by Karen Zelas
‘This is Detective Constable Springer from Youth Aid,’ she said to Jason, as they entered the living room. ‘And this is our son, Jason.’ Jason stood beside Sue, half a head taller and rapidly catching up with his father. Sue watched him sweep his hair off his forehead – his father’s gesture. His face was flushed and he avoided his father’s eye. Sue pressed him into a chair, perhaps a little more firmly than was needed. Springer reached out a hand and Jason accepted it.
‘I need to talk to you about your friends and some of the things you’ve been doing together.’
‘Do they have to be here?’ Jason jerked his head at his parents.
‘They’re your parents and should know the things that affect you.’ Jason shrugged and pulled down the corners of his mouth. ‘Okay?’
‘Cool.’ He did not look as if it was “cool”, but Sue was not volunteering to leave. She had started to feel detached, as if she were watching the scene from up in the corner of the room. There was an unreality to it; like little wooden figures arranged in a doll’s house to enact a piece of make-believe.
Springer asked Jason about the boys he had previously mentioned to Sue and Ben. At first Jason denied associating with them, but agreed reluctantly that he knew they did “a bit of stealing”. Ben moved to take over the interrogation, but was silenced by a warning glance from the policeman.
‘And have you been with them at some of those times? It’s best that you tell us if you have,’ Springer continued, pinching the sharp crease of his grey, suit trousers between thumb and index finger, and lifting his eyes to Jason’s face intermittently. Jason squirmed in his chair and Sue squirmed, too. His voice said no, but his body said yes.
These were not the standards they had set with their children. Sue remembered the time soon after starting school when Jason had helped himself to the neighbours’ milk money; they had made him return it and apologise. There had been no cause to doubt his honesty since that day. Until now. How could he have rejected such fundamental values? It was like rejecting his parents; rejecting her.
‘Don’t make it worse by lying,’ Ben interjected, before anyone could stop him.
Head down, Jason looked up at his father through a curtain of hair. His chin quivered. ‘What do you care?’
‘That’s not fair, Jase,’ said Sue. She could hear the tight anger in her voice, though she wanted to sound reasonable, accessible, not to shut Jason down. She placed a restraining hand on Ben and turned to face Springer, returning control to him.
‘Shall we start at the beginning?’ he asked.
Just then, Charlie appeared in the doorway. ‘Who’s car’s in the … Oh.’ Seeing the suited man with the notebook, she stopped abruptly. ‘What’s going on?’
‘Get her out of here.’ Jason turned his back to Charlie.
‘Charlie, if you don’t mind …’ Sue gestured that Charlie should leave.
‘Even if she does mind,’ muttered Jason.
‘I can take a hint.’ Charlie withdrew.
‘And close the door,’ shouted Jason. Charlie complied.
‘Now, you were about to tell me everything from the beginning,’ Springer said in a gentle voice.
‘I don’t tell on mates,’ said Jason.
‘This isn’t about them. It’s about you.’ Springer sat back and let his words sink in. Then he leant towards Jason, waiting for him to speak. He had done this before, thought Sue, even though he looked so young.
Jason did speak. Once he started, it all came pouring out, with the tears. They had been nicking things from stores and selling them to kids at school for pocket money – at least the others had mostly, Jason claimed; he had mainly been hanging out with them and helping them spend the money, he said.
‘But you knew where it was coming from,’ said the detective.
Jason nodded.
‘And sometimes you stole things.’
Jason did not reply.
Sue’s anger was quenched by sadness and guilt. This was her son and she felt she had let him down – they had let him down, she and Ben. ‘What happens now?’ she asked fearfully, suddenly aware that there would be consequences outside their control. Ben was conspicuously silent.
‘First we’ll need to complete our investigations.’ Springer tapped the small ring-bound notebook with his pen. ‘I’ll give you a call. Probably early next week.’ Sue nodded – next week seemed years away; so long to wait. He tucked the notebook into his breast pocket. ‘Jason’s under seventeen –’
‘Under sixteen,’ said Ben.
