‘Would you?’ She smiled; it was starting to feel like it was really happening.
He nodded.
‘I can choose a pretty wallpaper without everyone knowing, I suppose,’ Rose said. ‘And I can make some curtains. Trouble is I don’t know whether to get pink or blue.’
‘Then choose another colour.’
‘And how will I buy cloth nappies and nappy pins? If I ask for them in the general store, everyone will start asking questions.’
‘If only we were down in Christchurch, your mother would take you into Ballantynes and help you pick out everything you need.’
‘If only. I’d like very much to have Mother here when the baby arrives.’
‘Maybe we can persuade her to travel up and stay.’
‘I’ll try. But you know how much she hates the sea. She refuses to go anywhere near the Wellington ferry.’
‘She could come up by aeroplane to Paraparaumu and catch the train.’
‘She’s scared enough of the ferry. I can’t imagine her trying out something as new-fangled as an aeroplane.’
‘If it means seeing her first grandchild, I’m sure she’ll make the effort to at least try the ferry. You’d better write and tell her at once. She’ll be thrilled to bits.’
‘I have already. And I wrote to Joan too. She’s the only other person I know who’s been through this. I posted both letters this afternoon so they’ll know in a week or so.’ Joan had adopted a baby a couple of years ago. Her letters made it sound a breeze.
‘You should treat yourself to a trunk call to your mother. And hang the expense!’
Rose felt momentary guilt at the call she’d made that afternoon to Wellington and confessed. George didn’t mind.
‘We might get a baby any day. Had you thought about that?’
She had. She would be ready.
He helped dry the dishes then settled into his chair with the paper – the bi-weekly King Country Chronicle. It was edited by their friend Dick Craig; his sister Ailsa covered all the local events.
‘Has Ailsa reported on the Bank Wives’ meeting?’ Rose asked.
‘Of course,’ George beamed. ‘It’s on page three. And you’ll never guess how she finishes…’
‘Don’t tell me, “A sumptuous supper was enjoyed by all”.’
‘A sumptuous supper was enjoyed by all,’ George said in unison with Rose; they laughed. Ailsa wrote that at the end of all her reports.
‘What’s on at the pictures on Saturday night?’
George flicked over the page. ‘National Velvet. With Elizabeth Taylor.’
‘Shall we go?’ She knew he’d say yes. They almost always went to the pictures on Saturdays, no matter what was showing, sitting upstairs with their friends while the Maoris sat down below. Rose had never felt comfortable about this arrangement, but it wasn’t her place to upset the order of things.
‘Elizabeth Taylor? Let’s go.’
‘You fancy her.’
‘Never. I’m only interested in the horse.’
~ ~ ~
Rose checked herself quickly in front of the bedroom mirror then, not happy with what she saw, sat on the cushioned stool to make amends. Across her face, paler than most in this farming community known for sun-browned and ruddy complexions, she brushed a trace of powder; on her lips, thinner than she would have liked, she dabbed lipstick the shade of ripe plums, then smiled half-heartedly at the result. Her hair was impossible. She pulled out the restraining pins but her curls, instead of remaining flat on her head, sprang up in joyful unison, untamed and frizzy, the exact opposite of what was in fashion. She sighed and fetched her hat from the box on top of the wardrobe. Thank heavens for hats, she thought as she jammed it down on the annoying curls, removing all but a few around her forehead from public view. Finally, she pulled her summer coat from its hanger in the wardrobe and slipped it on, covering her blue and cream iris-patterned dress. It was one of her favourites, that dress; she knew its hip-hugging skirt flattered her tiny waist without being too fancy for the country-folk she would be mixing with at the Te Kuiti Agricultural and Pastoral Show.
‘The car’s here,’ George called.
She gave herself one final check in the mirror, adjusted her hat again, and picked up her bag from the bed. ‘Coming,’ she called back.
The four of them – George, Rose, her friend Bea and Bea’s husband Maurice – drove across the bumpy pastureland of the show grounds car park with Rose and Bea carefully nursing the flowers and cream china vases.
George and Maurice paid for the tickets at the turnstiles and they entered the show grounds - a vast domain more familiar with hosting rugby and cricket matches but now filled with more than a dozen tents, large and small, hundreds of people and an array of sheep, cattle, pigs and horses of almost every known breed.
‘I’m off to see the show-jumping,’ Maurice said.
‘You girls won’t want us chaps hanging round.’ George followed him. ‘We’ll meet you after the judging and we can have lunch at the tea tent.’
The grass floor of the exhibition tent was lined with neat rows of trestle tables covered in long white starched linen cloths, which were fast filling up with home-made produce as, all around, men and women continued to pour in bearing jars of jam, relish, preserves, baskets of cakes, sponges, scones and biscuits, along with newspaper parcels containing a sizeable portion of the district’s vegetable gardens.
In the floral art corner, the bank manager’s wife Mary Smythe and several other ladies were already snipping and arranging.
