Tamar (17 page)

On the other hand, the matter of Peter’s finances still niggled. She would talk to him about that, introducing the subject casually, but she would not mention his drinking. She was not Anna, after all. Not pregnant, and not unable or unwilling to understand the fears and pressures of a man struggling to make ends meet while he turned rugged bush into productive farmland.

Peter was not home by eight that evening. Tamar left his dinner in a pot on the stove to keep warm. When he had still not arrived by ten she became concerned and decided to wait up for him. It had started raining heavily and she worried that his horse might have slipped on the rough track; he could be lying somewhere hurt.

An hour later, she heard a noise outside and ran to open the front door. Through the rain she saw Peter in the murky dark, drenched to the skin and his trousers and coat covered with mud, picking himself off the ground and swearing while his horse skittered nervously. He looked up and saw her.

‘Sort this bloody horse out! Fucking bastard just threw me,’ he said angrily as he stepped onto the verandah and handed her the reins. As he went inside Tamar smelled alcohol on his breath and his clothes. She stepped into the heavy rain and stroked the horse’s head gently, speaking soothingly until he settled down. When she removed the saddle and blanket she saw the animal had been sweating heavily and had several long, shallow cuts on his right shoulder.

She led the horse down to the paddock, slipping and sliding
on the sodden grass, then returned to the house, dripping wet. Inside, she towelled her hair dry, sponged her wet clothes as best she could and went to join Peter in front of the parlour fire. He was sitting in one of the armchairs, a glass of whisky in his hand, staring fixedly into the flames.

She sat opposite, picked up her sewing and asked casually, ‘Did your business go to your satisfaction?’

Peter nodded but did not look up.

Tamar tried again. ‘So you got everything sorted then?’

‘Timber fellers’ll be here Wednesday week, pack of thieving bastards.’

‘How do you mean?’ Tamar asked, alarmed that Peter had been robbed.

‘I
mean
, they’re charging me an arm and a leg. I’d do it myself but the job’s too bloody big.’ He was slurring his words. She had a sudden unwelcome vision of the behaviour Anna had described.

‘Were you in the hotel tonight?’ she asked hesitantly.

He nodded. ‘And all afternoon.’ He looked up and snapped, ‘Well, there’s nowhere else to do business.’

Tamar bent her head to her sewing for a few minutes, then asked, ‘Can we afford to pay the timber-felling gang?’

Peter rearranged himself in his chair and took a leisurely sip of his drink. Had Tamar been watching, the expression on his face would have reminded her of the sleek bush rat she caught in the light of her lamp on the way out to the privy one night, sharp black eyes darting about as if it couldn’t make up its mind which way to jump.

‘Of course I can afford it,’ he replied casually. ‘Why wouldn’t I?’

‘I just wondered, that’s all. I thought you might be a bit short of cash after our wedding.’

‘No,’ he lied. He had asked for the bills to be sent to him by post and had collected them from the Huia post office that morning.
He had already decided his creditors could wait.

‘That reminds me,’ he said over his shoulder, as he rummaged in his coat pocket. ‘There’s a letter for you, from that rich friend of yours, that McTaggart woman.’ He withdrew an envelope and handed it to her.

Tamar was itching to open it but put it aside to read later. Peter sat down and poured himself another hefty whisky. Tamar stitched in silence as he drank rapidly. As he was pouring himself a third, she was unable to keep her mouth shut. ‘You don’t think you might have had enough to drink already?’ she asked.

‘What?’

Tamar looked at her husband, suddenly nervous. ‘The whisky. You don’t want a headache tomorrow.’

Peter narrowed his eyes, all trace of good humour gone. ‘You don’t think I can handle my drink?’ he snapped.

‘Oh, I know you can! I know how you hate feeling sick, that’s all.’

Tamar panicked, wishing to God she’d kept her silence. Were Anna’s words true after all? She sat back in fright as Peter made his way unsteadily towards her, but relaxed slightly when he knelt and placed his hands on her knees. ‘Put your sewing down,’ he said gently.

She did, encouraged by the change in his voice.

‘I know I drink sometimes but it’s nothing to worry about,’ he continued in a reasonable tone. ‘It’s never caused a problem, has it? Every decent, hardworking man has a right to the odd tipple after a day’s work. Why is it bothering you?’

