Stella sat in the pew facing the St George window. It was impossible to see the picture because of the darkness; all she could make out in the glow from the lamp was the sheen on the saint’s armour in the blackberry night of the window. ‘Please God,’ she prayed, ‘wherever Vic is, look after him.’
‘Stella,’ a voice said.
It was as if the window had spoken.
Stella jumped. Her body tightened with fright and her throat felt gripped by an iron peg. There was movement in the gloom and the shadows clotted together into a human form. A man, a young man, blood on his face and one eye swollen, came towards her.
‘Vic?’ said Stella.
There was no hesitation between them, the months of separation and uncertainty erased by need and the horrors of the night. They were in each other’s arms, mouths pressed together, tongues insisting into each other, hungry and urgent. Stella touched the blood-lank tangle of Vic’s hair and wiped the dark trickle on his cheek with her hand.
‘You’re hurt,’ she said, feeling his body shaking against her.
‘Got thumped by one of the Specials,’ said Vic, putting his hand to his forehead. ‘It’s not much.’
‘It looks awful.’ Stella’s eyes were round with sympathy. ‘But what are you doing here? You should be getting that cut seen to.’
‘Not to worry,’ said Vic. ‘I wanted to lie low for a bit and recover my bearings. I thought the church would be a good place to hide and I was hoping to slip in and see you when the coast was clear.’
‘Hiding?’ said Stella
‘Something bloody awful’s happened.’ Vic was holding Stella very tight, his hands splayed across her back, his fingertips digging into her shoulderblades.
‘I know,’ said Stella.’ I saw some of it — men hit, windows smashed, the Specials going berserk.’
‘Not just that,’ said Vic, rocking her in his arms.
‘What?’ asked Stella.
‘I’ve killed Maguire.’
In the trembling light of the tilly lamp Vic opened Stella’s blouse and, as the V of exposed skin grew, he bent to kiss the bare flesh. They were lying on the pile of red velvet curtains in the corner of the storeroom at the end of the church. The curtains had been taken down from the vestry doorway so missing rings could be replaced but so far the women of the St Peter’s Dorcas Guild hadn’t got around to fixing them.
Afterwards, when Stella went over it in her mind, it seemed fantastical, like something she dreamed or made up. It was, she decided, a night unlike all others, and the things that happened could not have taken place at another time. She remembered how she and Vic had kissed and held each other in the aisle of the church, as he’d told her about Maguire and how he had turned the lights out on the town. Mr Maguire dead and Vic having killed him. The idea seemed hardly credible; it was altogether too big and difficult to deal with then, so she’d packed it away in her mind to consider another time.
Stella thought, too, of the smell of Vic that seemed to wrap her about, and the longing for him flaring in her breasts and between her thighs. She could see his shadowy, bruised face and the way he looked at her, loving and beseeching. ‘I can’t wait until November,’ he said. ‘They’ll catch me and it’ll be prison, but before they lock me up, let me show you how I love you. Let me make you my wife now.’ And Stella, putting Vic’s hand against her big belly, had led him down the aisle of the church to the storeroom and the curtains in the corner waiting to be fixed.
Vic’s lips were on Stella’s breasts, his tongue trailed across her skin, sending bright, surprising messages through her flesh. He took her nipple in his mouth and Stella felt her whole self contracting into that one point of flesh, offering, wanting. ‘Let me,’ said Vic as he fumbled with the safety pin on her skirt. For a moment Stella dreaded the thought of Vic seeing her pregnant nakedness, but as he drew her clothing off he kept kissing her, running his face over the mound of her stomach and down to her thighs. She wanted the feel of Vic’s mouth against her to never end.
‘Lovely, so lovely,’ Vic said, pushing his lips into the hair between her legs.
‘You don’t mind about the baby,’ said Stella, her eyes closed for fear of what he might say in reply.
‘Mind?’ said Vic, kneeling to pull his shirt off and open the buttons on his trousers. ‘Course I don’t mind, but I’ll be gentle, very gentle.’
