Fire (4 page)

‘I’m not sure what you mean, Nan.’

Rose gave a sad little smile. ‘Of all the people in this world, the Irish are probably regarded as being closest to the bottom of the heap. Or they used to be, back when I was a girl. My mother nearly had a fit when I took Patrick home. And these days the Maoris seem to be in the same boat. But I married my Irishman, and I’m very glad I did. I spent the best part of my life with your grandfather and I don’t regret a second of it. So, though I should be telling you to go to bed early on Wednesday night with a cup of tea and a good book, I won’t. Allie, if you like this boy, go out with him. You only have one life to live, and you never know when they’re going to drop an H-bomb on us.’ She looked up at the clear sky as if one might be hurtling down right now. ‘But don’t tell your mother and father I said that, all right?’

And then they were at the gate and the subject seemed to be closed.

Tuesday, 15 December 1953

Irene leaned back in her seat, looking out the window and listening absent-mindedly to the soothing
snick
of the overhead wires as the tram swayed down Parnell Road. As usual Martin had gone to work ridiculously early and she’d missed catching a lift with him. She had an enormous pile of typing to do at work today and really couldn’t be bothered with it. In fact, she couldn’t be bothered with anything. She felt…flat.

She’d had another argument with him last night, about money, as usual. She’d told him about the gorgeous mink-dyed marmot coat she’d seen at work and he’d said she couldn’t have it. So she’d asked why not and he’d said because they couldn’t afford it. Then she had said why didn’t he ask his boss for more money, and he’d said they wouldn’t need it if she didn’t keep spending it like water. And it had gone on from there, escalating as it always did into something quite unpleasant and then, ultimately, pointless.

It drove her to distraction sometimes, the way they argued. Not so much the quarrel itself, because she quite enjoyed a good barney, but it was the way Martin invariably conducted his side of it. Whereas she always got worked up and angry, he never seemed to lose his temper and he never, ever raised his voice. He simply sat there, in his comfortable chair by the fireplace, reading his paper and smoking his pipe in his woollen vest and grey flannel work trousers and his slippers, and reasoned it calmly out with her, pointing out that he would buy her all the fine things she wanted when they had the money but not before.

It wasn’t as if they didn’t have any. But Martin had earmarked the money in the bank for the house he insisted they should buy as soon as they’d finished paying off their flat. His flat, actually. He’d already bought it well before Irene met him, when he was only twenty-two and hadn’t long been working for Hart, Bullock & Associates. That had been ten years ago and, Martin being Martin, he’d already paid most of it off. But until it was freehold, he said, and he’d secured a partnership in the firm so that there was enough money for a hefty deposit on something bigger that would suit them better when children came along, there was little money for anything but essentials.

Irene didn’t agree with this. For a start, so far as she was concerned there weren’t going to be any children. She genuinely liked them, and adored cuddling little babies, but she didn’t like what giving birth seemed to do to many women’s bodies. One minute they were trim and shapely, then they were pregnant, and nine and a bit months later they had flabby stomachs, pendulous breasts and enormous backsides. Her figure was spectacular and she knew it, and had no intention of spoiling it by producing offspring. And she was sure there would be plenty of nieces and nephews around for her to enjoy and spoil: she had four younger brothers and sisters who would probably breed like rabbits, and Martin had a sister who had recently married and talked about nothing but having babies. No, she wouldn’t need any of her own.

She actually could see the point of buying a better house, and knew that what Martin had in mind wasn’t too far from her own vision of something at least modestly affluent—it was just that it was all taking so frustratingly long! He had promised her all sorts of things when they’d been
courting, and it was true he’d spent quite a lot of money buying her pretty gifts and taking her out to dinner, and her engagement ring had cost rather a lot. He’d paid for most of the wedding, too, because her family didn’t have two bob to rub together, and he’d let her have everything she’d wanted for her big day. If she were honest, she did vaguely recall him saying things like ‘a penny saved is a penny earned’ and ‘good things come to those who wait’, but she’d dismissed all that as just part of his staid and careful character, which, back then anyway, she’d thought she could live with.

The tram stopped: several people got off and some more got on. A girl inched her way past the men strap-hanging in the aisle and Irene put up her hand to indicate that there was a spare seat.

