‘It’s a crying shame,’ shouts a tall woman, shaking the reins of her cart. ‘Can decent folk not take the family to the races without drink ruining it all? Shame on you boys! Racing on an open road! You nearly turned me over at the last bend.’
‘What is the world coming to?’ mutters an old man. ‘Their parents should be shot. Letting them drink and then drive home in a state.’
The boys are berated, threatened and marched back to their carts. Willing hands lift Rosetta’s body carefully into the carriage. Rona, who is frightened but unhurt, is harnessed again. Jack sets off, angry, confused, desperate to be away from the opinions of the holiday crowd and into a quieter place. An unborn child; a dead wife!
Mrs Abernethy respects his feelings. She sits with Rosetta, wordless, on that long, slow, crowded road home.
A week after the funeral, Jack decides to move south; to make a new life away from the sad memories of Auckland. He arranges to sell his home and land and to move his stock to newly developed farmland near Whanganui. His housekeeper, while arranging the disposal of Rosetta’s belongings, has cleared out a trunk in her music room and found a letter.
‘I found this tucked down behind some music, Sir. It seems to be addressed to you, but it is old. Should I throw it out?’
Jack, who is wrestling with his hated paperwork, nods, barely paying attention. Then as she walks out of the room, he calls out to her. ‘Who is it from?’
‘I can’t tell Sir. But it is in a woman’s hand.’
It feels to Jack as if a cold draught has drifted through the room. He turns around. ‘I’ll look at it.’
With trembling hands he takes the pages. There is no envelope. The paper is folded neatly with his name written in Lily’s flamboyant hand on the outside. A mouse or some insect has nibbled at the edges. This letter is old.
My dearest Jack,
Oh, how I have read and re-read your last letter! You are a naughty man to write only one, but I must suppose that some have gone missing as we move around from town to town. You should send your letters with Mrs Buckingham and Rosetta’s mail as I send mine with Mr Buckingham’s bundle. It is a safer way, he says, to send a package.
Mr Buckingham, who is as kind as a real father to me, has said we must all write today as there is a ship leaving from port for Auckland tomorrow. He is very good at organising our life as well as our tours, but I fear the endless planning is taking a toll on his health. He suddenly looks much older.
Dear Jack, I am learning so much! This is very hard work, touring from town to town, sometimes performing with other groups in a big theatre and then a day later, just the Buckinghams (and your faux-Buckingham sweetheart!) entertaining a rough group of miners in a hall that is little better than a shack. But we are welcomed by all and bring laughter and tears to lonely hearts.
My dear, I have such plans and can’t wait to lay them before you. Surely I can be a good wife to you and still travel a little? Say once or twice a year to keep my hand in? You can afford a housekeeper now. Let us see if we can make a compromise. Do think about it, Jack. If we both bend a little, a good life can surely be made.
I hope I will be back in your arms by Spring — or at least by early Autumn.
Your loving Lily
P.S. Have no fears about the attraction of the Buckingham boys. They are such serious lads! Talented, but a little lacking in charm to my way of thinking. You knock them all into a cocked hat! (Don’t let Rosetta or Mrs Buckingham read this bit, if you are sharing news together!)
Jack lets out a roar of anger — or is it anguish? He races through the house until he finds Mrs Coddington.
‘Where did you find this letter? Show me exactly!’
Mrs Coddington, frowning at his unseemly haste at such a sad time, walks sedately through to Rosetta’s music room.
‘In the trunk in the corner, Sir. And what shall I do with the music, Sir? Should we send it to the Buckinghams in Australia?’
Jack doesn’t answer. He flings the neatly stacked sheets of music out of the trunk, sending them skittering over the polished floor. When the trunk is empty and no further letters apparent, Jack turns, panting, to meet Mrs Coddington’s astonished gaze.
‘Have you found other letters hidden?’
‘No, Sir.’
‘Or burned, or destroyed?’
