AN HOUR OUT Martha locked ankles and demanded a pot. They were in the countryside now, traveling over a rutted road, passing tranquil, hilly farmland. Margaret poked her head out the window and called up to the driver. “How much farther, sir?”
He hollered down, “Three or four miles, give or take. Just beyond this next rise.”
“Will you stop, please?”
“What for?”
Never mind what for. “Only a moment.”
“Two bits extra for the inconvenience,” he yelled, expectorating a jawful of revolting black juice. Margaret ducked back inside. The cheeky nerve!
“Mama, please.”
Margaret called to the driver. “We’ll stop here.”
He pulled on the reins. “Two bits extra.”
They all got out to the driver’s obvious surprise. “I shan’t pay you another stiver,” she said. “Please hand down our cases.”
The sneak thief climbed up to the roof and threw their satchels to the ground, cursing under his breath. “Pinchpenny,” he shouted, driving away, leaving them by the side of the road.
Pinchpenny, he called me. Margaret was already making light of it, forming the story for Henry, thinking a bit of humor would go a long way in mitigating the shock of their existence.
Martha finished her business and they set off walking. In her thoughts and dreams Margaret had imagined California flat, an arid prairie thick with bison and wapiti. Had she read it? She’d not expected the green hills and winding roads, a place so poignantly reminiscent of England, down to the dragonflies.
JOHN WAS THE FIRST to see the start of a painted fence. They trudged on for some time, following the fence, scanning the acreage for signs of life. How peculiar that Henry had turned dairy farmer, but how like him to have such a pristine arrangement, a meadow so uninterruptedly verdant, a herd so storybook placid. Margaret spotted a male figure then, high on the horizon. She waved, sun and gladness watering her weak eyes. The children waved too, but the figure did not respond, and they all gave up.
Martha fell in alongside, taking Margaret’s hand. “He’ll have cake for us, don’t you think, Mum?”
They’d missed the noon meal. Margaret wondered what he might have on hand, deciding surely there’d be eggs, and wouldn’t eggs be perfect. A simple meal of toast and eggs. Bacon might be nice. Henry had always enjoyed his back bacon. She’d make a pud with the drippings, and cook his eggs without turning them. She hadn’t forgotten the small details.
“He’ll more likely have eggs,” she said.
“I prefer cake,” said Martha.
“You cannot count on it. Your father never had much of a tooth for sweets.”
Long-legged John was a good way ahead when he turned, pointing. “There’s Dad’s house. Do you see it up there?” The girls broke into an unladylike run, overtaking John. Margaret strained to keep up. John hollered over his shoulder. “Do you see it, Mum?”
Her vision was poor, but yes, she could make out some sort of structure.
At the gate she reined them in, giving each a quick cat bath, spanking the dust from their clothes. “Let us be calm now,” she said, a fresh wave of excitement running through her.
From the bottom of the porch steps she saw movement, a shadow passing behind the lace curtains. Margaret ascended and rang the hanging bell, her heart jumping with anticipation. A pretty girl opened the door and eyed them up and down suspiciously.
“Who are you? How did you get here? I didn’t hear a buggy come up.”
She was young, eighteen or nineteen perhaps, with thick brown hair sloppily pinned up. She was dressed in a work apron that had seen better days, though her milky blue-veined hands acknowledged no familiarity with hard work. Margaret had heard that American help was lazy, undependable. One had to stay on them. “Forgive us for startling you,” she said. “Is this the home of Mr. Henry Oades?”
The girl poked at her unruly hair. “Who wants to know? Is it food you’re after?”
The insolent lass could use a good caning. “We are Mrs. Henry Oades and children. We’re not expected.”
The girl scowled, cocking her head. As if she hadn’t heard right. “You’re his mother?”
“I am his wife, miss. If it’s any concern of yours.”
The loony thing clapped hands to ears and closed her eyes. Her lips moved rapidly for several moments, as if in prayer. With an audible “amen” her eyes opened wide, hands dropping to her sides, wedding band, gaudy new, winking with sunlight. “I’m sorry, but I don’t know any other way of saying it but right out. I am Mr. Oades’s wife now.”
Margaret’s children closed in, an arm encircling her waist, a little hand tugging on her skirts. They brought her down the steps just as a colicky baby started up inside, barking like a seal pup.
