The Larnachs (5 page)

Donny, Colleen and Alice are even more uneasy, for a contrary reason: the fear that Father will leave everything to Conny, and so our inheritance will be lost, including the money Mother brought to her marriage. I’m prepared to trust Father, and Gladys is too young to understand the matter. He’s been generous to us in the past, and has told me several times that he intends The Camp eventually to be mine. I see nothing in Conny that leads me to think she is hostile to the rest of us, and Father has never been one to be led by the nose in anything! Perhaps Conny has yet to learn that.

If Kate were alive, she may have been the one to achieve
family harmony. She saw no reason for people to be at odds, and thought goodwill and toleration would solve everything. We all loved her; Conny liked her. Donny is offhand and scoffs at Father’s third marriage. No fool like an old fool, he says openly, though he admits Conny is a fine figure of a woman, and has no particular animosity towards her, or the Brandon family. For Colleen and Alice something more personal seems to be at work, which I don’t fully understand. No one expects them to see Conny as their mother, but they also make it clear that they don’t recognise her as Father’s wife in the way to which she’s entitled. Colleen bridles because Conny’s less than a decade older than her, and more than twenty years younger than Father. It’s embarrassing when they’re in society together, Colleen and Alice say. The way Father displays Conny and attempts to play the younger man. It’s like a slap in the face for our mother. In some female fashion they seem to find it logical to blame Conny for Father’s wish to have her.

For myself, I hope to make a more reasonable, less immediate judgement. And I won’t have Gladys prejudiced by her sisters’ opinions. At her age she’s still essentially of the household and must be allowed the best opportunity to be happy with her father and Conny when she is home from school. Colleen and Alice prefer not to come to The Camp. They have much of their lives elsewhere and make obvious their preference for other company.

I met Conny first in Wellington as the daughter of Father’s friend, just one of a rather self-assured and outspoken tribe. The marriage was as much a surprise to me as to the rest of the family, and to Father’s wider acquaintance. Of the four de Bathe Brandon
daughters she’s the eldest and prettiest. Personally I find her figure too slight. She’s petite, and my admiration is more aroused by fuller proportions. Also, she persists in wearing her hair tightly drawn back, as if to prove she’s a modern woman. She carries herself well, and is free from the simpering confusion or conscious archness that so many women affect, but her shrewd interrogations can be disconcerting.

Her father was a great supporter of education and gave his daughters unusual opportunity for accomplishment. I’m not much interested in music, but Conny is agreed to have special talent there. What I do appreciate is her ability to converse on a wide range of topics, and her confidence to substantiate her opinions. She’s formidable in argument, is Conny de Bathe Brandon, and Father delights in that, despite not brooking opposition in others. Men allow good-looking women a latitude they won’t give to plain females and fellow males. But Father’s accustomed to getting his own way, and when the novelty of Conny’s independence wears off, maybe some sparks will fly.

Two nights ago I had another of my dreams. We were dining formally, with Father at the head of the table talking about the newly built ballroom. I think all of the family were there, except Donny’s wife, who’s unwelcome. Others sat with us, but without place settings, or any food, and their faces were indistinct. Mother, Aunt Mary and Conny sat side by side, and, as is the way in dreams, there seemed nothing untoward in that. Father was calling on each of us in turn to twirl about the room. ‘Dance, Kate,’ he cried happily, and she got up obediently. Then, ‘Dance, Eliza’ and ‘Dance, Mary, Colleen
and Alice’, and they did, quite unconcerned and with concentration to perform to their best. ‘Dance, Donny and Gladys.’ But when Conny was called on she didn’t reply, or rise, just kept on with her meal. Father merely laughed and continued to call us up, until all except Conny, even the shadowy, unnamed guests, were dancing in the dining room under the ornately carved ceiling as if that was the accepted practice. Yet I was embarrassed to find that my old injury had returned in full, so that I could move only clumsily and with pain. All other dancers seemed graceful, while I was a fool, and tried to avoid being in Father’s sight, or Conny’s. My last awareness in the dream was that there were a great many plates of assorted nuts on the table that I hadn’t seen before, and the time began to feel like Christmas. Conny remained seated and alone, yet quite composed and looking away from the dancing. What strange visits we pay in our sleep.

