“Aunt Beryl, mother says will you please come down? Father is home with a man and lunch is ready.”
Botheration! How she had crumpled her skirt, kneeling in that idiotic way.
“Very well, Kezia.” She went over to the dressing-table and powdered her nose.
Kezia crossed too, and unscrewed a little pot of cream and sniffed it. Under her arm she carried a very dirty calico cat.
When Aunt Beryl ran out of the room she sat the cat up on the dressing-table and stuck the top of the cream jar over its ear.
“Now look at yourself,” said she sternly.
The calico cat was so overcome by the sight that it toppled over backwards and bumped and bumped on to the floor. And the top of the cream jar flew through the air and rolled like a penny in a round on the linoleum — and did not break.
But for Kezia it had broken the moment it flew through the air, and she picked it up, hot all over, and put it back on the dressing-table.
Then she tiptoed away, far too quickly and airily….
The Wind Blows
— 1920 —
Suddenly — dreadfully — she wakes up. What has happened? Something dreadful has happened. No — nothing has happened. It is only the wind shaking the house, rattling the windows, banging a piece of iron on the roof and making her bed tremble. Leaves flutter past the window, up and away; down in the avenue a whole newspaper wags in the air like a lost kite and falls, spiked on a pine tree. It is cold. Summer is over — it is autumn — everything is ugly. The carts rattle by, swinging from side to side; two Chinamen lollop along under their wooden yokes with the straining vegetable baskets — their pigtails and blue blouses fly out in the wind. A white dog on three legs yelps past the gate. It is all over! What is? Oh, everything! And she begins to plait her hair with shaking fingers, not daring to look in the glass. Mother is talking to grandmother in the hall.
“A perfect idiot! Imagine leaving anything out on the line in weather like this…. Now my best little Teneriffe-work teacloth is simply in ribbons. What is that extraordinary smell? It’s the porridge burning. Oh, heavens — this wind!”
She has a music lesson at ten o’clock. At the thought the minor movement of the Beethoven begins to play in her head, the trills long and terrible like little rolling drums…. Marie Swainson runs into the garden next door to pick the “chrysanths” before they are ruined. Her skirt flies up above her waist; she tries to beat it down, to tuck it between her legs while she stoops, but it is no use — up it flies. All the trees and bushes beat about her. She picks as quickly as she can, but she is quite distracted. She doesn’t mind what she does — she pulls the plants up by the roots and bends and twists them, stamping her foot and swearing.
“For heaven’s sake keep the front door shut! Go round to the back,” shouts someone. And then she hears Bogey:
“Mother, you’re wanted on the telephone. Telephone, Mother. It’s the butcher.”
How hideous life is — revolting, simply revolting…. And now her hat-elastic’s snapped. Of course it would. She’ll wear her old tam and slip out the back way. But mother has seen.
“Matilda. Matilda. Come back im-me-diately! What on earth have you got on your head? It looks like a tea cosy. And why have you got that mane of hair on your forehead?”
“I can’t come back, Mother. I’ll be late for my lesson.”
“Come back immediately!”
She won’t. She won’t. She hates Mother. “Go to hell,” she shouts, running down the road.
In waves, in clouds, in big round whirls the dust comes stinging, and with it little bits of straw and chaff and manure. There is a loud roaring sound from the trees in the gardens, and standing at the bottom of the road outside Mr Bullen’s gate she can hear the sea sob: “Ah! … Ah! … Ah-h!” But Mr Bullen’s drawing-room is as quiet as a cave. The windows are closed, the blinds half pulled, and she is not late. The-girl-before-her has just started playing MacDowell’s “To an Iceberg”. Mr Bullen looks over at her and half smiles.
“Sit down,” he says. “Sit over there in the sofa corner, little lady.”
How funny he is. He doesn’t exactly laugh at you … but there is just something…. Oh, how peaceful it is here. She likes this room. It smells of art serge and stale smoke and chrysanthemums … there is a big vase of them on the mantelpiece behind the pale photograph of Rubinstein … à mon ami Robert Bullen…. Over the black glittering piano hangs “Solitude” — a dark tragic woman draped in white, sitting on a rock, her knees crossed, her chin on her hands.