The girl shouted into the interior, “Dora! See to the baby!” She started down the stairs toward Margaret.
Margaret moved out of her range, trembling. “Father,” said John, close to her ear. Margaret turned. Henry approached from the west, making long, lopsided strides. But for the limp he looked the same from this distance, leaner perhaps, but otherwise just as she remembered him. He stopped short just inside the gate, removing his shabby hat, staring, shifting his disbelieving gaze between Margaret and the girl.
“My God,” he said.
John straightened through the shoulders. “Father?” Henry and John advanced toward each other, meeting in a powerful slapping embrace. Margaret wept openly at the sight. The baby inside was wailing now. He had another family. The sick circumstances wrapped about her hot and tight. She’d never once considered the possibility.
A Fly in the
Amber
NANCY’S HUSBAND looked as if he’d suffered a sharp blow to the head. The woman, his heretofore dead wife, appeared no less stunned. Nancy approached her as she might a ghost, apologizing. “Forgive my atrocious manners earlier, ma’am. I thought you were someone else.”
Nancy left it at that, unable to explain herself, confess that she’d mistaken Mrs. Oades for a Gypsy crone at first. West Berkeley teemed with those scary people. She took the woman’s rickety arm, blurting, “Where have you been all this time?” The woman freed herself, rubbing her arm, blinking, as if bothered by sun or sty, saying nothing. Nancy was sorry she’d asked. It was a bad habit of hers, speaking before thinking. The poor woman had enough to contend with. That ravaged complexion, good Lord, and the dejection in those sore-looking eyes. She was a living, breathing heartbreak.
The little girl was the least intimidating of the four. Nancy beckoned to her. “Come inside, why don’t you.” The dog-eared family exchanged reluctant looks. “Let’s all go inside where it’s nice and cool. What do you say? There’s lavender lemonade.” It wasn’t much in the way of comfort, but it was all she could think to do just then.
Mr. Oades came forward with his arm around the boy. They were nearly the same height. “John Oades,” he said, introducing his son to Nancy, his voice quivering with emotion. He turned to the older girl, touching her cheek. “Pheeny, sweetheart. I cannot believe my eyes.” The mud-plain girl curtsied, blushing behind a hectic constellation of brown freckles and pockmarks. “Please, Meg,” he said to the woman. “Come inside now.”
Mute Mrs. Oades lifted her chin and allowed herself to be escorted up the porch steps. Already Nancy felt her own world shrinking. This woman would fill every corner with her unhappiness.
“Well,” said Nancy, once inside the narrow vestibule. It didn’t matter which way she turned her head, the woman’s steely eyes cut right through her. “Well, well.”
The littlest girl asked, “Where are we to sleep?”
“You’ll sleep upstairs,” said Nancy. “You’ll have a nice big room, with a nice big bed, with a crocheted spread. Say now, I made a rhyme, didn’t I?”
The little girl nodded solemnly. They needed baths, the boy most of all. And with her sheets just off the line. But where else would they sleep? Of course they’d stay. For the time being, at lea
st. You don’t send kin away when they’ve only just arrived.
Mr. Oades squatted on his haunches, putting himself face-to-face with the little one. He’d come from the pigs and smelled as if he’d danced a waltz with them. His odor didn’t seem to bother the child. She actually had the temerity to bob forward and touch her nose to his. The strange gesture filled Mr. Oades’s eyes with tears. He stroked her hair gingerly, reverently, as if he were stroking fine silk. “Baby girl,” he murmured.
“Martha,” said Mrs. Oades, speaking at last.
Henry looked up at her. “And Mary?”
“Gone,” Mrs. Oades whispered.
“Mary died,” the child said. “She was my twin sister.”
Mr. Oades glanced up again. “In the fire?”
Martha piped up before Mrs. Oades could respond. “She couldn’t breathe where she was.” Here in the failing light, at the base of the stairs, Mr. Oades buried his face in his hands and wept. Nancy touched his shoulder briefly, feeling the stony woman’s resentful breath on her neck, imagining at the same time some chippie’s hands on Francis. But that was not a fair comparison. Mrs. Oades was supposed to be dead and buried. She, not Nancy, was the out-of-place fly in the amber.
