Amber

by Deborah Challinor

  ‘Well, not really,’ Kitty said. ‘I’m not sure I’ll be in Auckland long enough.’

  Hattie asked, ‘Was that you sneezing before, Flora? In your room? I could hear you from downstairs.’

  ‘Yes, it was,’ Flora said, giving Kitty a long, accusing look.

  ‘I know you don’t wish to be parted from your husband any longer than you have to be, Mrs Farrell,’ Mrs Fleming said sympathetically, ‘but don’t discount the possibility that you may be in Auckland for some time. I hear that more of Governor FitzRoy’s reinforcements from Australia are due here in a fortnight. Apparently they are to join the troops already at the barracks, then sail north to the Bay of Islands. After that, well, it could be some time until the rebel Maoris are subdued, and if so, you should have ample opportunity for pursuing your spiritual advancement. On the other hand, of course, the rebels might scatter like a herd of panicked sheep, faced with the might of Her Majesty’s troops.’

  Kitty doubted it. ‘I have no real need for spiritual advancement, Mrs Fleming. I was a missionary myself, at Paihia five or six years ago. I came out with my aunt and uncle. Uncle George was a minister at Paihia before he died.’

  Mrs Fleming looked thoughtful. ‘What was your maiden name, Mrs Farrell?’

  ‘Carlisle.’

  ‘No, I’m sure that wasn’t it,’ Mrs Fleming said, almost to herself. ‘What was your uncle’s name?’

  ‘Kelleher.’

  ‘Yes!’ Mrs Fleming exclaimed. ‘I remember now. Reverend George Kelleher. Wasn’t there some sort of scandal?’ Then she stopped. ‘Oh, I do beg your pardon, dear.’

  Kitty said nothing.

  But Mrs Fleming apparently could not let it lie. ‘There was…an incident, though, wasn’t there? I’m sure I remember something.’

  ‘My uncle did disappear, perhaps that’s what you were thinking of,’ Kitty suggested.

  ‘Yes, but wasn’t there something to do with a housegirl? A Maori housegirl?’ Mrs Fleming insisted.

  Kitty blinked very slowly as she regarded her landlady. ‘Not to my knowledge, Mrs Fleming. And I was there. My uncle simply, and tragically, disappeared on the eve of the signing of the treaty. It has since transpired that he became lost in the bush and died. I myself left very soon after that, for Australia.’

  ‘To continue your work as a missionary?’

  ‘To continue providing care and support to those in need, yes,’ Kitty replied, recalling the long months she had spent looking after Wai and then baby Tahi. ‘And then of course I married my husband.’

  Mrs Fleming appeared confused, clearly unable, or unwilling, to equate Kitty’s version of the story with the much more interesting one she had heard, but to her credit she said, ‘Oh, well. I suppose these things often do get distorted in the telling.’

  ‘Yes, I expect they do,’ Kitty agreed.

  Mrs Fleming patted her hand. ‘But if you are to be staying at Auckland for any length of time, perhaps you could share some of your past experiences as a missionary with the Bible studies class. That’s a wonderful idea, isn’t it, Miss Langford?’

  Kitty noticed that Flora looked rather cagey. ‘Yes,’ Flora said. ‘Wonderful.’

  Flora Langford was hiding something, and Kitty knew it.

  ‘Surely what she gets up to after-hours is her business,’ Simon said somewhat tetchily as he stirred sugar into his tea.

  They were in the dining-room of Woods’ Royal Hotel on Princes Street where, Kitty had been assured by Mrs Fleming, Auckland’s ‘fashionable circle’ preferred to dine. Simon hadn’t wanted to come, but Kitty, dispirited and missing Rian dreadfully, had insisted on having a treat. Also, her courses had started that morning, so that, as always, she was feeling flat and sharply disappointed.

  ‘Yes, but a prostitute, Simon! Don’t you find that fascinating?’

  ‘No, I don’t, and neither should you. I think you’re being rather puerile about it, actually. And you don’t even know if she is a prostitute. There might be some perfectly reasonable explanation for why she has risqué dresses in her wardrobe and wears spectacles with ordinary glass in them.’

  ‘Such as?’ Kitty demanded.

  ‘Well, I don’t know.’

  ‘And she goes out at night twice a week without fail, apparently.’

