Skylark (18 page)

Suddenly I heard an enormous ripping sound as if a giant were tearing old sheets for bandages. At the same time a splintering crash set my teeth on edge. Our entire canvas roof came loose on one side and flew up into the whirling air, waving for a while as if in surrender, before tearing loose from its last nails and flying away — God knows where, for we never saw it again. I imagined that whole great roof, stitched together from
the sails of an old clipper, whirling and flapping through the night like the ghost of a giant, terrifying the diggers upriver, and finally landing — a precious gift or perhaps a smothering curse — in some farmer’s field, or bush-clad hilltop. The mud floor of the bar room, the stage where we sang and our sorry bedroom were all exposed to the elements. I screamed as hailstones rained down. For a moment the whole terrible scene was lit by lightning, the hailstones glowing eerily before the room went black again. The clap of thunder that followed felt like a physical blow. The baby inside me jerked and kicked. Surely he experienced it all even inside the womb. I felt a hand on my shoulder. The next flash lit Bully standing beside me, his hair plastered flat, the bandage fallen loose and his eyes staring, shocked out of his usual drunken stupor.

‘Come into the shed,’ he shouted over the uproar. ‘That roof is still holding.’

So together we stumbled through the ruins of the Prince of Wales to cower among the barrels and hogsheads until morning.

The crash I had heard earlier was the roof of the Provincial. Both establishments were demolished by the same gust. I have never known such a storm, nor ever want to experience one like it again.

That night spelt the end of our enterprise on the Arrow, thank goodness. Bully lost his interest in provisioning and entertaining the goldfields and turned his face towards the sea again.

I was desperate to find a way of escaping him. Desperate to hear from Jack Lacey. Oh, it was a wretched time altogether for me. I feared Bully would hold on to me no matter how much he despised me, in the hope that my belly held his son and heir.

I begged George Buckingham to take me back into his troupe, but he would not.

‘Bully is not so bad a husband,’ he said with a kind pat. ‘At least he is taking you away from this hell-hole.’

What did George know? The success of the farce had mellowed him, made him blind, perhaps, to Bully’s nature. I saw them
laughing together the day we left. George was somehow drawn to the man: he could not see beyond the thin veneer of charm. I warned his brothers.

‘Bully will not forget the way you injured his pride,’ I said, as Walter and Conrad strapped their waterlogged scenery to a dray. ‘He will plot some way to get even until the day he dies.’

Walter paused in his buckling to look over at me, his face sober. Walter was ever the serious one. ‘Well, we are warned,’ he said, ‘but I doubt our paths will cross again.’

Young Conrad paid no attention to my words. He reached for his trumpet, which was never far from his hand, and blew a fanfare. ‘Goodbye to the Arrow,’ he sang, grinning. ‘Good riddance to Fox’s Camp. Rest in peace, the Provincial! And farewell Rosa Hayes, who was a Buckingham for a while.’ He gave me a quick peck on the cheek and turned back to his task. Conrad was sweet on me. I sometimes wonder how my life might have gone if we had wed.

South we travelled, me large as a pumpkin, Bully with his hat crammed low, jolting along in the coach with few possessions and less money, heading for the seaside town of Riverton.

S
CENE
:
A humble boarding house in Riverton, west of Invercargill. Wintertime.

Adelaida

Riverton was a pretty town, more settled and civilised than any I saw in that cold southern land. The houses sat among fruit trees and gardens; there was a peaceful walk beside a wide estuary teeming with fish; shops were well stocked and their proprietors polite. There was even a little hospital: the first, locals proudly told me, in all the south. What a contrast to Fox’s Camp on the Arrow!

Our boarding house was owned by Mrs Elizabeth Stevens, a kind and knowledgeable lady admired in the settlement both for her good deeds, and because she was sister to the most important man in town: Mr John Howell.

Mrs Stevens tut-tutted over the state of my health, for I was thin, coughing and suffering from sores on my body and around my mouth. ‘You have been in the goldfields, I’ll warrant,’ she said with a frown. ‘We must get some fresh fruit and green vegetables into you.’

She explained about scurvy, which was an ailment suffered by seamen and whalers, she said, and now by those in the goldfields who had little access to fresh food. I thought of the kind Chinese miner and his vegetable patch. Perhaps he had saved my life! And oh, what a joy to cram my mouth with apples and pears, chard and cabbage, and fresh, sweet carrots! I could not get enough of them and I swear the baby inside me kicked for joy when I drank the lemonade prepared by our kind landlady.

Mrs Stevens also set me to walk a mile every day to strengthen my body ‘for the ordeal ahead’. I had another ordeal in mind —
escape — so followed her regime faithfully. Gradually I could feel my old strength return.

In great secrecy I sent a letter to Jack. Doctor Ingram was the contact I had suddenly thought of: the man who once mended my foot, and whom Jack used to work for. Perhaps he would know of Jack’s whereabouts and forward my letter. I told Mrs Stevens I was expecting a letter from ‘an old friend’ and, since Bully was a jealous man, I would rather he didn’t see it. Mrs Stevens frowned a little but I thought I could trust her.

At last a letter arrived from Jack! I memorised every word as if conning lines for a drama, kissed the dear pages, and burned them.

My spirits rose. Now I could begin to make plans. I had not told
Jack about the baby, thinking it better to take one step at a time.

In truth, the problem of the baby was too hard a knot to unravel. Its arrival was weighing on my mind considerably. Bully was convinced it would be a boy. His good humour had returned now that we were at a seaport again and he was full of mad schemes about sailing the south seas together, teaching ‘young Billy’ the ropes and creating an empire for him to inherit. The child was not even born! I was praying for a girl, for I believed that Bully would lose interest in me and the child if this was so.

