Gwenna the Welsh Confectioner Read online

  Turning her face towards Bethan, she let the tears fall. “No. Not yet. At least, I’m not sure, but I shouted back at him when he turned on me again this morning. I’m sorry, Mam. I hope he doesn’t take it out on you.”

  Bethan placed both hands on the girl’s shoulders so she could look directly at her, and smiled. “Listen to me now, our Gwenna. I’m glad you stood up to him. It’s about time. But don’t you go concerning yourself about me. I’m the least of your problems.”

  Gwenna nodded in agreement – Elias was proving the biggest stumbling block in her scheme.

  “That boy’s so lost in his own worries I doubt he notices my presence, or lack of it. As long as Charlie keeps out of his way, he leaves me alone. It’s you he resents. And you need to start thinking seriously about your own life.”

  Gwenna found it such a relief to talk about Johnno and express her worries about marrying him, even if she had little choice. “I do so love him, Mam, and dream of our life together, but ...” Gwenna stopped, unsure how to explain everything.

  “Have you spoken to Johnno at all?”

  Gwenna shook her head. “Not yet. I’m scared he won’t want me now, not like this.” Gwenna spread her hands over her stomach. “But it’s his father who worries me most. He won’t want me or this child. He hated me even when I was little and he came to pick up the goods. He’d snarl at me in that growling voice of his and push me out of the way. I saw him kick a dog once. You know what he can be like. Rude and surly and mean, and ...”

  “I’m sure you’ll win him over. He can’t be all bad,” coaxed her stepmother.

  Gwenna wasn’t convinced. Not from the things Johnno said about him. “And of course I worry about you – and Charlie,” she insisted. “How are you going to cope alone? There’s not enough orders coming in as it is. What are you going to do for money?”

  Trade had been falling off even before Hugh had left, and Elias had not been able to find a man to replace him. It seemed no one was desperate enough. The sweet-making tasks had fallen on Gwenna’s shoulders, while Elias did the deliveries and managed the accounts in secret. Elias tried to hide how bad things were getting, but Gwenna could tell by the quantities she was making that they were in trouble.

  Unfazed, Bethan had another surprise for her stepdaughter. “I’ll find a job.”

  “What? You can’t do that.” Gwenna’s head buzzed with other ideas of how they could earn an income. Bethan was neither old enough to receive the pension, nor had she been in the country long enough to qualify for the new scheme passed into law a year earlier. Even so, her going out to work was not something Gwenna had considered. “And what about Charlie?”

  Gwenna’s forehead creased into a frown. Bethan had been a bright, capable woman, raising her own four children, being mother to Gwenna and Tillie as well as wife, housekeeper and confectionery maid for two husbands. And then she brought up another baby. But what did any of that qualify her for in the workplace?

  Especially now.

  These days Bethan seemed to doubt her every thought and move and had become more submissive as time passed. The thought she could find work didn’t fit.

  “That depends on you,” Bethan replied with a touch of her old self.

  “Me?”

  “Yes, child, you. Don’t be slow-witted now. You can’t stay here. You know you can’t. Elias will throw you out on your ear when he finds out, which means you can’t keep making sweets for him either. Which is why you need to talk to Johnno.”

  The reality of her situation sank home with the truth of Bethan’s words. Gwenna had been avoiding the obvious and she needed to take action before someone did it for her.

  “We can help each other,” continued Bethan, letting Gwenna pass to check the sugar boiling in the pan. “I can pay you a little to take Charlie after school, which would give you money of your own. Take my advice – start making your own sweets. Go into opposition with Elias. Take your father’s reputation with you and build on it. It’s not too late.”

  A ray of hope flared. Maybe everything was not lost after all. But what would Johnno say? And more importantly, what would Black Jack say?

  5

  Dreams and schemes of lovers

  4 December 1899

  Johnno hugged her, grinning from ear to ear. “Now you can’t refuse me. You have to come away with me, Gwenna, my girl.” In his excitement, he started to bounce them both around.

