From Under the Overcoat (21 page)

Her mother returned the look. ‘She could quit altogether, if she wanted? If you wanted to, dear?’ She turned to Ronnie. ‘We … I mean your father and I, we could contribute towards your cost of living …’

Ronnie watched her mother take a long look around the cottage, the paint peeling off the walls, the cracked windowpanes.

‘And help you find somewhere else … both of you.’

Ronnie looked at Pete. Pete looked straight back at her. This time, the message was easy to read. ‘Over to you, Ronnie, entirely over to you,’ he said. His voice was calm, neutral.

‘We like it here, Mum,’ Ronnie said. ‘And I’ll keep working. I like it, like the company. I’ll manage. Students have jobs, you know.’

She mostly studied on the nights Pete was in the bush. Other times, he got home around seven. Often his mates would turn up. There’d be beers and weed and things got rowdy with the stereo on full blast.

One night Pete called out to her. ‘Take a break, Ronnie. Come and have a joint.’

Ronnie looked at him.

‘Won’t hurt you, will it? A night off?’

She shrugged, grinned. Pete patted his leg. ‘Come on, woman. Come over here.’

Ronnie sat in Pete’s lap and smoked her first joint. There were piles of money on the coffee table, scrunched-up bundles of notes. ‘Did you rob a bank?’ She giggled into his ear.

‘Just sold a bit of weed,’ he said. ‘It’s everywhere, in the bush.’

She sat up. ‘Really? Just growing wild?’

‘More or less,’ said Pete.

‘I like it.’ She did. She liked the way time had become all fuzzy.

Pete ran his hand along her leg, up her skirt. ‘Sex is really, really good, when you’re stoned,’ he whispered.

A couple of months on, they were lying on the mattress, watching TV.

‘How’s the study going?’ Pete’s voice was low, sleepy.

‘Having a rest from it, actually,’ she said. She rolled over to face him, but he’d nodded off.

RONNIE AND NOTCH WALK
away from the fire. The night’s stifling, yet tiny ice prickles touch her skin. He puts his arm across her shoulders. The warmth seeps through her skin.

‘What’s up, Ronnie?’

Their footsteps don’t falter. Notch’s limp is so familiar it just fits in. The long grass is wet with night dew, paspalum flicks against her bare ankles. She is tempted to tell him, but Pete must be the first to know.

‘Nothing. Why?’

‘You just seem … I don’t know.’

‘
What?
’ She’s irritable. Now that she’s away from the party, away from Pete, the tiredness washes back over her.

Notch trudges on, but Ronnie stops. She pulls at his arm. ‘There aren’t any tapes in the car, Notch,’ she says, turning back towards the party.

‘Ronnie, don’t get caught up in it.’ Notch is behind her. She can hear it now, the sound of his limp. One soft thudding footstep, one swish of his lame leg through the long grass. ‘For fuck’s sake, don’t.’

‘Don’t get caught up in what?’

‘Fuck off, Ronnie, don’t piss around with me.’ His hand, back on her arm.

‘What are you talking about?’

‘Oh Jesus, girl. The smack. What else?’

‘Smack? You mean heroin?’ she laughs. ‘What are you on about?’

‘You don’t know?’

‘Stop pissing around, Notch.’

‘Pete’s dealing. Dealing smack.’

‘Bullshit.’

‘No bullshit, Ronnie. He’s dealing for the gangs. You can’t tell me you didn’t know?’

This news is a wave, crashing over her. ‘No,’ she says, softly. ‘No.’ She puts her hand to her stomach; Notch doesn’t see.

‘More money in it than weed, he reckons. Everyone’s got their own patch growing in the bush,’ says Notch.

Just a few metres away, the flames flick up over the top of
the drum. Shadows around it, just dark smudges from here. Impossible to tell who’s who. Someone else has found a new cassette. ‘Sweet Child o’ Mine’ and the guitar screams at the night. There’s lots of dancing now.

Behind, the mill sparkles, puff s on, grinds on.

‘Are you alright, Ron?’

She doesn’t know how she is.

Axl Rose wants to know where do you go.

‘Yeah, yeah. I’m fine. Cold though. Let’s go back.’

HER MOTHER RANG ON
a Sunday. Later, Ronnie thought how unlucky that was. Another day — any other day — would have been better. Sundays were for sleeping and being curled up waiting for the hangover to pass and hoping Mondays would take their time coming. Not for quick thinking and smart replies to mothers.

Pete answered the phone. Ronnie listened from the bedroom. February rain — thick fat drops of it — plopped against the broken windowpane. At the very top there was an actual hole. Ronnie had counted three raindrops hitting it. They dribbled down the inside of the glass.

‘I’m not sure, actually,’ Pete was saying. Ronnie could tell it was her mother, just from the way Pete spoke. He never talked like that to anyone else.

Then he said, ‘Must be some time soon.’

He laughed. ‘You’ve got to stop thanking me, Patricia. You got her sorted, I’m just the support crew.’

Then, ‘I’ll put her on.’

The phone was still warm from Pete’s hand.

‘I just wondered, dear. Whether you’ve had your results.’

‘For what?’ If it had been Monday, she would have clicked.

‘Massey results, of course. How many universities are you studying at?’ Her mother’s laughter trickling down the line.

‘No, nothing yet.’

‘When, do you think?’

