When they’d ordered and the menus had been removed, her mother said suddenly, ‘I hope you’re going to be all right down in Christchurch. If there’s anything I can . . .’
‘I’ll be fine, Mummy, don’t worry.’
‘But I do worry about you. If I’d met that heartless man who did this to you, I’d have given him a piece of my mind.’
‘I know. You said.’
‘You know your father and I would have done the right thing by you, don’t you? We’d have put on a good wedding for you if you’d wanted.’
‘I know.’
‘But you said you didn’t want that. And I think you made the right decision to go to Christchurch instead.’ She fiddled with her fork as the waiter returned with a glass of sherry. ‘Thank you.’ She smiled briefly up at the waiter and as soon as the man disappeared, continued, ‘When all this is over, you’ll see, it’s for the best. You can come back home and get a job. Or you can go to secretarial school like your father said. You can take your pick, a good education like yours.’
‘I know.’
‘It’s all come as a bit of a blow you know, Lizzie . . .’ She looked across at Lizzie, waiting for some acknowledgement.
She gave her mother a rueful smile. ‘Yes.’
Her father had been furious after Mummy had told him. But she’d expected that. She knew she deserved it. He’d stormed out of the dining room, slamming the door, and driven back to his club, where he’d stayed until well after midnight – she knew because she’d been unable to go to sleep. She heard him come in and waited for his footfall on the stairs but it had never happened. He must have stayed in the kitchen or living room until after she’d fallen asleep.
It was her mother who’d borne most of the brunt of his anger. And like all his other outbursts, it had been followed by a long period of silence, when he’d refused to speak to his daughter for close to a fortnight.
‘Your meal, Madam. Miss.’ The waiter delivered their plates.
Lizzie had chosen the chicken. It came in a thick creamy sauce, with perfectly roasted potatoes and a pile of green peas and carrots, followed by ice cream and chocolate sauce.
It was the peas and carrots she recognised as she leant over the toilet in the bowels of the overnight ferry while the floor heaved up and down underneath her. She’d no idea she’d eaten so many pieces of carrot. She particularly wished she hadn’t eaten so much ice cream. She could taste the chocolate sauce as it came up again. It was a foul night at sea, with not much sleep, and she didn’t felt at all comforted when the purser told her it was a comparatively calm crossing.
As the ferry edged slowly towards the dock, she looked at the surrounding hills crowding down on the tiny port and felt a surge of sadness – she didn’t want to be here. She wished she was back home, at school with her friends. She wished her mother was with her to guide her down that awful gang plank she had slipped on when boarding, and to make sure she found her allotted seat on the boat train. She even wished for a moment that her father was there.
Bells rang somewhere, the signal, they’d been told, to head for the big doors that opened to the gangway. She pushed the heavy iron deck-door open, hurried down to her double cabin and picked up her suitcase, which she’d crammed with as much of her past life as she could squeeze into it – all she would have for the next five months until the baby was born. There were so many things she’d had to leave behind, so many things that could have brought her comfort while parted from her family. She’d managed to find room for some of her paints and brushes, her pens and pencils, and her art book – and worn old Mr Ted. But by the time her mother had folded and refolded her clothes and underwear and made sure there were enough warm things – ‘Christchurch is supposed to be very cold, Lizzie, you need to be prepared’ – there wasn’t room for anything else, not more than one of her favourite books nor even her thick winter dressing gown; she’d had to make do with the thin summery one. At the last minute, she’d grabbed a photograph of her family and forced the case closed again, and this morning she’d had even more difficulty repacking her nightdress. Her mother seemed to have a knack with suitcases, with anything that required organisation. Lizzie knew only too well she was hopeless at that.
The other overnight occupant of the cabin, a kindly woman much older than her mother, had already taken her bag and disappeared. Lizzie blushed, recalling the brief conversation they’d had as they’d readied for bed the night before. Lizzie had just returned from the lavatories, where she’d been ill and was still feeling fragile.
‘You’re all on your own, dear? I hope you’ll be all right?’ the lady had said after introducing herself as Mrs Parsons.
‘I’ve never travelled by sea before,’ Lizzie had said. ‘I’m sure I’ll come right.’
‘Never been on the ferry before? Goodness, and all alone too. I hope you have someone to meet you at Lyttelton. Do you have relatives in Christchurch?’
Lizzie swallowed. She didn’t want to lie to this nice lady but she couldn’t see any other way out of it.
‘Yes I’m going to visit my aunt. She’s meeting me at the station.’
‘Oh, that’s good then.’ Mrs Parsons fussed around with her spongebag, washing her face in the tiny basin and slathering a lot of white cream on her face.
Lizzie waited on her bed, wishing she could tell her the truth and go home with Mrs Parsons – she seemed homely, somehow, as motherly as her own mother would be if she were here. She bit her lip, pushing thoughts of her mother to the recesses of her mind. The intermittent sleep, interrupted by the thud of the engines and the shuddering of the ship, had heightened her yearning for some comfort.
