by Chris Else
Good God, he thought, as a smoke-ring drifted from him and dissolved in the air, I’m excelling myself. And then he thought of Maddy or, rather, didn’t think, just felt the need. Tonight, perhaps. He should tell her about the accident, of course. And he would, at the right moment. But there was time enough for that and, right now, he didn’t want to think about the awkward stuff. Right now he wanted just to sit and enjoy the wine and the cigar, and in a little while there would be someone to talk to and around 6.30 Larry might well show up. And then, of course, it was Tuesday and Monty Kerrington was supposed to be here and be introduced to the other members. Whoever was around. They’ll all be around, he thought. It’ll all be fine. And, as he sometimes did when he was here by himself, he counted the presidents, all thirty-seven of them, and wondered how it would feel in a year or two when his own portrait was up there too.
Lorton makes his mark. Who would have thought it, eh? Back then. A dull boy, a pudgy boy. Good-natured? Yes. Phlegmatic? That’s a word for him. He bumbled along all through the third form and the fourth form, trailing after those other two, the bright sparks, Wyte and Hannerby. You wondered what they saw in him, why they put up with him. Until the incident, that is, the fifth form general science field trip, overnight to the Waitangiruru State Forest. What happened? Nobody’s quite sure because nobody’s said, exactly, but they had a primus in the tent. Wasn’t supposed to be there but one of them had brought it along and they were cooking up something (pun intended). Seems it was faulty, though. Seems it had a crack in the tank or a broken seal of some other defect, because all of a sudden it was a mass of flame. Two of them sat there staring, paralysed, knowing what was going to happen but helpless to stop it, and the third, the dumb one, the slow one, the one too thick to rub two sticks together, was on his knees and grabbing it and hurling it out through the tent flap, out into the night. And just in time too. Wham! The thing exploded, half a second out, before it hit the ground, and burning alcohol and chunks of brass were flying everywhere. There were six little fires they had to extinguish and one of them was Ward’s right hand.
The funny thing was that afterwards he couldn’t remember what he had done or why he’d done it. So uncharacteristic, although the effects were real enough: the weeks in hospital, the fourteen operations, the problems as he learned to write left handed. There were good things, too, though, like his picture in the paper. Ward the Hero! That was when Maddy first noticed him, that photo in the Winston Evening Mail, as he sat in hospital with a sheepish grin on his face and his fair hair flopping over his left eye. Maddy was drawn to heroes, perhaps because her Dad had won an MC fighting Tom Marino’s relatives in North Africa. When she met Ward a couple of years later, she remembered him and fell in love — with his story, with his hand, with the fact that his father owned a fair-sized chunk of Taranaki, but most of all with his sweet-good nature. Such a decent fellow. So easygoing. Wouldn’t hurt a fly.
47.
AT FIRST, WHEN HE told her, Lisa couldn’t believe it and, then, when she saw that he was not making it up (and, God, why would he make up anything like that?) she got angry. Not the sharp, energising anger that she felt at an injustice, although there was a bit of that, but the heavy kind that came as a response to stupidity. So stupid, to waste everybody’s time like that, to cause people, and especially Tom, needless suffering that could have been avoided. If Ward had opened his fat mouth sooner, they’d have spent the last six months looking for the right person — the person, perhaps, who was driving the yellow car. And, of course, her usual reaction to stupidity, when it was about something like this, was to expose it, hold it up to ridicule (well, you didn’t have to do anything to ridicule it except hold it up). Her first reaction was to write a story.
It took her a while to come up with the idea, though, and when she did she immediately had doubts, and the doubts made her annoyed with herself. Moral dilemmas often made her annoyed, because she didn’t like situations where she couldn’t decide and took any kind of wavering as a sign of her own weakness or her lack of clarity. That’s what principles were for, wasn’t it? To make things clear? But it would be hard to write a story about Ward, to show people what an insensitive, selfish clod he had been, not only because he was a friend and you were supposed to forgive friends their faults, just as you were supposed to forgive your children’s, but also because Maddy was even more of a friend and Maddy was an even bigger friend of Sylvia’s and Sylvia was just about the one person, other than her immediate family, whom Lisa felt she could never do without. Exposing Ward would threaten all that. How could she?
