by Karen Zelas
Further up the hill, they found a commemorative stone. ‘“de Malmanche. In memory of Emery 1804–1882 and his wife Rose 1813–1893,”’ Sue read. ‘“Erected by their descendents in 1990.” The sesquicentenary,’ she added. It was reassuring that they were remembered. A thread through the ages.
They reached the upper boundary of the cemetery. ‘“R.C. and Dissenters Cemetery”. A very pedestrian sign.’ All at once, Sue understood: Anglicans buried in the prime positions, Catholics relegated to the upper reaches. ‘This can’t be the original cemetery. That’s why there aren’t any really early graves.’
‘There’s another behind The Pumphouse, isn’t there?’ Annie was already heading down hill. ‘Now, lunch.’
Akaroa,
1st January, 1841.
Ma chère Maman,
New Year blessings to you all! May the year bring health and good cheer. May it also bring you and Papa a happy and healthy wee grandson! I am sure the baby will be a boy. Already he makes his presence known – every morning when my stomach turns. But as the day wears on, I feel myself again. I cannot afford to be unwell or weak. There is too much to be done. I tend the vegetables while my husband continues to clear the land behind our cottage.
It is a great joy being now in our own home – especially when it rains. Little water seeps inside, even though the floor is earthen. If it rains very heavily, Claude digs a trench around the cottage to carry the water away. Yes, it is summer, but still it rains and sometimes even hailstones fall on our tender crops. All my lettuces were destroyed two weeks ago just as we were about to benefit from the fruits of my labour. The leaves on the young cornstalks and the potatoes were also shredded but at least the plants have survived.
Being so dependent on the land and the weather is very vexing. We can see the bad weather approaching, marching up the harbour from the sea, making the surface of the water boil. It is a very uncertain life here. Now that we no longer live as a group to the same extent, we also have to bear our hardships more independently. Food is no longer communal, and people do not share what they have as readily.
But we have good times. In the long evenings, we gather and talk and sing, and even dance, accompanied by Albert, on his accordion. It is fun, Maman, and we can forget our hardships for a little while. The men, I have to say, have a little tipple – my husband, too. They buy rum from the whalers when the opportunity presents. Claude and his friends go down to the ships when they come in and trade whatever they can for a jug. I do not altogether approve. The rum is so strong that a little has an obvious effect and Claude will not dilute it with water. But what can I say?
Many have planted the vine cuttings we brought from France and hope eventually to be able to make wine. My husband erected a wooden frame at one end of my vegetable garden for me to train the grape vines along. I think they will bear no fruit this year. We must be patient in all things.
I also have some small fruit trees in sacking which I have been tending carefully until sufficient ground is cleared to plant them behind our cottage. A walnut, two apple trees, a peach and a cherry.
Just imagine, Maman, when I shall be able to lie on the grass in spring under my blossom trees, watching my children play tag.
4th February, 1841.
There is some anxiety running through our community. Word has come that England and France are on the brink of war over a country called Syria. Our news is, of course, months out of date. Who knows what might be happening by now? In my worst moments, I fear the English may be sailing into Rochefort to attack our Navy and I wonder what might have become of all of you nearby in La Rochelle. How I long to receive news that you are safe and well.
“L’Aube” had been making preparations to put to sea (to run to Australia for food supplies) but Captain Lavaud decided he should abort his plans and remain here for our protection. To have our parent countries poised to do battle on the other side of the globe is most distressing for us, living as we do so closely with the English and, as yet, not under our own flag. What would happen if our small community found itself abandoned in the midst of hostile English territory? If it were to come to a dispute, we would be soundly outnumbered.
And who knows whose side the Maoris would take?
I know Papa has never had a good word for the English. I have kept a more open mind, but I have to confess to being somewhat fearful for the safety of my little family.
Meanwhile, life continues. Rose Malmanche, with whom I have formed a firm friendship, has long been admiring and even envious of my ability to read and write. Indeed, I have written letters on her behalf to her family in Echillais. She has beseeched me to share my skills with her and I have commenced teaching her to read and form letters. She is an eager pupil and a good one. It is so gratifying to see the excitement in her eyes as the written word starts to make sense to her! Some of the other women and older girls, seeing us at our tuition, are also asking if they might learn. A few of the men can read but the women did not have the opportunity in France. La belle France! The young children attend the priests to learn the catechism and their letters. Hopefully they will grow up to be better educated than their parents.
How I look forward to seeing my own children learn to read and write and absorb information about the world in which they live!
16th February, 1841.
Today I felt the quickening, chére Maman! Just briefly. A flutter in my small round belly. To feel the movement and know it is my son – what joy!
Your daughter,
Bibi
The breeze was cool in spite of the sun and Sue pulled her cardigan together across her chest. She had left Annie to her own devices for an hour. Across the street, scarlet banners proclaimed: “MUSEUM”. The modern glass frontage was all but obscured by the dense foliage of a large gnarled tree. To its right stood the old courthouse, to its left a two-room settlers’ cottage – turquoise-painted weatherboards, corrugated iron roof, shuttered windows with a leadlight above the central door – like a dolls’ house. Behind its white picket fence and peeking through in soft swathes of colour was a delicate perennial garden. Beautiful.
A small man was seated behind the counter. He looked up as she entered and smiled, throwing his thin face into wrinkles. A greenstone drop swung from his right earlobe.
‘Welcome,’ he beamed. ‘You’re wanting to see our museum.’ A statement rather than a question.
‘No. Well, yes. I mean, I’d like some help. If you have time.’ Sue heard the awkwardness and apology in her voice and cringed.
‘No problem.’ He rolled his chair back from the counter and folded his wiry arms. ‘I’m Russell. How can I help?’
‘I’m not quite sure. I want to find out about the settlers in Akaroa. The French. I think I’m descended from them on my father’s side.’ She felt an unexpected flush above her collar. ‘I’m sure I am.’
‘Really? How exciting. I’d love to have French blood flowing in my veins, but no such luck, dear.’ His hazel eyes sparkled.
Sue smiled with him. ‘I’m Sue.’ She extended a hand over the counter.
‘Pleased to meet you, Sue. Who do you think you are related to?’
‘Brigitte and Claude Dujardin.’
‘Oh. The School Mistress.’ Sue thought he made her sound like a dominatrix. ‘She taught school. To the French, you know.’ Sue did not know. ‘She started a little private school after the Catholic priests left Akaroa. A number of them – private schools – sprang up around the Peninsula quite early on, but hers was the first. How exciting,’ he reiterated, propelling his chair forward and surging toward Sue. She drew back involuntarily. ‘Sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you. It’s not every day we have new descendants coming out of the woodwork. Leliévres and de Malmanches, yes. But Dujardins, never. Is that your name – Dujardin?’
‘A middle name. All Dad’s family has it.’
‘Must be there for a reason.’
Sue nodded.
‘Well, Sue Dujardin. Let’s see what we
can find.’ Russell stood up. ‘Have you been in the museum before? No? Shame on you.’ He clucked his tongue. ‘Local holidaymakers. Unlike Americans, they’re not interested in being educated. Only interested in the sand and the sea, eating and drinking.’
‘And shopping.’
‘Oh, mustn’t forget le shopping, darling. Now, why don’t you go and have a look around and I’ll see what I can find on file?’ He dismissed Sue with a flick of the wrist and turned to a filing cabinet behind him.
Sue wandered into the main hall of the little museum, a small smile on her lips. She felt light-hearted, as though she were setting off on a voyage, and could barely restrain the urge to insert a skip between her measured steps. Ben was far from her mind.
Suddenly she caught sight of her reflection in one of the exhibits. She paused, running her eyes up and down the full-length image. By a trick of perspective, her head floated above a period gown with nipped in waist, full skirt and simple lace collar. Sue smiled; she was entering a new world, the world of her ancestors. She wanted to twirl and watch herself swish her long skirt. She was gripped by excitement and could feel her heartbeat quicken in her throat.
