‘I know what to do,’ Malcolm said indignantly. ‘You don’t know.’
‘I know more about it than you do, Mal, and don’t be cheeky,’ Amy said, looking over her shoulder to see if Charlie was within hearing. But he had disappeared around the corner of the house after finishing his second cup of tea, and she had time to finish tying Malcolm’s laces before he reappeared.
‘Can I come too?’ David asked plaintively as Charlie walked up to them.
‘No,’ said Charlie. ‘You’re too small.’
David’s lip trembled. Amy slipped an arm around his shoulders as they stood and watched Charlie and Malcolm out of sight, Malcolm scampering excitedly around his father as they walked.
‘Mama, when will I be as big as Mal?’ David asked.
Amy twisted one of his long, dark locks around her finger. ‘Mal’s got a head start on you, Davie, you mightn’t ever be as big as him. But you’ll be big enough to go out with Papa one day, don’t worry. Next spring maybe you’ll be able to help Papa feed the calves. Would you like that?’
‘Yes,’ David said, brightening.
‘Anyway, I’ve got to have someone to keep me company. Come inside and help Mama make some cakes.’
She gave David scraps of pastry from the tarts she was making, and he shaped them with his chubby little fingers ready for her to drop spoonfuls of jam into the centre of each lump.
‘Those are beautiful tarts, Davie,’ she praised him. ‘Now we’ll have to wait for them to cook.’ She carefully placed David’s tarts on one corner of the baking tray, slid it into the range and closed the door, then started mixing up a batch of biscuits.
David wandered out of the kitchen, but Amy did no more than listen to make sure he did not open the front door. David was not likely to get up to mischief pottering around in the house. He was not a boisterous child, and even if he had been there was nothing to break.
She wondered vaguely where the day had gone as she tried to rush through her baking. Normally she would have had most of her cake tins filled by lunch-time, but everything seemed to be taking so much longer lately. She was tired all the time, and pain was something that never quite left her, merely varied from nagging aches to sharper thrusts. The bleeding from the miscarriage had subsided into a flow no heavier than a normal monthly blood loss (though it was longer than she could remember since her cycle of bleeding had been anything like normal), but it still seemed to be draining away what was left of her health.
When she closed the oven door on the last batch of biscuits, she decided she had better check just what David was up to. She had barely taken a step towards the door when a cry of pain made her run into the parlour and thence into the bedroom she shared with Charlie.
‘What’s wrong, Davie?’ she asked, but the sight that met her explained it all. She would have laughed if David’s sad little face had not made comforting him her first thought. Ginger was trying to scramble out of the cradle that stood against one wall of the room, hampered in his escape attempt by the baby’s dress through the neck of which his head and one front paw had made their way. He had a look of panic on his face, and as soon as Amy had seen that David’s cry had been from nothing more serious than a small scratch she caught Ginger and disentangled him from the dress.
‘Poor Ginger,’ she soothed, stroking the cat until she managed to coax a purr from him. ‘I’ll give you a nice dish of milk in a minute.’
She put the little dress back in the drawer that David had left open, then sat down on the bed and drew him into her arms, kissing his scratched finger and wiping away his tears with a clean corner of her apron. ‘Shh, Davie, it’s all right. Ginger didn’t mean to scratch you, he just got a fright. What were you trying to do with him?’
‘I wanted to rock him,’ David sniffed. ‘Like Dolly does.’
‘Oh, you mean like when you and Dolly rocked the doll in the little cradle?’
David nodded. ‘Ginger doesn’t like me any more,’ he said plaintively.
‘Of course he does, Davie. Ginger loves you.’ As if to illustrate his agreement, Ginger rubbed against David’s legs as the little boy sat on Amy’s lap. ‘But you can’t play with him like that, darling, he doesn’t like being rocked. It’s like when you tried to cuddle that chook the other day—she scratched you too, remember? Just stroke Ginger. I’ll tie a bit of paper on some string for you later, then you can play a game with him.’
‘Why don’t we got a baby, Mama?’
His innocent question sent a jolt through Amy. ‘Why do you ask that, Davie?’
