‘Well, after that.’
‘I doubt it, William. After that there’ll be something else. I have a strange feeling there’ll always be something more important.’
‘Would you like to go there? Visit her?’
‘She hasn’t asked me.’
‘I’ll write and suggest it.’
‘No, please don’t,’ Edith said. ‘Then they’d feel obliged to agree, and we’d all be most uncomfortable. Besides, from what you’ve told me of the house, there’d be no room. It would mean people having to share. I’d be a nuisance. And anyway, I’ve never liked travel.’
He could sense her bitter disappointment, but knew of no way to console her. He wished he could, but they had grown too far apart.
THIRTEEN
Elizabeth screamed. Frau Fischer, the midwife, nodded encouragingly, and said in Barossa Deutsch to push down more, push hard, and Eva-Maria held her hands and translated the instruction.
‘Tell her I am pushing hard,’ Elizabeth gasped. ‘It’s worse than the other times. Who said it gets easier with each baby?’
‘Some man,’ Eva-Maria said, which made her laugh, until the next contraction gripped her. This was the worst agony of all; she felt as if she would die.
Outside, Stefan could hear the screams. He had been chased from the house by Frau Fischer, after protesting that he wanted to help. He’d been tartly told that he’d given all the help necessary nine months ago, and to get out, because there was nothing more useless in the act of childbirth than an anxious father worried by a few screams. He paced outside the new fermenting shed he had built, sharing her anguish with frightened and helpless frustration.
Gerhardt Lippert came from the back of the house, carrying a lantern and a cup of coffee.
‘Drink it.’
‘Who’s looking after Heinrich and Cal?’ Stefan asked him. ‘Sigrid’s looking after them. Who else would be looking after them?’
‘But where are they?’
‘I took them all to our house. Now drink the coffee and relax.
Stop making everybody so nervous.’
Stefan tried to drink the scalding sweet liquid. ‘What do you think?’ he asked Gerhardt.
‘What do I think about what?’
‘A boy or a girl?’
‘I think it’s sure to be one or the other. Now drink.’
They gradually became aware of the total silence from the house. It was far more unnerving than the screams. Then there was the faint cry of a new-born child.
‘Oh Christ,’ Stefan whispered, and dropped the cup. The hot liquid splashed on his boots, but he didn’t notice. He ran to the window of the bedroom and rapped urgently on it. The window was pushed up. Eva-Maria looked out, exhausted and terse.
‘Stefan, we’re busy.’ Then she relented and kissed him. ‘It’s a little girl.’
‘Elizabeth?’
‘Elizabeth’s worn out, She’s had a hard time.’
‘But she’s all right? Please say she’s all right.’
‘She’s all right. Truly.’
‘Thank God.’
He felt weak with relief. He had barely realised, until now, how afraid he had been. Through the last months of the pregnancy he had been possessed by fear. He turned to relay the news, and realised Gerhardt was already there beside him.
‘A girl.’
‘I heard. Ich gratuliere.’
They gripped hands, then hugged each other. Stefan looked up at the crescent moon, and the sky full of stars above. He threw wide his arms and shouted with joy.
‘Ein Mddchen:’ He flung his arms around Gerhardt again. ‘A girl.
It’s wonderful. She’s to be called Maria. If she was a boy we thought we’d call her Gerhardt.’
‘I’m glad she’s a girl. Much better a girl is called Maria than she is called Gerhardt. Now I think I am going to pour you a great big brandy — because I need one.’
‘Maria. It’s a nice name,’ Hannah said, reading the letter, and smiling. ‘She sounds so happy. A different girl.’
William moodily sipped his aperitif. She glanced at him. ‘Aren’t you pleased? She always wanted a girl.’
‘Yes, of course. It’s just — it means another six months before we see her. Edith’s upset.’
‘I’m sorry. But it’s nice she’s happy — isn’t it?’ There was another silence.
