With them they carried one of Doctor Ingram’s pigeons in a little cage. As soon as the labour began, we were to attach a message to the pigeon’s leg, saying to come quickly, then we were to set the bird aloft. Doctor Ingram’s birds were famous up our valley. When we saw one fly past, we would know a baby or a death was expected, and we would watch out to see how long it took before the doctor came galloping up; sometimes, in the case of severe illness, pulling his sprung cart with a stretcher bobbing up and down inside. In those cases the journey back was much slower: our road, as ever, likely to shake the poor patient to an early death.
We fed and cared for the pigeon for three days and then I went into labour.
‘Send the pigeon!’ I cried, the pains being strong, but Jack would not.
‘It’s for Lily,’ he said. ‘The doctor fears a complication. You will do well enough with Lily’s help.’
Oh, I could have crowned the man at that moment. He is not always the most careful with his words, though I know he loves and cherishes me as a wife and mother. It comforted me to hear Lily scold him and send him outside to his horses. But then, as she came back to the bedside to see to developments, she stopped suddenly, clutching her belly.
‘Dear God!’ she gasped. ‘My waters have broken, Mattie. Oh, oh!’ And so on, ever the dramatist. She ran outside to call Jack back in: told him to send off the pigeon; to fetch the neighbours; to boil the water. She would have had the church bells ringing for miles around if there were any.
And there I was, screaming my bloody head off, alone in the upstairs bedroom.
Well, by the time Doctor Ingram came belting up the valley, Lily’s little Phoebe was just slipping out, neat and sweet. As she ever is, the darling. Doctor Ingram checked all parts and found none missing, complimented Lily, gave her some tincture, and was about to sit to a bite with the happy father when he heard me shouting upstairs.
‘What’s this?’ he said to Jack, who no doubt mumbled and fudged but finally asked the good man to see to his servant girl, who was having a hard time of her birthing. Up the doctor comes, taking the steps by twos, as my shouts were by then bringing down the house.
‘You have a big one in here,’ he said, feeling me this way and that, ‘who is the wrong way around. Now take a grip and we will see if I may turn the babe.’ And commenced his pummelling. He is a strong man, Doctor Ingram, bless his soul, who is known to have pulled a stuck calf from a cow without any resort to block and tackle. My Bert, stubborn even then in the womb, would not be turned, so the doctor reached in and brought him out feet first, bawling and lusty, tearing his mother in the process, but fighting fit, praise the Lord.
Doctor Ingram smiled at me then, always a kind man. ‘You must stay abed until the bleeding stops,’ he said. ‘It’s good of your master to bring you into the house for your birthing. Make sure you thank him well.’ And trotted off downstairs before I had strength to put him right on the matter.
We never sent for Mrs Lomax to come and help as the doctor had advised. Lily was up next day, chirpy as a cicada, laughing at our ‘twins’. She thought it a great joke, but Jack was uneasy.
‘Well now, Mattie,’ he said, when he came in to look at his lovely brown son with his shock of black hair, his eyes dark as raisins. ‘What shall we call the boy?’
‘Albert,’ I said. ‘Albert Jack Lacey.’
‘Well,’ he said again. ‘We’ll see.’ He was embarrassed at what the neighbours would say or think, any fool could see that. Two Laceys born of different mothers on the very same day! No doubt the doctor would be spreading the tale down the valley as he collected his horse and headed home. I suspected Jack had spun some tale about the fathering of Bert, with Matiu most likely the culprit.
Meanwhile I languished, as quiet and sore as a sick dog. For once Lily saw to the chores, bringing Phoebe to my breast while she was at work. Mostly all the babes have grown strong on my milk. Lily had no patience with breastfeeding and not much milk, anyway.
Well, I am tired of the farce.
Once babies are born, life is too busy for play-acting, especially when one of the mothers takes it into her head to run off to the theatre to be a famous artiste. When Lily was away, life was peaceful but not always pleasant. Poor Jack always took it hard. My arms were busy with babies and washing, not to mention every other household chore. Jack would not have another woman nosing about, so all housekeeping fell to me.
