Magpie Hall (12 page)

I stood there for a long time, looking at myself, imagining I was Dora. The room was cold and my skin was goosebumping, making me shiver. I imagined her ghost passing through me, how it must feel, being the ghost of a house that should have been filled with her descendants but where she would instead always be the first wife, the one who never made it … at worst, murdered, at best, drowned.

I thought of the women who had come before me, who had died at Magpie Hall. Perhaps I had done the right thing by coming here to try and work on my thesis after all: the house was offering up its ghosts as characters, itself as a setting, and if that couldn’t inspire me to finally peel apart and understand those great nineteenth-century novels I had loved for so long, then what could?

The room was getting darker; the rain closed in further. It thrummed on the roof like giant’s fingers. I almost didn’t hear the car pulling up outside, but there it was, tyres sizzling in the puddles.

As I descended the wide staircase, clad in Dora’s dress, I thought of
Rebecca
, of the new Mrs de Winter appearing at the party dressed as the ancestral portrait and unknowingly as the wife she has replaced. I imagined all eyes turned towards me, the look of shock and confusion on Maxim’s face. Mrs Danvers, the housekeeper, sneering at me from the door of the west wing.

It was Hugh. He was already out of the car, standing with a newspaper over his head and gazing up at the house when I opened the front door.

‘Missy!’ He was shouting over the rain. ‘What are you doing?’

‘Minding my own business. What are you doing?’ I swung on the door, half hid my body behind it, neither blocking him entirely nor coming to greet him. I wondered if he had dressed up for me. With his black suit and white shirt, a tie flapping from his pocket, he looked like an undertaker. The suit was rapidly darkening at the shoulders.

‘Funeral.’

A second of panic and, to my shame, of hope. ‘Whose?’

‘An old colleague. You wouldn’t know him. It was a long time coming.’ He moved away from the barrier of his mud-splattered Japanese car, and put one foot on the steps leading up to the front porch. Mud also marred his otherwise shiny shoes. ‘Are you going to invite me in? It’s a bit wet out here.’

‘What are you doing here, Hugh?’

He walked up onto the porch, out of the rain, fiddling with the wayward tie. His breath whistled in his nose. ‘You left so abruptly. Can’t we talk about it?’

‘I’m working.’

He smiled, suddenly reptilian. ‘Sure you are. What’s with the fancy dress?’

I sighed. ‘Fine. Suit yourself.’ I walked back into the house, leaving the door ajar for him. My dress scraped the ground, dragged at my legs. I wandered into the kitchen and poured myself a glass of last night’s red wine.

Hugh moved with the sureness of a taller and more handsome man, and stared at me with such concern and affection in his face that tears gathered in my eyes. I turned my back on him and busied myself with the cap on the wine.

He came up behind me and put his hands on my shoulders. ‘What’s up?’ he whispered. I just shook my head and kept my back to him, looking out the window at the stormy day. In the distance I saw a quad bike moving over one of the paddocks. Please God, I thought, don’t let it be Sam on his way over.

Hugh had wanted to come to Grandpa’s funeral with me. Well, not
with
me, but he wanted to be there for me. I wouldn’t let him; it was too risky. I didn’t want to see him there and not be able to talk to him or touch him, and I didn’t want my parents to see us together and ask questions. They knew who he was — I had spoken about him and pointed him out to them long before the affair began. But he knew how close I had been to Grandpa and I had been touched that he wanted to make some gesture, however small. Even so, his absence, when others in my family had their wives or boyfriends with them, stung me. I knew then that it would always be this way with Hugh, him hovering around some aspects of my life, and it wasn’t enough.

I poured him a glass of wine and held it out to him. He took it. A finger snaked out from his free hand to fiddle with the embroidery on the bodice of my dress, but I took a step back.

‘Where’d you get it?’ he asked. ‘You look like the ghost of weddings past.’

‘You think this is a wedding dress?’

He shrugged. ‘How would I know?’

