Jake's Long Shadow (15 page)

THE WOMAN IN the white uniform looking down at her seemed like an angel. It’s a girl, she told Sharneeta. I haven’t heard you mention a name you like.

Sharns shook her head, no, she hadn’t mentioned what name she’d give the creature forced out of her womb, put her through that unbelievable pain, stretched scars for ever on a woman’s stomach that scratching and pulling the skin every which way won’t deny, like car dents and silver fish laying all over her belly. So it was a girl. Whoopeedee.

No name for my child. The nurse had a name, it was Sue. Sue Clifford. How could she be so beautiful and not be in the movies, on television, a model? Features carved out of beautifully toned marble, sea-blue eyes, teeth you could skate on.

No, Sharneeta said to the empty bed next to hers. I haven’t thought of a name (can’t even look at her, don’t even wanna look at the li’l bitch).

Except Sue was handing her the thing and it was warm and so light, but
then again heavier than a fat li’l rock, don’t want to hold and hug no rock, felt like it had been sitting out in the sun for a while, baking. Oh might drop it, a girlwoman’s hands’d suddenly started trembling — I can’t hold it. (
Can’t, can’t. Don’t want it, don’t want it, take the thing away from me, I hate it
—)

There, there, let me take her, you’re tired. (Yeah, tired all right, Sue. How’d you like to have a baby from being raped? I was all broke up inside before this, so unhappy. Ain’t life had enough claiming on me? Don’t I get a break?)

You had a difficult birth, you really did. (Did I? No, it isn’t that. If it was I’d be laying here singing with joy and hugging this li’l thing near t’ death. It wasn’t the difficult birth. It’s a life I had no part in creating.)

And yet why did she taste joy, from time to time? Why, when the darkness eased did she feel glad to exist. I can laugh. I appreciate humour. I can be funny, occasionally. Now and then.

Ohhh, there, there li’l Sharney, Nurse Sue’s here, Mummy’s just plain worn out from having you. (From that horrible act to this: a slime-covered piece of meat and soft bone, feels like plastic, no, like wax; this final
emergence
of weight, not a living existence, the monumental relief when finally it got out, towelled off by the nurse in her sparkling-white, starched uniform with its blue trim and badges, presented no doubt by a stout matron pretending to be strict when she was really proud of another angel making it through the tests.

God, I feel so miserable.

She threw another very reluctant glance at the baby — not its face, just its shape, its brand-new existence (into a cruel world, honey baby, I’m so sorry. A world missing understanding of certain key elements) — and it meant worse than nothing.

How about — no, I shouldn’t, Nurse Sue checked herself. Not my child, what right have I got to suggest a name?

Can if you want. (Save me the trouble. Ya gotta love something to wanna name it. Love it for itself, not a name for other people’s sake, to impress or please them. For itself.)

No. I wouldn’t think of it. Or I shouldn’t have thought of it. Just that she’s so … (So what? Tell me, give me a clue. Be the finger that points me and baby the right way.) Well, I get the name Rachel in my head looking at her. She’s so beautiful. Like you, Sharneeta. (Like me? You got to be kidding. You should know, sweet shining beauty yourself, that it starts from the inside.
It ain’t just features, it’s the energy generated from the inside.)

You like Rachel as a name? No. Sorry. Forget I spoke. There I go again.

(Funny how they talk, posher, gentler white folk.) Rachel? Rachel sounds nice. (The name sounds okay. Can’t grab the idea she’s an actual human. Feels so distant.)

Oh no, please, I’d never live with myself to think I had named your
beautiful
baby. Sharneeta, please try and forget I ever mentioned a name. Please?

(Why’s she begging like that? Why’s she so upset at suggesting such a nice name? Ain’t that big a deal.) Finding a smile from somewhere, even with a little laugh. Rachel she is.

No. No. Please. I feel such a fool now. I have no right. Please forgive me.

No forgiving to do, nurse. (What’s wrong with you?) I like Rachel (as a name) as a name.

