Tamar (23 page)

‘Who?’

‘Some friends of mine. They said lovemaking could be like this.’

‘I did not think
Pakeha
women discussed such things.’

‘These ones do.’

Kepa grunted, amused. Then he said, ‘I cannot be with you.’

‘I know,’ Tamar replied. The idea was unthinkable. She could not divorce Peter, and she could not marry a Maori, even one as wealthy and educated as Kepa.

‘I feel it in here,’ he continued, his hand near his heart. ‘My
manawa
tells me we are meant to be together, but I do not think it can be. My family would not allow me to marry a
Pakeha
.’

Tamar raised her eyebrows in surprise. Kepa did not seem the sort of person who would allow himself to be controlled by anyone, including his family.

He shook his head at her expression. ‘No, it is not that. I am not influenced by how I appear in the eyes of others. My people were
once strong and proud, but as a race we are dying. We are losing our lands, our health and our very spirit. To keep our integrity we must not continue to weaken our blood. My wife must be full-blooded Maori. I could not champion the cause of my people with confidence and authority if it were otherwise. And I must. That is what I was born to do.’

‘Yes, I understand,’ replied Tamar quietly. ‘I don’t belong in your world.’

‘No,’ Kepa agreed bluntly. ‘But the world is changing, this country is changing. Our time will come but until then, you must live your life and I must live mine.’

Strangely, she was not upset. She knew that when he left, he would not be coming back. Kepa had given her something precious, a new physical and emotional awareness of herself. That was enough.

They dressed and Tamar prepared lunch, which they ate sitting on the quilt in front of the fire, their legs crossed like children. Kepa talked about his childhood on the East Coast, his plans for the future, and his family’s plans for his future, which, he stated wryly, were not the same thing. His father, Te Roroa, was a powerful chief, and wanted his son to follow in the footsteps of Te Kooti, who had vexed and eluded the colonial troops on the East Coast during the land wars.

‘Do you know of Te Kooti?’ Kepa asked.

‘I’ve heard he’s a prophet and warrior who has visions, and who went about murdering innocent settlers about ten years ago. And some of his own people.’

Kepa laughed. ‘You should never listen to gossip. It is almost always born of fear or ignorance. Te Kooti is an influential and powerful man. And yes, he does have the blood of both warriors and innocent people on his hands, but which successful military leader does not?’

‘Is he one of your people?’

‘No. He is Rongowhakaata, and lives in the King Country. I believe he has had his day.’

Tamar looked at him curiously. ‘I thought you said you admired him?’

‘No, I said he is powerful and influential. I have admiration for him, and his
Ringatu
religion has benefits for Maori, but I have not yet decided if I will support him as my father does. Our struggle for independence will last a lot longer than Te Kooti, although I would not be surprised if his religion endures.’

Kepa was convinced the battle against Maori repression could not be won by tribal dignitaries on muddy rural
marae
waving sticks at each other and bemoaning their plight. He and his uncle believed the only solution was to acquire financial means, education and political power, and play by
Pakeha
rules. Hence he was committed to seeing his family’s shipping line prosper, with the financial rewards used to further their cause.

‘Why don’t you give the money to your people?’ asked Tamar.

‘They do not know how to make it work for them yet. Wealth is not the answer, but it is a means to an end,’ he replied, helping himself to another piece of bread.

Tamar talked of her life in Cornwall, and her life now. Feeling a little disloyal, but relieved at being able to voice her thoughts, she described Peter’s destructive drinking, leaving out the less savoury aspects. She told Kepa they were in serious debt but Peter had chosen to keep this from her, and confided she was beginning to suspect he had pawned her jewellery.

She spoke of how her initial, naive, love for Peter had become somewhat frayed but she was still committed to their marriage. She also said she did not know why she had consented to Kepa’s lovemaking, but did not regret it. He listened without comment, accepting and uncritical. ‘You will need to be strong,’ he said when she had finished.

‘Perhaps, but I chose this for myself, and I
will
live with it. He is not a bad man. And I believe he loves me in his own way.’

Kepa nodded. ‘I expect he does. When did you say he will be arriving back?’

