Skylark

by Jenny Pattrick

  Jack moans, tears at his hair. Clumsily he unbuckles his sabre, once so proudly worn, and throws it after the jacket into a dark corner.

  ‘What is it, what is it?’ cries Lily. ‘Tell us!’

  If Jack has noticed Lily’s return, he shows no sign, so deeply is he into his despair or horror. He says nothing. Shakes his sorry, muddy head as if to shed evil sounds or sights from it. Finally he looks up. Nods a tired greeting to Lily; casts his eyes around the cramped and stinking loft.

  ‘We’ll go home,’ he says. ‘This is no way to live.’

  The women wait for more.

  ‘No way to live,’ says Jack again. ‘If the Hauhau kill us, so be it. They have reason.’

  ‘Well,’ says Lily, too heartily, ‘perhaps you are right, Jack. This is a sorry town and no theatre playing, only a foolish acrobat doing somersaults for the crowd. Can you believe it?’

  Jack hangs his head, silent.

  ‘What is it, Jack?’ Mattie lays a gentle hand against his cheek. ‘We can’t go home if Titokowaru’s pa is near Handley’s farm. That’s too close. What has spooked you so?’

  Jack will not say.

  It is two slow fearful months before the little family can head home. Astonishingly, the threat of war has evaporated as quickly as steam from a kettle. First, news came of a careful advance by Colonel Whitmore, who had his men build trenches in Handley’s paddocks, until the men were close to the fortifications at Tauranga Ika, Titoko’s stronghold. Newspapers were full of stories of the brave militias and loyal Maori who crept nearer and nearer to the dreaded pa. Indeed, so close did their trenches approach that the militias exchanged shots and insults with Titokowaru’s troops all night. But in the morning all was silent. Fearing yet another ruse by the wily Titokowaru, Whitmore had waited, then advanced cautiously. The pa was deserted! In the early hours of the morning the whole of Tauranga Ika must have been evacuated, the tribes melting back into the bush, taking children and women, food and weapons with them. Why? Where on earth had they disappeared to? Whitmore’s soldiers gazed on the empty fortifications in amazement. They were brilliantly designed, could well have repulsed an army larger than Whitmore’s thousand. None of it made sense. The soldiers peered into the bush fearfully. What clever game was that Tito playing?

  Whitmore sent his scouts north but could find no army to fight. News came back that the tribes no longer supported Pai Marire. Nga Ruahine warriors had disappeared. Other tribes had disbanded and gone home. Titokowaru and a handful of loyal followers were reported to be fleeing northwards through dense bush. Colonel Whitmore, cheated of the victory he needed, is pursuing. Suddenly the cloud hanging over Whanganui has cleared. No one really understands why. This is an uneasy, shifty kind of victory.

  Jack, on Alouette rides up the valley, his family the first to venture back home. The morning is golden, promising a hot summer day. The river winds below the track; red-legged pukeko wade among the reeds. In the distance the dark hills and bush of the Nga Rauru lands remind Jack of Matiu’s words — his strange defiance — before they left. Will they find the farm ransacked? The animals poached?

  No. The dear familiar homestead is standing as they left it. The stables are there and, surprisingly, the house cow is grazing contentedly in the home paddock. Who has milked her in their absence?

  ‘Hey boss!’ There is Matiu standing in the stable door, waving cheerily. ‘Welcome back. All good here.’

  While Mattie and Lily, chatting and laughing in the warm sunlight, unload supplies and children, Jack questions his stable-hand.

  Matiu shrugs. ‘All past now. We don’t follow Titokowaru no more.’

  ‘What happened? They say that pa of his could defeat the British army!’

  Matiu replies in a low voice. ‘No boss, he would defeat no one. All his mana lost. He did a very bad thing. Sleep with a …’ Matiu searches for a suitable word but gives up. He seems embarrassed. ‘He sleep with a woman. Lost his mana in one night. So no one can fight with him. End of battle. End of Pai Marire.’

  Jack presses for more information.

  Matiu holds up a hand in front of Jack’s mouth. ‘No boss. No questions. It is not to speak about. Too bad.’ For a moment he stands there, serious, frowning. ‘Too tapu. Even the elders only whisper to each other. It is not for our ears. Not mine. Not yours.’

