The Paua Tower

by Coral Atkinson

  Then there was Mr Maguire. Stella imagined going into his office, standing beside that rude statue of the naked man. How could she say the words and what would she ask for? That Mr Maguire get someone to do to her what Peg had done, or ask him to pay to send her to another town so her baby could be taken and given away to strangers? Yet if she didn’t ask his help, how was she to live? She’d have to leave work once her stomach started bulging and afterwards who would employ an unmarried mother with a child?

  When Stella was little, her older brother George sometimes played chasing with her. Stella would run laughing and squealing under the clothesline, behind the dunny or along by the tree with the swing. One day George caught her. He picked her up under one arm, carried her to the coal shed and dumped her in there on top of the coal. Then he bolted the door and went away. Stella still remembered the blackness of the place and the grim smell of the coal. She was sure there were creatures in the shed — black-fanged animals with red eyes, and bats with wings like old curtains. She banged and kicked at the door and shouted but George didn’t come back. Stella remembered sitting in the terrifying darkness, sucking on her plaits for comfort until eventually her mother had come and let her out.

  She touched the ends of her shorn bob. She thought of how she had thrown the hank of hair into the kitchen range and the speed with which it had disappeared in the flames. She wished she could escape cleanly like that, vanishing into some other place, fast and forever.

  Marlborough Avenue was not a street anyone would choose to live in. It backed onto the railway yards at one end and was shaded by the side of the Adelphi cinema and the bulk of a disused dyeworks on the other. The Walshes lived next door to the dyeworks, crammed into rooms that had once been a shop. There were twelve children in the family, ranging from the seventeen-year-old unemployed twins Bruce and Len, who hung about the dyeworks smashing what was left of the windows, to the baby Alexander, who was a month old.

  Norma Walsh was a very occasional parishioner at St Peter’s, though she was punctilious about insisting on baptism for her children. Her husband, Murray, said to be both a drunkard and a drifter, was seldom at home and seemed only to return to Matauranga to ensure his wife’s frequent pregnancies.

  Roland had put off visiting the Walshes because he found contact with the family demoralising, though he’d had a message from Mrs Walsh over a week before, asking him to call. He had only managed to make the visit this afternoon by permitting himself the luxury of driving.

  Roland stopped the car as a clutch of Walsh children erupted from the open door of the house and surged into the street. He picked up his diary off the front seat as the youngsters surrounded the little Austin, pushing grubby faces to the windows and smearing greasy hands on the bodywork, which Roland had only that morning polished with the chamois duster.

  ‘Hello,’ said Roland, getting out of the car. The children stared in silence. ‘I’m from St Peter’s. I’ve come to see your mother.’

  ‘Are you God?’ said a little girl wearing a long ragged cardigan that reached to the top of her chilblained legs.

  Roland laughed. ‘No, of course not,’ he said.

  ‘You the bloody vicar?’ said a sulky-looking youth who was leaning against a lamppost smoking.

  Roland nodded.

  ‘I’m Len,’ said the young man.

  ‘How do you do.’ Roland held out his hand but the gesture was not returned.

  ‘That’s my brother Bruce over there,’ said Len, motioning with his head across the road to where another youth was sitting in the gutter.

  ‘So you’ve come about Alexander’s baptism?’ said Mrs Walsh, standing in the doorway holding a baby in her arms. ‘Got a car now, I see — can’t even walk around the corner. All right for some, I’d say.’

  Roland blushed and wished he hadn’t brought the car. In the circumstances it had been insensitive and foolish. Very few people in Matauranga had cars, and those who did were seen as outrageously privileged and stuck up. Roland smiled as best he could, wished Mrs Walsh a good afternoon and went with her into the house.

  Mrs Walsh, wearing an old cotton dress under a man’s singlet, was a tall woman with a face that looked like a crack in concrete. Roland heard that she took in ironing, though he couldn’t imagine who employed her or how she could survive. The family lived in three rooms. Scrolls of wallpaper fell off the walls in jagged tongues and a leak left a dark stain across much of the ceiling. The room inside the front door was dark as the windows, which had once served the shop, had been painted over. The place smelt of body odour and rotting wood.

