by Maggie Hope
Closing her eyes, Eleanor thought of the water that was piped to the viewer’s house in Hetton, pumped up from the pit it was, cold as melted snow and sparkling clear, tasting faintly of minerals, iron and coal. She put her tongue between her lips, remembering the taste of it. Sighing, she opened her eyes and gazed out over the compound again.
Mary was coming out of the store, a basket over her arm. From the chapel in the centre came the sound of singing; Francis must have almost finished his prayer meeting. Knots of islanders strolled about or stood in groups, the Tongans separate. The locals didn’t like the Tongans and Eleanor remembered Francis saying that the Fijians considered them arrogant interlopers who looked down on the native Fijians, quite mistakenly from the Fijians’ point of view, for they were convinced that their islands were the centre of the world. Not even when they were shown maps and globes by the first missionaries to reach Lakeba, William Cross and David Cargill, had they believed any different.
Eleanor shuddered as her attention was diverted by a fat black rat. It emerged from under the verandah and made its leisurely way across to the lush undergrowth just a few yards away. Instinctively, she gathered her skirts around her shins in spite of the sticky heat. There was probably yet another nest down there; she would have to get Matthew to clear it out.
‘Rat no hurt you,’ Matthew would say, shrugging his shoulders in amazement at the strange fancies of the minister’s woman. He would get rid of it in the end, but not before Eleanor had persuaded Francis to order him to.
‘Rats are vermin,’ she had insisted the last time this had happened. ‘Florence Nightingale says they carry dirt and disease.’
‘Oh, Florence Nightingale,’ Francis had said, humouring her. ‘What has Florence Nightingale to do with life in Fiji? All right, I’ll tell Matthew to clear them out, I don’t want you upset, especially not now.’ Which was as near a reference to her pregnancy as he ever got.
Oh, what had happened to her dreams of looking after the natives, nursing them when they were sick, teaching them hygiene? Her work was going to be as important as that of Francis; she had had such high hopes. Why hadn’t she considered what being married meant to a woman? A pregnancy every year or so was what she could look forward to, an uncomfortable, miserable nine months and no time for anything else but her family.
Mary was climbing the steps of the verandah and Eleanor watched as she placed her basket on the low table and walked over to her.
‘Would you like a drink, Mrs Tait? By, you do look hot and bothered, I can bring you a cup of tea, or some pineapple juice, what do you fancy?’
‘Water, that’s what I fancy. A long drink of cold, cold water. I hate pineapple juice, it’s so sweet it makes me sick.’ Eleanor was irritable.
‘I can make a pot of tea, how about that?’
Mary didn’t bother to say that the water in the bucket would be warm and stale at this time of the day, something of which Eleanor was well aware.
‘Oh, go on then, make some tea. Mr Tait will be here shortly, I’m sure he’d like a cup.’
Mary picked up her basket and went through the open door into the main room of the house and on to the kitchen in the back. She added wood to the stove just outside the back door and filled the kettle with the warm brackish water from the bucket. Where was that lazy black bastard now? This was Matthew’s job, seeing to the stove and the tea; hadn’t she enough to do just looking after Eleanor?
She took down the tin tray from the shelf and put two cups and saucers on it and the battered tin sugar basin with the wooden lid to keep the ants out. As an afterthought, she lifted the lid and fished out a couple of ants that had got in there anyway. Bloody insects, the place was swarming with them. Great giant things an’ all, not civilised little things like at home. For a second or two, Mary allowed herself to mourn for Hetton and the colliery rows and her own folk. Likely she’d never see them again. Had Ben got married, did he have a family? He never bothered to answer her letters.
There was no milk for the tea, they’d just have to do without. Matthew was supposed to be bringing a nanny goat in milk from his uncle who had a rackety shack up on the side of the volcano and a herd of goats he’d brought in from Tonga, but he was a long time about it. It wouldn’t be so bad if she had Prue – why didn’t the lass write? She could easily find out where they were. But no, her and Ben were two of a kind, ungrateful little beggars.
