But what was I doing, worrying about who would get the money? When we sailed, I knew nothing of this money. The first time I heard that we would be expected to earn money was on board the Ida Zeigler, when Reihana and Jenkins were having one of their arguments. On that day in Auckland when I signed the piece of paper in Charley Davis’s office, I agreed to go to England, and for my passage and board and tickets for trains, and such, to be paid for by Jenkins and his friends. There was no talk of shillings and banks and dividing everything up. There was no talk of needing to earn money by going on show – to sing for our supper, as the English say. Perhaps there was an English version of the paper I signed, one with different words, like entertainments, and shillings, and Warrior Chieftains.
‘Money is taken, and we are shown to people like the lions at the zoo,’ I said to Ridgway. And, I thought, like the lions, we have no notion of how much money, or how great the cost of our cages and legs of mutton.
Mr Ridgway didn’t argue with me. He sat back in his chair, tucking the handbill into his pocket. Wharepapa looked unhappy. Wiremu Pou threw his cushion on the floor with disgust. He was angry, and this anger would not go away. It would fester and grow into something ugly.
Many of the hours with the Bohemian are spent in silence. I like the peace of this, listening to the fire or the rain, unable to make sense of muffled shouts from the street or downstairs in Mr Partridge’s shop. There is time to think, so when I return to the hostel I can write it down in my book.
But the more I think, the less clearly I remember, and the less certain I am. Perhaps Mr Ridgway couldn’t speak Maori at all, and I had to wait for Wharepapa to translate each line for me. This is quite possible, yet the conversation with Mr Ridgway occurred early in our trip, when Wharepapa was not yet fluent in English. Mr Ridgway must have been able to speak to us in Maori, for I remember understanding everything he had to say that day. At least, I think it was that day, or that evening, not long after we read in the newspaper of the Maori Warrior Chiefs. Really, I don’t know what I remember and what I was told, or what we pieced together afterwards when the place and our memories of it were distant.
Once we were home in New Zealand, Wharepapa and I talked of these matters on many occasions, but after some years had passed, we no longer spoke of the bad things. When we told others of the trip to England, we talked about meeting the Queen, and her son, the Prince of Wales, and of hearing the lions roar at the Zoological Gardens. These are the things people wanted to hear. Not about the way we were obliged to put on a show, and stay much longer than we wished, all because we signed a piece of paper without reading it properly. And certainly not about this one who went mad, and this one who died, and this one who ran away, never to be seen again.
Then said he, What have they seen in thine house? And Hezekiah answered, All that is in mine house have they seen: there is nothing among my treasures that I have not shewed them.
ISAIAH 39:4
All our arguments and anger had to wait, because the morning after the visit from Mr Ridgway, a note arrived from the Duke of Newcastle. This didn’t contain the letters of introduction Jenkins expected. This note was something far, far better. We were all to be taken to meet Her Majesty the Queen.
Victoria herself had suggested we be taken to her house and presented to her. We were all very, very happy about this. Jenkins had tears in his eyes when he told us, and he was not the only one. Ngahuia and Tere Pakia sobbed for so long, the maid asked if she should send for a doctor.
Only two of our Pakeha were permitted to attend us, and after much discussion and banter it was agreed that these should be Jenkins and Mr Lightband. We were to travel down to Osborne House on the Isle of Wight that Saturday. The Duke of Newcastle would accompany us, and he would bring the Nga Puhi boy we’d met, Wiremu Repa.
We rose early that day, for first we had to catch a train to Southampton, which took several hours, and then we had to make our way to the dock, and sail across the water on the Queen’s own yacht, the Fairy. I was so happy to see the waves again in a blue sea, and to breathe in fresh air. In London we spent too much time inside a succession of stuffy rooms, where all manner of foul odours and gasses were trapped, and often when we were walked outside, the sky was grey with smoke or rain. I rarely heard the wind in the trees, or the sound of birds. Instead, day and night, came the sounds of horses clopping, whistles blowing, and men shouting. Out on the water, the waves slapping the boat, I could close my eyes and imagine myself at home again. The journey to an island reminded me, naturally, of my home on Hauturu, though this journey was much more swift, and we didn’t have to climb over wet rocks to land.
