Memory of Love (9781101603024) (5 page)

He is busy trying to wrap the beach towel around himself before struggling to his feet.

‘Ah . . .' he says, stumbling a little before standing in front of her with the towel around his hips. ‘Well, I'm sorry too. I thought I was alone here.'

Then he smiles.

He is tanned; obviously spends time outdoors. His hair is bleached by the sun, almost white. Curly, nearly reaching his shoulders.

‘Turn around and let me put my shorts on,' he says, and she obliges, lifting one foot then the other on the hot sand.

‘I was heading for the log over there,' she says, and starts off towards it, a few metres away. She sits down on the log and lifts her feet off the sand as he approaches and sits beside her. He holds out a bottle of water, which she accepts. She had not realised how thirsty she is. The cool water trickles over her chin and drips onto her chest.

He watches, smiling.

‘Never leave home without your water bottle,' he says. ‘That, and sunblock. Essential here.'

He is not a Kiwi. American, perhaps.

‘Oh, I didn't mean to walk this far,' she says. ‘I just wanted to get out of the car for a while. But then I started to walk along the sea, and somehow I just carried on . . .'

He looks out to sea.

‘It's easy to be carried away here. It sort of feels like you have the world to yourself. As if anything is possible.'

Now it is her turn to smile. And she nods. Because that is exactly how it feels.

His name is Michael. That is not how he spells it, but she doesn't know this yet.

He is a photographer. From Canada. On a job here.

What can she tell him? Who is she?

‘My name is Marion,' she says. She knows that much for certain. ‘Marion Flint. I'm here on a holiday, I suppose it is. A kind of holiday. Or a kind of hiatus. A pause in my life. Between one life and another.'

‘By yourself?' he asks, and she nods.

‘I just needed some time to myself . . .' She does not look at him.

He makes no comment.

‘Do you mind if I take a few shots?' he asks.

She laughs self-consciously.

‘Of me?'

He is already unpacking the camera. It looks expensive and professional.

She pulls her skirt down over her legs and hugs them.

‘Don't look at me,' he says. ‘Forget I'm here. Stay in that world of yours. Watch the sea.'

All the while he talks about his project. He is at the tail end of a nationwide tour, trying to capture life in the most isolated places along the coast. He hopes his pictures will portray the people who live in the outermost parts of the country, in the most distant places where land and sea meet. Those who live by the untameable sea, and off it.

‘A few years ago, I followed Norwegian trawlers in the North Sea. It's not the sea I am interested in, it's the people who have allowed the sea to guide their lives. Who have managed to create a life on the terms of the sea. To me, that's a little bit like embracing a spiritual or religious faith. A faith in something infinitely bigger than you and completely beyond your control. It takes courage to let go of yourself, accept that you are in the hands of something bigger. They fascinate me, these people. And I try to capture them in my pictures.'

He lowers the camera with a smile and a shrug.

‘It probably makes no sense.'

He returns the lens cap and puts the camera back in its bag.

‘Are you hungry?' he asks, as if to change the topic.

And she realises she is.

‘Yes, I really should head back to my car,' she says, and stands up.

‘Mine is probably closer,' he says. ‘Just up there, beyond the dunes. If you can eat barbecued crayfish with bread and salad, you're most welcome to share my lunch.'

They run quickly over the hot sand. The soles of her feet are burning but she feels light, as if carried on the wind.

‘Here, take this,' he says as they reach his car. He holds out a faded sunhat. The four-wheel drive is parked in the shade of a large tree. ‘You should be careful, the sun is dangerous here. Put it on. And turn around.'

She does and he rubs sunblock on her back and shoulders. His hand gently lifts her hair to reach her neck.

Who am I? she thinks. Who is this person who stands here, barefoot on a beach, allowing a stranger to rub her back and shoulders? Her neck and her arms? She smiles – can't help herself. She can't possibly be me. She is new and the world is new.

