by Daphne Clair
'Stacey!' her mother called from her own bedroom as Stacey walked past on her way to bed.
'What is it?'
Helen Coleman had some clothes spread out on the bed and was looking at them with an undecided air.
'I need some help,' she said. 'I don't know what to wear on Saturday evening.'
'Saturday? Where are you going?'
'Didn't you know? I thought that Alex would have —well, he asked me to go with him to the teachers' party.'
'Oh, the third term shindig, as Fergus calls it?'
Helen nodded. Hiding astonishment, Stacey said casually, 'No, he didn't mention it.' She kept her gaze on the long dress, the skirt and the two blouses that lay on the bed.
'Well,' her mother sounded a little uncomfortable, 'he is just new, still, and he doesn't know many people yet—I mean girls nearer his age ‑'
'What is his age?' Stacey asked involuntarily, and then wished that she hadn't. As her mother murmured 'Thirty-six,' she went on, 'Anyway, what does that matter? Any man would be proud to have you as his partner for the evening.'
'Oh, Stacey! Thank you.'
'But,' added Stacey, picking up the skirt and holding it critically at arms' length, 'I don't know about this.' It was, she thought, all right, but she knew her mother had owned it for several years, and that the dress which she was now picking up was also far from new. 'There's nothing wrong with them,' she said; 'Only they're both a bit ‑'
'Tired,' her mother supplied with a sigh. . 'Well then, why not buy something new?' Stacey asked. 'You could afford it, couldn't you? Use Alex's board money.'
Her mother smiled. 'I could, but it seems a waste for just one night.'
'Rot! It will make you feel good, and once you have something, you'll find there'll be other places to wear it. Alex may ask you out again.'
Helen laughed. 'Don't be silly, Stacey. He was hard put to it to find a partner, that's all, so he had to make do with me. You know perfectly well I'm only a substitute ‑-'
'Did he tell you that?' Stacey demanded.
'Of course not! Not in those words, but I know ‑'
'No, you don't know! You're too modest, that's the trouble.' Ignoring a laughing protest, she continued, 'Why don't you come into town tomorrow after you finish at the wool shop, and I'll ask Mr Grace if I can take a late lunch hour, so that we can shop together. There are several interesting boutiques and of course big stores close to the bookshop.'
'That would be nice, Stacey. We haven't been shopping together for ages, have we?'
Stacey helped her mother put the things away, and kissed her goodnight before going off to bed. So Alex was thirty-six. Which made him, actually, nearer her mother's age than her own. For some reason the thought utterly depressed her.
She did enjoy helping her mother choose a dress, though, steering her away from 'safe' floor-length skirts with draped tops, or plain dark dresses, and trying to interest her in more adventurous styles and colours.
'But I'm too old ‑' her mother protested feebly when Stacey held up a midnight blue caftan with silver embroidery decorating its neckline and the edges of sleeve and hem.
'Rubbish!' Stacey said briskly. 'These are ageless. But you're old enough to be sophisticated. Try it on.'
She did, and was entranced, plainly, by its subtle fit, and its enhancement of her blue eyes which it seemed to deepen in colour.
'Oh, but—do you really think ‑?' she said anxiously, plucking doubtfully at the gleaming embroidery. 'Don't I look like mutton dressed as lamb?' she asked fearfully.
'You look gorgeous,' Stacey asserted truthfully. 'And you're nowhere near mutton age, anyway. My young mum was the envy of all my friends at school. It's you —really.'
She didn't see it on her mother when Saturday night came, so she never knew what Alex's reaction was to the caftan and her mother's new image. She was already dancing with Graeme at his friend's wedding. It was a nice wedding. The bride looked radiant and the groom proud, and the speeches were not too long and tedious, as Graeme was quick to point out.
'How about you and me making it legal?' he asked, only half-joking, and Stacey smiled and shook her head.
'I'm thinking about it,' she said lightly.
'I hope so.' Graeme was quite serious now.
'You know I am,' she said, and let him pull her closer as they circled the floor.
'How was the teachers' do?' she asked her mother the next day, wandering into her bedroom before breakfast. 'Did you enjoy yourself?'
