The Larnachs (9 page)

Brambletye was my refuge while in England. Uncle Donald and aunt Jane were ever hospitable, and the cousins carefree companions. William, the eldest son, was sixteen years older than me, yet he too was supportive and generous. I was saddened when he died suddenly at only thirty four. James, next in line, was the horseman Donny and I aspired to be. Sydney and Herbert were closer to my age, and although still senior were both friendly. In that family existed an amiable cheerfulness and encouragement quite lacking in my school life.

Father would like The Camp to be a sort of colonial Brambletye, but it doesn’t fit as comfortably in its surroundings, or in the minds of Dunedin people. The Sussex estate wasn’t quite a heaven, but certainly a haven, and St Leonard’s almost a hell. At Brambletye no-one quizzed me, or mocked my speech. People there didn’t take pleasure in the humiliation of others.

My Sussex cousins were a champion, outdoors band, seeming to show no reflection of their quiet and polite parents. Privilege and
indulgence were their right. The house is not more than
twenty-five
years old or so, and famed for its frescoed ceilings, wall papers and furniture. Uncle Donald has a magnificent conservatory for his collection of rare plants, and it’s the custom for all visitors to scratch their names on the large glass door. My signature is there among all the others, and I hope some day to return to underscore it, and relive the pleasure I received there. The family also owned a fine home in London’s Palace Gardens.

Odd misfortune then that it was at Brambletye I had the fall from the hunter, Mercury, that almost killed me. I suffer from the effects still, and yet the moment of it is hidden from me. The mind’s way to protect itself perhaps. I remember a long chase across a flat past a spinney, being shouldered by another horse at a low hedge, and then lying on my back, a clear sky above and a damnable pain in my leg. And the smell of sweat not my own, for someone had put a jacket under my head. Concussion that reoccurred for many months, fractured cheek bone, broken bones in the left arm and leg. Even the convalescence from all of that could not save me from the return to boarding school at last. I would’ve chosen a second tumble if it could have kept me permanently at Brambletye.

I have vivid memories of the place, some inconsequential, but almost all happy. Once, coming back from swimming in the bridge pool, Herbert and I found spawning frogs in a warm pond. Dozens of pairs on the weedy surface, each male clamped on the back of its mate with forelegs tight about her throat. So strong was their urge that they took no notice of us, and we scooped up many into our towels, just because we could. What variety of slick green they had,
from the faintest glass blush to deepest emerald.

Another time he and I were part of the search party for the local idiot who had become drunk on cider and begun beating sheep and cows with a paling. We found him asleep in the big meadow with straw in his boots, blood on his hands and no trousers. His cock was small, but it was my first realisation of how hairy are a full adult’s genitals. When he was woken, he laughed and sang in front of us all. His old mother came and took him away like a child. How different he must have found the world.

Although Father put me at the school, I never doubted he felt it for the best. I received many letters from him while I was recovering from the accident, and he welcomed me warmly on my return to New Zealand, despite our differences. Some years later, when I had to have further corrective surgery in Dunedin, he came all the way from Wellington to be with me. When Basil Sievwright, Henry Driver and others came with business they said was urgent, Father turned them away and sat with me for hours, talking of Mother, Aunt Mary and the days he, Donny and I spent on the peninsula while The Camp was being built. Soon after, he made a sortie to Australia in an attempt to bolster his businesses, but that was another financial disaster for him, and he narrowly avoided being dragged down by Melbourne swindlers. He was very low when he returned and, with Mary not long dead, he found The Camp the sad place it remained for him until Conny made it home again.

Father isn’t a confessional man: he believes in fortitude, trusting that energy and hard work will enable him to succeed. But yesterday, on what may well turn out to be the last trip to town
before he and Conny leave for Wellington, he spoke more openly about his feelings than he has for a long time. The day was blustery, and he complained of the new horse as we passed his failed Dandy Dinmont hotel at Waverley, which I knew better than to refer to.

‘Fat and out of condition,’ he said. ‘I’ll talk with Boylan. Just a nag compared with Stockings, or Traveller.’

‘Horses don’t last for ever,’ I said. Father had a tartan blanket for his knees and wore a tam-o’-shanter. I knew some in Dunedin laughed behind his back at his devotion to Scottish custom and dress, but he had a vision of himself as laird, despite, or perhaps because of, those relatively humble Larnachs of Wick from whom he came.

