Song of the Sound

by Jeff Gulvin

  John-Cody stared through the shadows that shrouded the trees. ‘If you want to go to Port Ross I’ll take you, Libby,’ he said quietly.

  Libby stared at him. ‘What?’

  ‘I said I’ll take you to Port Ross if you want to go.’ John-Cody looked at Tom. ‘Remember those bottlenose dolphins we see every time we go down?’

  ‘They’re not in Port Ross. They’re at least twenty ks north.’

  ‘Libby wondered if they might be resident in the Aucklands.’

  ‘I’ve never seen them there.’

  ‘Neither have I, but that doesn’t mean they’re not.’

  Tom frowned. That’d be right, I suppose, but I doubt you’ll get dolphins living that far south.’

  Libby glanced at him. ‘Nobody ever thought they’d be resident as far south as Doubtful Sound, Tom.’ She looked back at John-Cody. ‘Why would you want to take me?’

  He shrugged. ‘We’ve not got any charters booked. I haven’t been down there for a while and if we do find dolphins it’ll help your research.’ He glanced at Tom. ‘Anything that might hold up Pole is a good thing in my book.’ He turned to Libby once more. ‘Not only that, but the whales should be down for the season.’

  Libby spoke to Tom then. ‘Baleen whale communication is where I’ve been trying to break new ground, Tom. There’s so little known. It’s much easier with dolphins because we’ve had them in captivity for years. My father even trained them to fight in Vietnam.’

  John-Cody stared at her then. ‘He did what?’

  She nodded. ‘He was a marine biologist too, only he worked for NATO, with the Americans mostly. They wanted dolphins to take mines up the Mekong Delta.’

  John-Cody got up and crushed out his cigarette. Collecting the coffee cups, he went inside and washed them carefully. Tom called his goodbyes then Libby came into the house and shut the door. The fire was burning low and John-Cody set logs in the embers, which caught and crackled immediately. He went out and fetched more from the box on the porch. Libby had poured herself a glass of whisky and waggled the bottle at him.

  ‘Thanks.’ John-Cody took a glass and sipped it, the liquor burning the back of his throat. Libby took the bottle and sat down on the floor by the fire. She motioned to the chair and John-Cody felt the tension ease out of him. He sat. She sipped her whisky staring at the flames and hugging her knees. Her hair was loose and hung long and black against her shoulders.

  ‘Will you really take me to the Aucklands?’

  ‘If you want to go.’

  ‘There’s very little chance the pod is resident there. No chance at all really.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘So why do it?’

  John-Cody shrugged. ‘I’ve got a boat that’s paid for. Most winters she just sits in Deep Cove, or gets hauled out of the water for painting down at Bluff. Why not go?’

  ‘When can we leave?’

  ‘Pretty much when you want. I’ll have to sail round to Bluff anyway. That’ll take a couple of days, then we need to get her ready for the Subs. Buy the stores etc.’

  ‘I can’t afford a charter on my own.’

  ‘Who said anything about a charter? I’m offering to take you.’ He finished his whisky. Part of him didn’t want to leave her, but he knew he didn’t want any more questions and if he stayed there would be lots more questions. He rubbed the heel of his palm in his eyes.

  Libby looked up at him and sensed his pain. She had sensed it before, but this was somehow different. She was about to ask him when he stood up.

  ‘I’m beat. I’ll see you tomorrow. Are you going back to Dusky?’

  ‘Not if we’re heading south.’

  ‘OK. I’ll see you in the morning then.’

  He stood under the eaves of his own porch and had a final smoke, one hand in his pocket gripping the teardrop stone that Mahina had given him a year and a half ago.

  It took Libby three weeks to make the necessary arrangements. Nobody could land on the Auckland Islands without a permit from the Department of Conservation and even though she was already working for them she still had to jump through half a dozen hoops. She doubted that there would be any dolphins at Port Ross, but John-Cody was right, any fuel to the fire was useful, because she would still be a long way off proving residency in Dusky Sound by the time Ned Pole’s hearing came round. Alex had been on the phone to Southland Regional Council about that, but as yet no date had been fixed. It was a fact now, though, that theirs was the only submission in opposition. Apart from the Department of Conservation, the others had all withdrawn after lucrative offers of sub-contracted work.

