Owing to essential commitments, the guard had had very little practice and a less than a hundred per cent perfect guard would reflect on him. Nancy took John’s professional concerns personally. Any remark other than ecstatic about the performance of the guard would be taken as an insult to her, like a businessman’s wife fussing about the floral arrangements in the foyer for which she is in no way responsible. A dead flower in the foyer indicated incompetence, lack of attention to detail, was an insult to her husband and thus to her. They are loyal, these wives.
Nancy glanced at her Seiko. ‘I must dash,’ she said.
Sophie scrubbed kumaras and thought about Edward. Her mother sat foursquare beside her, a hand on each knee, her head forward. The time had come.
‘And what’s your sister up to?’
‘You must ask her yourself, Mum.’
‘You must know.’
‘I know she’s given up her job. I know she lives with Ben.’
‘And what’s he like?’
‘I like him.’
Erin’s sigh was dragged from deep inside her. All gone. All of it gone. The scholarship, the bracket clock, the research fellowship, her pride in her clever daughter. Where was it all? Where had it all gone, as though it had never been? Erin shook her baffled head.
‘The feeding patterns of scallops’, that was what the paper had been called. She knew it by heart, had told them at smoko. ‘Feeding patterns, my foot,’ she had laughed. It had been an extension of Mary’s PhD thesis. Had had practical applications. Was of definite value to the fishing industry. Not some cockeyed ivory tower nonsense. Her own daughter had dissected scallops, examined their gut contents, correlated her data and been of some use. And been happy. She knew she had been happy.
‘Why?’ begged Erin. ‘Why?’
Mary was right about her mother’s bottom teeth. They were enormous, each one separate from its fellows. Had they always led such individual lives? There was no one to ask.
‘I don’t know.’ There must be some crumb of solace, some anodyne comment Sophie could make to soothe the pain. She tried. ‘She told me once,’ she said, ‘that her colleagues liked her because she was zero competitive.’
‘How could you be competitive in scallops’ guts?’ cried Erin.
‘I don’t know, Mum. I just don’t know.’ And wait till you find out about me. Sophie’s top teeth closed on her bottom lip. She had had a pleasing thought. Erin would not care about her. Not deeply. Not with heartbreak. Hostages to fortune also have their hierarchies. Some are more expendable than others. But what about the grandchildren?
Erin, having professed lack of interest, decided they might as well see the parade in honour of the friendly Asian and his consort. Keith opened his mouth and shut it again.
It was a cold day and the band played as the seats around the football field filled with the entitled. The friendly Asian was small and slim and looked as wistful as Keith Driscoll, with more reason. His country was threatened, neighbouring states were in turmoil all about him. Presumably he believed in the domino theory like Mr Dulles. Had he found the talks in New Zealand a help?
His consort was beautiful; unsmiling but that was as it should be. Consorts, however beautiful, do not smile at such times. Her husband was escorted by John Ogilvie, drawn sword upright in his right hand, as he inspected the Guard of Honour. Nancy was tense. Fiona Banks stood beside her husband Graeme looking bored in a woollen shirtwaister and multi-drop earrings. The band played a selection from My Fair Lady. The Commodore was far away, over the other side.
John Ogilvie and his escorted walked slowly along the guard. The VIP stopped occasionally to make a comment to a sailor. He then nodded and moved on. They were up to ‘I could have danced all night’ before the Officer of the Guard accompanied his charge back to the dais and saluted him with his sword in a series of stern forceful gestures. John Ogilvie’s quick about-turn was both respectful and final. His main task was done. The friendly Asian had been returned. His slight form, a mere wisp of martial splendour, took the salute as the guard and band marched past. Bandy has done well once again, as have the guard. The whole ceremony has gone well. It will be discussed with approval later. Usually guards do well, but not always. The ability to mount a good guard is a point of honour and engenders pride in one’s ship like being Cock of the Fleet for games.
Sophie’s mother’s yawn revealed her bottom teeth. Her father’s gentle face was impassive; he knew that time was on his side. The ceremony could not go on much longer and The Hookers of Kew was waiting. He had reckoned without the reception in the Wardroom.
