Tamar (39 page)

John fumbled in his pocket, then withdrew a bundle of pound notes folded with a silver money clip. ‘Is this it? The sister gave it to me after they undressed Polly.’

‘Oh,’ said Tamar in a small voice. ‘I thought the old bastard had kept it.’

‘Obviously she
chose
not to hail a cab. It wasn’t your fault, Tamar.’

Privately, John believed that after spending the night smoking herself silly, Polly would have been completely disoriented. Still, he felt deeply sad for the poor girl. Unlike her friends, she’d been unable to weather the hard times and tragedies they’d encountered since arriving in New Zealand. But, really, not an inordinate or unexpected number of tragedies, John reflected.

Six days later Tamar received a message advising Polly had regained consciousness, but when she arrived at the hospital it was shockingly clear the old Polly had gone forever.

She was sitting in a narrow bed, her hair tied back from her gaunt face under a thick bandage, her right eye still black. She was propped up against the wall but leaning to one side, her small hands resting palms up on the blanket. She was dribbling slightly and her eyes were open but utterly vacant.

Tamar asked hesitantly, ‘Polly?’

‘She can’t hear you. Well, at least we don’t think she can.’

Tamar turned to see a nurse hurrying down the ward carrying a pile of dirty linen. The nurse stopped at the end of Polly’s bed, dropped her load onto the floor and tapped her head. ‘Her mind’s gone. Can’t hear or see. Well, there’s no visible signs, put it like that. Are you family?’

‘No,’ answered Tamar. ‘A friend. She has no family.’

‘The doctor will be doing his rounds shortly, if you want to talk to him. You can wait with her, if you like.’

Tamar nodded her thanks as the nurse picked up her linen and continued on her busy way. Unable to locate a chair, she perched herself at the end of Polly’s lumpy mattress and waited. The ward was austere and rather crowded, but at least it appeared moderately clean; Tamar had heard the men’s wards were filthy.

She watched Polly carefully, a painful lump in her throat. She called her name gently, touched her hand and used the blanket to wipe the dribble from the corner of her mouth, but there was no response. Polly was so motionless she reminded Tamar of a large rag doll. ‘Polly, it’s Tamar,’ she whispered, desperate to see even a flutter of her friend’s eyelids.

‘Wasting your time there, I’m afraid.’

Tamar jumped to her feet. ‘Are you the doctor?’ she asked.

‘Yes,’ said a small, well-dressed man with a harried expression and a clipboard under his arm. ‘Yes, I’m Doctor Hastings. And you are …’

‘Tamar Deane. A close friend of Miss Jakes.’

‘Well, Miss Deane,’ said Hastings. ‘I’m afraid the prognosis is not good, she will probably remain like this forever, if she survives. It’s a miracle she has so far. Such a blow to the head would have killed most people. The staff say she is a prostitute,’ he added irrelevantly.

Tamar was silent for a moment, then replied dismissively, ‘Yes, she is. Does she know what’s going on?’

‘Who can tell?’ he replied, extracting a watch from his waistcoat pocket and ostentatiously checking the time.

Tamar was beginning to lose her temper. ‘Well,
you
should. You’re supposed to be looking after her.’

Dr Hastings sighed. ‘Miss Deane, as far as I’m aware, and I’ve
had
considerable
experience with injuries like this, she is a vegetable. The only physical reaction we’re seeing at all is a fit of violent sweating accompanied by involuntary shaking every five or six hours. She will in all likelihood remain this way until she dies, which could be quite soon. It will be a mercy. Oh, and she can swallow, but that’s about it.’

The opium, thought Tamar; she still needs the opium. ‘Does she have to stay here?’

‘I’m afraid that would be impossible. We’re dreadfully understaffed at the moment and she’s taking up a bed that could be used by someone else with a more positive prognosis. Does she have means, do you know?’

Tamar nodded.

‘Really?’ said the doctor, clearly surprised. ‘Then I suggest you engage a private nurse as she will need constant attention. Now, if you don’t mind, I must continue my rounds. I’m sorry I can’t be more positive.’

Tamar sat with Polly for a while longer then said goodbye, promising that her next visit would be to take her home. As she left the ward the nurse she had talked to earlier handed her a piece of paper with a name and an address. ‘Lottie Atkin is a friend of mine,’ she said. ‘She’s a nurse who retired to care for her husband. He died recently, and she might be interested in looking after your friend. Go and see her, see what she says. She might be just the person you need.’