Mary spooned tea into the pot and poured boiling water over it. The tea was almost gone, she noted, and the store was out of it too. Thank goodness the John Wesley was due in today. She poured out a cup for herself and left it in the kitchen before picking up the tray and carrying it through to the verandah. Francis was sitting beside Eleanor, leaning solicitously over her and adjusting a cushion behind her back.
‘Thank you, Mary,’ he said. ‘Just what I need.’
Not what I need, thought Mary as she went back to the kitchen. What I need is for Prue to come back. But what I need most is Morgan West getting off that boat today, marching up here, telling me he can’t do without me and I must go with him and live with him and have his bairns. He wouldn’t have to marry me, I don’t care what anybody thinks.
This flight of fancy was interrupted by the appearance of Matthew at the back gate, a water bag slung over his shoulder and with a nanny goat on a piece of twine, its udders so swollen with milk they almost touched the ground. He tethered the goat by the door and turned unsmiling black eyes on Mary.
‘Woman milk goat,’ he said loftily.
Mary picked up her cup of tea and took a long swallow of the cooling liquid. She gazed at the Tongan; he was smaller than the native Fijians and his bare upper body less muscular but nevertheless he was a strong man and she found herself comparing him with Morgan. Of course, Morgan was fair and his body quite white under his shirt whereas Matthew was as black as the jet beads Morgan had bought for her in Sydney to console her when Prue went missing. And Matthew’s body glistened with the everlasting coconut oil all the natives used on their skins and the edge of his loin cloth was stained with it.
She shook herself mentally and put down her cup. What on earth was she thinking about? It must be the heat in this place, the sticky heat that made her feel so different, so conscious of her body somehow. Of course it had been Morgan who had started it, started it and then gone away. Impatiently, she began to unpack her basket of provisions, putting them away in the press by the wall. It was the only cupboard that was proof against the ants.
‘Milk the blooming thing yourself,’ she snapped, not even looking round at Matthew. ‘I’m not here to do your bidding nor any other black fella’s, not likely.’ She waited for his hiss of outrage and, when it wasn’t forthcoming, glanced at him. He had taken a glass from the shelf and was carefully pouring water into it, clear, sparkling water from the water bag he had brought in with him. Then he carried the glass to the door.
‘Water not for you,’ he warned, pausing for a moment. ‘Water for minister’s woman.’
‘Is it, now?’
Mary waited until he had gone through the sitting room to the verandah and then she took her cup to the bag on the table and poured herself a drink.
By, it was grand. Matthew must have been to the spring high up the mountain; the water was sweet and clear and tasted of cool rain. Hurriedly she poured herself another drink and drank it down before wiping her mouth and following him through for the tray.
But the tray was forgotten as from out in the bay came the sound of a ship’s hooter. All around them people were running to the canoes, men, women and children, all anxious to go out and greet the John Wesley as it rounded the headland, sails billowing, and turned in the direction of the jetty. Even Francis had got to his feet and was straightening his jacket and white neck cloth. Matthew had already deserted the verandah and was running for the beach with two of his cronies.
Mary smoothed down her dress and put a hand up to her hair. Morgan might be on the ship, he might, he might, she told h
erself in what was almost a prayer. The excitement of the natives, always the same when a ship came though nowadays one came every two or three weeks, infected everyone, Europeans too. The only one who hadn’t risen from her chair was Eleanor. Francis went to the edge of the verandah and paused, looking back at his wife.
‘You’ll be all right, won’t you, my love?’ he asked, almost as an afterthought. Catching his wife’s slight frown, he added quickly, ‘Mary will stay in case you need her, I won’t be long. But I must see if there is any communication from the head of the district, you understand? And there might be letters from home, you’d like me to get them as soon as possible, wouldn’t you?’
Eleanor looked at him wearily. ‘Oh, go on, Francis, go if you must.’
‘Yes … Yes, I’ll be back as soon as I can, Eleanor.’
