All the Nice Girls

by Barbara Anderson

  The three of them were escorted off the ship by the startled Captain.

  They stood in silence on the empty wharf.

  ‘What’s wrong with you?’ said William.

  ‘Nothing. I just couldn’t stand it another minute.’

  ‘Nor could I,’ said Celia dragging velvet around her shoulders. ‘So we left. This is positively my last appearance.’

  William looked at them. Defeated and sickened by his wife and every female in the world, he handed Sophie the car keys. ‘I’ll spend the night on board.’ He strode off through the dockyard without a glance, his footsteps clanging.

  ‘He didn’t kiss you,’ said Celia.

  ‘I’ve told him,’ said Sophie.

  ‘Oh.’ Celia shivered. ‘Let’s go home and have a drink.’

  Sophie drove out the top gate. ‘He starts his leave tomorrow.’

  ‘Oh God.’

  ‘Yes.’

  The windscreen wipers hissed with excitement. ‘Sophie, about Edward.’

  ‘Don’t say a word.’

  What can you do? You can only do so much. ‘Drop me off now, would you, darling?’ said Celia.

  Liz and Paul Kelson, their bodies close as Missie’s and her protector’s, were walking at speed along Calliope Road, their heads bent against the rain. Caesar ran beside them on his late-night run. Celia lifted a hand. ‘Give him a toot,’ she said.

  Sophie did so.

  ‘He needs it,’ said Celia. ‘Paul Kelson needs all the toots he can get.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Sophie.

  William walked up the hill next afternoon. The change-over had taken some time and there was no point in hurrying. Small gusts of wind tossed a few old leaves about his feet. He paused near the pair of old cannons in front of the Wardroom. A fantail was teasing one of them, dancing with rump feathers fanned inches above the barrel, dipping and diving, darting upwards to flip once more. Everything was mad. Everything. He had never seen a fantail in Devonport before, let alone flirting with a war relic set in broken bricks and surrounded by a white-painted kerb. Fantails were bush birds, made to be glimpsed through slabs of green sunlight. Forerunners of joy. He couldn’t understand it. The world had gone mad.

  William had always played according to the rules. Had joined Cubs, Sea Cadets, given his promise and raised his right hand. And meant it, meant every word of it and still did. He knew the Commodore was a shit, everyone did, that was nothing new. But Sophie was a good woman. Too good. Lumbering him with that weird old pot, cooking her head off for the church, saving in jam jars for the lepers. His best Green Triumbles disappeared each year to tart up the sanctuary. He was happy with that. Happy to contribute, to do his bit. It was all of a piece, except now it wasn’t. Now it was shattered. His eyes on the flickering bird, William made a decision. He could not go on like last night and the nights before. He was a man and would behave like one. He would bite the bullet. The fantail had disappeared.

  ‘Where’s Mum?’ he said as he entered the living room.

  Kit glanced at him. ‘Devo.’

  ‘And Becca?’

  ‘She’s taken Bluey next door for some cuttlefish.’

  ‘Oh.’

  Kit and the old man were sitting at the table with the Ludo board between them. ‘Uckers?’ said William. Again that dismissive glance. ‘Yes.’

  Arnie’s eyes had not moved from the board. ‘Blob,’ he said and put a counter on top of another.

  ‘Aw hang.’

  William tried again. ‘You’ve got an expert there, Kit.’

  Kit nodded. He was concentrating on a six; arms, legs, fingers tense as he shook the dice.

  William sat beside him. ‘I’ll give you a game later.’

  ‘This is a match, Dad. Best of three, isn’t it, Arnie?’

  ‘Aye.’

  William stood up, moved to the window.

  ‘When did the big keeler go out, Kit?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Sophie was at the door, her arms full of library books.

  ‘Where’ve you been?’

  She hefted the books slightly. ‘Can’t you see?’

  Could he? How did he know? How did he know anything? He picked up Arnie’s binoculars, inspected them. ‘God in heaven,’ he laughed.

  Arnie’s hand, dry as a lizard basking, curled around the dice shaker. ‘I’ll thank you to put them down.’

  William held the binoculars by their cracked leather strap and swung them. He heard his voice. ‘Whose house is this?’

  Arnie put down the dice shaker, reached for his stick and levered himself slowly to his feet. One hand clung to the table.

