Skylark (7 page)

Jack Lacey was given no credit for his rescue. He gave me a rueful smile and a shrug as the formidable Mrs Ingram quickly sent him off again into the night, riding his own horse and leading another.

‘That Jack Lacey,’ she grumbled to me as she settled me into a comfortable chair, rattled the poker in the coal range to bring up the fire, and dragged a huge copper kettle from the back of the hob, till it sat squarely over the heat. ‘He had no business to go off like that. Where did he find you, dear?’

‘At Foley’s Circus,’ I said, gritting my teeth against the throbbing pain. ‘I am an artiste there — Miss Tournear.’

She was not impressed. ‘Doctor Ingram has been called to a birthing several miles inland. The pigeon arrived tonight with the news. How is he going to get back here to treat these poor natives without a fresh horse? Whatever was that boy doing at the circus? He’ll lose his job if I have my way. Willing grooms are two a penny.’

The kettle let off steam as if in sympathy with the woman’s displeasure. She ladled tea, sugar and milk into a large teapot, hung three mugs over one sturdy thumb and carried the lot out onto the porch.

Back inside she finally looked at my ankle, clicked her tongue and sighed. ‘Broken without a doubt. Have you brought papers?’

I had no idea what she meant. What papers? Did I need documents before I was treated?

Mrs Ingram sighed again. ‘I can see you have not brought any. The doctor prefers the
Taranaki Herald
to the
Wanganui Chronicle
, it is firmer when rolled, but will accept either.’ She frowned at me. ‘Breaks are common you know. We do not have an endless supply.’ But she handled my poor limb gently enough, settling it on a pillow then tying the pillow firmly around it with a ribbon. Suddenly she slumped into a chair in the corner. ‘Lord, I am about to drop. We’ll both have a little shut-eye till the doctor returns.’

With that she was asleep and snoring, her cup of tea and my plight ignored. The lamp burned low, the natives on the porch continued to cough. I sat there in the gloom, contemplating what desperate future I might be facing. What if the ankle were damaged permanently? Would I ever be able to perform again? Throb, throb, throb, the ankle beat time to my fears.

Little did I know that the ‘disaster’ would turn into an
opportunity
, and a turning point in my career. Doctor Ingram arrived near morning, riding the fresh horse, and leaving Jack Lacey to bring back his exhausted mount. The doctor was a little man, half the size of his wife, brisk and kindly in manner, grumbling not at all over the loss of sleep or the tardiness of his groom. He quickly rolled up a pair of newspapers from a large stack by the stove. Placing one each side of my poor ankle he bound them expertly until the whole was rigid. The relief was immediate.

‘Now,’ he said with a sweet smile and a pat on my cheek, ‘we must have no weight on that pretty little ankle for two months.’

Two months! I must have shown my dismay, for he patted me
again, most kindly and attentive, but assured me that his advice was imperative. Then out he bustled to see to the group of natives on the veranda, one of whom seemed to be in a very poor way, gasping and wheezing while the others murmured prayers or incantations. By the time Jack Lacey arrived all in a lather, with the doctor’s first horse tossing and blowing and his own foaming at the mouth, I believe the sick native had died.

The day had dawned bright and clear. The ride back to Foley’s Circus in the doctor’s dog-cart should have been a delight, but all I could think of was those two months of inaction, and how I should manage. Jack Lacey seemed to be in the best of moods and chatted on about plans and schemes. I couldn’t pay attention; his cheery manner only disheartened me further.

At Castlecliff the circus was packing again. All was lively bustle and commotion. Mr Foley’s pride and joy, his pair of zebras — no longer ‘domesticated’ it would seem — had somehow broken loose and were heading for the beach. Mr Foley, riding on Lucy, was trying to head them off, while Mr Rossiter held desperately to the rope securing the two-headed goat, which seemed to have the same wandering intentions. No one was interested in my arrival.

‘Put me down near Maria,’ I mumbled, close to tears. Maria sat on a barrel, dressed in her usual flamboyant fashion, laughing at the antics all around.

‘Oh Lily,’ she gasped when she saw me, ‘the most wonderful news!’ Then saw my gloomy face. ‘My dear, how can you frown when such a handsome fellow escorts you? Shame, shame!’ And curtseyed to Mr Lacey as if he were a gentleman, not a doctor’s groom.