Three of Her Majesty’s carriages waited for us, and they were the kind of carriages with their roofs cut off, so we could all shout to each other, and enjoy the breeze dancing in our hair. We passed the Queen’s bathing machine, which was quite a contraption, requiring much explanation from Jenkins, and drove along an avenue of trees towards Osborne House. This was another house that was really a palace, and quite different from any house we had seen in London. It was as yellow as butter, unscarred by soot, and surrounded by broad green lawns.
We were greeted by one of the gentlemen of the Court, and shown to a waiting room where we could tidy ourselves, and unpack and fasten our cloaks. There was little time for this, for soon we were led into the Council Room, where the presentation would take place. I don’t remember much of this room, I must admit, for my heart was beating fast and I felt a great churning in my stomach.
I remember the red carpet beneath my feet, and the portraits of the Queen and her husband on either side of the door. They looked very young and happy, and the Queen was wearing a pale dress and a blue sash. Sunlight poured in through the glass doors, and I felt very hot in the cloak Jenkins had given to me. We were positioned in a sweeping line, for Jenkins told us this would not be an informal meeting, as it was at Marlborough House. We could not be strolling about gawking at pictures when Her Majesty entered the room.
Again, we had little time to wait. No sooner were we arrayed, than the Queen emerged from another door. She was dressed all in black, as was – and is – her custom. I can tell you that she is a very small lady, and quite round, with a face of alabaster, and blue eyes of great intensity. She looked at us all most sternly, but I don’t wish to portray her as unkind or unwelcoming. There was a gravity to her, a great sorrow, unmistakeable to anyone standing nearby. The room was light and sunny that day, but the Queen was dark with gloom. With her were two shy young princesses, Helena and Beatrice, and Prince Leopold, a very serious-looking young chap, and four members of the Royal Household. All but the youngest lady – Miss Byng, as we were to learn later – wore black. Miss Byng wore a very dark grey, which gave her the appearance of a fledgling.
The Duke of Newcastle introduced Jenkins and Mr Lightband, and they both bowed very low. Mr Lightband was so overawed, he could barely speak. Then we were introduced, one by one, with Wiremu Repa last of all. We made our salutations in Maori, approaching to kiss the Queen’s extended hand.
She addressed us all in a high, clear voice, and when she finished speaking Jenkins, stumbling over his words, told us what she had said.
‘Her Majesty gives you her salutations,’ he said. ‘Salutations to the Maori people of New Zealand. I am happy to see you in this country. It is my aim to do you good, and to see that you at all times obtain justice. I hope you will be pleased with what you see in England.’
We were told that Her Majesty would be glad to hear whatever we desired to say, so Takarei said a few words, then Hare Pomare told her we were afraid that the Pakeha in London would kill us. Mr Jenkins laughed when he said these words to the Queen.
‘I will not be pleased if my Maori people are killed,’ she replied. ‘I am not willing that New Zealand should be destroyed.’
I think we were expecting her to ask us questions, as the Prince of Wales had done, so when she said nothing we all stood about in stupid silence. The Q
ueen bowed to us, and left the room, all her children following in an orderly line. We were all very disappointed with this, for most of us had said nothing to her but ‘hariru’. Tere Pakia started sniffing, and, after Jenkins conferred with the Duke of Newcastle, the Duke left the room, away in search of the Queen. A few minutes later, to our great relief and happiness, she and her children walked in once again. This time she smiled at us.
‘Please,’ she told Jenkins to tell us. ‘Say whatever you wish to say.’
Wharepapa and Reihana spoke, and then Kihirini stepped forward. He was not usually one for making speeches, so we were curious about what he would say. We were especially curious as his face was so mournful, his eyes already brimming with tears.
‘We stand here in this place,’ he said, speaking slowly so Jenkins could keep up, ‘and our hearts are very heavy, very heavy indeed. Seeing you and your children here, all we can think of is Prince Albert, your dear, beloved husband. How great is your loss! How can we express to you, our Queen, how much affection we feel for you, how much of your sorrow we share!’
He talked in this manner for some time, until we all swayed with sadness, feeling the truth of his words. This was a beautiful house, golden and bright in the sunshine, built by the Queen and Prince Albert to live in peace. But now it was a place of great unhappiness, the Queen’s sorrow heavy in the air.
