Telegram Home

by Kirsten McKenzie

  The line moved forward and before he knew it; he was inside, the clamour of the customers unceasing with their demands. The clink of metal stamps, the rattling of coins, and the clomping of boots adding to the chaos. And then he saw Sarah at the front, waiting her turn, an envelope clasped to her breast. The livid bruises on her face causing murmurs of interest in those around her, as they whispered behind mean hands and smaller minds. As she stepped up to the window, the clerk recoiled, causing the audience to titter in response. Price watched her straighten her shoulders, ignoring the comments from the captive audience behind her.

  With the postage for her letter secured, she swept from the counter, intent on escaping as swiftly as she could. She faltered as she saw him in the queue. Price started to greet her, but she hurried past him onto the street. He had to talk to her; the situation weighed heavily on his chest, he’d had been so sure Sinclair had done away with her, that he’d moved on. His grieving done.

  A decision made, he slipped out of the queue to hurry after her, the letter still in his hand.

  ‘Mrs Bell! Mrs Bell, wait!’

  She kept walking, head down, avoiding the stares of the other pedestrians on the street.

  ‘Sarah!’

  She stopped and turned towards him, her face a mask of pain.

  ‘Mrs Bell, please, can we talk?’

  She looked as though she was about to decline his request, but agreed to talk and followed him to café unaffected by the fire — the St Mungo Café, opened by the gregarious Charles Canning and advertising itself as especially for the discerning lady.

  ‘Tea?’

  ‘Yes please,’ Sarah said. fiddling with the condiments on the cloth-covered table.

  With a pot of tea in front of them, Price talked. He had trouble getting the right words out, even forming them in his mouth was a struggle. How did you tell the girl you loved that you’d fallen out of love, almost as quickly as a tide turns?

  Sarah reached out and put her hand on his. ‘It’s okay, don’t worry.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ Price said, staring into Sarah’s blackened eyes, searching for the truth.

  ‘It’s fine, I’m happy you’ve found each other. I’ve been looking for her for so long, that I never thought about what would happen when I found her. But I don’t need her anymore, not the way I used to, anyway. I’m all grown up now, and she has her own life to lead. And if that’s with you, well… I won’t need to worry about her.’

  Price felt himself falling for her again, but differently. Not in the your-heart-races-and-you-can’t-breathe way, but more in a grateful-she-exists way, that the world is a brighter place with Sarah in it.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘There was never any intention to hurt you. But when Sinclair abducted you, I resigned myself to the fact that you weren’t coming back, that you were dead. How did you escape from him?’

  Sarah shuffled in her seat, her eyes sliding away from his. There was something she wasn’t telling him.

  ‘Is he still alive?’

  ‘He was, but I’m not sure if he is now…’

  ‘Damn it,’ Price exclaimed. ‘And the candelabra, from the church?’

  A blush crept up Sarah’s cheeks. Had she been in cahoots with Sinclair this whole time?

  ‘Ah, those I know he sent to England. There was nothing I could do to stop him, sorry,’ she said, the contrition obvious in her voice.

  Price’s nerves resettled. The last thing he wished to believe was that this young woman was part of Sinclair’s web.

  ‘Then I shall write to the church and advise them of this, thank you—’

  Sarah interrupted him

  ‘Thanks for… for you know, taking the time to chat, but I should get back to Neumegen. He’s putting me up till I can sort myself out. I don’t enjoy everyone staring at me while my face looks like Picasso threw up on it to be honest, so I’ll head off and see you at the hospital. Can you send word when my mother wakes? I asked the nurses but they’re kind of busy.’

  Price nodded, his brain stumbling over Sarah’s peculiar comments.

  ‘And can you tell Colin that I wrote to his mum, on behalf of Mum and I?’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course,’ Price said, conscious of the unposted letter in his own pocket.

  Sarah got up, smoothing her skirts. Her hand pausing. Price watched as she seemed to argue with herself, before she withdrew a small rock from her pocket and thrust it into his hands.

