The Red Queen

by Gemma Bowker-Wright

  He waits a long time for her reply.

  ‘That’s a selfish reason,’ she says, quietly. ‘Anyway, I really can’t talk about this right now.’

  It is getting dark outside and Lew can see red tones, picked out by the changing angle of light, glow in the damp grass. ‘I’ve invited Ruth and her boys over for dinner.’

  ‘Jesus,’ says Ann, ‘when?’

  Suddenly there’s a shout—Lew isn’t sure if it was Ann or someone near her.

  ‘Shit! Did you feel that?’ says Ann.

  ‘Feel what?’

  ‘An earthquake just now, a jolt, the whole building swayed.’

  ‘I didn’t feel anything,’ says Lew.

  Ruth and her twins come for dinner on a wet Saturday. Even before they arrive, Ann has a headache. The twins run down the hallway, pull the covers off the couch pillows and scatter clear marbles across the kitchen floor. During dinner they spill grape juice on the table.

  ‘Sorry,’ says Ruth and she offers an apologetic smile.

  ‘No matter,’ says Lew, getting up to find a tea towel.

  Ann watches the red tide move towards her and doesn’t say anything.

  After dinner they sit in the lounge and talk about gardening, the weather, the neighbour across the road who doesn’t secure his recycling so it blows down the street, the weather. As they talk, the twins dart back and forth between the couch and the coffee table, their movements uncontained. It irritates Ann but she doesn’t say anything. Out of the corner of her eye she can see Ruth’s blue eyes scan the ceiling, the carpet, the door.

  ‘Is something the matter?’ Ann finally asks.

  Ruth twists her wine glass between her fingers. ‘The energy flows in this room are wrong.’

  ‘Wrong?’ says Lew. ‘In what way?’

  ‘There’s too much clutter.’

  Ann massages her forehead with her left hand.

  ‘It would be easy to fix.’ Standing up, Ruth goes to the far corner. ‘If you got rid of a few things and dusted.’ She turns in a slow circle. ‘And placing an object here would be very powerful.’

  Lew gets up and hovers halfway between the armchair where Ann sits and the corner where Ruth stands. ‘What kind of object? Is there something you would recommend?’

  ‘That depends on whether you want to calm, or to energise.’ She pauses, her eyes on Lew. ‘So, for example, a paper lantern would bring energy. But don’t go for yellow. Or you could try a pink candle. And a plant, for example aloe vera, would help to bring a sense of calm. But I’d avoid cacti.’

  Suddenly Ann feels pressure on her right toe. She looks down. One of the twins is looking up at her.

  ‘Oh, hello,’ she says.

  The twin scrambles back to his brother. The two of them sit on the floor across from Ann, legs crossed, grinning.

  ‘What’s so funny?’

  ‘Why’re you so skinny?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ says Ann, taken off balance. She tries to smile. ‘I just am.’

  ‘Don’t you eat much?’ The twin puts his little finger in his nose.

  ‘Sometimes I forget,’ says Ann.

  They watch each other—a staring competition—Ann on one side, the twins on the other. No one blinks.

  ‘You’re quite old. Older than our mum. Why are you so old?’

  Ann feels it slowly, the shock of it, the weight. She feels hot.

  From the far corner of the room Ruth gives an awkward cough. ‘Ah,’ she says. ‘Lew, I see you have The New Zealand Guide to Ferns on your bookshelf. Do you really manage to grow ferns here? I haven’t had any luck with mine since we left Auckland.’

  ‘My husband,’ says Ann before anyone else can speak, ‘has a way with organisms that are evolutionarily ancient.’

  Ruth coughs. Lew smiles. And the room feels crowded.

  Later, Ann and Lew walk Ruth and the twins down the driveway.

  ‘You should plant native grasses,’ says Ruth. The twins have run ahead to the gate and gone through. ‘I’ve put them in along my fence and they’ve done amazingly well. Apparently they can survive any kind of weather—even the Wellington wind.’

  ‘They wouldn’t survive me,’ says Ann, turning to go back inside.

  Ann’s headache returns as she gets ready for bed. She watches Lew button his pyjama top, one button at time, turning to smile at her when he’s finished. There’s something about Lew’s smile—broad but sad.

  ‘They were exhausting,’ says Ann. She lies back with a thump. ‘I feel awful.’

