Книга - The Wives of Henry Oades

The Wives of Henry Oades
Johanna Moran


In 1899 Henry Oades discovers he has two wives – and many dilemmas…In 1890, Henry Oades decided to undertake the arduous sea voyage from England to New Zealand in order to further his family's fortunes. Here they settled on the lush but wild coast – although it wasn't long before disaster struck in the most unexpected of ways.A local Maori tribe, incensed at their treatment at the hands of the settlers, kidnapped Mrs Oades and her four children, and vanished into the rugged hills surrounding the town. Henry searched ceaselessly for his family, but two grief-stricken years later was forced to conclude that they must be dead. In despair he shipped out to San Francisco to start over, eventually falling in love with and marrying a young widow.In the meantime, Margaret Oades and her children were leading a miserable existence, enslaved to the local tribe. When they contracted smallpox they were cast out and, ill and footsore, made their way back to town, five years after they were presumed dead.Discovering that Henry was now half a world away, they were determined to rejoin him. So months later they arrived on his doorstep in America and Henry Oades discovered that he had two wives and many dilemmas …This is a darkly comic but moving historical fiction debut about love and family, based on a controversial court case from the early 1900s.









The Wives of Henry Oades

Johanna Moran


A NOVEL











For my husband, John Moran And for my parents, June Ray and John Campbell Chommie


Tena, ki te riro ko ta te teina ki mua whanau mai ai, hei muri ko ta te tuakana whanau ai, na, he iwi kino taua iwi hou, ina tae mai ki tenei Motu.

But, if it happens that the child of the younger is born first, and of the elder afterward, then the newcomers will be an evil people, when they arrive in this Land.

—A Maori premonition of disorder




Table of Contents


Cover Page (#u2578ac11-594c-5187-88c9-d37bf765491a)

Title Page (#ub64104b3-4772-5f66-acf5-e342c0f2c3ab)

Dedication (#u2019e038-26ea-5be0-a44f-d1d614654cb3)

Epigraph (#u6c5b1e48-b687-5c31-a893-0c7b921e0e0a)

Part One (#u77ba18b8-e0b2-5e8f-9926-788e5fe6ce1a)

The Newcomers 1890 (#u50c8348a-9ea7-56db-bc4a-7867bc8e8efe)

Kindness Itself (#u9aee0cb3-9a45-5292-bbfc-8965c5de2633)

Wellington February, 1891 (#u701e2c3a-9ba1-57f8-b638-c332ff123e18)

Wellington March, 1892 (#u94d67c75-c5d4-5e87-a610-d90a824ebc3b)

Taken (#u2988ae8a-1adb-5bcd-8195-dae042f22c1d)

Inconceivable (#u0ea790f6-617d-5b7a-a9c3-278c4856b54e)

Alone (#u7bb91085-c540-516a-8400-92656ab9441f)

She Speaks to Me Day and Night (#ua1ed02c9-6b1d-50fd-aec9-77db318e0681)

No Worse than Here (#u50e25b5a-e979-5d27-8b36-823f16f511bf)

A Deal (#litres_trial_promo)

Berkeley (#litres_trial_promo)

A Proposal (#litres_trial_promo)

Nancy (#litres_trial_promo)

Together Always (#litres_trial_promo)

The Main Concern (#litres_trial_promo)

Part Two (#litres_trial_promo)

North Island 1895 (#litres_trial_promo)

North Island 1897 (#litres_trial_promo)

North Island Late 1898 (#litres_trial_promo)

Wellington (#litres_trial_promo)

Wellington Hospital (#litres_trial_promo)

March 1899 (#litres_trial_promo)

Hello, Henry (#litres_trial_promo)

Part Three (#litres_trial_promo)

A Fly in the Amber (#litres_trial_promo)

A Start (#litres_trial_promo)

Calling the Same Man Husband (#litres_trial_promo)

Beginning Today (#litres_trial_promo)

There Was an Old Woman (#litres_trial_promo)

A Trip to the Quack (#litres_trial_promo)

At the Palace Hotel (#litres_trial_promo)

Pieces (#litres_trial_promo)

Dickering (#litres_trial_promo)

A Question of Divorce (#litres_trial_promo)

All She Knew for Certain (#litres_trial_promo)

A Christmas Duck (#litres_trial_promo)

A True Wife (#litres_trial_promo)

Elsewhere (#litres_trial_promo)

Something Demonic (#litres_trial_promo)

Hello, Little Bastard (#litres_trial_promo)

The Party Most Principally Injured (#litres_trial_promo)

The Wives of Henry Oades (#litres_trial_promo)

A Queer Life (#litres_trial_promo)

At Home (#litres_trial_promo)

Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)

Acknowledgments (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)




PART ONE (#ulink_56e55831-7200-5df8-be1c-050689138772)










The Newcomers1890 (#ulink_2f50730c-d6a3-500d-b902-51b018cdf8e9)


A COMMON BAT on the other side of the world elects to sink its rabid fangs, and one’s cozy existence is finished.

Margaret Oades knew her husband was up to something the moment he came through the door with a bottle of wine. It was late. The children had gone up hours ago. “What’s the occasion?” she asked, laying out a plain supper of shirred eggs and lardy cakes.

Henry kissed the nape of her neck, giving her a shiver. “I’ve an announcement,” he said.

Margaret expected him to say he’d found a collie for their son. John, nearly eight now—her big boy, her pride—had been wheedling without letup for weeks. She took down two goblets, hoping the dog was an old one and not some frisky crocus lover.

“A senior passed in New Zealand,” he said instead. “Of a bat bite, poor bloke. I’m to complete his stint. We’re due as soon as possible. You’ll want to prepare.”

Margaret set the goblets aside. “Henry.”

“Two years, sweetheart.” He’d proposed marriage with the same pleading look. “The time shall sail by, you’ll see. It’s a grand opportunity, a flying leap forward. I could hardly say no thanks.”

Three weeks later, boarding the steamer tender that was to take them down the Thames and bring them up alongside the Lady Ophelia, Margaret could not recall what she’d said next. Nothing perhaps, stunned as she’d been.

On board the crowded tender, a child each by the hand, Henry and Margaret jockeyed for position at the rail. Already the narrow boat was moving, spewing gray smoke. Margaret waved to her parents on the quay below, flapping her hankie, straining to pick them out through tears and drizzle. She’d not told them she was expecting again, thinking it too soon. She regretted now not making an exception, cutting the sadness with a bit of happy news. Henry wrapped an arm about her, kissing her brow, his beard grazing her cheek. He’d been made a ship’s constable, issued a red-lettered guernsey too small for him. The bulky knit pulled across his broad shoulders and chest. Pale knobby wrists jutted between glove and cuff. He was to be paid seven pounds for patrolling the single-women’s section, which appealed to the latent cop in him. He’d had other aspirations before settling upon an accountant’s stool. There was a time when he thought himself bound for the opera stage, but that was years ago, before he knew what it took.

He kissed her again. “It’s not forever.”

“The new baby shall be walking,” she said, rising up on her toes, waving wide arcs.

Behind her a woman said, “They cannot see us anymore. We’re too far off.”

Margaret turned to face the lady in the gaudy checked cape, a pixie of a woman with a sprinkle of reddish brown freckles to match her hair. Earlier, Margaret and her father had been standing on the wharf, monitoring the loading of their trunks. The cheeky woman sashayed up like a long-lost relation, saying, “Your wife has such a serious look about her, sir.”

“I beg your pardon,” Margaret had said. “You’re addressing my father.”

“You don’t remember me,” the woman said now, fingering a dangling ear bob.

“I do, madam.” How could she forget?

“Where’s your lovely da?”

“My father isn’t sailing,” said Margaret. “He was there to see us off.”

“A pity,” she said, turning to Henry, smiling, dimpling. “I’m Mrs. Martha Randolph, Constable. One of your charges. Who might the wee lady and gentleman be?”

Henry introduced the children, clapping a proud hand to John’s shoulder, prying six-year-old Josephine from Margaret’s leg. Margaret turned back to the watery haze that was her parents, spreading her feet for balance, her pretty going-away shoes pinching. She’d been told the river was calm. “Smooth as glass,” her favorite uncle had claimed.

“Your children are charming, Mr. Oades,” said Mrs. Randolph. Meaning, presumably, Your wife is utterly lacking. The woman sauntered off not holding the rail, flaunting her superior sea legs, a cockiness won by being on one’s own, no doubt.

London was behind them now, the hawkers and filth, the soot-belching chimney pots, the piles of manure in the streets, the raw sewage in the black water. Margaret had visited once before. It’s good to get to know other things and places, Henry had said on the train. She’d agreed aloud, but not in her heart. At thirty-two she was a contented homebody, John and Josephine’s mum, Henry’s wife. It was enough, more than enough. She knew all she needed to know about other things and places.

The tender rounded a rocky promontory. A row of small cottages went by, lighted from within, the mothers in them tucked away, minding their worlds, starting their suppers.

Henry spoke close to her ear, his breath warm as toast. “Think of the grand stories we’ll tell in our sapless dotage.”

She laughed a little. “Assuming we’ve the sap to see us to dotage.”

He laughed too, releasing pent-up excitement. “That’s my girl.” He was as keen to go as she was not. He hoisted John and put a fist, a make-believe telescope, to John’s eye. “Now watch for our ship, boy. She’ll come into view any moment now.”

A shout came from above. “Ahoy! There she is!”

The passengers stampeded toward the bow. Henry and the children fell in, joining the stream. Margaret stood rigid, the blood quickening in her veins. The Lady Ophelia was enormous, majestic. She came with sails as well as steam. Four towering masts swayed against a pewter sky, as if unstable.

Henry called to Margaret. She scanned the throng, spotting them ahead, larky children shrieking, Henry waving her forward. She gripped the burnished rail and began to inch her way toward them, the deck seesawing beneath her feet, her insides turning. “Like walking about in your own best room,” the prevaricating uncle had said.

THEY’D NOT BEEN on board the Lady Ophelia five minutes when John stumbled over a coil of rope and fell, scraping his knee. A uniformed officer was on him immediately, setting him to. The deck was positively littered with ropes, with winches and chains, drums and casks, all manner of object designed to draw a curious boy close to the rail. She’d need to watch the children every second of the day.

“There’s some confusion in the ladies’ section, sir,” the officer said to Henry. “You’re wanted straightaway.”

The ship’s doctor came up, offering Margaret and the children a tour in Henry’s absence.

Henry cheerfully accepted on Margaret’s behalf, before she could decide or get the first word out. They were led down a narrow corridor and shown the maple-paneled library, and then a card room, and yet another social room with a piano, an Oriental rug, and plush velvet drapery.

“It’s all quite impressive,” said Margaret, calmer now. It helped to be inside, away from the rail. By the time they reached the hectic dining hall she was feeling rather human again. The roast lamb smelled delicious. How novel to sit down to a meal she hadn’t so much as pared a potato for.

Dr. Pritchard escorted them to their cabin afterward, passing the animal pen along the way, where chickens mingled with pigs, and sheep stood with sad-looking dewlappy cows.

“We’ve the best of butchers aboard,” said the doctor.

“Nice piggy,” said Josephine, squatting, putting herself face-to-snout with a homely sow having her brown supper.

The grizzled old sailor inside the pen approached her. “You mustn’t ever utter the word pig on board a ship, lassie. ‘Twill bring the worst of luck. You’re to say swiney instead.”

“Come away, Pheeny,” said Margaret, giving the frightening man a stern eye.

At the opposite rail two young African sailors struggled to unlatch a wooden lifeboat. “They’re required to practice,” said the doctor, “before each sailing.”

The inept lads looked no older than twelve or thirteen. She would have to study the latching apparatus and teach herself how to unlock and release a boat. God help them should they need to rely on tots.

The women’s section was located just behind the animal pen. Male passengers, the doctor said, were strictly forbidden here. Margaret looked for Henry, but saw only women coming and going, old and young and in between, all laden with sacks and baskets. Off to the side, four women stood in a close huddle, Mrs. Randolph obviously presiding, one hand holding her fancy cape closed, the other gesturing wildly.

“Your husband will have earned his stipend,” said the doctor, reading Margaret’s mind.

She asked, “Do you have any idea when we might expect him?”

“I don’t. Sorry.” He brought them as far as their cabin door and left, saying that he was overdue.

She entered thinking, Henry, Henry, wait until you see. They’d both imagined a fairly spacious cabin, anticipated a small sitting area at least. In fact, the room offered only three places to sit: upon one of the two lower berths or upon the stool beneath the writing shelf. Lamps and washstand were bolted to the wall, virtually promising heavy seas. A shout came from outside, along with a grating rattle of chain. The ship shuddered and began to move. John begged to go to the bow, but Margaret said no, Father wouldn’t find them in the crowd. They waited for Henry inside, the dim little cabin rocking like an elephant’s cradle. When he didn’t come, she prepared the children for bed. “It’s been a long day, hasn’t it?” She changed into her nightdress and climbed the six-rung ladder to her berth, crouching at the top, proceeding on her hands and knees. There was no other way. The Queen herself would access the bed with her bottom in the air. Below, John kept up a steady stream of chatter.

“We’re bound to see whales tomorrow,” he said. “And sea pigs too.”

“The wobbly man told us not to say pig,” said Josephine. “You’re to say sea swiney instead.”

“Porpoise then,” said John. “That’s their other name.” Margaret fell asleep to their voices, dreaming that Henry had snuck off the ship and gone home on his own.

He showed up just after ten, whispering apologies. The captain had detained him, along with the other constables, treating them all to brandy and cigars. “The skipper’s a dyed-in-the-wool bachelor,” he said, “with no appreciation of a lovely girl waiting.” He attempted to squeeze his large self in beside Margaret, but even with her backside flush against the wall, the berth would not hold them both. He climbed down and then up again, settling in the opposite upper with a loud sigh. They were to sleep like celibates for the duration then, something they’d never done. A lonely, hemmed-in feeling came over her. In the dark, she touched the ceiling, calculating the distance—eight inches, ten at the most. A near-term woman wouldn’t fit. “’Night, Henry.”

“It’ll be all right, Meg,” he said.

She closed her eyes. “It will.”

HENRY WAS CALLED away to duty the next afternoon, missing the last spit of England. Margaret bundled the children and took them up top. A few dozen others stood somberly at the rail, a westerly whipping their clothes, blowing hats from heads. Cornwall’s jagged cliffs rose somewhere off the stern, no longer visible without a glass. Ahead lay nothing, absolutely nothing but an alarming expanse of churning sea and dull winter sky. A man began to play the anthem on his flute, slow and mournful. Some of the passengers locked arms and sang. The women sounded especially sad, their voices cracking. Margaret wasn’t the only one, then. There were others whose bones wouldn’t warm, others thinking: What in God’s name have we done?

