The Quilt Page 13

  She had seen him in a local pet shop, glaring out from behind the bars of a small cage littered with demolished toys and shredded, urine-soaked newspaper. The other cages contained cross bred puppies, adorable, young and pleading. Critter was a mature dog with an unknown history and well established undesirable behaviours and habits.

  The pet shop owner had neglected to explain Critter, formally named Puddles, had been returned on two previous occasions by disgruntled purchasers who were unable to manage his disobedience and were fed up with the destruction he left in his path. Without much thought about the practicalities of owning an, actual, living breathing creature Sandy had purchased the little dog together with numerous toys, a blanket and a book detailing canine ownership, training and responsibilities. The book was never opened and Critter had destroyed the numerous toys and the blanket within the first week.

  Critters constant yapping soon resulted in eviction from the inner city apartment that had once been home to both herself and Joanne.

  Desperate to avoid Critter being returned for a third time, the pet shop owner had convinced his elderly neighbour to waver the no pet’s policy in her rental agreement.

  Sandy became the lucky tenant of a small, character-filled villa in the leafy suburbs.

  She had to travel further to the wine bar for work. But her hours were often different from the majority of workers so the traffic was not an issue and the lifestyle and fenced garden made up for the inconvenience of commuting.

  Sandy hunched over another open book. How did she arrive here? Twenty-four years old today and not even a call from a friend or her family to wish her well! The rain hammered on to the grubby glass window and the words reconstructive surgery danced in front of her eyes. Tears swum blurring the print and then overflowed running down her cheeks leaving tracks in the thickly applied make up.

  “Happy Birthday to me.”

  Critter glanced up with vague interest. A few minutes later he erupted into a string of excited yaps.

  “Yeah, I know the postman. It’s too wet for you to run after him today. You stink enough without getting wet and dragging mud back through here on your paws.”

  As if understanding, the little dog readjusted himself and settled back on to the worn scuffed leather couch.

  “Perhaps a card or present is waiting for me?”

  Sandy felt the cloud lift slightly at the prospect. She didn’t even bother to pull on a coat. The rain felt cool and refreshing washing the salty tears away as she dodged the puddles that had formed in the uneven concrete. One small damp envelope greeted her. She explored the letterbox with her hand in disbelief.

  “A power account! No one remembered my birthday!”

  A fresh wave of tears flowed down Sandy’s face. Wet hair clung to her forehead and loneliness clawed in her stomach. There had to be something more than this. In a moment of frustration Sandy swatted angrily at the pile of photos scattered across her formica table top.

  Pictures fell on to the floor, some of a young girl growing up dressed in conservative clothing. Buttoned high under her chin and purchased by a mother in an effort to hide her daughters erupting breasts. Some were of her small family on the beach or sitting at the Christmas table overlooked by a morbid painting depicting the Lord Jesus, his forehead encased by thorns. That image had haunted her as a young child. She had eaten meals with the tortured eyes looking down on her. Each mouthful had reminded her of his suffering and how so many sacrifices had been made on her behalf. She shuddered with guilt and began to put the images back in their shoe box. One day she would organize them in a proper photo album to ensure they were preserved.

  Sandy picked up another photo. A small round face with long braided red hair smiled back at her. She looked so happy, secure and content. She was standing beside a fatherly middle aged man, his arm draped casually over her slender shoulders. Both held fishing rods and the little girl proudly displayed a small rainbow trout. Their aluminium dingy had been loaded on the roof rack and was visible behind them. Her mother must have been the one taking this photograph because she was always there when they had gone fishing. Sandy had no idea why; being on the boat had clearly made her nervous and she hated the icy cold that often blew off the mountains and on to the lake.

  She remembered her mother sitting stiffly on the hard bench seats, clad in bulky jackets and woollen gloves, frightened and agitated, waiting impatiently for them to pull up the anchor and head back to the safety of the shore. These were some of the happiest memories of growing up she had, despite her mother’s discomfort. Sandy remembered smoking the delicious fresh fish in brown sugar and salt and eating the warm fillets and loaves of soft, spongy, white bread with her fingers.

  She remembered times when they had even skipped attending church while on holiday. Instead, the family had explored the icy cold lake Taupo, spending weeks fishing and enjoying each other’s company like a real family. That was a different life, a life before her mother had become fanatical, before she had distanced herself and become inflexible in her beliefs. A time before her father had suddenly grown old and retreated behind a newspaper and his glazed detached expression.

  Now it was too much to expect them to even remember her birthday!

  “I’m going to buy myself a present. At least it will be something I want!” Sensing the lift in Sandy’s mood Critter jumped up on to her knee.

  Sandy reached across and picked up the folded newspaper. Several boats fitted into the general category but most were too large or too expensive. One stated there was no outboard included and she discounted the two others that required work. The only remaining boat sounded perfect but was not made from aluminium which was the construction of the boat she remembered her family owning. She read the advertisement and considered ringing her father. She decided against it. He couldn’t even remember her birthday. Sandy read the advertisement again.

