What You Wish For, page 6
That signalled the opportunity for all to roundly deride Kerry’s attempt at home renovation. If Ash’s failings had been targeted in that way, he’d now be trying to crawl under his plate, but Kerry laughed right along with everyone else.
‘I did sort out the gas oven,’ was his only defence.
‘The one possessed by the Balrog?’ said his mother. ‘How’d you manage that?’
‘I bought a new one and paid the deliveryman twenty bucks to take the old one away.’
‘I could have fixed it,’ said his father, in a soft, disappointed Scottish accent.
‘No, you couldn’t,’ said Bronagh. ‘I mean, you could have but I wouldn’t have let you. We haven’t come all this way to tinker. We’re here to do new and exciting things!’
‘You were keen on a bit of New Zealand adventure, weren’t you?’
Mac said this to Ash at the exact moment he was forking a piece of curly lettuce into his mouth. Curly lettuce, like spaghetti, was a foodstuff Ash believed should be consumed only in private, owing to its infallible ability to humiliate. Like now, when he had all eyes upon him and the piece halfway in his mouth, leaving him with two choices: fork it out again (disgusting) or attempt to swiftly poke the rest in, knowing that it would be about as effortless as wrestling a king-size duvet into its cover. It took him three tries to get the lettuce in his mouth. Everyone watched, apparently fascinated.
After what felt like eight hours of chewing, Ash managed a reply.
‘Indeed I was keen on experiencing the Kiwi outdoors,’ he said. ‘I brought over my camping equipment, and even my kayak.’
‘And?’ Mac persisted.
‘They are as yet unpacked,’ he admitted. ‘Settling into the job has been more time-consuming than I had anticipated. Although I have managed to make the occasional short exploration of your bush.’
In unison, Sidney and Kerry snorted, the synchronised nature of their response prompting them to chortle more. Sidney covered her mouth with her hand and sent an apologetic glance Ash’s way, while Kerry received an elbow in the ribs from his mother.
‘Why are you laughing?’ said eleven-year-old Aidan, with a frown.
‘Because the pair of us share a pathetically puerile sense of humour,’ said Kerry. He took a deep breath, wiped his eyes. ‘Sorry, Doc. Carry on.’
Ash knew that when he was nervous, his grasp of English suffered, while at the same time, helpfully, he became more voluble. Replaying his statement, he saw now what the joke was. He also saw, with despairing certainty, that it must soon wend its way to the ears of Gene Collins, meaning Ash would be ribbed about it until the day he died. Odds were high that it would be quoted at his funeral service.
‘As I recall,’ said Mac, with the inexorability of a Stasi inquisitor, ‘you expressed an interest in learning to hunt.’
‘That true, Doc?’ said Jacko.
Oh, well, he was neck-deep in the pond of humiliation now. Why not have a little swim?
‘It is,’ Ash replied. ‘I have been shooting, which in England means game birds, but I was not given a chance to go stalking, which is the English word for your hunting.’
‘Which is the English word for posh feckers on horseback with dogs,’ contributed Bronagh.
‘Little pitchers, Ma,’ warned Kerry.
Fruitlessly, as it turned out, because Jacko’s next words were, ‘I’ll take you hunting, Doc. First weekend it stops pissing down.’
‘That sounds like a great gas,’ said Bronagh. ‘Doesn’t it, Douglas?’
Her husband’s startled blink suggested he had given the subject scant consideration.
No matter, because Nurse Bronagh pressed on.
‘And have you found yourself a girlfriend, yet?’ she said to Ash. ‘Handsome fella — the local ladies should be flocking.’
Ash waited, but three times was not the charm. Jacko did nothing to save him.
‘Well, no, I’ve—’ he began.
Immediately (thank you, mystery deity) he was drowned out by an eruption of ecstatic whining and yelping from outside the back door. King had obviously seen someone he knew well.
Jacko rose, anticipating the knock on the door. But there was none — the visitor barged straight in, and shouted ‘Hey!’ There were corresponding shouts of recognition, laughter and hugging, while King bounded in circles, delirious with delight.
The visitor was tall and slender, with long blonde hair and a face of surpassing beauty. Ash had a moment of doubt — he’d made a grievous mistake before …
Pink-cheeked, beaming, Mac put her arm around the visitor’s waist. She had no option — she could not reach the shoulders.
