Riria had no intention of telling him that if he raped her he would be stealing her virginity. And he did rape her. Brutally and quickly. She lay limp as he humped and grunted on top of her, her gazed fixed on the black branches of the tree outside her window. He was heavy and, in her eyes, obscenely hairy, and stank of sweat and alcohol. When he lifted her legs and pushed them to her chest to accommodate himself better, she winced in pain as his long penis thrust roughly inside her. She felt humiliated, lying folded almost in half like a bird trussed for a hangi. He did not take long, groaning his way to a jerking climax after four or five minutes. She remained still as he rolled off her, sat up and pulled his trousers back on, then left in silence.
She lay unmoving for the next thirty minutes until she was sure he would not return. Opening her door she let herself out into the moonlight, naked and shivering, and walked quickly to the water pump. She washed herself for the next twenty minutes, scrubbing frantically to remove the stink of him. Off her face where he had kissed her, her breasts where he had slobbered, but most vigorously between her legs, sore and slick with his semen. Then she leaned forward and vomited violently onto the grass.
July 1881
Tamar’s labour pains began early one morning. Mistakenly thinking she needed to move her bowels, she sat for some time on the privy before she realised what was happening. When she called out, Riria came to help her inside.
Peter was away on the coast but expected home later that afternoon. Riria offered to ride into Huia for the midwife but Tamar, terrified of being left alone, begged her to stay. ‘You’ve helped deliver babies. Please don’t leave me, Riria,’ she pleaded. ‘What if something goes wrong and I’m by myself?’
‘Nothing will go wrong,’ replied Riria. ‘You are fit and young. Women your age can have their babies in a field if they need to. Maori women can, anyway.’
As the morning progressed, Riria sat with Tamar while she rested between contractions, and walked her around when they came, explaining that lying down slowed the process. The bedroom had been prepared with several sheets on top of sacks spread across the quilt, and a pile of fresh towels folded at the end of the bed. There were smelling salts and some brandy on hand, and a large pot of water boiling on the range, but there was little else Riria could do until it was time for the baby to be born.
At two in the afternoon, when Tamar’s waters had broken with a gush and her contractions were fiercely regular and four or five minutes apart, Riria helped her into the bedroom and into a nightdress. As she lay on the bed with her back propped against a pile of pillows, Riria washed her hands and asked Tamar to part her legs.
‘I need to see whether you are opening up enough. The baby could come soon or in a few hours but you need to be ready when it does. If it does not look like you will be, I will have to get the midwife.’
She carefully inserted her fingers into Tamar’s vagina, a look of concentration on her face. ‘I think the gap is opening,’ she said eventually. ‘And the baby’s head is in the right place. It should be soon.’
The next two hours were the most physically painful Tamar had experienced. The baby was large and she was not and she feared it would become stuck and they would both die. Her contractions and the horrendous, grinding pain were increasing but nothing felt as if it was moving.
At around three in the afternoon they heard the front door open and a minute later Peter looked into the bedroom. ‘Oh my God,’ he said, his face blanching.
Riria went to the door. ‘Go away,’ she said, pushing him out. ‘The baby is almost here.’ She locked the door after him.
They heard him rummaging around in the sideboard, looking for something to drink. They glanced at each other, a silent message passing between them; he would be blind drunk by the time the baby arrived.
After another long, sweaty, painful sixty minutes in which Tamar decided she didn’t care whether she lived or died, Riria announced she could see the baby’s head. ‘Can you get onto your knees?’ she asked.
Tamar nodded and Riria helped her kneel so she was facing the bed rails. Riria went behind and knelt down. ‘You have to push now,’ she urged.
Tamar took a deep breath and, her knuckles white around the bed rails, pushed as hard as she could. She cried out as she felt a monstrous tearing sensation, as if the opening of her vagina had torn all the way to her anus, then a disconcerting feeling of something giving way very quickly.
‘The head is out,’ Riria said behind her. ‘You must keep pushing.’
Tamar grunted again and pushed the baby out. Riria placed her hands deftly under the bloody, slimy little bundle.
