From the Ashes

by Deborah Challinor

  Sonny touched Louise’s arm very briefly. ‘It’s all right, I know what you meant.’

  Rob swung Susan off the back of the Indian. ‘Was that fun?’

  ‘We went so fast!’ she burst out. ‘We were flying!’

  Allie slid onto the bike’s seat behind Sonny. ‘I forgot to say, Lou, if you want to come to the Smith and Caughey fashion parade on Friday I can get you a free ticket.’

  ‘What time?’

  ‘Starts at five.’

  ‘Lovely. Thanks! I’ll see if Mum can babysit.’

  *

  February 1956

  For weeks now Kathleen and Rosemary Lawson had been practising for their debut as fashion models. In the formal lounge Kathleen had pushed the furniture back and, with string, marked out a catwalk on the carpet, and she and Rosemary had walked its length hand in hand, turning slowly and gracefully at the end again and again, until their moves were polished, poised and perfect. Because Kathleen didn’t know exactly what they’d be modelling in the parade, they practised in day outfits, formal outfits, ensembles with coats, beachwear (though not swimming costumes — Kathleen drew the line at appearing in public in a swimming costume), and evening wear. Rosemary turned out to be rather good at it, turning so that her skirt flicked out and slipping out of her coat as though she were born to it, while Evie applauded enthusiastically. Geoffrey, and Jonathan when he was at home, ignored them completely, but not so Terence, who desperately wanted to join in.

  In fact, Kathleen was grateful that Jonathan was away much of the time, as Terence repeatedly insisted on draping himself in a lace tablecloth and following her and Rosemary up and down the string catwalk, prancing along, twirling with enthusiastic abandon and thoroughly enjoying himself. When she told him to stop it and go away, he’d shout that it simply wasn’t fair. Why couldn’t he be allowed in the parade? Eventually she would have to order, or drag, him up to his room, which was a chore as he really was getting too big to haul about.

  Now there were only two days to go until the event and Kathleen was beginning to feel a little nervous. She was sure she and Rosemary would be well-received by the audience, but it didn’t pay to be too brash — one never knew when something out of one’s control might occur. Further, her mother and father were arriving from Hawke’s Bay on Friday morning and would be attending the fashion parade that evening, which was also upsetting her equilibrium. She got on with her parents reasonably well these days but would rather have spent Friday getting ready for her public appearance than settling them into the house. And she’d much rather have spent tonight reading in bed with a face-pack on than going out to a drinks party.

  She finished her gin and tonic — admittedly, mostly gin — blotted her crimson lips with a tissue, secured a diamante clip in her hair, eyed herself critically in her dressing table mirror, then went downstairs to tell Jonathan she was ready.

  ‘You look very nice, Mrs Lawson,’ Evie said.

  Kathleen hesitated only very slightly before replying, ‘Thank you.’ You could never tell with Evie, who, though unfailingly polite and helpful, said everything with the slightest smirk, which made her feel the girl was laughing at her, though she had no idea why. ‘Where is Mr Lawson?’

  ‘In his study.’

  And so he was — Kathleen could smell the whiskey from the doorway. She sighed. Vodka martini was Jonathan’s morning and early afternoon tipple; whiskey was his ‘night on the tiles’ drink.

  ‘Are you ready?’ she asked.

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Did you say good night to the children?’

  ‘Couldn’t find Terence, but I did the other two.’

  Terence hadn’t been in bed when Kathleen had gone to tuck them in, either. She’d assumed he was in the loo.

  ‘Shall we go, then?’ Kathleen said, pulling on her gloves. ‘I hope you’re not too drunk to drive.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

  As Jonathan put on his hat in the foyer mirror and Kathleen fidgeted, Terence called down to them from the top of the stairs, ‘Look at me, Mum and Dad.’

  They did.

  He waved at them. ‘See, I look just like a girl. I can be in the fashion parade!’

  Kathleen stared in shock. Terence was wearing one of her pale pink satin slips over his vest and a pair of Rosemary’s long white, lace-trimmed socks, and was teetering in a pair of her own suede heels. But most bizarre of all was his face, to which he’d applied far too much rouge and a slash of red lipstick. There was also a large pink bow attached to his blonde curls.

