CHAPTER FOUR
This is how the request happened.
In the middle of packing for her annual trip, a thought popped into Paraiti’s head: ‘I think I’ll ride into Gisborne and go to the pictures.’ Just like that the thought came, and the more she pushed it away, the more it pushed back: be kind to yourself, mistress, take a day off.
Truth to tell, Paraiti didn’t need an excuse to go, so she made one up: she would buy some gifts for all the women who would be helping at her clinics on her travels. Horiana wasn’t the only one, but for Horiana especially she would get her some of those Pakeha bloomers that would keep her nice and cool in the summer.
Paraiti got up at the crack of dawn, dressed in her town clothes, saddled Ataahua and, with Tiaki loping ahead, set off for Gisborne. She stopped for a picnic lunch by the Taruheru River, watching as cattlemen approached, herding a new breed of Pakeha cows along the side of the river: farms were springing up quickly, the settlers hastening to take advantage of the rich pasture land. Then she realised, e hika, that she didn’t want to complete her journey riding in the wake of the herd’s dust and smell of cow shit. Time to move on.
She rode on along the riverbank to Gisborne and settled her horse in the municipal stables at the Peel Street bridge. The town lay spread out on the other side, under the watchful eye of Kaiti Hill, as the Pakeha called the maunga now. It was midday by the town clock when she joined the townsfolk on Gladstone Road.
Paraiti always came to Gisborne with some apprehension. It was a bustling country town, with shops, clothing emporiums and a couple of picture theatres all gathered in a four-block stretch along Gladstone Road, from the small port to the clock tower itself. The citizens were mainly Pakeha, but there were a few Maori around the usual watering holes: the hotels and billiard parlour.
Being among Pakeha was not natural for her; she felt she was crossing some great divide from one world to another. The slash of the scar across her face didn’t help either, since it marked her out in some sinister way. Even though these were modern times, and Pakeha liked to say that Maori and Pakeha were one people now, there were still signs of division: there were the Pakeha parts of Gisborne, particularly the palatial houses along Waterside Drive, and then there were the narrow shanty streets where the Maori lived.
Steadying her nerves, Paraiti made her way along the main street. The town was busier than usual. A general election was to be held at the end of the year and, already, members of the United and Reform parties were out, touting for votes: ‘Vote Forbes for Prime Minister,’ they cried. Not to be outdone, the rival Labour Party countered with shouts of ‘Michael Joseph Savage, he’s the man to vote for.’ They had even brought along some highland dancers to entertain the crowd.
Paraiti pushed through the throng to the Regent picture theatre to see what film was on. Although talkies had arrived a few years ago, she was delighted to see that Charlie Chaplin’s silent film The Gold Rush was showing: ‘Returns to the Screen by Popular Demand.’ She bought a ticket at the booth.
Humming to herself, Paraiti looked at the town clock again and saw that she had an hour to wait before the film began — time enough to go shopping. As she crossed Gladstone Road to Harrison’s Haberdashery, the latest model Packard went by with two women in it. The car was shiny, gleaming black, with every silver door handle and piece of trim polished to perfection. Driving the car was a young Pakeha woman with auburn hair; she was of considerable beauty, wearing a smart cloche hat and smoking a cigarette. Beside her was a middle-aged Maori woman, probably her maid. When the Maori woman saw Paraiti her eyes widened — she looked again and pointed Paraiti out to her mistress.
Paraiti entered Harrison’s and went over to look at the bolts of fabric. Despite the hard times the shop was filled with laces, silks, wools, calicoes, twills and cottons for those who could afford it. A senior saleswoman appraised her as she came in and immediately approached her.
‘May I help you?’ she asked.
There was no accompanying ‘Madam’ to her enquiry, but Paraiti had been to Harrison’s before and knew the kawa, the protocol:
1. Shop attendants were always supercilious but they were, sorry lady, only shop assistants, even if they were senior.
2. She had as much right as anyone else to shop in Harrison’s.
3. Her money was as good as anybody’s.
She unpinned her hat and placed it on the counter, claiming some territory. ‘Why, thank you,’ she said pleasantly, articulating the words in a clear, clipped accent. She had learnt by experience that one of the best ways of getting on in Pakeha society was to speak like they did; self-taught, she could now hold her own in English against any policeman, person of authority or, as in this case, supercilious shop attendant. And if that didn’t work …
Paraiti revealed her scar in order to intimidate the saleswoman; sometimes it came in handy. ‘I’d like to see that bolt of cloth and that one and that one,’ she said, pointing to fabrics that were highest in the stacks.
