by Karen Zelas
‘Don’t. I can do it.’ Ben frowned. ‘What is it – being upside down in the Northern Hemisphere?’ Sue silently thanked him for trying to turn her blundering into a joke.
Sue felt the urge to talk with Jayne about their father, but the opportunity somehow never arose. Jayne seemed to make sure of that. In a way, it did not surprise Sue. Her sister’s relationship with their father had stalled when she left home. It had been so fraught at that time that Sue could only guess at the complexity of feelings that might remain on his death. She supposed Jayne would raise the matter when she was ready; if she was ready. In the meantime, her own need to talk was Sue’s problem; she could not impose it on Jayne.
Instead, that night she lay in bed talking with Ben, both unable to sleep. Her husband had become a good listener.
‘I saw Dad last night,’ said Sue. She paused, waiting to be told she was crazy. When Ben grunted his interest, she continued, ‘I was on some sort of commercial wharf with big barrels standing around, when he appeared from nowhere. He looked old but active, not dying. He came towards me smiling, a big grin that said “Surprise!” and “It really is me.” My stomach turned upside down. I knew he had died, but he seemed real. I wanted to believe it was him but at the same time, I felt angry to think he had been hiding from me all this time. I reached out and balled his jersey in my hand, feeling the texture of the knit between my fingers and the firmness of his flesh beneath, and was convinced.’
‘And?’
‘And that was all. But it left me with a very warm feeling when I woke. Right here,’ she said planting a fist firmly between her breasts.
‘That’s good,’ said Ben.
‘You must be fed up with my going on and on.’
Ben’s answer was to draw her close and quiet her with his lips. It felt he was devouring her, his lips and tongue soft, his teeth like chiselled stone. His fingers were woven with her hair and his thumbs softly traced the line of her cheekbones. With gentle pressure, he rolled her onto her back. ‘Oh, my sweet woman,’ he murmured as her body opened to him. ‘You’re all I ever want.’ A glow of contentment spread through Sue. She felt at peace; she felt victorious. She abandoned herself to his rhythmical thrust – quietly, constrained by knowing her young sister was on the other side of the wall.
The following day, Monday, dawned without Sue. She was relieved when she opened her eyes to see the sun already filtering through the curtains, spearing slowly-falling dust motes with its needles. Ben stirred beside her as the seven o’clock news blared forth from Jayne and Nigel’s room.
‘Oh, God. Turn it down.’ It was Jayne’s voice. They had stayed up late, talking and supping, in spite of reminding one another at regular intervals that they all had an early start next morning.
Four zombies rotated through the bathroom exchanging grunts in passing. Looking, if not feeling, more human, they were soon seated for breakfast. Not the make-your-own, stand-at-the-bench weekday breakfast, as featured in the Spencer household; the table had been laid the night before in anticipation of the morning rush.
Nigel and Ben were the first to depart, both taking the train to Victoria Station, where their paths would diverge. Nigel and Jayne worked at Canary Wharf in one of the new glass corporate buildings overlooking the waterway. Ben would take the District or Circle Line two stops west to South Kensington. Sue watched Jayne, on tiptoes, kiss Nigel goodbye as he waited for Ben, one hand on the door, laptop-briefcase in the other. ‘Enjoy yourselves,’ he said, including Sue in the sweep of his imperative.
Sue stepped across the hall and kissed his cheek. ‘We intend to.’ She turned to Ben who was struggling down the stairs with his trundler, laptop and canvas shoulder bag. ‘You okay there?’ she asked him. ‘You’ve got the hotel phone numbers in Paris and La Rochelle? I left them on your night table.’
‘All here,’ Ben said, patting the canvas bag. ‘Don’t fuss.’
‘Hope your paper goes well. It will. I know it will.’
He bent forward to kiss her, pursing his lips. ‘Sorry. No hands.’
Sue hugged Ben to her for a long moment, reluctant now to be parted from him. She would miss him, but, more than that, she wondered how they would weather the separation. The relationship felt solid now. They were enjoying each other again. Only time would tell the strength of the bond; and time together seemed safer at this stage than time apart. ‘Ring me,’ she said. Then, not wanting to seem clingy, she added, ‘When you have time.’
