‘She caught them herself this morning,’ said Robin. ‘I’ll cook them. It’s a treat.’
‘Bring her to me.’
‘No. No.’
Spiro stormed into the lounge, a mad chef from stock grabbing the bridegroom. ‘Where is the whitebait lady?’
‘Here,’ said the whitebait lady proudly, her lipstick damp with anticipation.
Robin dragged him back to the kitchen, past the still-expectant whitebaiter, past Emmie’s delight and Calvin’s double-handed eating habits and closed the door. Spiro came right but it took time. The perfection of the bite-size fritters mollified him until the bridegroom’s sister popped in for a dish for the chocolate truffle nibbles she had brought with her all the way from Reefton.
‘Why! Why? Is my food not enough? Not nice? Not tasty crap?’
The man was becoming incoherent. Robin handed a startled plate and shut the door. The thing was getting ridiculous.
‘For God’s sake Spiro, they’re women.’
‘Now you tell me.’
‘They want to help, they don’t mean to louse things up.’
Spiro’s eyebrows were locked. ‘So they help by screwing up my menu? They love by how sweet they are, how kind, how clever with the nibbles. Nibbles! By bringing food not needed they show they are nice? Balls! It is their ego massage.’
And what’s yours Chuckie, what’s yours? A girl’s got to do what a girl’s got to do. Shut-ins and olds will welcome poppers-in with food even if Miss Bowman did not, and if the girls don’t pop who the hell will in this day and age and the cuts getting worse and the rich still richer. Get real man, and let the rest of us storm off shouting and the devil take the hindmost which will undoubtedly include the has-beens and the never-weres and the no-hopers and those who stink and those who drink and those who disappear without trace to a sleep and a forgetting, amen.
Never come to a wedding again unless stoned.
He glanced around, looking for sanity and repose in the form of Emmeline. She had disappeared as had Calvin. His stepfather was talking to the Reverend John who had taken the service. Eileen was surrounded by parishioners in hats and florals. Everyone was smiling except the two clerics. Robin moved over with relief.
‘Yes, I agree,’ said Clayton his face stern as he stared up at his friend. ‘I agree with the man as to meaning, and his scholarship is convincing, especially of course to people looking for a way in … or out. Useful undoubtedly, but
‘Exactly,’ said the Reverend John. In appearance they could have been an ecclesiastical double act. Hi, High. Lo, Low. But these were serious men.
‘Faith is so much more than facts,’ continued the Reverend John. ‘He seems, do you agree, almost to forget that. Is meaning the only point of religious consciousness? What about wonder, mystery, numinous awe? Myth even. Truth, of course there must be truth, but what are you destroying, what do you risk destroying for those who cannot and will not accept what the man says. And I don’t mean only fundamentalists either.’
‘In simple trust, murmured Clayton, like theirs who heard
Beside the Syrian Sea
The gracious calling of the Lord
Let us, like them, without a word
Rise up and follow Thee.’
People alongside smiled, nodded. They knew that one.
‘Quite!’ said the Reverend John. ‘Quite.’
Robin nodded, attempted retreat around a nest of occasional tables.
Clayton touched his arm. ‘Excuse us,’ he said.
‘No, please go on, I’m interested.’
But like anyone talking shop, like experts in any field, Clayton and his friend preferred their audience to be informed. This was not the moment, they felt, for a quick burst on modern theological thinking with one under-read in the subject. They stood silent.
‘Do you think anything will come of Church leaders taking a stance on state housing?’ tried Robin.
The Reverend John looked thoughtful. Perhaps he had less faith, or fire, or was too tired. But Clayton was excited. ‘Of course! Of course it will. Leadership from the top. The Prime Minister has already said he’ll look into it. This is just the beginning, Robin. Just the beginning, mark my words.’ He paused, glanced around smiling. ‘Where’s my wife? The secret of a happy marriage. Always check on your lady wife frequently.’ A muscle winced at the side of his mouth. ‘Yes,’ said Clayton and moved away.
Robin wandered off down the passage and was confronted at the end by a pottery plaque depicting a toilet-paper roll, one ceramic end billowing, floating free as an unfurled scroll.
