The Paua Tower

by Coral Atkinson

‘Merci beaucoup,’ said Baldwin, taking the flowers and smiling. ‘When I am well, when all this is over I will come back, that is if Madame and Monsieur Durand permit me to visit. Meantime I will write to you.’

  Chapter 13

  Roland didn’t normally wear slippers to meals. He had been brought up in a family where such things weren’t done and, like most people, he continued as an adult to live largely by the mores of his youth. He wore the slippers this morning to please Lal. They were sensible, conventional male slippers of bright red tartan. Lal said she’d chosen this pair specially because of the fluffy lining — real wool, not just that cheap flannelette or something. It was Roland’s birthday and Lal had given him the slippers as a present.

  Roland let the brown sugar disappear into the milk on his porridge and looked at the cards he’d been given and sent. He’d opened Lal’s first, along with the slippers. It had a picture of chrysanthemums and the inscription ‘Happy Birthday to my husband’. In blue fountain pen Lal had added ‘and soon-to-be daddy’. It made Roland smile wearily, for since Lal’s pregnancy had been confirmed, two months before, it seemed everything must be made to include the happy news. She talked and chatted about ‘our child’ and how they would soon be ‘a proper family’. She was constantly occupied with pastel knitting wools as tiny garments grew out of her hands. When Lal wasn’t knitting she was repapering the nursery, mending a cot, or cutting out scraps and pictures to decorate the baby’s room. Her efforts weren’t only for herself. Inspired by her own situation, she started the Busy Fingers Club, which made layettes to give to all expectant mothers in the parish. She also encouraged the Young Wives to invite the Plunket nurse and matron from the Matauranga Hospital Maternity Wing to address their meetings and speak about their work.

  Lal’s new happiness made Roland’s own life and work easier and more pleasant. Gone were the monthly bouts of disappointed grief and the depressing hours spent trying to cheer Lal up as she cried despairingly into the side of the bed. Her edgy look and pinched features disappeared and as the pregnancy advanced Lal returned to the smiling, rounded girl Roland had married. He knew he should be grateful for all this and thank God for it. The difficulty was that as the date of the baby’s birth crept closer he felt increasingly uncertain whether he wanted a child, or whether he was ready for such a momentous event in his life. Looking back, it seemed to Roland than no sooner was he married than Lal had become obsessed with motherhood and grief at its being denied; except for his honeymoon and the few meagre months that followed, there had been too little opportunity to enjoy the married state.

  Roland thought wistfully of those early days of coupledom, when Lal had made a sponge cake for him every afternoon and how often, after eating, he would laughingly chase his wife into the bedroom and they would make love as the sun slipped across the walls and the winter afternoon was transformed into darkness. Now, when Roland came home from parish visiting or some other clerical duty, Lal would be lying with her feet elevated on the sideboard or in the kitchen dosing herself with carrot juice or spinach water. When he reached across in bed and touched her, she was keen to hold his hand over the foetus so he could feel it moving, but when he began to kiss her mouth and run his hand over her naked breasts, she would hold her breath and whisper, ‘Careful, careful,’ the way she did when Roland unpacked the antique glass icicles they used on the Christmas tree.

  ‘I thought,’ said Lal, ‘that you need a really good pair of slippers for getting up at night when baby comes.’

  Roland nodded. He hated it the way Lal said ‘baby’ rather than ‘the baby’, though he couldn’t decide why it annoyed him. He was thinking he should say something encouraging about the slippers, when there was the sound of a car stopping and a ring at the front door. Lal went to answer it. She came back quickly.

  ‘It’s for you,’ she said, smiling.

  Lal followed Roland back down the long hall to where a neatly dressed man, holding a trilby hat, was standing in the open doorway.

  ‘Reverend Crawford?’ the man said.

  ‘Yes,’ said Roland.

  ‘Would you mind stepping out to the gate, sir?’ said the man.

  ‘Of course,’ said Roland, ‘but why?’

  ‘You’ll see,’ said the man, leading the way down the path.

  Outside on the street was a car, a small baby Austin, black and gleaming like a dark biscuit box.

  ‘I’m Ray Gascoigne of Gascoigne Motors,’ the man said, taking a bunch of car keys out of his pocket and handing them to Roland. ‘The car’s yours. A birthday present, I understand, from your mother, Mrs Olive Crawford, in Christchurch.’

