After the Fall (40 page)

‘She’s Bleater,’ said Charlie. ‘Bleater Brown. Is it my turn yet, Jean?’

Jean gave a theatrical start. ‘Oh yes, I forgot. Master Charlie’s turn.’

Finn handed the bottle to Charlie, but the milk was almost gone and Bleater was soon enthusiastically sucking at an empty bottle.

‘Here,’ murmured Jean. ‘You sit like this, young fellow. Stick your legs out in front. That’s it.’ He gathered the animal in his arms and laid her in Charlie’s lap where she lay still, eyes drooping.

‘She’s a day old,’ whispered Charlie. ‘Come and touch her, Mummy.’

I crouched beside him and fingered the warm, springy topknot. The lamb smelled of milk and lanolin. ‘She’s falling asleep,’ I said. ‘Little motherless baby. Can we eat her with mint sauce?’

‘Not funny,’ scolded Finn, kicking me quite angrily. It hurt, but I didn’t complain. I probably deserved it.

‘We have to feed her every four hours,’ said Kit.

‘
We?
I suppose you mean the royal we, Kit McNamara, since you’re on a nice restful plane to Dublin tomorrow.’

‘No need to feed her at night.’ Jean picked up the empty bottle. ‘One at your bedtime and another first thing is fine. When she’s much older, she will have lambs of her own and the boys will sell them and be very rich.’

‘Sell them where?’ I asked, which was a silly question.

‘Well, let’s cross that bridge when we come to it, shall we?’ suggested Jean. The adults began to wander inside, leaving two boys and their baby in a huddle. ‘Farming is red in tooth and claw, Martha. Lambs are generally bound for the meatworks. Perhaps the male offspring could rejoin my flock and then . . . well, quietly disappear.’

As we rounded the corner of the shed, a wind came galloping to meet us. Jean glanced up at the sky. ‘Blowing up there, see?’ he said, pointing at clouds spread thin like butter on toast. ‘Better get your washing off the line tonight, or it will fly to Auckland with Kit.’

‘You’ll stay for a beer, to wish him bon voyage?’

‘I should be honoured.’ Our neighbour stepped out of his gumboots, and we followed him into the kitchen.

‘I’m ready for Dublin,’ said Kit. ‘So I can have a drink, at last.’

Jean looked around hopefully. ‘Sacha not home yet?’

I was looking in the fridge for three bottles of beer—it seemed an agricultural sort of occasion, calling for something a trifle earthier than sauvignon. ‘In her room, I should think,’ I replied absently. ‘She generally works up there after school. Tui or Steinlager?’

‘Oh—I forgot to tell you. Sacha phoned,’ said Kit. ‘She’s got an audition for
High School Musical
. Said she’d catch a lift and be home by seven.’

I stared at him. ‘She phoned? When?’

‘It’s fine.’ Kit took a step closer, eyes covertly swivelling in Jean’s direction. ‘It’s
fine
, Martha. She’ll be almost home by now. She’s going to text you when she gets near, and I’ll meet her at the road gate.’

Jean was busily opening beer bottles, but he’d caught the tension. There was a bird-bright glance from under those clown’s eyebrows.

Kit began to explain that he’d been on the wagon. ‘I promised Martha,’ he said, smiling at me. ‘But I’m looking forward to this one! Cheers.’

I found my gaze straying to the clock. Six fifty. It was all right. Sacha would be home soon. Perhaps she’d got a part in the school play—now, that would be fantastic. I imagined her face at the window of a car: smooth, soft cheeks and long lashes. She’d be holding her phone in one hand, waiting for a signal so that she could text us:
5 mins away.

The boys burst in, screaming with laughter, and shot upstairs. I followed, ran the bath and bribed them into it with snorkels and masks. As I trotted back to the kitchen I could hear splashing and squeaking as they slid around on the porcelain.

No sign of Sacha. I sent a text:
where are you?

Jean was talking about the South Island. He and Pamela were about to take William for a skiing holiday in Queenstown. ‘Just hope I don’t break my neck! It’s been a few years and now—well, there is more of me to fall.’ He patted his paunch.

Five past seven
.
I sent another text:
?????
Then I called her.

Hi, this is Sacha, don’t bother to leave a message.

