Mud and Gold

by Shayne Parkinson

  A woman! He’s been with another woman! ‘Lady,’ David had said, but that was not quite the right word. It would not have been a ‘lady’ that Charlie had found to drink gin with and roll among dirty sheets. He had been with a whore.

  She schooled her face into a bland expression, and turned back to Charlie. He was staring at her; she returned his look as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

  ‘What a silly thing to say, Davie! Come on, I’ll put you to bed so you won’t annoy Papa with your nonsense.’ She even managed a small laugh.

  When she had seen both boys settled in their bedrooms, she walked briskly through the parlour. ‘I’m going to bed now, Charlie,’ she said, still careful to sound untroubled. ‘I’m a bit tired, I don’t think I’ll do any sewing tonight.’

  ‘Please yourself,’ he grunted in reply.

  Once safely out of sight of Charlie and the boys, Amy dropped her rigid self-control. She caught sight of herself in the mirror, white-lipped and eyes wide. Whore. Whore. Whore. The name Susannah and Charlie had both flung at her echoed in her mind.

  Amy moved mechanically, and was vaguely surprised to find herself in her nightdress and lying in bed. She stared up at the ceiling, clenching and unclenching her fists until she realised what she was doing and forced herself to relax her aching hands.

  Anger was not something Amy had allowed herself to feel for many years, and the strength of her emotion frightened her. She wanted to smash something; preferably something Charlie valued. She wanted to shout at him; to hurl back some of the abuse he had heaped on her over the miserable years she had spent with him, trying so desperately to please him, trying vainly to earn his respect since affection was not to be hoped for. She thought back over those mysterious outings he had made over the years, and remembered with startling clarity the first of them: it had been the morning after Malcolm turned six weeks old, when she had had to do her duty and had been unable to hide the agony it gave her. ‘Useless bitch.’ She heard the words again, felt once more the hurt of them. And he had left her alone with Malcolm, the places where she had been torn still throbbing from his thrusts, while he diverted himself with a whore.

  But she could not afford to feel anger. She gradually became calmer as the reality of the situation pressed in on her. He was free to do what he wanted. He had been free to do as he wished with her since the day she had married him, and his betrayal did not change that. He called her a whore for her sin with Jimmy, but now that she had discovered his faithlessness the only thing she could do was pretend to be as ignorant as ever. If she confronted him with what she knew he would beat her, perhaps using the stick that leaned against one wall of their bedroom, and then order her not to speak of it again. She could at least save herself the beating if she kept silent.

  She heard him moving about in the parlour, and knew he would soon come to bed. Another flash of anger shook her, followed by a stab of fear. He was going to come into the room and climb into bed with her. What if he chose that night to mount her? I can’t. I can’t pretend not to know. Not when he still smells of another woman. Disgust was a bitter taste in her mouth at the idea of having him thrust that thing inside her when it had so recently been in a whore.

  It suddenly struck her that it was not going to happen. Charlie could only manage to take out his lust on her once or twice a week, and even then he sometimes had to admit defeat and roll off her exhausted but unsatisfied. He had spent the afternoon with a whore; that was a guarantee of an undisturbed night for his wife.

  Amy closed her eyes and pretended to be asleep when Charlie came to bed, while her mind turned the puzzle over and over. But when she at last dropped off into genuine, if uneasy, slumber she had still not decided what emotion she felt most strongly at the idea of Charlie with a whore. Was it anger? Or hurt? Or (a small voice whispered in her head) relief?

  20

  July – November 1890

  The Leith family gained two new members that July. Early in the month Sophie gave birth to a sturdy boy for whom no name but John, after his father and grandfather, was considered. To avoid the confusion of three generations in the house with the same name, the youngest John was from the beginning referred to as ‘Baby’ by the rest of the family.

  The nurse did not have to wait two weeks for her next patient to need her; Jane’s baby decided to come a week early, so that there was a mere nine days between the two cousins. If Harry was disappointed at having a second daughter he showed no sign of it to those around him, declaring staunchly, ‘There’s nothing wrong with girls, there’re plenty of boys around here, anyway.’

