Free Drybread: A Novel by Owen Marshall

the house
eating, or come out to the car, chewing, with other things
on her mind. Yet seated at a table with a meal as the priority,
she had little appetite. 'Not as much as that,' she'd say. 'I'm
passing on the meat today', or 'I've done just the one for
you'. She would sit patiently during the time it took Theo
to finish a full meal, talking a little of the trivial politics of
the university department, or of the plans for the barbecue
area.
    No, no children, although occasionally Theo found
himself turning over names in his mind. Journalists need
to get the name right: they recognise the importance of
names and their pedigree. Hector is a name with a grand,
sad history. It is one of the names he might have given a
son, but perhaps it would have been an imposition. Theo
could imagine the boy being disgruntled, and then, after
Theo had told the story of the Trojans and Achaeans,
becoming enthusiastic about bearing the name of Hector.
    For some time after they sold the house, Theo continued
to feel a certain amount of proprietorial responsibility.
There was a birch tree that overhung the front bedroom
and clogged the spouting there if you didn't get up with
the ladder three or four times a year. Driving past, he saw
that the new owners had neglected to do that, and the water
had backed up and flowed down the wall enough times to
encourage a green stain on the roughcast. At first he felt
the itch to fix the problem, or go in and instruct the new
people, then he became accustomed to it not being part
of his responsibility. For Stella too, he experienced a sense
of obligation that waned only gradually. He knew she'd
struggle with her tax return, but resisted the idea of offering
to do it, and rang with the name of an accountant. He sent
a card for her first birthday following the divorce, and the
first Christmas. He rang when her father became seriously
ill, and later warned her of a virulent new computer virus
when the IT guy at the paper got wind of it. Each of these
contacts was negotiated with civility, but was buffeting
all the same, at least for Theo. Afterwards he would be
for a time emotionally stunned. It was bewildering that
small changes of direction could in the end bring you to
an unsought destination. He still had dreams in which his
marriage was accepted and familiar fact, and woke to find
it was his real life that seemed imagination.
    After the divorce, the recollections of good times shared
gained in lustre and significance, and the issues that had
led to separation became increasingly insubstantial. It was
the natural sentimentalism of a parting, Theo told himself,
and not proof they'd made the wrong decision, yet how
powerful sometimes was the evidence from their shared
past. Theo remembered Stella's surprise gift to him when
he'd been awarded the Wintermann Journalism Fellowship,
which took them to London for six months. She led him
to a narrow shop in Kings Cross, and insisted he try on
the long coats of Italian leather that were top of the range
there. Despite his protests at the cost, she bought for him a
shin-length, belted black coat, the leather of which was soft
as a flannel and as finely wrinkled as the face of an ageing
duchess. Stella called it his French gangster's coat, and
Theo would wear it as they went sightseeing in London.
They would clasp their hands within the pocket of the coat
and squeeze their fingers together in a sign of intimacy and
happiness as they walked. The coat ended up at the far end
of Theo's wardrobe: too opulent to wear, he might have
said, yet knowing its real failing was as witness to a lost
time of happiness.
    Only once after their divorce did Theo meet Stella
with another man, although of course she had male
friends. Theo had been to the Coast for yet another story
on disputed mining rights, and came back over Arthur's
Pass on a hot, Canterbury afternoon, and stopped at
the Darfield pub for a drink. Stella and a tall guy with
a lot of floppy hair were at an outside table.