Robin could understand the critic now. He also was hooked. He also had something to demonstrate, to disclose, to tell the waiting world, and not trivia either. Better by far to be first on Alice than seventy-fifth on Henry. He would find the answer, tell them why she had stopped writing. The thicko husband presumably. He must get down south. With Lisa.
The sun was warm through batik. A satisfactory shirt. He picked up the telephone to ring Emmeline then remembered she would be rehearsing.
Squatting on his heels, stirring the contents of his pack in search of Kangaroo, Robin glanced upwards as the door shot open followed by Clyde. One hand clutched a knife, the eyes blazed. The man was drunk.
‘A C. A fuckin’ C!’
Mouths dropped, backs straightened, someone gasped. The tape recorder pressed in error whirred in the silence.
Clyde roared like a rutting stag. ‘Where’s the boy wonder!’
Robin stood. ‘Here.’
‘You heard then?’
‘Yeah. Linguistics are probably recording you for their corpus.’
Clyde was both ridiculous and alarming, the wild eyes, the spitting rage, the boozer’s breath. The man was blind drunk and had a knife. Rob’s neck pricked. He could be sliced. He could be dead. He stiffened, the whirr of the recorder continued. Another bus stormed up the hill.
‘I need a better mark. A B at least.’
‘Sit down Clyde. We’ll discuss it later.’
‘I need a pass. If I don’t get a pass I’m out. El foldo.’ He grabbed Rob’s collar. ‘Kaput. Get it? Stuffed. Out!’
4B were staring, wide-eyed in silence and in fright. The mature students were less concerned than the rest. It was awful for Robin who was a nice boy and couldn’t help being shy, but they had not seen the knife. Astonishment was uppermost on their faces. Imagine demanding better marks. They would never do such a thing. Never. They were ruffled; their rears stirred, their heads lifted like hens’ at a whiff of ferret but they were not seriously alarmed. Helen touched Cara’s arm briefly. It was all right. She was here.
The rest were different. They knew about the drunk and the stoned. Irrational behaviour had been seen before, passers-by had been stabbed; on the Quay, Manners Mall, anywhere. Their faces were blank with the effort of invisibility. A born-again’s lips were moving, her hands clasped tight.
Rob put his arm on Clyde’s. ‘Come on.’
Clyde swung at him. ‘Get your shitty hands off me, dickhead.’
Adrenalin was pumping, producing unexpected calm. He clenched his fists.
Clyde paused, his tirade faltered, died on wet lips. He smiled a friendly drunk’s smile, gave a loud building-site wolf whistle and held his arms wide. ‘Who’s a pretty prick then? Who’s got a sexy shirt? Come on, tell Clydo.’ He hugged Rob, pressed his tutor’s face against the sweat and obscenities of his T-shirt for a moment then dumped him.
4B exploded. They exploded with relief, delight; the urchin glee of sucks-to-teacher engulfed them in waves. Clyde bowed and slumped beside Mr Tarrant and his recorder. The old man welcomed him, his tight mouth smiling, his finger on the button. ‘Would you like to hear yourself, Clyde?’ he said. ‘I recorded it by mistake.’
Clyde rose in silence, swung his hand in a stiff-armed arc, threw Mr Tarrant’s teaching aid out the window then subsided. He laid his golden head on his arms and slept.
No one was hurt but Mr Tarrant was shaken. Clyde was his friend. He had sat beside him for weeks, had helped with his tape recorder in a most gentlemanly way, had had his head screwed on and liked his cricket.
*
Robin made hamburgers for tea. His heart was not in it but Lisa liked them. They could have them in front of TV and there wouldn’t be much washing up and it was more cosy somehow, especially now with the nights drawing in.
She came back from the hutch-like kitchen smiling, rubbing and rolling her hands over each other, her day’s work done.
He took the sticky things she offered him and rubbed them in his. She sometimes squirted too much hand lotion by mistake and he knew what to do.
He kissed one, buried his nose in aloe-scented slime. ‘Let’s get out to the Orongorongos this weekend. A guy at work’s offered me the key to his hut.’ He paused. ‘This afternoon.’ He held up the key. ‘Here.’
