Valley of Sinners Ch. 01

"Sorry, Maria. Mum's calling me to dinner. I'll see you next week."

"Don't go! Don't go. Oh Nash I love you!"

He terminated the call fast and, perspiring, walked into the small dining room. A splendid meal awaited him.

"Have you been upsetting young women again, you naughty man. I could hear that woman screaming down the phone at you."

"Nah, mum. It was just Maria having a temperamental."

"Oh, Maria Mersey, your procurer?"

With red alert sign flashing before his eyes, Nash automatically slipped into escape mode: he ignored the comment, keeping his eyes downcast and speaking in a matter-of-face tone wondering how she had managed to work that one out!

"It was nothing mum; eat this lovely dinner before it gets cold. I see that C.C. Grierson's summer sale starts on Friday."

Nash sliced into his piece of Butcher Keyes' rump steak looking a very unhealthy shade of puce.

* * *

Driving home on the motorway, as always half-conscious of the many envious stares from passing speedsters with a romantic spot in their hearts for veteran rejuvenated vehicles, Hope was thinking about Nash.

The young stranger enticed her to pay out a $40 bribe to save a $220 penalty payment, so obviously had an immoral kink to his character.

Yeah, just like you for paying the bribe, which is even worst than suggesting such a payment, she sighed. She was glad she'd invited him to afternoon tea as he was rather cute in an unpolished sort of way. What he needed was someone like her with style to develop as a protégé. That would be rather exciting, but he'd no more accept such a preposterous suggestion than she would propose it. It would be interesting if he sent examples of his writing as Hope long ago had spent many years helping to nurture young writers with talent.

Nash slipped from her mind.

Locking the Chevy and then locking the garage doors -- it was the sort of vehicle that is stolen to order -- Hope flicked through the post she'd collected from her mailbox at the roadside before continuing up to the house, her panting terrier sprawled at her feet. The mail was sorted into four piles -- real letters, bills, suspected soliciting mail and outright junk mail. Personal correspondence then received priority -- she put one letter aside and then read two letters from close relatives, another from the Residents' and Ratepayers Association calling for a moratorium on further development of rural land for non-productive lifestyle farmlets and one from her best friend Susan Whitehead on holiday in Tasmania.

After making a cup of coffee, Hope opened the letter set aside which was from her youngest daughter Lisa, an employment consultant working in Sydney.

Lisa is her love but so smothering had Hope been that Lisa elected to go to Australia as soon as she graduated from university. Lisa wrote monthly but despite that falling out now almost three years old, still forbade her mother from visiting her. They exchange Christmas and birthday presents but also on Lisa's list of bans were telephone calls except in emergencies.

Initially Hope had groaned that it was like having a daughter yet not having a daughter, but gradually accepted being isolated from Lisa. Gratefully she'd read and re-reads the long monthly letters. In this letter the only significant news is that Lisa's boyfriend Tim had gone on promotion to work in London and that there's a new man in her life, a department store executive named Ralph. A photograph of the new live-in was enclosed.

It was almost twenty years since Hope stopped smoking, but in moments like this the urge to inhale deeply and exhale the acrid twin blasts through her nostrils returns, yet is rejected. No way is she going to go out and buy a pack of those dreadful cigarettes. She prided herself that she'd kicked that habit. She can't help but worry whenever Lisa finds herself a new partner, being so far away from home beyond easy reach of her mother should she run into trouble.

Hope studied the photograph, coffee mug cupped in her hands. She decided the new boyfriend looks virile, fit and reasonably good looking but at thirty-two was too old for her daughter and his mouth looked cruel. Lisa should be at home where Hope can keep an eye on her.

After dinner and with less than an hour before nightfall, Hope changed into work clothes and went to look at her grape vines spread over six acres, riding her quad bike. In her lonely existence, broken only by the occasional short-stay visitor -- usually a relative -- one of her joys is to inspect her substitute 'children' -- her vines. Now after vigorous growth they are showing bunches of formed grapes that are grown on contract for Te Henui Winery run by the Bronkovic brothers.

