by Karen Zelas
‘Tell me about your new man,’ she ventured.
‘How did you know?’ Sue smiled.
‘Don’t give me that “Mothers know everything” spiel,’ Charlie said.
Sue determined from her relaxed posture that it was safe to pursue the subject. ‘Is he in Fine Arts, too?’
Charlie hesitated. Her eyes met Sue’s over the top of her glass, sizing her up, Sue thought, deciding whether or not to confide in her. Charlie drew her hand across her face, wiping away the bubbles that had sprayed the end of her nose, and finally nodded. ‘He’s a second-year.’
‘Does he have a name?’
‘Mu-u-um,’ Charlie said, an expression of feigned irritation on her face. ‘All right. It’s Patrick.’
‘What’s he like?’
Charlie giggled. ‘A hunk.’
‘Charlie!’ said Sue, feeling slight disapproval, but more admiration.
‘Well, he is.’ Charlie stretched her legs and arms sensuously like a long brown cat; like Tao. ‘He’s tall. Neat looking. Eyes that can see right into your soul. He knows just what I’m thinking, Mum, before I say it. It’s amazing.’
‘Amazing,’ Sue repeated softly, registering the mounting flush in her daughter’s cheeks and the excitement in her throaty voice. She expected the admiration was mutual – why wouldn’t it be? Warmth spread through Sue; this was the reward for her hard work. It was amazing; amazing to see this young woman she had borne and raised, so comfortable with herself; so much more at ease, unselfconscious, than Sue had ever been. In her mind’s eye, Sue could see another young woman, younger than Charlie, wishing she had a mother to confide in. And later, trying to share with her father the wonder and excitement of discovering her own sexual being. She remembered his response, too: ‘I didn’t hear that.’ He decided the sooner she and Ben got married, the better.
Sue was brought back to the present by a heavy, slow whirring of wings. ‘Look. A wood pigeon. I wonder if he’s brought his mate.’
‘I saw a pair yesterday, perched in the beech next door. Right out on a limb. Together. So precarious. Big and heavy, bending the branch.’
‘Good. I hope they stay. It’s a good omen.’
‘Who says?’
‘I do.’ Sue picked up her book and the empty glass.
‘What are you reading?’ Sue held up the book. ‘You’re serious then?’ Charlie screwed up her nose.
Sue nodded. ‘It’s very interesting. Look.’ She leaned forward and pointed to a list of names. ‘The French settlers. There’s Dujardin.’ Charlie whistled. ‘Claude and Brigitte Dujardin. It’s a start.’
Charlie took the book and thumbed through the pages, while Sue summarised what she had read so far.
‘There were forty-five French and twelve Germans who came on the Comte de Paris,’ Sue said. ‘Men, women and children. The Germans tramped over the hill to the next bay and set up Germantown at what is now Takamatua.’
‘Really? I didn’t know that.’
‘They all arrived on 19 August 1840. The Comte de Paris was a converted whaler.’
‘A whaler? Imagine coming all the way from France in a tiny boat. It makes me feel ill just to think of it. They must have been tough.’ Charlie bobbed her head, an approving expression on her face. Sue thought how companionable it was to be here with her daughter, sharing the excitement of her discoveries. ‘What does “Whatever of Paris” mean?’ Charlie asked.
‘The Count of Paris. When it was refitted, the boat was renamed for the King’s new grandson.’
‘Sweet.’
‘The journey took almost six months – imagine that – long enough for people to die and be born. Apparently two children died in sight of land and were buried in Pigeon Bay.’
‘Oh, poor little things. How terrible for their parents.’ Charlie’s eyes were moist. ‘What a start to life in a new land.’ She clapped the book closed, leaning forward in her chair. She seemed to wear her emotions just under her skin, Sue thought; brush it and there they were, raw and jangling. For a moment, Sue let herself feel again the horror that had washed over her when first reading of the settlers’ losses: the horror of when she had feared losing her own son. It must be the worst thing that could happen to a parent, she thought. She changed the subject.
‘I think Captain Lavaud must have been quite a guy, a really strong and pragmatic character. It seems he was determined not to allow the traditional enmity between the English and French prevent the development of a peaceful settlement. He initiated an agreement about administering the settlement with Robinson, the lawyer Hobson sent down as Police Magistrate to represent Queen Victoria. It became known as “the status quo”.’
