by Louise Allan
She glanced at me and we laughed.
We drove in silence for a bit. ‘We’ve got to do what we were put on earth to do,’ she said. ‘I’ve been a mother. And a wife. And I’ve not done well at either of those.’ I opened my mouth to speak, but she went on. ‘Don’t try to be kind, Ida. I know my faults. And I know you would have been a better mother than me.’
I looked down at my lap.
‘But my family’s nearly grown now. They’re their own people, living their own lives, and now I have time to do something for myself.’
Sometimes, Grace went with her mother to mass and sang the psalm. Grace would stand in the pulpit and as she inhaled, Nora would start playing. They were together, perfectly in time, connected by something that went beyond the present and back to the womb. The mysterious connection between a mother and her child. And music.
Grace had one more year of school, then she wanted to start formal voice training at a Conservatorium. That, too, seemed to inspire Nora, and the two of them practised together, working hard to perfect Grace’s repertoire.
During a telephone call around that time, Grace mentioned she’d seen an Audrey Hepburn movie.
‘Oh, which one?’ I said.
She hesitated. ‘I didn’t mean to tell you that, because I haven’t told Mum.’ Her voice hushed even more. ‘I went with a boy. The same boy who wrote the note about my hair…You won’t tell Mum, will you Aunty?’
‘No,’ I said, without hesitating. Nora was doing so well, I didn’t want to upset her again. ‘Your secret’s safe with me, Gracie.’
Meanwhile, Ben worked his way through his plumbing apprenticeship. He was a ballast for us all, safe and reliable. Even if he brought more bloody gadgets into the house.
‘This is the last one,’ I said, the day he arrived with a vacuum cleaner, a blue Electrolux. ‘After this, no more machines are allowed in this house.’
He just smiled at me as he wheeled it into the kitchen. I watched as he connected the chrome tubes and attached the hose onto the machine. Then he unwound the rubber cord from the top and plugged it in.
‘I don’t see what’s wrong with my broom and dustpan,’ I said. ‘I won’t be using it.’
‘That’s what you said about the telly,’ he said, and flicked the switch.
The vacuum burst into life and I jumped.
‘You should see the look on your face!’ he yelled over the roar of the vacuum.
‘And you should see yours!’ I yelled back.
Then we laughed. From our bellies, real laughs, and I couldn’t remember the last time we’d done that.
Ted and Clara still visited once a week. Each time I looked into Ted’s dark eyes, I saw his guilt. One Thursday when I went into the bank, as I was packing my bank book away, he said, ‘Can I come and see you after work?’
‘Of course,’ I said.
I was outside potting pansies when he arrived. ‘I’ll just finish this,’ I said, ‘then I’ll put the kettle on.’
‘Don’t hurry,’ he said. ‘I’d rather stay outside anyway.’
‘I won’t be long.’ I kept digging a hole with my trowel. ‘So, how’ve you been?’
‘I…I…’ He stammered and I looked up at him. ‘It’s all my fault. Dad would still be alive if it wasn’t for me.’ His shoulders bowed and he covered his face with his hands.
I set the trowel down and went to him. I didn’t speak for a long while, just let him cry.
‘I wish I hadn’t been so pig-headed,’ he said.
I waited until he’d finished and then I spoke. ‘Listen to me, Ted. There was a lot more behind your father’s decision to do what he did. It wasn’t just your wedding. It had been years in the making, if not decades.’
He looked at me, his eyes and cheeks swollen and red. ‘What do you mean?’
I shook my head. ‘There’s no point going over it. There’s no point blaming anyone. The thing is, every single person who’s ever lived has regrets, things they wish they’d done differently. You made the best decision you could at the time, and you can’t twist yourself in knots over something you’d change if you had your time over.’ I paused. ‘Look what it did to your mother. You’ve managed to forgive her. Now it’s time to forgive yourself.’
