Some people can live with silence. Gaps in conversation, or the complete absence of talk seem as natural as the stream of words so necessary for others. I'm one of those who'll happily sit on the fringe of a group, saying nothing, waiting for the next comment or question to bubble to the surface. If it takes a few minutes that's a little more time to think about life. Something happens during those quiet spells.
- My friend Dave, he's different. If there's a lull in the conversation he'll shift in his seat and pluck at a stray thread, or the cuff of his jersey, as if seeking the strand of an idea. Then he'll come up with one of his sayings. It's not that Dave doesn't like silence. He just likes to give it a theme. We'll be having a beer at the car club, sitting around one of those polished wood coffee tables. The talk will stop, like we've all said everything we have to say and we're just waiting for a bit of inspiration. Then Dave'll chip in with something like 'We're all strangers in the end', or 'We come with nothing, we go with nothing.' The guys will look at Dave, then sip their beer, pausing to notice the bubbles rising or the pattern of froth. It's like Dave's presented us with a little meditation, a thought for the day, and we'll just sit there with it.
It was Dave who got Steve involved in the car club. He was at a swap meet, and Steve was looking for parts for his Mercury Meteor, a 1963 custom 4-door, with a grinning front grill like a row of shark's teeth. Steve had rebuilt the car from bare metal. It was painted a sparkling metallic blue, with whitewall tyres and a lavish interior, soft velour with added details, a row of blue lights across the dash, and a blue crystal grip on the gear shift. Steve showed Dave his album of photographs, from the time he bought the car as a dusty wreck with grass growing through the floor, to installing the sports suspension and chrome universal joint on the drive shaft. There were photographs at the Bethell's quarry, the faultless lines of the Merc stark and sharp against the savage face of rock. There were others; at beaches, rounding a bend in the Waipoua forest, against a backdrop of tussock and snow on the Desert Road, parked under a pine tree at the Whangamata camping ground. Steve had been everywhere in that car. Steve and Dave flicked through the photographs once, then again, slowly. Steve explained all the details, the time he overheated coming over the Brynderwyns, passed a cop doing 140 on the Matamata straight, dragged a Japanese kid at the lights in Pakuranga. They became transfixed by a long shot of the Merc shimmering through a heat haze at the back of Hastings. The Merc seemed to shift on the page, coming closer but always with a long stretch of road ahead.
- 'The freedom of the open road,' said Dave.
- That about sums things up with Dave. You can count on him to come out with something right when you thought there was nothing to say.
- Dave and I go out driving, sometimes in our own cars, sometimes together. I took him on the Helensville rally. Dave came with me because his car was stripped, ready for a repaint. We'd been up to Kaukapapa, spent an hour at the pub, and we were on the way back. The car was running smoothly. All I could hear was the hum of the tyres and a tiny clicking noise if we got over a hundred. I made mental note to adjust the tappets before the next cruise. Just out of Helensville the road straightens and there's a long flat stretch running abreast of the railway line. The late sun caught the windows of the farmhouses, shooting flashes of copper and gold at us. A few people were putting finishing touches to the day, a last feed for the horses, checking the gates. We eased up behind a tractor that pulled out on to the road. When I wound the window down to signal that we were slowing, a grassy breeze flooded the car.
- 'The rush of the wind,' said Dave.
- It wasn't much, just another of Dave's observations. He didn't say anything for the rest of the trip back to Auckland. All the way down the northwestern we could hear wind squeezing through the door seals and beating against the windscreen, and somehow it was all part of a conversation Dave started back up the road. It was enough for Dave, and it was enough for me too.
- It was cancer that got Steve. We didn't notice anything wrong, but there was a rogue cell loose somewhere inside him. It took him quietly at first, then faster until it sucked all the colour from his skin and left him pale and wasted. The last time I saw Steve was when Dave and I called at the hospice. He was sitting in a chair, with a blanket over his legs. There was a picture of the Merc on the wall, and one at the Kumeu car show, with Steve leaning on the fender. I wouldn't have recognised him, only he waved at us when we came in. He let his hand drop to the arm rest, then he leaned back and closed his eyes. We sat there for a while, and Dave told him about the Helensville rally, how he was giving the Falcon a new paintjob for Kumeu next year, and it was off the road for a while. Steve nodded, then closed his eyes again, and the nurse said he's very tired, he's been sleeping a lot. We both said goodbye, but I don't think Steve heard us.
- We made our way through the foyer, filled with the breath of lilies, bathed in colours from the leadlight windows. A thick carpet swallowed our footsteps and it was a shock to step into the din of the afternoon.
- 'The sounds of life,' said Dave, and I knew what he meant.
- The club put on a good show for Steve. The hearse was a Chev Impala, and we all turned out with our cars polished, the club banner at half mast on our aerials. We tried to make a reasonable cortege, but the traffic in Auckland doesn't stop for much, not even a funeral. By the time we got to Snapper Rock we were back in line, so in the end Steve got the send-off he deserved.
- There's not much you can say once it's all over. We buried Steve, lowered his coffin into the ground, and we each threw a handful of sticky clay on top. Then we headed back to the club rooms for a cup of tea, or something stronger. Dave came with me. We waited until everyone had gone, the familiar rumble of the V8s fading as the car park emptied. By the time we pulled out we could see an unbroken line of cars in front of us, chrome and glass catching the last of the sun. I had to admit, it was impressive.
- 'The joys of motoring,' said Dave.
