Pauline gazes at her flower fairies calendar: only two nights to the big Six-O. This really is the beginning of old age, she rues. Fifties still qualify as middle-aged in her book, but 60 marks a new era. Be positive, she tells herself, you are entering the crone stage; open yourself to crone wisdom.
Crone I am becoming, she agrees with herself, but I am still young enough and fit enough to fully enjoy life. I hope the others are. She chuckles at the thought of the party she has planned. Her black cat entwines around her legs. Pauline gathers him into her lap and strokes his silky back. “Familiar, fancy the thirtieth of April being the eve of Samhain in this Land of the Long White Cloud. We live in such an upside-down place! In the old country, where seasons are the right way up, Samhain Eve is the thirty-first of October, the end of summer — that’s what Samhain means, the end of summer. It’s also the eve of All Hallows. Here, Halloween is celebrated on the thirty-first of October, in appalling ignorance — a commercial con for shops to profit from fancy-dress outfits and trick and treat bags. It’s disgusting!” She strokes with more vigour and Familiar purrs louder. “Children rudely demanding sweets, witches’ costumes worn with no understanding of witches, ghost costumes flaunted to parody the sacred dead.” She is momentarily overcome by the evils of disrespect, ignorance and commercialism. Familiar extends his claws. Pauline resumes stroking. “All Hallows and All Souls were intended as festivals to respect deceased forebears and offer prayers for their souls. Did you know, Familiar,” she chucks him under his chin, “the Celts believe those born at Samhain have the gift of second sight? But, of course, that relates to October thirty-first and November the first, not April the thirtieth!” Familiar rumbles a response and Pauline continues stroking and lulling. “Our friend Sarai was born on the first of November in Celtic England, it is possible that she is so gifted.” Familiar gives a sharp meow. Pauline takes it as affirmation and drops a light kiss on his head.
“I do hope she approves of what I’ve planned. She indulges me but I know I disappoint her. Well, I truly feel there is another dimension to life. Experiencing the Spiritual is good. The church has always used visual aids, so what’s wrong with fantasy?” Familiar continues to purr. “Besides it is my birthday, my party, and this Samhain is going to have its fun side. And this blinking rain had better stop!” She glares out the window. “It’s been raining for five days. Maybe I should be working on a fine weather spell.”
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
‘We thought, because we had power, we had wisdom’ – Stephen Vincent Benét (1898-1943), Litany for Dictatorships, 1935. So Jen’s PC had primed the intellectual component of her Tuesday routine.
A week has passed since Sarai responded to her desperate phone call. She hopes Sarai won’t mention it in front of Kat. Sarai doesn’t. Following the lecture they are in Sarai’s study. Kat is slowly rotating in front of the heater. Her damp jacket is spread over a chair beside her. Kat is looking pale, thinks Jen. I hope she doesn’t get a cold.
“You need to understand, friends,” Sarai remarks, after passing around fragrant mugs of tea, “it’s not just the Bible that was written ‘by men for men’; pretty much all history and philosophy has been recorded in this manner. But in the background wise women have influenced some of the decisions.”
“Behind every great man stands a great woman,” comments Jen, trying to make normal Tuesday conversation.
“Quite,” affirms Sarai. “Consider the sacred Canon of Scripture. There were numerous scrolls to choose from, so why have we got these particular 66 books?”
“Was the Roman Emperor Constantine behind it? Didn’t he organise the Council of Nicaea to standardise Christian belief? Were the books voted into the Canon by the bishops who attended?” Jen asks, feeling she has made a rather clever deduction.
“The Council of Nicaea was 325 CE. The Hebrew Canon was set before the time of Jesus.”
“So, who chose the Old Testament books?” asks Kat, moving to an armchair.
“The books of the ‘Law’, the Torah, were held as sacred very early, followed by the ‘Prophets’ and ‘Kings’ and lastly the ‘Writings’. The final list is ascribed to ‘The Men of the Great Assembly’ — scribes and sages who ruled in the period after the time of the prophets.”
“Why did these men include the Book of Ruth?” ponders Jen. “Isn’t Ruth a story of women for women?”
“Exactly, wise women working behind the scenes. Even more controversial is the Book of Esther. It was the last book accepted into the Hebrew Canon. Like Ruth, Esther is a subversive story of strong women. It was so controversial that when the first known list of the full Bible was produced the Book of Esther was omitted.”
“Who produced the list?”
“Melito, Bishop of Sardis. He died in 180 CE.”
“Well before the Council of Nicaea!”
