Half Wild

by Pip Smith

  While Papà hammered I saddled and harnessed the horses to show Papà that I was better with horses than anyone he knew, but when he saw me with them he ripped the reins from my fingers and said, No, Nina! You will never get a husband like this.

  I refused to sleep in the glorified laundry heap with the other girls so I slept out in the pumpkins near the horses, my insides wringing themselves of blood as I did. In the morning old beer bottles were lined up in rows on the kitchen table, and over breakfast Mamma announced she was getting ready to bottle the passata again. She looked straight past me. Would you like to help? she asked Ida and Rosie and Emily.

  I didn’t have time for passata anyway. If my insides were going to turn on me like this, I’d have to find my own way back to the quarry before it was too late and I was married off or pregnant or dead.

  Mamma must have heard me thinking, because she put on her sweetest voice yet and said, While the girls get started on the sauce, I thought I might take you out to find a job.

  Really?! I was excited for a second, until I realised she was wearing her church-going clothes. No one would go to a brickworks in church-going clothes. This does not bode well, I thought. This does not bode well at all.

  With Little William clinging to her skirt, Mamma took me to a white picket fence in Thorndon. It grinned like an underbite.

  This isn’t a brickworks, I said, my insides twisting and burning. This is the opposite of a brickworks.

  A domestic, Mamma said, is a better job for you.

  A domestic what?

  Oh, she said. It’ll be just like what you’re used to at home.

  Four babies always trying to win a screaming competition?

  She looked nervous. Maybe. And laundry to fold, and beds to make.

  She gave me two tentative kisses goodbye and as she did a thick coating of dust fell over the brickworks and the West Coast and all the hopes and dreams I’d ever had. They sneezed, then coughed, then died. A domestic. I’d never heard of a more boring job in my life.

  Inside the mauve house the ceiling was so high you could’ve fit five horses stacked one on top of the other between it and the top of your head. I felt small and stupid in my heavy grey skirt with my hair up underneath something you could use to make cheese. The housekeeper was compulsively dusting in the corner, thinking, This little madam is definitely a thief just look at her grubby fingers they’ve been in every coat pocket this side of town. And I was thinking, I wonder when she’ll stop dusting that one china horse over and over again.

  Finally the Lady of the House came in the front door. She peeled off her gloves as if she was trying to peel a peach without breaking the skin.

  Can you fold a sheet? she asked me.

  Yes.

  Can you do hospital corners on a bed?

  Yes.

  Then the girl’s hired, she said.

  The housekeeper dropped the tiny horse she was dusting and it bounced across the rug, landing on her mistress’s right foot.

  The Lady of the House eyed it as if the housekeeper had just vomited the horse onto her shoe. Are your hands getting the shakes again, Mrs Pryce?

  No, ma’am. I’m sorry.

  If Mrs Pryce’s hands weren’t shaking before, they definitely were now. One was jittering all over the doorknob like a spider having a nervous breakdown; it just couldn’t get a grip at all.

  Mrs Pryce, you’ll need to show the girl where the sheets are kept, the Lady said.

  Mrs Pryce looked at me then. Her eyes were two currants someone had picked out of a scone, but one was slightly bigger so maybe that one was a raisin.

  Right, she said. Follow me, child.

  We walked down a wooden staircase, through a small blue door, around a corner, and down another wooden staircase that got narrower and darker as we went. Every third step or so creaked and Mrs Pryce reached her hand back and gripped my arm, saying, For God’s sake only step where I step or we’ll lose our second laundry maid for the week.

  At the bottom she thumped open a door with her hip. Steam coughed out of the room and Mrs Pryce bowed her head, praying to the God of Steam. Even I had to dip my head on the way in, the doorway was that small.

  The ceiling was high but you couldn’t see how high because the steam gathered above our heads into clouds. It smelled like clean sheets and soap and all you could see were walls made of stacked, folded sheets reaching high up into the clouds.

  Where are we? I asked Mrs Pryce.

  In the laundry, where do you think you silly girl. She moved down one of the corridors made by the sheets. Come along or you’ll lose me!

  I had to run to catch up, and as I did my footfalls made the sheet corridors shake.

  Careful now, we don’t want to have to refold all this, do we?

  She said we as if she really meant you.

  No, I said. We don’t.

  We finally stopped in front of a table. On the left of the table was a mountain of crumpled sheets, so clean they were the bluish-white of icebergs.

  You will fold these, and when you’ve finished you will collect the dry sheets from the line and fold those.

  Where’s the—

  You will find the line out there, she said, and pointed out the window to where a line was strung up between the weathercock on the stable roof and the laundry. There were ten white sheets there, kicking around in the wind, trying to jump free of their pegs. Every now and then they kicked right up to reveal the stable behind them, and a boy leaning against the stable door.

  Mrs Pryce’s eyes grew darker and more shrivelled in her doughy white face. That’s our coachman, she said.

  On the next glimpse I could see that he was smoking a cigarette.

  You’ll find he doesn’t often work, as the Lady of the House prefers to walk around the city. But even so, he gets paid twice what you will.

  How much will I get paid?

  Something in the order of a ha’penny a day, I’d imagine.

