Second Chances Part 22

Finn was carrying a tall stack of gla.s.ses. It was doing a fair imitation of the Leaning Tower of Pisa. 'Aw,' he moaned, as I took them out of his hands, 'I was doin' it!'

'Just a bit wobbly.'

He stood glowering as I loaded the top rack. I could tell he had something on his mind. 'I still get a chocolate though, don't I? I was doin' it until you b.u.t.ted in.'

'Sure do, Batman.' I lifted a box of Quality Street from the top of the fridge, and he grabbed one. 'Take another for Charlie,' I said.

His jaw dropped in outrage. 'What? No! Did Charlie help with the dishes?'

'Well, no, but-'

'No dishes, no chocolate.' Finn folded his arms. I could see the family murderess appraising me with livid blue eyes.

'Remember the workers in the vineyard,' said Kit, appearing from the hall. 'Jolly useful parable, that one.'

'The who?' Finn blinked uncertainly at the dishwasher. 'I never worked in a . . . thing yard. I helped with the dishes.'

Kit laughed, and made for the kettle.

'Midnight in the UK,' I said, looking at the clock. 'Big Ben is striking. I wonder what Dad's doing?'

'Probably dancing naked in the garden with all his hippy friends. They'll re-enact a druidical solstice ceremony.'

'Ooh!' Finn looked scandalised. 'Who's naked? Grandpa? Grandpa's in the nuddy!'

It wasn't an image I wanted to dwell on. 'I'll phone him,' I decided. 'Off you go, Finn. Charlie's riding his bike round the walnut tree.'

'Okay,' said Finn, rummaging in the chocolate box and surrept.i.tiously shoving a handful down his shorts.

As it happened, Dad was seeing in the New Year with Flora. We were chatting happily when I was distracted by a resounding metallic smash, followed swiftly by screams. They weren't angry yells; they were high and panicked. Seconds later, Kit pounded through the kitchen and out of the back door.

'Gotta go, Dad,' I said, and dashed after Kit. Under the walnut, Finn was sobbing in his father's arms.

'Finn's bike did a roly-poly,' said Charlie, making his arm swing in an arc. 'Like this-bam!'

'The wheel got stuck,' wailed Finn.

I knelt beside him. 'Did you hit your head?'

'Not my head, my arm. Ow!'

'Naughty bike,' commiserated Charlie, laying a sympathetic hand on his brother's leg. 'I'll get Buccaneer Bob for a cuddle.'

Kit carried Finn into the sitting room where I took a closer look at him. There was no sign of concussion. He clutched Bob, stroking his own ear.

'Where does it hurt?' I asked.

With a tragic pout he held out his right wrist. It looked normal save for a small lump on the thumb side, and he could move all his fingers.

'Probably a sprain.' I gave him some Pamol while Kit filled a sock with ice and bandaged it onto the wrist. By the time we'd finished, Finn was calm and asking for Mary Poppins. She was always wheeled out at times of stress. Whenever things went wrong, the boys would want the magic nanny with the sweet smile and indefatigable confidence.

Kit followed me out of the room. 'What's the verdict?'

'Gave us all a fright, but no harm done.'

'Concussion?'

'Nah. He's sure he didn't fall on his head.'

'I could take him to a doctor. Get him checked out.'

'On New Year's Day?' I flapped a hand. 'Nearest medical centre's in Napier. I don't know about you, but I don't feel like driving all that way just to be told he's sprained his wrist. He's much better tucked up at home.'

After the film Finn rallied, eating toasted sandwiches and playing Ludo. He fell asleep before bedtime, though. We found him lying on the sitting-room floor with his rear stuck up in the air.

'Big day for a little chap,' I said.

Kit picked him up. 'You sure I shouldn't drive him down to the hospital?'

I shook my head, yawning. Our early start was catching up on me. 'Nope. It's too far, and the emergency department will still be heaving with drunken revellers. Just put him to bed.'

'You're the expert.' Kit gathered his son closer, and carried him upstairs.

