Mud and Gold

by Shayne Parkinson

  ‘Don’t tell me what to do, you meddling little bitch.’ He gave her a slap across the cheek. Amy was grateful it wasn’t her sore one.

  ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude. When do you think you’ll be home?’

  ‘Don’t know,’ he said shortly.

  ‘It’s just that…’ Amy knew she was risking another slap, but Charlie hated to be kept waiting for his meals. Having his dinner ready late was a worse risk. ‘I wondered when I should have dinner ready.’

  ‘I mightn’t be home for dinner.’

  ‘What?’ That startled her even more. Charlie had never been out at dinner time before.

  ‘Are you deaf as well as stupid? I might be home for dinner, I might not.’

  Charlie was not home for dinner. Amy kept the food warm until seven o’clock before eating her own, and it was almost eight before he returned. He smelt of beer and of something else Amy could not quite identify, though it seemed familiar, and she guessed that he had eaten at one of the hotels. But she asked no questions, knowing how prying would be rewarded, even though the looks Charlie cast at her as he ate half a plateful of the food she warmed for him almost seemed to be daring her to say something. He looked as though he could not make up his mind whether to be angry or to lord over her whatever secret he was holding.

  That night she was almost as astonished as she had been by Charlie’s strange outing when, instead of groping for her in the darkness, Charlie rolled over and went straight to sleep, his loud snores soon punctuating the silence of the bedroom. It must be the beer, she decided. Not that beer usually had that effect on him.

  *

  A few days after the wild night of the earthquakes and the birth of Lizzie’s baby, the Bay of Plenty Times arrived in Ruatane on the steamer and told the town of the real events of that night.

  Frank sat on the chair beside Lizzie as she lay in bed feeding the baby, and he read out snippets of news to her. ‘So it was Tarawera, eh, not White Island at all.’

  ‘Mmm,’ Lizzie agreed absently, watching the baby pulling at her breast.

  ‘Mind you, White Island’s been puffing out smoke like mad since Tarawera blew up. I wonder if they’re sort of joined up somehow.’

  ‘Eh? How can they be? Tarawera’s miles away. Where is it, Frank?’

  ‘Over by Rotorua. You know, you must have heard of the Pink and White Terraces.’

  ‘Oh, that Tarawera. I know where you mean now. I read in the Weekly News one time about people going there on their honeymoon.’

  ‘They won’t be going there now. The whole mountain cracked open, and they think the terraces have broken up. It says in the paper that a whole village got buried in the ash. They don’t know how many people were killed.’

  ‘How terrible. Look at her, Frank.’ Lizzie had put her finger on the baby’s palm when the little girl stopped sucking, and the tiny fingers were closing around it.

  Frank put the newspaper on the floor and devoted his attention to his family. ‘Do you think Mrs Parsons will leave us alone for a bit?’ he asked, glancing apprehensively at the bedroom door.

  ‘Probably. She’s making bread, so she’ll be up to her elbows in dough.’

  ‘Good.’ He lay down on the bed close to Lizzie, with the baby between them. He coaxed the baby’s hand to clutch one of his own fingers, smiling at the touch. ‘Her fingers are so little—look at those tiny nails. But everything’s perfect. Hello, Edith Maud,’ he said, touching the baby’s nose gently with one finger. ‘I registered you today at the courthouse. You’re all legal now. Edith Maud Kelly.’

  ‘Look at Papa, Maudie,’ Lizzie cajoled.

  ‘Do you think we’ll call her Maud?’

  ‘Mmm. Two Edies at once would be too confusing.’

  ‘Ma would have liked that. A little granddaughter with her name. Gee, I felt proud registering her, Lizzie. It feels good to be a father.’ He stroked Maudie’s downy cheek.

  A noise from the direction of the kitchen made them both jump. Frank sat up guiltily and resumed his seat on the chair. ‘Mrs Parsons would probably go crook if she saw me lying on the bed in my clothes. “You seem to have a good deal of spare time, Mr Kelly,” ’ he said in an attempt to imitate Mrs Parsons’ disapproving tone.

  ‘She’d say Maudie should be back in her cradle, too. She’s very bossy. What are you grinning at, Frank?’

  ‘You calling someone else bossy.’

