The Party Line (16 page)

She might have backed out of discussing the girls’ behaviour with Ian Baxter, but she couldn’t afford to keep it from Eugene. Eugene was reading the newspaper. If he’d noticed her shaking, he said nothing. ‘There’s something you need to know about. It’s about Nickie.’

Eugene looked up. He reached across the newspaper for his cigarettes. His fingers flicked open the top of the Rothman’s box and he shook it upside down, releasing one. He tapped the non-filtered end on the table, a habit from the old days when he rolled his own.

He was still a very handsome man, Joy thought. His hair was thick, with just a few grey strands weaving through the black curls. His brow was clear of the worry lines that marked her own face. How did he manage that, spending all day everyday outside?

He was waiting. For a moment, she was tempted to make something up, invent a pregnancy, or a crime, to see if it rattled his cool. Eugene put the cigarette in his mouth, and felt his shirt pocket, searching for his box of matches. He leaned sideways in his chair and his hand plunged into the side pocket of his trousers. He pulled the box of matches out, struck a match alight and drew deeply on the cigarette.

When the cigarette glowed, he took it out of his mouth and handed it to Joy. Eugene said nothing as she took it and inhaled. She closed her eyes as the smoke filled her lungs. She passed it back to him.

‘Better?’ he asked.

She nodded. She’d given up years earlier and had smoked only once since — on the morning she’d got the call that her mother had died. Eugene had done exactly the same thing then. Said nothing, lit a cigarette and handed it to her. That morning, she’d smoked the whole thing.

‘It’s to do with the Gilberts,’ she said finally. She poured tea into her own mug, steam rising, then into Eugene’s. Her hand was still shaking.

‘The Gilberts? What’s up, Joy?’

There was a cool edge to his voice now. His eyes slightly narrowed, not enough to be called accusing, but wary. He thought she was having another poke at Jack Gilbert. Making trouble.

‘Nickie. It’s Nickie, Eugene. And Gabrielle, too, the pair of them. Nickie’s got herself all worked up because … she reckons Jack Gilbert … bashes Audrey. Beats her up. Badly. She wants me to do something about it.’

Eugene dragged the sugar bowl across the table towards him. The teaspoon looked miniature between his fingers; one, two, three spoonfuls into the mug. He stirred slowly.

‘Where’s she got this idea from?’

‘I don’t know. She didn’t say. She asked me to talk to Audrey. Offer to help her.’

‘What the hell …?’

‘Exactly. What the hell.’

‘She’s making it up. She hasn’t seen it happen, has she? She can’t have. When’s she ever been to the Gilberts?’

No one ever went to the Gilberts. Audrey was awkward company, and Jack was just plain mean.

‘Well, as far as I know, she hasn’t been there … she didn’t say anything else.’

‘Little fantasy games, stupid girls. And dangerous. Who’s she said this crap to?’

‘As far as I know, just me.’

Joy didn’t tell Eugene about the offer of help, some woman or women Nickie had mentioned. God knows who they were but it all had a Germaine Greer ring to it, that Australian women’s libber who’d brought herself to New Zealand not long ago and stirred up trouble.

Eugene drew deeply on his cigarette. Joy watched the end burn bright. He didn’t offer her another drag on it.

‘What have you done about it? What’d you say to her?’

Joy had the cold and frightening feeling that somehow Eugene thought this was her fault.

‘I told her that she’d got the wrong end of the stick, and what goes on in other people’s houses is no one else’s business. Especially between a man and his wife. And if I heard anything more about it there’d be more trouble than she could ever imagine.’

‘She’s not too old for a proper punishment, Joy. You shouldn’t be afraid to use the belt. If that’s what’s needed.’

Joy took a slurp of her tea and quietly hated Eugene for his cowardice. She tried to remember the last time he’d punished Nickie with the belt. Years ago, when he’d caught her stealing coins out of the pocket of his good town trousers. Even then it had been a half-hearted flick; the threat of it, the lead-up more terrifying than the event itself. She was willing to bet that Eugene didn’t even know where the belt was.