‘By ourselves?’
‘Yeah. That’s the whole point.’
‘Oh.’ She pulled away from his chest, her face thoughtful. ‘Your shirt smells all sweaty,’ she said. ‘And some of those private huts are miles away. People say.’
No, no. He explained carefully. People thought that but it wasn’t true. There were some perhaps, but Owen Braithwaite’s was virtually on the foothills, no distance. Easy.
‘All right.’
They would go, they would get away. He was grateful to Owen Braithwaite and not only for the key. The man had been relaxed about the incident; the university’s insurance, he assured Robin, would cover a replacement tape recorder, though the claim form might read rather oddly. One beautiful hand dragged over curls. ‘The window’s gone, you say? No one hurt?’
‘No.’
‘I’ll get onto Maintenance. And I’ll notify the appropriate people about … What’s his name?’
‘Clyde Benton.’
A brief edgy smile. ‘Consult a higher authority. “Who supervises the supervisors.” By the way, would you like our hut this weekend? Not at all. Good idea to get away. Have a complete break. No, no. Penny’s mother with us again. Teeth this time.’
There was no sun in the clearing where they parked the car. They shouldered their packs and set off with Robin in front. There was little sound but the rhythmic thud of their boots and an occasional bird call. Otherwise silence and damp and a few rays of splintered sun. They had been late getting away and there were too many people. The main track was becoming a trail for booted ants. They had already been passed by two.
‘Have you been to this hut before?’ she asked.
‘Yes.’
She untangled a supplejack which slapped back at her. ‘Oh. It’s getting a bit dark, isn’t it?’
‘It’s just because there’s no sun.’
‘Yes, but it’s different without it. All the greens are the same colour and my hair’s sweaty.’
He turned to wait for her. Legs her length must be a disadvantage in the bush. ‘Is your pack too heavy?’
‘No.’
‘Give us it.’ He restowed and handed the lightened pack to her smiling. She shrugged it on, her face distant.
‘Better?’
She nodded.
It would be better when they got into their rhythm. When they arrived at the hut and he got the fire going. When the sun came out tomorrow and the bush shimmered with light. The weather forecast was good. Bright golden suns had trekked down the North Island on last night’s TV. All would be well. He strode on.
‘You’re going too fast.’
Premenstrual tension perhaps. Physiological imbalance. Something. He slowed down, offered his hand, was refused.
They dumped their packs outside the hut two hours later. She certainly looked tired, her face was white, her skin pinched about the nose as though more was needed. He straightened his back, raised his arms to the sky. ‘Stretch your back,’ he said. ‘Like this. You’ll feel better.’
A half shrug is worse than a whole, the lift of one shoulder more of a rejection than two.
He turned the key in the lock. The door was stuck. He shoved with his shoulder, tried again and fell in an upended scramble as it gave way. He sat looking up at her, smiling at her blank face to show that it was fun, that life was good. ‘I should carry you over the threshold.’
‘Why?’
‘Well because …’ Because why? Because you liked it last time. Because I love you. Because I can’t stand you sulking. ‘I thought it might cheer you up,’ he said still smiling.
Her face was a mask of deep sorrow. ‘Why on earth would I need cheering up?’
‘I do
n’t know.’
She sat on the wooden bench staring out the window, her elbows on her knees, her face cupped in grubby little girl’s hands. He looked at her in silence for a moment, noted the neat back, the tidy arrangement of crossed brown legs, then turned to light the fire. The bastards had not left much wood but he could start it and get more before dark. Disturbed spiders scattered; a pale brown one swivelled its abdomen and swung Tarzan-like across his field of vision. He stopped to watch, hoping for a repeat performance but it had done its dash.
‘I can see why the Maoris didn’t like the bush,’ she said still staring into the half light.
‘Like the Swiss didn’t like the mountains?’
She swung to him, her mouth tight. ‘You always do that. You always take what I say and turn it into what you want to say. You do it all the time.’
He stood on one leg cracking twigs against his knee. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Just what I said. I’m telling you about Maoris and the bush and you drag in the Swiss and mountains. I’m not talking about the Swiss and mountains. I’m talking about the bush. You do it all the time.’
