by Sarah Lark
“You want to stay here?” asked Kupe, awestruck.
Matariki nodded. “Why not? Now we look quite respectable.”
Kupe shifted his weight nervously from one foot to the other. “Matariki, I’ve never been in a hotel.”
Matariki rolled her eyes. “It’s not difficult, Kupe. You give them your name, they give you a key to a room, and the next day you pay your bill.”
Kupe bit his lip. “But which name, Matariki?” he asked hoarsely. “I call myself Kupe. They called me Kurt at the orphanage. But I don’t know the name of my ancestors. Nor the canoe in which they came to Aotearoa.”
Matariki suddenly felt bad for him, though she was fairly certain that they had also given “Kurt” a last name—her own mother had received the last name of the man who had found her. Still, it seemed heartless to her to remind him of that.
Instead, she gently and shyly put her arms around his neck. “Kupe,” she whispered, “your ancestors are gone, but they watch over you as stars. Let’s go somewhere where it’s not so bright from the gas lamps. And together we’ll look up at the sky. When one of the stars looks down at you, laughing, you’ll bear its name.”
Matariki pulled the resistant Kupe in the direction of the botanical gardens. In the last light of day, they saw the silhouette of the mountains and hills, but the sea already reflected the stars. It would be a clear night.
“Where are your stars?” asked Kupe.
Matariki laughed. “Still in conversation with the gods behind the gods,” she claimed. “I have several, you’re right about that. Matariki is the mother of a constellation. But it’s not visible until June, at the Touhou Festival. You ought to know that, Kupe. You did live among the Maori.”
Kupe’s sad face suggested that the Hauhau movement did not place much value on New Year’s festivals and constellations. This strange religion had developed its own rites—far from goodness and peacefulness.
“Well, come now and pick one,” Matariki said.
He pointed to one of the brightest stars, which seemed to shine down specifically on him. Kupe ventured smiling at it. The star seemed to blink back.
“That one,” he said, pointing again at the shining star to the north.
Matariki nodded. “I know that one,” she said, pleased, “and his line of ancestors. That is Atuhati, a child of the stars Puanga and Takurua.” She pointed to Sirius.
“That’s Takurua. Your ancestors must have exercised a great deal of mana to become such bright stars.”
Kupe rubbed the tattoos on his face.
“Welcome to Aotearoa, Kupe Atuhati, son of Puanga and Takurua who did not come in a canoe but in the beam of a star direct from the sky.”
Matariki smiled her mother’s smile, which had always won her a place in every heart. And Kupe could not resist. He pulled her into his arms and kissed her. Much more strongly and possessively than back under the kauri tree. Matariki returned the kiss.
“That was lovely,” she said softly. “And now, let’s go into the hotel. We’ll drink wine. We’ll celebrate your name with wine. That’s something special. My mother—”
“Your mother celebrated your name with a man on New Year’s Eve,” Kupe blurted out. “The girls of the tribe, Matariki. Would you, would you, with me . . . ?”
Kupe’s gaze was pleading. Matariki again saw the sensitive youth behind the warrior. Briefly, she thought of giving in to him. He was right, a Maori girl did not make much of the loss of her virginity. Matariki’s friend Keke had already slept with a boy from her iwi when she was thirteen. But here? Now? Matariki wondered if she loved Kupe. She liked him. But love?
Promise me you’ll only do it out of love. Matariki thought she could hear her mother’s voice. It had been at one of the wild, ebullient festivals of the Maori, and Matariki was still quite young. Lizzie had taken her to the bushes to relieve herself, and the two of them almost tripped over a couple making love. Matariki had asked what they were doing, and Lizzie had explained. There wasn’t any point in doing otherwise; Lizzie’s children grew up too close to the Ngai Tahu not to witness their liberal custom of making love. It can be wonderful, Matariki. But don’t do it lightly. Don’t do it to receive anything. Don’t do it just because the man wants to. Only do it when you’re completely sure and when you want to do it so desperately, when you want him so much, you feel you’d burn up otherwise.
