The Book of Secrets

by Fiona Kidman

  Hastily she pushed the hair off her face and straightened her dress, glancing in the mirror as she did so. What she saw didn’t please her greatly. She looked dishevelled and old, and blue shadows smudged beneath her eyes and far down her cheeks.

  When she opened the door three men were standing on the pathway. They all turned to stare, without speaking at first. One of them was William McIssac.

  ‘Why did you call us?’ asked William at last.

  She looked behind them. Where she had left Milan lying on the path, covered by a blanket, there was nothing, not even an imprint to suggest that he had been there.

  ‘There was a man here,’ she whispered. ‘A body.’ She tried to indicate where he had lain. ‘It was nothing to do with me,’ she said, reading their faces. ‘A man called Milan, I think he had ’flu. His son died of it last night and his daughter-in-law is still sick. She needs help.’

  ‘Where are these people?’

  ‘In the cottage by the river. But where is Milan? You’ve taken him already?’

  ‘There wasn’t a body here,’ said William. He looked around the circle of faces.

  One of his companions stepped forward. ‘Miss McClure. Maria,’ he began awkwardly. ‘I’m Neil.’ She tried to recall him, as she had once wrestled with William’s image. Neil’s hair had gone white and he was a fairer, leaner man than his brother.

  ‘Greetings, cousin.’

  ‘Maria, we have been to that cottage this morning. There’s ’flu everywhere, and we’ve been checking on families in the neighbourhood, that’s how we saw your flag. We thought you must be ill too and came straight away. But we didn’t see a body out here.’

  He looked at her more kindly than the others. ‘There was no one at the cottage either. It was empty.’

  ‘There must be.’ Again she described the circumstances in which she had found the couple.

  ‘There was no one,’ William repeated.

  ‘A dog?’

  ‘No. There wasn’t a dog.’

  ‘I lit a fire, and left the woman in bed. She was very weak.’

  ‘The fireplace was warm,’ said the third man grudgingly. He was thin and balding and looked uneasily around him. He and William seemed to edge together uncertainly.

  ‘Why didn’t you come for help straight away if all these people were so sick?’ William’s face and manner were scornful.

  She drew her hand across her face. Could she have dreamed it all? Had nothing happened at all in the night? They would be pleased that she was, at last, seen to be truly crazy. Then she remembered the warm child in the bed. Perhaps it would be better, easier for them all, if in fact it was a dream.

  ‘Surely this was a desperate situation?’ William persisted.

  I am on trial here, she thought. Already judged; they will soon take me with them, hang me from the macrocarpa tree. She began to back away.

  ‘Or didn’t it matter much? A few more bodies makes no difference here or there, is that it? Heh? A vision in your sleep of a few more to add to your list? Well, I am sorry to disappoint you, but this time —’

  ‘That’s enough,’ said Neil, cutting across his brother. ‘Let her speak.’

  Her throat was constricted. If William and the third man were intent on harming her, then who would look after Christie? If Christie existed. She glanced back over her shoulder. She had not been going to tell whoever came of Christie’s presence in the house. She had planned, as she sat by the fire the evening before, to keep her there until Hoana came to collect her. Now it seemed there was no Hoana.

  ‘I could not come,’ she said, after a moment had passed, ‘because of the child. The mother gave me her baby.’

  The men looked at each other again and even Neil, who had seemed intent on defending her, was wary.

  ‘So where is this baby now? Gone too?’ asked William. Even as he spoke, his face puckered oddly.

  ‘Maria,’ said Christie behind her.

  She wheeled around, almost as surprised as they were, though more because she had not expected Christie to have learned her name so quickly.

  Maria opened her arms and the little girl, trailing a blanket, rushed into them, afraid of the men standing across the doorway.

  ‘There were three people, and this child,’ said Maria evenly, in command of herself again. ‘I saw the father and the grandfather dead. The mother was alive and should have recovered with nursing.’ She explained how Hoana and she had thought the baby might be ill too, and how she had insisted on her taking Christie.

