Amber (29 page)

Chapter Twelve

W
hen Kitty awoke the next morning, Amber was no longer beside her. For a horrid moment Kitty thought she might have run away, but then she found her, on the floor beneath the bed curled around a very contented-looking Bodie, her piece of amber clutched tightly in her hand.

‘Amber? Amber, sweetheart, it’s time to wake up.’

Bodie and Amber both stirred, stretched and then blinked at her. As Amber began to crawl out from under the bed, Kitty stepped back, into a suspiciously damp patch on the rug.

‘Oh, sweetheart, you’re going to have to stop doing that,’ she said, disheartened rather than annoyed. Then, with more than a little alarm, she realised that sometime in the near future the forces of nature would come into play and Amber would be compelled to produce more than just a puddle. Mrs Fleming most definitely would not be impressed with
that
in the parlour or in a corner of the kitchen.

As if able to read her mind, Amber emitted a small fart as she stood up, her belly rumbling ominously.

Kitty ducked beneath the bed for the chamber pot, set it on the floorboards, lifted Amber’s chemise and sat her on it, gently holding her in place in case she decided to get off.

Amber looked up at Kitty, clearly not quite knowing what was required.

Kitty encouraged her in Maori and, obviously having caught the general gist of Kitty’s words, Amber frowned in
concentration and bore down. There was a result a few seconds later.

‘Good
girl
, Amber.’ Kitty beamed.

Amber beamed back.

Then Kitty said, ‘Oh, hell,’ as she realised she had nothing with which to wipe Amber’s bottom.

‘Stay there,’ she said. ‘Nohoia.’

Amber didn’t move, so Kitty rushed down the stairs for some newspaper, dreading what might confront her if the little girl decided to get off the pot before she returned.

But she was still there. ‘You’re such a good girl, aren’t you, sweetheart?’ Kitty said as she cleaned her up. Amber clearly knew when she needed to relieve herself, so it was going to be more a matter of teaching her
where
to do so.

She led Amber over to the bowl on the chest of drawers, poured in some water from the ewer and showed the little girl how to wash her hands. Amber sniffed the soap, her face breaking into a beatific smile at its perfume. Then Kitty combed out her hair and they went downstairs.

Breakfast passed without too much incident and, after some rather skilful persuasion, Kitty prevailed upon Mrs Fleming to look after Amber while she went into town to look for children’s clothing, and to visit a printery to have some posters made up.

Hattie asked, ‘Kitty, you speak Maori, don’t you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, have you asked Amber who her mother is? In Maori, I mean? What
is
the Maori word for mother?’

Kitty’s heart began to thump wildly. She’d deliberately only asked her in English, which she was fairly confident Amber couldn’t understand. She had been dreading this moment. Then she sighed. She couldn’t keep on pretending to herself that Amber didn’t have any family; she might, and if she did, then she should go back to them. But beneath this reluctant
acknowledgement of needing to do the right thing was still the hope that she was a genuine orphan, a little lost girl waiting for someone to love her and take care of her. Perhaps someone who couldn’t have children of her own, but who would be so very grateful for the chance to be a mother.

Finally, she said, ‘There are several words in Maori that mean mother.’ As she spoke, she kept her gaze on Amber, hoping against hope that there would be no reaction to any of the words she was about to use. ‘There’s whaea, which is quite common.’ Amber, thank God, continued to chew happily on her toast. ‘And matua wahine.’ Still no response. ‘That means female parent, and isn’t normally used as a form of address. And there’s also ukaipo, which is more of a poetical description.’ Again, Amber didn’t stir. ‘But no Maori child calls their mother that.’ Trying not to wince, Kitty hesitated before saying the word to which Amber would most likely respond. ‘And there is…mama.’

Not even looking up, Amber reached out and stuck her fingers in the marmalade jar.

Heartened, and feeling somewhat braver, Kitty said in Maori, ‘Amber? Do you know who your mother is? Do you know what her name is?’

For the briefest of seconds Amber was suddenly still, a dollop of marmalade in her small brown hand, and Kitty’s heart plummeted. Then the child jammed the marmalade into her mouth and proceeded to lick her fingers, the sticky orange mess going all over her face and in her hair.

‘I’d say that was a no, wouldn’t you?’ Hattie remarked.

Suddenly filled with a soaring sense of elation, Kitty said, ‘No, she couldn’t give me an answer, could she?’

