Lizzie, Love

by Brenda Delamain

  Several groups of people started to wend their way toward the church. They came from the two pas, one on each side of the inlet, and from the cluster of houses that formed the mission. They were a motley collection. The missionary families were a monochrome of black, grey and white, except for the odd flash of colour in the sashes and bonnet ribbons of the little girls.

  The Maori, however, supplied much greater variety. Many stayed with their native costume and came in feathered and patterned cloaks. Others had taken to European dress in its more colourful aspects. Red baize shirts and striped cotton trousers, bought from the store, were in favour. The headwear was equally varied, from straw bonnets and beaver hats to feathered topknots. Sailors’ caps and bright tartan Scotch caps, bought from the store, completed the mix.

  Mr Kemp arrived first, hurrying. He had several books and papers under his arm and glanced at the clock as he passed. ‘My goodness, is that the time? I should have been here ten minutes since.’

  ‘I put out the benches and lit the candles, Father,’ said James.

  ‘Good lad, good lad,’ muttered his father, hastening inside.

  The rest of the Kemp household soon followed, Mary Ann first, with her pink and purple shoes peeping, like a pair of exotic birds, from beneath her dress. She tugged a reluctant William by the hand.

  Inside, the church was pleasant and light, the walls plastered and painted white, the ten small window surrounds in green. Several well-made wooden pews, recently finished by Mr Nisbet, stood at the front. Behind were rows of plain wooden benches.

  From the doorway, Elizabeth was able to see that William had escaped from Mary Ann and made for his favourite seat on the first row of benches, just behind the pews. She knew from experience that he liked to sit there right beside a window where he could look down on the buildings and the inlet below, and see the boats and the birds. She could see no harm indulging him in this; it kept him from wriggling. Once she had finished her job, Elizabeth eased along the bench beside him. She sat down and handed him her crutches. ‘Here, prop them in the corner,’ she commanded, ‘and open the window; it’s hot.’

  He grinned and obeyed her.

  The church soon filled with people and their father began the service in a loud, strong voice, reading from the Book of Common Prayer, first in English, then in Maori. ‘“If we say we have no sin, we deceive ourselves and the truth is not in us. But if we confess our sins, he is faithful and just to forgive us our sins and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness.

  ‘“Ki te mea tetahi kua matau a hau ki a ia a, kahou e pupuri i ana ture he tangata teka ia, Ka hore hoki te pouo i roto i a ia. Ko te tangata a pupuri ana i tana kupu kua tino rite pu I a ia te aroha o te atua ma konei tatou ka matau ai kei roto ta tou I a ia.”’

  There was a general murmur of assent. Thomas Reo stood up and sang the first line of a hymn. Once they recognized the hymn, the congregation took up the second line with a great roar of sound that lasted to the end. There was no such thing as pp — it was all fortissimo, each trying to outdo the other.

  Mr Kemp stepped forward again. ‘“Dearly beloved brethren, the scripture moveth us in sundry places to acknowledge and confess our manifold sins and wickedness.”’

  Elizabeth sighed. She had not meant to commit any wickednesses this week but they seemed to have descended upon her. She hadn’t meant that the boys should be captured by Tareha. But how could she have stopped them? She had meant to look after Sarah. But hadn’t wanted to appear impolite.

  The congregation shuffled to its knees.

  ‘“Almighty and most merciful Father we have erred and strayed from thy ways like lost sheep…”’

  Elizabeth glanced sideways at William. He was licking patterns on the back of the pew in front. They showed up clearly on the new wood. Elizabeth frowned and shook her head. She was rewarded with a big grin. She shook her head again but couldn’t help smiling back. William seemed to take this as approval and turned back to his licking. If she reproved him he might create a scene. He wasn’t really doing any harm to anybody. Best to just leave him. She watched him work his way along the woodwork towards the window. When William reached the end he looked back along his artwork and she saw, to her horror, that his head was going to touch the crutches. Then, as if in slow motion, one of them began to slide.

  ‘“Forty years long was I grieved with this generation and said …”’

  William tried to right himself but only succeeded in toppling over and landing, with a crash and a yelp, under the bench. The crutch continued on its downward path, banging the window sill, the bench, then the floor.