  Lew sits on his side of the bed and pulls the covers over his feet. Reaching over he brushes the hair away from her face. ‘They were fine. And you look fine to me.’ Walking his fingers down her neck, he cups her left breast. The pressure hurts slightly.

  ‘Well I feel awful,’ says Ann, pushing his hand away.

  He reaches for a book from his bedside table.

  Ann gets out of bed. ‘Why can’t you ever let anything be awful?’ she says.

  ‘What’s awful?’

  ‘You can’t ever let anything be awful. You’re fifty-two, for God’s sake. I just want you to let something, someone, be awful.’

  Lew rearranges the duvet over his feet. ‘Because things generally aren’t.’ He wiggles his feet—two peaks at the far end of the bed. ‘And people generally aren’t either.’

  ‘God,’ says Ann, heading for the door. ‘Sometimes I want to hit you.’

  She finds a sleeping bag in the hot water cupboard and arranges it on the couch. At some stage in the night she gets up to go to the toilet and stands on a marble in the hallway. The next day there is a bruise on the ball of her foot, small and round, like a pea.

  The museum holds a new exhibition in winter. A polar display targeted at school children to teach them about the early explorers, the vegetation, all the different kinds of ice. Lew works late to move the pieces into place and set up the displays of fragile artefacts and equipment. Under a glass case at the entrance to the exhibition he sets up a cigar box left by Scott, beside it a boot that once belonged to Amundsen. By the time the display is complete, the days have shortened and Lew is getting home in the dark. He has to chop firewood using the outside light.

  ‘I saw you today.’

  Lew turns, his arms full of kindling.

  Ruth is leaning over the gate. On her head a knitted hat. ‘The actual you,’ she says. ‘I took the boys to the museum.’

  ‘Oh,’ says Lew and his heartbeat settles. ‘You should have said hello.’

  ‘You looked busy.’ She reaches for the latch but doesn’t open the gate. ‘I loved it—especially the stuff about the race to the South Pole. It was so exciting and tragic. I didn’t know much about it before.’

  ‘That’s good to hear—that you liked it I mean.’

  ‘Amundsen was my favourite. I knew he was going to win. Scott didn’t have a clue; he did all the wrong things and had all the wrong gear.’

  ‘That’s a bit unfair,’ says Lew. ‘He got some things right. And it was luck, too—compared with Amundsen’s expedition, they had terrible weather.’

  Neither of them says anything for a while.

  ‘So what’s Ann forecasting for winter?’

  Lew adjusts the kindling in his arms. ‘Settled for now, but it won’t last. It’s going to get really cold. It might even snow.’

  ‘Down south?’

  ‘And here—even as far north as Auckland.’

  ‘I’ll believe that when I see it,’ says Ruth, beaming at him.

  It stays settled for a week, then rains again, the kind of rain that would be bearable if it weren’t for the wind. Ann walks to work wearing Lew’s old winter coat, a mosaic of patches down the sleeves. Although the fabric is thick, the wind finds its way through the seams, the tiny hole by her right elbow. Ann coughs as she makes her way through the rose garden. She’s had it for days—the cold—but doesn’t want to take time off work.

  ‘Do you think I should go to the doctor?’ asks Lew when he come
s down with a sore throat a week later.

  Ann rolls her eyes at him. But after he’s spent five days in bed, she changes her mind. ‘If someone with a medical degree tells you you’re not dying, you’ll have a better chance of believing it.’

  The doctor is stern-looking. Ann sits in the patient’s chair while he examines Lew, sitting Lew on the bed and feeling around his ribs with quick doctor’s fingers. He looks down Lew’s throat and into each ear. Then he looks at Lew’s medical history on his monitor, scrolling slowly, then fast, then slowly again.

  ‘A sinus infection,’ says the doctor when he’s finished. He directs the diagnosis to Ann.

  ‘Is that all?’ she says.

  The doctor tells Lew to take Panadol, get plenty of sleep, drink lots of water, and avoid second-hand smoke. ‘And that’s all,’ he says, opening the door for them to leave.

  In the car on the way home, Lew reaches across and squeezes Ann’s kneecap. He leaves his hand there until the lights change.

  That night Ann is called into work—a storm is coming up from Antarctica. She watches her monitor excitedly as a black swirl moves upwards towards New Zealand.

