by Alan Goodwin
We walked for an hour, along to the rocks at one end of the bay and then back to the rocks at the other end before returning to the bach. By the time we stepped back up the grass bank, Mary was nearing normality and was beginning to make sense. At the door of her bedroom there was an awkward pause before she kissed my cheek and thanked me for all I’d done. She said she’d never forget my kindness.
Before that walk I’d hardly thought of Mary except for the brief surges of interest from the first sight of her body and the lingering smile she gave earlier in the evening. After the walk I couldn’t stop thinking about her. Suddenly, like some romantic breakdown, feelings for her flooded my senses and threatened to overwhelm me. This was a massive surprise and quite inexplicable: I couldn’t even point to exactly what it was about her that so attracted me. The obvious next step was to pursue her in the days that followed, but I couldn’t cross the barrier of inexperience that separated us, so we merely exchanged pleasantries before nervously shuffling away from each other and what we both wanted. In this way we remained a rock in the maelstrom of passion unleashed around us on the holiday. Duncan shagged Jo, or perhaps it was better described as Jo shagged Duncan, but we men do have our pride. Mike and Helen fulfilled their destiny. The days were filled with swimming and sunning, drink and drugs, shagging and singing. What was it that held me back from Mary in this the most appropriate time of our lives to get together? First there was Jo at the party and now Mary at the holiday. Was I that afraid of rejection? I guess so.
We agreed to make a fire on the beach to celebrate our last evening. Mike and I built it close to the lee of the bank behind the bach. We combed for wood all afternoon and by early evening we had collected enough for a massive blaze. At dusk, with just a hint of light still in the day, Mike and I lit the fire and waited for the others to join us on the beach. We had become more sophisticated in our week together: now we drank more like adults, pacing ourselves and savouring the drink instead of using it merely as the means to an end. The night was balmy and together with the intense heat of the fire it was hot sitting on the sand. Mike had his guitar and he started gently strumming to no particular tune.
‘Do you know “Bluebird”? Fleetwood Mac?’
Mike fingerpicked the first notes and then, as unexpectedly as a newsflash that Martians had landed in Wellington, the sweetest voice sang the words. Everyone turned to Mary who sat cross-legged, eyes closed. Until now she’d kept her gift hidden by always singing with the group. What a delight: she had a marvellous voice, so fragile, but never with a hint of failing. When she finished we all applauded and yelped with joy. We sang more songs together, relishing our last night.
‘Wasn’t she amazing?’ I said to Jo after we’d broken away from the singing.
She was eating half a roll. ‘I guess so,’ she muttered through a full mouth.
‘You don’t like Mary that much, do you?’
‘She’s okay, I suppose. I just think she’s a bit of a goody-goody and looks down on others, that’s all.’
‘Does that make you a baddie?’ I surprised myself with such a bold question.
‘You could find out just how bad if you really wanted to.’
I didn’t have the guts to give what was the obvious response. She filled the silence by standing up, removing her bikini top and dropping her shorts and bikini bottoms in one movement. The glow from the subsiding fire was enough to show her dark nipples and pubic hair. ‘Skinny dip,’ she shouted and ran for the sea. No further invitation was needed and I pulled off my T-shirt, yanked down my shorts and ran after her. The sea was tepid and I waded up to my knees before diving in and resurfacing just a metre from her. She stood with the water to her navel, stroking back her wet hair and raising her breasts at me.
‘That was a nice sight,’ she said, moving next to me and placing her hand on my thigh just inches from my balls.
‘Hey guys, here we come.’ Helen and Mike jumped in behind us and I pulled away from Jo, embarrassed I might be caught so close to her. Mike splashed and shouted from the water, ‘Come on, you two, don’t be shy.’ Duncan came running; Mary followed reluctantly, one arm covering her breasts, the other her crotch until she reached the water. How often had I imagined her naked in the last few days? Just about every hour, that’s how often. Now she was in front of me, even if briefly, lithe and brown, shaded by the dark, yet softly lit by the moon.
