‘No, that’s all that’s required, Miss McKenna.’ Hopwood paused when he reached the door. ‘Although I must say it’s unusual. As a rule, the bank requires a lot more documentation, and normally you would have to come into the bank to complete the arrangements personally. But Mr Fairchild has friends in high places and he insisted we dispense with the usual rigmarole.’
*
On Christmas morning, Bill and his volunteers were up at the crack of dawn preparing for the arrival of the children at Redfern Park. It promised to be a bright sunny day. A large Christmas tree was set up in the centre of the park with all the presents were heaped beneath it. Each gift was wrapped and tied with a ribbon, and each had a small label attached, noting what was inside and the gender and approximate age of the most suitable recipient.
Emma and Molly arrived with a ginger cake just before nine, when the first of the families began to converge on the park. Each family brought whatever food they could. Some brought freshly baked cakes, scones, and meat pies. Others brought a bottle of lemonade, biscuits, or a few sandwiches wrapped in newspaper. Several brought only an apple, a pear or an orange. And some brought nothing at all, swallowing their pride and coming because of Bill’s insistence that their children share in the spirit of Christmas with everyone else.
As the families arrived, all the food was laid out on tables and covered with newspapers to protect it from the heat, flies, and impatient little fingers until it was time for it to be served. By ten o’clock, the entire park was a sea of happy, smiling faces. Then Bill appeared at the Christmas tree dressed as Father Christmas, complete with a long white beard. When he asked all the children through a loudhailer to form a line and receive their presents, a loud cheer went up from the crowd.
After the gifts were distributed, everyone was asked to step up and help themselves to something to eat, then watch the youngsters compete for prizes in three-legged races, spoon races and other children’s games. Emma and Molly were sitting on the low wall delighting in the happiness of the children when Emma felt a stab of pain in her stomach. After a moment it went away and she thought no more of it. But half an hour later the pain returned with an intensity that made her gasp.
Molly turned to Emma in alarm. ‘What is it, dear?’
For a moment Emma couldn’t speak, then once again the pain passed just as quickly as it came. She sighed with relief and said, ‘I think my baby wants to join in all the fun, Molly.’
From time to time, Bill would stop and say a few words to Molly and Emma as he made his rounds, making sure everything was going to plan and everyone was enjoying themselves. It was while he was talking with them that he noticed four burly young men ambling along beside the park wall. All were too well-dressed to be locals. As first they appeared to be taking an interest in the children’s activities, but as they drew closer Bill realized they were taking a keener interest in the spectators.
When the men were no more than five yards away, they stopped, and Bill realized too late what was happening. Two of them lunged at Molly and grabbed her by the arms, while another jumped up on the wall wildly waving his arms. Down the street, two slow-moving motorcars accelerated and raced up to the scene of the commotion. Even before the vehicles had come to a stop their doors swung open and uniformed policemen poured out onto the street.
‘What’s going on here?’ Bill shouted, as the two civilians holding Molly pushed her into the arms of the policemen.
The sergeant in charge grinned at Bill in his Father Christmas suit. ‘And who might you be?’
One of the civilians tore the long white beard from Bill’s face. ‘Well, if it isn’t Bill Travis,’ he said in feigned surprise. He grinned at the sergeant. ‘We knew if we kept him under surveillance long enough he’d lead us to the woman.’
‘Well, Mr Travis,’ the sergeant said. ‘In answer to your question, this woman is being arrested for assault causing grievous bodily harm to a mounted policeman during the execution of his duties in the Domain last month.’ The sergeant spoke loudly, more for the benefit of the large crowd that had gathered than Bill’s. ‘And we can thank our friends in the New Guard here for this excellent piece of detective work.’
‘Where are you taking her?’ Bill demanded.
‘To the lock-up at Darlinghurst. You can take her any clothes and things she might need there. She’ll be there until she’s arraigned the day after Boxing Day.’
The sergeant nodded to the constables holding Molly and they bundled her toward one of the waiting cars. The old woman was bewildered. Tears streamed down her face.