‘Madame Tournear,’ said Jack, ‘you have a wonderful daughter. I am quite in love with her!’

Maria laughed even louder at that. She flounced up to the dog-cart and whispered, ‘Mrs bloody Foley is leaving the circus for good! You can’t imagine the shouting and raging that went on last night.’ She lowered her voice. ‘I am carrying Mr Foley’s child, Lily, and this time I am to bear it like any proper mother. I am to be his new wife! Oh, Lily, Lily, this is the happiest
moment of my entire existence!’

She danced a few steps and twirled her skirts. I felt both jealous of her good fortune but also a stirring of hope. If Maria was in favour, perhaps she would speak for me. Perhaps I could continue with the circus until the foot healed.

At this very moment, poised as I was between hope and despair, Mrs W.H. Foley appeared at my side. She cast a shrewd glance at the leg encased in the
Taranaki Herald
.

‘A break,’ she announced, as if she were the doctor. Then she took a deep breath, her bosom swelling; a song or pronouncement was about to emerge from her beribboned throat. ‘Well there will be no place for you here. Your
friend
’, she cast a black look towards the radiant Maria, ‘will be occupied with other matters now. I think you had better come with me.’

I looked at her in astonishment. Whatever had she in mind?

She declaimed her intentions as if to the whole world. No doubt the words were directed at her husband, but I remember them to this very day. ‘We will leave these sad little circus people to their own paltry devices. My place is in the theatre.
Thespis
is my destiny and I believe you may find a way there too. Lily, you have a Voice. I will teach you the craft, and you will meantime rehearse my lines with me and serve me in any way that a cripple might.’ She turned to Jack Lacey. ‘Wait there, young man, while I bring my bags. You may deliver the two of us to the boarding house of Mrs Swift on Taupo Quay.’

I looked quickly at Mr Foley. He nodded gravely, cocked an eyebrow at me and gave me his crooked grin. My heart sank. He was obviously prepared to let me go. Maria had disappeared. It was as Mrs Foley said — they were both involved in their own little drama and I was on my own again. My circus family! I could scarcely stop myself wailing like a lost child: for indeed I was still a child of fifteen or sixteen. I gasped, feeling as if waters were about to close over my head. Mrs Foley’s offer was my only hope. I clung to it as I would to a life-raft.

In that one moment, disaster was transformed into a future career.

W
RITTEN IN
L
ILY'S JOURNAL

An interesting aside

[Archivist's Note: My editor suggests that this excerpt casts doubt on the veracity of Lily's account. I disagree. I have endeavoured to verify the details of the events she describes and can assure the reader that Lily's story fits like a glove with other early records of theatre in this country. E. de M.]

14 August 1883

Yesterday my son Samuel found me writing, sad and alone, at my little desk in the sun-room upstairs. He fixed me with those unfortunate eyes, an accusing look accompanied by silence and pursed lips. Poor Samuel can be very trying. He has no understanding at all of the dramatic temperament. Whereas the others … But I must not judge.

I continued with my writing. Finally he came around to it.

‘I am going to tell the true version,' he said, in his dry, grating voice. Oh, we tried so hard with him, singing lessons every day, visits to the theatre, but the talent, alas, was missing. Somehow I failed to pass on suitable vocal equipment, it seemed, to this one child. His speech remained colourless; his songs tuneful enough but lacking all dramatic impact. There was simply nothing to be done.

‘What true version?' I asked. I suppose I was a little short with him. My writing time is precious. I can forget while I am writing. So much must be explained. And who knows when I might be taken?

‘The other side,' said Samuel, ‘of that memoir you are reading to us. I am writing my father's story.'

I was so astonished that I stopped writing, put down my pen, blotted the page and turned around to him.

‘You are writing?'

He shrugged as if this was of no importance and smiled, rather dryly. ‘You think me incapable? I have been writing for as long as you. So far two chapters completed.'

I do not imagine his scribbling will amount to anything of importance. What, in his life, or that of his father's, could fill a journal? But still the thought disturbed me. The secrecy. The implied criticism.

‘But my dear,' I said with a smile, ‘naturally your father will appear in
my
memoir. What can you mean when you say “true version”? You believe I have not been truthful?'

