A Mother's Courage

by Maggie Hope

  Morgan lifted an eyebrow sardonically. ‘Because, my sweet, today I want you with me and that’s all the reason I need, do you understand?’

  Reluctantly Mary rose from the table and walked to the door before trying one last time to get out of the ride round the plantation. She hated horses, had never got used to riding and when she went out with him she spent her time covering up her terror.

  ‘I am tired, Morgan, I don’t feel well.’

  ‘Don’t you come the fine lady with me, my girl,’ said Morgan. ‘Remember, I know where you came from and if you’re not a good little girl you might find yourself walking the streets of Sydney along with that sister of yours.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Mary. ‘Have you heard where she is?’ She came back into the room and gazed down at him eagerly.

  ‘Don’t get excited; no, I haven’t heard from her. But I’d wager a thousand that’s where she is. No doubt your friend will let you know if she manages to find her.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Mary, the eagerness dying from her face. ‘We haven’t been in touch much since I left Lakeba. I didn’t like to admit …’

  ‘Admit what, Mary? That being married to me is not all you thought it was going to be?’ He grinned at her and even now the sight of the way his eyes crinkled and sparkled in amusement gave her a melting feeling. To hide it she turned her back and walked briskly to the door.

  ‘I’ll go and change,’ she said.

  They rode out of the stable yard into the full heat of the morning and Mary was glad of the shady hat she was wearing. It had a pale green muslin scarf tied round it and looped round her neck so that she could cover her face if the flies got too bothersome.

  She rode side-saddle and the long skirt of her habit was draped elegantly across the hind quarters of her mare so that her highly polished brown boots peeped out from under it. She sat ramrod straight as Morgan had taught her, holding the reins in one hand in just the correct manner. But inwardly she was shaking and her other hand grasped the pommel tightly, she couldn’t help it; she stared straight ahead at the shimmering heat haze, her face white and strained. And the old mare she was riding knew it and her ears twitched backwards and forwards nervously.

  Morgan led his horse up to her and the mare shied slightly at the closeness of the stallion.

  ‘Careful, man!’ Mary cried, and he laughed.

  ‘Mary, Mary, don’t be such a ninny, she’s not going to run away with you. And I wish you would control that abominable accent, do you want everyone to know where you come from?’

  ‘Why not? I’m not ashamed of it.’

  ‘Yes, well, I think you ought to be,’ snapped Morgan.

  Mary’s pulse was still jumping but she wasn’t going to let this pass. ‘My accent is no worse than yours,’ she declared. ‘At least it’s—’

  Whatever she was going to say was forgotten as they came to the first big cotton field. It was harvest time and there were lines of men and women working amongst the bushes, picking the fluffy white balls and putting them in the enormous bags they had slung round their shoulders, supported by a strap on the forehead.

  The heat and humidity was intense yet an overseer was striding up and down the lines, shouting at any worker he considered to be slacking. Mary felt sick as she saw a woman slide to the ground, overcome by the heat. The overseer was quick to spot her and was by her side in an instant, but not to help her. He prodded her, none too gently, with his stick and Mary was furious to see it was a version of the native i ula kobo fighting club, albeit a small one.

  Forgetting her usual fear of having her foot trodden on when she dismounted from a horse, Mary swung herself to the ground and ran over to the woman, bending over her and raising her head, wiping the sweat away with her own handkerchief. She lifted the heavy bag of cotton from the woman, seeing the red weal on her forehead where the strap had bitten into the flesh.

  ‘My God, Morgan,’ she shouted, ‘look at this poor woman! By, she’d be better off down a coal mine! Where’s your humanity, man?’

  Morgan was standing beside her now, his eyes like chips of ice and his mouth a hard straight line.

  ‘Get up out of the dust, Mary,’ he commanded. ‘Wilson, take this woman away. If you can’t keep the blacks in good enough condition to do the work you’ll have to do it yourself.’

  The woman was pulled to her feet and stood swaying for a moment before casting a frightened glance at Morgan and hurrying to pick up her bag of cotton. As she did so, her dirty sarong pulled against her figure, showing an unmistakable bulge.

  ‘She’s having a baby!’ cried Mary, her outrage growing.