‘It's a pohutukawa,' he says, pointing upwards. ‘This tree that shades us. A month earlier and it would have been covered in red flowers. It's odd, but like jacaranda flowers they are hard to photograph. Never come out quite as extraordinary as the real thing. But I guess that goes for many things . . .'

He takes out a low folding chair for her, and she sits and watches him get the small barbecue going. He squats on the ground before her and while he is busying himself, he tells her about his long and winding journey through the country, from the Far North all the way down to Bluff and Stewart Island. And then back up along the West Coast. His back is tanned and tiny drops of sweat glisten along his spine.

He looks up and asks her where she has been.

‘Oh, nowhere really. I've just arrived.'

He nods and takes the lid off the chilly-bin he has unpacked from the car.

The crayfish is enormous. It looks like a large lobster, she thinks. And it's alive. He holds it up, laughing. She asks if she can use his camera and he nods. When she has it ready he poses happily holding the crayfish in his hand. Then he takes out a knife, holds the crayfish down on a piece of driftwood and kills it with a swift insertion of the knife in the neck. She is not sure if crayfish can be considered to have necks. The crayfish flounders a couple of times, then it is still. He splits it lengthwise and puts the two halves face down on the barbecue. While it cooks he makes a salad, wraps some bread in tinfoil and places it on the barbecue. All the while he rejects her offers of help. And all the while she keeps taking pictures. The powerful zoom takes her close to his face while he focuses on what he is doing. She clicks away. Picture after picture.

‘I've done this for so long, it's a routine that can't be altered,' he says, smiling. ‘I enjoy doing it myself. But don't let this fool you. This is the only cooking I do. I am hopeless in a normal kitchen.'

She laughs. She can hear the sound of her own laughter. It flows from inside her like the most natural thing. Where is it coming from? She is not aware of having heard it ever before.

They sit side by side in the low chairs, facing the sea and with their plates on their laps. The chilly-bin sits between them and on it are two cold beers.

She still has a feeling of floating, of not quite touching the ground. She closes her eyes against the sun.

Then she looks at him. She is not aware of having any thoughts at all. She is all lightness and light.

‘Why don't you join me for the last leg of my trip?' he says suddenly. ‘It's just for a couple of days. I have to be back in Auckland next week. I'll show you something you wouldn't find by yourself.'

She is helpless; she has nothing to hold her back.

‘If we're lucky the godwits will still be around.'

‘Godwits?'

‘Here they are called kuaka. They're a wading bird. They migrate here from Alaska every year, and then back at the end of summer. The longest non-stop bird migration there is. Apparently they cruise on the winds and manage without food or water all the way, up to ten days or more. Because they are wading birds they can't feed out on the sea. They have to reach land. A very risky undertaking, it seems to me. But somehow they manage it, year after year.'

He looks out over the sea and she studies his profile.

‘But that's not why I want to see this place. It's the place itself. That isolated peninsula ruled by the sea. I want to explore it. Feel it.'

He pauses.

‘It would be great if you came.'

‘Yes,' she hears herself say. ‘Yes, I would like that. I would like that very much.'

He turns and looks at her, a wide smile spreading over his face.

‘Great! That's settled then. Let's pack up, and go and get your car. The roads are narrow and winding and it will take us a while to get to Kawhia. There are a couple of motels there and we can have a decent meal. And a shower. But from there on we'll have to camp. Are you okay camping?'

She has never camped before, but she feels as if she can do anything.

So she nods. Yes, camping will be fine.

Nothing could be better.

6.

I was jumping ahead. Like a child who picks the brightest, most tempting Christmas present first, I had picked this memory. But there was so much that came before. So much that needed to fall into place for it all to become a coherent whole.

