by Chris Else
‘He doesn’t know?’
‘Oh, God, no. He thinks I’m an idiot.’ She poured more wine. Hers and his. ‘Interesting, isn’t it? Most men do. Think women are idiots, I mean.’
He didn’t answer.
‘You don’t, though,’ she said. She was looking at him, as if the realisation had suddenly come to her.
‘Don’t I?’
‘No.’ Staring at him, an expression he could not read. ‘Are you married?’
‘I have a partner, yes.’
‘Kids?’
Hesitation. Always a little hesitation when it came to that question. Because, every time, he had to stop himself from counting Carla. He had one child, one. He had to remove the other from his mind. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I’ve got a son. And a step-daughter. What about you?’
‘Me? No. No, no. I think that’s an awful trap. The wife and mother business. And Monty’s got kids. He doesn’t want any more. I mean, two boys ought to be enough to satisfy his urge to breed, wouldn’t you say? Not to mention the girl. Poor wretch.’
He didn’t like this topic or her tone.
‘So,’ he said, ‘this wheeling and dealing. Have you been doing it long?’
‘Less than a year. About five months before we came here. I started off with fifty thousand. Haven’t done badly, have I?’
‘What’s the secret?’
‘Study. Information. Reading and listening. I mean Monty talks about it all the time, the state of the economy, business. Here, Australia, Japan. That’s how I got into it, listening to him. I thought if he’s going to chew my ear off every evening, the least I can do is pay some attention and put the information to good use. And you know what? I’m better at it than he is.’ She lifted her shoulders, gave him a happy grin. Lips a little parted, tips of her white teeth just visible. He had an impulse to … He was not sure what.
‘So,’ she said. ‘Tell me about this PDQ.’
‘PDD.’ Glanced at her and away, round the kitchen. Drank his wine. Confused for a moment. He didn’t even like her. Why should he want her? Because she was there? Because she wanted him? He couldn’t know what she wanted. The drift of secret molecules in the currents of the room.
— But I don’t understand, he had said to Hannah Creswell. Is this dream about my present situation or my character?
— Why can’t it be both? The one, after all, might arise from the other.
He met Laura’s eyes again. ‘It’s a local company. Reliable. I’ve worked with them before.’
‘When can they start?’
‘I’m not quite sure. I’ve put some pressure on, though.’
‘How much?’
‘Fourteen and a half.’
“Shit.” She sounded not surprised but irritated. The girlish air was gone with the reality of spending money.
‘There’s a lot of dirt to move,’ he said. ‘An excavator, two trucks, a grader, four men.’ He shrugged.
‘Well, all right.’ Pouring wine once again. ‘You know what you’re doing. No point in keeping a dog and barking yourself, is there?’
‘No,’ he said, wondering how he should take being compared to a dog, feeling, rather, amused at how oblivious she was to what she’d said. Well, we know where we stand now, don’t we? Who’s the mistress, who’s the servant. Click your fingers and I’ll lick your hand.
22.
ONE PLACE THAT EPITOMISED the changing fortunes of Durry was an eating establishment on the corner of High Street and Cross Street. Opened in 1920 as the Sunset Café, it had survived for fifty years serving meat and two veg to the denizens of the public bar of the Durry Hotel, who were cast out every night at 6 p.m. to fend for themselves. With the changes to the liquor laws in the late sixties, an attempt was made to tart the place up. Its name was changed to Chloe’s, its streetfront windows were whited over on the inside and its interior walls were painted a tasteful purple (aubergine). Thus renovated, it made a play for the discerning Durry diner. Chloe’s had a licence and (astonishing!) a wine list. The meat and two veg had become Steak Diane, with Pommes Frites and salad or vegetables, to which was added Chicken Maryland and Fish of the Day (cooked in a beer batter). Chloe’s lasted two decades, going through an Italian phase and a Mexican phase, and several corresponding coats of paint, from ricotta to chilli pop, along the way.
