by Jude Thomas
Chapter Five
Alf Maguire shudders, blows on his hands and knots his woollen scarf tighter. Dolly stomps and snorts, and they both breathe hoary puffs into the grey light. He slaps her affectionately before heaving himself onto the creaky cart, and settles onto the box seat as she slowly clomps along the side alley and onto the earthen road. Spring has officially started but the ground is still frozen with treachery.
Maclaggan Street is the arse-end of Dunedin town, but a sweet home to Alf these past nine-some years since he and Meg arrived at Port Chalmers after that long voyage from London with hardly a shilling between them. But there was no doubt it was to be a better life. Alf, come over from Belfast to London as a lad and whose family hadn’t found it much better, and Meg, come up from Kent as a maid, fell in love and wed. They moved in with Alf’s brothers and their families but crowding, disease, little income, and finally the lure of free travel to New Zealand drove them on. They fitted the criteria, paid their hard-earned pound and emigrated on the HMS Ajax in the northern autumn of 1848. After a turbulent four-month journey, they progressed steadily and a mere two years later were ready to build their own home. Using their wits, and timber that was plentiful and free, they began to prop up a sturdy shack, then expand and modestly furnish it room by room to become Maguire’s Private Hotel. It is humble but clean and brings in a good living due largely to Meg’s reputation of no-nonsense motherliness, rich mutton stews and clean bedding.
Every morning except Sunday is the same for Alf. At daybreak he hugs the comatose form of his wife, rises from the bed knowing she is unconcerned about the twang of bedsprings, and lowers his feet to the rag rug. He pulls on the same attire day after day, even though Meg boils up a storm of laundry three times a week to keep up with the guests. He can’t be doing with fresh clothes other than of a Sunday; Meg has enough to do without his extras. So today’s attire is the same as yesterday and the day before: woollen combinations, flannel shirt and serge suit complete with waistcoat. The suit was firstly his brother’s, then his own marriage getup, and now his work attire, patched and darned as maybe. And always the woollen scarf tied neatly at his throat. All tidy and well pressed; just because he is a collector, there is no need to lower his standards. He leaves a topcoat in the cart in case of rain. Otherwise day in, day out except for Sundays, it is the same getup as he goes about his business.
Sometimes Mungo comes with him, but during these frosty mornings his raggedy doggy form stays curled up in front of the coal range, still slightly warm from the night’s banking.
Alf usually heads downhill towards town, always hopeful of finding discarded or lost articles from the previous day and evening. ‘Let’s see what lies abandoned for us today, my lovely,’ he always imparts towards Dolly’s thick neck. Leather gloves – pairs for selling, singles for other uses. Silver flasks, fob watches, jewellery, fur wraps – these are what he really wants, and if people are so careless as to leave or drop them, so be it. Alf always holds valuable articles for twenty days before disposing of them, checking Lost & Found in the Otago Witness, hopeful of a reward. Then it’s off to hawk his wares to Ben Solomon, or into his own small workshop beside the scullery for restyling or repairing. Most of the time the day’s collection is more mundane articles, dropped or thrown out: bits and bobs that come in handy. He is adept at converting one thing into another: inventing, altering and creating a silk purse from a sow’s ear before peddling it for a copper or two.
His route is bordered by High Street to the south, Princes Street to the east and Stuart Street to the north. And to the west, the City Rise is all his territory. Alf stoutly guards his implicit right to these blocks south of the Bell Hill cutting, which is slowly being widened and lowered to allow passage of transport between the two parts of the town. His route in and out of the rutty lanes and wider roads takes him until well after midday, depending on how many times he stops and how much dust has been rained into mud. He smiles at the thought of the venerable city planners from the Home country, designing streets of such geometrical beauty on paper – contrary to the reality of carving such detail into the hinterland’s steep slopes.
Today, for no reason except that it would be a change and a change is as good as a rest, Alf swishes at Dolly and guides her left at Rattray Street instead of dropping down to the usual Princes Street, then heads up the incline towards York Place. Some servants of the big houses leave items outside the back gates. A few of them scorn his trade and shout obscenities, as if their service to the wealthy makes them fit to look down upon those who are their own master, like himself. But mostly folk treat him with respect, as he does them.