‘Molly.’ Bill shouted. ‘Say nothing to them. Nothing at all, understand. I’ll…’
Bill didn’t get to finish what he was saying. His head suddenly seemed to explode. Then everything went black when, king hit by one of the New Guardsmen, Father Christmas dropped to the ground like a stone.
The moment Bill fell, Emma took charge and called for a bowl of water and some handkerchiefs. She was still lying on the grass bedside him, sponging the blood away from a badly split upper lip when he came to after about five minutes.
It was another minute or two before he fully regained his senses. Then some of his friends helped him and Emma up, and arm in arm, they made their way back to Molly’s cottage. Several times as they walked, Emma’s stomach pains came and went. At the cottage, Emma put Molly’s toothbrush and some clean underwear in a brown paper bag. When she gave the bag to Bill she winced as once again the pain returned.
‘Is it the baby?’ Bill asked through his swollen lips. ‘Is it contractions?’
‘Don’t be so silly. It’s far too soon. I’m not due for a month yet.’
Bill tucked the brown paper bag under his arm. ‘Look Emma, it’s about a five-mile walk to Darlinghurst, there and back, but I’ll be as quick as I can. Shall I get someone to come and stay with you until I get back?’
‘No, it’s not necessary, Bill.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Of course, I’m sure.’ Emma said quickly. ‘It’s you we have to worry about. Look at you. Your face is a mess. You should be lying down, not traipsing around all over Sydney. Have someone else go instead.’
‘I have to go. I’ve got to try and see Molly and tell her to deny everything. It’s her only chance. There’s already almost a dozen men convicted of assaulting that mounted policeman, and they’re in prison for only doing what any decent man would have done to that bastard. There’s just no justice in hunting Molly down. It’s just plain vindictiveness.’
Emma became increasingly uncomfortable after Bill left. It was unbearably hot in the cottage. She found the coolest and most comfortable place to sit was on the steps on the back porch where occasionally a breeze wafted through. She sat with her legs outstretched and her back to the door frame. Later in the afternoon, her stomach pains became more frequent and regular. Emma realized her baby might be coming. An hour later when she felt the warmth of her broken water flood over her thighs, she knew for certain.
She tried to remain calm. From very early childhood at Yallambee she had been familiar with what lay ahead. She had seen the birth of calves and other animals hundreds of times, and she knew the process would take its own course. She knew too, that a first birth always took longer and was more painful than subsequent deliveries. A pang of fear surged through her when she thought of the possibility of her child being a breech baby, and of still being alone when it came.
Emma grasped the door frame in both hands and awkwardly hauled herself to her feet. She walked back into the kitchen, filled a glass of water at the sink and drank it all. She looked at Molly’s old alarm clock. Bill had been gone for five hours. She went to the front door and opened it. The street outside was empty. Soon it would be dark. The closest occupied house was four doors down. Emma thought of going to it for help. But the tenants were all men so she decided against it.
She returned to the back porch. When darkness came, the night was surprisingly quiet. Only a few rooms in near
by terraces showed dim candlelight; electric light was a luxury rarely used in Redfern. Suddenly she felt terribly alone. It remained oppressively hot as the evening wore on. The contractions intensified. Still there was no sign of Bill.
Emma struggled to her feet again. The contractions were now less than five minutes apart. She went to the sink and drank more water, then rummaged around in the kitchen drawers until she found a pair of scissors. Then she padded to the bedroom and took a blanket, a sheet and a pillow off the bed. She laid the blanket on the floor of the porch and the pillow against the door frame. Then she took her clothes off, wrapped the sheet around her, and sat down again on the back step with the scissors and waited.
She didn’t have to wait long. Soon the contractions were very close together and each one seemed to last forever. The baby was coming. With each contraction Emma pushed hard against the door frame and bore down with all her might. At first, it seemed that no matter how hard she tried, nothing seemed to be happening. But the contractions continued relentlessly. Then, although she couldn’t see it, she felt the baby was gradually moving into the birth canal.