‘Come on.’ Nigel was restive. ‘It’s a seven-minute walk to the station.’
Jayne closed the door behind them. ‘Yippee! We’re on holiday,’ she shouted. ‘Now, let’s get our bags into the car. We’re in good time, but you never know about traffic. Roadworks, an accident … ’
Akaroa,
18th September, 1843.
Ma chère Maman,
How wonderful to receive mail, not only from you, but also from Sophie. Such a lovely surprise! Your letters have barely left my hand since they were placed there, and even then, they rest not far away in my apron pocket. Sophie tells me of her young man, Maman. I hope he does not cause a further tear in Papa’s heart by taking her far from home when they marry. Let us pray that they both retain their positions at the château, so that they remain nearby.
Sophie also tells me, Maman, which you do not, that Papa is poorly. This troubles me – both that he is ill and that you do not tell me. If your intention is to save me from fretting, it is most unsuccessful. I was quite overwhelmed that he added his name to your good wishes, though saddened by his frail hand. It is hard to picture the changes that must be taking place in him. I still see Papa as he was when I left – strong, well-meaning, though not a man easily swayed by argument.
I am learning that being a wife is fraught with difficulties. I am sure you have known this for many years, Maman. I am married to a man with attributes surprisingly similar to my father. One must have the patience of a saint and learn how to direct with subtlety. Also, to know remorse signifies little.
The children are my pride and joy. Marie is such a sweet, placid baby (like her name-sake, my dear Maman!), robust and healthy, so much easier than Jules at the same age. Jules is becoming quite the little man now. He has a lot of words at his disposal and sometimes says the funniest things. He wants to go off with his Papa and chop trees and he carries around a little wooden axe Claude made for him. There was quite a performance last night when I refused to allow him to take it into his bed. I was sorry in the end that I had insisted, because Claude took the axe and broke it across his knee. He said Jules has to learn. I suppose he is right. But the child’s sobs were as an axe to my heart. Hopefully, Claude will relent in a few days and make him another. Sometimes I think to myself he takes too much pleasure in disciplining our son.
My pupils, too, give me much satisfaction. We passed the winter well, using the Priests’ House as a schoolhouse. Claude would set and light a fire for us before he went off each morning in the milling gang and by the time I arrived with our children and the pupils started straggling in, the house would be quite cosy. Now that it is spring, we sometimes have lessons outside on the veranda or under the cabbage trees, if the ground is dry. The air is so sweet and the light so clear. When we are outside, particularly if the children are reading aloud or singing, Maori children come and squat nearby, filled with curiosity. I sometimes beckon them over, but they are very shy and keep their distance or even run away.
We live frugally and save our coins, as you have taught, Maman. Whether or not we return to France at the end of five years, we want to have saved a nest egg to help us on our way.
Our fruit trees are in blossom at present, and are now just tall enough to sit beneath. On Sunday, we had a picnic spread on rugs beneath the trees in our garden with the de Malmanche and Libeau families. We made quite a celebration of it.
Maman, I would tell you more but I want this letter to catch the ship before it sails again. So I shall end here. Please tell me honestly the
family news, the bad with the good. I need to know I can trust what you say when your words finally arrive here.
Please thank Papa for his good wishes and give him my love. Obviously, my letter telling that I am to be a British subject has not yet arrived. I fear for his equanimity when it does. In the meantime, I will take pleasure in being at one with him again. (Please forgive the smears – I can hardly see as I write.)
Thank Sophie, too, for her letter. I will write to her soon. Love to the children and to yourself. Jules says: “Au ’voir, G’an’mère.”
Your Bibi
The trip to Gatwick was uneventful and the flight to Paris over almost before it had begun.
‘Tell me about your new job,’ Sue said to Jayne as clouds obscured the view and they settled down for the flight.
‘It’s hardly new. I’ve been there nearly four months.’
‘That isn’t new?’
