Remember Me, page 4
I was pulling a sundress over my head when Mum called on my mobile. How was my flight? she wanted to know. And how was I doing, and what was the state of play at Cold Comfort Farm?
‘Flight fine,’ I told her. ‘I’m feeling better for a night’s sleep. Cold Comfort Farm is basking in sunshine. How about you?’
I stood at the window, looking out at the cobwebs on her croquet set, listening while she talked. It hadn’t stopped raining all bloody week in Yorkshire. The bloody train drivers were on strike. Malcolm was in the garage, polishing his already-immaculate Vauxhall Viva. I wondered whether she ever regretted swapping Dad for dull Malcolm. Probably not. Her second husband hung on her every word, was always telling her he loved her. Dad did neither.
‘And Felix?’ she asked. ‘Is it true … Alzheimer’s?’
She wanted all the details. Is he eating? Is he depressed? What can I do to help? Would it cheer him up if I sent a calendar with lots of lovely Yorkshire scenes? She talked about her ex an awful lot for someone who pretended not to care at all. When I mentioned that Raewyn wanted me to stay on, her volume increased by several decibels. At times like this she sounded very like Carmen, except with Yorkshire vowels and smoker’s throatiness.
‘Emmy! Get out of there, for Christ’s sake—get out, while you still can.’
‘I intend to.’
‘He’s asking too much of you. Don’t let him make you feel guilty.’
I tried to explain that Dad wasn’t asking for anything at all. This had her snorting.
‘Ooh, don’t you believe it. He asks too much of everyone. He asked me to leave my whole life behind and emigrate! That was his dream, but it certainly wasn’t mine. To be fair, he asks too much of himself as well. It’s all down to his super-religious upbringing.’
‘He’s an atheist.’
‘Bollocks. He wants to be. He tries to be. But I knew his parents. Bloody awful people, especially Nan Kirkland. Mother and Father, he called them—not Mum and Dad, Mother and Father! Isn’t that creepy? Two bags of frozen peas would be warmer than that pair of horrors. They were hung up on sex. Mary Whitehouse was their heroine.’
‘Who?’
‘Google her. They were the sort of Christians who’d make Christ weep. They raised Felix and poor little Helen to believe Jesus was reading their minds like some kind of supernatural KGB agent, ready to pounce if they so much as thought the word “knickers”. Guilt, guilt, guilt. No amount of critical thinking can free you from that kind of guilt, not when it’s instilled in you from your mother’s knee.’
I had a dim memory of a visit Nan and Grandpa almost made to Tawanui. Mum cleaned and gardened for weeks before their arrival, threatening dire consequences for us children if we swore, squabbled or disgraced her in any way. She kept yelling at my father for inviting the bloody people in the first place, to which he replied wretchedly that they’d invited themselves.
Fate intervened. Hours before the dreaded visitors were due to set out, we heard that Nan had collapsed with a heart attack and died in Leeds General. We were all very relieved. Mum said we’d dodged a bullet.
‘What’s the solution for Dad, though?’ I asked now.
A flick of her lighter, a long moment’s hesitation as she inhaled.
When she spoke again, she sounded pensive. ‘I was right to leave him. You know I had to, don’t you? We married in haste, couple of kids, repented at leisure. You only get one life and I couldn’t stay in Tawanui for the rest of mine.’
‘Nobody blames you, Mum.’
‘I don’t want you to end up like me, depressed and desperate.’
Credit to my mother. She was miserably homesick here, but she stuck it out until her last child had flown the nest—that was me, heading off to university. Then she handed Dad an ultimatum. She’d done her bit, she said, and now she was going home. Was he coming, or wasn’t he?
A month later she was on her way. Alone. The next time we heard from her she was back in Yorkshire with her four sisters.
‘At one time I wondered’—I imagined her tapping her ash into a pot plant—‘whether he might be having an affair.’
‘With?’
‘Raewyn.’
‘Raewyn!’ That had me giggling.
‘He was a very attractive man.’ Mum sounded defensive.
‘She’s hardly a vampish siren. She’s cuddly. Like a hobbit.’
