After the Fall (19 page)

‘Typical man,’ I muttered.

‘The next night he snuck down and waited for her to come. When she stooped to fill her calabash, he played his putorino. My nana told me the music made the darkness tremble with its beauty. She said it was like clear water, and it cast a terrible spell. Hinemoana dropped her calabash, and her steps took her towards the sound. The patupaiarehe lured her deeper and deeper into the forest until he took hold of her. Then he carried her through the dripping leaves of the trees to his whare—his hut—wreathed in cloud on the mountain summit. My nana didn’t go into the details of what happened there, but all night long Hinemoana lay shaking with fear while the eerie songs of his people drifted through the doorway. At dawn, the patupaiarehe returned her to her own village. When her husband asked where she had been, she told him the whole truth. He held her in his arms, and they wept together.’

‘Nice of him,’ remarked Sacha, looking dubious. ‘Trusting.’

‘They tried to be happy and forget, but Hinemoana was still under that spell. Every time the patupaiarehe played his putorino, she
had
to answer the call. This happened again, and again, until the girl found she was pregnant. She knew that this child was that of the nanakia—the cunning one—and she knew then that she would never be free. So she fell into despair. One night she looked out and saw that the mist was crawling along the ground, and she feared that soon she would hear the call of the putorino. So, while her husband slept, she made her way down to the sea. Some fishermen saw a young woman weeping bitterly in the starlight. As they watched, she walked into the water with her black hair flowing to her waist. Then she submerged herself and was never seen again.

‘You know that long hill at the southern end of the beach—just a little way down from the school?’

‘Yes, I know the one,’ I said. ‘It’s got cliffs with hundreds of birds nesting in them.’

‘Well, have a look next time. If you use your imagination, it looks like a woman lying on her side. You can see the shape of her body, and her face. The rocks are long hair, swirling into the sea. That’s Hinemoana’s hill. I knew the name, but I’d forgotten the story.’

After a brief silence, Sacha sniffed. ‘I wonder if she fancied the fairy guy. You know, just a little bit.’

Ira burst into laughter. ‘Only a woman could think of that! Well, perhaps she did. Anyway, I guess those European settlers heard the same story, and that’s the name they gave their station.’

I was still pondering on his tale when the twins reappeared, bouncing their soccer ball. Finn yanked at Ira’s arm. ‘Time’s up,’ he announced, in a robot voice. ‘You have five seconds to take your place. Five, four, um . . . three . . .’

‘Playing, Sacha?’ asked Charlie hopefully, laying adoring fingers on his sister’s forearm.

Sacha hauled herself up. ‘Nah. It’s freezing. I’m going in. Sorry to be unsociable, Ira. I’ve been partying all night.’

‘No stamina,’ chuckled our visitor, with a good-natured click of the tongue. ‘Right, bros. Who’s in goal?’

By suppertime Sacha was monosyllabic, her cheek propped on one hand and her elbow on the table, listlessly prodding Tama’s roast around her plate. The boys were squabbling merrily but she ignored them as though they were unsavoury strangers at the next table in a restaurant.

Elbows off the table
, hissed Mum.
Manners maketh man.

‘Elbows off the table,’ I parroted. Sacha regarded me expressionlessly, then slid her arm off the table and plonked her forehead down beside her plate.

‘Sacha,’ I warned. ‘Manners maketh man.’

‘Yeah!’ Finn began to chant in a piercing soprano while drawing a face on his plate with tomato ketchup. ‘Manners—maketh—man!’

‘Oh, God,’ moaned Sacha. ‘Get a life.’

‘I think
you’d
better get some sleep,’ said Kit. ‘And don’t talk to your mum like that. She doesn’t deserve it.’

I laid my hand on her cheek. ‘Feeling ill? Have you got a fever?’

‘No. I’m just totally shagged. Goodnight.’ And without further discussion, she stumbled out of the room and up the stairs.

‘Teenagers,’ said Kit, contentedly shovelling her untouched meal onto his own plate. ‘They’re not right in the head.’

