In the Land of the Long White Cloud (13 page)

Helen shook her head. “They won’t put on any weight from the offerings down here. The portions are not generous, and we have to get the food from the galley ourselves. So the older girls siphon off half of it on the way—and that’s ignoring the few naughty rascals that belong to the midship immigrant families. They’re still too shaken, but watch out—in two or three days they’ll start ambushing the girls and demanding tribute to pass! But we’ll survive these few weeks. And I’m doing my best to teach the children something. That’s more than anyone’s done for them until now.”

While the children were eating and playing with Cleo, the young women chatted and strolled back and forth on deck. Gwyneira wanted to know as much as possible about her new acquaintance. Eventually, Helen told her about her family and her position at the Greenwoods’.

“So then you haven’t lived in New Zealand before?” Gwyn asked, a little disappointed. “Didn’t you say yesterday that your husband is waiting for you there?”

Helen blushed. “Well…my husband to be. I…you’ll certainly think it absurd, but I’m crossing the sea to marry over there. A man whom thus far I know only from letters…” Ashamed, she lowered her eyes. She only ever became fully conscious of the monstrousness of her adventure when she told other people about it.

“You’re doing the same thing I am,” Gwyneira said breezily. “And mine hasn’t even ever written me.”

“You too?” Helen marveled. “You’re also answering an unknown man’s marriage advertisement?”

Gwyneira shrugged. “Oh, he’s not really unknown. His name is Lucas Warden, and his father asked for my hand on his behalf.” She bit her lip. “In a mostly conventional manner,” she amended. “From that perspective, everything is in order. But as for Lucas…I hope he at least wants to marry. His father didn’t tell me whether he’d asked beforehand or not.”

Helen laughed, but Gwyneira was serious. She had learned over the past few weeks that Gerald Warden was a man who asked few questions. The sheep baron made his decisions quickly and on his own, and he could react gruffly to others’ opinions. That was how he had succeeded in accomplishing so much work during his weeks in Europe. From purchasing sheep to negotiating agreements with wool importers to discussing matters with architects and well construction specialists—even wooing a wife for his son—he managed everything coolly and with breathtaking speed. Gwyneira liked his decisive approach, but sometimes it scared her a little. When it came to commitments, he had an explosive streak, and he sometimes demonstrated a wiliness in business transactions that Terence Silkham disliked. As he saw it, the New Zealander had bamboozled the stallion’s breeder using every trick in the book—and whether the card game for Gwyneira’s hand had been honestly played remained in question. Gwyneira sometimes wondered what Lucas thought of it all. Was he as energetic as his father? Was he running the farm at that
moment just as efficiently and without compromise? Or did Gerald’s occasionally overly hasty dealing aim at shortening Lucas’s solo rule of Kiward Station as much as possible?

In any event, she now told Helen a slightly tempered version of Gerald’s business relationship with her family, which had ultimately led to her wooing. “I know that I’m marrying into a flourishing farm of close to a thousand acres and a fold of five thousand sheep that should continue to grow,” she concluded. “I know that my father-in-law maintains social and business ties to the best families in New Zealand. He is obviously rich; otherwise, he couldn’t afford this journey and the whole lot. But I know nothing about my future spouse.”

Helen listened attentively, but it was hard for her to feel sorry for Gwyneira. In fact, Helen was painfully aware that her new friend was markedly better informed about her future than she was. Howard had said nothing about the size of his farm, his animal count, or his social contacts. As for his financial circumstances, she knew only that, though he was debt free, he could not afford larger expenditures like a trip to Europe—even in steerage—without due consideration. Still, he wrote such beautiful letters. Blushing once again, Helen rustled the letters, already worn from repeated reading, out of her pocket and thrust them at Gwyneira, both women having sat down on the edge of the lifeboat in the meantime. Gwyneira read greedily.

“Yeeeeah, he can write…” she said with restraint, folding the letters back together.

“Do you think there’s something strange about them?” Helen inquired anxiously. “Do you not like the letters?”

Gwyneira shrugged. “I don’t have to like them. If you want my honest opinion, I find them a bit bombastic. But…”

“But?” Helen pressed.

“Well, what I find strange is…I would never have thought a farmer could write such lovely letters.” Gwyneira turned away. She found the letters more than just strange. Naturally, Howard O’Keefe might be well educated. Her own father was also both a gentleman and a farmer; in provincial England and Wales that wasn’t uncommon. But even with all his schooling, her father would never have
used such turgid formulations as this Howard did. Moreover, among the nobility, especially when it came to marriage negotiations, people usually put all their cards on the table. Future partners had a right to know what to expect, and Gwyneira couldn’t find any indications of Howard’s business situation. She also found it strange that he didn’t ask for a dowry or at least expressly reject one.

Now, of course, the man had not counted on Helen rushing to his arms on the next ship. Maybe this flattery only served to break the ice. But she nevertheless found it unnerving.

“He is really very passionate,” Helen said, taking up her fiancé’s defense. “He writes just like I dreamed he would.” She smiled happily, lost in her thoughts.

Gwyneira smiled back. “Then all’s well,” she declared, resolving, however, to ask her future father-in-law about Howard O’Keefe at the next opportunity. He bred sheep too, after all. It was likely the men knew each other.

