‘Thank God. Are you all right?’ How stupid can you be? ‘You missed the presentation. Where were you? I was worried sick.’
He leaned against the wall and said nothing. He’d been drinking but that was quite normal. Then I noticed he was wearing only jeans, the top button undone. His feet were bare. Something tightened inside me.
‘What’s going on?’ Still he said nothing. ‘Jason, talk to me.’
‘I didn’t think you’d be back this early,’ he said. But it was the way his eyes turned toward the bedroom door. It was so obvious even I could see it.
‘There’s someone here, isn’t there? You’ve got someone in there. I thought you were hurt or ill or…or…And you’ve just been screwing some bit you’ve picked up.’
‘No, it’s not like that.’
‘What was it like then? Was she good? Was she worth it? My God, she’s in my bed. You’ve got her in my bed.’ I started towards the door but he grabbed my shoulders.
‘Don’t go in there. Regan, I’m warning you.’
‘You’re
warning
me? I want that bitch out of there. The two of you. Out!’ I broke away from him and charged into the bedroom.
She was sitting up on the bed, sheets pulled tight around her as if they would hide what had happened. She stared straight at me, struggling to bring it all into focus with pupils that were wide and black as marble. But her face was filled with such sadness and despair that I knew she understood. In spite of the drink, in spite of whatever else he had fed her, she knew who I was and what he had done to us.
‘Oh, Sally. Sally.’ That was all I could say. As I stood there watching her, tears began to trace the line of her jaw and fall onto her shaking hands. I turned and walked out of the room.
I remember standing at the window watching the traffic lights at the corner change from red to green and back to red. I’m not sure I was thinking of anything. After what may have been a long or a little while, Jason was standing behind me.
‘Sally’s gone. I put her in a taxi. The driver will see she gets home OK.’
I nodded. The lights changed again.
‘Don’t blame Sally. It was all my fault. She came round to see you. We had a drink and then…Well, it all got out of hand. She didn’t know what she was doing. She wouldn’t hurt you.’
‘I know that. Don’t you think I
know
that?’ I heard my voice rising to a scream. ‘She was my friend!’ I felt my fist beating at him and beating at him and this time he didn’t hold me away but
just stood there while I beat him and beat him until I couldn’t any longer and my body sank to the floor.
He went down with me, folding me in his arms and I let him hold me because that’s all I had left.
‘She was my friend.’
‘I know,’ he whispered. ‘I know.’
Jason left, but the night went on and on and the lights on the corner kept changing. When, finally, sunlight streamed through the window it hurt my eyes and made my head ache. All I wanted was Sally. I wanted to hear her voice. I wanted to apologise for what he’d done and make it right between us, but it never could be. Some things you can’t mend.
The day threw itself away on endless cups of coffee. It was evening before Jason slid through the door, shoulders hunched in silence. He wouldn’t look at me. All he managed was, ‘Hi. You OK?’
There was no point in trying to answer so we sat on opposite sides of the table. He studied his hands and I looked out of the window. ‘I don’t suppose it’s any good saying I’m sorry?’
‘You want me to forgive you? You want me to make you feel better? Well fuck you, Jason. This isn’t about you.’
‘I know you’re hurting now, but—’
‘You don’t get it, do you? It’s over. I want you to take your stuff and get out of here.’
‘What about you? What’ll you do?’
‘I don’t know. I’ll go away. I need to work and I can’t do it here.’
‘Yes, I know.’ He took a deep breath. ‘I’ve been doing a lot of thinking. I’m not the best thing that’s happened in your life, I’m aware of that. Last night, well, I don’t know what that was about. But worse than that, what I’ve done to you is get between you and your work.’
‘You’re probably right, as usual. I need to have my head straight and it just doesn’t happen with you around. I’m going to get out of Auckland, go somewhere quiet.’
‘So, where will you go?’
‘I don’t know. A place where there aren’t any people.’
‘Look, I might know somewhere. Let me go check a few things out.’
‘Jason, I don’t want you—’
‘It’s OK. I promise I won’t try to change your mind. Let me do this one thing.’
Next morning he was back, saying everything was arranged. He was full of it, telling me how perfect it was and just what I needed and how I’d be able to work undisturbed. It was as if he’d found a new game to play and the day before had never happened. He behaved as if we were going on holiday, helping pack my bags and driving round to the studio to load up. I got swept along as I always did; it was easier than trying to think.
