The Quilt (52 page)

Clad in protect
ive clothing, the firemen form a semi-circle behind us.  Their truck is ready to extinguish the flames and the men in my life are poised and ready to ignite them.  I wonder if the professionals question the wisdom of allowing this family to have accelerant and flame.  The firefighters are all too young to know the significance.  To them the destruction of Shearers Cottage is just another exercise.

Blake and Caroline have retreated
to the main house.  They understand and are allowing the Clarke Family to evict their ghosts in privacy.

There is an acrid smell of burnt wood and small spirals of smoke still rise from the blackened burnt ground.  Shearers Cottage and all that it represented have been erased. 

Caroline is carrying plates of sandwiches to the locals that have arrived to witness the final chapter of Allan Clarkes legacy.

A woman trailed by three children approaches Paul.  She smiles at him fondly.

“Angela, this is my wife Joanne.”

She glances at me befor
e returning her eyes to Paul.  Her oldest boy has reached the age where his face is solemn and he views the world through hostile eyes and his mother as little more than an inconvenience.  I look at him and wonder what the son I am carrying will be like as an adolescent.

“This is Paul
.”

Angela introduces the surly youngster.  I raise a questioning eyebrow.

“Oh no, I’m sorry!” 

Angela flushes to a
deep shade of scarlet.

Paul places a reassuring arm around my shoulders.

“Paul is not my son, but his positive pregnancy test once was.  It is another long story.”

He is laug
hing but Angela’s eyes are wide and she regards me warily. 

Will I ever know my husband’s full story?  I put the poor woman out of her misery.

“That’s a good choice of name.”

Angela’s husband joins us.  He extends a hand and the grabs Paul on the shoulder.

“Paul Clarke!  It’s been a long time.”

He grins at me and winks.

“I’m David.  I manage Twin Pines and Kean Farm thanks to this husband of yours.  Get him to show you the property later.  There is a quad in the shed and take the dogs.  You can check the stock for me, assuming you remember how to do an honest day’s work.”

Paul laughs
and we exchange a look.  We both know this will be the last time he will visit Twin Pines Station.  We both know this will be the last time he will work with his dogs.

This is a new life to me.  It is a glimpse into what made my husband the man he is.   We follow the river and trace the sidling’s across the sheep worn paddocks.  He pauses to show me magnificent man-made ponds surrounded by towering oaks, claret ash, maple and elm.  They reach towards the vivid blue sky and I can imagine their spectacular burnt orange, red and gold leaves lying in an autumn carpet at our feet and falling silently on to the flat surfaces of the ponds.  We idle behind a sea of wool as the flock of sheep move as one before us.  Paul works the dogs and I watch, mesmerized.  This is my glimpse of what it was like to live, grow and work in the New Zealand High County.

When we get to the jagged cliff
known as James Ridge we stop and I breathe in the scent of pine and rich damp soil.  I turn my face to the sun and thank the man that plummeted to his death on a bitterly cold, stormy night many years ago.  I thank the woman named Anne who lay undisturbed under the rotting trunk of a tree waiting for the chance to tell her story. 

“Do you miss this
?”

Paul looks at the
blue hazy mountains fading progressively into a smudge on the horizon.

“No.  I have so much more now
.  Do you miss where you grew up?”

I let my
mind wander up the sweeping red chip drive to the Italian marble statues spewing water out of their grotesquely shaped mouths.  The imposing Georgian mansion and its sweeping double stairways shaped like angle wings rising from the entry.  I think about the acres of dark red velvet curtains. I think about the cold clinical neatness of the library with its perfectly matched and stacked lines of books.

“
No, I have so much more now.”

We walk hand in hand to the edge and yell at the bl
ank, rocky face of the cliff.  It stares unforgivingly back at us.    The bulldozer is no longer visible.  Most of the wreck has been claimed by the earth, and thick foliage has entombed what is left.  The massive tree trunk has crumbled, and the hollow that once was the resting place of Anne Clarke has already filled with leaves. 

“Jess hated coming up here
.”

I don’t respond.  I know Paul has drifted
from me and is talking to the grandmother he never met.

This is Twin Pines
Station.  It is magnificent, it is full of the memories of the pioneering family that made it, but it is no longer the home of the Clarke family.

“Leslie”

Leslie never found happiness and contentment.  If she had I am not sure she would have recognized it.  She had three children with her second husband.  A month after the oldest one celebrated his eighteenth birthday her husband filed for divorce.

The poor man had developed a permanent stoop after years of nagging and abuse from his unhappy wife.

The settlement drained half of everything he owned.  The divorce was money well spent in his opinion.

She went on to marry a third time.  Again her husband fell short of her expectations.

Time has definitely not been kind to Leslie.  Heavy makeup fights hard to cling to her sagging skin and cakes in the deep lines that have formed at the corners of her mouth and eyes.

She remained blonde with the constant use of chemicals.  But the effect no longer is that of a pretty doll.  She is a rapidly aging woman grasping on to a youth long passed.

She often thinks about the handsome Paul Clarke and how different her life could have been.  She read about the discovery of Anne Clarke’s remains and the funeral.  The article had included a photograph of the family standing in front of the burnt remains of Shearers Cottage.  Next to Paul was his wife, a leggy, gorgeous, blonde woman.  Leslie ripped the page into small pieces and drained the contents of a bottle of cheap sweet wine.

Her third husband has recently filed for divorce.

“Stephen”

Stephen aged well but eventually time and alcohol caught up.

His smooth
, good looks and wiry build turned into a balding middle-aged man with a gut reflecting years of inactivity.

