Mrs. M

by Luke Slattery

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  In the shadowed corner of my room of memories stands a lovely pine chest with handles of faded vermilion modelled on the waratah. Each of its five drawers is stencilled with a species of bird native to the Great Southern Land: a gallery of kookaburras decorates the first; the emu, earthbound beneath its thatch of feathers, the second; the crimson rosella graces the third; the warbling magpie the fourth; while the fifth celebrates the glorious rose-breasted cockatoo. It’s in this, the fifth drawer, that I find four spare candles lying loose beside a brass candleholder encrusted with wax. As soon as the dawn breaks I will search the butler’s former quarters for the box of spares. It will be, by my reckoning, another hour.

  My body is anchored to this island where my cold husband lies. But my mind soars to the other, as if in a dream. I regret nothing from my time there, and yet I lament so much. I feel most acutely the absence of so many Antipodean oddities from my life. It used, so often, to amuse. How preposterous a thing is an emu, a kookaburra’s laugh, a magpie’s chortle, a lumbering wombat, a sleepy koala. Even the kangaroo! Eccentrics — all of them. I miss the infinite space of land, sea and sky. The illusion of freedom, even though there was little of it in my role. My stone seat. The scent of eucalyptus. And a set of lively leaf-green eyes.

  I returned to my homeland for my husband’s burial, riding in a carriage at the head of the funeral cortège as it wound its way through the streets of London. It was midsummer; almost a year ago today. Death brought to Macquarie the dignity he was denied in his last years: a number of dukes, earls and lords joined the procession to the London docks for the journey by ship to Mull. Word was sent ahead to prepare the chancel of Iona Abbey — the ravaged roof of the nave lay open to the elements — and to assemble as many friends and relatives as could make the journey. Macquarie, despite his later indignities, ended his life with the rank of Major General; few of Ulva’s sons had risen or ventured so far.

  *

  On the day of the funeral a clear sky glorifies the scattered isles and islets, like so many fallen stars. Duruga: I hear Bungaree say the word and recall his fluttering voice.

  Ben More — imperious and unchanged as men and women live and die — rears serenely over the island. I wake to my first morning of widowhood on Mull and take a walk in the grounds of the house at Gruline. There is no wind; everything is hushed, just as it had been on the morning he proposed to me long ago.

  Macquarie lies in state beneath the roof of what I had imagined would one day be a keeper’s cottage. The Campbell clan — brothers and sisters, nephews and nieces — gathers around to save me from myself. But my mourning has scarcely begun when they disperse again to Oban, Inverness, Glasgow — there are even cousins at Kirkwall living among the descendants of the Vikings. Death is so commonplace in these battered isles that the bereaved are no sooner revived, soothed, and fortified by kin than they are farewelled and left alone with their sorrows.

  Some six months after my clan departs the island, my butler does, too. ‘I cannot live on promissory notes alone, madam,’ he says. ‘I hope you understand. Or will come to understand.’ He is a big-chested fellow, with a neck oozing over his collar, colourless hair and small stiff eyes, all of which give him a porcine appearance. He informs me of his departure with his hat in one hand, his heavy portmanteau in the other, and a carriage waiting at the gate. ‘I know the economy of this household better than anyone,’ he adds in his supercilious way. ‘Your reserves run low. The funeral was costly enough. And the chapel you are building to house your husband’s glorious’ — do I detect a satirical note? — ‘remains will drain you of every last shilling. Why, the house here is so draughty that in a high wind it is all I can do to keep the candles and the fires alight at night!’

  I cannot say that he was wrong in any of his assessments, though it was most certainly wrong of him to make off with a candelabrum and God knows what else in that heavy portmanteau. He crunched along the path to his carriage with his weight thrown to one side so that he could carry the thing.

  The closest Campbell to me, my sister Margaret, lives but ten miles away in a house with a view of the Ulva Sound. After the wake she pressed her hand onto mine and promised to call regularly. Through the summer and autumn she pays several visits and on the days I repay the favour I cannot help but look, even when there is no clearing in the clouds, towards Ulva. In winter Margaret leaves the house for London. The islands are too hard, she says. She prefers the lights of the city. And so I spend the dark months — the winter months — alone. Alone, but not quite.

