Skylark (12 page)

I am saying, you understand, that the decision was not weighing on me so heavily that a cheerful morning was dampened by doubt. And there, shining in the sun, was the red and white Foley’s flag atop the tent, the gaggle of animals and huts, and the lovely pungent smell that circuses have: dung, straw and canvas, mixed with the ingrained sweat of many an hour’s training.

Outside her little whare (a temporary thing, half canvas, half timber, that sat to one side of the amphitheatre), I waited, making a little song and dance out of my arrival. ‘Maria, Maria! Come and show your wares!’ I sang — or some such nonsense. And out she popped, little Johnny tumbling around her skirts and baby Katie on her hip. What a sight she always was! Even with getting babies — and God knows she had plenty before her womb gave out — she never lost her sense of style. By that I mean circus style, of course. Scarves and feathers and flashing ropes of glass beads
and bright ribbons in her hair. Fashionable folk might have said gaudy, but to my eyes she was mistress of high fashion.

‘Lily, my dear heart, here you are!’ she sang back, taking my note and embroidering the song, and dancing with me. ‘Here, take my little Katie while I fetch a sip of elderberry wine to do our hearts good this bright morning!’

Oh, it always lifted my soul to spend an hour or two with Maria, even though I was no longer required in the circus — too out of practice now to ride bareback and, anyway, Mr Foley had a new clown and Tommy Bird filled in very well on the ponies. We sat on a little stool, sipping our cordial, the babies scuffling about in the dust, free as dogs or cats might be in their easy circus way.

‘Maria,’ I said to her finally, after we had explored the gossip of theatre, circus and the military too, who had their Auckland Barracks down nearby, ‘advise me what I should do. Mr Buckingham has asked me to tour Australia with his family in the name of Rosetta, who is not strong enough.’

Maria cocked a dark eye at me. She knew immediately what my problem was.

‘Your handsome young man will not like it.’

‘He will not. No, he will not. He will feel betrayed and jealous and impatient with me.’ I touched the downy head of little Katie. ‘He will want me to stay and settle and make babies with him.’

Maria tucked little Katie under her waft of scarves and shawls and suckled her, right out in the morning sun. Neither babe nor breast in view. What a free fierce spirit she was! So unlike Mr Foley’s first dragon of a wife.

‘Well then,’ said Maria, ‘you are not of the same inclination, or there would be no problem to solve. You want to go.’

I sighed at the simplicity of her words. ‘But Maria, I want to go, yes, of course. And I want to stay with Jack, too. But I know he’ll not follow me this time. He is settled with his business.’

‘Lily, my lovely,’ said Maria in her firmest voice, ‘you are an entertainer, and a child of entertainers. Born to it. Like myself. I never saw a person so well designed in body and soul to perform as you. You might as well stop breathing air as stop entertaining.
But you must know that we are like the gypsies of the world: the travellers, who are in one sense kin to us. We must move on. Move on. As the nomads move their animals in search of new pastures to graze, so we entertainers must move in search of new audiences to please, fresh purses to empty. It is a fact of our lives.’

I wanted to argue. ‘Maman and Papa didn’t move on. They stayed season after season, performing for the tourists in Menton.’

Maria shook her dark head and the showers of beads in her ears flashed warning lights all over my dull dress. ‘Well, that was a different country. And anyway, they moved on in the end. Lily, if you want to be a great performer and a good wife you must choose a soulmate who is a traveller too. As I have.’

I was impatient with her smug smile. Didn’t Maria have a dreadful time of it in those years not so long ago? Didn’t she nearly die more than once ridding her body of unwanted children?

Maria laughed at my long face. ‘Well, your Jack is a lovely, constant man. Perhaps he will wait one more time. You are still a young thing.’ She jumped to her feet, still holding little Katie to her breast. ‘Come and say hello to that other prodigy, Tommy Bird, who will be upside down somewhere. And don’t you dare smile too sweetly at my Bill! He’s my travelling man and not available.’ She took my arm with her one free one, and squeezed it. ‘You’ll manage somehow, Lily, you always do. But I’ll lay a bet that you will never settle down like a proper lady!’

