Golden Deeds

by Chidgey, Catherine

  The man riffled through pages of fashion, beauty tips, recipes. ‘That’s your problem then, isn’t it?’

  The pilot grasped the blue cord and pulled the door shut—as if hauling in a net, thought Ruth—and in a moment they were rushing along the runway and everything was blurring and then they were climbing above the clouds.

  The air conditioning came on when they had completed their ascent. A vent above Ruth began to breathe out a stream of mist. She could see it forming clouds above her head, like unspoken words on a cold day. The young woman was watching it with some alarm.

  ‘Simon, what’s that?’ she whispered, but he didn’t hear her.

  Ruth hadn’t realised how quickly home could be left behind. Before long the captain was announcing their descent, and as they approached the airstrip, she watched the shadow of the plane moving along the land like a ghostly fish.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Patrick’s father stood in the doorway, his lean silhouette breaking the light from the hall. ‘I hope I won’t find any of the packaging damaged.’ He picked up each Meccano box and scrutinised it. ‘Mmhmm,’ he said, and, ‘Aha, aha.’

  Patrick wondered if he should say something, but his father seemed so absorbed in his inspection he thought it best not to interrupt. Finally Graham let out a sigh and looked at Patrick.

  ‘These are not toys,’ he said, holding a No. 5 Outfit as if it were made of glass. ‘They are an investment. We have to think about the future.’

  Patrick nodded. He studied the pictures on the boxes and the instruction manuals and the advertising brochures, the colours so vivid they hurt his eyes. The World’s Greatest Toy, read one cover. Meccano Hours are Happy Hours. A train rushed towards his foot, all red metal and silvery steam; the Quebec Bridge spanned a bright blue river; a pipe-smoking father watched two boys working on the Giant Block-setting Crane; a group of boys on a palm-fringed island unpacked Meccano from treasure chests.

  ‘We can never know what the future holds for us,’ his father continued. ‘It’s important to plan. To have something put aside for emergencies. I might not always be earning what I am now.’

  Patrick traced the palm leaves with his eye. In the distance was a sailing ship, and beside it, waving to one of the marooned boys, were tiny figures on a life raft. Toys of Quality, read the lettering on the brochure. Beside the boys was an unfurled treasure map. Patrick nudged a box with his toe, hoping for a faint chime, the sound of metal on metal, but there was nothing. His father never talked about money, unless it was to complain about the cost of steak or petrol or Patrick’s school uniform. He certainly never acknowledged the fact that he earned a salary, and that it was reasonable. Patrick eyed the velvet curtains, the fringed cushions his mother arranged on the bed every morning and removed every night. He felt the thick carpet under his knees. Could it be that his parents were well off despite the fire? With my Meccano Outfit in front of me I am the keenest, brightest, and happiest boy living, he read. It’s fine to be a Meccano boy, and that’s why I want to tell you here about Meccano—the jolliest, manliest game ever.

  ‘Choose one,’ said his father. ‘You can choose one set, to keep for yourself.’

  ‘The No. 115 Shipbuilding Outfit,’ said Patrick. ‘Please.’

  His father nodded and placed it on the dressing-table. Patrick looked at the backwards writing in the mirror: . It looked like a Russian word, a message in code from one of his spy novels.

  ‘Your mother can take you to the bank tomorrow,’ said Graham. ‘I’ll pay for the safety deposit box.’ And he smiled, as if he’d just promised Patrick a treat.

  ‘Aren’t you a lucky thing,’ said Doreen. ‘You know how your father prizes his collection.’

  The bus rumbled and bumped, and in Patrick’s lap the unassembled ship felt heavy as a brick. It lurched forwards as they turned a corner and his mother grabbed at it.

  ‘Do take care, Patrick,’ she said. ‘We need to look after it, it’ll be worth a lot of money one day’

  Outside, above the thundering of the bus’s engine and the cars whizzing past and the passengers discussing the coolness of the evenings now, the criminal price of ham on the bone, Moira somebody’s wedding, Patrick heard a clock strike a quarter past the hour. The quarter-past chime always annoyed him. It sounded so incomplete.

