‘We can build it,’ said Jem, smiling, ‘we have the technology.’ He paused, looking at me. ‘But where? Where’s she going to go?’
‘I haven’t worked that out, yet,’ I said, waving to Peppy, who was looking anxiously towards us. ‘But I will, don’t worry.’
It was mad. Nuts. I can see that now. But then — I couldn’t think of anything else. I read and read everything I could lay my hands on about leopards and their subspecies, and everything I read convinced me that Cleo would survive — no, flourish — once we freed her from the Sanctuary. I rationalised every one of Jem’s objections — ‘Someone needs to play devil’s advocate,’ he said. I spent my sleepless nights thinking in and around every angle of the plan. When the sun shone and I wasn’t working at the Sanctuary I biked to the outskirts of Christchurch, looking for likely habitats for Cleo.
One Sunday we rode the Norton over Banks Peninsula, searching for sheltered spots that might have a ready rodent population.
‘Hey!’ I said, as we sat at the side of the Summit Road, looking over the peninsula valleys. ‘Cleo can help fight the possum problem.’
‘No,’ said Jem, when we arrived home. ‘Coastal’s no good.’
‘They like the mountains,’ I said, studying a topographical map of Canterbury. ‘And they’re quite arboreal.’
‘Arboreal?’
‘Trees.’
‘Burwood Plantation,’ said Jem.
‘Too small.’
‘Burnham?’
‘Men with guns.’
‘Shirley Golf Course?’ he said, getting desperate.
‘Too populated.’
‘Here’s a new angle,’ said Jem, after a moment. ‘We put her in a wooded area where objectionable people hang out, and she eats them, thereby performing a community service.’
‘Be serious.’
‘Like Hagley Park. She can get all the flashers and dirty old men.’
‘Jem.’
‘Or the Mensa Christmas picnic at Spencer Park, and she can get Hannah and her swotty little friends. Or … or Horseshoe Lake at harvest time and she can wipe out Sim and his criminal associates. Or — he was nearly incoherent with mirth by this stage — ‘or, one of Pop’s parish outings and she can pick off the worst of them, one by one. Then they’d really start talking in tongues.’ He shook, ecstatic with his own joke.
‘Jem!’ I glared at him.
‘Sorry,’ he said, sobering. ‘Just indulging in a happy little fantasy. How to help Cleo and deal to my family.’
‘Jem, Cleo is not going to eat anyone.’
‘No.’
‘She needs food and shelter, no humans. Maybe mountains. Think.’
We stared at the map, thinking. I traced the road west from Christchurch with my finger, assessing the possibilities on the way. Waimak Basin. Castle Hill. Bealey. The road ran off the page, Canterbury at its westernmost point, Westland beginning at—
‘Arthur’s Pass,’ said Jem and I at the same moment, smiling slowly.
Mountains, I thought. Bush, rivers, wildlife, no people.
‘Perfect,’ said Jem.
At school my form and English teacher, Ms Hattaway, kept me late. She looked at me with concern.
‘Is something troubling you, Catriona?’ she asked.
‘No,’ I said.
‘You were somewhere else in the last hour,’ she said. ‘Mentally.’ I’d been thinking about how to get Cleo to Arthur’s Pass and released, then get back to the Sanctuary in time to feed the animals. We would have to drive all night. We’d have to get someone to babysit at the Sanctuary. But that would mean telling—
‘Catriona?’
‘Yes, Ms Hattaway?’
‘Is everything all right at home?’
‘Fine,’ I said.
‘Your Hamlet essay was nowhere near your usual standard,’ she said. Surprise, surprise. I’d been too busy studying leopard habitats to read the loony prince.
‘Sorry,’ I said, meaning it, briefly. I liked Ms Hattaway.
‘Get it together, Catriona. Bursary in sixteen weeks.
’ Bursary exams were the last thing on my mind. You didn’t need Bursary to be a detective, anyway. You needed strength, fitness, quick wits, analytical ability, duplicity and diplomacy. Planning Cleo’s rescue was providing me with exactly those skills, I thought, pleased with the convenience of it all.
I decided Bursary was highly dispensable.
‘Stella’s got a new bloke,’ I told Freddy as we sat in the Regent at the beginning of August, waiting for the main feature to begin.
‘Uh huh,’ said Freddy politely, his mouth full of popcorn. He tilted the tub of popcorn towards me. ‘You’re getting too thin.’ He hadn’t seen me for a few weeks. ‘Are you dieting?’
