Forgiven_BooksGoSocial Historical Fiction

by Geoff Lawson

  arrive and you lot are brawling an’ get us kicked out.”

  We laughed.

  “You didn’t miss much,” replied Fitzy, grinning like a

  Cheshire cat. There was blood on one cheek and a scrape on

  his forehead. “We barely had time for a beer ourselves.”

  Right on cue, the military police arrived in the guise of a

  sergeant and two constables, who with batons drawn

  disappeared down the alley to the rear of the hotel. I doubt that

  they would find anyone. Most of the occupants would have

  hopped it after we did, for the bar was wrecked, such as there

  was of it.

  There was bound to be complaint about that and no one

  would want to pay. The only victim would be the gorilla, were

  he still comatose on that table. If that was the case, then he had

  taken his last beer for quite a while.

  “Okay boys, time to make ourselves scarce.” We left the

  hardware store and filed down an alley to the rear of the

  building, past a line of washing, where we vaulted a fence and

  disappeared.

  At one pm I presented myself at Colonel Saunders’ tent. He

  studied me for a moment, noting a number of abrasions that

  weren’t on my face the evening before.

  “Well, Wilson. There’s a train due at sixteen hundred hours

  that can take you back to Rensburg. You need to organise a

  cattle wagon for your horses and get them loaded. There is also

  a report here I have written for Colonel Porter that I wish you

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  to deliver, so good luck and dismiss.” Then he slid the leather

  satchel I had presented back to me.

  I rounded up the lads, told them to re-water and feed the

  horses, then get them to the station and load them in a wagon.

  Then I went to see Lady Sarah. I bounded up the stairs and

  knocked on her door, and she beckoned me in. She looked at

  the abrasions on my face with an expression that was partly

  concern, but made no reference to them. She had changed from

  the tired, dishevelled woman of yesterday and was now a

  picture of freshness that considerably brightened these drab

  and austere surroundings. A plain, fawn, full length skirt was

  buttoned around her waist and a blouse with a pleated and lace

  trimmed bodice adorned her upper half. I was reminded of the

  first time I saw her. She was obviously pleased that I had

  come.

  “This is it, Sarah; we’ll be leaving in a couple of hours.”

  “Could you stay long enough for us to have some tea?” she

  asked.

  I could, so I went downstairs to instruct the staff to bring

  some to her room. When it arrived along with some scones, we

  sat and talked. Her experiences of the last few days had

  challenged her perceptions considerably; now, she saw the

  world in a different light.

  “They say that travel broadens the mind and I am proof of

  that. I have sat here all morning, seriously thinking about all

  that has happened and what it all means to me. I have never

  felt more uncomfortable, nor wearier, than I have in the last

  few days. Neither have I ever been as brave, or felt more

  afraid. Today, I am tired, but I have never felt more alive.

  When I return to England I will continue to live. I can’t do

  anything about my marriage, but I will no longer just sit in my

  study and wait for my husband to return from his forays. From

  now on, I will take an active interest in the day-to-day affairs

  of the estate. I will learn the names of those who work there

  and the names of their wives and children, so I can take a more

  active interest in their welfare.” She paused to put her cup

  down.

  “Did you know there is an entire community living on our

  land? My husband owns their village and they pay us rent

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  from the wages we pay them. Some may be born there, spend

  their entire working lives there and die there, yet I may never

  know them; but enough of that. I have something I want to

  give you.”

  She stood and went to the dresser, where she picked up an

  oval framed photograph of modest dimensions and walked

  back, holding it out to me. It was a photograph of her.

  Obviously taken in England, it was a studio portrait of superb

  quality. She was standing side on, her slimness and form in

  silhouette, her dress streaming behind and her head turned

  towards the camera. Her hair was elegantly styled and she held

  a parasol over her offside shoulder. She was beautiful. The

  frame was genuine silver and I turned it over. It had a

  photographer’s address from Pall Mall engraved on the back of

  it.

  “Yesterday, you told me that you admired me. Well today, I

  am bound to say that I admire you and I would like you to

  have that; a little something to remember me by. The last few

  days have opened my eyes to realities that the entire sum of

  my past experiences could never have. I grew up in the army,

  yet I have never experienced the reality of war as I now know

  it to be and I will remember the willingness of you and your

  men to risk your lives for the rest of my life.”

  She paused, carefully choosing the words to adequately

  express what she wanted to say.

  “The first time I saw you I was appalled. Do you

  remember? I had never seen soldiers that weren’t clean, tidy

  and formed in orderly ranks. Had I realised the reality of

  Rensburg – indeed, had I realised the reality of this war, I

  would never have gone there. As it was, I felt less than

  comfortable with my surroundings and when you rode past I

  thought you the most uncivilized cut-throats I ever had the

  misfortune to look upon.” She smiled.

