1.

The call had come as Sue was locking the back door. It was the beginning of what was to be an exhausting day. Should she go back? Ben already had the car engine running, watching her indecision. His toot on the horn was the decider. Sue unlocked the door, deactivated the alarm and snatched the phone from its bed. Now she was wishing she had let it ring. Faced with Ben’s agitation, she had slammed the car door and said it was a wrong number. ‘It was nothing,’ she added, more to soothe herself than inform him.

Sue was to accompany Ben and his colleagues, Gaye and Hank Steinberg, from the US of A, on a day trip to Akaroa. Ben’s standard tour for overseas visitors. As usual, Sue would be the dutiful and supportive wife. She loved the trip, the place, but would prefer to choose her company. Three hours in a car with three academics, each vying to out-quote the other, would be enough, she thought, to induce ennui in anyone. However, it could be interesting, even entertaining – occasionally it was, in a perverse sort of way; a giggle at someone else’s expense might please her today. Now. Since the phone call.

Sue let her eye be drawn along the footpath as the car moved through the Saturday morning streets; watched a youth saunter, hands in pockets, head lolling forward and bouncing each time he planted a heel on the ground, as if his pendulous lower lip was yanking it down. He looked Maori or Pacific Island – she often found it difficult to distinguish the two. She wondered where he had been and where he was going at such a slow, solitary but deliberate pace. She envied him his purposefulness …

Ben’s voice cut into her reverie.

‘You’re looking very nice today.’

Nice? Sue shuddered at the word. Food was the only thing to be described as “nice”. A high school English teacher had drummed that in.

‘Don’t I usually?’ Her tone was sharp.

‘That’s not what I meant.’ Ben humphed out a puff of air. ‘And you know it,’ he added. ‘I mean you look pretty. Your hair …’ He reached across and squeezed a handful of her brown curls. ‘When the sun catches it …’

The warmth of her husband’s words seeped into Sue and placated her. Ben really was a dear. She should not snap at him. He did his best, though his best could sometimes be very irritating. She squeezed out the word ‘Sorry’ and lapsed into thought.

‘Is that Sue Spencer?’ the woman had asked in a shrill, nasal voice. Surely they could employ someone with a soft, calming voice, who neither called you “dear” or “love”, nor was condescending or over-familiar. Businesslike but understanding was what the job required. Maybe she should apply for a job as a clinic receptionist … But the idea vanished as quickly as it came.

When they arrived at the Grand Chancellor Hotel, Gaye and Hank Steinberg were waiting outside in animated conversation. The left sleeve of Hank’s silver anorak was pushed up and he was stabbing a thick finger at his watch. Sue felt more than saw Ben’s quick gesture of anxiety – his fingers raking his fine, fair hair off his forehead – and she placed a hand on his knee. She watched their guests through the windscreen: Tweedledum and Tweedledee, in matching jackets, matching sneakers, and carrying matching daypacks. They turned and smiled, eyes scanning, as the car drew in to the curb. Ben yanked on the handbrake and flung open the driver’s door, one foot on the tarseal before the engine coughed to silence.

‘Come on,’ he said to Sue, and slammed the door, reaching the pavement in a few long-legged strides.

Sue was reluctant to emerge from her cocoon of steel and glass. She hesitated, her hand on the door handle, watching Hank pump Ben’s limp hand, the ripple travelling all the way to his shoulder. A liveried doorman stood behind them, completing the tableau. Ben glanced over his shoulder and Sue shrank back in her seat; she felt invisible but knew she was not. Gaye stepped to one side to peer around Ben, pulling Sue out of herself, back to reality, back to her duty. She forced a smile and pushed the passenger door open. Each step was an effort; the cool morning air pressed against her, seemingly crammed with more molecules per cubic metre than ever before.

Sue heard the relief in Ben’s voice as he introduced her.

‘We’ve heard so much about you already,’ Gaye said. Perhaps Sue’s surprise showed in her face. ‘All good,’ she added.

‘And you’re just as lovely as expected,’ said Hank, extending a large paw. Sue took it gingerly; it was warm, soft and gentle, in contrast to her expectation. She thought of her father, not as he was now but as he used to be: a big teddy bear. Something shifted inside her and she smiled. Perhaps the day would not be as bad as she had feared.

