Opportunity Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  About the Author

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  animals

  stories

  pity

  daughters

  him

  the doctor

  plane sailing

  gratitude

  parallel universe

  opportunity

  the mountain

  terrorism

  thin earth

  home

  the prodigal son

  storms

  values

  free will

  going back to the end

  Copyright Page

  Opportunity

  Charlotte Grimshaw

  Charlotte Grimshaw is the author of three critically acclaimed novels, Provocation and Guilt, published in Britain and New Zealand, and Foreign City, published in New Zealand in 2005. She has been named by the New Zealand Listener as one of the ten best New Zealand writers under forty. In 2000 she was awarded the Buddle Findlay Sargeson Fellowship for literature. She has been a double finalist and prizewinner in the Sunday Star-Times short story competition, and in 2006 she won the Bank of New Zealand Katherine Mansfield award for short fiction. She lives in Auckland.

  For Conrad, Madeleine and Leo

  And as one of the old playwrights said, what was virtue compared to an opportunity?

  Frank Sargeson, En Route

  animals

  There were red swirls. I fought my way out of them. A metal object was eased out of my throat. They were asking a question.

  'Nine,' I said, after a long time.

  They conferred. They tried again. 'Mr James? Jack? What is your level of pain on a scale of one to ten?'

  'Fifteen,' I groaned. Above me shapes loomed and split off from one another. I heard mumbled words. The pain came at me again. I twisted and sighed. Then the red swirls again. I dreamed I was walking towards my wife. I was following her down a long corridor, through red light. Out the window was a red plain. She laughed and asked, 'How much did you love me, on a scale of one to ten?'

  'Zero!' I shouted. 'Zero, you cow!'

  I woke in a room in which everything looked liquid. A plastic bag above me reflected sunlight. There was a window, a square of blue sky, sparkling dust in the air. There were shining chrome bars. When I turned my head I felt a tug — a tube had been inserted in my nose. Other tubes emerged from the bedclothes and ran down to the floor. I peered over. Two bottles — one red, one clear — stood upright on the floor. They were connected to me. How disgusting, I thought, in a light, tired, teary way. The red swirls had gone. Everything was too bright.

  I lay thinking. Sometimes I moved parts of my body, in a cautious, experimental fashion. I remembered my wife, the way she'd skipped and danced through the loops of my pain. She hadn't really been there, of course. My sister Karen had volunteered to help me, now I was separated from my wife and, as Karen put it, 'all alone'.

  Karen sat by my bed. She filled my water jug and punched her fist into my pillows. She chattered about her family. Then her voice deepened slightly and she said, 'It'll take you a long time to get over this.'

  'How long?' I asked.

  'You'll be exhausted for months.'

  'I've got to go back to work.'

  Karen looked secretive, as if that might never be possible. She said, 'Did they tell you? The operation destroys the stomach muscles. You'll have a pot belly for the rest of your life.'

  'I'll have to wear a corset,' I said, wearily.

  There was a short silence.

  'Of course in Auckland it's too hot for a corset.'

  I looked at her. 'Oh yes,' I said.

  'I'll be back soon,' she promised.

  Don't hurry, I thought. I said goodbye without smiling. She would tell you I've always been like that. Rude. Male. Ungrateful. She stood above me, in the liquidy light. She's still one of the most beautiful women I've ever seen. Big blue eyes, blonde hair. She has the face of an angel, people used to say. And she's so good. She goes to church every Sunday, works behind the stall at the church fair, runs tirelessly after her kids. And still finds time to stand at the bedside of her elder brother . . .

  The surgeon came. He complained about the petrol tax. I waited, not wanting to ask. Finally he remembered to say, 'Everything went very well. You'll be a new man. You'll just need time to recuperate. And some check-ups after that.'

  I stopped listening. Something in me subsided. I realised I'd been afraid.

  I slept for a day and a night. The next night I began to look about my room. There was a small TV on a metal bracket that I drew up close to my face. I watched reruns of old shows far into the night. Out my window I could see the city lights.

