What You Wish For, page 10
Mind you, if he even mildly upset Emma, Jacko would nail his head to a wall through his nostrils. If the guy was lucky.
Loko picked up a jar of Mr Phipps’ honey, rested it in his palm to read the label.
‘The native British black bee was thought to be extinct,’ he said. ‘Ninety per cent of the population was wiped out by the Spanish flu in nineteen-nineteen.’
‘So I’d heard,’ said Sidney.
‘But now wild hives have been found around the country,’ he kept on. ‘The bees have adapted on their own to the conditions. Become stronger.’
‘Heard that, too.’
Sidney didn’t hold out much hope that her declaration of prior knowledge would dissuade him from continuing to educate her.
Loko replaced the jar on the stall. Cheapskate.
‘Now, the wild bees need to infiltrate the managed hives,’ he said. ‘Bring their strength to the rest of the population.’
‘Sounds jolly good.’
Said in the tone mothers always used when they wanted their children to bugger off. Sidney assumed it wouldn’t register.
What did Emma see in him? The Emma Sidney had known before had no tolerance for men who were full of themselves. OK, so he was also handsome, and charismatic, and obviously a bad boy …
Sigh. Asked and answered.
‘Feijoa chutney.’ Emma shuddered. ‘Urghh.’
‘You don’t like feijoas?’ said Sidney.
‘Yuck, no. Texture’s like eating a sandy tongue.’
‘Jam instead? I have raspberry or blackberry. Homemade.’
‘Nope, we’re broke,’ said Emma, cheerfully. ‘Starting tomorrow, got some avocado picking lined up, though, so won’t starve.’
‘I might have another job, too,’ said Sidney. ‘My first foray in years into the capitalist machine.’
‘Bad luck,’ said Emma, and linked her arm in her companion’s. ‘Come on, we gotta go. See ya, Sidney.’
‘A pleasure to meet you.’
Loko briefly bowed his head, a gesture that could be seen as courteous, but which felt to Sidney like he was taking the piss.
‘Yep,’ she replied. ‘Sure.’
As they walked away, Sidney saw him extract his arm from Emma’s and lay it across her shoulders instead. The better to steer her with, was Sidney’s troubling thought.
No. Emma knew how to take care of herself. She wouldn’t put up with any rubbish. No matter how handsome its perpetrator.
It was nearly noon. Time to shut up shop. Winter sales were always down on the warmer months but she’d done OK today. Home now to the boys. And Kerry. Fun, affectionate, generous Kerry, who would do anything to make her life easier. Tendency to joke around, sure, but a good man …
Maybe Mac was right and she did know he was the one?
But what would a future with him mean? Did he want to get married? Have a child with her? How would her boys feel about having a much younger sibling, and one who had a dad when they didn’t? How would she feel? She hadn’t much enjoyed being pregnant last two times, and she was glad her boys were long past the baby stage. Did Kerry want to stay in Gabriel’s Bay, or take them back to England? What kind of school would the boys go to if they moved? Would they all feel compelled to go skiing in Japan over Christmas?
So many questions. And all of them as yet un-asked. Why? Was it because Sidney was afraid that she wouldn’t like the answers — or that she would? How attractive would it be to sink into a different life, one with companionship and support, and without daily financial struggle?
A life where she was no longer in sole control. No longer the one who steered.
Sidney packed the unsold jars into her plastic container, stacked the signs and bunting on top and clipped the lid. She put the cashbox in her big tote bag, and picked up the Littleville donation box. The few coins inside clinked sadly.
Without Doctor Love, the project would have no hope of success. Perhaps it was all right to rely on someone? If they were the right kind of someone?
So many questions. Sidney hefted her load, began to trek back to the car.
One day, she might get around to asking them out loud.
CHAPTER 12
Emma
‘Are you pissed off at me?’
Emma rested her chin on Loko’s bare chest, which was, given his load of dark dreads, almost freakishly hairless. Strong, though. Good pecs. Good abs. Probably some Freudian shenanigans that made her go for bigger blokes. What was the opposite of an Oedipus complex? Didn’t matter. It was all BS anyway. Made up by a sad, old bloke who had nothing better to do than to make people feel weird about cucumbers.