  Their father’s voice faltered for a second then continued strongly. ‘“It is a people that do err in their hearts, for they have not known my ways.”’

  William looked as though he was down in a pit. Heads all around peered down at him.

  Mrs Kemp turned from the pew in front. ‘Keep him in order!’ she hissed at Elizabeth, shaking her head. ‘You’re right beside him.’

  William struggled to his feet and sat on the bench again. He bent to retrieve the crutches.

  ‘Leave them,’ whispered Elizabeth. ‘And sit still.’

  William sighed and turned to the window.

  CHAPTER 10

  It was a fresh, clear morning. Rain in the night had washed the air and the plants, dampening the ground and leaving clumps of grass heavy with raindrops. Elizabeth picked her way across, trying to avoid the larger tufts which could leave the hem of her dress damp for the rest of the day. She had a small flax basket containing Sam’s washed clothes which she wanted to hang out before school started.

  She was worried about Sam. Probably without reason, Elizabeth told herself. He was over his mild dose of whooping cough. But he was not happy. She could see that. She asked her mother to have a look at him, but she had not appeared unduly concerned and the instructions were to wrap him warmly and keep him in the house. Though Elizabeth had followed these directions she still felt uneasy. Why was he so pink? Why so lethargic? He barely lifted an arm or turned his head. Had her mother not noticed?

  When Elizabeth reached the schoolroom behind the house, the other pupils had all gathered: a mixture of children belonging to missionaries, workers and Maori from the nearby pa. She undertook her usual task helping Mere with the primary pupils: to write the copy for the day onto the blackboard.

  ‘F today. Does that suit you all?’ she asked. There was a general mumble of agreement. She picked up the chalk and carefully, in her best writing, copied from the book:

  ‘F f Fair words are often used to hide bad deeds.

  Few do good with what they have gotten ill.’

  As she wrote the down strokes of ill, she suddenly thought of Sam. Perhaps he was really ill and nobody was with him. Though Titohea was there, in the kitchen. Surely she would go to him if he cried. She pulled herself together and started on the next row of copy.

  ‘G g Great minds and small means ruin many men.’

  Forgetting to write the second line of copy, Elizabeth sat down at her desk and took out her arithmetic book, but she looked blankly at the page. Suppose he was lying up there coughing or sneezing. She tried to concentrate on the problem in her book: ‘In four hundred and sixty-five hundredweights and twenty-nine pounds of copper, how many pounds? And what would it cost at 21 pence per pound?’

  Elizabeth looked out of the window. It was a beautiful day. The bees flew around the last of the Michaelmas daisies. She glanced across at her mother. For the first time Elizabeth noticed how tired she looked. How she stopped to straighten her back before moving onto the next child. Elizabeth’s page was still empty when she reached her side.

  ‘But you haven’t done anything.’

  ‘I can’t, Mama. I’m too worried about Sam. Can I go and see him?’

  Her mother sighed. ‘Well, I can see I’m not going to get any work out of you until you do.’

  Elizabeth jumped up gratefully and left the room. Mrs Reo was in the kitchen prepari
ng vegetables.

  ‘Mama says I may go and see if Sam’s alright,’ Elizabeth explained.

  ‘Don’t wake him. He was crying but he seems to have gone to sleep now.’

  Elizabeth limped up the stairs, hanging onto the bannister rail for support. She opened the door and went in. The cradle stood beside the bed.

  Sam was lying on his back, eyes wide open. When she bent over him he did not move his head. But his eyes turned beseechingly towards her. A small frown wrinkled his brow. Sweat dotted his face, and around his mouth the skin was pale, almost blue. Elizabeth could see that each inward breath was an effort.

  She had never seen him like that before. So still and yet with such a wild look in his eyes, as though completely puzzled by what was happening to him. ‘Sam, dear, what’s the matter?’ she whispered in alarm.

  His eyes rolled towards her, pleading! He uttered small panting, grunts.

  She hesitated, wondering whether to pick him up. No, she needed help. Hopping to the top of the stairs, she shouted,

  ‘Mrs Reo! Mrs Reo, please come quick.’ Mrs Reo’s head appeared through the door below the stairs. ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘It’s Sam. There’s something wrong with him.’

