After the Fall (26 page)

‘Well, anyone would be angry.’

‘He was
low
. It was . . . destructive.’ I clamp my mouth shut, determined not to say another word, but the patience of the woman is unsettling. ‘He was only forty, far too young to retire. So it was a good time for an adventure.’

‘And how is he now? Did your gamble pay off?’

‘He’s happier than he’s ever been in his life before. He’s painting. It’s a dream come true.’

‘Whose dream?’

‘Mine, too.’

Outside, a harassed mother—or is she harassed? Actually, she looks rather cheerful—is loading her children into a car. The toddler cavorts around the pavement as though chasing an invisible butterfly. They’re a happy, hopeful family, like ours used to be. Nobody has fallen.

‘Martha?’ Kura is peaceful yet persistent. ‘When did things begin to go wrong for you?’

Someone is knocking at the door. Kura looks irritated, but she stands up and opens it. There’s an urgent, whispered conversation. I think I hear my own name.

‘I’ll just be a moment, Martha,’ she says, and steps outside.

I watch the mother drive away, with her children. Lucky things. They’re going home to supper, and stories, and cuddles.

A series of choices
, I think.
A right turn, a left turn; inching through the
maze. A left turn, a right turn, and a wrong turn.

Twenty-one

Kit and I huddled on our verandah steps as a quavering disc of fire emerged over the edge of the world. The first dawn of the year.

The boys were fast asleep. Sacha had gone with Jani and Bianka to the midnight fireworks display in Napier. When I’d dropped her at the cinema the previous evening, Jani came over to wish me a happy New Year. He was wearing a collarless shirt with a green cloth knotted around his neck. The effect was very nearly camp, but not quite. As I drove off, I adjusted my rear-view mirror just in time to see Sacha’s hand twining with his.

I told Kit about those twining hands, as the sun inched higher.

‘You
happened
to adjust your rear-view mirror,’ Kit chortled.

‘He was definitely holding her hand.’

‘Of course he was,’ he murmured, then gathered my own fingers in his.

‘She’s sixteen. He’s twenty-one.’

He kissed my knuckles, one after the other. I felt his breath on my palm.

‘At twenty-one,’ I fretted, ‘he’ll be wanting things that at sixteen she shouldn’t be giving.’ Kit’s mouth ran up the inside of my arm while he adeptly untied the bow on my kimono. ‘She’s still my baby,’ I said, but I was rapidly losing interest in the conversation. I began to undo the buttons on his shirt, and had slipped it off one tanned shoulder when an unpleasant thought struck me. ‘Finn and Charlie could appear at any minute, you know.’

‘Too true.’ He got to his feet and pulled me to mine. Giggling, half-dressed, we ran along the verandah in our bare feet and locked ourselves into the studio. Standing on the rug in the calico light, Kit bent to kiss my collarbone. ‘I am a lucky man,’ he said quietly.

An hour later, our house was calm. Kit and I dozed, tangled on the rug, my hand touching his face as the warmth of the sun found its way through the old windows and onto Sibella’s portrait. For once, the twins slept in. But the snake was wide awake now, and beginning to throw its coils.

Sacha phoned after lunch.

‘Where are you?’ I had one eye on Finn, who was struggling manfully to load the dishwasher. He’d been bribed, of course.

She sounded slightly out of breath, as though she was walking fast. ‘Marine Parade. You know that play park?’

‘Aren’t you a bit old for swings?’ No reply. I had the impression she was having two conversations at once. ‘Sacha?’

‘Sorry. Just buying ice creams. They’re amazing flavours. Mine’s boysenberry and it’s a taste sensation.’

‘Have you had fun?’

‘A blast. The fireworks were so cool.’

‘Any sleep?’

‘Sleep’s for losers.’

‘Aren’t you tired?’

‘Hell, no. Only
old
people need to laze around like cats, getting hours and hours of sleep. I’ve never felt more awake in my—whew!’

I heard muffled thuds, and a squeal of laughter. ‘Sacha? You still there?’

‘Sorry. Someone pushed me really fast on the roundabout and my phone went flying off into orbit.’

‘Who else is with you?’

‘Sorry, Mum, I gotta go. Speak to you later. Um . . . I’ll be back tomorrow, okay?’

