by Sarah Lark
Michael and Lizzie exchanged quick glances. Colin Coltrane did not interrupt Matariki, but he knew what a sulky was. Had he told her nothing about his past as a horse trader?
“Naturally, you need a flat racetrack for that. The course here only goes a mile and a half in the direction of Dunedin and back on inland roads. In the plains, they’ve already repurposed a normal racetrack.”
Matariki began to rave about her horse, and Colin started to take an interest in this strange new sport. One would need particular horses for it. Different from those for normal racing, but surely still Thoroughbreds. With little cobs, one could perhaps compete in charity events, but not serious races. Colin already had the right horse in mind: more delicate than Matariki’s Grainie, but with the same trotting strength, although one could certainly consider crossing them with cobs. Combined with Thoroughbred stallions, they might produce the right type if perhaps only in the second generation. The breeding, however, could grow with the sport. Surely it would take a few years to establish a racing-sports scene with qualified horses.
Within Colin Coltrane a plan was ripening. For now, he would return to Arthur’s Pass to work at laying the railroad for another few weeks. But when the racing got going in Dunedin, he would be there. Maybe he would see a similar event in the plains. After that, he would know more precisely what had to be done, but he could already see the sign at the entrance to his stud farm: “Coltrane’s Trotting Winners.”
Chapter 4
The victory of Danny, Lucille, and Spirit did not make Eric Fence rich. It would have been possible, since the odds had been astronomical. However, the month was coming to an end when Eric placed his bet, and Travers’s remark about milk for his children had dampened his will to bet. He had only put down ten shillings and with that won slightly more than twenty pounds. Nevertheless, that was more than Eric and Violet had ever possessed.
“We can buy a proper house,” Violet said breathlessly. “In town, maybe with a small shop in it. I, I could sew and sell clothing.” With regard to her sewing abilities, she was still profiting from her short time in Dunedin with Kathleen Burton. Naturally, her sewing did not suffice for a collection like that of the Gold Mine Boutique, but she could handle basic tailoring. “Rosie and our children could go to school.” There was talk of founding a school in Greymouth, although miners’ children would rarely attend lessons. It was too far to town from the settlements like Billertown or Lamberttown for the younger children, and the adolescents worked in the mines.
Eric laughed mockingly. “While I go dig coal? That’d suit you, wouldn’t it? No, Violet, this money here, it’s not meant for a life in this shithole. This’ll help us get out. We’re moving to the plains, Vio. From now on, I’ll be doing something with horses.”
Eric’s first act was to buy a rickety brown horse that he claimed had potential for harness racing. Violet thought the horse looked short and gaunt, but he was well behaved and could pull a wagon. Eric purchased him along with a hay wagon that had seen better days but was still good enough to bring the family’s household across Arthur’s Pass.
It was autumn when they set out on their journey. The beech forests along the paths blazed red, yellow, and orange. Snow already lay on the mountains, and along the streams they sometimes found enchanting ice formations in the morning when the nightly rainfall froze on rocks and plants.
Violet, however, had no eyes for the natural beauty. She was almost dying with the fear that her contractions could set in on the way. And she had her hands full keeping Rosie and the baby warm. Except for a troop of workers whose members were doggedly wresting a train line from the pass, Violet and Eric did not meet a soul on their way.
“Just a few years, my good woman, and you’ll be able to take the train through here quite comfortably,” said the leader, a friendly, red-faced man named Redcliff who obviously pitied the very pregnant woman and her frozen children.
He invited the Fences to eat with him and his workers. The field kitchen offered a rich stew, which warmed them all, at least inside. The tents where they ate were also heated. Violet would have liked to stay, but there were no midwives among the railway workers.
The young woman sighed with relief when they finally reached Springfield. It was a tiny village but still an outpost of civilization. For the first time, Violet felt a vague joy at having left Greymouth. Although she had not wanted to part from Clarisse, Mrs. O’Toole, or Mrs. Travers, here the air was not heavy with constant rain and omnipresent coal dust. The handkerchief Violet used to clean Joe’s little face every evening no longer turned gray, and Violet felt she could breathe more freely.