  In the morning two nurses took me, tubes and all, into a bathroom and washed me with a shower nozzle. I slept after this ordeal and woke to a terrible wall of sound. Panicked, I struggled up, looked out, and saw twenty people grouped in the dayroom, singing hymns. When the song ended I shouted, 'Shut up!' There was a shocked silence. Then someone quietly closed my door. I laughed. I almost felt myself again. I arranged the bedclothes and straightened my fresh pyjamas. A nurse took out some of my tubes and I feasted on half a cup of soup. I threw it all up again, but pressed on later, with half a cup of tea. It was Sunday. Soon Karen would come, fresh from church, with her blue eyes, her beautiful smile. I want to get out of here, I thought.

  Our mother, Karen's and mine, was a big, powerful woman with a soft voice. She made us go to church on Sundays and Wednesdays. She taught Sunday School. She was stern and took no nonsense, but wasn't punitive or hard. I was a thin, sickly child. I must have taken up a lot of her time. Was Karen parked in front of the TV while everyone fussed around me? Did something wither in her, grow disappointed and hard? I see a little blonde girl, picking the scabs on her knees, her blue eyes glazed with Good Times, with Happy Days. I think my mother was a powermonger, who made us yearn to please her. And my sister could please her with goodness but not with her talk, because, unlike me, Karen didn't have our mother's brains. So my little sister grew gooder and gooder, and badder and badder, until she was the beautiful Christian fiend appearing at the door, with flowers and cards, with messages of sibling love.

  'People get secondaries,' she said. 'It starts with one thing and then . . .'

  'It just gets worse,' I chimed in softly. I smiled at her. She didn't understand that I'd always loved her. I patronised her when we were young, but I was proud of her. Or maybe she did understand, and that made her hate me more. There was a lot of the powermonger in her too. She used to dislike my wife Gina because she thought she fancied herself. Gina said Karen was sinister.

  I worked on eating. I did well with some rice pudding, but threw up an omelette. I watched TV. I tried to read but the pages blurred. I went for a walk along the corridor, dragging my tubes and bottles, like a ghost — robed, wavering, clanking. Visitors averted their eyes. I limped past photos of nuns, and one of the Pope wearing a Maori cloak. My insides groaned, something laboriously rearranging itself, then there was a loud report that made my ears burn. Laughter came to me, a wave of weakness. I had to be helped back into bed.

  Karen said, 'I hear you've been shouting at people.'

  'Only at the Christians.'

  I thought about writing. Would I ever have the strength again? I couldn't think straight. But I was getting stronger. In the middle of the night a nurse inserted a painkiller up my arse. 'You're in the paper,' she said.

  'Do you read my column?' It was a strange moment to have to be polite.

  'Your interviews are funny. That one on . . . the TV guy.'

  'Thank you,' I said. Then my body made a terrible sound. I wondered whether I'd blown the pain
pill out again.

  She bent down. 'Not to worry,' she said.

  Mornings, a Samoan woman cleaned the ensuite bathroom. Usually she sang. One day she was angry. She rushed into the bathroom and closed the door. Then there were crashes and bangs, metallic pings. She threw the door open, snatched my tray and banged it onto her trolley.

  'You. In the paper,' she said.

  'Yes.'

  She stood, hands on hips. 'I say to my children, "Only nosy people read the paper". '

  I nodded. She smiled vindictively and pushed the trolley out the door. I watched her go. What were her children allowed to think about? What extraordinarily limited lives some people led. I decided I would write a novel. But what about? This had me absorbed for a long time, until a German nurse, my bête noire, entered with her equipment, her instruments of torture. 'The thing about cancer is,' she began, and told me terrible things while she yanked and pummelled and pushed needles into my arms.

  On a sunny morning the surgeon told me I was fit to go. We discussed my case. Karen came, and joined in. Struck by her radiance, the surgeon lingered, drawing her a diagram of my insides, pressing pamphlets into her hands. He outlined my diet. 'Mostly puréed, please.'

  Karen joked and beamed. Then she said to him, 'Could I just have a word with you outside?'

