Call of the Kiwi (39 page)

“I’ve been to a séance before,” Lily said while she laid out Ben’s best and only suit. “In England. One of my mother’s friends was a spiritualist. She was always having mediums over. Once when I was there too. It was rather eerie.”

“It matters much less whether it’s eerie than whether it stands up to scientific scrutiny,” Ben said, a little irritated. Lilian’s initiative had surprised him—particularly its immediate starting date—but writing articles would certainly suit him better than unloading barges. He was nevertheless a bit concerned that working for a daily newspaper would hurt his reputation as a linguist.

“You can use another name, you know,” Lilian reminded him impatiently. “Now quit standing around and change. You could do this job blindfolded.”

Lilian was already asleep when Ben returned, and she was still asleep when he left in the morning to go to work on the docks. She spent the better part of the day worrying about whether Ben had managed to finish his article by the deadline. He only came home at half past three, but to Lilian’s relief he had drafted it between two of his seminars.

“Hurry and take it to Mr. Wilson,” she said. “Then you’ll have it there in plenty of time. He said five at the latest.”

“Listen, Lily, I told a professor I’d go over some work with him. I have to leave now. Can’t you take the article?”

“Of course I can. But shouldn’t you meet Mr. Wilson in person?”

“Next time, dear, yes. This time, we’ll let my work speak for itself. That’s not a problem, is it?”

Ben was out the door before Lilian could object. Resigned, she threw on her shawl and headed out the door. When she arrived, Thomas Wilson was bent over a few articles and making corrections with a furrowed brow.

“Well? You again, young lady? Where’s your husband hiding? Did Mrs. Crandon make him disappear?”

Lilian smiled. “She rather makes things appear, ectoplasm and the like. Unfortunately, my husband couldn’t get away from the university today. But he asked me to bring you his story.”

Wilson skimmed the article. Then he threw it on the desk and glared angrily at Lilian. His face had reddened again.

“Girl, what are you thinking? I’m supposed to print this utter drivel? To be frank, I’m sure your husband has his good qualities, but thi
s . . .
”

Alarmed, Lilian reached for the page.

Auckland, March 29, 1917

On March 28, Mrs. Margery Crandon of Boston provided fascinating insight into the variability of dimensions for a small circle of Auckland’s intellectuals. Even those skeptical regarding the verification of spiritual phenomena had to grant that the amorphous white substance the twenty-nine-year-old American produces by purely spiritual means cannot be explained by the laws of nature. This fragile material, called “ectoplasm” in the nomenclature, projected the image of a spirit, with whom she communicates in a fascinating language. “Enochian” impresses by its syntax and diction that it does not conform to the glossolalia that arises in religious contexts. As for the verification of the identities of the spirits summoned by Mrs. Crandon, the outside observer is naturally left to his subjective interpretation. Here, however, Mrs. Crandon defers to well-known author and soldier Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, who has declared her pronouncements veracious and whose integrity, it goes without saying, is elevated above all doubt.

“Oh God,” Lilian let slip.

Thomas Wilson grinned.

“I meant, of course, oh God, how could I forget. Mr. Wilson, I’m terribly sorry, but my husband asked me to make a few small changes to the text first before handing you the clean copy. This is just the first draft, but I, I just didn’t think, and”—she felt for a piece of paper in her bag that Thomas Wilson recognized as the letter paper with the poem on it—“naturally I couldn’t expect you to read his chicken scratch. Please let me have a little time to make the corrections my husband outlined here.” A slight blush spread over Lilian’s face.

Wilson nodded.

“Due at five o’clock,” he said and took out his gold pocket watch. “So you still have fifteen minutes. Get to it.” He tossed her a writing pad and turned back to his proofs. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the young woman hesitate for a few seconds before her pencil began racing across the page. Just under fifteen minutes later, completely out of breath, she pushed a new draft over to him.

Medium or charlatan? Spiritualist unsettles Auckland society.

Twenty-nine-year-old spiritualist Margery Crandon, whose passport identifies her as an American, made her appearance in front of a group of honorable representatives of Auckland society and this
Herald
reporter. Mrs. Crandon herself purports to have ancestry from a Romanian noble family. The connection this author sees to Strauss’s
Gypsy Baron
is worth noting—because there are several things about Mrs. Crandon’s performance that are reminiscent of an operetta, or rather, a variety show. Her entrance and backdrops created the desired effect of pleasant creepiness. In addition, Mrs. Crandon demonstrated a considerable talent for showmanship with the production of “ectoplasm,” in which her “familiar spirit” supposedly manifested itself—though it must be said that it revealed a greater similarity to a piece of wet tulle than to an appearance from the Great Beyond—as well as detailed conversation in unknown languages such as “Enochian.”

Mrs. Crandon manipulated that and other spirits with the skill of a trained puppet master, enabling her to convince several of those present of the authenticity of her conjured phantoms. She could not, however, stand up to the incorruptibly critical gaze of the
Auckland Herald
, nor did her reference to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s evident admiration of her convince us. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle is a man who combines an excess of imagination with great personal integrity. No doubt he finds it easier to believe that a lady who appears to be above all doubt could summon spirits than knowingly deceive her noble and honorable patrons.

