The Paua Tower (19 page)

It was then she thought of the river at the Paua Tower. She remembered light trembling on the surface of clear water, pale willows and a blue sky. She thought of how she would just step out on the stones and slide down into the current as if slipping into the tin bath in front of the kitchen coal range on Saturday nights. She imagined the water, limp and soft, parting in front of her. It would be nothing more than pulling on a silk garment and then it would be over.

The loose stones slithered apart and Stella found herself in a hole. Her feet reached unsuccessfully to touch the bottom as water closed over her head. This was the moment, Stella told herself, the instant she was waiting for. She must relax now, and let the river keep her. She bent her knees but as she did so she saw the
surface light alluringly above her and knew she couldn’t do it. Her body clamoured for air and brightness, for earth and life. Stella struggled to get back to the shallower place she’d left but the current pushed her forward into deeper water. She gasped and the water rushed insidiously into her mouth. She wanted to breathe and she couldn’t. She flapped her arms as she tumbled over, her coat heavy with the stones she’d put in the pockets. A submerged branch snagged the heavy garment and she was swirled about underwater in a tangle of twigs and leaves. Her need for air grew desperate. Her head hurt as if it were growing larger than her skin. Stretched and torn, exploding inside and out, she beat the water with her hands and struggled for air as the pain in her chest grew. She tried to breathe, her lungs bursting with pain. Light like fragments of broken tumblers churned through her vision and Stella was certain she was about to die.

Andrew Carey didn’t believe in staying late in bed, even at weekends. Give in to that and you’re properly finished, he’d say to himself as he swung his feet out of the blankets onto the wooden floor. This morning had been particularly difficult. There was a heavy frost and Carey’s arthritic knees hurt as he walked down to the river to get kindling. He had made himself a rough backpack out of a sack and a leather belt to cart the wood, and he carried it empty over one arm, where it flapped against him. Carey liked the chore of gathering fuel; the fact that it cost nothing appealed to him and the river-smoothed wood felt satisfying in his hands.

He pulled open the gate and walked across the home paddock. Everything was white. The farm was covered in an icy crust while the sun, round and glowing like the base of a copper jam pan, was emerging from behind the mountain. The Paua Tower with its violet and peacock colours blinked in the frozen light. Work there had finished some weeks back, though the official opening was yet to come. Carey remembered how at the beginning, before an agreement was made, Maguire had promised they’d open the place
on the anniversary of the day Melvin Carey was killed in South Africa. ‘A cracker idea,’ Carey said, pleased that the monument’s purpose would not be forgotten. He’d heard no more about it until just the other day an invitation on fancy paper had arrived, ‘requesting the pleasure of the company of Mr Andrew Carey’ at the opening of the tower by the Minister of Works when next the politician visited the town. Not a word about the boy or his death and the date was months out. Carey had screwed the letter up and dropped it in the range. They could have their blasted opening without him.

Now he looked at the tower and wished he’d never handed it over. The structure was brighter and fresher since it had been cleaned and the fallen shells replaced, but the outdoor staircase now encircling the tower, added without his permission, infuriated him. He had built the tower with interior circular steps that wound round and round to the top, but the council had declared these dangerous and substituted the outside stair instead. Observing the unseasoned wood and penny-pinching methods Maguire’s men used to put it up had made Carey doubt that it would last long. Worst of all was the recently erected public toilet, a shameless concrete box that crouched beside the new swing and roundabout like a malevolent toad. Still, Carey told himself, at least there would be the floodlights — maybe they would make up for all the disappointments and drawbacks.

Carey rubbed his bare hands together as he walked on and thought about breakfast. He had put the porridge on to cook before he went out. He would eat it with golden syrup and cocoa mixed in milk, a concoction he particularly enjoyed.

The backpack was half filled with wood when Carey came around the clump of broom where the river looped. His sight wasn’t as good as it had been but some distance away he could see something brown moving into the main channel of the river just opposite a stand of willows. It looked like a deer. Moving closer he saw it was a person, a small person — maybe a woman or a child.

