Authors: Jenny Pattrick
Skylark (22 page)
Creeping between rocks, careful to avoid observation, I returned to the shore. Far on the other side of the harbour,
Black Diamond
lay out of sight in a secluded inlet. Further around the coast, in the other direction, was a small settlement. The rocky shore which I now approached was deserted. Carefully, aware that my white underclothes would stand out in the dusky light of evening, I searched this way and that. I had kicked off both shoes in my swim ashore and now sharp oyster shells clinging to the rocks tore at my feet and hands as I clambered.
It was too painful. Weeping, hopeless, I dragged my tired body back over the rocks to a little beach through which ran a stream of clear water. There, as if by magic, was the basket, sitting on the sand, not far from where my footprints led towards
the rocks! Had it been there all along? Or had the tide washed it gently in while I searched the rocks? Perhaps a kindly God had taken took pity on me.
Quickly, shivering with cold and exhaustion, I dragged it into the shelter of the trees. At first my fingers were too numb to manage the straps which bound the lid. But finally what bounty was revealed! The canvas lining of the basket had kept much of the salt water out. I tore at the roasted swamp hen with my teeth and crammed damp bread into my mouth. How good that meal tasted! Wrapped in a cloth was a large wedge of raisin cake and four apples. The ship's cook had done us proud. I would save the cake and fruit for later. And there, wedged in the bottom of the hamper, beneath the feast, was Mary's bundle! Eagerly I unwrapped a dress and shawl, and Mary's Sunday shoes. Poor Mary. Even sadder was the sight of Adelaida's warm blanket; her good dress and bonnet; her tiny slippers. She had so little, poor mite, and now would need none of it. I wept to touch her little things. Then, because the night air was chill, I climbed into Mary's dress and wrapped the shawl tightly about me. The baby's blanket I spread on the ground beneath the trees.
There I slept. No longer Rosa Buckingham. No longer, if I could manage it, Bully Hayes's âwife'.
From Croixelles to Nelson, I walked alone, unaided, sore at heart. Up a little track behind the Maori settlement, over dark, bushy hills and down into swampy valleys, ready to slip back among the trees whenever I heard a horse approach, except that none ever did. Mary’s Sunday shoes were worn to holes by the time I reached the outskirts of Nelson, and my store of raisin cake and apples devoured. By a stream I knelt to cool my poor burnt face (for I had no bonnet) and then walked steadily into town as if I was returning from a morning walk. Tired and hungry, I could yet feel my spirits rise at the sight of civilised streets, a general store, a barber’s shop and a bootmaker’s. Then finally, in the window of the Trafalgar Hotel, I saw a notice announcing that Mrs W.H. Foley and Mr Vernon Webster would perform in
Heart’s Trials
and other entertainments, that night at Odd Fellows Hall!
Heart’s Trials
! I knew it! Had performed the romantic drama with Mrs Foley back in Wellington, a lifetime away.
I summoned courage to walk up the steps of the hotel and ask the man at the desk if he knew where Mrs Foley resided.
He frowned at my dusty clothes, my burnt face and lack of bonnet. ‘Mrs Foley does not receive visitors unannounced,’ he said and turned back to his ledger.
From this I guessed that she stayed at this very hotel. What luck! ‘But I am a member of her troupe,’ I said in my clearest, strongest voice. ‘She has sent for me. Please tell her that Lily Alouette is downstairs.’
Would she remember my real name? I dared not utter my old
stage name, Rosa Short, for fear Bully Hayes might put two and two together.
From a corner of the salon, a hat, hugely decorated with flowers and fruit, rose from behind a voluminous couch; beneath the hat Mrs W.H. herself, in one hand a cup of tea, in the other a bunch of papers, no doubt a new dramatic piece. She looked over at me, frowning.
‘Lily Alouette? Is it you? The little circus gel? Approach, my dear!’
She was very short-sighted and of course I was much changed from my trials, but she did recognise the voice — obviously the name, too — thank goodness for her legendary memory! — Oh, I was so glad to see the old dragon!
And she was glad to see me! Mrs W.H. Foley had changed too: for the better. Perhaps her new leading man — the handsome but retiring Mr Webster — suited her temperament more than the dashing, capable Mr Foley. She took me straight away to her room, called for a bath to be drawn and talked to me in a motherly way as I washed in the heavenly warmth of that tub.
