‘Tracey,’ she said, as her old friend free-poured an alarming quantity of rum into a pan containing mulled wine, ‘what else do you remember about me from those days?’
‘Well …’ Tracey considered this for a moment. She had pulled out all the festive stops for her party, dressing in floor-length purple sequins and sweeping her streaked blonde hair up into a chignon. She had joked to Bonnie earlier that she resembled a Christmas bauble, but Bonnie preferred to think of her as an eccentric fairy. Tracey had certainly granted her a good few wishes over the years they had known each other.
‘You were determined,’ Tracey decided, bending forwards to sniff the pan appreciatively. ‘You used to do this adorable thing where you jutted out your chin and clenched your teeth together, as if to say, “I want that and I will damn well have it.” And you were capable, too, much more so than I think you realised. Aside from the times when the café was overrun with workmen, nothing seemed to daunt you. Well, nothing until …’ She paused in her stirring.
‘The baby,’ Bonnie said quietly, and at this, Tracey nodded sympathetically.
‘Yes, love – the baby.’
And it was true. The pregnancy had hit Bonnie hard and sent her cowering into a corner, terrified to face what was happening, yet scared to undo what had been done. When she left little Evangeline behind and went home to New Zealand, it wasn’t simply her swollen, leaking breasts and topsy-turvy hormones that rendered her miserable; it was what she had lost – not just her daughter, but herself. That girl, who Tracey remembered as being such a go-getter, had remained on the tarmac of Heathrow Airport, while the embattled new version flew to the other side of the world, forever changed.
It was only when Tui was born thirteen years later that Bonnie began to regain her lost strength – and when it became clear that her new baby daughter was not like all the other children, and that she was going to face more challenges than most, Bonnie had no choice but to step up and woman up. Tui needed her mum right there next to her, ready and willing to fight any of the battles that she could not, and as the years passed, Bonnie’s gutsiness had begun to re-emerge.
That was what she needed to channel now, Bonnie thought. She must find that strength – the same determination that had got her through all those hospital appointments and tests with Tui, the bravery that she’d had to show in the face of others’ pity – and utilise it.
‘I need to—’ she began, making to leave the room, but Tracey was already smiling.
‘I know, duck. I know.’
23
Kit barely breaks a sweat as he leads me along the steep and winding trail. He seems to be impervious to both the intense heat of the day and the arduous gradient of Queenstown’s Tiki Trail, but the opposite is unfortunately the case for me. The relief I felt when we moved from the unsheltered pavement into the tree-shaded undergrowth turned out to be short-lived, and before long, I’m plucking the damp material of my T-shirt off my back and dabbing ineffectually at the sweat on my forehead.
The muddy uphill footpath is littered with exposed tree roots and the air is thick with the scent of vegetation. Birds chirp, fallen leaves crunch under our boots, and columns of sunlight filter through the branches of the towering Douglas firs, dappling the ground with white-and-gold speckles. It feels like being inside the vast cave of a treasure-hungry dragon. Kit chats away amicably as we continue to climb, offering a casual hand of assistance whenever the going gets particularly tough and pointing out large throne-like chairs that have been sculpted from the wide stumps of felled beech trees. Further up, we pass a narrow roped-off area that Kit explains is a mountain bike trail and tells me matter-of-factly that he once broke both his collarbones trying to ride down it ‘at full tit’.
It’s difficult to imagine anything causing damage to a man of Kit’s size, and I tell him so.
‘Fragile as a fern frond, me,’ he says with a laugh, plucking a leaf from a nearby bush and shredding it between his fingers.
‘Have you ever had any other injuries?’ I enquire.
Kit frowns, his gaze flickering upwards as he seeks out the small gaps of blue sky visible through the treetops.
‘Smashed up my nose playing rugby at school,’ he says, tapping it. ‘Destroyed a few ribs on a ski trip a few years back, munted my coccyx jumping into a river when I was about fifteen.’
