But there in the bungalow I was not going to mar our time together by arguing with him again. It was opportunity to smile, to talk, to be as loud or gentle as we wished in our lovemaking: a rare chance to be as lovers should — focused just on ourselves, with no care or responsibility for any other. Alone and together in the self-regarding heart of shared and complete love. How natural to lie with my breasts free, not exhausted, not tired even, but wonderfully spent. How absolute to talk to a man as honestly and directly as to oneself, to ask for satisfactions never admitted, or expressed, to anyone else. Since Dougie came to me, I know how love and marriage should be, and I rejoice that I have had that experience, whatever cost is demanded.
I have seldom seen Dougie’s face when he is asleep, for almost always he must slip back to his own room when we have made love. So even to have him inert beside me was both a novelty and a delight. The face reveals its true contours in sleep, adopting no pose for public scrutiny, attempting no message to accompany words. William’s face is heavy and somehow fallen back when he sleeps, Dougie’s is youthful and trusting: fine, pale lines fan from his eyes as he lies relaxed, and there is a small, raised scar high on his cheek. He didn’t wake when I kissed him and brushed back hair from his forehead. He didn’t wake when I repeated his name for my own pleasure, and took his hand in mine. I do love my Dougie.
The time in the bungalow at Kirri, and the few, precious hotel nights in William’s absence, so much valued by Dougie, are not the only advantages to our visit. Anywhere he and I can be relaxed together is given a sort of halo by that alone. To share the inner life, to talk in an open and trusting way is equal in importance with physical satisfaction. How happy we are here.
Strange in a way, for otherwise I would not wish to spend much time in Brisbane. It is a thrusting, practical place that still bears much evidence of its origins, and the heat is enervating. The convicts have long gone, but there seems to be a considerable number of German settlers. Material gain is the preoccupation, and there is little evidence of a regard for anything cultural. William has heard terrible stories of the treatment of the Aborigines here. The first free settlers did not recognise land ownership by the local Turrbul people. They were shot, driven away, or died from new diseases. Our servants at Kirri were most unsatisfactory, but people nevertheless, and the indifference to them is callous.
I have grown more detached from William, and critical of his views, but I still admire his toleration and support for other races. His time on the Victorian goldfields among men of so many different backgrounds, races and stations in life shaped his opinions of intrinsic worth, and although he is now accustomed to be with the foremost of the colony, and to be one of them, he has not lost the ability to separate appearance and reality.
Brisbane women are not at all fashionable, and seem unaware that feathers and velvet are the rage in London at present. The dress of many considered society here would be laughed at privately in Dunedin, or Wellington. Mrs Wevets, whose husband is rich and influential, invited me to play at a soirée. She and the other women were overcorseted and wore dresses with bustles far too pronounced to be in fashion. All their buttons were small and dark. The piano was an inferior instrument and out of tune. Mrs Wevets and her dowdy friends talked loudly during my playing, and afterwards could prattle only of servants, food and children with colic. I endeavoured to bring the conversation around to books, mentioning Jane Austen, Charles Dickens and the wonderful Margaret Oliphant, who died only a few weeks ago, but all they were familiar with were the sensational novels of Marie Corelli and Mary Braddon. A distinctly spreading woman with a freckled face told me that Thelma was the very best book in the world. I had to bite my tongue and keep to myself the conviction that Corelli’s sentimental and false stories will be forgotten, despite the huge present sales, and that Dickens and Oliphant will live on. I came back to the hotel and told Dougie and William that our acquaintance in Dunedin and Wellington had never seemed so congenial.
Both newspapers here are very bad, full of dull commercial facts and figures, and arch, overwritten accounts of European doings. When I said as much to Dougie, he justly reminded me of an article in the Christmas issue of the Otago Witness, giving instruction to young ladies to improve their voices. Recommended cures for hoarseness had included preserved apricots, the inhalation of myrrh on a hot shovel and a teaspoon of syrup of squill and marshmallows. There was also the instruction never to read aloud, or try to speak, in a railway carriage. Dougie and I delight in such absurdity.
