by Sarah Lark
Clarisse laughed. “Come now, dear, you can tell me. You fell in love.”
“I don’t love anyone,” Violet screamed. Her voice sounded shrill and desperate.
Clarisse put her arm awkwardly around Violet. “I’m sorry, dear. So, he—”
“Nothing happened. Nothing at all happened. I—” Violet sobbed. She pulled out of Clarisse’s embrace, stumbling. Finally, she collapsed on the edge of the stream, shaking with sobs. Clarisse sat next to her and waited.
“If nothing happened, nothing can have happened. There’s an explanation. There—”
“For what?” Clarisse asked softly. “Come now, you don’t really mean to tell me that no man, that none of these swine pulled you into some bushes and stuck his prick in you? Even though you resisted? Even though you screamed? It’s not your fault, Violet. It happens time and again. Who was it?”
Violet shook her head violently. “I didn’t resist.” She swallowed. “I didn’t scream. He didn’t pull me into any bushes. I, I went of my own free will.”
Clarisse pulled Violet to her and stroked her hair. “Never, dear. Never. I don’t believe that.” Cautiously, she drew the whole story out of Violet.
Violet calmed down as she told Clarisse what happened. Now that she had admitted the truth, she could handle it better.
“So now what should I do?” the girl asked. “Is there, is there nothing that can be done?”
“Ever heard of an abortionist? They scrape it out of you before anyone sees it. But it hurts, dear. It’s not simple.”
Violet bit her lip. “I don’t care,” she said. “Can you do it, Clarisse? Right away. I can take it.”
Clarisse rubbed her forehead. “Sweetheart, I can’t do it,” she said. “And you can’t do it yourself either, so don’t even try. There are considerably less painful ways to kill yourself.”
“It can kill you?” asked Violet.
Clarisse nodded. “Certainly. Though if someone knows what they’re doing, then girls don’t die any more often than they would giving birth. But if it’s a bumbler—it’s a serious matter, dear, without even mentioning your undying soul. I mean to say you could forfeit it too. You’d end up in hell at the least.”
Hell did not frighten Violet. She would end up there one way or another when she told her father about her pregnancy.
“I don’t care about that,” she declared. “So, who can do it? One of the other girls?”
Clarisse said no again. “No one here, Violet, I’m sorry. The closest person is a Maori witch, over in Punakaiki. Strange woman, but she knows her craft. Apparently, she was an herbalist in her tribe. Then she lived with a pakeha doctor. He did it too. That’s how she learned. She is with her tribe again, up in Punakaiki, in the direction of Westport. It’s not easy to find, but I can tell you how to get there. She does it in a hotel. The night porter organizes everything. It’s expensive, though. Two pounds altogether.”
“Two pounds?”
Violet looked at Clarisse, disheartened. She had no inkling how she would even get to Punakaiki. It was surely three or four days away by foot. And then the money—Violet did not have more than a few shillings.
Clarisse shrugged. “It’s just that a lot of people are involved,” she explained. “The porter, the manager, maybe even the maid if the sheets get bloody. And the woman herself. She probably gets the least. But she’s good. I’ve never heard of anyone dying in her hands. She knows what to do, and the girls say she doesn’t treat you like the scum of the earth. If you get it done, do it there.”
Violet sighed. “And if I report the bastard? You said it yourself, that it’s not my fault. Even if I did it of my own—”
“If you say ‘free will’ one more time, I’m going to scream,” Clarisse said. “But I’m afraid it won’t help to report him. Maybe they’ll lock him up, but maybe not. Your brother will testify for him if I don’t miss my guess. But it won’t change anything for you. On the contrary. Then you’ll have a baby. If you report him, you’ll still have a baby without a father.”
“But, but it won’t have a father either way.”
Clarisse furrowed her brow and shrugged. “That’s up to you. You can report the lout. Or you can marry him.”
Everything in Violet bristled against the thought of marrying Eric Fence, but charging him really was not a possibility. Violet dreaded living through her father’s reaction. The only solution was to scrounge together the money for the abortionist. She suggested to Clarisse that she earn it as a whore.
