Mud and Gold (21 page)

*

A few days after the wild night of the
earthquakes and the birth of Lizzie’s baby, the
Bay of Plenty
Times
arrived in Ruatane on the steamer and told the town of
the real events of that night.

Frank sat on the chair beside Lizzie as she
lay in bed feeding the baby, and he read out snippets of news to
her. ‘So it was Tarawera, eh, not White Island at all.’

‘Mmm,’ Lizzie agreed absently, watching the
baby pulling at her breast.

‘Mind you, White Island’s been puffing out
smoke like mad since Tarawera blew up. I wonder if they’re sort of
joined up somehow.’

‘Eh? How can they be? Tarawera’s miles away.
Where is it, Frank?’

‘Over by Rotorua. You know, you must have
heard of the Pink and White Terraces.’

‘Oh,
that
Tarawera. I know where you
mean now. I read in the
Weekly News
one time about people
going there on their honeymoon.’

‘They won’t be going there now. The whole
mountain cracked open, and they think the terraces have broken up.
It says in the paper that a whole village got buried in the ash.
They don’t know how many people were killed.’

‘How terrible. Look at her, Frank.’ Lizzie
had put her finger on the baby’s palm when the little girl stopped
sucking, and the tiny fingers were closing around it.

Frank put the newspaper on the floor and
devoted his attention to his family. ‘Do you think Mrs Parsons will
leave us alone for a bit?’ he asked, glancing apprehensively at the
bedroom door.

‘Probably. She’s making bread, so she’ll be
up to her elbows in dough.’

‘Good.’ He lay down on the bed close to
Lizzie, with the baby between them. He coaxed the baby’s hand to
clutch one of his own fingers, smiling at the touch. ‘Her fingers
are so little—look at those tiny nails. But everything’s perfect.
Hello, Edith Maud,’ he said, touching the baby’s nose gently with
one finger. ‘I registered you today at the courthouse. You’re all
legal now. Edith Maud Kelly.’

‘Look at Papa, Maudie,’ Lizzie cajoled.

‘Do you think we’ll call her Maud?’

‘Mmm. Two Edies at once would be too
confusing.’

‘Ma would have liked that. A little
granddaughter with her name. Gee, I felt proud registering her,
Lizzie. It feels good to be a father.’ He stroked Maudie’s downy
cheek.

A noise from the direction of the kitchen
made them both jump. Frank sat up guiltily and resumed his seat on
the chair. ‘Mrs Parsons would probably go crook if she saw me lying
on the bed in my clothes. “You seem to have a good deal of spare
time, Mr Kelly,”
 
’ he said in an
attempt to imitate Mrs Parsons’ disapproving tone.

‘She’d say Maudie should be back in her
cradle, too. She’s very bossy. What are you grinning at,
Frank?’

‘You calling someone else bossy.’

‘She is! You should have heard her when
Maudie was coming. “Push harder.” “Sit up.” “Lie down.” Ordering me
around all the time!’

‘Better than trying to manage by ourselves,
though.’

‘That’s true. She wasn’t horrible or
anything, just bossy. I didn’t really mind it then, ’cause I was a
bit scared and it was good to have someone who knew all about it.
I’m a bit sick of her now, though. She keeps telling you what to
do, too—I don’t like that. Don’t you worry, I’ll get her sorted out
once I stop feeling so feeble.’

‘Yes, I bet you will.’ Frank was quite sure
Mrs Parsons had more than met her match in Lizzie.

*

Amy had to wait a day longer than Frank to
read about the eruption. When she was picking up Charlie’s
discarded newspaper in the parlour next morning, she took a few
minutes to look at it. The paper had mournful reports of people
buried alive, huddled together for comfort while they waited to
die. She gave a shudder.
Buried alive. I should count my
blessings like Granny used to say
.

She folded the newspaper and put it by the
hearth, unwilling to read any further. Being buried alive, trapped
and unable to escape, was uncomfortably easy to imagine.

The remaining months of winter were a
pinched, anxious time, as the farmers watched their pasture to see
if it would recover from the burden of ash. Amy read in another
discarded newspaper that farmers in Tauranga had sent their cattle
away towards Thames, where the ash had not fallen as thickly, to
graze, but Ruatane had not been affected quite so badly. Charlie’s
haystacks were gone before July was over, fed out to hungry cows,
and Amy knew it troubled him when he had to buy feed for them. She
wondered if he had had to borrow money to do so.