Alf hums to himself as they plod along. Not much luck so far, only a brass knob off a carriage and a pair of broken spectacles, but let’s press on further up the Rise and see what the day brings. The uphill pull is taxing Dolly’s bones and he will get down soon and walk beside her. For after Meg, Doll is the most precious thing to Alf.
Then he sees a lump, probably a blanket, discarded in the middle of the road some way up ahead. Most likely fallen off a carriage taking some people home from their evening at cards, or a ball. Alf knows the ones who live up the Rise have different pastimes than himself, despite their similar aspirations of a new life in a new country. Dolly clops steadily upward, her breath steaming in the frosty air.
‘Whoa, Doll, that’s my sweet. And what have we here?’ Alf draws closer and looks down at the heap of cloth and for a split second, it moves. Perhaps a stray dog finding shelter?
He gets off the cart and bends to examine the goods. ‘Bugger me days – a fur coat, quite a find of a morning.’
Dolly nudges the mound.
‘Strike me pink, a nice little boot!’ But wait – it’s on a foot! ‘Oh, bloody hell – has there been a murder?’
And then a noise – not quite a mew, nor a squawk. A husky, kittenish squeak. And another. Alf reaches forward, and with trepidation lifts the edge of the fur to expose a picnic hamper with its lid loose. He cautiously lifts it. Two orbs stare out, unblinking.
‘Gawd save us, it’s – it’s a babby!’ Alf gawps. ‘Alive, although how is it possible on this bitter morning! And here’s the poor mother – she’s frozen to death!’ Or maybe not quite?
Alf half-straightens and looks about in a mix of caution and irritation, for this surely must be some silly prank? But the day is still dim and only a dog’s bark further up the hill cuts through the early morning miasma. He swings onto the cart to grab his old coat from within the box seat, jumps down, and roughly swaddles the basket. As he lifts it carefully to his chest, the new-old eyes stare back at him, and Alf feels an overwhelming wave of premonition.
Then he collects himself, climbs rapidly back up onto the cart and places the bundle gently into the seat’s cavity. Leaps back down again and widely spreads his arms to encircle the lady within the fur – Gawd save us, it’s not a lady at all, blimey it’s just a girl! – shoulders her up onto the cart and covers her with his own knee rugs.
‘There will be no more collecting directly, Alf me old china, we must make speed to Meg. She’ll know what to do – gedd-up Doll!’
The horse eases the load downhill and Alf shivers with concern as he urges her towards Maclaggan Street.
Meg hears his shout and hastens into the backyard, still in her nightgown and thick shawl. She rises at six, one half-hour after Alf has crept downstairs, and after previously feigning sleep. She can’t be doing with kisses and carry-on of a morning, and this small sham has been part of her ten-year married life – eight of them in their own little boarding house. That is, the accommodation that she calls a private hotel, so as to attract respectable folk rather than itinerants and dubious characters.
And here now is Alf, dragging Dolly and bellowing to come quick. Is something wrong with the animal, and if so what is she to do about it? She has more to do than nurse a horse. Or if it is a substantial find, why involve her at this time of the morning? But there is something urgent about A
lf today; he is shaking and gasping. He draws her to the cart, and to the fur-wrapped bundle.
‘My Lord, whatever have you got there, Alfie? What have you done?’
‘I done nothing, Meg, she was on the bloomin’ road! Dead, I thought, but no. I believe she is a young lady, and almost alive!’
‘Then hurry, you foolish man, don’t stand around dithering. Bring her down and into the warm. I was just stoking up the range!’
Meg prepares to run back indoors, already shivering in the raw air, and stumbles over Mungo’s yelping, circular trajectory.
‘But Meggy, look too, there’s a bundle, a bob, bab ba – ’
‘For goodness’ sake, man, come in with the – ’
‘A babby!’ Alf spits it out, half-demented with the thought of it.
Meg turns and gazes incredulously as her husband delicately brings forth the hamper and she gasps again. ‘Oh, oh Alf, whatever have you done?’
