The Paua Tower

by Coral Atkinson

  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?

  Hadn’t Roland asked often enough, praying repeatedly not just for himself but for his parishioners? In return, things in the town grew steadily worse, poverty spread, lives were broken. Jesus had said, ‘If a son shall ask bread of any of you that is a father, will he give him a stone?’ As far as Roland was concerned, God was giving stones.

  Vic disliked Maguire and everything he represented but he was damned glad of the occasional work he’d got at the cinema and out at the tower. He sent what he earned to his mother in Wellington, and every time he sealed a letter to Joy with a ten-shilling note inside he felt overwhelmed with relief.

  Vic worked for Maguire on the stand-down days at the camp. There was nothing regular about it — a day here, a morning there, depending on what part of the projects they were up to, and who could be screwed down the hardest. ‘Keeping them on their toes,’ Maguire called it. The pay was lousy, of course, and you kept your mouth shut about the shortcuts and dubious practices or you were down the road double quick. Maguire used the government employment schemes to get cheap labour: guarantee a man’s job and the authorities stumped up part of the pay. It was a great way for the rich to get richer, Vic thought.

  It was getting light as Vic came down the path that led alongside the river to the tower.

  A long strip of brightness, like a petticoat hanging beneath a dark dress, filled the sky. Vic was thinking of Stella, as he had done ever since they’d had the row about her taking part in the pageant. His feelings were confused and no matter how he tried to sort them they kept sliding about, becoming increasingly muddled. Vic took off his old tweed cap and ran his hand through his hair, as he did when perplexed.

  He would pose himself some questions, answer honestly yes or no, and then perhaps something would become clear. Did he love Stella? Vic immediately answered with an emphatic yes. But then she had insisted on being in the wretched pageant, even when she knew he didn’t want her to, and he was not entirely sure. Did Stella love him? Vic hoped so, but in the light of what had happened he wasn’t sure about that either.

  ‘Bugger,’ said Vic, stopping to look at the river. He could see the current twitching in the rising light, and close to his shoulder a bellbird repeated three notes, over and over.

  ‘That you, Cowan?’ a voice called from behind him.

  Vic turned and saw a pair of white sandshoes puncturing the gloom. Looking up, he recognised Mike Dixon, a fellow out-of-work electrician. Older than Vic, married with four kids, Dixon was a small man in a pair of flannel trousers fraying over his shoes and a dark suit jacket several sizes too large.

  ‘Gidday,’ said Vic.

  ‘Think there’ll be any work today?’ asked Dixon, coming abreast.

  ‘Hope so,’ said Vic, wishing he wasn’t going to have to compete with Dixon for whatever was going. ‘Though I wouldn’t count on it.’

  ‘Heard you were working on the swanky new picture house at Haikai,’ said Dixon.

  ‘A bit now and again, when some other poor bastard’s been sacked or the foreman’s miscalculated,’ said Vic. ‘Not a sausage at the moment.’

  ‘Got a few hours on the tower on Monday,’ said Dixon, ‘though it’s all a bit dodgy. Nothing but crap stuff being put in. Suppose it’s the same at the picture theatre.’

  ‘You’re right there,’ said Vic.

  ‘Heard about the carnival Maguire’s pushing?’ asked Dixon.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Vic.

  ‘Stupid bloody thing if you ask me,’ said Dixon, wiping his nose with the back of his hand.

  ‘A jack shit idea if ever there was one.’ Vic felt furious with Stella all over again.

  They left the river and walked over the paddocks to the tower. Like crowded eyes, the paua fragments glittered in the early light. The area around the tower had been cleared ready for the grass seed and asphalt, giving the place a scalped look, and on one side the foundations of the public toilet were partially laid. Several men stood around blowing on their hands as a glass bottle of cold tea passed between them. A truck bumped over the field from the road and stopped near the group. Len Williams, the foreman, a bulky, balding man, got down from the cab and was lighting a cigarette when Vic and Dixon came over.

  ‘Morning,’ said Vic. ‘Got any electrical work today?’

  ‘Could have,’ said Williams, scratching his ear and looking at the two men.

  ‘We’re both qualified sparkies,’ said Dixon. ‘I was here on Monday.’

  ‘I remember,’ said Williams, reaching into the cab and pulling out an exercise book, which he flicked through. ‘You’re Dixon. We could use you today. Holden’s working inside the tower. Go and see him and he’ll fix you up with a few hours.’

  ‘Anything for me?’ asked Vic. ‘I’ve been up at the cinema at Haikai putting in some cables but there’s nothing doing at the moment.’

  Williams took a draw on his cigarette before replying. ‘You’re Cowan,’ he said. ‘Commie Cowan.’

  ‘I’m for the workers, if that’s what you mean,’ said Vic sharply.

