Amber

by Deborah Challinor

  When Kitty told Simon the next day about Bodie stowing away in her trunk, and what she had managed to do in it during her two-day incarceration, he roared with laughter and suggested they go straight to the nearest butcher to buy the cat a reward for her adventurous exploits.

  ‘It’s all right for you to laugh,’ Kitty grumbled. ‘You didn’t have to clean out my trunk or spend three hours laundering my underthings.’

  ‘Where is she now?’ Simon asked, still smirking. They were walking down to Mr McKenzie’s pharmacy on Shortland Street.

  ‘Locked inside my room, and I hope that’s where she’ll stay until I get back.’

  Simon raised his eyebrows. ‘What about…you know?’

  ‘I smuggled her out early this morning and discovered a very convenient heap of soil behind some bushes in Mrs Fleming’s backyard.’

  ‘She’ll run away, you know.’

  ‘Probably,’ Kitty agreed gloomily. ‘I really don’t know how long I’ll be able to keep her out of Mrs Fleming’s sight. Apparently she hates cats.’

  ‘Couldn’t you put her in a wicker basket and send her back to Paihia?’

  ‘Mrs Fleming?’

  Simon gave Kitty a withering look. ‘No: Bodie. She survived in a trunk coming down to Auckland—surely she’ll manage going back the other way.’

  Kitty briefly considered the idea, then said, ‘No, I couldn’t do that to her. She might pine.’

  ‘Over two days? I doubt it.’

  ‘Simon, I’m not sure you know Bodie as well as you think you do.’

  Simon took Kitty’s arm and guided her across the dusty, uneven street, tipping his hat as they came abreast of two women walking towards them. ‘What are you talking about, Kitty? Bodie’s a cat—nobody knows her.’

  ‘I know her,’ Kitty insisted crossly.

  ‘Well, what if she came and stayed with me at the Commercial? I’m sure the proprietor would turn a blind eye if I slipped him a couple of extra shillings a week.’

  ‘No, she wouldn’t like that either,’ Kitty replied quickly.

  Simon rolled his eyes. They walked on, then suddenly he said, ‘I know what it is. You want her with you because she reminds you of Rian, doesn’t she?’

  Kitty saw that there was no point in lying, not to Simon. ‘How did you know that?’

  ‘Because I know you. You miss him very much, don’t you?’

  Kitty nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

  Simon regarded her fondly, dismayed that she was so upset. ‘Well, given that Rian has entrusted me to keep you away from the Bay of Islands until this war business is over, we’ll just have to fill in our days in Auckland as interestingly and entertainingly as possible, won’t we? And before you know, it will be time to go back. How’s that?’

  Kitty gave him a watery smile.

  ‘And to start with,’ he went on, ‘we’ll go into the very next draper’s shop we come to, because if we’re to spend some considerable time in civilised company, I desperately require some new clothes. And I need you to help me choose the fabric. You know I’m not very good at that sort of thing.’

  This actually made Kitty feel a little better: she enjoyed shop ping. Simon’s wardrobe certainly needed attention, and she fully planned to buy for herself, too, as Rian had given her a purse full of money—to salve his guilty conscience, she righteously assumed, for sending her away.

  They visited the pharmacy, which was quite well stocked as Flora had said, but ended up having to walk down to the bottom of Queen Street to find the shop where Auckland’s largest draper had his premises. The condition of the streets was appalling—even worse than The Rocks, where there was at least paving in places. There were piles of fly-infested animal manure everywhere, deep ruts from wagon wheels just waiting to turn unsuspecting ankles, and no drains whatsoever. It clearly hadn’t rained in Auckland for some time, because the ground was as dry as dust, but it was obvious that when it did the streets would be even more difficult and unpleasant to negotiate.

  But the draper, Mr Graham, was a pleasant and, fortunately, very patient man. Simon dithered for so long over which of the fabrics to choose that Kitty wondered if he was doing it on purpose just to keep her occupied. He finally settled on a brown tweed and a dark grey herringbone for two suits, but then couldn’t decide on the fabric for a fancy waistcoat.

  ‘What about this?’ he said, pointing at a pale lemon Indian doupion.

  ‘No, too boring,’ Kitty replied emphatically.

  Simon gazed around. ‘This?’ he suggested doubtfully, lifting a bolt of rather fussy floral brocade.

