by Karen Zelas
‘Ow!’ Pain shot up the outside of her leg. Sue rubbed her ankle vigorously, then, once the initial spears of pain subsided, tested her foot gingerly on the floor. Could have been worse. As she looked down at her ankle, she saw why she had fallen. A floorboard had been dislodged and was still standing proud. She examined the board, trying to determine whether it was within her skills to repair it.
It was a short plank. She lifted one end and was about to reinsert it, when she saw something in the space between the floor and the living room ceiling below. Levering the board up further, she slid her hand underneath. It touched paper. What was this? Gripping the edge, she withdrew a stiff, discoloured envelope. Sue could hardly breathe as she moved around the bed into the circle of light from the bedside lamp. She did not dare to hope it might be something secreted by Brigitte. There was no writing on the envelope. With trembling hands, she turned it over. It was unsealed. Lifting the flap, she withdrew a handwritten letter. Although the paper was discoloured, the ink had not faded. It was blue-black and script showed through the paper. Heart thumping, Sue carefully opened the pages and spread them flat, examining the writing. To her eye, it appeared to have been written with a fine nib, dipped in ink.
The language was French. Sue gasped – surely not! Quickly, she turned to the signature on the final page.
‘Bibi.’
Akaroa,
13th July, 1857.
Ma chère Maman,
I think of you every day. In my heart, I am pleased that you were relieved of your suffering, but now I weep for myself. While you lived I could always hope we would be reunited one day. Perhaps if Sophie had cared for you better, and if you had not been such a stubborn old woman you would still be alive!
Now I have no one to confide in, no one with whom I can share my innermost hopes and fears. You cannot know how it gave me succour to pour my heart onto the page, knowing that one day my words would be delivered into your hands. I have close friends, longstanding friends, like Rose, and also Madeleine, but there are some things that cannot be spoken, even between the best of friends.
So many sorrows. Papa. My Jules. My husband, of course, as good as dead. And now you, Maman. I have become an old woman in but a few short years. And always there has been Tama.
I do not know how I could have managed without him. He has made himself indispensable. When we could no longer manoeuvre Claude up and down the staircase, he fabricated a cot for him downstairs, in what had been my poor Jules’ room. I have to confess, it was a relief to have my husband out of my bed, such was his ill humour. I am embarrassed to say that there were times when he struck out at me, leaving bruises on my body and face which I struggled to explain to others. Finally, it made Tama so angry, he determined to resolve the matter for me. He said he would not have any man hurt me, not even my husband.
Tama, my strong Tātahi, has become very dear to me, Maman.
Tātahi!
It is only he who has kept me going. The girls are sweet, of course, but he feeds something deep within me, as the land once did and the sea. Even as God did, until it became difficult to believe in his beneficence.
I have had to conceal my feelings for Tātahi. I know they are not seemly. I hate to think what people would think of me if they knew. When they know. For they will before long.
I love him, Maman, and I am to bear him a child. Don’t think ill of me. Please, Maman. I need your understanding and forgiveness.
I love you still and always.
Your Bibi
Sue sat a long time with the letter on her lap, staring into space. She read it again. Twice. Three times.
Brigitte and Tātahi or Tama – she seemed to use the names interchangeably – had loved one another. Tātahi had helped and cared for Brigitte and her family. If not a great passion, then at least deep and solid. Relief flowed through Sue.
Placing the letter open on the bedside cabinet, Sue hobbled downstairs. She unlocked the back door and stepped outside. The moon had risen high, till it was almost white in the vault of the indigo sky. All was silent except for the distant, mournful cry of a morepork. Sue tilted back her head; the stars appeared and disappeared as the leaves of the apple tree moved across them, rustling, whispering. She shivered.
‘Brigitte! Tātahi!’ she called. The cool night sucked her voice into its void.
