I thought I'd put up a work in progress here to get any opinions on it that might be forthcoming. Obviously all tedious considerations such as copyright are asserted etc etc.

A View of the Mountain

You could see a lot from the top of the Wanganui tower, even when it was raining. Nicholas and Emily stood peering through the wire-netted railings; at the bridge over the river, and the little grey town beyond it. The concrete under their feet had darkened with the weather, and Nicholas had almost slipped twice on the winding staircase to the viewing platform, cursing the tiled steps and the water blithely cascading down them.

They had arrived that morning by bus, fresh from a disappointing weekend in New Plymouth, spent trying to catch a glimpse of the famous Mount Taranaki. From arriving late on a Friday, in darkness, to their departure on a shrouded Sunday morning, the legendary peak had shown itself only once. Maybe half a mile into a promenade walk around the coastline that passed through industrial neighbourhoods, train tracks and rocky outcroppings overlooking the sea, the clouds had parted, and the white mountain had stood monumental, dominating the flanking curtains of grey. Emily had known what to expect, and was still angry because the weather had ruined her plans to climb it, but Nicholas found himself surprised at how big the dormant volcano looked, and how close, and he had forgotten the next part of his argument to win her back.

Before they got on the bus bound for Wanganui, they had endured a delicious breakfast at their B&B. The lady owner had asked all kinds of questions about their plans as she cut them mangoes and melon to order, and brewed Earl Grey tea and made toast. It had seemed like too complicated a task to explain to her the situation, and Nicholas’ foot was still pulsating agonisingly where he’d kicked the bedroom wall in frustration the previous night. They were fine, she was living in Brighton, and he was hoping to join her as soon as possible. She’d be in New Zealand for another month or two after he went home, and yes, it was a beautiful place, but such a shame about the weather! The first thing that fell apart after a sleepless night for Nicholas was his digestion, and he hadn’t slept at all. He ate very little, and settled the bill with his credit card. The lady’s husband had popped his smiling head around the door, offering them a lift to the bus station as he was doing nothing that morning.

They didn’t speak much at the top of the tower, in contrast to the way they’d joked as they made their way through the tunnel that cut echoing through the cliff face that fenced in the town. He’d found the enthusiasm to hoot and call in the ringing underpass because she smiled as their mingling voices circled and swooped around their heads like birds. Then she’d conspiratorially told him how a girl she’d met had fucked her boyfriend in here late at night, and he went quiet, wondering if she was fantasising about doing the same, and who with. The wind pulled curls of her hair out of the pony tail she’d made to fend off the moisture in the air, and they hung about her forehead, blooming frizzily. Below them a path zig-zagged down the cliff, visible through the canopy of rich green vegetation, grown fat on the rain that flung down from the tower and beyond. Nicholas resolved that as sad as he felt, he wouldn’t feed the greedy, burgeoning plants.

Behind them were hills, so distant that the thick-fibred carpets that covered them might have been trees, or just grass and foliage. Clouds hung low over them, little wispy diadems with descending veils of mist, trailing and vaporous until they touched the fertile ground and gave their blessing to the riot of vegetation that ruled the valley’s swollen contours. The river that had churned so emphatically as they crossed the cast-iron bridge on their way to the tunnel veered away to the left of them, and turned a corner, its escape covered by the looming attention of a muscular hill. Who knew where this thin lash of water wound; through which towns and cities it pumped arterially; which beasts and isolated families relied on it for their survival. Nicholas would have poisoned the river and levelled the hillsides, if only he could figure out how to turn his agony into something emphatic. He turned back to the town, and noticed a little green building below them, on the opposite bank of the river, whose illuminated sign promised ‘Bowling’.

As they’d descended the steps of the bus, they followed the driver who had gone first to fetch their bags out from the compartmented underbelly. As he handed the bags over he had given them a look which told Nicholas that there was nothing to do here on a torrential Sunday morning, that they were mad and should just get back on the bus like good tourists, where the final chords of ‘Just the way you are’ were dying on the PA system. Nicholas would have happily gone with him, as long as Emily had agreed. He’d much prefer to perform the desperate surgery needed on their relationship in slightly familiar surroundings. He’d only spent one tear-sodden night in her apartment, but at least it was full of her things, tiny little anchors that were holding down the world he’d found himself in, like the supernaturally dense black holes that are supposed to stop the universe from flying apart. Of course, she wouldn’t hear of it, he didn’t even suggest it, and she had returned the driver’s cool look with a tense smile and the mechanical crack of her umbrella whomping open.

Nicholas went back to Emily, who hadn’t moved, and stood by her. He didn’t even try to look at her. The wind began to beat against the taut cylinder of the tower, and raced over the open top with glee. Without asking, Emily moved closer to him, and pressed her back against his chest, finding a comfortable nook under his chin where she rested her head, cowering from the cold. Nicholas bent down to kiss the top of her head, a move she greeted with a slight nodding movement, which wasn’t discouraging, but still, she didn’t look at him. Along the banks of the river the lower branches of the trees swept and bobbed and entwined with desperation like the hands of the thronged poor at an almsgiving. They both shivered in thin coats, but Nicholas refused to put his arms around her, and she seemed content to just shelter against him as they scanned the unchanging scene below.

