Authors: Coral Atkinson
PJ put his pen into the inkpot and stood up. ‘What’s happened?’
‘Seems I was pre-empted, but she’s yours now, and if you’re lucky I might even get my head blown off.’
‘Oliver?’
‘I’ve joined up. Third Contingent. Rough Riders. Passed the riding and the shooting tests; I’ll be going into camp in a day or so. Then it’s South Africa here I come.’
‘You’re mad.’
‘Maybe.’
‘Are you getting one of them commissions? Will you be an officer?’
‘A trooper.’
‘Sure, you can’t go. You’re too young.’
‘Not as far as the recruiting sergeant’s concerned. They take your age as you give it.’
‘And your father …’
‘I’m not a kid, PJ, though I doubt you’ve noticed. And now I’m off to have a bath.’
PJ sat at the roll-top desk, looking at the rows of drawers and pigeonholes stuffed with letters, bills and seed catalogues. Oliver was going to South Africa, going to the war. Was it his fault? PJ wondered. It had never occurred to him that Oliver had an interest in Rosaleen; even if he had known, there was nothing he would have done differently.
PJ thought of the newspaper reports he’d read about the war. The heat and the killing. The trenches full of dead soldiers, the dumdum bullets that exploded on impact, the poisoned wounds. Oliver was going into that. He couldn’t, he mustn’t.
PJ got up and looked out at the garden. He had never mastered the names of plants but he liked those tall ones with their line of blue button flowers and black stamens. PJ imagined bees hanging lazily in those bright shelters, drowsy with sun and pollen. He thought of the Pascoes’ garden and of Rosaleen reaching to kiss him in her shimmering dress. So she preferred him to Oliver, called what they had an understanding. Thank God for that.
He went back to the desk. He knew what he must do. He would enlist himself: go to South Africa with Oliver. He’d heard that in the New Zealand contingents there were brothers, fathers and sons, country neighbours, friends and family fighting side by side. They said the war against the Boers was just; he supposed it was, hadn’t thought about it much if the truth be told. But he wasn’t having Oliver over there dead in a trench. The boy was his responsibility, always had been.
Geoffrey had always disliked the dining room at Wharenui.
It was on the dark side of the house and the furniture never seemed to fit comfortably in the space. The handsome mahogany sideboard with the lion’s head handles that he’d had shipped from his home in Ireland and the locally made matai chiffonier seemed to stand uncomfortably against the walls as if aground on a sandbank. Over the years Geoffrey had got used to the room but from time to time its unsatisfactory appearance would strike him again and he’d consider altering the curtains, having new wallpaper put up, or arranging the furniture differently.
It was dinnertime. Father and son were eating in near silence. Earlier in the afternoon Geoffrey had been surprised to meet Oliver coming out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel. The boy had muttered something about returning home unexpectedly and having had a bath. At dinner Geoffrey made polite inquiries about the Pascoes up at Simpson’s Bridge and how Oliver liked his new position. His son’s responses were brief and almost sullen.
Geoffrey cut up his crumbed chop and listened to the rain. It was coming down in a soft patter as if thousands of small paws were touching the summer trees and leaves. It was just after seven o’clock and the wet evening filled the room with a gloomy presence.
‘I’ve seen a rather handsome wallpaper you can order from Christchurch,’ said Geoffrey. ‘Thinking of getting it in here. It has poppies on it. They’re a bit bright but I feel this room could do with cheering up.’
‘Poppies?’ said Oliver, holding a forkload of meat and carrots close to his mouth.
‘Yes,’ said Geoffrey, ‘very modern looking. A bit like work by that English chap there’s all the fuss about. You know — Aubrey Beardsley.’
‘Father,’ said Oliver, putting his burdened fork back on his dinner plate, ‘there’s something …’
‘Umm,’ said Geoffrey absently, still thinking of the wallpaper.
‘I’ve joined up to go to South Africa,’ said Oliver.
