After the Fall (28 page)

We leaned to peer into the Colberts’ sitting room. Family photographs lined the mantelpiece, and above them hung a painting of four boys. The scene was redolent of Hawke’s Bay in the summer, blue and brown and ochre. Three were freckled, rangy lads—teenagers, I’d guess—sitting on a hillside with their arms around one another’s shoulders. One had striking auburn hair. A much smaller boy sat on his lap, laughing. The four looked like a team, like comrades. You could sense the brotherliness.

‘Our boys,’ said Jean warmly. ‘See, Daniel is holding Philippe? Poor little fellow, he thought the world of Daniel. Pamela’s mother commissioned that painting for a Christmas present when they were all quite young. It’s a local artist.’

‘What a wonderful idea,’ I said.

‘But you ask what was Daniel like?’ Jean rocked back on his heels. ‘There’s a big question! Our third child, the peacemaker of the family. Where Michel and Jules fought like cat and dog, Daniel would defuse the situation with his wit. He was very funny. Wit was his skeleton key, opening all doors . . . And what else? A dedicated scientist, a conservationist. As a schoolboy he gave his holidays to the kiwi breeding project up here. Just before he died he’d begun a doctorate, working to save a little bird called the fairy tern from extinction.’

‘The fairy tern?’ I said blankly. ‘Sorry, I haven’t come across it.’

‘Most people haven’t. To Maori, it’s the tara-iti. A truly delightful creature, but mankind has destroyed its habitat and it has the doubtful distinction of being New Zealand’s rarest breeding bird—there are just a few pairs left. Daniel was passionate about its conservation. He felt that focusing on the exquisite details of nature was as vital as big, sweeping projects. He and his team were relocating four breeding pairs from Northland to an estuary on the East Cape. Not easy.’

Jean turned the meat competently, with a flick of his wrist. ‘What else? Well . . . he was the light of our life. It’s true. The world changed forever at the moment when we heard the news. It became a darker place, not only for Pamela and myself but for everyone who knew Daniel. It is still a darker place.’

‘His young brother?’ I asked.

Jean nodded sadly. ‘Philippe was just ten. He’s constantly striving to find meaning in his life and Daniel’s death. So you see, when those two imbeciles butchered my boy for fun, they destroyed more than one life.’

‘But you have William,’ whispered Sacha. Her eyes were still glimmering.

Jean managed a smile. ‘Will! He is hilarious.’

‘That kid’s a dag,’ said Pamela, who’d arrived with Kit in tow. She was holding a beeswax candle. ‘They’re up to something, Martha. William swiped a roll of cling wrap off my kitchen bench, and now they’re all three giggling in the bathroom.’

‘Oh no,’ I groaned. ‘That’s the twins’ new prank. They’ll be stretching it across the loo.’

A minute later the boys sidled out of the house and up to Jean, smirking. Finn and William nudged Charlie.
Go on, go on.

‘Excuse me, Jean,’ wheedled Charlie, opening his eyes wide. ‘Would you like to go to the toilet?’

‘Definitely,’ replied the Frenchman genially, with a wink at Sacha. She smothered a smile and wiped her eyes on her sleeve.

‘Now?’

‘After lunch, I shall be busting. I assure you of that. First, let’s eat.’

It took a minute to get the boys around the table. Once they’d stopped giggling, Pamela raised her glass. ‘Here’s to our new friends, the McNamara family, who have joined us from across the world!’

‘It’s an honour to be here with you,’ said Kit, and we did that absurd clinking thing with our glasses. Finn and Charlie stood on their chairs to reach.

‘And happy birthday to Daniel,’ added Pamela, striking a match and lighting her candle. ‘Wherever you are, my darling.’

Twenty-three

March. The first breath of autumn.

The air held a new crispness. Willows and beech began to flame along the river bank, and the sky was high and delicate as blue porcelain. We needed our duvets at night, and to our joy the mosquitoes began to disappear. On Saturday morning walks the boys and I would stop to marvel at umbrella-sized spider webs hanging in the bushes, spangled with billions of dewy pearls. The new school year was well underway, with Kit umpiring cricket matches and running sausage sizzle fundraisers like an old hand. He was also putting in inhumanly long hours in the studio, muttering cheerfully about Dublin.

