Past Perfect

by Karen Zelas

  Sue mounted the marble stairs, running her hand up the wrought iron balustrade, admiring its curlicues. Where the staircase divided into two smooth curves she decided to take the left. Arriving at the second level, she did as instructed and turned right. She passed closed doors on both sides of a short corridor until she came to swing doors opening into a large library. Sue was surprised to find she was the only person present, aside from a thin, middle-aged man at the reception desk. Again she explained, in French, what she was seeking. The man nodded and smiled.

  ‘La Nouvelle-Zélande? Where did you say they came from?’

  ‘La Rochelle, I think. The ship sailed from Rochefort.’

  He turned to a computer screen mounted on the desk. ‘And their full names?’

  ‘Claude and Brigitte Dujardin.’

  ‘Mmm. I have a M. Claude Dujardin and wife on the passenger list. But we do not, I am afraid, hold any personal records for them. They would be archived locally. But, one moment –’ His fingers pattered across the computer keyboard. ‘The name Dujardin comes up in relation to a bequest by a Comte de Vergny, from La Rochelle. 200 francs left to a Robert Dujardin. In 1848. A lot of money in those days. Seems Dujardin was the gardener on the estate. That may be relevant. Dujardin is not a common name.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Sue. ‘It would be rather a coincidence, if not, wouldn’t it?’ She was caught between excitement and uncertainty. ‘I’m going to La Rochelle. Do you think I might find out more there?’

  ‘Who knows, Madame?’ The man beamed. A wisp of thin hair, swept across his head from ear to ear, had slid forward on the wrinkled boss of his forehead. He smoothed it back in place. ‘Let us hope so.’

  … It seems, Maman, that the crisis is past. We had heard that 250 Maoris were coming from the north to attack us. The women and children spent one night in the blockhouses – I can tell you that was a terrifying experience! I sat the whole night awake with my children clutched to me. Jules was frightened and cried for his Papa much of the time, but the girls were fortunately too young to understand. I was as fearful our men would be injured by each other as by the enemy, none having experience of carrying arms!

  Just getting into the blockhouse was enough on its own – by ladder to the upper floor. The ladder was then drawn in after us. I was fearful the blockhouse might be torched and we would have no means of escape. There was no way to see out. Only the sounds were a guide as to what was happening outside, and they were easily misinterpreted. In fact, the most terrifying sound was silence.

  But, fortunately, the native attack plan turned out, in the end, to be only rumour.

  Some days later, we again were alerted to a large number of unfamiliar Maoris descending upon us from Pigeon Bay via Takamatua. This time it was more than a rumour, but they had come in friendship. They met with our leaders and were given food and repaid the hospitality with a war dance which so terrified Albert that he went white and fled to the blockhouse, much to everyone’s amusement. The Maoris then went on to Onuku and remained in the area for a week – a week of celebration, which was not, however, without anxiety and tension, made worse by Mr. Green, the English cattle farmer and publican, firing a shot in panic one night.

  So, Maman, all is well. It seems we can continue to live at peace with our neighbours in this beautiful country.

  Much love,

  Bibi

  On returning to the hotel, Sue was accosted by Madame Brunette, dressed for the evening in a mist of lavender: long, silk-knit skirt and beaded shawl. Madame Redhead had seen fit to leave her in charge.

  ‘Ah, Madame Spens-aire. I have three messages for you.’ She crossed to a row of cubby-holes with the alacrity of a blackbird after spring rain, drawing forth her prize like a worm from wet grass. She brandished the folded notes with a broad smile. Not surprisingly, all three messages were from Ben. Madame Brunette watched as Sue deciphered each one.

  ‘You will ring urgently, Madame? The gentleman – M’sieur Spens-aire – said it was most important.’

  Sue said a silent prayer for automatic telephone exchanges, and mounted the stairs.

  Akaroa,

  1st April, 1846.

  Ma chère Maman,

  The British flag flies overhead, the Company has gone and now the French Navy has sailed away. Our links with France are truly severed. Only in my heart the bond remains strong. We must now think of ourselves as New Zealanders, a nationality we share with English and Maori alike.

  We have been in a unique position in Akaroa, the English not forcing their administration onto us until our Government conceded sovereignty. With our letters of citizenship, we have been accorded Crown Grants for the land we hold. So we have been treated considerately, not like the vanquished. But, all the same …

  It will take some getting used to. But we are united in a common endeavour, building a new nation, and that has some satisfaction.