‘Bloody hell, man,’ I retort, resting my hands on my thighs. A couple of around my age are making their way down the hill, and as the two of us stop to let them past, I notice that the man has a prosthetic leg. That, and the fact that, like Kit, he has clearly found the climb no bother at all, makes me feel even worse about my shambolic fitness levels.
‘That’s what the olds said at the time,’ Kit jokes, his voice cracking with amusement. ‘Then my mum, she followed it up with a few more, less polite words.’
‘Your poor mum,’ I say, wincing inwardly as a painful memory of Anna sitting by my hospital bed slices through me. When I was ten, I had fallen from a bolting pony and managed to break my wrist badly enough that it required surgery. Anna’s tearful face was the first thing I saw when I came around from the anaesthetic.
‘What about your folks?’ he asks, glancing at me as we continue upwards. ‘Are they the protective types?’
Where to even begin? I settle on a non-committal ‘I guess so’, remembering how wobbly I had become down by the Dart River, when it was on the tip of my tongue to tell him about Anna. The mood between us is so light at the moment, I don’t want to dampen the cheery spirit of the day by touching on that subject.
Even Kit begins to perspire as we puff and pant our way up what looks to be the final section of the trail. I can see a crescent of sweat on his back and marvel again at his generosity in offering to show me around. Unlike me, Kit also had the foresight to bring a bottle of water along with him, and he offers it to me every few minutes, pulling a face when I shake my head.
‘You need to stay hydrated,’ he points out after my third refusal, thrusting the bottle towards me. ‘I don’t want you passing out on me.’
When we finally, blessedly, emerge from the trees on to a flat expanse of road beside a large café, I contemplate weeping genuine tears of exhausted relief. It still feels beyond bizarre that it’s essentially summer in December. Just five days now until Christmas, and only four until the anniversary of Anna’s death. I have now spent 361 days without her, yet somehow I am still here. The world is still spinning, the sun rising and setting, my senses still reeling from all these sights, sounds and smells. Everything has continued without her, and it’s not fair. It’s not right.
‘Quick breather here, then we’ll carry on up, yeah?’
I turn and stare at Kit, feeling the blood draining from my cheeks.
‘This isn’t the top?’
Kit looks around, as if surveying the area for the first time.
‘Er, nope, sorry.’
‘But the luge starts from here,’ I say, pointing to a sign behind him. ‘And over there is the gondola drop-off.’
‘This is just the Skyline,’ he states. ‘The tourist summit, not the proper one. If you want the true Kiwi experience, then we’re going to need to go a bit higher.’
‘How much higher?’ I ask, but Kit merely shrugs.
‘Ben Lomond is a good three or four hours’ walk away, but I reckon it will only take us an hour or so to reach the point where the hang gliders take off. Maybe two hours at your pace …’
‘Oi!’ I admonish, and he grins at me.
‘Oh, come on – I’m only pulling your pisser.’
‘I beg your pardon?’ I reply.
Why does my frightfully posh voice keep insisting on coming out?
‘Pulling your pisser. You know – tickling your tootsies, taking the royal mickey.’
‘Tickling my tootsies?’ I repeat incredulously, and Kit’s wide mouth lifts into another smirk.
‘Could have been worse,’ he says. ‘I could have said titties. Now, I dunno about y
ou, but I reckon I have earned myself an ice cream.’
Once we’re inside a small café area, I offer to treat him, and after grumbling half-heartedly about chivalry being a lost art, he agrees, making me laugh when he promptly opts for a triple-scoop cone with extra lashings of fudge sauce.
‘I’m a growing man,’ he quips, patting his flat stomach.
I choose a small ice lolly the shape of a watermelon slice, which starts to melt as soon as we step back outside. I have no real choice but to insert the entire thing into my mouth, but it doesn’t seem to faze Kit in the slightest. He merely grins, and then devours a good third of his own in a single bite before leading me around the café to a narrow wooden gate. Pushing it open with his foot, he waits until I have passed through the gap to follow.
