God's Children Read online

  ‘My dear Ada, that is an essential part of our winter wear. The Siberian tundra will test us in many ways. At least the cold we can do something about. Here, I have a set for you,’ I told her. She gasped at the sight of the unfeminine combinations which came only in an unflattering shade of oatmeal. ‘Come along,’ I threw them to her. ‘A dress rehearsal is required!’

  We proceeded to clothe ourselves in the entire outfit that would be our protection against the unforgiving elements we would face in the first months of our journey. I had spent a great deal of time selecting what we would need. The resulting ensemble comprised of a layer of Jaeger undergarments, on top of which was a loose type of body lined with flannel; gentlemen’s hunting stockings; Russian felt boots; an eider-down ulster the sleeves of which reached to cover the hands, and the fur collar of which reached up to protect the head. Over this came a sheepskin, its own hood covering the fur one, and extending down to one’s feet. The whole was topped off with a dacha, which is a heavy garment of reindeer skin. We added balaclavas to the ensemble, the heat of the room insufferable in the things. The tiring effort of dressing ourselves in such bulky and outlandish clothes brought on a bout of giggling which only resulted in rendering us weaker. By the time we stopped to consider our reflections in the looking glass we were a red-faced pair indeed. I confess I scarcely recognised the wrapped and swaddled creatures who stared back at us, so grown in size and bulky in shape were they, with faces all but obscured save the eyes. Ada could contain her mirth no longer and gave way to unrestrained laughter. I, too, fell to laughing so heartily that we were both relieved when the maid appeared and we could implore her to help us out of our suffocating garb.

  It is easy to imagine we were over-clad, but experience was to show that we wore not a stitch of clothing for which we would not ultimately be deeply grateful.

  It was in this spirit of gratitude that I went to the Tsarina’s private chapel in her Moscow home. Her royal residence there could not match the splendour of the Winter Palace, but still it had many a grand place of worship. It was to her own preferred chapel, however, that she directed me during my stay, and I found such solace there. The traditions of the Orthodox church determined that it still be an opulent space, however modest in proportion. There was much by way of gilding, and paint of such hues as to seem to have their own light, even beneath the soft flicker of candles and scant daylight through the heavily decorated windows. I was not interested in such adornments, however. I wanted only a quiet place to pray, to talk to God, to offer Him my humble thanks for bringing me to the start of my mission so well supported and set up. He had answered my pleas for help, and now I could set about His work. As I knelt on the cold flagstones I kept my eyes tight shut against the pretty distractions of the chapel and thought only of Him. There I stayed for over an hour until the chill began to work to my bones and my knees could kneel not another moment.

  By the time the porters had carted all our supplies onto the correct platform it was almost time for our train to depart. The biting cold of the Moscow winter was lessened somewhat by the heat of the great engine as it drew its fiery breath in the confines of the station.

  ‘No!’ I admonished a porter, ‘I shall keep the valise with me. And the hamper also. The rest must be loaded in the luggage compartment, but I will not part with my valise. Where can Ada have got to?’

  I scanned the platform, searching the throng of travellers and loved ones who were embarking or saying their farewells. At last I spotted Ada, running, one hand holding her hat to her head, the other excitedly waving a newspaper.

  ‘Ada! Make haste.’

  ‘Oh, Kate…’ The girl was out of breath as she folded the pages of the paper to show me an article. ‘Look, do! You are famous, Kate. Everyone knows of your mission now, see?’

  There was a small piece on the bottom right hand corner of the second page, showing a poor picture of myself, which was not of interest to me. More important was the headline, which being in Russian, I could not decipher.

  ‘What does it say, Ada?’

  ‘Nurse’s Mission to Save Siberian Lepers! Let me read it to you.’

  ‘Once we are aboard. Come, it would be a sorry start to our great journey to be left upon the platform,’ I said, ushering her onto the steps of the train. In truth, I could not bear to have her read the article then. I felt the need to be under way, to wait until there was no turning back before hearing what the Moscow journalists had seen fit to say about me. For I had suffered at the hands of newspapermen before. It had begun in New Zealand. I feared even then I would never be free of their scorn and hounding.

