Kal

by Judy Nunn

  As far as the Kalgoorlie pipeline was concerned, local opinion was divided. Some thought that O’Connor, the government’s chief engineer and designer of the scheme, was a genius. Others thought he was a madman with delusions of grandeur and that the politicians were fools to listen to him. To Maudie, the thought of water being pumped through three hundred and fifty miles of pipeline simply seemed impossible.

  ‘Walk on, Princess.’

  Maudie once more allowed young Jack to take over the reins and again she turned her attention to the surrounding countryside. She always loved getting out of the township, away from the bustle of the people and the noise of industry.

  All about her was the endless red desert of low spinifex scrub, saltbush and clumps of hardy Australian gum trees which somehow thrived under the seemingly impossible conditions.

  Ahead of her lay a shimmering heat haze, through which the uninitiated would swear they could see a vast lake. Behind her, Kalgoorlie was an oasis in the midst of a treacherous landscape, a tribute to man’s survival in an unforgiving land. Without shelter or water, a man would quickly perish at the mercy of the elements—many had, their bones bleached white by an unrelenting sun. How the Aboriginal tribes survived in such a wilderness was beyond the comprehension of the white man, but survive they did. In fact, the two local tribes, rarely seen en masse by the townspeople, thrived happily on a land that had yielded up to them its secrets over thousands of years.

  Beyond the safety of Kal, the question was purely one of survival and, should a stranger arrive at one of the hardy outlying farms, never a query was made as to where he had come from or where he was going. Even his name was immaterial. The only query of any importance was, ‘Need water, mate?’

  Maudie looked back at Kal where the clouds of smoke from the mills and the distant stamp of the grinders announced the industry of the Golden Mile. She thought of the ladies in their picture hats sipping tea at the Palace Hotel and the gentlemen parading the streets and tipping their hats at the passing gentry and she smiled. How unimportant it all was. The desert always got things in proportion, she thought as she watched a wedgetail eagle soar several hundred feet up in the sky.

  It seemed strange that such a barren-looking place as the Clover could have a name at all. Just the customary red outback earth with its scrub and eucalypts, its salmon and coral gums and mulga and gimlet trees.

  Evan was waiting for them by one of the three windlasses. He’d been working since dawn. He walked over to the trap to help her but she’d already jumped to the ground before he got there so he lifted Jack down.

  ‘Welcome to the Clover,’ he said. ‘You wore the trousers. Good.’

  ‘I’m certainly not climbing down mine shafts in my skirts,’ Maudie answered as she took off her hat and detached her travelling veil. ‘I see you have three.’ She gestured at the windlasses, the wooden pulley systems erected over each of the shafts.

  ‘Four. There’s another over there behind the house.’ He pointed to a clump of eucalyptus trees and Maudie noticed ‘the house’ nestled amongst them. It wasn’t a house at all—it was a humpy, a bush shelter made of timber and corrugated iron. Yes, Evan was quite right, she thought. It wasn’t the place for a woman to nurse a small baby; he was quite right to sign up with the Midas. She was a little surprised that he hadn’t built something more substantial for his wife, but then she remembered that, like her father, Evan lived beneath the earth and poured all of his money into his mine. And he’d been a loner so long he’d probably forgotten how uncomfortable living in a humpy could be.

  ‘When you’ve had a look at the mine, come up to the house and have a cup of tea with Kate. She rarely has female company.’

  Maudie would rather have avoided the social visit, but she knew she couldn’t. She’d met Kate only once, and then briefly, and she didn’t feel they had much in common. Evan rarely brought his wife into town and when he did it was never to the pub. On the occasion when they’d met in the street Maudie, normally comfortable with her size, had felt huge and raw-boned and somehow awkward beside Evan’s beautiful young wife.

  They fed the Princess condensed water which Evan kept in stock for his own two horses and Maudie instructed Jack to stay with the sulky.

  ‘I want to come down the mine,’ he said.

  ‘Look after the Princess,’ she ordered and turned her back before he could argue.

  Evan climbed ahead of her down the makeshift ladder to the first level about ten feet below, then slithered on his rump along a rough slope to the next ladder which led to the bottom of the shaft. He thought briefly about helping Maudie, guiding her feet to the safety of each rung, but decided not to. Hell, Maudie was as capable as any man. It was difficult to think of her as anything other than a man at the best of times.

