Bleak City (54 page)

Lindsay remembered going into the city after the September quake, resuming normal life by going to the places that had survived September, she and Kevin doing their part to keep businesses going. They had taken their lives in their hands, she realised. All the buildings she was in the habit of visiting in the old city were unreinforced masonry, the kind that had killed forty people in the February quake, and all the places she used to walk around were near unreinforced masonry buildings. Had that quake occurred while Lindsay and Kevin were in the city, Olivia and Jack could be orphans, raised by Lindsay’s parents, or by Alice.

A risk Lindsay was no longer willing to take was with her mental health, and she had recently caved in and started taking an antidepressant. She had gone to her doctor about her painful periods earlier in the year, and he sent her for a pelvic scan, which showed nothing to worry about. When she went back to the doctor to follow up, he told her having more pain wasn’t unusual as menopause neared. Menopause! She certainly hadn’t been thinking about menopause before the quakes started. He prescribed stronger painkillers and asked her about stress, which resulted in her bursting into tears and telling him all about the house and the insurance. She was so embarrassed. He had given her a prescription for an antidepressant that she had no intention of taking, but when she told Kevin about the conversation, he had gone quiet.

‘You think I need an antidepressant?’ she said, offended.

He stared off into the corner of the bedroom, past her. ‘There are times when you’re not yourself lately,’ he said. ‘You’re too emotional...’

‘Why? Because I’m angry about the house? Because you’re just as angry as I am and I don’t see you describing yourself as “too emotional”.’

‘No, not just angry, Lin,’ Kevin said. He looked tired, too tired to argue, and she could see this was something he had been thinking about for some time. ‘You remember all those months when we saw your mother falling apart...’

‘So I’m falling apart now?’

‘No, you’re not there yet,’ he said. ‘But I can see the start of it.’

Lindsay turned and stalked out of the bedroom, hearing Kevin give a long sigh. He didn’t follow, and she stayed up late that night, waiting until she could hear him snoring before she finally went to bed.

They said nothing about the conversation the next morning, but throughout that day, she thought about what he had said. He was right. Her moods had been all over the place during winter, and possibly longer. When they had uncovered their project manager’s incompetence, Lindsay had tried not to have hope. But hope had taken root, tucked away in a secret part of her heart. When the insurance company hadn’t acknowledged the substance of their complaint and left Rutherford assigned to their claim, that hope had splintered, stabbing her to the heart. The only thing they had to hang on to was the insurance company’s request that they point out the flaws in the scope of works. Kevin had since done exactly that, going through the scope and highlighting every single thing he could spot that was wrong. His report on the scope of works had gone to ten pages, and although he had sent it on to the insurance company weeks ago, they were still waiting to hear something. Anything. The wait had been messing too much with Lindsay’s head, she realised. She needed to fill the prescription and start taking better care of her mental health. Staying away from insurance paperwork might be a good idea.

That had been two months ago, and the first thing she had noticed about the antidepressant was that she slept better. Too well, at times, when she would nap in the afternoon after texting her mother to pick up the kids from school. She needed that sleep, she told herself, and she wouldn’t be on the drug forever.

Lindsay’s moods were more even lately, and she was starting to feel like her old self again. This was good, she wanted her old self making the major decisions she and Kevin faced, rather than her emotional self, second- and third-guessing all their decisions, overwhelmed by what-ifs and all the risks that would be heaped on them if their insurance company got its way.

The financial risk of the rebuild was being transferred from EQC and insurers to the homeowners of Christchurch. Lindsay could see that happening in their own lives.

The riskiest thing that could happen to Lindsay and Kevin was letting the repairs go ahead based on the current patch-it-up scope and then the repairs going badly as more and more damage was discovered. If the repairs ran on long enough, Lindsay and Kevin’s temporary accommodation allowance would run out, leaving them paying mortgage and rent while waiting to move back in. Even if the managed repair went well, Lindsay and Kevin would need to keep a very close eye on every step of the process, which would be as exhausting, if not more so, than the last five years. That was transferring the risk onto their children, who needed their parents’ attention. Olivia would be a teenager and at high school in another three years. Lindsay had missed out on too much with all her children because of having to deal with the insurance issues.