Clarisse shook her head. “Girl, the way you look just saying it, you’d scare away the customers. In this job, you have to at least pretend you enjoy it. And if you can, you have to praise the blokes for how great they do it. You, by contrast, might well bite off their prized possession when they want to do it French with you.”
“French? The French? They put it in the mouth?” Violet felt sick.
Clarisse sighed. “You lack all the necessary prerequisites,” she said sympathetically. “We could teach you in a few weeks, but after what happened, do you hate men now?”
The answer caught in Violet’s throat. If she was honest, she could have vomited at the thought of a repetition of that act with Eric. And to do that several times a night? With different men? She would die of shame and rage and fear.
“Besides, you don’t earn two pounds in this profession in just a few days,” Clarisse added. “And you won’t be able to play the good girl again afterward. Once a whore, always a whore. Someday there will be someone who marries you. I’m sure of that. But you can have that now if you marry this Eric fellow.”
“You’re serious,” she whispered.
Clarisse nodded. “Look, girl, marrying for love, people overvalue that. Believe me, there’s hardly a woman who really likes it when men, well, who, um, who really appreciate the pleasures of physical love.”
“Pleasures?” Violet looked at Clarisse as if she had lost her mind.
“It’s much easier when you’re in love. Then, then you’re inclined to forgive when it hurts. And when the fellow’s in love, he’s more careful than your Eric was with you.”
“He’s not my Eric,” Violet protested.
“It hurts less. Eventually, it hardly hurts anymore. There are also a few tricks, but marriage hardly makes a woman happy. Most love their children, though, and it doesn’t matter how they came to be or who their father is.”
Violet thought of her mother and vaguely felt guilty about the little being in her own body. Her mother had despised her father, but she had done everything for Violet and Rosie. Violet, on the other hand, was only thinking about getting rid of the child as quickly as possible.
“With that in mind, if you marry Eric now or someone else in a few years, it’ll most likely come to the same thing.” Clarisse stood up. “I have to go. By Sunday afternoon, the boys have slept off their Saturday night, and whoever has money left, treats himself to a girl. It’s my favorite day of the week. A few good lads who want to enjoy it sober come, too, because they’ve scrimped and saved for it. They even wash themselves beforehand. So, think about it, dear. If you get the money together, I’ll tell you where to find the Maori abortionist. If not, well, I’d be happy to be your bridesmaid, though I think the offer comes too late for the ‘maid’ part.”
Violet could not laugh at that, but she thanked Clarisse for her advice, grabbed Rosie, and ran homeward, exhausted and beaten by all the information.
Rosie startled her when they stopped for a rest.
“Is it true, Violet? Are you having a baby?”
Violet yelled in horror. “What? Where, where did you hear that? Who?”
She turned red and chided herself for it. The best reaction would have been to deny it with a laugh.
“That’s what the girls said,” Rosie replied. “You’re definitely having a baby. You look like it. Where are you getting the baby, Violet? Is someone giving it to you? Do you have to buy it? Are girls cheaper than boys? We’ll get a girl, then, won�
��t we? I’d rather have a girl. Is she my sister, Violet?”
Violet pulled herself together. “Don’t talk nonsense, Rosie. I’m not having a baby. And for heaven’s sake, don’t say anything to Father. He would, he would . . .”
“Does Daddy not want a baby?” Rosie asked.
Violet forced herself to be calm. She had to talk her sister out of the matter. And then she needed to gather the money and make it to Punakaiki somehow. While she was assuring Rosie that she must have misunderstood Clarisse’s friends and that she should not expect a baby, she formed a plan. She was not capable of being a whore, but she could steal. She knew where Mrs. Biller kept the money for her employees’ salaries. They did not receive even two pounds together, but with a little luck, Mr. Biller did not count out the money to his wife. And if she had to, she would steal twice. She just had to make it look as if she were not guilty. Thus, she could not disappear right after the theft. And she needed a safe place to store the money. Violet’s head spun.