“Correct. Melito was strongly opposed to the Book of Esther. This bishop was a scholar who wrote many things but he was referred to as ‘the eunuch’ or ‘the virgin’. So perhaps it is understandable why the wise women of the time were unable to influence him.” Sarai arches an eyebrow and her mouth threatens to smile.
“How then did Esther get into the Christian Bible?”
“Saint Jerome was the man. Jerome translated all the books of the Bible into Latin in the late 300s. His Bible is known as the Vulgate — common language — version and it contains all 39 books of the Protestant Bible as well as the books of the Apocrypha.”
“So why did Jerome include the controversial Esther?”
“Jerome became secretary to the Pope in the late 300s. In this role he became spiritual director to noble ladies interested in the monastic life. He got quite caught up with some of the Roman ladies. They influenced him without him realising what was happening. That’s how it often is with feminine wisdom, as both of you are well aware.” The women smile their agreement. “I’ve been pontificating quite long enough. We will get to the Book of Esther next month. Much as I enjoy your company I think the rain is easing and it may be wise for you to chance your luck.”
Jen and Kat descend to the foyer. The sky has lightened and the wind is dropping. The rain has slackened to a drizzle but neither feels like making a dash for it. Both are lost in their own thoughts.
After the terrible row with Wilkin, Jen thought life would never be the same again, but Sarai has made her feel OK. Yes, she is a strong person. Jennifer Hawthorne can cope with the backhanders of life and move on. Wilkin doesn’t have her inner strength. For him life is about outcomes, while she understands the journey is the important thing. The sun does shine after rain — not that it shows great inclination of doing so at present. Jen gives Kat an appraising glance. She’s not herself, she decides. She’s not wearing eyeliner or mascara. She’s little more than a child really. I’ve never seen her look so washed out and … vulnerable.
“Hey, Kat,” she says impulsively, “would you like to have lunch at my house? I’ve got plenty of salad and soup left over from last night.” Kat looks as if she really doesn’t care but Jen continues with increasing enthusiasm. “I’d love to show you my home. Do come.”
“OK,” says Kat, squaring her shoulders. “Thanks.”
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
Kat’s boots rest easy on a tall stool at Jen’s breakfast-bar. She has superb legs, notes Jen as she heats the soup. “Your home is stunning,” says Kat. “This kitchen looks like it jumped off the page of a glossy. You could be in House and Garden.”
“Yes, I’m lucky,” says Jen. “I have many things to be grateful for. Shame it’s too wet for a walk around the garden. You’ll have to come back on a nice day.”
Lingering over coffee after lunch, both feel warm and relaxed. “It can’t be easy living off waitress wages,” says Jen. “You manage so well, always immaculate.”
Kat flushes. “Actually, Jen, it’s not the waitressing. I have another income source.” Jen waits. Kat considers. “Jen, the fact is,” she pauses again then takes the plunge, “actually, I do a bit of escort work.” She braces for Jen’s reaction.
Jen is surprised but knows better than to show it. A trick learnt early in her working life: don’t look surprised if you want the truth. A phrase comes to her from Fanny Hill, a novel she read as a teenager: our virtues and vices depend very much on our circumstances. She keeps it to herself.
“Can I share something personal?” ventures Kat.
“Of course you can — anything.”
“A few days ago a client became … abusive. He … raped me.”
“Oh Kat, that’s terrible!” Jen is shocked and momentarily stunned. She gathers herself and takes Kat’s hand. “I’m so sorry. Will you press charges? I could help you.”
Kat shakes her head. “No, it wouldn’t work. He’s been a client for a long time. He would claim it was consensual.”
“It’s hard for any woman to win in a rape case. The sad fact is court re-victimises the victim, and even a conviction can feel as if it wasn’t worth it.”
“I’ll be OK.”
“I do care, Kat, and if I can help with anything just let me know.” Jen gives her hand a squeeze. They sit in silence for a while.
“Tell me about your life. What’s Wilkin like?”
“Wilkin is …” Jen pauses. What is Wilkin like? “… successful … intelligent, well spoken, he never swears, and … he is quite handsome,” she finishes confidently.
“I don’t see any photos around.”
“No, Wilkin isn’t into displaying family snaps, he considers coloured photos kitsch. His taste is paintings, mine too really, we chose that together.”
Both consider the dominant painting, a head-on impression of Banks Peninsula. Brown land curves forward, flanked by two rivers fanning into the ocean. The rivers cross a broad, chequered plane, and disappear into a long white-capped ridge. Overhead, clouds suggest a large bird. “The spirit bird, hovering overhead,” Jen quotes from a modern hymn.
“It’s so full of drama,” says Kat. “I never thought of the rivers like that, sort of guardians to the peninsula. The clouds do look like a spirit bird watching over everything.”