  Libby had to find somebody to look after Bree, but if all else failed Alex said she would look after her, though she had been planning a trip to the North Island to see friends.

  John-Cody worked on the Korimako, getting her ready for the trip round the coast to Bluff. Once there he would buy the stores, fuel up and fit the aluminium window shields to protect them against the Southern Ocean weather. Sorting through his charts, he noticed that the hand-held compass he kept in reserve wasn’t working properly. There was a bubble in the alcohol and the needle was spinning wildly. He made a mental note to take it ashore and either fix or replace it. There was a large gimbal-mounted compass on the dashboard, but he had to have back-up for everything on this boat: he spent too much time in the Southern Ocean currents not to.

  He crossed Lake Manapouri on the Z boat and when they landed he walked the short distance to Tom’s house, where he found him waxing the starboard hull of his catamaran. Tom had an ocean-going skipper’s ticket and John-Cody wanted him along on the trip.

  ‘Do you really need me?’ Tom asked him. ‘You’ve got Jonah, and Libby can sail. It’s not a commercial trip so the numbers don’t matter.’

  John-Cody leaned against the hull. ‘No, it’s not commercial. It’s my own charter, Tom. The three of us could do it for sure. But the watches would be longer and if anything happened to me, I wouldn’t trust Jonah to get Libby home.’

  Tom licked his lips, hidden beneath the greyed mass of his beard. ‘You sure you ought to be making a trip to the Subs right now? You really think you’re up to it?’

  John-Cody shrugged. ‘Of course I’m up to it. To tell you the truth, Tom, I want something to do.’ He smiled then. ‘You know, when Mahina was alive we struggled for every cent. Now she’s gone I’ve got a boat and a wharf and money sitting in the bank. I can get by on half a dozen good charters a year.’ He paused. ‘Besides, it’ll take my mind off Pole.’

  Tom nodded, pushing out his lips. ‘That old buzzard’s getting to you, isn’t he?’

  ‘Yes, Tom, he is. I’ve got a terrible feeling he’s going to win this one.’

  ‘Gibby, I learned something a long time ago and I think it’s true, though it’s taken me half my life to figure it out fully. A man can only really beat you if you let him. You understand what I’m saying?’

  John-Cody looked him in the eye. ‘I hear you, Tom. You’ve been a good friend. Thank you.’

  He walked back to the office and Jean Grady was hovering outside the shop. She looked troubled. ‘I’ve got some mail for you, John-Cody.’ She bent behind the counter and brought out a bundle of airmail envelopes tied with a rubber band. John-Cody stared at the first one, a name and address in America. It looked like Bree’s handwriting.

  ‘The little girl posted them,’ Jean said. ‘I always stamp foreign mail with a return address just in case it goes missing. All of these came back. I meant to give them to her earlier but there was only one, then all of these turned up at the same time.’

  John-Cody counted seven separate letters. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘I’ll see that she gets them back.’

  Jean handed him two letters of his own then and his heart sank as he recognized one from the immigration service. ‘Is everything all right?’ she asked him.

  ‘Everything is fine.’

  But he walked up the hill with his heart knotted in his chest. Alex had left for the day so he
unlocked the office, closed the door and sat down on the couch. The map hung on the ceiling with one corner dangling. He had promised Alex he would fix it for her but had never got round to it. He turned the envelope over in his hands, listening to the wind that came off the lake. He laid the envelope on the table, took out his tobacco and made a cigarette. Then he laid that down and picked up the envelope again and this time he tore it open. Two terse lines informed him he had forty-two days to leave the country. The letter was dated almost a week ago.

  He phoned Naseby to tell Jonah about the trip and got Kobi instead. They talked for a few minutes and John-Cody was going to tell him to pass the message on and then he changed his mind. ‘Look, Kobi, we’ve got a trip to the Subs planned. I’m going to drive up and get Jonah.’

  The old man was quiet for a moment. ‘Why do you want to do that? It’s a long way, Gib. Jonah’s got his Ute here anyway.’

  ‘I know, but I fancy the drive. I haven’t seen you for a while.’

  ‘There’s nowhere for you to sleep.’

