The Paua Tower (26 page)

L
al looked down at the bundle in her arms and felt a surge of happiness. She gazed at the crinkled face and tiny hands of her baby and felt blessed beyond anything she thought possible. She glanced about the room and saw it glowing and radiant. Brightness touched the green cretonne curtains, the faded flowers on the carpet, her brown dressing gown that hung on the back of the door. It twinkled on the dressing-table mirror and dazzled on the silver-backed hairbrush. The clear sky of the morning came rushing towards her through the patterned holes of the lace curtains, making Lal think of clouds of blue moths rising from Canterbury riverbeds. She thought of Jesus saying that as soon as a mother is delivered of a child she remembers ‘no more the anguish, for joy that a man is born into the world’. Yes, Lal thought, that’s exactly how it is.

She had woken a little while before and found a woman folding
towels at the end of her bed and a strange sound like a trampled cat close to her pillow. There seemed to be light outlining the curtains so Lal supposed it must be morning. She thought she had been going to have a baby but maybe that had been a dream. She drowsily searched about in her mind, as one might look in a drawer for a nail file or a handkerchief, but could find nothing; it was as if a piece of her life had somehow melted away or been misplaced.

The cat sound came again though this time it was louder and followed by the whisking crackle of starched garments and the creak of wicker.

‘The baby,’ said Lal. ‘Have I had the baby?’

A woman wearing rimless glasses was looking at her. Lal wondered who the person was and why she seemed to be in her bedroom; she didn’t think she recognised her from the St Peter’s congregation.

‘You’re awake, Mrs Crawford, that’s good,’ the woman said.

‘And the baby?’ said Lal, feeling a flicker of panic that
something
had gone wrong and the woman wasn’t telling her.

‘You have a son,’ said the woman, whom Lal now realised was a nurse.

‘Is he all right?’ asked Lal, almost afraid to ask.

‘A nice healthy child,’ said the nurse, plumping the pillows behind Lal’s head. ‘You sit up there and I’ll give him to you. I’m Nurse Huddie and I’m looking after you.’

‘Roland,’ said Lal. ‘Where’s Roland?’

‘No need to worry over him, dear,’ said Nurse Huddie, bending over the crib. ‘Your husband had a wee bit of an accident last night and he’s in the hospital. They sent someone around with a message an hour or so ago. Your maid brought it in but you were asleep.’

‘The hospital?’ Lal felt drowsy and confused.

‘Nothing to concern yourself with; I’m sure Mr Crawford will be out in a day or so. Don’t know any details except it’s not serious.
Now, off you go to Mummy, little man.’ The nurse handed Lal the baby.

‘He’s gorgeous,’ said Lal, feeling as if she was going to cry and suspecting the nurse wouldn’t approve if she did. She wished Roland were there with her, to share in the pleasure of their son’s birth and admire the baby. His absence seemed disappointing and cruel. Typical of him not to think what it might be like for me, she caught herself thinking. It was selfish and unfair, she knew, to be cross with Roland. It wasn’t his fault if he had an accident and she hoped it was nothing much, but if only he hadn’t gone to that silly rehearsal in the first place.

Nurse Huddie was pushing the baby’s face against Lal’s nipple, trying to get him to suck, when Stella knocked at the door, bringing breakfast on a tray.

Stella was smiling in a way Lal had never seen before, her mouth wide and laughing, her eyes full of some hidden delight. She put the tray on the washstand and ran to the bedside, putting her arms around both Lal and the baby.

Nurse Huddie clicked her false teeth in disapproval but said nothing.

‘Isn’t he beautiful, so beautiful,’ said Stella.

‘He is,’ agreed Lal.

‘Has he a name yet?’ said Stella, standing back and looking at the infant.

‘Peter,’ said Lal, laughing with elation. ‘He’s Peter and I don’t care what Roland thinks.’

‘I’m so sorry about Mr Crawford,’ said Stella, ‘but at least he’s not badly hurt.’

Lal hardly heard. She had put her face into the wisp of the baby’s hair and was sniffing the marvellous scent he carried, the unique smell of herself and her child.

‘There’s something else,’ said Stella, looking apprehensively at the nurse who was tidying the baby’s crib. ‘Remember I told you about me and Vic Cowan?’

Lal, still with her face on Peter’s head, nodded.

