by Vicky Adin
Daniel drew her into his arms as she fell into an exhausted sleep.
1884
In his own way Daniel fretted about Emma throughout the following days and weeks. The loss of her mother sat like a stone on her heart, unresolved and unforgettable. He could only guess at her feelings when she was silent and withdrawn. At other times, she would talk non-stop telling him this time following her mother’s death was the hardest of her young life. Worse than the voyage out to New Zealand, worse than leaving her home – over two years ago now – worse than all the sickness and death she had already experienced.
Daniel hoped domestic chores and looking after Lizzie would distract Emma from the loneliness of those long hours while he was away working. Annie had shown her how to make her own soap and use blue in the rinse water, but on his return home each night he could see she had spent the days restless and unable to lift herself from the gloominess. He’d done what he could to help, when he could. Time dragged on with little change.
One evening, frustration got the better of him. He had to say something. “You can’t sit there all day doing nothing. You must try.”
“It’s all right for you, Charlie. You don’t know how it is.” She turned on him. Angry. Distraught. “Here on my own, with only my thoughts for company. Lizzie crying all the time, and the work is endless. I feel drained and empty inside. I’m too tired. I can’t do it. I can’t.” She collapsed in tears again.
Her outburst was not at all like his normal, capable Emma. He had to find a way to pull her out of her misery.
“That’s not right, and you know it. Annie and Maisy are always coming round to see you. You should listen to Annie more. You still have me and the babe to see to. I won’t put up with it any more. Do you hear? Pull yourself together, woman, and get on with things.”
The hurt and shock on Emma’s face was almost more than he could bear. He had never spoken to her like that before. It didn’t feel right somehow, but Annie had told him he must be firm.
“Now. Where’s my dinner?” He turned away from her stricken face, ran his hands through his hair in exasperation and sat at the table.
Emma rose from the chair, wiped her eyes and smoothed her hair. She crossed to the big iron pot simmering over the coal range. Taking a plate from the rack beside it, she ladled a bowl of stew into the plate and set it on the table. She sliced a slab of bread from the loaf Maisy had brought round earlier and handed it to Daniel.
Daniel took her hand as she passed him the bread. “I’ll have you sit with me.” Daniel’s voice softened. “Please? You must eat. You must keep your strength up. Lizzie will never stop crying if you don’t have enough milk for her, so Annie tells me.”
Silently, obediently, Emma filled another plate with food and sank into the adjacent chair.
* * *
Bit by bit, as the months passed, Daniel’s hopes were realised as the daily chores became a salve for Emma, which soon turned into a passion as she buried herself in her household tasks.
Many a time now, when he came home from work, the coal range had been cleaned and blacked, and the smell of fresh baked bread and roasting meat pervaded the air. Other times, he would find her stirring a big pot of bubbling lye and fat, making soap to her liking, using herbs and flowers to make it more fragrant, or the table had been scrubbed – so much the kauri top was turning white.
Emma had begun sewing baby clothes and raising hens for eggs, which she also sold if there were enough left over.
But most of all, Daniel was pleased to see how much she loved the changing seasons in her garden, as the summer turned to winter and spring and back to summer again. Life was gradually returning to his lovely bride and so was the love, and loving, that first brought them together.
She would talk endlessly about her days, darting from subject to subject and person to person.
“I talk to Lizzie all the time.” Her eyes were sparkling. “I know it sounds silly, since she can’t talk, but I feel like she understands. I tell her all about the new herbs I used in the soap today. Do you remember when Annie brought me those lovely spring bulbs and sweet-smelling rose cuttings? They’ve grown into such beautiful flowers. I never thought I’d have flowers of my own. But I have to watch Lizzie or else she’d be picking the heads off them all. Wouldn’t you, my little love?” Emma cooed at Lizzie asleep beside her in the rocker. “You have me run off my feet, that’s for certain.”