It had been a short walk from the bus stop to the first gaudy awning of the town’s main street. Emily had planned the trip long before Nicholas had decided to join her, to play his final reel, and he had no idea what the place was supposed to be like. As they had turned left down the street, before them was an empty avenue, perhaps half a mile long, ranked with gift shops and cafes and the usual tourist amenities. All of them were built from the same bright red brick, and all the buildings and the pavement and the street looked miraculously clean. A thick gurgling stream of dirty water rushing into a drain at the side of the pavement explained everything to Nicholas; the rain was not exceptional, the place had been scoured. Emily had asked him what he wanted to do, and as she said this she’d started to walk up the street without him, hugging the sides of the buildings, using the overhanging canvas to keep dry. She had expected him to follow, and he saw no reason not to, so they darted from the cover of empty shop-front to empty shop-front, listing songs from memory that were under appreciated, after he had started whistling the Billy Joel tune.

“Maybe you should go home,” she said, letting her fingers hang from the tower’s guardrail.
“I can’t afford to change my flight. Otherwise I would, you know that,” he replied, seeing the wisdom of the idea, but still, not wanting to make this as easy as just waving him off at the airport in Wellington.
“I could pay for you,” she replied, but they both knew she couldn’t, and they fell silent. He wondered if she felt bad for suggesting it, but a lot had changed, and there was a new protective selfishness in her that he’d never known before.

Shop after shop had proved to be closed, thwarting her attempts to buy postcards. She liked to send postcards from every place she visited, whether it was swimming with dolphins or visiting Maori settlements. He had a little pile of them sitting on his desk at home, which he’d have to dispose of eventually. The postcards had been in such contrast to the phone calls, so bland and happy, full of news of discoveries and vivid sights. No discord or accusations; no promises made at five in the morning and presumably regretted as soon as the receiver was replaced some twelve thousand miles away. As she trumpeted in disgust at yet another gift shop sign reading ‘Closed’, Nicholas saw that they were the only people wandering through the town that day.

Raised above the rest of the town was a large stone building, classically styled with a pillared entrance and a smooth cap-like dome. It would have looked absurd against the lush surroundings in sunlight, but looked sombre, like a mausoleum in the murky light. “You know, you wont feel like this forever,” she said, following his gaze to the building that she knew to be the art gallery, that she knew she wanted to visit before their bus left that afternoon.

“I might,” he replied, “but I don’t want to talk about that. I haven’t given up yet.” He heard her sigh arrive like punctuation, and thought that this was her only response, but after a little while, too long, she said:
“You should. I’ve made up my mind.”

After walking all the way up one side of the avenue, avoiding the puddles and peering into dim shop-fronts to see the free-standing racks of postcards that she would never buy, they’d found a coffee shop that was open, and went in to escape the restless downpour. Inside the rooms were low-beamed and clad on three of the four sides by cold metal refrigerated shelves full of drinks and salads and sandwiches. By the girl at the counter there was a selection of cakes under clear plastic covers. The town had seemed so empty; they spent an hour or more cradling cups of hot chocolate and picking at elaborate pastries. Nicholas saw Emily’s enthusiasm begin to wane, and he immediately became wary. She never seemed depressed, it wasn’t her way. He prayed that things wouldn’t get worse, and suggested they take a walk to the river, to see what was on the opposite bank.

“So what are we going to do?” She asked, now moved away from Nicholas in spite of the continuing gusts.

He hadn’t said anything since she’d given her final words. Already after just days he could feel her will to forebear, to be as kind and obliging as she’d been during all the years he’d known her, begin to harden and crack like sun-baked wood. He didn’t want to say anything that would set her off, he wasn’t prepared to douse those flames. “I don’t know. I don’t know what I can do. Do you wish I hadn’t come?”
She paused before answering, again for too long. “Maybe,” she said, and left it hanging between them to catch on the turbulent air and disappear towards the distant, hidden mountain.
“I’ve thought of something we could do,” he said, finally.

The rain had stopped as they’d approached the bridge, and she’d shaken a meek blossom of water off the black nylon umbrella and over the edge of the bridge, into the racing stream below. Before them was a rising path and a sign pointing towards a historical site, which she’d remembered was a tunnel and land elevator. They’d moved towards it, hopeful that it would lead them to the tower they had spotted high above the town as they crossed the bridge. An unlikely folly that might give them the view of the mountain they craved.

“What do you think we should do?” She said, placing her back against the metal railing and looking at him with the suspicious expression she reserved for when he might be making an innuendo, or lying.
He pointed to the right of her head, starting at the green building in the distance, willing her to turn around and follow his direction without any more prompting, but she did not turn. “I think we should go bowling,” he said, defeated.

She smiled, allowing this moment of ambiguity to pass by painlessly. She even took his hand as they stooped back under the low lip of the stairwell, cautioning him to be careful and keep his balance. As Nicholas descended hand in hand with Emily, a step behind on the narrow staircase, he reflected that when he left, there would be a piece of him missing. He wouldn’t leave it in New Zealand, at the top of this tower, and she wouldn’t take it with her, wherever she ended up going. It would just be gone.  ¶ Philip 11:31 PM 10 comments links to this post