Carnival Sky (8 page)

The scratches, the heat and his general dislike of gardening added to his bad humour, and he swore at the plants as he worked. He was more blasphemous when alone than in conversation, for he considered swearing was a sign of lack of ingenuity in the use of language. Yet even the most delicate of blossoms were little buggers, and the plum tree suckers that came up like fingers from the grave were devious bastards. He was in full voice at oxalis growing cunningly in the protection of a lavender bush when Janice Wallace, supervisor of the
local crèche, appeared at the fence to admonish him.

‘It’s not at all necessary,’ she said firmly. ‘It doesn’t make anything easier you know, and what if I had my granddaughter here?’ Just her top half was visible above the wooden fence: an erect torso and a Thatcherite face held in place by a stake of a nose. But Sheff knew she was a good sort, if somewhat conservative. Knew also he was in the wrong, and disliked excessive obscenity in others.

‘Yeah, I’m sorry, Janice. I keep getting scratched and it’s made me mad.’

‘Because you’re going at it like a bull at a gate,’ she said. ‘A little bit, often. That’s the gardener’s motto. Less than an hour a day’s enough for almost any garden, and then your sympathy for the plants doesn’t run out. Lucy had the hang of it.’ Her own garden was a simulacrum of the ideal crèche she longed for – rows of obedient, squat and silent small growths. Nothing was permitted to exceed her own height, or her own exuberance.

‘You’re right,’ said Sheff meekly, though mention of his ex-wife’s ability was surely a further criticism of him, and he could have reminded Janice that her dictum of a little bit, often, could be applied in other circumstances as well and might well benefit her mood.

After another half-hour’s slashing to prove he hadn’t been unduly intimidated, and the heaping up of a vast pile of vanquished vegetation to prove diligence, he gave up on the garden and went inside to work on a freelance piece concerning the failure of the railways to attract freight away from the trucking firms. Analysing the deficiencies of others is more satisfying than considering your own.

In the evening he sat at the computer with a beer, listened to Sibelius and made a wish list of places for his overseas trip, and the necessary arrangements to get there. He was twice interrupted by phone calls that had the ultimate intention of selling him something, but by ten he had a provisional itinerary, and had made up his mind to travel via Singapore. It was cheaper and avoided the tiresome security regimes at American airports. The Mediterranean countries were
the lure, especially southern France and northern Italy. A pensione with window boxes and orange tiles in a cobbled street, village goose liver pâté in a crockery pot, vin ordinaire from a local market, the whine of scooters and a mutual disregard between himself and locals. Existentialist ennui as an attitude to life.

He was almost asleep in the chair when the phone rang again, and he stumbled out to the kitchen to find the phone. Georgie was calling. ‘What’s wrong?’ he asked. ‘Is it Dad?’

‘Nothing,’ she said. ‘But I’ve had a great idea. We both need some time with Mum and Dad, so what about a trip down together? I’ve got a few weeks’ accumulated leave, and there’s a South African oncologist who’s willing to cover.’

Sheff stood in the study, unsure of his reaction to Georgie’s suggestion. Through the window of the darkened room he could see daguerreotype silver birches on the roadside buffeted by the wind, and clouds jostling across the moon. ‘Whoa. Hold it,’ he said. ‘I’m not sure …’

‘You said you weren’t working. As well as being with Dad, you and I could have some time, and it would give Mum a real boost. Maybe she could even get away for a couple of days,’ said Georgie. ‘It’ll loosen you up for the longer trip overseas. I won’t cramp your style, if that’s a problem.’

‘It’s not that. I don’t know. I hadn’t thought about actual dates yet. Look, it’s the middle of the night and I can’t get my head around it. Yesterday you said doctors couldn’t take breaks.’ Sheff wandered back into the study and sat down again.

‘That’s why this opportunity’s so great. It’s a sort of mini sabbatical with me still in the loop. I have to tell them within two days to make sure of my replacement. The South African guy. It’s almost impossible to get good people for short reliefs. He’s only out here because he’s thinking of emigrating. Anyway, you mull it over and I’ll ring tomorrow before lunch. Okay? It would be a really good lift for Mum and Dad.’

‘I’ll have to think about it.’