All of that improved her attitude, and she felt cautiously optimistic. Perhaps everything would get better in the plains. Eric was steering them toward the small town of Woolston near Christchurch, where there was supposed to be a racetrack. Perhaps even Eric would change once he fulfilled his dreams. Since collecting his winnings, he had left Violet in peace. She had not asked Clarisse but presumed he was treating himself to a whore to satisfy his desires. Or maybe it was her advanced pregnancy. Violet did not care why. She was happy not to be harassed. Maybe Eric would become calmer—perhaps taking her less often and less roughly. Maybe it was good for him to be separated from Jim and Fred. Violet had left her father and brother behind without any regret.
After five grueling days—the little horse pulled the heavy wagon over the mountains with great effort, and Violet wondered during the whole journey whether Eric’s horse knowledge was really so extensive—they reached the Canterbury Plains and found themselves in the middle of a sheep drive. In the fall, the big livestock breeders fetched the ewes that had been driven with their lambs into the highlands in the spring. Violet and Rosie and even one-year-old Joe happily observed the flock held together by a few dogs. Only a few riders accompanied them, and some of them were Maori. Violet, who had learned a few words of their language from Caleb, greeted them with a shy “Kia ora,” which met with fervid enthusiasm.
“You soon baby,” declared one of the shepherds seriously, pointing quite unabashedly at Violet’s stomach. “Better you in village, better not have in wagon.”
“I still have more than four weeks,” Violet objected, but the man gave her another probing look and then shook his head. “No, me believe. I five children. And get sheep babies since”—he counted off on his fingers—“since twelve spring.”
Violet bit her lip. The man might be right. She had felt occasional pains for two days but had attributed them to the rattling of the wagon. What would happen if her labor really did start? If she had to give birth in the wilderness all alone with Eric and the children?
“Nonsense,” Eric said when Violet raised her concern.
For once, though, she was in luck. Around evening, they ran into the sheep drive again. The Maori men invited them to set up camp for the night. Violet feared Eric would refuse to join them, but he knew their supplies were almost exhausted. Too, the journey was uncomfortable. The roads in the plains were even but not well paved, and the wagon hardly had any cushioning. When its rattling stopped at night, Violet only wanted to stretch and sleep. She was as exhausted in this pregnancy as in her first, if not as bloated. Despite the hardships, one could recognize that she was a beautiful woman, and when Eric accepted their invitation, the men treated her well. They complimented her in their language and were baffled that Eric did not understand them. Violet enjoyed the friendly attention. In Greymouth, there had been nothing of the sort, at least not since she married Eric. The workers had neither time nor energy for flirting. In the plains, life seemed to be friendlier.
At first, Eric viewed the men’s playful wooing of his wife suspiciously but then found them interested listeners when he started talking about harness racing.
“You saw that coming?” One of them laughed. “Our Lucy getting second place? Hey, Robby, d’you hear that? This fellow bet on you and won a fortune. Let him pour you some whiskey.”
A blond young man who
had just been standing at the cooking wagon over a stew approached in disbelief.
“Robby Anders,” he said, introducing himself.
“And that’s the miracle mare.” Robby’s friend pointed to a bony gray mare standing at ease next to the other horses. “May I introduce you? Lucille!”
Robby laughed because Eric was so excited just seeing a harness-racing horse in the flesh. Violet was less interested but recognized the difference between the slender, well-muscled mare and Eric’s half-starved little brown. Eric surely had not made an exceptionally good purchase. Exhausted, Violet sat on a blanket, leaning against a saddle, and almost had the feeling that it made the baby inside her cozy too. It turned and lolled. Something seemed to be happening inside her, but Violet did not want to think about that for now.
“You’re taking her out herding sheep now?” asked Eric after he had admired Lucille sufficiently. “I thought you could make money with her on the racetrack.”
