Tamar

by Deborah Challinor

  Tamar was too ashamed to divulge what had really happened, so she said nothing. When she had awoken, Peter had been asleep beside her. Surprised she had not heard him come in, and moving very cautiously so she would not wake him, she had crept out of bed and padded silently into the bathroom, locking the door behind. As she was sitting on the privy waiting for her bath to run, there had been a knock on the bathroom door.

  ‘Tamar? Tamar, please let me in. I’m so sorry!’

  Sorry my arse, she thought. That was one of Myrna’s new sayings and she rather liked it.

  ‘I have to use the privy!’ came Peter’s muffled voice through the wooden door.

  ‘Use the one down the hall,’ she replied wearily. There was silence for a minute, then she heard the door to their room open then shut again. The water in the tub was almost scalding but she welcomed it, wincing as the heat stung her bruised vulva. She slid under the water, closing her eyes to its soothing embrace. She stayed there until she heard Peter at the bathroom door again. Go away, she thought.

  ‘Please come out. I need to talk to you!’ he called plaintively.

  Tamar ignored him. When she finally emerged from the bathroom, he was lying curled on the bed, weeping. He begged her forgiveness and promised it would never happen again; it had only happened because he had gone to his club and had been coerced into taking a drink by friends whom he had not seen for months. To refuse would have been extremely rude. His tone of voice implied that even he knew it was a pathetic excuse.

  ‘And will you be coerced into taking another drink at your meetings today? And tonight at dinner?’ Tamar asked acidly.

  ‘No! I swear it!’ he replied vehemently, sitting up slowly, holding his head. ‘I wouldn’t even go if I could get out of it, but I can’t. Please believe me!’

  Tamar didn’t know whether she did or not, although Peter looked extremely sick and certainly very sorry for himself.

  ‘When is your first meeting today?’

  ‘Midday.’

  ‘Why don’t you sleep until then?’ Tamar suggested. ‘Riria and I are meeting Myrna this morning and then we’re sightseeing. We’ll be back later this afternoon.’

  Riria knocked on the door, come to help Tamar dress, which they did in silence. Peter lay in the bed with the covers pulled up to his ears, asleep. Riria tilted her head at his motionless form and raised her eyebrows. Tamar shook her head, then turned to the mirror to adjust her hat and pull on her gloves. They said nothing until they were on the street, and then the only comment Tamar made was that Peter had come in drunk. Riria knew her well enough by now not to push her.

  Morning tea seemed to lift Tamar’s spirits. Myrna’s girls were fascinated by Riria, asking to touch the fine raised ridges of her moko and whether it had hurt when she’d had it done.

  Riria made a face and nodded. ‘Of course. But it is a badge of honour. I wear it with pride. My moko announces to the world who I am. It is a visual manifestation of my whakapapa, my heritage.’

  Although Myrna’s girls were full of questions for Tamar about life in the bush, they did not bring up the subject of her marriage. Perhaps Myrna had said something. If so, Tamar was grateful. She did not feel like telling them what had been happening, but neither did she want to lie to them. Polly seemed her normal exuberant self, and Tamar could not see what it was that had concerned Myrna.

  Later, Riria and Tamar hired a cab and spent a pleasant afternoon touring Auckland, Tamar pointing out the sights including the gardens in the Auckland Domain, J. Partington’s spectacular windmill off Symonds Street and St Paul’s Church where she and Peter had been married. Riria was amused by the sight of people crowding into horse trams and trotting about in dog-carts or the fancy, dainty little two-person phaetons.

  ‘What is wrong with riding a horse if you want to go somewhere? Or walking?’ she asked Tamar.

  ‘People with money don’t walk anywhere,’ replied Tamar. ‘Especially the ladies.’

  ‘Eh? Why not?’ said Riria.

  ‘Because that’s the way it is.’

  Riria snorted and shook her head but continued to gaze avidly about her. When they returned to the hotel so Tamar could ready herself for dinner, Peter was also in, having just returned from his meetings, which had evidently been successful. Tamar saw no indication he been drinking. He had met with someone, he said, who would collect and ship his timber, and would also be at dinner that evening. A Maori, Peter said, sounding faintly amused. ‘It will be interesting to see if he has any table manners. Mind you, he seems to have some education, speaks English well, so you never know.’

