by Maggie Hope
Prue had her baby during the night, a healthy boy. The first the women in the mission house heard of it was when Matthew came to work the next morning. Mary and Eleanor walked down to see the mother and child. To their surprise, Prue was already sitting up in a chair, looking as if nothing had happened, except that she was thinner.
The baby was in a sort of crib, suspended from the wooden beams of the roof and swaying gently in the wind.
‘Oh, he has blue eyes, just like yours,’ exclaimed Eleanor, surprised.
‘They will probably darken, don’t all babies have blue eyes?’ Prue smiled gently. She looked so happy it made tears spring to Eleanor’s eyes, for surely happiness such as Prue’s couldn’t last.
‘Oh, he’s so beautiful,’ sighed Mary. And it was true; his skin was olive, contrasting with the fuzz of fair hair on the top of his head.
‘Mind he is, isn’t he?’ said Prue, jumping up and moving to the crib, gazing down at her son, and he gazed back at her with unfocused eyes.
‘Prue! Sit down at least, it’s far too early for you to be up.’ Eleanor was horrified but Prue simply laughed and picked up the baby and took him back to her seat where she commenced feeding him, quite unabashed.
‘I am taking things easy,’ she said, ‘for today at least.’
‘We’ll go and let you get some rest,’ said Eleanor. ‘If you need anything, just ask Matthew to let me know.’
‘I don’t think she needs anything from us,’ Mary remarked as they walked back to the mission house. ‘Prue has all she needs.’ Eleanor glanced at her; did she sound a little wistful? Prue had been almost a daughter to Mary when they were young.
The coronation of King Thakembau was a great success, especially from the point of view of the children, who had a holiday from school.
Representatives from the king of Tonga came and all the petty chiefs of the islands, as well as most of the missionaries and their families so that Bau was teeming with people. The sombre black garb of the Methodist ministers mingled with the bright colours of the others.
But it was Francis whom Thakembau kept by his side throughout the actual ceremony of the coronation, held, as was the custom, before the long house in the open air. Francis was the king’s confidant and it was he who gave the coronation address. Eleanor realised, as she sat with Mary and the children to watch the spectacle and afterwards in the church to hear the blessing, also given by Francis, that her husband was most important to the king.
She felt a touch of anxiety as he started his sermon; he had used his voice quite a lot already that day and he had to clear his throat a few times. But even though he was husky, he was commanding in his address and in any case, the congregation was quiet and attentive. Sometimes she wasn’t entirely convinced that all of the Fijians had truly accepted Christianity, though she wasn’t sure what made her think so. Perhaps it was simply fear of the king that kept them in order.
‘At least the children enjoyed the feast,’ remarked Mary afterwards. ‘I only hope they aren’t sick during the night.’
Next morning Francis, along with his fellow missionaries and the other guests, was off on his travels again.
‘I will be away a full week, Eleanor,’ he said as she was packing his bag. ‘You know there are still some of the mountain people who still believe in the old gods. We must do what we can for them.’
Eleanor walked with him to the ship, her hand on his arm. She waited until they cast off and waved to him as the sails billowed out in the breeze and it began to make speed. At last she was beginning to know him, what he did and why he did it, after all these years. Ten, was it? Yes, almost ten.
It was time to fetch the children from school, almost midday. They always had a rest in the middle of the day, especially in the hottest part of the year.
They were singing a hymn, as they always did at the end of the morning session, their voices shrilling out over the hot air of the dusty street. She waited, content to stand in the shade of the overhanging roof, thinking about Francis. The verse from Acts 14 ran through her head:
‘I have set thee to be a light of the Gentiles,
That thou shouldest be for Salvation unto the ends of the earth.’
Even the savage hill tribes of Fiji, that meant. But still, the thought that Francis might be going in their direction sent a shiver of apprehension through her.
