Survivor

by Lesley Pearse

Mariette did start to notice things after that. No one could afford to have a new dress or a hat made, and so her mother and Mog weren’t earning any money. She became aware that they both ate like birds so that she and her brothers could have more food. At night they would only light one lamp, old dresses were taken apart and made into something else, and both she and her brothers were expected to go down to the shore every day to pick up driftwood for the fire.

  Her father spoke out in disgust about the relief camps that were supposed to help men feed their families. But in order to qualify for the pitifully small amount of relief money, they had to go to labour camps miles away from their homes. There they built roads with only a pick and shovel, cleared undergrowth, dug ditches or carried out hard, soul-destroying and often pointless work. They lived in tents with dirt floors, and the food they received was barely fit to give a dog.

  She also learned that many children in the cities were dressed in rags, without shoes, and that babies were dying because there was no milk for them.

  Tens of thousands had lost their jobs, shops and factories had closed down, and farmers were facing ruin. For many people the soup kitchen was the only thing that kept them from dying of starvation.

  Her family clustered around the wireless at night to hear ‘Uncle Scrim’, just as people all over New Zealand did, but along with the shared laughter they heard reports of hunger marches in England and even riots in Wellington and other cities in New Zealand.

  Thankfully, things had begun to improve in the last year. Men were leaving the relief camps and going home, factories were opening again, and the banks were becoming more lenient with the farmers. There was even free milk for all schoolchildren. Yet the only work Mariette could find was helping her mother and Mog with their dressmaking and millinery. She wanted something of her own choosing, but there just wasn’t anything else in Russell.

  She dried her eyes as she reached the small group of shacks at the bottom of the hill, because she knew all the Maoris who lived in them and certainly didn’t want anyone seeing her in tears. As she passed the Komekes’ house, Anahera, the younger sister of her friend Matui, waved to her. She was only fifteen, and heavily pregnant. Mog had commented recently how another mouth to feed in that family was the last thing they needed.

  The sight of Anahera’s swollen belly brought Mariette up sharply. What if she herself was pregnant?

  She didn’t know why she hadn’t considered the possibility before – after all, she’d had the whole baby thing explained properly to her at the age of twelve. So she didn’t have the excuse of ignorance as, perhaps, Anahera had.

  Fear clutched at her heart and made her feel nauseous. It was bad enough that she’d allowed herself to be used by Sam, without the thought of carrying his baby too.

  Her parents and Mog were generally lenient, understanding people. Mariette couldn’t count the number of times they had stood by people who had shocked their more narrow-minded neighbours. They never sat in judgement on anyone, and they were the first to offer help to anyone in need.

  But she couldn’t hope for understanding about her becoming pregnant by a rough man she didn’t even love.

  Mog knew something was wrong the moment Mariette came in. Her eyes, so much like Belle’s, had a fearful glint in them; she looked edgy, as if she was expecting to be caught out about something. When Mog asked what was wrong, Mariette said she was afraid of being late getting home to finish the wedding dress.

  Mog’s active sixth sense told her there was a great deal more to it than that, but she didn’t ask anything else. She’d learned years ago with Belle that to push for an explanation usually resulted in her clamming up permanently. Mariette was much the same.

  They were now sitting either side of the workroom table, with Janet Appleby’s satin wedding dress spread out between them. Sewing pearls to the hem was an intricate task which required patience and excellent eyesight, but it was the kind of job they both enjoyed and, usually, when they worked together they chatted and laughed.

  But today Mariette looked haunted; she’d barely said a word since she sat down at the table, put on her thimble and began sewing. Normally she would have said where she’d walked to and who she’d seen, often making Mog laugh with sarcastic comments about the clothes that passed as ‘Sunday best’ on some of their neighbours. Women in Russell were not very fashion-conscious – many of them wore dresses that only fitted where they touched.

  As Mariette had been such a tomboy when she was younger, Mog was both surprised and delighted when she took to sewing. She was now almost as adept as Mog, and far better than her mother. Mog often remarked that her tiny, neat stitches looked like the work of a fairy.