Stella put her hands up and touched Vic’s naked chest. Her fingers felt the blood in the flesh, the density of muscle, the hairs entrancingly growing in little whorls. She had never touched a man’s chest before.
Vic lay between her legs. His penis jostled and rubbed against her. Stella felt hollow in her need of him and she was afraid.
‘My love,’ said Vic, taking her hands and interlacing Stella’s fingers with his, ‘my only love.’
Stella opened her eyes. She saw the lamp with its strand of light and she saw Vic’s clenched face as his flesh pushed into her. Her body was a stranger to her now, foreign and unpredictable. She was a dark house of many rooms.
Vic moved like a glimmer through her, the dazzle of his progress illuminating walls, floor and ceiling until it seemed that fire was pressed against her spine. There was a fluttering swoop and Stella was caught in a frenzy of pleasure. It was unlike anything she’d ever known.
Hand in hand, they lay silently together as if felled by some external force.
‘You will marry me?’ said Vic, pulling Stella close. ‘I’ve got less than bugger all to offer you and it looks as if I’ll end up in prison, maybe for some time. It’s a pretty crook deal by any standards but for God’s sake, say yes.’
Stella rolled over onto her front, put her hands around Vic’s neck and kissed his mouth.
‘Yes,’ she said between kisses. ‘Yes, and if they do put you in prison I’ll wait until they let you out. But do you really have to give yourself up?’
‘Reckon I do,’ said Vic. ‘Can’t let Gilchrist take the rap on my behalf when I was the one who decked Maguire.’
Stella lay very quite beside him.
‘Sweetheart,’ Vic said, ‘we haven’t much time and it must be almost morning. Can we do what we just did all over again?’
Stella stretched her arms out to Vic and drew his face to her body and his mouth to her breasts.
Chapter 23
Lal looked down at the bundle in her arms and felt a surge of happiness. She gazed at the crinkled face and tiny hands of her baby and felt blessed beyond anything she thought possible. She glanced about the room and saw it glowing and radiant. Brightness touched the green cretonne curtains, the faded flowers on the carpet, her brown dressing gown that hung on the back of the door. It twinkled on the dressing-table mirror and dazzled on the silver-backed hairbrush. The clear sky of the morning came rushing towards her through the patterned holes of the lace curtains, making Lal think of clouds of blue moths rising from Canterbury riverbeds. She thought of Jesus saying that as soon as a mother is delivered of a child she remembers ‘no more the anguish, for joy that a man is born into the world’. Yes, Lal thought, that’s exactly how it is.
She had woken a little while before and found a woman folding towels at the end of her bed and a strange sound like a trampled cat close to her pillow. There seemed to be light outlining the curtains so Lal supposed it must be morning. She thought she had been going to have a baby but maybe that had been a dream. She drowsily searched about in her mind, as one might look in a drawer for a nail file or a handkerchief, but could find nothing; it was as if a piece of her life had somehow melted away or been misplaced.
The cat sound came again though this time it was louder and followed by the whisking crackle of starched garments and the creak of wicker.
‘The baby,’ said Lal. ‘Have I had the baby?’
A woman wearing rimless glasses was looking at her. Lal wondered who the person was and why she seemed to be in her bedroom; she didn’t think she recognised her from the St Peter’s congregation.
‘Yo
u’re awake, Mrs Crawford, that’s good,’ the woman said.
‘And the baby?’ said Lal, feeling a flicker of panic that something had gone wrong and the woman wasn’t telling her.
‘You have a son,’ said the woman, whom Lal now realised was a nurse.
‘Is he all right?’ asked Lal, almost afraid to ask.
‘A nice healthy child,’ said the nurse, plumping the pillows behind Lal’s head. ‘You sit up there and I’ll give him to you. I’m Nurse Huddie and I’m looking after you.’
‘Roland,’ said Lal. ‘Where’s Roland?’
‘No need to worry over him, dear,’ said Nurse Huddie, bending over the crib. ‘Your husband had a wee bit of an accident last night and he’s in the hospital. They sent someone around with a message an hour or so ago. Your maid brought it in but you were asleep.’
‘The hospital?’ Lal felt drowsy and confused.