  Tamar thought his comment hypocritical coming from a man who had done to her what Peter had the night before, but she refrained from saying so. He seemed to have cheered up since morning, and had stopped the pathetic whining and grovelling she was beginning to find almost more disturbing and disappointing than his drunken behaviour; she did not want to do or say anything that might cause his mood to deteriorate.

  As usual, they would go on as if nothing had happened. He had sworn to abstain from drinking yet again, and she had accepted his apologies, both pretending it would be all right; Peter because he truly believed it and Tamar because she was too weary to say otherwise. There was no question of leaving him. The current law decreed that a divorce could only be obtained by a husband, and only on the grounds of his wife’s adultery.

  Tamar took her time getting dressed, Riria assisting while Peter absented himself to the private lounge. First Riria laced her into her corset then lifted the mauve velveteen evening gown over her head and fastened the many hooks and buttons at the back. Next, Tamar sat at the dressing table while Riria gathered up her heavy auburn hair and arranged it in a high, slightly dishevelled style that fell about her face in gentle waves. Riria stepped back, critically assessed her handiwork, and made a few small adjustments, rearranging a strand here and fixing a hairpin there.

  ‘It’s beautiful, thank you, Riria,’ said Tamar, pleased at the image of the lovely and sophisticated young woman who looked back at her from the mirror, relieved her swollen lip had gone down. Her throat and ears were bare but there was nothing she could do about that, except hope Peter didn’t notice she wasn’t wearing her amethysts.

  The house on Princes Street was grand, as were most residences backing onto Albert Park; clearly, Peter’s business associate was successful and wealthy. They were ushered by an English-accented butler into a spacious, elegantly decorated formal parlour where seven or eight people were already seated. Tamar was introduced to their host, Frank Coulthard, a robust looking man in his early fifties, and his pretty wife Abigail, who appeared considerably younger. The Coulthards in turn introduced Tamar to the other dinner guests.

  ‘We’re waiting on three or four more guests to arrive,’ explained Frank Coulthard. ‘Te Kanene whom you met this afternoon, and his nephew, Kepa, may dine with us also, and the Becks. You know Thomas and Julia Beck already, I believe?’

  Peter nodded. Thomas Beck was also in the timber business, although he ran a much larger operation. As he and Tamar seated themselves they were offered a sherry. Peter declined, to Tamar’s relief, but she accepted a small half glass and settled back to admire the Coulthards’ fine furnishings. As opulent as Myrna’s house, she observed, but without the sensuous and titillating touches. The other dinner guests were also spectacular, the ladies in particular. There was an abundance of silk, satin, fine lace and feathers, and their husbands’ wealth was reflected in the jewellery they wore. Tamar touched her own bare throat self-consciously.

  The Becks arrived shortly, followed almost immediately by two Maori, the room falling silent as they were announced. The first, Te Kanene, was a tall thin man, possibly in his early fifties; Tamar could not tell from his brown, weathered face. He was tattooed over his forehead and across his nose and cheeks, but his chin and taut jawline were unmarked. His dark, wiry hair was almost entirely grey and cut short in a European style, although a long, slender piece of polis
hed greenstone hung from his pierced left ear. His prominent nose was hooked, and his slightly bulging eyes were sharp, shrewd and black, like those of a bird. A predatory bird, Tamar reflected, as the man seemed to take the measure of everyone in the room. He was attired in stylish evening wear. Altogether he cut a fine figure, a curious and slightly mesmerising combination of gentility with more than a hint of suppressed cunning and savagery.

  It was, however, the younger man who caused Tamar to swallow her sherry the wrong way and choke painfully. Peter patted her absently on the back as she leaned forward to hurriedly put her drink down. Recovering, she regained her composure but could not prevent herself from staring. Kepa was quite possibly the most beautiful man she had ever seen. She remembered her manners and lowered her eyes, but not before his image seared itself into her mind and her very soul.

  ‘Right, then,’ announced Frank Coulthard jovially. ‘We’re all here now so shall we go in to dinner?’ He offered his arm to his wife and led his guests into the dining salon, a smaller but equally elegant room off the wide hall.

