by Sarah Lark
Violet was surprised Clarisse did not know.
Clarisse used her friends’ absence to count out the money she had earned and to deposit it in a hiding place in her area.
“It’s not much, but I’ll have the money for the land soon,” she said happily.
Violet remembered that her new friend was saving for a building in town. She would have found it horrible to own a pub, but likely it would make you rich.
“Do, do you make a lot as a—?” Violet could not bring herself to say the word.
“You can say ‘woman of easy virtue’ or ‘prostitute.’ It doesn’t matter what you call us.” As Clarisse spoke, she opened the window to air out the little house. It was not cold outside, and, finally, it wasn’t raining. It was even bright enough to seem as if the sun wanted to come out. The ferns, still heavy with rain, cast feathery shadows. “And as for money—” Clarisse took a deep breath of the fresh air. To Violet, it smelled peculiar, earthy and a bit sweet. The air was heavy with moisture and coal dust. She thought unhappily of Dunedin, the clear air there, and the fresh, cool wind from the mountains. “You earn more than a maid,” Clarisse continued, “but you won’t find that kind of job here. So, don’t think a working woman has much choice, but as a whore, you spend more. Most do, anyway. Dresses, makeup, some gin to make the men and life look better . . .”
Violet frowned. Really, she ought to pull herself together and worry about breakfast. Rosie would be up soon, and they would have to go look for their father. But the conversation with Clarisse was too interesting.
“The women pay for men?” she asked, confused.
Clarisse made a face and rubbed her forehead. Without makeup, she really did look like a normal woman. She had friendly, light-brown eyes, and her wrinkles were hardly noticeable.
“Not directly,” she answered. “That is, not like the men pay for women. It’s like this: A fellow acts like he loves one of the girls, really, truly, for who she is. And then she melts away, buys him a shirt here, some nice suspenders there. A little tobacco and a good bottle are always ready when he comes to visit. He’ll need money sometime—for some small business, for a bet. He says he’ll pay you back. With interest. And he asks, wouldn’t it be nice if he really won at poker once? Or at the races? Then you could marry.”
“But they never win,” Violet said knowingly.
Clarisse nodded. “As a rule, no, and if they do, they bet it all again, without giving the girl anything back. Ultimately, there are only tears and an empty purse.”
Clarisse grabbed a broom and began to sweep the hut. Violet looked for an opportunity to help but saw nothing to do. The house was too small and already very clean.
“That doesn’t happen to you?” asked Violet curiously.
Clarisse laughed. “No. I don’t fall in love so easily, and I’m saving my money. I don’t have to drink to make life look better. I already know the next day it’ll be just as sad as today. I’d rather plan for a better future.” She sighed. “Dear Lord, just once to have a place of my own, where no man could enter.”
As if on cue, men pounded on the door, and they did not wait for Clarisse to invite them in. Jim and Fred Paisley stormed the house as if to save Violet’s virtue.
Rosie woke up and pulled the blanket over her head when she heard them.
“Violet, I can’t believe it,” Jim roared. “We’re not even here a whole day, and already people are talking. Have you lost your mind? Bringing the child into a—” Jim raised his fist.
Violet retreated fearfully into the corner.
Clarisse rushed in between Violet and her father. “A what?” she asked angrily. “A dry, warm place? So that she didn’t catch her death in front of the coffin maker’s in the rain? Did you even think of what could happen to the girl? Fifty men live here alone, Mr. Paisley, isn’t it? And near the other mines, at least a hundred more. All of them go to the pub, and many haven’t had a girl in bed in weeks. They’re lusty as the neighbor’s dog, Mr. Paisley. And you left your daughter in front of the pub like a corner girl. And with the little one too.”
Jim Paisley looked like he might strike Clarisse, but before he could blink, she had a knife in her hand. Violet wondered how she could have drawn it so quickly, but she undoubtedly knew how to use it.