Flora said shrewdly, ‘You sound almost as though you’re pleased she couldn’t. You’re not planning to keep her yourself, are you?’

‘Well, no, of course I’m not,’ Kitty replied quickly. ‘Not if she already has parents or a guardian somewhere.’ Hurriedly, she changed the subject. ‘Actually,
are
there any printers in Auckland?’ Though she knew perfectly well there were—she’d seen five or six shingles out during her walks around the town.

‘There are several, I believe,’ Mrs Fleming said. ‘I use Mr Skean in Bank Street. He has very reasonable rates.’

‘What will they say?’ Flora asked as she spread honey on a piece of toast.

Feeling suddenly drained, Kitty drank the last of her tea. ‘What will who say?’

‘These posters you’re going to have printed. What will they have on them?’

‘I’m not entirely sure,’ Kitty said, sitting back in her chair. ‘I haven’t really thought about it. I’ll have to ask Simon what he thinks.’

So she did, when he arrived to escort her into town.

He thought about it for a few minutes as they walked along Eden Crescent. ‘What about, “Seeking the parents or guardian of a Maori girl, approximately four years old, found in Shortland Street on Thursday, 1 May. Possibly half-caste, dark hair, brown eyes and wearing a sleeveless man’s shirt. Informants please apply to 10 Eden Crescent.” Would that do?’

‘I suppose so,’ Kitty said, ‘although it makes her sound a bit like a lost umbrella or a snuff box.’

‘And you could offer a reward. It’s probably the most effective way to get a result,’ Simon added bluntly. ‘You’ll have to make sure any informants are genuine, though. Does she have any distinguishing features?’

Kitty frowned, casting her mind back to Amber in the bath. ‘Yes, she has a birthmark on her back, just under her right shoulder-blade, sort of heart-shaped. I won’t put that on the poster, though.’

‘No, that would just be asking for trouble,’ Simon agreed. ‘But you could use it to test anyone who does come forward.’

‘How much should I offer as a reward?’

‘How much do you want to offer?’

Kitty didn’t want to offer anything; the smaller the chance of any of Amber’s family coming forward the better, as far as she was concerned. ‘A pound?’

‘That won’t be enough,’ Simon said. ‘What about five pounds? Can you afford that much?’

Reluctantly, Kitty said she could.

They visited Mr Skean’s printery and ordered fifty posters, to be collected the following morning. Then Kitty dragged Simon down to Queen Street to Mr Graham’s drapery. The waterfront was very busy, as a ship laden with cargo had anchored early that morning and was being unloaded. Those shopkeepers whose premises weren’t near the shore were standing by with carts and drays to collect the goods they’d ordered. There was a lot of running about and shouting going on, but, although it was an interesting spectacle, Kitty had better things to do.

‘Come on,’ she said to Simon, grasping him firmly by the elbow and leading him along the street to the drapery.

‘What are we going in here for?’ he asked.

‘To choose fabric for clothes for Amber,’ Kitty replied, in a tone suggesting that even a simpleton might be expected to know that.

Simon said uneasily, ‘Can you not wait at least until the posters have been up for a week and we see if anyone comes forward?’

‘Yes, but what is she supposed to go about in until then, Simon? My chemise? A tablecloth, perhaps? She needs drawers, she needs boots, she needs at least one dress, she needs a pinafore—’ Kitty replied, counting off each item on her fingers.

Simon shook his head despairingly. ‘Kitty, stop. Look, I know you’ve…fallen in love with her, but I’m worried you’re setting yourself up for a very bitter disappointment.’ He paused, seeing again the longing that had burned in Kitty’s eyes ever since she had found the child. ‘And what will Rian say, eh? Will he want her? Have you thought about that?’

‘Of course I’ve thought about it, Simon!’ Kitty snapped. ‘I’ve thought of little else since yesterday! But don’t you think it’s meant to be? Come on, you’re a missionary, you’re supposed to believe in miracles and divine intervention. Is that not what this is?’

His faith was something Simon had been trying not to think about of late, and he pushed it aside again now. ‘I just don’t want to see you hurt, that’s all.’

‘Well, why don’t we just wait and see what happens?’ Kitty said, talking quickly to dispel her own dread at the thought that her dream might not come true. ‘But in the meantime, she must have something to wear. I mean, it really isn’t appropriate that she go about in my underthings, is it?’