‘Why would I be?’ he replied.
Such a great accent. Made her think of wood smoke and cider.
‘For making you go to the farmers’ market this morning?’
He lifted an eyebrow. ‘Did you make me?’
‘Or did you go of your own accord?’ said Emma. ‘My granddad used to tell a joke like that. Wasn’t good then, either.’
‘I enjoyed meeting your jam-making friend,’ he said. ‘She’s a sharp one.’
‘She won’t help us, though. Stickler for the rules, is our Sidney.’
‘Most are. When it suits.’
Emma figured sex in the afternoon was probably against someone’s rules, but people like that had no fun. Long as they kept the noise down, no one in camp would care. Loko had borrowed a tarp-hut that belonged to a Wood Sprite called Freerange. Freerange didn’t like the winters in camp, hiked way up north, came back in November. Emma figured that’s how long Loko would stay. Or, maybe, when the camp filled up over summer, he’d meet more people whose company he enjoyed. Find more causes to support.
She never doubted that he’d find a way to protect the camp. That big, dumb farmer was no match for Loko, who knew how to get shit done, knew how to win. How he managed it, Emma didn’t fully understand, and she’d never ask. That was how this worked — you got passed a message and you did what was asked. You didn’t know who was behind it. Or who else might have been given the same task. No names, no chain, no trail. No chink in the armour, no opening for betrayal.
And Emma got that, she did, but it was kind of frustrating. She’d never been good at waiting around for orders. She was an initiator, of ideas and action, an organiser, a do-er. That’s why she’d loved being part of the commune, the rural sanctuary for people who needed help. The owners were a young couple, only in their thirties and with three small kids, who, amazingly, were happy to share their home and family time with the kind of people most would prefer enclosed behind a high-voltage barbed wire fence. Damaged, delusional, occasionally dangerous, but all of them wanting to be healed, wanting to find some way to gain a bit more control over themselves and their terrible lives. Wanting to know that someone cared and thought they mattered. Thought they deserved more than to be chucked on the scrap heap.
Emma had been one of a small team of volunteers, who were given room and board in exchange for working with the residents, teaching them how to grow food, tend animals, cook, clean, build and repair. She had autonomy to manage people, come up with new ways to get them engaged, moving, productive — most had no clue how to organise themselves, some didn’t even know how to do the most basic of tasks, like washing dishes. She was involved in decision-making, treated like an equal by the owners, who told her she was making a real difference.
They’d been gutted when she announced she was leaving. Pity she couldn’t tell them the real reason why. Maybe one day she’d write …
Loko had his eyes shut, but he wasn’t asleep. He did this form of meditation that was all about defining goals and then visualising yourself achieving them. Was supposed to release all kinds of positive forces that worked on your behalf.
‘As Buddha said: “The mind is everything. What you think, you become”,’ was how he’d explained it.
‘I thought Buddhism was about letting go of self and your desire to control, and all that jazz?’ she’d replied. ‘How does that reconcile with trying to turn yourself into a master of the universe?’
For a second there, he’d looked a bit pissy. But then he’d given her one of his lop-sided smiles. One of the commune residents, Lynda, a former pokie addict, had taken exception to the way he smiled, called him a smug tosser. Guess it could come across like that — if you didn’t know him.
‘If you don’t make things happen, then things will happen to you,’ he’d said.
True dat, as she might say if she wasn’t a white chick. Yep, that was her problem in a nutshell. She wanted to make things happen …
‘How about I start a blog?’ she said. ‘An anonymous one.’
Loko opened his eyes. ‘To what end?’
‘Gathering support by speaking truth. I could lift the lid on what’s going down round here. Overseas developers buying up our land, ruining our waterfront with ugly commercial buildings. Farmers letting their cows crap freely in the waterways. Authorities persecuting blameless people. All the local news is brave enough to cover is school sports days and the A and P show. And if the outside world doesn’t know, how can they care?’
