‘Not while she’s feeding.’
‘Does she eat everything?’
He was scraping the bucket with a stick. ‘She doesn’t like banana skins.’
‘What about bacon?’
‘No obvious objection.’
‘I wonder if she knows?’
Sophie watched Clarice with affection. Her solid pinkness pleased her. She radiated wellbeing, a big pink girl with both feet in the trough. ‘Boots and all,’ said Sophie.
He was still scraping. ‘Who was it who wondered whether it was better to be a pig happy or Socrates miserable?’
‘I don’t know, sir, but I’ll find out.’
‘What?’
‘William told me. Americans are trained to say it if they don’t know the answer to a senior officer’s question. It’s designed to stop them keenly making up a wrong answer. To give them a way out. Ignorance with honour.’
‘Good God.’
Large drops of rain fell. Clarice kept at it. ‘We’d better get on,’ he said.
The rain quickened as they ran. They snatched at each other in triumph as they reached the wooden porch, stood hiding in each other’s arms. He shoved open the door. ‘No,’ she said, ‘let’s do the feeding out first. We’ll take the lunch in the truck.’
‘All right. They’re in the top paddock.’ The truck bucketed up the steep track, swung round corners, clung tight. The feeding out took time. ‘I should’ve used the tractor,’ he said, ‘but I wanted to save every minute.’ Black cattlebeasts ambled across from the wind break, tore at the proffered hay bales, munched with blank eyes, lifted their heads and munched again. It was strangely quiet. There was a lot of sky. Rain fell.
‘Let’s go back to the house.’
‘No, no. Let’s have lunch in the truck.’
He shrugged, reached for the string kit behind William’s rug. Lunch was a modest affair. She had not made another ham and egg pie. How could she? The chicken sandwiches were adequate; he declined a hardboiled egg. They drank his wine from yellow and green plastic mugs.
Sophie reached for the rug. (All wool. Made in NZ.) Huddled like a dedicated sports fan she watched the raindrops on the window. They splattered on contact, reformed, were weighted by excess and slid downwards. Slivers of silver slid along the base of the idle windscreen wipers. They were in an enclosed world, chilly and remote. The macrocarpas behind the woodshed were too near, their branches waving too hard, thrashing about the sodden sky with flamboyant overemphasis.
It would take time she explained. She couldn’t just march out on William at the moment. No woman could. He had had too much. It wasn’t his fault.
He stirred beside her, put out a hand.
‘Arnie’s death was an appalling shock. To us all. To Kit.’ Those eyes, that round-mouthed terror. ‘To William.’ She turned to him. ‘He thought he’d killed him, you know.’
Edward was silent. Wondered whether he should move the truck further away from the lashing green of the shelter belt. Decided against it. Of course he thought he had killed him. He had hadn’t he? Indirectly, by accident, without intent, young Flynn had knocked the old man off. No matter how dicky his heart, he had killed him.
‘He thought it was his fault,’ she explained.
He looked at her, studied her face. This, all this. She was too much for him. He breathed deeply, dragged the phrase up. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I see that.’ He paused, waited a suitable time, took her clenched hand and kissed each knuckle.
‘What is it?’ she said.
‘I like you.’
‘Then why look like that?’
‘Your hand smells of hay. Real nut-brown maiden stuff. Ho-ro. All that.’
‘Why?’ she said again.
‘We’d better get back. We must leave plenty of time to say au revoir nicely.’
‘And talk.’
He started the truck, slammed it into first. ‘And talk,’ he said.
Cattlebeasts lifted their heads, lowered them again, swung sideways and ambled out of the way, their hip action loose as pole vaulters. A pipit scuttled from beneath the truck and kept running, its tail dipping as it darted from clod to clod. They were on top of the world, surrounded by mist, mud and silence.
The truck rattled down the steep track, leaped from rut to rut and bounced once more. Rain streamed down the windows, the wipers were useless, they couldn’t keep up. Visibility was nil.
The skid was sudden, his hands clamped rigid as they careered towards the edge. ‘It’s all right. It’s all right.’
‘Yes.’