  ‘She is! You should have heard her when Maudie was coming. “Push harder.” “Sit up.” “Lie down.” Ordering me around all the time!’

  ‘Better than trying to manage by ourselves, though.’

  ‘That’s true. She wasn’t horrible or anything, just bossy. I didn’t really mind it then, ’cause I was a bit scared and it was good to have someone who knew all about it. I’m a bit sick of her now, though. She keeps telling you what to do, too—I don’t like that. Don’t you worry, I’ll get her sorted out once I stop feeling so feeble.’

  ‘Yes, I bet you will.’ Frank was quite sure Mrs Parsons had more than met her match in Lizzie.

  *

  Amy had to wait a day longer than Frank to read about the eruption. When she was picking up Charlie’s discarded newspaper in the parlour next morning, she took a few minutes to look at it. The paper had mournful reports of people buried alive, huddled together for comfort while they waited to die. She gave a shudder. Buried alive. I should count my blessings like Granny used to say.

  She folded the newspaper and put it by the hearth, unwilling to read any further. Being buried alive, trapped and unable to escape, was uncomfortably easy to imagine.

  The remaining months of winter were a pinched, anxious time, as the farmers watched their pasture to see if it would recover from the burden of ash. Amy read in another discarded newspaper that farmers in Tauranga had sent their cattle away towards Thames, where the ash had not fallen as thickly, to graze, but Ruatane had not been affected quite so badly. Charlie’s haystacks were gone before July was over, fed out to hungry cows, and Amy knew it troubled him when he had to buy feed for them. She wondered if he had had to borrow money to do so.

  But spring brought new growth, though less than usual, and Charlie began to look less grey and care-worn. Malcolm now regularly slept through the night, to the relief of his parents. He learned to crawl, and got his little gowns filthy in the process. Crawling was such an easy way of getting about that Malcolm seemed reluctant to abandon it for the more precarious two-legged method. Amy tried to encourage him to walk, but it was difficult to find the time, and it did not seem to matter. He would walk when he was ready; she knew that big children like him were often slower about walking.

  She devoted more time to teaching Malcolm to talk. During the daytime, when the two of them were alone in the house, she would hold him on her lap and repeat over and over, ‘Papa. Papa. Come on, Mal, you say it. Papa.’ But Malcolm squirmed to get down, cried if she held him too long against his will, or jabbered away with his own meaningless sounds.

  This year Ann’s birthday brought a dull ache instead of the sharp pain of a year before. My little girl. You’re two now. I expect you’re talking lots. I wonder what you’re like. I bet you’re pretty. Oh, Ann, I hope they love you.

  On Malcolm’s first birthday Amy baked a cake, though she gave only a tiny portion to Malcolm himself. He made quite enough mess with his little chunk; Amy was careful to sweep up the crumbs before Charlie came in for lunch.

  ‘I just want to mash some gravy in with the vegetables for Malcolm. Could you please hold him for me for a minute?’ she asked.

  ‘All right,’ Charlie said in the tone of one bestowing a great favour, but Amy knew he enjoyed holding his son when she gave him an excuse to do so without appearing sentimental. He sat the boy on his lap, jiggling him on one knee when he thought Amy was not watching.

  Malcolm chortled away at his father. He never laughs for me like that. It’s almost as if he knows I didn’t want him.

  The little fist reached ou
t to take hold of Charlie’s beard. He gave it a tug, but before Charlie had a chance to prise his fingers away Malcolm gave a little giggle and said quite clearly, ‘Papa.’

  Charlie stared at him open-mouthed, then turned to Amy. ‘Did you hear that?’

  ‘Yes. That’s the first word he’s ever said.’

  ‘Is it? He hasn’t even called you Mama yet?’

  ‘No, never.’ It would be surprising if he had, after all her coaxing. But the look on Charlie’s face was worth the effort.

  ‘You know your Papa, eh?’ He jiggled Malcolm, not caring now that Amy was watching the two of them.

  ‘Papa. Papa,’ Malcolm crowed.

  Amy sat and watched them for some time, but she was aware of two plates of food, along with Malcolm’s bowlful, getting cold on the table. ‘I’d better take him now, I can give him his lunch while you’re eating yours.’ For a moment she thought Charlie was going to offer to feed Malcolm, but he appeared to think better of it and handed the baby over.

