Rabbithole

The rain fell like soft voices all night. Every time he woke, conscious of the empty bed beside him, it was whispering outside his window. And he woke often, still wondering why his wife had left in pursuit of this particular rabbit hole, even though he'd tried to block his worries out with a late night TV thriller and a whiskey. He should have turned it off but he hadn't wanted to go early to a lonely bed, even though he was tired from driving Carol to the Picton ferry.

He checked the time. She'd be setting off for Auckland soon after a night in Wellington on her new friend's couch. Some of them had been at the ferry terminal, greeting each other with hugs and in-jokes, ignoring him. He'd watched Carol become absorbed into the brightly coloured, noisy crowd, leaving him for this flock of parakeets long before the boarding call was made. He could picture them now, a vanload of laughing women like a school outing, and he hoped the driver would keep her eyes on the road.

He got up and put the kettle on. One cup and one teabag felt strange after years of bringing her that first cup of tea in bed. By the same token, he'd have to make his own breakfast after milking.

Last time she did this had been shocking – that word they used these days, 'unprecedented'. He'd watched the news day after day, sometimes wishing the police would grow a spine and break the whole thing up, then hoping they'd go easy and not let his Carol get hurt. It didn't look like New Zealand at all but some mad thing from the US, or France where they did protest in spades.

The last days had him beside himself. When she finally called, she assured him she was safely out of it in a campervan up the coast, sponging off the long-suffering iwi, but at least she was safe. When she went on about what a caring, loving crowd she was with and how the atmosphere was like one of those hippie rock festivals, he'd wanted to shout at her, 'Didn't you see the nooses in the trees? The murderous slogans on the steps? Didn't you hear them baying for the blood of our elected representatives as if the democracy they said they wanted was only about them? Didn't you see, for crying out loud, that they burnt a children's playground and threw rocks at the police?' But of course, by the time it had come to that she and her mates had wisely scarpered. He didn't say any of that, just, 'Come home soon, Love, I miss you.'

Should he have been more forceful? When she did get home after another week of camping up the coast, and who could blame her, that part did sound nice, they barely talked about it and just got on with the day to day. She knew he loved her and this is where she belonged. Didn't she?

But almost a year to the day, off she went again. It's as if the crowd from the year before had been looking for another cause to get outraged about. He certainly hadn't noticed hoards of trannies – are you allowed to call them that these days? - barging into the women's loos but what would he know? Another Facebook group, another plan, another protest. He took her to the ferry because he wanted to show he cared but he was thinking, 'Dear God, not again.'

At one stage it looked as though the rally would be off and he breathed a sigh of relief. But no, they were going anyway and sure enough the woman was allowed into the country to preach her poisonous nonsense and rark everyone up.

He poured the dregs of his tea down the sink and rinsed his cup. The cows were waiting. And he'd be here when Carol got back, whenever that might be, and no doubt he'd say nothing till the next time she was filled with outrage and zeal and he'd drive her off to wherever she needed to go.