Golden Deeds

by Chidgey, Catherine

  In the kitchen, Nathan was slicing mushrooms. ‘Did you have a good day?’ he said.

  ‘It was all right,’

  ‘I saw you at the library. I did call out.’

  Colette placed a mushroom in her mouth, the hood like skin against her tongue. ‘I mustn’t have heard you.’

  The front door was open, and her dress lifted in the breeze. She felt her legs become rough with goose pimples and she struggled to hold the fabric down, clutching at the billowing cotton, snatching floral handfuls. She remembered her mother telling her that in the fifties women had sewn coins into their flaring hems, or sometimes small stones.

  ‘I hope you like lasagne,’ said Nathan. There’s quite a bit of it.’

  ‘Did you put my mail on my bed?’

  Nathan opened the oven, grimacing at the rush of heat. ‘Well,’ he said, sliding the lasagne in gingerly, careful not to burn himself, ‘who do you think put it there?’

  ‘It’s just I have a thing about people being in my room when I’m not there. You know.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Nathan. ‘Sure. Well. I’ll leave it on the bench from now on then,’

  ‘It’s nothing personal. It’s not that I think you’d, you know—’

  ‘No,’ said Nathan. ‘That’s fine.’ He pushed the oven door shut. ‘You need your privacy. It’s fine.’

  They ate dinner watching the news. Nathan was quiet, and when Colette asked him about his course or the neighbours or his previous flats he responded with one-word replies, his eyes never leaving the television screen.

  After dinner she returned to her room and spread the photo copies of Laura on her bed. The quality was poor, and although she could make out most of the text, the pictures were little more than blots. They showed a person, that much was apparent, but it could have been anybody: an old man, a toddler, someone her age. Or a teenage girl. The pages felt heavy with ink, heavier than normal paper. Colette recalled a television programme she’d seen about a blind man who could identify playing cards by their weight: the higher the card, the more ink used. He’d held them so lightly on his palms, his eyes staring into the middle distance, beyond the glare of the camera and the sceptical audience, and one by one he’d sensed the weight of a king, a knave, a cluster of diamonds, a single heart. Colette ran her fingers over the dark images. The more she looked at them, the less human they became, and had she not seen them enlarged and illuminated at the library, or framed in silver on Ruth’s sideboard, she would not have been able to say what the patches of grey and black represented. A tree, a mountain, thickening storm clouds. A swirl of tea leaves in the bottom of a cup; something by which to tell the future.

  The next day she studied Daniel’s face, watched him pushing a toy ambulance across Ruth’s Persian rug. He was a little like his mother around the mouth, she thought, and he had Malcolm’s colouring, but there were no conspicuous similarities, nothing that bound him to his parents. The person he most resembled was Laura. In the dining room, Colette peered at the bush-walk photograph and wondered what he would make of his missing sister as he grew older. She wondered whether Ruth and Malcolm would remark on the likeness, or whether they would note it only silently.

  ‘Colette!’ called Daniel, his voice quivering. ‘Where are you? Colette!’

  He was crying, holding the broken ambulance. Plastic patients were scattered across knotted birds and flowers.

  ‘It’s all right,’ she said, ‘it doesn’t matter. We’ll go out, shall we?’

  And they walked hand in hand through the dining room, past his sister, who watched from deep in the bush.

  ‘Here we are,’ said Colette, stopping at the top of the path. ‘Your old house. I suppose it still looks the same, from the outside.’

  Daniel released his small, thick hand from hers and headed down the path.

  ‘Hey, wait a minute,’ she called, but he was already halfway to the stairs, dodging protruding roots and slippery patches as if he knew the terrain by heart. ‘Be careful,’ she said, more to herself than to him; by now he was out of earshot.

  He was waiting at the top of the stairs for her, the front door already pushed open.

  ‘It must feel like home to you,’ she puffed, sinking into a chair. ‘Sort of, anyway. I’ll get us a drink in a minute. What do you want? Milk? Juice?’