Mary watched as he strode down to the jetty. Oh yes, Mary will stay, she thought, feeling rebellious. Then she looked at Eleanor, how white her face was, how exhausted she looked. Her black hair was glistening with sweat where it peeped out of her cap as she laid her head back against the wooden edge of the chair and lifted her feet on to a stool. Her ankles were swollen again, Mary saw, swollen worse than she had seen them before. Poor Eleanor, it must be truly hellish to be so heavy with a bairn in this climate.
‘Will I get you some more water, Mrs Tait?’ she said gently, her own discontents forgotten in her pity for the other woman.
‘Please, Mary,’ Eleanor said, her voice a mere thread of sound. Mary looked at her sharply. Eleanor’s face was chalk white, the brow wrinkled; it wasn’t just the heat that was bothering her, Mary decided.
‘Is something the matter? It’s not the baby, is it?’
‘No, no, of course not, it’s not time yet, the baby won’t come for another two weeks at least. No, it’s just my back, it aches so badly and the heat …’ Eleanor’s voice trailed away as though she hadn’t the energy to carry on with what she was saying.
‘Howay then, lass, let’s have you to bed, that’s the best place for you. It’ll be nice and cool with just your nightie and a sheet over you and as soon as you’re settled I’ll bring you another cool drink and mebbe a few drops of laudanum will make you sleep.’
‘I don’t know … what about Francis? I don’t want to worry him.’ Eleanor was fretful, full of objections to anything that Mary suggested, but Mary wasn’t listening.
It’s not Mr Tait who’s having the bairn,’ she said calmly. ‘Now come on, I’ll help you up and we’ll soon have you tucked up in bed. I’ll draw the blinds and you can have a nice sleep, it’ll do you the world of good and the babby an’ all.’
Mary had slipped deeper into the sing-song accent of the Geordies, and somehow Eleanor found her voice incredibly comforting. Oh, thank God for Mary, she had a heart of gold, she had. Why ever had she been so critical of Mary Buckle? And it would be so grand just to lie down in the dark bedroom, so grand … Trustingly, she allowed Mary to help her to her feet and, leaning heavily on her maid, began to walk across the verandah to the French windows of the bedroom, which were standing open to catch any breath of fresh air.
Suddenly she shrieked in agony and slumped to the ground, taking Mary down with her. Eleanor’s weight lay across Mary’s middle and it took the girl a few minutes of panting effort to get free and when she did, her face flushed and her pulse racing, she saw Eleanor was in a dead faint and her pallor had taken on an ominous bluish hue.
Mary stared round the compound, rushed to the steps and looked wildly up the street but there was no one there, no one at all. Of course not; everyone was down by the water’s edge, or actually on the water, all the boats and canoes in the place were out on the water. All greeting the ship as it sailed into the bay. Anyone would think they’d never seen a bloody ship before, she thought savagely, even Francis Tait was there, leaving his poor wife to God and Providence, what did he care about her when there was the excitement of the missionary ship?
She wasn’t being fair, she knew she wasn’t, and any road he hadn’t left Eleanor with nobody and it was up to herself to see to her. Rushing back to Eleanor, Mary saw she was coming round – at least that she was moaning something incoherent and struggling to lift her head.
Bending to her, Mary slipped her forearms under the other woman’s armpits and lifted her into a sitting position. ‘Now then, what do you think you’re doing, giving me such a fright? Another one like that will be the death of me, I’m telling you. Come on now, help yourself, you’re far too heavy for me to lift you up on my own and there’s not another soul about can help. Howay now, pull yourself together.’
Mary hardly knew what she was saying but somehow she pulled and lifted until she thought her arms would drop off altogether and at last she managed to drag Eleanor on to the bed. But her heart sank as she glanced back on to the verandah and saw the wet trail where they had come. The waters had broke, there was no doubt about it, hadn’t she seen it happen when Mam had Prue? And the last little babby, the thin little blue doll of a babby, had whimpered only once and then given up on life before it had even begun.
Eleanor was moaning, rocking herself from side to side on the bed. ‘Mary, Mary,’ she cried. ‘Help me, Mary!’
‘I’m doing my best, lass,’ said Mary. ‘Try and sit up a bit now, let’s get your clothes off and a nice cool nightie on, you’ll feel better then.’
