They were perhaps two miles into their return when John began to limp. The sun had gone behind the clouds. Margaret judged it to be four o’clock, time to clean the village latrines, battle flies the size of ravens. John walked a little farther and staggered. He pried Josephine from his back and set her on the ground. He tottered off a few yards and folded, burying his face in his hands. Margaret so wished to go to him, to hold him and rock him, but she resisted. That sort of solace would likely strike him as tapu now. He stood after a bit, blotting his eyes and nose on his filthy sleeve, thrusting his chin toward the bush. “We’ll rest now. Start out again later.”
They arrived at the passable spot early the next afternoon. John carried Josephine over first, then Martha, and then Margaret. He toted them like infants, cradled in two ropy arms. They were easier to manage that way, he said. “Don’t be embarrassed, Mum. You weigh no more than a feather.”
But she was embarrassed, both by the helplessness and the intimacy. His odor was dank and musty pressed close, wholly masculine. She tried to joke. “The mum’s meant to carry the child, not the other way round.”
The next day they came to a salt marsh as wide as any ocean and were forced to turn around once again. Late the following day they crossed back over. John raged and wept in turns, cursing the fates one moment, beseeching God and His angels the next. He deposited the girls on the opposite shore, and then returned for Margaret, picking her up roughly, still raving on and on, like mad old Lear himself. He released her in shallow water, railing over the three lost days, a ludicrous lament considering the six lost years. She waded to shore and sat, pulling on her brown leather hightops, soles patched with flax, laces long gone—taken by the Maori for reasons unknown.
The girls were sprawled on flat rocks, eyes closed, faces to the sun. At least there was daylight left, progress yet to be made. Margaret went to Oscar, who was sitting by himself at water’s edge, humming away like a loon. He was covered with red bites and warm to the touch. Her hand left streaks in the oily grime. His ear hole was packed; she could not see down it for the green-black stuff. The lad stank, as did they all. It was amazing to be so perfectly putrid and still continue to function. A believer might declare their beating hearts bona fide miracles, not one miracle, but five. She waged a small argument in her mind, but was hard pressed to arrive at a more satisfactory explanation. A doubter’s creed is as confounding as any other.
She roused her girls. “Let’s have a washup, shall we? For your father’s sake?”
That night Margaret ate, managing three clams and four bites of wild celery. She kept it all down, too. If a miracle were in progress, she did not wish to queer it by starving.
THEY WERE FOUND on the eighth morning by a Caucasian man on horseback, a prospector in search of greenstone or gold, preferably the latter, he said. He might have ridden right on by, he claimed, if not for the snoring.
John sprang to his feet, licking the heel of his hand, slicking back his mangy mane. He greeted the man and began racing through the details of their ordeal.
The man gazed down, his rheumy blue eyes puddling. Certainly, of course, he’d carry one of them back to Wellington. “Not a sick one, no offense.” He pulled taffy from a saddle bag. Martha and Oscar accepted shyly, putting the unfamiliar food to their nostrils, but not to their mouths. “I’ll take one of you boys. You can bring a wagon back for your mam and the others.”
John began gabbling instructions to Oscar. Don’t venture off. Share the sweets. The gentle man reached again for taffy, saying he wished he had more. John’s eyes were wet with elation. “You’ve been more than kind, sir.”
The prospector offered a hand, a farewell, not a hand up, as John obviously thought, his foot slipping from the stirrup. He tried again to mount, his face flushed with confusion. The man put a boot to John’s chest, pushing him off.
“I can’t take you back today, son. I’ve work to do.”
Martha threw the taffy to the ground, howling to the sky. John shushed her, staring up at the man, breathing hard.
“I’ll try to get back tomorrow,” the bounder said. “Day after at the latest. You have my word.”
“Please reconsider, sir,” said Margaret. “My husband will see that you’re compensated.”
“My mother and sister are sick,” said John, incredulous.
The man gave a sympathetic cluck. “Look for me tomorrow.”
“That’s not good enough,” said John, latching on to the saddle horn.
The man kneed John’s hand, pulling sideways on the reins, trotting off. “It’ll have to be, boy,” he said over his shoulder.
