Fire (7 page)

‘And did Terry tell you that as well?’ Allie didn’t think Daisy would be very pleased.

‘Yeah. He was having a bit of a worry one day, and he told me about it.’ Sonny shrugged again. ‘It’s all right, it’s none of my business. He’s a nice bloke, Terry.’

‘Mmm, he is. And Daisy’s lovely, too. It’s a secret, though, about the baby.’

Sonny grinned. ‘Won’t be a secret when it gets born six months after the wedding, though, will it?’

Annoyed, Allie said, ‘And that’s funny, is it?’

‘Not really, but it happens, doesn’t it? And like I said, it’s none of my business. Good on him, though. Some blokes would run a mile.’

As Allie was pondering how very true this was, the lights dimmed, a rash of coughing washed through the auditorium, and, below them, heavy curtains swept silently back from the cinema screen.

First up was a newsreel showing something about the establishment of a new Egg Marketing Authority and an item about the Wattie’s cannery in Hawke’s Bay, neither of which was very interesting, and another on the New Zealand soldiers who were still stationed in Korea, even though the war had ended in July.

‘I hardly know anything about the Korean War,’ Allie said when the newsreel had finished.

‘Most people don’t,’ Sonny answered shortly.

‘It’s awful, though, don’t you think? We had soldiers there for nearly three years and nobody seemed to give a toss. Nobody at home, anyway.’

‘Suited some people,’ Sonny said.

Allie looked at him. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, look at the sheep farmers, for a start. Wool prices just about tripled overnight.’

But before Allie could ask Sonny how on earth he knew that, the main feature started. Unfortunately, at the same time, two women sat down in the seats in front of Allie, one of them wearing a hat so large it almost completely blocked the screen.

‘Bugger,’ Allie said under her breath, and leaned as far to the right as she could. She could have moved to the left, of course, but she didn’t want to do that in case Sonny thought it was just an excuse for her to fall all over him.

‘Can’t you see?’ he asked.

‘Not really.’

Sonny slid forward in his seat, tapped the woman on the
shoulder and said, ‘Hey, lady, excuse me, but my girlfriend can’t see through your bloody big hat. Can you take it off, please?’

Utterly affronted, the woman turned around. Above the silhouette of her hat, Allie could just see the top third of a group of desperadoes gathering on the outskirts of a wild west town, but not much else.

‘I
beg
your pardon?’ the woman said.

‘I said, can you take your hat off? It’s in the way.’

‘I’ve never heard anything so outrageous in my life!’

‘Haven’t you? You can’t get out much, then.’

Allie laughed out loud, then clapped her hand to her mouth.

The woman turned to her companion and announced, ‘Come on Edith, we’re finding somewhere else to sit. I refuse to be harangued by…by
his
sort!’

‘Better?’ Sonny asked after they’d gone.

‘Much, thank you.’ Allie knew that if she’d been by herself she wouldn’t have had the nerve to say anything.

They settled in to watch the film, which Allie found much more entertaining than she’d expected. During the big fistfight, Sonny’s arm, which was lying along the back of Allie’s seat, inched down until it rested across her shoulders. She froze for a moment, then let herself lean into him. She quickly realized how uncomfortable she was, but decided it was worth putting up with.

As the credits rolled up the screen, Allie sat up straight in her seat, easing the crick in her neck. The lights came on and Sonny took his arm away.

‘Well, that wasn’t bad, was it?’ Allie said.

Sonny turned to her and sang ‘Do not forsake me, oh my daaarlin’.’

‘I’ll try not to.’

Grinning, Sonny stood up and stretched until Allie was sure she heard his spine crack. ‘A bit hard on your arse, these seats.’

Allie’s bum was numb, too, but she certainly wasn’t going to rub it to get the circulation going in the middle of the Civic Theatre.

They waited until their row had cleared, then shuffled along until they reached the aisle, waiting for a gap in the stream of people heading out of the auditorium. When someone moved in front of Allie, Sonny reached back, took her hand and drew her up next to him. His hand was warm and a little rough at the base of his fingers. He squeezed and Allie squeezed back.

