After the Fall

by Norman, Charity

  ‘I miss Milton Keynes,’ I whispered. ‘I miss the M1 and that twenty-four-hour Tesco and the horrid orange streetlights that shone right into our bedroom. I miss the juggernauts rattling our house.’

  ‘Careful,’ warned Kit. ‘No sane woman would talk like that.’

  ‘I keep thinking about things . . . the silver jug, your camera. Sacha’s locket.’

  ‘They’ll all turn up. We’re not even unpacked yet.’

  ‘I’m starting to think we have a poltergeist.’

  He waved his arms. ‘Woooh!’ Then he leaned against me, resting his chin on top of my head, and I could feel him shaking with laughter.

  I looked up onto the roof. I swear those eyes were glinting, in the dark.

  Nineteen

  Christmas. Barbecues and cold beer, mosquitoes in the airless nights. It wasn’t right; it was cock-eyed. The Colberts threw a party and we met more neighbours. We cut down a small cypress from beside our track and stuck it in a pot as a gawky Christmas tree. Cards poured in from England— snowy scenes and red-breasted robins perched on the handles of spades. My father sent an e-card with a bunch of fabulously camp reindeer, all singing an inane but cheery little song. I watched it about a thousand times, but I only cried twice.

  Sacha’s solid-gold school report arrived in the post and my chest stuck out for a week. Exemplary student . . . talented musician . . . delight to teach . . . asset to the school. I never once had a report like that. Perhaps if I had, my mother would have liked me.

  The primary school put on a nativity play set in Rarotonga, followed by their end-of-year barbecue, a laid-back shindig on the beach. Kit drank a little too much, along with half the other parents. People were friendly but they weren’t my own. I’d have given up ten such events for a single hour with Lou and Dad.

  By Christmas Eve, Kit and I were sickened by the way we’d been seduced—yet again—by the glittering insanity of the season. We vowed to have a present-free Christmas the following year. We promised this every year and never even got close, although as a sop to my middle-class conscience I always put a goat or duck for Somalia in each stocking. The twins were overexcited and I had a splitting headache. Sacha took pity on me, offering to do bedtime and bribing the boys with extra stories.

  ‘Sit down,’ ordered Kit, pulling out a chair at the kitchen table. ‘Take five minutes.’

  He opened a bottle of sauvignon and poured us both a glass. I was watching from under my eyelashes—despising my mistrust—and leafing through Hawke’s Bay Today. There was news about a fatal shooting in Auckland. Gang-related killing, said the report, as though that explained everything. Kit draped himself around my neck, reading over my shoulder. ‘Do you mind?’ I asked, nuzzling my cheek sideways onto his.

  ‘Not at all.’

  I turned the page. ‘Well, I do. It’s really annoying having you breathing all over me like that.’

  ‘Just pretend you’re on the Tube. People always read your paper on the Tube. Hey, look!’ Kit pointed at a photograph on the third page. ‘There’s Jean.’

  ‘It is?’ I leaned closer. It wasn’t a very clear photo, but I could see two men shaking hands. ‘Good Lord, you’re right. Jean Colbert presents his petition to the MP for Napier, Robin Smythe.’

  ‘Presents his what?’

  I looked again. ‘Petition. I didn’t know Jean was an activist. Can’t imagine him having the motivation to do anything except bumble bow-legged around the vineyard with his trousers rolled up.’

  ‘Unless he’s lobbying for the wine trade?’

  ‘Just a sec . . .’ I was reading. ‘No. No, it’s political. Blow me down, how eccentric! He’s one of these hangers and floggers on sentencing.’

  Kit laughed incredulously. ‘You’re kidding.’

  ‘Strange, but true. His petition’s demanding longer sentences for drug dealers.’

  ‘Nah. Can’t be the same guy. He doesn’t strike me as a bigot. Must be the wrong caption.’

  ‘Hang on. I’m trying to read.’

  ‘Vengeful diatribe is not his style,’ insisted Kit. ‘Lovely fella.’

  ‘Shush . . . Gawd, that’s random. Jean collared the poor MP as he was doing some Christmas appearance down at the hospital. “Life should mean life for those who commit violent offences while under the influence of pure methamphetamine, or P.” ’

  ‘Pee? I didn’t know urine was a narcotic.’