John called after him. “How far to Wellington?”
“Thirty-five, forty miles.”
“Follow this side of the river?”
The man hollered, “All the way into town,” and was gone, swallowed up by the trees.
John picked up last night’s clam shells and flung them hard against a tree. Above, unseen birds scattered noisily. Margaret touched his arm.
“We’re nearly there, sweetheart.”
John turned away, ignoring her completely.
Wellington
THEY’D BEEN ON the slow march all day when Thomas Straw, a squinting tinker, a whiskey-breathed seraph, approached in a cloud of dust, driving a rickety one-horse wagon piled high with tools. He was eighty if a day, and horribly pockmarked, with a good portion of his upper lip eaten away. He knew well their suffering, he said, referring to the smallpox. He’d lost two siblings to it, but those were not modern times. These days, a body stood a good chance of surviving the wretched affliction. He himself had come through it just fine.
“As ye can plainly see.”
There’s more to life than a handsome face. It’s a fact, said Mr. Straw, not just words. He took a long pull on a silver flask, and came down, turning around horse and wagon, maneuvering gracefully on a wooden peg, responding all the while to John’s rap of questions.
The year was 1898, the month December. The old girl was still on the throne; she’d yet to kick the bucket. Sure, he recalled hearing about the poor Oades family.
“’Twas all the talk for a while.”
They’d be banner news again, he said, once he returned them. He wouldn’t be surprised to find the reward still on the table. “There’d be interest paid, wouldn’t you think?”
“I would,” said Margaret, not wanting to scare him off.
Years back, one hundred quid had been offered. “A pair of weasels claimed to know right where ye were. Wanted the reward up front, the fiends. Went to jail, one of them. Died there of dysentery, ye’ll be glad to learn.”
Mr. Straw offered the seat next to himself, the place of honor, to John. “Step on up, son. Be my navigator.”
John looked on the grateful verge of genuflection. “You’ll want to stay on this road, sir.”
Margaret and the children climbed up in the back and made a place among the rusty junk. There were dead clock parts galore, flour sifters, barrel hoops, gears, and hinges. They pushed it all aside and rode facing where they’d been, their legs dangling. It was dusk, balmy sweet. The weight had lifted from Margaret’s shoulders, back, limbs, and soul. She had a living daughter tucked beneath each arm. They were headed home, nearly there. For the first time she truly believed. She could visualize Henry’s wordless astonishment, almost feel the heat of his suffocating embrace.
Henry, dearest. You’re not half as surprised as I.
She belonged in hospital, as did Josephine. Henry would take charge; he’d see to things straightaway. The realization flooded her with happiness. With any luck, they’d set sail within a fortnight.
JOHN WAS THE FIRST to see the standing cottage. “Mum!”
Coming up the long gravel road, Margaret turned, straining to see. Smoke rose from the chimney. Her roses, yellow on the south side, red on the north, must have the bees in a swoon. And the hydrangea! They were breathtaking, blue as the sky, big as cabbages. Fire hadn’t consumed the place
as she’d always feared. It was just as they’d left it, with the same green shutters and red door, which was opening now. Henry! She tumbled from the back of the wagon and went running, conscious of her face, ripe with blisters. It wouldn’t matter one whit to him. There was far more to life than a handsome face. The door was closing. She flew up the three porch steps, knocking then pounding with both fists. “Henry! Henry Oades!” Martha came running, clutching at Margaret’s skirt, crying, frightened by her shrieking banshee of a mother. John went up to the front window and boldly peered inside, his hands to the side of his face. Oscar cowered behind John, craning left and right.
“There’s a lady inside,” said John.
Margaret pounded hard, splintering the wood. “Madam! We are Mrs. Henry Oades and children of England, returned from captivity. Please conduct yourself to the door this instant.”
She heard approaching footsteps and stepped back, breathing hard, her heart thundering. The door cracked open, bringing a rich smell of onions cooking in butter. Worn gray eyes peeped around, a mottled hand held to nose and mouth. “I have children about,” the woman said, clearly afraid. Margaret did not blame the quivering little hausfrau. She’d hesitate before opening the door to her own putrescent self.
