She spotted Allie heading towards her, and waved.
‘Can you bring us something to eat and some tea? Enough for four?’ Allie asked. ‘We’re not going to have time for a break. We’re flat out. Just sandwiches will do.’
‘I’ll have to check with Mrs Bitch,’ Pauline said, indicating her boss, Mrs Fitch.
‘I will,’ Allie said, and did. ‘She said yes. Quick as you can, love. Thanks.’
Delighted at the prospect of meeting real live fashion models after all, Pauline arranged a tray and made her way around to the area where they were getting ready. Allie was working on Polly, Sonny’s stunningly beautiful sister, whom Pauline had met a few times but didn’t really know well. She wore a silky robe and her feet were bare, and a cigarette smouldered nearby in an ashtray. Her eyes were closed as Allie applied black liner to her upper lids and she looked as though she was almost asleep.
‘Thanks, love,’ Allie said as Pauline set down the tray.
Polly’s eyes opened. ‘Hi, Pauline.’
‘Hi.’
Polly reached into her handbag, retrieved a bottle and knocked back a slug.
Pauline gasped, thrilled. ‘Is that booze?’
‘Want some?’
‘No, she does not,’ Allie said. ‘Behave.’
Pauline glanced furtively about. ‘I don’t think we’re supposed to drink on the premises.’
‘She knows that,’ Allie said.
Spotting a woman sitting nearby watching them with a very sour look on her face, Pauline said, ‘I think that woman just saw you, the one with the little girl. Who’s she?’
‘That’s Mrs Lawson,’ Allie replied. ‘She and her daughter are modelling mother and daughter outfits. I’m doing them next.’ She bent and applied a perfect sweep of lipstick to Polly’s full lips, blotted and repeated. ‘There, you’re done. Don’t smudge when you’re getting dressed. Pauline, why don’t you go and see what Peg’s doing?’
With immense regret, because really the only model she’d managed to talk to was one she already knew, Pauline said, ‘I’d better get back to work.’
Allie said, ‘See you later, then. Mrs Lawson, would you like to take a seat?’
Chapter Nine
Kathleen Lawson had barely settled herself before she said, ‘Did I see that girl who was sitting here just before me, the dark-skinned one, take a drink from a bottle?’
Allie sighed inwardly. ‘I’m not sure. Did you?’
‘It was right in front of you. Surely you saw it too. Was it alcohol?’
‘I really don’t know, Mrs Lawson.’
‘Who is she, do you know?’
‘She’s one of the models.’
‘Well, yes, I gathered that. What’s her name?’
Allie felt a spike of irritation. ‘Why?’
‘Because I’ve a good mind to report her to Mr Holmes, the store manager.’
Oh, and you don’t come into the shop stinking of booze? Allie thought. ‘Why would you want to do that?’
‘Because . . . it’s in their best interests not to drink, isn’t it? It’s not good for them.’
‘Sorry, I’m not sure who you mean?’
‘Well, Maoris, of course,’ Kathleen said, sounding very tetchy. ‘And please stop asking me questions. I haven’t done anything wrong.’
More than a little tetchy herself now, Allie said, ‘Actually, she’s my sister-in-law.’
‘Who is?’
‘That model, the Maori girl you’re accusing of drinking.’
A longish silence followed, broken only by Rosemary Lawson humming to herself as she played with a tiny doll, oblivious to the drama surrounding her.
Then, staring straight ahead, a hand to her throat, Kathleen said, ‘I didn’t know you were married to a Maori.’
Allie risked a glance at Peggy, who rolled her eyes.
Another silence, which Allie ended this time. ‘Shall we get on with your make-up?’
She’d managed to apply foundation, powder, eyeshadow and rouge and had just discreetly spat into the cake of mascara before Kathleen asked, ‘How long have you been married?’
‘Not long. About eighteen months.’
‘And is he employed?’
‘Yes, he’s employed.’ Allie hadn’t meant to emphasise the last syllable, but it came out anyway.
‘Really? What does he do?’
‘He’s a delivery man for Smith and Caughey. He drives a truck.’
‘And is that why you work, dear?’
‘Not really,’ Allie said. ‘Both my younger sisters work. Our parents raised us to be industrious.’