The saleswoman looked as though she would like to gag; she was only too happy to get away.
Good, that would keep the nuisance busy for a while.
Paraiti rummaged through some of the other fashionable material and accessories that were on display. By the time the saleswoman got down from two ladders, she had made her selection: a variety of attractive lengths of fabric, bold, with lots of flash. She also selected a couple of pairs of bloomers with very risqué ruffles on the legs. ‘Would you be so kind as to wrap all this,’ Paraiti asked as she paid for her purchases, ‘and I will collect the parcels at four at the latest.’
Avoiding looking at her scarred customer, the saleswoman nodded quickly — but Paraiti was not about to let her off the hook yet. Pleased with herself, she waited at the doorway for the saleswoman to observe the final piece of kawa in any commercial transaction:
4. When the paying customer is ready to depart, the door is always opened for her.
In a happy mood, Paraiti made her way back to the Regent. She was humming to herself as she entered the opulent foyer, with its gold cherubs and beautiful carpet and sweeping staircase. As she took her seat, the Maori maid, who had alighted from the Packard and had been watching Paraiti in the haberdashery, found a place a few rows back.
A man at the piano began to play ‘God Save the King’ and everyone stood to pay their respects to the sovereign. Then the audience settled to watch the first half: a short travelogue on India and a news digest.
Paraiti loved nothing better than to sit in the dark where nobody could see her, and get caught up in the fantasies on the screen. During the interval she treated herself to some chocolates and looked at the posters and lobby cards that lined the walls of the foyer. A talking movie was being advertised as a forthcoming attraction: The Private Life of Henry VIII starring Charles Laughton and ‘Alexander Korda’s sensational new star, Miss Merle Oberon’. She caught sight of the Maori maid and gave a brief nod. The house lights were dimming as she returned to her seat. With anticipation she watched as the grand blue satin curtains rose and The Gold Rush began; the Maori maid moved closer.
Paraiti had seen Charlie Chaplin’s previous movie, The Kid, and hoped that The Gold Rush would be just as good — and it was; it was even better. Paraiti thought she would die of laughter — the tears were running down her face at the part where the starving man kept looking at the little tramp and imagined seeing a nice juicy chicken. And she just about mimi-ed herself when the little tramp was in the pivoting hut caught on the edge of a crevasse; the hut see-sawed whenever Charlie walked from one side to the other. At the end, the entire audience clapped like mad: Charlie Chaplin was the greatest film clown in the world. Paraiti was so glad that she had come to town, but when she came out of the theatre into the mid-afternoon sun and saw the Maori maid standing in the sunlight like a dark presence, she felt as if somebody had just walked over her grave.
‘You are Scarface?’ the maid asked. She was subservient, eyes downcast, her years weighing her down — but her words were full of purpose. ‘May I trouble you for your time? I have a mistress who needs a job done. If you accept the job, you will find the price to your liking.’
Although everything in her being shouted out, ‘Don’t do this, turn away’, Paraiti equivocated. She had always believed in fate, and it struck her that coming to Gisborne might not be coincidental; and, after all, this maid was a Maori. She found herself saying, ‘Kei te pai, all right. Let me pick up my parcels from the haberdashery and drop them off at the municipal stables and then I will give your mistress an hour of my time.’
That task accomplished, the Maori servant introduced herself. ‘My name is Maraea,’ she said. ‘My mistress is Mrs Rebecca Vickers. The Honourable Mr Vickers is currently in Europe on business. My mistress and I are only recently returned to Gisborne from England. Mr Vickers has been detained in London but is due to return soon. Be good enough to follow me, but stay far enough back so that people do not know that we are together.’
Paraiti was immediately offended, but it was too late — she had already agreed to the appointment. She followed Maraea away from the din of the crowded town into the private Pakeha part of Gisborne: not many people were about except for the occasional passing cars, their occupants too sophisticated to notice two Maori women walking along the suburban pavement.
‘We are almost there,’ Maraea said as she led Paraiti around a corner and onto Waterside Drive. Here the elegant houses, most of them Edwardian, two-storeyed, faced the river where willow trees were greening along the banks. ‘The Vickers’ residence is the fourth house along, the big one with the rhododendron bushes and the wrought-iron gate. When we arrive at the house I will go in and see if it is safe for my mistress to see you. Kindly do not approach until I signal to you with my handkerchief.’