“I like landscapes to be at least vaguely recognisable. I have some fairly recent holiday snaps of Wilkin taken on the Gold Coast. He’s quite good-looking really. So are his forebears. Their portraits guard our stairwell. They’re an impressive bunch. The family likeness peeps over beards and clerical collars.” She puts on a pluty voice. “Wilkin’s great-great-grandfather came out on the Charlotte Jane. His father and his grandfather were both vicars. Come and see the rogue’s gallery.”
They chuckle over the stiff monochrome images as they mount the stairs. “Now I’ll find a photo of Wilkin for you to compare,” says Jen, moving to a bedroom. Her phone bleeps. “It’s Wilkin. He’s coming home early. There’s a University Council meeting tonight and he has some preparation to do. You can meet him in the flesh.”
“That will be nice,” says Kat.
Jen opens a drawer and starts to rummage. Her phone bleeps again. “He wants me to pick up his suit from the drycleaners.” She checks her watch. “Oh, how we have been talking, I had no idea it was this late! Kat, I’m sorry but I’ll have to go. Is it OK if I drop you off in town? I’m not organised for an early dinner.”
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
Pauline, ever the optimist, is convinced the fog that drapes the city on the morning of April thirtieth will clear by afternoon. She sets about the Samhain Sabbat preparations in party mood. First priority is polishing her set of 13 candlesticks. She selects a box of red candles, for new beginnings, and extracts 11. As she plants them in their holders she wishes, as always, that she might find another two friends to complete a perfect coven. For a few years the coven had been 13-strong but age and health take their toll. Jeanette and Cis can no longer join in the celebrations.
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
Jen and Kat exit their lecture that same morning to the cheering warmth of cloudless sunshine. “Jen,” says Kat, “I owe you. How do you feel about an early lunch today, my shout?”
“I usually go to gym on Thursday afternoons so an early lunch would suit.”
“We could try out the Alibi, it’s in the law building.”
By the time their filo-wrapped chicken pieces arrive conversation has strayed from lectures to life. Waiting for the food to cool takes them to the personal. Before coffee cups are drained Jen is considering foregoing gym again. “Today is perfect for seeing the view from my house. Our Japanese maple is at its best. Come home with me for a while?”
“What about your gym?”
“I’ll go for a walk instead. You could come with me. We could take a nature ramble in the hills.” She grins at the old-fashioned expression.
“Well, I’m not trekking over the Bridal Path and that’s for sure! I took a sight-seeing trip round the hills a year or so ago. The track looked horrendous — as difficult as marriage?”
Jen chortles. “It’s bridle as in horses. And most pioneer brides walked it without the benefit of a horse. No, I’m not suggesting anything steep or extreme. We have a back gate that gives access to an easy walk. It only takes about 30 minutes to wander over a ridge, loop up to the road, and back down to our place. I haven’t done it in ages. I’m a bit cautious about being in the hills on my own these days, but they’re certainly more attractive than a treadmill and a block wall. Are you up for it?”
Kat looks at her feet. “Can I borrow some flat shoes?”
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
The Japanese maple bears the most brilliant red leaves Kat has ever seen. It stands in a row of multi-tinted trees. “We don’t get autumn colours like this back home. Ross has an avenue of cherry blossoms. They flower in spring but mostly the Coast trees are the same colour all year round. It’s the snow on the mountains that defines seasons for Coasters. From here the alps are just a border to your view, but at home they’re in-your-face mountains.”
Jen decides to serve coffee at the lookout before they start walking. All trace of the fertility shrine has gone. Sipping as goddesses with the world spread before them, Jen considers telling Kat about the Ashera but decides against it. There is a rawness she doesn’t want to expose.
“What’s that?’ Kat is pointing through the trees below them.
“Probably a walking group. They’ve come down from the upper road.”
“They all seem to be wearing black hats.”
“I didn’t think to bring the binoculars. They do look a bit odd.”
“They’re going behind the ridge. They’ve vanished.”
“It’s time we got going too. The mugs will be OK here. Come on.”
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
Jen and Kat pick their way through the tussocks with an increasing sense of well being.
“This is great,” says Kat. “What a view! I’ve never been walking in this open sort of wilderness. My hill walking has mostly been struggling through thick bush.”
“I love the tawny gold colours of these hills,” says Jen.
“Look, the tussocks are dancing in the breeze,” remarks Kat.
“Or they could be mop-headed trolls emerging from the ground.”
“Believe in trolls, do you?”
“And why not? I have a Maori friend who believes fog is the little people on the march.”
“If that’s true there must be masses of little people living in these hills.”
They continue in silence until Kat is aware she is starting to puff.
