Soon

by Charlotte Grimshaw

  She looked down at the mess he’d made. She said, The words of his mouth were smoother than butter but war was in his heart; his words were softer than oil, yet they were drawn swords.

  Karen

  Ford said, ‘You all right?’

  They’d got out of the hot cars and were waiting for Roza and David, who were delayed by a phone call. David had declared his Sunday free and they were to walk part of Crosby’s Trail, a track that led around the coast, across bush reserves and beaches to a secluded and beautiful bay.

  ‘Fine,’ Simon said, looking at a long thread dangling from the frayed hem of Ford’s shorts. Ford’s sartorial standards were actually dropping; there were white stains on the underarms of his T-shirt, he hadn’t shaved, and he was wearing yesterday’s baggy army shorts. Yet the women, Juliet, Sharon, Roza, favoured him with soft looks, small kindnesses. They liked a bit of rough, Simon supposed. Ford playing the silent manly role. With tragedy thrown in, his beloved wife May having died in a car accident, and now his girlfriend walking out on him with her little daughter. David, forewarned that Ford was ‘eccentric’, hadn’t paid much attention to him, and Ford hadn’t said anything controversial, hadn’t said much at all.

  ‘Quite a party,’ Ford said. ‘Here comes Papa Doc.’

  They watched the Cock rocking himself out of the car wearing beige trousers, sturdy boots, a khaki shirt with faux epaulettes, and big opaque sunglasses, like welding goggles. The driver held the door, still and narrow as a chess piece in his dark clothes.

  ‘Mama Doc . . .’

  ‘Not so loud,’ Simon said.

  Sharon Cahane emerged, lithe, tanned, long-legged in white Bermuda shorts and a floppy hat. She put her hand on the Cock’s shoulder and turned up her foot, inspecting her shoe.

  ‘And here’s Baby,’ Ford, amused without smiling, talking too loud, winding Simon up.

  Ed Miles idled by the fence at the cliff-top, dressed in neat casual trousers and a linen shirt. He was watching the women, as usual: Juliet, swathed in protective veils like a beekeeper, Karen vaguely rummaging in her bag, Sharon losing and regaining her balance with grace as the Cock answered his phone and reflexively moved away, drawing in the dust with his shoe. Below the cliff the sea stretched to an indistinct horizon; the islands were shrouded and the sea was patterned with the wash of moving currents. It was going to be very hot, perhaps the hottest day yet of the summer. The roadside grass was parched brown, the trees were dull with dust, and the cicadas, grown to corpulent full size, filled the air with their crackling.

  Simon looked at the rock formations below, oddly shaped outcrops rising sheer from the sea, iced with bird shit. The sea swirling around a red-and-white beacon, white flashes of foam, dark shadows of the reef under the swells. The cicadas and the dazzling light stunned his senses; he closed his eyes, soaking in the heat.

  ‘Here they come.’

  Crunch of gravel as the Hallwrights’ car pulled in.

  Sharon’s voice: ‘The Gibsons are taking the boat around.’

  That morning, Simon had made sure to hide the DVD of Arthur Weeks’s The Present in a zipped compartment in his suitcase, between a stack of medical journals. He’d actually thrown it away first, then after a moment’s reflection retrieved it from the bin out the back of the Little House, standing against the hot wall brushing dirt off the plastic cover, eyed by the bossy tuis. He wanted to get rid of it, but he also wanted to watch it again. In Weeks’s third short film, Anahera and Hamish had met in the city years after they’d got to know each other on the Far North beach. She was busy, purposeful; he was wondering which way to go career-wise. She’d joined an up-and-coming social class — chic urban Maori woman — and worked in the Newmarket studios of Maori Television.

  Simon thought about it, a brief daydream: Mereana redux. Mereana taking courses, earning a diploma or degree. Pacing the floor of Maori TV with her earpiece, her clipboard. The inner-city flat, the careful budget: rent, food, the stylish clothes she saves for. And one day outside the studios, young Hamish returns . . . But it was idealised, sentimental. Life wasn’t like that, and neither was she. Was she?

  He thought, Stick to facts. Don’t let Weeks mess with your mind. Simon preferred facts to fiction, avoided novels, liked the odd thriller — book or movie — quite liked biographies, but stuck mostly to the vast and evolving narrative of his own sphere: obstetrics and gynaecology. He gave women information about their bodies that surprised them, supplied explanations they couldn’t have arrived at themselves. He knew their bodies, knew only just enough about their minds . . .

