Second Chances (18 page)

‘Saved by the bell,’ said Kit, swinging out a hand to answer it. ‘Louisa! How the devil are you?’ He chatted to my sister for a while then handed me the phone and disappeared upstairs.

‘Kit’s on good form.’ Lou sounded cynical. She hadn’t forgiven us for emigrating. Probably never would.

‘He is. I’ve just had ten minutes of arty codswallop.’

‘Well, that’s what you wanted, isn’t it? You should be happy.’

‘Of course I’m happy!’

‘Hm?’ I heard Lou inhale and knew she was lighting up. ‘Or a teensy bit jealous? He wasn’t this fanatical about advertising. Seems you’ve got a rival for the first time.’

I denied it hotly, of course—I never admit weakness to Lou if I can help it—and changed the subject. The call lasted an hour, and as always we found plenty to gossip about. Lily had a new rabbit, Philip hated his job, Vincent Vale was engaged to a busty barmaid. Just froth, really, but I felt a lot better by the end.

I found Kit in the studio, showered and changed. ‘Mind if I sit here?’ I asked, settling into the armchair with my feet tucked under me.

‘Funny thing,’ he said without looking round. ‘I like having you there.’

He was leaning on a tall stool, squinting thoughtfully at the canvas. Shearers were already beginning to take shape; four men in a row, stretching back from the eye. Occasionally he’d simply paint out an entire figure, then swiftly outline another.

It was late when I stood up, stretching my arms. ‘That man Gerry Kerr was right,’ I said. ‘You
are
a fucking genius.’

‘I wish.’

I brushed my lips against his ear. ‘Yes, you are. But d’you know it’s after eleven?’

He put down his brush. I felt his hand in the small of my back, steering me towards the door. ‘Let’s go,’ he said happily.

We were halfway upstairs when the phone began to ring.

‘
Bugger
,’ groaned Kit.

‘It’ll be your mother,’ I said accusingly. ‘She can’t get her head around the time difference.’

We stood irresolute as the thing rang on, and on. We hadn’t got around to putting in an answer machine.

‘Let’s leave it,’ suggested Kit, trying to push me up the last few stairs.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said, laughing. ‘It’s a total passion killer, knowing your mother’s on the other end of that line. You’d better answer it.’

It wasn’t Mary McNamara at all. It was Gerry Kerr. Kit talked to him for a long time. When he finally appeared in our room, he was looking stunned. I was reading in bed.

‘Jesus,’ he breathed, rumpling his hair distractedly. ‘He wants me to get a collection together for his festival.’

‘Does he know the sort of thing you’ve been doing?’

Kit looked faintly embarrassed. ‘He does, actually. I’ve been emailing photographs.’

‘This is fantastic news!’ I knelt up on the bed, throwing my arms around his neck. ‘When’s the festival?’

‘Next August. What a stupendous opportunity. But bloody hell, just over eight months to get a collection together . . . better get my skates on. No time to waste.’

So much, I thought uncharitably, for the dedicated house-husband.

*

The following morning, though, I woke happy. Air billowed through the open French doors, clear and fresh as spring water. You could drink it. We
were
lucky, after all. We lived in a sort of heaven; we had our children and one another—and now this news from Dublin. I stretched my toes before turning over to smile at Kit.

He was gone, of course. His side of the bed was cold.

‘I’m an art widow,’ I grumbled out loud, pushing my feet into slippers. ‘Addictive personality, that’s his problem. If it’s not booze, it’s bloody creativity.’

It was a Saturday, and the children were due to go riding. I was making coffee, yawning, when Finn and Charlie screamed into the kitchen, impersonating a couple of jets as they careered into me. Finn was in his underpants; Charlie had no clothes on at all.

‘I’m going to canper soon,’ bragged Finn. ‘Tama said.’

‘Not canper!’ Charlie scoffed at his brother’s ignorance. ‘Canker.’

I poured them each a bowl of cereal. ‘Sounds pretty clever.’

‘Please will you come with us today, Mummy?’ asked Charlie, blinking up at me. His cheeks were still crimson with sleep. ‘I want to show you all the things.’

I ruffled the soft tangle of his hair. ‘We’ll see.’

Finn joined in. ‘You should see Tama riding. He goes like this—and this—and Ruru stands way up on his hind legs. Cool! He looks just like Zorro!’

We were almost ready to leave when Sacha announced that she was opting out. She’d managed to cadge a lift into town with a friend’s aunt who lived out our way.

‘Not coming?’ I stopped in my tracks. ‘I thought you loved riding more than anything in the world?’

