by Lark, Sarah
Though she was irresolute and restless, she was relieved that the funeral service was over. She had enjoyed playing the organ—all the more so since she had been able to get the better of her obnoxious cousin Elaine—but it had been a genuine pleasure to play music again seriously. Even if Caleb Biller was the only one who rightly knew how to appreciate what she was capable of.
Perhaps, Kura conceded, her distressed state of mind had something to do with Caleb. Kura was far from being in love with him, but she yearned for a man. While she had been on the road, preoccupied with finding lodging and organizing performances, she had been able to repress it. But now not an hour went by that she did not think of William and the joy she had found in his arms. Looking back, she even recalled Roderick Barrister in a better light. This Caleb Biller who seemed to admire her was likewise interesting.
The boy was peculiar, though. One the one hand, he had behaved very gallantly at the funeral service; on the other, he had remained as cold as a fish, even when she leaned on him in apparent need of consolation. During her tour, Kura had come across men who preferred “Greek love,” as people whispered. But Caleb did not behave like they did. Perhaps he just needed a little push.
He turned up again as soon as Kura had resumed her place at the piano, and once again required his two glasses of single malt to work up the courage to talk to her.
“Miss Martyn, I must once again thank you for introducing me to Maori flute playing. It made quite an impression on me. I find the music of the… of the ‘natives’ fascinating as a whole.”
Kura shrugged. “You don’t need to sound so apologetic about the Maori being natives,” she replied. “Besides, it’s not even entirely true. They emigrated here in the twelfth century from an island in Polynesia they called Hawaiki. Though no one knows precisely which one it was, the names of the canoes they arrived in have been passed down. My ancestors, for example, came to Aotearoa on the Uruau.”
“Aotearoa is their word for New Zealand, right? It means—”
“Big white cloud,” Kura said, bored. “The first settler here was a man by the name of Kupe, and his wife, Kura-maro-tini, compared the island to a cloud as they approached it. In answer to your next question, yes, I’m named after her. Can I play something for you?”
Caleb’s eyes were radiant, though his response seemed to have more to do with the information she had relayed than with her person. The man was a puzzle to Kura.
“Yes… No. So, I don’t imagine anyone has written down the music of your people, have they?”
“In music notes?” Kura asked. “No, not that I know of.”
Though her mother was one of the best musicians on the island, Marama could not read music. Even Kura had only ever learned her tribe’s songs by ear. She had never thought to write them down. Besides, her talent in that area was limited. Though she could write down a simple melody in notes, most of the tribe’s repertoire for multiple voices would have been beyond her.
“That’s a shame, don’t you think?” Caleb inquired. “Might I ask you to perform a war song for me? What are they called again? Haka, is that correct?”
“A haka is not necessarily a war song,” Kura replied. “It’s more a sort of musical play. You express feelings through song and dance, and often there is a simple plot as well. As a rule, the song features multiple singers.”
“Then you must simply sing all the parts for me one after another, Miss Martyn,” Caleb said eagerly. “Though it would naturally be difficult with the male parts. Or are there haka that are performed only by women?”
Kura nodded. “There are all sorts of haka. Usually with shared roles.” She played a few notes on the piano. “This one, for example, is performed at burials. There’s no special choreography. Everyone dances however they want, and the singers can either be both men and women, or just men or just women.”
She then began to sing in her enchanting voice. The melody suited the current depressed mood in the pub. Kura’s voice expressed the sorrow of the song so poignantly that all conversation in the Wild Rover soon came to a stop.
When Kura finished, an old miner raised his glass to the victims of the Lambert Mine. After that, the men requested “Danny Boy.”
Caleb waited patiently until every last alcohol-addled Irishman had given voice to his sorrow. It took hours. Kura, however, was not displeased. The endless string of sad songs got on her nerves, of course, but the men were buying her drink after drink. That evening, she would refill her pockets.
“Have you thought about it, Miss Martyn?” Caleb finally asked, casting an almost fearful look at the door.
