Ben looked away. There was no easy place to leave his eyes in this small room.
The woman lifted four ice cream tubs out of her basket. He was seriously confused. Some literacy class!
She arranged them in a row in front of him. Vanilla. Vanilla. Vanilla. Vanilla. He could tell by the picture on the lid, the same on each, a scoop of the creamy white stuff. He hadn’t had ice cream in the longest time. He missed it. Not so much the sweetness, as the texture and temperature on your tongue. All the food in prison had the same feel. Lukewarm and slop-soft.
‘Mr Haslop tells me you’ve been given a job in kitchens.’
Jeez, was the woman stalking him?
‘We’ve been impressed with your progress recently,’ Haslop had said to him. ‘That left hook of yours at last behaving itself, Ben. In fact, I note you’ve not been involved in any disruptive behaviour for some months now.’ Ben had yawned. ‘So we’ve decided to trial you in the kitchens.’
Working in the kitchens came with serious perks. Kitchen workers had their own gym. There was no lockdown in the daytime. You got first choice of kai. And perhaps the greatest benefit was that it quickened the slow creep of time.
‘As you know, this comes with privileges and responsibilities,’ Haslop had continued. ‘What we’re saying to you, Ben, is that we are placing our trust in you. I hope you’ll not disappoint us. This could be the next step to getting out of here, the next step towards reclaiming your life.’
Ben looked at the Reid woman now sitting in front of him. The light was coming from behind her. She was wearing a baby-blue jumper with fine hairs of wool that stood out in a soft, fuzzy aura. Bizarrely, something about it reminded him of the big mustard-coloured sweater his mum used to wear on cold, rainy days. As a kid, he’d loved snuggling up to her, the soft sweater enveloping him in big folds of woolly skin. He shifted in his chair.
‘I hear kitchen work is one of the most sought-after jobs.’
‘Yeah,’ Ben said in a really loud voice, trying to scare her off. Her face stayed the same – calm. He looked around for a clock. He wanted the hour over and done with.
She placed an oblong piece of card down on the table. ‘Know what this is?’
Ben knew. He couldn’t read the writing, but recognised it immediately. It got pinned up in the kitchen at the start of each week. The prison menu planner.
‘Can you read any of it?’
Suddenly he was back in Mr Roberts’s class and everyone was laughing at him.
‘Ben?’
He hardened his jaw and his eyes.
‘It can’t be a good feeling,’ she said, ‘not being able to read. Being reliant on others to interpret the world for you.’
‘I don’t need no one to interpret my world,’ he said with a sneer.
She pulled out a yellow book with the face of an old guy on the cover. ‘See this man?’ She held out the book.
He jerked backwards. She was invading his space.
She kept her arm outstretched. Her fingers were long, just like his mum’s.
‘This man learnt to read at the age of ninety-eight.’ she said. ‘Ninety-eight! Can you believe that?’
Ben took the book just to get her off his back. It felt weird. The weight of it. He thought it would’ve been lighter. The cover was smooth.
Strangely, holding it made him feel important, like he was one of those legals dressed in a suit, who always smelt super clean. He’d never held a book before, not a real book. Sure, he’d had A4 exercise books at school, but not one with lots of pages filled with perfectly square black writing.
He brought it in closer. The old guy on the cover’s eyes momentarily trapped him – straight-looking, bright eyes.
‘You can learn too, Ben. You’re smart enough, that’s for sure.’
He dug his feet into the ground to stop himself from being sucked into this woman’s world. Words like ‘smart’ and ‘I know how hard’ were drawing him in.
‘So today I thought we’d begin with fruit salad.’
Far out! Never mind fruit salad, this woman was a fucking fruit cake.
‘A recipe for fruit salad. One you can use in the kitchens.’ She started to open the ice cream tubs.
Ben peered inside. No ice cream.
‘Unfortunately, they wouldn’t let me bring in a knife,’ she said with a tilt of her head. ‘So I had to cut up all the fruit beforehand.’
He snorted. Just the thought of this woman bringing a knife into prison. He made his face serious again.
