Recalled to Life

by Wendy M Wilson

  “British originally,” he said, holding out his hand. “Charles Cartwright—Red they call me, from Manchester. And you are…?”

  Why was he called Red, Mette wondered, as Frank reached out his hand to the engineer? Was it because the top of his head was so red and shiny?

  “Frank Hardy,” said Frank. “Sergeant Frank Hardy, late of Her Majesty’s 57th Regiment of Foot…working as a private investigator now…”

  “Would you like to take a ride in Old Merry?” asked Cartwright. “I named her after the Merrimack…although some call her the Pelican…”

  “How far are you going?” asked Frank. “We were heading to Wanganui on the coach, but stopped in here in case there was a train…”

  “Not all the way to Wanganui,” said Cartwright. He looked Frank up and down. “About three miles short of town. The tracks aren’t completed, but I’ve been doing some trial runs on the finished part. I could do with a man to shovel the coal…thought I’d have to do it all myself, but I’d prefer to keep watch on the instruments. What do you say? Give it a go?”

  “Will you be alright with that my dear?” Frank said to Mette, as if they were an old married couple. She nodded. Her knees had turned to water. She would climb on this giant beast, and they would roar away down the track, and if she was lucky she wouldn’t get sucked out of – well, she couldn’t get sucked out of the windows because there weren’t any – off the floor of the engine and into the scrub beside the track.

  Frank clambered onto the engine and reached down to help her up. Her hand was quivering. “Are you nervous?” he asked.

  “No,” she lied. “Just a little, because it’s so high up…is there somewhere I can hold on?”

  “I detect a Scandi if I’m not mistaken,” said Cartwright. He was twiddling with the dials while Frank watched intently. “A decent, hard-working people.”

  Mette was distracted for a few seconds. “That’s kind of you to say. Yes, we do work hard, especially the men…”

  “You women don’t exactly sit around doing nothing,” said Charlie. “Now the English…hand me that wrench please Frank…”

  “We work hard,” said Frank. He’d taken off his coat and rolled up his sleeves.

  “But complain a lot,” said Charlie. “These new chums who are arriving from Home, especially the ones coming to Feilding - they’re leaving as fast as the next lot arrives…did you see those Brethren?”

  Mette was back to feeling nervous. “Ah…yes…”

  “They’ve come in and taken some of the empty houses,” said Charlie. “From the folks who left.”

  “What do they have to complain about?” asked Frank. “The…folks who’ve left. Why would they leave?”

  “Say they were promised a higher remuneration than they’ve been offered.”

  “How much would that be?” asked Frank.

  “Seven shillings a day. Two shillings more than the five the emigration form – which they signed — promised. They wanted ten shillings a day — more than they’d get from any employer in the Manchester Block.” He shook his head to show what a terrible thing it was for a man to want a living wage. “The colonial rate is generally a very fair seven shillings a day. Ten shillings is a journeyman’s wage, not a labourers. I can’t find help, because I offer only seven shillings…”

  “Four days a week, seven shillings per day. That’s what my brother-in-law was promised,” said Mette, forgetting her nervousness for a moment. “He works — or used to work — at the sawmill four days a week, and the other two days he found work for himself on the road crews. But he just bought himself a cleared section.” Talking about Pieter made her think about the farm he’d bought himself, and the bed Maren…She clutched on to a pole beside the steps to the engine and tried not to look at Frank or think of the bed. That would only make her more nervous.

  “The Scandinavians are better workers than the British,” said Cartwright. “You come here with your axes and expect to work hard clearing the land. The British come here from their shops and their farms and expect that suddenly everything will be laid out for them on a platter and they won’t have to do hard physical labour.” He put his hands on his hips and looked back at Frank. “Talking of which — time to start shovelling that coal. Get yourself stripped off and grab that shovel.”

  Frank complied, scooping coal from the hopper behind the cab and throwing it into the firebox.

  Mette found something more substantial than the pole to hang on to — she had no idea what, but it seemed solid — and they were off in a thunder of moving machinery, clouds of steam and smoke, and a general feeling that they were on their way to hell…or Wanganui, whichever might be reached first.