  She looked over her glasses and watched Mariette as she rethreaded her needle. She had a true amalgamation of her parents’ best features, with Belle’s eyes and Etienne’s sharp cheekbones. But the strawberry-blonde hair, which was a common result from one dark and one blonde parent, gave her a distinctive look that was all her own. She also had an enviable complexion, as clear and flawless as a porcelain doll.

  ‘You’re very quiet,’ Mog said casually. ‘Something on your mind?’

  ‘No,’ Mariette retorted, a bit too sharply. ‘Sometimes it’s nice to be quiet.’

  After another twenty minutes of silence, Mog felt compelled to probe. ‘If there’s something bothering you, do tell me. I might be able to help,’ she said.

  Mariette looked up from her sewing, and Mog saw a flicker of something – maybe the need to confide? – in her face.

  ‘Nothing’s bothering me,’ she said. ‘Well, apart from wishing I had a job.’

  Mog was fairly certain that wasn’t the truth. ‘What about your mum’s idea, nursing?’

  ‘Hmm,’ Mariette responded. ‘I don’t think I’m really cut out for that. All those bedpans, vomit and blood. But it would be good to go to Auckland.’

  ‘You want to run away from someone here?’

  Mog knew she’d hit the nail right on the head by the way Mariette’s eyes widened – even though she gave a humourless laugh, as if such a thing was impossible.

  ‘Of course not. But there aren’t any opportunities for me here, are there?’

  ‘You never know what’s round the corner,’ Mog said evenly. ‘Summer’s coming, and the people who come here for sailing and fishing are from all walks of life.’

  ‘Is that all everyone thinks I want? To find a husband?’

  ‘It’s what most girls want,’ Mog said.

  ‘Well, I don’t want to spend my life cooking, cleaning and washing clothes,’ Mariette snapped. ‘And that’s what marriage is about, isn’t it? Janet Appleby might be stupid enough to think that getting married is just about a lovely dress and a big party, but not me.’

  Mog shook her head in disapproval. ‘You are far too young to be so cynical,’ she said. ‘And very wrong too. Marriage is about sharing a life with a man you love, nurturing your children, supporting one another. I didn’t get married until I was almost middle-aged, and we only had a few years together before Garth was taken by the Spanish flu, but they were the best years of my life. Look at your parents, Mari – they are still as much in love as they were when they got married. I think your mother would tell you marriage is about a great deal more than washing clothes, cooking and cleaning.’

  ‘But they had to get married, didn’t they?’ Mariette asked. ‘Mum was pregnant on her wedding day.’

  Mog was shocked to hear such a thing coming from Mariette’s lips, and wondered who had told her. But she wasn’t going to deny it, not even if most people saw it as a disgrace.

  ‘The reason they married was because they couldn’t bear to live apart,’ she said reprovingly. ‘And, in my opinion, that is the only reason to get married.’

  ‘But you’d all be furious if I got pregnant and I wasn’t married.’

  It was Mariette’s tone, rather than her actual words, that made Mog suspicious. She had spent much of her early life listening to conv
ersations between other women and had learned to detect hidden undercurrents, to hear the faint inflections in remarks that revealed what the speaker meant, but couldn’t actually put into words. Belle claimed she was impossible to fool.

  ‘Are you pregnant, Mari?’ she asked gently. ‘Is that what all this is about? Going out today to meet someone, the long silences since you got back? You’re worried?’

  ‘Of course I’m not pregnant,’ Mariette said with some indignation. ‘Whatever gave you that idea?’

  ‘You did,’ Mog said. ‘Or you think you could be. But the most worrying thing for me is that you’ve obviously been seeing someone who you know we wouldn’t approve of. I think you ought to tell me who he is, right now.’

  As rebellious as Mariette could be, when faced with a direct question she usually answered truthfully. She had her jaw clenched, which suggested to Mog that she was steeling herself against admitting anything.

  ‘You know I’ll find out,’ Mog reminded her. ‘No one can do anything in Russell without someone passing it on. It’s better to tell me now than to have someone spiteful telling your mother with the sole intention of upsetting her.’

  ‘It’s over, so it doesn’t matter,’ Mariette blurted out. ‘I won’t be seeing him again.’

