‘The house is simply a hovel,’ said Lucy. ‘How could Papa be so cruel to us? Our lovely house in Lyme …’
Gussie began to weep. ‘It’s quite the most dreadful place I ever saw.’
I, too, started to cry, though more for the loss of my own home than the condition of the one I was about to inhabit, but Lucy was too angry for tears. ‘I shall never, never forgive Papa. I don’t believe he cares for any of us.’
‘I keep believing I’m in a nightmare,’ sobbed Gussie, ‘and that when I wake up I’ll find myself back in dear Cobb House. What will poor Mama say when she sees our new home?’
While Aunt had been lodging in Albany-town, none of us had seen her. We were all feeling the lack of her calm presence.
‘Mama will be here soon,’ Hugh said, ‘and, as there’s nowhere else for us to live, we must make do with this. Come, Gussie and Fanny, dry your tears. For Mama’s sake, we must all put on brave faces.’
Uncle galloped up on his borrowed horse. ‘The servants are to line up in the usual way,’ he ordered. ‘Is there water in her ladyship’s room?’
I glanced at Aunt’s maid, Helen. Her grey hair was dishevelled, and her usually immaculate gown was crumpled and stained. Lucy had told me that Helen was a widow, rescued from poverty by Aunt, and so devoted to her mistress that she, like some of the other servants, had chosen to accompany us to Albany. She seemed drawn and exhausted but she gave a deep curtsey. ‘Yes, Sir Richard.’
‘You children will stand over there to greet your mama.’ He glared briefly at Lucy. ‘I trust you find your new home congenial enough, Liza-Lou?’
Hugh nudged her.
‘It will serve,’ said Lucy frostily.
‘Hugh and Edward are to stand here with me to hand down the chaise. Now, form a semi-circle to each side of the door, family to the right, servants to the left. Stand tall, stand tall.’ A general inspecting his troops, Uncle rode along the assembled half-circle. ‘Robert, you are fidgeting. Be still.’
‘He’s not used to this heat, Papa.’
‘Thank you, Mary Ann, but I shall be the judge of his conduct, not you.’
Now we could hear the rattle of the cart wheels, the laboured breathing of the mule and the slow plodding of its hooves over the stones.
‘At-ten-tion!’ bellowed Uncle as the cart finally came into view.
It contained only a small chaise, the legs of which had been lashed to the shafts with ropes to secure it. Over it had been erected a parasol which swayed at a giddy angle with each movement of the cart but afforded at least a modicum of shade. Half-sitting, half-reclining on the chaise was Aunt, looking hot and extremely stout. We watched silently as, from her half-prone position, she surveyed her new home. Uncle rode forward and dismounted, Hugh and Edward fell in behind him, and we all waited to hear what she would say.
‘Why, Richard,’ she said, ‘how charming it is. See, Lady Stirling has planted roses by the door.’
Uncle seemed to expand. ‘It’s a little … smaller than we’re accustomed to,’ he said, his humble tone quite different from the one he used to us children or the servants.
‘I daresay when we’re properly settled it can be enlarged.’
‘That has been my intention from the outset.’
Aunt smiled at us lined up for her inspection. ‘My children already look so healthy. And here are all our loyal servants … why it’s almost like home. Now, Richard, I feel I am ready to descend from this cart.’
Each day the sun dazzled in the sky until it sank in a blazing disc of orange and scarlet. Long creeping shadows stole briefly about us, then a thick black fog descended, stranding us in a haunted darkness, prey to witches and prowling evil spirits. A cacophony of night noises began, and unknown shapes flitted and bounded through the gloom. On our third night at Strawberry Hill, we saw, moving noiselessly across the area behind the cabins, an army of strange ghostly figures. They stood upright on huge haunched back legs, two small arms dangling before their chests.
‘Aborigines,’ said Aunt.
‘No,’ said Uncle. ‘Kangaroos.’
Lucy and I stared at them as they hopped nearer. Their rabbit-shaped heads had small furry ears, and several of them sported pouches on their stomachs from which protruded tiny heads. Uncle advanced towards them, swinging the storm lantern, and they sped away at the pace of horses.
