Skylark (25 page)

And there is another matter. One which I am more than anxious to discuss with her.

After the meal Jack stretches lazily. He gives Lily a fond kiss on the cheek and then the same to me! In front of Lily! What to think? Has Lily discussed her plan with him?

‘I’ll leave you ladies to talk,’ he says, ‘while I take a stroll over
to the stables.’ He is grinning as he walks past the window. Like a cat with the cream.

Lily laughs out loud to see him. ‘There is a happy man, Mattie. Let us see if we can keep him thus.’

I cannot keep my question to myself a moment longer. I blurt it out. ‘But Lily … who will share his bed? If I am to wed him secretly, surely I …’

‘Well, of course, that is The Question,’ says Lily with a grand gesture as if she is quoting from some play or the Bible. ‘My thought is that we will both share his bed. Why not?’

I gasp in horror. ‘Both of us? At once?’ I begin to suspect that Lily is indeed a fallen woman as the nuns warned. A child of Satan.

Lily winks most wickedly. ‘No, no, dear Mattie, I meant one at a time. Surely we can take turns. Though now that you mention it … together might be fun, don’t you think?’

Oh, she was ever the tease, our Lily, none more than that day when we discussed arrangements as if planning a pleasant picnic, not a very unusual — many would say immoral — way of life.

‘Listen to me,’ she says now, serious again, her moods darting around like fish in a pond. ‘You must understand, Mattie, that I am an artiste. I might be desperate now to hide and deliver my baby safely, but once danger is past, I know that the theatre will call me again. I love dear Jack, but also I love my work as an artiste.’ She sighs, hand on her breast. ‘No matter how much I might want to be a good and constant wife, I suspect that in the future I will let Jack down and make him unhappy. So you see, our arrangement will be like a security for him.’

Her glance in my direction is both rueful and uncertain. As well it might be. I am suddenly angry. This woman wants to have her cake and eat it too, while I snatch at crumbs. ‘I will not be a servant in this household,’ I cry out, ‘while you play the lady for a time and then run away again. I will not!’

Lily claps her hands. It seems she is delighted with my outburst. ‘Bravo, that is well said. Indeed. You will be mistress in this house while we are alone. Perhaps when visitors come we can put on
a little show, so that Jack — and the children — are considered respectable.’ She plants her hands together in exaggerated supplication. ‘Please say yes, Mattie. Dear Mattie?’

I hum and hah, fiddle with the dishes soaking in the pail. ‘I will marry Jack truly, in front of a priest?’

Lily nods firmly, but then hesitates. ‘I suppose we must ask Jack?’

‘Well, no,’ I say firmly, and with as much dignity as I can muster in this extraordinary situation. ‘Jack must ask
me
.’

S
CENE
:
The same, two years later, 1866–67

An amusing ‘coincidence'!

This ‘scene' is not proper for the young ones. Perhaps Jack and Lily and I will enjoy it together one evening in the privacy of the bedroom. It is worth a laugh, as Lily would say, if she were in a happier mood.

By the end of 1866 my wedding was a distant, pretty memory and we were back to reality. Samuel and Sarah were both born healthy and were now crawling or walking about the house. Doctor Ingram came in time for Samuel but he was not called for Sarah, which I thought unfair. However, truth to tell, Lily was as good a midwife as the doctor. She sang me funny songs during the labour which she said were designed so my laughter would bounce the baby out of the womb! Out she came some hours later with more screams than laughter, but alive, as was I, praise be to God. My Sarah is a great and everlasting joy to me.

And the neighbours? Well, they raised eyebrows no doubt, or maybe praised Jack for ‘doing the honest thing by the servant's child'. Or more likely simply looked the other way. He was not the only man to have lain with a servant. I warrant, though, he
was
the only man who married the servant and lived in sin with the mistress! Ha! At any rate, Jack was popular, so the farming folk about these parts were well inclined to ignore their
horse-breeder's
private life.

In those early days we managed to maintain a happy household. Lily had a way of making things right when we were together at home. She would snap her fingers at any doubt or guilt I might have. She was never raised by nuns; her parents were not your
usual purveyors of good manners and discipline. They had died early, of course, so Lily raised herself in any wayward manner she thought fit. She was fortunate in that sense. Sometimes my cheeks would burn to think what we got up to. The way we might squabble, Lily and I, about whose turn it was for Jack, never mind what Jack might think! Oh, that man was too desirable, with his laughing eyes and his narrow hips and long thighs. He knew it too, and would drive the two of us mad of an evening, complimenting us both and twitching his moustache until we were both on fire, the naughty man.