‘No idea, Mum.’

‘Would it be around the same time as the others?’

‘The others?’

‘You know, Auckland etcetera …’

‘No idea.’

Her head hurt. The rain had stopped.

‘I didn’t finish the year.’ Somewhere inside, she understood she should not have said this.

‘Pardon?’ Her mother’s confused voice. ‘What did you say, Veronica?’

‘I stopped. Halfway through the year, I stopped. For a break. Then I got behind. It was too hard to catch up.’

‘Oh …’ Ronnie can hear it, down the line. The disappointment, the anger. It’s all there, in that little
oh
.

‘Sorry.’ Though sorry is not what she feels. Nothing is what she feels. It’s altogether a nothing Sunday.

‘Could I have a word with Peter. Please.’

Ronnie called out and Peter came back to the phone. She listened as she wandered back to the bedroom.

‘I had no idea, Patricia.’

Then, ‘Well, me too. I thought she was working away quite happily. Envelopes from the university kept coming … That’s nice of you to say … But you’re right. Headstrong is dead right.’

She dozed off. When she woke, it was dark. She pulled the blanket off the bed and went out to the kitchen. The light from the bare bulb hurt her eyes. Pete was emptying a can of soup into a pot on the stove.

‘Want some?’ he asked.

‘Okay, thanks,’ she said. She waited for him to bring up the phone call.

‘And toast?’

‘Thanks. Pete … sorry.’

‘What for?’ She tried to read his body: his shoulders, left hand in his jeans pocket.

‘You know, the course and stuff.’

‘Doesn’t worry me, Ronnie.’ He turned then, looked at her. His expression was exactly as it had been the day they met. He smiled, shrugged his shoulders. ‘Seriously, doesn’t matter. You’re your own person. You know what you want. I’ve never told you what to do. Not going to start now.’

SANDY’S DOING AIR GUITAR.
It’s her party trick. She won a prize for it once, in a pub in Hamilton.

The routine’s brilliant. She puts the invisible strap over her shoulder, then tunes the instrument, listening closely until the strings are pitch perfect. Then there’s the amp to be plugged in, and she has to find her pick. She asks around — who’s got a spare pick — ’til someone gets it, fishes around in their pockets and hands her an air pick. By the time she runs her thumb down the strings, the crowd’s hers. Liam’s sitting on an old sofa behind Sandy, proudly air drumming for his sister.

Ronnie slips away from the circle and the noise. Searches the faces, looking for Pete. He’s not here.

She hears them before she sees them. Murmurs become words as she approaches.

Halfway around the outside of the house there’s an old red leather seat. It’s been pulled out of the back of a car a long time ago. Grass grows up high around it. It faces the mill.

Ronnie stops and peeks around the corner. Pete and Lucy are sitting on the seat. Ronnie’s looking at the backs of their heads. The smell of the mill is back; the wind must have dropped off again.

They are wide apart. Pete’s hands are behind his head, as though he’s stretching. Lucy’s hunched over, her knees tucked up under her chin, in the other corner.

Ronnie leans against the side of the house, against the rotting weatherboards. She listens.

‘Have you never wanted to?’ Lucy is saying.

‘What?’

Yes, what? Ronnie wants to know.

‘Leave. You know, get out of here.’

‘Why do you ask that? Every bloody person that comes to Tok asks when everyone else is leaving.’

Silence from Lucy.

‘What’s so bad about the place, Lucy?’

‘Nothing. Sorry.’

Too late, little Lucy, but don’t worry your pretty head. You’ll move on too, thinks Ronnie. She breathes in, slowly, then out. Waits for the nausea, but it doesn’t come. She smiles into the dark. Everything’s alright. She just needs to talk to Pete.

‘Actually, I am leaving,’ says Pete.

The words hang in the thick warm air. Ronnie leans forward. She’s misheard.

‘I’m going to Wellington. I’ve saved enough to get a flat. I’m going to check it out. Train up for something, maybe.’

‘Wow. Really? Ronnie never said.’

‘She’s not into study. It’s not her thing.’

‘What
is
her thing?’

‘She does what she wants, I do what I want. We’ve always been like that. We don’t own each other.’

ELEVEN NOTES, THREE TIMES
over, each time a little louder. Talking Heads, ‘Burning Down the House’. It pounds out of Notch’s speakers. Everyone’s eyes are on Sandy’s fingers, on her body hunched tense over the invisible guitar neck. Her left hand slides along the frets, repositions every time exactly in the same airspace it should.

Ohhh
…

It must be two am, Ronnie thinks. This is it, the big surprise. This song’s the signal.

The three of them — her, Pete and Sandy — stoned, sitting on the old car seat. Pete with the eviction letter in his hand. Reading out loud the final paragraph.

We have gifted the house to the fire service. It is their intention to use it for a fire exercise some time in the future
.

The look passing between them, the laughing, the plan. And now Pete’s behind her, his hands on her shoulders.

‘All set, woman?’

Ronnie nods.

‘I’ve checked inside. No one in there.’

‘Pete …’ says Ronnie.

‘Mmm?’

No words come. What’s the matter with her?

Inside the dark house, Ronnie takes the lid off the petrol can, tips petrol onto the pile of paper and wood in their old bedroom. Pete wanders through the house, one last check, calling out softly, ‘Anyone in here?’