The Boy in the Olive Grove (15 page)

‘Leave my tablet, would you? I’ve told you before to ask before you walk off with it.’

‘It’s not yours. It’s Dad’s.’ I marched off.
Put that in your pipe and choke on it.

I settled down on my bed, determined not to let Mum’s poison get to me. It wasn’t working. I picked up
Jane Eyre
, but her trials made mine feel petty. I put the book back on the shelf. Jane wasn’t going to be able to help me tonight. I tried the calming-breath technique instead.

I’d taken the third deep breath when who should turn up but olive grove boy. He was working amongst the trees, and there seemed to be other people around, shadowy figures, whereas he was sharply defined. I searched the image, trying to get as much information as I could while it lasted. His simple, practical clothing confirmed my earlier impressions that he wasn’t wealthy and that he worked for his living. I saw him clearly, but got no hint of who he might be now, of how he might be connected to me, either then or in the present. I knew he was still happy, still joyful, but the emotion no longer spilled over to gladden my own heart. Then the image faded, leaving me sad that his joy had lost the power to touch me.

I wouldn’t ask Gwennie to take me back to that life when I saw her again on Friday. There was no point.

BERNIE AND JASON
arrived at nine the next morning and went direct to the finishing shed. A few minutes later, Jason came over to the main workshop. He knocked on the office door and waited.

I made a huge effort to treat him the same as I’d treat any of the others. ‘Morning, Jason.’

He looked at the floor and shuffled his feet, then he lifted his head, made a one-second eye contact and said, ‘Bernie says take the photos now.’

Not elegant, merely miraculous. I collected the camera and stood up. ‘Okay, let’s go. What does he think we should take pics of?’

‘Bits of board.’

I took a gamble. ‘What’s your opinion? Do you think that’ll be the best?’

That got me a sideways glance. ‘Gate. It’s cool.’

‘Is it finished?’

‘Nah. Still cool though.’

‘Right. We’ll do that too.’

In the shed, Bernie had a docked end prepared and ready to stain. He stood back. ‘You take over, Jason. We don’t want to put the punters off by showing them my old hands.’

I filmed Jason stroking the brush over the board then wiping it down with a rag. ‘Will you tell Bernie we’ll film the gate now, Jason?’

‘Gate, Bernie,’ he shouted.

Bernie looked thoughtful. ‘It’s not finished. Why d’you want to film that?’

‘Better than a flat bit of wood.’

I had a hard time keeping my mouth from gaping. This was Jason? This guy with opinions?

‘Hmm,’ said Bernie. ‘What do you think, Bess?’

For a second, Jason’s face closed down and he zapped right back into sulky teen.

I shook my head. ‘I don’t know anything. You guys are the experts.’ I considered the gate. ‘But Jason’s right. That gate’s way cool.’

Jason translated that as, ‘She says I’m right.’

‘Go to it, then.’ I swear there was a twinkle in Bernie’s eye.

I filmed Jason bending over the workbench, fitting one of the six turned uprights into the bottom crosspiece of the gate. This week’s purple stripe through his hair came out vividly on the screen. Next, he picked up the scalloped crosspiece for the top of the gate. Like the upright, it had already been stained. ‘Bernie made this. It’s real cool.’

I took a shot of Bernie sanding a turned sphere that was to fit on top of one of the side supports.

The miracles kept coming. ‘When we’ve got the gate all put together, we spray it. With this lacquer stuff.’

Obediently, I filmed the spray booth.

‘Last is the polish. Bee’s wax.’

I couldn’t help it, I was grinning. ‘Fantastic. You two are the best. I’ll show you the finished video at lunchtime.’

I got out of there, still not really believing that was Jason I’d filmed.

By lunchtime I had a top-class video. Okay, a movie buff might disagree. There could be a few holes to pick in it, but it showed a working factory. Better than that, in my opinion, you could see the love of their craft in the way the men worked, Jason included.

I played it to them before they went off to lunch. We stood around the tablet, smiling at each other. Jason stood taller than I’d ever seen him. ‘I’ll be right proud to take that to Wellington,’ said Maurice.

They ambled off to the tree, kidding each other about the video. Eddy said, ‘Star quality. That’s me.’

But Jason said, ‘Clint’s best. Camera loves him.’

Bernie spoke over the howls of the others. ‘Jason’s got the eye. Can’t argue with a man with an eye. If he says Clint’s the star, then case closed.’

