by Sarah Lark
Gwyneira, by contrast, was quite cheerful—even on a foggy day at the end of August when Helen felt especially sick and depressed. Howard had driven to Haldon that morning; he wanted to build a new shed, and the wood for it had finally arrived. He would surely not drive straight back after loading the building materials in his wagon, but instead stop at the pub for a beer and a game of cards. Dorothy milked the cow while Gwyneira kept Helen company. Her clothes were damp after the ride through the fog, and she was freezing. All the more reason to be happily settled in front of Helen’s fireplace with a cup of tea.
“Matahorua will take care of it,” she said when Helen told her of Dorothy’s fears. “Oh, I wish I could be there. I know you’re feeling miserable right now, but you should see what it’s like for me these days. Gerald hints at it every day, and he’s not the only one. Even the ladies in Haldon look at me so…so probingly, as if I were a mare in a breeding show. And Lucas likewise seems to be angry with me. If I only knew what I was doing wrong!” Gwyneira played with the cup. She was close to tears.
Helen frowned. “Gwyn, there’s no way a woman can do it wrong. You don’t turn him away, do you? You let him do it?”
Gwyneira rolled her eyes. “What do you think? I know that I’m supposed to lie there still. On my back. And I’m kind and hold him and everything…what else am I supposed to do?”
“That’s more than I’ve done,” Helen remarked. “Maybe you just need more time. You’re much younger than me, after all.”
“Which should make it that much easier,” Gwyneira said, sighing. “That’s what my mother said anyway. Maybe it has something to do with Lucas after all? What exactly does ‘limp dick’ mean?”
“Gwyn, how could you!” Helen was scandalized to hear such an expression come from her friend’s mouth. “That’s not something you say!”
“The men say it when they’re talking about Lucas. Only when he’s not listening, of course. If I knew what it meant…”
“Gwyneira!” Helen stood up to reach for the teakettle on the stove. But then she screamed and seized her stomach. “Oh no!”
A puddle spread beneath Helen’s feet. “Mrs. Candler says this is how it begins!” she exclaimed. “But it’s not even eleven in the morning. This is so embarrassing…can you wipe that up, Gwyn?” She lurched into a chair.
“Your water broke,” Gwyneira said. “Don’t act like that. There’s nothing to be embarrassed about. I’ll help you to bed, and then I’ll send Dorothy to fetch Matahorua.”
Helen clenched her fists with pain. “It hurts, Gwyn, it hurts!”
“It’ll pass soon,” Gwyn reassured her, taking Helen’s arm energetically and leading her into the bedroom. She undressed Helen, helped her into her nightgown, calmed her again, then ran into the stables to send Dorothy to the Maori village. The girl burst into tears and ran blindly out of the stables. Hopefully in the right direction. Gwyneira considered whether it might have been better for her to ride there herself, but it had taken her sister hours to bring her baby into the world. In all likelihood, it would be the same for Helen. And Gwyneira was certain to be more reassuring to Helen than the wailing Dorothy.
So Gwyneira wiped down the kitchen and made a new pot of tea, which she brought to Helen in bed. She was now having regular pains. Every few minutes, she screamed and tensed up. Gwyneira took her hand and spoke to her in comforting tones. An hour passed. Where was Dorothy with Matahorua?
Helen did not seem to notice that time was passing, but Gwyneira became increasingly nervous. What if Dorothy really had gotten lost? After more than two hours, she heard someone at the door. Gwyneira was initially terrified, but it was only Dorothy, who was still crying. She had not brought Matahorua as planned, but Rongo Rongo.
“She can’t come!” Dorothy sobbed. “Not yet. She…”
“Another baby comes,” Rongo explained placidly. “And is hard. Is early, mama sick. She has to stay. She say, Miss O’Keefe strong, baby healthy. I should help.”
“You?” Gwyneira asked. Rongo was no more than eleven years old.
“Yes. I already seen and helped kuia. In my family many children,” Rongo said proudly.
To Gwyneira, she was not the optimal midwife, but she had more experience than any other available girl or woman.
“All right, fine. What do we do now, Rongo?” she inquired.
“Nothing,” the little one answered. “Wait. Lasts hours. Matahorua says, when ready, comes.”
“That’s a real help,” sighed Gwyneira. “But all right, we’ll wait it out.” She didn’t know what else to suggest.