They stopped; peered out into the rain. A hawk lifted from the gorse beside him. ‘It’s all right,’ he said once more. ‘Just the right front one. It’s only half over.’
Sophie jumped out. ‘Is there a shovel in the back?’
‘We won’t need that.’
They didn’t. He skidded back, revved harder. The truck roared backwards, showering Sophie with mud and slime.
He was out of the truck, loving her, kissing her mud and laughing. William would not have laughed. He had little sense of humour. She wiped her face with her woolly hat and laughed and laughed and laughed.
The corrugated iron water tanks were uncovered. A bad sign. The water from the tap smelled of death. A possum, perhaps, circling more and more slowly, claws scrabbling till death. Why do they try? What else could they do.
Sophie rubbed harder with William’s rug. She was frozen stiff, stiff as a frost-bound tea-towel and as out of her element. She did not like this love nest. This willow cabin had seen better days. Its heyday was not now. She flung herself at Edward; he was warm and he loved her and was waiting. The rain drummed louder, drowning their murmured ‘darlings’, their ‘sweetest loves’. Her ‘Now, Now, Now’.
She lay in mud-splattered wool, staring at the knots in the ceiling as they talked. Everything was pine: wall, ceiling, even the floor had knots in it. They were inside an apple box. An old one, not the sweet fresh-sawn pine of the packing shed. Where had Frank and Esther operated? Even Greytown was no longer safe, if it ever had been.
The cottage creaked around them, a lump of wet soot fell in the grate, macrocarpa branches tapped windows and reared back again. They lay silent, reached for each other once more, retold their shared history. Remember the crabs? Yes. And Pickett’s face? They relived their lives, became excited. I have always loved you. Always, they lied. Yes.
She sat up, heaved the rug around her. ‘What happened in Wellington? Did the meeting go all right?’
He was on his feet, watching the rain flood the windows.
‘Sophie,’ he said.
Edward had dismissed his early doubts, his ‘no wives’ embargo. He loved Sophie. He had every intention of marrying Sophie. Of taking on her children. Of making an honest woman of his honest woman. He stared down at the mountain beneath the wing of the Viscount, included the snow-covered razor backs in his decision. He liked to see the mountains, especially in winter. The plane lurched and rocked. The hand of the woman beside him clenched, touched her mouth and clenched again. He hadn’t noticed her before. She was small; a trembling pink and grey heap of fluff. He leaned over, smiled.
‘It’s all right,’ he said.
She nodded, speechless.
‘It’s the mountains. Nothing to worry about, just a little fresh air turbulence.’
‘He will look after me,’ she said. ‘I know that. It’s just …’
‘Sorry?’
‘The Lord.’
‘Ah.’
‘I know him, you see.’
‘Ah,’ he said again. Edward shifted in his seat, stared at the disappearing mountain to distance himself from the name-dropping tea cosy beside him. He opened his briefcase and read the agenda for his meeting with the Chief of Naval and his team with exaggerated interest.
There was nothing in it he did not already know. No dramas at Naval Headquarters, Wellington, were evident from his sheet of paper. All was predictable as tomorrow; the frigate programme, C
NS would put forward his ideas on forthcoming port visits, there would be general discussion of the ANZUS and the Australian/ New Zealand/Malaya (ANZAM) exercise programmes. And finally the rotation of ships in the Far East. Edward restowed the paper which he had already read and closed his eyes in self-defence. How did she know he would look after her? And if she did, why was she gibbering? Edward opened his eyes cautiously, gave a sideways glance. She was knitting something dark and hairy. Her smile was apologetic.
‘Pardon me,’ she murmured.
The car was waiting, the harbour glinting as they drove around. Waves slapped and chucked against the breakwater; two small sharp-angled fishing boats yawed at anchor in Evans Bay. Oriental Bay lay basking like a cat laid out in the morning sun. Three arse-up ducks bobbed in the sea.
He had always liked Wellington. He must ask her what she thought of it. They would have to live here; the job was based in Wellington. He opened his briefcase to check the enlistment figures again.