She lugged her heavy case along the corridor and up several flights of stairs towards the exit. There was such a crowd she had to wait on the stairs then, when the doors were opened, she surged forward with all the other passengers, off the boat, onto the wharf and along to the boat train, which was whistling and spurting out a huge plume of steam.
The carriages were so full, she couldn’t find her allotted seat and had to stand all the way through the tunnel and into Christchurch, holding onto the overhead strap and balancing her case between her legs, terrified someone might make off with it and its contents, representing her entire existence for the next few months.
As the train steamed into the station, she craned her neck to see past all the heads in the way. She was to be met by a deputy matron of the home where she was to stay and had been told to look out for a tall woman in a tan coloured coat and hat. She was nowhere to be seen.
Alighting from the train at last, after waiting for all the families and other passengers in her carriage to go first, she found herself right in front of a tall, camel-coated woman.
‘There you are Elizabeth, and about time too. I was beginning to think you’d missed the train.’ The woman held out her hand. ‘Miss Mayhew,’ she said. ‘I take it you are Elizabeth Hamilton?’
‘Yes, Ma’am. Er, Miss Mayhew.’ She shook Miss Mayhew’s brown glove.
‘Well, come along then. Bring your case. It’s big enough. It must be heavy.’
‘It is.’ But Lizzie had no regrets – there wasn’t a single thing she would have left behind. If she could, she would have brought a second bag, but her mother had been firm on taking just the one. She hefted the big case along the platform, hurrying to keep up with Miss Mayhew’s bobbing brown hat disappearing towards the parked cars behind the station building.
She climbed into a large black car and Miss Mayhew drove out of the station and onto a big, wide bustling street. Towards the east, the sun was beginning to push through the low cloud but meanwhile the grey film gave the city an air of exotic mystery. She’d never been south before, never crossed Cook Strait even and a brief moment of exhilaration coursed through her as she realised neither of her siblings, nor her mother or father, had been this far south either. She was the first!
Avenues lined with towering trees, a winding river surrounded with drooping bri
ght green weeping willows, a tall stone cathedral spire appearing from time to time between the city buildings, and so many buildings. They were different from the ones in Wellington, less formidable, not so big, not like all the government buildings around Parliament. And everywhere it was flat, unbelievably flat; she’d never seen anything like it. The massive hills between the port and the town had receded into the distance and now there wasn’t a hill in sight, not at all like Wellington.
Miss Mayhew was clearly not a conversationalist, remaining silent for most of the journey except to exclaim occasionally at the state of the traffic or behaviour of other drivers and cyclists. Lizzie had never seen so many bicycles.
‘Well, here we are then,’ Miss Mayhew said at last. ‘Fitzgibbon House.’
The car slowed and drew up at a semi-circle of gravel in front of a large, ugly, dirty-white weatherboard building. From the main door - a huge gaping hole like the mouths one of those fairground clowns - the building stretched the width of the section, its expanse interrupted at regular intervals by numerous, multi-paned windows. Its appearance reminded her, unhappily, of the Karori Pavilion.
‘Leave your case in the hall,’ Miss Mayhew instructed as Lizzie pushed through the heavy swing door and found herself standing in a high-ceilinged entrance, wood-panelled to waist height and painted above that in a sickly pale yellow, the colour of thin custard. Black-framed photographs of stern-looking women in flowing nurses’ veils and short capes were the only adornment.
‘Our matrons,’ Miss Mayhew said when Lizzie paused to study them. ‘Fitzgibbon House is an institution with a long history of caring for young women in unfortunate circumstances. There have been many wonderful matrons in charge over the years. You will meet Matron Waldron now.’ She ushered Lizzie towards a wooden door, knocked and, when a reply came from inside to enter, opened it and indicated she should go in. ‘Miss Hamilton to see you, Ma’am.’
Lizzie hesitated, wondering if perhaps she should curtsey, such was the formality of the introduction.
‘Well, come in, child. Don’t loiter in the doorway.’
Hesitantly, she approached the heavy-set wooden desk over by the window. Behind it, standing silhouetted against the light, was a large woman wearing a white dress topped with a white starched bib and apron; on her head perched a stiff white cap with small white wings either side, making her look as if she were about to rise heavenward. There was no welcoming smile. Her thin lips were clamped in a frown of disapproval, her eyebrows arched in censure.
‘Do sit down,’ she said.
Lizzie did as she was told. The last time she’d felt like this was after the lunchtime episode at school two months ago when she’d taken off to the art gallery without permission and received a lengthy dressing down from the headmistress. Her closing line still haunted her: ‘Really, Elizabeth, we would have expected better from you.’ The hard wooden chair in front of the matron felt very similar to the one in the headmistress’s study.
‘Miss Elizabeth Hamilton.’ The matron was studying a white card on her desk with some details printed on it. ‘Due date March the twenty-fifth.’ She looked up and a thin attempt of a smile forced her lips apart to reveal a startling gold front tooth.
‘Yes.’ Lizzie couldn’t help staring; she’d never seen a gold tooth like that.
