Tamar (16 page)

Opposite the kitchen was a furnished but unused-looking bedroom. Out the back door off the porch was the laundry with a small fireplace for heating the copper, and behind that another small room, empty except for a bed. Some distance from the house was the privy, a long-drop in a small wooden building of its own.

Tamar retraced her steps to explore the larger of the bedrooms. It too had a fireplace and was furnished with a double bed, a wardrobe, a ladies’ dressing table and a large set of drawers. The house was cold, dusty and rather untidy, but the cosily arranged curtains and touches of lace and patchwork showed it had been well-tended by Peter’s first wife.

Feeling a little unnerved at the deceased woman’s lingering presence, Tamar left the house and wandered into a small orchard of young fruit trees growing around a neglected vegetable garden. Several cows and four or five scruffy chickens grazed in a small fenced-off paddock. Behind the orchard under an older, more established tree was a small cemetery, with two graves. The headstones read:

Anna Maria Montgomery

Beloved Wife of Peter

1855–1879

and

Constance Sophia Montgomery

1879

Tamar knelt on the grass and closed her eyes, feeling desperately sad for the pathetically small grave in which the baby had been buried, and the pain she imagined Peter had felt when he had laid them to rest. She vowed she would do all she could to be the loving and comforting wife Peter so obviously yearned for.

Tamar unpacked, then made some tea and went to join Peter, who was having a lunchtime port on the verandah. There was a pair of old wicker chairs and a small table there, and they sat in silence, looking over the valley.

‘It can get bloody cold here at this time of year,’ Peter commented eventually. ‘I’ll get some firewood in. The water freezes in the pump some mornings. Still, it’s cosy enough inside. And there are plenty of preserves in the kitchen. Anna usually did all that over the summer.’ He fell silent.

Tamar said gently, ‘I saw the graves. Do you still miss them?’

‘Well,’ he replied, ‘I have you now. And I never knew the child, she died almost as soon as she was born. But it will be different when we have our own. Anna was by herself when it happened, but I’ll make sure you have someone with you when the time comes. When I next go to Huia I’ll arrange for one of the Maori women to come out, to help you in the house. And then, by the time you
are
expecting, you’ll be comfortable with her. Do we want her to
live in or not? I don’t fancy the idea of one of them under our roof night and day. What do you think?’

Tamar didn’t particularly want a housegirl and had not given it much thought. If she had to have one, she would rather meet the woman before she decided on what the accommodation arrangements would be. In truth, she wanted to have a go at managing the house herself. She’d been perfectly capable running her da’s house, and couldn’t see why she shouldn’t be able to do so here, although Peter had warned her he sometimes conducted his business at home, which meant having people to dinner on occasion. Also, when he hired gangs to work on his block, they needed feeding three times a day. Still, she couldn’t see any real problem.

The following week was happy and satisfying, although Tamar was kept busy and began to wonder whether some help might not be a good idea. She rose early in the quiet, dark mornings to light the kerosene lamps and start the wood fire in the kitchen for cooking and to heat water. She made bread every second morning before she prepared their breakfast, which was always porridge, Peter’s favourite; he was adamant he was unable to do a day’s work without it. After he had gone she washed the dishes in a basin with water heated on the stove, cleaned the oven and hot plate and scrubbed the kitchen table until it was spotless. Then she meticulously swept the kitchen floor with a
manuka
broom, otherwise the house would be overrun with rats and mice. When she had emptied the chamber pot she had her wash, using the large bowl and ewer, then made the bed and swept out the rest of the house. If Peter was coming home for lunch she would begin preparing it at about eleven in the morning, clean up again after he had gone, then repeat the performance at around four in the afternoon for dinner.

After lunch she worked in the garden planting or harvesting
vegetables and fruit for preserving. Although the vegetable garden had run to seed it was still well-stocked with rhubarb, turnips, carrots, winter cabbages, potatoes, parsnips, silver beet and
kumara
. Tamar spent much of her time weeding and replanting, and planning the new vegetables she would add when spring arrived.

