Sheer
The net curtains in our front room concede an opaque view of the street beyond, like staring at the world through a shaken cocktail. In Auckland, each time I moved to a new rental, I would carefully remove the net curtains, to be stored, out of sight, in a cupboard, until my final inspection. But, in this house they will stay in place. A gauzy force field to protect us from the glare of marauding teens on the street beyond.
In the provinces, the condition of your net curtains speaks volumes.
These net curtains are too long, bunching up on the floor in useless clouds, gathering dust and cat hair. These net curtains were purchased in bulk, from The Warehouse, without the use of a measuring tape, so long ago that the edges have begun to crumble, taking on the appearance of a heavy smoker; puckered, stained and losing their delicate grip on certainty.
These net curtains were never loved wholeheartedly, just like this house, they are for function, never beauty.
This house, owned by the Ministry of Education, is rented exclusively to teaching staff as a tiny scrump-nugget, used to entice young bodies to rural environs.
Originally the Principal's residence, it comes replete with an office by the front door, leading on from a diffident vestibule. The spectre of many terrified teens hangs thick in the air, caught in the chicken wire safety glass and honey blonde wood veneer.
A school house has a different ambience than a regular rental property. They remain firmly implanted in the 1960’s, updated only in the case of natural disaster or catastrophe. We sit on an island of endless, coarse grass and over-burdened citrus trees.
This morning, I am sitting beside the big tear in our net curtains, staring out beyond an ocean of untended grass. My infant daughter is gurgling happily beside me on her play mat while I drink my third cup of coffee, and watch the teenagers mingle on the street. I can’t help but muse on how different my life has become since I was one of them.
I was once 14, uncomfortable in my new adult body, still nowhere near mature enough to use it. Oh how I wanted those 16 year old boys to notice me. Skirts rolled up at the top to show off our cellulite-free upper thighs. We unbuttoned our polo shirts to give a scant view of our budding cleavage, even those of us who had barely anything to view.
Now I’m watching these girls do the same. Humans are fascinating.
Each morning, I watch the mulletted boys, peacocking across the street while the girls stand in tight circles, chatting furiously. Both groups making it clear they have no interest in the other, like celestial bodies, drawn together by gravity under no power of their own.
Who have I become since I was one of these girls?
I have lived through times of drunken mess. Art school, surrounded by equally confused, but enthused young people. I fucked my way around a big city, hoping to find a physical connection but entirely missing the psychological basis requires to build one. I worked in industry for years, using the skills and connections I gained through my qualifications. So much hard work to climb to the position I so badly desired.
But now I’m here, surrounded by endless gurning toys, and tiny, grasping fingers. I spend my days chatting to a tiny human who can only gurgle in reply. My intellect sitting stagnant in the back of my exhausted mind. And yet, somehow, I am not unhappy. In the simplicity of this life, I have found more fulfilment than my degrees, or one night stands ever afforded me.
Each day Bertie crosses the yawning breadth of the school field to join Madeline and I at home for lunch. We gossip about kids in his classes, their families, their farms, real small town things. He has become friendly with our neighbours, all young ex-Auckland families who would happily BBQ and fish their way through life.
This weekend, Sarah visits. To me she is the last taxi on a stumble-drunk, stormy night. I’m excited to discuss our past and future, to laugh at how the essence of who we are has become so removed from what we intended. To talk about how satiating the solidity of this life has become. To make dinner in our grimey 1960’s kitchen, while we drink wine and dance to early 2000’s jams that make my baby giggle with delight. I never thought simplicity could be so enriching.
After dinner, we drift into the back garden to sit beside a crackling chimenea, drink beers and watch the stars. Matt and Amelia from next-door join us and we discuss the meaning of life, factual errors in Game of Thrones, and which low grade beer is the least terrible; NZ Lager or Flame?
Bertie is on team Double Brown, Matt swears by Lion Red. They all taste like dog piss as far as I’m concerned.
When Sarah and I retire to the kitchen, she asks about Matt. I’ve always found his face oddly familiar, I say.
“You know what?” Sarah says, slurring her words slightly.
“I think he’s Joel’s cousin. Didn’t you take him home after Labyrinth?”
Did I? Could I have slept with him and not remember? Does he also have no recollection of me either? He’s never said anything, or looked at me in any kind of knowing way. Have I changed so much as a person that the connection I had with him from one night of fucking is so shallow, so insignificant, that neither of us recall even a flash of that event? Have my interactions become qualitative rather than wholly quantitative? Gone from living on the surface of my own existence while espousing the rhetoric of deep learned artistic existence, to truly living a life of substance? Who the fuck was I?
While we are talking, I realise Bertie is at the door and could have heard snippets of our conversation. He smiles, kisses my forehead but makes no comment. He grabs more beers and chips and heads back out.
The following day I’m standing at the kitchen sink, looking through the double layered floral cafe style nets. Bertie is chopping wood on a patch of uneven concrete. Beyond him I can see Matt in his garden digging. To the sounds of the rhythmic chopping, I start to wonder if their friendship will sour now Bertie knows of our past.
The irony is not lost on me of how teenage it would be to lose a friendship because of a dalliance so inconsequential that neither of us even recall it happening.