Sophie had known since the gulls first snatched the scene from behind the Memorial Chapel of St Christopher and screamed it abroad that she was no longer a nice girl. The buzz (William) would have got around. Sophie Flynn was flinging herself at the Commodore. Even if it had not been true it would have got around. It would have buzzed, undergone parthenogenesis and buzzed some more. It would have sported, developed two heads, become obscene and common knowledge. Sophie accepted this. She was ready for knowing looks. The semi-smiles and turned heads of the road disturbed her little. She was prepared. Armoured.
She had braced herself at Eventide rehearsals for mirth or innuendo. ‘Your friends may laugh, ha ha ha ha / ’cos friends are funny that way.’ She knew too many old songs. They informed the silliness of her life. But laughter had not happened. Possibly it was the masking, the disguise of bell bottoms and clean white fronts, of wide collars and cap tallies. Or the common purpose. Arnie’s reaction had been a shock. But she should never have been such a fool, such an idiot, as to make the suggestion to him. She had in fact asked for it.
Her reception in the Wardroom after the ceremony in honour of the leader of the friendly Asians and his consort was different. Amid the coffee cups and the clink of teaspoons and the friendly exchanges between friends and acquaintances, alongside the laughter and goodwill Sophie became aware of this. Wives were displeased. Her affection for the Commodore had gone too far. A joke, after all, was a joke, and excess was more than. Faces turned, chins lifted. Eyes of dumpy wives and tall, of the elegant and the flung-together, slid past her. They did not see her as she stood beside them. Her conduct was unbecoming from one of their own.
Celia was not fussed, nor Nancy who had chewed off her lipstick in five seconds and looked fresher than ever. Sophie’s smile was serene. She introduced her parents to Tricia’s back, This is Tricia Wellbone, my mother and father. Tricia’s husband is in the same ship as William.’
‘Is that right?’ said Erin to the startled face.
Keith was looking desperate. He nodded dumbly.
Tricia was trapped. Sophie drank her coffee. Her smile deepened. She had worked it out. Men were present. Aberrant behaviour from a former member of the group must be seen to be rejected. The shallow root systems of female loyalty can be disturbed by the presence of men, say what you like.
Filled with tolerance towards the good, Sophie watched Tricia who was now impaled by Keith on Chapter Five of The Hookers of Kew. A particularly interesting one entitled ‘A Viking Funeral’, which, he told the now blank face in front of him, did sound odd, but if she took his advice and read the book as soon as possible, she would understand why it was called that. Chapter Five he meant.
Erin had moved on.
‘Excuse me,’ said Tricia and slipped away, her amazing photos of the Island Cruise still unshown.
The men were friendly as usual. The navigator with the tic told Sophie about his patio. He was still building it, had been building it for some time. He thought he might be able to square it off on his next leave. He told her about the amount of shingle and cement required, his reinforcing and his problems with the boxing. The site had not been easy but he had got there in the end with a bit of help from Barry.
‘Barry?’
‘My oppo.’
‘Oh.’
Barry had knocked one up at Browns Bay. The navigator told her about the joists; where he had
got the timber for the struts. How much he had paid for it. How he had eventually decided on teak for the decking. How Lorraine had thought it was too expensive and in a way she was right but, as he had told her, they were getting it labour free except for the beer, ha ha, and when you put that sort of time into a job you feel you’ve earned the best, if she saw what he meant.
Sophie looked at the lean tanned face working away in front of her, followed the lines, the deep tracks either side of the nose. She wanted to put her hand on the blinking twitching eye, to calm, to heal, to tell him it would be all right. His patio, the teak, Lorraine. Everything. It would all be all right.
‘And anyway,’ he said taking her empty coffee cup and putting it on a nearby table. ‘You don’t have to stain teak. So it’s worth it in the end. Excuse me.’
