A Crooked Rib (5 page)

In winter, as the mulberry’s foliage fell, I was forced to crouch in the innermost recesses of my hiding place to try to conceal myself. The biting cold of February made the mixing of my potions almost impossible but I had devised several spoken spells which, to ensure their efficacy, had to be chanted in a whisper inside my magic cavern. One in particular I favoured:

Recited under my breath, within the tracery of frost-covered branches, it flew away in misty puffs, each one a shield against uncertainty and danger.

I was unleashing my charm after church one Sunday when Joseph passed, his arms laden with logs. From the kitchen doorway, Martha called to him. ‘Stir thyself, now. Master comes home tomorrow.’

I craned as far forward as I dared, the icy ground stinging through my boots. I longed to go indoors to the warmth of the fire, but I could not risk revealing myself until I had heard more.

‘Master? Home? Th’art sure?’

‘Was Mistress told me.’

Joseph sighed. ‘I canna white the front steps in such weather. ’Tis too cold.’

‘Tha must. Master is particular, like all them naval men. Set thee to now or there be trouble tomorrow, ’tis certain. And lay the path here with cinders.’

Joseph disappeared, grumbling.

I slipped out of the tree and shuddered my way inside. The front steps to be whitened! Usually we entered the house through the side gate and the garden path that led to the kitchen and the back parlour. The front door, set above two steps that gave onto the cobbled footpath, was reserved for guests and special occasions.

Ellen took off my boots and I warmed my feet at the kitchen grate.

‘Ye’re to go up to ye mither directly,’ she said, as she buttoned on my indoor shoes.

Mama sat before the drawing-room fire, holding a letter. As I entered, she rose and clasped me in her arms. ‘Fanny, dearest, the most wonderful news. Papa is coming home! He has already left on the stage from Portsmouth. No school for you tomorrow. We must spend the day preparing ourselves.’

We woke next morning to snow. I longed to play outside in the soft white powder but was forbidden to stir from the house. After breakfast, Ellen dressed me in a clean shift, my lace pantaloons and two calico petticoats, then my best woollen frock, stockings and buckled kid shoes. Taking a bowl of water, she damped my ringlets, curled them about her fingers, and tied my head in a cloth till they should dry. I was obliged to eat my midday meal at the kitchen table, covered in a large sheet to guard against possible spillage. And afterwards I sat beside the back-parlour fire and dressed and redressed my doll, Marie, in her French finery. In every room, log fires roared, and from the kitchen came the smell of meat roasting on the grate. Though the snow muffled sounds, at every hushed noise from the street I started and peered anxiously towards the window. Papa’s return was, after all, almost entirely of my doing. Though Mama had said that Heaven had regarded my nightly prayers with favour, I knew very well it was only my magical incantations that had brought him safely home to us.

It was mid-afternoon before Mama sent for me. She sat in her customary chair in the drawing room, but looked so unlike my real mama I stopped in the doorway and did not dare venture in. Her face had been powdered white, with red circles on either cheek, and her hair was caught up on her head from whence it fell in ringlets to match my own. On one cheek was a small black dot I had never seen before, and her blue silk gown, open above its lacing, displayed her powdered chest. Huge leg-of-mutton sleeves covered her arms and, as she stood up to embrace me, I noticed the small bulge of the bustle under the back of her gown. I knew she wished me to tell her how pretty she looked, but so great was my discomfiture at the change in her, I could not find the proper words.

‘Why, Mama, you look … you look …’

‘Come here, Fanny, and let me see you. Yes. You will do very well.’

There was a muffled clattering on the cobbles below the window. Mama caught my hand. ‘It’s Papa. I’m certain of it. He’s here.’

Minutes later, a tall man strode into the room. I eyed him without recognition but it was surely Papa, for Mama ran immediately to him and clasped her arms about his neck. In return, he put his arms around her and drew her to him. Embarrassed by this display, I gazed into the flames of the fire till they should disentangle from each other and notice me where I sat.

For some time I remained forgotten until Mama, breaking from his embrace, cried, ‘Fanny! Come here, child, and kiss your dearest papa.’