‘– so we could refer on to the Youth Justice Coordinator. He would determine whether Jason is under proper control.’ Neither Sue nor Ben replied; they stared at the detective. How could this be happening? ‘Do you follow all that?’ He was addressing Jason, who gave an almost imperceptible nod. He might understand, but Sue did not – it seemed impossible that the detective could be suggesting their son, her son, might be taken from them. ‘Anything you want to ask?’ Jason shook his head.
Sue showed Springer to the front door, her composure on the point of crumbling. His leaving was like the ebb of a tsunami; Sue waited, every muscle tense, anticipating the returning surge and the havoc it would wreak. She re-entered the living room, colliding with Charlie. Ben and Jason had not moved.
‘What’s up? Who’s going to tell me? Eh?’ Charlie plopped herself down in the chair the policeman had vacated and looked from one to another. She was crowing.
Sue felt like telling her to wipe the smirk off her face, but, instead, she held herself very tightly and said: ‘Let’s put it this way – Jase has been hanging with the wrong crowd.’
‘What’ve they been doing?’
‘I don’t think you need to know the details,’ Sue said. Jason lifted his eyes to his mother, his gratitude palpable.
Charlie opened her mouth to speak, then closed it again. She leant back into the upholstery, kicked off her shoes and curled her feet under her. ‘That’s cool,’ she said, after a pause, and bobbed her head up and down for emphasis. Relief washed over Sue – one person salvaged.
Ben got to his feet and shuffled to the door, apparently oblivious to anyone but himself, and Sue saw in him for the first time his father as an old man. Sue realised what a deep wound was required to bring about such a change. If Jason had intended to hurt his father, he could not have found a more effective way. Sue wanted to rescue Ben, but suddenly realised that was impossible; he would have to rescue himself. She could be there, she could support him, but she could not do it for him. And she could not by-pass him.
After a difficult evening meal, Sue went in search of Ben, who was cloistered in his study, staring at his screensaver. She took his hand.
‘You must speak to him. Say something. Anything.’ Well, not anything, not ideally, she thought. ‘He needs to hear something constructive from you. Anger can be constructive. Disappointment. But silence is terrible punishment.’ Sue gave a rueful laugh. ‘Kids have a way of finding your Achilles’ heel, don’t they? I’m no psychologist, but I do know what Jase needs right now is his father. I won’t do.’ She shook her head sadly. ‘A mother won’t do.’
‘I’ll talk to him tomorrow.’
‘If he’s home. If it’s not too late. Please, Ben. He’s lost his “mates”, too, now. Poor Jase. Poor Ben,’ she added, bending to kiss her husband’s cheek.
Some minutes later, she heard Ben’s study door open and his soft footfall fade along the passage. The volume of Jason’s music swelled briefly, as his father entered the room, and then it stopped. Voices could be heard, rising and fading, establishing their own rhythm and tempo.
They were together a long time. Sue could barely restrain herself from interrupting. She sat in the kitchen watching the second hand of the wall clock sweep repeatedly around its face. She felt this was make or break for both Ben and Jason – and possibly for herself and Ben, too.
The two eventually emerged, red-eyed. Sue clutched them to her, pride and relief swelling her being.
22.
Akaroa,
5th August, 1854.
Ma chère Maman,
I have barely the force to propel my pen across the page to write the terrible words it must. My heart tells me the words are a lie, but then I catch sight of the young body laid out before me in our parlour and I have to believe them.
My Jules, Maman. He has succumbed to the winter, when spring was but a month away. How shall I bear it?
‘Good to see you!’ Annie bent over Sue and kissed her cheek.
Sue pointed to her other cheek. ‘Both cheeks, please, where I’ve been.’
‘Tell me all about it.’ Annie leant towards her.
‘How long have you got?’ Sue laughed. ‘Let’s order first.’ When they had done so, Annie enquired gingerly how things had been between Sue and Ben while they were away. Sue’s initial response was guarded. ‘Okay. At least some of the time. At the beginning. And at the end.’ It seemed almost too hard to get into, but, at the same time, Sue knew she wanted to talk about it. All of it. Once she had started, she could not stop. The food arrived and Sue’s went cold on her plate. Having finished her own meal, Annie swiped a persistent fly from Sue’s, while she listened and asked the occasional question and made encouraging or soothing noises.