She did not get to ask right away, though, because the meals that usually created the perfect circumstances for such pressing inquiries were often canceled due to rough seas. The first day’s lovely weather proved deceptive. They had hardly reached the Atlantic when the wind whipped around and the
Dublin
fought its way through storms and rain. Many of the passengers became seasick and opted to pass on meals or simply take them in their cabins. True, neither Gerald Warden nor Gwyneira had sensitive stomachs, but when no official dinner was prepared, they usually ate at different times. Gwyneira did so intentionally; after all, her future father-in-law certainly would not have consented to her ordering large quantities of food only to let Helen’s charges have them. Gwyneira would have liked to supply all the other steerage passengers with food. The children in particular needed every bite they could get just to keep themselves halfway warm. Yes, it was the middle of summer and it was not particularly cold outside, even with the rain. But when the seas were rough, water seeped into
the steerage cabins, and everything became so damp as a result that there was hardly a dry place to sit. Helen and the girls shivered in their clammy dresses, but Helen nevertheless insisted on continuing with her charges’ daily lessons. The other children on the ship were not getting any schooling during this time. The ship doctor who was responsible for their lessons was himself sick and self-medicated with plenty of gin from the ship pharmacy.

Conditions in steerage were far from pleasant even on the best days. In the family and men’s areas, the bathrooms overflowed during storms, and most of the passengers washed seldom, if ever. Given the cold, Helen herself felt little enthusiasm for washing but insisted that her girls use a portion of their daily water ration for personal hygiene.

“I would like to wash our clothes, but they just don’t dry, so it’s a lost cause,” she complained to Gwyneira, who promised to at least help Helen out with a spare dress. Her own cabin was heated and perfectly insulated. Even in the roughest seas no water seeped in that might ruin the soft carpet or the elegantly upholstered furniture. Gwyneira felt guilty, but she simply couldn’t ask Helen to move into her room with the children. Gerald would never allow it. At most, she brought Dorothy or Daphne up with her, under the pretense of needing her clothes mended in some way.

“Why don’t you hold your lessons down with the animals?” she finally asked after once again finding Helen shivering on the deck while the girls took turns reading aloud from
Oliver Twist
. It was cold out, but at least it was dry, and the fresh air was more pleasant than the damp vapor in steerage. “Even if the sailors complain, they still clean it every day. Mr. Warden checks up on whether the sheep and horses are being well cared for. And the purser is fussy about the animals intended for slaughter. After all, he didn’t bring them along to get sick and die so that he has to throw the meat overboard.”

It had become clear that the swine and fowl served as living provisions for the first-class passengers, and the cow was indeed milked every day. Those traveling in steerage, however, did not receive so much as a glimpse of these good things—until Daphne caught a boy
milking the cow secretly at night. She squealed on him without the slightest qualm, but not before watching him so that she could imitate the milking motions. Since then the girls had had fresh milk. Helen pretended not to notice.

Daphne agreed with Gwyneira’s suggestion. She had long since noticed while milking and stealing eggs how much warmer it was in the improvised stalls belowdecks. The cows’ and horses’ big bodies gave off a comforting warmth, and the straw was soft and often drier than the mattresses in their berths. At first Helen rejected the idea, but she finally relented. She held lessons in a stall for a full three weeks before the purser caught them and threw them out, cursing and suspecting them of stealing food. By this time, the
Dublin
had reached the Bay of Biscay. The sea became calmer, the weather warmer. With a sigh of relief, the passengers from steerage brought their damp clothes and bed linens up to dry out in the sun. They praised God for the warmth, but the crew warned them: soon they would reach the Indian Ocean and curse the scorching heat.

N
ow that the first arduous leg of the journey was over, social life aboard the
Dublin
began to stir.

The ship doctor finally took up his work as teacher so that the emigrant children had something to occupy them other than pestering each other, their parents, and above all, Helen’s girls. The girls shone in class, and Helen was proud of them. She had hoped the school lessons would give her some time to herself, but she ended up observing her charges during their lessons instead. This was because already on the second day the little gossips Mary and Laurie returned from class with troubling news.

“Daphne kissed Jamie O’Hara!” Mary reported, out of breath.

“And Tommy Sheridan wanted to feel Elizabeth up, but she said she was waiting for a prince, and then everyone laughed,” Laurie appended.

First Helen dealt with Daphne, who showed no sign of remorse. “Jamie gave me a good piece of sausage for it,” she admitted. “They brought it with them from home. And it went real fast anyway; he can’t kiss right at all.”

Helen was appalled by Daphne’s apparently considerable knowledge in these matters. She admonished her strongly but knew it did no good. Daphne’s sense of morality and decorum could possibly be deepened over time. For now, only self-control would help. So Helen sat in on lessons with the girls and took on more responsibilities in the school and in preparations for the Sunday service. The ship doctor was grateful to her, as he was not much of a teacher or a preacher.

There was now music almost every evening in steerage. The people had made peace with the loss of the old homeland—or at least found solace in singing old English, Irish, and Scottish tunes. A few had brought instruments with them on board; one could hear fiddles, flutes, and harmonicas. Fridays and Saturday nights there was dancing, and here again Helen had to keep Daphne in check. She was happy to let the older girls listen to the music and watch the dancing for an hour before bed. Dorothy was always demurely ready to turn in for the night, but Daphne found excuses or even tried to sneak out later when she falsely believed Helen was sleeping.

On the upper deck the social activities unfolded in a more cultivated fashion. Concerts and deck games were held, and the evening meals were now celebrated festively in the dining room. Gerald Warden and Gwyneira shared a table with a London couple whose younger son was stationed in a garrison in Christchurch and who was now playing with the idea of settling there permanently. He had asked his father to grant him an advance on his inheritance. In response, Mr. and Mrs. Brewster—spry, resolute people in their fifties—had promptly booked their trip to New Zealand. Before he emptied his pockets, Mr. Brewster explained, he wanted to take a look at the area and—even more than that—his future daughter-in-law.

“She’s half Maori, Peter writes,” Mrs. Brewster said uncertainly. “And she’s supposed to be as beautiful as one of those South Sea girls whose picture you sometimes see. But I don’t know, a native…”