“Then, Lisa lost her job and became depressed, slowly, imperceptibly, and I became short-tempered and irresponsible, anxious and resentful about my lack of achievement. Lisa continued to spend money as if we were on two incomes and we would often fight about this. My dreams seemed to have disappeared and life, when I wasn’t stoned, was becoming increasingly dreary and tense. I earned less and less as I had more and more trouble finding work. Instead of buying dope, I decided to grow it myself and make some money selling it. There was plenty of demand. I had loads of time on my hands and would go into the pig-hunting country for days, to clear scrub and plant and tend my plots. The anxiety I experienced around the thought of being caught and going to prison took its toll too.”

  Bridget watched Joe’s face as his expression changed slowly and subtly from serious to sad. He poured the last of the wine from the bottle and shifted his position. Bridget stayed silent, waiting for him to continue.

  “Then came that awful day.”

  “The day you were busted?”

  “No.” Joe shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “The day I lost it and lashed out.”

  “You hit Lisa?”

  “No. I hit my son, Isaac. My nine year old son! Because he had dropped a pot of soup Lisa had asked him to bring out to the dining table. It burned his hand. The kitchen was splattered with soup. I hit him hard, on his face.”

  Bridget observed Joe’s face which, for a split second, reflected the pain of that moment ... his son’s and his own.

  “I had never ever hit any of my children before. My father used to hit me regularly, so I had sworn never to do that to my children.”

  Bridget was shocked and looked down at her empty plate. It was hard to know what to say now. She started to gather the dishes and walked to the kitchen, aware that Joe was watching carefully, trying to gauge her reaction. But Joe was not put off. He continued:

  “The next day, while I was away attending to my plants, trying to forget what I had done, Lisa packed her bags and bundled the kids into the car and left. “

  Joe looked wistfully at the darkening sky beyond the wisteria and his eyes moistened.

  “It was the end of my family life.”

  Bridget stood behind him and put a hand on his shoulder.

  “Let’s go inside,” she said. “It’s getting cold.”

  They moved into the kitchen and Joe sat at the table while she got busy preparing the dessert: paper-thin crêpes filled with golden, preserved apricots and toasted hazelnuts in a vanilla French cream, drizzled with delicate rivulets of Frangelico liqueur. They were silent for a few minutes, then Joe continued. Bridget wasn’t sure she wanted to hear more.

  “I continued to live as I had been … tending my plants and making enough money to get by, but I would come home to that empty house and miss Lisa and my children so much I would drink and smoke dope to escape my pain. I despised myself hugely, but kept getting up in the morning because each day I would tell myself that they would be back. But they never did come back. And then, a few months later, I got busted. I welcomed the prison sentence. I believed that I deserved to be punished.”

  Bridget buried herself in the creation of her dessert. She decided to make no comment on what Joe had just shared, so bravely, with her. In her heart she felt huge compassion for him and could understand his objection to marijuana. But what she could not agree with was Joe’s implication that marijuana was the cause of his life taking this tragic turn. It was more to do, she suspected, with himself - his lack of awareness of the effect that the long-term use of the drug had on him and of how it was possibly masking a sense of failure and lack of self-worth.

  When Joe got up to go home later, she gave him a warm hug. As she opened the front door to let him out, Joe turned around to face her. “By the way,” he said with a crooked smile on his face, “you don’t need to worry any more about Shelley’s husband, Darren.” Bridget looked at him in surprise. How did he know about Shelley’s husband and the threatening note in her mailbox?

  “I heard from my friend, Phil Jones, about the threatening note he left in your mailbox and that his wife Shelley took off with the kids. I invited him to go white-baiting with me last week and we did a bit of talking. I told him my story and what a fool he was being. That he needs to take responsibility and stay off the booze and the ‘wacky baccy’, get to the bottom of his anger and stop taking it out on his wife. He’s still young and carries pain from his own childhood that he needs to deal with and move on from ... forgive, really. He told me that Phil had been to have a chat with him too ... offered him a job on the farm, so he wouldn’t have to work on the fishing boat any more and be away from his family so much ... that is, if they come back. I really encouraged him not to give up on trying to find them and show that he’s prepared to make some changes. I told him that you would have had nothing to do with her leaving ... that you would not have taken sides or told Shelley what to do.”

