Transformation of Minna Hargreaves, The (12 page)

I looked up at the camera. ‘See this, Gran Hargreaves? You’ll be so proud of me.’

I thought about that and shook my head. ‘No, you won’t. You’ll say it’s about time I learned to look after myself —
and
your ditzy son.’ I shook a finger in the general direction of the camera. ‘And seeing we’re pulling each other’s reps to bits here, let me tell you that I don’t think much of the way you brought up Dad.’ I stomped off to the big pantry to grab the spuds, dumped them in the sink and talked back to the camera. ‘People, Gran — that’s the important bit. Why didn’t you teach him how to talk to people? Like me? Huh?’

Mum murmured from the sofa. ‘Don’t, Min. It won’t help.’

‘And what you did will?’ She winced like I’d chucked water in her face.

Crap. But it served her right. I cooked her a magnificent mash of spud.

I gave Mum the potato and watched her eat a teaspoonful. If only I could decide which one of them to be mad at it would help.

No, it wouldn’t help. What would help would be knowing why and how come and who. And I might find all that out sometime in the next millennium, but probably not seeing as how Dad wouldn’t talk and Mum couldn’t hold a conversation longer than about five words.

The next morning I had the bright idea of getting Mum out into the sunshine. I pulled the mattress off the window seat and dragged it out to the verandah. I had to help her lie down but she smiled and murmured,
Lovely.’ Birds wandered up to her to investigate. A couple of little lizards raced around. ‘Better than telly,’ she whispered. ‘It’s good to look at the sea too.’

I sat beside her and filmed the wildlife. When I got tired of that, I took one of Mum’s sheets of drawing paper and made a calendar.

‘How many days in August?’ I asked.

‘Thirty-one,’ she murmured.

‘Crap. Trust Dad to dump us here in a long month.’ I drew squares. I numbered them using every coloured pencil in Mum’s extensive collection. The things you do when there’s nothing else to do. ‘How long have we been here? Other than a hundred years already?’ But she didn’t know.

I did the listening watch that evening. ‘Maritime R — what’s the day and what’s the date? I’m living in a timeless land.’

Maritime R chuckled. ‘Minna on Motutoka, you are so lucky. Today is Saturday, twelfth of August.’

I coloured in twelve squares. ‘This,’ I said, giving the camera a chirpy grin, ‘will be another daily task. It will not do to lose track of the days.’

I wanted to be able to think of Seb on his birthday on the eighth of October and not have to spend days worrying if I’d forgotten it. I would write him a letter, which I would send when the helicopter landed in nineteen days, bringing with it glorious supplies. Meat. I craved meat.

The next day, Sunday 13 August on my calendar, I got up and what do you know, I’d run out of clean undies. After Dad and Noah had departed to places unknown
for work unspecified, I filled the sink with hot water and washed them. ‘You want anything done?’ I asked Mum.

‘No, thank you, Min.’ A whisper. If only she’d yell at me, or go into one of her long, stupid burbles with all the mixed metaphors like she used to do.

Then I washed the tea towels and hung everything on the line. I’d make sure I took it in the second it was dry, or sooner, just in case that flood of birds came back. What were they, anyway?

Mum didn’t know.

Neither did Dad when I asked him but I saw him looking thoughtfully at my washing airing by the
wood-burner
in the evening after I’d done the listening watch yet again and cooked a dinner of roast vegetables and a mess of green stuff. Meat was distant but constant dream.

The next morning — 14 August — I got up to find that Dad had left a pile of dirty undies and skanky socks in a suggestive pile in the middle of the kitchen floor. I kicked them under the table. No way, Daddy dearest, no way in hell am I going to wash your clothes. I didn’t say anything and neither did he as he toasted bits of the marvellous bread I kept us supplied with and stirred a pot of scrambled eggs.

He does good scrambled eggs.

Noah came in, swiped Dad’s toast and stuffed it into his mouth. ‘Good bread, sis.’

Noah speaks! Some things were looking up.

But not for long.

After lunch I decided I needed to film Dad and Noah. That was my job — filming — and I hadn’t managed yet to get shots of their manly muscles striving to tame nature. ‘You be okay for an hour?’ I asked Mum.

She gave the twitch of the lips which was all the smile she could manage these days. ‘Of course. Off you go.’

