by Louise Allan
Nora was in the kitchen when we went inside. Alf bent to kiss her cheek, but she rolled her shoulder to block him.
We ate dinner in near-silence and after dinner, when everyone had left the kitchen, Nora sat at the table and breastfed Grace while I cleared up. I beat the soap dispenser under the hot water tap until the water was light and soapy, then I started washing and rinsing the glasses.
‘I thought it’d be better here, in a proper house,’ she said. She was staring at Grace, the rain a light patter above us. ‘But it’s not. I thought I’d be happier with running water and electricity.’ She rocked back and forth as she spoke. ‘I cried when we first moved in and I turned the tap and water ran out. And when I flicked a switch and the light came on. I laughed and kept flicking it, on and off, on and off. Alf laughed, too, because he thought I was happy. But he had no idea. No idea.’ She kept rocking, back and forth, back and forth.
I started washing the cutlery, wiping the length of each knife and fork and spoon, and placing each one down softly on the stainless steel so it didn’t clatter.
‘I thought it’d be enough, too. I thought I could do it. Get married, have children.’ Her voice rose and her words came faster. ‘Feeding, nappies, bathing. Cooking, washing, dusting, mopping. Bush. Trees. More bush. More trees. Day in, day out and it’s never going to end.’
I washed the plates and set them on the sink to drain. Nora was still rocking back and forth. I took the cast-iron pot and started scouring.
‘It takes all my might to get up each morning and get through another day,’ she continued. ‘Married to someone I have nothing in common with. Every day the same. More cooking, more cleaning, more kids.’
The scourer scratched against the pot. Scratch, scratch, scratch.
‘I feel as if I’m slowly going mad. It’s exactly like Grandma said it would be—it’s like being buried alive. I’m suffocating. I’m bloody suffocating.’
I set the pot down on the sink.
‘I can’t keep going,’ she said. ‘I can’t. I just can’t.’
The kids’ voices drifted down the hall from the lounge. I picked up the frying pan and started scrubbing that.
Nora’s eyes were on Grace as she rocked back and forth. ‘But there’s no way out. I have to keep going. It’s too late now. I’m trapped. Too late. I’m trapped.’
I finished scouring while she kept rocking and repeating, ‘Too late. I’m trapped. Too late. I’m trapped…’
I pulled out the plug and the water gurgled into the pipes. I wiped the sink and hung the teatowel over the edge, then I went to her. I stroked her hair as she sat and rocked. Its blonde colour was fading, but it still felt soft, just like it did when she was a child.
She leant her head against my abdomen. ‘I know I’m a bad person, Ida.’ Her voice was muffled by my clothes. ‘I know I’m not a good mother. I’m not a good woman.’
I held her closer.
‘Please don’t leave me,’ she said.
‘No, Nor. I’ll never leave you. I’m your sister.’
That night, I made up my bed on the couch in the living room, changed into my nightie and flicked the light off. The coals hissed softly and the mantel clock ticked rhythmically. In the golden light from the fireplace, I could make out the silhouette of the Holy Family on the mantelpiece.
Then I heard her shuffle down the hallway and open the bathroom door. The wicker squeaked as she set the bassinette by the copper and the door closed again. Her footsteps came back up the hall and her bedroom door shut. A soft rumble, a squeak of springs.
I lay there for a while, listening to the rain drip from the roof to the ground outside. Then I sat up and lowered my feet to the floor. I avoided the creaky floorboard beside the couch and crept across the room. I opened the door with barely a click and stole down the hallway to the bathroom.
Grace was swaddled tightly and asleep in the bassinette. She didn’t stir as I lifted her and carried her back to the lounge. I laid her next to me under the covers and we slept, waking as the new day was unwrapping itself. The rain and wind had settled. I lifted her, blanket and all, and she smelt of warm urine. I crept back out to the bathroom and placed her in her bassinette.
Each night, I did the same. I couldn’t bear the thought of a sleeping baby by a cold copper. I could do little else.
