by Karen Zelas
Madame Brunette tittered behind her hand, as if you could never know what to expect of les Anglaises in Paris.
‘No gentlemen in the room, please,’ added Madame Redhead.
Sue avoided Jayne’s eye to save giggling.
‘Le petit déjeuner is served from seven in the morning,’ said Madame Redhead.
‘Ici.’ Madame Brunette gestured through glass doors to a small, dark dining room. They made a wonderful double act.
Jayne and Sue climbed the narrow carpeted stairway to their room in preference to negotiating their luggage into the miniscule cage-lift. “Away from the traffic”, as Sue had suspected, was a euphemism for a back room overlooking a light-well between buildings. At least they would be able to leave the window open at night for a little breeze – air-conditioning, in other words. The air was sultry and Sue was pleased to wash and change into a cool blouse and skirt. Before she was through, Jayne had produced a sheaf of maps and brochures.
‘Right. A planning meeting,’ she announced, opening a map and spreading it on Sue’s bed. ‘We have to make the most of our time here. I thought …’ Jayne outlined an itinerary that was not for the faint-hearted. ‘That’s for today. It would be nice to finish up in Montmartre at a restaurant near the Sacré Coeur. So we can see it flood-lit at night and look out across the city.’ She paused. ‘What do you think?’
Sue breathed deeply. ‘All right. So long as we’re back by ten without any gentlemen,’ she laughed.
‘Aren’t they brilliant?’ Jayne exclaimed.
‘Very Somerset Maugham,’ said Sue.
Jayne swung her legs off the bed. ‘Let’s get going. We’re not here for a holiday!’
Rue de Malmanche,
Akaroa,
2nd August, 1845.
Chère Maman,
Did you notice the address? Our new house has been completed.
George Fleuret has made a good job of it. It is beautiful and all our own, with glass in the windows and wooden floors. It has a veranda, two rooms downstairs, a scullery at the back and two rooms upstairs. We were able to move from the old cottage just days before the new baby decided to come into this world. So what could be better? It is much more spacious than the cottage, with a separate room for the children. Of course, the baby, Cathérine Marie, has her crib beside our bed. I can lie in the morning and watch her wee thumb creep into her rosebud mouth as hunger starts to register. Then I gather her up and put her to the breast, inhaling her delicious smell.
I am blessed with two good-natured daughters, Maman. This one suckles and sleeps and suckles and sleeps, and in between she is wreaths of smiles. How lucky I am, because Claude needs his sleep. He still works with the milling gang, as well as tending our land. He loves the children dearly but can get short with them if he is tired, especially with Jules who can be strong-willed – there are ways to gain his cooperation and ways to provoke defiance, but Claude will not be told. Life is not always easy. But you know that, Maman.
My Cathérine has woken. I must go to her now.
Love to all.
Bibi
The shrill ring of the telephone pierced Sue’s dream: she was back at school; she and Annie had strayed from the grounds onto a grassy hill, but way in the distance she could hear the school bell ringing for the beginning of afternoon classes. She knew they would be late, but she did not care.
Sue stretched out and fumbled with the switches on her travelling alarm clock, but the ringing continued.
‘It’s the phone, for fuck’s sake,’ mumbled Jayne.
Sue opened her eyes and found the receiver. ‘Hello? Allô? Oh, Ben.’ She sat up against the pillows and switched on the light above her bed. Jayne buried her head under her duvet. ‘You rang.’ She wanted to hug him. ‘How are you? How’s the conference?’ There was so much she wanted to ask, so much she wanted to say. She wanted to tell Ben how much she loved him and missed him, but felt constrained by Jayne’s presence. ‘Have you given your paper yet?’
‘Yesterday afternoon. Last session. Glad it’s over.’ Ben’s voice was thick, the tone flat.
‘You sound awful. Hard night?’ There was a pause. ‘Ben?’
‘Headache,’ said Ben.
‘Poor Benny. Were you happy with your paper? Was it well received?’ She was not being the dutiful supportive wife; she really wanted to know.
‘Hard to tell.’ Sue had thought Ben would feel lighter now he had given his paper, so his gloom was hard to fathom.