She passed him the spoon. ‘Now tip the apples into the big bowl.’
He leant forward and found the tub of cubed apples. They were browning at the edges. In they went. Then the woman was holding up a piece of card.
‘Apple. See how it’s spelt: A-P-P-L-E. Follow my finger as I say it.’
Did she think he was five years old or something?
He made a cursory show of looking at the card.
‘Next, bananas.’
It seemed like forever since he had eaten a solid, sweet banana. There was no banana in any fruit salad he’d eaten inside. Once a month, at breakfast, they might get a cup of ‘fruit salad’, but it was just cubes of tinned peaches with a few pieces of floury apple floating on top.
‘B-A-N-A-N-A.’
He rolled his eyes. ‘Fruit salad,’ he hissed between pursed lips.
‘Good. Now for the peaches and pears.’
Peaches and pears. He was getting hungry. He’d not tasted a fresh pear, or a peach for that matter, before.
He nonchalantly tipped out the contents of the last two tubs. They smelt like some other life, of green grass, blue sky and sunshine.
‘See how both these words begin with the same three letters?’ she said. ‘We say them a bit differently, though. We say …’ She twisted her mouth up as she repeated them. ‘I know it’s confusing, but that’s English for you. Always playing tricks on us.’
Us. Ben’s body prickled.
The woman unrolled a big piece of paper. As she smoothed it out, he saw that there were hundreds of crazy cartoons jumbled all over it, the page packed with pictures. Some of the drawings were so minute he could barely make them out. He couldn’t take in the whole picture at once it was so busy.
‘Use this magnifying glass,’ she said, handing him a thick circle of glass stuck to the end of a stick.
Ben sighed and grabbed it. It would have some uses inside. He’d try and snaffle it when she wasn’t looking.
‘Hold it over the poster.’
He made an exaggerated show of doing this. The pictures behind the glass grew bigger. There was a dog sitting inside an orange kennel. A pink house in the clouds. Loads of korus. A rugby ball. Some square black words.
‘Now see if you can find the fruit salad words.’
He knew there was a catch. The stupid woman was just trying to humiliate him. He dropped the magnifying glass.
‘Hidden somewhere on this page are those four fruit words,’ she said, seemingly oblivious to his protest.
Ben’s heart knocked against his ribs. So she wanted to show him up, well he wouldn’t give her the satisfaction.
Then he saw it, tucked up under SpongeBob Square Pants. ‘PEACH!’ he cried, jumping up.
She laughed.
She looked different. She had the whitest teeth he’d ever seen, packed in two tidy rows like notes on a piano keyboard.
He sat down and made his face serious again.
‘How about you find “banana”,’ she said, her smile dying too. ‘Then we can eat some fruit salad to finish off. You’ll be eating your words,’ she said with a smile.
Beyond
Stand tall, I shout! This is an important moment, Benjamin Toroa. You cannot yet hear me, so why do I raise my voice? Even when I find you unguarded in your sleep, your dreams still thwart me. Though I suppose one cannot dream about things of which one is ignorant. You do not yet know what great people you are descended from. Do not realise that their blood runs through
your veins, and their aspirations lie buried within you – seeds that can be cultivated.
So much has changed for our people. Sometimes even I feel the walls of my story bow under the pressure of all that has changed. Our people have been corralled so far down this new road that at my lowest I wonder if we can ever go back. If you look over your shoulder, Benjamin, it is now hard to see what was left behind.
You inhabit a world where too many children die. And not just from the pox. Too many women cower in corners and accept. There are those who drink till they cannot remember, the fuzz and fury of alcohol changing who they are. And those who smoke the small glass pipe, corroding their conscience … It was not always like this. Violence finds an easy home living with the poor, the dislocated, the isolated. And like yeast left unattended, swells and grows, spilling into and onto everything.
But give up? Never! What mother gives up on her child? And you are my child. Our child. All of Māoridom’s child.
We cannot only watch over the good. I persist with you, Benjamin, for every day brings a new sunrise, just as every winter is surely followed by a spring, and just as today this Pākehā woman chose to look forward. I will never give up, because I have spied something that sparkles like gold dust within you, and it waits to be found … by you.
