What You Wish For, page 28
‘Hello,’ said a voice at her side. ‘I saw you through the fence on my way to the park. May I join you?’
Patricia was surprised to see Sidney’s partner, Kerry, in one hand a full paper bag covered in grease spots.
‘Of course,’ she told him. ‘Are you on an early lunch break?’
‘No.’ Kerry sat rather heavily on the seat. ‘I’ve taken the week off. Needed some time to think. Hard to do that when you’re having trouble localising strings in nested non-determinative view stacks.’
‘I can offer no help with that, I’m afraid,’ said Patricia with a smile.
‘No one with a soul could.’
Kerry gave her only the briefest smile in return. Normally, he was a buoyantly cheerful young man, full of gab and charm. When Patricia had first met Kerry, she’d described him to Bernard as having a whiff of the snake-oil salesman about him. But he’d put his heart and soul into Littleville until he’d been forced to find full-time employment, and he was devoted to Sidney and excellent with her boys. Patricia’s opinion of him had measurably improved.
‘Is that young Reuben over there?’ said Kerry, in surprise. ‘Swarming across that climbing edifice? If a single child can constitute a swarm, which evidence would suggest they can.’
‘It is,’ said Patricia. ‘He’ll be pleased to see you. He still talks about your football coaching.’
‘God, does he?’
Kerry seemed dispirited by the news.
‘I wish I’d been able to continue,’ he said. ‘I feel I let those children down.’
‘Sidney’s boys have now found alternative coaching in Hampton, I gather?’
No reply. Kerry bent forward, swung the paper bag listlessly between his knees.
‘Is everything all right?’ Patricia enquired.
‘I am troubled.’ Kerry exhaled the words as he sat up. ‘Troubled with a capital T that rhymes with B that stands for—’
He clipped the end off his sentence. His tone had begun to shift, Patricia noted, from half-hearted towards angry.
‘May I offer a confidential ear instead?’ she said. ‘Reuben and I are having lunch at the Kozy Kettle, but we won’t leave here for at least another half hour.’
He screwed up his mouth as if embarrassed. But his expression when he faced her told her he intended to accept her offer.
‘You may regret this,’ he warned.
‘Oh, I think it’s important to do things you may regret,’ said Patricia. ‘Because if you don’t, you miss out on far too much.’
And Kerry told her everything. About Sidney keeping her pregnancy from him. (And them, Patricia reflected; but then, she had never been pregnant herself, so how could she have spotted the signs?) About how Sidney might have terminated the baby without even consulting him, without giving him any say in the matter whatsoever.
‘It’s my child, too,’ he protested. ‘How could she do that to me? To the baby? Our baby.’
In Patricia’s experience, it was better not to attempt an answer to these questions at this point. Like all those wrestling with resentment, fear and hurt, Kerry didn’t want quick solutions imposed by others. He wanted to talk it out, expel it in words, shift it round and around, until, like one of those picture puzzles with the moveable squares, the right course of action finally became evident.
‘I’ve never been so upset, so furious. I’ve never felt so betrayed. I’m still furious. I can’t—’
His voice lowered to a near-whisper.
‘I don’t think I can forgive her.’
Reuben was on the flying fox now. He was used to playing on his own, and did so quite happily. When he bumped to a stop, he slid off lithe as an eel, grabbed the rope end and pulled it all the way back to the start. Like a mini Sisyphus, was Patricia’s thought, but happy, contented. If only we could face all our obstacles like that.
‘Thing is, I love her.’
Kerry was moving the squares.
‘She’s the first woman I’ve ever truly loved, and my greatest wish has been to marry her and have children. But how can — I can’t work out how to let this go. It’s killing me. I’m reduced to sitting in parks, eating terrible potato-top pies and fantasising about drinking myself into a stupor. Which I’ve only done once, by the way,’ he added. ‘Still feel queasy, though that might be the pies.’
The pressure had been released, and he was perking up. Now it was safe for Patricia to offer a small amount of advice.
‘Loving somebody doesn’t mean you’ll never be hurt by them, or vice versa. Hurt is, I feel, almost an esssential aspect of a relationship, because it forces you to decide whether or not you wish to continue. And if you do wish to, you must put that hurt behind you. Let it go, as you say. You must forgive, and move on.’
