One Rule

  ‘Don’t forget Marcus is coming tomorrow morning at ten,’ Mauga reminded her. The strong smell of coffee and cooking toast was spilling out of the kitchen onto the deck and up into the bright morning sky. From through the trees at the back of their yard and over the neighbouring houses came the rising noise of the city traffic.

  Emelia poured his coffee and he got the toast. ‘Are you sure he said Tuesday?’ she asked. He slid two pieces of toasted crumpet onto her side plate.

  ‘Yeah, I’m sure,’ he replied, ‘and isn’t it Tuesday tomorrow?’ The toast was burning his fingers, so he dropped it onto his side plate. After five years of not having to go to work and attend functions and other commitments to do with their work, counting the days or remembering which day of the week it was wasn’t important to them any more. When they needed to know, they asked each other or consulted the small calendar she had magnetised to the fridge door.

  ‘Is he in trouble again?’ She tried to sound unconcerned about it so as not to stress him some more. They were on the back deck round the oval teak table and in the red canvas chairs and under the sturdy beach umbrella their daughter Lagi, Marcus’s mother, had bought them for his seventieth birthday the year before. He sugared his coffee and didn’t reply. ‘Is he working?’ She couldn’t leave it alone.

  ‘How should I know?’ he said, curtly. She handed him the Olivani.

  ‘He tells you everything.’ She tried to sound gentle. Whenever it came to their discussing their four grandchildren she had to be careful, walk that territory with perceptive gentleness, so as not to upset him or fire his anger; especially anything to do with Marcus, who had always been his favourite, despite his trying to hide that from their family.

  ‘He doesn’t, darling, he doesn’t,’ he said, the coffee turning bitter in his mouth. ‘None of them do. They tell us what they think we want to hear!’

  ‘So what did he tell you when he rang last week?’ She agreed with him about their grandchildren but especially about Marcus, the oldest of the four.

  ‘That he really wanted to come and see us because he hadn’t seen us for such a long time.’ He imitated the intonation his grandson used whenever he wanted something from them. ‘What’s happened to our mokopuna?’ he declared, needing her sympathy and agreement. Their daughter Lagi and their Pālagi son-in-law Timothy had Marcus and Betty; Errol, their son, and his wife Margaret had Moe and Safata.

  ‘Not all of them are like Marcus,’ she insisted. ‘We’ve not had any serious trouble with the two girls.’

  ‘But they all behave as if everyone owes them a living!’ Even when he said that, he knew it wasn’t altogether true – he was just exasperated and desperately disappointed with Marcus’s behaviour, but was refusing to admit that to himself. ‘Lagi and Errol were never like that,’ he added.

  ‘No, but don’t you think they and their spouses should accept some of the responsibility for how …?’

  ‘Of course, but I wasn’t talking about that …’

  She had never liked the way he interrupted her whenever he was annoyed or angry, so she continued, ‘… As I was saying, their parents should not have been so indulgent in giving them whatever they wanted, and letting them behave so – so inconsiderately and selfishly.’

  ‘Are you inferring I did that too?’ he demanded.

  ‘No, I’m not saying that.’ She had to control her rising anger and avoid another taxing argument about their grandchildren, and about Marcus in particular. Ever since Marcus had dropped out of high school without completing his Year Twelve, absolutely convincing his grandfather to pay for him to learn how to fly, and promising he would then go to university and get that civil engineering degree his grandfather’s heart was set on, things had started going awry in their relationship. ‘I have to accept some of the blame too,’ she said. ‘I indulged them too.’ She paused, debating whether she should say it. ‘For a long time I believed – yes, believed Marcus’s stories and excuses,’ she admitted.

  ‘I’ve believed all his – his bullshit all these bloody years, and I’m still hoping …’

  ‘We both did – and still hope he turns out good – because we love him, and you love him more deeply.’

  ‘Yes,’ he admitted for the first time in a long while. ‘Why him out of all our mokopuna?’ He was talking more to himself. Marcus started his expensive flying apprenticeship and kept telling them how well he was doing, until they found out through his mother (who’d found out from the flying school) that he wasn’t attending classes any more and was hanging out with friends from high school in the nightclubs, bars and cafés, drinking and smoking dope. ‘He was such a happy, intelligent, obedient, loving boy, at primary school, wasn’t he?’ As usual she didn’t reply, knowing this was his way of talking the pain and regret and remorse out of his heart. ‘Such a beautiful boy!’