‘Tomorrow? I thought today—’ She’d gone.

Finn was carrying a tall stack of glasses. It was doing a fair imitation of the Leaning Tower of Pisa. ‘Aw,’ he moaned, as I took them out of his hands, ‘I was doin’ it!’

‘Just a bit wobbly.’

He stood glowering as I loaded the top rack. I could tell he had something on his mind. ‘I still get a chocolate though, don’t I? I was doin’ it until you butted in.’

‘Sure do, Batman.’ I lifted a box of Quality Street from the top of the fridge, and he grabbed one. ‘Take another for Charlie,’ I said.

His jaw dropped in outrage. ‘
What?
No! Did Charlie help with the dishes?’

‘Well, no, but—’

‘No dishes, no chocolate.’ Finn folded his arms. I could see the family murderess appraising me with livid blue eyes.

‘Remember the workers in the vineyard,’ said Kit, appearing from the hall. ‘Jolly useful parable, that one.’

‘The who?’ Finn blinked uncertainly at the dishwasher. ‘I never worked in a . . . thing yard. I helped with the dishes.’

Kit laughed, and made for the kettle.

‘Midnight in the UK,’ I said, looking at the clock. ‘Big Ben is striking. I wonder what Dad’s doing?’

‘Probably dancing naked in the garden with all his hippy friends. They’ll re-enact a druidical solstice ceremony.’

‘Ooh!’ Finn looked scandalised. ‘Who’s naked? Grandpa? Grandpa’s in the nuddy!’

It wasn’t an image I wanted to dwell on. ‘I’ll phone him,’ I decided. ‘Off you go, Finn. Charlie’s riding his bike round the walnut tree.’

‘Okay,’ said Finn, rummaging in the chocolate box and surreptitiously shoving a handful down his shorts.

As it happened, Dad was seeing in the New Year with Flora. We were chatting happily when I was distracted by a resounding metallic smash, followed swiftly by screams. They weren’t angry yells; they were high and panicked. Seconds later, Kit pounded through the kitchen and out of the back door.

‘Gotta go, Dad,’ I said, and dashed after Kit. Under the walnut, Finn was sobbing in his father’s arms.

‘Finn’s bike did a roly-poly,’ said Charlie, making his arm swing in an arc. ‘Like this—
bam!

’ ‘The wheel got stuck,’ wailed Finn.

I knelt beside him. ‘Did you hit your head?’

‘Not my head, my arm. Ow!’

‘Naughty bike,’ commiserated Charlie, laying a sympathetic hand on his brother’s leg. ‘I’ll get Buccaneer Bob for a cuddle.’

Kit carried Finn into the sitting room where I took a closer look at him. There was no sign of concussion. He clutched Bob, stroking his own ear.

‘Where does it hurt?’ I asked.

With a tragic pout he held out his right wrist. It looked normal save for a small lump on the thumb side, and he could move all his fingers.

‘Probably a sprain.’ I gave him some Pamol while Kit filled a sock with ice and bandaged it onto the wrist. By the time we’d finished, Finn was calm and asking for
Mary Poppins
. She was always wheeled out at times of stress. Whenever things went wrong, the boys would want the magic nanny with the sweet smile and indefatigable confidence.

Kit followed me out of the room. ‘What’s the verdict?’

‘Gave us all a fright, but no harm done.’

‘Concussion?’

‘Nah. He’s sure he didn’t fall on his head.’

‘I could take him to a doctor. Get him checked out.’

‘On New Year’s Day?’ I flapped a hand. ‘Nearest medical centre’s in Napier. I don’t know about you, but I don’t feel like driving all that way just to be told he’s sprained his wrist. He’s much better tucked up at home.’

After the film Finn rallied, eating toasted sandwiches and playing Ludo. He fell asleep before bedtime, though. We found him lying on the sitting-room floor with his rear stuck up in the air.

‘Big day for a little chap,’ I said.

Kit picked him up. ‘You sure I shouldn’t drive him down to the hospital?’

I shook my head, yawning. Our early start was catching up on me. ‘Nope. It’s too far, and the emergency department will still be heaving with drunken revellers. Just put him to bed.’

‘You’re the expert.’ Kit gathered his son closer, and carried him upstairs.