  Adventuress! The pages of the New Zealand Times had trembled in my hands as I read the damning headline. Such vitriol. Such venom directed at me but finding expression in the most public of ways.

  ‘Kate,’ my mother fidgeted on the chaise behind me, ‘what takes your attention? Can there be anything of note to read in such a paper? I am told it contains little more than salacious gossip and wild storytelling.’

  I had flattened my copy of the newspaper onto the table in front of me, the better to let the light from the window fall upon it, and to prevent my mother noticing how my hands shook. I ran my palm over the page, as if I might rub out those words which condemned me.

  The True Nature of Pious Kate Exposed! went the story, penned by one Desmond Mackintosh. That name was already familiar to me, though I did not know then how far and how relentlessly the journalist was to dog my footsteps.

  “At last the ‘Good Kate Marsden’ has revealed herself to be what this writer has always suspected: a self-serving creature, devoid of scruples, stony of heart, and with nothing more nor less in her sights than fame and fortune! She would not have it, of course, that her intentions are anything but of the highest altruistic sort. That she seeks only to do good works and help those unfortunates who suffer. She would like us to believe this, oh yes! Yet when I stood before her and questioned her directly a direct answer was what she would not supply. How did she plan to finance her ‘mission’ to save ‘her lepers’ (!) in some far flung place? Whose purse would she raid? Where were her philanthropical backers? Though she gave no reply to these challenges I knew too well, for has she not already emptied the bank account of my own cousin, a gentle woman and fine nurse known for her genuine selflessness and good works? This, I can attest, is fact, and a cold one at that. I went further, how was it, I asked, that the Godly Miss Marsden had profited so handsomely from her own recent ‘accident’? This fall at her place of work had resulted in a handsome payout by her employers and not one but two insurance claims! The brazen woman shouted me down, questioning my facts, and taking herself out of my reach so that I might not press her further upon the matter…

  ‘Kate,’ my mother would not be ignored, ‘have you no better use for your time?’

  I closed the newspaper, folding it tight and small so that I might more easily remove it from the room without drawing her further attention to it. ‘Forgive me, Mama.’ I got to my feet. ‘I shall fetch us tea. The day is not yet too hot, shall we take it in the garden?’

  I succeeded in distracting my mother and she was content to chatter on about inconsequential matters as I helped her outside and settled her in a shady seat beneath the pohutukawa tree, its red blooms glowing where the sun touched them. All the while my own mind was galloping forwards. I could not stay longer in New Zealand, that much was clear to me then. This man would not let me be. I might have seen his intention to ruin me at our very first meeting, for it was clear then he did not approve of my friendship with Jessy. How it must have galled him to see her take us into her home. I did not then believe, nor have I since, that he acted out of a sense of protection towards his cousin. Jessy was a shy creature, but perfectly able to know her own mind. No, his disapproval of me was deep-rooted, and that twisting plant of spite and loathing twined through him, heart and soul. Why do men so despise women when they cannot be as they would wish? What does it profit them to cru
sh another person so needlessly and vindictively?

  Whatever his true motives, the effect would be the same. He would not stop until he had my reputation in shreds, my hope of future employment dashed, my association with the St John’s Ambulance dismantled, and no doubt my tenuous position in society taken from me. What would become of us then? What of Mama? What of Rose? Oh, Rose!

  If I had harboured any notion of sledging being a gentle, effortless mode of travel, where one is borne across the smooth snow on swiftly gliding runners, pulled by horses with bells upon their harness, I was quickly disabused of it. The roads from Zlatoust – where we had disembarked from the train – were rugged and broken up due to the heavy traffic making its way to the Siberian February fair. Such was their condition that we progressed as if on a stormy sea, dipping and leaping through and over the troughs and ridges – bump, jolt, bump, jolt. Ada and I were lain atop our luggage in the ‘hold’ of the sledge, so encased in our heavy clothing as to be unable to properly bend or move into more comfortable positions. We were reduced to helpless cargo. So it was that we were thrown against the sides and roof of our cramped compartment. If my head was not hitting one solid surface it was hitting another. We were violently thrown forwards as the conveyance dived into a furrow, and then flung backwards as it lurched out again. Imagine our tortuous journey continued in such a way, hour upon hour, for miles in their thousands. We were bruised and battered, stiff and sore, our bodies and tempers both tested to their limits.