As the last of the day slipped away the lake’s surface darkened to the purple lustre of ripe plums. It was good to breathe air that was cooler and untainted by yesterday’s anger. The glass of wine was warm between my hands.
Had I forgiven him? Did my grandfather forgive his puppy when it chewed up a first edition Chekhov? Somehow, forgiving Jason seemed equally irrelevant. I didn’t know what to do about him any more. I was only aware of a big, empty space inside me where Sally used to be.
I
am walking. Upwards, I think, and towards…somewhere…somewhere I must go. It is night but I see my way clearly. Moonlight drapes the forest, outlining the tips of leaves and pools in white ruches between the trunks. I am walking through pine trees, crunching on fallen needles, releasing their resinous odour, pungent and sickly as it mingles with the smell of mildewed earth. My feet are bare, yet I cannot feel the sting of needle tips in my flesh. Nor do I feel tired, though it seems I have been walking for hours. There is no urgency. Not yet. I have time to feel my way over stones and twisted roots, time to hold back the branches that would pull and tear at my bare skin. I am walking upwards, going…where am I going…?There is no silence in this forest. Insects hum and crackle, calling into the night, the drone and scrape of legs, the buzz of rapid wings. Small things rustle and creep in the undergrowth, their tiny eyes watching my progress. And something else watches me, something that is waiting…
The ground is steeper now, my breath ragged from exertion and anticipation. I can feel my heart. It kicks against my ribs and throbs in my fingers. My feet slip and I snatch at handfuls of twigs as if that could save me from a fall. And still I push on
and upward, pulse throbbing in my head. Or is it outside my head? Thumping and thumping and the ground beneath my feet shuddering with each beat. Trees shiver to the rhythm and insects join in the chant. Thump…thump…thump…I struggle against the tangle of branches that pull at my limbs and suddenly the ground slips away and I am falling into the rotting earth, crashing downwards into…
I
wrestled to pull myself out of the corkscrewed sheet, gasping and running with sweat, my head still pounding. The walls were yellow with sunlight and, yes, I could smell pine resin and that early morning mustiness seeping through the window and saturating the cottage. The thumping was still there, even louder now, shaking the walls and floor. I fell out of the bed, still trying to remember where and who I was, angry and frustrated by this sudden awakening. I had been going somewhere and it had been important.
As my senses focused on the thumping it gained a harder edge and was now a definite, rhythmic banging, pausing after a few beats, only to start up again even stronger and louder. I could put the dream down to last night’s wine, but not that noise. Oh, God, I thought, it’s the Big Bad Wolf come to blow the house down—I knew this was too good to last. My feet got tangled up in my shirt, which was lying, crumpled, on the floor. Hopping about on one leg I snatched it up, dragged it over my arms and opened the bedroom door.
The noise was even louder in the main room. But there was my friend to meet me.
‘Bramble, hello girl, how are you?’ She barked with joy and her tail wagged all the way up to her ears. But she waited for me by the sofa, as if there were a line she could not cross. So I went to her and had to be licked and jumped over before I was allowed to go further.
‘What the hell’s going on out there, eh?’
We both headed for the deck where the morning air slapped me full in the face. But I’d found the source of the noise. It
was
the big bad wolf—a man, a strange, dark, hairy man, wielding a hammer. Still foggy-headed, at first I thought he was knocking the walls down, then saw that he was nailing up some wood. Badger sat beside a box of tools, his tail drumming the floor. He panted a greeting and shifted his paws as if he wanted to run to me, but he was on guard duty next to a jar of nails and obviously owed this weirdo some loyalty.
‘Hello there.’ I tried to sound friendly. Then ‘
Hello
’, louder this time.
The hammer hovered in mid-swing and he turned to locate the source of the interruption. Sharp eyes pinned me down, then dismissed me. A quick nod of the head and the hammer continued its course.
‘You woke me up.’
This time he didn’t bother to stop.
‘It’s half past eight.’ This was said with a degree of contempt for anyone in bed after the sun came up. He looked like your typical serial killer, steel grey eyes peering out from a wild tangle of black hair and beard, so thick that they had formed a single mask.
