The Paua Tower (12 page)

From the pulpit, Roland searched among the felt hats for Stella. Ever since her visit on Thursday morning he had tormented himself with what he should or shouldn’t do. Lal was unequivocal in her support of remaining silent. When she spoke, Lal’s words seemed to Roland to be sensible and right, but as soon as he was alone doubt assailed him. A crime had been committed — surely
his silence was tantamount to complicity? Hadn’t he even allowed the evidence to be buried on church property? He had a
responsibility
to take action. And then there was Mrs Morgan. What of infection, complications? Shouldn’t she be seeing a doctor? If she died would it be his fault? Twice Roland had started out,
determined
to see her, talk to her, but each time he had got no further than the corner of Constance Street when he had turned back. Mrs Morgan was an occasional parishioner — in fact he’d done no more than shake her hand on a few occasions — so how could he knock on the door and say … say what? Distress had brought on one of Roland’s headaches. He’d spent Friday with his head thumping like someone beating a carpet, and indecision chasing round and round.

Roland had been giving a series of sermons on Jesus and his encounters with people. This week it was the woman taken in adultery. Working on the sermon, sitting with a cold flannel on his head thinking about what he would say, brought a decision about Stella. Roland imagined himself like Jesus writing in the dust, apparently not paying any attention to the proceedings, and then at the critical moment speaking of mercy rather than law. There was no need to condemn what Mrs Morgan had done, but there was no reason to condone it either. Once Roland had come to this conclusion his spirits lifted. He looked out of his study window at the mountain and saw how bright and well scrubbed it was.

Two rows from the back in the middle of a pew sat Stella. She was wearing a soft hat and the light from the coloured window touched the shiny hatpin, making a glittering mark on her head. Roland felt a swoop of relief. She was here; she had trusted him not to betray her.

‘In the name of God the father, God the son and God the Holy Ghost,’ said Roland as he began his sermon.

Stella wasn’t listening; she was looking at the stained-glass window of the Virgin Mary at the foot of the cross and thinking
of her own mother. Peg had been up the very next morning after the miscarriage and never rested or sat down, though Stella had told Doug that Peg wasn’t well and needed to take things easy. She looked white and tired but Peg said it was just the loss of blood and in a week or so she’d be right as rain. Stella doubted it. She wished she could get her mother some good steak mince or a tonic but she shrank from using her emergency fund, fearful that spending it now would leave her penniless in a greater emergency.

Stella hadn’t wanted to come to church that day. She felt uncertain in spite of Lal’s assurances, angry and embarrassed about Roland and what she’d say to him when she came out after the service and he was at the church door. Yet she felt drawn to come, to say a prayer for her mother and the little creature now buried near the buddleia bush in the graveyard. A prayer said in church seemed better somehow, as if God’s hearing was more acute when you spoke to him in his own house. Stella’s gaze slipped down the window to the war memorial side panel depicting St George as a blond youth, his armoured heel tentatively on the dragon’s neck. Stella fancied that the fiery golden saint had the look of her
sweetheart
. To her bitter disappointment Vic hadn’t been able to come that weekend, as he’d got some work over at the cinema. Vic had drawn a picture on the postcard. It showed him with his face like a lightbulb and his hair sticking out in wiggly lines. Underneath it said, ‘You light up my life.’ Stella knew she could never tell Vic about Peg, but after the shock and the blood, the horror of it all, she craved his comforting solidity, the reassurance of his arms around her, the feel of his shabby jacket against her face.

Jack Baldwin came to church only occasionally and always
deliberately
ignored the sermon. It was not that he actively disagreed with what was said; more that he felt the clergy and most of the
congregation
missed the point. Religion for him was like riding a bicycle: a knack, or way of being, which, once mastered, was never forgotten. You either had it or you didn’t. It arrived as revelation,
a totally random caller in the mind, and all this pious explaining and preaching was no help whatsoever; there was no way you could be talked into faith. Jack had gone to the war an agnostic; he came back a believer, though in what exactly he found it hard to say. All he knew was that he had seen the world invisible and nothing in life was ever the same again.

