Tamar (20 page)

‘Have you talked to her about it?’

‘I’ve tried. She says everything’s fine.’

‘Perhaps it’s just the way she chooses to handle the job.’

‘Perhaps,’ agreed Myrna, not sounding convinced.

Peter still hadn’t returned by the time Myrna left, so Tamar went back to their room and prepared for bed. She had a quick wash, brushed her hair out then braided it for sleep, changed into her nightdress and got into bed with a book. She could not concentrate on the pages in front of her; she was concerned about his lateness and was beginning to feel hurt, angry and humiliated. If, as Riria had alleged, he
was
still drinking, chances are he would come in drunk, having been at his club since mid-afternoon. How could she not have noticed? Or
had
she been aware but chosen not to acknowledge it, even to herself? And if he had been drinking, what sort of mood would Peter be in tonight?

She did not have to wait long to find out. He knocked on the door half an hour later and when Tamar let him in, it was immediately obvious he was drunk. But, to Tamar’s relief, not aggressively so. But she had come to know how he could turn in an instant, and she was wary. His face was flushed and his eyes bright. He removed a flask of whisky from his coat and placed it on the nightstand, flopped onto the bed and lit a cigarette.

‘Sorry I missed dinner,’ he said, blowing a perfect smoke ring. ‘I was catching up with some of the fellows from the club.’

‘Have you eaten? Shall I order something to be brought up?’ asked Tamar hopefully, thinking a meal might help to sober him.

‘No, but you can take the lid off that whisky and pour me one.’

Tamar felt a sudden, brittle flash of anger; Peter was not stupid and knew she would be disappointed and concerned by his drinking. He was playing some sort of masochistic little game, pretending
nothing was wrong, and trying to involve her in the charade. If she poured him a drink, she would be condoning his behaviour. ‘No,’ she said defiantly. ‘You promised.’

He lay on the bed and smiled lazily at the ceiling. ‘That’s funny,’ he said conversationally. ‘I could have sworn you said no then, but I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt and assume it was some other bitch whining through the wall next door. I
said
, get me a drink.’

Oh God, thought Tamar in sudden fear. She turned and headed for the door; slinking down the hall in her nightdress would be preferable to facing Peter in one of his drunken rages. But before she could open it he was behind her, his weight jamming the door shut. ‘And where do you think
you’re
off to, my sweet little flower?’ he said, still in a very pleasant tone of voice.

You bastard, thought Tamar, you absolute bastard. She turned to face him. ‘Nowhere,’ she said dully, knowing she was beaten. ‘Sit down and I’ll get your drink.’ Perhaps if he drank enough he would pass out, as he had on other occasions.

He didn’t. He drank his first glass straight off, finished his cigarette, poured himself another and sat down in an armchair. ‘Come and be nice to me, my beautiful Tamar,’ he said, patting his knee. ‘Come and warm me up.’

Tamar moved over to stand in front of him. This was new, wanting sex when he was drunk. New and distasteful. He smelled faintly like an animal beneath the whisky fumes, sweaty and pungent. She started to lower herself onto his lap but he turned her around and pushed her down to kneel on the floor. Pulling the ribbon out of her hair he unwound her long braid then with his left hand tightly gripping a fistful of her hair, he undid the buttons on his trousers with the other until his erection rose through the opening in his underpants. Tamar, suddenly realising what he wanted, turned her head away. She felt sick. Peter twisted her head back again, guiding her face down to his crotch. His penis
smelled of urine and she grimaced.

‘Open your mouth,’ he ordered. ‘Be nice.’

When she didn’t, he tugged her hair viciously.

‘Ow!’ she cried, tears springing to her eyes.

‘Well, be nice then,’ he repeated in an incongruously reasonable voice.

Tamar did as she was told, taking his penis between her lips.

‘Suck it.’

She did, cautiously, and Peter began to move in and out of her mouth, thrusting further and further each time. Tamar started to choke, gagging every time he touched the back of her throat. Her eyes watered and she began to salivate.

‘Put your lips over your teeth. They’re too sharp,’ he muttered, hunching forwards and placing his free hand firmly on the back of her neck so her head was trapped in his lap. She shut her eyes and concentrated on not throwing up. Saliva poured out of her mouth and down her chin and her jaw muscles were aching. She tasted blood. Just when she thought she must vomit, he stopped and withdrew. He moved her head away, stood and pulled her up off the floor. ‘On the bed,’ he directed. ‘I’m ready.’