‘It might be harder than you think to make a website anonymous.’
‘Actually, it isn’t,’ said Emma. ‘One of the commune residents was a hacker. Also a choof-monster, which was why he was there. Told me how to do it. Long as you can get bitcoin, it’s easy.’
‘A choof-monster.’
Loko never liked to admit he didn’t know stuff, so he’d kind of slide out questions disguised as musings. Fair enough. Emma didn’t enjoy looking like an ignorant dick, either.
‘Total bong-head,’ said Emma. ‘We had to kick him out. Caught him smoking in the chicken coop. Next day, swore I heard a hen say, “Yo, pass that shit, man”.’
He ignored the joke. Usually did. She had to work on her patter.
‘How will you bring people’s attention to the blog?’ he said. ‘Last statistic I read put the worldwide blog-site total at over a hundred and fifty million.’
‘Search terms,’ she said. ‘Key words. Meta data bumpf. Plus, I’ve got a mate in one of the national media chains who’s always keen on juicy stories. I can get a burner phone and text her.’
‘Like the hardened criminal you are,’ he said, and rolled over to kiss her.
‘Fine one to talk,’ said Emma.
And reached down to prove her point.
‘So who’s the bloke?’ said Devon.
Emma had known full well that when she took Loko to the farmers’ market, the news would pass through the good folk of the town faster than Curry Up’s legendary Prawns Masala. Even if Sidney had felt it none of her business who Emma was with, others would have spotted her. OK, so she probably should have told Devon about Loko first, him being her best friend in the world and all. Oh well. C’est la vie.
‘Just a guy I met in the UK.’
‘Who you followed all the way back here.’
Ouch. That smarted. Much as she’d like to think of herself as a free-willed bird, or whatever that quote was from Jane Eyre, she had upped sticks and hastened off in pursuit. The fact his destination was her good old hometown wasn’t really a mitigating factor, because she’d been the one to put that idea in his head in the first place. He’d been looking to move on, go travelling, leave England — and her — and so Emma had dropped the Wood Sprites into conversation. Casting her line out casual-like, cool, while all the time frantically praying he’d take the bait. When he did, Emma had to physically restrain herself from punching the air.
But she’d never admit that to Devon. He’d never let her forget it.
‘I was coming back anyway,’ she said. Cool-like. Casual. ‘I missed the place.’
Devon reached for a chip from the paper packet they’d spread between them on the back steps of the Boat Shed. Emma had missed lunch due to, well, something coming up, so she’d rung Dev and arranged to meet before he started work at five. It wasn’t warm but it wasn’t windy, either. The sea was teal green, which, along with maroon, was the first choice colour for those stretchy tops worn by the kind of old ladies who called trousers ‘slacks’ and had an endless supply of zip-up polar-fleece vests.
‘Thought you loved working at that commune?’ he said.
‘I did. But you can’t do that kind of work for long stretches. I couldn’t, anyway. Too intense. Too emotionally draining. Even for tough chicks like me.’
‘Guess so,’ said Devon. ‘My cousin was a psychiatric nurse. Got hit and bitten. Had to scrub faeces off the walls. She used to have to take a break every two or three years, go work in a pub, or milk cows.’
He was letting her get away with half-truths because he was a good friend. A better friend than Emma had been for him so far. She should probably do more than leave him the last battered scallop. That was one thing Gabriel’s Bay did do well — make a mean fish and chips. Pity its fishing industry died — killed by neo-liberal politicians who presented privatisation of vital infrastructure as the way to make New Zealand profitable again, not understanding or caring that the country’s true wealth was its people. Communities should be honoured — encouraged, supported — not smashed apart like so much quarry rock. Or kicked off some dumb farmer’s land.
There she was — doing it again. Putting the big causes first, and her friend, who was right here, second. Focus, Emma.
‘So did you score at the club the other night?’ she asked.
Devon should have taken that modelling contract — he had that curled-lip look nailed.
‘My score,’ he said, ‘is currently zip. Zilch, nada, sweet fuck all.’
‘How come?’
