Tamar

by Deborah Challinor

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The following morning Peter Montgomery and his new wife boarded the train from Auckland to New Lynn. Tamar sat uncomfortably. She was sore between her legs and her sanitary cloth was chafing. She had bled after Peter made love to her that morning, and was not sure how long it would continue so had taken the precaution of using a cloth. The lovemaking had not been quite what she had expected.

  She had woken in their hotel room early, feeling thirsty. She yanked on the bell pull to summon a maid, and when a discreet knock came a few minutes later she asked for a pot of tea. When it arrived Tamar poured a cup for herself and one for Peter. As she moved about the room he woke up.

  ‘Oh, Christ, my head,’ he moaned, his eyes shut tightly.

  ‘Do you want some tea?’

  He nodded, swore, then clutched his skull. Tamar placed his tea on the night stand while he slowly sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed, still dressed in his wedding shirt and trousers. He stood cautiously, extracted a small silver flask from his bag on the luggage stand, then shuffled back and poured something into his tea cup.

  ‘Whisky. Just a drop. I’ve a ghastly headache, but it will go in a few minutes. It’s the best cure for a hangover, works every time.’ He drank his tea in one long draught, poured himself another and added more whisky. ‘God, that’s better,’ he muttered after a minute. ‘I really am sorry, Tamar, falling asleep like that. I assume we didn’t …’

  When Tamar shook her head, he said, ‘Christ, I’m sorry. Not much of a wedding night, was it? Will you forgive me?’

  Tamar smiled. ‘Of course,’ she said, reaching over and tentatively touching his messy hair. ‘I fell asleep too. We had a long day.’

  As the whisky began to filter into Peter’s bloodstream and his headache receded, they rang for room service and asked for breakfast to be delivered. After they had eaten Peter had a quick bath and a shave, emerging from the bathroom wearing only a towel around his waist, little runnels of bath water leaving tracks through the dark hair on his chest and legs. Tamar had removed her nightdress and sat on the side of the bed, preparing to change into her day clothes. He stared at her naked body.

  ‘You are as beautiful as I imagined,’ he breathed, moving to stand in front of her. ‘Truly beautiful.’ He removed the towel and let it fall on the floor. Tamar was confronted with his large, purple, erect penis bobbing six inches from her face.

  God in heaven, she thought, and closed her eyes.

  Peter joined her on the unmade bed, pushing her gently back and lying next to her. He kissed her face, then her round breasts, their small, pale nipples erect in the cool morning air, and rubbed his hand across her flat stomach and hips and down her thighs, then back up over her pubic hair. ‘Are you ready?’ he asked, his voice thick with passion.

  Tamar had no idea whether she was ready or not, but felt that it would be gauche of her to say no, so she said nothing. Peter rose to his knees, pushed her legs open and said, ‘My God, what a lovely pink vulva you have. Like a luscious little fruit.’ Tamar felt her face turn crimson. ‘Mine now,’ he had added, positioning himself between Tamar’s thighs and settling onto her. Propping himself up on one elbow, he used his hand to guide his engorged penis into her vagina. It went in a short way and then stuck.

  ‘Ow!’ Tamar exclaimed out loud before she could stop herself.

  ‘Sorry, my darling. Do you need a little help?’ Peter moved to one side, raised his hand to his mouth and spat onto his fingers. Rubbing his saliva over the opening of Tamar’s vagina and the head of his penis, he repositioned himself and drove into her. Tamar felt a sharp, burning pain and bit her lip to stop herself crying out.

  As Peter lay still for a second, she felt extremely, roundly full and wondered how on earth his penis was able to fit inside her. As he started to move again, the pain subsided a little and she felt able to accommodate him better. With one hand resting on his upper back she placed the other against his chest in the hope she might discourage him from pushing too hard. She couldn’t and he did, thrusting faster and saying her name over and over, his face buried in her hair.