‘It’s not bothering me,’ lied Tamar.

‘Good. Then let’s go to bed. I’ve been thinking about you all day and I’ve missed you,’ Peter said, running his hands sensuously up her thighs and caressing her hips. Then he stopped and asked jokingly, ‘What’s this in your pocket? Not a love letter from an admirer?’

Tamar’s heart jumped into her throat. ‘No, of course it isn’t.’

‘Well, what is it then? Let me see it.’ He fumbled for the pocket opening and dug his hand into the folds of Tamar’s skirt. Yanking the envelope out he read the address then slowly looked up at her, his eyes glinting dangerously. ‘What are you doing with one of Anna’s letters?’ he asked in a flat voice.

‘I … I found it when I was going through her things,’ stammered Tamar.

Peter tore the letter out of its envelope and quickly scanned it. ‘Christ, is
this
what’s upset you? Anna’s lies about me?’ he said as he got to his feet and strode over to the fire, thrusting the letter into the flames. He whirled around to face her. ‘She wasn’t well. Had all sorts of strange ideas about what was going on and now you have too, all because you couldn’t keep your nose out of someone else’s business!’ He splashed himself another whisky and continued angrily. ‘What I do and what I drink is my business, and I’ll damn well do as I please.’ His voice rose. ‘I’m
sick
of women telling me how to behave and interfering with every fucking thing I do. If you really loved me, you’d support me, not criticise and moan every time I take a drink. You’re as bad as Anna and I won’t tolerate it in my own house! Do you hear me? I won’t fucking
have
it!’

He was yelling now, enraged, spit flying and his face red. Tamar cowered in her chair as he loomed over her, aggressive and frightening, whisky slopping out of his glass.

‘You’re all the same, you bloody women! I’ve given you a nice house, clothes, everything a woman could want, and still,
still
you’re ungrateful! You’re not making any effort at
all
to understand how hard it is for me. Christ! Why is nothing I do ever good enough for you? No wonder I have to bloody drink!’

Tamar was appalled, not only by Peter’s behaviour but also by his wild accusations. She had never complained about her situation, and he’d never given any indication he was unhappy in any way.
This abrupt transformation in his personality was terrifying.

‘Well?’ he demanded, clearly expecting some sort of response.

She felt too frightened to say anything but knew he would continue berating her until she did. ‘In … in the letter …,’ she stammered. ‘In the letter, Anna said she asked you to stop drinking. Did you?’

Peter snorted derisively. ‘For a couple of months, but I don’t know why. Nothing changed. And that’s because my drinking wasn’t the problem,
Anna
was. And then she bloody well died,’ he said in disgust.

Tamar thought it was probably pointless, and unwise given his mood, to ask him if he would consider leaving off drinking again. Instead, to placate him, she said, ‘I really
do
understand how hard it’s been for you, Peter, losing her and the child. I know it must still grieve you terribly.’

‘Yes, it does,’ he replied bitterly. Then, his temper having apparently subsided as quickly as it had flared, he waved his hand dismissively. ‘I need to think. Go to bed.’

Tamar took the opportunity to escape and went into their bedroom, closing the door behind her softly so as not to give Peter any reason to yell at her. She lit the kerosene lamp, changed into her nightdress, climbed into bed and rolled on to her side. Then she cried.

She cried because she did not understand what had just happened, because she could not work out what she had done to displease Peter and make him so angry, and because she had no idea what to do. Perhaps the fault lay with her. Perhaps she was not doing enough to make him happy. All she could do was carry on loving him and taking care of him, but she would try harder.

But most of all she cried because she had left Myrna’s letter, full of familiarity and comfort, in the parlour and was too scared to go back and get it.

C
HAPTER
N
INE

August 1880

T
amar awoke to find herself alone in bed. She got up, peed in the chamber pot and went into the parlour.

Peter was asleep in the armchair, his face pale and puffy, the empty whisky bottle on the small table beside him. He had vomited on the floor and down his shirt. There was a large damp patch on the front of his trousers and she smelled urine as she bent over him. When she moved to straighten up, a heavy hand fell on the back of her neck. ‘Tamar?’

She twisted hurriedly away, wary.