‘Tomorrow midday then,’ she said. ‘I need a break and I want to spend some time with them. It’s ages since we’ve been together as a family except for an occasional Christmas. Who knows how long Dad’s got? We could get a rental from Dunedin – visit some of the old places. I’ll take the photographs. You’re hopeless at that, I bet.’ He was actually, but it had to be an assumption on her part, and he didn’t like being hustled along.

‘I don’t know. It’s all a bit sudden, isn’t it?’

‘Well, the chance has just come up. I’ll go anyway, whatever you do.’

‘I do want to see them,’ Sheff admitted. ‘I need to go down.’

‘Okay then,’ she said. ‘Good. I’ll ring tomorrow.’

‘Just before you go.’

‘What?’

‘I had this nosebleed after my farewell do, and there’s been one since. It didn’t last, but I just wondered if drinking might have set it off?’

‘I can’t do an examination over the phone, Sheff, and it’s not my field,’ said Georgie. ‘Unless they’re regular and prolonged I wouldn’t be too worried. Anyway, I’ll ring tomorrow.’

He found it no easier in the morning to find reason to refuse Georgie’s wish for the trip. She had aroused guilt in him that grew stronger. If he didn’t see his father before going overseas, he might never see him again. Her resolve was strong when she rang, and he had no compelling reason to oppose it. ‘It’ll have to be just about right away, because I don’t want to put off the overseas stuff for long,’ he told her.

‘Marvellous. I can’t talk now. I’ve been called in to cover unexpectedly today, but I’ll email you some dates and we’ll get onto it pronto. We can meet in Wellington and fly down together.’

Although he hadn’t seen her for over a year, Georgie was clear in his mind. Nimble, with short, dark hair, and a manner of walking, rising on her toes, that made her appear to bob along. She’d missed out on the Norwegian height genes within the family, but had more than her share of directness. She would be checking her face in the mirror without vanity, taking her large handbag, then driving to the hospital
to help people. What the hell would they talk about for days on end, Sheff wondered, once they had exhausted sibling togetherness? He did want to be with his mother and father, though, and maybe having Georgie with him would make things easier for them all. The four compass points of the family, and that would surely be a comfort for Warwick. He’d never asked much from them, and shouldn’t have to when his need was so apparent. ‘Okay,’ said Sheff. ‘You go for what suits you and I’ll fit in. You’re busy, and I’ve got bugger-all ties now.’

The decision to go south with Georgie should have encouraged him to complete the tidy-up of the section. From the kitchen window he could see the Everest of garden weeds and cuttings from the day before. But the day was already hot, and he felt disinclined to work. There is a form of idleness that is not relaxation, but the expression of malaise, a disenchantment with life. He remembered it well from university days when, faced with exams in the heat of summer, he and his flatmates sat on the paint-peeling verandah in sullen indolence and drank beer, made loud, sexist comments about passing women. It was a guilty defiance of academic and adult imperatives, assuaged only by having company in it. There had been a sense in that still heat that time itself had wound down, the world becalmed, and that consequence would never come.

Unless he went with Georgie, and then overseas, he might sink into reclusive living: a path beaten through the jungle of his section, yellowed newspapers and junk mail crumpled among the rampant docks and chickweed, the guttering rusted out, the wires of the clothesline trailing in the long grass, and Janice Wallace askance at the boundary fence, alarmed at the fall in property values. Inside would be the reek of the unwashed solitary, the signs of one pot, one plate living, the incessant trickle from the faulty cistern into the discoloured toilet bowl, and a pantry bare of anything more than tins of spaghetti and baked beans with small sausages.

Indulging in self-pity was quite affirming, and cheerfully Sheff set about preparing lunch.

HIS FATHER HAD FARTED A LOT,
despite being a trim and handsome man. Belize would become angry at his failure to hold it in, though he was scrupulous in company. ‘Do come in, Vicar,’ he would say immediately afterwards, and Sheff and Georgie would snigger despite their mother’s pursed lips. Sheff never heard his mother fart, and couldn’t imagine her doing so. The captain of Sheff’s undistinguished varsity team told him that you could light them, and that the flame was sudden and blue. The fear of blowback kept him from any attempt at verification.

