Fire

by Deborah Challinor

  He opened his eyes and looked at her. She was gorgeous with her dark hair all over the place and her eyes flashing and her hands on her wonderful, curvy hips.

  ‘But darling, you went out last night,’ he said, and immediately regretted it.

  ‘Yes, by myself!’ Irene shot back. ‘Because you were too bloody tired, as usual!’

  ‘I’m sorry, I really am. But we’re so busy. It’s just that time of the year, I’m afraid.’

  ‘You’re always too bloody busy,’ Irene said, adding maliciously, ‘Sometimes I think you just don’t want to take me out. Are you ashamed of me, is that it?’ She knew it wasn’t true, but she knew it would upset him.

  ‘Oh God, no, of course I’m not ashamed of you, Irene. Why on earth would I be?’

  ‘Because I’m not posh and well-spoken and educated like the other wives.’

  ‘What other wives?’

  ‘Oh, don’t be so bloody thick, Martin! You know who I’m talking about—those stuck-up bloody women married to the blokes in your office!’

  Martin sighed, though he did it very surreptitiously so Irene wouldn’t pounce on him. The other wives weren’t particularly friendly, but, he suspected, it was because they were jealous—of Irene’s beauty, her marvellous figure, her flair and the way their husbands looked at her when they thought they weren’t being observed. None of the men had ever said anything to Martin, except that he was a very lucky man, but he knew they envied him. He was so proud of her on the rare occasions when he actually did have the energy to go out, even though she could be a little, well, over the top sometimes. He wished he wasn’t so tired all the time, but he was worried that if he didn’t work hard, he would never be offered a partnership, and then there wouldn’t be the money to buy Irene all those things he knew she wanted so much.

  His mother always said, privately, of course, that Irene would hold him back, that he would never advance at Hart, Bullock and Associates with her as his wife, but Martin knew she was wrong. Irene was a very kind girl at heart, and generous and extremely bright, and if she did sometimes come across as selfish and demanding, well, he couldn’t entirely blame her, having to live in a poky little bachelor flat like this, married to a man she thought was dull and having to go to work every day in someone else’s office typing all sorts of boring letters and accounts. Irene was the sort of woman who needed to be pampered and adored, and until he earned enough he just couldn’t give her that. But he would one day, in the not too distant future, and then his lovely, tempestuous wife would be happy. And when Irene was happy, everything was very good indeed.

  But not tonight, not with bits of his mother’s ugly dog plate all over the floor and Irene standing there looking around for something else to hurl. He hoped she wouldn’t choose the Royal Crown Derby cup and saucer—that was his and it had cost quite a lot. But at least she was angry. He dreaded the day she stopped railing at him about not going out, because that would be the day she’d decided she didn’t care any more, and not long after that, he was certain, she would pack her suitcases and leave him. And if that happened, he didn’t know what he’d do.

  ‘Is that really what’s upsetting you?’ he asked cautiously. ‘Not being posh and stuck-up?’

  Irene flopped down on the sofa, and Martin knew his cup and saucer were safe.

  ‘No,’ she replied grudgingly. ‘I’m bored, Martin. I want us to go dancing together. I feel a fool going out by myself all the time. People will think my husband isn’t interested in me.’

  Martin raised an eyebrow. ‘Since when have you ever been bothered by what people think?’

  Irene scowled. ‘Oh, shut up.’

  She looked so genuinely miserable sitting there that Martin realized he would do just about anything to cheer her up. He wondered if sex would make her happy. It usually did. He also thought about the fat pile of documents in his briefcase that he’d been asked to have checked and corrected by first thing on Monday morning, and said, ‘I’ll come to your staff picnic tomorrow if you like.’

  ‘Oh. Well,’ Irene said. ‘Good.’

  Martin could tell by her lack of enthusiasm that she wasn’t entirely pleased. His heart sank: she must be having one of her ‘flirtations’ with someone at Dunbar & Jones. He knew about these, though she wasn’t aware that he knew, and had decided some time ago to tolerate them if they kept her amused. And, more importantly, still married to him. They hurt him a lot but, as far as he’d been able to ascertain, they’d never amounted to much—just harmless little games that boosted her ego and stopped her from becoming too bored. He was terrified, however, that if he made a fuss she would actually run off with someone, and God knew there were plenty of men out there who would be happy to oblige.