  At the bank they were greeted by a dark-suited man.

  ‘We’ll parcel it up in tissue paper first,’ he told them, taking the Shipbuilding Outfit from Patrick and placing it neatly on the desk.

  For some reason Patrick thought he was going to produce scented pastel sheets, like the ones saved from the guest soaps, but the man in the suit spread two pieces of dark blue paper on the desk.

  ‘It keeps out the light,’ he said. ‘It’ll protect the box. Did you know, Mrs Mercer, that ordinary white paper lets in the light?’

  Doreen admitted she did not.

  ‘It leaches the colour out bit by bit,’ said the man.

  ‘But it’ll be dark in the safety deposit box, won’t it?’ said Patrick.

  ‘I like to use the blue paper,’ said the man, ‘as a backup. A safety net. One can never be too careful with one’s valuables. Wedding dresses, for instance, should always be stored in blue.’ He looked at Patrick’s mother, waited.

  Patrick thought of all the parchment manuscripts in the museum, all the books made of skin rather than paper: the bibles and breviaries and books of hours and herbals, the romances and bestiaries, the psalters, the passionales. He wondered what would happen if every one was unclasped and left to revert to its animal form. He imagined painted goats springing from the shelves; rustling, reconstituted sheep wandering the manuscripts room; deer and calves and squirrels and hares filling the museum corridors.

  ‘My wedding dress is in a special cotton cover,’ said his mother, and the man nodded.

  ‘Cotton is also acceptable.’

  The dress had been wrapped in an old blanket, Patrick knew, but he didn’t say anything.

  The dark-suited man wrapped the No. 115 Shipbuilding Outfit in brown paper, coarse and murky-coloured, like very fine sand. It gave nothing away; the package could have contained meat, or books, or it could have been a box filled with earth. Patrick recalled the mummified falcon at the museum, the cat wrapped for centuries. He watched the man folding precise corners, creating paper seams as neat as any tailor might. His hands were small but very broad, with short white fingers and carefully trimmed nails. On one little finger he wore a gold ring in the shape of a shield with a tangle of initials engraved on it. He tucked and pleated the thick paper. He had done this before. He had sealed up hundreds of treasures in nondescript brown. Patrick pictured all the different parcels stored in their safety deposit boxes, nestled in the dark. There must be walls filled with them: papery brown cocoons.

  When the man had sealed the box completely he asked Patrick’s mother to sign her name over the joins.

  ‘Here,’ he said, motioning with his little shielded finger, ‘and here—and here.’

  Patrick thought of the parcel one day being opened, and every version of his mother’s name being split in two. He wondered whether the dark-suited man would still be there, whether he would be the one to undo it. His mother signed slowly, making sure that every signature looked real.

  Colette reached inside the mailbox. The electricity bill, a few thin, garish catalogues, a letter for Nathan from his family—and, right at the bottom, two letters addressed to Colette, from overseas, and forwarded north by her mother. But they weren’t from Patrick.

  Dear Colette,

  Just a note to let you know that I’m coming to New Zealand! I decided it was time I had a look at the place, and Mom said she’d pay for my ticket, so I’ll be there next month. I want to visit your mother for a few days and then I thought I’d head north and see you and Dominic. I’m guessing you will be on Easter break then, and am hoping you might have some free time to spend with your oldpen-pal! It will be great to finally meet you in person.


  Lots of love, Nina

  Dear Colette,

  Although I haven’t had any contact with you for a couple of years, I’ve been thinking a lot recently and decided it was time to write.

  When I first met you, obviously I found you attractive, and I thought you were a lot like me. We had the same sense of humour, we liked each other’s friends and you said you wanted to travel too. It took me a long time to realise how different we are. Sometimes I think the only reason you were interested in me was because I was doing a law degree—because I would earn a lot. You used to joke about wanting to marry well, but now I think you were serious. I think you saw me as the golden goose—someone who would buy you your big, well-situated house and your trips overseas and your overpriced antiques. But I have no regrets about dropping law—in fact, it was the best move I ever made. I certainly don’t miss New Zealand. Have you done any more travel, Colette? I suspect not. I suspect you haven’t left the country since you got back from our ‘round-the-world trip’. For someone so tight with her money, that was a real waste, wasn’t it?