She lay sleepless in the night. She felt the need to toss and turn, but as always, Rosie slept in her arms, and she did not want to wake her. What might it be like to hold her own baby in her arms? Violet banished the very thought. Whatever was growing inside her and however innocent it might be, she did not want it. When she finally fell asleep, she dreamed of a little girl—with the gentle eyes of Sean Coltrane.
When Violet went to work the next day, she had a bloated face, her legs felt heavy, and she already had a guilty conscience. So, she did not notice at first that the Billers’ house bustled with activity. Mrs. Biller called her over before she could go up to Caleb. Mrs. McEnroe took Rosie into the kitchen, seeming to glance sympathetically at Violet as she did. Violet’s heart raced. Could it be that Mrs. Biller knew something? Did she notice her pregnancy?
Mrs. Biller did not give Violet’s figure or swollen face a second glance.
“I have to share something with you, Violet, which you’ll not like. You did know from the beginning that this post was not forever. We had intended to send Caleb to England no later than next year, but now, well, you know how he’s been acting. It seems that . . .” She sniffled theatrically. “It seems that my baby is growing up. The reverend thinks that the best thing would be to enroll him in a good boarding school as soon as possible, and now an opportunity has suddenly come up for just that.”
Violet couldn’t bear the way Mrs. Biller spoke about her son, or worse, that her time with the Billers was about to come to an end.
“An acquaintance of ours is sailing for London at the end of the week on the Aurora. Yesterday we first learned that he’s taking his entire family with him. Their son is two years older than Caleb and will be attending school in London. The Bradburys are prepared to chaperone Caleb on the journey. Mr. Biller is securing Caleb’s passage on the ship. But that won’t be difficult. If need be, he can share the Bradbury boy’s cabin. The boys will have to acclimate to roommates anyway.”
Violet could picture how this revelation would be received by the rather unsocial Caleb.
“Tomorrow we’ll be taking Caleb to Christchurch. And given that, as sorry as it makes me, Violet, your employment with us ends today. We have thought about whether we could have you stay on. Mrs. McEnroe would gladly have kept you as a kitchen maid, but we don’t really need that now. On the contrary, with Caleb’s departure, our household will be shrinking. Here.” Mrs. Biller produced a shilling from her pocket. “Please, take this as a small token of our gratitude. Everything happened so suddenly. Otherwise, we would have purchased a present for you. However, circumstances . . .”
Violet thanked her politely. She was numb. This was her last day of work at the Billers’. And surely there would be no opportunity to steal. Mrs. Biller had paid everyone on Friday. By now, Monday, her husband had surely not yet refilled the household cashbox. Not to mention that under the circumstances, suspicion would immediately settle on Violet.
“Please go up to Caleb and help him pack. Mahuika is supposed to arrange his things, but she’ll need assistance with that. Comfort Caleb a bit. He’ll be sad naturally—I still remember how, when I was to go to boarding school, I was homesick in advance. Oh yes, and dissuade him from wanting to take those books. The ship would sink under the weight. Tell him that.”
Violet had no intention of troubling her clever Caleb on their last day with such stupid things. Besides, Caleb had already realized that he could not drag multivolume reference books to England.
“Surely the school has a library,” he said calmly.
Caleb Biller was not unhappy that his parents were sending him away. On the contrary, he seemed to yearn for England.
“Now, don’t be so sad,” he comforted Violet. “I’ll write you to be sure. And you’ll write me. And besides, I’ll give you my books.”
Caleb beamed at this idea, and Violet summoned all her energy to look suitably happy. Normally she really would have been joyful. The dictionary alone was an unbelievable treasure—and all the storybooks for Rosie and, and . . . No, she would not have a baby to whom she could read fairy tales.
Caleb misinterpreted Violet’s reaction, which was stiff despite her efforts. “You can have my chessboard too. Then you can always think of me.”
“I, I don’t even have anyone I could play with,” Violet whispered, touched but also desperate and close to tears.
Caleb fished for his handkerchief. “You can play alone. Just imagine I’m on the other side. And place the pieces like I would. Just don’t cry, Violet. Otherwise I will too.”
