Tamar

by Deborah Challinor

  ‘You were upset. And angry,’ replied Tamar. ‘You accused me of interfering with your drinking.’

  ‘Why? Were you upset with me?’ He obviously had no memory of Anna’s letter.

  ‘Yes, I was a little. You seemed to undergo a complete change of personality.’

  ‘Did I?’ said Peter, with such a startled look Tamar wondered if he really couldn’t remember. She finished slicing the loaf.

  ‘How’s your head now?’ she asked.

  ‘A lot better than it was earlier. Are you still angry at me?’

  Tamar said nothing.

  ‘I do remember you asking me to give up my drinking,’ he said.

  She hadn’t; he was obviously remembering something Anna had said, but Tamar chose not to correct him.

  He continued. ‘I think you’re right, it doesn’t agree with me. I promise you I will stop drinking, from now on. I swear it, Tamar, on the Bible.’

  He looked so forlorn, vulnerable and sincere that Tamar felt her heart melt. Eager to encourage the return of his usual frame of mind, she wordlessly nodded her acceptance, both of his vow to stop drinking and his overt need for her approval. She moved next to his chair, and let him wrap his arms around her waist and rest his head against her stomach as she stroked his hair. It was then she remembered Peter had gone into Huia for two reasons.

  ‘Did you find a housegirl?’ she asked as she sat and buttered a piece of bread. The issue of Peter’s drinking was not forgotten, but she let it rest.

  ‘Yes! I did, a Maori girl. Not sure how old she is but she looked fairly clean and she can speak English. She has to see her family first, but she’ll be here Monday. She comes from the settlement near Te Henga on the coast, but she was in Huia yesterday and the storekeeper said she was looking for work so I made her an offer. I’ve forgotten her name.’

  ‘How much will you pay her?’

  ‘As little as possible,’ said Peter with his mouth full of bread. ‘They don’t need much — a bit of tobacco, some booze, they don’t care. You’ll have to keep her in line though. They can get a bit uppity. Give them European clothes and they think they’re the same as us.’

  Tamar frowned. She’d wait and see, she decided. If Peter was unable to keep his word about not drinking, a domestic who thought she was above her station would be the least of her worries.

  The following Monday Tamar was weeding the flower garden when she looked up to see a figure on horseback riding down the track. As the horse neared, she saw the rider was a woman. Tamar stood and waited for her to approach.

  ‘Good morning,’ Tamar said cautiously, removing her gardening gloves.

  ‘Good morning,’ replied the girl, expertly reining her horse to a halt. ‘Excuse me, but are you Mrs Montgomery?’

  ‘Yes, I am. You must be the girl my husband employed last week.’

  ‘I am Riria. I have come to be your housemaid.’

  Tamar was immediately struck by how extraordinarily beautiful, brown and wild-looking the girl was, sitting bareback on her chestnut horse with her head held high. Her skin was a milky coffee colour, and thick, dark brown hair fell loosely down her back past her narrow waist. Her eyes were brown, huge and almond-shaped, set under dark, naturally arched brows and above wide cheekbones. Her nose was flat and her lips full. Tamar was startled to see both lips were defined by a thin, black tattooed line which merged into a neat motif on her chin.

  A moko, she thought, remembering Sally’s word for the tattoos on the Maori they had seen in Auckland.

  The girl was wearing a plain brown European-styled dress with a high neck and long sleeves. It was patched in several places but clean and appeared to have been painstakingly maintained. Her boots, which looked like those usually worn by men but in a smaller size, were visible as she sat astride the horse, the skirt of her dress hitched above her knees. She looked a solid girl but not at all overweight, with full round calves and strong thighs. Her shoulders were wide for a woman and her breasts sat high, evidently without the benefit of undergarments, Tamar noticed. Almost as eye-opening as the moko was the small black Tyrolese hat she wore, complete with a white-tipped black feather.

  Riria swung her leg over her horse and slid to the ground; on her feet she was not as tall as Tamar had first thought, but at around five foot five neither was she short. She struggled out of the small pack she was carrying on her back then bobbed an awkward curtsy towards Tamar.

