From the Ashes

by Deborah Challinor

  She fell asleep after that, but woke some time later bursting to use the toilet. There was a boy in the seat next to her. She hadn’t even woken when he’d sat down.

  ‘Excuse me, please.’

  He got up to let her out.

  She made her way along the carriage to the toilet, went in, locked the door, wiped the seat with paper, and sat down. The relief! Then she washed her hands in the tiny hand basin and let herself out, wiping her hands dry on the front of her dress.

  The boy next to her looked about twelve years old. He was reading now, squinting in the dim carriage light. He stood up to let her back in, apparently engrossed in his book.

  Pauline wondered if he’d got his book out so he wouldn’t have to talk to her. Good for him if he had.

  ‘Hello,’ he said as she sat down.

  ‘Hello.’

  He said, ‘I got on at Feilding.’

  Pauline nodded. ‘Where are we?’

  ‘Next stop Waikanae, then Paraparaumu, then Wellington.’

  ‘Right.’

  The boy went back to his book. Pauline ate the last of her sandwiches, finished her tea, and offered the boy a biscuit, which he accepted.

  At Paraparaumu he left the train, and Pauline arrived in Wellington the way she’d started her journey — alone.

  *

  It was very early in the morning and still dark when Pauline stepped off the train at Wellington station and stood waiting on the platform for the baggage van to be unloaded. A cold, sharp breeze smelling of brine cut through her, and she suspected they must be near the sea. She spotted her suitcase on the growing pile emerging from the baggage van and grabbed it, then looked around for an exit sign. Not seeing one she followed everyone else and found herself walking into one side of rather a grand building, across a marble floor, and out the other to a semicircular roadway. A row of taxis sat at a rank and she approached the first in line.

  The passenger window was down and she said through it, ‘Can you take me to Eighteen Kensington Street, please?’

  The taxi driver immediately looked at her belly, and then winked. ‘Hop in, love.’

  Pauline nearly didn’t, but she was cold, and tired. She got in.

  The driver pulled out, humming to himself. After a while he said, ‘In a bit of trouble, are you, love?’

  Pauline stayed silent.

  The driver turned round, not bothering to watch the road. ‘Cat got your tongue?’

  Piss off, Pauline thought. ‘How far away is Kensington Street?’ She wondered if she could walk the distance.

  ‘Down the other end of Willis Street.’

  Well, that doesn’t mean anything to me. You idiot.

  ‘Kensington Street’s the home for unwed mothers, isn’t it?’ the man went on. ‘I’ve driven a few lasses like you to that address.’

  ‘Good for you.’

  ‘Still, as long as you had fun getting where you are.’ The driver paused. ‘Did you?’

  Pauline wound down the window and stuck her head out. The air was freezing and made her eyes water but at least she couldn’t hear him any more.

  Finally they arrived. She hauled her suitcase out of the car, went to the driver’s window and thrust the tariff at him, money carefully saved by her mother and given to her so she wouldn’t have to negotiate tram or bus timetables when she arrived in Wellington and could travel to the home in comfort and safety.

  The driver gave her a card. ‘That’s my contacts. If you feel like a good time while you’re here, phone me.’

  Pauline handed the card back. ‘Do you know what? I wouldn’t touch you if you were the last man on earth, you pig.’

  Then she picked up her case and walked up the driveway.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  November 1956

  Kura Apanui said to Allie, ‘How’s your Pauline?’

  ‘She’s well,’ Allie replied carefully, unrolling a bit more wool from the ball.

  ‘We haven’t see her since, well, not since our Johnny passed. Tell her not to be a stranger. She’s a good girl, your Pauline.’

  ‘I will. I will tell her that.’

  Allie felt guilty. Pauline hadn’t wanted Kura to know about the baby, so she’d supported her sister’s decision. But it was hard to sit there in Kura’s front room, knitting away, knowing she’d have a grandchild in eight weeks, a child of Johnny’s, and not be able to tell her. She wouldn’t, though, because if Pauline was anything she was loyal, and she’d be the same for her.