‘Wow,’ I breathe, strolling across the wide platform to take in the view. Low-slung clouds drift like soapsuds across a clear, bright sky, while far below, the vast deep-blue puddle of Lake Wakatipu plays affable host to their reflections. Houses as small as Monopoly pieces sit strewn around the shore, and thimble-sized boats chug across the water, each leaving a faint sliver of white in its wake. What really draws my eye, however, is the Remarkables, so mighty and self-assured as they stand like sentries on the far horizon.
‘Quite something, right?’ says Kit, his gaze following my own. ‘And they look even better topped with snow in the wintertime.’
‘I can imagine,’ I mumble, lulled into quiet by the scene spread out below us. There is something undeniably ethereal about New Zealand – it has a spiritual atmosphere. There is so much space and apparent peace up here, and I feel all at once uncaged, as if I could step over the railings and simply float away into the endless blue, up and away from all the confusion and the hurt.
I only realise that I have started to cry when Kit’s concerned face blocks out the view.
‘Hey, what’s up with you?’ he asks, crinkling his pale-mint eyes in sympathy as I accept his proffered napkin.
‘I’m fine,’ I sniff, rubbing furiously at my face. ‘Just being a cretin as usual. Sorry.’
Kit takes a deep breath, and I stare down at the ground, willing him not to pry any further. I never know once I give in to my tears how long they will last, or how wretched I will become.
‘I’m a pretty good listener,’ he offers. ‘Obviously, you can tell me to go away and get stuffed, but I would like to help you, if I can.’
His expression is so genuine that for a second or two I waver, imagining how it would feel to tell him the truth – and not just the facts, but the secret. The one that has anchored me here in this harbour of sorrow.
‘Genie.’
I look up, blinking away a fresh batch of tears.
‘Whatever it is,’ he says, ‘you can tell me. I’m not going to judge you or anything like that.’
I almost laugh at that, because how could he not?
‘I know you lost someone that you cared a lot about,’ he continues, his hands resting on the wooden rail of the balcony. ‘It helps to talk about it, you know. I swear on this.’ He raises a pinky finger.
‘Another two hours uphill, was it?’ I say, giving my cheeks a firm wipe.
Kit nods, but his smile is at half mast.
‘At least.’
‘Well, how about I bet you a beer that I can do it in under one?’
‘A beer?’ he exclaims with delight, limbering up in a ridiculously over-the-top manner. ‘Now you’re talking. I will absolutely take that bet!’
24
Kit clinks his bottle against mine and grins before taking a swig.
‘Come on, ’fess up,’ he says. ‘You were hustling me on that first trail this morning, weren’t you?’
I shake my head as I swallow my own sip of beer.
‘Not at all. I just got into my stride, that’s all.’
‘Hmmm,’ he says, one thick, dark eyebrow slightly raised.
‘I’m even faster across a flat surface,’ I joke, and he barks out a ‘ha’ of amusement.
‘A regular little Road Runner, you are,’ he proclaims.
‘Meep, meep,’ I reply lamely, and again he laughs. It’s a nice sound – deep and authentic.
The two of us are sitting on a large patch of grass not far from the lake, a liquor-store carrier bag on the ground between our outstretched legs which Kit has pinned down with the same bunch of keys that he used to prise the tops off our bottles. I left the choice of ale up to him and was surprised when he returned from the shop with a four-pack of the tequila-flavoured variety. I would have had Kit down as more of a standard beer man.
It’s a relief to be off my feet. The climb up Bob’s Peak today was as tough as Kit had warned it would be, but I do feel good for it. Tomorrow, I will no doubt wake up to delayed onset muscle soreness and be forced to limp around clutching the furniture for support, but for now, I’m perfectly content. It is just after six p.m., and the fierce heat of the day is beginning to mellow. The wide Queenstown pavements are busy with the usual groups of backpackers – many of them sporting Santa hats – as well as families and older couples heading out for an early supper. Christmas songs filter out from the open doors of bars and restaurants, and the surrounding trees have been strung with hundreds of fairy lights.