  ‘Oh my God!’ Jonathan sounded horrified. He launched himself up the stairs two at a time, and hit Terence so hard across the side of the head he knocked him right off his feet. ‘That is disgusting! Wash that shit off your face and get out of those clothes right now!’ He bent down and snatched the bow out of Terence’s hair. ‘Now! Do you hear me? Then get to bloody bed! Christ! Evie!’ he roared as he came downstairs again.

  She appeared, looking startled.

  ‘Get upstairs and sort that boy out,’ Jonathan ordered. Then he marched past Kathleen and out the front door.

  After a moment, appalled and utterly bewildered by what Terence had done, and at Jonathan’s reaction, she followed him.

  They said nothing on the way to the soiree, held at a private address, travelling in the car in stony silence. Predictably, Jonathan drank too much but, as always, managed to be the life of the party. Well done you, Kathleen thought bitterly — exuberant, charming and witty, and nothing like you are at home. And tomorrow you’ll be fine, no hangover or anything, whereas when she drank to excess, which she had to admit, if only to herself, was occurring more and more frequently, she suffered appalling headaches and nausea the next morning and had to pretend she had a migraine because she’d done most of her drinking in secret.

  She thought he was too drunk to drive home and wanted to telephone for a taxi, but Jonathan told her not to be stupid, he was fine, and needed the car first thing tomorrow anyway. So after doing a complicated manoeuvre involving backing across the host’s front lawn and into a bird bath, they drove off, and again lapsed into silence. Kathleen desperately wanted to say something about Terence but all Jonathan’s bonhomie had left him now they weren’t in company and his face was like thunder. And he was very drunk.

  Once home they went straight upstairs. Jonathan undressed, leaving his clothes on the floor, and collapsed into bed while Kathleen sat at her dressing table and wiped off her make-up. Still he said nothing, and after a few minutes she heard him snoring. She lit a cigarette and sat smoking, thinking about how he’d be flying down south for the next couple of days, leaving her to try and get to the bottom of what on earth was wrong with Terence, and what a bastard he was for it.

  Finally she changed into her nightgown and got into bed. But she couldn’t sleep. Then she thought she heard someone banging on a door downstairs, but decided that perhaps she was actually drifting off and imagining it because now it sounded like some sort of drumming. But when Jonathan grunted, rolled over and breathed alcohol fumes in her face she knew she was still awake, and she could still hear the noise. She got out of bed and went out onto the landing. The thumping was louder out here.

  She padded cautiously to the top of the stairway. A light had been left on in the kitchen so it wasn’t completely dark downstairs, but she couldn’t see anything amiss in the wide reception area below her. And then she heard a strangled choking sound, and suddenly saw it — a sheet tautly knotted around the balustrade, about a third of the way down the stairs.

  She let out a squawk of utter horror and tore down to the reception area to the body jerking and kicking at the end of the makeshift rope. It was Terence, his feet drumming against the wall beneath the stairs, his hands jammed between his throat and the noose he’d made of the sheet, his face swelling, his pyjama pants slid part way down his legs.

  ‘Jonathan!’ Kathleen shrieked as she grabbed Terence’s knees and tried to lift him. ‘Jonathan!’
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  But it wasn’t Jonathan who came, it was Evie, roused immediately and hurtling out of her downstairs bedroom.

  ‘What . . . Shit!’

  Kathleen barely noticed her language. ‘Get a knife, Evie, quick! Jonathan!’

  Evie darted into the kitchen, and was back a moment later with a boning knife and raced up the stairs, her breasts bouncing beneath her flimsy pyjama top. She hacked at the sheet and Terence’s body fell; Kathleen caught him and wrenched the noose away from his neck, then laid him on the floor. Coughing and spluttering he stared up at her through bloodshot eyes, then turned his head slightly and heaved up a little vomit. Kathleen sat him up quickly so he wouldn’t swallow it, and patted him firmly on the back. She felt as terrible as he looked. Why on earth had he done it? How had he even thought of it, at his age?

  ‘Mum, what’s happened?’

  Oh God, it was Geoffrey, hanging over the balustrade. ‘Nothing, dear. Would you please go and wake up your father and tell him we need him.’

  ‘What’s the matter with Terence?’

  ‘He’s had a slight accident.’

  ‘But what’s happened?’