‘Whatever do you mean, Sir? The mistress would never …’
But Jack doesn’t wait to listen. He runs out of the house, up to the back paddock where Alouette is tethered, ready for a morning run. Jack calls the horse to him and she trots up, nosing him in search of a carrot or apple. Jack holds the dear, sleek head, smells her rich, sweaty neck and moans out loud. How many letters from Lily has he not seen? Did she send several in the Buckingham bundle? Could the mother or Rosetta, or both, acting together, have deliberately hidden news of Lily, hidden her letters? He tangles his fingers in the wiry hair of Alouette’s mane as if he could wring the answers from his horse. Oh, he has wronged her! Lily will of course know about his marriage and be deeply hurt. She might indeed have turned away from him now … Jack tugs too forcefully on the mane, earning a nip. How betrayed she must feel! Oh, what to do? He saddles his beloved mount and rides away, giving Alouette her head.
Two hours later he returns, calmer, but still angry. He must find out where Lily is and explain. Perhaps he has lost her; she may love another by now, but he has to know.
The day before he leaves for his new farm in the Waitotara Valley, Jack receives news of Lily — the first that has come directly to his hand. It was written two months past: a stiff, awkward note, addressed to Rosetta and written by young George Buckingham. The family is leaving Australia and has little idea of what their next address might be. George believes the troupe is heading for the new goldfields in the South Island of New Zealand. Lily will join young George and his brothers in a fresh Buckingham Family venture. Their new business partner is a Captain William ‘Bully’ Hayes. Lily joins the boys in sending kind regards to Rosetta and Jack.
[Archivist’s Note: The next section in the journal of Lily Alouette — the section she labels Act Five: Finale Bully Hayes! — deals with events previously well documented in numerous biographies and histories. The adventures of the infamous Captain William Hayes have both fascinated and repelled students of that era. All the more fascinating, therefore, to read this contemporary version. Here is a personal recollection of that tyrant. Here also is a startling new account of events in Arrowtown; of the year beyond. History is turned on its head! E. de M.]
ACT FIVE: FINALE
Bully Hayes!
SCENE: Sydney and the touring circuits of Australia, 1860–62
I hit rock bottom
The day Mr Buckingham brought me news that Jack had married Rosetta must surely have been one of the worst in my life. We had arrived in Sydney, in between tours, and were staying in a smart hotel for once, in rooms Mrs Buckingham had found. She and the little Buckinghams had just arrived, pale and wan from a stormy crossing of the Tasman Sea. He was so kind, Mr Buckingham, taking me aside to give me the news, even though he was still recovering from his own illness.
‘I know you had feelings towards that young man,’ he said, seating me on a small sofa, hidden by a potted palm, away from the embarrassed eyes of his sons.
‘Feelings!’ I shouted, too hurt to consider the Buckinghams. ‘We were promised! How could he? How could she!’
Mr Buckingham tried to quieten me. His wife, languishing on a chaise longue, looked in another direction but was clearly listening.
‘This is a rummy business all round,’ he muttered. ‘Here are you, one of the family now, and a long tour ahead of us. And here is your young man, also one of the family, but married to Rosetta. We will have to get along, all of us, you know, if we are to have a future together.’ There was a warning note to his voice.
But at that moment the last thing of interest to me was a future with the Buckinghams. I stormed out of the hotel and ran down the hill to
wards the sea. There I sat on a bollard, watching the busyness of the port: the sailing ships and steamers, the carters and labourers, the fine gentlemen looking out for goods they had ordered, the merchants scrutinising their bills of lading. The noise and bustle of it only made me lonelier. Everyone, I thought, everyone in this busy world has a family, a home, a proper place, except me.
I cried then for my lovely Jack, lost to false Rosetta, who I had considered a friend. But there was anger, too, mixed with those bitter tears. Had I not written to Jack? Not recently, it must be admitted, but who can continue writing when there are no replies? Oh, now I began to suspect that all along he had his eye on that soft and pretty thing and was only waiting for me to sail out of his life! And yet, and yet … What of that last day on the windy hills of Auckland when we lay together? Did that mean nothing to him? I was as mixed in my emotions as the wavelets on that choppy sea changing from shadowed to bright and then back to dark in an instant.
In the end a disreputable fellow tried to accost me, thinking, perhaps, that I was one of the doxies who frequented the port, prepared to lift their skirts for a shilling. His leering face frightened me back to my senses. I dried my eyes and returned to the only family I knew. The Buckinghams.
Conrad Buckingham, always kind and gentle, smiled at me when I returned and told me I was a better sister to him than his silly Rosetta, and asked me some question about a new song we would sing together on the coming tour. He knew the best way to divert me.
