Harlequin Rex (11 page)

In closed institutions, priorities and prejudices evolve quickly, become quite distinct from what’s accepted in the general community. Local personalities and issues reform attitudes; things inconsequential everywhere else, are of great
significance
. A tribal life develops which is both nourishing and cruel.

What was there to mock in the energy, and love, and desperation they sublimated in volleyball? Roimata Wallace had begun it by bringing back the first equipment from Nelson as recreational therapy, and Raf determined its rivalry by organising the team competition among the blocks and staff grouped by occupation. Staff and patients had parity within the confines of the game, and both saw a value in that. Schweitzer himself might be competing with a
scrub-cutter
, a tax collector, a prosthesis technician, a sharebroker grown cynical within his career, a bathroom millionaire, or the most recent laundry employee. And, because of the nature of Harlequin, there were sometimes, in volleyball at least, advantages when the affliction began to stir. There was an ongoing controversy concerning the eligibility of patients to play when they had symptoms, for mild episodes of
Harlequin sometimes gave them spectacular physical virtuosity and intensity. The doctors were still unsure if such activity was beneficial.

Raf was a champion himself: not especially quick, but tactically cunning, physically imposing, and with a spike feared in the business. Only Big Pulii before his death, and Bunt Lorrigan from Titi, could do it better. Others were more unlikely competitors, yet proved themselves adept. Elspeth Jones of Kotuku was thin and pale, but had a
superlative
skimming serve. Tony Sheridan was an accomplished retriever in back court: the precise hands of a physician, great feet like platters steady on the ground, great cock at the sagging crotch of his playing shorts, which were grey with faded green piping.

Players practised for hours on end, rejoiced or were cast down by selections, argued about the team tactics. A hundred or more people might turn out to watch a routine game between blocks. Rules were parochial; each team had to have two women. New patients and new staff were assessed by guests as much for volleyball potential as any other contribution. Their block allocation was a source of
rancorous
dispute, with corruption often claimed, and often evident.

Takahe was a good team but, no matter what David and Raf did, they could never inspire a win over Hoiho. The winner’s pennant was made of Susan Wedderburn’s lilac silk knickers, with
TOP DOG
embroidered on them in red thread by Sister Galleter. When Hoiho got stroppy they would parade the pennant around the grounds, or fly it from their TV aerial under guard.

The number one court was on the level lawn by the main block. The grass had been established there the longest, and the buildings were a protection from the wind. Evan Beal was the gardener, and knew that strip of grass was more important than any of the flower beds, even those around the director’s house. Evan marked the court with weedkiller,
and was abused for any miscalculation, until the fresh growth enabled him to redeem himself. He complained of the fetish sport, his real grievance being that he was too old to make one of the competition teams. When games were on, he was usually loitering around behind a wheelbarrow with a
transistor
hung from the handle.

Volleyball was the present thing that they could fix on, separate from pasts which had cast them out, and from a future too threatening for many of them to consider.
Volleyball
was both defiance of where they found themselves, and submission to a new order. Within the realm of the centre it seemed no more ridiculous as a preoccupation than religion, or superannuation investment, did elsewhere. We are more easily ruled by custom than by logic, after all.

David and Raf went down with the Takahe team to the number one court to play Kotuku. The team had supporters too, who walked down with them carrying plastic bags, or anoraks, to sit on in case the moisture came up through the grass. Not Howard Peat, whose pride prevented any display of community, not Mrs McIlwraith, who thought civilisation restricted to the indoors — I will not abide a man with hair sprouting from his ears, she said to Tolly Mathews — but Wilfe Orme, Sara Keppler, Jock McPhie. Gaynor Runcinski went from loyalty and an expectation of some tapestry of life about the court, and Abbey, whose talents were also cultural, joined her in the support of friends.

‘Easy beats, you Takahe ones,’ crowed old Sidey. ‘We’re going to kick your arse.’ Sidey, living evidence that there is no just God. Almost forgotten thalidomide had given him hands without arms and half a leg, then Harlequin joined the queue. Was it any wonder that he had survived by becoming combative? He was avoided when possible, unloved, accorded grudging admiration for persevering with the lost cause of himself till the last. ‘We’ll piss all over you lot,’ he said. He alone broke the rules by having a white, issue bed pillow to sit on when he scrambled from his chair,
and he alone would be unchallenged on it. His laughter was as loud as anyone’s, his eye as bright. Sidey wasn’t welcome, not because of his aggression, but because he made others wonder if their own troubles were unjustifiable self-pity.

‘Takahe will blitz you,’ said Tolly.

‘Blow it out your one-eyed arse,’ shouted Sidey, and it was a small victory for him to see Abbey flinch and Gaynor flush.

Raf stood with David, adjusting a blue elastic band on his pony-tail before the game began. ‘They don’t even want him down below,’ he said quietly. ‘Old Nick’s told the Reaper to leave him up here as a bloody nuisance, rather than have him challenging the establishment among the embers.’

