Second Chances (13 page)

‘Nobody mentioned this in the interview.’

‘They certainly should have. You can do the paper largely by correspondence.’

‘Okay. Sign me up.’

‘Remind me.’ Her pen ran across the pages of her desk diary. ‘Your start date is . . .?’

‘The fifth of December.’

‘Can’t you begin earlier?’

‘No,’ I said firmly, crossing my arms. ‘Sorry, but I did make this clear in my interview. I start once my boys turn five and go to school.’

Her lips thinned. ‘I shall be on leave. As you know, Nelson is a private health care provider. Capeview is our flagship facility . . .’

I glanced at the clock. Already ten fifteen. I imagined Sacha alone in the common room: snubbed, shunned, pretending to read the notices. I longed to be with her.

At last, Lillian rose and preceded me into the corridor. ‘The other OT is out this morning, as are several of the team, because much of our input is in the clients’ home or work environments. We’ll have to create a space for you. Your position has been empty for so long that your office has become—’

‘A rubbish dump,’ growled a male voice, and a face appeared from a door to our left. It was smooth and folded, like melting cheese.

‘Keith Emmerson. Clinical psychologist,’ whispered Lillian, somehow making it sound as though she was introducing the local flasher, complete with dirty mackintosh.

Keith advanced with an extended hand. He’d be fifty or so, and there wasn’t a lot of hair left. I counted at least three chins. In fact, it was impossible to say where chins ended and neck began. He sported a red tie with yellow teddy bears, and a stomach that cantilevered dangerously over his belt. It was all a joyous contrast to Lillian’s insipid resentment.

‘How are you finding New Zealand?’

‘Loving it.’ I took his hand.

‘And how’s your family settling in?’

‘Um, absolutely. Never looked back. What a great place to bring up kids.’

He didn’t let go of my hand. In fact, I felt the pressure increase. ‘Crap,’ he pronounced. ‘You’ve airdropped—what, three children?—way out of their comfort zone. You’ve left everything and everyone that matters to you. You’ve suffered a massive bereavement—and you expect me to believe you’ve never looked back? Come
on
!’

With a grimace of relief, I capitulated. ‘Okay. I’ve got homesickness like toothache, comes in waves. My daughter’s really struggled. This morning when I dropped her at school I wished we’d never come. But we’re still here.’

‘Better.’ He released my fingers.

Lillian was shifting restlessly. ‘Well, Keith. I’ll leave Martha in your capable hands.’

The facilities were impressive and my guide generous with his time. He was clearly popular. People stopped to chat, and I discovered that he himself had four daughters.

‘Luckily we’ve got a male guinea pig,’ he said, leading me past the swimming pool. ‘I can always go and have some blokes’ bonding time with him. I gather you’ve a special interest in head injury?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Great. Just what we’re needing.’ He held a door open for me as we stepped outside. ‘Our sensory garden! I’m proud of this, because it’s my baby.’

The garden was an inspiration. Covering perhaps a quarter of an acre and criss-crossed with looping paths, it was a wonderland of scented plants, of texture and colour. Water bubbled calmly out of clay pots; bamboo tubes hung in trees, tolling and clicking gently. Keith and I paused for a moment on a wooden bench, inhaling the scent of rosemary. Far across a periwinkle bay stretched the pale cliffs of Cape Kidnappers.

‘Quite a sight, isn’t it? Kidnappers looks different every day,’ said Keith, following my gaze. ‘Sometimes you could almost reach out and touch it. You might know the story? No? It’s named after an attempt by Maori to kidnap a servant from Captain Cook’s ship, the
Endeavour
. Nowadays you can ride a tractor along the beach and visit the gannet colony at the end. Your kids’ll have a ball.’

At lunchtime he walked me to my car. ‘Your predecessor claimed to love it here,’ he said seriously. ‘She was English too. Came out with a husband and baby. Guess how long she lasted?’

‘I don’t think I’m going to like the answer to that question.’

‘You’re not.’ He leaned hefty forearms on the open door. ‘Six weeks, from landing to take-off.’

‘Six weeks!’

‘Turned their container around in Napier port. It never got off the dock.’

‘Blimey. What did you do to her, Keith?’

He rubbed his chins. ‘They were homesick. It was too big a change, and it wasn’t necessary. They weren’t running
from
anything, or
to
anything.’

‘Neither are we,’ I said, as he shut my door.