‘Oh, there you are Rose. I didn’t think you were entering this year.’ Scary Mary, as Bea had nicknamed her, looked a bit put out. ‘What have you got this time?’ She examined the two arrangements Rose was taking carefully out of her large flat basket and sniffed. ‘Pink and cream? Just two colours? That’s unusual.’ With one eyebrow raised, Mary Smythe turned back, evidently unthreatened, to her own arrangement; Rose took a peek, while pretending to be occupied with her own flowers.
It was a tall, sweeping affair, juxtaposing red gerbera and roses with almost all the colours of the rainbow, a bright crescent-shaped splash that shocked Rose with its boldness. She could see why Mrs Smythe wasn’t worried about her own inferior pastel arrangement; not only was it pale by comparison, it was positively insipid.
Not that it mattered – it was fun creating it, Rose said to herself as she set about the finishing touches, fixing a few stray pieces that had dislodged in the car and setting the two creations together on the white cloth – the large one (representing the mother), reaching out through fronds and tendrils to embrace the more delicate bowl (the baby) – draping the gauze artfully between them. She placed the label, ‘Mother and Baby’ beside the pair, picked up her basket and quietly slipped away while Mrs Smythe was busy berating one of the organisers about the lack of space for her work of art.
Bea, who always spurned the baking and floral competitions, had completed her circuit of the tent while waiting for Rose and was standing outside the door. ‘I saw that,’ she said, grabbing Rose by the arm and leading her round the corner, laughing. ‘The old biddy has taken over the whole section with her ghastly construction. I’m amazed you didn’t laugh as soon as you saw it.’
‘You never know, it might win. She won last year. And it’s very striking.’
‘It’s so striking it jumps out and hits you right between the eyes.’ Bea touched Rose lightly on the arm. ‘You might be in with a chance, Rose. Yours is so pretty. What is it?’
‘It’s supposed to represent a mother and child,’ Rose said softly, hoping Bea wouldn’t hear.
‘Mother and baby girl, by the look of it. There’s so many pink roses, it’s got to be a baby girl.’ Bea looked more closely at her friend. ‘Is there something you’re trying to tell us all? Are you. . .?’
Rose couldn’t help herself. She blushed.
‘You’re having a baby!’
‘You have to promise you won’t tell anyone, Bea. It’s
absolutely a secret.’
‘A secret! This is the best news, the news you’ve been waiting for and you’re not telling anyone?’
‘I can’t, Bea. I can’t. It’s not my baby.’
‘Not your baby?’
‘Shhh!’ Rose held her hand up to Bea’s lips.
‘Then whose baby is it?’
‘I don’t know.’ Rose had dreaded this moment, had hoped she could avoid it but, in her most lucid moments, had known she couldn’t keep it from her best friend.
‘You don’t know? I don’t understand.’
Rose looked around to make sure there wasn’t anyone within earshot. ‘George and I have been told there’s a baby for us to adopt. We’re expecting to have her – or him – in March.’
‘In March? That’s just a couple of months away! Rose, this is so wonderful.’
She could feel herself breathing again. ‘You don’t think there’s anything wrong with that?’
‘Why would there be anything wrong with it?’
‘I don’t know. I thought people here would think it was a terrible thing to do, take someone else’s baby. Because no one else has ever done that here. I’d be the first. They’d think I was a baby thief.’
‘Nonsense, Rose. That’s absolute nonsense. Didn’t you know the Smythes adopted Harry? They’ve done it. And I bet they’re not the only ones around here. You won’t be the first.’
‘Mary Smythe adopted a baby? I don’t believe it.’ Rose felt ashamed of herself. All these years she’d regarded Mary Smythe as a bit of a joke.
‘She did. Sally said she arrived home one day with a baby, nobody had a clue. She paraded him through town as if he were her own – and pretty soon that’s how everyone took it. As if he were her own. And now look at him – a great strapping lad of seventeen off at university in Auckland.’
‘You’d never know he was adopted. He looks like Mr Smythe.’
‘In some ways. But when you look again, there are lots of differences. The thing is, though, nobody really cares. He’s theirs. And your baby will be yours. Yours and George’s. Nobody will care, Rose. Really.’
‘You think so? I’ve been so worried. I didn’t want anyone to know.’
‘So what were you planning to do when you brought the baby home? Keep it locked away inside for the next few years?’
‘I don’t know.’ Rose looked away in the distance, beyond the show grounds and all the people milling to and fro, beyond the show ring and the parading horses. What was she planning to do? She and George hadn’t been able to agree.
Just that morning, they’d had a row. Rose wanted to keep the adoption a secret. She was terrified of telling anyone, terrified of what people might say. She’d seen the rumour mill at work in this town and she’d put so much effort into being just like every other woman to avoid being subjected to it. She didn’t want that to change.
George wanted to tell everybody.