Rongo was right. It took hours. Sometimes it was bad, and Helen screamed with pain; then she would calm down, seemingly able to sleep for a few minutes. Starting in the evening, however, her pains became stronger and came at shorter intervals.
“That normal,” remarked Rongo. “Can I make syrup pancakes?”
Dorothy was horrified that the little one could only think of food, but Gwyneira didn’t think it was a bad idea. She was hungry too, and maybe she could even convince Helen to have a bite.
“Go help her, Dorothy,” she commanded.
Helen looked at her desperately. “What will happen to the baby if I die?” she whispered.
Gwyneira wiped the sweat from her brow. “You’re not going to die. And the baby has to be here first, before we can worry about what to do with it. But where’s that Mr. O’Keefe of yours? Shouldn’t he be back by now? Then he could ride to Kiward Station and say that I’ll be coming back later. Otherwise, they’ll worry about me.”
Helen almost laughed despite her pain. “Howard? Easter and Christmas will have to take place on the same day before he’ll ride to Kiward Station. Maybe Reti…or one of the other children…”
“I wouldn’t let her on Igraine. And that donkey doesn’t know the way any better than the children.”
“He’s a mule,” Helen corrected her, then moaned. “Don’t call him a donkey or he’ll hold it against you.”
“I knew you’d love him. Listen, Helen. I’m going to lift up your nightgown and look underneath. Maybe the little one is already sticking his head out.”
Helen shook her head. “I would have felt that. But…but now…”
Helen buckled under a new pain. She remembered Mrs. Candler saying something about pushing, so she tried and groaned with pain.
“It might be that now…” The next pain came before she had a chance to finish. Helen bent her knees.
“Goes better when you kneel down, misses,” Rongo remarked with a full mouth. She was just entering with a plate of pancakes. “And walking around helps. Because baby has to come down, you see?”
Gwyneira helped a moaning, protesting Helen onto her feet. She only managed a few steps before she collapsed from the pain. Gwyneira lifted Helen’s nightgown while she knelt and saw something dark between her legs.
“It’s coming, Helen, it’s coming! What should I do now, Rongo? If it falls out now, it’ll fall onto the floor.”
“Won’t fall out so quickly,” Rongo said, stuffing another pancake in her mouth. “Mmmm. Tastes good. Mrs. O’Keefe can eat as soon as baby here.”
“I want to get back in bed,” Helen wailed.
Gwyneira helped her back into bed, though she did not think it very smart. It had clearly gone more quickly when Helen was standing upright.
But then there was no more time for reflection. Helen let out another shrill cry, and the little dark crown that Gwyneira had seen became a baby’s head pushing out into the open air. Gwyneira recalled the many lamb births that the shepherds had helped with as she watched in secret. That experience might be helpful here too. Taking heart, she reached for the little head, tugging while Helen wheezed and screamed in pain. This drove the little head all the way out. Gwyneira pulled when she saw the shoulders—and suddenly the baby was there, and Gwyneira was staring into its wrinkly little face.
“Cut now,” Rongo said calmly. “Cut cord off. Beautiful baby, Mrs. O’Keefe. Boy
!”
“A little boy?” Helen moaned, attempting to sit up. “Really?”
“Looks that way,” said Gwyneira.
Rongo reached for the knife she had laid out earlier and cut through the umbilical cord. “Now must breathe!”
The baby did not just breathe; it started bawling right away.
Gwyneira beamed. “Looks like he’s healthy!”
“Surely healthy…I said, healthy…” The voice came from the door. Matahorua, the Maori tohunga, entered the room. As protection against the cold and wet, she had wound a blanket around her body, securing it with a belt. Her many tattoos were more clearly visible than usual, as the old woman was pale from the cold, maybe from weariness too.
“Me sorry, but other baby…”
“Is the other baby healthy too?” Helen asked languidly.
“No. Dead. But mama live. You beautiful son!”
Matahorua now took charge in the nursery. She cleaned off the little one and charged Dorothy with heating water for a bath. Before doing anything else, though, she laid the baby in Helen’s arms.
“My little son,” whispered Helen. “How tiny he is…I’ll name him Ruben, after my father.”
“Doesn’t Mr. O’Keefe have a say in that as well?” Gwyneira asked. In her circles, it was customary for the father to at least agree to the name of a male child.
