by Maggie Hope
‘Bad news, is it, Eleanor?’ asked Francis.
Eleanor nodded for, having got over the preliminaries, John came straight to the point.
‘I regret to have to tell you that Mother passed away on November 11th. She will be a great loss to us, especially Fanny, but she had a good life despite being widowed so young and has now gone to her Just Reward.’
He had signed it, ‘Your loving brother, James.’
James, thought Eleanor. She would hardly know him if she saw him now.
‘Mother has died.’
Francis put down his correspondence, went around the table and put his hand on her shoulder. ‘I am so sorry, Eleanor,’ he said.
‘Yes.’ Eleanor studied the letter as though searching for more information than it actually carried. But James had never been a great correspondent; in fact this was the first letter she had received from him in all the time she had been in Fiji. There had been greetings at Christmas from his wife but that was all.
‘Poor Mother,’ she said softly.
‘Yes. She was widowed for many years and never complained,’ said Francis.
‘Oh, she complained right enough,’ said Eleanor. ‘She complained all the time. In fact, I should say it is probably a happy release for the family.’
‘Eleanor! How can you say such things and at a time like this!’
Eleanor looked up at him and sighed. ‘It’s how I feel. But yes, you’re right, I’m sorry, Francis,’ she said.
‘I’ll get Prue to make some more tea, you are upset, of course you are, I shouldn’t take any notice of what you say.’ Francis went to the door of the kitchen and called for Prue but there was no reply. ‘Now where is that girl?’ he asked of no one in particular.
‘I expect she’s gone out with the boys,’ said Eleanor. ‘Don’t worry, I don’t want more tea in any case, I’m quite all right. Go on to church, you’ll be late for your meeting.’
After he had gone, Eleanor sat on by the uncleared breakfast table, looking out on the street with unseeing eyes. For once she was allowing herself to think of home, of Houghton le Spring and Hetton-le-Hole, the beauty of the hills and dales of Durham and the dirt and smoke of the mining villages. And the viewer’s house at Hetton where she had lived with Grandmother Wales and Uncle John. Would she see it all again? Not her mother, not in this life.
Perhaps she had not been very tolerant of her mother when she was younger, too quick to see her faults. It could not have been easy for her, a widow. Now she was a wife and mother herself she could understand more. It was too late now, she realised sadly. There was a hole in her life where her mother had been.
‘Till we meet, till we meet at Jesu’s feet.’
The line ran through her head and she could almost hear the choir at Hetton singing. Shaking her head, she stood up and began to pile the breakfast dishes on the tray. What was the use of pining for home, Francis would never leave his beloved Fijians, never. And she didn’t want to either, she told herself, she was well liked in the village, the women looked forward to seeing her, they trusted her, she didn’t treat them with condescension like some Europeans, she was one of them.
Hearing noises in the kitchen, Eleanor picked up the tray and went through. Prue must be back from taking the children to the Sunshine Corner that Francis had recently started for all the children at the church. Matthew and Prue were standing close together, very close together. Eleanor almost dropped the tray as she saw them and realised just how close they were.
‘Matthew!’ she cried. ‘Prue!’
‘Yes, missus?’ The Tongan did not even move away from the girl; he didn’t even look guilty. If anything he looked proud and aloof, almost as if she was an unwanted interloper in her own kitchen. She looked at Prue – the chit was actually smiling!
‘Matthew and me, we want to get wed,’ Prue said.
‘But—But you can’t!’
Prue continued to smile, though her eyes grew wary. ‘Why?’
‘Well, because—’ Eleanor stopped. Why couldn’t they?
They stood before her, Matthew, with his maimed hand held behind his back, out of sight, was tall, straight and almost aristocratic in his pride. But oh, his skin so dark against the whiteness of his shirt. And Prue, the miner’s daughter from the other side of the world, just as proud, her golden hair curling on her forehead, a white cap perched on top and her skin so creamy white where it met the neckline of her dress.
