A Crooked Rib (2 page)

‘Better than being aboard ship. We were tossed about so much on the crossing it will be a pleasure just to ride in a trap again.’

‘Oh, Fanny,’ said Lucy, ‘I’m afraid I have only the cart, for which I apologise profusely, but the noble Governor must needs take the horse and trap on his visit to the Maori chiefs on the North Shore of Auckland. We have no carriage, you know. My husband considers it a wicked extravagance. Only Colonel Wynyard has a carriage here. Can you imagine it — one carriage in the whole of Auckland? And that’s always being bogged in the dreadful mud. You can’t believe how much it rains here.’

‘I’ve no objection at all to a cart. It’s a great deal more agreeable than walking with one’s baggage. But I’m sorry not to be meeting your husband when we arrive. Will he be away for long?’

‘I have no notion. Possibly he’ll return within the week … often, you know, he goes about the country for days on end and I’m generally the last to know his whereabouts.’

‘Surely he doesn’t traverse the country in a trap?’

‘No, but even on his visits to nearby chiefs, he’s frequently away for several days. Everything to do with the Maoris takes up a great deal of time. Their speeches are interminable. My husband has learnt to speak their language passably well, but he refuses to allow one of the natives to instruct me.’

As we made our way to the cart, I observed that though Lucy still had her beautiful black curls and milky skin, she had developed lines of discontent about her mouth.

She pulled me closer to her. ‘Come, Fanny dearest, I’ll call Ingrams to take your trunks and then we’ll be off. I still can’t believe that at last you’re here. I keep thinking I’m in a dream and when I wake you’ll be gone.’

While Lucy went to summon the servant, I gazed around me. The sea in the harbour sparkled blue and lapped the sand in low placid waves. On the ridge of the hill above stood a long fortified wall of solid masonry, punctuated by rectangular apertures I recognised as gun loops. Ahead lay the road I had observed from the ship, cut into the side of a steep hill and lined on either side with wooden
buildings that appeared to be shops or stores. On the shore, dogs sniffed unchecked at boxes and packages, and a number of bullock drays were drawn up, presumably for hire. Ours was not the only vessel in the harbour. I counted twenty-three of varying sizes and shapes before Lucy returned with a lean, weather-beaten young man pushing a hand-cart.

‘We’ll take your reticule, of course,’ she said, ‘and your hatbox, too, I think. And perhaps your writing case. Ingrams will remove the trunks and the other boxes to the bullock dray.’

We climbed into the cart, Lucy taking the reins and geeing-up the tiny pony. ‘You see that long sloping street?’ She indicated with her whip the road I had just noted. ‘That’s Queen Street, named for her Gracious Majesty, and it’s quite the most distinguished and elegant arcade in the entire town. It’s hard to believe, I know. It’s been built beside a little stream which floods whenever it rains so that the street regularly becomes a swamp of sewage. And the settlers here are, in the main, from such a very vulgar caste of people that, if you’re obliged to visit the lower end of Queen Street, you must on no account stand anywhere near the gutters or the sides.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because when a “lady” at the top of the street feels the call of Nature, she responds to it by simply placing herself over the gutter and relieving herself there. For this reason, in Queen Street, the gentlemen always stand above the ladies so that they can pretend they have observed nothing.’

‘Lucy! You’re making up such a story to tease me.’

‘I assure you it’s absolutely the case, as you’ll notice for yourself before too long.’

We set off. ‘Ah, Fanny,’ she said, beaming at me, ‘you can’t imagine how happy I am to have you with me at last. It’s just like the old days when we were children. The two of us against the world!’

At Back Beach, the Spittles towering behind me, I watched the waves dwindle to a grey scum and sink through the sandy pores of the shore. I imagined myself a shell, a scuttling crab, shaped entirely by the sea, and shivered as I thought how the ocean’s wistful sighing echoed Mama’s as she sat looking down from her window at Lyme Bay.

