A Crooked Rib (3 page)

My bedroom, opposite Mama’s, looked out to the garden, not the sweep of Lyme Bay. Martha occupied a room on the top floor with Mama’s maid, Agnes. Joseph slept in the cellar and Ellen had a window-bed behind the shutters in the kitchen. Since William had died, it had become my habit when I could not sleep to steal out of bed and sit on the floor outside Mama’s door, leaning against the jamb. On the nights I heard her weeping, I remained on guard at her door until I fell asleep and woke, from discomfort or cold, in time to creep back into my bed before Ellen should come to rouse and dress me.

It was Ellen’s task to accompany me to and from the school gates, carrying my lunch pail. Mr England’s Academy being the only such establishment in Lyme, and the parish requiring that we be educated, there was a mix of children to match the population of the town, some of us sent in tidy pinafores and buckled shoes, others ragged and barefoot, even in winter. The schoolroom, too, had its own ranks and hierarchies; already I knew very well that some of the others came from what Mama called ‘those squalid tenements’.

‘Ye’ve to come along wi’ I now,’ said Ellen as she collected me from school one bitter afternoon in February. Taking my hand, she sped down Church Road, forcing me to scurry to keep up with her. ‘Come on, Miss Fanny. Us must hurry.’ She jerked at my hand as we headed down the hill towards the butter market at Monmouth Street, then, suddenly, she turned off towards the George.

‘Are we going to the Inn?’

‘Nay. Us has other things to do.’

I was disappointed. Occasionally, Martha and I walked to the stables
behind the George to watch the farriers replacing worn shoes on the travellers’ horses and the stable-boys tossing hay. As we hurried past, the heavy stench of rotten manure wafted out.

Ellen wrinkled her nose. ‘I niver could marry wi’ a stable boy. Allus stinking of muck and filth.’

‘But where are we bound, Ellen?’

‘Curiosity killed they cat.’

We crossed the top end of Coombe Street, its tall buildings crowding the mean, narrow alleyways. These must be the tenements. I pressed even closer to Ellen, sniffing the warm thick air about us.

‘What’s that strange smell?’

‘Be aye they Maltings. Be there them brews they beer.’

We slipped into a lane and skirted the side of the mill where a channel of water ran beside us. Opposite, three or four cottages abutted the path, and in one of them a woman was sweeping the yard with a besom.

‘Take care,’ said Ellen. ‘Look away now. That one be a witch. Lyme be full of witches. Does ye know how to keep they away?’

‘No,’ I mumbled, my eyes averted from the witch.

‘Ye takes a morsel of bacon and fixes it inside of they chimney, just away from they fire. Witches canna niver abide the smell of bacon.’

At the thought of witches descending inside our chimney, I shuddered. ‘I think we should go home now.’

‘Her be going indoors and us be nearly there.’

‘Nearly where?’

‘Why, Jericho.’

‘But Jericho is in the Bible.’

‘Nay this one. ’Tis by they Old Mill where they Lym make a deep pool. ’Tis where they Baptists dunks they fallen women.’

‘Fallen women?’

‘Aye, they women of no fortune and wild ways down by they harbour. They Baptists brings them to they lodging-house at Jericho. For shelter and food, they women agree them be baptised.’

‘But aren’t they baptised already?’

‘Them has turned to sin. So they Baptists says them must be reborn.’

‘To be reborn is not so bad,’ I said, thinking of William.

‘Nay, be very bad. They Baptists does push them, one then other, deep into they mill-pool there.’

‘But if they can’t swim …?’

‘Aye, well, two of they Baptists stands by they bank a-holding of boathooks to fish they women out.’

We had reached the Old Mill, and I looked down warily into the deep, dark pool beside it.

‘Now,’ said Ellen, ‘sit ye down on they bank. I sees a friend sudden over there.’

From a doorway of one of the tall crammed houses nearby a young man had emerged. He came sauntering towards us.

‘Is he one of the Baptists?’

‘Oh, aye. A real preacher, he.’

I studied the young man for evidence of a boathook and was relieved to see he carried nothing at all in either hand.

‘Ye stay here while I do speak wi’ he.’