  “Wooden Boat

  5 metre (16.4) Feet

  70 HP outboard

  Tidy condition and comes with good trailer. Registered and WOF. Bargain, must sell.

  A gruff voice answered the phone on the second ring.

  His voice softened when Sandy asked if the boat was still available.

  “Yes, young lady, but I don’t think it will be unsold for long. There are people looking at it later today. It’s a good sturdy little boat. She’s been in our family for years. Only reason I’m selling is the kids are grown up now and it’s sitting unused.”

  “Does it require any work?”

  “Not really. The boat is sound but could do with a decent repaint.” He went on quickly, “I thought about giving it a quick coat myself but then it might look as though I am covering something up.”

  If that was all that was needed, then Sandy was more than capable of taking on the project.

  The wooden craft sat on a small, rusty trailer. One tyre was almost flat and the interior was covered with a blue plastic tarp that had obviously not been removed since the trailer was sent for its warrant of fitness.

  A large cockroach scuttled away when the sunlight invaded its damp and dark habitat. There was a bench seat in the rear that looked very similar to the one she remembered in her father’s boat and two tidy upholstered seats in the front. The white hull was in definite need of repainting. Large chips flaked away revealing another coat of pastel blue. In several places, the wood was exposed completely but there appeared no sign of rot or repairs. Sandy stood listening with enthusiasm to the portly man and he gushed on eagerly.

  “The outboard starts first time, every time. She has never given us any trouble and handles the rough conditions well,” he purred.

  “My family have enjoyed hours of fishing in this boat over the years. So the kids are not happy that I am selling her.”

  He was describing Sandy’s own precious memories.

  “Has she got a name?”

  He thought for a second, glancing at the enthralled red head adorned with bright beads.

  “Lucky L
ady.”

  “Well, I could sure do with a change in luck.”

  The man helped attach the rusty trailer on to the tow ball of Sandy’s classic Mark 1 Ford Cortina.

  Sandy had always had trouble with the written word. Her writing resembled the tracks of a spider that had overdosed on hallucinatory drugs before being let loose to attack a sheet of paper. Her reading was slow as she concentrated on pronouncing the individual words often without comprehending their meaning in an actual sentence.

  In stark contrast when Sandy was given a brush, paint, charcoal or pastels she could express herself and the world around her in incredible detail. Sandy could work in a variety of styles, although had painted the majority of her work in water colours or oils.

  Sandy had never received any formal training but the world through her eyes could be observed easily in her stunning murals and paintings. She had been commissioned on several occasions to personalise walls in children’s bedrooms and to produce art for purchasers with a vision but without the ability to transfer their dreams to the canvas.

  The stark wooden hull and chipped worn paint presented a challenge. To most, the boat would appear nothing short of a relic, wrecked and not worth the time it would take to restore. To Sandy, it represented a blank canvas, interesting in its shape, texture and potential. Feeling positive and full of inspiration, Sandy purchased brushes and bright marine polyurethane paints from the local hardware store.

  It took almost a week to remove the old paint and check the structure. To her relief, the boat was sound under its shabby flaking exterior. The base protective coats were applied within a few days. Lucky Lady was transformed into a glistening white, swan-shaped boat, back to her former glory.

  But Sandy had no intention of leaving the vessel without personalising the hull. For two weeks Sandy dedicated herself completely to the transformation of Lucky Lady. She stopped only to sleep, grab a quick snack or go to work on the occasions she was required and could not find an excuse to stay at home. The lump no longer invaded her thoughts and the books with their frightening images remained unopened on the table.

  When she had finished, “Lucky Lady” resembled a floating artwork worthy of public display rather than a boat soon to be launched into the green waters surrounding Auckland city.

  The large, and highly detailed, mural spanned the entire side of the boat. A reclining mermaid with bright orange locks of wavy hair, lips pouting in flirtation, her deep green eyes highlighted with vivid blue eye shadow lay seductively across the waterline. Her delicate face rested on the palm of a long elegant hand that displayed fingers adorned with rings. In cherry red, the italic words, “Lucky Lady”, were stencilled across the stern of the vessel.

  With her typical unconventional, creative zest for life Sandy had achieved immortality.

  Chapter 14

  “Sandy”

  Sandy stood in the shower trying in vain to scrub the raw smell of stranger sex from her skin. Months had passed since she had visited Joanne and Stephen in Nelson. The mural had long since been finished and while she had immersed herself in its creation and was more than satisfied with the end product she now found herself with that familiar empty feeling that gnawed in the pit of her stomach.

  She had not, as yet, ventured out in Lucky Lady. Not because she was nervous about the boat or being on the water, she was nervous that the mural might be damaged while launching. The mermaid was, without doubt, her most unique work to date but only on completion had Sandy realized how impractical it had been investing so much time and love into the side of a boat.