Between each contraction, Emma breathed in rapid gasping pants, desperately trying to summon the strength and the will to press against the door frame yet again when the next contraction came. When it did, she strained every muscle in her body, and grunting and groaning, pushed down as hard as she could.
Then everything came to a stop and no matter what Emma did, the baby would not move. The fear of a breech baby returned and she began to panic. Somehow, she managed to raise herself up enough to reach down to find out. To her joy she felt the baby’s head with the tips of her fingers and knew it was in the normal position. The discovery gave her the will to work even harder and after three or four more excruciating minutes, her baby slid past the pubic bone which had been impeding its progress and slipped from her onto the blanket on the floor.
Relief, joy and exhilaration swept through her, and although utterly exhausted, she somehow found the strength to reach forward and pick up her limp baby, clean the mucous from its mouth and slap its bottom soundly. After the first healthy scream split the stillness of the night, Emma cut the umbilical cord with the scissors.
It was almost midnight when Bill returned to the cottage. He found Emma lying on the kitchen floor in the darkness, the bed sheet wrapped around her and her son at her breast.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Italy in late December was much colder than Stephen and Eleanor had expected. When their Imperial Airways flight arrived in Rome from London a few days before Christmas, the temperature was a chilly thirty-nine degrees Fahrenheit.
They were met at the airport by Enrico Conti, the son of Eleanor’s father’s friend, Vittorio Conti, a major supplier of Italian fashion to the Bowes-Scott department stores. Enrico was a olive-skinned young man in his early twenties. Eleanor had met him just once before when he accompanied his father on a visit to Australia. Enrico welcomed the honeymooners warmly, embracing Eleanor tightly and kissing her on both cheeks, then vigorously shaking Stephen’s hand.
‘You are a lucky man, Stephen,’ Enrico said, in almost perfect English. ‘Your lovely bride stole my heart the moment I met her in your beautiful city of Sydney.’ He grinned then shrugged his shoulders with a wide upwards sweep of his arms. ‘But…’
Stephen was surprised by the Italian’s familiarity, but judging by Eleanor’s smile, it was plain she saw Enrico’s remark as delightful continental charm. They waited while Enrico summoned a porter, then followed him outside to his car, a dark green Lagonda tourer. Enrico opened the rear door and Eleanor and Stephen climbed in. When the porter had loaded the couple’s luggage Enrico took the wheel and drove towards the hills northeast of the city.
The ancestral home of the Conti family was near the town of Tivoli, about twenty miles outside Rome. Along the way, Enrico showed Stephen and Eleanor the sights and spoke of the rich local culture, driving with one hand on the wheel and waving at the particular subject of his attention with the other.
Enrico explained that his father’s house was one of several built on a hillside with wide sweeping views of the Aniene River, close to where the waterway cascaded down into a deep gorge which the river itself had formed over the ages. Enrico went on to say there had been large villas on the hillside since the days of Imperial Rome when Tivoli had been known as Tibur, and Hercules had been the local hero. He also promised to show them the nearby remains of Emperor Hadrian’s imperial residence which, he said, were still in remarkable condition after nearly two thousand years.
Eleanor was enthralled with the beauty and history of the region and hung on Enrico’s every word. But Stephen listened to what Enrico had to say with little more than passing interest and as the Lagonda neared Tivoli, thoughts of Emma once again preoccupied his mind. Eventually he was drawn back into the conversation when the subject was changed to aviation.
‘In Mr Bowes-Scott’s last letter to my father, he mentioned you were an aviator, Stephen. Is that so?’
‘Yes, indeed I am.’
‘I am also a flyer,’ Enrico grinned mischievously at Stephen through the rear view mirror. ‘Apart from the ladies, flying is what I enjoy the most. Perhaps you will allow me to show you the beauty of this region from the air while you are staying here with us.’
Stephen was delighted. He smiled enthusiastically into the rear view mirror. ‘That would be wonderful Enrico. Tell me, what type of airplane do you have?’
‘I fly a 1918 Fokker D7. I call her Hercules, after the patron of Tibur.’