  ‘Who reminded you of our Errol, his uncle – and who you still hope becomes a brilliant achiever like Errol,’ she helped him. Errol had sailed triumphantly through high school with straight As; was head boy and captain of the first fifteen and debating team; had acquired his medical degree with distinction, had married another doctor; had done postgraduate diplomas in surgery; and was now a highly respected orthopaedic surgeon in Remuera.

  ‘That’s probably why I’ve never given up on Marcus,’ he said, then, gazing at her, added, ‘And he’s still only twenty-two.’

  She didn’t want to go there, remembering that after the fiasco at the flying school, Marcus had persuaded his grandfather to pay for his training as an IT technician, had gone to only a few sessions and, without telling his grandfather, had then told his enraged parents that computer programming wasn’t for him. For once when his grandfather forced himself to chastise his grandson about all the money he was wasting on him, Marcus had broken into loud tears and apologised, ‘Granddad, I’m hopeless; I can’t find what I really want to do! Forgive me!’ And his grandfather forgave him again. Three weeks after that Marcus took a friend’s car without permission, partied with friends, crashed it and landed in court for the first time. She’d had to rush Mauga to their doctor for medication to calm his raging anxiety. Lagi had refused to help Marcus, so they’d hired a good lawyer, who got Marcus discharged without conviction, only having to pay for the value of the car. Without her knowing, Mauga had paid that. That was only the beginning of Marcus’s brushes with the law.

  ‘Whatever happens, darling,’ she tried consoling him, ‘no one can say we didn’t do our best by him. We’ve stuck by him, even when his stuck-up mother and pretentious father kicked him out.’

  He took a large gulp of coffee. ‘This is bloody cold, and so is the rest of our breakfast – see what their awful behaviour does to us?’

  ‘You haven’t taken your pills,’ she reminded him, trying to distract him. She handed him his glass of water. She watched him take his four pills: one for cholesterol, one for his prostate and two paracetamols for his lower back pain.

  ‘Don’t they know we now have to live on pills?’ he exclaimed. ‘And have to survive on the pittance of a superannuation?’ A bout of self-pity always felt good, so why not continue this one? ‘Doesn’t Marcus and our other spoilt mokopuna know that if we keep spending at the rate we’re doing – and especially on them – we’ll die in poverty? And do they care?’ As he continued this tirade – careful not to be loud enough for the neighbours to hear – his heart and lungs and breath felt free and strong and everlasting. He ignored the contradiction at the core of his monologue that, despite their small government pensions, they had over the years amassed a healthy portfolio of shares and bonds, fat savings accounts, innumerable fixed deposits in three banks and a very valuable collection of New Zealand and Pacific art, and were part-owners of six apartments and houses their children and their spouses had bought as investment properties. ‘I’m not going to give them any more money,’ he vowed at the end of it, flushed with conviction and finality.

  ‘Good on you, darling,’ she said, looking forward to seeing if he’d do that with Marcus on Tuesday. He brought her a glass of cold water and she took her daily baby aspirin and her anti-high blood pressure pill.

  When she woke as usual at six he was already dressed and getting things ready, and she knew he’d had a bad night. By ten o’clock, with temperatures again in the high twenties, which they both liked, everything on the back deck was ready: the sun umbrella, the teak table and canvas chairs – he’d added a third one – the dishes and cutlery, two of the Brickle coffee mugs that he usually reserved for his closest friends and a cup and saucer for her, a ripe papaya and a dozen French croissants, strawberry jam and other goodies that Marcus liked, which he’d driven to Nosh up the road to get. As she’d helped him prepare, she’d grown more breathless and agitated from the anxiety she was experiencing trying not to think of Marcus arriving late, as he’d done for most of their other meetings, and dreading what he would look like, and hoping, with all her strength, he wouldn’t be under the influence of alcohol or, worse still, marijuana. She didn’t want Mauga to be devastated again.

