by Vicky Adin
Tillie, Louisa and Bethan stood alongside Gwenna and stared at the door where their two customers had just departed, almost too dismayed to say anything.
“Are people still that narrow-minded in this day and age?” asked Gwenna. “I’d never given it any thought.”
“Nor me,” admitted Bethan. “Even though it’s obvious you haven’t yet reached the age of majority.”
“But widows have greater freedoms,” said Louisa more hopefully.
As a wholesaler, her status didn’t matter. She was trading under her father’s name, and as long as she fulfilled the orders, no one had any complaints. It seemed being seen as ‘the person in charge’ in a retail environment was more than some people would tolerate, and shouting Gwenna’s across the signage would not help.
“Is that why Beresford Street didn’t work as I’d hoped?” Gwenna wondered. “People thought me too young. I don’t feel young. Some days I feel as though I’ve lived two lifetimes already.”
“Don’t upset yourself, dear,” warned Bethan.
Shaking away her misgivings, Gwenna muttered, “But there’s nothing we can do about it.”
“Yes there is,” said Louisa. “Let Mam be seen as the owner. She is Mrs Price, George’s widow. She can say it’s called Gwenna’s to fulfil your father’s wish.”
“That’s not at all right, Louisa,” argued Bethan. “Gwenna deserves all the credit. She’s the one with the ideas and the skills. I’d never have done anything like this.”
Her sisters ignored the thunderous scowl on Gwenna’s face.
“Maybe not, Mam,” coaxed Louisa, “but look at it this way: we need to win people back after the disaster at the house ...”
“True, Mam. We do,” added Tillie. “We can’t take the risk of anything putting them off.”
“You don’t have to say anything that’s not true,” Louisa encouraged. “Just say you are Mrs Price and your daughter Gwenna is the sweet maker. Over time, it won’t matter who the owner is. Meanwhile, I suggest you and I become the face of the shop, and Gwenna and Tillie can go home and do all the work.” With a wink and a smile, her teasing was taken in the manner it was intended.
“I’m happy with that,” Tillie agreed. “Gwenna isn’t strong enough to do both yet, and I’ll make enough fudge to match the sales. We’re still not going to sell it wholesale, and I can give Mam a rest.” Tillie put her arm around Bethan’s shoulder. “You won’t have to work every day, Mam.”
Tillie turned to her sister. “Come on. Cheer up, Gwennie. It’s not that bad. We’ll have more time to spend with Olwen and Georgie. You’d like that, I know. And Charlie. He’ll be happy as Larry running off with his handcart, and I can keep an eye on you and make sure you don’t do too much. And you and Hugh are a great team.”
The four women reached an agreement, putting Louisa in charge of the roster so the three of them took turns in the shop and Gwenna stayed at home. When she was stronger, and if the business took off as they believed it would, they could re-evaluate the situation. Gwenna still frowned at the suggestions, but at last Bethan saw the value in the arrangement.
At the sound of the bell tinkling above the door, the Price women turned to face the customer coming in. The woman stopped in her tracks in shock at the daunting effect of having four salespeople ready to serve her.
Bethan was the first to recover. “Thank you, girls,” she said, waving them away, and walked towards the new customer. “Welcome to Gwenna’s. I’m Mrs Price and my daughter Gwenna is the sweet maker. How may I help you?”
Dismissed from the shop, Tillie returned home to relieve Charlie of the job of minding the two little ones. School holidays or not, they couldn’t leave him in charge for too long, even with Hugh within calling distance.
Gwenna said she wanted to check out the route of the next day’s procession. “They’ll be out rehearsing it all today, and I want to see how close we can get. It would be wonderful if Mam could see them.”
She didn’t mention her other idea to Tillie.
* * *
The morning of the royal visit, Gwenna and Hugh had a row – the only time in her life she could remember where they had disagreed so much it was difficult to speak coherently to one another.
“But Hugh, you must,” insisted Gwenna.
“I’m not going and that’s final.”
“But you deserve it. You know you do.”
