In Her Mothers' Shoes

by Felicity Price

  ‘But I always felt in control then. I was wearing a uniform. I was trained for the job and I was confident that I knew what I was doing. Now I’ve got absolutely no confidence at all. I don’t seem to know anything.’

  ‘Perhaps you should wear a uniform.’ Joan grinned. ‘Seriously, I don’t think you should worry. You’re doing just fine …’

  ‘When we were living in Te Kuiti it was so easy. All I had to worry about was whether the meat was tough, the strawberries were ripe, and if my morning tea sponge was as light as the other bank wives’. Having a baby seemed such a wonderful idea, like it would complete the picture of perfection. If only I’d known.’

  Now gone forever, that earlier life was like a country idyll – there had always been time to gossip at the greengrocer’s or take tea at Paton’s; life was so simple when the biggest disaster was overcooking the marmalade or letting the weeds grow in your front garden.

  Leaving the King Country had been bittersweet, with so many farewell parties she couldn’t believe there was anyone left to say goodbye to. Their photos had been in the paper twice and Ailsa Craig had reported once again that ‘a sumptuous supper was enjoyed by all’. But however sad she felt to be losing good friends, she had been buoyed by the knowledge that soon she was to have a baby. The Department had promised.

  Joan stood up. ‘You wouldn’t have done anything differently.’ She made for the veranda door and peeked through it. ‘Look at what you’ve been blessed with – the most beautiful baby you could wish for, and she’s all yours.’

  ‘As long as I pass all the tests.’

  ‘What tests?’

  ‘You know, the way they check up on you. If I don’t do the right thing, the Karitane nurse might report me to the Department.’ She poured Joan another tea, adding a thin slice of lemon.

  ‘Surely not? I never thought that would happen.’ She took the tea off Rose and put it on the tiny table beside her armchair.

  ‘That’s the impression I got from that Mrs Lowe who was here. Remember I told you?’

  Joan nodded. ‘Yes, we’ve all had the inspectors.’

  ‘She said the Karitane nurse would keep an eye on me.’

  ‘But that’s just to make sure you’re coping.’

  ‘And to make sure the baby’s putting on enough weight and you’re doing everything they say you have to do.’

  ‘You and Katharine would pass with flying colours. She’s bonny.’ Joan picked up her cup and took a sip.

  ‘Not last time the nurse came.’ Rose poured herself another tea and added lemon. ‘According to her, Katharine wasn’t putting on nearly enough weight. She quizzed me about how much Karilac I used in each bottle, how I mixed it, as if I was putting her on short rations.’

  ‘If you’re using Karilac, Katharine should be fine. It’s a recipe for a chubby baby. Have you tasted it? It’s full of sugar, it’s so sweet.’ Joan pulled a face then put down her cup again.

  ‘I don’t have much choice, really. I’ve got to use Karilac, and I’ve got to get more of it into Katharine so the next time the nurse comes she’s the right weight.’

  The nurse from Plunket was due the following week. Rose dreaded the moment when the scales would come out and the drilling would begin again about Katharine’s consumption of the sickly formula. It was bad enough having to use the powdered evaporated milk, bad enough not being able to feed her herself, without having to mix up sugary cow’s milk four times a day.

  ~ ~ ~

  The following morning there was an unexpected knock at the door. She could tell who it was by the colour of the coat visible through the small panel of opaque glass on the top section of the front door: the Grey Invader had returned.

  ‘Good Morning, Mrs Stewart,’ she said brightly when Rose opened the door. ‘How is it all going now you have baby home?’

  Rose put on her most cheerful face, wishing she’d dusted, trying to remember what state the laundry was in. Had she covered the nappy bucket after dropping this morning’s one in? She been just about to fire up the copper and start scrubbing so the disinfectant, baking soda, bleach and vinegar could work its magic. She prayed there was no lingering smell.

  She showed Mrs Lowe through the kitchen where she sterilised bottles and prepared formula; then the laundry, where thankfully the lid on the nappy pail was firmly shut and the lavender oil she used in the rinse was sending out a faintly pleasant odour. The baby bath, propped in the corner, caused only a brief nod of approval. Once she’d been into the nursery, where Katharine was snuffling through her morning sleep, the Grey Invader seemed to want nothing more than a cup of tea in front of the electric fire in the upstairs living room. Rose wondered if this was where the inquisition would start and was glad George was at the bank in town and wouldn’t interrupt or act defensively.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Lowe, if I’d known you were coming I would have lit the sitting room fire,’ she said as they climbed the stairs, Rose bearing the tea tray. ‘It’s far too cold in there this morning.’

  ‘I wouldn’t want you to go to any trouble on my account.’ Mrs Lowe took the proffered seat by the heater.

  Rose poured the tea. ‘What can I help you with?’ She passed a plate of peanut brownies and perched on the edge of the chair opposite.

  ‘Baby seems settled.’

  ‘Yes. She sleeps well in the daytime.’

  ‘And at night?’