  There should have been three new grandchildren for Jack that year, but it was not to be. Amy had her third miscarriage late in July, and in September she had several days of bleeding that seemed too heavy for a normal monthly flow, accompanied by painful cramps. She was not sure if it should be counted as yet another miscarriage, but whether or not it meant another dead baby the loss of blood left her weary and dejected.

  Every miscarriage left Amy a little weaker, and getting through her daily tasks was becoming more of a struggle. Often she would have to stop for a few seconds and gather strength to go on with heavy tasks. Sometimes she lost awareness of what was going on around her for a moment or two, and the resulting lack of concentration earned her many slaps when she did not respond quickly enough to Charlie’s biddings.

  She hated telling him about the miscarriages, but she felt it was his right to know. Each time he looked grimmer and more irritable, though he said little.

  After the ordeal of telling Charlie, she wanted to hide from the sorrow of another lost baby, not talk to anyone else about it. Lizzie noticed Amy’s increasingly wan appearance, but her attempts at probing for the reason were met with assurances that nothing was wrong, that Amy was just ‘tired’.

  *

  On a mild day in early November, Frank was driving the family home from their weekly trip to the store, having with difficulty curtailed a long discussion between Lizzie and the storekeeper’s wife, when Lizzie tapped his arm as they passed the Royal Hotel.

  ‘Look at that,’ she said. ‘There’s Charlie going into the hotel. In the middle of the day! Isn’t that disgraceful?’

  Frank followed Lizzie’s disapproving stare. Charlie had tied his horse to a hitching rail outside the hotel and was making his way up an alley. The path led to stairs at the rear of the hotel, giving access to the upper floor. With a start, Frank realised just where Charlie was heading.

  ‘Well, I do think that’s shocking,’ Lizzie declared. ‘He should be home working—he could give Amy a hand with a few things, too, instead of wandering off by himself. Do you know, she has to chop her own kindling half the time? She says he doesn’t think of it and she doesn’t like to bother him. And Mal wears her out with his nonsense, too, it wouldn’t hurt Charlie to cart him into town even if he won’t take Amy. Fancy him going out drinking! He should be ashamed of himself.’

  ‘Shh, Lizzie,’ Frank said, looking around to see if anyone was within hearing distance.

  ‘I don’t see why you’re shushing me,’ Lizzie said, making no attempt to keep her voice down. ‘It’s not me parading about drinking in broad daylight. And Amy’s not even very well. All he thinks about is his own comfort. You’d think he could make do with a bit of beer at home.’

  ‘It’s not beer,’ Frank said quietly.

  ‘Well, gin or whisky or whatever it is.’

  ‘No, it’s not drink at all—well, maybe he drinks a bit up there, I don’t know.’ Frank glanced at Maudie and Joey on the rear seat of the buggy, but they were too busy sharing out their haul of sweets to take any notice of the adult conversation. ‘Men don’t go round the back and upstairs at the Royal for a drink.’

  ‘What do they go there for, then?’

  ‘It’s… well, there are women there,’ Frank said half under his breath.

  Lizzie frowned at him in puzzlement, then her eyes grew wide. ‘Women?’ she echoed. ‘You
mean whores?’ She mouthed the word silently.

  Frank nodded. ‘That’s right.’

  Lizzie opened and closed her mouth several times without saying anything. It was so unusual to see Lizzie lost for words that Frank could not quite hide a smile. They were out of town and rattling along the beach before Lizzie had regained her composure.

  ‘Well,’ she said at last. ‘Well, I never. Women like that, right there in the main street. I never would have thought—’ She broke off in mid sentence and stared at Frank through narrowed eyes. ‘You seem to know an awful lot about it all.’

  ‘Me?’ Frank laughed aloud as he caught her meaning. ‘Hey, don’t go looking at me like that, Lizzie. I’ve never been up there.’ He shifted the reins into one hand so that he could slip one arm around Lizzie as she balanced Beth on her lap, letting the horses slow to a walk as he did so. ‘I thought that was pretty obvious when we got married,’ he murmured in her ear, thinking back to the fears that had so racked him before his wedding with the detached amusement years of happy marriage gave.

  ‘You sounded quite an expert on those women,’ Lizzie said, but there was no real suspicion in her tone. Frank was sure she was remembering his first clumsy attempts on her virginity.

  ‘Well, men talk among themselves. You can’t help picking up things like that in the hay paddock or whatever.’ He gave her a squeeze. ‘Lizzie,’ he whispered, ‘there’s never been anyone else, you should know that. Why would I ever have bothered with other women when I had you to look forward to?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. Never mind about that, I was being silly.’ Lizzie looked back over her shoulder in the direction of Ruatane. ‘Why on earth would Charlie want to go to a place like that?’

  Frank loosed his hold on Lizzie to urge the horses into a trot as he considered her question. Amy wasn’t his Lizzie, but she was pretty and sweet-natured. And it was obvious she put everything she had into trying to please Charlie; he must be hard to please if that wasn’t enough for him.

  He glanced around at his family with a warm feeling of satisfaction. There was no one else like his Lizzie, but Charlie surely had nothing to complain about with his own wife and sons. ‘I don’t know, Lizzie,’ Frank said. ‘I can’t imagine why.’

  *

  ‘These buttonholes are a beggar,’ Lizzie complained as she knotted a fresh length of white cotton. ‘That last one came out a bit funny. Never mind, it won’t show under your jacket.’ She stabbed the needle into the cuff of the new shirt she was making for Frank. ‘Amy’s always been so fussy about things like that, if she did a buttonhole that didn’t look right she’d unpick it and start again, even if it was just for Charlie—as if he’d even notice. He wouldn’t be a bit grateful, anyway. Ooh, I had a hard time being polite to him yesterday, after what we saw him up to in town the other day.’ She pulled a face.

  ‘I know. The filthy look you gave him after church—you weren’t exactly polite, Lizzie.’

  ‘Well, I didn’t say anything, did I? When I think of him going to that place—whorehouse, did you say it’s called?’

  ‘So I’ve heard,’ Frank said. ‘I wouldn’t know, really.’ He turned his attention back to the magazine he was reading as he and Lizzie sat close together on the sofa, sharing the lamplight and each other’s warmth.

  ‘I had to be careful not to let on to Amy what I was so annoyed with Charlie about, too. Not that I had much chance to talk to her, that grumpy old so-and-so always makes her rush away.’

  ‘You don’t think she knows about him going there?’ Frank asked idly, not lifting his eyes from the page.’

  ‘Of course not! She wouldn’t put up with that.’

  ‘What could she do about it?’

  ‘She could tell him off, for a start. Tell him he wasn’t to go back there.’

  Lizzie’s indignation had run away with her usual good sense. ‘Could she really, Lizzie? I don’t think Amy does much telling in that house.’

  Lizzie looked deflated. ‘No, you’re right—she’s too scared of him for that. Well, I wouldn’t put up with it.’

  ‘You won’t have to.’ Frank gave her arm a quick squeeze before trying to find his lost place on the magazine page.

  ‘Amy’s very pale lately, don’t you think?’ Lizzie asked. She had been musing off and on over Amy’s pallor and air of distraction since seeing her the previous morning.

  ‘Mmm?’ Frank looked up from the magazine, abandoning his attempt to concentrate on it. He thought back to how Amy had appeared at church, but Lizzie was right: Charlie had dragged her away too quickly for Frank to take much notice of her. Amy certainly did not have Lizzie’s air of robust good health. ‘I suppose she does a bit. Do you think she’s sick or something? Maybe she’s got a baby on the way.’

  Lizzie shook her head. ‘No. She would have told me if she was—I thought she would’ve been with child again by now, but I’m glad she’s having a rest from it. I don’t know, she just doesn’t look right. I suppose she might be pining over the baby that died.’

  ‘She needs to have another one, eh? Take her mind off the one she lost.’

  ‘That’s what people always say,’ Lizzie said pensively. ‘If a woman has another baby she forgets all about losing one. I don’t think it’s that simple, you know. Not for someone like Amy, anyway—she feels things harder than other people. Poor old Amy.’

  Frank looked at Lizzie in surprise, wondering what had suddenly made her sound so sad. ‘Are you really worried about Amy? What do you think’s wrong with her?’

  ‘Oh, nothing,’ Lizzie said, briskly matter-of-fact again. ‘Amy’s got a lot to put up with, that’s all. Sometimes I get upset about it because it’s not fair. What are you reading, anyway? You’ve had your nose stuck in that magazine for ages.’

  For a moment Frank almost felt that Lizzie was trying to distract him by changing the subject, but he was willing enough to be distracted. ‘Your pa’s been giving me these magazines when he’s finished with them for years, but I’ve only started reading them properly the last few months. This one’s really interesting. It’s about these cows—Jerseys, they’re called—do you want to have a look?’ He held his open magazine out towards Lizzie.

  ‘Cows?’ Lizzie said in amazement. ‘Don’t you have enough to do with cows every day without reading about them?’

  ‘Not cows like this. Have a look at them.’ He placed the magazine on her lap. Lizzie gave an exaggerated sigh, pushed her sewing to one side and studied the picture.

  ‘Oh, they’re pretty!’ she exclaimed. ‘Not like ordinary cows at all. They’re a bit thin, though. Are they healthy?’

  ‘They must be. I was reading this bit down here,’ Frank traced his finger down the page until he found what he was looking for. ‘Here it is—look at how much milk they produce. About four gallons a day each—that’s about the same as the Shorthorns. But it’s got more cream in it than any other sort of cow gives—see, it says that over here. You can get over five parts in a hundred butterfat.’

  ‘Is that a lot?’

  ‘Well, it’s more than our old Shorthorns give. They reckon here that Shorthorns give about four parts in a hundred, but that’s for the best Shorthorns, not my old mongrels. Shall I have a go at working out how much more it’d be?’

  ‘No, don’t worry about it. Take your magazine back, Frank, I want to get these buttonholes finished, then you’ll be able to wear this shirt tomorrow.’

  The germ of an idea was starting to form in Frank’s mind. If these fancy cows produced milk so much richer than he got from his Shorthorns, a herd of Jerseys the same size as Frank’s would deliver far more butterfat, and thus more money. And it would not be too many cows for one man to milk. ‘I think I will work it out, Lizzie.’

  He fetched his diary from the bedroom, careful not to wake Beth who was sleeping peacefully in her cradle. ‘Have you seen my pencil?’ he asked when he was back in the parlour.

  ‘I tidied it away somewhere. Look in the drawer under the window.’ />
  ‘I looked there. That’s where I left it.’

  ‘No, you didn’t. You left it lying on the dressing table, that’s why I tidied it away.’

  ‘Where did you put it, then?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know, Frank. I’ll find it tomorrow, I’m busy now with this sewing.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll find it.’ Frank crossed the passage to the bedroom again and rummaged around in several drawers until he seized on the missing pencil and carried it back to the parlour. ‘Found it!’ he announced.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘In the drawer you said,’ Frank admitted. Lizzie glared at him, but without any real wrath, and returned to her sewing while Frank began writing figures on a blank page in his diary.

  In the few minutes that followed, the silence was broken only by occasional sighs from Frank that gradually grew deeper and deeper. He glanced at Lizzie from time to time, but she stitched away determinedly, not meeting his eyes, till at last Frank had to admit defeat.

  ‘Could you give me a hand with this, Lizzie?’ he asked.

  ‘No, I couldn’t,’ Lizzie said sharply. ‘I told you, I’m busy. Stop going on about those cows, for goodness sake!’

  ‘Aw, go on.’ Frank slipped his arm around her and gave her a squeeze.

  Lizzie held herself stiff for a moment, then gave a sigh and relaxed into his hold. ‘All right, I haven’t a hope of concentrating on this with you going on. What do you want?’

  ‘I’m trying to work out how much money I’d get from all the cream a herd of these Jerseys would give, but it’s all full of so many pence a pound and all that. I can’t do it by myself.’