  They were seated at a huge oval dining table and chatted amongst themselves while they waited. There was an ornate silver epergne holding a low but extensive floral arrangement in the centre of the table, flanked by two pairs of silver candlesticks and five or six small fluted silver dishes containing relishes and sauces, and a bewildering array of cutlery. Tamar was seated with Thomas Beck on one side and a short, corpulent man whose name she had forgotten on the other. Peter sat opposite between Te Kanene and one of the female guests, and Kepa was seated further down on Peter’s right. When Tamar looked over at the young Maori he was staring openly back at her. She blushed and quickly looked away.

  Te Kanene, missing nothing, leaned back in his chair and motioned to his nephew. ‘E tama! Kaue e tiromakutu. He whakatoi!’ he hissed. Kepa, well aware that staring was indeed rude, lowered his eyes briefly.

  First came tiny mussel fritters, then a huge tray on which rested a rack of lamb surrounded by roasted potatoes and yams, followed by several dishes of minted peas, squash and tiny carrots, and a basket of warm, fresh bread rolls. Several bottles of wine were also brought to the table. Again, Tamar was pleased to see Peter place his hand over his unused wine glass and indicate he would prefer water.

  She felt a little out of place surrounded by people she did not know and who were obviously much more at ease with the social situation, but she managed not to scatter her peas across the fine damask tablecloth and kept a surreptitious eye on which piece of cutlery Thomas Beck used with which dish. She noted Te Kanene’s table manners were considerably more polished than her own. Peter seemed quite at home but she wished he had warned her the evening would be so formal. He seemed to forget she didn’t come from the same social stratum and was not yet practised at the level of etiquette required at such occasions.

  She was therefore horrified when she stuck her fork into a slightly under-cooked yam and it shot off her plate and disappeared under the gracefully arching leaves of the floral arrangement. Oh God. Should she retrieve it and put it back on her plate, or ignore it? She looked around and saw Kepa smiling directly at her, clearly amused. She felt a terrible urge to laugh and bit her lip hard to stop herself.

  She was saved, however, by Thomas Beck, who speared the yam deftly with his fork, popped it into his mouth and said chattily, ‘I’m particularly partial to yams myself. Thank you so much for putting it to one side for me, Mrs Montgomery.’

  ‘You are welcome, Mr Beck. They are very tasty, are they not?’

  ‘Indeed,’ he replied, smiling broadly. ‘You, my dear, are simply stunning. I am surprised your husband has not introduced you to Auckland society before now.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Beck. We have not long been married, and we spend much of our time on Peter’s block in the Waitakeres. Perhaps you know it?’

  ‘No, never been out your way, we’re further up near Kumeu, but I know Peter. Quite well, in fact. Everything going well now, is it?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, it is, thank you,’ she replied, not quite sure what he was implying.

  Thomas Beck elaborated. ‘The financial side of his business, I mean. I see the loan as an investment really, although I am aware of course that what he’s already borrowed from the bank will have to be repaid first. But I hear that’s a good little block of land. If Peter’s plans for its development come to fruition, I should see my money doubled, I expect.’

  Loan? Bank? What plans? Tamar was mystified and beginning to feel slightly foolish. ‘Yes, yes,’ she replied vaguely. ‘I expect you will. I hope so, anyway.’ What had Peter been up to now?

  Across the table, Kepa was talking to Abigail Coulthard. Tamar watched him out of the corner of her eye and was again struck by how extraordinarily attractive he was. Not conventionally handsome, but somehow wild and very, very alive. He wore his black shoulder-length hair tied back in a short, tightly plaited queue and his left ear was pierced with a small greenstone stud. His nose was well defined but straight and quite narrow, although its lines suggested he may come to resemble Te Kanene as he grew older. His lips were full and curved, almost arrogant, and his dark eyes rimmed with long, thick black lashes most women would kill for. A small, fine scar running from his hairline into his left eyebrow did not detract from his appearance. He was not tattooed and was clean-shaven, and seemed to have very little facial hair, although he was clearly beyond boyhood. He was darker than Riria, his rich skin colour accentuated by the white shirt and pale gold waistcoat he was wearing. When he smiled his teeth were strong and white in his dark face.

