Harlequin Rex (15 page)

Jenner’s
dictum
was
attractive
in
its
simplicity,
though,
particularly
for
a
coach
who
wasn’t
sharp
enough
to
spot,
or
correct,
any
other
weakness,
and
it
conveniently
shifted
responsibility
for
failure.
David
could
see
that
some
of
the
squad
bought
it
easily
enough.
Brett
Anderson
was
a
believer:
his
freckled
face
attentive,
and
his
head
almost
worn
smooth
of
pale
hair
from
scrummaging.
Absolutely
fearless
he
was,
almost
stupidly
so,
and
he
trained
like
a
demon,
but
would
never
make
a
first
division
team
because
his
genes
denied
him
the
size.

‘That’s
the
thing,’
said
Jenner.
‘Guts
is
the
thing,
by
Jesus.’
There
had
been
All
Blacks,
hadn’t
there,
with
less
than
Brett’s
determination,
but
gifted
in
ways
he
was
denied.
David
didn’t
point
that
out
to
the
new
coach,
though:
such
observations
weren’t
welcome.
Subversive,
weren’t
they
—
divisive
and
shit-stirring,
as
Jenner
said,
showing
that
you
didn’t
put
the
team
first.

They
trained
on
a
winter
field
that
was
pock-marked
with
sprig-holes
in
the
dark,
soft
soil
and
flattened
grass.
A
thin
mist
might
trail
through
the
branches
of
the
birches
on
the
west
side
of
the
ground,
and
Jenner’s
shouts
echo
into
the
stubby
height
of
the
old
wooden
stand.
The
first
few
times
down
on
the
ball,
David
felt
the
damp
chill
of
the
mud
on
crotch
and
belly;
at
the
scrum
the
steam
eddied
away
from
the
close
bodies
as
it
does
from
working
horses.
As
he
packed
down
he
caught
the
cooked
lobster
smell
of
close
bums.
The
knee
cartilage
that
he
told
himself
had
come
right
tweaked
painfully
as
he
was
hit
from
the
side
in
a
tackle.
‘Back
up
the
bloody
ball
carrier.
Bloody
back
up
the
bloody
ball
carrier,’
Jenner
would
shout
emphatically,
as
if
he
had
that
instant
created
the
idea.

‘All
good
players
are
workaholics,
’
he
would
say.
‘
Abso-
bloody-
lutely,’
and
after
the
drills
he
outlined
a
fitness
regime
for
them
all,
because
distances
meant
they
could
practise
together
only
once
a
week.

A
few
more
sessions
with
the
crap
artist,
and
David
decided
that
he’d
had
enough
of
Jenner:
enough
of
the
game
even.
He
was
driving
up
the
valley
in
the
dark
after
practice,
the
headlights
sweeping
over
pasture,
or
paddocks
of
winter
feed,
at
the
sharp
turns
in
the
gravel
road.
He
decided
that
the
only
kicks
he
got
out
of
it
any
more
were
the
ones
he
could
do
without.
With
his
father
dead,
so
many
of
the
accustomed
things
lost
their
point;
became
small
shams
of
an
unexamined
lifestyle.
He
imagined
that
there
must
be
more
important
ways
of
living
which
had
essential
connections
one
with
another
—
and
with
himself.

Growing
shit
was
one
of
them
perhaps.
He’d
used
it
on
and
off
since
his
days
at
Collegiate,
but
had
no
thoughts
of
getting
into
the
business
until
Chris
came
back
from
overseas.
They
met
again
at
a
wedding
in
Christchurch;
the
reception
held
in
a
yacht
club’s
rooms
in
Sumner,
so
that
the
guests
walked
in
and
out
among
trailer
sailers,
and
cockle-shell
Sunbursts
for
school
kids,
and
the
Best
Man’s
Adam’s
apple
bobbed
against
the
trophy
pennants
on
the
h
ardboard
walls.

They
talked
of
Coddy
Joux
the
bully,
who
had
become
the
boss
of
a
national
park,
and
Sharkey,
who
they’d
cheated
over
his
exams.
Chris
said
that
the
happy
couple
would
enjoy
 
their
honeymoon,
since
the
bride
was
eager
for
it,
pleasantly
tight,
and
vocal
when
on
her
back.

Chris
came
out
to
the
farm
several
times
after
that,
twice
with
a
leather-skirted
woman
for
the
weekend.
She
was
a
telephone
pollster
from
the
city,
with
a
quick
voice
and
a
manner
anticipating
hurt.
She
was
dark
and
slim,
with
the
slightly
used,
Bohemian
look
that
Chris
said
turned
him
on.
If
the
two
men
left
the
house
and
walked
out
into
the
farm,
she
would
remain
in
the
lounge
looking
out
apprehensively
as
they
diminished,
as
if
she
were
inside
a
space
capsule,
and
the
men
advancing
across
an
alien
world.

All
the
characteristics
that
David
recalled
in
the
Chris
of
schooldays
were
still
identifiable,
but
tainted
with
disillusion.
His
charm
had
run
out
on
the
wider
world,
and
not
all
his
adversaries
there
could
be
cheated
as
easily
as
Sharkey.
Even
his
attractiveness
to
women
had
been
found
fallible
in
the
very
cases
where
power,
or
advancement,
might
have
been
gained.
He
was
that
sort
of
genre
Casanova
who
looks
out
at
you
from
behind
the
sliding
doors
of
concrete-block
motels;
who
has
a
dark
onyx
ring
set
in
nine-carat
gold,
who
buys
with
confidence
in
the
cut-price
lingerie
shop.

He
came
alone
when
he
had
a
business
proposition.
A
humid,
still
day
of
low
cloud,
and
David
had
been
tailing
a
mob
towards
the
back
of
the
farm,
and
was
coming
back
with
tractor
and
trailer
to
the
sheds.
His
work
jersey
was
stiff
with
dried
blood,
the
netting
rolls
jolted
on
the
trailer,
the
two
dogs
trotted
with
their
tongues
askew.

Chris’s
Falcon
was
in
the
drive,
and
the
man
himself
leaning
on
the
tubular
gate
that
marked
the
division
between
the
working
area
and
the
grounds
of
the
house.
In
just
the
few
months
since
David’s
mother
had
shifted
to
Auckland,
the
lawns
and
garden
had
lost
the
clear
lines
and
managed
display
which
had
been
her
mark.
Not
neglect,
just
that
difference
between
the
enthusiast’s
care
and
more
perfunctory
maintenance.
Chris
waited
as
David
nosed
the
tractor
into
the
shed,
humped
gear
from
the
trailer,
then
fed
 
the
dogs.
‘Quite
the
man
on
the
land,’
he
said,
as
David
finally
came
up
the
track
towards
the
house.
‘Master
of
all
you
survey.’