Skylark

by Jenny Pattrick

BY

  Madame Lily Alouette!

  Adelaida, my beautiful daughter

  Lay in my arms and so sweetly she smiled

  Then dashed from my grasp in one moment of madness

  Tearing the link between mother and child.

  Chorus

  Adelaida, Adelaida,

  Drifting alone in that wild, cruel sea

  Adelaida, Adelaida,

  Adelaida is calling to me.

  Hark, can you hear, o’er the far distant ocean

  The cries of my baby — her pitiful plea,

  ‘Mother, dear Mother, my strength is fast failing;

  Mother, dear Mother, oh where can you be?’

  Wretched I swam but my arms could not find her

  Fainting, half drowning, I still struggled on;

  My sweetheart was sinking, dragged down by her clothing

  Alas, little Adelaida was gone.

  And though she is gone to her Father in Heaven

  And though her sweet laughter no more will I hear

  How oft I remember the pain of her passing

  How oft feel her touch and believe she is near.

  ‘THE BLACKGUARD BULLY HAYES’ — COMIC SONG AND CLOG-DANCE COMPOSED AND PERFORMED

  BY

  Lydia and Lysander Lacey, Aged 9

  [Archivist’s Note: Lydia and Lysander are introduced in the third journal. See page 238. E. de M.]

  Chorus

  Bully Hayes

  Did end his days

  Bashed on the head

  Until he was dead

  Such a bad lot, deserved what he got

  We dance a little jig now that Bully is dead.

  Verse One

  His eyes were cold, his smile was a leer

  His heart was black, he had only one ear.

  Bully Hayes was a terrible knave

  We stamp, stamp, stamp on the blackguard’s grave.

  Verse Two

  Bully Hayes had more than one wife

  He stole and cheated all his wicked life

  No widow or child would he ever save

  We stamp, stamp, stamp on the blackguard’s grave.

  Verse Three

  Bully was a pirate, Bully stole a brig

  He drank like a fish and he ate like a pig

  His sorry life was full of deprave

  We stamp, stamp, stamp on the blackguard’s grave.

  MATTIE’S JOURNAL

  AN INTRODUCTION BY

  Mattie Lacey

  1883

  [Archivist’s Note: Mattie’s journal is more of a scrapbook than the other two. It contains many pages written in Mattie’s hand but also pages pasted in: letters, additional stories by Lily and Samuel, newspaper reviews and, surprisingly, one or two recipes. Interestingly, Jack Lacey never writes. Together the entries present a remarkable picture of the years 1864–83 in the life of this very unconventional family. You will observe that Mattie starts off her story as a sort of entertaining farce, as a complement to Lily’s melodrama, but cannot keep it up. Neither the material, nor her own character, are suited to a rollicking or bawdy style. E. de M.]

  Oh what an uproar! Truly this might well be a farce as Lily had promised, but neither Samuel nor Lily will write another word. Accusations, tears, rages and towering silences are the order of the day between those two. Why, in the name of heaven, did Lily need to bring in this tale of her being with child when she left Bully? Now the rest of us are without our evening stories, which had been going so well. I have enough troubles without this.

  Today Lily has saddled the grey mare and ridden off who knows where. I pray that she is not about to disappear again. Lily is difficult and sometimes arrogant, but she is the bright lamp that illuminates our peculiar household. I suppose I am the softer glow of the hearth fire that warms and feeds us. But we are used to her liveliness and miss her dreadfully when she is suddenly gone. It’s no use thinking that those slips blocking the valley will stay her if she has a mind to leave. Lily on horseback can negotiate the roughest terrain.

  But surely, at this time, she will not leave us. Surely?

  Today Samuel came to me, his dear face haggard, his eyes dark pits. ‘What do you think, Mother Mattie, is she right? Can she be telling the truth?’

  I paused in my kneading. Bread must be baked even when we are in an uproar. ‘Have you not asked your father?’ I said.