Well, as long as you’re happy with it … Are you really? Honestly and truly?

(Honestly and truly? Haven’t heard someone talk like that in years.) Honestly and truly, nurse. Though Sharneeta can’t call her Sue, friendly though the person is: she’s too perfect a creation (too up there, far beyond my reach).

Before she could ask of the father’s whereabouts, Sharneeta told Nurse Sue, Don’t be asking of the father. There ain’t one, if you get my meaning.

Sue looked sad, then dismissed it. We get quite a few — too many in fact — mothers here without the child’s father around. I hate it, but it’s a plain fact we have to deal with. You’ve got a visitor, though.

For just one preposterous moment Sharns believed it was the father, here to claim his child, his parental responsibility and to say sorry a thousand times thick to her. (Then we could work out together, brown to brown, how if we can’t quite figure this life for ourselves, how we will make sure our child does. Then it’ll be worthwhile. Then we can look back and say we did our daughter proud and ourselves whilst we were at it. Like drowning but making sure your (our) child lives.)

But it was only Alistair. Without Kayla. (Only Alistair.) Wondering what’s different about him. (I know: he’s clean. Shaved, shiny hair, a sparkle in his eyes. Didn’t realise he was quite so handsome.)

Hi, Al.

Hi, Sharns. You had it. The baby he means.

Yeah.

You okay?

I guess so. It’s a girl.

Can I hold her?

If you want — you sure? You don’t have to.

I’d like to. Just how do I hold it?

Here, let me show you. I’m Sue Clifford, by the way.

Hi, I’m Alistair Trambert.

Nurse Sue looked at Alistair for a familiar moment, I’ve met your father I think. Small world. Small world. (Confusing world, dark world.) This is — she looked at Sharns who managed a smile, a nod. This is beautiful Rachel. And this is how you hold little Rachel.

The way Alistair smiled down at the bandaged tiny bundle you’d think it was his (or himself, holding, cradling, nestling himself). But the mother couldn’t get herself to behold the new-born creation yet. Not yet (maybe never).

SIMON AND HIS table of friends were laughing, the more as the champers went down. Bolli, Moët, and Andrew Holdsworth was threatening to order Dom. Whatever all of it was to Polly’s uneducated ears; she was just enjoying the company, as she and Simon were celebrating a theoretical profit: equity in their thirty-two rental houses, of debt against valuation figures of around $750,000. The night was on Integrated Properties Ltd, which was why Andrew was making his laughing threats to buy the very best champagne on the restaurant’s wine list. And everyone thinking the company name was witty.

They didn’t actually state the figure of theoretical profit, as that was never done in Simon’s circles, a social rule that Polly found disappointing since she wanted to shout it to the world that they were getting rich. Rich! And being that made one feel ten-metres tall and, yes, bullet-proof. Which was why she delighted to hear both the men and women get onto the subject of
expensive
cars and expensive toys in general.

She saw how animated they became talking about the brands: Porsche, Range Rover, Lexus, and how about a Ferrari.

No, not in Two Lakes, you show-off, one teased another. The peasants will only scratch the paintwork with twenty-cent coins.

You mean ten-cent coins, twenty might be a bit beyond them, said another. Instead of aspiring to own one, they aspire to coining the
paint-work
.

Though they did send asking eyes at Polly, seeing as how they meant — assumed — the vandals to be Maori, but of course could not say. (And I’m not giving you permission, either, folks, much as I love you. Much as I know you’re right.)

One of their number owned and flew his own helicopter. A Bell Jetranger. Which put him at the top of the pile, though he didn’t have to mention a word of it, not its price tag at any rate, nor its high running costs, let alone the capital cost. James flew his friends to out-of-town golf courses, to parties with an overnight stay in a luxurious lodge, so he could get drunk, too. Huka Lodge, if they were in Taupo. Twelve hundred a night, plus drink.

Not that Polly had stayed there yet, as neither she nor Simon played golf, and the thought of paying over a grand for a bed for the night, no matter how good the view or how expensive the sheets, did not really appeal to her. At least she thought it didn’t. Though if she’d cared to look at herself in one of the two French-period mirrors she’d have seen her face positively
glowed
with the talk. Of expensive cars and the money that buys them; money, money (wallowing in the stuff); deals, share tips, the Aussie stockmarket, London Footsie, the Dow’s effect on the rest of the world, but mainly on New Zealand’s market. Self-congratulatory talk, claims of insider knowledge on a hot share. That is, the men talked money whilst the women were their admiring, complimentary audience, or they talked amongst themselves of their latest clothing or home-furnishing purchases. Kind of the same thing, except passive expenditure.

Polly was politic enough not to distance herself from the women, even if most were confused at why she should be bothered with boring business talk, confused that she had a business herself, their tacit code being let the men take care of that. And we’ll handle handling them. Polly had to
alternate
between genders and conceptual worlds, frankly preferring the males’ universe. She knew from previous experience that it didn’t matter who was talking, they said much the same and all were disciples of capitalist thinking.
Right, bright (and white), though they daren’t state the latter without risking offence. Not that Polly thought it in any way but a statement of fact and that she was going to prove the exception.

Her friends were positive, happy, sometimes raucously drunk and
frivolous
, a free-spending social circle, and much fun to be with. They were unabashed materialists. A few more bottles of champagne and that contempt for car-scratchers would open the vent for their shared contempt of welfare beneficiaries — living off our taxes! — in the same breath boasting about not having paid tax for several years through creative accounting and plain
financial
brilliance more akin to fancy dance steps, that sort of talk. Some would even raise the dreaded topic — dreaded only because Polly was amongst them — of Maori crime and Maori unemployment and the latest arrest for a murder or a bad home invasion, that it was as sure as the sun came up to be a Maori offender.

Well, all this was fine by Polly, she didn’t have much regard for (Pine Block) types who couldn’t be bothered to lift themselves up in life, let them rot then. Pine Block could be looked at in two different ways: a nightmare or a dream. It was up to you which one you chose. But it did bother her a little that her friends, even her own lover/business partner, saw welfare dependence and Maoris in the same frame. On more than a few occasions she had chipped in on talk like this to ask where non-Maori welfare bludgers fitted in the scheme of things. She could tell, though, they didn’t really want to hear, even if agreeing to her face that the unambitious type was deserving of their total disdain, no matter what race they were.

However, she had no disagreement on the subject of a Porsche, a Beamer, a Merc, Lexus — oh, but definitely not the 300 series, too much like a dentist’s would-be car of choice, and no, not an Audi, they’re doctor’s cars, or retired accountants who drive them at ten k’s under the speed limit because risk-averse is risk-averse never forget.

How her group despised those who did not take risks; there was not one man in the circle who wasn’t in business. Nor was there any likelihood of a salaried, or God-forbid waged, outsider being invited unless it couldn’t be helped, brought in by marriage unions.

Each inhabitant of the planet — being this country and anywhere in the western world — was ranked (and judged) by the car they drove. And it was implied that if you didn’t yet own a second holiday home then, really, you had better get going and acquire one. Or two. Say a home over the hills in
any of the lake developments, or in Taupo, which was closer to the ski fields, maybe an apartment crash-pad in Auckland or Wellington, preferably or de riguer, on the waterfront, or a golf resort.

Polly and Simon being a decade younger than most of their friends — ahead of their years in terms of financial success (and personality, you better believe it) — had no choice but to talk and therefore think the same. And if like Polly you had not experienced it before, this money world was heady stuff. Money (sweet money) what it could buy, the good life, assets, toys,
self-esteem.