We all crouched in a circle for a few minutes, just our heads out of the water, giggling, not sure what to do next. Helen wrapped her arms around Mike and pulled him from the water. Mary and I chatted and when we turned to talk with Duncan and Jo they were gone too, running up the beach, past the fire and straight to the house.
‘I guess we’d better get out,’ I said to no one in particular even though Mary was the only one left in the water with me.
‘Will you be embarrassed?’ We looked at each other and then kissed as though it was the most natural thing. Her skin was cold, her nipples hard against my chest. I held her so tight I never wanted to let go. After our kiss we went to the dying fire and there in the orange glow, under the moon and with the sound of the sea as our music, we made love. It was the first time for both of us and when I came I felt as though the brightest and purest light imaginable had pierced my soul. I thought sex would always be that way.
The diary of Mary Roberts
June 21st
SIX months today!!! Jack sent me a sixmonth anniversary card—how sweet. It arrived today, on the actual anniversary day. What great timing. He bought a Happy 60th birthday card, crossed out the nought and wrote ‘months’—totally romantic. On the inside he wrote that he still thinks of the night on the beach. I bet he does!! Mind you, so do I, it is something special for us both to treasure. Stop. I’m rambling and I’ll only start crying AND I promised no more smudges. But shit, I really miss him. I miss him so much and he’s such a long way away. He says Cambridge is cold and wet. I wish I were there to warm him up. We seem to have spent so little time together, just a few weeks and he was gone. I’d hoped he would be back before the end of the year, but it seems unlikely now. I hope he really feels the same way about us as when he went and he isn’t just saying these things to keep me happy. I know I’ll always feel the same about him. I’ll never stop loving him. There, now I’ve done it, crying again. Bye for now.
July 9th
The date is set for Polly’s wedding—Jan 2nd next year. She wants all three of us to be her bridesmaids. Caroline said no way and walked out in that foot scuffling, shoulder drooped way of hers when she wants to draw particular attention to the fact that she’s leaving. Mum was pleased though. She said she couldn’t wait to see all four of her little girls dressed up. It will be wonderful for her. The first daughter to marry!! Just hope Caroline doesn’t spoil it for Mum or Polly. I expect she will come around when everyone has made a big enough fuss and made her feel really important. Polly will talk her round, she always does. It’s me she never listens to.
August 1st
Got drunk with Caroline and Polly last night. It was real fun. We all let go and got on! (Wonders will never cease.) Caroline has agreed to the bridesmaid thing—I knew she would, although she is prone to changing her mind so we’re bound to have a few tantrums before Polly gets down the aisle with us all behind in our finery. We talked about Jack, which was a first, it’s certainly the first time Caroline has been interested in him, mind you, when was the last time she was interested in me full stop? Anyway, it’s nice to see her thinking about someone other than herself for a change. She was really intrigued to know what it was like to go out with a genius. It was funny to hear someone talk about Jack like that. None of his friends think of him that way, I mean, sure he’s a freak, but he never wants to be treated differently. I love him for that, even with all those gifts he just wants to be a normal guy, just one of the gang. Caroline said it wouldn’t always be that way. She reckons that one day he will claim what’s his, he’ll realise he’s special and will want everyone
to acknowledge that. She kept saying how I should never, ever forget just how gifted he must be. She said although I wasn’t stupid, he was on another planet. I know what she’s thinking—I’m not smart enough for him. I know she didn’t say it, but she didn’t have to…‘You’re not stupid Mary, but…’ It’s crap I know, but it did make me think. But Jack just isn’t like that. I mean, it’s not as though he asks me questions and makes a note if I get the answer wrong. He just wants a good time like the rest of us. He likes a drink, some dak, blobbing out and the movies. When I told Caroline that she just looked at me with that way of hers and said it sounded as though I was trying to convince myself rather than her. I kept my calm and changed the subject, but she kept coming back to him. It was strange. She seemed a bit obsessed. She definitely doesn’t think I’m good enough for him and that he’ll get bored with me. Little does she know! We’ll show her.