‘Of course. They must be quite, well, broad-minded, your parents.’
‘Not really,’ Allie said again. ‘Dad’s a dyed-in-the-wool union man on an invalid’s benefit and Mum’s a semi-lapsed Catholic who has a fit if her nets are hanging crooked.’
‘And they’re quite happy with . . . your choice of husband?’
‘Yes. My husband’s family weren’t that thrilled with him marrying a Pakeha girl, though.’
Kathleen looked up at Allie in absolute shock. ‘What?’
Allie nearly laughed, enjoying herself now. ‘His mother didn’t want him to marry me.’
‘Why on earth not?’
‘She didn’t think I’d fit into the Maori way of life.’
‘Oh, rubbish. There isn’t a Maori way of life. They either have to fit in with us or . . . I don’t know, disappear.’
Allie rubbed the tiny brush along the mascara cake. ‘Could you please sit still with your eyes wide open?’ She expertly coated Kathleen’s lashes, making them look twice as lush, then asked, ‘Do you know what outfits you’re modelling yet?’
‘Rather charming sleeveless dresses in black and white gingham with large white daisies with red centres randomly placed around the bottom of the skirts. The bodices are fitted and the skirts are quite flared.’
‘Shoe colour?’
‘Red to match the daisies.’
‘I’ll do a red lip, then.’
When she’d finished Kathleen, Allie fluffed a bit of powder and rouge over Rosemary’s face, applied a pink lip, and sent them both on to the clothing department girls.
‘God, she’s a piece of bloody work,’ Peggy said. ‘Disappear? How bloody rude and stupid can you be? Weren’t you insulted?’
‘She’s just ignorant.’
‘Don’t stick up for her. She was rude. She thinks you can do better. It was written all over her pasty, Pakeha face.’
Allie laughed. ‘You’ve got a Pakeha face.’
‘Shows what you know. My nannie’s Nga Puhi.’
‘Really? You never said.’
‘You never asked.’
‘I’m a bit worried she might dob Polly in,’ Allie said.
‘Well, you know, it might not do Polly any harm to get dobbed in. It isn’t actually that clever to be drinking on the job.’
‘I know, but if she loses her modelling job that’ll affect her pay, and she gives a fair bit of that to her mother, for Gina.’
‘Oh, grow up. You’ve told me where she gets her money, and it’s not just from waitressing and modelling, is it? Stop being such a softie.’
Stubbornly, Allie said, ‘She’s family and you look out for family.’
Peggy sighed. ‘I suppose you do, don’t you?’
*
Polly stood just beyond the double doors to the tearoom, waiting to go in and glide down the runway in her first gown. In front of her, awaiting their turn in matching outfits, were the woman and child she’d seen in make-up. They weren’t professional walkers, she could tell that, but they weren’t bad-looking. The little girl in particular was quite sweet.
Then the woman turned to her and said abruptly, ‘I saw you drinking alcohol earlier, you know. From the bottle.’
Polly stared at her. ‘So?’
‘I’ve a good mind to report you to the store manager.’
‘Off you go, then.’
‘Wha
t’s your name?’
‘Polly Manaia. What’s yours?’
‘Mrs Jonathan Lawson.’
Polly leant closer. ‘Funny, you don’t look like a Jonathan. Or, actually, maybe you do.’
The woman flapped her hand in front of her face. ‘I can smell the alcohol on your breath even now.’
‘I thought that was your breath. Gin and tonics for afternoon tea, was it?’
Mrs Lawson’s face went red under her foundation. ‘Don’t be so damned rude.’
‘You said it to me.’
‘Well, I’ll definitely be speaking to Mr Holmes now. He’s a personal friend, you know.’
Polly heard Miss Weaver, who was compering the parade, announce from the tearoom the mother and daughter outfits. Resisting the temptation to keep her mouth shut, she said, ‘You’re on.’
‘It’s not a challenge,’ Mrs Lawson said. ‘I’m simply doing my civic duty.’
‘No, it’s your turn on the runway.’
‘Oh!’ Mrs Lawson grabbed her daughter’s hand and hauled her into the tearoom.
