Forgiven_BooksGoSocial Historical Fiction

by Geoff Lawson

  could be the last time I ever came here if she wouldn’t forgive

  me. I dropped my suitcases, fished in my pocket for the note

  and poked it through the slot in the door, before turning back to

  the road. In it I wrote that I was sorry for what had happened. I

  told her I was going home to be with family and then I would

  be off to camp in Wellington. I told her that I loved her and I

  hoped that somewhere in her heart was a place where she

  could forgive me.

  At Patea, I got off the train and walked over the bridge,

  then up the hill to Zelda’s place. She sure was surprised to see

  me.

  “Well goodness sakes – come in Richard, tell me what you

  and Rachel are doing.” I trooped into the kitchen where I

  dropped my suitcases and pulled out a chair. She lifted one of

  the lids from the stove and peering through the hole, gauged

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  the state of the fire before she placed the kettle over it, opened

  the damper and wiped her hands on an oven towel.

  “You look troubled. Don’t tell me you and Rachel have

  fallen out?” I cringed inwardly. I didn’t realise it was that

  obvious. Women seem to have an instinct for such things.

  “Yes, Aunt and I admit that it’s my fault. I’ve volunteered

  for service in South Africa and Rachel has taken it badly. Now

  she won’t see me or speak to me.”

  “Well, for goodness sake! You’ve volunteered to fight?

  What on earth possessed you to want to leave her and do that?”

  “Well, you know. It’s what we do, isn’t it?”

  There was a brief silence.

  “How long will you be away?”

  “A year,” I said casually, inwardly hoping to make it

  sound insignificant.

  “A year!” gasped Zelda, horrified. “That poor kitten! No

  wonder she is mad at you. Did you not think to discuss this

  with her first?”

  “Er, no.” I knew all too well that I was out on a limb. Like

  a dope I had jumped into this; my problem was my lack of

  plural thinking. I had been a free agent for too long, able to do

  as I pleased, free as the breeze. I had only just begun to realise

  that my circumstances had changed and that my decisions

  could now impact negatively on someone else.

  There was silence as Zelda pushed a cup of tea towards

  me. The way I was feeling just now I wasn’t sure I wanted it. I

  picked up the cup and hesitated before I took a sip, playing

  with the saucer. After it had coursed its way down I decided

  that I needed it after all and slumped back in my chair. I didn’t

  say anything. I was stuck in my own little world.

  Zelda stopped berating me and just sat there, staring at me

  with an expression that was both puzzled and concerned.

  “Well it’s too late now then, isn’t it?” Her voice had taken

  on a softer tone. “You realise I hope, that she is mad at you

  because she is afraid of losing you. What if you don’t come

  back? What will Rachel do then? Did you think of that?”

  I glared at my cup. Of course I hadn’t. This conversation

  was doing nothing for my morale and I still had to face Agnes

  and Emma.

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  Next morning, I began to walk to the farm. My mind

  wandered. As I plodded along the edge of the road a stream of

  unrelated things went through my head. For some reason, I

  began to dwell on the last night I spent in Whanganui. It was

  two nights ago and a few days after I had admitted to Rachel

  that I had volunteered. I was brooding in my room. I had tried

  reading, but there was little enthusiasm for it, until there came

  a discreet knock on my window doors.

  At first, I thought it might be someone needing directions,

  so you can imagine my surprise when I opened the door to find

  Rachel’s father standing there. Alistair asked if he could come

  in, so I opened the door to admit him through. My mind was

  turning over and over. He had never come here before and I

  was unaware that he even knew where I lived, for I more or

  less assumed he had no real interest in where I went when I left

  his house.

  He came in and slowly looked at the surroundings,

  without making any comment, as if he had noticed something

  for the very first time. I was confused. Oddly, he seemed

  different. He looked at the walls. They were spartan and still

  made the place look like a hospital. Over by the inner door was

  a short sink bench and a low cupboard with a gas ring and a

  kettle perched on top of it. The bed was a single hospital bed

  painted white and there was a table with a blue gingham

  tablecloth spread upon it. A chair and a two-seat sofa were the

  only other furniture.

  “May I sit down?”

  I swung my chair around and offered it to him, then sat on

  the bed. He positioned the chair so it was facing me and sat

  down as well.

  “Richard, can we talk?”

  My anxiety shot through the roof. He rarely spoke directly

  to me and usually called me ‘my boy’ or something impersonal

  like that, he had never called me Richard. Neither would he

  come here for a social visit. I really felt sick in my stomach,

  for he had obviously come to berate me over the distress I had

  caused. I suppose it served me right, for it was me who

  bragged I could turn Rachel’s life around. It was probable that

  he had come to tell me to bugger off and never darken his door

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  again, which was far worse than I could have ever imagined.

