Skylark (28 page)

The circus arrives!

What year was it? Oberon was born, I remember that; Joe too, both sharing the cradle that had serviced so many babes. I lose count of the years. It was little Oberon who found me in the kitchen, cutting butter into flour for our pudding. In he toddled, his freckled face a picture of wonderment.

‘A stripy horse! I see a stripy horse!’ And he dragged at my skirts until I left my mixture and went with him.

There indeed in the paddock was the ‘stripy horse’ — a zebra! In fact, there were two of them, their soft muzzles down in our generous grass, where they munched away while our two mares cowered down by the fence-line.

A tall, grey-haired stranger was talking to Jack as if nothing were amiss. The two of us, little Ronnie and me, stood there gawping, for there was more to see than those queer wild animals from Africa. From our vantage point by the kitchen garden we could see, down the valley, a veritable cavalcade approaching, flags all colours of the rainbow fluttering above the carts and wagons. Mercy, I thought, what has Lily brought us now? (I knew it would be Lily’s doing.) And felt a spurt of anger that she could go off gaily for a season at the theatre then return without warning, bringing all these mouths to feed. Well, I was wrong on that count, but never mind.

Up Jack strode from the paddock, beaming his pleasure. ‘Mattie, come and meet the famous Mr Foley. You’ve heard of him of course.’

I nodded, suddenly as shy as little Ronnie whose face was buried in my skirts. Mr Foley himself whom Jack idolised! (And was a good customer, to boot.)

‘Mrs Lacey,’ said the good man, which endeared him to me,
‘it is a pleasure.’ He shook my proffered hand and then leaned in and gave me a firm kiss on each cheek! Oh, he was a charmer, that lean old man with his dancing eyes and his yellow scarf, spry as a man half his years. ‘Lily has said you won’t mind if we stop the night? She said the children would enjoy the sights?’ He jerked a thumb back towards the approaching multitude. ‘And she wants you to meet my Maria. They are gossiping away at the back somewhere. What Lily wants usually happens, you’ll have noticed.’ He laughed in his high, shouting way and then, noticing my concern, added, ‘Madam, we have brought a whole sheep ready for the spit and a sack of potatoes and invite you to a feast, circus-style, out in the open under God’s pleasant sky.’

And there was Lily herself, sitting astride Ariel, no modesty at all with the men around to see her legs bare to the knees and her feet too, like any urchin. And she the mother of six children!

‘Mattie! Mattie!’ she called, waving from on high. With her, riding knee to knee, was the most extraordinary bundle of bright clothes and ribbons I ever saw. This must be the famous Maria that Lily talked about so often, who had saved her when her parents died. Lily jumped down, agile as a cat, and Maria followed more sedately, the pair of them leaving the men to unsaddle and water their mounts.

‘Oh Mattie,’ whispered my good Lily, hugging me fiercely and so chasing away any jealous pangs I might have harboured. ‘I have dreamed of this — my two best friends in the world, together at last in one place. Here is Madame Tournear, or Mrs Foley, or Maria, or even Louisa — she has as many names as me!’

‘Maria,’ said Maria firmly, beaming from inside her curtain of colours. ‘I have longed to meet you. What outrageous luck our Lily has, to find such a woman as you!’ And she shook her jewelled head, laughing in wonder or delight or jealousy — the emotions dancing over her face, chasing each other faster than sunlight on running water. Then more soberly, ‘I hope this is not too shocking, all of us arriving unannounced? Lily was sure we would be welcome.’

Welcome they were. In no time those carts and wagons were
parked in the river paddock, a great fire burning and a spit assembled over it. A cage was opened and a very large
monkey-like
creature emerged to be tethered and fed by the horde of children. However many did that couple produce, all on their own with no extra wife to assist? Lily said it was nine and still counting, but there was no counting that night. Theirs and ours ran wild, into the river and up the trees, competing in their mad daring acts till I feared the evening would end in disaster.

