Tamar

by Deborah Challinor

  Tamar had eventually stammered something about a lost baby and Peter trying to kill her, but her sobbing rendered her almost incoherent. Together Myrna and Eliza helped her up to Myrna’s room and put her to bed with a large glass of brandy to calm her. Clearly exhausted, she had not woken until this morning when, considerably more composed, she told Myrna what had happened.

  Myrna had known all was not right with Tamar’s marriage, had in fact always suspected Peter would turn out to be trouble, but she had not been fully aware of the extent of his alcohol dependence and how inextricably enmeshed Tamar had become in his misery. Now she wondered who this man was who had seduced her and ultimately caused her such pain. ‘D’ye love this Kepa?’

  Tamar shrugged. ‘I don’t know if you’d call it love, I’m not sure I know what the word means any more. But I know I felt safer and more alive with him than I have at any other time in my life. I had to be with him. He was what my mam said he would be, the man who would come along and turn me inside out.’

  ‘D’ye have a future wi’ him?’

  ‘No,’ replied Tamar bluntly.

  ‘Is that what’s grieving ye so badly?’

  Tamar inhaled deeply then let her breath out very slowly before she said, honestly, ‘No, it isn’t. I think that’s partly why I did it.’

  ‘Aye, well, ye cannae be blamed for following your heart. Or the rest o’ your body, if it comes to that. Is it what Peter did to ye, then?’

  ‘No, Peter’s sick, I understand that. I hurt him badly and yes, I am worried he’ll come after me. But it’s the child, my baby. I can’t even remember what he looks like!’ Tamar’s voice cracked with emotion. ‘I only had him for a few hours and I didn’t even name him. I was going to call him Nolan, after my da.’ She looked up at Myrna. ‘I feel so stripped of him. I’ll never see him again, and that hurts my very soul.’

  She put both hands over her mouth and half cried out, half sobbed. Myrna reached out and touched her gently. ‘Aye, losing a bairn is perhaps the hardest thing a woman has to face,’ she commiserated gently.

  Tamar wiped her nose inelegantly on the back of her hand. ‘I’ll never have the chance to tell him not to eat snails or say it’s all right when he wets his pants. I’ll never tuck him into bed or make him a birthday cake or get jealous when he grows up and falls in love with some woman who isn’t me.’ She lapsed into silence. Myrna waited patiently, knowing there was more to come. ‘I’ve been such a fool. A stubborn, arrogant, childish fool.’

  Myrna shook her head. ‘No, ye havnae, lassie. Ye made a mistake, that’s all.’

  ‘No, I did not make a mistake,’ Tamar snapped. Anger surged through her, directed mostly at herself. ‘I did it deliberately. Marrying Peter, sleeping with Kepa, all of it! I knew what I was doing but I wouldn’t let myself see what was happening to Peter, and I wouldn’t let myself see what was happening to me. Who am I, Myrna? I don’t know any more. How could I have done this?’

  ‘Well,’ answered Myrna carefully, ‘ye’re certainly no’ the wee lassie I met on the Rebecca Jane.’

  ‘No, I’m not. I feel so dreadful, so detached, as if this is all happening to someone else. What’s wrong with me?’

  ‘Och, it’ll be the shock. In time ye’ll marry again and have more bairns, I’m sure.’

  ‘No, Riria said that, but I don’t think so,’ said Tamar, shaking her head sadly. ‘I would have died if she hadn’t been there. And it was my fault she was almost killed too. God, how could I have been so blind and stupid!’ she spat vehemently.

  Privately, Myrna had wondered the same thing. But, alarmed at the ire in Tamar’s voice, she said instead, ‘Well, maybe ye’ve grown up a little. I’d be verra surprised if ye hadnae, after all that.’

  ‘And what if Peter comes for me? I never want to see him again.’

  ‘Is he likely to, d’ye think?’

  ‘No doubt he hates me, but that could be the very thing to bring him here. He was very vindictive and angry during those last few months.’

  ‘Well, we’ll worry about that if it happens and no’ before.’

  Myrna poured them both more tea and changed the subject. ‘I sent a message to John Adams last night. He can take a look at your face when he gets here.’