Perhaps I needn’t have worried. Sacha’s first week at school was a roaring success. She hit it off with a girl called Tabby, liked the teachers and found the bus journey useful for getting her homework done. Her class, Year Eleven, were in the run-up to their equivalent of GCSEs, and as Sacha had already passed hers she could take things easy. We spent the first weekend smartening up the smoko hut, ready for when our furniture arrived.

‘A load of us are going to sleep in here after their exams are finished,’ she said as we whitewashed the walls together.

‘Both sexes?’

‘Well, der.’

‘Boys sleep in the house,’ I said.

‘Why?’

‘Well,
der.
’

She laid an innocent hand on her heart. ‘Mum! Don’t you trust me?’

One afternoon after school, she went into Napier with Tabby and some sidekicks. They wanted to show her the shopping scene. It worked out well, because Kit and the Colberts were in town too, and brought her home. They’d been visiting a gallery in Napier; the manager had looked at Kit’s small landscapes and promptly agreed to exhibit them.

Jean and Pamela stayed for a celebratory drink—‘Here’s to your glittering success, Kit’—and persuaded Sacha to parade her new outfits. They were bright, flimsy little slip-like dresses, and ballooning miniskirts.

‘I hope the weather improves soon,’ said Jean dryly. ‘Or you will most certainly die of cold.’

Pamela asked about the new friends. When Sacha mentioned Tabby, she nodded calmly. ‘Tabby Mills? Ah, yes. I know her grandmother. Very sporty family.’

‘You see?’ Jean’s eyebrows had leaped up high. ‘Everyone knows everyone around here. There’s no escape.’

Kit topped up the Colberts’ glasses, which were already half full. Then his own, which was empty. Then he caught my eye, and set the bottle down on the table with a dull thud.

It was a couple of days later that I found Sacha outside the school gates, surrounded by the St Trinians’ lacrosse team: svelte, chattering creatures all carrying mobile phones and not a smidgen of flab.

Sacha introduced about five of them as I levered myself out of the car, feeling unfit and untrendy. I didn’t get all the names—Tabby, Jade and, er, some others. The team chorused ‘Hi’ in cheery unison, showing orthodontist-perfect teeth. Tabby—clearly queen—was a real head-turner, with russet hair in an immaculate French plait and a waist you could have fitted through the eye of a needle. I’ll wager she had on the same tartan skirt she’d worn in Year Nine. It was probably knee-length then, but it was scarcely worth wearing now and revealed the concave thighs of a catwalk model. Her courtiers were variations on the same glamorous theme.

Tarts
, whispered Mum, and for once I agreed with her.
Gaggle of stick insects!

They were confident, well-brought-up stick insects though, and made polite conversation until their buses arrived. Queen Tabby did big hugs with Sacha, and made her promise to be on Facebook that evening.

‘So,’ I began bouncily, as we headed out of town. ‘You’re settling in brilliantly.’

‘Yep.’

‘You’re still alive.’

‘Yep.’

‘Nice girls?’

‘Yep.’ Sigh. ‘Nice girls. Tabby does fashion modelling.’

‘Hmm. Too thin.’

‘You can’t be too thin. They’re having a sleepover this weekend. I don’t really want to go.’

‘Oh?’ I was puzzled by her lack of enthusiasm. ‘Sounds like fun. Did you find out about the orchestra?’

‘Mm-hm. I can start anytime.’

‘Flute lessons?’

‘For God’s sake! Yes, flute lessons.’

‘C’mon, doll, talk to me. You look like you’ve swallowed a wasp. What’s up?’

‘I’m fine.’ She didn’t look fine.

‘They all want to know you. That’s good, right?’

‘Only because I’m the new kid on the block.’ She picked at her hem, mouth quavering. ‘They know nothing about me. They’ve never been to England. They’re not interested in where I’ve come from or who I really am. I’ve never watched any of their soap operas, nor do I want to, nor do I care how the New Zealand netball team is doing or which boy Tabby is dating this week. I don’t play a sport and I’m never ever ever going to a gym. So where does that leave us?’

‘I know what you mean.’ The wind was gone from my sails. I thought of Lou, who’d shared my childhood. At that moment I missed her more than I could possibly have imagined.

‘They’re nice people, but they aren’t
my
people,’ said Sacha. ‘They’ll never be my people.’

‘Give them time. Get a little common history.’

She’d curled up in her seat like a small child, and I wondered what had rattled her. We were weaving through the hills when she finally told me. ‘Ivan’s going out with somebody.’

I pulled into a gateway as the sad story came tumbling out. My poor girl. She’d checked her emails at lunchtime—it was against the rules, but everyone did it.