It must have been high summer, the days long and the evenings warm, because that blessed spit roast, spiced with generous dobs of my crabapple and mint jelly, was delighting our stomachs before it was dark, the children never still for a moment, eating their hunks of food on the trot like little savages. Well, it was a picnic, as Lily said, where manners may be tossed away with the crusts. My head was spinning with it all. In the end I had to go inside for a quiet breath or two on the pretext of seeing to my pudding, which by now I had augmented with the clever addition of several apples and a crust of oats and butter.

After I had sat in the steamy peace a few moments, Maria came in quietly. She laid her brown, plump hand over mine where it lay on the bare boards of the table. ‘Do you mind if I join you?’ she said, her cheeks fiery from the heat of the spit and the carving of it. ‘My knees could do with a little rest.’

What a lovely, warm woman. No wonder Lily talked of her. I fetched the brandy and we had a tot together, companionable as if we had known each other since childhood.

‘How do you manage this life?’ she asked, admiration in her voice, ‘with Lily coming and going and all the children left to you?’

I laughed, warmed by the liquor and her friendly, easy ways. ‘I could ask you the same. How do you manage all those children and on the move all your restless life? I would die of it.’

Maria removed a scarf and eased her bodice. I wondered if she might still be suckling — or perhaps about to give birth. The contours of her body were entirely hidden by the flamboyant swathes. ‘I am used to my travelling life, as you are used to your settled one, I suppose.’ She winked over the rim of her glass. ‘It
helps to have a good man, of course.’

She told me then that she had feared for Lily, years ago: feared that she would come to a terrible, sad end and that I had been the saving of her.

‘And Jack,’ I reminded her. ‘Jack is also the saving of her.’

Maria nodded, a little doubtfully, I thought. ‘Lily is very, very good,’ she said. ‘I should warn you of that.’

I thought she meant good as in well behaved, and laughed out loud.

Maria flipped a scarf at me, laughing herself. ‘No, you ninny, a good
performer
— singer, actress, acrobat — she has all the gifts. But it drives her, doesn’t it? Without you to hold her life together she would be lost again.’

We discussed Lily for a little, chewing away at the delicious meal of her character as if she were a nice, cooked crayfish, the two of us sucking out the tasty shreds from the crooked claws of her foibles. But in the end, where is the pleasure finding fault with one so dear and close? We tired of the sport and fell into silence.

‘Lord!’ said Maria. ‘The smell of that pudding! Should we just test it, do you think?’

Which we did, liberally spread with our Daisy’s rich cream, until Lily invaded our little peace with a line of children dancing behind her, chanting some lively song she had invented concerning the need for sweet pudding. Around the table they clattered and chanted until I took the great pudding out of the oven.

‘Sweet apple pudding!’ sang those children — circus-bred and farm-bred all firm friends by now.

Together we paraded back to the field, me bearing the pudding on high, Maria bringing what plates we possessed — not nearly enough — and Lily a crock of cream.

When the moon rose, the men drove stakes into the ground topped with flaming tarry rags, and by this light they performed tumbling tricks and clowning antics. All the older Foley children could ride and somersault, walking on their hands as easily as their feet.

Lily, of course, not to be outdone, gathered our brood for a
song and a dance and a little play they had learned at school. Teddy drew gasps of admiration with his beautiful singing. I sat there listening, tearful as always when Teddy sang; Oberon asleep on my lap. Almost asleep myself. I do not have Lily’s endless store of energy. I could have told Maria that it was sometimes a blessing when Lily disappeared to entertain in the towns, but I held my peace.

That wonderful night!

All of our children could sing and dance and recite their little poems and plays, some better than others. But Teddy was the one. Teddy was Lily’s favourite. He had the clearest, truest voice, clean and high like a flute. He was the only Lacey with golden hair, which raised a few eyebrows, but Lily insisted he was Jack’s. Teddy was quick at his learning, too, knowing all his times tables and his rivers of New Zealand before Bert, who was nearly two years older. Teddy’s feet danced from the day he was born and he could imitate anyone in the valley — trotting out their voices and mannerisms to a T.

Lily doted on him, encouraged him in his talents, made excuses for him if he shirked his tasks around the house. I suppose we all allowed Teddy too free a rein, which was perhaps part of the tragedy.