‘What was it?’
‘They agreed Robinson would have authority over everyone except the French, who would be Lavaud’s responsibility, and the British flag would not be flown until the French Government conceded sovereignty to the British, which didn’t happen for six years.’
‘Six years!’
‘The purpose was to conceal from the French settlers the fact that they were settling on land already claimed by the British.’
‘But that’s deceitful. How can you admire a man who would do that?’
‘Well, Lavaud was between a rock and a hard place. They were still French citizens and this enabled him to protect them. What do they say? – “The least detrimental alternative.”’
‘Don’t know that I can go along with that. I’ll have to read it for myself.’
Sue could have hugged her daughter, told her how proud she felt; she was growing into a sensitive and discerning young adult. Instead she smiled. Where they sat was now in complete shade. The breeze stirred around them. She shivered. ‘Someone walked on my grave,’ Sue said.
Next day, while Sue had the house to herself, she decided to see what she could find about the French settlement of Akaroa on the internet. Anticipating a long session, she carried a mug of aromatic Italian-blend into Ben’s study and flung back the curtains, letting the morning sun stream in. Another beautiful day. It can’t last for ever, she thought.
Careful not to move Ben’s papers, Sue sat in front of the computer and smiled at the image on the screensaver – Charlie last summer, already a young woman, running into the surf at Tahunanui, tanned and laughing, long black curls tumbling down her back. Ben could capture a moment and hold it forever.
Sue moved the mouse. The screensaver disappeared, replaced by a myriad of icons. She glanced at the screen, searching for the icon for Internet Explorer. An open file sat on the bottom toolbar. Its title intrigued her – “What is love?” What is love, she wondered. What did Ben think love was? Her curiosity was overwhelming. Without a qualm, she clicked the cursor on the file.
What is love? Is it
coffee coloured skin
stretched smooth over a lean frame
legs without end
fingers that speak doe’s eyes
black diamonds
that flash through flutt’ring lashes
fire that fuels my heart
and stirs youth within me?
Sue stared at the screen, transfixed. A muscle twitched in her right cheek. She pressed her hand to it and read the poem a second time. It was awful. Bad, bad poetry. “Doe’s eyes.” “Flutt’ring lashes.” Pathetic. Really. It was not until she read it a third time that she let the words and the facts they signified pierce her skin and slice their way to her heart. Hot tears welled up and ran down her cheeks. Her hands flitted over the surface of her face. This was Ben’s writing. Her Ben. And the poem was not about her; it was not expressing his love for her. He was writing about someone else. Who … who was she? Sue must find out; she wondered how. She could not ask Ben: ‘Who’s this woman you’re writing ridiculous poetry about?’ She should not even have been reading his file.
Suddenly, Sue felt like a voyeur. She glanced furtively around the room and out the window to the front gate, as if someone might have seen her. She minimised the file and pushed the
chair back abruptly, withdrawing her hands from the keyboard as from a hot stove. Trembling, she stepped away from the computer in an arc, not taking her eyes from it. It could hurt her. And it had.
5.
Akaroa,
19th September, 1840.
Ma chère Maman,
We have been uplifted! The Bishop Pompallier is with us. He journeyed from a settlement in the north of the northern island of New Zealand on his ship “Santa Maria”, once he learned we were founding a French colony here in Akaroa. He is to remain with us for some time while repairs are undertaken to his ship by Captain Lavaud’s men. Two French priests are also here as missionaries to save the souls of the natives and tend to our spiritual needs. One, F. Comte, speaks the native tongue and will accompany the Bishop further south on his mission before returning to Akaroa. The other, F. Tripe, is to be our parish priest. It has been a blessing to attend Mass and to receive the Holy Sacrament. I no longer feel so bereft, so alone, but connected once more to my homeland and loved ones. I imagine you and the children kneeling with Papa in your Sunday best. Here we do not yet have Sunday best, just clean clothes and soiled. One day we will have here a House of God, I trust, but I doubt it will ever have the beauty or riches of Our Lady of Tears. But perhaps it will be beautiful in its own way.
