Skylark (20 page)

‘But she is in Australia,’ says the youngest of the performing Buckinghams, Conrad. He stands in the doorway of a simple, roughly built shack, his trumpet swinging on one finger, the other hand casually in his pocket. In the hallway a curious young lad — a pupil, no doubt — watches the smart fellow who has ridden up on horseback.

‘Do you have news of her?’ asks Jack, dismounting and tying his filly to a veranda post. ‘Is she in good spirits?’

Conrad Buckingham is young. Jack figures he will not yet have reached twenty, but there’s a weariness in his eyes, and a drawn look about the mouth. Jack cannot recognise in him the chubby, golden-haired prodigy who performed at the Venetian Saloon with his family, back in Auckland. He’s tall but stick-thin. Perhaps his music teaching business is not flourishing.

His voice is high and light. ‘Come in, Jack. I’ll be finished here in ten minutes, if you care to wait.’

Jack ducks his head to enter the dark little hallway. There are only two rooms, apart from a tiny alcove at the end of the hall which clearly must serve as kitchen. Jack sits on the single bed while Conrad finishes with his pupil. The boy stumbles through scales and a simple tune or two, but when Conrad plays, the rooms fill with rich ribbons of music. Jack is transported away from the sordid little shack; he dreams of Lily in happier times. Concerts in Auckland; dramatic performances in Wellington; her feats in Foley’s circus ring. How is it that she has travelled to Australia? What can it all mean?

When the boy leaves, having paid his shilling, Conrad beckons Jack into the music room, where there are two chairs, a music stand and a little table. Nothing more. From the back of the house, Conrad brings two jars of ale, a raisin loaf, a wedge of cheese and a bowl of pickled onions. He’s smiling now, happy to see Jack again, ready to talk.

This is the first time they’ve been together since Rosetta’s death. Jack sadly tells Conrad of his wife’s fatal accident, his own loneliness, his letter from Lily. Conrad then tells about the family ructions in the goldfields and the farce mocking Bully Hayes. Jack is heartened to hear the story. And to read, in Conrad’s face, how much the young man hates Bully.

‘She wrote,’ says Jack at last, ‘asking me to have her back. I have replied welcoming her. But since then — silence. I have no idea whether she received my letter. Did she change her mind? Do you know anything of this?’

Conrad’s young-old face has clouded. He takes a good swig at his ale. ‘She blows hot and cold over Bully Hayes. But mainly cold, I thought, when I last saw her.’ He smiles — a crooked, fleeting twitch of his mouth — and then sighs. ‘I would have carried her away myself, but she had no feeling for me. I was just a boy to her. And of course the baby …’

Jack nearly chokes on his ale. ‘Baby?’

‘You didn’t know? She didn’t tell you? When she left the Arrow she was large with Bully’s child.’ Conrad frowns. ‘I suppose it was Bully’s.’

Jack stands. He turns away; looks out the little window onto the crowded street outside. ‘The baby is born then?’ he asks finally, not able to turn back to Conrad.

‘Yes, so I hear. A girl.’ Conrad’s voice rises a little. ‘My brother has joined again with Hayes. I believe they are touring together in Australia. He wrote once. An unhappy letter. What either of them sees in that man …’

A silence settles in the little room. Jack is still digesting the news of the child; Conrad perhaps wistfully remembering happier times when the whole family performed together.

At last Jack turns back from the window. ‘Do you know where they are?’

‘I do not.’

Jack takes from his pocket his new calling card. ‘Here is my address. If you hear from her, please let me know. I feel she’s in danger.’

Conrad nods. A timid tap on the door heralds the next pupil. Jack mounts and rides away, not knowing what to do. Was Lily planning to come to him encumbered with Bully Hayes’s child? Would she be so brazen? Oh Lily, Lily, he groans, where have you gone so wrong?

It seems his trip south has been a waste of time.

T
HE
J
OURNAL OF
L
ILY
A
LOUETTE CONTINUES
…
S
CENE:
Aboard the brigantine
Black Diamond
: winter of 1864

Return to New Zealand

Oh, that nightmare voyage across the Tasman Sea! The seas heaved and reared above our little ship, crashing onto the deck and sweeping any unlashed item overboard. We lost one crewman — I never knew his name — on the second day of the crossing. Bully roared his anger at the man's carelessness and the loss of valuable manpower. Valuable indeed, for the
Black Diamond
was in a shocking state and all hands were needed to pump water. Bully's precious brigantine leaked through its timbers like a sponge; the main mast creaked and groaned, threatening to snap with every gust; its great sail, rigged fore and aft, was as threadbare as my petticoat. Even Bully, who seemed to love every howling, drenching moment of the storm, watched that sail with an anxious eye. Finally, during a short lull in the weather, he ordered the men to take down the mainsail and we ran on a single, square-rigged sail on the foremast.