  After what seemed like hours but was only a few short minutes, his thrusting grew more urgent and powerful and she felt his body stiffen and his buttocks clench tightly. He lifted his head and she saw his eyes were screwed shut and his teeth bared. With one final thrust that shoved her body up the bed and banged her head against the headboard, he let out a strangled, grunting cry and went rigid, then collapsed slowly on top of her, panting and sweating and apparently unconscious.

  Tamar wondered if he was all right. Perhaps he had hurt himself. He’d certainly hurt her, but then she was aware some pain would be involved at first and had not expected any less. In fact, the process had been less traumatic than she’d anticipated. She was sore and feeling battered, but the sharp pain had already gone. Peter groaned and moved off her, rolling onto his back and opening his eyes. As he moved, Tamar felt a trickle of something warm dribbling out of her and stinging the bruised flesh between her legs. She wondered vaguely if she was now pregnant.

  ‘I’m sorry, darling,’ Peter murmured eventually. ‘I couldn’t hold myself back. Next time it will be better, I promise.’ As he rolled over and lay his head on her breast, she wrapped her arms around him, feeling strangely as if she was cuddling and soothing a child.

  When they got up to dress, Tamar saw the sheet had been stained with a mixture of Peter’s semen and her blood. Mortified, she insisted on scrubbing the bloody patch, then folded the sheet across the bottom of the bed, hoping the chambermaid would not notice. Peter told her she was being silly — this was the wedding suite and the staff saw messes on the linen all the time.

  Now, as the train neared its destination, Tamar wondered if there would be a repeat performance tonight. She hoped not as she was sore and tired, but knew that if Peter wanted to, she would oblige him. And it had not been completely unpleasant. Nothing like the vision of intense sensual ecstasy she’d nurtured in her imagination, but she had enjoyed the physical closeness and the sensation of experiencing Peter’s passion, even if her ardour had not matched his.

  The coach trip from New Lynn to Titirangi was slow and bumpy and they did not arrive until after dark. They spent a moderately comfortable night in the town’s one hotel, Peter grumbling because it was dry but cheering up when they made love again. They rose early the next morning to continue their journey. Again their physical union had not been especially fulfilling, but Tamar had enjoyed the intimacy and consoled herself with the expectation that their lovemaking would improve with time.

  The last leg of their journey was tedious and uncomfortable, and they were obliged to share the coach with a couple with several small children. The children were tired, bored and irritating and their parents seemed to have little to say to each other. The woman was pregnant and the coach kept having to stop so she could relieve herself in the bushes. The road was unpaved and the heavy rains had caused washouts in several places; these could only be crossed when the coach was empty, the passengers walking behind, trying not to tread in the mud or slip in leaf mould fallen from the dense, overhanging bush.

  Closer to Huia the scenery became more impressive as the solid dark green of the forest was relieved by stands of giant kauri, their trunks, some up to forty feet in girth, soaring straight and uninterrupted for eighty or so feet until thick branches formed an ancient canopy. Whenever the coach stopped, the cool weight of the forest was like a living thing, the smell from the lush undergrowth damp and dark and the silence broken only by the ringing calls of bellbirds and tui. Tamar was enchanted but Peter was out of sorts, irritated by the whingeing children and eager to reach their destination.

  They arrived at Huia at eight o’clock in the evening. The tiny town had a general store run by a man who was also the local Justice of the Peace, a one-storeyed hotel with basic accommodation, a stable and forge with a workshop and a public office. Rather than continue in the dark to Peter’
s property several hours further into the bush, they stayed the night at the pub.

  In the morning they collected Peter’s horse and cart from the stables, loaded their luggage, picked up some supplies from the store and headed off. They followed the tramway leading down from the sawmill, where the great kauri logs were dragged by bullock teams to be processed, and up into the hills before turning onto a smaller track, which they followed for an hour. Crossing several shallow streams, they climbed a steep hill through dense bush, the horse slipping and sliding on the muddy, rutted track, and came out on a ridge with panoramic views of the bush below, broken here and there by a patchwork of scrubby paddocks. Eventually they came to a gate.