In the daytime, flocks of black cockatoos streamed from the trees, malevolent familiars screeching and cawing as they swept down towards the dining tent in the hope of securing any carelessly dropped morsels of food. Huge scaly lizards basked on rocks, flicking out their tongues to display their brightly coloured throats; poisonous redback spiders scuttled from under fallen logs. Most frightening of all were the serpents that slid noiselessly everywhere, the deadly tiger snakes, instantly recognisable by their yellow and black stripes, and the dull brown dugites, often up to six feet long, whose tiny heads were capable of inflicting mortal bites.
‘But do you know,’ said Lucy, ‘even though their venom is deadly, the Aboriginal children catch them and carry them about on sticks? Hugh has seen them. And then they hold them over the fire and cook them and eat them. When we go back Home, it’s certain no one in Lyme will ever believe that.’
Our bedroom was so cramped that all four of us girls could scarcely fit into it together except to sleep. Curled in one of the narrow beds, Lucy and I listened miserably to the wind that seemed to howl perpetually around the house.
‘But that’s not the wind.’ She sat up, almost tipping me to the floor. ‘Those are voices.’
We crowded the window, peering from behind the thin curtains into the moonlight. At first, we could see nothing.
‘Look,’ I whispered. ‘Men.’
‘Quite unclothed,’ hissed Lucy.
‘And black,’ moaned Gussie. ‘Cannibals.’ And she fell, praying, to her knees.
From one of the tents came a familiar voice. ‘What the deuce are you fellows up to?’
In his nightshirt, Hugh behind him, Uncle stood brandishing a shotgun. The naked black men, moving closer, opened their hands in a gesture seeming to signify that they were not armed.
‘Off with you,’ ordered Uncle.
In response, one of them indicated the side of the tent and laid himself down against it. He was instantly followed by his fellows.
‘I believe they wish to sleep here, sir,’ we heard Hugh say.
‘Then we shall have to let them. I’ve no wish to start a skirmish, especially as Stirling says the local Aborigines are disposed to be friendly.’
‘What if they murder us all in our beds?’ asked Gussie.
‘You heard Papa say they wish to be friendly.’
‘Thus far, Mary Ann,’ said Lucy, ‘Papa has not been at all reliable. We must be vigilant throughout the night. Fanny and I will take the first watch, then you and Gussie can stay en garde.’
Uncle and Hugh retreated into their tent. Cramped and wretched, pressed hard against Lucy, I stared out of the tiny window, alert for the slightest sign of movement from the dark shapes apparently sleeping beside it.
‘What if they should suddenly rise up and overcome us?’ I whispered.
‘We must scream our loudest to alert Papa.’
It occurred to me that by then it would be too late for Uncle and Hugh to save us, but I said nothing and remained gazing at the inert forms, almost indistinguishable now against the shadow of the tent. After an interminable time, Lucy roused Gussie and Mary Ann, and we two squashed ourselves into our narrow bed as they stood guard at the window.
Despite my certainty that I would never sleep, I was shaken awake by Mary Ann.
‘They’ve gone. But we didn’t see or hear anything.’
‘You fell asleep,’ said Lucy, indignantly.
‘No, not at all, did we, Gussie?’
Gussie shook her head. ‘One moment they were sleeping by the tent, then, without a single sound, they’d vanished.’
We stumbled sleepily out
doors and assembled as usual for family prayers. The day’s reading was from The Beatitudes, and Uncle had reached the words, Blessed are the meek … when there was a commotion from behind the male servants’ cabin, and a large company of men, women and children marched towards us, all quite naked save for pieces of skin or bark hung before the men’s privy parts. We sat paralysed, staring at them. They were tall, their skins glistened shiny black, and their hair stood out in woolly curls around their heads.
‘Lord, preserve us!’ cried Helen.
Clutching a wooden spear, their leader guided his companions behind our rows of chairs where they seated themselves on the ground and proceeded to give the impression of listening intently to Uncle’s words.