“No, no!” says Mr Bullen, and he leans over the other girl, puts his arms over her shoulders and plays the passage for her. The stupid — she’s blushing! How ridiculous!
Now the-girl-before-her has gone; the front door slams. Mr Bullen comes back and walks up and down, very softly, waiting for her. What an extraordinary thing. Her fingers tremble so that she can’t undo the knot in the music satchel. It’s the wind…. And her heart beats so hard she feels it must lift her blouse up and down. Mr Bullen does not say a word. The shabby red piano seat is long enough for two people to sit side by side. Mr Bullen sits down by her.
“Shall I begin with scales,” she asks, squeezing her hands together. “I had some arpeggios, too.”
But he does not answer. She doesn’t believe he even hears … and then suddenly his fresh hand with the ring on it reaches over and opens Beethoven.
“Let’s have a little of the old master,” he says.
But why does he speak so kindly — so awfully kindly — and as though they had known each other for years and years and knew everything about each other.
He turns the page slowly. She watches his hand — it is a very nice hand and always looks as though it had just been washed.
“Here we are,” says Mr Bullen.
Oh, that kind voice — Oh, that minor movement. Here come the little drums….
“Shall I take the repeat?”
“Yes, dear child.”
His voice is far, far too kind. The crotchets and quavers are dancing up and down the stave like little black boys on a fence. Why is he so … She will not cry — she has nothing to cry about….
“What is it, dear child?”
Mr Bullen takes her hands. His shoulder is there — just by her head. She leans on it ever so little, her cheek against the springy tweed.
“Life is so dreadful,” she murmurs, but she does not feel it’s dreadful at all. He says something about “waiting” and “marking time” and “that rare thing, a woman,” but she does not hear. It is so comfortable … for ever….
Suddenly the door opens and in pops Marie Swainson, hours before her time.
“Take the allegretto a little faster,” says Mr Bullen, and gets up and begins to walk up and down again.
“Sit in the sofa corner, little lady,” he says to Marie.
The wind, the wind. It’s frightening to be here in her room by herself. The bed, the mirror, the white jug and basin gleam like the sky outside. It’s the bed that is frightening. There it lies, sound asleep…. Does Mother imagine for one moment that she is going to darn all those stockings knotted up on the quilt like a coil of snakes? She’s not. No, Mother. I do not see why I should…. The wind — the wind! There’s a funny smell of soot blowing down the chimney. Hasn’t anyone written poems to the wind? … “I bring fresh flowers to the leaves and showers.” … What nonsense.
“Is that you, Bogey?”
“Come for a walk round the esplanade, Matilda. I can’t stand this any longer.”
“Right-o. I’ll put on my ulster. Isn’t it an awful day!” Bogey’s ulster is just like hers. Hooking the collar she looks at herself in the glass. Her face is white, they have the same excited eyes and hot lips. Ah, they know those two in the glass. Good-bye, dears; we shall be back soon.
“This is better, isn’t it?”
“Hook on,” says Bogey.
They cannot walk fast enough. Their heads bent, their legs just touching, they s
tride like one eager person through the town, down the asphalt zigzag where the fennel grows wild and on to the esplanade. It is dusky — just getting dusky. The wind is so strong that they have to fight their way through it, rocking like two old drunkards. All the poor little pohutukawas on the esplanade are bent to the ground.
“Come on! Come on! Let’s get near.”
Over by the breakwater the sea is very high. They pull off their hats and her hair blows across her mouth, tasting of salt. The sea is so high that the waves do not break at all; they thump against the rough stone wall and suck up the weedy, dripping steps. A fine spray skims from the water right across the esplanade. They are covered with drops; the inside of her mouth tastes wet and cold.
Bogey’s voice is breaking. When he speaks he rushes up and down the scale. It’s funny — it makes you laugh — and yet it just suits the day. The wind carries their voices — away fly the sentences like little narrow ribbons.
“Quicker! Quicker!”
It is getting very dark. In the harbour the coal hulks show two lights — one high on a mast, and one from the stern.
“Look, Bogey. Look over there.”