As I approached the strange man, I was aware of a familiar odour of tobacco mixed with the sharpness of earth, of … grass … of what exactly? I turned a little away from the strength of his smell as he bent down and grazed my cheek with rough lips.

‘See how she has grown,’ said Mama.

‘Indeed she has.’

‘And now, Ernest,’ said Mama, ‘you must be hungry, and Martha has prepared a roast for our supper. I thought tonight we should all dine together.’

‘With the child?’

‘Why, yes.’

‘I’m not in favour of children dining with their elders but, if it is your wish, Charlotte, for tonight only she may dine with us and we shall give thanks together for my safe return.’

‘Amen to that,’ said Mama.

I did not like my papa. I did not like his heavy smell, his booming voice, the way he commanded all of Mama’s time. Why had I so foolishly prayed to Heaven to send him back to us? Now, at every opportunity, I pressed myself into the mulberry tree, hissing magic spells and mixing noxious potions for his departure.

And Papa did not like me. ‘You indulge her, Charlotte,’ I heard him say to Mama as I stood with my ear pressed to the drawing-room door.

‘You must be patient, Ernest. She’s not yet used to you.’

‘She should have a governess.’

‘I don’t wish to have any governess living in the house with us. They can be so very interfering. And Fanny is learning well in her dame’s classes.’

‘Perhaps she should be sent away to school.’

I slipped off to my bedroom where Ellen, not Mama, put me to bed and heard my prayers. It was late when I was woken by the noise of a door shutting. I knew it would be Papa. Although he occupied a bedroom of his own on the other side of Mama’s, it seemed that on most nights he preferred to sleep in her room. I felt the unfairness of this keenly. If I, her beloved child, was not permitted to sleep in her bed, why should Papa be granted such a privilege?

Now, as strange noises emanated from her room, I became alarmed. Suppose Papa was being unkind to her, speaking to her as curtly as he did to me? I climbed out of bed and, cold in the night air, took up my sentinel’s position against her door jamb.

I must have fallen asleep, for I was woken by a blow on my back, and tumbled to the floor as Mama’s door opened.

‘What the
devil
…?’ shouted a voice.

Fully awake, I stared in fright at the dim outline of two large legs and a figure towering over me.

‘What is it?’ came Mama’s voice. ‘Wait, I’m lighting a candle.’

‘It’s that blasted child.’ His voice rose to a roar. ‘What is she doing here, spying on us?’

In the flicker of the candle, I saw the coarse hair that covered his legs, and was engulfed by a rank odour from under his nightshirt. Peering up beneath it, I discerned some kind of abominable mass hanging at the top of his thighs. He seized me roughly and hauled me upright. ‘In the morning, girl, I shall whip you soundly.’

Mama rushed to us and pulled me to her. ‘Leave her, Ernest, I beg you.’

Shuddering from fright and cold, I began to weep.

‘Of course your own papa won’t whip you. He merely spoke in fright after you caused him to stumble.’

‘Indeed I did not. She must learn her place. I am her father. She must obey me.’

Glaring at Papa, Mama enclosed me in her arms. ‘I remind you, Ernest, you are not on the quarter-deck now.’

From the stairs at the end of the corridor, Martha appeared in her shift, her hair hanging in a plait.

‘Take the child and put her to bed,’ ordered Papa.

‘Go back to your room, Martha,’ said Mama. ‘I shall put Fanny to bed myself.’

I do not know what may have passed between them, but it was Mama, not Ellen, who woke me in the morning and who sat with me as Ellen dressed me. ‘We are to forget all about last night’s events,’ she said, ‘but you must promise me, Fanny, that you will not leave your bed so again.’

I ate my breakfast and midday meal with only Ellen for company. ‘They mistress be a-walking with they master,’ she said, ‘and I be sent by Martha for they joint for they dinner tonight. Ye be they good girl now and play quiet indoors with ye doll. And keep ye pinafore clean.’ She looked at me intently. ‘No call to be upsetting they master.’