‘I’ve no great stomach for more of Parliament, Dougie, but Seddon and Ward have been very pressing and the affairs of both the Bank of New Zealand and the Colonial Bank are dire. The government will have to intervene or all will be brought down. Ward’s heading for bankruptcy. Seddon doesn’t understand money and says he relies on my advice. But it’ll be no picnic for any of us.’

‘Surely the government will have to support the banks? Otherwise the colony will be just a shambles.’

‘But everyone wants to call in their money,’ he said. ‘People want it under their beds so they can sleep soundly on it. No one wants to lend.’

‘But there’s the ultimate value of property, isn’t there?’ I said. ‘You can’t gainsay that. You can touch it and walk over it, build on it and, if the worst comes to the worst, you can eat off it.’

‘Damn rabbits, though, and poor prices.’ He urged the horse to a brisk trot. ‘The money for development has dried up. Everything’s ready cash, and I’m as stretched as the next man. Confidence is going, and that’s what drives business and growth. It’s a mean hoarder’s world at the moment. No one’s safe. It’s look to yourself and damn the next fellow.’

Father would rather spend all his time in Otago. He’s joining Richard Seddon not just from a sense of duty but because he hopes for the elusive knighthood. As his financial difficulties increase, so does his vanity.

Robert says it’s the same story with everyone: businesses are finding everyone slow to pay. ‘It’s squirm time,’ he says. When he spent two nights with us last week we took the guns out twice and walked a long way, shooting gulls and even an albatross, for fun, and pigeons for the pot. Our game bags were a good load on our way back to The Camp. We also rode and raced along the bay tracks and clambered over the boat wreck at Portobello. He’s a carefree friend and we can have a grand blowout together, yet in the house he plays the gentleman for Father and Conny, while privately keeping the maids atwitter. As the two of us drank together until late, he told me of a governess he has conquered in Belleknowes. An absolute succubus, he told me with delight, who names his body parts in three languages. He finds life alternately a great lark and a bitter constriction. His company is a relief from the routines of The Camp, but strangely I now find more satisfaction in talking with Conny.

Perhaps it seems ridiculous that, as a man in the prime of life, my favourite woman companion is my father’s wife. But it’s so, and
why should I be ashamed of it? Conny and I find so much in each other’s company, and Father likes the three of us being together: he’s buoyed up by our talk. She would have me educated in music, and as keen a reader as herself of Austen, Eliot, Oliphant and Dickens, whereas my natural inclination is for Conan Doyle and Scott. And more than any reading, I enjoy being out and about.

For my part, I persuade her to walk more, to enjoy the natural world. She’ll never make a farmer, but she’s increasingly interested in the grounds of The Camp and the wilderness of the peninsula. She encouraged Father to extend the glasshouses and to plant colourful flowers on the lower garden rather than native shrubs.

The growth of understanding isn’t just on my side. Tuesday was hot and cloudless, and after working with others to repair stalls in the stables, I walked out to the front gardens with my shirt loose and the sleeves rolled up. I was standing by the wishing well to catch the breeze from the sea when Conny and one of the gardeners came past with their baskets of cut flowers. She complained of the heat. ‘Of course you’re hot, being all togged up,’ I said. ‘You’ve no idea of the pleasure there is in the cooling feel of the wind on your skin. Watch sometime as a lathered horse turns into it for relief.’

‘The comparison isn’t a compliment,’ she said, with a quick smile.

‘I mean that you haven’t had the simple and natural satisfaction of the wind on your body when you work.’

‘I suppose you’re right,’ she said. ‘It’s a funny thing, but I’ve never thought of it before. I do believe that women must be allowed garments that give freedom to play sport, cycle or climb if they wish.’

Conny has made me aware of a society of modern women
unknown to me before. She, and her friends such as Bessie and Ethel, have a quality of understanding and conversation that is the equal of any man’s. What a gulf between her enlightenment and accomplishments, and poor Ellen Abbott, whose prattle is difficult to concentrate on once she’s been bedded.

When Father and Conny leave I will be sole master here again. I’ve had good discussions with Father about my plans for the estate. Now that his investments are returning less, he’s particularly concerned that the peninsula property more than pays its way, and from the profits will come my return for overall supervision.

