Tamar (36 page)

‘I could operate and remove your womb …’

At this Myrna shook her head stubbornly.

Templeton continued. ‘But that procedure has many risks. It is also likely the cancer has already spread — the glands under your armpits and in your groin are considerably swollen, indicating the possible, if not probable, existence of cancer in those areas. I’m sorry.’

Nobody said anything for a minute.

‘So,’ said Myrna eventually. ‘What can I expect?’

‘There is no doubt you will experience more heavy bleeding.
There will be pain but we should be able to control that. You will weaken. You may lose control of some of your bodily functions, depending on wherever else the cancer has taken hold.’

‘Will I lose ma mind?’

‘Only if the cancer moves to your brain.’ He didn’t say he doubted she’d live long enough for that to happen.

‘So I’m going to die in screaming agony in a bedful o’ ma own shite. And when will this be? Next week?’

‘No, no,’ said Templeton, totally unflustered by Myrna’s graphic language. ‘It could be months, even a year. And no, you are unlikely to die in agony, although there will be pain. I have described the worst possible outcome.’

Myrna thought for a minute then asked, ‘Could ma past line o’ work have contributed to this?’

Templeton shrugged. ‘I don’t know. The patients I normally see do not usually have your colourful history,’ he said diplomatically. ‘I’d say it is more likely to be something to do with your mother having had it. The disease of cancer is not yet well understood.’

Myrna turned to John. ‘As soon as I have ma strength back I’m moving ma things downstairs and Tamar can have this room. I’m no’ peeing in yon pot any longer than I have to. Sven can help me move.’

As Hugh Templeton rose to leave, she thanked him for his opinion.

‘Not at all, Miss McTaggart. If you wish to see me again, please send word.’

Halfway down the big staircase Templeton asked John, ‘Is she always so resolutely cheerful and positive?’

‘Never seen her anything but.’

‘Mmm. That might change near the end, I’m afraid. It will be difficult for her. And you. You don’t feel you’re too involved?’

‘Yes, I do,’ replied John as they reached the bottom of the
staircase. ‘But I’m keeping it that way. Thanks for coming, Hugh. I really appreciate it. Can you send your account to me?’

Templeton put on his top hat and gloves and checked his appearance in the
étagère
mirror. ‘There won’t be an account. I’ve always wanted to meet the famous Myrna McTaggart. I only wish it might have been under more pleasant circumstances.’

As if it knew its secret had been disclosed, the cancer took hold with frightening violence and tore through Myrna’s body in the following weeks.

She began to lose weight rapidly and the level of pain she had been experiencing increased markedly. None who knew her well believed she would see the year out. True to form, however, she forbade anyone to mope and made a massive effort to get up every day, dress in one of her brightest, most flamboyant gowns and, with her hair styled in its usual cascade of red, riotous curls, spend at least part of the evening talking to customers in the salon. Her make-up was applied with a heavier hand to disguise the pallor of her skin, and Tamar had to make several new gowns to accommodate her shrinking figure, but she successfully managed to create the outward illusion of health.

But to the girls and to John, it was obvious she was preparing herself and tidying up her affairs. One day she spent almost three hours locked in her office with her lawyer and a representative from her bank.

She also spent more time with Tamar, teaching her everything she would need to know to run the brothel. Tamar absorbed the information like a sponge, especially when Myrna explained that the same principles could be applied to almost any business venture involving service, trade or commerce. By the end of May, Tamar was running the house single-handedly, and was becoming
comfortable with the witty, intelligent and charming manner the role of madam required.

At the start of June, Myrna’s health took a rapid turn for the worse. John again called in Hugh Templeton but neither could offer any hope. Laudanum was no longer enough to control her chronic discomfort so Templeton prescribed morphine, which she used regularly throughout the day and whenever the vicious pains woke her at night.

One wet, miserable morning, Tamar was woken early by the sound of tapping on her bedroom door. It was still dark; her bare feet cold on the wooden floor of Myrna’s old room, she stumbled to light a lamp. She’d argued with Myrna about moving into the upstairs bedroom, but Myrna had been adamant, saying she’d be ‘far and away’ more comfortable downstairs.

‘Come in,’ she called when the lamp had flared.

Eliza poked her worried-looking face around the door. ‘Miss Myrna wants ter see yer. I think it’s urgent.’