Bored with my own society, I wandered upstairs and slipped into Mama’s room, where I fingered her china ornaments and tried out her hairbrush before laying my head against her pillow to catch the scent of her. It occurred to me then to peep quickly into Papa’s room. His door stood ajar. I pushed it open and stepped inside. His large bed was covered by a plain white counterpane with none of the pretty embroidered butterflies and flowers that decorated Mama’s. Against one wall stood his iron trunk, against another a plain deal chair over which was draped his nightshirt. Though there was no sign of his pipe, the air was tinged with tobacco smoke. Disappointed at the ordinariness of his room, I was turning to leave when I saw upon the window-sill an elegant brass spyglass. I had seen pictures of such an object but had never encountered a real one. I went over to the window. Feeling the weight of the metal, I brought the glass slowly to my right eye, screwed up my left as I had seen in my picture book, then looked at the distant Cobb.

For a moment, all I saw was a blur, then I began to discern the faces of men, women and horses, even dogs, all brought so close they might have been inhabiting our garden. Opening the window further, I trained the glass towards St Michael’s churchyard. Sheep and gravestones sprang towards me.

I was watching the grazing sheep when there came a shout from behind me. I jumped back from the window and, in doing so, dropped the spyglass. As I bent to retrieve it, Papa seized my wrist.

‘Leave it be!’ he bellowed. ‘How
dare
you enter my room and help yourself to my possessions?’

I tried to speak, to explain that I had merely been trying out the glass, not stealing it, but fright held me speechless and I stood mute, shaking, his grip on my wrist so tight that I feared he might snap it.

‘You, Miss,’ he cried, ‘have been petted and indulged by your mama. It’s time you learnt the ways of the world.’

‘I—’

He shook me. ‘Be quiet. Do you hear me?’

In a quandary now as to whether to be silent or answer him, I nodded.

‘You have been permitted too much liberty and—’

‘
Ernest
.’ Mama stood, flushed, in the doorway.

I tried to pull away from Papa and run to her, but he jerked me back. ‘Your mama cannot intercede for you this time.’ He turned to her. ‘I’ve caught the child in the very act of stealing.’

Mama looked at him in astonishment. ‘Stealing … what?’

Papa brandished the spyglass he had retrieved from the floor. ‘My glass. My most treasured—’

Mama’s voice was very quiet. ‘But why would Fanny need to steal a spyglass, my dear? It is hardly the normal accoutrement of an eight-year-old girl.’

With relief, I found I could speak again. ‘I didn’t steal it, Mama. I wanted only … to look through it … to see …’

Papa glared at me.

‘I’m sure that’s so, Ernest. Fanny was merely curious. Your glass is novel to her.’

‘She has no business in my room at all. Does she not know the limitations of her place in this household?’

‘I’m sure she does. I think perhaps a child’s natural instinct overcame her. But you’re right, my dear. She shouldn’t have entered your room without permission. That was very wrong of you, Fanny. You must apologise to your dear papa.’

He was not my dear papa but I did not say so. ‘I’m sorry, Papa.’

‘There, Ernest, she has said she regrets what she did, so perhaps you may release your hold on her wrist. She is, after all, too small to inflict damage on such a strongly built man as yourself.’

She said this very mildly, but Papa at once dropped my wrist and strode downstairs.

Since the success of the party, both Lucy and her husband had appeared in better humour. Then, she and I came in to breakfast one morning to discover the Governor sitting grimly in his chair, clutching a letter.

‘Why, George, whatever is the matter?’ asked Lucy.

He laid aside the sheet of paper. ‘The most shocking intelligence. Reverend FitzRoy is dead.’ He paused. ‘And by his own hand.’

Lucy took up the letter. ‘
You may not yet have received the sad tidings … my painful duty to inform you
… Oh, how very dreadful …
that he slit his throat with his shaving blade
… But how frightful for his poor wife and children.’ She turned to me. ‘Reverend FitzRoy was the cousin of the last Governor here. Not a very likeable character, I’m afraid.’

The Governor set his mouth in a disapproving line. ‘You are speaking disrespectfully of the dead, Eliza. It does not befit your position.’

