Amber (30 page)

Mrs Fleming blew out her cheeks and tucked a strand of greying hair back under her house cap. ‘Well, I’m not sure you can quite apply the word “good” to a child like this one,’ she said. ‘But she has certainly been enthusiastic.’

‘Have you been enthusiastic, have you?’ Kitty asked Amber, who smiled at her and presented a handful of rather grey-looking scone dough.

‘I don’t know how many times I’ve told her not to eat uncooked dough,’ Mrs Fleming remarked, ‘but she has continued to shovel it in. And she had a good breakfast, too.’

Kitty regarded Amber’s floury little face, and felt desperately sad that any child could have suffered such hunger.

Mrs Fleming deftly cut the scone dough into squares and slid the tray into the bread oven. ‘Mr Bullock, would you care for a cup of tea? I have Souchong, Gunpowder and Black.’

‘Souchong would be very nice, thank you,’ Simon said as he sat down on a kitchen chair, then quickly stood again as he realised the seat was covered with flour. He turned around, revealing white imprints on his backside. Amber laughed merrily.

Kitty took a damp cloth, wiped the flour and dough from Amber’s hands and face and lifted her down.

‘No little accidents?’ she asked.

‘Almost,’ Mrs Fleming said, ‘but I managed to get her on the pot in time. Somebody really needs to take the time to train her.’
She looked pointedly at Kitty. ‘Although that certainly won’t be me.’

‘Of course not,’ Kitty replied. ‘You’ve been a great help already, Mrs Fleming, and I very much appreciate it.’

Mrs Fleming blushed with reluctant pleasure.

‘But you do know about training a child?’

Mrs Fleming darted a look at Simon, who was still trying to dust the flour off the back of his trousers. ‘I do,’ she said, ‘I’ve had children of my own, of course. But it isn’t really a subject suitable for, well, the ears of a gentleman.’

‘Oh. Yes, of course,’ Kitty said.

‘So perhaps we shall discuss the matter a bit later?’ Mrs Fleming suggested.

‘Yes, that would be very helpful,’ Kitty agreed. ‘Now,’ she said, crouching to address Amber, who had crawled beneath the table to play with Bodie. ‘I have some nice things for you, sweetheart. Would you like to see them?’

Amber took no notice, continuing to roll a ball of filthy dough past Bodie, who eyed it distastefully.

Kitty opened the box containing Amber’s new bonnet, and handed it to her under the table. Amber took it, sniffed at the fabric, rubbed it across her face, then set it on Bodie’s head and giggled delightedly.

‘At least she knows what it’s for,’ Simon observed.

‘Well, of course she does,’ Kitty replied defensively. ‘I very much doubt she’s feeble-minded.’

Simon very much doubted it, too: the child’s eyes exhibited far too much intelligence and cunning.

Kitty unwrapped the parcel that contained the boots. ‘And look, Amber, look what else we’ve got for you.’

Amber came out from under the table.

‘Lovely new boots!’ Kitty said excitedly, handing her the brown pair.

Amber tugged them onto her bare feet and stood up. She took a few hesitant steps, then made a face, pulled them off again and went back to annoying Bodie.

Kitty sighed. ‘Oh, well, I suppose she’ll need to get used to them. But I’m sure she’ll like her new dresses.’

‘New dresses?’ Mrs Fleming said, glancing at Simon, who shrugged.

‘Yes, I’m having some dresses made. And underthings,’ Kitty explained.

Mrs Fleming looked concerned. ‘Oh dear, Mrs Farrell, you don’t think that was a little unwise, do you? And such an expense, as well. I mean, she may not be here for very much longer.’

‘Perhaps not,’ Kitty said, pretending to be blithe about it. ‘But she has to have something to wear.’

Still looking vaguely anxious, Mrs Fleming asked, ‘You did arrange to have the posters printed?’

‘Yes, they should be ready tomorrow morning.’

Mollified, Mrs Fleming said, ‘Oh, well, that’s good. And it will be interesting to see what comes out of the woodwork, won’t it?’

Simon and Kitty, accompanied by Amber wearing her boy’s shirt, jacket and trousers with the cuffs turned up and her hair tucked under the cap, went the following day to collect the posters and put them up in various places around the town. They left two at the post office in High Street, one on the notice board outside the Colonial Government Printing Office in Jermyn Street, one at the
Auckland Times
office in Shortland Street (with instructions to print it as an advertisement in the next issue), one at each of the town’s churches, and the rest in various hotels, grogshops, grocers and general merchants along the main shopping streets.

