Mud and Gold

by Shayne Parkinson

‘He’s only a baby, Charlie! Please don’t hit him with that,’ Amy pleaded. ‘Use your belt, that’s hard enough for a little fellow like him.’

  ‘Shut up!’ Charlie turned on her and swung the stick, catching her just below the shoulder. Amy cried out in pain and shock, clutching at her arm, and Malcolm took advantage of Charlie’s distraction to make a rush for her. He cowered behind his mother, trying to burrow under her skirts, but Charlie’s long arms defeated him. He reached behind Amy and hauled Malcolm out, looking angrier than ever. ‘I’ll not have my son hiding behind a woman’s skirts! Don’t you try that again, boy.’

  ‘He’s only a baby, Charlie,’ Amy sobbed helplessly. ‘You’ll half kill him. Please, Charlie, please.’

  Charlie ignored her. He flicked Malcolm’s nightshirt up and held the little boy by one arm while he swung the stick. Amy hid her face in her hands as Malcolm’s screams pierced the air and she began to count the strokes.

  When the whack of the stick against bare flesh stopped, she had only reached six. Charlie must have taken some notice of her pleadings after all. Thank goodness. Poor little Mal, at least Charlie didn’t give him twelve.

  ‘I’m taking this stick back with me. It’ll be in the house from now on. You’ll get more of the same if you ever do anything like that again. You remember that, boy,’ Charlie said over Malcolm’s yells. ‘Get to bed.’

  The moment he was released Malcolm ran wailing back towards the house. Amy made to follow him. ‘Leave him be,’ Charlie said sharply. ‘He can find his own way back.’

  ‘He didn’t mean to do wrong, Charlie. He’s just a baby.’

  ‘He’s not a baby, and I’ll not have you treating him like one. He’s got to learn. Spare the rod and spoil the child. And who’s been spoiling him?’

  ‘I have. I’m sorry, Charlie.’

  ‘So you should be. Stop snivelling, woman.’

  Amy walked slowly, hoping Charlie would get ahead of her and let her cry over Malcolm’s punishment in peace, but he stopped and looked back, flicking the top off a thistle with his stick while he waited for her to catch up. She blinked away her tears and walked back to the house with him, wondering why there seemed such a brooding threat in his silence.

  ‘Shall I dish your dinner up now?’ she asked as she walked through the back door behind Charlie.

  ‘Not yet. I’ve something to settle with you first. Get into the bedroom.’

  A shiver went through Amy at his grim expression. Surely he didn’t want to do that before he had even had his dinner? It wasn’t even properly dark yet. But there was nothing to be done but obey him. She gave silent thanks that little David was such a sound sleeper; his father’s grunts were unlikely to wake him. She trailed after Charlie into the bedroom. He closed the door behind her, still clutching the length of supple-jack in one hand, then turned to face her.

  ‘You defied me, woman. You argued with me in front of the boy. I’ll not put up with that from you.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Charlie. I didn’t mean to argue. I was just worried about Mal—he’s so little to get the stick. I was wrong to contradict you, I know that. I won’t do it again.’

  ‘I’ll see that you don’t. Are you with child?’

  The unexpected question startled her. ‘Wh-what? No, I don’t think so. Davie’s so little, and I’m still…’ She trailed off, anxious not to remind Charlie that she was still breastfeeding David even though he was now twelve months old, the age at which Malcolm had been declared too old for such babying. ‘No, I’m sure I’m not.’

  ‘That’s as well.’ He pointed to the chair that stood close to the bed. ‘Bend down over that and lift your skirts.’

  Amy stared at him blankly, then realisation dawned. ‘You’re not going to… please don’t, Charlie. Please don’t hit me with that thing. I’m sorry I argued, I won’t do it again.’

  He gave her a shove that sent her to her knees, and Amy grasped at the chair to steady herself. ‘I have to teach you a lesson. You’ve got to learn how to behave. Hurry up, woman, or it’ll be the worse for you.’

  As if I was a child. As if I was a naughty little child. Amy leaned against the chair and fumbled at her skirts, bundling the layers of cloth up over her shoulders. The draught in the room felt chill on her legs and on her buttocks where her drawers gaped open.

  ‘I said bend over,’ Charlie growled.

  ‘I don’t bend in the middle very well,’ Amy said through a muffling of cloth. ‘It’s my stays. This is as far as I can bend.’ I’m not a child. I’m a woman, and I wear women’s clothes.