A slash of red sunset remains in the darkening sky as Hope returned to the house, with her Jack Russell terrier riding in the rear carrier of the bike. After pouring dog biscuits into a bowl she put Monty out for the night where he knows it's his duty to guard the perimeter of the house. Hope is a little nervous at living alone and often keeps two shotgun cartridges in her pocket for the unloaded gun she keeps behind the door in the kitchen, and another in the garage out of sight, and does so knowing that it's illegal to keep serviceable firearms not under lock and key when not in use. Whenever she is going away from the property Hope locks the guns in a thick steel cabinet.

Each night she loads a shotgun she keeps within hand's reach under her bed. Her father established this practice soon after he'd bought land and built this house; a nasty incident occurred nearby involving a woman who was attacked by an itinerant apple picker passing through the district. So comfortable is Hope about sleeping with a loaded firearm under her bed that when she went to a conference at Masterton and walked into the hotel carrying the shotgun, the woman behind the reception counter shrieked and fainted. Hotel security comprising the absent manager's very slight wife and a cook with a meat cleaver persuaded Hope to hand over the weapon for the duration of her visit. She did so quite unconcerned, but only after removing the two cartridges.

Hope had given up saying prayers before jumping into bed when aged about ten. But in the tradition of her father, the last thing she does at night is to switch to the weather channel on television and check on the latest forecast for the district. This is now accomplished on a smart small television set that Lisa had couriered to her from Hope's local home appliance dealer some five months ago for Hope's forty-seventh birthday.

Drifting off to sleep the image of one of her current occasional lovers came into Hope's mind, and then faded to be replaced with the face of the young man she'd met earlier that afternoon. Run along, Mr Carson, pick someone nearer to your own age, she murmured.

Shortly after eight-thirty each morning except Sundays, Hope and Monty walk briskly down to the roadside, clear the mailbox and return to the house where Hope sorts through the booty while Monty has a piece of sheep liver or ox heart, the later being his favourite food except for fresh rabbit -- rabbit he catches on the run. He'd come home bloodied, from such a kill, knowing to stay outside the house until being hosed down. Hope doesn't mind this ritual as the eager little fellow gets the occasional rabbit too clever to wait until she throws up her shotgun.

On this particular mail sort she initially thought she'd received two of her shopping catalogues -- the only ones she bothered with were Bloomingdales in New York, Harrods in London and Galeries la Fayette in Paris. But instead the two publications were fashion magazines printed in Australia.

Attached to one was a brief note:

'To The Queen of the Road Herein are two of my published articles. Enjoy. Nash'

Oh, good boy, thought Hope. Several days later than she'd expected, but at least he'd done it. My God, a published writer! She'd assumed he'd only write stories as an exercise to keep his mind occupied as an elixir to boredom.

Being called Queen of the Road puzzled her until it clicked: the boy -- young man, actually -- had a thing about the Chevy. The vehicle was called Rupert, named after the red English pedal car she had as a child. Pity about that, he'd never learn about that oddity in naming as the dumb cluck had not enclosed an address.

There is a half-page letter from her eldest, Claris in Christchurch, mentioning that her sister had come up from Dunedin for their father's fiftieth, and everyone enjoyed the big party. Anthony had given his partner Bert a gold watch to mark his milestone birthday.

"Bert is looking fine, mum."

So, it was Bert now? My, haven't we got familiar about father! Although Claris wrote two or three times a year, neither mother nor daughter exchanged personal intimacies although Claris continued to address her as mum. Recalling the divorce arising from her adulterous and child-bearing affair, Hope thought sadly, God, how stupid sex drive can get one into catastrophic trouble!

That bastard Michael had promised he'd always wear protection but had let her down, causing her to lose her husband and two daughters, with only one of those daughters still communicating regularly and even that line appeared to be hanging by a thread. To top it off Michael was a very average lay, anyway. Their four-month affair ended a month after Bert and her two daughters departed, with Michael screaming at her one evening, calling her a stupid bitch for getting pregnant. Michelle his wife had learned about the affair and was threatening divorce, but Michael eliminated that threat by buying the aggrieved Michelle a new car. He left that night, never to return to Hope.