Matariki was far from burning up. On the contrary, despite the temperatures in Auckland, she was beginning to shiver. It had been a long day, and she had not slept much in the mail coach. Matariki wanted something good to eat and then a bed to herself.
“Let’s go to the hotel,” she said calmly. “This isn’t New Year’s Eve.”
Chapter 9
With few exceptions, the newly hired miners packed into the only pub in Greymouth, the Wild Rover. The place did justice to its name. From inside came unmelodic songs sung by tipsy men with strong Irish accents.
The others—the woman and her family and three or four young men who had been quiet during the journey—had asked to be dropped off in the settlement. No doubt they were doing the only thing they could think of to have a roof over their heads that night. There had to be one or two families whose houses were big enough to take in the new arrivals for a bit of money. When Violet asked if they could try the same, Jim, Fred, and Eric waved her away.
“We can ask in the pub,” said Jim. “The barkeeper will know a thing or two.”
Violet sighed. Half the night would pass before Jim asked, if he wasn’t too drunk then to remember. Bob went into the pub, and Violet watched through the open door as a girl immediately leaped into his arms and he happily shouted, “Molly!”
Violet wondered whether his girlfriend worked at the pub.
Rosie was tired enough to fall over, and Violet looked around hopelessly. Next to the Wild Rover was the workshop for the local gravedigger and coffin maker. It had already closed, and Violet didn’t think the owner would mind if she and Rosie sought shelter on the covered veranda while they waited for Jim, Fred, and Eric. She looked for dry clothes in her bag, and she and Rosie changed into them in the shadows. Oil lamps lit the pub’s entrance, but the rest of the town lay in pitch blackness. Rosie whined a bit because there was nothing to eat, but then she fell asleep on her father’s old duffel bag. The drive through the rain had exhausted her. It was no different for Violet. She was so tired that she even considered sneaking into the workshop and sleeping among the coffins. That happened in one of Heather’s books. Violet sat on her bag and leaned against the workshop’s wall, nearly dozing off as she tried to recall the story of Oliver Twist, but then voices from the pub woke her from her half sleep.
“I already told you, Clarisse. Maybe again on the weekend, when it’s full here and the bastards are too drunk to tell black from white. But not on weekdays when no one’s going to pay me for such a used-up whore.”
The door opened, and a short, strong man with a red face pushed a woman out. She was heavily made up, and her hair was coiffed into a showy tower with ribbons and frills. The woman was slender and round in the right places, but she was no longer young. Her almost-white makeup grotesquely emphasized her wrinkles.
“I thought, now that Molly—” Her voice sounded vexed. “Damn it, Paddy, I wanted to do you a favor.”
The man snorted and shook his head. “A favor my arse, you had your eye on a dry place to work,” he mocked. “And Molly’s only going to do it with her Bob tonight, but he’s going to pay for it. Lisa and Grace’ll take care of the rest. You cost more than you bring in, so go.”
He threw the woman’s shawl after her. She pulled it over her hair—insufficient protection from the rain but better than nothing. With a sigh, she made her way in the direction of the miners’ settlement, but then she saw Violet under the sign that said “Gravedigger.”
“Hello, girl.” She smiled lopsidedly. What are you doing here? Working on your own?”
Violet shook her head. “I’m not doing
any work,” she muttered. “I don’t have any money, and, and if I did, I wouldn’t buy a coffin.”
The woman laughed. “I didn’t really mean it like that. I can see you’re not one of us. You belong to one of Biller’s new boys, eh? Dear Lord, you’re still half a child. Did the louse marry you and drag you here, and now he’s getting drunk instead of building you a house?”
Violet shook her head. “My father,” she said quietly.
Rosie stirred. “Our father,” she corrected Violet.
The woman came closer. “God, look at that one,” she said. “Cute little thing.”
Violet didn’t think there was anything threatening about the woman, even if the barkeeper had called her a whore. Perhaps he only had been cursing. Violet remembered that her father had sometimes cursed at her mother like that. And Ellen had been the best woman under the sun. Tears welled up in Violet’s eyes at the thought of her mother.
