‘Well, they will be coming. They always do.’
Suddenly her mother wheeled round to face her and pointed at the cradle in the corner. Empty, since Sam had died. ‘And stop that child crying,’ she ordered.
The chill struck Elizabeth again but this time it stayed like a cold sickness in her stomach. Her mother was out of her mind! Elizabeth stood rigid, staring.
‘Hurry,’ urged her mother. ‘Keep him quiet.’
Elizabeth limped over and sat on the stool beside the cradle. She started to rock it backwards and forwards, a confusion of thoughts running through her mind. Did her mother think Sam was still alive? Why was she talking about Hongi? He had died years ago. She could vaguely remember the tumult of that time. The fear that they would be attacked by other tribes, now that their protector was gone. Elizabeth could just recall how she and the other children had been sent over to Paihia. Valuables had been hidden under floorboards or buried in the garden. Daily the missionaries had expected raiding parties to descend and strip them of their possessions, or even kill them. Had her mother’s mind slipped back all those years?
What could she do? Fetch help? John and Mere would be the nearest. It would mean going out among those moonlit shadows. The thought filled her with terror. She half believed that they were there, those scurrying figures of her mother’s imagination.
If only her father were here.
As if reading her thoughts her mother asked, ‘Where is James?’
‘He’s gone to Taronui.’
‘Always away when I want him,’ she said peevishly.
‘Don’t you remember, he went this morning. Don’t you remember?’ pleaded Elizabeth. ‘He said he might be back tonight. He might come.’ She hoped desperately that he had not decided to stay.
But her mother was not listening. She was still crouched under the window, peering between the curtains.
Time crept on, the candle melting lower and lower. Her mother dragged the chest, inch by inch, across the floor. Elizabeth was relieved to realize that it would be a long slow job. Apart from her mother’s lack of strength, the windows distracted her. She kept rushing from one to the other, then back to the chest. Elizabeth continued to rock the cradle, gazing into its empty, dark interior.
‘Father, please come home.’ She sent up a silent prayer. Not to the God whom she used to talk to. He seemed more unreal than ever, a vanishing star, soon to dissolve completely. No, this was a plea from mind to mind, to her father.
Her mother was still by the window, twitching the curtains. Suddenly she let out a cry and rushed back to the chest of drawers. ‘They’re here. I saw their light coming up the river. I knew they’d come.’ She leant heavily against the chest and tried to push it.
Elizabeth hopped to the window. There was a light coming up the inlet. In a brief patch of moonlight she caught sight of a bellying sail. It was no native canoe. ‘Mama, don’t worry, it’s Father.’
Her mother took no notice, still intent on moving the chest.
‘Mama, stop doing that,’ Elizabeth insisted. ‘Papa will be home in a moment. Come and see, he’s coming up to the jetty now.’
‘It’s them, I knew they’d come,’ insisted her mother, hysteria in her voice.
Elizabeth watched the boat drawing up to the jetty. After a few moments a light moved towards the gate, flick, flick, flick through the gaps in the fence. Then the gate opened.
Elizabeth lifted the window and leant out. ‘Papa, come quickly,’ she called. ‘Please!’
Suddenly, she felt herself grabbed from behind and flung to the floor. Her mother’s hand was clasped roughly over her mouth.
‘Hush you silly child, they’ll hear you!’
Elizabeth lay still. She didn’t want to fight her mother. Besides, she could hear her father’s footsteps crunching on the gravel path, the front door opening and his heavy boots thumping up the stairs. The door was pushed open and crashed against the chest of drawers, now only about a foot from the door. His head appeared round the door and he seemed to take in the situation at a glance. He squeezed through the narrow opening and rushed over to take hold of his wife.
‘Charlotte, dear, what are you doing?’ He helped her to stand and she looked at him as if dazed.
‘Oh, James, it’s you. This silly girl was calling to them.’
‘Who?’ asked Mr Kemp. ‘Elizabeth was calling to me. There’s no one else out there.’
Elizabeth was sitting up by now, sobbing against the wall beneath the window. ‘She thinks Hongi has just died. That they are coming to raid us,’ she said between sobs and shuddering sniffs. ‘She’s mad!’