‘Dolly’s got a baby. Aunt Sophie’s got a baby. Why don’t we got one?’
Amy did not want David to see her crying, but it was difficult to hold back the tears. ‘I don’t know, Davie. Maybe we’ll have one soon.’
‘Don’t Papa want a baby?’
‘Oh yes, Davie. Papa wants lots of babies.’ Amy hugged him tightly. ‘It’s too hard for Mama to explain, sweetheart. You’ll have to be my baby for a bit longer.’
‘I’m not a baby!’
‘No, that’s right, of course you’re not a baby. But you’re my little boy, aren’t you? You love Mama, don’t you?’
‘Yes, Mama.’ David wound his arms around her neck and planted a wet kiss on her mouth. His big blue eyes studied her solemnly from under his long, dark lashes, and Amy stroked his hair, twining her fingers in the thick mass that fell in natural ringlets. Edie had always said David was too pretty to be a boy, and in his little dress with his hair falling to his collar he looked far more like a girl.
Sometimes the force of her love for him almost frightened Amy. David’s sunny temper and affectionate nature made him easy to love, but she was never quite sure whether she loved him more for himself or for the likeness she knew he must bear to her daughter. If she loved him too much she would lose him, just as she had lost Ann. In her sensible moments she knew that was nonsense, but it was hard to be sensible when she was so tired, and when everything hurt so much. ‘You won’t go away and leave Mama, will you, Davie?’ she murmured.
‘No, Mama,’ David said, confusion in his face.
‘Of course you won’t, Mama’s being silly. Come on, let’s go and try out some of these cakes I’ve been making.’ She stood up with David in her arms, ignoring the pain his weight gave her.
‘And play a game with Ginger!’
‘That’s right, Davie, I’ll make a paper and string toy. Just as soon as we’ve given poor old Ginger some milk.’
After Ginger had been compensated for his indignities with a saucer of milk, David skipped around the kitchen dragging the makeshift toy, Ginger scampering after him, until the two of them curled up on the floor together, tired out by their game.
Amy put away the last of her baking and glanced at the clock. ‘Look at the time! I’ll have to hurry and get dinner on or it’ll be late.’
But try as she might to rush, the hands of the clock raced on cruelly. The pot of potatoes had barely begun to boil and she was still mixing up a pudding when Ginger disentangled himself from David’s arms and jumped over the windowsill. ‘That must mean Papa’s coming,’ Amy said, glancing anxiously through the window. ‘I hope Mal was a good boy.’
Charlie did not come in as quickly as she expected, and a loud wail a few moments later told her why. He must have taken Malcolm behind the shed to use a stick on him. Malcolm burst through the room a short time later, howling as he ran towards his room, and Charlie soon entered in his wake, grim-faced as he sat down heavily at the table.
‘What happened?’ Amy asked, glancing over her shoulder as she replaced the lid on a pot of beans, willing the vegetables to boil faster.
‘Had to give the boy a hiding.’ Charlie banged his fist on the table. ‘He won’t do as I tell him. Racing around like a fool, scaring the cows. That white-faced brute kicked me before I could get the leg rope tied because the boy rushed up behind her and yelled out some nonsense.’ He rolled up one trouser leg and revealed a red blotch already darkening in
to a livid bruise.
‘He’s lively, Charlie. I’m sure he didn’t mean to be naughty, he just gets excited and forgets what you tell him.’
‘He’s got to learn. He’s got to do as he’s told.’ Charlie repeated it like a litany. Amy glanced down at David, who was standing close to her, wisely avoiding his father for the moment. It had troubled her earlier to see David upset at not being allowed to go out with his father and brother; now she was glad he was still considered too young.
Charlie looked at the table as if noticing for the first time that there was no food laid before him. ‘Where’s my dinner?’ he demanded.
‘It’ll be a couple of minutes yet,’ Amy said. ‘I’m a bit slow today, I’m sorry.’
‘What have you been doing all day? Can’t you even get a bit of food on the table? God knows you’re no use for anything else.’ He shoved himself upright and crossed the kitchen to tower over Amy as she stood by the range. ‘You lazy, good-for-nothing bitch!’ He slapped her across the side of her head, making her eyes water.