Calvin was in action behind the open door. He stood at some distance and sprayed. ‘Hey,’ said Rob. ‘Stand nearer. In it, not at it. Like this.’ He unzipped. ‘Right up, see. Legs apart. That’s it. Much better. Spot on.’
Emmeline leaned against the door frame. ‘Having a demo?’ she said and closed the door.
An orderly queue was forming beyond the door. After you. No no, I’m all right, after you. The bridesmaid, sister-in-law, bride and friend stopped in mid-courtesy as the three of them filed out. Eileen’s fingers brushed her lips in a gesture remembered from childhood.
‘Hi,’ said Emmeline.
‘Robin,’ said Maureen tugging his coat. ‘Spiro’s throwing a wobbly and the vicar’s fainted.’
‘Which vicar?’ gasped Eileen her mouth wide.
Maureen put out an arm. ‘Not yours, dear. The old gentleman. We’ve put him in the sunporch.’
Murray had been unable to spare the time to help with the fence but Calvin had offered his assistance. He was a busy child, an inquisitive string-bean activist who liked making things go and things which did go. He liked vacuum cleaners. He poked and took apart. He reassembled. He was fearless and unpredictable and loved to help, but only with manly tasks. He hammered, he sawed, he had to be watched. The prospect of the hired concrete mixer delighted him. The noise, the thump, the revolving turnip yellowness of the thing, all these were good and were to be present for two whole days. Calvin marshalled the local kids who came to stare and was ruthless with any would-be infringements. No one could help but him and they had to stay on the footpath.
He dug useless holes with a large yellow plastic shovel which was an unexpected freebie from the local gas company. He was too short to shovel builder’s mix unaided, insisted on doing so and yelled for help. He watched the rolling surge of the bowl with awe and drove Robin mad.
He was underfoot like a starving cat or a half-blind dog. He turned on the hose and could not turn it off, he poked his finger in the cement and lost a jandal, he insisted on heaving a post and dropped it on Robin’s foot. The smooth cement surface of the post hole pleased him, as did his hand print.
And then he got sick of it.
The local kids had left long ago, wearied, like Lady Lucas, of delights in which they saw no likelihood of sharing. Emmie was at a costume rehearsal all day and there was still no sign of her. The wind which had been blowing sand about all day had dropped to a gentle breeze by the time Murray drifted out to watch progress. He had been working hard.
Robin, sweating and silent, his back bent, his head down, continued easing the last post into its concrete puddle.
‘Like a hand?’ said Murray.
Robin centred the post with care, picked up his shovel and turned to his neighbour. His eyes were stinging with grit, his glasses steamed, his back broken. ‘No,’ he said.
Murray yawned, scratched an armpit and yawned again. ‘Only trying to help. Couldn’t afford two lost days. Not at this stage of the year. I told you. If you’d made it May it might’ve been different. You arty bastards’ve got no idea of the pressure on med students at this time of year.’
The post was straight and true and the last one, striding down the drive like telephone poles across Central Otago. Now only the timber remained, the actual making of the fence plus staining and staining again. Rob laid his forehead against his last post for a moment to remind himself that the guy was Lisa
’s brother. It did not work. ‘How much interest are you paying Emmie on your loan?’ he said.
Murray searched for the answer inside his mouth. His tongue moved wide and deep as he explored his palate, moved to the right, bulged to the left and found it.
‘None.’
‘Why the hell not?’
‘She didn’t ask for any.’
‘Didn’t you insist?’
The tongue was thoughtful. ‘No,’ said Murray, ‘why should I?’
Rob, his hands still gripping the post, moved his head from one side to the other and stared down the road to the unseen sea. Son of a bitch would not be accurate. ‘God, you’re a shit,’ he said finally.
Murray was unconcerned. Insults, even as a child, had never penetrated. He was impervious, above and beyond censure. He knew where he was going and where he was coming from and had always done so. The hand, large and clean and spatulate, was scratching again. Scratching quite strongly. Robin kept his eyes on it; it was safer than the face and he had to look somewhere. He lifted his head sharply at the tone of voice as Murray asked his question.