  He looked at me and I spoke first. It was an attempt to placate

  him, transparent though it was.

  “I’m really and truly sorry about what has happened. I

  know I have upset Rachel, but I honestly never realised how

  distressed she would get. I would change it all back if I could.”

  To my surprise, he looked apologetic.

  “I know that Richard. I don’t blame you for this and you

  don’t need to apologise. It is all an unfortunate mistake and

  I’m as much to blame as anyone.”

  I didn’t expect that. I didn’t reply. I had no idea what he

  was talking about.

  “What is done is done and each of us will have to bear

  whatever consequences result from it. I want you to know that

  I bear you no ill will. I realise now I have been less than

  encouraging to you and that you may believe that enlisting

  would make me feel more kindly disposed towards you. If that

  is true, then I regret that I have caused you to think that, for I

  failed to see this whole situation looming. I would be perfectly

  happy to have you as my son in law.” I was thunderstruck. My

  jaw dropped.

  “In spite of what has happened, Rachel has great faith in

  you and you have made her happy. I know it was my idea that

  you should wait for years and I regret that too. You are more

  important to us than you think and this business has made me

  come to terms with it. Now that you’ve signed on the dotted

  line, you’ll have to go; but you must come back. Rachel needs

  you and for her s
ake, at the very least, so do we.”

  His face wore an expression I had never seen before. For

  once, we seemed to be on the same level. He looked at my

  packed suitcases and asked when I was leaving. I told him – I

  was going home tomorrow. He looked disappointed, then he

  rose and I did too. We shook hands and he wished me luck. He

  asked if I would write to them and let them know how I was

  getting on. I promised I would and he walked off into the

  night. I closed the door and sat down, lost for words – in losing

  Rachel I had gained Alistair. I remember wondering, how can I

  reconcile that?

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  Back on the road I’d been walking along for about an hour

  when a neighbouring farmer came by on his gig and gave me a

  lift. We had much to talk about, as it was well known that I had

  left the farm to chase a bit of skirt.

  When I reached home, mother was completely surprised

  by my sudden appearance, but her happiness soon dropped

  when I told her that Rachel and I were estranged. With an

  expression of concern, she put an arm around my shoulders.

  “I can understand why young men would volunteer in the

  Empire’s time of need. Your father will too and in the fullness

  of time, so will Rachel. All couples fight over something, but

  the strength of your bond will see you through.” She gave my

  shoulder a squeeze; I suddenly felt grief I couldn’t show so I

  picked up my suitcases and headed for the door. Behind me, I

  could feel my mother’s eyes following me until the door

  swung shut and hid me from view.

  My room was more or less exactly as I’d left it. My bridles

  still hung from a peg on the wall and my spare saddle still sat

  on the floor. My book collection contained a hodge-podge of

  titles, my favourite being Jules Verne’s Twenty Thousand

  Leagues under the Sea. There was also The Black Arrow, King

  Solomon’s Mines and another favourite, The Lion Hunter, by

  Gordon Cummings. It came as no surprise that I had lost a

  volume or two. Lorna Doone and Modern American Rifles by

  A.C.Gould seemed to be missing.

  I checked my Winchester. It was fine, although the

  ammunition had dwindled to about sixty rounds – I guessed

  that Willy had probably been using it. I flopped on my bed,

  awakening all those squeaks it made and stared at the tongue

  and groove ceiling above my head.

  After a while, there was a quiet knock on the door and

  mother appeared in the doorway. I sat up and swung around so

  she could sit down next to me.

  “You know son, if anything happens to you, I’d like you to

  know that I couldn’t have asked for a better son. I’m proud of

  who you are and what you have done for Rachel – don’t think I

  don’t know what you get up to in Whanganui, because Rachel

  writes to Agnes and Agnes blabs everything. Therefore, I know

  you have turned her life around. Don’t be hard on her because

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  of what has happened, she has her reasons for feeling the way

  she does. There will be other upsets as your relationship

  matures, so don’t cry over spilt milk. Be patient, give her a

  chance to get over it.”

  “I understand, Mother. I am surprised at the intensity of

  her reaction, but I don’t blame her. I just hope she can wait

  until I come back and we can begin again.”

  “Oh, she will son. She will.”

  Early September, 1899. The train pulled out for

  Wellington and the whole family came to see me off. Victoria

  was smiling, Agnes and Emma were sniffing and the older men

  and women were waving stoically. My only disappointment

  was that Rachel didn’t write. I had hoped a letter might turn up

  in reply to my note, but alas, there was none. That was

  disappointing – very, very, disappointing.