It was getting late and I realised he was not coming. I would be eating soup for days. I didn't mind, but for some reason I felt a little restless. I took the pot off the stove, got my windbreaker from the hook by the door and grabbed my camera, which always lay handy on the dresser by the front door. The white light was greying as a weak setting sun tried to penetrate low cloud. I walked briskly, a little cold at first. The beach was empty as far as my eyes could see. The odd gannet and seagull were the only signs of life. I aimed my camera at them and took a few shots. I wondered why – I had innumerable such shots. But there was something about the late afternoon light here that was irresistible. That, and the sight of the carefree, peaceful passage of birds across the sky. My futile hope of capturing the very essence of this moment. The tide was out and the packed sand was cool under my feet.

Watching the sea through the viewfinder I thought about what it had come to stand for. Coherence. To me, the sea had come to represent coherence. Wholeness. And resilience, perhaps. The sea allowed other elements to influence it temporarily, but it remained its own self. I longed for that kind of resilience. For a sense of wholeness. I wanted to know that whatever lay in store for me I would be able to remain myself. My whole self, containing everything I had ever been, and everything I had the potential to become.

I sat down at the edge of the grass. My eyes set on the sweeps of water that smoothed the sand in front of me and I clicked away, one similar yet different image after another. There was nothing on that beach that reminded me of anything else, anywhere else. It seemed to be absolutely itself, and eternal. Perhaps that was the attraction of it. This place didn't belong to me and it never would. My brief existence here would leave no traces at all. Yet when my eyes moved out to sea and followed the creation of one of the giant waves – watched it rise out of the deceptively smooth dark sea, rise higher and higher till it reached its impossible shimmering perilous climax, where it seemed to balance for a fraction of a second before violently breaking with a deafening thunder – I could feel how closely tied to this environment I had become. How much of my life belonged here. If not in time, then certainly in significance. It was here that my life's equivalent of that shimmering climax took place. My life's triumphant moment of unreserved love.

Yet all that came before it took place so very far away, just like the gathering of momentum of the waves.

Such a long, slow build-up.

Such an evanescent climax.

And such an endless aftermath.

I stood up and resumed my walk. I needed to go back, sift through my memories for the beginning. I needed to understand the whole. Follow the build-up from its origin.

I groped for my first conscious memory, made a concerted effort to work myself backwards in time. It felt odd, because as the memories drifted past I realised there were many more than I had ever imagined. They rewound like a slow-motion film, coming into focus then fading away again.

Until finally the film came to a stop. My first memory. I tried not to look, but to get inside it. I tried to be that little girl again.

She was so small. I could suddenly see that. In my memory she had seemed older. But now I was able to watch her with tenderness and embrace her smallness.

And see how vulnerable she was.

She walks behind her grandfather. She is barefoot, just like him. They walk slowly. Every now and then he stops and turns, sometimes to hold a branch out of the way, tear away a cobweb. Sometimes just to smile.

As the trees clear, they step out onto the sun-warm red rocks. It is still and the sun is warm on her skin. Grandfather turns again. She expects a smile. She is already smiling in anticipation. But there is no smile. Instead, Grandfather abruptly picks her up and his grip is tight, hurting under her arms as he hoists her into the air. She reaches for his neck and holds on hard as he takes a few quick steps and jumps up onto the planks of the landing. She can feel his heartbeat under the warm skin of his chest, hear his rapid breathing. He stands still for a moment, catching his breath. Then slowly he sets her down again, straightens her sundress and takes her hand. He crouches beside her and points to the rocks below. There are little drops of sweat on his forehead. His grip on her hand is too tight and she tries to prise her hand loose. In response his grip softens and she lets her hand remain in his.

‘There, Marianne,' he whispers, his eyes on the smooth rock that they have just left. She doesn't like Grandfather whispering.

‘Can you see it?' He waits for her to nod. She can see it. It looks like a long thin sausage that is slowly uncoiling, grey against the reddish-grey rock and difficult to spot. Glistening in the sun now and soundlessly gliding over the smooth surface. She can see the dark zigzag band that runs along its back.

‘That's a snake,' he says. Then he pauses, as if he needs to think a little. ‘Beautiful, isn't it?' Again he waits, and she understands that he is waiting for her to agree. She doesn't think it's beautiful but she nods again.

