Then it was my turn. That night, Maria — Madame Tournear — was not well again. I performed alone. Mr Rossiter and Master Bird held the ponies while I mounted, one foot on each, and took the reins. At Mr Foley’s introduction, I set the two ponies gently moving, then, when my feet had the rhythm, urged them into a canter. I entered the ring smiling, reins in one hand, fringed parasol in the other, skirts swaying as my knees took the pitch and roll of the moving beasts. I cantered around the ring, then shifted both feet to a single back, pointed my toe and voilà! Pretty Miss Tournear was balancing bareback on one foot! The audience gasped as I fell to the ground, feigning an accident, then cheered wildly to see me roll, leap to my feet, race after the gently trotting ponies and leap to their backs again. Oh, I was good, very good. I rode a circuit without reins, hands high in imitation of Mrs Foley. The audience clapped again.
Remembering the man in the front row and the possibility of a coin or a trophy, I turned and smiled at him as I rode past. The fellow was applauding madly. At my smile the silly man leaped to his feet to shout his bravos. One of my sweet ponies startled and checked its pace. At this moment of triumph I lost balance and fell, alas in earnest. The crowd cheered and waited for me to recover, but this time I was badly hurt. I felt the sickening crack of bone in my ankle. The dread of any circus performer, and the reason we must practise for hours every day. There I lay, skirt bunched, sawdust in my hair, clawing at my leg.
Mr Foley darted forward to bring the ponies to a stop and then came to my aid, but the tall man was already over the rail and at my side, his face as doleful as a hungry hound.
‘What have I done? Oh Lord, what a fool I am! Miss, dear Miss, let me help you up!’ He touched me lightly on the shoulder, and then in one quick move had me in his arms. Strong, as well as tall and handsome. My gasp of pain was covered by uncertain laughter and scattered applause from the audience. They could not be sure whether this manly rescue was part of the performance, or a real disaster.
‘Here.’ Mr Foley led the tall man from the ring, gave orders for the next act — Master Bird on the slack wire — to take over, then turned to the man. ‘Aha. I recognise you: the horseman at the Foxton performance.’ He frowned. ‘You startled my ponies. I would expect better from a horseman.’
‘Yes. Yes. I was carried away … foolish …’ The man smiled sadly. ‘How can I help?’
Mr Foley looked around for his wife but naturally — her part in the performance over — she had disappeared. ‘Take her to Maria — Madame Tournear. She’ll know what to do.’ He chewed his moustache for a moment, still frowning. ‘If her foot is broken you’ll owe me for the damage. You’re a damn idiot, Sir.’
The tall man nodded seriously. ‘Indeed, yes. Of course. My name is Jack Lacey, I’m …’
But Mr Foley had returned to the glow of the ring, leaving me and Mr Jack Lacey in the dark outside.
The pain was wretched. But I moaned also for my lost livelihood. If my foot was ruined, would Mr Foley keep me in the circus? ‘Maria is at Brannigan’s boarding house,’ I whimpered. ‘Can you get me there? It hurts.’
Jack Lacey carried me to a bale of straw and laid me there. The two-headed goat stopped his endless munching to watch, four-eyed, as the stranger gently took off my shoe, then removed his cravat and carefully bound my foot. Supported in this way it felt better immediately, but Mr Lacey wouldn’t allow me to walk. His eyes were dark, the skin of his face pale and clear. He was as gentle as a woman in his ministrations. Close up I could see that he was not as old as his height might suggest.
‘Could you bear it,’ he asked, ‘if I took you on my horse to the doctor? His rooms are a little distant, but not too far.’
I nodded my thanks. I was prepared to suffer any pain to have the foot mended. A doctor might be able to set the bone.
Jack Lacey’s smile was a revelation. The solemn young man was suddenly astonishingly handsome, his cheeks dimpled, his eyes alight. ‘Well then, let us waste no time. My horse is close by.’ He carried me to a strapping bay stallion, lifted me to the saddle, then mounted awkwardly behind. Oh the searing pain as my foot was jolted this way and that! I gritted my teeth, but even so, little cries escaped. His strong arms around me and the warmth at my back were reassuring. Domino, the stallion, walked gently at his master’s command and off we set into the dark night, away from the noise of the crowded tent and the crash of the sea on the beach below, towards the home of Doctor Horatio Ingram.