Sacha passed her restricted test and was allowed to drive on her own. We bought her a cheap little diesel. I felt as though a last cord had been cut, but it made life a lot easier because she could get herself into and out of town. She was in Year Twelve now, and the pressure had come on with a vengeance. Every week there seemed to be some test or assignment; her flute teacher wanted a pound of flesh, too.

‘I can’t concentrate with these little nutcases in the house,’ she complained one Sunday morning, pretending to bang the boys’ heads together. ‘Can I light that stove out in the hut? So much work this weekend, it’s a nightmare.’ There were mauve crescents under her eyes, and she had a couple of spots around her mouth. She looked taut as a rubber band.

‘Got a face like death warmed up,’ remarked Kit. ‘Those bastards are pushing you too hard.’

Sacha blinked at him. ‘Put it this way, Kit. I worked all day yesterday, but I’ve still got an essay, five pages of physics
and
a debate to prepare. I’m totally screwed.’

‘By when?’ I asked, feeling sorry for her.

‘By tomorrow! It’s frickin’ ridiculous.’

‘There’s no need to jump down my throat.’

She picked peevishly at a mosquito bite on her arm. ‘Dammit Janet, I
need
to do well in that essay. It’s an assessment.’

‘I’ll help you take some wood across,’ said Kit. ‘C’mon, let’s get the wheelbarrow. And if you’re very very nice to me, I’ll cut you some kindling.’

Sacha slaved all day. I ferried sandwiches and biscuits across to the hut and hung around to make sure she actually ate them. When she came in for supper that evening she seemed much happier.

‘I’m on track,’ she announced. ‘The essay is going to be awesome. I reckon I’ll ace an Excellence.’ She lifted a fist, miming a superhero’s biceps. ‘Brainygirl is rising to the challenge!’

That night, Finn walked in his sleep. I heard a bedroom door in the dark. It was enough to jerk me into consciousness. Hunched under the covers beside me, Kit’s voice was slurred, his tongue paralysed by sleep. ‘Yoo goan, Marfa, or me?’

‘My turn.’ I sat up, patted his shoulder and padded out onto the dimly lit landing. Finn was in his pyjamas, just standing, looking steadily at a fixed point in midair.

‘D’you wanna come?’ he asked some phantom companion. ‘Be fun.’

‘I’ll come, Finny,’ I said amicably, and took his hand. He let me lead him to the toilet—his aim was disastrous—and back to the delightful warmth of his bed where he snuggled down, stroking his ear. I was kissing his cheek when I heard a muffled crash from downstairs. My heart leaped into my throat as I ran to the banister, straining my eyes and ears through the dark. There was a thin vertical gleam at the kitchen door, and a voice—a female voice. I listened for a full minute, until I was sure it was Sacha’s. Then I trotted down the stairs and pushed at the door. A shriek of terror greeted me.

Sacha was fully dressed, whirling around with her hand to her chest. ‘Oh my
God
, Mum! Just about wet myself.’

‘Sacha!’ I cried, with an incredulous glance at the kitchen clock. ‘It’s two fifteen! What the hell are you doing?’

She was standing with one hand on the kettle, and she’d turned white. Muffin stirred in her basket, eyeing us dozily. ‘Whew, that was freaky,’ gasped Sacha. ‘The way that door kind of swung open . . . I expected one of those spooky fairies to poke his head around.’

‘Yes, but what’s going on?’

‘I’ve finished my work! Thought I’d have a Milo to help me sleep.’ She held up a mug. ‘Want one?’

‘No thanks. Look—this isn’t on, you can’t work all night.’ I watched her pour boiling water into the mug. ‘I heard a crash.’

‘Yeah, sorry. Knocked a saucepan off the draining board.’

‘And talking. Who were you talking to?’

She looked sheepish. ‘Sorry again. Been practising my speech for the debate tomorrow. Going to whip their arses! Want to hear it?’

‘No, I . . .’ I blinked. The situation felt surreal. ‘I mean yes, of course I want to hear it but not at two o’clock in the morning! Look, doll, I think you’re going to have to give something up. You need your beauty sleep.’

She stirred her Milo. ‘All the teachers set work at once. They all think their own subject is the only one that matters. I’m off to bed now.’

