Jack is leading a string of five horses from the Baron’s stables. Two of them are the Baron’s treasured thoroughbreds who habitually win prizes, competing along the beach or up at Te Aro Flat. Tomorrow they will need to be at their best for the anniversary races. The sun shines; this is a perfect summer’s day. Jack remembers holding Lily close like this, back in Whanganui when she worked for the circus. Now they are courting and soon, he hopes, will be a married couple.
They walk past Te Aro pa, where several townsfolk are inspecting vegetables and fruit laid out for sale. Jack jumps down, pays a young native woman two pennies for a tiny basket of strawberries, and is back mounted before Domino can take it into his head to move. Their little cavalcade moves on towards the swampy place where the little stream flows down from Wellington Basin into the harbour: the Watering Place. The horses pick their way into the cool water, bend to drink or tear mouthfuls of watercress from the swamp. Jack and Lily, comfortable on Domino’s broad back, eat the sweet strawberries, greeting, with a nod or a wave, other carters and gentlemen watering their horses. Up on the town belt a flour mill, owned by a Maori family, clanks and grinds. Out on the harbour several sailing ships lie at anchor. At Baron Alzdorf’s jetty, men are fishing peacefully. No loading or unloading on this public holiday. Barrett’s jetty and the public jetty are similarly in holiday mood.
Jack heads the horses deeper up the swampy stream which will soon be turned, they say, into a canal, leading to a safe harbour up at the Basin. ‘And where will we water our mounts then?’ asks Jack aloud.
‘But think of the benefits, Jack.’ Lily is always quick with her views. ‘The town is growing fast and we need our shipping to be safe from these dreadful storms.’
Jack snorts. ‘The town cannot grow without horses. How would we manage to get about? How get the goods from ship to store? How mount Colonel McCleverty’s cavalry in times of war? The town — and the whole country — cannot run smoothly without good horseflesh. You will see, I have chosen a trade that is vital. I will prosper, Lily.’
Lily speaks with her face half turned away from him as the horses wander further into the swamp. ‘Dear Jack, I know you have. I love the proud way you sit on a horse, and your careful, tender way with them. I know Baron Alzdorf trusts you with his best mounts. But …’ Lily breaks into a little laugh. ‘… Now you are going to propose to me again, I can feel it coming!’ She turns, as agile on horseback as he, to place a finger on his mouth. ‘Don’t. Let’s not spoil this lovely morning.’
They walk in silence up to the Baron’s field on Te Aro Flat. Jack dismounts, detaches the lead reins from the five horses and smacks them, a little too roughly, on their shining rumps. They trot away, willingly enough. When Jack turns back, there is his sweetheart standing on Domino, her feet planted firmly behind the saddle! As he watches she urges Domino forward, pirouetting gently, carefully as he walks. Jack daren’t speak for fear she will fall. Domino is not some circus pony, trained in fancy footwork. But Lily surely knows this. Before disaster strikes, she jumps down from his back, landing upright on the soft grass, her skirt billowing and her dark curls flying in the air. Oh, what a wilful beauty she is! Jack runs to her, his heart beating, so full of conflicting emotions he can’t speak.
He holds her tight. ‘You could have been killed! My dear, dear Lily …’
Her eyes are shining. ‘I can still do it! I just wanted to see …’
And later, when they have spread their blanket and eaten their picnic, Lily speaks, her eyes serious, her words loving.
‘I will marry you, Jack, but not yet, not for a while. Can you bear that? I love what I do. I love the theatre. I know you think it a rough and disreputable sort of life, but there is skill in what I’m learning. I bring pleasure to people, as you do to horses. I love to learn new lines and take on the character of strange people — pitiable, or laughable, or heroic. I love it when you feel the audience draw in — holding their breath for fear of losing a single word. If I marry you now, there will soon be babies. Not even Mrs Foley will put a lady who is expecting on stage. It’s the worst kind of luck.’
