Dedication
This book is for my husband, Aaron Paul,
who paid for everything while I wrote it.
Contents
Cover
Dedication
Part One
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Part Two
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Epilogue
About the Author
Other Books by Deborah Challinor
Children of War Trilogy
Copyright
Part One
Tamar
1879–1887
CHAPTER ONE
Plymouth, March 1879
Tamar Deane had read her dead sister’s letter so many times the writing was almost illegible. Poor, dear Brigid, she thought, adjusting her perch on the tin trunk holding all her worldly possessions. Carefully folding the worn pages, she slipped them into a pocket of her cloak and concentrated on the chaos around her. She wished she knew what she was supposed to do next.
She was sitting on a windy quay at the Port of Plymouth waiting to board the ship Rebecca Jane, bound for Auckland, New Zealand. Professional outfitters dashed past, looking for customers who had forgotten to pick up goods ordered for the long trip, and hawkers loudly advertised their wares in the hope of tempting emigrants to make last-minute purchases.
‘Marine soap,’ warbled one toothless old crone carrying a tray around her scrawny neck. ‘Pins an’ needles, thread an’ tape, best quality, pegs fer yer shipboard washin’!’ She bent in front of Tamar and rasped into her face, ‘Get yer purse out, missy. Support a poor ol’ woman!’
Recoiling from the woman’s sour breath, Tamar stood smartly. ‘No, thank you, I don’t need soap.’
‘Come on, missy,’ urged the hag, grasping a fold of Tamar’s cloak and tugging tenaciously. ‘Don’t be a Shylock, I can see yer not short of a penny.’
‘No!’ blurted Tamar, alarmed now. ‘Leave me alone!’
Suddenly the old crone’s tray went tumbling, sending her scrabbling after the scattered contents on her bony hands and knees.
‘God bugger ma bloody days! Can a body no’ even emigrate wi’out being pawed at? Get out o’ here, ye scraggy auld witch!’
Tamar jumped at the strident curse uttered only inches from her ear. Standing beside her was a petite woman, surprisingly small for the timbre of her voice, with a pronounced bust above a tiny waist and an abundance of glossy, deep red hair piled high on her head with a slightly silly hat balanced on top.
‘Sodding wind,’ the woman muttered as she hunched forward to light a cigarette inside the protection of a startling indigo coat worn over a bright orange dress. The tobacco finally caught and she straightened, inhaled mightily and shot a twin plume of smoke out through her small, upturned nose.
‘That’s better,’ she said to Tamar. ‘Used to smoke a pipe but it wasnae good for business. Changed to cigarettes. Much more elegant, d’ye no’ think?’
Startled, but not wishing to seem impolite, Tamar nodded.
‘Ma name’s Myrna McTaggart, from Edinburgh. I saw ye in the barracks last night. Emigrating, are ye?’ she asked, waving a finely manicured hand towards the Rebecca Jane.
‘Yes, I am,’ Tamar replied cautiously. ‘I’m going to New Zealand.’ She hesitated for a second, then added, ‘I’m Tamar Deane, from Truro.’
‘Aye, Cornwall — I thought so. Ye’ve the accent, but ye dinnae sound like poor Cornish. Why were ye staying in yon poxy barracks if ye’ve a cabin booked?’
‘I’ve not got a cabin booked,’ answered Tamar. ‘I’m going steerage.’
‘Have ye no money then?’ persisted Myrna McTaggart. ‘Ye sound like ye do.’
‘No, I’m not wealthy. Our mam taught us to speak properly, that’s all.’
Myrna McTaggart turned, clearly looking for Tamar’s mother. ‘Where’s the rest of ye family, lassie?’
Tamar felt tears beginning to prickle her eyes. No, she thought, I will not cry. ‘I have no family,’ she replied bluntly. ‘They died. I’m emigrating by myself.’
‘No!’ exclaimed Myrna McTaggart. ‘Ye’re just a bairn!’
‘I am not! I’m seventeen years old!’ Tamar replied in a defiant but dangerously wobbly voice. Then, to her dismay, defiance turned to misery and her bottom lip quivered. She covered her face with her hands.
The older woman immediately moved closer and rested a light hand on Tamar’s arm. ‘I’m sorry for prying, lassie,’ she said. ‘I didnae mean to upset ye.’
‘You haven’t,’ lied Tamar. ‘Only I’m not sure what will happen when I get to New Zealand. Or even what I’m supposed to do now.’
Myrna shook her head sympathetically and led Tamar back to her trunk. ‘Sit down, lassie,’ she said soothingly. ‘Ye’re upset. Tell me all about it.’
So Tamar, grateful for someone to talk to, did.
In the nine months since Brigid’s letter had arrived in June of the previous year, Tamar had spent many long hours pondering her future. Her sister, older by eighteen months and suffering from a weak constitution, had emigrated to New Zealand in October 1877. She died during the voyage, but her letter had been forwarded from New Zealand with a covering note from a Mrs MacNeill, the ship’s matron, expressing her condolences and advising that Brigid passed away peacefully. Tamar was convinced Brigid had died of tuberculosis, and had already seen what a miserable and agonising death that could be, but was grateful for Mrs MacNeill’s kind words.