‘Course not,’ I said. ‘You know what I think of dieting. I’m just growing fast, Freddy. I’ve grown whole centimetres.’
‘You’re looking tired and worn,’ he said. ‘Burning the candle at both ends?’
‘Well, you know, study and all that,’ I said, wondering if Freddy’s mother’s God would strike me down for lying so often and so well.
‘How’s Jem?’ Freddy asked and I burbled on about Jem for a while.
‘Stella might go to Oz next year,’ I told Freddy later. ‘The new bloke’ll probably escort her. I might come and stay with you sometimes.’
‘Any time,’ said Freddy. ‘So what’s this new bloke like, then?’
‘Dr Paul?’
‘He’s a doctor?’
‘No idea, I just call him that to piss Stella off.’
‘Cat—’
‘She’s given up smoking, too,’ I said, quickly.
‘Must be serious,’ said Freddy, popcorn stopped half-way to his mouth.
‘Why?’ I said, a memory prickling, just outside my recall.
‘She’s only done it once before.’ He gave me a shrugging smile. ‘When we started going out. She said she knew it was love because she was prepared to give up smoking for me.’ He laughed. ‘I told her kissing her was like kissing an ashtray and she asked how often I kissed ashtrays.’
I stared at Freddy. That was the most he’d said about him and Stella in three years. He normally avoided the subject — too painful, I always thought. He put his popcorn down on the next seat and wiped his hands on a hanky and suddenly I had a most unpleasant premonition.
‘Hey, guess what?’ he said.
‘You’ve met someone,’ I said matter-of-factly, my heart sinking.
‘Her name’s Terry,’ I told Penny. ‘She’s Freddy’s age — thirty-two — also a lawyer, single, no kids. No doubt they’ll remedy that soon enough. No doubt they’ll have a tribe. Freddy’s family is thick with kids.’
‘Well,’ said Penny, uncertain, ‘isn’t that good?’
‘Yeah, it’s good,’ I said, trying not to remember the past — Freddy and Stella clinking glasses on their anniversaries, Freddy carrying Tiggie home from the hospital, Freddy canoeing Stella and Tiggie and me down the Avon, singing, ‘Michael Row the Boat Ashore’.
‘Yeah, it’s good,’ I repeated, tonelessly, feeling like someone had died.
August 15 was the date of Tiggie’s birthday. Her eighth, if she’d been alive. It was a Saturday and Stella would sleep late, then visit Tiggie’s grave with Toni and Nan. Freddy’s mother would ring to say she was thinking of Stella and me, and Freddy would send a card. I knew Stella would cry for most of the day, I knew she would drink too much in the evening and weep all over the few photos of Tiggie. And worse, I knew that she would try to talk to me in a blubbering sort of way, or hug me or something, so I got up early and biked to the Sanctuary.
There were trees blossoming now in the gardens round the river and even in the boxy exposed sections along Marshland Road. It was still cold but the days were longer, and as I pedalled I thought hard about Cleo. We had to do it soon, finalise details, think of how to get the Salters to go away.
Jem was helping Jeannie clean out the fish tanks in
the aquarium. His hands were blue with cold but his face flushed warmly when he saw me. I loved the first moment of seeing him in a new day. I loved the catch in the pit of my stomach.
‘Hey! Early Cat catches the worm,’ he said, putting his blue hands inside my coat and kissing me softly on the lips. Jeannie smiled indulgently at us.
‘Nothing much to do at home,’ I said, pushing the mountain of school work from my mind.
‘You’re certainly a sight for sore eyes on a chilly morning,’ said Jeannie. ‘Aren’t you gettin’ just a wee bit thin though, dear?’
‘Love, Jeannie,’ I whispered stagily.
She laughed and went back to the Bleeding-heart Tetras’ tank. ‘Say hello to old Grumpy down there,’ she said, nodding towards Charlie.
‘More like Sleepy, isn’t it?’ whispered Jem, leaning into me as we stared at Charlie. Naturally he didn’t bat an eyelid, much less twitch a limb. I felt a slow panic in my bowels and crawling just under my skin.
‘We’ve got to move,’ I said under my breath, to Jem. He squeezed my hand. ‘Soon.’
‘Captain!’ the Old Man boomed across the table to Jem at lunch time. We were eating brawn and pickles. I cut my piece of brawn into a dozen even bits and stared at the pink jellied flesh, unhungry. ‘Could you see your way to another stint of animal-sitting?’