‘Oi!’ he shouted, though he was much too far off to be heard. Suddenly the figure slipped forward as if grabbed by the knees and disappeared into the water. Carey pulled off his homemade backpack and began to run, scrambling and slipping on the icy rocks. He was not used to running and keeping his balance was difficult. Twice he fell but he pulled himself up and pushed on. When he got to the willows he searched the water. At first there was nothing and then for a moment he saw something touch the surface. Something pale as a smattering of dandelion down.

He waded into the river. The water was bitter; remaining upright was difficult and in some places he had to swim. It was as his arms pushed along that his hands touched something, which seemed like a garment tangled in submerged branches. Carey caught the clothing and pulled hard. At first nothing happened but, without letting go of the fabric, he managed to move
downstream
to a shallower place where he could stand. He pulled again as hard as he could, something ripped and immediately a body floated towards him. It was the body of a young woman grey-blue with cold. It was the girl who’d come to tea.

Carey hauled Stella back to the riverbank, convinced she was dead, but as he put her on the ground he saw a slight flicker in one eyelid and a movement of her chest. He held her upside down, grasping her ankles above the strap of her shoes, so water could trickle from her mouth, then he laid her over a fallen tree stump and began to press on her back as he’d seen people do. When Stella began to breathe regularly he piggybacked her to the house, though he had to stop to rest a number of times on the journey.

Stella wondered where she was. The room with its sacking curtain and duchess made from butter boxes was unfamiliar. She seemed to be wrapped in a chenille curtain and there was a great heap of things on top of her, mostly old coats and jackets smelling of men and dogs.

Andrew Carey, the man with the funny neck, was sitting on
the bed holding a tin mug. ‘Thought you were a goner,’ he said in his odd creaking voice. ‘Have some tea, make you feel better.’

Stella took the mug and drank the hot liquid.

‘I was in the river,’ said Stella, endeavouring to sort through a jumble of images and make sense of what had happened. ‘And you got me out.’

‘Looked like you were trying to do yourself in, girlie,’ said Carey. ‘Reckon you almost did.’

Stella said nothing. Her body shook uncontrollably and her head ached. She remembered the terror in the water and the
suffocating
pain. She thought of her life and all the problems came rushing back. Nothing was different, nothing solved and yet she was glad she was alive and not dead. And the baby. She hoped being in the river hadn’t hurt the baby.

‘My clothes?’ said Stella, suddenly realising she was naked inside the curtain and, what was worse, Carey must have undressed her.

‘Had to take them off to get you warm. They’re drying by the fire,’ said Carey.

Stella felt too embarrassed to say anything.

‘You cut your hair,’ said Carey, as if to change the subject. ‘Effie had to cut her hair once when she had scarlet fever — nearly broke her heart.’

‘My heart is broken,’ said Stella absently.

‘The young chap, Cowan — isn’t he treating you proper?’ Carey took the empty mug and put it on the duchess.

Stella looked at where the floral fabric, which had once been tacked to the butter boxes, had come adrift and was hanging down in a large loop.

‘Things may seem pretty crook,’ Carey continued, ‘but they’ll get better. Nothing’s so bad you need to end it all.’

‘This is,’ said Stella.

There was a short silence.

‘You’ve fallen pregnant? Is that it?’ said Carey, sitting back
on the bed. ‘There a little one on the way?’

Stella blushed and nodded, though her head hurt more when she moved it.

‘Get married. Cowan’s a decent joker, he’ll see you right.’

‘Can’t.’ Stella started to cry. ‘It’s not his, but I don’t want to talk about that and Mum won’t have me home if I keep the baby.’

‘You poor little tuppence,’ said Carey. ‘But come on, no tears. Worse things happen at sea, as they say. We’ll think of something, but promise me there’ll be no more running off into the river.’

‘Promise,’ said Stella, rubbing away her tears with the back of her hand.

‘She’ll be right then.’ Carey stood up and went to look out the window, his hands in his trouser pockets. He turned to face her. ‘You sure you want to keep the child? Not have it adopted out or something?’