A strapping blond man of a ripe age entered and greeted Paddy in a booming voice.
“Holloway, you ol’ scoundrel! I heard the caterwaulin’ out on the street, and I thought I’d better grab my son before he gets weepy. It is a tragedy, all that business with the Lambert Mine, but the boys only have themselves to blame. They could have signed on with me after all. Like all the good, sensible coal miners in this pub! A round for the men of the Biller Mine!”
With these last words, he turned to the drinkers in the pub, savoring the predictable applause. Kura recognized him: Joshua Biller, Caleb’s father. She had seen him briefly at the funeral service. Caleb, however, did not look enthusiastic about his sudden appearance. He gave the impression of wanting to disappear with his whiskey glass from where he was standing near the piano.
Joshua Biller drank a quick toast to his men and then joined Caleb. He seemed to quite like what he saw.
“Well now, boy, I thought you were playin’ accompaniment to the general whining. Pardon me, miss, but whenever my son reaches for the keys, it always sounds like a funeral. You, however, are a sight for sore eyes at least, and I’d wager you could play something more cheerful too.”
Kura nodded stiffly. This man was just the type who almost always tried to fondle her, after building up to it so crudely that even a more sociable girl would retreat into her shell.
“Of course,” she said. “Your son and I were just speaking about the music of the Maori, particularly the haka. This, Mr. Biller, is an example of a joyful dance. It tells the story of the rescue of Chief Te Rauparaha, who hid in a hole in the ground to escape his foes. At first, he expects to be cornered by them, but then a friend—who is represented in some versions by a woman—tells him that the men have left. The song expresses first his fear and then his joy.”
Kura struck the keys and began to sing: Ka mate, ka mate, ka ora, ka ora…
Caleb listened rapturously, his father indifferently.
“The way it sounds, even the Maori write about nothing other than dark holes and tunnels underground. But your little friend is lovely, Caleb. Aren’t you going to introduce me?”
Kura could hardly believe it, but Caleb did indeed rise to the occasion to present Kura to his father.
“Kura-maro-tini Martyn.”
“Josh Biller,” boomed the old man. “Very pretty indeed. Can I get a whiskey, Paddy?”
Joshua Biller drank three glasses of scotch in no hurry, never taking his eyes off Kura and his son. Although Caleb behaved irreproachably, he made Kura nervous. However, she had plenty to keep her busy. The miners wanted to hear more sentimental folk songs; Caleb evidently no longer thought it wise to ask for more haka. After an hour, the two Billers formally took their leave. As Joshua stepped outside, he nodded at Kura once more.
“A very pretty girl, Caleb!”
Kura found both men very strange. But that was nothing compared to her surprise the next day. She slept late into the morning—as she always did when she had played until late at the pub the night before. Then she would normally skip breakfast and just eat a few sandwiches for lunch. But that day, Mrs. Miller’s shy Maori maid knocked on her door and passed on an invitation.
“Mrs. Miller has visitors and would like you to come to tea.”
Kura looked at the decades-old grandfather clock that so often kept her awake with its loud ticking and not
ed the time.
Eleven o’ clock. The perfect hour for a courtesy call by respectable ladies. Heather Witherspoon had explained to her that any earlier would be improper, since the lady might still be sleeping. And any later would interrupt the preparations for lunch.
Although all of her dresses were rather worn out, Kura put a little more care than usual into her appearance. She would have to begin saving money to have something new made. When she arrived downstairs, the girl did not lead her into the breakfast room where Mrs. Miller generally “received” but into the salon.
Mrs. Miller sat in an armchair with an expression like a well-pleased cat. On the sofa, a simply, but expensively dressed woman balanced her teacup. The woman instantly reminded Kura of Caleb. She had the same long, somewhat expressionless face. But unlike Caleb and his father, she had brown hair.
“Miss Martyn, this is Mrs. Biller. I’ve been keeping her company here, but she really came to see you.” She beamed as though she had done something particularly nice for Kura.
