Motel View

by Forbes Williams

  Because we can't trust you, Alan. Because ten minutes after we walk out the door you'll be ringing up friends and inviting them round for a party. Because we're your parents. Because, young man, you'll do as you're told.

  Later, Cass went through the same thing. I felt sorry enough for her, but I wasn't entirely displeased, because I felt this proved beyond doubt where the problem really was. After she had her time out in the cold I got on better with Cass, but at the time of our last holiday she was still her Daddy's little green-eyed girl, and I hated her almost more than my parents—as one always hates collaborators.

  Everyone knows that holidays tend to intensify any family or relationship difficulties. Lots of people will tell you their worst ever family rows were on holiday. In that little cottage and it raining for three days without stopping; all this bullshit pressure to have a good time … I knew before my father turned the car-key the holiday would be a disaster.

  Most years we travelled to Hope Springs on Boxing Day, a kind of karmic torture to make up for the excesses of pleasure the day before, but my father had extra stuff on at work and we didn't end up leaving till New Year's Eve. As usual everyone was testy and short. We had the car radio on—mainly just to keep us sane—and it was on the news, with about an hour of the journey still to go, that we first heard that ‘acting on information received’ police were now concentrating their search for Dean Kidd and his daughter on Hope Springs. My father leant forward and fiddled with the tuning.

  That poor girl, said my mother a couple of times. She'd been saying this same thing all week and it was starting to get on my nerves. Of course I agreed it was terrible but it was also exciting. You never heard about Hope Springs on the news, and yet here we were actually driving right there when it was. I had visions of the prisoner hiding out in our cottage, of us finding them there when we arrived; over the next couple of hours me talking him into handing over his daughter and after that managing to convince him not to kill himself. Tomorrow every paper in the country would have me on the front page. Later I'd be invited to a conference of suicide counsellors to explain my methods …

  Every second New Year's Eve there was a huge party in Hope Springs, usually in the motorcamp. Literally hundreds would come along. The event was biennial rather than annual because every other year it was banned, the result of some late-night incident involving police the previous time, usually a fight of some sort—though the point of contention at the last one had in fact been a floating bonfire which had come loose from the ropes mooring it to shore when the fire burnt through them. While everyone at the party cheered themselves silly, a slight breeze propelled it towards the marina, but so slowly the fire brigade had time to get there to meet it and it was out by the time it got over there anyway.

  I'd attended that party strictly off the record. New Year's or no New Year's, if alcohol was likely to be involved it was off limits. Largely this was because my parents had something of a phobia about me possibly getting into trouble with the police, even though this had never actually happened. Normally I would have just lied I was at Micky's but he was away and stupidly I'd mentioned this. Instead, around nine o'clock, I made a grand speech to my family about how moronic I thought New Year's Eve really was, how it was only the changing of the date just like every other night, and that I was going to bed in protest. I even put on my pyjamas and got into bed; left the light on and read for a while. Sure enough, about ten minutes later my father was in to try and change my mind. I told him I wasn't interested and got him to switch out the light when he left. After that I knew it was safe.

  This year all that became academic, because we were invited instead as a family to a small, private, one-beer-if-you're-good party across the road, at the Harveys', one of the flasher holiday places up our end of town. It was double-storey for a start, with a large wooden anchor on the front wall and Bella Vista scripted underneath, a clash of styles that seemed to pass the Harveys by. In fact their place didn't really have a view of anything, but I guess it sounded good when they bragged about it back home.

  At least there was Dean Kidd to talk about—it turned out he actually came from Hope Springs—and the Harveys did have two pretty daughters to admire. I had a medium-grade desire for Katrina, the older one, a tall, pale-skinned girl with short blond hair and long thin arms that drove me spare, all smooth and bare in a summer frock cut off at the shoulders. The good thing was that because I had such contempt for her family, I'd always managed to hold back from falling in love completely, though I have to admit I did teeter on the brink once or twice.

  Over the years I'd developed a fantasy that involved both Katrina and her younger sister Jasmine. They were down at the lake when Jasmine, unable to swim, fell in. Katrina couldn't swim either, and as Jasmine's panicked struggling only drove her further from the shore, it became apparent she would drown without rescue. Luckily I came along just in time, diving in still fully clothed and dragging her back to shore in the manner of professional lifesavers. Back on land I resuscitated her as necessary.

  Naturally Katrina's heart melted in the face of my efficient and humble heroism, and tenderly and without embarrassment she thanked me for saving her sister's life in the way I most of all wanted, right then and there at the lakeside. Gently I kissed her arms. And every night we'd sneak back, because her desire to thank me was infinite …

  I watched them the whole night. At midnight I made sure I was standing near them; I thought when Katrina and I kissed I could try to hold her just that little bit longer, for once let her know how I felt … but when it came to the time my courage deserted me and instead we exchanged a quick sexless peck and moved on.