“I’m not as fit as I should be.”
“This is the roughest part. Over the ridge the hill flattens out a bit and beyond there’s a proper path with steps up to the road.”
The ridge makes a natural shelter. Kat and Jen lean against the rocky shelf and take a breather. “Look, down there. It’s those walkers we saw earlier. Check out the hats!”
“Good Lord! Black, pointy witches’ hats!”
“It’s not Halloween. Whatever are they doing?”
“Having a picnic, at a guess. See, they’re taking packets out of a backpack. It must be food. Kids having a party?”
“They’re not kids, definitely all adults.”
“Sh! I can hear something. Wind-chimes or bells — did you hear it?”
“My phone, it will be Wilkin.”
“No, not your phone! I heard another sound, a tinkling sort of sound.”
“He’s not coming home for dinner.” Jen is angry. Why isn’t he coming home for dinner? What is he doing?
“If we follow the ridge down a bit we can get close without being seen.” Kat is like a kid with a mystery to solve. “It’s a free country. We have as much right to be here as they do.”
Wilkin is not coming home for dinner. She can do whatever she wants to. “OK. As you say, it’s a free country.”
They edge downhill until they are almost level with the group. “They are all women, and not young either. It looks like they’re forming some sort of procession.” Kat has the vantage point and takes up delivering a commentary. “Several are carrying small bells and others are holding … plates? No, they’re large leaves, but there’s something on top of the leaves. One is carrying a stick and giving orders. Aw,” Kat sounds disappointed, “she’s leading them behind that mound.”
“The sun’s dropping. It will be chilly soon. Shall we go?”
“No, wait a minute, they might come back. Listen, bells again. Here they come from the other side, all in a line, and they’re going round again. How crazy is that! I’m sure I’ve seen that woman with the stick somewhere.”
Jen squeezes to where she too can see without being seen. “I don’t recognise her. We can’t stay here watching women in witches’ hats walk round a mound all night.”
“Let me have one more look at that woman. I’ve seen her recently. I know I have. I wish I could think where!”
“Here they come, still ringing their bells.”
“But they aren’t carrying any leaves. What have they done with the leaves?”
“Hey,” Jen nudges Kat. “Look at the last one. She’s not wearing a witch’s hat. She’s wearing a brown cloak with a hood, and she looks a bit like Sarai.”
“It is Sarai! The woman with the stick is her friend. Pauline, her name is. They had dinner at my restaurant. Her hair was up then, that’s why I didn’t recognise her. I waited on their table.”
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
And now she is at Pauline’s table — a table glowing with red candles in silver candlesticks and two jack-o-lanterns. The crazy yellow grins watch over a large cake sprouting dozens of unlit birthday candles. There is a smell she can’t identify. How does she know it is Pauline’s table? Kat digs Jen in the ribs. “Have we been smoking dope or is this for real?”
Jen too feels light-headed. “It’s real all right, but I think I’ve had a bit much cider.”
“What’s the smell?”
“Incense, apples and nutmeg — don’t you remember Pauline explaining the autumnal significance?”
“I don’t remember anything!”
“You’ve been asleep but you were probably a bit concussed. You really don’t remember?”
Kat shakes her head. It hurts.
“You recognised Sarai’s friend and got excited. I think you were trying to get a closer look and you tripped, probably because my shoes are a bit big on you. Anyway, you tumbled over the ridge. You only rolled a short distance but you have a bump on your forehead.”
Kat fingers her brow with surprise. “It’s quite an egg!”
“Sarai got to you before I did. She gave you something to drink. You said you felt OK but your ankle hurt.”
Kat cautiously moves her foot and feels a definite discomfort.
“You fell into a witches’ coven,” Jen giggles. “Pauline wasn’t carrying a stick — it’s a wand, a magic wand. These women are Wiccans.” Kat looks blank.
“Pagans who think of themselves as witches.”
“Witches! Real fair-dinkum witches?”
“Good witches, into respecting nature. Sort of ancient eco-feminists, I suppose. Anyway, they’re friends of Sarai’s.”
Kat’s eyes travel the room, taking in the women. They are eating, drinking, chatting, all perfectly normal, except for the hats. It comes back to her with a rush. “Why were they prancing round the hill carrying bells and leaves?”
“They were looking for a portal to fairyland.”
Kat rolls her eyes and clutches her head.
“You may scoff but the leaves were picnic plates for fairies. They can’t use paper plates because they care about the environment. Tonight is the Wiccan Halloween, or something like it, and it is one of the best times in the year for seeing fairies. The veil between our world and theirs is at its thinnest, apparently. Sarai said something about between the seasons and between night and day — fairies are most likely to appear on the margins.”
