I fucked off down Wellesley Street, past the library, which had a throbbing generator and was lit up ghostily, if there’s such a word. It beeped from within. Oh, so you could still get books out. When I got to Queen Street I saw that everything had basically ground to a standstill. There were a few police walking the beat, to prevent looting I supposed. Banks and department stores had temporary lighting rigged up, miles of wires and bulbs like spiders’ webs with their pockets of food—a fly, a mosquito—bound and glowing. A few cafés and boutiques and bookshops were open for business with gas bottles and candles, but more had shut up shop. There was hardly anyone around. A few cars, the odd empty bus blew past as lightly as a shoebox. An eerie sense of going back in time made the streets sleepy. Sedated like fifties housewives, that’s what I thought. It hadn’t been long, fifteen years perhaps, since people had said, Oh, Auckland’s a one-horse town, Auckland’s no more than a wild colonial town. You could fire a gun down Queen Street on a Sunday afternoon and hit no one. Since the brief eighties boom and all those mirrored glass buildings, it had become bigger, taller, more bustling, more cosmopolitan (people said), so that the gun fired down the street would have caused several pedestrians to fall down dead. This seemed to be a good thing. But now, suddenly, Auckland wasn’t a city anymore, it wasn’t cosmopolitan, it was once again the old, quiet, dark, one-horse town. The outpost of the colony had been lurking all this time just below the eighties mirrored surface.

  •

  In Post Office Square I hesitated at the mouth of a shopping arcade. No one was about, and there was that abandoned post-apocalyptic feel I was getting so used to. I kept checking over my shoulder for creeps as I tromped up the disabled escalator. Walking on the ribbed metal steps was an aberration of nature; my feet felt like lead. By the time I got to the second floor, the daylight was gone and I was in hand-in-front-of-your-face territory. I almost ran past a ghost train of dark entranceways and locked grilles, but sure enough, there was Oh Sew Good nestled at the back and lit up like a Christmas tree. Slight exaggeration, but they did have a few lamps dotted about. As I entered, the shopkeeper who I’d talked to earlier on the phone half recognised me. I didn’t usually buy this kind of stuff—it was a hobby shop, and for my business I needed the basics, which I got from a bulk supplier out west. But I’d been here once or twice before, and the shopkeeper nodded from where she sat behind the counter, popping a needle in and out of linen stretched like a drum over a round frame. She had a long bob like a college girl’s only grey—a Remuera look, and the truth is, you had to be a bit of a Remuera matron to be able to afford to shop at a place like this; to do patchwork and knitting. The shopkeeper changed her glasses and looked up. Her tight V of a smile appeared to be embroidered on like the inscrutable mouth of a teddy bear. The thing about these shops is there’s a great camaraderie which comes from a shared interest in making things, and from the beautiful materials.

  The shop was stuffed to the gunnels with every sewing notion under the sun. Yes, that’s the word they use (Professor Bleakley): notion. Why they couldn’t just say ‘idea’, I don’t know. Shelves full of richly dyed felt, of delicate Pilgrimish patchwork chintz, banks of shiny buttons, zips in all their toothiness, swivelling racks of knitting patterns on which sultry women looked out from their mohair collars, bundles of rug-hooking wool chopped off like some kind of harvest, and against one wall, a pixel of balls of wool. It was exciting. I love this stuff. I don’t know whether I can convey to you, if you don’t sew, just how gorgeous the raw materials of sewing—the notions—are. There’s this sense of possibility that you almost don’t want to disturb by making something. But you do. So, notions on this scale, a whole shop full, well, they enlarged me, and made me feel small at the same time. Not joking. I made my way down an aisle of glinting beads and came to the embroidery silks, which hung in shiny six-inch skeins like the worms they’d come from. I hauled out the costume, held it close to the skeins and picked out the silver and gold. A colour is seldom an absolute match. You err on the darker side; a lighter colour would screech at you. Having matched the silver and gold, I moved on to the green. Mm, this was going to be a little more difficult, especially in this light. Greens are ambiguous.

  The shopkeeper appeared at my elbow, tweaking the stock. ‘We have some wonderful new lamb’s wool in,’ she said, and produced a ball seemingly from her sleeve like a magician. Under my hand I felt softness and looked down at a ball of pale pink fluff.