When they had finished, Simon, carrying Amber’s discarded
boots under his arm, said, ‘Well, if that doesn’t get some sort of response, I don’t know what will.’

Kitty looked around for Amber and suddenly couldn’t see her. ‘Oh God, Simon, where is she?’

Simon’s mouth fell open, then he shut it and gazed up and down the street. ‘She was here a second ago, I swear she was.’

Kitty had been holding tightly to Amber’s hand almost all morning. But she had let go for just a few minutes, and now the child had gone. ‘Oh, no, what if she’s run away?’ Kitty wailed, panic rising in her chest like a huge ocean wave. ‘What if I can’t find her again?’

Simon said calmly, ‘Don’t worry, she can’t have gone far. She really was here a second ago. Perhaps if we—’

But his suggestion was interrupted by shouting from the interior of a grocer’s shop several doors down the street. Then Amber came racing out, her legs pumping, her eyes wide and her arms wrapped around a watermelon almost as big as her head. The grocer, his apron flapping, emerged a second later and pounded down the street after her.

‘Stop thief!’ he bellowed. ‘Stop him, the bugger’s stolen my merchandise!’

Amber skidded to a halt in front of Kitty, then ducked around her, hiding behind her skirts.

The grocer lumbered up and, panting, reached behind Kitty and grabbed Amber by the ear.

‘Sir!’ Kitty cried. ‘Unhand my child!’

‘
Your
child?’ the grocer said, looking from Kitty’s face to Simon’s equally European countenance, clearly assuming they were husband and wife. ‘But the little beggar’s a Maori!’

‘What does that have to do with anything?’ Kitty demanded.

‘Well, how can…’ The grocer paused, let go of Amber and rubbed his florid face. ‘Ah, never mind, but the little tyke just stole one of me watermelons. I’ll want that paid for.’

‘How much?’ Kitty said tersely, opening her reticule.

A look of cunning slowly crossed the man’s face. ‘A shilling for the melon, and you might be interested in some of me other fine goods. If you are, I could be convinced not to go to the constabulary about this little matter,’ he said, inclining his head at Amber.

Simon exclaimed, ‘That’s extortion!’

‘It’s me only offer, take it or leave it,’ the grocer replied. ‘I do hear that the gaol cells in this town can be a mite unpleasant for a little boy.’ He frowned down at Amber, whose hair was falling out from beneath her cap. ‘Actually, that’s a lass, isn’t it?’

Gripping Amber very firmly by the sleeve of her jacket, Kitty swept past him into his shop. ‘Right,’ she snapped when he’d caught up with her and squeezed himself behind his counter. ‘Show me what you’ve got.’

Glancing at the doorway to make sure Simon wasn’t yet within earshot, the grocer said leeringly, ‘I could do
that
all right, missus.’

Kitty fixed him with a glare of such icy intensity that the man took an involuntary step back and bumped into the shelf behind him, knocking off several tins of tobacco.

Absolutely livid now, Kitty leaned across the counter. ‘This is a commercial transaction,
sir
, not a social one, so get on with it.’

Wiping his sweaty hands on his apron, the grocer seemed to regain a little of his composure. ‘Well, I’ve got some nice Patras currants, come in to port only yesterday, and some juicy muscatelles. Normandy pippins, Barcelona nuts, you name it. A bit pricey, but well worth it. Good sugar—Mauritius, Havannah or Manilla—citron, nutmeg, tapioca. Take your pick.’

Gritting her teeth, Kitty asked for a pound of the muscatelles, two of the Manilla sugar and a pound of very expensive Java coffee.

When she opened her reticule again, the grocer reminded her, ‘And a shilling for the melon.’

While the purchases were being wrapped, Kitty glanced angrily at Simon, who very gently shook his head, warning her to keep her temper in check. Fuming, Kitty turned back to the counter until the grocer slid the parcel across to her.

Picking it up, she said very clearly, ‘You are the most unpleasant piece of ordure I have come across in a long time. May you rot in hell.’

As the grocer gaped, she turned to leave the shop. Unfortunately, Amber chose that moment to raise the watermelon she was still clutching high above her head and gleefully drop it, hooting as it exploded everywhere.

Kitty and Simon grabbed a hand each and whipped her out the door, her feet barely touching the ground. Outside, as they hurried down the street as quickly as was seemly, Simon said, ‘Why did you have to say that? He’ll go straight to the police now.’

‘No he won’t, not if he doesn’t want to be brought up in front of the magistrate on charges of extortion.’

Between them, Amber was still chortling.