Simon sighed and followed her into the drapery.

Kitty selected three lengths of material for frocks; a rust, blue and green plaid wool (because the weather was turning), an unusually fine red and blue-sprigged linsey-woolsey, and an indigo-dyed calico. She also chose plain cream cotton and some pretty flannel for petticoats, and crisp white cotton for two chemises, several pairs of drawers and two pinafores.

‘Do you stock fancy goods?’ she asked Mr Graham.

‘Some,’ he replied, ushering her over to a set of shelves that held a selection of laces, reels of ribbon and trim, and a small assortment of embroidery thread. ‘I don’t carry a great range, though. You may prefer to shop around.’

‘No, I think I’ll find what I want here, thank you, Mr Graham,’
Kitty said, gently rubbing a piece of lace between her fingers. ‘Is this Irish?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good. I’ll have enough of that to hem all of the underthings, and to go across the top and bottom of one of the pinafores.’

‘It’s rather expensive,’ Mr Graham warned.

‘Yes, I know. I suppose you don’t stock children’s bonnets?’

Simon, aware of the fun Kitty was having, nevertheless thought she was getting a little carried away, but found he didn’t have the heart to try to stop her.

Instead, he said lamely, ‘Do you really think she’s the sort of child who will happily wear a bonnet?’

Kitty gave him a look. ‘Simon, every little girl needs at least one bonnet.’

Mr Graham said, ‘Unfortunately, no, I don’t stock them, and this town at present does not have a milliner. But you could try at any good general merchant’s. Do you know Gibson & Mitchell’s in Shortland Street? I recommend you try there first. And did you have anyone in mind for the dressmaking?’

‘No, I’ve had no need of a dressmaker.’

‘I’d recommend Mrs Hemmings, on the corner of Bank and Chancery. She’s highly skilled, and very prompt.’

Kitty paid for her purchases and handed them to Simon to carry as they headed up to Shortland Street. He thought it rather amusing that a dressmaker would be named
Mrs Hemmings
, and said so.

At Gibson & Mitchell’s, Kitty bought a blue bonnet, which she thought would match all Amber’s new dresses. She also purchased seven pairs of children’s lisle socks, a small pair of boy’s trousers, a boy’s shirt and a small jacket and cap. They were not particularly well tailored, but were made of a sturdy fabric and would be more than adequate.

Simon said, ‘Are they for Amber?’ When Kitty said yes, he
asked, ‘But why are you buying boy’s clothes?’

‘Because she has to wear something while her new clothes are being made.’

‘Oh,’ Simon said. And then it occurred to him: Kitty said she often wore men’s clothes on board the
Katipo
, so this was obviously going to be Amber’s shipboard outfit. Again, he winced inwardly at the thought of the bitter disappointment Kitty was probably courting.

Their next visit was to a shoemaker’s, where Kitty announced she wanted two pairs of children’s boots. ‘One brown and one black, I think,’ she told the shoemaker.

When he asked what size she required, Kitty withdrew a folded page of the
Auckland Times
from her reticule, and spread it out on the counter. ‘This is her left foot and this is her right,’ she explained. ‘I drew around them this morning.’

The shoemaker regarded the template. ‘How old is the child?’

‘Four,’ Kitty replied.

‘These are very wide feet for a four-year-old. Is she a native child, or just not accustomed to wearing shoes?’

‘Both,’ Kitty said, fixing the shoemaker with a look that dared him to comment further.

He chose not to, and went to his shelves to select several pairs of boots.

Kitty chose styles that laced up rather than buttoned, assuming that the former would be easier for small fingers to manage than tiny buttons.

Their last port of call was Mrs Hemmings the dressmaker, who produced several patterns for Kitty to consider. While Simon sat twiddling his thumbs, the two women spent a pleasant half-hour discussing the merits of pin tucks on children’s bodices and where exactly the waist should sit. After securing an assurance from Mrs Hemmings that the garments would be
ready by the following Monday, Kitty and Simon walked back to Eden Crescent.

Amber and Mrs Fleming were in the kitchen making scones. Mrs Fleming’s cheeks were flushed, while Amber was kneeling on a chair at the table, her hands, arms, face and the floor around her liberally dusted with flour. Bodie was sitting patiently beneath the table, clearly waiting for morsels to appear.

‘Has she been good?’ Kitty asked as she removed her bonnet and set it on a chair.