by Sarah Lark
Violet and Rosie fled to the stables, where they found the driver, who had made himself comfortable near his horses. Violet wanted to turn around and leave; one man could be more dangerous than a whole group. The middle-aged driver pointed to a corner covered with straw, near where he had lit a small fire.
“Go ahead and lie down there; I won’t touch you,” he said. “Got a girl in Greymouth.”
Violet wrapped herself and Rosie in their blankets. The man slid a cup of coffee in her direction.
“They say there aren’t many girls in Greymouth,” she said shyly.
The man nodded. “Another reason I’d better stay true to Molly,” he said.
Violet sipped her coffee and discovered with horror that it was laced with whiskey.
“Warms you up,” said the driver, “but no worries, I’m not getting drunk. Have to keep an eye on the fire. It’s dangerous here in the stables. I just don’t want to freeze to death, or stink to death.” He gestured with a crooked smile toward the hut.
Violet smiled. The stench of the men in the hut had made it hard for her to breathe.
“What is Greymouth like?”
The driver shrugged. “It’s a town. Three mines, a pub, lots of filth.”
Violet hadn’t expected anything different. Snuggled against Rosie, she finally fell asleep. The driver had told her the truth: the whiskey warmed her, and he did not come too close.
The horses’ warm bodies weren’t enough to stave off the icy cold, and Violet woke early. The driver had let the fire go out during the night—otherwise he would hardly have dared fall asleep. Violet tried unsuccessfully to relight it. Rosie was awake, crying because of the cold.
“It’s better than her sleeping,” the driver informed her. “Before you freeze to death, you fall asleep.”
Shocked, Violet determined to keep Rosie awake no matter what. She also forced her to drink the bitter coffee the driver brewed, for which he sought milk and sugar in his bags.
“I prefer it black,” he said, “but this is for the little one.”
Violet stirred in as much sugar as possible into her coffee—she had once heard it kept you warm.
In the meantime, the men were stirring.
Violet looked fearfully in the direction of the connecting door, and Rosie was almost in a panic. The driver figured they did not want to go inside and ask for breakfast. He shared his bread and cheese with the girls.
“I have enough,” he said when Violet thanked him profusely. “And you two’ll ride with me on the box. At least no one will paw you there, pretty one that you are.”
Violet blushed. So, he had gotten a look at her.
Despite their new privileges, the two days of the journey were difficult. In the beginning, things were passable: the foothills, in which the beech forests slowly gave way to snow-covered rocks and scree, looked almost as beautiful as in a fairy tale. The gray-green birds with crooked beaks impertinently rocking on the tree branches and seemingly cursing at the travelers amused Rosie. A few landed on the wagon or the horses’ harnesses, and the driver shooed them away when they tried to peck at the horses’ backs.
Violet could hardly believe her eyes. “They, they look like parrots.”
The driver grinned. “Keas,” he said, “rude little bastards. Watch this.”
He wrestled a bag out from under the seat and stuck a piece of bread inside. Then he tied the bag to the whip’s mount. Violet and Rosie watched as two birds lunged at it, working at the tie with their crooked beaks. Finally, one of them slipped the strap over its head, pushed open the bag, and fished for the bread. As the keas fought over the hunk, they fell from the box and had to fly, losing the bread. Their screeches sounded as if they were blaming each other for the disaster.
Rosie laughed.
“Don’t parrots normally live where it’s warm?” asked Violet.
The driver shrugged. “Nothing’s normal in New Zealand,” he said.
By midday, the heavily laden wagon struggled up increasingly steep paths. Once again, the travelers had to get out, and now there was an added danger of slipping and falling into the chasms, which gaped to the left and right of the road. Bridges led over immense ravines.
When all the passengers were allowed in the wagon again, Violet asked, “Are they all miners from Britain? I mean, do they come from mining towns?”
The driver, who had finally introduced himself as Bob, made a face and shrugged. “So they say. I’m supposed to hire strong-looking fellows. With experience if possible. But if they don’t have it, they’ll get it in the Biller mine. I always look to see who doesn’t seem scared. And it seems to work. I’ve been doing the job a year already.”