  ‘Your turn, Arnie,’ said Kit.

  ‘The Royal New Zealand Navy’s,’ said the old man.

  ‘And who pays the rent?’

  ‘You do.’ He paused. ‘Sir.’

  ‘Yes. And I’ll thank you,’ William was breathing fast, ‘I’ll thank you to keep a civil tongue …’ God in heaven. He sounded like Bligh. Charles Laughton. Someone. His wife and son were gaping at him. Pompous, idiotic, heartbroken, William veered to the right. ‘I hear you were in a mutiny at one time,’ he said.

  Both hands clung to the long staff. The voice was a thick Geordie snarl. ‘It wasn’t a mutiny. It was a strike like the miners.’

  ‘Ah, the Invergordon Mutiny. I’ve read a lot about that. Nineteen thirty-one wasn’t it?’

  ‘Aye.’

  They stood, arms and bodies bent, hating each other. Sophie put down her books and moved forward. Kit touched his friend’s hand. ‘Arnie?’ Not a glance.

  “‘Refused orders to sail.” What d’you call that!’

  ‘Passive resistance. Like Gandhi. No violence ever. There could’ve been but no one … not one.’

  ‘One of the ringleaders then, were you?’

  Arnie clung harder. He peered up at William, his eyes half-closed, his mouth a slash of hate. ‘And proud to be. What would you know, you wee boy with your wee navy—four, five ships and all. What d’y’know of twenty-five per cent cuts and ruin. Ruin, man, ruin for men promised no cuts. Promised.’

  Kit was now tugging his sleeve. He couldn’t understand the thickened voice, the mad words.

  ‘It was mutiny,’ yelled William.

  Arnie was fighting for breath. He lurched towards his tormentor, his warrior’s taiaha held before him. Kit was sobbing. Sophie seized William’s arm.

  His right hand flung upwards to ward off the length of wood. The strap of the binoculars snapped. Arnie dropped his staff as they hit his chest, gave a small puff of sound and fell forward. He lay still, far too still, motionless on the haircord of the dining-cum-living room.

  Kit dropped beside him howling, lay flat on his stomach as he insisted, ‘Arnie, Arnie, Arnie!’

  Sophie was on her knees. She seized Kit, held him to her.

  William stood staring. He knelt heavily. One knee, then the other. His hand reached out. He had never seen such stillness.

  ‘He’s dead,’ he said. ‘I’ve killed him.’

  Kit gave a shriek of denial.

  The sound echoed from the harbour, deeper, more mournful and resigned. A tanker was sailing.

  Kit hid his face against his father. ‘No. No! No!’

  Sophie took Arnie’s non-existent pulse and stood up. ‘I’ll ring the doctor.’ She stood hesitating at the door. How could she leave them, either of them, leave them for a second. William’s face was blank above his son’s hidden one. He was rocking him in his arms, back and forward, back and forward, back and forward. She touched his head. ‘Don’t,’ she said. ‘Don’t,’ and ran.

  She stood at the door and watched them. William was no longer rocking. The doctor would come immediately.

  No child should look like that. ‘Kit,’ she said, ‘come and sit up here.’ She patted the sofa beside her. Quick, efficient, Sophie was regrouping. Kit shook his head. ‘Dad didn’t do it.’

  ‘Hi,’ said Ben and Mary from the doorway. Mary’s face changed, shifted. Ben�
�s looked interested. ‘What …?’

  ‘Dad didn’t do it,’ cried Kit.

  William rose to his feet. ‘Arnie’s dead,’ he said. He sat beside Sophie, picked up her hand, looked at it and put it down. Mary was on her knees beside the dead man. She put out a hand to touch him, pulled it back. Her hair flipped back. ‘You’ve rung the man?’

  ‘Yes, he’s coming.’

  They waited in silence, staring at each, separate and alone.

  Kit ran for Arnie’s old dressing-gown. He put it around the dead man and went to his mother to hide. Ben strolled to the window and looked around. Mary and William sat rigid. You could hear the silence. The clock ticking. The gulls.

  Ben was looking for something. He glanced at the narrow bookcase at the head of the table, picked up a pottery owl and put it down on the table, moved to the slide to the kitchen and peered through it, felt with one quick hand behind the smiling family group trapped on the mantelpiece beside the clock.