Stephen looked impressed. ‘They say the D7 was one of the best fighter planes ever built. Some even say if it had been built in the early years of the war it could well have influenced the outcome.’
‘I think perhaps that is true,’ Enrico said. ‘The Royal Flying Corps held the D7’s in such high regard, that the treaty of Versailles demanded the Germans surrender all the planes that remained at the end of the war. I bought mine privately from an Englishman a few years ago. But there are several still in service with the Swiss and Belgium air forces’.
‘I’ve heard they’re easy to fly,’ Stephen said.
‘For a well-trained pilot, I suppose that is true. Have you had any military flying experience Stephen?’
‘No, I’m afraid not.’
Eleanor saw her chance to join the conversation, and said: ‘Stephen does a little flying with a private air force in Sydney.’
Enrico laughed loudly. ‘You have a private air force in Australia? I think you pull my leg, Eleanor.’
‘I belong to the air wing of a paramilitary organization called the New Guard,’ Stephen said. ‘It was formed earlier this year to combat the threat of communism in our country.’
Enrico suddenly looked very serious. ‘I had not heard. We get little news of Australia in Europe. But I suppose your leaders are afraid, like ours, of communism gaining a foothold. Mr Mussolini has moved quickly to make sure it cannot happen in Italy. He has banned all other political parties, trade unions and strikes and given business leaders a free hand with the economy. Mr Mussolini has made many concessions to industrialists who provide employment, to enable them to compete better and employ more workers in their factories. The result is that wages in Italy are now almost half of what they were just three years ago, but many more people have jobs’. Enrico laughed out loud again, ‘And, Mr Mussolini even got our trains to run on time.’
Eleanor and Stephen joined in his laughter. When it subsided Stephen said: ‘I’ve heard our New Guard commander, Lieutenant Colonel Campbell speak of Mr Mussolini. He holds him in very high regard. I’m sure they both think along the same lines.’
The green Lagonda swung off the narrow country road into a long driveway. At the end of it, drenched in sunlight, stood the Conti family home, a large majestic villa nestled against the hillside.
As they approached the house, Enrico said: ‘What Benito Mussolini has built here in Italy through fascism is bec
oming the envy of the world. And fascism is spreading to many other countries, like Germany, Spain and Japan. Even in England and France there are strong fascist movements. Yes, what we have here in Italy is good. It is worth fighting for. And if it is ever threatened, I will be one of the first to take up arms.’
*
Bill was standing beside Emma when she woke. On the other side of the bed her baby lay peacefully in a cot. The curtain was drawn across the small bedroom window but Emma could see it was light outside. From the kitchen, she heard soft voices speaking in hushed tones. She looked from the cot to Bill and smiled.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said gently. ‘I didn’t mean to wake you. They just let me in for a moment so I could see you both.’
‘They?’
‘Iris and Joan. They live at the end of the street. When I found you last night I asked them to help. They came over and we brought you in here. Later on, they brought the cot. I just wish I’d asked them to come over before I went to the lock-up.’
Emma raised her hand slightly. Bill took it in his. Emma heard the hushed voices in the kitchen again, then heard the front door to the cottage open and close. A moment later a stout middle-aged woman appeared in the doorway.
‘Hello Emma, I’m Iris. My word, it’s a beautiful baby you have.’ She turned to Bill. ‘Joan has just gone to work, but she’ll be back later.’ Iris smiled at Emma. ‘Between the two of us we’re going to take very good care of you, so don’t you worry about a thing, my dear.’
Iris walked over to the cot and picked up the baby. She laid it in the bed beside Emma.
Bill said, ‘Well, I’d better be going …’
‘Tell me what happened at the police station before you go, Bill, ’ Emma said as she cradled her baby in her arms.
‘When I asked to see Molly they told me to wait. I was still waiting at nine o’clock when the shift changed. Then they told me I would have to ask the night sergeant. As luck would have it, I knew him. It was Sergeant Lockwood; he was there that day in the Domain. He’s a regular bloke. He doesn’t have the mean streak a lot of coppers have. He let me see Molly for a few minutes.’
The Light Horseman's Daughter Page 17