“I’m pleased to see you happy again, Emma.” Daniel’s sense of relief was great.
Emma smiled at him with her eyes, acknowledging his emotion. “Lizzie’s so beautiful at times I could cry with it to see her crouched on the grass beside me inspecting the daisies and tasting the fresh blades of grass. Ooh, I do so love it when the soil is all tilled and there’s no weeds left. When I can see new life in every flower and leaf, every seedling and bulb. When life is controlled by the seasons.”
Christmas had come and gone. Emma had rejoiced in the preparations, proud she could serve fresh new potatoes and greens from her garden for their dinner. But on the anniversary of her mother’s death, her sadness returned.
“What say you go and see Maisy this afternoon?” suggested Daniel. “Take Lizzie and spend the afternoon talking.”
“Oh, Charlie! What a good idea. Thank you. Yes, it would be good to talk to Maisy.” She kissed him on the cheek.
“I’ll be off to the pub then. I arranged to see Harry, and Jock Proctor’s coming to talk about the next race meets. See you for supper.”
Emma frowned but said nothing.
“What do you think of that then, little one?” she asked Lizzie instead as she strapped the nineteen-month-old to her in a hammock-style muslin cloth.
The walk would do her good. The sun was out and the day mild. It wouldn’t take long for her to get to the kitchen of Herrington from their small abode near the river. Maisy was semi-retired now, with maids to help her, but she still ruled her kitchen the way she always had.
“Well, hello there, Emma, my dear. Welcome. Come in. Come in. What brings you here today, not that you need an excuse, of course. You’re welcome any time.”
“Actually, Maisy, there is something. I have to tell ...”
“Before you tell me anything, let’s pour ourselves a refreshing cup of tea, or would you prefer fresh-made lemon squash? And let’s sit under the big tree and talk. It’ll be cooler out there.”
“Tea would be lovely. Thanks, Maisy. And a small glass of lemon squash would be nice for Lizzie here.”
Maisy gave instructions to the scullery maid who carried a tray of drinks and cakes outside. Once Emma had released Lizzie to explore the garden, she sagged into one of the big wooden armchairs under the shade of the large plum tree.
“So, what have you got to tell me, then?” asked Maisy, settling herself in the other one, the tray of drinks set on the table between them.
“It’s the anniversary of Mama’s passing today, and I was feeling low. Charlie said I should get away from the house. I was thinking all sorts of sad thoughts about what she would be missing, what my children would be missing. But then I realised – there is good news. I haven’t told anyone yet, not even Charlie. I wanted to be sure – I’m with child again, Maisy. Isn’t that good news?”
“Yes, my dear. It is. Annie and I were just saying, not long ago, that it was time for you to have another. She was suspicious, mind you, thinking you might be. You know Annie, can read people like a book. She said you were glowing.”
“Am I?” Emma’s expression softened. “I suppose I am.”
“When are you due?”
“Would you believe it? June! Like Lizzie. Another winter baby conceived in springtime. My favourite time of the year when everything starts to grow. Just like this baby.”
Emma placed her hands across her stomach, smiling. She imagined she could feel the quickening that would come later. She was surprised at the fierce protectiveness she felt for this new babe. At that moment, she knew she would have a
large family. None of her children would ever be alone in their lives if she had anything to say about it.
* * *
Charles Frederick Adin was born on 27th June 1884, with even less fuss and bother than his older sister.
“What did I tell you, miss?” Annie chattered as she moved around the room sorting out the aftermath of the day’s events. “A natural, you are. Quite the natural. What a bonnie boy you have there.”
“Thank you, Annie. Again. I could not have done it without you. You are such a strength to me. Charlie will be so pleased it’s a boy. He loves his Lizzie to distraction but a boy can help a man with his work, and a boy can carry on his name.”
“That’s as may be. Me, I prefer girls. They stay home close to their mothers and are a joy throughout their lives.”
Except me, Emma thought but kept quiet as Annie prattled on.