August 29th
Love the colour Polly has chosen for the bridesmaid dresses, it’s dull chartreuse green. The dress design is very simple—it will look great I think. Jack rang today. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to share this with you. He sounded tired. Said he had been grappling with some of the stranger consequences of the field equations in general relativity. He kept laughing when he was telling me and seemed surprised when I didn’t share the joke. Then he apologised and said it was silly of him to think I’d understand what he was talking about and why it was funny. Before I could say anything else he was on about some strange guy in his class. I thought he might have taken some drugs but he said he’d just had a few drinks. I couldn’t help but think about Caroline and what she said a couple of weeks ago. Was she onto something? Was she trying to warn me—in her own way—not very subtle I admit. Perhaps she was just trying to let me down gently and prepare for the inevitable. Surely not. I love him too much for that to happen. He loves me too much. Doesn’t he? God I hate him being away. Why can’t he be here so I can just talk to him and hold him? Everything would be fine then.
September 10th
Caroline and Greg are ‘on’ again—according to Caroline. Not sure about Greg, but then who is sure about Greg? Is Greg sure about Greg? He probably has no idea of what’s going on. I still don’t like him. I mean what DOES Caroline see in him? He’s ancient (well at least in his forties anyway), bald and he’s not exactly God’s gift on the looks front. Caroline says he is wise and he has got experience and she finds his emotional commitment to his art a wonder. Actually I think his art is crap. Caroline says he might not be good technically but he is raw and exciting and cuts to the nervous pulse of our times. Really? It’s still crap if you ask me. I think Caroline has got her people radar seriously askew with Greg. But—she’s happy. Well as happy as Caroline can get. She’s talking of moving again, by the end of the year she says. I think she will. It is time. Oh YES it’s time for her to go.
September 19th
NEWSFLASH—BREAKING NEWS—HOLD THE FRONT PAGE. Jack is home on the 14th December. Yes, he’s booked and it’s official—he’s coming home and we’ll have at least a month together. It sounds like he is doing some amazing things at Cambridge—of course I’m not sure what, after all I’m too stupid to understand (ha ha). Oh God, it’s great to think that he is coming home and it’s so soon, less than three months. I feel as though we’ve come through the test. All these months apart and still committed to each other and THAT’S THE BLOODY TRUTH. Yes, I still love him and he loves me—hallelujah, clap your hands and praise the Lord. We’ve spent so little time together, but here we are. There are times when I’ve felt a bit wobbly about things, but we made it through. Saw Helen yesterday, her and Mike are still OK. It’s great to think that from our holiday at the bach two relationships are still going strong. Duncan is still in Oz, as for Jo, well, who cares—I don’t! Never did like her, so there’s a fat chance of me starting to think about her now.
October 14th
Caroline moves out tomorrow. She’s got this place in Titirangi. Mum and Dad thought she might be moving in with Greg, but she isn’t. She wants her space, which is why she is on the move from here.
P.S Two months, 7 hours, 40 minutes—wait…39 minutes before Jack comes home. Not that I’m counting. Who me? Love him.
November 18th
Had a fitting today for the bridesmaid dress. Looks good, but I think I need to lose a few kilos, my arse looked huge, and I mean HUGE. Don’t want Jack seeing that, he’ll think I’ve gone to seed. I saw Caroline for the first time since she moved out. My God, she looked stunning in the dress. Her art is going really well, but it seems as though things are dodgy again with Greg Van Gogh. Seems he’s been a naughty boy with some old tart. (How does he do it? I mean he really is bloody ugly, but he sure gets the girls.) Caroline said she doesn’t care about the sex, she just thinks it questions his commitment. I think it just proves he’s an arsehole. If it was me I’d have had his dick off and buried in the back garden. God help Jack if he starts any of that nonsense. I did suggest to Caroline that perhaps she should dump him, but she just rolled her eyes in that superior way of hers and told me I didn’t understand the artistic temperament. Do you know what she said then? I might not understand, but Jack would. Bloody cheek!! The artistic impulse—oh pleeease. What rubbish. This seems to be my year of not understanding. Perhaps I should give up uni, give up wanting to be a teacher and go off and have five kids.