‘Not until tomorrow.’

‘So you are alone here?’

‘No, my companion Riria should be back very soon,’ said Tamar, glancing at the clock on the mantelpiece.

‘I will go,’ Kepa said, getting up from the floor. ‘I would not like to compromise you, even in the eyes of your servant.’

‘She isn’t my servant. She helps me and she is my friend.’

‘Either way, I think it is not a good idea for me to be seen here.’ He pulled his boots on and reached for his coat. Then he went to Tamar and held her tightly to his chest, stroking her hair.

‘You are a very special, beautiful woman. I will remember this time always. I had to come to you. I had to have this.’

Tamar smiled. ‘I’m glad you did. So did I.’

‘I do not know when I will see you again, but I will,’ he added.

As he bent and kissed her they heard the sound of a horse and cart outside. Tamar returned the quilt to the drying frame as she heard Riria step onto the verandah and call out, then followed Kepa as he opened the front door and went outside.

‘Riria,’ she said uneasily, hoping her face would not betray her. ‘This is Kepa, Te Kanene’s nephew. Remember I told you we met in Auckland? He stopped by to visit and stayed for lunch.’

At a glance Riria took in Tamar’s flushed face and tousled, loose hair. She looked Kepa up and down. ‘
Tena koe
,’ she said stonily.

Kepa nodded. ‘
Tena koe
.’

‘Oh, your hat,’ exclaimed Tamar, ‘I’ll get it for you,’ she said and ducked inside.

Riria stood with her hands on her hips, her eyes narrowed. ‘Visiting, is it?’ she said to Kepa in Maori.

‘
Ae
.’

‘Then I hope you intend to take responsibility for this
visit
,’ Riria replied pointedly as Tamar came back out, Kepa’s hat in her hand.

‘I will,’ he responded in an equally sharp tone. He bowed to Tamar. ‘Thank you so much for a delightful morning, Mrs Montgomery. Please tell your husband I called.’

Unlikely, thought both Tamar and Riria as they watched him climb onto his horse.

‘Good day to you,’ he said as he turned and headed up the drive.

As he rode out of the gate Tamar asked, ‘Do you know Kepa?’

‘No. What was he doing here?’

‘Visiting.’ Tamar felt her face redden.

‘He is an attractive man,’ said Riria.

‘Yes, he is,’ agreed Tamar as she went over to the cart and began to help Riria unload it.

Nothing else was said.

Peter came home the following day in a black mood, convinced Te Kanene had swindled him. ‘Bloody Maoris,’ he complained. ‘They’re worse than Jews when it comes to doing business.’

Te Kanene had refused to take a note for the amount owed and had insisted on cash payment. Peter viewed this as extortion and had said so. Te Kanene had responded by pointing out that the timber could be shipped under his terms, or left to rot on the barge in the Manukau Harbour. As his was the only ship fitted for transporting timber in the area at the time, Peter had little choice.

Tamar, who was suffering from severe guilt, made an effort to commiserate and cheer him up. She prepared his favourite meal and served it at the dining table in the parlour with candles and a vase of freshly cut flowers from her garden, and responded enthusiastically
when he made love to her that night. Instead of his face, however, it was Kepa’s dark skin and mesmerising eyes she saw. Although Peter was an affectionate lover, the difference between the two men was like serge and satin, Tamar thought wistfully.

She began to suspect she might be pregnant about four weeks later, and was certain by the end of November when she missed her period for the second time. Her breasts had become extremely tender and she was feeling sick in the late mornings and often had to lie down. She was horrified and became more and more miserable and withdrawn. Riria finally confronted her about it.

‘How far gone are you?’ she asked one day as Tamar lay on her bed with a cool, damp cloth across her aching forehead.

Tamar reacted without surprise. ‘When did you know?’ she replied in a dull voice.

‘A month ago. Your smell changed.’

God, thought Tamar. Maoris and their bloody noses.

‘Whose is it?’ asked Riria bluntly.

Tamar looked at her friend mutely as a tear rolled down her temple and into her hair. She didn’t trust herself to speak.

