Part 42 (2/2)

My stomach drops. 'Oh.'

He rolls the dice without looking up. 'She asked how come I came over that night, so I told her you phoned after the accident. I also let her know what a nice family you are.'

'Thank you.'

'Well.' He moves his counter around the board, and his dark eyes meet mine. 'It's all true. But I think you've still got a problem to solve. A big problem.'

'I know.'

'Two and three makes five,' exults Finn. 'High five! You're goin' down the long snake, Tama. You're slidin' all the way to the bottom. Wheee!'

One evening, two police officers from the child protection team visit Patupaiarehe. They are a man and a woman, hunting in pairs like coyotes. The sight of their uniforms at the door makes me feel faint. I try-and fail-to look blase. Following a policy of appeas.e.m.e.nt, Kit and I show them the boys' bedroom and then we all troop onto the balcony. The woman begins to take measurements and write them in her notebook.

'I couldn't see much,' I explain, for the zillionth time. 'It was dark. I'd left all the inside lights off so I could look at the stars. I was sitting way down there-see? Finn pottered to the rail-here-and then he was up and straight over. It happened in a flash.'

The man touches the handrail. 'They have to be built higher than this nowadays. It's in the building codes. Here.' He uses a tape measure to show us the new regulation height. 'This is where they need to be, see, as a minimum.'

Kit is pacing. He resents having to be polite to people who suspect us of trying to murder our child. 'Yes, we know.'

'A man's coming to fix cast-iron railings,' I explain. 'He's measured up. They'll actually be five centimetres higher than the regulations require. We've fitted deadlocks on all the French doors. Look-' I spread my arms, gazing from one officer to the other with innocent appeal-'it can't happen again.'

After two weeks, Kura comes to find us. Kit and I are deep in conversation with a junior doctor, but the social worker asks for a moment of our time. I see from her expression that she has something momentous to say.

We follow the swinging ponytail into a family room. I think we are both shaking.

'Take a seat,' says Kura, but we don't. We stand side by side, staring at her in terrified suspense. Kit takes my arm.

'Well, good news,' Kura announces. Her tone reminds me of the examiner telling me I'd pa.s.sed my driving test. 'The investigation is concluded. A multi-disciplinary meeting was held yesterday. Both CYF and the police are satisfied that Finn's accident was just that-an accident. There was extensive discussion, but the team concluded that no child protection issue has been identified, and no further investigation is indicated. So we're out of your hair.'

'Oh, thank G.o.d,' I breathe. The blood seems to rush into my head. I sit down, literally dizzy with relief.

'An apology would be nice,' says Kit icily. I try to shush him, and he lays his hand on my shoulder.

'Kit.' Kura blinks at him. 'I hope you can understand why we had concerns?'

'Not really.' Kit's charm has been switched off. 'In heaven's name, woman! Can you not say sorry? This has been a nightmare for our family. As though it wasn't enough to have our boy critically injured, we've been persecuted. Do you have the smallest idea how it feels to be called an abuser, Kura? Or don't you even care?'

'Of course I care.'

'She was doing her job, Kit,' I whisper, in the guilty knowledge that Kura was right to suspect something was amiss, right to investigate our family.

But Kit's in full flood, releasing all the nervous tension of the past fortnight. 'We've been spied on by everyone in this hospital-I reckon even the b.l.o.o.d.y cleaners were taking notes. Our neighbours and our doctor and our boys' teachers have been questioned, our name's been dragged right through the piggery. We've been living in terror that you might take our kids away! And now you have the bra.s.s neck to breeze in, all sweetness and light, and tell us we're in the clear. We've been innocent all along. Well, how about some acknowledgement that you made a disastrous error of judgement?'

'It wasn't personal,' insists Kura. 'If we don't act when there are indicators of abuse, we're vilified. And there were concerns. A child critically injured in the middle of the night, apparent finger bruises, a healed fracture that was never presented, parents who had a fight and then covered it up.'

'Only if you've a suspicious mind. I think maybe some of you people have been in this job too long. You see nastiness in every corner. You can't see the good any more.'

I'm ill at ease, but Kura isn't. She's heard it all before. She gives him a leaflet explaining the process we've just been through and what to do if we want to make a complaint. 'It's been a privilege to meet such a lovely family,' she says.

'You mean it's been a privilege to hara.s.s such a lovely family,' retorts Kit.

Kura merely smiles. 'How much longer can your father stay, Martha?'

'Only another week,' I say glumly.

'Grandpa will leave a hole in your life, won't he? But I know you've already made some good friends in the district. Really loyal friends, like Mr and Mrs Colbert and Finn's young teacher. Is there anything else you'd like to ask me at this stage? Now's your chance.'

We shake our heads. We want rid of her.

'Thank you,' I say.

At the door, she has a parting shot. 'You do need to get on with altering that balcony. And next time a child takes a nasty tumble off his bike, for goodness' sake get him to a doctor!'

Kit rolls his eyes at her departing back. 'If I ever see that woman again, it'll be too soon.'

I have to agree with him. The social worker hasn't made a disastrous error of judgement at all; quite the opposite. I genuinely like her as a person. I admire her acuity. No doubt colleagues respect, and grandchildren adore her. She's on the side of the angels, but all the same I never, ever want to see Kura Pohatu again.

Forty-one.

We bring Finn home. I present the nurses in child health and ICU with boxes of locally made chocolates, and Charlie hands out some crumpled thank-you cards he's been working on for days. Finn's favourite nurse is on duty and she sees us to the door with smiles and hugs and admonitions not to fall off any more balconies. His plaster-actually dark green fibregla.s.s- is smothered in graffiti. We pa.s.s the cafeteria and the chapel, and then Finn is out at last, free in the open air under a windblown sky.

Someone has written in the chapel book: On the a.s.sumption that you made him well, THANK YOU! But tell me-what now?

We drive up to Patupaiarehe in triumph. Dad comes trotting out of the kitchen door followed by Bianka, who's staying for the weekend.

'Here we are!' chants Kit, driving a little victory circuit under the walnut. 'The warrior returns.'

Finn talked all the way, but now he's looking pale and shaky. He fumbles to open the car door with his good hand. I think he's become inst.i.tutionalised. Actually, we all have. Dad helps him out.

'Lucky you didn't break the ear-stroking arm,' says Charlie, who's been high as a kite since six this morning. He's on fire with happiness at his twin's return. 'Hey, come and see Bleater Brown! She's this big, now!'

'Careful,' I warn. 'Finn's got to take it very slowly. He can't rush around.'

'Okay.' In extravagant slow motion, Charlie leads his other half over to the lamb's pen. They lean on the fence like two old farmers, tickling Bleater's head and discussing the progress of their stock.

Bianka comes close to me. 'Martha, um-'

'Just a sec.' I'm distracted, lifting bags out of the car. 'Can you grab this for me, Bianka?'

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