Afterwards Geoffrey wasn’t sure whether or not he’d replied. He remembered the conversation as if time had suddenly slowed. He could see Oliver looking at him in the dim light. His son had Huia’s dark eyes. At that moment they were turned on him in a mixture of entreaty and defiance. Geoffrey loathed the idea of war: the thought of men falling on one another with the sole purpose of killing and maiming filled him with the deepest repugnance. Maybe at times there were causes that were just, but not many. Most wars seemed nothing but violent struggles over power and possession, with might always being right. This war in South Africa was a case in point. God knows what it was really about or why New Zealand should be involved. And now here was Oliver wanting to be part of it, to kill or be killed. Geoffrey thought of his son as he’d seen him a few hours earlier, wrapped in the bath towel. Oliver had the slimness, the vulnerability of a boy.
‘You can’t go,’ said Geoffrey. ‘I won’t have it. I didn’t bring you up; didn’t’ — he was about to say ‘love’ but changed it — ‘care for you since you were a baby to have you hacked about in South Africa.’
‘For God’s sake, Father, I’m not a child,’ said Oliver. ‘Anyway, it’s too late. I’ve already been accepted.’
‘So you lied about your age,’ said Geoffrey.
‘Everyone’s doing that,’ said Oliver. ‘No one cares.’
‘I could stop you. Tell them you’re too young. Get you discharged.’
Oliver stood up. ‘I’d never forgive you if you did, and I’d go anyway. Just nip over to Christchurch and join up there.’
‘I don’t want you killed,’ said Geoffrey, getting to his feet and throwing his napkin on the table.
‘Killed?’ said Oliver. ‘I won’t get killed. The whole scrap will probably be over before I even get there.’
‘You’re being a fool. What do you think wars are about? Men die in them, and get maimed.’
‘I won’t,’ said Oliver.
Geoffrey walked along the gravel path in the rose garden. The drenched flower-heads hung heavily as if inspecting the soil. He had come out without hat or coat and the rain ran through his hair and made small trickles on his face. He had left the dining room when he and Oliver had started shouting at each other. Geoffrey felt angry and trapped; of course he could go down to the recruitment office, make a fuss and no doubt get the boy discharged, but at what cost? Such interference would alienate Oliver and Geoffrey hated to think of his son’s anger. Oliver was determined to go and he doubted there was any way he’d be deflected. If one way were blocked he would doubtless find another. Arguments about death, danger, the dubiousness of the cause were pointless. Oliver was at the age, Geoffrey surmised, when you think of yourself as inviolate and immortal. And it was unlikely the lad would listen to Geoffrey’s misgivings about the justice of the war anyway, when the whole country was blazing with a sense of right and patriotic fervour.
He unthinkingly broke a deadhead off a rose and began pulling off its petals, dropping them on the ground. He thought of Oliver’s growing up, remembering the years in terms of the photographs he had taken. The plump infant in the lacy dress, standing on a chair holding a tomato. The boy in the sailor suit on the painted rocking-horse. The outdoor shot of Oliver with a bow and arrow wearing a Red Indian headdress Geoffrey had made him out of hen feathers. The lovely image of Oliver with Rosaleen Pascoe in the boat on the lake when both children were ten or eleven. Geoffrey always thought this one of his finest
compositions, but his real enthusiasm was for the way he had caught Oliver’s distinctive, bright look. And then there were the pictures of Oliver with horses: riding, grooming, feeding. A series Geoffrey had made when his son was home one summer from boarding school. More recently there had been a studio portrait of Oliver as a young man in his tennis whites, side-on to the camera. It illustrated Geoffrey’s recent interest in experimenting with more informal styles of placement and dress. He saw the photographs in his head, dawdling over each remembered image with loving attention. It was as if the pictures held the essence of Oliver, reminding Geoffrey of all that was precious about his son.
Oliver had gone from the dining room to the stables. He had taken Jimmy out of his stall and ridden through the bush track that led to the sea. The beach behind Wharenui was a long expanse of stony coastline and immense piles of driftwood. The waves pounded the sand like fettered maniacs: huge volumes of water slammed and dumped themselves on the shore in a relentless sequence. Oliver rode in the shallows. The mood of the beach reflected his own. He was furious with his father for trying to stop him going to fight. What business had he to interfere? Wasn’t he, Oliver, grown up: his own man? Well, he wouldn’t put up with it. He’d go to South Africa one way or the other. Be damned if he wouldn’t.
Oliver thought of Rosaleen and felt a bitter pleasure at how she would greet the news of his soldiering. He imagined himself in his new uniform sauntering down the path of the Pascoes’ house. Rosaleen would be picking runner beans off the fence, as he’d seen her do, or sitting on one of the seagrass chairs on the verandah, fussing over the lace she’d made on a small navy-blue velvet cushion. She would look up and see Oliver in his khaki splendour and give a little cry. She would run to him
full of remorse at what she had driven him to, yet proud of his courage and his decision. She would be flattered and pleased and anxious for him all at once. She would say how sorry she was for her remark concerning his mother. She would apologise for what she’d said about preferring PJ and the understanding and tell him it was all a mistake. Hadn’t Oliver always been the one she cared about? And Oliver would take his time, be a little cool; even when Rosaleen put her arms around his neck and looked at him with her big eyes and let her drift of fair hair touch his face and begged him to forgive her, he would pretend he wasn’t sure, would have to think about it, even though inside he’d be hopping with excitement.
When Oliver first wore his army uniform it was better than anything he imagined. It was as if he’d become another person: he was son and brother, friend and comrade to everyone he met. Strangers outside public houses offered to buy him drinks, old men shook his hand and talked about the Crimea, women smiled and asked if he had met this man or that who was known to have joined up.
Oliver didn’t manage to get up to Simpson’s Bridge to see Rosaleen as he planned — there wasn’t time before he had to go into camp in Christchurch — but he had his photograph taken and sent that to her instead. He was pleased by the likeness: the uniform made him look older, worldlier. Wearing his full kit, hat and all, he stepped resolutely forward, hands behind his back. He was a soldier now, a man.
Lying on his back on his straw palliasse in the camp in Christchurch, exhausted from a day’s training, Oliver thought about Rosaleen receiving the photograph. Maybe she had put it on the mantelpiece in her bedroom, or on the table by her bed.
‘Stir yourself, Hastings. There’s a fellow asking for you,’ said Baker, a man from Timaru, pulling back the flap of the tent.
‘Someone wants me?’ said Oliver, getting up.
‘Seems so,’ said Baker.
Oliver followed Baker outside and looked about. Down towards the cookhouse he recognised a familiar figure dressed in the trooper’s khaki.
PJ walked among the tents, feeling the rough fabric of his new uniform under his open palms. All around him men were moving about between the guy ropes. A soldier with a baby face was carrying a bulging sack towards a group of men sitting on the grass polishing their boots. There was a makeshift corrugated iron shed where three farriers, in long leather aprons, were at work inspecting the hooves of tethered horses; nearby a private was kneeling on the ground whistling as he carefully folded an army blanket. The camp had an expectant, industrious feeling about it that PJ found reassuring. It seemed cheerful, almost homely.
‘Cheerful? Homely? For God’s sake!’ the dead Mick Sullivan suddenly said. ‘What sort of eejit are you? Can’t you see the bloody place for what it is? These New Zealanders, they’re as good as Englishmen: English soldiers, enemies, foes, oppressors. In the name of heaven, PJ, what are you doing here and wearing that uniform?’
PJ paused. He’d been so preoccupied with signing up, taking the riding and shooting tests, getting kitted out, and leaving his secretarial duties orderly for his successor, he hadn’t thought much beyond arriving at the camp in Christchurch. Now the enormity of what he’d done overwhelmed him. He had committed himself to fight for that abomination: the British Empire, Queen and country. Which country? Certainly not his — not Ireland. It couldn’t be worse and there was no going back. PJ wondered desperately how he had come to this place. Mick was right: he must have been totally mad.
‘PJ!’ a voice yelled.
PJ turned and felt a rush of affection for Oliver as he saw the boy between the tents. ‘But I couldn’t let the lad go on his own now, could I?’ he said to himself, and to Mick. He waved his hand as the lanky youth ran to greet him.
‘What the devil are you doing here?’ said Oliver
breathlessly
.
‘Haven’t I joined up?’ said PJ.
‘You’re coming to South Africa?’
‘I am,’ said PJ, giving Oliver a friendly punch on the arm.
‘Well, I’m buggered,’ said Oliver, smiling.
‘What’s the camp like?’
‘Fine,’ said Oliver. ‘Most of the chaps are all right, the officers too — except for Powell. You remember I told you about my godmother’s stepson, Denis Powell, that bastard who made life hell for me at school? He’s a lieutenant.’
‘Holy God,’ said PJ, ‘is he here?’
‘’Fraid so,’ said Oliver.