  ‘Er, it’s a bit, well, feminine, don’t you think?’

  ‘Is it?’ Simon muttered, and shoved the bolt back onto its shelf.

  Mr Graham came to the rescue. ‘Sir might appreciate this,’ he suggested, sliding out, from the bottom of a pile, a bolt of dark blue fabric with a very faint paisley pattern in grey. ‘See? It’s China silk, but reasonably plain, and very pleasing to the touch.’

  Simon hesitantly reached out and rubbed the silk between his fingers. ‘Er, yes, very nice.’

  ‘Is it to accompany the tweed or the herringbone?’ Mr Graham asked.

  Simon looked at Kitty, who answered, ‘The herringbone. The grey will go nicely with that blue. And we’ll take enough of the tweed to include a matching waistcoat, I think. Unless you wanted something different to contrast with the brown?’ she said to Simon.

  He shrugged, happy to leave it all to Kitty.

  Knowing that Simon was unlikely to wear even one fancy waist coat, never mind two, she said, ‘Just the extra tweed, thank you,’ as Mr Graham carried the various bolts of cloth over to his cutting table.

  He deftly measured and cut the required lengths, folded and wrapped them in paper and tied the parcel with string, then calculated the cost.

  Simon paid and signed the receipt.

  ‘Thank you very much, Mr Bullock,’ Mr Graham said. ‘Did you have a tailor in mind?’

  ‘No, we don’t know Auckland well. We’ve only just arrived from the Bay of Islands.’

  Mr Graham’s face assumed an expression of concern. ‘Yes, it’s a dreadful state of affairs, isn’t it? Very alarming. I do hope things are settled soon and then we can all get on with our lives. I would recommend Mr Donaven.’

  Simon looked at him. ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Mr Donaven, a very accomplished gentlemen’s tailor. On the corner of Chancery Street and Fields Lane. Fields Lane is off Shortland Street, if you don’t know.’

  ‘Oh, yes. Thank you.’

  As Kitty and Simon left the shop, Simon with his parcel of fabric tucked under his arm, Mr Graham called after them, ‘Good day, sir! Good day, Mrs Bullock!’

  ‘It seems we’re finally married after all,’ Simon remarked as they wandered down the street. ‘Now, where the hell is Fields Lane?’

  ‘For a missionary, Simon, even a lay one, your language is deteriorating atrociously,’ Kitty said.

  ‘Yes, it is, isn’t it?’ he replied cheerfully.

  They made their way down Queen Street, avoiding crumbling potholes and the more noisome piles of ordure, then turned into Shortland Street. About halfway along they came to the narrow alleyway that was Fields Lane. The premises of Mr Donaven the tailor were situated in a tiny shop at the far end. A bell over the door tinkled as they entered, and Mr Donaven soon had Simon measured for his new suits and waistcoats, promising that the garments would be ready in four days’ time. Though he was rather busy, he said, because it seemed that more than a few of the evacuees from Kororareka were viewing their enforced exodus as an opportunity to have new clothes made.

  ‘Perhaps we had better make that five days,’ Mr Donaven amended after consideration.

  ‘Well, whatever you can manage,’ Simon said. ‘I’m hardly likely to be invited to any glittering social events in the next week.’

  ‘Oh, but you might be,’ Mr Donaven said quickly. ‘There’s talk that the governor may be considering hosti
ng an evening for the evacuees. Possibly an informal ball. To boost morale, so they say.’

  ‘Really,’ Simon murmured, who couldn’t have cared less.

  ‘Yes,’ Mr Donaven said excitedly. ‘So you have my word that I will have your suits finished as soon as I am able. I’ll start on the herringbone first, as I assume you won’t want to wear tweed to an evening event.’

  Outside, Simon complained to Kitty, ‘Why can’t I wear tweed to an evening event? Not that I have any desire whatsoever to go galloping around a ballroom with a great gang of twittering would-be socialites.’

  ‘No, but I might,’ Kitty said. ‘And if I do, I’ll expect you to accompany me, Simon. Rian would want you to, after all.’

  Simon glanced at her uneasily. ‘But why would you want to go? I thought you didn’t care for that sort of thing?’

  ‘Rian doesn’t, but actually sometimes I do.’ Kitty pursed her lips in a thoughtful manner that unsettled Simon even further. ‘And I’ve found that it pays to keep one’s eyes and ears open. One never knows when one might come across a useful piece of information, does one?’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. When the next ship is scheduled to sail up to the Bay of Islands, perhaps?’

  ‘Kitty!’ Simon exclaimed in dismay. ‘You promised Rian you would stay in Auckland!’

  Kitty blinked her long black eyelashes. ‘No, I didn’t. You promised Rian you would look out for me. I don’t recall making any promises at all. And anyway, I didn’t say I want to go back, I just said I might be interested in when the next ship is sailing.’

  ‘You’ve changed, Kitty,’ Simon said. ‘You used to be quite timid, even when you were being obstinate. You’re a lot more sure of yourself now.’

  Kitty met his gaze squarely. ‘I know. Is it not to your liking?’

  Simon thought about it. ‘Yes, it is, funnily enough. But only if it isn’t going to get me into trouble with Rian.’

  April 1845

  It rained almost solidly for the next two weeks, and the streets of Auckland were indeed reduced to stinking, muddy, almost impassable drains. Coming home one day from posting a letter to Rian, Kitty kicked off her filthy wet boots at Mrs Fleming’s front door and, her hair dripping and her dress soaked, made her way soggily along the hall.

  ‘Mrs Farrell?’ Mrs Fleming called.

  Kitty detoured into the parlour. ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’m afraid I had to use my master key to go into your room while you were out.’

  Kitty’s heart lurched. Was the cat out of the bag?

  ‘I heard a dreadful ruckus up there,’ Mrs Fleming went on, her spectacles glinting, ‘and, thinking a bird may have flown in through the window, I went in to investigate. But nothing was amiss, which was very strange, although your window was open, so I closed it. I just thought I should tell you. I hope you don’t mind.’

  Hoping that her relief wasn’t too evident, Kitty said, ‘No, I don’t mind at all. Thank you.’

  Mrs Fleming nodded and went back to her sewing.

  Kitty raced upstairs, her stockinged feet slipping on the floorboards, unlocked the door to her room and burst in.

  She crossed the floor, gripped the bottom of the window sash and hauled it up. Bodie was crouched at the farthest edge of the outer sill, with her black fur plastered to her body, a very sour look on her face and a dead mouse clamped between her paws.

  ‘I don’t see why you can’t hunt quietly,’ Kitty said crossly as Bodie stood and shook each wet paw in turn. The mouse looked rather battered, as though it had been flung about repeatedly. So much for Mrs Fleming’s vermin-free house.

  Bodie took the dead creature in her mouth, edged along the sill and jumped agilely into the room where she sat on the rag rug, one paw proprietorially on the mouse, grooming her sopping fur.

  Kitty warned, ‘If you’re not careful I will send you back to the Bay of Islands, you know.’

  Bodie picked up the mouse and dropped it onto Kitty’s foot.

  ‘And currying favour won’t work, either,’ she added, throwing the poor dead thing out of the window.

  Bodie stared at her for a long moment, then made an abrupt dash for the door, which Kitty belatedly realised she had left ajar. Across the landing the cat furiously scratched at Flora’s bedroom door: the door creaked open and Bodie darted inside. Feeling intrusive and guilty, Kitty swore under her breath and followed her.

  Flora’s room was very similar to her own, though it was perhaps a little smaller and the window faced the hills behind Auckland instead of the harbour. The bed was very neatly made, but there were no personal items on the chest of drawers or the small bedside cabinet, as would be expected of someone who had lived in the same room for the past two years. There was also no sign of Bodie.

  ‘Bodie,’ Kitty whispered, crouching to peer beneath the bed. ‘Bodie, here puss. Where are you?’

  Kitty’s heart sank as a scuffling sound came from Flora’s wardrobe. She opened the door and there in one corner was Bodie, lying comfortably across a pair of beautiful red satin button boots with rather high heels and lace around the tops. Next to them sat another pair, but in black. Kitty frowned, thinking how inappropriate they would be for Auckland’s rough and muddy streets.

  ‘Get out of there,’ she said to Bodie tersely, but Bodie didn’t move, apparently happy where she was.

  Kitty lifted her out, in the process knocking one of Flora’s dresses off its hanger.