  ‘Lovely,’ I heard myself cooing. It was true. The wool was so gentle you wanted to take it home and feed it with a bottle. But a garment in this would cost several hundred dollars. The shopkeeper must have sensed my lack of disposable income. She moved on.

  ‘That’s an alluring shade, isn’t it? Dollar Bill, it’s called.’

  We were back at the green skeins.

  The shopkeeper peered at the costume, slightly overbearing, but on the other hand I was pleased to have help. As I said, these sewing shops are like clubs. People communicate. There’s talk. On a good day—with the power on—there’s chatter. Okay, you need a bit of money. And leisure. But the brilliant thing about these shops is that it’s okay not to know anything. In fact, it’s a cause for celebration. A convert! I know a thing or two, but it’s not uncommon to see a woman who’s never held a needle in her hand being gleefully shown what to do by a shopkeeper, or even by another customer. Compare this with a man going into a hardware store. He has to pretend to know everything, or he’s an idiot, and so he comes away knowing nothing. Men and shopping: a permanent learning disability. But I digress. In the sewing shop, I didn’t need much encouragement to hold up the costume like Exhibit A.

  ‘Knotwork,’ nodded the shopkeeper. ‘That’s quite some garment.’

  I explained how I was going to embroider the lower part of the sleeve and the cuff.

  The shopkeeper peered closer. The V returned to her lips. ‘You’ll have your work cut out.’

  She spoke in tropes, which were comforting. You knew where you were. I went back to the greens. I tried shades that were wildly wrong. That’s what you do. You consider everything, and the wrong ones help you choose the right one. That’s what I’ve always found.

  ‘Getting closer,’ said the shopkeeper.

  I’d narrowed it down to two greens, and went back and forth on those.

  ‘Tricky, isn’t it?’ said the shopkeeper. She was very close. There was the whiff of perfume. ‘Let me look.’

  I handed her the costume and stood back.

  She was a picture of concentration as she went back and forth on the two colours. ‘I think your first instinct was very close. It’s either the Dollar Bill or the Minaret.’

  ‘I’m leaning towards the Minaret,’ I said.

  ‘Tricky,’ said the shopkeeper again. ‘Very tricky. See, I think the Dollar Bill might be your answer. Let’s put some more light on the situation.’

  She handed me back the costume and brought one of the lamps right up to the bank of silks. Together we peered at the colours and swapped them rapidly against the costume. I said that I thought the Minaret was closer.

  ‘No.’ The shopkeeper shook her grey bob. ‘The Dollar Bill.’

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘I’m absolutely certain,’ said the shopkeeper. Her beaky nose was right up close to the silks. ‘It’s brighter. The Minaret is dull.’

  I was sure that the Minaret was the best way to go. I held it against the costume again.

  ‘No, you see?’ said the shopkeeper. ‘It’s going to look muddy compared to the rest.’

  ‘To me the Minaret is the one,’ I said, but less certain.

  ‘I think you’d be making a grave mistake,’ said the shopkeeper.

  ‘You don’t think the Dollar Bill is too bright?’ I asked.

  ‘Not for a second. Not for an instant have I thought the Dollar Bill too bright.’

  I stood surveying the costume and the two skeins of silk. I wasn’t sure anymore. Maybe it was the Dollar Bill.

  There was a footstep in the doorway of the shop. Another customer had arrived. Two customers in an empty shopping arcade in the middle of a Blackout. Oh Sew Good wasn’t doing too badly. The new arrival was a barrel-like middle-aged woman with a grey mitt of hair. She was wearing a belted coat, even though it was summer. The shopkeeper seemed to know her vaguely. She smiled her V smile and gestured her over.

  ‘Would you mind helping us out here?’

  The customer sailed over, a little shy, but pleased to be asked. The shopkeeper held the two greens one after the other against the costume. ‘Our friend here is doing some knotwork. Which do you think is a better match, the Dollar Bill or the Minaret? Dollar Bill. Minaret.’

  After considering the two colours for a moment, the customer smiled and spoke as if answering a question on a game show, with devil-may-care aplomb. ‘The Minaret.’

  The shopkeeper paused for a minute. ‘Ah, interesting. You’re sure? Dollar Bill. Minaret.’ She held the greens up to the costume again for good measure. ‘Because I’m sure it’s the Dollar Bill. Look, look closely.’