  One morning in early December I wake a little after dawn to find a crust of frost upon the lawn and icicles bearding the eaves. A few frozen copper leaves still cling resolutely to the boughs. Everything looks as if it has been fashioned from coloured glass. From the kitchen window I spy the familiar figure of a buck. Head bent to the ground on his splendid tawny neck, he is demolishing a carrot top in the kitchen garden.

  The deer seems too thin for early winter, so I let him breakfast on my carrots. After a time I feel it better to discourage him, for his own good. If the footman happens to wake this early, which is unlikely, he will chance a shot — and there is no telling what he might hit. I put on my coat and hat and open the door. The cold air sluices past me into the house as I step outside. The deer is so engrossed that at first he seems insensible to my presence. But he picks up the scent within seconds — raising his head dreamily like a pauper smelling a square meal. Then he has me in his sights. Holding those splendidly arboreal antlers aloft, he regards me with the same arrogant air I encountered on the mountains more than half a lifetime ago. But on this occasion I am no stranger to his upland realm; he is an intruder in mine. Three sharp claps of the hands — the closest sound I can make to rifle shot — and he turns, leaps gracefully and crashes through the bare woods in search of cover.

  These recollections — how tyrannical they become with the approach of dawn. They are all out of order. And yet they will not be denied! I search for the way back, which is also the way forward. Where did I leave off? Ah yes! The welcome dinner.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  John Piper is the first to arrive. When his name is announced by Hawkins I am still flying about the house with bare arms and an apron about my waist. I come to the front door with damp hands, drawing my hair back behind my ears to offer the Captain my cheek. It is kissed with enthusiasm and a somewhat tart, vinous waft. I wonder if, toasting the good life at his harbourside villa, he has not made a head start.

  ‘I appear to be early,’ Piper apologises, taking his gold watch from the pocket of a handsome frockcoat, crimson with black lapels, and regards it quizzically.

  ‘Not at all,’ I say. ‘The others are late.’ I draw a slow, deep breath, for Piper is a good half an hour awry. ‘Let me take you to the Governor,’ I urge. ‘He is consulting his records.’

  ‘I can well understand his haste!’ trumpets Piper. ‘Bigge will soon be running a cold eye over every line of the accounts. He has been here less than a day and I have already received word that he would like to see mine. Damned unpleasant business! Quite unnecessary.’

  Piper is tall — almost as tall as Macquarie — with handsome mutton-chop whiskers and, above them, a thatch of dark, thinning hair. He does not bother, as do many with this affliction, to lay a pomaded thatch over a shining scalp. And it is much to his credit. I always find that a man who comports himself with few cares for such minor imperfections of physique stands a very good chance that they will go unnoticed by a lady; at the very least, will be excused. Self-assurance, for a man, is the greatest of all cosmetics.

  I lead him to the office, where the Governor is engrossed in his cares. I knock and stand at the open door, holding out an arm to bar Piper. The documents tied with the red ribbon that he left with in the morning, they returned with him barely an hour ago and lie across his desk. My eyes fall on the curious scroll. ‘Oh, yes,’ he says. ‘A list of public works completed in
my time.’ I linger in silence to draw him out. ‘Copied by Howe for safe-keeping,’ he goes on in a contained manner. ‘I thought it prudent.’

  Depositing Piper in the office, I take one last fretful tour of the household before retiring to dress.

  Over the course of the next half hour most of the guests arrive in fading light. The breeze has swung around and now comes with great verve out of the Pacific. It bears a sweet, humid shimmer and a light scent of the sea. Being a lively gust, it drains some of the heat from that white day. Spirits rise as the temperature falls. The Antipodean sun, as it sets towards the low mountains, plunges into a reef of parakeet-coloured cloud bordered with gold inlay.