  In addition there was the noise to contend with, as our driver saw it as an essential part of his work to shout and curse at his horses as he cracked his whip, urging them on to ever more reckless speeds. We would tear through villages, scattering unwary pedestrians as we raced by. When longed-for night came, still we travelled on. At one point I recall seeing the lights of houses set back from the road.

  ‘Driver!’ I called, desperation raising my voice sufficiently for him to be able to hear it. ‘Ada, tell him we should stop awhile. We could take a short break and find refreshment in one of those houses. Tell him, Ada, please.’

  Ada did as I asked, leaning forward with difficulty, raising her voice as best she could to translate my query and put it to the driver, struggling to hear his response as we were jostled and buffeted.

  She sank back into the makeshift seating.

  ‘There are no houses,’ she informed me.

  ‘But the lights…?’ I gestured in the direction of the window.

  Ada met my questioning look. Her voice was shaky as she replied.

  ‘Sometimes, when the moon is bright, it can be seen to catch the eyes of the wolves and shine in just such a way.’

  As if to underline her point there came then the unmistakeable note of a wolf signalling to his pack.

  I looked again through the narrow window and could see that the lights I had mistakenly taken for indications of safety and habitation were in fact moving, following the tarantass, increasing their speed in a determined pursuit.

  I, too, settled deep into the bedding on which we lay. I indicated the driver above and said to Ada, ‘Be so good as to instruct the driver to go a little faster, would you?’

  As we emerged through the doorway of St Thomas’s church the worshippers of the Nelson area stepped into sharp sunshine, causing bonnets to be dipped and hats tilted against its glare. The warmth of the day was already bringing forth the scent of macrocarpa and spring bulbs. The path was gritty beneath our feet but was not yet the crumble of earth and dust it would become as the year progressed. My mother held my arm and I guided her down the porch step. She had aged visibly since Annie’s passing, and no amount of New Zealand sunshine would give her back the years that losing yet another daughter had cost her.

  ‘I have such a thirst,’ she told me. ‘Hymns have a way of drying the throat, I find.’

  ‘But such lively singing,’ I said, smiling over at Nell who walked on my mother’s other side. ‘A joy to hear, a delight to partake of, do you not think so, Nell?’

  Nell nodded, her face radiant after an hour’s worship, the blue of her gown and bonnet a shade that suited her so well that I thought for the first time that there was, after all, a prettiness about her, if only she knew how to bring it out.

  ‘Uplifting,’ she agreed, holding my gaze a fraction longer than was necessary and then blushing at having done so. She cast her eyes down suddenly, as if her feet were of the utmost interest to her. I was on the point of teasing her a little when I heard my name called and turning discovered the odious Desmond Mackintosh approaching, notebook in hand.

  ‘Mr Mackintosh,’ I affected a casual tone, though his presence never failed to irk me. ‘Do not journalists observe the sabbath?’

  ‘My profession compels me to go where I must, when I must, in order to seek the truth,’ he loftily informed me.

  ‘Ah, then here you are certainly in the right place,’ I replied, and made as if to walk on. The man barred my path. I frowned at him. My mother looked confused, as did Nell.

  ‘It is from you I must have it, Miss Marsden. If you would only answer my questions, put your side of the story…’

  ‘I refuse to see myself as part of a story.’

  ‘I insist that you are. And it is one I aim to tell, with or without your cooperation. Would you not rather defend yourself?’

  ‘Such a question suggests I have done something reprehensible, Mr Mackintosh, and yet here I am respecting the Lord’s day, and here you are defiling it with your slander.’

  ‘Kate,’ my mother would be quiet no longer, ‘who is this? What business does he have with you?’

  ‘None at all, Mama. Nell, would you be so kind as to take my mother to the carriage? I will follow on directly.’