  ‘Yes please,’ called Daniel, running his hands over the kitchen cupboards, the bench, the smooth stove. He went into the bathroom, and Colette could hear him turning the taps on and off, lifting the heavy glass lids from bath salts and replacing them with a clink. He had lived here for five years, she realised. Her claim to the place was two months. Still, his prying fingers made her uneasy. When he went into her bedroom, she followed him.

  ‘Do you want to see a photo of me at the beach? It’s just around here somewhere—’

  Daniel was examining a stain on the wallpaper.

  ‘Hmm,’ said Colette, shifting books and papers. ‘Don’t know where it’s got to. Next time, okay?’

  ‘Okay,’ said Daniel.

  ‘This is where I keep all my books for university.’ Colette showed him the shelves she’d made from bricks and planks of wood. ‘They’re all right, aren’t they? Until I can afford some nice antique ones. And this is Mr Fuzz.’

  Daniel scrutinised the teddy bear for a moment, gave it an experimental prod.

  ‘My mother made me bring him up here, to keep an eye on me,’ said Colette, and pointed to the bear’s one glassy eye.

  Daniel fingered the empty socket. ‘Like a belly button,’ he said.

  Back in the lounge he stared at the cupboard that covered the old staircase, pulled at the door handle.

  ‘Like this,’ said Colette. ‘Twist and then pull.’

  He leaned inside, then looked up at Colette, frowning. He ran his hands over the shelves and made a small cry; two minor-key notes like a bird before rain. He shut the cupboard, looked around, then headed for the door to the turret room.

  ‘No, that’s Nathan’s room,’ said Colette. ‘We can’t go in there.’

  But Daniel had already opened the door.

  Nathan was lying on his bed, jeans pushed down around his knees. He scrabbled for the blankets, pulled them over himself. ‘What the fuck—’ A photograph fell from his hand and landed face-down on the carpet.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Colette. ‘I tried to stop him.’

  ‘Just get out.’

  ‘Sorry. Yes. Daniel, come on.’

  The boy was staring at Nathan, eyes wide with alarm.

  ‘Daniel?’ Colette took his arm. He started to cry then, huge sobs that filled the musty room. He hid his face in the crook of his elbow.

  ‘For Christ’s sake, will you just fuck off?’ shouted Nathan.

  Colette dragged Daniel away. His cries grew even louder, and he followed her blindly, stumbling over his own feet.

  ‘It’s all right, everything’s all right,’ said Colette. ‘Nathan’s just in a bad mood, that’s all. It’s not your fault.’

  ‘My fault,’ repeated Daniel.

  ‘We’ll go home now, shall we? We can paint if you like.’

  Nathan’s door flew open and he pushed past them. When he slammed the front door the whole house shook.

  ‘He was a bit upset, I’m afraid,’ said Colette. ‘Well, very upset. It was all quite awkward.’

  Ruth stubbed out a cigarette, squashing it against the ashtray more times than were necessary. ‘Why did you take him there? Why did you put him through that?’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Colette. ‘I didn’t mean him any harm. I’m sure he’ll be okay, after he’s had a sleep. He probably won’t even remember it.’

  ‘Oh he’ll remember it. You’d be amazed what he remembers. He’s not stupid, you know.’

  ‘No. Of course not. I didn’t mean—’

  ‘I haven’t smoked in years,’ said Ruth, emptying the ashtray, opening all the windows. She put a hand to her temple and shut her eyes. ‘Just don’t take him there again, all right? He
’s not like other children,’

  Colette ate dinner in her room. She could hear Nathan moving around the flat, helping himself to food, scraping his plate, rinsing the dishes. He turned the television on and watched the first few minutes of the news, then flicked through the other channels. He rustled the newspaper, flushed the toilet. Around eleven o’clock it grew quiet, and Colette emerged and made some toast. She winced as she dropped the jam spoon and it clattered to the floor. Nathan’s door opened.

  ‘Oh, you are home,’ he said. ‘What’s up? Not feeling well?’

  ‘Not very.’

  ‘Do you need any—’

  ‘Good night,’ said Colette, and went back to her room, closing the door behind her.

  She couldn’t fall asleep that night, nor for the next few nights. She thought she heard running outside, quick footsteps drumming the garden. She gripped the sheets, buttoned her pyjamas right up to the collar. She had a sense of waiting for someone to enter the house and find her alone in bed with only photographs watching over her. The stranger would unfurl a hand at her like a star, his fingers fast at her throat.