December 12th
Jack has left England. He’s on his way back home. There’s nothing else to say…oh go on then, I’ll force myself. I’ve never felt so excited. When I see him I’m going to hug him for so long I might never let go. What a Christmas it is going to be. Jack home, Polly’s wedding, that should be wonderful, what with the reception on the beach—how romantic. Hey, what is it with beaches and me? You know, I feel really happy. Life just couldn’t be better. I feel like I have everything.
I can’t help but wonder how my life might have unfolded if I’d taken Jo instead of Mary all those summers ago. Choosing her at the bach would have extinguished any opportunity of being with Mary. Perhaps I might have enjoyed a simpler, less demanding life. Who knows? When I awoke with Jo in the Hilton there was a moment when I felt as though the alternative path had been followed. There was just this second of peace as I watched the gentle rise of her sleeping shoulder. But as quickly as it came, it was gone. My room was not a place of happiness and order; it was disorganised and dirty, full of insatiable desires. Hastily yanked clothing, the remnants of drugs and half-full glasses were everywhere. This was my life.
To be honest, Jo enjoyed the greater satisfaction: for her a great wrong was righted and years of longing gratified. For me it was a routine evening of sex and fairly average, given some of the delights I’d experienced this last year. But knowing how important this was for her, I should have stayed away. I should have ignored her and waited to see what Bebe had rustled up from Auckland’s underbelly. But I know I’m a sucker—‘no’ and me just don’t seem to go together. At least, I hope that’s the reason. Please don’t let there be something deeply Freudian going on.
The one night should have been the end of the Jo thing, the Jo fling. The situation demanded a fond farewell, promises of future contact with absolutely no likelihood of compliance and a firm shut of the door. Why, then, did I not follow such simple rules? Before I could stop myself, before I seemed to have a proper grip on the day, I invited her to the party after that evening’s show. She was delighted. She positively glowed and sank into my arms like the woman in the films who has finally welcomed the return of her long-lost lover. And, of course, she had.
SIX
Some say that first love is the finest love. Casting a weary, nostalgic eye and forgetting that great corrupter of memory, hindsight, there are times I might agree with that sentiment. There is no doubt that first love is always the purest. It alone has that moment of total intoxication when you first grasp the spirit of love and sense its permanence. First love feels as though it will last for ever, it feels invincib
le and incorruptible. Nothing and no one will ever prise it away. However, when first love is lost and you love again there’s always a part of you that won’t surrender. There’s always a voice to remind you how your love was stolen and how it hurt.
When I returned to New Zealand from Cambridge I was warm with the glow of a man immersed in first love. I’d been faithful to Mary and I knew she’d been faithful to me. I was loyal to our love and I ached with anticipation at seeing and holding her again. Thinking of Mary and replaying over and over in my mind the moment of our reunion sustained me through the hard and lonely times of our separation.
It was deep winter when I left Cambridge. The temperature had remained below zero for a week, and the coat-piercing wind off the Fens made it considerably colder. Even without snow the city resembled an idyllic Christmas Day picture, with frost so thick and heavy it rimmed windows and transformed tree branches into silver limbs. I owned an old purple Mark I Escort and when the cold weather came I played roulette with the starter motor. One day it started first time, the next not at all, the third a start and a stop with no chance of further resuscitation. There was no pattern; it was chaos theory exemplified. Ali Naidu and I lived in Great Chesterford, a small village just south of Cambridge in a house owned by Mrs Grey.