‘Don’t worry. She got a bloody good smack.’ Joy didn’t say it had been across Nickie’s face. Something about that had been eating at her, making her feel queasy, almost guilty, and now she knew what it was. A slap across the face was what one adult would do to another. She’d punished Nickie for entering the world of adults, not for a child’s naughtiness. The back of the legs was where she should have hit her. That would have been okay.

Joy started clearing the table. ‘Do you want to have a word with her, too? She’s more likely to take notice, coming from both of us.’

‘Sounds like you’ve sorted it out okay.’

Joy turned away.
Leave it all to me, Eugene. Leave the hard stuff all to me.

‘It takes all kinds, doesn’t it?’ she said.

Eugene looked at her, puzzled.

‘The Gilberts. When you think about it. Audrey and Jack.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, he’s as mean as they come, with his fences and his malnourished stock and whatever. Sometimes, I think, how hard must it be for her to put up with him? Then you drive past, and you see her outside, under that clothes line, hanging out washing in the pouring rain or just staring at nothing at all and you think … well, maybe she’s not so easy to live with either. Her not being the full load.’

‘I see where Nickie’s getting it from, Joy. Stop stirring it up.’

‘I’m just saying. That’s all. To you. Not to anyone else.’

Joy stopped stirring it up. Not because Eugene had taken a view on Jack Gilbert; a position that clearly favoured Jack and not Nickie. The truth was, she was too busy with Calf Club Day preparations the rest of that afternoon to worry about the Gilberts or Gabrielle Baxter or anything else. It was only two days away. She needed to check that the judges knew what time to be at school on Monday, that the classrooms were set out for the indoor competitions, that morning tea and lunch rosters were confirmed.

At five-thirty, Joy was ready to go to Confession. Nickie was reading a book on her bed when Joy went in.

‘Are you all set?’ Joy asked. ‘We’ll have to go to Thames, we’ve missed Paeroa.’

Nickie looked up. She didn’t smile. ‘Yes.’ That was all she said.

The drive was silent. At first, Joy tried for light conversation, asking Nickie about schoolwork, about her thoughts on who would win the big cups in two days’ time. Nickie replied with single words, or not at all. She fiddled with the radio, finding pop music, then turned away from Joy and stared out the side window.

‘I bet you and Gabrielle look great in your outfits,’ Joy lied. ‘What did Mr Baxter think of them?’

‘He didn’t say. But he thought our performances were good.’

‘Does he … is he alright about it?’

‘What do you mean
it
?’

‘Well, I’m guessing that the clothes aren’t Gabrielle’s. Were they his wife’s?’

‘Yes.’

‘I just … I hope he doesn’t mind, that’s all. Seeing you both dressed up in clothes that belonged to her.’

‘He’d say if he did, wouldn’t he? Anyway, Mum, why should you care?’

The words made Joy squirm. Nickie swung her body around so she was facing her. Joy glanced from the road; Nickie’s face was red, pinched with anger, and there were tears in her eyes. Nickie’s arms were crossed defiantly across her chest.

‘What do you mean by that?’

‘You’re all worried about what people are wearing, but you don’t care about someone getting bashed.’

‘Nickie.’ Joy’s hands shook on the steering wheel. ‘There are things you don’t understand …’ Could she keep driving? Her head spun.

‘All your life you’ve been looking at Audrey Gilbert with those bruises and marks all over her. What do you tell yourself, Mum? That she fell over?
That her hand slipped and she accidently punched herself in the eye
?’

‘Don’t even start on that again, Nickie.’

‘Or what? You’ll hit me again? You’ll
bash
me?’

‘That’s enough.’

As they came off the bridge and pulled up at the T-junction, teenagers ran across the road in front of them. They were gathering at the L & P bottle, just a little down the road. Joy could see some of the boys carried bottles of beer, the girls had bottles too, spirits maybe, or wine. Her window was down and she heard the smashing of glass, followed by laughter. Other nights, when they’d driven as a family into town, the delinquents and their antics seemed foreign; another
species on the brink of extinction at the hands of the police. Tonight, it felt as though one of them had opened the passenger door, climbed in beside her.

Joy turned left, then right onto the winding road through to Thames. When she was little, she’d loved travelling this narrow track in the Hillman Minx, her father at the wheel. He’d rev the engine as the little car reached the top of each hill and they sailed over the crest. She just knew they were flying — all four wheels left the ground, keeping company with her belly suspended somewhere near her throat. By the end of the journey she and Neville would be green and woozy and already talking, excitedly, about the return trip home.