  Captain Freycinet and his wife, Rose, arrive arm in arm. The Architect, in a sober black coat and bone-white neck cloth, arrives with them. He has no French but it seems not to matter — the three look to be perfectly at ease. No doubt he is utterly charmed by her liquid accent; certainly, he regards her raptly. I find myself touching the nape of my neck — where he had kissed me. That fire seems to have subsided for want of oxygen but is not, I think, extinguished.

  Rose, deep in conversation with her two chaperones, has her back to me. She wears a bold dress of magnificent red silk in a cut that seems more Latin — South American perhaps — than European. In aspect she looks not unlike a hibiscus, or some other exotic species. Rather more constrained is her husband’s dress — nankeen trousers tucked into fine riding boots that look as if they had never so much as glimpsed a stirrup, a chocolate brown coat and cinnamon waistcoat. I wonder if he is not, with his intense black eyes, refined nose and full, expressive mouth, the most attractive of the men. Perhaps he is, though not the most attractive to me.

  The Architect looks very fine in his sombre hues. Macquarie cuts a more dramatic figure in regimental dress that seems ever hopeful of a triumph: high-collared red coat, gold epaulets and black riding trousers with scarlet piping. He is sharing a glass of wine with Piper, gesticulating towards the township.

  The Freycinets approach with kisses, compliments and pleasantries about the weather. I ask the French captain about the likely length of his stay.

  ‘Oooooh,’ he says with a confounded look. He closes his eyes as if turning over the question, opens them and shrugs his shoulders. ‘Ça dépend,’ he says, looking to his wife.

  It seems a simple enough query. But it has prompted some unspoken complexity.

  Turning to less conjectural questions I gesture towards Freycinet’s coat.

  ‘You do not wear uniform to formal engagements on land?’ I ask.

  ‘Not if I don’t wish to,’ Freycinet replies with a restless social gaze that spins about the company.

  ‘For your husband,’ says Rose as she leans forward, ‘it is, perhaps, important … you know … to show,’ and here she draws herself up, squares her bare shoulders and puckers her pretty, painted mouth. ‘But for us. Boof! Not really.’

  Placing a firm hand on my arm, Rose leans forward to ask if ‘ponch’ is served. I shake my head. ‘Dommage,’ is all she says.

  With the arrival of Commissioner Bigge I go to join my husband. Bigge is accompanied by his private secretary, Scott, who is significantly taller; he bows and offers a few bland courtesies as he is introduced, but otherwise seems sour and put out. I am privately chagrined that his name is not Little, for would they not have made a grand comic duo!

  ‘I bring apologies from John Macarthur,’ says Bigge, offering a limp ambivalent hand to Macquarie. ‘He has felt compelled to decline the invitation on account of some rural emergency or other at the Cowpastures.’

  ‘A native raid, I wonder?’ I can see Macquarie is not so much concerned for Macarthur as fearful of renewed hostilities so close to town.

  ‘He was not specific. But I doubt anything quite so dramatic. His letter, which was delivered to me in the late afternoon, simply mentions the necessity of remaining overnight on the farm.’

  ‘Still. It is strange that the rejection did not come directly to me,’ Macquarie splutters in a wounded tone. ‘As of course the invitation had come from my office.’ Honestly, I believe his hide thins with age.

  He raises a hand to one of the servants from Piper’s villa, who scuttles over. The young man is rather plump and his black coat and trousers, clearly on loan, are too tight.

  Bigge seems to pick up the scent of frailty. ‘That he should prefer the company of ten thousand sheep to this sparkling group,’ he says with a mocking laugh. ‘Strange indeed.’ He will not look Macquarie directly in the eye, or at least not for long.

  The night is coming on now and the Governor draws the group to him in his office to toast the representatives of two European kingdoms now at peace. Glasses are charged, raised and drained, although the toast, I note, fails to arouse any great feelings of bonhomie. Except for a new triptych of the growing town that moves from the civic to the bucolic in one sweeping panorama, the paintings on the walls of this room have not changed since the days of Foveaux: a testament to his good taste. Scott, I see, has broken off from the company to study the Baudin expedition jellyfish. The Freycinets come to join him beside this iridescent watercolour. Ignoring Scott, they talk animatedly in French. From where I am standing I catch only the artist’s name: Lesueur. I make a note to inquire later, if there is time, what they know of him.