Every second day she did the household washing. This involved carrying water from the pump to half-fill the copper in the laundry, waiting for it to heat, adding washing soap, then sloshing the clothes and linen around for what seemed like hours until they were clean. She then moved them piece by piece into a tin tub and rinsed them with cold fresh water, then wrung them all out by hand, struggling with the bed sheets until she had removed as much water as she could. The first time she’d hung the laundry on the clothesline it broke, causing her to swear loudly, and she had to do it all again; after that she made sure not to overload the thin ropes. Anything delicate was soaked and handwashed very gently and laid outside in the sun to dry, or hung in front of the stove or the fire in the parlour. When the washing had dried she ironed it, including the linen, with a box iron she discovered in the laundry.

In the evenings, she sat with Peter in the parlour and sewed or read by the light of the fire and kerosene lamps. They went to bed early, and often made love. Tamar was becoming accustomed to their physical intimacy and was no longer sore or nervous. She was beginning to respond to Peter’s advances, enjoying the way he touched her body and taking pleasure in exploring his. There was still no wild ecstasy, but his passionate appreciation was obvious, and enhanced her own excitement. Having had no other lover, she did not know whether he was skilful, but found his attentions stimulating in a way that was new to her and made her feel needed and wanted. She loved being with him, still could
not stop looking at him constantly whenever they were together, and delighted in keeping house for him. She was, she supposed, very happy with her lot, although she did feel lonely when she was by herself.

As they lay together one evening, Tamar’s head resting on Peter’s furry, slightly sweaty chest, she decided it was time to broach the subject of a housegirl. ‘I dropped the washing in the mud again today,’ she said.

‘Did you?’ replied Peter sleepily.

‘Yes, and I think I
would
like someone to help me around the house. Some days I only just manage to get everything done, and it would be nice to have some time to myself.’

Peter nodded, ‘And in a few weeks I’ll be getting a gang over to help with the next stand of
kauri
and you’ll be even busier feeding them. Shall I see if I can find someone when I go into town tomorrow?’

Tamar smiled in agreement and snuggled down under the covers, grateful once again for Peter’s concern and generosity.

The next morning as she prepared breakfast, he came into the kitchen and leaned against the heavy wooden table, silently watching her. She finally stopped and turned to him, raising her eyebrows.

‘There’s a trunk of Anna’s things in the spare bedroom. Clothes and bits and pieces,’ he said, looking moodily out the window. ‘I don’t particularly want to see them again. Would you mind going through them? Put the decent things in a bag and I’ll take them into town. The storekeeper might be able to sell them. You might want to keep the baby things though.’

‘If that’s what you want, then yes,’ she replied. ‘I’ll do it while you’re away.’

Peter nodded, his good humour apparently restored. ‘Right, then. What’s for breakfast. Porridge?’ he asked hopefully.

Half an hour later, Tamar waved him off from the front verandah, then threw herself into her morning chores. When she had finished she went into the spare bedroom and found the trunk, square, dusty and a little sad-looking. She did not particularly relish the idea of rummaging through Anna’s things, but he’d asked her to do it, so she would.

Kneeling in front of the trunk, she opened it slowly. On top was a collection of new baby clothes. Lifting each item out piece by piece, Tamar saw there were five tiny white gowns in lawn, muslin and fine linen, and several knitted jackets. The little garments were intricately embroidered, several with pin tucking and a broderie anglaise trim. Four tiny bonnets were flattened together under half a dozen small woollen blankets and other baby bedding, and a handful of knitted booties with satin ribbons lay next to a pile of folded napkins. Tamar was poignantly reminded of the lace and satin Peter had ordered for his new baby less than a year ago.

She fetched a sheet on which to lay the garments to keep them clean. Looking at the array of baby finery spread in front of her, she felt desperately sad and her throat ached with her need to cry; for her husband, for baby Constance who had barely lived, and for Anna who had died bringing her into the world.