Mr. Oades composed himself and stood, the same stricken look on his face. Nancy couldn’t begin to tell what he was thinking. “Meg and the girls will sleep upstairs,” he said. “We’ll give John the maid’s room.”
“What about Dora?” said Nancy.
“I’ll go anywhere, Dad,” said John.
“We’ll send Dora home for the time being,” said Mr. Oades.
“We can’t do that,” said Nancy. “Her father beats her regularly. Let’s have John sleep on the davenport. It’s comfortable enough.” She spoke to the woman’s mismatched shoelaces. “Will that be all right with you?”
“Whatever you decide, madam,” she said, her voice flat as a fritter.
Nancy felt for her. How could she bear to stay?
“Show the ladies upstairs,” she said to Mr. Oades. “Then fill the water pitcher and put out the rose petal soap. I’ll see about refreshments. I assume they’ve had their main meal by now.”
“We haven’t, miss,” said Martha.
Mrs. Oades shook the child’s shoulder. “Please don’t go to any bother,” she said.
The older girl continued to glare. One look in the mirror would cure her. Nancy gestured toward the stairs. “The sheets are fresh. Just off the line.”
Mr. Oades led Mrs. Oades and her daughters up to the spare room, Nancy’s future sewing room only an hour ago.
Nancy brought John into the kitchen, not knowing what else to do with him. She introduced him to Dora, whispering for fear of waking Gertrude, who lay inside a blanketed crate on the floor. She’d all but forgotten her baby’s existence in the bedlam.
Dora and John exchanged shy hellos, and the girl went back to oiling the tabletop.
“Our guests haven’t eaten,” said Nancy. “We’ll be five…no we’ll be six.” She hadn’t counted herself. “How about warming up this noon’s fricassee. Are there any more dumplings? No? Well, make a batch of quick biscuits, please, and take down a jar of strawberry jam. All right? And please be quiet about it, hear? Please, please, please, don’t wake the baby.”
Nancy went to Gertrude.
John came up behind. “What’s its name?”
“Gertrude Foreland, soon to be Gertrude Oades. Your father’s preparing the papers. Why do you look surprised…oh, I see, you thought…well, no. I was married to another gentleman, Mr. Foreland, Gertrude’s natural father. He passed before she was born.”
“My condolences, ma’am.”
“And mine for your sister, John.”
He bore a striking resemblance to Mr. Oades. Nancy liked him already. A man needed a son. All by himself, John would make a welcome addition to the household.
THE SIX GATHERED in the back room. In addition to the fricassee and biscuits, there were pickled beets and eggs, and some sweet lettuce from the garden, cooked in bacon. So the meal itself turned out fine. Grace was said. Henry thanked the Lord for the safe return of our loved ones, intending to include Nancy in the reunion, she supposed. He picked at his second dinner, looking at his children with wonderment, asking finally, “What happened?”
“We were taken by Maori,” said John.
Mr. Oades nodded, as if he’d known all along.
“How awful,” said Nancy. She thought to ask what a maw-ree was, but held back for a change.
Mrs. Oades spoke to her plate. “I wrote to you in detail, Henry.”
Mr. Oades shook his head. “I never received a letter.”
Martha said, “We looked for you everywhere, Dad.”
Tears glistened in Mr. Oades’s brown eyes. “Oh, baby girl. I’m so sorry.”
“Oscar’s dad stayed!” said the older girl, accusingly.
“That’s quite enough, Pheeny,” said Mrs. Oades, laying down her fork.
Nancy glanced her way. Mrs. Oades met her eyes for an instant and then looked away again. The greatest hatred is silent. Nancy’s father once said so.
After the meal they retired to the front sitting room, Nancy’s favorite room, Francis’s room. She spent many an hour alone here, speaking to Francis aloud, polishing his jar and the pedestal it sat upon. Dora knew when to stay away.
Mrs. Oades noticed the ginger jar immediately. She stepped up to the marble pedestal with an outstretched hand. Nancy thought she was about to seize the jar. “Please be careful, Mrs. Oades. It’s old, easily broken.”
Mrs. Oades withdrew, looking at Mr. Oades, her eyes narrowing. He sat her in his reading chair, murmuring “sorry” and something else Nancy didn’t catch. Nancy took her place on the settee, wondering why he’d apologized. The children went to the davenport and sat wordlessly, three wan chicks on a roost.