‘Oh no, Charlotte, not that,’ he whispered.
His wife leant against him, oblivious of Elizabeth’s outcry, plucking at the buttons on his waistcoat. ‘Why are you never here when I want you?’ she asked pettishly.
Mr Kemp was silent for a moment. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said eventually. Then, turning her about, he led her over to the bed. ‘You can go to bed now, love, I’ll look after everything.’ He helped her get in, then sat on a chair beside the bed. Mrs Kemp lay back on the pillow and closed her eyes, still clasping his hand. He bowed his head right down to the clasped hands and sat unmoving, his great hunched, despairing shadow looming over the room. At length Elizabeth’s stifled sobs made him look up.
‘Do you want to go back to bed, Lizzie, love?’ he said gently. ‘You’ve had a bad night.’
She wiped her sleeve across her face. ‘No, please, Papa. I don’t want to go back to my room on my own. Let me stay.’
‘Do you want my handkerchief?’
Elizabeth groped for her crutch then pulled herself up. She took the handkerchief and blew her nose.
‘I know what I could do with,’ her father said. ‘Something hot. A cup of tea or some soup. Do you think you could stir up the fire and get me some? It was a rough, cold trip. I shouldn’t really have made it at night and it took longer than I thought it would. But I’m glad I did.’
‘Yes, but I don’t think there is any soup left.’
‘Tea will do. I don’t want to leave your mother just yet.’
‘No, but I can’t carry it upstairs.’
‘I’ll just wait until she’s right off to sleep. I’ll come down when I’m sure. Take the candle if you want it.’
‘I’ll see by the light in the hall.’
‘And a bit of bread and butter,’ he called after her, as she edged out of the door.
There was still a slight red glow among the embers of the kitchen fire. Elizabeth scattered wood shavings onto the ashes, gave it a few puffs from the leather bellows and in a few seconds a bright curl of flame crept up the edge of a shaving and leapt onwards. Several quickly placed sticks of kindling soon caught, sending the light flaring across the wooden slab walls of the kitchen. Elizabeth lit the candle from the flames.
Soon the fire was blazing. The kettle stood on the hob and Elizabeth lifted it over to the hook above the flames. Strangely, it still felt warm and she glanced across at the kitchen clock. It was only five past ten; she had thought it well past midnight.
She busied herself, getting china out and putting tea in the pot, trying to forget what had happened. But her mind was in turmoil, and she felt chilled despite the fire. Why was her mother losing her mind? Was it Elizabeth’s fault? Perhaps she could have done better at looking after the younger children. But, worse, what if her outburst after Sam’s death had upset her mother to such an extent that it had provoked this disaster?
By the time she heard her father descending the stairs, the tea was made and the bread buttered. He came across and leant against the chimneypiece, staring into the fire.
‘This is a bad business, Lizzie,’ he said finally.
Elizabeth didn’t know what to say or how to talk about her guilt. She picked up the teapot and poured the tea. ‘I’m glad you came home,’ she said at length. ‘I don’t know what I would have done.’
‘I’m sorry, love, it’s my fault. I sho
uldn’t have gone away this morning. I should have stayed when she asked me to.’
‘Oh no, Papa, it’s my fault. I’m always upsetting Mama. And when Sam died I got angry and said some awful things. Awful …’ Tears escaped and trickled down her nose.
‘Here, don’t cry,’ he said, sitting down on the chair to meet her eyes. He handed her his handkerchief once more. ‘It’s nobody’s fault and everybody’s fault. None of us saw what was happening. If there’s any blame, it’s mine for bringing her here. It’s the committee’s for threatening to move us. It’s all you children for just being … well, children. But you can’t help making mistakes; we all do. And it all got too much for her. We should have noticed, particularly I should have, and I didn’t. What matters now is that we get her better, so dry up your tears. Perhaps it’s just the strain of it all and after a good night’s sleep she may wake up quite all right. And it will all be over.’
‘But what if she isn’t?’ Elizabeth said. ‘What about the others? Sarah and William are so little. What can we say to them?’ She suddenly wanted to cover up this terrible person, shut her in her room upstairs. Hide her!