  ‘Has she said where she goes?’

  ‘Yes, to a Bible studies class! Ha!’

  ‘Well, there you go, then,’ Simon reasoned. ‘She’s just very devout.’

  ‘With those gowns hanging in her wardrobe?’ Kitty countered. ‘And anyway, who goes to Bible studies classes twice a week?’

  ‘I do,’ Simon replied, reaching for a dainty ham and mustard sandwich. ‘I teach them at Waimate, remember? And so did you when you were at Paihia.’

  Kitty had forgotten that. ‘Well, I don’t believe her.’

  Simon sighed. ‘Do you not like this Flora Langford, Kitty? Is that what the problem is?’

  ‘No, actually I do like her. Quite a lot.’

  ‘Then why can’t you just let her go about her business?’ He made a pained face. ‘God, this mustard’s potent.’

  ‘Because it’s a mystery, Simon, and I want to get to the bottom of it.’ Kitty’s eyes lit up. ‘I know! Let’s follow her the next time she goes out!’

  Simon laid his sandwich on his plate, carefully blotted his mouth with his napkin, leaned towards Kitty and said very firmly, ‘No. Let’s not.’

  Kitty folded her arms and scowled, her afternoon tea untouched in front of her. After a minute she said, ‘I still haven’t received my invitation to the evacuees’ ball.’

  ‘Could that perhaps be because there isn’t going to be one?’ Simon suggested.

  Kitty frowned. ‘Isn’t there? How do you know that?’

  ‘I don’t, but how do you know there is?’

  ‘Because Mr Donaven said there was.’

  ‘Mr Donaven said that there was talk, and only talk, of FitzRoy considering it,’ Simon said patiently, ‘not that he was on the verge of ordering invitations to be printed.’

  He was wearing his new brown tweed suit, which Mr Donaven had tailored for him beautifully but which Simon, true to form, was managing to make look like an old potato sack.

  ‘Why didn’t you wear that shirt I gave you for Christmas with your nice new suit?’ Kitty complained. ‘It would look so much smarter than that scruffy old thing you’ve got on. And sit up straight, you’ll spill food all down your front.’

  Simon drew in a deep breath and let it out again very slowly. Then he said, ‘You know, Kitty, not a day has gone by during this past week that I haven’t thanked God that we never did actually marry.’

  Kitty glared at him. ‘Well, that’s a lovely thing to say!’ She opened her napkin, flapped it vigorously and laid it across her lap. ‘Why are you being so difficult, Simon? We’re supposed to be having a nice afternoon out.’

  Simon nearly choked. ‘Why am I being difficult? Kitty, you’ve done nothing but bicker and criticise since I came by to collect you! It’s you who is being difficult!’

  And then he felt a complete heel because her face fell and she fumbled in her reticule for her handkerchief, but not before a fat tear had escaped and trickled down her cheek. She was missing Rian terribly, and the crew, and probably the Katipo herself, and here he was chiding her for it when he should have been lending her a shoulder to cry on.

  He reached across the table and took her hand. ‘I’m sorry, Kitty, I really am. I know how much you miss Rian. Don’t worry, you’ll see him soon, I’m sure of it.’

  But Kitty only cried harder, and people were starting to look.

  ‘Look,’ Simon said, desperate now and knowing he would no doubt deeply regret what he was about to say. ‘Tell me what you want, and we’ll do it, all right? Anything, so long as it cheers you up.’

  ‘Here she comes,’ Kitty said breathlessly, and ducked back into the shadows of the building two doors down from Mrs Fleming’s house.

  It was almost dark
. Kitty had said she was going out for the evening to visit an acquaintance, but she and Simon had been waiting here for half an hour now for Flora to leave for her class. The temperature had cooled over the past few days, accompanied by a brisk wind that gathered up drying leaves and spun them around in miniature whirlpools, and Kitty was wishing she had packed her cape rather than just her shawl. Simon, leaning against the wall with his hands in his pockets and a resigned expression on his face, only grunted.

  ‘Get back!’ Kitty whispered, and they moved further into the shadows as Flora walked quickly past, carrying a portmanteau and with her yellow hair hidden beneath a bonnet.