‘They’ve had a ton of snow down there, haven’t they?’ Kit opened a packet of crisps and poured them into a bowl. ‘All the newborn lambs are dying.’

They were off, then—the weather, the high dollar, commodity prices. And all the while a stone of dread sank down, down, out of my chest and into my bowels. I couldn’t concentrate, couldn’t think. I could only dread.

‘Isn’t it, Martha?’ said Kit.

‘Mm?’ I forced a weak smile. ‘Sorry, blonde moment. Didn’t catch that.’

‘Too expensive for us all to go back to the UK for a holiday,’ Kit enunciated the words with exaggerated slowness, as though I was a deaf centenarian. ‘Maybe a hearing aid would help, old girl.’

Pulling myself together, I flicked him on the ear. ‘Don’t be bloody cheeky. You’re the one with the grey hair.’

‘One!’ Kit held up a single finger. ‘One grey hair doth not a dodderer make!’

This inspired Jean to embark on a story about how his grandfather, a watchmaker in Rouen, had his head shaved after a drunken bet. In his animation, Jean’s eyebrows virtually climbed on top of his head, as though he’d pushed them up like a pair of sunglasses. It was a good story, but the clock was ticking.

‘His wife’s eyes flew open—my grandmother Agnes was a terrifying female, like a charging rhinoceros—and she looked across at him on the pillow.’ Jean made a wrathful rhino face. ‘ “
Henri!
What has happened to your head?”’

‘You think
your
grandmother was a holy terror,’ chuckled Kit, opening another couple of beers. ‘It was my Great-Aunt Sibella taught me to play the piano. If I made a mistake she’d drop the lid on my fingers.’

The laughter and companionship seemed far away. Kit and Jean had receded into the background, like a telly with the sound turned down. The only reality was that Sacha had gone off the radar. Mum was banging a saucepan lid, chanting,
Late. She’s late. She’s late . . . Wedgwood teapot,
bracelet, flu . . .

‘Kit,’ I said loudly, breaking into their revelry. ‘Look at the time.’

He took a glance at the clock—seven thirty—and stiffened. ‘Have you tried her mobile?’

I was calling her phone for the tenth time when Sacha flung herself into the house, breathing hard.

‘Whew,’ she panted cheerfully, sliding her schoolbag off her back. ‘Helluva wind! I’ve run all the way from the road gate. Oh hello, Jean!
Salut! Ça va
?’

Jean was replying with a cordial bow when I interrupted. ‘You were going to text us,’ I said. ‘It doesn’t take a moment to—’

‘Well I didn’t need to text you, did I, because I didn’t want collecting from the gate.’ Sacha spoke over me in a high, sarcastic voice, waggling her head like a puppet. ‘I thought I’d very kindly save you the trouble. And anyway there’s no signal and anyway I forgot and anyway I don’t really think it’s reasonable for you to keep tabs on me every minute of my frigging life. Do you?’

Before I could respond, before I’d even understood the question, she was off again. ‘I mean, why not put a trace on me, and you and Kit can sit in an operations room and watch a screen and I’ll go beep beep beep and you’ll see this little coloured dot moving around.’ She dug her hand into the crisps, talking at the speed of a bullet train. ‘Look, there’s Sacha heading for the science block, ooh dear, she’s a minute late . . . there’s Sacha going into the toilets . . . she can wipe her own bottom, thank heavens for that . . . she’s getting a tampon out of the machine . . . oh, look! There’s Sacha—’

‘Stop!
Please
,’ I begged, with a meaningful glance at Jean, who’d been watching this exchange, his forehead corrugated in concern and embarrassment. I leaned close and breathed in her ear, ‘
Have you taken
something?
’

She slipped her arm around Jean’s shoulders. The gesture was overly familiar. ‘Jean doesn’t mind. He’s seen family fallouts before, haven’t you, Jean?’

‘I’d better go,’ mumbled our poor neighbour, extricating himself from under her elbow.

‘You’ve just ruined half an hour of your mother’s life,’ said Kit softly. ‘It’s time to apologise.’

She shrugged and stuffed a handful of crisps messily into her mouth. ‘That’s her problem,’ she said, spitting bits. ‘Nosey bitch. I never asked her to—’

Kit was on his feet, his jaw tight. ‘I think you’d better go to your room.’