Sophie congratulated John Ogilvie on the performance of the guard. Nancy stood beside him blinking with pride and concern. It was lovely having John home from Waiouru but Michael was playing up worse than ever. She had been appalled at his appearance the other day on the Stanley Bay Launch; hair, shoes, everything. ‘Your father won’t put up with this,’ she had warned him. And he hadn’t. And the house was creaking with the strain and the fights and Bettina looking scared with her period just started and Michael refusing to mow the lawns or even come out of his room half the time. ‘He’s sixteen, dear,’ Nancy kept saying.
‘I know he is and look at him. Look at him!’
Last night as John snored beside her and Nancy watched the fanlight above the drawn curtains change from black to grey to pearl she had a thought. A thought so shameful she had destroyed it at birth like some desperate tragic girl. It was easier when John was away. It was much much easier. Last night had been … Nancy, sick at heart beneath salmon pink, blinked again.
‘You’ve had your beard trimmed, John,’ said Sophie.
‘Someone in the family’s got to keep up some sort of standard.’
‘What a pretty jersey, Mrs Driscoll,’ said Nancy smiling, smiling and smiling again. ‘I love fine knitting myself, I mean it takes longer but …’ They turned away.
‘I read such a brave thing the other day,’ said Sophie.
John looked wary.
‘It was about a bearded lady. I mean a real one, long ago in a sideshow. And every year she had her beard trimmed by the circus barber in the latest fashion. Say Vandyke or Spade or one called Double Twist or something. I can’t remember all of them. But don’t you think that was a fine thing to do? Changing the style each year, I mean.’
John Ogilvie’s beard jerked backwards. His laugh was loud. ‘A man, you bet.’
‘No, no.’ Sophie shook her head. Her hair fell forward. She was very serious. ‘No, it wasn’t. And when it went grey she just left it. She didn’t bother styling it any more. It was thirteen and a half inches. The longest it had ever been.’ She looked at him, beseeching him to understand grace under pressure.
‘Excuse me,’ said John Ogilvie. Sophie allowed herself a glance at the Commodore as he waved the friendly Asian and his consort forward to admire the view Sophie watched their backs. Noted the slim silk elegance flanked by doeskin. Had the consort’s heart been gladdened by the tarted-up toilet? Did she smile Kate’s work to see?
Even Harold Pickett’s back view pleased Sophie. He had been a liberator, an unknowing catalyst, a growth enhancer.
They turned. People were presented.
The wives did not reject the Commodore. Sophie watched the smiling faces, the animated movements of the heads. The pleasure. The deference. The pride even. She heard Erin’s voice across the room.
‘Ah, Commodore,’ she said. ‘I’m Erin Driscoll. I believe you know my son-in-law.’
Liz’s eyes also slid, she looked beyond and through her friend. This one was tougher, more incomprehensible. Why had Liz gone dog on her? They were both miscreants. Both beyond the pale. Both, if you could stand it, in the same boat. The logical answer did not taste good. The buzz, the scuttlebutt, had been heard. Sophie’s flag of flagrant excess had been read by all. Evasive action must be taken. The area was mined.
Liz’s emerald-green jacket was too long, out of proportion to her skirt. Sophie disliked the collar, the colour, the fit. She realised with a small stab of pleasure that her rejection of this garment was suspect. She had gone off its owner. We are all mad. She laughed aloud. ‘Hullo, Liz,’ she said. She introduced her parents with a rush of affection for them and the grey earth slog of their lives. Her father might be useless but he worked hard and could make things grow. It was just people he couldn’t do.
Liz chewed her lip, smiled. Paul Kelson appeared beside her and told Sophie’s parents yet again how much he liked New Zealand. Her mother as always was delighted. Don’t bother with Rotorua she told him, there are far more exciting places. Had he thought of the Milford? Paul’s laugh was full of pride for the high-stepping filly at his side as he explained that hiking for four days didn’t sound quite Liz’s do. Liz’s eyes were on the Official Party who were leaving the Wardroom. ‘Excuse me,’ she said, and moved to speak urgently and with force to Harold Pickett who should still have been hovering in attendance giving his support to the Commodore and his undivided attention to the VIP and his consort. They were his guests while they graced the Wardroom with their presence. His expression was intense, serious. This was no idle chat. Celia put her coffee cup on Steward Benson’s tray.
‘What fun,’ she said.
