The Paua Shell

ISAT in the little café, looking out at the rain trickling its way down the outside of the steamy window. It wasn’t meant to be like this.

Firstly, this was New Zealand summertime. I hadn’t flown halfway round the world to sit in a café on my own, staring at the heavy grey skies.

I could have stayed at home and done just that, and saved a lot of money.

Secondly, I was lonely without Philip.

Glancing at my watch, I wondered how I was going to while away the next two hours on my own.

I had already seen most of what the small town of Nelson had to offer, and although after several trips to visit my sister here I had grown to feel like it was almost home, it wasn’t the same without my husband.

“You go,” he had urged, encouraging me to take time out for my niece’s wedding. “I’ve got heaps of work on at the moment, and we can organise a longer trip next year if you can get more time off work.”

So I had booked a few weeks off work and arranged a last-minute flight for my visit.

As my drink cooled, I pulled out my phone to have another look at the weather for Saturday.

I think I was more anxiously checking the forecast each day than the bride-to-be, as this week had been unseasonably damp for midsummer.

My anxiety on her behalf settled as I saw that the rain was due to clear by Friday, then Saturday promised to be all that a

New Zealand summer day should be.

As I smiled in anticipation of seeing my niece in the wedding dress I had peeked at in her mum’s bedroom, my phone bleeped and a message from Phil popped up.

Missing you. Just heading to bed as I’ve a long day tomorrow. Bet you’re chilling out in that lovely sunshine.

Tempted to leave him imagining me sunning myself somewhere picturesque, I replied truthfully that I was sitting in a steamy café watching the rain.

With a wry smile, I copied and pasted the phone screen showing the weather app I had just been looking at, and added that to the message.

I could imagine him chuckling, as the image of

the grey clouds and raindrops will have arrived almost instantaneously on his phone. Have you found your paua shell yet?

Phil knew how much I wanted to find an unbroken specimen of the unique New Zealand mollusc with its striking blue, green and purple swirled iridescent lining.

I had fallen in love with the beautiful shell with its characteristic row of tiny feeding holes down one side, but had so far only found small pieces, broken by the tide or ocean predators.

I had seen several Maori carvings containing fragments of paua shell during my travels; pieces of the glittering shell represented in the eyes, symbolising their ancestors as if they were the very stars gazing down from the night sky.

I opened my purse, and pulled out a tiny tissue-wrapped piece of shell. This was one of several broken shards I had found on a nearby beach this past week.

Carefully unwrapping it, I placed the shimmery piece on the table in front of me and took a close up photograph of it. I sent it to Phil along with the message: This is the biggest piece I have found so far.

Phil and I had discussed many times how I was desperately missing my older sister who had married her New Zealand husband 26 years ago.

I was left behind to spend the time building my life back home in England after marrying the kindest man I knew, and bringing up our three

I so wanted to find a beautiful specimen that I could keep for ever . . .

children together.

I had tempted Phil out to my favourite country on holiday several times, and he, too, loved the varied scenery it had to offer.

We had sat together in hot pools at Hanmer Springs, watched in awe the bubbling mud and perfectly timed geysers in Rotorua, and strolled along deserted golden sandy beaches with miles of native bushland heading into the distance behind us.

The rain started to fall more heavily, bringing me out of my reverie and causing me to glance up at the street outside.

Despite the downpour, folks here didn’t seem to scurry, heads down, in the way we would at home. I think the rain was a welcome relief to the locals after a long dry spell here.

Despite it being morning where I was, I tapped out a goodnight message to Phil and hit Send as I finished the last dregs of my hot chocolate.

I’ll take another visit to the cathedral, I thought to myself, looking again at my watch, even though barely 15 minutes had passed since I’d last checked it.

I had a while yet before my lift back from town was due. I had ridden the few miles into town, and when the rain started Jill had offered to collect both me and the bicycle as soon as she was free, and drop me back to my little rented house nearby.

Eyes down against the rain, and the hood of my borrowed waterproof coat zipped up tightly, I counted the steps as I headed up Church Hill.

Sixty-two steps later I gazed at the unusual building in front of me. I couldn’t get used to the fact that the large front doors were at what appeared to be the back of the cathedral, looking down into trees and bushland, rather than overlooking the city spread out below it.