‘I shall continue,’ said Uncle, ‘and you will all make no sign that anything is unusual or amiss. The Lord, as we know, moves in mysterious ways.’
We recited the Our Father in unison, the natives making unintelligible mumbling sounds in accompaniment. Uncle pronounced the blessing, then, ‘These are Aborigines,’ he said, ‘from the local Minang tribe. Sir James Stirling says we have no need to fear them. You will treat them with all respect and kindness; they are God’s creatures as much as we are.’
It was impossible not to stare at the Aborigines. Their height, their strange colour and most of all their brazen nakedness fascinated us, and the little Spencer boys were too young to conceal their interest. Robert ran forward to touch one of the children, who pulled away and clutched at a woman nearby. She patted Robert’s shoulder and I watched to see if the blackness of her hand would leave a mark on his skin.
‘They have come for food, I believe,’ said Uncle to Aunt. ‘It was Stirling’s habit to provide them with flour and suet from the government stores.’
‘But why?’
‘They are under the protection of the British Crown and if we wish to bring them to an understanding of the benefits of civilisation — and to purchase their land — it’s our duty to provide for them.’
‘Are they warlike?’ said Aunt.
‘Very, if they wish to fight. But they have no quarrel with us, only with other tribes who trespass on their territory.’
‘Do they have guns?’
‘They have no need of guns. They fashion their own weapons of wood and bone. Now, Gussie, my good girl, run to Helen and ask her to provide you with a little quantity of suet and flour.’
The reception of these offerings showed Uncle was correct in his surmise. Squatting on the ground, the Aborigines commenced a parley in dumb show.
‘In return for rations,’ said Uncle, ‘they seem to be agreeing to provide day labour for the clearing of the land, which will be very welcome.’
But the unexpected arrival of the entire tribe was not.
‘They’ve set up camp just beyond the men’s cabin,’ said Aunt in dismay.
‘I’m afraid, as the Resident, I’m obliged to feed them and provide for them.’
‘I should mind less,’ said Aunt, ‘if only the women and children would cover themselves.’
AUCKLAND, 1846
Lady Martin and Mrs Selwyn came to tea.
‘I must tell you, Miss Thompson,’ said Lady Martin, ‘how kind and charitable your sister and the Governor have been to us at our little hospital at Taurarua. We don’t know what we should have done without their generosity.’
Lucy looked pleased.
‘We had an epidemic of fever,’ continued Lady Martin, ‘with so many patients that we were quite overrun, but the Governor and his lady here sent a servant out the two miles to us every day with wine and brandy, sugar, broth and all manner of delicacies, and on some days the Governor himself rode out to make the deliveries and to see to our welfare.’
‘Lady Martin and her husband set up the hospital four years ago,’ said Lucy, ‘when they saw that there was no provision at all for the natives if they fell ill.’
‘Our first building was very primitive — just two rough huts and a tent made of blankets — but we raised money from charitable friends in England and had a three-roomed building constructed from native timber and flax panels but with two English windows and a door.’
‘They were so very diligent,’ said Mrs Selwyn. ‘They built raised platforms for beds and on these they put mattresses of freshly cut fern so that, after each patient, they could be replaced with new. There hasn’t been a single case of hospital fever.’
‘And now, with the subscriptions we’ve raised — and here again your sister and her husband have been extremely generous to us — we’re able to employ a proper nurse, an excellent woman, more skilled than any doctor. When next you call on me, I’ll take you on a visit, if that would please you.’
‘Very much.’
‘And you’ll doubtless find Sarah and her boys with us. They’ll be staying at our house while the Bishop is away.’
‘He’s away again?’ said Lucy
Mrs Selwyn nodded. ‘Alas, yes.’
‘Don’t you find it very hard to be left so often?’ I asked.
‘Exceedingly, but what can I do? It’s in the nature of his calling. I tell myself he’s on God’s business so I’ve no right to be so selfish and wish him here. And I have my boys. And my own work with the Maoris.’