  ‘Just go and get your father!’ Kathleen snapped. ‘And make sure Rosemary’s door’s shut. I don’t want her out here.’

  By the time Jonathan finally appeared, Terence had vomited again but had managed half a glass of water, and Kathleen had examined his neck. He had angry red ‘rope’ burns on his throat and quite deep scratches where he’d scrabbled to release the pressure of the sheet.

  She looked at his tear-stained face in complete confusion. ‘Why, Terence? What did you think you were doing?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he rasped.

  ‘Did he hang himself?’ Geoffrey asked.

  ‘Shush,’ Kathleen said.

  Staring down at them, Jonathan shook his head. ‘For God’s sake, boy, what is wrong with you?’

  Terence started to cry again.

  ‘What do you think could have happened if I hadn’t heard you banging?’ Kathleen asked, her arm around him. ‘You might really have choked to death. Where would you be then?’

  ‘Dead,’ Terence said.

  ‘Yes, very, and we’d be heartbroken. It’s not a game, you know. It’s a very, very serious thing to do.’

  ‘I suppose we’d better take him to the hospital,’ Jonathan muttered. ‘I’ll get dressed.’

  ‘No!’ Kathleen exclaimed. She hesitated. ‘No, I think he’s probably all right. I’ll take him to the doctor’s tomorrow just in case.’

  The hospital was far too public and she didn’t want people knowing their business, especially this sort of business. They’d never live it down.

  ‘Well, while you’re there, get an appointment for him with a psychiatrist,’ Jonathan ordered.

  Stunned, Kathleen said, ‘A psychiatrist? Why does he need a psychiatrist? He’s only nine years old.’

  ‘Because obviously something’s not bloody well right, is it? This rigmarole can’t go on, all these tantrums and the dressing up and now this. He needs sorting out.’

  ‘He needs his father to pay some attention to him, that’s all.’

  ‘Would anyone like a cup of tea?’ Evie asked quickly. ‘And the children might like cocoa.’

  It was then that Kathleen suddenly realised she couldn’t take Terence to the doctor tomorrow because she wanted to buy new outfits for her and Rosemary to wear to the fashion parade, and also to find out from Miss Weaver at Smith and Caughey what they’d actually be modelling. Evie would have to take him.

  *

  Polly lit a cigarette, inhaled deeply and blew twin jets of smoke out through her nostrils. She was in the Mocambo Coffee Lounge on Swanson Street waiting for her friend, but she was nearly always late no matter the occasion so she was thinking about ordering coffee. But then Evie came breezing through the door and Polly had to take it all back as she waved her over. ‘You’re on time.’

  ‘I know,’ Evie said, collapsing onto a cane chair. ‘Nearly wasn’t, though. I had to take Terry to the doctor then put him on the bus back to school.’

  ‘What’s wrong with him?’

  ‘Tell you in a minute. I’m gasping for caffeine.’ Evie waved to the waitress, who approached with her order pad at the ready. ‘A pot do us?’

  Polly nodded.

  ‘Pot of coffee, thanks.’

  When the waitress had gone, Evie said as she lit a cigarette, ‘You’ll never guess what he did.’

  ‘Terry?’

  ‘Mmm.’ Evie flapped out her match. ‘He only hung himself. Last night.’

  ‘Really? That’s a bit . . . dramatic. Obviously it didn’t work, or you’d have been at the funeral parlour this morning, not the doctor’s.’

  ‘True. I’m not sure he meant it to work. But I still nearly shat myself.’

  ‘How did he do it?’

  ‘Off the stairs with a couple of sheets.’

  ‘Why?’

  Evie blew out her cheeks. ‘Christ knows, but he got a hiding from Jonathan last night for dressing up in Kathleen’s clothes. Might have been that. He’s a bloody bully, Jonathan. Nice-looking one, though.’

  Polly knew all about the goings-on in the Lawson household. Evie bitched about her job all the time. ‘I’ve got a cousin who wears women’s clothes. And make-up. Everyone just lets him get on with it.’

  ‘It’s a bit different, though, when you’re only nine years old and from a snotty rich Remuera family. God, they’re a strange lot.’

  ‘If you don’t like nannying for them, leave.’

