by Lark, Sarah
Atamarie comforted herself with the fact that their love life, at least, was in no way lacking. Richard’s enthusiasm did not abate; he made love to her ever more ecstatically. When he kissed her, whispered tender words, and they climaxed together, she felt happy and convinced herself that feeling applied to her whole life with Richard.
Only when she found the time one afternoon to write a letter to Roberta and wanted, after all her swooning over Richard, to tell her about daily life, did Atamarie realize how lonely she was. People came and went all day. Particularly now, during harvesttime, the farmers had a lot of contact, lending one another machines and stepping in to help a neighbor make hay when rain clouds appeared. They were pleasant to Atamarie, but did not seem to see her as more than a sort of cog in a machine. They did not even seem too worried about her “living in sin” with Richard. Occasionally she caught comments like “But it suits him,” or “Not half as crazy as before,” and “A nice girl, otherwise.” Everyone seemed to be relieved that Richard Pearse finally “functioned.” The local matrons felt confirmed in their opinion: only a woman had been needed to put the strange young man back on the right path. Even if it was a somewhat exotic woman who did not fit their image of a proper wife.
That it was actually Atamarie who was “functioning” while Richard only appeared to do so did not interest anyone. This was normal for pakeha society, but as a Maori woman, Atamarie expected her contributions to be recognized, and these people were denying her mana.
Atamarie observed her surroundings with growing distrust, but for the moment, she made no protest. After all, every day of drudgery brought the end of the harvest closer, and then she would work together again with Richard, instead of just enabling him. Atamarie daydreamed about the aeroplane’s design while she cooked and cleaned. Making the wings moveable, she realized with excitement, would make it possible to steer the thing better. Once it actually flew.
And then, the last fields were finally harvested. Richard paid his workers generously, and even his father found a few words of praise as he inspected the full barns and grain lofts.
“There’s a celebration tonight,” Richard’s brother Warne said happily. “Starting at seven in the Hansleys’ depot. And you won’t believe it—I’m going with Martha Klein.”
Atamarie grinned at the boy. Warne was one of the few people in Temuka with whom she could laugh and joke around. He was clever, like all of the Pearse children, and still too young to look askance at Atamarie and her relationship with Richard.
“I’m sure wedding bells will be ringing soon,” she teased. “As long as you don’t step on her feet too often while dancing.”
Warne giggled, then declared that he needed to go pick flowers. Maybe he would make a crown for Martha.
Atamarie loved the idea of weaving flowers into her hair. She picked a few daisies from the side of the road and hoped they would stay fresh until evening. Their bright purple complemented the brightly colored flower-print dress from the Gold Mine Boutique that she’d packed for special occasions. She hoped for undiluted admiration when Richard saw her in it. She had washed her hair and now wore it down, not braided or up as usual. The golden-blonde locks reached almost to her hips, and the crown of flowers made her look like a fairy. Atamarie was very pleased with herself, but her good mood evaporated when she saw Richard shamble into the kitchen in his work clothes.
“Is there nothing to eat today, Atamie?” he asked in surprise. Atamarie always had something prepared when he came in from the fields, no matter how long she had worked herself. “I’m happy to make something myself, but I know you—” Richard looked up. “Why’re you dressed like that?”
Atamarie shook her head. “Did you forget? Tonight’s the harvest festival. Your brother says they’ll be grilling food. But you need to get dressed quickly. And bathe.”
Richard frowned. “You honestly want to go? I wouldn’t have thought that you—”
“Take an interest in something other than motors and updrafts?” Atamarie shot back. He could at least have said something about her dress. “I do, Richard, if you can imagine it. I love dancing. I like to dress up sometimes, and I like to take my man out in public. As long as he’s clean and properly dressed.”
“I, uh, just thought we’d go to the barn later and work on the motor,” Richard replied.
“You want to tinker alone while everyone is celebrating? Then you can’t wonder why they call you Cranky Dick. Richard, that engine’s not going to run away, but they’re only playing music tonight. Tonight, we can eat, dance, and chat with the neighbors a bit. Sometimes you just have to. And it’s not so terrible, anyway. We’ll have fun. So, come on, hurry. I can harness the horses while you change. Hopefully, I won’t get my dress too dirty in the process.”
In fact, Atamarie did manage to hitch the horses without reeking of stables afterward, and Richard, too, made a good impression when he came out of the house in his one good suit—Atamarie recognized it from Taranaki.
“Well then!” Atamarie laughed and snuggled against him on the hay wagon’s box. “And now smile, would you? It’s a beautiful evening, Richard. Look at the stars—that’s Sirius. Will we fly there, too, someday, Richard? Up to the stars?” She laid her head on his shoulder.
“I’d be happy to make it over the next hill,” Richard said. “Where’s the festival? I didn’t pay attention to whose turn it was to host.”
This year, the Hansley family had moved its wagons and harvesters outside, and the local wives had been busy sweeping out the depot and decorating it festively. It stung Atamarie a little that she had not been invited to help, but Richard had been one of the last to finish harvesting, and the women might have assumed she was needed on the farm. So, Atamarie shook off the slight and immediately approached the women to assure them of how beautiful and inviting the space looked.