  Now David was taking charge at the cliff-top, issuing orders, hurrying the group along. They assembled at the beginning of the track. Roza went back to the car for something and Johnnie, following her, strayed too close to the road and was shooed back by Tuleimoka. Trent and Troy wore black shorts and T-shirts and carried backpacks, crew-cut twins. Lunch was to arrive by boat with the Gibsons, and those too tired could be ferried back around the coast on the boat. Marcus and the Gibson boy had declined to come, preferring to toast themselves on the beach with a group of girls that seemed to be getting bigger each day. The young Miles children and their nanny had stayed behind at the pool. The party was preceded and followed by a select group of muscle in short sleeves, caps and earpieces: Ray, Ron, Mike, Shaun, Jon, Rick . . .

  Simon and Ford walked together, near the back. The track led them along the cliffs, under stands of brightly flowering pohutukawa, over rough paddocks full of waving grass and wildflowers, then into a puriri glade, thick tree roots growing across the path, sunlight shining through the trees in stripes. They crossed a cold little stream, the path wound through dense bush then came out in a paddock fringed with cabbage trees where they jumped over a stile and Juliet tore her skirt on the wire fence.

  They began descending gradually, the track leaving the paddocks and narrowing to a rough dusty path over rocks and tree roots. Soon they were skirting along the cliff, the sea below them, light glancing off waves, white foam around rocks, gannets diving, and the hiss and sigh as the water rushed in and retreated, sucking and gulping in cracks and crevices. Close to the reef it was hot, the air trapped and still against the cliff, and the back of Ford’s neck turned red under the merciless sun, big dark loops of sweat spreading over his T-shirt. Sunburn made his eyes burn blue, sweat rolled down his face.

  He was walking just ahead of Simon on the narrow path. ‘I was talking to Karen,’ he said.

  ‘You were?’

  ‘She told me something funny.’

  ‘You and Karen talked. To each other.’

  ‘I know. Anyway, she told me you’d done a shrink’s test for madness, and that you were mildly mentally ill.’

  ‘The Kessler score. It doesn’t mean anything. But she thinks it’s really funny.’

  ‘She said she’d done the test herself — she told me it’s oversensitive, it makes out everyone’s a bit crazy — but when she did it, her score was “moderately” mentally ill. That’s more than “mildly”.’

  It was a surprise. He slowed. ‘That’s not what she told me. She said she was a zero. Not a flicker, not a hint of anything.’

  ‘Not so.’

  ‘But Karen doesn’t tell lies. She’s too straightforward.’

  ‘Mm.’

  ‘Why did she tell you?’

  ‘I don’t know. We were drinking wine after dinner. She was laughing.’

  ‘The other women fancy you. It’s made her come round to your charms.’

  ‘She never liked me. But she’s changed.’

  ‘Has she.’ Simon thought about this. To him, she was a fixed reality, a constant. He’d married her because she was uncomplicated, open, happy; he’d always thought of her as ‘golden’. She was blonde, beautiful; he wouldn’t have said it to anyone, but she was a symbol of success. She was the antidote to everything he hated about his childho
od and Aaron Harris.

  He said, ‘Why would Karen be depressed, unhappy, whatever? She’s got everything she wants.’

  ‘Don’t know. I didn’t ask her. My guess would be it’s about Elke.’

  Simon now thought about his daughters. Elke, who was so like Roza. And Claire, who had a look of Aaron, and Ford. (Worse luck, Claire.) Straightforward Karen had given birth to angry, complex, clever Claire, the girl she’d never been able to handle or love. From the age of about eight, Claire had been irritated by Karen, questioned her authority, found her explanations of the world wanting, sided with Simon over everything, adopted a manner that insulted and infuriated her mother, resisted and despised Karen’s attempts to guide and instruct. It was a vicious circle: sensing Karen’s growing coldness, Claire hated her for it. Karen would not touch Claire, ever. She only reluctantly pecked her on the cheek, for form’s sake.

  When they’d adopted Elke, Karen had found a girl she could love. She would hug Elke, rub her back at night, take pride in her appearance and modest achievements, all her sense of failure with Claire soothed by the lovely little stranger. Elke was dreamy, affectionate, sweet; she was infinitely touching. With Marcus and Elke, Karen had found unconditional love.