[Archivist’s Note: Lily’s journal here skips three years. We presume she continued to perform in Australia and New Zealand but this may not be so. She is not mentioned further in newspaper reviews. It may be that, encouraged by the success of her singing as Rosetta, she left the theatre for a period and performed in saloons as a singer. Lily gives no explanation for her omission, though crucial events recounted in Samuel Lacey’s second journal give us clues to poor Lily’s state of mind during these years. Her next entry, probably about 1860, places her in Australia with the Buckingham boys and a certain infamous sea captain! But before that fascinating episode, an excerpt from the second journal will throw some light on Lily’s circumstances. E. de M.]

[Archivist’s Note: Events described here probably took place between 1856 and 1861. E. de M.]

Jack sits on his new horse, Midnight, looking over the heads of people and the sea of butchers’ drays as the clipper
William Prowse
noses into Queen’s Wharf. He wants to cast his eye over the stock as it comes ashore, hoping to get in first with a good offer before the horse bazaar in the morning. Surely the next hour or two will be a chaos of milling and shoving, shouting and whistling. Along with the sixty horses aboard from farms in the north are six hundred ewes for slaughter and two hundred head of cattle! Jack hopes the horses will be disembarked first. He shakes his head, imagining the conditions on board with so many silly ewes panicked by their rough sea voyage.

The advertisement in the
Southern
Cross
mentioned that some of the horses were unbroken. These are of interest to Jack. Out of town, in Epsom, he has rented twenty-five acres of good grazing land. He has bought a few unbroken horses, broken them in and already sold several at a fine profit to the fast-growing population of the capital. Now he can afford to buy more. One of his fields has been converted to a circular track, not only for training
horses, but also for teaching young ladies and gentlemen to ride. Many settlers, who came out as labourers, now own their own farms and businesses and want their children to ride well or manage a hack or even a carriage, like those who have been born to fine manners. Younger members of the Buckingham family come regularly and are favourites with him, especially the lively Rosetta, who loves to ride.

Jack rides up and down in the early morning sun, keeping his frisky Midnight occupied, while a section of the cutter’s side is lowered and a wide ramp run aboard from the wharf. Now the racket of bleating and lowing can be heard. Stockmen line the wharf with their dogs, ready to guide the animals ashore. The unbroken horses will be mad with fear, thinks Jack; surely I will get them for a good price.

Makeshift yards have been erected on the land beside the wharf. And here with a drumming of hooves they come, pounding down the ramp, almost knocking one of the stockmen into the sea. Broken or not, they come in a tumbling rush, wild-eyed and snorting, a close pack of tossing manes and heads. Jack likes the look of them, though; they are big, strong in the leg, perhaps not thoroughbred, but all the healthier for that. No more roaming the country, he thinks. There is a good life to be made here. Surely Lily will settle here with me. He remembers with pride her performance as Rosetta Buckingham. She was so polished, so confident. He feels sure that the experience will encourage her to pursue the gentler art of drawing-room singing in a home they will make together.

He trots up to the yards, dismounts and has a word with the agent. Together they study the horses. Jack helps him to sort broken and unbroken into separate yards. Jack points with his crop. ‘That big bay; the black pony; the one with the white flash over in the corner; and the little grey mare. Perhaps the black stallion too, although he looks a wild one.’ Jack likes a challenge.

The agent nods. ‘You’ve got a good eye. I’d agree, except maybe for the black. Why the grey mare?’

‘I’m looking for a mount for a young lady. This might fit the
bill.’ He’s thinking of Rosetta. Mr Buckingham wants to present his favourite daughter with a special birthday present.

The agent nods. ‘You’ve your head screwed on, Sir. The town is growing fast. New-made gentry are popping up every day, demanding solid houses with a proper kitchen, out-house
attached
, even a serving girl in the scullery — and a mount or two, or at least a dog-cart. You’ve hit the nail, Sir, and good luck to you.’

Jack makes a good offer, but only if the agent will allow him to take the stock ‘off his hands’ before the auction in the morning. The busy agent agrees. By midday, Jack is heading up to Epsom with two assistants and five unruly horses in tow.

Over the next months his business flourishes. The romance with Lily does not. She keeps disappearing. One day she will be picnicking with him at one of the picturesque Auckland beaches, lively and loving, galloping over the sand on her own horse, which Jack has trained for her, or running into the water like an urchin, laughing and shrieking and throwing water at him. Then she will be gone; a note at her boarding house explaining that she has taken the steamer down to Whanganui for ‘a short season’. A short season of what? Has Mrs Foley demanded her presence again? Is Foley’s Circus set up in Whanganui? Is she — God forbid — setting up on her own as a performer in the rough taverns and saloons of that town? Jack can only wait sadly until she returns. Fearing, indeed, that his headstrong sweetheart may
not
return.