A big black steamer with a long loop of smoke streaming, with the portholes lighted, with lights everywhere, is putting out to sea. The wind does not stop her; she cuts through the waves, making for the open gate between the pointed rocks that leads to … It’s the light that makes her look so awfully beautiful and mysterious…. They are on board leaning over the rail arm in arm.
“… Who are they?”
“… Brother and sister.”
“Look, Bogey, there’s the town. Doesn’t it look small? There’s the post office clock chiming for the last time. There’s the esplanade where we walked that windy day. Do you remember? I cried at my music lesson that day — how many years ago! Good-bye, little island, good-bye….”
Now the dark stretches a wing over the tumbling water. They can’t see those two any more. Good-bye, good-bye. Don’t forget…. But the ship is gone, now.
The wind — the wind.
The Stranger
— 1920 —
It seemed to the little crowd on the wharf that she was never going to move again. There she lay, immense, motionless on the grey crinkled water, a loop of smoke above her, an immense flock of gulls screaming and diving after the galley droppings at the stern. You could just see little couples parading — little flies walking up and down the dish on the grey crinkled tablecloth. Other flies clustered and swarmed at the edge. Now there was a gleam of white on the lower deck — the cook’s apron or the stewardess, perhaps. Now a tiny black spider raced up the ladder on to the bridge.
In the front of the crowd a strong-looking, middle-aged man, dressed very well, very snugly in a grey overcoat, grey silk scarf, thick gloves and dark felt hat, marched up and down twirling his folded umbrella. He seemed to be the leader of the little crowd on the wharf and at the same time to keep them together. He was something between the sheep-dog and the shepherd.
But what a fool — what a fool he had been not to bring any glasses! There wasn’t a pair of glasses between the whole lot of them.
“Curious thing, Mr Scott, that none of us thought of glasses. We might have been able to stir ’em up a bit. We might have managed a little signalling. Don’t hesitate to land. Natives harmless. Or: A welcome awaits you. All is forgiven. What? Eh?”
Mr Hammond’s quick, eager glance, so nervous and yet so friendly and confiding, took in everybody on the wharf, roped in even those old chaps lounging against the gangways. They knew, every man-jack of them, that Mrs Hammond was on that boat, and he was so tremendously excited it never entered his head not to believe that this marvellous fact meant something to them too. It warmed his heart towards them. They were, he decided, as decent a crowd of people — Those old chaps over by the gangways, too— fine, solid old chaps. What chests — by Jove! And he squared his own, plunged his thick-gloved hands into his pockets, rocked from heel to toe.
“Yes, my wife’s been in Europe for the last ten months. On a visit to our eldest girl, who was married last year. I brought her up here, as far as Auckland, myself. So I thought I’d better come and fetch her back. Yes, yes, yes.” The shrewd grey eyes narrowed again and searched anxiously, quickly, the motionless liner. Again his overcoat was unbuttoned. Out came the thin, butter-yellow watch again, and for the twentieth — fiftieth — hundredth time he made the calculation.
“Let me see, now. It was two fifteen when the doctor’s launch went off. Two fifteen. It is now exactly twenty-eight minutes past four. That is to say, the doctor’s been gone two hours and thirteen minutes. Two hours and thirteen minutes! Whee-ooh!” He gave a queer little half-whistle and snapped his watch to again. “But I think we should have been told if there was anything up — don’t you, Mr Gaven?”
“Oh yes, Mr Hammond! I don’t think there’s anything to — anything to worry about,” said Mr Gaven, knocking out his pipe against the heel of his shoe. “At the same time—”
“Quite so! Quite so!” cried Mr Hammond. “Dashed annoying!” He paced quickly up and down and came back again to his stand between Mr and Mrs Scott and Mr Gaven. “It’s getting quite dark, too,” and he waved his folded umbrella as though the dusk at least might have had the decency to keep off for a bit. But the dusk came slowly, spreading like a slow stain over the water. Little Jean Scott dragged at her mother’s hand.
“I wan’ my tea, mammy!” she wailed.
