Mr William Sanderson Strikes for Home

by Rebecca Burns.

Some things could no longer be denied. His horse was lame. For the last three miles, Albert had stumbled over uneven, blackened grass, hooves gamely picking out a line towards the brown dot in the distance. Up ahead, the homestead stood silent on the plains, tranquil against the purple sky. A faint light flickered in an upstairs window: a tell-tale line of smoke oozed from the chimney stack like sweat beads on smooth skin. Mr William Sanderson had been mesmerised by the smoke’s languid movement, his aching, travel-worn thighs relaxing against Albert’s flanks.

But now, as Albert tilted awkwardly from side to side, Sanderson sighed and suddenly became conscious of the evening air, still and dry. It had drawn an unnoticed, unsightly sheen from the skins of both horse and rider, and they shone like the faint light in the distance. Although Sanderson had removed his corduroy jacket once on the trail and fully out of sight of the town, the heat on this New Zealand evening was still suffocating. His riding boots, newly purchased and once proudly gleaming, were dusty and heavy on his feet. Albert grunted painfully beneath him. With a resigned, almost bitter glance at the companion riding alongside him, Sanderson reined the horse to a halt and dismounted.

Marama also stopped, watching his fellow rider dismount with interest. The Maori’s brown skin seemed clear of sweat, a fact that did not escape Sanderson as he wiped perspiration from his own brow. Perhaps Marama’s unspoken but determined insistence to ride with bare arms had saved him from the oppressive heat. His inappropriate garb, though, put Sanderson’s teeth on edge. Thank goodness we are some distance from decent Christchurch company, he thought. He tried to recall the studied luxury of the bank’s waiting room, recently visited, while the evening breeze whipped through the tussock grass. But deep leather seats and shiny mahogany tables did not rise up in his memory: instead, a muddled collision of silk, red lace, brass headboards, and oiled, naked skin reared in unwelcome, though not unpleasant remembrance. For a second he was sure he could detect a faint whiff of perfume in the night air. And, even as he tried to recall the austere frontage of Harding’s Bank which dominated the dusty high street, the grey brick seemed to crumble and give way to the darkened doorway of Miss Swainson’s boarding house. Snug down a side alley away from the main street, Miss Swainson’s bolt-hole was a velvety secret, and her girls had been welcoming and waiting.

The muscles in Sanderson’s thighs tightened again. Calm yourself man, he thought sternly. In a couple of weeks I can make my excuses and justify another trip into town. The bank would probably want to see the station’s accounts anyway. He told himself that, in the meantime, the station and husbandly duties would quell his needs. But only just. He looked away from Marama’s naked skin. A gruff order for the Maori to cover himself was on his lips, but he gulped it back, unsure of how Marama would react. Instead, he ducked down to stare at Albert’s leg.

“Go lame, eh?” Marama said suddenly, his quiet low voice carrying in the stillness. A faint blue line creased in his chin as he spoke and he reached out to caress his own horse. “We ask too much of our beasts, Mr Sanderson.”

He supposed a gentleman would make conversation, even with a native, but Mr William Sanderson felt in no mood to talk to this unwelcome interloper. He hadn’t asked Marama to join him: circumstances beyond his control had forced them into companionship. And now he was expected to give the Maori shelter overnight on the station, maybe for a few days! Marama had been quite firm about that. Sanderson gave a little shake of his head, marvelling at the unfairness of it all. He supposed some tribal resistance lay at the root of these unreasonable demands. Why couldn’t these natives see this was no longer their country? Why their insufferable rejection of English values and their determination to undermine the colonists attempts to civilise them? It would have been far better if Marama had stayed with his people in the North, instead of coming south to barter with farmers and merchants, who were only trying to make a decent living. Marama should have understood that an Englishman dealt with a Maori only out of necessity. Blast it! And Sanderson slapped Albert’s flesh sharply, causing the horse to jump in pain. Why did Marama have to be at Miss Swainson’s yesterday?

Then Marama appeared at his side. Standing up, Sanderson jumped to find the Maori so close to him; Marama had slid without a sound from his own saddle. He was now working his fingers into a leather pouch tied around his neck, one hand resting on Albert’s side. Grinding his teeth, a small tick pulsing at his grey temple, Sanderson stood back. “Please do not do that, Mr Marama,” he said. “You startled me. And kindly remove your hand from my horse.”

