Recalled to Life

by Wendy M Wilson

  “Ah, my darling,” said Agnete. “We will buy a very large house with thick walls, and I will scream all I want. You must like it when I do so. Does it not prove my love for you?”

  Karlsen grunted and walked away from the tree, pushing himself back into his trousers, straightening the hat he had worn for the duration of the encounter. If he turned and looked up he would certainly see Frank. Agnete followed him into view and clutched at his trouser buttons, but he knocked her away angrily.

  “When we are married…” she said.

  He turned. “Have I asked you to marry me?” he said sharply.

  Frank could not see her face, but he heard the sly coyness in her voice.

  “Not yet, but I think you will,” she said. “You have violated me, just as your brother did my sister-in-law, and I will go to the police if I am not given satisfaction. My brother will…”

  Frank did not hear what Agnete thought Pieter would do, as Karlsen stormed off towards the sawmill, Agnete following him close behind. He could see her hands waving as she walked. She had found someone to replace Mads Madsen and Mr. Williams and was using her powers of persuasion and her skills to rope him in. She was incorrigible.

  He felt like he needed a cold bath with lots of carbolic soap. These two deserved each other. He just hoped he would not be forced to share Sunday tea with them. But despite his disgust, he felt somewhat aroused, and he started thinking of his own history with women.

  There was the woman who had thrown herself at him aboard the boat on the way to India. She was older than him, a tall blonde with pale blue eyes who spoke very little but knew what she wanted, which was a quick encounter in her cabin, with as little conversation as possible, followed by a quick exit on his part. He couldn’t remember her name, if he’d even known what it was. Then there was the sister of a British Parliamentarian, in India to oversee the start of the dissolution of the East India Company – he’d been quite fond of her. They’d talked of marriage, he remembered, although she was as young as him and didn’t understand that he would be an inappropriate match for her. The brother had stepped in to separate them and she went without an argument. But with her he hadn’t…and he’d had a brief fling with a maid after the relief of Cawnpore. He’d been with the East India Company rescue force sent to escort them back to Allahabad after the release was negotiated. And then the unthinkable. Rebels turned on them, and most of the men in the force were killed.

  When Cawnpore was eventually back in Company control, they’d discovered that 120 English women and children had been massacred, their dismembered bodies thrown down a well. He’d been put in charge of rescuing two women, one the daughter of someone with influence, and her maid. The pair had been captured and taken to Nana’s harem, and he’d gone with a captain to negotiate their release for a large ransom. The daughter was distressed but calm, almost too calm, reminding him of the way soldiers were after battle. However, the maid was stronger and had endured her capture stoically, with a sense of acceptance. He’d accompanied them back to Agra and had never seen them again.

  He heard hoof beats approaching from the direction of the sawmill and pushed himself back against the tree trunk. He couldn’t see the track, but heard at least six horsemen pass beneath him at equal intervals. It could only be the Armed Constabulary. No one else rode in formation like that. He stayed where he was without moving, and a short time later they returned. They stopped fifty yards past the tree and he heard them talking, although not what they were saying.

  He leaned forward carefully. Five constables, not six; one man addressed the rest - probably in charge - but one was twisted in his saddle looking straight at Frank. He stayed where he was, realizing it would be worse to move back than it would be to keep still. If he had been seen, there was nothing he could do. A minute later a sixth constable caught up with the others, shaking his head, and the man at the rear nodded and turned. With a signal from the lead horseman they departed.

  He’d not seen the last man to arrive clearly – just his profile as he spoke. But he knew who it was. Wilson was back in Palmerston, no doubt helping the search for Frank.

  With the troop gone, the quiet of the bush closed in again. He contemplated climbing down from his perch and making a run for it. He could jump a ship heading to Melbourne and start again in Australia. Change his name. Work as a jackaroo on a sheep station in Queensland, or head up to Darwin and work on the prawn boats. But there was Mette. She was holding him here. His life had improved dramatically since he’d met her. He was happier; he felt better when he was taking care of her, not thinking of himself.

  But then something dark exploded into his memory.

  Agnete had said, “You have violated me like your brother violated my sister-in-law.” Unless Gottlieb had attacked Maren, which he was sure he had not, then Agnete knew about what Gottlieb had done, or almost done, to Mette, her only other sister-in-law. If Karlsen was still searching for the man who had killed his brother, this knowledge would be a first step towards the answer. Frank had beaten Gottlieb Karlsen after he discovered what he’d tried to do to Mette, and for that reason Karlsen had ambushed Frank and Mette in the Manawatu Gorge; Frank had been forced to kill him with the tomahawk he’d taken from Anahera. How did she know about the rape attempt? It must be Maren again, not knowing enough to keep quiet. Would Agnete tell Karlsen about it again and again until he heard what she was saying?

  The day stretched on, as he huddled in the cloak hoping Karira would come, and thought about his problems. Was Colonel Mountjoy obsessed with his son’s parentage? Had he already believed he wasn’t the father, and had therefore reacted to Frank in such a strange way at the hotel in Wellington? And why would having Frank sent to the secret Armed Constabulary prison up the Wanganui River solve anything? Then there was his other problem: how long before Frederic Karlsen found out that Frank had killed his brother?