  She’d been roped into knitting because they were so busy, but because they were so busy, she didn’t really have much time to help with the knitting. She’d delivered the initial orders for baby clothes and blankets herself in Sonny’s truck, though she still didn’t have a driver’s licence, and frequently crashed the truck’s elderly gears in places like Queen Street’s busiest intersections, but she was definitely getting the hang of it. Several of those orders had been repeated, and now they were receiving requests for lighter, summer baby clothes, which they could certainly make. If things continued to go well, they also had plans to introduce a range of quality, lightweight jumpers and cardigans for women and older children, and were knitting samples of those in quite a wide range of colours. Because of their initial sales, they could afford now to buy processed wool, and as they were purchasing in bulk they could get a discount, which was a bonus. But no matter how quickly Ana, Kura and Wiki knitted it wasn’t fast enough, so there were two part-time women on board helping now, both expert knitters. Kura’s girls Patricia and Mary were pretty good, but the family couldn’t afford for them to leave their factory jobs as Kura wasn’t making enough money yet. The business was actually bringing in some cash, and everyone was getting a little bit, but most of it was going back into wool, to pay for Allie’s telephone, and other business expenses.

  Ana had also had the telephone connected, at her own expense (actually, David’s), and so had Colleen. Allie couldn’t believe the difference it made to daily life. In just a few weeks it really was hard to even imagine how she’d managed without it. Back then, if she’d wanted to talk to Ana she had either to wait until she saw her next, or make a special trip to visit her. Now, she simply spoke to her on the phone, provided she was at home. Her mother had been even more delighted and had been ringing several times a day — until she’d realised how much it was costing her, after which the calls had dropped off markedly. But Kura and Wiki were still incommunicado, so the plan was to get them connected next, courtesy of the business.

  Also, Ana had pointed out that now the business was making a bit of money, it would have to pay tax. Well, that had stopped everyone in their tracks. Tax? On the piddly amount they were getting? So Allie, who didn’t want to admit she didn’t know much at all about that side of things, had gone to see Louise, who did know because she did the books for her husband, Rob. Apparently, they could all be shareholders in Mana Knits and get paid a dividend once a year, which was no use to anyone, or they could all own the company and pay themselves a salary, or some of them could own it and employ the rest. It didn’t matter which option they chose, tax would have to be paid on money generated by the company somewhere down the line. It sounded a bit complicated to Allie, but when she drew it on paper in the form of diagrams it made sense.

  Wiki and Kura had understood the concepts quite readily (which had made Allie feel slightly stupid), and after a vote, they’d decided they’d form a proper company owned by Ana, Wiki, Kura and Allie, who would take a salary, and anyone else would be an employee. It was all a bit theoretical, however, given that at the moment there was hardly any money to pay anyone, but the papers had been lodged with the Companies Office, they’d appointed directors, and registered for tax. So they now felt rather important, but still broke.

  At one knitting session at her house, Ana had said she thought it was important that if money did start coming in, then what they, as the company’s owners, paid themselves shouldn’t be more than what their employees were paid.r />
  ‘Otherwise our women will feel like they might as well be working in some factory. There’ll be no sense of . . .’ She’d trailed off, trying to think of the right word.

  ‘Whakahoa,’ Kura had said.

  ‘Fellowship. Yes, that’s it.’

  ‘Ae, Maori women running their own business, making plenty of money. I like that,’ Wiki had said.

  ‘Except I’m not Maori,’ Allie had pointed out.

  And Wiki had said, ‘You can be our token Pakeha.’

  That had got a laugh.

  And then Ana had said, quite seriously, ‘So should we not hire any more Pakeha women? That’s a bit rude, don’t you think?’

  Kura’s reply had been, ‘I don’t care what colour they are, as long as they’re bloody gun at knitting.’

  ‘Wiki?’ Ana had asked.

  Wiki had taken ages to reply, so long, in fact, that Allie really had thought she was going to say no, she didn’t want any Pakeha women in her company. It had been a really unpleasant feeling, waiting for Wiki’s verdict.

