Blindsight Page 4

  His money came from Western Freight and Haulage, a company he started before the war. He owned twenty trucks when he sold out. Some people said he was a black marketeer. He dealt in war surplus for some years, there was no secret about that, but his lasting interest was in buying land and putting up buildings for sale or rent. It’s interesting how words get degraded. ‘Vision’ has come to mean seeing opportunities to make money. Jock Imrie had vision. He saw where Loomis had to go and went there one step ahead. His first block of shops looked like cow sheds. After that he grew sophisticated. His name was raised in plaster above the veranda of his second block: Imrie’s Buildings. The shop I wanted for Father was close to the intersection of Station Road and the Great North Road. A sporting goods store was opening on one side and a menswear shop on the other.

  ‘We can get away from billiards and meat,’ I said.

  ‘Will you take some Micapon to Mrs Imrie?’ Father said. ‘Take the car.’

  She used us in this way, even for eyebrow pencil and mascara, which I put on her doorstep, then rang the bell and left. I told Father she had a cheek; we should charge her for deliveries. A migraine was different. I rang the bell and waited, admiring the lawns and flowerbeds and trimmed hedges. It would be nice to have money, to have a big house and ornamental ponds and a scoria driveway and a gardener mopping his face on the hill at the back.

  ‘Oh,’ said Mrs Imrie, when she opened the door.

  ‘I’ve brought your Micapon,’ I said.

  ‘I was hoping your father … It’s getting bad, you see. I was going to ask about a double dose.’

  ‘It tells you on the packet,’ I said.

  ‘Come in. Please. Please, dear. I need …’

  If she wanted someone to talk to I thought she should pay. And I wondered about the migraine she was supposed to have. Her eyes seemed bright enough, her make-up was in place, and her brow was furrowed only with disappointment at finding me, not Father, at her door. I followed her into her sitting-room – her lounge.

  ‘I was just lying on the sofa,’ she said. ‘Just keeping still. Will you pull the curtain across, dear? The light …’

  She was wearing a silk housecoat and white fur mules and had cigarettes and magazines in reach. She kicked off the mules and lay down, then gave up her pretence and sighed.

  ‘Jock’s away. So maybe we could have a cup of tea.’ The idea seemed to please her, remind her of life before Jock Imrie, for she said, ‘The tea break at Marjorie’s, I used to long for that. My swollen feet. And hair up my nose. And talk all the time, talk, talk, talk. It’s always so quiet in your shop.’

  ‘We get busy,’ I said. ‘We’re busy now. So I’ll have to go.’

  ‘Just ten minutes. Five minutes? You’ve no idea how I miss good talks.’

  I did not point out her contradiction. ‘I can’t stay long. I’ve got to do prescriptions before my bus.’

  ‘Are you going somewhere?’

  ‘To the university. I go every day.’

  ‘What for? I thought the shop …’

  ‘I’m doing botany.’

  She could not grasp it. ‘Plants?’ she said.

  ‘Yes. Trees. Flowers. Ferns. Algae. Moss’ – although I had not got so far: no algae yet, no moss, and, to my disappointment, no fungi. ‘Whatever grows.’

  ‘Whatever for?’

  ‘To find out about them. Work with them.’ And I knew as I spoke that work was better, finding out was better than getting rich and lying on a sofa flicking through magazines all day.

  ‘But doesn’t it strain your eyes? Reading all those books you have to read? You don’t want to wear glasses, Alice. Men don’t like girls with red-rimmed eyes.’

  ‘I don’t care what men like,’ I said.

  ‘Oh, Alice.’

  ‘I’ve got to go.’

  Scoria crunched in the driveway, and silliness went out of her face. I saw how quick she was in things that had to do with men; saw lies chase across her face. Jock Imrie had come home when he wasn’t expected.

  ‘Ah, that’s my husband,’ she said, thinking easily after her quick jumping and busy-ness. ‘I don’t really want him now, so I’ll just lie down. If you’ll tell him about my migraine – will you do that?’

  She stood up and her housecoat fell open, revealing frilly panties and a bra – and in that moment I knew. How quick my mind was, quicker than hers. I felt a forward-tilting in the part that understood, and took a little unwilled step at Mrs Imrie, which made her gasp. She pulled her housecoat tight and tied the belt, slipped on her mules.