Kura greeted the woman politely, sat down gracefully on the seat offered to her, and picked up her steaming cup of tea just as elegantly as her visitor. Naturally, decorum forbade her from inquiring directly what it was Mrs. Biller wanted. So she made conversation first.
Yes, it was terrible what had happened in the Lambert Mine, above all to Timothy Lambert. A tragedy. The town would need time to get over it, of course. And had the pastor’s funeral service not been moving?
“Naturally, you in particular caught my eye, Miss Martyn,” Mrs. Biller said, finally coming to the point. “Your wonderful rendition of Mozart. I couldn’t hold back my tears. Where ever did you learn to play like that, Miss Martyn?”
Kura was on her guard, but she had rehearsed her story so often that it came out of her mouth almost automatically.
“Oh, I grew up on a farm in the Canterbury Plains. A little out of the way, very quaint. My father was very interested in high culture. My mother died when I was young, you see, and his second wife was originally from England. She had been a governess on one of the larger farms, but the two of them fell in love, and she raised me. She was a gifted pianist. And my mother is still considered a legend among the Maori with respect to dance and music.”
This last bit was not a lie. But the first part of the story—about her supposedly dead mother—never failed to make Kura feel guilty.
“How extraordinary!” Mrs. Biller seemed satisfied. Kura had often observed that when she asked pastors and church councils about the use of their hall, they often paid close attention to whether she depicted her birth as legitimate or illegitimate. It appeared to be no different for Mrs. Biller. Her eyes had lit up at the mention of “his second wife.”
“What I wanted to ask, Miss Martyn—I’m having a small dinner party, nothing special, just family—and I wondered if you would like to come. My son would be delighted if you could join us. He’s always speaking of you with such high esteem.”
“We have a common interest in music,” Kura remarked politely, hoping to convey that she had no further interest in Caleb.
“So, might I count on you?” Mrs. Biller inquired, clearly pleased.
Kura nodded. A strange beginning for an affair. But fine, if Caleb wanted to introduce her to his intimate family circle.
She resolved to prioritize the purchase of the new dress. Once Mrs. Miller had informed her best friend, the tailor’s wife, about her prospective relationship with the Biller family, she would certainly receive some credit.
At first, Caleb appeared to consider the invitation a source of embarrassment, but once he had gotten over it, he asked Kura to come even earlier and bring her flutes along.
“Perhaps I could write down the first part of the first haka?” he asked eagerly. “I take this project very seriously and hope to persuade you of its value. Perhaps we could even publish a book together.”
Kura made her entrance at the Billers’ dinner in a new burgundy dress that highlighted her magnificent skin tone. Joshua’s eyes shone like those of a child peeking beneath the Christmas tree as he greeted the lovely girl. Caleb’s eyes likewise sparkled. However, Kura did not detect the smallest gleam of desire in his gaze. Although he paid her a few polite compliments, his father made several insinuations that caused Caleb to blush even more than Kura. He led her quickly to the grand piano to free her from his father’s company.
At the sight of the instrument, Kura beamed, then thought with a pang of regret of the gorgeous grand piano in her house’s salon that was no longer played by anyone. Perhaps her daughter had taken an interest in music. But Gloria was no doubt still too little to learn anything. Although Kura still had no interest in the child, the memory of Gloria’s conception conjured an image of William’s face, and she almost thought she could feel his touch. Could Caleb not be any more sensual?
Yet his fingers seemed almost tender as he placed them on the piano keys and played a short song. Astonished, Kura recognized the main theme of the mourning haka she had sung in the pub. The man was unquestionably very talented musically, and Kura grew quite excited as he began to write her singing and flute playing in musical notation. Caleb wrote notes from “dictation” the way others wrote letters. By the time his mother finally called them to dinner, he had already recorded three vocal parts and the flute part and was combining them into a sort of orchestral sheet music.
“It’s coming along beautifully, Miss Martyn!” he said enthusiastically as he led Kura to the table. “It’s only a shame that we cannot record the dance, though you did say that this piece has no prescribed steps. It’s truly a shame that we lack the resources of the big libraries in Europe. No doubt we’d be able to write out the choreography, but I simply don’t know how it’s done.”