He boggled at her. ‘Are you serious?’ Searched her face. ‘Shit, you are serious, aren’t you? You really don’t have a clue.’
Emma dipped a chip into the salt caught in the paper folds. Devon had always been prickly. No point in kicking back, just ride it out, cool, calm. She ate the chip, relished its crunchy, salty, greasy perfection. Dusted her hands.
‘Some people are hung up on how you look,’ she said. ‘I get it. But how hard are you trying, really? Are you using it as an excuse?’
‘You should contest the world Miss Empathy title,’ said Devon. ‘You have a real knack.’
‘Someone has to ask the hard questions.’
Devon pulled his legs into a cross-sit, began to stab the sand with a piece of driftwood. Emma waited, eyeing up the last scallop. If he didn’t hurry up, it’d get cold.
‘OK, so I hate it.’
Devon chucked the driftwood hard towards the sea. It crashed pointy-end into the sand, causing a nearby gull to flap.
‘I hate being rejected,’ he said. ‘Hate the stupid arsehole comments, hate the stares and sniggering, hate the hate. Especially hate the hate.’
‘What if you were a dwarf?’ said Emma.
‘What? Which one — Grumpy?’
‘No, a real dwarf. Or if you had, I dunno, cerebral palsy, or Down syndrome, or something.’
‘All quite different. Want to pick one?’
‘I did! You’re a dwarf, OK.’
‘Hi, ho,’ said Devon.
‘So you could bitch and moan about how typical-sized people don’t fancy you — unless you’re Tyrion Lannister, of course. Or you could go fishing in a pool that’s more your size, if you get me?’
‘That’s gnomes who fish, but yes, I get your point. Snag is —where the fuck is that pool? And what if there isn’t one? What if I’m it? Sui generis. Dev-only.’
‘Where have you looked besides Tinder?’
Dev was also terrific at the side-eye.
‘Plenty of niche dating sites,’ said Emma. ‘There are ones for folk who have food allergies, cat fanciers — not in that way, also probably totally in that way — interpretive dance practitioners, people who like dressing up as furry animals — you name it.’
‘How do you know this?’
‘You learn a lot hanging out with crazies.’
‘Shit almighty …’ Devon dragged his hands down his face.
Emma reached out, lightly punched his arm.
‘You could also cut your hair really short, and bulk up at the gym,’ she said.
Devon pretended to fend her off. ‘No one’s touching the hair.’
‘Well, then suck it up, girly-boy. We have to find you the right pool.’
The side-eye again. ‘We?’
‘Hells yes.’ Emma held up her palm for a high five, which Devon shied back from in mock alarm. ‘What are friends for?’
Then she said, ‘Can I have that scallop?’
‘How can you be a non-vegetarian eco-warrior?’ Devon demanded.
‘Because I don’t believe in letting others dictate your choices.’ She grinned. ‘So can I have it?’
Devon leaned back on propped arms. ‘Not like I could stop you anyway.’
CHAPTER 13
Patricia
‘Come in, Sidney.’ Patricia held open the front door. ‘You’ll find Bernard in the library. Second door to the left down the hallway.’
‘Oh, thanks.’
Sidney seemed out of breath and rather pink around the edges. Patricia suspected she might look much the same. It had not been an easy twenty-four hours.
‘I’ll knock first, shall I?’ Sidney asked.
Patricia was about to respond when feet came thundering down the hallway. She’d asked him not to run inside several times already, but on each occasion, he’d stared at her blankly, as if he could not make out what she was saying. This was, as she soon discovered, preferable to the times when he clearly did understand her request and objected to it — with loud yells and four-letter words that would make a painting blush. Kicking was also involved, and hitting. Patricia had done her best to remain calm, acknowledge his frustrations and fears, and find a diversion that could reduce the tension. So far, the most successful had been allowing him to kick a football against the back fence. But that was not going to work in bad weather, or in the dark. The boy had not slept well last night, so nor had Patricia and Bernard. Both assumed it was a natural reaction to being in a strange place. Neither wanted to think that it could last the whole four weeks.