‘Nothing to concern yourself with; I’m sure Mr Crawford will be out in a day or so. Don’t know any details except it’s not serious. Now, off you go to Mummy, little man.’ The nurse handed Lal the baby.
‘He’s gorgeous,’ said Lal, feeling as if she was going to cry and suspecting the nurse wouldn’t approve if she did. She wished Roland were there with her, to share in the pleasure of their son’s birth and admire the baby. His absence seemed disappointing and cruel. Typical of him not to think what it might be like for me, she caught herself thinking. It was selfish and unfair, she knew, to be cross with Roland. It wasn’t his fault if he had an accident and she hoped it was nothing much, but if only he hadn’t gone to that silly rehearsal in the first place.
Nurse Huddie was pushing the baby’s face against Lal’s nipple, trying to get him to suck, when Stella knocked at the door, bringing breakfast on a tray.
Stella was smiling in a way Lal had never seen before, her mouth wide and laughing, her eyes full of some hidden delight. She put the tray on the washstand and ran to the bedside, putting her arms around both Lal and the baby.
Nurse Huddie clicked her false teeth in disapproval but said nothing.
‘Isn’t he beautiful, so beautiful,’ said Stella.
‘He is,’ agreed Lal.
‘Has he a name yet?’ said Stella, standing back and looking at the infant.
‘Peter,’ said Lal, laughing with elation. ‘He’s Peter and I don’t care what Roland thinks.’
‘I’m so sorry about Mr Crawford,’ said Stella, ‘but at least he’s not badly hurt.’
Lal hardly heard. She had put her face into the wisp of the baby’s hair and was sniffing the marvellous scent he carried, the unique smell of herself and her child.
‘There’s something else,’ said Stella, looking apprehensively at the nurse who was tidying the baby’s crib. ‘Remember I told you about me and Vic Cowan?’
Lal, still with her face on Peter’s head, nodded.
‘Well, he’s here, in the kitchen. He had a bad time last night so I gave him something to eat and I used some things from the first-aid box to patch him up. I hope you don’t mind,’ said Stella.
‘Course I don’t mind,’ said Lal. ‘Take whatever you need.’
Nurse Huddie shook a cot sheet vigorously as if in protest.
‘There was a lot of trouble at the unemployed meeting,’ said Stella, winding the end of her smock around her thumb. She thought it better not to tell the full story, especially in front of the nurse. ‘The Specials were terrible. Vic has to go to court. He’s about to give himself up but he needs a jacket or something to wear. His other jacket’s all torn.’
‘Oh, Stella, I am sorry. I feared the meeting might end up like that. Take something of Roland’s for Vic. Have a look at the end of the cupboard near the window — there’s an old Harris-tweed jacket in there he never wears. Take that.’
When Stella came back to the kitchen carrying the jacket, Vic was wolfing down the toast and tea she’d made him. He sprang up as she opened the door and ran to embrace her. I’ve got to remember this moment, maybe for a long time, Stella thought as she watched him hurry across the kitchen. She saw the softness of his hair flopping on his forehead, the tenderness of his eyes, even though the side of his face was swollen, and the quick smile he gave as she came near. She looked at his trousers with their worn knees and his jacket with the torn shoulder. I love this man, she thought to herself, and I’m going to marry him. Vic caught Stella in his arms and swung her around so that her feet left the ground. Then he began kissing her over and over.
‘Need a supply of kisses to keep me going,’ he said.
Stella clung against him, wondering how she could ever allow him to leave.
‘I’ve got something for you,’ said Vic, ‘though first you must say you’ll marry me.’
‘I said that before,’ said Stella. ‘Told you in the church.’
‘Say it again,’ said Vic, grinning, ‘just in case you’ve changed your mind.’
‘I will marry you,’ said Stella deliberately, as she looked up into Vic’s grey eyes.
Vic scrabbled in his jacket pocket and took out a piece of fuse wire, which he fashioned into a rough ring and put on the third finger of Stella’s left hand. ‘No fancy diamonds, I’m afraid, but there’s more love coming with this than with any rich man’s swanky engagement ring.’