  She swore again and carried Bodie back across the landing, shut her inside her bedroom, then returned to Flora’s. She eyed the dress where it had fallen in a crumpled heap at the bottom of the wardrobe. It was of an ordinary style in a rather dull brown wool, and Kitty recognised it as one of the dresses Flora wore out to work. She gathered it up, slipped it back on the hanger and hung it in front of Flora’s other dresses.

  Flora’s other dresses. Kitty frowned again. One was a good dress, a nice bottle green sateen and obviously one that Flora saved for best, but the two hanging behind it were very beautiful indeed—far too beautiful for a girl who worked for a watchmaker. They were in different colours but of the same style and made of very good quality and expensive satin, heavily embellished with glittering beads. One was red and the other was black, presumably to match the boots lined up beneath them. By moving Flora’s heavy winter cape only slightly, she saw that at the other end of the wardrobe were several very full petticoats, also of good quality and adorned with yards and yards of stunning lace.

  Kitty reached in and withdrew the red dress, holding it against her body. The waist was tiny, though Flora might well have had a small waist under the ill-fitting clothes she wore during the day; the sleeves were almost non-existent and the bodice heavily boned in the manner of a corset. But it was the neckline that startled Kitty. It was so low that if she were to try it on without her chemise, she was sure the fabric would only just cover her nipples. Perhaps Flora wore it with a fichu? To wear such a daring gown in public without one would have been scandalous. The black dress had the same very low neckline, which was extremely unusual on a mourning gown. But surely no self-respecting grieving woman would wear such an outfit? Really, the only women Kitty had ever seen wearing clothes like this had been…

  Slowly, Kitty returned the red dress to the wardrobe. Flora? Surely not? What a ridiculous notion. Flora was quite unprepossessing, even if she was somewhat candid in her manner, and anyway she was busy all day cleaning and assembling the insides of watches. Wasn’t she?

  That evening at dinner, Kitty asked Flora how her day at work had been.

  ‘Oh, you know, the same as it always is,’ Flora replied, cutting into her rather tough pork chop.

  ‘I’ve always wondered what it would be like to work for a watch maker,’ Kitty said, then winced inwardly as she realised how inane she sounded.

  Hattie looked at her, her fork halfway to her mouth. ‘Have you? How odd.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose it is,’ Kitty mumbled, staring at her p
late and cursing herself for being so nosy.

  ‘Well, if you’re that interested, why don’t you call in one day this week and I’ll show you what I do,’ Flora suggested. ‘I work in Queen Street.’

  Kitty felt deflated…until it occurred to her that Flora might only work for the watchmaker during the day.

  ‘Are you going to your Bible studies class tonight, Miss Langford?’ Mrs Fleming asked.

  ‘Yes,’ Flora replied after she had swallowed her mouthful. She took her glasses off and rubbed the bridge of her nose where they had rested. ‘Would anyone like a glass of water?’

  ‘Actually, the well is rather muddy at the moment,’ Mrs Fleming said. ‘I’d suggest a pot of strong tea. There’s milk: I went to the dairy today.’

  Flora pushed back her chair and crossed to the hearth to put the kettle over the fire. While her back was turned, Kitty tried on her spectacles. She looked down at her own hands then around the kitchen, noting that everything looked exactly the same as without the lenses.

  She jumped when Flora remarked, ‘They’re not very powerful.’

  Embarrassed, Kitty took the spectacles off, sure that they didn’t have prescription glass in them at all. ‘I’ve been wondering about getting a pair,’ she said lamely.

  ‘You wonder about a lot of things, don’t you?’ Flora observed.

  ‘Tut tut, Miss Langford,’ Mrs Fleming said. ‘I’m sure Mrs Farrell is only curious.’

  ‘I need spectacles, I’m sure I do,’ Hattie said brightly. ‘I gave a gentleman aniseed balls today instead of blackballs. Quite silly of me. Aniseed balls are brown, you see, and blackballs are, well, black.’

  ‘What is this Bible studies class?’ Kitty asked.

  ‘It’s a night class that’s run by the Church Missionary Society,’ Mrs Fleming replied. ‘Miss Langford attends two nights a week as regular as clockwork, don’t you? Tuesdays and Thursdays.’

  Flora, who had sat down again, nodded.

  ‘Where is it held?’ Kitty asked.

  ‘Oh, in town,’ Flora replied vaguely.

  ‘Why, are you interested in attending yourself?’ Mrs Fleming asked Kitty hopefully. She approved wholeheartedly of religious instruction.