In the Fifth Season

by Jonathan M Barrett

  #

  Toni hadn't spoken so much about herself since her job interview at the Dependable. She liked it. But eventually the conversation turned away from her to what must be Rob's favourite subject – what was wrong with the world. This mostly seemed to be estate agents, subdivisions, 4 x 4s, and the Warehouse but he calls it 'the Whorehouse'. He said this several times to make sure she'd got it.

  "Do you know what puzzles me?"

  Toni shook her head. "Uh, no."

  "What puzzles me is why people bother to make and sell all this crap. Let me give you an example. Last week I bought a new corkscrew, well, it had the form of a corkscrew, but it fell apart the first time I used it – might as well have been made out of biscuit."

  Toni's laughing egged him on.

  "And the problem is, everything is like that today. Things look like the things they're supposed to be but they're not. And do you know why?"

  "Um… I guess… " Toni was still under the impression he expected her to say something, but he carried on before she could answer.

  "It's because everyone wants too many things, but there isn't enough money to pay for them all, so they buy cheap imitations of the real thing. People fill their houses with all this crap because adverts tell them to. But they can't use the stuff because it's not real. It's all, well, crap."

  Toni's smile faded as Rob's observation hit home.

  "And I don't mean no name brand stuff or rip offs of big name brands. Things just aren't what they're supposed to be. Chairs you can't sit on for more than a week before they break. All those electrical appliances that pack in after a month, and you have to go through all the hassle of taking them back or chuck them in the landfill. But, if only we all settled for having fewer possessions, we could have things that are real. Things they're supposed to be, and last a lifetime." He paused, and added with a straight face, "Things made of wood."

  With Rob awake, Toni kept closer to the speed limit, but, when they reached Exmouth, he looked up at the clock of the post office and said, "Ha, look they must have forgotten to put the clock forward." Then he checked his watch. "Jesus! My record for Nelson to Exmouth is six hours, and that was on a motorbike. Hold on a minute. It's about four hundred ks from Nelson, and we took a little over five hours. Taking into account a couple of pit stops – actually this sort of higher maths is a bit beyond me right now – but it does seem unfeasibly fast."

  Toni said nothing but allowed herself a smile.

  Until they’d arrived at Exmouth, neither of them had raised the subject of Artemis Washburn and her death claim. And so Rob seemed to be as relieved as Toni felt when he phoned Owen Huntly's office to confirm their meeting, and was told by the personal assistant that her boss has been called to an urgent client meeting and would be out all afternoon.

  Rob made sure he had Toni's eye, before saying, "'Kylie', isn't it? Kylie, is it usual for a life insurance salesperson to be called to an urgent client meeting unless death is imminent?" But clearly the personal assistant hadn’t got his joke, and Toni looked away to avoid witnessing Rob's deflation.

  Toni hoped she was not revealing her ignorance of company procedures when she said, "I couldn't see the hotel name on my travel itinerary."

  "No, I told them not to bother booking one." Rob had a guilty look. "To be honest, I thought they'd be sending Bruce Buller down with me. I reckoned I'd be able to find somewhere for myself he'd refuse to stay at."

  "Why wouldn't you want to stay at the same place as Mr Buller?" Toni said, even though her own list of reasons would be long. Rob didn’t answer but gave her what she took to be a conspiratorial look, and she understood that he was no friend of Mr Buller after all.

  "But don't worry, we'll have no problem finding a decent place this time of the year," he said. "We can see what takes our fancy. Let's go and have a look around."

  Their trawl of Exmouth’s main street didn't take long. They headed south from the centre, passing empty shops, some civic buildings, a few grand old houses now mostly tacky backpackers, cheap housing, and then the town ended, and bush quickly started. Back through and out the other side: the train station, ghosts of industry, then, the old wharf. Toni slowed down at each motel sign, but they all said 'NO Vacancy'. Rob didn't seem to care but commented on everything.

  "Do you know this was a boom town once?" he said. "One of the busiest ports in Australasia. But you can see the locals don't have much money any more."

  "How can you tell?" Toni asked, dreading he would recognise the signs in her.

  "Well, for one thing, I know they don't because the mining and most of the logging have stopped. Only so many ex-miners can drive tourist shuttles, the rest bugger off to Queensland or find a way to go on disability benefit. But you can also tell by looking at the colours of people's clothes. If they're faded, that means they're old and they've been washed so many times all the dye has gone. The funny thing is, it's usually the reds that give it away – the colour of a workingman's pride. Look for yourself."

  And, sure enough, they passed a couple in distressed clothes pushing an upright pram stacked with junk mail. The man’s hoodie was stretched across his broad but stooped shoulders.

  "'The post-industrial society', they call it," Rob said.