  I had a pleasant surprise yesterday, Maman. I was walking with the children home from my schoolhouse, when I noticed a tall, handsome Maori coming towards us. At first I did not recognise him. Then he stopped and bade me good day, and I could see in his eyes and his smile that it was Tama. I have not seen him for such a long time, because he and his uncle have been with relatives over the mountains searching for greenstone, a precious stone from which weapons, tools and adornments are fashioned. Te Marama has missed him. He left a boy, but he has returned a man, broad and strong, with his hair tied on top of his head and a moko on his chin and cheeks. He is now known by his father’s name, Tātahi, but it will be difficult for me to think of him as anything but Tama. Te Marama told me some time ago that he is betrothed. Perhaps he has brought his fiancée back with him. I did not think to ask, so pleased was I to see him. It is time I took the children to Onuku to visit Te Marama. Tama, Tātahi, says she has been unwell but is now much better. She will tell me the gossip.

  Our harvest was good this year, the wheat crop plentiful. There is no longer any shortage of flour. Hens have the run of our property and a few cattle, which we bought from M. Belligny when he left. Some people have pigs. So, we have milk and sometimes meat. And there is a general store, a bakery – and two hotels. So we are quite civilised.

  It does me good talking to you, Maman. I started out feeling quite sorry for myself when I picked up pen and paper, and now I find myself counting my blessings. Claude does not drink as much these days. Life is easier for him than it was, and life is, therefore, easier for us. So that is one of my blessings.

  You never say much about how you are, Maman, just the news about the family. I hope you are finding happiness in your life. I try to read between the lines, but I don’t know how successful I am. I look forward, as always, to your next letter.

  All my love,

  Bibi

  16.

  Sue did not return Ben’s calls that evening, nor the following day. ‘Let him stew,’ she said to Jayne. ‘It will do him good.’ But she could not banish the memory of their last conversation as easily. She played it over and over in her mind throughout the evening and the next day, sometimes as it had been, sometimes revised versions; what she wished she had said – ‘I hate you, Ben Spencer. I hate you for what you’re doing to our lives, for what you are doing to me.’ She wanted to say, ‘Where would you be if not for me? Who would you be if not for me, if not for the sacrifices I’ve made?’ She wanted to say, ‘I don’t need you, Ben Spencer. I’ll find another man, no trouble, someone bolder, more charismatic, someone who will notice me.’ She imagined Ben’s responses – she wanted to hear him grovel, and in her mind he did. Because she could not believe that he was ready for their marriage to end.

  Early the following morning, they said their farewells to the two mesdames, who regarded them with amused disdain as they trundled their suitcases out the front door, heading for the Métro station. They surfaced in the Gare Montparnasse and made their way to the ticket office.

  ‘You mind the luggage,’ said Jayne.

  Sue propped the
suitcases against a blank piece of wall and stood over them. She mused that the older she got, the less trusting she became; she was ready to believe that any person hovering nearby would take the opportunity, if offered, to make off with their belongings. She watched the mass of people moving past: the suited businessmen and women, focussed, distant, brisk; the backpackers, singly and in huddles, poring over timetables, sucking on water-bottles like infants; a busker, intent on making a living from the rush-hour traffic; the bleary-eyed homeless, one sitting amidst a mound of plastic bags, others shuffling, muttering or shouting at unseen antagonists.

  ‘Quick,’ called Jayne, appearing from the crowd. ‘Platform 8. Right over the other side.’ They struggled across the flow and hefted their bags onto the train. They squabbled over who would have the window seat but, unlike children, each was politely offering it to the other. Finally, Sue conceded defeat and slid against the window with a relieved sigh. It was to be a long journey to La Rochelle, halfway down the Atlantic coast.

  ‘France is bigger than you think,’ said Jayne.

  ‘Just what I was thinking,’ said Sue, shrugging off her jacket and stowing it in a locker above her head.

  ‘I don’t know why we’re trailing all the way to a poky little place no one has heard of.’ Jayne was struggling to stow her luggage.

  ‘You do know why.’