The Brisbane tradespeople also show to disadvantage in comparison with those of our own colony. Many in the shops demonstrate, by an odd combination of truculence and familiarity, that they resent any implication of inferiority because they serve. There are all sorts of people from all sorts of places, and getting ahead is what matters. On one occasion, when I was returning to the hotel alone, the cabby asked if I would be willing to come with him for pie and a drink. ‘I’ll show you a good time, lady,’ he said, and no doubt had more to offer. No more than thirty, he was strongly built, but gap-toothed, and wore brown boots, a gentleman’s cast-off waistcoat and his trouser ends were tied with leather laces. I got down and left him without word, or payment, and he went off discomforted.
When I told Dougie, he said that so many here are coarse and full of cheek. While at one of the livestock exhibitions, he saw a line of men heading behind the tents, and followed in expectation of a refreshment booth, but found instead a small crowd laughing at the spectacle of a donkey that had been sexually excited. ‘Where else but here, Conny,’ he exclaimed. ‘Where else. We say we’ve freedom and opportunity in the colonies, but my God, there’s still so much ignorance, presumption and cruelty. So many loud, poorly mannered people. God knows what sort of a society will come of it all in a hundred years. And the origins of so many people here are of the worst possible kind: criminals and defectives cast out of England.’
I imagine that in time there will be improvement, and even in the old world, I am told, there is plenty that remains barbarous. Not everyone is intolerable, of course, and my impatience of people is increased by my wish to be with Dougie rather than anyone else. At the luncheon William hosted on behalf of our country, on what was thankfully one of the cooler days, I had a long and pleasant conversation with Ida Maslin, the daughter of the magistrate. Not only was she an attractive young woman in crisp blue muslin with puffed sleeves, but she had only recently returned from France and Germany, where she had received excellent instruction in languages and music. We quite neglected others at the table and afterwards sat together under a striped awning. So much did we relax in our talk that before we parted she confided to me she had received a proposal of marriage from the son of her tutor in Bordeaux. How entertaining it is to have young and attractive people talk about their flirtations. We agreed to write to one another, and I invited her to visit us. I suppose I will never see her again, but I will remember her gaiety and intelligence.
Whatever my reservations about the general run of society here, at least I am free from the gossip, and the apprehension of gossip, that I face increasingly at home. Nothing has been said to my face that gives me an opportunity to challenge, but nevertheless the tittle-tattle and scrutiny are real. Shortly before we left Wellington, William and I went to a dinner party at the Plimmers’, and after the meal, which had an impressive array of courses, but was marred by the long delays between them, the women went to the drawing rooms and most of the men to the billiards room. In the larger room I enjoyed a lengthy catch-up with Cecilia Higginson, and Violet Enright, then, as courtesy demands, went through to spend time with the other ladies. Mrs Taine, and a Mrs Poole, recently out from Manchester, had their heads together in urgent whisper as I came in, and from Sophia Taine’s momentary confusion, it was clear I had been the topic of disclosure.
I could have turned away, but was resolved not to be intimidated. And how much was my own assumption rather than the truth? Maybe they had been taking satisfactio
n in criticism of my dress, or hair, even the disparity in ages between William and me, rather than any unnatural closeness with Dougie.
‘The very person,’ said Mrs Taine, quickly recovering her natural boldness. ‘We were talking of your success in maintaining households both here and in Dunedin, and your favour with William’s children. Not an easy thing to come into a family where the children are already adult.’
‘Indeed not,’ said her companion.
‘Gladys was little more than a child when we married,’ I said, ‘and we have been close.’
‘Yes, of course. The baby of the family. Do come and sit with us,’ said Mrs Taine. I did so, and by design disagreed politely with most of what she said. She accepted each correction meekly, and so confirmed that she had indeed been speaking badly of me. After ten minutes of such strained conversation I excused myself and sought other company.