‘Cuddly at seventy-odd, a voluptuous redhead at forty. Felix admired her for driving that bus full of kids, being superhuman through Manu’s illness. She could back trailers up steep tracks, crutch sheep, build fences …’
I was sure there wasn’t a smidgeon of sexual chemistry between Raewyn and Dad. She was a one-man woman, and that man was Manu. As for Dad, he was far too uptight to play the away game. I’d never even seen him flirt with a woman. He used to tut disapprovingly at fictional infidelity on soap operas.
‘I wish they were secret lovers,’ I said. ‘I’d feel better about her doing so much for him now. But it’s a ludicrous suggestion, Mum, and you know it.’
At that moment the man himself knocked on my bedroom door, asking if I wanted a cup of coffee because he’d just made a pot. I called out that I’d be right along, and heard his footsteps heading for the kitchen.
‘That was him, wasn’t it?’ Mum’s tone had softened. ‘Oh, bugger. I’d forgotten. He sounds so courteous, doesn’t he? Such a gentleman.’
‘I’d better go.’
‘Please tell him … I don’t know. Just tell him hello from me.’
•
I arrived in the kitchen to find the sliding glass door wide open, curtains stirring in a faint breeze. The mountains had begun to shimmer.
I stepped onto the porch for a moment, inhaling the sweetness of the morning air. Gloria was already settled into her daytime sleeping position in the shade, but I could hear Gyp somewhere under the house, making a hell of a racket. I knew from my last visit home that he liked to think of himself as an excellent ratter—which was delusional, because he never caught anything. He could smell rats through the wooden floorboards; he’d waddle around the house, nose pressed to the ground, sniffing, yapping, scratching. Sometimes—like now—his tail would disappear into the dark spaces between the piles, and we’d hear crazed barking.
‘They’re laughing at you, Gyp,’ I called to him. ‘Give it up, man. Live and let live.’
Dad was proudly filling our mugs from the coffee pot, pouring slowly but with precision despite his shaking hands. I thanked him, and he didn’t notice me sidling over to turn off the gas ring. He gestured at the table, where several cardboard boxes were overflowing with what looked like rubbish.
‘This is the kind of thing,’ he said. ‘You see? I used to keep everything filed but I can’t seem to manage anymore. Rather disheartening.’
I took a look. Dad never threw away a power bill, bank statement or letter from a friend. Everything used to be scrupulously filed and organised, but there was nothing ordered about the contents of these boxes. Magazines and pamphlets, catalogues and leaflets, takeaway menus and unopened copies of The Watchtower. Bills and letters and reports and …
‘Let’s get started, then,’ I suggested briskly. ‘I bet most of this can be chucked out.’
I found more cardboard boxes in the pantry, which I explained were for ‘fire-lighting’, ‘recycling’ and ‘to be filed’. Dad sat impassively, watching my flurry of activity. I began by picking up a fundraising letter from Greenpeace.
‘Recycling?’
He frowned at it. ‘But they do such good work.’
‘They do, but you don’t have to keep all their letters.’
‘I haven’t read it yet.’
‘Okay.’ Pick your battles. I dropped that one into the To be filed box. Next up was a circular about a treatment for migraines.
‘Definitely recycling,’ I said.
‘Let me see?’
He laid it on the table, feeling for his glasses in his top pocket. At this rate, it was going to take centuries to get the job done.
‘You know, Dad, we could just leave all this,’ I suggested. ‘It isn’t doing any harm.’
‘These people are despicable charlatans,’ he announced, whipping off his glasses. ‘This drug has been withdrawn. Nasty side effects. I’d never prescribe it.’
‘Oh good! Shall we bin it?’
‘No, I think I’d better hold on to this.’
I tried one last time, lifting out an overflowing file marked Kauri hospice. Dad hadn’t been in New Zealand five minutes before word was out that he had a special interest in palliative care—and five minutes after that, he was on the board of the local hospice. Mum was hopping mad. He’s never at home as it is. What about his own family?
‘Surely this can go?’ I begged. ‘You’ve retired.’
‘I can’t just throw a whole file away!’
I sighed. It was going to be a long day.