  ‘Shut up, Kit! “The government of New Zealand must introduce a policy of zero tolerance,” said Mr Colbert, as he presented his petition. “This is an evil of epidemic proportions, a poison which is destroying our society. Those who are involved in its supply, and those who offend while under its influence, must be brought to justice and irrevocably removed from our streets.” ’

  ‘Strong stuff,’ said Kit, who’d begun rootling in the larder. ‘Who’d have thought it? Old Jean turns out to be a redneck. Have we got any crisps?’

  I was still bent over the paper, trying to reconcile the Jean I knew—the Gallic charmer who shambled dotingly after his wife and kissed me on both cheeks—with this obsessive who’d made the effort to track down an MP on a Christmas baby-kissing visit.

  ‘Oh no,’ I said suddenly. ‘I get it. Oh my God.’

  ‘Well? Don’t keep me in suspense.’

  ‘This is horrible.’ I smacked my head into my hands. ‘I told you Jean and Pamela lost their son?’

  ‘Yep. I remember that.’

  ‘He was murdered.’

  Kit stopped smiling. He stepped closer, squinting at the newspaper. ‘What’s the story?’

  ‘Mr Colbert has been a staunch campaigner since the death of his son Daniel seven years ago. Daniel died after an unprovoked attack in Wellington city centre. “My son had become a father that day,” said Mr Colbert. “He was a sincere and brilliant young man, a committed conservationist who was working to make a better world. And he died because someone did not like the colour of his hair.” ’

  ‘Did they catch the bloke?’

  ‘Er . . . hang on. Two blokes. Pleaded guilty to murder and got life with a minimum non-parole period of ten years.’

  ‘Jesus.’ Kit sank down opposite me, running a hand down his face. ‘Is that all they’ll do?’

  ‘Ten years is a lifetime to a young man. Any longer and there would be no chance of rehabilitation.’

  ‘Martha, my darling, don’t give me that liberal hug-a-hoodie bunkum. They might still be in their prime when they come out. How would you feel if it was one of your boys murdered?’

  From upstairs, elephants’ feet shook the floorboards. Finn and Charlie were serenading Sacha with their favourite naughty song. It was set to the tune—well, to call it a ‘tune’ might be disingenuous, as both boys appeared to be almost tone deaf—of ‘John Brown’s Body’.

  ‘We’ve tortured all the teachers, we’ve broken all the rules,

  We’ve fried the headmaster, we’ve set fire to the school . . .’

  ‘Some parents forgive their children’s killers,’ I said. ‘There was one on Oprah a few years back.’

  ‘Oh glory, glory allelu-iah, Teacher hit me with a ru-ler . . .

  ’ Kit’s eyes had darkened. Every trace of laughter had gone. ‘Forgive them? I’d kill’em,’ he said. ‘If someone hurt one of our three, they wouldn’t be doing a life sentence, they’d be dead. I would hunt them down and kill them.’

  ‘Not that you’re a redneck.’

  ‘No. I’m a father.’

  ‘So I shot her in the butt,

  With a cannonball coco-nu-u-ut.

  ’

  The boys began Christmas Day at an ungodly hour. I could hear them jumping on Sacha before the three of them burst into our room, dragging their hauls. Kit groaned. We’d been up half the night, ramming water pistols and Mr Men pyjamas into stockings.

  ‘Cool,’ enthused Charlie. ‘Jarmies, with Mr Men on them. Have you got some too, Finny? Finn! Did you get some too?’

  ‘Look at this,’ snarled F
inn, tearing at a package. ‘Electric toothbrush! Santa’s a cheeky old thing.’

  ‘Thanks, Santa.’ Sacha waved a Lily Allen CD. ‘He’s a clever girl. C’mon, boys! Who’s up for a water pistol fight?’

  Once they’d gone, Kit and I stepped out onto the balcony, inhaling the tang of sea and pasture as we gazed down the valley. There were no exhaust fumes, no lawnmowers, no motorway hum, just the endless hissing and clicking of cicadas in the pristine blueness of our world. I saw that view ten times a day, but it still made me stop and stare.

  ‘Most people have to die to get to heaven,’ said Kit quietly. ‘How come we get to live there when we’re still alive?’

  Finn’s blood-freezing war cry shattered the peace, and I caught a glimpse of dark mane and thin bare legs as he scaled the magnolia tree. Sacha tiptoed around the corner of the house with her weapon loaded and Charlie pressed close behind her. My curly-headed boy was, frankly, a bit of a drip. In any physical confrontation with Finn he would be the loser, but today he had a mighty protector.