But we stuck to our rule — turn and turn about — until one night when a storm from the south blew up the coast, bringing hail and a howling wind. It was my turn with Jack and the two of us were nicely tucked up and the babies happily asleep in the big nursery, which Jack and Matiu had built that summer. Outside the wind battered; inside the fire burned low in the grate and by its glow I saw Jack's shadowed face as he bent to kiss me.

Suddenly our enjoyable business was shattered by a pattering of bare feet. Not a sleepless child but Lily, her nightdress flying out like the wings of a swooping owl, as she leapt onto the bed, sending us all tumbling.

‘What is it?' cried Jack, thinking some disaster had struck the house or the children.

Lily sent us both shrieking by placing an icy foot on each of our exposed and rosy stomachs. ‘I'm too cold,' she laughed. ‘Warm me up quick before I turn to ice!'

Well, warm her up we did. And more. Somehow the raging storm outside seemed to goad us into our own wee maelstrom of wildness. Lily was in a fine, high old mood and brought us all to a peak in a manner of speaking. It was a grand night.

Not one we repeated very often. My quiet nights with Jack were precious to me. I am not like Lily. I treasure days and nights that proceed peaceful and ordered like a long reach of quiet water in a river. Lily's habit of stirring us into a frenzy of activity is all very well but best taken in small quantities like good liquor. Now I think about it, perhaps Jack's nights with Lily were always full of
drama. But I remember best the nights when he and I talked and kissed and made babies gently like a real married couple. Which we were, though the world never knew.

Soon it was apparent that both Lily and I were again with child. Lily thought it had to be the night of the storm, which made me giggle and blush. But in truth it could be any of many nights, as we both well knew. The months passed and towards our time Lily became poorly — lethargic and dull — which was not her wont at all. Jack took her in to Whanganui in the trap to see Doctor Ingram. I wanted to accompany them, as it was many months since I had visited town, but Jack looked away and said ‘Not this time'.

Well, it was hard to accept. I was the wife. I was the one carrying the legitimate child. Lily was the fallen woman, yet she was the one to visit the doctor and be seen by all as the devoted wife, when she did little around the house but entertain the children with songs and little dances. I cried and made a fuss but Jack's face set hard against me for the first time that I remembered. He drove off without saying a word of goodbye, or showing any concern about leaving me alone and near my time.

I sat on the little bench in the kitchen garden and sobbed. Matiu brought me an apple but I sent him away.

Lily and Jack came back next day, Lily in much brighter spirits. No doubt she attended the theatre with Jack. Doctor's orders were that she was to eat lambs' liver and plenty of spinach, both of which she despised. I grinned at her grimly and promised Jack I would force the hated foods down her throat. A petty revenge, but sharing is not always easy.

With them they carried one of Doctor Ingram's pigeons in a little cage. As soon as the labour began, we were to attach a message to the pigeon's leg, saying to come quickly, then we were to set the bird aloft. Doctor Ingram's birds were famous up our valley. When we saw one fly past, we would know a baby or a death was expected, and we would watch out to see how long it took before the doctor came galloping up; sometimes, in the case of severe illness, pulling his sprung cart with a stretcher bobbing up and down inside. In those cases the journey back was much slower: our road, as ever,
likely to shake the poor patient to an early death.

We fed and cared for the pigeon for three days and then I went into labour.

‘Send the pigeon!' I cried, the pains being strong, but Jack would not.

‘It's for Lily,' he said. ‘The doctor fears a complication. You will do well enough with Lily's help.'

Oh, I could have crowned the man at that moment. He is not always the most careful with his words, though I know he loves and cherishes me as a wife and mother. It comforted me to hear Lily scold him and send him outside to his horses. But then, as she came back to the bedside to see to developments, she stopped suddenly, clutching her belly.

‘Dear God!' she gasped. ‘My waters have broken, Mattie. Oh, oh!' And so on, ever the dramatist. She ran outside to call Jack back in: told him to send off the pigeon; to fetch the neighbours; to boil the water. She would have had the church bells ringing for miles around if there were any.

And there I was, screaming my bloody head off, alone in the upstairs bedroom.

Well, by the time Doctor Ingram came belting up the valley, Lily's little Phoebe was just slipping out, neat and sweet. As she ever is, the darling. Doctor Ingram checked all parts and found none missing, complimented Lily, gave her some tincture, and was about to sit to a bite with the happy father when he heard me shouting upstairs.

‘What's this?' he said to Jack, who no doubt mumbled and fudged but finally asked the good man to see to his servant girl, who was having a hard time of her birthing. Up the doctor comes, taking the steps by twos, as my shouts were by then bringing down the house.