‘Yes.' Samuel stood there in a pool of sunlight, watching me. He has finally grown tall enough, broad enough, to look manly, though his black hair will hang limp, and his chin will always lack definition. What distant member of whose family does he resemble? I cannot imagine.

‘Yes, Mother,' he repeated. ‘You will embroider the truth, when it suits you, and will leave out anything that shows you in a poor light. You will make a great drama of every ordinary event.' His face suddenly broke into a smile — a rare thing; Samuel has been such a solemn boy. ‘I'll lay a wager,' he said, taking a sovereign from his pocket and holding it to wink in the sun, ‘that you have already stolen some lively event from another singer's life and attributed it to yourself.'

A wager! What fun! Who would have thought my eldest son had such a spark as to challenge me? I felt I must rise to his bait.

‘Samuel, I am an artiste. It is perfectly acceptable that in writing my life I should — embroider, as you put it. I would rather say heighten the drama, draw in the audience, lead the reader into a release of emotions. If there is no drama, who will be interested? And haven't you all enjoyed our evening readings? You cannot deny it.' I paused for a moment, as if searching my memory, rose
from my chair, laid a delicate hand on my heart and let my voice ring out. ‘But would I steal another person's story? Never! Never! I accept your wager!'

Samuel laughed! He placed the sovereign on the mantelpiece among my trophies, flung back his head and roared with laughter. Such a rich, ringing tone! Truly deep and from the diaphragm. Has his voice matured at last? I was quite distracted. Perhaps he is simply a late developer.

‘Mother, you are outrageous. Count on it: I will catch you out. Father will tell me his version so now we can compare. Shall we double the wager?'

Naturally I was tempted. But we must count our pennies these days. ‘This wager,' I said, ‘will cut both ways. Will
you
write the truth, I wonder, Samuel?'

His countenance sobered. ‘I have. I will. Mattie says that I may read aloud to the family too. Now that we have reached Father in your story, I will begin. We will hear both versions.'

‘Then make sure,' I said, lowering my chin, deepening my voice so that my words might inspire, ‘that at least you write with spirit. Do not fear to show emotion. Some part of your heart, Samuel, carries my blood: the heritage of France. Let it guide you.'

He left the room without another word. I sat, looking out into the garden. The sun slid behind the trees but I sat on.

I feared, of course, what he would write about Teddy.

[Archivist's Note: Lily's journal jumps here. Her memoir continues some months later when she has shifted to Wellington. I have found, in the second journal, a brief and rather different account of events on that fateful night when she broke her ankle. The following two excerpts are from the second journal. The writer is Samuel Lacey. Samuel's writing is not as colourful as Lily's, but you will find it robust enough, I believe, to warrant inclusion. E. de M.]

[Archivist’s Note: An excerpt from Samuel’s introductory description of his father. E. de M.]

My father will never write his own story. He says he is a man of deeds not words. But, in this cold, sad winter, while he is stuck indoors with his injury, unable to ride, he is happy enough to talk. He will never criticise Mother. Never. But I hope that in writing down his story I will uncover some home truths. Already I am beginning to hear a different version.

My father, Jack Lacey, is a strong and upright man. He stands five foot nine in his stockinged feet, and at forty-three years of age he still has hair as black and luxuriant as when he was a lad. He breeds horses and breaks them in for the domestic market. His nature is sunny, which is fortunate in the circumstances. He possesses a laugh that rings throughout the house; it cannot be resisted. All declare that he is handsome. Teddy used to laugh and say he was a dandy — that he could be on the stage just like Mother. But dressing carefully in high boots, smart coat-tails and white cravat is simply part of his nature: he is a horseman and desires the world to know it.

When Father travels down the valley to the horse bazaar in Whanganui, it is a marvel to see. His string of horses — all bays or blacks — walk obediently behind him, while he rides on Sylvan
or Orlando. (Mother always names his mounts.) All his horses are strong-limbed, their coats glistening with good health: before the sale they are fed for a week on good oats and oaten hay to bring up the spirit in them. He is well known at the bazaar; Lacey mounts will always fetch the best price.

I love to go to the bazaar with him; he is a different man there, as spirited as his horses, tipping his hat to the ladies and enjoying the banter and rivalry among the men.