She is so different from other ladies in the colony. It seems to Jack that performers like Lily and her friends are bred from a wilder strain of human being, like the most difficult and spirited of his unbroken horses. They actually thrive on uncertainty and change. They enjoy being constantly on the move from one town to the next, appearing before motley audiences who are often drunk, often rude and unruly. Jack simply cannot understand this side of Lily, though he is entranced by her when she is in his presence. Jack can gentle the most intransigent of horses, but all his charm, all his pleading cannot tame Lily Alouette. He begins to lose heart.

The last straw is her decision to tour Australia with some of the Buckingham family.

‘Jack,’ says Lily sweetly one day, ‘I may be away for a little longer this time. Promise you’ll wait for me.’

They are on horseback, high above the sea on a promontory beside the Maori pa of the Ngati Whatua. Jack waves to one of the native farmers, who shouts a greeting and waves back. They have had dealings over horseflesh.

Jack looks at his difficult, beautiful girl. The gallop up the hill has loosened her hair which now streams out from her face. Her cheeks are flushed, her dark eyes alight. He groans out loud.

‘Lily, Lily, don’t say it. I cannot follow you any more and I fear I cannot wait much longer.’

Lily sighs. ‘The Buckinghams are going to Australia — or the older boys are. Mr Buckingham has asked me to join them. Poor Rosetta is not strong enough for a prolonged tour.’

Jack’s heart sinks at the words. ‘Prolonged tour? Lily, what are you saying?’

She explains that Auckland audiences are dropping off. The military are moving south to quell disturbances and with them gone the settlement is likely to die, according to Mr Buckingham. The larger towns of Sydney and Melbourne will welcome the Buckingham Family Entertainers. It seems that Mrs Buckingham and the younger ones will stay in Auckland — with Rosetta — while the boys seek richer pickings in Australia. But they need a lady singer in the troupe.

Jack is suddenly angry. ‘You are not one of them, Lily. You demean yourself to play stand-in for Rosetta. How dare they leave her behind! She is the most talented of all. What must she think about this cruel plan?’

Lily frowns at his outburst. ‘But Jack, this is a good opportunity for me. I have demanded that I appear under my own name. I will sing as Rosa, not Rosetta.’

‘But Buckingham? You will pretend to be one of the family?’

Lily admits that this is so. ‘It is the way of the theatre, Jack. We must please the audience; give them what they want. They
want to marvel at a family who are all talented.’

‘It’s a fraud,’ shouts Jack. ‘You would stoop to cheap tricks. Anything to please your precious patrons!’

Lily is angry now too, stung by his scornful words. ‘Cheap tricks! You call my singing cheap? It is entertainment, Jack. Good, fine musical entertainment. Do I not give pleasure whenever I perform? Do I not uplift? Transport tired and lonely audiences to a higher place?’

Jack’s mount paws at the ground, tosses his mane, fretful at the shouted words. Jack strokes his neck. ‘Oh Lily,’ he says, directing the words towards Midnight rather than his wilful sweetheart. ‘Say you won’t go. I can’t bear to think of you over in another country.’ He smiles sadly. ‘With those handsome Buckingham boys.’

Lily brushes away a loose strand of hair, looks at him soberly. ‘Jack, my sweet man, I know I am a trial to you. I try and try to explain, but end up hurting you and feeling myself to be selfish and hateful. Will I ever be the right wife for you?’

Jack cries out at her words. Lily is the only girl — woman — he has ever loved. He can’t imagine another.

Lily fidgets with her reins, shifting easily in the saddle as her mount tosses and snorts in the fresh air off the sea. ‘I know you too well,’ she says sadly. ‘You want a wife to be constant, to be a homebody, a good housewife and loving mother. I’m not sure I can ever be that. And yet I love you too well to let you go. Oh, this is all too difficult!’

She kicks at her horse, dangerously setting it at a ditch and sailing over, then gallops away down the hill. Jack must follow, though his heart is heavy with foreboding. When he catches her, they both dismount and stand in the shade of a tree, out of breath, half laughing, half tearful. The place is perfect. Too soft and inviting for argument. They settle on the grass, clinging to each other as if terrible forces were trying to separate them.