“It’s not a matter of whether I deserve it or not, Gwenna. It’s the principle. Parading us all in front of the duke at Potter’s ground and handing out medals to the contingents who went to South Africa is not the answer.”
“Why not? You must tell me, Hugh. Why won’t you accept the medal?”
“Gwenna, will you stop. I’ve told you often enough I don’t want to talk about it. I will never talk about it, and neither will I accept their stupid medal.”
Hugh grabbed his hat from behind the door and scuttled down the back steps from the kitchen and was out of sight before Gwenna could catch up.
She was about to chase after him when Charlie called her. “Where are we going with these handcarts, Gwenna?”
After walking the one-and-a-half-mile route from the shop to the wharf the afternoon before, Gwenna had come back bubbling with ideas. The streets had been adorned with ceremonial arches and lined with pennants and flags. Schoolchildren had made paper roses to be thrown during the procession, but she’d be disappointed to learn that plans for a display of Maori canoes in the harbour, as part of the welcome, had been suddenly cancelled. The one in the museum was magnificent, and she’d have loved to see the Maoris in their canoes on the water.
She’d stood in awe of the display in Kohn’s shop showing a puriri mallet with a white maire handle and silver insert. But what impressed her most was the engraved, solid silver trowel with its polished greenstone handle, which the duchess would use when she laid the foundation stone at the Queen Victoria School for Maori Girls on Wednesday.
So much was happening in the town, with so many activities in so many places. Thousands of visitors would throng the streets; the newspapers wrote of little else. She had to be part of it.
She’d sent Charlie to the shop to collect her handcart with the curved sign fastened over the top and her name painted on both sides. Now, he was back, and she could do nothing about Hugh until later.
Together they filled both handcarts with specially printed bags full of sweets, plus dozens of lollipops of various sizes, and the more economical twists of paper filled with smaller, cheaper lollies. Charlie had a fistful of the trade cards she’d had reprinted with the new location, and so armed, the two of them headed off.
Well ahead of the time when the crowds would gather and long before the procession could be expected, Gwenna and Charlie positioned themselves on the Albert Park corner of Princes Street, opposite the Police Barracks. So far, the rain had not amounted to much, although Gwenna had covered the handcarts with thin, India rubber sheeting to protect them until the crowds arrived.
If all went well, they would see the duke and duchess pass under the grandly decorated archway by the library further down the street and still have time to move along to the corner with O’Rorke Street, where the procession would turn to approach Government House at the far end of Princes Street.
Huge crowds were expected at the start, where the officials were and where all the entertainment would take place. The Municipal Buildings would also attract a much larger crowd than towards the end, but it gave Gwenna space to manoeuvre. She’d not be able to come up with a plan where she could approach the duchess directly, but she’d had another idea.
If all went well, Hugh would capture a photograph of the royal carriage, the handcart and name sign – and Gwenna as she threw handfuls of sweets in the air hoping some would land in the royal carriage. If the newspapers didn’t capture the moment, she could give them her photo, and with luck she’d make the headlines.
The proximity to the Police Barracks unnerved Gwenna a little
. While she wasn’t breaking any laws, if she obstructed the crowds or caused a commotion and attracted their attention, she didn’t know what would happen. Neither was she certain she would achieve her aim. It all depended on Hugh. Except now she was worried he wouldn’t come, after their row.
She longed to let Charlie stand on the O’Rorke Street corner by himself. That way they could guarantee to be in the right spot, but her concern people would hassle him or take advantage was greater and held her back. Theft was a likely possibility, but losing a few boiled sweets or lollipops didn’t worry her as much as Charlie getting hurt again.
He would have to wait until they both moved into position, or Hugh arrived.
Charlie was in his element as a hawker and sold many of the lollies to passers-by and amongst those gathering to wait as the rain fell more heavily. Being small enough, he ducked under umbrellas with ease and squeezed between people to offer his wares. His cheeky, elfin grin won over many of the damp, impatient people.
