SHORT STORY COMPETITION.

Auckland Star, Volume LXI, Issue LXI, 12 July 1930, Page 15 (Supplement)

SHORT STORY COMPETITION.

"THE BLUE POOL" ______ \ (By V. SPURLING). Old Eangi sat brooding beside the steaming pool, where daily she cooked the food for the ever-increasing family of her son. Her dark eyes, shrewd and alive, peered out from a hundred wrinkles, her toothless gums mumbled, as she cupped her tattooed chin in a skinny hand and watched intently the house of her granddaughter. Once the beautiful, proud Rangi, the only surviving member of a noble tribe, now the old muttering crone, penniless and dependent upon the bounty of her son. Down the long vista of the years she saw herself, the honoured wife of Tuakana. Then the coming of the white people, and the pakehas, who nattered and wooed, and, wooing, won. The drifting stream showed her a daredevil face that laughed, with mockhi" eyes of blue. Jack, dyed deep with a hundred- vices and cruelties, another more or less mattered not at all. He went, as he came, with a careless laugh, leaving behind him a memory, and a crowing child with laughing blue eyes, get in a dusky skin. Little Tni was a strong child, who ripened quickly, marrying carl/ the son of a rich Maori. Now she was fat and shapeless with the bearing of many children, and sometimes she could be cruel, as old Rangi knew to her cost. And because of her cruelty the old woman" cooked and washed for her son's family and was a familiar figure squatting by the steaming pool, dreaming her dreams and watching the house of her granddaughter, the youngest child of Tui, with jthe .eyes of blue.

Ngaio she loved, Ngaio, so gentle and kind; mistress of a grand bungalow with its own garden and high hedge of fragrant pine.., Ngaio, who was rich in land and money, and wife to a rich pakelia, who would, have none of his wife's relations making free with his home and property!' He kept them at arm's length, and none dared trespass. Rangi sat content and proud, watching the blue curl of smoke from the chimney and the green roof as it glistened in the sun. She had done well.and she was old, it was right and fit she should cook and wash.

Voices came from the garden behind the hedge—a Irian's voice, sullen and morose, and'the soft, huskily-sweet words of a girl* replying. A man slammed the gate in the fragrant hedge, a man tall and broad.and dressed in spotless white.

"Well!" He paused by the pool, looking at old Rangi with dislike and disgust. So like .the/one Rangi remembered long ago, so like; only the eyes brooded sullenly, without.the cruel mocking light of eyes that had laughed into hers in the days of youth. "Cooking, cooking, always cooking," he sneered. "No care beyond to-day and the needs of the moment."

He shrugged, thrusting his hands into his pockets;. ignoring old Rangi's reply <«and the look of hatred that followed him out of sight., -'•■„ ' In the;, bungalow. behind'. the hedge. Ngaio went about.her. wifely duties with a heavy heart. She stood, duster in hand, before a portrait of a house-party seated on the lawn before a magnificent English mansion. Her dark eyes scanned the pictured faces of the careless group above her with bewilderment and envy. /She turned away, with a sigh, listlessly flicking the furniture, setting straight, the medley of ornaments scattered everywhere. It was a strange room, a blending of the household gods of two .races as far apart as the poles. Maori weapons and curios.stood side by side.with exquisite china, a picture, of a v womari\in Court dress- looked down, upon a grin : ning tiki, a flax mat-covered part of the; rich caTpet on the floor.. Ngaio. regarded it all with sorrowful eyes. lately she was possessed of strange thoughts. She worshipped her. husband with, ;blind adoration. He 1 had.changed in a way that hurt her tqher l 6ptil> His love for her seemed dead;-;-/* • -.v'•'..' -\