THEY ENTERED the Bay of Biscay that evening and came along the edge of a storm. An hour into the weather, Henry complained of dizziness and blurred vision. Margaret went to fetch Dr. Pritchard, finding his tight quarters filled with patients. He gave her an orange and instructions to have Henry go up on deck. “I think you should come have a look,” she said. The doctor promised he would first chance. But he didn’t, and Henry was left to rally on his own.

On the sixth morning, in sight of the African coast, the seas placid, Margaret awoke feeling queer herself, quaky and nauseous. The doctor gave her an exasperated look when she came in, one that said: You, again. He asked straight off, “Are you in a family way?” Margaret said yes, and he shrugged, as if to say the symptoms were to be expected. He advised her to keep a full stomach.

“Much easier said than done,” she said.

The doctor laughed, showing another side of himself. “You’re a droll one. I like that.”

Mrs. Randolph was passing the infirmary just as Margaret came out. “Mrs. Oades! You’re well, I hope?”

“I am.” The lady’s eyes were glassy, fevered-looking. She was younger than Margaret first thought, probably Margaret’s own age, give or take a year. “And you, madam?”

Mrs. Randolph put a hand to her middle. “The lamb stew of two nights ago nearly killed me. Mind what you eat.”

“I shall,” said Margaret. “Pardon my saying so, but you appear a bit peaked still. Perhaps you should see the doctor.”

“I’ve seen the no-good,” said Mrs. Randolph. “Once was enough, thank you. A baby died last evening, you know.”

Margaret’s eyes filled. “Oh, dear God. Of what?”

“Whatever the cause,” said Mrs. Randolph, “the quack inside made not the first bloody attempt to save it. He’s a dentist, by the by, not a bona fide doctor. The purser informed me.” She touched Margaret’s hand with trembling fingers, her voice softening. “The child was the mum’s one and only. She is beside herself with grief, poor wretch. She’s not left her berth even to relieve herself. Some of the others and I plan to attend the service at four. Will you come, Mrs. Oades?”

“Of course.”

“We’ll show she’s not alone in the world, won’t we?”

“Yes,” said Margaret. “Though we won’t begin to solace.”

THE BABY’S NAME was Homer Brown. Someone whispered, “Barely a year old.”

Prayers were said, and then the shrouded child was let over the rail, into gray water, beneath a gray sky. The bereft mother faltered as the baby was released, grasping the rail in lieu of a husband. There was no man present, no kin at all.

Above, Margaret could hear the rowdy drunks in the men’s hatch, Norsemen, a good many of them. Someone shouted in English, “Show a bit of respect for the baby’s mum.” But they did not let up for a moment.




Kindness Itself (#ulink_a3d7ccdd-c982-5b1e-a96b-42f43b0498c4)


MARGARET BEGAN to miscarry on the eleventh morning out. A strong wind had come up during the night and was only now abating. A keen howl continued, along with straining-timber noises, hideous, ungodly sounds to die by.

Henry brought her down to John’s berth, and then went for Dr. Pritchard, returning instead with Mrs. Randolph. She carried a sack and something wrapped in blue flannel.

“Dr. Pritchard is ill,” said Henry.

“He’s utterly worthless is what he is,” said Mrs. Randolph, placing the flanneled package upon Margaret’s abdomen. “A brick hot from the oven,” she said. “Just the thing.”

Mrs. Randolph turned to Henry. “Take the children up top, why don’t you?”

“Yes, do please, Henry,” said Margaret.

Henry began snatching the children’s clothes from pegs. He dressed them, consoling all the while. “Mum is fine, Mum is perfectly fine.” With sleepy Josephine riding his hip, he bent and kissed Margaret’s forehead. “I’m sorry, sweetheart,” he whispered.

The ship rolled to port. A stir of odor rose from the chamber pot. Margaret turned to the wall, cramping still. The heat from the brick helped some. She drew up her knees, the sheet falling away, exposing her stained nightgown.

John cried out, “Mum’s bleeding!”

“Lady’s blood,” said Henry in a low voice, though not so low as to frighten John with seriousness. “Nothing more natural, boy.”

“Her eyes are closed,” wailed John. “She’s dead.”

“She’s not, son, she’s not. She’s resting. Let’s let her be now.”

She’d marry him all over, Margaret thought vaguely, for his fathering alone. “Go look for whales, John,” she murmured. “This may be your lucky day.”

Mrs. Randolph went to work the moment they left, preparing a basin of cool water and fishing a bar of scented soap from her bag. “Were you very far along?”

“Not quite three months.” She’d lost two others. It never got easier. The first, a full-term boy, was stillborn. That was the unspeakable worst.

Mrs. Randolph sighed. “It’s a terrible bleak feeling, isn’t it?”

Margaret sat up and began to wash. “Have you children?”

“None living.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Tut, tut, Mrs. Oades. No need for the long pussy face. I’ve not dried on the vine quite yet.” Through the wall came a male groan, a ghoulish sound. “So many ill,” said Mrs. Randolph. “Especially down in the women’s hatch. It isn’t right the way they have us situated alongside the animals. The girl under me is ailing. Spinster sisters both have a fever.”

“They should be quarantined,” said Margaret.

“The ship is chock full. Where would you have them go?”

“Hammocks might be slung in Dr. Pritchard’s quarters.”

Mrs. Randolph swatted the air. “And have the quack incommoded? He’d force oranges on the poor women and then fault them for dying, the same way he blamed Homer’s mum.”

“He didn’t,” said Margaret.

“He did,” said Mrs. Randolph. “The baby was fed tinned milk instead of mother’s. He’d be alive if not for that. The charlatan said it straight to the grieving woman’s face. I was there.”

“How cruel,” said Margaret.

“Men are.”

“What would a dentist know about babies?”

“What would any man, Mrs. Oades? Now where might I find a fresh nightgown?”

Margaret pointed toward the corner. “In the trunk. Near the bottom.”

Mrs. Randolph crossed the rolling floor, her arms spread for balance. She wore big, bold rings on both hands. Margaret had never owned a ring other than her wedding band. Her grandmother had been the same plain way, her mother was, all the aunts and cousins. Each generation bequeathed the austerity to the next, passed it sideways.

Mrs. Randolph knelt and opened the trunk, picking up the porcelain ginger jar inside. “Here’s a lovely thing.”

“A parting gift from my mum,” said Margaret. “A keepsake from home. It’s been sitting on her chimneypiece for as long as I can remember.”

“My mum was the sentimental sort, too,” said Mrs. Randolph. She gently returned the jar to the trunk, pulling out the other nightgown and bringing it to Margaret. There were bloodstains on that gown too, flecks of Margaret’s mother’s, thanks to a lost thimble. They’d both sewed furiously preparing for the journey, talking without respite as they worked, trying to get everything said.

Margaret slowly dressed herself. She and Henry had thought of names—Anne for a girl, after Margaret’s mother, Walter for a boy, after Mr. Whitman. “The dentist couldn’t have known for certain,” she said, setting the cold brick on the floor and lying back again. “Any number of ailments might have taken the child.”

Mrs. Randolph said softly, “Just rest, Mrs. Oades.”

Margaret closed her eyes. Never name a child before the christening. She’d heard it said often enough, but didn’t see how it mitigated the loss. Name or no name, Margaret loved them completely from the moment she knew. She fell asleep weeping, waking an hour later to Mrs. Randolph’s close whisper.

“How is it now?”

Margaret turned to face her. “You are kindness itself.”

Mrs. Randolph arched an eyebrow. “You didn’t think so at first. Mounting your high horse the way you did down on the docks.”

“Oh, forgive me, please. I shouldn’t be so touchy about my age. My husband is nearly two years younger. He likes to tease.”

“I assumed the gentleman was your da,” said Mrs. Randolph. “I was merely making certain.”

“Why?”

“I took a slight fancy to him.”

“You don’t mean it!” Margaret’s unsuspecting papa would have fainted dead away had she made an overture. “He’s an old man.”

Mrs. Randolph shrugged. “I prefer a mature gentleman.”

“My mum would have run you through with her umbrella.”

They laughed a little, Mrs. Randolph’s hand brushing close, her dazzling red-stone ring glinting. Margaret felt an odd urge to try it on for size. “Captain Burns would be more your sort,” she said. “I happen to know he’s an eligible bachelor.”

Mrs. Randolph waved off the suggestion, pulling a hankie from a side pocket, wiping her perspiring brow and neck. “No, thank you. His breath is foul, and he has a tremendous backside for a man. It’s every bit as broad as my own.” Her watery eyes shifted about. “The wind has died down, hasn’t it? Perhaps it’s time I fetched your husband.”

Margaret sat up a bit. “Please visit a moment longer.”

The cabin air was inhospitable, as warm and muggy as a coop’s. Still, Mrs. Randolph didn’t hesitate. She pulled the stool close and sat, buffing the ring with a sleeve and splaying her fingers. “Pretty, isn’t it? I noticed you looking.”

“It’s lovely. A ruby?”

“A garnet, actually. You should see how it does in a good light.” She tugged the ring free and pushed it down Margaret’s middle finger. “There now. Hold your hand to your cheek.” Margaret shyly complied. “Yes, like that. Isn’t it striking next to your dark hair? Christmas is coming. I’ll make a mention to Mr. Oades.”

“He’d think us both daft,” Margaret said, studying the ring. Henry was always saying that she was a natural, a born beauty. She denied that she was, though of course she liked to hear him say it. Oh, she wasn’t a scare. Her features were arranged nicely enough. She was a tall woman, a bit too tall, though she walked erect as she’d been taught, in fear of growing a hump. Her wasp waist, considering the children, drew the occasional flattering comment from other women. Her eyes were clear, more gray than blue, and her complexion was even, unblemished. But her mannish hands weren’t right. The knuckles were too large, unworthy of the ring’s glamour.

“You may borrow it one evening,” said Mrs. Randolph.

Margaret removed the ring and returned it. “Oh, I couldn’t possibly.”

“It was given to me by a circus performer,” said Mrs. Randolph. “A wild-animal trainer, a Persian living in Paris, a splendid masculine specimen.”

“How romantic,” said Margaret. “And the blue ring? A sapphire, is it?”

Mrs. Randolph nodded, smiling as if with fond memory. “An English gent surprised me with this one, a charming old dear from London. Rich as Midas. George. I don’t recall the surname. We’d just been to the Lyceum to see Sarah Bernhardt onstage.”

“Sarah Bernhardt. Really.”

“It was the highlight of my life. She sleeps in a satin-lined coffin, you know.”

“I didn’t know.”

“Am I tiring you, Mrs. Oades?”

“Not in the least,” said Margaret. “Was she as vulgar as they say?”

Mrs. Randolph leaned in. “She was sensual. She embodied the complete woman, if you know what I mean.” She closed her eyes and threw back her head, embracing the air, an invisible lover. A warm flutter passed through Margaret. She felt herself blushing. Mrs. Randolph let out a dreamy moan, her back arching, the stool teetering. She toppled off sideways, hitting her head with a solid thud.

“Mrs. Randolph! Are you all right?”

The cabin door flew open. Storming in ahead of the children, clumsy Henry nearly stepped on Mrs. Randolph’s outstretched hand. She rolled out of his range and stood awkwardly, brushing herself off, starting to laugh. Margaret laughed too. She couldn’t help herself.

Henry stood staring, looking as if he’d happened upon a cell of loons. “I heard the noise. What are you up to here? I thought my wife had fallen out of bed.”

“It was nothing,” said Mrs. Randolph, breathing hard. “Just a bit of cheer.”

She left a moment later, with a sisterly kiss to Margaret’s cheek and a promise to look in on her later. When Mrs. Randolph knocked at two, Margaret was sleeping, and Henry didn’t wake her.

“I hadn’t the heart,” he said.

They put in at Malta the next morning. Margaret looked for Mrs. Randolph at breakfast, but then the ship began taking on coal, a filthy process. A dry black dust rained down on the decks, their faces, their clothes. She and the children were forced below because of it. Soon after leaving tranquil Malta they were in rolling seas again. Henry ventured out toward the end of the day, bringing back cheese and warm milk that was to be their supper. The captain had ordered the decks cleared and the hatches closed.

“It’s expected to get worse before it gets better,” said Henry, breaking up the cheese with his hands.

They remained penned for the better part of two days. It fell to Henry to dump the pot and fetch the food. Margaret stayed with the children, entertaining them with stories and spillikins, a simple game when played on land. Players take turns selecting a jackstraw from a scattered pile, losing if another straw is disturbed. Margaret should have known that the ship’s movement would spoil the game, although the children didn’t seem to mind. They spent hours playing, riding John’s lower berth together.

On the third morning Henry returned later than usual from his constable’s duties. “Your Mrs. Randolph is gravely ill, I’m afraid.”

Margaret stood to leave. “You’ll mind the children?”

“I’m sorry, Meg. I cannot allow you to go. She might be contagious.”

“Think of all she’s done for me, Henry. I’ll stay no more than a minute, I promise. I’ll simply peek in to show I’ve come.”

He shook his head. “I’m sorry.”

She kicked the stool instead of him. “Imagine my preventing you from going to a friend in need!” John quit playing suddenly, gathering up the jackstraws. Josephine began nibbling her thumb, her wary eyes darting from parent to parent.

“Never mind,” Margaret said to the children. “Carry on with your game. Or would you rather a story? Shall I read some Tom Sawyer?” Henry hovered too close, looking infuriatingly contrite. There was no place to turn with her anger.

MRS. RANDOLPH DIED the next day. Margaret left John and Josephine with Henry and attended the service alone, joining a clutch of women on the lower deck. The cause of death was internal convulsions. So said the dentist. He volunteered the information straightaway, before anyone might think to inquire.

“I did everything within my power,” he said.

Margaret spoke up. “She didn’t respond to the orange cure?”

The dentist turned, glaring at her, drawing up his collar. As if her remark had sharpened the day’s gray bite. “I beg your pardon?”

“Mrs. Randolph complained to you of a stomach disorder early on, did she not?”

The dentist cupped a hand to his ear, feigning deafness. Margaret was about to repeat herself when Mrs. Randolph’s sailcloth-wrapped body arrived. She made a heartbreakingly paltry package. Margaret wept. There was so little to her in death.