I strode off in my sensible boots to the other end of the island where I would find my menfolk engaged in masculine tasks too heavy for my gentle, nurturing, feminine self. The sheep as usual scurried away. I passed the hugest weta lurking on a dead tree trunk and I bravely filmed it, poised to run in case it wanted a closer relationship with me. I could only stand three seconds and then I was out of there.

I climbed a spur. ‘They should be over here somewhere,’ I told the camera. ‘Up in that tangle of vines and stuff, I’m picking. Funny that I can’t hear them.’ I stopped and panned over the area. ‘Are they having an extended lunch break?’

No. They weren’t. They weren’t there at all.

Odd.

I followed a track that snaked along the hillside before it dropped down on to a lower one that swung past the shed. ‘Hammering and sawing noises. Aha! Found them! What are they building? Let us go and solve the mystery.’

I went in. They looked up. ‘Hi, Min.’ Noah waved his hammer in my direction. ‘What do you reckon? Cool, eh? Next wind and we’ll be burning up the grass in this.’ He pointed at the thing they were working on.

Dad, I noticed, didn’t say anything, but I had plenty to say once I got it out, past the rage burning me to cinders. ‘You’re working on the land yacht? You’re doing
fun
stuff? And what about me? When do I get to do fun stuff?’ I hit my hand flat against my forehead. ‘Oh, that’s right! Stupid me! I’m the one who gets to do all the drudge stuff and has to stay around the house all day and every rotten day.’ I thumped the camera down and seized a chunk of wood. ‘Well, I’m sick of it! You hear me?’ I belted the wood down on the yacht. A strut broke off. I belted again and again. ‘Whoa!’ Noah backed away, his hands in the air.

Dad leapt up and came towards me, his arms out. I chucked the wood away, grabbed the camera and took off out of there.

‘Scuzzy manky cheating bastard!’ I yelled, and I hope all of that got on camera.

I didn’t cook them dinner. They didn’t seem to expect it. Dad said, ‘Sorry, Min. I’ve been thoughtless.’

Noah said, ‘We’re only going to work on it on windy days. Promise.’

I shrugged. Didn’t make any difference to me. I wasn’t going to cook them a damned thing from now on and that included bread.

I looked at Dad. ‘And can you please find somewhere else to keep your dirty washing? I don’t like it in
my
kitchen.’ I hope he didn’t miss the sarcasm, but seeing as how he just grinned at me, ruffled my hair and picked up his pile of disgusting clothes, it’s quite likely he did.

Life went on. The next morning, Dad made a big
production
out of cooking breakfast. We had fried spuds, fried eggs, toast and a tin of spaghetti. He made a point of assuring me that they’d be doing the proper work of the island today and would I come and film them?

‘Whatever,’ I said. I might and I might not. It all depended on how I felt, but right now I still felt raging mad. ‘And you can do the listening watch.’

But Noah said, ‘Excellent!’ He settled down at the radio and chatted away like he’d done it all his life. Damn. He wasn’t meant to enjoy it.

They tootled off in the sunshine with the last bread they’d be getting unless they cooked it themselves. I did the chores, talked to the chooks, made Mum a cup of tea and took it in. ‘What do you feel like eating, Mum?’

She just shook her head. ‘Nothing right now, darling. Thank you.’

‘You want to get up?’ She looked ghastly — ghastlier than normal ghastly actually. Maybe it was her hair. Then it hit me. She hadn’t had a shower since we’d been here. ‘Hey, Mum — do you want a shower? Or a bath?’

‘A bath! That would be wonderful. But …’ Her voice tailed off. She’d run out of energy.

‘I’ll help you,’ I said, gathering my courage for the venture into naked-mother territory. ‘You drink your tea.’

I filled the bath and didn’t make it too hot in case it cooked the baby. I sat back on my heels, my hand still in the water. The baby. That was the first time I’d thought about it. That baby was going to be my brother or sister. Half, anyway.

I got up and went to the bedroom, and helped Mum get out of her clothes. I felt awful because these were what she’d been wearing when we’d got here and I hadn’t even noticed she couldn’t get undressed and into PJs at night. Bad daughter. But maybe bad mothers breed bad daughters.

She sighed when I helped her slide down into the water. ‘Heaven,’ she whispered.

Well, that entire exercise convinced me not to take up nursing. I washed Mum’s back and her hair. ‘You want to have a soak for a bit?’ I asked, keeping my eyes away from naked flesh — maybe I’d inherited more than I wanted to from Gran Hargreaves.