I peered at the pool, surreptitiously watching Ellen and the Baptist from the sides of my eyes. He placed an arm about her waist and she did not recoil but seemed to like it, for she leaned her head briefly against his shoulder. Then I saw him raise a hand and stroke her hair. She tossed her head, and I heard her laugh and begin to talk to him in tones so low I could not catch what she said. To relieve my boredom, I took up some small stones and began casting them into the pool. Then it occurred to me to lie on my front and launch a leaf onto the water. I had just sent my craft on its way and was intently charting its progress when I was seized by Ellen and hauled to my feet.

‘What be ye at, Miss Fanny? Look at ye pinafore, all earth and filth. What be I to say to Martha?’ She made an attempt to brush me down. ‘Now, Missy, if ye be they good girl and says ye fell in they churchyard …’

‘But I …’

Ellen winked at me. ‘Ye be there to see ye brother’s marker. Ye trips and falls. Ye pinafore be dirtied. If ye be minded and says so, on us
way home I be minded to show ye they Cat Woman. But ye must say niver a word of it to a living soul.’

I nodded. Now that I was standing again, I saw that we were being observed by people gathered at the tenement doorways and in small knots and clusters in the alleys.

‘There are some people looking at us.’

‘Oh, aye.’ And she waved and nodded to them. ‘Be nowt to fear.’

I was surprised Ellen should know such rough and ragged folk, but said nothing as she picked up her basket and we set off.

‘The Baptist is watching us.’

‘Aye, well …’ said Ellen, and flashed a smile in his direction.

Hurrying back past the mill, we again entered the upper reach of Coombe Street and its close-packed houses. The lower end, with its lacemakers’ shops, was familiar to me, but this seemed entirely different, almost sinister, and I looked about nervously. I gripped Ellen’s hand as we turned in at a narrow passageway leading to a small poor square which, unlike the main streets nearby, was deserted.

‘So,’ she said, stopping and laying down the basket, ‘ye wants to see they Cat Woman?’

I thought of my friend Harriet’s kitten, its soft paws kneading at our hands as we played with it. ‘Does she have many cats? And kittens?’

Ellen did not reply. Instead she said, ‘Ye be sure to tell Martha ye fell?’

I nodded.

‘Ye be they good girl. Stand ye there by they doorway. And nay a word from ye.’ She lowered her voice. ‘Look. See ye there?’

She pointed to a low arch opposite where I made out the crouching figure of an old woman. As I stared at her, she lifted her head, sniffed the air like a dog, then uttered a loud yowl, followed by a distinct meow.

‘She is calling her cat,’ I whispered. ‘It must be lost.’

Ellen shook her head.

The woman shuffled forward into the little courtyard. She was a bulky old dame, her clothes torn and tattered, her feet falling out of
broken, scuffed slippers which flapped as she walked.

‘Watch ye,’ warned Ellen.

Motioning me to stay where I was, she left our hiding place and crept up behind the old woman. ‘Good day to thee, Mither,’ she bellowed suddenly.

The old woman swung around. I expected her to aim a blow at Ellen but, instead, she stared blankly at her and meowed.

‘Aye, be misty today,’ said Ellen, as if the dame had answered her.

‘Meow.’

‘Think thee it will mebbee rain?’

‘Meow, meow, meow.’

As she crossed the yard, she arched her back, hissed at Ellen and meowed again. It was clear that she could not or did not speak. Then, from a doorway, a little girl appeared. Catching the dame’s hand, she pulled her inside, still meowing furiously.

‘Ye sees why them calls her they Cat Woman.’

‘But why is she like that?’

‘Folks round these parts says it begun on they day them hanged her son.’

The Governor having returned from business in the North the evening before, we had retired to bed later than usual. Early in the morning, I awoke with a start to the sound of continuous low moaning, followed by a series of wails. Somewhere in the house, women were sobbing, and I thought I distinguished Lucy’s voice. I dressed quickly and ran to her room. It was empty. Following the sound, I made my way to the drawing room and peered around the half-open door.

Surrounded by a group of Maoris, all of whom were weeping, Lucy and the Governor stood in silent misery as the natives with increasing tremors of their heads and hands began to lament and cry ever more loudly until they were all howling in the most desolate manner imaginable, tears pouring down their tattooed faces. Even Lucy and her husband had tears in their eyes.

I stood transfixed, imagining what disaster must have brought them to this state. My heart began to pound. Had they news that we were about to be attacked — perhaps eaten alive?

