On River Road

by Chris Else

  ‘Hmm,’ Dart said, ‘give me full page?’

  Stevie moved the mouse, clicked an icon. The layout shrank. The banner appeared at the top, the ads down the left and across the bottom. Lisa was tense with the waiting.

  ‘Yes,’ Dart said, ‘that’s good.’

  Gotcha! she thought.

  Dart stood up, glanced at her, his black brows knotted in a frown. She wondered if she’d said something inadvertently, made a noise out loud. But then Dart often glowered for no reason that anyone could see. He turned away, back to his desk.

  ‘Right on!’ Stevie was busy with the mouse.

  She felt strange, a lightness in her head, a slow cold creeping through her. For a moment she was scared she was going to faint, so she started walking, one pace, two, towards her desk. Lifted her hand to her face. It was shaking, a shudder through her spine and shoulders. She stopped, leaned forward, hands on the top of the stationery cabinet to support herself. She was going to throw up. No!

  ‘Are you all right?’ Tracey was beside her, arm around her.

  ‘Yes.’ The nausea began to ebb.

  ‘Do you want something? Water? Let me get it for you.’

  ‘No, it’s all right.’ She closed her eyes, swallowed, deep breath, let it out again. Fine.

  ‘Menopause,’ she said, grinning at Tracey. ‘It must be.’

  ‘Hot flush, was it?’

  ‘More like a cold one, actually.’

  ‘Is there such a thing?’

  Lisa looked across the newsroom: the workstations crammed together, the view through the high windows of the western sky, grey like half-cooked meat. Tracey was talking about her mother and hot flushes. How old was her mother? Fifty-five?

  Lisa stood up straight. The fizz of whiteness smeared her vision briefly at the edges. Ignore it, she told herself. It’s nothing. So she walked a steady walk back to her desk and sat down. Tracey was watching her. Smile, then. She managed it. Everything’s just peachy, see?

  Everything was normal. Dart on the phone, leaning back in his chair, his foot resting on the bottom drawer of his desk left open for the purpose. Stevie, busy with the layout, peering at the screen. Tracey back in her place now too, her blonde-brown head just visible above the bookshelf beside her workstation. What could you do, where could you go, except the next story?

  On the side frame of Lisa’s computer monitor was a yellow stickie with the initials, L K, and a phone number. She pulled the steno pad towards her, picked up the pen. Dialled the number.

  ‘Good morning. This is Laura Kerrington.’ A cool, well-modulated voice, formal but welcoming at the same time.

  ‘Hi. This is Lisa Cairnes from the Durry Advocate. I’d like to have a chat with you, if I may.’

  ‘Oh?’ A shift in tone. Suspicious?

  Lisa felt the lingering dizziness, like a cloud of gas diffusing slowly. ‘Is this a good time?’ she asked.

  ‘For what?’

  ‘To talk. We’re thinking of doing a piece on Little River Lane.’

  ‘For heaven’s sake!’ The scorn was mild, amused, curious that anyone would be concerned with such a piece of trivia.

  ‘I thought perhaps you and your husband would like the opportunity to give your side of the story.’

  ‘You don’t need to involve my husband.’

  ‘Maybe you could give me your view then.’

  ‘No, I don’t think so.’

  Well, stuff you, Lisa thought. ‘I understand you have a boundary dispute with Max Hosche,’ she said quickly before the woman could get away.

  A pause then. Go on, hang up, if you dare.

  ‘No,’ the woman said. ‘I don’t believe we do. I believe we have a trespasser.’

  ‘His argument is that the course of the river has moved and that part of what you claim as your land is actually public property.’

  ‘I know what his argument is.’ A little huff of a sigh. It was all too, too tiresome, darling. ‘Look, if it were really just a matter of one side of a river bank versus another, then, of course, we would come to an accommodation. Like good neighbours. However, it isn’t as simple as that. He’s a Peeping Tom.’

  A little pause. Lisa stared at her steno pad, felt only confusion. Carefully, in her best shorthand, she wrote Peeping Tom. She thought of Max Hosche, his hand dry and scaly but warm, too, when she shook it at their parting. Wicked glint in his eye.

