Tamar (38 page)

He couldn’t respond to that, either. Silence again. He watched Tamar, deep in thought.

‘I think I’ll send Sven after Polly the next time she goes out,’ she said after a few minutes. ‘Then at least I’ll know where she’s going.’

It was clear their discussion about Tamar’s future was over. ‘Yes, I suppose,’ he replied. ‘She’ll be extremely angry if she spots him.’

‘John, these days Polly doesn’t know when someone’s in the same room half the time. She won’t see him.’

They went downstairs. Tamar collected John’s hat and gloves
from the parlour and saw him to the side door. As they waited for Sven to bring his horse around, John had an idea. ‘What was the name of that girl who used to work for you at Huia?’

‘Riria?’

‘Weren’t you quite fond of her?’

‘Very.’

‘Well, why don’t you invite her to visit? She could keep you company for a while. Perhaps you could even look at starting a little business of some sort together. Something in the dressmaking line. Or a drapery of your own? She could work for you.’

Tamar sighed and thought, oh John, stop trying to organise my life. He’d never met Riria. If he had, he’d know that suggesting she might like to work behind a counter was ludicrous. She smiled. ‘Yes, I could write to her, I suppose.’

As she waved John off, she realised the idea was very appealing.

On the evening of the day Tamar sent her letter to Riria, Polly slipped out of the house. Sven followed her.

‘So?’ asked Tamar when he had returned several hours later.

‘A place on Customhouse Street.’

‘Not on the streets?’

‘No, Miss. She went inside.’

‘Mmm.’ Tamar looked at him for a minute. ‘A brothel?’

‘I do not believe so, Miss. I ask a man who came out after Miss Polly enter. He say it was a den. He whisper it.’

Oh God, thought Tamar desperately. How the hell am I going to sort this out?

She confronted Polly the following afternoon. Polly, her face drawn and white with dark pouches under her dull eyes, denied it. Then, when she realised she’d been seen, she confessed. They argued bitterly, both angry at first, then both crying, and Tamar
told Polly that if she visited the opium den once more, she would have to leave. She suspected Polly knew she didn’t mean it, but it was the only threat she had left. She left Polly lying on her unmade bed, having forced her to promise she would not go to the place on Customhouse Street again, and she would talk to John about her problem.

Two nights later, just before one in the morning, Polly went out again. This time Tamar followed her, intending to drag her out of the place herself if she had to. She waited for an hour, then asked Sven to get the landau and drive her to Customhouse Street.

By the time they arrived the street was almost deserted, save for a few drunken sailors and one or two tatty-looking whores hanging about under the dim street lamps. Sven stopped outside the place he had seen Polly go into, got off his seat and stuck his big head through the landau window, its retractable top up against the night. ‘This is the place, Miss Tamar. Are you wanting me to enter?’

Tamar shook her head. ‘No, Sven. I’ll go in.’

Sven was appalled. ‘Miss! It is a den of vice! Not for someone like you to visit!’

‘I can take care of myself. Please open the door.’

Unwillingly, Sven stood back and helped Tamar out. As she looked about she lifted her dark shawl over her hair and secured it at her throat; she doubted she would be recognised, but there was no need to advertise her presence here.

In front of her, just off the street, was a narrow, dingy-looking wooden building jammed between what appeared to be two tall ware houses. A door opened and a man came out, staggered several yards, then bent over at the waist and vomited splashily onto the ground.

As she moved towards the door, Sven put a restraining hand on her arm. ‘I will accompany you,’ he insisted.

‘No you
won’t
, Sven. Wait in the landau, please. I won’t be long.’

His brow creased in disapproval but he stood back as Tamar opened the door and went inside. Somewhere an invisible bell tinkled.

The door opened onto a narrow, poorly lit hall. Tamar stood for a minute to let her eyes become accustomed to the gloom. As she blinked, a heavy curtain at the end of the hall twitched and a small, slender woman stepped through. Tamar blinked again. She’d never encountered a Chinese woman before, although she’d seen one or two men on the streets.