At about three in the morning, Finn wandered whimpering into our room. I could barely drag my eyes open, but gave him some more Pamol and settled him down between us. He was happy enough for the rest of the night; his parents, on the other hand, were kneed and jabbed and elbowed by a pocket-sized tyrant. As the sun came up I heard a creak and saw Kit by the chest of drawers, pulling on his trousers.

'Where are you off to?' I asked, turning the clock around to face me. 'b.l.o.o.d.y Nora, man. Ten to six! Have you finally lost your marbles?'

Kit jerked his head at Finn, who was sprawled horizontally across the bed. 'McNamara has murdered sleep,' he said softly. 'I'll get down to the studio and make the most of the peace.'

Stretching, I stole his pillow. 'Any chance of a lovely cup of tea, while you're on your feet?'

A sleepy voice piped from beside me, 'Dad . . . Dad?'

Kit instantly sat and gathered the small figure onto his lap. 'Finn . . . Finn?'

Watching father and son smiling at one another, I was struck by how very alike they were. Physically it was obvious-you couldn't miss the wayward dark hair and wide-set blue eyes. It was more than looks, though; it was their restless pa.s.sion. Both were selfish yet generous, quick-tempered yet funny, mocking yet vulnerable. Brooding storms one day, suns.h.i.+ne the next. There was a deep, exclusive understanding between them.

Finn reached out a small hand, patting his father's cheek. 'Will you take us to the beach today?'

Kit pretended to bite the hand. 'For you, Finn McNamara, anything.'

Sacha sent a text later, asking to be collected from town. I had some grocery shopping to do, so I said I'd be there in an hour.

As I pulled up at the kerb, she got in without a word.

'Happy New Year!' I cried. 'Had a good time?'

'Yep.'

I felt deflated. 'Anything wrong?'

'Nope.' She closed her eyes.

'Shall we go for lunch in a cafe?'

'No thanks.'

'How's Jani?'

'Fine.'

I couldn't stop prodding. 'Have you two had a fight?'

'Nope. Everything's fine.'

'How's-'

'I'm tired, Mum. I feel sick, and I'm aching all over. Going down with a stinking cold. I caught it off Bianka-she was in bed all over Christmas. And no, I didn't drink too much.'

'Thought never crossed my mind,' I protested, which was a bare-faced lie. I'd never seen anyone more clearly hung-over. Except Kit, of course.

Shopping was always fun with Sacha around; she had a gift for transforming commonplace into comedy. But this time, while I was backing into a parking s.p.a.ce, she jerked her seat down flat and put her feet on the dashboard. When I tottered back half an hour later with a week's worth of groceries and a traumatised credit card, she hadn't moved at all.

'Look, you've obviously had a fight with Jani,' I said loudly, as I slammed my door. 'But that's no excuse for being downright rude. I'm here to listen, if you want to talk.' I started the engine. 'No? Well. Fine.' She was dead to the world, and I drove out of town with the radio for company.

I'd begun meandering through a narrow valley and was listening to a rather dreamy radio play when my eardrums seemed to explode. I glimpsed a tattooed arm as a motorbike shot past, inches from my door.

's.h.i.+t,' I gasped. My pulse was throbbing. The bike seemed to have come from nowhere.

Sacha rolled her head. 'Mm?'

Another bike screamed by, so aggressively close that I almost ran into the ditch. Then the world shook with thunderous revving, and a glance in my mirror revealed a gang of G.o.d knows how many-twenty? thirty?- ma.s.sed right up my exhaust pipe. It was impossible for me to pull in safely. If their intention was to intimidate and hara.s.s, they succeeded, because I felt like a deer among a pack of baying wolves. Some wore German soldier helmets and were lying almost p.r.o.ne on their bikes. Many had their faces covered with scarves. Gang patches-insignia-dominated leather jackets. I'd seen such bikers before; they were a common enough sight in Hawke's Bay, but never so close nor in such numbers.