Yet, if she didn’t write the story, she would be denying everything she stood for in her working life. It was no good saying that, well, it was just a little tin-pot paper and who really cared if it avoided things other than the last meeting of the local chapter of the Embroiderers’ Guild. If it was a worthless paper, it wasn’t worth working for, and she was wasting her time by being there. If, as she had always believed, it could make a difference and, in fact, had made a difference over the years she’d been involved with it, then it had done so only to the extent that it avoided niceness and coyness and did not upset people and stuck to the truth. Lisa believed in the truth. Without truth there was no trust, and if you couldn’t trust people human life just fell apart, didn’t it? The paper encapsulated that idea. It was all about keeping people informed, keeping them honest — the one being the flip side of the other.
She asked Tom about it while they were making dinner. Should she write the story?
‘You don’t have to do that for me,’ he said. He was at the cupboard, taking out plates and bowls. The clatter and scrape of china, she could hear it over her shoulder as she sliced the beef.
‘I wouldn’t just be doing it for you.’
‘Well, if it’s for your own benefit, go ahead.’ Which wasn’t the kind of answer she wanted. It was the kind of answer that would have upset her at another time. It was dismissive, almost as if he thought she was to blame somehow. Now, though, she didn’t get annoyed. She just felt puzzled.
‘Doesn’t it upset you?’ she asked, glancing at him.
He was at the table, laying forks down next to the bowls.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I want to bash his stupid head in. But I’m relieved in a way, too. I always knew there was something more, some other clue to be had. Perhaps now we might catch the bastard.’
So calm, so cold. He might have been offering a problem in logic that you could work out if you thought about it hard enough. She didn’t understand how he could talk about being angry in such a cold voice. It scared her.
She bent down to the cupboard under the bench, pulled out the wok and set it on the stove. Oil and a dash of soy, the sliced ginger. Sizzle. Tiny beds of steam in frantic clamour about the little discs. The first whiff of the aroma lifted to her face.
‘If we print a story, then it’s more likely some member of the public will come forward. Someone who saw the yellow car.’
He didn’t answer for a moment. Perhaps he hadn’t thought of this possibility.
‘Then write it,’ he said.
‘It’s not that simple.’
Ward had acted like the lowest of the low, but could she really imagine herself ripping into him in public, in print? Would that really help to find the driver of the yellow car?
‘I’ll talk to Stan,’ she said. But would there be time? Deadline at noon tomorrow.
‘Frank! How are you?’
Frank Drummer, turning at the words.
‘Ward!’ he said, grinning. ‘Good day to you, my friend.’
‘Let me introduce you to Monty.’
They were standing at the bar, or rather sitting perched on the high stools. It was more convenient here than at one of the tables. Easier for people to come up and meet Monty and then move on.
‘Monty, this is Frank Drummer. Frank, Monty Kerrington. New member.’
‘Well, then. Welcome aboard,’ Frank said.
Ward watc
hed them shake hands. A hearty shake like good blokes should.
‘Monty’s in finance,’ he said to Frank and then, turning to Monty: ‘And Frank runs Hardy’s. You know, the department store in High Street.’
‘I know.’ Monty pulled a sour face but not for real. ‘I see it often enough on my wife’s Visa statement.’
Frank laughed.
‘About time you gave me a volume discount,’ Monty said, and he laughed too.
‘Are you new to Durry as well as the Club?’ Frank asked.
‘Been here six months. Bought a bit of property. Land up the end of Pigskill Road and the old house down Cox’s Line.’
‘Ah, you’ll be close to recent events, then.’ Frank glanced at Ward to see if this topic of conversation was all right. He was good that way, Frank was. He understood people. Sensitivities. Ward winked at him to show it was okay. It was fine.