  ‘Wasting a whole day in travel, when we could be spending our time in Paris.’ Jayne pronounced the name “Paree”, with an expertly rolled, guttural “r” in the middle. ‘We did only a fraction of the things I’d hoped.’

  ‘You ran us off our feet.’

  ‘I hadn’t realised how old you’re getting.’

  ‘Thanks very much. My husband tries to seduce my good friend and now my sister tells me I’m old. How can I feel anything but great?’ Sue turned to the blurred images framed by the train window, her shoulder toward her sister.

  ‘Sorry. Sorry, Sis. I didn’t mean … Oh, hell.’

  After a moment, Sue swivelled toward Jayne, summoning some of the anger she felt toward Ben. Her voice constricted. ‘You knew why I wanted to come to France from the outset, so don’t make it sound as though I’ve highjacked the show. Paris was the concession, not La Rochelle.’

  ‘Yeah, but –’

  ‘Doesn’t what I want matter even to you? No, I suppose not,’ Sue answered herself. ‘Why would it?’ she mumbled. She turned again to the window, making a pretence of being absorbed by the view. Surreptitiously, she wiped away a rogue tear that threatened to roll down the gutter between nose and cheek. She felt abandoned, of no importance to anyone.

  It took some time to escape the sprawl of Paris. Eventually, light industry gave way to farmland and villages. The view was absorbing; gradually the external scenes succeeded in capturing Sue’s attention from those jostling inside her head. ‘There’s something very soothing about a train ride,’ she said after a long silence.

  The journey passed surprisingly quickly.

  Akaroa,

  2nd October, 1846.

  Ma chère Maman,

  I have been intending to write for some time, but there always seem to be chores to stop me. With three little ones, my teaching and market gardening, all my waking hours are occupied. I have almost forgotten what it is to do something for myself. I need a new skirt, and although I purchased a length of material from the store, I have no time to sew it. Sometimes I catch myself feeling resentful.

  Cathérine has turned one year and is walking firmly on solid little legs. She speaks a few words that only a mother can understand, but manages to make her wants known most effectively. Jules is enamoured of her. She never cries – she does not get the chance, because Jules is there instantly.

  We celebrated Cathérine’s birthday with a big party for our adult friends. Claude insisted upon it. We are comfortably off these days and he likes to be generous. A good trait. But it meant a lot of extra work. Dear Rose helped me and the two grown daughters of another friend. It was a great success, I have to say. Quite the best party there has been, with music and dancing under lanterns hung in the fruit trees.

  Jules is doing well with his lessons. He is now formally a pupil in my school and enjoys his new status. He is a little young, but he was no longer content to play. He kept interrupting and calling out answers to the questions I put to my pupils.

  However, his health is a worry, Maman. I had thought he had grown out of his ills, but this last winter he had attacks in which he struggled to breathe and had a dreadful cough. He is better again now with the warmer weather – he is just like the other boys, running and playing.

  Marie, as always, is a pleasure. She chatters away and wants to help me all the time. Truly, Maman, I am much better without her help! But one day, I shall be glad of it.

  Life has not changed here in any significant ways since the British took over. If anything, there is less uncertainty and the gap between English and French is closing. The women shop together, the men drink together. They do not learn French, but we learn English.

  Chère Maman, I hope your winter will treat you kindly – though it will be nearly over before you receive my good wishes. Please resist the temptation to scrub and polish and stand at the stove as you used to. You are no longer a young woman and must take care. Sophie must realise this and not expect too much of you.

  Give my love to all the family. I will try to write sooner next time.

  Your Bibi

  It was late afternoon when the train hissed into the station at La Rochelle.

  La Rochelle. Where Brigitte and Claude came from. It seemed hard to believe. It had been a long journey for Sue in many ways and it was not yet over. But it could not compare with the journey Brigitte had taken. Sue wondered what circumstances would have prevailed to cause Brigitte and her husband to make the decision to leave France. And who had they left behind? Parents, siblings? Or were they orphans, or escaping the law or poverty? There was so much Sue wanted to know. Guessing was no satisfaction. It would have been easy to fabricate an idealised story, but she wanted the truth, at the same time knowing truth to be not only elusive and subjective but, in this instance, buried with her great-great-great-grandparents. She could not imagine that anyone would have documented the personal circumstances of individual, small-town, working-class people in nineteenth-century France, so she would most probably never be any the wiser. However, Brigitte could write; Sue knew that. So maybe others in her family had also been literate. Perhaps the archives here would harbour something of interest. Perhaps Brigitte’s family had been higher up the social ladder than could be inferred from the history books. Perhaps Brigitte had married beneath her; maybe that was why they had escaped to a new land. What little Sue knew created more queries than it answered and drove her forwards. She could not wait to get out of the crowded station. She and Jayne each picked up a tourist map from the rack by the information office and headed outside in search of a taxi.