‘But I think like that. Lots of people do. The mountains were a drag to the Swiss originally. They didn’t climb them for pleasure any more than the Maori walked in the bush for fun. Analogously, that’s the word.’
Her head was low, one hand hung from her wrist in a heartbreaking droop. ‘Oh shut up.’
His arms were around her, hugging the sad crumpled figure on the bench. ‘Lisa,’ he said stroking her hair.
He wooed her with words, cajoled her with kisses. She sniffed. ‘And it smells too.’
He brought her round, turned her about like a P class into calmer waters, loved her better, seated her by the fire. She sat curled in his parka, cherished and deeply loved, watching her backwoodsman mate who would deflect slings and arrows and sadness. The depths and mysteries of her overwhelmed him as he watched her unfold into contentment. The wooden hut sighed and creaked around them, a dusty primeval shelter, every slab of which had been manhandled through the bush by heroes. He stood up. Firewood. She would help him.
‘Lisa?’
She was on her feet, screaming, an arm outstretched, a finger pointing to emptiness and bare wood. ‘A rat, a rat!’
He dumped his log. ‘Was it a rat or a mouse?’
‘I said rat.’
‘Yeah, but there’s a difference. I’d say rat too if I were you.’ Unwise. Unexpected. He didn’t know why he had said it. He put out a hand. ‘Come and get some more wood, honey.’
‘No.’ But then there was the rat. ‘Oh bloody hell,’ said Lisa, slamming out the door beside him.
They made love in the musty dark of the upper bunk. She felt safe in his arms, knew little of the climbing skills of rats and there were no rat droppings in sight. He had swept up the dried tea leaves of mouse spoor and set the trap.
He held her tight, explored her gently beneath his unzipped Mountain Mate. She was shivering. ‘I do love you really,’ she said.
‘I know. I know.’
‘It’s just …’
He was as eager as ever as she lay waiting for delights. The soles of her feet itched when she had an orgasm she had told him months ago. That was one way you knew, Sandy said, though of course it was unmistakable when it happened. There was nothing like it. It was amazing but she didn’t always have it. It wasn’t a good idea for her to stroke him and kiss him down there. She had told him before. He got too excited and didn’t wait for her and that wasn’t fair. She turned to him and loved him dearly.
He lay beside her in the blackness thanking gods; leaned on one elbow, kissed her mouth. ‘Good night, my sweetest love.’
She rolled over. ‘Night.’
He put his hand around her, slid it between her legs, touched her.
‘“There tha shits and there tha pisses,”’ he murmured.
The huddled curve of her back did not move, nor a hand; not a glimmer, not a grunt.
‘I love you,’ he said.
‘Nnn.’
The weather forecast had been wrong. There was no sun in the morning. The air was cold, the creek icy around their distorted pallid toes. She couldn’t find her toothbrush. She couldn’t understand it. She knew she’d put it in her bag. Had he taken it? She couldn’t stand dirty teeth. It made her feel awful.
‘Have mine.’
She didn’t want to. She had never used anyone else’s toothbrush. She just didn’t like the idea. She waited till he had gone to squat in deep bush before she overcame her scruples, bent over the stream and scrubbed and brushed and spat with vigour. Saliva and white bubbles eddied in tranquil calm behind a small rock. She kicked them on their way, watched them hurtle and disintegrate down small rapids. You have to spit somewhere. She gave her mouth a quick rub with the back of her hand and waited for him to come back and hand over the shovel so she could go.
The bush across the creek was dark, creepy almost. ‘Rob?’ she called. She wanted to tell him. Tell him straight off how it was all right in the sun with people around and fun and chiacking and that; but this dense green, the silence, the towering giants and the lianes that slapped and grabbed. She had never liked dark green. Like rhododendron leaves. Tough, lifeless, all the same. ‘Rob,’ she called again.
‘Coming.’
She stowed the shovel by the ashes in the fireplace and stared at his stubbled face which had showed little interest in her reaction to dark green.
‘Let’s go home,’ she said.