Now, like Stella, Jack was also looking at the St George. Jack’s glance travelled over the gorgeous saint and down to the group of soldiers depicted in the corner. The men were climbing up a small bluff, bare-headed boys waving forage caps, swinging rifles.

They came to him in a blur of recognition. There was Owen, the corporal from Featherston, and Mayhew with the red hair, and Addison who’d befriended the dog. Jack could feel the rough texture of their tunics, the man smell of sweat-drenched
battle-dress
, the slight hiss of their breathing. He was with them, moving forward over ground pockmarked with holes. Artillery shells soared and pounded; machine-guns spat their lethal cargo. Gongs rang in the trenches. There were shouts. ‘Gas!’ Jack pulled his respirator off his shoulder and rammed it on his head. Quick, quick: he had only eighteen, twenty seconds. In the woozy glass eyes of the mask he could see it coming. A greenish yellow cloud. A scarf of colour muddying the day.

Beyond, out of the murk, streamed hundreds of figures, their heads and faces covered, huge bills protruding. They were
creatures
from hell running towards them, light menacing on naked bayonets. Could these be men?

Jack heard a bullet strike Owen. The corporal whimpered and fell. There was a thump close against Jack’s head, his respirator hit. Leaking. The world began to pitch and sway. Jack’s throat was a furnace, the skin of face and neck melting; there was not enough air, each inhalation a hook searching for a ratchet that wasn’t found. ‘Air, oh please, God, air.’

Darkness fell out of the sky on jagged wings, a giant bird obliterating the sun. It covered you like a curtain or blanket. You
took a breath and sucked and sucked and there was nothing, only the bare sides of the abyss.

Tad, who was beside his father in the pew, saw him sway. The boy hated it when Jack went funny like this. Tad knew it was something to do with the war, which made his father strange at times. It was embarrassing, frightening. It was as if Jack knew and could see something other people only guessed at. What it was, Jack would never say, just he would never say how many Huns he’d killed in France, or why he’d been given the medal that he kept hidden in the drawer of his compactum as if it were some shameful thing.

‘Dad,’ said the boy, catching his father’s sleeve.

‘Air,’ gasped Jack again.

‘Ssh,’ hissed Tad, pointing at the pulpit.

Jack was at the place where darkness fell to light. He was alone; the men who clutched his belt as he led them on had dropped away like overripe grapes yielding up a stem. He stumbled forward, knowing he must go on. Light lay on the horizon like a knife, an opening blade, swinging an arc of
brightness
through the void. There was a swash of moving colour — figures drifted with it, marvellous glowing figures with helmets and wings. Jack felt himself floating upwards out of the gloom. There was no gravity; the winged figures were all about him. They flashed and flamed, their bodies clothed in the brilliance of
phosphorescent
scales. He was in an aquarium of outrageously brilliant fish. His head was full of bubbles. Jack felt happy, peaceful, full of joy. Everything was as it should be; all was well.

A
s she walked to work Stella was thinking of knitting. The mountain glowed gently pink in the morning sun on the other side of the road, beyond the Domain on the corner of Christie Street, and she could see the Paua Tower far off like a stick of lavender. She had bought an old jersey at the St Peter’s fête and had unravelled it with the intention of making herself a cardigan, but she now decided to knit something for Vic instead. She hoped he wouldn’t mind her using old wool. Gertie had made a jersey for her boyfriend and had lent Stella the pattern. The picture showed a spiv with brilliantined hair and a moustache. Stella thought Vic much better looking.

There was the swish of wheels behind her. A car stopped and Maguire called out cheerfully, ‘Want a lift, Stella?’

‘Thanks,’ she said, embarrassed to be offered a lift by the boss.

‘Hop in,’ said Maguire, waving the cigarette he held in one
hand. He was wearing a double-breasted, midnight-blue
herringbone
suit with very wide shoulders. Stella had never seen a real person dressed like that before, though she had seen pictures in magazines.

‘I’m heading for the Works myself,’ Maguire continued, ‘and I want to talk to you anyway.’

Stella got into the car. She hadn’t been in many cars in her life and the Buick, with its walnut dashboard and leather upholstery, seemed very grand.

