Charlie and Pearl (5 page)

Did I mention I live with my mum? She’s a great mum, the best really. It’s been just her and I forever, my dad sailing away on a fishing trip
shortly
before I
made my arrival into this world,
and being lost at sea
in a terrible storm
. Ok,
so that might be a touch dramatic, and
ok
so it
might
have been his car rather than a boat
that he hit the horizon in
, and he wasn’t
lost
per say, he just went away and chose never to come back.

I made up a million different versions when I was a kid and people asked me where my dad was.
The
y
usually received a variation on one of the following stories:
Lost at sea, a member of the secret service that was
so secret
he wasn’t allowed to see even us.
My father was a
Rock star like Axl Rose (I may have even
implied
Axl Rose) that my mum had an affair with
, or he was
a
n astronaut who
had become
trapped in a
time/
space continuum, (even though I didn’t then and still have no idea what a space continuum is).

Mum works at the mill I mentioned earlier, in the office doing the payroll and stuff. She doesn’t like going to the pub so much because the guys are always querying their hours and sick pay after a few beers and arguing that yes, they did so have
five
grandmothers who all died in the last year and whose week long
T
angis
/funerals
they had to attend. She deals with enough of that at work.

She’s sacrificed a lot for me over the years. Money, Time, relationships, her body (the last one she likes to point out when I make fun of her jumping to Zumba in front of the TV – “You’re the reason my stomach sits on my knees and my boobs
look like socks full of sand!”)
. I told Mike once and he said that if his mum ever mentioned her breasts to him he would hurl, so I know our relationship is pretty unique.

Which is why I can’t understand why I’m reluctant to tell her about Pearl. Telling Pete felt ok, because I knew it wouldn’t really mean anything to him, but if I told mum she would get excited and want to meet her. She worries about my love life prospects in this small town. She wanted me to go to University, make lots of crazy lifelong friends, get drunk, burn sofas, run through town in my underwear. She was still hoping I would go and made little comments every now and then, (“Oh,
look at this job advertised in the Sunday Herald. You get your own car, a travel allowance and a whopping great salary, oh wait, hang on...” she pretended to read the fine print, “you need a degree. Bugger. Sorry to get your hopes up there love.”
)

She’s a comedian.

PEARL

Went to the local farmers market on the weekend
to get out of the house for awhile. Had barely been there five minutes when who should I see?
Charlie. I’d nearly browsed my way round the small market held on the
field
of the local primary school. I normally love Farmers markets, you can find some real treasures, but this was a disappointment. Mainly
stands selling
homemade
cauliflower and dill
pickles and
scented
soaps (
an overwhelming smell of
lavender
lingered,
which I can’t
stand
).
C
rafts made out of driftwood and shells with little
cheery
faces painted on. I mean really, who decorates their house with this stuff?
Knitted tea cosies
and door stops
, potted ferns
and herbs
in bright hand painted pots.

I spotted him a mile off, standing with his back to me and chatting to a
beautiful Maori
woman behind a stall selling vegetables. I felt a pang of
jealousy
in my ribs and
wondered where the hell it had come from. Why was I was jealous of Charlie was talking to another girl? Don’t you have to have feelings for someone to invoke such a strong emotion such as jealousy?

Dammit.

It was a very nice back, broad shoulders tapering down to his waist. His T-Shirt was a little snug so you could see he had
little
love handles. His hair was liberally gelled as usual. I found myself wondering what it would feel like without all that stuff in it, imagined running my fingers through, inhaling his scent. I was still imagining it when he turned around and saw me
staring, which made me angry. Last thing I wanted to do was let hi
m think I was interested in him
.

Then he
smiled that smile at me. Oh god his lips, they were very ki
ssable lips. A dark ruby colour; merlot
. I remembered how they felt on mine.

The power of attraction is a mystical thing. I see no rhyme nor reason in my past attractions, I just know
it
when I feel it.
And oh
am I now feeling it
with Charlie.
Damn kiss.

