Tamar (5 page)

‘Aye, and I taught her about what her courses mean, she didnae know even that. Och, I’m surprised the lassie hasnae had several bairns by now — she said she’s lain with more than a few laddies. She’s verra lucky her da didnae give her one.’

Tamar raised her eyebrows at these frank comments, but then Myrna never minced her words.

‘Dinnae look at me like that,’ said Myrna, pouring two cups of tea and adding three cubes of sugar to her own. She lit a cigarette and blew the smoke towards the ceiling. ‘I know ye might have had a sheltered upbringing and ye’re only seventeen, but I’ll lay money on your mam having told ye all about that sort o’ thing. Am I right?’

Tamar nodded. Her mother had explained the physical
and emotional differences between men and women, and the importance, in her mind, of settling with a man who would care for and honour his wife. She had referred, with a small private smile, to the loving and physically satisfying relationship she enjoyed with the girls’ father, but pointed out that this did not always happen; often the best a wife could hope for was affection, respect and financial support.

‘I suspect the lassie will be better behaved now,’ continued Myrna. ‘All she needed was a bit o’ pride in herself. I pointed out that no one can make ye feel small or bad except yeself, and I think she kens that now. She’s no’ stupid, despite what comes out o’ her mouth.’

Tamar agreed. Eliza was not lacking in intelligence, just decorum. The two women sipped their tea in comfortable silence for several minutes. Eventually, Myrna said, ‘Tamar, we’re becoming good friends, aye?’

Tamar nodded again.

‘Well, then, lassie, there’s something I need to tell ye, though ye might be a wee bit shocked to hear it. Biscuit?’ she asked, offering a tin of shortbread. Tamar took one and waited for Myrna to continue.

‘Ma girls have told ye I run a training establishment for domestic servants and they’re coming out to New Zealand wi’ me to start a business?’

‘Yes, they said something about that when we left Plymouth.’

‘Well, I’m becoming verra fond of ye, and I have no wish to lie to ye about what sort o’ business I’m in. Lying isnae a good basis for a friendship, so I’ll come right out wi’ it. What I do is run a brothel.’

Tamar choked on her shortbread and coughed violently, spraying crumbs into her lap and spilling her tea. Myrna reached over and took the cup and saucer, patting her back firmly.

‘Och, I can see it’s come as a bit o’ a shock,’ she said unnecessarily.
Tamar nodded, her face bright red and tears streaming down her cheeks. Myrna sat back and waited patiently for her to compose herself.

‘I needed to tell ye, lassie, ye’ll have found out once we get to New Zealand anyway, and I dinnae want to lose ye as a friend,’ she added quietly. Then, hesitantly, she asked, ‘Are we still friends?’

Tamar looked at the colourful, vivacious little woman, and things fell into place; Myrna’s money, her tough, capable way of dealing with people, and the attractive girls travelling with her. At the same time she saw Myrna’s kindness and generosity and her compassionate attitude towards those in need. She thought her mother would probably have liked her, and surprised herself a little by saying, ‘Yes, Myrna, we are still friends.’

‘Well, I’m verra pleased,’ replied Myrna, relaxing into her chair. ‘Verra pleased indeed. Drink ye tea before it gets cold. I’d be happy to tell ye all about how the business operates if ye have an interest.’

‘Well,’ Tamar said after a second. ‘If we are to be friends, I might as well know what it is you do.’

She did not say so, but she was intrigued by how a brothel was run. She knew there were such things of course, and had even worked on several gowns for prostitutes from the high-class brothels of Truro for Mrs Tregowan, but beyond that she knew very little about the profession, other than what she had seen on the streets.

‘I dinnae work maself any more,’ commented Myrna, reaching for another biscuit. ‘I’m getting a bit long in the tooth and ma body isnae as youthful as it used to be. Aye, and I’m too fond o’ ma food. Not that I dinnae still get offers, ye understand. But I’ve done ma time on ma back.’

Tamar said curiously, ‘Do you mind me asking how old are you?’

‘I’m fifty-one this year. Well, at least I think I am. I dinnae have a birth certificate.’

Tamar was astonished. She had thought Myrna was years younger. Her bright eyes, vibrant hair and clear, virtually unlined skin belied her real age. And when so many of the working-class women she had known in Cornwall had looked old before their time, she had assumed a life of prostitution would guarantee premature signs of ageing.

‘You don’t look it.’

