time, over these past months, I have thought that Jacky may not have chosen his friends wisely. Te Rauparaha and his Ngati Toa warriors served him well at first, but we have been in the middle of a war between the tribes of the north and south for years now. Not so bad when Te Rauparaha was on the winning side, but the tides have turned against him, and we are the enemy of those at war with him. I cannot say I blame them, that they do not like us.
As for whether we will ever return, I have no way ofknowing. For Iâm not sure that I mean aught to Jacky now. I donât care for the way his eyes follow me around the room at nights when Iâm turning back the covers on the bed. I am filled with sorrow when he turns away once Iâm in the bed, and goes back to the kitchen. I hear him and my aunt Charlotte Pugh talking in low voices. I wonder sometimes, will I get out of this alive. But perhaps itâs just that I got into the habit of thinking like this when I was in captivity. Iâve seen Jacky in a mood before, and he has got over it. But never as black as this. I tell myself that Jacky came back for me, to the wild Taranaki coast, to rescue me away from Oaoiti, the chief who held me as his own. And that he will recover from all of this. If he would listen to me, I would say, forget about it. Forgetting is everything, and all we have.
But I donât know how much I will forget. Or what I will remember.
You do what you must.
Â
âWell, maâam, I didnât expect to see you here,â says Mr Spyer in his timid little chirp. He sits behind the counter, his curly black hair trying to make its escape from beneath his skull cap. I always found him the friendlier of the partners, though an anxious man. Mr Cohen was more on the make, eager to please the administrators and military people. More than once, I wondered if he did not like the people of the Rocks shopping in his store, as if they gave off a bad odour that might affect his more elegant clientele. One thing for us to work for him, another to serve us. Many are surprised that convicts and their families have money in their purses. There is work for all who want it, and sealers and whalers bring money into the port that those on military rations can only dream about, for all their airs and graces, especially now their rackets on the poor have been stopped. Not that I will be buying much today, and Mr Spyer senses that as soon as he sets eyes on me.
He shakes his head in a mournful way, knowing Iâve come down in the world. Of course he reads the newspapers. He offershis regrets for all that has befallen me, and speaks of his relief that I and my children at least, at least , dear Mrs Guard, have been spared. All the same, he is holding back.
I tell him what I have come for: perhaps a marked down toy for John, a doll of some kind or another, or perhaps a little bracelet for Louisa, who wonât know whether itâs Christmas or not. It is not just her age Iâm thinking about, for some days she looks so pale and weak I wonder if Iâll ever get the roses back in her cheeks. She was a bonny girl, gaining weight, before we were stranded on a rocky shore. A girl of my own is what I always wanted, and I might as well be dead as lose her, yet I saw her treated rough and trampled on, and that is not an easy thing for a mother to get over.
Mr Spyer shakes his head again, a refusal in his eyes.
âWhat is the matter?â I ask. âAre you afraid Mr Cohen will catch you giving discounts?â
âIt is not that,â he mutters, and I swear that he blushes. Then I know what it is: I am an embarrassment to him. And yet his eyes hold their old sympathetic kindness which has always drawn me to him. âPeople are saying how remarkably brave you are.â
âIt is Mr Cohen, isnât it?â I ask. For there was a man who wanted to go up in the world. And too serious for his own good.
When he doesnât answer, I
As for whether we will ever return, I have no way ofknowing. For Iâm not sure that I mean aught to Jacky now. I donât care for the way his eyes follow me around the room at nights when Iâm turning back the covers on the bed. I am filled with sorrow when he turns away once Iâm in the bed, and goes back to the kitchen. I hear him and my aunt Charlotte Pugh talking in low voices. I wonder sometimes, will I get out of this alive. But perhaps itâs just that I got into the habit of thinking like this when I was in captivity. Iâve seen Jacky in a mood before, and he has got over it. But never as black as this. I tell myself that Jacky came back for me, to the wild Taranaki coast, to rescue me away from Oaoiti, the chief who held me as his own. And that he will recover from all of this. If he would listen to me, I would say, forget about it. Forgetting is everything, and all we have.
But I donât know how much I will forget. Or what I will remember.
You do what you must.
Â
âWell, maâam, I didnât expect to see you here,â says Mr Spyer in his timid little chirp. He sits behind the counter, his curly black hair trying to make its escape from beneath his skull cap. I always found him the friendlier of the partners, though an anxious man. Mr Cohen was more on the make, eager to please the administrators and military people. More than once, I wondered if he did not like the people of the Rocks shopping in his store, as if they gave off a bad odour that might affect his more elegant clientele. One thing for us to work for him, another to serve us. Many are surprised that convicts and their families have money in their purses. There is work for all who want it, and sealers and whalers bring money into the port that those on military rations can only dream about, for all their airs and graces, especially now their rackets on the poor have been stopped. Not that I will be buying much today, and Mr Spyer senses that as soon as he sets eyes on me.
He shakes his head in a mournful way, knowing Iâve come down in the world. Of course he reads the newspapers. He offershis regrets for all that has befallen me, and speaks of his relief that I and my children at least, at least , dear Mrs Guard, have been spared. All the same, he is holding back.
I tell him what I have come for: perhaps a marked down toy for John, a doll of some kind or another, or perhaps a little bracelet for Louisa, who wonât know whether itâs Christmas or not. It is not just her age Iâm thinking about, for some days she looks so pale and weak I wonder if Iâll ever get the roses back in her cheeks. She was a bonny girl, gaining weight, before we were stranded on a rocky shore. A girl of my own is what I always wanted, and I might as well be dead as lose her, yet I saw her treated rough and trampled on, and that is not an easy thing for a mother to get over.
Mr Spyer shakes his head again, a refusal in his eyes.
âWhat is the matter?â I ask. âAre you afraid Mr Cohen will catch you giving discounts?â
âIt is not that,â he mutters, and I swear that he blushes. Then I know what it is: I am an embarrassment to him. And yet his eyes hold their old sympathetic kindness which has always drawn me to him. âPeople are saying how remarkably brave you are.â
âIt is Mr Cohen, isnât it?â I ask. For there was a man who wanted to go up in the world. And too serious for his own good.
When he doesnât answer, I
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