  Peter halted the horse and pointed down one side of the ridge. ‘There it is, Mrs Montgomery. Our land and your new home. The fence line is the boundary, but you can’t see it where it runs into the bush.’

  The house sat on a flat piece of land overlooking a small valley surrounded by bush-clad hills. Peter’s block was not huge but it encompassed several acres of forest and open paddock; in Cornwall, he would have been considered a moderately wealthy estate owner. As he flicked the reins, the horse started off down the hill towards the house.

  It was bigger than a cottage and a substantial home compared to others she had glimpsed on the way, which seemed little more than shacks, but nothing like the grand houses in Auckland. Tamar was charmed regardless. There was a verandah running along the front of the single-storeyed wooden building and around one side, with the front door and a set of French doors opening onto it. The bare winter branches of a climbing rose grew up the verandah posts and in front of the house was a large circular garden containing early daffodils, snowdrops, bright blue lobelia and cheerful pansies.

  Peter helped her off the cart, led her onto the verandah and opened the front door. She giggled as he swept her up and carried her over the threshold and deposited her in what was clearly the parlour. While he went to unload the cart and let the horse into a paddock, Tamar wandered around her new home.

  The parlour was spacious but cosy with whitewashed walls and comfortable furniture. Two armchairs and a well-used sofa were arranged in front of the generous fireplace, and a kauri dining table and eight chairs stood in one corner. The floor was of unpolished wood, with several brightly coloured rugs. The large windows and French doors let plenty of light into the room but Tamar could see their heavy curtains would keep out the cold when drawn.

  The kitchen was basic but adequate, she thought, with a wood-burning range and a hot plate set into the fireplace with six or seven heavy black hooks holding kitchen utensils above it, and a bread oven built into the brick chimney. There was a bench along one wall under the window, a butter churn, a large wooden work table, a sideboard against another wall for china and plenty of shelves. Through the window Tamar could see a small meat safe and cool store on the shady back porch, and beyond that a hand pump. She assumed it drew water from the stream in the valley below.

  Opposite the kitchen was a furnished but unused-looking bedroom. Out the back door off the porch was the laundry with a small fireplace for heating the copper, and behind that another small room, empty except for a bed. Some distance from the house was the privy, a long-drop in a small wooden building of its own.

  Tamar retraced her steps to explore the larger of the bedrooms. It too had a fireplace and was furnished with a double bed, a wardrobe, a ladies’ dressing table and a large set of drawers. The house was cold, dusty and rather untidy, but the cosily arranged curtains and touches of lace and patchwork showed it had been well-tended by Peter’s first wife.

  Feeling a little unnerved at the deceased woman’s lingering presence, Tamar left the house and wandered into a small orchard of young fruit trees growing around a neglected vegetable garden. Several cows and four or five scruffy chickens grazed in a small fenced-off paddock. Behind the orchard under an older, more established tree was a small cemetery, with two graves. The headstones read:

  Anna Maria Montgomery

  Beloved Wife of Peter

  1855–1879

  and

  Constance Sophia Montgomery

  1879

  Tamar knelt on the grass and closed her eyes, feeling desperately sad for the pathetically small grave in which the baby had been buried, and the pain she imagined Peter had felt when he had laid them to rest. She vowed she would do all she could to be the loving and comforting wife Peter so obviously yearned for.

  Tamar unpacked, then made some tea and went to join Peter, who was having a lunchtime port on the verandah. There was a pair of old wicker chairs and a small table there, and they sat in silence, looking over the valley.

  ‘It can get bloody cold here at this time of year,’ Peter commented eventually. ‘I’ll get some firewood in. The water freezes in the pump some mornings. Still, it’s cosy enough inside. And there are plenty of preserves in the kitchen. Anna usually did all that over the summer.’ He fell silent.

  Tamar said gently, ‘I saw the graves. Do you still miss them?’