‘I found it, in the attic. I don’t know, but I think it belonged to a woman who once lived here. The
first
woman to live here.’

He took a sip of his wine, still staring at the dress — at least, that was probably his excuse. More likely, he was taking the opportunity to look unashamedly at my body.

‘I thought you said you were working? Though I suppose this is a bit like work for you. Trying to inhabit your characters, perhaps? Making up Gothic stories about people long dead?’

‘You wouldn’t understand.’ I brushed past him. He followed me.

We sat in the living room, drinking wine in the middle of the day, and it felt as though we were on holiday. We had never been in a building entirely alone — we had met in offices and houses occupied by others who might show up at any time — and I dropped my guard. Hugh made a move towards me, touched my sternum with the back of his fingers, stroking the bluebirds, and the tingling there obliterated all rational thought. He took my glass from my hand, slowly and deliberately placing it on the small table beside him. I closed my eyes and gave in to the warmth. Soon he was kissing me and his hands were on my cheeks, in my hair, and I was telling myself to stop, but I couldn’t. I felt a mild disgust that it was not long since I had been here on this couch with Sam. How different the smell of the two men: Sam was all earth and lanolin; Hugh smelt of warm paper, fresh from the photocopier. He was so much more familiar and knew how to touch me, just how I liked it, soft caresses and kisses, building up as my blood turned warmer and I felt it run all through my body.

Our sounds escaped through the house, where there was nobody to hear us and it was so liberating I forgot that he wasn’t supposed to be here, not at Magpie Hall, not on my grandparents’ couch, not inside me.

Afterwards, I lay with my face on his chest and his lips in my hair. The gloves had come off, but I still wore Dora’s dress. It felt right, and yet I knew that it was last place I should be. I gathered myself together, drawing out the moment that I knew I had to end.

‘This house is fantastic,’ said Hugh. ‘I had no idea it was so grand. What kind of madman would build a castle like this in the middle of New Zealand?’

‘It’s not really a castle. It just has some similarities.’

‘Hey, I’m not criticising. I like it, a lot. But it’s bloody freezing in here. And look, up there — there are huge damp patches on the ceiling. This is in serious need of renovation. It must be practically unliveable as it is.’

I sat up.

‘It’s fine as it is,’ I said. I hadn’t told him about the renovation plans, and yet here he was, on their side.

‘But what a waste it would be just to let it crumble into the ground. Don’t you think?’ He took me by the shoulders and looked at me.

I shook him off. ‘You have to go.’

‘Yeah, okay. You don’t want to talk about it, fine. I’d better be getting back anyway.’

‘That’s not what I mean. I’ve left you. You’re not supposed to be here.’

‘You’re serious about it, then.’

‘Of course I’m serious. Fuck, Hugh, just give me a bit of respect, okay? You can’t just turn up here when you feel like it and expect me to just fall back into your arms.’

He smirked. ‘Right.’ He put his hands on my waist and tried to pull me back down on top of him.

I thumped him ineffectually on the chest and jumped up. ‘God, I’m such an idiot! Just go. Just leave.’ As I turned from him, towards
the west window, I saw something. A figure, by the window, stepping

away. My heart leapt.

‘Shit, did you see that?’

Hugh heard the shock in my voice, must have seen my face, because he was on his feet. ‘What was it?’

‘Someone outside, watching us.’ He was moving towards the window and had it open before I could even begin to imagine who it might be. And how long they had been there. I felt sick. I couldn’t even say whether it had been a man or a woman. I hadn’t had a good look at them, just a sense of a person, a shadow left behind in the air. Before I could say anything, or feel anything, Hugh had climbed out the window and disappeared.

I sat down, crossed my arms over my stomach and leaned forward, closing my body. At least in our fervour we hadn’t bothered to take our clothes off completely, apart from my underpants, which lay forlornly on the floor, an insubstantial scrap of nothing. My hand shook slightly as I put them back on.