  Jack wonders whether his own position with Lily and Mattie means that he is losing mana in Matiu’s eyes. He tries, in a rather embarrassed and roundabout way, to ask. Somewhat to his annoyance, Matiu laughs at his stumbling question. He claps a hand on Jack’s shoulder.

  ‘Plenty babies born in this valley with white fathers but no wedding. Maybe your God is mad, eh? Maybe some wives mad too, ha!’ Matiu enjoys his joke, then glances more seriously at Jack. ‘No, boss. You lead no one. You are no warrior. Mana is not so important for you. For our General Titokowaru, his mana is the most important thing.’

  Jack is both relieved and put out by Matiu’s response. But later, as they work together on a broken fence, Jack has reason to be glad their conversation went no further. Matiu, wiping away the sweat that is dripping into his eyes, says, ‘We are lucky, you and me, that we are not leaders. Bad things happened both sides.’

  Jack nods, not trusting himself to words.

  ‘My cousin’s friend, he killed a Pakeha farmer and all his little children and burned their farm. That is not a proud way to fight.’

  Jack bangs a nail into the rail.

  Matiu straightens and points down the valley in the direction of Handley’s farm. ‘And then,’ he says, readier to talk than work, ‘my sister’s nephew was killed over that way. A young boy only ten years old. Killed by white soldiers on horses who thought it was good sport to chase little boys who had no weapons and cut them down like pigs.’

  ‘A bad thing,’ says Jack in a low voice.

  Jack finally tells me — Samuel — the story of the day he was a cavalryman and received a wound whose scar reminds him daily of shameful deeds. Even though many years have passed, his words are halting; difficult memories clouding his voice.

  ‘A small group of us were to ride up past Handley’s farm and see what we could of the fortifications at Tauranga Ika. It was all messy — the whole day was messy. Maxwell and Bryce, our leaders, couldn’t really control those men. They were spoiling for a fight but apart from a pair of distant scouts we saw no Maori. Tauranga Ika was away up at the edge of the bush. We were mucking around among the sand dunes, scrambling up slopes in our boots and spurs, peering over the top, then sliding back down again and up on our mounts. A waste of time.

  ‘I suppose we were all hot, tired and frustrated. And fearful. Tito’s men were so cunning at striking suddenly from nowhere. Then we heard squealing. A pig squealing. Maxwell sent someone up the dune again to spy. It seemed that some unarmed fellows had come down from the pa and were attacking a pig down by Handley’s woolshed.

  ‘What followed was too horrible. Too shameful. We set off without listening to orders, no thought in our heads except that here was a chance to kill. By the time we realised that these were little boys, not yet into trousers, their sacking shirts flapping and their little brown heels flashing as they ran, many of our troupe had lost the will to stop.

  ‘Thank the Good Lord I was halted by a high fence and swamp. It was too dangerous. No good horseman should risk his mount on an unknown jump like that. I turned Alouette sideways and headed her towards someone’s runaway mount. Three or four hot-heads cleared the fence, spurred their mounts through the mud and shot at the poor boys. I saw one man slash and slash with his sabre as the little fellow cried out and held his hands over his head. Never will I forget the sight of those dark and terrified young eyes, so like my own children’s. It was a shameful, shameful act.

  ‘Of course the warriors came running down from the pa when they heard the shots, but they were too far away to save their little sons. I don’t know how many we killed or wounded. One of our men was mad with fighting lust. When
we were finally ordered to retreat, in the face of the advancing and furious Hauhau, this mad fellow was ready to advance, and take the pa single-handed! I leaned over to pull at the reins of his horse, persuade the mount at least to show his rider the sensible way. The fellow in his madness slashed me across the arm with his sabre!

  ‘We left the boys there. Left them bleeding or dead for their elders to gather. Galloped back to Woodall’s redoubt, many of our number already retelling the story in a more heroic light. The papers hailed it as a triumph. Maxwell and Bryce never admitted to any shame but somehow put a rosy glow on the whole sorry day.

  ‘I have never shot any firepiece in anger nor carried a sabre since, nor ever will.’

  First days at school

  [Archivist’s Note: An account in Mattie’s hand, undated but possibly referring to events in 1870 or ’71. E. de M.]

