by Sarah Lark
The man, however, smiled at her amicably. His round face looked gentle and tolerant. “No need to be so formal, dear. I’m not ‘sir,’ just Fritz.”
Violet curtsied, feeling foolish as she did. So much time and so many miles lay between her mother’s instructions on manners and this encounter.
“I’m Violet Paisley,” she said politely, but then her desperation broke through. “Please, sir, please, you need to let me in or bring my father out. Maybe he’s not even in there anymore. I mean, since you’re closing. But he really couldn’t be gone, or do you have a back door?”
Violet did not know whether she was afraid of her father and brother clandestinely making tracks, or whether she wished for it.
Fritz shook his head. “Nay, dear, I suspect he’s still inside. I always let a few new arrivals sleep here if they’ve run up a hefty bill first. Where’m I supposed to send them anyway if they can hardly walk?”
“You mean he . . .” Violet felt betrayed, and at the same time, a powerful rage welled up in her. “You mean he completely forgot about us? He looked for a place to sleep and . . .”
“Well, I wouldn’t say he ‘looked for’ it. He just fell asleep. I can go in and wake him, but I don’t know what good that would do. At this hour and in his condition, he won’t be able to find a hotel for you.”
The man looked at Violet and Rosie regretfully and seemed to consider whether he should have them come sleep in the pub as well.
Violet shook her head. “It’s not necessary, sir,” she said, and showed him the paper with the reverend’s address. “Is that far?”
Fritz whistled through his teeth. “That’s pretty far away. It’ll take you half the night on foot, especially with the little one. And a cab—”
“I have this.” Violet showed him the pound.
Fritz laughed. “Better not let your dad see that. Otherwise, I won’t get rid of him for a week,” he joked. “But it’s certainly enough for a cab to Caversham. No more will be stopping here tonight. My customers can’t afford them. You’ll have to go up a few streets, but I’ll come and help with your things.”
The barkeeper pointed to the suitcase and duffel bags. A stone was lifted from Violet’s heart. She might not have found the way to the nearest cab, and she would have been afraid in the dark streets of the docks. Fritz, however, was as honest as he looked. Violet woke Rosie, and he hoisted the bags on his wide shoulders, so Violet could concentrate on pulling her sleepy sister over the cobblestones. Rosie cried a little when she saw she was still in front of the pub.
“It’s all right. We’re going to ride to Miss and Mrs. Burton and the reverend. They won’t turn us away, that’s certain.”
She was not actually so sure, but the address and the money were from Heather. And you did not give someone that much money if you did not mean it.
Fritz led the girls past a few cranes and landing places, storage depots, and warehouses, but they arrived quickly in a lively part of town. Violet kept her eyes down again. The women strolling about at this hour were surely not churchgoers. Most of the men lurched and hollered obscenities at the girls. Violet wanted to disappear when one of them looked at her, but as she was in Fritz’s company, no one dared to speak to her. Fortunately, a cab soon arrived. Fritz knew the driver, and the men spoke amicably about the girls’ destination.
Fritz and the driver loaded the luggage, and Rosie fell back to sleep as soon as Violet helped her onto the cushioned seat. They had never traveled in such style. Violet marveled at the city’s wide streets and lavish buildings. After a little while, the regular rocking of the cab lulled her to sleep as well. She did not wake up until the driver stopped and addressed her.
“So, miss, here we are. Saint Peter’s. But there’s no light on in the parsonage. Shall I wait for you in case no one’s home?”
Violet was wide awake at once, her heart pounding with fear. Where was she supposed to go if the Burtons really had not driven home but were perhaps spending the night at Kathleen’s friend’s?
She shook her head. There might not be enough money for a trip back to the harbor, and if she had to sleep outside, this was certainly better than the docks. The house beside the small sandstone church made a good impression. It reminded her a bit of her grandparents’ house. There was a garden with flowers so bright, she could make them out in the night, and a bench too. At worst, she and Rosie would sleep there.
“We’ll manage,” she said.
