Skylark (31 page)

Teddy himself loved every minute of the show. When the stage hands pulled the curtain closed after the final encore he would have liked to have rushed through the gap and sing once more. And again. Blood sang through his veins. He could hardly breathe for the excitement. They loved him. He had remembered all the words and steps and gestures, he was sure of it.

Cornelius, who had sung in the chorus, found Teddy still standing on stage, willing the curtain to open. ‘Were you nervous?’
he asked, in a curious, flat voice.

Teddy shook his head, his breath still coming fast, his face flushed. ‘No. No. It was wonderful!’

Cornelius grunted. ‘Well, don’t try too hard. This might be my last season. I need to perform too. You have plenty of time.’

Teddy looked at the tall boy in astonishment. ‘Your last? But everyone loves you. You have such a voice!’

Cornelius shook his head, some sort of pity or scorn in his eyes.

Before Teddy could question him further, his mother burst onto the stage. Her large hat and fur collar threatened to dislodge in her rush to embrace her son. ‘Oh, my darling boy! That was perfect! Perfect! A star is born!’

Cornelius turned abruptly and walked away. Teddy wanted to follow his friend. His mother’s enthusiasm seemed too fierce, too smothering.

Some weeks later, when the company boarded the steamer for Whanganui, Teddy discovered that his mother was aboard the same vessel. She waved to him from the deck as the children walked sedately up the gang plank. But Teddy preferred to stay with his friends. He was a professional Lilliputian now.

Mattie in trouble

[Archivist’s Note: We can assume that this section is in Mattie’s hand. It is written directly into the journal, not pasted in, as was the last section. But what a change from the firm, confident handwriting of Mattie’s first section! The words are faint, written in pencil, the lines tending to wander. Mattie is writing about events perhaps only two or three years past. The story, which has recounted events from Lily’s earliest recollections, is catching up with the present. Pollard’s Lilliputians’ first tour of New Zealand was 1880–81. Mattie has dated this entry 1883. E. de M.]

Poor Jack was in a state.
I
was in a state. For some days a dragging, nagging pain had worried me. Surely the baby couldn’t be coming yet? The children caught the mood, as children do, and presently the whole family was in the doldrums.

‘Jack, my dear,’ I said one evening, as we sat silently to our dinner. ‘You must send for her. You must forgive her.’

Jack sighed. The dear man was become more inflexible as he settled into his success, but he knew the way the wind was blowing.

My Sarah, who was learning to take responsibility for the household now that I was heavy with my seventh child, spoke up. ‘Mother is not well, we can all see that, surely. The other children have not troubled her like this.’

The others nodded and murmured, all looking to Jack. What Sarah said was true. My limbs felt leaden, I wheezed at the slightest exertion, the baby dragged at me. With the others I had carried their weight gladly; to be with child was a joy, not a burden, but this fellow felt sullen. I felt sullen. And when I was glum, the whole family followed suit.

Unless Lily was at home to raise our spirits.

‘Send for her,’ I said. ‘I need her.’

Of course it was as plain as salt that Jack needed her. We could all see that, but it saved his dignity if it were for my sake that he bent. He rose from the table, and came to me. Slowly he passed his horseman’s hands over my shoulders and down my back.

Jack sighed again. ‘Mother Mattie, you are not well. The baby is not right, I think. We will send for Doctor Ingram.’ After a pause, he added, ‘And for Lily.’

There have been times when I have resented Lily’s gifts (and her place in Jack’s heart) but that night, when the children’s faces lit, and dinner was eaten at a more cheerful pace, I felt only thankful. No doubt my own eyes were brighter, and the pain eased at the thought of Lily in our midst again.

‘Oh Jack, thank you,’ I said. ‘Send for both, and quickly. Let Samuel ride in to Waitotara with a letter for Lily and a request for Doctor Ingram.’

Chubby little Oberon jumped into his father’s lap. ‘Send for her, send for her,’ he sang. The others took his note and turned it into a little song with accompanying rhythm — spoons hitting the table. Lysander and Lydia were soon dancing, their steps growing madder and madder, until my headache returned and, laughing, I put a stop to it all.

Oh Lily, Lily. Even the thought of you coming home had us all alive again. A bright golden evening before darker times.

Doctor Ingram arrived on his big roan mare, bought, of course, from Jack. The doctor never seemed to age, had been in practice for as long as people could remember, yet still rode out to see to the difficult cases, never mind the terrible roads and winter mud.