“Dear Lord, girl, are you crying?” asked the woman. “Well, I suppose you’ve got every reason to. Now come, that’s enough. I’m Clarisse. And I’m not dependent on him.” She gestured in the direction of the pub. “I work for myself. I’m not so poor. And most of all, I’ve got a warm place to sleep. If you want, I’ll take you home. You can sleep in Molly’s bed. She won’t be coming home tonight.”
Violet bit her lip. Ellen would not have allowed her to go with this woman. Yet Molly lived with her, and she must be respectable if Bob wanted to marry her.
“Your dad will find you tomorrow, though he might be angry if you hole up at our place,” Clarisse said.
Violet shrugged. “He’ll be angry no matter what,” she said. “Especially tomorrow when he has to build us a hut. He doesn’t like that sort of thing. He always yelled at my mother when she asked him to fix something around the house.”
“The hangover he’ll have tomorrow won’t improve things. Who cares—tomorrow is tomorrow, and today is today. Today you and the little one need to get somewhere dry, so come on. Leave your dad’s things. Nothing gets stolen here. In Greymouth, we’re poor but honest. Most of us, anyway.”
Violet rubbed her forehead. “I’m not supposed to follow strangers,” she said, repeating one of her mother’s commandments.
The woman laughed. “Didn’t I already introduce myself? I’m Clarisse. Clarisse Baton. What are your names?”
“Violet and Rosemary Paisley. And we don’t have any money.” Violet blushed because she was lying, but she didn’t want to reveal the money from Kathleen.
Clarisse offered her hand. “And I don’t tend to take it from girls,” she joked.
Violet curtsied, and Clarisse laughed again.
“A well-bred girl,” she praised her.
Violet blushed again. Perhaps she should finally stop this courtesy.
Clarisse led the way down the dark, muddy streets. From the city to the miners’ settlement was more than a mile, and Violet had to drag Rosie who was crying again.
“I have something for you to eat,” Clarisse soothed Rosie. “There won’t be much. We get our food in the pub, but there ought to be some bread at home.”
Clarisse lived outside the miners’ settlement. Her house was almost in the forest, a strange forest where ferns grew instead of trees. The ferns reached the height of a fruit tree, and birds seemed to live in them. Or were they monkeys? The noises sounded more like croaking and laughing than tweeting and singing, but Violet hadn’t heard of monkeys in New Zealand.
She would investigate the next day. For now, she looked favorably at Clarisse’s house, a surprisingly solid construction. Naturally, this shelter was built of waste wood and looked incomplete, but it was bigger than most of the other huts, and it had a chimney.
“Did you build this yourself?” asked Violet. Clarisse had not mentioned a husband.
The woman made a face and smiled impishly. “Well, you might say we worked it off,” she answered. “The boys from the mine did the work. It was the only way they could afford a girl. They’re always happy to do some more when we want to add on.”
Violet bit her lip. “So, um, do only women like you live here?”
Clarisse laughed with her whole face. It was rounded. She surely would have been a heavy woman if she had more to eat. Yet, the women weren’t rich. For provisions, there was barely half a loaf of old bread and some cheese. Clarisse shared it amiably with the girls. She gave them water to drink while she sipped gin.
“I wish I could tell you this is the local nunnery, but then I’d be a liar,” she remarked. “No, we’re not ‘good’ women. We’re whores. And this here’s the local brothel. It’s nothing special, I’ll grant you that.” She grimaced, but as she spoke, the expression turned into a wistful smile. “Someday, dear, someday we’ll build something proper. A pub in the middle of town, just to give old Paddy some competition, with stables and a kitchen and proper rooms—one for every girl. We’re saving for it. I am, anyway. The others want to marry. And they almost always do. Even Molly’s got her Bob now.”
Violet was shocked but bit hungrily into the bread. Clarisse’s house was warm, likely from the smoldering remains of a fire. There was little furniture, just four chairs, a table, and the fireplace. Otherwise, every corner of the room was screened off with thick velvet curtains.