The letter arrived four days after her father died. Her mother had passed away three years earlier, giving birth to her third daughter, born prematurely and too frail to live. Mother and daughter had been buried together in the village churchyard.
After her da’s death, which had not been entirely unexpected, Tamar had gone to see the Methodist preacher. He advised her to pray; if she wholeheartedly placed her faith in God, her future would be revealed, but if it was not, then she would do well to re-evaluate her commitment to her religion. Tamar left the preacher feeling angry, cheated and no more enlightened. The Lord, she felt, had done her very few favours lately.
Instead of praying, she had gone home and worked out how much money she could scrape together. The cottage was rented and the Deane family owned little of real value; her father’s funeral had exhausted most of his meagre savings. The only items which might fetch a decent price were her mother’s modest jewellery.
Gwen Teague had come from a well-off Penzance family, but when she declared her intention to marry Nolan Deane, a copper miner, her family had disowned her. She left with only her personal belongings and an angry sense of pride that prevented her ever contacting her family again. Her marriage to Nolan had been happy and satisfying, despite the fact that money was always scarce. She had loved him until the day she died. She had also cherished their two daughters and taught them fine dressmaking, and to read and write as well as manage their own finances, insurance against the
possibility they may not find suitable husbands.
Now, critically appraising herself in the small mirror above the fireplace, Tamar saw a younger, seventeen-year-old version of her mother’s striking features. Thick, wavy auburn hair past her shoulders, wide green eyes, a finely sculpted but not particularly small nose, and a generous, full-lipped mouth with one slightly crooked bottom tooth. Both sisters had inherited this imperfection from their father; their mam said it made them ‘unique’. Gwen Deane had been an attractive woman, but her greatest attributes had been her determination and refusal to accept what she considered to be second best, something Tamar liked to believe had also been passed on to her.
She made herself a pot of tea and sat at the kitchen table. Remembering the plans her da had been making to follow Brigid to New Zealand, Tamar realised now he had known he would die soon. He had sent Brigid first, hoping she would reach New Zealand in time for her health to benefit. Nolan had then prepared Tamar to follow. As frightening as it sounded, emigrating on her own was still her best option. There was nothing left for her in Cornwall.
Two weeks later she moved to Truro and found employment as a junior seamstress in a small but profitable dressmaking business. Mrs Tregowan’s shop was a tiny ground-floor establishment of two rooms in busy Boscawen Street, specialising in wedding and formal gowns. Mrs Tregowan was the proud owner of several expensive sewing machines imported from America from the Davis Sewing Machine Company, which allowed her staff to assemble gowns far more quickly than by traditional methods.
Tamar was responsible for measuring customers during their initial consultations, adding finishing touches to the garments and making the last, painstaking adjustments after final fittings. She enjoyed her work but laboured long hours and did not socialise. However, the pay was adequate and Mrs Tregowan paid a small bonus whenever a particularly fine gown was completed on time.
After eight months Tamar had saved enough to emigrate. With the money she received for her mother’s jewellery, she felt confident she would have enough. She handed in her notice in February and, with a good reference from Mrs Tregowan, began her journey to the Port of Plymouth. Four days in a crowded, airless and badly sprung coach had taken her to Torpoint, at the mouth of the Tamar River, after which she was named.
The seas had been rough during the crossing to Plymouth, but not as rough as the emigration barracks at the Plymouth docks. Tamar arrived late in the afternoon and was informed by a self-important emigration clerk that she was lucky she had a place; those who did not had to stay in even more loathsome accommodation.
Tamar had been appalled at the state of some of the emigrants. They were loud and unruly and many, adults as well as children, were crawling with vermin and smelled terrible. She had been raised in near poverty, but personal cleanliness had been impressed upon her from an early age. But it was more than how these unfamiliar people smelled; their behaviour itself was also disconcerting. The emigration agent who had interviewed her had discussed at length, in a discreet and almost apologetic manner, the requirement for emigrants to be of sound moral character. She could only assume the agent had not recruited these people.
She spent two nights sharing a dormitory with several single women, three married women and eight noisy, grimy children. Someone produced a jug of gin, and four of the women had proceeded to get messily drunk. The whole dormitory had been kept up until all hours by their singing and laughing and, after they finally fell into a drunken sleep, their snores, belches and farts. The second night had been little better and Tamar had risen early and come down to the dock as soon as possible. They were her peers, these poor, working-class, uneducated women, but she had been dismayed at their behaviour. She was also dismayed at her reaction, and reminded herself sharply of one of her mother’s earliest lessons; that tolerance and acceptance were virtues to be nurtured.
‘And so here I am,’ said Tamar, her tears forgotten.
‘What did ye have in mind when ye get to New Zealand? For a job, I mean,’ asked Myrna.
Tamar pulled out a handkerchief and wiped a nose made runny by crying and the raw wind. ‘I’m a good seamstress. My sister was too, and we planned to start a business. When we had enough money.’
‘So will ye do that by yeself now?’