A PART FROM A FEW EVENINGS with Nick, and competition nights at the squash club, Sheff had done little socialising since leaving the paper. After Lucy there had been no long-term intimate relationships, and he hadn’t been out with a woman for several months. He missed the sex – the flare of it, the triumph and the relief – but even more he missed the naturalness and warmth that is part of a strong friendship between man and woman, the sense of completion in such companionship. For a time he’d experienced such friendship with Raewyn, and he told himself that as they were no longer workmates it could perhaps be that way again.

He rang her at home rather than the office to emphasise it was a personal call. He asked if she would like to go out for a meal and then a movie, but she thought that too much like a date, and instead said she could meet him for a drink after work. They agreed on the usual place, which was close to the office, and more wine bar than restaurant. Sheff was there at six and took a table by the window. After twenty minutes he ordered a shiraz to pass the time while he waited. Raewyn was forty minutes late, but he knew it wasn’t deliberate. She didn’t play those games. When she arrived she apologised, let her blue handbag fall on the table and sat quite still for a while with her eyes closed.

‘That bad?’ he said.

‘Lloyd stuffed up over some council attributions and I’ve spent most of the afternoon trying to butter people up and avoid a stink. I’ve had hardly any time for my own work. Chris is highly not amused. I really should go back in tonight.’

They spoke for some time about the paper. Raewyn found relief in unloading on someone who knew exactly what she was on about, but was no longer part of it. Sheff was prepared to be the senior statesman and give advice, but she made no such request. All she wanted was the opportunity to talk it out. What else had he expected his usefulness to be? Why should it occur to her that he was lonely, that he also sought reassurance, that he rather hoped they might end up in bed together?

‘Anyway,’ she said finally, ‘enough of all that. How’s the world with you?’

‘I’m heading south in a few days to see Mum and Dad.’

‘I meant to ask about your father.’

‘He’s getting worse. He’s full of cancer, and nothing much more can be done.’

‘My God, it’s everywhere, isn’t it? My neighbour’s just had a mastectomy, and Donna’s mother is dying with one of those virulent blood cancers. That’s terrible for you. I’m really sorry.’ She contracted her face in a quick grimace of sympathy.

‘I hadn’t heard about Donna. I know what she must be going through.’

‘Here I am bitching about a tough day at the office, and then you think of people who are really up against it, and your own stuff seems pretty inconsequential doesn’t it?’

‘So tonight we should concentrate on having a good time,’ said Sheff. He would ring Donna, he told himself, he would offer sympathy.

He and Raewyn put aside illness and professional frustrations as topics; they shared wedges with assorted dips, they resumed a comradely cheerfulness. Most of their conversation continued to be about journalists and their trade. Raewyn wasn’t pretty, or lissome,
or flirtatious, yet for Sheff her apparent disregard for accentuated femininity made her more desirable: emphasised a matter-of-fact sexuality that might be treated in a matter-of-fact masculine way. He noticed, as always, her generous figure, the skirt material tight on her bum, the clear, pale skin of her neck and the smooth muscles there rising from her shoulders. What a good ride she would undoubtedly be, and there would no tears, or importunities, to follow. Just a handshake, perhaps, for a damn good performance mutually accomplished. He smiled at the thought.

‘What’s so funny?’ she said.

‘You’ll be a bloody good chief reporter. You’re as level-headed as they come. Even Nick reckons you’re up to speed, and he could’ve been a bit sour about the appointment.’

‘He seems fine with it. I’m hoping Chris will make him deputy, and he’d be good value. I’m pitching for him. We need to set up a sort of in-house training programme, and Nick would be great for that.’

‘Do you want to come back to my place for coffee?’ Sheff asked when she’d finished outlining her plans for improving the skills of her reporting team.

‘I don’t want to be late,’ she said. ‘I’d just settle down and then have to leave again. I should go back to work, but after the wine I’m even more zonked. You can come back with me if you like. Just a quick drink, and then I’ll kick you out.’

She left while Sheff was settling the bill, but he knew the way to her flat. As he drove there he thought not of Raewyn, but of his marriage before Charlotte’s death. How he’d enjoyed leaving the office and coming home to Lucy and talk of trivial things that in themselves bespoke happiness, and so were significant after all: the meal that they were about to have together, some invitation to meet with friends, a mortgage statement showing steady progress in reduction, the phantom dog that kept shitting on their front lawn. How natural their trust and invincibility had seemed, and they had never questioned them.