‘Pretty toney car, eh?’ said Maguire, his elbow on the open window edge as they drove off.

Stella smiled and nodded.

‘Bet you think I’m a lucky blighter,’ said Maguire.

‘Never really thought about it,’ said Stella truthfully.

‘Point is, just about anyone could have a car like this, nice house, overseas trips, whatever.’ Maguire went on, waving his
cigarette
for emphasis. ‘All it needs is a bit of gumption. I’ve no time for all this whingeing and running to the government wanting handouts. If you want something, you go out and get it. You’ve got to be optimistic. That’s what I want to talk to you about. Something I want you to do.’

‘Me?’ said Stella, flabbergasted that there was anything he could want from her.

‘Yes, you, sweetheart. See this town? Shops boarded up, blokes on the dole, long faces, and all this bilge about depression. Well, it doesn’t have to be like this. No sir. What we need here is
confidence
, prosperity.’

‘But how?’ said Stella. ‘If there are no jobs, there are no jobs, and people have to live.’

‘Right,’ said Maguire, smiling at her, ‘but first we need
confidence
— belief that things will get better. And we can make them better. I’ve been doing a bit of talking, a bit of string pulling, and me and the town fathers are going to have a carnival, right here in this town. It is going to be Matauranga’s own confidence carnival.
We’ll have stores with lucky numbers, giveaways, prizes, a
procession
, the brass band, competitions.’

‘But how will that get people jobs?’ asked Stella tentatively.

‘Attitude, girl! Change that and the rest follows,’ said Maguire.

‘And what do you want me to do?’ Stella looked at Maguire’s dark moustache.

‘I need a lovely young woman to be the star of the procession — on a float, crown, pretty gown, maybe with your maids all round throwing out lollies to the kids. A Princess Happy Days, and who better for that role than little Stella?’ Maguire tipped back his hat with one hand.

‘You want me to do that? Why not ask Gertie or Dorothy if you want someone pretty?’

‘Those two tarts?’ said Maguire and laughed. ‘No, it’s you I’m after, sunshine. Will you do it?’

‘I’d have to ask my parents,’ said Stella, anxious about how they might respond.

‘They’ll be proud having their daughter chosen.’

‘But the dress,’ asked Stella. ‘Where would I get the dress?’

‘All provided, and you could keep it after. Just go down to Pearsons’, get yourself a nice evening dress, a good cheerful pastel colour, shoes too, and put it on my tab.’

Stella had never bought a ready-made article of clothing.
Everything
she had was a hand-me-down, or something she or Peg had made. She stood in the Ladies’ Eveningwear section of Pearsons’ feeling as if she were in a treasure house. At first she had wondered if she should take one of the others with her, but now she was glad she hadn’t. She wanted to enjoy everything about the occasion without distraction. Of course it had been embarrassing at first, with the saleswoman giving a ‘Don’t bother me; it’s obvious you haven’t the money to buy anything here’ look, but once Stella mentioned Maguire’s account everything had changed. Then it was
‘Please step this way, Madam. Have some lovely lines just in from Auckland. Have you seen the new crêpe de Chine? Extra flattering, especially in the soda pop yellow. And what about the silk velvet? A lovely dress, that. Don’t you just love the infill roses on the body? Or there’s the turquoise organdie. The skirt’s such a dream. It’s got those darling inset godets to give a real flared look.’

Stella held and touched each dress. She had never seen anything so beautiful and she loved them all. It took her a long time to decide, but in the end she picked a lavender silk with a low boat-shaped neck and a chiffon scarf that fell to knee level at the back. The bodice was decorated with appliqué violets.

‘A very good choice. Really suits you, Madam,’ said the
saleswoman
.

‘Do you think?’ said Stella, her mind on Vic. ‘Do you think … er … other people would like me in it?’

‘Definitely,’ enthused the saleswoman. ‘Very you, if you’ll pardon me saying, and so elegant. You’ll get nothing but
compliments
in that one.’