  Samuel would have pounded the table were it not covered in flour. ‘Father is no help. He will take nothing seriously. He is so easy on Mother. He will never contradict her. “Well, that is Lily’s story,” says Father. “As far as I’m concerned, you are my son. I registered you, I named you, you were born and raised in this house.” But he will not answer the question of begetting. He simply smiles and gets on with his work.’

  Samuel takes matters so seriously. He has always been Jack’s beloved eldest son. (We are surely not so scrupulous about begetting in this household!) And yet he has written down Jack’s story well: we have all enjoyed his readings, Jack especially. He sits there in front of the fire, grinning — sometimes laughing outright at the way Samuel has written down his life. And more than once I have caught him out on a tear, which he has dashed away with a flick and a shrug.

  I suppose the problem is that Samuel has identified so strongly with his father. He loves Jack deeply, and now, if we are to believe Lily, Samuel may be the son of that villain Bully Hayes. Truly it was naughty of Lily to bring up the matter. Especially with the little ones listening.

  I smiled at the poor, wracked lad. ‘Have you ever known your mother to embroider the truth?’

  ‘Yes, of course. Often.’

  ‘You don’t think that this might be one of those times?’

  ‘But why? Why would she? To what purpose at all? It does not heighten her story to make me a bastard.’

  I plopped my loaves in their tins with more force than necessary. ‘Samuel. We do not use that word in this household, as you very well know. Leave name-calling to the neighbours.’

  He quietened then. Looked at me sheepishly. He might well be considered a bastard by polite society without any intervention by Bully Hayes.

  ‘Now,’ I said, as firmly as I could, ‘I myself am going to continue the story, since you and Lily will not.’ Then I could not hold back my grin. ‘But this part of the story will not be for the younger children. Your mother was planning to write a farce, was she not? Well then, let it be a farce. Ha! Perhaps you, and Sarah, and Phoebe and Bert might be allowed to listen … We’ll see what your father thinks.’

  That interested the boy. They have never heard about the early days, when Lily first came to the valley. But they should know. They might need to be armed against prejudice as they begin to leave the protection of this home. And we must get up to Teddy’s part. We must all listen to that story — Teddy and the Pollard Company. We must come to an understanding.

  I am hoping that Lily and Samuel might be drawn into writing that part with me. Lily, at least, will not be able to help herself.

  Ah, and here she comes riding back, flying over fences, her hair streaming and her cheeks pink. There is my Jack waving to her as she rides past the lower paddock.

  Thank God.

  A FARCE

  A HORSEMAN, THE ACTRESS AND THE WENCH AT THE GATE

  or

  Who is the Wife?

  NARRATED BY

  Mrs Mathilda Lacey

  AND Others

  SCENE: A lonely farmhouse in the Waitotara Valley, 1864

  The horseman is comforted

  Think back twenty years. Who is that pretty young girl standing at the gate? Why, it’s me: young Mattie Jones, daughter of a Welsh sailor (so the nuns said) and a native woman from Ranana up the Whanganui River. Perhaps I am of a chiefly family, perhaps a slave’s. I suppose I will never know: my mother and her family died in the early days when disease came to our settlement. I was brought up by the nuns. I am lucky to get a position with Mr Jack Lacey, who is kind and handsome. And he
is lucky to get me! I am a good cook and housekeeper and strong. (And pretty, so the stable-boy and the groom say). The nuns thought I was clever and gave me an education in all the things they said I would need: sewing, cooking, cleaning and knowledge of the Bible. I also learned to read and write.

  On this day I’m leaning on the gate by our house garden, dreaming. The very same gate you see today, covered in moss, with one hinge rusted almost away. To be honest, I’m dreaming of Mr Lacey who has been away for three weeks now. I have nothing much to do except dream: the house is clean for there is no one here to untidy it. The day, for once, is clear and windless. We’ve had a month of sulky weather where the mist lies heavy on the ground, lazily refusing to rise until midday. Every blade and leaf droops: my soul also.

  Mr Jack Lacey has gone in search of a sweetheart. I know it. He does not talk to me of her, but I have seen it in the way he smiles sometimes: a yearning, sighing kind of smile that I am probably guilty of when I think of Mr Lacey. He is so handsome, especially when on horseback. Some months back, there came a letter which gladdened his heart and caused him to run outside to the house paddock, saddle Alouette, gallop up the valley and then up a sheer slope until he was a tiny black silhouette, far, far above.