  ‘Oh, don’t do that,’ Tamar said, embarrassed. ‘You don’t have to curtsy to me.’ She held out her hand instead. Riria reached out and shook it, smiling for the first time. Her teeth were even and very white.

  ‘Bring your horse around the back,’ said Tamar, leading the way. ‘We’ll put him in the horse paddock, then you can come inside and have a look.’

  ‘The horse is wahine,’ replied Riria.

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Wahine. It means woman. Female.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Tamar. ‘Well, we’ll put her in the horse paddock, then.’

  After the horse had been attended to, Tamar took Riria into the house. She felt awkward about offering her a cup of tea; she had never had a domestic servant and was unsure of the protocol she should be observing. Then she remembered how thirsty she’d been after her own trip from Huia, and put the kettle on the stove regardless.

  While she waited for the water to boil, she showed the girl around the house and explained what needed to be done. Riria, who had worked for a European woman before, said she was familiar with the work that would be required.

  As they sat to drink their tea at the kitchen table, Riria announced, ‘I have brought my possessions with me. Mr Montgomery said he did not know if I am to live here or not. He said you would make that decision, Mrs Montgomery.’

  Tamar noticed the other girl’s English was very good, if a little formal, but wished she would not call her Mrs Montgomery. She felt it forced her into a role she suspected she would not enjoy. To her surprise, she had taken an instant liking to the girl with her quiet dignity, and sensed they were closer to being equals than they were to the roles of lady of the house and domestic servant.

  ‘Well, why don’t you stay here for a few nights and we’ll see how it goes? It’s a long way for you to come up from Huia every day.’

  ‘Thank you. I will do that, Mrs Montgomery.’

  ‘Please don’t call me Mrs Montgomery. My name is Tamar.’

  ‘Yes, Tamar,’ replied Riria. ‘And you may call me Riria, rather than Miss Riria.’

  Tamar looked at the other girl for a startled second then burst out laughing, realising with delight she may have found the company she had been longing for after all. Curious, she asked Riria about her family and her people.

  Riria was seventeen and had been born at Kainui near Te Henga, where most of her family still lived. Her people were tangata whenua, people of the land, and were known as Te Kawerau a Maki. They were descended from Tahuhunui, who had captained the ancestral waka Moekakara to Aotearoa many generations ago.

  She had two older sisters, both of whom had their own families, and one younger brother. As Riria’s family were of high rank, the tribe’s elders had selected a husband for her when she was eleven but she had defied them, insisting she was too young to marry, and had run off when she was fifteen to work for a European family at Karekare. She had since mended the rift with her parents, but only just; they were unhappy with her doing the housework of white folk.

  Riria, however, wanted to learn how Europeans lived, believing one day there would be a place for Maori alongside Pakeha, as she called white-skinned Europeans. She could already read and write English, but wanted to become familiar with European customs. But she was still not ready to settle down, convinced the world had more to offer than a husband and babies. Tamar sensed a kindred spirit, although she herself was only a year older and already married. But not pregnant. Her period had arrived several days ago.

  By the time Riria had moved her belongings into the little room of
f the back porch, been given a guided tour of the garden and orchard, and helped Tamar prepare the evening meal, Peter had arrived home. He nodded to Riria but ignored her after that, telling Tamar to sit with him in the parlour while the dinner was cooking.

  ‘You can’t be too friendly,’ he said after they sat down and Tamar had brought him a cup of tea. ‘It’s just not done. They need to be kept in their place. Oh, it’s fine for some Europeans to have relationships with them, the poor and the riffraff and what have you, but not for us. There are certain standards and we must keep them. Mind you, if they’re dying out as it’s said, we won’t have to worry about them soon.’

  ‘Shush!’ said Tamar, horrified Riria would overhear him. ‘She’s a nice young girl. I think she’ll be very good.’

  ‘Is she? Good,’ he said absently as he flicked through a copy of last week’s Auckland Weekly News.

