Elspeth Sandys - What Lies Beneath

The desires of the heart are as crooked as corkscrews,

Not to be born is the best for man

W.H. AUDEN

New Plymouth, New Zealand, June 1939

The phone rings in my fathers house. A winter evening made colder by the talk, on the wireless, of war.

My father steps out of the warm sitting room into the draughty hallway. Instinctively he glances up the stairs, wondering if the phone, which rings rarely, has woken his two sleeping children. Satisfied all is well, and his evening not about to be interrupted by fractious toddlers, he picks up the receiver. Ken Tompkins, he says.

The voice on the other end of the line is familiar: Arnie Traherne, a fellow Mason. He gets straight to the point. The days of party lines, when conversations could be listened in to by curious neighbours, may be over, but thats no excuse for wasting time in idle chat. I understand you know Betty James, Arnie says.

My father lets out a small involuntary gasp. Good heavens, he says. Betty James. Years since Family had a bach near ours at Raglan. Must be in her late twenties by now. Last I heard she was working in Wellington.

Well, shes heading this way. Not sure what the story is.

Her brothers still in New Plymouth, isnt he? One of her brothers. Lives in the old family home.

Donald. Accountant at Tate and Brumby.

Never could tell those James boys apart.

Youre right about Wellington. Shes been working as a secretary to some chap in Cabinet. Jones, Minister of Defence, was what my wife heard.

Done well for herself then.

Would seem so.

So what exactly is the trouble? Id have thought shed be married by now.

Donald wasnt very forthcoming.

Well, those James boys were a Bolshie lot as I remember.

I only know the family by name. But the wife and Betty were at school together. Thats why Im ringing. Vera thought you and Olive might, you know, rally round. Of course well do our bit too.

And youve no idea ?

All her brother would say was that shes in a bit of a spot. Vera thinks theres probably a chap in it somewhere.

My father glances at himself in the hall mirror. He sees a man in his mid-thirties, with a good head of almost blond hair, clean-shaven cheeks and chin, and piercing blue eyes that every girl he has known, with the exception of his unimpressed sisters, has remarked on. You know who you look like, dont you? the girl whose reputation he was supposed to have ruined at varsity said to him the day they met. Scott Fitzgerald. My father grins. Those were the days

I did hear something about an engagement, he says into the phone.

Then I expect thats at the bottom of it.

My father smoothes his hand over his hair. Who would I rather look like? he asks the mirror. A drunken Yankee novelist, or what I am, a successful dental surgeon, with a beautiful wife, two children under five and a third on the way?

He turns his head, struck suddenly by the image of a leggy teenager, five years younger than he is, peering at him over the shoulder of one of her brothers. The Tompkins family has been sharing the beach at Raglan with the James clan every summer for as far back as he can remember. At nineteen, a year into his studies at the Otago Dental School, spending the best part of a month with his parents and older married siblings and their noisy offspring was not his idea of a good time. But that was before he spotted Betty James. It hadnt been easy separating her from her posse of brothers, but hed managed it. A walk along the beach, followed by a detour into the sandhills, soon got him what he wanted. It was, as he explained to the brother (Donald?) who caught them kissing, only a bit of fun. Fun! the lout had shouted. Shes fourteen years old!

Ill do what I can, my father promises. Though with all this talk of war He doesnt bother to finish the sentence. What hes thinking is, I wont worry Olive with this. The name James has lost whatever cachet it once had in New Plymouth. Its possible Olives never even heard of the family. The bach at Raglan was sold long before Olive came on the scene.

Who was that? my fathers wife asks when he returns to the sitting room. The wireless, with its distressing predictions, has been switched off. The only sound in the room, apart from the loudly ticking clock on the mantelpiece, is the rhythmic staccato of Olives knitting needles.

Just some Masons business, my father answers. Nothing for you to worry about.