Tamar (32 page)

‘
I
think so,’ said Tamar, trying not to smile. ‘John?’

‘I’m here,’ he said from the door.

‘Thank you. For this, and for everything. And you, Mr Stokes. Thank you for
your
help.’

‘Think nothing of it, Miss Deane. It was an honour,’ said Basil.

John said, ‘Try to get some sleep now. I’ll see you again tomorrow.’

He walked over to the bed and kissed Tamar’s forehead gently, before he and Basil took their leave.

C
HAPTER
S
IXTEEN

N
ine days later Tamar sat nervously on the sofa as John removed her bandages. As the last one was unwound and the single remaining cotton pad peeled off, she picked up the hand mirror but held it in her lap. John and Myrna both carefully looked out the window. No one moved. The clock on the mantel ticked loudly.

‘Shall we leave ye, lassie?’ Myrna asked.

Tamar said, ‘No, it’s all right.’ She took an audible breath and raised the mirror to her face. Saying nothing, she stared silently at her reflected image.

John held his breath.

Tamar said flatly, ‘It’s revolting.’

‘Och, no, lassie, it’s a
huge
improvement!’

Tamar lowered the mirror and smiled. ‘Not my face, my
hair
! I haven’t washed it in nearly two weeks and it’s
disgusting
!’

John laughed. ‘I’m glad to see you’ve got your sense of humour back. You’re going to need it while I’m removing these sutures. And when I have you’ll really be able to see the improvement.’

‘I don’t care, as long as they’re out, they’re itching like hell and my face has been still for so long I feel like a china doll.’

As Tamar lay back, John took out a tiny pair of sharp, curved scissors. ‘Swelling’s gone down a lot,’ he remarked as he sat on a
footstool next to the sofa. ‘Now, this might sting, so try not to jump.’

Tamar lay perfectly still while John skilfully snipped and removed the dried, black stitches and dropped them into a small bowl. When he had removed the last one, he sponged away a few small spots of blood and helped Tamar up. ‘There we are,’ he said cheerfully. ‘You can look in the mirror again.’

Tamar did. A wide smile stole across her face. She glanced up at Myrna and John, both of whom were also smiling, then looked back into the mirror and admired her new face. Or rather, her reconstructed old face. Gone was the thick ridge of scar that had grossly separated her right eyebrow and pushed down the eyelid underneath. In its place was a thin pink line, a little puffy and scabby, but the improvement was immense. The heavy scar under her eye had been replaced by a thinner suture line, already much less noticeable.

‘Will it get any better?’ she asked. ‘Will the pink colour fade?’

‘Yes,’ said John, ‘after about a year. All that will be left will be a few, thin white marks. Now, can you open your eyes as widely as possible?’

Tamar obliged and sat there looking like an owl while John manipulated her right eyelid.

‘Now close your eyes, then open them again normally.’

Tamar’s newly repaired eyelid slid up easily, only a very slight, almost undetectable droop indicating the presence of scar tissue.

‘I just look as if I’m a bit sleepy,’ she said delightedly into the mirror. ‘And look at my eyebrows! I think they’re more symmetrical than they were before!’

‘Good, now ye can pluck them. Ye look like ye’ve two hairy caterpillars on your face.’

Tamar threw back her head and laughed, relishing the feeling of her cheek muscles stretching after so many days of immobility.
She jumped up and moved to John who was standing by the fire, smiling at her response.

As she embraced him she said, ‘I can’t thank you enough, John.’

As he began to speak she put her fingers to his lips.

‘No listen, please,’ she beseeched. ‘I need to say this.’ She took one of his hands in both of hers. ‘I’d resigned myself to spending the rest of my life with the marks of Peter’s anger on my face for all the world to see, and for a while I was convinced I deserved it. But then I realised I didn’t. Not then, and certainly not now. I know I made a mistake. Several, in fact, but I refuse to go on paying for them. Those marks are gone now, thanks to you, and I feel clean again, inside and out. And that means I can start again.’

There was a loud honking noise as Myrna blew her nose into a handkerchief and wiped her eyes. Struggling to contain her emotions, she said briskly, ‘Well, as that seems to be sorted, can I assume we can all get on wi’ our lives? Ye’ve a lot o’ bookwork to be learning, lassie.’