  Price had worked in Bruce Bay long enough, that he could tell the difference between what was a rock and what was gold, and this rock was a gold nugget.

  ‘This belongs to Colin now,’ Sarah said, pressing Price’s fingers closed around the nugget. ‘It was Isaac’s, and he asked me to send it to his mother. I was going to, but Colin needs it more. Will you see that he gets it? Can I trust you?’

  The nugget was worth at least a year’s worth of wages and yet Sarah had kept it with her all this time. Sinclair hadn’t made off with it, and she hadn’t spent on baubles and trinkets. Price held it tight in his fist.

  ‘Yes, you can trust me,’ he said.

  The Gift

  Sarah returned to Neumegen’s shop, which was humming with customers. Neumegen had been correct when he’d explained that a calamity was good for business. Her father said the same thing after the Black Monday stock market crash in the 1980s. Those riding high on the dividends of their stocks, needing to liquidate their portable assets to keep their heads above the water and food on their tables.

  She slipped through to the workshop. Being amongst the boxes of pawned articles, stacked haphazardly atop of each other, was akin to being at home, mooching around The Old Curiosity Shop in the school holidays. There was nothing in particular she needed to do, so felt adrift - rudderless and directionless.

  Sarah tidied some boxes, straightening them on the mismatched shelves. Pocket-watch parts spilled from a broken carton, so she stuffed them back in, stacking the convex glass faces carefully. Next she turned her attention to the scrimshaw - carved sperm whale teeth. Neumegen had them lined up on the bench, sitting on black velvet bases, and all featured images of three-masted sailing ships and Māori maidens. One sported an impressive coat of arms, complete with the words DIEU ET MON DROIT, Latin for God and my right, the motto of the king.

  Scrimshaw never turned up these days, families being far more savvy about the value of items hidden in attics and basements thanks to the internet. She’d never seen one in the shop, although her father had mentioned buying and selling them in the past. Neumegen’s collection was extensive, perhaps someone had pawned a collection?

  She picked up the piece with the coat of arms, turning it slowly as she examined the intricate drawings on the huge tooth. A scene from Auckland’s busy harbour adorned the other side, highlighting the grand wooden buildings decimated by the fire only days earlier. Already it had a place in history as a record of what Auckland once looked like.

  Replacing it on the bench, she reached for the second tooth, when Neumegen opened the door, an assortment of lanterns hanging on his long arm.

  ‘Can you take these and shelve them out back?’ Neumegen called out.

  Sarah rushed forward to relieve him of his burden.

  ‘Is there anything I can do to help?’ she asked.

  Neumegen shook his head as he cast his eyes over his workshop.

  ‘It’s best not to interfere with things out here,’ he said. ‘Everything has its place, it’s where it should be, unlike you.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  A voice bellowed for Neumegen from the counter, sending the man scurrying back to his customer.

  ‘Never mind what I said, just put those lanterns on the bottom shelf,’ he said, pushing through the door. Something made him pause as he looked back at Sarah, but the impatient grumbles from the men waiting to pawn their goods interrupted whatever he wanted to say.

  Sarah struggled with the heavy lanterns. Her father only ever pawned gold or silver jewellery, because
of storage issues. Neumegen would be better off doing the same. He didn’t have enough room for the stuff he’d already loaned out on. These lanterns weren’t anything special, basic kerosene lanterns, made in England, and shipped out to New Zealand by the thousands. Still, she found room for them on the shelf, and shoved them in until they fit, some still had kerosene sloshing in the bottom which spilled on her hands.

  Washing her hands under the pump, she considered her life, but it didn’t pay to give it too much thought. There was never any sign or flashing neon light telling her what to touch to travel through time. If there were, she’d be a damn sight wealthier than she was now. She’d stock up on all the gold jewellery, sterling silver necessities and ancient pewter dishes which were a dozen to a penny here. She spent half her life in terror of touching the wrong thing, and the other half wishing she’d find the magic chalice to reunite her with her parents, preferably in modern day London, equipped with hot water and the internet.