Thomas Wilson had to laugh.

“Your husband has a sharp pen,” he declared, pleased. “And he seems to know a thing or two about spiritual communication to have dictated this directly into your hand—or had you memorized it before? No matter. How Mr. Biller produces his stories is no concern of mine. We’ll have to cut the
Gypsy Baron
reference. Most of our readers aren’t that educated. A few of the words also have too many syllables, and the sentences could be shorter. Otherwise, very good. Have them pay you twenty dollars at the front. Oh yes, and send your husband to the pier tomorrow. A ship is arriving from England—it’s carrying invalids, soldiers who were at Gallipoli. We’d like a story on that. Just patriotic enough that no one feels his toes are being stepped on but critical enough that every last man asks himself why we let our boys bite the dirt on that Turkish beach. A good day to you, Mrs. Biller.”

Lilian accompanied Ben to the harbor and spoke with a nurse and a few veterans, the sight of whom deeply shocked her. Then she replaced Ben’s stiff report—which described, point by point, the geographic peculiarities of the Turkish coast, the importance of the Dardanelles to the course of the war, and the Turkish defensive positions—with a stirring description of the last battles and a highly emotional eulogy of the successful final evacuation of the troops: “Although the sight of all these young men results in feelings of great pride, the author could not help but feel saddened that so many lost their health on a distant beach in the Mediterranean. Gallipoli will always be synonymous not only with heroism but also with the senselessness and gruesomeness of war.”

“Get rid of ‘synonymous,
’ ”
Thomas Wilson remarked. “No one will understand that. Write ‘a symbol for’ and fix the sentence to follow that change. Now tell me what your name is. I can’t keep calling you Ben.”

7

W
riting under the pen name BB, Lilian Biller spent the next few months writing articles about ships’ christenings, the anniversary of the Treaty of Waitangi, conferences of the woodworking industry, and expansions to the university. To Mr. Wilson’s delight, she was able to wring amusing details out of even the dullest subject matter. She enjoyed the work so much that she reduced the time she spent teaching piano lessons. Working for the paper did not, however, solve her underlying problem. She had to leave the house to attend events and talk with people, but she was growing increasingly unwieldy. With a baby, she wouldn’t be able to do it at all—right when their young family would need more money.

Using Ben as her representative was hopeless. He had no knack for the easy, humorous writing style that was required, tending as he did toward ponderous formulations and grandiloquence. When she could no longer hide her pregnancy, Lilian expressed her concerns to Thomas Wilson.

“Not one of my dresses fits anymore. I couldn’t possibly go to this duke’s reception. And it’s only going to get worse.”

The editor thought for a moment. Then he rubbed the wrinkle that always appeared between his eyes during strenuous contemplation.

“Do you know what, Lilian? What we really need—more than articles about Duke Such-and-such’s visit to dedicate the this-and-that building—is a few nice little stories. Something to give folks hope. We’re in the third year of the war, and the pages are filled with reports of battles and losses. The streets are filled with the heroes of Gallipoli on their crutches, and the ANZAC boys are bleeding in France and Palestine. The economy has stagnated; people are worried. And not without reason. The world has become a battlefield, and no one knows why. In short, the general mood is depressed.”

“Oh yes?” Lilian asked. Aside from their financial concerns, she was still happy with Ben and had not picked up on any of that.

“Must be love,” grumbled Wilson. He had since come to know his little reporter better and knew a bit about the couple’s story.

Lilian nodded.

Wilson laughed. “Anyway, I’d be happy to expand the culture section to include a few happy stories. Short stories, not research work, just pure imagination. What do you think? Could you write something like that?”

“I can try,” Lilian declared. She had her first idea on the way home.

Two days later she brought Wilson the story of a children’s nurse from Hamilton who took the cross-country train every Sunday to visit her elderly mother in Auckland. She had been doing it since the train line opened, and Lilian described the delight with which Graham Nelson, the conductor, encountered the young woman for the first time. He saw her in the train every week thereafter. Each fell in love with the other but never dared to exchange more than two words. Only after a few years, once the mother had died and the nurse stopped taking the train, did the conductor pluck up the courage to look for her. It ended with a wedding. Lilian enriched the story with descriptions of the landscape and evoked both New Zealand’s pride in its railway companies and the nurse’s sacrificing nature, as she could hardly tear herself away from her little charges in the hospital.

Wilson rolled his eyes but printed the text the very next Saturday. His readers, particularly the women, were moved to tears. Lilian followed it up with the story of a hero of Gallipoli whose girlfriend thought him dead but resisted courting anyone else until the man finally returned home wounded after several years.

From then on that column in the culture pages was hers. The female readers longed for new stories from BB.

“You should write a novel,” Thomas Wilson remarked after flipping through Lilian’s newest piece. “People are crazy about your stories. Seriously, Lilian, judging by readers’ letters, I could print one of your sob stories every day.”

