Lizzie, Love

by Brenda Delamain

  Elizabeth pushed the door open and went into the kitchen. Mrs Reo was rolling some pastry on the table while her mother sat, peeling apples, at the other end.

  ‘Well, if it isn’t Elizabeth back,’ exclaimed Mrs Reo. Not getting any reply from Mrs Kemp, she leant towards her and said in a louder voice, ‘It’s Elizabeth!’ as though she was explaining something to a blind person.

  Her mother glanced up at Elizabeth.

  ‘Oh, it’s you,’ she said, and went on peeling the apple in her hands.

  CHAPTER 12

  At last the stone store was almost completed. The stairs and shelves were finished, but the room was a mess. It had been partly used for storage for some time, with the stores stacked in heaps against the walls. They had been constantly moved as Mr Nisbet, the Scottish carpenter, tried to finish the woodwork. Wherever Mr Nisbet went with his hammer, the supplies parted like the Red Sea.

  Now that the interior was finished, Mr Nisbet worked on the final glory, a clock tower. It had been decided to remove the clock from the church on the hill, where its weight threatened to crumble the plaster-and-lathe walls, and to place it in a small tower atop the store. Mr Nisbet sat astride the tower, nailing on the last of the wooden shingles.

  Several people, adults and children, were scurrying back and forth between the new and old store, carrying boxes and bundles, like a colony of worker ants intent on moving their eggs to safety.

  Elizabeth sat on an upturned box in the cool of the store, sorting nails into a set of cubicles that Mr Nisbet had built for them. Away from the house and her mother, she felt more relaxed. Mrs Kemp’s distant behaviour was upsetting for everyone.

  Her father stood nearby, stacking the shelves with shirts, according to size. They worked in silence, intent on their sorting. The only sound was the tap-tap-tap of the hammer on the roof and the occasional pause and scuffle as Mr Nisbet placed another shingle, then tap-tap-tap again.

  At one point there was a longer pause, then a longer scuffle as though Mr Nisbet was changing position, but this time the scuffling grew louder. Suddenly there was a wild cry, taken up by shrieks from the ground. Mr Kemp looked up, startled. Elizabeth paused and turned, nail in hand. ‘What was that?’

  A small, dark figure darted into the oblong of light that was the doorway. It was Sarah. ‘Papa, Papa, Mr Nisbet has fallen off the roof!’

  ‘Good God!’ exclaimed Mr Kemp. Dropping his bundle of shirts, he rushed for the door. Elizabeth threw the nail in the cubicle, reached for her crutches and followed her father round the side of the building to where people were converging. Mr Nisbet lay on the ground, muttering and moaning. He was propped up on his elbows, his head stretched back in agony. He groaned, ‘Damned hammer … flaming leg …’

  Mr Kemp knelt down beside him. ‘Thank God you’re still alive, Ben. Where is the pain, man? What have you done?’

  ‘Oh, ’tis my leg. No, ’tis my ankle. It could be my hip, oh…!’ He leant over to one side, rubbing his hip and thigh.

  ‘Don’t move, Ben,’ cautioned Mr Kemp, ‘till we see that nothing is broken.’

  Mr Nisbet fell back onto the ground.

  ‘Sarah, run and get a cushion,’ ordered her father, as he tried to ease up the trouser leg. It was obvious in an instant that the lower part of the leg and ankle were swelling rapidly.

  ‘I’ll have to take your boot off, Ben,’ Mr Kemp told him. ‘It may hurt. I’ll be as careful as I can.’ He untied the laces and loosened them as far as possible. Luckily the old boot slipped off easily with only one long groan from the patient. The sock was soon cut away, to expose the damaged foot.

  ‘It’s pretty swollen. It could be broken or it could be just a bad sprain. We’ll hope for the latter. You say your hip hurts, too?’

  ‘Yes, but it’s easing off now. I must have just jarred it.’

  ‘If so, you’re the luckiest man I know.’ Mr Kemp glanced up. ‘It’s all of twenty-four feet.’

  ‘Damn it,’ said Mr Nisbet, ‘and only ten more shingles to go.’

  Whether the leg was broken or not they never discovered. The injury was kept well splinted, but it took a number of weeks for the swelling to subside completely. After sitting for several days on the verandah, unoccupied, Mr Nisbet’s temper began to fray.