  My spirits dipped even lower when the train pulled into

  Aramoho Station, for the sight of the familiar landmark

  reminded me of my loss. I was gazing ruefully out the window

  when suddenly my heart leaped into my mouth. Rachel was

  standing on the platform! She was scanning each window as it

  went past and she saw me. She ran over and frantically

  beckoned to me, so I rose from my seat and worked my way to

  the door. She was waiting and with tears in her eyes she flung

  her arms around me. Standing in the background was a smiling

  Emily Ellen, who made no attempt to stop our very public

  indiscretions.

  We kissed each other wantonly, completely oblivious to

  people walking past and staring. I lifted her in my arms and

  spun her round and round. My happiness soared.

  “Oh Richard, I would have been heartbroken if you had

  left and we hadn’t said goodbye. I forgive you and I’ll pray to

  God that you come back in one piece.”

  I couldn’t believe my luck. As I held her, I looked over her

  shoulder and noticed a carriage window behind us was

  crammed with the faces of wide-eyed children, all deeply

  absorbed in the soap opera on the other side of the glass.

  All too soon the guard blew his whistle and shouted all

  aboard, so reluctantly I let her go. I gazed at her through my

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  window and she stared wistfully back, her face a mixture of

  happiness and sorrow. As the train began to move, she ran

  along the platform with one hand on the windowsill, but

  inevitably, the train began to accelerate and with a final wave,

  she disappeared from view.

  I fell back on my seat with a lump in my throat. I didn’t

  have to see her to know she would be crying. Why had I put

  her through this anguish? In truth, I didn’t really know. For a

  second I thought about leaping off and going back, but logic

  prevailed. I realised that far from solving anything, it would

  only serve to create more trouble. No, I had gotten myself into

  this mess and now I must be man enough to see it through. As I

  sat there with thoughts spinning round and round in my head

  else – how did Rachel know I was on this train? Someone must

  have tipped her off. Mother! It had to be.

  Once we reached the Manawatu it wasn’t long before we

  were passing through the suburbs of Palmerston North, to

  continue through the square in the centre of town. Pedestrians

  walked across wide lawns and the streets were ringed by

  substantial two and three-storeyed buildings.

  Not long after, the train stopped at Longburn, which was

  the northern terminus of the Wellington & Manawatu Railway.

  We disembarked from the Government Railway carriages and

  walked through to the Wellington & Manawatu side, where a

  new train was waiting to continue our journey.

  As there would be a delay while our luggage and mails

  were transferred, I wandered along the platform and noticed

  that the Wellington & Manawatu carriages were strikingly

  different to those I was familiar with. They were classic

  American. The locomotive that was to take us was also

  American, an equally classic Baldwin that had the largest

 
; driving wheels of any locomotive I had ever seen, a sure sign

  that it was capable of speed. The fireman was sitting in the cab,

  so I called out to him.

  “What class of locomotive is this?”

  “It’s a ten wheeler, made in the USA. This and its sister

  engine are the fastest in New Zealand; they can easily maintain

  a mile a minute.”

  “A mile a minute,” I gasped and tried to work that out.

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  “That’s sixty miles an hour!” I would not have thought it

  possible to go that fast on rails.

  Soon, Longburn was left behind. Ahead of us were endless

  miles of plains and the train began to accelerate until the

  carriages swayed with the speed. Near Foxton, we slowed

  when we came to some very long bridges, but once across we

  were away again, the staccato beat of the exhaust accelerating

  while continuous bursts of condensing, white vapour rose

  briskly into the clear blue sky.

  We stopped at Paekakariki and as passengers got on and

  off our locomotive was changed. The plains were behind us

  and the railway would now traverse long, winding grades on

  its final leg to Wellington. This would require the use of a

  ‘consolidation’ locomotive with smaller wheels, the better to

  maintain speed while ascending hills.

  The ten-wheeler was uncoupled and the replacement

  engine cruised past on a parallel track. It was another Baldwin.

  It was a compound, that I could tell, and there was a space

  between the centre driving wheels. The boiler was painted

  gunmetal blue while gold boiler bands encased it. It had glossy

  black wheels and white-walled tyres, red side rods and a

  polished copper-capped funnel to finish it off. It looked so

  spectacular that a more perfect picture of grace and power was

  impossible to imagine. It was without doubt, the handsomest

  engine I had ever seen.

  As it cruised slowly past I noticed a nameplate mounted

  centrally on its running board. ‘The Lady’ it said, in polished

  brass letters. Immediately I thought of Rachel, for ‘lady’ was a

  word that defined her. Then I heard a voice beside me.

  “Beautiful, isn’t she?”

  “Yes,” I replied, thinking of Rachel.

  “She’s a Vauclain compound you know, the very first

  narrow gauge compound to be built in the world.” I looked at

  the speaker. He was a young bloke of about sixteen and wore a

  black porter’s uniform and a cap with a large WMR badge in