‘I’m not sure—’
‘You’ll be okay, Martha. Trust me. Watch this.’
And with no apparent effort, Ruru had broken into a gallop. It was instantaneous. Tama stayed upright, hat flying behind him on a cord while sand shot up around him. Kakama behaved like a lady, though, and made no attempt to race. When Tama pulled up and whirled around, I was stroking her muscled neck and trying to rally my courage. I admired this man, and childishly wanted his approval. I longed to be a daredevil but I was paralysed by the memory of a horse bolting, tumbling, a leg snapping. Ahead of us lay a long stretch of unbroken sand, but then the beach curved around a headland and was scattered with wicked boulders.
You’ve got children! Mum was apoplectic. How can you consider such selfishness?
‘Go on, Mummy,’ called Finn scornfully. ‘Don’t be a pussy-wussy.’
‘Okay.’ I shut my eyes. ‘Okay. Here goes.’
No, no, no! You’re hopeless. You’ll break your neck this time.
‘I won’t. Tama says I’m safe.’
You’ve a long way to fall, Martha.
‘Shush.’
Your irresponsibility knows no— ‘Oh, piss off!’ I yelled aloud, and kicked with both heels. Kakama’s power was overwhelming: I felt as though I was driving a Porsche and had jammed my foot flat onto the accelerator. I could hear the boys cheering— Go Mummeee—as the foal threw up his tail, bucked gleefully, and dashed alongside. Tama fell in too as we tore along the sand.
I thought I was going to die. No, really. I leaned forward and clutched at the saddle and a handful of cream-coloured mane, sobbing in rigid terror at the wavelets flashing past. The rocks on the headland loomed ever closer, and I imagined the carnage when we hit them.
Then I heard Tama’s voice. ‘You’re fine.’ He sounded amused. ‘Martha, settle down, girl! Sit back.’
Gritting my teeth, I forced myself to release my grip on the saddle and straighten up. Nothing bad happened. With a rush of joy, I relaxed into the rhythm. It was like being injected with exhilaration. Pounding along the foreshore, salt spray flying up around us, I felt as though I would never be frightened again. I wasn’t a mother. I didn’t have two little boys who needed me every moment; I didn’t have a husband who waltzed with alcohol and depression; I didn’t have a beloved daughter who was growing apart from me. I was Martha, and the gates of freedom were creaking open. I heard myself whooping.
Tama slowed as we neared the end of the beach. Kakama—behaving immaculately—did the same without my having to ask, settling through an easy rocking-horse canter into a dignified walk. My heart was smashing right out of my ribs as we sloshed through a couple of feet of waves and safely rounded the headland.
‘See?’ said Tama, replacing his hat. ‘No problem.’
‘Whew.’ Shakily, I leaned forward to kiss Kakama’s sweating neck.
Another beach stretched before us, rockier and edged by pine plantation. The air smelled of seaweed and resin. I felt a sense of something deep within myself, something I didn’t quite recognise. After thinking for some minutes I realised that I was actually proud of myself. I’d done something I’d been afraid to do. For once I hadn’t sat on the fence and watched my children; I hadn’t been the photographer, the waver-off, the cheerer on the sidelines. It had been a long time since I’d had an achievement that wasn’t vicarious.
Mum was appalled. She launched a major nagging offensive, but I shoved her bodily into a cupboard and locked the door. I could hear her muffled protests, hammering and demanding to be let out.
‘What a buzz,’ I said. ‘I feel ten years younger.’
Tama smiled, and the grooves deepened beside his mouth. ‘You’re not just the mother. Or just the chauffeur. Or just the wife. I see too many parents sitting on that fence while the kids do all the living.’
We turned back, chatting easily about local history. Tama described how the early farms would have shipped their wool to Napier from the beach, and their supplies in. He talked about a Maori walking track that ran along the coast before any Europeans arrived. He also had a stash of tall tales about his Scottish grandfather. When Hinemoana’s hill came into view, I remembered the enchanted maiden.
‘Ira told us her story,’ I said. ‘How she was abducted by the patupaiarehe.’ ‘The people of the mist.’ Tama looked thoughtful. ‘Y’know, I was talking to a joker who reckons they still exist. Swears he saw a couple of’em in the headlights of his car. Scared him so much, he was still shaking a week later.’
