Captive Wife, The

by Kidman, Fiona

  There was always someone to look after Louisa. She shared the breasts of other women. I realised that, in my stupor of the first days, she would have died had she not had a variety of wet nurses. When Louisa was feverish, they gave her medicines and poultices made from leaves and bark. After a month or so, she had begun to look stronger, though it troubled me that she coughed at nights. Another trunk was washed ashore from the wreck of the Harriet. Happily, it contained Louisa’s clothes. After they had dried out, I was able to dress her much as I would at home, protecting her from the cold. Winds blew off the white mountain rearing its head above us, piercing the clouds on dull days, dazzling us like crystal at a dinner table on days when the sun shone.

  In the trunk I found also a pair of pantaloons, a shirt and a little cap of John’s. Oaoti now took me to see him every week or so, and on my next visit, I took the clothes with me. Mapiki viewed them with care and then rejected them. They were too small, he said. I had to agree that John had well outgrown them, though I knew that was not the reason he was not allowed to wear them.

  At least wear the cap, I said with a laugh, as if it was a game.

  But John tore the hat off his head and threw it at my feet.

  And then I slapped him on his bare leg. This was something that had been coming for some time. He let out a shout of indignation and began to cry.

  Mapiki looked at me as if I was a murderess. I left the room hurriedly. Mapiki followed me out and saw Oaoiti waiting for me.

  Take her away, Mapiki said, and speaking rapidly.

  I saw that Oaoiti was angry with me too. You can go back with Waiariari, he said. I am busy here tonight.

  No, I said, beginning to cry. Come with me please.

  But Waiariari, another chief at this pa, appeared and I had no choice but to accompany him. He was a man with a thin face and heavy eyebrows. I thought he had also wanted me for a wife, only Oaoiti had claimed me first. I saw him watching me and scowling; perhaps it was just that I was white. I thought of running to Oaoiti’s sisters, but pride held me back. I did not want them to know that I was in disgrace.

  Waiariari accompanied me in total silence, at great speed.

  I waited at Te Namu for three days, before Oaoiti came back. They seemed like the longest days of my life. People looked at me, at first with pity, and then indifference, as if I was no longer of importance.

  On the third night, he entered the whare and slipped beside me on our bed of ferns. I clenched my arms around him in a fierce embrace. He held me as tightly, and nothing more was said of our quarrel. But I knew now that John no longer belonged to me and that if I was to be happy, I must try to put aside thoughts of him as my son. I remembered my grandmother again, and how she had lost children, and managed to survive. I told myself that at least both my children were alive, and that I should be grateful, but there were moments when it seemed as if John had slipped into darkness like Granny’s children.

  For most of the time, I believed I was learning to accept things as they were. I knew that Jacky had left Moturoa, and that some of the Harriet’s crew were still there, but I didn’t know who they were. They are white men, I was told, with shrugs, as if they all looked alike. Ruiha had heard that Jacky planned to return with a ransom. But months passed and there was no sign of him. He could have been dead, perhaps drowned in that leaky whaleboat he had put to sea. As the days passed, the life I had had before seemed less and less real. I found myself wondering what I had seen in it. Watching whales die is no sport for a young housewife. There is no good way to kill a whale. And the men who kill them are not great company. They curse because the work sours them, and most of them drink themselves to sleep, although I could not have said that of Jacky. It was around this time I began to have a nightmare that keeps coming back, of the mother whale circling the spot where her calf was taken.

  I had not forgotten the death of my brother, and somehow this was mixed up in the confusion of these ugly dreams, as was the image of John. So it was make-believe that I had given him up, because he and his uncle were haunting me. One especially cold morning, I didn’t want to get out of bed. I lay gazing up at the roof of the whare and all I wanted was to weep. Silent weeping is an affliction of mine. Oaoiti came in and, seeing me like this, asked what was troubling me. Was it something he had done, or had I been treated unkindly?

  Go away, I said, but he crouched in the corner of the room, wrapped in a blanket against the cold, and said that I must tell him. I knew he didn’t want to hear any more about John. And to be fair, he had done his best.