  ‘And maybe later in the week we could go dancing,’ he suggested, though he knew he’d be hellishly busy every evening until Christmas.

  Irene got off the sofa and came and sat on his knee.

  ‘That would be nice, baby,’ she said, resting her head on his shoulder and rubbing her hand slowly over his chest.

  Martin tightened his arms around her and closed his eyes, thanking God for giving him such a gorgeous wife, but wishing He’d made her just a little less manipulative.

  Chapter Nine

  Come and meet my mother first,’ Sonny said, leading Allie by the hand down the path at the side of the house.

  There was an enormous green and brown tent pitched on the back lawn, its sides rolled up to reveal a crowd of people sitting on an assortment of chairs, benches and boxes, singing, shouting and generally making lots of noise. But Sonny turned her up the concrete steps to the back door and urged her inside.

  They stepped into a kitchen not dissimilar to the one in Allie’s house, though this one was obviously somewhat newer. There were banks of bright, lemon-painted cupboards, a stove and a good-sized bench, though Allie wondered where the fridge was. The kitchen table, covered with oilcloth, was piled high with food—bowls of cockles, mussels, pipis and something bright orange and sloppy that Allie hadn’t seen before, baskets of sliced, buttered bread, four or five trifles, and heaped plates of lamingtons. Around the table sat five children between the ages of about four and seven, dipping saveloys into a plate of tomato sauce and smearing their faces with it. They stared at Allie with enormous brown eyes.

  ‘Hello, Aunty Maria,’ Sonny said to an older woman standing at the stove frying something that smelled delicious.

  ‘Kia ora, Sonny, love,’ the woman said, offering her brown, wrinkled cheek for a kiss.

  ‘This is my girlfriend, Allie.’

  ‘Hello, Allie, dear,’ Aunty Maria said, kissing Allie on both cheeks and giving her a hell of a fright because she wasn’t used to that sort of familiarity from people she didn’t know.

  ‘Where’s Mum?’ Sonny asked.

  ‘In the sitting room having a rest.’

  ‘Is she asleep?’

  Aunty Maria shook her head. ‘Having a cuppa.’

  His mother did seem to be asleep. She sat on an old sofa with her feet, clad in a pair of men’s tartan slippers, up on a footstool. Her cup of tea was balanced on the arm of the sofa, still full.

  Allie thought she was possibly the most striking-looking woman she had ever seen. Her long hair was still dark, with a hint of steel grey at her wide temples, and worn in a long plait that hung over her shoulder, and her brown face showed only a few wrinkles, radiating out from her closed eyes and running from her nose down to the corners of her mouth. Her lips were full and proud, and she wore no make-up at all. In her pierced ears were small gold hoops and she was dressed in a blue and grey-patterned dress, a black cardigan and a flowered apron. She was solid but shapely and her legs were bare.

  ‘Mum?’ Sonny whispered.

  One large brown eye opened, then both. ‘Hello, son.’

  ‘Sorry, were you asleep?’

  ‘Just dozing.’

  ‘Mum, this is Allie. Allie, this is my mum, Te Awhina—Awhi—Manaia.’

  ‘He
llo, Mrs Manaia,’ Allie said.

  Awhi Manaia hoisted herself up on the sofa and set her feet on the floor. ‘Kia ora, dear. We’ve been hearing all about you.’

  Sonny touched the side of her cup. ‘Your tea’s gone cold. I’ll get you a fresh one, eh?’

  He took the cup and saucer away, leaving Allie standing in the middle of the room feeling silly.

  ‘Sit down, dear.’

  Allie sat in an armchair so old that the pattern had worn almost completely off the arms. There was a large mat made of woven flax or some similar fibre on the wooden floor but no curtains at the windows, and dozens of framed photographs on the walls, mostly of old Maori men scowling at the camera and serious but beautiful women, their hair long and thick and cascading over their shoulders. Some of the women had tattooed faces, and several wore feathered cloaks over European dresses. On the mantelpiece above the tiled fireplace was propped a framed photograph of a handsome but ferocious-looking man in a military uniform. A velvet ribbon had been tied across the top of the photo—pinned to this were seven gleaming military medals. Flanking the photo was a pair of beautiful little Asian dolls with porcelain faces wearing traditional costumes. Kimonos? Apart from the photographs and the dolls, the room was relatively bare, but it was spotlessly clean. There was a baby asleep in a carry-cot on the floor; Allie couldn’t see its face but she could hear its tiny snores.