The first words that came to Sue when she opened her eyes next morning were: “I love him, Maman, and I am to bear him a child.” Waihau, she thought. She had woken, after only a few hours’ sleep, still exhausted. The letter. Had she imagined it? She shook her head to clear the cotton wool. No. It was real. There it was beside the bed. She placed a hand over it, hardly daring to touch it, as if it might disintegrate and blow away. She sat up and took the letter gently in both hands – she was holding a letter written by Brigitte! She read it again. Waihau was a lovechild. Claude was an invalid and near death. Jules was already dead. Sue was descended from a loving union. She felt relief mingled with deep sadness. Brigitte’s letter suggested a homesickness from which she had never recovered. No wonder she had turned to the man who showed her support and kindness. Who could blame her? Certainly not Sue.
Tātahi was a fine looking man and Brigitte was still a young woman, in spite of believing herself prematurely aged by grief. Brigitte must have been happy with Tātahi, at least after Claude died, and in spite of any adverse reaction in her community. Sue was surprised how relieved she felt, how happy for her great-great-great-grandmother.
She put her feet on the floor. Her ankle had stiffened overnight. She rubbed it, comparing it with the left. A bit puffy. She hobbled across the bedroom to her bag on the chair under the window and rummaged for her cellphone, while lifting the blind. Grey morning light seeped in – full cloud cover with a rind of watery blue beneath it to the northwest. The leaves on the cabbage tree hung immobile. She started to dial Russell’s home number. She had to tell him about Brigitte’s letter – Bibi’s letter. Then she changed her mind. Hurriedly she showered and dressed, limped to the car and drove to his house, a crude 1950s fibrolite bungalow, built before Akaroa’s design regulations were in place.
Russell answered the door, partially dressed, stubble and surprise on his face. ‘Sue.’ The aroma of coffee greeted her more warmly.
‘Sorry. I had to come.’ Now she was having second thoughts.
‘It’s all right.’ The way he sneaked a quick look behind him suggested that it was not.
‘It’s an intrusion. I’ll go.’ It had been thoughtless, coming around unannounced, uninvited.
‘No, no. Come in.’ He led her inside. ‘Coffee?’ Sue nodded gratefully. Russell pulled the bedroom door to as he passed, but not before Sue noticed only one side of the bed had been slept in.
‘Is Guy away?’ she asked.
‘Gone.’
‘Gone where?’
‘Just gone.’ Tears sprang to his eyes. He brushed them away savagely.
‘It’s been two weeks and three days.’
‘And you didn’t say.’ Tears gathered in Sue’s eyes in sympathy. Russell shrugged. ‘It was going to happen sooner or later. I’d hoped it wouldn’t be sooner.’ Sue laid her hand on his and he gripped her fingers briefly. ‘I’ll be okay.’ He passed her a mug of steaming coffee. ‘Let’s talk about you. Doesn’t matter if I’m a bit late for work.’
With gathering excitement, Sue recounted the events of the previous night and showed him Brigitte’s letter. It was gratifying the way Russell shared the thrill of her discoveries. ‘The last pieces of the jigsaw are falling into place,’ she said, and hugged him.
‘That was my favourite ad,’ Jason protested, as Sue muted the television. It was Saturday evening and, so far, both her children were at home.
‘I’ve something to show you,’ she said.
‘What is it now?’ He grabbed the remote and turned the sound back on, but at a lower level. Sue took Brigitte’s letter from its envelope. She had been uncertain whether to show it, anxious a
bout precipitating a further reaction from Jason and censure from Ben, but decided she needed to be open. Others could decide what to do with the information.
‘What is it, Mum?’ Charlie asked. Sue started to read.
‘I’m not listening to this. It’s all in your head, Mum. You’re losing it.’ Jason sprang to his feet.
‘Wait. There’s more,’ said Sue.
‘A set of steak knives, I suppose,’ Jason flung over his shoulder, as he stormed from the room. Sue’s heart sank; perhaps she should have excluded him. His door slammed and music burst forth.
‘Take no notice of him. I’m interested. And so is Dad.’ Sue looked at Ben; it appeared Charlie was right. She relaxed and finished reading out the letter.
‘What a tough life,’ said Charlie. ‘I’m glad she found Tātahi. Why does she calls him Tama sometimes?’
