Tamar (34 page)

The other girls, who did indeed know Mr Reece, groaned in sympathy.

‘Well, last time I had him he just would
not
finish. But the closer he got to it the heavier he breathed on me and it was
revolting
. It was so foul I had to keep on throwing my head from side to side to get away from it. I think he thought I was writhing in passion. And I couldn’t help it but I started saying no, no, no! And he started saying yes, yes, yes! And he seemed to like it so I went
no, no, no
and he went
yes, yes, yes
, and we started to sound like a train pulling out of the railway station. I had a terrible time not going Whooo
oooh
!’

The girls, all except Polly, were giggling madly by this time.

‘I had Perry Thompson last night,’ said Bronwyn. Perry Thompson was a customer in his mid-thirties, single, financially well off and rather handsome. He was not unpopular, but he had a rather inflated opinion of his appeal to the opposite sex and an unfortunate misconception regarding his sexual prowess. At every intimate encounter with the girls — and they
had
compared notes — he would disrobe, flourish his penis proudly and say, ‘How’s
that
?’ in a triumphant tone. The girls would all make appropriate noises of appreciation and anticipation and Perry Thompson, secure in his conviction that he was about to provide a truly memorable treat, would throw himself enthusiastically into
the sexual act and go away very pleased with himself.

‘I quite like Perry,’ said Letitia. ‘I feel a bit silly going
ooh
and
aah
every time he drops his trousers, but he’s harmless. And he thinks he’s giving us something special, so that’s nice.’

‘Unlike that Gareth Hunt,’ added Jessica. ‘He’s an odd one.’ She turned to Myrna. ‘I really don’t like him, he scares me.’

‘What is it ye dinnae like?’ asked Myrna, concerned. Gareth Hunt was a new but frequent customer and she had not yet had the opportunity to form her own opinion of his character, something she always liked to do.

‘I can’t quite put my finger on it,’ replied Jessica. ‘He seems so … angry. I usually feel comfortable with the customers, but not with him. Sometimes I get the feeling he’d like to beat the shit out of me.’

Several of the other girls nodded in agreement.

‘He’s no’ violent though?’ asked Myrna.

‘No, he’s rough, but not violent,’ said Jessica. ‘But I’m sure he could be. He doesn’t like to cuddle. It’s all
get your clothes off, get on the bed, open your legs
with him. All I can say is I’m glad I’m not his wife.’

‘He’s married?’ asked Letitia in mild surprise.

Jessica nodded. ‘He said something about a wife last time I was with him. It wasn’t very nice either.’ She shrugged and sipped her sherry. ‘I don’t know. Some men are just like that, I suppose.’

‘They all are,’ said Polly, gazing into her gin as if it held some great secret.

‘Aggressive and nasty?’ said Bronwyn in surprise. ‘Not in my experience. Sad perhaps, and lonely. Or just randy. Well, the ones we see anyway, but not nasty.’

‘Tamar’s was a real bastard,’ said Polly vehemently. ‘Look what he did to her.’

‘Aye, but he was verra ill, although I agree that’s no’ an excuse,’
replied Myrna. She looked at Polly closely, observing her face was flushed and her eyes half closed. Too much gin, or something else?

‘I’m glad he’s dead,’ replied Polly angrily. ‘Aren’t you, Tamar?’

Tamar thought for a minute. ‘I don’t really care. Not any more.’

Polly sat very still, the knuckles of the hand holding her glass white with tension.

‘Well, I bloody do,’ she said finally. ‘And that Gareth Hunt’s cut from the same cloth. What gives him the right to treat women the way he does?’ she asked, looking around angrily. ‘I know we’re whores, but we’re still people, aren’t we?’

There was a brief, uncomfortable silence.

‘Of course ye are, lassie,’ said Myrna. ‘And if ye dinnae like the way a customer’s treating ye, say so and I’ll have a word. I’ll ban the man if I have to. Why, has someone had a go at ye?’

‘
No
!’ snapped Polly. ‘Oh God, what’s the point?’

She drained her glass, pushed her chair violently back from the table and rushed from the room, leaving the girls staring after her.

‘What was that all about?’ asked Letitia eventually.

‘I dinnae ken, but the lassie’s no’ happy, is she?’ said Myrna.

Tamar had agreed then and she agreed now. She finished pinning the hem of Polly’s gown, wiped the sweat from her face again and looked up at her friend. ‘That should do it. You can take it off. Shall we go out soon?’