The girl sat down beside her. ‘Thanks. Whew, crowded today, isn’t it?’

‘I’ll say,’ Irene replied, shifting over to give her more room.

‘Must be everyone coming into town to do their Christmas shopping.’

‘Probably. Though I’m off to work.’

‘So am I,’ the girl said glumly.

‘Where do you work?’ Irene asked, though she knew, from the girl’s uniform.

‘Smith & Caughey’s. What about you?’

‘Dunbar & Jones.’

‘Busy?’

‘Flat out,’ Irene said.

‘Us too,’ the girl said. ‘My feet are still aching from yesterday.’

Irene smiled, then turned back to the window and her thoughts.

She’d discovered quite quickly, actually, that she couldn’t live with Martin’s cautious and measured attitude towards life, and it was driving her around the bend. And it wasn’t just the money, it was everything. They hardly ever went out, and when they did it was usually only to family gatherings or dinners with Martin’s work colleagues, all of whom Irene found deeply uninteresting, particularly the wives, who all seemed to look down their noses at her. And they never went dancing, which Irene loved, so lately she’d started going out to the Peter Pan with some of the girls from work, which often ended up irking her, because she had to go without Martin. He could be quite a lot of fun on the rare occasions he let his hair down—witty, affectionate and very entertaining—and she loved being with him when he was like that. And it was embarrassing, having to tell people that your husband didn’t want to take you out. It made her feel as though he didn’t care enough about her. But when she told him she was going out with the girls, in the hope that he’d feel jealous enough to accompany her, all he’d ever say was have a lovely time!

And the most annoying thing of all was that most of Martin’s flaws were products of his good intentions. He wouldn’t spend money because he wanted them to have a nicer house, he worked very hard to earn what was actually a good salary, and because he worked so hard he was always tired. She was a night owl, but he went to bed at nine o’clock most nights to read. If she wanted to have sex, she would have to go to bed at the same time, or she’d miss her chance. If she left it much later than that she would invariably find him asleep with his book on his face. And she did quite often feel like having sex, partly because that was just the way she was, and partly because, in spite of all the
frustrations, she loved him. He wasn’t unattractive, he was kind and clever, he was good to her—even if his budget decreed that he could only occasionally buy her flowers or the odd box of Queen Anne chocolates—and she was in no doubt that he loved her. He said so often enough, and he frequently told her how beautiful she was and how lucky he was to have such a lovely wife, and on the rare nights that he did manage to stay awake their lovemaking was quite passionate and fulfilling. It’s just that he was so…boring. It was all boring.

And the one thing she couldn’t stand was being bored. It ate away at her, nibbling at the edges of her consciousness until finally there was a yawning great hole, which she would feel compelled to rush off and fill with anything that might blot out the vast, fierce emptiness. It made her lose her patience, it made her say quite inappropriate things at times, it made her spend money she didn’t have on things she didn’t need, and it led her into ‘intrigues’ with people—men, to be specific—that she knew were wrong. But, God, they made her feel alive! So far she hadn’t had an actual affair with anyone, but she knew it was very likely to happen. She certainly hadn’t been a virgin when she’d married Martin, though poor old Martin hadn’t known that, and probably still didn’t.

The tram turned off Customs Street and into Queen Street, stopping and starting to let people off until it drew level with Dunbar & Jones. The wide front doors of the store were closed but not locked. Irene pushed on one of the heavy brass handles and went inside.

‘Morning, Ted,’ she said to the little man standing just inside.

Ted Horrocks had been Dunbar & Jones’s commissionaire
since 1927. He was short, straight-backed and red-faced, and had a handle-bar moustache admired by many. He was also sixty-four, but Mr Max hadn’t the heart to tell him he was too old for the job. And he wasn’t; every morning he arrived at exactly eight o’clock, dressed in his beautifully pressed charcoal grey uniform, complete with braided cap, gold buttons and the various medals he’d been awarded during the Great War. He would stand at the door and greet each staff member as they arrived for work, give the brass handles a quick polish, then open them to the public at nine o’clock on the dot. He knew every regular customer’s name, could be relied upon to carry even heavy parcels to vehicles outside when required, and could also manage boisterous children as the need arose, though he was sometimes a bit beleaguered regarding this last duty during the school holidays.

‘Good morning, Miss Lamarr,’ Ted replied, tipping his cap and winking.