Violet paid the cabdriver after he had placed the bags in front of the house. To her surprise, she received a whole handful of coins back. At the front door, she relived that day a few weeks before when she had knocked on her grandparents’ door. How happily it had begun. And how horribly it had ended.
Here there was no lion-headed door knocker but a bell that rang melodically. Exhausted, Rosie snuggled against Violet’s legs while they waited. But it did not take long. Violet saw a lamp come on inside. Right after, Peter Burton opened the door.
“Violet! How did you end up here?”
Violet had thought she was long past hunger, but when Kathleen placed bread, butter, marmalade, and ham in front of them, she could hardly stop eating. Rosie forgot all her manners. She immediately stuffed bread with honey into her mouth, using both hands. Violet scolded her when she burped, but the Burtons only waved it off with a laugh.
“She can be well-mannered tomorrow. We’ll make an exception tonight,” said Peter. “But please, Violet, tell us: How did you get here, and where is your father?”
Violet summarized her first day in Dunedin. Heather could not get over how Paisley acted.
“They can stay here, can’t they? We’re not going to send them back, are we?” Heather looked imploringly at Peter and Kathleen.
Kathleen nodded, but Peter Burton hesitated with his answer. Then he said, “They’ll stay here tonight. As I told the two of you in Wales, if it were up to me, they could stay here, or the parish would find a place for them. But the fact of the matter is still that this”—Peter swallowed a curse word—“that Jim Paisley is their father and guardian. Does he even know where you are, Violet?”
Violet pursed her lips. “Fritz knows,” she answered, “the barkeeper. He’ll tell him in the morning. He wouldn’t have understood it tonight, anyway.”
“So, you two ran away?”
“Were they supposed to have sat there outside the pub all night?” Heather asked.
Peter sighed. “We’ll just wait and see what happens tomorrow. But everyone prepare herself for an angry drunk at the door insisting on the return of his kidnapped daughters.”
Violet and Rosie slept soundly in Kathleen’s clean, rose-scented guest room. They did not wake until around nine when the smell of coffee and waffles wafted upstairs.
Heather called the girls into the kitchen. Kathleen cast a glance over at the church. “Is anyone else sleeping there tonight besides the boy?” she asked her husband. “If not, why not bring him in too? Surely he’ll be glad the girls are here.”
To Violet’s great amazement, Bulldog lumbered into the kitchen, grinning like an idiot when he saw Rosie again.
“The reverend let me sleep here,” he explained, bouncing Rosie on his knee. “Before I set out for Queenstown. There are hostels, but—”
“But I don’t like sending thirteen-year-olds there,” said Peter. “Though Bulldog no doubt knows how to look after himself. Besides, you need your money for shovels and pickaxes.” He nodded amiably at the boy. “Come, Violet, give the boy something to eat.”
Bulldog nodded eagerly. Violet knew that he had savings—after all, even on the ship he had managed to make money, which led her to believe that he had hardly made his money honestly in London. But it was better not to ask about that, or why he was traveling alone. Violet would have guessed he was fifteen or sixteen, but hardly anyone that age set out for a new country without any family or friends. Violet shoveled waffles and ham onto Bulldog’s plate and smiled at him. Even if he was a ruffian, she
felt much better now that he was with her. The reverend was a good man, to be sure, and Heather and Kathleen wanted the best for her. But the only one who had ever really protected her from Fred and her father was Bulldog.
That morning, however, there was no need for Bulldog’s special skills. By midday, Jim and Fred had still not appeared at the Burtons’. Kathleen and Heather prepared a bath for the girls and later took them into town; Kathleen wanted to visit her shop, and Heather took the sketches she had done in Europe to her studio. She made use of a few rooms above the shop—an apartment Kathleen and Claire had once shared. After her marriage to Jimmy Dunloe, Claire had moved into his apartment one floor higher, but the generous bank manager had not sought any new renters, instead leaving the apartments that belonged to the shop to Chloe and Heather. During their studies, both had lived there, but now Heather used it almost exclusively as a studio. She usually rode back to Caversham to sleep; without Chloe’s company, the apartment on Stuart Street made her gloomy.