  ‘Mine?’ said Roland, taking the keys and looking from Gascoigne to the car and back with astonishment. ‘Are you sure, quite sure?’

  ‘Course,’ said Gascoigne. ‘And I must say, sir, your mother made an excellent choice. A real sturdy little model, this one. Great for visiting some of your country parishioners.’

  ‘Oh, Roland, isn’t it wonderful?’ cried Lal, running her hand along the roof of the car.

  ‘It’s extraordinary,’ said Roland, feeling a wave of excitement at the thought of sitting behind a wheel again, purring off along the road as he’d done as a young man driving his father’s car in Christchurch.

  ‘We can go for picnics — we’ll be able to take baby!’ said Lal as Gascoigne opened the door of the passenger seat to let her in.

  ‘Come on, sir, how about taking your wife for a spin? I understand you do have a licence. I can walk back to the office and you can pop in at your leisure to sign the paperwork.’

  ‘I’ll just shut the house up,’ said Lal.

  Roland sat in the car, looking at the dashboard. He’d dreamed of having a car of his own ever since he was a boy, and suddenly here it was. He looked down at the pedals and saw his feet in the slippers and thought of Lal, and he thought of his mother giving him the car. He knew he should be more grateful for his life and for the people who loved him. He supposed one day the baby would love him too, and he it, but that seemed too far off and impossible to imagine. ‘You may find the handbrake a bit tight at first,’ Gascoigne said, bending to speak through the open side window. ‘If you’ve any problems just pop in the showroom and I’ll fix you up.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Roland, rolling his hands lovingly around the steering wheel. ‘I certainly will.’

  Stella loved the arrival of the new stationery. The boxes with their smells of ink and paper and unsullied contents seemed like personal presents. She laid out the pencils, rubbers, staples, paper, cashbooks and typewriting ribbon that the office used, before ticking them off in the order book and putting them away in the cupboard.

  ‘Morning, ladies,’ said Maguire, appearing at the door wearing a dark double-breasted suit. ‘How’s tricks?’

  There was a chorus of ‘Good morning, Mr Maguire.’

  ‘No whines or grizzles?’

  Everyone said no.

  Maguire made a habit of popping in. He would take a look at the girls’ work, tell a few jokes, and make a few comments about what they were wearing.

  ‘Nice jumper that, Betty,’ he’d say. ‘Leaves nothing to the imagination!’

  Recently he’d taken to asking Stella to do small jobs for him — make some tea for a visitor, go down to the cobbler with a pair of shoes, fetch the invoice books out of the car.

  ‘And you, Twinkle,’ said Maguire, coming over to her, ‘what are you up to?’

  ‘Checking the stationery,’ said Stella.

  ‘All hunky dory,’ said Maguire, taking the order book from her and looking at it. ‘I’ve been hearing some nice things about you. Davies tells me you’re a real Trojan for work, and good with figures too. How’d you fancy a bit of an outing over to the cinema at Haikai? There’s been a hell of a balls-up with the pay there. I need to fix it and you could give me a hand. What do you say?’

  ‘Course, though I don’t really know anything about pay. Betty always does it,’ said Stella.


  ‘Betty’s needed here,’ said Maguire. ‘Leave the stationery. Get your coat. I’m on my way now. I’ll wait for you out the front.’

  Stella felt pleased as she went to the pegs in the corridor and took down her jacket and beret. Mr Davies was usually so grumpy that she was surprised he’d noticed her, but it was nice all the same, and now Mr Maguire had asked her to help — not Betty or Gertie, though they were much older and knew heaps more about the business and everything to do with paying the men.

  The air rushed by their faces. The hood of the car was down and the breeze blew in eyes and tugged at clothes, making Stella laugh. Maguire laughed too. He honked the horn and waved when they passed a group of Maori children on the side of the road and sang ‘Daisy, Daisy’ as they drove along. He put his arm around Stella’s shoulders as he sang and pinched her. It was a bit of fun, as if he were doing a number on stage and Stella was up there with him. It wasn’t as if he meant it or anything, so Stella didn’t mind.

  ‘Fancy a drink?’ said Maguire as they came into the main street of a small settlement.

  ‘Drink?’ said Stella. ‘You mean in a hotel?’ No one had offered her that before.