Then, to my amazement, they all suddenly dried their tears and, smiling, pressed noses, in turn, with the Governor and Lucy who also shed their expressions of misery and returned the joyful greetings of their visitors.

‘Ah, Fanny,’ said Lucy, catching sight of me, ‘come and be introduced to the Arawa chiefs. They’ve come all the way from Rotorua. It’s been such a long time since we’ve seen them.’

‘But why was everyone weeping so piteously? I thought that some terrible slaughter must have occurred …’

Lucy shook her head. ‘No, no. That is the Maori custom. Whenever
a native has been away for a long period, on his return, all his tribe gathers round him and laments just as you saw. It’s to show the depth of their suffering at being deprived of his company. Then, when that formality is over, they’re free to express their feelings of joy at having him back among them again.’

‘But you and the Governor are not from the Arawa tribe. Nor any other …’

‘It’s a mark of respect to my husband. And because I’m his wife, they include me in such ceremonial government occasions.’ She lowered her voice, ‘So you see why he requires a wife. To help him carry out his official duties.’

‘Ah, Miss Fanny,’ said the Governor, stepping out onto the veranda where I was reading. ‘I’m pleased to see you’re making use of my library.’

‘I’m grateful to have access to such an extensive collection of books.’

‘I wonder if I might have a word with you in confidence?’

‘Certainly.’ I rose and accompanied him into his study.

He motioned me to be seated.

‘I hope I am not speaking out of turn but … you may have noticed that my wife … your sister … doesn’t enjoy the best of health here. Since our arrival, she has had a number of
crises des nerfs
. I wonder if you might encourage her to ride more. Her physician is convinced that fresh air is stimulating to her constitution.’

‘I will be happy to do everything possible to persuade her.’ I paused and looked about me at the shelves of books. ‘She has told me that you speak the Maori language fluently.’

‘Yes, and I have often urged her to take up studying it, but she lacks the interest …’

This is strange, I thought, when Lucy herself has told me quite the opposite.

‘She has always had a facility for languages,’ I said. ‘I might try to convince her to begin.’

‘You’re most thoughtful, but I fear Eliza’s nerves won’t permit close study. It is outdoor exercise that she requires.’

I made to leave.

‘Thank you, Miss Fanny,’ he said. He picked up a paper from his desk. ‘But before you go back to your book, I have something here that I think may be of interest to you. It’s a most original letter from Broughton, one of the Northern chiefs.’

‘He has a very English-sounding name.’

‘That’s his adopted Pakeha name. The Maoris frequently take the names of Europeans they hold in high esteem; many girls have been named Wikitoria after Her Majesty. And the chief at Waikanae, Te Rangitake, has taken the name of William King, which he has translated into Maori as Wiremu Kingi, the name by which he is now always known.’

‘I see.’

‘I believe you will be touched by Broughton Tutukaka’s letter.’

I sat down again.

‘As the chief speaks no English,’ said the Governor, ‘it’s written in Maori and he’s asked me to translate it for him before I send it to the Queen. Let me read it to you first in its original language.’ He cleared his throat, then began to read, and though I did not understand a word of what he uttered, the sound was rolling and very pleasing.

I said as much.

‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘Oratory is the skill the Maoris value most highly and their language has a sonorous beauty. The chiefs all speak fluently and, the better to make their points, they often employ metaphors and humour. Their speeches are extremely lengthy, but, no matter how long he speaks, no one is ever interrupted and no offensive language or insults are permitted among them. I’ve often thought that the Maoris in their assemblies could teach many lessons in courtesy to our colonial parliamentarians.’ He turned back to the letter. ‘And now for the translation.

‘Your Majesty the Queen.

Farewell in your country in London. This is the message for you. Show love to the Maoris of New Zealand. This is the word — “Charity is the greatest of these three”. May God bless us & keep us for ever & ever. God’s love lasts for ever; man cannot erase it. These are all my words to you.
And it is signed,
Broughton Te Manu Tutukaka.’

‘It’s a very heartfelt message,’ I said, ‘but why is he writing to the Queen?’

‘He considers her a chief equal in rank to himself and it’s the Maori custom for great chiefs to exchange greetings. He’s honouring Her Majesty.’

‘And will you send it to the Queen?’

‘I must. I have promised to do so.’