Edward enjoyed programme meetings. He was good at his job and knew it, as did others. He knew his stuff. Could present it well, was decisive and could sum up with precision and force. He also knew when to keep his mouth shut. He liked the Chief of Naval Staff. He was able, had had a good war and was due to retire shortly.
A cormorant surfaced in the bay. Edward leaned forward. ‘Beautiful day, driver,’ he said to the young sailor.
‘Yes, sir,’ said the eyes in the rear-vision mirror.
‘Not a breath of wind.’
The driver laughed. He was from Matamata himself but what the hell. ‘That’s Wellington for you, sir,’ he said.
The meeting was held in the CNS’s corner office, a space curved at one side like the after-end of the great cabin in the Victory. A map of the world covered the wall beside the long table on which lay large ashtrays, carafes, papers: the gear and tackle and trim of men currently in conference.
Everything was as usual. The McIntyre of HMNZS Endeavour in Antarctic pack ice still hung beside the large desk. He must make sure it was not moved. The Old Man seemed pleased to see him.
The meeting was cordial, exchanges frank. Edward demolished Warner over port visits. Napier would have to wait. He had never liked the man: white eyelashes and an arse-licker to boot. They tidied their papers, rose for lunch. He must ring Sophie. The meeting had been put forward a week and he hadn’t been able to get her before he left. And then the Club.
The Old Man was beside him, one arm offering him an easy chair. The rest of the men filed out. ‘Sit down, Edward,’ he said reaching for a heavy brass ashtray.
‘Thank you, sir.’ Edward stretched his toes in his naval issue and leaned back. A drink would be good.
‘Sophie,’ he said again.
Her eyes inspected him, smiled into his. ‘You talk about me being a slow talker.’
‘I haven’t. Ever.’
Still that smile. ‘It must be some other man. Some other fellow. What is it?’
He told her, he told her everything. He uncovered his heart, inspected the ice once more and told her.
Each movement of the Old Man’s tough little hands came back, each glance from beneath the jutting eyebrows returned. They were not a perfect pair, one climbed higher, was more exuberant, more rampant than its mate. They became progressively excited; the voice did not alter.
‘I wanted to see you face to face, Edward,’ it began. ‘What’s this nonsense about you and some wife?’
Eyes sharp as leading lights beamed on him. CNS was on course. ‘A junior wife.’
The traffic noise was loud. Brakes squealed, a sudden shout.
The Admiral made the position quite clear. Edward must stop this liaison immediately or his chances of promotion were nil. ‘Nil,’ he said again. ‘Negative. Zero.’ CNS’s shoes scrubbed the new carpet. He leaned forward to inspect the fluff. Lost interest in it, turned to Edward again, slammed a hand on his knee and stood up. ‘Don’t be such a bloody fool, man,’ he told the street below.
She heard him out. She knelt in front of him, thighs flat on her heels, the rug held to her neck with both hands, her eyes huge.
‘No!’
He reached for her, ‘Darling.’
‘No.’ She was on her feet, tugging on mud-stained trousers, moving faster than he had ever seen her. Every swing and twist was swift and accurate. One stab, one trouser leg; efficiency in action. ‘I’m going.’
‘But you must see.’
Snatch, grab, stow. ‘I do see. I see clearly. I have faculties. You love me but you are prepared to ditch me because an old man in Wellington tells you to.’
‘Sophie, it’s my job. I’m good at it. There’s no one else except that prick Warner. I couldn’t let that happen.’
She stared at him in astonishment.
‘Not that “loved I not honour more” stuff. Please not that.’
‘It’s only for two years. Less.’ He insisted. Was quite definite. ‘I’m not going to lose you now. It won’t matter after I’m CNS.’
He saw her gaping mouth, changed tack quickly.
‘What do you want? Some superannuated no-hoper? Some Duke of Windsor for Christ’s sake?’ He followed her around the room, picked up things, handed her socks, shoes, a floppy bag. He followed her every move, begged for sanity. While they were together, while the rain fell. For sanity and wisdom and sense. ‘It’s less than two years, darling. Think of the war.’