But spring brought new growth, though less
than usual, and Charlie began to look less grey and care-worn.
Malcolm now regularly slept through the night, to the relief of his
parents. He learned to crawl, and got his little gowns filthy in
the process. Crawling was such an easy way of getting about that
Malcolm seemed reluctant to abandon it for the more precarious
two-legged method. Amy tried to encourage him to walk, but it was
difficult to find the time, and it did not seem to matter. He would
walk when he was ready; she knew that big children like him were
often slower about walking.

She devoted more time to teaching Malcolm to
talk. During the daytime, when the two of them were alone in the
house, she would hold him on her lap and repeat over and over,
‘Papa. Papa. Come on, Mal, you say it. Papa.’ But Malcolm squirmed
to get down, cried if she held him too long against his will, or
jabbered away with his own meaningless sounds.

This year Ann’s birthday brought a dull ache
instead of the sharp pain of a year before.
My little girl.
You’re two now. I expect you’re talking lots. I wonder what you’re
like. I bet you’re pretty. Oh, Ann, I hope they love you
.

On Malcolm’s first birthday Amy baked a
cake, though she gave only a tiny portion to Malcolm himself. He
made quite enough mess with his little chunk; Amy was careful to
sweep up the crumbs before Charlie came in for lunch.

‘I just want to mash some gravy in with the
vegetables for Malcolm. Could you please hold him for me for a
minute?’ she asked.

‘All right,’ Charlie said in the tone of one
bestowing a great favour, but Amy knew he enjoyed holding his son
when she gave him an excuse to do so without appearing sentimental.
He sat the boy on his lap, jiggling him on one knee when he thought
Amy was not watching.

Malcolm chortled away at his father.
He
never laughs for me like that
.
It’s almost as if he knows I
didn’t want him
.

The little fist reached out to take hold of
Charlie’s beard. He gave it a tug, but before Charlie had a chance
to prise his fingers away Malcolm gave a little giggle and said
quite clearly, ‘Papa.’

Charlie stared at him open-mouthed, then
turned to Amy. ‘Did you hear that?’

‘Yes. That’s the first word he’s ever
said.’

‘Is it? He hasn’t even called you Mama
yet?’

‘No, never.’ It would be surprising if he
had, after all her coaxing. But the look on Charlie’s face was
worth the effort.

‘You know your Papa, eh?’ He jiggled
Malcolm, not caring now that Amy was watching the two of them.

‘Papa. Papa,’ Malcolm crowed.

Amy sat and watched them for some time, but
she was aware of two plates of food, along with Malcolm’s bowlful,
getting cold on the table. ‘I’d better take him now, I can give him
his lunch while you’re eating yours.’ For a moment she thought
Charlie was going to offer to feed Malcolm, but he appeared to
think better of it and handed the baby over.

Malcolm grizzled briefly at being taken off
his father’s lap, but the food soon distracted him. When he had
ploughed his way through a bowl of mashed vegetables, Amy turned
sideways on her chair to give herself a little more privacy,
unbuttoned her bodice and offered a nipple to Malcolm. He sucked
greedily, though she knew he was no longer taking much nourishment
from her now that he was eating so many solids.

‘Don’t bite, Mal,’ she admonished, tapping
the little boy’s mouth gently. ‘You’ve got too many teeth.’

‘Does he still need that?’ Charlie asked,
startling her.

‘I think so, Charlie. It’s good for babies
to feed off their mothers. Mal’s certainly thriving.’

‘He’s hardly a baby any more. Look at
him—he’s nearly walking, and he’s talking now. You look ridiculous
suckling him—like a cow with last year’s calf.’

Perhaps she did, now that Malcolm was so
big. But Amy did not suckle him to look elegant. She did it for
Malcolm’s good… and for her own. She knew she would soon be with
child again once she stopped. ‘I suppose I could start weaning him
in a little while,’ she said reluctantly.

‘You can start now,’ Charlie declared. ‘A
year’s long enough for that business. The boy’s growing up, and
I’ll not have him turning into a Mama’s boy.’

‘I don’t think he will—’

‘I don’t want to hear what you think, you
silly bitch.’ He used the term casually, not with any particular
animosity. It was just how he thought of her, Amy knew. ‘I want the
boy weaned.’