That was when she realized she’d made a grave sartorial error. All the women, Richard’s mother and sisters included, wore Sunday dresses, but they were dark, demure affairs. Everyone but Atamarie was corseted, and they all wore their hair modestly pinned up. Some of the older women even hid it under bonnets. She only spied flowers in the hair of very young girls—like Warne’s friend Martha, who must have been twelve or thirteen at most.
Atamarie’s reception thus proved rather frosty. The matrons looked disapprovingly over her free-flowing hair and wide dress, the younger women turned away contemptuously, and the girls openly gaped. Atamarie pretended not to notice. She chatted with Joan Peterson and Richard’s mother. Both were noticeably curt.
“I’ll see where Richard’s at,” Atamarie mumbled, then immediately realized she was making another misstep.
At least until the official beginning of the dance, the men stood with the men and the women with the women. Richard was trying to excite Peterson and Hansley about the unasked-for improvements he had made to Hansley’s hay tedder the previous year.
“Before long, everything’s going to change in agriculture,” he was saying when Atamarie arrived. There was only fruit punch for the women, but the men were drinking beer, and it seemed to have gone straight to Richard’s head. “Much more work will be done by machines. Even draft animals have nearly outlived their usefulness. In a few decades, you won’t see horses or mules in the fields. Automobiles will pull the plows, or there’ll simply be motorized plows as well as harvesters and threshing machines.”
Richard’s eyes shone as he thought of it. The other farmers, on the other hand, bellowed with laughter.
“The animals won’t shy from flying machines, then,” Peterson mocked. “Which’ll be important, because we’re probably all going to have one, right? Dream on, Cranky.”
“Actually, it’s entirely possible that every household will have a flying device someday.” Atamarie came to her friend’s aid against her better judgment. “Particularly here, in the countryside. In cities, the automobile is more likely to dominate.”
The men laughed even louder.
“And girls will fly them!” Hansley laughed. “I can just picture my Laura fluttering off to the store.”
“Like a hummingbird,” Peterson added drunkenly, and slapped his thigh. “You’re already wearing a colorful enough little dress for it, Miss Turei. It’s just a question of how long the nectar will be flowing for you on the Pearses’ farm!”
The men roared with laughter, but Atamarie did not understand what was so funny. Richard seemed angry and embarrassed.
“We shouldn’t have come. We don’t belong here,” he observed as he followed her to the buffet.
The long table was lined with cakes and bowls of salad. From outside wafted the scent of grilled meat. Atamarie filled her friend’s plate. Richard needed to put something in his stomach before the beer inspired him to reveal more of his dreams.
“These people are simply narrow-minded,” she said. “In Christchurch and Dunedin, people discuss such subjects much more seriously. Soon, automobiles are going to change the cities completely, if not the whole world. And after them will come the flying machines, whether stupid farmers accept it or not.”
Richard grimaced. “Those ‘stupid farmers’ will still be my neighbors,” he said, then busied himself with devouring massive amounts of food. After the hard work in the fields, he must have been starving, but Atamarie knew that if he were alone, he’d have gone straight to work on his motor without bothering to eat. She was suddenly seized by the overwhelming desire to take Richard away. He would never be happy in Temuka.
Then, however, the improvised band struck up a tune, and Atamarie abandoned her gloomy thoughts as well as her weariness. Richard only swung her around the dance floor once, somewhat reluctantly. Afterward, he went to see his father. “I have to make an appearance. Otherwise, my dad will accuse me of sticking to the dirt farmers again,” he said apologetically.
Digory Pearse sat with the area’s other prominent landowners. Atamarie had already gathered that the Pearses were considered somewhat apart here. The term “gentleman farmer” had been used more than once. Pearse certainly could afford more harvest workers and better machines than the others, and even Richard’s property was considerably bigger than Hansley’s or Peterson’s lands. Sarah Pearse wore a much lovelier dress than the other women, and her children’s new clothes stood out among all the worn hand-me-downs. All of this bolstered Atamarie’s opinion that this family could easily have afforded Richard’s education. Forcing him to farm must be a sort of punishment. They didn’t want a black sheep who dreamed of flying machines and horseless plows.
Now, Richard sat somewhat unhappily beside his father, silently nursing a beer. Soon, however, he couldn’t sit still. Atamarie watched with concern how he ensnared the pastor and local schoolteacher in conversation, gesturing grandly. Probably he was already stepping in it again, but Atamarie determined not to let Richard’s troubles spoil her mood. She tapped her foot to the music, and when one of the other young men asked her to dance, she accepted. The next followed right after—Atamarie flew all evening from one arm to the next.
“Our hummingbird,” she heard Peterson say when one of the farmers’ sons swung her past him.
