Tamar Page 8

  ‘Well, ’e is now. ’E were at the boardin’ ’ouse when we got there. ’E never got fed properly so I’d give ’im some of me food. I think ’e likes me.’

  ‘Clearly,’ replied Myrna dryly.

  ‘Can I keep ’im?’ Polly asked. ‘I’ll look after ’im an’ make sure ’e’s clean.’

  ‘Is he important to ye?’

  Polly nodded.

  ‘Aye, well, ye can keep him. But the first time he makes a mess inside the house he’s by his wee self, all right? What’s his name?’

  ‘Cabbage,’ said Polly, smiling for the first time that night.

  Myrna helped her finish bathing then assisted her out of the tub, wrapped her in several large towels and sat her on a wooden chair. Then she got on her knees next to the tub and scrubbed the little dog vigorously. Now considerably cleaner, he was lifted out of the bath and rubbed until his short fur stuck up, then examined for ticks. Myrna found six or seven and pulled them off, bursting their blood-engorged bodies with her long fingernails. She rinsed her hands and walked over to stand behind Polly. ‘Ye’ve got headlice,’ she observed.

  Myrna combed out Polly’s wet hair for the next hour, slowly and painstakingly removing every nit and egg. Polly almost nodded off again.

  When Myrna had finished she asked, ‘Have ye anything else wrong? No infections o’ any sort?’

  ‘Yer mean the sore on me mouth?’

  ‘No, lassie, that’s probably from no’ enough good food. I mean your fanny.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Well, that’s a relief. And a surprise. I’ll get John Adams to come and have a look at ye tomorrow, just to be sure. I think ye should have a feed now then go to bed. Ye can talk to the girls tomorrow when ye’ve had a decent rest.’

  Polly was put into bed in a borrowed nightdress and given soup and bread and a cup of tea, but she fell asleep before she could drink the tea. The little dog was also sound asleep, curled up on Polly’s feet, snoring softly and emitting an occasional gentle fart.

  Myrna stood and watched Polly’s sleeping form. ‘Ye poor little bugger,’ she said quietly.

  Polly slept solidly for almost twelve hours and woke in the early afternoon, feeling better. She ate an enormous lunch then went back to sleep. John Adams had been summoned and arrived that evening. He examined Polly and pronounced she was very run down but her physical condition would no doubt improve after a few weeks of wholesome food. He added she showed no sign of syphilis or anything of a similar nature, and recommended rest and a proprietary tonic to keep her calm and help rebuild her strength. Sitting in the parlour later sipping a brandy, he asked Myrna what would happen to Polly.

  ‘She’ll stay with me, I suppose. I cannae put her out on the street again and leave her to fend for herself.’

  John nodded. ‘Will she work for you?’

  ‘I cannae say,’ replied Myrna, placing her tea cup on a side table and lighting a cigarette.

  Myrna did not drink alcohol. She had in her younger days and got herself into such serious trouble she’d sworn off it. In her opinion, for some people at least, drink was the Devil’s right hand and to be avoided at all costs; her own father had been a drinker and she had watched him die of it at an early age.

  ‘I havnae said anything,’ she continued. ‘She’s no’ the sort o’ lassie I usually have working for me. She’s a wee bit rough around the edges, bless her heart, and she’d need a bit o’ polishing.’

  John nodded but kept quiet. He knew what Myrna’s line of work was, but he wasn’t particularly offended; she looked after her girls, unlike some.

  ‘Have you seen Tamar?’ He always asked. He had been deeply disappointed when Tamar had not contacted him, but had resigned himself to the fact she was not ready or willing to marry. He refused to admit she might never be ready or willing to marry him.

  ‘Aye, I have, now that ye mention it,’ replied Myrna carefully, noting how the young doctor’s face was suddenly full of hope. ‘She’s working in a draper’s in Queen Street. I saw her when I went to organise the furnishings for ma new house. She’s looking verra well.’

  ‘Really?’ he said, trying unsuccessfully not to convey his delight. ‘Queen Street, you say? I’ve been meaning to get new curtains.’