  At about one the party was still going strong, but my mother wanted me and Cass to go home. There was no real reason why we should, other than her wanting us to, but always in these situations the original debate would become obscured by offences that occurred in the subsequent argument. This dispute hissed its way right through the Harveys', coming finally to a conclusion with a brief shouting match in the upstairs hall. I remember knocking a painting off the wall with my shoulder. My mother calling me arrogant. Me telling her to piss off.

  Even after that, back at home I could probably have apologised—even if the whole thing was my mother's fault—and let the matter die a natural death. Believe me, that was my intention, to cut my losses and keep the peace; after all, one of my New Year's resolutions had been to get on better with my parents. To this day I still don't fully understand why it happened so differently from the plan.

  We assembled in the kitchen. My parents sat in chairs at either end of the kitchen table; I stood by the fridge, near the door.

  Well, said my father, what do you think Alan? Do you think this is acceptable?

  No Dad, I said.

  Then apologise to your mother. Sincerely.

  I looked at her. To my eyes she looked almost pleased, like a dog out on a walk wanting to show off its freedom to another tied up in its yard. It occurred to me I hadn't told her to piss off because of any loss of control, but because that's exactly what I thought she should do. I felt strangely calm, the path before me clear and my journey along it already somehow written.

  With pleasure, I said. I stepped forward to the table and picked up a glass, spun round on one heel and smashed it into the fridge door. Bits of glass flew all over the room. When I turned back to the table my parents hadn't moved, too astonished to believe what they'd just seen. Just in case there was any doubt I took another and did the same thing. I crunched over broken glass to the hallway door, turned to face them. Just fuck off out of my life! I stepped out into the hall and slammed the door as hard as I could. It bounced back open so I slammed it again harder. I hate your fucking guts! I screamed. Cass had come out of her room. I shoved her out of the way. It felt good to be telling the truth at last. Happy fucking New Year you cocksuckers!

  Ten minutes later in bed my heart was still thumping and my stomach felt tight. My mouth was uncomfortably dry. I
could just make out Cass and my parents, talking softly in the kitchen. I tried to think of Katrina, go through the rescue fantasy; I'd been so looking forward to doing it with her beauty still fresh in my mind. Now, with the chance, I couldn't.

  The first Hope Springs summer my father befriended another holidaymaker one day out fishing. This was Keith Cairns, a sportsmad real estate agent, who through a business contact helped us secure a cottage we could rent the following year. It was on the main highway north, the second last house before paddocks; two-and-a-half paddocks to the trout.

  The cottage itself was built right at the back of the property, leaving a massive front lawn protected on the sides and from the road by tall, unkempt hedges. My father taught me casting on that lawn, and it was there I most often eclipsed Gary Sobers' individual test highest score of 365, going on in one instance to make 607 not out. And it was there I had my earliest driving lessons. One of my very first attempts I accidentally did a wheelie as I moved off, ripping two ugly trenches through the grass that were still clearly visible a year later. My father almost seemed to think I'd done it on purpose to show off; in fact it was simply my incompetence.

  Inside, the cottage was tiny; four of us in the living-room with a Monopoly board was a squeeze. The biggest room was the kitchen, almost one whole side of the house. The summers it rained a lot we practically lived in that room, keeping it warm with the old coal stove. A lean-to out the back provided two extra bedrooms only a little wider than a single bed, but with the white painted tongue-in-groove walls and ceiling and the noise the rain made on the tin roof, my bedroom there was a special, secret haven, almost more favoured than my more practical bedroom at home.

  It was raining when I woke up the first morning of the year that final Hope Springs summer. I lay on my back in bed for over an hour, with one eye lining up different strips of wood on the opposite wall with a piece of string hanging from the ceiling; all the while trying to work out what to do about my parents. I'd approached all-time records with my language of the night before; in fact cocksuckers probably did constitute a new mark. There was no way I'd wriggle out of that. On the other hand, I had a special kind of ability to remove myself from all the fuss at times like these, as if I could pull the actual me out of my physical body and hide it elsewhere in the room while my parents ranted and raved at the shell of flesh left behind, which was programmed to act only with the deepest respect and sincerely apologise on demand. Manners maketh man.

  In the end I simply had to get up to empty my bladder. After I'd pissed I gulped several mouthfuls of water from the tap. When I came back out into the hall my mother was standing there waiting.

  Your father wants to see you. Her voice was flat, almost bored.

  Yes, I said. Listen, Mum, about last night …

  Don't Alan. There's nothing to say. You've had your chance to give us your thoughts and they were certainly most interesting, if a little short on vocabulary.

  I just wanted …

  Just get dressed and go and talk to your father.

  Yes Mum. You always knew you were in extra big trouble if you were actually prevented from apologising. There would be a time for that, of course, but not yet.

  I found my father in the garage, playing about with the car. His game was to keep me waiting. He removed, cleaned and replaced a spark plug with pantomime concentration before finally breaking the silence. Even then he wouldn't look at me.

  You'll be pleased to know I've found you something to do that will keep us out of your hair.

  You're not in my hair, Dad.