‘I am speaking no more than the truth. Of course I’m grieved at this news, and especially at the manner of Reverend FitzRoy’s death, but everyone here knows he caused nothing but trouble with the missionaries in the North. He was singularly gloomy, Fanny, and very dogmatic and fixed in his views. He and Governor FitzRoy held that every word of the Bible was the literal truth. People say that’s why they fell out with Mr Darwin.’

I saw how the more she spoke, the more her husband’s anger increased, but she seemed impervious to this.

‘Madness must run in the FitzRoy family, I think, Fanny. Their uncle, Lord Castlereagh, took his own life, and in exactly the same
manner, slitting his throat with his shav—’

Her husband slammed his fist on the table. ‘Leave this room at once, Mrs Grey. You’re allowing your foolish tongue to run away with you.’

‘I will
not
leave this room. Not at all. The entire world knows the truth of what I’m saying. It was Lord Castlereagh’s valet who found him. It was in all of the newspapers of the time. Fanny, can you imagine such a fearful sight?’

‘No!’ I said. ‘And I’ve no wish to. Hush, Lucy, I beg you. Leave the dead in peace.’

‘I can’t help but think,’ said wilful Lucy, ‘how very odd it is that a man devoted to religion and the Word of God should commit the sin of self-slaughter.’

The Governor rose. He bowed to me. ‘Your sentiments do you credit, Miss Fanny. Perhaps you could instil some of your gentility of manner into my wife. Her comments are extremely unbecoming to a lady.’ And he left us.

Lucy’s cheeks were flushed, but she held her composure. ‘You see how pompous, how—’

‘I see how very silly you are to antagonise him so. Couldn’t you see his temper rising?’

‘It’s better than complete indifference.’

‘He’d just received terrible news of his friend. He was certain to be a little—’

‘His
friend
,’ she cried. ‘Theodosius FitzRoy was never his friend. My husband despised him. He often complained that FitzRoy was in an unholy alliance with his cousin, Captain FitzRoy. And he was the weakest, most ineffectual Governor, who fervently embraced the Holy Book but allowed grog-shops and houses of ill-repute to flourish unchecked in Kororareka. And now my husband pretends sorrow at the Reverend’s passing. He’s nothing but a hypocrite.’

‘Lucy! Stop it. If poor Uncle could hear you speaking like this, he’d be grieved beyond measure. It’s entirely possible and natural to feel sorrow at the death of any other fellow creature, no matter what views one held of him in life.’

The mention of Uncle seemed to calm her a little.

‘You must apologise,’ I said. ‘Go to your husband and say … say …
your senses were disturbed at such distressing intelligence.’

‘Then I’ll be just as great a hypocrite as he is.’

‘It’s not hypocrisy, it’s common sense. What will you profit from your husband’s being in such ill-humour with you?’

She considered a moment. ‘Well,’ she said sulkily, ‘I will do it, just for your sake.’ She paused. ‘But you know, Fanny, you’re grown so very
parochial
.’

Lady Martin’s house, at some distance from Auckland town, sat on a sloping hillside, looking towards the harbour. Lucy being engaged elsewhere, I was driven alone by Ingrams to pay my promised visit. I had not noticed at the dinner at Government House that Lady Martin suffered from some condition which made walking extremely difficult for her. She came now to greet me, leaning heavily on two sticks.

‘Look there,’ she said. ‘In the bay below.’

‘Maoris in canoes,’ I said, a little alarmed. ‘Are they friendly?’

‘Entirely friendly and well disposed to us. Do you see that man with the flax kits? In those he has kumara and fish fresh from the sea, and by and by he’ll bring them up to sell to my servants. I watch the natives every morning. They set out in their canoes with the sunrise and lay nets in the harbour. See, there’s another one coming around the point, laden with vegetables. The Maoris cultivate abundant vegetable gardens on their lands on the North Shore opposite us.’ She pointed across the harbour. ‘The ground there is particularly fertile.’

‘Are you afraid of them?’

‘Not at all.’