  ‘Help me, Alice,’ she said, and ran away.

  I went outside and found Jock Imrie standing by Father’s car. The gardener, who must have been his spy, was walking away.

  I said, ‘Your wife’s got a migraine. She’s gone to bed.’

  ‘Huh,’ he said. He slapped Father’s car to show how tinny it was.

  ‘If you don’t mind, I’d like to get in,’ I said.

  He stepped aside but not enough to give me room. His nose pointed at me and I thought, I could be the next Mrs Imrie.

  ‘You’re Earl Ferry’s girl?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Tell Earl I need to talk some business.’

  ‘Now?’

  ‘Yes, now. What’s your name?’

  ‘Alice.’

  He pointed with his nose again. He did not want me for myself; I wasn’t round enough, pneumatic enough. He wanted me to punish Father.

  ‘I’m Jock Imrie.’

  ‘I know. Do you mind getting out of my way?’

  ‘You’re a lippy one. Tell Earl–’

  ‘I know what to tell him.’

  I got in the car and drove away, not looking left or right or in the mirror to see what Jock Imrie would do. I went carefully through the gate and drove along beside the creek, out of his and Mrs Imrie’s orbit. But after so much control I began to hyperventilate and gasp denials. I pulled at the wheel with weakened hands and managed to lift my foot off the accelerator on to the brake. The car stalled on the road shoulder. I climbed out and sat in the grass; stopped my mind; breathed deeply; got myself in hand. I’m able to do this. I’m not free from panicking, but can make myself hard and still – hands steady, face like a rock. Then I start up my mind again.

  Father was, in his way, a sensualist. Good manners kept that part of his nature in control. Love, duty too, played a part: husband, father, son, dispenser of medicines, honest businessman, friendly neighbour, listener in adversity or grief. I could go on, but will end up trying too hard. I still believe him honest but know he was impure. I don’t mean in succumbing to Mrs Imrie, but in using compassion in a sensual way. I won’t say he fed on it, but there’s no doubt it nourished him and made him fat. He pitied Mrs Imrie first and then he had her – which leaves out Mrs Imrie having him.

  Sitting in the grass, I accepted Father. I gave him a bitter nod – hello. Then I came to the next part: what to do? Gordon would be better at this than me. But I was not going to let him hear a whisper of it. I made what I believed was a decision, although there was never more than one thing to do. When I had it fixed I stood up and brushed dust and grass seeds from my skirt, went half a dozen steps to the creek, looked at the squashy margin where I had learned to swim and at the deep green pool beyond, and thought, I’m out there now, I’m swimming alone. No Father and Mother drying me with a towel, both of them rubbing me and holding me tight, and holding each other too – a threesome. And now here’s Gordon – a foursome. The memory flashed in colour, sharp-edged, but I turned away. Its usefulness was finished.

  I drove to the shop, which was empty of customers, and went into the dispensary.

  Father was making up prescriptions, and feigning an extra busy-ness. ‘Ah,’ he said, not looking up, ‘I’ve done them, Alice. You can go for your bus.’ He glanced up, smiled at me, then my coldness and stillness turned him pale.

  ‘What is it?’ he said.

  ‘Mr Imrie wants to see you. He came home. But I wo
uldn’t go yet. I think he’s inside punching his wife.’

  ‘Alice,’ he said, and sat down heavily.

  ‘Does Mother know what’s happening?’ I said.

  ‘I don’t know what you mean. Nothing’s happening.’

  ‘Don’t tell lies, Father. Does she know?’

  He closed his eyes. I saw hopes collapse in him as he found no way to go, no lie and no truth to tell; saw fear take hold.

  ‘Does Mother know?’ I said again.

  ‘Nothing’s happening. Nothing, Alice. It was only once. I couldn’t help it. She … I can’t tell you this.’

  ‘I think you’d better. I’m grown up. I suppose she was in her housecoat. And panties and bra.’