  ‘What do you mean it’s about Elke?’

  Ford said, ‘Karen and Roza are competing. Karen’ll be thinking Roza’s going to take Elke away.’

  Simon checked Ray wasn’t too close. He said, ‘Is it about winning, or actually being worried she’ll lose Elke?’

  ‘Love or power,’ Ford said. ‘They’re not mutually exclusive.’

  ‘Elke’s eighteen. She’ll be making her own way.’

  ‘Women want their daughters for life. They want to be out shopping with them when they’re ninety-five. Not losing them soon as they get old enough to vote.’

  ‘They seem to be sharing her all right.’

  ‘But Roza, I don’t know. She’s a little bit threatening, isn’t she. And Elke is actually hers. Why would she want another woman in the picture?’

  ‘For Elke’s sake,’ Simon said.

  ‘Maybe.’ Ford tipped up a water bottle. ‘But does she think Elke needs another mum? What mum thinks that?’

  Simon took the bottle. ‘You think Karen’s worrying about all this.’

  ‘Maybe. Because there’s another complication for Karen. She doesn’t want to give up the Hallwrights. She’s got a crush on your mate David — the man with the power — and she likes the life.’

  Simon threw the bottle back at him, hard. ‘A crush. You can be a cold, clinical prick. You should have some children. Realise how painful all this is.’

  Ford tipped water on his hand, wet his forehead. ‘Need to find someone first. And I’m bringing all this up, I’ve been thinking about it, so why am I cold? Maybe I’m sensitive.’

  Simon sighed. ‘It does my head in.’

  ‘I can see the point of not having kids. Travelling light. The amount of grief Emily used to get from her daughter Caro. She could be a right little shit.’

  ‘It’s worth all that. Don’t ever think it’s not. You should have some kids — I mean it. It’s the best thing. You’d be good.’

  Ford gave him a brief, sour smile. ‘Find me a woman who’s willing.’

  ‘Look, I’m sorry Ford. Sorry about Emily.’

  Ford said nothing, strode ahead over rocks and tree roots, nimble for a big man.

  Simon, catching up: ‘Is there no way you and Emily can get back together?’

  ‘Wouldn’t want to.’

  ‘What went wrong?’

  ‘She said she got sick of me looking at her and thinking she wasn’t May. I told her I never thought that.’

  ‘Was she right?’

  ‘Course. Every day I thought: well, no choice. She’s not May. She’ll have to do.’

  Simon laughed. ‘Christ, Ford.’

  ‘I was on the rebound. Now it’s time for something meaningful.’

  ‘God, you’re a cynical bastard.’

  ‘I’m writing a book, the sequel to my PhD.’

  ‘That’ll fill the long winter evenings.’ Simon paused. He kept blundering, touching a nerve, but he was tired of not talking. ‘Was Emily upset about leaving?’

  ‘Yeah she was. Unhappy I didn’t try hard enough to get her back.’

  ‘You didn’t?’

  ‘Well, she wasn’t May.’

  ‘Yes, but life must go on. After May. May would want you to be happy.’

  ‘Indeed she would.’ Ford’s tone altered. Silence. He said, ‘Losing May . . . If Karen died, that’s the only way you’d understand.’

  Simon nearly said it. But you loved May.

  After a pause he said, ‘You were lucky.’ He was thinking of himself. The secret he lived with, was comfortable with, had never regretted: Karen was a cover, she was a symbol of success, she was necessary and dear and he’d be lost without her, but he’d never been in love with her. Shamed by his childhood, he’d done everything to remake himself: he’d accumulated career, kids, house, cars, trappings, trappings. Karen.

  Ford had waited until he found someone he really loved. Ford was free, always had been.

  Karen believed Simon had fallen in love with her. It might as well be true, except in his private core, where a sting of regret now touched him. He thought of Roza. Elke. Roza.

  ‘Yeah, I was lucky,’ Ford said. ‘Then very unlucky.’

  The track took them through a gap between two sheer sides of rock, the walls jagged and raw, as though a seismic jolt had split one enormous boulder in two. The path led down to a short white-sand beach, pohutukawa growing off the cliffs, the branches hanging low over the dunes, their red flowers carpeting the sand around them. The others had crossed to the other side and were on the rocks. They were looking at the water, pointing.