The rest of the week was the same. Nora unhappy, Alf trying to keep the peace, the kids in trouble. But I saw Nora, too, in those unguarded moments, when she stood at the sink gazing out of the window, staring at grass lush with rain, before blinking and plunging her hands back into the suds and continuing with the scouring. I saw her watching Grace as she suckled, a tear welling in her bottom lid and escaping down her cheek and onto the milky skin of her breast.
I knew what she was thinking. I knew her dreams had never been given breath. I saw a woman so caught up in her own hurt that she was hurting everyone around her and she didn’t even know.
We were both powerless to change how our lives had turned out, and all I could do was be there to pick up the pieces. I’d always hoped that Nora might one day see her children for the gifts they were, but I was slowly realising that she wouldn’t.
It was dawning on me that not all women were built for child-rearing, even if they’d been built for childbearing.
Chapter 21
The time came for me to go home. The night before I was to leave, as I tucked the boys into their beds, Ted said, ‘Can you stay, Aunty? Forever?’
Yes, Yes, I wanted to say. I won’t ever leave. But I had to shake my head.
‘Why not?’ he said.
‘You already have a full house.’
‘You can sleep on the couch.’
I smiled, despite myself. ‘Besides, I have to look after Grandma. And Uncle Len misses me.’
‘We miss you more.’
‘I’ll miss you more than you’ll miss me.’ I’d miss his exquisite face, the feel of him on my lap, and his little-boy smell of mud and food and perspiration.
‘If you live with us, then you won’t have to miss us.’
I sat on the bed and forced myself to smile. ‘But then I’d miss Uncle Len. The trouble is that I want to be in two places at once, Teddy. Out here with you and in town with Uncle Len.’
His eyes widened. ‘I know! I can come and live with you and Uncle Len!’
Yes, yes! Come! But I shook my head and swallowed. ‘Your Dad and Mum would miss you too much.’
His eyes were dark and troubled.
‘But while I’m not here, I’ll think of you and what you’re doing. At school, or reading, or learning to kick a football,’ I said. ‘And you do it, too. Think of me while you’re doing those things and we’ll know we’re both thinking of each other at the same time.’
‘That’s not the same as you being here.’
‘No. But if you try really hard, it might almost feel real.’
As I left the room, I turned back. His eyes blinked in the dimness, and I knew as well as he did that it wasn’t real and we would only be pretending.
Our house looked still and lonely when I climbed down from the truck the next day. The iron lace drooped like a torn petticoat. One of the downpipes at the side had come loose and had fallen outwards like the broken stalk of a flower.
The gate whined as it opened and I walked up the steps onto the verandah. The boards were grey with age and the geraniums in their pots all wiry. I fumbled with the key, opened the door and stepped inside. It smelt of a cold fire and last night’s dinner. Everything was still and coolly familiar.
I walked down the hall, past our bedroom door, where the crocheted cover stretched unevenly over the bed. Past Mum’s closed bedroom door and past her hats on the hall stand. Past the baby’s room and the lounge. Down to the kitchen where unwashed dishes sat on the sink and Len’s hat was perched on the kitchen table.
I spotted him through the back window, sitting on a stool by the fence, mending a fishing net strung up on nails. His hands worked in
and out, in and out, as they hitched and knotted the twine.
I opened the door and he turned. His face softened when he saw me. He set the needle down beside him and stood. I stepped outside and we moved towards each other—over the grey stones of the path, over the clods of dirt, under the empty clothesline—until his arms were around me and his rough skin was against mine.
‘Don’t leave me for so long again,’ he said, his voice a croak. I looked into his eyes, the same colour as the soil where I’d just been, and shook my head in a silent vow.
I made afternoon tea and took it into Mum. She grabbed my arm and started to cry. ‘Oh, Ida, I’ve missed you.’ She looked frailer and older. ‘Len just doesn’t care for me like you do.’
I kissed the top of her head. ‘It’s good to be back, Mum.’
She wiped her tears with an embroidered hanky and sniffed. Then she peered into the cup of tea I’d just poured. ‘And this cup’s a bit weak. Could you make me a stronger one?’