‘Have you told Emmie about the letter from that Alice woman to old Bowman in The Load?’
He had forgotten. It had slipped his mind. He would do so but it would not be as easy now. Not easy at all. Not at the moment. ‘How do you know about it?’
‘I borrowed the book the week before you did.’
‘Why?’ said Robin wondering if the man was lying but why should he be.
Murray shrugged, a large flop of beef and elbows. ‘Just a theory of mine,’ he said.
Robin, still staring as the hand moved downwards, wondered once more why he disliked the man so much. OK he was smug, imperturbable and up himself. But lots of guys are up themselves. Some of my best friends are up themselves. This one is different. This one doesn’t even know he is up himself. He is just there, larded, unctuous, and close at hand, checking out my resource material. ‘What theory?’ he snarled.
‘Old Bowman was a lesbian.’
‘Wow.’
Murray was not deflected. ‘I never liked the woman and that letter proves it, to my mind.’
‘Why on earth?’
‘“He is dead. I am coming. Hurray.” Pretty obvious, wouldn’t you say?’
‘No. I wouldn’t.’
‘There wouldn’t have been many lesbian mothers around then, not single ones. That’s why she came out, I reckon. Both of them. Alice and Candida.’ He paused, looked thoughtful, considered. ‘What a crew.’
The prognathous chin, the short upper lip, the solid thighs; all had got it wrong but that was not the point. Robin was sweating more than ever, rage was trickling down his legs, adrenalin was pumping the sweet bliss of hatred through every hollow vessel. ‘So why did Alice marry Wilfred Q. Hughes?’
‘Wanted the farm, wouldn’t you say?’ Murray turned to go. ‘You’ll have to tell Emmie. Morally bound to, I’d say.’ He strolled to the pavement and glanced around. ‘Where’s Calvin?’
Christ! Rob dropped the shovel and ran. ‘Calvin, Calvin, Cal–vin!’
Murray removed the paper from the letterbox and checked the front page. Sewerage decision imminent. He strolled up the path.
Calvin was asleep on the wide verandah with his kitten in his arms. Robin, panting with fright, just stopped himself from shaking the child awake, from roaring and demanding explanations. Apologies even. People should not disappear. Not ever, not for one second should people disappear without previous advice having been given and received.
He lay down beside the child and closed his eyes. The light behind his eyelids was blood red with black spots. He would clean up later.
He explained his concern to Calvin when they woke. He explained that when people love other people they want them to be safe and people have to tell other people where they’re going otherwise people … He got bogged down and sat silent, his slack hands hanging. Calvin hugged the apricot kitten and looked at him for some time without expression. He took his mother by the hand when she returned and told her that Robin had growled at him and to come and look at his concrete. The kitten put one paw in the last post-hole which was still wet and howled a thin high threnody. It took some time to clean her up as well.
Twelve
The northerly was flinging white petals and mangled buds across the yard to the porch. The clothesline whirled, laden with ballooning towels, hammock sheets and shirts gross with air. Unmatched socks and a pair of underpants lay beached on concrete.
Emmie extracted a petal from Misha’s half-empty saucer. ‘Why does the wind always wait till the cherry’s out?’
‘Equinoctial gales. Look at the catkins thrashing pollen about. Rebekkah’d be beside herself.’
‘Rebekkah?’
‘My first tutorial.’ He blew out, a long exhalation of relief. ‘I’ll never forget that lot.’
Emmie knew his tutorials’ names and some of their problems and all of their essay topics. She might do English some time when she was old—but what about the fees.
Get the money back from Murray for starters. He did not say it. Murray was a mine shaft, a gap they circled but did not explore.
As was Alice.
He was working steadily on the novels. Emmeline continued to be amiable but uncompromising. He could work on the oeuvre, she said, till he was blue in the face with narrative structure and nitpicking symbolism—but leave Aunt out OK. And me.