'Yes, I did. It was really very nice,' Helen replied.
'What did Alex think of the caftan?'
'He said I looked very nice.'
'Surely he was a bit more enthusiastic than that!'
'Don't be silly,' her mother murmured, but blushed a little. 'By the way, one of the teachers I was talking to last night may come over on Monday. Some of the children are interested in spinning and weaving, but there's no one to show them how to do it. Alex mentioned that we have a spinning wheel in the sitting room, and the art teacher immediately pounced on that and asked if I could use it or was it merely ornamental.'
'So you told them you could use it, of course.'
'Yes. And that I have a loom, as well, although I haven't used it a great deal lately.'
'And the art teacher wants you to show the kids how?'
'How did you guess?' smiled her mother.
'Are you going to do it?'
'Well, I haven't decided. I've never tried to teach anyone before. I said I would try to decide by this afternoon.'
'You wouldn't have to give up your mornings at the shop, would you?'
'Oh, no. It's only one or two afternoons a week.'
'You're going to be busy, then, aren't you?'
'I'm not sure I'm going to do it, yet.'
'Why not? I should think you'll enjoy it.'
'Yes. Yes, I think I might. And it isn't for ever. I could try it just for this last term, and I needn't continue next year, after the Christmas break, if I feel I've had enough. Anyway, by that time the teacher might have learned how to do it, and I won't be needed any more.'
That evening, when Stacey came home, it was to see through the doorway of the sitting room her mother seated at the spinning wheel, with Alex bending over her, his hand on the back of her chair as' he watched the way her fingers deftly twisted the soft handfuls of wool into a slim strand, winding on to the spindle.
As she stepped into the room, her mother turned with a welcoming smile, and Alex straightened, saying casually, 'Hello, Stacey.'
'Hello,' she said, and then noticed a third person in the room, who was rising from a chair and holding out a hand as her mother introduced them to each other. For some reason Stacey had assumed that the art and craft teacher was a woman. But Roger Pearce was definitely a man. He was of medium height, and slightly on the thin side, and his clothes were a little loose, as though he had lost weight recently. He had friendly brown eyes with a hint of sadness in them, and his brown hair had just begun to recede a little at the temples.
Stacey liked Roger Pearce immediately, and gave him a wide and friendly smile. Turning away from him as he said, 'Your mother has been giving us a demonstration,', she caught a faintly sardonic look on Alex's face and was convinced he was comparing this with the smile she had given him when they were introduced.
'We're fascinated,' Alex assured her. 'I've never seen it before.'
'Yes, you ‑' were looking fascinated when I came in—she almost said, and checked herself in time. Alex looked up enquiringly as her mother resumed spinning, and she said hastily, 'You must find it interesting if you haven't seen spinning before.'
'Do you spin, Stacey?' he asked, politely.
'No. My mother did show me how, but I haven't really a great aptitude. I found it fun at first, but got tired of it.'
'I should have thought it would be right up your alley,' he said, a teasing light in his eyes. She stared at him blankly, with not the slightest idea what he meant.
But with
a small shrug as though it didn't matter in the least, he turned to watch her mother again.
Stacey had a sudden illogical desire to shake him and scream at him to say what he meant instead of talking in riddles. Instead, she murmured something about taking off her jacket, and went to her room to do so.
Afterwards she went into the kitchen, to find that there was a stew simmering on the stove, a pudding in the oven, and vegetables peeled and in pots ready to be cooked. Glancing at the clock, she turned on two more rings and put on the vegetables. Then she picked up the evening paper which was lying on the table and began going through it.
'Smells good,' said Alex from the doorway.
'Has Mr Pearce gone?' she asked, putting down the paper.
'No. I've left them sorting out details. You know he wants your mother to help teach his classes spinning?'
'And weaving. Yes, she told me.'
'Do you approve?'
'Yes, of course. I think she'll enjoy it.'
He looked at her in a rather penetrating way, and gave a little laugh. 'You liked him, didn't you?' he asked.
