Tamar

by Deborah Challinor

‘Ya silly prick,’ Gabriel admonished. ‘Hope it were worth it.’

  ‘It was,’ replied Joseph.

  In his room he examined Gabriel’s back by candlelight, sickened by the deep scratches torn by the barbed wire. ‘Does it hurt?’ he asked.

  ‘She’ll be right,’ came the stoic reply.

  Joseph did what he could to wipe the blood away.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said eventually. There was nothing else he could say.

  ‘No worries, mate.’

  Lina’s absence was noticed at eight the next morning when Sister Abercrombie knocked on her door and received no answer. Going in, she saw the room was empty. She knocked on Joseph’s door next, ignoring the fact he was in his underpants when she opened it without being invited.

  ‘I suppose you don’t know where Lina Van der Hoeven is?’ she asked.

  ‘No,’ replied Joseph, reaching for his trousers. ‘Why, is she missing?’

  ‘It seems so.’ Sister Abercrombie glanced at Joseph’s uniform lying on the floor. ‘Why is the back of your jacket ripped?’

  ‘Caught it on a nail yesterday.’

  Sister Abercrombie stared at Joseph for a moment longer, then left, closing the door behind her.

  Joseph cursed himself for not having the sense to shove his torn jacket under the cot. He got dressed slowly, wondering when she’d be back and who she would have with her — guards or the camp commander.

  But when Sister Abercrombie returned fifteen minutes later, she was alone. She tossed a khaki jacket onto the cot, picked up the torn one and said, ‘You should be careful, Private Deane. You’ll get into trouble one of these days.’

  Joseph lifted the uniform and examined it curiously. ‘It’s a New Zealand one,’ he said. ‘Where did you get it?’

  The sister tapped the side of her nose. ‘Don’t ask, son, just put it on. And I suggest you keep out of the way until you’re ready to leave. I’ll have to report Lina Van der Hoeven and her children are missing. It would be more than my job’s worth not to.’

  It was sensible advice. There was a furore when the commander was informed. Soldiers were ordered to search the camp, Joseph happily estimating Lina would be miles away by now. Careful not to ask about the missing prisoners, he filled in the morning entertaining the children in the hospital ward and chatting with Gabriel, who would be going home himself in a few days. Neither of them mentioned the escape.

  At midday, a provisions wagon arrived at the camp and Joseph caught a lift when it returned to Pretoria. He made his way to the railway station and sat in a bar for several hours until it was time for his train to leave.

  The long trip from Pretoria to Cape Town was pleasant enough, although Joseph discovered he had to pay for it himself unless he wanted to ride in the guard van. He opted for the comparative luxury of a carriage but woke during the night slumped over in his seat with a painful crick in his neck. Reflecting that he might have been better off sleeping on mail bags after all, he made a point of disembarking at every opportunity to stretch his legs.

  He had twenty-four hours in Cape Town before his ship sailed. The Fourth and Fifth Contingents had also arrived after a rest period at Worcester in Cape Colony, but before joining them Joseph shopped for souvenirs and went sightseeing, riding in a little cart pulled by a barefoot African wearing a spectacular headdress incorporating a huge pair of bullock horns. After lunch he set out to find the New Zealanders, although he didn’t have to look far; most of them had congregated in the hotels.

  To his delight he met up with Sergeant Bob Thornton and they embarked on a tour of the town’s bars. The next morning, somewhat worse for wear, the New Zealand contingents made their way to the docks where they spent hours waiting to embark.

  The troopship SS Tagus sailed later the same day, expecting to arrive in New Zealand in under a month. The seas deteriorated as the ship turned east across the bottom of South Africa and sailed into the southern reaches of the Indian Ocean, but she was able to maintain an average of three hundred and twenty miles a day. This was little consolation to her passengers, who were anxious to be home.

  Joseph had plenty of time to reflect on his experiences in South Africa. He came to the ambiguous conclusion, shared by many of his shipmates, that had he known in advance what it was going to be like he wouldn’t have gone, but given the chance he would probably do it again. He thought about poor John Adams, and Jimmy Malone who would be unable to go back to shearing with only one arm, and wondered if it had been worth it.

  The war looked like grinding on for some time yet. The British military commanders were both amazed and profoundly frustrated by the Boers’ tenacity, but refused to go home. The war had been all but won as far as they were concerned, and it certainly looked that way on paper, as all of the major towns in the Transvaal and Orange Free State were under Imperial control, but still the Afrikaners would not surrender. Joseph remembered Lina and smiled.

  Towards the end of June the ship called into port at Albany in southern Australia to take on more coal. General leave was granted, giving the troops a welcome respite on shore, although their commanders regretted the liberty by the end of the day and were forced to send military police to round everyone up. Along with almost everyone else, Joseph got into a fight with a crowd of Australian troops and received his first war wound — a broken nose. All shore leave was cancelled and the New Zealanders were confined on board the Tagus until she sailed two days later.

  That, plus the deteriorating food and the close proximity of home, caused unrest amongst the troops and mutiny was seriously discussed, although nothing came of it. Several days later the ship anchored off Melbourne Heads to take on fresh fruit and vegetables, but only enough for the officers, which rekindled the grumbling and general resentment amongst the enlisted men. So close to home, however, no one considered the insult worth avenging, and they went back to rehashing and embroidering their daring exploits in South Africa, a time-honoured soldiers’ tradition.

  By the time the Tagus reached Port Chalmers, her passengers were more than ready to disembark. As she moved slowly towards the docks, the troops heard the faint sounds of a band striking up. They looked at each other and grinned broadly; this was more like the treatment they were expecting as returning heroes. The closer to the docks they came, the more they could see of the gathered crowd. Although not as big as the one which farewelled them, it was nevertheless a sight for sore, tired and homesick eyes. Every man crowded to the shore side, scrambling for a place near the rails.

  Joseph squinted but couldn’t see anyone he knew, which didn’t surprise him as there were thousands of people on the dock. He assumed someone would be here to meet him, as he had written advising his father he expected to be on the next troopship. He stepped back and let someone else take his place, then went below to collect his kit. By the time he came back up, the ship had docked and the gangway had been lowered.

  The first to disembark were the wounded, and the crowd hushed as a line of stretcher bearers appeared, two men to a litter, and began to file slowly down the gangway. After a decent interval during which the wounded were despatched to waiting ambulances, the crowd erupted into cheers as the first man stepped off the ship.

  As his turn came, Joseph found himself being propelled down the gangway towards the crowd. He had still not glimpsed a familiar face, and was wondering how he could possibly locate anyone in the jostling mass of people, when someone yelled his name. He turned to the left and caught sight of his mother waving at him, her lovely, welcoming face dissected by a huge smile. ‘Joseph!’ Tamar shrieked in a most unladylike fashion. ‘Over here!’

  He raised his hand in answer, the smile on his face matching her own. People stepped aside as he moved towards her, smiling indulgently at their enthusiastic reunion. ‘You’ve grown!’ exclaimed Tamar. ‘You’re not a boy any more!’

  ‘Mam,’ he grumbled as he straightened her hat, knocked askew during their embrace. ‘Is Papa here?’

  ‘No, he’s been away,
but he should be home by the time we get back.’

  ‘And Andrew?’

  ‘Same thing, I’m afraid. Riria’s here though. She’s been rather strange since John died.’

  At that moment he saw Riria elbowing her way towards them. ‘Hello, Joseph,’ she said, kissing him fondly on his cheek. ‘I am looking for John. Was he with you on the ship?’

  Joseph didn’t know what to say and looked at Tamar helplessly.

  ‘Riria has spoken to a tohunga who has advised her John is still alive.’ Behind Riria’s back Tamar’s face clearly expressed her discomfort and distress. ‘She’s hoping to meet him when he comes home.’

  Oh Christ, thought Joseph. ‘No, not as far as I’m aware, Auntie Riria. And I’m sure I would have known.’

  ‘Oh, well,’ replied Riria, not at all put out. ‘There will be more troopships. If you will just give me fifteen minutes to talk to the captain, I will ask to see the manifest and if he is not listed, we can go.’

  As she marched purposefully off in the direction of the gangway, Tamar said, ‘I’m at my wits’ end. What will she do when the last ship comes home and he’s not on it?’

  ‘Have you tried telling her straight out? That John has gone.’

  ‘Well, of course I have, but she’s adamant he hasn’t. She puts great store in that damned medicine man, or whatever he is.’

  ‘They’re not all charlatans, Mam.’

  ‘I know, but I wish this one had picked someone else to imbue with eternal hope. She will be devastated when she finally realises.’ Tamar turned to her son. ‘He is dead, isn’t he?’

  ‘Yes, he is,’ Joseph replied, sadly noting the flicker of hope in his mother’s eyes. ‘There was a burial for him. Full military honours. And I’ve talked to someone who was there.’

  Tamar sighed. Oh John, she thought, why the bloody hell did you have to go off and leave us all?

  June 1902

  Tamar and Andrew were in Napier when the news broke on 2 June. The war in South Africa was over and the Treaty of Vereeniging, signed on 31 May, had granted the Boers favourable terms.

  ‘Thank Christ they’ve come to their senses,’ said Andrew as they hurried to join the crowd outside the offices of the Daily Telegraph. On the front steps a paper boy in short pants warbled ‘War over! Boers defeated!’

  They waited impatiently until the morning edition came off the presses, the ink still tacky on the pages. The treaty was front-page news. Andrew had a quick look at the lead story then rolled his paper up and stuck it under his arm to read properly later.

  ‘This means they will all be home soon,’ said Tamar, thinking of Riria.

  ‘Yes, it does,’ Andrew replied, knowing what was going through her mind. After almost fifteen years of marriage, he knew his lovely wife very well. ‘All I can say is thank God it’s over,’ he added.

  When the British Government had approached Seddon in 1901 about providing yet another contingent, the Premier had conceded to raise a further unit of one thousand men. The Eighth left New Zealand the following February, trailed closely by the Ninth and Tenth Contingents in March and April. Andrew thought it had all gone too far and had been firmly against the sending of the last three contingents, but now it was over the troops would come home.

  New Zealand celebrated as if the war had been waged and won on her own shores. Most major centres declared a holiday as people delirious with patriotism poured into the streets waving flags, letting off fireworks and ringing every bell they could lay their hands on. There were endless parades and processions, culminating in longwinded speeches by dignitaries expressing the hope that a successful and fruitful reconciliation could be achieved with the brave Boers. Andrew thought this was appallingly hypocritical, given the rubbish slung at the Afrikaners in the newspapers over the past three years, but wisely kept his opinions to himself.

  The press was saturated with stories about the huge contribution made by New Zealand troops to the Empire’s victory and the extent to which they had so favourably impressed the British commanders. Better than the Canadians, wrote xenophobic editors, and certainly better than the Australians, who had behaved little better than rascals. Much was also made of the fact that, proportionately, New Zealand’s contribution had been one of the most substantial of the Empire’s colonies, and the tenor of most editorials implied New Zealanders had a right to be proud of their ability to produce such natural and fine soldiers; troops who were brave, resourceful, gallant and, to a man, excellent shots.

  Within a month dozens of war memorials dedicated to the brave and noble young men who had fallen sprouted throughout New Zealand, some even before the last troopships arrived home. There were endless Troopers’ Balls and functions, during which returned soldiers were fêted and celebrated, and plans were launched by Lord Ranfurly to build a home for war veterans in Onehunga as a national memorial.

  Many of the celebrations had ended by the time the last three contingents returned to New Zealand in August, all having arrived in South Africa too late to play a significant part in the war. Four days after the treaty had been signed, Lieutenant Robert McKeich of the Ninth became the last of the Empire’s soldiers to die when he was shot near Vereeniging by three Boers unaware the war had ended.

  Riria met the Ninth when it came home, waiting in a crowd significantly smaller than those which had greeted the earlier contingents. The public response was even more apathetic when the Eighth arrived a week later. Riria, standing at the edge of the dock when the ship berthed, was as horrified as everyone else when the seriously ill were stretchered off. The SS Britannic had been struck by an epidemic of measles soon after leaving Durban, and twenty soldiers had died on the voyage. As litter after litter was carried off, the small crowd became utterly silent, quiet enough to hear the first man who could walk unaided stifle a sob as he shuffled down the gangway. As it became clear the returning troops, although unblooded, were physically and emotionally shattered, a curious mix of shame, disgust and sympathy flickered across faces in the crowd as they silently looked on.

  Riria saw John Adams was not amongst them, and neither did he arrive home with the Tenth a week later.

  EPILOGUE

  August 1902

  Riria was finally forced to consider her beloved husband had indeed died in South Africa, although she refused to say the words. But her last remaining shred of hope dissolved when she received in the mail an image of John’s grave, photographed and forwarded by John’s British commander, Major Mellor, in the hope she might take comfort from it. It had the opposite effect and she collapsed.

  Tamar was summoned by Simon, and she and Andrew packed up the children and went to Auckland immediately. John’s friend Basil Stokes was contacted and asked to attend Riria, although she was beginning to recover physically by the time they arrived.

  Simon confessed he was very worried about his mother. After the photograph had arrived she had taken to her bed, locking the bedroom door and refusing to eat for days. Simon was frightened she’d lost her mind and had climbed up the side of the house, broken a window and found Riria sitting silently on the floor, hugging a photograph of John in his army uniform to her chest. After he pleaded with her, she had conceded to come out of her room, but remained withdrawn.

  ‘I think I know what might be distressing her,’ Simon confided to Tamar. ‘There is nothing for her to grieve over. Father didn’t come home, and there was no tangi. There’s nothing to … there’s no grave.’ He swallowed and looked away for a moment. ‘There’s no body, Auntie.’ Tamar held his hand as he struggled for control. ‘Mama needs something to help her bring things to a close. And so do we.’

  ‘Would a memorial service help?’

  Simon looked at her. ‘I’m not sure, Auntie. Shall I ask Mama?’

  ‘Do you think it would help you? And Rose and David?’

  Tamar watched as he considered the idea. Poor Simon, she thought, only seventeen and already having to shoulder the responsibilities of a man. However, she was sur
e he was capable of it; he was very self-sufficient and mature for his age, handsome and strong like his mother, with his father’s sense of humour and kind heart.

  ‘It might,’ he replied. ‘Mama is used to doing things the Maori way, but we have grown up with both cultures. Yes, I think it might help.’

  Riria agreed to a memorial service, not for herself, but for the children and for John’s many friends. The date was set for the end of the following week, more than a year since John’s death. A church was booked, the minister consulted and Riria sent word to her family at Kainui.

  On 5 September, as pink and white blossom began to appear on Auckland’s fruit trees, John Adams’ family and friends gathered at the Anglican church in Parnell to say goodbye.

  The church was full twenty minutes before the scheduled starting time. The Murdochs sat in the front pew on one side of the church while a composed but sad-looking Riria sat with her children and her parents in the other. Behind them were squeezed several hundred people — John’s friends, colleagues and many of his ex-patients, and what appeared to be half of Kainui village.

  Just as the service was about to begin, the big church doors creaked opened. Tamar turned and was astounded to see a crowd of people standing outside. As they began to file solemnly in, she saw they were all Maori, dressed from head to toe in black and adorned with fresh greenery from native trees. Their mostly bare feet whispered on the wooden boards as they came, the smell of the forest accompanying them as they settled themselves on the floor before the altar, in the aisle and at the back of the church. Tamar’s eyes filled with tears as she realised who they were — the local Maori John had insisted on treating free of charge.

  The minister, convinced no one else could possibly fit into the church, began the service. Tamar, only half listening to his droning words, frowned up at the large cross on the wall above the altar; she still had several bones to pick with God and this would be another one. Why did John have to die when there were plenty of others the world would barely miss? People like the sort of person Peter Montgomery had been. She gave a small start; she hadn’t thought of Peter in such a long time. Why would she, with five children whom she cherished, and a loving and attentive husband? Her lips curved in a gentle smile as it occurred to her that now, in the summer of her life, she had exactly what she’d always wanted.