‘We’ll fix him,’ said PJ, and they both laughed.
O
liver thought of fruit as the coast of South Africa slipped by. After over four weeks on the troopship, with its discomforts and fetid smells of closely confined men and horses, everyone was impatient to land. The troopers talked incessantly about what they would do when they came ashore. They vied and joked and spoke yearningly of women, booze, gambling, exercise. Crowded along the rails — belts, buttons, badges and boots shining in the sunshine — the men of the Third Contingent strained for views of the new country.
Oliver imagined the oranges, bananas, pears, peaches and grapes he was going to buy. He dwelt on the wet sweetness of their flesh and the rush of juice in his mouth. After weeks of army food — ageing sausages and stews thick with meat scraps like leather — the thought of fresh fruit seemed like bliss.
It was not, however, just the lure of fruit and the chance to get on with the job of soldiering away from the overcrowded troopship that made Oliver keen to reach South Africa. He was worried about Jimmy. He’d done everything he could for his horse but Jimmy, like the other poor brutes on board, had found the weeks at sea taxing. Some of the horses had died and Oliver, fearful for his own mount, had watched miserably as their carcasses were unceremoniously hoisted over the rail of the ship
and dropped heavily in the water. Now at last their arrival was imminent: Jimmy had survived the journey.
In such circumstances landing almost anywhere would have been a relief, but East London was not just anywhere. The sun was warm and over the smell of smoke and oil and ships’ refuse the air was lightly perfumed. Mist was rising, revealing the town beyond the harbour. Over the port offices and sheds Oliver could see strange, pretty houses of stone and brick; buildings draped with climbers and flowers.
‘Looks like something on a postcard,’ said Oliver to PJ as the two watched the tugs manoeuvre the ship towards the quay.
‘Hard to imagine there’s a war on,’ said PJ.
‘Maybe it’s over and they’ve forgotten to tell us,’ said Oliver, and though it wasn’t funny, they laughed.
The East London docks swarmed with activity. Ships from all parts of the empire had brought men to fight. Oliver could see the sails and smokestacks of dozens of vessels, crammed together in shared moorings. On the quayside African porters trundled barrows, dock workers pulled on ropes, soldiers and sailors jostled in the throng. A group of well-wishers pushed forward to welcome the Rough Riders. Men in pith helmets and straw boaters nodded and waved, women in pale, fragile dresses smiled under parasols, Indian food vendors moved among the crowd selling their wares from barrows, girls of the town — white, brown and black, some in rickshaws, some on foot — blew kisses at the troops. One young woman in a tight
daffodil-coloured
dress put her hand down the low-cut front of her bodice and pulled out a wad of business cards, which she threw to the delighted soldiers who had already disembarked.
The New Zealanders were smart and businesslike in their unloading. They may have come the furthest and smallest country involved but the men of the Third Contingent were having no one say they were slovenly or slow. Briskly jumping to
orders, they got gear and horses all safely unshipped and were ready to move in a record time of six hours.
The command was given and the column of troopers, with baggage wagons in the rear, swung off on their way to camp, each man feeling proud and exhilarated. The horses, delighted by the firm earth and the chance of exercise, were as eager to move as their riders. The warm air of the late afternoon parted before the contingent like a torn blanket; bright, wild-coloured birds flapped overhead and small black children ran alongside the mounted men shouting, pointing and laughing.
‘It’s like a dream,’ said Oliver to PJ, who was trotting beside him.
‘’Tis indeed,’ said PJ, thinking of all the things he was going to photograph as soon as he got a chance.
They had some hours’ leave. Walking along the road from the camp they passed a grove of wild peach trees and sat in the grass, gorging on the fruit. When they reached the town the two friends joined the swarms of soldiers on Oxford Street. Up and down the street, uniformed men were peering into shop-fronts and smiling at passing girls. Horses and carts, victorias and broughams, rickshaws and bicycles crowded the road, and sellers of fruit, flowers and food thronged the pavements.
There was a tiny shop-window full of Chinese curios: carved ivory boxes, incense burners, cigarette holders,
pin-cushions
, lanterns, embroidered shawls, model elephants of various sizes, jewellery, jade, brass, silver.
‘I’m going in,’ said PJ, who had seen an organdie fan in the window and immediately decided to buy it for Rosaleen.