[Archivist’s Note: This section is written largely in Lily’s hand. Mattie, in an aside which I have not included, recounts an argument over who should write the story. It turns out that Lily has already embarked on the project and is reluctantly allowed to continue. It seems that the family did not trust Lily to give an honest account; that they feared she might gloss over her own role in the tragedy. Mattie describes the first reading:

There are a few additions by other members of the family. I have included the more interesting contributions. E. de M.]

W
RITTEN IN THE HAND OF
L
ILY
A
LOUETTE

The Lacey tribe visits Wellington

The day news came of Bully Hayes’s death, I danced on the kitchen floor until my heels bruised. The twins Lysander and Lydia danced with me and even little Oberon capered and laughed. They had no idea of the reason for my joy and I had no need to explain. Enough that he was truly dead this time, murdered by his own ship’s mate, struck on the head with a belaying pin or some such, far away in the South Seas.

No longer need I fear his sudden appearance in the audience at a theatre or place of entertainment. In Whanganui and at the goldfields in Thames, my eyes and ears had constantly been on the alert for news of his arrival in town. It is hard to describe what a shadow he laid on my life. I am not naturally timid. No, I feared being drawn in again by his outrageous magnetism. I had dreaded my own weakness.

Immediately I made plans to enter society again. What fun we all had! Remember our concert at Whanganui’s Royal Theatre? The Laceys were the toast of the town. Forget about the Buckingham Family! Our Christmas family entertainment had the reporter from the
Wanganui Chronicle
reaching for his highest superlatives. Phoebe sang like an angel; Bert on stage with her, doing his hilarious clowning: both thirteen years old and calm as professionals in front of all the cheering crowd. Every child had a role. The oldest managed the stage: Samuel operating
the curtain, and Sarah moving the scenery; my twins Lydia and Lysander joined with Mattie’s Frank and Elsie to perform a comic song and dance; and even four-year-old Oberon recited his poem in a clear voice. My recitations from Shakespeare were very well received, especially Lady Macbeth, which brought the audience to deathly silence and then thunderous applause.

But who could forget ten-year-old Theodore Lacey dressed in a little blue silk suit beautifully sewn by Mattie, singing ‘
Voi
Che Sapete
’? Mozart himself would have cheered to hear such a true and believable little cherubino. Every heart in the audience melted. Was there a dry eye? Mine were filled with tears of pride. Our duet, ‘Come into the Garden, Maud’, was likewise applauded and encored. Oh what a happy day.

Jack was proud, let him not deny it. When the whole troupe had finally sung our ‘God Save the Queen’, he stood applauding wildly. All his twelve children the toast of the town! Doctor Ingram himself was heard to say he was proud to have brought the whole troublesome brood into the world. Even the great Marie Carandini, who was in Whanganui for one of her many ‘final’ performances, came backstage at the end to compliment me on my voice and on the training of the little ones.

It was Marie Carandini, two years later, who suggested I put Teddy up to audition for the Pollard’s Lilliputians.

‘They are a wonderful company, Lily,’ she said to me, over tea at the Whanganui Hotel. ‘I saw them in Tasmania last month and now they are coming to New Zealand. Your Theodore could well be acceptable.’

Acceptable! My Theodore would
shine
among the best in Australia. In all my life among the best performers in the world, I had never seen the like of Teddy. You would sing a phrase to him once, and it stuck. His voice was the clearest and truest I have ever heard among juveniles, and his manner the most engaging. He could sing a romantic song as if he had experienced all the loves in the world, and then come out with a comic song in dialect, wickedly funny, with all the actions pat. Teddy was small for his age — inheriting my fine bones and neat body — perfect
for dancing and for the gestures needed for theatrical work. Oh, Teddy was made to perform. He was not pushed reluctantly onto the stage but leaped into the limelight, ready and willing from an early age. Of course I encouraged him, what proud mother would not? We all delighted in his wonderful, God-given talents.