‘Well, he’s here, in the kitchen. He had a bad time last night so I gave him something to eat and I used some things from the first-aid box to patch him up. I hope you don’t mind,’ said Stella.

‘Course I don’t mind,’ said Lal. ‘Take whatever you need.’

Nurse Huddie shook a cot sheet vigorously as if in protest.

‘There was a lot of trouble at the unemployed meeting,’ said Stella, winding the end of her smock around her thumb. She thought it better not to tell the full story, especially in front of the nurse. ‘The Specials were terrible. Vic has to go to court. He’s about to give himself up but he needs a jacket or something to wear. His other jacket’s all torn.’

‘Oh, Stella, I am sorry. I feared the meeting might end up like that. Take something of Roland’s for Vic. Have a look at the end of the cupboard near the window — there’s an old Harris-tweed jacket in there he never wears. Take that.’

When Stella came back to the kitchen carrying the jacket, Vic was wolfing down the toast and tea she’d made him. He sprang up as she opened the door and ran to embrace her. I’ve got to remember this moment, maybe for a long time, Stella thought as she watched him hurry across the kitchen. She saw the softness of his hair flopping on his forehead, the tenderness of his eyes, even though the side of his face was swollen, and the quick smile he gave as she came near. She looked at his trousers with their worn knees and his jacket with the torn shoulder. I love this man, she thought to herself, and I’m going to marry him. Vic caught Stella in his arms and swung her around so that her feet left the ground. Then he began kissing her over and over.

‘Need a supply of kisses to keep me going,’ he said.

Stella clung against him, wondering how she could ever allow him to leave.

‘I’ve got something for you,’ said Vic, ‘though first you must say you’ll marry me.’

‘I said that before,’ said Stella. ‘Told you in the church.’

‘Say it again,’ said Vic, grinning, ‘just in case you’ve changed your mind.’

‘I will marry you,’ said Stella deliberately, as she looked up into Vic’s grey eyes.

Vic scrabbled in his jacket pocket and took out a piece of fuse wire, which he fashioned into a rough ring and put on the third finger of Stella’s left hand. ‘No fancy diamonds, I’m afraid, but there’s more love coming with this than with any rich man’s swanky engagement ring.’

‘It’s perfect,’ said Stella, looking at the wire on her hand as if Vic had just slipped on an expensive jewel.

‘Hardly perfect,’ said Vic laughing, ‘and I wish it were different, but maybe it’s right for the times and for a soon-to-be jailbird and unemployed sparky’s wife-to-be.’

Constable Wilson was eating Mint Imperials and reading the racing page of the newspaper when a young man with a bruised eye and wearing a smart tweed jacket walked into the police station. After the rumpus of the night before the office was very quiet. The extra men who had been brought in from surrounding towns to deal with the march had been stood down, leaving only two constables and a sergeant in the station, plus an assortment of arrested men waiting in the cells.

‘Yes?’ said Wilson vaguely, still considering whether Blue Velvet really was a better proposition than Roaring Meg.

‘Come to give myself up,’ said the young man.

‘Eh?’ said Wilson, not sure he had heard correctly. No one in his experience in the police force had ever said this to him before. The constable put his newspaper down and came over to the counter.

‘Name’s Cowan. I was the man who decked Maguire last night when he was beating the hell out of Joe Gilchrist. I didn’t intend killing him but I hear he died,’ said Vic, resting his elbow on the office counter.

‘Well, I’m buggered,’ said the constable. ‘Just go through there into the office and we’ll take a statement.’

Vic followed the constable, and as he did so he turned briefly to look back through the open door. The street was a slab of brightness. A man rode past on a bicycle with a butter box on the handlebars, a small girl in a short print dress was walking a puppy on a piece of string, and beyond, Vic could see the hem of the mountain. He knew that once he made the statement there was no going back. There would be a trial, and if he was lucky he’d get manslaughter. With good behaviour he should be out in a few years, but the thought of hundreds and hundreds of days in the harsh darkness of prison, miles from Stella, made him quake.

‘Come along, can’t wait while you admire the scenery,’ said the constable.

Vic followed the policeman into the small office, which smelt strongly of Jeyes’ Fluid.

Roland gazed at his leg suspended from the ceiling and thought about running: not just the wild exhilaration of the physical act but also the relief of getting away, removing himself from all the complexities and ramifications of his life. Still, he consoled himself, however bad it is, at least I’m alive. He thought back to the night of the fall from the tower. He could still feel the
sensation
of air fleeing past him, the moment of wild panic and the excruciating crack as he hit the ground. They had been lucky to fall into a pile of sand that had been left near the tower but it was still bad enough.