Marama eyes narrowed into brown lines, but he brought his hand back to his side. Slowly, with the other, he drew a small glass vial from the pouch. He held it out in his palm towards Sanderson. “For the horse,” he said, his voice deep. “Rub this on. It will help.”

Sanderson eyed the bottle with distaste. A clear, effervescent liquid lapped the glass, smearing the sides with a thick sheen. He was quite sure it was not a lotion that could be bought at Kirk’s Imperial Hardware and General Store in town. “No thank you, Mr Marama,” he said, ducking his head down so the Maori could not see his grimace. “I have some embrocation with me.” 

Marama shrugged and slid the bottle back into the pouch. Then he retrieved a pipe from another hidden pocket, lit it, and began to smoke.

Suddenly it was dark. The purple haze of dusk had been fleeting and momentary: now the sky was frayed blackness, punctured by a thousand silver dots. The temperature fell rapidly. Shadows played on the tussock grass stretching out before them; strange, mythical shapes whirling on the charcoaled carpet, recently cleared by some unknown farmer. To Sanderson, glancing up briefly from Albert, it seemed as though Marama was a weird, other-world conductor, beating out a rhythm for these unknown, untamed shapes with his pipe. Marama’s eyes were closed.

Albert cried suddenly and reared up, flanks shuddering. Embrocation gleamed on his fetlock like goose fat on a Christmas bird. The animal panted and tossed his head for a second, white flecks flying, and was then still. A heavy silence slid down upon the travellers. For a moment, Sanderson felt completely cut off from the world, caught within its glutinous hold. Dull panic curled in his stomach for a second; his eyes strained in the evening gloom, seeking out the station. It was about two miles away and he would have to walk.

They set off. Sanderson lit a small lantern and held it low by his side to mark out their steps. It cast a sallow ring on the ground, encircling both his and Marama’s feet. Marama walked in lengthy strides, murmuring quietly to his horse every now and then. At first Sanderson felt baffled that the Maori would give up the comfort of his ride to keep him company, and would wait for him. He could think of no human connection between them except, maybe, given where they met, the need for fleshly release. But since leaving Christchurch, Sanderson had longed to see the back of the native though he hadn’t quite been able to shake him off. He remembered how he had tried to slip away from the boarding house and the annoyance he felt when, turning in his saddle, he saw Marama following at some distance.   

“Why don’t you ride?” he barked gruffly. But he couldn’t look at Marama directly and stared instead down at the circle of light. “There’s no need to walk alongside me.”

Marama gave his easy shrug and continued his slow lumber. The ground seemed to be swallowed by his gait, passing through his body and lit momentarily by the orange compass at his feet. “Better this way,” he said, without explaining what he meant. His hand drifted out to stroke Albert again.

The station blinked up ahead. Sanderson wasn’t sure if the sight was welcoming or a warning: there was no comfort in the knowledge he was near home. He thought of Sarah, probably in bed reading or, more likely, staring at the wallpaper as the wind whipped about the wooden building. She slept a lot these days, crumpled on the iron frame. Sanderson’s fingers would sink into her flesh late at night. She was a series of creases and rolls, and secret, soft, folded away places. But Sarah hadn’t always been so. Indeed, on their first night together when they set sail for New Zealand, a delirious, violent desire to posses had surged within his breast when she had removed her corset: fragile ribs gleamed like chicken bones through pale, translucent skin, seeming to invite his touch and caress. The sensations aroused by her disrobing in their cramped, swaying cabin had taken him by surprise – he had not expected to feel that way about her. Within the seclusion of their married quarter, she had slowly released the fabric binding her breasts and pushed away the hooped skirt enveloping her legs until she stood, naked and trembling, blinking like a chick emerging from its egg. Sanderson had thought he had taken Sarah off her parents’ hands as an act of charity and convenience. But she served a greater purpose than he could have imagined - after their wedding he did not visit a boarding house for a whole six months, not even after their emigrant ship had docked at Lyttleton.

His fist tightened around Albert’s bridle. Their wedding day had not gone smoothly. Sarah had clung to her mother, and her mother to her. He had overheard them whispering after the service, when Sanderson had been thanking the minister and when Sarah should have been by his side. Instead she had stood apart, fingers plucking the new wedding band on her finger. Sarah’s mother, thin and shabbily dressed, had babbled a warning about the married couple’s first evening together, and Sanderson had caught a glimpse of Sarah’s horror-struck face. She had kept her lips pursed together that night, silent but not resisting, rolling with the ship. In the morning she had not met his gaze, staring at the cabin walls as they closed about her like a briny womb. She wept for her mother for several weeks whilst the ship ploughed on relentlessly through the waves.

