From the Ashes

by Deborah Challinor

  And yes, she’d been guilty of a fair bit of tearing around herself a couple of years ago, and possibly, on her worst days, even of being a bitch, but she’d never been as bad as Pauline. She’d had itchy feet, that was all. She’d grown past that. She was far better off now, being sensible and practical and mature, and concentrating on her nurse training by cleaning up other people’s shit. So yes, much better off.

  She did envy Allie, being married to Sonny and having a flat of her own and all that freedom, though it was pretty rude the way some people acted towards her for marrying a Maori. He was such a lovely bloke. Sid and Colleen thought he was the bee’s knees and so did Nan, though Donna knew her parents worried a bit about the mixed marriage side of things. But who cared, really? Times were changing, if more slowly than people liked to go around saying. She’d love to be married to a decent bloke, have a good job and be living in a modern flat with a proper bathroom and an indoor loo like Allie. What luxury!

  ‘Are you going to stand in the sluice room all day, Miss Roberts?’

  ‘Sorry, Matron. Off with the fairies.’

  ‘Well, would you please re-join us. Miss Elliott’s baby seems imminent.’

  ‘Right away, Matron. I’ll just finish up here.’

  Josie Elliott was the owner of the poo, and Donna liked her a lot. She was seventeen, from Te Awamutu, smoked like the Destructor at Freeman’s Bay, swore loudly and frequently, and liked a beer when she could sneak out and get one. Josie clashed constantly with Matron Arnold, though Donna thought the matron was a very good nurse, if a bit starchy and abrupt. She was a major in the Sallies, and definitely acted like one. Cleaning the bedpan thoroughly, Donna dried it and hung it on the wall rack, then washed her hands with disinfectant soap and hurried down the hallway.

  She could hear Josie turning the air blue even before she reached the delivery room. Opening the door she heard Matron say, ‘Kindly refrain from using that sort of language, Miss Elliott. It’s offensive and of no help whatsoever.’

  ‘It’s bloody well helping me,’ Josie shot back.

  She was propped against a pile of pillows, her knees up and her heels against her bare buttocks. Tendrils of damp, burgundy-dyed hair stuck to her gleaming face and sweat stood out on her forehead and top lip in beads.

  ‘I can assure you it isn’t.’

  ‘You try shoving a fucking watermelon out of your fanny, see how you like it!’

  Matron flicked out a hand and slapped Josie across the leg. ‘I said that’s enough!’

  Donna gasped and shared a quick, shocked glance with the other Sister in the room.

  ‘Don’t you dare hit me!’ Josie exclaimed, then lowered her head and went purple in the face as she gave an almighty, extended push. As the contraction passed, and as though it hadn’t occurred, she went on, ‘You’ve no right to hit me. You’re just a nurse. You’re supposed to be helping me. I didn’t ask for this.’

  ‘Didn’t you?’ Matron snapped. ‘Miss Roberts, please fetch towels and a wrap, and prepare the scales.’

  Donna busied herself collecting a small pile of fresh towels and a wrap for the baby when it finally appeared, and lined the scales in which it would be weighed with a nappy. And as she did, she realised with sudden clarity that Josie Elliott wasn’t just in pain, she was angry. More than that, she was furious.

  ‘Jesus fucking Christ!’ Josie roared as another contraction surged through her.

  This time Matron ignored her, then cupped her hands to receive the baby’s head as it emerged. ‘One more push, please, then baby will be out.’

  Josie bore down again, groaning like a cow, and the baby slid out, all wrinkled and bloody and covered in vernix. It cried immediately.

  ‘A boy,’ Matron said, then prompted, ‘Sister Tapp.’

  The sister clipped the umbilical cord and cut it, then placed the infant, still bawling, on the scales.

  ‘Five pounds six ounces.’

  Sister Tapp wiped him down, swaddled him in a wrap and brought him across to Josie on the bed.

  Josie turned her head. ‘Take it away.’

  ‘Don’t you want to see him?’ Sister Tapp asked.

  ‘No I bloody don’t,’ Josie barked, tears coursing down her face now. ‘Take it away.’

  Sister Tapp looked at Matron, who said, ‘Take baby to the nursery. It’s for the best. Now, Miss Elliott, let’s see about tidying you up, shall we?’

  *

  December 1955

  ‘Oh look,’ Peggy said, ‘your favourite customer.’

  Kathleen Lawson was approaching the Elizabeth Arden counter in full sail, clutching a small girl by the hand and trailing two young boys behind her.

  ‘Good afternoon, girls,’ Mrs Lawson trilled, as though they were all the best of friends. ‘And how are we today?’

  ‘Good, thank you,’ Allie replied.

  Peggy said nothing, just smiled without showing her teeth and waggled fingers tipped with fuchsia nail varnish.

  ‘I’d like you to meet my children,’ Mrs Lawson said.

  Allie wondered why.

  Peggy said, ‘It’s not school holidays yet, is it?’

  ‘No, but we’re off to Hawke’s Bay for a few weeks. My people live there. My family has owned a very big sheep station there for generations. You may have heard of it. Kenmore?’

  Peggy and Allie shared a glance: No.

  ‘And I thought it wouldn’t matter if the children missed a few weeks of school. You don’t do much this close to Christmas anyway, do you?’ Mrs Lawson went on, looking down at her brood. Obedient shakes of the head from the two boys. ‘Anyway, this is Geoffrey, he’s seven and doing very well at school. Geoffrey hopes to become an officer in the New Zealand Army and also to train at Duntroon in Australia.’

  ‘Good afternoon,’ Geoffrey said politely.

  He was a nice-looking boy, tall for his age with very nice posture, and beautifully dressed in pressed shorts, a blazer, shirt and tie, and long socks and extremely shiny lace-up shoes.

  ‘Hello, Geoffrey,’ Allie said, wondering what Duntroon was.

  Peggy gave another little wave. ‘Geoff.’

  Allie bit her lip.

  Mrs Lawson frowned slightly. ‘And this is Terence, our eldest, who is nine. He’s very artistic. His paintings have been exhibited at his school.’

  Terence nodded a bit distractedly, Allie thought, as though he were wool-gathering. Other than that he was beautiful, with pale golden skin, full lips with a perfect cupid’s bow, eyes the rich brown of smoky quartz, ridiculously long eyelashes, very fair curls, and dressed identically to his brother.

  Allie declined to say hello, as Terence hadn’t bothered.

  ‘And this is dear little Rosemary,’ Mrs Lawson wittered on. ‘She’s only five and hasn’t started school yet, have you?’

  ‘No,’ Rosemary said in a tiny voice.

  Rosemary was wearing a child’s version of her mother’s outfit. Whereas Mrs Lawson’s three-quarter-sleeved, polished cotton dress hugged her torso and waist then flared into a crisp, full skirt, Rosemary’s was short-sleeved and cut in an empire line. The tan patent leather of her Mary-Janes matched the colour of her mother’s suede heels, and they carried matching purses, though Rosemary’s was pint-sized. She was a lovely-looking little girl and Allie thought mother and daughter looked adorable.

  ‘Hello, Rosemary,’ she said.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ Rosemary said barely audibly.

  ‘Hello, sweetie,’ Peggy offered.

  Rosemary waved and smiled, still hanging grimly on to her mother’s gloved hand.

  ‘But what I’ve come to tell you,’ Mrs Lawson said excitedly, ‘is some really very exciting news.’

  Allie waited, hoping her expression made her look more interested than she felt. Usually Mrs Lawson’s visits to the Elizabeth Arden counter — and there had been, as predicted by Peggy, quite a few — involved drawn-out discussions about the merits of one cream over another, or the impact of a certain lipstick shade o
n your complexion in relation to what you were wearing, etc. She knew it was her job to advise on that sort of thing, but, really, it didn’t have to take forty-five minutes every time, did it? She’d come to the conclusion a while ago that Mrs Lawson was bored to death.

  ‘You’re aware of the fashion parade your store is having in February?’

  ‘Ye-es,’ Allie said cautiously. Everyone knew about. It had been advertised in the papers and in the store for the past couple of weeks.

  ‘Well, I’m going to offer my beautiful garden as the venue! The roses will still be in bloom and we’ve a very large and manicured lawn and it will be perfect. What do you think of that!’

  Allie forced a smile. ‘Very nice.’

  That was never going to happen. Fashion parades were almost always held in-store, and certainly not in someone’s garden, never mind how nice their roses looked.

  ‘And I’ll put in a good word so that you girls are the make-up artists, shall I?’ Mrs Lawson added.

  Allie shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot. ‘Er, thank you.’

  ‘I’m very much looking forward to it,’ Mrs Lawson said. ‘I’ve never been involved with a fashion parade before. Although of course I shopped at Selfridges and Harrods regularly when we lived in England. And John Lewis and Harvey Nichols. Marvellous stores.’

  Peggy said, ‘You must find it a bit of a come down being back in New Zealand.’

  ‘Oh, well, needs must. As I think I might have mentioned, my husband was offered a rather prestigious position as a senior pilot for NAC, and my family are all here. That’s important.’

  Yes, it is, Allie thought. She and Sonny were off to visit Rose after work, and Mrs Lawson’s comment reminded her she wanted to buy some flowers.

  After Mrs Lawson and her children had gone, Peggy shook her head and said, ‘That woman is completely batty. The cheek of her.’

  ‘I think she’s just lonely.’

  ‘No, she’s mad,’ Peggy said. ‘You mark my words.’

  *

  Kathleen sat with her legs crossed at the ankle, smoking, watching the woman behind the desk tapping away at a typewriter. Terence, Geoffrey and Rosemary sat beside her, in that order, ducks in a row.

  The phone rang and the woman picked it up, said, ‘Yes, sir, right away,’ then returned the handset to its cradle. ‘Mr Holmes will see you now, Mrs Lawson. Please go in.’

  ‘Will you please watch my children?’ Kathleen asked as she stood and stubbed out her cigarette in an ashtray. ‘I shouldn’t be too long.’

  The woman looked very taken aback. ‘Er, I—’

  Changing her mind, Kathleen took Rosemary’s hand. ‘My boys are very well-behaved, I assure you.’

  Before the woman could respond Kathleen knocked on Mr Holmes’s door and swept into his office, Rosemary trotting to keep up.

  George Holmes stepped out from behind his vast desk and offered Kathleen his hand. ‘Mrs Lawson, very nice to meet you. I’m George Holmes, store manager.’ He bent down to Rosemary. ‘And you must be . . .?’

  ‘Rosemary, my daughter.’

  ‘What a poppet. Please, do take a seat.’

  Kathleen sat. So did Rosemary, wriggling onto a chair, her arms on the armrests and her legs straight out in front of her.

  Back behind his desk, Mr Holmes asked, ‘Now, how may I help you?’

  ‘I hope you don’t mind me being forward,’ Kathleen said, not really caring if he did, ‘but it concerns your February fashion parade.’

  Mr Holmes raised his eyebrows.

  ‘My father, James Murdoch, was in banking and horticulture, though he’s semi-retired now. You may have heard of my family? The Murdochs of Hawke’s Bay?’

  ‘Er, the name does ring a bell,’ Mr Holmes said vaguely.

  ‘Well, as the daughter of a banker I couldn’t help but learn a thing or two about business and it occurs to me that you might score a march over your competitors by staging your parade at an exciting new venue.’

  Mr Holmes remained politely silent.

  Kathleen went on. ‘My husband and I would be more than willing to host the event in our beautiful, extensive gardens at our home in Remuera.’ She hadn’t mentioned her idea to Jonathan yet, but was sure he’d agree. ‘My husband is Captain Jonathan Lawson, a senior pilot at NAC, and of course held the rank of captain in the RAF during the war.’

  Sitting back in his squeaky leather chair, Mr Holmes smiled and said, ‘That is indeed a most generous offer, Mrs Lawson. Thank you.’ Then he leant forwards again, his stylish, Anthony Squires-suited forearms on the desktop, hands loosely clasped. ‘However, I’m very much afraid that won’t be possible.’

  Kathleen felt her smile slipping, and fixed it back in place.

  ‘You see, audiences for our fashion parades are very often considerable, and they require seating, refreshments and, er, comfort facilities. That’s why we hold our parades in The Cedar Room, our public tearoom, which is already configured for large groups and can provide catering. The models have access to changing rooms on the nearby Fashion floor and the clothing to be shown is also on hand. I’m sure your garden, and home, are absolutely delightful, and I thank you very much for your offer, both you and Captain Lawson, but the logistics simply preclude our moving the event off site.’

  Forcing her shoulders to remain back and keeping her head high, Kathleen felt ill. This would ruin everything. She’d told so many people. ‘Oh. Well, then.’

  Mr Holmes picked up a gold pen and fiddled with it. Kathleen waited, knowing he would find the lengthening silence embarrassing. People usually did.

  ‘But if you’d like to be involved with the event in some way I’m sure we can find you some part to play. I take it you’re a regular customer at Smith and Caughey?’

  ‘Oh yes, I shop here frequently.’

  ‘Have you met Miss Weaver, our Head of Fashion?’

  ‘I believe so.’

  ‘Why don’t you pop down and have a word with her? I’ll let her know you’re coming. I’m sure she’ll be delighted to talk to you.’

  ‘I’ll do that.’ Kathleen stood. Rosemary scrambled off her seat. ‘Thank you very much, Mr Holmes. I do appreciate your time.’

  ‘My pleasure entirely, Mrs Lawson.’ George Holmes scribbled something on a piece of notepaper, leant across his desk and handed it to Kathleen. ‘A chit for the toy department. Young Rosemary might like to pick something out for herself, courtesy of the store.’

  ‘How generous. Say thank you, Rosemary.’

  Rosemary did.

  As soon as Kathleen had closed the door, George Holmes was on the phone to the Fashion department several floors below.

  ‘Edna? Oh, can you get Edna Weaver for me, please?’ While he waited he drummed his fingers on his blotter. ‘Edna? It’s George Holmes. Listen, I’ve just had a Mrs Lawson in my office very keen on having some sort of role in the February parade.’ Pause. ‘No, she’s just a customer.’ Pause. ‘Well, at first she suggested having the parade at her home in Remuera.’ Pause. ‘Well, of course I did. But she is very keen so I’ve sent her down to you.’ He moved the handpiece slightly away from his ear for a moment. ‘Yes, I know. The thing is she had her daughter with her, about five, and the cutest little thing. You’re always looking for kids to model the children’s wear, aren’t you?’ Pause. ‘Well, I don’t know. You’re the expert on frocks, not me. Can you at least talk to her?’ Another pause, then he laughed. ‘All right. Thanks, Edna. I owe you one. Cheers.’

  *

  Kathleen didn’t in fact know Miss Weaver, but she was easy enough to find — she just asked a salesgirl to point her out. She was behind the main counter in the Fashion department, sorting through some paperwork. She looked as old as the hills but was very well groomed and Kathleen thought she’d probably worked at Smith and Caughey forever.

  ‘Good afternoon, Miss Weaver. I’m Mrs Kathleen Lawson. I believe Mr Holmes might have mentioned me?’

  ‘How do you do, Mrs Lawson. Yes, he did. How c
an I help you?’

  This brought Kathleen up short. She’d expected Miss Weaver to provide her with a range of options from which to choose, not to have to make suggestions herself. ‘Yes, well, Mr Holmes and I were discussing the February fashion parade. He felt there may be a role there for me.’

  ‘Did he?’

  Kathleen’s temper was already close to boiling over. She was deeply disappointed, and, yes, humiliated, by Mr Holmes’s rejection of her offer of her home as a venue, and to make matters worse Terence had thrown a tantrum when he’d discovered Rosemary had been given a gift voucher for the toy department. She’d itched to slap him but had refrained, one of her rules being that she never, ever hit the children in public. Now here she was confronting an uppity old shop woman who clearly didn’t know how to deal with a person from a superior class — who was accustomed to spending money in establishments far grander than Smith and Caughey — or that the customer is always right.

  ‘Yes, actually, he did,’ she replied frostily.

  Miss Weaver tapped her horsey front teeth with a short fingernail varnished the most insipid beige colour Kathleen had ever seen. ‘You purchased your mother and daughter outfits here, didn’t you?’

  Kathleen looked down at her polished cotton dress, then at Rosemary’s ‘Little Miss’ version. ‘That’s right. They were from the summer range. And the shoes. And my hat.’

  ‘Well, you both look charming. Would you be interested in modelling mother and daughter outfits in the parade?’

  Perhaps Miss Weaver wasn’t such a bitch after all.

  ‘Oh, I couldn’t walk in a parade!’ Kathleen protested. ‘Wouldn’t you rather use a professional model?’

  ‘We hire professional models for the glamour outfits, but we like our mother and daughter ensembles to appeal to a wide range of women, not just the physically blessed. And you have a very nice sense of style.’

  This wasn’t the answer Kathleen was looking for. She knew she wasn’t stunningly beautiful, but she was attractive and spent a lot of time and money on making the most of what she did have. Mentally, she moved Miss Weaver back into the bitch category.