‘You’ll find you get along here if you follow all the rules and don’t cause any trouble,’ Matron continued. She then proceeded to outline a long list of these rules, which included a strict timetable: up at six, communal showers, an early breakfast in the dining hall followed by work – in the kitchen, the garden, the laundry or the sewing room – lunch, more work, two hours of leisure and mild exercise before dinner, then quiet reading and board games until lights out at nine. ‘And no talking after lights-out, we strictly enforce that.’
It seemed she was a prisoner – there was to be no walking to the shops without a permission slip and only limited supervised trips to town, mainly to go to the library. The rest of the time, she was restricted to the grounds of Fitzgibbon House.
She swallowed down the homesickness threatening to overwhelm her, longing for her room overlooking the chestnut tree in the back garden, the lawn sweeping to the edge of the hill before dropping down to the thickly wooded dell she and Jerry had played in before he decided he was too big to play with girls, even his sister.
She pictured her bed as she’d left it, neatly made with the fat eiderdown, its roses cascading down each side of the bed to reach the green patterned carpet. Her favourite pillow, feathery light, that somehow just knew how to smooth itself round her face each night, an empty space on top of it where Mr Ted had once reigned over his domain.
Now she knew how the third formers had felt at Marsden, coming in from the country and leaving behind all that was familiar. Now she knew for the first time how it was to be deeply homesick. She clutched the purse her mother had given her – one of her own, no longer needed, it was of dark brown leather, the same colour as her sensible shoes. Her mother was always insistent that shoes and bags should match.
‘Pay attention please, Miss Hamilton.’
Hearing her name, Lizzie started. ‘Oh, sorry.’
Visiting hours, Matron explained, were on Saturday and Sunday afternoons.
‘I won’t be expecting any visitors, Matron. My parents are in Wellington and I don’t know anybody in Christchurch.’
‘I see.’ Matron Walden studied her notes.
‘May I phone home sometimes?’
‘You may only make phone calls after receiving permission, and any calls out of town must be made collect. You may write letters, but all incoming and outgoing mail will be checked first by me.’ She studied the list on her desk then looked up again. ‘Do you have any questions, Elizabeth?’
‘Do I have a room of my own?’ she ventured.
‘Good heavens, no, you will be in a dormitory with five other girls. There are six dormitories, and they are all full. You were very lucky to get a place here, young lady. We’re very busy.’
Matron rang a little brass bell on her desk and Miss Mayhew reappeared.
‘I’ll take you up to your room,’ she said. ‘Follow me.’
Lizzie lugged her suitcase up the stairs. Miss Mayhew opened the door to reveal two neat rows of perfectly made high iron beds, each covered with sheets and two thick dark grey woollen blankets. At each bedhead was a neat row of pillows in cases so pristine they might have been soaking for hours in Mrs Mullen’s Bluo whitener. The off-white walls were now smudged with grey; the woodwork chipped and worn. Beside each bed was a narrow set of cupboards, all but one covered with photo frames, books, brushes and combs.
‘The girls are all at work now. You will meet them at morning tea, which is at ten on the dot.’ She looked at her watch. ‘In half an hour. I suggest you unpack your things then come downstairs to the front hall. I’ll get one of the girls to meet you there.’
Lizzie looked around. ‘Which is my. . .?’
‘That’s your bed there.’ Miss Mayhew pointed to one at the end with the empty cupboard. ‘That’s your uniform hanging up beside it. You are to put it on before you come to morning tea. Is that understood?’
‘Yes.’ She studied the shapeless grey smock drooping from its hanger and couldn’t stop pulling a face at it.
That brought a sniff of disapproval from Miss Mayhew. ‘They come in one size only and are washed every Thursday. You get whichever one is allocated to you.’
Suddenly, the Marsden uniform, with its heavy gym frock and increasingly tight blazer, its ugly hat and ridiculous gloves seemed not so bad after all. If only she could be wearing it now, running through the corridors to classes, laughing with Julia, not a care in the world.
‘You should unpack,’ Miss Mayhew continued. ‘You may put out your personal items as the other girls have, but there are to be no photos of boys. D’you understand?’
‘Yes, Miss Mayhew.’
‘Good.’ Miss Mayhew nodded and disapp
eared.
She sat on her bed and surveyed what was to be her home for the next five months.
Where was Peter now she needed him? She flushed recalling the last time they’d met. She’d put on her newest dress, pulling the crossover top low to expose more neckline, and sneaked into her mother’s bedroom to use her makeup. More than anything, she hated her freckles - they made her look so juvenile. Peter would think she was much older, much more sophisticated if they weren’t so obvious and the only way to tame them was the application of a coat of her mother’s Elizabeth Arden foundation, smoothed carefully across her cheeks, chin and nose, until the offending brown dots had disappeared. A smear of her mother’s lipstick, a dab of her Shalimar perfume and all she had to do was slip out the back door while her mother was busy with her National Council of Women meeting in the sitting room. She borrowed a pair of her mother’s shoes, which she’d carried in her bag all the way into town and on to the Newtown terminus, only putting them on as the tram pulled up at the last stop. Climbing down to the pavement in them had required considerable skill, involving clutching onto the handrail as she negotiated the steep steps.
In Her Mothers' Shoes Page 5