  ‘If he’s someone unsuitable, then that’s fine. But unless he’s just someone passing through Russell, it would be hard to avoid him,’ Mog said. ‘But my guess it’s someone you’ve known for a long time. Is it Carlo Belsito?’

  Carlo Belsito was a ferryman. Although born in New Zealand he had all the hallmarks of his Italian ancestry, with dark curly hair, spaniel eyes and a physique that few women in Russell could fail to notice. He was something of a Lothario, and many distasteful stories circulated about his prowess with women.

  ‘Carlo!’ Mariette said in astonishment. ‘What do you take me for, Mog? I despise him.’

  ‘Well, that’s a relief,’ Mog chuckled. ‘I’d hate to think you wasted even a minute of your life on him. So let me think, who else is there?’

  ‘Let it go, Mog,’ Mariette pleaded. ‘I’ve told him it’s over. I just want to forget about him.’

  Mog knew that more could be gained by backing off and coming back to the subject at a later date than by trying to force the issue now.

  ‘Fair enough,’ she said. ‘Now, we’ve only got about another fifty pearls left, so let’s try to sew them on before the light fades.’

  She noted that Mariette looked very relieved at being given a reprieve. Mog was amused that the girl assumed that would be the end of it.

  3

  The following morning Etienne left early in his truck to pick up some timber from Waitangi, taking Mariette with him. Mog suspected she’d asked to go in the hope that, during her absence, the conversation of the previous day would be forgotten.

  After the boys had gone off to school, Belle decided to spring-clean their room. Mog went along to the Reids’ bakery, as she always did on Mondays. Belle had become friends with Vera Reid, the daughter of the owners, when they were both ambulance drivers in France, and it was Vera who encouraged Belle and Mog to emigrate to New Zealand after the war ended.

  Vera had moved away to Wellington back in 1924, and had since got married and had three children, but Mog had remained a close friend to Peggy, Vera’s mother.

  Don, Peggy’s husband, was serving in the shop as Mog came in, and his face broke into a cheerful grin. He was over seventy now and looked as if he’d shrunk to half the size of the portly, energetic man she and Belle had met on their first day in Russell. His youngest son, Tony, was the baker now – Don was no longer strong enough to lift the heavy trays of loaves or to knead the dough.

  ‘Peggy’s out the back in the wash house. Go on through, if you want to see her. She’ll be glad to have someone to moan to,’ he said.

  Mog thanked him and went through the doorway that led to both the bakery and their home. The wash house was just outside their kitchen; the heat from the boiler, the smell of carbolic soap and the steam hit Mog before she even got to the wash-house door.

  If Don had shrunk, Peggy had expanded. Always plump, she was now very fat and her hair was snowy white. She was standing at the copper, prodding the washing with the copper stick, perspiration running down her fiery red cheeks. But her big face broke into a toothless smile at seeing her friend.

  ‘Come to watch slave labour?’ she said.

  ‘I bet you can’t wait for the day the electric comes to Russell,’ Mog said. ‘I know I’m never going to miss lighting the fire under our copper, or trimming and filling lamps.’

  Peggy pulled up her pinafore and wiped her face. ‘Too right. I’m too old for all this drudgery. Our Vera’s got one of those new-fangled electric boilers, it’s got a mangle that turns by itself. What I’d give for one of those! But let me get us a drink and we’ll sit outside for a chat, shall we?’ Peggy got two glasses of lemonade for them, and they sat down in the yard under the shade of a fig tree.

  They chatted about this and that for a little while, Peggy saying she was planning a little holiday with Vera soon. ‘Why don’t you and Belle come too?’ she asked. ‘Vera’s got plenty of room, and she’d be thrilled to see you both.’

  ‘I could come, but Belle won’t leave the boys,’ Mog said. ‘You know how they are – up to mischief if you don’t stand over them.’

  Peggy nodded. ‘I remember what mine were like – little sods, they were – and Vera was no better than the boys. But when they were all away in the war, I’d have given anything to have them back playing me up. I reckon that’s why I’ve got so fat. Nothing to worry about any more!’ She cackled with laughter, making her many chins quiver.