“Don’t even think about it, Mr. Paisley. You won’t threaten me in my own house. And now, thank me kindly for at least saving your older daughter from a fate worse than death.” She grinned, but then made a face. “And probably the little one along with her,” she added bitterly. “See to it that by tonight you put a roof over your children’s heads. And even better, a door to close behind them. And a hellhound to guard that door.” She only murmured the last statement.
Violet looked anxiously to her father, but a change had taken place in him when Clarisse mentioned the house.
“I already have a house,” he exclaimed, grinning triumphantly. “Oh yes, Violet, you think I never do anything right and no business gets done in pubs, but your old man knows what’s what. I talked one of the drunks out of a nice house. He says he’s had enough of mining and is leaving tomorrow for a whaling station in Westport. And I’m getting his hut.”
It was better if Violet did not ask how much of Jim’s advance was left. Surely the house was not worth half of what Jim paid for it. But it was a weight lifted off her shoulders. Whatever it cost, it was standing, so she did not have to wait for them to build something.
“Now, come on. I’ll show it to you. You’ll need to tidy it up a bit. A bachelor’s place, but otherwise fine.”
Violet gathered her things. She would have preferred to stay, especially since Grace returned just then. Her cheeks were rosy, she smiled contentedly, and she had a loaf of bread under her arm and a bag of sweet rolls in her hand.
“Are you going so soon? I brought extras for the little one.”
Rosie cast covetous looks at the bag. The baked goods smelled irresistible.
“I think you can take them with you,” Clarisse said. “We would have liked to invite you to breakfast, but we have strict rules: no men in the house until the moon rises.”
Grace giggled. Jim Paisley gave the women wrathful looks. Violet shyly thanked them and followed her father outside before he could cause more trouble. Rosie was already biting into a sweet roll.
“I’ll be seeing you,” Clarisse called after them. Violet wondered whether she meant her and Rosie or their father.
The “house,” a ramshackle hut, stood in the middle of the coal-mining settlement. Violet had expected no different. The paths in front of it were so muddy that her feet sank into them. There weren’t any outhouses, and the houses stood only a few feet apart, so people just went behind their houses, and the rain washed the urine and excrement into the streets. The settlement was one big sewer. And the stench was worse from the fires and coal dust. Almost all the people they passed between Clarisse’s hut and their new lodging were coughing. Most of them were men. Violet saw only two women and two children; the women were carrying water through the muddy streets, and the children were playing in the filth.
Violet tried to ignore all that and only think of her new home. A retreat. Surely she could find flowers she could dry to fight the stench. She could also steam vinegar. If only—
“As I said, you’ll have to clean up a bit.” Jim opened the door to their new home.
Violet recoiled in horror. She had not wanted to cry, but this was too much. Whoever had lived here had never cleaned, never thrown out table scraps, and had not always made the effort to do his business outside. Likely too drunk for that. Dried vomit didn’t vouch for a healthy lifestyle. Violet doubted the owners of this hut were leaving the settlement of their own free will. Probably the foreman had kicked them out.
“Get to work,” said Jim Paisley. “We’re going to go help Eric build a hut.”
It was the first bit of good news since her arrival in Greymouth. Violet tried to buoy herself with the thought that they would not have
to share this hut with Eric Fence. She found him unsettling, especially so because of the lustful looks with which he regarded her. She searched for a broom, a mop, and a bucket. Naturally, there was nothing of the sort. Should she ask her father for money for the supplies or dig into her emergency money? Jim, Fred, and Eric had found a building site three houses down and were uncorking their first bottle of whiskey to celebrate this decision.
Resigned, Violet looked for her money. She would not make it through another confrontation with her father.
Chapter 10
Miss Matariki Drury and Mr. Kupe Atuhati, her cousin, occupied two single rooms in the Commercial Hotel. Since neither of them had any papers, Matariki had given the name of the bank manager as a reference and guarantor. By coincidence, the man was eating dinner at the hotel restaurant with friends and vouched for Matariki. “The . . . niece . . . of Jimmy Dunloe, an esteemed colleague in Dunedin. I believe she is his niece, though the relations are a bit convoluted. Nonetheless, a princess.”