  For once, Toni felt well off. "So how can someone like Owen Huntly make so much money in a place like this?" she said.

  "Now that's a very good question. You see, there is plenty of money around, but it doesn't trickle down, a little bit to everyone, it all gets sucked up into the hands of the rich few. And it's a funny thing, but the more people have, the less willing they are to pay their taxes to help everyone else out. You know the old saying – only the rich can afford to avoid tax. So jokers like Owen Huntly make most of their money flogging dodgy tax avoidance schemes."

  "That doesn't seem right."

  Rob looked across at her. "No, it's not."

  Once they had slowed then driven past the last likely place, Rob suggested the YHA. Toni hadn’t found it funny when he'd made that joke the first time. She was determined not to slum it when she was away from home on company business. It wasn’t possible that all accommodation could be full at this time of the year. Toni insisted on trying each motel in person, starting with the smartest first, but she soon discovered that they were, in fact, closed.

  "They're hibernating," Rob said. "They store enough fat during the holiday season not to worry about the rest of the year."

  "Why didn't you tell me before?" Toni said. She didn't attempt to hide her irritation, and was unconvinced by his 'I forgot'.

  The ancient woman at the tourist information centre, rapt to have visitors, tried to give them tea, and not fooled by their black suits, asked them whether they're on honeymoon. Toni felt herself blush. After a few drinks, Rob would claim he'd been tempted to say, "IRD, come to bust a prominent local businessman," to see how fast the woman could get on her mobility scooter to spread the news around town. But, satisfied with 'down here on business', she told them the Five Seasons Motor Camp never closed.

  "The what?" Rob looked dumbfounded.

  "The Five Seasons motor camp. Oh, it used to be called the Sunny Days back in the day. I can give you directions."

  "No need for that," Rob said and grinned.

  22

  Andy looked up from his desk. There was a commotion growing louder as it surged along the 10th floor of Dependable House. He guessed that the consultants were up to something wacky, but, no, it couldn't be that – there was a flood of women shrieking at outrageous flattery and dull men cracking into bonhomie. Then Owen Huntly strode into Andy’s office, near crushed his hand as they shook, and all but stoved his spine in with a back slap.

  "No need to rattle your dags, my old mate," Owen said and enveloped Andy in a bear hug. "This is only a flying visit from your friendly neighbourhood Salesman of the Year. It's chocks away for me in 40 minutes."

  Bawdy predictions for the upcoming conference in Tahiti and many references to 'Randy And
y' followed. But the comments Andy didn't grasp about his lovely wife being a lady who lunches and a woman of exquisite taste took him most by surprise. Then to cap it all, Huntly took a phone call mid conversation and engaged in outrageous flirting, winking at Andy as he did. He left as quickly as he arrived, waving a great hand in the air in farewell. "Got to get back to service my client base."

  Once hurricane Huntly had subsided, Andy rose from his desk, crossed the office, and shut his door. He lay on the settee, picturing himself back in therapy. But Andy didn’t imagine the promptings of a wise analyst, he heard Ma, who, when she’d first met Samantha, stunning in her mini skirt and knee-length boots, said she looked like a Spice Girl. Later, naked in bed, they'd laughed at Ma's ignorance of Western women, and drawn so much closer. But, then, Andy had realised how Ma's comment was animated by spite, not ignorance. As far as he knows, the Spice Girls had the probity of Mother Theresa but, in Ma's narrow mind, they must have been decadence incarnate. What was Samantha supposed to do? She'd look gorgeous in a burkha. And yet, over time, the insult had wormed into his mind. Samantha was just too attractive to other men. He would never be able to keep her. Andy drifted off into vicious dreams of jealousy and betrayal.

  After an hour or so, Andy roused himself. He failed to get hold of Samantha despite several attempts, and, in horror, he dared to think, What if she really was having an affair? On his whiteboard, he drew a large 'S'. She had been acting out of character lately, and almost furtive in her behaviour. He drew a question mark next to the 'S'. He underlined the question mark. Then it came to him in a flash. He wrote 'OH', and drew a dotted line to the 'S', and added another question mark. Owen Huntly could easily have seduced Samantha: he had the ability and the opportunity. Oh god, it was probably Samantha the bastard had been flirting with when he came into his office. It was so obvious; Andy couldn't believe he hadn't worked it out sooner. Hadn’t she confessed she couldn't resist the man? Sure, she'd quickly tried to turn it around when his suspicions were raised, but women always left clues about their lovers. He must have seen that a hundred times in movies, especially the French ones Samantha dragged him along to. And worst of all, it was his fault, leaving her alone in a strange city so he could grow his career. And, of course, he'd spent so much time at the office he'd not given her attention in a certain regard even women who are not French obviously need.