  My mother began to protest, but Nell, seeing my determination, took her arm, and led her away. I strode off the path and across the churchyard, out of the reach of the straining ears of town gossips, the newspaper man trotting behind me. I knew we presented an unseemly and suspicious picture, but what was to be done about that?

  I came to a halt at an elaborate grave topped with a stone angel, which I made as if to study to confuse any who might be observing us.

  ‘This constant hounding will gain you nothing,’ I told my persecutor. ‘I have no wish to answer your questions.’

  ‘You would have me write the story without chance of redress?’

  ‘I would have you give it up altogether.’

  He shook his head, a nasty smile doing nothing to improve his unimpressive features. ‘Oh I shan’t do that! I shall show you for what you are, show your true colours.’

  I did not respond to this but waited to see what it was he thought he knew of me that could be so damning. I noticed the face of the angel had been damaged by weather so that there was a hole beneath one eye. I reached out and touched the ruined cheek. The stone felt rough and fragile under my fingertips.

  Mackintosh, like most men of my acquaintance, enjoyed the sound of his own voice and the shape of his own reasoning. ‘I will tell how you are ruthless, how you exploit friendships, playing up your famous history as a medalled war nurse, cajoling and bullying to get what you want, caring not whom you hurt.’

  I refused to be provoked into a response, even though I seethed with indignation. He continued to the point I knew he had been working towards.

  ‘Innocent, good-hearted people such as my own cousin.’

  ‘Ah, dear Jessy. Such a good friend.’

  ‘A friend you see fit to take advantage of. You avail yourself of her house, her money…’

  ‘Both freely given, as she will tell you.’

  ‘Given on the promise of what, will you tell me that, Nurse Marsden?’

  I looked at him then. Saw his mean-minded expression. Saw that he was a man conflicted, for he could not bring me down without also risking his cousin’s reputation. And he and I both knew it. When I still stayed silent he could stand it no longer, his temper, and his own nature, revealed as he hissed, �
�Your kind! I will expose you. The world will know you for what you are!’ He spoke with such suppressed force that his pencil snapped in his hand. He flung the splinters to the ground, turned on his heel, and stormed from the churchyard. I waited until I was certain I had regained my own composure completely before leaving to join Nell and my mother. With every step I told myself He knows nothing. He cannot do me harm. And yet I feared he would not stop until he could find a way.

  There are days now when I wonder if it were not some other person who made that great trek. My frailty now, my diminished strength of will even, do not seem to belong to that bold, fearless creature who strode across the frozen snow of the Yakutsk province, or rode through the taiga for hours on end. Perhaps, after all, my traducers have the truth of it when they say I imagined and invented more than I actually accomplished. Perhaps my mind was as jumbled then as it is now. How can I know?

  You did go, Kate. You trod every step of those miles, rode every twisting path.

  You are certain, at least.

  The greatest part of you was always your determination, and you had set your mind to finding those lepers in their icy tombs and forest gaols. No one could have stopped you.

  Many tried. And when they could not, they sought to pour scorn upon my ventures.

  Even when the hospital was built?

  Even then.

  The house of my childhood in Edmonton was ordinary, as indeed was my family. For it was not out of the ordinary to lose siblings to disease. Nor to lose a parent. The emotional impact of suffering the loss of a brother or sister is great, and leaves a sadness to carry though life. It cannot compare, of course, in practical terms, with the death of one’s father. I find I can no longer summon his face in my memory, though I do remember his voice, for it was very deep, and had about it a rich timbre. He was a man of even temper, yet that voice would carry through the house. And then, one day, it fell silent. We were not a wealthy family, and yet we did not live in penury. A middle class existence such as ours brought with it its own expectations and demands. We were educated, boys and girls alike, though not at a school that would have elevated us in society. There was not money enough for that, nor for a private tutor. Our house was comfortable, but not grand. Even so, we had a cook, a maid, a nanny, a groom for the horses – for we had our own modest carriage – and a gardener. When my father died, all these things had to be kept up, and yet we were deprived of the means of paying for them.