by Vicky Adin
“Everyone affected would have been named and their story told too. The news in those days was always about local events. Any news from overseas or about the big picture – things we expect today – would have taken weeks or months to filter through. It was always more important to know what your neighbour was doing and how they were faring than anything else.”
“I suppose so,” said Danni.
“Listen to this on how things have changed. You remember that controversy not so long ago over whether there should be an ‘h’ in Whanganui, the way Maori would spell it? The river name was changed to Whanganui and the township remained Wanganui. Silly really. Well, somewhere along the line, the same thing happened to that area outside Foxton called Whirokino where Daniel and Emma lived. In the time that I am looking at, the papers all spell it as Wirokino, without the ‘h’ – sometimes as two words ‘Wiro kino’ – and today it definitely has the ‘h’ included. I’ve no idea when it changed but I’m certain it wouldn’t have been something the locals argued over. It would have just happened.”
“Maybe you’ll get me interested in history after all.”
“That’ll be the day!” Libby laughed. “You might like listening but you wouldn’t want to do the looking.”
“Maybe not,” said Danni, looking at her watch. “Hey, Mum, I’d better get going or I’ll be late picking up the kids. Is there more for next time?”
“Yes. Lots. And about Emma’s family.”
“I didn’t think you knew anything about them.”
“I didn’t.” Libby smiled.
* * *
Ben was barely inside the door that evening before Libby was waving the papers that had arrived in the post that afternoon at him.
“Look what I have.” She couldn’t wait to tell him the news.
“What’s all this, then?” he asked, putting his briefcase down.
“Certificates. Some prove what I already know. Others are giving me more dates and names to follow up on but this ...” she said, passing the file to him, “... this is the pièce de résistance.”
Ben turned the pages to see the Fohrmann name appearing time and again. She’d been searching for years for information about the Fohrmanns, and it looked as if she’d found many of the missing links.
“That’s fantastic.”
“Isn’t it? I’m so excited.”
From past experience, Ben decided to put the brakes on or nothing else would get done. “Before we get onto this – what’s for dinner? I’m starved.”
“Dinner’s ready, so here, give me those,” Libby took the papers back. “Get changed and let’s eat. I’ll explain it all after. I have a mountain of interesting but useless information I want to talk to you about.”
Ben poured two glasses of wine while Libby dished up their dinner and sat beside him at the table.
“I need your opinion. I’m not sure whether I should include some of the things I’ve found in Daniel’s story or not. They’re relevant to the point that they happened in the time he lived there but not related to his story, since he wasn’t involved.”
“Such as?” Ben helped himself to some salad.
“Did you know Manawatu won at the Savile Cup for polo three years in a row from 1895?” she asked, putting salad on her plate.
“No, I didn’t. How interesting. The cup is the prestigious event for polo. It’s still contested today.”
“Is it? It must have caused quite a stir in Foxton at the time. I found out Captain Robinson’s sons were keen polo players.” Libby took a sip of her drink. “Mmm. Nice wine.”
Twirling the glass in his hand Ben looked at the colour and clarity of the wine. “Not bad,” he agreed. “If that tournament was held in Foxton, then I would expect everyone to have been there – including Daniel, Emma and the kids – whether they knew anything about polo or not. It would have been a big event. Did you say they won it three times?”
“Yes.”
“That’s some feat for a small club. What else?”
“The first National Council of Women was formed in 1896, with Kate Sheppard as their first president.”
“That would have been relevant. Kate Sheppard was the driving force behind the women’s suffrage movement. Granny Adin would have a lot to thank her for. Without Kate Sheppard, I doubt the women of that era would have won the right to vote at that time.”
“I know that, but at this point in the story the vote was three years earlier. This is about the NCW, and I doubt Emma would have been involved.”
“Possibly not,” agreed Ben, finishing the last of his meal.
“I have another interesting piece of trivia,” said Libby. “Did you know that the first motion picture shown as part of a vaudeville show in Auckland was also screened that year?”
