The Wives of Henry Oades: A Novel

by Johanna Moran

In the front room he bent over the babies in their cradles and made foolish noises. John came in, bombarding Henry. “Dad! I’ve taught the dogs seven new tricks. Come round back and see.” Josephine continued laying out the soup plates. She called to her father, competing for attention.

  “Give your father a moment’s peace,” said Margaret. She met his eyes. “What is it, Henry?”

  His gaze shifted to the ceiling. “I’ve been promoted.”

  “Oh, Henry. What does that mean precisely?”

  “It means I’ve a dozen men below me now. It means another ten quid per week.”

  “In terms of time,” she said. “Tell me we’re not staying on indefinitely.”

  John and Josephine stood silently watching. Henry took his place at the table and motioned the children to take theirs. “It’s an honor, Meg.”

  “I’ve no doubt,” said Margaret, striving for calm. She brought out pea soup and a platter of ham and sat. “Let us be family now.” It was what she said every evening. Henry and the children bowed their heads for grace. “Are we staying on, Henry? Just tell us that much.”

  “Not indefinitely,” he said, looking up briefly.

  “Oh, Henry.” Margaret bowed her head and pressed her fingers to her burning eyes.

  The twins were three months old now, a demanding set at times. The move from the flat to the cottage had been fraught with frustrations great and small. Granted, she was tired, overly prone to dark moods these days. Still. They’d been less than a year shy of their return. How could he?

  “A MAORI LAD was publicly flogged today,” Henry said after grace.

  “That’s hardly a subject for the table,” said Margaret. It was like him to negate one problem with another more dramatic.

  John’s face was vivid with interest. “What was his crime?”

  “Please,” said Margaret. Mary started up, the fussier of the two. Margaret went to her and rocked the cradle with her foot.

  “He pinched a keg of rum,” said Henry. “Or so it was charged. He didn’t look the sort. A grand display was made of it. Several dozen Maori were lined up, forced to witness the lashing. As a lesson, I presume. A tribesman from the church was there. The lovely tenor? What’s his name, Meg?”

  Mary squawked, waking Martha. “Bring a cross lass to me,” Henry said. Margaret brought Mary, intentionally handing over the more sour-smelling and cranky. He held her in the crook of one arm, smiling down, transformed as always. “Turns out the lad was a royal. The governor says there’s bound to be trouble.”

  “That’s enough now,” said Margaret.

  “FORGIVE ME, HENRY,” she said next morning. He was dressing in the far corner by wavering lamplight. Her voice gave him a start. “I was purely selfish.”

  He came to her just as she sat up, cracking his forehead against hers, swearing. “Christ! Hardheaded woman.”

  “Irreverent man! You shall be struck down by lightning.”

  Both laughed softly. She stroked his beard, the back of his bristly neck. “I’m quite proud of you.”

  He took her face between his hands and kissed her lips. “And I of you, my girl.”

  “I’ll post your letter this morning,” he said, standing, pulling his coat from the peg.

  “I need to add a few lines,” she said.

  He nodded. “I’ll wait, then.”

  Margaret hugged herself, thinking of home. “What shall I say about our return?”

  “I wish I could tell you. I’ll know more next month.”

  “Forever?” she asked.

  He bent and kissed her again. “Not forever.”

  PS: We have only just learned of Henry’s promotion to senior inspector. He has twelve men below him now, two of whom have just arrived. It is an unexpected honor, one that requires an extended stay here. We hope to start for home before next Christmas, but no assurances have been made as of yet. I shall write again soon with the particulars.

  Taken

  THE IRRITABLE BABIES kept Margaret from going herself. She sent John in his dog cart to Mim’s, returning the six borrowed eggs, plus one as interest. A note went along, telling of the promotion.

  It’s an honor, indeed, though I wish with all my heart we were preparing to sail. This morning I could no longer hear my father’s voice in my head.

  She’d stopped writing and fed the note to the fire, starting another. You’d never hear such sob-baby blather leaving Mim’s pen or lips. “I’ll escape this godforsaken place when Cyril croaks,” Mim once said. “Not a day before. There’s no point in stewing in the meantime.”

  Mim rode out two days later, her dull-witted boy, Oscar, driving. Margaret was watching for Henry at the front window. She came out to greet them, lantern in hand. The reddening sky was already fading.

