24.

Needing to be alone with her thoughts, Sue declined Russell’s suggestion that they have dinner together. She wandered about the cottage, a photocopy of the photograph in her hand, willing both the cottage and the photo to give up their secrets. But the house was silent apart from the soughing of the wind and the thrum of rain on the iron roof. In spite of having little appetite, she reheated the pasta she had brought from home. She ate a few forkfuls, leaving the remains, scattered like post-modern art, on her plate. After a time, when the meagre facts had been turned and turned in her head and all the possible combinations and permutations had been explored, when she felt her mind was about to explode and wished she had thought to bring a bottle of wine, Sue decided she should put it all aside and do something useful.

She brought in a few logs from the woodpile and lit the wood-burner, not so much because she was cold as for the comfort of its flame and crackle. She found places to store the miscellany of household items she had brought over that morning, including a bedside lamp, extension cord and spare light bulbs. She carried a dining chair up to the bedroom to stand on while she hung a simple, cream shade to shield the bare bulb dangling in the centre of the room. It was a fiddly job. She fumbled the bulb, but managed to catch it before it dropped to the floor.

Stepping down from the chair carefully she switched on the light and was pleased with the soft glow that now filled the room. She looked forward to snuggling into bed later, listening, as Brigitte would have many times, to the rain and wind pummelling their little cottage. After placing the chair against one wall, Sue returned to the living room. Setting aside the picture of Brigitte and the cottage, she picked up the book she had bought in La Rochelle, throttled back the burner and curled up on the sofa. She had struggled through additional details of the political manoeuvring between the French Government and the Nanto-Bordelaise Company, which preceded the emigration, and was now reading more about Captain Lavaud: how he was concerned about drunkenness and idleness among the settlers, and how he persuaded Mr Robinson, the Police Magistrate, to create a law banning the sale of liquor to the French.

She wondered whether Claude might have been one of the drunken settlers, in view of what she had learnt of his history, and whether he might have seen the inside of the gaol. But reading the French text, though fascinating, was slow, and eventually Sue could keep her eyes open no longer.

She had a sensation of falling, falling, arms and legs flailing. No, she wasn’t falling but swimming. The black, sticky substance around her, sucking at her, was mud. Flax blades whipped her face. She could see the cottage ahead but could make no progress towards it, until she noticed her feet were on firm ground. She hauled herself out, crawling on all fours. A semi-circle of strangers stood silently in her path. She knew they were mocking her. As she crawled towards them they did not part but stepped backwards, still denying her passage. Her heart was a bass drum in her head. Clambering to her feet, she took a run at them and leaped. They grabbed at her as she passed overhead, but her mud-slippery legs slid from their grasp. Then she was safely in her cottage. The drumbeat had slowed to a march.

Now it was night. Sue caught a movement out of the corner of her eye. She turned sharply and screamed, a silent, open mouthed, Munch-scream. A man’s face was pressed against the window. A dark face with an intricately patterned tattoo on cheeks and chin. A swirling, vigorous, symmetrical moko that Sue recognised. She started towards the window and the man shrank back. Sue ran to the backdoor and threw it wide. A parallelogram of light fell on the man, as he stood beneath the apple tree. He was tall, barefoot, his shoulders broad and his trousers tied with a piece of rope. Through a swirl of white blossom, she could see his black hair was pulled into a knot on top of his head, a grey and white feather erect in his hair. There was pride in his bearing.

His voice, deep and rich, echoed around her like the nor’west wind, wrapped her, embraced her, repeating one word over and over again, close and then distant, snatched from her – ‘t-i-p-u-n-a-a-a-a-a’ – dying, as the wind.

Sue woke with a start, panic in her throat. A deep chill had entered her and she was trembling. She paused, taking in her surroundings. The burner had all but extinguished. At first she could not move, but eventually willed herself to slide forward out of the armchair, open the glass door and feed logs into the burner. She struggled to remember her dream. The distress returned with the images, but she felt she needed to hold on to the fragments and try to weave meaning from them. The burner crackled as the fire burst into life.