Another mistake. ‘I thought you could think! I thought you could reason, understand.’ She was shouting with rage. ‘I don’t think I’m lying. I don’t think so. I could wait. Asunder. Apart. That’s what it means. But I won’t be dumped till I’m no longer flammable and picked up when I’m safe.’ She gasped, shook her head. ‘When the firemen have gone home to bed.’
You cannot love if you have not known hate. She had never believed it. She still did not believe it, refused totally and absolutely to believe anything so insane.
‘Keep your job,’ said Sophie.
She was packed now. Booted and spurred. Ready to leave. He had no intention of letting her. Not Sophie.
He grabbed her arms. ‘And another thing,’ she said, swinging away to attack once more. ‘Why didn’t you tell me at once? Why didn’t you tell me the minute I arrived! Why did you fuck me first? Fuck me,’ she said again, her mouth wide with loathing. She shut her eyes, clenched them tight. ‘Why did you use me?’ yelled Sophie.
She ran for it.
The car was pointing downhill. She threw in her bags, started the engine. He was banging on the window. ‘No! No!’
He ran to the gate to slam it shut as the Holden started down the track. He leaped in front of her, shouting. As she lifted her foot to brake, the pineapple rolled from beneath the dashboard. Her foot jerked back, slammed hard on the wrong pedal. Edward screamed, his body lifted into the air, arced onto the bonnet and slid sideways. She found the brake.
He was in great pain. ‘My legs. Sweet Christ, my legs,’ he whispered.
TWELVE
She wrapped the rug around him, tucked it into the mud beneath him. She could hardly breathe. Not even his name. ‘I …’
He took her hand, turned his head.
‘The house is up the other drive?’
His head moved again.
‘Ambulance. I won’t be long. I won’t be …’ No breath. None.
She flung the pineapple into the mud and slammed the car through the gateway. Terror flattened her belly, clutched her throat. You’ve half-killed him, now save him. She drove too fast, braked too hard; gravel spewed sideways onto the rosebed.
Another ship’s bell. She could hear it jangling down passageways. She banged with both fists on the locked door, importunate, insistent as a child screaming. Now. Now. Now.
Captain Featherston opened the door. He held it back with one hand and peered out. It was getting dark. He couldn’t see a damn thing.
She nearly knocked him over. ‘It’s me, Sophie Flynn.’
‘Who?’
> ‘There’s been an accident. Edward Sand. I must get an ambulance.’
The voice sharpened. ‘Edward?’
She shoved past him, ran to the telephone in the hall and prayed to the God she had given up on.
Captain Featherston’s shuffle had gone. He was rooted to the spot; both hands clutched the carved handle of his walking stick. ‘Not Edward. Not Edward.’
She was giving directions, accurate and explicit directions, telling St John’s all they needed to know. It would take them some time to get there.
‘How long?’
‘It depends if there’s a unit back at base,’ said the voice. ‘It’s Saturday. Rugby injuries.’
‘He’s badly hurt.’
‘Keep him as warm as possible.’
She turned to the old man, her face blank with shock. ‘You’re Sophie,’ he said, ‘Edward’s friend.’
‘Yes.’
He put out a shaking hand. ‘What happened?’
‘I ran over him.’
Mrs Featherston appeared, touching her way down the dim hall. ‘Ran over whom?’
‘Edward. At the cottage. His legs are broken. I need some blankets.’
Mrs Featherston leaned against the wall for a moment. She did not believe it. The woman was lying. She heaved herself upright. ‘We’ll come and get him.’
Sophie barred her way. ‘No! Just the blankets.’ She picked up the telephone, put it down, turned to the old woman. Just this once, just this once. ‘Please would you ring my husband.’ She scribbled the number on the pad by the potted pink chrysanthemum. ‘I must get back,’ she told the seascape beyond Mrs Featherston’s right ear.
The old woman put up a hand to ward off evil. The rheumy excess of age filled her eyes. ‘No I will not. But I’ll get some blankets.’
The Captain touched Sophie’s shoulder. ‘I will, child. I will.’
Sophie gave a shuddering gasp, seized the blankets from Mrs Featherston’s arms and ran.
All the Nice Girls Page 20