The next morning she'd wakened, feeling a big load had lifted, thinking, well, goodbye Michael and hullo the beautiful baby you fertilised for me. At least you did that chore perfectly!

Wiping her eyes and then making a cup of coffee, Hope took the two magazines to the table on the deck facing the morning sun. It's a time of day she loves as the day breeze is not yet up, birds are still lively tongued and distant sounds of farming are carried by the soft air. In the city, the morning rush hour is peaking, and she had all this! It is Paradise to be appreciated. God, I'm a bit emotional this morning, she thought; must be about time to get one of the fellows over to entertain me.

The first magazine deals with all aspects of lifestyle, and the short story by Nash Carson with a dishy studio photo of him, is featured as 'it reveals many things that most travellers don't know'.

Right, Mr Dishy Nash, let's read how you bullshit around that extravagant claim; surprise me, as I'm a seasoned traveller.

It is a story about a computer geek and her travelling companion, the company's sales manager. The computer woman knows almost everything worth knowing about computerisation, from camera phones to forensic recovery of vital information on corrupted computer discs. Her companion knows about people, what motivates them, how they can be influenced against their better judgement and how to extract money from them both legitimately and painlessly. Both women are bright, sassy and highly paid executives, being front-runners in their field of expertise. Their company has commissioned them to wiz around the world in three weeks, picking up ideas and trends in their respective fields that will help make their employer make more money, lots of it.

The real difference between the two women proved to be the sales executive knows some of the inner secrets of travelling. Hope had to admit she learned something. For example the conversations between the inexperienced and very experienced traveller provided gems such as these:

Airline upgrades: Walk up to the counter at the final assembly point, beautifully dressed and looking lovely, and request with great confidence, "Could we both be upgraded please." Say nothing more. Your audacity may throw the airline representatives unless they are very experienced in dealing with such a brazen approach. Whatever, you will be told something like, "I'm sorry, the limited number of upgrades available have been taken." Look unfazed and say. "Well then, I'll have to report to our company's leading travel agency to book our personnel with one of your competing airlines in future." The representative may say, "Just a minute, I'll check again," or allow you both will walk back to your seats which you should locate as close as possible to the travel desk. From there you will see glances thrown your way as various staff confer and soon one of them may come over to you. Expect to score up to forty per cent success if your technique is good, even higher if you are appear supremely confident and are totally disdainful in expression telegraphing that you are a seasoned traveller who is not the sort of person to be treated like a piece of luggage.

Unsafe water: This is a problem in many countries, which is one reason why the rich or the well-resourced travel the world staying at American or European-run hotels. Only clean your teeth and gargle in imported bottled water or sodas, even gin is great. Don't even eat salads in street cafes as lettuce is washed in tap water or, in remote areas, water pulled from wells. When booking hotels, ask if they totally treat the hotel's water supply -- even the shower and bath water; your stomach will appreciate your thoughtfulness.

Booking show or concert tickets: Don't join queues at major city theatre ticket bureaus as you may wait four or even six hours to reach the multiple venues booking office. Try buying tickets at the theatre itself the day before the event, even when the theatre is filling. Cancellations and no-shows are inevitable. But spare yourself the fuss, use an agency to book your tickets in the city you've decided to see; they hold tickets for late-thinkers like you who are prepared to pay a premium price.

Factory Shop Tours -- Local Markets: Rather than go on an over-priced commercial tour of factory shops in really foreign countries try to find a taxi driver who speaks English (a test: "What is your mother's name; what does it mean in English?"). Negotiate a sharp price for a three-hour hire to be taken to "very good shops where local people buy luxury goods at very good prices -- much lower than tourists pay" and/or "take me to markets tourists don't know about where local people like you buy the best food and best goods." During negotiations you of course promise to give a good tip for excellent service. The outing could be a tad disappointing, but the potential for real adventure is high.

Hope finished the absorbing story well pleased. Clever boy, she mused, having enjoyed the flow of the writing, characterizations and very interesting dialogue. And well researched because I'd wager as you are virtually unemployable for reasons that puzzle me, you have done little or no travelling.