Hugh came back through the kitchen.

‘There’s nobody there. Did you get a look at them? Know who it might be?’

I stood, shook my head, frowned. ‘I didn’t just imagine it, you know.’

‘Hey, calm down.’ He held out his palms, motioned for me to sit down. ‘I’m not saying you did. Although you might have been reading too many novels. A
Turn of the Screw
moment, perhaps.’

I hated to admit that he was right about that, so I said nothing.

‘Well, look.’ He sat down on the couch and put his arm around me, rubbing. ‘Whoever it was isn’t there now, and there weren’t any obvious footprints outside or anything. You’d think there’d be something in this rain, but maybe they washed away.’

I couldn’t tell from his voice whether he was humouring me or not. I was beginning to feel silly. Perhaps I had seen a lock of my own hair out of the corner of my eye. Or a bird flying past. A magpie.

He stopped rubbing and held me tighter. ‘There was something, though. Don’t panic.’

Another lurch in my stomach.

‘There’s a dead possum on the kitchen doorstep. That does seem a bit odd.’

I was quiet for a moment, trying to grasp what it might mean, and how to say it to Hugh. ‘Do you think someone’s left it there?’ For some reason, I was whispering.

‘Don’t be ridiculous. Why would anyone do that? It was probably sick, and died there. Or a dog killed it.’

I couldn’t bring up the fact that Sam had brought me a dead rabbit without explaining him. Hugh had once said that I collect men like tattoos, and I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

The question that plagued me was this: Was it a taxidermy gift or something less friendly? For my sanity, I had to believe it was the former, but I hardly knew Sam, and I didn’t know what he was capable of. For a moment I considered asking Hugh to stay, but the idea that I needed him to protect me was repellent. And he would no doubt have to get back to his family, so any comfort would be short-lived.

‘You’re probably right,’ I said. ‘And maybe I
did
imagine someone at the window. Sorry. I guess I’m a bit uptight. We shouldn’t have done that, it’s not helping things.’

‘Come back with me,’ he said suddenly, grabbing my arms, pinning them to my sides. ‘I’ll drop you home. It’s too isolated out here. You’ll go crazy.’ He smiled. ‘
More
crazy.’

I shrugged him off. ‘Fuck you. You’re the stalker who followed me out here. Who’s the crazy one?’

His smile vanished. ‘Suit yourself. I was worried about you, that’s all.’

‘Bullshit. You just wanted to have sex. If you really cared about me we wouldn’t be in this mess.’

‘It’s not a mess.’

‘Oh, no, sorry.’ My voice was bitter. ‘Not for you. It’s quite tidy and convenient, isn’t it? Well, I for one can’t keep doing this to your wife and kids.’

‘Honestly, Rosemary, you go on and on like you’re this martyr, when you know perfectly well that you’re involved with a married man. You walked into this with your eyes open, and you keep blaming it all on me. So why do you keep doing it?’

‘That’s just what I’m trying to figure out. On my own.’ It took all my willpower and moral strength, what was left of it, to push him towards the door.

Henry

It is raining the day he arrives at Redstream, the Collins estate, a comfortably sized wooden house surrounded by rolling hills. The carriage takes him up a long avenue lined with young oaks and for a moment he imagines himself in Herefordshire; the landscape is pasture and farmland, with no sign of the dramatic native bush he has been exploring. He had expected to be away longer, but the cold weather forced him and Schlau to turn back to town after only two weeks. There will be plenty of time to explore when the spring deepens and the temperatures rise. He was not sorry to see the back of Schlau, but the guide had surprised him by clasping his hand warmly and wishing him all the best.

Henry tries to dampen down his disappointment in this pastoral landscape: instead of interesting indigenous birds, he is greeted by the
fleeces of dirty sheep; closer to the house, horses graze in a meadow and a train of ducklings follows its mother. Only some rocky cliffs in the distance add interest to the view — limestone by the pale colour, he anticipates — and he imagines the fossils and bones that might be waiting there to be discovered.