But when Stella told Vic about the dress and the pageant he was furious. They were standing on the kerb outside the Morgans’ house. Vic was kicking at a daisy growing through the cracked pavement.

‘And you said yes. Just like that and went off and bought a dress he’s paid for,’ said Vic angrily.

‘I said it depended on my parents and they’re not going to stop me, so I said I’d do it.’ Stella was defiant.

‘Don’t you see, Stell, what it means?’ said Vic, changing his tone and speaking as you might explain to a child. ‘Letting Maguire buy you a dress, agreeing to be up there on his bloody float, it’s like kicking the unemployed in the guts. A pretty girl, a few smiles, a brass band and we’ll be right. This country’s in a proper mess, and Maguire’s skiting away and saying all we need is a carnival.’

‘Not just a carnival. Confidence is what he calls it. Get that and things will improve, people will start buying again, shops will open, there’ll be jobs, money …’ Stella trailed off, suddenly anxious about what she’d done.

‘Rubbish,’ said Vic. ‘Bloody dangerous capitalist rubbish.’

‘How do you know?’ said Stella. ‘At least it’s better than moaning and doing nothing. At least Mr Maguire’s doing
something
to help.’

‘Maguire, helping? That’s a laugh,’ said Vic, decapitating a daisy with one vicious swing of his boot.

‘He is,’ said Stella. ‘Or at least he’s trying to.’

‘Okay, I know you think he’s Christmas. Well, take it from me, he’s not,’ said Vic. ‘He’s got men working on the cinema, pouring concrete — they’ve no gloves, no boots, for God’s sake: they can’t afford them. Their hands and feet are raw, infected, and does Maguire give a toss? Not bloody likely. And the work I’m doing — he’s having us put in third-rate flexes and fittings, probably got them as salvage. It’ll be damned lucky if the whole thing doesn’t short or blow up and kill someone — not that he’d care.’

‘That’s just mean,’ said Stella, drawing her finger along the top of the wooden fence. ‘I’m sure Mr Maguire wouldn’t use anything that’s not safe and he probably doesn’t even know about the poor people with sore hands or no boots. I know he’s trying to employ as many men as possible on the projects so they get work. I’ve said I’d take part in the pageant and I’ve got the dress. I don’t see what’s wrong with it. Give everyone some fun in their lives for a change. Mr Maguire said he’d spoken with the overseer at Punawai and they’re going to give a half-day off work up there and bring a lorry down for the men who want to come.’

‘Count me out,’ said Vic, grinding the smashed daisy into the pavement with his heel.

‘Please, Vic,’ pleaded Stella, catching hold of the lapels of his jacket.

‘No,’ said Vic. ‘You go ahead and sit on Maguire’s damned
float in the dress he’s paid for, with money that rightly belongs to the poor buggers who slave for him for a pittance, but don’t expect me to watch you perform in his circus.’

Stella started to cry.

‘Sorry to lay into you, Stella, but you must see I’m right. All I’m asking is for you to just tell Maguire you’ve changed your mind. It’s no skin off his nose if someone else is the bleeding princess — there’ll be lots of takers.’

‘But I’ve said I’d do it, and I’ve got the dress. I can’t back out now. Anyway, I don’t want to,’ said Stella between sobs.

‘He’s bought you, that’s what he’s done,’ fumed Vic. ‘Given you a posh dress and you’re his lackey. Thought you had more guts. Well, you suck up to Maguire on your own, I’m off.’

There was nothing else in Stella’s bedroom — nothing in the whole house — remotely like the dress, lying folded in tissue in its big cardboard box. Everything else was worn and shabby, having been used and reused, scuffed, handled, broken, mended. The paper on the walls with its faraway pattern of flowers and grapes was weary with age, the skirting boards were chipped, the curtains thin and skimped against the night’s dark stomach, the linoleum floor had edges of unravelled jute like tiny teeth along fraying holes. Only the dress was new, lush, perfect.

Doug and Peg were no help either. They hadn’t stopped Stella taking part, for fear of her losing her job, but they had no
enthusiasm
for the event either. They sided with Vic, and said the pageant was a nonsense. When Stella brought the box into the kitchen and tried to show the dress to her mother, Peg declared she didn’t want to see it, and had it occurred to Stella that the cost of something like that would have fed them all for a month or more?

