The Diviners (14 page)

The night river was dark and shining, and the moon traced a wavering path across it. Morag sat cross-legged on the dock, listening to the hoarse prehistoric voices of the bullfrogs. Somewhere far-off, thunder.

Incredibly, unreasonably, a lightening of the heart.

Memorybank Movie: Whose Side Is God On?
Morag stands beside Prin, the back row of the church, hating her own embarrassment but hugging it around her. She is much taller than Prin now, and even though she has finally got Prin a new coat, grey with silverish buttons, at Simlow's spring sale, Prin still looks like a barrel of lard with legs. She has tried to do Prin's long grey hair up in a bun (which is in classy circles called a
chignon
, she now knows), but the hairpins are falling out, and Prin doesn't even realize or try to poke them back in again, so a funny-looking twist of hair is now halfway down her neck. Prin's hat never stays on at the right angle–it sits there all cockeyed, the navy straw brim drooping over Prin's forehead, the pink velvet geranium looking as though it may come unhitched at any moment. It is, as well, a hat which Christie found at the Nuisance Grounds and Morag is in agony, wondering if it once belonged to Mrs. Cameron or Mrs. Simon Pearl or somebody who's here today and will recognize it and laugh and tell everybody. Prin sings loudly, a deep contralto, but is quite frequently off-key, and when she hits a sour note Morag squirms.

She loves Prin, but can no longer bear to be seen with her in public. Prin maybe knows this, and is grateful when Morag goes to church with her, which makes Morag feel bad, that is, feel
badly
.

Morag is dressed nicely. Nobody could deny it. She spends on clothes everything she earns Saturdays working at Simlow's Ladies' Wear. Her hair is done in very neat braids, twisted around her head, and her hat is that very pale natural straw, with just a band of turquoise ribbon around it, in good taste. Her coat, also turquoise, matches the ribbon exactly and is princess-style, fitted, and flaring at the bottom. It shows off her figure, which is a goddamn good one–that is, a very nice
one. But all this makes no difference. When church is over, and they're all filing out, chattering, the Camerons and MacLeods and Duncans and Cateses and McVities and Halperns and them, no one will say
Good Morning
to Morag and Prin. Not on your life. Might soil their precious mouths. Maybe they're just embarrassed, like, and don't know what to say? Not a chance. They're a bunch of–well, a bunch of so-and-so's. Morag does not swear. If you swear at fourteen it only makes you look cheap, and she is not cheap, goddamn it. Gol-darn it.

 

In Christ there is no East or West,

In Him no North or South–

 

Oh yeh? Like fun there isn't.

“Let us pray,” Reverend McKee says.

And prays for all the Manawaka boys who have gone to the
WAR
.

Morag, head bent, tries to imagine the War. You imagine lots of things about it, but is that the way it really is? Is it like that poem they took this year in English?

 

The sand of the desert is sodden red.

Red with the wreck of a square that broke.

The gatling's jammed and the colonel dead,

And the regiment blind with dust and smoke–

 

The rest of the poem is crap, but those lines are really something. Sodden red. Blind with dust and smoke. Is it like that? They don't use gatlings now, though. Much worse stuff. Also, bombing places like London (and in that giant city,
no lights on
at night, how creepy and awful) and even little kids
lying there, dead. What does God care? What would it be like, actually to
feel
a bullet going into you, let's say into your stomach or your lungs, and knowing there was no way out, no hospital or cure?
Knowing
you
have
to die, right now, this minute. Was it like Christie described that other war? Gunner Gunn. Age eighteen. Only four years older than she is now. God couldn't have cared less, whoever died
there
. If the War lasts until she is eighteen, she won't join the Women's Army. They'll have to come and drag her away, if they want her. It would be a way of getting out of town, though.

“Amen,” Reverend McKee says.

At home, Morag faces Prin, now rocking comfortably in the rocker that was part of Christie's recent loot from the Nuisance Grounds.

“Prin–”

“Yeh?”

“I'm not going to church anymore. I don't like it. It's–it's–”

Christie is watching her. Half-smiling.

“I don't want to go, that's all,” she says. “I don't like it anymore.”

