Tamar

by Deborah Challinor

  ‘I would like to be kept informed of my son’s progress. You cannot deny me that.’

  ‘No,’ he agreed. ‘I will not keep news of his health and welfare from you. Do I assume correctly you will be living here for some time?’

  ‘Yes, for the foreseeable future.’

  ‘Then, as his guardian, I will send word at regular intervals. But I will ask you not to contact him during these early years. It will only confuse him. He is better off where he is, a slightly pale, green-eyed Maori child living amongst Maori, than a brown-skinned child living amongst Pakeha.’ When Tamar looked at him doubtfully, he added, ‘I know what I am talking about. You have not been in Aotearoa long enough to appreciate what I mean. When he gets older he will be told. He can make his choices then, when he is mature enough to manage the consequences. But I suspect he will always be more his father’s son than yours.’

  Tamar knew that if her son were to be raised a Maori, this would indeed be the case, and the thought hurt her badly. But, her heart aching with a sense of loss that was almost physical, she suspected Te Kanene was right.

  She asked sadly, ‘Will he get the best of care?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I want to meet him when he is older. And I want to contribute towards his upkeep,’ Tamar added. ‘I am his mother and I will not allow that to be forgotten or ignored. He also has Cornish blood in his veins. He has a heritage other than yours.’

  ‘There is no need for you to give money, if that is what you mean. My family has more than enough.’

  ‘And so will I, eventually,’ replied Tamar with a blossoming sense of dignity. She didn’t know if what she had just said was true, but the idea suddenly appealed to her very much. ‘If you choose not to use it now, I will have it placed in a trust fund for his education. I insist that he receive the very best.’

  ‘Oh, he will, there is no doubt. This child will carry on the work of his father, and his father before him.’

  ‘Good,’ said Tamar. ‘I’m glad we agree.’

  Te Kanene nodded. ‘I think, Miss Deane, we agree on more than you care to admit. We are both committed to this child’s welfare. You are his natural mother, and you are right — that cannot be forgotten. And so we will work together for his benefit.’

  Tamar sighed, partly in relief and partly in annoyance. Intuitively she knew he would be a powerful, if perhaps not always loyal, ally.

  Te Kanene rose. ‘I will leave now,’ he said. ‘I feel we have come to an understanding.’

  ‘Yes, Te Kanene, we have. For now,’ replied Tamar, standing herself and escorting him to the front door. As she opened it he turned and took her hand, a formal handshake, nothing intimate, his piercing eyes looking directly into hers. Tamar could clearly see Kepa in him.

  ‘You are a strong woman, Tamar Deane,’ he said. ‘I see it, my nephew sees it, and your son will also see it one day. You must make that strength work for you.’

  He let go of her hand and descended the steps. As he turned at the gate and walked off down the street, Tamar stood looking after him, long after he had disappeared.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  February 1882

  Stand still, will you, Polly?’ said Tamar through a mouthful of dressmaking pins.

  ‘But it’s so hot,’ complained Polly, the breeze from the lace fan she was flapping in front of her face barely touching the sweat trickling down her neck. The French doors were wide open but the mid-morning air was heavy. ‘I wish it would rain.’

  It was an abnormally hot, humid Auckland day and Tamar was putting the final touches to a new gown. The bustle had disappeared completely from fashion and this new dress had tight three-quarter-length sleeves and a fitting bodice above a flaring, princess-line skirt. Unlike most gowns of the day, however, this one was made from fine, slightly transparent pale green muslin, which accentuated Polly’s shapely figure and offered a hint of the pleasures beneath. Fashionable evening gowns were already cut low in the bodice but this one was exceptionally daring, the neckline not quite covering Polly’s upthrust breasts and nipples. The dress was saved from vulgarity by a swathe of semi-opaque gauze draped around the neckline, but if one looked hard enough Polly’s large brown nipples were still visible, which was of course the intention.

  When Tamar had begun sewing the girls’ costumes last year, Myrna had stipulated they should be alluring and a little risqué, but not whorish. The idea was to tempt the customers, not excite them beyond the point of no return before they even got upstairs.

  Tamar sat back on her heels and wiped the sweat from her own brow. The faint scent of honeysuckle wafted in through the open doors on a slight breeze that died almost before it reached her. She opened the collar of her dress and blew down her cleavage but found scant relief.