‘Yes,’ said Stella, ‘but there’s no way, that’s why I —’

‘Nonsense,’ said Carey, coming back and sitting on the bed. ‘You just need somewhere to live if your people won’t have you, and a job.’

‘No one would employ me now.’

‘I would. You could be a housekeeper, do for me.’

‘It’s very kind,’ said Stella, ‘but wouldn’t people, you know … talk?’

‘Silly buggers, if you’ll excuse the language, but you’re right. I won’t do. You need a married couple. Do you go to church?’

‘Yes,’ said Stella. ‘St Peter’s.’

‘Hear the vicar’s all right, a bit lah-di-dah and stuck up but kind-hearted and that. Ask him and his missus for help — maybe you could even work for them, be a maid or something.’

‘Do you think they’d have me?’

‘Don’t know till you try,’ said Carey. ‘And now you have a bit of a sleep while I get us some tucker.’

Weak sunlight fell in blotchy patterns on the carpet, and even
though the fire had been lit hours ago the room was still not warm. Lal was crouched very close to the blaze, sitting on a leather pouf reading a book on mothercraft. She was staring at a page with diagrams exhorting new mothers to stick to regular four-hourly feeds and not trust to luck. Lal, determined to be well prepared when her baby arrived, had read a lot of such books in the last few months. Roland was at the table trying to learn his lines for
Tea for Two
, which was now in its second week of rehearsals.

‘Says here that the mother shouldn’t talk or read or do anything while baby feeds,’ said Lal.

‘Why ever not?’ said Roland, looking up.

‘It distracts the baby, I suppose.’ Lal drew her hand over the bump of her stomach, which was growing satisfyingly large.

‘Those books of yours make caring for a baby sound impossibly difficult,’ said Roland. ‘Even worse than a theology exam.’

Lal smiled. ‘It’s not like that at all,’ she said, marking her place with one of the ‘Suffer the little children to come unto me’
bookmarks
St Peter’s gave as Sunday School awards. ‘I just want to be a good mother.’

‘You’ll be a wonderful mother,’ said Roland.

‘There’s someone coming up the path,’ said Lal, seeing a movement through the lace curtains. ‘For pity’s sake,’ said Roland irritably. ‘Surely they know Monday’s our day off. What on earth do they want? And since Mavis left we haven’t even got someone to tell them we’re out.’

Lal put down her book and went to the front door.

‘Come into the sitting room,’ Roland heard her say to the visitor in the hall. ‘We’ve got a fire on in there. It’s freezing in the rest of the house.’

Roland stood up to see a fair young woman in a torn overcoat standing in the doorway. The girl had no hat and her cropped hair fell in ragged strands around her face. It took Roland a moment to recognise Stella Morgan and as soon as he did, he knew something was wrong.

‘Stella,’ he said, ‘what on earth’s the matter? Is it your mother? Is she all right?’

‘Come and sit down, Stella.’ Lal pulled an armchair to the fire.

Stella sat down without speaking. ‘Mum’s fine,’ she said. ‘I’m the one in trouble.’

W
ithout Stella, everything gentle and fond in Vic’s life had abandoned him. The softness of her cheek, the yielding sweetness of her mouth, the silk of her hair were all gone and replaced by a harsh bitterness. In the months since he had last seen his sweetheart, Vic’s world had contracted to one of unremitting struggle, a place of men and mud and
back-breaking
labour. His hands, once the nimble hands of an electrician, were now hard and callused and he felt as if his heart had gone the same way. He laughed less and swore more, and the passive
acceptance
of many of the men in the camp towards their situation made him furious.

‘Cattle, bloody cattle,’ Vic said, banging his fist down on his small table for emphasis. ‘No wonder bloody Forbes and Coates get their own way when these blasted halfwits take everything that’s dished up to them and do nothing.’

‘Simmer down, Vic, for God’s sake,’ said Gilchrist, who was roughly mending a rip on the knee of his trousers. ‘You need a bit more faith in the proletariat.’