Beside our house stood a great mulberry tree, monarch of the garden. Every spring it burst into pink blossom, and in late summer bore such an abundance of black fruits that our manservant, Joseph, was obliged to fashion supports for its branches. Sprouting from its gnarled trunk, these branches rose skywards, then flung themselves down again to form a canopy of leaves dense enough to provide a hiding place. Slipping within, my child self watched, unobserved, the doings of the house. Cocooned like a silkworm, I executed there the magic rituals I concocted to ward off the Evil Eye, the attentions of witches — and the fever. In saucers pilfered from the pantry, I stirred my potions with twigs torn from my sanctuary. Onto a mixture of assorted berries and flower-heads arranged on earth brought in my handkerchief from the churchyard, I squeezed milky ragwort juice, then added ingredients the more powerful since all but one had been stolen — a pinch of salt, another of sugar, a dab of best butter and a smear of honey, a little ash from the grate, a few fish scales, several hairs from Mama’s brush and, most potent of all, several drops of my own blood. For this, I had been forced to puncture my skin with a needle lifted secretly from Martha’s work-basket. Some of the resulting paste I spread on a knot in the tree’s trunk, the handle to a hidden door that needed only the invocation of magic to one day reveal itself. The rest I deposited in tiny daubs and dollops about the house, taking particular care to place them where Mama might pass. I shadowed her with a wordless devotion, half-guarding her, half-protecting myself.

As she gazed out at Lyme Bay, I knew it was not the sea she saw but William, lying in the churchyard of St Michael the Archangel. She and I went often to his small grave, where I liked to trace with my finger the inscription on his tombstone:

William Ernest Thompson.

Beloved Son of Ernest and Charlotte Thompson
of this Parish.

Born ye 3rd March 1830.

Called Home Nov 16th 1831.

When we buried William, Papa was far away on his ship. The snowdrops and crocuses came and went, and primroses sprang from the ground in their place. The parson’s sheep, grazing among the tombstones, nibbled at the fresh green grass, and I stood beside Mama, staring at the hard grey stone, while the rain fell softly on William. It was almost a year now since we had sponged and cooled him, trying to calm the terrifying convulsions of his body as he screamed and writhed, his eyes fixed on some invisible apparition. And then the crisis of heat and horror passed, and he lay limp in Mama’s arms, the fever — and the life — gone from him. Sorrow curled itself around our house, filling every corner, tainting our food and drink, infecting the air we breathed, turning Mama into an ethereal stranger.

Whenever I tried to conjure Papa, only the faceless figure of a black-clad man came to me. Yet of William I had a clear recollection, his sweet baby scent, his fat infant hands clutching at my hair, his laughter as I chased him across the garden. When I thought of this, I ached for him to come back to us and for things to be as before.

Mama sat again at her window, her forehead against the glass. I saw she had been weeping, and attempted to console her.

‘Oh, Mama,’ I ventured. ‘I should so much like to see William again.’

She started. Her face clouded and I feared I had made matters worse, not better. ‘How long have you been standing there, child?’ she said. ‘Come and sit beside me.’

I averted my eyes from her mourning ring, fashioned from one of William’s ringlets. Dry and lifeless, it resembled nothing more than horsehair, a mockery of his soft blond curls.

‘I must be grateful,’ she said, ‘that at least the Lord has spared me my daughter.’

I sought for some way to turn her thoughts from William. ‘Tell me about when we came to Lyme, Mama,’ I said.

‘Ah, we were living in Portsmouth. Such a terrible place. Every day, the dregs of human jetsam were flung from the ships to scrabble on the shore.’ She brightened a little. ‘But when you were just a ten-month infant, Papa’s ship captured a Spanish vessel, and we were able to remove to this house in Lyme.’

Such accustomed talk, anchored in our old life, began to allay my feelings of unease. ‘Shall I open the window, Mama?’

‘Yes. Tell me what you can see on the Cobb.’

