Tamar

by Deborah Challinor

They had been an unofficial couple for many months now but had made no moves in the direction of marriage. The hopeful look on Sven’s plain but normally impassive face, however, indicated that Myrna’s unexpected gift may have changed things.

  In his halting but much improved English, he replied, ‘I believe yes, that I think we are to stay.’ He stood up and wiped his large hands on his trousers. His face began to turn red as he turned to Tamar and announced, ‘Miss Tamar, I wish to ask of you to have the hand of Eliza Andrews in betrothal.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Tamar in surprise and embarrassment, blushing herself. ‘Why are you asking me?’

  ‘You now are the lady of the house,’ he said, his face flaming. Across from him Eliza raised her hands to her own face and giggled nervously. ‘It is your permission I am needing, I think,’ Sven continued. ‘We had not the money for a wedding before, now we have so I need the permission also.’

  Tamar turned to Eliza. ‘Is this what you want?’ When Eliza nodded, Tamar said, ‘Well, yes, then. Of course!’

  Later that afternoon Tamar went looking for Eliza. She found her in the kitchen, baking. ‘Can I talk to you for a minute, Eliza?’

  Eliza looked up from the table she was working at, wiped her floury hands on her apron and raised her eyebrows. ‘Miss?’

  God, I hate it when she calls me that, Tamar thought. ‘Well,’ she started, not quite sure what to say. ‘It’s about your engagement.’

  As Eliza’s long face grew suddenly wary, Tamar suddenly understood the English girl did not completely trust her. ‘No, there’s no problem,’ Tamar said quickly. ‘I wondered if you might want to have this.’ She slid the pearl and sapphire ring Peter had given her off her finger and held it out to Eliza, her palm flat. ‘It was my engagement ring,’ she added, unnecessarily.

  Eliza stared at it.

  ‘Please don’t be insulted,’ Tamar continued. ‘It doesn’t really mean much to me any more. I’ll understand if you don’t want it, of course. I just thought I’d ask. It’s been paid for,’ she added, and allowed herself a small smile.

  Eliza smiled back. ‘It’s lovely, Miss Tamar. And it were very nice of yer ter think of me. I’ll ’ave ter ask Sven though. I don’t know ’ow ’e’ll feel about it.’ She took the ring and slipped it into her apron pocket.

  ‘Of course. You could sell it and use the money to buy something else. Whatever suits you.’

  Eliza looked at Tamar thoughtfully. ‘Does it mean so little ter yer now? The ring and everythin’ it meant?’

  Tamar gazed back, took a deep breath and nodded. ‘Yes. I have a new life now, Eliza. I need to look forwards, not backwards.’

  Eliza nodded herself. ‘I ’ope me own marriage don’t turn out like yours did, Miss Tamar, if yer don’t mind me saying. But Sven’s a good man, so I don’t think it will.’

  ‘No, I don’t think it will either. I wish you the very best of luck.’

  And she did.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  December 1882

  Myrna, gone now for six months, was sorely missed. But life, as it nearly always does, went on. The house reopened for business and continued to profit under Tamar’s management, Eliza and Sven were married in October, Letitia turned down a marriage proposal from a customer and summer arrived.

  The only one not to have come to terms with Myrna’s death was Polly. Her moods worsened and in November Tamar was forced to insist she stop working; customers had complained Polly was falling asleep at the very point when she should have been most awake, which, everyone agreed, was bad for business.

  When Tamar told her, Polly had merely shrugged and gone up to her room.

  Talking to John Adams several days later, Tamar said, ‘I don’t know what’s wrong, it’s as if she’s completely given up. Before, when she was still enthusiastic about her work, it wasn’t too bad. She was moody, yes, and not that easy to get on with, but since Myrna went, she seems to have lost all hope.’

  ‘And she’s drinking over half a bottle of Decoction of Opium a day? Well, if that’s the case, I’d say she’s well and truly addicted. That’s not good at all, not in those amounts,’ said John, frowning.

  ‘I told her that months ago. I don’t think she cares.’

  ‘Addiction to opium-based preparations isn’t that unusual. You’d be surprised the people who get into trouble with it. It’s high time some sort of control was applied to its distribution, although I suspect I’m wasting my breath. While there are opium dens on every damned street corner, not much can be done to discourage people from using the drug.’

  Tamar was fascinated. ‘Dens on every corner?’

  ‘No. I exaggerate. But they are around. There’s one on Upper Queen Street and it’s rumoured there’s another down by the wharves.’

  ‘Mmm, I wonder,’ muttered Tamar. ‘Polly’s disappeared several times at night, and not come back until early morning, according to Eliza. I wonder if that’s where she’s been going?’

  ‘Well, they say the cravings get worse until the poor victim is utterly consumed by his or her need. Perhaps her medicine isn’t enough any more and she’s advanced to the pure form of the drug. That can be fatal. Why don’t you ask her?’

  Tamar hesitated, then said, ‘I don’t want to. If I do, and she says she’s not going to an opium den, then I might be told something I really don’t want to know.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Such as she’s working the streets again.’

  ‘Oh, surely not? Not after working here?’ John was aghast.

  ‘Well, she’s been going somewhere. And if she is back on the streets, I’ll have to ask her to leave, and I don’t know if I can do that, John. She’s my friend. I really think she needs help.’

  ‘Yes, it’s a difficult situation. Do you want me to talk to her?’

  ‘You can try.’

  ‘Well, is she in now?’

  ‘In her room, I think. You know which one it is, don’t you?’

  John nodded as he stood up. ‘Well, I’ll try. But if she tells me something in confidence it will have to stay that way.’

  ‘As long as she’s safe, John. That’s all I’m worried about.’

  Tamar followed him up the stairs, leaving him on the first floor while she went up to her own room. She opened a window facing out onto the harbour and let the salt-smelling breeze waft in. She loved the view and only drew her drapes at night, not wanting to shut out the sight of the ocean, even if it wasn’t the wild, hungry sea that had battered the coasts of her beloved Cornwall.

  As she sat down on a sofa and picked up some sewing, there was a knock at the door. ‘Come in,’ she called, looking up as John entered. He’d been into this room many times before and Tamar could see no reason he should not continue to do so, propriety be damned. ‘That was quick.’

  ‘She told me to bugger off. I knocked and when she didn’t answer I opened the door and went in. She was on the bed. I thought she was asleep but then I heard her muttering. She’s not in a very good state.’

  ‘I know that,’ Tamar replied exasperatedly. ‘That’s why I’ve talked to you about it.’ For someone so intelligent, John could be very obtuse sometimes.

  He continued. ‘So I shook her gently, and she rolled over, opened one eye, and said “It’s you.” When I asked if there was something wrong she said, “No. Bugger off,” closed her eyes again and put her hands over her ears. I notice she’s lost a lot of weight.’

  ‘So what do you think I should do?’

  ‘If she won’t talk to anyone then there’s not much you can do. Physically, she looks reasonably healthy although she’s probably run down. It’s her mind, I’d say. Something’s obviously not right.’

  ‘No,’ said Tamar, getting up and going to the window again. The breeze lifted her hair off her face, exposing the faint line of her scar. ‘I can’t lock her in her room, and I’m not going to evict her while she’s ill. I’d not ask her to leave anyway, this is her home. If she’s not going to work she can have Eliz
a’s old room. I’ll have to get someone to replace her, I suppose.’

  ‘She’ll be a liability, Tamar, if she doesn’t recover her health.’

  ‘Yes, John, I know that. I was a liability once, remember? And Myrna took me in.’

  ‘That doesn’t mean you have to do the same.’

  ‘Doesn’t it? She looked after us, and she left me everything.’

  ‘Yes, and you’ve got this place running very smoothly and profitably, but is this what you really want, Tamar? Running a whorehouse? You could sell up — someone might buy it as a going concern, and if not, then I’m sure everyone has enough put away to manage quite comfortably. Even Sven and Eliza.’

  They’d had this conversation several times since Myrna had died.

  Tamar rolled her eyes. ‘You just don’t understand, do you? I owe this to Myrna. This is why she left it all to me. So the others would be taken care of.’

  John blew out his cheeks in frustration. ‘Are you sure she didn’t leave it all to you because she wanted you to be taken care of? Didn’t she say in her will you could do whatever you wanted with the place? It was you she was worried about, Tamar, especially after what that bastard Montgomery did to you. The others can take care of themselves.’

  ‘So can I!’

  ‘Yes, but there are better ways to do it. You’re wealthy now, you can afford to do just about anything you like. And New Zealand is a growing country — the depression will be over soon and there’ll be plenty of things to invest your money in. You could even have your own business. A more socially acceptable one, I mean.’

  ‘Oh, I know that!’ she snapped, sitting back down with an angry rustle of taffeta. ‘But what’s money if I have no one to share it with? No one to talk to and no one to laugh with? If I sell this place and everyone disappears in different directions, I’ll be alone, John. I have no one else.’

  ‘You have me.’

  ‘Not any more. I know how you feel about what I did, John. I’m not blind. Or stupid.’

  He felt himself going red. He thought he’d successfully kept his feelings to himself, but obviously not.

  ‘But we’re still friends,’ he said. ‘Friends take care of each other.’

  ‘Yes, yes, it’s all very well you saying that now, but what about when you marry? And you will, John, I know. You need a wife, and you want one. It’s obvious.’

  ‘Is it?’ he asked, slightly taken back.

  ‘Yes. You’ll have your work and you’ll start your own family. Where will I fit in? You’re being unrealistic.’

  She was right and he couldn’t think of anything to say that wouldn’t sound trite. They sat in silence, Tamar looking out the window and John staring at his boots.

  Eventually Tamar cleared her throat and said, ‘I miss her terribly.’

  ‘I know. So do I.’ Then, as if Myrna had not even been mentioned, he said, ‘What if you marry again? You’re only, what? Twenty?’

  ‘I’m not living my life based on what ifs. I’ve already done that once and it didn’t work out.’

  He couldn’t respond to that, either. Silence again. He watched Tamar, deep in thought.

  ‘I think I’ll send Sven after Polly the next time she goes out,’ she said after a few minutes. ‘Then at least I’ll know where she’s going.’

  It was clear their discussion about Tamar’s future was over. ‘Yes, I suppose,’ he replied. ‘She’ll be extremely angry if she spots him.’

  ‘John, these days Polly doesn’t know when someone’s in the same room half the time. She won’t see him.’

  They went downstairs. Tamar collected John’s hat and gloves from the parlour and saw him to the side door. As they waited for Sven to bring his horse around, John had an idea. ‘What was the name of that girl who used to work for you at Huia?’

  ‘Riria?’

  ‘Weren’t you quite fond of her?’

  ‘Very.’

  ‘Well, why don’t you invite her to visit? She could keep you company for a while. Perhaps you could even look at starting a little business of some sort together. Something in the dressmaking line. Or a drapery of your own? She could work for you.’

  Tamar sighed and thought, oh John, stop trying to organise my life. He’d never met Riria. If he had, he’d know that suggesting she might like to work behind a counter was ludicrous. She smiled. ‘Yes, I could write to her, I suppose.’

  As she waved John off, she realised the idea was very appealing.

  On the evening of the day Tamar sent her letter to Riria, Polly slipped out of the house. Sven followed her.

  ‘So?’ asked Tamar when he had returned several hours later.

  ‘A place on Customhouse Street.’

  ‘Not on the streets?’

  ‘No, Miss. She went inside.’

  ‘Mmm.’ Tamar looked at him for a minute. ‘A brothel?’

  ‘I do not believe so, Miss. I ask a man who came out after Miss Polly enter. He say it was a den. He whisper it.’

  Oh God, thought Tamar desperately. How the hell am I going to sort this out?

  She confronted Polly the following afternoon. Polly, her face drawn and white with dark pouches under her dull eyes, denied it. Then, when she realised she’d been seen, she confessed. They argued bitterly, both angry at first, then both crying, and Tamar told Polly that if she visited the opium den once more, she would have to leave. She suspected Polly knew she didn’t mean it, but it was the only threat she had left. She left Polly lying on her unmade bed, having forced her to promise she would not go to the place on Customhouse Street again, and she would talk to John about her problem.

  Two nights later, just before one in the morning, Polly went out again. This time Tamar followed her, intending to drag her out of the place herself if she had to. She waited for an hour, then asked Sven to get the landau and drive her to Customhouse Street.

  By the time they arrived the street was almost deserted, save for a few drunken sailors and one or two tatty-looking whores hanging about under the dim street lamps. Sven stopped outside the place he had seen Polly go into, got off his seat and stuck his big head through the landau window, its retractable top up against the night. ‘This is the place, Miss Tamar. Are you wanting me to enter?’

  Tamar shook her head. ‘No, Sven. I’ll go in.’

  Sven was appalled. ‘Miss! It is a den of vice! Not for someone like you to visit!’

  ‘I can take care of myself. Please open the door.’

  Unwillingly, Sven stood back and helped Tamar out. As she looked about she lifted her dark shawl over her hair and secured it at her throat; she doubted she would be recognised, but there was no need to advertise her presence here.

  In front of her, just off the street, was a narrow, dingy-looking wooden building jammed between what appeared to be two tall ware houses. A door opened and a man came out, staggered several yards, then bent over at the waist and vomited splashily onto the ground.

  As she moved towards the door, Sven put a restraining hand on her arm. ‘I will accompany you,’ he insisted.

  ‘No you won’t, Sven. Wait in the landau, please. I won’t be long.’

  His brow creased in disapproval but he stood back as Tamar opened the door and went inside. Somewhere an invisible bell tinkled.

  The door opened onto a narrow, poorly lit hall. Tamar stood for a minute to let her eyes become accustomed to the gloom. As she blinked, a heavy curtain at the end of the hall twitched and a small, slender woman stepped through. Tamar blinked again. She’d never encountered a Chinese woman before, although she’d seen one or two men on the streets.

  ‘Madam?’ asked the woman in a clear, sing-song voice. She was dressed in a long robe that fell straight down her slim body. Embroidered with flowers, dragons and other fantastic beasts, the robe was made of heavy silk with satin at the high collar and wide cuffs. The woman’s shining black hair was pulled tightly back and fell in a long queue down her back. Her face, alien and exotically beautiful, was devoid of emotion as she
stood silently.

  ‘Good evening,’ said Tamar. ‘I’m looking for someone. I think she might be here.’

  The woman made no movement or sound.

  ‘Her name is Polly Jakes,’ Tamar continued, uncomfortable with the other woman’s lack of response. ‘Thin, with fair hair. I understand she’s been here before.’

  The woman remained silent for a further minute then, in the same sing-song voice, said, ‘We do not have names here.’

  ‘I’m sure she’s here. It’s very important that I find her. She’s not well.’

  The woman considered, then, with a flick of her long plait, held the curtain open and gestured for Tamar to step through. The room beyond was moderately sized, windowless and filled with heavy, lazily moving blue smoke. Tamar coughed and waved her hand in front of her face. In the centre of the room two groups of red-eyed men sat around gaming tables playing cards. No one looked up.

  ‘Where is she?’ Tamar asked.

  The Chinese woman crossed the room and went into a second narrow hall along which were several doors, all closed. The dark passage smelled of exotic spices and of something else, an essence heavy and sweet. At the end of the hall was another curtain. Tamar moved it aside and peered into the room beyond.

  Polly sprawled lifelessly on a low couch, one arm resting limply on the floor, her head thrown back at an uncomfortable angle and her eyes closed.

  She wasn’t alone. As Tamar looked around the small room, lit only by two candles burning on a low table, she became aware of at least four other people. Three were European — a woman and two men, all asleep or unconscious on the floor — while the fourth was an elderly Chinese man. Sitting cross-legged on a cushion in front of the table, his small, slippered feet poking out from beneath his robe, he was drawing smoke up through a slender pipe, holding it deliberately in his lungs, then slowly letting it out again. His lizard-like eyes flicked towards Tamar for a moment, then resumed staring at the wall.

  Here was the source of the sweet smell, coming from what she assumed was an opium pipe. It wasn’t unpleasant, but it was very strong and slightly nauseating. She went over to Polly, bent down and felt for a pulse in her neck. It was there, consistent but very slow.