“Tickle your insides with sweet and tasty treats from Gwenna’s,” he called. “Ward off the dreaded sniffles with Gwenna’s cherry menthol, mint humbugs or aniseed balls.”
Charlie could rattle off every sherbert, boiled lolly, hard jube, soft pastille, toffee and brittle that Gwenna made and often gave them unique names, names she then used in the shop.
Gwenna had tried her best to make sure the whole family would have a chance to see the procession, but there were some things beyond her control. She’d told Louisa and Bethan to shut the shop at one o’clock so they could join Tillie and the children to watch. That’s if Louisa came – she’d insisted she had no time for royalty and intended to keep the shop open. Gwenna hadn’t bothered to argue.
Gwenna could do nothing to help Tom either, who would be lucky to get away from the counter, but the management had promised staff they would see the parade – if only for a few moments.
Standing on the corner, Gwenna could see a large number of children gathering further down Wellesley Street. Seeing the way they were dressed, she realised they would be the living flag children.
“Charlie,” she called. “Quick, leave your cart here with mine and run to the shop. Tell Mam to come now. Quick as you can, lad. Never mind the others, they’ll manage. Tell her she’ll be able to see the children’s flag if she does.”
Charlie ran off through the lanes and up Liverpool Street, returning half an hour later with a harried and somewhat bedraggled Bethan clutching her hat, an umbrella tucked under her arm.
Gwenna kissed her mother’s cheek. “Sorry to hurry you so much, Mam, but look. There.” Gwenna pointed lower down and across the street. “You said you wanted to see the children. If you stand your ground here you’ll see the duke and duchess pass and, with luck, the procession won’t block your view of the children.”
An infectious anticipation grew as time passed. Music could be heard in the distance, and people happily chatted with strangers, bunched up as they were under umbrellas. Charlie continued to duck and dive everywhere, returning to the carts when he needed another handful of lollipops or to stuff his pockets with twists.
After the long wait, the mood shifted and tension mounted as people bumped against each other, jostling for the best view. At long last, the parade leaders came into sight. Captain Reid, resplendent in his uniform, came first, followed by two companies of Mounted Rifles, several other mounted officers and outriders, and two carriages carrying people Gwenna did not know. If the heightened noise coming up the street was anything to go by, the royal carriage was approaching. The crowds cheered, hats and handkerchiefs waving.
Gwenna panicked for a moment when she couldn’t see Charlie, but then she spotted him through the crowd. When or how he’d got across to the other side of the road she would never know, but he stood comparatively alone next to her cart.
“I can’t see the children any more,” Bethan protested, rising on tiptoes to get a better view.
About to point towards the royal carriage, where the duke stood facing forward, in uniform, and the duchess, dressed in black holding an umbrella, sat on the other side, Gwenna saw Bethan erupt from the crowd and run across the road in front of the horses.
Gwenna started to follow, intending to pull her back from harm’s way, but by then Bethan was standing in the road on the other side of the carriage admiring the living Union Jack in all its glory. Ignoring the rain, and clasping her hands in front of her in glee, Bethan was unaware of the commotion she had caused.
Amid shouts, the rattle of harness, whinnying horses and commands to ‘stop’, the driver pulled the carriage to a standstill. Gwenna took her chance. To her amazement, Charlie had rushed to Bethan’s aid too, pushing her small handcart in front of him.
The three of them stood in the middle of the road – effectively in the middle of the procession, a yard or so from the royal carriage – with Gwenna’s name emblazoned at the top of the cart for all to see. Quick-thinking Charlie grabbed several bags of the best and most expensive sweets and ran towards the duchess. An escort rider tried to block his way, but Charlie was too slick.
His young voice could be heard clearly. “Sorry if my mam scared you, duchess. She’s so excited to see you. Would you like some of Gwenna’s sweets to make up for it?”
The world around them seemed to stop. Gwenna inched towards Charlie, hoping the man on the horse wouldn’t push her to one side, but she had to get Charlie away from the carriage before he was arrested or ... or something. She couldn’t even begin to imagine what they’d do to a nine-year-old boy.