‘You have a big one in here,' he said, feeling me this way and that, ‘who is the wrong way around. Now take a grip and we will see if I may turn the babe.' And commenced his pummelling. He is a strong man, Doctor Ingram, bless his soul, who is known to have pulled a stuck calf from a cow without any resort to block
and tackle. My Bert, stubborn even then in the womb, would not be turned, so the doctor reached in and brought him out feet first, bawling and lusty, tearing his mother in the process, but fighting fit, praise the Lord.

Doctor Ingram smiled at me then, always a kind man. ‘You must stay abed until the bleeding stops,' he said. ‘It's good of your master to bring you into the house for your birthing. Make sure you thank him well.' And trotted off downstairs before I had strength to put him right on the matter.

We never sent for Mrs Lomax to come and help as the doctor had advised. Lily was up next day, chirpy as a cicada, laughing at our ‘twins'. She thought it a great joke, but Jack was uneasy.

‘Well now, Mattie,' he said, when he came in to look at his lovely brown son with his shock of black hair, his eyes dark as raisins. ‘What shall we call the boy?'

‘Albert,' I said. ‘Albert Jack Lacey.'

‘Well,' he said again. ‘We'll see.' He was embarrassed at what the neighbours would say or think, any fool could see that. Two Laceys born of different mothers on the very same day! No doubt the doctor would be spreading the tale down the valley as he collected his horse and headed home. I suspected Jack had spun some tale about the fathering of Bert, with Matiu most likely the culprit.

Meanwhile I languished, as quiet and sore as a sick dog. For once Lily saw to the chores, bringing Phoebe to my breast while she was at work. Mostly all the babes have grown strong on my milk. Lily had no patience with breastfeeding and not much milk, anyway.

Well, I am tired of the farce.

Once babies are born, life is too busy for play-acting, especially when one of the mothers takes it into her head to run off to the theatre to be a famous artiste. When Lily was away, life was peaceful but not always pleasant. Poor Jack always took it hard. My arms were busy with babies and washing, not to mention every other household chore. Jack would not have another woman nosing about, so all housekeeping fell to me.

The first time Lily went off would have been when Phoebe and Bert were a year old, maybe. Lily begged Jack to let her go to Whanganui to do a season with an amateur group there. Or was it the Christie Minstrels? I lose count. She begged and begged. Jack said no, her place was home with the babies.

‘Can't you see I am fading away?' she cried. ‘My fire, my talent, my very voice is dying!'

Not that any of us had noticed. She would sing to the children, sometimes a gentle lullaby, but more often some rollicking ditty, in a voice to reach the bottom paddock: hardly the thing to send a baby to sleep. But she fretted to be in front of a larger audience, that was clear. In the end Jack gave his leave for her to be away two weeks, not a day longer. Lily jumped for joy, clapping her hands and kissing him and was packed and saddled and off down the valley before any of us could take breath.

She did not kiss me or even her own two babes which were left in my care.

And was away a month.

She returned one dark night, walking a stolen mount up the valley, and entered the kitchen quietly when we were all abed. Into the bedroom she came, crawling in beside Jack, mewing like a sick cat. Jack lit the candle and there she lay inside Jack's cradling arms, white of face, hands all atremble.

‘He's there,' she moaned. ‘He's there in Whanganui and saw me, I'm sure of it! Oh dear God, what shall we do?'

It was not at all usual to see Lily diminished in any way, so we both sat up and took notice. Jack stroked her damp hair, I rubbed her cold feet. Lily was prone to cold feet and chilblains.

‘Bully is in town,' she cried. ‘Bully Hayes. I saw him.' This was the first I'd heard of any Bully Hayes so it meant nothing to me, but I felt Jack go tense and still.

‘He saw you?'

‘I swear he did! I was in the middle of “All Round My Hat” with the crowd joining in the chorus nicely, me doing my little steps around my bonnet as you've seen me do in our own kitchen …'

Lily stopped then, diverted, perhaps by the thought of her
own performance, and Jack had to prod her on. It seemed the villain rose from his seat in the audience and called — shouted — for silence.

‘Shut your silly chorus!' he bellowed at the audience. ‘I want to hear the lady properly!'

Well, naturally there was ill feeling at that and in the general argy-bargy, Lily slipped out the back, took the nearest horse and headed home. Goodness knows what a to-do there would be over the stolen mount. Jack would have some fences to repair there.

Down she burrowed, our Lily, under the blankets as if the man might come knocking that very moment. I never saw her so fearful. Shaking and in tears. I had to undress her like a baby and then Jack and I comforted her the best we knew how. Jack was surprised too, I think. Lily is not one for dark moods. We rely on her to keep our spirits up, to make us laugh and dance a little through days that drag. That man had given her a right fright at some time in her life. But she would not tell me how, even though we share the most intimate of secrets.

Two days later Jack came back from Kai Iwi beaming and waving the
Herald
newspaper aloft like a proud banner.