by Di Morrissey
‘We’ve been looking after an art gallery for someone on the other side of the island.’
‘You say “we”. Who might “we” be?’
Catherine paused, then said candidly, ‘A mainlander called PJ. He’s been here a long time. Taught me to surf. I was very attracted to him but didn’t realise how much until Bradley left. Then we, kind of, got together.’
Beatrice glanced at Catherine but only said, ‘Enjoy your freedom. That’s what you’ve been after. Don’t exchange one restricted life for t’other. You be in charge.’
‘I’m still learning to take control,’ said Catherine. ‘It’s a new experience. It hadn’t ever occurred to me there was another way of doing things. Thinking for myself, I mean. My dad always looked after the practical matters and then I was married before I knew it and Bradley ran our lives.’
Beatrice nodded. ‘A familiar story. Fortunately Kiann’e comes from a line of powerful women. All I’ll say to you, Catherine, is don’t waste this opportunity.’
As always there was a lot happening at Beatrice’s home. People coming and going, talk of plans for lobbying and meeting with groups and individuals Beatrice thought could help their cause. Only once did Catherine hear mention of the Palm Grove and she realised the discussion was about the future of the heiau and the sacred stones that had been unearthed. Beatrice again warned that there would be retribution, divine or political, if the building for the new wing disturbed the sacred site. Catherine didn’t say anything, but she was worried for Eleanor’s sake. The owner of the Palm Grove was literally between a rock and a hard place.
The busy and stimulating day with Beatrice had taken her mind off PJ’s departure so that by the time she got back to The Joss House she thought she would be fine about being on her own. But the moment she walked into the space she and PJ had shared, his absence came home to her. She looked at the tumbled bed where they’d made love. She picked up the coffee cup he’d used and drained its cold dregs, pressing her lips to where his had been. In the bathroom she picked up his still damp towel and lifted it to her face, burying her head in it, seeking the smell of his skin.
As the days passed Catherine couldn’t stand the loneliness. She ached for PJ and hated being on her own. While he hadn’t always been around, or she hadn’t known exactly where he was or what he was doing, it didn’t matter because she knew that, whether it be day or night, he’d eventually appear and take her in his arms.
She couldn’t sleep as she reached for PJ’s body. She missed sleeping entwined with his limbs, skin touching skin. His body was so familiar she imagined she could conjure him from thin air, from grains of sand and discover again the tang of salt on him, the citrusy smell of his hair, feel the golden sun that warmed his skin, the sinewy strength of a foot pushing against her own. But when she awoke, her bed was empty and cold.
The lei she had been given at the airport had wilted on the bedside table. Catherine remembered the directive to throw it into the sea so that her love would return. She wished she’d done it. Now she felt that her failure to do so was a bad omen. She just hoped that the filming expedition would soon be over and PJ would be back in her arms.
Over the next few weeks she had sold almost all of Miranda’s paintings and the gallery started to look bare. She asked Molo if he knew whether Miranda had a stash of art anywhere else, but he shook his head.
‘Nah, it’s how she operates. She goes away, comes back and works like crazy, sells it and takes off again. No worry, Catherine. Just lock up the gallery. But stay upstairs of course. You one great saleswoman.’
‘Her work sells itself,’ said Catherine. ‘Just a matter of people stumbling through the door.’
Still there’d been no word from PJ, so when Eleanor rang to say there was some mail for her that had been forwarded from Oahu, Catherine hoped that there might be a letter for her from PJ.
She drove to the Palm Grove and parked the gold car in front of reception. Narita, the Japanese waitress, called out to her.
‘Wow, that’s some car, Mrs Connor! How’re you going?’
‘Good, Narita. How’re you? How’re things here?’
Surprisingly the small Japanese woman, who was usually so cheerful, looked down and lifted her shoulders in a helpless gesture. ‘Things are not so good. Miz L’s going ahead with the building and it’s causing lot of stink. No good.’ She shook her head. ‘You staying?’
