After the Fall

by Norman, Charity

  One day, Charlie lost his Game Boy. We searched everywhere.

  ‘Keep looking,’ I said cheerfully, while my heart sank. ‘It must be somewhere. It’s just gone AWOL.’

  And there it was, under his bed.

  ‘You were scared I’d taken it, weren’t you, Mum?’ teased Sacha, who’d helped in the search. ‘Oh ye of little faith.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘You’re a terrible liar.’ She skipped up, put her arms around my neck and kissed my cheek. ‘I’m sorry I went off the rails.’

  Kit and I renegotiated the ban on her car, and she began to drive into town to do the family shop. She always brought home a receipt and change, solemnly laying them on the kitchen table. I’d pretend to throw the receipt away, but once she was gone I checked that everything balanced.

  The third trip went very wrong. Sacha seemed to be gone a long time. Finally she ran into the kitchen without any shopping, gabbling incoherently, her face flushed and tear-streaked. I caught the words car and totalled.

  ‘Whoa.’ I held up my hands. ‘Stop, doll, stop. Have you had an accident?’

  ‘No! It’s the car, I was in a shop and when I came out . . . Some frigging arseholes . . .’

  I was already heading across the yard. ‘Hell,’ I breathed, staring. ‘What on earth?’

  Sacha’s poor little Toyota had been ambushed. There was a scar right across the bonnet, the paintwork bubbled and faded. The rear windscreen had been smashed and there was glass all over the interior. It looked like a person who’s been savagely beaten, their nose bleeding, their face a pulp.

  ‘They’ve thrown something on it,’ said Sacha, her eyes wide with horror. ‘Acid or something . . . you can smell it.’

  ‘Did you see who did this?’

  ‘Imagine if that was someone’s face.’

  I shivered. ‘I’d rather not. This happened where? The Countdown car park?’

  ‘No. I stopped at a dairy on the way out of town because I remembered you wanted a paper. When I came out . . .’ She gestured at the carnage.

  ‘Have you been to the police?’

  ‘I came straight home. I was so scared . . .’ She pressed both hands to her mouth. ‘There was a load of really freaky guys hanging around outside the shop—you know, leather and gang patches.’

  ‘Could you describe any of them?’

  ‘No way! I didn’t even look at them, I just got in and drove straight home.’

  ‘It will have been kids with nothing better to do,’ I assured her. ‘We should feel sorry for them, really.’

  ‘I don’t feel sorry for them.’

  ‘So you never actually saw who did it?’ The policewoman squinted glumly at Sacha’s rather sparse statement. ‘Not much to go on.’

  ‘Sorry.’ Sacha was twirling a plastic bangle.

  ‘What d’you think it is?’ I asked. ‘Some kind of acid?’

  ‘Brake fluid probably,’ said the officer. ‘Makes a mess of old paint. It’s cheap and easy to get hold of.’

  ‘CCTV cameras?’

  She looked pained. ‘If there were any, and if they were on, and if they were facing the right way.’

  ‘Mindless vandalism,’ I suggested, and she gave a world-weary sigh.

  ‘There’s some idiots about. Sign here.’ Then she filed Sacha’s statement, presumably under H for Hopeless.

  On the way home I kept glancing at Sacha’s plastic bangle. She saw me looking, and smiled resignedly. ‘You’re wondering where my silver bracelet’s gone, that Lou gave me.’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘You think I’m back on the meth.’

  ‘No! It’s just . . .’

  ‘We’re not allowed to wear jewellery at school. It’s against the rules apparently, but nobody bothered to tell me. Got confiscated.’

  ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake. How petty. When do you get it back?’

  She made that teenage ‘I dunno’ noise, and I wondered how long it would be before I stopped looking over her shoulder.

  We had the broken window replaced. Later, Sacha spray-painted the bonnet, disguising the ravaged paintwork with swirly flowers. But she didn’t go shopping again.

  The first of August was the anniversary of the day our plane touched down at Auckland airport. On cue, the weather finally turned wintry. There was ice in the air, and dripping cloud clung to the hills. I had the fire blazing all day in the sitting room as well as the kitchen, but I still felt shivery.