‘Five minutes,’ Mum whispered in such a little voice I could hardly hear her.

I sat outside the door and listened in case she slipped down in the water and drowned and I tried not to be
scared rigid, but I was. She was so thin — and there wasn’t even a tiny bump to show she was pregnant. Her ribs had felt like corrugated iron when I washed her.

She was exhausted by the time I got her dry and into the PJs I’d found in one of the boxes. I wanted to change the sheets, but she just flapped a hand at me and crawled on to the bed. She couldn’t even keep her eyes open and her face was greenish-grey.

I bent over and pushed a strand of wet hair off her face. Wet hair could lead to pneumonia. She might die. ‘I’m going to dry your hair. Okay?’

No response beyond a murmur. It would be just too bad if the dryer did soak up all the solar power.

I plugged it in and it only just reached. I couldn’t dry all her hair because she couldn’t lift her head but I figured it was better than nothing. I gave her a hottie but I think she was asleep by then.

I sat down at the kitchen table and I’ve never felt so scared and so alone in the entire fourteen and whatever years of my life. Mum was sick — badly sick — and here we were, stuck on an island and we couldn’t get her off it. Dad … I half got up to run to talk to him, but I plopped back down again. He’d be worse than no help at all. There was only one thing to do. I reached for the radio.

‘Maritime Radio, this is Minna on Motutoka Island, Zulu, Lima, Mike, Tango. Come in please.’

Please please please.

‘Maritime Radio to Minna, ZLMT. Over.’

The relief of it made the tears spill but I didn’t have time to wipe them. ‘We need a doctor here. Urgently.

It’s my mother. She’s …’ I choked up and just managed to say, ‘Over.’

‘Maritime Radio to Minna, ZLMT. Stand by, Minna. I’ll patch you through to the television company.’

I stood by, counting the seconds and finding it difficult to breathe.

The radio burst into chatter. It wasn’t one of the calm and friendly Maritime R voices. This one didn’t even know the right words. ‘Hello Motutoka Island. Come in please.’

I came in. ‘This is Minna. Are you getting a doctor? Over.’

The voice changed and got the sort of tone that says it didn’t intend dealing with some hysterical kid. ‘I’m sorry, Minna, but we can’t do that on your say so. Your father will have to request it. Over.’

I leaned forward and shoved every atom of menace into my voice that I could dredge up. ‘Listen! Dad won’t do it. But
I’m
telling you that if you don’t get a doctor here today, then my mother might die.’ I dragged in a breath. ‘And I’m also telling you that if you don’t get a doctor, then when I get off this island I’m going to drag your stink company through every court I can find.’

A silence. I spoke into it. ‘Get me a doctor. Now.’

‘Wait there.’ Like I had a choice? I waited for age-long minutes. Another voice came on.

‘Cara here, Minna. What seems to be the trouble?’

Oh hell, she was going to find out soon enough anyway. ‘You remember how sick Mum was when we got here?’

‘I do. Go on.’ Not dripping with sweetness, old Cara.

‘Well, she’s still sick. But she’s worse.’ I took a breath to tell her the big one. ‘She’s pregnant. It’s not Dad’s baby. He won’t talk to her or even look at her, but she’s too sick to eat and she can’t drink more than half a cup of tea and I think she might die.’ I wanted to be calm and in control but the wobbles got into my voice.

Cara was brisk and didn’t muck about. ‘Call back in thirty minutes. I’ll have a doctor for you to talk to, and I’ll send the helicopter as soon as I can arrange it. Check the wind speed, we’ll need to know that before we send the chopper.’

‘But Cara — she can’t go by helicopter. She’s too sick. It’d make her worse and she can’t take worse right now.’

She rapped out another brisk and decisive reply. ‘I understand. Check the wind speed and stand by the radio. Over and out.’

I slumped in the chair. Dad was going to be mad, but too bad. I rubbed my face with both hands. And Cara? She’d be jumping like a firecracker right now thinking about all that great television that must be waiting on her sneaky cameras — and thinking that Dad would divorce Mum and he’d be free again so he just might take notice when she fluttered her eyelashes at him. Cow.

I got the anemometer out of the cupboard, took it to where the helicopter had landed us and held it up. Eighteen kilometres. Would that be too strong? Oh god, I hoped not.