Polly nodded as she let the dress drop to the floor and stepped out of it. Tamar went to stand in front of the open doors, holding her arms up to catch the faint breeze, keeping her back turned while Polly changed into street clothes.

‘Shall we go to that new pharmacy on Parnell Road?’ she asked over her shoulder. ‘He has some lovely imported perfumes in the most beautiful crystal bottles.’ She turned around to see Polly dressed and sitting on her bed, frowning. ‘What? Would you rather go somewhere else?’

‘No,’ said Polly furtively. ‘No, the new one’s fine,’ she added.

‘All right then,’ Tamar replied, slightly mystified. ‘I’ll meet you downstairs, shall I? I need to get changed.’

Polly nodded as Tamar went downstairs to her own bedroom. There, she selected a dress suitable for the street, changed and quickly put on walking shoes. Standing in front of her dressing-table mirror she turned sideways and ran her hand over her stomach, flat and taut again. And so it should be, she reflected — she’d given birth to her son over eight months ago now. Her breasts had remained fuller, however; Myrna said having a baby had matured her figure, and perhaps it had.

She felt a brief but sharp pain in the region of her heart, as she always did when she thought of her son. Te Kanene had been true to his word and had sent two letters describing the child’s health and progress. The second letter, received several weeks ago, had been accompanied by a photograph. The image of a young Maori woman holding a very chubby, contented-looking baby was reasonably clear. The smiling woman’s features were a more feminine version of Kepa’s, and to Tamar’s delight the infant did indeed look like his father.

When she had first taken the photograph out of the envelope, she had experienced a vicious pang of jealousy, bordering on nausea, at the thought of her son being nurtured by another woman. A note on the back of the photograph declared;
‘My tamahine, Mereana, holding Kahurangi-o-te-po. You will not be able to see this, but his eyes are the same colour as yours.
’ Tamar had been surprised that Te Kanene had provided this detail; for someone who had judged her unsuitable to raise her own son, he was treating her with a compassion she found incongruous and confusing.

She leaned towards the mirror and lifted her heavy fringe from her damp brow, inspecting the scar, which was indeed fading to
a thin white line. Recently, she’d come to the realisation that she couldn’t care less about it. She was alive, and that was enough.

She picked up her hat and gloves and went out into the hallway, wishing gloves were not so
de rigueur
. Her palms were damp with sweat, making the process of tugging on the thin, clinging fabric a chore. ‘Ready?’ she asked as Polly hurried down the carpeted stairs, her long georgette skirt swishing as she moved.

Polly nodded as she stood in front of the mirrored
étagère
in the foyer and tied the ribbons on her velvet-trimmed straw hat. Turning around she said, ‘Yes. Let’s go.’

The two women walked up Dilworth Terrace towards the intersection with York Street that would take them onto Parnell Road. To their left, through the pines growing on the slope hugging the shore, they could see the sea stretching into the hazy distance and Rangitoto Island squatting on the horizon. The street was still unpaved and the mud of winter had dried to hard, uneven furrows that frequently twisted the ankles of inattentive pedestrians. Tamar and Polly kept to the extreme edges where patches of grass were flourishing. Before long Polly had opened her fan and was flapping vigorously at her face again. ‘It’s too hot,’ she grumbled. ‘I’m sure it wasn’t this hot last summer.’

Tamar couldn’t remember whether it had been or not. ‘It will pass,’ she said. ‘And then we’ll all be moaning because it’s too cold.’

‘I won’t,’ replied Polly. ‘I miss the cold.’

They walked in silence until they reached Parnell Road. The pharmacy was situated just up the hill from John’s surgery. They sat for a while outside the shop in the shade of a verandah to catch their breath and recover from their walk. Several cabs went past, the horses sweating freely and their hooves kicking up small puffs of dust from the street. A gentleman passing on horseback raised his hat and nodded politely.

‘Shall we go in?’ asked Polly.

Tamar nodded and Polly followed her inside where the temperature was noticeably cooler. The lighting was soft, shining off a gleaming brass rail bordering a long glass-topped counter and polished mahogany woodwork. The shop interior was lined almost to the ceiling with shelves, labelled drawers and glass-fronted cabinets displaying an extensive selection of patent medicines, proprietary lines, cosmetics, perfumes and toiletries. At the rear was a dispensing counter, again of solid mahogany, backed by a large mirror in which the pharmacist could look to see who was in his shop when he had his back turned. The real pharmaceuticals, the raw powders, herbs, solutions and chemicals, were stored in glass bottles and jars in a small dispensary beyond the work bench. On the counter sat a range of goods for sale, including bottles of colourful pastilles for sore throats, and cachous — the small, perfumed sweets so popular with considerate smokers who worried their breath might offend. Tamar sniffed appreciatively, loving the rich combination of floral and chemical smells.