Violet did not cry until midday, when she was with Mrs. McEnroe in the kitchen. It did her good to be able to cry her eyes out, although she could not let the cook know what really weighed so heavily on her soul. A new idea had come to Violet during her conversation with Caleb. “Letter” had been the key word. She could write to Heather Coltrane and depict her misery. It would be difficult, but perhaps hints would be enough. Heather would be able to help her. But would a pastor’s stepdaughter send her the money for an abortionist?
She took her leave from Caleb that evening. He was as dry eyed as he always desired to be. Rosie, however, did not remain so calm, instead sniffling and even pressing a wet kiss to Caleb’s cheek. The boy bore it with composure, only clearing his throat before turning to Violet. With his pale face and watery-blue eyes, he looked up at her expectantly.
“If you, well, if you want, Violet, then, hmm, then you can kiss me too.”
Violet decided not to tell her father and brother about her dismissal yet. She would find a new job as soon as possible, and it was better to tell them once she had it. Who knew what her father might come up with otherwise to keep her at home. He complained often enough that dinner wasn’t ready when he returned from work, though he never said a word about who paid for the food.
That evening, Mrs. McEnroe once again had cooked a feast. Plenty of roast and vegetables had been left over from Caleb’s farewell dinner, and the whole family was departing for Christchurch the next day, so the cook sent Violet home with all the food. It was customary to accompany the children one was sending to England to the ship. Mrs. Biller was already distressed at his leaving. Violet believed her. She would not see her son for years. When Caleb returned, he would have finished college and perhaps university. He would be an adult.
The Paisleys feasted that evening, but Violet felt so sick, she barely ate for fear she wouldn’t be able to keep the food down. She clung to her hope in Heather. Violet did not know whether it was Heather’s interest in women’s suffrage, or her concern for women and children, or something about Heather’s personality, but regardless of what Reverend Burton would say, Heather was no moralist. She was different. And she would be on Violet’s side.
Violet was dreaming of how everything would be once she had Heather’s help, when suddenly her father’s loud voice tore her from her reverie. Beforehand there had only been Rosie’s chatter, which Violet hardly noticed anymore. But now something had happened.
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“What did you say, Rosie?” Jim Paisley’s voice sounded alarmed. “What was that?”
Rosie smiled sweetly at her father. She feared him, but she also courted his attention. “I said I asked Mrs. McEnroe if Violet was having a baby. And where’d she get it? And she looked at me strangely. But then she said you didn’t just get a baby. Didn’t I say that, though, Violet? You definitely have to buy them.”
“Is this true, Violet? Are you pregnant?”
At that moment, Violet Paisley’s world came crashing down.
Chapter 7
Even under the new governor, Arthur Gordon, Te Whiti and his people did not find peace. The sale of Central Taranaki continued, and buyers were found for the land of Parihaka. Matariki and her friends had less and less belief that the farmers were innocent victims. Even Te Whiti stopped preaching the idea.
“They know exactly what they’re doing,” Kupe said.
Kupe should long since have been in Auckland. Other students already had returned and were working the land of Parihaka without regard for whether new “owners” wanted to graze their sheep there.
“They’re almost getting the land for free,” Koria observed bitterly. “Two pounds for an acre of land. For that, who wouldn’t betray a few ‘savages’?” The girl stretched her aching back. Together with Matariki and Pai, she had been planting seedlings on the newly cultivated lands and picking weeds from the old fields.
“Who can’t even maintain their own town,” Matariki added, throwing down an issue of the Taranaki Herald. “Here: ‘The town makes a dirty and dilapidated impression. The residents look unkempt.’”
Pai looked around. The young people had just come from the fields. They sat in front of one of the communal lodges, eating a simple meal of bread and sweet potatoes. It had been a while since they had daily celebrated the hangi in Parihaka, and the hunters and fishers no longer went out to provide the settlement with delicacies.
“You have to admit that it has looked better around here,” said Pai. “The gardens go to seed when people spend all day in the fields, and the buildings need repairs. No one’s sweeping out the marae or polishing the carvings. Te Whiti preached to us for years not to be slaves to the war god, but now we’re slaves to peace. As soon as we stop to breathe, they take our land away. I never would have pictured it like this.”