Oh that foot was painful! I still feel the old ache on a cold night or after a long walk. As Mr Lacey walked the horse up a dark drive, I could make out movement on the veranda ahead. A lamp hung above the door, lighting three or four figures, huddled together, talking quietly in their own tongue. One was coughing badly.
Mr Lacey dismounted, lifted me gently from the saddle, carried me up the steps and rang a large brass bell which hung beside the door. After a few moments we heard steps on the hallway inside and the door was flung open. A large, aproned woman stood in the lamplight, her hair in curling-rags, her arms full of blankets.
At the sight of Mr Lacey her face grew thunderous. ‘Jack Lacey, wherever have you been? Doctor Ingram is sorely in need of you.’ Without waiting to listen to any explanation she bustled over to the group on the veranda and handed them blankets. ‘Take these and wrap up warm. I’ll bring hot tea in a moment.’ Then she turned back to Mr Lacey. ‘What have you brought us now?’ she boomed. ‘As if we weren’t busy enough. Bring her in, bring her in then.’ And she stomped back inside, shutting the door on the group of natives. Evidently there were different rules for white patients.
Jack Lacey was given no credit for his rescue. He gave me a rueful smile and a shrug as the formidable Mrs Ingram quickly sent him off again into the night, riding his own horse and leading another.
‘That Jack Lacey,’ she grumbled to me as she settled me into a comfortable chair, rattled the poker in the coal range to bring up the fire, and dragged a huge copper kettle from the back of the hob, till it sat squarely over the heat. ‘He had no business to go off like that. Where did he find you, dear?’
‘At Foley’s Circus,’ I said, gritting my teeth against the throbbing pain. ‘I am an artiste there — Miss Tournear.’
She was not impressed. ‘Doctor Ingram has been called to a birthing several miles inland. The pigeon arrived tonight with the news. How is he going to get back here to treat these poor natives without a fresh horse? Whatever was that boy doing at the circus? He’ll lose his job if I have my way. Willing grooms are two a penny.’
The kettle let off steam as if in sympathy with the woman’s displeasure. She ladled tea, sugar and milk into a large teapot, hung three mugs over one sturdy thumb and carried the lot out onto the porch.
Back inside she finally looked at my ankle, clicked her tongue and sighed. ‘Broken without a doubt. Have you brought papers?’
I had no idea what she meant. What papers? Did I need documents before I was treated?
Mrs Ingram sighed again. ‘I can see you have not brought any. The doctor prefers the Taranaki Herald to the Wanganui Chronicle, it is firmer when rolled, but will accept either.’ She frowned at me. ‘Breaks are common you know. We do not have an endless supply.’ But she handled my poor limb gently enough, settling it on a pillow then tying the pillow firmly around it with a ribbon. Suddenly she slumped into a chair in the corner. ‘Lord, I am about to drop. We’ll both have a little shut-eye till the doctor returns.’
With that she was asleep and snoring, her cup of tea and my plight ignored. The lamp burned low, the natives on the porch continued to cough. I sat there in the gloom, contemplating what desperate future I might be facing. What if the ankle were damaged permanently? Would I ever be able to perform again? Throb, throb, throb, the ankle beat time to my fears.
Little did I know that the ‘disaster’ would turn into an opportunity, and a turning point in my career. Doctor Ingram arrived near morning, riding the fresh horse, and leaving Jack Lacey to bring ba
ck his exhausted mount. The doctor was a little man, half the size of his wife, brisk and kindly in manner, grumbling not at all over the loss of sleep or the tardiness of his groom. He quickly rolled up a pair of newspapers from a large stack by the stove. Placing one each side of my poor ankle he bound them expertly until the whole was rigid. The relief was immediate.
‘Now,’ he said with a sweet smile and a pat on my cheek, ‘we must have no weight on that pretty little ankle for two months.’
