Part 24 (1/2)

'Yeah, sorry. Knocked a saucepan off the draining board.'

'And talking. Who were you talking to?'

She looked sheepish. 'Sorry again. Been practising my speech for the debate tomorrow. Going to whip their a.r.s.es! Want to hear it?'

'No, I . . .' I blinked. The situation felt surreal. 'I mean yes, of course I want to hear it but not at two o'clock in the morning! Look, doll, I think you're going to have to give something up. You need your beauty sleep.'

She stirred her Milo. 'All the teachers set work at once. They all think their own subject is the only one that matters. I'm off to bed now.'

We whispered as we climbed the stairs. 'Did that saucepan wake you?' she asked.

'No. Finn was sleepwalking again.'

She kissed my cheek. 'I love you,' she said. 'You're the best mum in the history of the universe.'

A few days later, Sacha turned seventeen. Kit and I gave her an iPod Touch with all the bells and whistles. This soulless piece of technology was what she wanted most in the world; apparently her older, cheaper machine was totally yesterday. Dad sent cash, Lou a silver filigree bracelet. Finn and Charlie made clay models which they swore were Homer and Marge Simpson, but looked more like daleks. Bless her, Sacha managed to be ecstatic about them.

We threw a party the following weekend: a birthday-c.u.m-belated-housewarming bash. After three days of rain, the sky cleared just in time. Sacha had invited an amorphous ma.s.s of young people, of both genders. Tabby couldn't, or wouldn't, come. The two dull girls fetched up with their monosyllables and slumped shoulders. Bianka arrived early to help us get ready, but-mysteriously-not Jani. In fact, I hadn't heard his name mentioned since New Year.

The district turned out in force: Jean and Pamela, Ira with his graceful girlfriend, Jane and Destiny, and several local families. Keith Emmerson from Capeview brought his wife but not the four daughters. They all hopped out of their cars carrying boxes of cold beer and plates of goodies- venison burgers, paua fritters and a meringue delight called pavlova. They described this largesse as 'bringing a plate' and seemed to think it perfectly normal. I was mildly offended at first-what, did they think I couldn't manage?-but later discovered that Hawke's Bay people never turn up at a party empty-handed.

Tama came too, climbing the boundary fence. I saw him strolling across the valley with the inevitable box of beer in his arms, and went to meet him.

'You're looking hara.s.sed,' he said, as we drew near enough to speak.

'Not hara.s.sed. Busy. Work work, children children, party party.'

'You should come out riding with us again. Therapeutic.'

I laughed. 'You know, I might just do that.'

As we wandered across the pasture I told him about Gareth, the pilot with a head injury. After a year of h.e.l.lish struggle, his young wife had finally cut and run.

Tama opened the gate into our garden, standing back to let me through. 'Do you bring these sad things home with you?'

'Usually I can leave work behind. Just occasionally one of them gets into my head. Gareth's one of those. He's lost himself.'

It was a good evening. I began to feel as though these people could be my friends. I have an impression of Tama and a.s.sorted farmers in shorts, staunchly glued to the barbecue in a legs-splayed, beer-drinking stance. They held bottles in fists in front of their chests; a story, a joke, an explosion of laughter. Meanwhile, women gathered in the kitchen to swap defamatory tales about their husbands. Finn and Charlie patrolled the garden with a band of merry men, swinging in the trees and terrorising parents with water pistols. Finally Sacha and her mob emerged from the smoko hut, requisitioned the pistols and sprayed each other, their yells reverberating across the valley. Even Tama's horses lifted their heads to stare.

We had speakers out on the verandah. I put on something Greek and atmospheric, and Sacha and Bianka were the first to dance as the sun went down. Sacha was wearing a leopardprint sundress, decidedly skimpy, and the filigree bracelet Lou had sent. As I watched, it struck me with unpleasant force that dieting had changed her shape completely. She wasn't my bouncing, busty-and-proud-of-it daughter any more. She looked fragile, the once rounded young cheeks showing the bones of a Vogue model. Her complexion was suffering, too. After a zit-free adolescence, she'd developed some acne on her face and was using foundation to cover it up.

All the same, the two girls were a picture as they jived in the lemon light under swathes of bougainvillea. Bianka seemed hypnotised by Sacha. She smiled whenever she looked at her, which was often.

As the alcohol went down, noise levels went up. The teenagers retreated to the smoko hut. I turned on our fairy lights, and more people began to dance in the fragrant dusk. Kit was pacing himself with the booze, I noticed. He was in his element, everywhere at once, making sure no one had an empty gla.s.s. Everybody seemed to know and like him. I even heard him pick up an invitation to go deep-sea fis.h.i.+ng; this high-tech hunter-gathering was evidently a traditional male bonding ritual.

I was sashaying exuberantly with Jean when Bianka sought me out to say goodbye. My neighbour was teaching me to salsa, which was shambolic but hilarious.

'Thank you.' Bianka embraced me. 'Your daughter is so beautiful.'

Surprised, I looked into the pale face. 'You're not staying?'

'No.' She hesitated. 'No.'

'But-no, Bianka, you must stay. I thought you were all bringing duvets?'

'Martha . . .' She stood looking at me, her mouth turning up and down at the same time as though she was about to howl.

I laid a hand on her arm. 'What's the matter? Has something happened?'

'I have to get home. Mum's not well.'

'I'm so sorry.' I walked her around the house. 'Please tell your mum I'm thinking about her. Come and see us again soon.'

She thanked me again and got into a car, taking three other girls with her. Haunted by a sense of deep unease, I watched them drive away. I was still standing under the gloomy canopy of the walnut tree when I felt Kit's arm around my waist.

'Never saw a girl so sad,' he said quietly.

'Her mother's dying.' There was a wobble in my throat; for Bianka's sake, and because I was tired and a little drunk. And maybe because I didn't quite know who I was, just at that moment. 'All those years,' I said.

'All those friends, the special places we used to go, the things that made us happy . . . they're just history, now, aren't they?'

'They're our history, though.' Kit smoothed my hair.

'And we're just history to them, too. We've deleted ourselves. We've been cut from there and pasted here.'

'C'mon,' he said, taking my hand. 'Let's dance.'

The last of Sacha's mates had gone by lunchtime the next day. She slumped into the kitchen, complaining of nausea and denying that she'd had a drop of alcohol.

'You're in a state,' I nagged, putting a hand to her forehead. I found a vitamin C tablet and lobbed it into a gla.s.s of water. 'And you're ruining your complexion with this silly dieting. What time did you turn in last night?'

She was roaming up and down the room, staring into the fridge, banging drawers. She opened one cupboard three times. 'About two.'

'Five, more like. You'd better go back to bed.'

'I might do that.' She rubbed her face. 'Aching all over. I've got another filthy cold coming on. It's this freakin' country, there's all these new viruses I've got no immunity to.'

'I hope you didn't give it to Bianka. They don't need it in their household.'

'Bianka.' Sacha hissed a filthy word under her breath-just audibly enough for me to be shocked-then scratched herself on the upper arm. 'Dog's got fleas.'

'I was surprised she left so early last night.'

'Yeah. Well. Whatever.' She walked into the larder, lifted down a packet of dried noodles and tore them open. Half the contents fell out.

There was a brief ceasefire, sulky on both sides.