  William lifted his head. ‘Sit down.’

  Sable lashes flicked Ben’s cheeks. He sat. After some time he lay back on the dining chair, scratched his groin, looked at his watch and remembered it was bust.

  He could wait no longer. ‘Where’s the old guy’s binoculars?’

  Quarried from stone, William’s voice answered the sod. ‘Under him.’

  The lashes flickered. ‘How come?’

  ‘I threw them at him.’

  Mary’s head jerked up. Kit was on his feet shouting.

  Rebecca stood in the doorway, Bluey flapping in his cage, Nan Ogilvie’s gift of cuttlefish jammed between budgie ladder and silver bell. ‘What’s wrong with Arnie?’ she said. She had got used to him. Quite liked him in fact.

  ‘Come here, Becca,’ said Sophie.

  ‘We came to tell you guys we’re moving down the coast. Coromandel,’ Ben told the silence.

  The doorbell rang. William rose to answer it. The footsteps were loud.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ said Dr Pleasance. He rubbed a palm over his bald scalp, put his bag on the table beside the owl and looked around. His hands waved. ‘There are too many people in here. Just the patient and me, please, and Lieutenant Commander Flynn, thank you.’ He opened his bag, hung the stethoscope round his neck and dived in again. They sat staring at him. No one moved. ‘Out, out,’ said Dr Pleasance making shooing gestures. He had a surgery full of patients waiting as who didn’t at four on a Friday and had been hoping to get out to Karekare and check on his beehives before nightfall. His bees and his bush and the hills. He sighed, looked at the man at his feet. Another one.

  ‘I’m not going,’ said Kit.

  Mary took Rebecca by the hand and left. Ben went reluctantly. He glanced back at the door, opened his mouth and shut it again. He didn’t like leaving them though he could always pick them up later. No one would want them. None of them had an eye for quality and he had to have them. Industrial archaeology had always interested him and they were beautifully made. He could always cut off the macramé. His hands were sweating slightly. ‘I guess,’ he said.

  ‘Come on,’ said Mary.

  Dr Pleasance put his hand on Kit’s head. ‘Out, boy.’

  They went out the French doors, Sophie’s arm still round him. They sat on the verandah, facing south to the waves chopping the harbour in the onshore breeze. She kept talking, she talked and talked and talked to the child in her arms. Arnie had died, Arnie had loved him. They wouldn’t forget Arnie. Arnie was all right now. The bullet head moved. ‘Why did Dad throw them?’

  ‘He didn’t. The strap broke.’

  ‘Then why did he die?’

  ‘Because he was old.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘The strap broke,’ said William.

  Dr Pleasance had finished his examination. ‘No need for a post mortem. History of infarct. Recent stroke. I’ve seen him lately.’ Arnie now lay on his back in his hand-knitted cable. The doctor redraped the tartan. His foot touched the binoculars. ‘Looking through them, was he? When it happened?’

  Deaf. He must be deaf. William raised his voice. ‘I told you. I was swinging them. The strap broke.’ William’s eyes closed, opened again to stare at the doctor who was restowing his kit. ‘They hit him in the chest. I killed him.’

  ‘Sit down,’ said Dr Pleasance sadly. William sat down at the table, laid his head on his arms and hid. ‘You didn’t kill him,’ said the man beside him. ‘Coronary infarct killed him. His heart was worn out.’ He spoke louder. ‘You did not kill him.’ The misery in the lifted face was excessive. Was the man a fool? A self-dramatising fool masquerading as a naval officer? Dr Pleasance had few naval patients, they have their own men, but he saw many of their wives. He sighed again. Resisted the temptation to tell the face to buck up. Flagged away Karekare for tonight and probably tomorrow. He must ring Madge and tell her. And the surgery. Bruce Pleasance, sixty years old, a smash service to reckon with and quick to the net, was a hundred and four. There was too much death. He was sick of it. He put out his hand and gripped William’s shoulder. ‘It’s just a formality, but in view of what you tell me, I’m afraid I’ll have to inform the police.’

  No emotion now. The face in front of him tightened, clamped, bit on the bullet. ‘Yes,’ said William.

  ‘Purely a formality. You’ll find them most understanding.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But it will probably mean a coroner’s inquest and definitely a post mortem. I can’t sign the death certificate, you see. Not in view of what you’ve told me.’