“A little privacy for everyone,” Clarisse answered Violet’s unspoken question. “True, it doesn’t help much. You do hear what’s going on. But better than nothing. That corner is Molly’s. Close the curtain tight, and don’t come out until morning, no matter what’s going on. I still need to find a couple boys tonight, and Grace and Lisa each might bring someone. No one will bother you. Molly’s working, and then she’ll sleep at Bob’s. Tomorrow she’ll be back on cloud nine. Good night, dear.”
Clarisse stroked Rosie’s little head gently. Then she tossed her wet shawl back on her shoulders and disappeared into the darkness. Violet vaguely imagined Clarisse standing on a street corner and calling to men—she had seen women do this when she accompanied her mother to pubs to look for her father. Sometimes she had seen one of the girls leave with men. It was embarrassing for Violet to even think about what the couples did, but she knew how it went—miners’ houses were not so big that parents could hide anything from their children. And she had even heard people on the ship. In the cabins, so the noises carried into the corridors, and on deck. It seemed to be fun for the men. Otherwise they would not have paid.
Molly’s area was clean, and the bed was freshly made. Violet tucked Rosie in and considered whether to take out her nightshirt or to just sleep in her dress. She decided on the latter and cuddled with Rosie under the blanket. She did not note much of what transpired during the night. She only heard the door open and close. She was attuned to this noise. In Treherbert, it had announced her father’s arrival and, often, one of her parents’ fights. In Clarisse’s hut, there were only giggling and whispering, which did not stop Violet returning to her slumber. In the morning, she was awakened by the smell of fresh coffee and the sound of sleepy women’s voices.
Nervously, she pulled aside the curtain, expecting garishly made-up night owls. Instead, she saw three normal women who did not even look bleary-eyed. Now that she had combed her hair straight and tied it into a bun at the nape of her neck, Clarisse looked almost motherly. She was surely over thirty, though the other girls were clearly younger. Dark-haired Grace was rather pretty. Without makeup, the blonde, Lisa, looked somewhat plain, but she gave Violet a friendly smile.
“These are your foundlings?” she teased Clarisse. “Admit it, you just want to hire the dear. Pretty as she is, she could make a fortune.”
Violet blushed again.
“And then at thirty, she’d look as worn out as me,” Clarisse concluded bitterly. “No, no, don’t tease her. You see, she’s embarrassed. Go buy bread, or did you bring some home?”
Grace and Lisa shook their heads. “Nah, it didn’t go late last night,” replied Grace, reaching for a few coins lying on the table. “There’s ne
ver much happening on Wednesday. Sure, the new ones got here, but they wanted a beer—they have to save for a girl.” She stood up. “Well, I’ll get going, then. I’m hungry.”
Clarisse and Lisa laughed as if Grace had made a joke.
“Really, she’s got an eye for the baker’s son,” Clarisse revealed. “I’ll guarantee she doesn’t enter through the shop but through the kitchen.”
“And gets the bread with a little love at no extra charge,” Lisa said with a wink.
Violet was confused. “But I thought, I thought, wh—um . . .”
Clarisse smiled. “Sweetheart, we’re the only girls far and wide. There are some married women, but most of them have a past similar to ours. Only a very few came with their husbands. The fellows take what they can get. You’ll be spoiled for choice, Violet Paisley.” Clarisse looked to Lisa and asked, “Am I wrong, or is she the only respectable girl in town?”
Violet was horrified. Things were even worse than the pastor had said.
Lisa nodded. “It may be that in Lambert’s or the government mine there’s one or two miners with daughters, but not in Biller’s.”
“Make sure you aim for a foreman, dear, or one of the people from town. Don’t take one of the miners. No one gets rich here,” Clarisse said.
Clarisse gave the inside of the pantry another glance. It was completely empty.
Lisa stood up. “I’ll go over to Robert’s. Maybe I can get a little milk,” she said. “Or eggs. Eggs would be good.”
Clarisse explained that a few miners kept sheep or goats and hens in their huts. With their milk and eggs, they improved their paltry pay.
“But you have to be born for it,” she sighed. “I mean ‘in their huts’ literally. As soon as the critters get out, someone roasts them for dinner. Robert stinks like his goats, but Lisa is sweet on him anyway. Who knows, maybe she’s a country girl.”