‘Did you believe him?’
Tama considered the question for a moment, while a breeze stirred the silver-tinged charcoal of his hair. ‘D’you believe in the Loch Ness monster?’
At the end of November, Kit and I took the boys across the hills to Taupo for the day. It was a birthday treat. On their actual birthday they’d be starting school, hurled onto the inexorable treadmill of education. Sacha politely elected not to come, and no amount of bribing or emotional blackmail would change her mind.
Even so, we had a marvellous time. Kit and I lolled in geothermal hot pools while our offspring screamed down a taniwha-mouthed water slide. We picnicked beside the roar of the Huka Falls and spent an hour entertained by the bizarre spectacle of adrenaline junkies hurling themselves off a cliff with bits of elastic strapped to their ankles.
Both boys were fast asleep as we drove up to Patupaiarehe. A brilliant moon was rising above the sea. Kit and I got out of the car and stood for a few minutes at the edge of the garden, wrapped around one another, entranced by the magical light.
‘It’s so still,’ I whispered. ‘We could be the only people in the whole world.’
His arms tightened around me. ‘Now there’s a happy thought.’
We heard Finn stir, and became parents again. ‘Looks as though Sacha’s got company,’ said Kit. ‘See the car down by the smoko hut?’
I walked a few steps closer and squinted along the track. I could just make out the pale shape of a vehicle. ‘Who d’you think it is?’
‘How should I know?’
I tiptoed closer still.
‘You’re a disgrace,’ said Kit. ‘Here, have a camera with a zoom.’
‘Shush. I’m trying to listen. She might have a man in there.’
‘Why don’t you just wire the joint and be done with it?’
‘She’s my baby girl,’ I protested.
‘I’m not sure the young male population around here see her in quite that light. Leave’em be, Martha! You don’t want to catch her doing anything embarrassing, do you?’
‘Nope. That’s where you come in. I want you to get straight down there and make sure there’s no shenanigans.’
In an open display of insurrection, Kit laughed and turned on his heel. ‘Mummy’s gone a bit bonkers,’ he remarked, leaning into the car for Finn, who was drowsily humming with Bob tucked up his sweatshirt. ‘For Pete’s sake, Martha, stop acting like a KGB colonel. Come inside and froth up some of your famous coffee.’
I took his advice, and it wasn’t long before Sacha appeared in the kitchen doorway at the vanguard of a small crowd. Close behind her was Bianka, who greeted Kit with her usual self-possession. I could tell he was struck by her old-fashioned glamour, or perhaps it was the blackberry-coloured lipstick. Sacha gestured at two more girls. ‘Teresa and Taylah.’
Bianka was a hard act to follow, of course, but this duo was spectacularly unmemorable. They had too much eyeliner, straightened hair and a conspicuous lack of dress sense. Neither managed to raise their gazes from the ground, let alone greet me like human beings. I tried to engage them but they just looked gormless. They could have been any pair of production-line teens, anywhere in the western world.
‘And Jani,’ said Sacha.
A young man appeared from behind the group. You could tell whose brother he was, and whose son. He shared the same bloodless beauty as his sister and mother; green eyes, and a suggestion of freckles. He laid an arm around Sacha’s shoulder, and said what
a magnificent place we had here. We asked him about his university course. It turned out that he was studying architecture, and Kit’s eyes lit up.
‘Coffee, guys?’ he ventured hopefully. But they were just off. Inevitably, the dull girls had to be home by eleven, so Sacha walked her friends to Jani’s car.
‘Well,’ observed Kit, ‘I think the politburo can agree unanimously that Jani Varga is a dish. If vampires are your thing.’
‘An improvement on Ivan.’
‘Maybe.’
‘But I don’t think I trust him,’ I fretted. ‘He’s too old, and there’s something just a little too smooth.’
Kit laughed as he opened a tub of Pamela’s ginger crunch. ‘No man will ever get past quality control. If you have your way, that girl will live and die an old maid.’
Sacha stood waving as the car crossed the cattle grid, then came skipping back to us. She looked tail-waggingly pleased with herself, like a gundog dropping a pheasant at the feet of its master. ‘Lovely, isn’t she?’
