The Boy in the Olive Grove (2 page)

The light turned green. Hadleigh crashed the gears and jerked the car — two things he never normally did. ‘Stubbs had the champagne out as per Dad’s orders. Dad shoved a bunch of papers at me, stuck a pen in my hand and said
Put your name here, son
.’

‘He wanted you to have power of attorney?’

‘Worse than that. It was a partnership agreement. The sign was ready to roll:
Grey and Son, Furniture Makers
.’

‘But he knows you don’t want to take over the factory! What a sneaky way to go about it. That’s like proposing to your girlfriend in front of a packed stadium so that she can’t say no.’

He snorted. ‘I did say no. I walked out and I haven’t been back.’

‘You haven’t …? Man! When did this go down?’

That got me an almost-smile. ‘The day of your own disaster, sister mine. Both parents were going ballistic in different directions. Not pretty.’

‘But that was Tuesday!’

‘And this is Thursday. Good to know your brain is still as incisive as ever.’ He stopped the car. There was a café about fifty metres ahead. ‘Confession time.’

Hadleigh wrapped an arm around my shoulders as we walked. He often did that, especially when things with either of the parents got particularly toxic. I’d never had to tell him anything this bizarre though. But problems, triumphs, fury at one or other of our three parents — Hadleigh would always listen, and occasionally he’d even come up with a good idea or two. Actually, it would be a relief to tell him the whole weird story.

He ordered a plain toasted tomato sandwich for me and a bottle of ginger beer to go with it. ‘You will eat and drink. Ginger settles the stomach. You need to get food inside you.’

I didn’t argue. In his present mood, it wouldn’t go down well. He bought himself a calzone dripping with cheese and a bun the size of a small cushion. Bitter black coffee to wash it all down.

He made me drink half the ginger beer then said, ‘Start talking.’

WE WERE SITTING
outside under a jacaranda tree dripping its blue flowers on the table.

‘Talk,’ ordered my brother.

I rattled off the same story I’d given Miss Wilding. ‘I don’t want to go back to that … whatever it was. It was so gross.’

‘Tough. Talk or walk home.’

There was no escape, he was deadly serious. I gulped, breathed deep and obeyed. ‘All right! But don’t interrupt, because if you do, that’s it. I’ll
hitchhike
back.’

No response.

‘Okay. All right.’ I paused, but Hadleigh frowned and checked the time. I leapt in, gabbling out the story and trying to make myself remember that the things I’d seen hadn’t really happened, even though I’d felt I was actually there, in that place.

‘I was lying on my bed, not thinking of anything in particular, and I started seeing images. Kind of like actors on a stage.

‘A lot of people were milling around, in a market place it looked like. They were wearing old-style clothing — long dresses, tunics, strange footwear. There was a huge pile of wood. They started chanting
Burn the witch, burn the witch
and they moved to let men come through. They were holding a woman, dragging her. They tied her to a stake in the centre of the woodpile. She tried to get away. She was yelling and struggling and her hair had fallen down round her face, but her hands were tied behind the stake.’

I couldn’t go on. I leaned my head on my hands while sickness roiled in my stomach.

Hadleigh pulled one of my hands free, holding it in his comfort-little-sister grip. ‘Keep going.’

‘A man came with a burning brand. He shoved it into the wood. He shouted,
Burn, witch!
The woman was nearly mad with terror but she focused on him, and she screamed at him,
Curse you! I curse you to burn in hell. I will hate you for ever
. The flames got her and … and that’s when I managed to drag myself out of whatever it was. I knew Maddy had the bottle of vodka. I didn’t think, all I wanted to do was escape, so I drank cupfuls of the stuff.’

‘Nutcase,’ said my brother rather absently. ‘But why did it scare you so bad, Bess? Just a little old hallucination brought on by exam stress and an overactive imagination.’

‘But I haven’t told you the worst.’ The horror was alive and kicking in my head. ‘The woman was Iris. Not Iris like she is now. She was young and she didn’t look anything like she does now. But I knew it was her.’

‘Well, you’ve never got on with her. I’d say it’s just your subconscious trying to make you see how dumb you are not to like her.’ He patted my back. ‘Calm down, sis. It’s not that bad. You didn’t really burn her up.’

‘But I did!’ My stomach clenched as I fought not to vomit. ‘The man who shoved that burning torch into the woodpile to start the fire … that was me. And it gets worse because she — Iris …’ Oh god, how could I tell him? I shut my eyes and spat the words out. ‘We were married. I was her husband and I burnt her to death.’ I bent over the table, saying again and again in my head:
It wasn’t real. It wasn’t real
. I tried to bring back into my mind the joy of the boy amongst his olive trees. It didn’t work. The image of my stepmother burning and cursing kept on intruding.

Hadleigh patted my shoulder. ‘So you toasted Iris? You were happy about it?’