‘Well,’ she said, when they’d been disgorged into the foyer, ‘thank you for that. I really enjoyed it.’

‘Good. So did I.’ Sonny smoothed his hair back from his forehead. ‘Want to go for a drink or something?’

‘A drink?’ Allie was surprised; her hand was already in her bag feeling around for her bus money.

‘The Wintergarden downstairs is open. Or we could get a coffee or something.’

‘I’m not sure.’ Allie knew her mother would worry if she wasn’t home when she’d said. ‘I’ve got work tomorrow.’

‘So have I.’

‘No. Thanks, Sonny, but I’d better not. I’ve had a lovely night, though.’

‘Tomorrow night?’

‘I’m sorry, I’m busy.’ And she was, with the fashion show.

‘Another time, then,’ he said.

Allie suddenly realized that she’d played her hand badly,
and felt almost winded with disappointment. ‘Yes, another time.’

Outside it was still pleasantly warm and there were plenty of people out and about. Christmas and royal tour decorations mounted on telegraph poles and the façades of buildings sparkled and gleamed in the street lights, lending Queen Street a particularly festive air. Further down the street she could see Dunbar & Jones’s giant kiwi and lion flashing away twenty feet above the footpath.

Sonny let go of her hand. ‘Allie, I didn’t mean “another time” as in let’s forget about it. I meant, will you go out with me again?’

Her spirits suddenly soaring again, Allie shocked herself by saying, ‘No, why don’t
you
come out with
me
? Do you like dancing?’

‘Well, they don’t call me the King of Swing for nothing.’

‘Who calls you the King of Swing?’

Sonny grinned. ‘No one, actually, but they should.’

‘Well, some Friday nights a group of us from work go to the Peter Pan. Terry and Daisy usually go, and Louise and her husband Rob. You know Louise, the tall, thin girl with the chestnut hair?’

Sonny nodded.

‘And sometimes Irene as well, though her husband doesn’t like going out much so she’s usually on her own.’

‘Irene’s the dark one with the…’

‘Yes, that’s her.’ Allie felt a stab of irritation. ‘Obviously you’ve noticed her.’

‘Who hasn’t?’ Sonny said. ‘She’s a beaut-looking woman.’

‘Yes, she is,’ Allie admitted.

‘Not my cup of tea, though,’ Sonny said. He reached up to her hair and gently wound a strand of it around his finger. ‘I like my women all shiny and golden.’

Shiny, golden and bright red, Allie thought, as she felt her face burn.

He saw her embarrassment, and rescued her from it. ‘So, yeah, I’d like to come dancing with you,’ he said. ‘This Friday, you reckon?’

Allie nodded.

‘I’ll look forward to it.’

‘So will I.’ Reluctantly, Allie looked at her watch. ‘I’ve got to go now, though, or I’ll miss my bus.’

‘I can give you a lift home.’

‘Oh. I didn’t think you had…’ Not wanting him to embarrass
him
now, Allie stopped.

‘A car?’ Sonny said. ‘I don’t, but I’ve got my brother’s truck. It’s not very flash, but it’ll get you home.’ He looked doubtful for a moment. ‘Probably. Where do you live?’

‘Orakei.’

‘Well, that’s easy. So do I.’

‘Really?’ Allie was delighted. ‘What street?’

‘Kitemoana.’

Allie held Sonny’s almost defiant gaze, willing her face not to betray what she was ashamed to be thinking: how could a boy as bright and capable and well dressed as Sonny Manaia come from somewhere like Kitemoana Street? ‘That’s good,’ she said. ‘I live in Coates Ave, so it’s not too far out of your way.’

‘Right, then,’ Sonny said, and Allie saw in his eyes that he knew exactly what she’d been thinking. ‘Truck’s parked up the road.’

He took her hand again and they turned into Wellesley
Street and started walking up the hill. They crossed Albert Street, then Sonny stopped.

The truck was old—much older than her father’s Morris 8. She didn’t know much about vehicles, but this one looked pre-First World War, never mind Second World War. It had a small, square cab and a wooden deck, and long curving mudguards over the front wheels. It also had rust everywhere and dents in the bonnet and in the passenger door. It might have been painted green once, but it was hard to tell.

