Past Perfect

by Karen Zelas

  We looked down upon our scatter of meagre cottages in their cultivated clearings, making a patchwork amongst the darker green of the bush. “L’Aube” stood sentinel offshore. Our new hospital with quarters for Captain Lavaud was clearly visible, and the store, which is not yet finished. Daily, the foreshore looks more like a town – not a town as you know it, Maman, but a town nonetheless.

  I love to see the sky change from light blue to all shades of pink and gold. On this evening we happened to turn and notice a coral blush brushing the tips of the hills above the village and behind us, causing them to glow seemingly with an inner radiance. Even my Claude remarked: “Mon Dieu!”, respectfully praising God in His magnificence. Times like this are replenishing. They make worthwhile the hard work, the privations and the loneliness.

  A whaling ship was making its way slowly up the harbour on the incoming tide, voracious, squabbling gulls circling above it, anticipating a feed. Their cries came to us even at that distance. I placed Claude’s hand on my belly to feel his son stretching his legs. I am so pleased our son will be a New Zealander.

  Earlier in the day, I gathered a basket of salad greens and took them down to the foreshore. It was a hive of activity. The longboats were ashore with pieces of whale carcass, melting down the blubber into oil in large iron caldrons. The stench was terrible, but fortunately the wind was blowing it out into the harbour. The sailors were mainly French, with some natives among them. All were rugged and bronzed, easily distracted from their labours by my presence. I blush to say that they gave more attention to my person than my produce – in spite of my condition. However, I impressed upon one who seemed to be in charge that I had business with their chef. At first he wanted me to leave my produce with him but when he could see that I was not about to do this, he instructed a young man to row me out to the ship.

  Well. It was a long time since I had been on the waves. The young man, Alain was his name, ran the bow of the longboat up onto the shingle so that I did not have to wet my feet. I was obliged to hoist my skirts to step aboard, which appeared to provide entertainment for the men. I discovered later that they had been at sea for nearly three months. There was a stiff breeze and quite a chop but we reached the ship without mishap. I did not try to board. That might have tempted fate too far.

  No one would call Alain a conversationalist – he could barely look me in the eye. He held the longboat against the side of the whaler and called to another lad to bring the chef, a gruff man in need of a haircut – and a wash. I said I had greens for sale. He grunted but I could see a spark of interest light his eye. He offered me a tot of rum in exchange – I suppose he thought me a fool, but he soon found otherwise. When Alain rowed me back to shore, I was carrying a bag of flour in my basket, the first we have had in a full six months! I had even extracted a smile from the chef and an expression of interest in future transactions.

  The other women were somewhat disapproving when they learnt of my adventure, but Rose said they were merely envious of my success. Dear Rose! She has such a kind heart and encourages me so. She, too, can see that the old ways are not all best suited to our new life.

  Soon I should hear news of you and satisfy my thirst after these months of drought. So often I think of you. I rest my hand on the growing mound of my belly and remember as a child the wonder of feeling the babies squirm within you, creating tales about how they had found that warm, red, nurturing place to hide in and, more to the point, wondering how they would ever manage to get out! Well, the mystery shall be revealed to me before too long. It still scares me, but I will manage.

  Please give my love to Papa and the children, but keep the lion share for yourself. Be well.

  Your Bibi

  The long soak in the bath had been soothing. Sue sank onto the king-sized bed and dialled Jayne’s number; it was time she told her she was coming to London.

  The previous day, Sue had told Ben, restraining her enthusiasm, that she would go with him. But at times, like now, she wondered whether she wanted to be in his company. Sue felt like punishing Ben by changing her mind and declining to accompany him; it would serve him right. But, perhaps she would just be punishing herself, depriving herself of a holiday, the chance of seeing Jayne and the possibility of salvaging her marriage, if that was what she wanted to do; at the moment she was unsure. She would have to decide whether the Ben she now knew was one she could continue to love, to live with. His endearing qualities were there, somewhere, she told herself – they lifted their heads from time to time. Besides, she and Ben had history. And children. They were a family.

  Suddenly Sue noticed that she was no longer thinking about whether Ben wanted her, but about whether she wanted him.