Fifteen

Kit was a man possessed, captivated by the shifting colours and moods of the land. He spent much of November tramping through the bush and along the coast. He visited farms and vineyards and saleyards then rushed to capture their blend of harshness and romance on canvas. Even when he went to watch the children riding he came home with pages of vibrant sketches. Once—and I’m not proud of this—I caught myself wondering whether I didn’t prefer the drunk, glowering, depressed Kit to this sober workaholic. That other man needed me desperately. I wasn’t sure the new one did.

‘Why bother with all this reconnoitring?’ I asked one evening, as we were washing up. ‘You can see, right? You can paint what you see. Right? Well. Voilà!’

Kit tutted affably at my superficiality. He’d spent the day in a shearing shed and reeked of farmyard. ‘It’s the spirit of the thing you’re after.’

‘Really, though?’ I wasn’t impressed. ‘Your little landscapes seem popular, and you can knock those up in a matter of days. Why not just get on with it?’

‘Because that wouldn’t be honest.’

‘Don’t you go all arty and pseudo-intellectual on me, Kit McNamara.
Honest?
What kind of bollocks is that? You made and lost a fortune in advertising—what the hell do you care about honesty? Does a picture, or does it not, look nice hanging on the wall?’

‘Shame on you!’ He swiped his tea towel at my behind. ‘I spent six hours in that shearing shed. It was crazy in there! Bleating, barking, a radio on at full blast, whirring machinery and
bang
go the doors as they drag the sheep through. One of these guys cut a sheep, blood everywhere, and a woman stitched it up with baler twine.’

‘Ouch!’

‘The point is this: I will paint that scene completely differently now that I know what it smells and sounds and even
tastes
like.’

‘Kit, seriously.’ I put my arms round his waist, imprisoning him, looking up into his face. ‘I start work on the fifth of December. That’s only a fortnight away. I need you on board to take care of the boys.’

‘I know that. I shall be a dedicated house-husband. Anyway, they’ll have started at school.’

I pointed out that the school day is a short one, and was warming to my theme when the phone rang.

‘Saved by the bell,’ said Kit, swinging out a hand to answer it. ‘Louisa! How the devil are you?’ He chatted to my sister for a while then handed me the phone and disappeared upstairs.

‘Kit’s on good form.’ Lou sounded cynical. She hadn’t forgiven us for emigrating. Probably never would.

‘He is. I’ve just had ten minutes of arty codswallop.’

‘Well, that’s what you wanted, isn’t it? You should be happy.’

‘Of course I’m happy!’

‘Hm?’ I heard Lou inhale and knew she was lighting up. ‘Or a teensy bit jealous? He wasn’t this fanatical about advertising. Seems you’ve got a rival for the first time.’

I denied it hotly, of course—I never admit weakness to Lou if I can help it—and changed the subject. The call lasted an hour, and as always we found plenty to gossip about. Lily had a new rabbit, Philip hated his job, Vincent Vale was engaged to a busty barmaid. Just froth, really, but I felt a lot better by the end.

I found Kit in the studio, showered and changed. ‘Mind if I sit here?’ I asked, settling into the armchair with my feet tucked under me.

‘Funny thing,’ he said without looking round. ‘I like having you there.’

He was leaning on a tall stool, squinting thoughtfully at the canvas. Shearers were already beginning to take shape; four men in a row, stretching back from the eye. Occasionally he’d simply paint out an entire figure, then swiftly outline another.

It was late when I stood up, stretching my arms. ‘That man Gerry Kerr was right,’ I said. ‘You
are
a fucking genius.’

‘I wish.’

I brushed my lips against his ear. ‘Yes, you are. But d’you know it’s after eleven?’

He put down his brush. I felt his hand in the small of my back, steering me towards the door. ‘Let’s go,’ he said happily.

We were halfway upstairs when the phone began to ring.

‘
Bugger
,’ groaned Kit.

‘It’ll be your mother,’ I said accusingly. ‘She can’t get her head around the time difference.’

We stood irresolute as the thing rang on, and on. We hadn’t got around to putting in an answer machine.

‘Let’s leave it,’ suggested Kit, trying to push me up the last few stairs.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said, laughing. ‘It’s a total passion killer, knowing your mother’s on the other end of that line. You’d better answer it.’