‘Bronagh, Douglas, Kerry, Dr G — I’d like you to meet our daughter, Emma.’
She — Emma — smiled right at him. And Ash forgot how to breathe.
CHAPTER 7
Emma
Emma didn’t know whether to be glad or disappointed that nothing had changed in the two years she’d been away. Gabriel’s Bay was still a shit-hole — same wild, wonderful beach, but the town as shabby as ever, despite that weirdo idea for a tourist attraction her mum had written to her about. Model railways and doll houses? Not to mention Doc Love’s war games. Kudos to the old man’s eccentricity but, seriously, who else was interested in that stuff?
The family home was exactly the same. Sitting now at the kitchen table, it felt like Emma had never been away. When she’d rocked up unannounced during lunch, the conversation was in full swing, so for the last hour she’d sat back to listen and observe. Find out what was going down in the old home town.
Her folks — first priority — were in fine form, which Emma was definitely pleased about. A few of her friends had already lost parents to cancer and heart failure. None of them even sixty years old — too young, even if sixty seemed way old when you were twenty-three. Her mum had seemed a bit worried about her dad last year, but the man was a ten on the Mohs’ scale, hard as diamonds. On her travels, Emma had visited Mt Rushmore and the Sphinx of Giza, and both had reminded her of her dad, in scale and sense of permanence. Those Maori myths where people turned into mountains — that was Jacko Reid. He was sitting back, drinking an aprés lunch beer, still wearing his usual striped frilly apron. Emma and her brother Harry had given it to him as a joke when he’d opened the Boat Shed, but he’d been genuinely thrilled. Her dad didn’t give a shit about what was or wasn’t supposed to be ‘manly’.
Her mum — now interrogating the new doctor, poor bastard — was equally a force of nature — but more like one of those Arab dust storms that arises with no warning and hurls sand in your face at a hundred kilometres an hour. Or a honey badger, small, sturdy and bad-ass enough to fight lions off their own kill. And she’d actually given Emma a hug — woo-wee! She must have had a couple of wines beforehand.
Nice to see Sidney again, and the boys were so big now. Emma was chuffed that they’d recognised her — she’d babysat them a lot, but two years was an epoch in a kid’s life.
And across from Sidney, her new man (about time) — Kerry the Talker. Nice looking, with that dark red hair and brown eyes combo that’s pretty killer. He seemed OK. The boys obviously liked him, and the fact he was here breaking bread with her parents meant he’d already been put through the Reid pressure-test and pronounced acceptable.
Yep, her folks had good people instincts. She wondered what they’d think of—
No, too soon. He didn’t even know she was here yet. And she didn’t know how he’d react when he found out …
Laters. Right now she had things to meet, people to do.
The Macfarlane seniors were a hoot. Soon as Emma had been introduced, ‘Call me Bronagh’ had immediately spilled all the family history. Douglas was born and bred in Aberdeen, and she in London — Dalston, one of those London burbs that was becoming ‘desirable’, i.e. priced out of reach of ordinary workers. But apparently a few generations back, Bronagh’s family were wealthy Northern Irish landowners. Protestant land robbers, in other words, imports from England, abandoning the Catholic peasants to the potato famine, dividing the country. Suppose white New Zealanders couldn’t diss others for stealing land, but Cromwell perpetrated some seriously bad shit. You couldn’t blame the Bead Mumblers for holding a grudge. Emma decided not to say any of that out loud on her first meeting with Bronagh.
Husband Douglas had barely spoken two words since Emma arrived, but you could tell he had some fight in him. All Scots did, even the geeky ones from Aberdeen. Bronagh had been quick to point out the humour of the fact that she and Douglas shared the same surname. Guess that was an easy way to solve any feminist objections about adopting your husband’s surname. No way Emma would give up being a Reid, and she wouldn’t hyphenate, either. Only middle-class wankers did that.
And the new doctor, at the head of the table. Hard to get a fix on him because up that end, her mum had him pinned to the spot, and next to Emma, Bronagh and Kerry were currently vying for gold in the chat Olympics. The Doc was super cute, but looked a bit too soft for Emma. And was his name really Ash? Emma had travelled loads in India, but had never met an Ash. Maybe it was short for something, like Ashley? Maybe his parents wanted to pretend they were more English than the English. Sad not to be proud of your own culture.
