Tamar

by Deborah Challinor

  ‘We have tried to marry him off,’ interjected Te Kanene. ‘But it seems he has his own ideas about what a wife should be. But he is only twenty and is young. There is time.’

  Peter, who had noticed Kepa gazing openly at Tamar, was uncomfortable with talk of the young Maori’s marital status. ‘So which ports do you trade from, apart from the Manukau?’ he asked abruptly, deliberately changing the subject.

  ‘Those on the East Coast and the Hawke’s Bay,’ answered Te Kanene quickly, observing Peter’s irritation. ‘Sometimes we come up north as far as Moehau, or the Coromandel as you call it, and the Waitemata, and now and then to Paratutae or Whatipu or Kaipara on the West Coast for the timber trade. But we generally ply from the ports of Auckland and Tauranga to Dunedin, and more often between Te Kaha and Oamaru. I have also taken clippers to the Americas and to England in the past, although I am unsure at this time if we will continue to venture so far afield. That will be up to Kepa.’

  Peter said, ‘I thought most of the coastal shipping was in European hands now. You still seem to have a fairly robust business. How is that?’

  ‘We change with the times, despite the fact we still use sail and not steam. You may be aware Maori coastal traders are denied access to steam-powered vessels.’ Te Kanene said this in the blandest of tones but did not drop his gaze. ‘We also have considerable capital. It has therefore not been easy for other traders to put us out of business, although it has been tried. So, unlike other Maori ventures, our line has remained solvent and successful. Of course, the coming of the railway may change that.’

  After dessert, the women were escorted by Abigail Coulthard to the parlour for tea, coffee or cocoa, while the men retired with her husband to the drawing room for port and cigars.

  The women discussed fashions, the theatre, children, interior decorating and, incongruously, the latest attempts to discourage prostitution and rescue the city’s fallen women from their immoral and slavish profession. There was already one refuge for such unfortunates in the city, financed by Auckland’s social and financial elite, but the problem was still rife. Tamar wondered briefly if Myrna’s ears were burning, but she doubted it; she knew Myrna’s views on what she termed ‘interfering do-gooders,’ and they were not generous, although she believed the refuges were a good idea for street girls who either needed a rest or wanted to get out of the business.

  ‘I do think we should be sympathetic of the poor creatures,’ Mary Wallace announced fervently. ‘They are victims of social injustice and poverty. We have an unfair economic system and these women are suffering because of it. It is an abomination.’

  The other women in the room looked at her in mild surprise.

  ‘I had not realised you were one of these new feminists, Mary dear,’ commented Ena McLeod, straining the seams on her already protesting evening gown by reaching for the sugar bowl. ‘How fascinating.’

  ‘I am not a feminist. I simply feel we should concentrate less on punishing the poor wretches and direct our energy more towards their rehabilitation. They should not be blamed for what has befallen them.’

  ‘That is of course true,’ responded Julia Beck wryly. ‘If men were not so keen to pay for the services of these women, there would not be a problem, would there?’

  ‘Oh, but it’s only the poorer sorts who have to pay for that sort of thing in any case,’ insisted Ena McLeod. ‘Gentlemen never do.’

  There was an incredulous silence. Julia Beck snorted indelicately. I must tell Myrna, thought Tamar. Her business will be ruined.

  ‘Yes, well,’ said Abigail Coulthard, and changed the subject to that of the City Council’s plans for a new design competition to upgrade Albert Park.

  Tamar tried to pay attention but her mind kept wandering back to the young Maori, Kepa. What was it about him? Why did she find him so hypnotic? She felt confused, guilty and rather shocked. Tamar had not formed the same derogatory opinion of the race Peter had, but still, to be so physically attracted to a native man was disturbing. One heard about European men who fell in love with Maori women and sometimes even married them, but for a white woman to have those sorts of feelings towards a Maori man was indecent. The idea of what those physical stirrings might lead to conjured an image of herself Tamar had never considered or even suspected. The vision was frightening, but uncomfortably exciting.