I checked on Mum. She was asleep and didn’t stir when I spoke to her. Was she still breathing? I stood
there for the longest time, watching to make sure the blankets were moving up and down.

‘Maritime Radio calling Motutoka Island.’

I raced to the radio. ‘Minna here. Over.’

They wanted to know the wind speed. I told them and waited, my heart thumping.

‘Maritime Radio to Motutoka Island. The chopper can land in eighteen-kilometre wind speed. We’re patching you through to Cara.’

I leaned my head on the desk in front of me and let the relief wash through me. Then Cara’s voice was in the room, competing with a burst of static, but I heard her clearly enough. ‘We’re nearly ready to take off, Minna. Be there in a bit over an hour. Anything you need?’

Tears splashed all over the show, but she couldn’t see, thank goodness. ‘Could we have some meat? The freezer broke the day we got here. And some fresh fruit?’ And probably a whole heap of other stuff that I’d wish I’d thought of.

‘Will do. Over and out.’

I waited on the verandah in between checking on Mum. She woke up the third time I went in and I said, ‘Mum, a doctor’s coming. He’ll be here soon, in about an hour I think.’

‘Thank you, Min.’ She opened her eyes again and for a second there was a glint of real Mum. ‘Glad I had the bath.’

The helicopter landed, dropping down from the sky in a skirl of wind and noise.

Cara jumped down, followed by a woman. I ran towards them. ‘Hello Minna, this is Dr Hunter.’

She was about Mum’s age with a great smile and hair that blew across her eyes in the wind from the rotors. She carried a bag with her that I hoped would contain stuff to make Mum better. They followed me into the house. I showed Dr Hunter Mum’s room and left them alone.

Cara said, ‘I’ll take the films you’ve finished, Minna. Do you want to grab the stuff from the chopper? There’s a couple of boxes of supplies in there.’

‘Okay.’ I was too relieved she’d brought the doctor so quickly to get miffed at her bossiness, and anyway, I figured Dad and Noah would be turning up any second and I’d rather she did the explaining than me.

The pilot, the same guy who’d flown us here, lifted the boxes into my arms. They were heavy and I held them tight. The thought of them falling and splitting open on the ground didn’t appeal.

I arrived back at the house in a dead heat with Dad and Noah.

Dad: Why’s the helicopter here? (Penetrating glare with temper round the edges.)

Noah: What’s in the boxes, Min? Food? Real food?

Dad: Minna! Answer me.

Me: I thought Mum was dying. I called it. A doctor’s here.

Dad ran his fingers through his hair and sucked in a large quantity of air. ‘Min, that was irresponsible. That radio is for emergency use only.’

I dumped the boxes on the table. ‘You can unload those. And it’s here now, so too bad.’

Noah was into the boxes like a drug dog hunting for
dope. ‘Meat!’ He waved a packet high. ‘A roast! Pork! Hey, Dad, let’s have this tonight.’ He threw it to Dad, who caught it but didn’t lose the pissed-off expression.

Noah kept hunting. ‘Mince. Sausages. Steak. Chops. Bacon. Chicken.’

‘Put them in the fridge, son,’ said Dad. Uh oh, now we had a good son, bad daughter thing going on. I didn’t care. I wished the doctor would come out of Mum’s room and tell me she was going to be fine, and I didn’t give a fat rat’s arse if Cara yelled at me for bringing the helicopter over for nothing.

Noah demolished the packaging on box two. ‘Bananas. Tomatoes. Pears. Grapes. Apples. Lemons. Oranges. Avocados. A block of chocolate!’ He ripped the paper off it, broke off a chunk and crammed it in his mouth.

Dad held out his hand and Noah dumped another chunk into it. ‘Min?’ Dad asked.

I shook my head. My stomach was too tight to eat. Why was that doctor taking so long?

I sat and watched my father and brother chew through an entire block of chocolate. It gave me something to do, watching them. Noah chewed each mouthful six times, but Dad was more thorough — eleven times.

Neither of them mentioned Mum. I wished Noah would. I wished he’d ask me why I was so worried I’d called the chopper. He ate a banana then an orange.

I heard a door shut. At last! But it wasn’t the doctor, it was Cara. Dad stood up. ‘I’m sorry you were called over. It was nothing to do …’

I cut across him. ‘Is she going to be okay? Is she going to die?’

Cara, I have to admit, was great. She came and gave me a hug. ‘She’s going to be fine, Minna.’ I let her hug me.