‘In Albany, we heard the most alarming accounts of their warlike habits.’

‘And I daresay they were true,’ said Lady Martin. ‘In some parts of New Zealand, relations between the two races are not at all harmonious and there have been violent disputes over land. But here, in Auckland, we’ve had little trouble.’

‘I was told that a Captain Wakefield and some of his men were murdered in cold blood by the Maoris … after they had surrendered.’

‘That was at Wairau and it was a most dreadful affair. But to the natives, surrender is an unknown act. Poor Captain Wakefield had no idea of this and, more importantly, Te Rau-paraha’s— Have you heard of Te Rau-paraha?’

‘The Governor calls him the Napoleon of the South.’

‘His daughter, Rongo, the wife of his nephew, Te Rangi-hae-ata, was accidentally killed in the crossfire and it’s the Maori way to have utu, or revenge, for any killing. That’s why Captain Wakefield and his men were slaughtered.’

‘The Governor says there are uprisings in the south. He intends go there soon to restore order. I hope he’ll be safe.’

‘Don’t trouble yourself on that account. The Maoris will never harm him because of his great mana.’

‘Mana?’

‘It’s a native word meaning high status or rank. All their chiefs and tohungas, their priests, have mana, and since the Governor is the representative of the Queen, he’s regarded as our European paramount chief.’

‘I confess I’m in awe of their appearance. The lines carved into their faces lend them such a ferocious air.’

‘Some of them are extremely confrontational, but a great deal of their fighting takes place among themselves, you know. And things are much quieter now than they were. Not so long ago, while my husband went to take the thermal waters, I stayed with Mrs Watson, the wife of an old missionary, near Tauranga, and she told me of her life at the Mission there twenty years ago, when they were the only Europeans in the place. Two of the local tribes were engaged in a skirmish, and the battle raged around and about the Watsons’ house.

‘She was very nervous, she said, but the chiefs assured her husband they wouldn’t be harmed provided they stayed inside. Unfortunately, her husband decided that, as a missionary, he couldn’t merely stand and watch as one group slaughtered the other, so out he went to remonstrate with the natives and plead for them to turn to peace.’

‘Was he killed?’

‘No, no, he was quite unharmed. But the chiefs were very much angered at his intervention so, to teach him a lesson, both tribes
joined forces and ransacked the Watsons’ house, then, their looting and pillage over, they resumed battle with each other. Mrs Watson said she was most put out to observe one of the Maoris running about outside their house, mother-naked and clutching his tomahawk, with her best black bonnet tied on his head.’

I laughed.

‘It was returned to her in due course — along with most of their other goods — but by then it smelt so highly of the fish oil that some of the Maoris use to dress their hair, she could never wear it again.’

I began increasingly to warm to Lady Martin and her frank, open manner.

‘Do you never find life here a little … narrow … compared with England?’ I asked.

‘Why, sometimes, but in general I have a great deal more freedom here than ever I should have in an English shire. And I meet people from so many different backgrounds, none of whose society I’d be permitted at Home. Then there’s my dear husband. He and I are very well suited and agree on most topics. And, of course, I have my garden.’

‘Lu— Mrs Grey is not as happy as you are.’

Lady Martin considered for a moment, then she said, ‘I’ve been in two minds as to whether I should speak to you. I’ve observed that you and Mrs Grey are very close. When she spoke of your arrival, she was as happy as I’ve ever seen her, and from that I assumed you were dear to each other.’ She paused. ‘She is sorely in need of a friend.’

I was torn. While I had no wish to speak of Lucy behind her back, I had become increasingly concerned for her. I did not feel Lady Martin to be either judgemental or a gossip; her concern seemed genuine.

‘The Governor isn’t perhaps the easiest of husbands,’ I ventured.

‘I should certainly say not.’ She spoke so vigorously, I was startled. ‘He has many excellent qualities and he’s devoted to his studies of Maori lore and legends, but he’s known throughout the colony as a man who nurses a grudge and pursues his opponents with undue ferocity. My husband says that the Governor is not satisfied merely to defeat his enemies but wishes to break them utterly. That’s not the fabric from which an understanding husband is cut.’