In the end Stella hated the dress, mostly because it had come between her and Vic, but also because it was irresistible. She forbade herself to look in the box, yet each time her resolve
slackened
and she peeped into the folds of mauve silk she was caught
again by how beautiful it was. Every night she wrote letters to Vic promising she would tell Mr Maguire that she couldn’t take part and would give the dress back, and each morning she tore the letters up.

Days passed and arrangements for the carnival progressed. At work everyone talked about the procession. Some of the other girls from work were going to be on the float also, but Stella would be Princess Happy Days. Wasn’t she the lucky one?

Stella thought constantly of Vic, fretted about not seeing him, wondered where he was and what he was doing. Did he still love her? Would he forgive her? Would he be back? Vic didn’t come near her. There were no letters from him either, though Stella went and checked the box several times each day.

Roland picked up the jug and tipped the milk into his freshly poured cup of tea. His mother had always said it was ‘not done’ and ‘common’ to put milk in the cup first, and he still followed her strictures, though it was Jesus rather than Olive Crawford he thought of this afternoon as he did so. ‘Gentle Jesus, meek and mild,’ Roland muttered to himself as the curling pale liquid clouded the golden water.

‘Jesus! Jesus!’ Roland said irritably, not sure whether his words were being offered as prayer or complaint. In the past he had thought of that name as having miraculous properties: an
incantation
of hope, a panacea that never failed. Ask in the name of the saviour and help immediately arrived. Roland used to think of these transactions with the Almighty as being akin to the work of pneumatic-tube cash carriers he’d seen in large shops. He’d even noted it in a sermon that prayer was akin to money dispatched to some unseen office above, and next minute direction and comfort was sent back, change correctly counted, ready for use. But all that had altered: Christ’s name had contracted and shrunk into
ordinariness
, becoming two meaningless syllables hardly different from any others.

An hour earlier, Roland had gone into his study, ostensibly to prepare a Bible talk on discipleship for the Men’s Fellowship, but so far he had neither opened his black leather-bound Bible nor written a single word in the exercise book that lay in front of him. Lal’s arrival with the tray of tea and two digestive biscuits had been a welcome distraction.

‘Why don’t you bring your tea in and join me?’ Roland had said.

‘No thanks,’ said Lal, smiling. ‘I don’t want to interrupt the good work.’

The good work — if only she knew, Roland thought as the door closed. He wished he could share what he felt, tell Lal that he wasn’t sure he believed any more, but even the thought of making such an admission made him ashamed. He was a hypocrite, going on mouthing the phrases, speaking of Christian revelation, when his heart told him otherwise — but what was the alternative? He was an ordained man; his livelihood depended on belief; where would they go? What would they live on once he confessed that his faith had faltered? He thought of them slinking away from the vicarage like exposed criminals, Lal as besmirched as he was by his admission of unbelief. Roland remembered the first time he’d seen Lal. She was in the choir at the church he went to as a curate. He could still see her face, animated and rosy under her cloche hat as she sang the hymns — so sure and untroubled.

Roland looked out at the garden: the roses ardent in the
afternoon
light, the clouds white and bulky like knitted jerseys. He thought of God, maker, creator, origin of all things bright and beautiful, but simultaneously another thought intruded — why credit God only with the good bits: the flowers, the light, the colour? What about little Mona Forbes whom he’d buried yesterday? Mona at six was a monstrous idiot baby, her grotesquely enlarged head bobbing on her body like some fungus on a stalk; or the Simpsons with their nine children, tubercular husband on the dole and another child on the way? He thought of Mrs Simpson at
the front door of the vicarage, with her swollen bare legs and torn shoes. ‘I can’t go on, Vicar,’ she had said, tears coursing down her face. ‘I just can’t.’ Only that morning he’d vainly tried to comfort the Reidy parents, who’d just heard that their only son, Ginger, had been hit by a lorry up at the Works camp and would never walk again. What did this all-loving, all-powerful God have to say to that?