‘What are you doing?’
This time he stopped but did not look at me.
‘Sullivan told me to rig up some shelter round the deck. I found these.’ He flicked his foot toward a pile of corrugated PVC sheeting. ‘I’m putting up a batten to hold them in place.’
‘Oh, I see. That’s great.’
‘Yes, well can I get on with it now?’ There was a trace of something foreign in his voice.
‘Sure. Would you like some coffee? I might as well make some now I’m up.’
‘No thanks. I do have other work to get on with.’
And a good morning to you too, I thought, and went in search of the coffee grinder, dog at my heels. While the water
boiled I went to the bedroom and pulled on a few more clothes. Bramble waited outside the door, tail down and whining. She looked relieved when I emerged in one piece. The aroma of fresh coffee permeated the cottage and drifted through the open door. I wondered if it had given Rasputin second thoughts and if I should repeat the offer. No, let him suffer. It tasted wonderful as morning coffee always does, and the first sip kick-started me back to life. Last night’s wine bottle was on the table, most of it gone. Wine, fresh air and freedom—a heady concoction. No wonder I had had such strange dreams. My mouth felt like something furry had slept in it. A hot shower would have been wonderful, but it would have to wait until Jack the Ripper wasn’t around.
The hammering was still going on, so I wandered back out to the deck holding my coffee mug. He’d already fixed wooden struts along one side and was working on the front, from the corner up to the central steps.
‘Hey, this is great. I thought a tarpaulin would do but those sheets will let in all the light. A real studio. I need the light to work, you see. I’m a sculptor, you know, I carve things out of wood.’
‘Yes, I do know what a sculptor does.’ His voice was soft now, and patient, as if talking down to a precocious child. If I’d had my boots on I would have kicked him on the shins.
‘You work for Sullivan, do you? You’re not from round here, though. Is that an Irish accent?’
He froze. The muscles in his arm and shoulders tensed into iron. I could see the breath rise and fall in his chest. ‘I’m employed to do a job. Perhaps you’d allow me to get on with it?’
‘Yeah, right.’ I didn’t know what his problem was but I wasn’t going to hang around to touch any more raw nerves. Especially when he had that hammer in his hand.
Downing the last of the coffee I collected pastels, drawing pad and various materials, tossing them into a bag along with a bottle
of water and some cheese, bread and fruit. A quick search located my boots, one under the bed, the other in the bathroom, and I slipped out of the house. He had his back to me and didn’t notice my leaving, or if he did he chose to ignore it even though Badger abandoned the nail jar and both the dogs came bounding after me. Well, serve him right, the miserable sod, he deserved to be left alone. As I walked off round the lake path the pounding of the hammer grew more distant and my anger eventually melted into the glory of the day.
The warmth of the morning sun laid its tender hands upon my face. This was what I needed; this was why I had come here. The heavy dew of the night was lifting in billowing clouds of steam, while birds called to each other, eager to pass on the good news of a new day. There were gentle rustlings in the bushes, which caused Badger and Bramble to go crashing off into the undergrowth, only to return a few yards further along the path, empty-handed but still smiling, their tongues flapping like pink dusters.
I followed the lake track for a way then branched off onto one of the numerous side paths that led upwards through the bush. This was the real forest. Was it ancient? It felt primitive, and yet the vegetation looked fresh and young. Unlike the pine groves, which were awash with indigo shadows, here the light was green and gold and told of open spaces up ahead. Just a few more steps, it said, and there will be a clearing, open to sunlight and azure skies. Only there wasn’t any clearing, just that pale green-gold light to lead the wanderer further astray.
Here there were giants, the tallest of the trees, their roots stretched up on tiptoe to outreach their brothers in the race to the sky. I craned my neck back to follow the line of the trunks, straight and bare, shooting up to the tallest point where they exploded into masses of foliage. Below the canopy, scrawny
youngsters strutted in their leafy finery, while the saplings, some barely the height of a man, shivered in awe of their elders. Ferns took up residence in every available space. Their fronds hung in graceful arches, as if forming an awning over pathways. But I think they lied. There were no pathways. It was all a deceit. But I had no fear of getting lost: the lake lay below and all downward routes would lead there. Besides, it all looked so familiar.
