Live Encounters Aotearoa New Zealand Poets & Writers March 2026
The Pissing Evil, story by Denise Teresa O’Hagan.
Adeline bolted upright in bed then fell back onto her firm mattress. Nightmares and near bedwetting had descended onto her like a plague. Her iron bed frame creaked. Saturday morning had dawned, and the sun’s weak determined rays clawed at the heavy velvet drapes. She buried her cheek in the plush duck down pillow and groaned, ignoring her bladder that demanded she get up. The gold brocade eiderdown slipped off as she curled up against the morning chill. The pale blue of her floral bedroom wallpaper and minute white roses that formed a chain under the ornate architraves appeared in the dim hue. Charlotte Kerr-Taylor her best friend at the new Morningside School popped into her head. She smiled and rolled over, staring at the plaster ceiling, its intricate white patterns like an elaborate wedding cake.
The first proper school in the district had opened last summer, 10 January 1870, a date she’d never forget. Adeline was thrilled to now have the opportunity to sit in a classroom, with slate and chalk as opposed to having Miss Wainwright, the governess, take the long daily trek from her tiny flat above the Graham and Company Drapery in Queen Street to teach her arithmetic, French and spelling in the parlour. Excitement tingled inside her at the thought of getting up early every day to ride in the buggy down Whau Rd amongst the stone fences and the rolling hills full of sheep and cows, to School Road in Kingsland. The Mount Albert Highway District Board of Trustees had been in favour of opening an official school. She had heard her parents discuss the matter, that for the many newly arrived farmers in the district, an education for their children was high on their moral code of priorities, even for girls.
Up until now, most of the children of the district had received instruction from Reverend Alexander French at the Cabbage Tree Swamp School in the Methodist Chapel. Adeline pulled up the eiderdown. She hadn’t had the misfortune to attend but she’d heard that the planks they laid across rocks for seats were entirely uncomfortable, not to mention the harsh nature of the teaching instruction. She shivered.
The dark velvet curtains, backlit from the dawn light, glowed. She jumped out of bed as the need to use the lavatory took on an urgency and tiptoed barefoot to the water closet. Warm smells and bustle streamed into the passage from the scullery as the cook prepared breakfast. Adeline crept past the kitchen and down the hall to the small room on the back porch, her white calico nightdress flowing out behind. Her need to go privy had come with greater frequency of late and had become most annoying. Must stop drinking so much water, she thought as she lowered herself onto the wooden seat. Her mind wandered. They had arrived at the homestead on the hill in the country town of Mt Albert just five short years ago. She had been eight when they took that dreadful journey across the sea. The memories of torturous furls of white water and swells on a disease-ridden ship with ailing passengers floundering all over the deck, made her shrink. She had sought the fresh air on deck to the stinking berths below, where the wind and birds blew free.
She tore a square of newsprint off the wire hook. She’d used the chamber pot three times last night. She frowned at the ridiculous frequency. Standing, she yanked on the metal chain. As the water gurgled down the pipes, she ignored the thirst that welled up in her parched throat.
She scuttled back to her bedroom. She’d have to watch out, or Mama would start to notice and ask questions, and she hated more than anything being grilled about her whys and wherefores. Staying invisible was by far the safer option.
Soon the family would sit down to breakfast. She could smell the freshly made pikelets. Her mouth watered at the thought of them with fresh cream and homemade strawberry jam. She’d sit quietly and listen while Mama and Papa discussed the day’s schedule and the current news, how the gold boom was waning and how the new Premier William Fox was faring. Nobody paid any heed to well behaved children at the dinner table. Mama always said children should be seen and not heard.
* * *
The ink well on her wooden desk shimmered moodily in the dim light of the classroom. Adeline slouched on her elbows as sleepiness caught her unawares.
Smack. The leather strap snapped onto the edge of the desk behind her and
Adeline’s bottom left the seat, sending her ink pen clattering across the polished kauri floor.
‘Wake up Miss Adeline Battley!’
The stern features of Miss French appeared at Adeline’s side as the teacher strutted from behind down the aisle. She eyed Adeline, her brows crossed disapprovingly.
Adeline sat stiff as a washboard. Her wide eyeballs followed the teacher’s movements, while her insides cramped in fright.
‘Insolence comes in many forms and falling asleep in class rates highly on that list, my dear.’ Miss French leaned her palms flat on Adeline’s desk, her face so close Adeline could smell stiff starch and musty mothballs.
‘Yes, Miss.’ Adeline said, eyes facing forward.
‘Petulance and laziness are sins of the devil. There will be none of that nonsense in my class, do you hear?’ With a sudden jerk, Miss French swivelled around, her heavy skirts swishing. She strode to the front of the class, the strap dangling down at her side.
Adeline exhaled. She glanced at the strap. She had not had the misfortune to experience the offensive object and hoped she never would. Though she had seen it in action often enough. Jonathan had made a mistake with his addition yesterday and the tan leather had come out like an extension of Miss French’s arm to mete out his punishment. Being a perfectionist, the shame of such wrath would not only wound Adeline’s hand but also her pride. The maligned children hid their red-welted hands in their pockets or under their woollen blazers, their quivering lips less stiff than their aspirations to stay strong.