Stacey shrugged. 'He seems nice.' The laugh had annoyed her, and reminded her of an earlier annoyance. 'What did you mean when you said you thought spinning was up my alley?' she demanded to know.
Laughter leaped into his eyes. 'The word "spinster" comes from the spinning wheel, doesn't it?' he asked innocently.
Outraged, Stacey took a deep breath.
'Besides,' he went on, before she could vent her temper on him, 'it's another solitary pursuit—like painting and reading and taking long walks alone. All those things you enjoy -so much.'
I didn't once, she thought. Only since David ‑
She turned from him abruptly and lifted the lids of the pots on the stove, inspecting them for bubbles, but the water was only faintly steaming, yet, on the vegetables.
'Stacey!' He touched her arm gently. His voice was urgent. 'I was only teasing, Stacey.'
She moved away from his hand, turning to face him with a bright glittery smile. 'Oh, I know. You're a terrible tease, aren't you, Alex? But I'm not going to rise to it this time!' she finished lightly.
'Stacey, please——'
But he was interrupted by Fergus, breezing in with a demand to know when dinner would be ready, because coaching a team of healthy young baseball players had left him with a keen appetite. And where was his mother, he asked.
'In the sitting room with a visitor,' Stacey told him.
'Anyone I know?'
'Probably. One of the teachers from the college—a Mr Roger Pearce.'
'Roger? I didn't know she knew him.'
'She does, since the teachers' party last Saturday. Didn't you know?'
'Nobody told me.' He grinned. 'Has old Rodge taken a fancy to my mum?'
'She's going to teach his art and craft classes to spin,' Stacey explained.
Fergus raised his eyebrows with patent scepticism, and Stacey said crossly, 'Don't be silly, Fergus.'
'What's silly?' Alex interrupted. He had been leaning against the doorway in silence, watching them. 'Your mother is a very attractive lady.'
A hissing from the stove announced that the potatoes were boiling over, and Stacey was glad of the excuse to turn away and deal with that.
Fergus said curiously, 'What happened on Saturday night, then?'
'Weren't you there?' Stacey turned in surprise.
'No. I had a date with a new girl, and I didn't want to scare her off. Those teachers' get-togethers can be a bit heavy for outsiders.'
Alex wandered off without answering Fergus's question, and Stacey turned her attention to mixing a thickening for the stew, while Fergus lapsed into thoughtful silence, and eventually moved off to his room to change.
Stacey heard the front door close, and then her mother came into the kitchen.
'When do you start?' Stacey asked.
'Next week. Oh, thank you, dear, for getting the vegetables on. Roger stayed rather longer than I. expected.'
'Did you ask him to stay for a meal?'
Her mother looked faintly surprised. 'No. I assumed his wife would be waiting for him to come home.'
'He's married, then?'
'Well—now that you mention it, I don't really know. I just assumed that he would be. Now, I'd better make some thickening—.—'
'It's here.' Stacey passed her the bowl, and there was no more mention of Roger Pearce.
It was about a week later that Stacey turned into the gateway and was called by Alex, who was attempting to tie up a branch which had been damaged the night before. An unseasonable gale had howled into town overnight, and the garden had suffered as a result.
'Can you hold that branch there for a minute, while I tie it up?' Alex asked.
Stacey complied, dropping her leather shoulder bag on the ground at her feet while she held the branch in position.
'It's badly split,' she said. 'Do you think you can save it?'
'We can try,' Alex replied. 'Can you hold that a bit longer while I fix a stake or two to help support it from below?'
When he had finished, she flexed her arms, which were aching a little now, and rubbed at her shoulders with her hands. 'Is there much damage to the garden?' she asked.
'Could be worse. One of the young acacias at the other side of the house is down—they don't stand much wind. And some of the flowers have taken a battering. I've had to amputate one or two branches here and there that were far gone, but all in all,' he grinned, 'the majority of the patients will live.'
'It's good of you to do all this,' she said.
'No, it isn't. I enjoy it. And I haven't done it all on my own. Your mother and I were working together until she went in to start cooking, about half an hour ago.'