  She spoke quietly, almost tenderly, and I wondered if she was speaking to a distant memory of her younger self. She shook the memory out of her head and her lips became thin, her face tight.

  Well, it’s been lovely chatting, but we mustn’t let the Lady of the House know we’ve been larking around like this, she said, and disappeared between the walls of sheets.

  I watched the boy out the window for a moment. He was stubbing out his cigarette, stretching, yawning, then lighting another. He did it all so slowly, as if he was proving just how slowly he could go. Between a fluttering of sheets Mrs Pryce’s lips mouthed, Chop, chop, girl, so I stopped looking at the boy and started folding.

  There were so many sheets. Smooth, white, clean-smelling and so, so boring. Corner-to-corner, shake, fold. Corner-to-corner, shake, fold. This was the rhythm of the folding of the sheets. It lulled you like a boat lulled you and once you were lulled you were on a ship. I could see St Eugenia climbing the rigging, looking back over her shoulder. But then the folding was done and the daydreams coughed under their thick coating of dust and were still again.

  I went out into the courtyard to collect the dry washing off the line, and who should strike up a conversation with me but the slowest coach driver in the world.

  You’re new, he said, to prove how slow he was.

  Yes, I said.

  You like horses?

  Yes.

  Can I take you for a ride?

  Maybe he isn’t so bad after all, I thought, and followed him into the stable.

  The stable was rich with the smell of sweet hay and leather. A horse was blowing air through his rubbery lips and restlessly moving the metal bit around in his mouth. It felt like Nonno Buti’s stable in there, except for the boy’s hand pinching me on the bum.

  What are you doing? I asked him.

  Taking you for a ride, he said. So I kicked him in the shins.

  What did you do that for, you crazy bitch?

  Give me your shirt, I said.

  What? No—

  Do it, I
said, and kicked him again.

  I lifted Nonna’s bodybag skirt up, and pulled my knickers down. The folded rag was now soaked and warm and deep dark red.

  Here, I said, throwing the rag at him. His chest and arms were smeared with blood. Go and wash it in the laundry. I have more important work to do.

  The boy stumbled backwards and opened his mouth, ready to shout.

  And if you tell anyone about this, I added, folding his shirt and placing it in my knickers the way Nonna had showed me, I’ll tell them that’s my blood on your skin, and you’ll be locked up for the rest of your life.

  Once the boy was gone I stroked the horse down the nose and the horse looked deep into my eyes. Yes, Tally Ho, the horse said, I’m bored of this place, too. Let’s make it to the West Coast together.

  An escapee laundry maid astride a stolen horse was not going to make it to the West Coast unseen. I needed Joe’s pants, needed food, too, and had to make my escape before anyone noticed the missing horse.

  At the end of Coromandel Street I lashed the horse to a tree, and slunk through the shadows with my skirts bundled up in my arms so I could move without falling on my face. I’d hidden Joe’s pants behind our lemon tree, under an old crayfish basket that had been left by the fence to rot, but just as I was slinking around the side of the house to fetch them I was stopped short by the sight of a man standing by our back door. Even in the dusk I could see he was wearing a bright yellow waistcoat with a gold chain connecting his lonely right pocket to his lonely left.

  Mi scusi, he said.

  Excuse me?

  You’re excused, he said, and winked as if no one had ever made that joke before.

  I watched him closely, and he watched me back. It was a competition between who would look away first, but I found myself walking towards him. He picked up my hand and kissed the back of it. His lips were two leeches searching for warmth.

  Nina, he said. I’ve heard so much about you. Good things, of course …

  Inside, I could hear Mamma laugh too loud, then cough. I looked though the open back door to see dinner laid out on the table amongst freshly polished cutlery and roses in vases and finery I never knew we owned. Mamma sat at one end of the table, sipping from a glass of wine with her pinkie raised.

  What’s wrong with your pinkie? I asked her, but she didn’t hear me.

  Ciao, bella! she said warmly, as if I was not her estranged daughter who slept in a pumpkin patch.

  Mamma, what’s the special occasion? I was suspicious of the way her eyes were moving between me and the man in the doorway.

  I’ll leave you two ladies to catch up, shall I? the man said, before disappearing out into the garden.

  I could smell a rat if ever I had smelled a rotting festering rat before.

  What are you plotting, Mamma?

  She looked younger than she’d ever looked as she wet her lips and said, He’s very handsome, don’t you think, Eugenia?

  I supposed I agreed. He was tall and moved the way a thoroughbred moves, without ever having to think about it. His hair came up off his forehead as if it was falling back in a swoon. He was handsome, I’d give him that, and when he came back from the garden he seemed too handsome, the house suddenly collapsible, as if it might faint at the sight of him.

  I trust you found the facilities alright? Mamma said.

  Facilities? I asked her.

  Il gabinetto, she whispered to me behind her hand, but he was already laughing at me for not knowing what facilities meant.

  I went behind a lemon tree, he said. Ho sentito dire che fa bene ai limoni.

  Mamma giggled and gave me a coy look that said, Those men and their wee, they will do it anywhere if you don’t keep an eye on them! Maybe I would’ve laughed too, but all I could think about were Joe’s trousers now steaming in piss.