Jim and Fred Paisley naturally met the requirements. Eric Fence probably lacked the imagination to be scared. The three bragged about their experiences underground and so made friends and gained admirers among the novices. The old miners rolled their eyes.
The trip was torturously slow. Violet would freeze to death on the wagon box, only to pour sweat when she had to trudge through the snow. Bob let Rosie stay in the wagon when all the other passengers got out; she did not weigh much, after all. Around midday, she fell asleep, which set Violet in a panic. They rested for a while on a mountaintop, which Violet imagined would have offered a breathtaking view of the peaks all around if not for the snowstorm.
“It’s better in the summer,” said Bob.
Violet slid from panic to lethargy. Nothing mattered. She no longer had any objection to the whiskey in the coffee. With a guilty conscience, she forced the drink on Rosie too.
“Arthur’s Pass,” Bob finally said, leading his team along a particularly dangerous series of bridges and narrow paths, which mostly fell off sharply to the left and right.
“From here on, it’s downhill.”
“So that was the worst of it?” asked Violet hopefully.
Bob shrugged once again. “Depends on what you mean.”
Indeed, the descent did not exactly prove easy. The passengers often needed to get out, now so the heavy wagon did not slide into the drawbar and make the horses stumble. Inching downhill through the snow was almost as arduous as trudging uphill. But, at the end of the day, a proper inn greeted them. In Jacksons, a tiny mountain village, the travelers could rent rooms or sleep in shared lodgings. For Jim and his entourage, though, there was only enough money for a beer before bed. Then they holed up in the stables. The innkeeper only permitted it because Bob assured him he would tend the fire.
Bob looked after Violet and Rosie again. They slept deeply and soundly under Kathleen’s blankets. When they awoke, it was raining. It rained while they ate breakfast and hitched the horses, and it rained as they continued downhill.
“It’s always raining here,” said Bob when, after hours had passed, Violet asked when it might stop. “In Greymouth too.”
Violet wondered if from now on she would only see the world through a curtain of rain.
The landscape grew wooded again. They drove through thick mixed forest, past streams and gorges. By the afternoon, all their blankets and clothing were soaked, and Violet longed for a dry place, even if it was cold like the stables in the mountains. It would not be granted to her quickly, however. It was evening by the time they reached Greymouth.
Violet had expected a town like Treherbert—sad, boring, but a proper town, at least. But Greymouth looked like a coastal village at first glance. Though the rain muted everything to grayscale, the town lay between the sea and a river whose mouth, she later learned, gave Greymouth its name. Violet had never heard of coal-mining towns on the sea before, but as Bob had said, everything in New Zealand seemed to be different. Most of all, everything in Greymouth seemed still to be under construction. On the main street, there were only a few buildings, one of which housed the pub. Violet didn’t see any inns.
“They’re building a few hotels,” said Bob when she asked. “On the coast. They’re going to be gorgeous but much too expensive for you, girl.”
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br /> Violet saw no hope of a dry shelter if the Biller mine did not assign them a miners’ lodge first thing. Bob looked at her quizzically when she asked about one.
“What kind of a lodge? Housing for the miners? First I’ve heard of it.”
Violet stared at him. “Then where are we supposed to live?” she asked. “If there are no inns and no houses?”
“The miners build something for themselves,” said Bob.
Bob had been instructed to take the men directly to the Biller mine—not that they might instead hire on at the national mine, which offered the best safety precautions but the worst pay, or with Marvin Lambert, who had just opened his second private mine next to Biller’s. Marvin Lambert gladly lured away Biller’s best people after it had become clear who was really useful for the mine.
In that respect, Biller had to rely on the men immediately signing a contract—and the path to the mine led straight through the workers’ lodgings. Violet was horrified. No one thought of a master plan, of streets or drainage. Men built their huts where they pleased and with whatever materials were at hand.
