Opportunity (21 page)

***

Rob made me a gin and tonic. I lay on the deck in the strange,
hot light. The sun was shining, yet directly above us the sky
was swollen with purple-black clouds. I was light-headed,
smiling with relief, with the joy of no longer feeling sick.

'That was the most inadequate weather forecast in history,'
Rob repeated.

We listened to the radio. The rough weather wasn't a storm
any more; it was a cyclone. There were severe gale warnings in
all parts of the country. Rob insisted that it hadn't been
predicted at all. I watched him from my invalid's position on
the sunny deck. I had an intense feeling of well-being that
made me sanguine, careless. I turned over in my mind,
detached, the fact that I didn't believe him. I'd lately been
avoiding all news except business and finance, and the paper
I'd had that morning was the first I'd looked at for days. I
thought a cyclone must have been mentioned at least, in
marine forecasts, which he said he'd listened to. Perhaps he'd
dismissed it as only a possibility, or thought we could outrun
it. We had outrun it, and now we were trapped in the harbour
at Kawau, a perfect shelter, deep inside the encircling hills of
the island. We were protected from the wind, and the sun,
when it broke through the vast black clouds, was extraordinarily
hot and intense. In the distance on the hills the trees
were being lashed by the wind but down here at the jetty we
were floating in calm water, the light dancing on the wall of
the cabin, clothes hanging on the railings to dry, Rob propping
another cushion under my head . . .

I watched him. Everybody said, 'Rob Farnham. What a
nice man!' He bustled cheerfully about on the deck, making
things ship-shape. I closed my eyes and felt slightly drunk. I
was helpless, weak. It was a sensual feeling. I've lost control,
I thought. I remembered that first night in the hotel, where I'd
thought everything in my old life was gone, and he was the
only point of reference I had.

Had he wanted the trip so much that he'd turned a blind eye
to an approaching storm?

***

We swam and lazed on the beach. In the evening we made
ourselves a meal and ate it on the deck. We drank a lot of
wine. We could hear the wind tearing the trees on the hills,
a roar that died as the sun was going down but began to rise
much higher as it got dark. In the brief stillness at sunset the
sky was a jumbled black mass, cloud piling on cloud, and the
air was heavy, humid, full of whirling drops. We were drunk.
It got very dark, and there were only the few lights from other
boats shining on the water. The roar of the wind deepened
and intensified. Rob took a torch and we walked up a track
into the pine forest, shining the light on the branches, hearing
the whole forest shifting and creaking above us. We walked a
long way, towards the top of the hill. Up there the storm was
battering the tops, and when Rob shone the torch up the trees
were crashing and lurching together. He walked away from
me. There was blackness all around him; he walked in a pool
of light. A branch fell near me, then another. I went towards
him, through the dark. The crashing of the trees was exciting,
agitating. Lightning lit up the forest, followed by a boom and
crack of thunder. Rob started to sing. Lightning flashed again.
We linked arms and marched down the hill, falling about in
the deep pine needles, hauling each other up, ignoring the
falling branches, laughing, singing drunkenly at the tops of
our voices.

Back at the jetty the rain came, great sheets of it, drumming
on the deck, hissing into the water. We went into the cabin
and dried off. Rob poured some more wine. We sat at the little
table, laughing at each other. One of his shoes had disintegrated
in the wet. The toe had burst open. 'I've got another pair
somewhere,' he said, tugging off the sodden relic.

I had a sudden vision of Raymond's wardrobe. The sharp
suits. The lines and lines of fashionable shoes. Raymond loved
shopping for clothes. He liked to look good because he had a
strong visual sense. Our house was full of good art because we
had the money to buy it, and Raymond had good taste. Not
that I didn't, but he was the one with the real eye. He had left
his paintings, just as he left his dog. Soon we would divide
them up, through our lawyers, in a settlement. After Chase
Ihaka beat him, his face was no longer symmetrical. He was
still handsome. Is. Was. I don't live with Raymond any more.
Raymond is not dead but he is gone. He was gone.

When he told me he was leaving I begged him not to go.
I said that we could live through this. I said that a burglar,
a nobody, should not be allowed to destroy our marriage.
I shouted. 'Fuck Chase Ihaka! He's nothing to us!'