  “Johnno, stop,” she begged, trying to push his arms away even while laughing at his antics. Gwenna was relieved and delighted by his reaction, but she had to make him appreciate the difficulties that lay ahead of them. “Be sensible. This isn’t a game. We have to work out what to do. Time is short.”

  Johnno released her, tugged his jacket into place, shrugged his shoulders back and put one hand on his jacket lapel. “Is this better?” His smile belied the attempted seriousness of his pose.

  Gwenna laughed again. “Much.”

  She took the arm he extended and they continued their walk through the park. The gentle breeze rustled the leaves over their heads, shielding the early summer sun, while birds twittered and flitted around them. Gwenna loved the park – their park, she now called it, recalling that special night not so many weeks ago. She could see the waters of the harbour from the top near the Ponsonby Road end. The sense of awe and wonderment her ten-year-old self had felt as their ship had sailed into Auckland had never left her, despite the reality of life since.

  The pair followed the steep, meandering path through the trees leading to the flat area people used for games and picnics at the lower end.

  “And I am being serious, Gwenna. We can get married now. As soon as you say the word.”

  “But where we will live? You can’t expect me to live with your father. He frightens me. And Onehunga is too far away. We need to find somewhere nearer Bethan so I can help with Charlie ...” She couldn’t stop, not now she’d started. All her worries came pouring out in a flood of words and ideas. “And I need to set myself up somewhere to make my own sweets. Mam says I should fight Elias at his own game. And you have to find a job. You won’t be able to go off for days or weeks on end with your father any more. We’ll have the baby to think of. Oh, how will I manage to make all those sweets with a baby as well?”

  Johnno dismissed her worries. “Living with Jack will be all right to start with. At least you’ll be out of Elias’s reach. And Jack would never hurt you,” he reassured her. “He’s a rogue in many ways, and he’s not fond of women – interfering busybodies, he calls them – but he’ll more than likely avoid you.”

  Gwenna still didn’t like the idea. “I remember what he was like. I wouldn’t put anything past him. Nor do I want the police knocking on the door.”

  Walking perfectly in step, with her arm linked in his, Johnno folded his hand over hers. “He’s a tough trader, and a man would be wise not to cross him in business, but trust me, he’ll leave you alone. I promise. Not so sure about the bobbies, though,” he smiled. “But I’ll be there if they come calling.”

  “It’s not how tough he is as a trader that worries me, it’s the not-so-legal side-trade you told me about. I don’t want you involved in anything like that. And, Johnno, I must have somewhere to make my sweets. It’s important.”

  The conversation waxed and waned as they continued their walk, turning towards Hepburn Street and zigzagging their way towards the shoreline at Freemans Bay.

  “I love it down here, close to the water’s edge,” she said.

  On a bright summer morning eight years ago, they had sailed into the harbour shimmering under the sun as if someone had scattered jewels upon its surface. The Waitemata – place of sparkling waters – captured her heart. The greens of the land were colours she had never seen before, and the new city bustled with optimism. And nothing had changed as far as Gwenna was concerned.

  Ships and coastal steamers lined the wharves or were tied up along the waterfront, loading and unloading goods; the steam from the
ir engines rose into the sky, and the smell of coal and oil mixed with the salt-laden air.

  “When I was younger, I used to wander out to Point Erin with my friends, to visit the Maori pa site or stand and watch the sawmillers handle those floating logs.”

  Johnno started to say something, but she stopped him.

  “Listen. Can you hear the birds cawing and the waves lapping against the rocks?”

  She’d learnt to love the sea in all is guises and seen it as angry as the howling winds or the moody skies above, but she never felt threatened by it, even through its wildest days – unlike the storms at home. Today, it was as peaceful as a lake under the bluest of blue skies.

  “Not really,” said Johnno. “There’s too much other noise.”

  She shrugged, dismissing his indifference. “There’s been a lot of talk about reclaiming the land at this end of the bay next. I wish they wouldn’t. I love it as it is.”

  Over the last half-century, most of Commercial Bay, Official Bay and Mechanics Bay had been reclaimed, using fill from cutting back Point Britomart to create the rail link south. Wynyard Pier and the Queen Street wharf had been built back in the 1850s, leading to the formation of Customs Street and Quay Street by the 1870s. Now the authorities were turning their sights on the western end. They wanted to create flat land between the shore and hilly streets above for more industry.

