and justice. ‘Fancy asking in a man with no eyes. What sort of countryman would do a thing like that? You know nothing about anything, people, country, nature. Nothing.’
I know more than he does, she thinks, in this mad excess of arrogance. I may work in an advertising agency. I may prefer central heating to carrying coals, and a frozen pizza to a fresh mackerel, but I grant the world its dignity. I am aware of what I don’t know, what I don’t understand, and that’s more than you can do. My body moves with the tides, bleeds with the moon, burns in the sun: I, Minette, I am a poor passing fragment of humanity: I obey laws I only dimly understand, but I am aware that the penalty of defying them is at best disaster, at worst death.
Thing with no eyes. Yes. The Taniwha. The Taniwha will get you if you don’t look out! The sightless blundering monster of the bush, catching little children who stumble into him, devouring brains, bones, eyes and all. On that wild Australasian shore which my husband does not recognise as country, being composed of sand, shore and palmy forest, rather than of patchworked fields and thatch, lurked a blind and eyeless thing, that’s where the Taniwha lives. The Taniwha will get you if you don’t watch out! Little Minette, Mona’s age, shrieked it at her infant enemies, on her father’s instructions. That’ll frighten them, he said, full of admonition and care, as ever. They’ll stop teasing, leave you alone. Minette’s father, tall as a tree, legs like poles. Little Minette’s arms clasped round them to the end, wrenched finally apart, to set him free to abandon her, leave her to the Taniwha. The Taniwha will get you if you don’t watch out. Wish it on others, what happens to you? Serve you right, with knobs on.
‘You know nothing about anything,’ she repeats now. ‘What country person, after dark, sits with the windows open and invites in invisible strangers? Especially ones who are blind.’
Well, Edgar is angry. Of course he is. He stares at her bleakly. Then Edgar steps out of the back door into the rain, now fitful rather than torrential, and flings himself upon his back on the grass, face turned to the tumultuous heavens, arms outspread, drinking in noise, rain, wind, nature, at one with the convulsing universe.
Minnie joins her mother at the door.
‘What’s he doing?’ she asks, nervous.
‘Being at one with nature,’ observes Minette, cool and casual for Minnie’s benefit. ‘He’ll get very wet, I’m afraid.’
Rain turns to hail, spattering against the house like machinegun bullets. Edgar dives for the safety of the house, stands in the kitchen drying his hair with the dish towel, silent, angrier than ever.
‘Can’t we go on with Monopoly?’ beseeches Minnie from the doorway. ‘Can’t we, Mum? The money’s only got a little damp. I’ve got it all back.’
‘Not until your father puts that chair back as it was.’
‘What chair, Minette?’ enquires Edgar, so extremely annoyed with his wife that he is actually talking to her direct. The rest of the holiday is lost, she knows it.
‘The ladderback chair. You asked in something from the night to sit on it,’ cries Minette, over the noise of nature, hung now for a sheep as well as a lamb, ‘now put it back where it was.’
Telling Edgar what to do? Impudence.
‘You are mad,’ he says seriously. ‘Why am I doomed to marry mad women?’ Edgar’s first wife Hetty went into a mental home after a year of marriage and never re-emerged. She was a very trying woman, according to Edgar.
Mad? What’s mad in a mad world? Madder than the dice, sending Minette to jail, back and back again, sending Edgar racing round the board, collecting money, property, power: pacing Minnie in between the two of them, but always nearer her father than her mother? Minnie, hot on Edgar’s heels, learning habits to last a lifetime?
All the same, oddly, Edgar goes to the ladderback chair, left pulled back for its unseen
I know more than he does, she thinks, in this mad excess of arrogance. I may work in an advertising agency. I may prefer central heating to carrying coals, and a frozen pizza to a fresh mackerel, but I grant the world its dignity. I am aware of what I don’t know, what I don’t understand, and that’s more than you can do. My body moves with the tides, bleeds with the moon, burns in the sun: I, Minette, I am a poor passing fragment of humanity: I obey laws I only dimly understand, but I am aware that the penalty of defying them is at best disaster, at worst death.
Thing with no eyes. Yes. The Taniwha. The Taniwha will get you if you don’t look out! The sightless blundering monster of the bush, catching little children who stumble into him, devouring brains, bones, eyes and all. On that wild Australasian shore which my husband does not recognise as country, being composed of sand, shore and palmy forest, rather than of patchworked fields and thatch, lurked a blind and eyeless thing, that’s where the Taniwha lives. The Taniwha will get you if you don’t watch out! Little Minette, Mona’s age, shrieked it at her infant enemies, on her father’s instructions. That’ll frighten them, he said, full of admonition and care, as ever. They’ll stop teasing, leave you alone. Minette’s father, tall as a tree, legs like poles. Little Minette’s arms clasped round them to the end, wrenched finally apart, to set him free to abandon her, leave her to the Taniwha. The Taniwha will get you if you don’t watch out. Wish it on others, what happens to you? Serve you right, with knobs on.
‘You know nothing about anything,’ she repeats now. ‘What country person, after dark, sits with the windows open and invites in invisible strangers? Especially ones who are blind.’
Well, Edgar is angry. Of course he is. He stares at her bleakly. Then Edgar steps out of the back door into the rain, now fitful rather than torrential, and flings himself upon his back on the grass, face turned to the tumultuous heavens, arms outspread, drinking in noise, rain, wind, nature, at one with the convulsing universe.
Minnie joins her mother at the door.
‘What’s he doing?’ she asks, nervous.
‘Being at one with nature,’ observes Minette, cool and casual for Minnie’s benefit. ‘He’ll get very wet, I’m afraid.’
Rain turns to hail, spattering against the house like machinegun bullets. Edgar dives for the safety of the house, stands in the kitchen drying his hair with the dish towel, silent, angrier than ever.
‘Can’t we go on with Monopoly?’ beseeches Minnie from the doorway. ‘Can’t we, Mum? The money’s only got a little damp. I’ve got it all back.’
‘Not until your father puts that chair back as it was.’
‘What chair, Minette?’ enquires Edgar, so extremely annoyed with his wife that he is actually talking to her direct. The rest of the holiday is lost, she knows it.
‘The ladderback chair. You asked in something from the night to sit on it,’ cries Minette, over the noise of nature, hung now for a sheep as well as a lamb, ‘now put it back where it was.’
Telling Edgar what to do? Impudence.
‘You are mad,’ he says seriously. ‘Why am I doomed to marry mad women?’ Edgar’s first wife Hetty went into a mental home after a year of marriage and never re-emerged. She was a very trying woman, according to Edgar.
Mad? What’s mad in a mad world? Madder than the dice, sending Minette to jail, back and back again, sending Edgar racing round the board, collecting money, property, power: pacing Minnie in between the two of them, but always nearer her father than her mother? Minnie, hot on Edgar’s heels, learning habits to last a lifetime?
All the same, oddly, Edgar goes to the ladderback chair, left pulled back for its unseen
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