The two men had just come back from a meeting they’d
organised
in the dining room. An unemployed workers’ march was making its way down the North Island from Otway to Wellington and the local branch of the Unemployed Workers’ Association was organising for the march to pass through Matauranga and be part of a demonstration in the town. The Punawai camp meeting had been held to publicise the march and to encourage men to walk into Matauranga for a meeting about strategy when the Otway contingent arrived. Vic and Gilchrist had tried to ginger up
enthusiasm
but, beyond the usual supporters, the response seemed half-hearted.

‘Who cares if a few hundred jobless jokers walk down to Wellington?’ one man said.

‘Can’t see the bosses putting out the red carpet,’ said another.

‘And who’s going to feed these blokes anyway?’ asked a third.

‘We’ve got to show that bloody crowd in government that people are serious and mean business,’ Vic shouted.

‘Daft idea if you ask me,’ yelled a man playing poker with his mates. ‘People marching about won’t achieve anything — just get a lot of sore feet.’ The other men had laughed.

‘Hey, Vic, come down off your high horse and have a look at this,’ said Gilchrist, waving his needle. ‘You seem to have the knack for sewing things — show me what you do when you run out of cotton.’

‘Give it here,’ said Vic, taking the sack and needle from his friend.

‘How many do you think will go in to the meeting in town?’ asked Gilchrist.

‘Buggered if I know,’ said Vic, ‘but not enough, and if they won’t bother going in tomorrow I doubt they’ll come for the demonstration when the march itself gets to Matauranga. No
wonder the government sets up these bloody slave camps in the wops. Put the so-called troublemakers a few miles out of town and they’ll be too lazy to walk in and kick up a stink. If we want to scare the shit out of the government there needs to be a big
reception
in every place the march goes through. Not some piddling few dozen. We need hundreds, thousands of men out there on the streets.’

‘Could be a better turnout than you think,’ said Gilchrist, taking off his glasses and fiddling with the sticking-plaster on the corner of the cracked lens. ‘Things are getting pretty hot in town. A lot of men here aren’t too keen now but they’ll still show up, once they know their cobbers are going.’

‘You wish,’ said Vic, stabbing at the trousers with the needle.

‘Heard something the other day that might interest you,’ said Gilchrist, putting his glasses back on his nose. ‘It’s about Stella Morgan.’

‘What?’ asked Vic, looking up.

‘Seems Stella’s no longer working for Maguire down at the tannery. She’s at the vicarage being a live-in skivvy for the Crawfords.’

‘Who told you?’ Vic was staring at Gilchrist as if he’d never seen him before.

‘Pratt did — got it from his sister in the town.’ said Gilchrist. ‘Apparently there’s gossip going around about Stella, but you know what women are — they like making mountains out of molehills.’

‘Gossip?’ Vic put down the sewing. ‘What’s been said?’

‘Do you really want to hear, when it’s probably just
tittle-tattle
?’

‘Course,’ said Vic. ‘Spit it out.’

‘They’re saying Stella is, you know, expecting a kid.’

‘Liars, bloody liars!’

‘It isn’t yours, then?’ said Gilchrist.

‘No it is not,’ said Vic, dropping his head into his hands. ‘And
saying that about Stella is just a dirty lie.’

‘More than likely,’ said Gilchrist. ‘I said it was probably
tittle-tattle
.’

It was raining as Stella came down Sebastopol Street towards the Athenaeum. Winter was almost over and already almonds and the occasional camellias were in flower. The blossom hung their heads under the steady downpour as if ashamed of their early
flowering
. Stella rebuttoned the woollen jacket Lal had lent her. The garment was old and the stretched buttonholes kept coming undone but Stella liked it. The collar felt snug around her face, and even though the lemon colour didn’t suit her fair skin, its loose cut meant no one would notice her stomach bulging or the safety pin she now had to use to fasten her skirt.