Following the signs, Sue found herself at so-called French Cottage, the turquoise, two-roomed cottage she had viewed from the road. The first timber house built in Akaroa, a card informed. M. Fleuret constructed it for M. Aimable Langlois (brother of Captain Langlois) and his wife, one of the Etévenaux daughters, Sue read.
Picture windows replaced the rear wall, opening the interior to the public eye. Furniture, furnishings and household objects reconstructed the domestic scene, not as Brigitte would have known it on arrival, but maybe ten or twenty years later, had they achieved reasonable financial success. A female mannequin sat making lace while a baby slept in a cradle at her feet. Sue felt herself drift through the glass, spying on the occupants. She floated through the rooms, fingering the cream silk drapes which formed a canopy over the bed, warming her hands by the open fire, inhaling the vapours emanating from the large pot hanging in the fireplace. Giving the cradle a gentle nudge, she cooed at the little one wrapped within. She leant over the shoulder of the woman of the house, her breath stirring the ribbons of her white cotton bonnet, and wondered at the fine spider’s web of lace forming under her nimble fingers. Where was her husband? What work was he engaged in?
When she arrived back in the foyer, Russell was seated at the counter talking to an older American couple – or rather, listening. When they finally stepped out into the afternoon sunshine, Russell caught Sue’s eye and suppressed a giggle. ‘What did I tell you? Now,’ he added, turning to a stack of documents behind him. The back of his T-shirt read, “Save the Whales”.
‘I bet you’re a fan of Led Zepplin, The Who and The Velvet Underground,’ Sue said.
Russell grimaced. ‘How did you know?’ He scanned Sue’s face quizzically, head on one side, a little bird. ‘Enough of me. I’ve laid my hand on a few things,’ he said, slapping his palm down onto the pile of papers. ‘There are these family histories that descendants have compiled. You’ll probably find references to the Dujardins. Then there is this commentary on archival letters. And this article which looks at the development of the township, including schooling, and makes reference to Brigitte Dujardin. You’re welcome to take them to a quiet corner and browse.’
Sue was impressed. She carried the pile of bound documents to a nearby table and thumbed through them, wondering where to start. Soon she was engrossed in life in nineteenth-century Akaroa.
Ben was busy in the kitchen when Sue arrived home, the pungent smell of sautéed onions and garlic wafting out the door to greet her. She was feeling light-hearted and refreshed after her day in Akaroa. Her worries had been temporarily pushed aside, as if there were more to think of in the world than the future of her marriage. Even Ben’s presence stirred them only a little, perhaps because he had made an effort to notice what was needed and to pitch in.
‘Good smells.’ Sue gave Ben a grateful peck on the cheek in passing.
‘Du vin?’ she asked lightly, as she returned to the kitchen.
‘In English?’
‘Want some wine?’ she repeated, brandishing an open bottle of shiraz. Ben nodded, stirring the onions with a wooden spatula that was singed on one edge. ‘You should say, “Bien sûr, Madame”,’ Sue instructed.
Ben shrugged, not taking his eyes off the pan, head wreathed in steam.
‘Whatever.’
‘“Whatever”? You associate with too many youngsters. Need any help?’ Sue asked, not waiting for an answer. ‘No? Then I’ll go and put my feet up.’
Later that evening, Ben emerged from his study and dropped into an armchair in front of the television. Sue was paying little attention to the programme but had her head buried in the latest copy of New Zealand Gardener. Plant of the month. Things to do in April. She was still struggling with the chores for February.
‘I can’t imagine why you’d want to identify yourself with the French,’ Ben said, reaching for the TV remote and channel-surfing.
‘I beg your pardon?’ Sue was shaken from her musing.
‘You’ve got perfectly good British blood in your veins,’ he persisted.
‘I can’t believe I’m hearing right.’ The magazine dropped into her lap with an empty flop.
‘It’s not that I mind you going off for the day with Annie.’ Sue cast a sceptical glance at him. ‘No. That’s fine. Really. You don’t have to work. But the French –’.
‘I’m not having this conversation.’