“And I thought gays were marginalised!”
“Honest, I’m not having you on. Sarai explained it to me. Folklore says fairies, ‘little people’ fairies that is, can be enticed out of hiding with gentle music or tinkling bells. Fairies are fond of milk, butter, and honey, and all manner of sweet treats.”
“Yeah, sweet tooth fairies! They’re grown women, old women, for God’s sake. How can they believe this rot! Surely Sarai doesn’t believe it?”
“No, that’s why she isn’t wearing a pointy hat, but she knows all about Wiccans. Pauline is the head witch and she happens to be Sarai’s friend.”
“But why are we here?”
“I had to get you home somehow. Sarai offered a ride in her car. Then Pauline suggested we come to her party. She’s 60 today. There was nothing I had to do, and you said why not. When we got here you hobbled inside, sat on the sofa, had a drink, and drifted off. They had a sort of a ritual, honouring the dead — a bit like Maori do paying respect to the ancestors on the marae. The women put photos of their deceased loved ones on that table over there and stood round it. Later they rolled on into the birthday party. Talk about kids, they even played bobbing for apples.” Jen sees the look on Kat’s face. “Being barmy doesn’t stop them from being nice.”
Kat doesn’t look convinced. “What’s the time?”
“Early, it’s not eight yet, but I’m going to get a taxi home. Wilkin wouldn’t approve of this and I don’t intend for him to find out. Sarai said she’ll take you when you’re ready to go.”
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
“A great way to begin life as a sextarian,” Pauline informs Familiar, who has just deigned to put in an appearance. “The house is yours again, they’ve all gone. I think they enjoyed themselves. A full 13 of us! That was a bit of luck — or was it? I was pleased to include the two young women but,” she gathers Familiar into her lap and strokes thoughtfully, “Sarai is too interested in those girls. She watched them all night, pretending she wasn’t. I sense an obsession. She is cutting me out. The warmth we had is dwindling and it has something to do with those girls. Why would she prefer young girls to me?” She strokes Familiar fiercely. He extends his claws. “You aren’t rejecting me too? I couldn’t bear it!” Familiar tenses as if undecided on his next move, then relaxes.
Pauline resumes stroking, her voice matching the soothing rhythm of her hand. “It’s a pity we aren’t allowed hearth fires anymore. We should have written prayers for the dear departed on paper-slips and burnt them. But sending good-thought vibes is probably just as effective. The apple ritual won’t bother the smog police. See this? I plucked it from the water-tub with my teeth. Not bad for an old girl eh! Do you want to come and watch? I might find an answer to a question.” She carefully places Familiar on the floor and he follows her upstairs. Pauline prepares the ritual objects and gets ready for bed. A few minutes before midnight she pulls her dressing-table stool a few steps forward then sits, facing the window. The room is lit only by the moon and a solitary candle on her dressing-table. At one minute to midnight she empties her mind of all thoughts until the portable chiming clock ceases chiming. She carefully cuts the apple into nine pieces, eats eight, and gently tosses the ninth over her left shoulder.
What will the mirror tell her? She is not even sure of the question, but a meaningful symbol or image should appear. Cautiously she looks over her left shoulder. The mirror flickers and shadows dance, but the image is herself.
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
“Sunday the third of May. There is a nip in the air but a perfect day is predicted,” Kat’s radio informs. She turns it off, pulls the duvet around her shoulders and goes back to sleep. Some hours later her nostrils alert her stomach that she is hungry. Kat pulls on jeans and jersey and heads to the kitchen. Hemi is finishing a plate of bacon and eggs.
“Kia ora Kat, thought I would treat myself to some nourishing kai.”
“You’ve finished your essay?”
“Not quite, but good work requires a good feed.”
Hemi has a reputation for hearty meals and procrastination. Knowing her fridge shelf is bare Kat takes the bread from her cupboard to make toast.
“Damn! This bread has gone mouldy, and I’ve hardly had any.”
“I’d give you some of mine only I’ve finished it all,” says Hemi cheerfully. “I’ll join you in a mug of coffee if you make it.”
Kat makes the coffee and finds two soft ginger biscuits. Hemi shows no inclination to return to his studying. The smell of bacon, eggs, and toast lingers.
“I’m off to feed the ducks,” says Kat, picking up the bread. “Happy studying.”
She walks briskly toward the river. Trees arch overhead, their branches making sharp scribble patterns on the blue sky. The banks of the Avon are snug-wrapped in green. A path beckons and Kat follows. The Avon is too narrow for a river, she thinks, and too tame for a creek. Real rivers don’t allow themselves to be contained between lawns. She pictures the wild rivers of the West Coast, where strands of water braid across expanses of gravel and creeks tumble over rocks, frothing beer-brown through the bush. Strolling the banks of Coast waterways is not an option.