Stella had been at the vicarage for two months and every day she thought how lucky she’d been to get the job, their previous maid having just left them to be with a sick mother in Invercargill. The Crawfords treated her kindly, gave her a little room of her own at the end of the veranda, better meals that she’d ever had at home and paid for her to go and see the doctor to check everything was all right about the baby. Once a week Stella visited her parents’ house, putting half a crown from her wages on the kitchen mantelpiece, beside the plaster parrot, and having a cup of tea with Peg. She and her mother talked formally of the weather, the neighbours and what the socialist preacher Uncle Scrim had said last week on the wireless, but they never mentioned Stella’s condition or the decision she’d made. Doug refused to see her. He left the house when Stella arrived, or slunk into the front room where he fiddled with his leatherwork. He would have forbidden his daughter to set foot in the place altogether if Peg had allowed him and if they hadn’t needed the half crown.

Having books to read was a new experience for Stella. The Crawfords had a subscription to the Matauranga Library, and since Lal’s baby was due in the next few weeks she didn’t go about much.
Every Tuesday Stella went down to the library and borrowed books, which she and Lal shared. In Stella’s standard six classroom there had been a glass-fronted cabinet of nineteenth-century novels and that year Stella had read her way through the Dickens, Scott, Fennimore Cooper and Harrison Ainsworth. Once she left school there was nothing more to read.

Stella walked through the front door of the Athenaeum and left the umbrella — also on loan from the Crawfords — open to dry. As she crossed the dark corridor to the lending library and went down the aisle leading to the fiction section, Vic came out of the newspaper room.

Forgetting her circumstances, Stella felt the familiar tide of joy sweep through her as she saw him, and from the smile on his face she knew he felt the same.

‘Stella,’ Vic said, coming over. ‘How are you?’

‘Good,’ said Stella in a whisper, knowing you weren’t meant to talk in this place.

‘Why won’t you write back to me? All those letters and you haven’t replied to a single one,’ said Vic, also dropping his voice.

‘I couldn’t,’ said Stella, looking down.

‘Heard something,’ said Vic. ‘Something about you. It’s not true, I know, but it’s made me worried.’

The librarian, a middle-aged woman wearing a prune-coloured costume and lorgnettes on a velvet ribbon, appeared at the end of the shelves.

‘Will you please stop talking?’ she said.

‘Come round here,’ said Vic, catching sight of a secluded corner between the shelves and the window. He grabbed Stella by her jacket and pulled her after him, and as he did so the buttons opened.

‘Oh God.’ Vic stared at Stella’s pregnant stomach.

‘I’ve left the tannery; I’m working at the vicarage now,’ said Stella, not realising what had happened.

‘Whose?’ said Vic, scarcely able to speak.

‘What?’ said Stella with a frown.

‘The baby, the damn baby?’ whispered Vic.

Stella looked down at her open coat.

‘It wasn’t my fault; he forced me into it,’ gabbled Stella. ‘That’s why I said you had to go — I couldn’t bear you finding out.’

‘Who?’ said Vic, catching Stella’s arm and holding her wrist uncomfortably tightly. ‘If someone did this to you against your will I’ll kill him. Who was it? Have you been to the police?’

‘No,’ said Stella, pulling away. ‘I’m not saying who it was and I’m not telling the police. No one would take the word of someone like me against a man like him.’

‘It was Maguire, I bet it was bloody him.’ Vic, feeling dizzy and trembling, put his hand up against the shelves for fear he’d fall.

‘It doesn’t matter who it was,’ said Stella, staring at the floor and drawing an arc with the toe of her shoe. ‘I’m going to keep the baby and I don’t want a fuss. I’d die if there was a fuss.’

‘I’ve warned you once,’ said the librarian, appearing around the corner. ‘I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to leave. We are very strict about our rules.’

Vic and Stella walked in silence to the door and went into the vestibule, which was empty. When he looked at Stella he saw the tears in the corners of her eyes. He supposed other men might have doubted her story but for him there were no such misgivings. Hadn’t he’d heard blokes say Maguire was a real lecher, always chasing women, fancied himself a stud? And then there was the dress Maguire had bought for Stella and making her princess of the bloody pageant. It all fitted together — bloody Maguire was to blame.