It was more than seven years since I’d given birth to the last of my children, but there were still nights when I couldn’t sleep. Sometimes I slipped out of bed and did something useful, like darning or knitting; other nights I crept into the spare room and closed the door so Len didn’t hear me. I stood by the bassinette in the dimness and let my tears come, hard and fast like water from a burst river bank. Until I was empty, with no more tears left to cry.
I crept into that room and cried more times than I care to admit, sitting in the rocking chair until the sky was lightening and the rooster was crowing. Then I’d pull myself together and head out to the kitchen to stoke the fire for breakfast.
It was hard seeing Nora pregnant time and again, watching her tummy distend, then looking on as she birthed a living, breathing baby she didn’t want. It was like going into Mr Gourlay’s sweetshop and watching all the lollies being given to someone who didn’t like sweets.
I kept my tears from Len, because I knew he’d say, ‘C’mon, Ide. Pull yourself together.’
And I knew I couldn’t.
On the last Thursday of each month, Mum and I waited outside on the verandah. Mum would settle herself against a pile of pillows, her embroidery or felt in her lap, while I clicked away on my knitting needles. Every now and then, one of us would glance up the street towards the corner, willing Rex and the lorry to come. As soon as we heard the familiar growl, Mum would sit straighter and I’d dash down the steps towards the gate. I’d be standing on the verge before the truck had even stopped. Nora would open the door to my outstretched hands and I’d take baby Grace, swaddled in soft wool.
This was an exciting time for their family and Nora always had lots of news. Alf and Rex were doing well, buying more leases on plots of forest, or setting up another mill, or appointing a new manager for their business.
All of this impressed Mum. She’d nod and say, ‘I’m not surprised. I knew he’d do well in business.’
Then Nora, Grace and I would catch the tram to town. I’d push Grace in the pram around the city, while Nora paid her bills and bought her groceries. If the boys were with us, we visited Mr Gourlay. He always wore his crisp, white apron, and would slide a few extra boiled sweets into the bag for the kids.
The boys grew taller, but their personalities didn’t change. Ted was always precise and neat, his socks pulled up to his knees, the buttons of his shirt done up to his neck. Always quiet, always polite. Ben, on the other hand, grew fast and it soon became evident he’d be much taller than Ted. He was all wide, gappy smiles, hair sticking up and socks around his ankles.
Each time before they left, Ted would stand back, drawing on the ground with the toe of his boot while the others clambered into the truck.
‘When are you coming to stay? ’Cos dreaming you up doesn’t always work.’
I’d pat his shoulder. ‘As soon as I can…’
Grace grew, too. Soon she was big enough for me to carry on my hip, then her legs were long enough to clamber down from the lorry all by herself. She’d become a little girl, with soft, red curls and pink cheeks and eyes the colour of gum leaves.
‘Aunt Ida, Aunt Ida,’ she’d call as she tumbled out of the truck, securely buttoned into a woollen coat. I’d gather her up and feel her arms slide around my neck.
‘Careful, Grace,’ Nora would say, ‘Getting your sticky fingers all over Aunty Ida.’
I’d squeeze Grace more tightly to let her know I didn’t mind at all.
Grace would chat all the way to town, her tongue rattling as hard as the tram. Her face was eager and alive as she pointed out the river and the hall and the town clock. There was so much for a little girl to see—cars, crowds, colourful shops and, in the windows, all those mannequins that looked like real people. Nora would call, ‘Stop dawdling’, each time the town clock chimed. In the end, she’d grab Grace by the arm and haul her along behind.
One day as we were passing through the toy section of Cox Bros, Grace was dallying, her feet sticking to the lino as if it was covered in treacle.
‘We haven’t got time for that,’ said Nora, tugging her arm as she tried to wriggle free.
‘I’ll stay with her,’ I said. ‘We’ll look at the toys and you can shop in peace.’
Nora glanced at her wristwatch and nodded. ‘I’ll meet you in an hour at the tea rooms.’