In 1996, it was bought by Gaston Brillard, a small, round man with a comic French accent and a claim to being an international chef. He changed the name to Le Petit Français which, under the spreading influence of Larry Hannerby’s wit, was usually translated as The Little Frog. Gaston enjoyed this joke. Eventually, he even had small green frogs printed on the top left-hand corner of his menus. He was a man with a capacity for self-irony, a quality not always associated with the French. Rumour had it that he was not, in truth, Gaston le Français but Gaston le Belgique. Rumour also had it that he was actually from Scunthorpe. However, if the accent was fake the claim to culinary skill was not. Le Petit Français had been shortlisted in the Grenville Awards for Best Provincial Restaurant six times in the last eight years and had won twice. Visitors came from far-away places to sample Gaston’s judicious combination of Cordon Bleu and Provençal. The locals counted themselves lucky to live within his ambit. Larry Hannerby had been known to say that if Gaston went, he’d go too.
‘Try this. A little.’ Gaston, with a bottle, sitting down. He had glasses, three glasses, stems tucked between the fingers of his left hand.
‘Oh, well,’ Ward said. ‘A bit early, but well …’ He glanced at Maddy.
‘Why not?’ She smiled at him.
Gaston poured, a white. Three fingerfuls in each glass. Ward took his, sniffed it, sipped. A pinot gris. Fresh and light, a spring in its step.
‘Local?’
Gaston turned the label to him. Wolde House.
‘Ah!’ Ward said, pleased that he’d picked it.
‘It’s okay,’ Gaston sipped.
‘Yes.’ Maddy smacking her lips. Curious that she was drinking at this time of day. And relishing it, too. Part of the celebration already, the mood? Ward felt cosy, happy. Life was in good shape, sitting pretty. All the bad things filed away where nobody could find them. Every time the Tribe met up it made it better, more secure, more certain.
‘I don’t know,’ Gaston said. ‘What do you think? I put him in my cellar?’
‘How much would you charge?’ Ward asked.
‘Thirty?’
‘You could do thirty-five.’ He laughed. ‘I shouldn’t tell you that, should I?’
‘Oh, my friend.’ Waving the remark aside, as if Ward would never have to pay for anything at The Little Frog ever again.
I wish, Ward thought.
‘So,’ Maddy was leaning forward, looking at Gaston. ‘You called them?’
‘Of course.’ He grinned, sat back in his chair. ‘I say I am happy that they are my very good customers for a long time and it will be very, very nice for me if they come to dinner on Friday. On the house.’
‘And?’ Maddy was eager, a shine in her eyes.
‘Sylvie, she say, “Oh, Gaston, what a coincidence. This is fantastic. Friday is our anniversary.”’ He laughed, a big laugh that made his belly shake.
They all laughed.
‘So they’re coming?’ Maddy asked.
‘Oh, yes. Sylvie make the confirmation Saturday morning.’
‘Brilliant,’ Ward said.
He suddenly remembered the verdict and wondered how Larry was feeling, winning it, or at least having it go the way he wanted. Sometimes, Ward had noticed, a good result seemed to make Larry depressed rather than happy, especially when it was a high-profile case like this one. Perhaps I should give him a bell, he thought. Perhaps I should take him out for a session at the Club.
‘So, for the menu,’ Gaston said. ‘You want him à la carte or table d’hôte?’
‘Table d’hôte?’ Interesting thought.
Gaston shrugged, a touch of modesty. ‘I could do somethings a little spec
ial. You know, for Larry. There is a nice way to cook venison from St Bennet. Or goose. I could maybe give you the goose.’
‘Goose?’
‘I don’t know if I find a goose, but if … There is a nice way to stuff her with orange. Or maybe Sauce de Volonne.’
‘What do you think?’ Ward asked Maddy.
‘Yummy,’ Maddy said. ‘But would it work for everybody? Heidi, for instance. Isn’t she a bit vegetarian?’
‘Oh, well,’ Ward said. ‘There’s always the standard menu for anyone who’s like that. And goose? Well, you know. For Larry.’
‘This is Sylvia’s anniversary too,’ Maddy told him, but nicely.
‘Wouldn’t Sylvia like goose?’
‘She might.’
‘The way Gaston would do it?’ The question hardly needed answering. He turned to Gaston. ‘What about wine?’
‘Oh, I think Côte de Rhône. A pinot noir. I have one very, very nice. Chateau de Matecleau, you know him?’