  The other customer peered closely again. ‘No, still the Minaret.’

  ‘Two against one,’ I said, and laughed.

  ‘Difficult,’ said the shopkeeper. ‘I happen to think you’re both quite wrong. The Dollar Bill.’ She left it dangling.

  ‘No, that one,’ said the customer, pointing a chubby finger at the Minaret.

  You know how your nose gets tired choosing perfume? That’s how my eyes felt. I couldn’t have told one green from another if my life depended on it, Dollar Bill, Minaret or Mustard. But I would buy the Minaret, because it was two against one.

  ‘I know how to settle this,’ said the shopkeeper. A mad gleam appeared in her eye. ‘We need daylight.’

  The other customer pointed vaguely at some rug-hooking supplies. ‘Ah . . .’ But the shopkeeper was on a mission.

  ‘We’ll get this right. Lock up the shop, just for a minute, and take the silk out onto the street. Then we will see that the Dollar Bill is the best choice.’

  ‘No, really,’ I said. ‘No need. I’ll take the Minaret.’ Although I wasn’t at all sure. ‘But please, serve this woman first.’ I gestured towards the other customer.

  The shopkeeper paused. It seemed she might go ahead and serve the other customer, but at that moment a girl of about sixteen appeared in the shop. She bobbed near the door. I had time to notice that she was ‘dressed up’ in a summer shift and cheap unlined blazer, cream. She lolloped in, in her teenage-girl walk, and went straight up to the shopkeeper. ‘I’m here.’ Her head wasn’t even grown. Her features, her eyes and nose, were big on her face, emerging as if through plaster.

  The shopkeeper took off her glasses and sighed. ‘Brittany, I’ve told you, I don’t need you today.’ She smiled at the other customer and myself. ‘Excuse me.’

  The girl (Brittany) said, with the smile and a slight whine, ‘I just thought I’d come in on the off-chance.’

  ‘No.’ The shopkeeper’s V-mouth was firm. ‘I don’t need you today.’

  The girl hung her head with theatrical disappointment.

  ‘Or any other day,’ added the shopkeeper.

  Brittany looked up and gasped. ‘But.’

  ‘I’ve told you,’ said the shopkeeper.

  ‘I’ve come all the way in on the bus,’ said Brittany. ‘It cost me five dollars twenty.’ Here she acknowledged the other customer and myself with a hard-luck smile. ‘Crazy.’

  ‘I didn’t ask you to do that,’ said the shopkeeper coolly. ‘Now . . .’ She resumed the silk debate. ‘Let’s go to the daylight.’

  ‘Please,’ whined Brittany. She was twisting the strap of her squishy vinyl shoulder bag. I thought it might snap.

  I wanted to leave, but I needed that silk. ‘I’ll take the Minaret,’ I said.

  ‘No!’ cried the shopkeeper. ‘If we go outside, you’ll see that the Minaret is all wrong.’

  ‘But now that I’m here,’ said Brittany.

  ‘Did you hear me?’ said the shopkeeper sharply. Then she sighed. ‘Now you’re here, you may as well help us choose the silk.’

  ‘Okay!’ said the girl. She brightened up and untwisted her bag.

  ‘And when we have finished, you will get on the bus and go home.’

  The customer in the belted coat now spoke up. ‘I’m wanting a rug-hooking set. It’s for my daughter-in-law. She’s—’

  ‘This won’t take long,’ said the shopkeeper, jiggling her keys. ‘We’ll be back in a jiffy.’

  •

  A moment later we were all trooping down through the dark complex on the still escalator. Out on Aotea Square, the shopkeeper produced the two silks with a flourish. The rest of us gathered around. The other customer looked around the square, disconcerted. She seemed on the brink of going off, but then she turned her attention to the skeins. Brittany was in boots and all, looking pleased. I held up the costume.

  ‘Now,’ said the shopkeeper. ‘The Minaret,’—she sounded very sombre—‘or the Dollar Bill.’

  ‘I still think the Minaret,’ said the other customer.

  ‘I do too,’ I said. And I did.

  The shopkeeper looked beadily and expectantly at Brittany.

  ‘Oh,’ said Brittany, who had been in a daydream. ‘I think . . . I think . . .’