‘It’s nice to meet you both.’ She touched Ben’s sleeve. ‘Gaye or Hank might like to sit in the front.’ The gratitude in Ben’s grey eyes was Sue’s reward. It said he knew she understood that his surety was a sham, that beneath his authoritative, some might say arrogant, exterior crept a timid little boy, frightened of putting a foot wrong. No matter how high Ben might climb, he would feel a fraud at risk of exposure. And Sue knew, where she believed Ben did not, that this held him back and would never allow him to reach the top of the tree. ‘For the view,’ she added. ‘I can see it any time.’

Sue felt noble offering her place, the favoured position, but also hoped her offer would not be accepted. She could not imagine sharing the back with Gaye or Hank today, being forced into polite conversation, while trying to stop her body merging with a larger-than-life companion. In the front, the seat would curve about her; she could drift with her thoughts and let the academic conversation float by; it was so long now since she had been part of the university world that she did not believe she had anything to contribute.

‘Oh, no, no,’ said Gaye, a tremor passing the length of her squat body as she shook her head. ‘We’ll be just fine in the back. Don’t you worry.’

Sue wondered just how transparent she might be.

The beauty of Banks Peninsula always left Sue giddy: the sculpted landforms, yellow from summer drought, silhouetted against a brilliant sky; wind-carved macro-carpa; bold green pines. And the memories of childhood it evoked – summer holidays with her parents and younger sister, Jayne – walking, sailing, swimming, until …

They crested a ridge and looked down into Akaroa Harbour. Ben pulled into the car park at The Hilltop Café and Bar. The crunch of gravel sounded loud and the intense blues, yellows and splashes of bottle-green seared Sue’s vision. The sun had burnt off the early mist and even the land sparkled.

‘Spectacular!’ exclaimed Hank. He and Gaye stood side by side holding hands, Hank gently stroking Gaye’s dimpled knuckles with his thumb. He let go. ‘Fetch the camera, Hon,’ he said. ‘Nothing quite like it back home.’

Ben stood to one side, leaning on the fence, plucking the top strand of No. 8 wire. Sue stood beside him and slid her hand along the wire to touch his. Since the phone call, she had become insubstantial. As though she might drift away if not anchored. She needed to feel him, assure herself of his solidity, his warmth, his substance; so that she would know for sure she existed.

The woman with the irritating voice had said that her repeat mammogram had revealed a well-defined tumour. ‘It may be benign, but we can’t be sure without a biopsy.’ The first mammogram had been unclear, a technical problem, Sue presumed initially. But a niggling doubt had wriggled at the back of her mind. She had tried to disregard it and decided to say nothing to Ben until she was sure of the result, one way or the other. It was probably nothing. It had been only a routine examination, after all.

Sue butted her hand against Ben’s … and he moved away. To give her more room, she supposed – it was not what she wanted, but she could not explain. Not now. If she were to tell him, how could she broach the subject without making it sound like a death sentence? And she could not believe that. She would not believe that. Besides, they were with strangers; she could not let them into her private world.

‘That’s Akaroa village over there.’ Ben pointed across the harbour. ‘We nearly became a French colony. Lucky escape.’

‘How was that?’ asked Gaye.

‘Sue’s the historian,’ said Ben, giving her a nudge – her cue. ‘Masters in History, First Class Honours.’ He said it with a smile she could think of only as triumphant. He knew Akaroa had been a holiday place to her rather than one of historical interest. Did he want her to make a fool of herself?

Sue knew little about its settlement, just the common knowledge – the race between the French and English in 1840, whaling, timber, farming. She winged it – they would not know the difference. ‘There’s a little museum,’ she finished. ‘It’s supposed to be good, if you’re interested.’ Then honesty prevailed. ‘I blush to say I’ve never been in it. It’s the view – the land, the sea – that attracts me most.’

‘The whole of Banks Peninsula is volcanic,’ said Ben. Sue cursed silently; he just could not help himself. ‘This harbour is a crater.’

‘Oh, my,’ said Gaye and Hank in unison.

The sun was directly north, cross-lighting the hills behind Akaroa Village, sculpting them into soft promontories and dark gullies. The sky was the same vivid turquoise as the sea, or vice versa – the colour surprised Sue anew each visit. The harbour lay full and sparkling. Tiny white boats bobbed close to the shore; the long wharf jutted into the water and further round stood the lighthouse.

‘It’s just an historic relic, relocated from the Heads after the switch to automatic lights,’ said Ben.