‘Jesus bloody Christ,’ swore Tamar, panting heavily and beginning to cry, her red, sweaty face collapsed against the pillows. Behind her, Riria bit and tied the umbilical cord as the baby opened its tiny mouth and let out a lusty cry.
Tamar turned and subsided onto her back. ‘What is it?’
‘A tama, a boy,’ replied Riria, passing the infant to Tamar who placed him on her bare and wobbly but considerably flatter belly. They both scrutinised him for a minute.
‘What colour do you think he is?’ asked Tamar nervously. ‘Is he white?’
It was hard to tell. The baby, still streaked with blood and covered with greasy, white vernix caseosa, had an abundance of black hair. He was the creased, purple colour of many newborns, his skin colour not yet obvious. ‘Wait for a while. This purple colour will fade,’ replied Riria.
Peter rapped urgently on the door and when Riria opened it, he asked hopefully, ‘Is everything all right? Has she had it? Is it a boy?’
Riria stepped back to avoid his whisky-laden breath. ‘Yes. We have not finished. Stay out,’ she replied tersely, shutting the door in his face and re-locking it.
She returned to the bed, dipped a cloth into a basin of warm water and began to sponge the blood and muck off the infant as Tamar lay him on the mattress beside her. He whimpered and when he was clean and wrapped in a soft blanket, Riria placed him in Tamar’s arms. ‘He needs to go on your teat,’ she said.
Tamar undid the buttons at the neck of her nightgown and opened it to expose her breasts. She held the baby against one and lifted it so he could grasp the nipple. He tried to suckle but nothing happened. ‘There’s nothing,’ said Tamar, surprised.
‘It will come. Keep him there.’
Tamar looked tenderly at the infant, his lips puckered around her nipple and his eyes screwed tightly shut. She smiled, her face and body relaxing as he suckled vigorously. ‘He’s strong,’ she said, looking up at Riria who was also smiling.
Then her face contorted as she was racked by another contraction. ‘Oh God, what’s that?’
‘The whenua, the afterbirth. Push again when it hurts like that.’
Tamar held the baby for another few minutes then lay him beside her. She leaned back and bent her knees to assist the expulsion of the afterbirth while Riria firmly massaged her lower belly. The shiny, bloody sac slipped wetly out and lay between her legs, the purple-coloured umbilical cord trailing from it. Riria picked it up, wrapped it in a cloth and put it to one side.
‘What are you doing?’ asked Tamar, a look of distaste on her face.
‘It must be buried to mark his papakainga, his home.’
Peter knocked loudly on the bedroom door again but they ignored him.
The baby, who had been in the world for almost an hour now, slept and did not stir when Tamar opened his blanket. Both women stared silently at the tiny body. The purple tinge to his face, limbs and body was fading. He was dark, far too dark-skinned to be mistaken for a European child. ‘What am I going to do?’ whispered Tamar.
‘I do not know,’ replied Riria, remembering Peter’s insistent questioning on the night he assaulted her. ‘We must not let him in,’ she said, inclining her head towards the door.
‘We’ll have to or he’ll know something’s wrong.’
At that moment a loud crash shook the bedroom door, then another. They heard P
eter yelling from the other side, ‘Let me in! I want to see him!’
There was another crash, the flimsy lock splintered and the door flew open. The noise woke the baby and he started to wail. Tamar and Riria froze as Peter strode over to the bed, a glass of whisky slopping in his hand. He looked down at the infant then asked, ‘Why is he so dark? Christ, he looks like …’
He stopped, an expression of sickly realisation stealing across his face. He looked first at Tamar then at Riria. Then, very quietly, he said, ‘It isn’t mine.’
Tamar’s look of stricken terror told him all he needed to know. Peter carefully placed his glass on the dressing table and walked out of the room. He returned almost immediately, his rifle in one hand.
‘Whose is it?’ he asked in the same, quiet, measured voice. He raised the rifle. When the two terrified women maintained their silence, he sighed heavily and rubbed his hand across his flushed, bristled face. ‘You’re a pair of lying whores,’ he said conversationally, his eyes glittering dangerously. ‘I knew that bastard had been here.’