  Myrna nodded and deliberately changed the subject by asking how his practice was coming along, knowing how much he liked to talk about his work. He now had his own house and rooms at the bottom of Parnell Rise and was building up a reasonable clientele, mostly wealthy people whom he visited at their residences, and described with enthusiasm how he was also beginning to establish a good relationship with some of the less fortunate folk in the area. These patients were rarely charged for his services; if he charged a fee they would not come to his clinic, too embarrassed to admit they could not pay.

  ‘They’re poverty-stricken. Living in squalid, dirty little shacks with not enough food, children sick all the time, the women constantly pregnant. Some of them have only been in New Zealand a short time. They can’t get jobs, or only the sort that almost kills them. It’s a disgrace, encouraging people to emigrate without having honest work for them and refusing them assistance of any sort. A disgrace,’ he repeated vehemently, knocking back the last of his drink. ‘And the Maori people I see are hardly better off. But I’m sure you’re sick of hearing me hold forth on this subject, Myrna. I seem to bend your ear with it every time we meet.’

  ‘Och, no, laddie. At least someone’s concerned for the poor beggars. And ye’re right, it is a disgrace.’

  ‘Yes, well,’ replied John, standing up and reaching for his hat. ‘I must go. I need an early night. I have a young girl with a dreadful harelip I’m repairing in the morning. I’m going to try closing the defect and moving some extra tissue into the area if I can. Her parents are more terrified than she is.’

  ‘Another one o’ your charity cases?’ enquired Myrna, her eyebrows raised. ‘Ye’ll no’ make any money, John, if ye keep fixing folk for free.’

  ‘Yes, she is, and yes, I will make money. I charge my wealthy clients exorbitantly. There’s a method to my madness, Myrna, don’t worry.’

  As he let himself out of the front door Myrna thought, oh, I’m sure there is, laddie, I’m sure there is.

  The next day Polly declared she felt almost human, if a little unsteady on her feet. Cabbage clearly felt more comfortable with his new surroundings although he followed Polly everywhere, even to the privy. Myrna and three of the girls had gone to the new house in Parnell to supervise the placing of the new furniture, while Vivienne stayed behind to keep an eye on Polly.

  By early afternoon Myrna had returned and was having tea with Polly in the kitchen. When she casually asked what her plans were, Polly thought for a moment, her eyes fixed on the sugar bowl in front of her.

  ‘Well, I were thinkin’,’ she said slowly. ‘Do yer think I could … well, can I work fer yer? Like Letitia an’ the others? It weren’t the work I minded when I were on the streets, it were the fact I couldn’t make enough money and I were so lonely. It would be different workin’ fer you. I think I can be really good at it,’ she added hopefully, glancing up at last.

  Myrna looked at the girl. She certainly looked better now she’d had some sleep, a good bath and a few decent meals. She was still too thin and sickly looking, and in Myrna’s experience men did not like skinny women, but that could be fixed. She shouldn’t put too much back on, Myrna reflected, just enough to bring her round breasts back and fill out her hips and buttocks. Her cheekbones were beautifully defined although her face was a little gaunt, but no doubt the youth would come back into it when she filled out again; Polly was a very pretty girl and her hair, when it regained its condition, would be lovely. However, there was the small problem of Polly’s common accent and unrefined manners.

  Myrna thought for a minute, wondering how to put it without offending the girl. ‘Well, lassie, ye know I run a high-class establishment. Ma girls will be the finest this town has seen. I’
ve put a lot o’ work into them, grooming and teaching them how to speak and behave like ladies.’

  Polly sat up straight, clasped her hands demurely in her lap, and said in a very cultured voice, ‘Oh yes, Miss McTaggart, the ladies who grace your fine establishment would have to be lovely, if only so that their beauty would not be eclipsed by your own. If I was fortunate enough to become one of your employees, I am more than confident my own personal graces and charms would be the equal of theirs with very little effort. Would you care for more tea, Miss McTaggart?’

  Myrna’s mouth had fallen open. She shut it with an audible click, then laughed out loud. ‘Where on this earth did ye learn to do that?’

  ‘Oh, I’ve always been good wiv’ voices. I used to ’ave me mam in fits when I were little,’ replied Polly, reverting to her normal accent. Then she did a perfect imitation of Tamar, followed by a very creditable rendition of John Adams.

  Myrna clapped her hands in delight. ‘Aye, ye do have a gift,’ she said. ‘But can ye keep it up?’