  ‘Well. . .’ Rose didn’t want to admit to any difficulties. She wanted Mrs Lowe to think of her as the perfect mother, on top of it all, confident and at ease. She hoped Katharine wouldn’t wake before Mrs Lowe left, so the inspector wouldn’t see how terrified she was of dropping her baby while changing her, of stabbing her with a nappy pin, or getting the formula wrong when mixing milk for her bottle.

  ‘Not a good sleeper then?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Could you fetch me baby’s record book, please?’

  Rose had been dreading this moment. But there was no way out of it. ‘Certainly. It’s just inside the nursery door.’ She fetched the book and handed it to Mrs Lowe, perching on the chair again as if it were filled with knives.

  Mrs Lowe thumbed over the pages – only the first three bore the notes from the nurse’s three visits – seeming to expect more.

  ‘Katharine Margaret, born March the seventeenth, six pounds eight ounces,’ she read. She thumbed over the page again. ‘And last week I see she was ten pounds nine ounces.’ She paused.

  Rose was certain she was in for a telling off.

  ‘That seems perfectly satisfactory.’

  ‘It does?’

  ‘Yes. Why? Aren’t you pleased with that?’

  ‘Well no. That is, I don’t know. The Karitane said that she wasn’t putting on enough weight.’

  Mrs Lowe, uncharacteristically, snorted. ‘They always say that at Plunket. I think they want to have a nation of chubby babies force fed every four hours – except, of course, after ten p.m. Karitane babies are trained to be so regimented they could form an army. It’s simply shocking!’ Mrs Lowe thrust Katharine’s little brown book on the table where it landed with a loud thwack. ‘Personally, I’ve always had my doubts about all that. I suppose they told you not to feed her in the middle of the night either?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And have you?’

  ‘No. Of course not.’ Rose could see where this was heading. The Grey Invader was testing her. ‘I’ve done everything Truby King says, I promise you.’ She hoped fervently that Mrs Lowe wouldn’t ask to see his book.

  Two nights ago, when trying to get Katharine to settle, yet again with no success, she’d become so upset at the persistent crying she’d picked up Feeding and Care of Baby, opened the window, and thrown it out. As if pleased, Katharine had almost immediately stopped crying, which had come as such a relief Rose had gone straight to bed and forgotten all about the book until the morning. It wasn’t until she was hanging the nappies out on the line that she’d seen the book lying there, its cover w
rinkled and the outer pages more than a little lumpy. Even when it had dried, it was still badly misshapen.

  ‘And baby keeps crying, right on into the night?’

  ‘Yes. The nights are difficult, it’s true.’ Rose tried not to let Mrs Lowe see just how difficult, keeping her face as expressionless as she could.

  ‘You wouldn’t believe how many young mothers say that to me. I hear it all the time, you know. And do you know what my advice is?’

  Rose shook her head, no.

  ‘Ignore Truby King. Throw the book away!’

  Rose thought she was joking and laughed.

  ‘No, Mrs Stewart, it’s no laughing matter. I’m perfectly serious.’ While Rose sat there stunned, unable to think of a word to say, Mrs Lowe picked up her purse, clicked it open, and produced a shiny new copy of the book by Dr Benjamin Spock, Baby and Child. ‘Have you seen this before?’

  ‘No. I’ve heard of it though.’

  ‘You’ll find its advice is almost completely the opposite of what you’ve been told so far. But if that’s not working for you, then I dare say there’s no harm in giving this a try. I’ll leave the book with you.’

  ‘Thank you. That’s very kind …’

  ‘Nonsense, it’s part of my job to make sure baby is doing well.’ Mrs Lowe snapped shut her handbag and stood to go. ‘I don’t know how many of those books I’ve given to young mothers these past few months. But they do seem to work.’

  After she’d gone, Rose ran back upstairs and, without stopping to pick up the tea things or check on Katharine, she opened the book.

  ‘You know more than you think.’ The opening words stunned her. How could someone say that to her, when she clearly didn’t know the first thing about infant care. She read on and the more she read, the more a glimmer of hope beamed across the room all the way to the nursery door.

  Could she give Katharine a bottle whenever she wanted one? Even in the middle of the night? Could she let her go to bed when she was sleepy and stay up when she wasn’t? Was this the answer to all her difficulties?

  A small cry came from the nursery, followed by another, just a whisper of a cry, but Rose knew it would soon become more persistent.

  She didn’t look at her watch. She didn’t worry about the tea things or making Katharine fit into her schedule. She went straight to the baby’s room, picked her up out of the crib and held her.

  ‘Good news, my darling,’ she said. ‘I’m allowed to pick you up when you cry and feed you when you tell me you’re hungry.’ Katharine snuggled into her and stopped crying, nuzzling her mother for milk. ‘And best of all, the book says I’m allowed to cuddle you. Well guess what? I’m never going to stop.’

  ~ ~ ~

  On her first birthday, Katharine – or Katie as she was known by now – was to have a party. Rose invited the little girl next door, Vicki-Jane, who was almost exactly the same age; fifteen-month-old twins Keith and Kathy from around the corner; and of course her parents and the aunts. George’s parents had been invited too, but never ventured far from their farm in Nelson and had declined.

