‘What are we going to do?’ she gasped.
What were they going to do. ‘Don’t worry, don’t worry. It’s all right.’
‘Yes.’
His mind was racing. It wouldn’t be dark for hours. He could get out, get the Ranger, get back.
‘Don’t leave me,’ she said.
He kissed the top of her head, held her tight, talked her down like a would-be suicide, gentled her like a stable groom. Words streamed from him; gentle, loving, largely unrecognisable words told her it would be all right. Everything would be all right. He was here. It was all right.
She lay still, calm at last, her eyes on his. ‘Yes.’
He still held her, stroked her for some time, shut his eyes briefly. Opened them. ‘Lisa?’
‘Yes.’
‘Lisa, I’ll have to leave you just for a couple of hours or so. I’ll skid down and get the Ranger. We’ll be back before dark.’
Terror. Pure terror in the scream, the naked yell. ‘No, no, no!’
‘It’ll still be daylight. I promise.’
‘No. No.’ He held her hands, forced himself to look at her panic.
He tried. He explained. It was the only way that made sense. He would be back, the Ranger would have a stretcher. Get her out, safe, home in no time. He promised. He swore it.
‘You could carry me.’
‘Lisa, I can’t carry you and the packs and …’
‘Leave the packs. Just me.’ She was shaking with shock. ‘If you leave me here I’ll die of fright. I mean it. It’ll get dark. There are things.’ Her voice sharpened. ‘No!’
She did mean it. Her eyes told him, her hands, her whole body insisted. He looked at her, his face tight with despair. How could he explain, how could he possibly begin to explain. OK she was light but he must take at least one pack. Something else could go wrong, what if he had to leave her anyhow, as he very likely would. What if he tripped? He couldn’t leave her without food, a sleeping bag, water. Things could go wrong in the bush and often did.
‘Lisa, listen.’
‘Don’t say listen. How can I help listening? It’s mad when you say listen.’
He grinned, was rewarded by calm. ‘But listen, OK.’
She nodded.
‘I’ll carry you, you carry the pack.’
‘Why do we need the pack?’
‘Because we do. Otherwise I won’t move.’
‘But that’s what I want. We stay here together till someone comes and gets help.’
‘It’s quite possible no one will come. This track is much more isolated.’
‘You were the one who said to.’
‘I know, I know, but listen. Owen Braithwaite’ll hoist something in if I’m not at work but he won’t even know till Tuesday, if then.’ He was firm, decisive. ‘Now how are we going to play this?’
He had hoped to piggyback both her and the survival pack but she became hysterical with pain when he tried to hoist her up. He shouldered the pack and lifted her in his arms. The distribution of weight was impossible. Crippled, bowed as a felon incarcerated, he set off. ‘OK?’
‘Yes.’
They made reasonable progress; pathetic, but reasonable. Each foothold had to be checked, each step tested. It would have been better climbing up. Descent is always worse, real climbers say. Concentrate. Get there. Just get there.
She moaned at each jar, apologised, moaned again.
‘Don’t talk.’
‘No.’
He shambled on, step by step, his arms dragged from their sockets by her weight which was nothing. He couldn’t see properly. He couldn’t see at all; his glasses steamed up constantly. He leaned his pack against a giant rimu. ‘Wipe them,’ he gasped. No breath, no breath at all. No breath ever again.
She unhooked them from his bowed head and polished them on the bottom of her stained shirt. He stared straight ahead with unfocused eyes, his mind dead with unfinished effort till she re-hooked them. A grey warbler trilled. There was a vague pattern of leaves before his blurred eyes. He closed them. He would have to have a rest.
‘We’ll sit down for a while. Hang on.’ Infinitely careful, he edged the pack down the rimu, sagged his knees to lower her to the ground. When she was safe he lay back. He’d work out how to get up later.
They lay very still beside the track. Midges hovered, maintained their endless dance, a branch snapped. A bee, a fat idiotic urban bumble-bee circled above them. Another grey warbler.
‘Robbie.’
‘Nnn?’
‘Look Robbie, I think we’ve got to … What I mean is …’
He opened his eyes, sat up quickly at the tone of her voice.