Oliver followed. Alongside the entrance hung several pairs of high-heeled evening shoes — peacock blue embroidered in gold, mulberry purple with silver dragons, cherry red
ornamented
with pink butterflies. Oliver could see these silk fantasies
on Rosaleen’s feet. He didn’t know her size but he could guess. If PJ was sending her a fan, Oliver would buy her shoes.
The two men came out of the shop with their purchases and walked in silence, the thought of Rosaleen heavy between them. They bought grapes and slices of melon from a black child pushing a barrow and purchased a bottle of Cape brandy in a dark little shed where Cockney soldiers were playing poker and drinking.
‘Let’s find a beach and swim,’ said Oliver, eager not to let rivalry over Rosaleen or anything else spoil the day.
The beach was unlike anything either of them had ever seen. The sand was pale gold and the sea a satin blue. The two young men ran down the beach, pulling off their uniforms as they went. Stripped to their underclothes they dashed into the small waves, laughing. The water was tepid: there was none of the sudden shock of flesh meeting cold that they remembered from home.
‘Beau-ty!’ shouted Oliver, jumping and splashing.
‘It’s a bath,’ yelled PJ, splashing him back.
Afterwards they lay on the sand and let the sun dry their bodies and their underwear. Oliver looked up at the intensely blue sky. He thought of the next months and weeks, and of the war he had come to fight. He couldn’t imagine anything bad taking place in this warm, beautiful country with such a perfect sky.
‘Better not get burnt,’ said PJ, rolling over and standing up. ‘Heard incapacity from deliberate overexposure to sunlight is a military offence.’
‘Can just imagine bloody Powell making a meal of that one,’ said Oliver, pulling on his shirt.
Once fully clothed, they addressed themselves to the fruit they had brought and to the bottle of brandy. Oliver put the bottle to his lips and was just about to swallow when he
inadvertently tipped the contents over his chin and down the front of his military tunic. He was searching unsuccessfully in his pockets for a handkerchief to brush off the sticky liquid when they heard laughter and a blue-and-white tablecloth landed in the sand beside him. Two young women whom Oliver and PJ hadn’t noticed before were sitting having a picnic on a hillock behind them.
‘Mop yourself up with that,’ called a tall blonde, wearing a pale lilac blouse and feathery hat.
‘Thanks,’ said Oliver, rubbing his tunic with the tablecloth and wondering, with some embarrassment, how long the two women had been watching and whether they had been there when he and PJ had been in their underclothes.
‘Why don’t you come and join us?’ called the second young woman, who had brown curls escaping from under a straw boater.
‘I’m Maria and this is Jo,’ said the girl in the feathered hat. ‘Are you some of the New Zealanders who’ve just arrived in camp? The ones they call the Rough Riders?’
‘Yes,’ said Oliver, and introduced himself and PJ.
‘Want a sandwich?’ said Jo, taking a cloth-wrapped bundle out of the basket beside her. ‘We brought a picnic but these are left over. We’re typists in an office in town. It’s our half holiday.’
Oliver bit into the folded bread and decided it was the best ham sandwich he had ever tasted: the crust firm, the bread fresh, the meat moist and delicious. He handed around the brandy and they all drank from the bottle. The girls, who were much more forward than any women Oliver had ever met before, chatted, giggled and asked personal questions. They insisted on seeing the presents for Rosaleen, though neither PJ nor Oliver wanted to show them. When the gifts were opened, Jo fiddled with the fan and both women tried on the evening sandals.
‘Here,’ said Oliver, gathering up the shoes, dusting off the
sand and putting them back in the wrapping, ‘that’s enough; you’ll ruin them.’
‘Temper, temper,’ said Jo, laughing and hitting Oliver on the neck with a blade of grass.
‘Why don’t we go dancing?’ said Maria.
‘Dancing?’ said PJ, sitting up and looking around. ‘Where?’
‘Down at the Pavilion. They have tea dances. The Pavilion’s just along in the next bay — it’s not far.’
The four set off along the narrow beach path, single file; hands around one another’s hips as in a promenade. Maria started singing ‘Pop Goes the Weasel’ and the others joined in.
Oliver was not much used to drinking alcohol and now everything he looked at seemed to have grown a bright, furry outline. The sea and sand bobbed unsteadily before his eyes. But Jo’s waist was firm and inviting in his hands and Oliver, holding it tight, felt recklessly happy.