The white ensign was snapping above the signal tower as they left the Wardroom.
Sophie glanced back. ‘It’s funny how it’s called Philomel, isn’t it?’ she said.
Her mother’s eyes were on Keith’s departing back, the hand reaching for his pipe. ‘What? Why?’
‘Because Philomela had her tongue cut out.’
‘What!’
‘No, no, it’s a Greek legend …’ The face beside her was red, the eyes fierce. ‘Never mind,’ said Sophie.
‘You’re so vague.’
Her father strode ahead along Calliope Road. His spare scarecrow shape loped past Choice Meats and A Cut Ahead, mouth puffing, arms swinging like an Early American windvane in the fresh winds of freedom.
Erin shook her head. Even to look at him irritated her. The fact that he could snatch happiness from life despite her drove her mad. She had no time to read. Never had and never would. Never.
‘I must go and see Arnie tomorrow,’ said Sophie.
‘Don’t expect me to come. One gaga old man’s enough for me. How did you get yourself in this mess in the first place? How are you going to get rid of him?’ Erin’s eyebrows raged at her daughter.
‘Mary’ll be home soon, Mum.’
‘What’s that got to do with it?’
The dockyard hooter sounded. Cars began streaming along the road beside them. Erin raised her voice.
‘And what about the children? What about Rebecca? She’s growing up. What sort of a man is this Arnie? You know nothing about him. Nothing. What about Kit even!’
‘Mum, don’t …’
‘Don’t? My own grandchildren and it’s Don’t?’
Erin, toes outwards, hands clenched, had thought of something cheering. He could dig over the vege garden for his daughter.
They turned into the drive in silence. Not an oleander petal in sight. There was a letter from William.
What’s this about an old man? How are we going to get rid of him? It looks as though the buzz about Hawaii is right. Even so, that’s only four more weeks. William cannot wait. And he will not forget the pineapples.
Erin had not asked William’s reaction to Arnie’s presence. Erin did not like William. He was spoiled. People picked up after him in those boats. He was spoiled rotten. She routed Keith from the sofa, flung him into the garden with a spade and began to iron. She was an angry ironer. The board rocked beneath her but she would not give up. ‘It has to be done,’ she said. Sophie left her mother to her rocking rage and sneaked into the garden. Such words attend her mot
her—‘sneak’, ‘creep’, ‘slide’.
Her father stood hidden behind the banana passionfruit smoking his pipe. The tension engendered by the reception and her mother’s rage disappeared at the sight of the furtive puffing old man. ‘Oh, Dad!’
‘Hullo, dear,’ he said mildly.
‘Let’s sit down.’
Her father looked surprised at the suggestion but conformed as always. Vines lay around them, shielding them from the impact of anger. The ground was parched; black ants flowed along their trails, several heaving and tugging at a shared leaf. ‘Clever, aren’t they?’ said Sophie.
‘We don’t have them at home,’ said Keith which was no answer.
‘How are the packers? Have you had a good year?’ Sophie knew exactly what sort of year they had had from her mother, but never mind. They were relaxed, she and her father.
‘Esther’s very well,’ said Keith.
‘Still biting her nails to the quick?’
‘She doesn’t do it with me.’ Her father’s eyes watched the long concrete drive as he knocked out his pipe. ‘Not when we’re alone together.’
The casual announcement of infidelity was astonishing. Sophie had no words. Even if she had, would she challenge him? Would she say, ‘You can’t have an affair with that sad little misfit, that fey lady.’ For one thing there was no point. He probably had been for years. And what could she say? Sophie put out her hand, her disloyal mother-rejecting hand and placed it over the brown scarred one which lay beside her. ‘Oh, Dad,’ she said.
After some time she heard him give a half-cough, a winding up to speech. ‘I gave your mother a transistor radio the other day. A lovely little one. All for herself. I put it on the bed. She was very surprised.’
This was too much. ‘Oh for heaven’s sake!’ Sophie leaped up. She was shaking with anger. ‘Come on.’
He was surprisingly nimble. ‘Mind the ants,’ he said. They both stepped over them.
All the Nice Girls Page 14