“We want you to make yourself at home, Mrs. Oades,” said Nancy.
Mrs. Oades stiffened visibly. “It’s a bit difficult under the circumstances, Mrs. Oades.”
What was Nancy supposed to do about the circumstances? Did the woman expect her to simply pack up her sickly baby, leave her husband, and go join the Gypsies?
“It’s a peculiar situation I agree, but what can we do?” Nancy was babbling now. She heard her desperate-sounding self. “There’s no one to blame. We must play the hand we’ve been dealt, as my daddy used to say.”
Mrs. Oades looked at her children with such a forlorn expression, tucking a stray strand behind an ear. Her hair was gray and thin; the scalp showed in places.
Nancy tried again. “The children have been reunited with their father. You’re glad for that much at least, aren’t you?”
“I am,” said Mrs. Oades. “Of course I am.”
“Well, all right then,” said Nancy. “That’s a good start.” Mr. Oades sat down beside her, less close than he normally would. “We’ll figure things out, Mrs. Oades.” Nancy didn’t know what she was saying. She had no answers, no idea of how to satisfactorily figure things out. “Don’t you worry. It doesn’t all have to be thought of today. Let’s sleep on it. The children have had a long day. We’ve all had a long day. Let’s turn in early. What do you say?”
Mrs. Oades was on her feet before Nancy finished speaking, looking as if she couldn’t be up the stairs fast enough.
HENRY STOOD TOO, his confounded gaze fixed high above the heads of both wives. His son was nearly a man. His baby was a little girl he shouldn’t know, but somehow did. He felt snatched from a dream, having his beautiful children before him, the betrayal overtly displayed in Josephine’s stiff posture, in her cold denunciative eyes. He’d replaced their mother. There was little a father might do to cause greater harm.
A Start
UPSTAIRS, MARGARET and her girls looked at one another and commenced undressing in silence. Margaret had never before worn the delicate nightgown given to her in the hospital. She’d kept the lovely garment in the original tissue, saving it for this night.
“You look like a bride, Mum,” said Martha, stroking Margaret’s sleeve, obviously trying to cheer her.
They got into bed, Margaret taking the outside. She wet her fingers and pinched out the flame. “He’s still your same dad,” she said in the dark. “Nothing’s changed there.”
Josephine said bitterly, “You’re his true wife.”
“He thought we’d passed,” said Margaret. “He was horribly sad, dreadfully lonely. Let us sleep now.”
Her girls drifted off. Next to them, Margaret tried to stay still. He clearly adored the woman, the girl. There was no getting around it. No getting around either the dry pounding in her ears, or the voices heard on the stairs, his and his wife’s, the murmur fading as they neared their room down the hall. Mr. Oades, she called him. As if addressing the King of Egypt, as if she hardly knew him.
Toward morning Margaret slept, waking when the hammering started below, unsure of her whereabouts for a muddy half-moment. Her girls were gone, their frocks missing from the pegs. Light flooded in through the sheer curtains. It had to be late, far too late to make a reasonable appearance. She lay with her thoughts for a time, considering and rejecting a return to England. She’d spent years building up Henry, creating a near deity in the children’s impressionable minds. The cruelest, most selfish mother wouldn’t spirit them off now. John might even elect to stay. That she couldn’t tolerate.
And how was she to explain the wretched situation? Telling her parents about the girl in a letter would be difficult enough. Facing them with the news would be next to impossible. They revered Henry, especially her mother. They would turn on him out of loyalty, alleviating nothing. Worse, they would drown Margaret in pity. It would be unbearable.
She rose and made the bed, moving slowly, bumping into things, smoothing the crocheted spread, patting the pillows, wasting time. She did not know what to do or where to go.
At the window, still in her nightdress, she saw John carrying lumber toward the house. He wore rough work clothes, Henry’s, no doubt. He looked up and waved. She returned his wave and dropped her hand. An hour passed, two perhaps. The hammering downstairs continued, stopping at intervals and starting up again. The hacking baby could be heard from time to time. Margaret’s back ached from standing in one spot, the pain fanning down both legs and up into her neck. Still, she couldn’t bring herself to move away, sit, or lie down. The place was lovely, with long green views and flowering trees. She might have adapted to Berkeley, America. She might have gotten on quite nicely here.
The Wives of Henry Oades: A Novel Page 17