But alas, all went downhill from that very day. The tour was a disaster. Looking back, I think poor Mr Buckingham was still ailing when he planned it. We played to poor audiences in small towns. Often we went hungry. Once the owner of the hotel where we performed refused to pay us, saying our fee was outrageous. Someone stole Conrad’s beautiful trumpet, a loss to him almost as dire as my loss of Jack. And then, in a sad little town in the south, Mr Buckingham died. When his son, George, went upstairs, anxious that he hadn’t appeared at breakfast, he found his father dead. Down he came running, his eyes staring, his words stuck in his throat, so we were forced to race upstairs ourselves, clattering on the bare boards to find him peaceful and pale as if still asleep, but stone cold dead. Young George had to manage doctors and inform his mother, and then the funeral. Dear oh dear, it was a dreadful few weeks. We continued our tour, with young George taking over the reins, but he lacked authority. I’m afraid we were a sorry troupe, and once or twice were booed off the stage, George having on those occasions misjudged the mood of the audience and given them a programme too highbrow — or too bawdy — for their tastes.
I remember very little of the months that followed. We performed; we toured to Tasmania and all through Victoria. I learned to forget Jack. Rosetta had stopped writing after her father’s death, so we had no news at all of that little family. Perhaps Jack was a happy father by now. I tried not to care.
Now, my dears, prepare yourselves for the reappearance of the villain! But beware, the wolf arrives in deep disguise. Didn’t we all see him as knight in shining armour? George, who had been sorely cast down by his mother’s death — yes, she died soon after her husband — cancelled the remainder of our tour which would have taken us north of Sydney to warmer towns. I thought of breaking with the Buckinghams then, and returning to New Zealand, but the possibility of coming across Jack and Rosetta deterred me. Also, by now I was the star attraction — golden-voiced Rosa — and felt I should not let the family down after all they had done for me. Picture our sadly reduced band: all at a loss for what direction to take. Move on, move on, I urged the boys, let us make new plans! But George seemed unable to stir himself.
Then on a clear sunny morning after a week of rain — always a time of hope — George knocked briskly on the door of my boarding house (we could no longer afford hotels). He was humming one of our favourite numbers, ‘Nix my Dolly’. I greeted him, joining in with the higher part and twitching my petticoat this way and that — showing a bit of ankle — pleased to find him in good spirits at last. He was transformed: freshly shaven, a smart new high-crowned hat and a jacket in the latest fashion. His eyes, usually so serious, sparkled.
‘George Buckingham!’ I exclaimed. ‘Whatever has put you in this mood? Are you in love at last?’
He laughed. ‘No, no, better than that. I have found us a new manager, Rosa!’ (They all called me Rosa by now; Lily was quite forgotten.) Put on your coat and hat, Rosa, for he is taking us out to tea.’ And he hustled and bustled me out onto the street and down to the tea-shop on the corner — quite a fancy establishment, whose name I have forgotten.
Inside, a large, smartly dressed man rose to greet me. He smiled and held out a single red rose.
‘Rosa, my dear,’ he said. ‘A beautiful rose for a beautiful Rosa!’
George looked from one of us to the other. ‘You’ve met?’
‘We have met, yes indeed,’ said Captain William ‘Bully’ Hayes, laughing at George’s surprise, ‘in most unusual circumstances.’ He kissed the rose and presented it to me with a flourish and a little bow. It was the Captain all right: no mistaking that man. You would notice him in any crowd: the easy, bluff way of him and his deep, carrying voice. That day he was dressed more stylishly than I ever saw again: a checked green waistcoat under a dark woollen frock coat, matching cravat, a topper and cane. His long hair was pulled back neatly over his ears and tied in a queue behind. I suppose I was standing with my mouth open, for he laughed again.
‘I said I would find you again, did I not? Bully Hayes always keeps his word. But I had no idea, back on that day of the earthquake, that you were the famous, the celebrated Rosa Buckingham!’ He turned to shake George’s hand. ‘And this fine brother of yours the talented musician George Junior. Now …’ He laid a warm arm around my shoulder in a most familiar way, as if we were an old married couple, and led me to a table. ‘… Come and have tea, my dear, and we will discuss business.’