  ‘No worries, I’ll stop over in Omakau, come by for Jonah and say hello. He and I can travel back the same day.’

  ‘Whatever you want, Gib. It’d be good to see you.’

  He put the phone down and went outside to smoke his cigarette. He thought about Kobi then, how distant and proud he had been when Mahina first introduced them, how protective he was over her: that had not lasted, though, and they grew to like each other quickly. He would never forget the pain in the old man’s face when he looked down on his dead daughter. Jonah had stood beside him, holding his arm, supporting him. Kobi’s face was white, deathly in itself almost: the etched markings of despair echoed John-Cody’s and would remain imprinted that way for ever.

  He deliberately waited till it was late before he headed back to the house: he had the stack of letters to give to Libby and he wanted to make sure Bree was in bed. Both lights were burning in the front windows which meant she was still up, so he went next door and made some coffee. There was no fire in the grate and the wood-panelled room was cold. His bed was unmade and he sat on it and took off his boots, the pile of letters on the table in the other room. The kettle boiled but he left it and stepped into the shower.

  The water was hot and fell fast against his skin. He stood with his head bowed, arms hanging at his sides, and thought about the days the immigration service had left him: only one month — so very sudden after twenty-five years.

  Libby heard John-Cody come in as she washed the supper dishes. She heard the front door close and then the sliding sound of his bathroom door and a little later the rush of water and she knew he was naked under the shower. She bit her lip, aware of the little quiver in her belly and sweat at the top of her thighs. Bree came through and announced she was going to bed. Libby kissed her goodnight.

  ‘You don’t mind me going to the Sub-Antarctic?’ she said.

  Bree shook her head. ‘Where will I stay — with Alex?’

  ‘I suppose so. I haven’t quite worked it out yet.’

  ‘How long will you be gone?’

  ‘A couple of weeks, I suppose. John-Cody says it depends on the weather.’

  Bree nodded. ‘OK, whatever: it’s not like I haven’t done it before.’

  She went to bed and Sierra got up from the hearthrug and followed her. Libby tucked her in and switched off the light and as she came through once again John-Cody poked his head round the front door.

  ‘You busy?’

  ‘Not at all.’ Libby was glad to see him. She always was. His company was calming, good for her: she needed it. She got up to put the kettle on but he waved her back to her seat.

  As he sat down she noticed the bundle of letters in his hand. ‘What have you got there, a correspondence course?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ He handed them to her and the lines deepened above Libby’s brow. ‘Jean gave them to me at the shop. It seems Bree posted them and they all came back again.’

  Libby was staring at the first envelope, then the next and the next. They all read the same: Michael Bass, 33 River Road, San Francisco. They were marked ‘address unknown’. For a long time she just looked at them, seven in all, turning them over in her hand.

  ‘Is that her father?’ John-Cody said. ‘I don’t mean to pry, but I couldn’t help but notice the name.’

  Libby didn’t answer him: still she sat there, mouth half open. There was a sensation of cold inside her that numbed the feelings of guilt she lived with into insignificance: a sense of wrong, of things undone, badly mended and coming away at the seams.

  ‘I’ll leave you in peace.’ John-Cody stood up, but Libby looked at him anxiously.

  ‘No. Stay. Please.’

  He sat down slowly. Libby put the letters on the floor and got up. Tiptoeing to Bree’s door, she eased it ajar then listened for a moment. The sound of her breathing, measured and even, lifted from the bedclothes. Libby closed the door again then sought her bag where it lay on the counter. Finding a cigarette she broke the filter off and lit it with hands that trembled slightly. John-Cody sat where he was.

  Libby stood for a moment with one hand fisted against her hip. ‘Bree doesn’t know her father. She’s never met him. She doesn’t even know his name.’

  She sat down heavily. ‘I met him at a party in San Francisco. I got drunk. I probably did a little acid. I was doing a bit of that in those days. I never asked his name and when he was gone in the morning I didn’t tell anyone we’d slept together. All I can remember is that he had blue eyes and blond hair, like Bree. She looks like him, I suppose, I don’t remember exactly.’ She lifted her shoulders and stared at the unopened letters. ‘She’s a great girl. She deserves more than this. Shit, anyone would deserve more than this.’