I flicked the window latch, breathing in the smell of the ocean, its salty tang thick with seaweed and gulls’ cries. ‘Another ship is leaving.’

Mama sighed. ‘All these comings and goings put me in mind of Papa. Here we sit, safe and secure, while he serves His Majesty on the High Seas.’

In my head I conjured the High Seas, far beyond Lyme Bay, their great waves heaving and tossing the vessels of the King’s Navy skywards like carts ascending a mountainside, up and up to the summit. Of what lay at the summit of the High Seas I had no idea, but I saw Papa’s stately vessel, swaying a little above the water in the manner of a carriage on a rutted road. Tall at the prow, Papa stood gazing out for sight of a Spanish or Frenchie flag, the waves respectfully parting for his ship and the English fleet behind him.

‘Tonight, in your prayers, you must ask God to bless your dearest Papa and bring him safely home to us.’

‘Yes, Mama. I pray so every night.’

‘And what is it that you ask of our Heavenly Father, Fanny?’

‘Please, God,’ I repeated, in the words Mama had earlier provided for me, ‘make me a good and worthy child, bless my dearest mama, and guard the soul of my brother until we meet again in Heaven, may it please God.’ I hesitated a moment. ‘Watch over my beloved
papa, Heavenly Father, speed his ship across the waves, spare him from the grapeshot, the cannon, the blood of battle, and the devils of France and Spain. And, if it is Thy will, bring him safely back home to us. Amen.’

I saw my prayers unroll like magic threads, ensnaring Papa and reeling him back to Lyme. With each prayer, I tried to recall his face, some lost scent of him, the sound of his voice but, in truth, I could remember nothing whatsoever to bring him to mind.

Mama put her arms around me. ‘Ah, my good girl,’ she said, and kissed me. ‘I see you hold the image of your beloved papa close to your heart.’

Lucy and I spent my first few days in Auckland sitting together, recollecting old times. I had brought letters for her from Aunt and our brothers, and an embroidered cushion cover made by Gussie. We laughed and cried, endlessly recalled memories of our childhood, and delighted in being together again. I considered whether I should mention either Uncle or her lost infant son but decided, for the moment, it would be unwise. Though in many respects she was her old self, there was an edge to her, an agitation that I had never before observed and which troubled me. And whereas when I had last seen her in Albany she had been unable to keep herself from praising Captain Grey’s accomplishments in almost every conversation, now she seemed reluctant even to mention his name.

‘Have you heard yet from the Governor?’ I asked as casually as I could when we were sitting together in the drawing room after dinner one evening.

‘Not a word. Though that is scarcely unusual.’ She put her arm around me. ‘Oh, but there
is
some news I must tell you. I almost forgot. The Colonial Office has appointed a Lieutenant-Governor for the southern part of New Zealand.’

‘Surely your husband …?’

She ignored me. ‘Well, you will never guess who’s been appointed. Mr Eyre!’

‘The same Mr Eyre …’

‘… who visited us years ago in Albany and tried to make love to Gussie. Yes, he’s in Wellington now. He arrived only a few weeks ago—’ She broke off at sounds from outside. ‘Why, this must be my husband, home at last.’ Biting at her bottom lip, she patted her hair
and stood up, arranging her skirts.

Much as I remembered him, Governor Grey strode into the drawing room, bowed to us both and held out a hand to me. ‘Miss Fanny, welcome. What a great pleasure to see you again after so long.’

Lucy took her husband’s arm. ‘Fanny and I have been reminiscing. Do you recall how—’

He shook off her hand. ‘I’m too tired to wish to evoke old times, Eliza. I shall bid you both an immediate goodnight.’

‘But, George, you haven’t yet eaten.’

‘I assure you, I have no appetite. There’s great unrest again in the south of the island and I must return there very soon. I have weightier things on my mind than the pleasures of the table.’

I woke to the sound of a quarrel. As Lucy had said, the walls of Government House were no better than paper so I was able to distinguish, more clearly than I wished, every word of what passed between them.