  ‘Course,’ said Maguire. ‘Quite fancy a beer myself.’

  ‘I don’t drink,’ said Stella primly.

  ‘There’s always a first time,’ said Maguire, pulling up in front of the Empire.

  ‘I think I’ll just stay in the car,’ said Stella.

  ‘Suit yourself,’ said Maguire, getting out. Stella felt he was annoyed, but fronting up to a public bar with a man, even if he was her boss, would be dreadful. Only bad women did that.

  Maguire wasn’t away for long. He came back with a tawny drink in a long glass and handed it to Stella.

  ‘Here,’ he said, ‘a shandy — what nice girls drink.’

  Then he went back into the hotel.

  Stella looked at the glass with its myriad bubbles rising and bursting. Should she drink it? Should she throw it away? But that would be rude. She wished she had asked Maguire for a lemonade, or a ginger ale — something safe that she had before — but did hotel bars sell softdrinks? She didn’t know. A shandy — she’d never heard of that. When he was in work Stella’s father would go to the pub on Saturday nights and sometimes his mates would come around and there’d be a keg in the kitchen. Stella’s mother never drank, not even at Christmas. But surely there was no harm in taking a sip, just a little sip. Stella put the glass to her mouth. Cold, bubbling, teasing, the drink was delicious.

  ‘Want another?’ said Maguire when he came out and saw the empty glass.

  ‘No thanks,’ said Stella.

  ‘Course you do,’ and before she could stop him he’d gone and got her a second.

  ‘Bottoms up,’ he said.

  Maguire stood by the car and watched Stella drink. There was a feeling in her head as if it were bobbing off somewhere different from her body. It was a good feeling. Friendly. She wondered if she was drunk.

  When they got to a lake Maguire turned off the road down a track. The car bumped over the stones and stopped beside a broom thicket.

  ‘Where’re we going?’ asked Stella.

  ‘Lunch,’ said Maguire. ‘Brought a picnic. Can’t have you wasting away.’

  They sat on the rough grass under the trees near the water. Maguire opened the hamper he’d taken from the boot of the car and pulled out a checked tablecloth, which he spread on the ground. Then he brought out the food. There was bacon-and-egg pie, cold chicken, meat paste sandwiches, tomatoes, madeira cake and milky tea in a flask. Stella had never seen such a spread. It was like a party. Maguire opened a bottle of beer on a rock and sat looking at Stella. It made her fidget. She moved further away.

  ‘You’re a nice-looking sheila,’ he said as he chewed on a chicken bone.

  Sheila tugged at the strap of her shoe and thought of work. She imagined Betty smoking the stubs of cigarettes she collected, and Dorothy combing her eyebrows with the special tiny comb she kept in her handbag. She wished she were back with the others in the office, not alone here with Maguire.

  ‘Suppose all the jokers are after you,’ said Maguire. ‘Hands up your knickers, panting for a slice of the action.’

  Stella blushed.

  ‘Got a boyfriend?’ Maguire knocked his hat off with his hand and sleeked his hair back.

  Stella nodded.

  ‘Anyone I know? Go on, tell me his name.’

  ‘Vic, Vic Cowan,’ mumbled Stella.

  ‘Cowan. I know him. An electrician, one of those commie bastards. Won’t do you any good mixed up with reds like him.’

  Stella said nothing. There was silence except for the sound of birds and on the main road the clip-clop of hooves as a cart went by.

  Maguire took off his jacket and waistcoat and threw them over a bush. Stella saw that his braces had pictures of scantily dressed women on them. She looked away.

  ‘Like the braces?’ said Maguire, twanging them with his thumbs.

  ‘They’re …’ Stella hesitated.

  ‘Only pair in New Zealand,’ said Maguire. ‘Came from the States. Saw them in a magazine and sent to San Francisco for them.’

  ‘Don’t you think we should be going now?’ said Stella, starting to gather up the food.

  ‘Why?’ said Maguire. ‘Not good rushing about on a full stomach.’

  He reached over and drew his finger down Stella’s face and nose.

  ‘You could be a real smasher, you know,’ he said. ‘A bit of lippy, a nice Marcel wave and some decent clothes, not that godawful dress.’

  ‘It’s about all I have,’ said Stella, looking down at her hand-knitted jacket and green plaid dress with the darned burn hole near the hem.