He took Tamar’s arm, steered her towards the bed and pushed her roughly back. Then he tugged her nightdress up to her armpits and stood back to push his trousers and underpants down. They tangled around his ankles as he stepped forward. Cursing, he sat on the bed and removed them completely, then turned and positioned himself between Tamar’s legs. She lay still, unresponsive and strangely detached. Peter didn’t seem to notice as he inserted his penis and began to thrust. She was dry and it hurt but eventually he penetrated her fully. Tamar still did not move and lay motionless until he had finished. Drunk as he was, it took him some time.

He rested for a minute, then got off her. ‘I’m going downstairs
for a drink,’ he said, pulling his trousers and boots back on. He did not look at her. ‘I’ll be back later.’

When he’d gone, Tamar got up slowly, rinsed out her mouth repeatedly and wiped between her legs with a towel, then climbed into bed. She did not sleep for a long time. She did not cry either.

‘Why is your
ngutu
swollen?’ asked Riria, pointing to Tamar’s bruised upper lip. They were walking up Queen Street, on their way to meet Myrna and her girls for morning tea.

‘I bumped it last night,’ lied Tamar.

Riria snorted. ‘You mean someone bumped it for you!’ she replied, not fooled for a second.

Tamar was too ashamed to divulge what had really happened, so she said nothing. When she had awoken, Peter had been asleep beside her. Surprised she had not heard him come in, and moving very cautiously so she would not wake him, she had crept out of bed and padded silently into the bathroom, locking the door behind. As she was sitting on the privy waiting for her bath to run, there had been a knock on the bathroom door.

‘Tamar? Tamar, please let me in. I’m so sorry!’

Sorry my arse, she thought. That was one of Myrna’s new sayings and she rather liked it.

‘I have to use the privy!’ came Peter’s muffled voice through the wooden door.

‘Use the one down the hall,’ she replied wearily. There was silence for a minute, then she heard the door to their room open then shut again. The water in the tub was almost scalding but she welcomed it, wincing as the heat stung her bruised vulva. She slid under the water, closing her eyes to its soothing embrace. She stayed there until she heard Peter at the bathroom door again. Go away, she thought.

‘Please come out. I need to talk to you!’ he called plaintively.

Tamar ignored him. When she finally emerged from the bathroom, he was lying curled on the bed, weeping. He begged her forgiveness and promised it would never happen again; it had only happened because he had gone to his club and had been coerced into taking a drink by friends whom he had not seen for months. To refuse would have been extremely rude. His tone of voice implied that even he knew it was a pathetic excuse.

‘And will you be coerced into taking another drink at your meetings today? And tonight at dinner?’ Tamar asked acidly.

‘No! I
swear
it!’ he replied vehemently, sitting up slowly, holding his head. ‘I wouldn’t even go if I could get out of it, but I can’t. Please believe me!’

Tamar didn’t know whether she did or not, although Peter looked extremely sick and certainly very sorry for himself.

‘When is your first meeting today?’

‘Midday.’

‘Why don’t you sleep until then?’ Tamar suggested. ‘Riria and I are meeting Myrna this morning and then we’re sightseeing. We’ll be back later this afternoon.’

Riria knocked on the door, come to help Tamar dress, which they did in silence. Peter lay in the bed with the covers pulled up to his ears, asleep. Riria tilted her head at his motionless form and raised her eyebrows. Tamar shook her head, then turned to the mirror to adjust her hat and pull on her gloves. They said nothing until they were on the street, and then the only comment Tamar made was that Peter had come in drunk. Riria knew her well enough by now not to push her.

Morning tea seemed to lift Tamar’s spirits. Myrna’s girls were fascinated by Riria, asking to touch the fine raised ridges of her
moko
and whether it had hurt when she’d had it done.

Riria made a face and nodded. ‘Of course. But it is a badge of
honour. I wear it with pride. My
moko
announces to the world who I am. It is a visual manifestation of my
whakapapa
, my heritage.’

Although Myrna’s girls were full of questions for Tamar about life in the bush, they did not bring up the subject of her marriage. Perhaps Myrna had said something. If so, Tamar was grateful. She did not feel like telling them what had been happening, but neither did she want to lie to them. Polly seemed her normal exuberant self, and Tamar could not see what it was that had concerned Myrna.