  'Tell her nothing,' I said. They laughed.

  'She's not my wife,' I whispered, but they'd gone. I sank into a chair. I had to wait while she walked him up the corridor. I couldn't even carry my bag.

  Karen helped me into her Landcruiser. I was high up, behind tinted glass. The enormous truck, the juggernaut, started with a roar. I felt fragile, wincing as we throbbed around corners, swayed onto the motorway.

  We pulled up outside my first-floor flat. Gina had kept our villa in Grey Lynn and I rented a place in Parnell. The sitting room looked over a sunny yard in which, on alternate mornings, a playgroup was held for local toddlers.

  Karen helped me onto the couch. I sat in the sunlight. She brought me a cup of soup.

  'Jack, the surgeon says . . .'

  I held up my hand. I gave her a very hard look. I'm used to warfare, but this was a difficult moment. For one thing, after the hospital, the flat looked messy, unsanitary, threatening. I sensed dust and germs.

  'You'll be getting some home visits. I've arranged . . . since you're all alone . . .'

  'Tell me later.'

  I played the answerphone messages. Four were from a novelist I'd interviewed just before going into hospital. He said, 'It's Tony Irons. I've had a couple of extra thoughts!' He left a number.

  Karen left. I made a complicated trip to the lavatory. On the way back to the couch I picked up a magazine. The sun shone hot through the window. I reached up to open it. My innards groaned.

  In the yard outside, two women were setting up toys for the playgroup. Small children staggered about. More women came, more children. I dropped the magazine and watched. Time passed. I was absorbed.

  Later Karen came with a puréed meal. A nurse paid a visit. I spent the night watching shadows of car headlights moving on the wall. I thought about Gina. I imagined she was lying on my arm, and we talked.

  Some days went by. The playgroup came regularly and I set myself up on the couch to watch. The leader was a tall redhead. Other women conferred with her, deferred to her. There were cliques, a couple of loners. There were grandmothers, and some very young women, probably nannies. One woman was the life and soul; others gathered about her laughing. One, a large woman with a sharp face, watched the clownish woman constantly, a disdainful look on her face.

  I watched and made notes on a jotter pad. I began to look forward to playgroup days. I didn't like it when Karen interrupted me. I said little, willing her to go. One day she left me a pile of videotapes, another some magazines. She brought casseroles full of frozen puréed food. The nurse came and made me do exercises.

  'What are you staring at down there?' she said. She leaned over. 'Oh. Kiddies.' She looked at me. 'Do you have children of your own?'

  'I have twin daughters. My wife and I are separated,' I added, with dignity. I saw her lift up one of my magazines with the tip of her pen, sneaking a look at the cover.

  One morning, while deep in thought, I picked up my keys and went out. I opened the door and stood watching the street. It was a still, sunny morning. People were going to work. The playgroup leader began unloading children from a car. Mothers were arriving with pushchairs. They glanced at me and at one another. I had the impression they were saying something about me.

  A young, slim woman came along the street. I shaded my eyes against the sun. There was something familiar.

  'Dee,' I called. She began crossing the road away from me. The mothers watched. 'Dee!'

  She hesitated, came back.

  'Oh, hi,' she said.

  I was terribly excited. 'Will you come in? How about a coffee?'

  She looked unwilling.

  'Please, Dee,' I said. 'I'm dying to talk to you.' I took her arm and started dragging her towards the door. The playgroup leader watched, a wriggling child in her arms.

  'Come on.' I pulled Dee inside.

  She started laughing. 'Hey, you'll blow a valve.'

  'Humour me,' I said.

  We got upstairs and I made her a cup of coffee. 'Okay. Tell me what's been going on.'

  Dee shrugged. 'The usual. She goes for long walks. She makes eccentric meals.'

  'Does she go out much?'

  'Yes, quite often.'

  'And what's the deal with you?'

  'I clean. I babysit if she wants me at night and when the girls get home from school.'

  'Has she got a boyfriend?'

  'Not sure.'

  I said, 'I want you to work for me.'