Two months! I must have shown my dismay, for he patted me again, most kindly and attentive, but assured me that his advice was imperative. Then out he bustled to see to the group of natives on the veranda, one of whom seemed to be in a very poor way, gasping and wheezing while the others murmured prayers or incantations. By the time Jack Lacey arrived all in a lather, with the doctor’s first horse tossing and blowing and his own foaming at the mouth, I believe the sick native had died.
The day had dawned bright and clear. The ride back to Foley’s Circus in the doctor’s dog-cart should have been a delight, but all I could think of was those two months of inaction, and how I should manage. Jack Lacey seemed to be in the best of moods and chatted on about plans and schemes. I couldn’t pay attention; his cheery manner only disheartened me further.
At Castlecliff the circus was packing again. All was lively bustle and commotion. Mr Foley’s pride and joy, his pair of zebras — no longer ‘domesticated’ it would seem — had somehow broken loose and were heading for the beach. Mr Foley, riding on Lucy, was trying to head them off, while Mr Rossiter held desperately to the rope securing the two-headed goat, which seemed to have the same wandering intentions. No one was interested in my arrival.
‘Put me down near Maria,’ I mumbled, close to tears. Maria sat on a barrel, dressed in her usual flamboyant fashion, laughing at the antics all around.
‘Oh Lily,’ she gasped when she saw me, ‘the most wonderful news!’ Then saw my gloomy face. ‘My dear, how can you frown when such a handsome fellow escorts you? Shame, shame!’ And curtseyed to Mr Lacey as if he were a gentleman, not a doctor’s groom.
‘Madame Tournear,’ said Jack, ‘you have a wonderful daughter. I am quite in love with her!’
Maria laughed even louder at that. She flounced up to the dog-cart and whispered, ‘Mrs bloody Foley is leaving the circus for good! You can’t imagine the shouting and raging that went on last night.’ She lowered her voice. ‘I am carrying Mr Foley’s child, Lily, and this time I am to bear it like any proper mother. I am to be his new wife! Oh, Lily, Lily, this is the happiest moment of my entire existence!’
She danced a few steps and twirled her skirts. I felt both jealous of her good fortune but also a stirring of hope. If Maria was in favour, perhaps she would speak for me. Perhaps I could continue with the circus until the foot healed.
At this very moment, poised as I was between hope and despair, Mrs W.H. Foley appeared at my side. She cast a shrewd glance at the leg encased in the Taranaki Herald.
‘A break,’ she announced, as if she were the doctor. Then she took a deep breath, her bosom swelling; a song or pronouncement was about to emerge from her beribboned throat. ‘Well there will be no place for you here. Your friend’, she cast a black look towards the radiant Maria, ‘will be occupied with other matters now. I think you had better come with me.’
I looked at her in astonishment. Whatever had she in mind?
She declaimed her intentions as if to the whole world. No doubt the words were directed at her husband, but I remember them to this very day. ‘We will leave these sad little circus people to their own paltry devices. My place is in the theatre. Thespis is my destiny and I believe you may find a way there too. Lily, you have a Voice. I will teach you the craft, and you will meantime rehearse my lines with me and serve me in any way that a cripple might.’ She turned to Jack Lacey. ‘Wait there, young man, while I bring my bags. You may deliver the two of us to the boarding house of Mrs Swift on Taupo Quay.’
I looked quickly at Mr Foley. He nodded gravely, cocked an eyebrow at me and gave me his crooked grin. My heart sank. He was obviously prepared to let me go. Maria had disappeared. It was as Mrs Foley said — they were both involved in their own little drama and I was on my own again. My circus family! I could scarcely stop myself wailing like a lost child: for indeed I was still a child of fifteen or sixteen. I gasped, feeling as if waters were about to close over my head. Mrs Foley’s offer was my only hope. I clung to it as I would to a life-raft.
In that one moment, disaster was transformed into a future career.
WRITTEN IN LILY’S JOURNAL
An interesting aside
[Archivist’s Note: My editor suggests that this excerpt casts doubt on the veracity of Lily’s account. I disagree. I have endeavoured to verify the details of the events she describes and can assure the reader that Lily’s story fits like a glove with other early records of theatre in this country. E. de M.]