  At the bottom of the shaft, twenty feet below the earth’s surface, he handed her a ‘spider’, a wire candle-holder which could be hung on the rough crevices of the rock face while a miner worked. He lit a candle for each of them and pointed to one of the two short tunnels leading off the main shaft.

  ‘This is the drive I’m working at the moment,’ he said. ‘Quite a strong leader, take a look.’

  The tunnel was supported by poles of gimlet gum. Maudie crawled several feet inside and held her candle close to the rock face. She remembered, briefly, the wave of panic which had engulfed her the first time she had ever been down a mine.

  ‘Claustrophobia, Maudie,’ her father had explained to her. ‘Some people never get over it. And some people can’t live without it,’ Bill Gaskill had added with a grin. ‘It’s the pulse of the land itself—you can feel it.’ And he’d placed the palm of her hand on the rock face. ‘Feel it, Maudie, feel its heart beat.’ She’d never been frightened under ground again.

  In the light of the candle, Maudie recognised the vein of quartz. She also recognised much of the surrounding rock as dolorite, a greenstone formation often containing gold. All the promising signs her father had taught her to recognise.

  ‘Yes, it looks good,’ she said as she backed out of the tunnel into the main shaft. ‘Very good.’

  Evan led the way back up the shaft and, as they walked to the house while Jack ran on ahead, he instructed her. ‘If Harry pegs out more ground, tell him not to extend west. Too close to saltbush country. Out of the greenstone belt.’

  He pulled aside the hessian curtain which served as a front door and ushered Maudie and Jack in ahead of him. ‘Kate,’ he called, ‘our visitor is here.’

  The interior of the hut was as crude as the exterior although Evan had made several improvements since his marriage.

  The iron stove in the corner had been added. Prior to that he’d cooked his meals outside over an open fire. And he’d added floor coverings. They were made of used filter cloths discarded by the big mines. After several ore crushings had been pressed through them, the filter cloths became stiff and unusable and they served as flooring in many a miner’s home. Evan had even built a bedroom onto the rear of the hut. No longer did he sleep in his swag on the dirt floor. But the rest of the surrounds were as basic as they had been for the past six years. The homemade table and chairs, the hanging chaff bag which served as a larder to keep the foodstuffs away from the endless ants. The cooking utensils of billy cans and cut-down kerosene tins. Maudie recognised them all: it was the way she had lived with her mother and father for years.

  There was a display of femininity in the room though. The rough wooden table was covered with a lace cloth and neatly set out was a china teapot and cups. Probably Kate’s pride and joy, Maudie thought, touched; Evan would certainly have used tin mugs. And the smell of fresh-baked scones hung in the air.

  ‘Kate?’ Evan called. She was nowhere in sight. ‘Kate?’ He crossed to the hessian curtain which led to the bedroom and pulled it aside. ‘Oh my God!’ Maudie heard him call. ‘Oh my God, the baby!’ and she rushed to his side.

  The woman was lying on the stretcher bed. Beneath her skirt, her raised knees were sp
read wide and her arms were above her head, gripping the bedposts as she writhed in pain. Her hair was matted and her face and the thin cotton blouse she wore were drenched in sweat.

  Evan knelt by her side and smoothed her hair back from her face. ‘Kate? Kate?’ He looked up at Maudie, panic-stricken. ‘It’s three weeks till her time,’ he said.

  ‘Oh no it’s not.’ Maudie knelt by the bed, nudging him aside. ‘Jack, go and look after the Princess,’ she called over her shoulder. ‘Bring me water,’ she ordered, ‘and clean cloth.’ Evan rose, confused, uncertain; he did not want to leave his wife. ‘Hurry up, man. Hurry up.’

  When he returned she barked further instructions at him. ‘Boil water. Sterilise a knife. Bring me thread. And cloth. More cloth. Much more.’

  ‘When did it start?’ Maudie asked as she bathed the young woman’s face.

  ‘Dawn,’ she whispered. ‘The first big pain.’ Her face contorted with agony as a fresh spasm seized her. ‘I … was not sure. I did not want …’ Another spasm. She was panting with the effort of talking. ‘… To worry him.’

  ‘Don’t talk any more,’ Maudie said. ‘Try and breathe steady, slow.’ Over seven hours, she thought. The woman had been in labour for over seven hours. She’d made scones and set out her tea service while the contractions had intensified. Obviously she was tougher than Maudie had given her credit for.

  But something was wrong, Maudie could sense it. The labour was heavy, the baby wanted to come. She raised Kate’s skirts. The woman had prepared herself and removed her undergarments. She was fully dilated and the baby was coming. But something was stopping it.

  Evan returned with more cloth. ‘Pull the curtain aside,’ Maudie ordered, ‘it’s too dark in here. And light candles, I need light.

  ‘Breathe easy, breathe easy,’ she said gently as she eased her hand inside the woman’s vagina. She could feel the baby, but not its head. It was upside down in the womb.

  ‘Don’t push,’ she said. ‘Don’t push.’ The woman’s face was a mask of pain. ‘The baby’s coming out the wrong way. I’m going to have to turn it.’ Kate nodded. ‘Scream if you like.’

  Maudie pushed her hand deep into the woman’s womb. She felt for a leg. There it was. Where was the other?’ Kate’s jaw was set and she was staring up at the roof of the hut. ‘Scream,’ Maudie urged. ‘Scream—it’ll help.’

  But she didn’t scream. Apart from a regular panting hiss from between her clenched teeth, the woman didn’t utter a sound. She’s got guts, Maudie thought, she’s certainly got guts.

  At last. There it was. She’d found the other leg. It was twisted around the umbilical cord.

  It took Maudie several minutes to disentangle the leg. Minutes that must have seemed like hours to the woman in agony, but still she did not cry out.

  Evan returned with the hot water and the knife and thread. ‘I’m turning the baby,’ Maudie said as she saw his ashen face and the fear in his eyes. ‘It was coming out the wrong way.’

  Evan tried to take his wife’s hand but she shook her head and clung to the bedposts with an iron grip, her knuckles white. He knelt beside her, feeling frightened and useless. ‘Wipe her brow,’ Maudie said. ‘It’s turning. It’s turning, Kate.’

  Maudie’s eyes were stinging from her own sweat now. She fumbled and pushed and it seemed an age when, all of a sudden, the baby slipped from her grasp and magically she could feel the head in the palm of her hand. Thank God, she thought. ‘Push, Kate,’ she said withdrawing her hand. ‘Push!’

  The woman filled her lungs with air and pushed. The baby’s head appeared. Again she pushed. And again and again. The head, the shoulders. Her face a mask of pain, she pushed and pushed and suddenly the whole slithering mass of baby appeared in Maudie’s lap.

  ‘Good girl, good girl, well done,’ Maudie said, smiling with relief. ‘Knife.’

  As she spanked the baby and busied herself tying and cutting the umbilical cord Maudie didn’t notice the bleeding. Neither did Evan. He was too busy mopping his wife’s brow and murmuring encouragingly.

  ‘It’s a girl,’ Maudie said, placing the newborn infant on its mother’s breast. But something was wrong. The woman’s eyes were rolling back in her head. She was trying desperately not to pass out. Then Maudie saw the blood gushing from between Kate’s legs.

  The placenta, Maudie thought. There was no placenta. Just blood. Pouring out of the woman onto the bed. Spilling onto the floor.

  Maudie thrust the baby at Evan. ‘She hasn’t contracted,’ she said urgently. ‘She’ll bleed to death if we don’t get the placenta out.’

  ‘Oh Jesus, oh sweet Jesus.’ Evan watched with horror as the lifeblood poured from his wife.

  Once again Maudie plunged her hand into the woman’s womb. She groped for the bag. There it was. She pulled out her fist and the bloodied placenta came with it. The bleeding stopped as quickly as it had started and Maudie gently eased Kate’s stiffened knees down onto the bed. The woman’s eyelids were fluttering, but she fought to remain conscious. She released her grip on the bedposts and signalled for Evan to pass her the baby. He supported the infant while she held it to her breast, feeble, exhausted.

  Neither Maudie nor Evan noticed a small figure appear beside the open hessian curtain. But Kate did, and a slight smile played on her lips. When Maudie turned to see what had gained her attention she thought at first the child must be Jack.

  ‘Paolo,’ the woman whispered. ‘Do not be frightened.’