Once again the prospect of an aimless, empty afternoon loomed. Facebook time.

And when I logged on there was a message from Hadleigh. I clicked on it, my heart racing, hopes high.

No need to SHOUT. Been on a long tramp. Tell all parents I’m fine. Tell Dad to look after himself.

That was all? No
love you, sis
?
Nothing about Dad’s heart attack? And absolutely sweet zip about where he was, or whether he was going to bother coming home.

In a white-hot fury, I wrote:
You sure know how to hold a grudge. You’re right up there with Mum. Arse. PATHETIC ARSE.

I sent it. Then I cried.

After that, the day was pretty much a write-off. I went home and left Mum a note.
Gone to tennis club. Hadleigh sent a message. This is what he said, word for word: Been on a long tramp. Tell all parents I’m fine. Tell Dad to look after himself.

She’d find some way of blaming me for there being no personal message from the darling boy who could do no wrong.

I threw on my tennis gear and drove to the club. The courts were empty, but I was happy enough to bash a ball at the practice board. Only when I was about to head home did a man appear from the clubhouse.

‘Excuse me, young lady. Are you a member here?’ He sounded suspicious.

‘Marion Symes said she’ll call me if she needs a player.’

‘I see. Marion gave you the forms to fill in then? Did she take your sub as well?’

‘No forms,’ I told him. ‘I don’t know anything about a sub.’ Sub as in submarine?

‘Most untidy. Most unsatisfactory. However, not your fault. Come with me. I’ll give you the forms and the account for the sub. Take it all home and get your parents to help you. Tell them they can send a cheque or pay by internet. I’m the treasurer. Bill Noakes is the name.’

I followed him into the clubhouse. Using my coolest voice, I said, ‘I won’t need to bother my parents, thank you, Bill.’ There was a pen on the table. I sat down, dealt to the forms and handed them back. I wrote my age particularly clearly.

‘Bess Grey,’ he said, running his eye over the paper. ‘Clarissa’s daughter?’

‘That’s right.’ I stood up, said goodbye and left. In this town I was either Clarissa’s daughter or Charlie’s daughter. Yet again I thanked the powers of the universe that Mum had taken it into her head to send me to boarding school where I didn’t have to be anybody’s daughter.

If only I hadn’t mucked up.
Oh shut up! Quit the moaning
.

I got in the car and studied the sheet about the sub — sub as in subscription. Lucky I hadn’t asked Bill Noakes what that was. It appeared you had to pay for the privilege of belonging. I drove home, making mental notes to take nothing else for granted. Things had to be paid for — sessions with psychologists, tennis clubs, and probably all sorts of stuff whose cost I’d never had to worry about.

I did know the cost of boarding school. Strangely, Mum never mentioned it, but I’d looked it up on the net. It wasn’t cheap.

She still wasn’t there when I got back. I showered, and examined the fridge for meal possibilities, but neither the half cabbage nor the oozing tomato appealed. I wasn’t in the mood for Dad and Iris, so I went into town, picked up a curry and ate it in the rose gardens.

Hadleigh, why won’t you talk to me? And why can’t
I get Nick out of my head, and why does he have to be in love with glamour girl Lulu?
Life pretty much sucked.

Mum was in the kitchen when I showed up. She leapt into attack the second she saw me. ‘What’s this nonsense about Hadleigh? How dare you write such drivel and pretend it’s from him? You’re a piece of work, Bess. You really are.’

‘Takes one to know one,’ I shot back. I snatched her tablet up from the table. ‘Look for yourself, you—’ In the nick of time I choked back
cow
.

She ran her eyes over the message. Of course, she grabbed onto
No need to SHOUT.
‘You wretched girl! This is all your fault. You’ve upset him with your antics.’

Things got uglier. I yelled. She ramped up the iciness. I yelled some more. She spread sleet and blame around. It was horrible. Undignified, useless and hateful.

In the end I stormed off to my room, committing the ultimate cliché of slamming the door.

When I’d calmed down a fraction, I sent Clodagh a text.
Can you Skype? I need to vent big-time.

In a few seconds I was talking to her. I poured it all out: Hadleigh, Mum, trying to run the bloody factory, and even added Bill from the tennis club who’d assumed I was all of eight years old.

Clodagh the Wise let me rant. She didn’t interrupt and she didn’t comment. When I was done, she said, ‘Let’s have lunch after your Gwennie session on Friday.’ She’d even looked up a café nearby.