  She argued a bit, but in the end we hammered out a deal. She would clean my apartment and I would pay her a lot, but only if she gave me information about Gina.

  'Don't tell her about this,' I said.

  'Why not?'

  'Because she'll fire you,' I said. I felt weak. 'Come and sit here.' I patted the couch. 'Look down there.' I pointed at the playgroup.

  She looked at me. 'Are you all right?'

  'I had bowel cancer. I had this operation.'

  'I heard about that.'

  'Did she tell you about it?'

  'She said your sister is evil.'

  I thought about this. 'Did the girls want to come and see me?'

  'I don't know.'

  'Gina said things about . . . "floozies". But I was trying to find someone like her. And none of them were any good. I just want her back.'

  'Yeah,' Dee said.

  'Look down there. See the playgroup? I've been watching them. I've been taking notes.' I flipped the pages at her.

  'Whoa,' Dee said. She raised one eyebrow. I leaned close to her face. It was narrow, with hollow cheeks, fine freckles on the nose. Her eyes were watchful, intelligent.

  'The granny there. She brings that kid.' I pointed. 'And see that young woman — she's bored. When the granny's kid gets stuck, is about to fall over, that young woman just stares. She's willing it to fall. Once I saw it fall and there was something in her face. Satisfaction. Like she was thinking Yes. Smash. But if her own kid looks like falling, she's there in a flash, saving him. The granny's started to notice that the young woman stares at her kid. And if her kid goes near the young woman the granny watches like a hawk.'

  Dee didn't say anything.

  'That kid goes around attacking the others. The mothers stop him, but that same young woman only rears up if he heads for her kid.'

  Dee traced her name on the window.

  'The mothers have a radar — when something's going wrong they turn. The nannies don't have it. They don't favour the kid they're looking after.'

  'You need to get out more,' Dee said.

  'Young women might be the worst people to be nannies. What if they're programmed to dislike other people's kids, because they're gearing up to have their own?
'

  'O-kay,' she said.

  'The thing is, Dee, we're all animals. Creatures.'

  She turned.

  'We're all animals,' I said again. I looked into her eyes and saw a kind of darkness there.

  'I look after your kids,' she said.

  'Well, you're all right.' I sighed.

  She got up. 'I'm going to see a lawyer. My ex-boyfriend was arrested. They took us to the police station.'

  'Were you charged?'

  'No. And I've split up with him now.'

  'Did they put you in a cell? What was it like?'

  She stared down at the yard. 'There's something about being put in a cell. It's bad out of all proportion. Don't tell Gina,' she added.

  She left. Karen came. 'Who's been here?'

  'No one.'

  'I know about all your "friends",' she said impressively. She removed Dee's lipstick-smeared cup from the coffee table. 'I'm glad you're feeling better.' She sniffed.

  Outside, the yard was empty. Rain drummed on the blue sandpit cover. Karen sat down. 'I talked to Gina.' She smoothed the arm of the couch with her fingers. 'She wanted to know how you were.'

  'Really? What did she say? Exactly?'

  She smiled. 'She's so over the top. What are you writing?'

  'A piece about the playgroup mothers. About how they're animals.'

  'Animals?'

  I went quiet. I was angry with her for not telling me about Gina. I hated the way she said 'over the top'. She was repressive, bigoted, right-wing. She worshipped money. She was aggressive, two-dimensional. But I knew why I loved her. Because she was always little sister, putting on a front. Dressed up in her outfits, acting important. She was good at organising, she was 'steady' and 'sensible'; she was never over the top. But it was all armour, and just the foot-stamping dumb little girl underneath. Only a big brother would see her so clearly.

  I felt tired. I stood up and put my hand on her shoulder as I passed on my way to the bathroom, where I hunched over the bowl, waiting to be sick. Oh, nausea, with its browns and greens. A terrible sense of complexity came over me. I was known for being funny in my weekly column. I'd written something about the playgroup, but it was too dark. That we're all animals — it isn't very funny. I would have to concentrate on my novel. But how was I going to write it when I couldn't leave the house?