Sentence of Marriage

by Shayne Parkinson

  ‘But it has happened, Lizzie. You’re saying I should stay here and work for Susannah all my life, watching Pa get older and greyer every day he has to look at me? With John and Harry feeling sorry for me, when they weren’t wishing I was out of the way? None of them would ever be able to forget what I’ve done if I was always under their noses. They’d all be fighting about me half the time, anyway. At least I get a home of my own this way. I thought you wanted that for me.’

  ‘Of course I do, but not with him! Why does it have to be Charlie?’

  ‘Because no one else wants me. How many men do you think would even look at a girl in this state?’ She pointed to her big belly.

  ‘You won’t be in that state forever—not for much longer. It’s only two or three months now, isn’t it?’

  ‘I’ll still be soiled. No one wants a girl who’s been shamed. No one who can get a decent girl, anyway. Men like to be the first—or so I’m told.’

  ‘But Amy, you don’t have to wear a sign around your neck saying what happened—and stop using those names for yourself. Listen—no one outside the family knows about it—well, except Charlie, and he never talks to anyone. Everyone wants to keep it a secret—I don’t know if Pa’s even told Bill. If you wait a while, maybe a year or two, you’ll meet someone else. Someone good enough for you,’ she said fiercely.

  ‘Meet someone wonderful and fall in love again, you mean? And then watch him run away when he finds out what I am? That’s not a sensible idea, Lizzie, even if I could fall in love again. Even if I wanted to.’

  ‘Would… would you really have to tell him?’ Lizzie asked hesitantly. ‘I mean, why tell if it would cause trouble? What someone doesn’t know can’t hurt them.’

  Amy shook her head. ‘He’d soon notice something was missing once we got married.’ She saw the mystified look on Lizzie’s face. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, Lizzie, sometimes I forget you don’t really know anything about it. It wouldn’t be right for me to talk to you about that sort of thing, anyway. Just take my word for it, men know whether they’re the first or not.’

  ‘Oh.’ Lizzie looked crestfallen. ‘Well, what about teaching, then?’ she said, animated again. ‘You always wanted to do that. If you’re really sure you won’t get a real husband, couldn’t you do that instead? You’d be sort of independent then. You could get your own house to live in.’

  Amy shut her eyes against a new wave of grief and loss. ‘Lizzie, what sort of parents do you think would let a girl like me teach their children? No, don’t say I could keep it a secret. I’m not going to lie to make people trust me with their little ones. That’s gone forever. I’m never going to be a teacher now.’

  ‘Maybe that’s true, but I still don’t want you to marry Charlie. You’ll hate it—you know you will.’

  ‘Stop making it harder, Lizzie. It’s either stay here and make everyone miserable, or take my chances with Charlie. Maybe things won’t be as bad as you think with him. I know how bad they’ll be here.’

  ‘But Amy—’

  ‘Stop it! Go away, Lizzie. Leave me alone.’ She turned, and when she looked back over her shoulder Lizzie was disappearing from sight through the trees.

  *

  Jack watched as Susannah replaced the covers Thomas had kicked off before she put out the lamp and climbed into bed. ‘It’ll be September soon, Amy’s only got a little over two months to go now,’ she said. ‘She’d better go to Auckland soon.’

  ‘Well, you’ve been writing all these letters, arranging everything. What have you sorted out for her?’

  ‘There’s a woman who organises adoptions, Constance has got her name and address for me. And Constance has booked Amy into a small nursing home. She said it’s very clean and nice. She won’t be able to go there till the child’s coming, of course, so she’ll have to stay somewhere first.’

  ‘Will your sister have her?’

  ‘Hardly, Jack! You can’t expect Constance to have an unmarried girl in that state in her house. What if anyone were to see Amy there? Mother often visits, too.’

  ‘I suppose you haven’t told your ma and pa about Amy? Or about their son, come to that,’ he added bitterly.

  Susannah ignored his reference to Jimmy. ‘I haven’t really told Constance about her,’ she admitted. ‘She thinks it’s your niece she’s been arranging things for. I’d never hear the end of it if she knew it was my stepdaughter.’

  ‘Humph! I can see why. Well, where’s Amy going to stay, then?’

  Susannah said nothing for a few moments, then spoke in a careful tone. ‘There’s a place that takes girls like her. It’s not very far from the nursing home, and she’d be well looked after.’

  ‘What are you talking about, Susannah?’ Jack asked suspiciously. ‘What do you mean “Girls like her”?’

  ‘Girls who have babies before they’re married. Fallen girls. They look after them,’ she added quickly. ‘The women who run that sort of place are terribly kind people. This one is run by the church.’

  ‘You mean a place for whores, don’t you? You want to send my daughter to a home for whores.’

  ‘Reformed whores, Jack.’

  ‘I’m not having Amy living with whores! She’s just a child. Don’t you ever make a suggestion like that again.’

  ‘Shh! You’ll wake the children.’ She gave a sigh. ‘Well, if you’re going to take that attitude she’ll have to stay in a boarding house. I’ll see if Constance can find one near the nursing home.’

  ‘That sister of yours doesn’t waste any time, does she? She’s sorted all this out pretty fast. You only let her know a couple of weeks ago, when Charlie asked for Amy. Up till then we were going to keep the baby here.’

  ‘There’s no time to waste,’ Susannah said. Jack wondered why she sounded so defensive. ‘Constance knows that, she’s been rushing around as a favour to me.’

  ‘I suppose I should be grateful to her. What about this boarding house, then? I want Amy in a decent place, not another home for reformed whores.’

  ‘No, no, it’ll be an ordinary boarding house, the sort you might stay in yourself if you went to Auckland.’

  ‘Good. I don’t want to hear that other place mentioned again.’

  ‘You realise it will cost quite a lot of money for Amy to stay in a boarding house all that time? She’ll probably have to be there two months. That’s on top of the money for the nursing home, not to mention her passage to Auckland and back.’

  Jack turned towards her in the darkness. ‘Do you think I begrudge spending a bit of money on her? I’d gladly spend ten times the amount if I thought it would make things right for Amy.’

  ‘I’m sure you would. I’ll write to Constance again tomorrow, then, and ask her to book Amy into a boarding house. You’d better see about getting her a passage on the boat, too. Will you take her yourself or send one of the boys?’

  ‘I’ve been thinking about that. Amy should have a woman with her, in case she’s taken poorly on the boat. You’d better take her. You can’t stay with her the whole time, but I want you there the first week or two she’s in Auckland, to see that everything’s all right.’

  He heard a sharp intake of breath from Susannah’s side of the bed. ‘You mean you’ll let me go to Auckland?’

  ‘I don’t have much option. You’ll have to take the little fellows, too, I can’t look after them properly.’

  ‘Oh, I want to take them! Mother and Father have never even seen them—oh, Jack, it’ll be wonderful! I’ll see my family, and visit all the people I used to know, and do some shopping, too—you will give me some money, won’t you? I’ll be able to get some decent clothes again at last.’

  ‘I’ll give you a bit. You’ll stay with your ma and pa, will you?’

  ‘Of course. I could hardly go to Auckland and not stay with them, could I?’

  ‘I suppose not. You make sure you see Amy settled in properly first, though. And I want you to visit this nursing home yourself, to see that it’s a fit place.’

&nbs
p; ‘I will. Oh, I can hardly wait!’ He felt Susannah give a wriggle of excitement, making the bed shake a little.

  ‘Susannah,’ he said. ‘I’m trusting you.’

  ‘I know you are. I’ll look after Amy, don’t worry.’

  ‘That’s not what I meant. I’m trusting you to come back again. I don’t want to be made a fool of, Susannah. I’d be the laughing-stock of the town if you stayed in Auckland. It’s not that long ago you said you wanted to go up there and not come back.’

  He felt her roll over to face him, and one of her knees brushed lightly against his leg. He wished he could see her expression. ‘I didn’t mean it,’ she whispered. ‘I sometimes say things I don’t mean, when I get tired and upset. I’ll come back, I promise I will.’

  ‘Good. I’d have to come and get you if you didn’t, you know.’

  ‘I know.’

  30

  September 1884

  Amy let the arrangements go on around her as though someone else were being spoken of. She listened with mild interest when told she would be going to Auckland to have the baby. She packed the clothes Susannah told her to pack. On the morning they were to leave she sat in the kitchen, her father’s battered old case on the chair beside her, and waited patiently for Susannah to finish getting ready.

  She fingered the catch on the case and thought about the two things she had put in that Susannah knew nothing of: Jimmy’s brooch, and the velvet ribbon its box was nestled in. She could not wear the brooch, but she couldn’t bear to leave it in the drawer for Susannah to find and speculate over, and perhaps to question her about when she came home. And she could not bear to throw it away.

  The months that stretched ahead of her were simply an interlude she had to pass through before the next real thing was to happen in her life: she was going to marry Charlie. Before then she would have the baby, but that had no solid meaning for her. ‘The baby’ was an abstract idea; a creature without a face. She knew she had to do the right thing by this being she had created, but the people around her had decided what the right thing was. Amy’s only responsibility was to do as she was told. It would all be over once the baby was born and had been given to the kind people who were waiting for it. Then she would come home and marry Charlie. Then everyone will be happy. Everyone else, anyway. And I’ll be all right. Maybe he’ll be kind to me.

  Jack drove them into town and carried their bags onto the boat, and stayed with them until the ‘all ashore’ call was given. He gave each of his little boys a hug and kissed Amy, putting his arms around her carefully so as not to press too hard against her bulge. He kissed Susannah more as if he thought it was the right thing to do than with any real enthusiasm, then went back up the gangplank to wave to them as the Staffa pulled away from the wharf.

  There was still just enough child left in Amy for her to feel a small surge of excitement when the boat started moving. This was her great adventure; she was leaving the place where she had spent her entire fifteen years. From now on, every place on the voyage would be somewhere she had never set eyes on before. Even the sounds and smells were new to her: the rumble of the engines, the thrumming of the deck under her boots, the grind of cables, the smell of burning coal. She was travelling. Never in her dreams had she imagined travelling for such a reason as this, but still she was travelling. A wayward thought forced its way into her awareness, and refused to be crushed down. Jimmy was on this boat six months ago. When he left me. Amy looked past the wharf at the buildings of Ruatane and the hills behind the town, and knew she was leaving behind everything familiar and safe.

  Susannah’s voice broke into her thoughts. ‘Wrap your cloak around you properly. And you’d better come and sit in the ladies’ cabin. Not that the little hutch deserves such a fancy name—I’d forgotten what a horrible little boat this is.’

  She took Amy by the arm and led her into a tiny cabin astern of the wheel-house. ‘There aren’t any other women on the boat and men are blind about that sort of thing, but there’s no sense making yourself conspicuous. It’s too stuffy in here for the children, I’ll be up on the deck with them if you need anything.’

  The cabin was almost airless, and what little breeze made its way through the doorway brought the smoke of the engines with it, mixed with a smell of hot oil. Amy soon gave up brushing coal soot from her cloak. At least the dark fabric would not show the cinder smudges too badly. She sat on one of the narrow benches that lined each wall and peered out at the coastline as it slowly slid past the portholes. All she saw was sandy beach with fern or flax behind it, and bush-covered hills in the background. She crossed to the other side of the cabin and tried there. At first it looked exactly the same, but when they crossed the river bar the view changed to one of flat grey sea stretching out to meet grey sky at the horizon. It was too cloudy for a glimpse of White Island.

  She went back to the first side, keeping her balance with difficulty in the swell that was now making the little boat pitch and roll. Amy tried to concentrate on the land slipping past, but the hills were rising and dipping in a disconcerting way, and her stomach seemed to want to imitate their motion. It was not long before she made her first grab at the bucket someone had conveniently placed beside the bench, and emptied her breakfast into it.

  Susannah came down to see her early in the afternoon, her face tinged with green. ‘Do you want anything to eat?’ she asked. Amy lay on the bench and groaned. ‘No, I’m not surprised. The Captain says this is a calm trip—I’d hate to be on a rough one, I’m ill enough as it is. Thomas has been sick, too, I can’t get any food into him. George hasn’t, though, I suppose that’s something. You’re sure you don’t want this?’ She thrust a package of sandwiches towards Amy. Amy pushed them away and leaned over the bucket once more. ‘You’re even worse than me,’ Susannah said. She left, and Amy was again alone in the cabin.

  In the evening there was a pause in her misery when the boat pulled into harbour. Susannah came to the cabin to fetch her; much to Amy’s disappointment, this was not the end of the voyage.

  ‘Wh-why are we catching another boat?’ Amy asked groggily, her mouth feeling as if it were full of rancid cotton wool. ‘Isn’t this one horrible enough?’

  ‘The Staffa doesn’t go to Auckland, you know that. Don’t be so silly. We have to change here, we’ll be on the Wellington for the rest of the way.’

  ‘I’d forgotten that. So this isn’t Auckland yet?’ Amy peered through the darkness as she made her way unsteadily down the gangplank, trying to make out the shape of the town by the lights that stretched a short distance either side of the wharf.

  ‘This?’ Susannah said scornfully. ‘This place isn’t all that much bigger than Ruatane—well, not compared to Auckland, anyway. This is Tauranga. Now, I must see that those men get our luggage moved properly. Stand here out of the way.’

  When their luggage had been safely stowed Amy found herself being bustled into a much larger ladies’ cabin that, with its padded leather couches and heavy drapes, was positively luxurious after the Staffa’s. She was vaguely aware of a stewardess approaching her and being brushed aside by Susannah, then her stepmother led her to a little bunk and helped her remove her boots and stockings. She lay down gratefully, and in the hour or two before the Wellington sailed she dropped off into a blissful sleep. If I’m asleep I won’t be sick, she thought drowsily as she drifted off.

  In the early hours of the morning the motion of the ship woke her, and Amy found that nausea was more insistent than sleep. At first she tried to vomit quietly, so as not to wake Susannah and the few other women in the cabin, but soon nothing mattered except getting to the bucket in time. It was a very long night.

  When daylight had come at last, Susannah leaned over her. ‘I’m taking the children up on deck for some fresh air. We’re in the gulf and it’s not so rough now. Were you ill in the night?’

  ‘Yes,’ Amy muttered miserably into her pillow.

  ‘You stay here. Shall I bring you breakfast?’

  �
��No,’ Amy groaned.

  ‘You’d feel better if you had something, you know. You won’t be sick again, not now we’re out of the open sea.’ Amy proved her wrong at that point. ‘Oh. Perhaps you’d better not have breakfast, then. You’re a terrible traveller, aren’t you? I thought I was bad enough—none of my family are good sailors. But you’re much worse than me.’

  ‘Susannah,’ Amy said weakly, ‘could I come up on deck with you? The fresh air might make me feel a little bit better.’

  ‘No, I want you out of sight. You don’t want people staring at you, do you?’ Susannah moved out of Amy’s field of vision, and Amy tried without success not to notice how stale the air in the cabin was. It smelt of bodies overdue for a bath, of small children who had soiled their clothes, and of sickly-sweet perfume, with engine fumes overlaying the whole mélange. She reached for the stinking bucket again.

  But Susannah was right; the water was calmer now. After another hour or so, Amy could bear to look out the porthole at little bays slipping by. They passed several islands, and she wondered what their names were. Finally she saw a large wharf, lined with stacks of firewood, come into view, and felt the engines slow down. Amy could just manage to get her stockings and boots on, though her bulk made it difficult to see what she was doing, and by the time Susannah came back into the cabin to fetch her she was sitting up on the bunk with her cloak wrapped around her.

  Amy was vaguely aware of noise and bustle all around her as sailors made the boat fast, passengers retrieved their baggage, and dock workers started unloading the cargo. Susannah hurried Amy ahead of her down the gangplank, at the same time leading Thomas by the hand and carrying George.

  ‘The ground’s still swaying!’ Amy said in dismay when she was safely on the wharf.

  ‘No, it’s not. You only think it is,’ Susannah said, and Amy soon found that her stomach believed it, even if her head did not. Susannah made Amy stand by a pile of flax bales and hold Thomas and George by the hand while she organised their baggage, then she retrieved her charges and shepherded them along briskly.