“But boys, they go off and do their manly things. Same as always, rushing off to get a rifle in their hands and get themselves killed before they’ve even had time to work out how to use it, some of them, or getting the taste for drink. Wastrels, the lot of them. Still, enough for today. Today is a day of celebration. A new baby, a new beginning.”
Emma looked lovingly at the little bundle lying next to her on the bed. What will your life be like, I wonder?
Chapter Thirteen
Foxton
1886–1890
10 June 1886
The sound of deep rumbling and the house shaking in the middle of the night woke Daniel from a deep sleep. Minor earthquakes were not uncommon and could rattle the teacups and more on occasions, but his instinct told him this was something bigger.
Emma stirred beside him, and then sat bolt upright. “Shall I get the children?” she asked, halfway out of bed and lighting the candle she kept on the bedside table. Daniel checked his fob watch: two-thirty.
“No. Leave them be if they are still asleep. I don’t think this is close by, but it feels big.”
Emma took the candle to check on the children and found both of them sound asleep. Returning to bed, she pulled the handmade patchwork quilt up to her neck to keep out the cold winter air.
“What’s happening?” Emma placed her hands over her stomach where their next child was growing.
Daniel propped himself up on the pillow beside her. “Not sure. An earthquake somewhere, but it’s deep so I don’t think it will bother us.” He hoped his words would reassure her but there would be no sleep for either of them listening to the rumbling and feeling the tremors travelling underground.
To pass the time they talked about the latest letter from Elizabeth.
“How do you feel about your mama passing?” asked Emma. She knew how bad she’d felt when her mother had died, but Daniel had said little. The letter had taken more than six months to arrive, and they learnt that Sarah Winter had died peacefully in her sleep in Chesterfield, in the care of her daughter, Elizabeth, September last.
“Not sure. It seems strange that life carries on regardless, and tragedies unknown are not tragic. I haven’t seen her in over twenty years. It’s almost like it’s another person; but even so, mothers are special beings to their children. Just as you are to our children, my Liebling.”
After a restless night they rose with the dawn.
* * *
Several days passed before the whole story of the earthquake was known. The newspapers were filled with an account of a vast volcanic eruption to the east. Mt Tarawera had exploded. Mud, ash and steam had been seen spewing from the dome, with red-hot molten scoria pouring down the mountainside, burying many villages, as well as the world-famous Pink and White Terraces. Rumours of a ghost waka gliding across the misty waters of the lake warning people away not long before the eruption were reported in the papers and were soon spread. The whole country was in shock at the loss of life. Flags flew at half-mast, and many people wore black armbands.
Reporters estimated that the resulting plume of ash, which could be seen for a great distance, had risen six or seven miles in the air. Mud from the eruption was dropped miles away from the site. Despite warnings about the danger, the papers reported people were flocking to the area to see the devastation for themselves. They went to take photos, to be part of the desolation, to have stories to tell their children and grandchildren.
For Daniel and Emma the eruption had little effect and life continued much as it had until December, when William made his entry into the world, providing Daniel with a second son.
1887
Daniel held the letter in his hand, staring at it while he thought about what it would mean to Emma. Like him, she rarely heard from her family, but when she did it often meant bad news. Her father getting married again wasn’t all that bad, but it wasn’t good news either.
“How do you feel about this?” Daniel sat at the table watching her knead the bread dough.
“I hate it.”
“Thought you might. But can you explain why?”
“She’s foreign for a start. What sort of name is Lukaschewski?”
“Whoa on, there! You can’t hold that against her. Many people here and around Halcombe are ‘foreign’ – as you call her. We all are, if you want to think about it. We are all from somewhere else.” Daniel pulled the tobacco tin towards him and started to roll a cigarette.
“That’s not what I mean.” Emma thumped the bread dough on the table in frustration. “I mean ... I mean, she isn’t Prussian like us.”