‘What did Aroha think?’ she asked.
Ben cleared his throat and said, ‘How’s Paris?’
Sue was a little surprised, but it was Ben’s prerogative if he did not want to talk about his paper, and she was pleased he wanted to know how she was. ‘Paris is great. We walked our legs off yesterday and finished up by the Sacré Coeur for dinner. Fabulous view from there at night. I’ll take you sometime. It’s a date?’
‘Ah, yes. It’s … it’s a date.’ There was a pause. ‘I’m missing you.’
Sue threw a glance towards Jayne, snuggled deep under her duvet. ‘I miss you, too, love,’ she whispered, and wished she was snuggled in bed beside him.
‘Ah, Sue …’ Ben’s voice had a catch in it; he sounded as if he were about to cry.
‘What is it?’ Sue was instantly wide awake. ‘Is it the children?’ She sat bolt upright.
‘No. No. It’s just that I …’
‘What?’ Sue could hear the alarm in her voice.
‘I … I ... did something. Something … foolish.’
‘What? It can’t be that bad,’ said Sue, her heart rate gradually returning to normal. ‘Lose your travellers’ cheques?’
‘No.’
‘Your passport?’ She yawned. It really was very early to be awake.
‘No.’
‘Accept a job in Afghanistan?’ She was getting fed up; this was not a quiz show.
‘Be serious.’
‘What, then?’ Irritation was rising; Sue wondered what he was playing at. ‘You’re the one with something to say.’
‘I … I made a pass at Aroha.’ Ben said it in one rapid mouthful.
‘What?’ Sue swung her feet to the floor. ‘You what?’
‘What is it?’ Jayne rolled toward Sue, her head raised off the pillow, her brow furrowed. Sue motioned her to be quiet.
‘I made a –’
‘I heard you the first time.’ Sue was shouting. Her palm itched to slap him. If he had been there, she would have pummelled and punched and shaken him. She might even have scratched him – her hands formed claws; she wanted to hurt him. She had tried so hard.
‘Well, you asked –’
‘What do you mean – you made a pass?’ Sue asked. Jayne’s eyes widened as she propped herself on one elbow.
‘You don’t want the details,’ Ben said.
‘Oh, yes, I do.’ She needed to try to understand what had gone wrong.
‘No, you don’t. There’s no point. It meant nothing. I’d had a bit too much to drink. That’s all.’
‘Oh, I see. A bit too much to drink. So it wasn’t your fault, I suppose.’ Damn him!
‘Thank God you understand.’
‘Understand?’ Sue was flabbergasted that he should hear only what he wanted. His relief would be short-lived; she would see to that. ‘I want to understand. I want to understand why you are baiting me like this.’
‘You’re angry.’
‘Of course I’m angry. You dump this at my feet and expect to feel better. Never mind how I might feel.’ Sue had long ago forgotten Jayne’s presence. ‘You’re going to tell me every little detail.’
‘Don’t be angry. I’m sorry, darling. It was stupid.’ His wheedling intonation made Sue squirm.
‘How could you?’
‘It meant nothing, honestly. That’s why I’m telling you.’
‘You mean you’d give away our marriage for something that meant nothing?’ Sue snorted. ‘Very comforting. And what about Aroha? What about our friendsh
ip?’ She could imagine Aroha’s reaction – or could she? She remembered her words – “I’d have had him long ago …” Perhaps Aroha would not have been outraged, but accepted the opportunity when offered. Perhaps there was more to it than Ben was suggesting; perhaps it had been more than “a pass”. But Sue was sure Aroha was trustworthy, even if Ben was not. How could he make Sue think such things of a friend? ‘You bastard!’
‘She was … she was kind to me. Understanding.’
‘The way I’m not?’
‘You weren’t there.’
‘No, I wasn’t. And I can’t be all the time. What’s more, I don’t want to be.’ Sue’s response was unexpected, even to herself. ‘And I need to be able to trust you when I am not there. If you can’t trust yourself, how can I?’
‘I felt so awful after –’
‘After you made a pass?’ Sue interrupted.