Stacey picked up her bag. 'You get on well with my mother, don't you?' she commented. _ 'Yes. We have a few things in common, and I think a lot of her,' he said quietly.
She looked up, but he was stooping to pick up his tools, and the ball of twine he had been tying the branch with.
The twine dropped on the ground and rolled as he straightened.
'I'll get it,' Stacey said swiftly, and retrieved it. She walked with him to the small toolshed at the rear of the house, and placed the twine on a shelf as he put away saw, hammer, stakes and secateurs.
'Have you always liked gardening?' she asked as Alex Shut the door behind them and they began walking towards the house.
'Ever since I was five years old, and my parents gave me a patch of ground for my own garden. My interest was only fitful, I'm, afraid, but since I've been teaching I find gardening is a great relaxation.'
'Oh, I brought home a book for you to see,' she remembered, fishing in her bag. 'Mr Grace said I might. If you want it, I'll invoice it to you tomorrow.'
'Thank you.' He took the slim volume of Pacific poetry, rifling through the pages as they walked. 'It looks interesting—just the sort of thing the school needs.'
'It came in with an order today, and I immediately thought of you.'
'I'll have a proper look at it later, and let you know tonight if we want to keep it,' he said, opening the back door for her.
He went to his own room as soon as the dishes were done, and didn't emerge again. Stacey went to bed quite early. She hesitated outside Alex's door, wondering if she should ask him now if he wanted the book or not. He had said he would let her know tonight.
In the end she gave a soft, tentative knock on his door. He opened it almost immediately, smiling down at her. He had the book in his hand, with his finger inserted between the pages.
'Oh, you're reading it,' she remarked. 'I was going to bed. I wondered if you've decided to buy it.'
'I'm sorry, Stacey. I was so absorbed in it, I forgot the time. Yes, I want it. In fact, I would like a copy for myself as well as one for the school. Can you get another for me?'
'Yes, of course. I'm glad you like it.' She was turning away, about to say goodnight, when he reached out and caught at her hand
.
'Do you like poetry?' he asked.
'I—I like some,' she answered cautiously. 'I haven't read much poetry since I left school, though,' she admitted.
You haven't read any of this?' he indicated the book in his hand.
No, I didn't even open it. It just seemed the kind of thing you were looking for, so I picked it out without reading any of it.'
'Like to come and listen to some? I promise you it's worth it.' He looked eager, as though dying to share a special treat with someone. 'But if you want an early night, of course ‑'
His clasp on her hand loosened. 'No,' she said quickly. 'I'd like to hear some of it. If you want to read it to me.'
'Good.' He drew her into the room, and said, 'Make yourself comfortable.'
She sat on the love-seat, and he sprawled comfortably on the divan bed, its rumpled cover and cushions indicating that this was where he had been before she interrupted him.
'Some of this is terrific stuff,' he said. 'For instance, this one, recalling the journey across the Pacific of the great canoes from Hawaaiki to New Zealand. Listen ‑'
He read beautifully, Stacey realised, his deep voice perfectly suited to the saga he was reciting to her, the story of the Tainui, Arawa, Aotea, Takitimu—-the carved outrigger canoes, some eighty or so feet long, which sailed thousands of miles across the Pacific Ocean in search, of new land to settle, and of the brown Vikings who had peopled 'Aotearoa', the Land of the Long White Cloud, as they had named New Zealand when they reached its shores.
The poem evoked long nights under the stars which guided the navigators, and hot, salty days beneath a fierce sun on a seemingly endless sea, and detailed the fear and homesickness as well as the hopes and courage of those who embarked on the epic voyages. The rage of Tawhirimatea, the god of winds and storms which tossed the brave craft 'like twigs in his hands', frightened the women and children, and even the men cried out in fear, but Tangaroa, the god of the ocean, nursed them on his bosom and carried them safely to shore.
'Like it?' Alex asked softly, when he had finished.
Stacey nodded, not wanting to speak and break the spell. But the next poem he picked was quite different, and he adopted a twangy Australian accent that had her laughing helplessly while he recited the history of a hapless 'swaggie' whose various adventures in the outback were as hilarious as they were unlikely.