Polly smirked after them and wondered if she had time for a quick smoke. She didn’t because they were back again in about two minutes, flushed with the triumph of what surely had to be their first modelling job. They’d rushed it, though, or the bitch of a mother had, because they should have taken at least four minutes to go up and down the runway and do the turn-and-hold twice. The woman ignored her on her way past, and Polly was happy with that.
She made her own entrance to a round of enthusiastic applause, as she was well-known as a Smith and Caughey model, and was halfway down the runway when she spotted him. He was sitting with presumably his wife, whom she’d (unsurprisingly) never met, and he was staring directly at her. She looked away, calculating how long it had been since he’d last visited Flora’s. Years. Some time in mid-1952, in fact. Yes, she was sure of it.
He didn’t look much older, though he was definitely an old man. Somewhere in his sixties, if she remembered rightly. He still looked rich. His family owned a big sheep station in Hawke’s Bay, she knew that, and he used to be a banker, then he was an orchardist, then he retired and didn’t have to come to Auckland twice a year to talk to the Apple and Pear Board or the Fruit Platter or whatever it was, and he stopped coming to see her. So what was he doing at a Smith and Caughey fashion parade? She wondered if she’d see him later at Flora’s.
She swayed along the runway a second time, turned, paused and sent a devastating smile in James Murdoch’s direction.
*
By the time all the dishes were washed, dried and stacked away and the table linen was readied to be sent to the drycleaners over the weekend, Pauline didn’t actually finish work till nine o’clock. Butch was going to be in a shitty liver because she’d told him she’d meet him at eight outside Currie’s Milk Bar. They’d probably left there by now but it wouldn’t be hard to find them, their motorbikes made such a racket. She changed in the staff toilets into denim jeans and a shirt tied at the waist, let her hair down and stuffed her uniform into a duffel bag, and tore out, having told Allie earlier she was getting a ride home with someone, which wasn’t actually true.
By the time she finally caught up with the Rebels they were making a nuisance of themselves outside Somervell’s, intimidating people trying to walk past them on the footpath.
‘Where’ve you been?’ Butch demanded as he slouched on the seat of his Triumph, legs spread and the heels of his scuffed motorcycle boots balanced on the ground.
‘At work. Things took longer than I expected. Then I was looking for you.’
Butch grunted. ‘When you say you’re gunna be somewhere, bloody be there. I don’t wait for anyone.’
‘Well, I’m here now.’
‘You’re not riding with me. You’ve bloody pissed me off.’
Pauline was quite relieved. It was a hot night and Butch was surrounded by a fog of body odour. ‘OK, I’ll ride with Mack.’
‘No holding onto him, just the sissy bar,’ Butch ordered as he kicked his motorbike into life.
Oh, grow up, Pauline thought as she swung her leg over the back of Mack’s Bonneville and wriggled herself into a comfortable position on the seat.
They all roared away up Queen Street and Pauline forgot herself, let go of the sissy bar and grabbed Mack’s jacket as he leant his motorbike to turn onto Karangahape Road. As she did she saw Butch giving her the evil eye and knew there’d be even more trouble. They blatted along K’ Road, turned onto Ponsonby Road then roared down College Hill Road onto Victoria Street, back onto Queen, then headed for the White Lady pie cart on Fort Street, where they parked, angling their motorcycles into the gutter and scattering the crowd waiting for orders.
Butch dismounted, marched up to Pauline and shoved her off Mack’s Bonneville. She landed in a heap on the road.
‘Hoi!’ Mack said, but that was all he did.
Pauline stood up and brushed her gritty hands on her jeans. She’d had enough of this. ‘You’re a bloody big bully, Butch Brocklebank,’ she shouted, fighting the urge to giggle even though she was so angry. It was really tricky getting all those b-sounds out.
‘And you’re a bitch and you’re dropped,’ Butch retaliated.
‘Really? Well, fuck you.’
Butch looked aghast. ‘What did you just say?’
‘Fuck you. And d’you know something? You stink. You really need a bath.’
Someone near the White Lady clapped, but Pauline couldn’t afford to shift her gaze from Butch to see who it was. God knew what he might do to her next.