‘I’m not sure. I’d like to . . . I have to talk to Mrs Lang. Maybe I could get some work and stay here.’ She smiled and Narita giggled, dismissing the idea as a joke.
Eleanor greeted her warmly but she was preoccupied and looked drawn and much older.
‘Good to see you. What are your plans?’
‘I don’t know. But I don’t want to bother you. How’re things going? Can I help you in anyway, Eleanor? Do anything here? I’m at a loose end.’
Eleanor gave her a quick, appraising look. ‘We’ll have to talk. Can you stay for dinner? Why not stay the night? Plenty of spare beds.’ She gave a slight, hollow laugh. ‘I have a few things happening right now. Now, here’s your mail,’ she said taking Catherine into her office and handing her several letters. ‘Abel John is about. He’d love to see you. What say we meet after the torch-lighting ceremony for a drink and dinner? Stay the night, hang around a day or so. If you have no commitments, that is.’
‘Free as a bird. I’ve sold nearly all of Miranda’s art, so I’m looking for something to do.’
Eleanor took off her glasses and rose. ‘Great. I’ll get Talia to brush up a room for you. Be good to have some company.’
‘You have a hotel full of people,’ laughed Catherine.
‘We’re not full and I can’t tell my woes to the guests,’ she said, trying to joke.
‘Eleanor, I’d really love to know what’s happening with . . . everything.’ Catherine was thinking of Beatrice’s stern warning. Eleanor picked up her basket from her desk. Suddenly the feisty woman looked very vulnerable.
Catherine ordered a coffee on the terrace and read a letter from her mother. Things had been very busy in her father’s legal practice and he was a bit worried that he couldn’t spend as much time on the farm as he should. Rob had been a tremendous help but he was having problems of his own. ‘I don’t want to gossip, darling, but he’s having financial worries, he told Dad. Between Barbara’s spending and his father’s racehorses, he’s having a hard time.’
Catherine folded the letter and for the first time in ages she thought about Heatherbrae and the people at home that she loved. How comforting to know they’d always be there.
There was a note from Mollie with some photos of the new unit she and Jason were buying which had ‘harbour glimpses’.
There was nothing from PJ.
One letter was fat and official looking. Catherine hoped it wasn’t a bill. She had little money left, so she’d definitely have to talk to Eleanor about the possibility of some work. There was also a letter from California in large, firm handwriting. It was from Aunt Meredith and it was the first communication from Bradley’s family she’d had since their separation.
Dear Catherine,
I am so dreadfully sad to hear the news about you and Bradley. But I have to say I am not overly surprised. You are too young, too untested. What I mean is, you haven’t had a chance to test yourself against the forces of the great and glorious world out there. I thought you were good for Bradley. You are a loss to the family, but I understand how you must feel. I would very much like to keep in touch with you. Good luck to you.
Warmest wishes,
Meredith
Catherine folded the letter thinking that she too would like to maintain contact with the forthright Meredith. She reached for the last letter.
It took a moment or two for her to realise what she was holding in her hands. The documents were from Bradley’s attorney-at-law. Bradley had filed for divorce.
Catherine’s hand started to shake as she read the dry, cold phrases. Their
marriage had broken down, she read, due to ‘irreconcilable differences’. There were details of the division of communal property which explained that what each partner had brought into the marriage remained with that person. So Bradley retained the little apartment in the TradeWinds and the few shares. She was to retain ‘gifts such as jewelry’. A small cash settlement was to be negotiated.
Catherine was shocked at seeing her marriage reduced to a list of material possessions. But then she became angry. Bradley had, as usual, just gone ahead and set the wheels in motion with no warning or discussion. She would certainly have her father look at these legal documents. But as she drained her coffee and looked at the papers, all these feelings melted and resignation took its place. It was over. There was no point in fighting it. And for what? She had brought very little into the marriage in the way of acquisitions. Indeed, she had very little even now.