‘If she is happy, I can’t understand it,’ he said. ‘The place is a primitive farm, an ordinary little house and a few wretched acres. In her letters she makes it sound like the bloody Garden of Eden.’
‘But my darling, she’s in love. That’s exactly what it is.’
‘They work their guts out for a few tons of grapes. Ninety bottles of wine last harvest. Is that what you’d call a raging success?’
‘Only their second harvest. Give them time.’
‘Dammit,’ William said abruptly, ‘whose side are you on?’
Hannah considered her reply, before she answered. ‘Theirs, I think.’
‘I see,’ he said coldly, showing a rare anger towards her.
She knew she was on delicate ground, but was not prepared to be intimidated. ‘You know me, William. I speak my mind.’
‘I’ve always been aware of that. But I didn’t bring her up to live so far away, with a bunch of foreigners.’
‘Do you have a choice?’
‘She’s only twenty-one. A child.’
‘Hardly. She has three of her own.’
‘Don’t keep reminding me. I’m too young to be a grandfather, Hannah, even once — let alone three times.’
‘You haven’t really given up trying to get her back.’
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘If you could break up that marriage, you would.’
He put down his drink, unfinished. She watched him collect his hat and coat.
‘I can see you’d rather I didn’t speak my mind.’
‘When did that ever stop you?’ William muttered.
‘Then accept the situation you’ve created.’
‘What do you mean, I’ve created?’
‘It’s thanks to you — however unpalatable that may be — that they’re happy. Write and tell her you’re pleased — about the new baby and the harvest. Ninety bottles of wine. Tell her you’re proud of her and you congratulate Stefan.’
‘Don’t be bloody ridiculous.’
‘That’s what I’d do.’
‘I daresay.’
He went towards the front door.
‘I’m sorry you’re so angry with me,’ Hannah said.
‘I’m not angry,’ William insisted.
‘You sound it. You look it,’ she replied.
‘Dammit,’ he shouted furiously, ‘I am not the slightest bit angry.’
‘That’s good.’ Hannah smiled.
He took his hat and coat. ‘And if I am angry, it won’t last. You know perfectly well it won’t — and you know why.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I’m in love with you,’ he almost snapped, and walked out of the house, slamming the door behind him.
He had never said it before, and Hannah was astonished at how deeply she was moved by this stormy, unromantic declaration.
A week later he told her he had written to Elizabeth.
‘I said I was happy to hear about the baby girl. And that Maria was a nice name.’
‘And Stefan? Any message to him?’
‘I just said that ninety bottles of wine was a fair harvest.’
‘It’s a start. She’ll be pleased. Well done, my darling.’
‘There’s a concert at St james’ Hall tomorrow night. Will you come with me?’
‘That wouldn’t be very discreet.’
‘Damn discretion,’ William said. ‘You were the one who told me a politician should be seen to patronise the arts.’
‘But not in the wrong company.’
‘Please, Hannah?’
She was about to agree, when they heard the doorbell rin
g. ‘Are you expecting anyone?’ he asked.
‘Certainly not.’
Hannah put on a negligee and a discreet housecoat, and went downstairs. She opened the front door, and there was a man waiting there, already framing apologies for disturbing her. She recognised him, and knew at once that something terrible had happened.
The baby was asleep. Carl was being minded by Sigrid, who had become a part of the family, and Heinrich was out among the vines where Stefan was doing the autumn pruning. He had built Heinrich a tiny wooden handcart, a replica of his own into which all the cuttings were thrown. In an hour she would collect him, and put both boys down for their afternoon rest, although Heinrich had reached the age when daytime rests were strenuously resisted as being only for babies. He was an active, bright boy, with an engaging smile. He was going to be tall. And there was something else.
She had first noticed it when he was much younger, and wondered if it was her imagination, but now with each passing month, she could see the growing resemblance to her father. On his third birthday they had taken him to town, to the photographic studio, and had his portrait taken. She had sent it to her parents, but as yet had no reply. Her mother had written far less since the postponement of her visit. She decided she must write again, and agree on a date to soon bring the children. Though the days passed with such enjoyment, she kept delaying the commitment.