He winked at Matariki. Later, she heard bits of a conversation with the hotel owner, in which the bank manager mentioned South Island, Canterbury, sheep barons. After that, the hotel owner was much friendlier and even allowed Dingo in Matariki’s room. He did, however, lodge the “cousins” on different floors.
“Probably he’ll patrol all night,” Matariki said with a giggle, “to make sure we act honorably.”
Kupe didn’t reply, and he was quiet the rest of the night. He did enjoy the food—Kupe had never tasted anything like the beef medallions in pepper sauce and fingerling potatoes—though the wine did not do much for him.
After dinner, they went to their own rooms. Matariki washed Dingo and then blissfully sank into a bubble bath. Kupe longed to be back in the common lodge of the warriors.
The next morning, Kupe was gone when Matariki came down to breakfast.
“Without eating anything,” the hotel manager remarked almost a bit reproachfully. “The young man—”
“Is a bit shy,” Matariki interrupted. “He’ll turn up again. I, for one, am hungry. And so is he.” She gestured to Dingo.
“You’ll be staying another night?”
Matariki nodded. “Of course, we’re waiting here for my parents. We’ll be taking in the sights until they arrive.”
For Matariki, the highlight was walking through the shopping district—she had to admit that her pakeha-self was triumphing over her inner Maori rebel. She also looked at the buildings and returned to the botanical gardens to see them in the daylight. She marveled at the variety of plants—including palm trees—that grew in the warm climate. Matariki strolled with Dingo through the meadows and over the green hills that bordered Auckland, enjoying the view of the natural harbor and small coves.
When she returned to the hotel around evening, it was to a telegram from her parents—Stay where you are! Will arrive soon. Overjoyed, Mom and Dad—and a very anxious Kupe, who was waiting for Matariki in the lobby.
“There you are. Where were you? I thought for sure you’d run away. You—”
Matariki frowned at him. “You left this morning without a note,” she said. “I was out for a walk. What else was I supposed to do? Weave flax or make a tasty dog stew?”
Kupe laughed. “Sorry. I just thought—”
“Where were you?” asked Matariki. “I was worried.”
“First, the university,” Kupe said. “They won’t take me just like that. In principle, it’s a matter of references. However, they said it wouldn’t be a problem. They’re writing to the mission school for the papers. I told them that I ran away from there, but the boy at registration was kind. He said he would have run away from there, too, and asked if I’d been at Parihaka.”
“Where?” asked Matariki.
“Parihaka. They have several Maori students from Parihaka. It’s a village on the coast, between Mount Taranaki and the Tasman Sea.”
“A Maori village?” It was unusual for a single village to send several young people to school, though the children of the Ngai Tahu now almost all learned English, reading, and writing. In a few years, some of them would surely want to study, and as rich as the tribe was . . . “A well-off village?”
“Almost a town, Matariki.” Kupe was excited. “Fifteen hundred residents, a hundred whare—houses—already, and two big marae. They’re building more. Someday perhaps every tribe will have a marae in Parihaka.”
“People from different tribes live there?” Matariki asked, amazed.
Large villages were rare on the South Island, but more Maori lived on the North Island, and the tribes often consisted of a few hundred people. Large pa—fortified villages, similar to fortresses—were rather common, mostly before the arrival of the pakeha. Now, only a few remained. The wars with the whites, and the diseases they brought, had reduced the Maori population. That several tribes were joining together to live together or to form a new tribe, however, was news to Matariki. She hadn’t heard of anything like that except among the Hauhau, where the common religion unified the warriors.
Kupe nodded enthusiastically. “Yes, no more fighting among the tribes. Te Whiti is preaching solidarity, peaceful coexistence, and mutual respect—between the Maori and pakeha and the Maori with one another. He doesn’t want to fight but to promote our rights to our land and to maintain it with spiritual means.”
“The archangel Gabriel again,” said Matariki. “You don’t mean to tell me that you’re going to fall for the next prophet, Kupe. This—what was his name?—is just looking for more trouble, just like Te Ua Haumene.”