Well-tended gardens surround the house, early rhododendrons providing flashes of colour amid the greenery. As the carriage pulls up, Mr Collins himself emerges from inside, accompanied by two servants, who collect Henry’s luggage. Collins, apparently more excited than usual, walks forward with his hand thrust out.

Your crates, sir, he says. They have arrived from England. I have had to fight my conscience not to open them and find out what wonders you have brought with you!

Henry is confused. But other than those I brought with me, I did not send for any crates, he says.

Mr Collins’s smile drops and he looks uncertain. But … I assure you, Mr Summers, they were addressed to you, in my care. Might not your father have arranged to send them?

Of course, thinks Henry. His father. How had he been so blind? All this time he has been telling himself he is here to collect specimens to take back to England, where he will resume his life. But what had his father said to him that day?
You will continue to receive your
remittance, as long as you stay there
. This delivery is a reminder that he has made no empty threats.

He stands at the window of his room, which affords him a view of the house entrance and the long driveway. He excused himself early with a headache. He had to be alone, to douse his face and hair with
cool water from his basin.

As he looks out across the countryside he thinks: Could I live here? Could I really make a life here?

It is preposterous. Of course he couldn’t. So removed from the Royal Society, from Europe and from his friends. He is not built for the colonial life, to settle far away and live out his days dreaming of Home. How will he travel, beyond the surrounding Pacific? It is out of the question.

And yet. How is he to live? His father provides him with a very handsome income. How would he survive without it? He sees a vision of himself, reduced to living the life of someone like Schlau, mounting animals for inferior museums and trying desperately to sell specimens and artefacts he has sunk to the depths of immorality to acquire. He has enough of a collection to provide him with a good income for a little while, but after that has gone, then what? The collector in him strains against such a thought — if he sells his collection, he will no longer be able to look at his treasures, remember the dangers he encountered to seek them out. He will be left only with a dwindling pocket of coins. Only his tattoos will remind him, for they at least cannot be taken away.

A horse approaches the house at a canter. The female rider, sitting astride, pulls to a sudden halt and leaps off her mount. Even from here Henry can see that Dora’s cheeks are flushed from the exertion and exhilaration of her ride; he notices that her skirts — split to resemble trousers — are wet, as though she has been riding her horse through the nearby river. A servant approaches to lead the horse away but she dismisses him with a wave of her hand, takes the reins herself and walks with the animal in the direction of the stables. She wipes at her brow. Henry loses sight of her as she passes beneath his window and around the house.

His spirits lift at the sight of her, but he is also overcome with a sudden tiredness from his long journey. He lies down on a comfortable bed and promptly falls asleep.

At dinner, he enquires after Dora, but it seems that he and Mr and Mrs Collins are to eat alone. It is a sad table, thinks Henry, despite the jollity of Mr Collins. He gathers that he has only recently married his wife, a timid woman in her thirties with a face resembling a sparrow’s. Dora is his only child and she never knew her mother, who died during childbirth. Henry supposes that the new Mrs Collins is young enough to provide her husband with some more children, but he doesn’t imagine they will make handsome offspring together. Collins is stout and balding, with a tendency to crinkle his face like a cabbage when he smiles. Dora’s mother must have provided the good looks of the family.

The talk turns to Henry’s crates and what they might contain. Henry finds himself replying to questions automatically; he can dredge up stories of his adventures appropriate for any company and in the Collinses he has a captive audience, but he finds himself yawning before pudding is served. He is eager to find out what his father has sent to him; no doubt he just packed up the contents of Henry’s study — his cabinet of curiosities — or perhaps he has included only the cream of the collection, in which case Henry will have an excuse to return. But it can wait until morning.

And have you decided how long you plan to stay in New Zealand? Mr Collins asks. Henry thinks he is fishing for information, perhaps even for a scandal; the whole business with the crates and Henry’s reaction has no doubt set his gossip fire alight.

I’m not sure, Henry says, and takes another gulp of wine. His head is beginning to feel warmer with the alcohol, and he finds himself glad that Dora is not here to see him.

What if I were to stay here? What would you suggest a man in my position do with himself?

Collins beams at him and rubs his hands together.
Well
, he says. Where to begin? I can’t sing the praises of our little community enough. I grew up, as you know, in Surrey and spent much of my youth in London. I was drawn here by all the talk of the ‘wool kings’ of the South Island, and the fantastic wealth they were accumulating. And I can tell you sir, I was not disappointed. There is money to be made here, if that is what you — here he hesitates, to find the polite word —
desire
.

Not
need
, Henry notices.

Collins continues. With the society that has been built here we have everything we want. All the money we need, and all the comforts. Servants, good food, fine clothes. A peaceful country life with plenty of social activity, and a positively energetic life in the city, with balls, opera, theatre, even a racecourse — and any manner of entertainment that a gentleman could wish for.

He flicks a sideways look at his wife but she seems to not have noticed his implication; indeed Henry is not sure if he has grasped it himself, though he thinks he knows what his host means. He has already helped himself to the services available to gentlemen, in a dimly lit wooden house in one of those streets named after an English county.

In short, sir, Collins continues, one can build a splendid life here, perhaps even more splendid than in England if one invests one’s money wisely, in the right kind of station. We have built a new version of England. I know that we all talk of Home and how we long
to return, but I have heard of men going back there to live out their final years and yearning for the life here instead. They die dreaming of New Zealand.

While all the vulgar talk of money is distasteful to Henry — he has been raised to take the existence of money for granted and never to speak of it — Collins has given him plenty to think about. He retires for the evening. When he lies in bed, the semblance of a plan begins to formulate in his head. For if he could escape his father, create independent wealth for himself, he could stay here for a few years then release himself back into the wilds of the world, a free man in every sense.

Collins has had the crates assembled in the library on the south side of the house, where it is cool and dark. He hovers around, hoping to glimpse each treasure as it emerges, but Henry asks if he can be alone. As long as the crates are unopened, his life has not taken a turn for the worse. His collection is the one thing in the world that gives him a reason for living. To have it here, in New Zealand, feels like the sealing of this country’s status as his new home. It is not a moment Henry wishes to rush into.

He sits in the gloom for a long time, staring at the wooden containers — his life, reduced to a few boxes sitting on the rug in a foreign country. The room is encased in bookshelves; the books have uniform leather covers, no doubt bought by the yard to give the appearance of a learned household. He wonders if anyone even reads out here.

Finally he stands and moves around the crates, hammer in hand. The first plank makes a groaning sound and flecks of sawdust fall to
the carpet. This crate is well packed at least. His cases of insects and small reptiles have all been included and it is with some difficulty that he pulls them out. He opens each drawer slowly, to check the state of the specimens and to enjoy them. Here is the rare
Cithaerias
aurorina
, with its transparent wings and their spots of bright pink. He remembers how he twisted his ankle on a tree root and the pain didn’t register until he had the butterfly in his net. Here are his lizards — those big enough to mount but small enough to fit in the drawers. Any smaller and he would preserve them in jars. Arachnids both poisonous and harmless, hard-shelled coleoptera, suspended with outstretched legs, seemingly ready to crawl out and make New Zealand their new home. Everything is perfectly intact.

In another crate, one of his jars has broken and the sickening odour of formaldehyde greets him as he opens it. He lifts the clammy body of the adder and lays it on the floorboards next to the rug, then carefully unwraps the remaining jars, which he lines up on the floor beside him. He finds his squid, more lizards, and his more gruesome curiosities: the foetus and the baby’s feet, the other body parts. In the soft light of the library they almost look beautiful. He has never felt squeamish about them; he finds them fascinating, and was more than pleased when he persuaded his surgeon friend to obtain them for his collection.