  Your basic problem, Colette, is that you are too cautious. You don’t like taking risks. What this means for anyone involved with you is that they have to how to your will, and if they don’t, you show a very hard, ugly side of your character. You become ruthless in the pursuit of your own goals and have little consideration for how that might affect others. Take, for example, Venice. You knew I wanted to see the Doge’s Palace—the prisons, in particular—but you insisted on a ridiculous gondola ride. Then there was your attitude in Paris. It was obvious you didn’t want to be there. Every café I chose was too smoky, you refused to come on the perfume-factory tour, the Mona Lisa was too small for you. I could go on. Why, Colette, did you even bother to leave your tiny little island at the arse-end of nowhere? Perhaps you’ve changed since I last saw you, but I doubt it. You care about one person only, and that’s Colette Hawkins. I hope whichever poor bastard you’re with now won’t take as long as I did to come to his senses.

  Justin Warwick

  ‘Anything for me?’ said Nathan.

  Colette handed him the letter from his family and burst into tears.

  ‘What is it? Bad news?’

  ‘It seems I have a very hard side to me. I’m ruthless, apparently’ Even as she said the words, she regretted it. Nathan was watching her, murmuring sympathies, but she knew he was also assessing her character, trying to fit Justin’s description to the person he knew.

  ‘Unbelievable,’ he said, and took the letter from her. And although he snorted and was indignant on Colette’s behalf and muttered, ‘Lies. All lies,’ and, ‘You can’t say that,’ disagreeing with Justin as if they were in the same room, he read the whole document very closely.

  ‘His handwriting is terrible,’ he said finally.

  ‘He was probably drunk when he wrote it.’

  ‘Well then,’ said Nathan, still reading, ‘you can’t believe a word, can you? Just ignore it.’ He screwed up the letter and dropped it in the bin. ‘There now. It’s gone. Let’s have a drink.’

  But it wasn’t gone. As they sat on the couch sipping wine, Colette could hear the crushed pages rustling, slowly unfurling themselves, demanding attention.

  ‘He’s right, you know,’ she said. ‘I am unadventurous. I paid for a round-the-world trip and I came back early’

  ‘I’m not surprised, if you were travelling with him.’

  ‘I’ve never even been to Australia,’ she said, ‘and my dad lives there. I’m specialising in New Zealand history, for God’s sake.’

  Nathan opened another bottle of wine. ‘The Australians do good reds,’ he said, inspecting the label.

  ‘I’ve flown over Australia,’ said Colette, ‘on the way back from my aborted round-the-world trip, the summer before last. We were meant to have a week there, but I only saw it from the air.’

  ‘I’d like to see the outback,’ said Nathan. ‘Hire a car, travel at my own pace. Get a feel for the country,’

  ‘My cousins coming to visit over Easter, by the way,’ said Colette, stumbling over her words, ‘from America. We used to write to each other in lemon juice.’ She laughed and refilled her glass, and kept refilling it until she couldn’t hear the letter in the bin any more, until all she could hear was Nathan telling her she was beautiful.

  She frowned. The tree outside her window was in the wrong place, and for one bleary moment she wondered if it had moved in the night, uprooted itself and turned to face the ocean. Or, perhaps, the whole house had shifted, pivoted on its axis in the dark. And then she realised it wasn’t her window at all. It was Nathan’s.

  ‘I love this room in the mornings,’ he said, placing a breakfast tray on the bed. He pulled back the rest of the curtains so that light poured in every side of the turret. ‘These were built so wives could watch for their husbands returning from sea.’

  Colette tried to nod, but her head hurt too much. ‘My cousin’s coming to New Zealand,’ she said, closing her eyes. ‘From America. Is it okay with you if she stays? She can sleep in the lounge.’

  ‘Is she gorgeous?’ said Nathan.

  ‘Oh yes.’

  ‘Then it’s fine,’ he laughed.

  In 1973, the very first time they went out to dinner, Rosemary asked Patrick what made him choose museum work.