George followed like a lamb, smiling uncertainly and fussing with the removal of hats and gloves and the seating of the Captain. Bully ordered tea and cakes in a grand voice, waving to a friend at another table, slipping the waitress sixpence, generally making himself noticed. Oh, he was all charm, as sunny as the morning itself, and wasn’t I drawn in by it! George was also. He had such an air of the man in charge. After the uncertainty of the last weeks, the Captain seemed like the answer to our prayers. His authority and assurance were every bit as invigorating as the strong dark tea we drank that morning. I suppose I was staring rudely at him. The way he laughed, the warmth of his arm around my shoulder, stirred some distant memory. It wasn’t the fact that his eyes shone like Papa’s; nor was it to do with the earthquake — that memory was all darkness and fear and a kind of sick fascination. No, this was a happy nudge from a distant past. Then I had it. Monsieur le Boulanger back in Menton! The same broad shoulders, that roaring confidence, the heat from his hands! Tears sprang into my eyes to remember so suddenly that safe, lost life with Maman and Papa.
Bully Hayes noticed my tears immediately and covered my hand with his. ‘Don’t worry your pretty head,’ he said. ‘No fear of earthquakes in this part of the world. And anyway,’ he smiled most engagingly, ‘I am here to protect you. But first,’ he lowered his voice and cast his eyes downward, ‘my condolences on the loss of your parents. A tragedy. A disaster. Such celebrated entertainers. You must all be in despair.’
George smiled sadly and was about to reply, but Bully Hayes charged on.
‘However, with loss comes opportunity. Now. Gold is discovered in New Zealand’s southern island,’ he announced, as if the news was freshly minted with his own words, ‘and wherever gold diggers flock, there must the entertainer follow. It is a rule of nature!’ And he laughed at his pronouncement, drawing us in with his infectious good humour. ‘You may not be aware,’ he said, lowering his voice in a good semblance of modesty, ‘that I have had the honour of managing the great Inimitable Thatcher and his brilliant wife on a tour through the Vict
orian goldfields, so have a certain experience in these matters.’ [There is no evidence at all that this was true. Quite the opposite. E de M.] ‘The opportunity is here for the picking. The Buckingham Family must set out for the new goldfields at once, before others — the Inimitable himself, perhaps — get wind of the rich pickings for entertainers.’ He winked. ‘I have many good contacts in that part of the world. We will make our fortunes if we move quickly. My ship is at your disposal. Leave all the arrangements to your new manager.’
George fairly beamed. ‘Captain Hayes, you have come at exactly the right time. What are your terms?’
‘Twenty per cent of door takings to me. Transport will be my concern. Also all bookings. The costs of mounting the shows and employing extras, yours.’
George, the fool, nodded. Twenty per cent was too high. ‘Accommodation costs?’ he asked, trying to sound businesslike, but clearly very ready to accept whatever arrangements Bully suggested. The Captain shrugged. ‘We can sort out the minor details as we go.’ He held out his hand and George shook it warmly.
‘Ha!’ shouted Bully for all the room to hear. ‘The celebrated Buckingham Family Entertainers are on the move again! Rosa Buckingham will be the star of the goldfields!’ He raised my hand as if I had won a boxing bout, and then kissed my fingers one by one. The fiery warmth of the man! Had my parents, looking down from heaven, sent him to protect me? Monsieur le Boulanger in all his floury charm reincarnated? On that day Bully Hayes was simply irresistible.
SCENE: The goldfields of Fox’s Camp — also known as Arrowtown — 1862
Winter in the goldfields
What blinded me? Why was I so drawn to him? Bully Hayes was not a handsome man; not particularly tall; his eyes were not deep set and flashing; his voice neither rich nor well modulated. Rather, he was a coarse man, thick set, with pouting, fleshy lips. He rolled a little from side to side as he walked, like many seamen, and when roused his language was foul. But then he might lay his hand on my arm and the heat of the man would blaze through me like a wildfire. He had strangely small and delicate hands, for a man of his stocky build. When his dark eyes bored into mine I would be incapable of rational thought. His huge roaring laughter! I can hear it now, that infectious guffaw. That volcano of a man opened up new worlds which I entered, at first, gladly.
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