  Tamar took the opportunity to reread Myrna’s letter once more. Everything was fine, Myrna had written. Her business was flourishing, and Polly had taken to her new profession like a duck to water. Sven and Eliza seemed to have developed a relationship of some sort, although Sven was so shy Myrna wondered if he would ever make any progress with his courtship. John Adams was doing very well, raking in money from his rich patients then spending it all treating his poor ones for nothing. Tamar was missed by all, and everyone hoped she was settling happily into marriage. Tamar was amused to note the letter was written in such a way that it gave no indication of Myrna’s real business. Tamar still did not think Peter would approve.

  As the weeks passed and winter progressed, Tamar settled comfortably if not always happily into her new life.

  She saw no evidence Peter was drinking and on the two occasions he went into Huia, he came home sober. He did not, however, seem to be relaxed. His moods fluctuated alarmingly between a passionate and intense love for her and boisterous enthusiasm for their life on the land, to deep depression and a bitter conviction that his life had somehow been blighted by the actions of others and was doomed to failure. Some days he worked himself to the point of exhaustion but often paced the floor at night, unable to sleep and wanting Tamar to stay awake with him until he could.

  He was also becoming short-tempered and irrational. Tamar tried to soothe and placate him whenever she could, but was often left emotionally exhausted from attempting to guess what mood he would come home in. One evening he overheard Riria calling Tamar by her first name and yelled at the girl, insisting his wife be addressed as Mrs Montgomery. Tamar suspected he was jealous of the friendly relationship developing between the two women and felt left out, so she and Riria, who seemed to have a very wise head on her shoulders, kept their conversation to a minimum when Peter was about.

  But whenever Tamar decided to confront Peter about his unpleasant and gloomy behaviour, he seemed to sense her displeasure and revert to his normal, charming self in a matter of minutes. It was tiring for Tamar, but he was so appealing when he was in a good mood, she found herself quickly forgetting the less pleasant aspects of his behaviour.

  It had been decided Riria would live in the house from Sunday night to Thursday night, but she would go to her sister’s home at Pararaha near the coast on Fridays when the weather allowed, returning on Sunday afternoon. The weather had degenerated to the point that travel in the bush had become arduous; the rains were frequent, rendering the tracks slippery and dangerous, the air was cold and the mists that rolled off the Waitakere Ranges disorienting. However, some days were fine and clear, if cold. On one such occasion, when Riria had gone to her sister’s, Peter announced he was going into town to see about the shipment of his latest batch of timber, but would be home for dinner.

  He arrived back around midnight, drunk, foulmouthed and belligerent, with a badly swollen eye and his wallet missing, telling Tamar he’d been robbed and beaten by a pair of thugs behind the Huia hotel. As before, he drank himself unconscious and spent the night slouched in a chair in the parlour. Tamar went to bed early and left him to it. This time he shat as well as wet himself.

  The next day he was profoundly remorseful and apologetic, begging Tamar’s forgiveness and swearing never to touch a drop again. She accepted his apologies and tried to feel sympathetic, but her trust was beginning to erode. She still loved him desperately and believed he had the strength to overcome his dependence on alcohol, but she dreaded his trips into town. She could no longer be sure what sort of state he would be in when he returned.

  The term ‘alcoholism’ was relatively new and was discussed more and more frequently in the newspapers, particularly by the prohibitionists, and Tamar was appalled to think her husband could be afflicted. Based on what she had seen herself, alcoholism was something that happened to unfortunates from the lower classes, not to an educated gentleman with means.

  In a fit of temperance-inspired zeal Peter decided to stay away from town; he would send Riria in with the cart to collect supplies. Tamar was pleased and relieved, convinced that if he stayed out of the hotel in Huia, he would be able to avoid temptation. His mood improved and he went out happily to work and more often than not came home relaxed. On one awful day, Tamar thought she could smell alcohol on his breath and confronted him. He denied it, saying he’d accidentally eaten tutu berries and had swallowed kerosene to make himself vomit, adding that he felt very hurt that she doubted him. She dropped the subject at once, dismayed by her own suspicions.