  I’d invited the Colberts, Tama and Ira to dinner on the Saturday, to help us celebrate the day. I phoned them all in the morning, though, and cancelled. According to the local paper, a quarter of all children in Hawke’s Bay had been off school with the latest strain of flu—which in practice seemed to mean anything from a life-threatening virus to a cold—and our house was no exception. Kit had been in bed with a fever, which was stressful because he was leaving for Dublin in ten days and didn’t have time to be ill. The boys were whiney and flushed, though happy enough as long as I let them take their duvets downstairs to watch Ice Age. Sacha was in a miserable state.

  ‘You’ve given her your virus,’ I told Kit, coming downstairs after taking her temperature. ‘She can hardly move.’

  Kit had his feet up on the kitchen stove, drinking Lemsip with a hot water bottle stuffed up his jumper. He turned a page of his newspaper. Then another. I didn’t think he was reading. ‘Sure it’s flu?’

  I wagged a finger. ‘Hark at you, Mr Death’s-door! You’ve been moaning for days, and the boys aren’t too bright either. Half the country’s off sick. So yes, I’m sure it’s flu. What happened to the poor teapot—did someone drop it?’

  He looked around his paper at the remains of the china pot, stacked neatly on the bench in three pieces. ‘Finn used it for target practice. His new sling is very effective.’

  ‘So I see. I’m going to confiscate that thing . . . Of course it’s flu. Shame on you for asking.’

  ‘We’re both thinking it. Why shouldn’t I say it?’

  ‘Swine flu, bird flu, man flu. Who knows? We’ve got to stop suspecting Sacha all the time. We have to move on.’ All the time I was talking, I was looking for our Wedgwood pot, a wedding present that we never used. It wasn’t in the cupboard, or the laundry, or the wooden chest where we kept vases. ‘We have to trust her,’ I muttered.

  ‘What are you looking for?’

  ‘This,’ I said quickly, lifting out a glass vase. ‘I’m going to pick some daphne flowers. I love the smell. It makes me happy.’

  He looked at the vase, and then at me. We stared silently at one another for a moment. Then he lifted the paper in front of his face, and I hurried outside.

  Thirty-two

  Kit was on his way to Dublin.

  Our place was chaos in the week before he left. We’d never have managed without Pamela. She telephoned the airline and found out exactly how to transport the canvases he was taking with him. With her help they were meticulously wrapped, covered in Fragile stickers and stowed in the car for their journey to Auckland airport. Kit had booked the cheapest flights possible because our budget didn’t run to luxury; of course, this meant multiple stopovers. There were a thousand technical problems to solve in transporting the paintings, but he thrived on every one. He was alight, alert, incandescent with excitement. It was like living with a sparkler.

  On his last evening, I’d shut the office door at Capeview with a sigh of pleasure. I’d booked a stretch of leave and was feeling demob happy. It was dark when I arrived home. The Colberts’ blue pick-up was parked under the tree. I heard quiet voices from beyond the woolshed, then a plaintive, feeble snickering.

  Rounding the corner I came upon a scene straight out of a children’s storybook: in a makeshift pen a paraffin lamp rested on the ground, casting a yellow pool of light. Finn was kneeling in the straw, his back very straight. Charlie was jammed up against his brother while Kit and Jean leaned on a fence nearby. Resting on tiny knees and sucking on a bottle in Finn’s hands was the s
mallest lamb I have ever seen. I made an amazed face at Kit as I tiptoed closer. The tiny creature sucked, bleated, butted Finn and sucked again. I could hear slurping and bubbling as the milk left the bottle.

  Jean’s eyebrows arched in comical kindness. ‘I hope you don’t mind, Martha. A baby girl for your menagerie.’

  I looked at the lamb, whose tail was wagging ecstatically. ‘No mother?’

  ‘Died,’ declared Finn knowledgeably, as though he’d lived seventy years on a farm. ‘They do sometimes, y’know. It happens.’

  ‘She’s Bleater,’ said Charlie. ‘Bleater Brown. Is it my turn yet, Jean?’

  Jean gave a theatrical start. ‘Oh yes, I forgot. Master Charlie’s turn.’

  Finn handed the bottle to Charlie, but the milk was almost gone and Bleater was soon enthusiastically sucking at an empty bottle.

  ‘Here,’ murmured Jean. ‘You sit like this, young fellow. Stick your legs out in front. That’s it.’ He gathered the animal in his arms and laid her in Charlie’s lap where she lay still, eyes drooping.

  ‘She’s a day old,’ whispered Charlie. ‘Come and touch her, Mummy.’

  I crouched beside him and fingered the warm, springy topknot. The lamb smelled of milk and lanolin. ‘She’s falling asleep,’ I said. ‘Little motherless baby. Can we eat her with mint sauce?’