  ‘That’ll have to do, then. Keep still.’

  Amy looked at her hands lying on the seat of the chair and saw they were shaking. She knotted them tightly to try and steady them, closed her eyes and waited for the pain.

  The stick bit into her flesh, and Amy barely stifled a scream. She was determined not to frighten David by making a noise, but the pain was hard to bear in silence. She stuffed a fold of cloth into her mouth to muffle the cries she could not hold back.

  Each stroke left a burning sensation worse than the one before. Amy could count the stripes without needing to see them. One. Two. Three. The fourth missed its mark and fell on her thighs, hurting even more against the thinner flesh there. Will I get more than Mal because I’m grown up? Or less because I’m a woman? Five. Ohh, it hurts. Six. The seventh stroke gave her the answer. More.

  Charlie had either lost count or decided that even a dozen strokes were not a severe enough punishment. When Amy realised after the thirteenth blow that he had stopped at last she spat out the gag she had made for herself, now soaked with saliva, and staggered on her knees over to the bed. She crawled onto it and sprawled face down, shuddering with the pain that racked her and heedless of the fact that her skirts were still high above her waist.

  ‘I had to do that, you know. You’ve got to learn. Straighten yourself up and get out to the kitchen,’ Charlie ordered. ‘I’ll have my dinner now.’ Amy heard the door close.

  It took several minutes before she was able to get up and put her clothes in order. Her flesh still burned when she walked into the kitchen and dished up Charlie’s meal in silence.

  ‘Where’s yours?’ he asked through a mouthful of stew.

  ‘I’m not hungry.’ The pain was too strong for hunger, and in any case she did not want to eat standing up and remind them both of her punishment.

  ‘Don’t you go sulking, woman. You deserved that.’

  ‘I know I did. I’m not sulking, I’m just not hungry. Can I go and settle Mal, please? He’s not used to putting himself to bed.’

  ‘He’ll be all right. He’s not a baby.’

  ‘No, he’s not a baby,’ Amy agreed wearily. ‘But he’s still a very little boy. Please, Charlie. I just want to see if he’s tucked in properly—you know how cold it gets at night, and he’s been getting a chesty cough lately. I won’t baby him.’

  ‘Be quick about it, then,’ Charlie said. ‘Just cover him up and get back out here.’

  Amy slipped quietly into the half-darkness of Malcolm’s room, where muffled sobbing from the bed told her he was still awake. She lit the lamp to see better. Malcolm cowered under the covers and peeped his tear-streaked face out, obviously expecting to see his father returning for fresh vengeance.

  ‘It’s only me, Mal, don’t be scared,’ Amy said, pulling back the covers. ‘You’ve got between the top sheet and the blankets, silly. Hop out and let me get it tidied up.’

  Malcolm twined his arms around her neck and let her lift him from the bed. He stood beside her, shivering in the chilly room while she smoothed out the sheets, then he climbed back onto the mattress and lay face-down.

  ‘No!’ he complained when Amy tried to lift his nightshirt. ‘Don’t, Mama.’

  ‘Let Mama look,’ Amy said gently. ‘I won’t touch, I promise I won’t.’ She drew in her breath at the lurid red marks on Malcolm’s thin little buttocks, though she knew her own must look far worse. ‘You’re going to have
some good bruises, Mal.’

  ‘I didn’t mean to let them out.’

  ‘Of course you didn’t. Shh, now, go to sleep. Papa won’t be wild with you any more as long as you’re good.’ She patted the covers down over him and tucked them in, careful not to brush against Malcolm’s tender flesh.

  ‘It hurts, Mama.’

  ‘I know it does. Try to keep still, then you’ll go off to sleep faster. It won’t be as sore in the morning. Don’t, Mal,’ she said, pushing him down flat when he tried to roll over. ‘Lie on your tummy, it won’t hurt as much like that.’

  I wish I could, she thought as she kissed Malcolm and straightened her aching body. I had to bend over and get beaten like a child, but I’ll have to lie on my back like a woman tonight. She shuddered at the thought, and pushed down the bitterness she felt rising. I suppose I must deserve it.

  15

  September – October 1888

  Frank slapped the cheque down on the bank manager’s desk, relief and resentment warring over which was his dominant emotion.