Most insurance companies were cash settling rather than managing repairs. Although Lindsay and Kevin’s insurance company had made them a cash offer in 2013, it hadn’t been enough to repair the house. And when Lindsay and Kevin hired their own engineer, the insurance company has taken that cash offer off the table, insisting they would get a managed repair. But now it seemed all the insurance companies wanted claims off their books and cash settling was the trend. Managing repairs was proving too expensive when homeowners insisted they be done properly, and cash settling was a way of transferring the risk of unknowns back to the homeowner.

If there was an offer, would they take it? The offer, especially based on the current scope, wouldn’t give them enough money to fix the house properly.

The EQC and insurance companies had been paid money to take on the risk of a natural disaster, yet their efforts weren’t going into meeting their obligations. Instead, they were furiously shovelling the risk back on to the people of Christchurch.

Suzanne had thought she would feel relief once Marjorie was gone, but instead her mother’s death had emptied everything from her heart and filled it with grief. She struggled to understand this, it had always been a contentious relationship, fraught with conflicting emotions for Suzanne. Her efforts to please her mother had never met with her love, or even the merest sign of approval.

It had happened quickly. Yes, Marjorie had been growing more and more frail, shrinking into an even tinier woman than she had been for all her adult life. At ninety-four years of age, it was obvious she wouldn’t be around much longer. But it had still been a shock to find her asleep in her favourite chair, eyes closed, facing out towards the stream. Well, asleep was what Suzanne had thought at first.

Andrew had been appointed Marjorie’s executor, which had provoked some mumbling from Suzanne’s younger sisters at the funeral, and from Tony, Suzanne’s son. No doubt there would be some arguments over Marjorie’s estate, but Suzanne didn’t care. They were arguing about things and things didn’t matter, not when someone who had been there Suzanne’s entire life was now gone. Strangely, though, Marjorie’s will had been clear that it should be Suzanne who went through her personal effects and determined who they should go to. She had been entrusted with something deeply personal, and that trust was very unlike her mother.

Suzanne had never thought of herself as a bad daughter. She was never rebellious when she was young, even though she had been young in the sixties, when rebelliousness was all the rage. As she grew older, she did her best to look after her mother, especially once her father had died. But it was never enough, nothing she had done ever gained Marjorie’s approval.

In the years since the quakes started, Marjorie had changed, almost softened, but it had been towards Andrew’s daughter, Alice. Suzanne had been jealous, she realised that now, and had judged the girl harshly as a result. Suzanne was her mother’s daughter after all, judging and weighing people, determining whether or not they deserved a role in her life. How could it be that a girl who had nothing to do with the Moorhouses for so long could gain Marjorie’s attention when Suzanne, who had been attentive and dutiful for so many years, could not?

She found a photo in her mother’s belongings, tucked into the back of an old book. It was of a girl and a young soldier and the back of the photo said ‘Kathy and Walter, October 1940’. They looked happy. The girl looked like Alice. She must have been Marjorie’s sister or cousin.

The family knew little of Marjorie’s background. The only family member she had ever mentioned by name was her brother Edward, who had died in the war when he was only nineteen years old. All the others had died in the Blitz, but Suzanne knew no names. Marjorie’s views of the world had been shaped by the war, that was clear, even if Suzanne was never party to the details. Marjorie had always refused to vote, saying governments only served themselves, as evidenced by the way they sent young men off to war, killing them outright or sending them home so damaged they would have been better off dead. They couldn’t make her vote and be part of their game, choosing one side over the other.

It had seemed to be the loss of her brother that had grieved her the most, even in light of the loss of the rest of her family. Yet here was this other young soldier with someone who was clearly related, the first glimpse Suzanne ever had of someone on Marjorie’s side of the family.

She went to see Gerald at his office and showed him the photo.

‘She does look like Alice,’ he agreed, smiling. ‘Such a lovely girl, I wonder who she was.’ He turned the photo over and read the inscription. ‘It’s Mother,’ he said.

