From Under the Overcoat Page 4

  THEY ARE STANDING ON the edge of a cliff, on the eighth tee, looking down into a ravine thick with manuka. There is a breeze from the sea. Insects drone above the foliage, a blanket of dark static just a few metres below. The vegetation is so thick it is impossible to tell how deep the crevasse is.

  The distance to the bottom is irrelevant; only a fool would attempt the vertical descent for a lost ball. On the other side of the gully is the green. The tee and the green are joined by a swing bridge, a spiderweb gossamer catching the slight wind.

  In the distance, there is the sea and behind them, the towering mountains. David is again awed by the refusal of the land to yield to the architect’s dominating hand. He knows this hole; he’s looked at it on the internet, late at night, between Jamie’s screaming fits, after Trudy has found an exhausted lonely sleep. The golfing writers call it The Epic Par Three.

  With his back to the others, David lingers by his trundler, choosing his club. He slips his hand into his pocket and looks down at his cellphone to check the time. It’s ten minutes to eleven — not long now.

  Then, he sees. In this isolated paradise there is no cellphone coverage.

  It was a foolish plan, no thought given as to how he would get back to Hamilton, how much it would cost to change his flight to Wellington at such short notice.

  And, there is the golf — that glorious feeling of the club in his hand. Of knowing he’s the best. Of knowing that the others believe, unreservedly, that he is the best.

  The hole is 185 metres — an easy three iron from the tee to the pin. David addresses the ball. He knows, at that still moment, just before he lifts into the swing, what will happen. He has never felt it before — the certainty runs through his body like an electric shock. The ball soars over the gully and drops onto the green. It rolls into the hole.

  The others are ecstatic, whooping and hollering like boys. One after the other, they shake David’s hand, thump him on the back. David knows that, should he be lucky enough to play golf until the day he dies, this will never happen again.

  FOR THE NEXT FEW holes, Ciaran falls in beside David. David watches him as he lines up his shots. A few connect cleanly, and David murmurs his admiration loud enough for Ciaran to hear. He says nothing about the airshots — humiliating wild swings into the air, the taunting ball stationary on the ground. He says nothing about the duff ed shots that dribble on just a few yards, about the divots gouged from the fairway and left behind by the enraged Ciaran, storming on to hack again at the ball. David says nothing about any of this but he is careful, after the conversation in the car, to mark all shots taken on the card.

  David lingers and pushes the clods of perfect green back into place. They are like the trickiest pieces of a jigsaw puzzle, uniform in colour but each slightly different in shape. Placed correctly in the ground, they will lose their seams and take root again.

  Not all of the carnage is Ciaran’s — Mitchell and Neil are ahead; the fairways are pockmarked with the evidence of their arrogance. The finest clubs, the best clothes, shoes: all these things are farcical props for three slapstick clowns. The last vestiges of envy — was it ever envy? — disappear as David watches them congratulate each other on their ignorant play.

  The day’s getting warmer. There’s no breeze. The air’s salty and heavy with the coconut scent of yellow gorse flowers on the cliff s marking out of bounds. David finds the smell nauseating.

  ‘How’s business at the moment?’ David recalls Ciaran’s involved with franchises, a string of businesses, a deal he got in on when someone else went bust. What was it? Furniture?

  ‘Pretty good. People always need beds.’

  That’s it. Beds. ‘How long have you had the outlets?’

  ‘About five years or so. I was a cop before then.’

  ‘Why the change?’

  ‘I’d just had enough.’

  ‘I can understand why you would. I don’t know how you do it, you guys, the doctors too. Don’t know how you cope with the terrible things you see.’

  Ciaran laughs.

  ‘No, seriously. You see the worst of it, I reckon.’

  ‘It’s true, I did. I saw some shit.’

  They are in step with each other. Ciaran’s smile has disappeared; his mouth is a thin, tight line.

  ‘It started to get to me in the end.’

  David sees a slight quiver in Ciaran’s left cheek, as though his eye might be twitching. He can’t tell, though, because of the sunglasses.

  ‘How could it not?’ David doesn’t know what else to say.

