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Foxton
1922–1926
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1922
On the morning of Daniel’s 80th birthday, he and Emma shared an early morning cup of tea. They had been living in their new home in Purcell Street, Foxton for the last year, built with help from money their sons had given them, but in their own home, nevertheless. Emma loved the place, nestled on the flat at the end of the road, sheltered by trees and surrounded by garden. She still enjoyed gardening and her roses in particular.
The rest of the family would arrive later in the morning for a celebratory lunch. Emma stoked the coal range and put the large roast of lamb on to cook slowly. She finished peeling the pile of potatoes, kumara and pumpkin and put them into another dish. They would have more food than was needed since the girls were all bringing their own special dishes and baking, but that didn’t stop her preparing extra. Wiping her hands on the kitchen towel, she moved across the room to where Daniel sat in his usual chair reading the newspaper, content to be in the same room as her, watching her work. Emma placed her hand on his shoulder and kissed the top of his head.
He covered her hand with his own and looked up into her face. “Do you remember that day when Fred came home?”
“Course, I do, Charlie. That was a wonderful and terrible day, rolled into one. I was so shocked to see him. I remembered him as he was before they sent him away, a young man with a spring in his step and happiness in his heart. He came back a broken man. As did many others.”
“He was worse than I expected,” agreed Daniel.
“He’s not been the same since, but why talk about that this morning of all mornings?”
“Just thinking back over my time on this earth. Everyone tells me that being eighty is a great achievement. Have I had any great achievements, Emma? Did I do the right things in my life?”
“What is this maudlin talk? Of course you have. Why, look, only this week you heard you are getting that military pension you wanted, come this June. Four pound odd. That’s a lot of money. We had seven wonderful children. Our Lizzie may be gone from us, but we have all the others back safe and sound, and so many grandchildren now. You enjoy them even though you pretend to be grumpy sometimes. And you had your work. Hard as it was sometimes, you were never out of work, and then when you had the council contracts you did well. You toiled your piece of land just like you planned when you first came here. You can be proud of your life, Daniel Adin. How about another cuppa?”
Daniel nodded. Emma chatted as she made the tea.
“I am so happy that Fred married Annie. Must be nigh on two years ago now. She has been good for him, and his little daughter has given him more hope for the future. There’ll be more, mark my words.”
“I was glad that Henry was released from prison in time for him to be best man,” said Daniel.
“Yes. That was nice, since they both missed Amy’s wedding to Roy.” Emma sighed as she handed Daniel his cup and sat in the chair opposite. “I don’t think there’ll be any children from that marriage. It’s been four years now and no sign. Amy doesn’t say anything, and I wouldn’t dare ask, but they are happy. That’s all I’d ever ask since that dreadful war. For my children to be happy.”
“The war to end all wars is what they’re calling it, Emma. I hope they’re right but I’m not so sure.”
“Do you know when Henry and Fred will get their civil rights back?” asked Emma.
“Not for another few years yet. About 1928 I think. Not that they would want to work for a government who did what they did to them, but the right to vote like every other man and woman is fundamental to this country. Pity Fred moved to Bulls, though. I don’t see nearly as much of him as I’d like.”
“Don’t moan,” scolded Emma. “William’s nearby, and Henry’s still with us. Fred’ll be here later. You can talk to him then.”
“I know that, but sometimes ... oh, I don’t know ...” Daniel’s voice petered out.
“What? What are you trying to say?”
“There are things I want to talk to them about but feel I can’t. As soon as I mention anything to do with Fred’s time overseas or Henry’s time in gaol, they clam up.”
“I think William talks to them, but I suspect they want to forget it all,” said Emma.
“No. I don’t agree. One thing’s for certain, they aren’t forgetting. Not by a long shot.”
“Henry’s got himself involved with the Labour Party; why don’t you talk to him about that? It’s always interesting to hear what he has to say and to meet some of his friends.”
“True. But did I do right by them, Emma? Did you and I do our best for our boys, teaching them what we did? They suffered so much. Was it our fault?”
Emma considered his questions. The same doubts had crossed her mind more than once, knowing she had been the one who had always condemned war, condemned the bosses for taking advantage of their workers, condemned governments for treating people as their property to do their dirty work.
“All we did was tell our stories, Charlie. You came to this country for a better life and you made a good one. For you, me and our children. My father and mother, God rest her soul, also brought us to this country for the same reason. Life doesn’t always work out as you’d want, but in this country it is so much better than anything we experienced over there. Bit by bit New Zealand has grown strong because the workers are its strength, because ordinary people like you and me can be landowners, have a say in who governs, and how. We have control over our lives. That’s what we taught them.”
Daniel smiled at her vehemence. “I think you are painting a rather rosy picture there, my dear, especially of my reasons for coming here. But with the passing of the years, you are mostly right. Life has been good to us.”
“The boys knew what they were doing and made their choices. We couldn’t have made them become soldiers to save themselves any more than the army could.”
“You’re right again, as usual. What would I have done without you? Looking back, I should have spent more time with you when I could have. Rather than in the pub, or at the racetrack.”
“What are you talking about? What’s brought all this on? You wouldn’t have a changed a thing and you know it.”
“Oh. Don’t mind me. It’s just the mutterings of an old man. I was remembering an old saying my ma used to tell me – at the end of the day you only regret the things you didn’t do, not the things you did.”
“Humph.” Emma pulled herself out of the armchair and to her feet. “Enough now. They’ll be here before we know it, and I have work to do.”
As Emma predicted, the house was soon overrun with people. The sound of everyone talking at once as her family took off their coats and shoes, put the children down to run around, placed plates of food on the table, followed by the scraping of chairs and the rattle of cups as the first pot of tea was made was music to her ears. Even Daniel was happy. His spirits had lifted with the arrival of those who meant so much to him, even if he didn’t always show it.
“Happy Birthday, Pa. How are you feeling?” was said time and again by one and all.
Presents were handed round. “Give us a hug,” Daniel said to all the grandchildren as they came near him.
Laughter filled the air.
Life had pretty much settled back to what it had been. William had expanded his farm contracting work, Henry had gone back to the flax mill and Fred found work in the timber mills. Today the talk was of politics, a favourite topic, and the economy: the value of goods, the price of flax, wool, meat or milk – whatever it happened to be, the export trade, or how good or bad the employment opportunities were.
“It’s all because we have rights,” said William, echoing his mother’s words. “Jack is as good as his master, and everyone has food in their mouths and a roof over their head that isn’t put there or taken away again at the whim of some master.”
“No, it’s me who does that,” said Chas, taking the opportunity to lighten the moment. He waved his finger at his children. “Remember that, you lot. It’s my hard work and sweat that makes sure you’ll want for nothing.”
“Don’t forget me,” added his Nell, known for her strong will and determination. “It’s me who actually puts the food on the table, and it’ll be me who’ll fight anybody who tries to take it away.”
Everyone roared with laughter, knowing this to be true.
1925
Christmas Day, always a noisy family day, was surprisingly subdued. Everyone, from Emma down to the oldest grandchildren, remarked how Daniel hadn’t been his usual self for some time. They were concerned. He was showing his age. The death of Elsie, Lizzie’s girl, in November last had affected him greatly. Not that any of them knew her well, since Ted Howe had taken her away. Yet they were all upset to learn she had died of scarlet fever in the Bottle Lake Hospital at Burwood. Now she was gone, at only twenty, and her story gone with her.
Throughout the day, everyone tried their best to keep up the laughter, jokes and friendly rivalry that was the family norm, but it often fell flat, ending in silences as they looked at Daniel. Sometimes he sat in his chair with his eyes closed, listening. Other times he sat at the head of the table, but said nothing. Only the youngest children didn’t notice that Daniel didn’t respond, didn’t join in.
Emma looked around the room, ticking them off one by one, thinking about each of them. What a lot of them there are now. Chas and Nell with their nine little ones, counting young Malcolm born last month. Little Nellie, their eldest – and my favourite, admitted Emma to herself – who at fifteen was proving a good help to her mother. My goodness, where have all the years gone?
William was there with his Mary and her boy, Basil. I wonder if they will get married. William is too reserved these days.