‘I done nothing, Meg – they was on the road, I tell you! I thought they was just an old blanket, then I thought: No, Alf my son, this is more than a blanket, this is a fur and it will be another one to clean up and store and take care in laying out and calculating how to advertise it to best advantage in the Lost and Found column, like – ’
‘Great heavens, man, stop mithering! Give it over to me. Deary-deary me, whatever have you done?’
Meg draws a deep, shuddering breath and composes herself. She hasn’t endured her whole life of being sharp and keen and having the wits about her to be contradicted now by this peculiar to-do. She carefully receives the hamper and glances back up into her husband’s wide, fearful eyes. Then she looks down at the foundling’s face, and for a flashing moment is seized with the same emotion that struck Alf. A surge of shock and awe that sends a wave of chills over her body. Chills that are nothing to do with the rawness of the morning.
She turns back into the kitchen and eases the hamper onto the sturdy pine table that serves all manner of purposes, then wrenches open the coal range’s door, hurls a log into the embers and opens the damper wide. The range is only a few months old and is Meg’s pride and joy after cooking over an open fire these past years. Saved up, they did – well, she saved it; Alf just handed over his coin and she did the calculations and ordered it to be brought over from Home. Such a contraption at first, but a boon with her constant stream of paying guests who need hearty meals.
Alf follows, carrying Eveline’s limp form, and with the benefit of only one look from his wife, lays the stranger on the hearth mat. The small kitchen is regaining its warmth. Meg and Alf don’t speak. They hold their hands to their face, over their mouth, over their eyes; they look at each other, and they look back to the lady – no, still just a girl – and the infant.
Then Meg whispers, ‘Oh, Alf, Alf! How? Where – ?’
But they are not to know from where Evie has tottered, within sight of the big gates of Royal Terrace. Not to know how, with increasing delirium, her world seemed bathed in a triumphant blaze of colour. Or how long she stumbled on until the blaze faded into blackness. Or when she crumpled and folded dreamlike onto the icy ground, onto to the wrapping that would provide salvation for a time. Until an old nag gently nudged the shroud.
For three days and nights Meg nurses her acquisitions with a tenderness that flows naturally. Although she has no child of her own – a constant sorrow mitigated by a strong and loving personality – she helped her Ma birth several. And this little mite is surely weeks short of a full term.
‘Young Lady’ is what they call this mother – just a girl, but a maiden no more. She hasn’t opened her eyes much less spoken, but her garments are of fine silk and soft woollen and kid leather, not to mention that full fur cloak, and these set her apart from the likes of themselves. Her fever is starting to come down, the intimate bathing is soothing her body, she is absorbing a drop or two of broth under her tongue, and her milk is starting to leak naturally now that the bindings are removed. We will need to see about that – it needs to flow or it needs a brew of sage to stop it, Meg notes.
Young Lady has been lifted onto the narrow corner settle and protected by a timber contraption hurried up by Alf to guard against falling when – and if, he notes only to himself – she wakes.
‘Little One’ is what they call the scrap at first. And oh my Lord, wrapped in a finely woven shawl. Looking just like a doll, but becoming demanding after the first day of startled survival in the warm kitchen. Meg finds an oval bottle left behind by a guest and boils it for ten minutes in a pan with a slug of carbolic until the glass shines and the dropper is spotless. Milk from their gentle cow is skimmed and scalded and diluted, and after a cranky start Little One takes most of what is offered. Roars again at having her warm and pungent napkin interfered with, then sleeps long and sweet, tucked into her hamper bed.
There are only four paying guests at present – a husband and wife come in from the country to await the arrival of family immigrants at Port Chalmers, plus a couple of single gentlemen. They don’t venture into the kitchen, and at any rate, Young Lady and Little One are none of their affair. Alf and Meg have decided – or rather, Meg has decided and Alf naturally agrees – that Young Lady should give them her own account when she comes to her senses. That is, before any other investigations are made. Meg knows deep in her waters that discretion is the best way to go about things.