“No.” Ben sat back in his chair, laughing. “I doubt Daniel would have known that!”
Libby shook her head. “I disagree; it was in the papers – I read it online – and I think it would have been a topic of conversation at least.”
“Possibly, but I can’t see him being interested in the theatre,” said Ben.
“No, but wasn’t he supposed to love singing, so he might have read the article? The other event in the papers was the Brunner Mine disaster.”
“Now that I do know about: New Zealand’s worst coal mining accident. On 26th March 1896. A deep underground explosion killed sixty-five miners. It must have been awful.”
Libby showed Ben one of the papers. “Terribly sad and they couldn’t get them all out. Thirty-three are buried in a mass grave. People turned up from miles around for the funeral – over six thousand, so the paper said – and the procession was over half a mile long. But I doubt Daniel would have known as much as we do.”
Libby cleared the plates away, as Ben stacked the dishwasher. Retrieving the papers she’d set aside, Libby spread them out over the table. Ben refilled their glasses and sat down again.
“So tell me, what’s all this mean? What have you found out about Emma’s family?”
“Let’s start here.” Libby handed Ben the first of the certificates. “These confirm that Frederika Fohrmann, Emma’s mother, died on 25th January 1883 of kidney disease, aged thirty-seven – and I’ve covered that in the story. But see, it doesn’t say where she is buried, and I haven’t been able to find her anywhere. While we were told Emma had a stepmother she didn’t like – and I don’t know why – what I didn’t know was when the stepmother appeared on the scene.”
She handed Ben a second piece of paper. “This marriage record shows that Eduard Fohrmann, Emma’s father, married Maria Lukashowky in 1887 in Halcombe. I guess she would have been in her late fifties.”
“So you’ve proved they were in Halcombe then.”
“Yes. The interesting point about this record is the name. Remember me telling you that Fritz, aka Fred Fohrmann, Emma’s younger brother, was arrested in 1895 for sheep stealing? The two men he was arrested with were Rudolph and Frank Lukaschewski. Different spelling, but don’t take any notice of that. It’s the same name. Her sons, maybe?”
“Maybe. Interesting though,” said Ben.
“This next certificate shows that Eduard Fohrmann died of bronchitis on Christmas Day 1893, aged fifty-eight. I’ve covered some of this in my story but not everything. The record shows his address as Palmerston North, so maybe they moved there after he married for the second time – or perhaps they separated. I hadn’t thought of that before. But I couldn’t find his burial record. Searched and searched. Finally found it by accident. He is buried under the name of Edwin Fahrmann, of all things, in the Terrace End Cemetery in Palmerston North. Someone couldn’t read the registrar’s writing when they transposed it from the original. There’s no headstone. He’s buried in a pauper’s grave.”
“Oh, what a sad ending.” Ben handed the certificates back to Libby. “What about her other brothers and sister?”
“I’ve found lots of references in the papers to a Mister Henry Fohrmann, known as the H
alcombe Invalid. Again, I don’t know why. It didn’t say. There was a long obituary about fortitude and strength in adversity and pain. He used to collect used stamps to make a living. How do you do that?”
“No idea,” Ben shrugged, taking the proffered papers.
“I think this Henry could be Emma’s brother. I located his burial records showing he died 21st July 1908. See here. Aged forty-four, so it fits time-wise. He’s buried in Halcombe next to a Maria Anne Fohrmann who died 22nd November 1909, aged seventy-two. That must be Emma’s stepmother – too much of a coincidence otherwise. The paper said he was ‘survived by his wife’. But there was no name, and I can’t find any records that show when he married. So that’s a dead end.”
“The sister?”
“Clara? I’ve not come across anything that gives me any leads. So again, no idea. Lost forever possibly.”
“Well done. I’m impressed,” Ben praised.