‘I think so, if I can. It will be harder now, I expect.’
Myrna agreed. She narrowed her eyes and looked at Tamar appraisingly. ‘Mmm, but ye’re a pretty wee thing. Wi’ that auburn hair and those big green eyes ye’ll no’ be on your own for long.’
Tamar went red. ‘Thank you, Miss McTaggart. I am hoping I might meet someone in New Zealand.’
‘Och, ma name’s Myrna, lassie. And I’ve no doubt ye’ll meet a good man, no doubt at all.’
Tamar nodded politely, then cleared her throat. ‘There is one thing I would like to seek your advice about, Miss, ah, Myrna.’
Myrna raised her finely plucked eyebrows. ‘And what might that be?’
‘My passage was booked on the understanding I would be accompanied by my father. He had already died when I booked it. I lied to the agent. I’m not old enough to emigrate on my own.’
Myrna tapped her boot thoughtfully, her hands on her curvaceous hips. ‘And ye must travel accompanied?’
‘Yes.’
‘Oh, well, that’s easily fixed, lassie. Wait here a minute.’
Myrna elbowed her way through the busy crowd, returning several minutes later towing a small, inoffensive-looking man.
‘Tamar, meet George Kellow from St Ives. One o’ your lot. For a small fee, he’s kindly agreed to be your uncle. Ye’ll board wi’ him and his family, then go your separate ways as soon as we’re in the Channel. D’ye get ma drift?’
Tamar instantly felt better. Her dilemma had been easily fixed. She reached for her purse. ‘How much do I owe you, Mr Kellow?’
‘Och, I’ve already paid the wee gentleman,’ replied Myrna. ‘Dinnae worry yeself.’ She pulled the lapels of her bright blue coat together over her ample bosom. ‘Aye, well, it looks like we’re boarding. I must be off and organise ma girls,’ she said, inclining her head towards a group of young women standing by a vast pile of trunks and bags. ‘I’ll see ye on board, lassie. If there’s anything ye need, be it even just a wee chat, ye’ll come and see me, aye?’ And off she swept, her head high and the tails of her extravagant coat flapping.
Tamar stared after her. What a strange woman, she reflected. Myrna looked to be in her forties, but very well preserved and attractive. Her clothes, although gaudy, were expertly made, and she wore several expensive-looking rings, although none on her wedding finger. She was clearly a woman of some income, but she was coarse-mouthed, somewhat raucous, and perhaps not terribly well bred. But quite likable, thought Tamar, and very kind. She slung her bag over her shoulder and bent to take hold of her trunk.
‘I’ll take that, Miss,’ said Mr Kellow. ‘Seeing as you’re my niece.’ He had an amused smile on his weathered face.
‘Thank you,’ she replied. ‘How much did Miss McTaggart pay you?’
‘Ten pounds.’
‘What?’
‘Ten pounds. ’Tis a criminal offence after all. But we’ve the six little ones an’ not a lot of money.’
‘So how is it you know Miss McTaggart?’
‘Know her? I never seen her before!’ Mr Kellow laughed at her startled expression. ‘She just come up an’ asked if I were wanting to make a bit of money. I were, so here I am. Come on, Miss, I’ll introduce yer to your aunt.’
They dodged through the crowd until Mr Kellow stopped in front of a woman with five small children milling about her like ducklings, and a round-faced baby balanced on her hip. Mrs Kellow was even smaller than her husband, and just as weathered and harried looking.
‘It’s Tamar, isn’t it?’ asked Mr Kellow. ‘Tamar, this is Mrs Kellow.’
Mrs Kellow nodded and said anxiously, ‘George, we should board now, with the rest of the crowd. While there’s a rush.’ Tamar gathered she was
not overjoyed at having a new niece, even if it was only for the next hour.
She hefted up her trunk and followed the Kellows up the gangway. At the top stood a man Tamar assumed was an emigration official. Stopping people as they boarded, he was checking their papers, ticking their names off against a list, then directing them on. She felt sick as she waited her turn.
Standing directly behind George Kellow, she heard him explaining that she was his niece. His face expressionless, the man held out his hand for Tamar’s papers. ‘Tamar Deane?’ he asked. ‘It says you’re travelling with your father. Where is he?’
Nerves already stretched as tight as a bowstring, Tamar burst into tears. ‘He died!’ she sobbed.
The official watched her impassively for a moment, then turned back to George Kellow. ‘Your wife’s side?’
Nodding a little too enthusiastically, Mr Kellow added, ‘Daughter of the wife’s recently departed brother. Very sad it were.’
The man made some ticks on his list, and crossed one name off. ‘On you go,’ he said, not looking at them again. Tamar closed her eyes in relief and the Kellows relaxed visibly as they surged forward.
The deck was pandemonium, crowded with emigrants saying goodbye to friends and family and children running about shrieking with excitement or wailing in confusion, piles of luggage, ropes, provisions, boxes and bales, live chickens in crates and fresh dung from the ship’s milking cows. All this was overlaid with the sharp smell of the sea and the reek of a slightly stale catch from the fishing boat moored at the next quay.
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