Jack bites back his response. He kisses her gently and she returns the favour. At least she has made a promise of sorts. He looks around him, at the horses grazing peacefully; the blue, windless sky; his Lily, her skin golden in the sun, sitting beside him on the rug. I must remember this day, he thinks: the first time she pledged herself to me. I must remember every minute. Was it a premonition of the trials and difficulties ahead that made him take careful stock of the moment? Or simply that such great pleasure drew itself indelibly on his memory, waiting to be taken out and polished again and again in later years?
And recounted, so much later, to his son.
He kisses her again. Lily smiles and pulls at his ear. For a while, holding each other on that sunny morning, they are completely happy — Jack is sure she feels the same. It is only time, thinks Jack. She is growing into womanhood; I must be patient. Then, leaving the Baron’s horses to graze, they remount and trot back to the beach where races and competitions for the adults will soon begin.
The second day of the holiday, Tuesday, is the other side of the coin entirely. A cold wind blows, choppy waves on the harbour play havoc with the sailing races, and at midday a squalling rain puts a temporary halt to the horse races. The Baron is in a bad mood. His best thoroughbred has pulled up lame halfway through the first furlong; the groom is blamed for not preparing the horse better. Jack knows this is unfair. The rider, a young settler and a protégé of the Baron’s, rode Daylight too hard. Jack could have done better himself. But the Baron cannot be coached into his usual genial smiles.
‘How can we show this sad little town how to run a good race, if the wind will blow sand into the horses’ eyes, and the natives shout so loud? How?’
Even his plump, laughing wife, resplendent in purple silk, cannot break his mood. Another premonition?
‘Go back to the hotel,’ he orders Jack, ‘and see to our patrons’ mounts. They will be leaving soon if this weather does not better become.’ As if to underline his words, the weather throws a driving rain from the north, sending the holiday crowds rushing for saloons and homes or back into their shanties and whares. Jack trudges back to the stables along muddy, windy Lambton Quay. He’d like to go to see Lily at the theatre tonight but there’s little chance the Baron will grant him free time, given the mood he’s in.
As the evening darkens, the remaining horses in the stables become restless. Daylight, the lame thoroughbred, is particularly skittish. He blows and snorts, turning this way and that in his stall, jerking at his tether. When Jack tries to sooth him the wretch gives him a nasty nip. This is so unlike Daylight that Jack studies the horse carefully, looking for signs of a deeper injury.
At that moment, as if a giant horseman has laid a whip across the backs of the four beasts, they all whinny in unison. The sound of their hooves knocking the walls of the stalls is like a roll of thunder. Jack is frightened. What on earth is going on? He pulls tightly on Daylight’s rein, trying to steady his tossing head. But the thunder of the hooves is suddenly swallowed by a deafening crack and the world splits apart. Jack is flung to the floor while four terrified horses race out into the night, galloping madly through a heaving, shattering town.
Jack tries to pick himself up, but is flung to the floor again. Harnesses fly through the air; a dog-cart which had been stowed neatly, tipped and tied against the wall, breaks free and rolls down the length of the empty stable. The stack of hay bales topples; two of the bales land neatly in the rolling dog-cart, steadying its progress. And all the while the grinding, roaring noise under his sprawling body: the heave and toss of an angry, vengeful earth.
As the shaking subsides, Jack realises that this must be an earthquake. Now he hears screaming in the street, and an enormous whump as a building somewhere collapses. Out, out, he must be out in the open air! Like the horses, he feels the need to run. Jack stumbles down the alley, past the groaning,
swaying hotel and into Willis Street. There, the Baron, who experienced the 1848 quake, is marshalling his frightened patrons.
‘It will all be over soon!’ he shouts. ‘Stay, stay here in the street! Keep close by me! See!’ he gestures grandly at Baron’s Hotel. ‘See how firm she stands? A few glasses and crocks are all that break. A moment, dear friends, to wait.’
At that very moment another shock begins to build and the street is filled again with screams and shouts. The Baron slaps his forehead dramatically. ‘My darlink wife! She is all alone inside. My dear brave wife, she knows how safe the Baron’s Hotel is. Stay, stay all friends, while I go to comfort her, bring her out!’