  ‘I brought it home. To Linda and the kids.’ Ciaran has not broken his stride towards his ball; David wonders now if Ciaran is talking to himself.

  ‘You’re married?’

  ‘Not any more.’

  They have arrived at Ciaran’s ball. It’s sitting cleanly on the open fairway. Ciaran stands over it, preparing for the shot. He swings hard and misses.

  David hesitates, then says it. ‘You’re lifting your head.’ It is his father’s voice, not his own: Keep your head down, son. Keep your eye on the ball. Never criticism, simply wanting David to know the joy of playing the game well.Ciaran says nothing.

  ‘You’re lifting your head, taking your eye off the ball just before you hit it. That’s why you’re not connecting.’

  Ciaran stands over the ball for a second time. His chin tucks deep into his chest and he stares at the ball. He lifts the club and swings slowly, fully. His head stays absolutely still. A textbook swing, it sends the ball soaring high and long towards the pin.

  ‘I started to see Linda and the girls as the victims.’ The club is still sitting over Ciaran’s left shoulder. He is looking at the ball, which has landed just off the green. David presumes it is a look of satisfaction, though Ciaran’s expression is immutable. He puts the club back in his bag, pulls the sock over the head and talks on. It’s almost as though he is in a trance, David thinks, delivering a soliloquy to the mountains and the sky.

  ‘Once you’ve taken your mind there you can’t get rid of the image. Somehow, somewhere along the way, I stopped seeing my family as people I love. They were victims. It’s hard to like victims. To respect them, David. Respect for victims is very difficult.’

  David hears it now, the anguish in Ciaran’s voice. It has been sitting just below the veneer of wealthy arrogance all along. He recognises the panic, the edge of feral contempt brought on by entrapment. It’s a voice he hears coming out of his own mouth sometimes, when everything about Jamie is too much to bear.

  ‘I didn’t trust myself. So in the end I had to move out.’

  ‘Jesus.’

  ‘Yeah, well. You do what you have to do.’

  ‘I know what you mean,’ David says quietly. They are walking side by side, their golf bags thumping behind them in the heat. David’s heart is pounding. Now is the moment. His opportunity to disclose the situation about the money, to apologise and retreat. Ciaran’s looking at him; he can feel the stare through the black lenses. ‘I’m married too. Family … well, one kid. A boy. Jamie. He’s … disabled.’

  David knows what Ciaran’s eyes look like, although he can’t see them. The dispassionate, calculating scrutiny of the cop interviewing the suspect.

  ‘The thing is, he shouldn’t have been born. I mean, we knew there might be a problem, from the amnio.’

  Ciaran nods slowly, releases David from the gaze and looks at his feet. He puts his hand on David’s shoulder, squeezes it lightly, then takes it away.

  The words gush now. ‘We had a huge argument about whether to terminate the pregnancy. It nearly finished us off.’

  ‘It’s pretty hard to fight the raging hormones, I guess. Women and that nesting instinct, when it kicks in.’

  No no, it was me, not her. But David says nothing.

  ‘So what happened? I mean to you two? Are you still together?’

  ‘Yeah, we’re fine.’

  David is very hungry. He notices this sometime after midday. Breakfast
was the glass of water washing down the paracetamol back in his room — anything more would have sent him heaving to the bathroom. Now his gut is twisted. He craves plain, hot, salty food. He is too scared to say this. He dreads what the response might be to a simple request for something to eat.

  Two holes on, he sees a golf cart. It is tiny in the distance, just a speck of white. But it grows as it travels towards them, against the tide of golfers on the course.

  They are marking the card on the twelfth tee when the cart pulls in beside them. David recognises the driver as one of the waiters from the resort’s dining room. On the back of the cart there’s a small wicker basket.

  ‘Lunch,’ says the driver, with a wide, obliging smile, and turns the cart towards the nearby grove of tall, shady pine trees.

  Mitchell takes the driver to one side while the others eat sandwiches under the trees. David sees he is whispering, smiling. He hears the words hole in one. The driver’s nodding, grinning, looking back at David.

  ‘Congratulations … it’s a first for the course,’ he says.

  ‘Thanks. Bit of a shock — my first one too,’ says David.