There were cabins, but most of the lodgings were rather shacks made of waste wood or barked timber that had been taken home from the mine. Some men simply slept under oil-soaked tarpaulins. Violet was certain no structure contained more than one room, and in spite of the rain, the cooking fires burned outside. Inside, then, there were no fireplaces, or at least no chimneys. The air was stuffy; it smelled of smoke and excrement—presumably there were no proper toilets either, private or public.
Tears filled Violet’s eyes. It must be awful to live in these huts—but it was still more awful to have no shelter. That was precisely how things looked for her, at first in any case. Her father, Fred, and Eric wouldn’t build a hut that night. The three of them would disappear into the pub and surely find someplace to sleep there too. And they would forget her and Rosie.
She remained seated in the wagon as if in a trance while Bob steered his male passengers into a newly built office next to the conveyors. The mine looked like the one in Treherbert: simple buildings, a tower, storehouses. And, here, everything was behind a curtain of rain. Violet looked at the older woman in the wagon and hoped she might know of a solution, at least for the coming night. But the woman, who had seemed imperturbable until now, had completely broken down crying at the sight of the settlement. Violet turned away.
In the meantime, the men came back from the office, all of them in high spirits and with a small advance. They would have the next day off, Fred and Jim said, overjoyed.
“We’re going to build a house here,” Violet’s father boasted when Violet asked where they were supposed to live. “The mine offers wood to use. This Biller fellow is unbelievably generous. Should we drink a glass to him first, boys?”
Violet herself found no reason to toast the mine owner. Even if the workers did not have to steal the wood for their huts, they were miners, not builders. Violet blanched at the thought of the “house” Jim would build.
“Well, to the pub?” asked Bob. The men shouted their agreement. Bob looked at Violet and Rosie sympathetically.
Violet marveled that her tears did not come as the wagon rolled through the mine workers’ slums. Violet felt only rage—wild, impotent rage.
Chapter 8
There was a mail carriage bound for Auckland, and the driver was willing to take the two Maori and the dog along with him.
Matariki giggled as Kupe lifted Dingo inside. She had rediscovered her positive attitude. “I’m so happy we made it out. I thought for sure I would have to work for the McConnells until I was old and gray. And in this awful town. Hopefully Auckland is better.”
Even in Auckland—a burgeoning city with paved streets, wide sidewalks, and stone buildings—people looked at Kupe and Matariki with curiosity. Matariki’s ragged, ill-fitting dress and her chieftain’s cloak drew attention.
“First to the telegraph office, then to the store,” Matariki said, steering Kupe down Queen Street.
Auckland reminded her of Dunedin, though it was more colorful, younger, and less structured. That was no wonder. Dunedin was planned by members of the Free Church of Scotland on a drawing table, while Auckland grew organically with the importance of the port for trade and immigration. Matariki was already looking forward to a shopping trip.
The men in the telegram office were reserved toward Kupe but were friendly toward Matariki. The girl blushed at the compliments that people gave her and their flirtatious jokes and comments. Kupe, on the other hand, looked sullen. He would have liked to defend Matariki but now had to admit that she knew her way around city life better than he did.
“We’ll send two telegrams,” she said. “It’s not that expensive. One to my parents and one to Reverend Burton. The Burtons live in Dunedin, so they’ll receive it right away. We’ll come back for his response. For now, I need new clothing as soon as possible.”
“It would be better to save the money,” Kupe said. “We need to sleep somewhere.”
“And we can with my pay. There’ll be enough.” Matariki wasn’t worried. “What do you bet we are wired more money tonight? And if not”—she smiled in the direction of the telegraph office employees—“these good men will know of an affordable inn for us.”
The employees had two or three suggestions ready, although they did hedge. “Are you thinking of a shared room? Or, two rooms in a respectable establishment?”
“Do we not look like respectable people?” she asked, which made Kupe blush.
Kupe had learned in the orphanage that respectable people did not wear old clothing that did not fit them and did not walk around as a couple unless they were married. Plus, he and Matariki and Dingo all needed a bath.