  ‘Oh Lord, I hurt him terribly as well, didn’t I?’ Tamar groaned. ‘My mam would turn in her grave if she knew how selfish I’ve been.’

  Myrna suddenly leaned over and roughly grasped Tamar’s elbow. The cup of tea balanced on her knees sloshed over into its saucer. ‘Look, lassie,’ Myrna said, ‘I ken ye’ve been badly hurt and ye’ve lost your bairn, but I cannae abide self-pity. Ye made a mistake, now learn from it! Put it behind ye and look ahead. It will all have been for nothing if ye spend the rest o’ your life feeling sorry for yeself. If I’d gone around dragging ma arse every time I made a mistake, I’d’ve worn it off by now! And clearly I havnae,’ she added tersely, pointing at her ample buttocks.

  Startled, Tamar could do nothing but stare at her friend.

  ‘I mean it,’ continued Myrna. ‘Pull yeself together, lassie, or ye’ll be doomed. Ye’ve your whole life, ye’re only nineteen, so make something o’ yeself. That’s what ye started out to do, so do it! Dinnae let any o’ this stop ye!’

  She glared at Tamar who dropped her eyes and fiddled with the teaspoon in her flooded saucer. She’s right, Tamar thought. I have to put my life into some sort of order. But it’s so much easier to flounder pathetically in pain and self-pity and blame. So black and seductive and soothing, so much less frightening than facing tomorrow. And so gutless. Shifting uncomfortably, she pulled at the waistband of the dress Bronwyn had lent her; she’d not yet recovered her figure and her stomach was soft and extended. God, she cursed silently — I’m a physical and mental ruin. But, despite her misery, she knew she had choices; she could rebuild her life, or she could give up now. She grimaced inwardly. The acceptance of this realisation, this knowledge that she could take control of her life angered her because now she knew it, she could not un-know it. The knowledge gave her a splinter of hope.

  She looked slowly around her; at Myrna, at odiferous little Cabbage, at the trees behind the house, and the shrubs and scattered winter flowers in the new garden. ‘If those are yellow,’ she said finally, her voice unsteady as she pointed to a bed of leafless rose bushes, ‘they’ll look lovely in that vase in the salon. Can I stay here, Myrna?’

  ‘That’s ma girl,’ said Myrna, smiling broadly and thinking, thank Christ for that; she’s made a decision. ‘O’ course ye can. And when John comes, ye’ll hold your head up and greet him like the long lost friend he is.’

  Tamar nodded and closed her eyes. For the first time in months she felt she was regaining some control. She would stay with Myrna and heal physically and mentally, and when she was strong, well, she would worry about tomorrow when tomorrow came.

  John arrived in the early afternoon, just before Myrna opened for business. He was appalled by Tamar’s condition. He examined her scarred face in silence, his lips compressed and white with fury. When he had finished, he said, ‘You’ve been very lucky, Tamar. The scar indicates the infection was very deep. You could have died.’

  He sat down abruptly and repeated angrily, ‘You could have died, Tamar! Why did you not get away from him before it came to this? How could you let this happen to yourself? God Almighty.’

  Myrna said harshly, ‘That’s enough, John! She feels bad enough as it is wi’out you carping on.’

  Tamar thought of a thousand things she could say to justify why she had stayed with Peter, why she tolerated, excused and even condoned his drinking and his behaviour, but now they sounded like weak, pathetic excuses. She felt deeply ashamed; the truth was she had stayed because she thought she would be better off, and had been willing to trade her self-respect for a warped and shallow illusion of security. In her own way she had been just as sick as Peter, and the realisation shocked her. Taking a deep breath, she decided it would be best if she told John everyth
ing. ‘I also had a child,’ she said quietly.

  John stared at her, then opened his mouth to say something.

  Tamar held up her hand. ‘No, let me finish. I gave birth to him just over two weeks ago, but …’

  ‘A child! Where is it?’ exclaimed John, unable to help himself.

  ‘He’s been taken home to his people.’

  ‘What?’ said John, completely confused.

  ‘If you’ll just shut up for a minute, I’ll explain!’ snapped Tamar. ‘His father is a Maori.’

  There was a dreadful silence as John absorbed Tamar’s words. ‘A Maori?’ he parroted stupidly.

  ‘Yes, a Maori,’ Tamar reiterated sharply. ‘From the East Coast. A coastal trader. I met him, we had a liaison and I had his child.’

  John looked at her briefly, then lowered his eyes in embarrassment. ‘I see.’

  ‘No, you don’t,’ insisted Tamar, stamping her foot. ‘He moved me, John. It’s as simple as that, and I’ll never regret it,’ she added defiantly.

  John nodded towards Tamar’s face. ‘Did Peter do that when he found out?’

  ‘Yes, after the baby was born and it was obvious he wasn’t the father. He was drunk. We had to flee to my housegirl Riria’s village.’

  ‘Your marriage is over, then?’

  ‘It is as far as I’m concerned.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘I’m staying here for the foreseeable future. After that, I don’t know.’

  ‘Will you look for the child?’

  ‘No, she will not,’ interjected Myrna. ‘She’ll leave him to be raised by his own folk, where he belongs.’

  John looked to Tamar for confirmation and she nodded. He stood and walked over to her again and lifted her damaged eyelid gently with his thumb. He squinted and pursed his lips thoughtfully as he manipulated her ragged eyebrow, then stood back and contemplated her. ‘I could fix that,’ he said after a minute. ‘Or at least make it tidier.’

  ‘My face?’ asked Tamar.

  ‘Yes. I could remove some of the scar tissue in a month or so when it’s settled down, then realign and restitch the wound so it isn’t so obvious. You’d need ether, I’d have to knock you right out. That can be dangerous,’ he warned.

  Tamar shrugged as if the prospect wasn’t a concern.

  ‘Right then,’ he continued, very businesslike now. ‘And you’re otherwise healthy? No problems associated with the baby?’

  ‘I’m still bleeding a little but I gather that’s normal. My milk dried up. The woman who looked after me was very competent. I had a fever but she fixed that too.’

  ‘Yes, Maori know what they’re doing with their plants and herbs. You were lucky she was there.’ He coughed discreetly. ‘And, ah, the father of the child?’

  ‘In England, apparently. I’m not expecting to see him again,’ Tamar added.

  Myrna interrupted, ‘The lassie needs to rest and recover, John, as I’m sure ye ken.’

  ‘Quite, quite,’ said John hurriedly. He stood up and gathered his hat and gloves. ‘I’ll see myself out.’

  As he reached the parlour door he turned and looked again at Tamar. Although one side of her face was disfigured, she was still strikingly attractive. The scar was something that had been temporarily applied to her features, something he could remedy with a scalpel and needle. But had her experiences scarred more than her face? He glanced at her waistline, for the moment shapeless from carrying the child of a man who had not been her husband. While John realised he didn’t care what colour or race the child’s father had been, he did care about what had made Tamar break her marriage vows and commit adultery. Clearly life with the mentally unstable Peter Montgomery had been hell, but he had a distinct feeling that in itself was not the reason she had taken another man to her bed. With a stab of grief, he saw she was no longer the woman he thought she was. Perhaps she never had been. Although he tried never to judge others, he realised with a feeling of acute sadness and loss that he had judged Tamar, and found her wanting; he still loved her, but he was no longer in love with her.

  With dismay, Myrna saw all of this reflected in John’s homely, open face.

  ‘And Peter Montgomery?’ he asked from the doorway, pulling on his gloves. ‘Where is he now?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ replied Tamar. ‘And I don’t care, as long as he stays away from me.’

  Riria knew where Peter Montgomery was.

  After she had seen Tamar onto the train she headed south on one of the lesser-used bush tracks towards the Manukau Harbour, stopping for the night outside Titirangi where she left the cart, then continued on the following day until she reached Big Muddy Creek. Then, turning inland, she rode through the bush until she arrived at the outskirts of Huia, almost blinded as she rode directly into the setting sun. She settled down for the night in the dark, damp security of the forest. She was in no hurry.

  The following morning she rose with the sun, had a rudimentary wash in a nearby stream, and watered her horse before she headed into the hills towards Peter Montgomery’s house. Not wanting to be seen, she picked her way through the bush, stopping frequently to listen for any indication of other travellers.

  When she eventually reached the turnoff to Peter’s house Riria led her horse some way into the bush and tethered him to a tree. She would walk from here; she had no intention of accidentally meeting the Pakeha pig on the rough, narrow track.

  Reaching into her backpack she pulled out a short cloth tatua, then removed her dress, drawers, socks and boots, stuffed them into her pack and wrapped the tatua around her waist. It was a warrior’s garment, and covered her from her belly to her upper thighs. Now almost nude, she shivered slightly in the cool morning air. Her skin prickled with goose bumps but her long hair helped keep her warm as she withdrew a well-sharpened knife from her pack and tucked it carefully into her waistband.

  It was approaching midday by the time she reached the house and concealed herself in the ferns opposite the front gate, almost exactly where she had lain when she had been shot. She fancied she could still smell her own blood in the damp earth.

  There were no signs of life in or around the house and the curtains were drawn, although she saw the Pakeha’s black horse grazing in a paddock. She decided to wait until the sun was overhead before she ventured down to have a look around. Without his horse he would not be far away.

  She lay inanimate for over an hour, watching and waiting. Then, just as she was contemplating moving, the sound of a gunshot reverberated up the small valley, rudely fracturing the silence. Riria jumped, then ducked her head and froze. Where had the shot come from? Inside the house perhaps, but she could not be sure. She remained motionless for another fifteen minutes, but the shot was not repeated.

  I could lie here in these ferns forever, she thought angrily, exasperated by her fear. Very slowly she raised herself from the undergrowth and began to move stealthily back into the shadows of the forest, keeping as low as possible. When she was out of sight of the house she moved quickly through the trees parallel to the track for about a hundred yards, ran silently across the open space and into the bush following the fence line down the hill on the eastern side of the house. She emerged from the trees towards the rear of the building. Keeping within the cover of the bush, she squatted on her heels and listened.

  When she was sure there was no movement from within the house she withdrew the knife from her tatua and slid sinuously through the fence and ran lightly through the long grass to the back of the house. She waited there, her naked back pressed hard against the rough external wall of her old room, listening for some minutes, then very slowly extended her head around the corner of the house and took a quick look at the porch. It was empty and the back door was open.

  Despite the cool air her hands were slick with sweat and she could feel it beginning to trickle in her armpits. Riria took a deep, noiseless breath and stepped onto the porch, wincing as a board creaked. She quickly lifted her foot, but still nothing mo
ved inside the house.

  As she stepped into the gloomy hall she became aware of a low moaning coming from the parlour. It sounded like an animal in pain but she stayed where she was, wary of some sort of trick. Very slowly she began to move again, the muscles in her strong calves and thighs quivering with tension. When she reached the doorway to the parlour she crouched down and peered into the darkened room.

  The coppery smell of fresh blood mixed with stale cigarette smoke and spilt alcohol was overwhelming. As her eyes became accustomed to the gloom she was able to make out a crumpled shape on the floor. The moaning sound came again, louder this time.

  Suddenly the shape on the floor moved and Riria saw it was Peter Montgomery. She leapt back and held her knife ready as he laboriously rolled over. Her eyes widened when she saw the pistol lying under the chair.

  The upper portion of his left jaw, cheek and temple had been blown almost completely away, exposing the ragged remnants of several teeth and his tongue, and, higher up, something glistened wetly in the weak light. His left eye was pulverised, and his right eye stared fixedly at Riria. He mumbled indistinctly, bubbles of blood forming on his lips.

  Riria approached him extremely warily, aware she was experiencing several conflicting emotions. The first was anger that he had already done to himself what she had come back to do and had robbed her of utu. The second was nauseating pity — at his inability to face the demons in his life and his even more obvious inability to shoot himself cleanly in the head. ‘Hakawa!’ she spat. ‘Only a gutless fool takes his own life.’

  Peter held out a shaking, blood-spattered hand towards her. ‘End it,’ his eye seemed to beg.