  The talk over lunch meanders around the gossip of the night before, but drifts back, always, to David’s hole in one. They want to know everything: where he learned to play, the honours, the schoolboy trophies. Why he stopped.

  ‘You gotta get back out there,’ says Neil.

  ‘Maybe I will,’ says David. ‘Get out there with the old man.’

  ‘Fuck Miramar. Journeyman’s course. Join Heretaunga,’ says Neil.

  Journeyman. The word stings. Slogging his way round any golf course in pursuit of a professional ticket would be a dream. Heretaunga, with its gold-plated membership fee, is a joke.

  ‘I’ll be eighty years old before I get to the top of that waiting list,’ he says.

  ‘No you won’t. I’ll sort it. You’ll be teeing off next week.’

  THERE’S A TOUR BUS and a dozen cars in the carpark back at the hotel. It’s early afternoon. David, Mitchell, Ciaran and Neil leave their clubs at the golf shop, ready for the Sunday-morning game, and head for the lobby.

  The tour party’s checking in, other small groups of people are drinking and talking around tables.

  ‘Loser’s shout,’ says Ciaran. ‘What’s everyone having?’

  A middle-aged man is looking at them from behind the reception desk. While Ciaran’s at the bar, he comes over.

  ‘Which one of you is David Fowler?’

  ‘That’s me,’ says David.

  ‘Very pleased to meet you, David. Ralph Simons. Manager.’

  He puts his hand on David’s arm. From somewhere, a microphone appears. ‘Excuse me everyone, could I have your attention for just a few minutes. I’m proud to tell you that today this beautiful course reached an important milestone. Our first hole in one.’

  Ciaran and Neil and Mitchell are grinning, clapping. David’s face burns red. He smiles vaguely at the sea of faces.

  ‘Congratulations, David,’ says Ralph, and a camera flash goes off.

  ‘Thank you. Thanks a lot.’

  ‘They said it couldn’t be done, the architects. Not on this course.’

  David laughs, looks at his shoes.

  ‘Well, we all know the rules, don’t we, David.’ Ralph beams at David, slaps him on the back. ‘Hole in one shouts the bar.’

  David can not look up from his feet. He can not lift his head.

  ‘But on this special occasion, the pleasure is mine.’

  David’s heart stops thumping. He looks up at Ralph. ‘Thank you,’ he says.

  ‘Your account’s been settled too,’ Ralph says quietly to David, as people move towards the bar.

  ‘By who?’ David thinks, for a horrible moment, that Neil and Mitchell and Ciaran have paid his bill. That they have finally recognised the imposter among them.

  ‘On the house. It’s all good publicity for us, David. Every person here will go home talking about the course. About the guy who got the hole in one.’ David thinks his arm might dislocate, if Ralph Simons keeps shaking it with such vigour.

  THE AFTERNOON ROLLS ON in a blur of congratulatory backslaps and questions. Someone puts a glass of wine in David’s hand. No matter how much he drinks, the glass is never empty.

  The four men settle down into two couches in the corner of the lobby. Food arrives from the bar — plain breads and dips, French fries — David’s ravenous and eats until the platters are empty. He looks out the window, across the immaculate fairways towards the mountains. The view takes his breath away every time.

  An urge to sleep washes over him, and he rests his head against the high back of the sofa and closes his eyes. Sleep is, of course, out of the question but for a moment he lets himself relax. Has it been only twenty-four hours since they arrived? This time tomorrow he will be touching down at Wellington Airport. Then home, to Trudy. And Jamie.

  David sits quietly, eyes still closed. The hum of loose talk swirls around him. It’s moved on from his hole in one — the others are discussing dinner. Mitchell’s muttering about some gorgeous woman on the other side of the room.

  He wants to open his eyes; he would like that very much.

  When the guys say Jesus, she’s coming over, he tries to open his eyes, but he can’t.

  He can’t, because if he does, he will cry. So he keeps them shut, feigning sleep.

  Then there is the shuffling of bodies moving, and the boyish guff awing of Neil and Mitchell and Ciaran. Would you like a seat … can I get you a drink …

  A poke in the ribs, Neil’s voice in his other ear. Wake up, dickhead. She’s hot.