Though in recent times there has not been so much to celebrate. He is desperately lonely when Mother is not at home.

[Archivist’s Note: The following is a later excerpt from Samuel’s Journal. E. de M.]

[…] At this time my father was quite besotted with the circus performer Miss Tornear [
sic throughout
]. He disregarded the security of a permanent job. (He was a well-regarded groom. He could break in a horse and gentle it until the beast was suitable for the most timid of lady riders.) He followed the circus wherever it travelled, picking up work here and there. Once, in his home town of Whanganui, he rescued Miss Tornear from a dangerous fall. Her horse bolted on Castlecliff Beach. Riding alongside, he managed to bring the steed to a halt, but not before she tumbled to the ground and suffered a broken bone. Quickly he carried her to the home of Doctor Horatio Ingram, whom he served as groom. That good doctor splinted the limb, and my father asked Doctor Ingram to take the cost from his own wages.

On returning the lady to the circus, my father learned that her position as bareback rider and high-wire artiste was in jeopardy. Mr Foley (proprietor) was understandably unwilling to employ a cripple. Without a moment’s hesitation, and in front of the assembled circus folk, my father leaped from his horse, plunged to one knee and proposed marriage to Miss Tornear.

‘I will give you a fine and upright life and am able to earn a good enough wage to support us both,’ he cried.

Miss Tornear appeared thoughtful at this offer of rescue, but before she had chance to reply, the wife of the proprietor, a dominating and self-opinionated lady, spoke directly to her,
completely ignoring my father, who remained on his knees.

‘I have a use for you in the theatre,’ she boomed. ‘You will come with me to Wellington to be my assistant. Possibly,’ she added, ‘my understudy.’

It seemed that Foley and his wife were parting ways. Whanganui gossip suggested unfaithfulness on the part of both husband and wife. The circus would continue north without Mrs Foley who intended, she said, to star in a new theatrical company in Wellington. Miss Tornear would apparently be useful in rehearsing that woman’s lines and acting as general dogsbody. Hardly a prospect to compete with a respectable life as wife of my father.

Alas, Miss Tornear, the love of my father’s life, was tempted by the dubious carrot Mrs W.H. Foley offered. Throughout her life, theatrical performance acted as a lure from the more seemly womanly duties of wife and mother.

Undeterred, my father left the employ of Doctor Horatio Ingram, mounted Domino and set off on the long, dusty track towards Wellington.

[Archivist’s Note: At this place in Samuel’s journal the reader will notice a distinct change in style. Perhaps his mother’s admonishments (see page 64) have borne fruit. E. de M.]

Jack Lacey rides into Wellington on a blustery cold day, no money in his pocket, no feed for his horse, no promise of shelter for man or beast. Waves, driven by the stormy wind, break over the road, drenching him. He draws alongside a heavily laden cart, its load protected beneath an old tarpaulin. The carter, huddled under a sacking coat, raises a hand in greeting.

‘Where’s our summer gone, then?’ he grumbles. ‘One miserable storm after another.’

Jack nods. ‘Would you know of work for a groom or
stable-hand
in these parts?’

The carter chews on his moustache for a bit. ‘You looking for fancy work? There’s a few big houses now with their own stables.’

Jack shrugs. ‘I worked for a doctor up north. It wasn’t too fancy. Grooming is hard work, fancy or rough. I was thinking maybe a hotel. Somewhere in town.’

‘Ah well, take your pick. The place is growing like a mushroom. We’ve got celebrations in a week or two — fifteen years since the first settlers arrived. They’ll be riding or coaching in from all around, I reckon. Experienced grooms will be in short supply. Try the Shamrock. Or Baron’s. The Baron has a big two-storey place. Von Alzdorf runs a decent inn. Try him.’

Jack nods. ‘Have you heard of theatrical performances in town?’ he asks, trying to keep his voice casual.

The carter gives him a stern look. ‘You want to stay away from that sort. You would never want to groom for them. They’d as like take your services and then scarper before any money left their wallets. Rough trade, theatre folk.’

‘Oh?’ Jack wants to hear more. ‘You’ve met theatre folk?’