Sidey settled what was left of himself on his white pillow, and began abusing anyone who could be offended, even before the game started. Evan Beal’s wheelbarrow was by the azaleas and his transistor provided wistful, on the road again country and western riffs as the Slaven Centre teams played volleyball at Mahakipawa. David didn’t want to think about the incongruities that pressed in if he attempted any scrutiny of his life, and was Harlequin’s domain any more a puzzle than Paparua prison, a house in Dog Gully Road, or a granny flat in Kaikoura?

‘Ahhh, you fucking moron,’ said Sidey, delighted at yet one more exhibition of human incompetence.

Lucy played for Kotuku. She had a rangy athleticism without much competitive drive. Her edge had been expressed in her career, and she wasn’t going to bruise herself for a ball game. Yet a sweat was becoming on her, fixing the stray tendrils from her pony-tail to her neck and forehead, making darker back patches on her T-shirt. Her thigh muscles blocked when she landed from a leap, and the palm side of her wrists became red and swollen from striking the ball.

‘Jesus,’ she said, ‘I’ve had enough. I’ve been putting on weight like a bull calf since I came here.’ She gave up her place happily and sat with Gaynor and Abbey, whom she
knew had good sense and a range of conversation. From a place on national television, she had declined to volleyball at Mahakipawa, but had the sense to make no comparisons. David found himself looking at her rather than the game. The long, smooth scope of her leg, the small moles like Afghan freckles on her neck and arms, the bright contrast of the irises with the whites of her eyes. He wasn’t quite close enough to hear what she spoke about with Gaynor and Abbey, and felt an odd pang of exclusion. The
conversation
of women always seemed to have greater warmth and intensity than that of his own sex. He accepted that women were the superior nation in all communication.

More than her looks, David was impressed by Lucy’s determination not to go down easily. Maybe the hooch was helping her, and he should show more willingness to supply it. What warmth and animation she had, how Abbey and Gaynor responded to it with their own generosity and intelligence.

Volleyball, then, for the flock of Harlequin and the keepers. The ball soared against the sky, and old Sidey’s sarcastic cries joined the adulation and the laughter, the country music from the gardener’s wheelbarrow, the private conversations quite unconnected with the setting.

The
farm
was
part
of
the
skin
of
the
world:
always
responsive
to
the
elements
that
played
over
it,
blossoming
frosts,
the
fierce
or
pale-yoked
sun,
distinct,
quartered
winds,
rain
of
imperious
impact,
or
tremulous
accumulation.
And
beneath
the
skin
the
close-packed
flesh
clays,
the
limestone
bones,
the
secret
flows
of
arterial
water
that
would
tug
the
willow
wand
of
the
diviner
down.

He
had
lived
that
land,
hadn’t
he?
He
had
circled
on
the
tractor,
while
the
paddock
undulated
as
a
mirage
beyond
the
hot
engine.
He’d
stood
in
leggings
and
parka
with
his
back
to
the
southerly
buster,
and
pulled
lambs
from
their
Romney
wombs.
He’d
stooped
on
the
shearing
board
so
 
that
sweat
dripped
from
his
nose
on
to
the
dark
wood,
where
oil
and
blood
and
sweat
and
shit
had
been
worked
by
shuffling
sack
slippers
to
give
a
burnish
that
hostesses
would
covet
for
their
furniture.
He’d
had
smoko
sitting
on
bales
of
first-cut
lucerne
hay,
and
eased
the
skin
back
on
palm
blisters,
while
honkers
went
high
overhead
towards
the
lakes.
He’d
fed
out
the
same
hay,
dropping
the
sections
between
the
wheel
marks
in
the
snow,
and
looping
the
bright
bale
twine
around
his
neck
with
numb
fingers.
He’d
sat
quietly
on
a
diesel
drum
in
the
dusty
yard
and
noted
where
the
hens
came
cackling
from,
and
gone
and
found
the
egg
caches.
He’d
spent
nights
in
the
back
of
the
truck
with
a
mounted
spotlight,
shooting
rabbits
that
were
eating
out
the
downs.
He’d
had
a
dog
make
a
fool
of
him,
and
experienced
times
when
he
was
accorded
tacit
respect.
He’d
switched
off
the
Case
combine
and
walked
away
with
his
face
a
mask
of
dirt,
and
heard
gradually
the
cicadas
come
back
in
chorus,
the
sheep
cough
discreetly
like
curates
and
the
magpies
sweep
passionately
from
the
pines
towards
the
river.

On
the
day
that
David
made
up
his
mind
to
go
overseas,
his
father
was
fencing
along
one
of
the
ridges
of
the
hill
block.
Successive
makeshift
repairs
over
the
years
were
no
longer
enough,
and
he
was
putting
in
a
new
strainer
post
at
the
gateway.
He
was
silhouetted
on
the
ridge
line
as
David
climbed
up
to
him.
The
wind
grew
stronger,
flinging
away
words
and,
after
one
attempt
at
talking
over
distance,
during
which
his
father
just
shrugged
and
smiled,
David
kept
climbing
and
his
father
continued
to
work.