Peter opened bloodshot eyes and blinked heavily. ‘Tamar, please help me. I feel so
ill
,’ he said weakly.

‘You fell asleep in your chair,’ she said from a safe distance. Even from there she could smell his revolting breath.

‘Help me, please. I have to be sick.’

Tamar ran into the kitchen and grabbed a bowl. She hurried back into the parlour, placed it on his knees and held his head while he threw up. Not much came out except watery bile smelling of whisky. He continued to retch violently.

Finally he stopped and sat back, a long string of spit on his chin. She fetched him a towel. ‘Christ Almighty,’ he said, his arms limp
at his sides. ‘How much did I drink yesterday?’ Tamar shrugged. ‘I’m so sorry, please forgive me. Oh God, I have to go to bed. My head’s splitting.’

He rose to stand, swayed, then found his balance. Holding on to the chair he turned and shuffled towards the bedroom, clutching his head. Tamar followed, helped him out of his filthy clothes and pulled the covers over him. Then she picked up her own clothes and took them into the parlour, gently shutting the door behind her. She dressed, cleaned up the mess on the parlour floor and went about her morning chores, keeping herself busy so she would not think about the night before.

At midday, as she was taking fresh bread out of the oven, Peter came into the kitchen. He had brushed his hair, dressed in a clean shirt and trousers, and looked utterly miserable and full of remorse. ‘It
is
a problem, isn’t it?’ he said.

Tamar, slicing a loaf of the hot bread at the end of the table, did not look up.

‘I just can’t seem to stop once I start. I don’t know what comes over me. I hope I didn’t say anything to upset you last night.’

She lifted her head. ‘Can you not remember?’

‘I remember being in the hotel yesterday afternoon, falling off that sodding horse somewhere, then waking up this morning. Why? What else happened?’ he asked, a note of panic in his voice.

Tamar put several slices of bread on a plate and placed them in front of him with a dish of newly churned butter. He pushed the butter away but pulled off a piece of the bread and ate it. When it was clear it was going to stay down, he ate a bigger piece.

‘You were upset. And angry,’ replied Tamar. ‘You accused me of interfering with your drinking.’

‘Why? Were you upset with me?’ He obviously had no memory of Anna’s letter.

‘Yes, I was a little. You seemed to undergo a complete change of personality.’

‘Did I?’ said Peter, with such a startled look Tamar wondered if he really couldn’t remember. She finished slicing the loaf.

‘How’s your head now?’ she asked.

‘A lot better than it was earlier. Are you still angry at me?’

Tamar said nothing.

‘I
do
remember you asking me to give up my drinking,’ he said.

She hadn’t; he was obviously remembering something Anna had said, but Tamar chose not to correct him.

He continued. ‘I think you’re right, it doesn’t agree with me. I promise you I
will
stop drinking, from now on. I swear it, Tamar, on the Bible.’

He looked so forlorn, vulnerable and sincere that Tamar felt her heart melt. Eager to encourage the return of his usual frame of mind, she wordlessly nodded her acceptance, both of his vow to stop drinking and his overt need for her approval. She moved next to his chair, and let him wrap his arms around her waist and rest his head against her stomach as she stroked his hair. It was then she remembered Peter had gone into Huia for two reasons.

‘Did you find a housegirl?’ she asked as she sat and buttered a piece of bread. The issue of Peter’s drinking was not forgotten, but she let it rest.

‘Yes! I did, a Maori girl. Not sure how old she is but she looked fairly clean and she can speak English. She has to see her family first, but she’ll be here Monday. She comes from the settlement near Te Henga on the coast, but she was in Huia yesterday and the storekeeper said she was looking for work so I made her an offer. I’ve forgotten her name.’

‘How much will you pay her?’

‘As little as possible,’ said Peter with his mouth full of bread. ‘They don’t need much — a bit of tobacco, some booze, they don’t
care. You’ll have to keep her in line though. They can get a bit uppity. Give them European clothes and they think they’re the same as us.’

Tamar frowned. She’d wait and see, she decided. If Peter was unable to keep his word about not drinking, a domestic who thought she was above her station would be the least of her worries.

The following Monday Tamar was weeding the flower garden when she looked up to see a figure on horseback riding down the track. As the horse neared, she saw the rider was a woman. Tamar stood and waited for her to approach.