  Malcolm grizzled briefly at being taken off his father’s lap, but the food soon distracted him. When he had ploughed his way through a bowl of mashed vegetables, Amy turned sideways on her chair to give herself a little more privacy, unbuttoned her bodice and offered a nipple to Malcolm. He sucked greedily, though she knew he was no longer taking much nourishment from her now that he was eating so many solids.

  ‘Don’t bite, Mal,’ she admonished, tapping the little boy’s mouth gently. ‘You’ve got too many teeth.’

  ‘Does he still need that?’ Charlie asked, startling her.

  ‘I think so, Charlie. It’s good for babies to feed off their mothers. Mal’s certainly thriving.’

  ‘He’s hardly a baby any more. Look at him—he’s nearly walking, and he’s talking now. You look ridiculous suckling him—like a cow with last year’s calf.’

  Perhaps she did, now that Malcolm was so big. But Amy did not suckle him to look elegant. She did it for Malcolm’s good… and for her own. She knew she would soon be with child again once she stopped. ‘I suppose I could start weaning him in a little while,’ she said reluctantly.

  ‘You can start now,’ Charlie declared. ‘A year’s long enough for that business. The boy’s growing up, and I’ll not have him turning into a Mama’s boy.’

  ‘I don’t think he will—’

  ‘I don’t want to hear what you think, you silly bitch.’ He used the term casually, not with any particular animosity. It was just how he thought of her, Amy knew. ‘I want the boy weaned.’

  And of course she did as he wished. By Christmas, with Malcolm thirteen months old, Amy was sure that she was, once again, with child.

  10

  December 1886 – January 1887

  Just as she had with Malcolm, Amy put off telling Charlie about the coming child. But this time it was not because of any reluctance on her part to face the fact of her pregnancy; childbearing was something to be accepted as part of the duties of being a wife, just like cooking, cleaning and sharing Charlie’s bed.

  This time she held the news in reserve as a kind of insurance. The next time Charlie became violently angry, she would announce that she was with child, and thus avert his wrath.

  But Amy was so anxious to please, so careful of Charlie’s comfort, that there were no outbursts frightening enough for her to squander her news on. So she kept silent and let the days take their course.

  On Christmas Day Amy and Charlie took Malcolm and went next door to Jack’s house for lunch. They walked around the long way, using the road; climbing the fences, as Amy did when she visited without Charlie, offended his sense of the correct. Malcolm perched on his father’s shoulders in what looked to Amy a precarious position for a one-year-old, but they were both happy that way, so she contented herself with keeping a wary eye on the baby.

  She saw Thomas and George playing by the creek, and the little boys ran to join them. They both looked as though they had fallen over once or twice; their knees were filthy, and their faces liberally smudged with mud. Thomas slipped a grubby little hand into Amy’s as they walked up the hill to the house, and Amy ruffled his hair affectionately.

  As soon as they walked into the kitchen, Amy was aware of tenseness in the air. Her father had a weary expression, and Susannah was tight-lipped. John sat at the table looking as though he wished he were elsewhere.

  Jack gave Amy a kiss and chucked Malcolm under the chin. ‘Good to see you!’ he said heartily. Amy guessed that he was glad of the interruption. ‘How’s my grandson?’ he said as Charlie lowered Malcolm into Amy’s waiting arms.

  ‘Bigger and stronger than ever, Pa,’ Amy told him with a smile.

  ‘Excuse me if I don’t rush over, Amy,’ Susannah said, noisily jostling dishes on the bench. ‘I’ve rather a lot to do, and I’ve had to get everything ready by myself.’ She glared around the room, but Amy was the only one who met her eyes.

  ‘Do you want me to help, Susannah?’

  ‘I’ve all but finished, actually. Of course I’ve been on the go all morning. There’s a lot of work in getting a meal ready for seven adults and three children, you know. Especially with no one to help.’

  ‘You want a beer, Charlie?’ Jack offered, ignoring his wife’s complaints. Charlie did not need to be asked twice. He joined the other two men at the far end of the table where Jack had a jug and glasses ready.

  Amy put Malcolm down to crawl, and he made his way across the room to where Thomas and George stood beside their father. She took an apron from the familiar hook behind the door. ‘What can I do?’