‘Arrogant, officious, racist.’
‘I wouldn’t say the French have a monopoly on arrogance,’ Sue said, ‘present company included.’
‘What do you mean?’ Ben looked wounded and uncomprehending. It almost made Sue laugh. ‘Look at their record. History tells it all.’ Ben gestured broadly, signifying the enormity and indisputable truth of French transgressions.
‘I thought I was the historian,’ Sue said, teasing.
‘The French behaviour as colonisers: Algeria, New Caledonia, Vietnam.’ He paused to draw breath.
The television advertisements exhorted and jingled in the background. Sue leant across and pressed Mute on the remote, which rested now on the coffee table between them. If only she could silence Ben as easily. There’s an electronic challenge, she thought.
‘They were no worse than the English, the Dutch, the Belgians,’ Sue countered. ‘They all did their share of exploitation and oppression. They were all there primarily in their own interests, but brought positive influences, too.’
But Ben was in full stride. ‘Then there’s denial of Nazi collaboration. We hear plenty about the French Resistance, but what about the collaborators and French anti-Semitism?’
‘There was anti-Semitism throughout Europe, even England. Still is, to a degree,’ Sue interrupted.
‘And in our own backyard – nuclear testing in the Pacific and the Rainbow Warrior affair. They have no respect for other peoples,’ Ben concluded. He put his hands behind his head and arched back in his chair. ‘I rest my case.’
‘It’s all a matter of perspective, like so many things,’ Sue said. ‘Respect,’ she said. ‘It’s easy to judge others.’ Ben, the opinionated. Ben, the arrogant. Ben, the self-serving. Masquerading as a mild and reasonable man. Sue had never seen him so clearly.
‘So why would you want to be French?’
‘It’s part of who I am,’ she said, quietly. ‘Now that I know, there would be no point in trying to deny it. I need to know, to understand.’ The room was very still, waiting. ‘Ben, I love you dearly, but there are some things I definitely do not like about you.’ Ben’s startled expression showed he had been struck a body blow. Sue had wielded a sledgehammer, her censure all the more devastating for not being spoken in anger.
She melted; she was moved to soften her statement, but restrained herself. Instead, she pushed on deeper, justifying her stance. ‘It’s not just me. It affects us all.
’ Ben started to protest, but she cut him off. ‘Do I suddenly become a different person if you know I am partly French? Can you love me the same or do you have to love me less in order to be true to your prejudices? What a brainteaser. Poor Ben.’ Genuine affection and compassion were in her voice. She reached out in a gesture of goodwill, prepared to meet him halfway, to accept an apology. But Ben recoiled, keeping his hands safely out of her reach. Hair veiled his eyes, as he lowered his gaze. Sue’s gut lurched. ‘I’m … I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you. But …’ Her voice trailed away. It was all right for him to hurt her, it seemed.
They sat like a bas relief. Sue activated herself with difficulty. ‘I’m going to have a bath.’ She left the room, closing the door gently; she had made her stand. As she turned into the passage, she heard Jason’s door click closed.
9.
Akaroa,
3rd March, 1841.
Ma chère Maman,
The days are drawing in a little. We have said goodbye to the long twilights until next summer but the weather is warm and stable.
Last evening, when our labours were done and our sparse meal over, Claude and I stepped out together. We climbed the gentle slope up to Green’s Point, as it is known, where the Englishman, Mr. Green, farms cattle for a Mr. Rhodes. Don’t fuss – we walked carefully, having regard for my condition.
The air was fresh and clear. Mount Bossu had but a soft crown of white cloud upon its head. The birdsong was sweet upon our ears and we were engulfed by the warm, damp, invisible vapours stirred by our feet.
At times like this, I feel so close to my husband, leaning on his arm, feeling the rough cloth of his jacket against my cheek and breathing in the fragrance of honest labour. We share a love of this land. It is good to feel its firmness under our feet. It is a privilege to gaze out across the water, greying in stages as the sun sinks lower behind the hills, hills which stand black above the sailors’ vegetable gardens across the harbour.