  ‘Easily fixed,’ said Maguire. ‘Next time I go to Wellington you could come with me. How’d you like that, kiddo? I’d buy you a real smart costume, a fox fur maybe, kit you out, show you a good time.’

  Stella could think of nothing to say.

  ‘Let’s see what you’re really like. Take the dress off.’

  ‘What?’ said Stella. ‘Here?’

  Maguire nodded.

  ‘I couldn’t.’ Stella felt embarrassment rise through her in a hot, red tide.

  ‘Go on, be a sport.’ Maguire’s lips twitched upwards under his moustache.

  ‘It’d be rude, and anyone might come along,’ said Stella in a small voice.

  ‘They won’t,’ said Maguire, tossing the stripped bone he’d been holding into the bushes. ‘But since you’re shy I’ll help you.’

  He knelt in front of her, his hands on her clothing, and began opening the buttons on the bodice.

  Stella, rigid with horror, felt she was about to wet herself.

  Maguire pushed the dress off her arms and yanked aside the straps of her slip, vest and brassiere.

  ‘That’s better,’ he said, touching one of her breasts with his finger.

  ‘No,’ Stella said. ‘You shouldn’t …’

  ‘Lie back,’ said Maguire, and pushed her down. ‘You look as if you could do with some fun.’

  Maguire fiddled with his clothes, then took Stella’s hand and placed it between his legs on something slippery. Stella thought of plunging her hands into the buckets of jellied waterglass in search of the eggs her mother preserved for winter. She pulled her arm away.

  ‘Look here, missy,’ said Maguire, catching her wrist and putting it back on his penis. Then he rolled over on top of her.

  Stella was trembling so much she couldn’t speak, couldn’t move. Maguire filled her vision. She saw the hairs in his nostrils, the stubble of lips and chin, and smelt his breath frowsy with chicken meat and beer. He was hurting her hip bones, grinding her body into the shingle.

  ‘Don’t, please …’ she whimpered.

  She felt something thick and insistent in the tender places between her legs and tried to pull back.

  ‘Damn you!’ grunted Maguire, pushing forward. The pain grew worse, running like flame and burn through
her body. Maguire was inside her in ways he hadn’t been before. He pushed back and forward, each thrust a rasp. It hurt, how it hurt.

  Stella was on the stones; she was also above. She felt herself floating about as if she were in the sky. She saw the writhing heap, the man with pushed-down trousers and heaving bare buttocks, the girl beneath, arms outstretched. The girl insubstantial as a leaf, a blade of grass, a broken twig.

  Stella screamed. Maguire made an odd stifled noise and it was over.

  He fixed his clothes and took a cigarette from his silver box. ‘Want one?’ he said.

  Stella didn’t answer. She was no longer in the sky. She lay where she was, sore and exposed, tears on her face, blood on her legs. She wanted to die.

  ‘It’s not that bad,’ said Maguire, standing above her. ‘Have a wash. You’ll feel better.’

  Stella stood up, pulling her clothes back on. It was muddy at the lakeside and hard to pick up clear water in her hands. She shook as tears and mucus rolled down her face.

  ‘Now listen here,’ said Maguire when Stella came back to the car. ‘We’re off to Haikai, just as I said. And I don’t want any blubbing or blabbing. Okay, it may not have been much cop for you, that’s how it is for women first time mostly. It wasn’t much fun for me either, you being a bloody ice maiden. So it’s least said soonest mended. But get this straight: if I hear a whisper of you telling tales, you’ll be down the road as far as the job is concerned, and what’s more, I’ll see the whole bloody town knows you’re a tart, especially that commie Cowan you’re running around with.’

  ‘You wouldn’t,’ said Stella, wiping her face with the back of her hand, the handkerchief she usually kept up her sleeve having disappeared.

  ‘I would,’ said Maguire. ‘Didn’t get where I am playing Father Christmas.’

  Stella looked out the car window as the trees and paddocks glided away in a damp blur. She was trying not to cry but the tears kept coming. Even if Maguire hadn’t said anything there was no way she would tell anyone. It was too terrible, too shameful. But Vic would know what had happened. The girls at work said men could tell — damaged goods, a slice off the cheese. Vic would think she’d wanted it. He’d turn against her, never want to see her again.