It took for ever to get Eleanor changed and then it was practically a waste of time for within minutes the nightie was as drenched with sweat as her dress had been. Eleanor sank back on the pillows, evidently having some respite from the pain.
‘Get Francis, he’ll have to do something,’ she panted.
What could he do? Mary asked herself. There wasn’t another white woman on Lakeba, not at the moment. There was a midwife on Bau and she was supposed to be coming over to the island for the birth but not yet, not for another week.
‘Plenty of time,’ she had said, when she had seen Eleanor only last week. ‘Plenty of time, another two weeks at least.’
‘So much for midwives,’ Mary muttered to herself.
‘What? What did you say? Oh Mary, it’s coming on again, it is. Oh, dear Lord in heaven, what am I going to do?’
‘Now don’t fret, pet, you’ll be all right, I’m here, aren’t I? Women have been having bairns a long time now, we’ll manage, you’ll see. Any road, Francis will be back any minute, he’s bound to be, he knows how you’re held.’
Eleanor’s answer was a deep moan that came up from the depths of her and turned into a shriek. Mary’s shaky self-confidence almost deserted her as Eleanor grabbed hold of her hand and squeezed it so tightly she thought the bones would crack.
‘Another pain already?’ Mary looked anxiously at Eleanor but Eleanor’s eyes were fixed at a point near the open windows of the room and Mary turned to follow her gaze. The oldest woman they had ever seen was standing there, barely four foot tall, with skin black and wrinkled like a prune, wizened breasts bare but for a bone necklace carved with strange symbols and wearing a short kilt-like skirt made out of strips of barkcloth. The creature stood calmly, just inside the room.
Eleanor cried out just once and fell into a faint yet again, which was just as well, for the woman walked to the bed and laid her hand on Eleanor’s swollen belly. Cocking her head to one side, she palpated the mass gently, cluck-clucking to herself and completely ignoring Mary.
‘Hey! What are you doing?’ Mary shouted at her, wrenching her hand free from Eleanor’s and trying to push the black hand off, but the old woman was surprisingly strong. ‘Get out of here, do you understand me? Get out, leave her alone.’
As far as the old woman was concerned, Mary may as well not have been there. She flicked her hand once as though despatching a troublesome fly and then replaced it, continuing to palpate Eleanor’s belly.
‘I help,’ she said at last. ‘Minister’s woman in trouble.’
‘Aye,’ shouted Mary. ‘But not as much trouble as you’ll be in, if you do
n’t get out of here. The minister will be back in a minute and he’ll send you fleeing all right, putting your filthy hands on his woman.’
‘She sleep now, better soon.’
‘You gave her such a fright she’s swooned, you mean,’ retorted Mary but she paused in her tirade as she looked at the woman on the bed. Eleanor seemed to have come out of her faint and appeared to be sleeping naturally, with even a little colour in her cheeks. Mary put a hand on her forehead; it was cooler, she was sure of it, not clammy at all. And her breathing had slowed to an even rhythm, steady and full.
Astonished, Mary looked at the old woman, who was moving away from the bed to the window with an air of having finished what she came to do.
‘How did you do that?’ she asked but the woman either didn’t understand or chose not to answer. Instead she went out on to the verandah before pausing to speak.
‘Baby come one day,’ she said and disappeared into the undergrowth.
Mary stared after her; had she been real or just an apparition? But Eleanor was sleeping quietly when only a few minutes ago Mary could have sworn she was rapidly approaching the final stages of labour.
Mary went to the edge of the verandah steps and looked out towards the beach. The John Wesley was riding at anchor and a small knot of Europeans were walking up the beach with Francis, surrounded by natives. No Morgan, she thought sadly. All the men were dressed in sober black and there was no sign at all of the American’s flamboyant hat, nor of his burly shoulders covered in his pearl-grey cotton jacket. She watched as the group went into the church to give thanks for their safe arrival at Lakeba and shortly she heard the sound of singing, the deep voices of the natives somehow altering the hymn and giving it their own peculiar rhythm.