  Drying her hands on her skirts, she returned to the workroom. If she couldn’t tidy in here, there was no point mooching around. Neumegen had a small shelf of books on display, she might read one of those to fill in her time. A far more exciting prospect than doing the laundry which was at least two hours hard labour once she’d boiled the water, rinsed the clothes, wrung them out, hung them up, and then ironed everything. She never ironed clothes at home. It’s also why she never bothered buying linen, because that always needed ironing. Who had time for that?

  The books were a disappointing collection of tomes written in what appeared to be German or Polish or something similar. Finnish maybe? Not a single one was in English. She had a smattering of French, and Latin, but neither of those languages equipped her to read Neumegen’s books. She was just about to go upstairs for a nap, when Neumegen poked his head in.

  ‘A telegram for you,’ he said, stretching his arm out towards her. ‘You aren’t wearing the necklace I gave you,’ he admonished. ‘It will bring you luck if you wear it.’

  Sarah muttered an apology, promising to put it on straight away as she grabbed the telegram from Neumegen’s fingers stained with ink from the elegant records he kept, detailing the pawns and their redemption dates.

  Neumegen smiled at her apology before returning to the counter, and once she was alone, she tore open the telegram which was short and to the point.

  “Your mother is awake. Come quickly. Price.”

  Her world exploded in a kaleidoscope of colour and joy, her mother was awake. She needed her hat and her jacket, which were upstairs.

  Sarah raced upstairs, her excitement giving flight to her feet. She wouldn’t have bothered about a hat, except for the curious glances she’d got earlier at the post office. She didn’t enjoy being a spectacle. A thousand thoughts crowded in on her. What should she say about her father? How would they talk about time travel with Price there? Had her mother already shared that with him? So many questions. How had her mother survived so long? What had happened to her? And most importantly, had she tried to return to her husband and child?

  The last question gave Sarah pause, and her knuckles tightened on the top of the bannister. Of course her mother had tried to come home to her. They were the best of friends, two peas in a pod. Sure, she was daddy’s little girl, but she was best friends with her mother, and needed her, no matter what she told herself.

  Sarah dashed downstairs, running straight into the ramrod straight figure of Neumegen.

  ‘It’s my mother, she’s awake,’ Sarah gushed.

  ‘Wonderful news, but please, can you mind the shop for a moment while I deal with a personal matter, yes?’

  Sarah was champing at the bit to get to the hospital, but the pawnbroker had been so kind, peculiar but kind. He had his secrets and had kept hers. One day she’d ask him, but today wasn’t that day. She didn’t want to destroy the delicately balanced life she now had, so removed her hat, and reluctantly took his place behind the counter, trying not to pace the now empty shop. She had no wrist watch to check the time, nor a phone, and the pocket watches on display showed different times.

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ she muttered under her breath as the second-hand of one watch made a complete circuit of the opalescent face, then another, and another.

  After an eternity, Neumegen reappeared, his face flushed and a smudge of dirt on the collar of his jacket.

  ‘Thank you, sometimes personal business just will not wait. It was good of you to look after things for me and now you must go to your mother,’ he instructed, passing Sarah her hat.

  She beamed, her foul thoughts vanishing like dew in the morning sun.

  ‘But first, the necklace, yes? As I explained, it will bring you luck, and that is what your mother needs. Surely you should look as though you doing well for yourself? Any mother would want to see that of her daughter, yes?’

  Sarah clenched her jaw. That bloody necklace. Nothing at all like her style, but the man was so insistent. And she’d left the thing upstairs.

  ‘It’s upstairs,’ she tried.

  ‘I’m certain, yes certain, that it would make your mother happy to see you wearing it,’ Neumegen said, immovable on the subject.

  ‘Fine,’ Sarah snapped, and ran upstairs. It was just as well her belongings were few, so it only took a few seconds to locate the jewellery box. Without opening it, she all but slid down the bannister, brandishing it at Neumegen as she sailed past.

  ‘Please, put it on,’ his voice louder than she expected, and his grip around her wrist tighter, as he stopped her from passing. ‘Please, before you leave. You need to wear the necklace,’ he said, his long fingers like handcuffs on her wrist.