The first time Lily went off would have been when Phoebe and Bert were a year old, maybe. Lily begged Jack to let her go to Whanganui to do a season with an amateur group there. Or was it the Christie Minstrels? I lose count. She begged and begged. Jack said no, her place was home with the babies.
‘Can’t you see I am fading away?’ she cried. ‘My fire, my talent, my very voice is dying!’
Not that any of us had noticed. She would sing to the children, sometimes a gentle lullaby, but more often some rollicking ditty, in a voice to reach the bottom paddock: hardly the thing to send a baby to sleep. But she fretted to be in front of a larger audience, that was clear. In the end Jack gave his leave for her to be away two weeks, not a day longer. Lily jumped for joy, clapping her hands and kissing him and was packed and saddled and off down the valley before any of us could take breath.
She did not kiss me or even her own two babes which were left in my care.
And was away a month.
She returned one dark night, walking a stolen mount up the valley, and entered the kitchen quietly when we were all abed. Into the bedroom she came, crawling in beside Jack, mewing like a sick cat. Jack lit the candle and there she lay inside Jack’s cradling arms, white of face, hands all atremble.
‘He’s there,’ she moaned. ‘He’s there in Whanganui and saw me, I’m sure of it! Oh dear God, what shall we do?’
It was not at all usual to see Lily diminished in any way, so we both sat up and took notice. Jack stroked her damp hair, I rubbed her cold feet. Lily was prone to cold feet and chilblains.
‘Bully is in town,’ she cried. ‘Bully Hayes. I saw him.’ This was the first I’d heard of any Bully Hayes so it meant nothing to me, but I felt Jack go tense and still.
‘He saw you?’
‘I swear he did! I was in the middle of “All Round My Hat” with the crowd joining in the chorus nicely, me doing my little steps around my bonnet as you’ve seen me do in our own kitchen …’
Lily stopped then, diverted, perhaps by the thought of her own performance, and Jack had to prod her on. It seemed the villain rose from his seat in the audience and called — shouted — for silence.
‘Shut your silly chorus!’ he bellowed at the audience. ‘I want to hear the lady properly!’
Well, naturally there was ill feeling at that and in the general argy-bargy, Lily slipped out the back, took the nearest horse and headed home. Goodness knows what a to-do there would be over the stolen mount. Jack would have some fences to repair there.
Down she burrowed, our Lily, under the blankets as if the man might come knocking that very moment. I never saw her so fearful. Shaking and in tears. I had to undress her like a baby and then Jack and I comforted her the best we knew how. Jack was surprised too, I think. Lily is not one for dark moods. We rely on her to keep our spirits up, to make us laugh and dance a little through days that drag. That man had given her a right fright at some time in her life. But she would not tell me how, even though we share the most intimate of secrets.
Two days later Jack came back from Kai Iwi beaming and waving the Herald newspaper aloft like a proud banner.
‘All’s well, Lily,’ he said. ‘The rascal has been run out of town.’
The article said that a notorious Captain William ‘Bully’ Hayes had brought his unseaworthy boat over the bar in a most unwise manner. Four of his passengers were lost overboard in all the pitching and tossing, and drowned. But can you imagine this? That blackguard made no report of the poor lost souls, but tied up at Taupo Quay and spent the night in Whanganui with his lady w
ife enjoying the entertainment and drinking with the Imperial troops from the 18th. The Superintendent ran him and his crew of roughnecks out to sea in his rotten boat with the order never to cross the bar again. Ha!
I fancy Jack was as happy at the news as Lily. They were both out in the fields in the sunshine again, singing and laughing with the little ones.
I made my special jam roly-poly to celebrate. The centre has raisins and lemon peel as well as the jam. Damson is best.
[Archivist’s Note: At this stage in the journal several pages are pasted in. The first is a record of children’s names, the list written in Mattie’s hand. From the style of names I think we may deduce that the children on the left of the page are Lily’s, those on the right, Mattie’s. E. de M.]