“Well, you suit yourself,” Prin says. Resigned.

Not in judgement. Just–you suit yourself.

“Christie–”

He gathers the phlegm in his throat. Goes to the front door, opens it, and spits outside into the weeds.

“You heard her, Morag. It's like she says. You suit yourself.”

It would have been better, almost, if they'd argued with her. Now she feels she's done something awful. But will not change her mind.

Memorybank Movie: Saturday Night in the Old Hometown
Simlow's Ladies' Wear is a lovely place. There are carpets, even, sort of wine-coloured with black circle patterns, and there are long counters and you stand behind one and say,
Can I help you?
It's nice to work here on Saturdays, and you get paid for it as well.

The racks of dresses are at the back. Morag has looked through them when the store isn't busy. Right now they have:

 

printed silk two-piece dresses for the fuller figure

a whole load of cotton housedresses blue green yellow etcetera

silk or rayon afternoon dresses some with velvet bow at the shoulder

little girls' party dresses very cute with full skirts and embroidery

dirndl skirts with bright orange and blue flowers printed blouses with lace ruffles at the neck

AND

oh

the most adorable red dressmaker suit size 14

 

Morag cannot afford the suit but is saving for it. Will it be bought first by somebody else? She keeps her fingers crossed. When anyone looks at it, she fixes them with the evil eye. When anyone tries it on, she holds her breath.

Morag isn't allowed to work in Dresses, not yet. That is Millie Christopherson's territory. She needs a helper, and maybe soon it will be Morag. Millie is old (well,
older
, anyway, as you might say) and she is tiny and light like a dandelion seed, very skinny legs (
silk
stockings, always, never lisle). She also looks kind of like a dandelion in full bloom, on account
of her hair which is puffy and permed and a dandelion-yellow. She
dyes
it; imagine having the nerve. But it is a gorgeous colour, and does not make Millie look cheap at all. Millie has very Good Taste.

“Good Taste is learnt,” she says to Morag. “No soul in this here world is born with it, Morag. It is learnt, honey, and I am going to learn a teeny bit of it to
you
.”

Morag is proud to have been chosen, and listens carefully. “It is the colour
harmony
which is all-important, honey,” Millie says, the store being unbusy as yet in the early evening. “Pink and purple, now, would you put the two of them together?”

“No, I guess not.”

“Don't you guess, honey. You better
know
. Pink and purple, now, they clash. Also blue and green. Clash. Clash. Ugh.”

What about sky and grass, Morag wants to know, but doesn't ask.

“Accessories, too,” Millie goes on, darting over to the glove counter. “They are also all-important. Take this little dress now–a teal-blue, wouldn't you say? Lightened with the beige flower pattern. Now, would you wear these black kid gloves with it, or these others here?”

“The–beige ones?”

“Right, honey! Very good. The beige carries out the tone of the flowers, doesn't it? You catch on quick, dear. It's a pleasure to tell you things.”

Morag has never felt such a warmth before. She loves Millie with all her heart and soul.

Morag is in Lingerie. At first it seemed funny, that people would go to all that expense and bother to wear really nifty
underwear when who would see it, unless you were married, but now it seems as though it would be lovely if you could afford it. Mostly the demand is for rayon pants and cotton brassieres, the cheaper lines, but sometimes people will buy one of the beauty garments. Morag sorts and folds them, constantly rearranging. They are nice to touch, cool, slippery. Especially:

 

the blue satin nightie with a deep band of lace at the neck

the pale peach slip with tiny appliquéd flowers at the neck

the pastel pink panties very short not at all like bloomers

 

Business is warming up. Between eight and when the store closes, at ten, is the best time. Lots of people just look, of course. Morag stands up straight, behind the slips and nighties, feeling like she owns them, in a way. She
knows
them, is why. And can show them off to anyone interested. She knows the prices of every item by heart. Millie says a good salesgirl always knows the prices without looking, but if you forget, try to sneak a glance at the tag without the customer noticing. It makes a good impression, Millie says.