But PJ and life in the Islands had shown Catherine that there was another way of living, a different set of priorities. Unlike her parents’ generation of the 1950s, Catherine’s life, she thought, wouldn’t be centred around thriftiness, hard work, always thinking of the future, their children’s future and planning for retirement. It wouldn’t be a life where the men made the money and decided what to do with it while the women stayed at home. No, the ideas of this seventies generation of free thinkers and women’s liberationists with their blended families, living for the moment, had given Catherine a new outlook on life.
She neatly folded the documents along the crease lines and slipped them back into the envelope. Perhaps divorce from Bradley was the best option.
She walked outside and saw Mouse.
‘Ay, Catherine! What you do?’
‘I was about to drive back to Hanapepe and collect a few things. I’m staying the night, having dinner with Mrs L.’
‘Ah, that good thing. She very worried. All ’bout this heiau. Bad thing, very bad. Say, you want to go for one ride?’
‘Maybe tomorrow, Mouse. Early in the morning?’
‘We go special place. West side. You been down Waimea Canyon?’
Catherine had passed the lookout and the majestic cliffs of the ‘Grand Canyon of the Pacific’ but she and PJ had never got around to exploring it. ‘Yes, Mouse. I’ve never been in there. It looks spectacular.’
‘I take you special place. We leave early, sunrise, okay?’
‘Sure. I’ll borrow some riding boots from the hotel. See you tomorrow.’
She headed towards the dedicated palm trees when she saw the tall, smiling figure of Abel John coming towards her.
‘There you are, been looking for you. How things going?’ He gave her a kiss on the cheek.
‘Life is interesting. I just received my divorce papers.’
‘Oh dear. Well, life goes on. How’s PJ?’
Catherine bit her lip. ‘I have no idea. He went to Indonesia surfing with a bunch of guys, to make a surfing film. I haven’t heard from him. For weeks now.’
‘Ah, Catherine. You must understand how it is with surfers by now. They could disappear for months. How things with you? In your heart?’
‘I don’t know what I feel, Abel John. Empty, I guess.’
‘You must start for think of yourself. Not be in the shadows, waiting for life to happen. You make things happen. For you.’
‘That’s kind of what everyone tells me,’ sighed Catherine. ‘And your family?’
‘All good. But here,’ he shook his head, ‘not so good. Come and see.’
Once they were through the coconut grove and the sheltered ponds and came to the clearing beyond the canals, Catherine stopped in shock. Heavy machinery and workmen were all over the place. A small mountain of dirt was heaped in one corner. Tapes and rope sectioned off muddy areas where a long stone wall stood beside other stone structures.
‘They’re not moving all this are they?’
‘That business partner of Eleanor’s gave the orders. Get the new wing up, move the stones and put them some place else. It’s wrong, very wrong. This is sacred ground. A lot of powerful energy and spirits here. None of the Hawaiians will work here. These men were sent from Oahu and the mainland. Beatrice is raising a big stink.’
‘What will happen, Abel John?’
‘I don’t know. I keep around to watch out for Eleanor. Just in case.’
‘You’re a good man, Abel John.’
Later at the torch-lighting ceremony, Catherine watched Abel John in his red lava lava, the torchlight flickering on his strong, dark body as he was paddled into the lagoon to blow the huge conch shell. She remembered how moved she’d been on her honeymoon when she’d first seen the lighting of the torches and the dancing, heard the conch-shell call, the chants and Eleanor’s Hawaiian blessing to welcome the night. After what Abel John had said, she too, had an uneasy feeling.
At dinner Eleanor talked about her lack of options and how much she regretted taking on a business partner.
‘But it was either that, stagnate or go backwards. Tourism is taking over the Islands. And even though I’m in the business, I don’t like to see so much change.’
‘And you’re not worried about what Beatrice and Abel John say – about some kind of retribution over the disruption of the heiau?’
‘What can I do? It’s out of my hands now. Let’s talk about something else. What’re your plans? Seems you’d better be thinking of your own future.’
Catherine had told Eleanor about the divorce papers. ‘I’ve grown up so much since coming to the Islands. I look at the world rather differently.’
‘And this PJ? Where does he fit in?’