Turning back to the trunk, she lifted out one of Anna’s dresses. Under that were other well-made articles of clothing, several hats, two pairs of boots, and a few personal things including a silver-backed hair brush and mirror. At the very bottom was a heavy woollen riding coat with a hood and several deep pockets. As Tamar lifted the garment she felt the crackle of a slim package; taking it out she saw it was an envelope addressed to someone in England. It was sealed but had no postmark. Knowing she shouldn’t, she opened it. It was dated September 12, 1879, written in a small, elegant hand and signed by Anna Montgomery.

Guiltily, Tamar read:

My Dearest Mama,

I hope this letter finds you well. I am feeling very well myself, although I am large with Child now and expect to be delivered three weeks hence. I am almost fully prepared except for some items for the Child’s crib which Peter has ordered from Auckland. A Midwife has been visiting and will attend the Birth. I am sorry you will not be with me when our Baby arrives, but that cannot be helped. Perhaps we will be able to come Home to visit when our finances have improved.

We still owe the Bank a lot of money, and we have ceased any spending not absolutely necessary, but Peter has been working very hard, and has spent a lot of time improving the condition of the land and felling timber. He has taken a marked turn for the better since I confronted him, as you suggested. I have told him I can no longer tolerate his behaviour when he has been drinking, and that if he raises his hand in anger against me again, I will withdraw all of my attentions from him, even after the Child is born. When I told him, he wept and threw himself on the floor at my feet, saying he does not understand what is happening to him and that if he were just able to make a little more money and was not so worried about the arrival of our Child, he would not feel so pressured about our debts and would not have such a need to drink.

I have asked him to cease drinking altogether and he says he has. I believe this is the only way to avoid the trouble which always comes when he drinks — his violence, his anger and his awful melancholy. When he does not drink, he is a loving man and very easy to love in return. I fear that if he continues to drink he will only get worse. He was always controlled when he drank when we first met, but in the years since we moved out to our Block, his behaviour has progressively worsened and he cannot seem to stop once he starts.

However, all is well at the moment and Peter is as loving and attentive as he used to be. I have high hopes for our future and he has promised to improve his ways and I trust he will. He is so desperately looking forward to our Child and dearly wants it to be a Boy but says that if it is a Girl as lovely as me, he will be just as happy.

Tamar read on but barely took in Anna’s description of her garden and the clothes she had made for her baby.

She folded the letter back into the envelope and slid it into the pocket of her skirt. She was severely shaken, her heart pounding violently; was this the same man she had married? Peter had never shown any sign of anger or violence, although she had to admit he could be a little short-tempered. And he had
never
been physically abusive. But a small, insidious voice inside her head asked, but how long have you known him? You spent less than a month all told in his company before you married, and only a few weeks since. How well do you
really
know him?

Tamar told the voice to shut up. Obviously Peter was drinking again, but the worst that had happened had been him falling asleep on their wedding night, and she had been grateful at the time. But, her discomfort growing, she realised she had no idea of the state of Peter’s finances. What about the clothes and jewellery he’d bought for her? And the cost of their wedding? Tamar twisted the sapphire engagement ring on her finger nervously. How much had it cost?

As she stuffed Anna’s clothes into several sacks and rolled up the baby things to be stored, she felt confused and worried. But as the afternoon wore on she began to talk herself into an explanation that made sense of what she had read. Although Peter had loved her dearly, Anna had obviously not understood the strain he’d been under due to his finances and the imminent birth of their child. Perhaps she’d been in some sort of emotional state herself, due to the changes Tamar knew women experienced during pregnancy,
and had directed her anxiety towards her husband. Her behaviour may have even driven him to striking her. By the time Tamar began preparing the evening meal, she was convinced that whatever had happened between Peter and Anna had been the result of an inability on Anna’s part to cope with her physical condition. It also occurred to her Anna may have been lying or exaggerating to her mother.