Sue shrugged.
‘I’m proud to have him as an ancestor, aren’t you?’ Charlie said to Sue.
‘You’re only a fraction Maori,’ Ben pointed out.
‘You’re Maori if you feel Maori, Dad.’ Sue envied her daughter her certainty.
‘Then it seems my daughter is Maori,’ Ben said gently. ‘What about my wife?’
Sue shook her head. It was still much easier for her to feel French than Maori, yet she had less claim to that. She felt herself divided into many parts, each belonging to someone else, people from the present as well as the past, while she floundered among them, searching for pieces labelled “Sue”, pieces that she could assemble into a whole. A whole with meaning. A whole she was pleased to be.
Her voice was quiet when at last she spoke. ‘I don’t know yet.’
‘Well. I better get going.’ Charlie jumped to her feet.
‘Where are you off to?’ asked Ben.
‘Hey, this is me. Not Jason.’ Charlie planted her fists firmly on her hips.
‘Your new man? Ra?’ asked Sue.
‘Ra?’ said Ben. ‘What’s happened to Patrick?’ Charlie shrugged. ‘You know how it is.’
‘No, I do not.’
Sue sent Ben a warning glance. ‘Where are you going?’ she asked.
Charlie shrugged. ‘We’ll just hang out somewhere.’ She bounced out of the room.
‘Ra,’ Ben said.
‘Yes.’ She wondered how Ben would feel about his daughter dating a Maori but was not game to ask; she would wait until they had met him. After Charlie’s first rendezvous with Ra, Sue had sought more information. She wanted to know what Charlie meant by “mature”. Charlie was evasive. She didn’t know how old Ra was, she said. Age wasn’t important. It was how people clicked. Sue had a momentary and ridiculous image of Charlie and Ra sitting and clicking all evening; she giggled. Ben frowned. ‘She’ll be all right,’ Sue assured him.
Sue hoped Jason would be all right, too. Her discoveries had had no noticeable effect on Ben’s approach to their son, much to her relief – he continued as he had begun, overseeing Jason’s contract. Jason did not always take kindly to being told with whom he may and may not associate, and he and his father had had a few serious confrontations.
‘You’re not going – end of story.’
‘He’s my friend. I’ll see him if I want to. You can’t stop me.’
‘I can and I will. And if I need help, I’ll ring Detective Constable Springer.’
‘You’re not a father, you’re a nark. I hate your guts. I’ll … I’ll …’ Jason had stood with fists clenched and a menacing snarl on his face.
‘Don’t you threaten me, son. Get to your room.’ Son, breathed Sue. Ben was hanging in there, even though Jason, at times, was prepared to divorce his parents.
It was all Sue could do to hold herself back and leave them to sort it out, to let go. She wanted to rescue Jason, hold him close and tell him all would be well. But part of her knew that to “rescue” him at this stage could be a life sentence. She sighed.
The up-side was that Ben and Jason were spending more time together, talking, at times laughing and teasing. Ben had been to the after-school centre and was genuinely surprised and, Sue thought, proud of Jason’s performance there. On his follow-up visit, Springer was favourably impressed and said there would be no need for any further involvement. It was a huge comfort to Sue that they were to be in charge of their own lives again.
But the relationship between Jason and Sue had taken a backward step since the revelation of their Maori ancestry, and there seemed to be nothing helpful she could say to her son just now. She needed to clarify things in her own mind, before she could be much use to him.
Annie and Sue met for lunch. Sue brought Annie up to speed with what had been happening, and touched on her uncertainty about accepting the newly discovered part of her heritage.
‘Did you know I’ve got a bit of Maori blood from way back when?’ asked Annie.
Sue was astonished. ‘You’ve never said.’
‘It never seemed important. It’s only a few corpuscles.’
‘Mine is, too, I suppose. But it’s more than the French, and that seemed pretty significant. So I can’t ignore it. It’s how to live with it. That’s what I have to discover. I think I’m getting there.’
‘You’re much more Anglo-Saxon than either French or Maori.’