The Queen herself was quite moved by Kihirini’s speech, and tears blurred the sharp blue of her eyes. Even the Englishmen in the room seemed greatly affected. When Jenkins nodded to me to step forward, I knew that very little more was necessary.
‘Be generous to the Maori people,’ I said to her, and when Jenkins said the words in English, the Queen bowed her head.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I am kindly disposed to the Maori race.’
Ngahuia took the greenstone heitiki from around her neck, and handed it to Victoria, curtseying deeply like the finest lady at Court. We were all very pleased with this gesture, and the Queen looked very pleased as well. She smiled at us all most benignly while the brothers, Horomona Te Atua and Wiremu Pou, stepped forward to lay their cloaks at her feet. Then, once again, she withdrew from the room, and this time we understood that there would be no further audience.
However, our day at Osborne was not yet over. We were led along corridors to have luncheon in a dining room only for the ladies and gentlemen of the Royal Household. This was such a fine room itself, with a table so large, we wondered how grand the Queen’s own dining room must be. Perhaps it had a mile-long table, like the one in Marlborough House?
Luncheon was very good, with so many courses I lost count – soup, fish, a cold sirloin of beef, and so on. I was seated next to Miss Byng. Mr Lightband, on her left hand, talked away with her, and because Miss Byng had much to say, and a voice loud as a tui’s, young Wiremu Repa, to my right, was able to tell me everything she said.
‘The Queen hardly ever sleeps at Buckingham Palace,’ he reported. ‘Her Majesty prefers Windsor and Osborne, and likes Balmoral in Scotland most of all. Miss Byng and the other ladies prefer Windsor because it is near London, and their friends can visit. It is quite dull for them here at Osborne. There is nothing to read, and Miss Byng doesn’t care for lawn tennis. On foggy days, there are no steamers, and that means no letters. Their rooms are very small. They are usually here until the end of August, when they go to Scotland, always returning here for Christmas. The Queen loves an open carriage, like the ones we rode in today. She will ride out in them even in a snowstorm, and sits outside on the terrace at Osborne every night, for she never feels the cold. Balmoral is ice-cold. The Queen doesn’t mind. The Queen and her children all enjoy sea-bathing. All the ladies must wear black, but the younger ladies may wear white or grey now, unless a member of the European monarchy dies. If this happens, they must all wear black dresses and black gloves and jet adornments for six weeks. The Queen takes the keenest interest in death, and likes to talk of coffins and winding sheets. The Court has been in mourning since March of 1861, when Her Majesty’s mother died. When the Princess Alice married last year, in the dining room here at Osborne, she had an all-black trousseau. At the wedding of the Prince of Wales this year, the ladies of the Household were permitted to wear grey. They always eat luncheon at two on the dot, with tea at half past five, and dinner three hours later. The Queen’s favourite fruits are oranges and pears. The Queen does not care for mutton. The Queen cannot bear to listen to talk of the Indian Mutiny. A Zulu chief visited her, and Her Majesty was most disappointed that he was not in native dress. The Queen dislikes all oratorio, especially Handel’s Messiah. Football she considers barbarous. Cricket balls she considers too hard. The Queen does not care for thunderstorms. Miss Byng is about to be married.’
The conversation was only lost to me when Wiremu Repa turned his attention to his plate. He spent some time nibbling at juicy slices of a huge pineapple, even though this was not one of the Queen’s favourite fruits. Wharepapa was making a great show of pocketing the stones of the peaches and apricots, saying that we would plant them in New Zealand, and name the trees ‘Victoria’. Hapimana and Takarei, I observed, were giddy by this time with claret, and if I had been able to see Hirini Pakia, I’m sure that he too was making steady progress through great quantities of sherry or wine.
After luncheon, Mrs Bruce told us that the Princesses Helena and Beatrice had offered to show our ladies around their private apartments. This was a great treat for the three women in our party, and off they went, returning some time later clasping photographs of the Royal Family, given to them on the Queen’s instructions. Hariata Pomare, who was weeping, had to be supported by the others. Mrs Bruce had informed Her Majesty that Hariata was expecting a child, and the Queen had taken a keen interest in this news.