Kit has finished his first beer and is now lying down flat on his back, his hands laced behind his head and his eyes shut. He is so comfortable in his own skin, this man. I have never met anyone so utterly at ease with the world and their place within it.
‘So,’ I say, watching a gull swoop down and pinch an abandoned chip from one of the outdoor tables of a nearby pub, ‘what does everyone do for Christmas in New Zealand?’
Kit opens one eye.
‘Goes to the beach,’ he replies. ‘There’s always a right big party down here. Some folk go out to Lake Wanaka for the day, and everyone has a barbie, no matter where they end up.’
‘Sounds fun,’ I comment, and Kit props himself up on one elbow. There’s a fine layer of dust all down one side of his shirt.
‘I’m spending the day itself with Allie, Griff and their olds,’ he explains. ‘But I was chewing over the idea of a barbie at the yard the day before. We always close up around lunchtime on Christmas Eve, and I reckon Tui’s dad will be cool with her coming along. Would you be up for it?’
‘Me?’ I exclaim.
Kit gives me the same look he always seems to give me, the one that says, ‘Of course I mean you, you flaming goof.’
‘It’ll be a right hoot, I reckon,’ he adds, reaching into the bag and extracting another bottle. After giving the top a cursory bite, he shakes his head and uses his keys to get it off instead.
Christmas Eve, the anniversary of Anna’s death – a day I should by rights be spending alone, thinking about what I’ve lost, and the part I played in it. But the thought of being alone in my rented apartment, in a different time zone to my friends back home, is unbearably bleak. I can dwell after the barbecue – I will have the entire night to dwell.
‘I’d actually really love to come,’ I tell him, pausing to down the rest of my own beer. ‘But you must let me contribute some food and stuff.’
‘Just bring plenty of beer,’ Kit says. ‘Griff will get through a keg on his own.’
I excuse myself to pay a visit to the very clean public lavatories on the other side of the green, and when I return, Kit is tapping away on his mobile.
‘Bonnie,’ he says, by way of explanation. ‘Should I tell her you’re here after all?’
It is a fair question, and in any normal circumstances, it would make perfect sense for me to say yes – but this situation is very far from being anywhere close to ordinary. I wonder why Kit hasn’t already shipped me – why he wouldn’t have called Bonnie to tell her about me the very minute I was out of range.
‘Er, no – don’t worry,’ I blurt, scraping hurriedly through my unhelpfully empty brain in search of some words – any words. ‘Like you said, she’ll be back soon. I kind of wanted
my visit to be a surprise.’
A surprise, I think bitterly, as if me turning up to confront my long-absent mother is something fun and exciting.
Kit still has his phone in his hand, his fingers poised to type.
‘If that’s what you want,’ he says, seemingly unfussed. I feel a rush of relief.
‘Is she having a nice time in England?’ I ask, feigning casual interest.
‘She didn’t really say,’ Kit replies. ‘Never has been a big one for texting. Truth is, Bon’s a bit old-fashioned. I don’t think she’d have a mobile phone at all if it wasn’t for Tui demanding one, and you should see her trying to use the yard computer – it’s like watching a baby seal trying to tap-dance.’
Despite my inner wariness, I chuckle at the ludicrous image.
I guess this explains why I could find no trace of Bonnie Moon on social media when I finally looked her up, and why Googling her name brought up no helpful results. The Koru Stables website, meanwhile, is rudimentary at best and looks as if it hasn’t been updated in years. It seems the woman who gave birth to me is a future-phobe, and actually, we have that trait in common. Growing up in the shadow of the famous Evangeline has made me wary of putting too much information about myself out into the ether, and I am very strict about who I follow and befriend. I am far more likely to lurk than ever comment or share, and the only posts I look at on Instagram are those relating to horses.
I’m just about to say something intelligent-sounding about the toxic effects of too much technology, when Kit’s phone lights up with a message.
‘This’ll be Bon again,’ he says, only for his brows to knit together as he swipes a finger across the screen.
‘What now?’ he mutters under his breath, and my paranoid heart starts to beat a little harder.
One Winter Morning Page 13