‘The Saxon bit is French, too, if you want to be picky. But, what you’ve always known, you take for granted. No novelty value. It doesn’t distinguish you from the herd. Bo-o-o-ring, as Jase would say.’ Sue sighed. ‘Poor Jase. He’s struggling with it.’
‘And Charlie?’
‘In her element. It explains our olive skin and dark hair, hers and mine. And Dad’s. And the wide cheekbones. I’d never guessed, though, and he’d never mentioned it. Funny, it seems so obvious now.’ Sue spooned up the last of the soupe de jour and crunched on the remaining crust of French bread. ‘Maybe I’ll research Mum’s family some time, too. A woman warned me genealogy can become an addiction.’
‘There’s this kid,’ said Jason. He and Ben were chatting about the after-school programme while Sue was putting the finishing touches to the evening meal. ‘He’s about eight. Hangs round me like a bad smell. Whenever I turn, he’s there. I don’t know how to get rid of him.’ He cracked his knuckles. ‘There’s nothing really wrong with him. It’s just that … he looks so sad.’
‘Have you asked him why?’ Ben asked.
‘I know why.’
‘And?’ Ben prompted.
Jason shot a glance at his mother and chewed on a hangnail. ‘His mother’s sick. They say she might die.’
‘That bad.’
Jason nodded, leaving his head hanging. He dropped his hands in his lap. Sue stood silent, drying her hands on a towel. The only sounds were the bubbling of the vegetables on the stove and the call of a blackbird to its young in the plum tree outside the window. Sue crossed the room and laid a hand on Jason’s shoulder. He turned abruptly and buried his face in her soft middle. She stroked his hair. He would come back to her given time; she would not lose her son.
26.
Sue turned the Honda into the parking lot beside the Little River Café. The car was full of creature comforts to make the cottage more homely. She slipped on her polar fleece before opening the door into the cool easterly. It was mid-afternoon, before the commuter rush. Hugging her jacket closed, she walked briskly into the grocery-cum-café, ordered coffee and a piece of ginger crunch and sat at a window table. She gazed across the road, her eyes focussed not on the passing cars or the children straggling home from school, but on the past. For large chunks of time, she was finding it hard to remain in the present.
And as for the future …
When she had finished her coffee and slice, Sue wandered into the adjoining gallery, admiring the rich display of arts and crafts. Her attention was captured by a picture of Mt Bossu with an abstracted puff of cloud over its peak, capturing the last of the sun’s rays. Below the painting was a row of fern leaves embossed into the paper. This would be perfect for her living roo
m in Akaroa. She looked at the price tag. Frugality took hold. She would think about it.
Minutes later, Sue struggled to the car, the wind tugging at the large, flat, bubble-wrapped parcel in her arms. ‘… oh, what a beautiful day,’ she sang, as she drove on, over the hills to Akaroa. ‘I’ve got a beautiful feeling / everything’s going my way.’
Arriving at the cottage, Sue’s first task was hanging the painting. She stepped back to admire it. ‘Perfect,’ she said. Now, with hammer in hand, she thought she might as well secure the loose plank in the bedroom before it caused any further injury.
Sue struggled unsuccessfully to make the plank flush. It seemed she would need to lift it right out and loosen the adjoining plank in order to slide it back in properly. She wondered how it had managed to jump out in the first place. ‘Sod’s Law,’ she mumbled out loud. She tugged and manoeuvred and finally the plank acquiesced and lay on the floor beside her. Sue gazed into the space, no longer a dark void, where she had found Brigitte’s letter. Not a void at all, she thought in amazement. She reached into the far end of the gap and withdrew a small package wrapped in brown linen. Sitting back on her haunches, she unfolded it carefully. It contained scraps of paper covered in Brigitte’s writing. Although they were addressed to her mother, it did not seem there had ever been any intention of sending them – after all, her mother was already dead. Sue presumed it must have been like writing “Dear Diary”.
She took the letters downstairs, household maintenance forgotten, and settled on the couch.
Ma chère, chère Maman,