  The atmosphere improved and Tamar and Riria got on with the job of looking after the house and preparing for spring. They cleared and replanted the vegetable garden and put in more fruit trees and cane fruits. They made soap and candles, stored in a tin with a tight lid away from mice, churned butter and cheese and made savoury powders from herbs with a pestle and mortar, and took an inventory of the preserves already in the cupboards. They whitewashed throughout the house, scoured the wooden floors with fine sand and cleaned the windows until the glass was spotless.

  As the weather improved, they went into the bush and gathered plants and barks for medicinal purposes. Riria had a huge store of knowledge about herbal medicines. They collected pukatea bark to be steeped in water and applied to running sores, manuka leaves for infusions to stop coughs, koromiko for diarrhoea and kawakawa for toothache. Riria also pointed out the kareao vine — made into an infusion and swallowed in large enough quantities, it would bring on a miscarriage, as well as kohekoke leaves used to dry up the milk of women who had lost their infants.

  Tamar had not yet fallen pregnant. She was surprised, and beginning to wonder if there was something wrong. When she tentatively brought the subject up with Riria, she had laughed.

  ‘Why do you want to have babies so quickly?’ she asked. ‘There is plenty of time. You will be sorry when they come. Always crying and puking and doing tiko all the time. And your belly will stretch and so will your tara. When your husband goes to put his tehe into you, it will be like a stick in a bucket!’

  Tamar, who was used to Riria dropping Maori words into her conversation, had a fair idea of what she was talking about and giggled. But she was concerned all the same. She wanted to give Peter a child, hoping it would help him feel more settled, and make up for the little one he had lost. However, she was also worried about the dangers of giving birth in the middle of the bush with only Riria and her female neighbours to help. But if it happened then so be it, she thought. After all, now she was a married woman she had a duty to produce and raise children.

  Several more chatty, cheerful letters had arrived from Myrna, all asking when Tamar was coming to visit. She approached Peter one unseasonably cold and miserable September night as they sat in front of the parlour fire.

  ‘Now that you mention it,’ he said thoughtfully, ‘we could go for a few days. I need to settle a contract for shipping the kauri we milled. It won’t make us any money mouldering away in the bush. I could do with a few days in Auckland.’

  Tamar was pleased he sounded so cheerful about the prospect, as he had been growing mor
ose again. She immediately wrote to tell Myrna they would be in Auckland within two weeks. Peter wrote to a business associate, asking that meetings be arranged to discuss the shipment of the timber, and they sent Riria off the next day to send the letters from Huia.

  Tamar was highly excited at the prospect of seeing Auckland and her friends again; she had been away for three months but it felt much longer. However, she wanted Riria to accompany them but was worried Peter would not allow it. Surprisingly, when she plucked up the courage to ask, he agreed, although reluctantly. He had mellowed slightly towards the girl since she had been living with them, although he still tried to discourage their friendship.

  ‘I suppose she can come,’ he grumbled. ‘But we must make it clear she’s our servant and your maid, nothing more. And for God’s sake, find her something decent to wear. That brown rag of hers is falling apart. Can’t you give her something of yours? What about that dreadful grey thing you used to wear when you were working?’

  ‘No, it would be too small. I haven’t really got anything suitable,’ Tamar replied, looking up at Peter with large, manipulative eyes. He contemplated her for several seconds, then sighed.

  ‘Send her into town for some fabric then and make her something. But nothing too fancy! We don’t want her getting airs.’

  Tamar jumped up and kissed him. ‘No, just something simple but smart,’ she replied happily and ran out to tell Riria.

  Riria was intrigued with the idea of going to Auckland but, to Tamar’s surprise, failed to appreciate the prospect of a new outfit. ‘What do I want with a new dress? What is wrong with this one?’ Riria asked, holding out the skirt of her brown frock, patched in four places and almost worn through in several more. ‘It is clean and in one piece.’

  ‘Yes, it’s clean. But don’t you want a nice, smart new one?’