Her eyes were wet. ‘This isn’t going to work.’
He sat up, brushed himself angrily, reached for the pack. ‘Of course it’s going to work.’
‘No. It’s too hard.’
‘I’m just having a rest. Can’t I have a bloody rest?’
She took his hand, kissed it, gave it back. ‘Yes. But the thing is.’ He had to strain to hear her, lean nearer. ‘I’ve decided. You must go and get help and get back.’ She paused. ‘Before dark,’ she said.
He could drown in those eyes.
‘Lisa.’
‘It’s the only way that makes sense.’ She was still staring. She knew she could trust him. ‘You said.’
He was firm, efficient. The thing was to be efficient. To leave her warm, as comfortable as possible, food to hand. He tore the drooping dead ponga fronds from a nearby tree and laid her on their brown crackling surface, wrapped a sleeping bag around her, added more fronds for warmth and kissed her.
‘There’ll be noises, but don’t worry about them. It’s like being in a house on your own. You don’t hear small noises when there are other people. It’s no worse. I promise.’
Christ those eyes. ‘Yes.’
He held her close, kissed her gently and ran. Why gently, why did he kiss her so gently. Why did he do that.
He had been scrambling down the track, leaping and sliding for ten minutes, when he remembered he hadn’t marked a nearby tree. She can’t move, dumb-bum. He ran on.
*
‘She couldn’t move,’ he yelled. ‘Her ankle, she couldn’t move!’ The Ranger and his mate Shaun who had called in for a beer on his way home looked at him in silence. One large man and one small nuggety one stood panting, sweat coursing down their legs. They said nothing. Their eyes avoided his.
‘You’re sure this is the spot?’ said the Ranger finally.
‘Of course.’ Rob slammed his hand hard against the rimu. ‘Rimu, rata, karaka, like I said. And the rewarewa over there.’ He was pointing, insisting, longing to shake.
Shaun’s voice was gentle. He just wanted to get things straight. ‘You didn’t make a blaze then?’
‘She couldn’t walk! She couldn’t fucking walk!’
Shaun touched his shoulder, the shoulder is safe. ‘We’ll just have a wee bit of a look round then. She can’t be far away.’
The Ranger turned to him. It was beginning to get dark, colder. ‘Where’s the ponga fronds you mentioned, Rob?’
Robin spun around. There were none. There were no ponga fronds. He tore from side to side, bellowed her name to the hills. ‘Leeesah!’ Silence until the echo. ‘Eesah. Eesah.’ Shaun and the Ranger stared at their boots.
The Ranger took charge. They could give it an hour, no more. Nothing could be achieved after dark, not a blind thing and the ambulance would be waiting. He sent Shaun and Robin up the track, nodded at Shaun, was answered. Keep an eye on him. We don’t want two of them. They checked their watches. Their voices roared her name, their feet crashed. The Ranger began his detailed search nearby. He would get on to Search and Rescue as soon as he got home. He pulled on his Swanni against the chill.
Rob had absorbed bush lore at primary where there were few trees in sight. You dried matches in your hair, you made sure your boots were worn in before you set off, you had dry socks, warm clothing, wool was best
. You never tramped alone. Not unless you were extremely experienced and well-equipped and seldom then. You made sure. You told someone where you were going. You signed the book. You had bushcraft and were well prepared.
This teaching programme had been assisted by television. The searches were all televised, or rather the bush clearing where the Search and Rescue team was based was shown. Helicopter sweeps were filmed, the back views of the volunteer searchers, their bright parkas and muted Swanndries followed as they fanned out across the field of view. The exhaustion on their faces was caught on their return as they accepted mugs of tea from strong-armed women and shook their heads. Nothing yet. Not a sign. No. Not yet. There was the obligatory interview with the team leader; tough, serious, a man who had done time in the field. An experienced man. And always, always, always, the relatives. How did you feel, Jack, when you found your daughter had disappeared without trace? What chance do you think your son has now the weather is closing in, Beryl? Were you surprised when your wife wasn’t where you thought, Rob? Yes I was. I hadn’t expected it. I was surprised, yes.