Sonny was watching her. ‘I’m getting something of my own in a few days,’ he said, ‘but beggars can’t be choosers, and at the moment I’m a beggar.’

He opened the passenger door and held Allie’s elbow as she climbed in, then went around to the driver’s side. Allie’s window was down so she wound the handle—the frame came up, but there was no glass in it. She looked at Sonny and they both burst out laughing.

‘Told you,’ he said.

‘I think it’s…quaint,’ Allie said.

‘I think it’s a heap of shit.’

That set them off again. Sonny started the motor and they rattled up Wellesley Street for a few yards before he did a U-turn, coasted down the hill with the engine back-firing loudly so that people on the footpath turned around to look, then turned left into Queen Street.

The truck was very noisy, so Allie didn’t say much during the ride home. Sonny lit a cigarette, offered her one and then lit it for her with a shiny metal lighter. The smoke hovered in the cab for a second, then was sucked out through the missing window. When he shut the motor off outside her gate the silence seemed almost deafening.
They sat for a minute, saying nothing.

‘Well,’ Sonny said eventually. He got his cigarettes out again. ‘Another smoke?

‘No, thanks.’

He put the pack away and gazed down the street. ‘Sky’s nice and clear.’

‘Yes, it is,’ Allie replied. Her nerves were humming like a tuning fork and she wished he would either say goodnight or kiss her. The tension was killing her.

He swivelled in his seat to face her, and she was just about to thank him again for a lovely night when he bent forward and brushed his lips against hers. It wasn’t a proper kiss, but it was very nice. He pulled back so he could see her properly, slid his hand into her hair and swept it back off her face.

But, to Allie’s instant embarrassment, his fingers caught in a patch of hardened lacquer.

‘Whoops, sorry,’ he said, wiggling his fingers gently to extricate them, which only made it worse. He sat there for a moment, his hand caught just above Allie’s ear, then started to laugh.

Allie was mortified now.

He moved closer. ‘Hang on,’ he said and, gripping the hair near her scalp with his free hand, jiggled the other one until his fingers became disentangled. ‘Sorry,’ he said again, still grinning.

There was nothing Allie could say that wouldn’t sound completely inane, so she leaned over and kissed him. Immediately his arms came up and settled around her, pulling her against him. His lips were smooth and warm, and she could feel his heart beating beneath his shirt. She slid her hand over his chest, and was mildly pleased to
note that he wasn’t wearing a singlet, which would have reminded her too much of her father and his baggy braces.

They kissed for several long minutes, and when Allie finally pulled away she was convinced she was only seconds away from melting completely. She was panting slightly and knew that if she didn’t go inside now, she might do something she’d regret. Or not regret at all, which would be even more dangerous.

‘I’d better go,’ she murmured, and was relieved when Sonny nodded.

‘I’d walk you in, but…I can’t,’ he said, looking down at his lap.

Allie looked down herself: the lump in his trousers was plain to see but he didn’t seem at all embarrassed by it.

‘Best not,’ she agreed. She opened the truck door and climbed out. ‘See you tomorrow at work?’

‘You will.’

She was halfway down the path when he called out softly, ‘Allie?’

She stopped.

‘Next time, don’t put any of that stuff in your hair, eh?’

Thursday, 17 December 1953

I
rene set her cup of tea on the table and sat down. ‘Well, how did it go?’ She’d been dying to catch up with Allie, but she’d come in late and hadn’t been able to sneak away from the typing pool.

Allie broke her Belgian biscuit in half, then licked her finger and collected the crumbs of pink icing that had fallen off. ‘Great, actually, considering Sonny nearly started a fight with a lady at the pictures, the truck he took me home in was older than my nan and only held together by rust, and I had so much lacquer in my hair that he got his hand stuck in it,’ she said, bracing herself for her friends’ response.

She was actually feeling a bit flat. She hadn’t seen Sonny yet today, and prayed that he wasn’t avoiding her.

Daisy paused, one of Terry’s mother’s oat biscuits halfway to her mouth. ‘
Really?
Why did he nearly get in a fight with a lady?’