Prue was beautiful, Eleanor thought; she hadn’t really noticed how beautiful she had become. Her dimples had come back, she was more rounded than she had been since landing here from Australia and her bright blue eyes shone with health. She even had a saucy gleam in her eyes, as she had had on the ship coming over, the gleam that had captivated the seamen. She was plumper and she had let out the seams of her dress for there was the deeper mark where the sun had not faded the material. An awful suspicion came to Eleanor; oh, surely not, not in the minister’s house, no, Prue wouldn’t. Eleanor was driven to ask.
‘Prue, you’re not—’
‘We want to get wed right away,’ Prue interrupted. She moved away from Matthew and began to empty the breakfast tray, her movements deft and sure but her voice nervous. Or was she just excited? Dear Lord, what was Francis going to say?
‘I don’t know … You will have to speak to Mr Tait,’ Eleanor said at last. ‘Ask him if he will marry you.’
Prue and Matthew looked at each other and smiled and Eleanor saw that they were in love, truly in love. How could she have been so blind as not to notice before now?
‘You stay here, Prue, I’ll walk down for the children. I’ll have a word with Francis for you if you like.’
Matthew stepped forward. ‘No, missus. I speak to Mr Tait myself.’ He turned to Prue. ‘Come, woman,’ he said and she bowed her head and followed him out of the door, through the garden and around the house to the street.
Eleanor watched, bemused. She had never seen Prue humble in her life before, not even when she was a child starving at the back door of the viewer’s house. Not even when she returned from Sydney after the death of her husband and baby. Now she was not only humble, she was positively submissive, which boded well for her future with Matthew. Polynesian men would brook no insubordination from their wives.
‘I am pleased for Prue,’ said Francis that night when they were in their bedroom together. He spoke softly, for the children were asleep in the next room. Matthew and Prue had gone off to visit his relatives at Lakeba, evidently something that Matthew considered essential as soon as the marriage was announced.
‘Are you? I wasn’t sure how you would take the news.’
Eleanor watched him as he carefully folded his clothes and laid them in the clothes cupboard, something he did every night. She herself was already dressed in her voluminous nightgown, her long hair brushed and shining down her back.
Francis put on his nightshirt and picked up his Bible before answering. He had taken to reading a chapter aloud in bed every night lately, after their prayer-time and before retiring to his cot.
She considered whether to tell him of her suspicions concerning Prue or should she wait until after the pair were married? It was so difficult to talk to Francis about such things.
‘I think perhaps the marriage ought to be as soon as possible,’ Francis observed. He lay on his back in bed, his Bible unopened beside him.
Eleanor turned her head and stared at him. It was the nearest he would get to actually saying he thought Prue was expecting a baby – so he had guessed. Francis had seemed a different man today. He had not once mentioned the cultural differences between Matthew and Prue, something that was often used as a cover for objecting to black marrying white. But not by Francis, she thought suddenly, never by Francis.
‘They are in love,’ she said, dreamily gazing into the shadows cast by the lamp on Francis’s night table. The house was very quiet, no sound from the boys’ room. It was a long while since John had had one of his nightmares; she p
rayed they had seen the end of them. A nightbird called outside the window, low and musical.
‘You don’t blame them, Francis? You’re not judging them?’ Francis turned towards her and raised himself on one elbow.
‘It is human nature, Francis, we are all weak.’
She saw he was looking at the curve of her neck, just above the high-buttoned frill of her nightgown, and she didn’t turn away or huddle under the sheet as she was wont to do.
‘Are you not worried about the future of any children they may have, Francis?’ she asked. ‘They might have a hard time in the world.’
‘They will survive.’
It was hard to see Francis’s eyes, they were just dark smudges in the lamplight, but she thought he was gazing at her with that intent look she remembered so well. It was a long time since he had approached her, put his hands on her in that way. He had given up, she supposed. And she had been hard on him, she had reneged on her marriage vows. The thought surprised her; she hadn’t looked at it like that before.