Heinrich came running towards the house, pointing to the road across the creek. She saw Gerhardt in his pony and trap on his way home from Nuriootpa. He called to her, waving a letter he had collected for them at the post office.
‘Can I see Uncle Gerhardt?’ Heinrich asked, and Carl who had heard came running around the verandah.
‘Me too, Mama.’
‘All right,’ she told Heinrich, ‘but don’t leave Carl behind.’ He immediately raced off, leaving Carl to totter in his wake.
‘Don’t leave me behind,’ Carl wailed, then tripped over, turned back to look at her as if to burst into tears, but thought better of it. He then ran towards Gerhardt, who was already opening a bag of boiled lollies he kept under the seat, a fact which both children knew well. Gerhardt distributed one to each of them, and gave them a hug. He called to Elizabeth.
‘Don’t forget, you all come to our house for dinner on Sunday.’
‘We’ll be there.’
They exchanged waves. She watched as he pretended to put the bag away, then surreptitiously handed each of them another lolly before he drove off. He and Eva-Maria had no children of their own; one of the many things that bound both couples so closely was the Lipperts’ genuine love for the boys, and now for the new baby who had been christened Maria in the Bethany church, and who was their goddaughter.
The letter was from her father. She could tell at once by the bold handwriting, and after Sigrid had collected the children for their rest, she sat on the verandah step to read it.
My dear Elizabeth,
I don’t know how to phrase this, but please prepare yourself for dreadful news. Your mother has had a very serious accident, and for some days was not expected to live. She suffered a dizzy spell, and fell from the upstairs balcony, causing severe injuries. I know it will come as a terrible shock, but there was little point in telegraphing you until we had more information, and now I feel it is better expressed in a letter than alarming you with a telegram. Doctor Fairfax says she will recover; but it is certain she will never walk again. He suggested that I took a second opinion, which I have done, but unfortunately the diagnosis is unchanged.
Please keep your promise and visit us. I know the baby made that difficult, but I miss you deeply, and I am sure it would cheer your mother, and aid her recovery to know that she would see you soon.
With love, Papa.
‘I can’t cry,’ she said to Stefan that evening, ‘that’s the awful part. I wish I could. But it feels as if it happened to someone I once knew. Someone I didn’t know well enough.’
Stefan kept his arms around her, trying to comfort her. The moonlight filtered through the window, and lay across the flimsy sheet which covered their bodies; the night was strangely still and oppressive for autumn.
‘Poor Mama. She was always rather afraid of Papa, and often unhappy, and I’m sure I made her unhappy, too.’
She suddenly realised she was talking of her mother in the past tense, as if she were dead, not merely crippled for life. She started to sob at last, the sound of it a shock to Stefan; it was so harsh and melancholic, as if her confessed lack of love for this stranger who was her mother made her suffering unendurable.
It was arranged that she should go the following month, as soon as her mother was home. Elizabeth wrote to her father to this effect, and received his reply enclosing first-class tickets. But there was an additional delay, when he telegraphed to advise that Edith was not yet well enough to leave hospital, and thus it was two months later, July 1900, when she finally took a coach to Adelaide and, accompanied by Sigrid and the children, began the long train journey across three states. They spent a night in Melbourne, staying at the Windsor Hotel, Elizabeth acutely aware of the luxurious contrast to her last visit. The next day another train took them as far as the border town of Albury, where they passed through customs and changed onto a New South Wales express.
It was four days in all before the train clattered through the crowded inner suburbs of Sydney, past the backs of terraces and endless tiny fenced yards and rows of outdoor privies, the untidy and squalid landscape that welcomed the traveller to the continent’s first city.
The children were exhausted by the immensity of the distance; Sigrid was full of wonder as she gazed out of the window at the cluttered houses. Elizabeth, despite her fatigue, felt a growing excitement. It was three and a half years since she had last passed these same shabby tenements that backed onto the railway line, but then she was running away from the scene of her childhood, pregnant, frightened and almost penniless.