The
Black Diamond
had been my home for months in Australia as we sailed between towns and then performed at shabby establishments. I hated every smelly, rotten, creaking inch of her. The bed linen in our tiny cabin was mildewed; likewise all my stage garments in their sea-chest. I tried to keep the bright skirts and shawls aired, but the fetid shipboard odour seemed to seep into everything. Even the flowery hats in my hat-box grew mould. I was ashamed to think that when I stepped in front of a new audience in a new town they would detect the reek of rotten seaweed even above the usual stench of ale and sweat. Many
were the times I swore never again to set foot upon any floating vessel, be it the most modern sailing ship or humble river ferry. A promise impossible to keep, of course, for a performing artiste.

George Buckingham hated that crossing as much as I. More. He was a shocking seaman, heaving his guts out from the moment he set foot on board, let alone during the raging storm we encountered.

‘Oh Rosa,' he moaned as I brought him a little weak tea and a dry biscuit, ‘why do we do this? What a fool I am. I could be a simple music teacher, safe in a solid house, clean and neat little children knocking on my door ready to learn, a wife to cook my dinner …'

At the mention of dinner he heaved into his bucket again, nothing left inside his wretched stomach but a thin slick of bile. Poor George. He was a wonderful musician, played the piano and flute as if he were performing for the good Lord Himself, no matter how humble the audience, but he had no idea how to organise his life. If Bully said ‘Go here,' George went. If Bully decided to move on, even though we were having a good season, George agreed. Now Bully had decided to return to Nelson in New Zealand, so off we set, with a small cargo — which, I have no doubt, Bully had not paid for.

Indeed I do not believe the
Black Diamond
itself was properly purchased. Bully described himself as ‘owner, captain and master' of the brigantine, but surely he was none of these, given the way we sailed out of every harbour suddenly and at night, Bully chuckling away at his cleverness, skipping ahead of the law yet again.

It was most tiresome.

My one delight was little Adelaida. She had the constitution of an ox. She slept through the mountainous seas. While the crew shouted and pounded across the deck, while winches creaked and stays groaned, my daughter rocked in her little hammock, oblivious. She sucked at her milk and slurped down her porridge while my maid, Mary, and I could hold nothing in our stomachs. I would point to her proudly — what a fine sailor! — but Bully
had lost interest in his daughter. He was cross that I needed a nursemaid, who crowded our little cabin; cross that I should pay attention to Adelaida rather than to him. At sea, Bully Hayes was in love with his ship and his adventures. Women played no part in his seafaring life.

‘Out of my way!' he would roar, if I came to show him a trick of Adelaida's or a new song I had written. ‘Can't you see I am busy? God's Blood, woman, get below!'

Yet he was happy, for all his roaring outbursts at me and the crew. Wild seas and wild rages were his natural habitat, as the stage and an audience were mine. We were unsuited. That was the simple truth of it. Yet in his view I was his possession and he would not let me go.

There were times — not many — when we gave each other pleasure. On a calm day, his ship rocking gently beneath us, after a drink or two, he would call for me to sing some quiet song and he would become wistful, his hand beating time, his eyes misting over. He would sit me on his knee and play with my hair and call me playful names. Then he would have his way with me, but gently, not like his usual drunken forcings. Then we would sleep together quietly like children. Mostly, though, he was moody: as quick to fly into a rage as a savage dog. I could not face the idea of living the rest of my life with this man.

Finally land was sighted: the high Tasman mountains, which I remembered fondly from easier times performing with Mrs Foley. Dear, golden Nelson, with its proper God-fearing settlers and gentle bays! Here I would part from Bully Hayes forever. That was my steadfast plan.

Just as we approached that happy town, Bully suddenly shouted to his men to change course and head for a large indented bay.

‘Run her ashore!' he shouted, pointing to a beach of gently sloping sand. ‘We'll caulk her here. Find those damn leaks. Head straight in now, lads!'

What was Bully Hayes up to? We were almost at the good harbour of Nelson, where we could unload and where there would be plenty of carpenters and timber for repairs.

‘But why, Bully?' I cried, pulling at his sleeve to gain his attention. ‘Surely this is madness. Look how lonely the bay is. Scarcely a homestead to be seen.'

He pulled away his arm, eyeing me blackly. ‘Can't you see we are taking water, woman?'

‘We have been taking water all across the Tasman Sea,' I said, trying to keep my voice level and reasonable. ‘Why stop now when we are so close to civilisation?'

