SEA SHELL

Te Ao Hou, June 1961, Page 46

SEA SHELL by TUHINGAIA BARCLAY Afterwards When he thought about that afternoon he realised that it was really not a bay. It was just strip of pebbly beach separating two jutting fingers of rock that were black in the shadows of the hills sloping up to the west. Halfway along the beach a small stream pushed its way through the stones until it reached the whiterimmed edge of the sea. And it was not until he had reached the stream that he had become aware of the girl sitting in the shelter of the rock. She had turned and smiled at him and at the time it had seemed only natural that he should stop and smile back at the Maori girl with the long damp hair. “Hullo,” she had said, “are you beachcombing or just walking?” And her voice had been quiet, husky and strange. “Up until now just walking,” he had replied. “My energy seems to be running out. Do you mind if I sit here for a while?” As he sat down on the sloping bank small grey and brown stones cascaded down to the water's edge where they glistened like jewels at the touch of the sea. “I thought I was fit but if I don't rest now I doubt whether I'll make it back to the village.” She had laughed and as he watched her it seemed to him that the faded green of her bathing suit was the same colour as the shallow water that crept up and slipped back unceasingly on the shining stones. “You are English aren't you?” she asked. “Yes, I've been in New Zealand for two years and I'm up here for the last part of my annual leave. I suppose you live here?” “I've lived here always. How long have you been in the village?” “Only five days,” he had answered, “and tomorrow I leave for the city.” “Oh, then you must have arrived just before the storm,” she had said slowly. Laughing he had looked at her, “You make it sound as though I brought the storm with me. Do you often get storms as wild as that one?” It had begun on the day he arrived. The afternoon had been hot and still, and as he had carried his luggage from the wharf to the hotel he had watched the fishermen on the beach hauling their dinghies up onto the grass-covered bank. Only a few minutes later, as he stood at the window of his room and looked out at the leaden sea, the rain had started, heavy raindrops drumming on the corrugated iron. And so the storm had started and for five days there was nothing else but wind and rain and pounding surf. “Last year there was a storm like that one, but we don't get them very often.” Her voice was almost a whisper and then she touched his arm and said “Look, here comes the last deep-sea fishing launch.” Together they watched the launch as it throbbed its way towards the harbour followed by a cloud of circling, screaming gulls. As the launch disappeared behind the point he asked, “Does this beach have a name?” Slowly she had turned, “Why, certainly it has a name. In fact it has two, but no-one uses the old Maori name. Instead it is called Watering Bay.” And she had bent her head to look at something she held in her hand, and then, as if reciting an old story, she had gone on, “Its name comes from the stream. You see, in the early days the whaling boats used to anchor out there in the shelter of the point and the sailors would row ashore here for fresh water. The village was not so peaceful in those days,” and she had looked up at him as if she had just remembered that he was listening.” “Grog shops stood wall to wall along the harbour. It doesn't seem possible does it?” And she had smiled to herself. “No,” he agreed thinking of the houses protected by high hedges that now stood in their place. “And all that water out there,” she continued, as if unaware that he had spoken, “was alive with ships, whaling ships, ships carrying timber, and ships bringing missionaries to convert my contented ancestors. The sea-bed is like a treasure-chest. You would be amazed at the things that still get washed up on the beaches after a storm.” And she had looked at him for a moment and, smiling, looked back at the sea and started to speak again. “When I was a child I remember an old man who wandered round the beaches scratching in the sand with a stick. The young boys would follow him chanting, ‘Have you found any gold yet? Have you found any gold’ And then they would run away.” The soft voice and lapping water had seemed strangely alike. “Well, did he find any gold?” “How should I know?” she had answered, shrugging her shoulders, but then, “I've heard people say that he found all sorts of Maori tools and weapons that had probably been dropped over the side of canoes, and all kinds of coins …”