  This last statement surprised Bridget. How could Joe know this about her? But she felt grateful to him and thanked him.

  As Bridget watched the broad-shouldered, solitary man walk down her garden path, she smiled and mused: women reach out to other women and talk to deal with their problems. Men just slip alongside each other and communicate through accidental conversation, woven subtly in amongst shared action. It is indeed in this way, Bridget thought, that young men are mentored by their older, more experienced role models and brought back to the straight and narrow.

  36.

  Bridget received a postcard from Sonya and Paul who were in Singapore for a stopover on their way back to New Zealand to pick up their life at the Courthouse Café. She looked forward to their return and her work at the café.

  When the day of their arrival came, Bridget prepared a special dinner for them and invited some of their other friends. She saw Sonya come through her gate, a little earlier than expected and opened the door. Paul was not with her, so Bridget presumed he was doing something and would be coming shortly. When Bridget threw her arms around Sonya, she sensed immediately that something was wrong. Sonya would not let go of her, buried her head in her chest and started to sob. Bridget absorbed the released pain with love and allowed her to cry until she pulled away, a good minute later. She went to get a box of tissues, sat Sonya down and asked her what had happened.

  “Paul didn’t come home with me, Bridget. He didn’t want to come back to New Zealand. We had rather a rough time in England. There was another woman he picked up with while we were there. Whilst on our stopover in Singapore, he resolved to go back to her. It’s all over.”

  More tears flowed, silent ones this time. Bridget held her hand as she listened to the pouring-out of Sonya’s pain. The others started arriving and Sonya pulled herself together and smiled at them, genuinely pleased to see them. They all noticed her swollen eyes and the wet tissues lying on the coffee table. Later, sitting around Bridget’s dining table, Bridget decided, after a nod from Sonya, to break the uncomfortable atmosphere and explained Paul’s absence. The dinner progressed and the attempts at relieving Sonya’s sadness with light conversation were punctuated by moments of uncomfortable silence. She excused herself early, passing up the dessert and went home to her little flat at the back of the restaurant where she buried her head in the musty pillows of the double bed that she and Paul had shared for so many years. There she curled up and sank into the oblivion of sleep, ignoring her jet-lagged body which said it was time to get up.

  Over the next few days, Bridget and Sonya got together every day. Sometimes they would just sit and talk over a cup of tea. Sometimes, if the weather was clement, they would go for a long walk on the beach. Most days, they spent in the café together, cleaning, preparing, discussing a new menu, getting the kitchen up and running and a few repairs done, ready for the opening in early November. Sonya’s tears were never far from surfacing, anywhere, any time and Bridget would always sit quietly by her side when they came, accepting and allowing her grief and pain. Sometimes, she would put an arm around her shoulder. She never said much, allowing Sonya to speak and process her pain, her thoughts, her feelings.

  Sonya had asked Bridget to work more hours at the café, seeing that Paul would not be there, and Bridget agreed. Planning the new menu was fun. The crisp whitebait on a Cos salad was added (both ingredients supplied by Joe), a venison spaghetti bolognaise, spiced with bay leaf, herbs and garlic from the garden and tenderised in a local red wine, and a baked cheesecake Bridget had perfected over the winter, the ricotta and cream cheese filling laced with preserved feijoa and garlanded with a trickle of golden-green Chartreuse liqueur. The cleaning and repairs were tackled with confidence. Sonya turned out to be a wizard with hammer and drill.

