Opportunity (23 page)

It was trite, and the text was mad. I didn't know which I
disliked more, the manhandled insects or the distorted
women's faces. Francis, I learned, had a 'growing reputation',
both in New Zealand and overseas. At the end of the book was
a page of endorsements. Boyce Drown, a 'well-known figure
in the art world', praised the originality of Francis's work. His
former art teacher, Mrs Craig Barrymore, was quoted as
saying, 'Of all my pupils, Gerald Francis was the one with the
spark.' And performance artist and poet Aslan D. Basmac
praised 'Gerald Francis's absolute dedication to his craft'.

It was sad; of his distinguished family, he was obviously the
non-achiever, the oddball. With his 'book' he sought to
include himself in the Francis pantheon, as a great artist.

It was sad but it presented me with a problem: what was I
to say when I gave the book back?

'Just chuck it back, say, "Maarvellous", and dash off quick,'
Scott said. 'Simple.' He never had a problem with that kind of
thing.

'What a nightmare,' Rachel had said, laughing on the
phone.

'I said I'd "study" it,' I said. 'Oh, God.'

***

I put off having to meet him. I walked the girls down the side
of the neighbours' tennis court on the way to school, to avoid
his house. He would know I was evading him. I kept away
from him for two days. Meanwhile the book lay, resplendent
in its green and gold binding, on our coffee table.

I was heading for the shortcut when I saw him standing by
the wire fence. He was holding a camera. He saw me. I
hesitated, but I couldn't turn away now he'd seen me. I hustled
the girls on.

I said, 'Hello! I must give you your book.'

The girls looked up, surprised by my tone.

'You've had a chance to . . .'

'It's very interesting,' I said.

He drew me aside, glancing at the girls. He put his head on
one side and said, in a sanctimonious whisper, 'We're pretty
straightforward, the Francises. Just an ordinary working
family. Nothing fancy. Nowhere near as accomplished as your
people.' He looked sideways.

'We're not all that wonderful,' I said, edging away.

'Thank you for taking the time . . .' he came closer, '. . . to
study my work.'

'It's a pleasure. I'll pop it in your letterbox.'

He came closer still. 'Now that we understand each
other . . .'

I knew what he was going to say.

'If you would just put pen to paper. Your thoughts on my
work would be greatly appreciated.'

'You mean to stick in the endorsements bit?' I couldn't hide
how I felt.

'We artists . . .'

'I'm just a freelance photographer. I take pictures for the
Listener
. My opinion's not important.'

'People know your work. And perhaps your husband might
care to . . .'

'We're running late for school.'

I'd exhausted what little cool I had. I pushed the girls ahead.
At the end of the path I turned. He was looking after us,
lowering his camera, as if he'd just taken a picture of us
hurrying away.

I said to Scott, 'He wants you to put a word in too.'

'Well, that's easy. I'll just tell him I've got no eye. I'm the
visual equivalent of tone deaf.'

'He's probably listened to you doing arts programmes on
the radio.'

'Don't worry about it. Don't complicate things. Just put the
book in his box and if he asks for more go all vague.'

The next day I put the book in an envelope and left it in
Gerald's letterbox.

It was Saturday. In the afternoon I was trying to free a kite
that Sophie and Sarah had got tangled around the struts of the
back deck. I had to hang off the deck to get at it. I ripped my
fingernail on the nylon, and fell down onto the grass below.
The nail was agony.

'Oh, fuck fuck
fuck
.'

Scott leaned out the top window. 'What are you doing?'

'I've broken my bloody
nail
.'

'Jesus!' Scott slammed the window. He was trying to work.

I lay on the grass. I looked up. Gerald was standing on his
balcony. He had his camera hung around his neck. He was
standing very still.

'There's no need for that kind of language,' he said.
Gerald was sitting in his red hatchback at the top of the drive.
I hurried, hoping to get by, but he got out of the car. He had
his camera around his neck.

He said, 'Have you seen the crime stats? There were two
burglaries in this street last week.' He tapped the camera. 'Any
strange cars that stop, I make a note. Any suspicious behaviour.
Someone's got to keep an eye out.'