It had all.cqine k abou.t'.siij.ce..:the death of little Paul, the hlue-eyed-mite 'so like, his father. Together they had planned; his future. He was to be a great man—' would one day be heir to enormous estates and a grand old name., But.they reckoned without the fates, who ordained otherwise. Ngaio shuddered and.covered her face, remembering the dead body of. her first-born, a tiny victim of the.blue pool where old Rangi daily cooked the family fleshpots. Great tears chased each other down her smooth cheeks. Her little Paul, he was so sweet. Her husband' had raved like a madman, blaming her and cursing her country and people. There had been a tangi, and with the first wail he had fled, returning some weeks later a changed man. „ _ Her own grief and yearning for her little son Ngaio put aside, trying her best to comfort her husband. He remained indifferent to her, even putting aside the baby Jean when she crawled laughing and holding up her fat brown arms. In vain Ngaio used all her charm. He was as to her beauty as he had been desirous of it before. 'She- wept in secret, waiting and hoping for the return of his worship. . Old Rangi watched these changes from afar. She sat by the fateful pool, peerbig into the whirling mist. She heard -\?aio come out on the verandah, heard the baby's gurgling laugh, and listened as they came down the path. She glanced up, her eyes alight with love. "There's granny. See granny?" Ngaio held up the little brown creature, pointing her slim finger. "Can wc have a potato, granny? Jean loves them cooked in the-pool." They sat down making merry over the hot potato, while the baby struggled.to get nearer a motley collection of scantilyclothed little scavengers, the images of itself. ,

'You happy, Ngaio?" asked the old woman.

, yes, granny," laughed, Ngaio tremulously. "Haven't I a beautiful heme agood husband, and my babv. Of course - 1 - m happy." The old Maori shook her head. "Eangi Knows; Ngaio, Eangi knows." £gaio's eyes dimmed with tears, lier soft lips quivered. She flung up her h ead proudly. ."Why is it granny? What has made Jim change? Douglas loved me once, Jl <J seems to hate me now. Why did he niarry me? W hy does he treat me so? *S beautiful, educated, I've been a good 7' him two children. He is miess. unhappy, and I'm afraid granny i atraid." She spoke quickly, passiondle'y,her soft voice- lapsing into Maori.

The first place in the Competition is given this month to Mis* V. Spurling, 12, Golf Road, Epsom, for her story, "The Blue Pool." The author of "Six and Eightpence" did not put name and address on typescript.

Every now and then, it threw up a jet of spray, and rumbled angrily. Rangi would say the gods were angry.

How blue the water was, like the eyes of little Paul and Douglas. Ngaio felt drawn towards it; she loved it for its blueness, and the funny way it reflected the tea-tree in such tortuous, wavering fashion. A friendly fantail flitted about, twittering loudly to attract her attention.. She frowned at its shrill insistence and invasion of her sanctuary. She .wanted to think. She had forgotten something. What was it Douglas had said? • She must find little Paul.

He was waiting for Jier, smiling at her across the little lake. His blue eyes were imploring, insistent. She got up, breathing deeply, and moved closer to the edge. What was that? Someone was calling, "Ngaio, Ngaio." The cry came behind her from the soft tea-tree. Dry twigs snapped, the feathery fronds rustled,' and waved (frantically as the bushes parted. Old Rangi stood bent nearly double, with the weight of fat Jean upon her back.

"Wait Ngaio, it will pass. He misses the little Paul." But old Rangi's heart was heavy with foreboding. She knew; blue eyes laughed at her from the pool, smiling lips mocked. They wooed and won and forgot, their restless blood ever eager for new conquests. A gust of wind ruffled the surface of the pool, the steam rose in dense clouds, the face was blotted out.

Ngaio tossed and turned that night, her thoughts revolving in a circle. What could she do to win Douglas back? She hoped and prayed that she might bear him another;son, with blue eyes, and fair like little Paul. The portraits on the wall seemed to smile in mocking contempt at her wish. Little dusky Jean beside her, lay silent in cosy sleep. In vain she scanned the broad chubby features for a likeness to her husband. No trace of white blood was visible in small Jean. Ngaio snatched her up hungrily in fierce tenderness, rocking the curiy, black head against her heart.

Towards morning she heard Douglas come in: He moved about stealthily. She listened, with feverish eyes wide in the darkness. Her door opened, he tiptoed to the bed. She lay with closed eyes her heart beating quickly. She heard him sigh e.nd leave the room.

He paused before a portrait of Ngaio taken in the early days of their marriage.

The soft eyes smiled back at him, the full lips curled wistfully. He gazed long and earnestly, and as' he looked, the lips seemed to widen and thicken, the features became broad and coarse. He turned away with a look of disgust, .and feverishly began packing a large trunk. Ngaio had been beautiful when lie married her, a tender slip of a maiden, who had fascinated and maddened his unaccustomed English eyes. He had thought these simple people, with their hospitable easy-going ways, interesting and likeable. Now he hated what he once admired, he was tired of the novelty. He must get away from at all. He longed with a feverish intensity for the cool violet-scented lanes of England, for the cultured English voices, and the home of his boyhood. And Ngaio! She would go back to her people. He had noticed lately how she sought them more and more/ How she loved to live the careless, carefree life of the village, with its shiftless ways. She would be happy when he had gone" He was conscious of the door opening. Ngaio stood there wide-eyed, watching him. Fierce anger flooded him. Could he never be alone ? *> "Well," he asked fiercely, savagely. "What do you want?"