Sue’s mood paralleled their downward spiral to sea level. The conversation between the three colleagues had no need of her, waxing and waning about her, one voice after another in the ascendency. She was unable to keep her thoughts away from the phone call and its implications. She kept repeating to herself that the lump was benign, but part of her knew that might not be so. Sue was now older than her mother had been when she finally succumbed to breast cancer – thinking about it even now made her eyes sting. The wasted body. The wedding ring loose on her finger. The huge, sunken, clouded eyes beseeching. Sue blinked rapidly and fumbled in the glove box for sunglasses. She would have made her mother whole again if she could – she had tried; every day before leaving for school she had tried. She would lean over the bed and smear rouge across her mother’s taut cheekbones to camouflage the grey translucency, and apply coral lipstick to the pale, limp lips. ‘You’re looking better today, Mumsy,’ she would say. ‘Better still tomorrow.’ And her mother would give a wan smile. How bizarre she must have made her mother look – a brightly painted almost-corpse. Sue had not minded touching the thin skin, which lay in wrinkles and moved, cool and damp, under her fingers, making patterns like sand left by the outgoing tide. She was not going to let her mother give up hope, even once Sue herself had realised the tide was not coming in again.

Four long months her mother lay in bed and followed Sue with dull eyes as she moved about the bedroom, tidying, smoothing, dusting, drawing curtains, carrying basins of water, dispensing medicine. Those eyes. To this day, they followed her – she could see them now, boring into her. No child should have such responsibilities, Sue thought. Had she still been a child though? Her mother’s illness had made her grow up abruptly. But Sue sensed something had been aborted, left unfinished, something soft deep inside, like an unbaked gingerbread woman.

The road followed the geography of the coastline: in and out of bays, up and down hills, each turn, each crest offering another spectacular view. But the colours had dulled for Sue. The birdcalls through the open car windows sounded just like birdcalls, not like the silver notes that usually rang for her. After a slow cruise through the main street of Akaroa, they parked the car and walked. Food was a priority for the visitors, but Sue had little appetite.

‘Where shall we lunch?’ Ben asked her.

‘You choose,’ she replied.

‘What about Bully Hayes?’

‘You always choose there.’

‘You said I should choose.’

Sue shrugged again and forced a smile. The droop of her shoulders was making her neck ache. ‘The food’s good,’ she assured their guests, and once more she was aware of relief drawing Ben taller. Today his dependence on her was conspicuous and weighed heavy.

Hank steered towards a table by the open doors, not exactly outside, but hardly inside either. Gaye followed purposefully, while Ben and Sue trailed behind. The two couples sat across the table from one another.

‘Bully Hayes was an American buccaneer who sailed the South Pacific. I Googled him once,’ Sue volunteered, making an effort. As they waited for their food, she examined the two moon faces above the silver jackets. She had read somewhere that many people are attracted to a partner who approximates what they would like to be: their ego ideal. If that was so, Sue thought, grinning inwardly in spite of herself, then Hank and Gaye must be in love with themselves as well as each other. She contemplated what had drawn Ben and herself together, that winter at university, when she was a graduate student and Ben was among a group of undergrads she was tutoring. It was not that she had wanted to be like Ben, but that each had something the other needed; together they were more than the sum of their parts and approximated a whole. The trouble was, she decided, nothing remains static. She was no longer the person Ben had married; she was quite sure of that. And she had a sense that somehow the marriage itself had changed her, that with time the parts had reshuffled and formed two distinct and new patterns rather than one whole, not that she could see the patterns clearly yet.

Ben’s right hand moved restlessly over his cutlery, rearranging, straightening, aligning. Sue placed a hand on his, seeking again that comforting whole feeling, but he pulled it away. She felt reproved. Had he thought she was censuring him? She caught Hank’s eye; he had noticed, and she felt humiliated. Abruptly she turned her head, gazing across the road, through the palm trees at the shimmering sea. The leaves stirred like gull wings in the rising breeze. Sue felt herself float and hover, drift up and out, over the road and its tourist buses, over the line of trees along the sea wall, over the water and up above the collar of volcanic hills. She wanted to drift forever in clear blue salt air.

For there was something else Sue was sure about: she was not ready to die. She had never expected anything abnormal to show up in her mammograms; even though her doctor considered her “high risk”, she did not. There was no sense of relief or gratitude whenever a negative result was confirmed. She was not her mother, nor her grandmother; she led her own life with its own course and could see no reason to expect her cells would become malignant and turn against her, as theirs had. Over the years Sue had dismissed the kernel of anxiety that lurked within her. In fact, she had barely recognised its presence. Remnants of the immortality of adolescence had clung to her – until, as the result of this morning’s phone call, those remnants had fallen to the floor, a tangle of tattered rags.