  17

  The Rutland

  By the time they reached the end of the rails, Frank’s back was ached and his arm muscles begged for mercy. He’d shovelled coal for over an hour, and was dripping with sweat. He couldn’t imagine how anyone could do this job for an extended period. It was worse than General Chute’s forced march across Taranaki, when they’d trudged up and down hills until they’d run out of food, and had been forced to eat the horses. For seven shillings a day he would have preferred being shot at by the Turks, or the Indian Sepoys, or even the Hauhau.

  When the train finally slowed – after Red Cartwright pulled back hard on the hand brake for several minutes – Frank stepped back from the job and checked to see how Mette was managing.

  She was holding on to the corner of the cab with her eyes closed. He reached over and touched her arm, and saw her jump. “We’re slowing down,” he said. “Time to get down soon, I think.”

  “Are you sure you don’t want to return to Feilding with me?” asked Cartwright. “You did well. I’d pay you eight shillings for the day…”

  “Kind of you to offer,” said Frank. “But I think Met…my wife has had all she can take. If you could put us down here we’ll walk the rest of the way to Wanganui.”

  Cartwright pulled a watch from his vest. “It’s ten o’clock,” he said. “Are you sure you want to walk to town this late at night?”

  “I believe we can make it,” said Frank. If they got to Wanganui in an hour, the hotels would still be open. Some had night clerks who could be awoken. There was no use resting now. Mette clearly needed a bed for the night.

  They climbed down from the cab, Frank first. Mette leaned down and collapsed into his arms. “I’m tired.”

  “We have to keep moving,” he said. He hated to admit it, but Karira was probably right. He shouldn’t have brought her with him. It wasn’t that she slowed him down, but that he was asking too much of her and felt guilty about it. She’d jogged from Bunnythorpe down to Palmerston, or most of the way, and had done better than he had, her youth and her daily outdoor walks standing her in good stead. But he was more used to the long slog. “We’ll stay on the tracks as much as we can. There’ll be a few places without tracks, but the cuttings are all done. Cartwright said if we stay near where they’re digging it’ll lead us right to the Wanganui River…to the bridge.”

  Much more than an hour had passed before they reached Wanganui - nearer to an hour and a half. By then he was half carrying her, his arm around her waist, her arm over his shoulder.

  “Almost there,” he said, as the river came into view around a bend in the tracks. The lamplights of Wanganui flickered in the distance. “Once we’re over the bridge we’ll be in town and you’ll be able to rest.”

  She straightened up and looked towards the town. She was still clutching on to her valise, and not for the first time he wondered why they hadn’t simply left it somewhere, but she’d refused the suggestion. her pamphlets were not the only way to open doors; tramps and beggars were common and cooks often generous.

  “Here?” she asked. “Where? Wanganui? I think I can get there… but what if we see someone who knows…”

  He’d been thinking of that. “No one is about in the middle of the night. We’ll get to the Rutland Hotel - it’s just over the brid
ge. A few more steps…”

  He managed to rouse a sleepy night clerk at the Rutland. The clerk, a wizened little man in his sixties, came to the door carrying a flickering candle, and wearing his nightdress and nightcap. He eyed Frank and Mette incuriously…used to people turning up in the middle of the night needing a place to sleep.

  “Would you have a room for the night?” asked Frank. “We just arrived from…by train from New Plymouth…”

  “Doesn’t the New Plymouth train get here at nine?” said the clerk, yawning.

  “It was delayed,” said Frank. “A cow on the line. Dead unfortunately. But…”

  “Well, come on in then,” said the night clerk. “You won’t be wanting a meal I hope? The cook has gone to bed long since.”

  “Some bread?” asked Frank hopefully.

  The night clerk nodded. “I can rustle up some bread and butter,” he said. “You can have the casement room at the end of the upstairs hall. It’s small, but if you’re desperate…ten shillings for the night.”