Two African sailors brought her. The somber, broad-beamed Captain Burns—the bounder who’d allowed the dentist to pose as physician—followed behind, Bible in hand. Margaret bowed her head and prayed curses. God blast them both.

When she lifted her eyes, the sailors were in position at the rail. The Africans shivered in the damp air, awaiting their cue from the captain, who appeared impervious, both to weather and death. Almighty Burns began with a great heave of his shoulders, a world-weary glance skyward. A minute was given Mrs. Randolph, two at the most.

“We therefore commit Martha’s body to the deep…”

The mourners were forced aside to allow the crew room. Her body fell with a flat splash into the choppy sea, floating only a moment inside the weighted shroud.

“Looking for the general Resurrection in the last day, and the life of the world to come, through our Lord Jesus Christ, at whose second coming in glorious majesty to judge the world, the sea shall give up her dead…”

All sails were full. She was already gone, behind them. Somewhere off the stern, in the Mediterranean Sea, east of Malta, out of sight of land. Margaret imagined meeting Mrs. Randolph’s relations one day, or George from London, and having only these few unlovely facts to offer.

A week later, approaching Aden, Margaret pulled her own aching tooth with a string. She’d extract every tooth in her head, she told Henry, before she’d betray Mrs. Randolph by seeking out Dr. Pritchard.

“What does one have to do with the other?” said Henry. “Besides, you hardly knew the poor woman.”

Margaret tried, but she couldn’t make him understand an affection forged in a single morning. The small transactions between women, particularly mothers, cannot adequately be explained to a man. Some, like hers with Mrs. Randolph, will bind women for life.

CHRISTMAS CAME. Carols were sung. A plum pudding was served. They were nearly halfway quit of this wretched, murderous bark.




WellingtonFebruary, 1891 (#ulink_6dd87625-575d-55d1-a4f0-3e5f79d4f9f3)


SOMETHING HAD GNAWED a shilling-size hole straight through the trunk. Margaret stepped back and gave the contents tentative pokes with the umbrella. Nothing stirred. The vermin was gone. She leaned in again and unfolded the teal-blue arrival frock, a ridiculously expensive thing with exquisite glass buttons. Her family slept on, oblivious to the shouts and clomping boots above, the lovely symphony of men preparing to anchor. At her back, Henry shifted fitfully, thrashing his sheet to the floor. He’d been seasick two days running now. She retrieved the sheet and covered him, feeling his warm forehead, stroking his shoulder. “Today’s the day, dear heart.”

He murmured something unintelligible and turned on his side.

“I’ll wake you when it’s time,” she said, returning to the business of their wardrobe, brimming with energy and health. She felt exhilaratingly liberated, like a servant just released from indenture. Let the sailors request her assistance with the heavy mooring lines. She’d have a go at it.

She roused the children before they were ready and dressed them as she would two posts, putting them in the twin costumes sewn up for the occasion, black-and-white-checked ensembles with sweet sailor collars. “Perfect,” she said. “Now make believe you’ve just been introduced to the governor.”

John made a lackluster bow and sat back down on the edge of his berth. Josephine curtsied and did the same. Margaret clapped her hands sharply. “On your feet. Today’s the day. What did Tom Sawyer say to his mates? Shake out that maintogalans’l! Sheets and braces! Now, my hearties!” She bent and kissed them, turning her cheek to their cool foreheads. “Time for breakfast, my darlings.”

“What about poor dad?” said John.

“He’ll come round once on land, son. You’ll see.”

Up top the warm wind lifted Margaret’s hat from her head. Perspiration streamed from her temples, her underarms, pasting her fine new overcorset to her flesh.

“My word,” she said, coming abreast of the first officer. “Such unusual weather.”

“Not at all, madam,” he said. “’Tis summer here, you know.”

She hadn’t known. Nor had Henry. He was dressed when they returned, decked out in the handsome wool purchased with the governor’s welcoming party in mind. Even now he was unhealthily florid, panting.

“You’ll roast alive,” said Margaret.

“I’ve nothing else,” he said, gesturing toward the corner. The cabin boys had already come for the trunk.

She brushed a bit of lint from his sleeve. “Well, never mind then. We’ve arrived. That’s all that matters, isn’t it? Tonight we’ll enjoy supper in our own cozy flat. Won’t that be lovely at long last? I might start a pot of cow-heel soup if we’re settled early enough and there’s a decent butcher on hand. How does that strike you?”

He touched her cheek. “You’re the best girl.”

THE LADY OPHELIA was anchored some distance from the wharf. A queue to board her tenders wound around one deck and down a flight. The line moved at an encouragingly swift pace and then abruptly stalled.

Margaret gazed landward. After eight weeks aboard, the Arctic steppes would have been a welcoming sight. Still, she hadn’t expected such an idyllic storybook place. They were moored in a perfect bowl. Small houses dotted the rocky shore. Farther back stood lush blue-green hills.

A man spoke behind her. “The head of the fish. It’s hardly a fair description, is it?”

Margaret turned, smiling at the bespectacled officer. “Sir?” She knew him by sight, not by name. He’d been particularly kind to the children on board, winning them over with small treats from his pocket.

“North Island is shaped rather like a fish,” he said, “or so the Maori legend goes. Wellington is its head, the sweetest part.”

“Maori, sir?”

“The indigenous peoples, madam. Did you not attend the captain’s lecture Friday last? He went into some detail on the subject.”

“I’m afraid not,” said Margaret. She’d had no interest in anything the captain had to say. “I couldn’t leave the children.” The officer tipped his cap and wished her good day, good luck.

To the west a double rainbow arced, a thrilling spectacle, the best of all omens. “Lovely,” she murmured, more to herself. Henry had been right. It is good to get to know other things and places. Beside her, Henry bowed over the rail, as if about to pray or die.

“Why not take off your coat?” He shook his head, not opening his eyes. She gave him a pet. “Just think of the luxury coming. I’ve been dreaming of a real bath for weeks now.” The queue started up again. He pulled himself from the rail and shepherded his family forward.

Boarding was a tricky proposition, given the swell in the harbor. The secured tender came and went sideways, banging against the ship’s hull. The tender’s skipper stood waiting inside the narrow open boat. Fashionable ladies stepped down cautiously, clumsily, into his large grimy hands. Margaret stood single-file behind John and Josephine, who were behind the corpulent vicar and his wife, and about to go on. In the next moment, Henry made a strangled noise and vomited between ship and tender, into the water and down his brass-buttoned front.

The children cried out in unison. “Dad!” The mangy skipper snatched them up, John first, and then Josephine, sitting them down hard on the tender’s wooden bench. He beckoned to Margaret, growling that he didn’t have all day. Margaret pulled Henry free of the soiled coat. They boarded the tender, she shakily, bulky coat and satchel on one arm.

Onshore the soft ground swayed. Her legs wobbled, felt about to give way. People swarmed, meeting in raucous reunion, kissing and hugging. Margaret and Henry scanned the wharf in all directions, looking for the governor’s welcoming committee. They stood for half an hour, smiling at various clutches of well-dressed men. No one approached except a yellow-eyed mongrel with an oozing gash in place of an ear. Josephine stood in the dog’s path, howling. Margaret put herself between child and beast and stamped her feet. The dog fled. Josephine blubbered on. Henry collapsed onto a cask. “Where could they be?”

“Never mind,” said Margaret. She adjusted the brim of his good hat, shielding his face from the beating sun. “Stay with the children. I’ll find a hack.” She bent and whispered to John and Josephine. “Keep an eye on your dad.” They gave dull nods, John boring a finger into a red ear, Josephine snuffling up, her nose running like an urchin’s. It was just as well that they were on their own. The governor’s pomp would have done her family in completely.

She headed toward the road, asking the first woman she encountered, a plump lady in an everyday dress, about to drive off in an open rig. “Oh, I don’t imagine you’ll find a hack this time of day,” the woman said. “They’ll still be in church, or gambling their babies’ milk money away. One of the two.”

Margaret thanked her and turned to resume her search.

The woman called after her. “I can take you where you’re going.”

The unexpected kindness brought Martha Randolph to mind. “We’ll gladly pay.”

The woman laughed. “Did you bring anything for bunions?”

“Sorry, madam. No.”

“You’ll owe me then,” said the woman, introducing herself. Mrs. Anamim Bell.

“A lovely name,” said Margaret. “Biblical.”

“It’s a horrid name,” said Mrs. Bell. “You’ll call me Mim or I won’t take you.”

“Mim, then. Thank you, Mim. Thank you very much indeed. And you’ll call me Margaret. Or Meg if you prefer.” Her earlier energy had leaked away. She was tired now, wishing only to be settled. And here came her bedraggled family. “My husband, Henry Oades. My children, John and Josephine. We call her Pheeny.”

“The poor lambs,” said Mrs. Bell. “Step up now. You’ll send for your things. I know a reliable man. Though you won’t get him to work on the Sabbath.”

So be it, thought Margaret. They’d make do one night, sleep in their underclothes. All she asked for was a stable floor and a stationary bed. She sat up front, next to Mrs. Bell. Henry dozed behind them, an arm curled about the limp children.

“You’re nearly dead, aren’t you,” said Mrs. Bell. “Poor girl.”

Margaret smiled, beginning to drowse. She pictured a nice big bed with crisp dry linens, her husband sleeping beside her for the first time in months. Supper first, though. “Can you recommend a butcher, Mrs. Bell?”

“Can you recommend a butcher, Mim.”

“Of course. Sorry. Mim.”

“The most handy is a blackguard from whom I wouldn’t buy a bone for my dog.”

“Oh, dear.”

“Jones is the best of the lot. His gristle at least comes with a morsel of flesh. You’ll want to keep watch on his fat thumb, though. His wife’s as well. They cheat for sport here.”

Mim began to list the town’s shops, describing the goods within each, naming the slippery-fingered sneak-thieves to be avoided. “You’ll find everything you need, but it’s not like home.”

“I don’t imagine,” said Margaret, fighting to stay awake. The woman’s drone would put an insomnious owl to sleep.

After a while, Mim asked, “What’s your man to do here?”

“He’s been asked to take over the new accounting system at Her Majesty’s distillery.”

Mim nodded. “Quite the cap feather for one so young.”

Henry cleared his throat. Margaret turned around. He smiled, waggling bushy eyebrows, vindicated. Margaret smiled too, rolling her eyes.

They came over a wooden bridge, passing a broad orchard. “What’s grown here?”

“Pip fruit, mainly,” said Mim, “Apples and grapes. And tedium.”

THEY ARRIVED in late afternoon, tying up the horse in front of a dull brown building with small windows. A cheese shop and a sneak-thief bookbinder occupied the ground floor. “His paste doesn’t last a week,” said Mim. The flats were located above the shops, eight homes in all. Mim offered a hand with the children and satchels, bustling about, not waiting for an answer. Margaret started up the building’s stone steps behind John, thinking mainly about relieving herself.

Theirs was number four, two steep stories up. John opened the front door. “It reeks,” he said, looking around.

He was right. The air was stale and musty. A chamber pot sat in full view, in it a desiccated mess. Margaret scraped the pot along the gritty floor with her foot, moving it behind the coarse curtain separating the sleeping alcove. She summoned the children, saying don’t look, feeling their foreheads for fever as they squatted, opening her reticule then, dealing out a toilet square each. An aunt had presented her with a generous supply before sailing, saying you never know what you’ll find. Margaret took a square for herself and loosened her drawers, hovering over the putrid pot. Henry the camel feigned no urgent need, shy of Mim Bell, no doubt.

Henry led the tour. The main room contained a green divan, an empty curio cabinet, and three straight-back chairs, one with elegant tapered legs. There were no books, no paintings, no vases for flowers. The stove was greasy, the tub beside it filthy with private hairs and insect husks. There was no oil for the lamps. The kitchen curtains were dreadful, dirty and tattered, and they were one bed short. Margaret hung her head after a brief inspection, defeated. Henry came to her, springy, as if with a second wind. It was how they were, how they’d always been. When one tottered, the other rallied.

“We’ll hire a girl,” he said. “There’s no need to lift a finger.”

His beard was crusted with salt; his fetid breath turned her stomach and weakened her knees. “I’m a bit dizzy,” she said.

Mim produced a hankie and began flogging the worn divan. “Sit now, why don’t you?”

“Just for a moment perhaps,” said Margaret, grateful. “I seem made of rubber.”

“Mr. Bell and I arrived five years ago Saturday,” said Mim. “I remember the wretched day all too well. It’s the queerest feeling being on land again, the bobbing and weaving, the addled thinking. It’ll be with you awhile, I’m afraid. You’ll go to take the bread from the oven and find the raw loaf still sitting in the bowl.”

“Five years,” said Margaret. “I cannot begin to imagine.”

Henry dipped behind the curtain and picked up the chipped chamber pot. “Come along,” he said to the children. “We’ll let Mum have a rest.” The three traipsed out. Mim followed on their heels. “I’m just round the corner,” she said before leaving.

Margaret closed her eyes, stupid with exhaustion. Moments later, on the other side of the wall, there came a clatter of pans, an angry man bellowing, “Get to it!”

A woman screeched, “Not on your bloody say-so.” He was a toad, an idler, a no-good. Her mother was right about him. She was a cow, a common draggletail. His brother was right about her. Margaret removed the pretty slipper meant to impress the governor and threw it against the wall. The man sneezed a blustery sneeze. Then all went silent. She retrieved the shoe and closed her eyes again.

She had wondered about the neighbors, never having lived where people were above, below, all around. She’d looked forward to it actually, had imagined a warren of like-minded women her own age, all helping one another, exchanging recipes and such. She nodded off, her head heavy as a melon. The next thing she knew a woman was letting herself in, butting the door open with a broad hip, a bulging sack in one arm, a limp tick folded over the other. Margaret came to disoriented, assuming herself at sea. “Hello.”

The woman grinned. “Your boy happened upon a little playmate.”

“He’s a friendly one,” murmured Margaret. She recognized the moldy place now, the stout woman with the overbite. “Where are they, Mim?”

“In the yard. No need to worry. Your mister’s minding them just fine. Lucky you, landing such a prize. Otherwise you’d string him up here and now, wouldn’t you?” Mim proffered the sack. “Give us a hand, will you?”

They laid out the supplies on the kitchen table, their backs to the one dirty window. Mim had brought back a sleeping pallet, lamp oil, tea and supper things. There were cheeses, sausages, toffees for the children, and a bottle of red wine.