‘No.’
‘This for the goose will be nice. If I find the goose. Look, maybe you leave this with me. Maybe I think, twist my brains, take a look around. Then, I get back to you, we talk again. Okay?’
‘Yes, good idea. Fantastic.’
Gaston picked up the bottle. ‘Thirty-five dollars, you say?’
‘Let’s say thirty-two.’
Gaston laughed, topped up the glasses, just the three fingers still.
‘So,’ he said. ‘Life is good?’
‘Very good. Couldn’t be better.’
‘Busy,’ Maddy told him.
‘Oh, but Maddy is always busy. Going here. Going there. You are like the angel who make everything okay.’
‘Are you teasing me, Gaston?’ Maddy sipped her wine. Red lips.
She has lovely lips, Ward thought. And they did nice things to you. On occasion.
Gaston laughed. ‘Flattery will get you somewhere. Is that what you say?’
‘Not quite.’
‘Ah, but it’s true. In France, it is true. I say nice things. You say nice things. We feel good. Like kisses.’
‘You just want us to stay for lunch,’ Maddy told him.
‘Lunch? You want lunch?’ Gaston with eyes round, asking as if the idea were a complete surprise.
A pause.
‘Well,’ Maddy said, doubtfully. ‘I don’t have much time.’
‘You have an appointment. Of course.’ Gaston was dismissing the idea of lunch.
Too quickly in Ward’s view. ‘Maybe …’ He looked at Maddy and she at him. Did she have an appointment? No, not exactly.
‘I make you a nice omelette,’ Gaston said. ‘Like the sunshine. With some herbs, just a little …’
‘Come on.’ Ward gave her a nudge with his elbow and she laughed. A merry laugh. Merry like a berry, like a cherry. Tasty girl. Yum-yum.
‘Why not?’ she said, smiling at him.
‘Bravo!’ Gaston pushed the bottle to the middle of the table. ‘And the wine is on the house.’
23.
AND TOM, THE ZOMBIE, two-faced clown, was another who was wine-woozy, at 12.30 in the afternoon, parking his ute in Cook Street, getting out and walking the half block to the post office. He was thinking of Astra, what he was going to say to her, because he was going to end it. Not out of a sense of duty or an act of will, not a conscious, rational decision that a man might make from the lofty height of his principles. No, this was a feeling thing, a thing of hope and freedom, of fresh air and a sea breeze. Because, for the first time, he saw the prospect of understanding. He had the sniff of a future. No matter what kind of mess he was in, how deeply mired, he felt sure now that he could escape and that he wouldn’t even need to hurt or hate the woman he had used.
Odd what it must be like for her. For him, it’s all been will-he, won’t-he. Can he keep himself on track? Can he do the right thing? Or will he let that half-unconscious urge draw him to her, unresisting? For her, though, it’s just been waiting at the mercy of his indecision and, thus far at least, she’s not seemed to mind. She’s greeted him with a smile and open arms. If she’s felt aggrieved or bad tempered, it’s been quickly kissed away. Will she fight now, will she rail, will she attempt to seduce him while he stands, like a saint, resisting her advances? He does not think so. Not today.
Up the steps and into the lobby and the room where the boxes were, the rows of little red doors. Feeling in his pocket for the keys. A young woman was crouching down in front of the box next to his. He stood, waiting for her to finish, watched the movement of her shoulders as she tugged at the letters jammed inside. She was wearing a sweater, pale mauve, closely knit, tight enough to show the knobs of her spine. He thought of Astra’s back, the smoothness under his hands, the freckles like flakes of amber in the pale skin. Then another sense of goldenness. Golden light and a woman who had no name. A rush of lust and longing unattached to anyone. A flare in the dark.
‘Sorry,’ the girl said, standing up, a little duck of her head, self-effacing. She was clutching the bunch of letters to her chest.
‘That’s all right.’ He smiled at her as she turned away. Carla’s age. Hardly more than Carla’s age.