‘Brings you up with a start, that’s for sure,’ Monty said. ‘I know the bloke, you know.’
‘Yes, we all know him. He’s a member,’ Frank replied.
‘Not the sort of member you’d want to advertise.’
‘Terrible business,’ Ward said. ‘But you have to stick by your friends.’ Feeling bad about poor old Col.
‘Well, fair enough.’ Monty knocked back the last of his Scotch, put his glass on the bar with a little smack.
Ward signalled to the barman for another round.
‘Let me,’ Frank said. ‘What’ll you have?’
‘Whatever that was.’ Monty flicked his finger at the glass.
Two more Scotches coming up. The amber twinkle in the diamond of the cut glass.
‘On my tab,’ Frank said. ‘And I’ll take a G and T.’ Then, turning to Monty, he went on. ‘So you’ve bought Clisserford.’
‘Yeees. Bloody stupid name, don’t you think? Always makes me think of some bit of the female what’s-it.’
‘Well …’ Frank wasn’t sure but Ward laughed.
‘I should change it,’ Monty said. ‘Tell you what, we could run a competition for the best name.’
‘What would the prize be?’
‘Don’t know. What do you think? On second thoughts, though, it would be a waste of time. I already have the winning entry.’
‘What’s that?’ Ward asked.
‘Pumpkin.’
‘Why “Pumpkin”?’
‘Peter, Peter pumpkin eater
Had a wife and couldn’t keep her
Put her in a pumpkin shell
And there he kept her very well.’ Monty threw back his head and laughed.
Ward wanted to join in but he couldn’t quite. Was it because it wasn’t funny? It was funny, in a way. It kind of was. But it was such an odd thing to say that it had to be kind of serious, too. But what did it mean if it was serious?
‘Well,’ Frank said, with a little nod towards Monty. ‘Great to meet you. I dare say we’ll have many more opportunities.’
‘Dare say we will.’ Monty offering his hand again, Frank taking it.
Then, just as Frank was turning to go, Larry was there. Lanky, smiling.
‘Ah!’ Ward felt his spirits lift, although there was also another brief thought of Colin. Wondering where Colin was right now, at this moment. Thinking the last time they were all here together, only a couple of weeks ago, sitting at the table in the corner, the three of them. Now there was Monty instead of Colin. It didn’t work, somehow. It wasn’t right.
Still, he introduced them, Larry and Monty, and he suggested that they go over to a table now. So Larry got his usual and they went. Not to the corner table because Blenkinsop and Pete Gilligan were there and, apart from anything else, Larry and Blenkinsop didn’t get on. Well, it wasn’t Larry’s fault, of course. It was Blenkinsop. Professional jealousy. Although it wasn’t quite that either, because Blenkinsop wasn’t a barrister, only a solicitor. That was a thing between lawyers, Ward supposed. The people who did the court work were the glamorous ones and the others were jealous of them. It was a bit like surgeons and doctors, maybe.
‘Buttocks!’ Larry said.
‘Trees!’
‘Here’s to her fair and slender thighs.’ Monty did his own thing, which Ward liked.
‘Now,’ Monty went on, turning to Larry, ‘are you defending my friend and neighbour in Cox’s Line?’
‘No, I’m afraid not.’
‘Then I don’t suppose you can tell us anything about the case.’
‘No, I can’t.’
‘Then how’s a bloke to satisfy his curiosity?’
‘You’ll just have to wait for the trial,’ Larry said.
‘That could be months.’
‘Could be a year. That’s getting to be pretty standard these days. I imagine the police talked to you?’
‘They did.’
‘And could you tell them anything?’
‘No. Didn’t even hear the shot. Not that we would. We’re not that close.’ Monty sat there, looking keen and eager, but Larry didn’t reply. Supped his whisky. Looked at
Ward, looked at Monty. But Ward wasn’t paying that much attention. Talk of the police reminded him of this afternoon, the statement he’d made, and now, this time, he suddenly felt not so comfortable about it. Would it all blow over? Could it be allowed to? Maybe the papers would get hold of it — not the local rag, because Lisa wouldn’t let that happen, he was sure of it — but the dailies, the Winston Evening Mail or the Chronicle. Would they think it a big enough story to do anything with?