  ‘Clear out, the lot of you, or I’ll tan your hides!’ shouted Mrs Walsh at the children who had followed Roland into the house. ‘Sit down, Vicar,’ she said, gesturing towards the one armchair. Roland sat on it gingerly, having seen a spring pushing out of the seat and hoping he wouldn’t tear his trousers. ‘And this must be Alexander,’ said Roland, looking at the baby. ‘He looks a fine child.’

  ‘Another mouth to feed,’ said Mrs Walsh laying the baby down among some old jerseys in the butter box that served as a bassinet. ‘Do your best but the babies keep coming.’

  ‘It must be very difficult for you,’ said Roland, beginning to feel the loss of sensation in his tongue and the side of his face that always preceded a migraine. He wondered how quickly he could make the arrangements for the baptism and leave.

  ‘Difficult! What would you know about that?’ said Mrs Walsh bitterly.

  ‘Not much, I suppose,’ said Roland. Outside he could hear the children shouting and a strange rocking noise he didn’t recognise. ‘But it can’t be easy coping with a large family in these hard times.’

  ‘You can say that again,’ said Mrs Walsh, picking up the baby, who had started to cry, and pushing a beer bottle with a teat into the child’s mouth. ‘It’s all right, Vicar, it’s not booze. Just sugar and water.’

  ‘If there’s anything we can do at St Peter’s let me know,’ said Roland. ‘Clothes, furniture, things like that.’

  ‘Don’t like charity,’ said Mrs Walsh. ‘Never did, never will.’

  There was a huge crash from the street and the sound of glass splintering and children laughing. Roland and Mrs Walsh rushed to the front door.

  Lying on its side in the street was Roland’s car. On the passenger door, which was now facing skyward, Roland could see words scored into the paint. FUCK OFF, he read.

  ‘Hooligans!’ shouted Roland, catching sight of Len Walsh, who was standing by the overturned car, ostentatiously dusting his hands.

  ‘You did this?’ Mrs Walsh ran among her children cuffing ears as she went. ‘Young bastards.’

  ‘Like it?’ said Bruce Walsh at Roland’s elbow.

  ‘My car!’ stormed Roland, feeling fury enlarge his chest like a Sandow exerciser. ‘You’ve wrecked it!’

  ‘Going to call the cops, are we, Vicar?’ said Bruce Walsh, taking a puff of his cigarette. ‘Tell them some naughty boys spoilt your toy.’

  ‘You be quiet or I’ll really take to you,’ said Mrs Walsh, rounding on her son. ‘Off to the industrial school at Burnham, that’s what you two deserve.’

  ‘Keep your knickers on, Mum,’ said Len Walsh.

  ‘Put my car back this instant,’ said Roland, endeavouring to remain calm.

  ‘Come on, Bruce, give us a hand and we’ll get the thing upright before the vicar here wets himself,’ said Len, putting his hands on the car bonnet.

  ‘I’m very sorry, Mr Crawford,’ said Mrs Walsh. ‘They’re a right pair of larrikins, those two. Need their dad and a fair hiding.’

  Roland watched in silence as the two boys pushed the car upright.

  ‘There you are, Vicar,’ said Bruce Walsh, smiling over a row of rotting front teeth. ‘Good as bloody gold.’

  Roland looked at the car. The two windows on the driver’s side were smashed and there was the hideous writing on the passenger door. He had no idea what the position would be about insurance.

  �
��Why?’ said Roland, trying to stop his voice shaking with anger. ‘Why did you do it?’

  ‘Because,’ said Bruce Walsh.

  ‘Because we bloody felt like it,’ said Len Walsh, spitting a thick gob of phlegm onto the pavement.