'We're lucky we've got you to do it.' I looked away.

'No one else is going to, are they?'

I didn't say anything.

He came closer. 'I like to help people. Most people don't
help others. They can't be bothered.'

'No.'

'I'm not trying to save the world. Not like you and your
sister. Goodness me. You've got some big ideas. Quite
impressive. I hope I can play a small part. In a quiet way.' He
jigged and stared, squeezing his hands together. 'They talk
about community. But who cares any more?'

He looked at Sophie and Sarah. 'Where are the
values
?' he
said.

I said goodbye. We walked away. I didn't turn around. I wondered
whether he was taking our picture. When we were out of earshot I swung the
girls' hands and laughed.

***

Sarah had turned six. We had a birthday party with ten of her
friends. It went well, but afterwards she was overwrought. She
couldn't find one of her presents and she stood on the deck,
screaming that we'd taken it away from her. Sophie was upset
too, and set up a wail, then she fell and banged her head on
the rail. We managed to soothe them both and get them into
bed.

That evening Scott and I sat on the deck drinking wine. We
were tired and we ended up having an argument. It blew up
out of nothing. I said something negative about his family. He
said something bad about mine. I was angry; he marched
upstairs shouting at me to 'Fuck off'. I swore back.

The next morning we made it up and peace reigned until I
discovered that Sarah had headlice, which she'd caught at
school twice already. We had to go to the chemist for the special
shampoo and wash her hair, which made her wail loudly, and
comb her with the nit comb, which made her scream.

I sat on the floor with her, soothing her.

'God. It's a war zone,' Scott said. He smiled wearily, holding
Sophie in his arms. He kissed the top of her head.

We went to the beach. In a café the woman behind the
counter said to Scott, 'Oh, hello!' Then she realised she only
knew him from TV. She laughed and blushed. He was
charming with her. He shook her hand, and showed off the
girls. She praised their beauty and charm.

'Lovely to meet you. Marvellous,' he told her as we left.

It was a beautiful day, and we stayed on the beach most of
the afternoon.

When we got back Gerald was sitting in his car, writing in
his notebook. Scott waved, but Gerald only stared.

***

Gerald was bobbing about at the top of the drive. He came
towards us. My car was at the garage. I was going to take
Sophie to the doctor in Scott's car, then pick Sarah up from
school. I saw him point his camera.

I was struggling to carry Sophie and my bag and some gear
of Sarah's. 'Hello,' I said.

He smiled. He hunched his shoulders. He looked as though
he was bursting with a delicious secret.

'Have you just taken my picture?' I sounded more aggressive
than I'd intended. I was harassed. Sophie was feverish. She
started to cry. She'd been throwing up all morning.

He said, mechanically, 'Do you think the police come?'

'What?'

'If there's a burglary . . . They don't come. Someone has to
collect the evidence.'

'Why is a picture of me evidence?'

He rocked with a sudden funny little laugh. 'Oh ho. You
think people want to photograph you. Because your family's
so interesting.'

I felt ridiculous. 'Did you take my picture or not?'

He looked beyond me. His expression changed. He began
waving, robotically, like a man on the tarmac directing a
plane. A council car stopped at the kerb. Behind it, a tow-truck
pulled in and parked.

Scott's car was where he'd left it the night before, parked
crooked and partly blocking the drive, although there was
room to come in and out. A company driver had picked him
up that morning.

Gerald frowned. He assumed an official, severe tone. 'This
is the vehicle,' he said to the warden. He pointed at Scott's car.
At the warden's signal the towie got out and began to fiddle
with the car window.

I hitched Sophie up on my hip and lumbered over. 'That's
my car. What are you doing?'

'It's an illegal park,' the warden said.

I rounded on Gerald. 'Did you ring them? Why?'

'Take your medication,' he said, looking slyly up at the sky.

'I'll move the car.'

The warden nodded and gestured at the towie, who got
back in his truck and drove away.

'I'll still have to write a ticket.'

'But I'm going to move it!'