Chapter Thirty-Five
BEN
Gravy trickled down Ben’s chin. He speared another chunk of beef. Music pounded. It was Sunday. He was hanging with Owen and Marvelle in Marvelle’s crib, the three enjoying a communal feed and sharing what their respective visitors had brought them. Marvelle’s tongue searched for a greasy noodle stuck to his cheek, then he crammed another forkful of chop suey into his mouth, before passing Owen the plastic container.
Marvelle’s lag was eight years. Ben didn’t know for what – Marvelle never said – but he liked hanging with the guy. He was a choice card player and had a wicked sense of humour. He also had a great voice and could do an awesome impersonation of Vanilla Ice. It helped that Marvelle was built like a powerhouse. Since Ben had been invited into Marvelle’s inner circle, no one bothered picking a fight with him any more.
‘What you got there, bro?’ Marvelle asked, pointing to Ben’s tub.
‘Osso bucco,’ Ben said, his tongue wrapping itself carefully around the words.
‘Ozo fucking what?’
‘Ossss-o buuu-co, dumbo,’ Ben repeated. ‘It’s bray … uh … braised veal. Osso means “bone” in Italian and buco means “hole”. “Hole-in-the-bone”, ’cos the best bit’s the marrow, man.’ And with a loud slurp, he sucked up the pocket of jelly hiding in the centre of the bone. ‘Want some?’ He held out his tub.
‘You’ve lost the plot, cuz,’ Marvelle said, pulling a face. ‘Gone soft in the head ever since that woman came calling. She’s sucked out your bloody marrow, that’s what.’ He tapped his skull.
Owen, who’d been lying on the bunk, burst out laughing, his saliva spraying across the room. ‘Next thing, you’ll be asking the screws for conjugal favours with the ho,’ he said, chortling. ‘Mr and Mrs Ozo Buko.’
Ben lunged across the room and grabbed Owen by the throat. ‘Shut the fuck up.’
Owen’s face darkened.
‘Get off him!’ Marvelle shouted. ‘You’re strangling him.’ He grabbed a handful of Ben’s track top. Ben looked down at Owen’s dusky face. Marvelle brought his elbow up around Ben’s neck and pulled, and they both fell backwards onto the floor.
Owen stood up, coughing and gasping for breath. He stumbled, steadied himself, then staggered out of the cell.
Marvelle pointed to the door. ‘Get out!’ he said to Ben. ‘Get the fuck out of my crib. You’ve changed, man. Gone fuckin’ weird, you have.’
Back in his own cell, Ben cursed, his fists clenched and his eyes screwed up. What was happening to him? It was like some spirit had set up shop in his brain. Who was he? He didn’t know any more. Why had he got so upset with them for dissing the stupid Reid woman?
It had started out as a ploy, part of a greater plan to get out of prison. He’d forced himself not to be rude to her, pushing out politeness and acting like he was concerned. Then she’d begun arriving with food. At first, he reckoned she was trying to poison him, but after testing it on some of the newbies, he’d been won over. Free kai was free kai, and you could never get enough inside. Plus, it was food like he’d not tasted before. Seriously good food.
The sham had become easier over time, and occasionally he’d had to remind himself it was all bogus. Like an actor had started living his role and couldn’t confidently pin down who Ben Toroa was any more.
But it was when he started learning to read, that weird things really began to happen. His anger sort of burnt down like a candle, till there was only a short wick drowned in a pool of melted resentment. Rumbles didn’t interest him much any more, while learning a new word gave him the same high a left hook used to do.
‘Stupid bitch!’ He punched the wall, his fingers crunching against the concrete. He grimaced, but it wasn’t pain he felt, just fury. All to do with that ho. She’d enticed him into her web and wrapped him up in her sticky string, and he’d been blind to it. Now he’d pissed off his two best mates. That was it! He’d tell her next week. No more visits.
Chapter Thirty-Six
CARLA
She’d stop at Albany library en route to Paremoremo. An email had arrived notifying her that a book she’d requested – Grammar 101 – had finally come in. The librarian had recommended it. Carla’s grammar was rusty, and needed some revision, before she attempted to teach it.