  “If you think it’s noisy now, wait until they’ve done all that. They’ll ruin it.”

  “It’s called progress,” said Johnno, not at all in keeping with her thoughts.

  By the time they’d climbed their way back up Union Street to Karangahape Road, they’d agreed to a pre-Christmas wedding. “We’ve less than three weeks,” Gwenna said. “We’d better hurry if we’re going to get everything organised in time.”

  For a few brief moments, images of the sort of wedding she once imagined flashed through her mind, but she couldn’t regret that now. She doubted Johnno would remember the age-old tradition of the man hand carving a lovespoon for his bride, let alone make one. He’d been too young when his family had emigrated. But a wedding, even in a registry office, was better than none. She’d never live down the stigma of being an unwed mother, which would mean she’d never bring her pa’s dreams – her dreams – to life.

  With too many reservations still in her heart, she agreed they would move in with his father – if he would let her – until Johnno had saved enough money to lease a suitable property just for the two of them. Somewhere, she insisted, where she could make the boiled lollies and other sweet treats that would be the start of her business. Lost in her thoughts, she hadn’t noticed Johnno avoided answering, never mind how many times she talked about what she wanted.

  But, since neither of them was twenty-one, they needed permission from their head-of-household before anything could happen. Only then could they apply for a Notice of Intention to Marry and ask the registrar, or better still, a minister, to marry them.

  Gwenna was less concerned about getting approval. “Mam told me she would give her permission, and since Elias isn’t blood kin, I’ll not need his consent. I’m almost tempted not to tell him at all and just disappear from his life, but it wouldn’t be fair on Mam. She needs money coming into the house, and Elias won’t be happy he has to find someone to replace me, what with Hugh gone as well.”

  “He won’t try and force you to continue working for him, will he?” Johnno sounded anxious. “I don’t want you near him once we’re wed.”

  Anything was possible with Elias. Maybe he would stand back and let her go. Or he could threaten Bethan or Charlie and bully her into staying. Or he could decide she was a wanton, bringing shame on the family, and refuse to let her see them again. She fretted about what he would hold over her.

  “Let’s just wait and see. I’d better hurry, it’ll be dark soon.” And with a quick peck on Johnno’s cheek she turned and ran the last part of the way home.

  6

  Nothing changes until

  something changes

  Gwenna stopped dead in her tracks the minute she opened the door. Her skin tingled a warning while her eyes scanned the room. Bethan sat in her usual chair by the fireplace, but her agitated fingers flew above her crochet work faster than normal. Charlie, sitting cross-legged on the floor beside her, leant as close to her legs as he could, resembling a statue more than a little boy. And there was no smell of cooking.

  Her ears strained to hear the slightest sound out of place until a tiny flicker in Bethan’s eyes alerted Gwenna to something behind her. She turned, but she couldn’t move fast enough. Elias’s fist skimmed past her jaw and slammed into the front of her shoulder. The force of the blow sent her stumbling.

  She instinctively rolled into a foetal position as soon as she hit the floor, a matter of moments before Elias’s boot struck. A searing pain shot up her spine. She flung her head back and arched her back away from the blow. Blood seeped from her tongue.

  Within the veil of agony, she was vaguely aware of a loud, high-pitched scream. Was it her voice or someone else’s? Charlie fell across her and a moan escaped her lips.

  “Stop!” cried Bethan. “Elias, I said stop!” The tone she used brooked no argument. “This is too much, too far.” She swept her arm towards the still prone figure of Gwenna, with a sobbing Charlie splayed over her.

  “You ... you’re out of control.” All her pent-up strain and anger burst forth. “Enough is enough. This bullying has got to stop. I will not tolerate it any longer.”

  Elias stared at his mother as if she was from another time and place. She hadn’t spoken to him like that since his father died. Nor had she ever lifted a hand towards him. He took a threatening step towards her. “I’ll do whatever I want, if I want ...”