‘Now, Mrs Lacey,’ he said, as soon as he set eyes on my grey face and trembling legs, ‘why didn’t you send for me sooner? Jack should have collected a pigeon some weeks earlier.’

What would we do without the doctor’s pigeons? He has a good flock of them and any farmer in town (by town I mean Waitotara: Doctor Ingram lives there now) may pick one up. Jack keeps a horse in the home paddock ready to give the doctor fresh
legs if he is attending a call further up the valley.

I watched the doctor’s lined and leathery old face as he examined me. We both knew that the news would not be good.

‘When did you last feel a kick?’ he asked.

‘Two days ago.’

‘My dear,’ he said, kind as always, ‘we must get the mite out of you. I fear it has gone and will only poison you further. You must brace yourself.’

The truth was, the ‘mite’, as he called it, was already on the way. The night before, the pain had returned, stronger and by now all too familiar, yet several weeks early by my reckoning. Doctor Ingram called my Sarah to fetch the usual towels, hot water and so on. Sarah is experienced enough to manage the midwife’s part, after so many born in this household. Doctor went downstairs to take a tot with Jack while we women got on with the business. I fancy Phoebe helped too — I was not in a good state and my memory of that black day may be faulty.

Little Mathilda — named for me — was born dead, poor deformed thing. Not meant for this world, but missed and mourned for all that.

The doctor tried to put on a cheerful face but he couldn’t fool me. Something was wrong inside my woman’s parts, we both knew it. ‘No more babies,’ he said, ‘and for pity’s sake let the others do the work for a while.’

I nodded, weak as a kitten, still bleeding, no matter how the good man and Sarah tried to staunch the flow — powders, potions and stitching: nothing worked. I drank my soups and broths and stayed still as a mouse. In the end I came to accept that my monthlies were here to stay, every day of the month, the wretched things.

My health was a welcome diversion for Lily, I imagine. Her usual whirlwind arrival was somewhat muted, but oh, it was good to see her dear, lively face!

‘Mattie, Mattie!’ she cried, running upstairs to me, hardly giving a glance to Jack or the others. ‘Look at you, my poor darling, we must get you on your feet and out into the sunshine!’
Swish, swish, back went the curtains, up with the window sash, fresh, sweet air rushing into the room, lifting my soul for all its chill. Lily knows what I love. She has that knack of always knowing what you are thinking or feeling. I suppose it is the actress in her. You might call her selfish — many’s the time we’ve all said that of her — but we must take the rough with the smooth, in our friends as in life, or where would we be in this world? I wept tears of joy to feel her arms around me and her bright kiss on my cheek.

‘Wait, wait!’ she cried gaily, whirling around and dashing for the door, leaving me to wonder what new plan had taken her fancy. I heard the door bang and shouts in the garden below my window. Up she came again, taking the steps by twos as she always did, and entered the room triumphantly, a handful of snowdrops held aloft. Oh, the beautiful, delicate things! She remembered!

‘Elsie!’ she shouted down the stairs. ‘The jar, the jar!’ And in came my quiet Elsie, beaming to be so useful, carefully carrying a jam jar filled with water. Lily held the flowers to my nose and then arranged them on the table by my bed, where I could breathe in the faint freshness of them. So perfect.

‘Like a company of ballerinas,’ said Lily, laughing.

Trust her to find a theatrical likeness. But that is exactly what they look like: tiny white bell-skirts, each petal with its perfect green dot at the hem, the skirt hiding its little ring of
butter-yellow
pollen. Oh, how I loved to see those snowdrops: first signs of spring. Surely everything would go well now.

For a good week Lily behaved, busying herself about the house — no doubt getting in the way of those who could manage better without her — but transforming every broken pot or burned dish into a comedy that had us all rolling around like a litter of kittens, and near turning herself inside out to be pleasant and loving to Jack. No mention of Teddy and the Lilliputians.

But of course, that couldn’t last. Lily could never hold a pose for more than a few minutes. That whole week must be a record, surely. On the first night that I managed to come downstairs for dinner, Lily brought up the matter that was burning in her
mind. We were all at table, even Bert, who was apprenticed to the Waitotara blacksmith, and came home only for the weekend. Samuel and Jack had built a long plank table and benches each side which would hold all fifteen of us. My greatest joy was to sit at one head, Jack at the other, all the children scrubbed and clean, and Lily squashed somewhere down the middle, usually with the twins or Teddy next to her. It had never mattered to Lily to be head of the household or Mrs Lacey; that was me. Lily was special, but in a different way.