I sat back in my chair, exhausted but unwound. ‘Thanks for listening, Clo. You’re a genius. Any news on the Giles front?’

‘We’ve been rock climbing,’ she said serenely.

‘You? Rock climbing? Clodagh the Wise but Uncoordinated?’

She stayed serene. ‘I liked it. Killed my arms, though.’

‘You’d better take him to something in your normal habitat,’ I said.

‘We’re going to a chamber music concert in the weekend.’

‘He’ll be bored stupid. If he still likes you after that, you’ll know he’s a smitten kitten.’

‘He plays the sax,’ she said. ‘He says he’ll cope.’

‘You really like him, don’t you?’

‘Yes. I do. We’re on the same wavelength. It’s nice.’

‘You’re so lucky.’ I sighed, thought for a moment, then said, ‘Clo — can you stand another weird story?’

She grinned at me through the screen. ‘I do believe I can. Especially if it’s another past-life story.’

‘That’s the trouble,’ I said. ‘I guess it must be, but if it is I don’t recognise him. I’ve got no idea if he’s somebody I know in this life.’

‘Him? He? Explain, please.’

‘It’s a guy. Young. Happy. Old-fashioned clothes. I’ve seen him several times. He’s always in an olive grove and he’s always lit up with happiness. I can’t work out why I see him. I’m trying not to let it drive me nuts.’

‘Interesting problem,’ she said. ‘But how many guys are there in your life right now? And how do you know this boy hasn’t turned into a female this time round?’

‘Thanks. You’re such a comfort.’

She smiled but kept on trying to unravel it. ‘Let’s take the best option and say he’s a guy you know now. Who are the suspects? Who’ve you met?’

I counted them off on my fingers. ‘Dad’s workers. Nick, son of Clint who works for Dad. Kent who’s got the coffee cart. Oh, and Sol from the tennis club. And I guess I’d better throw Hadleigh into the mix.’

‘None of them?’ she asked. ‘You said you knew you were looking at Iris in that scary one. Nothing like that this time?’

I shook my head. ‘If it was up to me, I’d choose Nick, even though he tormented me when I was little. Promising me ice cream if I climbed onto a high branch and then taking the ladder away sort of thing. But now he’s to die for. Kind, strong, thoughtful, dreamy.’

‘Is he available?’

‘He’s welded to a glamour girl called Lulu.’

‘It’s just as well if he’s not the one you keep seeing, in that case.’ She thought for a moment. ‘Are you going to ask Gwennie about this?’

‘No point. If it is Nick, I can’t have him. If it’s anyone else I know, I don’t want him. Anyway, tell me what’s happening for you?’

We chatted about easier topics. Her parents were due home for Christmas. The whole family was going to Waiheke on Christmas Eve.

My Christmas Eve would be somewhat different. By close of play, the factory would either have a finisher or it wouldn’t.

I hadn’t given Christmas itself any thought. Normally, Hadleigh, Mum and I ate a superbly cooked traditional northern hemisphere meal in the middle of the day. Mum didn’t require either of us to help. She did the whole production by herself, though she did permit us to stack the dishwasher afterwards. She bestowed presents on us at 2 p.m. exactly. The drill was to sit in the lounge where she had a real Christmas tree. She did the Father Christmas role of handing out the parcels. Hadleigh always got
whatever
expensive bit of kit he’d dropped carefully into the conversation a few weeks before. Hints never worked for me. She always gave me bad clothes and worse jewellery. Last year — and god knows where she dug it up from — she gave me a knee-length, pleated white skirt and a blouse with a bow at the neck to go with it.

What to get her was an insoluble problem we faced each year. This year, I decided against arsenic or weapons that could be turned against me, and was tempted to tell her to call a truce on the gifts. She never liked what I gave her, and I loathed what she gave me. But no, I’d get the ice treatment for the entire year if I suggested that.

An idea blazed gloriously across my mind. I would buy her a Peace rose. She wouldn’t plant it, because it would mess up the design of the beds, but it was a lovely rose and she might, just might, get the symbolism. Maybe she’d even let me plant it.
In your dreams
,
Bess
. Still, I found a supplier courtesy of Google, placed the order, and gave Dad and Iris’s address for delivery.

The best present for me would be Dad signing Jason on as our finisher-in-training. That was slightly too bizarre to think about. I went to sleep instead.

 

THURSDAY SLID PAST
with no further drama. Mum was icily but blessedly silent. Jason said good morning, and washed up his own cup without being prompted.