  ‘Nothing to do with me, my love,’ drawled Morgan and the overseer smirked. ‘These blacks contract to come here and work in exchange for their passage and bed and board when they get here. They’ll do anything to get out of their side of the bargain, dirty shiftless lot that they are. Oh, come on, don’t worry about it, a drink of water and she’ll be right as rain. They don’t feel things the same as we do, Mary, really they don’t.’

  He took her arm to lead her back to the horses, his fingers like bands of iron so that she had perforce to go, but she was not about to forget the incident.

  ‘Aye, the nobs and the mine owners used to think that about the miners,’ she said bitterly. She was remembering her father once telling her how his father was bound to the mine by the yearly bond, virtually at the mercy of the owners. And how, before that, the Scottish miners were bound to the pit for life and their sons after them. She began to tell him but he interrupted her impatiently.

  ‘Now don’t get maudlin, Mary, these natives really are different, it’s not just a matter of princes and peasants as in the story books.’

  ‘You mean they’re not really people, don’t you?’

  Morgan shook his head in mock despair at her attitude. ‘I didn’t say that, did I?’ He helped her up on to her mare and mounted his own horse. ‘I suppose it’s womanly for you to have some feeling for the brutes,’ he said judiciously. ‘Come on now, we must get on.’ He set off again on his tour of the estate and after a moment she followed him.

  What could she do anyway? she thought. Any influence she might have had on Morgan was rapidly running out as time went on and she had to tell him that, no, there were no signs of a baby, not yet. At first he had shrugged, said there was plenty of time. But Mary dreaded that when she had to tell him tonight that his hopes were frustrated yet again, he would get angry and impatient and look at her coldly as though she were a stranger, just as he had last month.

  Eleanor was packing up their home of the last four years in readiness to move to Viwa when Matthew tapped on the bedroom door.

  ‘A visitor, missus,’ he said, his haughty face full of disapproval.

  ‘A visitor?’ Eleanor was surprised until she glanced out of the window and saw that the supply ship was lying at anchor; she hadn’t even noticed it coming in. Her spirits lifted. Perhaps it was Mrs Langham or even Mrs Gibson; they often travelled round the islands with their husbands and when they did they took the opportunity to visit the other missionaries’ wives. She didn’t even notice Matthew’s expression but dropped the pile of sheets she was folding on to the bed and rushed out on to the balcony to greet whoever it was.

  ‘Bring tea and ginger biscuits, please, Matthew,’ she said over her shoulder, thankful that she had baked a batch only that morning and they were nice and fresh.

  ‘Hello, Mrs Tait.’

  At first, Eleanor didn’t recognise the woman standing on the top step, hesitating to come nearer as though unsure of her welcome. She stared at the old-young face and the straggly blonde hair bleached almost white by the sun. It was the blue of the girl’s eyes that Eleanor recognised in the end.

  ‘Prue Buckle!’ she cried. ‘You got here then.’ Somehow Eleanor had forgotten all about Mary’s little sister these last few days, since Francis had got his new placement on Viwa and there was so much to do to get ready. And then there was baby
Edward. He wasn’t thriving as he should; he looked so pale and wan and she was terrified he was sickening for a fever. She put the thought out of her mind and smiled at Prue. ‘Come in, then, don’t stand out there in the heat, sit down, Matthew is bringing tea.’

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Tait. But I’m not Prue Buckle any more. I’m Prudence Allan.’ Prue moved forward, and as Eleanor gestured towards the bamboo chair, she sat down, right on its edge.

  ‘Yes, of course, Mrs Allan.’ Eleanor couldn’t take her eyes off Prue; she was barely nineteen, she knew that, yet she looked like a woman in her thirties and, what’s more, one who had a hard life. Her face was drawn and lined around the eyes and the black dress she was wearing looked as though it had been made for a woman twice her size, but then she was as thin as a lathe. Her fingers played continually with a black cotton dolly bag she was carrying and as Eleanor looked down at them, she saw that the nails were bitten to the quick, the skin wrinkled and as red as a washerwoman’s. But what shocked Eleanor most was Prue’s resemblance to her mother, Mrs Buckle, that very first time she had seen her.