Now she hated this road for those undulations. They were deep enough to hide a truck until the very last second of its approach. The accelerating, roaring beasts would emerge like enraged bulls, their headlights on full beam, and all she could think was
This is how it would have been for Neville, just before he died.

This time, the lights came at her in pairs. Not in single file, not even two by two, ancient animals heeding Noah’s call. They wove across the road, zigzagging the centre line and each other like fireflies in a square dance. The menace of engines and the black blur of leather and chrome and helmets and the flash of red flag bearing a swastika. Hells Angels.

Joy, panicked, took her foot off the accelerator. The car stalled. The bikes kept coming — somehow missing her. Up close, as each bike passed, she saw the grinning skulls of the riders. Some of them leaned inwards and banged on the side of the car.

‘Lock your door, Nickie,’ Joy whispered, reaching behind her to push the lock down on the back passenger door. ‘And the back. The back door, too. Quick.’

It seemed they would never stop — that somewhere, over the next brow, a great machine was spurting out waves of the ugly animals and their machines, like locusts in a plague. Joy reached across and took Nickie’s hand in hers. She glanced at her daughter.

‘Don’t look at them. Look straight ahead, don’t let them catch your eye.’

They waited for what felt like hours but was only seconds. Nickie
looked down into her lap. When the last of the bikes had passed, Joy turned the key in the ignition. Her hands shook so badly the key slipped out of the slot and landed at her feet.

‘
Mum
,’ said Nickie, her eyes wide and white. ‘Hurry
up
.’

The car’s engine was so quiet, compared to the rumble of the bikes, that Joy wasn’t sure it was running at all. She slipped the gear lever into first, and they moved slowly forward.

At the church, she turned the engine off. Nickie’s feet were on the dashboard. She was chewing gum.

‘Spit that out before you go in,’ said Joy, her heart still thumping.

Nickie chewed on.

‘Did you hear what I said?’

‘What sort of confession are you going to make tonight, Mum? Are you going to tell him you hit me? And that you have failed to help a neighbour in need?’

Joy reached over to grab Nickie’s arm. ‘Listen to me, young lady—’ But she was too slow. Nickie had already clicked open her door and slid out of the car. She stood by the open door, leaning in, looking at Joy. She was smiling, her face thin and ghostly, the sun silhouetting her from behind.

‘It’s not so nice, is it? Feeling scared. Terrified of something. I think I’ll go before you to Confession, if you don’t mind, Mum.’

The door slammed and she was gone, sprinting into the church.

Please let there be others waiting.
Joy had no idea whether the presence of others might give her a chance to calm Nickie down, at least entice her outside again to talk, but it was all she could hope for.

The rows of dark wooden seats were empty. The last of the late-afternoon sun filtered through the stained-glass windows. Two of the three confessional doors were closed; the one on the left and the one in the middle. The priest would be in that one. Above the closed left door, the little red light glowed. Nickie was inside. Confessing and accusing.

A noise startled Joy. She turned to see an elderly woman coming
in behind her. The woman was bent over, her weight resting on a carved wooden walking stick. Her brown coat was threadbare, its hem unstitched at the back. Her gaze focused on the end of the stick, where the rubber met the floor.

Joy walked ahead of her — not racing, but quickly — towards the confessional. She was relieved she didn’t know the woman. A good Catholic would escort her to the confessional, then let her go first, Joy thought. A decent Catholic would let the pensioner unload her paltry sins and shuffle home again, before the cool night air chilled her bones. Joy slipped into the vacant box and closed the door.

She always closed her eyes. At first, when she’d been a child, she’d done it to get used to the dark, and she’d open them once a minute or so had passed. But as the weeks and months passed, Joy got into the habit of keeping them closed longer. She was waiting for Something to happen. Nothing happened. After more time passing, Joy closed her eyes for the full length of the confession, to fight off the claustrophobia.

She kneeled on the ledge and let her hands brush the wall to the left. The grooves in the timber, the cold button of a nail head on the third panel. A ritual, she realised, just like the other things that happened in this place.