  They followed her at some distance all the way along Waterloo and Victoria Quadrants, then into Victoria Street itself. At the intersection of Victoria and Queen Streets, they had to stop and clutch at each other like lovers snatching an illicit cuddle in the shadows when Flora slowed and glanced over her shoulder, then walked briskly on.

  Kitty and Simon held their embrace for a second or so longer, in case she looked back again, then moved apart. It was then that Kitty started giggling, and when she glanced at Simon she saw that he was having to make a supreme effort himself not to laugh. Kitty snorted loudly and was forced to wipe the back of her gloved hand under her nose. Simon looked quickly away, refusing to meet her eye, but she could hear him uttering a series of short, stifled whimpers as he struggled to contain himself.

  ‘Shssh, she’ll hear us!’ Kitty hissed, then was overcome by another fit of giggles.

  ‘Sorry,’ Simon blurted, his eyes watering and his face red. And then he was away again.

  Flora had by now crossed Queen Street and was striding off into the deepening evening gloom.

  ‘Quick, we’ll lose sight of her!’ Kitty croaked, making a mighty effort to settle down.

  Still giggling, they crossed the street, hurried past the wooden stocks outside the town gaol and negotiated the somewhat precarious bridging across the Ligar Canal, just in time to see Flora disappear around a corner into Albert Street. By the time they reached the corner themselves, she was entering a modest house tucked between the premises of a carpenter and a general merchant a hundred yards down the street.

  ‘What’s in there?’ Kitty wondered.

  Simon shrugged. ‘I’ve no idea.’

  Kitty edged closer to the house, whose front door opened almost directly onto the street. There was a carriageway running down one side, towards what looked like a stable at the rear. ‘It looks like an ordinary house to me. Nothing like a school!’

  ‘You can study the Bible in a house, you know,’ Simon pointed out.

  But Kitty wasn’t to be dissuaded. ‘Why don’t you knock on the door and find out?’

  Simon looked appalled. ‘Me? What if it is a brothel?’

  Kitty said crossly, ‘Oh, you’ll be all right. You’re not likely to be tempted, are you?’

  ‘But what if someone sees me?’ Simon said worriedly. ‘A missionary, banging on the door of a house of ill repute?’

  ‘It’s dark, no one will see,’ Kitty assured him. ‘Go on. Say you’re looking for someone you thought lives around here.’

  Much against his better judgement, Simon did as she asked. Looking nervously in all directions, he sidled up to the door of the house and knocked timidly. It was answered a few moments later by a mousy-looking girl in what appeared to be a servant’s uniform.

  ‘Good evening, sir,’ she said. ‘May I help you?’

  Simon removed his hat. ‘Er, good evening. I’m looking for a friend of mine, by the name of Mick Doyle. I was told that this is his residence.’

  ‘No, sir, there’s no one here by that name,’ the girl replied flatly.

  ‘Oh. But this is someone’s residence, isn’t it?’

  A short pause. ‘Yes, it is.’

  ‘And do you hold Bible studies classes here?’ Simon asked, feeling increasingly ill at ease as the exchange went on.

  A very odd expression crossed the girl’s face. ‘No, sir, definitely not Bible studies.’

  ‘Oh, well, obviously I’m mistaken,’ Simon said, flustered. He didn’t know what to say next so he thanked the girl, jammed his hat back on his head and marched smartly off.

  ‘Is it a brothel?’ Kitty demanded from her hiding place behind a fence several doors down.

  ‘A servant said it is someone’s house,’ Simon replied, ‘but no one said it was a brothel.’

  ‘Well, they wouldn’t, would they?’

  ‘There are no classes held there, either. Can we go home now?’

  ‘No, we can’t. What time is it?’

  Simon dug in a pocket for his watch. ‘Half past eight. Why?’

  ‘I think we should wait another thirty minutes, just in case.’

  Not even bothering to ask in case of what, and knowing better than to argue, Simon crouched against the fence and settled down to wait.

  The moon was almost full and the wind sharp, and they both suspected they could hear rats scurrying busily about somewhere nearby. A night bird hooted eerily in the scrubby trees across the street, and Simon complained that he was getting cramp in his legs.

  But twenty minutes later, a sleek one-horse gig driven by a man in a long dark coat, wearing his hat low on his forehead, turned off Victoria Street, passed them and then turned into the carriageway alongside the house Flora had entered.