From nowhere, men with cameras appeared and flashes went off in all directions.
“Who is Gwenna?” asked an English voice, accepting Charlie’s proffered bags.
“My sister.” Charlie turned his head to see if he could find her. “Here she is. She makes Gwenna’s Sweet Treats.”
A soggy Gwenna blushed from head to toe as Charlie pointed and all eyes fell on her. She bobbed a curtsy. “I do apologise, Your Royal Highness.” She hissed at Charlie. “Come here, Charlie.” The duchess nodded in response.
By this time, the guards had dismounted and briskly escorted Gwenna, Bethan and Charlie off the road, while another pushed the handcart out of the way. The procession carried on its way without a backward glance, and Gwenna breathed a sigh of relief they hadn’t been taken to the police barracks and thrown in the cells.
The whole event had taken no more than a couple of minutes.
Bethan’s eyes bulged like those of a frightened rabbit, Charlie grinned from ear to ear, he was that pleased with himself, and Gwenna couldn’t scold either of them. The handcart had tipped over and the remaining sweets scattered on the ground were soon picked up by passing opportunists. Gwenna didn’t care.
Nothing had turned out as she planned, but what a story they had to tell. One that would be handed down from generation to generation.
38
Hope reigns supreme
September 1901
Not long after dawn, Gwenna bounded down the stairs, full of the joys of spring. In the three months since the royal visit, life had turned around, thanks in no small part to their adventure.
The Auckland Weekly News was quick to print the photographs of Gwenna curtsying, Charlie handing a package to the duchess, Bethan behind the handcart and Gwenna’s name clearly readable. The captions were in awe of a little boy who’d been brave enough to talk to the duchess. Brave wasn’t how Gwenna described him – more like reckless and foolhardy.
The affair with the duchess had become the talk of the town, and everyone wanted to see for themselves what all the fuss was about. Stories began circulating about who had seen what; the press interviewed her, and the event grew in people’s minds.
The publicity proved advantageous, and the uniformed equerry attracted a lot more attention as he rode along Karangahape Road to deliver a missive from the duchess herself. The handwritten note on royal paper was brief:
Please thank your young brother for p
resenting me with Gwenna’s sweets, which are some of the finest I’ve tasted.
I will remember the occasion with fondness.
HRH Princess Mary, Duchess of Cornwall and York
Gwenna framed the newspaper cuttings and the handwritten note, and displayed them prominently in the window. But the photograph she treasured the most and kept to herself was the one Hugh had taken. He had been there after all.
In the days following, Mam and Louisa performed miracles in the shop while Gwenna, Hugh and Tillie were at a stretch to keep up with the sweet and fudge making. Although they praised Gwenna, in her view, Bethan’s and Louisa’s engaging way with the customers was responsible for their burgeoning success. By the end of the month, custom had eased to more manageable levels but word had got around and they had orders to fill for weeks ahead. ‘Gwenna’s’ had become a fixture.
The new location was ideal, even with the disruptions caused by men digging up the road in preparation for the expected arrival of the electric trams the following year. Progress is what Johnno would have called it, and while Gwenna would miss the horse trams, she liked the idea of the car she’d seen being driven around town. Maybe, one day, she would own one.
To top off Gwenna’s joy, her health was back to normal. The doctor confirmed she was as fit as any young woman should be, which she put down to three things: love, happiness and success.
How could she not respond to the love everyone showered on her? Which, in turn, gave her the happiness she’d sought but had never opened herself up to. Gone was the anxiety attached to failure and with it returned the enjoyment of life. She was putting on weight and looked as happy as she felt.
Adding to her happiness was Georgie, toddling around and getting into endless mischief with his inquisitive nature, but all he had to say was ‘Mam’ and he was forgiven.
Bethan was delighted. “It does my heart good to see you recovered, Gwenna. I worried needlessly, it seems, and now your chance has come, my dear. Together, you and Hugh will make something of the business now.”