  It begins on Sunday afternoon. Ann is lying on the couch, having worked three night shifts in a row. She sits up suddenly, feeling something amiss. It takes her a while to realise it’s the silence that’s disturbing her—silence, and then a shout. She gets up and goes to the front door: outside the world is white and becoming whiter, every available surface covered—driveways, lawns, the tops of fence posts. Each of Lew’s pot plants has grown a white hat. Walking out to the lawn, she scoops a handful of snow.

  ‘Lew?’ Ann turns and sees Ruth standing behind the gate.

  ‘It’s me.’

  ‘Sorry,’ says Ruth, ‘I was looking from a distance.’

  ‘I wasn’t that far away.’ As Ann speaks, she starts to shiver.

  Ruth opens the gate. ‘Are you all right?’ She comes through, closing the latch behind her.

  Ann takes a step backwards, her body strangely heavy. ‘Actually, I don’t think I am,’ and she turns to go back inside. But Ruth is there behind her, coming through the door and then they’re both inside, together. Ann falters. Ruth takes her arm and leads her down the hallway, into the cold lounge. Sitting Ann on the couch, she turns on the heater and takes a blanket from the armchair, wrapping it around Ann’s shoulders, tightly. As Ruth leans close Ann smells a familiar scent—the scent of the car park outside work—gritty and stale. ‘Are you a smoker?’

  ‘Sometimes,’ says Ruth.

  ‘I wouldn’t have picked you as a smoker. You know it causes cancer?’

  Ruth stands as if to leave, but she turns left at the lounge doorway instead of right. ‘I’ll make you a green tea before I go.’ Ann hears her go into the kitchen and boil the jug, set down a cup, open cupboards—the sound of each task familiar, yet performed differently from the way Ann would have done it, out of sequence.

  It’s the first time in forty years, says the six o’clock news. There are snow scenes from all around New Zealand—snow-covered houses, playgrounds, a group of children sliding down a hill on moving signs, the bucket fountain on Cuba Street lightly dusted. To Lew, however, it soon becomes impractical—the treacherous walk and bus ride to and from the museum, the feeling of living in a fridge. At night he lies awake and imagines he hears the house groan under the extra weight. Instead of a light dusting, he imagines himself in the midst of a proper snowstorm—howling gales and snow piled as high as the roof. His dreams, arriving well after midnight, form a moving kaleidoscope of snow and cold: one night he’s at the South Pole surrounded by a frozen vegetable garden; the next he’s sitting in a cold kitchen with his own ghost and they’re going about normal things—discussing work, making dinner, listening to the news. On the third night of snow, Lew dreams of the trip to Fiordland. This time there are no waterfalls and the sun is out. Ruth is on the tour boat too, and the twins. She sits in the space between him and Ann, one twin on her lap, the other standing by the railing. Suddenly the twin by the railing is climbing it. Before anyone can do anything, he is at the top and over. Lew lunges forward and looks down. The twin is lying in the water, floating. He sinks, then reappears.

  The oncologist hovers over the screen. Ann tries to see what he’s looking at but the bed is at the wrong angle. All she can see is the grey outline of her breast. The oncologist faces her as he speaks but she can see his eyes flicker back to the screen. A man more comfortable with machines than people, she thinks, and decides she likes him.

  He leaves the room, returning with Lew who has been waiting in the foyer, and directs him to a vacant chair. ‘We can’t tell yet if it’s spread,’ he says, turning to face them both.

  ‘But it might have,’ says Ann.

  ‘But it might have not,’ says Lew.

  ‘We’ll know after the tests,’ says the oncologist, turning back to the screen, his fingers tapping the keyboard, every now and then a louder tap.

  ‘I don’t get it,’ says Ann, doing up the buttons on her blouse. ‘I’m fit. I eat well. I’m thin, probably too thin.’

  The oncologist stops typing and turns back to her. ‘Sometimes it’s just bad luck. Plain and simple.’

  ‘But I don’t believe in luck,’ says Ann, ‘it’s not a rational concept.’