The afternoon passed in a blur of sights and sounds, movement and stillness. Sue felt she was in slow motion in an accelerated world. Even language could not be relied upon to mean what it seemed. She had not felt so alone since she was sixteen and newly motherless. Could she keep this to herself? She did not want to worry Ben, especially if it turned out there was nothing wrong; he was immersed in the beginning of the academic year. And she certainly was not going to alarm the children. She wondered whether she could share the burden with Jayne. It was relevant to Jayne, but would she want to hear of it? Reason told her she would not. Jayne was so much younger that they had never been true companions or confidantes. They exchanged only good news: news of Jayne’s advancement in the international finance company in which she worked, news of Jayne and Nigel’s latest ski trip or their hike up Kilimanjaro to see the sunrise. Jayne had only half an ear for Sue’s news, which comprised mainly what the children were doing. Sue always came away feeling rather dull after speaking with her sister. But she knew it was important to keep in touch; it was what their mother would have wanted and she took it upon herself as the older sister to ensure it happened.

Through the windows of the restaurant, Sue watched a toddler running rings around her mother, determined not to do as she was told. She was cute, but boisterous, giggling and shrieking. She reminded Sue of Jayne at the same age: a bundle of blonde, blue-eyed curiosity. Sue remembered the crayon scribble in her favourite books, her doll, Molly, with her sleeping-eyes poked to the back of her head. She had failed to protect her precious belongings and only had herself to blame, her mother had claimed; the accusation did not feel fair – then or now.

With time, Sue had learned how to protect. She had sheltered Jayne from the seriousness of their mother’s condition and did all the motherly things she could not. Sue did not mind; in fact it had made her feel important. Only she and their father knew her mother had cancer; only they knew she would get progressively worse.

But Sue had to talk to someone. She would ring her friend Annie Henderson, and arrange lunch. Annie would not overreact; she would keep her confidence. Having made the decision, the rush around Sue seemed to slow down and let her catch up.

‘These pearls are magnificent,’ said Gaye. ‘Abalone. Who would have thought?’

‘Paua,’ Ben corrected.

‘Abalone – paua,’ said Sue. ‘Come and let’s see if there are any dolphins out there.’ She took Gaye’s arm and they walked to the end of the wharf. A smooth-feathered gull perched on a pile, rotating its white head to cock a red-rimmed eye at the approaching women. Laser-beams of sunlight shot from the crests of the rippling water. Blinding. Two men and a boy fished from the end of the wharf, their legs and lines disappearing over the edge.

‘Dunno wot he wis thinkin’ of,’ said the older man, staring from under his floppy hat into the distance.

‘Beats me,’ said his mate, with an incredulous twist of the head. His chuckle morphed into a bout of chesty coughing. The boy hauled in his line and examined his bait. Sue noticed their bucket was empty but none of them seemed concerned.

Three tourist launches milled about in deep water, mid-harbour.

‘You should be out there,’ she said to Gaye. ‘That’s where the dolphins will be.’

‘We’ll have to come back some day,’ said Gaye. ‘Coming from a land-locked city, I find this scenery just …’ She gestured wide, her mouth wide also, waiting for words.

‘Every time. Whatever the season,’ Sue said, and turned back to see Ben and Hank staring down into a fishing trawler moored against the wharf. Large crates of glistening silver stood on the deck. A string of gulls decorated the rigging like regatta bunting.

Sue felt in and of the world.

On the ride home, Sue fell silent again. She thought of Jayne in her reportedly large, suburban London house. Jayne’s plans had put paid to her own. Her departure for Europe had tied Sue to Christchurch; she could not leave their father alone. The resentment she had failed to voice then still smouldered, a hot cicatrice. But then, if she had not remained, she would not have met Ben. And there would be no Charlotte, no Jason; it was impossible to picture a life without Charlie and Jase.

They stopped for coffee at Little River. Sue slipped her hand into Ben’s as they wandered through the adjoining art gallery.

‘You’re quiet today,’ Ben said. His tone was not accusatory.

‘Just thinking,’ said Sue, ‘how lucky I am.’ She meant it as she said it. Ben squeezed her hand.