  Awhi noticed Allie looking at the photo on the mantelpiece. ‘That was my husband, Sonny’s father, Pera. He passed last year.’

  Allie could see Sonny in his father’s face, except that Sonny’s features weren’t—usually—anywhere near as grim.

  Awhi laboriously pushed herself off the couch and bent over the carry-cot, moving the fluffy pink blanket away from the baby’s face. ‘This is Polly’s baby, my mokopuna.’ She straightened up. ‘You know my daughter Polly, eh? She said you were at the department store where Sonny works.’

  Allie nodded. ‘Did your husband serve in the war?’ she asked, mainly because she couldn’t think of anything else to say.

  ‘Ae, Maori Battalion,’ Awhi said, sitting down again. ‘Greece, Crete, Italy, North Africa, he was at all of those places.’

  ‘Did he bring those dolls home from Japan?’

  ‘Eh? No, he didn’t go to Japan. Sonny sent me those.’

  Allie stared at Awhi. ‘Sonny was in Japan?’

  ‘Ae. On leave, from Kayforce in South Korea.’ Awhi gave Allie an odd look. ‘He only came home in August.’

  A silence descended between them. Allie, stunned, wondered why Sonny had never said anything about being a soldier. She could hear the kettle whistling in the kitchen, and Sonny saying something to Aunty Maria and laughing. She wished he would hurry up and come back. She looked at the photographs again, then at the floor, then finally risked a glance at Mrs Manaia, who was staring back at her.

  ‘My Sonny is a good boy,’ she said.

  Allie wasn’t sure what to say to that, so she just nodded politely.

  ‘Not like some of my other kids,’ Awhi went on. ‘Bloody no-hopers, some of them.’

  Allie couldn’t even nod to that.

  ‘I don’t want him getting in any trouble.’

  Now Allie didn’t know what she meant. ‘Sorry?’ she said.

  ‘I don’t want him having any little ones like this one here,’ Awhi said, nodding at the baby in the carry-cot. ‘Not yet. And I don’t want him to have to marry a Pakeha girl because he’s made a mistake.’

  God, and Allie had thought her mother was blunt! She felt colour flood into her face.

  Watching her, Awhi said shrewdly, ‘I know you’re thinking, what is this rude old Maori woman saying about me? What a cheek! But I can see you’re a very pretty girl, and I know Sonny thinks a lot of you, and all I’m saying is you both need to watch out. You might think it would all be happy families to be together, but it won’t.’ She gave a wry little smile. ‘Your mother has said the same thing, I expect. She would be a stupid woman and a bad mother if she hasn’t.’

  Allie had no idea how to respond, but fortunately just then a little boy stuck his head around the door. ‘Nanny, Aunty says what do we put the fried breads in? We’ve run out of bowls.’

  ‘There’s a basin in the washhouse,’ Awhi said. ‘But clean it first. Properly!’ she called after him as he retreated. She turned back to Allie. ‘I’m sorry, dear, I can see you’re a nice girl, but I don’t want my Sonny to make a mistake. If you want to love him, that’s all right. Just don’t hopukia him, eh? That’s all.’

  Allie had no idea what hopukia meant, but Sonny, standing in the doorway holding a steaming cup of tea and frowning, obviously did. She looked at him for explanation.

  He said, ‘It means capture. Mum, you said you wouldn’t say anything!’

  Awhi shrugged. ‘I’m getting old, I forget.’

  ‘Bullshit,’ Sonny said.

  ‘Just looking out for you, son.’ Awhi held out her hand for the cup. ‘I was just saying you want to be careful, that’s all. I don’t want any more mokopuna just yet.’

  Even Sonny went red then. He changed the subject. ‘Aunty Maria says the food’s nearly ready and what time is the hangi coming up?’

  ‘Now,’ Awhi said. ‘Go and help your brothers with it.’

  ‘Come and meet everyone,’ Sonny said, holding out his hand for Allie to take.

  As they left the room, Allie glanced back at Mrs Manaia. She winked, and Allie very clearly saw Sonny in her face as well.