  With his eyes closed, there is only the smell. No, not a smell — fragrance. The fragrance of a woman, and the warmth of a thigh close to his on the sofa. A woman’s voice, laughing, tinkling like ice in a glass, close to his other ear. Tell me about that hole in one, sleepyhead.

  David breathes in and out, slowly. He can’t open his eyes, not just yet.

  THE OPEN HOME

  A great brouhaha was not necessary in order to sell one’s house. That’s what my mother told the real estate agent Claudia Button, when Mrs Button came to see her that very first Saturday afternoon.

  I was at the bottom of the stairs, round the corner from the big lounge, trying to find out what was going on. Earwigging, Mum would call it. Brouhaha was a new one to me. Weird, even for my old-fashioned mother. I tried it out in my head first, then said it quietly to myself. Brouhaha. Brou — haha. I giggled and missed hearing what Mrs Button said. She must have disagreed, because the next thing Mum said was, ‘Poppycock, Claudia.’

  On my mother went. ‘I know of people who have sold recently, without a For Sale sign in cooee.’

  ‘Unlikely, Martha,’ said Mrs Button.

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Mum. ‘It is likely. In fact, a certain person told me that a complete stranger actually pulled up outside her house, walked up the path, knocked on the door and offered to buy the house there and then. Name your price is what the stranger said, apparently.’

  ‘Really.’ This didn’t sound like a question. ‘Who is this certain person, Martha?’

  Mum gave that never-you-mind laugh of hers; I could picture her Doris Plum lipstick creasing into the corners of her tight little smile. ‘Well, I’m sorry, Claudia, but I can’t disclose that. I was specifically asked not to mention it to anyone in real estate. But believe you me, it’s the truth of the matter.’

  ‘And did the sale go through?’

  ‘Yes, it did. For a very good price, by all accounts. It was a price made better by the fact there was no agent’s commission to pay.’

  ‘Lucky vendor,’ said Mrs Button. I was impressed with her patience. ‘Have you tried this method yourself, Martha?’

  ‘Method?’ asked Mum.

  ‘Yes, this method of selling whereby you just sit and wait for a wealthy person to drive by your house, fall in love with it and march right on up your path to offer you an amazing amount o
f money to take it off your hands.’

  I wondered what Mum would say to that.

  ‘Yes, yes I have.’ She spoke quietly. ‘I’ve been waiting for just that to happen.’

  There was a moment, then, when neither Mum nor Mrs Button spoke. I was tempted to peek around the corner. But Mum got her second wind.

  ‘This is by the by, Claudia. Not the point at all.’

  ‘Fine,’ said Mrs Button. ‘Fine. Let’s start again. Is your house on the market?’

  ‘Yes,’ said my mother. ‘For the right buyer.’

  ‘Alright then.’

  ‘But I don’t want people to know.’

  ‘You won’t sell it if no one knows.’

  Silence from Mum.

  ‘Are we talking about the neighbours here, Martha? Is that what you’re worried about?’ said Mrs Button. There was this fluffiness in her voice, followed by a shuffling-of-chairs noise. Then one of them blew her nose. Mum. Even the sound of that was antique.

  ‘Well, it’s none of their business, what’s happening. Unless they want to buy it, which is hardly likely.’

  ‘You mean because of work that needs doing.’

  I heard Mum take a big breath. She held it. Then let it out.

  ‘Oh for goodness’ sake. No, that’s not what I mean. Have you looked out the window, Claudia? Have you seen the sort of people who live in this part of Karori now? If they pooled all their savings — every last scraped-together cent — they wouldn’t come close to being able to afford it.’

  Mrs Button changed her approach. She was good. Really good. ‘What do you think the house is worth, Martha? Have you had a valuation done?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, let’s get that under way. I’ll sort it out.’

  Another gulpy breath from my mother, then, meekly: ‘Discreetly, of course.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Mrs Button. ‘Meanwhile, if someone comes along looking for … something like this, I’ll give you a call. It won’t hurt, will it, if someone comes along, just to bring them around and show them through.’