  The sun rose higher and at what he judged to be midday he heard the beat of horses approaching. He stayed motionless until he heard, “Hardy? You there?”

  He leaned out and looked down at Karira. “Can I come down now?”

  Karira was grinning up at him. “I remembered that you might need to perform your ablutions,” he said. “That part slipped my mind. I decided I should come now, and not leave you for another day…”

  Karira had brought Copenhagen with him, and he nudged the horse up to the tree, his own horse beside her to keep her in place. “Lower your legs and I’ll guide you to the saddle.”

  Frank found a sturdy branch that protruded from the one where he had spent the night, gripped hold of it and lowered himself backwards into space, while Karira directed his feet. In a short time, he was clutching the trunk of the tree as he balanced on Copenhagen’s back, gradually lowering himself to a seated position, his hands sliding over the bark of the tree as he did so, his arms reaching barely half way around the trunk.

  “You came earlier than I expected,” he said. “Thank God. I couldn’t have stood it much longer.”

  “The iwi are massing in the Square,” said Karira. “I saw the Armed Constabulary leaving on the road to the Gorge. I was thinking I could take you to my uncle’s new house.” He looked Frank up and down. “You’ll fit right in. Although I can’t say you look all that much like a Maori. More like a pakeha Maori, but that will do. And I heard Ringiringi is in town. You can hang about with him and exchange stories about being light skinned in a dark-skinned world.”

  “Did the Armed Constabulary look for me at the pa?” asked Frank.

  Karira nodded. “Yes, and they had a hard time with young Wiki. She told them stories about seeing white ghosts—Turehu—in the bush, and how our people believed that the pakeha were reincarnations of their ancestors, come back to haunt us and punish us. She has a future as a kaikōrero paki– a teller of funny stories.”

  “How did Mountjoy react?”

  “She said he totally dismissed her as some kind of naïve fool,” said Karira. “She saw the resemblance t
o you, by the way. It’s going to be hard for them to keep that from surfacing.” He paused and looked at Frank from the corner of his eye. “Any idea who the mother might have been, if he is in fact your son?”

  “I’ve thought about it,” said Frank. “I have a couple of possibilities.”

  “Just a couple?” said Karira. “Hmm. Well Mette found the name of Colonel Mountjoy’s wife. Lady Debra, born Lady Debra Paget.”

  “The name doesn’t sound familiar,” said Frank. “Although…”

  “She arrived in India by ship,” said Karira, “and married the colonel within a month. The son was born seven months after the wedding.”

  The woman on the ship, then? She’d been the most unlikely of the candidates. He could imagine her being Milo Mountjoy’s mother, however. A self-absorbed personality with no warmth.

  “I think I know the mother,” he said. “Or knew her, at least. Can we find out if the woman I remember is the same woman who married Mountjoy?”

  “The best thing to do is find a way to see her,” said Karira.

  14

  The Desirable Corner Half-Acre

  By Order of the Public Trustee. . .For Sale. The desirable Corner Half-acre, with two-roomed house, situated in New Chum’s Town, Palmerston North, late the property of Charles Henry Trim; deceased. For further particulars, apply to Eliot Warburton, Solicitor; Palmerston North.

  Manawatu Times, 20 June 1877

  Mette was captivated.

  “Such a beautiful house, Hop Li,” she said. “And close to the Square, and Mr. Robinson’s, and all the shops.” She spun around in the centre of the kitchen, trying to take everything in. “A Leamington range with hot plates, and a closed oven.” She fingered the dampers on the top of the stove. “What are these for?”

  “Keeps the fire going,” said Hop Li. “You keep it open, the fire goes quickly, keep it closed, the fire goes for long time, and keeps the top hot. Food boils slowly.”

  She ran her hand along the edge of the kitchen table. “And this beautiful table for a family to sit around. Who carved it? It’s very beautiful. The legs are like the carvings on the meeting house at the pa. They look like snakes…or giant eels.”

  “A man from the pa,” he said. “He lives in town now, does nice work with an adze – he uses heart of kauri wood. I would hire him again. That’s not yours…the table. That sits there to make the kitchen good when I show people the house. I’ll move it to another house later.”

  She went through a wide doorway into the next room. “And this is the parlour?”

  He followed her in. “You put a Chesterfield couch there with nice cushions, or two chairs beside the fireplace. Put up some curtains…red curtains for luck. Have a big fire in the grate…little bits of apple tree wood to make it smell good. Make it seem like home.” He was obviously thinking of how he could sell the house. If she ever bought one of her own she would ask him for suggestions on how to make it look nice. He gestured with his head towards the third of the four rooms. “Big bedroom in there, for mum and dad. Then two other bedrooms, one for boys and one for girls.”

  Mette went into the bedroom for mum and dad. “There’s already a bed here,” she said. “Is it just for display as well?” It was a large bed with a striped cotton spring mattress. She pushed on the mattress, watching how springy it was, and thought how wonderful it would be for two people to live in a house like this, sharing such a bed, with – eventually – two fair-haired children in the other rooms…

  “Your sister bought it,” he said.

