Tamar (60 page)

June 1902

Tamar and Andrew were in Napier when the news broke on 2 June. The war in South Africa was over and the Treaty of Vereeniging, signed on 31 May, had granted the Boers favourable terms.

‘Thank Christ they’ve come to their senses,’ said Andrew as they hurried to join the crowd outside the offices of the
Daily Telegraph.
On the front steps a paper boy in short pants warbled ‘
War over
!
Boers defeated
!’

They waited impatiently until the morning edition came off the presses, the ink still tacky on the pages. The treaty was front-page news. Andrew had a quick look at the lead story then rolled his paper up and stuck it under his arm to read properly later.

‘This means they will all be home soon,’ said Tamar, thinking of Riria.

‘Yes, it does,’ Andrew replied, knowing what was going through her mind. After almost fifteen years of marriage, he knew his lovely wife very well. ‘All I can say is thank God it’s over,’ he added.

When the British Government had approached Seddon in 1901 about providing yet another contingent, the Premier had conceded to raise a further unit of one thousand men. The Eighth left New Zealand the following February, trailed closely by the Ninth and Tenth Contingents in March and April. Andrew thought it had all gone too far and had been firmly against the sending of the last three contingents, but now it was over the troops would come home.

New Zealand celebrated as if the war had been waged and won on her own shores. Most major centres declared a holiday
as people delirious with patriotism poured into the streets waving flags, letting off fireworks and ringing every bell they could lay their hands on. There were endless parades and processions, culminating in longwinded speeches by dignitaries expressing the hope that a successful and fruitful reconciliation could be achieved with the brave Boers. Andrew thought this was appallingly hypocritical, given the rubbish slung at the Afrikaners in the newspapers over the past three years, but wisely kept his opinions to himself.

The press was saturated with stories about the huge contribution made by New Zealand troops to the Empire’s victory and the extent to which they had so favourably impressed the British commanders. Better than the Canadians, wrote xenophobic editors, and certainly better than the Australians, who had behaved little better than rascals. Much was also made of the fact that, proportionately, New Zealand’s contribution had been one of the most substantial of the Empire’s colonies, and the tenor of most editorials implied New Zealanders had a right to be proud of their ability to produce such natural and fine soldiers; troops who were brave, resourceful, gallant and, to a man, excellent shots.

Within a month dozens of war memorials dedicated to the brave and noble young men who had fallen sprouted throughout New Zealand, some even before the last troopships arrived home. There were endless Troopers’ Balls and functions, during which returned soldiers were fêted and celebrated, and plans were launched by Lord Ranfurly to build a home for war veterans in Onehunga as a national memorial.

Many of the celebrations had ended by the time the last three contingents returned to New Zealand in August, all having arrived in South Africa too late to play a significant part in the war. Four days after the treaty had been signed, Lieutenant Robert McKeich of the Ninth became the last of the Empire’s soldiers to die when
he was shot near Vereeniging by three Boers unaware the war had ended.

Riria met the Ninth when it came home, waiting in a crowd significantly smaller than those which had greeted the earlier contingents. The public response was even more apathetic when the Eighth arrived a week later. Riria, standing at the edge of the dock when the ship berthed, was as horrified as everyone else when the seriously ill were stretchered off. The SS
Britannic
had been struck by an epidemic of measles soon after leaving Durban, and twenty soldiers had died on the voyage. As litter after litter was carried off, the small crowd became utterly silent, quiet enough to hear the first man who could walk unaided stifle a sob as he shuffled down the gangway. As it became clear the returning troops, although unblooded, were physically and emotionally shattered, a curious mix of shame, disgust and sympathy flickered across faces in the crowd as they silently looked on.

Riria saw John Adams was not amongst them, and neither did he arrive home with the Tenth a week later.

E
PILOGUE

August 1902

R
iria was finally forced to consider her beloved husband had indeed died in South Africa, although she refused to say the words. But her last remaining shred of hope dissolved when she received in the mail an image of John’s grave, photographed and forwarded by John’s British commander, Major Mellor, in the hope she might take comfort from it. It had the opposite effect and she collapsed.

Tamar was summoned by Simon, and she and Andrew packed up the children and went to Auckland immediately. John’s friend Basil Stokes was contacted and asked to attend Riria, although she was beginning to recover physically by the time they arrived.

Simon confessed he was very worried about his mother. After the photograph had arrived she had taken to her bed, locking the bedroom door and refusing to eat for days. Simon was frightened she’d lost her mind and had climbed up the side of the house, broken a window and found Riria sitting silently on the floor, hugging a photograph of John in his army uniform to her chest. After he pleaded with her, she had conceded to come out of her room, but remained withdrawn.

‘I think I know what might be distressing her,’ Simon confided to Tamar. ‘There is nothing for her to grieve over. Father didn’t come home, and there was no
tangi
. There’s nothing to … there’s no grave.’ He swallowed and looked away for a moment. ‘There’s no
body
, Auntie.’ Tamar held his hand as he struggled for control.
‘
Mama
needs something to help her bring things to a close. And so do we.’

‘Would a memorial service help?’

Simon looked at her. ‘I’m not sure, Auntie. Shall I ask
Mama
?’

‘Do you think it would help
you
? And Rose and David?’

Tamar watched as he considered the idea. Poor Simon, she thought, only seventeen and already having to shoulder the responsibilities of a man. However, she was sure he was capable of it; he was very self-sufficient and mature for his age, handsome and strong like his mother, with his father’s sense of humour and kind heart.