  It was another hour before the party broke up and the Coulthards’ guests congregated noisily in the foyer as they readied themselves to leave. As Tamar collected Peter’s hat and gloves from the sideboard, she found herself standing next to Kepa. Before she was aware of what was happening, he had discreetly taken her arm and was leaning towards her. At his touch, her stomach felt as it used to when she was a child swinging as high as she dared on the rope hanging from the tree outside the family cottage.

  ‘I must see you again,’ was all he said before he turned away, leaving Tamar standing with her mouth hanging unbecomingly open and her face burning.

  Yes, she thought fervently. You must.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  October 1880

  The return trip to Huia was uneventful. Tamar had decided not to question Peter about her conversation with Thomas Beck. So far he had been true to his word about avoiding alcohol and was in high spirits, a state of affairs she did not want to compromise.

  They had been home a week and he had gone into town to supervise the loading of his timber. The kauri logs had been carted to Huia from where they would be barged to Paratutae then loaded onto one of Te Kanene’s scows. Peter had departed yesterday afternoon but did not expect to be back until the following day.

  Riria had also gone into town for supplies but would be back later in the afternoon. Having just relieved the two house cows of their milk, Tamar struggled to close the heavy paddock gate. She lifted the unattached end and was hefting it closed when it slipped, tilted wildly and knocked over one of the pails.

  ‘Damn!’ Her hands fumbled as she hoisted the gate and attempted to swing it upright and back on its hinges. It slipped from her grasp and crashed to the ground.

  ‘You bloody bastard!’ she yelled and gave the empty milk pail a hard kick; it sailed into the paddock, frightening the cows. Tamar felt a rumbling in her bowel and farted vigorously, venting her anger in the most satisfying manner she could think of.

  ‘Can I be of assistance, Mrs Montgomery?’ said a voice behind her.

  She whirled around in fright and almost fainted from embarrassment; Kepa was standing behind her, not even bothering to conceal his broad grin.

  ‘Do you normally address your gate with such eloquence?’ he asked in an amused voice. ‘What a novel idea. I must try it myself.’

  Tamar was mortified. First I choke in front of him, she thought, then I fling yams across the dining table, and now he’s caught me farting like a draughthorse. To hide her red face she bent to retrieve the gate.

  ‘Let me,’ said Kepa, hurrying to assist. ‘I’m sorry I startled you. I knocked but no one came to the door.’

  ‘I didn’t hear you ride up,’ replied Tamar.

  ‘No. I left my horse at the front of the house.’

  Tamar stood and watched as he expertly hefted the gate back onto its hinges. ‘My husband is not here,’ she said. ‘He’s meeting your uncle’s scow out on the coast.’

  ‘I know. I’ve just come from there.’

  ‘Oh.’ Tamar retrieved the remaining milk pail, struck anew by his beautiful face. Remembering her manners she asked, ‘Would you care for tea?’

  Kepa nodded and followed her inside.

  ‘If you’d like to wait in the parlour,’ said Tamar, ushering him into the warm, dark room and opening one of the curtains. ‘I’ve been heating it. It was cold first thing this morning. That is, if you’re feeling the cold. You might not, of course.’

  She was aware she was prattling, but didn’t want him standing over her in the kitchen watching her fumble with the tea things. A heavy quilt was draped over a drying frame in front of the
fire, so she moved it out of the way and indicated a chair. Why couldn’t she have tidied up properly this morning?

  Kepa sat down and looked around. ‘This is a very cosy house,’ he commented. ‘You must have worked hard to make it so comfortable and inviting.’

  ‘Peter’s first wife, Anna, did most of this,’ said Tamar awkwardly.

  ‘Ah yes, I heard he had been tragically widowed. Last year, was it?’

  ‘Yes … I’ll make the tea,’ she said and fled from the room.

  In the kitchen she cursed herself for putting on her oldest dress that morning and not bothering to do her hair properly.

  Why was he here? Part of her wished he was not, but another was intrigued. What on earth was she doing receiving him when she was alone? He had said he wanted to see her again, but she never thought he’d actually come. When the water boiled she gathered the tea things on a tray, carried it into the parlour and placed it on the small table. She sat in the chair opposite but, nervous and ill at ease, stood up and added several more small logs to the fire.

  ‘Sit down, please, Tamar.’