  “Maren?” said Mette. “Maren bought this house?”

  “No, no,” said Hop Li. “Your sister bought this bed. For you and Frank.”

  “I don’t understand,” said Mette. Her heart was pounding. Why would Maren buy them a bed? She had threatened to do so of course, when they were married, but why follow up on her threat and leave the bed in this wonderful house?

  “This is your house,” said Hop Li. “I told your sister it was your house.”

  Mette sat down abruptly on the bed and stared at Hop Li. “This is my house? Hop Li, I would like more than anything in the world for this to be my house. But how is it possible?”

  “I have a lotta money,” he said, confusing her. “Mostly in China though. I need more here to build more houses. I make a good profit that way. Frank goes to the manager at the Bank of New Zealand and says he needs money, and the manager gives him money. There you go sergeant, he says. I go to the Bank of New Zealand, the manager says, no, why do you need money, Chinaman?” He looked at Mette, with his eyes narrowed and contemptuous, imitating how the manager at the bank would react if he asked for money.

  “Frank borrowed money for you?” she asked.

  He nodded. “And then I built five very nice houses. Lots of Chinamen here work for nothing. I feed them, pay a little, let them sleep in old house by river. Works good. No more gold for them now, the diggings are finished, most of them.”

  Mette thought about that. “But Frank didn’t give you any of his own money,” she said. “He has only small savings, and his army pension. He told me so.”

  “No,” said Hop Li. “But I give him interest for borrowing the money for me. Not real interest. But this house, which I build for very cheap. Cheap, but the best one. On a corner with a very big section. Lots of room for a garden. Good for you and Frank”

  “Then this is really going to be my house,” she said. She threw her arms around Hop Li. “Thank you Hop Li, thank you. I can never repay you.”

  “No need, no need,” he said, his body arching backwards, trying to escape her grasp. She could tell he was embarrassed and let him go.

  “What will you do with the other four houses?” she asked. “Will you rent them to people, or sell them?”

  “Rent,” he said firmly. “Fifteen shillings a week. I make three pounds a week and pay for the houses in two years. Then I build more houses. You know someone who wants a house to rent?”

  She considered his question. “Yes, I do.” She told him about Wiki and her grandmother and two younger brothers, who would soon be forced to leave the pa.

  “If a Maori family moves in here, no one else moves in next door,” he said. “Not a good idea.”

  “Then where can they move?” asked Mette. She imagined living next door to the lively young Maori girl, and thought how nice it would be to have her next door, getting to know her. But she knew she wouldn’t change Hop Li’s mind.

  “She want some work?” he asked.

  “Perhaps,” said Mette. “She might like to work and help out her family, once she’s in town. They’ll need to find money somewhere.”

  “I have an idea,” he said. “I’ll think about it and then tell you later.”

  “Who would you like to rent these houses to?” asked Mette. Whoever moved in, they would be her neighbours. Hers and Franks. Their children would grow up together, and play together in the street while their parents played cards together. She would drink coffee – or tea – with the women while the men were away at work, and they would knit and sew and talk about their children together. And later she would sit in the sun in the parlour window and write down her recipes that she created from the vegetables in her very own garden, out the…

  “The English,” he said firmly. “They come now. No more Scandies, but lots of the English. I see them coming into town every day, the new chums. They know nothing about anything, but they think they can come here and be the masters of us all. I would like to take some money off the English. I call these the Hardy Heritage Homes. They think an Englishman built them so they must be good. They don’t believe they were made by Chinese.”

  “It’s a pity no more Scandies are coming,” said Mette. “I’d like to see more people from my country in Palmerston. But I’m surprised that you’re so negative about English people. Frank is an Englishman, and you like him.”

  He nodded. “Frank is my friend. I owe him lots of things, not just the money help.”

  �
�How did you meet?” she asked. “Was it a long time ago?”

  “We met in the Gorge,” said Hop Li. “When Scandies were building the road through there, three, four years ago. I took food from Palmerston to sell, and he was driving his coach from Napier to Woodville. The coach wasn’t coming through the Gorge to Palmerston yet, but sometimes he rode his horse up through the Gorge to see how the road was going. I got in some trouble. They said I stole something.”

  “You stole something?” said Mette, shocked.

  Hop Li avoided her eyes.

  “No. They SAID I stole something. One Scandi saw a Chinaman taking a hammer, and he says it was me. I say, I did not take the hammer. The Scandi says, I saw you take the hammer. Not me I say.”

  “He confused you with someone else,” said Mette. “You know, you all look very much alike, Chinese people. Although I know sometimes people think all Scandies look alike.”

  Hop Li looked her up and down. “That’s because you DO all look alike,” he said. “I think your sister is you, all the time.”

  Mette laughed. How could someone confuse her with Maren? They had different hair and different coloured eyes. Maren was round and plump, and she was tall and too thin. And Maren was much prettier.

  “I just remember she’s the pretty one, you’re the clever one,” said Hop Li. “When you say something, I know it’s you.”

  “How did Frank come into this,” said Mette, blushing. She preferred to be the clever one, although she wished she was as pretty as Maren.