And in he runs, staggering as the aftershock rocks the building again. Jack hears another crash around the corner in the Quay, and then a nearer, quieter rumble. The crowd groans in awe as the hotel’s huge double chimney folds up as if it were paper and disappears down through the roof.
As the dust settles a ghostly figure runs out into the night air. Her face, her hair, her plump cheeks shine in the moonlight as whitely as her nightgown. It is the Baroness Alzdorf herself, screaming for her husband.
‘But he just ran in!’ says a lady guest. ‘He is inside!’
The Baroness turns to gaze at the swaying building. All stare at the grand door, waiting for him to emerge. For a moment the crowd is still. The earth quietens too. The silence is immense. Then a new danger appears. Slowly a crack opens along the street and through it pours a sticky, heaving mass of mud, spewing like vomit from the open maw of the fissure. It flows silently, spreading along the street and into doorways. Suddenly everyone is shouting and running. Lanterns bob this way and that. The Baron is forgotten in this new terror from beneath the earth.
Jack runs too. It is all more horrible than he can bear. Along Lambton Quay he runs, past the new Union Bank, which has lost its whole elegant front, the walls of the offices open to the sky; past the Government Offices — or what was that building. The sentinel, who should be calling the hour, stands dazed in front of the rubble. No ‘Ten o’clock and all’s well!’ will sound tonight. In front of the Council Chambers, also a ruin of stone and brick, a storm of papers and journals is whirling in the wind. What records will be lost tonight? What will it matter anyway, in this madness? Surely this will be the end of Wellington.
Jack stops suddenly and lies flat as another shock rips through the earth. Lily. What is he doing? Lily, Lily, he thinks. I am running in the wrong direction. She will be at the theatre. As he rises unsteadily and starts walking gingerly back along the Quay, he sees, lit by ragged, racing moonlight, the sea coming in. Slowly it surges towards him, rising over his shoes, his ankles. He sees people run from their houses, run across the street and up towards Wellington Terrace. Oh God, will this nightmare have no end? The Quay is under water, but not deeply so. Jack wades on, and into Willis Street, which is still dry. A small crowd has gathered again in front of Baron’s Hotel.
‘He’s dead,’ says the little stable-hand, tears running streaks down his dusty cheeks. ‘The Baron’s in there under his own chimney. We can’t get him out!’
Jack stops in amazement. ‘The Baron?’
‘Chimney come down atop him. His lady’s in a right fit.’
‘Are they sure?’
‘Doctor Wallis went in. Says he’s dead. We’re to leave him there until the shaking stops.’ The young lad puts a hand in Jack’s. Holds tight as if he’s drowning. ‘Should we go after the nags?’ he asks. He’s trembling all over.
Jack closes his eyes. Tries to think. The horses. Where will they have run to? And if the Baron’s dead, the horses will be the least of anyone’s worries.
‘Find Mrs Appleby,’ he says. ‘Ask her for something to eat. She’ll still be in charge of her kitchen, you can bet on that.’ He winks at poor, scruffy Alfred. ‘I’ve got to find my lady, now. We’ll look for the nags in the morning.’
Jack searches all that howling, shaking night for Lily. As if the aftershocks aren’t bad enough, a fierce, punishing wind gusts through the ruins of people’s houses. More cracks open in the streets, horses run wild everywhere, and so does the terrible, sticky, bubbling mud. Lily is not at the theatre, nor at her boarding house. But as dawn breaks he finds her asleep, rolled in a blanket, in an open field close to the Baron’s land in Te Aro Flat. Several of the other theatre people are huddled there too, all asleep.
‘We gathered here in the open, to keep safe,’ whispers Lily, smiling to see him, though her dark eyes are still shadowed at the memory of it all. ‘Oh Jack, what a night! Wherever were you?’
[Archivist’s Note: Here in Lily’s journal there is another aside, which is clearly not intended to be read aloud to the family. I have included it as it gives colour to the life of the Laceys. We can imagine the large family sitting around the fire in their isolated farmhouse, listening to either Lily or Samuel reading aloud. I wonder if Jack ever read his sections to his children? I rather think not. E. de M.]