  No? That wasn't the impression you gave us last night. Anyway, I've found you something to do. He got back under the bonnet, started on the next plug. I waited a polite time before asking what it was he'd found. This keeping me on a string was all just part of my punishment. It was always a mistake to react too soon.

  What doing, Dad? I said finally. I tried to sound cheerful, as if I actually wanted to do his little job.

  Helping the police, he said, still under the bonnet. There's a rag on the bench behind you. Could you pass it over?

  I handed him the rag and got under the bonnet with him, quietly watched him work, normally a sign of intimacy between us. I think nearly all the personal conversations my father and I had were out fishing or under the bonnet.

  What exactly doing, Dad?

  They're organising a proper search for that prisoner. Damn! Can you grab that for me? … they seem to think they've got a pretty good idea where to look. Pass it here … anyway, they've appealed on the radio for volunteers to help them. He finally stopped what he was doing and looked at me. So I figure you can volunteer. You're to be at the Memorial Hall at two this afternoon.

  Now it was my time to pause. And how much say have I got in all this?

  I think you gave up the right of a say last night. Besides, aren't you even concerned about that girl? Don't you have any feelings for her?

  I think maybe she's a bit young for me, I said.

  Don't start, Alan. There was a look of non-comprehension on his face, of hurt, as if he couldn't believe half my genes were his, that there must have been some mistake at the maternity hospital, some accidental swap … who knows what could have happened to his real son? Probably doing law or medicine at Oxford … You know, he said, I wouldn't talk to a dog the way you spoke to us last night. I wouldn't talk to a dirty stinking rat the way you talked. Why don't you wash out your mouth?

  One of my theories about me and my parents was that my mother was jealous of the way my father and I got on. She'd see us coming back from fishing together, all joking and laughing and secretive, and she just wouldn't be able to cope with being left out. There were often arguments after fishing. What I couldn't understand was why my father always had to take her side of the argument, why it was always me who ended up having to apologise. I couldn't remember her ever apologising to me. Surely I couldn't be in the wrong 100 per cent of the time.

  One thing was certain: I didn't want to join any search party, not for anything or anybody. I knew I'd be the youngest, with no one really to talk to; that the work would be boring and in all probability a big waste of time. And what if I did come across this guy, what was I going to do? A citizen's arrest? As for working with the police, well, my cred would be sky high after that.

  As the hours slowly unrolled towards two o'clock I sat in my bedroom replaying over and over in my mind those few seconds of anarchy that at the time had felt so perfect. Condemned prisoners must do the same thing, as if somehow in all those replays they might actually even convince history … now I just wished I'd kept my stupid mouth shut. The only hope was that they would actually catch this guy soon, before any search could get underway. Maybe he'd give himself up. But when I listened to the news on my transistor at one they were still calling for volunteers. I began to think about simply refusing to do it. Or, more realistic perhaps, pretending to go but in fact skiving off. There was no way my parents would ever be able to know …

  My father came in with a sandwich. Come on tiger, he said. Eat this. You could be out there a while. You'll need your strength.

  Yeah, yeah. I took the plate, looked up at him, straight in the eye like he'd always taught me. He had gentle eyes, my father; green, like Cass. How come you're not doing this Dad? I said. Don't you care about the little girl?

  For the first time that year he smiled at me. But I am, he said. I do.

  Holidaymakers find it hard as a rule to break into the true social network of a town; there's a natural system resistance that denies them. In our summers in Hope Springs almost all the people we got to know to any degree were visitors the same as us. I suppose it's really just a smaller version of how we all act towards overseas tourists; theirs is another world, the New Zealand they visit nothing like the one we actually live in. On the other hand, if they return often enough visitors acquire a series of glimpses that together form a kind of time-lapse view, grander than real time can see. Oh sure, there's local knowle
dge, the balance of success and hard-luck stories, the general mood of the people. But it's the returning tourist who best recognises a place irrevocably in decline.

  The earliest history of Te Puna o Tumanako is at best contentious. In the 1990s debate over the town's name so many different versions of this distant past came to light—all undermining one another's authenticity—that the truth is now forever lost in a confusion of claims and counter-claims, nearly all of dubious ancestry. The degree of Maori settlement in pre-European times, for instance, ranges in the different stories from none at all through to the site being a major spiritual centre, a place of healing as famous through the country then as it ever would be again.

  The camp fighting for retention of the Pakeha name tended to agree that whites first settled the region in the late 1840s, when a group of three or four families arrived from the north. Originally intending to settle in another valley nearby, they were stymied by map vagueness and ended up instead at the site where the central town monument stands today. Obviously they found the place acceptable enough to stay on, no doubt lured by the thermal springs, the natural beauty of the lake, and the bizarre unexplained microclimate that sees the valley anything up to four degrees warmer than those surrounding it.

  It was James McAndrew, son of one of the original families, who first worked to develop the springs. Some say he was aware of Maori legends attributing special powers to them; others tell of his mother miraculously cured of arthritis. Either way, as word of the special healing qualities of the springs' water spread, the spa rapidly became town centrepiece, a thriving business success and the thing that really got Hope Springs on the map.