The dancing area at the Pavilion was in an enclosed garden. A lush place where tropical and semi-tropical plants looped and swayed, and swags of flowers of colours and shapes quite unknown to PJ and Oliver climbed about, pouring brightness over trellises and partly screened conversation nooks. The circular dance floor was crowded with couples, many of the men in uniform. In the centre of the floor was a fountain that splashed amid a jungle of ferns. Black waiters in scarlet satin jackets brought drinks to the people sitting out the dance on basket chairs, while the orchestra, carefully concealed behind the greenery, played waltzes and polkas.
Oliver felt his feet glide and sashay as Jo’s feet answered every step he made. He had never before thought of himself as a good dancer but in this place, with this partner, he felt magnificent. After the third dance Jo put her arms around his neck and rested her cheek against his. Oliver hoped she would
go on doing it. Her skin was very smooth and smelt of vanilla, and her fingers on the back of his neck sent a delicious surge of pleasure down his spine. Momentarily Oliver thought of Rosaleen but the recollection, or maybe the brandy, made him muddled so he gave it up.
‘I like you, Trooper Oliver Kiwi,’ said Jo, smiling up at him.
‘I like you too,’ said Oliver, though he knew as he said it that this wasn’t what he meant at all. What he really wanted to say was that he liked everything: Jo’s cheek against his, her arms on his neck, the music, the dancing, the air, the flowers, the feeling of being young and fit and independent. He wanted to explain how he was swamped in the sheer joy and wonder of it, overwhelmed by the whole dazzling panoply of being alive, but he couldn’t imagine how to describe his feelings or what Jo would think if he tried.
‘We’re going to have to get back soon,’ said PJ, touching Oliver’s arm. ‘We’ve got a fair walk to camp.’
‘Not yet,’ said Oliver, pulling Jo back onto the dance floor.
‘Last dance, then,’ said PJ, ‘and I’m off.’
Oliver gave Jo a kiss on the cheek, put her address on a slip of paper in his pocket and reluctantly followed PJ out. They had offered to see Maria and Jo home but the girls said they’d stay at the Pavilion and go down to the bar.
‘Looking for someone else?’ said Oliver, feeling a twinge of disappointment.
‘Ask no questions, hear no lies,’ said Jo, laughing.
The sun was setting in a flurry of salmon-coloured gauze and strips of turquoise as Oliver and PJ approached the New Zealand camp. Somewhere in the distance was the war neither of them had mentioned all day.
‘Didn’t we have a grand time?’ said PJ.
‘Too right,’ said Oliver, looking at the rows of tents and
feeling glum. The elation had left him: he felt bereft and sad. ‘Tough going back into camp after a day like this. It’s as if everything has ended and there’ll never be another time like it again.’
‘Maudlin tripe,’ said PJ, slapping him on the back. ‘It’s just the drink talking.’
The birds were singing outside Wharenui, an anarchic jumble like china, glass and cutlery carelessly tumbled together. Geoffrey opened his eyes and looked at the ornate brass scrolls on the bed end, above his blanket-covered feet. He thought anxiously of Oliver, as he did when he wakened every morning, and wondered where the boy was, what he was doing; most of all, whether he were still alive. During the preceding months Geoffrey had clung to the comforting notion that if danger or death confronted his son he would feel a telepathic sense of loss, like stepping on the very top rung of a ladder and finding nothing left to hang on to, or brace yourself against: so long as there was no such feeling of desolation he could assume Oliver was all right.
But, he thought as he rolled over in the bed, could it be that he was just plain deluded? What evidence had he that such things occurred? There was no rational reason why he should be aware of what was happening to the boy thousands of miles away. It was the first time Geoffrey had considered this possibility and the thought panicked him. He saw himself here in Wharenui inspecting the tomato-plant leaves for signs of blight, bending down to give the dog a biscuit, scraping dirt from under his fingernails with the point of a scissor blade, and in that second, as he was absorbed in some trivial, mundane task, Oliver would die in far-off South Africa. Days, weeks, months even, would pass before the news of the death would reach New Zealand and during that time everything would go on unchanged. There would be no dramatic curdling of the air, no sense of momentous
loss; the tides on the beach would move in and out over the stones, the sun shine, the rain fall, night would follow day and Geoffrey would know nothing.