He strode away without a word. You could see that the sailors were as bemused as I. Bully took the helm himself and ran his ship gently aground in Croixelles Harbour, on a lonely beach with beautiful sand and trees crowding down to the shore.

Croixelles: a name forever written in blood on my heart.

S
CENE:
Croixelles Harbour

The final straw

The nearest homestead to our little encampment in Croixelles Harbour was that of Mr and Mrs Askew. He was a farmer who had recently married and brought his wife over from Nelson to live with him. They were good, hardworking English folk who befriended us — particularly George and me and Mary the nursemaid, as we were no help at all in the repairing of
Black Diamond
. While Bully shouted orders and at low tide the crew busied themselves hauling the ship onto one side and then the other, looking for rotten planks, caulking and tarring the poor wormy timbers, the three of us walked over the sand and through the bush to the Askews’ neat little home. Oh what a pleasure to wash in pure river water! What joy to strip off our dresses, which were stiff with salt; to wash them in soap and water and leave them to dry on sweet-smelling bushes! Wrapped in blankets and coats, we sat by the cosy fire in that little home and chatted. Jane Askew was about my age, come out alone from England as a maid, but now brimming with happiness to have found and married a decent, landowning man.

‘I am mistress of my own home!’ she said, her pretty, fair face showing astonishment at her good luck. ‘I work for myself — and for Mr Askew of course.’ She would blush every time she mentioned him, unable, it seemed, to call him by his given name. She would take Adelaida on her knee and bounce her up and down till the little mite laughed and tugged at Jane’s fair curls. When I told her that I was a singer and actress on the stage, her eyes grew round.

‘Oh, Rosa!’ she cried, clapping her hands like a child. ‘Sing a song, do! Show me how you do it!’

Alas there was no piano in the home so George could not show off his skills, but he produced his flute and accompanied me as I sang ‘Annie Laurie’ and then ‘Villikins and his Dinah’, standing in the little room and prancing as Mrs Foley had taught me, flicking my blanket this way and that as if it were an embroidered and tasselled shawl.

Jane laughed out loud in astonishment. ‘Do you know, I have seen a great lady of the stage sing that very song, and dance exactly as you have done! But Rosa, you are every bit as good!’

‘I will lay a wager,’ I replied, ‘that the great lady you have heard is Mrs W.H. Foley. It was she who taught me.’

And so it was. It turned out that Jane had been taken in to Nelson by her husband and there they had seen my old teacher perform a melodrama and sing her favourite song. Jane said Mrs Foley was probably still in Nelson as she was billed to play for a season and perform three new plays. How my heart beat at the news. How I longed to step again onto a stage where the audience were decent folk, not the drunken, bawdy riff-raff we had been performing to in Australia. I had almost forgotten the joys of acting a part, learning new lines, the camaraderie of a cast of actors working on a new play. Perhaps Mrs Foley would take me into her company! When we arrived in Nelson I would go to her. Bully would surely favour the idea of my earning good coin in a well-respected company.

So I dreamed. Bully had other ideas entirely.

A night or two later, Bully announced that he and I were invited to dine with the Askews. George was to stay camped alongside the ship to maintain order among the crew: a pitiful idea, as George had no control over Bully’s rough and surly fellows. I would have done better, young woman though I was. Mary the nursemaid came with us; she would not have been safe at the camp without Bully. Over our leg of mutton, and potatoes from the garden, Bully announced that he would not be visiting Nelson after all, but would continue down the coast in a day or
two, in order to call in on the goldfield crowds.

‘My wife is a great favourite with the diggers,’ he said, laying his thick arm heavily on mine, ‘and my cargo of provisions will fetch a better price there.’

‘Oh,’ I cried. ‘I had set my heart on Nelson!’

‘Well, un-set it,’ was all he said to me.

I sent a desperate glance to Jane, who sighed but could make no comment in front of her husband.

A moment later Bully turned to Mr Askew. ‘I wonder if I might ask a favour?’

‘Of course.’ Mr Askew’s voice was a little guarded. Bully had asked more than one favour already, and repaid none.

‘I would like to take my family for a picnic — a farewell of sorts — and wondered if you might lend us your yacht?’

Mr Askew looked even more doubtful. His yacht,
Waterwitch
, provided the quickest way across the bay to the start of the track that led in to Nelson. The bridle path around the coast took days, and in bad weather was impassable.

‘Just for the afternoon,’ smiled Bully, laying on the syrupy charm that seemed to fool all and sundry. ‘A last happy hour or two before George and the baby leave us.’

I turned to Bully in astonishment. ‘What can you mean? We haven’t discussed this. George and the baby? What nonsense is this?’