‘He didn’t want me to find out from anyone else,’ she gulped. ‘And he was just in time because straight after his, three other people had messaged me on Facebook. I was using a computer in the library and I was just staring at the screen, feeling sick, and everyone was going, “What’s wrong, what’s wrong?” I just couldn’t face them all feeling sorry for me so I ran down the playing field and just about screamed. I mean, we agreed we should both move on, and I’ve been gone three months now, but . . .’ She dissolved into sobs. ‘I want to go home. I want to see Grandpa.’

I turned out of the driveway and drove on, wishing I could fix this for her. I felt stricken. A thought was fluttering in my mind, enticing and mischievous: I was wondering whether it was possible to turn our container around in the port and send it home. Perhaps I could get my job back and stick up two fingers at ghastly Lillian. All the way to Patupaiarehe I dreamed, picturing the joyful scene as Dad and Louisa met us at Heathrow.

Instead Kit met us by the car, almost dancing with suppressed delight. He had two pieces of news. The first was that the gallery had sold three of his paintings. Kit had to pay a hefty commission and the balance wouldn’t make us rich, but it was a spectacular start and they were asking for more.

The second bulletin should also have been music to my ears. He’d had a call from the removal company. Our container had made it through customs at the Port of Napier. It had been held up by biosecurity but was in their warehouse now and would arrive at Patupaiarehe first thing on Saturday morning.

It was too late to turn it around.

Twelve

The twins were on watch straight after breakfast that Saturday, ploughing Dinky car roads in the dry mud at the top of the drive. As I hung up washing nearby, they discussed which of their long-lost toys they’d play with first. Charlie planned to tip Lego all over the floor and make the biggest plane in the world—big as a real one—
this
big! Finn was salivating at the prospect of riding his bike. Before we left England he’d already graduated from stabilisers, which was a source of much chest-puffing.

November had begun, and brought us a fine spring day. Muffin lay stretched on her side, snoring in the sun. Sacha came wandering across the gravel wearing a red halterneck top and denim shorts. Ivan’s locket still hung around her neck. As she walked she was filming us with the pocket-sized video camera I’d been given as a leaving present.

‘I’m making a DVD for everyone at home,’ she explained. ‘Uncle Philip’s idea.’

‘Swing me, Sash?’ begged Finn, holding up his arms. Sacha took hold of his hands and spun, long hair flying, until Finn let go and staggered giddily. ‘Whoa! Look, Charlie, I’m a shrunkened sailor.’

‘You feeling a bit happier?’ I asked quietly.

‘A bit. Just got a text from a girl at school. She’s invited me to a party.’

‘Oh, that’s great! Tabby?’

‘Nah. Bianka. Spelled with a k. Says can I stay over at her place next Friday night.’

I’d never even heard of this girl. ‘What’s she like?’

Sacha was fiddling with the camera. ‘Brainbox. Brightest pebble on the beach.’

‘Except you. Careful! I love that camera, it’s so cute.’

‘Bianka’s pretty offbeat. Talks about things like Sylvia Plath and Germaine Greer and how the nuclear family is obsolete.’

‘How true,’ I chuckled, hanging up Finn’s trunks.

‘She writes poetry.’

‘Good poetry?’

‘’Course it’s good poetry.’

‘Is Friday anything special?’ I grunted, reaching for another peg.

‘Bonfire night on her cousins’ farm. Can I go?’

‘Well, of course. Maybe.’

Sacha crossed her eyes. ‘Of course, maybe? Illogical, Captain.’

‘I don’t know Bianka’s family. Are they . . . you know. Are they all right?’

‘Hardly.’ Jamming my camera into her pocket, Sacha reached into the washing basket. ‘Her dad’s a psychopathic mass murderer and her mum’s a gangland hit-woman.’

‘Well, they might be, for all I know.’

‘It’s fine, Mum. The dad works for the planning department. The only real and present danger is that he’ll bore me to death.’

‘Is there a mother, or is the nuclear family obsolete?’

‘She’s got cancer.’

I was immediately overwhelmed by that awkward mixture of compassion and relief that it was somebody else. ‘Oh, poor lady.’

‘Non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma. She had it years ago, and it’s back. She’s had chemotherapy. Her hair all came out in clumps on her pillow. And her eyebrows.’

‘Well then, obviously you can’t go. The last thing they need is an extra child hanging about. And Bianka’s mother might catch something from you. Like . . .’