Her eyes slid away from mine. ‘I’m not eleven years old any more,’ she declared flatly. ‘I’ve done that girly horsey thing.’

‘Oh.’ I felt deflated. ‘That was sudden.’

‘Tabby wants to meet up.’

‘Well that’s fine, but why don’t you bring your friends here, like you planned?’

She shrugged ruefully. ‘Changed my mind. What would we actually
do
?’

‘Well . . . I don’t know. Hang out. Play tennis. Listen to music. Bonfire on the beach.’

‘And count sheep.’ Sacha yawned. ‘Yeah, right. We don’t even have broadband. You’re a skeleton by the time you’ve downloaded a music video. I’m sorry, Mum, I’m not trying to hurt your feelings, but there’s sod all for a bunch of teenagers to do out here.’

‘Don’t you like us anymore?’

‘Silly sausage.’ She smiled and touched my cheek. ‘I just need my own space a little bit. Anyway, must get on—I’ve got half an hour to practise this new piece.’

She set off to the sitting room and after a moment I heard the flute. It was a dreamy, haunting melody, a little like birdsong. I stepped into the hall to listen, and the music broke off.

‘Mum, stop loitering out there!’

I stuck my head around the door. ‘What’s that gorgeous thing you’re playing? Sounds familiar.’

She had her flute in one hand, scowling at the music. ‘Debussy’s
Syrinx.
I’ve always wanted to learn this.’

‘Ah, Syrinx. Now, this is one of those Greek myths where the girl gives her life to save her virtue, isn’t it? Good, old-fashioned values.’

‘Mm. Actually it’s a really sad story. It’s about Pan. He was chasing this red-hot chick, Syrinx. When she got to a river she had nowhere left to run, so she begged for help from the gods. Instead of doing something useful like giving her wings, they helpfully turned her into marsh reeds and that was the end of her. Pan was really upset about the whole thing, so he cut the reeds and made them into pipes.’

‘Pan pipes.’

‘Pan pipes. Then he played this lament for her on those same pipes. So it has to sound kind of ethereal, like those creepy patupaiarehe playing their wooden flutes. Brrr!’ She pretended to shiver. ‘Come to think of it, Syrinx and Ira’s Hinemoana have a lot in common, don’t they? They should set up an enchanted maidens’ self-help group.’

As she spoke, her phone began to vibrate. She took a look at the screen, and frowned.

‘Who?’ I asked, leaning closer.

‘Tabby.’ The phone disappeared into her pocket.

‘I see you’ve taken off your locket.’

‘My—?’ She touched her throat.

‘Your locket that Ivan gave you. Does that mean you’ve moved on?’

‘No.’ A shadow of anxiety darkened her face, and I fervently wished I hadn’t mentioned the wretched thing. ‘I left it by my bed, and now I can’t find it. Really worried. I just hope it’s in the house somewhere.’

‘It will be,’ I said. ‘Don’t worry.’

‘Okay.’ Tama watched me climb out of the car. ‘No Sacha, I see. That must mean it’s your turn today?’

‘Yes!’ yelped Charlie. ‘She promised!’

I raised both hands. ‘No, no. Sorry. I’m chauffeur.’

‘Suit yourself,’ said Tama placidly, and I felt a twinge of disappointment.

Finn climbed up on the fence to practise his tight-rope walking, while Ira and Charlie went to see the newest foal. Tama soon had me picking out some spiny seeds that were caught in Ruru’s piebald coat. It wasn’t easy because the massive horse loved to wander around the yard, nudging his master’s shoulder.

As he moved unhurriedly among his animals, it struck me that Tama Pardoe seemed entirely content precisely as he was. How many of us can claim to be unequivocally content? Everyone believes they would be happy
if
. . . if they had a different job, perhaps, or they hit a lottery jackpot; if they had better-behaved children, a bigger house, a happier marriage. Me, I’d always reckoned my cup would overflow if I had a bikini body.

‘Ever thought of becoming a Buddhist monk?’ I asked.

‘I am a Buddhist monk.’

‘
Really?
’

‘No, not really.’

When it was time for the riders to go, Charlie made one last appeal to my better nature. ‘
Please
come,’ he begged. ‘You’ll really, really love it.’

The wide eyes were too much. ‘Okay,’ I blurted. ‘But if I break my leg, you’re all
dead
.’

If he felt any triumph, Tama hid it well. There was just a twitch of the mouth and a brief, dark-eyed glance in my direction as he reached for another saddle. ‘You’ve met Kakama,’ he said, patting the mare’s creamy neck. ‘She’s your hostess for today.’