“I expect you do,” said Mr Hammond. “I expect all these ladies want their tea.” And his kind, flushed, almost pitiful glance roped them all in again. He wondered whether Janey was having a final cup of tea in the saloon out there. He hoped so; he thought not. It would be just like her not to leave the deck. In that case perhaps the deck steward would bring her up a cup. If he’d been there he’d have got it for her — somehow. And for a moment he was on deck, standing over her, watching her little hand fold round the cup in the way she had, while she drank the only cup of tea to be got on board…. But now he was back here, and the Lord only knew when that cursed Captain would stop hanging about in the stream. He took another turn, up and down, up and down. He walked as far as the cab-stand to make sure his driver hadn’t disappeared: back he swerved again to the little flock huddled in the shelter of the banana crates. Little Jean Scott was still wanting her tea. Poor little beggar! He wished he had a bit of chocolate on him.
“Here, Jean!” he said. “Like a lift up?” And easily, gently, he swung the little girl on to a higher barrel. The movement of holding her, steadying her, relieved him wonderfully, lightened his heart.
“Hold on,” he said, keeping an arm round her.
“Oh, don’t worry about Jean, Mr Hammond!” said Mrs Scott.
“That’s all right, Mrs Scott. No trouble. It’s a pleasure. Jean’s a little pal of mine, aren’t you, Jean?”
“Yes, Mr Hammond,” said Jean, and she ran her finger down the dent of his felt hat.
But suddenly she caught him by the ear and gave a loud scream. “Lo-ok, Mr Hammond! She’s moving! Look, she’s coming in!”
By Jove! So she was. At last! She was slowly, slowly turning round. A bell sounded far over the water and a great spout of steam gushed into the air. The gulls rose; they fluttered away like bits of white paper. And whether that deep throbbing was her engines or his heart Mr Hammond couldn’t say. He had to nerve himself to bear it, whatever it was. At that moment old Captain Johnson, the harbour-master, came striding down the wharf, a leather portfolio under his arm.
“Jean’ll be all right,” said Mr Scott. “I’ll hold her.” He was just in time. Hammond had forgotten about Jean. He sprang away to greet old Captain Johnson.
“Well, Captain,” the eager, nervous voice rang out again, “you’ve taken pity on us at last.”
“It’s no good blaming me, Mr Hammond,” wheezed old Captain Johnson, staring at the liner. “You got Mrs Hammond on board, ain’t yer?”
“Yes, y
es!” said Hammond, and he kept by the harbourmaster’s side. “Mrs Hammond’s there. Hul-lo! We shan’t be long now!”
With her telephone ring-ringing, the thrum of her screw filling the air, the big liner bore down on them, cutting sharp through the dark water so that big white shavings curled to either side. Hammond and the harbour-master kept in front of the rest. Hammond took off his hat; he raked the decks — they were crammed with passengers; he waved his hat and bawled a loud, strange “Hul-lo!” across the water, and then turned round and burst out laughing and said something — nothing — to old Captain Johnson.
“Seen her?” asked the harbour-master.
“No, not yet. Steady — wait a bit!” And suddenly, between two great clumsy idiots — “Get out of the way there!” he signed with his umbrella — he saw a hand raised — a white glove shaking a handkerchief. Another moment, and — thank God, thank God! — there she was. There was Janey. There was Mrs Hammond, yes, yes, yes — standing by the rail and smiling, and nodding and waving her handkerchief.
“Well, that’s first class — first class! Well, well, well!” He positively stamped. Like lightning he drew out his cigar-case and offered it to old Captain Johnson. “Have a cigar, Captain! They’re pretty good. Have a couple! Here” — and he pressed all the cigars in the case on the harbour-master — “I’ve a couple of boxes up at the hotel.”
“Thenks, Mr Hammond!” wheezed old Captain Johnson.
Hammond stuffed the cigar-case back. His hands were shaking, but he’d got hold of himself again. He was able to face Janey. There she was, leaning on the rail, talking to some woman and at the same time watching him, ready for him. It struck him, as the gulf of water closed, how small she looked on that huge ship. His heart was wrung with such a spasm that he could have cried out. How little she looked to have come all that long way and back by herself! Just like her, though. Just like Janey. She had the courage of a — And now the crew had come forward and parted the passengers; they had lowered the rails for the gangways.
New Zealand Stories Page 9