Caleb chattered on about sheet music and compositions until his mother discreetly indicated to him that he was boring the whole table. Aside from Kura, there were only family members present, and it seemed that they had hardly anything to say to one another. Caleb introduced her to his uncle and his uncle’s wife, and to his cousin Edmund who had recently married the silent blonde girl at his side. Kura learned that both uncle and cousin worked in the mine as well—the uncle in the office, the cousin in management, like Caleb. Unlike Caleb, however, Edmund seemed to actually be interested in his work and chatted at length with Joshua about the shortfalls and geologic conditions that had led to the accident in the Lambert Mine. For the Biller ladies, that proved just as dull as Caleb’s thoughts on contemporary opera.
For that reason, the three Biller ladies concentrated their conversation on Kura. Caleb’s mother was apparently making every effort to represent the young singer in the best possible light. The aunt and cousin’s questions, however, could almost have been described as taunts.
“It must have been interesting to grow up as a native,” said Edmund’s young wife, batting her eyes innocently. “You know, we hardly have any Maori in our social circle. I’ve heard”—she giggled—“that they have rather liberal customs.”
“Yes,” Kura answered shortly.
“It must have been difficult for your mother to adjust to life on an English farm, was it not?” the aunt inquired.
“No,” Kura stated.
“But you don’t wear traditional dress, do you? Not even during your performances?” The young female cousin eyed Kura’s bodice as though Kura were about to tear it off and dance a haka bare-breasted.
“That depends on the performance,” Kura said patiently. “When I sang as Carmen, I wore a Spanish dress.”
“Miss Martyn performed for an opera,” Caleb’s mother interceded. “She was on tour with an international ensemble. On the North Island and in Australia too. Isn’t that exciting?”
The ladies assented but adopted such a patronizing a tone that it sounded as though they were assuring a wandering prostitute that she had no doubt led a varied life.
“I’m sure you got to meet some fascinating men,” the aunt remarked right away.
<
br /> Kura nodded. “Yes.”
“Our little Greymouth must look rather shabby in comparison,” tittered the cousin.
“No,” said Kura.
“What are you doing here anyway, Miss Martyn?” the aunt inquired, sweet as sugar. “I mean, working in a pub can hardly compare with the great art of the opera stage.”
“Hardly,” Kura confirmed.
“Although you have no doubt met interesting men here as well,” the cousin said with a smile, casting a meaningful look at Caleb.
“Yes.”
Up to that point, Caleb had listened without saying a word, gazing at Kura almost as adoringly as he had in the pub when she sang the “Habanera.” Her ability to bring all conversation to a dead halt obviously impressed him as much as her musical talent.
Now, however, he felt he had to intervene.
“Miss Martyn is traveling the South Island to collect and catalog the musical heritage of the various Maori tribes,” he explained. “It’s very interesting work, and I feel exceptionally honored to be allowed to take part. Would you like to do a bit more work on that haka, Miss Martyn? Perhaps another of the flute parts? Our audience here might enjoy it.”
He winked at her as he extricated her from the ladies. Kura seemed as unflappable as ever.
“I’m mortified, Miss Martyn. My relatives seem to be insinuating something about you. You… er… and me,” Caleb said, reddening.
Kura gave him her most charming smile.
“Mr. Biller, let your relatives think what they like, but marrying you is probably the last thing on earth I would want to do.”
Caleb’s astonished expression reflected both relief and mild affront.
“Do you find me so objectionable?”
Kura burst into bright laughter. Could this man really be so dense? Her gentle advances at the memorial service, her flirtation at the pub, and the fact that she had even come to dinner that day should have been enough to convince any man of her interest. She raised her hand and caressed him slowly and lasciviously, starting at his forehead, down over his cheek to the corner of his mouth, where she traced a small circle before letting a finger trickle down to his throat. Caresses like that had driven William mad. Caleb, however, did not seem to know exactly what to make of it.