Skylark (13 page)

‘Read it out, my dear.’

Rosetta looks at him sharply. ‘Oh, it is simply tattle — “We went here, then there. I sang this and then played that.” My brother is no writer. But … oh!’ Rosetta’s little hand flies to her mouth. ‘Oh Jack! Father is very ill.’

Rosetta drops the letter and bursts into tears. ‘I should be there! My dear, dear Papa!’

Jack picks up the dropped letter and reads. George has mentioned the bout of illness in passing, sandwiched between accounts of performances at various towns. Perhaps he is trying to lessen the cruel impact, but Jack finds it insensitive. Surely he knows how deeply his wife idolises her father?
A fever
, writes George,
and then trouble with his heart. The doctor says we must curtail our touring for a while. The troupe is continuing on to Sydney where Mother and the young ones are settled. We will be glad to see them, as travelling in this summer season is hot and uncomfortable. Your loving brother, George
. No words of comfort, no mention of Lily.

Rosetta’s storm of tears lasts for hours. A depression follows. Day after day, she sits at her piano playing sad tunes. She will not sing. Jack urges her out into the fresh air, drives her in to Auckland to visit a seamstress who will make a new dress for her. His wife remains listless. She has dreams of performing again at her father’s side, of singing with her brothers, then wakes up weeping. ‘They were all applauding,’ she cries. ‘They were calling out, “Rosetta, Rosetta!”’

‘Well, we will have a house concert,’ says Jack. ‘We’ll invite all the neighbours. They love to hear you sing and play.’

‘Oh it’s not the same, you must see that,’ sobs Rosetta. ‘I want to be the Buckingham Family again. It’s not the same!’

Jack’s heart sinks. This terrible desire to perform! Will he never be free of dissatisfied women who want to perform?

Some months later, news arrives that Mr Buckingham has died. Rosetta sinks into a slow, sad depression. Jack takes his wife on a trip to Otahuhu to see the races. He now owns a thoroughbred, Alouette, who is favoured to win.

‘Look at the crowds!’ he shouts, too loudly, too cheerfully. ‘Everyone is here! Look, Lily!’

Rosetta flashes her dark eyes at him, angry for a moment at his slip, before she sinks back into apathy. ‘I want to go home,’ she murmurs. ‘Take me home, Jack. My head aches.’

But Jack must stay. Soon Alouette will ride. The fifty pounds prize money would allow him to take Rosetta on a little holiday, perhaps a steamer trip to Whanganui where life is more settled and gentle. He guides the carriage to a shady spot near one of the refreshment booths. He brings her lemonade and takes a long pull from a bottle of ale. Rosetta lies back on the cushions; closes her eyes. Jack, resplendent in high-polished boots, black jacket and topper, a white scarf folded neatly at his neck, turns eyes everywhere. This should be a special day for him.

He leads Alouette out into the sunlight. ‘Watch her at the start,’ he advises his jockey. ‘She’ll be jumpy with the others around her. At the second furlong, give her her head.’ Jack would like to be the rider. He has trained Alouette from a filly, named her after Lily in those days, now distant, when they planned a life together. In happier times, he now admits. He would like to stay laughing and chatting with the other trainers, but returns, reluctantly, to his wife. There she lies, asleep it would seem, in the shade of a clump of native trees. She has spread the rug on the rough ground, her new muslin dress tumbled around her. Mrs Abernethy, who came with them in Jack’s carriage, is sitting with her. She puts a finger to her lips then waves him away cheerfully.

‘Off you go, Mr Lacey,’ she whispers. ‘The poor girl is
exhausted
. She has not the constitution for a long day at the races, eh? Not like you and me! I’ll see to her while you watch the race.’

Jack nods, thankful for her stout good humour.

‘And put ten shillings on Dangar to win, will you?’

Jack snorts. ‘Dangar? What about Alouette?’

Mrs Abernethy puts her head to one side, pretending to consider the matter. Is she flirting with him? ‘Well now,’ she chirps, ‘Alouette has a fine trainer, and is in her prime, but Dangar is my pick for this rough track.’

Jack smiles and touches a finger to his topper, glad to get away. Rosetta shifts a little and sighs, but doesn’t wake.

Back at the track, Jack jokes with his friends, makes a deal with a new settler to supply a good hackney horse, lays a bet on Alouette, and one for Mrs Abernethy. On a whim he places five shillings, in Rosetta’s name, on a horse named Musicmaker. He will laugh with her over it later. Musicmaker has no chance against Alouette.

A great, noisy crowd has gathered here. There must be three or four hundred horses hitched, their riders gathered now around the three liquor booths and the rail where the gallopers are parading. A fight has broken out among a group of natives. Another argument among punters at O’Shaunessy’s booth threatens widespread disruption. A lone constable tries to bring some order but he has no hope. A row of carts, carriages and hackneys are tied up too, the harness horses drooping in the fierce sun. Jack disapproves of the careless way they have been left without water or feed.

After three false starts — Alouette twice the culprit — the horses are off and Jack forgets everything, lost in the perfect rhythm of pounding hooves. How he loves to watch the way these thoroughbreds stretch and gather, necks thrust forward, eyes afire with the determination to win. He suddenly thinks of Lily, her determination, her agility and skill.

‘Alouette!’ he cries, but it is not a horse he calls for.

Perhaps his galloper recognises her owner’s dereliction. Alouette falters at the last furlong, despite furious strokes of the twitch by the jockey, and comes in second to Dangar. Musicmaker is not placed.

Friends slap him on the back; commiserations and cheers
gather around him like a cloud of gnats. Jack enjoys the attention but then his eye is caught by the sight of Mrs Abernethy pushing through the crowd towards him. Her face shows no triumph but a deep concern.

‘Your wife is not at all well,’ she puffs. ‘Not at all. She needs to see a doctor. But oh, where is one in all this drunken mess of people?’

Jack speaks to a course official who shrugs and points vaguely. He asks one of the regimental soldiers, who is more helpful. But when the regimental doctor bends to examine pale Rosetta, he straightens immediately.

‘You had better get her home, Sir. She needs a midwife.’

Jack looks at him, open mouthed.

‘You might well look shocked,’ says the resplendent captain. ‘She is losing a child that is not at all ready to be born. How could you contemplate bringing a lady in her condition on a long journey, let alone to the races?’

Mrs Abernethy is equally shocked. ‘But, Captain, we had no idea …’

‘Now then,’ says the captain briskly, ‘your mouths would catch flies, both of you. Get this poor woman home and into bed. She is losing blood.’

Jack runs to fetch his horse, backs him between the shafts, and straps him in quickly.

‘And drive gently,’ adds the captain. ‘She will not do well if you jolt her.’

They lay the moaning Rosetta across the seat of the carriage and cover her with the blanket. Her new dress is blood-stained. Jack thinks grimly of the long, rough road home. Dear God. It will be clogged with those on foot, not to mention the hundreds mounted and those in carts. He clucks his horse into a gentle walk, hoping to get ahead of the returning crowds.

‘Is she awake?’ he asks, turning for a moment from the difficult task of finding a smooth passage through the ruts and stones.

‘She is,’ says Mrs Abernethy. ‘She says it’s not your fault. She didn’t know herself that there was … She was …’ The flustered
lady has no way of speaking of such intimate matters to a man.

Jack nods, his eyes scanning the road. The horse, Rona, is restless at the slow pace. Jack’s arms are aching with the effort of reining her in.

About halfway along the hot seven-mile journey to Auckland the crowds begin to catch up. First the young lads on horseback, in a hurry to return home, then a carriage or two, driven too fast for the condition of the road. Jack pulls over, cursing, to let them pass.

Mrs Abernethy climbs forward to sit beside him in the open. ‘She’s very pale. And feverish. I would like her to take some water. There is blood everywhere. I wonder if we should stop in some shady place?’

Jack hands her his flask. ‘Would brandy help?’