‘Once was enough,’ growls the carter. ‘Picked up three trunks full of costumes from the jetty, they come south on the coastal steamer. Delivered same to Barry’s Ship Hotel.’ He spits. ‘Now
there’s
an establishment I would not recommend. The fancy lady what owned the trunks seemed to think a free ticket to the evening show would be a fit payment! One ticket to a godless entertainment good only for the lowest mechanicals. And drunkards.’ He wraps his sacking cape more tightly around his broad shoulders. ‘No lad, stay away from that nest of Satan. Any preacher will tell you.’

Jack can think of nothing to say. What has his Miss Tournear got herself into? The circus seemed a fine skilful occupation, though perhaps not best suited to a young lady. Whatever can theatrical performances be like? Mrs Foley seemed to consider the theatre to be a cut above circus. Can the carter be right? If so, his love will need a speedy rescue from a life of sin. He nods grimly. No time to be lost.

The carter gives directions to the Baron’s on Willis Street. Jack urges tired Domino into a trot. Soon they are surrounded by rows of wooden buildings. Simple homes and shacks give way to established stores, churches, a big two-storey bank, wharf sheds and hotels. In the harbour, five large ships lie at anchor, while two others are tied up at the jetties. Two Maori women collect
shellfish, their ankles deep in mud at the water’s edge. Seagulls circle above them, crying.

Willis Street is wider and cleaner than the narrow, winding Lambton Quay down which he has travelled. Carts and drays are delivering or taking away supplies; a smart carriage clops past; in front of a barber’s shop a knot of men are chatting, their pipes creating a little tobacco cloud above their heads. And surely this is the Baron himself, standing in the doorway of his hotel, wide moustaches waxed and shining in the morning sun, his generous belly crossed by gold watch-chain. The Baron raises his topper to a passing gentleman, who responds in like manner. Jack watches them standing, discoursing at their ease, and wishes for the same confidence, the same air of wealth. The Baron slaps his thigh and laughs hugely. Jack dismounts, ties Domino to the hitching rail and waits until this imposing man is free.

‘Well, now.’ Baron Alzdorf turns to Jack with a nod. The topper is not lifted this time. ‘Welcome, Sir, to the Baron. Are you after a room? A nice hot meal?’

Jack takes a deep breath, stands tall. ‘I would gladly take both, Sir, but am out of pocket. I’m told you have a good stable.’

The Baron nods slowly, eyeing Jack.

‘Well, Sir, I am a good groom. Or, if necessary,’ he adds, noticing the Baron’s frown, ‘a useful stable-hand.’

The Baron steps over to Domino, who turns his dark head to blow at the newcomer. The big man runs his hands over Domino’s flanks, lifts the saddle-flap.

‘We’ve come a long way,’ says Jack, nervous at this scrutiny. ‘She’s not in the best condition …’

‘Experience?’ asks the Baron, satisfied now, it seems, with his inspection.

‘Groom for Doctor Horatio Ingram of Whanganui. Charged to keep four big riding horses fit and ready for distance runs; and a pony for his wife’s dog-cart.’

The Baron smiles at last. ‘I like your horse, Sir. He’s a credit to you. And I need a groom. What say you to fifteen shillings a week and board?’

Jack dares to smile back. ‘And stabling for Domino?’

The Baron laughs out loud. ‘Cheeky fellow! The stables are for paying guests. And my own hire horses. Do you want me to hire out your Domino?’

‘No, Sir. Domino is for me only.’

‘I have two acres out on Te Aro Flat. If guests are in town for a week, I graze their mounts out there. Domino can join them. Are we agreed?’

Jack wants to say that he earned sixteen shillings from Doctor Ingram, but he can’t get the words out.

‘Jack Lacey,’ he says, offering a hand.

The Baron crushes it. ‘Welcome to Baron’s. The safest hotel in town.’ He pats the solid wall proudly. ‘My first establishment, she come down in forty-eight. Big quake. This establishment here is double wall, lathe and plaster: top storey braced with timber. Chimney braced with iron. My safe castle. My dear wife, she loves this hotel.’

Jack is intrigued to see a tear in the big man’s eye. Perhaps his dear wife was frightened by the last earthquake, and he has built this imposing building to reassure her.

He leads Domino up the alley, stepping through
horse-droppings
and garbage, to find the stables. Miss Tornear, he thinks, never fear. I have come to rescue you.