Robby Anders shook his head. “Nah, buddy, I’m not the type for it. Making money off horses, only scoundrels have ever managed that. It’s the same with racing as with trading. I gave it a try, and it was fun. We won us a pretty penny, Lucy and me. But the gambling—in Woolston, they wanted to lynch me because I had the gall to show up with an unknown horse and then almost win. You see, it seems it was agreed that the black stallion was supposed to beat the milkman’s nag by two horse lengths. In any case, that’s what I heard. And what they do to the poor things to get them to trot at all. Lucy does it on her own and behaves. If I say trot, then she won’t gallop. But a few of the others always want to take off, so the blokes put chains in their maws to hold ’em back. Or they tie their heads back, so they don’t lower it to gallop. Nah, I’d rather herd sheep.”
Violet listened halfway. Something told her that this information could be important and that Eric was hearing it for the first time. Horse aficionado, as if. The way it looked, he had so far always fallen for rigged bets. When they had time later, she would feel angry about it, but now Violet only feared she would fall asleep leaning on the stranger’s saddle if she did not go to their wagon. Rosie was already sleeping there, holding the baby to her as always. Joe was comfortable with her, and despite Violet’s original fears, Rosie did not treat him as if he were a doll. She handled him carefully and liked to help put on his diapers and bathe him. Violet was happy to leave that to her, and it made her worry less. Perhaps Rosie was not as slow as Violet had feared. Before they left, Mrs. Travers had insisted she seek out a doctor for Rosie. It could not be that a seven-year-old girl suddenly stopped talking for no reason. Yet, despite Eric’s win, spending money on a doctor was out of the question. Violet hoped there might be some work for her in Woolston. Then she would save to pay for a doctor.
Violet sat up laboriously and let out a shocked cry as the sharp pain ran through her and water ran down her legs. It was unspeakably embarrassing that it had to happen here among all the men.
The shepherds were astoundingly calm.
The Maori man spoke. “Husband, Eric, you bring wife to my village. Is not far from here. But needs help.”
Eric was indecisive. He wanted to get to Woolston, and every delay annoyed him.
“Can’t it wait?” he asked angrily, thanks to the whiskey he had been drinking.
The Maori laughed. “No, children and lambs won’t wait. You—”
“But—” Eric wanted to object again, but Violet groaned and held her back.
She stood up, supporting herself on the wagon, but she wouldn’t be able to do that for long, and undoubtedly she would scream again later, no matter how much she didn’t want to.
“Watch out, Eric.” That was Robby Anders. “Your little wife’s having a baby tonight whether it suits you or not. And I’ll show you a very special honor by taking her to Eti’s village with the legendary, world-famous Lucille. How about that? You can even drive and brag about it later in Woolston. That’ll make a good impression right off.”
Robby Anders did not await Eric’s response before he started hitching his mare.
For the first time in her life, Violet felt the desire to hug a man.
Lucille was of a different caliber than Eric’s little brown, and Eric was so enthusiastic that he immediately forgot Violet’s condition and spurred on the mare until they were heading down the rough roads at breakneck speed.
“Careful! Your axles,” Robby warned as he held tight to the box next to him. “Don’t ruin your wagon even if you don’t care about your wife.”
At this pace, it took only a few minutes to reach the Maori village, which was on the edge of an idyllic southern beech grove. Eti had ridden ahead to announce them, and his friends had just opened the gate in the light fence surrounding the marae. The Ngai Tahu did not fear enemies, and the tribe received the late-night visitors willingly and hospitably. The Maori had not gone to sleep yet either. The fire in the small but beautiful and well-kept village was still burning. For the men, there was whiskey. For Violet, there was an ancient, very short woman who looked shriveled as a prune.
“This is Makere,” a young girl said to Violet in English. “She must have already delivered a hundred babies or more. You don’t need to fear, madam.”
Robby moved to find a stretcher for Violet, but Makere rejected this.
“Just let her walk,” the girl translated for Makere. “It’s better for the baby.”