  ‘Ben has a conference in London in September,’ she told Jayne, after confirming that her health was fine. ‘I’ve decided to go with him,’ she said. ‘How about a girls-only holiday while he’s tied up?’ They had never spent time alone together as adults. Sue still tended to think of Jayne as an adolescent, and felt she wanted the opportunity to get to know her young sister as the person she was now; she owed it to both of them. Maybe they would find they could be friends, not just sisters.

  ‘That sounds like a good idea – tying Ben up, I mean,’ joked Jayne.

  ‘You never have been very fond of him, have you?’ Sue had never before been ready to accept Jayne’s opinion of Ben, thinking instead it was a case of two rather self-centred people vying for centre stage.

  ‘I like Ben fine. It’s just some of his ideas, his attitudes.’ Sue knew now exactly what Jayne meant. She wondered why it had taken so many years for her to see it. Something had blinded her; she wondered what. ‘No. No, really. A holiday sounds great. Something to look forward to. Where shall we go?’

  ‘France,’ said Sue.

  ‘Only if we can go to Paris.’

  ‘I want to spend time in Rochefort and La Rochelle –’

  ‘Whatever for?’

  ‘But we could go to Paris, too, I suppose,’ Sue conceded.

  Ben entered their bedroom diffidently as Sue was putting the phone back in its cradle. She lifted her head and smiled at him. The furrows smoothed from his brow and he returned a tentative smile.

  ‘That was Jayne.’

  ‘I thought so.’ He brushed the hair from his eyes. ‘Did I hear you two making plans?’

  ‘May as well make good use of the opportunity.’

  ‘I thought you were coming to be with me?’ Ben assumed his spaniel look.

  ‘I’m certainly not floating around like a deranged satellite on the fringes of your conference. So many sociologists I can do without.’ Sue was becoming clearer about her plans by the minute. ‘I am going to do some research in France,’ she stated.

  ‘Research?’

  ‘Research. Paris, La Rochelle and Rochefort.’ Her tone said she would brook no argument.

  ‘If you say so,’ Ben said.

  The following week, Sue was sitting at a table on the front lawn of a colonial cottage in Akaroa. She had been happy to come alone this time. A veranda ran the length of the frontage with French doors opening from within. The dark aroma of coffee wafted through the air; Sue threw back her head and inhaled deeply. The tree above cast dappled shade over her two companions. ‘Isn’t this heaven?’ she asked, not expecting contradiction.

  Russell and Sue had strolled the hundred metres along the narrow pavement from the museum in the midday heat. ‘Don’t fuss if I’m a bit late back, darling,’ he had warned Clare, his workmate, as they left. ‘I’ll make it up to you when Laurence is in town.’ Clare pulled a face and waved him away.

  The morning had been productive for Sue. She had arrived early, ahead of the museum staff, standing at the door in the fresh morning air. The sky was clear, a soft powder-blue. Although there was a slight chill in the air, it would be another warm day.

  Again the time had passed quickly. Engrossed in papers and letters, Sue was totally absorbed in the lives of the French settlers, their achievemen
ts, their grievances, the minutiae of their lives. There was little about Brigitte beyond the bare fact that she was a teacher and established a small private school in Frenchtown in the early 1840s. Sue found occasional references to Claude Dujardin. He seemed to have been quite active in representing the interests of the settlers to the authorities. Shortly before Russell called her back to the present by reminding her it was lunchtime, she came across the transcript of a letter from Claude to the French Commissioner, Captain Lavaud.

  ‘Look at this,’ she exclaimed to Russell. ‘A letter written by Claude Dujardin.’ She felt fluttery inside and her hands trembled as she held the page.

  ‘Chances are he didn’t write it.’

  ‘What do you mean? It’s here. With his name on it.’

  ‘Most of the settlers couldn’t write. He probably dictated it to someone else. He was only a gardener, not gentry.’ Sue wondered why she had not thought of that. ‘I’d put my money on his wife.’

  ‘Of course. Brigitte could read and write. She must have been one of the few who could.’ Sue turned back to the typed page, perhaps part of someone’s doctoral thesis. ‘This is a transcript. Does the original still exist?’