The second short story was one of two pieces of fiction in the second magazine, and Hope concluded that it was difficult to judge which one she preferred. She awarded that honour by a nose to the first writer, a well-known Australian female novelist. Both stories ended leaving her moist-eyed. The novelist's story was about a highly successful couple in Melbourne who leave their jobs in finance to launch a business called The Lipstick Shop. Though specialising in lip coatings the shop also sells moisturisers, face creams, anti-ageing potions and other items -- all related to facial treatments. Business booms and people rush to buy franchises. The story ends with the party to celebrate the signing up of their first five franchisees. During the celebrations the entrepreneurial partnership ends with the female collapsing and dying in her husband's arms from an aneurysm.

'A very taboo subject handled with great sensitively' is the 'kicker' above the main heading over Nash's story.

The story begins with a fairly vivid description of a couple in their early twenties having sex on the lakefront lawn of a New Zealand bach -- the lawn being rather secluded. That evening a big row erupts and the couple decide to go their separate ways.

It is then revealed that the couple are brother and sister.

The story resumes eight years later when the siblings are reunited at the funeral of their parents, victims of a motor vehicle accident. Initially they remain aloof but as the day wears on the barrier between them begins lowering, until sitting in the church waiting for the service to begin her hand reaches out for him; he sees it and reciprocates, but after a brief clasping his sister's hand is withdrawn. During a moving eulogy by a family friend, the sister weeps, becoming almost inconsolable. Her brother moves along the pew and embraces her, and immediately her near-wailing reduces to heaving sobs as she clutches him, burying her face against his shoulder and chest.

They stand, waiting for the organ introduction to finish before joining the congregation to sing 'The Lord is My Shepherd'.

"Let's bring out families together," he whispers.

She nods, eyes shining through her grief and they hold hands.

Their respective spouses on the other side of them look delighted at hearing the whispered affirmation: The excommunication of the siblings, based on a reason or reasons unknown to them, has ended.

Hope dries her eyes, smiling. What a brave boy to write a story like that and have the confidence to try to find a publisher. A thought hit her like a brick smashing against a plate glass window as she looked at the contact details of the writer at the base of the article. Hope tends to act on instinct and she is not afraid to take risks so picked up the phone and dialled his phone number.

"Nash, it's Hope here. Where are you?

"In the toilet."

You take your mobile into the toilet?" she cannot help but ask.

"Yes, I have just been checking calls. I'm off to a movie and running out of time."

"Oh, you are about to leave to see a movie. That is quite understandable."

"Why are you phoning?"

"Well, I've read your two short stories that you sent me. Thank you for doing that, I was most impressed. Nash, will you do something for me -- will you come and stay the weekend with me?"

"Do you think that is proper -- you live alone?"

"Oh Nash, we are adults. What does it matter that we will be alone in the same house? I am old enough to be your mother."

"Okay."

"Right then. You have my address -- get a cab on Friday afternoon and I will pay the fare."

Nash asked why would she want to do that?

"You are my guest, Nash, for Christ sake. You don't have a car, nor does your mother according to what you told me in the café, so I'm arranging rapid transport for you -- I can afford it. The alternative will be you taking a bus, changes buses at least twice and then getting a taxi for the last stage as only tourist and school buses come along our road."

He said okay.

"Good, that's settled. At least we have one thing in common: we can communicate. Now, if a flying bundle of terror comes your way as you get out of the cab, call 'Down Monty!' in a firm, authoritative voice. He's a well trained doggie. But Nash, make sure you give the right command otherwise you are liable to have your masculine apparatus ripped from you body."

"I don't know about this; do you think saying that will work?"

"Yes, Nash -- just say 'Down Monty!' Very firmly and you will be fine. His growl is really bigger than his bite. I'm expecting you around mid afternoon."

Hope put down the phone feeling very excited. Nash will be her first house guest -- as distinct from male one-nighters -- she's had for two years who was not a relative.

She thinks about food; he lived with his mother so would be used to home cooking. I'll hop down to the village and buy a roast and all the trimmings and then bake an apple pie and then we can have cheese and crackers and.... No, it will be Friday night so I'll take him to the golf club for dinner.