‘Well, thank ye, but I’ve made an effort to take care o’ maself. It’s despair and lack o’ hope that makes a woman look old, ye ken, and I’ve never run out o’ hope. O’ course, I can afford to treat maself well. That helps.’

‘How long have you been a …’ Tamar’s voice tailed off; she was not sure what to call Myrna and did not want to offend her.

‘Whore? Prostitute? Harlot? Strumpet? In the trade, lassie, we call ourselves working girls, because that’s what we do. We work for our money. By God, do we work sometimes. It’s no’ an easy profession, but there’s some that’s suited to it, and a lot more who are not. Maself, I started when I was sixteen years old, on the streets of Edinburgh. I met a man who set me up in ma own place and he was ma only customer, but he was too free wi’ his fists, so I left him and went to work in a brothel. Och, it was a fine house, verra fine, and I made a lot o’ money. I wasnae quite as cuddly then, although I had ma charms. Then I worked in France for a year or so, and the things I learned! When I had enough money, I set maself up in ma own house, first back in Edinburgh, then down in London, and I’ve been verra successful. For maself, the business side of it has the most appeal these days, so here I am, off to New Zealand to establish the finest house o’ pleasure in the colony!’

‘Where will you settle?’ asked Tamar, fascinated.

‘Auckland. It’s no’ the capital any more, but it’s a busy town and I have enough money to set me and ma girls up in a nice place.’

‘Will there just be Letitia, Vivienne, Bronwyn and Jessica?’

‘To start wi’, aye,’ said Myrna. ‘Ma girls have been wi’ me for a wee while now, and they’re all verra good at what they do. I expect I’ll need to take on a few more when I get the business up and running. They cannae be just ordinary working girls though, ye ken. I provide a quality service so I’ll be keeping ma eye open.’

Tamar said nothing for a minute and helped herself to another piece of shortbread, seeing she had spat most of the first one all over herself. She wanted to ask Myrna some more questions, much more personal ones about what prostitutes did, but felt too embarrassed, although she was comfortable asking about one issue.

‘What happens if a working girl gets with child?’

‘Och, there’s plenty o’ things ye can do to prevent it, but if it happens there are steps ye can take. There are herbal remedies. If a girl misses her courses she can take an infusion o’ pennyroyal, or rue works as well. Some girls use lead, but I’ve seen two lassies die from that.’

‘Do the herbal remedies always work?’

‘Not always, no.’

‘Then what?’

‘Then I dinnae have a choice but to let the lassie go. I run a business, no’ a nursery,’ replied Myrna bluntly. ‘I dinnae like to have to do it, but there’s no real reason in ma line o’ work why a lassie should get herself in the family way if she’s taking care o’ herself. If it happens, it’s no’ ma responsibility and all ma girls ken that.’

Tamar pondered this gravely, then asked a more general question. ‘Will it be easy to set yourself up in Auckland?’

‘Should be. I’ve the money, but there’s a lot to be seen to. There’s the premises, which need to be big and grand o’ course, the furnishings, and suppliers o’ food and drink — I’m considering a wee dining salon for ma customers. Not to mention suppliers o’ all the other things we’ll be needing. Costumes, good linen, cosmetics and the like, and tools o’ the trade. A doctor to keep a regular eye
on ma girls, one or two maids, a cook maybe. No doubt there’ll be bribes for the constabulary, there usually are. I’ll do ma own books, I dinnae trust anyone else. But I’ve done all this before, it just takes planning. And money, o’ course.’ Myrna scrutinised Tamar for a minute. ‘I suppose you’d no’ be interested in that sort o’ a career yeself? Ye’ve the looks, and your manner is certainly appealing.’

Tamar smiled and shook her head. ‘Thank you, no,’ she replied. ‘I don’t think that’s what my mam had in mind for me.’

‘No, probably not,’ said Myrna with a rueful laugh. ‘I do see the hard edge ye need for that line o’ work, though. But ye’re right, I think ye’re bound for better things. And as I said, it’s no’ an easy life. And besides, I’ve an idea yon wee doctor has taken a fancy to ye.’

‘John Adams? Me?’ said Tamar, genuinely surprised.

‘Aye, him that moons over ye every minute ye spend together. Have ye no’ noticed the way he’s always looking at ye and contriving to talk to ye when ye’re on deck?’

‘Well, yes. But I thought he just liked my company. I like his. In fact I’m quite fond of him and his different ideas, but that’s all. He’s … I don’t know … he’s just John.’