  In the end she’d said, ‘I want women who all get along. I want women who’ve seen a bit of life. I want us to be strong, and happy to help one another. It doesn’t matter if we’re brown or white or green.’

  And Kura had said, ‘Don’t know where we’re going to get the green ones from.’

  So now they were a band of four plus two part-timers, who could well become full time, depending on future orders. They might look at other part-timers too. Allie thought perhaps Awhi Manaia might be interested, and maybe even her own mother. They both knitted very well, though all part-timers would need to be carefully coordinated as every single item had to be knitted to a very specific size and pattern.

  Now Allie said, ‘I’ve been thinking, we might need to look at a proper delivery van if our orders pick up even more.’

  ‘You mean buy one?’ Ana said in alarm. ‘We can’t afford that.’

  ‘No, I mean contracting a delivery service.’

  ‘What’s wrong with the truck?’ Wiki asked.

  ‘Well, imagine if Mr Holmes looks out his window and sees me climbing out of Sonny’s old bomb and getting all these lovely baby clothes for his posh shop off the back of it. Won’t do our reputation much good, will it?’

  ‘Who’s Mr Holmes?’

  ‘Smith and Caughey’s manager.’

  ‘What’s he doing looking out the window when he’s supposed to be working?’

  Allie started another row of knitting. ‘It’s a hypothetical situation, Wiki. But I do think we need something better than the truck.’

  ‘You just don’t like driving it,’ Kura said. ‘I’ve heard you graunching the gears.’

  ‘I think you’re probably right, Allie,’ Ana said, ‘but we’ll have to wait. Let’s see how we go over the summer, shall we?’

  So Allie had to be happy with that as she drove home. She was cheered up when she discovered an envelope from Pauline in the letterbox. She’d been away for six weeks now and had written every week, which had been a bit of a surprise. And not only to her, but to Donna, and to Sid and Colleen as well. Allie hadn’t really thought her sister was the letter-writing type.

  She went inside, put the kettle on, fed Mr De Valera, flopped onto the sofa and opened the letter.

  4 November 1956

  Dear Allie and Sonny,

  I hope you are well. I am doing all right. I have seven weeks to go and my belly is sticking out quite a long way now. It is getting annoying. I can still see my feet but only just. Lying on my back in bed is uncomfortable so I have to sleep on my side. I am having to do a wee just about every hour, which is also annoying.

  I am still getting on quite well with my room mates, Nancy, Alice and Bev, but not with Carol, who is still being a proper cow. I am amazed she managed to get anyone to make her pregnant. What a bitch.

  We are still being worked liked slaves here. All morning we are cleaning our rooms, the hallways, the bathrooms, the kitchenette and the lounge. But I refuse to clean the toilets. Why should I stick my hand down a dunny someone else has crapped in? It is disgusting. Matron says I am a stuck-up prima donna, but I have told her I have never done ballet in my life. She has given me extra cleaning duties.

  She is such an old bat, Matron McCormack. I think she dislikes all of us, me especially. She is so religious. She tells us we are lucky God has not struck us dead for being so sinful. I told her if God really cared about us he would not have let us get pregnant and she said I’ll go to hell for that. Where does she think we are now?

  We still have to do religious instruction every day, and say prayers at every meal. I do not really mind this, as it is not that different from church when we were little. And it helps to pass the time. Other things we have been doing are knitting, sewing, gossiping, smoking and reading True Confession and Raymond Chandler books, which we have to hide under our bedding.

  We have been out a few times to do some shopping, but we are not all allowed out together as people will stare. There are fourteen of us unmarried mothers, and I suppose that would look a bit funny, all lumbering around like elephants.

  Anyway, that is it from me for this week. I will write again next week. Only seven weeks to go and I will be back to normal. Yay!

  Love, your sister

  Pauline

  *

  Wellington, November 1956

  ‘Look, stop using my hairbrush, will you!’ Carol brandished the item in question in Pauline’s direction. ‘How many times do I have to tell you?’