  Andy paced his office until he found himself staring down ten stories to the unforgiving pavement. Thank god he was not the suicidal type. He wiped the diagram from the whiteboard. She had done a terrible thing, but he would have to forgive her. He had no choice. Life without Samantha would be unimaginable. She was his ideal. If he were to draw – in fact, he now did this – a quadrant diagram to represent the qualities of his ideal woman, Samantha would be top right hand corner of quadrant four: high in looks, high in intelligence, high in loyalty, high in everything that matters. Well, now she had dropped down the loyalty axis. Andy amended the diagram accordingly. But that's what made it all the harder for him to accept the bitter truth. To this Don Juan, she would be no more than a notch on his bedpost, but to Andy, Samantha was all of womankind – excepting Ma, of course.

  Andy finally managed to get through to Samantha at home. "I'd like to meet you for tea or something," he told her.

  "No, sorry, darling. I've just got in," she said. "I had lunch with a friend. I'm too tired to go out again."

  "What friend exactly?" he said.

  "An old friend from London. She was very tiring."

  What friend? She hadn't mentioned a lunch date. She must have been with you know who. He's got his own little plane. He can fly in and out whenever he wants. And how come she's so tired at this time of day? Shagged out, no doubt.

  "OK." Andy was pleased his voice didn't waver despite the churning in his gut and mind. "I'll make sure I'm home early. I've got some important things I need to discuss with you."

  "I'll look forward to it. See you then, my darling."

  When he put down the phone, Andy was not at all unhappy with his self-restraint. Cuckolded he might be but he was still in control. He decided to send Samantha to stay with Ma in Singapore to learn how to behave like a proper wife. His dignity would win the day. Also, his plans for dematerialising the Dependable, on the one hand, and expanding its reach into Asia, on the other hand, made Singapore the ideal place for him to be based. Sydney was fine though, if that's where she wanted to go. He would pay her more attention from now on and, really, one slip in the half a century he expects them to be married (in fact, he'd calculated the life expectancy of their marriage to be 62.8 years) was surely forgivable. If anything, bonds would be stronger after this little slip, and, once she sees his dignity in forgiveness, Samantha will realise what a stupid mistake she's made.

  23

  Samantha Wu failed to recognise the pain and dignity in her husband's voice. In addition to the five ostensibly patient yet demanding messages on her cell phone, he’d left two at home, plus an e-mail, and a text. For sure, if he had access to carrier pigeons, a pair would now be cooing on the balcony. Andy could be so obsessive on small issues, and Samantha sometimes wondered whether he really was suited to running a big company. Perhaps he'd be better off doing something more specialised, less stressful. In truth, he never seemed happier than when he was arranging their books into chromatic order.

  Samantha kicked off her shoes and stretched on the settee. She wanted to make sure before breaking the news to Andy, but had the feeling he may have already guessed. She'd kept the home test indicator with its precious blue line in her underwear drawer for a few days while she waited for the appointment, but she couldn't imagine him rifling through her lingerie. This morning, the gynaecologist had confirmed she was definitely pregnant – six weeks – and the relief after five years of unspoken trying had drained her. How she wished it had been her darling Andy and not Annie Cobb, or rather Annie Hamilton, as she now was, at lunch. She was bursting to announce her news – not that she could have got a word in edgeways – but couldn't possibly tell anyone else before her husband.

  Samantha tried again with her maternity magazine – so many lovely baby things to buy – but it soon became too heavy to hold and the text blurred. She was showered in sunlight, superheated through the French windows. The room temperature rose to an equatorial level and, snug and blissful, Samantha fell deeply asleep, imagining her husband's boundless joy when she told him her news.

  24

  Kylie Clyde felt her boss's breath on her neck. He pressed his head close to the receiver as she lied to the people from head office. When she'd finished, Owen said, "You did real good." But he didn’t move away when she put the phone down, and the L-shaped desk penned her in. "I brought you a little present from the windy city for being such a good girl."

  Kylie guessed it might be a chocolate saved from his pillow, but Owen pulled a narrow red case from his pocket. He opened it slowly to reveal a beautiful paua necklace. She'd never had anything like this before.

  "Is this really for me?" she said. "You're not serious, are you?"

  "Yes, I am. Let's put it on." But she knew he meant, now I'm going to put it on you.

  Owen took the necklace from its case. Kylie lifted her hair, and he positioned the necklace and united the clasp.

  "Here, let's look in the mirror," he said and led her to his private anteroom.

  "Oh my god!" Kylie squealed, "I'm so stoked. I've never had anything so cool."

  She could hardly recognise her own reflection being touched by Owen's strong fingers: first, the necklace and, so gently, she almost didn't feel the caress that started with her neck, then, traced her breast, her belly, and down beyond the gold frame of the mirror.