‘Oh dear,’ murmured Myrna. ‘Someone’s going to be disappointed. Ye could do a lot worse for yeself, lassie.’

‘Mam always said we’d know when we met the right man. She said we’d get this feeling, a sort of
knowing
, like she and my da had. She said there’s no mistaking it. I want to have that when I meet the man I’m going to marry.’

‘Aye, well, maybe your mam did have one o’ those marriages, and a lucky woman she was if she did. But Tamar, it doesnae always work out like that,’ Myrna replied gently. ‘Sometimes ye settle for what’s close enough. Ye’re only seventeen and I ken ye dinnae think so, but ye’re a naive wee thing. Och, no doubt that’ll get knocked out o’ ye in the next few years, New Zealand is still a rough colony, but dinnae pass up a good opportunity just because ye cannae settle
for something less than your dreams. Otherwise ye could well still be dreaming when ye’re auld and lonely and it’s too late. Dinnae let that happen, lassie. It’d be such a waste.’

Tamar was silent.

‘It’s just a word o’ advice. Look beyond what ye first see. And dinnae mistake lust for love — it’s no’ the same thing. Being lonely isnae a verra nice thing sometimes, especially for a woman. I ken that well.’

‘I know,’ Tamar responded sincerely. ‘But as you say yourself, I’m only seventeen.’

‘True. There’s plenty o’ time yet,’ replied Myrna, helping herself to two more biscuits.

C
HAPTER
T
HREE

D
ays later, when it seemed the temperature could get no hotter and the wind was a mere memory, a strong breeze swept across the ship and snatched away several hats, tossing them overboard to bob lazily on the slow swell. The crew cheered; after weeks with almost nothing to fill her sails, the
Rebecca Jane
had finally been picked up by the strong southeast trades.

She made up for lost time sailing down the western coast of Africa. The weather was more often fine and when it did rain, the ship’s tainted fresh water supply was replenished. There was delight in encountering sea life; luminous algae, dolphins and porpoises, whales and deep sea birds. Some passengers amused themselves by shooting at sharks and snaring albatrosses with a hook and line. The great sea birds were made into soup, although the sailors never touched it, believing the old superstition that albatrosses were the spirits of drowned sea captains. Small fish caught over the side also made a welcome change from preserved meat.

As the
Rebecca Jane
approached the Cape of Good Hope and turned east across the bottom of Africa, the weather became noticeably cooler. It was no longer pleasant to spend evenings on deck and as the ship neared the Roaring Forties, the harsh latitudes below the Cape, passengers were again largely confined
below decks. A little more than halfway to New Zealand, the most arduous and challenging leg of their journey had begun.

Sharing a pot of tea at one of the long tables in the family quarters one evening, John Adams remarked to Tamar that in his view, the voyage thus far had been relatively free of medical problems. ‘Accuse me of being immodest if you wish,’ he said, ‘but I think diligence is the key. That, and rigorous pre-embarkation medical examinations. I know of one ship’s surgeon who lost almost forty passengers because they were not thoroughly checked before they sailed. We’re also lucky we haven’t stopped at any ports and picked up anything.’ He poured himself another generous mug of tea. ‘But I shouldn’t speak too soon, we’ve a long way to go. We’ve five women expecting, two of whom will deliver before we reach Auckland. And there was that dreadful business with Mr and Mrs Mayhew.’

Mrs Mayhew was the woman who had accidentally smothered her infant daughter. Her grief-stricken husband had berated his wife, who was herself deranged with guilt and grief, to the extent that she hurled herself overboard. A rope had been thrown to her but she floated on her back, staring at the horrified passengers, until her clothes had become waterlogged and she sank beneath the surface. Mr Mayhew had been inconsolable and was confined to the men’s hospital, withdrawn and refusing to eat or speak. The couple’s four-year-old son had been taken under the wing of another family; if Mr Mayhew did not recover, the child would have to be fostered.

John went on, ‘There’s also the matter of the food. It’s not getting any fresher, as I’m sure you’ve noticed.’

Tamar had noticed, and had stopped eating meat, dreading to think what state it would be in by the time they reached Auckland.

‘I’m confident we have enough lime juice to prevent any of the nutrition-related diseases,’ said John. ‘But if we strike a bad batch
of meat, food poisoning will become a serious risk. What a ghastly thought. It’s bad enough having to inspect the privies now when everyone’s more or less healthy.’