It is staggering how a city can alter a landscape, Kat marvels, and consigns nostalgia for the wild to the past. Cities are the way of the future: they showcase progress, prosperity and human achievement. In this city even rivers appear to be man-made to fit the garden landscape.
Wrapped in her thoughts Kat forgets the bag clutched in her hand until she sees a pair of ducks waddling around a bench seat. She sits, unties the bag, and begins tearing the slices into bits. The waddling pair receive her offerings quickly. Another duck appears, and then another. Suddenly there are dozens of them — brown ducks, ducks with blue heads, a couple of white ones, ducks everywhere, quacking, flapping, fighting. Where did they come from? How do they know food is on offer? Kat is starting to feel mobbed. A nearby gate opens and ducks scatter indignantly, some rising a few feet into the air as a woman calmly walks through the assembly.
“Hi Kat, fancy seeing you here!”
“Hi,” she responds cautiously.
“Your ankle must be better then?”
“Yes thanks, it only took a day to come right.”
“And the bump on your head has quite gone?”
“It was nothing really.” Nothing compared to the brand on her arm that is still stinging. The bastard put something black into the wound. Indelible marker pen?
“Well, you certainly gave us a surprise, tumbling in on us as you did.” Pauline laughs at the memory. “I haven’t seen you feeding ducks here before.”
“No, this is my first time feeding Christchurch ducks. I thought the day was too good to waste and my breakfast bread was mouldy. I can’t get over the number of ducks that suddenly appeared from nowhere.”
“Yes, they’re more savvy than we give them credit for. Duck-shooting season has begun and they know where they’re safe. But there’s usually two or three waiting for me around this time of day.”
“Is that your gate?”
“Yes, this is my piece of paradise, complete with paradise ducks,” she quips, shooing a large duck with a white head. “Paradise ducks are native to New Zealand. Cook called them painted ducks at first. There’s her mate, the dark one with colour-bars on his wings.”
“Do you know lots about birds?” queries Kat.
Pauline laughs. “Goodness no, I’m a real novice when it comes to birds. I just Google the odd thing that takes my fancy. A bit of information adds to one’s enjoyment, don’t you think?” Kat thinks of some of the things she Googles and doesn’t reply. Pauline chatters on. “Living here, being able to wander the banks at whim, is my idea of heaven. But you say this is your breakfast bread. I hope you had something else to eat?”
Kat doesn’t like to say she didn’t. This time Pauline waits for an answer.
“I had coffee and biscuits, it was fine. I didn’t organise myself for grocery shopping this week.”
“But it’s nearly half past one. You must be hungry. I made an asparagus quiche for my lunch and there is plenty left over. I’d so like you to come in and have some. I love an excuse for an extra cup of tea. Do come in.”
Kat can’t think of anything she should be doing and she is feeling hungry. Pauline the witch! It is broad daylight; there won’t be candles and jack-o-lanterns.
“If it’s no trouble,” she accepts.
“No trouble at all, a pleasure.” Pauline ushers Kat through the gate, down a crazy-paving path that opens to a wide, paved area holding a brazier.
“Nice spot for a barbecue,” comments Kat, pausing to take in the tree-fringed lawn and ring of garden lights. The green spread of the grass is interrupted by further paving. The paving isn’t a path; it outlines a large star.
“Mosaic tiles,” says Pauline. “Isn’t it splendid?”
“Yes,” murmurs Kat, unsure how to respond. “Is it a garden ornament?”
“It’s where we Wiccans celebrate our rituals.” She glances from pentacle to Kat. “No worries, my dear, nothing witchy is in the air today.” As Pauline moves toward the door a shadow on the lawn causes Kat to glance back at the ornamental paving. A large black cat is settling down in the sunny centre of the star.
In the conservatory off the kitchen Kat tucks into a generous portion of homemade quiche and finds herself chatting to Pauline as though she has known her for years. Pauline has the knack, she realises, of being interested without appearing nosy. They talk about waitressing work and Kat is so comfortable she almost divulges what her other job is. She stops herself in time but has the feeling that Pauline would not be judgemental.
Pauline shares that she was raised Brethren and went a little wild after breaking away from that lifestyle. Kat has heard of the Brethren. The West Coast attracts such people. “They live in communes, don’t they, and they have very strict rules?”