  When she looked out her bay window, though, there was nobody outside. From certain vantage points the antique panes of glass warped the view, and if she shifted her head even slightly it did seem as if something were moving in the bush.

  Silly girl, said the people in the photos. Who does she think is there?

  Colette shut the curtains and pulled the covers up to her chin. This is an old house, she told herself. They are old windows. Glass was a liquid, she recalled, and if left for long enough it sank and thickened, and played tricks on the eye.

  ‘Why do they keep sending this junk? We’ve written at least three times telling them we have no use for it.’ Jan gulped her coffee. ‘I mean, if it were in English, perhaps. But Russian? How many Russian entomologists are there on campus?’

  ‘None, I expect,’ said Ruth, staring over the staff-room balcony at the students swarming below.

  ‘They’re like tiny insects, aren’t they?’ said Nicole.

  ‘Hey, there’s one of my tenants.’ Colette was walking past, head down, alone. ‘In the green jacket and the jeans.’

  Jan craned her neck over the balcony. ‘This is the girl who looks after Daniel, is it? She’d be quite pretty if she did something with her hair.’

  ‘Daniel wants to marry her,’ said Ruth. ‘He adores her.’ She watched as Colette passed directly underneath them.

  ‘She looks very young,’ said Nicole.

  ‘She’s twenty-one.’ Ruth sniffed the cigarette smoke that floated up from the throng of students. ‘She has such good skin. I want her skin.’

  ‘I could never leave a child with a stranger.’ There was a note of accusation in Nicole’s voice. ‘I saw this American programme once. They set up hidden cameras and filmed nannies doing the most appalling things. Hitting the children, ignoring distressed babies. Going through underwear drawers.’

  ‘I had a student nanny once,’ said Jan. ‘Nightmare. Invited her boyfriend over when we were away. Left used condoms in the bath.’

  ‘She’s very good with Daniel,’ said Ruth. ‘Very good. He adores her.’ She watched Colette walk downhill towards the harbour and disappear from view. ‘We’d hate to lose her.’

  ‘I’m sorry I was sharp with you last time,’ she said. ‘I was just worried about Daniel. He hid himself in Malcolm’s wardrobe. I couldn’t find him for ages.’ She stopped. ‘He’s not like other children. I’m a bit over-protective sometimes.’

  ‘No harm done,’ said Colette.

  ‘No. No harm done.’ Ruth let this echo for a moment. ‘How do you manage to be so relaxed?’

  ‘Me?’ Colette laughed. ‘Dominic will love that!’

  ‘Well, you are.’

  ‘I haven’t slept for the past four nights.’

  Ruth looked down at her hands. ‘I hope you’re not, I hope you’re, you know, looking after yourself.’

  Colette laughed again, more cautiously. ‘This isn’t a birth-control talk, is it?’

  ‘No, I mean, well, we worry about you, Malcolm and I. New to the city. And now this business with Nathan. You don’t have to stay in the flat because of us, you know.’

  ‘It’s a great flat. Great location. Five minutes into town, two minutes up to campus—’

  ‘You’ve done wonders with Daniel, even Malcolm’s noticed. We’d hate to lose you.’

  ‘I’m fond of him.’

  Ruth clasped her fingers together. ‘But you have to protect yourself,’ she said. ‘You have to be so careful, these days.’

  ‘You’re beginning to sound like my mother,’ said Colette. ‘Or my Gender Relations lecturer. She keeps telling us how dangerous New Zealand is now. Do you know, as recently as the 1950s, most people didn’t bother locking their doors at night? I’m thinking of basing an essay round that.’

  ‘It has possibilities,’ said Ruth.

  ‘I’ve been going to self-defence classes, actually. Mum’s idea.’

  ‘Good,’ said Ruth. ‘That’s good.’

  ‘Going out again tonight?’ said Nathan.

  ‘I won’t be late.’

  ‘Most mysterious. You’re hardly ever here these days.’

  Colette swung her satchel on to her back. ‘Leave the outside light on, okay?’