  Mrs Reo ran up the stairs and knelt beside the cradle. She picked Sam up abruptly. He drew in a large gulping breath and his head waved in the air as though his neck could not support it.

  ‘It’s his chest, his breathing. Sit down,’ she ordered.

  Elizabeth perched anxiously on the edge of the bed as Mrs Reo placed the baby against her chest. ‘Hold him upright like that. Let his head rest on your shoulder. I’ll go and get your mother.’

  Elizabeth sat still, the small damp bundle that was Sam held against her chest, his soft fuzzy hair tickling under her chin. A heart was thumping between them. She didn’t know whether it was Sam’s or her own. She could feel every tight breath and wheeze and the moist warmth of him soon seeped through her clothing. It seemed as though ages passed before she heard the murmur of voices ascending the stairs.

  Her mother came in and knelt beside her, placing an ear against Sam’s chest. She looked up at Elizabeth’s anxious face.

  ‘It’s a touch of bronchitis or asthma. Don’t worry, love, he’ll come right.’ She stood up and took the baby from Elizabeth. ‘We’ll take him down by the stove. Then we can get some steam around him. That’s the best thing for tight chests.

  ‘Titohea, you bring the cradle. Lizzie, get him a change of clothes. He’s damp through.’

  Elizabeth felt reassured. Her mother always knew what to do. She would soon have him better. Quickly, she gathered the clean clothes and followed her mother and Mrs Reo down to the kitchen.

  The cradle was by the fire. Sam was propped up against a large cushion. Mrs Reo was tipping water into the pot that hung on a hook over the flames. Elizabeth placed the clothes on the table.

  ‘Thank you, dear. Now get me a cold damp cloth to wipe his face. It is a good thing you went up to look at him. I didn’t think that he looked so sick earlier.’

  ‘He’ll be alright though, won’t he?’ asked Elizabeth, wringing out the cloth and handing it to her mother.

  ‘Of course, but he’s very little.’ She took the damp cloth and wiped the beads of sweat from his brow. ‘Titohea, I’ll get you some of those eucalyptus leaves to put in the pot. Miss Marsden sent them from Port Jackson. She said they were good for chests. Lizzie, you’d better go back to the classroom.’

  ‘But, Mama …’

  ‘Mere has all the children on her own. That’s the best help you can be at the moment. When they have finished their writing you can read to them from the encyclopedia. We finished conchology yesterday. I think it’s Cortez next.’

  ‘Can’t I stay?’

  ‘Now go along, please, dear. Send two girls in for the lunch. I don’t want them all in here. Tell them they can go home after lunch.’

  ‘Can I come and see him?’

  ‘Yes, but only you. Oh, I wish your father was here.’

  At lunchtime there didn’t appear to be any improvement. Sam didn’t cry; he just looked about with imploring eyes. Sometimes he dozed, but soon awoke with a short dry cough that seemed to cause him pain. Tears welled up and ran down his cheeks. Elizabeth sat beside him, his tiny hand clutched around her finger like a bird’s claw.

  ‘Mama, there must be something else we can do.’

  ‘We can pray,’ said her mother.

  Elizabeth shut her eyes. ‘Please, God,’ she prayed silently. ‘You’ve got to make Sam better. He’s only little. He can’t help himself. Don’t worry about me any more. I can get along. Help Sam, please. He can’t understand. Don’t you see that?’

  She opened her eyes. Nothing had changed. The fire crackled in the grate. Steam rose from the pot and Sam still looked at her through half-closed eyes.

  The afternoon dragged on. Elizabeth could not stay in the kitchen all the time. The dampness and heat and smell of eucalyptus were suffocating. She went out to sit on the verandah and to gaze blankly at the grey sky and water. The day, which had begun so well, had become still and ominous. The boys were playing with a ball, leaping and calling in the flat air.

  After the evening meal Elizabeth took Sarah up to her bedroom and saw to her preparations for bed.

  ‘Why aren’t I allowed in the kitchen?’ asked Sarah.

  ‘Because Sam’s ill. He’s got a cough.’

  ‘I wasn’t kept in the kitchen when I had a cough. Why doesn’t he go to bed?’

  ‘He’s in the cradle down there. It’s warmer.’