“They don’t all live in communes but they all have strict rules. The rules differ but most are repressive and soul destroying. It’s very sad. Don’t get me wrong, Kat, many Brethren are fine people trying to live as they believe God wants them to live. They simply fail to see the duality of their lifestyle and how repressed and oppressive they are, particularly toward women. In business the men keep up with modern trends but in religion they are shackled to the dark ages. They believe they have a God-given right to make all the decisions and control their women. I love my parents but I could not bear to watch my mother live like a person with no mind of her own, focused only on being an obedient wife and a good mother. She accepted the rules but I couldn’t.” Pauline takes a slow mouthful of tea.
“Have you kept contact?”
“The most terrible thing about their sect is that if a family member leaves they are completely cut off. They can’t meet or write. I am the third of four children. My brother left when I was too little to understand. My big sister told me Matthew had got into bad company, made friends with young people who were not Brethren. Matthew refused to give up his worldly friends so the decision was made that the Brethren would no longer walk with him. He was forced to leave. After that his name was never spoken by my parents. My leaving added to their sense of failure. Mother begged me to stay true to their teaching. I couldn’t make that promise, but I promised I would hold to their value of caring. It didn’t seem enough, so I said I wouldn’t cut my hair. It was all I could think of. It’s a terrible wrench leaving all the people you love, knowing you can never return.”
“I don’t have parents either.” Much to her surprise Kat finds herself sharing that her mother died from cancer six years ago. It is not something she ever talks about. Her mother came back to the family home in Ross for the last six months of her life. The joy of having her close again was cancelled by the horror of watching her skin yellow and bones protrude until every eating attempt ended in spewing weakly into an ice-cream container. Having invoked the spectre Kat is suddenly anxious to move the conversation on.
“You mentioned an older brother, did you ever find him?”
“Yes. Matthew was doing just fine. We became very close. He had a partner, a lovely guy named Euan.” Pauline tails off and lowers her eyes. “Matthew and Euan discovered sailing. It cut up rough without warning, monster waves capsized the yacht … they drowned. Or died of exposure. They were wearing life-jackets but the rescue team couldn’t get out until the next day. I was the only family member at the funeral.”
Not knowing what to say, Kat stays silent. Pauline raises her head and looks at Kat.
“In life and death they were not divided,” she remarks with a slight smile and continues, “I have no blood family to call my own. All my relations are members of the sect. Family-wise I am quite alone.”
“I’m not alone. I have my grandma. She looked after me from the time I was nine. I didn’t get on with my mother’s partner. My dad took off soon after I was born,” Kat explains dismissively.
Pauline looks as if she is about to ask a question so Kat rushes on. “Grandma’s old and knows nothing about city life but she cares about me, and I can visit her any time. I have uncles, aunts, and cousins, and two half-brothers, not that I’ve seen any of them for ages but there is always extended family around at Christmas time.” The realisation that she is wealthy in family comes as a surprise. Pauline has no one she can relate to as family. Her kin are on the other side of the world and refuse to have anything to do with her. It is a sobering thought.
“But you do have family here, don’t you, Kat?” Pauline gently interrupts her reverie, “Your father.”
“I have a grandmother in Ross,” responds Kat sharply, in a tone that leaves no doubt paternity is not a subject open for discussion.
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
Grandma is delighted to hear Kat’s voice, and impressed to learn she is attending lectures at university. “You always were good at your school work,” she reminds Kat. “But I never thought anyone from our family would go to the University.” Kat hears the capital U. “Mind you, a posh education doesn’t help when it comes to catching a husband. Or even catching whitebait.”
Kat is pleased to hear that Grandma has got rid of her old drag net and is organising a set net for the next whitebait season. Grandma laments there are four months to wait before the season opens.
“You’re a tough old biddy,” Kat says affectionately. “But you take care, you’re not as young as you used to be.”
“Tough as old boots me. Coasters are a hardy breed. Don’t you go getting soft with all that la-di-da city living. I hope you’ll be home for Christmas. Your cousin Veronica will have made me a great-grandma by then.”
Kat pushes the red button, feeling warm about family. But as the glow fades she realises ‘family’ relates to past. She has an adult life to make for herself and extended family doesn’t feature in that landscape. Visiting at Christmas is fine but the Coast is no longer ‘home’ and she will never feel close to her half-brothers or cousins. She doesn’t consider Vonnie’s husband much of a catch.
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
Kat checks her diary. Monday 4 May 2009. Monday can be a busy day with clients. No bookings, period due. It is a blessing that she is regular and can plan. Usually regular, she amends her thoughts. Almost always regular, she re-amends, and is gripped in a sudden clutch of panic. Don’t be silly, she chides, it’s morning, have a sleep-in, conserve strength for sheet changing, room cleaning, and restocking the kitchen cupboard — quite enough to make anyone tired, she soothes, returning to sleep.