Which reminded her — she must catch up with Dev. Her brother from another mother. Her best mate from school, though she hadn’t been too good at staying in touch. He was the local horse whisperer now, she gathered. And — what a laugh —following in her footsteps with his study. Although her degree was in environmental science, not biological. And she never finished it. Call of the wild proved too enticing.
Dev would finish, even if it took him years. He’d always had drive and focus. He should get out of Gabriel’s Bay, though, see the world. Let the world see him — plenty of places he’d be welcome. Embraced, not judged. Hashtag: smalltowns-smallminds.
The new doctor was excusing himself from the table. Things to meet, people to do.
‘See you Monday,’ Emma’s mum said to him. ‘The instructions for getting to the Torvaldsen house are on your desk. Don’t forget to set the alarm when you head out this time.’
So familiar. Don’t forget to do this and that. Don’t forget your shoes, hat, coat and [insert other item that only a mother believed was necessary].
Ha, his expression was exactly like a chastened kid’s, too. Emma’s mum had never needed to resort to the wooden spoon. She had natural authority. And the zero-fear attitude of the aforementioned honey badger. You’re a thirteen-foot hissing cobra? Bring it on.
‘God, poor Dr G,’ said Sidney, after the front door had shut. ‘I think we drove him away. He’ll probably spend the rest of the afternoon curled up under a duvet in a quiet, dark room.’
‘How is he getting on?’ Bronagh asked Emma’s mum. ‘You were worried he might be a bit of a Mamaji’s boy?’
‘He’s a capable GP,’ said Emma’s mum, almost reluctantly. ‘Knows his stuff. Can handle our worst — the skivers, hypo-chondriacs, no-hopers. Majority of our clientele, in other words. Sounds like London was tough, so I guess he’s had his trial by fire. Gabriel’s Bay is more of a walk on hot coals — as long as you don’t dither, you’ll be fine.’
‘I’m worried that he’s lonely,’ said Sidney. ‘Any attractive young women we can set him up with?’
‘Don’t look at me,’ said Emma, as they all did exactly that. ‘And besides, how do you know he likes girls?’
‘Good point.’ Sidney raised her eyebrows at Kerry. ‘Given out any clues in your after-work beer sessions?’
‘Like saying, “Phwoah, look at the tits on that”?’
‘I sincerely hope none of you lot has uttered anything remotely that crass,’ said Sidney. ‘But, yes, that’s the general direction.’
‘Let me see …’ Kerry stared up to one side. ‘We’ve discussed Gene’s failed plan to scupper the waterfront development, Gene’s hatred of Rob Hanrahan, chief instigator of the waterfront development, Gene’s new plan to scupper the waterfront development, and his side-plan to humiliate Rob, whom — did I mention — he hates.’
‘And moose,’ said Emma’s dad.
‘And moose,’ agreed Kerry. ‘We definitely discussed moose.’
‘What on earth did Dr G have to say about moose?’ said Sidney.
‘He’s a believer,’ said Kerry. ‘Thinks they might still be around.’
‘Moose,’ said Mr M senior, with his rolling burr, ‘are not native to this country.’
‘Spot on, Pa,’ said Kerry. ‘But a small herd, or whatever is the correct collective noun, was imported from North America in the nineteen-twenties and released into the wild.’
‘They died out decades ago,’ said Emma’s dad. ‘If they were there, we’d know.’
‘They thought the takahe was extinct for fifty years,’ said Sidney.
‘The takahe is the size of a small dog,’ said Emma’s dad. ‘Not the size of a Bedford truck.’
‘Is a tacka-hey a New Zealand dog?’ enquired Kerry’s mother.
‘It’s a birrd,’ said her husband. ‘Rresembles a larrge moorr-hen.’
God, Scottish accents were sexy. Even when coming from old guys who wore maroon jumpers and spectacles nerdier than Elvis Costello’s.
‘So there are definitely no moose left?’ said Sidney. ‘Just checking because, you know, that would be awesome.’
‘No moose,’ said Emma’s dad, in his way that always put an end to argument. ‘If there were, somebody would have spotted them by now.’