  ‘That’s my September milk cheque,’ he announced. ‘I talked the factory into giving it to me a couple of days early. And that makes fifty pounds I’ve paid you, and it’s not the end of the month till the day after tomorrow.’

  ‘Well done, Frank.’ Mr Callaghan beamed at him. ‘I knew you’d come through.’

  ‘I wasn’t so sure about it myself for a while there. It’s not easy, you know, finding fifty pounds just like that. Not for someone like me, anyway.’

  ‘I’d be a bit hard pressed to find fifty pounds myself. I know what you mean—especially with a wife, eh? Those women can spend money as if there’s no tomorrow.’

  ‘Not my Lizzie,’ Frank said gruffly. ‘She’s as careful as anything. I don’t know what she’s been feeding us on this last couple of months, she’s hardly run up any money at the store. I didn’t let on to her about this,’ he waved vaguely around the bank, ‘but I’ve sort of wondered once or twice if she knew something was up. I’ve been a bit short with her a few times—with Maudie too, poor little mite.’

  ‘Well, it’s all sorted out now. But we don’t want things getting in that state again, do we? We’d better make sure you make regular payments on that loan from now on, eh?’

  ‘How much?’ Frank asked anxiously.

  ‘Say five pounds a quarter? Do you think you could manage that?’

  ‘I suppose so. I managed to scrape up fifty pounds in the last couple of months—I wouldn’t want to go through that again, though. Yes, five pounds a quarter should be all right.’

  ‘Good lad.’ Mr Callaghan examined the milk cheque then quickly jotted down some figures on a scrap of paper. ‘Actually, this brings what you’ve paid up to fifty pounds, seven shillings and sixpence. Would you like the seven and sixpence in cash?’

  ‘All right,’ Frank said. Relief won out as he realised that the nightmare of the last two months really was over. He grinned at the bank manager. ‘I might buy Lizzie a present, sort of make it up to her a bit for being such a rotten sod lately. Maybe something for Maudie, too.’

  He left the bank feeling a great weight lifted from his shoulders. Now that the money was paid, everything was going to be all right. He would be able to tell Lizzie what had been going on, too; keeping it all secret from her had been one of the worst things about the whole wretched business.

  A present for Maudie was easy enough: a bag of sweets would have her crowing with delight. Now he came to think of it, Lizzie hadn’t let Maudie have any sweets for weeks and weeks. Well, she was going to have a whole twopence worth today. Some of those sticky toffees, too. She could make all the mess she wanted.

  The sweets safely stowed in his pocket, he marched into Mrs Nichol’s shop.

  ‘I want a present for my wife,’ he announced. ‘Something pretty.’

  Mrs Nichol beamed across the counter at him. ‘I’m sure we can find something nice. What did you have in mind? A bonnet? Gloves? Perhaps a scarf?’

  Frank looked around the unfamiliar items that filled the shop in growing bewilderment. ‘I don’t know—what do you think she’d like?’

  ‘Hmm, let’s see,’ Mrs Nichol muttered, rummaging under the counter. ‘I’ve got a nice lot of winter gloves in here somewhere.’

  ‘Hey, this is pretty,’ Frank said, fingering a fan that lay open on one end of the counter.

  ‘Isn’t it lovely?’ said Mrs Nichol. ‘I just got those last week, they’re the latest thing from Auckland. I’ll open up the others to show you.’ She spread out five more fans. Frank glanced at them all, then returned to the one that had first caught his attention. ‘You’ve got your eye on that one, haven’t you, Mr Kelly? Dusky pink satin, that is, with ivory point lace. See the rose pattern on it? It’s a beautiful fan, that.’

  ‘It’s not a very sensible thing, is it?’

  ‘Well, I suppose not. It’s very pretty, though. Just the thing for weddings and suchlike.’

  ‘But it’s not sensible.’

  ‘No, it isn’t,’ Mrs Nichol agreed reluctantly. ‘I can show you some good, warm scarves, they’re sensible enough.’

  ‘How much is this?’ Frank asked, pointing to the fan.

  ‘Three and sixpence.’

  ‘I’ll take it. Lizzie can have a rest from being sensible.’

  Frank nudged Belle into a faster trot as he drew close to the house, eager to see Lizzie and tell her all about what had been happening. He could hardly wait to see how she would like the fan, carefully wrapped in tissue paper and stowed in his jacket pocket.