Atamarie did not worry about whether that was meant snidely or as flattery. She allowed one of the boys to sneak her a beer when the village matrons were looking the other way, and then enjoyed herself even more. The only thing that bothered her was that the boys she danced with often held her too aggressively. Dunedin dances had not accustomed her to partners who felt up her back and whose hands sometimes wandered to her rear. The boys’ breathing would get faster, and they whispered flattery that bordered on the obscene. Atamarie disliked it but was afraid to make a scene. She wondered if the people out here were a bit bawdier than the children of Dunedin society—or the young Maori in Parihaka. Granted, Maori men and women did not dance together, except perhaps in a haka. Neither girls nor boys needed the excuse of a dance to touch one another, as these village youths apparently did. And certainly, no Maori man became importunate when a woman did not clearly signal agreement.
Here, though, that wasn’t the case. The more the evening wore on, the more energetically Atamarie had to fend off her dance partners. She wanted to go home, but Richard was conversing excitedly with two younger farmers and even making drawings, likely depicting a new invention. Besides, she was a little cross that he showed not a trace of jealousy. It was good, of course, that he trusted her, but she would have liked a little more interest on his part.
Atamarie slipped outside for some fresh air. She had become fond of Richard’s workhorses and had snuck a piece of bread for them. They whinnied at her approach. But then someone grabbed her arm and spun her around.
“It’s nice you wanted to come out here with me, sweetheart, but you have to give a bloke a heads-up. I had to come looking for you.”
Atamarie found herself staring into the face of her last dance partner. She shook her head and tried to free herself from his grip.
“I didn’t want ‘to come out here with you,’” she said. “Please leave me alone.”
The young man laughed. “Come on, little mouse, are you trying to pretend you aren’t waiting here for Jed Hansley, or Jamie Frizzer?”
Atamarie pulled away energetically, still hoping to clear up the misunderstanding. “I—”
“Both?” The boy cackled. “Come on, then, you can do me quick too. What do you bet I’m better than Cranky Dick?”
The young man pulled Atamarie closer and tried to kiss her. His hot breath, heavy with beer, rolled over her face. She tried to free her arms and fend him off, but it was hopeless, as was her attempt to bite his wet, disgusting lips. Rage welled up within her. Atamarie raised her knee and struck with her full weight between the legs of the would-be rapist. He roared and let go.
“You—you—you piece of shit. Maori slut! First you lead a fellow on, and then—” He doubled over in pain.
Atamarie felt triumphant at first as she ran back to the depot, but was shaking by the time she found Richard.
She felt insulted and sullied. After the attack, she saw the advances of her previous dance partners in a new light. Did these men believe she would give anyone what she gave Richard? And then there was that insult. Maori slut. Atamarie shivered. She had long since noticed that the farmers in Temuka wanted little to do with their Maori neighbors. None of the harvest workers had been invited to the party, even though several farmers had hired Ngai Tahu men after they proved their worth to Richard. Atamarie disliked Richard’s neighbors more and more. Narrow-minded racists. Her brilliant Richard absolutely had to get out of this place.
Atamarie nudged him when he did not notice her at first.
“I’d like to go,” she said curtly. “We shouldn’t have come.”
Richard nodded distractedly—the reason for Atamarie’s change of heart did not seem to interest him. When they reached his farm, he murmured something incomprehensible and wandered to the barn. Atamarie unharnessed the horses and collapsed into bed, hoping Richard would come soon and comfort her. But this time, she waited in vain. Richard Pearse made up for the time lost at the party and worked the rest of the night on his precious engine.
Chapter 8
Roberta hadn’t expected to enjoy the voyage to South Africa much, but all her worries fell away as soon as the steamer left Dunedin. During the passage to Australia, she shared her cabin with the two nurses, who were friends from Christchurch. Tall, blonde Jennifer was a devotee of Wilhelmina Sheriff Bain, who had demonstrated against the war from the beginning. She wanted to go to Transvaal for purely altruistic reasons like her idol, Emily Hobhouse. Daisy, a shorter, pudgier girl with black hair and shining blue eyes, had joined her out of pure love of adventure. Sure, she wanted to help, but also to see lions and rhinoceroses, and touch an elephant if at all possible.
“I desperately wanted to get out of Christchurch,” she explained. “I would have applied right when they sent the first contingent of soldiers, but I was still in nursing schoo
l, and my parents wouldn’t let me, anyway. But now I’m done—and I’m not headed to war, just to refugee camps. My parents couldn’t say no! Especially with Jenny coming too.” Daisy beamed gratefully at her friend.
Jenny and Daisy were younger than Roberta but considerably more open-minded than the students from teaching college. That surprised Roberta. From everything she had heard, nursing schools were run like cloisters. Daisy giggled, though, when Roberta asked about it.
“Every cloister has its secret exits,” she said with mock saintliness, adjusting an imaginary veil. She folded her hands and raised her eyes to heaven.
Roberta laughed.
“There was a tree outside our window,” Jenny explained. “A nice southern beech. Saturday nights, we would climb down and go dancing.”
“Dancing?” Roberta would not even have known where to go dancing in religious Dunedin, but then, Christchurch was far more open. “Did you meet any men?”
“Of course!” Daisy squealed. “Half our patients were men.”