At first both Jack and Mattie supported the idea. News of the Lilliputians’ success in Dunedin had reached us. What a proud moment it would be to see Teddy perform with them! Why not Phoebe too? Mattie ruled out auditions for the twins. She felt eight years old was too young, though I pointed out I was performing — and happy to perform — at that age. Oh, I was as busy as a honey-bee in summer, bustling from piano to writing desk and back again copying music, teaching new steps, training voices. I rehearsed Teddy in the most difficult of operatic arias and a song or two from Gilbert and Sullivan, which was the Pollards’ main repertoire. Jack laughed at my antics, pleased to see me so happy after a sad, isolated winter, while Mattie tried to keep order among the excited young ones. Samuel and Sarah complained endlessly that fifteen-year-olds could still be Lilliputians.

Well, the day came when we all set out on the steamer for Wellington. Jack’s horses were selling very well and he decreed that the entire family would take a holiday. At any rate he had business there. We travelled as ‘Mr and Mrs Lacey, their travelling companion and twelve young Laceys’. Which was Mrs Lacey and which the companion we left to the imagination of the passengers. Both Mattie and I were dressed in the latest fashion: bustles at the back and ruffles in front, ribbons and feathers on our hats. Oh, we were a handsome sight, all the children gathered to sing a farewell song as we steamed out over the bar, only Bert marring the occasion by turning green and throwing up before we were even into open water. (But look at the way he has turned out: a stalwart and handy apprentice to our blacksmith and a right hand to his father’s breeding business. He is a good boy, despite his lack of talent.)

Down the coast we chugged, leaving at first light and arriving at dusk. Wellington can be a wonderful sight on a good day. The
hills to the east were rosy with the rays of the setting sun, the water calm and reflecting the same glow. And the town itself! What a transformation since I last saw it on my wretched way north, running from Bully Hayes. Tall church spires pierced the sky; handsome brick offices and sheds sat at the water’s edge; solid wooden buildings crowded around the harbour, east and west, and even climbed the low hills behind, as the far as the eye could see. We counted twenty ships in the harbour, beautiful sailing clippers, great steamers and a whole row of coastal cutters side by side against the wharves, neat as a drawer full of knives.

‘I’ll warrant there will be a fine production at the Theatre Royal,’ I remarked to Jack, who was of course more interested in the size of the horse bazaar. ‘Let us all enjoy a night at a play.’

Jack cocked an eye at me, remembering perhaps some of the bawdy farces he had seen me perform. ‘We’ll see about that. These little ones would find a circus more entertaining, don’t you think?’

Oh, a circus! If only Maria was in town. But that was too much to hope for. Foley’s was more often in Australia these days. How many years since I had ridden bareback, smelled the sawdust and dung and greasepaint? What thoughts were crowding back as our steamer nosed in among the pack! Immediately we were engulfed in the busyness of unloading passengers and goods; laden drays pulling away and empty ones taking their places; brawny labourers shouldering sacks of wheat and flax and potatoes from our hold.

The children were beside themselves. ‘Save your voice for singing,’ I advised Teddy, who was shouting with the rest at the sights. ‘Mr Pollard will not be pleased to hear a croak emerging from your throat.’ And Teddy, artiste to his core, shut his mouth on the instant.

The auditions were next morning. Jack and Mattie and the older children went to the horse bazaar I suppose; the younger ones came with Teddy, Phoebe and me. We marched in through the great door of the Theatre Royal marked STALLS. Oh, what a grand setting! I was itching to get up on stage myself. Truly, all the hopeful children gathered there were struck in awe by
the sight, even little Oberon who usually has something to say about the world around him. The hall was in darkness, the rows of crimson seats empty except for the children and parents at the back. On stage the lamps were lit, illuminating a grand scenic backdrop of a castle interior. Young Mr Tom Pollard, Mr James’s eldest son (or perhaps some other relation, it was hard to keep count — that Pollard tribe put our brood well in the shade) was conducting the trials. He stood on stage, not at all awed by the magnificence of lamps and decorations and drapes.

‘Fred!’ he called in his ringing tones. ‘Have they a nautical cloth?’