  ‘Tell me more,’ she said.

  ‘He has binoculars. In fact, I think he has two pairs of binoculars. One for seeing in the dark.’

  ‘Infra-red?’

  ‘If you say so. He’s quite blatant about it. He stands on the bank above the river and watches our house. And, in addition, I found a muddy footprint on the veranda by one of our windows. It wasn’t my footprint. Or Monty’s. And it wasn’t the gardener’s. So?’ A verbal shrug, case proved.

  ‘When did this behaviour start?’

  ‘A few months ago.’

  ‘Was it before or after you got into a dispute about the boundary?’

  A little laugh. ‘Oh, I see. You think his behaviour is retaliation.’

  ‘I was wondering why he did it so blatantly, that’s all.’

  ‘And of course he’s an interesting old man, a character, and we’re just a couple of newcomers from the city, moving out here, buying up land. Obviously, he’s the victim. Local Hero stands up to the Townies. Isn’t that the story?’

  Lisa felt a surge of irritation, but it was defensive, she knew. She couldn’t deny she was on Max’s side. The insight hurt, especially when it came from someone who sounded like an ad for Revlon.

  ‘How would you like it,’ the voice went on, ‘if someone was watching you through binoculars?’

  ‘I could draw the curtains.’ Oh, God, no! Lisa thought. Why did I say that? I’d kill somebody who said that to me.

  ‘Well, I don’t want to draw the curtains, as it happens. One of the reasons for coming here was so I don’t have to draw the curtains.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Lisa said. ‘That was out of line.’

  ‘Good. I’m glad you think so. Look, this is just a stupid situation. I don’t want the old man arrested. I mean, he’s untidy but he’s kind of quaint, in his way. But I won’t have him interfering with my quality of life. That’s just it, as far as I’m concerned.’

  Click. The line went dead.

  Lisa spun in her chair, leaned back. ‘Aargh!’ she said.

  ‘Problems?’ Dart was looking at her.

  ‘Bitch!’ she said, ‘fucking toffee-nosed bitch!’

  ‘Language, darling!’ Stevie now, wide-eyed, mouth down. Tracey, too, peering over the bookshelf.

  ‘Why is everybody looking at me?’ Lisa demanded.

  ‘Perhaps because you’re making an exhibition of yourself,’ Dart said.

  On the steps of the Durry Branch of the National Bank, Tom Marino bumped into Martin Wraggles, the man who found Carla as she lay dying. Martin was thin and grey-haired. He had a big nose and buck teeth and was taller than Tom by a good six inches.

  ‘Tom, hello.’ He offered his hand. These two were strangers before November. Now their lives were for ever tied together by a knot of memory. And because they lived in a small town they met from time to time and came face to face with what was real.

  ‘Martin. How are you?’ They looked at each other but they didn’t see what you or I might see if we looked at them — the pain in their eyes, the cast of their mouths. They didn’t see anything, except a flash of recall. For Martin it was that moment when the thing near the verge on the opposite side of the road suddenly became a foot, in a black shoe. He felt the horror that he felt then. He felt the guilt that he could do nothing for the girl as he waited for the ambulance, as the paramedics tried to revive her, as the police took his statement and then suggested firmly that he should go home now. Was he capable of driving? For Tom, it was the time when Martin introduced himself at Carla’s funeral to which he had been drawn by that same sense of helplessness, and To
m, too, felt what he felt then: a gratitude that there was someone with her to hold her hand and a fierce stab of jealousy that it was Martin Wraggles and not himself and, then, after a brief delay, a burning need to know.

  ‘I’m okay,’ Martin said. ‘Not looking forward to winter, though. Can’t seem to take the cold these days.’ He put his hands in his jacket pockets, shivered, turned his head, looked along Cross Street towards the hills on the other side of the river.

  ‘Thanks.’ Tom didn’t even realise what he’d said, that it made no sense as a response to Martin’s words. The questions in his head, like a bag of spiders’ eggs, were hatching quickly. Have you remembered anything more? Did you see the white car? You must have seen it. You were travelling north. It must have come towards you with its smashed-up headlight. Maybe the windscreen broken, too. How could you have missed it? … Did he speak the words out loud or only think them?