  ‘I can’t sit here day after day,’ he complained to Elizabeth.

  ‘You could borrow my crutches,’ she offered.

  ‘Better still, I could make my own.’

  His request for timber and tools was soon fulfilled and he proceeded to make a pair for himself, like Elizabeth’s, only longer. He started to shuffle about and eventually got back to the store where he spent his time sitting on a box, planing and dressing pieces of wood ready for use.

  One day Elizabeth pulled herself up the stone store steps and peered inside. ‘I’ve brought you some lunch,’ she called.

  Mr Nisbet put down his tools. ‘Keep it there, lass,’ he said. ‘I’ll come out in the sunshine.’ He reached for his crutches and limped out to the door. He eased himself down onto the step beside her.

  ‘We’re a gammy pair with our crutches,’ he chuckled.

  Elizabeth didn’t answer, but handed him the lunch, packed in a little flax basket.

  ‘Tell me,’ he continued, ‘does your leg pain you, like mine, that you cannot walk on it?’

  ‘No,’ she snapped. ‘And it’s not worth talking about, thank you.’

  ‘Now, now,’ he replied, ‘it’s no good getting like that about it.’

  ‘I’m not getting like anything,’ said Elizabeth. ‘I just don’t like talking about it, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I just don’t want to,’ she answered angrily, fully aware that she was being impertinent to an adult, and flushing in consequence.

  Mr Nisbet busied himself with his bread and cheese.

  Elizabeth looked away towards the pa, blinking.

  ‘’Tis not just idle curiosity,’ he said. ‘I had a purpose in asking. I thought I might be able to help.’

  Elizabeth turned back to look at him. ‘Help? In what way?’

  ‘Well, I’ve found out how awkward it is with these damned crutches.’

  ‘It is,’ she agreed.

  ‘And I got to thinking. Why do you have to use them?’

  ‘I have too. My leg just crumples up.’

  ‘But it doesn’t hurt?’

  ‘Not now.’

  ‘Then all it needs, like mine, is a splint to stiffen it.’

  ‘But I don’t think I could move my hip forward.’

  ‘Deary me, couldn’t you swing it forward?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Well, don’t you think, if I make you a splint, it’s worth a try?’

  Elizabeth nodded.

  ‘Good. You can’t just pretend things aren’t there, when they are. Think, if it works you may be able to walk without those crutches.’

  ‘I could even carry things,’ said Elizabeth, eager in spite of herself.

  ‘Right then, that’s settled. Tomorrow, bring some strips of rag for tying it onto your leg.’

  True to his word, Mr Nisbet worked on the splint all the next morning. By the time Elizabeth brought his lunch, it was made.

  ‘Did you bring the rags?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Come and sit on this box then.’

  They proceeded, between them, to bind her leg to the splint which Mr Nisbet had made with a right-angled foot support. Elizabeth smiled at the way her leg stuck out at such a funny angle to the seat.

  ‘Right then, stand you up,’ he ordered, pulling her to her feet. But when she straightened her good leg, the weight of the wood tipped her sideways. Mr Nisbet grabbed her before she fell.

  ‘Steady lass, steady,’ he muttered, looking down. ‘Well now, without use, it seems that your bad leg has not grown at the same pace as the other.’

  ‘I knew it wouldn’t work,’ said Elizabeth.

  ‘Not so fas
t,’ he grumbled. ‘Who said it wouldn’t work? You’re like a wobbly table. All we have to do is level you off a bit.’

  ‘Chop a bit off the good one?’

  ‘No lass, add a bit to the other. Now, hang onto the back of the chair. Stand up straight, shoulders back, that’s it. I’ll measure the difference.’ Mr Nisbet sat on the box beside her with the measuring stick in his hand, leaning forward to peer at the markings.

  ‘Right, one and a quarter,’ he muttered. ‘Take it off while I cut a bit of wood.’

  Elizabeth unwrapped the strips and gave him the splint, then sat rolling up the rags as he nailed the block of wood onto the base of the splint.

  ‘Now, try again,’ Mr Nisbet ordered.

  This time she was able to stand, but when she tried to swing her leg forward the wood scraped on the floor.

  ‘Oh, it’s hopeless,’ exclaimed Elizabeth. ‘I’ll never be any better.’