“There’s one more piece of news. About William Fohrmann, the one Uncle Len used to call old Uncle Bill Foreman – with an anglicised spelling. He was the youngest, and born in New Zealand. He died in 1946 and was obviously known to the family, given this photo of him with some Adin family members around 1940. Anyway, his birth certificate says his mother was born in Saxony and his parents were married on 5th May 1861 in Waldenburg, Germany, when she was sixteen. If ever I get the urge to search back further into her history, there’s the starting point. But seeing as the few records I’ve tried to access are all in German, I gave up.”
“Fair enough.”
Libby stacked the papers, putting them back into the folders while Ben made a cup of tea. Settling in the more comfortable armchairs, Libby sat back and smiled. “There’s one more thing I can tell you. Never mind what else was happening, 1896 was a busy year for Daniel and Emma.”
Chapter Sixteen
Foxton
1896–1897
25 January 1896
Frederick Adin made his way into the world one January morning in 1896. More than three and a half years since Clara was born, Emma found this birth more difficult than the others. Whether because at nearly thirty she was getting older, or as a sign Fred was going to go on causing pain, a lot of it, during his lifetime, Daniel did not know. But the fact Annie was no longer with them and the new midwife not to Emma’s liking didn’t help either. Whatever the reason, she had made it clear this birth would be the last.
In the months since that October day when he’d told her about her brother Fred being gaoled, he had been mulling over their situation and, in particular, their relationship. Emma had been overjoyed with the new boots – elegant walking boots, not everyday working boots as she had expected – which had made him happy, too. He was certain he could never live without her; she was his helpmeet for life. Even though that sounded soft and weak and he’d never tell anyone how he felt, he was prepared to admit it to himself. He didn’t always make her life as easy as he should.
Emma had never said another word about marriage and rarely harangued him about the time he spent in the pub. She would send one of the kids every now and then to remind him to come home for his supper or, on even rarer occasions, she would come herself, but mostly she let him be. In fact, looking back, she had been particularly attentive of late, interested in what he was doing, whom he was talking to and what was in the news. She liked to have him read the paper to her in the evenings after supper when all the children were in bed.
“You can come in now, Mr Adin.” The haughty attitude of the new midwife annoyed Daniel as she stood back to open the door wide.
Handing the woman an envelope with her fee in it he said, “Leave us, please.”
The midwife nodded and shut the door behind her.
Daniel leant over Emma, who was sitting up surrounded by pillows, and kissed her forehead. “Good girl. Another boy.”
“Ja. You are pleased, Charlie?” Smiling down at the baby she didn’t see Daniel’s discomfort.
“Thank you. Yes.” The formality of his answer as he shaped various words in his mind to express what he wanted to say next caused Emma to turn her head towards him. Her expression changed to concern.
“What’s the matter? Are you not happy?” Emma always could read his moods and now was no different.
“No, no. It’s not that. I wanted to ask you something. That’s all.”
“Well, ask. I’m listening, and I can hardly go anywhere at the moment.” Her eyes glowed as she looked up at him.
He sat awkwardly on the side of the bed, looking out the window, at the pictures on the wall and the scratch on the duchesse, noting a handle was broken. Anywhere, except at Emma. His voice was quiet when he spoke.
“Well, um, I wondered, what say we make you Mrs Adin, legal like? Would you like that?”
“Charlie. Look at me. Did I hear you right? Are you asking me to marry you?” reaching out to lay her free hand on his forearm. He turned to her. The smile on her face gave him the answer he was hoping for, but all he could do was nod. He was too choked up.
“What a silly you are. Of course I’ll marry you. I’ve been as good as married to you these last fifteen years. Carried your name and borne your children. It won’t make any difference but, yes. If that is what you want.”
Daniel stood up. Overcome, but trying not to show it. Rubbing his hands over his face, he turned and looked back at her, his profile in shadow with the light from the window behind him. “It is what I want. I want to be sure you will always be with me ...”
“We don’t need to be married for that,” Emma reassured him, peering to see his expression. “What else is there? Something’s on your mind.”