He had spent his life painting pictures that no one wanted to buy
, and falling from one woman’s arms into the next.

He
frequents the local pubs wearing a thick gold neck chain and sporting unnaturally black thinning hair. 

Young woman are often seen turning their backs and recoiling from the pathetic advances of this sad aging man.

Stephen doesn’t seem to notice.

“Jess and Critter”

Jess lived until the age of thirteen. Her cruciate ligament injury and an onset of arthritis made the approaching winter a cruel promise.

As the golden autumn leaves let go of their fragile hold on the stark tree limbs Paul made the heartbreaking decision to allow her to rest.   

The life drained peacefully from Jess’ soft, trusting brown eyes as she looked
adoringly up at her master.  With her final shallow breath she severed the last threads of Paul’s life on Twin Pines.

Jess has pride of place under a spectacular weeping cher
ry tree on the cliff edge overlooking the bay.  

Despite the cold Paul and I walk barefoot along the gentle curve of beach nestled below the vineyard.  A harsh wind rallies abrasive flurries of coarse sand that bite into my skin and stick to the moisture in my hair.

Behind us waddles Critter.  He is now an ancient
, tiny dog with eyes blurred by the haze of old age.  We adjust our pace as we do every day, we carry him when he tires and we help him down the track that leads from the beach.  Paul will scoop him up before we reach the half-moon stretch of golden sand that forms the next bay.  He’ll carry the tiny wriggling frame until Critter can rally the strength to continue. Paul sighs and smiles at me.  I know what he is thinking but I don’t want him to speak the words.  It has been two weeks since he said goodbye to Jess, and each day that followed I have watched Critter age and the misery weigh heavily on his frail body.  But I am still unable to severe that last string that holds Sandy to my mortal earth.

Paul speaks but his words are snatched by the gusting wind.  I know he curses at the lost moment but I don’t ask him to repeat himself.  I don’t want to hear what h
e has said.  He looks back guiltily at the tiny dog wobbling unhappily on the soft white sand.

“Joanne?”

“Shut up Paul, not now!”

I focus ahead.  I know I will find the right time. 

The scene in the distance is surreal.  A woman walks barefoot on the water line.  At her side is a small black and white working dog.  They stop and stare in our direction.  Her features are blurred by a haze of salt and sand, her hair is blown across her face and flows around her shoulders to form a veil. I watch, mesmerized, squinting to bring the image into focus.  Paul is talking but his words are distant.  I look down to where Critter was but he is now a tiny, retreating figure making his way towards the stranger and her dog.

“Joanne.  We need to catch up to Critter
.”

Paul is shaking my arm and he looks alarmed.  We follow the path of the tiny dog across the sand and over the rocky outcrop that separates the bays. 

Before us we find Critter lying peacefully on the track, he is curled up in a small lifeless ball.

I kneel beside him and cradle his warm body against mine. 
Paul’s arm rests on my shoulder.  I know he is struggling to find the words to make this easier, to make my pain less.

“He must have had a heart attack
.”

I look up
, blinking away the salt filled moisture that clouds my vision.

“Didn’t you see them? The woman and the border collie
?”

Paul’s eyes follow my hand.
Paw prints and small bare footprints are imprinted in the sand where Critter has come to rest.  He follows the prints back down to the beach where they curve away towards the waterline and vanish.  Paul frowns and walks towards the road.    The sand leading up towards the road remains undisturbed.

“
The Clarke Family”

Jean Clarke looks into the glacial blue eyes of her granddaughter.  Brooke looks back disagreeably and a lock of unruly liquid honey-coloured hair falls over her forehead.  She tames it by tucking it behind her ear.

“Don’t stare Nana!”

She jumps up.  She resembles a foal, all long legs and arms swinging from her delicate slim body. I think about those that have gone before, the good and the bad, the weak and the strong.  Those that make my granddaughter who she is, those that will help her become the beautiful woman she one day will be.

Joanne and Chloe walk towards me.  They are deep in conversation.  The
type of conversation that only close friends can share.  I feel privileged to be able to include these special young people in my life.  People mellowed and shaped by the pain and traumas of their past, but strong and determined as they face their future.  Chloe turns to face me with eyes that are pools connected to her soul. 

“How are you dear?”
I ask.

“I am very well
.  Geoff visited yesterday.”

I look at her hopefully and she smiles that mysterious smile that spans the generations.

“He is engaged again.  He wanted to tell me himself.”

I am not sure what to say. 
Relationships are so complicated, but I had hoped this wonderful couple would eventually find a way to heal.

“I am
so sorry.”

Joanne places her arm around Chloe’s shoulder in a simple gesture of co
mfort and support.  My daughter-in-law has travelled the road to hell and back.  Now, as she stands before me, I see a beautiful woman of depth, strength and intelligence.  She has been matured by loss and mellowed by love.

I look proudly towards the weeping cherries dripping in delicate blossoms.  Their soft folds of pink form a lacy frame to the moody
palette of the blues and greens in the shimmering water below. 

Joanne has created a spectacular paradise for the couples th
at choose our Marinella as the place to take their vows.   Of course, Paul and Joanne were the first to marry in the dappled shadows of the cherries.  I smile as I remember her serene expression.  She stood silhouetted against the shimmering mirror of the harbour wearing a simple fitting ivory gown that kissed the short blades of grass.  There was a small amount of pearl detailing on the bodice and her honey coloured hair hung in soft curls to her shoulders.  Grey smoky eye shadow picked up the colour of her eyes, and a matt of tiny blue love beads sat in the sweetheart neckline
.