  ‘I hardly know whether I’m coming or going. I don’t think I’ve sat down since breakfast,’ Susannah said, moving pots about ineffectually.

  ‘I’ll make the gravy, shall I? Then I’ll set the table. Everything else looks ready.’ Amy set to work without waiting for instructions. ‘Where’s Jane?’ she asked.

  ‘That is a good question,’ Susannah said grimly. ‘I did think she might have given me a bit of help. She said she would, but there’s been no sign of her this morning. Everyone just seems to take it for granted that I should do all the work by myself.’

  ‘Had a bit of rain last night,’ Amy heard her father explain as he filled the glasses. ‘I think that roof of Harry’s leaks a bit—there’s always a row from his place when it rains. He looked as though he’d been sent out with a flea in his ear when he came down to the cow shed this morning. They must have started scrapping again when Harry went back home.’ Charlie grunted an acknowledgement and reached for his glass.

  ‘I would have come over and helped you if I’d known,’ Amy told Susannah.

  ‘Oh, you’re busy, I know. After all, you’ve got a baby to look after as well as a husband. Not like some girls I could mention.’

  ‘Don’t start again, Susannah,’ Jack put in from across the room.

  ‘All I said was that I understand why Amy couldn’t be expected to come and help me. What’s wrong with that?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Jack said. He took a large gulp from his glass.

  The final meal preparations were soon complete. Amy and Susannah left the food to keep warm on the range and joined the men at the table. Amy picked Malcolm up and sat him on her lap, but he whined at being held.

  ‘He’s rather a grizzly baby, isn’t he?’ Susannah remarked. ‘He’s always cried a lot.’

  ‘He doesn’t cry much now,’ Amy said defensively. She gripped Malcolm more tightly as he struggled to get free.

  ‘Give him here,’ Charlie said, and Amy passed the little boy over to him. ‘Stop that noise,’ he told Malcolm. The grizzles stopped abruptly, and Malcolm gave his father a dubious look. His face broke into a smile as he tugged at Charlie’s beard.

  Amy studied the two of them. ‘He likes his Papa best,’ she said. Much better than he likes me. But that’s only fair—I didn’t even want him before he was born. Charlie’s wanted a son half his life, I think.

  ‘He’s talking a bit now,’ Charlie said. ‘Walking, to
o.’ He stood Malcolm on the floor between his knees. The little boy took a few steps on tiptoe while Charlie held his hands.

  ‘They grow up fast, eh?’ Jack said. ‘It only seems the other day you were starting to walk, girl,’ he said, smiling at Amy. ‘Now you’ve got one of your own.’

  Two. An image of her tiny, dark-haired daughter rose sharply in Amy’s mind. To hide the sudden stab of memory she took hold of Malcolm’s hand as Charlie lifted him back onto his lap. ‘Show Grandpa what you can say, Mal,’ she coaxed. ‘Come on. Who’s got you? Papa’s got you.’

  ‘Papa,’ Malcolm repeated. ‘Papa. Papa.’ Charlie looked smug.

  ‘There’s nothing of you in that child, Amy,’ Susannah said. ‘He’s just the image of his father.’ Amy knew she did not say it to be kind, but Charlie looked more pleased with himself than ever.

  ‘It’s about time he started walking,’ Susannah added. ‘He’s a little bit slow to be just starting now.’

  Charlie looked affronted at the slight to his son. He turned to Amy for reassurance. ‘No, he’s not!’ Amy said. ‘He’s just average. He’s so big, too, it’s harder work for him to walk.’

  Susannah looked doubtful. ‘I suppose that might be right. Oh, I expect he just seems slow to me because my children were so forward.’

  ‘They were not,’ Amy said. ‘They were about the same as Malcolm.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t think so, Amy,’ Susannah said. ‘I’m quite sure Thomas walked before he was this age.’

  ‘He didn’t,’ Amy insisted. Susannah was going to upset Charlie, going on like this, and she was talking a load of rubbish anyway. ‘Tommy was thirteen months when he walked, exactly the same as Malcolm is now.’

  ‘Well, I do think I’m more likely to remember when my own child started walking than you are,’ Susannah said haughtily. ‘What makes you so sure you’re right and I’m wrong?’

  ‘Because I taught Tommy to walk,’ Amy shot back.