“You shouldn’t have,” said Margaret, overwhelmed. “You’re much too generous.” The cracked linoleum rolled beneath her feet. The cupboards shifted with every turn of her head. “You’ll stay for supper, won’t you?” It shamed her to offer hospitality from such a cesspit. “If you can bear it, that is.”

“Don’t be discouraged,” said Mim, slicing the sausage, laying it out on the clean plate she’d thought to bring. “Elbow grease is all. A good scrubbing, a new curtain or two.”

“I suppose,” said Margaret, looking about. There was nothing to see out the filmy panes but brick. “There’s a horrid smell.”

“Like mutton left cold and forgotten,” said Mim.

“More on the order of entrails,” said Margaret. “An old goat’s viscera.”

“Or an old man’s work drawers,” said Mim.

Margaret laughed. “After a bout with the trots.”

Mim pulled a corkscrew from her pocket. “A wee drop to sweeten the stench?”

“No, thank…yes, thank you. Thank you very much indeed. It couldn’t hurt.”

Mim took a throttlehold on the bottle. “You’re dying to wring his dear neck, aren’t you?”

The children were coming up the stairs, chattering in healthy voices. Margaret thought yellow curtains might be nice, a cheery color to stand in for the light.

Mim wrestled with the corkscrew, perspiration collecting above her lip. “You’d like nothing better than to put a pillow to his darling face and murder him in his sleep for carting you and the little ones halfway round the world.”

Henry came in. Mim’s scorched cheeks blazed brighter with embarrassment. “A figure of speech, Mr. Oades.”

“She’s offered to wring my neck for less,” he said, folding an arm about Margaret, kissing her temple. “Haven’t you?”

“I don’t recall it,” Margaret said, swaying against his side. If only the dingy room would still itself. He spoke close to her ear.

“Imagine us crabbed old sots before the fire, telling our spoiled grandchildren about the days spent here.” He bent over in parody, an ancient on a walking stick. He felt and looked feverish, in need of a bath and sleep. He took a bit of cut sausage and put it to her lips. “Have a taste, Granny. Or haven’t you any teeth to enjoy it?”

She ate the sausage to please him, to allow him to quit the nonsense.

“It’s quite delicious, Grandpapa.”

He kissed her again. “It’s not forever.”

Mim said, “I didn’t speak to my husband for the longest time after we came.”

Margaret looked at Henry. “Do you promise?”




WellingtonMarch, 1892 (#ulink_0660c654-5566-548a-9090-ae7c1d3b2fe4)


Dearest Parents,

We have moved at long last, loved ones. Henry borrowed a dray from Mr. Sweeny. (“Leased,” I should say. The miserly man charged us for the use of his rickety conveyance & sickly mule. He wasn’t in need of either at the time, I might add.) But no matter, we have arrived. We have traded our cramped flat for a lovely cottage by the water & are glad for having done so. There’s not another soul within sight. Instead of rowing neighbors one hears only the rushing river and the wind blowing through the trees. It is the perfect tucked-away place.

We are swiftly moving into autumn, though our world is still abloom. The former tenants, Dr. Garrett and his wife (returned to England due to old-fashioned homesickness), left healthy roses behind, yellow mainly, & some red. We have gardenias as well, sweet violets, fuchsia & blue hydrangea as big as a baby’s head!

The cottage itself sits upon a gentle rise & is quite suitable, but for an infestation of moths. Henry treated the problem with turpentine, but it has not done much good. He says I must give it time. (I say I must give it every last frock!) Too, we’ve a leak directly over our bed. Henry promised to repair the roof, but has yet to get round to it. I lack the heart to keep after him. We would have remained in town, had he had his way. Now that we’re here he is obligated to rise long before the sun & start out in the dark, on primitive clay roads.

You asked about Henry’s duties. He is the one to calculate the distillery’s every last expense, which is no small feat. It is not merely a matter of keeping count of the pencils & pens & kegs. He must also keep a close eye on the workers. If a man is tardy or loafs, Henry must determine and assign a cost. He likens Mr. Freylock, his supervisor, to the English master at Kings School who left him in charge of the younger boys & then popped in every ten minutes to see that Henry was running things properly. You know the sort. Henry tolerates Mr. Freylock far better than I would.

‘Tis the mud season. Henry will often stay in town after a big rain, rather than risk becoming stuck. Then too, he is both bakeryman & dairyman, as no one will make deliveries this far north. He’s made his fair share of sacrifice. I shall learn to live in harmony with the moths & drips. The tranquillity is more than worth it.

Mum, I picture you reading this letter aloud to Dad. You are situated on the green chair, cup at your left, the tea in it gone cold. Dad sits across from you, old Grazer snoring at his feet. Have I drawn an accurate picture? Is Dad grousing: “Flowers & moths & muddy roads! Will she ever come round to mentioning the children?”

Patience, Father dear. (Is he rolling his eyes to the heavens now?)

By now you have received the photograph. It is not a bad likeness, though the sun was in our eyes. You must forgive my lunatic’s smile. Our precious twins put it there. (Martha in Henry’s arms, Mary in mine.) They are the dearest of baby girls. I cannot wait for you to meet them. They are feeding well & sleeping four hours at a stretch. Do put the photograph in a safe place, by the by, as we shall not be sitting for another. Every mother wants a photograph to send home, & so the photographer gets away with charging a ludicrous fee. “A solid gold frame should be included in the price,” I said. The pompous dandy suggested I take my business elsewhere, knowing full well I wouldn’t, as he has no competitors worth considering in Wellington. At the end, I found myself cajoling him, much to my shame. I not only paid his ridiculous fee, but laid out supper as well! The blackguard enjoyed my kowtowing. He relished every last minute of it.

Were you shocked to see how Josephine has shot up? She so appreciated the embroidered apron her granny sent, but is close to outgrowing it already. Such a joy she is, & such a fine & willing helper! Sunday last she prepared a potted hare that I’d be proud to serve the governor. I’m enclosing the recipe. The more butter you add the better it will taste. It should keep nicely in a cool place for several weeks. Her sewing is coming along as well. Pheeny shall make a splendid wife one day. I’d worry were she ten years older. Dr. Garrett’s handsome daughter married a local lad. It broke Mrs. Garrett’s heart to leave her child so far behind. I had her to tea before they sailed. She had quite the long sob, believing she’d never see her daughter again. I offered to keep an eye on the young woman, but what good does that do Mrs. Garrett, really? It’s an unnatural business, putting impossible distance between parent and child. I, for one, have had my fill of it. I plan to stay put once home. You have my word, & Henry’s word as well.

John is kept in books & so is thriving. He is particularly keen on the stars & planets these days & has recently struck up a correspondence with a member of the Royal Astronomy Society. He’ll no doubt meet boys his own age once enrolled at the new school. In the meantime, our son’s closest chum is a pensioner of eighty-four!

Good news: You’ll remember my mentioning Anamim Bell, the sailmaker’s wife. I am happy to report that she has talked her husband into moving up this way. Mim is grand company. She is cheery & not one bit overdone about it. She vows we shall sit our husbands down & teach them to play euchre. Now if only I might magic you dears over for a hand or two. I miss you both so. As of today, ten months and three weeks remain. Pray the time flies.

Your always loving & devoted daughter, Margaret

ON WEDNESDAY Henry returned home with a bottle of wine and a sack of hard candies for the children. Margaret followed him into their bedroom, where he hung his hat and coat, and followed him out again. “What’s the occasion?”

He laughed a nervous laugh and ran a hand through his hair. “You’ll never guess.”

In the front room he bent over the babies in their cradles and made foolish noises. John came in, bombarding Henry. “Dad! I’ve taught the dogs seven new tricks. Come round back and see.” Josephine continued laying out the soup plates. She called to her father, competing for attention.

“Give your father a moment’s peace,” said Margaret. She met his eyes. “What is it, Henry?”

His gaze shifted to the ceiling. “I’ve been promoted.”

“Oh, Henry. What does that mean precisely?”

“It means I’ve a dozen men below me now. It means another ten quid per week.”

“In terms of time,” she said. “Tell me we’re not staying on indefinitely.”

John and Josephine stood silently watching. Henry took his place at the table and motioned the children to take theirs. “It’s an honor, Meg.”

“I’ve no doubt,” said Margaret, striving for calm. She brought out pea soup and a platter of ham and sat. “Let us be family now.” It was what she said every evening. Henry and the children bowed their heads for grace. “Are we staying on, Henry? Just tell us that much.”

“Not indefinitely,” he said, looking up briefly.

“Oh, Henry.” Margaret bowed her head and pressed her fingers to her burning eyes.

The twins were three months old now, a demanding set at times. The move from the flat to the cottage had been fraught with frustrations great and small. Granted, she was tired, overly prone to dark moods these days. Still. They’d been less than a year shy of their return. How could he?

“A MAORI LAD was publicly flogged today,” Henry said after grace.

“That’s hardly a subject for the table,” said Margaret. It was like him to negate one problem with another more dramatic.

John’s face was vivid with interest. “What was his crime?”

“Please,” said Margaret. Mary started up, the fussier of the two. Margaret went to her and rocked the cradle with her foot.

“He pinched a keg of rum,” said Henry. “Or so it was charged. He didn’t look the sort. A grand display was made of it. Several dozen Maori were lined up, forced to witness the lashing. As a lesson, I presume. A tribesman from the church was there. The lovely tenor? What’s his name, Meg?”

Mary squawked, waking Martha. “Bring a cross lass to me,” Henry said. Margaret brought Mary, intentionally handing over the more sour-smelling and cranky. He held her in the crook of one arm, smiling down, transformed as always. “Turns out the lad was a royal. The governor says there’s bound to be trouble.”

“That’s enough now,” said Margaret.

“FORGIVE ME, HENRY,” she said next morning. He was dressing in the far corner by wavering lamplight. Her voice gave him a start. “I was purely selfish.”

He came to her just as she sat up, cracking his forehead against hers, swearing. “Christ! Hardheaded woman.”

“Irreverent man! You shall be struck down by lightning.”

Both laughed softly. She stroked his beard, the back of his bristly neck. “I’m quite proud of you.”

He took her face between his hands and kissed her lips. “And I of you, my girl.”

“I’ll post your letter this morning,” he said, standing, pulling his coat from the peg.

“I need to add a few lines,” she said.

He nodded. “I’ll wait, then.”

Margaret hugged herself, thinking of home. “What shall I say about our return?”

“I wish I could tell you. I’ll know more next month.”

“Forever?” she asked.

He bent and kissed her again. “Not forever.”

PS: We have only just learned of Henry’s promotion to senior inspector. He has twelve men below him now, two of whom have just arrived. It is an unexpected honor, one that requires an extended stay here. We hope to start for home before next Christmas, but no assurances have been made as of yet. I shall write again soon with the particulars.




Taken (#ulink_1bc44627-a3d0-5d51-a777-8083b71bde00)


THE IRRITABLE BABIES kept Margaret from going herself.

She sent John in his dog cart to Mim’s, returning the six borrowed eggs, plus one as interest. A note went along, telling of the promotion.

It’s an honor, indeed, though I wish with all my heart we were preparing to sail. This morning I could no longer hear my father’s voice in my head.

She’d stopped writing and fed the note to the fire, starting another. You’d never hear such sob-baby blather leaving Mim’s pen or lips. “I’ll escape this godforsaken place when Cyril croaks,” Mim once said. “Not a day before. There’s no point in stewing in the meantime.”

Mim rode out two days later, her dull-witted boy, Oscar, driving. Margaret was watching for Henry at the front window. She came out to greet them, lantern in hand. The reddening sky was already fading.

Something spooked Mim’s horse, causing it to rear and Oscar to shriek. Mim seized the abandoned reins, yanking hard. Margaret took hold of the cheekpiece and tied the shuddering animal to a fence post, smiling up at Mim’s only child. “Hello, Oscar. Fine evening, isn’t it?”

Oscar stared off into the middle distance, a thin stream of drool coursing from the corner of his slack mouth. He was eight now, a stocky boy, too fond of boiled sweets, and fearful of everything, horses in particular.

Mim, as myopic as any mother, thought him exceptional. “You should have seen him coming over,” she said. “Calm as a rutabaga, weren’t you, sweetheart? And every bit as brave.”

Margaret took his slippery fat hand and assisted him down from the open rig. “What do we have here?” she asked of the dish towel knotted at his neck.

“He fancies himself a cowboy,” said Mim, climbing down. The mare let out an odd squeal, straining against her tether, baring yellow teeth. Mim slapped a broad rump. “Mind your manners.”

“You’re a fine cowboy indeed,” said Margaret. She stroked Oscar’s round head, a terrain of scabs and bumps she couldn’t see.

He thrust out his chest and bowed his chubby legs. “I’m off to America.”

It may have been the longest sentence he’d ever uttered in her presence. Margaret wrapped an arm about him, grateful for her sound-minded children. “You’re not sailing straightaway, are you, Sir Cowboy? I’ve a lovely goulash cooking. You’ll stay for supper, won’t you?”

“Grub,” said Oscar, shrugging off her hand.

“That’s a cowboy’s supper,” said Mim, rolling her eyes. “He’s been down on the docks with his dad all week. There’s a Yank ship in port. The blokes sport with him, fill his ears with cowboy rubbish.”

Oscar drew an imaginary pistol from an imaginary holster and aimed thumb and forefinger, shooting first his mother, and then Margaret. Mim clutched her heart and reeled a bit.

Margaret laughed and passed the lantern to him. “Lead us in, cowboy. I’ve grub burning on the stove.”

“You’re in jolly spirits, considering,” said Mim.

“Jolly enough,” said Margaret. “What choice is there, really?”

“Have you considered returning early with the children?”

“Certainly not.” Though Margaret had, privately. Yesterday while shelling peas she’d given the idea long selfish thought. She’d imagined herself standing on the dock, the ship bobbing in the bright distance. She saw the leather trunk being loaded onto the tender. She saw too her morose and confused children, falling on Henry, refusing to be separated.

Margaret and Mim started up the path behind Oscar. Mim caught Margaret’s hand, swinging to and fro, like a schoolgirl. “It shall be a sad day for me when you go.”

Margaret squeezed Mim’s hand. “Misery loves her company, doesn’t she?”

JOSEPHINE STOOD at the stove, humming under her breath. “Auntie Mim! I didn’t know you were coming.”

“Hello, my darling girl.” Mim came into the light, struggling from her too small coat. “Your lamb smells divine. Where’s your brother? He promised to show Oscar a rope trick.”