‘No, after my paper. And Aroha understood.’ Sue was understanding less and less.
‘Say you forgive me.’
But Sue was not in a forgiving mood. She had invested too much in setting the recent past behind them and meeting Ben more than halfway. And she had thought it was paying off. ‘First Alisha, now Aroha,’ she said.
‘I need you to forgive me, Sue.’ Ben was pleading.
‘You want absolution, go see a priest.’ Sue slammed the phone onto its cradle and stormed into the bathroom.
‘You okay?’ Jayne called, a few minutes later.
‘Of course,’ answered Sue angrily. Bugger him, she thought. Aroha. Their friend. Aroha would handle him, but, God – a pass. Things had been so much better since they’d been away. It had felt like a new beginning. And now …
The telephone rang again.
‘You take it,’ Sue called. Sue heard Jayne speak into the phone, then silence. Jayne’s head appeared round the bathroom door, the hand with the telephone receiver trailing behind her in the bedroom.
‘Do you want to speak to him?’ she mouthed. Sue shook her head.
‘She’s in the shower, Ben,’ Jayne said into the phone. Going to stand beside her, Sue heard the familiar cadence of Ben’s voice. ‘I don’t think she will call you back,’ said Jayne. ‘I suspect she’s not keen to talk to you right now.’
Sue nodded her agreement.
‘All right. Goodbye.’ Jayne replaced the receiver. ‘He says to tell you he loves you.’
‘Funny way of showing it.’ Sue tossed her head and returned to the bathroom.
‘Are you going to let me in there some time this morning?’ Jayne asked.
‘My need is greater than yours.’ Sue turned on the antiquated shower over the bath. Seeing the pitiful sprinkle of water, she changed her mind and put in the bath plug, turning the hot water on full. Steam curled into the small space of the en suite. She adjusted the water temperature to something just bearable and cautiously lowered herself into the deep enamel tub, letting her breath out in a long sigh.
Once again, Jayne poked her head around the door. ‘Can I come in?’
Sue lay with her eyes closed. She nodded.
Jayne sat on the toilet lid, wreathed in steam. ‘Phew. It’s like a sauna in here. Now, from the beginning, tell me what’s happening.’
Sue opened her mouth to begin. She had to talk to someone and the only person available was her little sister.
Akaroa,
23rd December, 1845.
Chère Maman,
I am so worried. I probably should not trouble you with this, and maybe this letter will never be sent. But, in case anything happens to us, I want you to know.
There are fears that the Maori tribes are gathering to take vengeance on white people for deaths that have occurred in the fighting at Wairau, in the north of this island. Some say they are coming down from the north, while others say it is the local tribes on the Peninsula who are the threat. I find it hard to believe that our friends from Onuku would turn on us, or, indeed, those from Pigeon Bay or Tikao. But they are natives, and they have been fearsome warriors, even cannibals, before the missionaries came. Who knows what they might do to avenge their dead? They call it “utu”. All we want is to live peacefully here. We are no threat to them. We certainly do not want to fight or kill.
But we must protect ourselves. The French naval ship “Le Rhin” is in Valparaiso for supplies at present, so we do not have the protection of its guns or men. Captain Bérard, who you will remember replaced Captain Lavaud, ordered the building of three blockhouses before he sailed, and the remaining sailors plus Mr. Robinson’s English policemen and our men are working together day and night to complete them in case they are needed.
I am so fearful for our children and keep them close at all times. Some of the older women, Agnès and Thérèse, are so afraid they will not stir from their houses and expect others to shop for them. There is unrest throughout the country and they say the new Governor, Governor Fitzroy, at Russell, is powerless to quell the rebellion …
It was mid-morning by the time Sue and Jayne descended in the rickety lift to the foyer. Le petit déjeuner was long since finished and the tables cleared; Madame Brunette was most apologetic.