He eyed her for several long moments, his oily quiff leaking Brylcreem in the evening heat, then stalked back to his Triumph. ‘Come on, we’re going,’ he announced to the rest of the Rebels.
There was general grumbling, as the lads (and laddesses) had been looking forward to curried sausages or a pie and a percolated coffee, but they followed orders, mounted up and roared off after him.
‘Good riddance, arsehole,’ Pauline muttered, swinging her duffel bag over her now bruised shoulder.
‘Are you all right?’
It was that boy she’d noticed before, the good-looking Maori bloke. ‘Yeah, I’m OK. Thanks.’ Pause. ‘Was that you clapping?’
He nodded. They both giggled.
‘What a bastard,’ the boy said. ‘I saw him push you over. I was going to come and help you, but I didn’t want the shit beaten out of me.’
More giggles.
‘What’s your name?’ Pauline asked.
‘Johnny. Johnny Apanui. What’s yours?’
‘Pauline Roberts.’
‘Pauline. That’s pretty. Do you want a coffee? Or something to eat?’
‘A coffee would be nice.’
‘The curried sausages are good. They put hard-boiled eggs and raisins in.’
‘I know. Just coffee would be good, thanks,’ Pauline said, thinking about curry breath.
In front of the pie cart a trio of trannies pounced on them, none under six and a half feet tall in their high heels and wigs.
‘Sweetie! We saw what happened, didn’t we, girls?’ one said, looking at the others for corroboration. Outraged agreement all round. ‘What a brute! You can do without that! You’re well shot of him, dear.’ She poked Johnny in the chest. ‘This one’s much nicer. You can’t go wrong with a nice bit of chocolate log. Once you try it you’ll never go back.’
At first Pauline didn’t understand, then felt her face flame when she did. To her immense relief the trannies’ order was called and they crowded the counter, fussing around gathering mash for their pies, and sauce, and cucumber and onions, and bread and butter, then clattered away down the street in a cloud of glitter and feathers.
‘That was embarrassing,’ she said.
‘It was, quite,’ Johnny agreed. ‘Funny, though.’
Pauline thought how nice it was to be with someone who saw the funny side of things. Bloody Butch never laughed, unless it was at someone’s else’s
misfortune. Good riddance to really smelly rubbish. Actually . . . She leant very slightly closer to Johnny and breathed in through her nose. He smelt like Brylcreem of course, and . . . was it Old Spice? But underneath there was a hint of something not entirely pleasant. Not something you’d expect a person to smell like, but a sharp, sort of acrid whiff.
Dismayed, Johnny said, ‘You can smell it, can’t you?’
Embarrassed (yet again), Pauline said, ‘Well, I can sort of notice something. Your aftershave’s nice, though.’
‘I work at the Destructor. The stink gets into everything. Doesn’t matter how much I wash, I still stink. I bloody hate it.’
‘The stink or the job?’
‘Both.’ Johnny ordered two coffees. ‘I’m looking for something else.’
‘Anything in particular?’
‘Don’t care as long as it pays well and doesn’t make me pong. Do you work?’
‘The Cedar Room at Smith and Caughey. It’s pretty boring. I’m waiting till I’m twenty-one and old enough to be a stewardess for TEAL.’
‘How old are you now?’
‘Seventeen.’
Johnny looked relieved. ‘You look younger.’
Pauline didn’t know whether that was good or bad. Bad, probably. She’d thought she looked older than seventeen. ‘How old are you?’
‘Eighteen. Were you going out with that bloke from the Rebels?’
Pauline suddenly felt ashamed to admit that she had. ‘Not for long. And only because I liked his motorbike. It’s a Triumph Tiger T110.’
Johnny whistled. ‘Nice. I’m buying one as soon as I’ve got the dough together, except I’m looking at an Indian.’
‘My brother-in-law’s got an Indian.’
‘Yeah? Who does he ride with?’
‘No one. My sister.’
‘He’s not with a club?’
Pauline grinned. ‘Only Ngati Whatua.’
Johnny grinned back. ‘We’re Ngati Kahungunu. Whole family came up last year to make our fortune in the big smoke. ’Cept for Alice, my littlest sister. She’s still back home.’
‘And have you? Made your fortune?’
From the Ashes Page 14