  ‘I say, this is a nice drop,’ said Harold McLeod, the rotund man sitting next to Tamar, holding up his glass of red wine and squinting at it. ‘You can’t beat a good Frog burgundy. Whoops, I hope no one here’s a Good Templar? Or French?’

  ‘I’m neither,’ said Frank Coulthard. ‘I suspect being a Prohibitionist would be no fun at all, so I don’t mind if my soul is damned by the indulgence of my sensual appetites. If drinking wine like this is a sin, then I’m going straight to hell, I’m afraid.’

  James Wallace, a man in his late thirties sitting on Abigail Coulthard’s right, announced, ‘I read somewhere the other day that the Prohibitionists are saying the fight for temperance is one of class more than anything else. You know, the humble working man against “the luxuries and appetites, the financial greed and moral inertia of the well-to-do”, I think the wording was.’

  ‘That’s silly,’ said his wife Mary, from the other end of the table.

  ‘That’s us, isn’t it?’ added Julia Beck, sounding faintly bemused.

  ‘It’s those poor natives I feel sorry for,’ said Ena McLeod patronisingly. She was as round and as tactless as her husband. Tamar winced and glanced at Te Kanene. Mrs McLeod barged on regardless. ‘You see them lying drunk in the street, it’s disgusting. Even the women. They don’t seem able to control themselves. It must be dreadful to have a such a debilitating character defect.’

  There was a brief, embarrassed silence and Peter avoided Tamar’s eye.

  Kepa spoke up. ‘But who is selling it to them? That is the question that should be asked.’

  ‘Oh, unscrupulous Pakeha traders. As usual,’ replied Frank Coulthard. ‘They trade it in exchange for land, and it wouldn’t surprise me if it’s officially condoned. Covertly, of course, but I suspect the Native Land Courts. Either that or the poor buggers are plied with alcohol until they don’t know what they’re doing, pardon my language ladies, then when they awake the following day, they find they’ve signed away their tribal lands for next to nothing. Or they get into debt and lose it anyway. That is what is dreadful, Mrs McLeod, not the occasional intoxicated Maori in the street. And there are plenty of European drunks rolling around in the gutters as well. Mind you, I understand in the Hawke’s Bay and on the East Coast there are just as many sly grog shops run by Maoris as there are by Pakeha.’

  ‘That is true,’ agreed Te Kanene benignly, cutting into a s
lice of pink lamb.

  ‘You hail from there, do you not?’ asked Abigail Coulthard.

  Te Kanene nodded. ‘Our iwi is Ngati Kahungunu and our ancestral lands reach from Wairoa to Wairarapa.’

  ‘Te Kanene is in coastal shipping,’ explained Frank Coulthard, deftly changing the subject. ‘And a bit of overseas trade as well, I believe. I understand your people have been in the business for decades. What is it you haul?’

  ‘Timber and gum, and anything else that will go on a clipper, a schooner or a scow,’ replied Te Kanene. ‘Many types of cargo. From sheep and wool to cattle and foodstuffs, passengers and their household goods. It will be a scow that will transport Mr Montgomery’s timber from Paratutae in a week or so.’

  ‘So how many vessels do you have?’ asked Harold McLeod curiously.

  ‘Seven,’ answered Te Kanene, a measure of undisguised pride in his voice.

  ‘And it’s a family business?’

  ‘Yes. I am training my iramutu, my nephew Kepa here, to take over the management. I am becoming too old to spend my days at sea and I wish to have my feet on firm ground in my advancing years. He is grown enough and I will pass the responsibility to him soon. He has a good head for business.’

  Abigail Coulthard said, ‘Frank tells me your wife often accompanies you on your voyages. She must be a remarkable woman.’

  ‘She does, yes, and she is,’ responded Te Kanene. ‘Although she too is growing tired. She would like to spend more time with her mokopuna, so it will suit both of us.’

  Julia Beck turned to her right. ‘And will your wife accompany you, Kepa?

  The young Maori man looked her steadily in the eye. ‘I do not have a wife.’

  ‘No? Surely you must be quite a catch for some young maiden?’ she replied, ignoring her husband’s stern look of disapproval.

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Kepa. ‘But I am not ready for marriage. I have not yet met the woman I wish to spend my life with.’