‘You do nothing to elevate my position, Eliza. A wife should be a helpmeet to her husband, but you’re so young and silly — even the chiefs call you a mere child.’

I heard the remembered note of defiance in Lucy’s voice. ‘I see you place the opinions of cannibal savages above those of your wife.’

‘It is not a wife’s duty to have opinions.’

‘But I would so much like to come with you. I could show Fanny something of the countryside. We could search out plant and flower species for my collection.’

‘I am engaged in attempting to subdue Te Rau-paraha and Te Rangi-hae-ata, and I must urgently speak with Octavius Hadfield in Wellington. I’m far too busy with official duties to allow you time to dally along the way for bushes and branches.’

‘But we shouldn’t delay you, I promise, and Fanny could see in what esteem the chiefs hold you. After all, many of the chiefs take their senior wives on visits with them. We’ve entertained them here at Government House.’

‘Really, Eliza, with every word you utter you display your ignorance of the workings of the world. Do you not realise we’re at
war? Men are falling every day in the service of Queen and Country, the tribes are engaged constantly in internecine strife, and yet you feel your own selfish needs must be considered above all of these.’

‘But when you’re away from me, I’m so uneasy until your return. And if I were to ride with you sometimes, we could share the burden of your duties.’

‘Nonsense. You have Miss Fanny with you now and it’s the lot of women to tend the home fires. I don’t hear Mrs Selwyn complaining when the Bishop must be abroad.’

‘Sarah Selwyn travels often with her husband.’ She paused. ‘And … and she has her children to occupy her while I—’

The Governor’s tone was curt. ‘My dear Aunt Julia has no children but she has devoted herself to good works and literary matters. You should follow her example.’

How sad, I thought, that in a mere six years their relations with each other have dwindled to this.

‘I find it strange to hear the Governor calling you Eliza.’

‘Only my husband and those people who have known us since we left England do so. Even George’s family didn’t address me that way at first. I dislike Eliza intensely.’

‘But then why does he …?’

‘About a year after we arrived in England, while we were staying at his stepfather’s house at Bodiam, an express messenger arrived from Lord John Russell offering my husband the governorship of South Australia. He went straight up to London, resigned his commission and accepted. And when he returned, he told me he considered Lucy too frivolous a name for a colonial administrator’s wife.’

I spoke before I could stop myself. ‘How ridiculous. Why did you not say so?’

‘I was dismayed, I confess, but I felt … I believed that if it was his wish, I should agree. But, even now, I sometimes find myself turning about to see whom he is addressing.’

Lucy and I sat together before the fire, listening to the howling of the wind.

‘I detest the way the slightest noise resounds through this dreadful wooden building,’ she said. ‘When we first landed, I hadn’t a single friend or acquaintance here. After six days we settled into this gloomy house and a day later, merely one week after our arrival, the Governor left me to ride north to the Bay of Islands and I had no idea when he might return. I lay in bed, feverish, with perfect strangers round me, listening to the horrible haunting sighings and creakings. I can’t tell you how much I longed to be back with you all in Albany.’

‘That was not a very happy beginning,’ I said cautiously. ‘And it has never been like you to be ill.’

‘It started when we were in Adelaide. I seem to have become a very nervous person.’

I considered speaking of her infant but held back.

‘But, you know,’ she went on, ‘I’m getting quite callous about my husband’s leaving me. And now I have you, Fanny dearest, I’m sure to be my old self again very soon.’

‘But I don’t understand,’ I ventured again. ‘In Albany you were the healthiest of all of us. You never suffered a day’s illness. Do you remember how you and Uncle used to walk up the slopes of Mount Clarence and leave the rest of us far behind?’

To my consternation, tears began to form in her eyes. ‘Ah, those were such happy days,’ she said. ‘I used to think that once I was married I should be just like Mama … I believe she was in love with dearest Papa until the day he died.’