Rising values, capital gains therefore, profits, money-for-jam schemes, business, always business was the constant theme. All of life was a money opportunity. Everything written referred to the Money God and when it didn’t it was the Material God. Money spun, it was a cake walk, it was a licence to print the stuff, it had bullet-proof qualities, it could walk on water and you walked with it; you only had to take the God by the hand and He’d lead you to more and more treasures in his Kingdom of gold-paved streets and fields of greenbacks. And aren’t they (we) His energetic, dynamic subjects, ever so clever for our lives being blessed — or was it found? — with capital gains, a material reward, for everything we did, even our holiday homes kept going up in value.

As for cars, puh, but a necessary devaluing toy one had to have —
had
to — and the money to keep trading up. But what a buzz it would be with quarter of a million dollars of engine growling under you. Oh, how Polly loved these people for their positive, go-getter personalities. Because they were rich and getting richer. More, they were rich in outlook, wealthy in attitude and spilling over with self-belief.

Every time they went out as a group, fairly tight-knit, about a dozen strong if all the numbers were present, there was a catch-up on the latest economic trends, of property values rising or falling in different areas around the country, and always someone had purchased a commercial property or a business somewhere. They talked about auctions of furniture, wine
collections
from deceased estates, the trendiest bars and restaurants, which must be
printing money
. For wasn’t every one of them, the crowd that secretly regarded itself as the in-crowd, printing money in their different endeavours out there in the big wide wonderful world of business and capitalism and unashamed materialism, weren’t they? (Weren’t we?)

And weren’t we therefore more clever, dynamic, smarter without
question without actually being so tasteless as to state it (lest someone overhear and take it the wrong (right) way that some people are just born genetically superior and that’s all there is to it. You were what you were).

Richard Fisher was in the middle of finally revealing a hot-tip share to buy; a moment he’d drawn out to maximum suspense and everyone played along with it, but Simon less so and he whispered to Polly he found it crass to have bated breath awaiting to be told how to make more money when they were already looking at a life ahead of making more than enough.

Polly was about to state her own, contrary, view when Simon’s attention was drawn out the window to the street: a woman walking in slow motion, as if drugged.

Simon said, I know her from somewhere. He kept staring, till the woman zombie-walked out of sight; either drugs, booze, or a mentally troubled state.

The share tip was Streven Resources, a gene-tech company based in Christchurch, its value certain to rise at least fifty per cent in the next month according to Richard Fisher. And most of the table indicated they’d be taking a punt on it, well it was hardly a punt, a dead cert like this. So everyone was looking at each other with those same old self-congratulatory eyes.

Simon was still frowning out the window. Then he remembered, told Polly he’d seen the woman at the petrol station by the farm. Bill’s place. Miserable sod, mean with money, couldn’t spare even a lousy smile. He refused to take her credit card for some reason. She was embarrassed,
humiliated
. So I paid her petrol.

That was very kind of you. Polly, buzzy from the champagne, kissed him lingeringly on the mouth — till he pulled away and muttered her gesture was a bit inappropriate. He was looking at Polly askance as he chided her. She didn’t see the glaze come over his eyes, the glaze that always came these days when she was acting like this — a nouveau riche materialist, a crass white woman — rather than the down-to-earth Maori he liked. He wanted Polly of the rhythmic walk, the different grammatical rules.

She looks like she’s in trouble, he said, nodding towards the window at the woman no longer there.

So, go and give her another twenty bucks. Polly’s lack of interest bled right through her champagne-affected eyes. She’ll be back tomorrow for more, I can promise you. Then Polly murmured, Streven Resources. Now, how much have I got in the bank? I think I’ll margin trade it, put it all on
this little gene-tech horse. What do you think, Si?

Oh, isn’t knowledge the ultimate weapon? Lifting a glass in Richard’s way: To Streven Resources. May it rocket (to the stars) to the heavens.

Simon reminded Polly they had two properties in Pine Block that settled tomorrow.

Polly laughed and said one day they’d end up owning Pine Block.

Simon frowned and said he doubted that. They were up against social forces beyond even their ambitious plans. But Polly laughed and told her lover, Nothing is beyond you if you want it badly enough. Again, she didn’t see he didn’t like this version of Polly. Not a bit.