I remember Raymond's expression. He despised me. For
begging. For wanting our lives to carry on as before, even
though everything — words, promises, memories, shared
ideas — all the things that had held us together had been
spoiled and broken.

By Chase Ihaka.

Those words. I hear them sometimes when I've been asleep and
I'm just at the point of waking. I hear them as if it's my own voice, whispering
in my head. The smiling brown boy in the photo, gap-toothed, head on one side,
the crooked collar of his school uniform resting on his smooth cheek, long
eyelashes, the narrow brown eyes. Little man, his mother's lost boy. Little
destroyer.

***

I was in the narrow bunk, squashed up against Rob. I lay with
my eyes closed. These days I struggled with that point between
sleeping and waking. I often woke with a feeling of dread.
There was something all around me, an unpleasant, alien
presence. I realised it was a smell. Something heavy,
overpowering.

Rob sat up.

'Oh, Christ. Oh, my God.'

I rolled over. I grabbed his arm. 'What is it?'

The floor of the boat was covered with something dark and
pungent. I felt sick. My head reeled.

'The engine's leaking. Bloody hell!'

I pulled on some clothes. He said, 'You'd better get out. Get
some air, love.'

The morning air whirled with rain. All the trees were
tossing and roaring now, even those near the harbour. The sky
was heavy with intense black clouds. There were flashes of
purple sheet lightning and cracks of thunder: sharp, one after
another, like a series of gunshots. It was hot. I breathed in,
deeply, to get rid of the taste of the fumes.

After a long time Rob came up. He sat down heavily. 'It's
terrible. I can't get at the leak. What a mess.'

'We'd better get the food out,' I said.

He looked blank.

'We can't get back in this weather. We'll need it.'

'Right.' He leaned his face against the rail. 'I've got a blinding
headache,' he said.

'It's the fumes.' I laughed. Horrified.

'What a disaster,' he said. He looked bleakly at the hillside.

We worked to pack the supplies into boxes and bring them
out onto the deck. We covered them as best we could from the
rain. Everything was drenched. Clothes hung dripping from
the railings. Cardboard boxes were sodden. One box broke up
and cans crashed onto the deck. Some rolled off into the
water.

The cabin was uninhabitable. The floor was soaked with fuel,
and Rob couldn't figure out how to drain it, or to stop the leak. Some of
the bedding had fallen onto the floor and was wet and stained. Packets of
food that we'd opened were spoiled.

We got everything out onto the deck. Rain splattered across
our faces. Rob got up, grim-faced. He stood with his back to
me, staring at the tossing trees. My wet clothes clung to me.
My skin hurt, pinched by the shrinking material. There was
rain in my eyes. I'd been inclined to laugh, but the discomfort
was increasing. I couldn't think how, or where, we were going
to spend the days until the storm had passed. Then there was
the question of how we were going to get back. If we couldn't
fix the engine we would have to steer back into Whangaparaoa
under sail, and I knew that wouldn't be easy.

Rob said, 'I know what we'll do. Load up the dinghy.'

'Where are we going?'

'You'll see.' He didn't confer. He wanted to be in charge. He
would
provide
. I thought about this.

He rowed around the point and out across the bay. The
wind hit us. I stopped talking and leaned forward, resting my
elbows on my knees. It was rough out from the shelter of the
trees — not as bad as the open sea, but choppy enough to
bring the nausea swirling back. Spray broke over us. There
were sticks and branches floating in the water. Rob rowed,
grunting with effort, muttering to himself, 'There? There?
Where's it gone now?'

We were passing a stretch of pine forest that had been
cleared for sections. Small houses showed among the trees.

'Here we are,' he said, steering the boat towards the shore.
We landed on a tiny jetty. He fastened the rope and pulled me
up onto the wooden boards.

'Right. You wait here.'

'Where are you going?' I was concentrating on not being
sick.

'I'm going to reconnoitre.'