What have I got myself into? Paraiti wondered. Increasingly irritated, she watched Maraea walk towards the house, disappear and, after a minute or so, return to the street and wave her handkerchief. Paraiti approached and was just about to go through the gate when she heard Maraea whisper from the bushes: ‘Do not come in through the front entrance, fool. Go around to the side gate. I will open the back door for you.’
Paraiti obeyed and walked along the gravelled pathway. A Maori gardener at work in the garden tipped his hat to her. She recognised him as a Ringatu follower who lived on a nearby marae, and inclined her head. Maraea stood at the doorway to the kitchen.
‘Come in,’ she urged Paraiti. ‘Quickly now. And you,’ she said to the gardener, ‘Mrs Vickers is not pleased with the way you have trimmed the lawn. Do it again.’
Paraiti followed Maraea down a long corridor to the front of the house.
The sun shone through the stained-glass panels of the front door. The entrance hall was panelled with polished wood, and a Persian carpet covered the floor; the atmosphere was silent and heavy. A tall mahogany grandfather clock stood against one wall and a huge oval mirror hung on another. There was a small table with a visitors’ book, and a vase of chrysanthemums in the curve of the stairway. Hanging from the ceiling was a crystal chandelier.
‘Please take off your hat,’ Maraea instructed.
Paraiti looked up. Above the first landing was a large painting framed in gold of a lovely woman with red hair and blue eyes, dressed in an exquisite lace ball gown of an earlier generation; elegantly posed against a sylvan landscape, she was demure and sweet of smile. ‘Mrs Vickers’ mother,’ Maraea said, as she ushered Paraiti into the living room. ‘Lady Sarah Chichester. She was beautiful, was she not?’
‘Come away from the window.’
Paraiti had been waiting a good ten minutes before Mrs Vickers arrived. The room had all the trappings and accoutrements required by prosperous Pakeha gentry. The rich green velvet curtains were held back with gold tassels. Damask-covered antique chairs were arranged around small card tables; in front of one window was a charming chaise longue. The furnishings had an Oriental look — as if the Vickers had spent some time in the East — and indeed on the mantel above the fireplace was a photograph of a smiling couple, a young wife with her older husband, standing with an Indian potentate. Electric lights with decorative glass lampshades were set into the walls, and everywhere there were mirrors. Paraiti had gravitated to a window, wishing very much to open it and let some air in, and was looking out at the garden.
Turning, she immediately became disoriented; the hairs prickled on the back of her neck. In all the mirrors a young woman was reflected — she looked like the painting on the landing come to life. She was in her late twenties, with red, hennaed hair, tall and slim, and wearing a simple crêpe de Chine dress in soft shades of green. Which was the woman and which was her reflection? And how long had she been standing there?
On her guard, Paraiti watched as the woman approached her. As had been obvious when she drove past, she was pale, beautiful. Her skin was powdered to perfection; her eyes were green, flecked with gold, the irises large and mesmerising and full. Paraiti resisted the hypnotic gaze, and immediately the woman’s irises narrowed. Then she did something strange — almost seductive. She cupped Paraiti’s chin, lifted her face and clinically observed, then touched, the scar.
The act took Paraiti’s breath away. Nobody except Te Teira had ever been so intimate with her.
‘I was told you were ugly,’ the woman said in a clipped English accent, though not without sympathy. ‘But really, you are only burnt and scarred.’ She withdrew her hands, but the imprint of her fingers still scalded Paraiti’s skin. Then she turned, wandering through the room. ‘My name is Rebecca Vickers,’ she said. ‘Thank you for coming. And if you have stolen anything while you have been alone in the room, it would be wise of you to put it back where it belongs before you leave.’
Paraiti bit back a sharp retort. She tried to put a background to the woman: a well-bred English girl of good family, married to a man of wealth who travelled the world, accustomed to a household run by servants. She clearly regarded Paraiti as being on a similar social level to her maid. But there was also a sense of calculation, as if she was trying to manoeuvre Paraiti into a position of subservience, even of compliance.
‘What might I help you with, Mrs Vickers?’ Paraiti asked. She saw that Maraea had come into the room with a small bowl of water, a flannel and a large towel.
‘Thank you, Maraea.’ Casually, with great self-possession, Rebecca Vickers began to unbutton her dress; it fell to the floor. Her skin was whiter than white, and without blemish. Aware of her beauty, she stepped out of the garment, but kept on her high heels. Although she was wearing a silk slip, Paraiti immediately saw what her artfully designed clothes had been hiding: Mrs Vickers was pregnant. ‘It’s very simple,’ she said, as she removed her underwear ‘I’m carrying a child. I don’t want it. I want you to get rid of it.’
Her directness stunned Paraiti. She recognised the battle of wills that was going on. Mrs Vickers was obviously a woman used to getting her way, and there was nothing to stop Paraiti from leaving except that sense of fate; she would bide her time and play the game. ‘Would you lie on the sofa, please,’ she said brusquely.
‘Oh?’ Rebecca Vickers laughed. ‘I was expecting at least some questions and, surely, just a little … resistance.’
‘My time is precious,’ Paraiti answered as she began her examination, ‘and I doubt whether you are worth my trouble.’ She did not bother to warm her hands, and was pleased to see the younger woman flinch at their coldness. ‘When did you last menstruate? How many weeks have passed since then?’ she asked as she felt Mrs Vickers’ whare tangata — her house of birth — to ascertain the placement of the baby and the point the pregnancy had reached. The uterus had already grown to the height of the belly-button, and the skin was beginning to stretch.
Paraiti concluded her inspection. Mrs Vickers liked to be direct and was expecting … resistance … was she? Time then to be direct, to be resistant and push back. ‘You are a Pakeha,’ she began. ‘Why have you not gone to a doctor of your own kind?’
‘Of course I have consulted European doctors,’ Rebecca Vickers answered somewhat scornfully, ‘and much earlier than this when I realised I was pregnant. Whatever they did to me did not work.’
‘Then why have you not had further consultations with them?’ Paraiti asked.
‘Don’t think that I haven’t done what you suggest. Just before returning to New Zealand from England I even consulted a back-street abortionist, a butcher who failed in his job. And now no doctor will do what I ask, considering that I’ve gone beyond the point of no return. But when Maraea saw you in the street today she thought you might offer me some hope. She told me that you Maori have ancient ways, and could get rid of it.’
‘If your doctors cannot perform your miracle for you,’ Paraiti flared, ‘don’t expect me to be able to. Oh yes, I know of herbs that can end the pregnancy, but they work only in the first nine weeks. However your baby is at least double that — too late for the herbs that will make your uterus cramp and break down, so that the baby can be expelled from the womb.’
Angrily, Rebecca Vickers put on her dress again. ‘I knew this was a foolish notion, but Maraea told me that you especially were renowned for your clever hands and that, by manipulation, you could secure the result I seek.’
‘You assumed I would do it just because you asked me?’ Paraiti’s voice overrode the other woman’s. When she had been examining Mrs Vickers the baby had moved, cradling against Paraiti’s palms, almost as if it knew Paraiti was there, trying to snuggle in. And oh, Paraiti’s heart had gone out to it. ‘Why are you intent on ridding yourself of your baby? Most women would be overjoyed to be a mother. A baby is the crown of any woman’s achievement.’
‘You stupid woman,’ Mrs Vickers raged. ‘That is only the case if the husband is the father. How long do you think my husband will keep me when he discovers I am pregnant with another man’s child?’
So that was it.
Rebecca Vickers realised she had gone too far. She reached for a silver cigarette case, opened it and took out a cigarette. ‘Don’t seek to advantage yourself with that information,’ she said to Paraiti, ‘because if you try I’ll see you in prison before you can open your mouth.’ With delicate fingers she removed a shred of tobacco from her lips, inhaled and then pressed on. ‘Are you sure there’s nothing that you can do for me?’ she asked coolly.
‘You are already too far gone,’ Paraiti answered. ‘You will have to carry the child to term.’
‘Have to?’ Rebecca Vickers laughed. ‘I don’t have to do anything.’ She exhaled, paused, then said, in a voice that chilled, ‘Rip it out of my womb.’
‘That would require you to be cut open,’ Paraiti said deliberately. Good, the thought of her lovely skin being marked had made Mrs Vickers flinch. ‘You would be scarred and carry the evidence of the operation. Your husband would know that something had happened.’
‘Men can be so easily duped,’ Rebecca Vickers countered. ‘And Mr Vickers is an old man who wanted the luxury of a young woman. But he is also a man of class and reputation and … he has his vanity. A scar? He would turn a blind eye to that. But evidence that he’d been cuckolded by a younger man? No, his pride would never countenance that. Therefore such an operation wouldn’t be too high a price to pay.’
‘It is too dangerous. You could die, along with the baby.’
‘You’ve been playing me along.’ Rebecca Vickers rose and adjusted her clothes. ‘I don’t like to be treated as a fool.’ Her anger was all the more intense for being so contained. Not a flicker of it disturbed the stillness of her face. ‘Maraea will pay you for your consultation. She will give you a cup of tea before you leave.’ Her reflection locked gaze with Paraiti, and the room filled with eyes from all the mirrors.
Of course it wasn’t as easy as that for Paraiti.
The following day, while she was feeding her animals at Waituhi, she saw the local constable, Harry McIntosh, approaching her gate, huffing and puffing. ‘What have you done now, eh?’ he asked.
She must go with him to Gisborne for questioning. ‘Were you in the vicinity of Waterside Drive yesterday? If so, were you invited into the home of Mrs Rebecca Vickers? She has reported that her servant took pity on an old Maori woman who appeared to be faint from the heat, and that her servant gave her something to eat. She left the woman for a moment to talk to the gardener. Now a diamond bracelet is missing.’
Paraiti was taken to the Gisborne jail. For two days she was imprisoned in a cell: a small room, with one square window, a pallet to sleep on and a hole in the ground to crouch over when you wanted to answer Nature’s call. There were three other cells containing a scatter of men who watched her curiously as she was locked in; one look at her scar and they turned away.
This was not the first time that Paraiti had been imprisoned. Sometimes, jealous Maori whispered about her clandestine medical activities, which led to arrest and incarceration. On such occasions, Paraiti would think of her parents. ‘I am getting off lightly compared with them,’ she would say to herself. ‘My father was imprisoned for two years, my mother died in jail.’
On the third day, she was dozing when she heard approaching footsteps and someone rapping on the bars of her cell. ‘You have a visitor,’ Constable McIntosh said.
Dazed from sleep, Paraiti saw that it was Mrs Vickers, her face hidden behind a dark veil, which was sucked in slightly by her breath whenever she spoke. Her eyes were glowing, triumphant. ‘So, Paraiti … there are more ways than one to skin a cat. I have come to offer you your freedom.’
Behind her, head bowed, was Maraea. ‘Please do as she says, takuta,’ she pleaded. ‘It would be better for all of us.’
‘It is dirty, shameful work,’ said Paraiti. ‘No person would do it.’
‘I will pay you handsomely for your work and your silence. If you do what I have already asked of you I will drop the charges.’
‘They are false and you know it.’
‘Who do you think the authorities would believe?’ Rebecca Vickers smiled. ‘Someone like me? Or …’ — her tone was mocking — ‘someone like you?’
‘Keep your money,’ Paraiti said angrily. ‘Constable?’ she called. ‘We’ve finished our korero here.’
‘I will say when our conversation begins and when it ends,’ Mrs Vickers hissed between clenched teeth.
Paraiti turned her back to the young woman. ‘Get out,’ she said.
Rebecca Vickers raised the veil and stepped closer to the bars. ‘You doctors,’ she continued, ‘Pakeha or Maori, you’re all the same, kei te mimi ahau ki runga ki a koutou.’
Paraiti gasped, shocked at the precise cultured voice articulating the Maori words. She turned, took a few steps towards Mrs Vickers and peered closely at her.
‘Yes, medicine woman, take a good look.’ Mrs Vickers turned her head this way and that for the inspection. Paraiti noted again the flawless skin and the cleverly applied make-up. She caught a glimpse of something else: beneath the powder the surface was glazed, as if it had been treated by some whitening agent.
Paraiti took a step back. ‘Aue, e hine,’ she grieved.
Rebecca Vickers’ eyes widened with anger. She had been expecting some other reaction, some acknowledgement of her cleverness. ‘What an ignorant woman you are, Scarface.’ She smiled mockingly. ‘I expected you, at least, to understand.’ She lowered her veil and left the cell.
Maraea followed her, but suddenly turned to Paraiti. ‘She will kill the baby,’ she said, angrily, ‘make no mistake about it. If she kills herself in doing it, well — if the baby is born, her life will be destroyed anyhow. Mark my words, you will be as much to blame if you do not help her.’
You doctors, you’re all the same, I urinate on all of you.
Paraiti asked the question, even though she already knew the answer. ‘He Maori ia?’
‘Yes,’ Maraea answered. ‘She is Maori.’
‘But the painting in the house … is that not her mother?’
‘Yes, it is her mother,’ Maraea said.
‘Then how …’
But Maraea had already gone.