At about three in the morning, Finn wandered whimpering into our room. I could barely drag my eyes open, but gave him some more Pamol and settled him down between us. He was happy enough for the rest of the night; his parents, on the other hand, were kneed and jabbed and elbowed by a pocket-sized tyrant. As the sun came up I heard a creak and saw Kit by the chest of drawers, pulling on his trousers.

‘Where are you off to?’ I asked, turning the clock around to face me. ‘Bloody Nora, man. Ten to six! Have you finally lost your marbles?’

Kit jerked his head at Finn, who was sprawled horizontally across the bed. ‘McNamara has murdered sleep,’ he said softly. ‘I’ll get down to the studio and make the most of the peace.’

Stretching, I stole his pillow. ‘Any chance of a lovely cup of tea, while you’re on your feet?’

A sleepy voice piped from beside me, ‘Dad . . . Dad?’

Kit instantly sat and gathered the small figure onto his lap. ‘Finn . . . Finn?’

Watching father and son smiling at one another, I was struck by how very alike they were. Physically it was obvious—you couldn’t miss the wayward dark hair and wide-set blue eyes. It was more than looks, though; it was their restless passion. Both were selfish yet generous, quick-tempered yet funny, mocking yet vulnerable. Brooding storms one day, sunshine the next. There was a deep, exclusive understanding between them.

Finn reached out a small hand, patting his father’s cheek. ‘Will you take us to the beach today?’

Kit pretended to bite the hand. ‘For you, Finn McNamara, anything.’

Sacha sent a text later, asking to be collected from town. I had some grocery shopping to do, so I said I’d be there in an hour.

As I pulled up at the kerb, she got in without a word.

‘Happy New Year!’ I cried. ‘Had a good time?’

‘Yep.’

I felt deflated. ‘Anything wrong?’

‘Nope.’ She closed her eyes.

‘Shall we go for lunch in a café?’

‘No thanks.’

‘How’s Jani?’

‘Fine.’

I couldn’t stop prodding. ‘Have you two had a fight?’

‘Nope. Everything’s fine.’

‘How’s—’

‘I’m tired, Mum. I feel sick, and I’m aching all over. Going down with a stinking cold. I caught it off Bianka—she was in bed all over Christmas. And no, I didn’t drink too much.’

‘Thought never crossed my mind,’ I protested, which was a bare-faced lie. I’d never seen anyone more clearly hung-over. Except Kit, of course.

Shopping was always fun with Sacha around; she had a gift for transforming commonplace into comedy. But this time, while I was backing into a parking space, she jerked her seat down flat and put her feet on the dashboard. When I tottered back half an hour later with a week’s worth of groceries and a traumatised credit card, she hadn’t moved at all.

‘Look, you’ve obviously had a fight with Jani,’ I said loudly, as I slammed my door. ‘But that’s no excuse for being downright rude. I’m here to listen, if you want to talk.’ I started the engine. ‘No? Well. Fine.’ She was dead to the world, and I drove out of town with the radio for company.

I’d begun meandering through a narrow valley and was listening to a rather dreamy radio play when my eardrums seemed to explode. I glimpsed a tattooed arm as a motorbike shot past, inches from my door.

‘
Shit
,’ I gasped. My pulse was throbbing. The bike seemed to have come from nowhere.

Sacha rolled her head. ‘Mm?’

Another bike screamed by, so aggressively close that I almost ran into the ditch. Then the world shook with thunderous revving, and a glance in my mirror revealed a gang of God knows how many—twenty? thirty?— massed right up my exhaust pipe. It was impossible for me to pull in safely. If their intention was to intimidate and harass, they succeeded, because I felt like a deer among a pack of baying wolves. Some wore German soldier helmets and were lying almost prone on their bikes. Many had their faces covered with scarves. Gang patches—insignia—dominated leather jackets. I’d seen such bikers before; they were a common enough sight in Hawke’s Bay, but never so close nor in such numbers.

‘And a happy New Year to you too, effing wankers,’ I yelled shakily, as the last of them roared into the distance. Maybe they were just nice men out for a joyride—perhaps to spend a merry afternoon knifing someone in the Torutaniwha pub—but I felt horribly vulnerable. As I turned into our drive, it struck me that the police could be a long time arriving if ever we needed help.