I sat down with my arms around my knees. I looked
through the wooden planks to the green water sluicing below.
Nausea broke my thoughts into odd patterns. I thought:
children think adults are a different species. But adults
sometimes feel as if they are only ten years old. I sat there,
hugging my bare legs. Once I'd stopped feeling sick, I decided,
I would go behind a tree and relieve myself. I had been reduced
to very simple things. I was soaking. I was sick. I was even
hungry. My legs looked skinny, ridiculous, in their baggy
shorts. My shoes were full of water. How had I let this happen?
I could have been in an expensive hotel anywhere in the world.
I had a moment of dismay, almost fear. I was letting everything
fall away. I was lost. I didn't know the man I was with. Who
was he?

Rob came back, crashing down through the pine needles
and scrub, bullish, jolly and commanding, in control once
more.

'I've got this client . . .' He looked sideways. I waited.

***

We were standing on the deck of a small house. There was a
covered barbecue, a spa pool draped in canvas sheeting. The
blinds and curtains were drawn. As he spoke, Rob was looking
under plant pots, shifting a doormat, running his hand along
the tops of ledges.

'He says to me, if you ever need it, the house is here. He
knows I come sailing round Kawau all the time.'

We had hauled our belongings up from the jetty and piled
them on the deck.

I said, 'Are you sure this is the right place?'

'Definitely.'

He went around the back of the house. I sat down. I looked
at the orange pine needles, the tossing trees. I heard a tearing,
wrenching sound, like old iron being ripped. There was a loud
bang.

Rob appeared inside the French doors, unlocked them and
stepped beaming out onto the deck.

'Madam! Your palace awaits!'

It was really very cosy. There was a double bed with a
striped cover. There was linen in the cupboard. Everything
worked, once Rob had figured out how to turn on the pump.
The water came from a rainwater tank at the back of the house.
We unloaded our food in the kitchen and I set about making
breakfast. The cooking utensils were expensive, elaborate.
Rob took the cover off the barbecue and fiddled with it. I had
a sense of relief at the space. I hadn't liked being cramped into
the yacht. I was glad to be off the water, too. To stop feeling
sick.

The wind shifted the trees, rain drummed on the iron
roof.

'So who's this client?'

'Longstanding one. A good guy. Obviously he's not going to
turn up, what with the storm.'

'No.'

'But I'll tell him we've been here,' he said innocently.

I'd looked at the bathroom window where Rob had got in.
The metal catch was broken off. The frame had been wrenched
out.

I thought, with a kind of hilarity, a QC breaking in? There
was a mirror over the kitchen sink. I looked at myself. I'd had
a feeling, ever since Raymond had gone, that some outer layer
had been peeled away. I was raw, open. I had attracted men
— Rob. I had allowed him to take me away. I felt like a kid,
limping and snivelling one minute, hilarious the next. And
when Rob took over, when he finished his breakfast and
grinned at me merrily and pulled me onto the bed, I had the
sensual feeling of surrender, of allowing everything to fall
away.

Rob went out. He said he was going to check on the dinghy.
When the storm had died down, he said, we could go back to
the wharf and work out what to do about the yacht.

Before he left he'd said, 'There's a shower.'

I lay on the bed. 'Let's not wash,' I said.

He looked shocked. 'Not wash?'

'Oh, all right.' I laughed.

He left. I had a short chilly shower — the water hadn't yet
heated up. I lay on the bed. There was a shelf of old detective
novels. I pulled up the duvet and lay luxuriously reading. The
rain was loud on the roof. Out the window the forest swayed
and heaved with the squalls. Sticks clattered onto the deck.

Later we put on the oilskins that were hanging in the
laundry and went down to the jetty.

'There's no one in the houses round about,' he said. He held
my hand. Our feet sank deep in the pine needles. The bay was
wild, grey-green and running with currents. We walked along
a path, past the other houses. Their windows were blank,
curtained. We came to a point and looked out at the churning
water. The trees were thrashing across on the far shore. It
occurred to me that a branch might fall on us.

We went back and spread out our clothes to dry. We lay on
the striped duvet, listening to the gale.

I woke in the night. It was pitch black. The darkness was
unnerving, so absolute that nothing showed. The wind was
howling, lifting the iron on the roof. I moved closer to Rob.