  Before we come to Teddy and the Pollards, I must write about the school, for it was a great day in my life when we took Samuel and Sarah to the new school. All the little ones lined up in the cart, even little Teddy and my baby Maud. Oh, what a cat among the pigeons our arrival was! We left Jack at home, just me and Lily and the children, all clean and pretty and well behaved, except for Bert, who could never stay clean two minutes.

  ‘Well now,’ said Miss Craythorne the teacher, beaming to see so many children, ‘this is a fine day for the school as we are struggling to boost numbers high enough for the slates and chalk from the School Board.’

  ‘Not to mention your salary,’ Lily whispered to me. Lily knew those things.

  Miss Craythorne was daughter of a local farmer who had donated a little split-shingle shed on his property for the purpose of schooling. Inside were eight little desks, their timber tops still smelling of resin, a blackboard on an easel and a small pot-belly stove. The one window looked out onto a paddock of sheep.

  ‘Now,’ said Miss Craythorne brightly to the newcomers, her pencil poised over her brand-new register. ‘Names, please.’

  ‘Sarah Lacey,’ said my girl in her clear, quiet voice, ‘and that’s Samuel.’

  ‘Samuel, what is your father’s name?’ asked Miss Craythorne. She knew well enough what she was asking: a question all the valley wanted the answer to.

  Samuel looked surprised to be asked. ‘Mr Jack Lacey,’ he said, with a nice touch of pride. ‘We’re all Laceys. That’s Phoebe and Bert and Teddy and Maud in the cart. Phoebe and Teddy are my mother’s and Maud and Sarah and Bert are Mother Mattie’s. Phoebe and Bert will be coming to school next year.’

  Miss Craythorne was clearly taken aback by such a forthright answer. Her mouth shrank into two tight lines. ‘I’m not sure we can allow …’ The word bastard was implied but not spoken. ‘Surely it will be uncomfortable for the other little children to have …’

  Lily and I kept up a stony front, helping her not one whit with her silly scruples. The children would not be uncomfortable, unless the teacher planted the idea.

  Miss Craythorne, who by my guess was younger than either me or Lily, finally came around to her point. ‘Are any of these Laceys legitimately born, or christened into God’s Assembly?’

  Lily took a deep breath. I could tell a Grand Speech was about to emerge and was fearful of how she might phrase matters. Obviously Miss Craythorne expected my brood to be the outcasts. ‘These children,’ said Lily in her richest and most cultured tones, ‘are all beloved by God. Surely you cannot believe otherwise? Mrs Mattie Lacey here is wed to Mr Jack Lacey and I — a well-known artiste of stage and hall — have a special place in Mr Lacey’s heart. Our children know their prayers and their catechism. Now they need education and it is their right. On Tuesdays and Thursdays I am prepared to attend the school for the purpose of training the children in singing, dancing and general deportment.’

  Miss Craythorne’s tight little mouth opened in shock. She began to say something, but Lily’s ringing tones rolled on, obliterating whatever disagreement the teacher might wish to present.

  ‘I will devise an Easter Concert and train the children. When the Inspector from the Education Board arrives it will be well to have a song or two ready to impress him. Sarah! Phoebe!’

  My Sarah stepped forward, and little Phoebe jumped from the cart. They took their places, one each side of Lily, and began a little song and dance they’d practised at home. Something about a farmer, a dog and a cow. The other schoolchildren came running out of their room, laughing and pointing. In a trice Lily had them joining in with the actions. Even Bert stood up in the cart, stamping his feet and singing along until he lost his balance and fell to the ground, his astonished face only adding to the general enjoyment.

  ‘Easter concert, Easter concert!’ shouted the children, dancing around Lily.

  Miss Craythorne and her scruples didn’t stand a chance.

  Oh what fun those next years were! I played the role of the upright, capable mother, Lily the wildly talented music and dance teacher. Jack bred horses and children with equal enthusiasm. If Lily missed a wider audience she didn’t show it. For those years we were a happy family. Our valley school was famous for its concerts and plays. Of course the main roles usually went to a Lacey. So popular were the performances, such talent unearthed and fostered among the children, that the usually conservative farmers accepted our unorthodox household. Perhaps they whispered behind our backs, but I like to think they were also a little proud of the exotic Lily who so galvanised the community. She organised fundraising evenings and performed along with the little ones. The tiny schoolhouse was rebuilt with a hall attached. A piano was installed. Lily gave piano lessons. Where or how she learned to play I never knew. Lily danced on golden feet in those years when the children were growing up. They all loved her.

