as general dogsbody. Hardly a prospect to compete with a respectable life as wife of my father.
Alas, Miss Tornear, the love of my father’s life, was tempted by the dubious carrot Mrs W.H. Foley offered. Throughout her life, theatrical performance acted as a lure from the more seemly womanly duties of wife and mother.
Undeterred, my father left the employ of Doctor Horatio Ingram, mounted Domino and set off on the long, dusty track towards Wellington.
[Archivist’s Note: At this place in Samuel’s journal the reader will notice a distinct change in style. Perhaps his mother’s admonishments (see page 64) have borne fruit. E. de M.]
Jack Lacey rides into Wellington on a blustery cold day, no money in his pocket, no feed for his horse, no promise of shelter for man or beast. Waves, driven by the stormy wind, break over the road, drenching him. He draws alongside a heavily laden cart, its load protected beneath an old tarpaulin. The carter, huddled under a sacking coat, raises a hand in greeting.
‘Where’s our summer gone, then?’ he grumbles. ‘One miserable storm after another.’
Jack nods. ‘Would you know of work for a groom or stable-hand in these parts?’
The carter chews on his moustache for a bit. ‘You looking for fancy work? There’s a few big houses now with their own stables.’
Jack shrugs. ‘I worked for a doctor up north. It wasn’t too fancy. Grooming is hard work, fancy or rough. I was thinking maybe a hotel. Somewhere in town.’
‘Ah well, take your pick. The place is growing like a mushroom. We’ve got celebrations in a week or two — fifteen years since the first settlers arrived. They’ll be riding or coaching in from all around, I reckon. Experienced grooms will be in short supply. Try the Shamrock. Or Baron’s. The Baron has a big two-storey place. Von Alzdorf runs a decent inn. Try him.’
Jack nods. ‘Have you heard of theatrical performances in town?’ he asks, trying to keep his voice casual.
The carter gives him a stern look. ‘You want to stay away from that sort. You would never want to groom for them. They’d as like take your services and then scarper before any money left their wallets. Rough trade, theatre folk.’
‘Oh?’ Jack wants to hear more. ‘You’ve met theatre folk?’
‘Once was enough,’ growls the carter. ‘Picked up three trunks full of costumes from the jetty, they come south on the coastal steamer. Delivered same to Barry’s Ship Hotel.’ He spits. ‘Now there’s an establishment I would not recommend. The fancy lady what owned the trunks seemed to think a free ticket to the evening show would be a fit payment! One ticket to a godless entertainment good only for the lowest mechanicals. And drunkards.’ He wraps his sacking cape more tightly around his broad shoulders. ‘No lad, stay away from that nest of Satan. Any preacher will tell you.’
Jack can think of nothing to say. What has his Miss Tournear got herself into? The circus seemed a fine skilful occupation, though perhaps not best suited to a young lady. Whatever can theatrical performances be like? Mrs Foley seemed to consider the theatre to be a cut above circus. Can the carter be right? If so, his love will need a speedy rescue from a life of sin. He nods grimly. No time to be lost.
The carter gives directions to the Baron’s on Willis Street. Jack urges tired Domino into a trot. Soon they are surrounded by rows of wooden buildings. Simple homes and shacks give way to established stores, churches, a big two-storey bank, wharf sheds and hotels. In the harbour, five large ships lie at anchor, while two others are tied up at the jetties. Two Maori women collectshellfish, their ankles deep in mud at the water’s edge. Seagulls circle above them, crying.
Willis Street is wider and cleaner than the narrow, winding Lambton Quay down which he has travelled. Carts and drays are delivering or taking away supplies; a smart carriage clops past; in front of a barber’s shop a
Alas, Miss Tornear, the love of my father’s life, was tempted by the dubious carrot Mrs W.H. Foley offered. Throughout her life, theatrical performance acted as a lure from the more seemly womanly duties of wife and mother.
Undeterred, my father left the employ of Doctor Horatio Ingram, mounted Domino and set off on the long, dusty track towards Wellington.
[Archivist’s Note: At this place in Samuel’s journal the reader will notice a distinct change in style. Perhaps his mother’s admonishments (see page 64) have borne fruit. E. de M.]
Jack Lacey rides into Wellington on a blustery cold day, no money in his pocket, no feed for his horse, no promise of shelter for man or beast. Waves, driven by the stormy wind, break over the road, drenching him. He draws alongside a heavily laden cart, its load protected beneath an old tarpaulin. The carter, huddled under a sacking coat, raises a hand in greeting.
‘Where’s our summer gone, then?’ he grumbles. ‘One miserable storm after another.’
Jack nods. ‘Would you know of work for a groom or stable-hand in these parts?’
The carter chews on his moustache for a bit. ‘You looking for fancy work? There’s a few big houses now with their own stables.’
Jack shrugs. ‘I worked for a doctor up north. It wasn’t too fancy. Grooming is hard work, fancy or rough. I was thinking maybe a hotel. Somewhere in town.’
‘Ah well, take your pick. The place is growing like a mushroom. We’ve got celebrations in a week or two — fifteen years since the first settlers arrived. They’ll be riding or coaching in from all around, I reckon. Experienced grooms will be in short supply. Try the Shamrock. Or Baron’s. The Baron has a big two-storey place. Von Alzdorf runs a decent inn. Try him.’
Jack nods. ‘Have you heard of theatrical performances in town?’ he asks, trying to keep his voice casual.
The carter gives him a stern look. ‘You want to stay away from that sort. You would never want to groom for them. They’d as like take your services and then scarper before any money left their wallets. Rough trade, theatre folk.’
‘Oh?’ Jack wants to hear more. ‘You’ve met theatre folk?’
‘Once was enough,’ growls the carter. ‘Picked up three trunks full of costumes from the jetty, they come south on the coastal steamer. Delivered same to Barry’s Ship Hotel.’ He spits. ‘Now there’s an establishment I would not recommend. The fancy lady what owned the trunks seemed to think a free ticket to the evening show would be a fit payment! One ticket to a godless entertainment good only for the lowest mechanicals. And drunkards.’ He wraps his sacking cape more tightly around his broad shoulders. ‘No lad, stay away from that nest of Satan. Any preacher will tell you.’
Jack can think of nothing to say. What has his Miss Tournear got herself into? The circus seemed a fine skilful occupation, though perhaps not best suited to a young lady. Whatever can theatrical performances be like? Mrs Foley seemed to consider the theatre to be a cut above circus. Can the carter be right? If so, his love will need a speedy rescue from a life of sin. He nods grimly. No time to be lost.
The carter gives directions to the Baron’s on Willis Street. Jack urges tired Domino into a trot. Soon they are surrounded by rows of wooden buildings. Simple homes and shacks give way to established stores, churches, a big two-storey bank, wharf sheds and hotels. In the harbour, five large ships lie at anchor, while two others are tied up at the jetties. Two Maori women collectshellfish, their ankles deep in mud at the water’s edge. Seagulls circle above them, crying.
Willis Street is wider and cleaner than the narrow, winding Lambton Quay down which he has travelled. Carts and drays are delivering or taking away supplies; a smart carriage clops past; in front of a barber’s shop a
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