  Polly didn’t know what Evie was doing working as a nanny, anyway. She was as clever as anything and had passed her University Entrance exams, though hadn’t gone on to university, which Polly really didn’t understand. Why would you not go to university if you could? She’d had to leave school when she was fifteen because her father had told her she had to go to work. She hadn’t even been allowed to try for School Certificate. So Evie could have had her pick of jobs, but instead she was looking after some rich people’s spoilt kids. And she was very striking-looking with a curvy figure, lovely pale skin and gleaming chestnut hair she wore in an old-fashioned bob with a fringe, like someone from the 1930s. Polly liked her, a lot, but she didn’t share much about herself. But then Polly didn’t share much about herself, either. Sometimes she thought Evie was just marking time with her life, and at other times it seemed she had a plan, though who knew what that might be. She supposed that if Evie wanted her to know, she’d tell her, and so far she hadn’t.

  ‘I think I might, soon,’ Evie said.

  ‘Did it upset you, what Terry did?’

  ‘It gave me a fright, but no, it didn’t upset me, though I do feel sorry for him. He gets a hard time from his parents for being different. Personally I don’t care if he wants to be the fairy on top of the Christmas tree, but they can’t stomach the idea. Especially his father.’

  ‘But to behave the way he does when he’s only nine. It’s a bit odd, isn’t it?’

  ‘Not really. I think some people just know early on who they are. And he can be difficult but he’s not a bad boy. Actually he can be really sweet. He picked me some flowers the other day. And they’re all a bit odd, those kids. I blame their parents.’ Evie sat back as the waitress brought the coffee. ‘They’re the ones causing the trouble. They’re downright abusive sometimes, if you ask me. If any of those kids turn out to be axe murderers, it’ll be their fault.’

  ‘Well, I’m glad he’s not my kid,’ Polly said.

  ‘How is Gina?’

  ‘She’s good. Look, I’m walking in the Smith and Caughey fashion parade tomorrow afternoon. I can probably get you in if you want to come.’

  ‘Already going. Kathleen and Rosemary are modelling mother and daughter outfits. God knows how they managed that. I’m helping them dress.’

  That was a surprise, Polly thought. Someone must owe someone a favour. ‘Really? Who’s babysitting Terry and the other boy, then?’
r />   ‘Their father. He’s refusing to go and watch. Says it’s beneath him. And beneath Kathleen and Rosemary.’

  ‘It’s not beneath me. I get quite good money for modelling.’

  ‘Better than at Flora’s?’

  ‘No. Nothing pays better than Flora’s.’

  ‘Hmm,’ Evie said thoughtfully as she poured them both coffee.

  *

  Pauline was working late because of the fashion parade. Usually she finished at four o’clock, even on late night, but today had been frantic because they’d had their usual customers through the tearoom, plus they’d had to get everything ready for the ladies coming for the parade. That meant that all the plates, cutlery, tea and coffee pots had to be cleaned in time for the start of the event, the tables dressed in fresh linen, and extra cakes, sandwiches, scones and savouries prepared. Her legs felt like they were nearly falling off by afternoon smoko, and she knew she wouldn’t be getting out the door till probably at least seven. Still, it was exciting and time was whizzing past, not like on a normal day when usually she was dying of boredom, putting endless cream cakes on plates and teapots on trays. She was quite looking forward to seeing all the new clothes, too, and especially the models. Allie said they were really glamorous. She and her mate Peggy and the Helena Rubinstein girls were doing the make-up, which Pauline really wanted to see but knew she wouldn’t because she was too busy cutting the crusts off bloody club sandwiches.

  The parade started at five and already women were piling into The Cedar Room, jostling and elbowing one another but pretending they weren’t to get the best tables near the slightly elevated runway down the middle of the room. From the recesses of the kitchen Pauline stared in amazement. Most of them were dressed as though they thought they were actually in the fashion parade, and it seemed the older they were, the more they’d tarted themselves up. She saw feather boas, fox fur stoles with the poor little heads still on, huge hats that would block everyone’s views, pheasant feathers that could take your eye out, tiny waists, towering heels, and skirts that were full and stiff enough to shift chairs. No one she knew wore clothes like that, but then, she supposed, she didn’t mix in the same circles as these sorts of people. She couldn’t see these ladies hanging out with the Rebels motorcycle club.