  It was highway robbery, and the owner would not see a penny of it, but Frank forked over a ten shilling note anyway. There were times when the money didn’t matter, and this was one of them.

  “Follow me,” said the clerk. He started up the stairs, with Frank behind him in the pool of light thrown out by the candle. But Mette had lost the last bit of spark she’d used to get across the bridge. She sat on the bottom stair and leaned against the wall, her eyes closed.

  “She’s finished,” said Frank to the night clerk. “Sorry, but I’m going to have to carry her.” He hoisted her in his arms and started up the stairs. He’d thought he would never be able to use his arms again, after shovelling all the coal into the firebox, but he made it to the door of the room before she slipped from his grasp.

  The night clerk unlocked the door and put the candle on a small wooden Duchess dresser beside the washstand. Frank picked Mette up and dumped her on the bed.

  “I’ll just pop down and get you some bread and butter,” said the night clerk. Leave the door ajar to give me some light.”

  Frank sat down beside Mette, pulled the bedclothes around her, and watched her sleep until the night clerk returned. She was flushed, and slept with one hand clutching the blanket, like a child seeking comfort. He stroked her head and told her she would feel better tomorrow, but wasn’t sure he believed it himself. What an idiot he was. Tomorrow he would put her on the coach and send her back to Palmerston.

  The night clerk returned with a plate of buttered bread. He’d found some apricots as well. Frank ate half of the bread and left the rest, with the apricots, on the dresser where she would be able to see it if she awoke during the night. When he blew out the candle, she stirred, and murmured, “Maren…bed…”

  “Don’t worry about Maren now,” he said softly. “Get some sleep. I’ll be right outside the door. Open the door and call me if you need anything…”

  He left her and went down to the end of the hall where a small alcove led to the fire escape. A faded old embroidered arm chair blocked the window to the fire escape, and he sat down and made himself comfortable. The chair would have been perfect for anyone the size of the night clerk. But for him, it was only slightly better than sleeping in the totara tree.

  The sun pouring through the window of the alcove woke him the next morning. He stretched, feeling as if he’d been in a battle, and massaged his neck.

  “Oy, what are you doing there?”

  A maid with a bucket and mop stared at him suspiciously.

  “Sorry. My wife is in the casement room…”

  “What’re you doing out here then?” asked the maid, frowning. She was an older woman with grey hair tied back in a bun, probably the wife of the night clerk.

  “I was…” said Frank, lost for words. What was he doing? He wasn’t sure himself.

  “Tossed you out, did she? I ‘spect you were snoring. My husband snores something terrible. I wish I could make ‘im sleep in the hall.” She left to do her cleaning, swinging the bucket happily, having taken indirect revenge on her husband.

  Frank knocked on the door to the casement room. Mette opened it immediately, as if she had been standing there waiting for him. “Where were you? I was worried. I thought you’d gone off without me.”

  “I was here,” he said. “I found myself a comfortable place to sleep down at the end of the hallway. Did you sleep well?”

  “Yes, and I ate the bread and apricots when I woke this morning. What are we going to do now?”

  “We’re going to find out where the Mountjoys live, and pay them a visit,” said Frank. “At least I am.”

  “No,” she protested. “I’ve come all this way with my pamphlets and I want to talk to the cook before I do anything else.”

  His resolve weakened. “I intended to send you back to Palmerston…”

  “After I talk to the cook,” she said. “When we see what she has to say about the Mountjoys I’ll go home, I promise.”

  He didn’t believe her, but found it hard to say no.

  18

  The Cook and the Lady

  The cook at the Mountjoy home eyed Mette with a calculated expression, rubbing her hands on her apron. Mette had interrupted her doing her baking. A plate of jam tarts sat on the window sill, and the cook had been rolling out a batch of shortbread when Mette knocked on the door. Mette could barely keep her eyes off the tarts.

  “A shilling,” said the cook. “That’s all I have in the cash box.”

  Mette held out a copy of her pamphlet and nodded. “A shilling would be…”

  “Are you hungry?” said the cook. “Would you like to come in for a cup of tea?”

