Drybread: A Novel by Owen Marshall

a Tilly lamp, wondering just
how she had ended up back at Drybread as a fugitive. At
night resolution is at its most precarious, and misfortune
the more naturally nocturnal creature. Sometimes there
was a wind in the dark which came directly north — a drop
in temperature as if a great door were opened somewhere
and the air moved in from above that long ocean between
Antarctica and the South Island.
    When Nicholas got up to leave, he paused at the
widow's side. 'Our condolences for your loss,' he said,
and was rewarded with an affronted, yet impersonal, stare
and an agitated rustle of clothing. The woman's companion
nodded agreeably. Perhaps her mind was far away. Maybe
her body too. They say women of a certain age become
invisible to men as they cease to register sexually. A certain
agitation of matter particles occasioned by admiration and
lust in the regard of others might be necessary to maintain
their corporeal existence; otherwise they disappear, slipping
beneath the male radar.
    As he paid his share of the bill, Nicholas spoke to
the slim Thai woman who very much existed. He used a
sentence of Thai which Theo knew from other visits meant
thank you and good fortune. It wasn't entirely affectation,
but also an expression of Nicholas's wide-ranging curiosity.
Theo was reminded again of his own limiting and selfish
preoccupations. Why didn't he give a rat's arse for the
Thai culture, the sorrows of Bruce's bantam widow, the
possibility of a change in our relationship with the USA?
Nicholas's personal life was as humdrum and as much a
failure as Theo's own, yet he was more active in observation
of the world. His sons were growing up in Australia with
his ex-wife. He sent them presents, visited occasionally,
tried not to think of his true obligation towards them. He
told Theo they never gave any outward show of missing
him, and he was grateful for that. Maybe they didn't miss
him, he admitted. No use deceiving yourself.
    As they left the restaurant, Nicholas told Theo about the
windfarm protest story that Anna had pushed onto him.
Stories were his profession, and that's how he managed his
life also, packaging his experience as commodity: shaping
it from the raw until it was external to himself and so less
threatening.
    'So how did it go?' asked Theo. 'They get worked up?'
    'A bunch of country bigots who reckoned the turbines
would drive them all mad with noise not audible to
humans. They had a protest march along a goat track in
the Seaward Kaikouras. A day of follies really. Linda and
I drove ourselves up there. At Amberley we picked up a
hitchhiker who had a placard claiming the Americans were
building spy stations in the South Island. Linda didn't want
to give him a lift because of her cameras in the back, but I
said he'd be a useful addition to the protesters and be good
for some copy and photos. He never once looked us in
the face, and spoke as if he had a treble pipe in his throat.
When he wasn't talking about the worldwide conspiracies
of American capitalism, there was still this slight whistle
when he breathed. We were up by Cheviot when there was
this strong smell of plum jam in the car. You know the
smell of home-made plum jam?'
    'Sure.'
    'It's not entirely unpleasant. Anyway there was this
strong smell of it, and in the end I said something to
Linda, and she said the guy had taken his shoes off a way
back. That's just what it was. The guy can't have washed
his feet for weeks. We dropped him at Kaikoura, and Linda
wouldn't have anything to eat. She was pissed off with me
for most of the day, but the smell was exactly like that
— like plum jam.'
    'You could do a story on that, about hitchhikers who
don't wash and smell like plum jam.'
    'Exactly like,' said Nicholas. 'It's funny isn't it.'
    'It's actually quite nice, plum jam.'
    'Did you know that twenty-four wind turbines can
provide power for thirty thousand homes?' Nicholas asked.
    Theo didn't answer: none was expected. Nicholas said such
things just to imbed