‘Madam?’ asked the woman in a clear, sing-song voice. She was dressed in a long robe that fell straight down her slim body. Embroidered with flowers, dragons and other fantastic beasts, the robe was made of heavy silk with satin at the high collar and wide cuffs. The woman’s shining black hair was pulled tightly back and fell in a long queue down her back. Her face, alien and exotically beautiful, was devoid of emotion as she stood silently.

‘Good evening,’ said Tamar. ‘I’m looking for someone. I think she might be here.’

The woman made no movement or sound.

‘Her name is Polly Jakes,’ Tamar continued, uncomfortable with the other woman’s lack of response. ‘Thin, with fair hair. I understand she’s been here before.’

The woman remained silent for a further minute then, in the same sing-song voice, said, ‘We do not have names here.’

‘I’m sure she’s here. It’s very important that I find her. She’s not well.’

The woman considered, then, with a flick of her long plait, held the curtain open and gestured for Tamar to step through. The room beyond was moderately sized, windowless and filled with heavy, lazily moving blue smoke. Tamar coughed and waved her hand in front of her face. In the centre of the room two groups of red-eyed
men sat around gaming tables playing cards. No one looked up.

‘Where is she?’ Tamar asked.

The Chinese woman crossed the room and went into a second narrow hall along which were several doors, all closed. The dark passage smelled of exotic spices and of something else, an essence heavy and sweet. At the end of the hall was another curtain. Tamar moved it aside and peered into the room beyond.

Polly sprawled lifelessly on a low couch, one arm resting limply on the floor, her head thrown back at an uncomfortable angle and her eyes closed.

She wasn’t alone. As Tamar looked around the small room, lit only by two candles burning on a low table, she became aware of at least four other people. Three were European — a woman and two men, all asleep or unconscious on the floor — while the fourth was an elderly Chinese man. Sitting cross-legged on a cushion in front of the table, his small, slippered feet poking out from beneath his robe, he was drawing smoke up through a slender pipe, holding it deliberately in his lungs, then slowly letting it out again. His lizard-like eyes flicked towards Tamar for a moment, then resumed staring at the wall.

Here was the source of the sweet smell, coming from what she assumed was an opium pipe. It wasn’t unpleasant, but it was very strong and slightly nauseating. She went over to Polly, bent down and felt for a pulse in her neck. It was there, consistent but very slow.

Tamar turned to the Chinese man and said, ‘Help me get her up, please, if you would. I’m taking her home.’

He stared at her, his ancient face with its long wispy beard and equally insubstantial moustache expressionless. Shadows from the candles turned his features into a burnished skull. ‘No,’ he said.

‘I beg your pardon?’ said Tamar, nonplussed.

‘I said no,’ replied the man in clear, perfect English. ‘She is where
she needs and wants to be. Do not disturb her.’

‘Rubbish!’ exploded Tamar. ‘She does
not
need to be in a place like this, drugged senseless!’

The man took another long, languid draw on his pipe, expelled the fragrant smoke and said, ‘Are you sure of that? Here, she can escape. Here, her mind can be free of whatever is walking so closely behind her.’

‘What on earth do you mean?’ said Tamar.

He regarded her for a minute. The room was utterly silent except for the faint sounds of deep, slow breathing. ‘Have you yourself not been haunted by some shame, some fear, some grief so monstrous it has consumed your mind?’

Tamar was shocked rigid. Yes, she had. How had this wizened, yellow little man known?

‘For this one,’ he continued, pointing steadily at Polly with a clawlike finger sporting an incredibly long, curved nail, ‘There is nowhere else for her to go. Her fear has eaten her. The opiate is her only release. Do not take that from her.’

Tamar turned back to Polly’s motionless form. She looked at peace. Insensibility had somehow stolen the lines of despair and misery from her face.

Fumbling through her pocketbook Tamar extracted several pound notes, folded them and attached a small silver money clip and held them out to him. ‘Will you make sure she gets a cab when she wakes? She won’t be safe on the streets the way she is.’

The money disappeared into the depths of the old man’s robe. He nodded, took another slow draw on his opium pipe and deliberately turned away.

Outside it was still dark and Tamar told Sven to take her home.

‘Miss Polly is all right?’ he asked.

‘As right as she’ll ever be,’ replied Tamar, and climbed into the landau.