It is easy to feel that God created this wild and beauteous place and then forgot it; that He is too busy with great works – Kings and Queens, Nations and Generals – to have time for a few French men and women struggling to survive at the end of the earth.
I am told it is spring. It is hard to know, as the trees here keep their leaves throughout the winter. The days are longer and, although we have heavy rain from time to time, the dry, sunny spells are of greater duration. We are no longer ankle-deep in mud and are able to prepare some of the ground we have cleared for planting. This is my task. Vegetables first.
In determining where to position this first garden, we have spent long hours by the light of the oil lamp sketching and planning the use of our land. My husband, of course, is the one with experience in such matters and I defer to him, but he does seek my views and has regard for them. I am lucky, Maman, to have such a good husband. I am learning not all the men are so. Only last night I heard through the thin walls of our tent (we have individual tents now!) our neighbour, M. Girot, berating his poor little wife, Cécile. She was unable to look me in the eye this morning.
We have decided to build our cottage – eventually – on land yet to be cleared toward the rear, on a slight rise, leaving sufficient ground behind for a potager and an orchard. From this vantage point, there will be a good view of the harbour. We will grow our produce to the front of the lot where it will reap the full benefit of the sunlight. At some later stage, I may be able to commandeer it as a flower garden.
There is urgent need of fresh produce in our settlement, not only for our own consumption, but also for sale to the whalers, and I hope before long to be able to take advantage of this. Unfortunately, it is too late to sow wheat this season. We have saved potatoes from our rations to use as seed potatoes. It has meant going without now, for future gain. The Company has seeds that were brought from France – cabbage, beans, lettuce, corn – which we will sow.
Did I tell you we have no animals or fowl? They all died in passage. Therefore, we have no meat, eggs or milk, and a very restricted and uninteresting diet as a consequence.
I have high regard for Captain Lavaud and his men. They have worked tirelessly beside our people, helping the older folk and the sick to clear their land. They are also creating gardens, one in the centre of the settlement and the other on the far side of the harbour, to grow victuals for themselves. They have taken axes and saws and led teams of men further into the bush-clad valleys and hills, where the taller trees grow, to fell timber which will be used for building and for repairs to the “Comte de Paris”, which must soon return to whaling. Tree felling is difficult and dangerous work, especially since there are no oxen to assist.
There was a meeting on the foreshore last evening after supper. Captain Lavaud has decided that M. Belligny is to be official administrator for our community, but our men demanded the right to elect our own mayor and councillors. Captain Lavaud was outraged! He thought us more than presumptuous, impudent, to think that we should have some say in the administration of the settlement. He said our men are uneducated ruffians and reminded us that, in France, they would not be permitted to vote. Indeed, so angered was he that he made an example of one of our more vocal men by putting him in irons on board “L’Aube”! We were helpless to prevent it, and most disappointed, of course, by Captain Lavaud’s attitude. I had to hold tight to my husband and whisper firmly in his ear to prevent him from being too outspoken. I did not want him thrown in irons, also.
We had thought, Maman, this was to be our country, and that we would have a say in how it is run. So, tonight’s debacle is most disappointing.
Captain Langlois is understandably offended at having M. Belligny appointed over him, and we support his position. He has been a good shepherd to us since our departure from France, while M. Belligny, as the representative of the Company, although a gentleman, seems sometimes somewhat unsympathetic to our plight.
But my hopes are high. How I long for a time when I will stroll in my own garden, smell the marigolds and lavender and harvest grapes from our own vines. And, in good time, be mistress of my own house.
We celebrated our first marriage a few days ago, under canvas because of the weather. Jacques Benoît wed Louise Terboulie, with F. Tripe presiding. It was a joyous occasion with musicians from “L’Aube”, singing and dancing, and while the food did not vary significantly from the usual, aside from a pig shot by one of the sailors, the alcohol flowed. With a little practice, my Claude could become a passable dancer, Maman! One or two of the unmarried men became a little free with their hands and a scuffle broke out when Madeleine’s husband felt he needed to defend her honour. But it was all taken in good humour. Even if Captain Lavaud thinks of us as “ruffians”, I find the company very agreeable, and an event like this draws us together as one big family.