Somehow tonight she had changed; she smiled gently and put her hand on his arm. It was as much of an overture as she was able to make but it was enough.
‘Eleanor.’ Francis breathed her name as he took her in his arms and kissed her. He felt her response and began undoing the buttons of her nightdress, at last reaching her breasts, still firm and full in spite of nursing four children. And he was completely lost, his movements getting more urgent as he carried her along with him in his passion.
She had denied her needs for so long, the strength of her feeling took her completely unaware; it was almost as though it was the first time for her. No, not the first time, she thought sleepily as she lay afterwards with Francis still breathing hard and still collapsed half across her, but the first time she had really tasted the glory it could bring.
A lovely drowsiness was creeping over her, forcing her eyes closed. The last thing she heard was a thump as Francis’s Bible fell to the floor. Well, the Lord would not be offended, she was sure of it.
Prue and Matthew were married the following week at Lakeba and Francis conducted the ceremony just as he had officiated at her sister Mary’s wedding.
‘Most of Matthew’s family live at Lakeba,’ said Prue by way of explanation. She was with Eleanor at the cloth counter of the village store, for Eleanor had offered to buy the material for her wedding dress.
‘Well, we have old friends on Lakeba too,’ Eleanor answered. ‘Now, what do you think of this muslin? Such a lovely cream colour, the colour of old lace. In fact, I have some old lace in a drawer, we could trim it with that, it will make a lovely wedding dress and easy to sew too, we haven’t much time to spare if it’s to be ready next Saturday.’
Prue looked a little embarrassed. ‘I don’t think I should have a white dress,’ she said.
Eleanor understood; it wasn’t the thing when a girl had been married before and especially when she was already—no, best not to think that.
‘But it’s cream, not white,’ she protested. ‘I’m sure there can be no objections to it.’
‘Oh, no, not that, it’s just that I don’t want that kind of a wedding dress at all.’
Eleanor looked mystified.
‘I’m going to wear what the Tongan women wear. I thought Matthew would like that.’
So there was not much sewing to be done for the wedding dress after all and Prue went down the aisle on the arm of Francis, who had two parts to play that day, and she was dressed in a sarong with flowers in her golden hair and more round her neck rather than in a bouquet in her hands.
Matthew was waiting surrounded by relatives; the only concession he made to European dress was the white shirt that he had tucked into the brightly coloured cloth wound round his waist.
Eleanor stood, her boys by her side, all of them unnaturally clean and solemn in their Sunday best. She watched Francis proudly, thinking how tall and handsome he was. She couldn’t understand how she had missed noticing how distinguished he had grown with his dark eyes and full beard.
‘—cleaving only unto him,’ he was saying to Prue, ‘as long as ye both shall live.’ And she remembered the night before, how ardent he had been, so different from his cool, dignified self today and she felt warm all over, tingling warm. She picked up the paper fan from the ledge in front of her and fanned herself vigorously. ‘God is Love’ it read in English and in the local Fijian. Well, she hoped so.
The ceremony was over and the newly married couple were in the tiny room off the church that was used as a vestry, signing the register, when there was a murmur of sound from the door behind her.
The whole congregation was sitting, waiting to spring to their feet as the bridal party made its way out, and some heads turned in curiosity to see what it was. Eleanor was watching the vestry door, which was opening, and she was far more interested in that than any stray dog or pig or whatever coming into the church, but the boys had turned fully round and Francis William even stood on his seat to get a better look.
‘It’s a lady, Mam,’ he announced loudly.
‘It’s Mary, Mam,’ shouted John who was a big boy now and should have known better than to shout in church.
But the congregation was rising to their feet as the harmonium began to sound the wedding march, wheezing and spluttering a bit for the damp atmosphere of Lakeba was already affecting its parts, and Matthew strode down the aisle, though not with Prue on his arm; that would have been making one concession too many to European custom. She was only half a step behind him, however, and smiling with such brilliance that she rivalled the sun.