We didn’t hear the answer but all gasped as the castle slowly rose into the air and out of sight and a new scene descended silently. In less than a minute we were transported to a raging storm with lightning flashes, billowing waves and a full-rigged ship in the distance. Magnificent scene! I wondered whether Mr Marriott was still painting backdrops — the realistic style was his — but surely too much time had passed. I imagined a great lofty space must have been built to fly these scenes up and down. Later I counted at least ten scenic backdrops hanging silently far above our heads, with rigging and ropes enough for a sailing ship holding them up there. What marvellous new inventions had arrived since I was on the boards of a good theatre!

At last Mr Tom turned to the waiting young thespians and motioned us forward. One child started crying; another family hastily left the theatre; but our young ones, I am proud to say, marched up, even the littlest, as if they had no fear of such a grand theatre.

Mr Tom explained that he was auditioning for the chorus only, that all the main parts were filled, and that any chorus members taken on today would be trained for the Wellington and Whanganui seasons and then sent home. He spoke very clearly, though he must have been still in his twenties by a guess; fresh-faced and deep-voiced, he strode back and forth on the stage: quite sternly, I thought, for a man who wished to put children at their ease.

‘There will be no pay for these local performers,’ he said. ‘We will give the children board and lodging, training in the dramatic arts, a chance to perform with professional children, and we will pay for their return home.’

His eyes swept the expectant parents. ‘Have I made myself quite clear?’

We murmured our consent. Who had not read the case, well reported in the papers, of the father who took the Pollard’s Lilliputians to court because he had expected his boy to be paid four shillings a week on top of the board? The silly father lost the case, needless to say. And had to pay court costs on top. Amateurs and professionals must accept different conditions, be they child or adult, but I expect some parents do not understand these things.

Well, the auditions proceeded swiftly. Teddy fidgeted and com plained of needing the toilet; Phoebe grew more and more silent. Each child was called to the stage while a Mr Fred Derbyshire set them a few steps and routines. If that went well the child was asked to sing. Mr Jim Pollard took that session, standing up at the piano, playing with such ease and grace, I was quite lost in admiration. None of the children were particularly satisfactory, I thought, but Mr Tom Pollard was kindness itself, without holding out false hope. Each child must imitate the phrases he sang — choruses from
H.M.S. Pinafore
— and then sing a piece of their own choice.

When Phoebe’s name was called, Teddy suddenly disappeared, running out of the hall, goodness knows where. In search of somewhere to relieve himself, I suppose, the wretched boy. In my distraction I failed to hear Phoebe’s whisper, or her tug on my sleeve. The poor girl was in tears. Sweet Phoebe, who had sung so often in our school performances and at the family concert, had a bad case of stage fright. Her whispers turned to wails, and tears streamed down her pretty face, staining the pale blue silk of her costume so lovingly sewed by Mattie.

‘Don’t make me!’ she wailed. ‘I want to go home, I want Mother Mattie!’

An unfortunate statement. Phoebe is mine, of course she is, but had always called Mattie ‘Mother’. Everyone was looking at me as if I was some evil abductor, forcing some other mother’s child to perform. I took Phoebe firmly by the hand and marched up to Mr Tom.

‘Would you allow me to go up on stage with my daughter?’ I asked. ‘She has a little touch of stage fright but is quite experienced and will soon gain control of herself.’

Mr Pollard was very firm. No adults were allowed on stage. Oh, I was at my wits’ end, and would have argued had Teddy not appeared at that moment, all smiles again, as confident as his sister was not.

‘I’ll go up now, Mr Pollard,’ he said. ‘I’ll stand instead of my sister.’

Mr Tom nodded his approval. You could see he was impressed by Teddy’s clear voice and general appearance. And up he hopped, leaping to the stage rather than making a more sedate journey up the steps, but never mind.

I was worried about the accompaniment to Teddy’s solo, ‘
Voi Che Sapete
’. It is not easy. I offered to play myself, but again Mr Tom was firm. ‘Mr Jim will do his best,’ he said. ‘He’s not unfamiliar with the piece. A testing choice.’

I was soon blushing at my presumption. Jim Pollard could play it far better than I, and far faster. Teddy stopped as soon as he realised he was lagging behind. That boy was not the least fazed by the problem.