That night she had dressed for dinner. Jack liked that. She wore her green silk, with the big rope of amber ‘given by an admirer’ hanging almost to her waist and a feather or two in her dark hair. I suppose I looked like an old washcloth by comparison, pale and weak as I was, but never mind that. We all knew that some announcement or plan would be aired as soon as we were eating. One of Lily’s rather annoying habits was to introduce a new idea when all our mouths were full, reducing our powers of argument until the ‘full glory’ of her idea was laid out.

So it was this night. Having swallowed not two bites, she laid down her knife and fork carefully, cleared her throat for attention, and began.

‘Jack, my dear, Mother Mattie is still not well. Doctor Ingram has urged that we take her in to the new hospital in Whanganui for an inspection, as soon as she is able to stand the trip.’

Jack nodded, waiting for the rest. He knew, as did we all, that a plan was afoot.

‘Now, surely it is time for all these good children to enjoy a little treat? We have sadly lost our sister and daughter, little Mathilda, but now let us look forward!’

Lily was warming to her topic now. Her hands began to weave pictures, her voice deepened; she knew when she had us enthralled.

‘Here is the train, newly reached our very doorstep at Waitotara, and I am the only one to have ridden it! Jack, all the children must experience this wonder, surely? A new age of
locomotion in our midst! Shall we all ride to Whanganui with Mother Mattie, spend a night seeing the sights, and ride back again? What do you say, Jack?’

This brought out cries of excitement from all, especially young Oberon and Joe, who leapt from their seats and began to dance around the room, choo-chooing and whoo-whooing, stopping to hug Lily when they came near to her. Lily was skating on thin ice here, as Jack was not entirely in favour of the railway. Who knows what it will do to the horse industry? he said. But he was curious too. We all were.

Jack smiled at his radiant Lily. ‘Well, why not? But I’ll warrant you the drive in to Waitotara in our sprung wagonette will be the better ride.’

At this a cheer went up. Jack was hugged by the young ones; Frank started in on me about what suit he might wear; Bert demanded that the treat be on a weekend so he could come too; while Samuel and Sarah began an argument about the merits of horse-drawn versus steam travel.

In all this buzz, Phoebe’s clear voice suddenly piped up. ‘And will we see Teddy and the Lilliputians? The
Chronicle
says they are in Whanganui.’

Silence at this.

But only for a moment. Lily was ready as always. ‘Yes they are, Phoebe, and I expect Teddy will play a lead role. I for one will certainly see him.’ She said this in such a simple, quiet way, no hint of challenge, just a loving remark — an aside, really — that it quite took my breath away. How does she manage it? As we all watched, she rose and walked around to the head of the table where Jack sat, silent. The hand she laid on his shoulder stroked the cloth gently, then, for a quick moment, tugged lightly at his earlobe. She knew I was watching and sent a quick apologetic smile, then in the same instant returned to her sober mood. ‘My dear,’ she said quietly, ‘I did wrong over Teddy. I should never have lied about you. But our clever son is here in Whanganui, the toast of the town. What will he think if his family is not there to cheer him?’

My Maud, eleven years old and closest in age to Teddy, walked solemnly around the table to stand at her father’s other side. ‘I would like to see Teddy, Father,’ she said in her quiet voice. ‘He will be sad if we don’t come.’

Jack knew when he was beaten. And of course he wanted to be proud of his son, too. But he made us wait, as is proper; he is head of the household. He took a sip of his porter, cleared his throat, smoothed his waistcoat, fingered the gold watch-chain which lay across his stomach: a golden rainbow, leading to the pot of gold in his fob pocket. A fine, solid husband, my Jack.

‘Lily, Lily, you are unfair to trap me like this,’ he said.

Lily bowed her head in contrition. She knew the battle was won.

‘I will not hide,’ he warned. ‘I will be there as Teddy’s father, for all to see.’

For a moment I feared Lily might argue. She would be thinking about that contract she signed. What would the famous Mr Pollard say if he saw a ‘dead’ father walk into his theatre, large as life? I held my breath — we all did — as Lily and Jack exchanged a long look.

Then, placing his hand over Lily’s where it still lay on his shoulder, he smiled at his waiting brood. ‘But I have a fancy to see what my rascally son is up to. Let us see if he is as good as you promise, my dear. Shall we all go?’