He refused, flatly refused to be interviewed. He swung a punch at the ape with the camera and the kidney belt of films. They wouldn’t let him join in the search. He would be more use at Base, they said. Men were coming in all the time. They left him alone eventually. He sat on a log and waited till the bush was lost in the dark and the day ended and no one spoke.
They found her on the third day, quite near the track as it turned out. She must have dragged herself from the track to hide better, gone deeper and rolled. He had not told her not to. He had not said Don’t move. She couldn’t, that was why. She couldn’t move.
The rain blew horizontally across the clearing, mist swirled around the base caravan, the helicopter was grounded as they carried her down. Hypothermia.
The volunteer who had found her shook Robin’s hand. He had a gut. They don’t usually have a gut. Not Search and Rescue. He had done what he could. He was very sorry.
‘I wanted you to know, Rob,’ he said, ‘I just wanted you to know how peaceful she looked.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Lying there like a little girl.’
Don’t tell me, he screamed at the dark sodden bush, the empty sky.
‘Peaceful as a baby,’ the face continued. ‘I just wanted you to know.’
Five
He stood in the church porch shaking hands, kissing weeping women, embracing their overwhelming grief. Yes, yes; it was sad. Very sad. Yes. Thank you for coming. Yes, she was. Expressionless as a toy dog nodding in a rear window, Robin agreed. Yes. Yes. Very. Thank you. Yes, wasn’t she.
Emmeline was different. She ran in almost late; boots clanging on stone, head swathed in orange, one hand dragging Calvin in what looked like a miniature tuxedo. She flung her arms round him.
‘Oh Rob!’ she gasped. ‘Oh Rob, good to see you.’
‘What!’
‘I mean, I mean. Oh God, I’m sorry.’ She blundered on, all grace gone, her turban slipping. Followed by Rob’s bewildered gaze, she caught Calvin’s hand once more and fell into the church.
Eileen insisted on cooking the tea that night. Lisa’s service, she explained, would have taken it out of him. The chop stared back at him from the foetal position, its flap curling, its fat charred by the pan. She never grilled; it messed up the oven.
‘You’ll just have to pick up the pieces like I did, dear,’ she said, touching the corner of her mouth with a crumpled paper napkin.
Pieces. What fucking pieces. Show me a piece you sanctimonious old … No. Not cow. This is not a cow. This is a mother. My sad soft brutal mother who transmutes funerals to services, deaths to resurrections and chops to … He wanted to scream, to flaunt his disbelief in her face. There is no God. No God but no God. Nothing. None. Get it?
He shook his head.
‘Aren’t you going to eat your chop, dear?’
‘No thanks. I …’
‘Would you like something else?’ Nervous fingers twitched as she watched. What else was there except two tins of baked beans cloned side by side on the bottom shelf for emergencies.
‘No thanks.’
‘Oh well.’ Eileen heaved herself up from the mahogany formica, waited for her hip to click into place and headed off.
‘Sit down, Mum, I’ll get it.’
‘No, no.’
‘Mum!’
‘No, no. I’m up now.’
He was on his feet, shouting, his fingers clenched. ‘Sit down.’
She stared at him; her face melted, disintegrated, turned to pulp. ‘I was only trying to help.’ One hand dragged her hanky from her bust, another clutched the chair back for support as she sobbed her heart out in the stillness.
Robin stood across the table, his arms hanging, his heart thudding. ‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry.’
‘What’s the use of being sorry?’
‘I don’t know. But if I see another weeping woman I’ll scream.’
Her hurt was soundless now. Tears flowed unchecked. ‘It’s not as though I haven’t been through it.’ She paused. ‘And you have screamed. You’ve screamed already.’ Her sniff was half sob. ‘At me.’
He stood there breathless, helpless, hopeless, teeth chewing the inside of one cheek.
Still grasping the chair back, she navigated herself around it and sank onto vinyl.
Rob kissed her forehead, put an arm round her shoulders and moved to the kitchen. ‘Where’s the coffee, Mum?’
‘There’s instant in the green tin. I can’t afford real coffee like you and Lisa.’