‘Animal sitting?’ said Jem, muddily, his mouth full of brawn. He was very carefully not looking at me.
‘We enjoyed the visit to Cameron so much, you see,’ said Jeannie, almost in apology.
‘With the holidays coming up,’ said Angus, ‘his bairns at home, and we thought Catriona here might be able to help you, being on holiday herself.’
‘We’d only go a week,’ said Jeannie.
‘And only if it suited, of course,’ said the Old Man. He buttered a slice of bread, his big, veined hands moving slowly across the plate.
Jem seemed to be lost for words.
‘I can definitely help,’ I said to Angus but staring at Jem.
‘Sure thing, Gunner,’ said Jem, coming to. I could see that he had just lost his appetite. ‘Won’t be a problem at all. Great weather in the August holidays usually, not too hot, not too cold, days a bit longer …’
I thought of Arthur’s Pass in late August, the snow melting, the rivers filling, rushing through the gorges—
‘Ohhh, you haven’t eaten your brawn, dear,’ said Jeannie, looking at me regretfully. ‘You must have your protein, Catriona.’ I took a mouthful of meat. ‘And what about you, Jem, nothing wrong with your appetite, is there? Come on, have some more. We’ll have to start feeding you up, Catriona, get some flesh on you, keep you healthy.’
I smiled at her, chewing, thinking of Cleo.
‘Hey, girl,’ I whispered through the bars of Cleo’s cage, wondering, not for the first time, what she was like to touch. ‘Hey, girl! It’s happening!’
I felt almost fevered, wired and pacy like Cleo, who walked as I whispered to her, back and forth, up and down, glowering, chuffing loudly.
‘It’ll be okay, Cleo,’ I said through the bars, ‘okay. Okay?’
‘I can’t believe it,’ I said to Jem, back in the aquarium. We were up to the axolotls’ tank. Jessye and Norman paddled, fat and black and ferocious, in a white bucket, chewing on ox liver, while we wiped the slimy walls of their house.
‘It’s meant to be,’ I said. ‘Everything falling into place so well. Hey, but Jem, we’ve got to get up to Arthur’s Pass before the holidays, check it out, make sure it’s okay. Where are we going to get a car?’
‘I’ve been thinking about that,’ said Jem.
‘Good,’ I said, ‘I’m too excited to think. I’ve got pins and needles all over my back.’
‘We don’t need a truck,’ said Jem. ‘We only need a van with a divided rear. And a tranquilliser, a mildone, to give Cleo when she’s in the van. Now who do we know who’s rich in transport, rich in opiates?’
‘Ahhh …’ I said, putting off the evil moment, wishing he wasn’t going to say it. ‘Ummm.’ I bent down, considering Jessye and Norman, their simple life.
‘Vans, Cat. C’mon, vans, vans, vans!’
‘Oh, right,’ I said, avoiding his eyes.
‘Simeon, naturally. A real criminal mind. We can’t fail.’
He beamed at me. ‘Yes baby! This can’t be heavy, he’s my brother!’
Chapter Eight
‘Did you think of Tiggie on her birthday?’ said Miriam, taking me by surprise.
‘No,’ I said. I groped mentally for some bearings. This was about Cleo, not Tiggie.
‘What did Stella and the family think about your not marking the day, not talking about it?’
‘They always respect my decisions. They know I’m the sensible one — out of me and Stella.’
‘Did Penny never see any photos of Tiggie?’ asked Miriam, skewing again. ‘Or ask questions?’
‘What’s this got to do with Cleo?’
She said nothing.
‘There weren’t any photos,’ I said, after a while. ‘They all went in the fire.’
‘You said Stella had some.’
‘From Nan. And Freddy’s mum. And Freddy.’ I tried to blot out the picture of Tiggie that sat on Freddy’s desk, a school photo, Tiggie in her uniform, a big gummy gap in her smile where the second teeth would come. ‘Stella keeps them in her dresser drawer.’
‘She didn’t hang any?’
I looked at her coldly. ‘I’m tired,’ I said.
‘I’m interested,’ she said, ignoring me, ‘I’m interested that Stella, who, from your descriptions, strikes me as a very out-front person emotionally, didn’t hang pictures of Tiggie around her.’ She looked quizzically at me, interested.
‘She had her photos,’ I said.
Silence. I hated her being silent. It made me want to shout and swear, shake her irritating composure, wipe the interest off her face.