‘She sees to the running of the Bishop’s Mission school and the Bible classes for the converts,’ said Lady Martin. ‘The Maoris are devoted to her. They call her Mata Pihopa, Mother Bishop, and they follow her constantly.’
‘I should like to do some good works with the Maoris myself,’ said Lucy, ‘but my husband tells me the chiefs say I’m only a child.’
To my surprise, this remark caused both Lady Martin and Mrs Selwyn to laugh loudly.
‘That’s exactly what the chiefs said about me when I first arrived,’ said Mrs Selwyn, ‘and I’m more than ten years older than you. And they said the same about you, didn’t they, Lady Martin?’
‘Yes, indeed. I felt quite flattered to be thought a girl again. And, you know, when my husband showed the chiefs a likeness of the Queen, they shook their heads and said, “Too young to be a great chief. Merely a girl.” But you must ask dear Sarah to recount to you some of her early experiences at Waimate. She and the Bishop were once surrounded in their house by a war party led by John Heke.’
‘Good Heavens! How horrifying.’
‘We were only newly arrived in New Zealand, so I was quite terrified and seized Willie to try to hide him. But whatever the situation, the Bishop is always an oasis of calm. “Compose yourself, Sarah,” he said. “We are under God’s protection.”’
‘But why were they attacking you?’
‘One of our Maori boys at the Mission had unwittingly shot some wild ducks at a place that had been designated tapu. That’s their word for sacred, you know, and they fear the gods’ anger if such a tapu is violated. So a fighting party came to our house and began performing one of their war dances in the garden, demanding retribution. And my dear George Augustus, to my horror, went out to them, armed only with a Bible, while I cowered wretchedly inside with Willie, barely able to watch lest I should see them fall on him with their tomahawks.’
‘And …’
‘John Heke advanced upon my husband with a spear, but George Augustus stood calm and unmoving and then, barely two feet away, Heke suddenly stopped and threw the spear into the ground. My husband asked him the cause of the disturbance and, when he was apprised of it, invited Heke and the elders into our house to discuss the matter. They were all in an extremely angry mood and much agitated from their war dancing, but they sat on chairs while the rest of the party gathered outside, peering in at our windows. The sight of all those crowding tattooed faces made me suddenly long for my parents’ tranquil home in Wimbledon …’ She sighed. ‘So George Augustus set me to making a large quantity of stirabout — with plenty of sugar — which I presented in the only large receptacle to hand, Willie’s baby bath, while he apologised for the offence and asked whether they would like restitution under Maori or Chri
stian law. After a consultation with his friends, Heke said, “Christian law”, so George Augustus read to them, in Maori, Zacchaeus’s direction that anything taken should be restored four-fold, and said he would pay four times the value of each of the ducks. As you may imagine, they found this wholly satisfactory, so, having received their payment, they fell upon the stirabout, then took very affectionate leave of us, pressing noses with us and professing their everlasting friendship. So, I can truthfully say that I have rubbed noses with John Heke.’
‘The same Maori who cut down the British flagpole?’
‘Yes, but this was before he started the war in the North.’
‘So, you see, life here is never dull,’ said Lady Martin.
‘Sarah Selwyn is calling on us again this afternoon and she’s bringing her two delightful little boys, Willie and Johnny. I’m sure you’ll love them just as much as I do.’
Mrs Selwyn, even paler than I remembered, the loose drapery of her gown barely concealing her condition, sat unhappily on the veranda, watching as Lucy led the children to a large chest filled with toys and games.
‘Eliza is so very kind,’ she said. ‘She dotes on children and my two can scarcely wait to visit.’
‘How old are they?’ I asked but, to my consternation, she burst into tears.
Lucy came running to her. ‘Why, Sarah, what’s the matter?’
‘I … it’s nothing. A nervous headache. But it’s not that which … Oh, Eliza’ — and here she began sobbing again — ‘George Augustus says that Willie must go Home to school. How will I part with him? He’s only six years old.’
‘But why must he be sent away?’ I asked. ‘Are there no schools here?’
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