‘Lily,’ says Jack a little later, when they are quieter. ‘Must you go? Surely we can make some sort of life together? Forget about those Buckinghams.’

Lily smiles too, but uncertainly. ‘Those boys are not a patch
on you, Jack, for all their musical talents. But they are good performers and I will learn the latest songs over there and bring them back. We will make a good life, Jack, but Auckland is not yet ready for me. Not big enough. Please wait. When I am twenty, perhaps.’ She hesitates. ‘Or twenty-one.’

Jack looks away — out to the restless sea; a clipper is sailing into port, perhaps the very one which will carry Lily away. He sighs. ‘I cannot promise to wait much longer,’ he says. ‘I have a man’s needs …’ He touches the rosy place between her breasts, where her bodice has been loosened ‘… but not only these fleshly ones. Lily, I need sons and daughters and a solid place in society. It is expected of me at my age. You know that, surely. You are not the only one with dreams.’

Three months later, Jack has received not a single letter. Lily had promised on her heart to write! Rosetta Buckingham, who comes regularly for riding lessons, tells him that the troupe is travelling in the south of Australia and that her brothers say Lily is well and performing wonderfully.

‘Father is not so well,’ says Rosetta, her pretty face doleful, ‘and I so wish to go, but the doctor says I am not strong enough.’

‘Was there no letter for me?’ Jack doesn’t like to show his despair but cannot hold back the words.

Rosetta lays a gentle hand on his sleeve. ‘I am sorry, Jack. We have received two bundles already with news from all the troupe. This last bundle contained two for me and three for Mother.’ She smiles. ‘You deserve better, Jack. You would be a catch for any woman in town.’

Does Jack suspect duplicity in that tender smile? Not for a minute. Jack is an uncomplicated, trusting man, especially where womenfolk are concerned. But when that trust is betrayed — Lily’s lack of writing; her seeming unconcern about him — he is easily and deeply hurt. He has written several times, hoping his letters might follow her endless journeying. Clearly Mr Buckingham’s missives have reached Rosetta. Surely if Lily had written, her letters would have reached him? Jack’s hurt
turns to anger. His heart begins to turn in another direction.

Increasingly he is invited to the Buckingham home. Mrs Buckingham and the younger children are warm in their praise of his stables, his skills, his growing business. They introduce Jack to influential colonials. Pretty Rosetta is even warmer in her attentions. Often, after a pleasant evening at the Buckinghams’ home, Rosetta and he walk in their garden arm in arm, alone and comfortable with each other. Jack knows the places in town where loose women will satisfy his needs, but Rosetta seems to know, in a subtler way, how to inflame his natural desires. The walks in the dark Buckingham garden become
opportunities
for embraces which both of them find increasingly difficult to resist.

‘Oh Jack, my dear,’ whispers Rosetta on one such evening, ‘forget her! She has abandoned you, surely you realise this?’ She presses hard against him, her face against the fine linen of his shirt. The perfume she has begun to use, the sweetness of her soft body, drive him mad. So does the thought that Lily has indeed forgotten him.

After Lily has been away for a year, not a single letter in all those long months, Jack proposes to Rosetta Buckingham and is immediately accepted. They are married hastily, as Mrs Buckingham and the younger ones are headed to Sydney.

The new Mrs Lacey is a loving wife. Jack has bought his
twenty-five
acres from the Crown, and has built a fine two-storey house on a pleasant rise close to the road to Auckland, making sure that the salon is large enough to accommodate the Buckingham grand piano. Rosetta rides her grey mare, plays and sings for Jack’s friends and clients. She is often poorly, but Jack can now afford a housekeeper who cooks and cleans. This is the life that Jack imagined Lily would share with him: settled, secure, a fond and talented wife, a thriving business. He tells himself that he is a lucky man.

From time to time the new Mrs Lacey receives a letter from her brother George. Jack tries to show no interest, but cannot help himself.

‘So where are they now?’ He places his polished boots on the footstool by the fire and looks across to the chaise longue, where Rosetta, her face flushed with a light fever, reclines.

Rosetta smiles. ‘The letter is two months old, who knows where they might be now? But this note comes from Newcastle, near Sydney. They are playing to rough saloons and sometimes to larger theatres.’