Chapter Six
Eveline is returning, slowly and intermittently. She has no knowledge of her days in a coma on the kitchen settle, nor the three subsequent nights that she has been carried upstairs to a mattress at the foot of Alf and Meg’s bed. Through a dense fog, like the blanket that frequently shrouds Otago Harbour on winter mornings, she gauges sounds and movements. But where do they come from? Perhaps she will turn back home, but it is warm and peaceful and who wants to leave such a sensation? Then again, it is too wearisome to push against the fog. It comes, and it goes.
Eventually the pall thins, her eyes flutter and vaguely she sees a woman’s form; it must be Mother. Evie is cosy and just wants to close her eyes again, and she returns to a dream state. But after a while Mother is sobbing – oh, Mother, what is amiss? Sobbing and banging a pot. But how peculiar; Mother doesn’t bang pots. And her mouth is open in a scream but no noise comes out. And Florence is joining her distress. But wait – now she is humming and poking the fire.
Slowly the sounds are becoming more defined. The heaviness is lifting and the cloud dispersing. She is staring at the back of a woman working away before a coal range, lifting lids and stirring, letting the aroma of lamb stew waft about, and bending down and removing a large dish from the oven. Holding it aloft with sacks about her hands, before placing it on a table. Saying, ‘That should fill their bellies tonight.’ And turning, with her sack dropping down onto her apron strings, and saying in a definite way but without surprise, in a voice that is not like Mother’s, ‘Bless her, she is wakening.’
Eveline regains her senses and recollects a few details at a time. She cannot remember how she came to be here in this busy kitchen. But little by little she recalls, her awareness reversing in small stages. The shame of an event beyond her comprehension. The sobbing of her mother. The horror in the eyes of her sister. The appalling pain and the pushing, pushing, pushing out of a slippery thing. The shouting of her father. And returning again to the shame.
Now she finds herself here in this kitchen, with a sleeping baby alongside her own makeshift bed.
Meg takes Eveline’s hands and says in her straightforward but gentle way, ‘You were found on the road, miss, half frozen. Tell us your name, my dear, and nothing more until you say so.’
‘Evie. Eveline. Eveline F – ’ and she stops short. Everything is swirling in her head and who is this woman? Maybe she has stolen me? But no, not this homely, soft woman with her kindly eyes. And yet, I must not say, for it is – and again anguish encases her – it is not to be spoken of.
Then Evie remembers the silent, frosty morning air that env
eloped her when Mother opened the front door one morning. When was that? And how bone-chilling it was, and the path crunched as they made their way to the wide iron gate. Evie has always loved that gate, so intricate and yet so serene, and she has often run her fingers over the rods and hoops and the entwined thistles that Father calls the flowers of Scotland. And her fingers have often roamed over the scrolls, coming together at the nameplate, elegant but forthright: 16 Royal Terrace. She feels the smooth, strong iron on her fingers, and then her fingers slowly feel the softness of fur and also the roughness of a woollen blanket. And hears the woman asking for her name.
But no, no, it must not be spoken of! And Eveline is in danger of being pulled back behind the iron gates into the icy air, nearly slipping on the slippery path and being held up by Mother. It is so cold, so frosty. Frosty.
‘Your name, miss?’
‘Eveline. Eveline F – ’ She cannot. She must not. But of course! ‘Eveline Frost.’
‘So be it, Eveline Frost. You are safe and warm and getting better. As is your babe. And what name have you given her?’
The infant is sleeping peacefully in the hamper, being the most convenient cradle for Meg to transport. She has carried it upstairs last thing of an evening, after banking the range and setting the bread to rise, then back down to the kitchen of a morning.
‘Your little one, Miss Eveline?’ Meg persists. She knows how to address someone who has arrived wearing fine garments, an expensive fur coat and soft kid gloves. Not to mention the charmingly foolish boots.
Evie experiences a wave of delight as she looks into the tiny face. She remembers such a wizened face when William was born. Funny, sweet little William, how we had such fun chasing about in the summer. And Jean and Izzie, and May. Oh, what can we do with May, who is so singular and I am sure will become a bluestocking and enrage Father. And Florence. Her dearest sister, but the horror and sobbing when this baby came pushing out. How did it happen? Why was it me? Where are they now? Where am I?