But just as my left foot stepped forward to start leading me over to him I remembered why I was here at the
beach
and I did a quick 180 degree turn and walked the other way, avoiding him while I finished checking out the last few stalls then quickly
headed
home.

Later, I was startled to catch
a glimpse of myself in the bathroom mirror
and see that
I was
smiling, a pretty dopey smile
. Come to think of it, it
reminded me of
a grin that I’d seen not too long ago on a blue eyed curly haired boy who lived not too far away.

CHARLIE

I can’t concentrate on anything. Not work, not books, not the TV, nothing. People are suspicious of the permanent smile attached to my face.

“What’s wrong with you boy?” one regular old guy asked
suspiciously
. “Why are you smiling like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like you won Lotto or something”

I just smiled my s
mile. My Pearly smile.

“
Eh, you didn’t win the Lotto did you?” he asked, “Cause if you did would you mind loaning me a few thousand, I got
some stuff
need
s
do
ing
up
around
the house” and he looked at me expectantly.

Even w
hen I realised he was serious and denied it he thought I was holding out on him and got all huffy and started a rumour which meant for the next couple of weeks people kept coming into the shop and asking me for loans and oh, the sob stories I heard.

I just couldn’t help it. Every time I pictured her face I smiled. And seeing as I pictured her face about once every two seconds you can see why I did a hell of a lot of smiling.

At night, in bed, I would close my eyes and remember how her face looked when she reached up and kissed me, her eyes closed, her nose wrinkled softly, the feel of her lips (a little dry and scratchy actually, but I didn’t let that ruin the memory).

I wanted her more than anything I ever wanted in my life, including the action-man-soldier-complete-with-parachute figurine I wanted for Christmas when I was ten, and I wanted that a LOT.

PEARL

Today I feel like I turned a
small corner, spiritually speaking.

I’m not normally a spiritual person. I don’t do grand, dramatic gestures or believe in signs. So I’m
almost
reluctant to claim what happened this afternoon as anything of the sort
but for lack of a better word, let’s leave it as that
.

It was another fine day
at the beach
. The sun was out. There’s no real heat in an autumn sun. It doesn’t burn you or cause you to sweat profusely, give you heatstroke or make you want to jump into the ocean every five minutes.

You can
bask
in
an
autumn sun for hours
and all it will do is warm you, right
through to the marrow in your bones.  A deep, radiating warmth. It’s very addictive.

Lulled by the peace and the warmth I dozed in the swinging chair, stretched out, one foot on the deck pushing myself back and forth in a light rocking motion.

I could hear the waves gently washing up on the shore. The occasional plane overhead, the cry of a gull.

It was like a thousand perfect days rolled into one.

Then it started to rain, an autumn sun shower, fat drops splashing on the deck, slow and far apart at first then getting faster and closer together. I started trying to grab everything, the seat cushions, my magazines, the towel and pillow
still
laid out from where I’d sunbathed a little earlier. All I was wearing was a light dress; a cheap
navy and floral
thing from Glasson’s that absolutely everyone had worn last summer. When the rain soaked
through the
dress and first touched my
warmed skin I gasped and squealed because it was a shock, cold
like someone had
run
an ice cube
over
the back of my neck
. I
generally
dislike rain
, though not with any real passion. Simply, r
ain is the natural enemy of any girl who starts each day in a battle with her hair straighteners.  

From over the fence I
heard squeals, higher pitched
than my own, children. The squeals became mingled with laughter and cries of joy and I couldn’t help it; I tiptoed to the fence and peered through a crack
in the boards
. Next door
,
children were
making the most of
the sudden downpour, the girls holding hands and dancing in a circle, their hair wet and plastered to their beaming faces. The boys, as boys do, were splashing each other and jumping in a growing puddle.

I wiped the water out of my eyes. My
natural instinct
when the rain started
had been to
seek shelter. The
se children, they
had
seized
it as
an opportunity to have fun.

When was the last time I had any fun?

Done anything crazy?

Was I still even capable of having
fun?