Chapter Twenty-nine
Eleanor was sweating with terror; she fought to rise from her bed but she was bound hand and foot, there was nothing she could do. The warriors were here, in the house, in the bedroom, they were running through the house, smashing the furniture with their clubs, laughing and yelling at each other. She opened her mouth to scream but no sound came out. Dear God, the children, please don’t let them get the children, she thought frantically. Mary, where was Mary?
‘I’ll save you,’ said a voice and she managed to turn her head to see Morgan West, strolling almost casually to the bed, leaning over her. The smell was rank as he grinned and reached out a hand and he was holding a knife with a long, curved blade, it glinted as it came nearer her neck. Suddenly she got her voice back and screamed and the sound reverberated round the house.
She opened her eyes and the room was quiet, the furniture was not smashed to pieces and Mary was standing by the side of her bed, a glass of water in her hand.
‘Please, Eleanor,’ she said. ‘Take a drink, come on, you will feel better for it. You must be thirsty.’
‘I am,’ said Eleanor but it came out as a croak. She caught hold of Mary’s hand, held the glass to her mouth and drank; the water was sweet and cool; Matthew must have brought it from the spring.
She lay back on her pillow, panting slightly, and Mary wiped her mouth with a napkin. The nightmare was still with her, on the edge of her consciousness, and she looked around the room anxiously. The sun was filtering through the muslin curtains, lighting up the corners. There was nothing there, nothing but the familiar things, no tribesmen, no clubs or spears, no Morgan West.
‘I was dreaming,’ she said shakily and smiled in self-deprecation. ‘I didn’t alarm the children by screaming?’
‘No, you didn’t scream, you must have dreamed that an’ all,’ said Mary. She had a bowl of water and a piece of flannel and she began to wash Eleanor’s face and neck; the water was cool on her skin.
I’ve been ill.’
‘Yes. But you’re all right now, the fever has broken.’
‘Fever?’
Anxiety rushed through Eleanor. What about the children? Dear Lord, she prayed, not the fever, not the cholera? Please God, not the cholera.
‘The children are all right, Francis has taken them to Lakeba with him, away from the infection. Dysentry. Whether it came with the crowds that were here for the coronation—’
‘Francis has been back?’
‘The day before yesterday. You have been ill five days.’
Eleanor was silent, thinking about it. Absently, she let Mary take off her nightdress and sponge her body, lifting her head obediently as clean linen was put on her.
‘Blow the wind southerly, southerly, southerly,
Blow the wind south o’er the bonnie blue sea.’
The sound of the old Tyneside song brought Eleanor’s rambling thoughts back to the present; Mary was singing softly as she worked, barely breathing the words. Her face had a bloom to it, something that Eleanor had not seen in many a long day; she actually looked happy. It was positively indecent when she herself felt so weak and ill.
‘I’m glad you’re so happy about me having the fever,’ she said peevishly. ‘Is there anything else I can do for you?’
‘Eeh, I’m sorry, I wasn’t even thinking of the fever.’ Mary was stricken. ‘And there have been some deaths in the village an’ all and here am I, singing. I don’t know what it’s like with the folk that were here, Mr Tait says Mr Calvert was ill but he’s recovered. Any road, you’re getting better now, aren’t you?’
Eleanor sighed. ‘I’m so
rry, Mary, and after you’ve cared for me. I just feel so weary and worn, I shouldn’t have snapped.’
Mary collected the dish and towels and went to the door. ‘Aye, well, you go on to sleep now, I’ll do some chicken soup for your dinner and no doubt you’ll feel a lot better the morn.’ She went out, closing the door quietly behind her, and Eleanor sank down into the bed and closed her eyes. As she teetered on the edge of sleep, she felt comforted somehow by Mary’s words, ‘… you’ll feel a lot better the morn.’ That was what her mother used to say when she had had some childish ailment back in Durham. Mary still talked like that even after all these years and it sounded so good, the sound of home.
There was something else about Mary though, she had forgotten to ask her, what was it? But the thought was lost. Eleanor fell into a deep, untroubled sleep.