And of course she did as he wished. By
Christmas, with Malcolm thirteen months old, Amy was sure that she
was, once again, with child.

December 1886 – January 1887

Just as she had with Malcolm, Amy put off
telling Charlie about the coming child. But this time it was not
because of any reluctance on her part to face the fact of her
pregnancy; childbearing was something to be accepted as part of the
duties of being a wife, just like cooking, cleaning and sharing
Charlie’s bed.

This time she held the news in reserve as a
kind of insurance. The next time Charlie became violently angry,
she would announce that she was with child, and thus avert his
wrath.

But Amy was so anxious to please, so careful
of Charlie’s comfort, that there were no outbursts frightening
enough for her to squander her news on. So she kept silent and let
the days take their course.

On Christmas Day Amy and Charlie took
Malcolm and went next door to Jack’s house for lunch. They walked
around the long way, using the road; climbing the fences, as Amy
did when she visited without Charlie, offended his sense of the
correct. Malcolm perched on his father’s shoulders in what looked
to Amy a precarious position for a one-year-old, but they were both
happy that way, so she contented herself with keeping a wary eye on
the baby.

She saw Thomas and George playing by the
creek, and the little boys ran to join them. They both looked as
though they had fallen over once or twice; their knees were filthy,
and their faces liberally smudged with mud. Thomas slipped a grubby
little hand into Amy’s as they walked up the hill to the house, and
Amy ruffled his hair affectionately.

As soon as they walked into the kitchen, Amy
was aware of tenseness in the air. Her father had a weary
expression, and Susannah was tight-lipped. John sat at the table
looking as though he wished he were elsewhere.

Jack gave Amy a kiss and chucked Malcolm
under the chin. ‘Good to see you!’ he said heartily. Amy guessed
that he was glad of the interruption. ‘How’s my grandson?’ he said
as Charlie lowered Malcolm into Amy’s waiting arms.

‘Bigger and stronger than ever, Pa,’ Amy
told him with a smile.

‘Excuse me if I don’t rush over, Amy,’
Susannah said, noisily jostling dishes on the bench. ‘I’ve rather a
lot to do, and I’ve had to get everything ready by myself.’ She
glared around the room, but Amy was the only one who met her
eyes.

‘Do you want me to help, Susannah?’

‘I’ve all but finished, actually. Of course
I’ve been on the go all morning. There’s a lot of work in getting a
meal ready for seven adults and three children, you know.
Especially with no one to help.’

‘You want a beer, Charlie?’ Jack offered,
ignoring his wife’s complaints. Charlie did not need to be asked
twice. He joined the other two men at the far end of the table
where Jack had a jug and glasses ready.

Amy put Malcolm down to crawl, and he made
his way across the room to where Thomas and George stood beside
their father. She took an apron from the familiar hook behind the
door. ‘What can I do?’

‘I hardly know whether I’m coming or going.
I don’t think I’ve sat down since breakfast,’ Susannah said, moving
pots about ineffectually.

‘I’ll make the gravy, shall I? Then I’ll set
the table. Everything else looks ready.’ Amy set to work without
waiting for instructions. ‘Where’s Jane?’ she asked.

‘That
is a good question,’ Susannah
said grimly. ‘I did think she might have given me a bit of help.
She said she would, but there’s been no sign of her this morning.
Everyone just seems to take it for granted that I should do all the
work by myself.’

‘Had a bit of rain last night,’ Amy heard
her father explain as he filled the glasses. ‘I think that roof of
Harry’s leaks a bit—there’s always a row from his place when it
rains. He looked as though he’d been sent out with a flea in his
ear when he came down to the cow shed this morning. They must have
started scrapping again when Harry went back home.’ Charlie grunted
an acknowledgement and reached for his glass.

‘I would have come over and helped you if
I’d known,’ Amy told Susannah.

‘Oh, you’re busy, I know. After all, you’ve
got a baby to look after as well as a husband. Not like some girls
I could mention.’

‘Don’t start again, Susannah,’ Jack put in
from across the room.

‘All I said was that I understand why
Amy
couldn’t be expected to come and help me. What’s wrong
with that?’

‘Nothing,’ Jack said. He took a large gulp
from his glass.