  Slowly the days begin to warm. Lew takes a week off work and replants the vegetable garden. In the afternoons he drags a deck chair onto the lawn and Ann sits there and talks to him as he works, giving the occasional order. Lew notices the small changes—her wrists have become thinner, her skin paler, her eyes heavy and still. Although she’s on leave from work she dresses as though she’s about to walk out the door—black pants, a shirt, and shoes that can handle the muddiest tracks in the botanic gardens.

  One Monday when he’s back at the museum, Lew looks up from a tour group he’s directing and sees Ann standing at the reception talking to Lynette. She nods at him then moves on, passing through the entrance to the ground floor gallery. When Lew catches up with her half an hour later she is leaning over a map of Antarctica. The map is spread out below a layer of glass.

  ‘You never told me you were having a polar exhibition,’ she says, straightening to face him.

  ‘It’s really for children. Visual, not too much writing.’

  ‘How long’s it been going?’

  ‘Since July. It’s been popular. Ruth came to see it a little while ago.’

  ‘Did she?’ says Ann.

  They stand for a while and people filter past them in twos and threes.

  Ann moves on and Lew follows, a step behind. ‘I like Amundsen for being so single-minded,’ she says, stopping in front of an ice diagram, ‘but I have a soft spot for Scott. He wanted it all—to be the scientist and the explorer.’

  ‘And win the race,’ says Lew. ‘He’s the one I like best too.’

  Ann nods, a small dip of her forehead; with the angle of the light Lew can see how fine her hair has become. She moves on towards a glass case containing rusty compasses, a barometer, a letter from Scott to his wife. ‘Actually the explorer I like best isn’t Amundsen or Scott, or even Shackleton.’

  Lew dusts the top of the glass case with his sleeve. ‘Who is it then?’

  ‘Robert Fitzroy.’

  ‘Wasn’t he captain of the Beagle?’

  Ann nods again. ‘And the first real weather forecaster.’

  ‘I didn’t know that.’ Lew follows her to the next room. A group of children in school uniforms are congregated on one side.

  ‘You wouldn’t,’ says Ann, pausing. ‘I mean, most people don’t. He was controversial, a bit of a prick actually. Apart from his contribution to meteorology, many of the things he’s remembered for aren’t particularly nice. His life story wouldn’t make an easy-viewing exhibition, that’s for sure. Especially not for children.’

  ‘Why? What’s he remembered for?’ says Lew, following Ann through the doorway.

  She turns to look at
him, her eyes bright, startling. ‘Criticising Darwin, supporting slavery and committing suicide.’ She moves on again, heading towards the next display, but glances back before she gets there. ‘He used a razor.’

  Lew catches up with her at last. ‘Trust you to know that kind of detail.’

  Ann is sitting upright on the couch when Lew gets home one evening in early spring. ‘I’m feeling good today.’

  ‘You look good,’ says Lew.

  ‘I’ve ordered pizza.’

  ‘You hate pizza.’

  ‘I’m a woman,’ says Ann, ‘I constantly change my mind.’

  The pizza arrives and they eat it sitting on the lounge floor—Lew with his back against the couch, Ann by the fireplace, legs crossed. Through the window the pine trees on top of Tinakori Hill bluster in the wind.

  A knock at the door, and it’s Ruth and the twins. ‘I hope you don’t mind me dropping in? I have a few things I wanted to bring you.’ She has brought a large pot under a tea towel. Over her shoulder a cloth bag. She walks past Lew into the lounge and kneels on the floor by Ann, reaching out to touch Ann’s forehead as if Ann’s body is an extension of her own. Ann makes a face at Lew, and the twins who are lingering in the doorway start to giggle.

  ‘I’ve brought you some healing remedies,’ says Ruth to Ann. Out of the bag she takes two bottles of greenish liquid and places them side by side on the floor. One bottle is taller than the other. Then she hands the tea towel bundle to Lew. ‘It’s a stew—you might want to heat it up.’

  ‘We’ve just eaten,’ says Ann. ‘We had Hell Pizza.’

  ‘You shouldn’t be eating junk food,’ says Ruth and she rocks back on her heels.

  Ann laughs. ‘There’s still some left—if the boys would like?’

  And then the twins are on the floor by Ann, and the box is being opened.

  ‘Did you know she’s a smoker?’ says Ann, when Ruth and the twins have gone. A messy trail of pizza crumbs mark the distance between the couch and the lounge door. The two bottles of green liquid are gone, already poured down the sink.