Skylark by Jenny Pattrick Page A

Foley’s child, Lily, and this time I am to bear it like any proper mother. I am to be his new wife! Oh, Lily, Lily, this is the happiestmoment of my entire existence!’
    She danced a few steps and twirled her skirts. I felt both jealous of her good fortune but also a stirring of hope. If Maria was in favour, perhaps she would speak for me. Perhaps I could continue with the circus until the foot healed.
    At this very moment, poised as I was between hope and despair, Mrs W.H. Foley appeared at my side. She cast a shrewd glance at the leg encased in the Taranaki Herald .
    ‘A break,’ she announced, as if she were the doctor. Then she took a deep breath, her bosom swelling; a song or pronouncement was about to emerge from her beribboned throat. ‘Well there will be no place for you here. Your friend ’, she cast a black look towards the radiant Maria, ‘will be occupied with other matters now. I think you had better come with me.’
    I looked at her in astonishment. Whatever had she in mind?
    She declaimed her intentions as if to the whole world. No doubt the words were directed at her husband, but I remember them to this very day. ‘We will leave these sad little circus people to their own paltry devices. My place is in the theatre. Thespis is my destiny and I believe you may find a way there too. Lily, you have a Voice. I will teach you the craft, and you will meantime rehearse my lines with me and serve me in any way that a cripple might.’ She turned to Jack Lacey. ‘Wait there, young man, while I bring my bags. You may deliver the two of us to the boarding house of Mrs Swift on Taupo Quay.’
    I looked quickly at Mr Foley. He nodded gravely, cocked an eyebrow at me and gave me his crooked grin. My heart sank. He was obviously prepared to let me go. Maria had disappeared. It was as Mrs Foley said — they were both involved in their own little drama and I was on my own again. My circus family! I could scarcely stop myself wailing like a lost child: for indeed I was still a child of fifteen or sixteen. I gasped, feeling as if waters were about to close over my head. Mrs Foley’s offer was my only hope. I clung to it as I would to a life-raft.
    In that one moment, disaster was transformed into a future career.

W RITTEN IN L ILY’S JOURNAL
An interesting aside
    [Archivist’s Note: My editor suggests that this excerpt casts doubt on the veracity of Lily’s account. I disagree. I have endeavoured to verify the details of the events she describes and can assure the reader that Lily’s story fits like a glove with other early records of theatre in this country. E. de M.]
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    14 August 1883
    Yesterday my son Samuel found me writing, sad and alone, at my little desk in the sun-room upstairs. He fixed me with those unfortunate eyes, an accusing look accompanied by silence and pursed lips. Poor Samuel can be very trying. He has no understanding at all of the dramatic temperament. Whereas the others … But I must not judge.
    I continued with my writing. Finally he came around to it.
    â€˜I am going to tell the true version,’ he said, in his dry, grating voice. Oh, we tried so hard with him, singing lessons every day, visits to the theatre, but the talent, alas, was missing. Somehow I failed to pass on suitable vocal equipment, it seemed, to this one child. His speech remained colourless; his songs tuneful enough but lacking all dramatic impact. There was simply nothing to be done.
    â€˜What true version?’ I asked. I suppose I was a little short with him. My writing time is precious. I can forget while I am writing. So much must be explained. And who knows when I might be taken?
    â€˜The other side,’ said Samuel, ‘of that memoir you are reading to us. I am writing my father’s story.’
    I was so astonished that I stopped writing, put down my pen, blotted the page and turned around to him.
    â€˜You are writing?’
    He shrugged as if this was of no importance and