  Before he sat down the man picked his trouser legs up at the knee. He did other manly things, too, like spread his legs slightly and lean forward so that his crotch pressed against the seat of his chair.

  This is Mr Innocente, Mamma said, not looking away from the man. I felt sad for a moment, having never made her look so happy.

  Where’s Papà and the others? I asked Mamma.

  Out somewhere, she said.

  I can’t remember what we ate or what we talked about, all I can remember is watching the way the man cut food without looking at his hands. I remember Mamma saying at one point, Are you alright, Nina? You’re quieter than normal. I kept watching the man, and he occasionally shot me a dark look with sparks in it, the way the ocean sometimes has sparks in it at night. I remember at some point he said he owned a hotel in Auckland and had every intention of becoming rich. When he said rich it was hard not to believe he would. He was a man who walked through the world as if everything deserved to go right for him, and so everything probably would.

  After dinner he stood and walked with me to the door. I watched him the whole way, wondering if I should be saying something or doing something, but he kissed me on both cheeks and said, I hope to catch you in a more talkative mood next time.

  Once the door clicked shut the rest of the family erupted out of the bedrooms shrieking and giggling. Ida clutched me by the arm and asked, What’s he like? Are you in love with him? Did he kiss you on the mouth? but Mamma was answering all their questions before I could take in a breath to say one word.

  When the other girls were fast asleep, Mamma brought her mending out to where I was sitting on the back step.

  Why don’t you marry him? she said softly. He’s a nice man for you. He will look after you.

  I shook my head. No, Mamma. I can’t.

  Mamma sighed. She couldn’t understand why a girl would waste an opportunity to have that handsome man stick his penis in her and move it around.

  She put down her mending and held my face in her hands. It was gentle at first, until she gripped my jaw hard so I couldn’t look away. I held her gaze to show her I wouldn’t budge and, no, I was not afraid. I’d had enough. She didn’t want what was best for me, she wanted what was best for Papà’s business, or for her idea of who I should be.

  If you want him to marry, why don’t you marry him yourself? I said.

  She slapped me hard across the face. She’d wanted to make me cry, but she was the one crying, she was the one holding her cheek.

  You selfish girl, she said through her tears. Always wanting what feels good, never wanting to help your family. I should have brought Lisa to this wretched place instead, she would never have treated us like this. You won’t help us? Fine. Don’t be surprised when you die alone.

  In pants reeking with Mr Innocente’s piss I rode my new horse down to the water. Mamma’s curse was lodged under my ribs, making me ride faster than any butcher boy ever had. My face was raw where the wind whipped the tear streaks down my cheeks and Wellington rushed by in a blur until Harry Crawford materialised, sitting on the end of the Taranaki wharf. He’d been drinking, I could tell by the wild swing of his legs and the half-empty whisky bottle leaning against his thigh. Things hadn’t gone right since they banned racing in the streets and now all that drive of his was left to loop back and give him liver disease.

  I eased the horse back and dismounted, but didn’t tie her up. We had an understanding. She’d never leave without me.

  Can I have some of that? I asked Harry Crawford.

  He handed me the whisky bottle and stifled a belch in the back of his throat.

  What brings you down here? he asked.

  I told him everything. I could marry a man with sparks in his eyes. We could ride horses together through the streets, but we probably wouldn’t. I’d have his children and never go outside except to church and my head would be filled with babies and churches and talk of other people’s babies at church. Perhaps we’d have fierce arguments and I’d win him over to my way of seeing the world, but I couldn’t imagine this happening either.

  Is he handsome? Harry Crawford asked.

  Yes.

  I
s he clever?

  Yes.

  Is he good?

  What do you mean by good?

  Then fuck him, Harry Crawford said. Fuck those charming bastards.

  That’s the problem, I said. I can’t think of anything worse.

  Well, Harry Crawford said, I think you know what to do.

  I put my hand on his. Will you come with me? I asked him.

  I can’t, mate, Harry Crawford said, and we sat side by side in silence, swigging from the bottle and watching a party of drunk night bathers eek their way into chilly Oriental Bay. We sat like this for some time until a rumble in the earth had both of us turn our heads. I wondered if an earthquake had struck, when a dust cloud followed by a herd of horses rushed towards the water. The horses of Wellington had broken out of their stables, and all they could think to do was make for the harbour. I didn’t know they could swim, and by the looks on their horrified faces neither did they. They paddled around with their heads straining high, their eyes bulging out of their faces, thinking, Where is the ground? How come our hooves aren’t touching the ground?

  There were so many horses the party of bathers had to scamper out of the water, knees up. They stood shivering on their beach towels, looking helplessly back at the bay. Good on you, horses, I thought, you deserve to go places they can’t. I looked over at Harry Crawford to say something, but he was not interested in the horses anymore. He was walking towards where another man and his wife were saying horrible things to each other, things no other animal had a language for.

  I recognised the woman. She was the woman with wild hair Harry Crawford had stopped racing for all those years ago. I wished she’d turn around and see him standing there, saying nothing, loving her fiercely still.