  Simon took off his sunglasses. The sea was painfully bright. The sand was so deep and soft it was hard to walk, his legs ached from all the jogging he’d been doing. They laboured and wallowed across and heard Johnnie shouting.

  It was a pod of orca, playing around a rock out from the reef, surfacing, diving, turning, putting on bursts of speed and then lolling, one weird glistening eye staring, their skins streaming and shiny. Simon had seen plenty of dolphins but not orca this close, the weight of them, the gloss of the black-and-white patterned bodies.

  ‘Killer whales,’ Johnnie said.

  ‘Aren’t they big?’ said Tuleimoka.

  ‘So shiny. You could see your face in them.’

  ‘Stand there, Sharon,’ commanded the Cock, looking down at the screen of his camera. ‘Roza, you too.’ He angled, peered, shading the camera screen with his hand.

  ‘How about one of you and Roza and Sharon?’ the Cock said to David.

  David ignored him, turned away.

  An orca leapt right out of the water. There was a collective gasp.

  ‘They revel,’ said Ford.

  ‘They revel and frolic,’ Roza said.

  ‘Can you frolic in water?’

  ‘Yes, but not gambol.’

  ‘That’s lambs. You need legs to gambol.’

  ‘What about frisk?’

  ‘Do they really kill you?’

  Ford said, ‘Yeah, ones in marinelands. The captured ones. They do the tricks with the balls and hoops and then one day they turn. The keeper gets his head wrenched off.’

  Roza said, ‘You can see why. How could you keep an animal like that in a tank? They play, they love the sea. I bet they feel misery too.’

  ‘And rage,’ Ford said.

  ‘Exactly. The keepers deserve what they get.’

  ‘Roza!’ Karen said.

  ‘Well, I’m just saying. Look, the Gibsons. In their freighter. Their ocean liner.’

  The bright white boat, tall, polished wood decking,
flag on the stern, heading briskly for the beach at the end of the point.

  ‘That’s lunch. Lead on.’

  The orca swam along the coast for a while and then, perhaps following a school of fish, turned and veered out to sea, no longer leaping but only surfacing occasionally.

  They crossed the rocks to a beach covered in grey stones. A stream ran down a cleft in the rock face, crossing the beach to the sea. A reef jutted a long way out from the shore, and Gibson had steered a wide arc to avoid the rocks, the boat plunging through a patch of chop, gulls whirling around the stern.

  ‘Windy out there.’

  But here you could feel the heat from the grey stones through the soles of your shoes. The size of the stones made walking difficult; they slowed, teetering, overbalancing. The heat came up into their faces and the stones moved underfoot with a hollow, clopping sound. There were brackish pools full of tea-coloured water and dead leaves, insects skating across the surface. When Simon and Ford climbed onto the rocks Tuleimoka was dragging Johnnie away from the corpse of a puffer fish, its spines dull yellow, its mouth open in a frozen O.

  Roza said, ‘He can poke it, surely. The germs won’t come swarming up the stick.’

  Karen said to Simon, ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing.’ He smiled, limply.

  ‘You were staring.’

  ‘You look so suntanned. So fit.’

  She sighed and reached for his hand, and he pulled her up onto the rocks. They stepped across sharp beds of broken oysters and skirted around hot rock pools, the surfaces shimmering as sea water washed in, creatures retreating as their giant shadows passed, crabs sidling, tiny fish veering. Simon looked down into the glassy worlds. When he was a boy he would touch the fronds of a sea anemone to feel them close around his finger, the strands sticking as he pulled gently away. He would pick up a crab by its back and watch the frantically waving legs, lower the creature down into its pool, watch it bury itself in sand. He would do no harm, not like the boys down their street who killed the small animals they came across, beheaded eels, smashed crabs, ripped off their shells and watched them curl up. Down at the hot mudflats in summer, the stink of blood, salt, cruelty. Ford had once punched a boy for torturing a gull he’d found tangled in a fishing line. Ford had pushed the boy away and finished off the bird with a rock. Simon had cried, angry about the rock, but Ford had said the bird had no chance, was in agony. Simon wanted to shout, who are you to decide how something dies? It was wrong, self-righteous. He ran at Ford; Ford fended him off with a few perfunctory blows and kicks, unbothered.