  A resounding slap rang around the room as Bethan’s hand connected with Elias’s face. “No. You won’t. Not any longer. I should have stepped in a long time ago, but I kept making excuses for you. Thinking you’d had enough hardships in your life, and I’d do nothing to add to them. But all I’ve done is condone your ghastly behaviour. It stops now.”

  Elias held a hand to his cheek. He opened his mouth to speak and then shut it again. Without another word he left the room, slamming the dividing door behind him.

  Another groan from Gwenna brought Bethan to her knees beside the girl.

  Charlie scrambled off his sister and started to wipe her brow. “You orright, now, Gwenna? Elias shouldn’t have kicked you. He’s bad.”

  “Yes, Charlie, Elias was bad, but we’ll make her better, that we will,” said his mother, holding Gwenna’s hand as she tried to move. “Careful, don’t get up too quickly,” instructed Bethan. “Where does it hurt the worst?”

  Still lying on the floor, Gwenna fingered her shoulder where the first blow had knocked her over, but after moving her arm around in the socket found it wasn’t too bad. Her elbow, which had taken the force of the fall, hurt as much. Both would mend soon enough.

  “My back. Can you help me sit up?”

  Bethan slid her arm under the girl’s shoulder blades and lifted her into a sitting position against the chair leg. Charlie pushed a cushion behind her. They waited while Gwenna, biting her bottom lip to contain a moan, eased herself onto the side hurting the least.

  By good luck, Elias’s kick had landed on the softest part of her buttock. Bethan told her to expect a huge, painful bruise, and she’d find her joints stiff and bothersome as the days passed, but the damage could have been much worse. She could have lost the baby.

  Bethan wiped away the tear trickling down the girl’s face. “When you are ready, I want you to get off the floor and lie face down,” she said. “I’ll get some poultices for those bruises. Can you stand?”

  Gwenna nodded. Gingerly, she folded her legs under and rolled onto her knees. Standing would have been impossible if not for Bethan’s strong arms helping her to her feet. Still supporting her, Bethan watched her stepdaughter turn shades of white and green as she mastered the p
ain surging through her.

  Beads of sweat popped out on Gwenna’s forehead and upper lip as she stood. She released her breath and gave the faintest of smiles. “There, see. I’ll be fine.”

  “Oh, aye? You will be, but not yet awhile.” Bethan eased the outdoor coat Gwenna still wore off her sore shoulder. “Now come on, rest yourself on the sofa, and I’ll make you a nice cup of sweet tea. And a slug of brandy won’t go astray, neither. It’ll help with the shock. You can worry about getting up the stairs tomorrow.”

  Charlie was sent up to gather a pillow and a blanket. “And bring her house slippers with you,” Bethan shouted after him before returning to remove Gwenna’s button-up boots.

  “I heard everything,” whispered Gwenna. “Thank you.”

  Bethan shook her head. “No, don’t thank me. It’s me who should be saying sorry to you. I spoilt him. I let him pretend he was a man after his father died, although he was too young for the task. At some stage, I stopped teaching him right from wrong.”

  Bethan got to her feet and moved to the coal range to make the tea and start preparing a soothing poultice from brown paper soaked in sage and vinegar.

  Gwenna raised her head enough for Charlie to push the pillow behind her. “Even so, you were mighty brave to stand up to him, Mam. He could have taken to you, the mood he was in.”

  “No, he wouldn’t. He never hits me. Oh, yes, he’ll grab me, and push and shove and be mighty rude, but he only strikes out at you.”

  Charlie tried to spread the blanket over Gwenna, but it was too big for him to manage and he put more over her face than anywhere else.

  “Easy, Charlie,” said Bethan, coming to his rescue. “Our Gwenna is real sore. Let me help you.”

  Once the blanket was in place and Charlie had tucked it around Gwenna’s feet, Bethan took her hand. Her eyes carried years of sorrow. “I should have stopped him long before this. Forgive me.”

  Holding Bethan’s gaze, Gwenna recalled all the years of mothering she had received from this kind, self-effacing woman. “There’s nothing to forgive, Mam. You’re trapped as much as I am.” She stroked her stomach and thought about the child growing inside, and struggled to find a way to spring the trap.