‘All we can say is that she is not well and needs to rest. That is the truth,’ said her Father calmly. He looked into his cup, warming his hands around it. ‘And we must pray.’
‘As if that would do any good,’ said Elizabeth, in a bitter voice.
Her father looked up. ‘What?’
Elizabeth placed both hands on the table and leant forward, on the edge of tears. ‘I said, that won’t do any good.’
‘Elizabeth?’
‘Papa, I have prayed and prayed for my leg to get better. I prayed about Sam, too. And what good did that do? And now, look at Mama. After all she’s done for God.’ She finished off with a sob of anguish. ‘He doesn’t care, he doesn’t care at all. I don’t even think there is such a person!’ she ended defiantly, her words falling through the silence.
‘No,’ agreed her father after a pause. ‘There isn’t such a person.’
Elizabeth looked at him in amazement. ‘Papa?’
‘Because he’s not a person like us, not a person to be bargained with.’
‘Well, what is he?’
‘You’ve heard it often enough. “God is love.” Then our prayers must be for love, in us, so that we can help your mother. Do you understand that?’
Elizabeth shook her head. ‘I don’t know, I don’t think so,’ she said wearily. ‘No, I don’t understand at all.’ She was trembling, though it wasn’t cold beside the fire. ‘I don’t understand hundreds of things.’
Mr Kemp reached out and drew her onto his knee. He put his arms around her and in despair she turned her head into his coat. He rocked her gently.
‘Poor Lizzie,’ he muttered into her hair. ‘You’ve got enough to bear. I don’t understand hundreds of things either.’
Elizabeth rubbed her face against the rough black material of his coat. She could feel his strong blacksmith’s arms about her and his cheek resting on the top of her head.
‘Papa, if you don’t understand either, what are we here for?’
Mr Kemp didn’t answer for a moment. Then he spoke slowly. ‘Do you think I don’t ask myself that sometimes?’ He paused again. Elizabeth could sense that he was trying to think what to say so she sat still, leaning against his chest and looking at the flames sinking back into the logs as they burnt out. Finally he said, ‘The Maoris we know here are our friends now and, hopefully, the little bit I do understand is important to them. I know I thought differently when we first came. And probably they only wanted us then for what they could get from us. But we have both changed and we can’t leave them now. We can’t leave them to their own wars of revenge nor, though I hate to say it, to our own countrymen — many of whom only come here to plunder and degrade them, and they’re going to keep coming. We’ve got to help them over that hurdle. And we have to show them that we have some good to offer as well. Love and forgiveness, they’re the only strengths they’ll have soon. And we may be the only people who will stand up for them. I don’t know, but I sadly fear it. And I know your mother thinks this too despite … despite everything.’ He paused. ‘Does that help?’
‘I think so,’ she whispered, wondering whether it did.
They sat in silence, looking at the sinking fire.
‘It’s time you were in bed, Lizzie,’ said her father at length. ‘And I had better go and see your mother again.’
Elizabeth leant against him, making no effort to move. She did not want to break the feeling of strength and safety and love that he gave her. And she couldn’t help hearing the text that William had learnt. It kept repeating in her head. ‘God is love, and he that dwelleth in love dwelleth in God, and God in him.’
CHAPTER 14
November 1835
Dear Henry,
I have been waiting for news of a boat going back to England, to tell you the awful news about Mama. She is ill. She seems to have lost her mind. Or so it was when I left Kerikeri. William and I are at Waimate. Messages do come to us from Father and he says that she is getting better slowly. I hope that is so, because she seemed very unhappy when we left, with her mind constantly switching direction. Father tells us that she spends many hours in deep sleep which he feels will lead to her mind at length being restored.
Because of this Papa has told the Church committee that he wishes to resign. He also asked, if they are intending to close the mission at Kerikeri, that he be able to rent the house. I think that he is right to do this. Seeing Mother as she is now, we could not move her. There is one gleam of hope. The committee in England is against the closure and has suggested that one missioner remain. Let us hope and pray that they choose Papa.
