with real regret. They looked at each other, knowing it wouldn’t have done for Margaret to let the woman go any further. As if hearing it would make it true. Whatever it was.
‘She said he was a surly looking young bugger. That’s what she said. From his picture.’
‘He looks serious,’ said her husband.
‘She said, “I suppose he’s had plenty to be sorry for himself over. Tell you about his dad, did he? Whoever he was.” I asked her to leave then. I told her I was shutting while I went down to the bank. So she left.’
‘You did the right thing.’
‘You don’t think,’ Margaret said carefully, ‘that there’s a touch of, well, darkness there? If you know what I mean?’
‘Spanish, I think,’ Nicholas said vaguely. There couldn’t be any going back with this marriage. You knew when the horse had bolted. As it were.
‘Oh, that’s all right then.’ She still sounded doubtful. Her husband knew how hard all of this must have been for her.
He said, ‘I think you have to put this behind you.’
‘Darling,’ Petra said, one evening, soon after this. She and Philip were walking up the hill towards Kelburn where they shared a flat with four other students. ‘Darling, what about the invitation list?’
‘We’ve been through that. You ask who you like.’ He’d explained to her already how his mother had gone off with a man called Kevin Pudney and left him and his brother with his father. How none of it had worked out, not for him anyway, and how he’d left all of thatbehind. The going off with Kevin Pudney part was an elaboration, not exactly true, but Kevin had been there when his mother next surfaced in his life.
‘They just can’t seem to get it through their heads that you’re not going to ask anyone from your family to the wedding. Couldn’t you put up with your mother just for a day?’
‘No,’ he said. ‘No, I couldn’t. My mother was a destructive bitch. My father went to pieces after she left.’
‘There might have been two sides to it.’
‘Don’t you believe it. My father was a saint. It killed him, I reckon. Her leaving him.’
‘You said he had cancer.’
‘Well, she gave it to him.’
‘Oh don’t be silly, Philip,’ she said. ‘People don’t catch cancer. It’s something that grows inside them.’
He walked out of the café then, knowing she would follow him. They would say they were sorry to each other, her, then him, in that order.
4
The day of her son’s wedding, in the spring of 1964, Esme Pudney got dressed in the small boarding house near the bus station where she was staying in Tauranga. The air was fragrant, scented with citrus blossoms; the gardens were full of daffodils and forget-me-nots. She put on a blue silk dress with a hint of pale silver flowers in the weave, liking the way it fell in a soft swathe of colour from the pleats at her hips. She dabbed lavender water between her breasts, powdered her sun freckles. She and Kevin took long summer holidays in caravans, staying in camping grounds or just on the edge of the wilderness, near lakes and streams. This was after Kevin retired from contract fencing. He was older than her by twelve years, but then she had often settledfor older men. Their children were grown-up, the two they called their children: Esme’s daughter Janet, and his girl Marlene, who were pretty much of an age. Marlene had been his youngest, as Janet was hers. He’d been left with Marlene after his wife died. They didn’t have a fortune but, when they were chatting over a beer to the new friends they made along the way, they liked to say they had enough to get by on. Enough for a bit of fun. A beer and a few laughs and the wide open spaces. Now wasn’t that what life was all about.
The day before, she’d prepared a casserole that would last for two days and put it in the fridge for Kevin. She left a note for him to say she’d be back on the bus on Sunday evening. It wasn’t as if she was afraid of him, it was
‘She said he was a surly looking young bugger. That’s what she said. From his picture.’
‘He looks serious,’ said her husband.
‘She said, “I suppose he’s had plenty to be sorry for himself over. Tell you about his dad, did he? Whoever he was.” I asked her to leave then. I told her I was shutting while I went down to the bank. So she left.’
‘You did the right thing.’
‘You don’t think,’ Margaret said carefully, ‘that there’s a touch of, well, darkness there? If you know what I mean?’
‘Spanish, I think,’ Nicholas said vaguely. There couldn’t be any going back with this marriage. You knew when the horse had bolted. As it were.
‘Oh, that’s all right then.’ She still sounded doubtful. Her husband knew how hard all of this must have been for her.
He said, ‘I think you have to put this behind you.’
‘Darling,’ Petra said, one evening, soon after this. She and Philip were walking up the hill towards Kelburn where they shared a flat with four other students. ‘Darling, what about the invitation list?’
‘We’ve been through that. You ask who you like.’ He’d explained to her already how his mother had gone off with a man called Kevin Pudney and left him and his brother with his father. How none of it had worked out, not for him anyway, and how he’d left all of thatbehind. The going off with Kevin Pudney part was an elaboration, not exactly true, but Kevin had been there when his mother next surfaced in his life.
‘They just can’t seem to get it through their heads that you’re not going to ask anyone from your family to the wedding. Couldn’t you put up with your mother just for a day?’
‘No,’ he said. ‘No, I couldn’t. My mother was a destructive bitch. My father went to pieces after she left.’
‘There might have been two sides to it.’
‘Don’t you believe it. My father was a saint. It killed him, I reckon. Her leaving him.’
‘You said he had cancer.’
‘Well, she gave it to him.’
‘Oh don’t be silly, Philip,’ she said. ‘People don’t catch cancer. It’s something that grows inside them.’
He walked out of the café then, knowing she would follow him. They would say they were sorry to each other, her, then him, in that order.
4
The day of her son’s wedding, in the spring of 1964, Esme Pudney got dressed in the small boarding house near the bus station where she was staying in Tauranga. The air was fragrant, scented with citrus blossoms; the gardens were full of daffodils and forget-me-nots. She put on a blue silk dress with a hint of pale silver flowers in the weave, liking the way it fell in a soft swathe of colour from the pleats at her hips. She dabbed lavender water between her breasts, powdered her sun freckles. She and Kevin took long summer holidays in caravans, staying in camping grounds or just on the edge of the wilderness, near lakes and streams. This was after Kevin retired from contract fencing. He was older than her by twelve years, but then she had often settledfor older men. Their children were grown-up, the two they called their children: Esme’s daughter Janet, and his girl Marlene, who were pretty much of an age. Marlene had been his youngest, as Janet was hers. He’d been left with Marlene after his wife died. They didn’t have a fortune but, when they were chatting over a beer to the new friends they made along the way, they liked to say they had enough to get by on. Enough for a bit of fun. A beer and a few laughs and the wide open spaces. Now wasn’t that what life was all about.
The day before, she’d prepared a casserole that would last for two days and put it in the fridge for Kevin. She left a note for him to say she’d be back on the bus on Sunday evening. It wasn’t as if she was afraid of him, it was
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