  ‘I liked people coming to see me when I was in bed with a cough.’

  ‘Oh, stop chattering Sarah. Just remember to ask God to help Sam, in your prayers.’

  ‘Did you pray for me when I had a cough?’

  ‘No, you weren’t very bad. Now say your prayers and get into bed.’

  ‘Is Sam very bad? Is he going to die?’ asked Sarah.

  ‘Of course not. God wouldn’t let him, would he?’

  ‘He lets other people die.’

  ‘Oh, be quiet,’ said Elizabeth roughly, surprised by a tremor in her lip. She bundled Sarah into bed and blew out the candle, then turned and limped to the top of the stairs.

  William was playing with his Noah’s ark in the hall below, by the light of the guide lamp which always stood at the window. Elizabeth sat on the top step, her head in her hands, almost afraid to go back to the kitchen. William was muttering to himself as he gathered his animals from various parts of the room.

  ‘Then the horses came, gallopy, gallopy, gallopy, berum, berum, berum …’

  He bounced them across the room to the safety of the ark. ‘Then the sheep came, baa, baa, baa …’ He trotted them from under the table. ‘Then the goats came down from the mountain.’ He clambered up the stairs below her and she saw that he had placed several animals on the landing. Seeing her feet, he looked up, ‘Oh! you’re there. You can be God sitting in heaven, watching.’

  Was God watching? Were people just toys to him? Lizzie wondered.

  ‘I’m not playing,’ she told William.

  ‘Alright,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Then the goats came down, jumpity, jumpity, jumpity …’ He thumped a goat from step to step. ‘Bother!’ He held the animal up. ‘His leg’s broken. He couldn’t have been very strong. Can you mend him?’

  ‘Not at the moment.’

  ‘But he won’t stand up,’ William complained, coming up the steps and handing her the pieces.

  ‘I’ll get a pin and stick it in for now. Go into the dining room.’ Elizabeth followed him to the sewing table in the corner and found a pin. Mary Ann was sitting there reading in the circle of yellow light under the lamp.

  ‘How’s Sam?’ she asked.

  ‘I don’t know. I’ve been putting Sarah to bed. I’ll go and see in a minute.’

  Elizabeth pushed the pin into the goat and stood him on the table. He leant to one side but stayed erect. ‘There, t
hat’ll do for now, but treat him carefully or he’ll not last long.’

  The words echoed in Elizabeth’s head: he’ll not last long, he’ll not last long.

  She glanced across at the kitchen door, afraid, but she knew she had to go in.

  Her mother was standing by the cradle, head down, with her hands over her face. The cushion had been pulled out and thrown to the floor. Sam was lying flat. At the sound of the door, Mrs Kemp lifted a pale, stricken face. ‘Sam’s dead,’ she said.

  They stood, just looking at each other until the silence became oppressive.

  ‘It’s your fault,’ Elizabeth said finally.

  Her mother looked at her in astonishment.

  But all the pent-up resentment and anger, at the times she had been blamed for the other children’s bad behavior, erupted, and she lashed out. ‘If only you’d looked at him this morning when I told you. And I told you yesterday that he had a cold, but you didn’t take any notice. Don’t you care?’

  ‘Of … of course,’ stuttered her mother. ‘But we have to accept the will of God,’ she added.

  Elizabeth could feel the anger welling up inside, the heat rising to her face. ‘What a stupid God!’ she said bitterly. ‘And what a stupid will.’

  She couldn’t bear the look of horror on her mother’s face. She had to get away. She opened the back door then slammed it shut as she swung out into the night. Limping blindly along the path towards the river she stopped abruptly beside the henhouse. Where am I going? She could hear the sounds of the hens fluffing their feathers and crooning as they settled for the night. The only other sound was the river slipping by with a soft sibilant whisper. The stars blazed fiercely in the still, night sky. Elizabeth looked up angrily.

  ‘Why didn’t you save him?’ she said quietly, ‘It wouldn’t have made any difference to you.’

  The stars still winked, the river rippled and the hens clucked gently to themselves.

  ‘I don’t even think you’re there,’ she shouted defiantly into the sky.

  But no denial came.

  ‘There’s nothing, nothing …’ The words dissolved into the night. ‘And Sam won’t ever come back.’