  Something spooked Mim’s horse, causing it to rear and Oscar to shriek. Mim seized the abandoned reins, yanking hard. Margaret took hold of the cheekpiece and tied the shuddering animal to a fence post, smiling up at Mim’s only child. “Hello, Oscar. Fine evening, isn’t it?”

  Oscar stared off into the middle distance, a thin stream of drool coursing from the corner of his slack mouth. He was eight now, a stocky boy, too fond of boiled sweets, and fearful of everything, horses in particular.

  Mim, as myopic as any mother, thought him exceptional. “You should have seen him coming over,” she said. “Calm as a rutabaga, weren’t you, sweetheart? And every bit as brave.”

  Margaret took his slippery fat hand and assisted him down from the open rig. “What do we have here?” she asked of the dish towel knotted at his neck.

  “He fancies himself a cowboy,” said Mim, climbing down. The mare let out an odd squeal, straining against her tether, baring yellow teeth. Mim slapped a broad rump. “Mind your manners.”

  “You’re a fine cowboy indeed,” said Margaret. She stroked Oscar’s round head, a terrain of scabs and bumps she couldn’t see.

  He thrust out his chest and bowed his chubby legs. “I’m off to America.”

  It may have been the longest sentence he’d ever uttered in her presence. Margaret wrapped an arm about him, grateful for her sound-minded children. “You’re not sailing straightaway, are you, Sir Cowboy? I’ve a lovely goulash cooking. You’ll stay for supper, won’t you?”

  “Grub,” said Oscar, shrugging off her hand.

  “That’s a cowboy’s supper,” said Mim, rolling her eyes. “He’s been down on the docks with his dad all week. There’s a Yank ship in port. The blokes sport with him, fill his ears with cowboy rubbish.”

  Oscar drew an imaginary pistol from an imaginary holster and aimed thumb and forefinger, shooting first his mother, and then Margaret. Mim clutched her heart and reeled a bit.

  Margaret laughed and passed the lantern to him. “Lead us in, cowboy. I’ve grub burning on the stove.”

  “You’re in jolly spirits, considering,” said Mim.

  “Jolly enough,” said Margaret. “What choice is there, really?”

  “Have you considered returning early with the children?”

  “Certainly not.” Though Margaret had, privately. Yesterday while shelling peas she’d given the idea long selfish thought. She’d imagined herself standing on the dock, the ship bobbing in the bright distance. She saw the leather trunk being loaded onto the tender. She saw too her morose and confused children, falling on Henry, refusing to be separated.

  Margaret and Mim started up the path behind Oscar. Mim caught Margaret’s hand, swinging to and fro, like a schoolgirl. “It shall be a sad day for me when you go.”

  Margaret squeezed Mim’s hand. “Misery loves her company, doesn’t she?”

  JOSEPHINE STOOD at the stove, humming under her breath. “Auntie Mim! I didn’t know you were coming.”

  “Hello, my darling girl.” Mim came into the light, struggling from her too small coat. “Your lamb smells divine. Where’s your brother? He promised to show Oscar a rope trick.”

  “He’s round back with the dogs.” Josephine left the stove, pi
cking up her embroidery and settling on the divan. “We’re training them for the circus. I’m to hold the hoop. I’ll wear a special costume done up in spangles.”

  Margaret smiled, picturing her freckled twig-thin girl done up in spangles. Josephine gave a haughty toss of braids, as if reading her mother’s thoughts. “We plan to make our fortune.”

  Mim gave Oscar a swat to his trousers. “Run along outside now, and I do mean run, precious slug. It’ll do you some good.”

  “I’m hankering for grub,” said Oscar, moving out of her reach.

  “Hanker outside then,” said Mim.

  Determined Oscar started toward the goulash, like a poky sow toward her trough. “I reckon it’s too dark out.”

  Mim took him by the shoulders and turned him about. “I don’t reckon the dark will harm you any.”

  “Grub shan’t be long,” said Margaret.

  Oscar took the lantern and shuffled outside, calling John’s name.

  Mim went to the babies, asleep in their cradles. “Oh, the loves,” she whispered, gazing down. “What I’d give for a tidy girl.”

  Margaret came up behind. “Their ears are tidier, certainly. Was Oscar born with dirty ears?”

  “Filthy. Chock full of crusty muck, his nostrils no better.”