  The poor fishy opening of his mouth. His horror at me. ‘I can’t,’ he began. He licked his lips, sent an upward glance at me, then lowered his eyes. ‘She was crying. She was sad. He slaps her, Alice. He gets a kind of handful of her skin and twists –’

  ‘Be quiet,’ I said.

  ‘So I tried –’

  ‘Only once?’

  ‘Yes. God’s honour. I told her I couldn’t any more.’

  ‘But she thinks you can?’

  ‘That’s why I sent you there today instead of me. I’m not going back. I should never … I should have said …’

  ‘Jock Imrie knows.’

  ‘No. He can’t …’

  ‘He knows there’s something. People like him always find out. He’ll divorce her.’

  ‘He won’t, Alice. There’s no proof.’

  ‘He’ll let some other chemist in his shops.’

  ‘He won’t. He promised me …’

  ‘Was anything on paper?’

  He opened his mouth, then closed it. Shook his head. Collapses, little subsidences, went on inside him. I was moved by pity, but not overwhelmed. I could not give the love and comfort he pleaded for, the daughter-strokings he must have felt were his right after his twenty years of loving me. The stitching between us was undone, and the most I could do was move a step towards him, touch his arm.

  ‘Listen, Father. You’ve got to go round there and get a lease signed. Right now. You’ve got to find out what he knows. She might keep quiet. Did anyone see you when you were there?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Getting something signed, that’s the main thing …’

  I don’t know why I went on with it. I knew we were – another use for that word – undone. Yet I sent him to Jock Imrie. I kept the little splintery hope of a miracle: that abjectness in Father would feed Imrie sufficiently to keep him quiet and allow him to be generous in the matter of the shop.

  ‘Come on, Father.’

  I helped him unbutton his lab coat. I took my place at the counter and served a customer as he drove away. Then I stood rigid with fear. In these situations didn’t guns come out, or kitchen knives, pokers from the hearth come into play? I had said Jock Imrie would be punching his wife. When Father arrived he might use the shotgun he kept for hunting ducks. I had the absurd picture of Father putting up his hands like an actor in a western movie and Imrie pulling the trigger in spite of it. Yet I did not hang the closed sign on the door and jump on my bike and pedal round. I stood at the counter waiting for our next customer. Already, you see, I could judge men. Jock Imrie’s revenge would last longer than a gunshot and cause no damage to himself. Letting Father have the shop might even be a way of stretching it out.

  I missed my lectures that day. Father must have parked somewhere and sat for an hour, shivering and weeping at the ruin of his life. He was red-eyed still when he arrived back at the shop. I hung the closed sign on the door and we went through the dispensary into the yard so no one would see us from the street. He sat down on an empty crate in an aged way, as though his shoul-der joints were disconnected, and held his kneecaps to keep them from sliding off – and I stood over him, white-coated like an angel, although I meant neither to raise him nor condemn. I had grabbed his cigarettes from the bench as I passed and I tapped one out. He shook his head. I lit up – I started that day – and stood side on, with jutting hip and smoke curling from my palm.

  ‘Well?’ I said.

  ‘It’s no good, Alice.’ His voice choked. He raised his hand to his face.

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘I didn’t see her. Josie, I mean.’

  ‘I’m not interested in any Josies. What did Mr Imrie say?’

  ‘He came out …’

  ‘Yes? Then what?’

  ‘He told me I needn’t bother getting out of my car. He said he knew I’d been … I can’t use the language he used, Alice.’

  ‘Isn’t it the right word? Anyway, what next?’

  ‘I told him I hadn’t been. It was only once, and then it was only because he was hitting her. He said, “You should see her now,” and I told him I’d call the police.’

  ‘I imagine he only laughed at that.’

  ‘Yes.’ Father looked up, taking in the change in me. ‘Alice, you shouldn’t hear all this.’

  ‘It’s my business,’ I said.

  ‘He told me that he’d come home to catch us doing it. Him and Ken Doole who works in the garden. He was going to get us for …’ Father could not say the word.

  ‘Adultery,’ I said.

  He nodded. No more looking up. (In fact, now that I think of it, Father never met my eye again.) Some pity crept into me. I softened my edges.

  ‘But he didn’t find you.’

  ‘He said it didn’t matter because he was booting her out anyway. He said she’ll be gone by tonight.’