‘But how?’ Kerry demanded. ‘How can I forgive such a huge betrayal? How can I ever trust her again?’
‘By choosing to,’ said Patricia. ‘Forgiving someone doesn’t mean condoning their behaviour. It doesn’t mean hiding how you feel. What it means is deciding not to dwell on that past behaviour or bad choice, not to let resentment and anger fester and poison your present life together.’
‘And all I have to do is make that choice and the bad thoughts magically disappear?’
Kerry sounded both cynical and hopeful.
‘No, you have to work at it on a daily basis,’ said Patricia. ‘As I can attest. For my part, I try to focus on what I like, and what I’m grateful for, and that seems to counteract the bulk of ill feeling. And also, it’s so much nicer being in love, and knowing that you’re helping and supporting someone. Without wishing to emotionally blackmail you, Sidney has been on her own for years. Giving, not receiving, is what makes you truly happy. Why wouldn’t you want to choose that?’
Kerry was quiet for a full minute before he spoke.
‘Have you ever considered getting a job as a guru?’
‘I’m not built for sitting on the peaks of mountains,’ Patricia replied, with a smile.
‘Yes, I’ve often wondered whether they suffer from piles. Deep vein thrombosis, too, from all that leg crossing.’
‘Kerr-eeee!’
Reuben had spotted him and was sprinting over, beaming from ear to ear.
‘My man!’
Kerry held up a palm and the pair high-fived. Then he had to move both hands into a defensive position as Reuben aimed a ‘hi-ya’ kick at his head.
‘Woah, there, Jackie Chan,’ said Kerry. ‘Mind the fizzog.’
‘What’s a fizz-hog?’
Bernard had got so excited by Reuben’s keenness to understand new words that Patricia had overheard him once attempting to explain how to identify the ablative in a Latin phrase. Reuben, to his credit, had been giving him his full attention.
‘It’s a nonsense word for your face,’ explained Kerry. ‘Like this is your gob.’ He pointed at Reuben’s mouth. ‘And—’ His nose ‘—this is your snot.’
‘Snot!’ Reuben fell about, giggling.
‘Or you could call it your “boat”,’ Kerry continued. ‘That’s Cockney rhyming slang. Boat race is your face. Scotch eggs are your legs. Chalk Farm’s your arms. And the Queen Mum is your—’
‘BUM!’
Reuben was laughing so hard, he fell into Kerry, who was laughing, too, caught by the contagious nature of a child’s unfettered hilarity.
‘Football!’ said Reuben, when he could speak again.
‘Sorry, matey,’ said Kerry. ‘I didn’t bring a ball with me. Only a potato-top pie, and while they can be quite satisfying to punt, you can only do it once.’
‘Would you like to join us for lunch?’ Patricia asked. ‘And if you don’t have plans for the afternoon, how about a kick around in our back garden?’
‘Yesyesyesyesyes!’
Reuben jumped up and down clapping his hands.
‘Much as I’m tempted to stick to my original plan, which was to go home and lie around in a darkened room feeling sorry for myself,’ said Kerry, ‘I think I’ll accept your kind invitation. Thank you.’
Kerry left at five o’clock, after lunch, back garden football, and an afternoon tea that included a lecture from Bernard about the progress of Littleville. Bernard still harboured reservations about what he referred to as ‘young Macfarlane’s organisational inadequacies’ and blamed him for allowing Elaine to nearly put an end to the project, though it was only Kerry’s purchase of an old farmhouse, complete with barn, that had enabled Littleville to live on.
‘With all the delays,’ Bernard said, ‘it’s been generous of Charles Love to allow his war game dioramas to be housed in the barn. And it’s very fortunate that he has continued good relations with Meredith and Jonty Barton, otherwise we might have lost their commitment to provide the dolls’ house and miniature railway. I gather Jonty is still to be fully convinced, so let’s hope Charles can succeed where you could not.’
The Bartons had been Kerry’s first employers, the job the reason he’d come to Gabriel’s Bay. It had not ended on a high note, and from Kerry’s quick wince, Patricia could tell Bernard’s foil had made a palpable hit.