‘Such a pleasure to have the opportunity to talk,’ said Mrs Poole. ‘We were so far apart at dinner and beforehand that we exchanged little more than introductions.’ And no matter what we had said to each other since, she would go away with Mrs Taine’s opinion of me as her own, such is the fascination of scandal.
William tires more readily now, especially in this unaccustomed heat, and is often happy to go to bed before ten o’clock. I use that as excuse to turn down as many invitations as I can without offence, and Dougie and I wait out his father, then settle to talk. It is a good time of the day, and although Dougie is disappointed we cannot go to the same bedroom, I tell him love expresses itself in many forms. I enjoy these talks, during which we discard superficial topics and convention, talk quite candidly of things close to our hearts. Light commentary, too, which amuses Dougie. William has rather lost his taste for it. My reflections on other women especially intrigue Dougie: often he laughs out loud. He says he had no idea that women, so correct in public, could be so scathing in their confidences. I do not think I flatter myself when I consider that I have been able to open Dougie’s eyes to the true feelings of both women and men.
I am aware that Dougie’s love entrusts to me a power over him, but the very completeness of his affection is also a reason he might destroy everything. The growing happiness we have in one scale increases the risk and guilt to balance it in the other.
We must both remember that what seems most natural to us is not necessarily so to others. On Tuesday evening the three of us attended one of the better civic dinners put on by the exhibition backers. The tables were mismatched, but with fine enough white and pale blue covers, and the dinner service was of good china, made in England especially for the colony and bearing its own crest. A handsome, dark-haired man, recently arrived from Brussels, had concocted wonderful displays of fruit that were greeted with applause when brought out: pineapples, apples, pears, plums, peaches, melons, apricots, green and black grapes and others I could not recognise. Some were dried or candied, some fresh and cut, some whole and perfect.
The pity was that the speeches lasted longer than the courses, and had less flavour. Dougie drank more claret than was wise, and towards the end of the night, when a man with mutton-chop whiskers was appropriately enough talking about sheep, Dougie leant over to say something to me, and placed his hand on my lap. Just for a moment, and in the familiarity of it, he flexed his thumb and fingers so that I could feel the pressure on my thigh. So slight a thing, and inconspicuous, but I saw that William had noticed, and his gaze remained steady on us when Dougie had removed his hand and finished talking. Trivial, perhaps, but I have told Dougie to be more careful: our time here must not lead to our undoing.
That night in the restricted hotel bed, William insisted that we make love. He was adamant, too, that I take off my nightdress, so that we were naked on the bed, with the window wide, and little relief in the hot, listless air. His breath was heavy with the banquet; the grey hair of his chest was slicked with sweat. He plucked at my nipples with thumb and finger, and didn’t answer when I said it hurt. ‘Husband and wife. Husband and wife,’ he exclaimed several times as he lay on me, until it was almost part of his urgent rhythm. There was a possessive roughness in his taking of me, and we had little to say afterwards. He turned away and fell asleep, snoring loudly. I lay a long time awake. Somewhere in the heat of the night a dog was barking stubbornly, and I felt tears on my face. What sad places our lives lead us to sometimes, even among days of happiness.
Ten
On Tuesday Mr Fox took Father and me to see the electric trams that are this year replacing the horse-drawn ones here. Fox is a member of the Queensland Parliament and a big-wig among Brisbane businessmen. He has considerable civic and personal pride in the switch to electricity, which he sees as a great leap forward. I didn’t say that horses are a great love of mine, and to have them dispossessed gives no pleasure. Electricity, steam, internal combustion — for me none of these can compare with the living thing, none of them has the brain that allows a horse to make judgements of terrain and distance. Surely no sense of partnership can be possible with a machine.
As we went about, Fox and Father spent some time attempting to impress each other without wishing to appear too obviously vainglorious. Like two bulls in a paddock, they had to test their strength. I couldn’t give a damn about the trams, electric or otherwise, but Conny insisted that I go with them so Father wouldn’t notice that I always prefer to be with her. I find little satisfaction in trailing around with him, being introduced to people I’ll never see again, and who have as little interest in me as I have in them. Now that I have Conny, I have little patience with other people.