•
I soon gave up on the job. Dad wouldn’t let me bin anything, so I left him to it. I made more coffee and read a National Geographic article about the rapidly thawing permafrost in Siberia. It was an ecological catastrophe, but there was one fascinating aspect: all kinds of prehistoric beasts were emerging from the ice, most recently a young woolly mammoth that had lain frozen for forty thousand years. I was enchanted by a photograph of this creature, perfectly preserved and oddly beautiful, surrounded by reverential scientists. You could tell it was a baby. It might only be asleep.
‘Look,’ I said, holding up the article. ‘The ice is giving up its secrets.’
No reply from Dad. He hadn’t spoken for ten minutes. His face seemed to be melting, the bags under his eyes dragging downwards.
‘I think I might pack up for now,’ he mumbled. ‘Shall we carry all this back?’
The study was his sacred domain; we children rarely set foot in there. He’d always been pedantic about keeping it tidy, everything in its place. I grabbed what I could, followed him down the corridor—and stopped dead in the doorway.
I was looking into a dragon’s cave, but instead of glittering treasure, every surface was covered in paper and dust. I couldn’t even see the green leather top of the desk. The most chilling sight was something terribly mundane: a grey Fair Isle jersey and scarf draped over the back of the desk chair. I remembered these all too well, because Dad lent them to Nathan that last time we visited. Just before we left, Nathan laid the folded jersey and scarf over that chair. I saw him do it. And they were still there, exactly as Nathan had left them. Exactly. They hadn’t moved an inch. They smelled musty. Three years.
Dad wandered out, and I heard the bolt of the bathroom door. I took the opportunity to peek into his desk drawers. I expected more chaos, but I was wrong. Complete precision. Dr Kirkland’s meticulous organisation, preserved in amber: address book, stamps, stapler, calculator. Yellowed envelopes, USB sticks, printer ink. The whole study was like Dad’s mind: cluttered, confused, with a wealth of history and pockets of antiquated order.
In the centre drawer I found a bundle of diaries, held together with a rubber band. A photograph was tucked among them, one of a batch taken by Carmen’s husband-to-be in the days leading up to their wedding. This one showed us three adult children playing croquet with Mum. She travelled from England for the Big Day—her first and only return to Tawanui. My parents declared a truce, and she threw herself into the plans: making table decorations, bossing the vicar, ordering more flowers and wine. She loved a party, and this was one hell of a bash—a sumptuous, winter wedding in Tawanui church, with a reception at the Tawa Hills vineyard. It was also the last time my family were all together.
Dad had written our names on the back of the picture, along with the date: 9th June 1994. It summed us all up: Mum, undisputed croquet champion and completely merciless, aiming her mallet at the black ball. Carmen and I were laughing, trying to push each other over. Eddie stood to one side with his arms crossed. Dad wasn’t there.
Picking up the most recent diary—2016—I flicked through its pages. I didn’t feel I was violating Dad’s privacy. This was an appointment diary, not a pour-out-your-heart-and-soul one. Routine entries. Kauri board meeting 7 pm. Gloria to vet 9 am. Carmen’s birthday.
I turned to January, looking for the day Nathan and I flew in.
Emily (DAUGHTER) and grandson NATHAN arrive TODAY
Meet them at Hawke’s Bay airport 10.40 am
9 AM I MUST LEAVE HERE TO PICK THEM UP
They live in LONDON. Emily illustrates books (ARTIST)
Nathan has left school? Going to university? (CHECK!)
The entries weren’t as spidery as the writing on the labels around the house, but still not right—as though they’d been written carefully, painfully, by someone whose hand wasn’t quite obeying the commands of their brain.
Nathan and I spent over a fortnight in this house. Why did neither of us notice the state the poor man was in? Or perhaps I did notice. Perhaps I refused to acknowledge it to myself. There’s none so blind, my mother used to say, as them that won’t see. What a useless daughter.
Towards the back of the diary, I found a section for notes. This, too, was covered in writing. I skim-read, keeping a guilty ear out for Dad’s return.
WAYMARKS
I am FELIX GERALD KIRKLAND
3 children CARMEN, EDWARD, EMILY
6 grandchildren: Esme, Natalie (Eddie’s), Nicholas, Shona, Oliver (Carmen’s), Nathan (Emily’s)
I was born in LEEDS. I went to Leeds Grammar School. I was tennis captain
Our family dog was SHEP, my best friend was Alan Trentham
I studied medicine at Merton College, Oxford
MY PARENTS are SUSAN AND GERALD KIRKLAND
My sister HELEN died aged 18
EX wife Lillian. Amicable divorce?
