But oh, the wonder of his introduction, next morning, to the Lilliputian Opera Company! So many children — thirty or forty, surely — girls and boys together, all spooning their porridge, the sound of their chatter ringing in Teddy’s ears. As Mr Jim and Teddy entered the room, a large lady rang a bell and a sort of scuffling silence descended.
‘This is a new recruit, Theodore Larkendale,’ said Jim. ‘We will call him Teddy. He will sing the part of Ralph Rackstraw when Cornelius is unwell or in need of a rest.’
Jim Pollard stood very straight and spoke firmly, even severely. Teddy thought Fred Derbyshire and Mr Tom Pollard had been more fun. The other children also seemed a little in fear of Mr Jim.
A boy at the back of the large dining room raised his hand and then stood up.
‘Yes, Cornelius?’
‘Could we hear the new recruit sing then, Sir? If he is to take my part.’
The large lady put down her sewing, frowning a little. ‘I believe,’ she said, ‘that poor Teddy has been sick all the way from Wellington to Christchurch. Perhaps we should leave performances until later. Eat up your breakfasts, children.’
Teddy saw the mocking look Cornelius gave him. ‘But I don’t mind,’ he said, and without even thinking, stepped up onto the little platform beside the lady, tapped out a rhythm, rat-a-tat-tat, rat-a-tat-tat, and sang the only song he knew from H.M.S. Pinafore: ‘When I Was a Lad’. He sang it strutting back and forth, as his mother had taught him, puffing out his little front and putting on what he thought was an upper-class sort of accent. Someone started tapping a mug on the table. Another laughed at his antics. When he got to the chorus: ‘He polished up the brass so meticulously/that now he is the ruler of the Queen’s Navee’ everyone joined in with such gusto that Teddy stopped in astonishment and everyone burst into laughter. A tall girl stood up, clapping.
‘That’s my part,’ she said, ‘so don’t you dare do it any better!’
‘Well, Maud, dear,’ said the lady, ‘you will have to look to your laurels, then.’ She turned to Teddy. ‘I am Mrs Pollard. You may call me Auntie. That cheeky miss is my daughter, Maud, who plays Sir Joseph. You will meet my other children and the entire company soon enough. But now …’ Auntie rose, clapped her hands for silence and delivered a string of instructions: which children would practice piano with Mr Jim; which group would have a violin lesson with Mr Tom; who would practise singing or flute. Two boys were to spend time with Mr Derbyshire until their steps were perfect.
Teddy’s head was reeling. He was tired, hungry, his feet still shifted queasily in the rhythm of the sea, but above all he felt an eagerness to become part of this theatrical activity. Here was his new home.
‘Auntie’ sat down with him while he ate a plate of porridge with brown sugar and a handful of raisins. ‘Jim says you are a quick learner and a good mimic,’ she said.
Teddy nodded, trying to smile through his mouthful.
‘Well, we will see. Show me your belongings.’
Teddy opened the small bundle his mother had hastily assembled: a clean shirt, a cap and a warm vest. Also two apples. Mrs Pollard was surprised, and perhaps suspicious, to find the lad so destitute, but said nothing. She showed Teddy to a large room where rows of beds lined the wall.
‘The boys’ bedroom. Here is a bed for you. Robert has just left us …’ this said with a frown, ‘but I trust you will be happier and will fit into the company with more grace than young Robert.’
There was no question that Teddy might need a rest after his long voyage. All morning he practised steps and gestures with Fred Derbyshire, then, after lunch, he walked down to the Theatre Royal where he and the other boys were issued with wooden swords and instructed in swordplay. Cornelius Osmond made a beeline for Teddy.
‘Come on then, little song bird, can you fight?’
Teddy shook his head, smiling his willingness to learn.
‘Ha!’ cried the lanky Cornelius, slashing with the sword right and left. ‘Ha! Ha! Take that, Sir! And that!’
The other boys were larking about but Cornelius seemed in earnest. Teddy dodged a vicious swipe, tried to parry as the other boys were doing, then dodged again, quicker on his feet than his taller opponent. He glanced over at another pair, hoping to see how it was done, and in that moment Cornelius caught him on the side of his head, sending him sprawling. Mr Fred was at his side in a flash, grasping Cornelius’s sword in one hand and Teddy’s arm in the other.