“There’s an inn for women a few streets from here,” one of the men said. “Maybe—”
“That sounds acceptable. But for now, we’re going shopping. Let’s go, Kupe, Dingo.”
Matariki wanted to find a ladies’ shop like the Gold Mine Boutique, but Kupe pulled her into a general store. Kupe found pants and shirts that fit him, and Matariki insisted he also purchase a leather jacket and a hat.
“And now you need a barber,” she said. “That hair has to go.”
Kupe looked at her, horrified. It had taken a long time for his hair to grow long enough to tie into a traditional warrior knot, and now his tikitiki was his pride and joy.
Matariki rolled her eyes. “Kupe, you can’t run around like that here. The people get scared. You—”
“You’re the one who said you’re Maori,” Kupe blurted out, “but now you’re behaving like a pakeha.”
Matariki bit her lip. She had not thought much about it herself, but Kupe was right. When she was imprisoned in Hamilton, she had sworn to be Maori from now on, one with her people, with all the advantages and disadvantages of that oath. Yet now she was slipping back into the role of a pakeha schoolgirl, as soon as a few pakeha were nice to her?
She sighed. “Fine, leave your hair long. But I wouldn’t necessarily tie it up if you’re not on your way to battle, agreed?”
Kupe nodded halfheartedly.
Matariki disappeared into the women’s clothing area of the small store. When she approached him a while later in a new dress, his eyes beamed. It was a simple linen dress, brown with light-gold threads. The color emphasized Matariki’s natural, warm complexion—even though it was now a bit pale from being locked up so long—and her golden-brown eyes. The dress had a long row of ivory-colored buttons as fasteners and black embroidery. The corset emphasized Matariki’s already narrow waist. Ivory gloves concealed her fingers, chapped from the soapsuds during scrubbing. A cream-colored little hat sat atop her thick black hair.
“I know it’s pakeha,” Matariki apologized, “but—”
“It’s beautiful,” Kupe said hoarsely. “You’re beautiful. You couldn’t wear a piu anymore; otherwise, well, I couldn’t even look at you without—” He broke off, embarrassed.
Matariki
smiled. “Now, that would be very pakeha, Kupe. You need to work on that. A Maori can look at half-naked women without immediately getting stupid ideas in his head.”
When they returned to the telegraph office, Reverend Burton’s answer was already there: Matariki, stay where you are. Parents being informed. Money at Bank of New Zealand, Queen Street.
When they entered the luxurious bank building, they were treated in the friendliest manner and furnished with a sizeable amount of money.
“Where is all that from?” Kupe asked, staring at the pound notes in her hand. “Are they lending you that, or what?”
Matariki smiled, somewhat embarrassed. “Money transfer,” she replied, “from the Dunloe Bank to the Bank of New Zealand. It’s as simple as a telegram. Mr. Dunloe is a friend of the Burtons, and my parents have a business account there. But I think Mr. Dunloe did not wait for them to agree and just sent me something straightaway. In that sense, it’s a loan, yes. But my father—that is, Michael, my real father, not the ariki—can pay the bank right back.”
“So much money just like that. You’re rich, Matariki.” Kupe’s tone was as reverent as the voices of the Hauhau when they spoke of Matariki’s power as a priestess.
Matariki nodded without any shame and flashed her impish grin.
Matariki and Kupe strolled through Auckland and admired the port and the ships from England and Australia. Matariki told Kupe how her parents had first been in Tasmania before coming to New Zealand. Kupe pointed to the terrace-shaped slope of Mount Eden and explained that the Maori had undertaken agriculture there. Tamaki Makau Rau, Auckland’s Maori name, had been a big city long before the pakeha came.
Matariki could easily picture that. She liked the natural harbor and the sea, the green hills, and the warm weather. By evening, they started to search for lodgings. The bank manager had recommended the Commercial Hotel, Auckland’s first and most renowned hotel, and Matariki was fascinated by the playful and yet radiantly dignified wooden structure.