I am a doctor (GP). I was partner in the health centre in Tawanui
I AM A DOCTOR—remember this
LEAH
LEAH LEAH
REMEMBER!
Dad’s voice made me leap like a startled rabbit. I hadn’t heard the bathroom door, nor his footsteps.
‘Bit of a mess in here, I’m afraid,’ he said sadly.
‘Looking for a stamp,’ I lied, shutting the drawers. ‘I’ve found them. Thanks.’
‘I really need to tackle all this.’
‘None of it matters, Dad.’
He protested that it did matter, and we agreed to keep working on it another day. I left him in his armchair, the only uncluttered space in the study. I was sure he’d be asleep within minutes.
Back in my room, I slid my suitcase from under the bed and fished out the brown envelope. NOT TO BE OPENED UNTIL AFTER MY DEATH. The handwriting matched the wobbly letters in Dad’s three-year-old diary. I imagined him sitting at his desk, sensing the gathering mist and desperately trying to leave waymarks for himself. He’d listed the things that most mattered to him, the treasures of seventy-plus years of life condensed into a few lines of quavering handwriting. He must have been terrified.
There was something else, though. Unsettling, confusing.
He’d named the most important people in his life. Off the top of my head, I could count at least five others I might have expected him to mention: Raewyn, of course, and what about Ira and Manu? His colleague Dr Marcia Ellis, volunteer search and rescue friends like Dave Perry. Not one of these people had been chosen as waymarks.
So why—why on earth—had he written Leah Parata’s name three times?
FIVE
June 1994
I envy you, she says, and buys her chocolate, and drives away into the rain. She hasn’t a care in the world. Everyone thinks they have a tomorrow.
It’s a Friday. As soon as my shift ends, I rush home to change. I’m off to the cinema to see Jurassic Park with a friend called Greta Miller and some others. I’ve persuaded Ira to join us. He brings along a guy I knew slightly at school, a blond forestry worker called Brad Taylor.
Tawanui cinema is always good for a laugh. It’s run by a smiley woman who sells tickets, drinks and popcorn from a booth before taking back those same tickets two minutes later at the door to the auditorium. Once her audience is sitting down, she opens the curtains and starts the film.
By the time the survivors of Jurassic Park have flown into the sunset, and we all spill onto the street, the rain is taking a breather. The stars are out. Nobody wants to break up the party, so we pick up supplies from the bottle store and head for Brad Taylor’s place. He’s the huntin’ and shootin’ type—owns a camo jacket, more than one rifle and a Hilux with off-road tyres. He shows me a wild pig in his freezer, which he’s butchered himself. I’ve never been into that brand of machismo, but I’m young and drunk. I’m also demob happy, because after months of saving up I’ve just bought a one-way ticket to London via South America.
Six of us huddle under blankets on the deck, all ex-pupils from Tawanui High. Brad and I share the oily car seat he uses as a sofa. Ira sinks deep into a beanbag, puffing clouds of Brad’s home-grown cannabis. I come back from a trip to the bathroom to hear people arguing in the slow-motion drawl of the hopelessly stoned.
‘It’s saving my sister’s snails,’ Ira’s saying. ‘Saving the kiwi and the whio and the tuatara and … um, saving the planet, saving—’
Brad interrupts him. ‘Not saving anything—it’s cruel shit! They’re just dropping poison from the sky, great clouds of it. Poisoning the water and everything.’
I’m sober enough to guess what the cruel shit is: a pest-control poison called 1080, pronounced ten-eighty, designed to kill imported predators. Aerial drops have been going on for decades in New Zealand’s wilderness areas. People have been arguing bitterly about it forever.
‘Poisoned my dog,’ says Brad. ‘She died in agony, spewing green stuff.’
Ira’s shaking his head. ‘I know she did, mate. But you’ve got no reason to think that was 1080.’
‘Your sister’s in the pockets of those fucking chemical companies. What are they paying her? Huh? I heard her on the radio, saying it’s a necessary evil. She always gets wheeled out to defend it. I bet they’re paying her to lie for them.’