“He’s round back with the dogs.” Josephine left the stove, picking up her embroidery and settling on the divan. “We’re training them for the circus. I’m to hold the hoop. I’ll wear a special costume done up in spangles.”

Margaret smiled, picturing her freckled twig-thin girl done up in spangles. Josephine gave a haughty toss of braids, as if reading her mother’s thoughts. “We plan to make our fortune.”

Mim gave Oscar a swat to his trousers. “Run along outside now, and I do mean run, precious slug. It’ll do you some good.”

“I’m hankering for grub,” said Oscar, moving out of her reach.

“Hanker outside then,” said Mim.

Determined Oscar started toward the goulash, like a poky sow toward her trough. “I reckon it’s too dark out.”

Mim took him by the shoulders and turned him about. “I don’t reckon the dark will harm you any.”

“Grub shan’t be long,” said Margaret.

Oscar took the lantern and shuffled outside, calling John’s name.

Mim went to the babies, asleep in their cradles. “Oh, the loves,” she whispered, gazing down. “What I’d give for a tidy girl.”

Margaret came up behind. “Their ears are tidier, certainly. Was Oscar born with dirty ears?”

“Filthy. Chock full of crusty muck, his nostrils no better.”

Margaret shook her head. “I don’t know what it is. John was a little wax factory from the start.” Martha suckled in her sleep, creating a sweet milky foam. Their beauty never ceased to amaze. There was no love like it, not in this world.

“And mine?” asked Josephine.

“You were born with angel ears,” said Margaret.

Josephine nodded, as if to say “of course.”

“What I’d give,” murmured Mim. “Every mother needs a girl of her own.” She bent and lightly traced the rim of Mary’s perfect pink ear. “Where’s the promoted one?”

“He’s due any time. Come sit. The water’s on. We’ll have a quick hand and a cup.”

At the table, Margaret dealt a hand of euchre to Mim and herself, and two invisible players. The dogs started up a frantic barking just as she turned up trump, spades, the jack, right bower. Mim glanced at the dark window. “Henry?”

Margaret was already standing, collecting the cards, returning them to the case. Henry would come in ravenous as always. She was searching out the jam when the shots rang out, silencing the dogs. The jar slipped from her hand, shattering. People were coming, heavy footsteps pounding the earth. Mim rose from the table, drawing a long breath of audible panic. Josephine sat suspended, her eyes unnaturally brilliant, needle drawn up. The front door blew open, driving in a raft of brown-skinned males.

Josephine cried out. “Mama!”

Margaret shouted, her heart roaring with fear, “Into the bedroom!” But there was no time.

The Maori filled the room, brandishing rifles and whips, a hideous tattooed four, with mouths yawning wide, tongues wagging obscenely.

The babies wailed in high-pitched unison. Josephine still hadn’t moved. Margaret crooned to her petrified girl, her voice crackling. “Don’t be afraid, darling. Mama’s here. Father’s coming.” Please, God. I beg you. Bring him now.

She backed toward the cradles, considering weapons—the finely honed butcher knife, Henry’s black pistol in the bedroom. “What do you want? Get out. You’ve the wrong house. I insist you leave immediately. My husband will have your bloody heads on a pike.”

Mim ducked toward the door. A squat one blocked her path, latching onto her arm. She screeched, spittle flying. “If you’ve harmed my boy, so help me God, I shall pull your misbegotten cock out by the root and make a dog’s supper of it!”

Margaret bent and scooped up Mary. In the next instant the howling baby was wrenched from her arms and stuffed inside a flax sack. She fell on the sweating creature, clawing, drawing blood. He shoved her off. She staggered, knocking back Henry’s chair. Margaret shrieked, searing her throat. “Please, God! My baby!”

The squat one went for Martha, doing the unspeakable same with her.

“In the name of our Lord Jesus! Have mercy. Is it money you want?”

Her arms were yanked back, her wrists bound with rough twine.

Two wrestled with Mim, but she evaded them, flailing wildly, screaming. “Animals! Lowly stinking shit-eating swine!” She threw back her head and delivered a shrill hog-call of a racket.

The one by the door came forward, leaving an unguarded opening behind him.

Margaret shouted, “Run, Pheeny, run!”

Josephine came alive and bolted for the door. The man lunged, yanking Josephine back by a braid. She squealed in pain and sank her teeth into his hand. He raised his rifle, as if to strike. Mim lowered her head and charged, ramming him from behind. “Leave her be, ye sodding savage!”

The monster spun around without releasing Josephine. He caught Mim beneath the chin with the butt of his rifle. Her head snapped back, eyes rolling white, blood streaming from her nostrils. She fell in a heap, one plump arm crossing her face, the other beneath her.

Margaret whispered Mim’s name, choking on phlegm and tears. She pleaded with God, with Jesus. But Mim did not stir. Margaret started for Josephine. The youngest-looking bastard, barely older than John, came between them. He caught Margaret’s forearm and marched her toward the door. He was a full head shorter. Nits crawled in his greasy hair. She begged the wretched child. “Please, sir. Allow me my babies.”

He balled up a foul-tasting rag and forced it past her teeth.

“Mama,” sobbed Josephine. Then she too was gagged.

They were goaded forward, out the door. Margaret strained, searching out her babies in the dark, the sacks that held them. Behind them a torch was lit and put to the curtains she’d only just hemmed and hung.

Outside, Oscar was trussed like a lamb and positioned belly down on the back of a horse. He looked up expectantly as Margaret and Josephine were brought out of the burning cottage, letting out a heartbreaking keen when his mother did not appear. John was tied, but on his feet, wet horror gleaming in his eyes. He mouthed to Margaret as she passed, “They murdered the dogs.” The nit-boy jerked her forward. Oh Jesus, please.

A rant of prayer coursed on in her brain. Margaret fixed her gaze on the pitted road from town. She beseeched God to intervene, to spare her children, to bring Henry now. The fear was a salty, blinding, viscous thing, clogging her throat and ears. They started toward the river, she, John, and Josephine on foot, a Maori each between them. The men chattered among themselves, speaking their bastard tongue, laughing now and again, drowning out her babies’ muffled cries. For a time she heard both Mary and Martha, and then, eventually, only Mary.




Inconceivable (#ulink_5f3f0e26-f3aa-5aad-bb0a-60b2774453dd)


THE MOON APPEARED between two slow clouds. Margaret told herself Martha was sleeping. The child slept sounder than most, did she not? Like a bear cub in winter, as Henry would say. He’d sung operatic cradle songs to her. He’d sung to them all. It’s a lovely thing, a man singing to a baby. Surely he was on his way.

The air had turned colder by degrees. Her feet were soaked, icy. A numbness had developed in her right leg and hip. How far had they walked? Ten, fifteen miles? Twenty? Christ, Lord. She had no way of gauging distance or time. Hours had passed, it seemed. John and Josephine would be out of their minds with exhaustion and hunger.

Margaret was second in line, shivering behind the lead savage. Two on horseback followed at some distance. John and Josephine were farther back still, beyond her view now. She glanced over her shoulder again. The Maori behind bared his teeth and thrust his chin forward. Please, God. Help us. They’d all come away wearing next to nothing—no gloves, no coats, summer stockings and thin soles. The damp seeped right through. Her heel caught on a slimy river stone. She teetered, letting out a ragged cry. The brute ahead turned and glared. How hateful, how menacing his look. As though he were the one so horribly wronged. His wretched animosity was unfathomable.

She bowed her head against the chill. She must concentrate, keep her wits about her. She’d be needed when Henry came. Above, in the trees, a horse snorted. Henry! There was a snap of branches, a rush of hooves. She turned around, seeking out her children, just as another five tribesmen rode down the hill and fell in with the others. In her despair she wet herself. They were so many now. Almost simultaneously she realized that Henry would not have proceeded alone. He’d have Mr. Bell alongside, and, at the very least, Messrs. Clark, Sully, Reed, and Freylock, all strong and strapping men, all excellent shots. It would have taken time to rally them. Though by now they would be assembled and on their way. Margaret worked on producing saliva, softening the putrid rag in her mouth. The weave was stiff, inflexible. She sawed with her jaw and bottom teeth. Broom-straw slivers broke away. She spit them out quietly, marking the trail for Henry.

They continued along the black river. Her cold wet drawers chafed. Both the children had wet their beds from time to time, and Josephine, poor mortified Josephine, had wet her white Easter frock in church. She’d not been to blame. The garrulous old vicar had gone on far too long. God, how her little girl had suffered.

A savage in the rear shouted out. Two dismounted and disappeared into the trees. The broad-faced one ran up to her, gesturing toward the ground. “Down.”

She filled her lungs with air and pushed hard, expelling the blasted rag finally. “Please untie me.” She spoke with difficulty, her ribs throbbing painfully. “Bring my babies. They’ll suffocate.”

The man jabbed a finger. “Down!”

“Have you blankets to spare? My big boy and girl are surely freezing to death.” Her teeth clattered in her head. “Have mercy, please. They’re only children.”

He advanced. “Down!”

She sank to her knees, her breasts aching. “Mightn’t you allow us to walk together? Surely that’s not asking too much, is it?”

He picked up the rag and rammed it to the back of her throat. She gagged, her eyes watering. He walked away, joining the clutch of low-speaking brethren.

Alone she lost balance and fell sideways. She saw with one eye the men returning from the bush. A boy pulled her up by the apron strings. They resumed walking, making first one confusing turn and then another. Hadn’t Henry maneuvered similarly on the way to his aunt’s viewing? Round and round he drove, passing the same public house twice. They’d missed the entire wake. The man had no sense of direction. But he’d have others with him now, men who knew the land by heart.

Toward daybreak the Maori paused to water the horses. One approached, chewing on something gristly. He pulled down on her chin with his dirty fingers and extracted the rag, tossing it aside. She worked her sore jaw and pleaded in a rusty voice.

“Please sir. I beg of you. Bring my babies. They’ll be in need of me.”

He grunted and pushed on her shoulder. She swayed and fell to a hard sit, her back to the children. A lanky lad, no more than twelve or thirteen, swaggered her way. She met his sleepy gaze and spoke slowly, distinctly. “Bay-Bees. Fetch them, please.” Nothing registered in his flat eyes. He put a wedge of cold sweet potato to her mouth and yawned. She hawked out the potato. “My babies, damn you!”

He scowled, understanding at least her tone. He picked up the rag and roughly gagged her again.

They were allowed no privacy before setting off again. She voided herself while walking, with no more grace than a horse. She acknowledged the fetid act, but did not agonize. As if her parts, her cramped hips and legs, her leaking breasts, her bleeding soles, her filthy drawers, belonged to someone else.

Morning passed. The river was no longer visible. There was bright light above, blinding splinters of sun between the branches. They were tramping through dense growth, traveling in a north-westerly direction, she guessed. It was two o’clock at least. Though she could not be certain of that either.

The voices were like those inside a dream. She heard them throughout the afternoon, a steady running throb. Her father appeared, oddly clean shaven, as did Mim with her clothes ablaze. Unintelligible hymns were sung, incomprehensible advice given. Mim came and went throughout, crackling and burning and screaming obscenities.

The smell of smoke brought her around. Margaret broke from thick reverie, sensing Henry’s presence. There was a break in the trees ahead, where Henry and his men, every ambulatory townsman, she imagined, lay in wait. She grew giddy with anticipation. Leave it to her methodical husband. He would not put his family at risk by moving in with but a handful of men. No, praise God. He would have rallied a cavalry. The bastards would be surrounded, forced to put down their arms. Henry the pacifist would no doubt take them prisoner rather than shoot them, which meant enduring their murderous company on the return journey. So be it.

The village wall and moat came into view minutes later. Joy broke out among the Maori, rapturous barking and shouting. The lead bastard picked up the pace, throwing back his head, shaking his rifle. Chimerical Henry and the other figments of her imagination allowed him to pass with impunity. Her legs turned liquid and gave way beneath her. She fell face forward.

“Up!” Someone seized her forearm, yanking hard. “Up, up, up!”

She staggered to her feet and faltered against him, the same detestable linguist who knew the word “down.” He pushed her off. She heard a sound then, a single fluted note, a bird or her baby, and cried out. He slapped her. She barely felt his hand.

They were brought over a bridge, and through carved wooden gates. Maori came running from all corners—tattooed men, bare-breasted women, children, and dogs. They swamped the returning murderers. Margaret listened hard for her babies, looking everywhere for the flax sacks containing them. Oscar was pulled from the horse. He took two drunken steps and fell. His face was red, swollen from crying. She spotted John and Josephine—standing huddled, hand in hand—and then lost sight of them again in the shrieking mayhem. The mob led them to a clearing, a common area, bordered by huts, low, sturdy-looking dwellings, beamed and thatched. Margaret turned in search of Henry. But the gates behind were already closed.

The smoke she’d been smelling came from their cooking fire. Flesh of some sort was being roasted, a nauseating smell. She and the children were herded together, their gags removed, their hands unbound. She petted them and kissed their matted hair, pressing hard against their scalps, battling lurid thoughts of dying, of having the children see her go first.

The sacks were brought forward, unceremoniously dumped in a heap. The men stood back while the tribeswomen flocked. They drew her clean sheets from one sack, a pair of Henry’s drawers, her good blue apron, stockings and shirts, everything that had been hanging on the line down to the pegs. A young girl squatted and pulled Mary from another sack. Simultaneously, an older woman cried out, taking Mary from the child, cradling her in her arms. The women converged, softly cooing. Margaret rushed into their midst and snatched up her baby. A dry breeze moved Mary’s fine hair. She was stiff, but otherwise undisturbed. Margaret put a gentle thumb to her eyelid and eased it up, exposing a pearly crack. She breathed a frantic breath into the tiny mouth and nostrils. A dozen brown hands reached. She backed away clumsily, her mouth still cleaved to her lifeless baby. They closed in, prying Mary from her. Margaret sank to the ground in a sick numbness. At the same moment, Martha was placed in her arms, suckling air. Margaret quickly unbuttoned her blouse and put the living baby to her breast, a shiver of joy coursing. Martha pulled at her nipple greedily, noisily. Margaret’s shoulders sagged with the relief. A band of murmuring women came closer, hovering above. Margaret vaguely felt their presence.

“Up.”

She did not look to see which murderer spoke, but continued to nurse, moving Martha to the other breast, stroking and kissing her warm head. “We’re not finished.”

“Up!”

Margaret took her time, shifting Martha again and rising slowly, thinking of Henry. She pictured his lined forehead, the agony in his eyes. He loved his babies so.