‘He’s captured my heart, Eleanor. I’ve never felt like this before. But he is a bit of a free spirit. But he’ll have to settle down at some stage I suppose . . .’
Eleanor held up her hand, stopping Catherine. ‘If he hears the words “settle down” he’ll run a mile. Men like him, watermen, never grow up, never change. You have to accept that for your own sanity.’
‘I can’t just walk away, Eleanor,’ said Catherine sadly. Then more brightly said, ‘I’ll talk it over with him when he comes back. See what we can arrange.’
Eleanor leant across the table and touched her hand. ‘Believe me, Catherine. Remember this for what it is, a great romantic interlude. A love affair. Trust me. There’s a wonderful man somewhere whom you’ll marry, you’ll have children, make a life together where you share everything equally, where your needs and ambitions are as important to him as his are to you. Don’t sell yourself short, dear girl.’
Catherine didn’t sleep well as Eleanor’s words continued to ring in her head. At dawn she got up, tidied the room, dressed and crept outside in her riding boots. Night fragrances lingered, the stars were fading in the pre-dawn light.
She heard the snuffle of horses, the shaking of a head, the jangle of stirrups and bridle. Mouse was putting the two horses into the small horse float behind the old truck.
‘Good morning. We can leave soon?’
‘Sure, Mouse, though I wouldn’t mind bringing a coffee.’
There were no cars or people about as they pulled into the deserted ranger’s station and let the horses out. The sun was peeping over the horizon and creases of the rugged red canyon walls were etched in gold. By the time they rode along one of the trails heading down into the canyon the sun had risen, but the valley was still in shadow. The muted grey-blue and purple chasm was soon lit by sunlight turning the wet green growth into shades of shining emerald. Two thousand feet down they passed a sparkling endless cascade of water.
‘Is this from Mount Waialeale?’ asked Catherine.
‘Sure is. They say wettest place on earth. The big Alakai swamp on top of the mountain . . . That one amazing place,’ said Mouse.
‘This is pretty stunning,’ said Catherine.
It took them several hours to reach the floor of the canyon and they walked the horses along a sandy trail that would run with rushing water after heavy rain and which joined the Waime
a River at the bottom of the gorge.
Catherine felt as though she was walking in the steps of creation and that she was the first human to see this rainforest. Startled birds swept through the canyon, lifted on updrafts, but mostly it was cool, still and silent.
They dismounted at lunchtime and ate the snacks and fruit Catherine had brought with her coffee. They drank from the stream and the water was icy and refreshing. Occasionally Mouse pointed out an unusual or rare plant or tree and Catherine took a photograph, but mostly they rode in silence, absorbed by the rugged beauty. She felt dwarfed, the immense scale of her surroundings reducing her own world to insignificance.
By late afternoon, as they rode back to where they’d left the truck and the horse float, Catherine had begun to think differently about her life. She hoped she could somehow start over, utilise all she now knew and she also hoped that PJ would be part of it. The journey into the canyon had given her a fresh perspective and a sense that she could take control and trust fate, the universe, the spirits, providence or whatever it was, which would guide her towards her tomorrows.
Two days later Catherine headed back to Nirvana to see who was there and if any of them had any news of the wandering surfers and PJ. It was the usual sprawl of people, children, food, music and laughter. She was welcomed as part of the extended family and she was glad of the company. Being among this surfing community made her feel very happy. There was a group from the mainland and South Africans there and when Catherine heard them talking about surfing Indo breaks, she asked them what they knew about Indonesia and if they knew the film guy, Stewart.
‘Yah, man, I know these guys,’ said a South African in his rolling drawl. ‘They’re going to my town. I gave them some tips of places no-one goes. ’Cept the sharks.’ He laughed. ‘But big waves this time of year. Real epic ones.’
Catherine finally managed to speak. ‘You mean they’ve gone to South Africa? PJ? Stewart? Who else?’
‘Yar. And a couple of Aussies. Be some wild trip. Should get some great waves. And good film shots. There was talk of them going to South America and maybe then to Tahiti. Seems they want to have a world surfing safari, hey?’