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 …”