I knew from my previous visit that because of the nature of the hill it was built on, they were unable to build it with the normal tradition of main doors facing west.

Instead, this cathedral was built facing north, with its main entrance to the south.

Inside the cool, dim interior I made my way to the far end. I dropped some dollars into the collecting box, then spent a while reading various inscriptions and gazing at the stained-glass windows.

As I left the cathedral, the rain had stopped. I texted Jill to let her know I had decided a cycle to the beach would be a nice idea.

I was determined to find that whole paua shell that had eluded me so far, and had now become the focus for my coastal walks.

I barely noticed the cargo ships on the horizon, the small sailing boats and colourful kayaks that cut their way through the choppy water as I walked slowly, head down, searching the driftwood and debris cast up by the receding tide.

The sun peered out from behind a rapidly disappearing rain cloud. I felt its summer warmth on my limbs as I shrugged off my jacket and let the sun’s rays play on my skin.

Wandering along the shoreline, my eyes were darting back and forth along the recently deposited tidal offerings of seaweed, broken shells and misshapen pieces of wood, some bleached almost white by the abrasive salty sea they had spent so much time in.

I knew deep down that this wasn’t really the best beach to find what I was looking for, but enjoyed the fact that I could take time out of my busy life for once.

I was able to stop and listen to the crashing waves, the seagulls screech, and the hiss as the surf ran backwards over the shells under my feet.

As much as I felt at peace on this beach, I felt suddenly lonely. How beautiful this stroll would be, hand in hand with Phil.

I knew that no matter how much I had missed Jill, and seeing her children grow up, I could never leave my marriage for this.

I would go home after this holiday, maybe plan ahead for when we could come for another visit together, then settle back into my normal routine of working as a receptionist at the local hospital outpatient department.

Phil would continue his decorating business, and the feel of my bare feet in the damp sand would become a distant memory.

The only reminder would be the paua shell I hoped to find and planned to use as a trinket dish at home.

With Jill and her daughter making lastminute wedding preparations at their house that evening, I got the ironing board out and started to press the summery dress I would wear on Saturday.

The family planned to travel in several cars to the venue – a beautiful glade in a forested area owned by the New Zealand side of the family.

The reception was to be picnic baskets on the grass before the ceremony, followed by a mobile pizza oven, dancing and cocktails.

As I carefully pressed the dress’s pleats, crumpled from the suitcase, I became aware of the ironing board juddering.

Confused, I placed the iron on to the table next to me to check the lever underneath the board.

A crash ensued as the iron fell to the floor. Quickly picking it up, I suddenly felt peculiarly giddy. I stood up with the iron in one hand, holding on to the table.

A gradual realisation dawned. The house was moving. Loud creaks came from the timber construction as the building began to shake as if it was a train carriage.

I froze to the spot, iron still in my hand. Sinking to my knees, I placed it on the floor and pulled the plug from the socket.

I knew the country suffered from the occasional earthquake, and had been told I may feel a tremor at some point while staying there, but nothing had prepared me for the feeling of helplessness as the house seemed to rock from side to side.

Remembering what I had been taught, I crawled under the solid wooden table and hunkered down, holding on to one table leg. The lights then went out, leaving me alone in the gathering dusk.

My phone bleeped in my pocket. It was Jill. Are you OK, Wendy?

Shaking, and with my heart beating fast, I typed a one-handed reply.

Is it an earthquake? Yes, I am OK. I pressed Send.

Stay where you are, and when it settles, find a radio and you’ll get continual updates. I am just contacting the children in Wellington, then I’ll phone you.

I strained my eyes against the gloom, realising there was nothing I could do except to sit it out.

Foolishly, I had ignored advice to prepare an earthquake box, with first-aid kit, radio, batteries, a torch and fresh water in it.

I think none of us really believed we would be in the situation where we might actually need it.

After what seemed an age, the shaking and groaning of the house slowly subsided. I checked my watch. The whole thing had lasted about two minutes, but it had felt more like two hours.

Hands shaking somewhat, and my heart beating fast, I cautiously went and found a torch and radio and placed them in a plastic box by the front door.

My mobile rang and the familiar

I was determined to find that paua shell that had eluded me