‘I wanted her to die.’

He stuck his big hand under my chin and made me look at him. ‘No need for all the angst, kid. It’s obvious what all this is about. If you’d used half your brain instead of chucking alcohol down your throat you’d have worked it out too.’

I waited for him to continue, as eager as a chick for crumbs.

‘Think about it. You’ve never got on with Iris even though she’s a good old stick and she’s always pretty decent to you. So your subconscious mind comes up with this dinky scenario where you take her out in cyberspace. Cunning and very twenty-first century.’ He mopped my face with the paper napkin. ‘Doctor Hadleigh’s prescription is this. Talk to her. Get to know her. Stop holding her at a distance.’ He tipped his head to one side. ‘You’ll do that?’

‘Yes. I guess. Thanks, Hads. I thought I was headed for the psych ward for sure. It doesn’t seem quite so scary now.’

He got up to leave. ‘You were married to Iris! That’s priceless.’

‘Don’t even go there! Hadleigh, I’m warning you! Don’t say another word!’

He picked me up and swung me over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry.

‘Put me down! Don’t you dare carry me through the café!’

He laughed and set me on my feet. ‘Feeling better?’

Oddly, even with being tipped upside down, I was. ‘Yeah. Ta.’

He checked the time again. ‘We need to be out of here. Move it, sis.’

‘Why? I’m in no hurry. You know what Mum will be like—’ But Hadleigh did seem to be in a hurry. He hustled me into the car as if I’d been the one to delay him by forcing him to stop at the café.

‘Calm down, Hads! What’s up? You’re not going back to work, are you?’

He snorted. ‘No way. Tell you later, but we need to step on it now.’ And, pig-headed just like our father was, he refused to explain why until he was good and ready. A couple of blocks down the road, he said, ‘Seriously, kid — don’t worry too much about toasting Iris. The most likely explanation is that it was a dream. Just your ordinary old nightmare.’

‘Yeah. I wondered that too.’ I wasn’t convinced, though. This hadn’t had the quality of a dream. It was sharper, clearer, and I hadn’t been able to forget a single detail, whereas my normal vivid dreams faded after a couple of hours. This had seemed like a holographic display. And what I hadn’t told Miss Wilding was that I was in it, acting a part that bore no relation to my life.

Even so, Hadleigh’s reassurance was comforting. I wanted to believe it. Several times I was on the brink of telling him about the peasant boy. I wanted him to explain who the boy was, to tell me why I had seen him. I wanted to know why I’d felt that surge of joy each time he’d appeared. But I was too scared to say anything in case this time he had no explanation.

I rubbed my eyes, scrubbed at my face. This was reality, here and now in this car with my brother.

But something was awry here too. This wasn’t the normal route home. I glanced at Hadleigh, hoping like hell my suspicions were wrong. ‘You’re going to the airport? You’re leaving the country?’

He sent me a reckless grin. ‘I am indeed. And no, I haven’t told the honoured parents. I’m not ringing Dad till the plane is scooting down the runway, and then, my dear sis, I intend to bin the sim card. He won’t be able to contact me and don’t you dare show him how to use Facebook.’

He didn’t head for a parking building. He drove straight to the drop-off zone of the overseas terminal and pulled to a stop.

‘Don’t do this! Please, Hads. Dad’ll come round. You know what he’s like. He’ll calm down.’

‘He won’t. You know that. Same argument every holidays, but does he listen? I’ve got to get out of the place, Bess. If I stay, he’ll just keep on and on. He’ll either wear me down and I’ll cave and be miserable for the rest of my life. Or I’ll belt him and walk out anyway.’

I just shook my head, scrabbling for reasons to make him stay. ‘What about uni? Are you still going to do your Masters next year?’ In computer
engineering
— not business management, or furniture design, which should have been a clue for our father.

Hadleigh just shrugged, then bent over to kiss my cheek. ‘See you, kiddo.’ He got out of the car.

‘Your luggage! You can’t leave the country with no luggage! They arrest people with no luggage.’

‘All checked in before I picked you up. Gotta go. Bye, little sis. I’ll send you messages, don’t stress.’ He strode off towards the entrance.

‘But
where
? Where are you going? Hadleigh!’

He spun around, his arms outstretched. ‘To see the world.’

He was off again, buoyant and laughing. I screamed after him, ‘You’re doing it again! You’re leaving me! Why are you always leaving me?’

He stopped so abruptly it looked as if he’d walked into an invisible wall. He swivelled round and skewered me with a look that I’ll never forget. Then he turned away and went through those doors, although he must have heard me shouting, ‘I’m sorry! I didn’t mean it. It’s so not true. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.’

I raced after him, still shouting, but he’d
disappeared
into the crowd. I swung around and tore along the footpath, peering through the terminal windows, trying to catch a glimpse of him. People stared at me, moving out of my way as I ran back. The departure boards might give a clue about where he was headed.