‘Mama!’ David cried out. ‘Don’t hit Mama!’
Amy pushed him behind her and held him there, out of Charlie’s sight. ‘I’m sorry. I just… I feel a bit sick today. I’m going as fast as I can.’ She had both hands busy holding David, so she could not wipe away the tears she felt brimming over.
‘Don’t whine at me, woman, for God’s sake. Hurry up.’ Charlie took his seat once again and watched Amy, a scowl on his face, until the food was at last dished up and placed in front of him.
‘Is Mal allowed any dinner?’
‘All right,’ Charlie said after a moment’s thought. ‘If he behaves himself.’
There were few words spoken during the meal. Charlie kept a stern eye on Malcolm, who sniffed from time to time as he sat perched on the pillow Amy had placed under him to protect his tender buttocks. ‘No snivelling, boy,’ Charlie warned. Amy’s head ached from the slap he had given her. She fought against dizziness as she rushed back and forth between the table and the range.
Charlie scowled at her tear-streaked face as she placed a bowl of jam pudding in front of him. He cast a glance around the table, taking in Malcolm’s red eyes and David’s trembling lower lip. ‘Look at you all. Three babies at my table. You drive a man to distraction.’ He fetched a bottle of beer from a shelf and poured himself a mug full.
Amy put the boys to bed as soon as they had finished eating; neither of them showed any reluctance to get out of their father’s brooding presence. She did the dishes and mixed up the next morning’s bread dough under his watchful gaze, wishing he would go into the parlour, but instead Charlie finished his bottle then switched to a large glass of whisky.
‘What the hell’s wrong with you, woman?’ he said in a growl.
Amy kneaded at the bread dough, each punch sending a jolt of pain through her head. ‘I’m tired, that’s all. It makes me slow. I’m sorry dinner was late, Charlie. I’ll try and do better.’
‘Why can’t you hold a child any more?’ So that was the real cause of his anger.
‘I don’t know. Maybe next time it’ll be all right.’
‘You must be doing something wrong. It’s not natural, dropping your bairns early all the time.’ He took a gulp of whisky. ‘Why aren’t you carrying my children properly?’
‘I don’t know, Charlie. I don’t know.’
‘Kelly’s wife’s got three bairns now,’ he said, emptying his glass and pouring another, his hand shaking slightly. ‘She’s a good breeder. What’s wrong with you?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You didn’t get rid of the other fellow’s bairn, did you? You held on to that one all right. You could carry a bastard.’
Amy caught her breath in shock, but there was no reply she could give that would not anger him. She carried on kneading the dough as if she had not heard him.
‘Well? What’s going on with you? Answer me, woman!’ His voice rose, and he slapped down his glass, spilling a little whisky.
Amy weighed up whether ignoring him or telling the truth would anger him more, and chose frankness. ‘I think maybe I’m having them a bit too fast. Maybe if I could… if I could have a rest from bearing for a few months, I might come right…’ She stopped, frightened at what she saw in his face.
‘Bitch!’ he roared, lashing out with one of his long arms to slap her across the cheek. ‘Who put that in your head? Was it that interfering shrew of a nurse? You’ll not get away with it, woman. You’re not sneaking out of my bed.’
‘I’m sorry, Charlie. I didn’t mean to annoy you. But you asked me and that’s what I think—no one told me to say it. I won’t say it again. I’m sorry.’ She wanted to cry, but that would only make him angrier.
He glowered at her as he took another swig from his glass. ‘Stupid bitch,’ he muttered. ‘Useless, good-for-nothing bitch.’
Amy finished kneading the dough at last, and placed it in front of the range, relieved at having finished the heavy work of the day. ‘I’ll just check on the boys,’ she said. Charlie did not answer.
David touched the red mark of Charlie’s latest slap as she leaned over to give him a goodnight kiss, his face crumpling with threatened tears. ‘Why Papa hit you, Mama?’
‘Because I was silly, and I annoyed him. We all have to try and do what Papa says and not annoy him. Papa works hard and he gets tired. Shh, Davie, Mama’s all right. Go to sleep now.’ She tucked him in and closed his door.