  The surroundings that greeted them were disappointing. They were obviously not in the historic part of town. None of these buildings would have existed when Brigitte lived there. Sue wondered whether she had set out on an impossible mission, a mission without clear definition; apart from anything available on paper, she was not sure what she was seeking. Perhaps she should treat the visit as merely a holiday with her sister, enjoy the warmth and the ambience, and the chance to become familiar with the adult Jayne.

  Jayne rapped on the window of a cab. ‘L’Hôtel de la Paix, s’il vous plait,’ she said to the driver. ‘Rue du Minage.’

  ‘Oui, je le sais.’ The man was swarthy and balding, an immigrant, Sue thought, most probably from Algeria. They bundled into the cab, Sue in the front beside the driver. After ten minutes they arrived on the outskirts of the old stone city.

  The drive took them past a land-locked marina, a forest of masts reaching up to the last of the sunlight. They crossed a small bridge into the old city, a canal to the right and, to the left, a tantalising glimpse
of the old port. Sue strained against her seatbelt to hold onto the view of sparkling water, stone buildings and colourful, meandering crowds. The cab passed through narrow, cobbled streets remarkably empty of traffic. Honey-coloured buildings loomed above, tones enriched by the brush of late sunlight on upper storeys.

  This was the town Brigitte and Claude would have known. They had probably walked down these streets. Perhaps one of these houses had belonged to Brigitte’s family, or Claude’s; they looked old enough. Sue’s mood lightened. She wanted to get out and wander.

  The taxi drew up with a jolt, right-side wheels on the footpath, in a narrow arcaded street. ‘L’Hôtel de la Paix,’ said the taxi-driver, bending forward in his seat to release the lock on the boot with a flip of a finger. Sue peered from the taxi into the darkness of the stone arcade; she could see the glass frontages of modern shops in the depths to right and left, but no hotel.

  ‘Votre hotel,’ repeated the driver, as neither woman moved. Carefully, Sue opened her door, slid down the slope of her seat and out onto the road. Clutching her handbag, she looked about. Jayne burst from the other side, tucking her wallet into her bag.

  ‘Where is it?’ asked Sue.

  ‘Must be round here somewhere.’ Jayne lifted the lid of the boot.

  ‘Quick. We’d better get the luggage out before he drives off.’

  Closer inspection revealed a doorway between two elegant stores, sporting a discreet sign. They trundled their cases down a tiled passage to a small foyer. Behind a smooth, curved counter fashioned from an unfamiliar dark wood, stood an elderly man. As they approached, his face broke into a wide, gappy grin, as if his sole task that afternoon had been to await their arrival and greet them. ‘Bonjour, Mesdames. Soyez le bienvenu.’ He lifted a registration form and pen from the desk and placed them on the counter with a flourish, as if by magic, looking suitably pleased with himself.

  Their room was on the second floor of four, overlooking the street. The long windows opened inward, while grey shutters opened out, hooking back against the stone walls. Wrought iron stretched across the lower portion of the opening. Sue leant over the rail. The hotel was one of the tallest buildings in the street. Its façade, like those of the others on both sides of the road, was flush with the arches of the arcade, the pavement passing beneath. Below her, hung from the first-floor windows, were boxes of red geraniums, a splash of colour in an otherwise warm but monochromatic scene. Sue inhaled; unfamiliar fragrances she could not place borne on a light breeze. They spoke to her of times gone by, of seafarers and traders, of people who had worked the land, those who had fashioned goods, sold produce or filled ledgers. She could imagine their having looked down these narrow streets towards the sea, wondering what lay beyond; perhaps wanting more than life promised here. All these houses, pressed one against another, beautiful, quaint on the outside, but no doubt cramped and dark within. She could imagine an ambitious young couple forsaking all for the promise of their own piece of land, for autonomy in a new country.