“Is that a coin you have in your hand?” he interrupted. “In my hand? Oh, no! It's just a shell,” and as she held out her hand he had seen, lying in her palm, a small white shell, smooth and rounded. “The inside is pale pink. Here, feel how smooth it is.” And so he had taken the small cold shell in his hand.” “Where did you find this?” he had asked. “Over there by the stream. There are usually clusters there after a storm but that's the only one I've found so far. I should find some more later.” Sitting up she had started to plait her hair in one long plait using her fingers to loosen the tangles. “Why don't you wear a cap when you go swimming?” he had asked watching her hands as she lifted her thick hair. And that was the first time he had noticed how supple a girl's hands could be. “I lost my bathing cap but I don't mind because I'm used to the feel of the water in my hair and I like it.” The long plait was finished, and, clasping her hands round her knees, she looked out over the sea. He followed her gaze and saw the hills, the sea and the flushed sky. “And I go back to the city tomorrow,” he had said slowly. “And then?” The girl's voice had been very quiet. “And then,” he echoed, “back to work from nine to five, five days a week, for another eleven months.” Suddenly the idea had come to him. “Do you know what I would really like to do?” Not waiting for a reply he went on, “I'd like to come back here to live. I'd buy a boat and go fishing.” “Fishing? Have you ever been commercial fishing?” and there had been laughter in her voice. “No, but I'm sure I could try. And anyway I like the sea,” he had finished lamely. And even as he had spoken he had realised how foolish his words sounded. He was like a child daydreaming. “You like the sea,” she had repeated and, smiling at him, she had said, “I hope you always feel that way. The sea can be very cruel.” And she had turned away again. For a while neither spoke and then, without moving her gaze from the darkening water, she had said, “If you intend getting back to the village without getting your shoes wet you had better start soon. The tide is coming in and you're not dressed for swimming.” Her face was sheltered by her arm so he could not see if she were still laughing at him or not. “What about you? How are you getting back?” “It's not time for me to go,” she had said, looking up at him, and her eyes had been big and dark. “The tide won't be full for a while yet.” “Well, won't you walk back to the village with me?” he had asked as he stood up wanting her to come. “I'm sorry but I can't go. I must wait.” Her face was turned away again and he had felt foolish standing there. “Well, goodbye. Maybe I'll see you when I come back. Will you tell me your name? Mine is John Haven.” “John Haven,” she had repeated. “Mine is Moana.” Then she stood up and faced him and she was almost as tall but not quite. “Goodbye John. Be careful, the seaweed makes the rocks slippery.” When he had reached the far line of rocks he had turned but the sunlight was fading and it was hard to see beyond the stream. However, he had waved and, as he had turned he thought he had heard her call “Goodbye,” but then the surge of the waves had covered the sound of her voice and the cry of the gulls until there was just the sound of the sea and nothing else. … Later that evening he had looked around the almost deserted bar and as the barman had reached for his empty glass he had said, “Not much profit tonight, Bob.” “No,” replied the barman and, dropping the glass in the sink, he began wiping the edge of the bar with a grey cloth. “It's always like this after a storm. Couple of fine days and the place fills up again. A year ago we had a storm like this last one—it lasted five days too—and we might just as well have closed the place and given the staff a holiday. And then three days later we were turning people away. That's the way it goes. Is this your last day?” “Yes, I'm going back to the city in the morning.” “Did you go fishing today?” the barman was politely curious. “No, I just wandered around,” and he had felt rather than seen the surprised look the barman had given him. “There are some fine beaches round here. I walked to Watering Bay this afternoon.” In the silence that followed he had watched the barman move the grey cloth slowly back and forth over the same few inches of inlaid linoleum. Then the barman had spoken. “Watering Bay? Not many people walk that far. And yet it used to be very popular with the youngsters. They used to go there after storms to collect shells. And sometimes they'd find these little shells, white outside and pink inside. My young daughter found some a couple of years ago. Tide comes in very quickly round there so you have to be careful. But as I said no-one goes there now. Ever since the tapu was put on the area,” and sill he kept on wiping the bar. “Ever since what?” He had not meant to speak so quickly. (Concluded on page 52)