  But now, as I lean and dream, here is another, quieter man on horseback, far, far down the valley. I shade my eyes; the sun is still low and I cannot see. But surely …? Yes! It’s Jack Lacey himself, returning. Not galloping up the last mile or two as is his habit, but plodding like any ordinary tired farmer. Slumped in his saddle. Oh dear, oh dear, this will not do. (Although I must admit to a small thrill of shameful pleasure: no accompanying sweetheart.)

  I run into the kitchen, blow up the fire and set scones quickly to bake. No time for bread, the stale heel will have to do. But a good haunch of cold mutton hangs in the larder and there’s cheese and butter from the house cow. Here’s a meal for him. I’m singing as I work. ‘I Love the Merry Minstrel’ and so on. Mr Lacey is returning and our quiet life will have a centre again! My feet will not stay still; out I go again to pull some carrots and lettuce — but really to catch another glimpse.

  There is the good man, riding up through the river paddock, taking something sweet from his pocket for the horses who trot to him like foals to a dam. Oh Jack Lacey would never forget his horses, no matter how down in the dumps he might be! Matiu over at the stables shouts and waves and Jack raises his hand in acknowledgement.

  And has a smile for me too, standing at the gate. That gate is my waiting place: which one of you has not been greeted there by me? But oh, this day, what a crooked smile is Jack’s; how white his face; how drooping his shoulders! It’s as if he has brought his own personal shroud of ground-mist which hangs all about him and chills the bright air.

  ‘Hello, Mattie,’ he says, dismounting and handing the reins to Matiu who has come running. Matiu and I exchange a glance. Usually Mr Lacey will chat and laugh with us even after only a day or two away at Whanganui. Even though we are servants, he is never short with us. Some of the other farmers, who are frightened to have native servants, with all the unrest about, do not know where to look or what to say when they ride over to see Mr Lacey and find us sitting at his table sharing a meal.

  But today he might as well be one of those rude, uneducated farmers. Inside he stumps without a further word. I watch him from the little kitchen window as he takes water from the tank, splashes the dust from his face and hands, then flings the grey water out over the raspberry canes. All customary, familiar actions, but done so cheerlessly! I can no longer feel glad that he has come home alone. My Mr Lacey is heart sore, that is very clear.

  He eats his mutton and scones mechanically, munch, munch, like Betsy, our dutiful house-cow, at her grass. I stand behind him, waiting to be invited to the table, but I might as well be part of the furniture. This will not do. He must not bottle up whatever the pain is or it will run through his veins like a poison. I fetch the decanter of brandy which is usually brought only out for important occasions, and pour him a good three inches.

  He downs it in a gulp. I pour another, which follows just as quick. I decide to take a drop myself, just to keep the poor man company. After the third he looks up, reaches a hand to me as a drowning man might, and I can see the dam is about to burst.

  I lean in to him, hold his head against my apron. There is no need to search for words of comfort, for his own come flooding out.

  ‘Oh Mattie, Mattie,’ he cries. ‘She has gone. Gone to Australia with another man’s child. What am I to do? I thought … I felt sure … Oh, I cannot bear it!’

  Tears follow. I hold him gently, rocking him like a child, my own tears rolling down. What a mixture of feelings swirling within: pain that he should feel so bereft, but also a fierce joy to hold his dear body so close, and to know that he has need of me.

  I dare to kiss the top of his head, where a damp, dark lock curls down to his forehead. He lifts his head, looking at me with surprised, swollen eyes. I kiss those eyes — how could I not? — and then his beautiful nose. Oh what a pleasure! I am lost now: a team of his very own horses could not stop me!

  We climb the rough stairs together and — well, you can imagine what follows. Perhaps he dreams that another woman lies in his bed, not his maid-of-all-work. Perhaps you will blame me for taking advantage of a grieving man. But that precious night was full of healing and joy. Tears too, of course, but these became gentler as the night wore on.