  Martin looked at him and shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, Tom.’

  And Tom felt shame. His thoughts had been importunate. He’d lost it there, just for a moment.

  11.

  THE CENTRE OF THE world was Maddy Lorton in her conservatory with her telephone, her Organiser, her list of calls. She sat on a wooden sofa stuffed with blue cushions, a cane table beside her with a copy of Cuisine. Around the sofa and the table was the red-tiled floor, the wrought-iron stands with the pot plants, bromeliads and ferns, the whole space soaking in the pale sunlight through the glass panes. And outside was the garden, lawn and shrubs, the plum tree with the remnants of the swing that the boys hadn’t used since Donovan was how old? And beyond the garden came the neighbourhood, the houses on The Rise, the suburb and the town itself, the town of Durry, and beyond that again the country, the nation and the circling sea, the planet Earth with all its troubles, and then the rest of it, whatever it was, however big it was. Because for practical purposes (and ‘practical’ here means the basis of our thoughts and actions) the world is just the reach of a mind.

  On this particular morning, Maddy’s reach was maybe ten square kilometres to the town and its immediate environs and to the sundry rooms containing telephones with their attendant people waiting for her call. Well, not exactly waiting, of course, but most times when you make a call you assume that the other person is there and available to take it otherwise you wouldn’t bother, would you? On this particular morning she had been doing well. Eight of the people on her list were ticked off and six of them had said yes. She had the beginnings of her three sub-committees: Art and Craft, Performances, and Literature.

  ‘Good morning, Trevor. This is Maddy Lorton.’

  ‘Ah, Maddy. How are you?’

  ‘I’m well Trevor. Have you got a moment?’

  ‘For you, Maddy? Of course I have.’ Silly idiot.

  ‘Do you know what’s happening with the theatre in late October?’ she asked.

  ‘October? Arhm.’ His response was guarded. ‘Nothing definite. Caroline wants to do Private Lives later in the year but Marshall’s desperately keen on Noises Off.’

  ‘Have you thought of doing something for the Arts Festival?’ Her sweetest, naivest tone.

  ‘Arhm.’ A fumbling pause. ‘Well. You know, after last year …’

  ‘Oh, Trevor. Absolutely. It was a shambles and the theatre was treated really badly. Especially you and Marshall. But I just think it’s so sad if we have a cultural festival in the town and there’s no drama in it, don’t you? I mean, the theatre is so very active. It makes a fantastic contribution. And we have everything else.’

  ‘Well …’

  ‘What would it take for you to be involved?’

  ‘Maddy, I swore I’d never be involved, ever again.’

  ‘Not even if you were a member of the Performances sub-committee and could really say your piece?’

  A pause, as he thought about it.

  ‘Who else is on this committee?’ he asked.

  ‘So far? Meremea Pettisen, Jilly Dace, Peter Harringday and me.’

  ‘Jilly who?’

  ‘Dace. She’s young. Very smart. Very up-front. She has connections with the Youth Group and the Marae.’

  ‘You’re casting your net wide, aren’t you?’

  ‘Art and culture isn’t just watercolours and recitations, is it? I want to get everyone involved, the whole community. Rock concert, chamber music, the Marae. Let’s make it really vibrant and exciting.’

  ‘Hmm.’

  ‘What have you always wanted to do in the way of theatre?’

  ‘Well …’

  Caught him now. Don’t let him suggest anything, though. It might be way off beam. Like Artaud in French. ‘Whatever it is, this could be the opportunity,’ she said. ‘We’re just on the point of working out the programme.’

  Something, a movement at the corner of her eye. She looked up.

  Donovan, her youngest, was in the doorway, his grey shirt hanging half out of his shorts and his hair mussed. There was a graze on his left knee.

  ‘There are any number of possibilities,’ Trevor was saying in her ear. Was that what he said? She was fighting her instinct to leap up and fuss over her son, who was standing there, staring at her. But no, he was moving now, turning away.

  ‘Let me call you,’ she said to Trevor. ‘When I’ve got the rest of the committee. All right?’

  A reply. It was something about being unwieldy. The committee?