Which meant he would have to leave out the life entirely. He had worked it out though. Hell yes, Rob had worked it out. He would complete his literary analysis first. Then when Emmie read the letters, changed her mind and embraced the truth he would sort out the rest and rewrite in depth which is what you write in. In the moments of sanity which sometimes sneaked up on him at dawn he realised how difficult this method would be, if not impossible. And there were other worries. Would the letters convince? Would she read them? But these were night thoughts. During the day he saw that there was a great deal to do on the works themselves; focus, analysis, concentration, all were required. Enough in all conscience as Maureen would say. More than enough. Yes.
‘I must go and see Maureen,’ he said.
Emmeline laid another damp petal alongside the saucer of milk. ‘When are you going to give up your flat?’
He grinned at her. ‘Next week.’ There were better subjects for concentration: shared abandon, the squelching wonder of it all, geography of body and mind. He was happier than he had ever been in his life.
They drove across Kilbirnie to take Spiro to the airport, Calvin on the lookout for Cs and Robin cursing himself. His own stupidity had landed him in this and now the man was about to go, to swan off to his own remembered hills leaving his offsider to carry the can and dree his own dim little weird at Dionysus as promised. Emmie patted his knee. ‘Cheer up.’
‘C! There!’ screamed Calvin from the comfort of his booster seat.
Robin swung the wheel, overcorrected, nearly hit a dog.
‘For God’s sake don’t do that.’
A glint of steel to the left. ‘Do what?’
‘Shriek behind me. I know he’s not used to cars but …’
‘Maybe you’re not used to kids.’
‘A car is a lethal weapon.’
‘Anyway I yelled too.’
‘I’m used to you.’
‘Hhh.’
They drove on, their faces blank with assumed calm. ‘It was one, wasn’t it, Mum?’
‘Sure it was,’ she said. ‘C for Calvin and Casey Total Exhaust. Good one. Look! C for Chain Nail Truss. What’s a Chain Nail Truss?’
‘I’ll tell you some time,’ he muttered.
She gave him a sharp glance, waved with enthusiasm at the two figures waiting on the distant kerb. ‘There they are, hon.’
Calvin was fighting with his safety belt. ‘Now we’ll see the fishes eh.’
‘Not today, Cal,’ said Rob.
‘But I told him we could.’
‘You d
idn’t tell me.’ He switched off the ignition. The small finality of the click filled the car followed by Calvin’s wail. ‘But Muum …’
Her safety belt hissed back. ‘We’ve plenty of time, plenty.’
‘We have not. If I’d known, if you’d said, I’d have started hours ago.’
Robin had met Andoni before. He was large and bald like Spiro but his moustache lacked the exuberance of his cousin’s; a thin organic strip clung to his upper lip, formal and groomed as a black bow-tie. Spiro stood looking expectant beside a suitcase and a small grip. Why were those in the front seat silent and Calvin roaring in his throne behind and when were they going to get out? He opened Emmeline’s door in encouragement. She hopped out, kissed him and turned to Andoni. ‘How very nice to meet you,’ she said, glad to know there were two decent men left in the world.
‘Why is your son weeping?’ asked Spiro nervously. Children were beyond him. They were inexplicable and too sudden and he had an aircraft to catch which doubtless even now was sitting on the tarmac at Rongotai with its nose in the air waiting for him. He had never travelled without his wife before and the arrangements, the packing, the remembering and doing of it all had been much more confusing than he remembered. Also he had slept badly and his eyes were sore and worst of all he was not sure whether the whole thing was not an act of madness, a dreadful mistake out of which he could no longer extract himself with honour. He moved from one foot to the other. His voice was agitated. ‘Does Calvin also come?’
The problem was explained amidst Calvin’s bawls and Emmie’s over-reactive smiles. Robin said nothing. He tried to right Calvin, who was now performing (another of Eileen’s remembered pejoratives) flat on his back on the footpath, and was greeted by flying feet. Spiro stood looking at his watch, his mouth busy.
‘Why,’ said Andoni dragging his eyes from Emmeline’s legs, ‘do not the boy and the mother come up to see the fish and drink coffee and you two go to the airport and Robin comes back?’
The House Guest Page 26