We whispered as we climbed the stairs. ‘Did that saucepan wake you?’ she asked.

‘No. Finn was sleepwalking again.’

She kissed my cheek. ‘I love you,’ she said. ‘You’re the best mum in the history of the universe.’

A few days later, Sacha turned seventeen. Kit and I gave her an iPod Touch with all the bells and whistles. This soulless piece of technology was what she wanted most in the world; apparently her older, cheaper machine was totally
yesterday.
Dad sent cash, Lou a silver filigree bracelet. Finn and Charlie made clay models which they swore were Homer and Marge Simpson, but looked more like daleks. Bless her, Sacha managed to be ecstatic about them.

We threw a party the following weekend: a birthday-cum-belated-housewarming bash. After three days of rain, the sky cleared just in time. Sacha had invited an amorphous mass of young people, of both genders. Tabby couldn’t, or wouldn’t, come. The two dull girls fetched up with their monosyllables and slumped shoulders. Bianka arrived early to help us get ready, but—mysteriously—not Jani. In fact, I hadn’t heard his name mentioned since New Year.

The district turned out in force: Jean and Pamela, Ira with his graceful girlfriend, Jane and Destiny, and several local families. Keith Emmerson from Capeview brought his wife but not the four daughters. They all hopped out of their cars carrying boxes of cold beer and plates of goodies— venison burgers, paua fritters and a meringue delight called pavlova. They described this largesse as ‘bringing a plate’ and seemed to think it perfectly normal. I was mildly offended at first—what, did they think I couldn’t manage?—but later discovered that Hawke’s Bay people never turn up at a party empty-handed.

Tama came too, climbing the boundary fence. I saw him strolling across the valley with the inevitable box of beer in his arms, and went to meet him.

‘You’re looking harassed,’ he said, as we drew near enough to speak.

‘Not harassed. Busy. Work work, children children, party party.’

‘You should come out riding with us again. Therapeutic.’

I laughed. ‘You know, I might just do that.’

As we wandered across the pasture I told him about Gareth, the pilot with a head injury. After a year of hellish struggle, his young wife had finally cut and run.

Tama opened the gate into our garden, standing back to let me through. ‘Do you bring these sad things home with you?’

‘Usually I can leave work behind. Just occasionally one of them gets into my head. Gareth’s one of those. He’s lost himself.’

It was a good evening. I began to feel as though these people could be my friends. I have an impression of Tama and assorted farmers in shorts, staunchly glued to the barbecue in a legs-splayed, beer-drinking stance. They held bottles in fists in front of their chests; a story, a joke, an explosion of laughter. Meanwhile, women gathered in the kitchen to swap defamatory tales about their husbands. Finn and Charlie patrolled the garden with a band of merry men, swinging in the trees and terrorising parents with water pistols. Finally Sacha and her mob emerged from the smoko hut, requisitioned the pistols and sprayed each other, their yells reverberating across the valley. Even Tama’s horses lifted their heads to stare.

We had speakers out on the verandah. I put on something Greek and atmospheric, and Sacha and Bianka were the first to dance as the sun went down. Sacha was wearing a leopardprint sundress, decidedly skimpy, and the filigree bracelet Lou had sent. As I watched, it struck me with unpleasant force that dieting had changed her shape completely. She wasn’t my bouncing, busty-and-proud-of-it daughter any more. She looked fragile, the once rounded young cheeks showing the bones of a
Vogue
model. Her complexion was suffering, too. After a zit-free adolescence, she’d developed some acne on her face and was using foundation to cover it up.

All the same, the two girls were a picture as they jived in the lemon light under swathes of bougainvillea. Bianka seemed hypnotised by Sacha. She smiled whenever she looked at her, which was often.

As the alcohol went down, noise levels went up. The teenagers retreated to the smoko hut. I turned on our fairy lights, and more people began to dance in the fragrant dusk. Kit was pacing himself with the booze, I noticed. He was in his element, everywhere at once, making sure no one had an empty glass. Everybody seemed to know and like him. I even heard him pick up an invitation to go deep-sea fishing; this high-tech hunter-gathering was evidently a traditional male bonding ritual.

I was sashaying exuberantly with Jean when Bianka sought me out to say goodbye. My neighbour was teaching me to salsa, which was shambolic but hilarious.