'It's out of my hands,' the warden said. 'The offence has
been committed.'

I went on arguing. Behind me, Gerald said, 'Take your
medication.'

I turned to him.

'Why are you doing this?'

'Take your medication,' he repeated. He rocked on his
heels. He wouldn't look at me. He stared, enthralled, at the
warden.

The warden handed me the ticket. I dragged Sophie into
the car. She was wailing. I drove away fast, screeching the
wheels.

I rang Scott. He said, 'The man's unbalanced. We'll have to
be diplomatic. Don't take him on.'

'I haven't
taken him on
. I haven't done anything to him.'

'Let's just try to keep the heat out of things,' he said
carefully.

'I'm trying to deal with him. I'm not creating the problem.'

'I'm sure we can approach it all in a rational way.'

'Are you suggesting I'm not rational?'

We argued. I thought he was making out it was my fault.

***

It's a war zone
, Scott said. Families: how they reverberate
with crashes and screams. I was in a café, drinking coffee and
thinking about the last few weeks. Sophie had been sick again.
Sarah came home with another infestation of nits. Sophie
recovered; Sarah got sick. They both cried in the night and
needed to be soothed. Sophie insisted on coming into our
bed. She screamed and kicked when I tried to give her her
antibiotic. They fought with each other, and broke things.
Scott was overworked, yet got up every night to one or other
child. The lights were always on in our kitchen as we scurried
to and fro, like ghosts . . .

My cellphone rang. A woman said, 'Ms Davis? My name is
Mary Michaels. I'm a social worker. I have to inform you there
has been a notification about your children.'

According to Gerald's complaint, the children were 'running
wild'. They 'weren't provided with guidance or restraint'.
He was concerned about the 'values' they were being taught.
The household was a bedlam of 'swearing and noise'. The
parents could be heard making 'frequent threats of violence'.
The children were often 'locked in their rooms, pleading for
release'. The mother was an 'abusive control freak'. Although
he couldn't confirm it, he believed she was 'on medication'.

We talked through the night while the children were asleep.
We went over it again and again.

'You could go and talk to him,' I said.

'That might make it worse.'

'We're just helpless, then.' I was knotted up with rage. 'I'll
go and talk to him.'

'No!'

'Well, what then?'

Scott rolled over. 'He's mad. They'll realise it. They'll do
what they do, and then it will be over. We have to keep calm.'

I paced around the room. 'I am calm.'

I woke in the night wondering what was wrong. I remembered.
I lay awake for a long time, then I slept and my dreams were edged with anxiety,
with the fear that no one would listen or believe. Where there's smoke there's
fire, people say. Mud sticks. And what about Scott's career?

***

The social workers were coming to the house. We waited. I
had tidied. Then untidied. Too much neatness, I thought,
might signify a 'control freak'.

I smoothed the children's hair. Scott squeezed my arm.
'Ready?' he said. 'Remember. Act natural!'

They were knocking on the door. I laughed nervously. My
throat closed over.

There were two of them, the woman who had rung me, and
a man. The children sat demurely on the floor, playing with
Lego. I put Sarah's school report on the table.

'Oh, we've rung the school and kindergarten,' Mary
Michaels said.

'You've
told
them?'

'They both said your children were delightful. Intelligent.
Happy. Well behaved. In fact, they couldn't believe I was
ringing.'

We both started talking at once. 'Well, of course. Gerald is
mad. Seriously mad. None of what he says is true . . .'

The man said, 'We hear all kinds of stories. From all sides.'

Scott said, 'We are absolutely furious. We have instructed a
lawyer. We intend to sue him. And we want you to prosecute
him for making a false complaint.'

The man held up one hand. 'We have a procedure to
follow.'

'You can see this is a malicious complaint.'

'We get told all kinds of things.'

There was a silence.

The man leafed through a file. 'We're running police and
domestic violence checks. I assume we won't find anything
there?'

'Jesus. Of course not!'

I rushed in, 'You should investigate
him
. He had a book of
photos. He wanted me to write an endorsement in it. He
patrols the neighbourhood looking for burglars. He . . .'