Cupping her hands to shut out the morning glare, she peered through the wall of glass. A figure was moving about inside, switching on lights and computers, and readying the room for the day. Four minutes till opening.
The library and courtyard still looked new, standing out against the tired village backdrop. Tree roots had not yet disturbed the concrete pavers, and the powder-coated joinery surrounding the wide-paned windows was still pristine. A life-size bronze rooster balanced in the middle of the courtyard on a tippling chair, the sculpture tidily encased in a square of buxus hedging. Carla stroked the bronze bird, running her fingers over the scalloped feathers and outstretched wings. She pushed her hand hard up against the bird’s open beak. The sharpness was real, the discomfort almost pleasurable. It was a beautiful piece of art, capturing real life so honestly.
Nine o’clock. The library doors swooshed open.
Inside, traces of the librarian’s perfume confused the familiar and comforting smell Carla so relished – that musty, sweet mix of aged bindings, page-trapped air, and old ink.
She collected the book she’d requested and headed out into the morning. With still an hour before she was due at the prison, she headed for the bakery across the way, wooed there by the aroma of freshly ground coffee beans and warm bread.
Carla rarely bought coffee out. For nearly the same price, she could buy a jar of instant at the supermarket, and it would last her a month. Lately, though, she’d become more reckless, challenging the rules she’d prescribed herself.
‘Morning.’ A wrinkly Chinese man peered out from behind a cabinet of sticky buns, Louise slice, and apricot shortcake.
‘A half-strength flat-white please and a Chelsea bun.’
Many businesses were now owned by Asian people. So much had changed over recent years, and not only in Carla’s small life. The very fabric of New Zealand was being rewoven, with more and more foreigners settling in the country. The influx of Chinese people, in particular, had seen a swell of animosity amongst New Zealanders, many resenting the expensive cars and designer clothes flaunted in the face of tough economic times. Carla herself had harboured some prejudice. It was only after meeting Mingyu, her delightful neighbour, that her preconceptions had been split wide open.
With a steaming paper cup in hand, she strolled over to Kell Park and sat down on a bench. With one hand, she paged through the library book. It was just what she was after – si
mple explanations, bold print, and multiple examples. However, she wouldn’t be showing it to Ben just yet; she had something else planned for the day’s lesson. The time was right.
A lone rooster ventured closer and began scratching in the dust at Carla’s feet. It was a mangy old thing, with dull, moth-eaten feathers and a scarred crest. Perhaps a remnant of the bantam population that once roamed the park.
Some years back there’d been much debate in the local gazette about the Albany ‘chook problem’. To cull or not to cull? Nearby residents had voiced their frustration over the noise and mess created by the ever-increasing avian population, while media reports highlighted the desperate lengths some ‘fowl-mouthed’ residents had gone to in order to ensure a peaceful night’s sleep. The grisly discovery of a dismembered bird had caused outrage amongst animal lovers, and further fuelled the call to action. At the time Carla couldn’t have envisaged an Albany without chickens. For as long as she could remember, they’d been a part of the landscape – before restaurant, supermarket, house, or highway. In fact, the rooster was a symbol of Albany village and even on its logo, dating back to when it was just paddocks, orchards, and a ramshackle old dairy that served the biggest scoops of hokey-pokey ice cream around.
Carla sighed. Nothing remained the same. To survive meant to adapt.
As the sun stripped back the cloud cover, she found herself bathed in its gentle morning heat. What a ride the past months had been. The prison lessons had progressed at a stuttering and unpredictable pace. Some days she’d return home energised by the advances she and her student had made. Other times she felt despondent and frustrated by Ben’s belligerent and wilful stagnation. Then there was the day he managed to make an instant chocolate pudding on his own by following the simple instructions she’d taped to the back of the box. That was a high point – a glimmer of hope breaking through the cracks in his act. That day had diluted her hatred of him, and her cynicism. For the first time she’d felt as if she was possibly succeeding in her mission.
The Last Time We Spoke Page 19