  ‘What can you expect, these Maoris,’ the third man said. ‘They run off and leave their children with anyone who’ll take them.’

  ‘That’s not true,’ said Maria. ‘She’s coming for her.’

  ‘Did she tell you she was scarpering in the night?’

  ‘I — I don’t know about that. She said her husband’s family would come. They must have taken their dead.’

  ‘I’ve no idea who’ll bury them,’ said William morosely. ‘Milan was the gravedigger.’

  ‘Who’s going to bury anyone at this rate?’ said the third man. He turned to Maria. ‘They’re laid out in rows in the churches all over the country, waiting to be buried.’

  ‘Shall we take the child into the centre for you?’ asked Neil, meaning to the village.

  ‘No thank you,’ said Maria after a moment’s hesitation. ‘No, I know the mother will come. It will be all right.’

  ‘Well … my wife could care for the little girl for a few days until the mother … until she arrives,’ said Neil.

  As Maria shook her head, Christie tucked her face into her neck. Oh such sweet pressure, such gentle breath against my throat, sang her heart. I must not let them take her away. I must be calm and restrained as if I am simply helping out, I should not let them see that it is of any importance. ‘I can manage, I assure you. I may need some extra things sent from the store, that’s all.’

  ‘I’ll see to it. Just put what you want in your list at the gate,’ said Neil. He looked at the two of them holding onto each other. ‘She seems to like you.’

  William and the third man were already heading for their horses. When William had mounted, he looked down at Maria. His tone was still unfriendly. ‘Good luck, you’ll need it. She’s probably halfway to Auckland this morning.’

  Maria’s heart turned over. She hoped Hoana was well and safe. But she also hoped that as the men had predicted, she would never return.

  She smiled over Christie’s head at Neil. ‘Thank you for your help cousin,’ she said, and hoped as she closed the door that her voice had sounded suitably under control.

  After a year and a half had passed Christie could talk in full sentences about a variety of subjects, count to five and draw pictures of birds and flowers.

  Sometimes she called Maria by name, other times she forgot and called her Mum. She did not ask what had become of her mother and seemed content for the days to slide past, allowing things to happen without question. If she was lonely she did not show it. Soon Maria would have to think about school. She did not know how schools operated these days but she saw children walk past along the dusty red road with satchels on their backs and return in the afternoon. She assumed that was where they were going. Some of the children looked not much older than Christie. It was too young, she was sure, and dreaded the time when she would have to part with her for even a small part of each day.

  At her gate a variety of goods had started arriving, some that she would not have thought to order herself. There was a doll one day and an abacus another, a tin of malt in the groceries and occasionally a bag of sweets. She sent a note back the first time or two, asking how much she owed. By return, a note said that the account was paid in full.

  In the second spring four yards of gingham arrived, and three colours of ribbon. She was pleased with these items, and made the gingham into two small frocks. Christie was delighted and stood for a long time admiring herself. Maria combed out her hair which fell in long curls past her
shoulders now, and tied blue ribbon in it. It is a shame that no one can see her but me, she thought. It would be more than school that she would have to consider. Soon, for the child’s sake, she would have to return to the world.

  This was hard to imagine after so many years of solitude. Not that the last year had felt like that. Still, she wanted to take one thing at a time. It seemed foolish to rush. She had considered going with Christie on walks away from the house, but there was plenty of space around them. It was safer close to home. They could sit on the riverbank and watch the ducks swimming, or the eels which flicked this way and that just below the surface. There were birds to observe, which afforded Christie constant pleasure, and there was the garden to be looked after. Christie laboured behind Maria with a small wooden pail which Maria had made for her, carrying piles of dirt from one place to another or, more helpfully, collecting weeds and placing them on the pile by the fence. On wet days she stayed inside and made shapes out of dough left over from Maria’s cooking. They put them in the oven with the bread, and ate them with the other food when it came out.