A MAN IN A UNIFORM
was taking an interest in Hadleigh’s car.

‘This your car, miss?’

‘No. It’s my brother’s. Oh my god, I’ll have to drive it home.’ I only had my Learner’s. Did Hadleigh think of that? Did he even care?

The man frowned. ‘How old are you?’

‘Eighteen as of Tuesday.’ I looked about twelve, not helped by the tears smearing my face. ‘Would you like to see my licence?’

‘Just move the car. I’ll have to get it towed
otherwise
.’

No wonder he didn’t want to spend the time checking my licence. I wouldn’t want to have
anything
more to do with me either. I got in the driver’s seat. It took me a hundred years to work out how to move the stupid seat close enough for my feet to reach the pedals. Eventually I took off with a couple of bunny hops. Trust Hadleigh to have a manual gear change. It’d serve him right if I wrecked the gearbox.

I crept out of the airport. So much traffic. Somebody behind me blasted a horn.
Suck it up, loser!
I had to get this car home even if I ended up taking all day to do it.

I felt more in charge once I was on the motorway, but I still drove slowly, following the signs that would lead me south to my mother’s unwelcoming house. Cars kept passing me. Trucks too. Why had I yelled after Hadleigh like that? It was the absolute, total reversal of the truth. He’d never left me. He’d never walked out on me. He was always the one person I could rely on during parental meltdowns. He was the one who wrote to me every single week when I was away at school. He wrote proper letters that arrived in envelopes, and he always put the prettiest stamp he could find on them. They were always a high point in my week even after I’d settled in.

Iris is on the health warpath. Major seismic tremors caused by collision of Dad with tofu curry.

Had to dine with Ma last night. Great food (Iris wouldn’t think so). Ma still majorly pissed about the divorce.

Put large clodhopper in it on Sat. Happened to mention Iris. You have been warned! Do not utter the word Iris. Would you believe — Ma’s ripped all irises from the garden.

Stop press! I’ve got a date with Kimberley Daly! Info classified btw.

He’d never write to me now. This had to be my Year of Stupidity. What the hell else was waiting in my subconscious for precisely the wrong moment to leap out and sabotage me?

Bugger him! With Hadleigh gone, life was going to be bleak and lonely. Dad and I weren’t especially close. Iris I wouldn’t think about. Mum I’d much prefer not to think about, and how I was meant to survive living in her house without a brother on the sideline to protect me I couldn’t imagine.

Halfway down the Bombay hills my phone started ringing. I knew it would be Dad. I simply couldn’t cope with him on top of everything else — and anyway it was his fault Hadleigh was right at this moment speeding down a runway bound for the big wide world. Again, the words I’d yelled at him resounded in my head.
You’re doing it again. You’re leaving me. Why are you always leaving me?

There was no explanation for that, or for the sense of abandonment and betrayal I’d felt. Hadleigh had never left me. He’d never let me down, and I didn’t know how I was going to stay sane without him. Panic fluttered in my gut. He’d gone and left me behind, all on my own with my crazy mind. The horror of flames and burning flesh hovered at the edges of my consciousness.

I drove with fierce concentration on the here and now. I was frightened. My mind was out of control and the spectre of antipsychotic drugs hovered.

The phone went again. It would probably be Mum, and in case it was I ignored it too. She wasn’t going to be happy. I wished he’d told her he was leaving.

I stopped in Ngaruawahia for a coffee. The café’s bathroom mirror showed me I looked as bedraggled as I felt. I scrubbed my face, combed my fingers through my hair, calmed myself with some slow breathing, then went to tackle the coffee. I bought a muffin, but it was too rich for my still delicate stomach. Possibly coffee was a mistake as well. Iris would prescribe something herbal sweetened with manuka honey. Mum would purse her lips and tell me that I’d sown the whirlwind and now I was reaping its consequences. It didn’t help that I knew she was right.

Normally I’d be able to text Hadleigh with a cryptic message about Mum.
Stop press. When I a mother I will understand PAIN. She hopes
.

He’d reply with something oddball like
old queen cole is a batty old soul
.

No such safety valve now. I would contact him on Facebook, but I knew my brother. He wouldn’t look at it until he was good and ready. He might never be ready, not for a long, long time, anyway.

I returned to the car and kept driving, navigating my way through Hamilton and steeling my nerve for the last leg back to Mum’s place. If I drove slowly enough, it would take me over an hour.

But all good things must come to an end, so they tell us. I braked to a stop in her driveway and had a fleeting hope the car might drip oil. That would give her something real to moan about.

My mother came gliding from the house, her welcoming smile aimed squarely at the driver’s side of the car until she saw it was me behind the wheel.

‘Why are you driving Hadleigh’s car? Doesn’t the law mean
anything
to you, Bess Grey?’ She folded her arms close to her body. ‘Where is your brother? What are you doing with his car?’