Lily’s aside
WRITTEN 1883
The readings are going well. Mattie is quite astonishing the way she knows what is needed to heal our divisions. Yesterday, looking down from my upstairs window, I saw four of the younger children act out the Wellington earthquake and my abduction by Bully Hayes. They did it with such squeals and shouts, their little bodies tumbling and shaking. The dogs’ kennels were sent rocking on their sides and the big apple tree became Bully’s ship: a pirate flag, made from a flour bag which Mattie gave them, fluttering from its branches. And later, there in the river paddock, were Lydia and Lysander trying to ride old Xerxes, standing bareback! Jack came running to supervise. I thought he would put a stop to it, but no: as I watched, he took the reins and led the big horse carefully in a circle while the twins slowly got the hang of it. Bravo, bravo! Blood will out!
THE JOURNAL OF LILY ALOUETTE CONTINUES …
SCENE: Various theatrical establishments in the North Island of New Zealand
I pursue my trade as an artiste
A week or two after that dreadful earthquake I awoke with a start to find Tommy Bird sitting large as life and grinning at the foot of my bed. I should not say large as life as he was a small little fellow and always would be.
‘Tommy Bird!’ I cried. ‘Have you no shame? I am a lady now and this boarding house is as respectable an establishment as can be.’
But I was glad to see him and he knew it. He wagged his coppery little head, winked and did a handstand over the iron bars of the bedstead.
‘Anyway how did you make your way in?’ I asked, as I knew Mrs Anderson would not let a stranger across her doorstep without being paid a penny or two, and Tommy never had a brass farthing about him.
Tommy laughed and pointed to the window. ‘Up the tree, along the branch and over the sill, easy as pie, my sweetheart. I am sent to bring you down to the circus.’
‘What, the circus has come to this sad town?’ I said, gathering my shawl about my shoulders, for Tommy had let in a sharp draught along with his supple little body. ‘Is Mr Foley mad? The people are still camping in the streets. They have more pressing matters to attend to than circus tricks.’
But it was all true, and Mr Foley had his head screwed on when it came to business (not so tightly screwed when it came to the ladies, but he was a good man for all that). He had planned to return for a season in Wellington, and when he heard about the earthquake he decided to keep to plans, reckoning that a nervous populace would be more in need of a bit of magic and a laugh than a town full of safe and contented people. By the time I was up and dressed and down to the shore, there was the flag of the Royal Victoria Circus flying high on its mast and a band of natives already at work helping Mr Foley’s men erect the planking stands and the big canvas roof. The steamer from Nelson was anchored in the bay and a couple of flat-boats were bringing in those familiar crates of animals and costumes, tying up to the newly lengthened public jetty. How quickly life was returning to normal!
You had
to laugh at Mr Foley’s good luck. There was a decent yardage of new shore now, risen in the quake. Where water had lapped at the bottom of Willis Street, there was now plenty of room to erect the circus and house the animals! I doubt Mr Foley paid a penny to rent his space, as no one had thought yet who might own the new land!
‘Oh-ho!’ said that very man, spruce in his boots and britches and red braces over a nicely pressed shirt (some woman was looking after him and I hoped it was Maria). ‘Here is my little Miss Tournear, grown a bit longer in the limb and pretty as a picture!’ He made a mock bow and kissed my hand, like lord to lady, his wide moustaches brushing my fingers soft as a feather. ‘I hear you are a hit with the fellows up at the theatre. That’s a good girl. You are learning the tricks of the trade from my good Mrs Foley then?’
I didn’t like to hear that sort of talk. I thought the two of them were off on their separate ways, and Maria in the frame for a bit of love and family life. But held my peace until matters became clearer.
Well, you would hardly credit it, but that man then bent quickly to his knees and ran his hand up under my skirt, then down my leg and probing over my ankle! Just as quick he stood up again, smiling as if nothing was amiss. ‘Your leg has healed well,’ he said, giving me a wink. ‘I’ll wager you can ride the horses again, like the old days.’
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