‘When it came to the point, I couldn’t do it, Annie. I had wanted to, but I just couldn’t. I know it’s old-fashioned and staid, but perhaps that’s what I am. It was like I had to go that far, to the brink, to find out.’ Sue searched her friend’s face for censure, but did not find it. ‘Poor Gérard. Left waiting while I spied on him. That wasn’t very brave or honest, was it? I had started out feeling so bold and New Age, and finished up scuttling like a rat to avoid discovery. It was shameful.’ She ran an index finger back and forth along the rim of her plate, avoiding Annie’s gaze. ‘I made my peace with Jayne, but I haven’t told Ben yet and probably won’t. The point is it makes me look at him differently. We have yet to discover what the future holds, but I can hardly judge him, not any more.’
Annie nodded and gestured that Sue should eat. Sue picked up her fork and poked at the food.
‘I had thought we were happy – I had thought I was keeping us happy – but I suppose we had slid into melancholy without my noticing.’ She put a forkful of cold quiche in her mouth and grimaced. ‘I can’t do it for them, can I? I can only try to set an example by looking after myself better and giving them some space. Funny, you know, I thought they weren’t giving me enough space,’ she said.
It was Saturday morning and the house was quiet. Charlie had spent the night at Patrick’s flat, Jason was still asleep and Ben had gone for a run, part of a campaign to get fit and stave off middle-age. Sue could have joined him, she supposed, but running was not really her thing. Perhaps she should join a gym. She would think about it; she had her own source of income now – she was surprised to discover how liberating it felt, and she had her father to thank for it. It was as if in death he was helping her move forward.
She sat at the kitchen table with a mug of coffee and The Press, savouring her time alone. Working her way through the paper, she came to the property section and scanned the coloured photographs, as was her habit. One picture leapt from the page. She put down her mug with a thump, slopping coffee on the newspaper, and stared. It was Brigitte’s house!
Brigitte’s house was for sale. Sue read the advertisement: ‘Historic cottage. 3 bedrooms, open-plan kitchen/living, 1 bathroom.’ All in miniature, she thought. She paced the kitchen. ‘I wonder what they expect for it,’ she said aloud. ‘No harm in asking.’ She picked up the phone and dialled the agent’s number.
‘It’s been a rental property, kept in top quality condition,’ said the agent. ‘Commands good rentals. You’d be interested as a business investment?’
‘No. Well, perhaps.’ And before she could stop herself, Sue added, ‘My great-great-great-grandparents built that cottage.’ She asked what price the vendors wanted.
‘Hard to say, but places like this come up only rarely.’
‘Can’t you give me an idea?’ Sue felt irritated by the agent’s vagueness; surely she had some idea.
‘Well, they’ll look at offers over 395 thousand.’
I can manage that, Sue thought, thanks to Dad. ‘Can you show it to me?’ She had started something she needed to continue, whatever the outcome. ‘As soon as possible. Today?’
They arranged to meet at the cottage at 2pm. Sue rang Russell with the news and left a note for Ben.
Events proceeded at a rate that startled Sue. She discussed with Ben her desire to use her inheritance to buy the cottage and was pleased he approved. Sue agonised over how high her offer should be to cut out other buyers – a game of cat and mouse in which she was a novice. She had set her limit at $400,000, which would use all her nest-egg. But she could think of no better use for it, and mentally thanked her father for his wily ways. In the end, she decided to offer her best price up front; no point messing about or she might lose it.
Sue hardly slept that night.
Next day she learned that the vendor was prepared to consider her offer, since it was cash, but the price would have to be negotiated upwards, due to other offers received. She would need another $12,000 to shut out the competition. Sue did not have it. In her disappointment, she rang Ben at the university. She could not prevent the catch in her voice.