THEIR THATCHED HUTS were but single rooms with a cooking fire in the center, and sleeping mats all around. Margaret, Josephine, and Martha were taken to one hut, John and Oscar to another.

“Leave the boys with me,” she pleaded, when it became obvious that they were to be separated. “Keep us together.” The flanking Maori did not respond.

Ahead, John was following Oscar inside. She called after her son. “Courage, John.” He glanced over his shoulder and mouthed the word “Father.” Margaret flicked a smile for her sturdy boy, a lad who should be home in England, romping in the meadow with the collie he’d pined for.

She bent to enter the neighboring hut, pulling Josephine along. A half-naked granny, a guard presumably, sat motionless in a dark corner. Margaret spoke as she would to any elder, politely, deferentially. “Can you tell us why we’re here, madam?”

The old lady looked at them, then looked away, saying nothing. A girl came in with a gourd bowl of wash water. Another brought rough skirts and swaddling of the same material. They scurried off, and no wonder. She stank; Josephine and Martha stank. Margaret pulled away Martha’s filthy napkin to discover insects both dead and crawling. She folded the napkin in quarters and set it aside.

Josephine sidled up close and whispered, “Did Mary croak?”

She would have heard the horrible word from Mim. Margaret kissed her and said without conviction, “Mary’s safe with Jesus now.”

A long time ago, before Margaret’s own children were born, a Surrey woman hanged herself with a bedsheet after her child’s drowning. Margaret understood completely now.

She took the coarse rag from the water and tested its roughness on her own arm. She started with Martha’s feet, moving up each squatty leg. Next she stripped and scoured Josephine, turning the wash water brown in her zeal, working up a madwoman’s sweat. Every fingernail, every bodily crease, required her attention. Their undergarments were ruined. It was good to be rid of them. Josephine struggled with the strange skirt, gathering excess fabric in her fists. “It scratches.”

“It’s clean,” said Margaret. She washed herself last, then crouched awkwardly and exchanged her feculent skirt for the dry one. “Now listen closely, little miss.” She cupped her daughter’s head and whispered directly into her ear. “All shall be fine. Do you understand?” Josephine nodded. “Father is coming for us. In the meantime you must do as I say. It’s not the same now. You must mind me absolutely. Without question.”

Josephine’s chin trembled. “Mary.”

Margaret closed her eyes and rocked her.

A girl brought food, a basket of sweet potatoes, corn, pork, and some reddish elongated pieces, dried past identification. Josephine took the meat with her fingers, chewing listlessly.

Margaret put restless Martha to her breast. “I’m very thirsty,” said Josephine. Margaret turned to the old woman and pantomimed drinking from a beaker. “Water, please?”

The rooted woman did not speak.

“Have you no children of your own, madam?”

The woman farted, a noxious bleat.

Margaret clucked. “Why, you rude old trout!”

“Mama, please.”

Margaret laid Martha in the scoop of her skirt. “You’ll have a little of my milk.”

Josephine scowled. “I’m much too big.”

Margaret stroked her child. “Let’s pretend you’re not.” Josephine came reluctantly. Margaret pushed on her breast to aid the flow, taking the hard teeth like a she-wolf. “Gently does it now.”

The desiccated woman looked their way. Margaret met the beady black eyes. “Sodding old hag with your dried up dugs.” The woman blinked. “Useless childless thing.” The woman looked away again. “Warts to you,” Margaret hissed.

Josephine stopped suckling. She nestled against Margaret’s side, raking her tongue along her teeth as if to rid her mouth of the taste. Margaret adjusted her blouse and covered sleeping Martha with her apron. The crone came alive, pointing toward the mats along the opposite wall.

They crawled over, sharing a mat, Martha beneath one arm, Josephine beneath the other. Insects scuttled in the thatched ceiling above. Margaret drew up the hide of some long dead creature, tucking her big girl close. She ached for John, imagining him frightened and thirsty, biting his bottom lip raw.

“There’s another matter, Pheeny.”

Josephine moaned sleepily.

“When Father comes you are not to call out to him. Do you understand?”

“He may arrive in secret,” said Josephine.

“That’s right.”

“Will he come in the morning?”

Margaret whispered, “It’s quite possible, sweetheart.”

“May I ride home with him?”

“You may.” A gutter of voices could be heard outside, a baby’s far-off cry. They’d sail straight home once this ordeal was over. Promotions, money, and honors be damned. They’d leave on the first ship. Four cots in steerage would do.

Josephine murmured, “Perhaps he’ll bring the buggy.”

“He won’t. It’s too large.”

Josephine yawned a sticky yawn. “The branches won’t allow it through.”

“Yes. That’s right. Sleep now, my love.”

“He’ll come,” said Josephine.

“He will.”

The grief pressed on Margaret’s chest like a third child. Once her girls were asleep she wept without cessation. Never before had she loathed the world or herself so thoroughly. It had been her idea to move so far out. The fresh country air will be good for the children. Over and over she’d said it, wearing her husband down, getting her tyrannical way finally.

It was still dark when they came, and bitterly cold. If Margaret had slept she did not recall it. Her body was stiff. She could barely stand. Two short, sullen women led her to the latrine, and with a series of gestures instructed her to clean it.




Alone (#ulink_68ef544e-86fa-57a2-b3ed-93d3324980ce)


HENRY SMELLED SMOKE and put the whip to Katie’s rump. A tramp’s cook fire started in the bushes, he figured, with the perfect breeze to bring it straight to his roof. Christ Almighty. He’d be up all night sopping down the bloody timbers. Rounding a stand of karaka trees, the smoldering destruction came into view. Henry called out, expecting his wife to appear, their homeless children clinging. He left the old nag and rig in the road and ran the last distance.

The fire was giving off the last of its heat. He entered where the door had been this morning. “Meg!” He stood stock still and listened for his family. “Meg, sweetheart.” He said it softly now, taking in the blackened wreckage, his eyes adjusting. In the same moment he saw a few cookpots, John’s lucky horseshoe, Meg’s mother’s ginger jar, and a human body. “Oh, Jesus, please.” He approached disbelieving, falling to one knee. The body was hairless, faceless, and long-limbed, not a child. “Oh God.” He removed his coat and laid it over her, then drew it away again and touched her head. An ashy wet bit of her came away on his fingers.

He stood in a stupor and called to his children. “John. Pheeny, darling. Dad’s here.”

He took careful steps, using his hat to gently rake the ashes. He paced off the length, and then the width. Here was something. He bent over, sweat pouring, soaking his beard. He rubbed the shard between his fingers—glass, not bone, a trembling joyous discovery. He started over. Inch by cautious inch he combed the floor for his children’s remains. He went outside and did the same without finding a trace. They were alive then. A fire will always leave something behind. “Kids!” he shouted. They were lurking in the woods above, having fled the fire in time. They’d be freezing, frightened out of their wits. He ran uphill without a lamp, bellowing their names.

The forest floor was damp and slippery. Henry searched along the quiet periphery, entering the bush from the south. He’d been up here during the day with John often enough, gathering kindling, debating which dogs were best. At night the black trees loomed the same in every direction. Henry ran north; he ran west, climbing deep into the interior. It was after midnight when he quit, exhausted and hoarse. He started down, still calling to them, spotting Mim Bell’s empty rig in the road then, a surge of love and relief rushing through him. The body inside had to be Mim’s.

Henry untied Mim’s skittish mare from the post and turned her and the buggy around. Meg and the children had somehow managed to escape. They would have found their way to the Bells’, their closest neighbor. Henry rode south a grateful man, a man redeemed. He could not fathom a life without them. He would take them home to England now. They’d endured enough. He planned to tell Meg first thing, the moment he saw her.

FEAR AND CONFUSION were fully restored by the time Henry reached the Bells’. Meg would not have set out in the cold and hiked the twenty miles with four children in tow, not with Bell’s horse and buggy at her disposal. He pounded Bell’s front door, hearing footsteps after an eternity, muffled cursing.

Cyril Bell appeared in his nightshirt, holding a lamp. He reached behind the door and brought out a crude cudgel. “Who the devil is it at this hour?”

Henry stepped into the wreath of light, listening for sounds in the house. “Oades. Henry Oades. We’ve met, sir.” He spoke fast, wheezing like a hound. “I’m Margaret’s husband. Your wife’s friend. My wife and children have gone missing.”

Bell frowned, scratching his privates with the club.

Henry demanded, “Are they here?”

“What’s this all about?”

“Are you bloody hard of hearing? I’m looking for my family.”

Bell craned, sniffing the air. “You’re about three sheets to it, aren’t you?” He lifted the club. “Go on home before I give you the beating of your life.”

Henry shoved him aside, shouting into the interior. “Meg!”

Bell recovered from the surprise, raising the club higher. Henry had the advantage of thirty more pounds and at least ten fewer years. He grabbed Bell’s wrist, locking the man against the doorjamb. “Where’s your wife?”

Bell struggled. “What do you want with her?”

“Where is she?”

“She’s not here, you buggering idiot. There’s nobody here but me and the dog. She’s a mean one, too. She’ll bite. One word from me and—”

Henry wrenched the club from Bell’s flaccid grip and sent it sailing into the dark yard. Bell ducked back inside. Henry put himself between door and jamb. “Help me, please.”

“Why should—”

“Your wife visited mine last evening?”

Bell swiped his nose on a sleeve. “If you say so. Walked out with a bee in her bonnet. Not for the first time. She and the boy. Pig-headed woman. Didn’t bother to say where they were headed.”

“I found your rig on my property.” Henry pointed vaguely. “I’ve returned it.”

“I owe you then. I thought…”

Henry ran a hand through his dry hair, still scanning the interior, half expecting Meg and the children to suddenly show themselves.

“My house burned to the ground last night.”

“That’s terrible news.”

Henry stood shivering, the dread rising in his chest, constricting his breathing. “My children are nowhere to be found.”

“Ah, for the love of—”

There had to be a rational answer. They couldn’t simply disappear.

“I came upon a body.”

“Oh, no, was—”

“My wife, I thought at first.”

“Oh Christ.”

“Or your wife, sir. I’m sorry.” Henry was anxious to leave. He’d given up the search too soon. There were miles still to cover. John would have constructed a shelter of some sort, far away from the smoke and fire.

Bell began to weep. “Jesus, Mary, and—”

“There’s no way of knowing,” said Henry. “I couldn’t tell.”

“My boy?” Bell’s tears streamed. “Oscar?”

Henry shook his head. “I’m sorry. No sign of him either.”

“Oh, sweet sacred heart. We’ll want to inform the authorities.”

“They can wait.” On the way over Henry had considered and rejected the idea. No good would come of rousing the governor at this hour. He was a useless indecisive man; his sycophantic underlings were no better. Meg and the children were his family, his concern. He’d have the benefit of daylight soon. He’d start over looking. “Will you make a loan of a horse, Mr. Bell?”

“Have your choice of the two in the stable,” said Bell. “I’ll take the other.”

They made good time, arriving by first light to a smoky quiet. Bell tied up the horses. Henry stood in the road making quarter turns, calling to his wife and children. The men tramped up to the bush and began searching, giving up after three hours, making their way down to the charred cottage. “Tucked away,” Meg had called it. “A perfect place.”

Bell had thought to bring a shovel and a bedsheet. The men labored with the delicate corpse. It collapsed in their hands, making red and yellow stains on the sheet. Daylight was no help, as Henry had hoped. “Can you tell anything?”

“Might be anyone,” muttered Bell.

“Anyone.”

“Mine wore a little gold locket on occasion,” said Bell.

“Mine wore her ring,” said Henry.

“With my likeness and Oscar’s inside,” said Bell.

Henry, the middle brother, had been the first in his family to present a wife with a wedding ring. His parents had disapproved, as had Meg’s parents. The older set still regarded the ring an ostentatious pagan practice. “Unseemly,” his mother had said. “Unchristian.” She may have reconsidered had she seen the thrill in Meg’s lovely eyes.

The men poked around and beneath the body for as long as they could bear it, finding nothing to prove who it was or wasn’t. The lack of evidence meant little to Henry. Meg often took off the ring. She feared losing it in the wash, she’d said.

They took turns with the shovel, burying the body out back, where the hydrangea once bloomed. They fashioned a cross of scorched stones and walked away, both quaking with uncertainty.

Henry discovered the dogs beneath a thicket of broadleaf puka, flies and beetles feasting on the head wounds. “My boy’s pets,” he said, incredulous. “Who’d do such a thing?” Bell stalked off, disgusted. Henry stared, attempting to make sense of the grisly mess. These were John’s harmless pups, pleasant, obedient animals, bound for the circus. His eyes burned. He craved sleep; he wished not to think anymore.

Bell called to him from below, waving an arm. Henry started down, his heart thundering with fear of finding a dead child. He came up on Bell, his breathing fast and shallow.

Bell held a white-tipped, black tail feather. “Huia,” he said. “They wear the filthy things in their topknots.” He pointed out the horse tracks leading down to the river, the droppings. “Goddamn Maori were here. I’d stake my last farthing on it.”

Henry had heard stories about long-ago murders and snatchings. He’d chalked them up to apocryphal pub tales at the time. There’d been problems back in the sixties, blood shed on both sides over land, but nothing lately, not since he’d arrived, not that he knew or even heard of. What would provoke them? Why his house and family? “I’m going after them,” he said.

“I’m going with you,” said Bell.

“We’ll need guns and rope,” said Henry, wide awake now, full of seething energy. “I’ll take a coat if you can spare it.”

They raced back to Bell’s for supplies. Henry was barely aware of the horse beneath him. He did not see what caused the animal to rear. He lost hold of the reins and fell back, striking the road hard, his leg audibly cracking. A dusty blur of hooves rose in his vision. Henry tucked his head and flung himself right, rolling down an embankment, his eyes filling with searing juices.

Bell came rushing, trampling leaves and twigs. “Close yer damn eye.” Henry couldn’t see him, but he could smell the man’s peculiarly olid flesh. “Close it, I said. Don’t try to use it.” A dry cloth was pressed to his right eye. “Yer damn leg’s broken. I can see the bloody bone. We’ll get you straight to hospital. Can you hear me, Oades? Put an arm about my neck. That’s it. I’ve got you. Gently does it. That’s a steady lad. Here we go then. On the count of three. One. Two. Here we go.”

A fiery bolt shot up his spine. Henry screamed and slipped into black oblivion.