The following morning, when Polly had still not returned, Tamar panicked and had Sven take her back to Customhouse Street. She banged for some time on the door of the building, which looked even more ramshackle and squalid, until it was finally opened by the Oriental woman. She looked much more ordinary in the light of day, and scowled at Tamar.

‘Where is she?’ Tamar demanded.

‘Who?’

You obtuse cow, Tamar thought. ‘The fair girl. From last night. You know who I mean.’

‘Not here.’

‘Then where’s the old man?’

Haughtily, the other woman replied, ‘My great-grandfather sleeps during the day. He cannot be disturbed.’

God, how old
was
he? ‘When did she leave?’

‘One quarter hour ago,’ said the woman, and pointed vaguely down the road in the direction of Queen Street.

Tamar spun around and hurried back to the landau. ‘About fifteen minutes ago,’ she said as she stepped up into the carriage, its roof down now that the sun was up. ‘She can’t be far away. Go onto Queen Street.’

Sven pulled the horse around and whipped it into a trot. On Queen Street he turned left and started up the hill.

They spotted Polly quite quickly, on the opposite side of the road standing on the new footpath outside the towering facade of Thornton, Smith and Firth’s Wharf Mill building. She was swaying slightly and apparently mesmerised by the passing traffic, although she seemed oblivious to everything else. Pedestrians, giving her a wide berth, ostentatiously ignored her.

‘Oh God,’ said Tamar. ‘There she is. Stop!’

Sven yanked hard on the horse’s head and Tamar had the door of the landau open before it had come to a complete halt. ‘
Polly
!’ she yelled as she got out, ignoring the curious glances of passers-by. ‘
Polly
!’

Across the street, Polly did not seem to have heard. She remained where she was, still gazing intently at the traffic. Then, without warning, she stepped straight out into it.

Although Tamar saw everything in excruciating detail, it happened very quickly. An oncoming cab swerved, the horrified cabbie wrenching his horse savagely to the right in an effort to avoid the woman in front of him. The horse reared, its hooves slashing the air, then plunged down just as Polly walked beneath it. One hoof struck her on the side of her head and she dropped like a stone.

‘
Polly
!’ shrieked Tamar as she dashed across the dusty street. Around her, traffic was coming to a halt as curious pedestrians gathered around the body lying in the road. As Polly struggled to sit up, Tamar bent down and peered into her friend’s blood-streaked face.

‘Bloody hell, that hurt,’ Polly mumbled as her hand moved slowly up to the pulpy mess above her ear. ‘What happened?’

‘It’s all right, Polly, you’ve had an accident.’

‘Have I really?’ replied Polly in an interested tone. Then, as her eyes rolled up into her head, she fell back onto the road, unconscious.

Tamar yelled, ‘Sven, bring the landau. We’ll take her to John.’

Sven sprinted back to the carriage, leapt onto the driver’s seat and urged the horses across the street, ignoring the curses of other drivers as he cut them off.

Once Polly was safely inside, stretched out on one of the seats, Sven spun the horses around and they clattered off in the direction of Parnell Rise.

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY

J
ohn took one look at Polly’s unconscious body and climbed into the landau. ‘She needs to be in the hospital,’ he said. ‘She’s out cold and her pulse is much too slow. You say she spoke before she passed out?’

‘Yes, probably the most lucid thing she’s said for weeks. She will be all right, won’t she?’

They steadied themselves as Sven gave the horses an urgent flick with his whip and headed off for Auckland Domain and the hospital. John held Polly’s head in his lap. ‘I don’t know, the brain can swell terribly after such a blow and it’s hard to say what the result might be.’ He looked up at Tamar. ‘She may not survive. And conditions at the hospital are pretty dire. It might be new but it’s badly administered.’

Polly was admitted to the hospital and, after she showed no sign of regaining consciousness by late afternoon, the matron sent Tamar home with a promise that if anything happened, she would be sent for.

On the way back Tamar began to cry helplessly. John comforted her as best he could, but by the time they arrived she was insisting she was to blame because she had left Polly at the mercy of a thieving Chinaman.

‘What thieving Chinaman?’ asked John, as he gave Tamar a draught to calm her nerves.

‘I gave a disgusting old Celestial at the opium den money for Polly so she could get herself home safely. I shouldn’t have trusted him.’