  I have been thinking of my brother David, I said at last.

  I saw him stiffen, as if this was something he would rather not discuss. But he had laid himself open to my complaints.

  You killed him, I said.

  He was killed in the fighting, Oaoiti said, after a silence.

  He was not your enemy. He was nobody’s enemy.

  I think your brother was an enemy to himself, he said at last.

  Well, that’s true, I said, he didn’t fit in with the world, and it’s interesting that you saw that, even though you didn’t know him. But that was not a reason to kill him.

  It’s a pity he was there. He wouldn’t have survived, said Oaoiti finally.

  So that’s all it is? Just where you happen to be. I was never meant to be here either.

  He became agitated then. This is where you belong, he said. When I did not answer him, he said, with finality, this is the life you have now.

  And then he said, I cannot bring him back, Peti.

  I had stopped praying that we would be rescued. Even had I wanted to be, I did not believe God would listen to me. Besides, the God I learnt about when I was a girl was different from those of the Maoris. From the beginning of my time at Te Namu, I learnt that one turned always to the ancestor gods. I liked the story of how the world began better than that of Adam and Eve, and her being one of his ribs, and the serpent in the garden, with the brothers killing each other. I think Jacky saw me as his rib, a part of himself that he took for granted, except for when Charley was around me, and then he saw the serpent. I don’t suppose he thought that, but I see now that men often don’t notice their wives until there is another man around. Perhaps there is a certain smell that one or other of them brings to the chase that warns the mate of danger. Do you think that’s possible? No, I can see you don’t know. I thought I was a good wife to Jacky, but if he noticed he never said so.

  I will never know who all the Maori gods are. Not unless I was to go back. That wouldn’t be easy of course, and who knows whether they would have me.

  Adie’s scandalised voice cuts across mine. I had forgotten she was there. You would go back?

  Why, I thought you were asleep.

  But you were talking to me anyway.

  Don’t mind me. You’ve put up with me long enough. I have to think of what I’ll do next.

  You wouldn’t really go back to the Maoris? Adie is insistent and fearful.

  Why, if they would have me, I think I might.

  That’s heathen talk.

  I laughed then, not kindly or with much amusement. I think you’ve heard more than enough.

  You were saying — that you had become like your captors?

  Yes, that’s true.

  And your rescuers your enemies?

  That is just how it was.

  When did I begin to understand this? Well, it was the morning when I looked out the window of my house and saw a man-o’-war standing off the coast. This was in September, and it was a busy time at the pa for the planting of kumara had begun a month earlier. The men dug the ground over, while the women prepared the tilled earth in rows of hillocks. Now I was part of the tribe I was expected to join in this work. The constant bending and toiling was back-breaking but I felt myself grow stronger each day. The soil between my hands made me think of Papa, the earth, and that I was part of her, fertile and full of life. Soon I was as fast as the other women, and they offered praise. The weather
turned warmer in fits and spells, though some days were nicer than others. This morning I’m telling you about was showery and cool, the beginning of a stretch of bad weather that would come between me and rescue for some weeks to come. Not that I knew then what was planned.

  There were people milling round, wondering whether to go to the gardens or not, what the weather would bring. I’m surprised I was the first to see the ship.

  For a few minutes I looked out, not quite believing my eyes, as a squall of rain gusted across the horizon. But then I saw what I later learnt was the Alligator, and a minute or so later another one hove into view. Two ships. Had they sent the whole navy after me?

  I called out, my voice filled with fright. They are coming after us, I shouted. We’ll all be killed.

  That was my first thought. All of us.

  All of us in danger.

  The enemy is coming.

  So that is how I had come to think of my husband.

  Chapter 30

  LETTER FROM LIEUTENANT GERALD RODDICK, SYDNEY TO MR PERCEVAL MALCOLM ESQ., PARRAMATTA

  6 March 1835

  Dear Sir

  It pains me that I must prevail upon you in this manner, but I understand that your sister Miss Adeline Malcolm is currently residing with you. I have written to her on a number of occasions without the honour of a reply. She is needed here to do her duty by my two children who are in great distress over her absence. I would be grateful if you could persuade her to return. Or, at very least, to give me an answer.

  It is said, too, in Sydney, that you are currently harbouring Mrs Guard, the wife of the infamous whaler who has recently been at war with the natives of New Zealand. The pair of them are eliciting a great deal of sympathy and excitement around town, but there are two sides to every story, and I think Mrs Guard is not as good as she makes out. I must say I am surprised that you are giving shelter to this woman, for she is nought but a corrupting influence, one of the convict class. I understood sir, that you were of a more exclusive disposition, and while that may not sit so well with our current Governor, governors come and governors go, and for the future of our colony, it seems imperative that someone should take a stand in the interests of decency.

  I have told Miss Malcolm that I do not hold her association with Mrs Guard against her, but I would expect you, as her brother, to deal more firmly with the matter.

  I propose to travel by carriage to Parramatta, at a decent interval after you have received this letter, and had time to consider its contents, to try and put some order into this sorry affair.

  I am, sir, yours very truly,

  Gerald Roddick

  ‘Good Lord, somebody wants her,’ says Maude Malcolm. She drops a piece of bacon rind to her terrier beneath the breakfast table.

  Her husband stands, his eyes watering as they do when he is agitated. ‘I must go and warn her immediately.’

  ‘Sit down, Percy,’ says Maude. ‘You’re not warning her of anything. After breakfast, I’ll send a maid down to pack her bag, and tell her she can wait on the verandah.’ Maude is dressed in a blue morning gown with a broderie anglaise gusset exposing her cleavage. She prides herself that her breasts have withstood the vicissitudes of time. They rise like a girl’s, pale and swelling, with a hint of freckles where skin meets lace.

  ‘Maude, that is enough. You’ve gone too far,’ Percy says, jabbing his knife in her direction, so that she ducks. They both pause, appalled at having come this close to violence. Maude quivers, puts her fingers to her heaving breast. Percy’s eyes follow the gesture, the invitation to pierce the white flesh that he enjoys so regularly, even though the sound of her voice has so come to displease him. That is the problem between them, of course: he has never met a woman of his sister’s sensibility, and his sister cannot be his wife though he loves her just as well. Often, it has come to him in the night, when he is resting from the paroxysms of the flesh, that no one woman can be all things to a man. ‘Roddick will be received like a gentleman,’ he says. ‘What will people make of you, if you allow them to see how badly you have treated her? Don’t you ever want to go to Government House again?’

  ‘Well then,’ says Maude, ‘I, for one, will be pleased to see the back of her.’

  ‘You may tell Lieutenant Roddick that I don’t wish to see him,’ says Adie, on receiving her brother’s news. ‘I have come to enjoy my sojourn in the bush.’

  ‘It’s not the bush,’ says Percy, ‘it’s the cottage at the bottom of our garden. I wish we could discuss this in private.’ Betty hasn’t budged since his arrival, waving Roddick’s letter in the air.

  ‘Mrs Guard and I have had a good deal of time to share one another’s confidences,’ says Adie, her voice dry.

  ‘You knew that Lieutenant Roddick wanted you to return. I’ve brought you letters from him without making any enquiry of you as to their contents. I’ve treated this as your business, but now that he’s written to me, I can no longer be silent. And soon he’ll be here.’

  ‘Perhaps you should see him, Adie,’ says Betty, ‘it can do no harm. Indeed, it might strengthen your resolve.’ She offers this with a secretive smile at her friend.

  ‘I won’t see him unless you are with me,’ Adie replies.

  Already, the sound of horses’ hooves and carriage wheels are rattling up the driveway. ‘Tell the gentleman to wait,’ says Betty. ‘You must see that your sister’s upset.’

  ‘But you have to come now,’ cries Percy. ‘There is no time to be lost.’

  ‘He doesn’t want Roddick to find you in the gardening shed,’ says Betty.

  ‘It is not,’ Percy says. ‘It is…’

  ‘Yes?’ says Betty. ‘What is it, Mr Malcolm? Your nanny’s cottage?’

  ‘I don’t think it would be proper for you to accompany my sister. This is a family matter.’

  ‘Oh family. Well then.’ Betty picks up a ripe fig from a bowl on the table and bites into it, allowing the tip of her tongue to run over its flesh. This is not lost on Percy who winces and draws back as if to put a distance between himself and his visitor.

  ‘Please, Mrs Guard.’ Adie’s voice is small, her tone more formal. ‘I need you.’

  ‘Perhaps it’s best if you go on your own,’ says Betty.

  ‘But I haven’t decided what to do.’

  ‘Because you haven’t had a proposal. Well, he’s not likely to make one in my presence.’

  ‘A proposal?’ Percy’s eyes water anew. ‘Adie, you couldn’t. I mean, you couldn’t expect it.’

  ‘A proposition,’ says Adie, recovering her composure. ‘That is all. I’ll see what proposition Lieutenant Roddick has for the terms of my return to his employment. I will hear him out.’ She adjusts a straying frond of hair, and straightens the collar of her dress. She is wearing a gown of pale grey voile, which could do with a press.

  Gerald Roddick is standing with Maude on the verandah when she approaches. He is dressed in his scarlet uniform, his sword by his side. His moustache is waxed and his hair has recently been trimmed. He holds his hands together behind his back, and does not extend them as Adie approaches.

  ‘Lieutenant Roddick.’

  ‘Miss Malcolm.’ He gives a slight bow from the waist.

  A silence falls over them. ‘I don’t know what to say,’ he begins and at the same moment, Adie says, ‘I’ve been so worried.’ Then because neither has heard what the other has said, they stop again.

  ‘How are the children?’ says Adie at last.

  ‘They miss you. I apologise for what I have put you through. I was harsh.’

  ‘You have judged my friend too harshly,’ Adie says.

  ‘I fear Mrs Guard’s character is something we cannot agree over.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ says Adie. ‘She has been through such troubles and all of Sydney is up in arms over what has happened to her.’

  ‘But that is before word got around.’

  ‘Word about what?’

  ‘Mrs Guard is ruined. It is said that she
was brought to bed with twins and they were rather dark.’

  Maude Malcolm gives a stifled cry, and covers her mouth with the back of her hand.

  ‘That is absurd,’ Adie says, blinking in the fierce heat that has risen as the morning progressed.

  ‘Why do you think she’s here? What has she told you?

  ‘Believe me,’ Adie falters and carries on, ‘it’s not possible since I met her after her rescue.’

  ‘How can you be so sure? Have you been by her side all these past weeks?’

  ‘I am sure I would know,’ says Adie. ‘She has not spoken of more children.’

  ‘Why don’t you ask me?’ says Betty. She stands at the end of the garden, wearing the same dress that she arrived in some days before, bathed in the dappled stripes of shadows as the sun falls between the branches of a gum tree overhead. A parakeet gives a loud squawking cry. It is hard to tell whether it is that which has startled the tableau on the lawn, or the appearance of the woman.

  ‘So it’s true,’ says Roddick, ‘she is here. Shame on you,’ he says, directing his gaze towards Adie, ‘for keeping her company. As for your brother, by what pretension does he call himself a gentleman that he has harboured her?’

  ‘I will not have you speak of us in that manner,’ says Percy. Adie, remembering him as a child, hears the quiver that used to invade his voice when reproached by their father.

  ‘Will you not?’ says Roddick, in an extravagant tone. ‘Well, I cannot imagine you will allow your family to be dishonoured in this way.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ says Percy, bewildered.

  ‘I will come back two mornings hence, when you’ve had time to think it over,’ says Roddick.

  ‘No,’ murmurs Adie, ‘I beg of you. It doesn’t matter, I’ll come anyway.’

  ‘I wish it were as simple as that,’ Roddick says. ‘I think a man should fight for honour.’

  ‘No,’ cries Adie wildly. ‘My brother is not a fighter. Maude, tell him.’