THE DOCTOR SAID he was lucky. The leg was broken in three places, but both it and the eye had been saved. The doctor was a pale, walleyed man with cold hands. “You’ll walk eventually,” he said, “though it shan’t be anytime soon.”

The eye dressing would come off in two or three weeks, depending. Depending on what, the doctor did not say. Henry, in a laudanum fog, did not ask.

Bell’s note was read aloud to him. Dear Friend, it started. I’m off to see the governor. I haven’t a Chinaman’s chance on my own. Pray for us. Henry had a rambling, fevered chat with the Lord, and then slept straight through four days. “A near coma,” said the doctor. Henry brought a hand to his bandaged cheek and touched his shaved chin. He’d been bearded since twenty. He spent a drugged moment worrying that Meg and the children wouldn’t recognize him, then closed his good eye and slept another three days.

He woke asking for his wife, his children, Cyril Bell. The aide on duty told him he was better off resting now.

All the staff cajoled. “‘Tis always darkest before the dawn,” said the Irish nurse with Meg’s blue-gray eyes. She came on duty early and was the kindest of the lot. “We’ve a lovely porridge this morning, Mr. Oades. You’ll do your poor children no favors by starving.”

He asked, “Have you any news today?” The nurse took advantage of his open mouth and shoveled in the tepid, mealy paste. It came straight back up, along with his own sour bile.

“I’m not hungry just now,” he said, embarrassed.

She clucked and mopped his gown with a rag. “I’m praying for you,” she said.

Most gave up on him fairly quickly and went on to the next bed. The ward was full. The overflow suffered outside in the hall. The groaning and sobbing never ceased. Henry closed his eye, letting the din wash over and through his ineffectual self.

On Sunday he begged the homely missionary woman who came around to read Scripture, “Please, will you find Mr. Bell?” She promised she would. He, in turn, endured her biblical gush, feigning comfort. He did not see her again.

Mr. Freylock, Henry’s immediate supervisor, came the following week. He entered the ward with his hat in his hands, his mouth twitching with sympathy. “They tell me you’re not eating,” he said.

Mr. Freylock was a career man, one of the first of the distillery men to arrive in New Zealand. “The place suits me,” he’d once said. Henry recalled feeling both vaguely envious and disdainful of a man who found true contentment behind a desk.

He looked up at Mr. Freylock, his good eye filling. The eye wept constantly. He’d been given drops, but they did little good. A brown spider ran along the windowsill. He dabbed at the eye with a corner of sheet, thinking how spiders frightened Josephine.

Mr. Freylock touched Henry’s sleeve. “You’ve had an abysmal time of it.”

Henry cleared his throat. “Is there any news, sir?”

“Only that the scouting trip was unsuccessful.” Mr. Freylock fiddled with his felt brim. “Six men went out, myself included. The governor sent out four more. We rode together for a day and then split from them, thinking we’d cover more ground that way. I’m sorry, Henry.”

“My family could be anywhere then?” Henry’s dry lips cracked with speech. “Anyone might have them?”

“If you mean white men, no, not likely. The arson, you see, the snatching itself. It smacks of utu.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Mr. Freylock sighed. “It is the heathen’s word for revenge. The governor believes your family was taken in retaliation for last month’s flogging. The whipping would have brought dishonor to the entire bloody tribe. Utu of some sort was inevitable. I sincerely loathe being the one to tell you.”

The Maori lad had been no more than fifteen. Henry had walked away before the lashing even began, repulsed by the gawking onlookers. “I assume another search is under way, sir?”

Mr. Freylock shook his head. “Not at present, I’m sorry to say.”

“Why not?”

“Simply put, Henry, it would do no good. The trail went cold scant miles out. We were but a handful of family men against a sodding band of savages. Sorry to say it. The odds weigh too heavily.”

“And the governor’s men?”

“They’ve since returned empty-handed as well. That is not to say you should relinquish hope. That is not to say you shouldn’t continue to pray. All of Wellington is praying for your wife and children.”

Henry’s eye ran, salting his stinging lips.

“Ah, Henry. I’m only adding to your distress.”

Henry pleaded, “Will you help locate Cyril Bell?”

Mr. Freylock took out his watch and flicked open the lid with a thumbnail. “Poor fellow had a bit of a breakdown, smashed a good bottle at McFadden’s, started a brawl. They locked him up for his own well-being.”

“When will he be released?”

Mr. Freylock glanced down at his watch. “Sooner rather than later, I’m sure.”

“Will you ask him to come round?”

“I shall, Henry. First chance. I must be off. I’m sorry the news isn’t better. Your post is being held indefinitely, if it’s any small consolation. That’s what I came to tell you.”

Henry struggled to remain civil, to issue his senior a proper farewell, but all before him had eclipsed. As if a cupboard door had just been nailed shut, and he’d found himself inside.




She Speaks to MeDay and Night (#ulink_91413f31-9ae4-5ba4-8786-ad7757e95535)


IT WAS LOVELY HERE, green and tranquil. Meg was decked out in her wedding frock, an ivory lace and satin affair with complicated buttons that were hard to undo. She nattered quietly, asking after his tea. The light shifted, the temperature fell, just as she offered a fresh cup. Henry opened his good eye to find Cyril Bell standing over him. Bell sucked on his cigar and hacked a rough cough.

“Are you awake, mate? Are you in need of anything?” Bell’s cheek was bruised, his swollen lip split in two places. “Shall I call the lazy nurse?” He clamped the cigar between his crooked yellow teeth and tugged on Henry’s pillow. “It’s caught in the rail. There now. Much better, isn’t it?”

Henry sat up, groggy, dream-addled. “What brings you?”

“You asked for me,” said Bell, looking wounded. “I came when I heard.”

“I did, didn’t I? Sorry. Thank you.”

Bell smiled a sad smile. “Birds of a feather now, aren’t we?”

Bell wore black gloves and a mourning armband; he carried Meg’s mother’s ginger jar as one would a baby, in the crook of his arm. He offered it now. “Thought you might like a memento of happier times.”

Henry took the lidded jar, a grinding fear clenching his bowels.

“Not a crack, not a singe,” said Bell. “Queer what a fire will leave behind.”

“Is there news?”

Bell shook his head, soft cigar ash falling, breaking on the white sheet. “They’ve gone to a far better place, my friend.”

A vision of his children laid out in death swamped him. Henry’s pained cry roused the sleeping patient in the next bed. “They’ve been found?”

Bell put a finger to his lips. “Hush now, Oades. Calm yourself. No, they haven’t been found. But where the tree is felled that’s where the chippings are.”

“Jesus Lord,” said Henry. “What does that mean?”

“Do you recall the poor Hagstrom family?”

“No,” said Henry. “What in God’s name are you talking about?”

“Six or seven years ago,” Bell went on. “There was a spate of snatchings around the same time. The Hagstrom children, eight little towheaded angels, were all the talk. The old grandfather looked for years. Then one fine day he put his rifle to his mouth and pulled the trigger with his toe.” Bell bent close. Early as it was, he smelled of gin.

“I didn’t quit, Mr. Oades. The others gave up. Not I. I covered miles of ground in every direction.” He straightened, dropping his soggy cigar into the beaker of cold tea. “If they were let go alive I’d have found them.”

“It’s only been two weeks,” said Henry.

“It’s been nearly four, sir.”

“It cannot possibly be.” In his mind Henry attempted to line up the days and prove Bell wrong, but it was no use. Some days stood painfully sharp in his memory; others he couldn’t begin to account for. “I’ll pay you to go out again.”

“You’d be wasting your money,” said Bell. “You’ll want to make peace with it is my advice. The sooner you do the better off you’ll be.”

Henry begged. “Please, sir.” His good leg cramped. “They cannot all be gone. I refuse to believe it.”

Bell regarded him with flat pity. He was clearly finished. He’d dispatched his family to heaven and now no doubt wished only to dispatch himself to the nearest public house.

“I still hear my wife!” Henry often felt her beside him, the pressure of her warm hip against his. “She speaks to me day and night.”

“Mrs. Oades was your first?”

“She is,” said Henry.

Bell nodded. “She’ll do more than speak to you. Her face will show itself when you least expect it. You’ll swear it’s her down at the docks. She’ll come to you at all hours, shed of her nightie. That’s the worst. There’ll be times you’ll want to take a working gun to your own head and have it over with. That’s how it was with Libby, my first. Mim’s my second. Childbed fever took Libby. The baby didn’t stand a chance with the top of his wee head missing.” Bell’s cut lip pulsed; his red-rimmed eyes puddled. “I was given a look. A boy.”

John came to mind, fat and howling, a perfect lusty lad, missing nothing.

“I’m truly sorry for your loss, Mr. Bell.”

“I’m sorry for yours,” said Bell, blinking back tears. “You’ll learn to live with it after a while. It’s a promise, Oades. You’ll learn to tolerate. You’ll have no choice.”

The amputee two beds away moaned, as if grieving for the baby with a missing head. The entire ward seemed to join in at once, caterwauling off-key. Behind the cacophony Meg soothed, whispered. There now, sweetheart. Rest a bit. You’ll be all right.

Henry set the ginger jar on the medicine table and turned his cheek to the pillow. “I refuse to believe it.” Meg went on coddling, telling him to sleep, just sleep.

Henry closed his eye, waiting for his family. “Forgive me, Mr. Bell. I’m rather tired right now.”

Bell stood in silence a moment longer. “I’ll be going then,” he said finally. He left Henry with Josephine. She was reaching with the sweetest smile, putting her tender skinny arms about his burning neck. Dad, was all she said, all he needed to hear.

Meg and the children rarely showed themselves again after that day. His dreams became peopled with misshapen intruders, no one he recognized. Drunk on laudanum, Henry called out to his wife. The night nurse regularly scolded him. “That’ll be enough now. You’re disturbing the others.”

He was discharged from hospital on a sunny day in late May. He was ready to go. He’d had more than enough of the place. Mr. Freylock came for him, along with two grim-faced colleagues. They brought a change of clothes, were seemingly pleased with their selection. “You’re not an easy fellow to fit.” There were grunts, a comment on his drawers. “Good God. It must be the same pair he arrived in.” As if Henry weren’t present. It didn’t matter. He felt next to nothing.

They dressed him in a suit of mourning and fixed an armband to the sleeve. The doctor came in and wished him well. “My condolences, sir. You’re to remain off the leg another month at least.”

Outside, the doctor helped lift the wheelchair with Henry in it. They loaded him onto a buckboard that had had its seats removed. He sat above the other three men, like a freak of nature on parade. They said little. Henry said nothing.

He could not say how long they rode. A stream of foliage went by, shops and horses, dogs and people. He untied the armband and tucked it inside a breast pocket. If they were dead he’d know it; he’d know it in his bones.

They came to the Freylock home, where he and Meg had once gone to tea, fifty years ago it seemed. The wife and two children, a freckled boy and roly-poly girl, came out to greet them.

“You are welcome to stay as long as you wish,” said Mrs. Freylock, an anxious woman. “We’ve prepared a room downstairs for you, Mr. Oades. It’s rather small, but we cannot very well bring you up the stairs.”

His vision cleared as she spoke. He became simultaneously aware of the potted geraniums, the pump of his own heart and lungs, the pimples and fuzz on the Freylock lad’s chin. How he’d indulged himself in the sorrow. It was time to think straight, to plan. Henry doffed his hat, acutely sensitive to the cool breeze parting his hair. “Thank you. I shan’t put you out a moment longer than necessary, kind lady.”

The music room had been converted into a sickroom. Henry vaguely recalled the green and gold wallpaper border, painted to look like fringed drapery. The piano was gone now, replaced by a cot. There’d been other instruments on display at the time, two violins, and a lute perhaps. Meg had been delighted. “A musical family,” she’d said. “How lovely the evenings must be.” Those were her exact words. Henry remembered vividly everything she’d ever said.

He was left alone with Mr. Freylock. “Would you like to lie down now, Henry?” He spoke carefully, as if addressing an unpredictable lunatic. “I’ll draw the curtains.”

It was not yet two in the afternoon. “I’m fine here,” said Henry. He sat close to the glassed bookcase. There were history books galore, biographies, books on animal husbandry, but no novels for Meg.

“Well then,” said Mr. Freylock. “Duty calls. I’ll be getting back to my desk. You know how it is.” He gestured toward the small bell on the side table. “Don’t hesitate to ring.”

“I’d like to arrange a posse,” said Henry.

Mr. Freylock removed his spectacles, blinking. “Henry, Henry, Henry.”

“I’ll pay.”

Mr. Freylock brought out his handkerchief and polished the lenses. “That’s not the issue.”

The anger thickened Henry’s voice. “What would you do in my place, sir?”

Mr. Freylock held the spectacles up to the window for inspection. “I’d be every bit as distraught, I’m sure. I’d propose infeasible schemes. It’s only natural. We turned over every last bloody stone looking, Henry. Do you remember my telling you?”

“I do, sir.”

“We almost lost Tom Flowers.”

“I know Tom.”

Mr. Freylock returned the spectacles to his face, blinking still. “Of course you do. Good lad. Quick with a joke. Fifth child on the way. I didn’t tell you before. Didn’t want to add to your distress. Nothing you could have done for him. Nothing any of us could have done, except perhaps turned back straightaway.”

Perspiration trickled down Henry’s spine. The room was warm, as stifling as a summer greenhouse. “About Tom?”

“He sliced his hand,” said Mr. Freylock. “Nice and deep, but manageable. This was the fourth night out. We stayed gone a week, you’ll remember, the better part of eight days, actually.”

Henry heard a scratching outside the door and pictured his children standing on the other side, eager to surprise him. His mind playing tricks, he realized.

“…We weren’t surgeons,” Mr. Freylock was saying. “We wrapped the wound, thought, well, a cut’s a cut, isn’t it? None of us could have anticipated infection. They took his writing arm at the elbow. Poor man.”

“Yes,” murmured Henry. “Poor Tom. I’m sorry to hear it.”Tom’s pretty wife suffered a clubfoot, an odd thing to remember now.

A Freylock family photograph hung on the opposite wall, the parents and children posed as he and Meg had posed not long after the twins were born. Were his babies rolling over yet? Josephine was a veritable little acrobat at five months, their age now. God, how he missed them all.

Mr. Freylock came to him, laying a hand upon his shoulder. “We’ve done all we can, then. Everything within reason. Do you see that we have?”

Henry nodded. There’d be no help here.

“It wouldn’t be disloyal to acknowledge their passing, Henry. I’ll arrange a memory service if you’re ready.”

“I’m not,” said Henry, beginning to plan his escape. He’d had enough of this place already.

