FIFTEEN
I rang Mary only to say goodbye, but my story about Mum melted her ice. I never meant it to happen, there was no searching for sympathy—I simply wanted to tell her I was leaving New Zealand. Mary knew all about loss, though, so my account of meeting Heather hit a sympathetic nerve. Suddenly she wanted to see me. I could hardly believe her change of mind, but I accepted the gift and thanked Mum under my breath. That same afternoon was the only time before my departure Mary could see me. I offered to return to Auckland, but she was keen to see the bach again, so, despite the storm warnings, she arranged to visit.
To fill in the time before her arrival I set about protecting the house from the imminent storm. Many years ago, Dad had made storm shutters to protect the sea-facing windows. Ours was the only bach to have them and I felt a sting of pride the first time we erected them in the face of the torrid remains of a tropical storm that had ravaged the coastline. None of the other beachfront baches actually suffered any damage, but whereas the other residents spent an anxious evening fretting about the strength of their buildings, Dad and I sat inside safe in the knowledge that we were protected. I remember we pretended to be in the Blitz, eating dry biscuits as though they were all that remained from our rations. We huddled close together when the thunderclaps came, protecting ourselves from bombs falling on the streets above our shelter. I loved him so much as we sat on the floor with blankets draped over our heads, making faces in the torchlight. That was before Mum left, before nights like that were stolen.
I found the shutters in the boat shed where Caroline hung herself. It was quite an effort entering that place again—I hadn’t set foot there since I’d found her. The first time I tried to enter I turned back, went to the house, had a couple of stiff whiskies and returned with the bottle in hand. At the far end, behind where the Winston was parked, were the shutters under a heavy blue tarpaulin. I’d never had to handle them alone before and they weighed a ton. How strong was Dad? I remember him swinging them around as though they were made of plywood. Unless I moved the boat I wouldn’t be able to manoeuvre the boards out of the shed, so what started as a whim became a full-scale task for which I was grateful. To remove the boat I needed the tractor, but it hadn’t been started for years. I had no hope of it firing, but in a defiant moment I tried and to my amazement, after some coaxing and priming, the damn thing started with a huge belch of smoke. I worked steadily, taking sips of whisky to keep me going. I removed the boat, pulled out the shutters, replaced the boat and then, one by one, manhandled the dead weight of the shutters to their windows. A final search of the shed produced the padlocks to secure them and after three hours I was able to rest. In the afternoon light the boards cast an eerie golden light into the front room. It was unnerving to sit there without a view of the sea, but still hear the waves as they steadily strengthened.
After an hour or so, and about the time Mary was due, the afternoon waned and the light suddenly dipped as though a sheet had been thrown over the house. The place creaked for the first time, a sure sign of the wind’s increasing strength. I went to the deck to survey the storm’s approach. The darkness on the horizon was clearly boiling storm clouds rather than approaching night. Waves thundered on the shore as the depression pushed billions of tons of water to the coast. The wind had a real bite now and a couple of stronger gusts knocked me off balance so I retreated inside and, glass in hand, continued the wait for Mary. The slow tick of time was almost unbearable.
Without further warning the storm hit. In the midst of a huge gust of wind, rain smashed against the wooden shutters as though someone outside had sprayed them with a fire hose. Immediately the rain increased in ferocity, beating against the wood, driving in harder and harder. I paced the room, the noise almost deafening in the dark confines of the coffin-like room. Ten minutes later my phone finally rang. In that short time the storm had strengthened and I could hardly hear Mary above the rain. She was still in the next bay, unable to drive the connecting road because the sea was washing over the road. She was afraid to try walking through. I shouted for her to wait and said I would come and collect her. I pulled on the thickest clothes I had, claimed the newest oilskin from the collection kept downstairs and pulled on the highest boots. I tried three torches from the collection in the cupboard and, having found one that worked, braved the elements.
Immediately the storm embraced me, clawing at every part of my body as I crossed the short stretch of grass leading to the beach. I half scrambled, half fell down the slope to the sand and, head bowed, battled my way into the battering wind. The rain drove into my face as I raised my head to navigate. It was a half kilometre walk to the rocks, which marked the beginning of the narrow road that linked the bays. The wind came from my left and it took almost all my strength just to hold a straight line. Halfway to the rocks I rested in the lee of an old pohutukawa tree: even its solid trunk, which would have seen worse storms than this, swayed.
By the time I reached the rocks, the wind seemed to have gained even more strength. Waves crashed and thudded against the ragged rock line. Water, tipped with foam, spilled over the road, but it was passable—a considerable relief given Mary’s desperate description. At worse the water was fifteen centimetres deep so I sloshed my way through. A larger wave sent spray across my path and filled my boots with cold water. I waited for the sea to wash back across the road before continuing. When I reached the end of the rock outcrop I saw for the first time the lights of Mary’s car parked about a hundred metres from the end of the road. She was so grateful to see me that she hugged me before planting a warm kiss on my wet cheek.
Mary was driving an old Honda. I didn’t fancy our chances of guiding it through the water—one decent wave, the electrics would blow and we’d be stranded—so I parked the car further back on the beach where I hoped the sea couldn’t reach it. Any attempt to talk was ripped away by the wind, so we mimed our intentions and found an easy understanding. The trees edging the beach buckled against the wind’s power and, in brief pauses in the gusts, whipped back to their old shape before a fresh onslaught bent them again. The afternoon light was all but gone now, so I pulled the torch from my pocket as we began the trip back to the bach.
At the rocks marking the beginning of the road, Mary stopped and looked at me. There was fear in her eyes and she was shaking, pleading to turn back. I held up a thumb and shouted that all was well, but my words were immediately stolen. Reassuringly I touched her shoulder. I knew the worsening storm had made the return far more difficult but I was not to be denied now. My mind was set on getting to the bach. The wind cranked up yet another notch, forcing waves to break over the rocks and wash across the road to where it cut through the headland, making a cliff on the left-hand side. The narrow stretch of tarmac was now a river with the waves surging along its length. We started along the road, walking close to the solid cliff. A huge wave crashed onto the rocks and across the road some thirty metres ahead. Spray, as heavy as the rain, washed over us, followed by a high surge of water that rolled down the road like a mini tidal wave. It hit us above the knee with considerable force. Mary reeled and flailed with her arms to regain balance. I managed to catch her elbow and we easily rode out the smaller afterwaves that followed like children chasing their father.
We reached the curve where the road was most open. The wind drove harder at this exposed point, forcing us to turn sideways. I turned in time to see a mountainous wave cover the rocks with the greatest of ease. Mary, still turned away, let go of my hand to adjust her jacket. Desperately I tried to regain it, but failed and shouted at her. As before, my words were greedily eaten by the wind. The wave marched toward us, seemingly oblivious to the land attempting to break its progress. It made the previous monster look like the weakest sibling of the family. Frantically I tried to grab Mary as the water hit. I managed to catch her sleeve, but my hand slipped on the greasy material of her coat.