‘Thank you very much,’ replied Tamar, surprised and grateful.

‘You’re welcome. We’re here to help,’ said the nurse.

‘Yes, well, somebody should mention that to Doctor Hastings.’

The woman giggled. ‘I’d love to, dearie, but I can’t afford to lose my job. And it’s not his fault. We’re fighting a losing battle.’

Tamar called on Mrs Lottie Atkin that afternoon, and came away with an arrangement that suited everybody. Mrs Atkin,
although a liberal-minded and worldly woman, had no intention of relocating to a brothel, so it was decided Polly would be transferred to Mrs Atkin’s home the following day. There, for a generous fee, she would have her own room and constant professional care. It was understood, due to Polly’s serious physical condition, the arrangement would probably not be long term. It was also understood Mrs Atkin would administer regular draughts of Decoction of Opium. As a nurse she had seen opium addiction and was aware that if the poor girl did indeed have any mind left, she would be in utter torment; she was unlikely to survive very long, and Mrs Atkin believed it her duty to make Polly’s remaining time as comfortable as possible. The only slight problem was Mrs Atkin’s refusal to have Cabbage living in her house.

‘It’ll be enough keeping the poor girl clean as it is, without a smelly little dog jumping all over her all day. No, I can’t allow it, I’m sorry,’ she said adamantly.

‘Can he visit? Polly is very attached to him and I’m sure it will do her good,’ Tamar replied.

Mrs Atkin pulled a face. ‘If he must. But he’s not to go near the bed, and he must have a bath beforehand. They’re filthy animals, dogs.’

‘You have a pig in your back yard, I notice.’

‘Aye, but I don’t invite him in to the parlour for tea and scones now, do I?’

Sven, John and Tamar collected Polly from the hospital the following day. After she had been settled, John had a long talk with Mrs Atkin and pronounced her very able indeed. Tamar felt a little less guilty about leaving Polly in the care of a stranger, and said so on the way back to Dilworth Terrace.

‘What was the alternative?’ said John. ‘Were
you
going to look after her twenty-four hours a day? She’ll be well cared for, fed and kept clean, and Mrs Atkin said she would read to her every day. And
she’ll still be getting her damned opium. You and the girls will visit?’

‘Of course.’

‘Then she’ll be as fine as she can be, given the circumstances.’ John didn’t want to say that in his professional opinion Polly’s battered and damaged body would more than likely fail within the next six months.

‘I hope so,’ said Tamar. ‘I really hope so.’

When they arrived back at the house, Eliza met them at the side entrance. She looked nervously from Tamar to John, handed Tamar a card and said, ‘There is a gentleman to see yer, Miss Tamar. In yer office.’

Tamar read the name on the calling card, and when she looked up her face was white.

John took her elbow. ‘What is it? Not more bad news?’

‘No. At least, I don’t think so.’ Tamar took a deep breath and said quietly, ‘It’s Kepa.’ She looked at John steadily. ‘The father of my son.’

‘What’s
he
doing here?’

‘How should I know? And don’t speak to me like that, please.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said John, only moderately contrite and aware of an unpleasant sensation of jealousy growing in the pit of his stomach. ‘I thought you’d seen the last of him.’

Yes, so did I, thought Tamar. Her heart was racing and she felt weak and in need of a chair. Kepa, after all this time! ‘Do you want to meet him?’ she asked John, not at all sure she wanted to introduce them.

John, pretending nonchalance, removed his hat and gloves. ‘I suppose so, seeing as I’m here,’ he replied.

He followed Tamar inside, frowning in disapproval as she took off her hat and checked her appearance in the
étagère
mirror. Unaware she was holding her breath, she opened the door to her office.

Kepa stood looking at a painting above the fireplace, and turned towards the door as she entered. His hair had grown longer, but otherwise he was exactly as Tamar remembered him. No, she thought after a moment’s reflection, perhaps his beautiful, strong, dark face had matured a little. They scrutinised each other in silence.

John, feeling foolish and childishly excluded, coughed into his fist.

Tamar started. ‘I’m sorry, I’m forgetting my manners,’ she said. ‘John, this is Kepa Te Roroa. Kepa, this is my good friend, Dr John Adams.’

The two men stepped towards each other and shook hands briefly. No one sat down. There was an awkward silence. If John had been a cat the fur on his back would have been bristling, and he was doing a poor job of keeping the dislike off his face. Tamar felt uncomfortable standing between the two men, and wished John would relax. ‘Let’s sit down, shall we?’ she said in a voice she hoped would not betray her own nervousness.