  But I was the one who fed and clothed them. When there were tears, they ran to me.

  The circus arrives!

  What year was it? Oberon was born, I remember that; Joe too, both sharing the cradle that had serviced so many babes. I lose count of the years. It was little Oberon who found me in the kitchen, cutting butter into flour for our pudding. In he toddled, his freckled face a picture of wonderment.

  ‘A stripy horse! I see a stripy horse!’ And he dragged at my skirts until I left my mixture and went with him.

  There indeed in the paddock was the ‘stripy horse’ — a zebra! In fact, there were two of them, their soft muzzles down in our generous grass, where they munched away while our two mares cowered down by the fence-line.

  A tall, grey-haired stranger was talking to Jack as if nothing were amiss. The two of us, little Ronnie and me, stood there gawping, for there was more to see than those queer wild animals from Africa. From our vantage point by the kitchen garden we could see, down the valley, a veritable cavalcade approaching, flags all colours of the rainbow fluttering above the carts and wagons. Mercy, I thought, what has Lily brought us now? (I knew it would be Lily’s doing.) And felt a spurt of anger that she could go off gaily for a season at the theatre then return without warning, bringing all these mouths to feed. Well, I was wrong on that count, but never mind.

  Up Jack strode from the paddock, beaming his pleasure. ‘Mattie, come and meet the famous Mr Foley. You’ve heard of him of course.’

  I nodded, suddenly as shy as little Ronnie whose face was buried in my skirts. Mr Foley himself whom Jack idolised! (And was a good customer, to boot.)

  ‘Mrs Lacey,’ said the good man, which endeared him to me, ‘it is a pleasure.’ He shook my proffered hand and then leaned in and gave me a firm kiss on each cheek! Oh, he was a charmer, that lean old man with his dancing eyes and his yellow scarf, spry as a man half his years. ‘Lily has said you won’t mind if we stop the night? She said the children would enjoy the sights?’ He jerked a thumb back towards the approaching multitude. ‘And she wants you to meet my Maria. They are gossiping away at the back somewhere. What Lily wants usually happens, you’ll have noticed.’ He laughed in his high, shouting way and then, noticing my concern, added, ‘Madam, we have
brought a whole sheep ready for the spit and a sack of potatoes and invite you to a feast, circus-style, out in the open under God’s pleasant sky.’

  And there was Lily herself, sitting astride Ariel, no modesty at all with the men around to see her legs bare to the knees and her feet too, like any urchin. And she the mother of six children!

  ‘Mattie! Mattie!’ she called, waving from on high. With her, riding knee to knee, was the most extraordinary bundle of bright clothes and ribbons I ever saw. This must be the famous Maria that Lily talked about so often, who had saved her when her parents died. Lily jumped down, agile as a cat, and Maria followed more sedately, the pair of them leaving the men to unsaddle and water their mounts.

  ‘Oh Mattie,’ whispered my good Lily, hugging me fiercely and so chasing away any jealous pangs I might have harboured. ‘I have dreamed of this — my two best friends in the world, together at last in one place. Here is Madame Tournear, or Mrs Foley, or Maria, or even Louisa — she has as many names as me!’

  ‘Maria,’ said Maria firmly, beaming from inside her curtain of colours. ‘I have longed to meet you. What outrageous luck our Lily has, to find such a woman as you!’ And she shook her jewelled head, laughing in wonder or delight or jealousy — the emotions dancing over her face, chasing each other faster than sunlight on running water. Then more soberly, ‘I hope this is not too shocking, all of us arriving unannounced? Lily was sure we would be welcome.’

  Welcome they were. In no time those carts and wagons were parked in the river paddock, a great fire burning and a spit assembled over it. A cage was opened and a very large monkey-like creature emerged to be tethered and fed by the horde of children. However many did that couple produce, all on their own with no extra wife to assist? Lily said it was nine and still counting, but there was no counting that night. Theirs and ours ran wild, into the river and up the trees, competing in their mad daring acts till I feared the evening would end in disaster.