‘Oh, Kit.’ Sacha smiled widely, pressed both hands onto the table and thrust her face inches away from his. ‘I think
you’d
better fuck off.’

I saw it coming, tried to shout. I heard the echoing crack of his palm on her face at the same moment as her whole body jerked sideways. She staggered, pressing one hand to her cheekbone.

Horrified silence. Then Sacha laughed. ‘True colours,’ she gasped, doubling up as though Kit had told her a hilarious joke. ‘What a lovely, lovely guy.’

‘I’d really better go.’ Jean was wringing his hands.

‘No,
I’d
really better go.’ Sacha grabbed her bag and headed towards the hall. ‘
You
stay there and carouse with my stepfather. Watch him, though! He’s got a shocking temper, as you can see, especially after a dram or three. Sometimes he just can’t control it. Tut, tut, tut.’ And she marched out of the room.

‘She asked for that,’ said Kit. Already there was uncertainty, a dropping of his shoulders.

‘That’s not the Sacha we all love.’ Jean shook his head in distress. ‘Boyfriend trouble, I wonder?’

‘I’d better go and talk to her,’ said Kit, but he didn’t.

Our neighbour was a man of impeccable tact, and he knew an approaching storm when he saw one. ‘I must be off,’ he insisted, beetling towards the door. Outside, he laid a hand on my arm. ‘Don’t worry. She will come down in half an hour and pretend nothing has happened. My sons were crazy too, at this age. Forever exploding like fireworks. It’s a growing-up thing.’

‘But he
hit
her, Jean!’

‘And you think I never laid a finger on my boys?’ He hopped into his truck. ‘Parents aren’t saints, Martha. If they were, their children would never be conceived.’

Once Jean had gone, I stormed back into the kitchen. ‘What were you thinking?’ I hissed. ‘You could be prosecuted!’

‘She’s back on that crap.’ Kit was leaning against the dresser. ‘It’s all starting again. It’s
all starting again
! Can I not be forgiven if it seems too much?’

I stood by the door, feeling the sky fall in. ‘She can’t be, though. She’s got no money and she’s not allowed out at night.’

He threw both arms up and behind his head, as though convulsed by a bolt of pain. ‘Oh, come on! We’ve both had our heads shoved in the sand.’

‘I just don’t see how she’d get hold of any.’

‘Noticed the odd bit of Wedgwood disappearing? Ever seen her silver bracelet again? Bianka hasn’t been here for a while, has she? Not since . . . ooh, since we went skiing.’

‘Anita needs her.’

‘No phone calls, nothing. That girl’s been ejected from Sacha’s life, same as last time. We’ve seen the signs—oh yes, we have—but we’ve done fuck all about it because we hoped to God this wasn’t starting again.’

He was right, of course. I sank into a chair. ‘We’ve messed up.’

‘No!
She’s
messed up!’ Kit was energised, striding around the table. A vein stood out on his neck.

‘It’s a disease.’ I was arguing with myself as much as with him. ‘It’s not her fault.’

‘Don’t give me that crap, Martha. She’s had choices all along the line. Ten years, I’ve treated that girl as my own daughter. I’ve doted on her, cared for her. Ten years, for Christ’s sake! And how does she repay me?’

I knew what he meant. I was tempted to storm upstairs and scream at Sacha, and the truth was I’d felt like clouting her myself, just before. But I was stung by the intensity of his rage, and perhaps by the reminder that she was my daughter, not his.

‘So you’re happy to be her father while she’s charming and delightful and you belt seven bells out of her when the going gets tough? Marvellous. What a bloody hero.’

His fist crashed onto the dresser. Plates fell, rolling and shattering on the quarry tiles. ‘Fuck’s sake, Martha! I didn’t belt
any
bells out of her, though God knows I should’ve done. I slapped her because I’m only human, okay? The girl’s a sad, depraved junkie who fouls everything around her.’

I lost my temper completely then. I suppose I was overwrought. ‘Ha! Says Mr Sobriety McNamara, who had to be collected from the copshop like a dog from the pound.’

He stepped closer, his jaw thrust forward. ‘Shut up.’

‘Is that a threat?’ I slid out of my chair, warily moving away from him. ‘We came out here because of you, Kit. It’s time you accepted that. Ironic, really—we ran from one addiction and straight into the arms of another!’