  ‘I think six is the right number, don’t you? I thought of asking …’ Who? She couldn’t think who for a moment. ‘Alistair. Alistair Oxeley, you know him?’ Go away. Please, go away.

  ‘Well, yes,’ Trevor said. ‘That’s a good idea. He’s very busy, though.’

  ‘We can only ask. Shall I call you then? For a meeting? Early next week?’

  ‘Monday or Tuesday.’

  ‘Fine. I’ll get back to you. You know, I’m sure we can make this thing really hum.’ Hanging up. Was he hanging up?

  ‘Jolly good.’

  Push the button, turn the phone off.

  ‘Donny!’ She got to her feet, hurried after him. But Donovan hadn’t fled. He was in the living room, with his back to her, staring straight ahead of him.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Yer.’ Except he wasn’t, was he?

  ‘Why are you home at this time of day?’

  ‘I got a headache.’

  She moved around him, so that she could see him better. There was a puffiness, a touch of blue in the pale skin above his left cheekbone.

  ‘Have you been fighting?’ She could hardly believe it was true.

  He didn’t answer. Turned away.

  ‘Donny, darling.’ She touched his shoulder, felt the damp sweat, chill in the fabric. Where was his jersey? ‘What happened?’

  ‘I hit my head,’ he said, lifting his hand, fingering the back of his skull.

  She touched him there herself, felt the lump. He winced. She tried to look, but he was as tall as she was these days and she could not see clearly.

  ‘Lovey, what happened?’

  ‘I fell over.’

  She didn’t believe him. ‘What about your eye?’

  No response.

  ‘Did you black out?’

  ‘No.’

  He was not concussed then. Probably not.

  ‘Look,’ she said. ‘Go and lie down. I’ll bring you something for the headache.’

  He turned, moved away, doing what she told him, which was a worry in itself.

  So she made a cup of tea and took it to him on a tray, with a couple of paracetamol, a glass of water, a big piece of chocolate for comfort. Knocked on his door. She remembered to knock.

  He was lying on the bed, fully clothed still, but at least he had taken his shoes off. She put the tray on his bedside cabinet, sat down beside him. He rolled his head on the pillow, looked at her with sad, blue eyes. He seemed like he was about to cry. The bruise on his cheek was more obvious now.

  ‘Here,’ she said, picking up the glass and the painkillers,
feeding them to him as he lay propped on his elbows. One and a gulp of water, two and another gulp. He lay back down, closed his eyes.

  ‘This happened at school?’ she asked.

  He nodded.

  ‘At morning break?’

  Another nod.

  ‘And it wasn’t a fight?’

  ‘Please, Mum. Don’t make a fuss, okay? Don’t do anything.’

  ‘What would I do?’

  ‘Complain. Go down there.’ I know you, he might have said. He was right, of course. She was already thinking of what she would say to the headmaster when she confronted him.

  ‘Did you talk to anyone, any teachers?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You just left?’

  Another nod.

  ‘They’ll wonder where you are,’ she said. ‘They’ll need to know.’

  He didn’t answer.

  ‘Drink the tea. It’ll make you feel better.’

  She got up, went and opened the cupboard above his wardrobe. Reaching up on tiptoe, she pulled down one of the spare blankets, took it back to the bed. She was about to cover him with it when she noticed his knee again. Black marks on the white skin, little smears of red where the blood had dried. So she went and fetched a bowl of warm water and some disinfectant, cotton wool and a box of band-aids, big ones. He was drinking the tea when she got back. Good, she thought.

  ‘You don’t have to tell me,’ she said, ‘but, of course, if you don’t, I’ll only invent something. I mean, people have to have explanations, don’t they? Even if they make them up.’

  He didn’t answer. Just gave a twitch as she bathed the graze.

  ‘So what I think happened is some yobs got hold of you. Bullies.’

  It had happened before, when he was smaller. He was not like Damien, quick and athletic. Popular. He was a pudgy boy, like his father, and he had knock knees. She was realistic enough to see these features clearly and to know that other people thought them unfortunate or pitiable. She could see how they saw him, but she didn’t agree. Looking at him now, she felt that churning feeling, love and fear and anger, that always came when one of her boys was hurt.