Raewyn was at her computer when he arrived. She let him in, placed a mug of coffee in his hand, steered him into the living room and went back to the screen. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I just want to check emails to make sure no one’s reneged on what we agreed. I was so bloody deferential and humble you wouldn’t have recognised me, and it wasn’t even my mistake. Anyway, won’t be a moment.’

It was an ordinary enough room, tidy and with a red leather suite Sheff thought was new since the last time he’d visited. The curtains weren’t drawn and the neighbouring house and street lights were growing clearer in the dusk. There were three vases of fresh-looking flowers, all different, although he knew the name only of the gladioli. They graced the room, and Sheff wondered why he never thought to have them in his own home. The garden had been neglected since Lucy left, but there were still the more resilient perennials. Why shouldn’t a man pick and arrange flowers with as much pleasure as a woman? Because a woman usually did it for him?

‘So,’ said Raewyn firmly when she came back, as if to emphasise that her attention was now all his. Away from the wine bar it was easier to talk of personal things: whether he had much contact with Lucy, what Raewyn hoped for herself now she had been promoted, if his decision that made that possible had been a foolish one, what the final price might be for childlessness.

‘Come and sit with me,’ he said, and without a break in conversation she came and nudged beside him on the sofa. He put an arm around her shoulders so that his fingers could rest on her breast, could move lightly there and feel the nipple even through fabric and bra.

‘You know the rules,’ she said.

‘Let me feel you with your bra off,’ he said.

‘Anyone could see in the window. We’d look bloody silly.’ Sheff made no reply, but got up, turned off the light and came back to sit close. ‘It’ll just bring you on,’ she said, but nevertheless unbuttoned her blouse and leant forward so that he could unfasten the hooks.

Although Sheff cupped her breast and enjoyed the warm weight
in his hand, there was little change in their talk, except that Raewyn spoke rather more and he less. She’d met a guy while at a badminton tournament. A lawyer who worked for the IRD and enjoyed the outdoors. He’d come up from Wellington a couple of times and they had done volunteer work on the national walkway project. She liked him, but through a friend in the capital she found that he was married and had a thirteen-year-old son. ‘It’s such a hassle finding someone honest. I’m too busy for that sort of crap.’

‘You’ll find someone.’ The skin of her breast was smooth and taut; the nipple stiffened slightly beneath his fingers. He put his free hand on her knee.

‘Maybe. Anyway, look it’s been fun to catch up, but I really have to get to bed.’

‘I could come,’ he suggested.

‘A kind offer, sir, but you and I are too much alike, and too familiar.’

‘I’m really in the mood,’ said Sheff.

‘Guys always are. You’re just drifting a bit in your life now, but things will look up. Anyway, celibacy isn’t a terminal affliction.’ Only later, recalling her comment, did it occur to Sheff that genetically it could well be.

He did get a friendly kiss at the door, with her top still unbuttoned and her breasts loose in the cups. ‘We’ll keep in touch, won’t we?’ she said. ‘Let me know how things go with your trip south.’

It was a strike out, but he wasn’t surprised, or even greatly disappointed. Their relationship had never been more than a candid friendship. Maybe if he played the hopelessly smitten romantic, things might be different, but he doubted it, and that would involve the dishonesty Raewyn detested. He felt better after sharing with someone who knew about his life: who remembered Lucy and Charlotte when they had been his family, and had some understanding of what had happened, without the need to talk about it any more. Raewyn didn’t love him, or lust for him, but he knew she liked him, and the extent of his gratitude for that surprised him. U2 were on the radio as he drove
through the night – ‘But I still haven’t found what I’m looking for’. It seemed just for him.

HIS FATHER HAD THE FIGURE AND CARRIAGE
that suited a suit. The profession too. They were always single-breasted, without waistcoat, and usually lighter in colour than the business suits of others: grey, or charcoal, and sometimes with a pinstripe, if that was making a comeback. When he put his suit on the hanger at the end of the day, Warwick always positioned the jacket evenly, and ran his fingers under the pocket flaps to ensure they were free. He bought good suits, looked after them, wore them for a long time. Buying cheap is a false economy, he’d say.