In the grand times a great many staff were employed to maintain enterprises that were appropriate for a manor house but contributed little to funds: rather the reverse. The vineries, hothouses and fernery are largely indulgence, yet popular, but I see no need for peacocks and guinea fowl to roam the grounds. We’ve also dispensed with the cock-fighting pit, the llamas and monkeys of my childhood, and a boy whose occupation was to individually wrap coal pieces in tissue for the bedroom fires. There are far too many dogs. The Newfoundland is Father’s favourite breed, but he has reluctantly agreed to a reduction in the pack. I hope to sell a good number: like almost all of our animals, they are true bloodstock.

We need to concentrate on the excellent Alderney herd that’s been built up, and the potatoes and oats that do well here. As Dunedin grows so will the demand for dairy products, vegetables and meat. Despite present conditions I agree with Father that the success of refrigerated cargoes opens excellent prospects for the colony. He was the managing director of the refrigeration company that sent the
first frozen lamb to England, and still takes pleasure in telling how he stood at the high observation window of The Camp to watch the
Dunedin
sail from Port Chalmers. His vigour and enterprise have benefited so many, yet those gains tend to be forgotten in the present criticism many make of him. The ingratitude is, I think, one reason his interest and enthusiasm for further innovation are waning.

I’m all for clearing more of the land, and wire-fencing paddocks rather than building stone walls, though I’m pleased that we have these on all the boundaries of our property. Before Father’s marriage to Conny, there was a large fire on an adjacent property, which did a good deal of damage to ours, and Father’s relationship with the neighbour has been frosty since.

I believe there are too many people employed for the household and not enough on the farms. What need have I for a full complement of inside servants when I’m the only family member here most of the time? There are plenty of local men and women who can do part-time work when required. I’ve had all this out with Father and he sees the sense of it. I’ve started to use the stratagem with him that I notice Conny employs successfully — introduce proposals in such a way that he comes to see them as of his own devising. Patrick Sexton is a sound overseer and we work well together. I’ve a plan that will ensure progress while still maintaining the visible lifestyle so essential to William Larnach.

It’s what I’ve looked forward to, yet now I think I would rather play second fiddle, as ever, to Father and still have Conny at The Camp. At first I thought her rather too sharp in her judgements to be ideal company, and too fine in proportions to be admirable as a
woman, but my opinion has changed on both counts.

She and her family have had little to do with open country and farming, but she shows a comradely interest in what is done here on the properties and what Father and I hope to achieve. On Tuesday there was a blue vellum sky and hardly a breeze. Conny came out with me to see the Clydesdales sledging timber from the cut below Fork Ridge. She marvelled at their size and strength, but wasn’t fearful, going right up to stroke them, and wasn’t repulsed by the froth of sweat they’d worked up. She was interested when I explained how calm and affectionate they are, and that size and strength in an animal don’t necessarily mean an aggressive disposition. ‘The runts in species are often worst,’ I told her. ‘I’ve been bitten and kicked more by damn ponies than any larger breed, and lap dogs have the temperament of frustrated spinsters.’

‘You want an argument, I know,’ she said, ‘but I’ll not rise to it’, and she smiled. ‘The horse is a fine animal.’ She bent down to stir the feathering on a hoof. And when she was standing by its head again, she touched the great, flat jaw, the white blaze and tousled forelock, and said, ‘What beautiful eyes it has.’ That perception pleased me, for indeed horses have beautiful eyes.

One of the men was cheeky enough to ask her if she wanted to get on its back, but she said she wasn’t dressed for that. When the horses and men were back to work, Conny and I sat on the stone stile and talked. She said she’d been told by a tradesman that both Father and I were known to get hot at any cruelty to animals, which she regarded as a compliment to us both. She wore a
large-brimmed
sunhat, so sometimes her face was lost to me. She has
the ability to draw people out, does Conny, and I found somehow the conversation came round to my school days at St Leonard’s and my deep unhappiness there. Never before have I spoken honestly about those years, but Conny was sympathetic and interested, her own education having been so different. When I told her of the desolation and loneliness I felt when Mother died, she took my hand and we sat there for a time without speaking, watching the great horses come down the gully, and admiring the skill with which men and Clydesdales managed the logs that constantly threatened to crush them.