‘Because she sat down in front of us with a bloody great hat on that completely blocked my view, and wouldn’t take it off even though he asked nicely. Well, quite nicely.’

‘Did he hit her?’ Daisy’s eyes were huge.

Allie rolled her eyes. ‘Of course he didn’t hit her! She said she refused to be “harangued” by his sort—I think she meant a Maori—and moved to another seat, which suited me.’

‘Was it his truck?’ Irene asked.

‘It was his brother’s. He’d borrowed it for the night.’

Irene said, ‘Well, that’ll make for a memorable summer romance, won’t it, swanning around town in an old borrowed wreck of a truck.’

‘He’s getting something of his own, soon,’ Allie said defensively.

‘And why was there so much lacquer in your hair?’ Irene asked.

‘Because Mum made me eat tea and it dried funny.’

The others nodded in sympathy—hair could be like that, and at the most inopportune times.

Louise lit a cigarette. ‘Was the film any good?’

Allie nodded. ‘I didn’t think it would be, but it was more of a love story than a western. Well, not a love story, not like, you know,
A Place in the Sun.
More of a
loyalty
story, really.’

‘Sounds great,’ Irene said.

‘No, it was. You should go and see it.’

But Irene was too busy thinking about her own personal love story. Or whatever it was. She was seeing Vince Reynolds today at lunchtime and had agreed to meet him in the basement. It was a bit tacky, she had to admit, hiding in grubby little storerooms just to get away from prying eyes, but there was no other way they could manage any time alone together. And it added to the excitement, sneaking around like that. She was definitely looking
forward to it, but hadn’t decided yet how far she would let him go—just far enough, she thought, to make sure he stayed interested.

‘Will you be seeing Sonny again?’ Daisy asked.

‘Actually, I’ve invited him to come to the Peter Pan this Friday night,’ Allie said. ‘We’re going, aren’t we?’

‘Well, we are,’ Daisy replied. ‘What about you and Rob?’ she asked Louise.

‘That’s the plan.’

Allie was pleased. ‘You’ll like him, I know you will.’

‘Terry says he’s a good bloke,’ Daisy said. ‘Anyway, at lunchtime I’m picking material for my bridesmaids’ dresses. Who wants to come and help?’

‘I will,’ Louise volunteered. ‘What colour have you decided on?’

‘I haven’t, yet. That’s the trouble.’

‘How are you going to get your dress, and three bridesmaids’ dresses, sewn by the end of January?’ Irene asked, who couldn’t sew a straight line if her life depended on it.

‘Mum’s going to help me with mine, and my Aunty Di’s doing the bridesmaids’.’

‘Well, I’ll help you pick,’ Allie said.

Daisy looked at Irene, who said with genuine regret, ‘I’d love to, Daisy, I really would, but I’m busy today. I’ll help you with your shoes and headgear, though.’

Daisy smiled, relieved. Irene was so very good at clothes, whereas she always felt she never quite got it right. And she very much wanted her wedding day to be perfect.

‘The thing is,’ Daisy said, ‘my sister isn’t blonde like me, she’s got more sort of copper in her hair, and I wanted the bridesmaids—and her of course, but she’s the maid of honour because she’s already married—to wear peach. And she won’t. She says she’ll look like a faded carrot.’

‘She will, too,’ Louise said bluntly. She’d met Daisy’s sister, whose hair was a lot closer to ginger than it was to copper. ‘What about the other bridesmaids?’

‘My cousins? They’ve both got dark hair.’

‘Well, what about pale blue? That’ll suit everyone.’

‘I don’t know,’ Daisy said. She looked at Louise. ‘It’s a bit, um, unvirginal, isn’t it?’

‘Only on the bride. And you’re wearing white, aren’t you?’

‘Yes.’

Allie winked at Daisy. ‘You wore a blue suit when you got married, didn’t you, Lou? I’ve seen the photos. Were you not, well, virginal?’

Louise tapped the side of her freckled nose. ‘That’s for me to know and you to find out.’

Daisy, who had been assuming that she was one of the very few New Zealand girls to go to the altar without her virginity intact, and was now paying the price for it, stared. ‘Had you already…were you and Rob…’ She didn’t seem to know how to finish the sentence.