‘Not in my world.’ Impatience showed in Jayne’s voice and Sue wondered what sort of a colonial hick her sister must think her.
‘Well, do you think I might be capable of understanding what you do nevertheless?’ Sue had not intended to be sarcastic, and shame surged even as the words left her mouth. Jayne scowled, seeming to debate whether to take offence. ‘I’m sorry. I’m interested. Really.’ Sue hoped Jayne would not sulk; they had a long time to spend in each other’s company.
Jayne started to explain grudgingly, but rapidly warmed to the subject. She had been shoulder-tapped by another firm of investment bankers with a view to leading a new team once she had completed her orientation. The bank was to take on a Moscow-based contract to help them set up an IT system. It would be the job of her team to oversee the installation and then trouble shoot as necessary.
‘It’s really quite exciting. More money.’
‘And many trips to Moscow, I suppose,’ added Sue, unable to disguise the envy in her voice.
‘After a while, it’s just a nuisance. A long commute,’ said Jayne.
‘A nuisance I could cope with for a while,’ said Sue. ‘What about Nigel?’ she said after a pause while they accepted a snack from the cabin attendant.
‘What about Nigel?’ asked Jayne.
‘What does he think about your tripping about on your own?’
‘Sue, where have you been the last twenty years?’
‘Bringing up children, actually.’ If she sounded snippy, she meant to be. They lapsed into silence. They both retreated into the pages of the in-flight magazine. ‘What are you and Nigel planning as your next get-away?’ she asked after a time.
‘Hiking in the Swiss Alps. The week after you leave. Just a long weekend. It’s as much time as I can afford to take after this. Moscow is very happy. We’ve just completed phase one, and I got a nice fat bonus.’ A smug smile played around Jayne’s lips. Still, she deserved to be pleased with herself.
‘You’re doing really well in your work. Dad would have been proud,’ Sue said, but she could see the uncertainty her words generated in Jayne’s eyes. ‘He would,’ she said more firmly.
Jayne shrugged. ‘If you say so.’ She dropped her eyes and flicked through the pages of the magazine too fast to be reading them. Sue wondered if they would ever be able to talk about anything that truly mattered.
Akaroa,
5th October, 1844.
Ma chère, chère Maman,
My heart floods with tears, mingling with the salt of the sea as it washes to your shore. Cher Papa! Gone! I struggle to accept it. Please tell me his decline was not hastened by news of our becoming British. I feel so far away from you, not just on the other side of the world, but in quite another world. Were it not so, it would be inconceivable that life could have continued as usual here for the last six months with Papa lying cold in the ground. It is so precious to me that I have his greetings in his own hand from your last letter – the pages have become so worn. I was dreading to hear his reaction to the news of our changed status, but this is much, much worse.
How will you manage, chère Maman? I wish I could be there to help. Perhaps Sophie and her young man can live with you now that they have married. Oh, such sadness. He was a good man. Fixed in his views, but a good man. He provided well for his family in difficult times and had aspirations for us all. I am sorry to have disappointed him. But he would have been proud of his grandchildren. The days are lengthening, leaving me longer to reflect on the past and what we have lost. My garden blooms with colours less intense than other years.
We all send our love to you and the children. Claude specifically asked that I send his condolences. Ma chère, chère Maman. I think of you always.
Your Bibi
Sue had not anticipated the surge of emotion that swept over her landing at Charles de Gaulle airport. She had been to France before, more than once, but this time it felt different. Like a homecoming – perhaps that was too strong, but there was a novel sense of connectedness, of belonging, this time. Sue opened her mouth to say something of this to Jayne, but snapped it shut again. Jayne was already gathering her belongings. Always in a rush, Jayne. Matter of fact, her show of emotion when Sue arrived an anomaly quickly sealed over.
For Jayne, France was a place to visit for a well-earned holiday. A place of culture, art and chic. Sue noted the blonde curls pulled back into a sophisticated knot, the T-shirt and jeans dressed up with a white denim, cropped jacket and heeled, bejewelled sandals; middle management declaring she was on holiday. She wore flamboyant glass earrings and carried a Gucci bag. By contrast, Sue was in jeans and sneakers with a light polar fleece jacket and a day-pack.
