John laughed. ‘I’m glad to see you’ve got your sense of humour back. You’re going to need it while I’m removing these sutures. And when I have you’ll really be able to see the improvement.’
‘I don’t care, as long as they’re out, they’re itching like hell and my face has been still for so long I feel like a china doll.’
As Tamar lay back, John took out a tiny pair of sharp, curved scissors. ‘Swelling’s gone down a lot,’ he remarked as he sat on a footstool next to the sofa. ‘Now, this might sting, so try not to jump.’
Tamar lay perfectly still while John skilfully snipped and removed the dried, black stitches and dropped them into a small bowl. When he had removed the last one, he sponged away a few small spots of blood and helped Tamar up. ‘There we are,’ he said cheerfully. ‘You can look in the mirror again.’
Tamar did. A wide smile stole across her face. She glanced up at Myrna and John, both of whom were also smiling, then looked back into the mirror and admired her new face. Or rather, her reconstructed old face. Gone was the thick ridge of scar that had grossly separated her right eyebrow and pushed down the eyelid underneath. In its place was a thin pink line, a little puffy and scabby, but the improvement was immense. The heavy scar under her eye had been replaced by a thinner suture line, already much less noticeable.
‘Will it get any better?’ she asked. ‘Will the pink colour fade?’
‘Yes,’ said John, ‘after about a year. All that will be left will be a few, thin white marks. Now, can you open your eyes as widely as possible?’
Tamar obliged and sat there looking like an owl while John manipulated her right eyelid.
‘Now close your eyes, then open them again normally.’
Tamar’s newly repaired eyelid slid up easily, only a very slight, almost undetectable droop indicating the presence of scar tissue.
‘I just look as if I’m a bit sleepy,’ she said delightedly into the mirror. ‘And look at my eyebrows! I think they’re more symmetrical than they were before!’
‘Good, now ye can pluck them. Ye look like ye’ve two hairy caterpillars on your face.’
Tamar threw back her head and laughed, relishing the feeling of her cheek muscles stretching after so many days of immobility. She jumped up and moved to John who was standing by the fire, smiling at her response.
As she embraced him she said, ‘I can’t thank you enough, John.’
As he began to speak she put her fingers to his lips.
‘No listen, please,’ she beseeched. ‘I need to say this.’ She took one of his hands in both of hers. ‘I’d resigned myself to spending the rest of my life with the marks of Peter’s anger on my face for all the world to see, and for a while I was convinced I deserved it. But then I realised I didn’t. Not then, and certainly not now. I know I made a mistake. Several, in fact, but I refuse to go on paying for them. Those marks are gone now, thanks to you, and I feel clean again, inside and out. And that means I can start again.’
There was a loud honking noise as Myrna blew her nose into a handkerchief and wiped her eyes. Struggling to contain her emotions, she said briskly, ‘Well, as that seems to be sorted, can I assume we can all get on wi’ our lives? Ye’ve a lot o’ bookwork to be learning, lassie.’
‘Yes, but first,’ said Tamar emphatically, ‘I’m going upstairs to have a long bath and wash my hair.’
September 1881
Tamar took to the commercial machinations of Myrna’s business like a duck to water. She’d always been competent with numbers, but until now had never had a chance to test her ability.
There was much more to Myrna’s book-keeping than Tamar had realised. First, of course, there were the transactions regarding money coming into the business via the customers. Myrna kept meticulous records of who had visited when and what fee they had paid, but pointed out to Tamar such information was to remain strictly confidential, for obvious reasons. Tamar was highly amused to see fat little Harold McLeod, whom she had met at the Coulthards’ dinner party, was a regular customer, and wondered which lucky girl serviced him. She also noted Thomas Beck had been once or twice, but did not find this quite so amusing as she had liked his pretty wife, Julia.
As well as money coming in, Myrna’s books also detailed money going out, and it was a considerable sum. The girls were paid well, as were Eliza and Sven and other part-time staff. Eliza had originally been in charge of the laundry when the house had first opened but the amount of linen to be laundered became overwhelming and Myrna hired another servant just to manage that alone. There were also costs associated with the ‘tools of trade’, including imported French condoms, the girls’ cosmetics, their costumes and food and drink, both for those living at the house and for the customers. Then there was repayment of the funds Myrna had borrowed to set up the business, as well as money paid out to ensure various officials turned a blind eye to the goings-on at Dilworth Terrace, although several of those not comfortable with accepting bribes opted for discreet complimentary visits.
Myrna also gave generously to several charities, but in strict anonymity. Tamar was surprised to see one of these was the Auckland refuge for ‘fallen women’. When she asked Myrna why she donated so much, Myrna replied that she firmly believed that in order to attract money, one also had to give it away; and she gave to the women’s refuge because she felt a deep empathy for the poor wretches. ‘I’ve been in the gutter maself, ye ken,’ she explained.
Going through the accounts and receipts for the girls’ costumes one day, it occurred to Tamar that she could save Myrna a considerable amount of money if she made the girls’ clothes herself.
‘I can design and cut and sew as well as any dress maker,’ she said eagerly when she raised the idea with Myrna. ‘And you wouldn’t have to pay me. I could do them much cheaper than the woman who’s making them now, and the girls wouldn’t have to traipse into town for their fittings. And I’d really enjoy it. I haven’t done any sewing for ages. All I’d need would be a decent sewing machine and a good source of fabrics. I’m sure Mr Ellis could be of help.’
Myrna was heartened to see Tamar’s enthusiasm; her mood and general outlook had improved dramatically since her surgery, but Myrna still worried that with too much time on her hands she’d fret over her lost child. She suspected dressmaking, which she knew Tamar loved, would be therapeutic and constructive. ‘Aye, well,’ she replied. ‘We could certainly do wi’ cutting corners in terms o’ overheads. It’s a good idea, lassie, if ye’re happy to do it.’
‘I’d love to, and I just happen to have an advertisement for the latest in treadle sewing machines,’ Tamar said innocently, whipping a square of newsprint cut from the Auckland Weekly News out of her pocket and thrusting it under Myrna’s nose. ‘The Home Shuttle American lock-stitch model. Jacob Joseph & Co in Wellington import them from Australia. The cost is three pounds seven and six, which is a lot, but listen to what it can do!’ She took a deep breath and read enthusiastically from the advertisement. ‘It can hem, fell, bind cord, braid, seam, tuck, ruffle, hemstitch, gather, or gather and sew on at the same time, and it sews silk, linen, woollen and cotton goods with silk, linen or cotton thread, and it comes with bobbins, an oilcan, screwdriver, five needles …’
‘Yes!’ cried Myrna in exasperation. ‘For God’s sake, yes, ye can order one! Today, if it will shut ye up.’
Tamar beamed and hugged Myrna, then ran off to write to Jacob Joseph & Co immediately. Tomorrow, she would go into town to talk to Mr Ellis about fabrics and trimmings.
The next morning, however, Tamar received an unexpected visitor. Getting ready to go out, she was carefully applying a smear of cosmetic cream to her scar. The last of the scabs had healed, leaving her with a thin pink line, but she was still a little self-conscious. She expected that by the time it faded to white she would have become used to it, but until then she would disguise it whenever she left the house.
Eliza knocked and poked her head around Tamar’s door.
‘There’
s a man ’ere ter see yer, Miss Tamar.’ For some reason, Tamar had been ‘Miss’ to Eliza ever since her return to Auckland.
‘A man?’ replied Tamar curiously, turning away from her mirror. ‘Who?’
Eliza shrugged. ‘One of them Maoris.’
Tamar’s heart pumped a massive, irregular beat as she stared at Eliza. ‘What?’
‘Said ’is name’s Tee Kar-ninny or somethin’ like that.’
‘Oh.’ Tamar’s hopes and heart rate plummeted, and she chided herself for being so foolish as to think it might have been anyone else.
‘Do yer know ’im, or shall I send ’im on ’is way?’
‘Did he say what he wants?’ Tamar was flustered.
Eliza shook her head. ‘Just that ’e needs ter see yer, if yer’re available.’
‘Tell him I’ll be there in five minutes. Can you ask Myrna if I can use her office, please?’
‘Do yer want Miss Myrna ter be there?’
‘No, but can you tell her it’s Kepa’s uncle?’
‘Oh,’ said Eliza, intrigued. The girls all knew about Tamar’s illegitimate son and the man who had fathered him, and the presence of his uncle was exciting news. She hurried down the hall to usher in Te Kanene, whom she had left standing on the front verandah, and to find Myrna.
Tamar sat angrily in front of her dressing table, looking through her reflection into the silvered depths. Te Kanene? What on earth could he want? She screwed the lid back onto the pot of cosmetic cream, distractedly tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and stood up.
‘Te Kanene,’ she said coldly as she entered Myrna’s office. The tattooed, imperious-looking Maori stood at the window, the sun behind him. When he stepped forward Tamar did not offer him her hand. Instead, she sat in a wing chair and indicated he should sit opposite her.
‘Mrs Montgomery,’ he began as he lowered himself onto the plush upholstery.
‘Miss Deane.’
‘As you wish,’ replied Te Kanene.
Without preamble Tamar said, ‘Where is my child?’
‘He is safe,’ said Te Kanene. He appeared to be contemplating something as he picked a loose thread off his immaculate trousers and flicked it onto the carpet. The late-winter sun streaming through the window glinted on the small gold hoop he wore in his ear. No greenstone today, observed Tamar irrelevantly.
Te Kanene looked up at her, his gaze steady. ‘Miss Deane, I have matters of some importance I wish to discuss. I believe they would be better discussed in a civil manner. I appreciate your anger but …’
‘No, you do not,’ Tamar shot back. ‘He was not your child. How could you understand?’
Te Kanene drew in a composed breath and let it slowly out. ‘I did not say I understand your anger, Miss Deane. I said I appreciate it.’
Tamar did not respond.
‘May I continue?’ he asked reasonably.
Tamar nodded, struggling to keep a firm grip on her emotions. He was right — there was no need for her to behave aggressively. ‘Please go on.’
‘I wish to discuss the child, but first I have been asked to pass something on to you. From my nephew.’ He withdrew a small, cloth-wrapped package from the inside pocket of his coat and passed it to Tamar.
She stared at it, making no move to open it. ‘I had not expected any communication.’
‘No,’ said Te Kanene, his tone suggesting he would have preferred it that way himself.
Tamar began to unwrap the package. Cocooned inside the short length of fabric was a tiny flax kete, or bag, in which was nestled another small bundle. Unwrapping this, Tamar found another package which fitted easily into her palm. She felt as if she was playing a child’s party game. Removing the final layer, she saw her amethyst pendant and earrings, with a folded piece of notepaper.
She opened the note slowly, feeling her heart lodge solidly in her throat, and read the date — January 1881. Her eyes caressed the large, flowing handwriting covering the page.
Tamar,
I do not know when or where this will find you. I am at Ahuriri (Napier) waiting for my ship to be provisioned and fitted for a voyage to Ingarangi. I will be away for a long time — possibly a year. I have been told you are with child. I assume it is mine.
You know I cannot be with you at this time. I regret that. You must do what you think best. Te Kanene may be able to help you.
Take care of yourself, Tamar. I have not, and will not, forget our time together. I will see you again.
He had signed the note Arohanui, K, followed by a short postscript:
I believe these are your missing pieces of jewellery. I saw them displayed in the window of a pawnshop in Auckland, so I am returning them to you.
Tamar read the note again, more slowly, this time, then looked at Te Kanene.
‘Did you know he knew I was expecting a child?’
‘Yes. He told me before he left for England.’
Tamar lifted a hand and absentmindedly massaged the scar on her brow.
Te Kanene commented, ‘May I say your face is much improved.’
‘How do you know about that?’ asked Tamar in surprise. Then she remembered. ‘Oh. When you came to Kainui?’
‘Yes, but you were still sick. You did not know me.’
‘You came to the village to take my baby?’
‘Te Hau, Riria’s father, summoned me. Riria was against my taking the child.’
Tamar was once again flooded with feelings of gratitude and affection for Riria. She realised she missed her friend very much.
She said suddenly, ‘Did you know my husband is dead? Perhaps murdered?’
Te Kanene examined the blunt but beautifully manicured fingernails on his right hand for several seconds. ‘Yes. I had heard something.’
‘Who killed him?’
He shrugged elegantly but said nothing.
‘Was it you?’ pressed Tamar.
‘No.’
Tamar believed him. If it had not been Te Kanene, she thought, and Kepa was in England, then it could have only been one other person. ‘Riria,’ she said quietly.
‘You must try and understand the concept of utu,’ said Te Kanene impassively.
‘Are you telling me it was Riria?’ said Tamar, looking at him sharply.
‘I was not there, so I cannot say,’ he replied, although Te Hau had in fact informed him of exactly what his headstrong daughter had done to the Pakeha. ‘But if she did, she would have had her own reasons. Utu is not taken lightly. Do you care by whose hand he died?’
‘I suppose not,’ replied Tamar. ‘Where is my child?’
Te Kanene gazed at her, as if contemplating how much he should tell her, then seemed to come to some sort of decision. ‘He is living at Maungakakari, our family’s village in Hawke’s Bay, just north of Napier. He is being cared for by my tamahine, Kepa’s sister. She and her husband have no children of their own.’
‘And he is safe and healthy?’
Te Kanene nodded. ‘Yes, he is well. We have named him Kahurangi-o-te-po.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘Roughly translated it means blue cloak of the night sky.’
Tamar considered the name then nodded in approval.
She hesitated before she asked, ‘Who does he look like?’
‘His father, but he has green eyes. Like yours,’ replied Te Kanene. ‘You do understand why I had to take him?’ he added, his voice almost gentle.
Tamar sighed. ‘No, not really. I only know that when I discovered he had been taken from me I almost gave up. I could have raised him. A baby needs his mother.’
‘No, a baby needs a mother,’ corrected Te Kanene, comfortably secure in the customs and traditions his people had lived with for generations. ‘Not necessarily the woman who gave birth to him. Where would you have gone with him? You could not have returned to Auckland with an illegitimate half-caste child to raise.’ He paused and reached into his coat again. ‘May I smoke?’ When Tamar nodded he drew out a pipe, forcefully tamped
in a wad of tobacco and lit it before continuing. ‘And Kahurangi-o-te-po is no ordinary child. He is the first son of the first son of my brother Te Roroa, a powerful chief. He has to be raised in a certain way.’
‘I could have gone to Hawke’s Bay with him.’
‘No,’ said Te Kanene bluntly. ‘You are too Pakeha. And there is Kepa.’
‘What about Kepa?’
‘He has work to do. He cannot afford to be distracted by such trifling issues as lust and love. And he would have been, with you there.’
‘How can you be so sure?’
Te Kanene made a wry face. ‘Because, Miss Deane, I know my iramutu well. I would have to be blind and deaf not to know how he feels about you. And if he is to marry, then he must marry a woman of his own race.’
‘You sent him to England, didn’t you?’
‘Yes,’ Te Kanene replied shamelessly. ‘For his own good. And yours, although I do not expect you to thank me.’
‘No, I certainly won’t,’ replied Tamar angrily. ‘I think you’re a crafty, selfish, interfering old buzzard.’ Tamar had never seen a buzzard but she imagined that if she did, it would look and behave exactly like Te Kanene.
He nodded his head and smiled slightly, as if she had complimented him. ‘You will see one day that I have made the right decision. For everyone.’
Tamar was interrupted by a knock on the office door. Myrna poked her head into the room and asked, ‘Everything all right, is it?’
Tamar stood. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Myrna, this is Kepa’s uncle, Te Kanene. Te Kanene, this is my good friend Miss Myrna McTaggart.’
Te Kanene rose and bowed low over Myrna’s outstretched hand. ‘Good morning, Miss McTaggart,’ he said. ‘I am very pleased to meet you.’
‘And I you,’ replied Myrna politely. ‘Can I get ye anything?’
‘No, thank you, Miss McTaggart. I have almost finished my business here.’
Myrna looked over Te Kanene’s shoulder at Tamar and raised her eyebrows. Tamar mouthed, ‘It’s all right,’ and Myrna responded with an almost imperceptible nod.
‘I’ll leave ye to it then,’ she said and left the room.
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