Bending from the waist, he fitted his key into the little door, turned it. Open. A half a dozen letters inside. He took them out and then put his hand in, feeling towards the back of the box to see if there was anything there, maybe a card to indicate there was a packet to collect from the counter. Nothing. Lock the door. Keys back in his pocket. A few steps away, shuffling through the letters as he did so. The usual stuff, invoices and trade promotions, except for one: a small envelope with a local postmark and the address too far over to the right. Mr T. Marino, Greenwise Garden Centre, PO Box 994, Durry, New Zealand. Something odd about it, so he paused, in a shaft of sunlight from the head-high window, and opened it. A single sheet of paper folded into four. A message.
If you want to know why your daughter Carla went to the river, talk to Merry Gibbitson 411-2347. She went to stop them bulling her. A Friend
He couldn’t take it in at first, and then, when he did begin to understand the words, they did not make much sense. His impulse was to call the number immediately, and he had the phone out and was starting to dial before he decided, no, think about it, let’s get it clear before we rush.
Merry Gibbitson. A name he’d never heard before. Was it male or female? And who was bulling who? It was an odd word, bulling. Kind of old-fashioned. People these days would say bullshitting or something similar.
His phone rang. It was still in his hand and startled him, confused him so that he just stood there looking at it until after the third ring.
‘Tom Marino here.’
‘Hello, Tom. This is Heidi. Can we meet?’
Meet? What was she asking? ‘Yes, I guess so.’
‘I have some things to talk about. Some business things.’
‘All right.’
‘I can drive into town,’ she went on. Urgent.
‘No, that’s all right. I have to come out that way. To Clisserford. I can drop by.’
‘Today?’
No, he didn’t mean specifically today. Of course not. Not today. ‘How about tomorrow?’ he said. ‘About two?’
‘Please.’
The world, the ordinary world, was full of people with their needs and purposes, ordinary actions and reactions. Whereas he was paralysed, standing there, phone in one hand, mail in the other, the open sheet of paper with the strange message. All thought of Astra was gone. Nothing left except an emptiness, the cold of dread and hope, like dampness seeping through a wall, the heavy weight of water.
Carla had a friend, Merry Gibbitson, and one of them tried to stop the bulling.
Last time he saw her, that Saturday, intent with her bike, wheeling it down the driveway, the bag with her library books on the carrier. Swinging her leg over, riding away, without a look back, without a second thought. He hardly saw her go, it was so ordinary. And yet she had thoughts of her own, she mus
t have had.
Call the number. No, he thought, too early. A friend of hers would most likely be at school at this time of day.
So he went to the house by the river just like all the other times. She smiled when she saw him, and they kissed and went to bed, just like the other times. And afterwards, lying there, he felt not guilty, not repulsed, but detached, as if his mind had shaken loose from his flesh.
‘Are you all right?’ she asked him.
‘Yes.’
‘Only you just seem … I don’t know. Preoccupied.’
‘Yes.’ Staring at the ceiling with its flat angled cornice, the surface blank above them. There was a crack there, like a thin flash of jagged dark lightning, from the centre to the middle of the wall where the door was. It all seemed far away, though, in another world.
‘Are you worried about something?’ She was looking at him, her head propped on the heel of her hand, her sandy hair fluffed up into a mass of curls. Gleam of light in it from the bright window behind her.
‘I don’t want to take you for granted,’ he said.
‘You don’t. I never feel you do.’
Tell her. Tell her now. If it hadn’t been for the letter he would have told her already. But was that true? He didn’t know. And at the moment, right now, it hardly seemed to matter whether he told her or not. Nothing mattered. Nothing that his will could want was of the least consequence.
‘I should go,’ he told her.
Her eyes lifted. She was glancing at the clock on the little table beside the bed. But she said nothing. Instead, she looked down at him again, to his chest, and with her free hand began to twist her fingers into the hairs there. Little pullings. Watching as if it were a delicate task she had to perform. Watching but not seeing. Preoccupied herself.
He reached up, watched his hand reaching up and coming to rest on the back of her head. The weight of it drew her down towards him so that their lips met. Love-soft lips. She made a noise in her throat, a little groan.
How can I want her if I feel nothing? he thought. Is it because she’s alive and I’m not? Is that what I want, to know she’s alive? To make her feel for both of us. Do I want to hurt her, is that it?