  John-Cody listened to the choked little sounds in her voice. He sat forward and for a moment his own problems were forgotten. ‘Are you going to open them?’

  ‘They’re Bree’s. I can’t do that, they’re private.’

  ‘That’s true. But you can’t give them back to her either.’

  Libby looked across the space between them. ‘You’re right,’ she said. ‘Getting them back would be terrible for her.’

  John-Cody cleared his throat. ‘I’m not one for giving people advice, Libby, so ignore me if you want — but if I were you I’d open them.’

  ‘You would?’

  ‘Yes. You can’t help her unless you know what the problem is.’

  Libby’s hand trembled. She picked up the topmost envelope and looked at the postmark. Mrs Grady had stacked them in the order they had been sent. She bit her lip, sucked on the cigarette and gazed at John-Cody. ‘You think I should do this?’

  ‘I’ve said what I think. You do what you think is best.’

  Libby hesitated a moment longer then tore the first envelope open: she unfolded the single sheet of paper and Bree’s neat handwriting seemed to rise off the page. Slowly she read the letter Bree had written on the plane coming from England. When she was finished, tears burned in her eyes.

  ‘What does it say?’ John-Cody asked gently.

  Libby passed the letter to him and he read it carefully, then he read it again. He could hear Bree’s voice: desolate, lonely and lost.

  ‘She never talked to me.’ Libby was chewing on her words. ‘I always wondered why. I thought maybe she just got her head down and got on with it.’ She stood up, paced to the fire, absently bent for a log and stood holding it for a moment. ‘There’s me thinking she was just fine and all the time she was telling her problems to her imaginary father.’ She sobbed involuntarily and John-Cody got up, moved as if to hold her but stopped.

  Libby controlled the sobs. ‘Look at me, grizzling like a girl. I’m not the one who’s been done to like this.’ She sat down again. ‘What was I thinking about? You can’t bring up a child the way I have and expect everything to be hunky-dory. I’ve hauled her round the world so many times her head must be spinning. What on earth was I playing at?’

 
‘You were thinking about work. Earning money for food and clothes and everything else a child needs.’

  Libby was looking at him now, his face open yet grey and weary. ‘I shouldn’t be burdening you with this.’

  ‘I know where the door is. I can leave if I want to.’ He hunched forward again. ‘Listen, you did what you did. What were you — nineteen? You brought Bree up when you weren’t much more than a child yourself. She’s a wonderful girl, Libby. And that’s a credit to you.’ He got up and put more wood on the fire, took his tobacco and rolled two cigarettes. Libby pursed her lips and opened another letter: it was dated just after Easter.

  Dear Dad

  I wrote you a letter today but burnt it. I had to. It was full of lies, not my lies, well not ones I made up. Just lies. Things that I thought were true but weren’t. D’you know what I mean? This is crappy writing, isn’t it. I don’t know what I mean, never mind you. You see, there are these three girls at school. I’ve told you about them before. Jessica Lowden’s the worst. I told you they’ve been bullying me — well, it got really bad today. It was the first day of term and Hunter wasn’t there which I hated. Things are so much better when Hunter’s there. Anyway, Jessica and Sally and Anna were nice to me, which they’ve never been. I couldn’t believe it. Jessica sat next to me in Japanese and after school we all went to the beach at Lake Te Anau. Dad, I really thought they were my friends and at break time I wrote and told you. That was the letter I burnt. They tricked me, Dad. They took me to the beach, tripped me up and threw all my books in the lake. It would have been much worse if Mr Pole hadn’t turned up. John-Cody and Mum don’t like him, but he’s cool to me. He told them to leave me alone and then he took me home. He even waded into the lake to get my books. He was soaked when he came out. He’s got this great house and land and horses and he said he’d teach me to ride. A terrible thing happened to him, Dad. His son Eli was killed on John-Cody’s boat. I know what happened and it wasn’t John-Cody’s fault, but he still got killed. Mr Pole bought a horse for him and he only got to ride it once. I think that’s why he wants to teach me. Mr Pole wants to put hotels in Dusky Sound, which is where Mum’s doing her stuff. I think that’s fine and Dusky Sound is huge. I don’t think it would matter too much, do you? People have to go to work, don’t they, and there’s not much work down here.