Kepa nodded, sank gracefully into a chair and absently pushed his dark hair off his forehead. He seemed at ease and completely unperturbed by John’s hostility.

Watching the young Maori warily, John was aware of what Tamar had seen in him; he was extremely handsome with an athletic build and definite charisma. In a fit of pique, John decided to leave. ‘I’m terribly sorry, Tamar, but I’ve remembered I’m supposed to be somewhere else. You must excuse me. Very nice to have met you, Mr Te Roroa.’ He bowed slightly and walked out.

When the door had closed, Kepa observed in an amused tone, ‘I do not believe your friend was pleased to meet me.’ Then, more intimately, he added, ‘I have missed you, Tamar.’

As he stood and moved forward to take her in his arms, she placed both hands on his chest and pushed him away.

‘No,’ she said.

They talked for over three hours. Tamar told him what had happened to her after his son had been born, how she had felt in the weeks after the child had been taken away, and of her flight to Auckland. He listened sympathetically, obviously moved when she spoke of her pain and her fear. Then, when she could finally bring herself to ask when he had returned from England, and he replied that it had been a year ago, she almost slapped him. ‘And what have you been doing since?’ she asked, her voice as controlled as she could manage.

‘I was home for a week before sailing to the United States of America. Boston, Philadelphia, Washington, all along the eastern seaboard.’

Relieved, Tamar closed her eyes for a moment, grateful not to hear he had been back for twelve months and had not bothered to contact her. ‘Whose idea was that?’ she asked, knowing the answer.

‘Te Kanene’s,’ Kepa replied. ‘But it was a worthwhile experience. Interesting people, the Americans. And we brought back a very profitable cargo. We only arrived yesterday.’

‘So you have not been home?’

‘No. I have missed you, Tamar. I have thought of you often.’

She glanced up at him, then quickly away again.

‘But I will understand if you do not want me in your life,’ he continued. ‘I realise how much trouble our last meeting caused.’ He hesitated for a second. ‘Do you miss him still? Our son?’

‘Of course I miss him! What mother would
not
miss her child?’ Tamar said angrily.

‘And you have not seen him since he was born?’

Tamar shook her head.

‘I have,’ Kepa said. ‘But not for the past year. I am looking forward to seeing him again. He was almost six months old when I
left. My
tuahine
Mereana is raising him.’

‘Yes, I know. Te Kanene sends me letters.’

‘Does he?’ Kepa raised his eyebrows. ‘How uncharacteristic. My uncle is a shrewd and often merciless man.’

‘I had noticed,’ Tamar replied dryly. ‘He took my son away from me.’

‘He is my son too, and I believe my uncle did what he thought was best for everyone.’

But mostly his nephew, Tamar thought bitterly.

‘Kahurangi is a lovely child. When you meet him you will know what I mean.’ Tamar noted Kepa said ‘when’.

‘Will you have much to do with him when you go home?’ asked Tamar. ‘I assume you’re staying, this time?’

‘For now, anyway. And yes, I will have plenty of involvement with him, although he will still live with my sister. When he is old enough he will be told who I am.’

‘And when will that be?’

‘Soon. Perhaps when I get home. He will be talking by now.’

‘Won’t that confuse him, that he’s not living with his real father?’

‘No. Why should it? It happens all the time with my people. Everyone shares in a child’s upbringing. Why should it matter whose house he sleeps in?’

Tamar looked away. It wasn’t the way she’d raise a child. She looked back and found Kepa staring intently at her. ‘Are you happy doing this, Tamar?’ he asked.

‘Running a brothel, you mean?’ she answered bluntly.

‘Yes. It is not something I imagined you would do.’

‘No, I never imagined it, either. My friend Myrna left me the business when she died. Carrying on seemed the easiest thing to do.’

‘Do you have plans for anything other than this?’ Kepa asked, waving his hand vaguely at her desk.

‘I won’t be doing this forever, if that’s what you mean.’

Kepa sat forward in his chair. ‘Do your plans include me?’

‘That’s up to you, isn’t it?’ Tamar retorted, more aggressively than she intended.

‘No, it is up to you. I still do not believe society is ready to accept us, but socially I have less to lose than you. And we are the
matua
of Kahurangi-o-te-po, whether others are happy about that or not.’ He leaned even further towards Tamar and took hold of her wrist. ‘And, Tamar, I still burn for you. That has not changed.’