  Christie’s only difficulty was in sleeping on her own at night. It seemed to hold some special terror for her which did not arise if she shared Maria’s bed. Although Maria encouraged her to sleep on her own, Christie was adamant that she could not, and secretly Maria was happy with the arrangement. The child would settle so long as she had Maria’s promise that she would soon come up the stairs and get in beside her.

  One evening in the high summer of that second year, as Maria was tucking the covers round Christie, she found herself saying, ‘Oh my darling, I love you so much.’

  The child looked at her gravely. ‘I know,’ she said. ‘I love you so much too, Maria.’

  Downstairs Maria took up some knitting. She must plan ahead for Christie’s winter clothes and think about getting her shoes. The air was very still; she thought she heard children laughing. She went to the window. Without a doubt it was laughing that she could hear, and singing too. It came from behind the house and away in the direction of the sea, towards the cottage where she had found the child. She had not thought of the cottage for months.

  The singing went on late into the night and she stood listening for a long time until she heard Christie calling out. She looked up and saw the child standing sound asleep at the top of the stairs.

  ‘Stay there, Christie, don’t move,’ she cried. Her feet were winged. She was two steps away when Christie took the first step forward.

  Lying beside her later Maria felt herself shivering. Such a close escape! The harm that might have befallen her was too terrible to contemplate.

  The sound of the singing was still in her head as she went to sleep. In the middle of the night she woke, sweating and fearful.

  In the morning when they were dressed she saw many people advancing over the paddock towards the house. They were dark people, and they were led by a woman who limped.

  It was Hoana.

  Maria stood in her garden waiting for them. Christie tugged at her skirts. ‘Who are they?’ she asked.

  ‘It is your mother come for you,’ said Maria.

  ‘You are my mother.’

  ‘For a while, my darling, I was for a little while.’

  ‘Must I go with her?’

  The people had come closer. Some of them looked at Maria with suspicion but Hoana, despite her awkward gait, walked steadily on. The garden was full of light.

  ‘You’ll be happy when you’re with her,’ said Maria.

  ‘I’m happy now,’ said the child.

  ‘You’ll be happy again,’ said Maria.

  She took Christie’s hand and began walking towards Hoana. The two women stopped on either side of the gate. Hoana’s friends fell in behind her. They were still, but tension rippled among them.

  ‘I had pleurisy, they thought I might die,’ said Hoana. ‘I was taken away up north to my own family until I got better.’

  ‘I understand,’ said Maria. Christie’s hand tightened in hers. This parting must be swift. ‘I’ll get Christie’s things. She has some clothes and toys.’

  ‘We’ll pay you for them,’ said Hoana.

  ‘Very well,’ Maria answered. She could say: It is better as a business deal, that will make you feel better about taking her away. But it seemed implicit in her acceptance. Hoana counted out five battered pound notes into her hand.

  ‘Is that enough?’ Hoana asked.

  ‘It will do,’ said Maria, as if she was considering the amount. ‘Christie, wait with your mother and talk to her, meet your family.’

  Inside, she took an old patchwork bag that had belonged to her own mother, hoping that it would hold as she stuffed Christie’s clothes into it. There did not look to be so many after all. Then she remembered that she must collect up the papers Hoana had given her at the cottage.

  Suddenly her legs would not support her. She sat down on the bed and looked out the window, down to the gathering in the paddock. Christie was being passed from one person to another, and already she could see that she was laughing. Even if Maria was in a hurry, they were not.

  Getting to her feet and clutching the bed-head, she made her way to the drawers at the bottom of the dresser and felt around beneath her mother’s clothes. Books, the journals, letters, Christie’s papers.

  She crouched on the floor, rocking on her heels. She had never opened the papers. Once or twice she had thought that she should, and in April she nearly had, to find out the exact date of Christie’s birthday. But to look at them would have been to remind herself of Christie’s other life which she had not wanted to consider. Instead, she had made up a birthday for her, announcing it one morning. It had been a special day of treats.