  ‘Well,’ he replied, ‘I have you now. And I never knew the child, she died almost as soon as she was born. But it will be different when we have our own. Anna was by herself when it happened, but I’ll make sure you have someone with you when the time comes. When I next go to Huia I’ll arrange for one of the Maori women to come out, to help you in the house. And then, by the time you are expecting, you’ll be comfortable with her. Do we want her to live in or not? I don’t fancy the idea of one of them under our roof night and day. What do you think?’

  Tamar didn’t particularly want a housegirl and had not given it much thought. If she had to have one, she would rather meet the woman before she decided on what the accommodation arrangements would be. In truth, she wanted to have a go at managing the house herself. She’d been perfectly capable running her da’s house, and couldn’t see why she shouldn’t be able to do so here, although Peter had warned her he sometimes conducted his business at home, which meant having people to dinner on occasion. Also, when he hired gangs to work on his block, they needed feeding three times a day. Still, she couldn’t see any real problem.

  The following week was happy and satisfying, although Tamar was kept busy and began to wonder whether some help might not be a good idea. She rose early in the quiet, dark mornings to light the kerosene lamps and start the wood fire in the kitchen for cooking and to heat water. She made bread every second morning before she prepared their breakfast, which was always porridge, Peter’s favourite; he was adamant he was unable to do a day’s work without it. After he had gone she washed the dishes in a basin with water heated on the stove, cleaned the oven and hot plate and scrubbed the kitchen table until it was spotless. Then she meticulously swept the kitchen floor with a manuka broom, otherwise the house would be overrun with rats and mice. When she had emptied the chamber pot she had her wash, using the large bowl and ewer, then made the bed and swept out the rest of the house. If Peter was coming home for lunch she would begin preparing it at about eleven in the morning, clean up again after he had gone, then repeat the performance at around four in the afternoon for dinner.

  After lunch she worked in the garden planting or harvesting vegetables and fruit for preserving. Although the vegetable garden had run to seed it was still well-stocked with rhubarb, turnips, carrots, winter cabbages, potatoes, parsnips, silver beet and kumara. Tamar spent much of her time weeding and replanting, and planning the new vegetables she would add when spring arrived.

  Every second day she did the household washing. This involved carrying water from the pump to half-fill the copper in the laundry, waiting for it to heat, adding washing soap, then sloshing the clothes and linen around for what seemed like hours until they were clean. She then moved them piece by piece into a tin tub and rinsed them with cold fresh water, then wrung them all out by hand, struggling with the bed sheets until she had removed as much water as she could. The first time she’d hung the laundry on the clothesline it broke
, causing her to swear loudly, and she had to do it all again; after that she made sure not to overload the thin ropes. Anything delicate was soaked and handwashed very gently and laid outside in the sun to dry, or hung in front of the stove or the fire in the parlour. When the washing had dried she ironed it, including the linen, with a box iron she discovered in the laundry.

  In the evenings, she sat with Peter in the parlour and sewed or read by the light of the fire and kerosene lamps. They went to bed early, and often made love. Tamar was becoming accustomed to their physical intimacy and was no longer sore or nervous. She was beginning to respond to Peter’s advances, enjoying the way he touched her body and taking pleasure in exploring his. There was still no wild ecstasy, but his passionate appreciation was obvious, and enhanced her own excitement. Having had no other lover, she did not know whether he was skilful, but found his attentions stimulating in a way that was new to her and made her feel needed and wanted. She loved being with him, still could not stop looking at him constantly whenever they were together, and delighted in keeping house for him. She was, she supposed, very happy with her lot, although she did feel lonely when she was by herself.

  As they lay together one evening, Tamar’s head resting on Peter’s furry, slightly sweaty chest, she decided it was time to broach the subject of a housegirl. ‘I dropped the washing in the mud again today,’ she said.

  ‘Did you?’ replied Peter sleepily.

  ‘Yes, and I think I would like someone to help me around the house. Some days I only just manage to get everything done, and it would be nice to have some time to myself.’

  Peter nodded, ‘And in a few weeks I’ll be getting a gang over to help with the next stand of kauri and you’ll be even busier feeding them. Shall I see if I can find someone when I go into town tomorrow?’