  Trying not to scream with frustration, she stood stock still, hands clenched around the innocent black leather box, her knuckles white. She flipped the lid open, revealing the ostentatious pendant, with ill-fitting gemstones and crude workmanship. The cruciform pendant was so out-of-place in 19th century New Zealand that she had a hard time wrapping her head around how it came to be in Neumegen’s shop.

  She was still puzzling over the incongruousness of the necklace, when Neumegen pulled the pendant from the box by its woven hair cord and prepared to hang it around her neck.

  Sarah wasn’t to know that Mughal craftsmen made crosses such as these after the Jesuits visited India intending to convert Emperor Akbar to Christianity. Without diamond testers and the other miracle tools she used at work, she had no way of knowing that that what she assumed were glass pieces inset into the centre were in fact rough cut diamonds.

  By the time she remembered the eclectic collection of items in Neumegen’s bottom drawer, and the penny dropped, it was too late. The pendant was around her neck, and as soon as Neumegen connected the two ends of the necklace’s clasp, she couldn’t do anything other than scream. A scream no one heard, not even Neumegen, who was standing alone in his shop, a sad smile playing across his face. It was better she wasn’t here, and safer for them all.

  The Brother

  Ben Grey stepped from the ship’s deck to the solidness of the wooden wharf, his sea-addled body as fragile as a newborn foal. Tripping over an uneven plank, he cursed as he continued his ungainly shuffle and the other passengers buffeted him from behind, their own limbs as unused to land as his.

  With no knowledge of Auckland, Ben Grey stood at the end of the dock forcing his fellow travellers to mutter under their breath as they tried to avoid his stationary figure.

  He’d made no friends on board, except for the unsavoury types. It was tempting to disembark in Australia — a country far more settled and civilised that the one he found himself in now. But that didn’t fit his psyche, and he preferred the roughness of a new country, unshackled by rules. New Zealand was a far better fit. His mother and his conniving brother had done him a favour by sending him to the furthermost reaches of the Empire. But he’d never forget how they’d treated him and in time he’d have his revenge. But a new life beckoned, and he looked forward to enjoying the opportunities
ahead.

  Money filled Ben Grey’s pockets, cash won during the long sea voyage, which was partly why his fellow passengers hadn’t shared a heartfelt goodbye with him on the wharf. Their reluctance to acknowledge his existence entertained him even further and without a backwards glance he left them, the prospects of the city fuelling his grand ambitions.

  It wasn’t difficult to find accommodation; the signage adorning the streetscape a riot of copperplate advertising. The Imperial Hotel, on the corner of Auckland’s Queen Street and Fort Street appeared to be one of the better options and so he strode into the darkened interior, lush carpets muffling his footfall. With his lodgings secured, Ben Grey washed away the taint of the ocean and weeks of stolen glances from people whom he suspected knew who he was, and why he was onboard. But now he was his own man; his heritage no hindrance or help. What a boon it was to be free of one’s family obligations and expectations. Released, he could indulge in his passions and primal urges, just like he had in India, before his brother had put an end to it.

  ‘Thank you, gentlemen. It’s been a pleasure,’ Grey bowed as he collected the pile of notes from the centre of the table, his companions looking on in quiet defeat, their purses emptied, their egos deflated.

  Ben Grey left the tavern, his pocket a hundred times heavier than it had been before he’d entered. The tang of smoke all pervading despite the demolition of most of the damaged buildings.

  Without the Jowls around to control the seedier side of colonial life, gambling ran unmitigated in every establishment. The town ill-equipped to house the newly homeless, address the risk of invasion from the natives, manage the ever-increasing numbers of immigrants and worry too much about gambling or petty theft.

  Not that Ben Grey needed to lower himself to that level; he’d inherited his father’s penchant for cards, and it was this that he excelled at, cleaning up at every table he played. He expected his reputation would soon precede him, with the tables at the more salubrious establishments, the ones unmarred by the fire, turning him away. But until that happened, he’d take his success where he could.