Quite a few people now. Mrs. McVitie in a new hat, dark purple straw just dripping with mauve and yellow velvet violets, what awful Taste. Young Mrs. Pearl the lawyer's wife, not really young at all but this is so's she won't get confused with her mother-in-law, old Henry's widow, who is hardly ever in town anyhow. A lot of farm women whom Morag doesn't know except by sight, the same ones who flock into Simlow's every Saturday night just to look and finger the stuff, because no money.

Eva Winkler.

“Hi, Morag, how ya doing?”

“Oh, just great, Eva. How's things?”

“Okay, I guess. Dad's in one of his bad spells again. Me and Vern is going to spend the night at Auntie Clara's. I'm a bit worried about Ma, though. She says she can look after herself and keep out of his way when he gets that mad at everybody, but she can't look out for me and Vern as well. Still and all–”

Eva has got Vern with her. Oh horrors. Vern is still awfully small for his age, and his pale hair looks nearly white. His nose is runny, as usual. He is in overalls only, no shirt, and is in his
bare feet
. On Simlow's carpet. Then Morag notices his eyes, scared and sly at the same time. What a life.

“Gee–I'm sorry, Eva.”

Sorry, but wanting Eva to go. Right this minute. Not to be seen talking to her.

Eva's hair, the same whitish yellow as it always was, could be really nice but still straggles all over the place. And not always clean, either. Eva's dresses are still the same old cotton things like potato sacks. Eva hasn't smartened up any. She is no longer in Morag's grade at school. She has failed twice and is only in Grade Seven, in the Public School, not the Collegiate. Morag is ashamed to be so glad that they are in different schools. They sometimes walk up Hill Street together in the mornings and then turn different ways.

Eva seems like she is beaten by life already. Morag is not–repeat
not
–going to be beaten by life. But cannot bear to look at Eva very often.

“Gee, I'm sorry, Eva,” she repeats. “I gotta go now. Millie doesn't like us to gab to friends when we're supposed to be working.”

Eva brightens for a second at
friends
. Then gets the real message.

“Sure, Morag. It's okay. I understand.”

And trails off, clumpingly, with Vernon. How can anyone who weighs so little as Eva walk so heavy? Morag wants to call Eva back. But doesn't.

Mrs. Cameron comes in, fluttery as a dusty-miller moth, twittery as a flock of sparrows. In a silk-rayon suit, navy, which looks familiar–aha, it is the old rose one she's worn to church for ages, dyed to look different. She carries white gloves and purse. With her, Stacey, so neat and short and pretty in a cherry-coloured dress, polka-dotted with white, her hair long and in a perfect pageboy at the back and done up in the front in those great big soft rolls like Betty Grable's, and how in the dickens does she get it to stay
up
because even ninety million bobby-pins won't do the trick on Morag's hair, so heavy and thick. Stacey looks uncomfortable. Embarrassed by her mum, no doubt, and no wonder. Mrs. Cameron puts her hand to her heart every third step, and stops, really
breathing
, so you know she's trying hard at it. She always makes out like she's at death's door.

Tough as old boots, that woman, for all her performances
(Christie says).
She'll outlive Niall, I'll bet a nickel to a doughnut hole. Hey, Morag, here's a riddle for you–who buries the undertaker? Give up? Whoever'll undertake it.

Then it happens. Mrs. Cameron is looking at the Red Dressmaker Suit. If Stacey gets it, Morag will will will well will do nothing, obviously. It's too long and big for Stacey. It's Morag's exact right size and length.

Twenty hours, it seems, in the trying-on cubicles, and then

Heavens.

It is Mrs. Cameron who emerges wearing the suit. To see herself in the better light and the longer mirrors.

“What do
you
think, Stacey?” she chirps.

Mumble mumble.
Stacey isn't letting on. Why doesn't she just say
Mother it looks like hell on you it is twenty-five years too young for you
? Not a word. Stacey is studying the little kids' party dresses as though her life depended on it.

“What do
you
think, Millie?”

“Mm–mm–” Millie says noncommittally, torn between truth and sale. “Did you try the chocolate-brown or the grey yet, Mrs. Cameron, dear? They might be more
you
. I'm not saying that's not a lovely little suit, mind–”