‘What?’

‘The girl is Mother. Mother was Marjorie Kathleen. She must’ve been known by her middle name at some stage.’

‘So who was Walter? I thought she said her brother was Edward.’

He shook his head. ‘I don’t know. You know more than I do if you know her brother’s name.’

‘You knew her middle name,’ Suzanne pointed out. ‘I can’t believe I’ve never known that.’

The door opened and Alice said hello, came in and sat down in front of her computer. Gerald passed the photo to her.

‘This is Mother as a girl,’ Gerald said. Suzanne and Gerald peered intently at Alice to see if she would notice the resemblance.

‘Looks like Charlotte,’ Alice said and passed the photo back to Gerald.

‘Suppose it does, too,’ Gerald said, examining the photo once again. ‘We think she looks like you.’

Alice put her hand out and Gerald handed the photo back. ‘Suppose so,’ she said. ‘Charlotte and I get asked if we’re sisters.’

‘Look at the inscription,’ Suzanne said, and explained about Marjorie’s middle name.

‘Who’s Walter?’ Alice asked.

‘Her brother, we think,’ Gerald said.

‘No, that was Edward,’ Alice said. ‘She talked about how much she missed him.’

Suzanne felt that twinge of jealousy once again, that Marjorie had discussed these things with Alice. But she pushed that feeling to the back of her mind, her curiosity winning over her jealousy. ‘Is there any way we can find out for certain?’

Alice turned to her computer, brought up a webpage and typed in a search. ‘A friend of Mum’s has done some family history. Apparently a lot of British birth records are available online for free. What was her maiden name?’

‘Reeves,’ Suzanne and Gerald said at the same time. They only knew that because there was a Reeves Road in the neighbourhood they had grown up in.

Both of them stood behind Alice, watching what she was doing. She entered a search for Marjorie for births over the space of two years. There weren’t many results, and they each listed the mother’s maiden name. ‘From that we can search for her brothers and sisters,’ Alice said. She changed the search and the results showed five children: Marjorie, the oldest, then Edward, Gwendoline, Charles and Elizabeth.

‘No Walter,’ Suzanne said. ‘So who was Walter?’

‘No idea,’ Alice said, shaking her head.

Gerald was studying the photo and looked for a moment like something had occurred to him. He glanced over at Suzanne.

‘What?’ Suzanne asked.

‘Nothing,’ he said. He passed the photo back to Suzanne. ‘You keep it,’ he said. ‘She wanted you to have it.’

He was right. Marjorie had been specific about who should go through her belongings. ‘But why wouldn’t she tell us if she was going to leave this behind for us?’

‘Of course she never told us, that would be revealing a weakness,’ Gerald said.

It made sense. ‘But why leave the photo?’

He thought for a moment before answering. ‘Because she couldn’t bear to destroy it.’

It made no sense. She studied the photo once again and glanced up at Alice, who looked as happy as this young girl had been so many decades ago. That was what Marjorie had seen in Alice, a reflection of her former self, of someone she had left behind.

She asked Alice to email her the address for the website they were looking at, maybe she could find out more about Marjorie, about her parents or even her grandparents.

At home, Suzanne placed the photo up against her bedside lamp. She wanted to have it close. Marjorie had kept it all those years, and Marjorie had specified in her will that it was Suzanne who should go through her personal effects.

That night Suzanne couldn’t get to sleep from turning over in her mind all the questions she had about her mother’s family. She turned on the light and examined the photo again.

In the lounge she turned on her computer and visited the website Alice had sent her the address for. This time, she searched only for her mother, under her maiden name, from her date of birth right up until the end of the war. Listed were her birth, as expected, and two marriages. Two. The first was in the second quarter of 1940, to Walter Finlay. Finlay was Gerald’s middle name. Suzanne had always wondered where it came from, and now she knew. The photo was from a few months after her mother had married Walter Finlay, who must have died in the war. Marjorie had kept the photo for all these years because she had loved him and couldn’t bear to let him go.