Now, despite her reluctance to leave Stefan, there was a sense of anticipation as the train steamed into the cavernous Central Station. She saw William on the platform, scanning the carriages, spotting her with a wide smile, opening the carriage door and enveloping her in his arms. Then the introductions, the children shy, her father organising a porter and making their way out to the waiting carriage. Forbes, the same dear old Forbes, welcoming her and making much of the children and how growed-up-they-were, and she suddenly remembered they shared a secret; it had been Forbes who had given her the note from Stefan with his address in Clyde Street, and that act had altered her life, and as if Forbes realised this he gave her a smile as though to say he was glad it had worked out well, after all.
Then the familiar streets; lower George and Castlereagh, with their dingy shops and dwellings above them, like the one she lived in over the bootmaker’s shop; Hyde Park where she could still vividly recall the bunch of flowers Stefan had gathered for her, and the rush home to make love afterwards; Oxford Street with its grander terraced homes; the fine stone building of the Victoria Barracks; the overblown and slightly grandiose Paddington Town Hall.
Strange but familiar sights; a few years had brought little change. She pointed out landmarks to Sigrid and the children, while her father watched them all and Heinrich sat on his knee and didn’t, after a puzzled first moment, voice any objection to being called Henry.
In a moment they were at the edge of Centennial Park, then the carriage turned in through the familiar iron gates, past the garden, colourful with dahlias and hibiscus, and the last tinted leaves of the liquidambars — only the tennis court was unmarked and looking forlorn, as if the players had long since gone away. The servants were waiting for them on the front steps — Mrs Forbes and the household staff, all fussing and exclaiming over the children, who loved it, and began to show off outrageously.
Her mother was sitting in the gaunt living room, a rug across her knees. Elizabeth knelt and kissed her, and realised tears were trickling down, wetting her own cheeks, as Edith tr
ied to speak. And then the two older children were brought forward to be introduced, and she held Heinrich up to be kissed. He smiled and clutched his grandmother.
‘Grandma,’ he said in his small clear voice, ‘are you crying?’
‘Yes, darling,’ she said, blowing her nose.
‘Are you sad, Grandma?’
‘No, Heinrich. I’m happy.’
His face looked puzzled as he contemplated this. Then he gazed at her. ‘If you cry when you’re happy, Grandma, what do you do when you’re sad?’
They all smiled indulgently, at such youthful observation, except for Edith, who cried even harder. She reached out and captured him, tears cascading, her face transformed and alive with joy.
Later, in her room, Elizabeth no longer felt tired. It was exciting to be home. It was pleasant to hear her children being praised, to look at her father and see his pride and love, even to observe her stricken mother and be aware of her happiness that they were there at last. It was nice to undress in a room that she did not have to clean, to sit at a table and eat off dishes that she did not have to wash, to walk on the soft lawns and along the remembered paths of her childhood.
FOURTEEN
‘Look at them, the Right Honourable Ratbags opposite,’ the Opposition spokesman Hubert Mount joy thundered. ‘Humbugs and hypocrites.’ Jeers and cheers interrupted him. ‘Look at all the oily, odious, over-privileged opportunists, the objectionable, overbearing old farts … ’
William rose to his feet. ‘Mr Speaker, I object to the word old,’ he said, amid laughter that became applause. William quelled it with a gesture. The flatulent Mr Mount joy, who, despite his claim of convict ancestry has absolutely no courage of his convictions, fulminates against those of us in this house who support Federation. I assure this chamber, and all the doubting Thomases, all the mice and the minnows and even the Mount joys …’ he had to pause for renewed laughter ‘— that the people are ready. They have made their choice. It took two referendums, but the mandate is now clear. They want — no — they demand an end to colonialism, they demand our promises be kept, and that in a few months from now, on the first day of the new century, we become one people, one nation.’
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