  We all waited. The shopkeeper did a quick exchange of the silks against the costume, eyeing Brittany like a hen.

  Brittany ummed and ahhed.

  ‘Brittany,’ said the shopkeeper sharply.

  ‘The Dollar Bill,’ said Brittany and smiled.

  ‘There,’ said the shopkeeper. ‘Two trained people think that the Dollar Bill is the better match. Thank you, Brittany, now you can go.’

  ‘Let’s go back inside,’ I said. I wasn’t even sure which one I’d buy.

  ‘Trained?’ wailed Brittany. ‘You see, I’m trained.’

  ‘My rug-hooking,’ said the other customer.

  But Brittany had started to cry. She’d planted herself in the square and tears were running down her cheeks. Her blazer had crumpled and looked, somehow, desolate.

  ‘I just helped you, and you said I was in training!’ she said, between sobs, to the shopkeeper.

  ‘I said nothing of the sort.’

  ‘I just helped you.’ She looked from the shopkeeper to me.

  Me!

  ‘Brittany. Go home,’ said the shopkeeper.

  ‘I won’t.’

  We all stood in the square while Brittany cried. At one point I patted her back and she wrenched away.

  ‘Brittany, this is ridiculous,’ said the shopkeeper.

  ‘You said I had a job, and I said no to another job, and now I have nothing. And I just spent five dollars twenty on the bus, and I helped you. I helped you!’ She gestured at the silks, which to me were beginning to feel like crimes.

  ‘Brittany! I’m sorry, ladies.’

  ‘It’s okay,’ said the other customer, then to Brittany, ‘It’s okay, dear.’

  Brittany rounded on her. ‘It isn’t!’

  There was another silence while we stood around looking at our feet and Brittany cried. Then she spoke again. ‘What does it matter, anyway? The Dollar Bill or the Minaret! Ew, darlings, the Dollar Bill or the Minaret!’ I must admit, she did a good impression of a Remuera lady. I wanted to leave. But Brittany was now beside herself. ‘What does it matter! The Dollar Bill or the Minaret. You have no clue!’ The few people in the square were looking at us as they went by. ‘You think this shit matters? Do you? You have no fucking clue!’

  Brittany reached out and batted the silks from the shopkeeper’s hands. The two skeins flew in an arc and landed a few metres away. Brittany pranced after them and, with her high heels, ground them into the asphalt. When she’d finished she turned and glared at us all triumphantly. ‘I don’t have any money. I have to walk home.’ She clopped off in her high, tottery sandals. The other customer and I bleated after her, offering bus money. She called over her shoulder for us to fuck off. After a few steps she bent to tear off her sandals and continued barefoot across the square.

  The rest of us sidled over and looked down at the silks lying on the ground. They were pathetic, mashed and blackened and unravelled. The Dollar Bill and the bloody Minaret.

  ‘Well,’ said the shopkeeper. ‘I’m sorry about that, ladies. Let’s repair to the shop.’

  The other customer and I traipsed meekly after her into the complex and up the dead escalators. In the shop it turned out that now there wouldn’t be enough of either green for my needs (yes, my needs), so I took all the skeins of the Minaret, and all the skeins of Dollar Bill. I’d have to make do. Plus some gold and silver. The shopkeeper tootled a sigh as she wrapped it all up. I didn’t want to buy them. I didn’t want to buy anything in this shop, but I had to. If I wanted to go on mending the costume, if I wanted to go on with my business—really, if I wanted to go on with my life, I had to not mind about Brittany.

  •

  On the way up Queen Street, I felt bad, and the costume and the skeins of silk felt heavy in my hand. But soon I had my mind on other things. In fact, it proved to be an eventful trip downtown, all in all. I remembered I was going to the library and veered off up Vulcan Lane. As I was walking past the Magistrate’s Court, I looked right into the foyer and saw that it was strung with lights like exotic fruits, and heard the low insect hum, the white noise of a generator, and it seemed if you were to step inside you would be engulfed in the heavy air of a tropical forest. And as I was standing there, I caught sight of Grant, the lawyer with the dry wit, approaching along the footpath with a woman by his side. She had a bruised face and a yellow dress, and he was in a camel-coloured suit. They were like double-yellow lines. Our eyes met, there was a slight raising of hands, Hi, a pause while Grant decided whether to go any further.