  ‘You said no one would bite,’ she complained as they walked down the back steps.

  ‘Sorry. Mum can be like that sometimes. Since the old man died she’s sort of taken over running the family. She’s only doing what she thinks is best.’ Sonny smiled. ‘Actually, my father never ran the family, he only thought he did. Bad-tempered old bastard that he was.’

  At least fifty brown faces looked up expectantly as Allie followed Sonny into the tent. And that was only the adults. There seemed to be children everywhere, perched on knees, playing on the ground, sitting on the roof of the shed at the end of the lawn, playing cricket with a ratty old bat and three sticks for stumps.

  Allie recognized only two faces—Hori the driver from Dunbar & Jones, who waved, and Polly, a bottle of beer in one hand and a cigarette in the other, who nodded then went back to talking to the man beside her. Allie felt completely out of her depth.

  Sonny sensed her discomfort. ‘Do you want to see the hangi coming up?’

  Taking a firm, proprietorial grip on her hand, he led her around the back of the tent to where a group of men were leaning on shovels, gazing at a mound of gently steaming dirt.

  ‘This is my brother Harry,’ he said, nodding at a slightly older and bigger version of himself.

  Harry nodded back, a cigarette dangling out of his mouth.

  ‘And this is Oscar. It’s his twenty-first.’

  Oscar nodded as well.

  Sonny didn’t introduce the other men, though they all looked at Allie with undisguised interest. One of them scraped some dirt off the mound and revealed the corner of a sack, which he then lifted, letting out a small billow of steam.

  ‘She’s ready,’ he said.

  The others started shovelling the dirt off the mound, then dragged away the sacks, exposing a layer of steaming white cloths. These were also removed, revealing a series of tightly packed wire baskets set into a hole. When the heavy baskets were lifted out, wafting a delicious smell of pork and chicken after them, Allie saw that they had been sitting on top of a bed of hot stones.

  ‘Do you do all your cooking like this?’ she whispered to Sonny.

  ‘Hell no, we’d starve to death!’ he replied. ‘It takes seven or eight hours to do a decent hangi.’

  Wrapping cloths around their hands, the men carried the hot baskets into the tent and set them on a long trestle table. Several women, including Aunty Maria, started to unpack the baskets and arrange the food on paper plates. As well as chicken and pork, there w
ere also mutton and potatoes, pumpkin and kumara, and something Allie didn’t recognize.

  ‘What’s that?’ she asked, pointing at the long, glistening segments of what might or might not be meat.

  ‘Eel,’ Sonny said, picking a bit off a plate.

  Aunty Maria slapped his hand.

  The children had congregated around the table, their eyes huge as they contemplated the feast.

  ‘Go away!’ Aunty Maria said, flapping a tea-towel at them as though they were particularly large flies. ‘Go inside and help Nanny bring out the other food. And no pinching it on the way!’

  The kids scampered off, jostling and shoving each other to be first through the back door.

  When the food had all been brought out, including large bowls of cream and jugs of custard for the steamed puddings that Aunty Maria, to Allie’s fascination, had decanted from half a dozen large fruit tins, a dapper old man in a cream panama hat hoisted himself to his feet and everyone fell silent as he began to intone something in Maori. Glancing around, Allie saw that everyone had their heads down and their eyes closed, and rather self-consciously followed suit.

  When the old man had finished, the women began to pile the rest of the food onto plates and hand them to the more elderly people, who remained seated. Then the children were allowed to help themselves, then the younger adults. Allie, not sure of how you did things at a Maori function, hung back and was grateful when Sonny brought her a plate containing chicken and pork, a sliver of the eel, potato and kumara, and a piece of Aunty Maria’s fried bread. She tried that first—it was still warm, soft in the middle and crispy around the edges, very greasy and utterly delicious. A couple of these a day, Allie thought, and I’d soon be letting out the seams on all my skirts.

  The noise in the tent didn’t decrease even though everyone was busy eating, but Allie still felt awkward. Hers was the only white face there, and she was sure that everyone was staring at her because of it. She knew they were probably only curious, but she still felt as though that was the reason. At one point, Sonny, working his way through the mound of food on his plate, caught her eye and mouthed ‘All right?’ And suddenly she was.