‘But we’ve got the whole day. I want to head up Mount Matthews while we’ve got time.’
‘I want to go home.’ She shivered, wrapped her arms around herself for comfort. ‘I’m tired.’
‘Well, you stay at the hut and I’ll go.’
‘I’d be eaten by rats.’
‘There are no fucking rats.’
She looked at him for a second, fists clenched, legs apart. Her playground bully stance softened as she moved towards him. ‘Robbie, you know I love you,’ she said.
She swung down the track, jumping logs, skipping from stone to stone at the creek crossings. Rob watched her back, his eyes red and itchy. He wanted to tear them out of his head, to fling the hayfever-ridden things at her. Get shot of the sight of her gleeful descent to 4B and the tape recorder and Tuesdays for garbage and Eileen’s arthritis and his unwashed shirts mouldering in the laundry.
He was puzzled by his gloom. What the hell was wrong with him? What had he expected? Just because she had been so excited on their few previous trips didn’t mean she would love every aspect of the bush. This trip had been too tough. The hut had been further up the valley than he remembered. Obviously she was not fit enough and lots of people were scared of rats even if there weren’t any. Rats have a bad image. They leave sinking ships. No boy-stood-on-the-burning-deck stuff for them. They are too intelligent. They abandon. They spread plague. They eat corpses. Alice O’Leary had written a poem about it. Why would not Lisa, his rose geranium-scented Lisa, hate anything as outwardly repellent. It would be against nature for her to see that rats are interesting and spiders fascinating and that it’s a good idea to save the ugly animals as well. A lot of people are racist about animals. Going bananas over penguins and dolphins, loving Russian wolfhounds and hating tarantula spiders which are also hairy and have long legs and whose bite is no more painful. Lisa’s disappointment was completely understandable. He should have taken things more slowly, broken her in more gently, not bullied her into the grind of real tramping where the sunlight is fitful at best and hateful on a gut-busting hill. Where any shelter, however primitive, is enough. He had rushed things. He should have remembered his mother’s stamp collection. He saw Lisa’s face beside him, intent and happy at Butterfly Creek as he had explained the life cycle of a moss.
‘Say it again, Robbie, which is the sexual and which is the asexual?’
He patted the mat with his palm. ‘This is the sexual stage, and these are the capsules whic
h release the asexual spores.’
Her face was thoughtful. ‘That’s funny isn’t it? The asexual stage looks much more interesting. Like teeny wee pepper-pots.’
She was right too about the sun. It did bring the bush to life, transformed, glinted, lit the theatre. Without it subtropical rain forest could be brooding and dark. Some people did find it alien. He would have to work on it. Take it gently. At least she had agreed to go back by the other track—the crowded main track would have depressed him further.
*
‘Slow down,’ he called.
She lifted one hand and disappeared still jumping, skittering along the track like some bloody mountain thar.
The scream was sharp; one yell, then silence.
He raced down the track, fell on his knees beside her. ‘All right?’
‘It’s my ankle.’
‘I told you so. Why the hell did you go so fast?’
Her face fell apart. ‘Ooh. Don’t.’
He was gasping, insisting. No. No, he hadn’t meant it. ‘Tell me, tell me. Where is it? Where?’ He loosened her left boot; she screamed with pain. The ankle was swelling before his eyes, enlarging, blooming like a time-lapse rose. ‘I’ll have to take the boot off.’
‘No!’ Her nails dug through his shirt. ‘No!’
He took it off. With infinite agony-inducing care he removed the size-three boot of which she had been so marching-girl proud. She was writhing, breathless with pain, fighting him. As the boot came off she gave a shriek and fainted.
He strapped her ankle, tearing strips from his wet shirt, wrapping it firm but not tight, making use of every second of insensibility.
She opened her eyes, moaned briefly and rolled over to vomit. ‘Oh. Oh. Oh.’
‘That’s good, that’s good, I promise that’s good.’ He had no idea why it was or would be or ever had been. ‘Good,’ he said again.
He mopped her with his hay-fevered handkerchief, held her in his arms. ‘It’s all right. It’s all right. I promise. It’s all right.’
The House Guest Page 9