‘You lay with Kepa.’ It was not a question. ‘Did you also lie with your husband before or soon after?’ Riria never referred to Peter by his Christian name; her opinion of him did not allow for such intimacies.

‘After.’

‘Then it could be his.’

‘Yes, but I won’t know until it’s
born
, will I?’ cried Tamar miserably. ‘What am I going to do?’

Riria was tempted to say that this is what happened when people from different races had impetuous sexual liaisons, but the anguished look on Tamar’s face made her hold her tongue.

‘Kepa’s skin is not that dark, and your husband is not fair,’ she said, but she knew it was a fatuous thing to say. The
Pakeha
’s hair
may be almost black, but his skin was as white as parchment. ‘Perhaps you will miscarry. It happens often. You could make it happen,’ she added.

Tamar shook her head. ‘No, I couldn’t do that. What if it
is
Peter’s?’ She moaned and rolled onto her side and covered her face with her hands, knowing she was behaving pathetically.

‘Have you told him yet?’

‘Who?’

‘
Your husband
!’ said Riria a little crossly. ‘Come on,
e hine
! Take control of yourself! If you will not rid yourself of the child then you have no choice but to bear it.’

She knelt at the bedside and pulled Tamar’s hands away from her face. More gently, she said, ‘Tamar. If the child is your husband’s, then well and good; if it is not, then you must decide what to do. I do not believe your husband will accept it, and it will be very hard to raise a half-Maori child by yourself. You will be shunned by your own people, and perhaps by mine as well. You must consider giving it away, as a
whangai
. But until then, no matter who its papa is, you must be strong and healthy so it grows properly. You cannot lie around doing this
Pakeha
ladies’ thing of swooning. Stand up and be strong!
Kia kaha
,
e hine
! Do not forget who you are; I will be here to help you.’

Tamar sat up and rubbed her face. Riria was right; she had made her bed, and it was time for her to lie in it.

‘I’ll tell Peter tonight,’ she said eventually. ‘And you’re right, there is nothing I can do about it now.’

Peter was beside himself with delight when she advised him of her condition. He was so thrilled he went into Huia the next day and got drunk to celebrate.

Tamar, too immersed in her own misery, hardly even noticed.

C
HAPTER
T
WELVE

T
he following months were not happy ones. Tamar had her nineteenth birthday in November, and she and Peter passed an uneventful Christmas and New Year. Myrna had invited them to Auckland for the festive season but Tamar could not face the combination of oppressive summer heat and arduous travel.

By February her pregnancy was more than obvious and she was beginning to feel ungainly. She was starting to waddle when she walked and her back ached if she stood for too long. As well, she was compelled to make endless trips to the privy as the growing baby pressed on her bladder, and she wished her mam was alive to explain to her what to expect. Riria, however, made up for it with knowledge gained from assisting members of her family. She kept a constant eye on Tamar, refusing to let her do heavy work but insisting she keep active and eat and sleep well.

Peter was drinking heavily again, blaming the stress of the impending birth. He was convinced Anna’s fate could befall Tamar and, giving up all pretence, drank regularly in the evenings. Once every week or so he would drink himself into unconsciousness, particularly if he had gone into Huia. Several times he did not return until the following day, sick and remorseful.

Tamar despaired. Peter was completely unpredictable. She lived
in a state of anxiety, wondering if he would put the lid on the bottle and come to bed in a relatively benign state, or continue drinking until he had driven himself into a violent rage. Sometimes the Peter she had fallen in love with emerged from the depressed, bad-tempered and insecure creature he had become, and she felt almost able to relax. But it never lasted and he seemed to be getting worse.

One evening in March, he came home from town, drunk as usual, and in a particularly foul temper. He would not talk to her for at least an hour and when he finally did, he questioned her insistently about who had been to the house, and when. Tamar was immediately wary, a small black spider of fear creeping up her spine.

‘Why?’ she asked nervously.

‘Because I want to
know
. Don’t be obtuse.’

Tamar recounted the few visits she’d had from neighbouring women in the area, but did not mention Kepa.

‘No,’ said Peter angrily. ‘I mean
last
year. In the months before Christmas. Who came then?’