  ‘Up to your neck in that eviction business and every bloody thing. Well, no, Cowan, there’s no work for the likes of you,’ said Williams, closing the book with a smack and leaning back against the lorry.

  ‘My politics are my own business,’ said Vic. ‘It’s my work that counts — has anyone said it was crook?’

  ‘No need,’ said Williams. ‘Mr Maguire’s having a crackdown on employing troublemakers and from what I hear, Cowan, you’re a real grouse shit-stirrer.’

  Vic hadn’t intended going into Matauranga for the procession but just as the lorry was about to leave the camp he climbed on board.

  ‘Thought you weren’t coming,’ said Gilchrist, movi
ng over so Vic could sit down.

  ‘Don’t want to — can’t keep away, I suppose.’ Vic pulled a face.

  ‘Just because we go and rubber-neck doesn’t mean we approve,’ said Gilchrist.

  ‘You’re right there,’ said Vic.

  The afternoon was bright and windy. The gaily coloured bits of flags strung across the main street flapped and jerked at their bindings as if longing to be off. The procession was scheduled to leave the Domain at two o’clock and the streets were full of people. The local schools had the afternoon off and children pushed to the front and ran alongside the kerb tugging balloons saying, ‘Maguire’s says Happy Days are here again!’

  Several of the shops had window displays. In Gillmans the draper, a mannequin dressed as a swagger was lifting a cooking pot filled with gold cellophane. A cardboard rainbow running unsteadily behind him into the floor of the shop window said, ‘Cheer up. It’s time to get lucky!’ At Bonds Hardware a wheelbarrow laden with portly sacks with a pound sign on the side was positioned beside an elongated scroll hanging from an upturned rake. It read, ‘Bring on the Happy Days. Bonds are confident, so should you be.’ Down at the Adelphi cinema free passes were being given out to random pedestrians. The crowd jostled and shoved outside both Haines the stationers and Tarrants the china shop as people pushed their way to the windows to see if they held a winning ticket for one of the spot prizes displayed in the windows.

  ‘Bread and circuses.’ Gilchrist was standing on the pavement at the back of the crowd.

  ‘Poor bloody fools,’ said Vic beside him.

  There was the sound of ‘Happy Days are Here Again’, and down the street, leading the procession, came the brass band, escorted closely behind by members of various local lodges wearing ornate collars and carrying the banners of the Oddfellows, the Masons, the Foresters. The marchers were closely followed by the floats on lorries. Boadicea in a chariot with bladed wheels advertised a stock and station merchant; a group in dirndl skirts and lederhosen appeared on behalf of the local musical society’s current production of The White Horse Inn; Pearsons’ had a spring theme, with smart women wearing tweed suits clutching daffodils. There was the old woman who lived in a shoe; a desert island with a papier-mâché palm tree that fell over and had to be held up by an increasingly exhausted Robinson Crusoe; the bowls club reenacting Sir Francis Drake on the Plymouth green; and an RSA float with flags and a giant misshapen poppy made out of scarlet crêpe paper. Behind the floats a posse of moderately drunk young men, some in cowboy hats and scarves, whooped and shouted from their horses. They were followed by a lorry packed with shouting and cheering, mildly intoxicated young people grouped around what looked like a gigantic black snowman sitting on a giant lavatory. The figure had a board around its neck saying, ‘Mr Depression. Push him in. Pull the chain. Flush him off for good.’

  ‘God almighty, I wish it was that easy,’ said Gilchrist.

  Vic wasn’t listening. He had caught sight of the last float, the one from Maguire’s. Stella, surrounded by other women, was elevated on a dais, which swayed slightly as the lorry drove along. Stella’s hair was out, something Vic had never seen before. It flowed around and under the twinkling silver circlet she wore and down over her shoulders like sunlight on water. Vic took one look and the irritation he’d felt with her over the past weeks melted. The desire to touch her, to hold her, to lose and find himself in her body beset him as if he’d been struck. He felt winded, lost for breath; it was like the hot stitch that comes from running.

  ‘That’s Stella Morgan up there, isn’t it?’ said Gilchrist. ‘Didn’t expect your little friend to be mixed up in this shit.’

  ‘Shut up,’ snapped Vic. ‘Just shut up.’

  ‘Keep you hair on,’ said Gilchrist. ‘Didn’t mean to speak out of order.’

  Stella didn’t seem to see Vic, or maybe she did and pretended not to. He waved and shouted her name. Stella smiled to the crowd and moved her gloved hand, artificial and impersonal as if in a play, but there was no intimate wink, no quick smile specially thrown. Oh God, maybe she wasn’t interested any longer, had found someone else, ditched him. What else could he expect? Served him bloody right.