Since she’s been at The Camp, I’ve become aware of Conny’s considerable estimation of herself, and a certain sharpness, even asperity, in her observations concerning other folk. She can be especially hard on the people she’s been introduced to here in Otago, and doesn’t seem to care that her witticisms can sometimes give offence. She’s a great one for women’s advancement, and quite determined to take an active part in pushing for the vote, even arguing the point with parliamentarians she meets socially. I don’t doubt her quick mind, but she can be dismissive of those with a lesser intelligence, especially if they’re ignorant as well. She doesn’t conceal her impatience with silly or shallow people.

Soon after her arrival at The Camp, she offended some of us
in the family by mocking an
Otago Witness
cutting in the family scrapbook, recording musical items my sisters and I had given in Mr Young’s barn in aid of the Hooper’s Inlet school organ fund. Donny’s wife was there too and sang ‘Remember me no more’ and ‘Across the far blue hills, Marie’. Alice played the violin, Colleen Welsh airs on the harp, and I sang ‘Goodbye’ and ‘For ever’. All very bucolic no doubt, and Conny’s criticism was of the music chosen rather than individuals, but she was hurtful all the same without intending it. ‘No doubt it was all for a good cause,’ she said, ‘and the organ remains an inspiration for the schoolchildren.’ Alice in particular got in a great huff and came to The Camp even less afterwards.

People talk, of course, about the difference in their ages, but when Father’s recovered from the loss of Kate, I think they could well be happy. Conny will make him a suitable wife in many ways. She’s used to the life of a politician, and she’s an accomplished hostess. Father likes having people of his choice around him: lively conversation, music, even gossip and practical jokes. Aunt Mary was never comfortable, or successful, in being equal partner at such gatherings.

I wonder, though, how Conny will find life at The Camp rather than in Wellington. Dunedin is over an hour away, and now that Father is no longer in Parliament they may be here much of the time. Both Mother and Aunt Mary found life here isolated and preferred the Manor Place house in town. Mother never got used to the cold, or to the rawness around her.

I’m selfish enough to be concerned, too, for the way in which
their residence at The Camp may affect my own position. When Father regains his interest in affairs, I’m unlikely to retain full control of the day-to-day running of the property, and all the effort I’ve put into establishing myself, and proving my competence, may be for nothing.

It’s also put a damper on having my own friends at The Camp, not just because of Kate’s death, but because Father doesn’t think much of them, apart from Robert, whose father is a business friend. Robert has come from England and, like me, doesn’t completely fit in with the set here. Father finds us too idle, and not resolute enough in forging careers for ourselves. He doesn’t reflect that there may be other roads to fulfilment apart from his own
self-help
and industry. It’s just as well he knows nothing of some of the weekends in his absence: Robert, Hugo and others lairing with me outrageously. He accepted the story I gave him regarding the damage to the wishing well, and the disappearance of his peacocks.

Such mobbing times weren’t my favourites in any case. Too many of the people came to enjoy hospitality that they hadn’t the inclination, or the resources, to return. The Camp and I were used: friends invited friends who brought acquaintances. Donny’s nature is inclined to such largesse, but he’s seldom with us now. Some fellows regarded the women servants as part of the extended hospitality, and on two occasions the consequences were both embarrassing and costly for me. I’ve only once given in to a dalliance with one of the maids, a loose-limbed, forward girl who gave me considerable pleasure despite her love bites, but who became increasingly demanding of my attention. Thankfully
she didn’t conceive and I found an excellent position for her in Oamaru, and gave her five pounds besides.