  She lathered more soap on to her reddened skin. Her hand involuntarily migrated to the lump. Her slippery fingers travelled across the hard pea shaped intruder. Sandy stopped and prodded again; feeling the shape and wincing as she noticed tenderness had developed in the general area. Surely the size could not have increased this much in such a short period of time? The hot water was cascading down her body, so why did her skin feel suddenly cold.

  Sandy wrapped herself in a towel and fought the temptation to seek reassurance in the articles describing cysts and hormonal changes.

  “Let me have a look. The next appointment won’t be until Wednesday. Hang on a minute there has just been a cancellation. Can you be in here in thirty minutes?”

  Sandy gulped. She was unprepared. The temptation to wait swelled up like a wave inside her. Did she need or want the answer today? She had always harboured an aversion to medical or dental appointments. Her fingers prodded at the mass. It suddenly felt like it was growing by the minute.

  “Sandy? Did you want me to give you the appointment today or have you enough pills to wait until Wednesday?”

  “I’ll take the one today”. Her voice was distant and detached.

  The waiting room smelt strongly of detergent, its clammy warmth reeked of sickness and filled her with a feeling of dread. She had experienced a similar foreboding outside the principal’s office at school, waiting for yet another detention and knowing she would soon have to face her parents’ disappointed and condemning faces.

  She thumbed through a magazine. There was nothing of interest but the glossy photographs allowed her to avoid eye contact with the strangers that also waited to be seen.

  A friendly young man not much older than her stood undecided in the doorway.

  “Sandy?” he ushered her into the consultation room indicating for her to sit down.

  “How can I help you Sandy?”

  He looked up from his notes when there was no answer.

  “Your appointment is for a new prescription for the contraceptive pill. Is there anything else?”

  Sandy’s eyes were downcast, examining her fingers. They had formed knots in her lap. She had shrunk into her chair.

  “I have a lump,” her voice was so soft she had to repeat the answer.

  “Where is this lump, Sandy?”

  “In my breast.”

  “Could you please remove your top so that I can have a look? Just go behind the curtain and lie down.”

  His voice was gentle and clear, although he was looking down at the notes sitting on his desk.

  “There is no mention of a lump. How long ago did you say you first noticed it?”

  Sandy tried to answer without sounding concerned.

  “Around six months. Perhaps a little longer, I’m not really sure.”

  If she had been paying more attention she would have seen a slight stiffening and frown pass over the young doctor’s face.

  His hands felt cold as he pushed into the surface of her breast. He seemed to be studying something on the ceiling, perhaps a technique to lessen any awkwardness for either patient or doctor.

  “Sandy, there is a definite lump. I can feel it quite easily. You said you think the size has increased quite quickly?”

  He continued without waiting for a reply.

  “I think at this stage it would be sensible to refer you to the Breast Clinic for a check-up.”

  He wrote out the referral and, as it was printing, turned to Sandy.

  “Sandy, I’d like you to ring the Breast Clinic as soon as possible. Please don’t leave it this time. It is normal for them to take several weeks to be able to organise an appointment. Here is their telephone number.”

  The doctor spoke with practiced confidence and optimism.

  “It is not unusual for woman to have lumps in their breasts. Like your lump they can be tender when pressure is applied. Most turn out to be hormone related and nothing to worry about.”

  He looked up and noticed Sandy was staring at him intently. He wished he could completely eliminate the fear that he saw in her eyes.

  “But it is always better to be sure and the only way we can be is to have the specialists check it for you.”

  The young doctor handed Sandy a referral to the Breast Clinic together with a new script for contraception. He looked into the huge and frightened green eyes. In their depths he saw a warning.

  “Do not emphasise
the importance of making this appointment again. I will not cope and it would be easy to go back to the safety of denial.”

  The boat ramp looked steep and ridiculously narrow. It was covered in slimy green algae.

  How I am expected to back both the car and trailer down that thing without damaging the mural? The ramp was flanked by an unforgiving concrete wall on one side that retained the car park area above and a long floating jetty for boarding on the other.

  The line of trailers behind her was increasing by the minute. She stood undecided. If she backed and slightly went to one side the mural would be ruined. Sandy chewed at her nails. The option to leave without launching had disappeared. She was now hemmed in by other owners waiting patiently to launch their boats.

  Someone sounded a horn. Sandy had returned to her car and attempted for the fifth time to manoeuvre her trailer into the water. Flushed and frustrated she jack knifed stopping just before the boat scaped up against the wall.

  Another horn blasted and a middled-aged gentleman yelled abuse out of his window. Sandy rounded on the line of faces staring out of windows or standing in small huddled groups.

  “Well, it seems to me we have several choices here. One - I get out and walk away. Later this afternoon, I will send someone to retrieve the car and trailer for me. Of course, none of you will be able to launch until they have been removed.”

  She smiled sweetly at the reddening faces in front of her.

  “Two - I continue to practice reversing down this poorly designed ramp. Of course, it will be sometime before you will be able to launch but I see you are enjoying watching the spectacle so assume you will not be bored.”

  The reddening face closest to her flushed to a dark crimson.