She stood there, her face white against the tangle of dark hair. How he hated her white face, and the eyes that stared.

He blurted out brutally. "I'm going Ngaio. I can't stick it any longer." Her stricken face frightened .him; if only she would speak, upbraid him, fly in a passsion.

'"You are going," She repeated the words monotonously, unbelieving. "Where Douglas?" '■:•'..,■

"Where?" he laughed, flushing excitedly. "Home, of course. To England. I'm sorry, Ngaio. We should never have married, but I was a blind infatuated young fool. I didn't realise what it meant, marrying amongst, your people. You'll be happier when I'm and I'll see you and Jean are properly provided for. You'll have your people. We can't go on as we've been lately." He was locking' the trunk. He felt eafi3w now he had told her. Was she sicK that she looked so queer? She didn't Bhow much feeling, ask many questions. Perhaps it was. better so, she had changed a lot lately. "You are not coining back?" She put the question dispassionately. "Well, no, Ngaio. It wouldn't be much good. No, I shan't come back."

"It's good-bye then, Douglas?" "Yes, Ngaio, I'm getting the first train."

The door had closed behind her. Quickly, he strapped the trunk, and cast his eyes round the room.

What, was it old Rangi. had said to her ?' Ngaio.puckered her forehead, leaning against the.glass to cool her head. Yes, they wooed and won and went their way. Douglas was leaving her, going to England. She heard the door slam, heard.him calling ..her name, but she made no effort to move. Old Rangi was early this. morning, going to the pool with, the-washing.. She heard her voice speaking to' : Douglas, heard him laugh. The gate-clanged to. He had gone. She sat by the window with tearless eyes, watching the shadows disappear from the lawn. Little Jean cried fitfully, but she paid her no heed.

; The gods were angry to-day. The poo] boiled and seethed, its usually quiet waters bubbling furiously. Rangi's skinny hand clutched her charm tightly, as a fierce gust of boiling steam blew in her'face. Ngaio was strangely silent. Rangi's old heart was filled with hatred for the man who had gone". He had not deigned to tell her so, but she knew and was glad. But she feared for Ngaio with her loving tender heart. The pots were boiling merrily, she would go and see why Jean cried so long. ■

She might have been some ancient witch as she stood tapping on the verandah. Only Jean's wails broke the silence. Rangi listened and hobbled in. Jean was still in her cot, neglected, unwashed, her face smeared with tears. She held out fat arms to Rangi Avith a cry of delight. The old woman lifted the child, and staggered with her through the house. No Ngaio. She fed the ravenous baby, and together they squatted on the floor.

By the shores of a small vividly blue lake, sat Ngaio, gazing listlessly at the ever-changing surface. She was tired; here was a refuge, peaceful, quiet. She rested there, amongst the soft feathery tea-tree, in the shadow of old Ngongotaha, with the wisps of mist driving across the summit. The small lake was active, throwing off clouds of steam.

The old woman gazed with misty bloodshot eyes at the girl on the brink of the lake." "Ngaio," she croaked hoarsely. "Little one, Jean wants you." The baby looked at its mother, puckered its wide mouth, and held out its arms. The frown on Ngaio'e forehead faded, the stony whiteness of her face broke and quivered, as she took the weeping infant in her arms with a broken sob, and hushed its cries at her breast, while slow tears gathered and fell. She murmured words of tenderness and love, the tears raining down her cheeks, while the child, its fears forgotten, patted her face and gurgled. Rangi watched the return of sanity to her beloved Ngaio with wise old eyes. Together they made their way through the tea-tree, that parted and closed behind them, hiding the vivid lake of blue, that slumbered in sullen wrath. Old Rangi still haunts the steaming pool cooking for the ever increasing family of her son, a little more bent, a little dimmer of eye, watching the pretty bungalow behind the fragrant hedge. The face with the mocking eyes of blue conies no more through the steam. Old Eangi is content.