I think of you all, in summer still: the hot smells rising from the paving, bright flowers in the window-boxes and the languid cry of gulls from the harbour as the fishing boats return from sea.
All my love,
Your Bibi
23rd September, 1840.
The potatoes are planted! Lying in neat rows, east to west, across our land, soil heaped over them as Claude instructed. Now we must be patient.
Sue spent the rest of the day in a frenzy of activity, attacking jobs she had been intending to do for weeks, avoiding an image of her husband looking into the eyes of another woman, running his fingers tenderly over skin that was not hers; pining for her doe eyes – a small part of her could not take the idea seriously, wanted to make fun of him, diminish him, ridicule his lust for another; for she could not think of it as love.
She chose activity over reflection. If she were busy enough she would not be able to think. And if anger threatened to break the surface, the energy could be put to good use. Until she was too tired to feel or care. She sighed. This was a new experience, one she had never anticipated. Infidelity overtook others, not her and Ben. They had promised to love each other for ever, and had meant it; she still did. Life was not an “excuse me” waltz to either of them. Although Sue’s love for Ben had changed, she had not fallen out of love with him, and it had never occurred to her that he might fall out of love with her. Were there signs she had missed?
Never had Sue felt more able to confront chaos of a physical nature. She started with Jason’s bedroom, working like a whirlwind: flinging open windows, getting rid of dirty clothes, stale coffee mugs, plates encrusted with an assortment of dehydrated foods. Jason would complain, but that was too bad; if he did not want her messing with his things, he should keep them tidy. Sue felt numb, her mind strangely dislocated from her body, her limbs working of their ow
n volition. She watched herself from somewhere up in the corner of the room, cleaning out his cupboard and drawers, dusting, vacuuming. Eventually a hollow ache in her stomach told her it must be well past lunchtime.
The energy which had overtaken her subsided as abruptly as it had arisen. Sue moved listlessly from fridge to pantry and back. She stood at the bench, nibbled a Ryvita, sipped tea and gagged. Ben. Her Ben. The hollowness, she realised, had nothing to do with hunger. She was empty: a rag doll with no stuffing. She collapsed onto a chair. Her world had been jolted off its axis, her place in it lost, those in orbit around her suddenly unknowable. Nothing made sense. Sue shook her head. The familiar looked unfamiliar, distorted, silently menacing. A deep sadness enveloped her but she could not cry; she felt dry, shrivelled. She had put such trust in Ben. Relied on him. Taken him for granted, perhaps. They had been so much a part of one another. How had he allowed some other woman to insinuate herself?
Their love was not the stuff of romance novels, Sue supposed, never had been, if she was honest. But it had been solid, affectionate. It would be a stretch to say Ben had swept her off her feet all those years ago. He had been too shy, hiding behind his fringe and his books. So it was Sue who sought the relationship initially. Still struggling with her mother’s death, she had felt drawn to Ben, felt a compulsion to be with him; his quiet certainty about things was reassuring when she was still trying to make sense of a world she no longer understood. Sue would happen to be in the varsity library at closing time. ‘You don’t need to walk me home,’ she would say, knowing Ben would then insist. ‘There’s a good movie at the Regent,’ she would announce. ‘I’ll give you some tips for your essay afterwards.’ And Ben would decide he could forego a few hours of study to be with his tutor. A sisterly peck on the cheek. A casual brushing of hands.
At first Ben’s interest seemed to be in her intellect rather than her body. It was refreshing for a while. ‘Most guys are only interested in one thing,’ she had said to Annie, trying to disguise her impatience. She tossed her dark poodle curls and stretched her hand-knit sweater low over rounded hips. She did not understand his reticence. In her fantasies, he was a sensitive lover, and her skin rippled to his imagined touch as she lay under the covers in the room in which she had slept since childhood. The compulsion to be in his company morphed into a compulsion to feel his fingers on her skin. Her stomach lurched when she saw him; she felt light-headed, almost ill. The sensations alarmed her; she had seen herself as a practical young woman, self-sufficient, disdainful of lustful, grappling youths. Gradually, Sue had encouraged Ben into more intimate realms and her wish was proven correct: he was a sensitive and considerate lover. They had learned together.