Part 25 (1/2)

I stare at her as the implications sink in. 'I honestly and truly know nothing about this.'

'I can get someone to come and show you the X-ray if you like. They know what they're talking about.' The regal grandmother seems a little menacing, suddenly. I want to run away. 'Martha, I can't help if you won't be open with me. I'm not suggesting you did anything yourself.'

I feel a guilty blush spreading up my throat. They think we've been hurting Finn for months. They think we broke his arm. Well, of course they do. He has a fracture, and I didn't even know. How could I not know? Bad mother. Bad mother.

'There has to be a mistake,' I insist desperately.

'I don't think there's a mistake.'

Kura lets the silence lengthen. She's not afraid of silence. That's what gives her power. The minutes tick by, and she waits like a cat at a mouse hole.

'Six months.' I try to remember every fall, every fight since we arrived here. In the life of a small boy there are many falls, and many fights. My memory is suddenly opaque, a sludge of panic.

Then it comes to me. Something so small, so silly. A bicycle wheel, stuck in a rut under a walnut tree. 'Hang on . . . Oh my G.o.d. I think I know. Maybe.'

Kura pulls out a notebook as I tell the story of Finn's tumble on New Year's Day. She scribbles as she listens. I don't think she believes a word. I don't blame her. 'So you never got him to a doctor?' she asks dubiously.

'Sorry . . . I know it sounds pretty slack, but honestly he seemed fine. In a few days he was back to normal.'

'Did he need a lot of a.n.a.lgesic? He must have been in pain.'

'Er . . .' I think back. 'I remember giving him Pamol a few times.'

She looks unconvinced.

'I can't believe we're the first parents to miss a fracture,' I argue helplessly. 'In fact I've heard of GPs making the same mistake.'

She closes her notebook. 'I'll discuss this with the team. It sets alarm bells ringing when an injured child isn't presented to a doctor.'

'Oh, marvellous. So in your book we're either abusive or we're negligent.'

'The two aren't mutually exclusive.'

'Look,' I say, 'I feel really awful about not spotting this fracture, but Finn's an adventurous five-year-old. If we carted him off to hospital every time he fell off his bike or out of a tree, we'd spend our lives in a queue!'

She just looks at me. I fear her; she is too perceptive.

'I'd like to go back to him now,' I say, standing up. I'm afraid I'm going to cry.

Kura doesn't move. 'Martha. I really am not the enemy, you know. Why won't you tell me who is?'

The hospital gift shop is closing for the evening, which doesn't matter much as I have no need of a helium balloon in the shape of a heart. There are armchairs nearby. Hiding in one, I call home.

Ira answers. No, Kit hasn't been in touch. Everything there is fine.

Beyond the empty cafe I find a door marked Chapel. The lights are on but the room's empty. There is a small altar in front of a stained-gla.s.s window, and a book in which people have scribbled messages or prayers. I suppose it was cathartic for them. A note promises that the chaplain will pray for those in the book.

I leaf through it. Each line tells its own tale. Everyone in the world has their story.

Please walk with Cynthia as she makes her lonely journey.

Dear Lord, comfort Ruth and family at their sad loss.

Thank you!!! Bryan going home today. You answered our prayers!

Don't take my little boy away from me.

Actually, I wrote that last one. Sorry. Hard not to be ba.n.a.l when life has fallen apart.

Twenty-five.

April. A blue-sky morning with a distinct nip in the air. As Pamela promised, autumn had brought yet another glorious palette of colours to our world.

The Easter holidays had come and gone. Kit was making school lunches while harrying the boys to get dressed. Sacha was still in her nights.h.i.+rt. It had coffee spilled down the front, and she was riffling through her schoolbag. She walked to the laundry and looked in, then back to her bag. She seemed distracted.

'Lost something?' asked Kit.

'Just need a s.h.i.+rt.' She picked her barefoot way out to the was.h.i.+ng line.

'Peaky,' remarked Kit, watching her tug a s.h.i.+rt from the line.

'She's run-down. You don't think it might be glandular fever?' I fretted. 'Or some kind of post-viral thing?'

'No, I don't. I think it's too much hard work, too many late nights and maybe too much dieting.'

Sacha reappeared and I dropped the subject. It wasn't the moment for serious discussion, anyway. Kit and the boys were going on a school outing for the day to the National Aquarium in Napier, followed by a pantomime. They'd be home after supper at McDonald's. Kit was condemned to spend all day with a posse of women and thirty small children before eating a Big Mac and fries. He looked astonis.h.i.+ngly cheerful about it.

Sacha scratched her arm with furious fingers. 'This is driving me crazy. Frigging chickens have lice.'

'Maybe we should spray the smoko hut?' I suggested. 'It might be infested with something.' I glanced at my watch-the waterproof one I wore for work-and realised it had stopped. Cursing, I nipped upstairs and spent too long searching for the one Dad gave me. I looked in my jewellery box, which was where I'd last seen it; then I checked in my drawers.

Perhaps the patupaiarehe had been at it again. One day, I thought as I hurried back downstairs, I'd stumble upon the lair of that mischievous spirit. I'd find the precious watch, and Sacha's locket, and Kit's camera, and all those other things it had spirited away with wicked little fingers.

'Maybe we should have this house exorcised.' I wasn't quite joking. 'My gold watch has disappeared now.'

'Dad's coming on the bus,' chanted the boys, dancing around their sister like a Sioux war party circling a totem pole. 'Dad's a parent helper, Dad's a parent helper.'

'Stop it.' Sacha pressed her hands to her ears.

But they didn't stop. They cavorted and shrieked until Finn careered into the kitchen table.

'Frick's sake, will you ever shut up?' screamed Sacha. Shouldering her schoolbag, she pushed Charlie so hard that he sprawled on the floor. Then she banged out of the house.

The little boy lay where he'd fallen. 'Sacha was mean,' he whimpered.

'Women, eh?' Kit held out his arms. 'Come and have a cuddle, buddy.'