Today, though, she was in a good mood. She enjoyed showing her work and the big, bright rooms to Violet. Perhaps the girls could even move in with her. Violet could work in the shop, and Heather could care for Rosie while Violet worked.
Violet admired Heather’s pictures and the fine dresses in Kathleen and Claire’s store. Claire almost intimidated her more than Kathleen had at first. The petite, dark-haired woman was a true lady. All the fine manners that Kathleen possessed, but which did not stand out because of her shyness, seemed comfortable on Claire Dunloe.
Mrs. Dunloe was very friendly to Violet and Rosie. Violet blushed when Claire praised her extraordinary beauty.
“Look at this girl,” she said to Kathleen. “Sure, she’s still growing. How old are you, thirteen or fourteen? These eyes, they’re so big.”
“Because she’s half-starved,” said Kathleen. “In that gaunt face—”
“The girl will always have a slender face, just like you, Kathleen. She has the same aristocratic features. High cheekbones, a small, straight nose, and her lips are a little more sensuous, fuller, and look at this natural red color. With her wonderful auburn hair, she looks like Sleeping Beauty. We should consider a fashion show for next year, like in Paris. Would you want to do something like that, Violet?”
Violet blushed again. She was ready for the earth to swallow her whole when Claire insisted that she try on a turquoise-colored dress, which had just been tailored for a wedding. Kathleen had been designing bridal gowns for years, and now that ever-bigger weddings were taking place in Dunedin—the first generation of children of the immigrants who had struck it rich were saying their “I dos”—there were more and more orders for bridesmaid and flower-girl dresses. One such order was the long dress in which Violet turned breathlessly before the mirror. Claire loosened Violet’s braids and placed the flower crown that went with the dress in her full hair. Violet did not recognize herself.
“What did I say? Sleeping Beauty. Someday you’ll turn all the young men’s heads in Dunedin, my dear Violet. Just don’t fall for the first one that comes along.”
Heather insisted on painting Violet like this. Claire and Kathleen were happy to lend her the dress to make a few sketches, and so Violet and Rosie passed a dreamlike hour in Heather’s studio. Violet sat at the window and looked out onto Stuart Street while Heather sketched, and Rosie even painted a picture using watercolors.
Peter, who had accompanied Bulldog into the city to advise him on the purchase of his gold-mining equipment, now directed the parish’s team of horses toward the harbor. As much as he would like to welcome Violet and Rosie into his family, he worried about where Jim and Fred had gone.
He found Fritz, the friendly barkeeper, right away.
“Oh, hello, Reverend. I’m happy the girls arrived safely at your door,” he said when Peter introduced himself. As for Jim and Fred, he could not help the pastor. “They left this morning. Of necessity, my wife comes at nine to tidy up, so I chased the fellows out then.”
“And did you tell them where the girls—”
Fritz rolled his eyes. “Of course. But that did not seem to concern them. They were on fire to make for Queenstown.”
“For where?” asked Peter, confused.
“Well, Queenstown, the goldfields. They were bragging about it all last night. It’s the only reason those fellows came.”
Peter shook his head. “Mr. Paisley is a coal miner. From what I know, he wanted to go on to Greymouth or Westport.”
Fritz shrugged his shoulders. “I guess he changed his mind. But you’re right. He said something like if anyone could find gold, it would be him with all his experience mining coal.”
“His last mineshaft collapsed,” Peter said curtly.
Fritz grimaced. “Doesn’t surprise me, but I can imagine how it went. Most aspiring gold miners are clueless. And then a fellow comes along, boasting about how much ‘black gold’ he’s dug out of the earth. So, everyone thinks he knows the business. However it is, Reverend, those men are gone.”
“We have all their luggage.” Peter was dumbfounded.
“But certainly not the money, assuming they have any left,” Fritz said.
Peter Burton thanked him and directed his team back to Caversham. Heather and Kathleen would be happy about the news, probably Violet too. He had an uneasy feeling. Someday, Jim and Fred Paisley would resurface. And probably not with a sack full of gold.