Chapter Twenty-six
‘Come on, Ruth, eat your breakfast and afterwards we can walk down to the harbour,’ said Mary. They were sitting on the verandah of the plantation house, the tiny girl drawing rings in her porridge and watching as they filled with milk. She looked up at her mother and attempted to make a bargain.
‘Can I play with Juli if I eat it up?’
‘You know Daddy doesn’t like you to play with the children from the huts, Ruth,’ said Mary. She bit her lip as she saw her daughter’s disappointment. Ruth was so lonely without other children to play with but the last time she had allowed it Morgan had come home and there had been an almighty row that ended in her getting a black eye; Ruth had screamed and screamed and she had had to pick her up and run to stop him hitting Ruth too.
Ruth put down her spoon and left her seat to climb on Mary’s knee where she peered over her shoulder at the track through the cotton fields.
‘Daddy’s coming,’ she said and her hand curled into a tiny fist clutching at her mother’s shoulder. A shaft of pain ran through Mary as her stomach knotted. She did not turn to see Morgan dismount from his horse and run up the steps.
‘What’s the matter with the brat now?’ he said, striding over to the chair opposite and flinging himself down. The riding whip he was carrying started to tap rhythmically on the floor and his dark brows met in a scowl. He did not bother with any greeting.
‘Nothing. We were just going for a walk, Ruth’s looking forward to it.’
Morgan didn’t reply; he hadn’t even been listening to her answer, she realised. He was staring moodily at the cotton fields.
‘There were only three buyers at the auction,’ he said. ‘And they were from Australia looking for a cheap bargain. Manchester doesn’t want our cotton now, not since the South began to pick up.’
Mary felt a surge of joy; oh, how she would have loved to be there at the auction, to see him frustrated and humiliated. And he was all the arrogant businessman only last year. By, it was grand to see him brought down, she’d like to see him bankrupt.
Except it was Ruth’s inheritance and she didn’t want Ruth to end up penniless. And herself, she deserved to get something out of this marriage after all she had had to put up with over the years. But she had thought Ruth would be a real heiress and that they would go back to England triumphantly in diamonds and tiaras, whatever they were. No, if Ruth
was to suffer it spoiled all the pleasure of seeing Morgan’s enterprises going down.
‘Haven’t you got anything to say, you stupid peasant?’ said Morgan.
‘I’m sorry the business isn’t doing well,’ said Mary.
‘I’ll wager you are, if it means there’s nothing for that mewling brat,’ he snapped, surprising Mary by how close he was to what she had been thinking.
Mary felt Ruth tremble; poor bairn, she knew exactly who Morgan was talking about when he said brat. She probably thought it was her other name. Rising to her feet, she shifted the little girl’s weight on to her hip.
‘Where the hell are you going now?’ Morgan asked.
‘I promised Ruth—’ she began but he interrupted impatiently.
‘Oh yes, the little darling’s walk. I don’t matter any more, do I? Well, get out of my sight, the pair of you.’
She was going past his chair when he stuck out his leg to bar her progress. Now what? she thought. Was this some cat-and-mouse game he was playing just for his own amusement?
‘Let me past, please,’ she said, trying to keep her voice pleasant.
‘I will, I will.’ He thrust out a hand. ‘I forgot, this letter came for you yesterday, you might as well have it.’
Yesterday. He had carried it around for a whole day. Mary snatched the letter and hurried off down the track, for if she had stayed she would have said what she thought and there would have been another row and Ruth couldn’t stand that.
Once into the fields, she put Ruth down so she could run and skip about, talking to herself as she played another of her solitary games. There was no one in sight as Morgan had not sown so much cotton this year; there was not the work for the labourers and he had turned some off. Even the cotton gin was silent and there was an air of abandonment to the place though the storage sheds were still stuffed with last year’s cotton.
Mary watched as Ruth began to pick wild flowers, then she sat down on a rock and opened her letter. It was from Prue, an invitation to her wedding. Wedding? Mary was surprised; she didn’t even know Prue was courting.