‘You really wanted it, didn’t you?’ Ben said. ‘I wanted you to have it, too.’ Sue was flooded with love for her husband; he was starting to understand, to understand her. There was a pause. ‘We could take twelve from our joint savings.’
‘No, Ben. That wouldn’t …’ Wouldn’t be right? Wouldn’t be fair? Would partially defeat the purpose?
‘It’s still a reasonable price – for these days. I thought you didn’t have a dog’s show at 400.’
‘I wanted to do it myself,’ she said, wondering if Ben would understand that.
‘What’s more important?’ asked her husband. When she thought about it, he was right; there was no point being pigheaded.
When Sue called the realtor, Mary Pickersgill, to say she would meet the vendor’s price, she learned her offer had not yet been withdrawn.
‘Serendipity,’ said Sue, breathing freely once more. But would the competitor put in a counter-offer? She hovered over the phone all afternoon, the suspense unbearable. When it finally rang, she picked up on the first ring. ‘Mary?’ she erupted.
A deep, male voice answered. ‘Not likely.’ It was Bob Springer.
Sue could not disguise her surprise and disappointment. ‘Oh, it’s you.’
‘I’d like to arrange a time to call when your husband and Jason will be there. When would be good for you?’ Sue wanted to shout “NEVER”.
The next call was Mary. ‘Success,’ she said. ‘The cottage will be yours. Sue? Are you still there? Sue?’
Sue was there, but she also was not; she was floating in the mid-1800s, watching a family of five settling into their new home; for the first time having more than one room to live in, wooden floors to keep away the dust and mud, a sturdy fireplace instead of a smoky, make-shift one fabricated from corrugated iron, glass in the windows and a veranda to protect from the weather. She imagined herself occupying the house, making it hers in a way that would preserve their tenancy, so that they would live there with her – Brigitte, Claude, Jules, Marie and Cathérine.
It was difficult to reconcile her extreme exhilaration over the purchase of the cottage with the sense of doom which still encompassed her regarding Jason. Ben and Jason were talking, and Jason had been in every evening, including Saturday. That was not good in the long run, Sue knew; he needed to be out with friends. But it would take him a while to find another pack to run with.
‘You’re taking things to their illogical extremes, disaster-mongering,’ said Annie, when Sue rang to share her news about the cottage and then her anxiety about the policeman’s impending visit. ‘I can see why you would, but th
at doesn’t make it sensible. Sure, you have to take it seriously, but Jason’s never been in trouble before. He’s basically a good kid. And you’re good parents.’
‘I know. Or, rather, I thought I knew. Jason didn’t do much, a bit of shoplifting – that’s serious enough – but what’s worse is his profiting from the others’ stealing.’ To Sue, this seemed sneaky and cowardly and possibly manipulative; not in keeping with the son she knew.
‘Get the door, please, Jason,’ Sue said when Detective Constable Springer rang. Jason’s eyes widened, but he complied. Charlie tactfully announced she was off to Patrick’s for the evening.
‘Excuse the casual gear,’ said Springer. He appeared even younger without a suit, his trim, muscular figure emphasised by the cut of his navy and grey tracksuit. He carried a clipboard. Sue wondered what was in store.
As if directed, they slipped into the same seating formation as on Springer’s first visit. He told them no charges were to be laid against Jason, since he was a first offender, and the matter would not need to be referred to the Youth Justice Coordinator if they could reach an agreement about certain things this evening. That sounded like good news to Sue; she edged forward on the sofa.
‘This agreement,’ she said, hopefully.
‘I must be satisfied strategies are in place to prevent Jason getting into any more trouble. I suggest that the three of you have some discussion about what you think will help.’
‘What, now?’ When Ben saw this was exactly what Springer meant, he turned to Sue, who nodded. She was sorry for Ben being put on the spot, but glad at the same time, and pleased he was taking the lead.
Ben shifted his gaze to Jason. In a firm but kindly voice, he laid down the law. Sue felt herself relax. ‘Those friends have got to go,’ he said. ‘No question,’ he added, as a protest started to form on Jason’s lips. ‘You are to tell us where you are going and with whom.’