  She sat abruptly and repeated, ‘Peter isn’t home. Oh, I said that, didn’t I?’ She felt silly.

  ‘I did not come to see your husband, I came to see you.’

  ‘Why?’ she blurted.

  ‘Because I had to,’ he replied bluntly. ‘Because since I met you I have not been able to stop thinking about you. Your face, your hair, your body, your shy and funny manner have all enchanted me. You know what I am saying because you feel it too. I saw it then and I see it now,’ he continued boldly.

  Tamar could not believe what she was hearing; his words were straight from a romance novel. Except in those, the heroine was not usually dressed in a drab grey house dress and wearing clogs and woollen stockings. And she was not usually someone else’s wife.

  In a voice shot with panic and confusion she said, ‘But I’m married, Kepa! It isn’t right!’

  Reaching over, he gently grasped her slim wrist. ‘What you feel in here is always right,’ he said, pointing at his abdomen.

  Tamar started in shock; he had seen into her very core and knew the turmoil she was experiencing. Her stomach felt as if it were plummeting and her heart thudded wildly. This, she suddenly thought, this is what Mam told me about. Oh, but it isn’t right because he’s the wrong man!

  Kepa let go of her wrist and sat back, the firelight casting soft shadows on his face. ‘It is your choice. I will leave if you ask me. But if I do, I believe you will regret it.’

  Tamar put one hand over her face. What was happening? How could he say these things? He was frightening her. She had a husband; their relationship had its troubles, but it was solid and safe. No, she corrected herself, it wasn’t safe, but it was predictable. She had a future and some security. How could she toss that away in a moment of lust? And yes, that is what this is, she realised with a jolt. Lust. For a young Maori who made her heart and blood race, who could ruin her completely. She would not shame herself and succumb to this humiliating and conscienceless betrayal by her own body.

  She stood to ask him to leave but found herself sitting in his lap. Gently, he lifted his hand and smoothed errant strands of auburn hair behind her ear. ‘Are you sure?’ he murmured.

  She nodded wordlessly, too shocked at what she was doing to speak, her face against his, feeling the smoothness of his jaw, so unlike Peter’s.

  ‘Then let me feel your beauty,’ he said, sitting her up and placing his hand on her face. He moved his fingers lightly over her skin, feeling every contour and hollow, her wide eyelids and the flare of her nostrils, her parted lips and the long lines of her pale throat.

  ‘Te ngeru,’ he said. ‘You have the face of a cat. Wide with big eyes, and so soft. And you have the character of te ngeru. Fast, clever and sensuous, but you do not allow it to be seen. You act like te kiore iti, the mouse. It does not suit you. You need to flex your claws.’

  He pulled the pins holding her untidy chignon and let her hair fall, reached down and removed her ugly work shoes, then lifted her to her feet. He put his arms around her and rested his chin briefly on top of her head, then lowered his lips and kissed her, gently at first, then passionately. Tamar responded in kind as his hands roamed her back and over her arms and face, then tentatively across her breasts. She shivered violently, embarrassed her nipples had risen. Kepa reached for the buttons on her bodice and began slowly undoing them, then stood back and slid the sleeves gently off her shoulders and extracted her arms, as if undressing a small child. He grasped the hem of her camisole and lifted it over her head, exposing her round white breasts with their small, erect nipples. He bent his head and kissed and then slowly licked and sucked them; Tamar’s knees went weak as she rested her hands on his head. Her eyes closed and she let out a small moan as his lips and teeth created sensations that darted from her breasts to the twitching flesh between her legs.

  Kepa suddenly stepped back. Dragging the quilt off the drying frame, he spread it on the floor in front of the fire, manoeuvred Tamar onto it, then knelt in front of her. Unhooking her skirt, he slid it together with her petticoat down her legs, followed by her drawers, and helped her step out of the pile of clothes. Standing naked except for her stockings and garters, she shook uncontrollably.

  Making an odd, small grunting noise, Kepa rested his head against her flat belly. She jumped as she felt his tongue on her goose-pimpled flesh, probing first her navel then lapping across her pelvis to her right hip while his left hand caressed the other. Then his hands moved down and he fumbled with her garters and slid her stockings off. When she was completely nude he guided her backwards until she subsided into one of the chairs near the fire. She sat with her knees chastely together and her hands in her lap, her body humming like a tight wire.