The year ticked over into 1964. Summer and autumn passed and we were into winter. It was July, just before Len’s forty-eighth birthday. The night was squally and I couldn’t sleep, so I got up and sat by the fire with my knitting. Ben was away for a couple of weeks, on a job down the coast. The wind gusted and shrieked down the chimney, and the rain battered the roof in waves that sounded like cannon fire.
It was well after eleven, maybe even getting on for twelve, when I thought I heard the gate whine, followed by a thud on the verandah. I set my knitting on my lap and pricked my ears, but it didn’t come again, so I turned back to the fire and picked up my knitting once more.
The thud came again, against the wall. It’s probably just the wind, I told myself, but I laid my knitting on the table under the lamp. The roof was rattling in the wind, the tin sheets chafing against each other and the fire was hissing.
Another thud and a scrape.
I stood up and stepped out of the ring of the lamplight and over to the fire. I picked up the poker, all the time telling myself, Surely, it’s the wind. No one would be out on a night like this. Nevertheless, my heart was pounding in my chest.
I crept to the door of the lounge and peered out into the hall. It was dim and still. Nothing had moved. The mat was on the floor. The dark shapes of Mum’s hats were silhouetted on the stand. Shadows and light swirled with the wind in the stained glass of the door. I held the poker out, ready to swipe, and as I stepped out into the hall, the lounge room window rattled.
I swivelled.
A tap against the glass and a bump against the wall.
My heart thumped louder again and my hands on the poker were slippery with sweat. I stared at the drawn curtains. They hung straight and motionless.
Shuffling and a scrape.
I crept back into the room and towards the window, one foot and then the other, the poker high. The mat softened my footsteps, but my heart pounded loudly in my ears and I could feel it in my throat. I gripped the poker more tightly.
Another tap.
The hairs on my neck rose and slowly, slowly, I tiptoed towards the window. My hands trembled, my throat felt tight and my breaths were ragged. I raised the poker with one hand and eased the edge of the curtain away from the window frame with the other, peering into the murky darkness. Rain gushed from the gutter and splashed to the ground. Shadows lurched in the wind. The tree from next door scraped against the fence. The water had pooled in the mud and formed a big, murky puddle in the middle of our tussocky driveway. I could see down to the front gate and out to the street, and there was no one there, only the streetlight trying to shine through the rain.
I heard a crunch and a shuffle and tightened my fingers around the poker as I pulled the drape out further.
‘Who is it?’ I called. ‘Who’s out there terrorising people in the middle of the night?’
Shuffling and scraping. A flap of something dark. A hand, reaching towards the window. Then a face, so pale it was almost transparent.
Grace.
She stood just outside the window in a heavy coat, her hair straggly and wet and dripping down her face. She was staring at me with clear, green eyes. Behind her, the shadows swirled and whooshed.
‘Grace!’ I was too shocked to move straightaway. ‘Hold on, I’m coming.’ I dropped the poker onto the chair and ran. Down the hall to the door. My fingers knotted and fumbled as I tried to undo the safety chain, and I wanted to rip the damned thing out. I opened the door and the wind gusted in and the cold air hit. I ran onto the verandah, slicked with rain, down the steps, and up the sodden driveway at the side of the house.
She was almost hidden in the shadows except for her face. The rain teemed and the wind howled around her, but she was as still
as a marble sculpture. If she hadn’t been standing, I’d have thought she was dead.
When I reached her, I took her elbow and slid my other arm around her shoulders and pulled her towards me.
She was wet and cold, and shivering so her teeth rattled. Rainwater dribbled from her hair down over her lashes and cheeks in long, wet tracks. Her coat was open and her dress underneath was wet and stuck to her body and legs.
‘Quick! Let’s get you inside or you’ll catch your death.’
I tried to move her forward, but she stayed where she was.
‘It’s all right, Grace. I’ve got you. Let’s go inside.’
I pressed on, and she came with me. ‘That’s it,’ I said. ‘Keep going.’
She lifted a boot and took a step through the grass. The hem of her dress was muddied.
‘Good girl,’ I said. ‘And another one…’ I tugged her elbow and she stepped forward. Each step, she leant closer, letting herself sink into me. The wetness of her seeped through the fleece of my dressing gown and felt cold against my skin.
I kept talking to her as we moved. ‘Come on, Gracie. There’s a warm fire inside.’
At the steps, she stopped and held her breath, and placed one hand on the wall beside the down-pipe and the other on her belly. As her hand pressed in, I saw it—the tight mound of her abdomen. It wasn’t big, in fact, it could have easily been missed under her loose dress, but in the wet, her clothing clung to the contours of her body and I knew straight away what it was.
My breaths quickened and everything else slowed. I didn’t feel the rain beating against us or the wind whipping our ears. I no longer heard the water gushing from the spouting. All I could see was Grace, standing by the wall with dripping hair and a bulging belly, and all I could hear were her slow breaths in and out through her pursed lips.
I felt chilled through my clothes and skin and into my bones, and it wasn’t because of the weather.
The contraction passed and she glanced up. I took her arm and she held her belly as we climbed the steps. We crossed the verandah, past the shifting shadows of the wiry geraniums. When we reached the front door, Len was standing in the light. He was wearing his pyjamas and slippers and squinting.
‘It’s Grace,’ I said. ‘And we need a doctor.’
He looked frightened as he stepped aside to let us in. ‘What’s the matter?’
Grace scrunched her face and clutched at her belly as her breathing quickened.
‘She’s having a baby,’ I said.
‘I’ll call Dr Williams,’ he said.
‘No,’ said Grace. She glanced up and shook her head, her eyes alarmed.
‘We have to get the doctor, Gracie,’ I said.
She shook her head, gripping her belly and breathing through pursed lips.
‘I can’t deliver a baby on my own,’ I said.
Her hand grabbed mine. ‘Don’t. Please.’ Her nails dug in. ‘I don’t want anyone to know.’ She started to breathe faster, grimacing and squeezing my arm, her fingers pinching my skin. ‘No one at all.’ Her face was ghostly pale, even her lips. Her hair, wet and an even deeper auburn, was the only part of her with any colour.
The wind and the rain still beat against the roof, and I waited until the pain eased.
‘All right,’ I said. ‘We’ll go into Mum’s room.’ Len closed the door on the storm outside, and I led Grace down the hall. Her boots left muddy prints on the mat and rainwater dribbled onto the floor in squiggly lines. Len flicked on the electric light, and I led her to the bed.
Grace clasped the bedpost. Legs apart and one arm across her belly, she turned to me, her eyes big and wide. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘You’ve nothing to be sorry for,’ I said.
Len stepped closer. ‘Just tell me what you want me to do.’ His face looked worried.
‘Can you fetch some towels and make a fire?’
He left the room.
‘Let’s get you out of these sodden clothes, Gracie.’ She slid her arms from her coat without speaking and I hung it on the hall stand. When I returned, I unlaced her boots. She rested a hand on my shoulder as she raised one foot, then the other, and I slid them off along with her stockings.
Len came back with some towels and a dish of warm water. He set the kindling and wood in the grate and lit the fire. ‘I’ll be in the kitchen. Call me if you need anything.’
I wiped Grace’s face and rubbed her hair as she breathed in and out through pursed lips while another contraction passed. Then I bent and lifted the muddied hem of her dress. It was heavy with rain and dirt and leaves, and I hauled it up her legs and over her round, taut belly. I lifted it up over her chest and her head and extracted her arms one at a time.
She stood naked except for her underwear. She was pale and shivering and her belly stuck out over her knickers. Shiny striae like the tracks of a snail crept up from the line of her pants.
I wiped her shoulders with the towel. She let me take her arms, and I dried them and each of her limp fingers. Then I towelled her breasts, full and taut, and ran the cloth over the tight skin of her belly. I rubbed her legs and cleaned away the flecks of dirt and mud. When I’d finished, I found one of Mum’s old flannelette nightgowns and helped her into it. Then she sat on the bed. I lifted up her legs and lay her on her side and pulled the sheet over her.