‘I agree that we’re in Doctor Love’s debt,’ said Kerry. ‘Though occasionally, I have to say, his war gaming cronies can be quite rowdy. I could overhear heated debate during the recent re-enaction of the Battle of Kursk. That’s the danger when you mess around with history. HG Wells was quite right.’
Bernard ignored this.
‘And, of course, Charles has successfully secured a generous sponsorship. Which means, once the funds clear, that work can begin on turning the barn into an appropriately equipped visitor facility. I assume you’re prepared for this?’
A startled glance at Patricia showed that Kerry was about as prepared as medieval Europe had been for the bubonic plague.
‘Bernard, dear,’ she said. ‘Poor Reuben is dropping with exhaustion. Could you take him into the living room and set him up in front of the television?’
Her husband blinked, then observed that Reuben was, indeed, nodding in his chair, too tired to even finish the biscuit he still held in one hand.
‘Of course, dear.’
Gently, Bernard coaxed the biscuit from sticky fingers, and led Reuben away.
‘Thank you,’ said Kerry, when they’d left. ‘I have to confess my mind has not been on creating Gabriel’s Bay’s number one tourist attraction.’
‘I imagine not.’
‘I have big decisions to make, don’t I?’ he said.
A smile was as much reassurance as she could provide.
He stood, ready to leave, and bent down and kissed her on the cheek.
‘I wish I were just like you,’ he said. ‘All serene and Zen-like. Able to do the Kipling thing of keeping your head, and forcing heart and nerve and sinew to keep on serving. I suppose, as usual, I’ll just have to work harder at it.’
After seeing Kerry to the door, Patricia walked to the living room to check on Reuben, found him asleep on the sofa with his head in Bernard’s lap. Bernard looked up from his book, smiled at her to say, ‘All is well.’
He was right, but he was also very wrong. Patricia retreated to the kitchen, busied herself clearing dishes, wiping crumbs, trying to deflect the pain of her breaking heart.
What were those other lines from Kilping’s ‘If’? ‘And so hold on when there is nothing in you / Except the Will which says to them: Hold on!’
Kerry had been wrong, too. She gave only the impression of being serene. When Reuben left, day after tomorrow, it would feel like there was nothing in her. She’d feel stripped, barren, bereft and, despite Bernard’s company, alone.
And she did not trust that she could hold on. She did not know how she would bear it.
CHAPTER 32
Devon
What was happening? It was like his punch-up had caught hold of some metaphorical thread and now everything around him was unravelling. On Sunday afternoon, Jacko had left a message on his phone to say he was shutting the Boat Shed for a week and going bush. Devon didn’t know if the punch-up was the cause, and he sincerely hoped it wasn’t.
On Monday, Devon had phoned Sidney.
‘No idea,’ she confessed. ‘All I know is that, since yesterday, Mac’s been a bit — tense.’
‘She and Jacko aren’t having woes? I thought they were tight for eva.’
‘Doubt it. More likely something to do with Emma. Maybe she and the pirate boyfriend are getting engaged. Really hope not. Have you met him?’
‘Uh — briefly,’ said Devon.
‘Have you called Emma?’ Sidney asked.
‘Left a message,’ Devon lied.
‘Oh, well, Emma’s not backward about coming forward, so she’s bound to tell you. If it’s not a big secret, let me in on it. I could do with the distraction.’
‘You OK yourself?’ said Devon.
‘Peachy,’ she replied. ‘You?’
‘Yeah, good.’
It was much easier to lie over the phone.
‘Well, fingers crossed Jacko re-opens next week,’ said Sidney. ‘I need the dosh. But then, sigh, what’s new.’
But that wasn’t true, was it, Devon had thought when he’d hung up. Everything had changed. He’d smashed the shit out of a guy — and who knows how far he would have gone if Dr G hadn’t pulled him off?
