BEHIND THE LIGHTS.

Auckland Star, Volume LXVII, Issue 151, 27 June 1936, Page 1 (Supplement)

BEHIND THE LIGHTS.

AUCKLAND BY WIGHT.

REVELRY, BEAUTY, WORK,

(By E.K.G.)

Across the gleaming waters of the Waitemata the banners of sunlight retreat in splendour; in the swift twilight the grey-green of Rangitoto's peak takes a richer glow of purple, and night falls. It io a fairyland night of softness and twinkle, where the riding lights of the ships dance joyously on the water with a wave of streamers; and the glow-worms of home nestle in cosy comfort among the hills. The city falls asleep. Or so it seems.

A young man climbs the short steep path from the busy Queen Street of Auckland to a park where always there is beauty and serenjty. About him the trees move restlessly. Behind, a double row of palms opens a moonlit path to an oasis of romance, where at the end the University towers, are the minarets of a mosque. In front the skyline of the city is edged with the glow of the illumination of commerce. Overhead is the dim yellow glow of Auckland's last gas lamp, a thing of the past, lighting gently a cobweb of dreams. There is magic in .it all. Into the Bright Lights. The Library clock chimes the hour of midnight and the young man goes down into the city on a voyage of exploration. The rattle of the tramcars has ceased and the racket of industry, so insistent during the day, has died away. Pastmoving taxi cabs and private cars break the silence, and there is an occasional clatter of feet on the pavements — individual sounds, tinnoticed in daylight, that now intrude on the consciousness. But drama is not lacking. A car has struck the end of a safety zone, and someone has been hurt. Prom nowhere a small crowd collects, the need of sleep forgotten in the interest with which the activities of the police constables and the crew of the breakdown car are watched. ... It is an incident in the life of a city.

He moves on again, and, answering the throb of a dance band, enters a cabaret. Under soft lights a vari-coloured crowd is dancing. The dinner jacket and shining shirt front of uniformity clashes with the bizarre of fancy costume. The wide hall is hot and smoky with the movement of many people and the smoke offerings of many cigarettes, and the brightness and gaiety is contrasted here and there with looks of weariness. So, here there is a sparkle of conversation and laughter, and there' a whispering of confidence, or a silent sitting pair. There is a call in the music, answered gladly by the light grace of some of the dancers, and dully by the dead and stumbling feet of others. A waiter dashes among the throng, his high-held tray carrying glasses and refreshments. . . .

Again into the night and again a contrast. The beat of rhythm has changed to the stir of the National Anthem —

there is a clatter 'on the stairs and. a rising volume of voices. One thing ends and another startsi A light rain shower is falling and the taxi cabs are ready to benefit. The pouring flood of dancers halts in the doorway and then in small rushing gushes disperses itself. <An Arabian dancer and a crinoline dash for a streamlined car; long evening frocks are tucked up for a run in the other direction —but from the centre of the throng steps out a jovial Uncle Toby, three-cornered hat and all, to march oil, uncloaked, unaccompanied and unworried by the weather, with sturdy swing of tubby legs and long cane. Silhouettes and —Food. The closing of other cabarets and dance halls brings a freshet to the dry human river bed of Queen Street, and there is an eddy or two on the waterfront, where North Shore passengers board the night launch. The chugging of the launch as it cuts a rippling way through the water-mirror breaks the peace of a perfect picture —but only for a minute. Against the skyline the tall cranes stand in a power of tracery, and the graceful lines of big vessels are reflected bacTc in the illumination of their light on the still of the harbour. It is the time of silence and silhouettes.

Queen Street is silent. Along its wet pavement the remaining lights gleam — as the night lights of a hospital throw a halo into the shadows of the greater darkness. The occasional footfall of a home-going wanderer is heard, and a dim rumbling • where industry continues behind lighted windows. And there is a swishing where two men, armed with brooms, are sweeping down the pavement opposite the Post Office. But the city is not yet asleep. Around a corner is the street of all-night cafes —and a large cheery personality.

There, it seems, all that is left of the night's wanderers have gathered. Home-ward-bound revellers, formally clothed or in fancy costume, late workers and others mix indiscriminately—and the constant orders of the large personality keeps a kitchen busy. . . . "Two stewed oysters and steak. . . . One ham and eggs. . . . Two chops and eggs. . . . One spliagetti on toast." Eood for hungry people —and lots of it. Iheie is an intimacy about an all-night cafe, where the cook is saluted by his Christian name, and tail-coated young men can butt into the kitchen to appeal to the chef "not to be stingy with the chips." And there is a flavour added to the food cooked in such circumstances. The Glow-worm "Walk. Silent streets eclio again to the rush of a car's progress and above the thick trees of the Domain close in. The glass roof of the Winter Garden catches a ray of moonlight and a twinkle of the staia from a sky whence the clouds have cleared and gleams in a ghostly ligbtThe floodlights that earlier outlined the face of the Museum have been turned out and the big white building looms large against the surrounding darkness But there is a walk down a way of mystery to a cavern of beauty in the thick bush. About is heaviness and dampness, with the thick scent of undergrowth and foliage. The path must be felt with the feet, for it cannot be seen, but beside there is the twinkling of a streamlet and alongside the path clusters of glow-worms shine with the inter - nal radiance of cats' eyes. _ Sometimes there are stragglers in this domain—flotsam on the stream of life, who find board and lodging the stars —but they are missing to-night.

driven out by the cold and wet of winter. They are missing, too, from Victoria Park, aiul from the nests of newspaper behind the hoardings at Myers Park. But about the streets there are occasional furtive figures, except where silent-treading policemen walk the streets and turn their torches into darkened doorways. And Industry Begins. Now it is the hour when the night merges into the working day—the darkest hour, when the cold, unnoticed before, creeps into the bones, and cannot be shifted. Along the streets home-ward-bound stragglers meet the outcoming workers—office cleaners, market porters and all those whose work must be finished before the major industry of the day starts. The fish markets are the first to stir. Here through the night the boats have been coming in from the gulf with their loads of freshcaught fish—men of purpose, and that purpose to get rid of their load as soon as possible. They are generous men, too, and so about the wharves are a feustragglers eager to assist them, knowing that they will get their pay in a bundle of fish, which they can later hawk in their baskets from door to door. In a lighted building George, the cleaner, is busy. He can clean a ton of fish a night, and prepare two tons of fish for smoking as well. He has been doing it for 25 or so; his knife cleans a fish with one movement, and he tosses it with never-missing accuracy at the growing pile in the basket, the while he talks about fish and fishermen. Again, in the produce markets men are busy, and from the truck outside piles of fresh vegetables are carried in. The business of the world is starting. '«

The young man has seen Auckland that night—seen behind the lights and the shadows —seen those who played, those who worked and those whose shadows drifted along the pavements, getting nowhere. He stands now on Mount Eden and looks over the city. Dim in outline it stretches in a flimsy black lace, whose points arc the pearls of city lights. Behind them is life and activity; from here it is all blackness, peace, and beauty. The milkmen's carts rattle in the streets, and way yonder is the flashing wink of Tiri's light.