  Stella, still in her mauve gown, a teacup in her hand, felt miserable, though she knew she shouldn’t. It was beaut of Mr Maguire to shout all the girls on the float afternoon tea at the Excelsior Hotel, especially when they would have been pleased enough to be taken to the Tip Top Tea Rooms, but the Excelsior … Why, none of them had so much as put a foot inside the door before. Just look at the cake stand! Certainly not one of these double-tier wooden jobs with sweet things on one level and sammies on the other, like you’d get at the Tip Top. This cake stand was four storeys high, silver-plated, with its own special tongs and carried by a waitress in a black dress and frilled apron. And how did you decide what to have when you had so much choice? There were ginger gems, slices of Battenburg cake, coconut macaroons, sponge drops made to look like swans, two types of scones and brandy snaps.

  Maguire hadn’t stayed long. Just told them to have a good time, tuck in, not do anything he wouldn’t do, a bugger he couldn’t linger but someone had to keep the show on the road and he was off.

  ‘This is the life,’ said Gertie, taking a bite out of a macaroon.

  ‘Playing ladies suits me fine,’ said Valerie.

  ‘Wish Mum could see us now,’ said Dorothy, fingering the tiny organdie flowers that decorated the bodice of her dress.

  Stella hadn’t seen Vic in the crowd. Now the parade was over, the excitement and yahooing had died away and more than ever she regretted what she’d done.

  ‘Think I’ll be off home,’ she murmured.

  ‘What?’ said Gertie. ‘We’ve only just got here and there are still heaps more cakes to eat.’

  ‘You have them,’ said Stella, standing up.

  ‘Got the curse or something?’ said Valerie.

  Stella went red and shook her head.

  ‘Just being Princess Wowser,’ said Dorothy agreeably and everyone laughed.

  Vic was sitting on the tray of the moving lorry playing cards when he looked up and saw Stella coming out of the Excelsior.

  ‘Stella!’ Vic shouted.

  Stella put her hand to her eyes, then she began to wave, her hand moving very quickly as if her fingers were polishing glass.

  Vic leaned over the card players and banged on the back of the cab.

  ‘Hey!’ he yelled.

  There was no reaction from the driver.

  ‘Stop the bus!’ one of the other men said. ‘Cowan’s seen his sheila.’

  Everyone turned to look in Stella’s direction. Vic banged harder but the lorry continued to drive on. Vic lurched back to where he had been sitting, craning to keep Stella in his sight.

  She had started to run after them, holding up the skirt of her dress, her hair pouring out behind her like a long, pale scarf.

  ‘God, you must be popular, Cowan,’ John Nicholson said.

  The lorry was driving faster, the distance between Vic and Stella increasing. Now all Vic could see was the mauve dress like a windblown petal fluttering further and further away.

  After the parade had passed, Vic had searched for Stella, following the floats to their destination in the domain. By the time he got there Stella and the other young women had all gone. No one knew where, though a hiccuping cowgirl with beer on her breath told Vic she thought she’d seen them in Maguire’s car. Disconsolate, Vic had gone back to Gilchrist and his mates.

  The vehicle slowed at an intersection, about to turn. Vic could still see Stella running towards him but knew that in a moment she would disappear from view. He couldn’t bear the thought of her alone and far behind.

  ‘See you jokers,’ said Vic, as he jumped off the lorry onto the road.

  Nicholson catcalled.

  ‘There’s work tomorrow!’ shouted Gilchrist.

  ‘It’s not you who should say they’re sorry,’ said Vic as he wrapped his arms around Stella a
nd squeezed her against his chest. ‘I’m the one who should apologise. You know I feel strongly about the pageant, and Maguire’s a bastard as far as I’m concerned, but I spoke out of turn telling you what you can do. Please say it’s okay and you forgive me.’

  ‘What’s to forgive? You were right.’ Stella rested her face against Vic’s jersey. The wool smelt of leaves.

  ‘The pageant and the float were silly — just Mr Maguire showing off, as you said. No one’s going to get jobs out of it. I wish I’d never taken part.’

  ‘You looked stunning,’ said Vic, drawing his hand down Stella’s hair. ‘Still do.’

  ‘I felt stupid,’ said Stella, ‘sitting up there like Jacky waving and everything. And then I thought you wouldn’t like me any more and wouldn’t want to see me again and …’

  ‘Sweetie,’ said Vic, kissing the top of her head, ‘as if I’d ever feel like that.’

  The pavements were still crowded with people after the procession. Children dragged slumping balloons behind them or deliberately punctured them with nails and pocket knives. Women pulling howling toddlers by the hand turned towards home thinking of what they could put on the table for the evening meal. Three boys of eight or nine punched one another to gain possession of a handful of sweets they’d gathered in the lolly scramble. The afternoon, so sunny before, had clouded over. Stella in her light dress and bare arms began to shiver.