  Margaret shook her head. “I don’t know what it is. John was a little wax factory from the start.” Martha suckled in her sleep, creating a sweet milky foam. Their beauty never ceased to amaze. There was no love like it, not in this world.

  “And mine?” asked Josephine.

  “You were born with angel ears,” said Margaret.

  Josephine nodded, as if to say “of course.”

  “What I’d give,” murmured Mim. “Every mother needs a girl of her own.” She bent and lightly traced the rim of Mary’s perfect pink ear. “Where’s the promoted one?”

  “He’s due any time. Come sit. The water’s on. We’ll have a quick hand and a cup.”

  At the table, Margaret dealt a hand of euchre to Mim and herself, and two invisible players. The dogs started up a frantic barking just as she turned up trump, spades, the jack, right bower. Mim glanced at the dark window. “Henry?”

  Margaret was already standing, collecting the cards, returning them to the case. Henry would come in ravenous as always. She was searching out the jam when the shots rang out, silencing the dogs. The jar slipped from her hand, shattering. People were coming, heavy footsteps pounding the earth. Mim rose from the table, drawing a long breath of audible panic. Josephine sat suspended, her eyes unnaturally brilliant, needle drawn up. The front door blew open, driving in a raft of brown-skinned males.

  Josephine cried out. “Mama!”

  Margaret shouted, her heart roaring with fear, “Into the bedroom!” But there was no time.

  The Maori filled the room, brandishing rifles and whips, a hideous tattooed four, with mouths yawning wide, tongues wagging obscenely.

  The babies wailed in high-pitched unison. Josephine still hadn’t moved. Margaret crooned to her petrified girl, her voice crackling. “Don’t be afraid, darling. Mama’s here. Father’s coming.” Please, God. I beg you. Bring him now.

  She backed toward the cradles, considering weapons—the finely honed butcher knife, Henry’s black pistol in the bedroom. “What do you want? Get out. You’ve the wrong house. I insist you leave immediately. My husband will have your bloody heads on a pike.”

  Mim ducked toward the door. A squat one blocked her path, latching onto her arm. She screeched, spittle flying. “If you’ve harmed my boy, so help me God, I shall pull your misbegotten cock out by the root and make a dog’s supper of it!”

  Margaret bent and scooped up Mary. In the next instant the howling baby was wrenched from her arms and stuffed inside a flax sack. She fell on the sweating creature, clawing, drawing blood. He shoved her off. She staggered, knocking back Henry’s chair. Margaret shrieked, searing her throat. “Please, God! My baby!”

  The squat one went for Martha, doing the unspeakable same with her.

  “In the name of our Lord Jesus! Have mercy. Is it money you want?”

  Her arms were yanked back, her wrists bound with rough twine.

  Two wrestled with Mim, but she evaded them, flailing wildly, screaming. “Animals! Lowly stinking shit-eating swine!” She threw back her head and delivered a shrill hog-call of a racket.

  The one by the door came forward, leaving an unguarded opening behind him.

  Margaret shouted, “Run, Pheeny, run!”

  Josephine came alive and bolted for the door. The man lunged, yanking Josephine back by a braid. She squealed in pain and sank her teeth into his hand. He raised his rifle, as if to strike. Mim lowered her head and charged, ramming him from behind. “Leave her be, ye sodding savage!”

  The monster spun around without releasing Josephine. He caught Mim beneath the chin with the butt of his rifle. Her head snapped back, eyes rolling white, blood streaming from her nostrils. She fell in a heap, one plump arm crossing her face, the other beneath her.

  Margaret whispered Mim’s name, choking on phlegm and tears. She pleaded with God, with Jesus. But Mim did not stir. Margaret started for Josephine. The youngest-looking bastard, barely older than John, came between them. He caught Margaret’s forearm and marched her toward the door. He was a full head shorter. Nits crawled in his greasy hair. She begged the wretched child. “Please, sir. Allow me my babies.”

  He balled up a foul-tasting rag and forced it past her teeth.

  “Mama,” sobbed Josephine. Then she too was gagged.

  They were goaded forward, out the door. Margaret strained, searching out her babies in the dark, the sacks that held them. Behind them a torch was lit and put to the curtains she’d only just hemmed and hung.

