Free The Paua Tower by Coral Atkinson Page A

She lay back on the pillow, feeling drowsy and content. She put her hand on Patricia’s hair, the little head warm as a bird under her fingers. Mrs Forster loved feedingin the night; it was the only time she had to herself, the only time when there was nothing for her to do except rest and watch the baby busy at her breast.
    The noise outside came again, followed by what she’d swear was the sound of feet, and something large being pushed. The men at the camp were up to something, she was sure of it.
    But Mrs Forster was tired. The thought of heaving herself up — the place between her legs still wounded from the birth hurt dreadfully when she climbed out of bed. Putting her feet down on the cold linoleum, walking across, pulling back the curtain, seemed too much, too big a thing to do. She could, of course, wake Stu, but he was bound to be angry and there’d be trouble. She’d nothing against the men in the camp — decent enough blokes on the whole; she felt sorry for them, really. Better not to know what they were doing. Easier, and so much more comfortable, to cuddle down with the baby and only hear the sucking slurp of Patricia’s mouth on her breast. Tonight she’d keep the baby in bed, not bother to put her back in the drawer that served as a cot. Stu didn’t like a baby between them, couldn’t stand the pissing and puking, wanted the bed to himself, but what would he know? Wasn’t she always up with Patricia back in her cot, long before Stu woke in the morning? Moana Forster turned her head and blew out the candle.
    ‘The light in the window,’ said Legatt to Gilchrist, who was beside him. ‘It’s gone.’
    The five men at the back of the lorry stopped pushing and looked towards the house. Vic, who was steering, wondered why the vehicle halted.
    ‘Don’t worry,’ said Gilchrist, ‘Forster can’t have heard anything.’
    Safely out of earshot, they cranked the lorry and got in, though Vic didn’t put the lights on until they turned into the bush. The track led through the trees for half a mile or so before coming to the felled kahikatea, which the Nicholson brothers had cut into blocks.
    ‘We’ll all be crook with bloody hernias moving these buggers,’said Miller, staggering under the weight of one of the giant lumps of wood.
    ‘Told you,’ said Ben Nicholson. ‘Use the winch we made, like I said. You’ll do yourself in trying to move them otherwise.’
    They directed the lorry headlights so they could see, and with a great deal of swearing, grunting and help from the improvised rope winch knotted over a tree, the blocks were finally hoisted on board.
    ‘Thank God that’s over,’ said Miller, leaning against the cab and lighting the remains of a cigarette.
    ‘All aboard,’ said Vic, with the crank in his hand. He was the only one among them who could drive.
    ‘Where did you learn?’ asked Gilchrist, taking off his glasses and wiping his face with his hand as the lorry jolted through the night to Matauranga.
    ‘Firm I worked for had a van,’ said Vic. ‘Perks of the job.’
    ‘You might get work as a chauffeur,’ said Legatt, who longed to drive and rather fancied such employment himself.
    ‘Chauffeur?’ said Vic. ‘You must be joking.’
    ‘Could just see you, Cowan, running some of those Wellington government bastards around.’ Gilchrist grinned.
    ‘Oh yeah,’ said Vic. ‘Just get in, Mr Coates, and you too, Mr Forbes, and I’ll take you on a quick trip off the end of the wharf.’
    ‘Or into a bloody brick wall,’ said Miller.
    ‘Cowan’s one-way taxi company. Guaranteed to take all Tory politicians from this world to the next,’ said Gilchrist.
    Tiny Mulcock saw them laughing as the lorry turned into the freight entrance of the Matauranga railway station.

    Stella was looking for the vinegar. Did they have any left? She pushed the bottles along the pantry shelf, trying not to make them clink. From the bedroom she could hear her father’s snores. It was very early