“Where is Howard?” Helen asked scornfully. “He knew the baby would be born any day now, but instead of being here for me, he’s bent over the bar in some pub, drinking away the money he earned with his mutton. He has no right to give my son a name!”
Matahorua nodded. “Right. Is your son.”
Gwyneira, Rongo, and Dorothy gave the baby a bath. Dorothy had finally stopped weeping and now could not tear her gaze from the infant.
“He’s so sweet, miss. Look, he’s already laughing!”
Gwyneira was thinking less about the baby’s facial expressions than about the business of his birth. Aside from the fact that it took longer, it hadn’t been all that different from the birth of a foal or a lamb, not even in the discharge of the afterbirth. Matahorua advised Helen to bury this in a particularly beautiful place and to plant a tree there.
“Whenua to whenua—soil,” said Matahorua.
Helen promised to honor the tradition while Gwyneira continued her musings.
If the birth of a human child was like that of an animal, then in all likelihood conception was too. Gwyneira blushed as it all became clear to her, but now she had a pretty good idea what wasn’t working with Lucas.
Finally Helen lay happily in a freshly made bed, her sleeping baby in her arms. He had already eaten—Matahorua had insisted on placing the baby on Helen’s breast, though the business of nursing was embarrassing to her. She would have preferred to have the baby grow up on cow’s milk.
“Is good for baby. Cow milk good for cows,” Matahorua declared decisively.
Again, the parallel to animals. Gwyneira had learned a great deal that night.
Meanwhile, Helen found time to think of others. Gwyneira had been wonderful. What would she ever have done without her support? Now she had the opportunity to repay her.
“Matahorua,” she turned to the tohunga. “This is the friend we recently spoke about. With the…the…”
“Who thinks she not have baby?” asked Matahorua, casting a searching gaze over Gwyneira, her breasts, and her nether regions. What she saw seemed to please her. “Yes, yes,” she announced finally. “Beautiful woman. Very healthy. Can have many babies, good babies.”
“But she’s been trying so long now,” Helen said doubtfully.
Matahorua shrugged.
“Try with other man,” she advised placidly.
Gwyneira wondered whether she should ride home at this hour. It had long since turned dark, cold, and foggy. On the other hand, Lucas and the others would be worried to death if she didn’t return. And what would Howard O’Keefe say when he arrived home, most likely drunk, to find a Warden in his house?
The answer to the latter question seemed about to present itself. Someone appeared to be busy in the stables—though Howard O’Keefe would hardly have knocked at the door of his own house. This visitor was apparently intent on announcing himself politely.
“Open the door, Dorothy,” Helen ordered, bewildered.
Gwyneira was already at the door. Had Lucas come to find her? She had told him about Helen, and he had reacted kindly, even expressing a wish to meet her friend. The feud between the Wardens and the O’Keefes seemed to mean nothing to him.
But it was James McKenzie, not Lucas, standing in front of the door.
His eyes lit up when he saw Gwyneira, though he must have already seen in the stables that she was there. After all, Igraine was waiting there.
“Mrs. Warden! Thank God I found you.”
“Mr. McKenzie…do come in. How kind of you to come pick me up.”
“How kind to come pick you up?” he asked angrily. “Are we talking about a tea party here? What were you thinking, being gone the whole day? Mr. Warden is crazy with worry and conducted excruciating interrogations of us all. I told him about a friend in Haldon that you might be visiting. And then I rode here before he could send someone to Mrs. Candler’s and learn…”
“You’re an angel, Mr. McKenzie,” Gwyneira beamed, oblivious to his admonishing tone. “Not to mention if he knew I had just helped deliver his archenemy’s son. Come in! Come meet Ruben O’Keefe.”
Helen looked a touch embarrassed when Gwyneira led the strange man into the room, but James McKenzie behaved impeccably, greeting her politely and expressing his delight at little Ruben. Gwyneira had already seen this light in his eyes many times before. James McKenzie always seemed overjoyed when he helped bring a lamb or a foal into the world.
“You managed that on your own?” he asked, impressed.
“Helen also made a negligible contribution,” Gwyneira said, laughing.