Chapter 4
The morning after her arrival in Hamilton, Matariki felt better. True, her room was awful, but not nearly as ghastly as the night before. Matariki reassured herself she would not stay long with the McConnells. She wondered whether maids were paid weekly or monthly. Whether she had to work a week or a month, eventually she would have enough money to send a telegram to Otago. And then it would only be a matter of days until her parents would come.
While Matariki scrubbed the two steps in front of the store under Mrs. McConnell’s watchful eyes, she happily pictured Michael and her mother alighting onto Victoria Street. They would all hug one another, and Lizzie would regard the McConnells with a stern gaze and place a soothing hand on Michael’s arm when he wanted to rage at the sight of her chamber in the cellar. Lizzie would thank the McConnells with tight lips, and her face would express contempt. Michael would buy or have tailored the most beautiful dress for Matariki, so she would not have to travel in a large green housedress.
The food in the McConnells’ house was meager, and not just for Matariki. Archibald and Marge McConnell seemed to view the intake of nourishment as a necessary evil on which they spent no more time than absolutely required. Their insignificant selection of dresses and fabrics soon no longer amazed Matariki, and the McConnells themselves only dressed in black. They were members of the Free Church of Scotland—a community of fanatical Christians who had splintered off from the main Scottish church and emigrated in large groups. The most important city they had founded in New Zealand was Dunedin. How the McConnells had ended up in the backwater town of Hamilton on the North Island, Matariki never learned. She gathered, however, that the two of them didn’t get along with their religious brethren any better than they did with the other people around them.
As storeowners, the McConnells had to be polite, but it was evident they felt they were better than the other residents of Hamilton. Their general store was not the hub of the town’s business as such a store had been in the former gold-mining town of Lawrence. If people chatted there, it was only in hushed tones behind the shelves. No one wanted to risk a dirty look from Mr. or Mrs. McConnell; instead, one made his purchases and moved on. “Have a nice day” and similar friendly comments were not part of the exchange.
Though Matariki was never allowed to help in the store—she only worked in the house under Mrs. McConnell’s supervision—she recognized that opening a competing business in Hamilton would be a sure path to wealth. Since no one liked the McConnells, if there had been any other option for shopping, everyone would have taken it.
At least the first days with Mrs. McConnell were not boring. The Scotswoman was downright talkative, or at least she liked to hear herself speak. She informed Matariki thoroughly about her religion: “We’re God’s chosen people. The fate of a person is predestined from birth: some will be raised up, the others cast down into the pit of hell.” She left no doubt whatsoever that she belonged to the former group and Matariki to the latter. Matariki sometimes thought about presenting to her employer the philosophy of the Hauhau, according to which the celestial distributions would be precisely reversed. Yet she held herself back—Mrs. McConnell would certainly not tolerate any contradiction. The girl took it that this attitude had also driven the McConnells’ sons from home. They apparently maintained no contact with their parents. To Matariki’s question about their whereabouts, Mrs. McConnell only replied with an angry snort. From a conversation of Mr. McConnell’s with a customer, she did glean that one of them served in the Armed Constabulary. Where the other one was, she never learned.
Regardless, Mrs. McConnell revealed what had agitated the citizens of Hamilton so against the Maori. Matariki dared not ask about it directly, but her employer quite liked to direct her deluge of words against the blasphemy of other races.
“King Country, I can’t believe it. As if these savages were capable of choosing a king. Kings, girl, are anointed by God. A horde of wild beasts can’t simply get together and set a crown on one of their own. And then resist when upright people settle here and till the soil as God has commanded them. But the English taught them. There’s plenty to be said against them, but they did that well, and went straight for the troublemakers without dithering.”
Matariki learned that the Crown had supported the settlers in the Waikato region with soldiers after the Maori tribes had united and protested the land seizure. Right had undeniably been on the Maori side; the Treaty of Waitangi secured their land ownership. Twenty years after the signing of the agreement, however, the whites had not quite been able to recall the wording. Matariki was slowly coming to understand Kahu Heke and his men better. Still, the so-called Waikato Wars had ended with the pakeha’s victory. The tribes were all dispossessed where the whites wanted to settle, and to secure this, the military had been stationed in the region. That led to the founding of towns, one of which was Hamilton.