  ‘Not funny,’ scolded Finn, kicking me quite angrily. It hurt, but I didn’t complain. I probably deserved it.

  ‘We have to feed her every four hours,’ said Kit.

  ‘We? I suppose you mean the royal we, Kit McNamara, since you’re on a nice restful plane to Dublin tomorrow.’

  ‘No need to feed her at night.’ Jean picked up the empty bottle. ‘One at your bedtime and another first thing is fine. When she’s much older, she will have lambs of her own and the boys will sell them and be very rich.’

  ‘Sell them where?’ I asked, which was a silly question.

  ‘Well, let’s cross that bridge when we come to it, shall we?’ suggested Jean. The adults began to wander inside, leaving two boys and their baby in a huddle. ‘Farming is red in tooth and claw, Martha. Lambs are generally bound for the meatworks. Perhaps the male offspring could rejoin my flock and then . . . well, quietly disappear.’

  As we rounded the corner of the shed, a wind came galloping to meet us. Jean glanced up at the sky. ‘Blowing up there, see?’ he said, pointing at clouds spread thin like butter on toast. ‘Better get your washing off the line tonight, or it will fly to Auckland with Kit.’

  ‘You’ll stay for a beer, to wish him bon voyage?’

  ‘I should be honoured.’ Our neighbour stepped out of his gumboots, and we followed him into the kitchen.

  ‘I’m ready for Dublin,’ said Kit. ‘So I can have a drink, at last.’

  Jean looked around hopefully. ‘Sacha not home yet?’

  I was looking in the fridge for three bottles of beer—it seemed an agricultural sort of occasion, calling for something a trifle earthier than sauvignon. ‘In her room, I should think,’ I replied absently. ‘She generally works up there after school. Tui or Steinlager?’

  ‘Oh—I forgot to tell you. Sacha phoned,’ said Kit. ‘She’s got an audition for High School Musical. Said she’d catch a lift and be home by seven.’

  I stared at him. ‘She phoned? When?’

  ‘It’s fine.’ Kit took a step closer, eyes covertly swivelling in Jean’s direction. ‘It’s fine, Martha. She’ll be almost home by now. She’s going to text you when she gets near, and I’ll meet her at the road gate.’

  Jean was busily opening beer bottles, but he’d caught the tension. There was a bird-bright glance from under those clown’s eyebrows.

  Kit began to explain that he’d been on the wagon. ‘I promised Martha,’ he said, smiling at me. ‘But I’m looking forward to this one! Cheers.’

  I found my gaze straying to the clock. Six fifty. It was all right. Sacha would be home soon. Perhaps she’d got a part in the school play—now, that would be fantastic. I imagined her face at the window of a car: smooth, soft cheeks and long lashes. She’d be holding her phone in one hand, waiting for a signal so that she could text us: 5 mins away.

  The boys burst in, screaming with laughter, and shot upstairs. I followed, ran the bath and bribed them into it with snorkels and masks. As I trotted back to the kitchen I could hear splashing and squeaking as they slid around on the porcelain.

  No sign of Sacha. I sent a text: where are you?

  Jean was talking about the South Island. He and Pamela were about to take William for a skiing holiday in Queenstown. ‘Just hope I don’t break my neck! It’s been a few years and now—well, there is more of me to fall.’ He patted his paunch.

  Five past seven. I sent another text: ????? Then I called her.

  Hi, this is Sacha, don’t bother to leave a message.

  ‘They’ve had a ton of snow down there, haven’t they?’ Kit opened a packet of crisps and poured them into a bowl. ‘All the newborn lambs are dying.’

  They were off, then—the weather, the high dollar, commodity prices. And all the while a stone of dread sank down, down, out of my chest and into my bowels. I couldn’t concentrate, couldn’t think. I could only dread.

  ‘Isn’t it, Martha?’ said Kit.

  ‘Mm?’ I forced a weak smile. ‘Sorry, blonde moment. Didn’t catch that.’

  ‘Too expensive for us all to go back to the UK for a holiday,’ Kit enunciated the words with exaggerated slowness, as though I was a deaf centenarian. ‘Maybe a hearing aid would help, old girl.’

  Pulling myself together, I flicked him on the ear. ‘Don’t be bloody cheeky. You’re the one with the grey hair.’

  ‘One!’ Kit held up a single finger. ‘One grey hair doth not a dodderer make!’