“We’ve been so long gone,” Margaret began, her voice a timid rasp, betraying her confusion. The cottage was not the same up close. The door with its ornate wolf’s head knocker was not as she remembered it. “I am Mrs. Henry Oades.”
The woman spoke behind her hand. “I know who you are, poor dear.”
“Are you Mr. Oades’s housekeeper then?”
The woman’s shoulders flinched with regal offense. “I am the lady of the house.”
“I beg your pardon,” said Margaret, an eddy of morbid thought whirling. Was he dead? “Has he relocated then, gone back to town?”
John demanded, “Where’s our father?”
“He’s gone to America,” said the woman. “Sorry to be the one to inform you.”
America! “Impossible,” said Margaret.
“When will he be returning?” asked John.
“I don’t imagine ever. He left some time ago.” The woman lowered her voice. “Everyone assumed you were d. e. a. d.”
The crack in the door narrowed. Margaret stepped closer, panic rising. “We’re very much alive, thank you. Did he leave instructions for us? Money for food and lodging?”
“Not with me, dear.” The door began to close. “You belong in isolation,” she whispered. “You and the big girl both. I’d have you in otherwise.”
The first stars had come out. There was but streaky light left in the sky. This woman was their only prospect tonight. Margaret brought Martha forward. “Will you take my well ones in, kind lady? My youngest here and the two boys? Before dark sets in? It’s turned quite chilly, hasn’t it? They’re quiet, well-mannered children, really. You’ll hardly know they’re about.”
“Please, miss,” said John.
It was no use. Margaret could see it in the harridan’s hard little eyes. There’d be no pillows and blankets offered, nothing added to the onions and butter to make it go around. Still, she gave a last try.
“If you knew what my children have endured, madam. I’d do the same for you, certainly. My big girl and I shall make a bed on your porch. Just for the one night, of course.”
The woman shook her head. “I’d rather you didn’t,” she said, closing the door. No amount of pounding would cause it to open again. Margaret turned in her sick despair and called to Mr. Straw, who was staggering up the front path, swaying lantern in hand.
“Are you acquainted with Mr. Cyril Bell, the sailmaker?”
Oscar fell to weeping at the mention of his father. It occurred to Margaret that Cyril Bell had run off to America as well, leaving her to rear his sob-baby son. She comforted Oscar as best she could, but her heart was not in the trying.
Mr. Straw said he knew of Mr. Bell and offered to take them down to the docks. “Ye’ll be sure to tell who found ye?” Margaret promised she would. “We’ll leave straightaway then,” he said, shouting for Oscar’s benefit. “Just as soon as the wee lass here dries her crocodile tears.” Oscar glared and sloped off toward the wagon, softly blubbering.
John kicked hard, dirt flying. “How could he leave?”
Margaret took her girls by the hand. “At least we know his whereabouts.”
“You start at the near end, Mum,” said John. “I’ll start at the far. We’ll meet in the middle of America. Shouldn’t take more than fifty years to find him, eh?”
“Gently does it, John.” It was something her dad used to say when at a complete loss.
THE ROUTE TO the docks felt only vaguely familiar. There was no nostalgia associated, no sense of having returned to a particular beloved place. Their travail was not over, not with Henry in America, a vast ocean separating them. She might have guessed that he’d feared them dead, but that did not satisfactorily explain his leaving. She would not have left had he vanished. Without absolute proof of death she would have waited, until her own dying day if necessary. The deserter would have expected no less of her.
They found Cyril Bell mending torn canvas. He threw himself on Oscar, weeping into his hair. Oscar clung to his father, eyes closed in ecstasy, nose running. Margaret stepped back to allow them their reunion, thankful that the man had been found. Surely he’d help. She’d cared for his son all this time. Oscar might not have survived if not for her. Margaret was fully prepared to remind him.
Mr. Straw had her sign a paper stating that he’d found them first. He bowed, wishing them well, and disappeared into the starry night.
Mr. Bell pulled away from Oscar, looking at Margaret, shaking his head in disbelief.