  Roland drove home with his jacket draped out the window over the offensive words on the door. He considered reporting the matter to the police but a fine or borstal sentence for the twins would neither mend the car or make the Walshes’ family life any easier. He very much doubted it would do much to reform the two lads either. Parking in the motor shed beside the vicarage, he removed his jacket and ran his fingers over the damaged paintwork. He thought of how he had come to Matauranga so full of hope, yearning to uphold and support, and this was what the parishioners said in return. ‘Jesus, help me,’ said Roland, but he felt no comforting rush of succour. There was only the gnawing ache in his head and words FUCK OFF rough beneath his hand.

  The river was cold. Not cold like the water from the scullery tap when you ran it into the kettle before putting it on the range, or like the draught that came through the bottom of the door when you sat on the dunny, but a different cold, stronger, deeper — a cold that sliced flesh like an insistent blade. Stella, thigh deep in the river, hadn’t expected the water to be so cold. It lapped against her legs, burning and cutting with a frozen lick as she forced herself forward. She had thought it would be easy finding a deep pool but once she waded into the water it was much shallower than she’d expected. The stones on the bottom slipped under her feet as she pushed herself on.

  Stella was crying — not loud sobs but silent tears that hastened over her cheeks and onto her hand-me-down overcoat before falling into the river.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said, talking to herself and to her unborn child. ‘I’m so sorry. It’s not your fault but it has to be. There’s no other way. Don’t cry, don’t cry. I’m here. It’ll be over soon. Please, God, make it all right.’

  Stella had spent the preceding night worrying about what she should do. She had taken Vic’s letters out of the shoebox under the bed and read them over and over. Vic had kept writing to her even after she’d told him not to come back and, though she didn’t reply, she repeatedly read the letters. Vic saying how much he loved her, how he couldn’t understand what had happened, how he just wanted her back. Poor Vic, she kept saying to herself. Poor, poor Vic. Stella lay on her bed in her clothes. She wanted to sleep but she couldn’t. She felt so tired and worn out, as if her bones were rotting away. Rest, she told herself, but her mind kept anxiously churning on. She was a heartbreak to Vic, a disgrace to her family and soon to be a failure as a mother, for the more she considered it, the less likely it seemed she could keep the baby. Yet the thought of having the little one ripped away from her was unbearable and Stella unthinkingly clenched her body tight as if this would save the child. She longed for a place of peace and calm where she and the baby could sleep without worry.

  It was then she thought of the river at the Paua Tower. She remembered light trembling on the surface of clear water, pale willows and a blue sky. She thought of how she would just step out on the stones and slide down into the current as if slipping into the tin bath in front of the kitchen coal range on Saturday nights. She imagined the water, limp and soft, parting in front of her. It would be nothing more than pulling on a silk garment and then it would be over.

  The loose stones slithered apart and Stella found herself in a hole. Her feet reached unsuccessfully to touch the bottom as water closed over her head. This was the moment, Stella told herself, the instant she was waiting for. She must relax now, and let the river keep her. She bent her knees but as she did so she saw the surface light alluringly above her and knew she couldn’t do it. Her body clamoured for air and brightness, for earth and life. Stella struggled to get back to the shallower place she’d left but the current pushed her forward into deeper water. She gasped and the water rushed insidiously into her mouth. She wanted to breathe and she couldn’t. She flapped her arms as she tumbled over, her coat heavy with the stones she’d put in the pockets. A submerged branch snagged the heavy garment and she was swirled about underwater in a tangle of twigs and leaves. Her need for air grew desperate. Her head hurt as if it were growing larger than her skin. Stretched and torn, exploding inside and out, she beat the water with her hands and struggled for air as the pain in her chest grew. She tried to breathe, her lungs bursting with pain. Light like fragments of broken tumblers churned through her vision and Stella was certain she was about to die.

  Andrew Carey didn’t believe in staying late in bed, even at weekends. Give in to that and you’re properly finished, he’d say to himself as he swung his feet out of the blankets onto the wooden floor. This morning had been particularly difficult. There was a heavy frost and Carey’s arthritic knees hurt as he walked down to the river to get kindling. He had made himself a rough backpack out of a sack and a leather belt to cart the wood, and he carried it empty over one arm, where it flapped against him. Carey liked the chore of gathering fuel; the fact that it cost nothing appealed to him and the river-smoothed wood felt satisfying in his hands.