‘Yes, but first,’ said Tamar emphatically, ‘I’m going upstairs to have a long bath and wash my hair.’

September 1881

Tamar took to the commercial machinations of Myrna’s business like a duck to water. She’d always been competent with numbers, but until now had never had a chance to test her ability.

There was much more to Myrna’s book-keeping than Tamar had realised. First, of course, there were the transactions regarding money coming into the business via the customers. Myrna kept meticulous records of who had visited when and what fee they had paid, but pointed out to Tamar such information was to remain strictly confidential, for obvious reasons. Tamar was highly
amused to see fat little Harold McLeod, whom she had met at the Coulthards’ dinner party, was a regular customer, and wondered which lucky girl serviced him. She also noted Thomas Beck had been once or twice, but did not find this quite so amusing as she had liked his pretty wife, Julia.

As well as money coming in, Myrna’s books also detailed money going out, and it was a considerable sum. The girls were paid well, as were Eliza and Sven and other part-time staff. Eliza had originally been in charge of the laundry when the house had first opened but the amount of linen to be laundered became overwhelming and Myrna hired another servant just to manage that alone. There were also costs associated with the ‘tools of trade’, including imported French condoms, the girls’ cosmetics, their costumes and food and drink, both for those living at the house and for the customers. Then there was repayment of the funds Myrna had borrowed to set up the business, as well as money paid out to ensure various officials turned a blind eye to the goings-on at Dilworth Terrace, although several of those not comfortable with accepting bribes opted for discreet complimentary visits.

Myrna also gave generously to several charities, but in strict anonymity. Tamar was surprised to see one of these was the Auckland refuge for ‘fallen women’. When she asked Myrna why she donated so much, Myrna replied that she firmly believed that in order to attract money, one also had to give it away; and she gave to the women’s refuge because she felt a deep empathy for the poor wretches. ‘I’ve been in the gutter maself, ye ken,’ she explained.

Going through the accounts and receipts for the girls’ costumes one day, it occurred to Tamar that she could save Myrna a considerable amount of money if she made the girls’ clothes herself.

‘I can design and cut and sew as well as any dress maker,’ she
said eagerly when she raised the idea with Myrna. ‘And you wouldn’t have to pay me. I could do them much cheaper than the woman who’s making them now, and the girls wouldn’t have to traipse into town for their fittings. And I’d really enjoy it. I haven’t done any sewing for ages. All I’d need would be a decent sewing machine and a good source of fabrics. I’m sure Mr Ellis could be of help.’

Myrna was heartened to see Tamar’s enthusiasm; her mood and general outlook had improved dramatically since her surgery, but Myrna still worried that with too much time on her hands she’d fret over her lost child. She suspected dressmaking, which she knew Tamar loved, would be therapeutic and constructive. ‘Aye, well,’ she replied. ‘We could certainly do wi’ cutting corners in terms o’ overheads. It’s a good idea, lassie, if ye’re happy to do it.’

‘I’d love to, and I just happen to have an advertisement for the latest in treadle sewing machines,’ Tamar said innocently, whipping a square of newsprint cut from the
Auckland Weekly News
out of her pocket and thrusting it under Myrna’s nose. ‘The Home Shuttle American lock-stitch model. Jacob Joseph & Co in Wellington import them from Australia. The cost is three pounds seven and six, which is a lot, but listen to what it can do!’ She took a deep breath and read enthusiastically from the advertisement. ‘It can hem, fell, bind cord, braid, seam, tuck, ruffle, hemstitch, gather, or gather and sew on at the same time, and it sews silk, linen, woollen and cotton goods with silk, linen or cotton thread, and it comes with bobbins, an oilcan, screwdriver, five needles …’

‘Yes!’ cried Myrna in exasperation. ‘For God’s sake,
yes
, ye can order one! Today, if it will shut ye up.’

Tamar beamed and hugged Myrna, then ran off to write to Jacob Joseph & Co immediately. Tomorrow, she would go into town to talk to Mr Ellis about fabrics and trimmings.

The next morning, however, Tamar received an unexpected
visitor. Getting ready to go out, she was carefully applying a smear of cosmetic cream to her scar. The last of the scabs had healed, leaving her with a thin pink line, but she was still a little self-conscious. She expected that by the time it faded to white she would have become used to it, but until then she would disguise it whenever she left the house.