‘You have seen hard times, my dear,’ said Mrs Foley. The sparkle in her eye meant she wished to hear all. ‘But you have come to the right person. I am in need of a stand-in this very night. Do you remember
Heart’s Trials
?
‘I have
lived
heart’s trials these last months,’ I said. ‘And yes, I remember the play. I performed Emily the maid, to your Lady Ellington.’
Mrs W.H. beamed. ‘The devil! Your memory is almost as good as mine. We will have you on stage this night and earning a pound or two. What do you say?’
I had no way of knowing whether or not Bully Hayes had come to town. I told Mrs Foley of my fear that he would find me out, would drag me away with him.
A respectable lady in the town might have been horrified and demand that I return to my husband, but Mrs Foley was a theatrical, and no angel when it came to reputation or, for that matter, sticking to husbands. She let out a shout of rage at my telling of the story of the wreck.
‘But my dear, a very different story has been in the paper. That ruffian is made out to be a saint and a hero.’
She showed me an article in the
Nelson Examiner
. Oh the monstrous lies! A constable from Nelson had gone to Croixelles Harbour and brought back news of the drownings. According to Bully, he had heroically tried to hold me and the baby afloat, carrying us both on his back until he sensed we had succumbed to cold and exhaustion, and so on and so on. He was devastated and bruised from his ordeal. All Nelson was talking about the sad affair and the brave, strong Bully Hayes. Oh, I was itching to put the story straight, but of course could not.
Mrs Foley lapped up my whole account.
‘But my dear, we could show him up! It would make the grandest farce — tinged with pathos. What do you say?’
Oh the temptation! What wouldn’t I give to see Bully shown up again? But no, no, no! ‘You must not even whisper any of this,’ I cried in my most melodramatic voice. ‘Bully thinks I am dead, don’t you see? This is my chance to get away from him. Promise, promise, Mrs Foley, not to write a farce!’
Mrs Foley grumbled a bit. No doubt she thought me a coward. ‘It has all the ingredients for a crowd-pleaser, my dear. Did you ever hear of the farce about Bully Hayes’s ear?’
When I told her of my part in the farce her astonishment and admiration were a delight. ‘Lily, Lily, I took you for a quiet, sensible young thing. But you are a very Boadicea!’ (I had to ask her what the word meant — she had the richest vocabulary I ever heard.) ‘But why ever did you throw in your lot with Bully Hayes?’
A good question. ‘I believe there is a kind of hypnotism about him,’ I said slowly, trying to make sense of it myself. ‘He’s able to make people believe almost anything: that he is a skilled trader, or entertainer, or ship-owner. Or lover. I have no family, Mrs Foley, so perhaps am drawn to someone persuasive and strong like him.’
Mrs Foley snorted. ‘I’m sure he would not fool me.’
I felt too weak, too warm and comfortable to argue. I had always thought of myself as a strong woman but perhaps I needed
the safety of someone stronger. Like Mrs Foley herself!
‘Oh dear,’ I said, feeling the tears welling again. ‘Bully seemed to understand my weakness and to play on it as if I were his particular instrument. Then when he had me safely in tune with him, he stopped trying to be charming. I suppose I kept hoping, each time he wooed me with soft words, that he had really changed. I’ve been weak and stupid.’
Mrs Foley handed me a copy of
Heart’s Trials
. ‘You have, my dear. A true artiste needs more backbone than that. Now brush up your lines and we’ll have a run-through.’
At last Lily Alouette graced the boards in her own name. I performed in
Heart’s Trials
heavily disguised in wig and a mop bonnet, and sang a number or two in the intervals. ‘Lily, our new little skylark,’ wrote the reviewer for the
Nelson Examiner
, ‘is aptly named. What a pleasure to hear her dulcet tones.’ Which proved he possessed a good command of French as well as excellent musical taste. It was heavenly to be back in a decent theatre, playing to civilised society! Nelson was such a gentle, proper town: a bit like Riverton. I could have played there all year, safe under the wing of dear, bossy old Mrs W.H. But that week our audience was very small, which displeased her greatly.
‘Nelson simply does not appreciate true art. They flocked to the wretched Christy Minstrels last week, and will go to Mr Holland’s poor amateur entertainments. What do you think, Mr Webster, shall we move on?’
‘I think so, my dear,’ said the sweet man, curling his moustache and smoothing his shining hair. ‘They do not appreciate you.’
I never heard him say a single word against her.