  ‘Are you ill?’ she exclaimed and couldn’t help thinking of her two children; had Prue brought some terrible disease from the slums of Sydney?

  Prue laughed shortly. ‘No, Mrs Tait, I’m not badly. I lost my man, mebbe you heard that Jack had died? But don’t worry, it wasn’t consumption nor nowt like that, no, it was his heart gave up, he wasn’t strong, like. But I didn’t have a penny to bless myself with after I’d buried him, poor lad. Work was scarce and it’s hard to get fat on nowt.’

  ‘Oh.’ Eleanor’s quick sympathy was roused – whatever the girl had done she was still just a girl and life had been hard to her. When Matthew brought the tea she poured Prue a cup, spooned sugar into it and offered her fresh biscuits.

  Prue drank the tea and ate the biscuits carefully, reminding Eleanor of the way Mary had eaten so carefully that morning so long ago when she had come to the viewer’s house with Prue for food. Afterwards, the girl sat back and gazed earnestly at Eleanor.

  ‘I want to thank you for sending me the money for my ticket,’ she said. ‘I won’t be much more trouble to you, if you will be good enough to tell Mary I’m here – where is Mary?’

  ‘Mary? Why she’s on Viti Levu. Oh, I’m sorry, did you think she was here?’

  ‘Living on Viti Levu?’ Prue was surprised.

  ‘Mary married Morgan West,’ said Eleanor and as it became obvious that Prue knew nothing about it she told her about the wedding and the cotton plantation.

  Prue was cast down. ‘She’s forgotten all about me, then. Now she has a fine new life, married an’ all. An’ I bet she’s not short of a bob, neither,’ she mumbled, looking down at her fingers, twining and intertwining in her lap. She was close to tears, Eleanor realised.

  ‘No, she hasn’t forgotten you, of course she hasn’t,’ she said. ‘Why, it was Mary who asked me to try to find you, she was worried about you. She’s been worried about you since that day you ran off in Sydney. She spent hours searching for you, she was distraught.’

  Prue must have heard a note of censure in this last bit for she sat up straight and lifted her chin.

  ‘Well, I don’t know why, I’m sure. I left her a note, didn’t I? An’ I told her I was going to marry Jack, I told her plain enough, she knew I was all right. Jack was a good man, it was just bad fortune he had to die. I’m sure there wasn’t a thing for her to worry about, not then.’

  ‘You were very young, Prue.’

  ‘Aye mebbe so, but I was old enough to marry.’

  Her truculent tone suddenly collapsed and she bent her head to her hands again and sniffed audibly. ‘Poor Jack, poor lad,’ she said.

  ‘It was God’s will,’ said Eleanor, simply because that was what Francis would have said and she couldn’t think of any other comfort to give. Prue sniffed again, then suddenly she sat up straight and became businesslike.

  ‘Well, Mrs Tait, I’m grateful for what you’ve done, like I said. And if you just give me the money to get to – what’s that place where Mary’s at?’

  ‘Viti Levu.’

  ‘Aye well, if you would do that for me, I’m sure Mary will pay you back. She must be well able to afford it now, that Morgan West is a proper gent, isn’t he?’

  ‘I was hoping you’d stay here and help me out in the house, Prue,’ said Eleanor. ‘I have a new baby coming and my little Edward isn’t very strong and anyway, we are moving to Viwa shortly, it will be easy for you to visit Mary from there.’

  ‘I want to go to Mary.’

  Eleanor looked at her. ‘Of course you do,’ she said. ‘But don’t you think it would be better to stay here for a short while at least? You can help me so much to get ready to go to Viwa. Even just helping with the children. I would be so grateful, Prue. Look, if you like I can send a message to Mary with the next boat, perhaps she will come over to see you. Morgan often comes this way.’

  A fretful wailing started up from inside the house and then John’s clear piping tones. ‘Mammy, Mammy, Edward’s crying again. Mammy, can I come out now? I’m all woke up.’

  Prue looked up sharply, colour coming and going in her face, but Eleanor didn’t notice at first. She was going into the bedroom where John was already climbing out of his bed.