  After self defence that night, the class went out to the pub.

  ‘I’ve never had this many dates,’ said Roland, and bought everyone a drink.

  Colette noticed that he was paying a lot of attention to Tracey, one of the younger women, and after a while the two of them rose to leave together.

  ‘Hey, Trace,’ said one of the class members, sniggering, ‘even if it’s less direct, take the most well-lit route.’

  ‘Don’t get into an empty train carriage,’ said another.

  ‘Tuck long hair inside your collar.’

  ‘Walk confidently, stand up straight.’

  ‘Make yourself appear as large as possible,’

  ‘Hold your keys between your fingers like a knife.’

  ‘The eyes are a vulnerable spot.’

  Roland and Tracey grinned and left.

  ‘Don’t forget to go for the groin,’ someone called.

  Colette stumbled home late, a little bit drunk, taking a shortcut through the park. She felt invincible. She knew how to defend herself, should the need arise. Which points of the body to target. She could bring a man down in three simple moves. Her voice alone, she told herself as she climbed the stairs to the front door, could be sufficient to dissuade an attacker. She would simply fix him with a look, tell him loudly and firmly NO NO NO, foil his every move. She would have a silver whistle arranged between her lips and, between her fingers, a key with which to unlock his eyes.

  Nathan had already gone to bed. Colette stumbled over the magazine rack and giggled. She knocked her toothbrush into the bath. She would clean her teeth in the morning. That would be all right. Everything would be all right. Perhaps, she thought, she would write a letter to Patrick. She left her clothes where they fell, and when she dropped into bed she slept so soundly that she couldn’t even remember her dreams.

  In summer, at Aunt Joyce’s, Patrick thought he could see fireflies in the garden. They remained with him long after he’d returned to his parents’ house; dots of illumination on his dim holiday memories, like irregularities on an X-ray. He stayed outside for hours watching for them, while inside the house his aunt and his mother and father drank bitter coffee and discussed the world. He sat very still, hoping the grown-ups would forget he had not gone to bed. The stone seat chilled beneath him, drawing moisture from the earth like a tree, and the goldfish were lazy in the pond, tails drifting like silk handkerchiefs, and the birds grew mournful, then silent. He believed the fireflies were spelling out messages, the secrets of flowers, trees. Always, though, just as he made out a letter here, a word there, his father or his mother or his aunt turned the porch light on and drenched the g
arden in a bright domestic glow, and the fireflies rolled away like scattered beads.

  ‘Come in now, Patrick,’ the grown-ups called, and he would leave the garden behind, because teeth had to be cleaned and pyjamas donned and cheeks kissed. Sometimes he looked out the bedroom window to see if the fireflies had come back, but all he ever saw were the occasional beams of a passing car. When he closed his eyes, though, he could see them, their bright trails indigo on his retinas, like ink. And as he was falling asleep he moved his lips to read the words: stay outside, stay out all night.

  He always slept in his cousin’s room; she spent the summer holidays at her father’s.

  ‘You’re not a bad swap for her,’ said Aunt Joyce, tweaking his ear the way his mother never did.

  Patrick didn’t remember Faye, although there were photographs of the two of them together as toddlers. Every year his mother said, ‘It’s such a shame Faye’s not here. They used to play together so nicely.’

  Faye’s bedroom was white. She had white curtains and a white bed and a soft white rug on the floor. It reminded Patrick of a dental surgery.

  One year, the year before the fire, his mother said, ‘We’re going to spend Christmas with Aunt Joyce. Faye will be home from school, of course, so you can catch up with her. And we’re meeting a man called Ronnie.’

  Ronnie was Aunt Joyce’s new friend. He was very wealthy and Patrick would have to be on his best behaviour. People like Ronnie did not suffer fools.

  A bed was made up for Patrick in the sunroom, which Aunt Joyce called the conservatory even though it contained no plants. His parents had Joyce’s guest suite, but when she was out he heard his mother describing it as just a large bedroom with a washstand in one corner. Patrick had never slept in a room made of glass, and that night he tricked himself that the conservatory walls weren’t there at all, that they had melted away into the cold garden.