Bully Hayes shot me the most furious of glances. He could not abide being crossed in front of others. He rose from the table, patting his mouth with Jane Askew’s fine linen napkin. ‘We will discuss this back at the ship,’ he said. ‘I will not have you question me in front of our good hosts.’

With the most perfunctory thank you he steered me to the door. Somehow he managed to secure the promise of the yacht for the next day.

For some minutes we walked back along the sand in silence. Mary, as confused as I — and embarrassed, no doubt — walked quickly ahead. Suddenly I stopped and faced Bully. The
moonlight
shone on a scene of great beauty — a silvery sea and the
black outlines of majestic trees — but I saw only his dark eyes glittering in a pale, moon-washed face.

‘You cannot rule my life as if I were your pet dog to come and go as you bid,’ I shouted, too distressed to be fearful of the consequences.

‘I can and I will,’ he returned. ‘You are my wife …’

‘I am not!’

‘You are my wife if I say so.’

‘You had another wife before me. You cannot hold me bound by law!’

‘I can and I will,’ he repeated, gripping my arms fiercely. ‘George will go to Nelson with Mary and the baby. He has agreed to this. They are only a nuisance aboard ship. We will sail to the goldfields and you will perform where and how I dictate.’

‘You hate the goldfields!’ I wailed.

‘These ones are by the sea. I can ply my trade while you perform in the public houses. We will make good money.’

The wretch was proposing to set me up in a ‘house of entertainment’ and leave me to the whims of those rough diggers, earning money for his trading ventures! I could see the whole unhappy scenario.

‘I will not go with you,’ I screamed. ‘You must let me go my own way!’

He pressed his lips together and brought his face close to mine. I tried to recoil from the madness I saw in his eyes but his hands gripped my arms like iron clamps. He said not one word more, but turned me towards the encampment, dragging me with him.

When we were within earshot of the crew he spoke, but more quietly. ‘It will only be for a year or two, Rosa.’ (
A year or two
?) ‘We will make me a fortune and I will buy a better, bigger boat. We will sail to foreign parts. You will like that.’

Did he really believe that I would enjoy the life he proposed? Did he care? A great sob tore through my body. Bully gave me a quick shake as if to bring me to my senses, and shoved me towards our little lean-to on the shore. There he left me and sat drinking with his men.

What despair racked me then! What fear! For an hour I sat on the sand, unable to think, unable to move. As I stared across the black bay I saw a tiny flicker: lamplight, I suppose, at a distant farmhouse. I stared and stared, willing it to keep alight. That pinprick of light became, to my troubled, lonely soul, a tiny flame of hope. I breathed deeply, slowly, as one does on stage when emotion threatens to undermine good performance. There must be a way! I began to plan.

An hour or two later I crawled over the sand to where George lay rolled in his blanket under an awning rigged from one of our sails.

‘George!’ I whispered. ‘George, wake up!’ I held my hand over his mouth to silence any cry, then brought my lips close to his ear. ‘How could you agree to such an evil plan?’ I hissed. ‘Surely you know how much it would hurt me to leave the baby.’

George’s eyes rolled in alarm. It turned out he had agreed to nothing. Bully had consulted no one. Indeed George was dismayed at the thought of having Mary and Adelaida under his care. As well he might be. Poor George did not have a way with infants and found young Mary simple and uneducated. He had always ignored her in an embarrassed sort of way. In nervous whispers we agreed that when the time came for George to leave, I would somehow secretly contrive to leave too — if not travelling with him, then joining him later in Nelson.

‘Mrs Foley is performing in the town,’ I whispered. ‘I will ask her to hide me. Look for me there.’

George nodded solemnly. Possibly he was hurt to think that Bully found him dispensable. His manner was quiet and withdrawn. I had hoped for outrage. I realised that I could not hope for much assistance from that quarter.

‘He
is
your husband, Rosa,’ he said quietly. ‘If it were not for the baby I would advise …’ His voice trailed away. His hands, I noticed, were trembling, perhaps from cold, but I suspected a stronger emotion. He would not look squarely at me. I began to doubt the wisdom of confiding in him.

All night, I lay awake planning. I gathered a few personal
items together and made a bundle of them, hidden among the baby’s napkins and clothes. I made sure the bodice I wore was the one with my two gold nuggets sewn into the seam. This might be the moment when they would be sorely needed. I kissed them through the fabric and sent a prayer to Maman and Papa: ‘Help me in my hour of need!’ I felt a powerful excitement, tinged with fear. In a few short days, if all went well, Rosa Buckingham would disappear. Captain Bully Hayes would never find her, search as he might.

My fervent prayer was answered, but in a manner so dreadful it is almost too painful to relate.