She pulled a knife out of the cutlery drawer and slipped it beneath the flap. Gingerly she opened the envelope, careful not to damage the contents. She spread the letter and will out on the table and read them.
“Who the hell is Bernie Arbuthnot?” she asked out loud. The name rang a bell, albeit distant. She thought back to when she was a child, accompanying her father on his weekend rounds. She vaguely recalled an old tubercular alcoholic who gave her sweets in exchange for stolen bottles of her father’s beer, and told her rude jokes. She couldn’t remember his name but guessed it was him. “Bernie, you old bastard,” she said.
“Who’s a bastard?” said Norma as she shook out the umbrella at the door. “You haven’t got a dose, have you?”
“Norma, Green Lane Hospital doesn’t have a VD clinic. It has my father instead. Tell me, what do you know about Great Barrier Island?”
“Not much. You can see it away on the horizon on a clear day. Yachties go there, and that amphibian plane flies there. Why?”
Rosie told her.
“God Almighty! You wouldn’t even consider moving there, would you? I mean you’d be mad. No one lives there, well no one with any sense. There’s nothing there.”
“I don’t know,” said Rosie. She didn’t know much about Great Barrier Island, either, but the idea of owning a house and doing nothing but make pottery and grow roses suddenly appealed. Outside, the wind gusted, causing the rain to beat a violent tattoo on the window. She picked up the letter and reread it. Maybe it was a sign, or divine intervention, or simply a stroke of luck out of the blue. A new life beckoned, a better life, a simpler life where she wouldn’t hate everyone and everything around her. She could picture herself at her wheel, shaping the clay, a smile on her face and contentment oozing from every pore. She looked around her flat and thought of a future documenting skid-mark removers and house-training flatmates. Norma shoved a glass of claret into her hand.
“Rosie, I’m telling you, don’t even think of it. You’re not the type.”
“It couldn’t be any worse,” Rosie said softly, optimistically. She took a generous swallow of wine. Somewhere inside her the mischievous young girl who’d wanted to be a beatnik awoke from her slumber.
There was a time when Rosie would have simply walked out of her flat and her job and hopped on the Grumman Widgeon amphibian that flew people out to Great Barrier Island. But age and experience had curbed her impetuosity. The last thing she needed was another disappointment. So the following morning she bought a map of the Barrier and studied it. The first thing she noticed about Wreck Bay was that it appeared uninhabited, the second was that there were no roads that went anywhere near the place, and the third that it was surrounded on three sides by what appeared to be steep and rugged hills, all of which, according to the artist who drew up the map, were covered in dense bush and scrub. There were no trails in or out that she could see. Strangely, she didn’t find any of this the least bit off-putting. On the contrary, she found it intriguing. She knew someone did live there or, at least, had lived there. Bernie had lived there and grown roses. Among the bushes and birds. Gazing out across an ocean that stretched unbroken halfway across the world to Chile. Bernie had managed to live there. How old would he have been, she wondered? She’d thought he was old way back when she was a child. If an old man could live there, so could she. Rosie leaned back in her chair and sipped at her tea and tried to imagine what life at Wreck Bay would be like. No corner stores to run to for milk or bread. No supermarkets. No television or phones. No cars. No electricity. No doctors, apart from herself, and that didn’t count. No voyeuristic neighbors. No neighbors.
No neighbors?
Rosie felt the first tinge of doubt. Surely someone else would live there. She knew she couldn’t handle the loneliness of being all alone. Then she thought of the man who’d left his name on the back of the envelope, Red O’Hara, Wreck Bay. She almost cried with relief. She could be alone but not alone. She picked up the map of Great Barrier Island once more and gazed at the bite out of the northern end. She was staggered that somewhere so close to the bustling city of Auckland could be so remote. Wreck Bay made Easter Island seem like Club Med.
Norma thought Rosie had finally flipped when she applied for two weeks’ leave and booked a flight on Captain Fred Ladd’s amphibian.
“I’m off as soon as I’ve presented my findings on toilet cleaners,” she said.
“You’re mad,” said Norma. All she could do was wonder at the change that had come over her friend. She played her last card. “There are no blokes over there, none that you’d want to go to bed with at any rate, and you’re not cut out for celibacy.” Her cigarette bobbed indignantly.
“It’s only for two weeks,” said Rosie. Her face lit up and she burst out laughing. “I know it’ll be tough, Norma, but I think I’ll survive.”
“Come in, come in.” Lieutenant Commander Michael Finn rosefrom behind a swamp-green metal desk that looked like it had been built from a Meccano set. His office walls shared the same bilious color, and the only relief came from a window overlooking the naval docks that was partially screened off by drab, apple-green venetian blinds, and a painting of the light cruiser Achilles engaged in battle with the German pocket battleship Graf Spee. He’d heard about Red and half expected him to walk in naked. If he had, Red would not have surprised him more.
He wore a gray, pin-striped, double-breasted suit jacket with wing lapels that might have been popular before the war, but had been studiously avoided by fashion ever since. It was at least two sizes too big but helped hide the frayed blue shirt beneath. His trousers were black and stopped well shy of his ankles. It didn’t help that his shoes were brown. Col had done his best and scratched around for clothes for Red to wear but had had to make do with what had been left behind by guests at the hotel. The lieutenant commander had seen Guy Fawkes effigies on bonfires that were better dressed.
“Sit down, sit down!” he said.
Red sat. If someone had shot his legs out from under him he couldn’t have sat down faster. He looked for somewhere to put the package containing the little urn that held the last mortal remains of Bernie Arbuthnot, finally choosing the corner of the lieutenant commander’s desk. He couldn’t help but notice that the blotter was square to the desk, ruler parallel alongside and pens neatly in a cup. He wrongly assumed that the lieutenant commander was responsible for the orderliness.
“That your friend?”
“Sorry.” Red grabbed the package off the desk and looked for somewhere else to put it.
“It’s okay, it’s okay,” said the lieutenant commander quickly. “Leave it there, it’s okay.”
Red’s hands shook as he placed the urn of ashes back onto the desk. His responsibilities toward Bernie hadn’t ended with the old man’s death. Someone had had to farewell the old boy and nobody else had rushed to put their hand up. The Great Barrier Island community had chipped in for the cremation and to fly the three of them to Auckland on the amphibian. They’d been given a discount to make up for a shortfall in funds on the grounds that a dog didn’t really constitute a person as far as fares went, and Bernie could travel as cargo.