Jack Lacey’s children
Samuel b. 1865
Sarah b. 1866
Phoebe b. 1867 Albert (Bert) b. 1867 ‘twin’ to Phoebe
Theodore (Teddy) b. 1868
Maud b. 1869
Elsie b. 1870
Frank b. 1871
Lydia and Lysander b. 1872
Joseph (Joe) b. 1873
Oberon b. 1874
A letter from Lily to Jack and Mattie
[Undated. Probably late 1867 or early 1868. E. de. M.]
My dearest Jack and Mattie,
I beg you to forgive my silence. Believe me, I have been so busy with two new plays to learn every fortnight, not to mention songs and dances. I am run off my feet!
You will be very surprised to hear where I am. The goldfields at Grahamstown on the Coromandel Peninsula! Jack, you will know it from your time in Auckland. Please do not be angry, this tour is to be a short one and I will be back safely home with the little ones and your dear selves before you know it.
My season in Whanganui was very disappointing. The local militias were not nearly as interested in theatre as the departed English troops were. The locals drink and fight, and will only occasionally listen to a song or two. Where has all the refinement disappeared to?
I have been very disturbed recently. A small item in the newspaper reported that a certain horrid man — you know who I mean — was shot dead up in the islands. Oh how I rejoiced! A great weight was lifted from my shoulders. But then the very next day the report was declared false. Evidently the same horrid Captain Bully Hayes had put the news of his death about, in order to escape from creditors. Down I plunged into fear and trembling again. When will I ever be free? I fear he will turn up at the goldfields, or back in Whanganui. It is like a dark nightmare.
I came to be here in the goldfields by a stroke of good fortune. What happened is this. While in Whanganui with the Christies, I happened to meet Mr Charles Thatcher. Yes, the Inimitable himself, who was performing at the Royal with his wife Madame Vitelli. The war and all the soldiers about gave him plenty of good material for his ‘locals’. But then Madame Vitelli became ill, poor soul, and not able to accompany him to the goldfields so he asked me to stand in for her! It seems I am to be the simple bridesmaid to all the lady performers in the world while they suffer their little illnesses and confinements. Well, of course I could not refuse the good man. He always needs a woman at hand to give the audience the softer songs (and to prompt him over his new lines, for he is most forgetful when intoxicated!). He has promised two benefits will go to me, and a good percentage of the takings every night plus my board, so I will come back with a little present for you all. What do you say to a piano?
So we set out by ship up the coast to Auckland’s Manukau Harbour — a most frightful voyage, but forgotten now — then by coach to Auckland. Dear, oh dear, that town has gone downhill badly. All the British troops are gone back to Australia and the New Zealand militias, as you know, are down near you fighting the Hauhau. I found not one theatre open, and saw no playbill posted up that night, not even by amateurs. Mr Thatcher and I gave an impromptu at the Odd Fellows, but it was a cheerless affair. All the bright sparks have gone to the goldfields, it seems.
Next day we headed that way too. You cannot believe the mayhem down at the harbour! Every rotten tub pressed into service to take prospectors across to the peninsula. We managed to secure deck passage — standing room only — on a small steamer belonging to a friend of Mr Thatcher’s. Thankfully a short trip, but oh, the arrival! I never saw the like. They have only a small jetty, you see. Boats and ships of all sizes and shapes were jostling for a berth. Our man tied up to a stout little brig that was itself triple-bunking. I had to scramble across three decks before I could reach terra firma! Just as well I have the circus training to keep me steady, or I would have dropped into the water more than once. Mr Thatcher, who has grown fat and was in any case under the influence, had a dreadful time of it, bruising himself in several unmentionable places.
We are staying at Rose’s Free and Easy, where there is a large hall behind for singing and dancing. Not a very high standard, but miners have never been choosy in my experience. Mr Thatcher and I perform most nights at the Theatre Royal, taking a slot after Mrs Robert Heir, who is a very grand lady with a singing voice almost to rival mine!