  A small boy of six or seven stood there, his eyes wide with shock at the sight of so much blood. Of course, Maudie remembered, she’d heard that Kate was a widow and had a son by her first marriage.

  ‘It is all right, Paolo,’ Caterina whispered. ‘You have a sister.’

  Just before she slipped into unconsciousness, Caterina wondered whether Evan would mind too much that his firstborn child was a girl.

  When Caterina had arrived in Fremantle in the late summer of 1893 she had been heavily pregnant with Paul’s child.

  She’d stayed with her uncle and his family, as had been arranged, until after the birth, but she knew that she was tolerated rather than welcomed. She knew that her aunt and uncle did not believe she was a widow, as her father had told them in his telegraph. But then Franco Panuzzi had not expected his younger brother to believe such a story. He had told Caterina as much when he had given her the substantial amount of money the family could ill afford.

  ‘You will pay my brother a weekly sum for your food and lodging,’ he had said, ‘and for appearances’ sake he will believe your widowhood. It is a matter of family honour that he does so. But as soon as you can support yourself and your child, you must cease to be a burden to him.’

  Shortly after the birth, Caterina had spent several hours a day trudging around Fremantle in search of work while her aunt cared for baby Paolo. The main thoroughfare of the town, High Street, was active and vital. The town hall with its clock tower stood proudly at the top end and, down the bottom, on Arthurs Head overlooking the sea, stood the Round House, a solid circular stone building, once a prison. The backstreets in between were lined with tiny stone cottages and there was a pub on every corner. There were plenty of jobs to be had around town. In shops and bars and restaurants and the larger hotels where chambermaids and cleaners were constantly required. Caterina had worked hard on her English and could communicate well. It wasn’t language or nationality differences that presented a problem. It was the baby that was the complication. Then, just when she was nearing despair, she walked into the Dockside Arms.

  Fremantle was a man-made harbour built at the mouth of the Swan River. With no natural headlands to form an inlet, sandbars had been painstakingly dredged to create a land-backed inner harbour, and a long jetty snaked out into the deep water of the Indian Ocean. Steamers unloaded their goods at the jetty and vessels disgorged their hopeful passengers by the hundreds, many of them in search of gold. It was a rough port town with rough hotels and the Dockside Arms was one of them. Do
wn near the wharf, it was run by a burly English couple, Mick and Mavis Forster, from the Midlands.

  ‘Bless you, dear, I can look after the little one. I’ve six of my own, one still a toddler.’ At forty-four, Mavis Forster had sadly acknowledged that her child-bearing years were over and she desperately missed a baby at her breast.

  Mick had an eye for a pretty face and a bargain and Caterina represented both. The pretty face was good for custom and the offer of free accommodation meant he could pay her a pittance. Mavis also recognised a bargain—although she sometimes thought pretty girls brought more trouble than they were worth—and a full-time barmaid for the cost of a few shillings a week and the poky little room out the back was an extremely attractive proposition. Besides, she decided, she liked the girl. Behind the china blue eyes and the dimpled smile, the girl had spine, Mavis could tell. And of course there was the baby. As far as Mavis was concerned the baby clinched the deal.

  ‘You could start as soon as you like,’ she said in reply to Caterina’s query. ‘That’s so, isn’t it, Mick?’

  ‘Sooner the better,’ Mick nodded. ‘Tomorrow, if you can. Lizzie leaves next week and you’ll need to know the ropes by then.’

  Caterina enjoyed her work at the Dockside Arms. Mick and Mavis were hard taskmasters but they were fair, and Mavis was wonderful with baby Paolo. So wonderful that Caterina felt an occasional twinge of jealousy—the woman spent more waking hours in the company of her son than she herself did.

  Feeding times became precious, and as Caterina watched the tiny mouth, ferocious at her breast, she knew that everything had been worth it. And any hardship yet to come would be worth it too. This was the baby she and Paul had made, high up in the Alps, as they lay together in the narrow bunk, the snow outside blanketing the chalet. This was their son. Paolo.

  Initially Doris, the other barmaid, had been wary of Caterina. Here was competition, she thought, wishing that plain Lizzie had not left to get married. Doris had rooms in a boarding house around the corner and conducted a lucrative business on the side. She didn’t consider herself a prostitute. She only slept with men she fancied and then on the understanding that they gave her a ‘present’.