  ‘Then you’ll not be any worse, will you? And you’ll continue to muddle through.’

  ‘What do you mean, muddle through?’ laughed Elizabeth.

  ‘That’s what we all do, lassie, muddle through. You can make great plans, but something, or someone, is bound to upset them. So we go on muddling, and hope for the best. But it’s not hopeless in this case. All we need is a wee bit of clearance. Now, sit down and I’ll try to plane a bit off the bottom.’

  They proceeded by dint of trial and error to fashion a splint that supported her leg, yet swung a fraction above the floor when she twisted her hip forward. With each step of progress Elizabeth began to hope. At first timidly, then confidently, and finally she said, ‘It will work, Mr Nisbet. I know it will if I practise.’

  ‘That’s the girl, Lizzie. Now I told you, didn’t I?’

  Elizabeth continued to practise, lurching around the store, clinging to anything that came to hand — chairs, boxes, tables or shelves.

  ‘Now try walking across the floor to me,’ urged Mr Nisbet.

  Elizabeth pushed herself away from the chair she was holding and turned to face him. Without the crutches, she held her arms out for balance. Then, standing resolutely on her one good leg, she slung the whole side of her body forward, swinging the splinted leg across the floor. Then, balancing on it carefully, she shunted her sound leg forward.

  ‘That’s the idea, lassie,’ said Mr Nisbet. ‘Again, lass; you’re doing famously.’

  Elizabeth repeated the exercise.

  ‘That’s it, that’s it,’ he urged, with each clumsy step. Slowly she crossed the open floor until she reached him. ‘You did it, lass,’ he chortled. ‘Now there’ll be no stopping you.’

  ‘Let’s go and show Papa. He’s just round the back in the smithy. Come with me and we’ll show him.’ Elizabeth grabbed Mr Nisbet’s hand as though to pull him up.

  ‘Alright, lass, give me time to find my flaming crutches.’ He felt about behind his chair. ‘You’ll need yours, too. You’re not up to walking that far yet.’

  Together, they limped round to the smithy. Mr Kemp stood by the glowing forge, beating out a horseshoe. As they neared he plunged it into a barrel of water and the steam rose in a hissing cloud.

  ‘Please, Papa, I’ve got something to show you,’ called Elizabeth.

  Mr Kemp put the horseshoe down and turned.

  Ten yards away, Elizabeth felt her face flush. ‘Now, just stand there and watch,’ she ordered.

  Elizabeth dropped her crutches to the ground, hesitated for a second then lurched forward with a few ungainly steps. ‘See, I can walk,’ she shouted. ‘Did you see me?’

  Mr Kemp looked astounded for a moment then he stepped forward. Elizabeth lifted her skirt to show him the splint.

  ‘See, it was Mr Nisbet’s idea. Isn’t he clever?’

  Her father seemed to have difficulty finding his voice. ‘Indeed he is,’ he said finally.

  ‘Don’t tell Mama,’ said Elizabeth urgently. ‘I want to surprise her myself. After I’ve practised.’

  Elizabeth found that the best time to practise was early in the morning, when her mother was getting dressed upstairs. At that hour, no one was about, and she could be on the front verandah alone, walking up and down close to the rail which she could use to steady herself. She had taken Richard into her confidence and was able to keep the splint and the cloth strips in his little bedroom that opened off the side of the porch. He was delighted to be entrusted with the secret.

  One day a short time later, while putting the splint away after a practice, Elizabeth heard the front door open. Looking round the porch door, she saw that it was her father. She nearly called out to him and then saw that her mother was close behind. Not wanting her to see the splint, she kept quiet. Her mother seemed to be pleading with her husband.

  ‘James, James, do you have to go?’

  Elizabeth withdrew her head abruptly. She heard her father’s appeasing voice.

  ‘Of course I have to go, Charlotte, you know that.’

  ‘Couldn’t one of the others?’

  ‘But it’s my turn. Edmonds went last week.’

  ‘Please James. I’m frightened.’

  ‘But why? There’s nothing to be frightened of. The other men are here if you need them.’

  ‘It’s … it’s … oh, please.’

  ‘Now come on, love, stop being ridiculous.’ An irritated note was creeping into his voice. ‘I’m only going to Taronui. I’ll be back tonight or, at worst, first thing in the morning.’