14 August 1883
Yesterday my son Samuel found me writing, sad and alone, at my little desk in the sun-room upstairs. He fixed me with those unfortunate eyes, an accusing look accompanied by silence and pursed lips. Poor Samuel can be very trying. He has no understanding at all of the dramatic temperament. Whereas the others … But I must not judge.
I continued with my writing. Finally he came around to it.
‘I am going to tell the true version,’ he said, in his dry, grating voice. Oh, we tried so hard with him, singing lessons every day, visits to the theatre, but the talent, alas, was missing. Somehow I failed to pass on suitable vocal equipment, it seemed, to this one child. His speech remained colourless; his songs tuneful enough but lacking all dramatic impact. There was simply nothing to be done.
‘What true version?’ I asked. I suppose I was a little short with him. My writing time is precious. I can forget while I am writing. So much must be explained. And who knows when I might be taken?
‘The other side,’ said Samuel, ‘of that memoir you are reading to us. I am writing my father’s story.’
I was so astonished that I stopped writing, put down my pen, blotted the page and turned around to him.
‘You are writing?’
He shrugged as if this was of no importance and smiled, rather dryly. ‘You think me incapable? I have been writing for as long as you. So far two chapters completed.’
I do not imagine his scribbling will amount to anything of importance. What, in his life, or that of his father’s, could fill a journal? But still the thought disturbed me. The secrecy. The implied criticism.
‘But my dear,’ I said with a smile, ‘naturally your father will appear in my memoir. What can you mean when you say “true version”? You believe I have not been truthful?’
‘Yes.’ Samuel stood there in a pool of sunlight, watching me. He has finally grown tall enough, broad enough, to look manly, though his black hair will hang limp, and his chin will always lack definition. What distant member of whose family does he resemble? I cannot imagine.
‘Yes, Mother,’ he repeated. ‘You will embroider the truth, when it suits you, and will leave out anything that shows you in a poor light. You will make a great drama of every ordinary event.’ His face suddenly broke into a smile — a rare thing; Samuel has been such a solemn boy. ‘I’ll lay a wager,’ he said, taking a sovereign from his pocket and holding it to wink in the sun, ‘that you have already stolen some lively event from another singer’s life and attributed it to yourself.’
A wager! What fun! Who would have thought my eldest son had such a spark as to challenge me? I felt I must rise to his bait.
‘Samuel, I am an artiste. It is perfectly acceptable that in writing my life I should — embroider, as you put it. I would rather say heighten the drama, draw in the audience, lead the reader into a release of emotions. If there is no drama, who will be interested? And haven’t you all enjoyed our evening readings? You cannot deny it.’ I paused for a moment, as if searching my memory, rose from my chair, laid a d
elicate hand on my heart and let my voice ring out. ‘But would I steal another person’s story? Never! Never! I accept your wager!’
Samuel laughed! He placed the sovereign on the mantelpiece among my trophies, flung back his head and roared with laughter. Such a rich, ringing tone! Truly deep and from the diaphragm. Has his voice matured at last? I was quite distracted. Perhaps he is simply a late developer.
‘Mother, you are outrageous. Count on it: I will catch you out. Father will tell me his version so now we can compare. Shall we double the wager?’
Naturally I was tempted. But we must count our pennies these days. ‘This wager,’ I said, ‘will cut both ways. Will you write the truth, I wonder, Samuel?’
His countenance sobered. ‘I have. I will. Mattie says that I may read aloud to the family too. Now that we have reached Father in your story, I will begin. We will hear both versions.’
‘Then make sure,’ I said, lowering my chin, deepening my voice so that my words might inspire, ‘that at least you write with spirit. Do not fear to show emotion. Some part of your heart, Samuel, carries my blood: the heritage of France. Let it guide you.’
He left the room without another word. I sat, looking out into the garden. The sun slid behind the trees but I sat on.
I feared, of course, what he would write about Teddy.
[Archivist’s Note: Lily’s journal jumps here. Her memoir continues some months later when she has shifted to Wellington. I have found, in the second journal, a brief and rather different account of events on that fateful night when she broke her ankle. The following two excerpts are from the second journal. The writer is Samuel Lacey. Samuel’s writing is not as colourful as Lily’s, but you will find it robust enough, I believe, to warrant inclusion. E. de M.]
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