Tamar glanced at the carriage clock on the tallboy. Four fifteen. She’d been asleep less than three hours. ‘Does she need something?’ she asked, noticing Eliza still wore her maid’s uniform. ‘Have you not been to bed yet?’

‘No. I’m fair worried about Miss Myrna.’

Tamar lifted her warm robe from a chair, jammed her feet into a pair of quilted satin house slippers, and followed Eliza to the ground floor. Eliza knocked on Myrna’s door and went straight in.

Tamar’s old bedroom now smelled like a sickroom. There was a faintly unpleasant odour, not quite masked by the sachets of dried lavender placed strategically around the room.

‘Come in, lassie,’ said Myrna. ‘Light a lamp. I cannae see ye.’ Her voice was weary and husky with pain.

Eliza lit a wall sconce then left, closing the door softly.

‘What is it?’ asked Tamar gently as she moved a straight-backed
wooden chair over to the bed. ‘Are you in pain?’

Myrna nodded and took a deep, ragged breath. ‘I’ve had enough, Tamar.’

‘I know. It’s been very hard for you,’ Tamar replied compassionately, stroking Myrna’s thin arm, the bones rudely evident under her nightdress. Her friend was looking old, the disease scoring deep lines of pain in her tired face. Once pleasingly round, her belly was distorted by the tumour growing in her womb while the rest of her flesh fell away.

Myrna tried to sit up but failed. Instead, she turned and looked Tamar directly in the eye. ‘No, I mean I’ve had
enough
. I dinnae want to do this any more.’

Tamar sat still, rigid with alarm and fear as she realised what Myrna was trying to tell her.

Seeing her expression, Myrna said, ‘Aye, lassie. I’m going to finish it. I’ve thought about this for some time now, and it’s
ma
choice. Look at me. I’ve grown ugly and I’m in constant pain. I cannae bear it. I’m no earthly use to anyone like this, least o’ all maself.’

Tamar stared up at the shadows on the ceiling. She made no sound but her face crumpled as tears began to course down her cheeks. ‘We need you here,’ she said finally, knowing she sounded childlike but unable to stop herself.

‘No. Ye know what to do now, and so do the girls. I want to go. I’ve had ma life and I’d no’ change a minute. But I
will
nae be reduced to a stinking pile of skinny, diseased old bones! This is
ma
life and I’m choosing to end it.’

Tamar wiped her face and breathed in deeply. ‘Now?’ she whispered, wanting to clap her hands over her ears so she would not have to hear the answer.

‘Aye. Now.’

Tamar struggled to find the words to beg Myrna to change her
mind, to tell her she was desperately frightened of being alone again.

Instead she said, ‘I love you.’ The declaration came out sounding strangled as Tamar struggled to swallow the profound grief blossoming painfully in her chest and throat. She felt as if she’d swallowed broken glass. ‘What do you need me to do?’

Myrna pointed to the nightstand with its array of medicine bottles. ‘The morphine, lassie. I want ye to stay with me until I’m gone, if ye will. I dinnae want to go alone.’

Tamar nodded and bit her lip.

‘Help me to sit up a wee bit then, will ye?’

When Tamar had rearranged her pillows and helped her into a semi-sitting position, Myrna reached for the bottle of morphine syrup and poured the thick liquid into a cut-glass tumbler. She drank it, then poured another and drank that, gagging slightly. She drank the third more slowly, then lay back, her eyelids closing slowly.

Tamar looked on in helpless despair. After a minute or two, she asked tentatively, ‘Myrna?’

‘Aye, I’m still here, love.’

Tamar walked around to the other side of the bed and got in beside Myrna. She tucked the blankets around them both, gathered Myrna’s wasted body in her arms and laid the older woman’s head against her chest. ‘Comfortable?’ she murmured.

‘Mmm.’

They lay in silence. Outside it was still dark and wet but Tamar could hear an optimistic rooster crowing in someone’s back yard. Myrna’s breathing slowed. ‘I’ve tidied everything up,’ she mumbled indistinctly.

‘I know,’ replied Tamar. She felt strangely detached from what was happening, as if the only real task she would ever have was to comfort this woman, this friend, this constant giver of comfort and strength and hope, as she died.

Minutes passed. Myrna’s breathing slowed further and her body relaxed as the morphine flooded through her. Tamar adjusted her position slightly.