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
Wednesday morning Kat has a hair appointment. Becky, her favourite stylist, usually seems to verge on anorexic, but today she looks radiant and rounder. Kat’s eyes move to Becky’s waistline. The suspicion of pregnancy manifests with a jolt.
Becky’s eyes follow hers, she smiles. “I’m pregnant.”
Kat offers the obligatory congratulations and thinks, How ghastly.
Becky prattles on about maternity leave, so good that it’s been extended, and her need to return to work. “Did you not mean to get pregnant?” Kat inquires.
“Oh yes, we’re delighted. We’ve been trying for almost three years but we knew I’d have to go back to work. Babies are expensive.”
“Took you almost three years,” says Kat meditatively. “I have a friend who’s trying for a baby. Have you got any tips?”
Becky looks around. “I wouldn’t tell everyone this, but you’re one of my specials.” She lowers her voice. “Wiccans.”
“Witches!”
“Sh!”
“I know a Wiccan. Her name is Pauline.”
“Yes, that’s her. Pauline is a Wiccan Priestess.”
“But Pauline doesn’t get her hair cut.”
“I met her feeding ducks. She’s very kind.”
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
The woman chemist looks at Kat with a knowing gaze. “It’s best to wait until morning. The first pee of the day is the most concentrated.”
The first pee of Thursday runs its concentrated course to the second blue line. Kat stares in disbelief. It can’t be. It took Becky three years and Jen has been trying for months and months. It can’t be. I took the morning-after pill; both of them. Kat rummages in her room and finds the empty box … must be taken exactly twelve hours apart. What difference could a few hours make? All the difference in the world! Implications come crowding in. Pregnant — a baby! How will she cope? Lapsed Catholic she may be, but termination is not an option, not of a child. Termination of escorting, yes; termination of university life, yes; termination of waitressing, yes; and termination of travel ambitions! Anger gives way to rage. She locks herself in her room and starts throwing things. When there is nothing left to throw on the floor she kicks the carnage.
Finally she throws herself on her denuded mattress. When regular breathing is re-established Kat feels a need to tell someone. Not a flatmate, someone with maturity. ‘She’s very kind,’ Becky’s words filter though the mire. Pauline will understand.
Fifteen minutes later Kat is banging the toad knocker at Pauline’s front door. She visualises Pauline’s surprise and concern and bangs again. Is she indecently early? Perhaps Pauline doesn’t get up until late. She doesn’t have a proper job, only voluntary work. Why is she taking so long? Kat scans for clues and notices a van parked on the front lawn. Before she can process this information the door opens. She turns to greet Pauline and sees a leather belt securing male jeans. She lifts her chin and meets the grey-green eyes of Kevin (Fish) Salmon.
For a long moment both try to make sense of what they are seeing. Fish reacts first. “Pauline has just popped down to the dairy. Come on in, she’ll be back in a few minutes,” his voice is soft and coaxing. He steps back and opens the door wider. A whiff of bacon and onions sidles down the passage. “I’m cooking breakfast. Come and join us. Pauline would want you to.”
Kat is still in shock, multiple shocks, she analyses later. For the moment she is drawn to the coaxing voice as a child of Hamlin to the piper. A radio is playing upbeat music and sun is warming the conservatory. Fish nods to the small cane sofa and lowers himself into a matching chair. “Something is wrong, isn’t it? I’m a good listener.”
The radio music continues spilling its unrelenting cheer, concealing the sound of the back door opening. “What about your cooking?”
“Heaped on plates in the oven patiently waiting.”
Had he touched her, called her by name, or claimed any closeness, she would have fled but he just sat, waiting. “I’m pregnant.” The words fall with no expression. Why is she telling this intimate fact to this man, of all men? He is the last person she would seek to tell anything to if she were rational. But she can’t get sufficiently motivated to be rational. She is drained of emotion. All she feels is numbness.
“It happens,” he responds gently.
Later she wonders how many women he has said this to and did he say it to her mother, but for now she is a prisoner of the dim, closed present. His voice is comforting.
“You have choices and you will be strong enough to make them when the time comes. For now a good cry might help.” He stands and extracts a folded handkerchief from his top pocket.
Kat also stands. She has no intention of crying. She must go. She shouldn’t be here. Embarrassingly her eyes fill as though cued by the unused handkerchief. Without the sanction of her head her hand clasps the comforting cloth. Fish holds her as she sobs.
“I’m back,” announces Pauline, thumping milk on the kitchen table. “I see we have a guest; a good thing I bought two litres. Would anyone like muesli to begin with?”
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~