I wrestled my bags from the boot before I answered. ‘Hello, Mum. The garden’s looking spectacular.’ Which was true. ‘I don’t know where Hadleigh is. Has Dad rung you?’

‘You know full well I do not speak to That Man. Don’t be obstructive. You must know where your brother is.’ She looked pointedly at his car.

‘Ring Dad. He’ll tell you all about it.’ I pulled my cases behind me, bumped them up the steps and took myself off to my room, shutting the door behind me.

It opened almost immediately.

‘Tell me! Where is your brother?’

‘Mum. You’ve got to ring Dad. He knows more than I do. Thank you for making my bed.’ I unzipped one of my cases.

She stomped off, shutting my door with a firm click. She wasn’t into demonstrations of violent temper, but I much preferred the slamming of a door and the utterance of the occasional swear word to her permanent state of the-world-is-against-me-ness. I eased the door open a crack, listening to see if she would ring Dad.

She did. Her side of the conversation was
quintessential
Mum.

‘Charles, where is my son?’

‘Explain yourself. Of course you must know where he is.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous. He wouldn’t fly off without telling
me
.’

‘I don’t believe you. You’re doing this to punish me.’

I snuck my door shut again. With a bit of luck, she’d take a few minutes to rage at Dad.

Nope. My door opened.

‘Bess, this ridiculous tale of your father’s. He’s determined to keep upsetting me.
That Woman
will know where my son is. I, his mother, do not.’ She eyeballed me. ‘Tell me the truth. Where is my son?’

I sat on my heels, wondering if she ever referred to me as
my daughter
. ‘Hadleigh drove to the airport. He told me he was going to see the big wide world. I don’t know anything else.’
That I’m willing to tell you, anyway
.

She left me alone till dinner when I did my best to play the concerned daughter. I apologised for my drunken binge. She spent the meal telling me I’d ruined my life, her life and her reputation in the town, whose entire population she appeared to have told. I shut up and took it, figuring she was entitled to be enraged.

So ended Thursday. On Friday she did one of her disconcerting changes of direction.

‘Why won’t you tell me where Hadleigh is, Bess? It’s not like you to be so hurtful.’

It got me every time. She only had to say
something
approaching nice and I was a goner, putty in her hands. ‘Didn’t Dad tell you why he ran away?’

She went still, all antennae on high alert. ‘No, he did not.’

Normally I never told her anything about him — it made life a lot easier never to mention him. ‘Dad wanted him to be his partner in the business.’ All sorts of expressions darted across her face, then after about a minute she squared her shoulders. ‘So my son was forced to leave the country. I’m proud of him for standing up against That Man.’

And that was it. She went about the place with a small smile on her face. She also put me to work with her in the garden. She’d never trusted me to do so much as pull up a weed before this. It seemed nothing had changed. She pointed me at the compost bins. I had to shovel the contents of one into the empty bin three metres away. That looked to me like bad planning, unless she did it deliberately with
A Good Punishment for Bess
in her head.

I worked hard, trying to keep my mind clear and the horror of burning flesh out of my consciousness by focusing on my happy image of the boy in the olive grove. He worked outside and he was happy. If I worked my fingers to the bone, would they turn green and make me happy? I hoped, too, that thinking about him would make him reappear.

He didn’t come back, and my fingers turned grubby, not green. Mum, though, said, ‘That was a big job. I’m pleased to have it done.’

The day was looking up.

My next task was to put barrowloads of bark around the shrubs. I tried chatting to her as I zapped to and fro, but she kept on with planting a row of things. ‘What are they, Mum?’

‘Flowers.’

Yeah? It looked like I’d had my quota of chat for the day, and my heart ached for the mother I’d always longed for, and for the brother I’d lost through my own stupidity.

I tried to remember what she’d been like before Dad up and walked out. I couldn’t recall her ever laughing. Maybe life had never been how she wanted it to be. I remembered her nagging at Dad. She hated that he called himself Charlie. ‘Charles,’ she would say. ‘Your name is Charles.’

‘True enough,’ he’d tell her, ‘but I’m Charlie.’

I doubted that she’d ever been happy, that she’d ever felt the flaring delight of the olive grove boy. Maybe that was what had soured her. I was deeply glad she’d sent me away to boarding school.

Late in the afternoon, she promoted me to weeding a bed of bright flowers. Ah ha! I knew what these fellows were — lilies. And they smelt glorious. I crawled in amongst them, being careful not to break a stalk or squash a plant.

Dad sent me a text as I was finishing.
Dinner here sunday
. 6
.

The images of Iris who wasn’t Iris blazed across my mind. Oh god, I would have to face her over the dinner table. I hoped Dad wasn’t intending to fire up the barbecue. The glowing orange petals around me now looked like flames.