  Pauline took a drag on her cigarette and barely looked up from her magazine. ‘And how many times do I have to tell you, I haven’t used it?’

  ‘It’s got white hairs in it. You’re the only one with fair hair in this room!’

  ‘Fair, not white. Maybe someone’s been brushing Matron’s cat with it.’

  Carol stared at her brush, horrified. ‘You bitch. I’m telling Matron.’

  ‘“I’m telling Matron,”’ Pauline parroted in a silly voice as Carol rushed off.

  ‘Did you really?’ Nancy asked.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Brush Snowball with her hairbrush?’

  ‘So what if I did?’

  Nancy laughed. ‘You’re such a cow.’

  ‘I do my best. Anyway, she deserves it. She’s always trying to get me in trouble.’

  ‘She doesn’t need to, though, does she?’ Bev said. ‘You do that yourself.’

  Pauline shrugged. Who cared?

  ‘Come on, let’s get this room cleaned up.’ Nancy urged. ‘Matron’ll be in soon.’

  Sighing, Pauline stubbed out her smoke and heaved herself off her bed. Only five more weeks and she could stop rolling around like a beached whale. Actually, she was a little smaller than the other girls who were due with Christmas babies, but they’d been told that first babies often didn’t arrive on their due dates. Hers was 18 December, but it was possible she’d be late and have a ‘Jesus’ baby, as the girls called infants born on Christmas Day. She’d always thought that would be really unfair, having your birthday on the same day as Christmas, but she wasn’t bothered about her baby. She wouldn’t be buying it presents.

  She bent over her bed, smoothed and straightened the sheets, tucked them in at the corners with the requisite precision, folded her nightie under the pillow, then pulled up the candlewick bedspread. The bed was an old metal hospital job, with saggy springs on which a foam rubber mattress lay, which was uncomfortable and becoming more so the bigger she got. She also had a bedside table, a wardrobe, and a padded chair. Her suitcase was pushed beneath the bed and her things stored in the wardrobe. The room was reasonably large, fortunately, with big windows, and the bathroom down the hall was cold and white and contained two baths, a row of hand basins and several toilet stalls. Both were in the old part of the maternity home. The private patients — that is, the respectable, married women, whose fees helped cover the costs of the unworthy single women — were accommodated in the newer p
art of the home, along with the delivery suite and the nursery, but the two groups never mixed. In fact, Pauline had never once even seen a private patient.

  Carol returned, announcing triumphantly, ‘Well, I told her.’

  ‘Good for you,’ Pauline said, before plodding off down the hall to fetch the carpet sweeper.

  Catching sight of Matron McCormack she tried to duck behind the open door of the storage cupboard, but was too slow.

  ‘Pauline?’

  Pauline shut the door and turned to face her. Matron stood squarely in the middle of the hallway, looking immaculate as usual in her beautifully pressed white uniform with the Salvation Army epaulets, starched white veil, and white stockings and shoes.

  ‘May I remind you that you have an appointment with your social worker this afternoon at two o’clock? In the interview room?’

  ‘I won’t forget,’ Pauline said, though she had.

  ‘Please tie up your hair and wear something nice.’

  ‘Are those people coming in again?’

  ‘They are, and I would like you to make a good impression.’

  Pauline nodded, thinking she could definitely manage that. She opened the storage cupboard again, looking for the carpet sweeper.

  Then she heard: ‘And Pauline? Please do not groom my cat with your room mate’s hairbrush. Snowball doesn’t care for it.’

  As Matron’s footsteps receded, Pauline smiled. She could be a right old bitch, Matron, but she had an amazingly good sense of humour sometimes. She dragged the carpet sweeper back to her room, then ran it back and forwards over the aging carpet. It didn’t pick up much, threads of cotton and wool defied it completely and it had to be emptied every few minutes, but it was better than nothing. Then she just had the dusting to do, a quick wipe of the windows and sills, and a walk down to the big kitchen with the contents of the room’s rubbish bin and ashtrays, and she was finished. Room-cleaning was the easiest of their chores, and the bathroom was the worst, as far as she was concerned.