He’d lied about his hands to his parents; told them it’d happened sparring at Muay Thai. Since then, he’d been avoiding everyone — hadn’t returned Emma’s calls or texts, used study commitments as an excuse to stay in his room when at home, and a wish to steer clear of the crazies when he headed off early or came back late. Most times, he didn’t go out the front door, anyway, but out the back garden gate, across the paddocks to Tiu. The horse was restless, wanted to go riding — he knew the signs. But that felt like a pleasure he didn’t deserve right now. He whispered an apology in Tiu’s soft, twitching ear, and hoped the horse would forgive him.
He’d called in sick to Mrs Dickens at Lightning Tree. Couldn’t face Moana. More accurately, he couldn’t face the prospect he might get angry again. None of this was her fault, but just seeing her would remind him of what he’d lost, and how he’d lost it. Even if he kept his cool, Moana would spot his bruised, scabby knuckles and demand he tell all. He probably would, too, even though he knew he wouldn’t be able to bear her inevitable scorn.
He’d spun some line about being ill to Logan, too, to get out of his Muay Thai lessons. Logan was another person who’d want to know about the marks on his hands. Another who’d look at him with scorn …
At least the hounding had died right down. Story was old now — journalists were onto new shit, such as crims with absurdly handsome mugshots. Get out of jail, score a modelling contract. Good luck to them. Phone didn’t ring off the hook any more, and the parcels and letters had stopped coming. The last little group of crazies was still out there, sitting on the footpath, but Devon got the impression even they’d got new interests now, and were hanging around because they liked each other’s company. They used to shout and wave frantically whenever they spotted him coming or going. Now, they often didn’t even look up from the phone they shared between them. He ought to be relieved, but, of course, it felt like another rejection. Emotions were like banana skins in bad cartoons — sent you flat on your arse to guffaws of canned laughter.
Now it was Thursday, the week was nearly over, and he’d done sweet fuck all except hide. His excuses about study were actually true — he had an assignment due in five days, on speciation, but he hadn’t even started his research. Instead, he was sitting on his bed, rolling his phone over and over in his hand, working up the courage to finally call Emma.
Fuck it. Phenotypes and polyploidisation would have to wait. He hit the call button on Emma’s contact.
‘Hey, stranger.’
Though she’d answered immediately, her voice sounded flat, tired.
‘Hey,’ said Devon. ‘Sorry I haven’t got back to you. Sorry for — yeah, well, everything.’
‘Over and done,’ said Emma. ‘No lasting damage.’
‘Your man OK?’
‘Not my man. And who cares?’
‘And — are you OK?’
‘Fair to say I’ve been better,’ she replied.
‘Want to tell me about it?’
‘Thanks, but it’s my mess. I have to clean it up all on my own.’
‘What kind of mess?’
He could hear her breathing. Shallow, rapid.
‘Gotta go, Dev,’ Emma said, and hung up.
Shit. What was going on?
He lay back on his bed. Man, his room stunk. Time for some fresh air.
Sneaking quickly out the back door, he headed for the far end of the back garden, where there was an old seat one of his uncles had made from slabs of macrocarpa. Devon had never smoked, and neither did his parents, so this was where his nicotine-addicted whanau escaped to. The seat was out of sight of the house, behind the shed. Good place when you wanted to be alone—
‘Eh, boy.’
Koro Tama, sitting back, cigarette in hand. Devon didn’t know whether to be outraged or entertained.
‘Thought you gave up years ago?’ he said.
‘Gunna be ninety in a month,’ the old dude said by way of explanation. ‘Figure I’ve earned the right to the odd hikareti.’
‘Can’t argue with that,’ said Devon.
‘Don’t tell your mum, eh?’
Seemed Gabriel’s Bay bred all its women tough. Even his grandfather was scared of Devon’s mother. It was like she channelled the spirit of all the feisty female ancestors.
‘You off to take care of your hōiho?’
‘Nah, done that already. Tiu’s good.’
Koro Tama patted the wooden seat.
‘Come sit then. Talk to your Koro. Tell me why you’ve been so ririwhakariuka these past days.’
That obvious, huh? But then it would be, wouldn’t it? Devon had always been a creature of habit, steady, reliable, predictable. Skulking round, restless, unsettled — that wasn’t him. His parents would have noticed, too, but they’d trust him to sort it out because he always had. He’d never let his whanau down. Until now.