  ‘Such dusty places,’ she said. ‘And don’t you get tired of having to be quiet?’ She clasped her hands together and tilted her head on one side, waiting for his answer, never taking her eyes off him. Patrick pressed the softened wax on one of the candles. He could feel the heat from the base of the flame, the hot blue diamond almost touching his thumb. Today was a special day. He had just purchased a manuscript he had wanted for a long time, not for the museum but for himself. It was an instruction book, written for medieval scribes and illuminators, and although it was relatively unadorned he liked to think of it as a template for far more lavish works. A starting point, the beauty of which was in the words themselves. He thought of the directions for making ink: Cut for yourself wood of the thorn-trees in April or May, before they produce flowers or leaves, and collecting them in small bundles, allow them to lie in the shade for two, three, or four weeks, until they are somewhat dry. Then have wooden mallets, with which you beat these thorns upon another piece of hard woody untilyou peel off the bark everywhere, which you immediately put into a barrelful of water.

  ‘Well, don’t you?’ said Rosemary.

  The candles were lined up in threes on every table in the restaurant. It was an expensive place. He peered through the waxy bars at her, wished they would burn away.

  ‘I suppose, I mean,’ he said, ‘I haven’t really thought, it’s something that’s never—’

  Rosemary smiled, waited.

  Afterwards, thought Patrick, put this water into a very clean pan, or into a cauldron, and fire being placed under it, boil it; from time to time, also, throw into the pan some of this bark, so that whatever sap may remain in it may be boiled out. When you have cooked it a little, throw it out, and again put in more; which done, boil down the remaining water unto a third part, and then, pouring it out of this pan, put it into one smaller, and cook it until it grows black and begins to thicken.

  ‘Do you know the derivation of the word ink?’ he said. ‘It comes from the Latin encaustum, meaning burnt in, because it eats into the page.’ He could see Rosemary frowning. ‘Later medieval ink was made from gall nuts. The swellings that grow on oak trees when a gall wasp lays eggs in the bud.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Rosemary, and began playing with her salad.

  ‘The gall nuts were crushed and infused in rainwater in the sun, or by the fire, and—’

  ‘What about the baby wasps?’ said Rosemary. ‘What happened to them?’

  The baby wasps?’

  ‘In the bud.’

  ‘They bored holes,’ said Patrick. ‘When they hatched, they drilled through the gall nut and flew away’

  ‘Before crushing?’ />
  ‘Oh yes, well before crushing.’ Patrick stopped. ‘What did you ask me?’

  ‘About the baby wasps.’

  ‘No, before that.’

  ‘Ah. Museum work.’ Rosemary had resumed playing with her salad.

  ‘When I was a boy,’ said Patrick, aware he was talking too much, ‘I used to go to the museum every weekend. The manuscripts curator was very kind to me.’ Rosemary slid a tomato wedge back and forth. Patrick wished she would eat it; the meal would cost a lot. ‘It was the need to preserve the past,’ he said, and suddenly he wanted to tell her about the fire. He wanted her to sit watching his lips, his tongue, while he told her how he’d destroyed everything his family had owned.

  ‘Patrick,’ she said, ‘are you always so serious?’ She laughed and brushed his cheek with her fingertips, and he laughed with her, and caught her hand before it crept back through the candles to cradle her wine glass. And he kept the fire to himself.

  Patrick disliked visiting his mother. He put off taking Rosemary to meet her until embarrassment over the delay outweighed embarrassment over Doreen herself. She’d been an old woman for years; ever since he left home she’d been wearing brown tights and cardigans and floral blouses buttoned to the neck. She drank tea, sucked boiled sweets. And she knitted, more than she ever had, even though Patrick bought his own clothes now and Graham was seven years dead, felled by a stroke while wearing a Fair Isle jumper. Whenever Patrick came to see Doreen she sat in her chair, woollen garments growing from her hands, the steel needles clicking like bones.

  ‘I’ve been seeing someone for a couple of years now,’ he said. ‘I thought I might bring her round next time I come.’

  ‘Your ship,’ said his mother, ‘is still in the bank.’

  ‘Mum,’ he said, ‘I’m seeing someone. Rosemary. She wants to meet you.’