  "Tonight, I'm taking you out to dinner – at the wine cellar of El Maximo," Owen whispered in her ear.

  Kylie would like to say thanks but no thanks because her mum was expecting her for tea, and, although the necklace was awesome, she couldn't keep it. But young as she was,
she understood it was already too late to escape Owen Huntly.

  25

  "So the old Sunny Days is now called the Five Seasons," Rob said several times as they drove out of Exmouth.

  "So what?"

  "Well, first of all, we used to stay there as kids. I don't know why I didn't think of the Sunny Days before."

  Toni looked straight ahead. She had no intention of fostering someone else's sentimentality.

  "Well, I suppose I didn't think it would be running, after all these years," he said. "And there's that name, of course."

  "Yes. It's weird."

  "Maybe." And he gave her a cryptic look that said, why don't you ask me to explain it to you?

  Toni wouldn't ask and she certainly didn't want to stay in a motor camp when she's away on her first, perhaps only, business trip. She'd anticipated and wanted a nice hotel. "The woman at the information centre said it's a motor camp. Don't you have to have a caravan or a camper van to stay in place like that?"

  "No worries. They've got a couple of luxury chalets there. Well, they did. We used to pitch a tent outside Mum and Dad's caravan, and, Chris, that's my brother, and me, we always used to say that, when we were grown up and we'd made it, we'd only ever stay in the chalets. And who'd believe it? – here I am. In fact, here we are. That's the turning over there, on the right by the old freezing works."

  Toni's heart fell with the steep descent through thick bush to the camp. At the bottom, she saw old caravans corralled together against the wind. In the centre of the empty clearing was a dark ablution block, no doubt running with spiders. Half of the ice cream sign on the shuttered café had peeled away so it now read 'Tip'.

  "This place has got to be closed," she said. "There must be somewhere else."

  "No, no. There's the reception. I'll book us in."

  Toni watched Rob try the reception door, look through its windows, and then he wandered out of sight. She flicked the central locking. After ten minutes, she began to wonder whether she should drive back to Exmouth and fetch the police. But Rob came walking across the field with a great bear of a man in an orange boiler suit. He motioned at Toni to join them in the reception.

  Toni didn't bother to hide her disappointment with the Five Seasons or her disillusionment with Rob. It wasn't because he'd had such a pathetic childhood fantasy – she was pissed off that he should be so happy about it coming true.

  "So what do you think?" Rob said, obviously unable to read her expression.

  Toni was too choked with anger and frustration to speak her mind. She couldn't even stop herself being offish to Adam, the man in the orange boiler suit, who looked after things at the camp. Like the shrew she was not, Toni drew her finger through a layer of dust on the dresser cabinet as Adam showed her around her chalet. Then she recoiled in horror, like a soccer player's wife, when he suggested they come and check out a Bedford truck he'd converted himself into a very nice home. He said his bedridden partner would welcome the female company.

  Adam didn’t react to her rudeness, and Rob didn't seem to notice a thing. He looked perfectly satisfied as he checked things out. He said to Adam, "So, tell me something, mate, why is this place called the Five Seasons and not the Four Seasons?"

  "Ah." Adam chewed his lip behind his prospector's beard. "Someone told the boss there's a hotel called the Four Seasons. And he didn't want any more trouble after that nasty business with the Swedish tourists and the Sunny Days. So after that–" Adam's voice dropped to a murmur as he adds, "–the boss called the place the Five Seasons instead."

  What? Despite her better instincts, Toni had to ask, "What nasty business with the Swedish tourists?"

  "Reported us to the Commerce Commission, they did, for having a misleading name. They camped just over there."

  26

  In Starboard, his chalet, still wearing his city clothes, Rob spread out etiolate on the spongy bed and plucked tufts from the orange candlewick bedspread. The bed frame lurched as he struggled to kick off his shoes. Satisfied with removing one, he took a last draw on his cigarette and reached for an icy brown bottle. The butt made a satisfying fizz on the cap when he stubbed it out. Rob swigged, long and therapeutic.

  Looking around the room, he approved the watercolour of a marine vista on the far wall, the dark and curvilinear, pre-MDF furniture, the bedside clock that only flashed a luminous digital rune, and the library of Readers' Digests. He used the brick of a remote to discover the TV had only two channels, just like things used to be. He Zenned out the marital discord percolating through the wall with another stubbie. The rain on the roof stepped up a gear, and his consciousness drifted. He could picture Mum and Dad in the caravan, bickering but safe, and Chris, no longer a rapacious merchant banker, just an envious boy, soaking under canvas outside. He might have a game of Scrabble with Mum and Dad later, then let Chris in to kip on the couch.