Shrugging off the family had not been easy for Jayne; Sue could see that now. She had left in a fury of defiance and protest that had diminished her father and enraged Sue. ‘You’re a self-centred little bitch,’ Sue had shouted one night, defending their father. But she had not confessed her own hurt, her own feelings of rejection and her dashed hopes. Jayne had never returned to New Zealand and had not seen their father since. She would not recognise him now, Sue thought sadly.

They said goodbye to Hank and Gaye outside their hotel. For a moment, Sue was afraid Ben was going to invite them home for a meal. Another time she would have been pleased.

Evening light slanted across the room, casting long-legged shadows of the dining table and chairs against one wall. Curled in an armchair, clad in her dressing gown, Sue felt small, foetal, incomplete. She looked around as if seeing the room anew. It had always been a comfortable space for her, but tonight it felt foreign, larger and impersonal, as if the Sue who had been living here for nearly twenty years had been a different person. A glow washed the room, repairing the aftermath of family living – snags of sandal buckles on the sofa, bumps in the paint-work. She got to her feet, running her fingers along the wall lined with books for all ages, almost surprised to recognise the titles. She lifted from the coffee table a volume Ben had been reading and pressed it against her chest. There was fleeting comfort in its hardness, its solidity. Her forefinger lingered a moment on its stiff spine, then she slotted it back on a shelf. It was only a book.

The intoxicating perfume of roses drew her towards the ranch-sliders, the smell of something familiar in the sea of strangeness. Beyond lay her garden, the end already in shade. The shadow was creeping nearer and nearer; Sue could feel it. It had substance; it was invasive. She shivered though it was not yet cold and turned back into the room. Above the couch hung a painting by Charlie, created last year for her Bursary art portfolio. Sue loved it, and, rather than do battle with Ben, had dipped into her own savings to ensure it had a frame that did it justice. The rich colours and abstract forms set her wondering, as she had many times, at her daughter’s talent. She shook her head gently in amazement, while her arms wrapped her middle as though holding herself together. In the distance, strident strains of rock music emanated from Jason’s room. How she wished he would keep it down; but, if that was the worst of his crimes … Ben, as usual, was in his study.

Tao wandered in from the garden, aristocratic head held high, tail erect and twitching, announcing himself with a throaty, inquisitorial grumble. A place inside Sue warmed and she mimicked his growl. He leapt lightly into her lap as she sat. Smoothing his chocolate fur was soothing. ‘Such a pretty boy,’ she cooed. He settled with his paws on her breasts – her possibly cancerous breasts – his nose pressed to her chin, purring loudly.

‘If I died tomorrow, Tao, what would I have to show for my life, besides my children? Tell me that.’ There was nothing that defined her, Sue realised. Somewhere along the line, she had become … invisible. What she did had substance, but it gave weight to others, not to her.

Tao made no satisfactory reply.

Sue wondered where the determined, ambitious young woman of her adolescence had gone. She had not thought of her for years, but now, suddenly, she missed her; she felt bereaved. Lying on her narrow bed – watched over by James Dean on one side, Ringo, Paul, George and John on the other, “Eleanor Rigby” flooding her senses, Joni Mitchell stacked beside the tape-deck – young Sue had made plans. She would be an historian. Past lives were fascinating; she found they held a richness and portent lacking in the present. She would bring them alive for others.

Intuition had told Sue even then that the past gives meaning to the present.

The sun dropped behind the neighbours’ trees as if a light had been switched off and the Dalí-esque dining table and chairs no longer graced the eastern wall. Sue and Tao had not moved when Ben walked in half an hour later.

‘What are you doing in the dark?’ He switched on the light. Sue hid her eyes from the glare, feeling naked. ‘Something wrong?’ He crossed the room. His hand on her shoulder was firm and reassuring, but she shrank from his question. She had to hold in her fears; she had decided. But it was all she could do not to spew them out.

‘It’s nothing,’ she said. ‘Just hold me.’ Tao dropped to the floor as Ben gathered her to him. She pressed her face into his shoulder, feeling the coarse weave of his polo shirt, inhaling his Ben-smell, and knowing he would wait till she was ready to tell him whatever it was; he was good that way.

‘Stay here and I’ll make you a drink,’ he said. He switched on the standard lamp and extinguished the main lights. Sue lay back with her eyes closed, thoughts whirling and interweaving like gymnasts’ ribbons, oblivious to Tao sitting upright a metre away, flicking his tail and glaring, slit-eyed.