Louise made a production of looking furtively over her shoulder, then leaned forward conspiratorially. ‘Yes, we were. It’s much more common than you think it is, you know!’

Daisy looked mildly scandalized, but noticeably relieved.

‘But that’s not why I got married in a blue suit,’ Louise
went on. ‘It was in 1948 and you just couldn’t get nice fabric then, remember, even though it was after rationing ended. So I had a suit.’

‘So blue would work, wouldn’t it, Daisy?’ Allie asked.

Daisy didn’t look convinced. ‘Blue’s a winter colour and I’m having a summer wedding.’

‘Well, what are summer colours, then?’

Daisy thought for a moment. ‘Yellow?’

‘Yellow would work for your cousins, but not for your sister,’ Louise said. ‘She’d look awful.’

‘Well, I don’t know then,’ Daisy said, now looking as though she might burst into tears at any moment. ‘What colour did the queen’s bridesmaids wear?’

Louise sighed. ‘I don’t know. White, probably. Look, your sister doesn’t have to wear the same colour as your cousins, does she? Why don’t you put them in peach and your sister in something darker, something more coffee-coloured, perhaps?’

‘Brown? Yuck!’

‘No, not brown. I was thinking more of a deep, bronzy caramel, something like that. Something that won’t clash with her hair.’

‘That sounds nice,’ Allie said, and Daisy agreed.

The peach fabric was easy and they found a pretty nylon straight away. But they spent the next half-hour perusing every bolt of material in the dress fabrics department that was remotely caramel-coloured, until Daisy eventually chose something she was happy with.

‘Now all I need are the patterns,’ she said.

Allie looked at her watch. ‘I have to go back to work now.’

‘So do I,’ Louise said.

‘Well, what about tomorrow? Can we look tomorrow?’ Daisy suggested.

Allie caught Louise’s eye briefly. ‘I’ve got something on tomorrow at lunchtime, sorry, Daisy. What about on Monday?’

‘I really wanted the patterns by the weekend,’ Daisy grumbled, clearly disappointed. ‘Lou, can you help?’

‘I’m sorry, I’ve got something on as well. Let’s make it Monday, eh?’

‘I suppose,’ Daisy said.

She looked so dejected that Allie felt quite sorry for her. ‘Look, why don’t you come to the fashion show tonight? I can get you free tickets and you might get some ideas for dresses, especially as we’re having a bridal segment.’

‘Yes, please,’ Daisy said, perking up.

‘Can you get me a ticket?’ Louise asked. ‘I wouldn’t mind a look myself.’

Allie nodded. ‘Miss Willow’s quite generous with the tickets, even though she’s not supposed to be. I’ll give them to you at afternoon tea.’

While Allie, Louise and Daisy were in the fabrics department, Irene was standing on the landing of the staff stairs leading down to the basement, looking at her watch. She was five minutes late meeting Vince, and that was exactly how she meant it to be.

She opened her handbag, took out a small mirror and a tissue, blotted her lips then checked her reflection to make sure there was a hint of colour left. It wouldn’t do to get lipstick on Vince’s clothes and have his wife ask where it had come from. But she didn’t want to meet him with completely
bare lips either—that wouldn’t be very sexy at all.

When she was ready she descended the stairs, her heels clattering on the wooden risers. The lift actually went all the way down to the basement, so the storeroom staff could bring up large and heavy items after hours when there were no customers in the shop, but she didn’t want to draw attention to herself by using it.

When she got to the bottom she pushed open the door and left the echoey stairwell. In front of her was a long, whitewashed hallway, its walls made of bricks laid by workmen almost a hundred years ago when Auckland was still a new town. She reached out and ran her fingers across some, feeling how cold they were, yet dry: there was no dampness down here at all. It was in fact the perfect place to store goods of all kinds, and that was exactly its function: in its huge double basement, Dunbar & Jones harboured an absolute Aladdin’s cave of delights.

The flooring reserves were stored there—carpets, rugs and enormous rolls of linoleum—as well as items eventually destined for the furnishings floor, along with rows and rows of muslin-draped bolts of dress fabrics. The remaining area was packed with smaller items such as bales of mercery, wools and manchester linens not yet opened.