  ‘Well, of course,’ said Polly in her new accent, ‘if that is what is required.’

  ‘And there’ll be more to it than that, lassie. Ye’ll need to learn how to dress properly, how to have intelligent and charming conversations wi’ the customers, and what it is a man likes between the sheets. And there’s the other matter too — good at it ye may be, but ye’ll still be a whore. That doesnae worry ye?’

  A shadow passed across Polly’s pale face. ‘Myrna, I’m already a whore.’

  ‘All right, lassie. I’ll take ye on. The house willnae be opening for a few more weeks, so there’ll be time enough, I suppose.’

  Polly jumped up, almost scaring the life out of Cabbage who was messily eating a bun on the kitchen floor, and hugged Myrna.

  ‘Thank you! I won’t let you down, I promise!’ She snatched the dog up and swung him around as he stubbornly hung on to the bun. ‘Rich, Cabbage, we’ll be rich! I can have my parlour with the ostrich feathers and you can have as many buns and as much roast lamb as you like! And a little silk coat in the winter.’

  God Almighty, thought Myrna. That poor wee dog.

  The following day Myrna went to see Tamar and find out how her order for soft furnishings was coming along. Mr Ellis confirmed her goods would be ready by the middle of the following week. Would she like him to come to her new home and fit the new drapes? No she would not, she would do that herself. After Mr Ellis had retreated in a mild sulk, Myrna told Tamar she had found Polly, who was safe and in one piece. She also told her of Polly’s decision to work in Myrna’s house.

  ‘Is that a good idea?’ asked Tamar, looking concerned.

  Myrna described exactly what Polly had been doing when she found her.

  ‘I see,’ said Tamar. ‘So she might as well then?’

  ‘Aye, she might as well,’ Myrna agreed. ‘Ye havnae had a wee visitor?’

  ‘John, you mean?’ Tamar replied, blushing slightly. ‘Yes, he was in yesterday morning. He came to say hello then he was off to do some surgery. Did you tell him I was here?’

  Myrna nodded. ‘That isnae a problem, is it?’

  ‘Not at all, it was lovely to see him. He looks well and he seems happy.’

  I know what would make him happier, Myrna thought.

  The women parted, Myrna having extracted a promise that Tamar would come to the Mt Eden house on Sunday evening for supper.

  As Myrna left the shop, a tall, fashionably dressed gentleman held the door for her. Looking back through the big glass window, Myrna observed him wander around the interior before stopping in front of several bolts of white lace. By the time Tamar emerged from the back of the shop, Myrna had gone on her way. ‘Can I help you, sir?’ Tamar asked.

  When the man looked up and smiled at her, her heart lurched. His eyes, so deeply brown they were almost black, matched heavy ebony hair. A five o’clock shadow was evident on his chin and upper lip, even though it was not yet midday, and contrasted with his pale skin. His nose was strong and straight and he had regular white teeth in a smile that tilted the corners of his mouth attractively. Elegantly dressed, he wore high black leather riding boots, snugly fitting beige trousers, a dark brown waistcoat over a white shirt, and a well-cut black top coat of good quality broadcloth.

  ‘Yes, please,’ he replied, removing his black top hat. ‘I’m looking for some lace. My wife is about to have our first child and she wants some suitable decoration for the crib.’

  ‘Well, sir,’ said Tamar, recovering quickly from her disappointment at the man’s mention of a wife, but nonetheless bewildered by her fleeting, irrational response. ‘We have some lovely Brussels lace, and some very fine examples from Ireland. Is this the type of thing you’re looking for?’ she asked, indicating one of the laces.

  He looked doubtful. ‘Well, I don’t know anything about this sort of thing but Anna has her heart set on something pretty for the baby. What would you put on a baby’s crib?’

  ‘I’d probably choose a border of the Brussels lace on a gathered swathe of white satin or silk, if it’s a ruffled effect Mrs, ah — I’m sorry, sir, I didn’t catch your name.’

  ‘Montgomery,’ he replied. ‘Peter Montgomery.’

  ‘If Mrs Montgomery wants something really pretty, that’s what I’d recommend.’

  ‘Well, whatever you think best. Can you have it made up? I’m coming back into town next week and I’ll pick it up then. The baby is not due for another two weeks or so, so I expect there will be plenty of time.’ Peter Montgomery favoured Tamar with another of his devastating smiles. ‘Do you have children of your own, Mrs …’

  ‘Miss,’ replied Tamar. ‘Miss Deane. No, I am not married, Mr Montgomery.’

  ‘Well, you should be, Miss Deane. Someone is going to be a very lucky man.’

  Tamar blushed. ‘Thank you,’ she said quietly, not daring to look at his face, then realised she would have to. ‘Brussels lace is rather expensive, Mr Montgomery. Would you like a quote?’

  ‘No, whatever it costs is acceptable,’ he replied expansively, producing a card and placing it on the counter. ‘These are my details. I’m sure you’ll do a lovely job. Next week, then? Probably Thursday, I expect. Until then, Miss Deane,’ he said. He returned his hat to his head and left the shop as Tamar stared after him.

  Tamar went to supper at Myrna’s the following Sunday and had a thoroughly enjoyable evening catching up with her friends, although she was aghast at Polly’s physical condition.

  ‘Don’t look at me like that,’ Polly countered. ‘You should have seen me a week ago. I’ve put on pounds!’

  ‘What’s happened to your voice?’ Tamar asked, incredulous.

  ‘My voice? Oh, this is my posh accent. I’m a lady now,’ replied Polly, giggling.

  Coincidentally and, he insisted, completely on the spur of the moment, John Adams also called in and stayed for a brandy. He and Tamar chatted for some time. John could not stop talking about the operation he had performed on the little girl with the harelip. He was extremely pleased with the result, although it would be some time before the swelling went down and the final effect would be obvious.

  ‘It will be marvellous, if it works as well as I think it should. Before, her upper gum and teeth were exposed up to her nostrils and she really did look odd. She was teased by the other children to the point where she wouldn’t go outside. Now, she’ll look fairly normal and if it heals well, the scar may not even be very noticeable in a few years. And it will heal well, if her parents take the appropriate care. She needs complete rest and to keep her face immobile while the wound mends. After that, she should be fine. Some decent food wouldn’t go amiss either, but I’ve taken care of that.’

  Typical John, thought Myrna. He won’t make a penny out of this, which was one of the reasons she was so fond of him. At the end of the evening John offered to take Tamar back to her lodgings in his new phaeton, and was thrilled when she accepted.

  ‘Do you think they’ll get together?’ B
ronwyn asked Myrna after the couple had been farewelled.

  ‘No’ unless yon lassie gets her feet on the ground about love in the real world. But she’s no’ stupid. She’ll work it out one day.’

  All through the following week Tamar looked forward to Peter Montgomery’s return. The days seemed to crawl by. To her confusion and discomfort, whenever she recalled his smile, or the black hair on the back of his pale hands, she felt her cheeks flush and a ripple of excitement run through her. In a way she was appalled. The man’s wife was about to give birth to their first child, but she could not help what she was feeling.

  On the appointed day she waited eagerly all morning, feeling nervous and telling herself she was being silly. When he did not appear, she felt first a sour disappointment, then considerable annoyance with herself, doing her best to put him out of her mind.

  He came in two days later, just before closing time. ‘Mr Montgomery,’ she said as calmly as she could as he came through the door. ‘One moment, I’ll fetch your crib set.’

  She rushed out the back to fetch the brown paper package containing the beautifully finished bedding. Behind her Peter Montgomery opened his mouth to say something, but Tamar disappeared through the door before he could.

  ‘Here it is!’ she said when she returned. ‘I hope Mrs Montgomery likes it.’

  ‘Unlikely,’ he snapped. ‘She died on Tuesday.’

  Tamar thought she had misheard him. ‘Pardon me?’

  ‘I said, she died on Tuesday,’ Montgomery repeated angrily. ‘The baby came early and there were complications. They both died.’

  ‘Oh, I’m so sorry, Mr Montgomery,’ Tamar exclaimed, raising her hands to her face.

  ‘So I don’t want this,’ he continued bitterly, indicating the package on the counter. ‘I’ll pay for it but you can do with it what you want. I never want to see it again.’

  He withdrew some money from his pocket and flung it angrily onto the counter. The coins bounced across the other side and landed on the wooden floor. Peter Montgomery turned and left the shop, leaving Tamar standing behind the counter in open-mouthed shock.