  It was five minutes past the arranged time, and he was again preparing for the frantic, painful disappointment and anger that would envelop him if Marcus was late, when the front doorbell BBRRIINNGGED once, twice. He started hurrying for the door. She clutched his hand and stopped him. Have to go slow; let him wait. So he waited. One more ring – this time longer. He glanced at her; she shook her head. Another ring, this time laced with impatience. She turned and headed for the back deck.

  ‘Coming!’ he called. ‘Coming!’ He caught the rising agitation in his voice. This time he had to dictate and control and be prepared to deny Marcus whatever he was after. He’d decided that during the sleepless hours of last night when he hadn’t been able to stop himself from reviewing – in extremely painful and accusing and remorseful detail – his life with his grandson. Most excruciatingly painful was the fact – and he had to accept it whether he liked it or not – that Marcus had used them, without conscience; exploited their love and trust and forgiveness. His hands shook as he opened the door and pulled it back.

  For an incredible moment, he held his breath, believing he was gazing into his reflection or, more accurately, into a life-size photograph of who he’d been in his twenties: Marcus was over six feet tall, on the thin side, with rich curly black hair, hollow cheeks and that charming smile, that stance of taking the weight on the left leg, shoulders pulled back, right hand in the back pocket, left hand with thumb hooked into the silver-studded leather belt. Cool, his mokopuna would describe it. That photograph disintegrated when his image said, ‘Hi, Granddad!’ Smiling brightly, Marcus moved forward to embrace and kiss him, as their mokopuna been raised to do, but Mauga thrust his right hand forward and Marcus had to shake it. ‘How are ya and Mama?’ Marcus asked.

  In one quick survey Mauga noted that Marcus now looked older than his years: pale pockmarked face, thinning hair, a few days’ growth of beard, shoulders in a permanent stoop, tiredness round the bloodshot eyes – but he was relieved he couldn’t see drugs there. ‘Good,’ he mumbled, and turned.

  ‘Granddad?’ Marcus called in that high-pitched voice. ‘Granddad, I have a friend with me.’ Mauga hesitated and looked back. ‘Is it okay if I bring her in?’

  ‘Where is she?’ Suspicion was now his prominent feeling.

  Marcus swung his left arm back and pointed down the short driveway to the green mini parked across the front gateway. Once again Mauga realised – and hated it – that Marcus had him snared and he couldn’t get out of it. ‘She’s Samoan and her name’s Mala and she’s at varsity,’ Marcus continued, strengthening the snare.

  Very clever – or should he call it devious? – Mauga thought. Samoan and at university; he couldn’t say no. ‘Bring her in,’ he called, and then walked back down the corridor. This was the first time he’d brought a girl to meet them.

  Emelia was sitting in her chair, with the large coffee plunger and cups and mugs on a tray in front of her. ‘He’s got a girl with him,’ he told her, and turned, and they watched Marcus and a slim dark young woman, his arm round her waist, hurrying towards them.

  Emelia got up and, beaming, extended her arms towards Marcus, who was grinning widely and rushing forward. ‘Good to see ya, Mama, good to see ya!’ he said as he moved into her arms and they embraced.

  He smelled stale, unwashed, under the strong overlay of deodorant and aftershave. ‘It’s been a long time, Grandson,’ she whispered. ‘Too long.’ She meant it, and could hear the break of genuine regret in her voice.

  Marcus stepped back and, clutching the girl’s hand, said, ‘Mama, this is Mala; everyone calls her Mal.’ Dressed in tight jeans and a blue denim jacket, the girl, eyes lowered, smiling faintly, stepped forward.

  ‘How do you do,’ Emelia said.

  ‘Glad to meet you, Mrs Mauga,’ the girl greeted her. Emelia moved over and put her arms around her and kissed her on the cheek. Mala smelled heavily of cigarette smoke – and marijuana? – Emelia tried not to think of that.

  ‘And this is Granddad,’ Marcus introduced Mauga, who tried to smile as the girl moved to him and he had to kiss her on the cheek. ‘Wow, Granddad, ya don’t look a year over fifty!’ Marcus said.

  Mauga squirmed awkwardly; stopped himself from falling for Marcus’s usual flattery. ‘Take a seat,’ he told them.

  ‘What a spread, Mama, what a spread!’ Marcus exclaimed, sitting beside his grandmother and pulling Mala down into the next chair.

  ‘Thank your Granddad,’ Emelia told him. ‘He went and got some of your favourite things. He made the coffee and everything.’