  A few times, when the sun came out between spring showers, they would sit outside in the garden, sheltered by some native shrubs and trees from the cool northwesterlies that blew in from the bay, the native tui serenading them. There they would talk, as only women can, sharing their deepest feelings and thoughts eloquently and honestly.

  “So tell me, Bridget,” ventured Sonya one such morning. “How has your venture into being a life-coach been this winter?”

  Sonya had not broached the subject before, thinking that if Bridget was not initiating it, she had perhaps not wanted to talk about it. But her curiosity got the better of her in the end.

  “It’s not exactly a ‘career taking off’,” answered Bridget. “I’ve had a few clients and I like to think that I have been of some use to them. But one never really knows.”

  “I imagine that Collingwood and its surrounding hinterland could well be harbouring some very painful and sad dramas, just as much as in the cities. We are such a motley, weak, imperfect lot, us humans. Compared to animals, our lives are so complex and so full of mistakes, weaknesses and shortcomings,” said Sonya, her eyes looking down and sideways into the herb garden. She got up and broke off some sprigs of thyme for the spaghetti sauce.

  “Yes, I agree,” said Bridget. “But at the same time, I feel that we have so much in us that is just absolutely wonderful, magical and positive. For every bit of foolishness, cruelty, insanity and darkness, there is an equivalent amount of wisdom, kindness, love and light. It is in the play-off between these opposing parts of ourselves that we find out who we truly are and what our potential is.”

  “Gosh,” answered Sonya. “I hope that’s true. It would be so easy to feel totally pessimistic and depressed about humankind.” She stared at the cheesecake she and Bridget had treated themselves to after three hours of hard work in the café. She could not finish it.

  “Not feeling good?” asked Bridget.

  “Feeling slightly queasy this morning,” answered Sonya. “Hope I haven’t picked up some sort of tummy bug, just as we’re about to open for the season! Anyway, time to get back to the kitchen.”

  Sonya got up and started walking towards the door of the restaurant, but stopped halfway and turned to Bridget. “By the way, shall we invite Gabrielle and Theo over for dinner next Friday? I thought it might be nice to ask Daniel to come too. They could sample our new dishes before we open the next day. Once the restaurant opens, there will be little opportunity for us to socialise.”

  “Yes,” Bridget said. “That would be nice.”

  But whether or not it would indeed be ‘nice’ was something that would remain to be seen. Bridget was pleased that she would have an opportunity to see how the love trio was evolving, or devolving, for that matter. She took a deep breath of clean spring air and savoured its smell in her nostrils. Would Daniel and Gabrielle’s love blossom this spring, or would it die like the tender young new shoot of a spring plant at the mercy of a strong cold southerly, such as do still blow down this river valley, even in the middle of spring? Should she invite Joe? He could be an interesting contrast to the rest of them and anyway, she wanted to get to know him better. She suggested it to Sonya.

  “Joe?” asked Sonya. “The chap from the second-hand shop?” She looked surprised. Joe was not the kind of guy she imagined Bridget would be interested in.

  “If you want, of course!” she answered.

  37.

  Bridget had given June a few days to discuss with Barry the risky, law-breaking picnic planned by the odd little collection of people that had come to the meeting at the hall the previous week. She went around and together they discussed the exact movements and timing of the adventure. Barry seemed keen but wanted to plan things very carefully so as to eliminate any possibility of being caught out. The electrical engineer would have to come and sabotage the electronic monitoring unit as soon as possible after the Probation Officer’s next visit, which always occurred with very little warning. It would be up to Bridget to keep a good look-out for her.

  Bridget offered to drive them in her own car to Pakawau Beach, a good five kilometres north of Collingwood, where another person would have to be stationed as well to keep an eye out for any people. The picnic would, ideally, have to happen when there was absolutely no-one around who knew about Barry’s home detention sentence. Despite the clearly expressed sympathy of many of the locals, not all could be trusted. Someone would have to be stationed where the car was going to be parked, hidden amongst some bushes, and would be in touch with Bridget via mobile phone. Barry said that he did not want to risk being away from home, disconnected from the electronic unit, for more than a few hours.