‘It’s perfect,’ said Stella, looking at the wire on her hand as if Vic had just slipped on an expensive jewel.
‘Hardly perfect,’ said Vic laughing, ‘and I wish it were different, but maybe it’s right for the times and for a soon-to-be jailbird and unemployed sparky’s wife-to-be.’
Constable Wilson was eating Mint Imperials and reading the racing page of the newspaper when a young man with a bruised eye and wearing a smart tweed jacket walked into the police station. After the rumpus of the night before the office was very quiet. The extra men who had been brought in from surrounding towns to deal with the march had been stood down, leaving only two constables and a sergeant in the station, plus an assortment of arrested men waiting in the cells.
‘Yes?’ said Wilson vaguely, still considering whether Blue Velvet really was a better proposition than Roaring Meg.
‘Come to give myself up,’ said the young man.
‘Eh?’ said Wilson, not sure he had heard correctly. No one in his experience in the police force had ever said this to him before. The constable put his newspaper down and came over to the counter.
‘Name’s Cowan. I was the man who decked Maguire last night when he was beating the hell out of Joe Gilchrist. I didn’t intend killing him but I hear he died,’ said Vic, resting his elbow on the office counter.
‘Well, I’m buggered,’ said the constable. ‘Just go through there into the office and we’ll take a statement.’
Vic followed the constable, and as he did so he turned briefly to look back through the open door. The street was a slab of brightness. A man rode past on a bicycle with a butter box on the handlebars, a small girl in a short print dress was walking a puppy on a piece of string, and beyond, Vic could see the hem of the mountain. He knew that once he made the statement there was no going back. There would be a trial, and if he was lucky he’d get manslaughter. With good behaviour he should be out in a few years, but the thought of hundreds and hundreds of days in the harsh darkness of prison, miles from Stella, made him quake.
‘Come along, can’t wait while you admire the scenery,’ said the constable.
Vic followed the policeman into the small office, which smelt strongly of Jeyes’ Fluid.
Roland gazed at his leg suspended from the ceiling and thought about running: not just the wild exhilaration of the physical act but also the relief of getting away, removing himself from all the complexities and ramifications of his life. Still, he consoled himself, however bad it is, at least I’m alive. He thought back to the night of the fall from the tower. He could still feel the sensation of air fleeing past him, the moment of wild panic and the excruciating crack as he hit the ground. They had been lucky to fall in
to a pile of sand that had been left near the tower but it was still bad enough.
Roland knew he had lost consciousness but had no idea for how long. He remembered trying to drag himself to his feet in a lather of pain while Amélie sobbed and cried out in French. At some stage a lamp had bobbed out of the darkness and a man with a twisted neck and a peculiar voice had emerged, looked at them and come back with a lorry. Roland would never forget the agonising pain as he’d hung on to the man’s arm and been dragged and pushed into the cab alongside the tearful Amélie. As he swooned in and out of consciousness they had driven for what seemed like hours through the night; Roland wondered if the injured man’s journey to the inn, in the story of the Good Samaritan, was as painful as his own to the hospital. He heard that Amélie had been discharged once her broken arm was attended to. He hoped she would visit him.
The men’s general ward of the Matauranga District Hospital was an austere place, with iron beds up either side of the long room and a table in the centre. Looking about, Roland felt a certain envy for the other patients with their straightforward breaks and injuries, some from the riot. In the bed next door was a young unemployed man, Joe Gilchrist, who had suffered various broken bones at the hands of the Specials. He was covered in bandages and obviously in pain but he could at least stretch and roll about. He was not pegged by the ankle to the roof, with the embarrassment of having to ring for a nurse to help with his toileting. Gilchrist had arrived some hours after Roland. He’d come with a police guard, a young constable with big ears who’d sat at the table in the centre of the room fiddling with the helmet in his hands and staring at Gilchrist’s bed with riveted attention. Roland wondered what Gilchrist had done to warrant such careful guarding: from the look of the injured man and the way he moaned when he moved, Roland doubted he’d be able to flee, even if he wanted to.
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