‘But if you scare it, it might bite you.' The slowness of grandfather's speech is frightening: every pause, every moment of hesitation bringing her closer to tears.

‘Snakes are very shy,' he continues. ‘Very easily frightened. They should be left alone.'

He takes hold of both her hands and turns her to face him. He looks into her eyes. She doesn't like it. It feels as if something is wrong, and Grandfather can't make it right again.

‘If ever you see one, just walk quietly away. Will you remember that, Marianne?' She nods. Swallows hard. But she can no longer hold back the tears.

‘You're not afraid, are you?' Grandfather says and runs his rough palm over her cheeks to wipe away the tears. She shakes her head but she is not sure. ‘There's no reason to be. Just leave them alone.' He smiles. And she nods. But somewhere inside she is scared now. Because she can sense that Grandfather is.

‘Good girl. All you have to remember is to take care not to scare snakes. Always look where you walk. We must give snakes their space and they will let us have ours.'

He lifts her up again and now his hands are soft and gentle. As they usually are. She presses her face into his neck. He holds her in his arms as he sits down on the landing, then slides into the dinghy.

And everything is back to normal. She can smell the sun on her grandfather's chest. He smiles as he sets her down and takes hold of the oars. But she can still see the sweat on his forehead.

‘Let's row across the bay. And when we get back home we'll have raspberry cordial and rusks.' He smiles and the oars make soft little splashes as he begins to row.

But there is a snake on the rocks behind them.

Now, why this single scene? I must have been almost four. I turned four in September that year and this was early summer. Of all the days of my early childhood, this was what came to my mind. Why had I saved this? I remembered vividly every detail of it. Yet nothing that came before.

I remembered how my grandfather's hands felt. The pang of surprise at his tight grip under my arms. The rapid breathing near my ear. In an instant he was changed. Irrevocably different. My entire world was changed. Abruptly, it had come to contain things that could frighten the one person who had always made my world safe. And if he was afraid, so was I.

I searched for other early memories.

I searched for my mother. The search took me through many boxes, many rooms. Elusive, she seemed to be everywhere and nowhere, an all-permeating fragrance rather than a body. She was there, but I couldn't hold on to her long enough to see her clearly. She came and went, disappeared around corners. It was her absence I remembered more than her presence.

Until that final scene. I knew I could see her there, but I wanted other pictures. Other memories, earlier. It was a timeline I was after. One scene, one memory at a time. In the right order.

As I searched, another scene emerged. And I could see that it was connected of course. Here, I was five, almost six. The two years separating the scenes had left no traces, it seemed. But perhaps this was the beginning. The origin of all that was to come. Perhaps that was why it was emerging so clearly. Perhaps I had saved it because it represented the beginning.

It seemed to me that despite my lack of conscious overview, some kind of mechanism in my mind must have selected and saved some memories and discarded others. For at the time when these events took place I could not possibly have been aware of their significance.

The five-year-old who could not quite reach the window without standing on a stool could have had no idea of what was to follow. Not that anybody else could have either. But in hindsight it was there to see, sharply and clearly. Till that day, I had lived in a world where place was a given and time didn't exist. Abruptly, here I came to understand that there was an outside.

Perhaps it was natural for me to remember the moment that propelled me outside.

She stands by the upstairs bedroom window and waits for her mother to arrive. She is too short to see without standing on something. She has prepared herself, pushed up a chair and climbed onto it. She must have known that Mother was coming. She is tense. Not with excitement: it is an instinctive reaction to an undefined threat. She is perched there, waiting. Has she been here for a long time? Perhaps. It feels like a long time. It is a still and sunny day, and a fly is trapped inside the window. It is buzzing as it slowly crawls along the window ledge, and every now and then it makes a tired attempt to fly, shorter each time. She waits, more and more anxious. She needs to pee, but she can't leave now. She can hear a car, though she can't yet see it.