After the tram house, Mr Fox took us close to the river, where he described the ’93 Black February floods that devastated the city. From the very spot we stood on, he said, he’d watched whole houses coming down in the rushing water and crashing into the Victoria bridge until it collapsed and was swept away. Dead cattle, sheep, trees and human corpses too. It must have been a terrible time, even allowing for any exaggeration on the part of our guide, but all I could think about was Conny, who had gone into the shops with several ladies of the city. She told me later that she took no more pleasure in the clothes and gossip of her outing, than I did in the trams and stories of the flood.
A few years ago, I would never have believed how completely my life has become centred on one woman. Nothing else is as important to me now. It’s almost as Hugo describes his passion for gaming, which has never much interested me. Riding, fishing and races I still much enjoy, working with stock, billiards with friends, but even in the midst of those, I’ll abruptly feel a sense of loss and longing: a conviction that happiness is elsewhere. Even when with others at the club, my thoughts are often with dear Conny. These few months here, while Father carries out his light official duties and squirrels for business prospects, are a wonderful opportunity for us to spend time together, and maybe she’s right to say we should be thankful for that, and not push things beyond what is propriety as viewed from the outside.
When the trip was first mooted, Father assumed I would remain at The Camp, running it and the telephone office while they were away. Conny and I couldn’t reveal to him how important it was that I travel with them, but we worked on the angle that unless I accompanied them to Brisbane, Conny would be left alone too often while Father was working and, even more significantly, taking his trips to mining sites up country.
It was a game of subtle manoeuvre at which Conny is most adept. Father had to fall in with our purpose, while thinking it his own idea. I remember the evening clearly. The three of us were coming back from the curved vinery at The Camp that held the Black Hamburg grapes sent out from Brambletye years ago. Father was complaining of the time he would have to spend away, and the insignificance of his appointment. He’d been one of two New Zealand commissioners to the Paris Exhibition nearly twenty years ago, and said sourly that Brisbane could be nothing but a come down.
‘Seddon expects, though, that you’ll find many opportunities to do business,’ said Conny. �
��People from all over Australia and New Zealand will be there, and from Britain as well.’
‘What a focus for trade,’ I put in. ‘And even more to your liking, there’ll be the chance to see for yourself if there’s money to be made by getting in early on prospects up country.’ Nothing interests Father more than the thought that, as in his younger days, he might be in at the beginning of some rich enterprise. And rough country has a fascination for him too, as he showed during his extraordinary and extended expeditions when minister of mines. ‘You’ll be Johnny on the spot,’ I said.
‘You won’t want me tagging along all the time, or relying on strangers,’ Conny said.
He stopped by the dairy, peered in to take satisfaction from his own produce, then walked farther to look beyond the windbreak trees of The Camp towards the sea. He stood quietly for a moment, puffing air through the characteristic droop of his thick, soft moustache, as was his habit when making a decision. He knew Conny couldn’t be expected to take part in rough and ready trips, despite her vigour and fortitude.
‘It would be best for us all if you came, Dougie,’ he said. ‘Then Conny won’t be dependent on people she doesn’t know. With three of us we have more choice, more alternatives, for each,’ and he lifted his head, a problem solved.
‘It’s the best idea,’ said Conny, as if surprised by it. ‘Yes, quite right.’ She took Father’s arm, not such a common gesture as formerly, and they walked together across the gravel sweep towards the lion steps. It wasn’t that she or I took any pleasure in the deception, but that it was a necessity in both our lives, and no hurt to Father.
How important that decision was. And I’ve reminded myself, during the many boring and trivial events of this trip, that they are merely intervals in the real life that is time with Conny. While looking at the river and listening to the prattling Mr Fox, while sweating in shirtsleeves to watch the exhibition cattle circle, or listening to some pomposity with a chain across his paunch, I know these are the price of admission to days and nights with my Conny.
The Larnachs Page 17