  ‘No.’

  Dr Pleasance rose, swept the back of his head with his hand once more as he nodded at the verandah.

  ‘They’ll be getting cold out there.’ William sprang to his feet.

  The doctor put out his hand. ‘I could give your boy something. Something mild.’

  ‘No.’ The unmanageable head of hair, cross-grained with cowlicks like his son’s, shook briefly. ‘He’s got us.’ He opened the door and held out his arms. ‘Come inside, gang. It’s brass-monkey stuff out there. Come inside.’

  The police. Well, what would you say about the police. Understanding? It depends what you mean by understanding. It’s not their job to be understanding. Not what they joined for. A man lay dead at their feet. Who or what had killed him? That’s what cops are for, paid for, trained for. William lay on his back, flung himself onto his right side beside Sophie. How had she gone to sleep, how the flaming hell had she gone to sleep? She hadn’t for a long time. She had held him like a child. He wouldn’t think about it. He couldn’t do anything now, not at night. Not now. Had he killed him? The doctor didn’t think so. But why had he dropped dead, puffed one groan as they hit him and dropped dead at his feet sweet Christ. William turned again, peered at his watch, oh four double oh. Getting on. Getting there. It was only oh three something last time. He lay struggling to remember, his body rigid with concentration; oh three what? He couldn’t remember; tossed again. It was starting to rain. Understanding. Why the hell should they be understanding? They weren’t paid to be understanding. They had been tough. Polite, detailed and tough. They were meant to be tough. They weren’t bloody hand-holders. Crime. Crime was their business. What they were trained for. What they did. He flung his arm out. ‘Soph.’

  She murmured in her sleep.

  There was all that too. Why hadn’t she fussed about Missie? Why hadn’t he killed the sod? William was on his back yet again. He’d killed the wrong man. Like some B-movie plot-twister he’d blown it, blown his life and killed it dead except it was dead before. He groaned. ‘Soph?’ he begged again.

  A sash window shook. The wind must have gone round to the north.

  ‘Dad.’

  He heaved himself on his elbows. He could scarcely see the child. ‘Dad,’ said Kit.

  William threw back the blankets and pulled him in, held him and hugged hard, kissed the back of his neck. ‘Go to sleep, boy. Go to sleep.’ Hard rain drummed on the tin roof. The only soporific in the world.
/>   Sophie arranged the funeral. There was little to do.

  ‘Was he a believer?’ said the Reverend Farrell, eyes on her face and wondering. Sophie blinked at the word. ‘A believer? No. I don’t think so.’

  ‘Then I’ll keep it as brief as possible. Unless you’d like to say a few words, Sophie.’

  That phrase too; green shade, a row of flower pots. ‘No thank you.’

  ‘Very well, my dear. And you think St Augustine’s rather than here?’ The plastic hymn numbers moved in his hand as he waved a proprietary arm up the nave.

  You are a good old man Mr Farrell, but I haven’t heard from my lover for a week and my son needs me and also my husband yes indeed oh yes indeed.

  ‘Yes,’ said Sophie.

  ‘You don’t have to, you know. You don’t have to have a church service.’ Freddy Farrell’s long black-robed arm waved again, indicating secular arrangements, distant crematoria, anodyne colour schemes.

  ‘No, we must have an organ. LSBA Butterworth has offered to play. Apparently he knew Arnie. They belonged to some organisation. He wasn’t very clear about it.’

  Freddy Farrell nodded. ‘Yes, of course.’ His feet were killing him. ‘St Augustine’s it is then.’

  They retreated to their own corners while they waited. They did not come out fighting. They waited; avoided each other’s eyes, adjusted their mouth guards, kept their heads down and waited.

  William refused to take sleeping pills. Kit came to their bed less often and finally not at all. He clung seldom and seemed happy, but how do you know? Children don’t say.

  Bluey laid an egg. There was no word from Edward. They waited.

  The coroner’s verdict was brief.

  I hereby certify that having enquired into the time, place, causes and circumstances of how Arnold McNally, of Devonport, Auckland, retired seaman, died, I found that the deceased died of natural causes the cause of death being a myocardial infarction resulting from advanced coronary artery disease and not related to any conduct of persons present immediately prior to his death. I make no further comments or recommendations.