‘And shot them!’ said Emma, cheerfully. ‘’Cos that’s how we roll round here.’
‘Nice to have you back, hun,’ said her mum. ‘We’ve missed our eco-warrior. How long are you staying for?’
‘Not sure,’ said Emma. ‘I’ll see how things pan out.’
Which was true. She just wasn’t about to elaborate on what she meant by ‘things’.
‘I’m considering going back to uni, finishing my degree,’ she added, because the odds of her mum currently forming a request for elaboration were high. ‘But I want to hang here for a bit, if that’s OK? Maybe do some volunteering — be a woofer, something like that.’
‘Take down the establishment?’ said her mum. ‘Stick it to the man?’
‘Yeah, yeah.’
As always, better to ignore to her mum’s jibes …
‘Gene could use your help in scuppering the waterfront development,’ said Kerry. ‘Did I mention he has plans?’
‘Gene is all hot air,’ said Sidney. ‘You should report him for harmful emissions.’
‘Like a fart!’ said Rory. ‘A hy-uuuuge fat FART!’
He and his brother dissolved in a fit of raspberry noises and hysterics. Emma grinned. It’d be cool to be a kid again.
‘Right, out, the pair of you!’ said Sidney. ‘I’ll apologise for your horrible manners on your behalf.’
Out the boys went, totally unfazed, cackling and zooming.
‘They’ve been remarkably well-behaved,’ said Kerry’s mother. ‘At their age, this one wouldn’t sit still for five minutes unless you tied him to the chair.’
‘My therapist was quite adamant I should have reported you for that,’ said Kerry.
‘Joking,’ he added, for Emma’s benefit.
‘Only about the therapist,’ said Bronagh, with a wink.
She put her hands on the table. ‘Well, Douglas, I think we’ve trespassed on these good people long enough, and it’s time to see just how dire our holiday digs are.’
‘The cottage will be fine,’ said Emma’s mum. ‘It’s cute and comfortable. Exact opposite of Vic.’
‘Where you staying?’ Emma asked.
‘On Hillworth Farm,’ said her dad. ‘You know. Borders the river.’
Emma nodded. What a coincidence. Maybe she should cadge a lift? No, too many questions. And besides, she hadn’t seen her parents in the flesh for two years. Skype was a poor substitute, despite the comedy of watching her mum and dad try to fit on the screen together. So many conversations with her mum’s forehead and her dad’s chin.
Everyone was outside now, saying their goodbyes. Emma started gathering plates. She’d do the dishes in return for a night in her old bed. Her folks would be happy for her to stay as long as she wanted, she knew, but it could make things tricky. Tomorrow, she’d have to get her brother’s car up and running again. She should call Dev, as well, get together for a drink, catch up.
Friends, family — they were so important, weren’t they? Should be her priority, now that she was finally back home. But there was one impulse — instinct, whatever — that overrode everything else. The apex predator of emotions, the strongest of all. She hadn’t even bothered to resist it — came across the world without hesitating. She was probably an idiot, but you know what? She didn’t care. Life was about taking risks, getting stuck in, boots and all. Those who hesitate are lost.
Tomorrow, she’d fix Harry’s old bomb and take a drive to the river. And find out what was waiting for her there.
CHAPTER 8
Patricia
On weekday mornings after breakfast and before he emerged for morning tea at ten-thirty, Bernard shut the door to his library and attended to any correspondence pertaining to the commercial properties he owned in Hampton and Gabriel’s Bay. Bernard had invested in property after the publishing firm he had shares in was acquired. At the time, his family sneered, because they were, in Patricia’s opinion, a pack of hideous snobs who considered that the only acceptable way to make money was to inherit it, or steal it from the poor. Fortunately, Bernard was an only child, and his father, uncles and aunts were all dead now. His mother, Verity, was in a retirement home in Hampton, still alive only because she refused to give anyone the satisfaction of being able to dance on her grave. Either that, or God and the Devil had tossed a coin for her and were still debating who had lost.
The property portfolio was relatively straightforward to manage, with most leases being long-term and the tenants reliable. There were two vacant retail spaces in Gabriel’s Bay, but those were unlikely to be filled any time soon. Now that he and Patricia were both nudging sixty-five, Bernard had been making noises about hiring an assistant, but as far as she could tell, had done nothing about it.