He gripped the kitchen bench, stared at the red camellia blurring before his eyes by the whirligig clothesline. There were still a few crimson blooms left; the rest had turned to brown sog. It was late, of course, late in the season. Winter, he had been told several times during the day, was drawing on. Even clichés were not safe. Lisa skipping down the drive to tell him the latest from Standard Four. ‘Winter drawers on!’ Her anxious eyes watching his face. ‘Get it?’
He got it, picked her up, hugged her. Put her down. He had to remember, he had to remember she was a kid. A little kid.
He poured the boiling water onto the granules and watched with bleak intensity as they turned to brown swirl. Tell me. Tell me. You must know. Tell me.
‘Where’s the milk, Mum?’ he sobbed.
Puckered, moist about the eyes but pleased to help, Eileen came to his aid smiling. ‘It’s like I always say. If you want something done, do it yourself. It’s done in half the time.’
They sat side by side in silence before the boarded-up fireplace. She rootled in a drawer, found some forgotten red-boxed chocolates bloomed with grey. He ate three.
She laughed, pleased by excess. ‘And you’re the one that doesn’t like chocolates!’
He flung in another. ‘Oh well.’
Eileen stroked her skirt. ‘I thought they’d be nice,’ she said.
He blew his nose, mopped up.
She put out her hand. ‘It comes over you, doesn’t it? All of a sudden. Just like that.’
Robin, his face hidden, snorted.
She nodded, gathered herself together with quick little straightening shrugs.
He watched her warily. He recognised the signs, the setting-up routine before action.
People often do it. He had watched a man in a café last week, doing … doing what? The memory had disappeared. What was it? What. Rob dragged a hand through his hair, made fists, willed the thing back. The man resurfaced, stretched his neck, flexed his fingers before using his cell phone. Strengthened for the task, one stiff finger prodded, an ear listened. Silence. The aerial was pressed down once more. Wrong number. Robin had been pleased. Why had he been pleased. The Germans have a word for it. I am going mad.
‘Robin?’
‘Yes?’
‘I’ve been thinking.’
He ate another chocolate. Peppermint. The sweet slime of incipient nausea clung to his palate, slid behind his teet
h. His tongue was busy, seeking, tracking, licking wide and deep. The thing is to keep busy. ‘Yes?’ he sobbed.
‘Now that you’re alone …’
He was on his feet again, his face a foot from hers. ‘No!’
Her hands, her tiny begging paws waved, her red eyes were round with shock.
‘But why not, Robin, now we’re both on our own? Why not?’
He spat it out across the bleakness, the stale chocolates, the gap between them. ‘I have to live my own life.’
Eileen reached for her crocheted afghan, pulled it around her straightened shoulders and faced him.
‘Whose else could you possibly live?’ She wriggled deep in her own chair, picked up her little paper and turned her shoulder. ‘Thank goodness I have my work,’ she said.
*
Maureen was different. Her world was laid waste; she had no pieces to pick up. Her lengths failed her. For a week she couldn’t face the sight of them. The second week she sat at her Bernina, tears dripping onto jersey or poly or crepe. Murray came in and stood silent, his hand on the door knob till he walked away.
Maureen had no memory of that first week except wet pillows and people. She sat bemused, remembered no one, did not even thank them, clutched the plastic ballerina and waited for Rob to come and see her. Murray, stunned with surprise, took over; he heated things, stored things, cooked. ‘What on earth’s got into her?’ he asked Rob every time he arrived.
‘Her daughter is dead.’
‘Yeah, but life must go on.’
She greeted Rob with love, clutched him to her, could scarcely let him go. They wept together. They loved each other. They understood how they felt.
It never seemed to occur to Maureen that Lisa’s death might have been avoided, that Rob could have tried harder, looked longer, told her not to move. Never by word or deed did Maureen indicate she had thought of such a thing, let alone held him responsible. They sat for hours going over old photographs; sharing, laughing, howling their eyes out.
Maureen had not owned a camera and she was grateful for Rob’s reprints. ‘Why have you got so many of her when she was little?’ she asked.
The House Guest Page 10