Though Violet wanted a bed, she followed the Maori midwife without hesitation. Makere and the girl helped her to one of the buildings decorated with carvings and laid her down on mats.
The dry little fingers of the midwife danced skillfully across her stomach and pelvis. She gave Violet a juice that tasted bitter and said something to her assistant.
“The baby is in the right position, and it is small,” the girl translated, although she seemed somewhat embarrassed. “But Makere says you are weak, madam. You don’t have the strength to properly help it along. So, it might take longer. She’s sorry.”
“Will I die?” Violet asked quietly.
She had been afraid of that since she learned she was pregnant again. She would not survive another birth like Joe’s.
The Maori woman shook her head as if she had understood. She probably had heard something similar in her own language and recognized the question solely by its tone.
“No,” the girl said. “The baby is tiny; it’ll come easily, not like the boy you brought with you.”
Violet marveled. She had not realized that the Maori midwife had seen Rosie and Joe too. Sharp eyes and an alert mind lay between the deep wrinkles.
“The girl isn’t yours,” the young translator asserted.
Violet considered whether she should ask Makere about Rosie. Perhaps this Maori woman knew as much as a pakeha doctor, and she surely was not as expensive.
“My sister,” Violet whispered. “Someone needs to look after her. She can’t watch.”
Makere said something, and Violet looked inquisitively at the translator.
“She’s already seen too much,” said the girl. “Now the spirits have closed her eyes.”
Violet had a thousand questions, but at that moment another contraction seized her, and she fought against the pain.
“No fight baby,” the midwife said softly in broken English. “Say welcome, haere mai.”
Violet bit her lip but smiled as the contraction ebbed. “That’s how you say welcome? Haere mai?”
The translator nodded. “And it would be best for you to stand up again, madam, and walk a few paces. Then the baby will come faster.”
Violet got up with her help. “Don’t call me ‘madam,’” she groaned, “just Violet.”
The girl nodded. “I’m Lani.”
Violet suffered during the birth of her second child, but nothing like she had during the agony of Joe’s birth. Everything went faster, and above all, she was not alone this time. Makere and Lani led her around, supported her, and comforted her when she had to scream because
of a contraction. They gave her tea that lessened the pain, and most importantly, her terrible fear of being helpless fell away. Makere checked again and again how much Violet’s cervix had dilated and how the baby was doing, and Lani translated Makere’s reports. That helped Violet almost more than the tea: she knew what was happening to her, and she came to terms with it.
She didn’t need to worry about Rosie this time either. Lani reported that Robby Anders had first let the little girl ride Lucille, which even made her smile a little, and then that the other women in the tribe were looking after Rosie and Joe. Eric had given himself wholeheartedly to the whiskey and wasn’t worried about anything, but that did not bother anyone. Maori men seemed to participate in births the same way as pakeha.
The moonlight was just fading when Violet gave birth to a tiny baby with a long, final cry. Lani quickly wrapped it in a cloth and laid it in her arms. Violet looked into a red, wrinkly face and thought her baby was almost as creased as Makere. She had to smile at that. And the baby seemed to be smiling back.
Robby Anders stuck his head inside the building.
“The woman’s not screaming anymore,” he said, concerned. “Did something happen?”
Makere let him in and pointed to the baby. Apparently, she thought he was the father. Violet also gave him an exhausted smile. “I don’t know how to thank you,” she whispered. “He, he—,” she said, gesturing outside with her chin.
Robby nodded. “Your husband would have let you give birth on the highway,” he noted coolly. “Some people don’t know how to appreciate their luck. But he’ll fit into the world he’s eager to get to. In Woolston, they’ll lick their fingers when they see him.” He grimaced. “Well, Lucille made everything right. Just look after yourself, madam, and your little sister.” Robby made a parting gesture.
“I’d at least like to name the baby after you,” Violet said before he turned away. “What do you think?” She looked tenderly at the little being in her arms. “Do you like Robert?”