  He pulled open the gate and walked across the home paddock. Everything was white. The farm was covered in an icy crust while the sun, round and glowing like the base of a copper jam pan, was emerging from behind the mountain. The Paua Tower with its violet and peacock colours blinked in the frozen light. Work there had finished some weeks back, though the official opening was yet to come. Carey remembered how at the beginning, before an agreement was made, Maguire had promised they’d open the place on the anniversary of the day Melvin Carey was killed in South Africa. ‘A cracker idea,’ Carey said, pleased that the monument’s purpose would not be forgotten. He’d heard no more about it until just the other day an invitation on fancy paper had arrived, ‘requesting the pleasure of the company of Mr Andrew Carey’ at the opening of the tower by the Minister of Works when next the politician visited the town. Not a word about the boy or his death and the date was months out. Carey had screwed the letter up and dropped it in the range. They could have their blasted opening without him.

  Now he looked at the tower and wished he’d never handed it over. The structure was brighter and fresher since it had been cleaned and the fallen shells replaced, but the outdoor staircase now encircling the tower, added without his permission, infuriated him. He had built the tower with interior circular steps that wound round and round to the top, but the council had declared these dangerous and substituted the outside stair instead. Observing the unseasoned wood and penny-pinching methods Maguire’s men used to put it up had made Carey doubt that it would last long. Worst of all was the recently erected public toilet, a shameless concrete box that crouched beside the new swing and roundabout like a malevolent toad. Still, Carey told himself, at least there would be the floodlights — maybe they would make up for all the disappointments and drawbacks.

  Carey rubbed his bare hands together as he walked on and thought about breakfast. He had put the porridge on to cook before he went out. He would eat it with golden syrup and cocoa mixed in milk, a concoction he particularly enjoyed.

  The backpack was half filled with wood when Carey came around the clump of broom where the river looped. His sight wasn’t as good as it had been but some distance away he could see something brown moving into the main channel of the river just opposite a stand of willows. It looked like a deer. Moving closer he saw it was a person, a small person — maybe a woman or a child.

  ‘Oi!’ he shouted, though he was much too far off to be heard. Suddenly the figure slipped forward as if grabbed by the knees and disappeared into the water. Carey pulled off his homemade backpack and began to run, scrambling and slipping on the icy rocks. He was not used to running and keeping his balance was difficult. Twice he fell but he pulled himself up and pushed on. When he got to the willows he searched the water. At first there was nothing and then for a moment he saw something touch the surface. Something pale as a smatt
ering of dandelion down.

  He waded into the river. The water was bitter; remaining upright was difficult and in some places he had to swim. It was as his arms pushed along that his hands touched something, which seemed like a garment tangled in submerged branches. Carey caught the clothing and pulled hard. At first nothing happened but, without letting go of the fabric, he managed to move downstream to a shallower place where he could stand. He pulled again as hard as he could, something ripped and immediately a body floated towards him. It was the body of a young woman grey-blue with cold. It was the girl who’d come to tea.

  Carey hauled Stella back to the riverbank, convinced she was dead, but as he put her on the ground he saw a slight flicker in one eyelid and a movement of her chest. He held her upside down, grasping her ankles above the strap of her shoes, so water could trickle from her mouth, then he laid her over a fallen tree stump and began to press on her back as he’d seen people do. When Stella began to breathe regularly he piggybacked her to the house, though he had to stop to rest a number of times on the journey.

  Stella wondered where she was. The room with its sacking curtain and duchess made from butter boxes was unfamiliar. She seemed to be wrapped in a chenille curtain and there was a great heap of things on top of her, mostly old coats and jackets smelling of men and dogs.

  Andrew Carey, the man with the funny neck, was sitting on the bed holding a tin mug. ‘Thought you were a goner,’ he said in his odd creaking voice. ‘Have some tea, make you feel better.’

  Stella took the mug and drank the hot liquid.

  ‘I was in the river,’ said Stella, endeavouring to sort through a jumble of images and make sense of what had happened. ‘And you got me out.’