  All these details had already been discussed and dealt with by the little group of conspirators at the public meeting. Dorian was going to be the watchman at the turnoff, and the woman with the dreadlocks, Suzanna, was going to be stationed at the beach where the car would be parked. The picnic would be carried by Bridget and Felicity (the woman who had offered to donate the bottle of champagne) to a sheltered and hidden part of the beach where few people ever went, just a few minutes’ walk from the car.

  Bridget planned ahead and prepared as much of the picnic as she could: a meatloaf with a coffee and plum sauce, croissants, a couple of thick slices of ham ‘off the bone’, some club sandwiches and some ‘Black Forest’ chocolate cake. These were frozen in her freezer, ready to be taken out as soon as she caught sight of the Probation Officer. While the Officer was in June and Barry’s house, she would throw together a green salad and prepare a thermos with hot water for tea and coffee. The bottle of champagne had been dropped off by Felicity a few days earlier and was cooled and ready in her fridge. The picnic basket was fully prepared with crockery, cutlery and glasses, salt, butter, mayonnaise and mustard, coffee, tea and sugar. All was to be bundled, together with a small, folding table and chairs, into her car, ready for take off as soon as the coast was cleared and the police car reported to be well on its way back to Takaka by Dorian, who was going to be stationed at the turn-off.

  It was one of those clear, sunny spring mornings when a cool breeze sucked the heat out of the sun and you had to wear a jacket and hat to keep it from chilling you. Needing to clear her head after preparing the picnic food, Bridget grabbed that jacket and hat and set off for a long, solitary walk along the beach. It was the middle of the week, when there were no other people to spoil the exquisite isolation. As she walked, briskly, she reflected on her life as it was unfolding there in that small town at the end of the long road in the far-flung north-west corner of the South Island. She looked down at the clean, smooth sand in front of her feet as she walked with small, quick steps, occasionally raising her eyes to look at the smooth sea stretching far out to the horizon, flanked by the blue-grey mountain ranges that were delicately outlined in the distance, almost encircling the bay. Half her mind was taking in her surroundings and the other half cast itself over the memories of events, both recent and long ago, of her past and the people that featured in them.

  The bold adventure planned for June and Barry, with a group of people she hardly knew, was uppermost in her thoughts, of course. Was she doing the right thing, risking arrest for breaking the law by ‘aiding and abetting’ a person under house arrest to break the conditions of his sentence? Was she prepared to do what her conscience said was perfectly OK and would do no person any harm, and suffer the consequences if caught? Had they thought the whole thing through thoroughly enough to minimise all risk? Bridget ran the whole planned event through in her head and tried to think of all the things that could happen. There were moments when she felt she wanted to do a u-turn and tell all the others to do so too. But these were followed by thoughts of not wanting to let all these people down - least of all June and Barry. That seemed more repugnant to her than getting caught. And anyway, she enjoyed taking risks. It made life more exciting. She felt more alive than ever.

  She also pondered quite a bit on Dorian and his interest in her. Should she nip this one in the bud, or play it slow, so that if it looked as if things were not going to go well she would be able to escape the relationship before she became too entangled? Passion was such a wonderful, powerful thing. Why should she not allow herself a little more of this before she settled down to ‘cronehood’ and celibacy for the rest of her life? She had to admit, she had been quite happy alone and celibate and had enjoyed finding her ‘self’ again after living most of her life as a partner to a man. But she had always thought that there might come a time when she would like to again cohabitate with a man and have a loving companion to see her through old age. She knew that Dorian would not be that man. He was too young to settle down with a woman who was at least ten years older and he was a bit too alternative for her, too much of an activist. If she decided to give in and indulge in a bit of passion, would she be able to stop the rest of herself getting enmeshed with him ... his life, his dreams, his needs and desires, at the cost of her own? Would she be able to prevent herself falling in love?

 

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21