Her candour, while it surprised me, made me decide to confide in her. ‘At a gathering at the Mission after church last Sunday I met a Miss Cockcraft who was very … outspoken in what I can only describe as her … condemnation of Mrs Grey.’

‘Ah, Emily Cockcraft. A notorious young Auckland gossip. She’s in no way to be relied upon.’

I was relieved by this. ‘I formed a similar impression.’

‘You may trust,’ said Lady Martin, ‘that I shall at no time breathe a word of our conversation elsewhere. You may have complete faith in my confidentiality. I wish only to assist Mrs Grey.’

‘As do I. Please speak as freely as you wish.’

‘The Greys are not liked by many in Auckland,’ said Lady Martin, ‘partly because they succeeded the FitzRoys, and although Governor FitzRoy was very fixed in his opinions, he was agreeable and entertaining enough in company, and his wife loved society. She gave many very jolly dinners and balls, which, of course, made her popular with the settlers. With so few other events to look forward to, balls and parties are much desired here. And the children were delightful and accomplished. They were altogether a devoted family. My husband always said that provided one stayed away from the topics of religion and the Maori land sales, one could pass a most stimulating evening with FitzRoy. Then, too, the FitzRoys delighted so much in each other’s company. He was most attentive and full of praise for her, and she for him likewise, whereas Governor Grey often speaks to his lady in tones that scarcely suggest the most tender of feelings. Sometimes he resembles an army commander giving orders to a subordinate. We all know woman is man’s supposed inferior, but in this day and age no sensible man believes that in his heart.’

‘You think not?’

‘I’m certain of it. In a new country like this, where men and women must work together to accomplish even the simplest of tasks, ideas of the feebleness of our sex become difficult to sustain. But I’m not so sure the Governor subscribes to such a viewpoint.’

‘I fear not.’

‘It’s been noted by many people how often he leaves his wife alone, and it’s the talk here — for you know how folk love to gossip and make much of little — that he’s charming but cold and that
he forbids her even such simple pleasures as dancing. There’s not enough gaiety or society in Government House.’

‘You’re right.’

‘Now, mindful of these circumstances, I’ve called on Mrs Grey many times and sought to suggest outings, visits and other similar pastimes in order to supply her with some agreeable form of society but’ — she hesitated — ‘it’s a little difficult to speak of. In the normal course of things I shouldn’t presume to appear to criticise her …’

‘Pray continue, I beg you. I shan’t reveal to her one word of our conversation.’

‘I’ve observed her closely since she has been in New Zealand. She’s a clever woman, I believe, not in the least empty-headed.’

‘You judge her correctly. She has many aptitudes. In South Australia, she set herself to learning the Arabic language with great success.’

‘I’m restricted in my ability to walk but, knowing of her interest in flora, I suggested rides together to inspect the Domain. The New Zealand plant life is fascinating and she might gainfully be employed in cataloguing it for publication.’

‘Has she told you that when she was first married and in London, she had her researches into Western Australian flora published in a catalogue of plants?’

‘She has never breathed a word of it.’ Lady Martin set down her teacup. ‘I suggested, too, that she might assist us in the little hospital my husband and I have set up here, and I advanced the idea of visits to the native settlements, not merely because they’re worthy of notice but because she might usefully acquire knowledge in those areas where her husband is presently so occupied.’

‘You’ve been most thoughtful.’

‘But it was all in vain. For, in truth, I’ve been met not merely with indifference but by what one must call a sort of arrogant aloofness.’

‘I have seen it, though never in relation to myself. To me, she’s always loving and affectionate.’

Lady Martin took up the teapot which the maid had replenished. ‘I believe her to be very lonely and unhappy,’ she continued, ‘but her demeanour and all her actions serve only to render her more so. She’s what my husband would call “her own worst enemy”. This is
a very small and inward-looking society. One is thrust up constantly against one’s neighbours and it is essential — or so I consider it — that one should endeavour to forge common bonds with at least a certain number of them.’