‘They are too busy with their own amateur pursuits,’ raged Mrs W.H. ‘Half the town, it seems, will flock to the rehearsals of the Harmonic Society, rather than attend a famous visiting artiste and her company.’
‘You are quite right to be put out,’ said Mr Webster in his golden voice. ‘We shall move on.’
Later that night, as I luxuriated once again in Mrs Foley’s
hot tub, that great lady approached and studied my body with interest. She had no scruples or false modesty. We are different, we theatricals. Our bodies are, to us, our tools of trade, to be cared for and examined for need of maintenance like any other valuable piece of machinery.
‘Are you with child?’ she asked abruptly. She could never abide artistes who allowed themselves to fall into that trap.
I felt my heart lurch. I looked down at swollen nipples and a gently curving belly. It could be true! What a cruel joke, finally to be free of Bully Hayes, but to be carrying his child. I wept then, at such a monstrously unfair fate.
‘I may be, yes, I may be. But oh, I do hope not.’
‘Well, we may be able to help in that department. Do not lose hope yet,’ said Mrs W.H. kindly. ‘I know a woman in this town …’
But after losing sweet Adelaida so recently I could not bear the thought of tampering with another life. I shook my head sadly. ‘If I am with child — even his — I will love and care for it. Oh Mrs Foley!’ And I wept again, sad, bitter tears.
Which meant, of course, a more serious decision, one which I had been avoiding. I remembered my vow to give up the stage and become Jack’s wife (if he would have me, which was by no means certain after my behaviour, not to mention my condition). This time my natural reluctance to leave the theatre was overturned by more news from Croixelles. Evidently the widely reported deaths had brought unwelcome attention to Captain William (Bully) Hayes’s affairs. News had come from Sydney that the
Black
Diamond
was a stolen vessel! I had always suspected something shady about the deal. We had crept out of Sydney Harbour in the dead of night. Now his actions made sense. That was why Bully was reluctant to enter Nelson Harbour. He knew the law was catching up with his nefarious dealings. I believe he was planning to rid himself of all encumbrances — possibly including me — and to sail away into the Pacific, trading where his reputation would not follow. Oh the wretched, wretched man!
I read in the
Nelson Examiner
that bailiffs had gone secretly to Croixelles, had crept aboard the
Black Diamond
while Bully and
his men foolishly (no doubt drunkenly) slept, and arrested the stupid fellow, taking over the ship, which was now brought to Nelson! The vessel would be returned to the rightful owners and Bully tried by the law for his deeds.
Bully was here in Nelson!
The news made me beg for a role in Mrs Foley’s entertainment troupe, despite her disapproval of my current state. She was regretful but firm. ‘I cannot take you into the company, talented though you may be. Times are hard, Lily. Minstrel companies are all the rage. True theatricals are a waning star, I fear. Mr Webster and I must travel alone and use local amateurs to fill the minor parts. We simply cannot afford you, my dear.’
I felt a deep unease knowing that Bully Hayes was incarcerated here in Nelson. Given his persuasive charm, always at its best when he was threatened, the wretch might even be at large! I might run into him outside Odd Fellows Hall. Or inside.
It was time to move. I took one of my precious gold nuggets to a banker’s agent. The serious young man used an eyeglass to examine it. Then weighed it. He looked in surprise at my fine clothes (kindly given to me from Mrs Foley’s extensive wardrobe trunk) and clean appearance.
‘But where did you find this splendid specimen?’
‘I picked it up from the riverbed,’ I said innocently, pointing vaguely in a westerly direction. ‘Not the Waimea River, but one beyond that.’
I believe my careless words started a minor goldrush. But by that time I was aboard a local coastal trader, bound for Wellington and then Whanganui. I would honour my vow, leave the life of a performer and settle down as wife and mother. Torn between hope and fear, I went in search of Jack Lacey.
T
HE MELODRAMA ENDS HERE
[Archivist’s Note: Lily Alouette wrote the above words almost at the end of her journal entries. I believe she had intended to structure her entire memoir in the style of a playbill of her era: that is, to have a melodrama or drama followed by a medley of musical entertainments in a mixture of comical, romantic patter and regional (e.g. Scottish, Irish) styles; and then, finally, a farce. However, the plan went awry. She has penned one touching little song, printed below, and then not one word further (at least not in this journal). Similarly, Samuel Lacey’s account of his father’s life stops abruptly: almost mid-sentence. What event or events caused this break in two such fascinating accounts? We must turn to the third journal for the answer. E. de M.]