“Does that pay well?” Lilian inquired.

Wilson smiled. “Simple mammon. What about artistic fulfillment?”

Lilian frowned. “How much?” she asked.

Wilson found her adorable.

“All right, listen, Lilian, we’ll do it like this: you try writing one or two chapters, and then I’ll accompany you to a publisher friend of mine. We’ll have to travel to Wellington for that, though. Can you manage it?”

Lilian laughed. “Which? The train ride or the two chapters? The latter isn’t a problem. And if I finish them quickly, the baby won’t even have to join us in the compartment.”

“I’d be very grateful for that,” grumbled Wilson.

Three days later Lilian was back with two chapters and a brief synopsis.
The Mistress of Kenway Station
told the story of a young Scotswoman who allows herself to be drawn to New Zealand by a suitor—it was based on a mix of her great-grandmothers Gwyneira’s and Helen’s stories. She vividly depicted the sea passage and the young woman’s first encounter with the thoroughly dour sheep baron Moran Kenway. The girl ends up surrounded by luxury but imprisoned, mistreated, and unhappy on a farm far from any human settlements—Lilian felt only slight pangs of guilt for using her mother’s first marriage as material. But fortunately the heroine’s childhood friend never forgot her. He follows her to New Zealand, makes a fortune in no time mining for gold, and rushes to free the girl.

Thomas Wilson skimmed the text and rubbed his eyes.

“Well?” Lilian asked, looking a bit sleep deprived. Neither love nor the racket from the pub were to blame this time—it was the ecstasy of writing that had kept her awake. She had hardly been able to set her story aside. “What do you think?”

“Terrible,” Wilson remarked. “But people will rip it off the shelves. I’ll send it straight to Wellington. Let’s see what Joe Anderson has to say about it.”

Ben Biller adamantly resisted the idea of letting Lilian travel to Wellington alone and Wilson ended up having to buy him a train ticket as well. While Wilson and Lilian negotiated with Joe Anderson, Ben met with representatives of the university there and talked with them about possible visiting professorships. In the end Lilian signed a contract not only for
The Mistress of Kenway Station
but also for an entire series. Wilson advised her to hold off on that since the advance would be a good deal higher if her first book sold well. But Lilian shook her head.

“We need the money now,” she explained and immediately began developing another outline.
The Heiress of Wakanui
took shape as a sort of New Zealand version of Pocahontas, in which a
pakeha
fell in love with a Maori princess.

“I imagine it being incredibly romantic,” Lily said over dinner with Wilson, Anderson, and Ben at a fancy restaurant that evening. “During times of war, Maori warriors had to crawl beneath the legs of the chieftain’s daughter, which symbolized their transformation from peaceful men to merciless warriors. When she learns that her father is going to let these men loose on her sweethear
t . . .
”

“Chieftain’s daughters who performed the duties of a priestess were under very strict
tapu
,” Ben noted sourly. “It’s unlikely that a girl like that would even lay eyes on a
pakeha,
let alone that he’d survive it.”

“Now don’t take it too far with your science, dearest,” Lilian laughed. “I’m not writing a study of Maori culture, just a good story.”

“When it comes to emotional overloading, this ritual in particular in its function of dehumanizing the warrior
s . . .
” As Ben launched into a longer explanation, Lilian listened with a gentle smile, continuing to enjoy her oysters all the while.

“Pay no attention to him,” Thomas Wilson remarked quietly to Joe Anderson. “The girl loves him like an exotic animal. His behavior and way of communicating might be completely foreign to her, but she willingly pays for food and the vet.”

Then he turned back to Lilian. “What are we going to do about your name, Lilian? I’d suggest a
nom de plume
. But maybe we’ll keep the initials? What do you think of Brenda Boleyn?”

Lilian spent the last few weeks of her pregnancy at her desk in her cozy new apartment near the university. Her book advance covered the rent as well as some nicer furniture and a hospital delivery, on which both Ben and Thomas Wilson placed great value. Her contractions started just as she wrote the last sentence of
The Mistress of Kenway Station
.

“I wanted to edit it first,” Lilian said regretfully, but then she let Ben urge her into a cab.

The birth proved to be an awful experience: Ben was not permitted to be present, and the delivery room was cold and stank of Lysol. Lilian’s feet were tied to a sort of gallows and a squarely built nurse snapped at her anytime she so much as whimpered. This woman had nothing in common with the angelic being from Lilian’s first short story, and Lily decided that the reality of giving birth was considerably less pleasant than the way songs and novels depicted it.

Only the sight of her son soothed her.

“We’ll name him Galahad,” she said when they finally allowed a deathly pale and sleepless Ben to come to her.

“Galahad?” he asked, confused. “What kind of name is that? In my famil
y . . .
”

“It’s a name for a hero,” Lilian declared, not revealing to Ben that his son was to be christened for a Grail knight and for the rescuer in
The Mistress of Kenway Station
. “And when I look back at your famil
y . . .
”

Ben laughed. “You mean, one day he’ll dare to contradict his grandmother?”