It wasn’t Mary McNamara at all. It was Gerry Kerr. Kit talked to him for a long time. When he finally appeared in our room, he was looking stunned. I was reading in bed.

‘Jesus,’ he breathed, rumpling his hair distractedly. ‘He wants me to get a collection together for his festival.’

‘Does he know the sort of thing you’ve been doing?’

Kit looked faintly embarrassed. ‘He does, actually. I’ve been emailing photographs.’

‘This is fantastic news!’ I knelt up on the bed, throwing my arms around his neck. ‘When’s the festival?’

‘Next August. What a stupendous opportunity. But bloody hell, just over eight months to get a collection together . . . better get my skates on. No time to waste.’

So much, I thought uncharitably, for the dedicated house-husband.

*

The following morning, though, I woke happy. Air billowed through the open French doors, clear and fresh as spring water. You could drink it. We
were
lucky, after all. We lived in a sort of heaven; we had our children and one another—and now this news from Dublin. I stretched my toes before turning over to smile at Kit.

He was gone, of course. His side of the bed was cold.

‘I’m an art widow,’ I grumbled out loud, pushing my feet into slippers. ‘Addictive personality, that’s his problem. If it’s not booze, it’s bloody creativity.’

It was a Saturday, and the children were due to go riding. I was making coffee, yawning, when Finn and Charlie screamed into the kitchen, impersonating a couple of jets as they careered into me. Finn was in his underpants; Charlie had no clothes on at all.

‘I’m going to canper soon,’ bragged Finn. ‘Tama said.’

‘Not canper!’ Charlie scoffed at his brother’s ignorance. ‘Canker.’

I poured them each a bowl of cereal. ‘Sounds pretty clever.’

‘Please will you come with us today, Mummy?’ asked Charlie, blinking up at me. His cheeks were still crimson with sleep. ‘I want to show you all the things.’

I ruffled the soft tangle of his hair. ‘We’ll see.’

Finn joined in. ‘You should see Tama riding. He goes like this—and this—and Ruru stands way up on his hind legs. Cool! He looks just like Zorro!’

We were almost ready to leave when Sacha announced that she was opting out. She’d managed to cadge a lift into town with a friend’s aunt who lived out our way.

‘Not coming?’ I stopped in my tracks. ‘I thought you loved riding more than anything in the world?’

Her eyes slid away from mine. ‘I’m not eleven years old any more,’ she declared flatly. ‘I’ve done that girly horsey thing.’

‘Oh.’ I felt deflated. ‘That was sudden.’

‘Tabby wants to meet up.’

‘Well that’s fine, but why don’t you bring your friends here, like you planned?’

She shrugged ruefully. ‘Changed my mind. What would we actually
do
?’

‘Well . . . I don’t know. Hang out. Play tennis. Listen to music. Bonfire on the beach.’

‘And count sheep.’ Sacha yawned. ‘Yeah, right. We don’t even have broadband. You’re a skeleton by the time you’ve downloaded a music video. I’m sorry, Mum, I’m not trying to hurt your feelings, but there’s sod all for a bunch of teenagers to do out here.’

‘Don’t you like us anymore?’

‘Silly sausage.’ She smiled and touched my cheek. ‘I just need my own space a little bit. Anyway, must get on—I’ve got half an hour to practise this new piece.’

She set off to the sitting room and after a moment I heard the flute. It was a dreamy, haunting melody, a little like birdsong. I stepped into the hall to listen, and the music broke off.

‘Mum, stop loitering out there!’

I stuck my head around the door. ‘What’s that gorgeous thing you’re playing? Sounds familiar.’

She had her flute in one hand, scowling at the music. ‘Debussy’s
Syrinx.
I’ve always wanted to learn this.’

‘Ah, Syrinx. Now, this is one of those Greek myths where the girl gives her life to save her virtue, isn’t it? Good, old-fashioned values.’

‘Mm. Actually it’s a really sad story. It’s about Pan. He was chasing this red-hot chick, Syrinx. When she got to a river she had nowhere left to run, so she begged for help from the gods. Instead of doing something useful like giving her wings, they helpfully turned her into marsh reeds and that was the end of her. Pan was really upset about the whole thing, so he cut the reeds and made them into pipes.’