“Oh. Emma. You know me too damn well. But being married will make a difference. I been thinking a lot since you reminded me last year that we weren’t wed legal like. And, well ... um.”
“Yes?” she queried, trying to prompt him. “Go on.”
“Our children are ... You see, our children aren’t ... legal ... and would be treated bad if something happened to me. You’d have no say in what happened to them.” Rushing on before she could say something or change her mind, “I don’t want you to think the children are the only reason for us to marry. I do want us to. Marry, that is. But their legal standing is important.”
A moment’s silence followed. Daniel fidgeted while he stood waiting, watching. Wondering why he should feel so rattled.
Emma’s head was bent towards the baby; she stroked Fred’s cheek. “I agree, Charlie, and, yes.”
At Emma’s words, a gush of air escaped Daniel’s lips and he relaxed. “There’s a new law that means we can re-register the children and they will be legal then,” he said.
“I had heard about it. That would be very nice.” Emma’s smile was soft. As she turned her attention back to the baby, for the first time Daniel wondered if, somehow, she had brought this all about. He just had no damn idea how.
* * *
Daniel didn’t want to know what Emma and Mary discussed for hours, poring over the latest catalogues and visiting the general store. But now the date had been set for the wedding and he was wondering what he’d got himself into. There was great anticipation, with new clothes for Emma and the children. He supposed he would have to get all trussed up like a stuffed bird too. His mate, Harry Proctor, had said he would stand up with him, and John Proctor had offered his house for the ceremony. He and Mrs Proctor would be pleased to put on some small refreshments to celebrate the day, he’d said.
On the eve of their wedding, there was much bustling in the house. The bath was hauled out so the children could be scrubbed until there was not a speck of dirt to be seen. New clothes were laid out ready for the morning, and long, loud instructions given for all the jobs still to be done. Daniel was pleased Harry had invited him to the pub to get away from it all. Harry had promised not to let him get too drunk and to make sure he was dressed properly in the morning.
As it turned out Daniel had little memory of what happened that nigh
t. He woke to find he’d slept on Harry’s couch, being assured that everything was well at his house.
“Emma and the children were getting ready, last I heard,” Harry informed him, looking at his pocket watch. “Our Mary is there with her, helping, and Pa is taking the trap down to pick them up soon. Your girls and little Fred will travel with them. It’s a bit squashed but they’ll manage. I’ve arranged for young Charlie to take the cart into town with the other boys for later.”
“Thank you, Harry. You’re a good friend.”
Harry showed Daniel where he could wash and shave, and they set about getting him into his suit and tie.
“Once you’re ready, we can walk over to Pa’s house. Ma is expecting us. She’ll have some food an’ all, so let’s get a move on.”
Meanwhile, back at the house Emma had been up since dawn lighting the fire in the coal range, making a large pot of porridge for the children’s breakfast and setting the stewpot simmering for their dinner. Before anyone could sit down and eat, the chooks were fed, the house cow milked and the horse caught, groomed and tacked up ready for the trip to town. Her friend, Mary Pemberton Proctor, had been true to her word and arrived shortly after breakfast, bringing with her a few little extras.
Emma was not a fashionable person in the magazine sense. She eschewed most of the heavy boning, the leg o’ mutton sleeves and frills becoming prevalent, preferring the lightest of corsets, simple puff or ruffled sleeves, tight fitting past the elbow, and the shorter, mid-calf walking skirts and jackets. She was from peasant stock, used to hard work, and her clothes reflected her practical nature. Her hair, naturally curly, was kept shorter in front than the fashion so it would curl around her face; the rest was secured into a tight bun. Emma liked button-to-the-neck blouses, loosening the buttons when she was working in the laundry or in the garden when no one was around to see her. Wool or tweed skirts were the sturdiest, and a lighter cotton version in the heat of the summer was all she needed, in her opinion. The one outfit she considered suitable for going into town was the bombazine one she’d had made three years back when she had cast her first vote.