‘I don’t see what the problem is, dear,’ he’d reasoned with her as he was leaving for work. ‘People will be so pleased to see us starting a family at last they won’t care a jot that you didn’t give birth to the baby.’
‘But they will. You know how they can talk here.’
‘Rose!’ George had stood with his arms folded, his face red, his lips pursed in anger.
She knew better than to argue. George didn’t get angry very often.
He’d said she’d have to tell people sooner or later and had gone off to work without kissing her goodbye. He’d never done that before.
‘Well then,’ Bea said. ‘You should start thinking about how you’re going to do it, because there are a lot of people to tell.’
‘I don’t know. . .’
‘I know. I’ll throw a baby shower. That’s what we’ll do. A baby shower at my place next month and then everybody will know. And everybody who comes will have to bring a present for the baby.’
‘Oh, Bea, I couldn’t.’
‘You don’t have to do a thing except turn up. And you can’t say no to me. I’m your best friend.’
‘But what if we never get the baby? What if the Social Security Department changes its mind?’
‘Have you ever heard of a government department changing its mind?’ Bea countered. ‘They don’t have a mind to start with. They just follow the rules.’
Bea wouldn’t hear any further objections. She insisted on planning the party. She would hand-write all the invitations with clever wording that made it clear Rose’s baby was being adopted.
‘That way, there won’t be any silly questions about why you don’t look pregnant,’ she said firmly.
~ ~ ~
Rose won first prize for her floral arrangement, with Mrs Smythe’s creation coming in only third.
‘Well done, Rose.’ Bea congratulated her then whispered, ‘I’d stay away from Scary Mary for a while. She’ll never forgive you.’
‘Oh dear, I hope it doesn’t spoil George’s chances at the bank.’ It dawned on her, as soon as she’d said it, that George wouldn’t worry about his prospects for a moment. His lack of ambition was incomprehensible.
‘Oh, excuse me.’
Rose looked around and realised she had bumped into Mary Smythe.
‘Oh, no, I’m so sorry,’ she said, blushing. Bea had grabbed her arm, too late to prevent the collision, and was now nudging her energetically.
‘Well done, my dear,’ Mary said. ‘Your floral arrangement won high praise.’
‘Oh, thank you,’ Rose stammered. ‘Yours was lovely too.’
‘Well, we can’t all win on the day,’
Rose fended off Bea and took a deep breath. ‘Mary, I wondered if you and I might … er …if we could meet for a cup of tea at Paton’s. Or if you would like to visit my house one afternoon for tea. There’s something I’d like to talk to you about.’
There was a moment when Mary Smythe looked taken aback, as if this was the last thing she was expecting, but just a moment before she smiled graciously. ‘Of course, Rose. I’d be happy to have afternoon tea with you. Would next Tuesday suit?’
‘Yes, it does. That would be lovely. Please come to our place.’
They parted and Bea said, ‘What came over you Rose? I didn’t know she was your friend.’
‘I’ve seen her in a different light …’
‘You mean about the adoption?’
‘Yes. Now I know about that, I think there’s a lot she could help me with.’
Bea chuckled softly. ‘I hope you’re right. Or you could be in for a very awkward afternoon next Tuesday.’
Apart from her nursing friend Joan in Christchurch, who wasn’t the greatest correspondent – her letters were always short and hurried – Rose hadn’t anyone to confide in about adoption. She had a lot of questions she needed to ask.
~ ~ ~
The afternoon with Mary Smythe flew by as Rose confided her news about the baby. ‘But I don’t know what to say to people,’ she concluded.
Mary smiled sympathetically. ‘I decided right from the start to carry on as if it was nobody’s business but my own,’ she said. ‘You should try to see it that way. If you always worry about what people think, you’ll never go anywhere or do anything different.’
‘But look what happened when I went home to Christchurch to look after my mother last year,’ Rose said.
‘What was that?’
‘Some people here said I’d left George.’ Rose put down her cup and dabbed at her face with her handkerchief to hide her embarrassment. ‘It was awful. I couldn’t look anyone in the eye for over a week.’
‘People will talk, I know. But you must pay no heed. You know how it goes: “Sticks and stones may break my bones, but names will never hurt me”.’
‘The trouble is I should really go back to Mother. She’s not well.’
‘Is she elderly?’
‘Yes, she’s seventy. I worry about her, but I can’t leave George again. Even if people didn’t gossip, it wouldn’t be right.’
‘I wouldn’t worry about it. You should tell the world you’re having a baby and let the tongues wag.’
‘But …’
‘Besides, they’ve already come to terms with me adopting. One more and they’ll begin to think it’s the latest fashion.’ Mary laughed at her own joke.
‘It’s such a big step to take.’
‘You’ve got to tell them sooner or later. The worst source of ill-informed gossip is when you try to hide something. Get it all out in the open, I always say.’
In Her Mothers' Shoes Page 19