She grimaced again and brought her knees up. I stroked her shoulder as she lowered her chin to her chest and clutched at her middle. When the contraction had passed, I lit two candles and set one on the mantel, beside the statue of Our Lady, and the other on the dresser. Then I switched off the electric light.
I sat on the faded fabric of Mum’s old bedroom chair and wiped Grace’s hair from her face. The rain and wind were still pounding the roof. Len boiled the kettle and filled the hot water bottle.
Grace’s breaths were coming shorter and faster. I wiped the perspiration from her skin with a towel.
‘Don’t leave me,’ she said. The light of the candles and fire flickered in her eyes.
‘I won’t.’
She held my hand and breathed through another contraction. ‘I don’t want to do this.’
‘I wish I could do it for you, Gracie.’
‘I’m scared.’
‘I’m here, Gracie,’ I said. ‘And so is Len, and we won’t leave you.’ I bent and kissed her and tasted the sweat on her face. Her cheeks and lips were pink again.
I stayed beside her, swabbing her face and stroking her hair, and giving her sips of water. I took her hand as each contraction came and let her squeeze it white. She didn’t utter a sound, just the rush of air with each breath.
Outside the wind and rain beat against the house, but inside we were warm and safe by the fire and its flickering light.
I looked at the statue on the mantelpiece and prayed. Please, Mary, take care of her and the baby that is coming.
‘I want to push,’ she said.
I helped her roll onto her back and lifted up the nightdress. She closed her eyes as I pulled down her pants and parted her legs.
With the next contraction she held her breath and pushed in silence. Then she exhaled and breathed quickly, before tilting her head back and pushing again.
I peered between her legs; she was widening and bulging. ‘You’re doing good, Gracie.’ I reached for her hand and she didn’t let it go.
She stared at the ceiling and panted as the next contraction came, then she held her breath and pushed again.
I peered between her legs once more. She was opening and I could see the top of the baby’s head. ‘It’s coming, Gracie. The baby’s on its way.’
The contractions were coming in waves now, rolling one after the other. She pushed and breathed and stretched as more dark scalp appeared.
‘I can see the baby’s head. Keep going.’
I turned to the statue on the mantel and prayed one last time. Please, take care of them. Don’t let them die. I’d never prayed such a heartfelt prayer.
I held her
as she pushed and held my breath as she held hers. I mopped her brow and let her squeeze the blood from my hand. It was as much as I could do, just be there and hold her hand.
‘Gracie,’ I whispered, stroking her forehead. ‘I’ll look after you, I promise. You and your child.’
She squeezed and pushed and I promised her and kept promising that I’d look after her, after both of them.
She lifted her head and squeezed. I crouched between her legs and her insides stretched until her skin was opaque. The top of the child’s head appeared, then more, and slowly, sliding, sliding, a little more with each push, its head slid fully from her womb and into the world.
‘It’s here,’ I said and my words caught in my throat.
She breathed slowly, then silently began to push again. One shoulder nudged out, then the other. I held the head while the baby slipped into my hands in a gush, and I held it in my arms, all purple and limp.
Then it cried. The baby cried. It was a girl and she was crying. She was alive! Grace’s child. She was here. I held the baby against my chest and inhaled the scent of newborn again.
The storm and everything else were outside, but inside that room, it was just us, together, and at that moment it didn’t matter where this life had come from or how it had come to be—a baby had been born.
Chapter 32
I wrapped the baby in a towel and gave her to her mother.
Grace pushed herself up to sitting. Her hair clung to her forehead, her eyelids were tinged blue, and smoke-coloured crescents ringed her eyes. She looked drained and weary, but she took the baby in her arms as if she’d done it before, as if she’d been doing it all of her life.
The baby moulded against her and fitted into her, like it was still part of her. The baby’s eyes were open and the colour of mud. Her face was purple and pudgy, and the mucus of birth still streaked her skin.
I called Len in. He kissed Grace and took the baby in his arms, and when he turned to me there was wonder on his face. I committed that night to my memory—all of it. The smell of new birth, the feel of the baby in my arms and Len’s wonder. I never wanted to forget it.