  Just before Christmas she had decided she’d had enough of wearing widow’s weeds and, flouting convention, had made herself several fashionable, prettily coloured dresses, wearing them well before her year of mourning was officially over. As she now lived and worked at a brothel, she hardly thought it would make any difference to what people thought of her.

  ‘I’ve got a headache,’ moaned Polly. ‘I need some of my medicine.’

  Tamar frowned. Polly had been needing a lot of her ‘medicine’ lately. ‘Well, have some then,’ she replied, ‘if it will make you stand still. You’re supposed to be wearing this dress tonight.’

  ‘I know,’ snapped Polly. She stepped off the low stool, went to her dressing table and pulled open a small drawer. Selecting a flat, brown glass bottle she removed the cork and took an unmeasured swig. And then another. And then one more.

  ‘Just for luck,’ she said. As she replaced the cork she noticed the bottle was almost empty. ‘Bugger, I’ll have to get some more. I’ll go up the street later.’

  ‘To the pharmacy?’ asked Tamar. When Polly nodded she said, ‘I’ll come with you — I need to get one or two things myself.’

  Tamar was worried about Polly. Since before Christmas, her friend had become progressively sadder and more lethargic; rarely now did anyone see the happy, carefree Polly, except for when she was working. Between two in the afternoon and one the following morning when the house was open for business, she was vivacious, sparkling, witty and very popular with the customers. She was in demand and very busy, sometimes accommodating five or more men in one day, and none had ever complained they were not getting their money’s worth.

  Tamar and Myrna both sensed that, for some reason, Polly was frantically throwing herself into her work, but neither had been able to find out why. Myrna had talked to her several times but she insisted she was fine and merely anxious to build up her nest egg; she still talked, though less frequently, about owning a parlour with ostrich feathers in a vase on the mantelpiece, and a special chair by the fire for Cabbage.

  Myrna had not been satisfied with Polly’s explanation. She confided to Tamar that even though Polly was popular, she might have to insist she stand down from working if she continued to show signs of being, as Myrna put it, ‘no’ quite right in the head’.

  And on occasion, Polly was quite obviously that. The girls had made a habit of meeting around the kitchen table on Sunday afternoons, the only day they did not work, to talk about anything they needed to air, usually their customers. They started drinking tea or coffee but as the afternoon wore on they would often open the gin or sherry. The tone was usually lighthearted and occasionally hilarious, but several Sundays ago something disconcerting had occurred.

  On this particular Sunday Polly started drinking early but instead of being lifted by the alcohol, she seemed to withdraw into herself, barely smiling whenever one of the girls told a particularly amusing anecdote that would have the others almost crying with laughter.

  The girls delighted in entertaining each other with stories of their various customers. Myrna knew it was irreverent, and unkind to the men, but they would never know and she firmly believed it helped her girls banish or at least contain any unp
leasant feelings they might harbour about their profession; to mock the men they serviced helped them regain their sense of power. So she encouraged it and laughed with them, sometimes even contributing amusing stories from her own past.

  ‘What I hate,’ said Vivienne, ‘is when they won’t hurry up and do the business. I put such a lot of effort into them before they hop on, so I won’t have to lie there forever, but this one customer, Mr Reece — the one with the really hairy back and the awful breath?’

  The other girls, who did indeed know Mr Reece, groaned in sympathy.

  ‘Well, last time I had him he just would not finish. But the closer he got to it the heavier he breathed on me and it was revolting. It was so foul I had to keep on throwing my head from side to side to get away from it. I think he thought I was writhing in passion. And I couldn’t help it but I started saying no, no, no! And he started saying yes, yes, yes! And he seemed to like it so I went no, no, no and he went yes, yes, yes, and we started to sound like a train pulling out of the railway station. I had a terrible time not going Whooooooh!’

  The girls, all except Polly, were giggling madly by this time.

  ‘I had Perry Thompson last night,’ said Bronwyn. Perry Thompson was a customer in his mid-thirties, single, financially well off and rather handsome. He was not unpopular, but he had a rather inflated opinion of his appeal to the opposite sex and an unfortunate misconception regarding his sexual prowess. At every intimate encounter with the girls — and they had compared notes — he would disrobe, flourish his penis proudly and say, ‘How’s that?’ in a triumphant tone. The girls would all make appropriate noises of appreciation and anticipation and Perry Thompson, secure in his conviction that he was about to provide a truly memorable treat, would throw himself enthusiastically into the sexual act and go away very pleased with himself.

  ‘I quite like Perry,’ said Letitia. ‘I feel a bit silly going ooh and aah every time he drops his trousers, but he’s harmless. And he thinks he’s giving us something special, so that’s nice.’

  ‘Unlike that Gareth Hunt,’ added Jessica. ‘He’s an odd one.’ She turned to Myrna. ‘I really don’t like him, he scares me.’

  ‘What is it ye dinnae like?’ asked Myrna, concerned. Gareth Hunt was a new but frequent customer and she had not yet had the opportunity to form her own opinion of his character, something she always liked to do.

  ‘I can’t quite put my finger on it,’ replied Jessica. ‘He seems so … angry. I usually feel comfortable with the customers, but not with him. Sometimes I get the feeling he’d like to beat the shit out of me.’

  Several of the other girls nodded in agreement.

  ‘He’s no’ violent though?’ asked Myrna.

  ‘No, he’s rough, but not violent,’ said Jessica. ‘But I’m sure he could be. He doesn’t like to cuddle. It’s all get your clothes off, get on the bed, open your legs with him. All I can say is I’m glad I’m not his wife.’

  ‘He’s married?’ asked Letitia in mild surprise.

  Jessica nodded. ‘He said something about a wife last time I was with him. It wasn’t very nice either.’ She shrugged and sipped her sherry. ‘I don’t know. Some men are just like that, I suppose.’

  ‘They all are,’ said Polly, gazing into her gin as if it held some great secret.

  ‘Aggressive and nasty?’ said Bronwyn in surprise. ‘Not in my experience. Sad perhaps, and lonely. Or just randy. Well, the ones we see anyway, but not nasty.’

  ‘Tamar’s was a real bastard,’ said Polly vehemently. ‘Look what he did to her.’

  ‘Aye, but he was verra ill, although I agree that’s no’ an excuse,’ replied Myrna. She looked at Polly closely, observing her face was flushed and her eyes half closed. Too much gin, or something else?

  ‘I’m glad he’s dead,’ replied Polly angrily. ‘Aren’t you, Tamar?’

  Tamar thought for a minute. ‘I don’t really care. Not any more.’

  Polly sat very still, the knuckles of the hand holding her glass white with tension.

  ‘Well, I bloody do,’ she said finally. ‘And that Gareth Hunt’s cut from the same cloth. What gives him the right to treat women the way he does?’ she asked, looking around angrily. ‘I know we’re whores, but we’re still people, aren’t we?’

  There was a brief, uncomfortable silence.

  ‘Of course ye are, lassie,’ said Myrna. ‘And if ye dinnae like the way a customer’s treating ye, say so and I’ll have a word. I’ll ban the man if I have to. Why, has someone had a go at ye?’

  ‘No!’ snapped Polly. ‘Oh God, what’s the point?’

  She drained her glass, pushed her chair violently back from the table and rushed from the room, leaving the girls staring after her.

  ‘What was that all about?’ asked Letitia eventually.

  ‘I dinnae ken, but the lassie’s no’ happy, is she?’ said Myrna.

  Tamar had agreed then and she agreed now. She finished pinning the hem of Polly’s gown, wiped the sweat from her face again and looked up at her friend. ‘That should do it. You can take it off. Shall we go out soon?’

  Polly nodded as she let the dress drop to the floor and stepped out of it. Tamar went to stand in front of the open doors, holding her arms up to catch the faint breeze, keeping her back turned while Polly changed into street clothes.

  ‘Shall we go to that new pharmacy on Parnell Road?’ she asked over her shoulder. ‘He has some lovely imported perfumes in the most beautiful crystal bottles.’ She turned around to see Polly dressed and sitting on her bed, frowning. ‘What? Would you rather go somewhere else?’

  ‘No,’ said Polly furtively. ‘No, the new one’s fine,’ she added.

  ‘All right then,’ Tamar replied, slightly mystified. ‘I’ll meet you downstairs, shall I? I need to get changed.’

  Polly nodded as Tamar went downstairs to her own bedroom. There, she selected a dress suitable for the street, changed and quickly put on walking shoes. Standing in front of her dressing-table mirror she turned sideways and ran her hand over her stomach, flat and taut again. And so it should be, she reflected — she’d given birth to her son over eight months ago now. Her breasts had remained fuller, however; Myrna said having a baby had matured her figure, and perhaps it had.

  She felt a brief but sharp pain in the region of her heart, as she always did when she thought of her son. Te Kanene had been true to his word and had sent two letters describing the child’s health and progress. The second letter, received several weeks ago, had been accompanied by a photograph. The image of a young Maori woman holding a very chubby, contented-looking baby was reasonably clear. The smiling woman’s features were a more feminine version of Kepa’s, and to Tamar’s delight the infant did indeed look like his father.

  When she had first taken the photograph out of the envelope, she had experienced a vicious pang of jealousy, bordering on nausea, at the thought of her son being nurtured by another woman. A note on the back of the photograph declared; ‘My tamahine, Mereana, holding Kahurangi-o-te-po. You will not be able to see this, but his eyes are the same colour as yours.’ Tamar had been surprised that Te Kanene had provided this detail; for someone who had judged her unsuitable to raise her own son, he was treating her with a compassion she found incongruous and confusing.

  She leaned towards the mirror and lifted her heavy fringe from her damp brow, inspecting the scar, which was indeed fading to a thin white line. Recently, she’d come to the realisation that she couldn’t care less about it. She was alive, and that was enough.

  She picked up her hat and gloves and went out into the hallway, wishing gloves were not so de rigueur. Her palms were damp with sweat, making the process of tugging on the thin, clinging fabric a chore. ‘Ready?’ she asked as Polly hurried down the carpeted stairs, her long georgette skirt swishing as she moved.

  Polly nodded as she stood in front of the mirrored étagère in the foyer and tied the ribbons on her velvet-trimmed straw hat. Turning around she said, ‘Yes. Let’s go.’r />
  The two women walked up Dilworth Terrace towards the intersection with York Street that would take them onto Parnell Road. To their left, through the pines growing on the slope hugging the shore, they could see the sea stretching into the hazy distance and Rangitoto Island squatting on the horizon. The street was still unpaved and the mud of winter had dried to hard, uneven furrows that frequently twisted the ankles of inattentive pedestrians. Tamar and Polly kept to the extreme edges where patches of grass were flourishing. Before long Polly had opened her fan and was flapping vigorously at her face again. ‘It’s too hot,’ she grumbled. ‘I’m sure it wasn’t this hot last summer.’

  Tamar couldn’t remember whether it had been or not. ‘It will pass,’ she said. ‘And then we’ll all be moaning because it’s too cold.’

  ‘I won’t,’ replied Polly. ‘I miss the cold.’

  They walked in silence until they reached Parnell Road. The pharmacy was situated just up the hill from John’s surgery. They sat for a while outside the shop in the shade of a verandah to catch their breath and recover from their walk. Several cabs went past, the horses sweating freely and their hooves kicking up small puffs of dust from the street. A gentleman passing on horseback raised his hat and nodded politely.

  ‘Shall we go in?’ asked Polly.

  Tamar nodded and Polly followed her inside where the temperature was noticeably cooler. The lighting was soft, shining off a gleaming brass rail bordering a long glass-topped counter and polished mahogany woodwork. The shop interior was lined almost to the ceiling with shelves, labelled drawers and glass-fronted cabinets displaying an extensive selection of patent medicines, proprietary lines, cosmetics, perfumes and toiletries. At the rear was a dispensing counter, again of solid mahogany, backed by a large mirror in which the pharmacist could look to see who was in his shop when he had his back turned. The real pharmaceuticals, the raw powders, herbs, solutions and chemicals, were stored in glass bottles and jars in a small dispensary beyond the work bench. On the counter sat a range of goods for sale, including bottles of colourful pastilles for sore throats, and cachous — the small, perfumed sweets so popular with considerate smokers who worried their breath might offend. Tamar sniffed appreciatively, loving the rich combination of floral and chemical smells.