I’ve come to prefer having just one or two good friends here, and joining larger groups at the Fernhill Club, or in town. Robert I like best. He can be something of a beast with women, and goes off for days at a time without any warning, or explanation when he returns, and he has black moods as well as more frequent times of high humour. He’s a full drinker on his day, but holds it well and becomes neither maudlin nor unpleasant. He has a sense of the possibility in life, and the deficiencies and crudity of much here compared with England. Like me, I think Robert chafes at a father’s close instruction and high expectation. More than anything else he’d like to own and train racehorses, but hasn’t the means for it, and is restless in the dull grain business in which his father has an interest. He and I sometimes spend a whole day riding on the peninsula, or take a dinghy out from Waverley and fish in the channel. Such times give us greater pleasure than the all-night loo sessions in the card rooms at the club. ‘Ride hard, live hard, die hard,’ he says.

I’d been on the water the day I received the news of Kate’s death in Wellington. It was fine, but cool, with an incoming tide making the dinghy strain at anchor. I was in the boat alone, and I remember that as I looked at the headlands on both sides, the wildness of them, the almost total absence of habitation, I was struck by the contrast with the beach at St Leonard’s on Sea, where Jeremy Pointer and I would row back and forth on half-days, happy simply to be beyond the school grounds. There was noise and
bustle on the shore, and the huddled buildings, and boats coming and going, and the two of us determined not to think of classrooms, house matches and dormitories, as if hopeful forgetfulness might prevent their return.

So much a contrast to Dunedin’s channel, with its currents and sand bars to be avoided and no other vessels to be seen. The cod hadn’t troubled my line that day, yet I sat contentedly enough with the anchor rope refracted beneath the water surface, and a light slapping on the clinker sides of the dinghy. Kate was dead, but I still unaware of it, safe with the sounds and colours and smells of everyday life around me. Odd, those small overlaps of time, when we are still happy, yet tragedy has already come.

Father’s too restless for fishing. He needs movement and talk and people when he’s well. He loves to go to race meetings on the Taieri, and often challenges his friends to better his times into town from The Camp. He’s an unorthodox rider, but a skilled one from his rough and ready days on Victorian farms and goldfields. When he visited Uncle Donald in England at Brambletye the local horse and hound people joked about William Lanarch’s colonial style, but he was seldom unhorsed, and was invariably in the vanguard of the hunt. In Sussex, to ride well is as important an indication of position as having a suitable tailor. Donny and I learnt there the more correct style, but that means nothing here.

When I came back to the colony, Father was upset by the obvious signs of my injury, yet neither of us blamed the horse and I still love to ride. The effects of the fall are always with me, and a reminder to be cautious, yet what moments of exhilaration I have
are almost all when I’m riding. Donny says that’s because I lack experience with women. He means just to provoke revelation, as well as suggesting success on his own account — those trips to London with Pembroke College friends he likes to refer to, and the social freedom of Auckland’s more bohemian elements. I’ve my own club and riot stories, but prefer not to share them. Everything a Larnach does in Dunedin tends to be known sooner or later, and we have our enemies. Conny will be subject to that now like the rest of us. Her dress and speech, her deportment, her manner with equals and inferiors, her choice of friends and charities, her influence with my father, even her teeth and jewellery, will be assessed. It’s people’s nature to look enviously at those above them, rather than be satisfied that so many are worse off than themselves.

Tomorrow I’ll go in and visit Ellen Abbott, with whom I’ve been keeping company on and off. Her family has been to The Camp several times, and I’m in good standing with her parents. Mrs Abbott has perhaps some suspicions of my intentions, but she’s a woman keen for social advancement. On Wednesdays she visits her elderly mother, and after I’ve sat with her and Ellen for morning tea, suffered the conversation while disguising boredom and impatience, she will leave, and Ellen and I will be alone. I will persuade Ellen to come with me where we can hear the door, but not be seen from it, and we will hug and kiss, standing hard against the wall, and I will lift her skirts. If I’m lucky, and their housekeeper is out shopping, I might have her come with me to her bedroom and do the whole thing in a flurry there despite the wad of clothing. Or my persuasion may be unsuccessful. ‘Is this all
you come for?’ she asked me on my last visit, and burst into tears when my answer didn’t convince her otherwise. What guilt there is in such accusation, for the truth is that in every other aspect of her company I prefer my male friends. Perhaps that’s the way it is between men and women.

I
see an end to our established life here in Otago, and surprise myself somewhat by admitting that I am in two minds concerning a return to Wellington, where William will take up parliamentary duties once again and we will live during sessions. The two years here have not been unhappy, despite money matters being still much on William’s mind. He has regained some of his optimism and equanimity, takes an interest in the property here and we are often in society. Kate will never be forgotten, but his grief is no longer incapacitating.

Both Richard Seddon, whom William has known since their Victorian days, and Joseph Ward were insistent that William stand for election again. Flattering visits and telegrams overcame William’s conviction that politics is an ill-rewarded distraction from his own pressing business affairs. Seddon was determined to have him and has implicitly promised the knighthood that would be
the just reward for William’s insufficiently recognised service as minister of mines, and the raising of loans in London for which Julius Vogel took credit. For William, a knighthood has become the essential recognition for all that he has achieved for the colony, often at great financial and personal cost. Vogel, also William’s acquaintance in Australia in the early days, has received such an accolade for a good deal less, and that galls William. Sir William James Mudie Larnach is a great mouthful, but how hungry he is for it, as I am sure Seddon knows. He deserves it, and I am not averse to its advantages, but there is something just slightly belittling in such undisguised ambition.

William was defeated as a candidate for Wakatipu in the general election at the end of ’93 because of the opposition of Catholic voters, and slurs in the local paper, but Seddon would not give up and implored him to stand in the by-election for the Tuapeka electorate only months later.

Few wives here accompany their husbands when campaigning, but then I have become quite accustomed to disconcerting the staid matrons of Dunedin, and for me it is a celebration of the granting of the vote to women at last. What a triumph for us, and a test of eminent men that we women will not soon forget. Hall, Stout, Vogel, Fox and Ballance all for us, and William too, though Richard Seddon, as premier, did his best to undermine everything after Ballance’s death. And the wretched Henry Fish here, our great enemy, called the talking fish, and the cuttle fish, lost his seat as soon as women had the vote. Bessie Hocken and I had an open toast to his demise at the choir Christmas party, and I wrote to
Mrs Kate Sheppard to congratulate her and her organisation. In her reply she told me of the premier’s unsuccessful manoeuvring to defeat the bill, and then his outwardly generous telegram to her conceding victory. He is a more devious man than his bluff exterior might suggest.

William was delighted to have me with him on the hustings. One of his most endearing attributes is the pleasure he shows in my presence with him in public. I take that as a compliment, and do not reflect too much that his attention then is more welcome than in our private moments.

In those weeks I saw him at his best and admired in him qualities I have perhaps begun to take for granted. His natural bonhomie enables him to engage with people from all walks of life, and both genders. If perhaps there is a slight coarseness in comparison with the most refined people of the colony, it is more than compensated for by achievement and openness, and more than any other person, except Seddon himself, William can reach the hearts of ordinary people. Men in particular see that he has intimate knowledge of the lives they lead, despite the position and wealth he has gained, and they are swayed by the directness and forcefulness of his speech. His command to rowdy hecklers to ‘kennel up, you curs’ has become almost a legend, shouted by his supporters at any who opposed him during the Tuapeka meetings.

His opponent in the by-election was Mr Scobie Mackenzie, a great landowner and a man of self-regard and condescension. It was a close thing, but William triumphed by less than sixty votes. He and Mackenzie went at it hammer and tongs, to the great delight
of the voters who gathered in church and town halls, and sheds, or congregated from their work in open spaces if the weather was fine. Both of them said things improper for women to hear, and both sexes enjoyed the comment all the more for that impropriety. It heartened me to see the number of women there, and I hope my presence with my husband on many of the campaign trips encouraged them to take full advantage of the greater political responsibility they have been granted. They have turned out to vote in excellent numbers, and now must become accustomed to using the power of the franchise to remedy long-standing discrimination against themselves in both law and practice.

Dougie tells me that his father is a man’s man, but he has a regard for women that goes beyond the natural admiration the male sex is born with. At a musical evening in Wellington before my marriage, Joseph Ward, another before whom Seddon dangles a knighthood, told me that William supported women’s franchise, and he later proved it, though I have not yet persuaded him that we are quite responsible enough to be members of the colony’s Parliament. I will come again at him with that question. William allows me liberties in argument that he opposes in others, and that is surely one of the privileges of a wife. He will not be cowed himself, and has no respect for those who allow themselves to be cowed. Dougie sometimes shows impatience at what he sees as his father’s old-fashioned views, but William has a strong concern for the common man despite his own elevation. He spoke up for the decent treatment of Chinese miners here when others were hostile, or indifferent, and his employees are treated better than
most. Some of the household staff have taken advantage of his goodwill. I have had cause to correct several who had become lax, or presumptuous, when poor Mary was mistress of The Camp, and later when there was no mistress and Dougie was in charge.

Being out on the hustings has made me realise that life is not easy for many of these people in out-of-the-way places. We were given the best public accommodation, and that was often only bearable. The glimpses of everyday life make me aware how fortunate I have been in family and circumstance. Heavens, the smell of many of those in service, and many whose position offers less excuse. And the familiarity of address. Local chairmen of this or that insignificant board who spoke at length and grandly of their contributions and aspirations, while my attention wandered to their grimy collars and fingernails. I have been invited to see rabbits shot, to join a good lady in salting pork and to instruct spinster women in the putting up of their hair. It is hard for women here, and many are coarsened by work and weather. In the city I am active in improving the lot of my sex, but I find it difficult to see how much can be achieved in remote places at present.

William loves to travel, despite the fact it must tire him more than it would a younger person. The long sea voyages, the wearisome steamer trips to Wellington and back, the uncomfortable coaches on ill-formed roads, seem little to him in his consuming interest in new places, people and opportunities. When he was minister of mines he insisted on visiting camps no other politician would contemplate. Even Donald and Dougie, who accompanied him separately on such trips at different times, were left in his wake. He
is not a settled man: change and movement are his defence against any gloomy circumstance and there is extra excitement when things go well. Only to Kate’s death did he temporarily succumb.

Yet he is an unlucky traveller who has experienced a variety of accidents, not all from riding hard. The family joke with him about this attraction for misfortune, but there is no humour when you are caught up in it, as happened on our return trip from Lawrence after celebrating William’s election success. There had been heavy rain, and at one of the worst of the swollen rivers William urged the driver on, despite misgivings on my part. The carriage gave a horrid lurch, swung side on to the current and the whole thing overturned. The swirling water, furious in sound and movement, seemed suddenly to have come to malicious life. I thought I would surely die, if not drowned, then killed by the panicking horses. The weight of sodden clothes in such circumstances places a woman at great disadvantage, and any movement is difficult. For one instant my face was below the water, and I could see the blurring image of my boot against the sky. I believe my life was saved only by hanging onto an iron rail, and by William, who heaved me to the bank, all dignity forgotten.

There we were in the wilderness, bedraggled and shivering on the stones and among the tussock, with the driver and William arguing loudly as to fault. I think William expected me to be angry at his impetuousness, but I was satisfied just to be alive. And I had been determined to accompany him on his electioneering after all. We had to remain chilled and soaking wet for over two hours while the coachman rode one of the horses bareback to the nearest
habitation. The people, who were called Driffel, came down with a buggy and took us back to their cramped place, made partly of yellow sod.

My case had been taken from the water before it was saturated so I was able to change into clothes that were only slightly damp. Mrs Driffel remained with me throughout, commenting on the garments effusively. In other circumstances I would have asked to be left alone to dress, but felt under some obligation. I think our misfortune provided her with pleasing variety in a lonely and narrow life. She was born in Waterford, she told me, came out as a servant and had three proposals of marriage before the ship landed, with better ones to follow. Judging by the appearance of her husband, the earlier men must have been markedly unprepossessing. Mrs Driffel was more interested in my travelling clothes, especially the one silk embroidered evening dress, than in the newly elected member for Tuapeka, though William sat down with her husband as if with an equal. Everything I owned she exclaimed over and proclaimed ‘fit for bridal wear’.

They have no help in the house, or on the property, and do everything themselves. Mrs Driffel was excessively proud of a cheap oval mirror fixed to their bedroom wall. Her face was brown, her hands roughened with work and her teeth quite wrecked. The winters are exceedingly harsh in these inland places. She knows nothing of Dunedin life, has no society and is a sort of cheerful drudge. She lost one child in birth; the other is a ragged boy of seven or eight without speech who ran about and grinned.

Not all has been melodrama and success, however. In May, we
attended the funeral of the Reverend Dr Stuart of Knox Church, whom we both admired: William because he came of humble Scottish stock and was yet another example of what can be achieved by industry, enterprise and self-help, and I rather because he was generous, open-hearted and liberal. He was a chairman of the boys’ and girls’ high schools, chancellor of the university and also knocked on the doors of the poor. He was many times at The Camp, and often we talked of books and music, as well as the numerous families dependent on William for their livelihood. He had a particular love of cats. As he sat with us he would put one of the tabbies on his knee and fondle its ears. ‘A cat is the best of friends,’ he said once. ‘It gives affection, but retains independence.’

Two years before his death, almost to the day, he was the minister for Alice’s wedding to William Inder at The Camp. None of us have particularly taken to her choice, but that is of no consequence. The wedding was not large, and the weather was cold. Alice and her bridesmaids, Colleen and Gladys, wore dresses of serge trimmed with fur, and stayed in the grounds only long enough for photographs, despite the weeks of preparation by the gardeners. My William was hurt by the lack of gratitude and affection from both of them. Dougie and Gladys apart, the family are a grasping lot.

Dr Stuart’s cheerful and obliging manner was instrumental in the occasion passing off well enough. He was a great mingler, and it was difficult not to respond generously in his company. I remember that day he told me that as a young man in the old country he had taught small children to raise the money he needed to pursue his
studies. He said with mock seriousness that once you understand children, adults pose little problem. His death has left a gap here in Dunedin, and in our personal society.

But it is Dougie I will miss most on our return to Wellington, even more than Bessie Hocken, and Gladys too, though she is at the convent with her cousin Gretchen, Donald’s girl, and when the two of them are at The Camp they are close and mysterious. Gladys perhaps shows more reserve towards me than formerly, but not the antagonism of her sisters. I was initially obliging towards them, and have remained civil, but because I insist on my due as William’s wife, they seldom visit us. William takes my side, but I sense a growing sadness at estrangement within his family, and hope that he will not come to see me as the cause of it.

Despite his liking to talk of the good old days, he hardly ever mentions Eliza or Mary. This past Thursday, however, I had an unpleasant brush with one of these predecessors while replacing some of William’s journals in the library. From one he had been reading fell an open envelope bearing Eliza’s name, and within it were some pale, pressed flowers and a miniature painting signed by her. Executed on a gum leaf, it was a view of a sinuous road through scattered trees and scrub. The intrinsic merit was slight, but that showed the more the sentimental value he attached to it. The incident reminded me that my own father’s first wife died soon after they came to the colony, and I have never thought to ask my mother whether she ever felt the presence of the earlier woman in her marriage. Since becoming a wife, I find myself closer to my mother, more understanding of the placating nature that once
made me impatient, and I champion her sometimes when Fanny or Sarah complains.

I am not superstitious, or much concerned by shades of the past, and Dougie says his mother disliked The Camp and preferred to spend her time at Manor Place in Dunedin. But it is impossible to live here in William’s grand house, with his and Eliza’s children, and Mary’s existence recent, and not at times feel some oppression from these women, and the extent of his former life so much greater than my own. The Camp can be a lonely place for its mistress, for although there are always people about, of those who live here only William and Dougie are of my own station in life.