Tamar turned to the Chinese man and said, ‘Help me get her up, please, if you would. I’m taking her home.’
He stared at her, his ancient face with its long wispy beard and equally insubstantial moustache expressionless. Shadows from the candles turned his features into a burnished skull. ‘No,’ he said.
‘I beg your pardon?’ said Tamar, nonplussed.
‘I said no,’ replied the man in clear, perfect English. ‘She is where she needs and wants to be. Do not disturb her.’
‘Rubbish!’ exploded Tamar. ‘She does not need to be in a place like this, drugged senseless!’
The man took another long, languid draw on his pipe, expelled the fragrant smoke and said, ‘Are you sure of that? Here, she can escape. Here, her mind can be free of whatever is walking so closely behind her.’
‘What on earth do you mean?’ said Tamar.
He regarded her for a minute. The room was utterly silent except for the faint sounds of deep, slow breathing. ‘Have you yourself not been haunted by some shame, some fear, some grief so monstrous it has consumed your mind?’
Tamar was shocked rigid. Yes, she had. How had this wizened, yellow little man known?
‘For this one,’ he continued, pointing steadily at Polly with a clawlike finger sporting an incredibly long, curved nail, ‘There is nowhere else for her to go. Her fear has eaten her. The opiate is her only release. Do not take that from her.’
Tamar turned back to Polly’s motionless form. She looked at peace. Insensibility had somehow stolen the lines of despair and misery from her face.
Fumbling through her pocketbook Tamar extracted several pound notes, folded them and attached a small silver money clip and held them out to him. ‘Will you make sure she gets a cab when she wakes? She won’t be safe on the streets the way she is.’
The money disappeared into the depths of the old man’s robe. He nodded, took another slow draw on his opium pipe and deliberately turned away.
Outside it was still dark and Tamar told Sven to take her home.
‘Miss Polly is all right?’ he asked.
‘As right as she’ll ever be,’ replied Tamar, and climbed into the landau.
The following morning, when Polly had still not returned, Tamar panicked and had Sven take her back to Customhouse Street. She banged for some time on the door of the building, which looked even more ramshackle and squalid, until it was finally opened by the Oriental woman. She looked much more ordinary in the light of day, and scowled at Tamar.
‘Where is she?’ Tamar demanded.
‘Who?’
You obtuse cow, Tamar thought. ‘The fair girl. From last night. You know who I mean.’
‘Not here.’
‘Then where’s the old man?’
Haughtily, the other woman replied, ‘My great-grandfather sleeps during the day. He cannot be disturbed.’
God, how old was he? ‘When did she leave?’
‘One quarter hour ago,’ said the woman, and pointed vaguely down the road in the direction of Queen Street.
Tamar spun around and hurried back to the landau. ‘About fifteen minutes ago,’ she said as she stepped up into the carriage, its roof down now that the sun was up. ‘She can’t be far away. Go onto Queen Street.’
Sven pulled the horse around and whipped it into a trot. On Queen Street he turned left and started up the hill.
They spotted Polly quite quickly, on the opposite side of the road standing on the new footpath outside the towering facade of Thornton, Smith and Firth’s Wharf Mill building. She was swaying slightly and apparently mesmerised by the passing traffic, although she seemed oblivious to everything else. Pedestrians, giving her a wide berth, ostentatiously ignored her.
‘Oh God,’ said Tamar. ‘There she is. Stop!’
Sven yanked hard on the horse’s head and Tamar had the door of the landau open before it had come to a complete halt. ‘Polly!’ she yelled as she got out, ignoring the curious glances of passers-by. ‘Polly!’
Across the street, Polly did not seem to have heard. She remained where she was, still gazing intently at the traffic. Then, without warning, she stepped straight out into it.
Although Tamar saw everything in excruciating detail, it happened very quickly. An oncoming cab swerved, the horrified cabbie wrenching his horse savagely to the right in an effort to avoid the woman in front of him. The horse reared, its hooves slashing the air, then plunged down just as Polly walked beneath it. One hoof struck her on the side of her head and she dropped like a stone.
‘Polly!’ shrieked Tamar as she dashed across the dusty street. Around her, traffic was coming to a halt as curious pedestrians gathered around the body lying in the road. As Polly struggled to sit up, Tamar bent down and peered into her friend’s blood-streaked face.
‘Bloody hell, that hurt,’ Polly mumbled as her hand moved slowly up to the pulpy mess above her ear. ‘What happened?’
‘It’s all right, Polly, you’ve had an accident.’
‘Have I really?’ replied Polly in an interested tone. Then, as her eyes rolled up into her head, she fell back onto the road, unconscious.
Tamar yelled, ‘Sven, bring the landau. We’ll take her to John.’
Sven sprinted back to the carriage, leapt onto the driver’s seat and urged the horses across the street, ignoring the curses of other drivers as he cut them off.
Once Polly was safely inside, stretched out on one of the seats, Sven spun the horses around and they clattered off in the direction of Parnell Rise.
CHAPTER TWENTY
John took one look at Polly’s unconscious body and climbed into the landau. ‘She needs to be in the hospital,’ he said. ‘She’s out cold and her pulse is much too slow. You say she spoke before she passed out?’
‘Yes, probably the most lucid thing she’s said for weeks. She will be all right, won’t she?’
They steadied themselves as Sven gave the horses an urgent flick with his whip and headed off for Auckland Domain and the hospital. John held Polly’s head in his lap. ‘I don’t know, the brain can swell terribly after such a blow and it’s hard to say what the result might be.’ He looked up at Tamar. ‘She may not survive. And conditions at the hospital are pretty dire. It might be new but it’s badly administered.’
Polly was admitted to the hospital and, after she showed no sign of regaining consciousness by late afternoon, the matron sent Tamar home with a promise that if anything happened, she would be sent for.
On the way back Tamar began to cry helplessly. John comforted her as best he could, but by the time they arrived she was insisting she was to blame because she had left Polly at the mercy of a thieving Chinaman.
‘What thieving Chinaman?’ asked John, as he gave Tamar a draught to calm her nerves.
‘I gave a disgusting old Celestial at the opium den money for Polly so she could get herself home safely. I shouldn’t have trusted him.’
John fumbled in his pocket, then withdrew a bundle of pound notes folded with a silver money clip. ‘Is this it? The sister gave it to me after they undressed Polly.’
‘Oh,’ said Tamar in a small voice. ‘I thought the old bastard had kept it.’
‘Obviously she chose not to hail a cab. It wasn’t your fault, Tamar.’
Privately, John believed that after spending the night smoking herself silly, Polly would have been completely disoriented. Still, he felt deeply sad for the poor girl. Unlike her friends, she’d been unable to weather the hard times and tragedies they’d encountered since arriving in New Zealand. But, really, not an inordinate or unexpected number of tragedies, John reflected.
Six days later Tamar received a message advising Polly had regained consciousness, but when she arrived at the hospital it was shockingly clear the old Polly had gone forever.
She was sitting in a narrow bed, her hair tied back from her gaunt face under a thick bandage, her right eye still black. She was propped up against the wall but leaning to one side, her small hands resting palms
up on the blanket. She was dribbling slightly and her eyes were open but utterly vacant.
Tamar asked hesitantly, ‘Polly?’
‘She can’t hear you. Well, at least we don’t think she can.’
Tamar turned to see a nurse hurrying down the ward carrying a pile of dirty linen. The nurse stopped at the end of Polly’s bed, dropped her load onto the floor and tapped her head. ‘Her mind’s gone. Can’t hear or see. Well, there’s no visible signs, put it like that. Are you family?’
‘No,’ answered Tamar. ‘A friend. She has no family.’
‘The doctor will be doing his rounds shortly, if you want to talk to him. You can wait with her, if you like.’
Tamar nodded her thanks as the nurse picked up her linen and continued on her busy way. Unable to locate a chair, she perched herself at the end of Polly’s lumpy mattress and waited. The ward was austere and rather crowded, but at least it appeared moderately clean; Tamar had heard the men’s wards were filthy.
She watched Polly carefully, a painful lump in her throat. She called her name gently, touched her hand and used the blanket to wipe the dribble from the corner of her mouth, but there was no response. Polly was so motionless she reminded Tamar of a large rag doll. ‘Polly, it’s Tamar,’ she whispered, desperate to see even a flutter of her friend’s eyelids.
‘Wasting your time there, I’m afraid.’
Tamar jumped to her feet. ‘Are you the doctor?’ she asked.
‘Yes,’ said a small, well-dressed man with a harried expression and a clipboard under his arm. ‘Yes, I’m Doctor Hastings. And you are …’
‘Tamar Deane. A close friend of Miss Jakes.’
‘Well, Miss Deane,’ said Hastings. ‘I’m afraid the prognosis is not good, she will probably remain like this forever, if she survives. It’s a miracle she has so far. Such a blow to the head would have killed most people. The staff say she is a prostitute,’ he added irrelevantly.
Tamar was silent for a moment, then replied dismissively, ‘Yes, she is. Does she know what’s going on?’
‘Who can tell?’ he replied, extracting a watch from his waistcoat pocket and ostentatiously checking the time.
Tamar was beginning to lose her temper. ‘Well, you should. You’re supposed to be looking after her.’
Dr Hastings sighed. ‘Miss Deane, as far as I’m aware, and I’ve had considerable experience with injuries like this, she is a vegetable. The only physical reaction we’re seeing at all is a fit of violent sweating accompanied by involuntary shaking every five or six hours. She will in all likelihood remain this way until she dies, which could be quite soon. It will be a mercy. Oh, and she can swallow, but that’s about it.’
The opium, thought Tamar; she still needs the opium. ‘Does she have to stay here?’
‘I’m afraid that would be impossible. We’re dreadfully understaffed at the moment and she’s taking up a bed that could be used by someone else with a more positive prognosis. Does she have means, do you know?’
Tamar nodded.
‘Really?’ said the doctor, clearly surprised. ‘Then I suggest you engage a private nurse as she will need constant attention. Now, if you don’t mind, I must continue my rounds. I’m sorry I can’t be more positive.’
Tamar sat with Polly for a while longer then said goodbye, promising that her next visit would be to take her home. As she left the ward the nurse she had talked to earlier handed her a piece of paper with a name and an address. ‘Lottie Atkin is a friend of mine,’ she said. ‘She’s a nurse who retired to care for her husband. He died recently, and she might be interested in looking after your friend. Go and see her, see what she says. She might be just the person you need.’
‘Thank you very much,’ replied Tamar, surprised and grateful.
‘You’re welcome. We’re here to help,’ said the nurse.
‘Yes, well, somebody should mention that to Doctor Hastings.’
The woman giggled. ‘I’d love to, dearie, but I can’t afford to lose my job. And it’s not his fault. We’re fighting a losing battle.’
Tamar called on Mrs Lottie Atkin that afternoon, and came away with an arrangement that suited everybody. Mrs Atkin, although a liberal-minded and worldly woman, had no intention of relocating to a brothel, so it was decided Polly would be transferred to Mrs Atkin’s home the following day. There, for a generous fee, she would have her own room and constant professional care. It was understood, due to Polly’s serious physical condition, the arrangement would probably not be long term. It was also understood Mrs Atkin would administer regular draughts of Decoction of Opium. As a nurse she had seen opium addiction and was aware that if the poor girl did indeed have any mind left, she would be in utter torment; she was unlikely to survive very long, and Mrs Atkin believed it her duty to make Polly’s remaining time as comfortable as possible. The only slight problem was Mrs Atkin’s refusal to have Cabbage living in her house.
‘It’ll be enough keeping the poor girl clean as it is, without a smelly little dog jumping all over her all day. No, I can’t allow it, I’m sorry,’ she said adamantly.
‘Can he visit? Polly is very attached to him and I’m sure it will do her good,’ Tamar replied.
Mrs Atkin pulled a face. ‘If he must. But he’s not to go near the bed, and he must have a bath beforehand. They’re filthy animals, dogs.’
‘You have a pig in your back yard, I notice.’
‘Aye, but I don’t invite him in to the parlour for tea and scones now, do I?’
Sven, John and Tamar collected Polly from the hospital the following day. After she had been settled, John had a long talk with Mrs Atkin and pronounced her very able indeed. Tamar felt a little less guilty about leaving Polly in the care of a stranger, and said so on the way back to Dilworth Terrace.
‘What was the alternative?’ said John. ‘Were you going to look after her twenty-four hours a day? She’ll be well cared for, fed and kept clean, and Mrs Atkin said she would read to her every day. And she’ll still be getting her damned opium. You and the girls will visit?’
‘Of course.’
‘Then she’ll be as fine as she can be, given the circumstances.’ John didn’t want to say that in his professional opinion Polly’s battered and damaged body would more than likely fail within the next six months.
‘I hope so,’ said Tamar. ‘I really hope so.’
When they arrived back at the house, Eliza met them at the side entrance. She looked nervously from Tamar to John, handed Tamar a card and said, ‘There is a gentleman to see yer, Miss Tamar. In yer office.’
Tamar read the name on the calling card, and when she looked up her face was white.
John took her elbow. ‘What is it? Not more bad news?’
‘No. At least, I don’t think so.’ Tamar took a deep breath and said quietly, ‘It’s Kepa.’ She looked at John steadily. ‘The father of my son.’
‘What’s he doing here?’
‘How should I know? And don’t speak to me like that, please.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said John, only moderately contrite and aware of an unpleasant sensation of jealousy growing in the pit of his stomach. ‘I thought you’d seen the last of him.’
Yes, so did I, thought Tamar. Her heart was racing and she felt weak and in need of a chair. Kepa, after all this time! ‘Do you want to meet him?’ she asked John, not at all sure she wanted to introduce them.
John, pretending nonchalance, removed his hat and gloves. ‘I suppose so, seeing as I’m here,’ he replied.
He followed Tamar inside, frowning in disapproval as she took off her hat and checked her appearance in the étagère mirror. Unaware she was holding her breath, she opened the door to her office.
Kepa stood looking at a painting above the fireplace, and turned towards the door as she entered. His hair had grown longer, but otherwise he was exactly as Tamar remembered him. No, she thought after a moment’s reflection, perhaps his beautiful, strong, dark face had matured a little. They scrutinised each othe
r in silence.
John, feeling foolish and childishly excluded, coughed into his fist.
Tamar started. ‘I’m sorry, I’m forgetting my manners,’ she said. ‘John, this is Kepa Te Roroa. Kepa, this is my good friend, Dr John Adams.’
The two men stepped towards each other and shook hands briefly. No one sat down. There was an awkward silence. If John had been a cat the fur on his back would have been bristling, and he was doing a poor job of keeping the dislike off his face. Tamar felt uncomfortable standing between the two men, and wished John would relax. ‘Let’s sit down, shall we?’ she said in a voice she hoped would not betray her own nervousness.
Kepa nodded, sank gracefully into a chair and absently pushed his dark hair off his forehead. He seemed at ease and completely unperturbed by John’s hostility.
Watching the young Maori warily, John was aware of what Tamar had seen in him; he was extremely handsome with an athletic build and definite charisma. In a fit of pique, John decided to leave. ‘I’m terribly sorry, Tamar, but I’ve remembered I’m supposed to be somewhere else. You must excuse me. Very nice to have met you, Mr Te Roroa.’ He bowed slightly and walked out.
When the door had closed, Kepa observed in an amused tone, ‘I do not believe your friend was pleased to meet me.’ Then, more intimately, he added, ‘I have missed you, Tamar.’
As he stood and moved forward to take her in his arms, she placed both hands on his chest and pushed him away.
‘No,’ she said.
They talked for over three hours. Tamar told him what had happened to her after his son had been born, how she had felt in the weeks after the child had been taken away, and of her flight to Auckland. He listened sympathetically, obviously moved when she spoke of her pain and her fear. Then, when she could finally bring herself to ask when he had returned from England, and he replied that it had been a year ago, she almost slapped him. ‘And what have you been doing since?’ she asked, her voice as controlled as she could manage.
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