Packing materials, office supplies, old kitchen equipment and the emergency generator lined one wall, and on the back wall, near the delivery ramp descending from the narrow lane running behind the store, were located the store’s cleaning supplies, the gas meter, the Lamson blower and the main switchboard for the electricity. The electricity supply came into the basement from a pole on the corner of Queen and Wyndham Streets, then crossed the ceiling unenclosed to the switchboard, from where it
was distributed throughout most areas in the three Dunbar & Jones buildings via a maze of wiring.

Irene never liked coming down to the basement and, fortunately, rarely needed to. The main storage area was huge with a low ceiling lit only by bare bulbs, and the smaller rooms off to one side, where she was now, were no better. She imagined as she walked down the hallway that there were enormous spiders lurking in dark corners above her, just waiting to abseil down on glistening threads and catch in her hair. Or, even worse, drop down the back of her blouse. It was the most unromantic place she could imagine for a liaison, but then she and Vince didn’t have a lot of choice.

Irene and Vince. She tried it out a couple of times in her head, quite liking the sound of it. Mrs Vince Reynolds. No, she’d be Mrs Irene Reynolds, because she was a modern woman. It sounded a lot classier than Irene Baxter. Not that it mattered, because she didn’t want to marry Vince, and there was the small matter of her already being married. And accountants probably made a lot more money than floor-walkers, even in posh shops like Dunbar & Jones.

Something touched her shoulder and she nearly screamed.

‘Vince, you sod!’

Vince was genuinely apologetic this time. ‘Sorry, honey, but you went straight past. We’re in here.’

He turned her into a small room stacked almost to the ceiling with cardboard boxes, folded trestle tables and a five-foot high, pale pink papier mâché egg left over from that year’s Easter window displays. The single bulb was quite bright in here, casting a harsh yellow light everywhere except in the corners.

‘Nice,’ Irene remarked, looking around.

‘Best I could do,’ Vince said. ‘Should I have brought a mattress in?’

‘A mattress? What for?’ Irene had already made up her mind that she wasn’t going to be doing anything requiring a mattress.

Vince said, ‘Well, you know, to lie on.’ He added quickly, ‘Not that I’m assuming anything, of course. It was just if we wanted a bit of a cuddle.’

Irene lowered her head slightly, tilted it and looked up at him through her thick, black eyelashes. ‘Mr Reynolds, I was hoping that if we were to have…a cuddle, it would be in a much more salubrious place than this. I think I’m worth that.’

‘Oh, you are, darling, you most certainly are,’ Vince agreed fervently, though his hopes for something more than just a kiss and a cuddle had just been severely dented. But he loved it when Irene used clever words—she was such an intoxicating mixture of brains and sex appeal. And he especially loved it when she called him Mr Reynolds; it made him feel so in command and, well, virile.

‘And we’ve only got half an hour,’ Irene pointed out. ‘I have to be back at work at one.’

Vince thought they could achieve quite a lot in half an hour, but didn’t say so. ‘Well, we’ll just have to make the most of it, won’t we? Are you cold?’

Irene wasn’t; it was cool down here but it certainly wasn’t cold. She was shivering, though, from excitement. ‘A little,’ she said.

‘Then come and sit by me,’ Vince invited. He sat down on a cardboard box, which immediately collapsed beneath him, sending him lurching sideways.

Irene laughed, a loud peal that sounded harsh in the small room.

‘Shit,’ Vince said, getting up and dusting off his smart trousers. He tested another box and sat down again, but cautiously this time. ‘Come here, Irene, come and sit with me.’

Irene stepped over and sat down next to him, perching her bottom on the very edge of the box. He tucked his arm around her, moved over slightly to give her more room, and started kissing her.

Irene responded enthusiastically, enjoying his obvious ardour and the strength she could feel in his arms. He might have a fairly sedentary job at Dunbar & Jones, but he obviously kept himself in shape, which was a pleasant surprise.

After several long minutes, Vince pulled back and looked at her. His face was flushed and his eyes were filled with the sexual longing Irene found intoxicating.