Tamar moaned with terror and clutched the baby to her breasts, her hand protectively over his delicate skull.
Peter waved the barrel of the rifle at Riria. ‘What did I say I would do if you lied to me?’
‘You said you would kill me,’ replied Riria, her voice steady but her eyes wide with fear.
‘That’s right. So get outside and start running.’
Riria looked from Peter to Tamar. ‘Mrs Montgomery needs help,’ she said. ‘She cannot be left alone.’
‘I’ll look after Mrs Montgomery. Now get outside, you scheming Maori bitch.’
Riria walked slowly into the parlour. Peter followed close behind, jabbing between her shoulderblades with his rifle until she moved out onto the verandah. ‘Start running.’
She turned, stood as tall as she could and looked him in the eye. ‘My family will hunt you down.’
‘They’ll never know. I’ll bury you in the bush and they’ll never find you.’ He sighed again, as if what he was about to do was an arduous but necessary chore. ‘I just can’t have this. People lying to me and making me look a fool. Now off you go, go on.’
Riria stared at him then turned and stepped off the verandah and began to walk towards the gate, her head high. Her bowel spasmed as she heard the click of the rifle being loaded, and she cursed herself for not attacking the Pakeha when his rifle was empty. She began to pray as she walked, her back crawling where she imagined the bullet would enter. As she reached the end of the driveway she began to hope he would not fire.
He did, and missed. Riria darted through the gate, snatched up her long skirts and ran towards the bush. Peter reloaded, aimed and fired again. He saw a spray of bright blood splash up from Riria’s head as she went down and her body rolled limply into the bracken. He grunted and leaned unsteadily against the verandah post for several minutes watching where she had fallen, her pale blue dress visible and unmoving. When he was satisfied she was not going to get up, he went inside into the bedroom.
Tamar was lying curled on her side, the baby folded protectively in her arms. He was whimpering weakly. Peter casually propped the rifle against the fireplace, took a quick gulp from his whisky glass on the dressing table, then strode over and snatched the infant. Tamar screamed and tried to get up but he shoved her violently down.
‘He is lovely, isn’t he! Congratulations, Mrs Montgomery! I’ll just put him in his crib, shall I? He looks tired,’ said Peter brightly. He sounded completely mad.
Tamar shrieked, ‘Don’t touch him!’ She swung her legs over the side of the bed, feeling faint and nauseous and aware blood was seeping from between her legs. As Peter lowered the baby into the crib she tried to stand, but sank to her knees, retching.
‘Damn, Tamar, you are being messy today. And you’re normally so fastidious! Except for whose cock you let up you, of course,’ Peter commented. With a thoughtful expression, he picked up a pillow, held it inches above the baby’s face, and looked over his shoulder to observe Tamar’s response.
Tamar screamed and pulled herself up by the rails at the foot of the bed. She lunged towards the crib but Peter shoved her away, hard. She flew backwards, twisting as she fell, and crashed into the fireplace, her head hitting the solid iron fender. She twitched once, then lay still.
Peter stared at her inert body and the blood pooling beneath her face, then closed his eyes, a tortured expression suddenly distorting his features. I’ve killed her, he thought. My lovely Tamar, now she’s gone, too. He started weeping. ‘I wouldn’t have hurt him,’ he sobbed. ‘But you hurt me.’ He covered his face with his hands. ‘Why? Why does everyone have to leave me? I can’t deal with any more loss!’
He turned to the baby, silent and eerily observant now in his crib, bent down, tucked the cover gently around the child, and kissed his small, dark, wrinkled forehead. ‘I wanted lots of children,’ he whispered.
Then he picked up his rifle, grabbed the brandy Riria had set aside for Tamar, and slowly walked onto the verandah where he set the bottle carefully on the rail. He came back inside for a chair, which jammed obstinately in the doorway, but he forced it through. Then he collected his whisky glass from the bedroom and took that outside as well, deliberately not looking at Tamar’s motionless form. Still crying, he settled himself into his chair and poured a drink, the rifle propped beside him.