‘It might,’ he replied. ‘
Mama
is used to doing things the Maori way, but we have grown up with both cultures. Yes, I think it might help.’

Riria agreed to a memorial service, not for herself, but for the children and for John’s many friends. The date was set for the end of the following week, more than a year since John’s death. A church was booked, the minister consulted and Riria sent word to her family at Kainui.

On 5 September, as pink and white blossom began to appear on Auckland’s fruit trees, John Adams’ family and friends gathered at the Anglican church in Parnell to say goodbye.

The church was full twenty minutes before the scheduled starting time. The Murdochs sat in the front pew on one side of the church while a composed but sad-looking Riria sat with her children and her parents in the other. Behind them were squeezed several hundred people — John’s friends, colleagues and many of his ex-patients, and what appeared to be half of Kainui village.

Just as the service was about to begin, the big church doors creaked opened. Tamar turned and was astounded to see a crowd of people standing outside. As they began to file solemnly in, she saw they were all Maori, dressed from head to toe in black and
adorned with fresh greenery from native trees. Their mostly bare feet whispered on the wooden boards as they came, the smell of the forest accompanying them as they settled themselves on the floor before the altar, in the aisle and at the back of the church. Tamar’s eyes filled with tears as she realised who they were — the local Maori John had insisted on treating free of charge.

The minister, convinced no one else could possibly fit into the church, began the service. Tamar, only half listening to his droning words, frowned up at the large cross on the wall above the altar; she still had several bones to pick with God and this would be another one. Why did John have to die when there were plenty of others the world would barely miss? People like the sort of person Peter Montgomery had been. She gave a small start; she hadn’t thought of Peter in such a long time. Why would she, with five children whom she cherished, and a loving and attentive husband? Her lips curved in a gentle smile as it occurred to her that now, in the summer of her life, she had exactly what she’d always wanted.

She looked over at Riria. Her friend, clothed at last in the black of mourning, sat with her back straight and her head high. Her parents contemplated their daughter with loving concern but Tamar could see that under her veil Riria was dry-eyed. And neither were her children crying. They sat regally, with the grace and dignity Riria had instilled in them since they were tiny.

Tamar glanced at her own children. Keely was sniffling but her boys were still as statues, eyes big and blinking but clear. She could see they were struggling, and hoped she would not cry herself and set them off. At the end of the pew sat her precious first-born, Joseph, out of uniform now and staring resolutely ahead with only the white knuckles of his clenched fists suggesting the grief and anger he felt. She could hear several people weeping openly in the pews behind her, one of them poor Basil Stokes.

Finally the minister stopped talking and the congregation sang
several hymns, the Maori voices soaring to the rafters and filling the church with clear and beautiful harmonies, then the service drew to a close.

As they stood to leave, an eerie, ululating cry rang out over the shuffling of hundreds of feet, a cry so poignantly heartfelt the hairs on Tamar’s arms stood up. The Maori sitting on the floor rose as one and moved back towards the ancient woman voicing the lament. There was a moment of utter silence, then the group began a
haka
, slow at first then gaining energy and momentum. As the men moved backwards and forwards between the lines of women they hissed and slapped their chests and rolled their eyes. The women, their feet rhythmically striking the floor, swayed in unison as their voices rose and fell above the men’s chant.

Tamar was transfixed. This was a tremendous tribute to John’s memory — a war
haka
for a deeply respected man who had fallen bravely and honourably in battle. She looked over at Riria and saw she had discarded her hat and veil and was weeping uncontrollably and clutching her children. Tears coursing down her own face, Tamar felt her heart contract briefly, then release; none of their lives would be the same without John, but at least Riria could begin to live hers again.

As she and Andrew walked out of the church into the early spring sunshine, she saw her husband was weeping. She gave him a watery smile and he reached out a loving and supportive hand, as he always had, and he always would.

In a tree nearby, a fantail laughed joyously.

About the Author

Deborah Challinor is a freelance writer and historian living in New South Wales. She is the author of many bestsellers including
Isle of Tears
and the trilogy
Kitty
,
Amber
and
Band of Gold
, and several non-fiction titles including
Who’ll Stop the Rain?
and
Grey Ghosts
.

O
THER BOOKS BY DEBORAH CHALLINOR

Children of War trilogy

Tamar

White Feathers

Blue Smoke

Trilogy

Kitty

Amber

Band of Gold

Isle of Tears

Grey Ghosts

Fire

Union Belle

Who’ll Stop the Rain?

C
HILDREN OF
W
AR TRILOGY

TAMAR

When Tamar Deane is orphaned at seventeen in a small Cornish village, she seizes the chance for a new life and emigrates to New Zealand. In March 1879, alone and frightened on the Plymouth quay, she is befriended by an extraordinary woman. Myrna McTaggart is travelling to Auckland with plans to establish the finest brothel in the southern hemisphere and her unconventional friendship proves invaluable when Tamar makes disastrous choices in the new colony. Tragedy and scandal befall her, but unexpected good fortune brings vast changes to Tamar’s life. As the century draws to a close, uncertainty looms when a distant war lures her loved ones to South Africa. This dramatic story — the first in a sweeping three-volume family saga — has a vivacious and compelling heroine who will live with the reader long after the final page has been turned.