Johanna Moran - The Wives of Henry Oades

Good news: You’ll remember my mentioning Anamim Bell, the sailmaker’s wife. I am happy to report that she has talked her husband into moving up this way. Mim is grand company. She is cheery & not one bit overdone about it. She vows we shall sit our husbands down & teach them to play euchre. Now if only I might magic you dears over for a hand or two. I miss you both so. As of today, ten months and three weeks remain. Pray the time flies.

Your always loving & devoted daughter, Margaret

ON WEDNESDAY Henry returned home with a bottle of wine and a sack of hard candies for the children. Margaret followed him into their bedroom, where he hung his hat and coat, and followed him out again. “What’s the occasion?”

He laughed a nervous laugh and ran a hand through his hair. “You’ll never guess.”

In the front room he bent over the babies in their cradles and made foolish noises. John came in, bombarding Henry. “Dad! I’ve taught the dogs seven new tricks. Come round back and see.” Josephine continued laying out the soup plates. She called to her father, competing for attention.

“Give your father a moment’s peace,” said Margaret. She met his eyes. “What is it, Henry?”

His gaze shifted to the ceiling. “I’ve been promoted.”

“Oh, Henry. What does that mean precisely?”

“It means I’ve a dozen men below me now. It means another ten quid per week.”

“In terms of time,” she said. “Tell me we’re not staying on indefinitely.”

John and Josephine stood silently watching. Henry took his place at the table and motioned the children to take theirs. “It’s an honor, Meg.”

“I’ve no doubt,” said Margaret, striving for calm. She brought out pea soup and a platter of ham and sat. “Let us be family now.” It was what she said every evening. Henry and the children bowed their heads for grace. “Are we staying on, Henry? Just tell us that much.”

“Not indefinitely,” he said, looking up briefly.

“Oh, Henry.” Margaret bowed her head and pressed her fingers to her burning eyes.

The twins were three months old now, a demanding set at times. The move from the flat to the cottage had been fraught with frustrations great and small. Granted, she was tired, overly prone to dark moods these days. Still. They’d been less than a year shy of their return. How could he?

“A MAORI LAD was publicly flogged today,” Henry said after grace.

“That’s hardly a subject for the table,” said Margaret. It was like him to negate one problem with another more dramatic.

John’s face was vivid with interest. “What was his crime?”

“Please,” said Margaret. Mary started up, the fussier of the two. Margaret went to her and rocked the cradle with her foot.

“He pinched a keg of rum,” said Henry. “Or so it was charged. He didn’t look the sort. A grand display was made of it. Several dozen Maori were lined up, forced to witness the lashing. As a lesson, I presume. A tribesman from the church was there. The lovely tenor? What’s his name, Meg?”

Mary squawked, waking Martha. “Bring a cross lass to me,” Henry said. Margaret brought Mary, intentionally handing over the more sour-smelling and cranky. He held her in the crook of one arm, smiling down, transformed as always. “Turns out the lad was a royal. The governor says there’s bound to be trouble.”

“That’s enough now,” said Margaret.

“FORGIVE ME, HENRY,” she said next morning. He was dressing in the far corner by wavering lamplight. Her voice gave him a start. “I was purely selfish.”

He came to her just as she sat up, cracking his forehead against hers, swearing. “Christ! Hardheaded woman.”

“Irreverent man! You shall be struck down by lightning.”

Both laughed softly. She stroked his beard, the back of his bristly neck. “I’m quite proud of you.”

He took her face between his hands and kissed her lips. “And I of you, my girl.”

“I’ll post your letter this morning,” he said, standing, pulling his coat from the peg.

“I need to add a few lines,” she said.

He nodded. “I’ll wait, then.”

Margaret hugged herself, thinking of home. “What shall I say about our return?”

“I wish I could tell you. I’ll know more next month.”

“Forever?” she asked.

He bent and kissed her again. “Not forever.”

PS: We have only just learned of Henry’s promotion to senior inspector. He has twelve men below him now, two of whom have just arrived. It is an unexpected honor, one that requires an extended stay here. We hope to start for home before next Christmas, but no assurances have been made as of yet. I shall write again soon with the particulars.

THE IRRITABLE BABIES kept Margaret from going herself.

She sent John in his dog cart to Mim’s, returning the six borrowed eggs, plus one as interest. A note went along, telling of the promotion.

It’s an honor, indeed, though I wish with all my heart we were preparing to sail. This morning I could no longer hear my father’s voice in my head.

She’d stopped writing and fed the note to the fire, starting another. You’d never hear such sob-baby blather leaving Mim’s pen or lips. “I’ll escape this godforsaken place when Cyril croaks,” Mim once said. “Not a day before. There’s no point in stewing in the meantime.”

Mim rode out two days later, her dull-witted boy, Oscar, driving. Margaret was watching for Henry at the front window. She came out to greet them, lantern in hand. The reddening sky was already fading.

Something spooked Mim’s horse, causing it to rear and Oscar to shriek. Mim seized the abandoned reins, yanking hard. Margaret took hold of the cheekpiece and tied the shuddering animal to a fence post, smiling up at Mim’s only child. “Hello, Oscar. Fine evening, isn’t it?”

Oscar stared off into the middle distance, a thin stream of drool coursing from the corner of his slack mouth. He was eight now, a stocky boy, too fond of boiled sweets, and fearful of everything, horses in particular.

Mim, as myopic as any mother, thought him exceptional. “You should have seen him coming over,” she said. “Calm as a rutabaga, weren’t you, sweetheart? And every bit as brave.”

Margaret took his slippery fat hand and assisted him down from the open rig. “What do we have here?” she asked of the dish towel knotted at his neck.

“He fancies himself a cowboy,” said Mim, climbing down. The mare let out an odd squeal, straining against her tether, baring yellow teeth. Mim slapped a broad rump. “Mind your manners.”

“You’re a fine cowboy indeed,” said Margaret. She stroked Oscar’s round head, a terrain of scabs and bumps she couldn’t see.

He thrust out his chest and bowed his chubby legs. “I’m off to America.”

It may have been the longest sentence he’d ever uttered in her presence. Margaret wrapped an arm about him, grateful for her sound-minded children. “You’re not sailing straightaway, are you, Sir Cowboy? I’ve a lovely goulash cooking. You’ll stay for supper, won’t you?”

“Grub,” said Oscar, shrugging off her hand.

“That’s a cowboy’s supper,” said Mim, rolling her eyes. “He’s been down on the docks with his dad all week. There’s a Yank ship in port. The blokes sport with him, fill his ears with cowboy rubbish.”

Oscar drew an imaginary pistol from an imaginary holster and aimed thumb and forefinger, shooting first his mother, and then Margaret. Mim clutched her heart and reeled a bit.

Margaret laughed and passed the lantern to him. “Lead us in, cowboy. I’ve grub burning on the stove.”

“You’re in jolly spirits, considering,” said Mim.