This is from fairly early on – around late February 1842. The family is still living in the 3-room mud-floored whare on Thorndon Flat. Back in October I speculated at great length on the most likely candidate for the shipmate with whom the Norgroves shared this palace, concluding it was most likely one of the younger single men or the ship’s matron and her son. However, for story purposes, I needed Sarah to have a friend, so that impressions about the new country could be shared in conversations between them. Out of the scrum of women waiting for the privy on the first night in the immigration barracks, Sophia Mannering emerged as Sarah’s new best friend. I realise I’ve appropriated someone else’s great-great grandmother here, but for all intents and purposes, Sophia and John Mannering and their unnamed daughter disappeared after arriving in New Zealand. John doesn’t appear on the burgess or electoral rolls, they don’t get mentioned in newspaper articles or advertisements, they just don’t appear in any of the usual places you go looking. So I’ve moved Sophia and daughter in with the Norgroves while John goes up country looking for work.
It came on with an unexpectedness that shocked her. One minute she was starting her morning climb out of the saggy hammock of their bed; the next she was dizzy and retching, nausea sweeping up her body in a sweaty wave. Her mouth was suddenly full of saliva and she clawed her way over the edge of the bedstead and groped desperately for the handle of the chamber-pot. Her stomach heaved, and she spat the bitterness into the pot before retching miserably again and again, bringing up nothing but the acid juices of an empty stomach. When it finally stopped, she was shaking, eyes streaming with tears, her body cold with sweat.
“Sarah! My dear, are you all right?” William’s voice came anxiously from the other side of the bed.
She put the pot carefully on the floor and swiped the back of her hand across her mouth, then leaned back against the pillows and closed her eyes. “Never better,” she croaked. “Must have been the pork last night. Do you feel unwell?”
“Not at all.” He moved to look at her more closely, and his shifting weight caused her to roll back into the hollow at the centre of the bed. She fought back another wave of sickness with an audible groan.
"Sorry," he said, and the bed shifted again, flattening this time as he slid towards the edge. Through narrowed eyes she watched him throw back the covers and hasten around to her side of the bed. He looked perfectly, unfairly, robustly healthy. She closed her eyes again, heard the tink of china against wood as he moved the chamber pot out of the way.
“I’m fine,” he said. “I could eat a horse for breakfast.”
Breakfast? The nausea roiled up in her again, and she fought it back, closing her eyes and rolling away from him to curl around herself.
“You really don’t look good.” She felt William’s weight in the pull of the bedclothes as he sat down cautiously on the very edge of the bed, and the warmth of his hand on her shoulder, his thumb gently stroking in a way that made her want to cry. “If it’s not last night’s dinner, then what could be making you sick?”
What indeed? A suspicion was growing on her, a small voice in her mind pointing out that her monthly visitor was two weeks late. It had never been quite regular before Ovid, but since she had had him, she had often gone two or three weeks longer than she thought she should. But then, those times she hadn't started the day with a bout of nausea and retching.
William seemed to have reached the same conclusion, although probably by a different route.“Dearest! I suppose you could be, that we - could it be that we might expect a happy event in several months?” The hand on her shoulder squeezed gently, demanding an answer.
“It could be.” She turned back to him and opened her eyes to see him smiling.
“Our first little New Zealander,” he exclaimed. “Oh, my dear girl, now we’re really putting down roots in our new
home.”
Her stomach lurched and she swallowed hard. “William, it’s too early to be sure. It might come to nothing.”
“I’m sure,” he said firmly. “You were just the same with Ovid.”
She said nothing, remembering how it had been the first time, when they realised she was to have a baby. They had been surprised at first that it had happened so quickly; even a little disappointed that they would have so little time with just the two of them. Overwhelmingly though, they had been happy. Laughing, giddy and silly with it sometimes, but happy.
“I’ll get you some tea.” He bounced off the bed. “And some dry toast,” he added from the doorway. “Last time you always felt much better after a little dry toast.”
Tea would be good. Tea would wash the bitter taste out of her mouth. She closed her eyes again and listened to the regular morning chorus, birds going happily about their day, and a distant rooster proclaiming ascendancy over his hen-folk. From the cooking fire outside came a clattering and a cheerful whistling, as William stirred up the embers and shifted the warm kettle over the flames. If William was a rooster, he would be crowing right now. So where was her happiness?
She rolled back onto her side, curling herself around the tiny weight of her womb. She was young and healthy, and it was all perfectly normal and natural. But there was always a dark shadow hovering, one that would get bigger and more terrifying as the months went on. Every woman she knew felt it. You tried as hard as you could to imagine yourself with the new baby, but you could also see a different outcome, one where the Lord took you and left your children motherless and your husband struggling to cope. And to be here, thousands of miles from everything familiar, Mama not here to help her and reassure her like last time. She wanted her so badly right then, but she might never see her again. A tear slid down her cheek and onto the pillow, and then another slipped over the bridge of her nose to join it, and she stuffed her face into the pillow and let them come, hot and fast, trying not to sob aloud because she didn’t want to wake Ovid and she didn’t want William to hear. She wanted to go home, she wanted her mother, she wanted…
“Sarah, William said you were unwell.” Sophia’s voice came softly from the doorway. “Sarah dear, what is it?”
Sarah took a deep breath, sniffed mightily, and scrubbed her eyes with the sleeve of her night-gown. She rolled cautiously onto her back, and swallowed hard to convince any lingering sickness to stay where it was. Sophia’s concerned face hovered inches from her own.