  At nine thirty, Kit hared off to the nearest Catholic church, whose doors he had scarcely darkened since we’d arrived. His faith was rather like his relationship with his mother: much neglected, but a vague source of comfort. Fleetingly I pondered whether we should all go, but Sacha had made a chocolate log and the boys were busy mutilating it with Christmas angel figures. Anyway, none of us was dressed.

  Lily Allen began to sing a very rude song at full volume, her glorious profanity soaring across the valley. On a whim, I phoned Louisa.

  ‘Happy Christmas!’ I said brightly.

  Lou sounded world-weary. ‘I still haven’t finished the stockings, then I’ve got to eat the carrot and the mince pie and leave soot all over the place. The great Father Christmas myth denies one fundamental truth—Santa is female.’

  We had the usual conversation about what time it was, and what the weather was doing. Hot here, cold there. Light here, dark there. Lou’s voice became increasingly feeble until I asked her what was wrong. Big mistake.

  ‘Our first Christmas without you,’ she whispered shakily.

  ‘For God’s sake!’ I could have nutted her.

  ‘The kids think you’ll be here for lunch as usual. They can’t understand why you aren’t coming. And poor Dad misses his grandchildren terribly.’

  ‘Rubbish. Dad’s fine.’

  ‘He’s not fine. We try to see him more often, but there’s only so much we can do.’

  I ground my teeth. ‘He isn’t complaining. You are. Get over it, Lou. I’m the one who’s supposed to be homesick, remember?’

  ‘You chose to leave. Nobody made you. You’re all right, Jack.’

  ‘Fine,’ I snapped, and hung up. Then the five-year-old in me burst into tears and had to run upstairs. I took a shower and washed my blotchy face. By the time I tottered down again, Kit was home.

  ‘Lou called,’ he said matter-of-factly. ‘Says she’s sorry. Why’s she sorry? No, don’t answer that—I can guess. Says you caught her at a bad moment. She’s going to bed now, so don’t call her back.’

  ‘I’ve no intention of calling her back! She’s been a complete bitch.’

  ‘Can we open our presents?’ asked Finn, who’d been digging around in the pile.

  ‘One each, and the rest after lunch.’ Kit picked out two parcels. ‘How about these ones from Grandpa?’

  The boys attacked the booty, dragging off a kilo of bubble wrap to reveal a pair of porcelain piggybanks: blue porkers with long eyelashes and drunken leers. Finn shook his pig, and it chinked. When he prised out the stopper, a pile of notes and coins spilled onto the floor.

  ‘Treasure!’ he breathed. ‘Look, Buc’neer Bob. This’ere be pirate’s gold.’

  ‘UK money,’ said Kit. ‘’Fraid the exchange rate’s against you.’

  Finn wasn’t interested in the vagaries of the international money market. His tongue stuck out the side of his mouth as he sorted his loot into piles. Charlie did the same, and the two small capitalists gloated over their hoard. They had no idea what any of the coins were worth—I don’t think they cared—and in the end Kit lay down on the floor and helped them. The whole process took half an hour, while Sacha and I lobbed a picnic into bags.

  ‘Fifty quid each.’ Kit began to shovel the coins away. ‘You tycoons can take it down to the bank when you want to cash up.’

  We were ready to leave when the telephone rang. I got to it first.

  ‘Martha,’ rumbled Dad’s voice. ‘Happy Christmas to you, Kit and all the little piglets.’

  ‘Dad! Must be midnight there?’

  ‘I’m waiting up. Going to catch old Santa in the act. There’s a few things I’d like to discuss with him.’

  ‘Are you by yourself?’ I felt sad. Dad always used to stay with us on Christmas Eve.

  ‘Don’t fret. I’m off to Louisa’s in the morning.’

  I had a vision of my family around Lou’s overloaded tree, raising glasses of mulled wine. ‘Oh, lucky you. Um . . . I hung up on her just before.’

  ‘So she told me. She’s a little fragile at the moment, Martha. Don’t think less of her.’

  ‘Give her my love . . . give them all our love.’ I had a lump in my throat. ‘I wish I was there.’

  ‘I wish you were, too,’ he said briskly. ‘But I bet you’re going to have an exotic day. Barbecue?’

  ‘Picnic at the river, actually. Swimming and bubbly, chilled in the shallows.’ Finn and Charlie were prancing as though they had a swarm of bees down their shorts, trying to wrestle the receiver out of my hand. ‘I’d better throw you to the wolves now, Dad. You’ve got to speak to all the children . . . and Kit sends his love.’