He was sure that one of Miss Swainson’s girls had been on their boat. Of course, the single women had been separated from the married quarters, and carefully marshalled by two stout matrons, but still – a girl he had entertained just last month seemed familiar. Naturally, she had not let on, even if she did recognise him. Instead she had smiled the whole evening, a gold tooth gleaming in the welcoming darkness. She had not pursed her lips together, as Sarah had done. She had murmured encouragement and caressed Sanderson’s grey hair, pushing him towards a delirium experienced only once or twice before. Something about her allowed him to leave all inhibitions at her doorway. Perhaps it was the vigorous climate – he had not been to town for several weeks before that visit and the icy winds of the plains had breathed hearty freshness into his bones. He had paid the woman handsomely in the morning. A pity she had not been available last night.   

Suddenly Marama spoke. “I hadn’t seen you at Miss Swainson’s before.” His disembodied voice rang out from the darkness conversationally but Sanderson almost stumbled. The Maori’s words appalled him. How dare he remind him – an English gentleman! – about the circumstances of their meeting? But he had barely time to react before Marama spoke again.

“Your English women. I see them getting off the boats, hoping to find husbands or work. Did so many expect to be earning their keep with their bodies?” And the Maori cleared his throat, the harsh sound carrying across the plains.

The temperature seemed to have dropped to below freezing. Sanderson drew up sharply, hissing between his teeth. This really was outrageous. He brought the lamp up to his shoulder, swinging it around so its yellow light was cast against Marama’s face. Marama’s pipe was still in his mouth, pursed between blue lines which met at his lips. His brown skin seemed to gleam in the darkness, though not with sweat. His eyes narrowed against the glare.

“A gentleman – a gentleman does not speak about such things!” Sanderson spluttered, heart pounding. “I’ll thank you to keep your remarks to yourself, especially if I am to be forced to give you shelter!” Goosebumps pricked his arms as he wondered if Marama would repeat his remarks at the station. Sarah was not a problem. But Sanderson did not think he could bear the smug glances of the labourers.

Marama slowly drew the pipe from his mouth. His brown eyes studied the Englishman’s face, taking in the grey bristles and thinning hair. “You have a wife at home, yes?” he asked quietly. “As do I. Yet we are drawn to these other women. I sell them lace which they use to cover their bodies even as they are used. They pay well. Sometimes I am offered more but I cannot accept. I have a wife in the North. But I still sell them lace, coming back to them month after month. Do you?”

Sanderson took a step back now, shocked beyond words. The Maori was clearly mad. He may have spent time bargaining with townsfolk and farmers, but he had learnt none of their English ways. The services of these women were not to be mentioned, ever - not even in those exclusive clubs back home from which Sanderson had been excluded. Nor should a man mention his wife in the same conversation. Decent women, after all, were ignorant about these matters. And Sanderson remembered the whispers between Sarah and her mother on their wedding day.

Marama’s face was impassive. He shrugged. “No matter. We will not speak of it again. I have some things to sell and then I will return home.” He raised the pipe to his mouth, but paused. “Does your wife wear lace?”

Sanderson hit him. He hadn’t expected to and it was at the full extent of his reach. But the blow struck home, glancing off Marama’s jaw and driving the Maori’s head backwards. The pipe dropped to the earth with a soft thump and was lost to view. Sanderson, panting, moved in for a second attempt, fist pulled ready. Blood surged in his ears and a remote part of his mind screeched for him to stop – these natives could be dangerous. But something had become detached inside and was no longer anchored to that repressed core. He felt delirious with violence. Albert harrumphed nervously.

Then Marama turned to face him and the anger in Sanderson’s breast and throat died. Blood seeped from a corner of Marama’s mouth, snaking down his chin. Images of red lace draped over the end of a bed bloomed in Sanderson’s mind. His shoulders slumped heavily.

The Englishman and Maori stared at each other for a long time. Albert’s tail switched, eyes flicking between the two. The orange light of the lantern drew a circle around them. Beyond the orb was only darkness, save for the twinkling station up ahead. They were quite cut off from all company. This native could kill me if he wanted and no one would know, Sanderson thought. But he did not feel fear; instead, only embarrassment that his life could end in such a way – he could just imagine the newspaper reports and the incredulous gasps of Harding’s bankers. They stood for a long while, Maori and Englishman, caught in that moment.