  ‘Thanks, Granddad,’ Marcus said. ‘My granddad’s a great cook,’ he said to Mala. ‘He’s the only male in our whole family who can cook.’

  The only one who does, Mauga thought, as he sat down, picked up the plunger and started pouring the coffee. Certainly none of their grandchildren wanted to, despite Emelia and he trying to teach them. ‘No coffee for me,’ the girl said.

  ‘Tea? We have lemon tea, green tea, Dilmah’s …’ he offered, noting for the first time that the girl avoided looking into his face – or anyone else’s.

  ‘Do you have some fruit juice or any cold drinks?’ she asked.

  ‘Granddad and Mama always have a fridge full of drink,’ Marcus declared, but made no move to go to the fridge and get a drink for her. Emelia started to get up.

  Mauga quickly went to the fridge. ‘Got orange juice, blackberry juice, apple …’ he offered.

  ‘Apple juice with lots of ice,’ she said.

  ‘Thanks, Granddad!’ Marcus said. ‘I’ll have a blackberry with lots of ice too.’

  Mauga took out an ice tray and squeezed ice cubes out of it into two glasses. The clinking of the ice scraped across his teeth and he had to suppress his mounting anger with himself for allowing his mokopuna to treat him as their servant all these years. He put the drinks in front of them.

  ‘Now help yourselves to the food,’ Emelia said to their guests, to distract Mauga from his anger.

  ‘Wow, papaya – that must have cost you a lot, Granddad!’ Marcus took a whole half and gave the other to his girlfriend. Emelia handed them the slices of lemon, which they squeezed savagely over the papaya, and then they attacked the fruit, scooping up large hunks and thrusting them into their chomping mouths, Marcus exclaiming, ‘Bloody great!’

  Emelia had to turn away from watching them. Mauga’s face, she observed, was a fusion of grave anger and disappointment. She poured coffee into his mug and into her cup to distract him from watching them.

  As they drank their coffee and kept putting the food in front of their guests, they tried to ignore the furious, hungry, selfish manner and pace at which they were gobbling down the food. ‘Always love your cooking, Granddad,’ Marcus repeated between fat mouthfuls. Emelia scrutinised the girl surreptitiously, and grew more anxious when she noticed the long faint scar – knife mark? – on her right cheek, the small star tattoos on her earlobes, the amateurish ‘MAL’ tattooed across the back of her left hand and her refusal – or was it shyness? – to look you straight in the eye; especially that.

  From the hungry way they were eating and Marcus’s shabby appearance, Mauga deduced – but didn’t want to believe it – they had no money and probably no jobs. And where were they living?

  ‘Got any more bacon?’ Marcus interrupted his thoughts.

  Mauga glanced at Emelia. ‘Sorry, there’s no more,’ he said, and for the first time since Marcus was born, he didn’t feel guilty denying him. There, done it. ‘Sorry but …’

  ‘There’re more tomatoes and toast,’ Emelia interjected; she scooped the tomatoes onto his plate and pushed the rest of the toast to him.

  Marcus looked disappointed but quickly hid that as he buttered two pieces of toast and put one on Mala’s plate. ‘May I have the last egg?’ he said, reached across and, using his fork, slid that onto his plate. Mala saw the remaining fried tomatoes and onions and scooped those up.

  ‘So, what are you doing now?’ Mauga tried to sound casual about it, but was determined Marcus wasn’t going to continue lying to him. There was no change in Marcus’s style and pace of eating, but he caught a sharp hesitation in the girl’s.

  ‘Working on my CV, Granddad,’ he replied. ‘I’m applying for a Pasefika scholarship to go to AUT, where Mal is finishing her BA in management studies.’ Before Mauga could react, Marcus said to Mala, ‘My Granddad showed me how to write a CV years ago. He’s got an MBA and accounting qualifications galore, and owned and managed an accounting firm for over forty years, eh, Granddad?’ Mala smiled widely. ‘Yeah, Mal, Granddad and Mama met at Auckland University and fell in love at first sight – eh, Granddad?’ Marcus broke into laughter, and reminded Mauga of the way he laughed. ‘Mal, did you know Mama has an MSc in biology, and was head of the research unit of one of New Zealand’s biggest companies?’