  ‘And I send mine to you all, dearest Martha. Have a wonderful day.’

  Sacha looked deflated once the call ended. ‘I miss him,’ she said. ‘I miss them all.’

  ‘Me too.’ Charlie reached for his blanket, round-eyed. ‘Will we be going home soon?’

  I wished we could board a plane right away and just go home. Then I thought of Jenna, who had heard the click of a gun at her temple. She didn’t have the luxury of wallowing in homesickness. I clapped my hands. ‘Hats and sunscreen on, please! Got your swimming trunks?’

  ‘Togs!’ shouted Charlie. ‘They’re not trunks, they’re togs.’

  I realised with a jolt that my boys were beginning to sound like New Zealanders. It was just a hint: a flattening of the vowels, a slight rise at the end of the sentence and the odd word—‘chippies’ instead of crisps, ‘lollies’ instead of sweets—but nevertheless it was undeniable. I didn’t like it. It felt like a loss of my own identity.

  With Muffin panting beside us, we ambled in the gathering heat across shrivelled pasture and down a steep hillside to our favourite bend of the river. There was nobody there, of course. No sign that there ever had or ever would be. That was the extraordinary thing, that’s what you couldn’t get your head around if you were brought up in suburban Britain.

  Our stretch of river was a beauty spot on a world-class scale. Cool water flowed across its shingle bed with the clarity of a glacier mint, pooling under little limestone cliffs where swallows flickered with impossible speed in and out of their burrows. There were swirling eddies and waterfalls and trout pools so pure that their depths looked like blue glass, all beneath a flawless mauve sky. The Colberts’ vineyard swathed the far bank, adding a touch of the Mediterranean. I wished Lou could see it. I was sure she’d forgive me then.

  The grey river stones scorched our feet. Muffin plodded straight in, grunting with pleasure as the exquisite chill streamed through her coat. The boys were next: sleek wet otters in orange water wings. Muffin circled happily around them, her ears flat on the water. Sacha plunged, grabbing Charlie’s ankle and making him shriek with nervous delight. Weeks of sunshine had bleached his corkscrew curls.

  Cooled by the massage of the current, Kit and I sipped New Zealand bubbly out of plastic glasses while the riverbed rang with laughter.
‘Good decision?’ asked Kit, prodding my cheek with his toe.

  I didn’t answer. I was looking at Sacha in her bikini top and board shorts, a fountain of diamonds spraying around her shoulders. It was some time since I’d seen her in a bikini. A worm of anxiety stirred in my gut.

  Kit’s foot again, nudging insistently against my cheekbone. Sometimes he could be as demanding as his sons. ‘Hey. Calling all Marthas, come in please!’

  ‘Don’t you think she’s getting much too thin?’ I asked.

  ‘Who? Sacha? No.’

  ‘I can see her ribs.’

  ‘She doesn’t have an eating disorder—really, Martha, she doesn’t, she’s just trying to stay in shape like every other teenage girl. You’ve yo-yo dieted yourself for most of your life.’

  I grimaced. ‘I’ve never been as thin as that.’

  ‘Martha. Relax. Everything’s good.’ He raised his glass. ‘Happy Christmas, Ms Pioneer.’

  Twenty

  I think I’ve been in this hospital all my life, but it is still the first day.

  I fall asleep after talking to Charlie, kneeling on the floor with my face near Finn. I don’t know how long it is before I feel a hand on my upper arm. Kura Pohatu is crouched beside me.

  ‘Hello, Kura.’ We try to be polite and controlled, even when everything is imploding. Will the human race exercise self-restraint when Armageddon comes? Will we make small talk as the lights go out? Yes, I think we might. ‘You all right, Martha?’ she asks.

  ‘Mm?’ I struggle upright, pummelling my face. ‘Yes, yes.’

  Her gaze takes in my bleary eyes and the marks of the sheet etched into my cheeks. ‘Come to a family room,’ she says, and steers me out of the ward, down a corridor and into a small room with a couple of armchairs. A television is jammed into one corner, and there’s a pile of old magazines on a round table.

  ‘The sun’s still up,’ I say in dull surprise, standing at the window. A blue and grey sky stretches above the city of Hastings. Light blasts off the windscreens of cars and the clouds have pale undersides, like sharks. Until now I couldn’t have told you whether it was day or night. I could scarcely have told you who I was.