started, she could not stop. The two women rocked with laughter. They clutched each other, wiped each other’s eyes. If one or two people were watching before, now there were many, some grinning or laughing in sympathy.

  The day of their departure arrived while they were still in the bar. The sisters stumbled across the road to their hotel, arms around each other, bid the student behind the reception desk a jovial ‘Bon nuit!’, staggered up the stairs and fell into bed to catch a few hours’ sleep.

  The flight back to England was smooth – which was a good thing. Sue and Jayne were sitting very still, careful not to move their heads too suddenly. In her hands, Sue held the book, though she made no pretence of reading. With the taxi waiting, she had dashed along the road, just as a man in a rather scruffy cardigan and baggy fawn trousers was unlocking the door of the second-hand bookshop. Now she reclined with her eyes closed, book clasped against her stomach, a tangible reminder of her French encounter, reflecting on recent days and anticipating those to come. It was as though she were leaving a fairytale land where anything could have been possible, a land that had entranced her and almost caught her in its spell.

  Sue drifted to sleep and dreamt she was swimming. The beach seemed familiar, though she could not quite place it. She was diving through the surf, plunging under the waves, luxuriating in the movement of the cool water over her limbs and body as she pulled strongly against the tide. She opened her eyes under water and, through the luminous green, saw a pair of flailing legs ahead of her. She struggled to reach them, knowing they belonged to Charlie, but they continued to remain just out of reach. Then, to the right, another pair of legs appeared. They, too, gave the impression their owner was floundering. Sue was torn in an agony of indecision and despair. Should she continue the struggle to reach Charlie, or should she divert her effort and strike out for Jason? – for she recognised the second pair of legs as his. Bursting lungs drove Sue to the surface, abandoning both her children. Ben was sitting on the sand reading a book … She woke with a gasp.

  ‘You all right?’ It was Jayne. ‘The fasten seatbelt sign just came on. We’ll be landing in a few minutes.’

  On the drive from Gatwick, Sue wondered whether Ben would be in when she and Jayne arrived. Mid-afternoon. Probably not. She wiped sweaty palms on her trousers. Good. She could mentally prepare herself, unpack, freshen up. She rehearsed the composed expression with which she would greet him; it felt false but necessary. She did not feel she could afford to leave anything to chance.

  But as Jayne turned the key in the front door, Sue could see Ben through the stained glass panels, hurrying down the passage towards them. Her heart skipped about behind her ribs, tripping her breath.

  ‘I thought you’d be out. Sunday afternoon,’ Sue heard herself say. How inane.

  ‘I was waiting for you.’ Obvious.

  ‘Where’s Nigel?’ Jayne sliced through the tension between them.

  ‘In the garden. I think.’ Ben sounded distracted. He glanced at Jayne, then back to Sue, taking her bags and placing them aside. Sue felt like a Petroushka doll waiting for the puppeteer to arrange her limbs. Then, slowly, watching her face keenly, Ben gathered her into his arms. Sue moulded to his body, a soft sigh slipping from between her lips. Ben covered
her mouth with his, one hand behind her head, the other in the small of her back, pressing her to him.

  ‘Hello.’ Nigel strode in from the kitchen, Jayne tagging behind. ‘You can’t be that pleased to see her,’ he said to Ben. ‘Don’t you like my company?’

  Sue pulled away, embarrassed.

  ‘Don’t mind him,’ said Jayne.

  ‘I don’t,’ said Ben.

  It felt like a homecoming. Not only did Sue’s anxiety fall away, but her reserve, her intention of holding herself aloof, of making Ben grovel and only gradually releasing herself to him.

  While Jayne and Nigel were at work, Sue and Ben renewed their acquaintance with central London. On the train up, Sue sketchily outlined the trip to France and what she had discovered – not about herself, but her forebears – including finding a distant relative and the book. Ben listened and showed interest.

  ‘So it was a success,’ he said, as the train drew in to Victoria.

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Yes, in a variety of ways. I feel I gained a sister,’ Sue said. ‘That takes some beating.’

  Ben squeezed her hand and cautioned her to “Mind the gap” as they stepped down onto the platform.

  They explored the Tate Modern, which had opened since their last visit, lunched on the Thames embankment and took advantage of promotional £10 tickets to see a matinée at The National Theatre. As they walked across the Millenium Bridge and on to the “Fabergé Egg”, Sue told Ben of her conversations with Rachel and Jason.

  Ben’s jaw set. ‘Young rascals,’ he said. ‘Give them an inch. And that boyfriend of Charlie’s, Philip –’

  ‘Patrick.’ Sue shook Ben’s upper arm, gently chiding him. It was Jason who worried her more. She tried to explain it to Ben.

  ‘I don’t know quite what it is. Call it mother’s intuition,’ she said.

  ‘Boys will be boys.’

  Here they were again, settling down on opposing sides. They would have to learn to work together. Although Ben knew the theory of effective fathering, he had not experienced it, and every day was breaking new ground.

  ‘We will have to be together on this,’ she said.