Irene laughed: he reckoned she looked just like the film star Hedy Lamarr and had been calling her that ever since she’d started work at Dunbar & Jones.

The store was waking up, getting ready for another hectic day. Irene waved as she passed the girls at the cosmetics counter, busy setting up their displays and dusting yesterday’s powder off the glass surfaces, and headed toward the escalator in the centre of the shop floor. Keeping the heels of her suede shoes well clear of the gap between the steps, she stepped on and gripped the handrail, watching as the ground floor receded beneath her.

On the first floor she saw that Allie was already there, and made a quick detour across the ladies’ dress department.

‘Hi, Allie.’

‘Hi, Irene. Busy day ahead?’

Irene nodded. ‘Huge pile of typing waiting for me, as usual.’

‘At least you can sit down all day.’

‘Yes, but in ten years’ time my backside will be twice the size of yours,’ Irene said, sounding as though she really didn’t find the notion amusing at all. ‘See you at morning tea, then, eh?’

She was walking away when Allie blurted, ‘I’m going out with someone tomorrow night. What do you think I should I wear?’

Irene stopped in her tracks and turned back, her eyebrows raised in delight. ‘Well, that’s interesting news, isn’t it?’ she said, knowing that Allie hadn’t been out on a date for ages. ‘Who’s the lucky bloke?’

‘It’s that Sonny Manaia. You know, the one—’

‘—who’s been ogling you for the past fortnight in the caf? Really? When did he ask?’

‘Yesterday afternoon. In front of Miss Willow and everything. I nearly died.’

‘I
told
you he was a smooth one!’ Irene said gleefully, pleased that her assessment of Sonny Manaia had been accurate. ‘Where’s he taking you?’

‘To the pictures.’

Irene crossed her arms and frowned in mock concentration. ‘Well, let’s see. How far are you planning to let him go?’

Embarrassed, Allie exclaimed, ‘I’m not planning to let him go anywhere! It’s only the flicks,
and
it’s a cowboy film.
High Noon
, apparently.’

‘Gary Cooper, though,’ Irene said appreciatively. ‘That’ll get you hot under the collar.’

Allie laughed. ‘I doubt it. Gary Cooper’s not my type.’

‘Ah, but Sonny Manaia is?’

‘Actually, yes,’ Allie admitted, feeling herself reddening.

‘In that case, wear something a bit special. What have you got?’

‘Well,’ Allie said, ‘there’s my good dress, the claret nylon, and a satin skirt, but they’d be too flash just for the pictures. I’ve got a few other skirts, though, and I’ve just finished paying off my new pale pink crêpe de chine blouse. I could wear it with my cream skirt. What about that?’

‘Pencil or full?’

‘The skirt? Full.’

‘No, you’ll look like Doris Day.’

Allie frowned. ‘My navy cotton shirtwaister?’

Irene looked as though Allie had just suggested wearing her father’s winter pyjamas. ‘You’ve got a pencil skirt, haven’t you, a dark one?’

‘A grey one. It’s a bit tight, though.’

‘Sounds just the thing. You can borrow my kingfisher blue sweater to go with it, if you like. It’s snug on me so it should fit you perfectly.’

Allie glanced at Irene’s generous breasts, then down at her own rather more modest ones, and they both laughed.

‘And my black heels?’ Allie added.

Irene nodded enthusiastically. ‘To put just enough wiggle in your walk. I’ll bring the sweater in tomorrow.’ Then, sounding thoughtful, she asked, ‘Are you going out at lunchtime today? No? Good, we’ll grab something to eat, then have a bit of a practice with your make-up. How does that sound?’

It sounded like an excellent idea to Allie, who seldom
wore much more than lipstick and a quick dusting of face powder.

Irene felt very pleased with herself. If
she
couldn’t get dressed up and go out with someone exciting, then at least she could help Allie do it. And Allie really was rather pretty, with her gold-blonde hair, big cornflower eyes and turned-up nose, though in Irene’s opinion she never did much to enhance her looks. Not that she could at work, because Dunbar & Jones salesgirls weren’t allowed to wear much make-up, not even on the cosmetics counter. Still, Allie could at least get rid of that awful tangerine lipstick that made her skin look so sallow and try something a little more…sophisticated.