Roland knew he had lost consciousness but had no idea for how long. He remembered trying to drag himself to his feet in a lather of pain while Amélie sobbed and cried out in French. At some stage a lamp had bobbed out of the darkness and a man with a twisted neck and a peculiar voice had emerged, looked at them and come back with a lorry. Roland would never forget the agonising pain as he’d hung on to the man’s arm and been dragged
and pushed into the cab alongside the tearful Amélie. As he swooned in and out of consciousness they had driven for what seemed like hours through the night; Roland wondered if the injured man’s journey to the inn, in the story of the Good Samaritan, was as painful as his own to the hospital. He heard that Amélie had been discharged once her broken arm was attended to. He hoped she would visit him.

The men’s general ward of the Matauranga District Hospital was an austere place, with iron beds up either side of the long room and a table in the centre. Looking about, Roland felt a certain envy for the other patients with their straightforward breaks and injuries, some from the riot. In the bed next door was a young unemployed man, Joe Gilchrist, who had suffered various broken bones at the hands of the Specials. He was covered in bandages and obviously in pain but he could at least stretch and roll about. He was not pegged by the ankle to the roof, with the embarrassment of having to ring for a nurse to help with his toileting. Gilchrist had arrived some hours after Roland. He’d come with a police guard, a young constable with big ears who’d sat at the table in the centre of the room fiddling with the helmet in his hands and staring at Gilchrist’s bed with riveted attention. Roland wondered what Gilchrist had done to warrant such careful guarding: from the look of the injured man and the way he moaned when he moved, Roland doubted he’d be able to flee, even if he wanted to.

A few hours later a police sergeant arrived with a nurse. The sergeant spoke in whispers to the constable, the nurse pulled the curtains around Gilchrist’s bed and the policemen disappeared inside. Roland heard the buzz of voices and Gilchrist saying angrily. ‘I told you, I bloody told you, I never touched Maguire. He was the one belting me up.’

‘You can count yourself lucky this bloke Cowan’s confessed,’ said the sergeant, pulling the curtains open. ‘Mr Maguire was a highly respected businessman. You’d certainly have been for the high jump if your mate hadn’t come forward.’

‘Bloody fascists,’ hissed Gilchrist as the policemen left.

Once the two had gone the ward buzzed with questions and comment. Gilchrist recounted his assault by Maguire and how Cowan had saved him and accidentally killed Maguire.

‘Clever work on the part of whoever buggered the electricity. Wonder who had the guts to do it?’ said Lucas from a bed on the opposite side of the ward. He was sporting an eye injury.

‘Who knows?’ said Gilchrist, not wishing to get Vic into further trouble, ‘but it was a bloody sharp move.’

Gilchrist supported the Bolsheviks, and was an atheist. This fascinated Roland, who had never before met anyone who said they did not believe in God. He knew it was childish and absurd, but Roland half imagined the roof would open and an irate God would unleash a personal thunderbolt in Gilchrist’s direction. It was the same with Gilchrist being sympathetic to the Communist Party. Roland had heard and read of such people but not encountered any. Now here was Gilchrist, in the bed beside him, speaking at length of religion being like a drug, of struggle and revolution, of workers and capital, the proletariat and the bourgeoisie.

‘What happened in town last night was typical. The bosses and propertied classes always use violence to clobber any sign of worker unrest,’ said Gilchrist, scratching at the bandage around his throat.

‘But what can we do?’ said Roland peevishly. ‘We’re all such little cogs in the wheel. Take me, for instance. I’ve devoted my life to trying to follow the Gospel and help my fellows, yet sometimes it all seems a waste of time.’

‘It is,’ said Gilchrist.

‘Why do you say that?’ asked Roland, feeling both hurt and curious.

‘Because you don’t know anything that matters; you haven’t a clue how ordinary people live,’ said Gilchrist.

‘I do so,’ said Roland, trying to sit up and causing his leg to swing painfully. ‘I go into people’s homes. I see how poor they are.’

‘When did you last go all day with nothing to eat? When have you shifted a pile of dirt from one spot to another for no purpose other than keeping the government happy? When were you harnessed up like an animal to pull a chain harrow? Come off it, Vicar. You know nothing.’