  He had barely dismounted when he heard a high-pitched cry. He turned to see Maudie running towards him from the house as fast as her little legs would carry her, her face contorted with fright.

  ‘Papa!’ she screamed. ‘Papa!’

  Frank dropped the bridle, ran to Maudie and caught her up in his arms. ‘What’s wrong, Maudie?’

  ‘Mama. Mama falled down,’ Maudie wailed.

  Frank ran for the house carrying Maudie, feeling sick with fear. He burst into the kitchen to find Lizzie lying on her side on the floor, clutching at her middle and groaning horribly, her face in a pool of vomit that was already matting her hair. Joey was howling from the bedroom, but Frank had attention for nothing but Lizzie.

  He dropped to his knees beside her, let go of Maudie and took hold of Lizzie’s hands. They felt hot and clammy to his touch. ‘Lizzie! Lizzie, what’s wrong with you?’ he pleaded, trying to loosen her hands from their convulsive grip on each other. But it was obvious that Lizzie was beyond hearing him. She kept making inhuman groans as her body writhed.

  ‘Mama’s sick!’ Maudie wailed from close to his ear, dragging Frank clear of the wave of panic that had threatened to overwhelm him. ‘Papa, make Mama not sick!’

  ‘That’s right, Maudie. I’ve got to help Mama.’ Frank forced himself to think clearly. He had to make Lizzie as comfortable as he could, then fetch the doctor.

  He lifted Lizzie from the floor and carried her to the bedroom, hardly noticing the weight. He pulled back the covers and laid her down on the bed as gently as he could before wiping her face with his handkerchief. Lizzie seemed a little easier once she was lying on the soft bed; she still moaned and tossed her head from side to side, but her body’s convulsive twitching subsided. Frank took off her shoes and undid the buttons of her bodice, but he was reluctant to risk giving her more pain by rolling her over so he could unlace her corset. He put the covers over her and knelt beside the bed for a moment, stroking her unresponsive face.

  He stood up again and thought over what he should do next. Noticing Joey’s distress properly for the first time, Frank picked him up from the cradle and paced around the room to try and settle the baby, Maudie trailing along clutching at his trouser leg. Joey’s yells abated for a few moments, but he soon began roaring louder than ever when he realised there was no food to be had from that source. Frank felt the baby’s napkin gingerly, and was dismayed to find it damp; changing napkins
was a mystery he had always left in Lizzie’s capable hands.

  ‘You stink a bit, Joey, I think you’ve done more than just pee in that nappy. And you’re hungry, aren’t you? I can’t do anything about that, boy. You’ll just have to hang on for a bit.’ He put the baby back in his cradle and tried to ignore Joey’s indignant protests to concentrate on the real problem.

  Lizzie desperately needed help, but the thought of leaving her alone tore him in two. ‘Don’t be frightened, Maudie,’ he said to the little girl who still held fast, gazing up at him with tears pouring down her small, bewildered face. ‘Mama’s going to be all right, you’ll see. Papa’s got to go and get someone to look after her.’

  ‘Papa!’ Maudie wailed. ‘Don’t go away, Papa.’

  ‘I’ve got to, Maudie.’ He looked helplessly at her distraught face, and knew he could not leave her alone. But he could not possibly ride all the way into town at the speed the crisis demanded with Maudie perched in front of him. In any case, he could not bear to be away from Lizzie not knowing what was happening to her for as long as it would take him to fetch a doctor.

  He made a sudden decision and swept Maudie up from the floor. ‘Come on, Maudie, you and me are going for a ride.’ He gave a last glance at Lizzie tossing about on the bed before he set off down the passage at a run, holding Maudie close while Joey continued to howl with frustrated hunger.

  Belle had moved only a few steps from where Frank had left her. She looked up from cropping the grass in mild surprise as Frank ran towards her. He perched Maudie on the mare’s neck before vaulting into the saddle.

  He pulled Maudie close to him so that she was firmly held between his thighs. ‘Hold on tight to her mane,’ he told Maudie, coaxing her chubby little fists to take a handful of mane each. ‘We’re going to go really fast.’

  Maudie was distracted from her fear for a few minutes by the excitement of galloping as Frank set off down the valley. The Aitkens were his closest neighbours as well as being nearer town and the doctor, so it was to their house that he rode. The sound of hooves thudding up the track brought Rachel Aitken to the door even before Frank had dismounted and lifted Maudie from the horse.