  Outside, Oscar was trussed like a lamb and positioned belly down on the back of a horse. He looked up expectantly as Margaret and Josephine were brought out of the burning cottage, letting out a heartbreaking keen when his mother did not appear. John was tied, but on his feet, wet horror gleaming in his eyes. He mouthed to Margaret as she passed, “They murdered the dogs.” The nit-boy jerked her forward. Oh Jesus, please.

  A rant of prayer coursed on in her brain. Margaret fixed her gaze on the pitted road from town. She beseeched God to intervene, to spare her children, to bring Henry now. The fear was a salty, blinding, viscous thing, clogging her throat and ears. They started toward the river, she, John, and Josephine on foot, a Maori each between them. The men chattered among themselves, speaking their bastard tongue, laughing now and again, drowning out her babies’ muffled cries. For a time she heard both Mary and Martha, and then, eventually, only Mary.

  Inconceivable

  THE MOON APPEARED between two slow clouds. Margaret told herself Martha was sleeping. The child slept sounder than most, did she not? Like a bear cub in winter, as Henry would say. He’d sung operatic cradle songs to her. He’d sung to them all. It’s a lovely thing, a man singing to a baby. Surely he was on his way.

  The air had turned colder by degrees. Her feet were soaked, icy. A numbness had developed in her right leg and hip. How far had they walked? Ten, fifteen miles? Twenty? Christ, Lord. She had no way of gauging distance or time. Hours had passed, it seemed. John and Josephine would be out of their minds with exhaustion and hunger.

  Margaret was second in line, shivering behind the lead savage. Two on horseback followed at some distance. John and Josephine were farther back still, beyond her view now. She glanced over her shoulder again. The Maori behind bared his teeth and thrust his chin forward. Please, God. Help us. They’d all come away wearing next to nothing—no gloves, no coats, summer stockings and thin soles. The damp seeped right through. Her heel caught on a slimy river stone. She teetered, letting out a ragged cry. The brute ahead turned and glared. How hateful, how menacing his look. As though he were the one so horribly wronged. His wretched animosity was unfathomable.

  She bowed her head against the chill. She must concentrate, keep her wits abou
t her. She’d be needed when Henry came. Above, in the trees, a horse snorted. Henry! There was a snap of branches, a rush of hooves. She turned around, seeking out her children, just as another five tribesmen rode down the hill and fell in with the others. In her despair she wet herself. They were so many now. Almost simultaneously she realized that Henry would not have proceeded alone. He’d have Mr. Bell alongside, and, at the very least, Messrs. Clark, Sully, Reed, and Freylock, all strong and strapping men, all excellent shots. It would have taken time to rally them. Though by now they would be assembled and on their way. Margaret worked on producing saliva, softening the putrid rag in her mouth. The weave was stiff, inflexible. She sawed with her jaw and bottom teeth. Broom-straw slivers broke away. She spit them out quietly, marking the trail for Henry.

  They continued along the black river. Her cold wet drawers chafed. Both the children had wet their beds from time to time, and Josephine, poor mortified Josephine, had wet her white Easter frock in church. She’d not been to blame. The garrulous old vicar had gone on far too long. God, how her little girl had suffered.

  A savage in the rear shouted out. Two dismounted and disappeared into the trees. The broad-faced one ran up to her, gesturing toward the ground. “Down.”

  She filled her lungs with air and pushed hard, expelling the blasted rag finally. “Please untie me.” She spoke with difficulty, her ribs throbbing painfully. “Bring my babies. They’ll suffocate.”

  The man jabbed a finger. “Down!”

  “Have you blankets to spare? My big boy and girl are surely freezing to death.” Her teeth clattered in her head. “Have mercy, please. They’re only children.”

  He advanced. “Down!”

  She sank to her knees, her breasts aching. “Mightn’t you allow us to walk together? Surely that’s not asking too much, is it?”

  He picked up the rag and rammed it to the back of her throat. She gagged, her eyes watering. He walked away, joining the clutch of low-speaking brethren.

  Alone she lost balance and fell sideways. She saw with one eye the men returning from the bush. A boy pulled her up by the apron strings. They resumed walking, making first one confusing turn and then another. Hadn’t Henry maneuvered similarly on the way to his aunt’s viewing? Round and round he drove, passing the same public house twice. They’d missed the entire wake. The man had no sense of direction. But he’d have others with him now, men who knew the land by heart.