Margaret flicked a smile. “Mim would expect you to assist us, Mr. Bell.”
His droopy eyes were full of moist sorrow. “You and the children were sorely missed, Mrs. Oades,” he said. “You were powerfully mourned.”
“As was he,” murmured Margaret, wondering how long Henry had waited before deciding them dead.
Mr. Bell brought them to his house and pulled out the copper tub first thing. He heated the water and rigged a privacy curtain. Margaret went last. The dirty water rose like a blanket of warm scum, entering her ears, drowning out sound and thought. She fell asleep in the tub, waking to Martha’s solemn brown eyes peering down at her. “I thought you were d. e. a. d.”
“Don’t be silly.” Margaret reached up and gently finger-combed Martha’s wet tangles. Martha resumed her wandering, picking up a fork from the table and examining it closely, furrowing with curiosity.
“It’s a dinner fork,” said Margaret. “To be held in your left hand as I taught you.”
Martha nodded and went again to sit in Mr. Bell’s soft reading chair. She leaned back smiling. Her baby bottom had never known such luxury.
MRS. VIRGINIA WELLS, Mr. Bell’s intended, stopped by the next afternoon. “Bell’s Wells,” she joked. Mr. Bell did all but scatter rose petals in her path. He spanked her chair clean and delivered tea, hovering close like a whelping pup.
She was a widow with two daughters of her own, a rather formidable lady with startlingly blue eyes. “You’ll make a fine, sturdy brother for my girls,” she said, shaking Oscar’s hand. He’d bathed, yes, but was still a far cry from presentable. His hair needed a scythe put to it. His fingernails and toenails were tinged with green fungus. “Will you call me Mother, son? And may I give you a mother’s hug?” Oscar melted in her arms.
Margaret felt a hot pang of envy and was ashamed. Oscar was the first to find a home, when she’d thought all along he’d be the last.
“And you, madam,” said Mrs. Wells, turning to Margaret, who stood in the far corner like a leper. “We must get you straight to hospital.”
Margaret came forward, lifting her chin and displaying her ruined face. Mrs. Wells was obviously a patron of wretched cases. “I must first see my well ones properly situated,” said Margaret.
/> Mrs. Wells frowned. “They cannot stay in this bachelor’s hovel.” Mr. Bell shook his head in agreement. “I’ll take them,” she said.
There was no other option. Mrs. Wells was her Hobson’s choice. Margaret was relieved she hadn’t had to beg.
DEAR MIM was officially declared dead. On Sunday, after regular services, Mr. Bell and Mrs. Wells married, with Martha, John, and Oscar in attendance. Margaret and Josephine were still in the hospital, their faces masks of angry, painful pustules.
The worst was over, said the doctor, speaking from the doorway. He had remarkably flawless skin, which made Margaret feel all the more repulsive. Had they suffered tremors lately? Bouts of delirium? They hadn’t, said Margaret. They’d been lucid from the onset. The doctor corrected her.
“You hallucinated nights on end. Your boy told me. It must have been dreadful under the circumstances.”
Margaret remembered only the road’s sharp stones, the sandflies, the headaches, and the ceaseless fantasies of Henry and home.
“Though you probably wouldn’t recall,” said the doctor. “Certainly not while in the throes of it. And it’s just as well, now that the worst is over.”
He said it twice, knowing that Henry was in America.
The point of crisis had passed. The pustules would soon begin to crust and shed. Once that occurred, and they were no longer contagious, the doctor would sign their discharge papers. The other children had been examined and pronounced uninfected.
“Thank God for that,” said the doctor.
“I have,” said Margaret. She’d considered inoculating Martha, John, and Oscar, picking a papule from her own body and applying it to an open nick or scrape, which they all had. She wouldn’t have had to cut them. But a cousin in England had died that way, and Margaret had not been willing to take the risk.
They were to rest, the doctor said. They were to nourish themselves well and take frequent sun baths. That was the sum of treatment. No miracle remedy had been invented in her absence, no magic salve to restore the complexion.
The Wives of Henry Oades: A Novel Page 14