‘It’s early for this time of year, don’t you think?’ Larry was saying. Was that what he was saying?
‘Could be.’ Monty answered.
‘Yes. It’s darker than usual, heavier. I guess it’s the humidity. It tends to make people want to do strange things. Like selling their Demergena shares. Do you think I should sell my Demergena shares?’
‘Oh, I get it.’ Monty nodded. ‘Very good.’
Quite what Monty got, or thought he got, Ward wasn’t sure. He was feeling disoriented all of a sudden, as if the good feeling, all the optimism he’d been running with, were a sham. A weird sensation, sick and dizzy, like a man who thought he was walking along a street and suddenly finds himself at a cliff’s edge, looking down. A long way down. Step back, go back, but where to?
‘Well,’ Monty was saying, ‘like the ski-field owner said, “There’s no business like snow business.”’
‘White on, my friend.’
48.
FREE TIME. NOTHING TO do but sit and think. That was the irony of it. They took away the space and they gave you the time. Before, in that other life, there were so many pressures, so many demands, that thinking was always interrupted, always cluttered. Now, it was possible to think clearly. Because there was no booze either and oddly, strangely, he didn’t want any. He liked the clarity. Because he knew the truth about himself. He was guilty. Yes. Make no mistake. And although it seemed, in a way, that it had all happened to someone else, he knew it was not so. If he thought for a moment, he could still feel the kick against his shoulder as the gun went off. His shoulder, no one else’s. No other person felt that kick. No other person saw her thrash around, as if her body had gone mad, as if all the parts of her were fighting amongst themselves to get away, to run away. No other person felt the iron grip of her hand, hanging on, as if he were her last hope. He had done that to her.
But it wouldn’t have happened if he hadn’t aimed at her, if he hadn’t loaded the rifle, if he hadn’t gone and got it, if she hadn’t yelled at him like that, if she hadn’t been fucking Tom Marino, if she hadn’t, hadn’t, hadn’t walked into his life that day back then, seven years ago.
Seven years? And, of course, she didn’t walk into his life, he walked into hers, in a sense. One morning, coming up the stairs to find her sitting there at the reception desk. From the temp agency because Claire (was that her name?) had walked out in a huff the day before. Such smooth, pale skin with a touch of colour at the cheekbones, such big blue eyes, such golden
hair so tightly, strictly tied back and under control. Her voice cool, like mountain air. That was the thing about her, in a way, her Swissness. She was bright and fresh and clear, the blue sky, the snow-white mountains. Had she smiled? No, not on that first morning. It had taken several mornings and several little bits of wit, before he had made her smile. But every day, every one of those early days, he had looked forward to seeing her. At first the looking forward had begun when he opened the door to the building, and then at the moment he drove into the carpark and then somewhere around Victory Bridge and then stepping out of the house, drinking his coffee, shaving, waking up. His first thought on waking up. Heidi. That was love. Ward had wondered why they didn’t hire someone else, someone permanent, why Colin kept saying no, no. Because I need her in the mornings. Because I think of her when I wake up.
She was his first thought on waking up now too. The bitch. No, how could he call her a bitch when he’d done that to her? It was his fault, all his fault. Except if she hadn’t yelled at him, it wouldn’t have happened. The words, her voice. He could still hear it. It was burned into his brain.
You are stupid, stupid. You are a stupid man. You don’t think. You don’t feel. So is it a surprise that I like Tom? He listens. He is nice. He understands me. And if I have sex with him whose fault is that? Whose fault? Your fault. You drink too much. We are not a couple. You are not a man. You ruin yourself with drinking. Tom is a man. He can do it. Not like you. Drinking makes you like a baby. Go and drown yourself, you stupid man. Go and drown yourself in your wine and your whisky.