‘Poor play,’ he said sternly to Cornelius. ‘You know better than that. Take the dunce’s seat on the side.’
‘It was an accident,’ said the lad, smiling at his tutor. ‘Sorry, Sir.’
‘No such word as accident in the theatre, you know that. Off you go.’
Teddy expected disobedience, or at least some retort from this young star, but Cornelius hung his head and nodded, padding away on his stockinged feet to a chair in the wings.
After swordplay, the whole company assembled on stage to rehearse one of the songs from a new opera they were preparing. This was fun! Teddy, in the back row of the chorus, copied the movements, and tried to follow the music. Cornelius and one of the Pollard girls led the song, looking so like a miniature married couple that Teddy had to stifle his laughter. Then back they marched, two by two, for an hour’s rest at the hotel. Teddy fell asleep immediately. It was Cornelius who shook him awake.
‘Time for tea. Come on then.’ He made no mention of the sword fight, but as they ran down the stairs to the big dining room, he abruptly asked Teddy what age he was.
Teddy coughed. His mother had said eleven, though he was many months past twelve. It was a mystery to him why Lily might make him seem younger, but perhaps it was important.
‘Eleven,’ he said. ‘What about you?’
‘Thirteen, nearly fourteen,’ said Cornelius gloomily. ‘You’re bloody lucky.’
Again Teddy didn’t understand why the boy should be so grim about his age, but was glad that the animosity seemed to have disappeared. They sat side by side on the long benches and ate their bread and jam. Then it was off to the theatre where their costumes would be waiting. This was clearly the part the children loved best. They chattered like a flock of magpies as they walked down to the theatre. Teddy was to sit with the audience and watch. No costume or make-up for him.
Christchurch came out in full that night. ‘Standing room only!’ boomed the front-of-house manager, and yet people crowded in, willing to stand at the back, elbowing their way to good vantage positions, as the orchestra — Pollards every one of them — tuned up.
Jim Pollard, the conductor, brought Teddy in with him, guiding the boy to a special seat on the side, near the front. ‘Watch and learn,’ he said sternly. Teddy almost took a bow himself, so excited he was, but then blushed to realise that the applause was greeting the conductor. He quickly transformed his bow into deference towards Mr Jim, proud to be noticed with the famous man. But what magic as the curtain was pulled back to reveal a wonderful painted backdrop! There was the mast of a sailing ship, the rigging painted in every detail; railings; a poop deck with real steps up to it; and there, on ‘deck’, his new friends sluicing and scrubbing and shouting directions in their piping little voices. Again the audience applauded and cheered to see such a lively scene. Teddy’s eyes were popping. This was a very different matter from the plays and pageants and concerts in the Waitotara school hall!
The orchestra played an introduction, the whole chorus burst into ‘We Sail the Ocean Blue’ and Teddy was lost. This was as close to heaven as he ever wanted to be. He listened and watched, no doubt his mouth hanging open, eyes alight with excitement. When Cornelius, as Ralph Rackstraw, sang his first solo, ‘The Nightingale’, tears sprang into Teddy’s eyes. Could he ever sing so well? The audience wept with Teddy when Rackstraw sang of his hopeless love for Josephine (May Pollard); sang along with ‘the Ruler of the Queen’s Navee’ (Maud Pollard); sighed with ‘Poor Little Buttercup’ (Olive Pollard). They cheered, stamped and demand
ed encores when little Walter Pollard, his face blacked like a minstrel singer, came on in the interlude with a song and dance that had nothing to do with Gilbert and Sullivan. Oh those Pollards! Oh the darling Lilliputians! Christchurch was in love with them. Teddy too.
At the end of the week Teddy was allowed to sing in the back of the chorus. By the time they headed to Wellington, he was promised one night singing Ralph Rackstraw. His heart thumped in his chest at the news. Could he bring tears to the audience’s eyes, like Cornelius? Would his voice reach the back of the hall?