“How do you know? And you said your father came from Bohemia,” he reminded her. “Where do you think she is from?”
“I don’t know. Poland, I would guess.”
“But do you know for certain?” asked Daniel, lighting his cigarette.
“No.”
“Does it matter? What would you say if she was German?” Daniel put forward another argument hoping to ease her anger.
Emma’s voice held a bitter edge. “German or not, it matters. I think not German, so, yes, it matters.”
“So, what other reason do you have for not liking the fact your father has remarried?”
“He should have stayed loyal to Mama and her memory. It’s only been four years.”
“Ah. Yes. Loyalty. Strange thing, loyalty. Means different things to different people. But he has been a man on his own trying to bring up young children. And what about young Bill? What’s he now? Five?” Daniel hazarded a guess. Putting one foot up on the other knee he sat back savouring the taste of the tobacco.
“No. You are wrong. He is much older. Our Charlie is three and little William a few months already. Let me think ... Heinrich, um Henry, would be a man now, twenty-three I think, so Fred about fifteen then, and Clara twelve. William must be nine. They don’t need a new mama.” Emma was defiant.
“But how do you know? You only hear from them when something has changed. You don’t know what they think or how they feel. What about Clara? Doesn’t she need a mother figure?”
“No. I know what it feels like to be a young girl. I know ... oh, why are you tormenting me like this? Why are you taking his side?” Emma’s cheeks flared red as she thumped the bread again.
“I didn’t mean to upset you. I’m just trying to make you see another side. To see logic.” He stubbed out his cigarette.
“I don’t want to see logic. There’s nothing I can do about it, and there’s nothing I can do to help. But I don’t think it’s right and I never will,” she said, stubbornly sticking by her unexplainable gut feeling.
Daniel didn’t pursue the matter but he agreed with her. Having done some asking around at the pub he had found his father-in-law’s new wife was an older woman with a couple of sons who had a reputation for being rather wild. He, too, was worried.
He watched Emma move around the kitchen doing chores, banging pots and pans and kneading the new batch of bread dough with a vengeance. Anger had put colour into her cheeks, and she looked fetching. He wanted her as much as on their first day. Getting up from his chair he moved behind her a
nd put his arms around her waist, kissing the side of her neck.
Giggling and arching her neck, she smiled. “Behave. I’m busy.” She put the back of her floury hand up to his face. “The children will see.”
He continued nuzzling at her neck, making her laugh. “William is asleep, you told me so yourself, and Lizzie and Charlie are playing outside. They won’t know.”
“But it’s daylight,” she half-heartedly protested, continuing with her work as best she could.
“Yes, it is.” He loved it when she was like this, hesitant but not opposed. It made him feel strong, loved, admired – and seriously aroused. His kisses became more earnest.
She nudged him to one side. “Let me put this bread in the oven.”
Daniel stepped back, letting her pass between him and the table, only for her to find his hand moving up the back of her leg as she bent to open the oven door. She shrieked, slammed the door shut and jumped up all in one movement, falling straight into his arms. Throwing her arms around his neck, she responded to his kisses as their ardour increased. As one they shuffled along the hallway, kissing and loosening clothing as they went to collapse on the iron-framed bed in their room, stifling giggles so as not to attract any attention from the children.
Their lovemaking was urgent and completed without any of the usual preliminaries and tenderness that normally accompanied their unions. It seemed right on this occasion.
With her arms around his neck and his head inches from her own, Emma examined his face: every line, every wrinkle, every expression a product of his life. “I love you, Charlie Adin.”
“And I love you, my Emma, mein Liebling. That is all you have to think about.”
1888
On this mild spring day, the funeral of Captain Francis Robinson was the largest the town had ever seen. The townsfolk appraised with sombre pleasure the accoutrements of status: the black hearse with its shiny panelling, two black horses, their dark, feathered plumes nodding with each prancing step as the hearse made its way up Main Street towards the cemetery.