Grace and I ambled up and down the aisles, gazing at the shelves of toys—teddies, balls, trucks, cars—until we found the dolls. Shelves of them: baby dolls in their cribs; little girl dolls with pink cheeks; and bride dolls, rising above the others like tall orchids. Their locks shone and their lips were as kissable as rosebuds.
Grace picked one up and stroked her hair, then pressed her nose into its face and inhaled. She held the doll out to me and I lifted it to my nose and sniffed, too. The clean scent of a new doll reminded me of Polly.
Grace laid her down and the doll’s eyes closed. ‘She’s asleep!’ she said, squealing. ‘Just like real!’
I knew exactly what she meant.
‘Oh, Ida!’ Nora said over the din of the tea rooms. ‘She’s three years’ old. She’s too young for a porcelain doll.’
‘There are certain things little girls are meant to have, and a doll is one of them,’ I said, and kept eating my egg and lettuce sandwich.
‘You and your dolls.’ Nora sat down and placed her bulging basket beside her. She leant forward over the table. ‘You’re the one who wants it.’
‘No. Grace should have a doll. Every little girl needs a doll.’
She raised an eyebrow and shook her head. ‘I didn’t.’
Grace named her Penny. From that time on, whenever they came to town, two little faces peered out of the window of the truck: one freckled with dancing, green eyes, the other silky and serene and smooth.
The kids still asked when I’d come out and visit. ‘Soon…’ I kept saying. But I couldn’t bring myself to ask Len.
In early 1951, Alf bought a big, old warehouse in Tinsdale, as well as a kiln and a lathe. Hill’s Joinery he called it. He employed a furniture maker and began sculpting fine blackwood furniture.
Not long after that he purchased a plot of land in the foothills of Ben Craeg, not far from where we’d lived when Dad was alive. On this, he started building a house.
On the day Nora told us, she was wearing a red blouse and dark-grey slacks. She’d put on lipstick and brushed her hair up into a roll. Her hair was darkening as she aged, which only made her look more dignified and imposing than before. She held her head up as she walked through the gate, and there was confidence in her step. She sat on the wicker two-seater with Mum, her face the most lively I’d seen it for many, many years.
‘It’s brick, red brick,’ she said. ‘And it’ll have a porch at the front and a concrete driveway.’
Mum listened intently. ‘Will it be two-storey?’
‘No,’ said Nora. She glanced aside at Mum.
‘But double storey is so majestic,’ Mum continued.
‘It sou
nds fabulous,’ I cut in. I was sitting on a chair beside them, Grace and her doll on my lap. I smiled at Nora. ‘Please keep telling us about your beautiful new home.’
Nora glanced askance at Mum, then continued. ‘There’s going to be wall-to-wall carpets and built-in wardrobes and venetian blinds. And the laundry will be indoors, too. I can furnish it throughout with whatever I like, Alf said.’
‘I can’t wait to see it,’ I said.
Mum peered at her legs. ‘Oh, how I wish I could. If only I wasn’t crippled.’
‘I’ll tell you all about it, Mum,’ I said.
Mum looked at Nora again and sighed. ‘Let’s just pray for a miracle.’
Laughter curled up the steps to the verandah and we lifted our eyes. The day was warm and a couple were strolling past on the other side of the street. They were young—the girl in a light cotton dress that flared from her waist and the boy in loose trousers, his sleeves rolled up. He slid his arms around her shoulders and they stopped to kiss before walking on, their heads still close.
I turned back to Nora, but her eyes were still on the couple, the liveliness gone from her face.
After Nora and Grace had gone, Mum and I took our tea outside. Mum started sewing a flower to a hatband, a couple of pins between her teeth. ‘That turned out all right in the end, didn’t it?’ she said through gritted teeth.
‘What do you mean?’ I said.
She removed the pins. ‘Nora and Alf. It’s worked out. I had my doubts, I must say, but at the time we couldn’t be choosy. We had to take what we could get. Nora wasn’t happy, I can tell you. She told me she wouldn’t get married and definitely not to a sawmiller. But I said to her, “I know of no other man would take on another fellow’s child. Especially the child of a foreigner. You have no choice.”’