  Kepa began to undress. First he removed his rough coat and serge work shirt, then his boots, socks and moleskin trousers. Tamar marvelled at his fluid grace. Whenever Peter took his clothes off, he hopped around the bedroom like a demented rabbit. Her eyes widened when Kepa finally stood before her naked.

  His lean, muscled body was in prime condition, the muscles on his chest, abdomen and arms rigidly defined. His long legs were shapely and when he turned to kick his clothes away from the hearth, she saw his smooth brown buttocks were round and firm. His body, like his face, was almost hairless, with only a thin line starting at his navel and widening as it merged with his tight, wiry pubic hair. His penis stood stiffly upright and his testicles were raised.

  As he moved to kneel in front of her she closed her eyes, keenly anticipating his entry. She felt a driving, frantic need to be joined with him, to have him fill her and take possession of her body. She felt his hands parting her thighs, but instead of his penis nudging her vagina she became suddenly aware of something warm and soft caressing her vulva. She opened her eyes and looked down. Kepa had his head between her legs.

  ‘Stop!’ she squawked, horrified. ‘What are you doing?’

  He sat back and laughed. ‘I am tasting you. This is where the essence of your womanhood lives, and I wish to know and experience it.’

  ‘But …’

  ‘You need not be concerned,’ he replied, amused. ‘Your scent is intoxicating. It is, what is the Pakeha word? An aphrodisiac? I was aware of it the first time we met and it has lingered in my nostrils and my mind. Please, Tamar, let your claws come out.’

  Tamar was uncomfortable with this frank admission of Kepa’s sexual awareness, but made no move to stop him when he lowered his head again. The sensation was extremely pleasurable and like nothing she had ever experienced. At his insistent licking and probing, she felt her body respond and her hips began to rock in time with his caresses, an odd but heavily voluptuous tingling beginning to focus itself around a tiny, highly sensitive area of her vulva.

  Kepa, sensing the beginning of her climax, pulled back and took her hands. He pulled her down onto the quilt and stretched himself out on his back, indicating wordless
ly for her to mount him. Amazed at her own boldness, she settled herself onto his thighs. He grasped her hips and moved her up his body so she was positioned above his rearing penis, then settled her slowly onto it. She was unable to stop herself gasping as she felt his flesh penetrate hers. He slid into her immediately and as he did she pushed down to meet him, her hands squarely on his chest. As he gazed up at her she turned her face away, unable to meet the savage passion in his eyes.

  ‘No, little cat,’ he said quietly. ‘Look at me. I want to see who you really are. Let yourself go.’

  She turned back and their eyes locked as they moved together. Again, the sensation of tingling began to grow in her, stronger this time, inevitable and all-consuming. She wanted to tear her eyes away from Kepa’s incandescent gaze but she couldn’t; she felt utterly connected to him, physically, mentally and emotionally. As her orgasm neared, her face began to burn and she moaned involuntarily, bearing down on his penis more and more insistently. At last the tingle gave way to an excruciatingly pleasurable sensation and she came, crying out loudly and throwing her head back, her spine contorting with ecstasy. She shuddered several times, then flopped forward onto Kepa’s chest, her hair sticking to her damp face and her body twitching. He stroked her back and buttocks soothingly while she lay on him, panting shallowly.

  ‘Taku whaiaipo,’ he murmured, then began to thrust into her again, his own orgasm approaching. Tamar pressed against his broad chest and wrapped her arms around his head, her face in his sweet, male-smelling hair. She raised her pelvis so he could move in and out of her faster and more fluidly, and closed her eyes. He climaxed ferociously, his fingers digging into her buttocks and his body jerking compulsively beneath her for some minutes before he relaxed and loosened his grip.

  They lay together for an hour, warm in the heat of the fire and their intimacy, then made love again. This time Kepa positioned Tamar on her knees and took her from behind. She giggled as his thrusting shunted her across the floor, wondering what state her knees would be in tomorrow. As they lay together again, she said, ‘This is what they were talking about.’