  Elizabeth heard her mother’s voice, low and pleading..

  ‘I can’t. Oh don’t … Please, James.’

  ‘Charlotte, dear, can’t you tell me what is wrong?’ asked her father.

  ‘Not really. No.’

  ‘Then I have no real reason to stay, have I?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said her mother, in a small, sad voice.

  ‘Then I’ll be back tonight,’ said her father, a trifle testily. ‘Now, please try to pull yourself together, Charlotte.’ Turning abruptly, he picked up his bag and strode down the path.

  A few seconds’ silence followed and Elizabeth suddenly realized that her mother had moved along the verandah towards her and was sitting in the old armchair that stood by the door. She could hear the words that she was murmuring to herself.

  ‘I’ve had enough, I’ve had enough. Oh, God, I’ve had enough.’ Then Mrs Kemp got up and went back inside.

  Elizabeth sat pondering the interchange. What was her mother frightened of? Elizabeth could not think of anything. Besides, her mother was not usually a timorous person.

  In the kitchen she found Hana and Sarah Waiapu making bread.

  ‘Where’s Mama?’ asked Elizabeth.

  ‘She said she had a headache and went to her room,’ said Hana.

  ‘She asked to be left alone,’ added Sarah.

  A hush possessed the house for the rest of the day. As it was not a school day, neither the Maori girls nor the children knew what they should be doing.

  Mary Ann took a tray up at lunchtime, and again at tea-time.

  ‘How is she?’ Elizabeth asked.

  ‘I don’t know. She is just sitting on a chair looking out of the window. I told her I had brought the tray and she said, ‘Put it over there.’ Mary Ann shrugged. ‘She didn’t say any more.’

  CHAPTER 13

  Elizabeth awoke with a jerk. A wedge of moonlight slanted through the window. She wondered what had woken her so suddenly and lay still, listening. The only sounds were a distant morepork, and the nearby river tumbling over the rocks.

  Then she heard it again: a shuffle followed by a grinding sound, so close that she realized it was in the house. Even upstairs? She got out of bed and stood shivering on the cold floor. The moon gave enough light for her to find her crutch and limp to the door. She opened it cautiously. She waited and the noise came again, from her parents’ room. There was a thin thread of light under the door. Elizabeth went across and knocked, pressing her ear to the wood. There was silence for a moment, then her moth
er’s voice.

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘It’s me, Lizzie.’

  ‘Come on in, quickly.’

  Elizabeth opened the door and slid in.

  ‘Shut it now,’ ordered her mother.

  Inside the room, Elizabeth looked around. The light came from a single candle by the bed. Her mother was leaning against a large chest of drawers. She was in her nightdress, her hair hanging over one shoulder in a long plait. She looked exhausted.

  The chest had been pulled out, about two feet away from the wall. Several reasons for this strange act flashed through Elizabeth’s mind: a rat perhaps, or something fallen behind?

  ‘What has happened?’ she asked, but her mother ignored the question.

  ‘Quick, help me,’ she said. ‘You get that end and we’ll rock it out.’

  Elizabeth leant her crutch against the wall and hopped to the end of the chest. Gripping either side of it, she balanced on her good leg. ‘How far out do you want it?’ she asked.

  ‘Against the door.’

  A chill of fear ran through Elizabeth’s chest and up into her throat. ‘What for?’

  Again her mother ignored her question. ‘You lift your end first then I’ll lift mine,’ she ordered.

  Elizabeth pressed her shoulder against the chest and tried to grip it and lift. ‘I can’t, Mama. It’s too heavy.’

  Her mother looked distraught. ‘Oh, what are we going to do?’ she wailed, glancing furtively at the back window of the narrow room.

  Suddenly she darted across to it, pulled the lace curtain aside, and peered out.

  ‘They’re coming,’ she cried. ‘I can see them in the shadows. Look.’ She pointed to the window and Elizabeth went over and looked out. Who did her mother think she’d seen?

  The moon, surrounded by a bluish haze, appeared fitfully between the moving clouds. It was easy to imagine people moving in the shadows it cast, but she could see nothing definite. ‘There’s nobody. Who can you see?’ she asked.

  ‘You know that Hongi has died.’ It was an accusation not a question.

  ‘Yes,’ faltered Elizabeth.