  ‘What about you?’

  ‘He said he’ll leave me stewing in my own juice for a while. Then he said …’

  ‘The shop?’

  Father nodded miserably. ‘I asked him, and he laughed and said forget it. He said he’s already got a chemist going in.’

  So we were done for. I wanted to kick Father, but dropped the cigarette I had puffed at only twice and ground it under my shoe. Then I patted him, using the pity that slopped back into me – half a mugful. He seized my hand and kneaded it: ‘Alice, Alice.’

  ‘We’ll have to work out what to do about it later on.’

  ‘Yes. There’ll be something. I’ve got all my customers. I’ve got my goodwill.’

  ‘What you’ve got to do now is go home and tell Mother.’

  His face turned up at me, white as a dinner plate, holed with the black hole of his mouth.

  ‘No. She doesn’t need –’

  ‘Yes she does. And straight away. Before Jock Imrie lets her know.’

  ‘He won’t do that …’

  ‘You don’t think he’s finished with you yet? You fucked his wife.’

  ‘Alice …’

  ‘So Mother’s got to hear it from you, before he gets going. You can use what language you like.’

  ‘I can’t. It’s like …’

  ‘You’ve got to, Father.’

  ‘It’ll be like – killing her.’

  ‘Rubbish,’ I said.

  ‘You don’t know. Mary and me. And you know she’s sick.’

  ‘You should have thought of that. If you want to save some-thing, and be kind to her, you’ll do it now. Before Gordon gets home too.’

  I argued with him, bullied him, gave him pushes out of the yard and round to the car. Then I lit a cigarette and smoked it properly. I opened the shop.

  Father did not come back. And Gordon did not come in from his train. I’d overlooked that his term exams were due to start. He had travelled home early, found Mother sleeping – her medication caused drowsiness – and locked himself in his room to study. When Father walked through the house and sat on Mother’s bed, Gordon slid open his door to whisper that he was home. He expected that Father, finding her asleep, would creep back out.

  So Gordon heard. The only piece of luck the Ferrys had on that day was that he arrived home early from school.

  He kept them together. He put plasters on their wounds. I had thought h
e would be damaged, perhaps irreparably, by Father’s cheating and Mother’s pain, but that afternoon was the making of him. He perfected his stance. He got his sensitometer working. Gordon did a wonderful job of saving their marriage.

  I’ve never put much credence on that phrase – saving a marriage. You pull a swimmer back from the edge of drowning and put him, or her, through the pain and indignity, the choking and mucus-spitting and fighting for breath, of resuscitation and stand him up, wrap him in blankets, support him to a warm bed, feed him broth – but the horror remains, the memory …

  Mother and Father were never the same, no matter how hard they worked at being the same. By the time I arrived home at six o’clock, Gordon had them sitting hip to hip on the sofa, holding hands. He had dinner cooking on the stove and a bunch of freshly picked dahlias in a vase on the kitchen table. He put his finger to his lips to silence me. He gave a conspiratorial wink.

  Before I go on, let me complete my afternoon. Mrs Imrie came into the shop. She arrived on foot, lugging a suitcase. Although it was a sticky day, she was wearing a fur coat and a winter hat. She had several dresses draped on her arm and a string bag of shoes cutting into her fingers, which were dented from the rings – real diamonds, real gold – Jock Imrie had made her pull off. She put down the case, laid the dresses on top. Her handbag slid from under her arm and thudded on the floor.

  ‘Alice,’ she said, ‘where’s Earl? I’ve got to see Earl.’

  ‘He’s not here,’ I said.

  She slumped on the chair beside the door and started to cry.

  ‘You can’t see my father any more,’ I said. ‘We all just want you to stay away.’

  ‘Jock has … Jock has …’

  ‘We’re not interested in Jock.’

  ‘He’s kicked me out.’

  ‘Yes, well, what did you expect?’

  ‘All he’s let me have is some clothes. I thought maybe – Earl …’

  ‘No,’ I said.

  ‘But I’ve got no money,’ she wailed – which sent a woman at the door scurrying away. ‘Earl can … I’ve got friends in Auckland. He can drive me. Alice, you don’t know what love does to you. I love Earl.’