‘Of course it will, my darling,’ said his mother, who was in Wellington performing a season in a different theatre, ‘and I will be proudly sitting watching you.’ Teddy’s feet would not stand still. He flew over the sand on Wellington’s Oriental Bay, then back to where his mother stood, parasol lifted against the sun, handsome in her tight, ruffled jacket and swinging skirt.
‘I’m going to be better than Cornelius! I’ll be their best singer and dancer, see if I’m not! Better even than Maud Pollard! See if I don’t sing Sir Joseph one day!’
His mother laughed. ‘Learn your trade first, Teddy. These Pollards have plenty to teach you.’ She winked. ‘But I think you will show them all, my darling boy. Theodore Larkendale’s name will be on all the posters, I know it.’
That night a proud Lily came to the show. Outside the theatre a chill wind blew. A man protesting child slavery tried to control his handwritten placard. Lily berated him.
‘What do you know of the life of these children? They are being trained in the finest profession.’
‘In Satan’s arts more like,’ replied the man stoutly. ‘It is exploitation of the very worst and against God’s Rule.’
Lily wanted to argue but the crowd was pushing her forward. She left the rude fellow to his marching and entered Wellington’s Theatre Royal. Chandeliers of splendid gas lights illuminated the auditorium. The air buzzed with excited chatter. Perhaps the entertainment might have been better patronised — a rival company had just performed H.M.S. Pinafore — but Lily was in no mood to find fault. Mr James Pollard had reserved her a front row seat for Teddy’s solo debut. [Archivist’s Note: An interesting comment which tends to support my claim that Lily was working with the company. E. de M.] Oh, how she wanted Jack, and all the children, to be there beside her. Lily allowed herself a moment of sadness, thinking of her banishment, but was soon swept up with the spectacle. When her Teddy stepped on stage in his white sailor’s trousers, striped jacket and jaunty cap, she could have swooned with pride. Her Teddy taking a lead role among all these talented little Australian children! After Teddy’s third solo she threw him a rose, which was picked up and kissed prettily by May Pollard, who was clearly more accustomed than Teddy to receive accolades. Lily made a note to teach Teddy the art of extracting favours from the audience.
Teddy himself loved every minute of the show. When the stage hands pulled the curtain closed after the final encore he would have liked to have rushed through the gap and sing once more. And again. Blood sang through his veins. He could hardly breathe for the excitement. They loved him. He had remembered all the words and steps and gestures, he was sure of it.
Cornelius, who had sung in the chorus, found Teddy still standing on stage, willing the curtain to open. ‘Were you nervous?’ he asked, in a curious, flat voice.
Teddy shook his head, his breath still coming fast, his face flushed. ‘No. No. It was wonderful!’
Cornelius grunted. ‘Well, don’t try too hard. This might be my last season. I need to perform too. You have plenty of time.’
Teddy looked at the tall boy in astonishment. ‘Your last? But everyone loves you. You have such a voice!’
Cornelius shook his head, some sort of pity or scorn in his eyes.
Before Teddy could question him further, his mother burst onto the stage. Her large hat and fur collar threatened to dislodge in her rush to embrace her son. ‘Oh, my darling boy! That was perfect! Perfect! A star is born!’
Cornelius turned abruptly and walked away. Teddy wanted to follow his friend. His mother’s enthusiasm seemed too fierce, too smothering.
Some weeks later, when the company boarded the steamer for Whanganui, Teddy discovered that his mother was aboard the same vessel. She waved to him from the deck as the children walked sedately up the gang plank. But Teddy preferred to stay with his friends. He was a professional Lilliputian now.
Mattie in trouble
[Archivist’s Note: We can assume that this section is in Mattie’s hand. It is written directly into the journal, not pasted in, as was the last section. But what a change from the firm, confident handwriting of Mattie’s first section! The words are faint, written in pencil, the lines tending to wander. Mattie is writing about events perhaps only two or three years past. The story, which has recounted events from Lily’s earliest recollections, is catching up with the present. Pollard’s Lilliputians’ first tour of New Zealand was 1880–81. Mattie has dated this entry 1883. E. de M.]
Poor Jack was in a state. I was in a state. For some days a dragging, nagging pain had worried me. Surely the baby couldn’t be coming yet? The children caught the mood, as children do, and presently the whole family was in the doldrums.