Malcolm’s room was silent. Amy thought he was asleep until she heard a muffled sob as she tucked him. ‘Are you all right, Mal?’ she asked softly.
‘It’s not fair,’ Malcolm mumbled into his pillow. ‘I didn’t do nothing wrong.’
‘You annoyed Papa, Mal. I know you didn’t mean to, but you must do what he tells you. Never mind, maybe Papa will take you milking again tomorrow and you can show him what a good boy you are really. Good night.’ She tried to sneak a kiss, but Malcolm thrust his head under the pillow to avoid it.
The lamp had still not been lit when Amy went back into the parlour. She saw that the door of the main bedroom was open; perhaps Charlie had left his newspaper in there. She bent down to the lamp, but Charlie’s voice stopped her before she had taken hold of it.
‘Get in here,’ he called from the bedroom. She straightened and hurried through, seeing to her surprise that Charlie was already in his nightshirt. ‘Come to bed,’ he said, his voice slurring a little.
‘Now?’ Amy said stupidly. ‘It’s very early.’
‘Are you arguing with me, woman?’
‘No. I was just… surprised.’ She turned her back on him and began taking off her clothes, her heart pounding. Should I tell him he can’t do that thing? He’ll get annoyed. I’ve got to tell him. She felt his eyes on her as she took off her chemise and pulled her nightdress over her head, leaving her drawers on underneath. ‘Charlie, I’m… I’m still—’
‘What are you mumbling about?’
She turned to face him. ‘I’m still bleeding from the baby.’
‘A bit of blood won’t kill you,’ he said, his voice harsh.
Amy closed her eyes for a moment against a wave of fear and disgust. She untied her drawers and rolled them up around the blood-soaked rag they had held between her thighs all day, pushing the wadded mass under the bed before climbing between the sheets.
He was groping at her nightdress before she had had the chance to lie down properly. Amy heard the ripping noise of a seam giving way as he snatched at the fabric. She kept her eyes tightly closed, hoping that he might at least be quick about it.
It was much like being beaten. There was the same sense of a rhythmic series of blows to her body; the same blend of pain and degradation. And, like a beating, she never knew how long it was going to last.
Tonight the alcohol seemed to be hindering his efforts, but he was determined. When he at last rolled away from her, Amy choked back the bitter-tasting vomit that was trying to make its way out of her throat;
she felt too weak to trust herself to get up and scrabble under the bed for the chamber pot.
There was blood trickling between her thighs, mingled with what he had left there. In the morning she would have to face stained sheets and a torn and bloodied nightdress. Charlie would find her blood on himself when he got out of bed.
Why did he have to do that to me while I’m bleeding? Why couldn’t he have gone to one of his whores? She knew part of the answer before the thought was fully-formed: he wanted her with child again. But there was more to it than that. There were things he wanted from her that Amy was only dimly aware of, but aware enough to know that she could not give them. Try as she might to be obedient, she could not make herself feel what he wanted her to feel.
She shifted a fraction, trying to find a more comfortable position for legs that had been constricted by Charlie’s weight. But even the slight movement made her body rub against his in the narrow bed. She would sooner lie still in the awkward pose he had forced her into than touch him again.
There was a bone-aching weariness all over her body. She felt her blood drying stickily between her thighs while fresh blood seeped out from what felt like an open wound. She did not move. If she moved she would vomit; if she stood up she would faint.
I don’t know if I can put up with much more of this. The bleak thought edged into her awareness, and made her angry at her own stupidity. I have to put up with it. He can do whatever he likes with me. I can’t stop him. I can’t do anything.
22
November 1890 – January 1891
If Lizzie had thought Frank would soon forget the idea of improving his herd, she was in for a surprise. He read and re-read his farming magazines, and pored over all the newspaper advertisements for stock, until he had decided how many cows he would need to buy and from whom he should buy them.
‘There’s a bloke south of Auckland who’s advertising cows,’ he told her one evening while Lizzie washed the dishes. ‘They talked about him in the Farmer, his herd’s meant to be really good. I think he’d be the one to buy them off.’
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