Eleanor was wrapped in shawls in spite of the heat and sitting in the bamboo chair in a corner of the balcony, well out of the reach of draughts, when Francis and the children came home. John saw her there as he walked up the street by his father’s side.
‘Mother!’ he cried and broke into a run. Francis William was hand in hand with Ruth and they followed at Ruth’s slower pace while Edward, sitting on his father’s shoulders, waved and shouted and struggled to get down.
‘You’re better then, praise the Lord,’ said Francis as he reached the house and climbed the steps to her. The boys were scrambling over her, hugging and kissing her, shouting over each other about where they had been and what they had done.
‘Now, John, take your brothers out to the kitchen and tell Mary I want to see her,’ he said. Only when they were alone did he kiss her gently and take her hand. ‘You do feel better? I had the note from Mary to say you were, but I must say you look very pale and haven’t you lost weight?’
His voice was very husky today, Eleanor noticed; sometimes it was getting difficult to hear what he had to say at all. As she reassured him about her own health, she couldn’t help a shiver of apprehension; surely he wasn’t going to lose his voice altogether? That would be too cruel when his whole life was built around his preaching.
‘You wanted to speak to me, Mr Tait?’ Mary interrupted her thoughts.
‘Yes, come and sit down, Mary, I have good news. It’s about the property, the plantation.’
Both women looked at him in surprise. Mary had already told Eleanor that Francis had managed to sell the machinery from the cotton gin to a buyer from the Philippines. That was why Mary had looked so happy that day. The money was sufficient for the tickets back to England and also there would be a small amount left over. Mary had already written to her brother in Hetton, asking him if she could stay with him until she found a position as a housemaid or, perhaps, a children’s nurse.
‘Of course, I will have to make certain that Morgan cannot claim anything, though I have made inquiries and I am assured that he cannot, not in the circumstances. No, it belongs to Ruth, and you, Mary, as her guardian have control.’
Eleanor was puzzled. ‘But surely, Francis, once Mary has bought her tickets, there will not be enough left to make it worth Morgan’s while to claim anything, will there?’
Francis smiled and sat back in his chair looking pleased with himself. ‘Well, as it happens, there will. At least fifteen hundred pounds over. I have sold the remainder of the cotton that was stored in the warehouses. To the same buyer as I sold the machinery.’
‘Fifteen hundred pounds? Francis, you’re joking!’
It was Eleanor who spoke; Mary was too stunned.
‘I am not joking, Eleanor. I told you I would do my best, didn’t I?’
Mary found her voice at last. ‘Fifteen hundred pounds? You mean to say I have fifteen hundred pounds? Over and above the price of our tickets home an’ all?’
‘That’s right. Quite enough for you to buy a little house in Hetton or Durham or even by the sea. I’m sure you will be able to buy a nice little house, with a garden if you wish, for three hundred pounds. Why, if you’re careful, you should have enough to live on, at least while Ruth is a minor.’
‘Eeh, but …’ Mary paused, the elation that had lit her face for a few moments dying. ‘What about Morgan? If he hears, he’ll likely come for it, won’t he?’
‘He won’t, take my word for it. In any case I had the bank draft put in your name, as Ruth is a minor.’ What Francis didn’t say was that there was a rumour that Morgan’s sloop had been shipwrecked on its way to Hawaii. He thought about telling her but decided against it; after all, there was no absolute proof. He ran over what he had found out in his mind.
Hawaii was reported to have been Morgan’s destination and from there he was supposed to be going to San Francisco. Francis had even written to the church in Hawaii asking for news of Morgan’s movements, for he didn’t trust him not to sneak back to Fiji if he saw any advantage in doing so.
A report had come from a minister in Hawaii to the effect that the sloop had never arrived and nothing had been heard of Morgan West.
‘There is talk of a wreck of an unknown sloop on an island not thirty miles from here,’ the minister had written. ‘It must have happened during the last typhoon, I believe. I regret to tell you this if the owner was a friend of yours. Please let me know if you need any further information.’
‘You really think he will have no legal claim?’ Mary was persistent and Francis thought for a moment before answering.