  ‘Maybe. Possibly in the Alexander Turnbull Library. Or in France.’

  ‘I’d love to be able to see Brigitte’s handwriting.’ Sue could hardly keep still. She felt much more excited at the prospect of seeing Brigitte’s handwriting on a piece of paper, than she did about seeing her sister. She wondered briefly what was wrong with her.

  ‘I could make enquiries,’ Russell said.

  ‘Would you?’ Sue smiled with her whole being.

  ‘How could I resist, darling?’

  As they had turned in the gate to the café, Russell said: ‘There’s Guy. I asked him to join us. I didn’t think you would mind.’

  ‘Why should I?’

  Russell did not reply.

  ‘Oh.’ Sue felt stupid. ‘He’s your … Sorry. I didn’t think.’ She was really showing her age and the sheltered life she had led in recent years.

  ‘No worries.’ He steered them towards a table under a large walnut tree. Already seated was a fair skinned, dark haired, aesthetic young man, handsome in a very classical way, wearing a loose white blouse and black jeans. He lifted his head as they approached and smiled a soft dreamy smile, leaf patterns playing on his face.

  ‘How very Chekhov,’ murmured Sue.

  ‘Guy’s a writer. I found him drowning, so to speak.’ Russell smiled fondly at Guy and rested a hirsute hand on his sleeve. He has more hair on the back of his hand than on his head, Sue reflected silently, startled by the non sequitur.

  Sinking into a chair opposite the couple, Sue extended her right hand. Guy held it briefly. ‘Guy,’ she said. ‘Guy,’ she repeated with the French pronunciation. ‘Are you French?’

  ‘I wish.’

  ‘At present, Sue sees Frenchmen round every corner, and under the bed,’ laughed Russell.

  ‘I wish,’ Guy repeated. Russell’s smile faded.

  Sitting with Russell and Guy under the tree in the café garden, Sue could sense tension and wondered about its origin. ‘Well, let’s order,’ she said, feeling an urge to rescue. ‘I mustn’t keep you away from your work for too long. Either of you.’

  ‘Don’t worry about me. I’m blocked. Haven’t written a word for months.’

  ‘No. But you will, you will. It will come. When you least expect it.’ Russell stretched an arm tentatively across Guy’s shoulders, but withdrew it as Guy wriggled beneath his touch. ‘The feta and capsicum pie is good,’ Russell said to Sue. ‘And so is – it’s all good. And the coffee tastes as great as it smells.’ It all came out in a rush, the words tripping one over the other, and Sue found herself feeling not a little sad.

  ‘It’s been a good day. Exciting. History has never been so alive for me. The personal connection, I suppose.’

  ‘Exactement.’ Russell was tidying the counter at the end of the day.

  Sue stacked the documents on his desk and ran her fingers through her brown curls. She leant on the counter and propped her head on her hand. It felt heavy. She was tired but elated. She wondered whether she should have given up her career all those years ago. If she were a new mother today, she doubtless would not.

  ‘You will let me know if you’re able to track down the original of that letter?’ she asked.

  ‘Mais oui, Madame.’

  ‘Merci beaucoup, gentil M’sieur.’

  Russell blushed right to the top of his scalp, but smiled. ‘When will you come again?’

  ‘Not soon enough, probably.’ Sue would have come again tomorrow if she could. ‘I’ll give you my phone number in case you get information before then.’ She reached across the counter and wrote on a red memo slip. ‘There.’ She pushed it toward Russell. ‘Ring any time.’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘Au revoir.’ She felt unaccountably reluctant to leave.

  ‘A bientôt.’ He doffed an imaginary cap. Sue laughed lightly as she pushed her way through the heavy glass doors and stepped into a cool, brisk easterly, heading for her Honda and home.

  Akaroa,

  5th April, 1841.

  Ma chère Maman,

  It is definitely autumn. There is a crispness in the air each morning. Some days dawn fine, but on others, a heavy sea mist hangs over the harbour and our little town until a breeze arrives to dispel it. I must say I am happy that the temperature is mild, in view of the growing bundle I am carrying before me. But I have some trepidation about having a newborn babe in what will be the middle of the winter.