‘She?’ echoed Kit.
‘Bianka. She has the sweetest smile.’
I had to agree. ‘A stunner, in a retro way.’
‘Spitting image of Greta Garbo,’ said Kit.
‘Did I tell you she’s a lesbian?’
I gaped. ‘Bianka?
’ ‘Openly gay. But nobody gives her any shit, because she is so totally okay with it herself. She’s “take me or leave me, this is who I am”.’
‘Well. Um.’ I forced my features into a look of blasé unconcern. ‘So are you . . .?’
‘If I was bi, I’d definitely fall for Bianka. I’m not, sadly.’ Sacha hugged herself. ‘They’re amazing people. Anita, the mother . . . you met her, Mum. Just incredible. The doctors don’t think they can beat the cancer, but she’s having all this awful experimental treatment just to buy a little more time. She wants to see her children become adults, says that’s all she asks. The dad’s gone to pieces. Jani found him crying last night.’
‘Poor bloke . . . Ginger crunch?’
‘No thanks. I’m on a diet.’ Sacha stood by the sink, pouting like a super-model at her reflection in the window.
Kit helped himself. He loved Pamela’s baking. ‘Daft girl. You’re perfect as you are.’
‘Tabby makes me look like the Michelin Man.’
‘Bet she’s got no bust. I can’t be doing with these flat-chested women.’
‘Er, no,’ Sacha retorted dryly, looking me up and down. ‘So I gathered. You like to have something you can get hold of, don’t you, Kit?’
I squealed in outrage, and she giggled. ‘Well,’ she announced, stretching her arms above her head, ‘lovely night. I’m going to walk down to the road gate and back.’
‘Now?’ I protested.
‘Oh, for goodness’ sake. There’s a full moon, bright as day. Look, there are even shadows.’
‘Moon shadows,’ said Kit.
‘Take cover!’ Sacha held her hands over her ears. ‘Omigod, he’s about to burst into song. Has anyone taken the poor dog out today? No, I thought not. C’mon, Muffin!’
With a wheezy woof of excitement, Muffin hauled herself out of the basket and padded adoringly after her mistress. The air was so clear that I could hear Sacha talking to her long after they’d disappeared over the brow of the hill.
I so wanted my family to be happy. It was all that mattered. Perhaps that’s why I didn’t notice the glittering snake as it uncoiled itself in our garden.
Sixteen
It isn’t peaceful in an intensive care unit. It’s the front line: commotion, alarms, crises. People are dying. People die.
Only last night, Finn was chasing our chickens and catapulting peas off his fork. Now his face has the mottled pallor of sour cream. His eyes are grotesquely puffed up, the whole area a deep, unnatural blue. They’ve put him on a ripple bed, a special mattress to ward off bedsores. He would like that idea. I hold his hand and murmur to him until sounds blur and the light becomes one vibrating sheet of grey. His nurse is watching my every move. Slowly, it dawns on me that the man’s on tenterhooks. He thinks I might try to hurt my son.
All morning, Finn is visited by a stream of medics. I’m only now realising what a massive mobilisation took place when our helicopter landed in the night. Neil Sutherland drops by, still looking tired. The paediatric giraffe, too—his bedside manner hasn’t improved much. There’s an anaesthetist, who tries to explain how the coma works. They all do their best to keep me informed, but none of them can promise that my boy will be himself again.
At two o’clock, the Auckland neurologist appears.
‘I’m an OT,’ I tell her, trying not to sound hysterical. ‘I’m all too familiar with traumatic brain injury. Please be honest. Will Finn be permanently affected?’
She is Chinese, about forty, slightly severe. She thinks carefully before she replies. ‘The surgery went well, but I can’t give you a firm prognosis at this early stage.’
‘You must have an opinion?’
‘Well, there are several positive factors. He’s very young, and he had early intervention. The intracranial pressure is already considerably lower. I don’t think we’ll need to maintain this coma for very long, which is a real plus.’
‘But can you give me an idea of the extent . . . What about blindness— deafness? What about his speech? His personality? His . . . well, you know, his intellect?’
She looks at Finn’s little body. Her face is a blank mask. ‘Recovery is not the same for any two people. We’ll be in a better position to discuss prognosis once he’s conscious. I’m sorry.’