  “I saw you wink at me and I was appalled that the Army

  had such roughnecks in its ranks; now, of course, I know

  better. Through my own experiences, mercifully brief as they

  were, I know that you are just as honourable, just as brave and

  just as persevering as the finest that exist in any realm. That

  your men have come to fight for a Queen they have never seen

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  is remarkable and their loyalty I would never doubt again.

  Were I able, I would bestow every accolade upon them.”

  We looked at each other. What could I say?

  “I know you are a good man. Yesterday, after you wrapped

  me in those blankets, I thanked God that I had you to rely on. I

  seriously believe that no one else, given such circumstances,

  could have done more than you.” The expression in her eyes

  was unmistakably one of wanting to make amends. I stared

  back.

  She was Mrs. High and Mighty. Her husband could

  probably buy our country. I was nobody, the humblest and

  commonest of men, and yet she was baring her soul to me.

  One thing I was sure of though, was that in doing so she had

  given me the greatest and most sincere compliment she was

  capable of.

  Reluctantly, I stood and we walked to the door, for it was

  time for me to leave. As I put the silver framed photograph in

  my top p
ocket, she held out an envelope she had picked up and

  requested I deliver it to her father.

  “Goodbye Richard, I know I will never see you again, but I

  will always remember you.” Then she leaned forward and

  kissed my cheek. “That is all I can give you as a token of my

  appreciation.”

  I laughed, realising I had heard that somewhere before.

  Then I slowly descended the stairs and sauntered out onto the

  road. Looking up I could see her, motionless, watching me

  from her window. She gave me a little wave, so I waved back

  and carried on. I had to get to the railway station and check on

  the boys.

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  Chapter Eighteen

  WHANGANUI, New Zealand. January 1900

  Rachel emerged from one shop only to enter another, moving

  down each aisle in turn; patiently scanning the shelves and not

  feeling inspired by what she saw. She was shopping for her

  mother’s birthday for her father and herself, although as yet

  she was still not sure of exactly what it was she was hoping to

  find. She re-emerged onto the pavement and looked back and

  forth, hoping to see something that may give her some clues,

  but nothing she saw made anything fruitful come to mind.

  There were people on the sidewalks of both sides of the

  road, walking and talking; browsing in shop windows – and

  there was one who just stood, unmoving and watching. Then a

  thought formed; what did you buy a mother that had almost

  everything? Jewellery perhaps? That could be a better place to

  start than your run of the mill gift shop, so she turned and

  walked towards Warner's, heading for the jewellers on the

  other side of the road.

  The entrance was flanked with displays and she stopped to

  browse before entering to begin a systematic study of the other

  available wares. There were pendants, brooches, rings, earrings

  and chains in all price ranges. Spoiled for choice she circled

  the room, looking in cabinets that contained sterling silver

  tableware, exquisite ceramic vases, ornate jugs and bowls plus

  a multitude of hand-painted plates in a bewildering variety of

  styles.

  Then she saw it – a classical vase that was twelve inches

  high. The centre was panelled in dark blue and black, while

  fine gold lines highlighted maidens in flowing white robes.

  After the elderly storeowner wrapped her purchase she picked

  up her package and walked back to Warner's, where she took

  the lift and headed straight to her father’s office.

  “Look what I’ve found,” she announced with obvious

  satisfaction. After unwrapping it, she placed the vase in front

  of Alistair, who examined it approvingly.

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  “That’s beautiful Rachel, you always manage to find the

  right thing. Your mother will love it.”

  On her way home she turned right into Maria Place where

  she crossed the road, walked up the short slope to Watt Street

  and crossed over. Then she skirted the front of the Army Drill

  Hall before turning left in the direction of Wicksteed Street and

  the labyrinth of streets beyond. As she wandered along her

  mind was absorbed with happy things; she was pleased with

  the outcome of her foray. Father seemed to rely on her for that

  sort of thing and it was nice to know that her flair was

  appreciated. After all, who better to buy a gift for a mother

  than her very own daughter?

  When she ascended the rise that led to Guyton Street she

  inexplicably paused to look back, and there by the Drill Hall

  was a man with his hands in his pockets, motionless, just

  standing and staring. He was a long way off and she couldn’t

  be sure, but he looked like the same man she had noticed in the

  Avenue. Was he following her? She turned right into Guyton

  Street and accelerated until she reached Campbell Street,

  where she paused to look back and see if anyone was pursuing;

  there wasn’t, or at least there didn’t seem to be, so she turned

  left. She was now only a hundred and fifty yards from home

  and her watcher, if that indeed was what he was, would not be

  in time to see which house she went to.