I managed to get myself astride without nose-diving right over the top and off the other side, and the five of us headed sedately through the dunes. Kakama’s foal cavorted alongside, whinnying. Finn and Charlie were already confident, singing as they rode and occasionally breaking into a bumpy trot as we crossed the beach and began to walk along the glittering sand below the high-tide mark. It was a glorious scene, but I couldn’t admire it. I’d forgotten how insanely high you are when perched on a horse.

‘I feel awfully . . .’ Waves swirled around Kakama’s legs. ‘I haven’t done this for . . . um, and these great big saddles are pretty wacky.’

Tama was riding beside me. He leaned down and disentangled a twig from Kakama’s mane. ‘You’re looking good.’

Gradually, I was soothed by the leisurely sway of the horses’ gait. I could hear the boys behind us, yakking, bending Ira’s ear. I began to feel more secure. Actually, I felt great. Tama was right: Kakama wasn’t about to bolt. She had no malice. If she’d been a human being, she would have been the kindly sort who makes tea and pats your hand.

Eventually, Tama glanced at me. ‘Shall we take the brakes off?’

I gulped.

‘You’ll be fine,’ he said, with infectious confidence. ‘She will take care of you.’

‘But the boys—’

‘—Will be safe with Ira. They won’t set off after us, I promise. Now, never mind rising in the trot; in fact, never mind trotting. None of that English riding school malarkey. And don’t lean forward!’

‘I’m not sure—’

‘You’ll be okay, Martha. Trust me. Watch this.’

And with no apparent effort, Ruru had broken into a gallop. It was instantaneous. Tama stayed upright, hat flying behind him on a cord while sand shot up around him. Kakama behaved like a lady, though, and made no attempt to race. When Tama pulled up and whirled around, I was stroking her muscled neck and trying to rally my courage. I admired this man, and childishly wanted his approval. I longed to be a daredevil but I was paralysed by the memory of a horse bolting, tumbling, a leg snapping. Ahead of us lay a long stretch of unbroken sand, but then the beach curved around a headland and was scattered with wicked boulders.

You’ve got children!
Mum was apoplectic.
How can you consider such
selfishness?

‘Go on, Mummy,’ called Finn scornfully. ‘Don’t be a pussy-wussy.’

‘Okay.’ I shut my eyes. ‘Okay. Here goes.’

No, no, no! You’re hopeless. You’ll break your neck this time.

‘I won’t. Tama says I’m safe.’

You’ve a long way to fall, Martha.

‘Shush.’

Your irresponsibility knows no—

‘Oh, piss
off
!’ I yelled aloud, and kicked with both heels. Kakama’s power was overwhelming: I felt as though I was driving a Porsche and had jammed my foot flat onto the accelerator. I could hear the boys cheering—
Go Mummeee—
as the foal threw up his tail, bucked gleefully, and dashed alongside. Tama fell in too as we tore along the sand.

I thought I was going to die. No, really. I leaned forward and clutched at the saddle and a handful of cream-coloured mane, sobbing in rigid terror at the wavelets flashing past. The rocks on the headland loomed ever closer, and I imagined the carnage when we hit them.

Then I heard Tama’s voice. ‘You’re fine.’ He sounded amused. ‘Martha, settle down, girl! Sit back.’

Gritting my teeth, I forced myself to release my grip on the saddle and straighten up. Nothing bad happened. With a rush of joy, I relaxed into the rhythm. It was like being injected with exhilaration. Pounding along the foreshore, salt spray flying up around us, I felt as though I would never be frightened again. I wasn’t a mother. I didn’t have two little boys who needed me every moment; I didn’t have a husband who waltzed with alcohol and depression; I didn’t have a beloved daughter who was growing apart from me. I was Martha, and the gates of freedom were creaking open. I heard myself whooping.

Tama slowed as we neared the end of the beach. Kakama—behaving immaculately—did the same without my having to ask, settling through an easy rocking-horse canter into a dignified walk. My heart was smashing right out of my ribs as we sloshed through a couple of feet of waves and safely rounded the headland.

‘See?’ said Tama, replacing his hat. ‘No problem.’

‘Whew.’ Shakily, I leaned forward to kiss Kakama’s sweating neck.

Another beach stretched before us, rockier and edged by pine plantation. The air smelled of seaweed and resin. I felt a sense of something deep within myself, something I didn’t quite recognise. After thinking for some minutes I realised that I was actually proud of myself. I’d done something I’d been afraid to do. For once I hadn’t sat on the fence and watched my children; I hadn’t been the photographer, the waver-off, the cheerer on the sidelines. It had been a long time since I’d had an achievement that wasn’t vicarious.