“Either way, you pulled it off wonderfully!” James beamed. “Both of you. Nevertheless, I would gladly accompany you home now, miss. That would no doubt be best for you as well, madam,” he said, turning to Helen. “Your husband…”
“Would certainly not be pleased that a Warden had delivered his son.” Helen nodded. “A thousand thanks, Gwyn!”
“Oh, you’re welcome. Maybe you’ll be able to repay the favor sometime.” Gwyneira winked at her. She didn’t know why she was suddenly so much more optimistic about being pregnant soon, but all the new information had given her wings. Now that she knew where the problem lay, she was certain she could find a solution.
“I’ve already saddled your horse, miss,” James said. “We should really be going.”
Gwyneira smiled. “Let’s hurry, then, so my father-in-law calms down,” she said, realizing only afterward that James had yet to say a word about Lucas. Wasn’t her husband worried at all?
Matahorua followed her with her eyes as Gwyneira left with James McKenzie.
“With that man good baby,” she remarked.
9
“How wonderful of Mr. Warden to think of throwing this garden party,” said Mrs. Candler. Gwyneira had just brought her invitation to the New Year’s party. Since the new year fell in the middle of summer in New Zealand, the party would take place in the garden—with fireworks at midnight for the climax.
Helen shrugged. As always, she and her husband had received no invitation, though Gerald had probably not honored any of the other small farmers with one either. Nor did Gwyneira give the impression that she shared Mrs. Candler’s excitement. She still felt overwhelmed by the job of running Kiward Station’s manor, and a party would demand still new feats of organizational prowess. Besides, at that moment she was occupied with trying to get little Ruben to laugh by making faces and tickling him. Helen’s son was now four months old, and Nepumuk the mule shuttled mother and child on occasional excursions into town. In the weeks following his birth, she had not risked the journey and had found herself once
again isolated, but with the baby, her loneliness had not been as acute. Early on, little Ruben had kept her busy all hours of the day, and she was still delighted by every aspect of him. The infant had not proved troublesome. Already at four months he generally slept through the night—at least when he was allowed to stay in bed with his mother. However, that didn’t suit Howard, who would have liked to resume his nightly “pleasures” with Helen. Whenever he approached her, though, Ruben began to cry loudly. It broke Helen’s heart, but she lay there obediently until Howard was finished. Only then did she worry about the baby. Howard disliked both the background noise and Helen’s obvious tension and impatience. As a result, he usually retreated when Ruben began to cry, and when he came home late at night and saw the baby in Helen’s arms, he went straight to bed in the stables. Helen felt guilty about it but was thankful to Ruben all the same.
During the day the baby almost never cried but lay quietly in his cradle while Helen taught the Maori children. He didn’t sleep but watched the teacher seriously and attentively, as though he already understood what was going on.
“He’s going to be a professor,” Gwyneira said, laughing. “He takes entirely after you, Helen.”
At least in terms of appearance, she was not far off the mark. Ruben’s eyes, which had started out blue, had turned gray like Helen’s, and his hair seemed to be turning dark like Howard’s. But it was straight, not curly.
“He takes after my father,” confirmed Helen. “He is named after him, you know. But Howard is determined that he’ll become a farmer and not a reverend.”
Gwyneira giggled. “Others have made that mistake before. Just think of Mr. Warden and Lucas.”
Gwyneira was reminded of that conversation as she handed out invitations in Haldon. Strictly speaking, the New Year’s party had not been Gerald’s idea but Lucas’s—born from a desire to keep Gerald happy and busy. The mood at home was palpably tense, and with every month that Gwyneira did not get pregnant, the tension only heightened. Gerald now responded to the lack of offspring with naked aggression, even though he didn’t know which one in the couple he should hold accountable. Gwyneira now kept more to herself, having gradually gotten accustomed to her household duties and, therefore, providing Gerald with few avenues of attack. Besides, she had a fine sense for his moods. When he criticized the muffins first thing in the morning—washing them down with whiskey instead of tea, which happened more and more often—she disappeared straightaway to the stables, preferring to spend the day with the dogs and the sheep rather than playing lightning rod for Gerald’s low spirits. Lucas, on the other hand, faced the full force of his father’s wrath, almost always unexpectedly. Gerald frequently ripped his son away from whatever task he was immersed in without compunction and pushed the boy to make himself useful around the farm. He even went so far as to tear up a book Lucas was reading when he caught Lucas with it in his room while he should have been overseeing the sheep shearing.