  ‘Just between ourselves, have you heard any tittle-tattle about Mariette?’ Mog asked. ‘She’s been seeing a boy, but won’t tell me who he is. That’s always a bad sign.’

  Peggy thought about it for a moment. ‘There was a mention of that Australian. You know, the one who was part of the crew on the boat that came in for repairs last year?’ she said. ‘He’s hauling timber now, but he comes here every now and again. Avril Avery claimed she saw them out for a walk, holding hands. But then she’d accuse the Pope of giving poisoned lollies to Shirley Temple!’

  Mog laughed at Peggy’s joke about Avril Avery, who was the eyes and ears of the little town. Yet although she was a gossip, Avril was not a liar, so she must have seen Mari and that man together. ‘I dare say Mari will tell us when she’s good and ready. But I’d better collect the bread and go on home. Thanks for the lemonade, and I’ll let you know about going to see Vera with you.’

  Mog was too disturbed by what Peggy had said to go straight home. Instead, she went down on the Strand and sat for a while looking out to sea to reflect on it. She had seen the man in question several times, hanging around near their house, but it had never occurred to her that he might be after Mari because he was far too old for her. There had been a lot of talk about him too – tales of drunkenness, fighting, playing around with a couple of Maori girls – and as he slept in a tent when he was in town, and not in the hotel, goodness knows what else he got up to.

  What if Mari was pregnant by him, and that was why she looked so troubled?

  Tears ran down Mog’s cheeks at that possibility.

  ‘What is it, Mog?’ Belle asked during the afternoon. She had been busy upstairs all morning. Once she’d finished up there, she’d joined Mog in the workroom to finish trimming a hat. Mog had a length of gingham spread out on the cutting table in front of her, but so far she hadn’t even touched it. ‘You’ve been staring into space for ages.’

  Mog started. ‘What did you say?’

  Belle repeated herself. ‘If you’ve got a problem, tell me,’ she added.

  Mog looked up at Belle’s concerned face. Not for the first time, she wondered how it was that, at forty-three, she had managed to remain so youthful looking and had kept her figure intact. There were some grey hairs amongst the dark, and a few lines around
her eyes, but Belle was still a head turner.

  ‘I was thinking about Noah’s last letter, when he suggested it might be good for Mari to visit England.’

  ‘And? When you read it, you said that he must be nuts suggesting such a thing when war is threatened.’

  ‘I know, but everyone – and Noah too, for that matter – is saying that it will be averted, and I got to thinking it wasn’t such a bad idea. He is Mari’s godfather, after all, and he’s got a beautiful home, with so many useful connections. His influence could only be for the good. Mari needs work, and there’s none here. And you know what they say about Satan finding work for idle hands.’

  Belle looked at Mog with narrowed eyes. ‘What brought this on? Do you know something?’

  ‘No, I just think that she’s got a very aimless life. She told me she wanted to go to Auckland, but not into nursing. We don’t know anyone in Auckland to keep an eye on her. I just thought maybe London and Noah would be good for her.’

  ‘I agree that she needs something more than just a bit of sewing and helping with the boys,’ Belle said, sitting down across the cutting table from Mog. ‘But to send her to the other side of the world!’

  ‘Yes, I know, it’s a bit extreme. But we can count on Noah and Lisette to take good care of her, and their daughter will be company for her. Think of the opportunities there would be there for her.’

  ‘And all the opportunities to get into trouble,’ Belle pointed out. ‘Now, tell me what brought this on. I know that you would never suggest sending Mari away unless you thought something bad was going to happen to her here. So what is it?’

  Mog pursed her lips. She always forgot that Belle was as good at reading people as she herself was. Now she was stuck; having started this, she’d have to continue, even if that meant telling tales on Mari.

  ‘Tell me!’ Belle ordered her. ‘If Mari is in some kind of trouble, I have a right to know.’

  ‘Oh, Belle,’ Mog implored her. ‘It’s one of those situations where I’ll be damned if I tell you my fears, and damned if I don’t. You and Etienne will fly off the handle if I’m right, and possibly make things worse. If I’m wrong, Mari will never talk to me again. Anyway, I’m not even sure there is a real situation.’