HE DREAMT of John that night. His son came walking out of the bush, steady and sure. Henry took it as a sign they’d be returned to him. He lay awake in the dark, cursing himself for having had doubt. In the morning he proposed rebuilding the cottage. “Just as it was,” he said.

Curiously, Mr. Freylock heartily agreed. He slapped the breakfast table, rattling the cutlery. “Capital idea! Isn’t it, darling?”

Mrs. Freylock smiled and passed the last rasher of bacon Henry’s way. “Yes, indeed. It’s a splendid plan. Aren’t you smart to think of it, Mr. Oades.”

“We’ll get started straightaway,” said Mr. Freylock, dribbling red jam.

Henry had not expected such enthusiasm. Perhaps they simply wished him gone. He gave it no further thought. Having the cottage restored was all that concerned him just now. Otherwise, how would they find their way back to him?

THE OWNER of the property gave his permission. A new lease was signed. Dozens turned out to help, colleagues and strangers both. Henry had never laid eyes on some of them. He sat in his wheelchair, beneath the shade of a ladies’ white parasol. The men sawed, hammered, and painted; the women served from overflowing hampers, vying to bring Henry a plate. The cottage was finished in six days. The donated furniture inside was different, but the outside was nearly identical, down to the green shutters and red door.

Mrs. Freylock asked about flowers.

“Roses,” said Henry. “And blue hydrangea.”

He watched the flowers go into the ground.

“He’s smiling,” someone whispered. “He’s bearing up well.”

On Sunday Henry attended evening services. Everyone seemed to expect it of him. He got through it. A bachelor colleague, Simon Reed, brought him back to the cottage afterward. “You’re not equipped to see to yourself, Henry.”

“I am, Simon,” Henry insisted. His family would come. They’d see to him, and he to them. Things would right themselves. They’d all be fine. He believed it wholly.

Simon pushed him up the new ramp and inside, muttering under his breath. “A man in your state shouldn’t be left alone.”

“I shall get on fine here,” said Henry.

Simon lighted a lamp and set it on the table.

“If you’ll light the others, please.”

Henry had him light every lamp, seven in all.

“Where would you like them, Henry?”

“I’ll take care of it,” said Henry. “You’ve done enough. Go on home now.”

Alone, Henry maneuvered the wheelchair without difficulty. He put one lamp in his lap and rolled himself, setting the lamp in the side window, returning then for the next lamp. Lamp by lamp, he turned the room bright, as gay as a ballroom, making himself visible ten miles out.

He ate hard cheese and opened the brandy someone had left, putting out another goblet. Meg enjoyed a nice brandy. He rolled himself to the front window again, restless, excited. But they did not come. Not that night, nor the next. A quiet week passed, then another. He sat on the porch daily, his eyes fixed on the road. He went inside eventually and sat there, a useless stump by the window. Sweet Jesus. Every bloody day.

He rose one morning and limped unaided to the grave out back. He stood over the mound until his leg would no longer support him, then sat alongside and began to dig. He hadn’t planned to do it; but once started he could not stop.

Almost before he pulled aside the sheet he knew. He brushed dirt from the skull, recognizing the sharp little tooth way back in her head, pointed, darker than the others. Henry cried out and began to cover her again. He scooped great handfuls as fast as he could, tamping down the crumbly dirt, beating it hard. He fell back exhausted, sobbing, struggling for air. He calmed after a while, but did not, could not, move. For months he’d felt her about, alive, and now he did not. He could no longer pretend. Meg was gone, lost to him forever. He lay stunned, face to the sun. He’d thought they had all the time in the world.




No Worsethan Here (#ulink_185434d1-fabf-5f85-a47f-c2bc316a4a0a)


HENRY FOUND flat black seeds lying loose on a pantry shelf and planted a few at the foot of Meg’s grave. He watched faithfully, witnessing the first shoot, the subsequent withering and dying. He gave thought to starting over, but knew the same would happen. He’d never had much luck in a garden. So he quit, and his days turned that much longer.

Mr. Freylock rode out at the end of June. “Good God,” he said straight off. “Have a flock of filthy sheep been run through here?”

Henry said nothing. A bit of dust, a dried rat turd or two hardly warranted comment.

Mr. Freylock clucked like a woman. “There’s no excuse for squalor. Even for a chap on his own.” He dropped a slim packet of envelopes on the table. “A spot of comfort from home for you, Henry.”

Henry didn’t get up. “Her parents?”

“I wouldn’t know.” He picked up Henry’s urinal and went outside to pour it over the porch rail. Henry watched without interest from his usual place by the front window. Recently he’d moved from the wheelchair to an armless ladder-back and felt less the invalid for it. He was able to move about as necessary, using the broom as a crutch.

Mr. Freylock came back in. “Have you written her loved ones?”

Henry studied his fingernails, broken and blackened from tending her grave. He hadn’t written to her parents or his own. He hadn’t the words. “I’ll get round to it in due course.”

“You should inform them immediately. They’ve a right to know.”

“A right to know what precisely?”

“The facts, boy.” Mr. Freylock pumped water and rinsed his hands, drying them on the only dish towel. “You know in your heart of hearts they’re gone.”

“I know nothing of the sort,” said Henry. “Show me my dead children, sir!”

Mr. Freylock ran last night’s plate under the water. What had he had to eat? Henry couldn’t remember. “You’re in a bad way, Henry. I’m sorry. I won’t say any more about it.”

Henry spoke to the window, the one thing he kept cleaned. “What do the savages do with them?” Hideous images too frequently rose from a black hell in his mind, visions of his maimed children screaming his name.

Mr. Freylock said softly, “What are you asking?”

Henry looked at him. “They wouldn’t consume a tiny innocent, would they?”

“Oh, Christ, Henry. Please. Don’t torture yourself. They’re past their suffering now.”

Henry’s voice quaked. “They wouldn’t.”

“It isn’t healthful, you know. Sitting out here all alone, with only your morbid thoughts for company. You’d be better off in town, in my opinion.”

Henry turned back to the window, resuming his vigil.

Mr. Freylock offered to put the kettle on. Henry shook his head, willing the man gone. “Work is what you need,” said Mr. Freylock. “Why not ride back with me now. Have you a decent shirt and trousers? You cannot go out as you are.”

Hot tears rose in Henry’s eyes. “Would they kill them first? Surely they wouldn’t boil a live screaming child…”

Mr. Freylock threw up his hands. “Henry, Henry. For the love of God, don’t dwell on it. Think of them at peace with Jesus, will you? Think of your children quit of all adversity.”

“They’d shoot them first,” said Henry decisively.

Mr. Freylock sighed. “I’m sure you’re right.”

Henry put his face in his hands, depleted. “I’m going mad, sir. And it’s not doing my kids the first bit of good. There’s no reason to believe they didn’t escape. My boy’s as clever as they come.”

“Ah, Henry. They—”

“You don’t know him,” said Henry, cutting him off. “John’s sharp as a needle. The lad reads the night skies as well as you do the gazette.” He stood with the aid of the broom and hobbled toward the back room, planning his next move. There were men in town he might call upon to help, resources he’d not yet thought of. It was merely a matter of keeping a rational mind, resisting the panic. That’s all. He managed yesterday. He’d manage today.

He changed his clothes, and then wrote a note while Mr. Freylock waited.

Dearest children, you’ll find a cord of good wood round the side and a large ham in the larder. You’re to contact the distillery immediately. Your always loving and devoted father.

Outside he turned, scanning the forest, the road in both directions, looking for them.

MR. FREYLOCK DROVE, breaking the silence with small talk every mile or two. His wife’s brisket was mentioned, the new accountant with a penchant for the bottle. “Tom Flowers is coming along well,” he said, interrupting Henry’s reverie yet again. He’d been thinking about the babies, wondering what John was doing to feed them. It took a moment to recall Tom’s amputation.

“That’s very good news, sir.”

“At his desk Monday last,” said Mr. Freylock, casting a sidelong glance. “Taking it all in his stride.”

“I’ve no doubt,” said Henry.

Mr. Freylock’s thin mouth tightened. “I can tell you don’t find me particularly helpful.”

Henry lied. “I do, sir.” Roots or mussels mashed with river water. John would find a way.

They arrived on the outskirts toward dusk. Nothing had been said about where he might stay. “I won’t impose on your family a second time,” Henry said, expecting an argument.

“I know of a suitable bachelor’s flat,” said Mr. Freylock.

The word bachelor brought to mind an irresponsible, glib sort, no one like himself. He began to regret leaving the cottage, though he couldn’t possibly endure a return trip. His leg throbbed from heel to groin. The day had gone on too long. And now the night was upon him. Nights were the worst with his kids out there.

THE TIDY BEDSIT was located over a haberdasher. Mr. Freylock helped him up the two pair of stairs, and then went out again, bringing back a pasty and tea for one. He remained standing, driving gloves in hand.

“Will you be all right, Henry?”

“I shall get on fine, sir. Go on home now. Your wife will be waiting.”

“I’ll say it again,” said Mr. Freylock in parting. “Work is what you need.”

“Yes, sir,” said Henry, and was rid of him at last.

The following Tuesday he returned to his desk, where he could not concentrate for the blinding headaches. On Friday he requested and was granted a leave of absence.

“You may as well go,” said Mr. Freylock, signing the permission form. “You’ve no head for numbers these days.”

That Sunday, in the social hall after services, Henry clapped his hands once and asked for volunteers. He’d hoped to find some of the Maori parishioners about, but everyone there was English, two dozen or so, prattling away.

“Who’ll come with me to look?”

They stirred, scraping their feet. Someone offered to bring him tea.

“I’m posting a reward for their safe return. One hundred pounds sterling.”

“Poor man,” said a woman by the door.

Henry turned slowly, looking them in the eye individually. “I’d go without question were it any one of your children.”

“God bless you, Mr. Oades,” the same woman chirped.

“And God blast you, madam,” said Henry, storming out. “God blast you one and all.”

Someone called after him. “You’re looking to get eaten, brother Oades.”

HENRY RODE NORTH, following the river, tying blue rags to tree limbs as he went, marking the places searched. He turned after a week, starting first south, and then west into the higher elevations. The pristine forest revealed nothing but the impossibility of survival. Sometime during the fourth week he lost what little hope remained and did not recover it. His children were gone. He stayed out looking another two weeks before finally giving up. Coming back, he saw that the blue rags had turned gray.

The return brought him past the cottage, where clothes hung on the line. Henry hitched the horse to a post and ran up the grassy rise, praying to find his children inside, feverishly calculating the chances. Miracles occurred every day. Anything was possible on this earth. A squat lady opened the door and his heart quieted. Behind her skirts a red-faced toddling child bawled, a glistening slime streaming from both nostrils. The woman did nothing to comfort or shush it. They both needed a hair combing.

“I had not expected to find the home occupied,” he said.

Her fists went to ample hips. “I’ve papers to show we paid.”

A spotted dog lapped at a pie on the table. The place was a mess, the walls and floor streaked with black God-knows-what. Even he’d been a better housekeeper. Henry gestured toward the back of the cottage. “Are you aware of the grave, madam?”

A look of horror came into her yellowish eyes.

“My wife,” he said.

“Animals must have been digging,” she said. “My husband spent a good portion of his day restoring it. He put up a wall of stones, did a fine job of it, too. Didn’t want the little ones bothering it. You know how children can be, particularly curious boys. You’re welcome to have a visit with her.”

Henry declined, sickened by the idea of scavengers and brats. He shouldn’t have been surprised to find the slovenly family there. He’d abandoned the place after all, without bothering to inform the owner. He rode back to town to discover that his bedsit had been leased as well, his clothes given to the Sisters of Mercy.

“You might give notice next time,” said the landlord. “Was I supposed to hold the room indefinitely?”

On the man’s cluttered mantel, next to a dusty shepherd-boy figurine, stood Meg’s ginger jar. Henry noticed almost immediately and took it down. “It belonged to my wife.”

“I was keeping it safe,” the landlord said defensively.

Henry turned to go, not knowing where.

The landlord spoke up. “The Germans might have a room to spare. The old frau won’t allow you in as you are, though. Five pence will buy you a hot bath. I’ll toss in a trim free of charge, knowing your sorrow.”

Henry paid double for a full tub, refusing the charity. There was sufficient money in the bank. The landlord sold him a threadbare suit, the sleeves of which were too short. The castoff got him to the tailor, where he was measured for a mourning suit, to the undertaker’s after that, where he arranged for Meg’s immediate unearthing. He went next to the Germans’ and took the one available room without inspecting it.

Three days later, when the suit was ready, he hired a hack and rode out to the Freylocks’. He had in mind a simple graveside service. He meant only to ask Mr. Freylock for an extended leave.

Mrs. Freylock fell upon him weeping. She called her husband to the door. Together, with far too much chatter, they brought him inside, seating him in the best chair in the best room, feeding him tea and crumpets he could not taste.

“Shall we host the memory service here, Mr. Oades?” She glanced toward her husband, who nodded.

“I couldn’t ask it of you,” said Henry. “Just a marker might be best.”

“Forgive me for saying so,” said Mrs. Freylock. “But that hardly seems adequate.”

Henry shook his head, his weary thoughts clashing. He was incapable of making the smallest decision lately. “I don’t know.”

Mrs. Freylock touched his sleeve. “For your wife and children.”

Henry felt himself on the brink of tears. “All right. Thank you.”

She smiled. “It’s settled then. Is there a beloved photograph we might display?”

“The fire took everything, madam.”

A little whimper escaped her lips. “I wasn’t thinking.”

Her nervous hands did not still for a second; they went to her throat, to her hair, to her ear bobs, and back to her throat. She pushed the plate of crumpets his way again. How unlike his Meg she was. His wife had possessed a certain feminine manliness all women could learn from.

Mrs. Freylock said something. He leaned toward her. “I beg your pardon?”

She pantomimed plucking. “Flowers, Mr. Oades. What sort would you prefer?”

“My wife enjoyed her roses,” Henry said. For a light-headed half moment he thought to correct himself. Enjoys. My wife enjoys her roses. He was deliriously tired, and missing her so.

Something was said then about the funeral biscuits, but Henry did not retain it. He was allowed to leave finally. The same hackie drove him back to the Germans’, where the stench of cooking cabbage reached even his small attic room. He vomited into the empty basin and swiped his mouth. Minutes later the downstairs girl knocked on his door. He vomited again, and then let her in to take the basin. Her elfin face pinched in disgust. But he was past caring what others might think.





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