At the door he turned and said again, ‘I’m sorry,’ leaving Tamar and Andrew in little doubt regarding their daughter’s prognosis.
Through eyes flooded with tears Tamar looked at her husband. Andrew’s face was white. ‘Oh, Andrew,’ she said. ‘It’s so unfair.’
He sat down beside her and plumped the pillows behind them, putting his arm around Tamar’s shoulders and drawing her head against his chest. ‘I know it is, my darling.’
‘What shall we tell the children?’
‘All they need to know is that she’s very sick. We’ll deal with anything else if it happens.’
Tamar did not share his optimism. She had been holding Brigid almost constantly since the birth, and knew there was something very wrong. The poor little mite was barely conscious most of the time and almost totally unresponsive. They sat together for several minutes, leaning on each other for support and strength.
‘Do you want to bring them in? They haven’t even seen her yet.’
‘Aye,’ said Andrew, heaving himself wearily off the bed. He carefully lifted the baby out of her crib and nestled her into Tamar’s arms, stooping to place a gentle kiss on the child’s tiny, screwed-up face. ‘Shall I send Jeannie up, too?’
Tamar nodded slowly but did not take her eyes off her daughter; her need to gaze at her newest child for as long as she could, to breathe in her baby scent and memorise her features and the silky feel of her exquisitely soft skin, was overwhelming.
She glanced up as the bedroom door opened, and her eyes filled with tears as a troop of children filed in. First was eight-year-old James, brown-haired, already tall, earnest and independent. Behind him came Thomas, a year younger, fair-haired, gentle and sensitive, followed by their younger sister, Keely. Auburn-haired like her mother, she was already showing signs of the grace and poise she would develop as a young woman, although now, dressed in a calf-length cotton smock and pinafore, long stockings and high laced boots, her hair in ringlets and her bottom lip wobbling, she looked all of her five years. Ian, the baby, was wriggling in the arms of the long-suffering Mrs Muldoon.
‘Children,’ said Tamar gently, ‘come and see your new sister.’
They shuffled over to the bed and carefully leaned over the small bundle in Tamar’s arms.
‘Why is it all blue?’ asked James after a minute.
‘She, James,’ replied Andrew softly. ‘And her name is Brigid.’
‘She’s a funny colour because she’s not very well,’ Tamar answered. ‘Now, who wants to hold her first?’
‘Me!’ shouted James and Keely at the same time.
James turned and pushed his little sister away. ‘No, me! I’m the oldest.’
Keely shoved him back. ‘And I’m the girl. Boys don’t play with babies!’ At the thought of not being first to hold the new baby, her face crumpled and large tears appeared, hovering on her long eyelashes.
Andrew suppressed a smile. Keely insisted on doing everything her brothers did, but had no compunction whatsoever in demanding what she believed were her feminine rights, when it suited.
‘No, I think Thomas can hold her first, seeing he’s the only one who isn’t arguing,’ he said.
Thomas’ face lit up and he extended his arms stiffly, as if expecting to be handed a heavy bag of potatoes. Andrew lifted him next to Tamar and she passed him the small bundle, making sure his arm supported the baby’s head. He looked down at the little face, a look of wonder on his own. ‘Why is she so small?’
‘Well,’ said Andrew, ‘she had to be that little to live inside your mam.’
‘My turn now,’ interrupted Keely, clambering onto the high bed and insinuating herself between Tamar and Thomas.
‘Da!’ wailed James. ‘It was my turn next.’
‘Hold your horses,’ Andrew said softly. ‘You’ll have your turn in a minute. We need to be very gentle with her.’
There was a light tap on the door and Jeannie looked in.
‘Jeannie,’ said Andrew. ‘Come in. We’re just about to talk to the children and we thought you should be here too. Is Erin about?’
Erin was Jeannie and Lachlan’s six-year-old daughter, usually inseparable from Keely, but for once the two were not together.
‘No, she’s in the garden,’ Jeannie replied, frowning as she contemplated the new baby. ‘I think she realises something’s not right. She’s quite upset. I’ll fetch her in soon.’
Andrew nodded, then turned to Tamar and raised his eyebrows.
‘I’ll do it,’ she said heavily. She patted the bed beside her, inviting James to snuggle up. When he had settled himself she spoke, her voice low and soothing. ‘I said before that Brigid is very sick.’ Three little heads nodded solemnly. ‘Well, that means God might want to have Brigid with him in Heaven. She’s so special she’s already just about an angel, and we can probably only have her for a very short time.’ Her voice broke. ‘Do you understand what I’m saying?’
Keely burst into tears, James looked away and Thomas bit his lip, his own eyes brimming. His voice wavering he asked, ‘Is she going to die? Like Cabbage?’
Cabbage, stiff and grumpy with arthritis and his dark patches almost completely grey, had died last year. Andrew had made a small casket and the children had buried their beloved pet in the family cemetery and erected a cross painted with ‘Cabbage’. The writing had worn off but Keely still put wildflowers on the grave from time to time.
‘Well, sort of like Cabbage,’ Andrew replied. He looked at his sister helplessly.
She rescued him. ‘But Cabbage went to dog Heaven. If Brigid goes to Heaven, she’ll be the prettiest, happiest, most special angel with her own little throne right next to God.’
Thomas digested this. ‘If God wants her soon, will she always be a baby or will she grow up in Heaven?’
Bloody hell, thought Andrew. ‘I don’t know. But nobody knows what will happen to Brigid yet, except for God himself. She might be allowed to stay here after all.’
But she wasn’t. Brigid Ann Murdoch died in her sleep two weeks later and was buried in the family cemetery, not far from Cabbage.
John Adams, who had been notified by wire, had been en route to Napier when Brigid died. He and Riria arrived the day after the funeral. Tamar and Andrew waited on the front steps to meet them, surrounded by their surviving children. As John jumped from the driver’s seat, his wife stepped down behind him.
‘Riria!’ cried Tamar, hurrying down the steps, her arms held wide.
The two women embraced fiercely. Under the portico, John and Andrew shook hands and patted each other on the shoulder — as close as they could come to an embrace, despite their close friendship.
‘You lost her,’ said John, reading the other man’s face. Tamar’s quiet sobbing confirmed his fears. ‘I’m so sorry, Andrew.’
‘There was nothing that could be done, she was too weak. Tamar took it hard but I think she’s starting to come to terms with it now.’
‘And you?’
Andrew struggled to control his voice. ‘We still have four healthy children — others haven’t been so lucky. There won’t be any more, though.’ He leaned forward and kissed Riria’s cheek as the women joined them.
‘Very wise,’ said John quietly before he embraced Tamar. ‘I’m so sorry,’ he said. ‘How are you feeling?’
She wiped her eyes with a lace-edged handkerchief, and then her nose. ‘A lot better now, thank you, John. It was very difficult when she died.’
John nodded in sympathy; he and Riria had lost a child several years ago.
Jeannie appeared at the top of the steps. ‘Hello, John, Riria,’ she said. ‘Mrs Muldoon is preparing tea, if you’d like some.’
Inside, James, Thomas, Keely and Erin were sitting at the bottom of the stairs, all wearing black mourning sashes and armbands. Keely skipped over to John. ‘Hello, Uncle John. Our sister died. She’s an angel now. Have you got a present for me?’
‘That’s rude, asking for presents,’ said James, co
ming forward to shake John’s hand like a miniature adult and offering his cheek to Riria for a kiss.
‘Well, let’s see,’ said John, patting his pockets exaggeratedly. ‘I might have. Yes, here we are,’ he said, withdrawing four small packets from inside his coat.
‘Ooh, goody,’ said Keely. ‘Lemon drops.’
‘Thank you, Uncle John,’ said James and Thomas in unison, pocketing theirs for later.
‘Thank you, Mr Adams,’ said Erin, shy as always.
Mrs Muldoon came bustling down the hall, shooing the children out the front door. ‘Out you go and play while your parents talk to Dr and Mrs Adams. Go on, off with you,’ she said. ‘Tea is served in the parlour, Mrs Murdoch.’
Tamar led the way into the parlour, a large, warm room with autumn sun streaming through the French doors. She poured tea for herself and for Riria, while John and Andrew helped themselves to brandy.
‘You’ve left the children at home?’ Andrew asked Riria.
‘No. They have gone home to Kainui to be with my parents for a month. We sent them last week before we left to come here.’
John and Riria had three children of their own ranging in age from twelve to eight; a boy named Simon, the eldest, then Rose aged ten, then another boy, David.
Jeannie joined them and helped herself to tea and a slice of cake.
‘Ian’s fine, still asleep. I’ve just checked on him.’
‘Thank you, Jeannie,’ Tamar said gratefully. She was more than happy for her sister-in-law to be closely involved in the care of her youngest son; Jeannie loved children but Erin’s birth in 1891 had been accompanied by severe complications that almost killed her and left her incapable of further pregnancies. She and Lachie had resigned themselves to Erin being their only child, and doted on her, but Tamar willingly shared her own children as often as she could.
‘Is that Madeira cake?’ asked John, leaning forward and slicing himself a slab the size of a doorstep. ‘My favourite.’
Tamar almost smiled, pleased to see he hadn’t changed, although he had finally grown fatter. She and Andrew saw John and Riria twice a year at most, and she cherished their time together. Then, with a stab of pain, she remembered what had brought them together this time.
She had been to Brigid’s grave twice today. The grave itself was so small and final-looking, and the thought of her tiny daughter lying beneath the heavy soil in her small white casket made her chest ache. But strangely, the pain was not the same as it had been when she lost Joseph. Somehow, it had been worse knowing he was alive somewhere but unable to see or hold him. This time she knew her child had gone forever, and the agony was slightly more bearable. Most New Zealand mothers experienced the death of at least one child, and she had been offered the support of several local women who had been through similar bereavements, which had been comforting.
She looked up to see Riria watching her closely. ‘Are you really all right?’ her friend asked.
Tamar nodded, although the lines of sorrow etched on her pale face betrayed the depths of her pain. ‘I will be, Riria. I have Andrew and the children, you and John are here now, and Joseph’s coming soon. Yes, I will be, eventually.’
Joseph steadied himself as he walked down the wide hallway to meet his mother. She darted out of the kitchen at the sound of his footsteps on the wooden floor, and hurried into his arms, weeping.
He was easily taller than her now, and he sent an impassioned glance towards Andrew over her head; he adored his mother, and it hurt him terribly to see her in such pain.
‘We lost her, Joseph. We lost our little girl,’ she sobbed into his shoulder as he held her.
‘I know, Mam.’ He didn’t know what else to say. ‘I came as fast as I could.’
Tamar nodded and pulled back. ‘I know you did, my love.’
Joseph said nothing. Instead, he put his arm around his mother and gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze as she blew her nose.
Andrew cleared his throat and said, ‘John and Riria are here. They arrived yesterday.’
‘I’d better say hello, then,’ said Joseph.
‘And when you’ve had a rest and something to eat, I’ll take you up to see Brigid,’ added Tamar.
Joseph had met John and Riria when he had been staying at Kenmore. He had taken to Riria immediately, but felt ill at ease with John. In fact, he had been slightly rude the first time they met. Joseph had only been ten, distrustful and slightly in awe of the balding Pakeha takuta, until Andrew had taken him aside and bluntly catalogued the charity John had given, and was still giving, to many of the Maori people of Auckland. Joseph revised his opinion, and began to notice things about his mother’s friend he rather liked; the man’s compassion, his integrity and honesty, and, most of all, his constant good humour. They now got on very well, although they never saw each other often enough to consider their relationship a true friendship. Joseph liked John and Riria’s children, too; they were bright and happy.
After several cups of tea and three large sandwiches, Tamar took Joseph to visit Brigid’s grave.
Arm in arm they walked up the gentle hill behind the house, and opened the gate in the wrought-iron fence enclosing the small cemetery. His half-sister’s grave was pathetically small, and Joseph felt his eyes prickle with tears as he gazed at the flowers piled over the little hump of fresh soil. There was no headstone, but no doubt there would be soon.
‘I’m so sorry, Mam,’ he said, taking Tamar’s hand.
Tamar nodded but said nothing; her tears were still very close, and she didn’t trust herself to speak. Joseph closed his eyes and began to murmur a karakia. As Joseph concluded his prayer, there came the gentle laughter of a fantail. They both turned and spied the small bird, perched with its black and yellow tail splayed, on a low branch of a nearby tree.
‘Ah,’ said Joseph. ‘Te piwakawaka. A good sign.’
‘Why?’ asked Tamar.
‘He arrives to accompany the souls of the recently dead to the underworld. Brigid is beginning her journey, and she will not be alone. Can you not feel her?’
Holding herself perfectly motionless, Tamar strained with every nerve of her being to feel even a whisper of her daughter’s spiritual presence. As a gentle breeze lifted her hair about her face, a small smile played on her lips. ‘Yes.’
Tamar remained with her eyes closed for some minutes until the fantail launched itself into the air and swooped past her, one small wing almost touching her shoulder. They watched in silence as the bird flew away.
‘She’s gone now, hasn’t she?’ Tamar said.
Joseph nodded. He gently took his mother’s hand, and they walked back to the house.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
October 1899
Name and age, lad?’
‘Joseph Deane, sir. Twenty-three, sir.’ A lie.
The interviewing officer, the Hawke’s Bay district commander of the New Zealand Volunteer Force, squinted warily at the young man. He’d seen him once or twice on training exercises but had never met him.
‘Race?’
‘European.’
The commander tapped his pencil lightly against the side of his nose. If this boy was a twenty-three-year-old European, then he was a monkey’s uncle. There were express instructions from the British Colonial Office to exclude native troops. Apparently, it was a ‘white man’s war’. But Dick Seddon didn’t seem to have a problem with it, and volunteers had been called for, so why shouldn’t this boy go to South Africa and fight for the Queen? He looked fit, more than met the height requirement of five feet six inches, and seemed keen. ‘Can you ride and shoot?’
‘Of course, sir. I am proficient in both.’
An educated one, too. Where the hell were they coming from, these literate, well-spoken Maoris? ‘You’ll have to pass tests.’
The young man nodded.
The commander made up his mind. ‘Righto then, lad. Sign here. There’s a contingent of two hundred leaving in three weeks. Report to the railway station by ten i
n the morning next Monday to catch the train to Wellington. There’ll be provision to have your horse transported. I assume you have your own mount?’
Joseph nodded and signed the piece of paper the commander thrust across the table at him, deliberately substituting Kepa with Deane as his surname.
He had not discussed his decision to volunteer with anyone. His father would not be pleased, he knew, and both of his mothers, Mereana and Tamar, would hit the roof, but it was his decision. He would have to break the news to them as soon as possible, although he wasn’t looking forward to it. He had lied about his age — he had only recently turned nineteen but was big and mature-looking for his years — and he knew the commander could have looked up his records, and checked his ethnicity, but he hadn’t, which Joseph took as tacit approval. And if the commander of the district’s Volunteer Forces approved, then his parents would have to as well.
Outside, Joseph stopped to compare notes with a handful of other young men who were also volunteering, then untied his horse from the hitching rail, swung into the saddle and trotted down Dickens Street, his head high. He felt elated at the prospect of going overseas to fight, but nervous as well, which he took to be a healthy sign. Te Kanene, who had fought alongside Te Kooti in the early 1870s, and the fearsome Titokowaru in Taranaki before that, said that any man who claimed to be unafraid of battle was either a fool, a liar, or simpleminded.
‘You have what!’ exclaimed Kepa, whirling about to face his son.
‘I’ve volunteered to go to South Africa. To fight for Queen Wikitoria.’
Kepa shook his head slowly and sat down. ‘You stupid boy. It is not our war and she is not our queen.’
Joseph stared straight ahead, refusing to catch his father’s eye. He would not be dissuaded.
‘Why?’ his father demanded. ‘Eh? Why?’
Joseph remained silent.
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