It had felt unexpectedly good to confide in Jayne. She had listened without judging, which Sue had not expected, and without telling Sue what she should do – she had anticipated Jayne would encourage her to leave Ben. It had been an unusual experience for Sue to speak her feelings in an unrestrained manner. While she confided in Annie, she was aware of having always held something back, something unacceptable in herself. But speaking with Jayne, it had not been a concern. Perhaps this was what was meant by blood being thicker than water. It had been a relief to confess how much she had needed and relied on Ben and how weak that made her feel now; how, while she had grown and changed, Ben, she thought, had not; and how she felt both shackled and betrayed, and guilty for wanting something different, something more.
Sue regarded her sister in a softer light over coffee and a croissant in the window of a small café. She toyed with the last few crisp buttery crumbs and smiled. Jayne was older than she had noticed before, more mature; she was a woman, not a girl – the corners of her eyes ruched as she returned Sue’s smile. Perhaps they could be friends. Sue felt tired and it was only ten o’clock in the morning, according to the chimes from a nearby clock tower.
‘Mind if I go off to the Archives Nationales?’ Sue asked. ‘It will take my mind off … you know,’ she ended weakly. Jayne decided she would explore the Champs Elysée.
… Ten days have passed. Anxious days. We could have been slaughtered in our beds, had it not been for the Maori wife of an American whaler at Port Levy. She divulged there was a plan for the Peninsula Maoris to band together and annihilate our settlement while “Le Rhin” is away. Fortunately for us, they abandoned the plan when they learnt we knew of it. But the risk remains and I feel I am walking barefoot on sharp shells every day. I do not like to have Claude out of calling distance. How long can we go on like this? And just when we have committed ourselves to remaining in this country and calling it home …
Sue was alone in Paris. Map in hand, she plunged into the nearest Métro, people flowing to either side as if she were the prow of a ship cutting through the ocean. If Brigitte had not emigrated, might Paris now be her home city? The Métro was well signed-posted; Sue was able to move around with such ease that she could readily pretend she was a local. Exiting in the Quartier Marais not two blocks from her destination, she walked briskly the remaining distance, eager to discover what the archives might hold. She paused outside the large granite building and tilted her head to scan the impressive façade. Archives Nationales was inscribed on a brass plate to the right of tall, wood-panelled doors, standing open at the top of a short flight of steps. These led into an entrance porch with a set of double glass doors, manned by a security guard who wanted to know Sue’s business there. Holding open one of the doors, he directed her to the information desk. As her sneakers squeaked across the marble foyer, she felt
she should apologise for their lack of respect in such a formidable place.
‘Excusez-moi,’ she said to the top of the clerk’s head. The young woman looked up, her expression suggesting the intrusion would warrant a satisfactory explanation. ‘I am interested in exploring information about relatives who emigrated to New Zealand from Rochefort in the sailing ship Comte de Paris, in 1840,’ Sue continued in French, ‘as well as general information about the immigration itself.’
‘Only private and family documents are held here,’ the woman replied in English. Sue was offended that her more than adequate French had been rejected; perhaps Ben was right about arrogance. She felt like telling her that she, too, was French. ‘And marine records up until the Revolution. You will find subsequent marine records at the Ministry of Defence in Vincennes. If you wish to proceed further, I will need to see your passport.’ It seemed she was unprepared to risk a smile, lest it crack her makeup or dislodge a renegade hair from the clutches of the large, tortoise-shell clip holding it in a tight roll.
Sue relinquished her passport reluctantly – as if without it even she would be unable to be sure who she was. She wondered if Brigitte had encountered such formality in leaving France. Or would the women at that time have been appendages of the men? She remembered that some of the immigrant wives were recorded only as “Femme” and their husband’s surname; no personal identity. She did not suppose passports existed in 1840.
‘One moment, please.’ The woman’s shapely, navy-suited figure disappeared through a small door behind the desk. Sue wondered why she felt like a criminal, as though she would be detained at any moment by uniformed officials swooping down from nowhere. Perhaps it was about seeking an identity she was not sure she was entitled to. As if she were trying to steal a past. Eventually, the woman re-emerged – with the passport. Seated once more, she filled out a form, which she passed to Sue. ‘Please, sign here. Thank you. Wear this.’ The woman lifted a sticky label from the form and held it out to Sue. ‘You may proceed to the second level and take the corridor to the right.’