Vic put his arms around Stella’s neck and drew her towards him. After the rough handles of spades and picks, the heft of stones and snag of wood he was used to, her body felt marvellously soft and light. Tilting her face upwards, he kissed her mouth.

There was the sound of a door opening and the librarian was behind them.

‘Kindly conduct your private life elsewhere,’ she snapped as Stella and Vic dropped their arms and scrambled, embarrassed, into the cold and rainy street.

‘I’ve come into town for a meeting about the unemployed march from Otway but it doesn’t start until seven,’ said Vic as they stood together on the wet pavement. ‘We could go somewhere together now for a bit.’

Stella said nothing.

‘I’ll walk you back to the vicarage and maybe you’ll let me come in.’ He took Stella’s umbrella from her hand and held it over her.

‘No,’ said Stella softly.

‘But I believe you about the baby,’ said Vic, waving the umbrella as if for emphasis.

‘Good,’ said Stella, her voice sounding thin and strained, ‘but I still don’t think I should see you.’

‘Why, Stella, why?’

‘Hard to explain.’ Stella looked up at him. ‘Having the baby is something I have to do on my own. Even if you don’t blame me, I don’t want to feel you’re just sorry for me. You don’t want to be mixed up with a disgraced woman and another man’s child. You probably think I should have it adopted out anyway.’

‘I love you, Stella,’ said Vic, moving very close so the tartan umbrella covered them both. ‘And there’s something I’ve never told you, or anyone, but my mother wasn’t married to my father. The old man was a bit of a bastard, as far as I can tell. Walked out as soon as Mum knew she was expecting but I’m bloody glad she kept me.’

‘I’m glad too,’ said Stella, putting her hand on Vic’s sleeve, ‘but it doesn’t make any difference — well, not just now. If you still want me after the baby’s born, come back then.’

‘When will that be?’ said Vic, his face close to Stella’s ear.

‘Three months — the middle of November,’ said Stella. ‘And now I’d better be off or Mrs Crawford will be wondering what I’ve been doing and I don’t know what to tell her about not getting any new library books.’

Vic stood in the rain and watched as Stella moved down the street in her felt beret and yellow jacket; it was then he realised she’d cut her hair. As he thought longingly of that bright swatch pouring over her shoulders and through his hands, he felt bereaved at the loss. Yet by November it would be getting longer. It was just a matter of patience and time. He didn’t understand why Stella had said she couldn’t see him until the baby was born but supposed he must just accept it.

Vic felt overwhelmed by a mixture of feelings. One part of him was glowing with happiness, another bursting with anger. It seemed there might be a future with Stella after all, but there was also this terrible thing Maguire had done. Vic imagined Maguire’s hands on Stella’s body, plump fingers like pale slugs prodding at her skin. I’ll fix the bastard, he thought to himself as he pulled his cap down over his ears in an attempt to shut out the rain. Tomorrow he’d go down to the tannery and have it out with the bastard, thump his fucking lights out. The reflection gave Vic some satisfaction. He felt elated and suddenly hungry, desperate for some hot food. A meat pie with a scoop of green peas on the side was really beyond his means but Vic was feeling reckless. To hell with caution: tonight he’d have a proper feed. Whistling the theme from the
William Tell Overture
as loudly as he could, Vic made his way to the pie-cart outside the Adelphi cinema.

The hats in Pearsons’ millinery department were displayed on chrome stands that stood on large tables covered in floor-length maroon velvet. Hatboxes were kept beneath the tables and occasionally the juniors in the department would be sent under the hanging covers in search of a specific box for a recently purchased
hat. The selection was hardly impressive by French standards but Amélie Baldwin thought it much better than one might expect, given the dismal merchandise in most of Matauranga’s other shops. Amélie, who loved hats, was a regular customer in Pearsons. She was sitting on one of the high chairs by the counter, pouting and primping at her reflection in the mirror as she
experimented
with a plaid velvet with a turned-up brim, a brick red with grosgrain ribbons, and a stylish felt tam-o’-shanter with silk flowers.