It was almost dark. When she regained consciousness she carefully explored her head and discovered a long, shallow groove across the top of her skull where the flesh was torn and some of her hair was missing. She had a splitting headache and her face and chest were covered in congealed blood. She kept passing in and out of consciousness but had managed to stay awake for some time now, as she watched the moon rising over the tree tops.
She lay still, ignoring the bracken tickling her skin and the insects wandering casually over her. From where she lay she could see Peter on the verandah, the rifle next to him and an almost empty bottle resting in his lap. He was talking to himself, sobbing now and again and occasionally shrieking Tamar’s name in rage and despair. She watched him raise the bottle to his lips and drain the contents, then stand and hurl it viciously against the side of the house. He almost fell over but righted himself against the wall and staggered inside.
Riria could hear him thrashing about, the sound of splintering furniture and breaking glass discordant in the still dusk.
When he came out again he had his hat on. Climbing laboriously onto his horse, he headed up the drive, out the gate and down the track in the direction of Huia. Riria heard him muttering to himself as he went past. He did not even glance at where she lay, but she suspected that even if he had, he would have been too drunk to notice if she were dead or alive. Still, she lay there for some time before she dared to get up.
Standing slowly, her hands over the wound on her head, she took a few steps then sat down hard in the middle of the track, feeling dizzy and sick. She breathed deeply and rested for a minute before she got to her feet again. This time her legs supported her and she walked slowly along the drive, stepped onto the verandah and went inside.
There was silence, with a single lamp diffusing the shadowy darkness. From the parlour she saw Tamar’s body lying on the bedroom floor, her head on the hearth of the dying fire. Riria darted forward, then clutched the doorpost as dizziness washed over her again. When the bright, painful stars had receded, she stepped into the bedroom and knelt by Tamar, two fingers on her throat feeling for a pulse; it was there, but very weak and irregular. Riria could see an ugly, deep gash on her friend’s face through which white bone glimmered. She shook Tamar but there was no response so she stood and looked around for the baby.
A sharp little squeaking noise made her leap almost out of her skin. Stepping over to the crib she saw the infant lying placidly, one tiny arm upraised and his hand open like a miniature starfish. Closing her eyes in profound relief, she picked him up and held him against her cheek. He was very cold and his
small face almost blue, but his lips pursed and his tongue poked out as if looking for something to suckle. Riria placed him on the floor nearer the fire, then rolled Tamar onto her back and said her name loudly; again there was no response so she shook her hard. Tamar’s eyes opened blearily, one bloodshot and both blackly bruised.
She mumbled something incoherent then squinted painfully. ‘Oh God!’ she cried, clutching at Riria’s skirt. ‘I thought he’d killed you! And he smothered the baby!’ she wailed, her eyes darting about in panic.
‘No, no, he did not smother him,’ replied Riria, placing the baby in Tamar’s lap and helping her to sit. ‘The Pakeha has gone, but we must hurry. He thinks he has killed us but if he returns and finds he has not, he will try again.’
Tamar burst into relieved but dangerously hysterical tears, rocking over the small form pressed against her belly. Then, frowning, she lifted her hand and touched her temple. ‘What happened to my face?’
‘It has been cut.’ Riria did not say how deep and gaping the awful wound was and that the bone was clearly visible. ‘I will clean it for you.’
‘You’ve got blood all over you,’ said Tamar confusedly. ‘Is it mine?’
‘No. I was shot, but I am all right.’
Riria got up off the floor and soaked the corner of a towel in the basin of water, cold now and slightly bloody. She wiped away as much dried and congealed blood from Tamar’s wound as she could, then tore a sheet into strips to use as bandages. When she had pulled Tamar’s hair back and wrapped the injured side of her face, she said again, ‘We must hurry. We have to leave.’
‘Leave? Where will we go?’
‘To my kainga at Kainui. We cannot stay here. If your husband comes back he will find us. I think he is porangi, he has lost control of his mind.’
Tamar put her hands to face. ‘I can’t, I feel sick. My head hurts.’
‘You must. Can you get up?’
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