Then after a bracket of songs — mine emotional and his local — we pick our way through the mud down to the American on Pollen Street. You never saw such a place! When I think of the rough shanties that passed for theatres down on the Arrow, the American seems a veritable palace. It is seventy feet long and thirty wide. When the Inimitable is performing his ‘local’ songs — lampooning the local dignitaries or anyone else who catches his eye — the whole great room is crammed and buzzing. Six hundred a night pay their shilling! Can you imagine? No wonder Auckland has fallen silent. The American’s great long bar can liquor two hundred thirsty diggers at one time.
It is all very exciting and interesting.
Jack, you might put some money into shares for the Martha Mine or the Waihi. They are calling for investors. Mr Thatcher says keep your brass for travel, but I am not sure. This is a very different matter from the Arrow, where it was every man for himself. The gold here is encased in hard quartz, which must be crushed before the metal can be recovered. Diggers work for a boss who has the money to invest in drilling holes in the rock and installing machinery. Panning is not the order of the day at all, but a noisy activity called stamping. The wretched machines at one end of town go night and day, crushing, crushing, until my head might go mad with the sound. The locals say you get used to it. My ears must be more delicate than theirs.
My dears, here is an extraordinary story. Just yesterday I was walking at the far end of town where there are many mines. Mr Thatcher came with me. At one place the tailings from a mine up on the hill tumbled down across our pathway. In picking our way across, Mr Thatcher stumbled and fell, badly twisting his ankle. Oh, the moaning and groaning! He is not the easiest man to deal with even though he is very clever and a fine entertainer. Well, as I fossicked for a stick to hold his weight, I spied a gleam in the little stream. What did I spy but several lumps of discarded quartz, with a seam of gold right through! I admit I clean forgot Mr Thatcher and his mishap and scrambled up over the spilled quartz. Several more little rocks rewarded me with the colour. After about an hour I had my scarf bulging with discarded rocks! These stampers are very wasteful. Surely the miners are losing a good proportion of the gold in their haste to get rich. I will bring back the rocks and we will have a grand time breaking them up!
By the time I returned, the Inimitable had found a passerby who helped him home. His ankle is still very painful. He could not perform for several days and he is very annoyed with me. I did not tell him the reason! It is our little secret!
Well, my dears, perhaps I will stay another week or two while the diggers still enjoy my songs. I am performing also in the melodramas and farces. My memory is as sharp as ever so I am useful in the various companies here. Oh, bravo for the gold rushes! They are an artiste’s great joy and good fortune.
The newspaper here says the war down your way has become serious, with some Pakeha deaths. I expe
ct the reports are exaggerated. Our Maori would never turn against us; Matiu is a dear, and all his tribe upriver. They would never hurt a fly. All the same, take good care. I know you are a good shot with a gun, Mattie, and will protect all the little ones if Jack is away.
Please kiss Samuel and Phoebe for me — and Sarah and Bawling Bert too, of course. How are the neighbours behaving? Jack, perhaps it is time to shock them a little and take Mattie to dinner when they invite you.
Your loving Lily (or Miss Ruby Valentine as I am known at the American)
[Archivist’s Note: My ever vigilant editor informs me that there is no verification, in all the extensive bibliography concerning Charles Thatcher the Inimitable, of an accident while he performed in Thames. She suggests Lily is romancing at this stage, wanting to impress her family with interesting deeds. I am reluctant to delete the passage. If Lily is romancing, perhaps it is for a purpose. I am inclined to believe that she feels guilty at deserting her family and wants to divert them from feeling annoyed with her. An interesting insight into her character. E. de M.]
AN ACCOUNT WRITTEN BY SAMUEL LACEY
Recollections of Jack Lacey (5)
War in the Waitotara!
[Archivist’s Note: This section is preceded by a note in Mattie’s hand, which I have omitted as it is somewhat domestic and rambling. In essence, Mattie, having noticed that Jack has lost interest in the readings since Samuel has not reported Jack’s part in the story, has effected a reconciliation between father and ‘son’. Jack was heard to grumble that the ‘women would write all theatrical and domestic events as if they would shatter the world, while ignoring the great and disastrous war in their back yard’.
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