‘Jack, my dear,’ I said one evening, as we sat silently to our dinner. ‘You must send for her. You must forgive her.’
Jack sighed. The dear man was become more inflexible as he settled into his success, but he knew the way the wind was blowing.
My Sarah, who was learning to take responsibility for the household now that I was heavy with my seventh child, spoke up. ‘Mother is not well, we can all see that, surely. The other children have not troubled her like this.’
The others nodded and murmured, all looking to Jack. What Sarah said was true. My limbs felt leaden, I wheezed at the slightest exertion, the baby dragged at me. With the others I had carried their weight gladly; to be with child was a joy, not a burden, but this fellow felt sullen. I felt sullen. And when I was glum, the whole family followed suit.
Unless Lily was at home to raise our spirits.
‘Send for her,’ I said. ‘I need her.’
Of course it was as plain as salt that Jack needed her. We could all see that, but it saved his dignity if it were for my sake that he bent. He rose from the table, and came to me. Slowly he passed his horseman’s hands over my shoulders and down my back.
Jack sighed again. ‘Mother Mattie, you are not well. The baby is not right, I think. We will send for Doctor Ingram.’ After a pause, he added, ‘And for Lily.’
There have been times when I have resented Lily’s gifts (and her place in Jack’s heart) but that night, when the children’s faces lit, and dinner was eaten at a more cheerful pace, I felt only thankful. No doubt my own eyes were brighter, and the pain eased at the thought of Lily in our midst again.
‘Oh Jack, thank you,’ I said. ‘Send for both, and quickly. Let Samuel ride in to Waitotara with a letter for Lily and a request for Doctor Ingram.’
Chubby little Oberon jumped into his father’s lap. ‘Send for her, send for her,’ he sang. The others took his note and turned it into a little song with accompanying rhythm — spoons hitting the table. Lysander and Lydia were soon dancing, their steps growing madder and madder, until my headache returned and, laughing, I put a stop to it all.
Oh Lily, Lily. Even the thought of you coming home had us all alive again. A bright golden evening before darker times.
Doctor Ingram arrived on his big roan mare, bought, of course, from Jack. The doctor never seemed to age, had been in practice for as long as people could remember, yet still rode out to see to the difficult cases, never mind the terrible roads and winter mud.
‘Now, Mrs Lacey,’ he said, as soon as he set eyes on my grey face and trembling legs, ‘why didn’t you send for me sooner? Jack should have collected a pigeon some weeks earlier.’
What would we do without the doctor’s pigeons? He has a good flock of them and any farmer i
n town (by town I mean Waitotara: Doctor Ingram lives there now) may pick one up. Jack keeps a horse in the home paddock ready to give the doctor fresh legs if he is attending a call further up the valley.
I watched the doctor’s lined and leathery old face as he examined me. We both knew that the news would not be good.
‘When did you last feel a kick?’ he asked.
‘Two days ago.’
‘My dear,’ he said, kind as always, ‘we must get the mite out of you. I fear it has gone and will only poison you further. You must brace yourself.’
The truth was, the ‘mite’, as he called it, was already on the way. The night before, the pain had returned, stronger and by now all too familiar, yet several weeks early by my reckoning. Doctor Ingram called my Sarah to fetch the usual towels, hot water and so on. Sarah is experienced enough to manage the midwife’s part, after so many born in this household. Doctor went downstairs to take a tot with Jack while we women got on with the business. I fancy Phoebe helped too — I was not in a good state and my memory of that black day may be faulty.
Little Mathilda — named for me — was born dead, poor deformed thing. Not meant for this world, but missed and mourned for all that.
The doctor tried to put on a cheerful face but he couldn’t fool me. Something was wrong inside my woman’s parts, we both knew it. ‘No more babies,’ he said, ‘and for pity’s sake let the others do the work for a while.’
I nodded, weak as a kitten, still bleeding, no matter how the good man and Sarah tried to staunch the flow — powders, potions and stitching: nothing worked. I drank my soups and broths and stayed still as a mouse. In the end I came to accept that my monthlies were here to stay, every day of the month, the wretched things.
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