‘Tamar?’

‘Mmm?’

‘I love ye too, ye ken.’

Tamar leaned down and kissed her friend’s brow. The deep lines of pain were dissolving. ‘I know.’

There was no answer. Tamar waited for a few long minutes then pressed her fingers against the side of Myrna’s still throat. There was no pulse.

Myrna had gone.

A surprisingly large number of people came to Myrna’s funeral, given her profession. Many of her business associates and friends were there, all of the members of her household, a considerable number of patrons and a small selection of Auckland’s better-known society figures. In donating generously to local charities, Myrna had won respect and friends in the process, despite the nature of her business.

Myrna’s lawyer called late the following day. Tamar had suspended all work for a week as a gesture of respect for Myrna. All the girls had been badly shaken, with Polly in particular only coming out of her room on the day of the funeral, having spent the previous three lying on her bed, cuddling Cabbage and crying or gulping her ‘medicine’ and staring at the wall.

The lawyer, Mr Bonnington, came quickly to the point. Hitching the knees of his smartly tailored trousers as he sat in Myrna’s office, he accepted a cup of tea but put it to one side. He opened his briefcase and withdrew a thin, folded sheaf of papers.

‘Miss Deane,’ he said. ‘Are you aware of the arrangements Miss
McTaggart made before she passed away? Regarding her business affairs and her estate?’

‘No, Mr Bonnington,’ said Tamar. ‘Why would I be?’

Mr Bonnington blinked owlishly behind his pince-nez. ‘Perhaps I should acquaint you with Miss McTaggart’s will.’

‘Is that necessary?’

‘Yes.’ Mr Bonnington removed his spectacles, polished the thick lenses with a handkerchief, placed them back on the end of his nose, cleared his throat and began to read:

On the occasion of my death, I, Myrna Moira McTaggart, bequeath my estate to the named beneficiaries as per the following instructions:

To Letitia McBurney, Bronwyn Doyle, Polly Jakes, Vivienne Bowden and Jessica Villiers I leave the sum of two thousand pounds each to be deposited into their personal bank accounts.

To Eliza Andrews and Sven Langstrom I leave one thousand pounds each to be paid to them directly.

To Dr John Adams, of Parnell Rise, I leave three thousand pounds to be paid directly to him to assist in financing his charitable medical treatment of patients who are unable to pay for their own care.

To the Auckland Refuge for Fallen Women I leave the sum of five thousand pounds to be managed directly and strictly for the benefit of the women in the care of that institution (instructions for disbursement attached).

Here Mr Bonnington finally took a large sip of tea before he continued.

Finally, I leave the remainder of my estate, including my house on Dilworth Terrace and all of its chattels, my business, my finances, and my personal possessions to Tamar Branwyn Deane, to do with as she chooses.

Mr Bonnington folded the single sheet of paper. ‘The will was signed by Miss McTaggart on 6 May 1882.’

Tamar fiddled with the cuffs of her day dress. This morning she had worn something pretty in honour of Myrna’s preference for bright colours; she didn’t think Myrna would have wanted her to go about in the ‘dreary weeds o’ the recently bereaved’. She didn’t know what to say to Mr Bonnington. Hot, uncomfortable tears stung the backs of her eyelids. She blinked and cleared her throat. ‘I was not aware Myrna had done this.’

‘No, clearly not. Miss McTaggart had accrued a considerable sum of money. You are now a wealthy woman, Miss Deane. After the disbursement of the amounts earmarked in the will for the other beneficiaries, you will inherit approximately seventy thousand pounds. There are no further monies owed on this address, so you will also own a freehold business and premises.’

Tamar looked out the window. Most of the leaves had fallen from the deciduous trees outside. Perhaps they’re in mourning for Myrna as well, she reflected sadly. ‘I’m not sure what to do with it. The business, I mean.’

‘Whatever you like, I should imagine,’ replied Mr Bonnington. ‘Keep it, close it or sell it. Miss McTaggart made it quite clear that it should be your choice.’

Tamar poured herself a second cup of tea. Her throat was dry and she didn’t feel well. ‘Do the others know?’

‘No. I will be informing them when I have finished speaking with you. I trust they are all available?’

‘Yes, no one’s working at the moment. When will they receive their disbursements?’

‘I will be arranging that tomorrow morning. They should be able to access their monies within a week.’