Sue had thought she was discovering herself. She had discovered she was of French extraction and was coming to understand the nuances of meaning that held. Now suddenly she did not know herself again. The facts required reorientation, a whole new perspective. Could her marriage, her family, cope with another upheaval?

Exhausted, she dragged herself up the steep steps to bed.

Sue left Akaroa early next morning. She had slept little, turning over the meagre facts in her head and trying to work out how to proceed.

Maybe the child was Brigitte’s. Brigitte and … the gardener? And the circumstances of the conception: child of passion or child of rape? If rape, Brigitte must have looked at that cherub face every day and been reminded of her violation. Did Claude reject Brigitte when the child was born? She could not have pretended the baby was his. But she was still living in the house they had built. Perhaps if she had been raped by a native, she would have had the sympathy and support of her husband and community. But could one be sure?

Sue felt so close to Brigitte; it was a numinous feeling that could not be translated into words, but which twisted and gripped, a cramp that threatened to drag her down and drown her.

Then another scenario came to her: maybe Brigitte had married again.

 

On arriving in Christchurch, Sue went straight to the library; it had not occurred to her before to check the early marriage records.

And there it was:

1st September 1858. Tātahi and Brigitte Dujardin.

A French woman marrying a Maori – that must have caused a stir in the community, Sue thought. Wondering when the baby had been born, she turned again to the birth records, this time looking for the surname

Tātahi. She found the entry she was seeking:

Waihau Tātahi. Born 27 January 1858; Father: Tātahi; Mother: Brigitte Dujardin.

Born before they had married.

Waihau. With her Charlie’s face. A shiver of excitement and fear passed through Sue. She stood, arms clutched about her, and paced the room, oblivious to the other microfiche users. The pieces were coming together.

But what had happened to Claude? She was working feverishly now. She turned to the death records, starting from the date of the birth of Catherine Marie Dujardin, Brigitte’s younger daughter, and working her way forward. Left to right, up and down, the columns of entries. After an hour, her head was swimming. She left the darkened room and took a turn through the library, but drove herself back to the microfiche room. Shortly her perseverance was rewarded. But what she found was not what she had been searching for.

1854. 4th August. Jules Etienne Dujardin.

Sue gasped. Jules. Dead. Poor Brigitte. She did a rapid calculation.

‘Thirteen years old,’ she whispered. Little more than a boy. Younger than her Jason. In those days, he would have been considered a man at thirteen; he would have been doing a man’s job. She remembered a plaque in the old French cemetery that said some of the earliest deaths had been from drowning. Was this how Jules had died?

Sue continued to follow the death records, year by year. By lunchtime, she had discovered the final piece of the complex puzzle: 1858. 3rd March. Claude Robert Dujardin had died. Little more than a month after Brigitte’s and Tātahi’s son was born.

But even assembling the pieces, there remained a mystery. Sue told herself she must be resigned to never knowing the full story.

When she arrived home, Sue slipped, with some trepidation, into Ben’s study. Buoyed by her research successes, she had decided to Google her paternal grandparents. There might be something; it was worth a try. She approached the computer cautiously, as if it might bite her – again. She glanced at the toolbar – no open files – and exhaled slowly.

She Googled her grandfather and found no entry. So she tried her grandmother.

Ngaire Dujardin Austin, she typed, then waited while icons jiggled and flashed and the computer burbled. She willed it to hurry, in case Ben decided to come home for lunch.

Then suddenly the screen filled with headings: ‘Ngaire Austin … Maori Women’s Welfare League … Otautahi Branch …’ This could not be right. Her grandmother was not Maori. Sue clicked onto the first heading and a webpage appeared. A photograph of some women; an historical entry about the establishment of Te Roopu Wahine Maori Toko I Te Ora O Otautahi … 1952. Names, and among them Ngaire Dujardin Austin, the first secretary. Sue scanned the lines of text, hardly believing what she was reading. “MORE”, it said, in a box at the bottom of the page. She clicked the box and read on: “… the untimely death … the tangi … attended by the MP for Christchurch Central … her young son, now an orphan.” A photo of people sitting on a marae.

Ngaire Austen was obviously Maori and had standing in the Maori community at the time of her death. Sue sat with this information and it made her feel proud. She wondered about the cause of her grandmother’s death, recalling her father’s explanation; she did not believe people could die of a broken heart. She would have to try to procure a copy of her death certificate. But that would mean making an application; it was a job for another day. She returned to the first photograph. There was no caption, and she was left wondering which of the women might be her grandmother. There was one who bore a passing resemblance to her father, she decided, though she looked nothing like Sue’s memory of Ngaire’s sister, Great-Aunt Mary, who cared for the orphaned Bert after his mother’s death. Granted Great-Aunt Mary was an old lady when Sue knew her, but it would never have occurred to Sue that she was Maori.

But the women in the photograph clearly were.

Gazing at the picture, Sue tried to guess how old her grandmother would have been, and guesstimated her year of birth. Feeling driven, she returned to the library, seeking Ngaire’s birth certificate: she had to discover the names of Ngaire’s parents, and their parents. Two generations, she calculated; that was all that were missing now. She was determined to bridge the gap today.

‘How was Akaroa?’ Ben asked, when he arrived home a few minutes after Sue. ‘I thought you might have phoned last night. I tried, but your cell was switched off.’ He propped his briefcase against the sink-bench and took Sue’s face in his hands. He kissed her on the mouth, a warm, open kiss. Sue clasped wet hands behind his neck. It was so long since he had come home and kissed her like this. She could not bear to think this intimacy could again be compromised.

‘You missed me,’ she said. It was a statement not a question.

Ben kissed her again. ‘What gives you that idea?’

Sue turned back to the array of vegetables she had started to prepare.

‘Now that everyone’s home, I’ve got something to show you. Will you dig the kids out of their rooms while I finish these?’

Ben hesitated, mouth open, then left the room.

They all gathered around the kitchen table, dinner simmering gently on the gas hob.

‘Good smells, Mum.’ Jason plonked himself onto a chair, awkwardly arranging his lanky limbs. ‘I’m starving.’

‘What is it?’ asked Charlie.

‘Chicken provençale,’ said Sue.

‘No, what you’ve got to show us.’

Ben shambled in and sat down, shrugging on a light jersey over his work shirt. ‘Well?’ he asked.

Sue took an envelope from the top of the fridge. She withdrew the photocopy of Brigitte and her family and placed it on the table. She clutched her upper arms and held her breath. What would they choose to see in it?

‘Where did you find this?’ asked Charlie.

‘In the Akaroa Museum.’

‘It’s just an old photo.’ Jason got up from the table and went to the fridge.

‘It’s my cottage,’ said Sue.

‘Who are the people?’ Charlie asked.

‘Well, judging from the age of the photo, it must be the original owners. Brigitte and Claude Dujardin.’ Charlie whistled. ‘I mean, Claude’s not in the photo but it’s their house, their family. Isn’t that exciting?’ Cautious, better-indulge-Mum-style agreement rumbled around the table. ‘Wait. I’ll get a magnifying glass.’ Sue rushed from the room. Both Charlie and Ben reached for the glass when she returned.

‘Who’s this Maori kid? And this man? Is he the gardener?’ Charlie peered over her father’s shoulder. ‘Dad. I want a look.’

Ben straightened slowly in his chair and turned to Sue, the glass still clutched firmly in his hand. Their eyes met. No word passed between them.

‘Dad. My turn.’ Charlie took the magnifying glass. ‘Do you know the girls’ names, Mum?’

‘The older one is Marie Suzanne –’

‘Like you.’

‘ – and the younger is Catherine Marie. Marie was Brigitte’s mother’s name.’

Jason was munching a chunk of cheddar, washing it down with milk.

‘Pretty girls,’ Charlie said, as she moved the glass over the page, ‘especially the older one.’ She paused over the Maori child and scrutinised him for some time. ‘Who is this?’

‘Does he look like anyone you know?’ asked Sue.

‘No. Why would he?’ Charlie looked again. ‘I suppose he does look a little bit like old photos of me.’

Jason spluttered into his milk. ‘Next she’ll be saying she’s a Maori princess.’

Ben sat tight-lipped.

‘But so what?’ Charlie continued. ‘All kids look alike, don’t they?’ Sue had set out on this enquiry on a whim, as an antidote to boredom, she now realised, and it had developed a life of its own – more than that, it had become her life, and she was forcing her family to follow. She wondered now how they would cope with this knowledge, which challenged their sense of who they were. Particularly Jason; particularly now.

Being a young Maori male had connotations in this family – they had been expounded so often around the dinner table. Would the news be harmful to his image of himself? she wondered. Would it be harmful to Ben’s image of his son? Sue had seen in Ben’s eyes that he understood the probable significance of the likeness between the Maori child and Charlie. And he had said nothing, as if willing it not to be so; as if willing Sue to dig no further, to let it go. Sue wondered if, in finding herself, she risked losing her husband and children. But she had come so far she had to continue.

‘Our family is more Maori than French,’ she said.

‘Cool!’ said Charlie, bouncing on her chair.

‘Fuck, Mum!’ Jason pushed back his chair and turned to his father with an appealing gesture.

‘A high impact presentation. Just great! You should be on the lecture circuit.’ Ben’s eyes sparked.

‘She’s making it up, isn’t she?’ Jason said to his father, his voice pleading, and just for a moment Sue wished that were so.

‘No, Jase. I wouldn’t do that,’ she said quickly. She watched the alliance between husband and son growing. Did Ben, too, wish it were not so? Or was he only concerned for his son? ‘Listen. The Maori child is Waihau Tātahi, son of Brigitte and that man who looks like the gardener. His name is Tātahi, and they were married after her husband Claude died. Don’t ask me how it all came about. I only know the facts. We are descended from Brigitte and Tātahi, not Brigitte and Claude.’

‘Well, fuck you!’ shouted Jason, his face blotchy red.

Sue looked at Ben, appealing, waiting for him to censure their son.

‘What the hell are you trying to do to this family?’ Ben’s accusation stabbed Sue in the chest, squeezing the breath from her. His expression mirrored his son’s as he paced the room, filling it with his voice. ‘The only person you think about these days is yourself!’ He stopped to tower above Sue, jaw muscles balled, fists clenched. Was he going to hit her?

‘Dad!’ Charlie grabbed Ben’s arm, and his hands opened, becoming once more the hands Sue knew.

‘That’s just part of it. Look,’ she said. She grabbed a piece of paper and a pen and started drawing a family tree. ‘I Googled Dad’s parents and found that his mother’s parents were both Maori. Her full name was Ngaire Dujardin Austen, born Tātahi. She helped found the Maori Women’s Welfare League in Christchurch. Her father was Tiaki Dujardin Tātahi and her mother was a Kahununu woman called Bessie Apeta. Tiaki was one of Waihau’s children. It’s all there.’

‘Are you prepared to throw away everything we have over … over a …’

Sue slowly drew herself to her feet. ‘Over a what?’ she asked in a slow, warning tone. ‘Over what?’ she repeated, her voice rising in pitch. ‘A whim? Is that what you were going to say?’ Sue could feel herself winding tighter and tighter. This was not what she had wanted. ‘You of all people,’ she said to her husband, ‘should know how important this family is to me. I have devoted my life to this family, and not regretted a moment of it. But now it is my turn. I have a life, too. And I have a history and a family that goes beyond the people in this room. And my children share that heritage and have a right to know of it. It doesn’t change who we are, none of us. But it might alter how we feel about ourselves and how we stand in the world. Now we have the knowledge, it’s up to each of us how we choose to use it. Hopefully to enrich our lives, not to shred them or to tear each other apart.’

The room became very still. The tick of the carriage clock reverberated. Slowly Sue reached out, letting her fingers graze the skin of Ben’s forearm. He dropped his head. Charlie started to shuffle her feet and twist her hair. Jason sat hunched in his chair, his back to the rest of the family. At least everyone had remained in the room.