Henry, of course, and Clara and Bill with their twelve-year-old Violet; Fred and Annie with their three daughters, and lastly Amy and her Roy; twenty-seven of them for Christmas dinner! They all still missed Lizzie and wished they had known Elsie better, but being the large, noisy, close-knit family they were, nothing kept them low for long.
Sitting around the table over the remains of a pot of tea and Emma’s fresh baking they missed their father’s presence. He had risen from the table after lunch, announcing he was going to take a rest.
“How is Pa?” asked Chas of his mother.
“Not good today. Something is building but I don’t know what. He’s sleeping a lot.”
“Has he complained of anything, Ma?” asked Amy.
“No. He does get tired and likes to sit in that chair in peace and quiet. He’ll read the paper and sit outside in the sun sometimes, but he doesn’t go far these days.”
“Has he been to the doctor?”
“Him? No. Don’t fret now, he’s getting old, that’s all. He’s all right. Put the kettle on again and let’s have another cuppa.”
“How about you tell us some stories of Pa when you were young, Ma?” said Fred.
“You don’t want to hear all those again, do you?”
“Yes. Tell us what he was like.”
Soon the room was alive with laughter again. Teacups rattled. Cigarettes were lit. The odd sherry or ale poured. Voices spilled over one another as each put in their memory of an occasion or story.
Into a sudden silence Amy asked, “How do you see him, Ma?”
After a moment’s hesitation, Emma decided to be forthright. “Your pa is my life. My best friend. I hope you will all be as happy as I have been. There were difficulties, but we overcame them. You have to. There was hardship, but your father never gave in. He would work until he dropped. That’s what makes him strong. He’s a gentle man. A loving man, despite his gruffness. He loves you all so much. This is not like him.” Despite her words, Emma was worried. Her eyes kept moving to the doorway hoping to see him.
“I remember Pa always liked a good time – lots of people and beer, singing and laughter. That’s what I remember most about him,” said Henry.
“By the time you came along, Bill and I had Pa straightened out. I remember having lots of chores when I was a boy,” said Chas.
“Didn’t do you no harm, either, my lad,” said Emma. “You boys are all like him in different ways. He can be stubborn, as you all should know. But caring and loyal. Determined. Hard-working. But don’t cross him. Quick-tempered, yes, but just as quickly over and forgotten. People come first and rules come second, he always says. Rise or fall on your own abilities and don’t blame anyone else. Taught you all a lot, he has, so don’t none of you forget it.”
“Not likely to, Ma,” said William. “Not at all.”
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Three weeks into the New Year, Emma woke to the sound of Daniel groaning in pain. “What is it?”
“Dunno. I’ve got this terrible pain in my guts.”
“Can you get up? It might ease if you can get onto your feet.”
Emma helped him to sit on the edge of the bed. She put his dressing gown around his shoulders and slippers on his feet.
With her help he shuffled into the kitchen. He sank down heavily in his favourite chair as another pain stabbed at him.
Emma placed a mug of tea on the table beside him, stoked up the coal range and put on her hat and jacket. “I’ll get the doctor.”
Not waiting for a response, she was out of the door and heading up the road at a brisk pace.
It didn’t take the doctor long to diagnose gall bladder blockage and whisk him into Palmerston North hospital.
For three days Emma sat beside his hospital bed, only leaving when forced to. His sons and daughters formed a constant stream of comings and goings. But for the moment, Emma sat alone. For once it was quiet, the sounds of the hospital filtered by distance.
“It’s over, mein Liebling,” Daniel whispered into the waiting silence. “I love you. Thank you.”
“Ja. I love you, too, mein Charlie. But what’s all this talk? The doctor says it’s a blockage, but they can fix it. You’ll be right.” Emma tried to be bright and encouraging but in her heart she knew he was giving up.
“I’m tired, Emma. Too tired. I don’t want any more heartache.” He slipped back into sleep while Emma gripped his hand, her head resting on her arm.
Time passed. She became aware of a change in him: a quietness and stillness. Daniel sighed once, his chest rose and fell, and he slipped away.
Emma cried out, shattering the silence. His heart had given up, they told her later.
On the twenty-fourth day of January 1926, her life partner of forty-five years was gone. He was eighty-three.
Emma wept.
* * * * *
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