  She crossed the threshold and closed the front door,

  removed her coat in her room and hung it in the wardrobe

  before moving down the hall to the kitchen, where cooking

  smells lingered in the air.

  “Hello Mother, I’m home.” She found Emily Ellen at the

  bench with an apron around her waist while deftly peeling

  apples with a rather large knife.

  “Hello dear, how was town today? We’re having steak pie

  for tea with apple pie and cream for dessert.”

  “Lovely – town was good. Mrs. Bell sends her regards and

  so does Mrs. Taylor. Is there anything I can do to help?”

  “You can check the pie in the oven and see that the pastry

  is not overdone.”

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  Rachel stooped and with an oven towel around the knob

  she lifted the latch, swung the door open and looked critically

  over the contents inside.

  “Not yet I think, maybe another few minutes.” She closed

  the oven door and opened the door to the firebox to check the

  fire. The fire was down, so she ferreted among the firewood

  for a piece that was just right and shoved it in. Then she

  opened the damper to hurry it along.

  It was dark when Rachel entered her room. She moved to

  the windows as the last light on the horizon began to fade and

  started to pull the curtains across, only to notice that there was

  someone standing under the streetlight on the other side of the

  road. She couldn’t see who it was, but it was a man who

  seemed to be waiting for something; or watching. She

  shuddered and pulled the curtains across quickly before she

  turned on the lamp. This was all very strange. Was she

  imagining things? All of a sudden there seemed to be a lot of

  men loitering on the fringes of her vision. Coincidence? She

  had never heard of anything like this ever happening to anyone

  else.

  Next morning, she climbed out of bed and lifted a curtain

  corner to see if anyone was out there, but to her immense relief

  there wasn’t. Maybe she had imagined it after all. By the time

  she emerged from the house, Alistair had already left for

  Warner's and Wilmot had gone off to school, so she had

  another good look around before she began her walk to work.

  There was no one about that she hadn’t seen before and she

  retraced the route she usually took; past the Army Drill Hall

  and the Museum, then down the steep part of Watt Street to

  Ridgway.

  During the day she was too busy to dwell on mysterious

  loiterers and by the time she had finished work and walked to

  Warner’s she had forgotten all about them. After having

  afternoon tea with her father, she left Warner’s at four o’clock

  and walked up the Avenue to buy vegetables and other

  sundries, before shouldering her burdens and continuing on her

  way.

  “Hello Rachel,” greeted h
er mother. “I see you got the

  vegetables.” Rachel dropped them on the bench.

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  “I’ll be back to help you soon, I’ve got to kick off these

  shoes.” After pulling change from her coat pocket and

  depositing it on the table, she disappeared up the hallway.

  She emerged a few moments later, looking perturbed.

  “I keep seeing this man and I think I am being followed.”

  “Followed? Where? Is he here?”

  “Yes, he’s smoking under the street lamp on the other side

  of the road.”

  “That’s what men do dear, I wouldn’t worry about that.”

  “No, there must be more to it. He was there last night as

  well.”

  “Are you sure? Have you seen him before?”

  Rachel explained her suspicions from the previous day.

  “I see. Let’s go and have a look then shall we?” They

  strode to the living room and peered cautiously out through the

  holes in the lace curtains. There was no one.

  “That’s strange, he was there a minute ago.” She lifted a

  corner of a curtain and leaned close to the glass to look up and

  down the road, but there was no sign of any man loitering

  anywhere.

  It was 8.35 when Alistair arrived at Warner’s. He swung

  open the door to his office and moved to the coat rack while

  removing his hat. After fumbling momentarily for a box of

  matches he turned on the gas heater, struck a match and

  watched as the flames settled into a robust, flickering glow.

  He straightened up and moved around behind his desk,

  where he lowered himself into his leather bound chair and

  returned the matchbox to his waistcoat pocket

  That morning, he had kissed his wife and donning his hat

  and coat, had set off on the four block walk to Warner’s,

  conscious that he had been performing this ritual for at least

  twenty years; first, as a junior partner in a new enterprise

  before buying his way up to become the sole owner ten years

  later.

  They had been good years – the 1890’s had been a boom

  time for the colony; refrigerated meat could now be sent to

  England and beyond, spurring farm incomes. New settlers had

  flooded in, boosting land prices and increasing business, while

  railways had created a revolution in transportation – and as the

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  country prospered, he had been in a position to capitalise on

  the wave of employment that had been generated from all