‘Well, you would have to ask a lawyer about that to be absolutely sure. But I have consulted with the authorities here and I am convinced that he will not make a claim. After all, he cannot come back to Fiji without laying himself open to the charge of bodily harm to John, and fifteen hundred pounds is not enough for him to chance that.’
‘Fifteen hundred! By, it’s a fortune to us, though,’ said Mary, sinking back into her chair and already beginning to plan how to use the money. She and Ruth might not be going home in diamonds and tiaras, but, by, they would make a splash in Hetton-le-Hole.
‘I’ll never be able to thank you enough, Mr Tait,’ she said formally as she rose to her feet. ‘An’ little Ruth an’ all.’
After she had gone back into the kitchen where she was preparing fish for the afternoon meal, Eleanor kissed Francis on the cheek, automatically glancing down the street first to make sure no one was watching. That was something else she was beginning to respect about Francis; he didn’t like public displays of affection from her, so why should she embarrass him?
‘You went to a lot of trouble to do that for Mary, didn’t you?’ she asked.
‘Well, if I start something I like to see it through,’ he replied, but nevertheless he wore a small, pleased smile.
‘I remember how you were so against my bringing the two Buckle girls in the first place.’
Francis pulled his chair close to hers. ‘We all can be a little foolish when we are young.’
He began gazing down the street at the people walking about, going into and out of the store or stopping to talk to each other on the shady side. Most of the Fijians were dressed in a mixture of western dress and Fijian, a shirt on top of a wraparound, bark-cloth skirt in the traditional pattern, though some were in trousers. A few were still practically naked but for a loin cloth and armlet of shark’s teeth but the sight of a bare chest no longer bothered him as it had at first.
‘There are more people on the street than there have been since the king’s coronation,’ he said. ‘We must give thanks that the epidemic is over, on this island at least.’
‘Yes, dear,’ said Eleanor.
The community got back to normal eventually, as it did after every visitation of one fever or another, though the particularly virulent type of dysentry had claimed quite a number of victims. The cemetery on the outskirts of the village, which was fast becoming a town, had a row of new graves, both in the Fijian section and the European. It had claimed a number of fatalities among the beachcombers, mostly white, mostly English, though there were Australians and South Africans and so
me from the Philippines amongst them.
Mary planned to leave as soon as Eleanor got her strength back.
‘You can go on the John Wesley the next time it is journeying to Sydney,’ suggested Francis. ‘There are ships leaving for England at least once a week now, you won’t have any difficulty in getting a berth.’
There was one difficulty: Ruth was flatly refusing to go.
‘I want to stay here with Francis William,’ she announced, nodding her head to emphasise what she was saying. Then she walked over to where he was and stood with him, both children gazing stubbornly at the grown-ups.
Wisely, Mary didn’t argue, simply went ahead with packing for the sea voyage. She didn’t think she would need many of their old clothes when they got back to England as she meant to buy new as soon as they touched land, clothes good enough to dazzle the miners of Hetton.
Eleanor said nothing; she spent most of her time nowadays sitting in the bamboo chair on the verandah, dozing some of the time and the rest just feeling tired to death.
‘I’ll go for a walk tomorrow,’ she said every now and then. ‘I’ve got to pull myself together, this is plain silly.’
‘There’s plenty of time, you don’t have to do anything,’ said Francis. But both of them were thinking about Mary’s imminent departure. Of course there was Prue, but she was so wrapped up in her own baby and Matthew that she would have little time to spare for helping Eleanor.
The John Wesley came and went, and came and went again, and still Mary was not on it. Lines were appearing between Francis’s brows and Mary, though she said nothing, was slowly losing her recently acquired sparkle.
‘You must go next time the ship puts in,’ Eleanor said to Mary. ‘It’s not fair that you should be tied here, I’ll get a girl from the village, or perhaps one of Matthew’s relatives.’
Then something occurred that changed everything. Francis came in one day after one of his regular visits to the king.