  ‘Be a good boy, stay on the verandah,’ she instructed him as she went past to Edward’s cot and lifted the baby out. And her brow knitted in anxiety as she felt how light he was – surely he was not only not gaining weight, but actually losing it? What’s more, though his eyes were wide open he lay in her arms listlessly and when she lifted his little hand and kissed it, feeling the heat under the skin, he showed no reaction, no pleasure in seeing her, nothing, only the weariness that had become his habitual expression.

  ‘The bairn’s not right.’

  Eleanor jumped at the voice at her shoulder. Prue had followed her into the room and was watching the baby critically.

  ‘It’s just a fever I think, nothing really serious, I’m sure it isn’t,’ she said cradling Edward against her breast defensively.

  ‘I’m hungry,’ announced John, frowning at all the attention his brother was getting. ‘Dinner time,’ he went on, when there was no immediate response.

  ‘Yes, pet,’ said Eleanor, ‘Matthew will bring it now and Edward’s milk too.’

  John pulled a face at his brother. ‘He’ll only be sick again,’ he said. ‘Edward’s always sick.’ Clearly he thought putting milk into the baby only for him to vomit it back was a waste of time.

  Prue held out her arms. ‘Give me the babby,’ she said. ‘I’ll see to him for you. Don’t worry, I’ll look after him real good, I promise you.’

  John was tugging at Eleanor’s skirts now, insisting on her attention, and after a moment she reluctantly handed Edward over and went into the kitchen in search of food for both the children. When she came back, Prue was sitting on the swing, gently rocking Edward and crooning an old Durham lullaby to him. ‘Whisht little babby, whisht my bairn,’ she sang while Edward watched her solemnly.

  Eleanor gave John his meal and Matthew came through with a mug of goat’s milk, fresh drawn from the animal tethered in the yard. There was some for Edward, too, for Eleanor had weaned him when she discovered she was pregnant yet again, something she now bitterly regretted. It couldn’t have been that which made him fail to thrive, could it? she asked herself for the umpteenth time. But Edward was old enough to do without breast milk, of course he was, and she had the new baby to consider.

  Prue patiently spooned milk into Edward’s mouth carefully, not rushing him, waiting until he was ready for the next spoonful. She even had to be persuaded to leave him in his cot while she had her own meal, though once she had joined Eleanor at the table, she tucked into the rice and meat with an intense concentration that convinced Eleanor she must have often gone hungry since her husband died. Afterwards, the two women sat beside the cot, which Matthew had brought out on to the balcony so that Edward co
uld have the benefit of any current of fresh air that might be stirring.

  They sat together, John playing with his cup and ball at their feet, and watched over the sick baby. In their anxiety, both women seemed to have forgotten that Prue was intending to go to Viti Levu, as soon as she could.

  As it grew dark, Matthew lit the lamp and hung it on the balcony and after a while, Francis came home.

  ‘Prudence Buckle,’ he said and looked her up and down.

  ‘Hello, Mr Tait,’ she replied. But before he could make further comment he noticed the anxiety that enveloped Eleanor.

  ‘What is it? Is it Edward?’ he asked quickly, moving to the cot and gazing at the child. ‘If only there was a doctor—’

  ‘Doctors are no good any road,’ said Prue. ‘I spent all I had on a doctor, they can’t help.’

  ‘But Jack Allan was different, this is a baby,’ said Eleanor. ‘But there isn’t a doctor anywhere near so what does it matter?’

  ‘My little Jackie was a baby an’ all,’ said Prue. ‘It’s all the same, doctors are useless. Everything’s useless.’

  ‘We can pray,’ said Francis. After a moment, the three of them got to their knees beside the cot and Francis began to pray. Eleanor wasn’t even taking in the words he was saying; her whole being was one big prayer: don’t let Edward die, please, God.

  After a while, Francis helped her to her feet. ‘It’s in the hands of the Lord now, my dear,’ he said.

  Eleanor looked at him; there was no emotion on his face. Did he really believe God would save the baby? His expression was so controlled, his lips together, no crease or furrow on his high forehead and he was like a stranger to her. What was he thinking? Then he caught her gaze with his and she saw the torment deep in his eyes and it matched her own suffering.

  In an instinctive gesture she reached out and put her arms around him and in that moment they were closer than they had ever been before.