  Now her hand hesitated over the papers.

  But she knew that it was not only the papers.

  She knew that there were secrets which it would be easier not to know. Voices were everywhere in the room now. Squatting there, her long skirts drawn up over her knees, she felt old again, and foolish. That she could have believed the child was hers! And yet were they not tied to each other?

  It seemed now as if she had all the time in the world, and might never go down the stairs to the people below. There was something she could do, something she could find out. She opened not Christie’s papers first, but the letter Martha McWhirtle had written to her grandmother, Isabella.

  Coromandel, March 1870

  Dear Isabella,

  How often I have thought of you these past few years! I have missed your company so much. You may not think so from my long silence but things have not been easy. I expect you have heard that my dear mother passed away. I longed to return to Nova Scotia to see her one more time, but it was not to be. Such journeys we have made. Sometimes I ask myself, for what. We have done well here, my husband has worked in the mines, better than he worked in the past, he was never really a farming man; we have afforded education for the children and a good roof over our heads. But to be so parted from those we love and ever held dear, well I ask myself, Isabella, if I had my time all over again, would I do the same things?

  This is morbid talk, and I suppose I should tell you that I have not been so well myself. Nothing the doctor seems able to put his finger on, and at first I thought I was prone to mother’s depression, but he says it is physical and the blood rather thin. I am sure I will improve but I cannot rest in my mind if I do not tell you something I have known for a long time.

  When we left Waipu, you will recall that we took with us a young woman by the name of Riria whom Duncan Cave had introduced to me to help with the children. She was a fine person and I liked her very much. Shortly after we arrived in the Coromandel, I discovered she was to have a child.

  At first I was very shocked but she assured me she was married to the father. I asked her details of her marriage but she was very evasive. I think it was a form of marriage, dear Isabella, that is to say, not a Christian ritual such as you or I would have experienced, but I did not t
hink that that was a matter which should concern me — you know how I shared your doubts about religion, indeed was an unbeliever in my youth, thanks to McLeod’s treatment of my brother and the depth of hypocrisy I believed that sorry business uncovered; even now I am no better than a lukewarm Presbyterian practising for my children’s sake. But a mystery remained, for Riria would not divulge the father’s name to me, and gradually it dawned upon me that it might be a pakeha. I began to put two and two together. When her time was nearly due she said that her husband would come to her and I would meet him. About two months before her time, we heard the news of Duncan Cave’s death.

  Isabella, you may wonder why I did not write to you, even then, and on reflection I think I was wrong not to have done so. At the time I did not know what to do. Riria went into a state of such profound grief and shock as I have never seen. Within a day or so she was in labour and, after a long and terrible time, when I thought we might lose her, she gave birth to a tiny boy. He was so small that I did not realise for some days that he had a deformed foot. Then I knew that what I had suspected all along was true, and you will no doubt have already deduced the same, that it was Duncan Cave’s boy.

  My husband took a dim view of all of this, I mean the birth and having extra mouths to feed without any work in return — you know how he is — and I was sore put to convince him that we should be patient with her. I suggested to her that her husband had been Duncan Cave and she did not answer me; she never told me yes or no. When the baby was grown, and stronger — and I must say he put on weight at a great speed, and picked up wonderfully within a month or so — she said she was making her way back to the Kaipara and her own people. I said to her, Riria, his grandmother might wish to see him. Again, she never came to the point of admitting that that was you. She said that he was being taken to his grandmother, meaning to her own mother.

  I do not know what name he is registered under, but he was a fine child when he left here, and I thought you would wish to know what had happened. I am pleased to say that his foot was not too bad, not like his father’s, and I expect it would strengthen up when he began walking. He would be twelve now, his birth date March 20, and as it hás come round again, I think of him as I have done every year.