  “I would like that, thank you,” said Mette, wondering if the cook had any coffee but afraid to ask.

  “You look as if you’ve been pulled through a bush backwards,” commented the cook, as Mette took a seat at the kitchen table. “Help yourself to a tart and I’ll put on the kettle.”

  Mette bit into the tart - a flat, round thing with sweet pastry on the bottom, jam in the middle and almonds sprinkled on the top of something buttery and nutty. “That was the most delicious thing I’ve ever tasted,” she said. She licked her fingers and eyed the plate, wondering if she dared help herself to a second.

  “Thank you,” said the cook. “It’s a Bakewell tart, from my home town in Derbyshire. The receipt has been passed from mother to daughter for centuries, I believe. Have another.” She held out the plate to Mette. “But that had better be all. I have a young man living here who loves my tarts. He’d be most upset if he didn’t have at least five waiting for him at tea time.” Mette took a second tart, but held it. She would wait for the tea to be ready, so she could wash it down with the hot drink. Pity it wasn’t coffee… “Children live here?” It seemed like a natural thing to ask.

  “Well, he’s not a child any longer,” said the cook. “Although the way he behaves, you’d think…”

  “Just one then,” said Mette. “A young man?”

  “Young, yes,” said the cook. “Twenty next month. But he has a terrible temper, and sometimes I think he might as well be a two- year-old.” The kettle started to whistle; she picked it up with a cloth around the handle and poured it into a massive, battered silver tea pot, standing away from the steam.

  “Are his parents here as well, or just the two of you?”

  “His father’s back and forward to Wellington frequently,” said the cook. “Does something for the government. What I don’t know. He’s home today, but leaving again tomorrow. But his mother, well…she never leaves home.”

  “Is she ill?”

  The cook poured her a cup of tea and Mette blew on it to cool it, trying not to snatch up a piece of the Bakewell tart which could taste on her tongue…she wanted to eat it so much.

  “Ill?” said the cook. “Not ill exactly…but not well…”

  Mette was unable to see the difference, so she pretended to understand, nodding slowly. “Are you alone her
e? Do you have other help?”

  “A girl comes in to clean,” said the cook. “And Elizabeth takes care of Lady Debra. She’s been with her for years — her companion, really. Then there’s Pulau…”

  “That sounds like a Maori name,” said Mette. “What does he do?” The cook paused. Had Mette gone too far with her questioning?

  But then she answered. “Hard to say, really. Takes care of everything for the family. He isn’t Maori though. He’s Samoan. He’s been with them since they were in Samoa. Colonel Mountjoy was the British Consul there for many years…”

  “Samoa?” asked Mette. “That’s in the Pacific Ocean somewhere I suppose…and he left his home to be with them?”

  “There was some trouble there…” said the cook. She stood abruptly. “Well, I ‘d better get back to work. Can you find your way out?”

  The temperature of the room had changed. “My shilling?” asked Mette. “Oh, of course. Sorry.” The cook opened a drawer and took out two sixpenny pieces. “Here.” She picked up Mette’s pamphlet. “This is interesting. We have some plants in the wild part of our garden…”

  “I spend a lot of time in the bush, hunting for…” said Mette.

  “Where?” said the cook, without looking up from the pamphlet. “Which bush? The Seventy Mile Bush somewhere? You’re a Scandi, aren’t you?”

  Mette kicked herself mentally. “Oh, I live in…”

  “Palmerston, it says on the pamphlet,” said the cook. “Yes, yes, Palmerston,” agreed Mette. “Thank you for buying my… I’ll be off now…”

  She hurried outside, afraid she’d said too much. Was the cook suspicious of her, or was it just that she knew she shouldn’t be talking to strangers about the family situation?

  The house was at the end of a long metalled driveway and Frank was waiting along the road above. The house was situated close to Wanganui Collegiate, and he had walked towards the school, saying he would wait for her there and watch the cricket, if a game was in progress. He’d be happy watching the empty field if he knew it was used for cricket. Why were men like that? She could never understand Frank’s love of cricket – something she would have to learn, she supposed.