Jenkins was instructed to inform the Duke of Newcastle when the event was near, so all the proper attentions might be paid to Hariata. When the child was born, the Queen wished to be godmother. If the child was a girl, she would be named Victoria. If the child was a boy, he would be Albert. Hariata and Hare Pomare were quite overwhelmed with this honour. Even Ngahuia was too impressed – at this moment, at least – to be jealous and petulant.
When our carriages were announced, we were delayed a few moments. The little Princess Beatrice and her attendant had hurried outside to say goodbye to us. The Princess permitted our ladies to kiss her hand, and asked if Hapimana might give her the feather from his hair. Even when we climbed into our carriages, we were reluctant for this great day to end. Every window we could see was crowded with people – ladies and gentlemen, maids and footmen! They all wanted to look upon us before we drove away back to the dock. We all stood up and gave three loud cheers, in the English manner, to bid them farewell. Such a day! I will never forget it, not in all my life.
Other days in England, unfortunately, I would be quite happy to forget. We returned to London from Portsmouth I think, where hundreds of people gathered at the station to shake our hands and watch us leave, but the next day it seemed that all the triumph of that visit existed long, long ago. Mr Ridgway turned up again, not to hear our tales of Osborne House and the Queen’s preference for oranges, but to squabble with Jenkins. He was in a foul humour, for he had attended the Alhambra Theatre to watch the Maori troupe perform.
Mr Ridgway wanted to tell Jenkins, in the most forceful language, that nothing of this kind must happen to us. We must not be asked to perform wherever we went, and we should be permitted to wear our own clothes, not native dress. When Jenkins snapped at Mr Ridgway, saying that he had the support of the Duke of Newcastle, Mr Ridgway turned almost as red as his hair.
‘You know nothing of the Duke of Newcastle!’ he shouted. ‘He is as opposed as I am to your lecture project, and is quite determined you abandon it. He and the Earl of Shaftesbury are planning a public appeal for funds. They will donate money themselves so the rangatira may return to New Zealand before the winter. England is no place for Maori in the winter. Look at the boy Wiremu Re
pa! He cannot last another winter here.’
On and on they argued, for Jenkins had no intention of taking us back to New Zealand so soon. We had been in England only a few months. He had already spent far too much money, and donations alone wouldn’t begin to reimburse him or his associates.
‘So you say you have made no money?’
‘None at all.’
‘For shame, sir!’ Mr Ridgway was very angry. ‘I do not believe this for an instant. From now on we shall not call you Jenkins. We shall call you Gehazi.’
This was a terrible insult. Gehazi is the servant of Elisha, who takes silver from a man and then lies to his master so he can keep the money for himself. Jenkins was most upset, and would not speak any more to Mr Ridgway that day.
We didn’t understand why the great men of England were so eager for us to return home, and wondered if we had offended them.
‘Jenkins has offended them,’ Wharepapa said, ‘for all he speaks of is money.’
True, there was a great deal of talk about money in our house, for it was very much on the minds of all our Pakeha. A day after Mr Ridgway’s visit, Jenkins told us we must give up the house on Weymouth Street and return to the Strangers’ Home.
‘I knew we had no money,’ Reihana said, triumph flickering in his eyes. ‘We should not have stayed at the hotel. Now we must go back to the house for poor and fallen people.’
I didn’t mind the Strangers’ Home, though we must sleep in the same rooms with many other people unknown to us, and from unknown places. But I must say that I did not care for many of the sights in the streets of Limehouse. One night after our return there, I went out late in the evening for a walk, just as the sun was setting. This was the best time, I’d discovered, to walk in the streets without attracting a crowd. I walked for an hour or so, wandering further from the Strangers’ Home than I’d intended. In that time I saw policemen carrying a dead body from the doorway where he or she had been found. I saw a boy, no more than seven or eight years old, use a knife to slice away a man’s pocket, so the coins within tumbled to the ground and his younger brother and sister, barely able to walk, scrambled to reap the harvest. Men pushed their way out of the door of a public house into its skittle-ground, smashing bottles against the walls so they could instantly set about lunging at each other. Only yards away a crowd laughed and clapped at the antics of a juggler, paying no attention to the anguished cry of a man with a scarlet slash across his face, dropping to his knees on the cobbles of the court.