“Nothing, really. I'm fine.”
That didn’t sound especially convincing, even to her. Her friend frowned and reached for her hand. “Sarah, I heard you being sick. It’s hard not to, with the walls so thin and…,” her voice faded away. She started again. “You’re unwell. Is there anything I can do?”
Sophia squeezed her hand tightly, and Sarah felt some of the tension leave her in a great sigh. Thank goodness she had Sophia, even if she didn’t have her mother. She felt herself start to smile - she couldn’t help it, even if she knew she must look rather sheepish.
“I think it’s the nine-month illness,” she said and watched confusion, surprise and pleasure change her friend’s face. “Too early to be sure, but as William just reminded me, I was the same with Ovid from the start.”
“A baby. Well, you must have expected it soon enough - Ovid has been weaned a few months now.”
“I suppose, in the back of my mind.”
“But why were you crying? Are you not happy to be having another child?”
“Shh. William mustn’t know. It was just silly. Missing my mother.”
Sophia looked at her shrewdly and Sarah knew she suspected that there was more to it than that. She had the tact to leave it alone, however, knowing William could come back into the room at any time.
“Well then, so how long did the sickness last with Ovid? Was it just in the mornings?”
“Mmmm. Mornings, for the best part of three months. I just needed to get some dry toast and a cup of tea down as soon as I could, and after that I would be fine.”
“Ah, so that’s why he’s banging around with the kettle. Maybe I should go and give him a hand, make sure he doesn’t burn the toast in all his excitement.” Sophia smiled wickedly. “He certainly looked very pleased with himself.”
“So it would seem. He can manage the toast though - stay with me?” She patted the bed beside her in an invitation to sit.
Sophia settled down with an expectant smile. “So. I know there’s months to go, but what do you think? Boy or girl?”
“Don’t know. My mother was always sick - didn’t matter if it was a boy or a girl, so I don’t think it signifies anything. A little girl would be nice, like your Charlotte.”
“A boy would be a play-mate for Ovid, though.”
“Mama?” Hearing his name, Ovid spoke up from his cot on the other side of the room. Sarah wondered how long he had been awake, and moved cautiously to get up to him.
“I’ll go,” said Sophia, suiting action to words and getting up. “Morning Ovid. Come and give your Mama a kiss.“ She lifted him up out of his blankets and carried him across to the bed.
“Hullo Mama!” He scrambled across the bed to plant a damp kiss on her cheek. She pulled him against her, hugging him tightly, and he burrowed into her side. Her stomach lurched and she pulled away from him. His head popped up to stare questioningly at her, and she pressed kisses into his hair, inhaling his fusty, small boy sleep smell. Her other hand went to his behind, checking the napkin for dampness.
“Wet?”
“Mmmm. Too soon to expect him to stay dry through the night. No, Ovid-“
“Come here Baby. Mama isn’t well and bouncing on her won’t make her feel better.” Sophia scooped the little boy up again. “I’ll take care of this for you,” she added to Sarah, with a pat on Ovid’s rear.
“Thank you.” The boy’s enthusiastic greeting had set off the nausea that she had so carefully tamped down, and with its return came the dark shadow. "Sophia... if I should, if the Lord - oh, if anything goes wrong, you will look after him for me, won't you?"
Sophia looked at her over Ovid's head, her chin resting on his hair, her grey eyes solemn. "Of course I will. But I don't expect to need to, and it's far too soon to be thinking thoughts like that, Sarah. You'll make yourself really ill." Her expression changed; she looked wistful, envious even. "This is supposed to be happy news for you." She turned to take Ovid out of the room as William came through the door with a cup and saucer in one hand, and a plate in the other. He had gone out to the cooking fire in nightshirt and bare feet, and Sarah almost laughed at the sight of him, covered in smuts of wood-ash, his hair standing on end and a wide grin across his unshaven face.
“Papa!” Ovid squirmed in Sophia’s arms, expecting his father’s attention, but William barely spared him a glance as he focused anxiously on Sarah.
“Hullo Baby,” he said absently, brushing past on the way to the bed. “Here you are, my dear. Are you feeling any better?” He sat down on the bed beside her, careful not to spill the tea. “Which do you want first?” he asked, offering both.
“A sip of tea, I think,” she said, reaching for the cup and saucer. She could smell it, rich and strong but with plenty of milk, just the way she liked it. Her stomach seemed to find the delectable aroma acceptable, so she took a cautious sip.
“I’m going to have to build a little table to go beside the bed, so you’ve got somewhere to put these in the morning,” William said, indicating plate and saucer.
She took a bigger sip, swilled it around her mouth and swallowed gratefully.
“I quite like the idea of having you sit there every morning, holding things for me."
He grinned at her. “Your butler is here to oblige. Does your ladyship require anything else?”
That made her laugh. “I think I’d like to try a bite of toast now, thank you.”
He held a piece of the toast to her mouth, and she took a small bite and chewed slowly. William watched her carefully, ready to leap out of the way and grab the chamber pot if it proved necessary. She swallowed the toast, took another sip of tea and checked with her stomach. The queasiness seemed to be subsiding.
“It seems to be working,” she said, and saw the relief in his eyes as she picked up the piece of toast and took another bite. She was quite relieved as well. If the tea and toast hadn’t made her feel better, she wasn’t sure what she would have done. Still, the real test would come when she went to stand up.