  By morning, Jack lay exhausted but at peace, ready to tackle the day’s chores.

  I sang all day and cooked him a special meal: Kereru pie. That day I was inspired — the recipe an invention of my own.

  Mattie’s kereru pie

  Boil two good fat pigeons with an onion, a bunch of sage leaves, a tablespoon of malt vinegar and another of honey, a pinch of salt and an apple cut roughly. Cook for two or three hours.

  Take the meat from the birds, saving the bones for soup.

  In a pan melt a generous dollop of butter and then brown a good handful of flour in the butter. Add two cups of the strained juices from the cooked birds and stir until you have a rich gravy, then add the kereru meat.

  Line a pie dish with pastry made with butter, egg yolk and white flour. Fill with the meat and gravy. Cover with more pastry, making sure to cut holes for the steam to escape.

  Bake in the middle of the stove, with a good hot fire burning. A short time only is needed, so keep watch.

  The flavour is best if the pie is left for a short time before eating.

  Potatoes and watercress go well with this dish.

  Note: The juices are especially delicious, so if you have some left from making the gravy, it may be supped as an invigorating broth.

  SCENE: The same, one year, or thereabouts, later

  Return of the prodigal

  And here I am, waiting at the same wooden gate, watching for my dear Jack Lacey. I dare to call him my Jack because I have news for him. I am with child! (That is you, Sarah.) Jack is sure to be in a good mood when he returns from Whanganui. He set off two days ago for the horse bazaar with five beautiful mounts. Surely they will all sell well and he will have enjoyed the admiration and company of other breeders. Oh, he is a talented man, is Jack! He examines each new foal; notes in his little book their gait and temperament; their rate of growth and their lineage. Then he decides their fate: this one for a lady’s mount, this one for the military, this one for light harness, that for larger coach. Sometimes he comes in very pleased because he has bred one suited for racing.

  The business is doing well. Jack is respected in the valley. Many times he is invited to visit neighbouring farms, especially those with marriageable daughters, and my heart has beat painfully to see him dress smartly and ride off. But it seems none has pleased him so far. I wonder sometimes whether he still holds hope for the lost sweetheart, but he never mentions her to me. Secretly I hope that he finds me more entertaining. But of course I am a servant.

  Jack is a man devo
ted, above all, to horseflesh and, like his most spirited mounts, he can be moody. Over these last months I have been the one to coax him out of his black days with good food, kindly words — and, now and then, by sharing his bed. This is no chore: those nights are full of joy. He is an energetic lover; we share an interest in finding new ways to pleasure the other. We both rise after those nights refreshed, cheerful, ready to tackle whatever the new day brings. I like to think I am good for him in that respect. I would sleep with him every night of the year but he will only take me upstairs at certain times, when loneliness and a man’s need get the better of his sense of the proper order of things. He is a young, vigorous man and needs his oats, as they say. But we will see what he says about this unborn child. Perhaps he will forget my lowly status and take me as wife. I am bold enough to think it would be a good choice!

  There he comes, riding up the valley, a dark shadow in the rising morning mist. Today he comes at a gallop, Alouette leaping the little stream at full stretch. Good. He is in high spirits and will surely hear my news with joy. What man does not wish for children to carry on his name? I run inside to prepare food and tea.

  Jack gallops straight through the river paddock, allowing Alouette to jump the gate. His face is shining, his shout, as the horse jump, floating high in the still air. Suddenly I feel fear. This is no ordinary domestic happiness; a good sale would not bring out such a glow. When he enters the kitchen, the room seems to burst apart with a fiery heat that has nothing to do with the crackling stove.

  ‘Well now, Mattie,’ he says, smiling, ‘well now.’

  And sits to his toast and eggs without another word. He gulps his hot sweet tea, eats all and asks for more. I fry up another two eggs, add rashers of bacon and a handful of field mushrooms from the back paddock, which I had been saving for our lunch, then bring the delicious, fragrant food on two plates, so I may sit with him. He smiles and smiles as he eats, but alas, his good humour is not directed at me.