  Rose would never forget the day George drove her all the way from Christchurch to meet his father for the first time, long before the War, long before they moved to Wellington. His father had gone as far south as he was prepared to travel, arranging to meet them at Stanley Brook Hill. They’d arrived first and waited beside the car in the chill wind.

  George’s father pulled his truck over to the side of the road; it was a long time before he got out.

  ‘Should we go to him George? Is he waiting for us?’

  ‘No. He’ll come when he’s ready.’

  So they’d waited until C.T., as he was known, casually pushed open his door, clambered from the cab and strolled over. He said nothing. Just looked her up and down then said brusquely, without even a smile, ‘You’ll do.’ To her astonishment, he held out a banana. ‘Here, you must be hungry. Have this. But save the skin. I want it for the pigs.’

  Dutifully, she accepted the banana and ate it while he and George talked about sheep. Looking back, she realised that was the longest conversation she and her father-in-law ever had.

  It was a relief the reticent C.T. and his wife Margaret had declined the party invitation; their presence would have put a dampener on the day.

  Ever since that roadside encounter, Rose had been more than a little scared of George’s father. George, for some reason, detested him. She’d asked him once why that was and would never ask again. The look of pure hatred that crossed George’s face was so frightening she’d not mentioned C.T. since. All she could do was garner clues from his childhood stories, from his discussions with his brothers Leslie and Trevor. The picture they painted was of a father so strict and authoritarian his sons had gone out of their way to be the exact opposite – to treat their friends, their wives and ultimately their own children with respect, kindness and, as often as they could, with laissez faire.

  Of his mother, George said nothing, leaving Rose to guess that she had lacked – or had been deprived of – the spirit to stand up to her husband. Margaret had not been invited to accompany him on the journey to Stanley Brook Hill and Rose’s wartime wedding had been such a hurried affair, with just her own mother and father and a few Christchurch friends as guests, that George’s parents had declined to attend. So Rose had yet to meet her mother-in-law. Katie’s party would be another opportunity missed.

  Rose knew she’d gone overboard planning for the party, but she was determined to celebrate having made it through the first year – and, though she barely admitted it, she wanted to show everyone she could be as good a mother, a better mother even, as ‘real’ mothers who had given birth to their own babies.

  She’d certainly come a long way since those early months when Katharine refused to sleep at night. Thanks to Dr Spock – or really thanks to Mrs Lowe – Katie had gone to sleep almost straight away as soon as Rose had introduced a late-night feed. She’d written a thank-you note to the Lady Inspector and on her third and last visit just a month ago, Rose almost felt like she was entertaining an old friend – even though she was still dressed from head to toe in grey. For a moment, she’d seriously considered inviting her to Katie’s birthday party.

  The party was postponed to the Saturday afternoon, so George could be there. The day was fine and warm so she and her mother decided to hold it outside, with the aunts and her parents seated on the veranda and the toddlers and their parents outside. She overheard George becoming involved, as he often did, in a serious discussion with his father-in-law – this time about the Mayor, Mr Macfarlane, and whether he was devoting enough time to the city when he was away in Wellington part of the year being a member of Parliament.

  Rushing past on her way to the kitchen to collect the birthday cake, Rose paused for a moment behind George, intending to ask him to light the candles, when she noticed his left leg – the one shortened an inch when so badly broken by the encounter with a Wellington taxi – twitching uncontrollably. George, still embroiled in his discussion, was pushing down on his left knee, his knuckles white with the effort, but to no avail: the leg continued to jiggle up and down as if powered by an electric motor.

  ‘Are you …?’ She stopped herself. He wouldn’t want her drawing attention to it. She continued on her way past, balancing the cake over to the low table she’d laid with a white linen cloth.

  Her mother brought Katie over and the aunts gathered around. Vicki-Jane was lifted down, protesting, off the rocking horse presented that afternoon by Great Aunt Doris and carried over to the table. The twins toddled over, their mother close behind. With the little ones gathered expectantly around the cake, the full presence of the adults was required.

  ‘Come on Jim, you’re missing the birthday cake,’ Doris called to her brother-in-law. ‘You too, George, come and see your daughter blow out her candle.’

  The two men got up from their chairs and stepped down off the veranda onto the paved terrace. There was a cry and Rose,
lighted match in her hand, saw George’s leg crumple under him as he fell to the ground.

  ‘Are you all right, old chap?’ Her father was right beside him, offering him a hand up.

  ‘I’m fine. My leg just gave way.’ George tried to stand but Rose could tell his leg was causing him pain. ‘No, I’m fine,’ he repeated as her father then Aunt Doris tried to help. George had that stubborn look on his face. She knew better than to intervene.

  Slowly, George walked towards her, pretending nothing was wrong. But, almost imperceptibly, his left leg was dragging slightly along the ground. Nobody else seemed to have noticed.

  That evening, they gathered around the piano, Katie clutched firmly at her grandmother’s side. Rose played and George sang, in his fine tenor, Where e’re you Walk and it seemed impossible to believe it had happened. They looked the picture of a happy family, the image of contentment; the rosy glow from the coal fire lighting a halo at the back of Katie’s dark curls; George’s voice strong and true, without a quaver in it; the song a tribute to love: