As she hopped up the stairs, Mere came out of the dining room.
‘You’re going up to Sam?’ she asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Good, I’ll be up in a minute.’
Elizabeth found Sam disgruntled and just waking up. She bent over the cradle and chatted to him to encourage a smile.
‘There then, and did you have a lovely sleep? There’s a nice smile.’ It was aimless, loving prattle. ‘Who’s a lucky boy then? Up here all alone with no one to worry him then. Don’t bother to grow up, Sammy, love. It’s not worth it, not a bit. You just get into all the troubles in the world.’
She felt his damp napkins and started to undo the long cloth tapes that held them in place.
‘If your only worry is wet pants, it’s not too bad, eh? You don’t get blamed for things other people do, do you, poppet? That’s right then, there’s a lovely smile. Blow these tapes.’ She picked at the tight, damp knot. ‘And it’s not fair, is it, love? Not fair at all, saying it was my fault.’ She kept up an even murmur but a hint of bitterness crept into her voice. ‘I do try, Sammy, honest I do, and now I get blamed for something I didn’t even do.’ Sam’s face fell as he caught the distress in her voice. ‘But Sam’s alright. Mama loves Sam. Lizzie loves Sam. Everyone loves Sam. And poor old Lizzie will have to look after herself, won’t she? But I think Sam loves Lizzie, doesn’t he? After all, she looks after him, doesn’t she? Yes, I’m sure Sam loves Lizzie, even if Mama doesn’t.’
A faint sound caused her to look up. Mere was standing on the other side of the cradle.
‘Oh Lizzie,’ she said, ‘don’t feel like that. It wasn’t your mother talking just now, it was her worry.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Elizabeth, her face still and distant.
‘Of course it was,’ said Mere. ‘No one blames you. Not even your mother really. Everything seems to upset her these days. I’m sure she’ll get over it. When all her worries are over. Be patient, Lizzie, just be patient.’
CHAPTER 7
March 1834
Dear Family,
I write to you all together because I can think of you standing around the box when it is unpacked, reading my letter aloud. How I miss you all and my friends too. Send my regards to John and Mere and to Thomas and Titohea and their families.
I have been working hard at school and Reverend Tacy who, as you know, I was named after, takes a proprietary interest in me and has been pleased with my marks. He is a very nice man which, you will realize, goes with the name. I am not top of the class but I am not bottom either.
Mr Esmond, the geography teacher, got me and two of the other boys to address the class on countries we had visited. Doncaster talked about India and Mason about Africa. I showed them the weaving and the bone tiki that Mere and John gave me, and sang some chants. I think they were quite impressed that I could speak the language. Regarding which, the Reverend Tacy had to go to Cambridge recently, to a gathering of clergymen. He took me with him to see Professor Lee who is a professor of languages. Apparently he has done much work on studying the Maori tongue. He told me that I am a unique person, because I am the first person he has met who can speak both English and Maori fluently. Hongi and Waikato, the Maoris he had met when they visited England, had both learnt some English. And the missionaries have learnt some Maori. But I was the only one who knew both. So, dear brothers and sisters, we are unique in this world. I spent the whole afternoon with him while Reverend Tacy attended his meeting; we had tea and muffins by the fire in his room, and chatted. He was much interested in all I had to tell him.
Mary Ann, you do ask me impossible questions but all I can tell you is that high waists are hardly seen any more, except on some old ladies. Skirts are very full and gathered and sleeves are big and puffed out on people who are trying to be fashionable. Is that enough?
Aunt Ann is a peach. Whenever she comes to Norfolk she brings me a great basket of fruit and baking and some extra good toffee she makes. Which all goes to cheer up the school food which is not very interesting but which could be called solid, I suppose.
It continues to be very cold. Several times we have had snow but it does not stay long. One week it was exceedingly cold and the river froze! You cannot conceive what it was like. Imagine the river at home suddenly going hard and smooth and us being able to walk on it. I tried to slide around but spent more time on my backside than on my feet, I am sad to report. Though there are signs that spring is on its way.
My cough is a bit better, you will be glad to hear, Mama. The matron of the school is very kind and when we are not well she gets a brick heated in the oven and wraps it in a cloth and puts it in our bed. It is very cosy on these cold nights.
I must finish this letter now as it is bedtime and I must send it away tomorrow. I think of you all often and, God willing, I will come back to you as soon as I possibly can.
Much love from Henry.
July 1834
Dear Henry,
It was lovely to get your letter and to hear all your news. What can I tell you that has happened here? There has been a bad outbreak of whooping cough. Quite where it came from, nobody knows. The natives have had it badly and several died. We have all had it too. Richard probably had it the worst but, though he still coughs at night, he is getting better slowly. Luckily, baby Sam only had a mild bout. Though it seems to be hanging on for a long time.
Mere, by the way, has taken over the complete running of the infant school. That has removed that burden from our mother, and she is now able to concentrate on the older girls.
Father has succeeded in buying some land. The Missionary Society has helped. They realize that it is incumbent on them to provide some future work for all of us, the children of the missionaries, as, when we come to the age of sixteen, they are no longer responsible for giving our parents an allowance for us. James is so excited, he talks of nothing else.
Father has another project also. He is planting an orchard, where the old cattle yards used to be. He has fenced it and dug it all over. The soil looks very rich, probably from the years of cattle droppings. Trees have been sent over from Australia, and we now have pears and apples, peaches and plums, lemons and oranges, all planted. We are hoping for a few fruit next year and lots more in the following years.
Mama, I’m afraid, does not take much interest. She is still deeply worried about the prospect of moving, and probably thinks that we will not be here to eat the fruit. Perhaps she is right to worry; the local committee is still pursuing the idea — though several people have written to them on our behalf. Even the old chief Tupe at Matangirau. He wrote a lovely letter asking for Papa to be left here. Papa is, however, always an optimist. He tells Mother that he will resign and just refuse to go, and that if they wish to close the station he will apply to rent the house, and will farm the ‘children’s land’ as he calls it.
The others all send their love. Mary Ann thanks you for your fashion notes, and still envies you. James and Richard, as usual, go over to Paihia each week. William goes to Mere’s school, and Sarah starts there next year. I help Mama, and look after Sam. Titohea does most of the cooking. So we carry on, much as usual.
Look after yourself, and come back to us safely.
From your loving sister,
Elizabeth.
CHAPTER 8
Elizabeth was not fond of Saturdays. She was a creature of habit with an orderly mind, and liked everything to take place in its due order. Weekdays had their routine, woven around necessity and schoolwork. Likewise Sunday, with time regulated by church services and Sunday School. Anything might happen on Saturdays, but they were odd and often boring.
On just such a boring Saturday Sarah grabbed Elizabeth’s hand and said, ‘Hana is going home to her kainga, down the river. Mama says I can go too, if you will come along to look after me. You will come, won’t you? Please, Lizzie.’
Elizabeth considered briefly. It was something to do. ‘Alright, if Mama doesn’t want me to look after Sam.’
‘But be quick,’ said their mother. ‘Hana’s brother is already here. Take a kete of corn for her mother as a gift. There is a boxful in the kitchen. Quick!’
Sarah filled the kete and they hurried through the gate. Sarah waved to Hana and her brother, Piripi, down on the foreshore, waiting by a small canoe. ‘We can come,’ she shouted.
The voyage down the inlet was fast and exhilarating. The canoe leapt upon the chop of the receding tide as it was guided skilfully to avoid the shallows and logs. Terns swooped and dived about them and several women picking cockles on a sandbank straightened their backs and waved to them.
It was not far to the kainga where Hana’s family lived. The canoe ran up onto a small beach where several children played with a dog and some chickens.
A group of young women were sitting on the sandhills. They crowded around Hana, admiring the new dress she had made and feeling the material, talking and pressing noses.
Elizabeth followed as they walked to the nearby whares.
Sarah tugged at her hand. ‘Can’t I stay here and play?’ she begged.
‘Perhaps you’d better not.’
But Hana had heard, and turned back. ‘Of course she can play,’ she said imperiously. She was now on her own territory. ‘Run and play, Sarah. Tui, keep an eye on her,’ she called to the oldest girl on the beach. ‘Come on, Lizzie, I want to show you something. Sarah will be alright.’
Elizabeth hesitated. Mama had sent her to look after Sarah. But Tui was there. And she knew it was polite to go and greet Hana’s mother first. She followed the others to the village. After giving the corn and receiving thanks she was offered a large bundle of cut flax to sit on. From there she watched Hana’s grandmother scraping and rolling the finest of flax fibres, all the while explaining to Elizabeth how they prepared it for the weaving of a fine cloak. Normally Elizabeth would have been fascinated, but when an hour had passed since she left Sarah on the beach, she felt on edge. Her mother’s instructions, to care for Sarah, kept repeating in her mind.
The old kuia had finished explaining and was now grumbling, ‘These young things, they don’t want to learn now,’ she said. ‘They tell me, “We can get blankets from the Pakehas now and they are warmer.” Blankets, huh! Whoever saw a blanket as good as a good flax cloak? Some day, when they can’t get blankets, then they will know.’
Elizabeth was hesitant to interrupt and appear rude, but eventually her anxiety was too much. She reached for her crutch and tried to get up. ‘Excuse me, but I think I had better see if Sarah is alright.’
‘Hana will go and see, won’t you, Hana?’ said her mother, putting a detaining hand on Elizabeth’s shoulder. Hana ran off towards the beach. Elizabeth watched her go with mixed feelings. Even the relief of knowing Sarah was safe wouldn’t banish the nagging guilt, or the annoyance that she hadn’t been able to choose for herself.
In a few moments Hana reappeared. ‘They’re fine,’ she said.
But Elizabeth was glad when a short time later Piripi appeared.
‘The tide’s turning,’ he announced. ‘We’d better go soon if I am to get you home in time.’
Elizabeth got up with alacrity and thanked the old lady for letting her watch. It didn’t take them long to get back to the beach. Elizabeth looked about, but there was no sign of Sarah.
Hana called out, ‘Sarah! Sarah, time to go home!’
A small naked girl picked herself up from the beach and ran towards them. She was covered with a fine coating of sand, like all the other children. Elizabeth realized, with a shock, that it was Sarah.
‘Where are your clothes?’ asked Hana. ‘We’re in a hurry. We’re late.’
Sarah pointed to a tree. Hana ran and pulled Sarah’s clothes off the branch where they had been hung out to dry.
Piripi dragged the canoe to the water’s edge.
‘Sarah,’ growled Elizabeth, in a low voice. ‘What are you doing like that?’
‘Like what?’ asked Sarah, looking down at herself.
‘Taking your clothes off. Covered in sand. What on earth will Mama say?’
Elizabeth started brushing it off with swift, hard strokes. Hana came back with the clothes and Elizabeth helped her dress with speed. Hana found her shoes and socks and pushed them into Sarah’s hands.
‘You can put those on in the canoe,’ she ordered.
Piripi held the canoe steady. The girls stepped in and settled themselves. Piripi pushed the canoe well out before leaping in himself.
It took Sarah most of the way home to sort out her shoes and socks and get them onto the right feet. She had just completed her task when they rounded the last bend and came in sight of the settlement.
Elizabeth sat quietly throughout the voyage, taut with anxiety, her mind in a turmoil. Mama was going to blame her if she found out that Sarah had been playing naked. Should she ask the others not to mention it? Surely they wouldn’t, anyway. Perhaps it was better not to say anything and hope that nothing would be said.
When they reached the house, everyone was gathered in the dining room for supper. They slipped into their seats as Hana apologized.
‘I’m sorry, Mrs Kemp, I talked too much and didn’t notice the sun sinking so low.’
Mrs Kemp nodded and lowered her head as Mr Kemp said grace. She took the lid off a big tureen and ladled the soup into dishes which were passed up the table. She put the lid on again.
‘Well, Sarah, did you have a good afternoon?’
‘Lovely,’ said Sarah. ‘I swam and swam.’
Elizabeth groaned inwardly.
Her mother looked suprised. ‘Swam?’ She looked at Hana and Elizabeth in turn. ‘I thought she was going to the village with you.’
‘She played on the beach with the other children.’ Hana explained, reaching for a piece of bread. ‘I got a big girl to watch her.’
‘But swimming. How did you get your clothes dry?’ Mrs Kemp asked Sarah. ‘I hope you’re not sitting in damp clothes.’
‘Oh, no,’ said Sarah blithely. ‘I didn’t get them wet. Well, not much. I took them all off.’
There was a moment’s stunned silence. Mary Ann giggled.
‘Took them off?’ repeated Mrs Kemp, slowly. ‘Oh, Sarah.’
‘I wasn’t there,’ said Elizabeth, without thinking.
‘Obviously,’ snapped her mother. ‘And you should have been, shouldn’t you? You were sent to look after her but you just went and left her alone.’
‘She wasn’t alone,’ Elizabeth lamented.
Hana looked on in bewilderment. ‘The other children had no clothes.’ She faltered. ‘How could you swim with clothes?’
Mr Kemp stepped in quickly. ‘Well, I don’t see that any harm’s done, love. It does seem the most sensible way to swim, and Sarah’s only four.’
‘Five,’ his wife corrected him. ‘No harm perhaps, as you say. But how can I teach them? How can they be ladylike? And if we go to Tauranga it will be worse. They will run wild like little savages.’
‘Charlotte, dear,’ said Mr Kemp. ‘Sarah is not a little savage. Neither are Hana’s people. It was the best way.’
Mrs Kemp stood up, tears starting in her eyes. ‘You don’t understand. Oh, how can I?’ She pulled out her handkerchief and dabbed her eyes. The children watched, silent. They had never before seen their mother so upset. Suddenly she said, ‘Excuse me,’ and left the room.
Everyone sat in silent embarrassment. Richard dropped his spoon and it clattered against the dish.
‘You must excuse your mother,’ said Mr Kemp. ‘She is overwrought and worried that we may have to move. I’m sorry, Hana, it’s not your fault. Come on, children, eat your soup.’
The others started but Hana sat looking at her plate.
Elizabeth noted that she had not been included in her father’s apology. Perhaps he also considered her at
fault.
‘Mr Kemp,’ said Hana finally, ‘Mrs Kemp taught me from the Bible about Adam and Eve. It was only when the devil talked to them that they were ashamed of being naked and hid from God.’
Mr Kemp looked at his soup. ‘Yes, Hana, you are right,’ he said slowly. ‘I am sure when Mrs Kemp stops to think she will see that you are right. We are all brought up with odd ideas. Your people have them, and we have them too.’
As soon as she could, Elizabeth went to bed and cried bitter tears into her pillow. Everything was so unjust. However much she tried to help, the whims of other people thwarted her intent and she received the blame.
Perhaps tomorrow all would be forgotten and she could start again.
CHAPTER 9
The next day, Sunday, followed its comforting pattern of worship, meals, Sunday School, letter-writing and, for Elizabeth, helping with Sam. Although nothing more was said about the previous day, there was a tension that could not be fixed. Everything that Mrs Kemp said was relevant to the occasion but with no associated chat, which gave the impression that she had withdrawn from them.
Shortly before the morning service was due to start, James and Elizabeth went up to the church, a small, white plastered building on the hill overlooking the settlement. The windows and doors were painted green, the roof shingled. A clock was set in the gable end and told the time to any in the valley who cared to glance that way. A flagpole, flying the Union Jack, stood beside the building. Barren, bracken-covered hills rose behind.
James’s task was to ring the handbell. The sound shattered the peace and sent a crowd of seagulls up in a squawking mass. They wheeled around the calm waters of the basin, uttering plaintive cries.
Elizabeth sat on a small bench by the door, ready to hand out the service and hymn books, recently printed in Maori, to those who required them.
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