  This inspired Jean to embark on a story about how his grandfather, a watchmaker in Rouen, had his head shaved after a drunken bet. In his animation, Jean’s eyebrows virtually climbed on top of his head, as though he’d pushed them up like a pair of sunglasses. It was a good story, but the clock was ticking.

  ‘His wife’s eyes flew open—my grandmother Agnes was a terrifying female, like a charging rhinoceros—and she looked across at him on the pillow.’ Jean made a wrathful rhino face. ‘ “Henri! What has happened to your head?”’

  ‘You think your grandmother was a holy terror,’ chuckled Kit, opening another couple of beers. ‘It was my Great-Aunt Sibella taught me to play the piano. If I made a mistake she’d drop the lid on my fingers.’

  The laughter and companionship seemed far away. Kit and Jean had receded into the background, like a telly with the sound turned down. The only reality was that Sacha had gone off the radar. Mum was banging a saucepan lid, chanting, Late. She’s late. She’s late . . . Wedgwood teapot, bracelet, flu . . .

  ‘Kit,’ I said loudly, breaking into their revelry. ‘Look at the time.’

  He took a glance at the clock—seven thirty—and stiffened. ‘Have you tried her mobile?’

  I was calling her phone for the tenth time when Sacha flung herself into the house, breathing hard.

  ‘Whew,’ she panted cheerfully, sliding her schoolbag off her back. ‘Helluva wind! I’ve run all the way from the road gate. Oh hello, Jean! Salut! Ça va?’

  Jean was replying with a cordial bow when I interrupted. ‘You were going to text us,’ I said. ‘It doesn’t take a moment to—’

  ‘Well I didn’t need to text you, did I, because I didn’t want collecting from the gate.’ Sacha spoke over me in a high, sarcastic voice, waggling her head like a puppet. ‘I thought I’d very kindly save you the trouble. And anyway there’s no signal and anyway I forgot and anyway I don’t really think it’s reasonable for you to keep tabs on me every minute of my frigging life. Do you?’

  Before I could respond, before I’d even understood the question, she was off again. ‘I mean, why not put a trace on me, and you and Kit can sit in an operations room and watch a screen and I’ll go beep beep beep and you’ll see thi
s little coloured dot moving around.’ She dug her hand into the crisps, talking at the speed of a bullet train. ‘Look, there’s Sacha heading for the science block, ooh dear, she’s a minute late . . . there’s Sacha going into the toilets . . . she can wipe her own bottom, thank heavens for that . . . she’s getting a tampon out of the machine . . . oh, look! There’s Sacha—’

  ‘Stop! Please,’ I begged, with a meaningful glance at Jean, who’d been watching this exchange, his forehead corrugated in concern and embarrassment. I leaned close and breathed in her ear, ‘Have you taken something? ’

  She slipped her arm around Jean’s shoulders. The gesture was overly familiar. ‘Jean doesn’t mind. He’s seen family fallouts before, haven’t you, Jean?’

  ‘I’d better go,’ mumbled our poor neighbour, extricating himself from under her elbow.

  ‘You’ve just ruined half an hour of your mother’s life,’ said Kit softly. ‘It’s time to apologise.’

  She shrugged and stuffed a handful of crisps messily into her mouth. ‘That’s her problem,’ she said, spitting bits. ‘Nosey bitch. I never asked her to—’

  Kit was on his feet, his jaw tight. ‘I think you’d better go to your room.’

  ‘Oh, Kit.’ Sacha smiled widely, pressed both hands onto the table and thrust her face inches away from his. ‘I think you’d better fuck off.’

  I saw it coming, tried to shout. I heard the echoing crack of his palm on her face at the same moment as her whole body jerked sideways. She staggered, pressing one hand to her cheekbone.

  Horrified silence. Then Sacha laughed. ‘True colours,’ she gasped, doubling up as though Kit had told her a hilarious joke. ‘What a lovely, lovely guy.’

  ‘I’d really better go.’ Jean was wringing his hands.

  ‘No, I’d really better go.’ Sacha grabbed her bag and headed towards the hall. ‘You stay there and carouse with my stepfather. Watch him, though! He’s got a shocking temper, as you can see, especially after a dram or three. Sometimes he just can’t control it. Tut, tut, tut.’ And she marched out of the room.

  ‘She asked for that,’ said Kit. Already there was uncertainty, a dropping of his shoulders.