Suddenly I found myself in the shadow of a forest lord, a tree of such colossal stature that it humbled all around it. I stood back and stared, hardly daring to breathe. Time-raddled bark had twisted into matted cords, winding up and out of sight. The topmost branches must have reached way beyond the canopy. I felt compelled to walk around the base, to know its dimensions, running my hands over its surface as I paced it around. Roots like hawsers impeded my way. They drilled deep into the earth and held it in a grip of iron. This had to be painted.
A fallen trunk nearby offered a good seat and I rummaged in my bag for paper and pastels, starting to outline the demigod. The dogs soon grew bored with this and went off on some personal mission. After a while I could hear them barking away off by the lake, but I was lost in work. That’s how it has always been with me: I become caught up with a project, and everything else, including time, ceases to exist.
The morning was gone before I put the page down, but the results were satisfying. There was something in the image about age and old knowledge. This tree embraced wisdom. It talked of things before and beyond man. Yes, this was where I was going.
A quick spray to set the colour and I was ready to eat. The water bottle was half emptied in one go. It was surprisingly hot and humid, even though the sun’s rays were filtered. Cicadas were in full throttle and tui called to each other in secret codes like forest spies reporting on intruders. The fallen wood on which I sat had been honeycombed by termites. Other invisible life forms had tattered the lower leaves into lace. The place was seething with
life. It felt electric, like the hum of energy around a generating station, only this was not in my ears but inside my head. It was time to move on. I dropped the remains of the bread on the forest floor—an offering to the tree gods. No doubt it would be seized upon by scavengers.
Still biting into an apple, I started walking, this time moving eastwards to follow a higher path around the lake. Soon bush gave way to patches of clear ground and then a rutted dirt track that marked the edge of the pine plantation. In there it was darker, cooler. Where broad leaves and fern fronds had filtered yellow-green rays to the bush floor, the pines closed out the sun as if it were not welcome. It was like being inside a huge building, somewhere cool and hollow, a place created for worship, but not for the gods of warmth and laughter. The pines took themselves too seriously, stretching tall and high but looking ever inward. It was as it was in the dream, only without the softening touch of moonlight. I tried to recreate more of the sensations of the dream walk by rubbing the leaves between my fingers to release their aromatic resin and crunching the dried needles under foot. On impulse I slipped my boots off to feel again the needles’ roughness. But, unlike in the dream, this hurt like hell and, quickly abandoning the experiment, I had to sit down to pick the sharp spines out of the soles of my feet.
The path twisted upwards again and the trees broke their lines to give way to a sun-dappled clearing. There was something familiar…Yes, of course, this was where Jason had brought me the day before. Was it the day before? It seemed ages ago. Yes, there were the tracks the bike had scored in the earth. So, where were the graves?
I nearly stubbed my toe on one. The writing was barely legible, but I could just make out the date, 1836 to 1866. The rest was crusted with dried, brown lichen. I tried picking at it with my thumbnail, then rummaged in my art bag for a scraper. After a few minutes’ work the epitaph was revealed:
Anne Sullivan
1836–1866
beloved wife of Michael and mother to David
What was it Jason had said? His grandmother, great-grandmother and great-great-grandmother? Eighteen thirty-six—this must be the great-great-grandmother. The other two were together, just a few metres away. I should not be doing this, interfering with graves. This was Sullivan’s family, and Jason’s. Perhaps they would be angry, and justifiably so. Perhaps I should just go away and leave it alone. But then I never could do that, so I went across to Jane Sullivan and Mary. I used the last of my water wiping the stones clean. There was a pattern here. I turned a page in my pad and scribbled down the names and dates.
Anne Sullivan
1836–1866
beloved wife of Michael and mother to David
Mary Sullivan
1876–1905
wife of David and mother to Thomas
Jane Sullivan
1912–1942
wife of Tom and mother to John
Successive generations. They all died so young. And why only the women? Where were the men?
I headed back out of the forest and found the track from the main road down to the lake. Occasionally a distant gunshot panicked water birds which rose in a scrambled formation, their flight reflected on the buckled surface of the water. This was too good to lose, so I found a sheltering tree beside the path and got
out my paper and pastels once more. By the time the drawing was completed the shadows were growing long and there was a cold edge to the breeze.