The first of the informants knocked on Mrs Fleming’s door that evening. She was a young Maori woman, bare-headed and barefooted and wearing a plain brown dress.

‘Good evening,’ Kitty said in Maori.

‘Good evening,’ the woman replied. ‘I have come about the found child. She is my daughter.’

‘I see,’ Kitty said. ‘Can you describe her to me, please?’

The woman frowned slightly, and held out her hand at hip height, palm down. ‘She is this big, with brown skin and black hair.’

She had just described every four-year-old Maori girl in New
Zealand. Kitty said, ‘Anything else?’

‘Brown eyes.’

‘No distinguishing marks? No…’ Kitty struggled to recall the Maori word for birthmark, then finally remembered it.

The woman stared at her for a long moment, as though trying to work out what Kitty was thinking. Eventually, she said, ‘No.’

‘That is a shame. This child has a birthmark.’

‘Where?’ the woman asked.

‘On her face,’ Kitty replied, pointing to her left cheek.

‘Yes, that is her, that is my daughter!’ the woman cried passionately. ‘I have just remembered. It has been such a long time since I have seen her.’

Kitty shut the door in her face.

Simon, standing in the hallway, said, ‘You’re a cunning article, Kitty Farrell.’

‘Clearly I’m going to have to be,’ Kitty muttered. She was very relieved that the woman had been an impostor, but deeply disappointed that anyone would lie like that just for five pounds. What might have happened if she had believed the woman and handed Amber over? Would Amber have been dumped at the corner of the next street?

The next person to present themselves was an elderly Maori man whose missing grandchild, it was progressively revealed, had birthmarks on her feet, both legs, her belly, one arm and in the middle of her forehead.

‘Was he referring to a child or a piebald pony?’ Simon wondered after Kitty had sent the old man on his way.

At ten o’clock that evening some more ‘informants’ arrived, a pair of Pakeha men so drunk they could barely stand. This time Simon did the honours and shut the door in their faces.

The following morning, two little Maori boys knocked on the door. One, about eight years old, was wearing trousers, a vest
with the buttons missing, and a gentleman’s black silk top hat. His companion, probably about six, Kitty guessed, sported either long shorts or short longs, and a snotty upper lip.

‘The found girl,’ the elder of the two boys announced in English, ‘she is our sister.’

Kitty assumed that, because he spoke quite good English, he was a pupil at one of the town’s small, church-operated native schools.

‘And what does she look like, this sister of yours?’ she said, not unkindly.

The boys exchanged a quick glance before the elder one replied, ‘Like us, but a girl.’

‘Can you be a bit more precise?’ Kitty asked.

The boys didn’t appear to know what the word precise meant, so Kitty switched to Maori. They managed to come up with a very vague and obviously fabricated description of their ‘sister’, then trailed off into silence.

The longer they stood staring at her, the sorrier Kitty felt for them, even though they were clearly trying to hoodwink her. Mentally she gave them full marks for initiative, and for being able to read the poster in the first place, and told them to wait on the verandah. She closed the door and went into the kitchen to find the biscuit tin.

They were still standing there when she opened the front door again. ‘No five pounds, but you can have a biscuit,’ she said, handing them each one of Mrs Fleming’s enormous ginger snaps. They seemed happy enough with those, and wandered off down the street with their mouths full.

Nobody else knocked that day, or Monday either, after the advert isement had run in the
Auckland Times
. Kitty was finding the tension almost intolerable as she waited to see whether someone with genuine information would eventually come knocking. Amber herself seemed to be settling well, although she
still hadn’t spoken. Kitty suspected that she actually could talk, or had once been able to, because she appeared to understand quite a lot of Maori and responded to it non-verbally when she felt like it. Kitty had begun to teach her the English words for various things, such as ‘cat’ and ‘boot’ and ‘milk’, and was convinced Amber was absorbing them, even if Flora had pointed out that Amber seemed to pay attention only if the subject was related to either food or Bodie. Kitty thought she was being a little cynical, and said so; Flora thought Kitty was being somewhat gullible and overly optimistic, and said so. Mrs Fleming said they were both being rather irritating, and at least as undisciplined as Amber.

On Monday afternoon Kitty went along to Bank Street to collect Amber’s new clothes. Mrs Hemmings had made a marvellous job of them and Amber seemed to be delighted, parading through the house and twirling around so that the lacy hem on her drawers peeked out from beneath her skirt. An unforeseen but happy outcome of the new underthings was that she seemed very reluctant to soil them, and got the pot out herself the next time she needed to empty her bladder.