  ‘Who was that?’ Kitty said, intrigued.

  ‘How should I know?’ Simon replied, massaging his aching calves.

  Several minutes later the gig re-emerged and turned again in their direction. As it neared their hiding place, it slowed, then stopped.

  Flora, whom Kitty barely recognised, was sitting on the seat next to the driver. Her spectacles were nowhere to be seen, her hair was pinned up in a gleaming cascade and she was wearing the black dress, which was indeed scandalously low at the neckline. A cape was draped over her shoulders and Kitty saw the glint of jewellery at her throat and ears. She looked devastatingly alluring and nothing like the woman who took her evening meals at Mrs Fleming’s dining table.

  Clearly amused, Flora leaned out of the gig in a cloud of expensive perfume and said, ‘Kitty? Yes, you guessed correctly. I am in the business of, shall we say, entertaining gentlemen, but only a few, very wealthy, ones. And don’t let that cat of yours play in my wardrobe again, if you don’t mind. I sneezed for hours the other night.’

  Then she gave Simon and Kitty a very gracious smile, arranged the hood of her cape over her head and signalled to the driver to continue on.

  Speechless, Kitty could only stand in the street and stare after the gig as it disappeared around the corner.

  Later that week Kitty, consumed with curiosity, summoned the courage to knock on Flora’s door one night and ask her about her ‘evening employment’.

  Flora was sitting on her bed brushing her hair. ‘Well, all right, but I’m only telling you this because you caught me out,’ she said matter-of-factly, ‘which I quite admire, because no one else has managed to do that yet.’

  Flora had begun work as a prostitute six months after her arrival in New Zealand and exactly four months after she had realised she would never make her fortune helping Mr Demmell to repair and sell watches. She had looked around for more lucrative employment but, in a new town, there was very little for a single woman that paid well, and she had no wish to marry just to guarantee a roof over her head and food on her plate. Kitty, who had once faced the same dilemma, sympathised. So one night Flora had gone to the house on Albert Street, which was widely rumoured to be a brothel, and asked for a job, although she had refused the madam’s offer of working from the Albert Street premises. Flora wanted only one or two clients, and only those who could pay the large fee she intended to charge. So the madam had arranged some suitable introductions and thereafter, for a mutually agreed percentage of Flora’s earnings, had allowed Flora to ‘prepare’ there before she went out to her regular twice-weekly assignations.

  Kitty, worldly
-wise though she was these days, felt oddly disconcerted talking to a young woman with two vastly different lives, which she was clearly managing to juggle very successfully.

  ‘But I would prefer you to keep this to yourself,’ Flora added. ‘I like living here, it suits me for the moment, and I rather suspect that would come to a very sudden end if Mrs Fleming were to become aware of my, er, after-hours activities. Is your friend Simon likely to say anything?’

  ‘No, I’m sure he won’t.’

  ‘Good, because I don’t want to move on until I’m ready.’

  ‘I do have one question, Flora,’ Kitty said, ‘if you don’t mind my asking.’ Kitty actually had plenty of questions, but Flora, she was coming to realise, was a self-assured, intelligent and rather calculating woman who preferred to play her cards very close to her chest.

  Flora parted her hair and began to plait it, ready for bed. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Why do you keep your clothes here, if you get ready at the house on Albert Street? Wouldn’t it be easier, and safer, to keep everything there?’

  ‘Yes, it would, but I don’t trust the girls who work in the house an inch. They’d have their mucky hands on my lovely, and I might add very expensive, dresses the minute I was gone. They don’t like me, you see. I make considerably more money than they do, for far less work.’ Flora deftly tied a ribbon around the end of her plait and regarded Kitty candidly. ‘Now, no more questions. I can see that you’re bored and you miss your man, but as a woman with plenty of secrets of her own, Kitty, I’m sure you appreciate my need for privacy.’

  They stared at each other for a long moment, during which Kitty realised that her companion wasn’t just talking about Bodie, and suddenly appreciated how very perceptive Flora Langford was. But she felt somehow more at ease; as though their secrets were a sort of shared bond.

  ‘I have a favour to ask of you,’ she said.

  When she had described what it was she wanted, Flora tapped her top lip thoughtfully and asked bluntly, ‘Can you pay?’

  ‘Yes, whatever is required.’

  Flora nodded. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’