  We are becoming increasingly civilised here. Not only do we have a hospital and a store, but we now have a prison. So far, it has been mainly sailors and a few English who have sampled its accommodation. Drunkenness is the main problem. We shut the door of our little cottage firmly at dusk, lest some drunken sailor lurch in and pick a fight. But mainly they brawl amongst themselves over some insult, or a native woman. I hear the “Comte de Paris” returned today with 900 barrels of whale oil. No doubt the crew will be coming ashore tonight to celebrate. So the prison may get more custom.

  Some sailors are ready enough to sell their issue of brandy and wine to certain residents, who shall be nameless, who then trade it. While my Claude professes disapproval, he is not averse to a glass himself. Fortunately he does not have the money to purchase frequently and the said residents will not extend credit. Claude anticipates the day when he will be able to make his own wine. Judging by the handful of grapes in this year’s harvest, that day is still distant, I am pleased to say. I see the effect on some of our friends. The men mope around half the day feeling sorry for themselves, Maman, instead of working.

  Our potato crop has been plentiful, though, as has the corn. We have stored as much as possible for the winter and for replanting next spring. The Maori potatoes, purplish-black and knobbly, produced successfully. But we cannot live on potatoes alone. I am told that two of the crew from the “Comte de Paris” were taken straight to the hospital with scurvy once the ship had anchored. There the doctors from “L’Aube” will tend them. We take care to eat as well as we can, but supplies are very limited. I shall feed my baby at the breast as long as possible to give him a good start in this world. Captain Lavaud keeps encouraging us to sow wheat so we can eventually become self-sufficient. M. de Belligny purchased four oxen from Sydney in Australia, so wheat can be sown, but he has been frustrated in his efforts as no one here has experience of ploughing.

  There are some amongst us, French and English, who welcome the influx of whalers and are happy to take their money. I have continued to sell any surplus produce from my vegetable garden. Sometimes the sailors complain about my prices, but they have not had to work the soil and tend the plants. Any money I have managed to save I have spent on preparing for our baby. A little piece of white linen here, a skein of wool there. Claude has spent the evenings fashioning a cradle. I think he is as excited as I am about the impending
arrival, although he would not admit it if I were to ask him – which I would not.

  Lately, Claude has been working with a gang led by an officer from “L’Aube”, felling timber and sawing it into planks for building and ship repairs. He hopes to earn enough to reduce our debt. He wants to be a free man in this free country. I am pleased with his earnings, but worry about his safety, as it is a dangerous occupation. He assures me he is careful, but there has already been one death. Perhaps they will use M. de Belligny’s oxen now, to ease the load.

  Our community has been unsettled by the recent departure of several of the unmarried men, venturing off in search of fortune and wives. It has caused much grumbling and expressions of discontent, though, and has led us to appraise our situation carefully. There are no fortunes to be made in Akaroa; we know that already. But those of us who are progressing with the development of our land and have a vision of a future in which we can provide a stable life for our families are content to accept present certainties in preference to the vagaries of life prospecting in Australia.

  Ours is not an easy life. But then, life in La Rochelle is not easy, either. Perhaps, Maman, as the children grow older they will shoulder the burden and, in turn, care for you and Papa.

  All my love,

  Bibi

  Sue rang Annie when she arrived home. She wanted to tell her about the letter, Claude’s letter, written by Bibi.

  ‘Imagine if I can see the original,’ she said, feeling bubbly inside.

  ‘How exciting,’ said Annie, and Sue knew she meant it. ‘How are things with Ben?’ she added.

  ‘Tenuous,’ said Sue. How nice it would be, she thought, to be able to share her excitement with Ben. At one time she could have. ‘I’ve been having long conversations with myself. Sometimes I see it one way, sometimes another.’

  ‘You’ve decided to go to London with him?’

  Sue wondered what Annie would do in her place. ‘Yes. It’s too good an opportunity to miss. I’ll be able go to France and continue my research.’

  ‘Mm.’ Annie sounded doubtful.

  ‘But that’s not the only reason,’ Sue added.