A young apprentice, smartly suited with a starched collar and tie and sporting a weedy ginger moustache, asked if he could be of assistance.

‘Yes,’ said Polly quickly. ‘I’d like the chemist to make up four bottles of my usual, please. Decoction of Opium. For Miss Polly Jakes.’

‘Four?’ asked the assistant, his carroty eyebrows raised.

‘Yes, thank you, four. I’m travelling shortly and do not know when I shall be able to replenish my stocks.’

Tamar looked at Polly in surprise. Travelling? Where?

‘If madam could wait just one moment, please,’ said the apprentice. ‘I shall advise Mr Hillman of your request.’

He disappeared out to the dispensary. The bell over the door tinkled as a man and a woman entered the shop.

‘Are you going somewhere?’ whispered Tamar.

‘No,’ replied Polly. ‘But if I get a couple of bottles at once, that saves me having to traipse up here every time I run out.’

‘But it’s a lie.’

Polly shrugged. ‘Does it matter?’

The ginger-moustached apprentice reappeared with an older man whom Tamar recognised as Mr Hillman. ‘Now,’ he said. ‘Which of you two ladies is wanting the Decoction of Opium?’ ‘I am,’ replied Polly.

‘Well,’ he said, shaking his head slowly. ‘I don’t normally dispense that much at once.’

Polly favoured him with one of her most charming smiles. ‘Well, you see, Mr Hillman, I’m going abroad shortly and I am concerned I will run out of my medicine before I reach my destination. I suffer grievously much of the time and the thought of having nothing to soothe my pain quite terrifies me.’

Mr Hillman asked, ‘And where are you travelling to, Mrs …’

‘Miss Jakes,’ replied Polly chattily. ‘I’m going back to England. My mother is unwell.’

Tamar, torn between embarrassment and astonishment at the glibness of Polly’s deceit, looked away.

‘You’ve patronised my shop before, have you not?’ enquired Mr Hillman politely.

‘Oh, yes. It’s quite the best pharmacy in the area.’

‘And I’ve prepared this for you several times, haven’t I?’

Polly nodded and smiled ingenuously again. Mr Hillman looked at her, a slight frown on his face. As he opened his mouth to speak, Polly interjected. ‘You will of course remember why I need my medicine? I have the misfortune to be chronically plagued by health problems peculiar to females.’

Mr Hillman shut his mouth.

Polly continued loudly. ‘My monthly is very painful and prolonged. I just don’t think I could cope without my medicine.
Shall I remind you of my symptoms? Will that be of help to you?’

The other couple in the shop, clearly listening, hurriedly turned their backs. Mr Hillman seemed lost for words. His young apprentice was bright red, his fair skin blushing hotly.

‘No, no,’ the chemist countered quickly, clearly mortified at the possibility that Polly might start describing the very personal details of her medical problems. ‘No, I quite understand. Four bottles you need? One moment please.’

He hurried into his dispensary while the apprentice darted off to serve the new arrivals, a look of intense relief on his still-flushed face.

When Mr Hillman returned with four glass bottles containing Polly’s medication, he took her money and said quickly, ‘I’m sure this will do the trick, Miss Jakes. And I wish you well on your voyage and hope your mother regains her health.’ He expertly wrapped the bottles in brown paper tied with pink string, and sealed the package with red wax.

‘Thank you so much,’ replied Polly graciously as he handed the parcel over the counter. ‘Good day to you.’

Outside the shop, Tamar looked at her friend in dismay. ‘You weren’t like this when I first met you, Polly. You were as honest as the day is long. You’ve not been happy for ages, have you? Why not?’ She pushed harder. ‘Is it what you’re doing at Myrna’s?’

Polly was silent for a moment, looking away. Then she shrugged and said, ‘I don’t know. Most days now when I try to look forward, all I can see is emptiness. No future, no ostrich feathers, nothing. The only time I feel alive is when I’m working.’ She lifted her parcel. ‘Otherwise, this is the only thing that helps.’