Later, Riria and Tamar hired a cab and spent a pleasant afternoon touring Auckland, Tamar pointing out the sights including the gardens in the Auckland Domain, J. Partington’s spectacular windmill off Symonds Street and St Paul’s Church where she and Peter had been married. Riria was amused by the sight of people crowding into horse trams and trotting about in dog-carts or the fancy, dainty little two-person phaetons.

‘What is wrong with riding a horse if you want to go somewhere? Or walking?’ she asked Tamar.

‘People with money don’t walk anywhere,’ replied Tamar. ‘Especially the ladies.’

‘Eh? Why not?’ said Riria.

‘Because that’s the way it is.’

Riria snorted and shook her head but continued to gaze avidly about her. When they returned to the hotel so Tamar could ready herself for dinner, Peter was also in, having just returned from his meetings, which had evidently been successful. Tamar saw no indication he been drinking. He had met with someone, he said, who would collect and ship his timber, and would also be at dinner that evening. A Maori, Peter said, sounding faintly amused. ‘It will be interesting to see if he has any table manners. Mind you, he seems to have some education, speaks English well, so you never know.’

Tamar thought his comment hypocritical coming from a man who had done to her what Peter had the night before, but she refrained from saying so. He seemed to have cheered up since morning, and had stopped the pathetic whining and grovelling she was beginning to find almost more disturbing and disappointing than his drunken behaviour; she did not want to do or say anything that might cause his mood to deteriorate.

As usual, they would go on as if nothing had happened. He had sworn to abstain from drinking yet again, and she had accepted his apologies, both pretending it would be all right; Peter because he truly believed it and Tamar because she was too weary to say otherwise. There was no question of leaving him. The current law decreed that a divorce could only be obtained by a husband, and only on the grounds of his wife’s adultery.

Tamar took her time getting dressed, Riria assisting while Peter absented himself to the private lounge. First Riria laced her into her corset then lifted the mauve velveteen evening gown over her head and fastened the many hooks and buttons at the back. Next, Tamar sat at the dressing table while Riria gathered up her heavy auburn hair and arranged it in a high, slightly dishevelled style that fell about her face in gentle waves. Riria stepped back, critically assessed her handiwork, and made a few small adjustments, rearranging a strand here and fixing a hairpin there.

‘It’s beautiful, thank you, Riria,’ said Tamar, pleased at the image of the lovely and sophisticated young woman who looked back at her from the mirror, relieved her swollen lip had gone down. Her throat and ears were bare but there was nothing she could do about that, except hope Peter didn’t notice she wasn’t wearing her amethysts.

The house on Princes Street was grand, as were most residences backing onto Albert Park; clearly, Peter’s business associate was
successful and wealthy. They were ushered by an English-accented butler into a spacious, elegantly decorated formal parlour where seven or eight people were already seated. Tamar was introduced to their host, Frank Coulthard, a robust looking man in his early fifties, and his pretty wife Abigail, who appeared considerably younger. The Coulthards in turn introduced Tamar to the other dinner guests.

‘We’re waiting on three or four more guests to arrive,’ explained Frank Coulthard. ‘Te Kanene whom you met this afternoon, and his nephew, Kepa, may dine with us also, and the Becks. You know Thomas and Julia Beck already, I believe?’

Peter nodded. Thomas Beck was also in the timber business, although he ran a much larger operation. As he and Tamar seated themselves they were offered a sherry. Peter declined, to Tamar’s relief, but she accepted a small half glass and settled back to admire the Coulthards’ fine furnishings. As opulent as Myrna’s house, she observed, but without the sensuous and titillating touches. The other dinner guests were also spectacular, the ladies in particular. There was an abundance of silk, satin, fine lace and feathers, and their husbands’ wealth was reflected in the jewellery they wore. Tamar touched her own bare throat self-consciously.

The Becks arrived shortly, followed almost immediately by two Maori, the room falling silent as they were announced. The first, Te Kanene, was a tall thin man, possibly in his early fifties; Tamar could not tell from his brown, weathered face. He was tattooed over his forehead and across his nose and cheeks, but his chin and taut jawline were unmarked. His dark, wiry hair was almost entirely grey and cut short in a European style, although a long, slender piece of polished greenstone hung from his pierced left ear. His prominent nose was hooked, and his slightly bulging eyes were sharp, shrewd and black, like those of a bird. A predatory bird, Tamar reflected, as the man seemed to take the measure of every
one in the room. He was attired in stylish evening wear. Altogether he cut a fine figure, a curious and slightly mesmerising combination of gentility with more than a hint of suppressed cunning and savagery.