Meanwhile, Bully spent all his time at the port, chatting to sea captains and traders. Mr Howell had made sure Riverton was a prosperous town. He was the far-sighted fellow who had argued for Riverton’s port and a road up to Kingston. Supplies for the goldfields were unloaded at the port on Jacobs River and carted inland. But Bully was no longer interested in any trading business that led to Wakatip, Queenstown or the Arrow, where the story of his ear was still a topic of amusement. Bully wanted a ship. And what Bully wanted, Bully got, it seemed. How could those
hard-headed
traders of Riverton be fooled by his smooth talk of backers, capital invested and his captain’s ticket? He had none of these. Large reserves of confidence and smooth talk were his only riches. You could see him striding easily about the town, laughing with town elders, voicing his opinions gravely with traders and charming their wives. I went along with it all but was always on the alert for a change of mood. How right I was to be wary!

He came into our little room one day, beaming and full of himself. This was a rare enough occurrence, for by this time he had another woman in town, with whom he spent most nights. ‘Well now, Rosa,’ he said. ‘Good news. We are off to Australia to pick up my ship.’

‘Whatever are you talking about, Bully Hayes?’ I said, quite sharp, for I could see all my plans going awry. ‘I am about to give birth to your precious son. I am travelling nowhere.’

‘Many’s the child born shipboard,’ he said, but I could see a worried little frown appear. ‘We will take a wet-nurse with us, or midwife, or what have you.’

Nothing I could say would deter the stubborn man. I was to pack and be prepared to leave within the week.

Well, the prospect of giving birth on a wild, bucking ship was enough to frighten the baby out of me. I gave birth next day. Ordeal indeed: I will say no more! Thank goodness for Mrs Stevens and gentle, clean, civilised Riverton. But after all that suffering and screaming, the baby turned out quite beautiful. A girl, as I had hoped. The tiny sweetheart, swaddled in clean linen, looked at me with Bully’s dark eyes. Or were they mine? I had only thought of the baby either as a means to escape from my ‘husband’, or a reason to be cruelly tied to him: but here she was, completely adorable, a tiny person in her own right.

Mrs Stevens cooed over the wee creature. ‘Oh, what a beauty! Captain Hayes will be won over, mark my words.’ Everyone in Riverton knew about his desire for a son, it seemed.

To my amazement, Mrs Stevens was right. Bully came into my sunny little room, frowning and restless. ‘So it is a girl after all,’ he said, and then laid a hand on my hair where it tumbled on the pillow. ‘You look so tired. Was it very hard?’ And kissed me.

I was so astonished I could not speak. After weeks, months of his surly behaviour here he was, kind and gentle, even though I had not produced the son he so desired. Weak and full of emotion after the birth, I felt only grateful for his soft words. God knows I should have been suspicious. But then Bully could be so charming; sometimes he meant it, I suppose, and perhaps he did that day. Most often there was an ulterior, more sinister purpose behind his smiles and flatteries.

Certainly, when Mrs Stevens brought in the little baby, Bully seemed as entranced as I. He held her as gently as any woman would and searched her little face.

‘She is perfect,’ he said, smiling. ‘Just like her mother. She will be a pretty little performer, no doubt of it.’

I believed his kind words. Perhaps, that sunny hopeful day, in pretty peaceful Riverton, Bully believed them himself. He kissed me tenderly, rocked his little daughter and sang her a little tune.

I admit I cried exhausted tears to see him so loving. It is
hard to believe, with Jack waiting in the wings, that I would be so weak. But how quickly we persuade ourselves that things will improve, if that is the easiest pathway.

For a fatal week or two I embraced Bully’s plans to go to Australia, seduced by the idea of a fresh performing career in Australia and a new company. And entranced by our new little daughter.

‘We will pick up my ship in Adelaide,’ said Bully, all boyish charm and enthusiasm. (I suppose his lady-friend down in the town had gone sour on him.) ‘Then we’ll head for Sydney. You will be top of the bill. And in a year or two, little Adelaida will perform with you.’

That was the first I knew of my daughter’s name. Bully had registered her that day without even consulting me.

How may I explain my foolish actions — even to myself? It would have been possible, I imagine, to bundle up little Adelaida, use one of my precious gold nuggets for a passage to the North Island, and leave Bully Hayes forever. He knew me only as Rosa Buckingham. But even if I changed my name, would he not search me out? Fear of that man was part of the reason that I stayed. I suppose I must admit, to my shame, that my love for dear Jack Lacey was not strong enough to overcome the powerful combination of fear and the ever present desire to be on stage. The true artiste is never without that drive — that
need
to be in front of an audience. It is like a powerful drug: both enchanting and, at times, deadly. For me, that need to perform has more than once overcome my natural good sense. This was one of those times.

Also, I remembered that Jack had changed his mind and married Rosetta, despite the protestations of love in my letters. Would he be ready and willing to adopt a baby born out of wedlock to a villain like Bully? I feared, too, that if Bully sought me out, Jack would be no match for his murderous rage.

And so we headed for Australia, boarding a schooner and leaving, as I discovered later from Mrs Stevens’s wounded letter, a mountain of unpaid debts behind us.

[Archivist’s Note: Lily’s journal skips a year at this point. We know from other sketchy accounts that she and Bully Hayes travelled around Australia, performing with George Buckingham, who had — surprisingly, given the incident of the ear — joined Hayes again. Was George attracted to Lily, the impersonator of his sister? Or drawn to Bully Hayes himself? Had Bully Hayes sought him out with revenge in mind? We cannot know. Lily’s journal sheds no light upon this mystery. E. de M.]