She stared at a shard of light on the wall and began to wonder if going to school was such a good idea after all. Their ex-governess, the spinster Miss Wainwright, also formal and proper, had always arrived in her floor length navy calico dress, buttoned all the way up to the neck, with her hair pulled back into a bun so tight it would bring tears to one’s eyes. But Miss Wainwright had been as soft as the housemaid’s feather duster.
Adeline would sit in the window seat of the parlour and read Charles Dickens while the sun streamed in on them. Miss Wainwright would remind her to pull up her socks and mind her “ps and qs”, and recite her je suis, tu es, il est, nous sommes, vous êtes, ils sont until Joseph brought the cow in for milking, but she would never indulge in anything more violent than the shooing of a fly.
Adeline stared at the blackboard, her back stiff, hesitant to move an inch. But with all the stress and anxiety, a dizziness overwhelmed her. Then nausea filled her throat, the taste of vinegar strong in her mouth. Panicking, she took deep breaths to abate the sensations. She didn’t want to draw further attention to herself.
The room began to spin, like the globe on the axis in geography lessons. She put her head in her hands. Then without warning and before she could prevent it, she had thrown up on the slate atop her desk. The ink well filled to overflowing and dripped onto the floor. She grimaced at the sight as she wiped her chin with the back of her hand and looked up to see every eye in the room fixed on her, their mouths open behind sniggering hands. A red-hot flush swept through her like a volcanic eruption; she fainted and fell off her chair onto the hard wooden floor.
* * *
A damp flannel wiped across her brow. She reached out her arms, her eyes slits. Then she saw Charlotte and Miss French leaning over her.
Adeline tried to prop herself up on one elbow, but wooziness made her fall back onto the hard pillow of the sick bay.
‘There, there, Adeline. Lay back, no point in pushing the cart too hard. You have taken quite a spin,’ said Miss French leaning closer, her brow crossed, the gentle tone of her voice quite unfamiliar.
‘Your mother is on the way,’ said Charlotte. She glared at Adeline, her wide eyes sending a warning that she’d be wise to stay quiet and do as she was told.
Adeline lay back. What on earth was all this about? Dizziness, a hounding thirst, needing to use the lavatory all the time and as her mother had pointed out, her dresses were quite hanging off her of late. And yet she was always hungry and ate everything that was put in front of her. She sighed. And this devastating display of fainting and vomiting in class, it would just not do. She would get quite the reputation as the sickly child. She sneaked a quick peek at Charlotte out of the corner of her eye.
‘Shhhh, shhhh,’ Charlotte patted her hand, her face full of sympathy.
Adeline squinted, puzzled. Why was she being shushed? Then, horrified, she saw what the fuss was about. At that moment, Adeline knew something must be terribly wrong with her. She jerked upright. Urine was dripping off the starched sheet onto the floor, and Adeline had not even been aware that she had relieved herself. ‘Dear God, whatever is the matter with me?’ she said, her hands covering her face.
* * *
The whitewashed walls of the hospital room zoomed in and out. Adeline tried to focus but nothing stayed fixed like the tintype images in frames on top of the piano at home. She spied her mother propped in a chair next to the bed, her burgundy gown cascading around her. Surely, she must be angry for Adeline’s failings. She wanted to say sorry for this imprudent invasion into their lives but couldn’t muster up an apology, even though this misfortune must be her fault. She’d been taught one should never blame anyone else for one’s failings under any circumstances.
Adeline’s forehead creased like the neatly folded top sheet as she searched Mama’s face for an inkling of mercy. But her frame stayed as stiff as the maid’s ironing board. A nervous giggle escaped from Adeline’s constrained throat. Fortunately, it emerged as a squeaky cough, quite permitted when confined to a hospital bed in broad daylight.
Mama stood to full height and began fluffing her pillows and pulling up the covers, as if she was the matron. Adeline blinked, taken aback with the attention.
‘You’re going to be fine,’ she said, not looking at Adeline. ‘Doctors aren’t always right by any means, don’t know what they’re talking about, just talking gibberish…diabetes mellitus…what’s that anyway, some fandangle disease? The pissing evil. No cure…my goodness, what do they know? Not to mention the talk of sweet urine. What next! I’ll get Richard in here and he’ll tell them what oh, and before you know it, they’ll be treating you for the flu and sending you home like any good doctor would for hard working God-fearing citizens.’
Adeline blinked, unaccustomed to all this attention, let alone such a display of emotion from her mother. More curious still was when Mama reached under the covers and held her hand. The unfamiliar soft warmth made Adeline tingle inside, the experience rather pleasant. She didn’t know what to make of it all. Her glazed eyes searched her mother’s softened face. Then blackness descended over her again, as if someone had blown out the candle.
© Denise Teresa O’Hagan
Denise Teresa O’Hagan has a Master of Creative Writing from AUT, a Botany Degree and several postgrads in various subjects. She writes both poetry and fiction and has had poems published in Fresh Ink, NZ Poetry Society’s Anthology, ‘a fine line’, takahē, Tarot, Fast Fibres, The Blue Nib and Live Encounters Poetry. She is currently working on several novels in historical and contemporary fiction. She enjoys learning and practicing languages including Spanish, French, Portugues and Italian as well as travelling to places rich in history and culture. Much of her travel has inspired her writing.