At that moment, they hear shouts and whoops back down the road. It looks as if a dust storm is approaching. Jack curses. Two dog-carts loom out of the cloud, side by side, careering towards them, their owners standing on the seats, urging their horses on with whips and hoarse cries. It is some sort of foolhardy race.

‘Whoa, Rona, whoa!’ shouts Jack to his panicking horse.

The racing pair comes abreast, taking scant notice of the threat of Jack’s carriage. One lad turns to grin and shout his triumph at Jack but his wildly bouncing cart clips the side of the carriage. Frightened, Rona rears up, turning towards the ditch. For a moment Jack manages to control the tipping carriage. He stands, hauling Rona in, clinging with his free hand to the
handrail
. But nothing can save them. The ground is too uneven. In a flailing of wheels and hooves, horse and carriage overturn. Jack jumps clear; Rona lies on her side, whinnying in fright — or pain — but Jack thinks only of Rosetta, who has been flung out and now lies trapped beneath the carriage. One wheel still turns slowly high above her, the other crushes her body into the dust. Mrs Abernethy has been thrown clear. She scrambles to her feet, a nasty gash opening up on her plump arm.

Jack tears at the traces. He cannot turn the carriage until the horse is clear.

‘Hold her, hold her head,’ he shouts at a rider who has dismounted, ready to help.

Rona is held and freed. Other hands help to right the carriage. Jack cries out in anguish at what he sees. Rosetta lies still, the imprint of the wheel pressed into her chest. All breath, all life is crushed out of her. Aghast, he stares at the sad, sweet muslin of her dress, her bloodied hand lying in the dust.

The helpers stand silently as Jack and Mrs Abernethy kneel beside her. Two big native farmers walk back up the road, each clutching a squirming lad.

‘They’re drunk,’ says one in disgust. ‘Mr Jones’s boys from the farm up near us.’ He shakes his lad like a wet rag. The boy hangs his head, grinning.

‘Not funny,’ says the other Maori. ‘Look what your racing has done, you stupid fellow. Look!’

The boy looks and promptly throws up on his captor’s fine new boots. The man shouts in rage and tosses him into the ditch.

By now quite a crowd has gathered.

‘Leave them alone,’ slurs one man unsteadily. He has obviously been drinking himself, and is in danger of falling off his mount. ‘They’re just lads having a bit of a lark.’

Several people growl at his words.

‘It’s a crying shame,’ shouts a tall woman, shaking the reins of her cart. ‘Can decent folk not take the family to the races without drink ruining it all? Shame on you boys! Racing on an open road! You nearly turned me over at the last bend.’

‘What is the world coming to?’ mutters an old man. ‘Their parents should be shot. Letting them drink and then drive home in a state.’

The boys are berated, threatened and marched back to their carts. Willing hands lift Rosetta’s body carefully into the carriage. Rona, who is frightened but unhurt, is harnessed again. Jack sets off, angry, confused, desperate to be away from the opinions of the holiday crowd and into a quieter place. An unborn child; a dead wife!

Mrs Abernethy respects his feelings. She sits with Rosetta, wordless, on that long, slow, crowded road home.

A week after the funeral, Jack decides to move south; to make a new life away from the sad memories of Auckland. He arranges to sell his home and land and to move his stock to newly developed farmland near Whanganui. His housekeeper, while arranging the disposal of Rosetta’s belongings, has cleared out a trunk in her music room and found a letter.

‘I found this tucked down behind some music, Sir. It seems to be addressed to you, but it is old. Should I throw it out?’

Jack, who is wrestling with his hated paperwork, nods, barely paying attention. Then as she walks out of the room, he calls out to her. ‘Who is it from?’

‘I can’t tell Sir. But it is in a woman’s hand.’

It feels to Jack as if a cold draught has drifted through the room. He turns around. ‘I’ll look at it.’

With trembling hands he takes the pages. There is no envelope. The paper is folded neatly with his name written in Lily’s flamboyant hand on the outside. A mouse or some insect has nibbled at the edges. This letter is old.