Sue felt they were worlds apart.
Akaroa,
23rd April, 1845.
Ma chère Maman,
It is with a heavy heart I bring you our decision. As you will realise, it has been confronting us ever more urgently as the five years of our contract with the Company have neared their end. We have worked diligently developing our land and it is fertile and productive, providing us with a comfortable living. A new and bigger house is being built for us, separate from our cultivated land, and my school is thriving. The climate and fresh air benefit our youngsters. Both now grow strong and healthy – like young rabbits, bigger and plumper every day. And I am again with child.
You will have guessed, chère Maman, that we feel we cannot forsake all this in favour of returning to France. Please do not be cross with me. You know how I miss you still. It is a decision which has not been arrived at easily, but with many tears and much prayer. I think of you being without Papa, and wish I could be there with you. But I have other responsibilities as well and must trust that Sophie will take good care of you.
The Company is to withdraw before long. In preparation for leaving, M. Belligny has signed over ownership of our land to us. Listen, Maman: “In that Claude Dujardin has completed his requirements in the agreement, I, St. Croix de Belligny, transfer to him unconditionally all legal rights of ownership to the five acres which were allocated to him, for his exclusive use and enjoyment.” Dated 6th April,, 1845. Imagine that, Maman! We are now landowners!
I will be sorry to see M. Belligny go. He has become a good friend. In the early days, there were times when there was ill feeling, when his hands were tied by the restrictions placed upon him – and, therefore, us – by the Company. But he always did his best and with a good will. And now he has done his best to ensure our security before leaving.
All but one of the families has made the decision to remain. Jacques and Jeanne Cébert are leaving to settle in Samoa.
Give my love to all and a hug to Sophie’s little one. I love you, Maman.
Your Bibi
15.
The Métro took Sue and Jayne to within two hundred metres of their hotel, a small private hotel, little more than a pension, which Jayne had found on the internet. It bore the grand name of Hôtel Royale for no reason that Sue could identify. The patronnes were two elderly sisters who could have stepped off a canvas by Toulouse-Lautrec.
‘Do you think we’ll look like that in a few years?’ Jayne whispered to Sue.
‘No chance for me,’ said Sue, eyeing their tall thin figures and the manner in which their gowns draped elegantly from shoulder and hip. She smiled at the mesdames, whose crinkly red mouths returned her smile in unison.
‘Bonjour, Madame,’ said the redhead.
‘Bonjour, Madame,’ said the brunette, a beat behind. They addressed Sue, as the older woman.
‘Bonjour, Mesdames.’ Sue summoned her undergraduate French as Jayne perused a small stand of brochures and maps. ‘Ma soeur a fait des réserves – a reservation for two nights,’ she said in French, her confidence building.
‘Mais, oui. Quelle nom, s’il vous plâit?’ The redhead was clearly in charge and had the reservation book open, running an arthritic finger down the column of names. ‘Anglaises?’
‘Oui, Madame. Kiwi.’
Jayne reached over Sue’s shoulder, taking charge. ‘Celui-là – Wilson. C’est moi.’
‘Weel-sonne,’ said Madame Redhead, the slash of red mouth displaying a row of yellowed-ivory piano keys, too full for her face. She nodded to her sister.
‘Weel-sonne,’ echoed Madame Brunette, as Jayne signed the register.
‘I am Suzanne Spencer. My husband might telephone.’
‘Spens-aire,’ they managed in unison.
Sue doubted the request had registered. ‘Please put the call through to my room, if my husband calls.’ Her French was becoming less halting. ‘Merci beaucoup,’ she added.
‘Vous parlez très bien le français, Madame,’ tittered Madame Redhead. ‘That is convenient,’ she continued in French. ‘My sister and I, we do not speak English. A little German, yes, but no English. We have Room Six for you. Away from the traffic. The front door is locked at ten o’clock. Please use this key if you are late.’