Eliza knocked and poked her head around Tamar’s door.

‘There’s a man ’ere ter see yer, Miss Tamar.’ For some reason, Tamar had been ‘Miss’ to Eliza ever since her return to Auckland.

‘A man?’ replied Tamar curiously, turning away from her mirror. ‘Who?’

Eliza shrugged. ‘One of them Maoris.’

Tamar’s heart pumped a massive, irregular beat as she stared at Eliza. ‘
What
?’

‘Said ’is name’s Tee Kar-ninny or somethin’ like that.’

‘Oh.’ Tamar’s hopes and heart rate plummeted, and she chided herself for being so foolish as to think it might have been anyone else.

‘Do yer know ’im, or shall I send ’im on ’is way?’

‘Did he say what he wants?’ Tamar was flustered.

Eliza shook her head. ‘Just that ’e needs ter see yer, if yer’re available.’

‘Tell him I’ll be there in five minutes. Can you ask Myrna if I can use her office, please?’

‘Do yer want Miss Myrna ter be there?’

‘No, but can you tell her it’s Kepa’s uncle?’

‘Oh,’ said Eliza, intrigued. The girls all knew about Tamar’s illegitimate son and the man who had fathered him, and the presence of his uncle was exciting news. She hurried down the hall to usher in Te Kanene, whom she had left standing on the front verandah, and to find Myrna.

Tamar sat angrily in front of her dressing table, looking through
her reflection into the silvered depths. Te Kanene? What on earth could he want? She screwed the lid back onto the pot of cosmetic cream, distractedly tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and stood up.

‘Te Kanene,’ she said coldly as she entered Myrna’s office. The tattooed, imperious-looking Maori stood at the window, the sun behind him. When he stepped forward Tamar did not offer him her hand. Instead, she sat in a wing chair and indicated he should sit opposite her.

‘Mrs Montgomery,’ he began as he lowered himself onto the plush upholstery.

‘Miss
Deane
.’

‘As you wish,’ replied Te Kanene.

Without preamble Tamar said, ‘Where is my child?’

‘He is safe,’ said Te Kanene. He appeared to be contemplating something as he picked a loose thread off his immaculate trousers and flicked it onto the carpet. The late-winter sun streaming through the window glinted on the small gold hoop he wore in his ear. No greenstone today, observed Tamar irrelevantly.

Te Kanene looked up at her, his gaze steady. ‘Miss Deane, I have matters of some importance I wish to discuss. I believe they would be better discussed in a civil manner. I appreciate your anger but …’

‘No, you do
not
,’ Tamar shot back. ‘He was not your child. How
could
you understand?’

Te Kanene drew in a composed breath and let it slowly out. ‘I did not say I
understand
your anger, Miss Deane. I said I appreciate it.’

Tamar did not respond.

‘May I continue?’ he asked reasonably.

Tamar nodded, struggling to keep a firm grip on her emotions. He was right — there was no need for her to behave aggressively. ‘Please go on.’

‘I wish to discuss the child, but first I have been asked to pass
something on to you. From my nephew.’ He withdrew a small, cloth-wrapped package from the inside pocket of his coat and passed it to Tamar.

She stared at it, making no move to open it. ‘I had not expected any communication.’

‘No,’ said Te Kanene, his tone suggesting he would have preferred it that way himself.

Tamar began to unwrap the package. Cocooned inside the short length of fabric was a tiny flax
kete
, or bag, in which was nestled another small bundle. Unwrapping this, Tamar found another package which fitted easily into her palm. She felt as if she was playing a child’s party game. Removing the final layer, she saw her amethyst pendant and earrings, with a folded piece of notepaper.

She opened the note slowly, feeling her heart lodge solidly in her throat, and read the date — January 1881. Her eyes caressed the large, flowing handwriting covering the page.

Tamar,

I do not know when or where this will find you. I am at Ahuriri (Napier) waiting for my ship to be provisioned and fitted for a voyage to Ingarangi. I will be away for a long time — possibly a year. I have been told you are with child. I assume it is mine.

You know I cannot be with you at this time. I regret that. You must do what you think best. Te Kanene may be able to help you.

Take care of yourself, Tamar. I have not, and will not, forget our time together. I will see you again.

He had signed the note
Arohanui, K
, followed by a short postscript: