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The-Year-Of-Falling-Ebook Proof1.Pdf The year of falling Theyear of falling janis freegard This book is copyright, apart from any fair dealing as permitted under the Copyright Act, and no part may be reproduced without permission from the publisher. A catalogue record for this book is available from the National Library of New Zealand © Janis Freegard 2015 isbn 978-0-9941065-7-5 First published 2015 Cover image: ‘Falling’ by Gillian Buckley www.gillianbuckleyartist.com Cover design: Mākaro Press Book design: Paul Stewart Editor: Mary McCallum Printed by Printstop, Wellington MĀkaro Press, po box 41 032 Eastbourne New Zealand www.makaropress.co.nz Our books speak for themselves To everyone who’s ever fallen Prologue was not expecting this. An unpreventable shriek escapes my I mouth when I open the front door and see her. She’s lying on my porch, pale and stiff in her cardboard coffin. Dew’s formed on her cold, little face. I’m not Catholic, but have a sudden urge to make the sign of the cross. For several seconds I’m riveted to the doorstep. Eventually, I steel myself to lift her and take her inside. There’s no real alternative. I hold her at arm’s length, still in her box. Her face is a baby’s, but hard, ceramic. There’s a heavy scratch on her right cheek. She’s wearing an old-fashioned nightdress. White cotton, a little grubby. The lace around the hem is torn. I don’t want to touch her. ‘Where have you come from?’ I ask out loud, doing my best to control the tremor in my voice. ‘Who brought you here?’ There’s something sinister about dolls, their not-quite-human faces. All through my childhood, I refused to play with them. If anyone tried to hand me one, I’d shut my eyes tightly and pretend it wasn’t there. Presents from well-meaning relatives who didn’t know the score were discreetly removed, never to be seen again. Instead, my toys were building blocks and jigsaws: safe, square things that didn’t have faces. We went to stay with my Aunty Vi once, Dad’s younger sister. She’d left a doll out on the bedside table for me. Meaning well, I’m sure. It was an antique porcelain thing, not unlike this one, but in better condition. They’re the worst. I couldn’t sleep, knowing its lifeless eyes were boring into me. Finally, I gathered the courage to throw my dressing gown over it, but its presence remained. Event- ually exhaustion overtook me, but I woke in the night, screaming until Aunty Vi took it away. A few years back, I went to a screening of that old Barbarella movie with Jane Fonda in it, and had to walk out. Dozens of dolls were biting into her bare legs with their vicious little teeth. Everyone else in the theatre was laughing but I just couldn’t stand it. There’s a word for it, apparently: pediophobia. Not to be confused with pedo phobia which is the fear of children. Though if you listened to my stepmother, you’d think I had that too: Me and your dad would love a grandchild. One day. But for now, she’s just going to have to wait. Selina t starts with a cocktail. The night of my twenty-ninth birthday. ITim promised me he’d fly down from Auckland, but he’s reneged. This long-distance relationship business isn’t working out so well. I phone Bailey; she’s always been a party girl. When we met in our first year of uni, she was standing in the bucket fountain drinking red wine from a bottle. ‘Girls’ night out?’ I say. ‘Bugger! I said I’d go out with my flatmates.’ ‘It’s my birthday,’ I tell her. Playing the sympathy card. I don’t want to spend the evening alone. ‘Oh, right. Happy birthday.’ She’s forgotten. I didn’t expect her to remember. ‘Well, look, why don’t you meet up with us in town. We’re going to – oh my god! You look gorgeous!’ This is not me she’s talking to. Who knows who she’s talking to. Bailey can never concentrate on one thing for long. ‘So, you’re going where?’ I ask. ‘Where are we going?’ she yells, presumably to whomever’s looking gorgeous. ‘You are rocking those boots, girl.’ Again, not me. ‘Hey – look, Selina, I’ll text you when we get there, okay?’ ‘Yeah, okay.’ It’ll be good to see Bailey. She’s fun. Reminds people of a younger Cameron Diaz, the Charlie’s Angels version. Tim used to tell me I reminded him of Keira Knightley, but I don’t see it myself. I zip myself into the Vivienne Westwood Union Jack dress I treated myself to – cost a packet but hey, I’m worth it – and open the bottle of bubbly I was hoping to share with Tim. A little pre- loading never hurts. Then, as soon as I get Bailey’s text, I order a cab for the party end of town. I love the way this city buzzes. The crowds, the antici pation. The hope that something might happen. I love the way people throng through the streets, following the rush, pouring into bars and out again like a thick syrup. I love that feeling of being part of something bigger than myself, everyone coming together in some primal celebration of life. I’m running with the pack, simultaneously connected and free. It’s Saturday night, it’s summer and it’s my birthday, dammit. I’m not giving Tim a second thought. There’s a pub to suit everyone on Courtenay Place: grand three- storey ones with pool tables, intimate retro ones. Street level, upstairs, underground. DJs, live Irish bands, the latest dance tracks, eighties nostalgia. Bailey and her flatmates know how to enjoy themselves. Each bar blurs into the next until we find one playing music we can dance to. ‘Time for shooters,’ I yell, over the thumping beat. ‘What d’you fancy?’ ‘Anything with tequila,’ Bailey shouts back. She’s chatt ing away to some people she’s just met. She’s always been like that; drunk or sober, she’ll talk to anyone. I squeeze my way through the hordes. The most beautiful man in Wellington is standing at the bar. He makes a space so I can cut in front of him. ‘Celebrating?’ he asks. He looks like a film star. No. A god. Perfect face, perfect body, expensive clothes. A dark- haired Norse god. Like one of The Almighty Johnsons. ‘It’s my birthday.’ ‘You should save me a birthday kiss,’ he says. And he winks. I’ve always been a sucker for men winking at me. After that, it seems that every time I go up to the bar, he’s there too and we snatch a few moments of conversation. I notice he has a gold sleeper in one ear – pirate-style. I start to feel happy. Really happy. As though little bubbles of joy are surging through my veins and leading me to a state where nothing matters. I knock back another shooter and join the heaving mass on the dance floor. The music swallows me. I feel great; Tim doesn’t know what he’s missing. Time bends and curves when you’re in a bar. I lose track of it until I hear someone yelling close to my ear. ‘Come on, birthday girl, the bar’s closing.’ It’s Bailey; she’s got her coat on. ‘Let’s share a cab.’ ‘We’ve only just got here.’ I look around. ‘Where are your flatmates?’ ‘They left ages ago. Home time, Selina. Yeah?’ I shake my head. ‘I’m staying.’ ‘You can’t. They’re turfing everyone out.’ ‘Don’t care.’ Bailey shrugs. ‘Suit yourself.’ I turn my back to her. The music stops, but I keep dancing. Then he’s at my side, the man from the bar. ‘I know a place that does excellent cocktails,’ he says. ‘Birthday treat.’ ‘Aren’t the bars all closed?’ I’m doing my best to enunciate clearly. He taps the side of his nose. ‘I know people.’ I think about Tim for a second or two. Then I follow the beautiful stranger into the night. Outside he puts his arm around me and I lean into his shoulder. I ask his name. ‘Guess.’ I try to focus on his face. ‘Thor,’ I decide. He really is breathtakingly good-looking. Even more so when he smiles. ‘God of Thunder. Why not?’ ‘And for tonight I’m Freya,’ I tell him. ‘I get to choose half the slain warriors from the battlefields.’ Why shouldn’t I be the Norse Goddess of Love? Perhaps he’s a birthday gift. Someone the Fates have sent me, to celebrate with. One more year before I’m thirty. I’m still young. I still have – possibilities. Thor takes Freya to a small, emptied bar at the end of a corridor where the bartender greets him enthusiastically and proceeds to make them a teapot cocktail that he pours into delicate china cups. It tastes of summer. Thor leans across the table to move a strand of Freya’s hair out of her eyes. Something starts to build inside her, some sort of need. When Thor’s friend finally tells them it’s time to go, god and goddess spill into the alleyway outside the bar. The first rays of dawn are pushing into the night.
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