The family has all been sent to different places: James and Richard are still attending school at Paihia and staying with the Williamses at weekends. Mary Ann and Sarah have stayed at Kerikeri, but under the care of Mrs Edmonds. As I told you, William and I are at Waimate, with the Clarkes, where we have been for almost three months now.
I’m sorry, but there is even more sad news. You probably remember my telling you that John and Mere Taua had gone up to Whangaroa to do missionary work there. Mr Clarke also goes there once a month to see that all is going well. He tells me that John is very sick and he fears that he may not be with us long. He appears to have all the symptoms of Consumption, from which so many Maori seem to suffer and die. I know just how attached you were to John and Mere, as they were to you. Mr Clarke also tells me that despite John’s illness, they refuse to return to the comfort of Kerikeri, and continue on with their work at Whangaroa. They are very special people.
Christmas will be here in about a month. I expect we shall still be in Waimate. Everybody is very kind, but I wish we could all be back together again, with you back here, with Mama well again, and with John and Mere in Kerikeri — with everything just as it was. But I know that I am dreaming and it never will be. Everything changes.
I try to look after William as best I can. And with so many Clarkes to play with, he isn’t being any trouble. I spend much time with Hopkins Clarke; he is a dear little boy and I can keep him amused as I did for Sam. It relieves the pressures on Mrs Clarke.
I remember, in my last letter, telling you about the splint that Mr Nisbet made for my leg. I continue to practise with it and can walk small distances, particularly indoors. Outside, it is awkward, as it catches on stones and tufts of grass. Also it is heavy, and I get tired. Mr Nesbit and Papa, I know, are trying to make a lighter one for me. I hesitate to tell them that I am not optimistic about its long-term use. They have worked so hard at it for my benefit. Perhaps I will be able to use it about the house and afford them some satisfaction.
It is spring here. In case you forget, we are the wrong way round. You may be in the autumn season, but here the primroses are flowering in the garden!
Your loving sister,
Elizabeth.
Dear Lizzie,
It see
ms ages since I saw you. Hemi says he is going over to Waimate tomorrow so I thought I would write to you. Write to me sometime, will you? Mrs Edmond is nice and I try to help her and look after Sarah but it is very boring with no school for us older girls.
It’s getting warmer now, isn’t it? I got out my summer dresses the other day and let out some of the tucks so they look all stripey and horrible, but I had to as I hadn’t noticed how much I had grown.
I go and talk to Papa when he is working in the store; he says Mama is getting better slowly. He took me over to see her one day. She looked alright but thinner. She just said ‘Hello Mary Ann,’ then sat looking down the river. She didn’t speak except when I asked her questions so it was very hard to talk to her. But, just as I was leaving she caught sight of my silly old pink shoes and she smiled and said, ‘You’ve still got your elegant shoes.’ Papa was so excited. As we walked back to the store he said it was the first time she had smiled for months. He even said, ‘We’ll have to put those shoes in a glass case,’ but I think that’s going a bit far, don’t you?
You can have no idea what Mr Nisbet has built for us — it is called a shower-bath. He said he had seen them in Britain. Instead of sitting in the bath, we stand up and have water coming down on top of us. It is fun; Sarah and I go in together but we have to wash quickly before the water runs out. He has built it next to the wash house so that we can fill up a tank with warm water and it comes through a pipe in the wall and has a watering can thing on the end and it empties all over us. It is like being in a warm waterfall. Papa sometimes has just cold water but I don’t fancy that.
Mr Nisbet is going away soon, now that the store is finished.
Please write to me; I like getting letters. Papa says we can come over to Waimate at Christmas for a party, won’t that be fun?
With lots of love from your sister,
Mary Ann.
CHAPTER 15
It was the day of the Christmas party for the children of the missions and they, with their mothers, were all assembled in the front parlour of the Clarkes’ home at Waimate. Elizabeth and William were still staying there and, though their brothers and sisters had been brought over by the Edmonds for the party — their mother had not come. Elizabeth was very disappointed, as she had heard such good reports of her improvement lately.
Lizzie, Love Page 8