Kupe shook his head wildly. “The opposite, Matariki. I spoke with the men who are studying here in Auckland. And with the girls. They grew up in part in Parihaka. The village has been there twelve years. Te Whiti o Rongomai founded it in 1867 with Tohu Kakahi. Right after the first of the Maori Wars. He fought in them, but he realized that the killing had to end. Just like us, Matariki. Patariki came into being as a countermovement. The government had confiscated Maori land. The founding of the village was Te Whiti and Tohu Kakahi’s reaction to that. No pa, Matariki, no fortress. An open village where everyone is welcome. The kingi, Tawhiao, sent him twelve men, twelve apostles.”
“I knew it,” sighed Matariki. As they talked, she and Kupe had walked to the restaurant, and now she was studying the menu. “Salmon steak, Kupe, that’s what I want.”
“Forget food for now, Matariki.” Kupe could hardly sit still. “Parihaka has nothing at all to do with the Hauhau. Te Whiti doesn’t even preach a religion. It’s just about living together. The kingi wanted to reinforce the bonds between Waikato and Taranaki Maori. And Te Whiti would like to see everyone united under one roof: the Ngati Maniapoto, the Ngati Porou, the Ngati Pau, even the Ngai Tahu. We have to confront the pakeha as one people—a clever, rational, strong people. Only then will they stop stealing land and respect us.”
“Should I order that, Kupe?” asked Matariki, still focused on the menu. “Or do you want something else?”
“I want to go to Parihaka,” Kupe said, “and I want you to come with me.”
Matariki tapped her forehead “Mount Taranaki is more than two hundred miles away. You can’t just go there on a day trip, and my parents are coming here. I have to wait for them.”
“Then I’ll go without you,” said Kupe sullenly. “But you said you wanted to be Maori. And to fight against the pakeha. In Parihaka, we could do that. We could—”
“What about your studies, Kupe?” Matariki asked. “I thought you wanted to be a lawyer.”
“I want both. But something like Parihaka, it gives me courage. It’s a starting point. At least come with me and speak to the students at the university, Matariki. They meet regularly.”
“To rire, rire, hau, hau?” Matariki teased.
“No. Just to talk, study, and read. Sure, also about traditions. Just come with me, Matariki, please. They’re all people like us.”
Matariki shrugged. “Sure, fine. But not today; today I’m
too tired. And I need something to eat.” She waved to the waiter.
“In Parihaka, they raise all their food themselves according to the most modern agricultural methods. Te Whiti wants to show that the Maori aren’t backwoods hicks or—”
“Cannibals. What does he say about dogs?” The waiter placed bread and butter on the table. Matariki ate a slice and immediately seemed in a better mood. “If you tell me they raise special breeds for eating, I’m going to change my mind.”
The next morning, when Matariki came downstairs, she was astonished to find Kupe in an animated conversation about Parihaka with the hotel manager.
“I’ve heard of the project from journalists,” said the manager when Matariki joined them. “Haven’t you heard about it? All the newspapers in the country have written articles.”
Except in Hauhau training camps and in Hamilton, thought Matariki.
“Recently, reporters from the South Island who had just been to Parihaka stayed here. They were quite impressed, especially with Te Whiti who runs the whole thing.”
“Te Ua Haumene is also supposed to be very impressive,” said Matariki, still skeptical.
The hotel manager frowned. “He’s the one with the Hauhau. No, you can’t compare the two. Te Whiti is a distinguished older gentleman. The journalists were full of praise.”
Matariki decided to ask the bank manager about the matter. She needed money anyway.
“Again?” asked Kupe as they went to the bank. “What did you buy?”
Matariki shrugged. “Another dress, a riding outfit. Oh, don’t look like that—even in Parihaka, they won’t be running around in piu-piu skirts all year.”
As grateful as she was to Kupe, he was getting on her nerves. If the conversation with the students from Parihaka really did turn to the traditions, they should put “Among the Maori, a woman is not the property of a man, especially not if he has only kissed her twice” on the agenda.
The bank manager handed her more money without hesitation. To Matariki’s surprise, he had heard of Parihaka.