I thank her. Once she’s gone I try Kit’s phone yet again. Voicemail. Needing Tama’s unquestioning calm, I call home.
‘All good on the western front,’ he says. ‘Don’t you worry about anything here. Ira’s coming in later. How is the little guy?’
‘Stable.’ I feel stronger for hearing his voice. ‘Thank you, Tama. I don’t know how I would have managed.’
‘Cut that out.’
‘How are Charlie and Sacha?’
He hesitates. ‘Well, as you’d expect, pretty upset . . . Sacha just about fainted when I told her what’s happened, poor kid. In a hell of a state. She’s fast asleep right now, though. Flat out with this flu. Her friend’s here.’
‘Friend?’ I was bemused. ‘What friend?’
‘Er . . . young lass called Bianka. She’s upstairs in Sacha’s bedroom. Been with her all day.’ I’m digesting this information when he speaks again. ‘Charlie came for a ride on Ruru this morning. Sat up in front of me like a little prince. We moved some stock, had a great time . . . didn’t we, fella?’
I hear Charlie’s voice piping in the background.
‘He wants to speak to you,’ says Tama. ‘All right?’
‘Um . . .’ I clear my throat. ‘Yep. Put him on.’
Muffled conversation, then the sound of small hands dropping the receiver. I wait with closed eyes, dreading the gentle optimism of Charlie’s world because I know it may soon be destroyed.
‘Mummy?’
I nearly let him down. Sorrow surges into my throat. I swallow it back but it sticks somewhere in my chest. ‘Hello, Charlie! Have you . . .’ My voice splinters. I take a long breath. ‘Have you had a nice time with Tama?’
‘He took me riding. We saw baby calves . . . Where’s Finn?’
I look at the ruined figure on the bed. ‘He’s here, beside me.’
‘Did he fall off the balcony?’
‘He did, Charlie.’
A sniff. ‘Silly old Finny. Is he coming home today?’
‘Not today. But he will be all right, you’ll see. He’ll be all right. The doctors and nurses are looking after him.’
‘Can I talk to him on the telephone?’
Tears force their way past my defences. They hurt. They bruise. ‘No, he’s asleep. But I’ll give him your love.’
‘He hasn’t got his Game Boy.’
‘True, but he does have Buccan
eer Bob. And when he’s a bit better, you can bring him his Game Boy.’
‘Tama and me fed the lamb. Tell Finn.’
‘I’ll tell him.’
He must have dropped the phone again. I hear scrabbling, and Tama’s voice. Then Charlie’s. ‘Where’s Dad?’
Good question. ‘He’ll be home soon.’
‘He is home. He was by my bed in the night.’
I’m silenced for a moment, appalled. I can hear Mum laughing. Then I whisper, ‘No, sweetie. Dad’s not back from Ireland yet.’
Charlie shouts in distress, ‘He was here, though. I saw him.’
‘You didn’t.’
‘I did! He kissed me. He picked Blue Blanket up from the floor and tucked it in with me.’
‘You were dreaming. We all miss Dad.’
Heavy, stubborn breathing. ‘Wasn’t dreaming.’
‘He’ll be home before you know it.’
‘Wasn’t dreaming! He promised to take us to Jane’s. He wanted to see the baby rabbits.’
‘And he will. Everything’s going to be all right.’
‘Mm.’ There is a long pause, with babyish snuffling. I see the thumb going in, the wide and wondering eyes. ‘Where do people go, when they die?’
‘Charlie, nobody’s going to die.’
‘If Finn dies, he will be lonely. He’ll want to come home.’
What do you do when someone you love has made the world explode?
Seventeen
Charlie and Finn turned five on the first of December. In line with New Zealand tradition, we plotted to pack them off to primary school on that very day—midweek—thus committing the poor little buggers to thirteen years on a wheel of suffering. Some birthday present.
We’d visited the school already. It had taken the twins about two seconds to work out that Torutaniwha Primary was paradise, even if they couldn’t pronounce its name. Mr Grant, the bearded principal, gave them lollipops, and the new entrants’ teacher fussed over them like a broody hen. Mrs Martin was young, enthusiastic and heavily pregnant.
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