'And a happy New Year to you too, effing w.a.n.kers,' I yelled shakily, as the last of them roared into the distance. Maybe they were just nice men out for a joyride-perhaps to spend a merry afternoon knifing someone in the Torutaniwha pub-but I felt horribly vulnerable. As I turned into our drive, it struck me that the police could be a long time arriving if ever we needed help.

As soon as I pulled up, Sacha rolled out of her seat and headed for the house.

'It's okay! No problem! I can carry all the shopping,' I shouted at her retreating back. She didn't look round.

The rest of my family bowled in from the beach while I was attacking a pile of was.h.i.+ng up. The boys, wrapped in sandy towels, were unusually mellow. They clung like bushbabies to my legs, giggling quietly, hiding their faces in my skirt.

'Coffee!' gasped Kit. 'Leave my girlfriend alone, lads. b.u.g.g.e.r off and break your Christmas presents.'

Finn sneaked into the pantry, emerging on tiptoe. The biscuit tin bulged under his towel as the pair of them sidled away. Kit and I smiled, and turned a blind eye.

'How's the arm?' I asked, scrubbing at a baking tray.

'Arm? Oh, Finn's arm. A bit stiff. Can't be much wrong with him though, the way he was rocketing around. He's like a flea in a jar, that kid.' Kit switched on the coffee machine. 'Sacha home?'

'She certainly is.'

'How was her New Year?'

I snorted. 'Claims to have a cold. She's blatantly hung-over and I think she and Jani have had a tiff. Anita seems a lovely woman, but they're obviously pretty relaxed in that household.'

'Oh well. It takes all sorts. They've got their own problems.'

'Jani is a very bad influence. Hung-over, at her age!'

Kit laid a hand each side of me on the sink, nuzzling his nose through the curls at the nape of my neck. 'You have to stop expecting that poor child to be immaculate and superlative in every way. She loves her brothers, helps around the house and gets the best school reports I've ever seen-b.l.o.o.d.y swot. Jesus, what more do you want?'

I leaned back against him, swaying slightly. 'So I leave her to go off the rails?'

'You leave her to make her own mistakes.'

'You think I'm behaving like my own mother, don't you?'

He pressed his mouth onto the side of my throat. 'If the cap fits . . .'

'It doesn't. Mine was impossibly controlling.'

'Sacha's a fantastic girl,' he murmured, 'and you're a fantastic mum. Maybe sometimes just a teeny bit of a fusspot.'

'I resent that remark!'

'I'd tread lightly, if I were you,' he said as he headed for the studio. 'You may have influence, but you no longer have power.'

Twenty-two.

January was breathless. We spent the nights spread-eagled like intergalactic starfish under our mosquito nets, longing for the cool of the morning. Sometimes we'd trudge down to the river and sit gasping as the cold water rushed around us.

Under that burning sky, Kit was truly at peace for the first time since I'd known him; perhaps for the first time in his life. I had to work flat out during the long school holidays, but he threw himself into his role as house-husband with galling competence. To my delight, Sacha gave up most of her summer holidays to help. With their father and sister-and sometimes even Bianka-at their beck and call, my lucky sons had the best summer of their lives.

In early February, Pamela Colbert invited us for Sunday lunch. Her grandson was visiting and she wanted some playmates for him.

It was a s.h.i.+mmering day. Sacha drove her brothers on the quad bike through our fields and across the river, Kit and I following on foot. Singing warlike songs, the three children rushed downhill through parched summer gra.s.s and across the vineyards, accompanied by a zinging orchestra of cicadas. The Colberts' place was a 1970s bungalow with picture windows, deep eaves and a garden straight out of a magazine. Finn and Charlie tore off their clothes and began to cavort in the sprinkler, coloured light arching over their heads.

'There have been small boys playing under that sprinkler for over thirty years,' said Pamela, who'd come out to meet us. 'Ah, William!'

A boy emerged from the house; perhaps seven or eight, he stared at the twins, arms held stiffly by his sides. He had delicious auburn hair in a short back and sides, like a grown man, and dark eyes. When Pamela beckoned he marched solemnly up to us and held out a hand.