‘All right,’ I said at last, ‘all right, all right, all right! There were no photos anywhere except in Stella’s drawer because I wouldn’t let her put them up. Okay? Satisfied? That what you wanted to hear?’
‘Can I ask why you wouldn’t let her?’
‘No.’
‘Let’s talk about Simeon,’ said Miriam smoothly, changing the game in her expert way.
‘I’m tired.’
‘How did you feel when Jem suggested getting his help with Cleo? Did you feel embarrassed about meeting him again?’
I blinked at her.
‘I’m sure you were a little anxious.’
Her hair is the most perfect blonde, I thought, staring at it. Pale silvery blonde.
‘Cat?’ she said. ‘What was it like seeing him again? Were you comfortable with him and Jem?’
I tried to think of something to say.
‘Did Jem notice anything?’
I felt my face heat. ‘Jem wasn’t there,’ I said quietly.
‘Sorry?’
‘When I saw him,’ I said. ‘Jem wasn’t there.’
I breathed deeply, knowing I had to say it, say the next bit.
Miriam waited, watching me.
‘I mean.’ I said, ‘I mean I’d already seen him, been seeing him. Ever since the cabaret,’ I whispered, sick to my boots.
What can I say? Nothing had happened. After that kiss at the cabaret I had been scrupulous with Simeon. I mean, it was the wine at the cabaret, and the tension, the excitement. It didn’t mean anything. Nothing. I don’t even know why I kept seeing him. Except that he was hard to resist, Simeon Hook. Once he put his mind to something. And for some reason he put his mind to seeking me out, getting to know me.
Well, fine. I was very straight with him. I told him I wasn’t interested in him in that way.
‘What way?’ he said, looking at me with sleepy blue eyes.
I knew I had to be very firm. ‘Kissing you at the cabaret,’ I said, keeping Jem’s black eyes at the front of my mind, ‘that was silly. I’m not into that sort of thing.’
‘What sort of thing?’ said Simeon, all innocence. He had freckly lips.
‘I’m committed to Jem,’ I said, wanting to declare something solid and inarguable.
‘I’m sure you’ll be very happy together,’ said Simeon. ‘Want one?’ He held up a packet of Snifters.
We were sitting in the cab of his van, parked beside the river bank near school. I could see little kids down by the river with their mothers, throwing bread to the ducks. Their squealing seemed to come from a long way off.
It was the Wednesday after the cabaret. I had walked slowly home from school, stopping at the Swanns Road bridge to lean on the rail and stare at the river. I tried to calculate how many weeks it might be before ducklings appeared — ten, twelve? Behind me a horn tooted, a short, rude blast which made me jump and turn quickly.
It was the Deadhead van, Simeon holding open the passenger door, grinning, his eyebrows raised in a suggestive question. Half an hour later he was grinning again, sliding Snifters into my hand.
‘Can’t decide whether I like these better than Jaffas or not,’ he said.
‘Jaffas are more subtle.’
‘Sub-till,’ he drawled. ‘The lady likes sub-till-tee. Good ole boys aren’t subtle by nature, of course, but I could reach back to my past, pull out some private school finesse, change my approach. What do you reckon?’
He looked so comical and appealing I just burst out laughing.
‘Ooh, I like it when you laugh,’ he said, staring at me with very frank interest.
I tried to make my face sober.
‘I can’t believe you’re Jem’s brother.’
‘Hey, Red,’ he said, ‘we’ll make a bargain, eh? I won’t hassle you and you don’t mention my sainted brother, right?’
I looked at him very steadily. ‘Okay,’ I said, ‘as long as it’s clear between us.’ It sounded like a line from a TV soap.
‘Clear as a bell, babe,’ said Simeon Hook, toasting me with the Snifters packet.
It was like a pact made with the devil. A cute, lippy, endearing sort of devil. Why didn’t I tell Jem? Why didn’t I just say, I saw your brother, et cetera et cetera? Tell him exactly what had been said. Tell him about the kiss even, get it over and done with, wipe the slate clean. Telling him would have been the purest loyalty. On the other hand, I argued, there was nothing to tell. I’d made it clear to Simeon where we stood, hadn’t I? He knew that Jem and I were serious. So, there was no harm in seeing him. But why not tell Jem, neutralise the situation from the start — or the restart? Because, as I’ve said, there was nothing to tell, was there? I had it sewn up. It was all under control.
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