  The doors to the dining room have been drawn back and the beautiful polished redwood dining table has been set with a forest of wine glasses and cream candles. Macquarie and I, arm in arm, lead the way from the office, back through the reception room, to the dining room. It is a festive sight. Blue and white are the colours of the plates; the borders are of gold. The colour scheme is reversed on the serving dishes with their oriental gilt filigree and borders of Delft blue. As we enter, the servants are spreading the places noisily to compensate for Macarthur’s absence.

  ‘So now we are nine,’ I say. Turning to count the guests I note with alarm the absence of one more. ‘Or, rather, eight.’

  ‘Bungaree!’ says the Governor.

  Leaving the dining room, I stride hurriedly with Macquarie to the verandah. The last gleam of sunlight has bled from the day. We have a clear silvery night beneath a fat floating moon. Bungaree is present, though he has not joined the party. Something has detained him at the fence. A guard should have warned us, but there are none at the guardhouse — they have all been dragooned to the kitchen. I have spied even Brody carrying a tray of drinks.

  I note with relief that Bungaree has dispensed with his regalia. A minor victory! He stands at the fence with his white shirt and black trousers plunging to bare feet, like a poor country preacher. Behind him stands Gooseberry, wearing an enamel necklace, and further back from her, cloaked in the night, stand several other members of the tribe, silent, statue-still, their beautiful eyes huge and unblinking.

  ‘Come,’ I motion to Bungaree. I rush fussily down the path towards him. The Governor stays behind at the verandah.

  ‘Bungaree’s mob too?’

  ‘No, of course not.’ My voice has tightened now.

  ‘They stay here then.’

  ‘No. Bring them inside the wall, if you must. The servants will take care of them. Feed them.’

  ‘And bull?’

  ‘I will have some prepared for you.’

  A victorious grin and he comes forward. His people turn to one another and settle on the lawn, chattering cheerfully. I envy them at this moment, for there is no telling what will be said over dinner between a tipsy naval officer, a cruel commissioner, a flamboyant Frenchman and his spirited wife. To say nothing of an opinionated — and oddly distant — architect. No telling if the party will end as it has begun — with a fragile accord — or how long it will last.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  When we return to the room with Bungaree the conversation has already struck up and I can hear Bigge’s mild Midlands voice purring away. The guests rise to greet the new arrival — Bigge and Scott somewhat reluctantly. The room’s walls a
re a subdued white; a decorative antidote, I pray, for the evening’s explosive potential. In the western corner — the direction of the mountains and whatever lies beyond — stands a heavy rosewood serving table. Its polished top gleams like glass and in its very centre, like a capstone, is a scalloped white soup tureen with lion’s head handles. A tower of plates stands to one side. Facing east, towards the ocean, is the generous bay window that in daylight frames a view of the Domain. From here I can usually make out my stone chair on its hummock beside the harbour, and all the gentle folds in the landscape as it retreats from the kitchen gardens towards Farm Cove, and then to the shore.

  I lead Bungaree, who has for the moment lost his liquid ease of movement and walks with uncharacteristically short stiff strides, to his place on my left. Macquarie is on my right. Beside him sits Rose, then Freycinet and the Architect, who has been quiet this past hour. Then there is Scott, and next to him Bigge, followed by John Piper. It is Piper who prods the conversation back to its starting point as the pumpkin soup is served from the white tureen.

  ‘We were just hearing of the Commissioner’s family background and his education — Oxford. Profession — the law. He has conducted inquiries on behalf of the Prince Regent into the colonies of Trinidad and South Africa. And he comes now, he admits, to right matters in the colony.’

  Macquarie’s gaze fixes itself on the mid-point of the table. The muscles at his jawline pulse and twitch. He takes a spoonful of soup.

  ‘By that,’ Piper goes on over the clinking of spoons on plates, ‘I assume you mean our attempts to conciliate the native population, the most distinguished member of which’ — he flaps a hand at Bungaree — ‘is here with us tonight.’

  Bungaree shifts in his chair and makes as if to speak, though Piper presses on.