Cameron groans quietly to himself.
‘Go on,’ I whisper to Dean, but Cameron raises his hand.
‘No. Let me,’ he says and takes a deep breath. ‘I called for a neighbour, Mrs Taylor, who lives around the corner from us — it was already agreed upon, she would come just as soon as Catherine was ready. When the doctor, Moffat, arrived I sent him straight in. He said they were false pains. My Catherine, all she could say was, “Oh, my God, as if I’m suffering all this for nothing.” She was got to bed. Mrs Taylor and the doctor remained with her, while I stayed outside in the kitchen. They both stayed till about one o’clock on Tuesday morning.’ He pauses. ‘I could hear Catherine screaming, saying, “Oh, doctor, you’re killing me,” and she called out, “Murder!” twice. I should have gone in. I should have seen what it was they were doing to her.’ He swallows. ‘But I didn’t, and now it’s too late.’
I think he is about to cry some more, so I lay my hand on his arm. ‘What happened next?’ I ask gently.
‘Mrs Taylor left the room and prepared some tea, and the doctor said it was a very bad case. I asked if there was any danger, and he said there’s always more or less danger in such cases as these. And then he said he was going home. Said he’d had no rest for three nights, and that he wished to get some sleep. “Sleep!” I said. “Surely you’re not going to leave us?” and he said, “I have not been engaged to come here, I can do no good now, and I want sleep.”’
‘What did Catherine say?’ I cannot comprehend it.
‘She said, surely no, he is not going to leave us? We both then entreated him — both of us — for the sake of God, not to go away, and he said something again about not being engaged beforehand. Catherine pleaded with him, she said, “You’ll get whatever fees you want.” Mrs Taylor said if Doctor Moffat went she would also go, and on that I went straight for our neighbour Mrs Murphy. I met Doctor Moffat on the road on the way back and asked him to return; he said he could do no good, that he wanted sleep and that I should send for another doctor, as it was likely an operation would have to be performed. When I got back to Catherine, she was so desperate I sent by horse for Doctor Bailey. But she was so ill — I was not sure she would last. I ran back to Doctor Moffat and begged him to come back to see her. He said, “I can do no good.” I said, “What! Have you no sympathy for a dying woman?” And he then told me that I should have some sympathy for him. For him! He said he had been there for a number of hours and thought that was quite enough; that he wanted rest, having been up so many nights.’ He pauses. ‘Doctor Bailey arrived by the eight o’clock train next morning and delivered Catherine in twenty minutes.’
‘The babe?’ I ask. But Cameron shakes his head. There is no good to be had from this. No good at all.
‘After he left, Catherine seemed pretty easy.’ He closes his eyes. ‘And then she got worse. She left me noon Wednesday.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I say.
‘He did it to her, I know he did.’
Dean leans forward and rests his arm on Cameron’s shoulder. ‘It was good of you to come, let our Minnie know of her passing.’
The man nods and raises a hand to steady his shaking lip.
‘Dean, that wasn’t the only reason I came, though I would’ve done it any matter. They’ve ordered another autopsy. Moffat may have caused the harm to Catherine, and there’ll be a trial. It’s all I can do to get up in the morn. I can’t be looking after bairns, not in my state. I’ll hang on to the boy, and I’ve got family for the eldest … but Maggie? Could you not mind her, even just for a wee while? Till it’s worked out? I don’t want to trouble the child. She’s been through enough.’
The gorgeous slip of her mother. I look to Dean, my heart in my throat.
‘Don’t give it another thought,’ he says. Hot tears stream down my face and I have never loved my husband so much as in this moment. ‘We’ll take her, man. We’ll take her.’
Early the following January we receive word. Moffat has been found guilty of Catherine’s manslaughter.
Cameron has one last request, and we do not hesitate.
Dean and I sign the adoption papers.
I am mother to Catherine’s daughter. Thank you, God.
Mrs Milne sits on the chair opposite me and crosses her legs. She is a very tall woman. Even seated she looks down at me over the bridge of her nose.
‘It would seem our two families are to be further united with the upcoming marriage of our William and your Isabella. Given that, Mr Milne senior and I thought it prudent to enquire regarding the girl’s father. I believe his name was …? Tell me, what exactly was his name, Mrs Dean?’
‘He was a fine man,’ I say. ‘A surgeon, no less.’
‘No less indeed. I understand that already, Mrs Dean. Indeed I do.’ She looks about my kitchen with distaste, and wipes a finger across the table. ‘An odd thing, life. Is it not? You never know quite what it will throw at you.’
‘Death is seldom a thing one can expect.’
‘That is true. And yet it is the one thing on which we can all rely. It is also something that can be difficult to prove, particularly from a great distance.’ She pauses. ‘Or disprove. Tasmania, I believe.’
‘That is correct.’
‘Your husband — Isabella’s father and indeed Ellen Ann’s father — was a surgeon in Tasmania?’
I am uncomfortable. ‘Yes.’
‘Ellen Ann has named James’s first child after this man.’
‘Yes.’
‘This surgeon.’
‘Yes.’
‘I suppose I have little choice but to take your word on the matter.’ She looks about her once again. ‘Of course, you will be placing a notice in the newspaper? Do you plan to run one in Tasmania also? After all, I am sure his family will be interested to hear word of Isabella’s nuptials. Will they not?’
‘Mrs Dean. How pleasant to see you again. Another announcement, is it? And what may it be this time?’
The clerk adjusts his spectacles to read it, eyebrows raised.
‘Esquire? M.D.?’ He looks me up and down and smirks. ‘Now who would have thought?’
MARRIAGE
MILNE — BREATON — On the 29th August, 1881,
at Longside, by the Rev. Mr Alexander,
William Milne, of Bayswater, to Isabella
McCulloch, youngest daughter of the late
John Henry N. Breaton, Esq., M.D.
Tasmanian and Home papers please copy.
‘We are bankrupt.’ Dean stands and shrugs his shoulders. He opens his mouth to say something further but no words come out. He could say something like: You were right Minnie, we needed to get in more sheep. Or: I should have listened to you when you told me about the falling prices of land. But he doesn’t. I go back inside with my harvest. We are living on vegetables. It’s cabbage boiled, cabbage steamed, or cabbage soup.
We celebrate the birth of Ellie’s daughter Ellen Ann with cabbage, boiled.
Dean pulls back the curtain of the bedroom and peers out.
‘By Christ, who the hell —?’
‘The Lord’s name —’ I begin, but he’s not listening.
‘There’s no moon. Can’t see far. Someone’s there. I’m going out.’
‘Give me what you owe me, Dean!’ a voice shouts from the darkness.
‘It’s Dunlea. He’s drunk. Stay inside, Min.’
I do as I’m told, for Dunlea is a large man and full of muscle. I push my ear up to the door. It is difficult to make out their words, but their tone is clear enough. A few minutes later, Dean returns inside. ‘He’s gone,’ he says, and begins taking off his boots. ‘He won’t be back.’
‘Are you sure?’
He doesn’t answer. I lie awake to the sound of his snores.
The Star
August 1st, 1885
A strange assault case
A ploughman employed by Charles Dean got into his master’s bedroom by the window on Thursday evening and severely assaulted him and his w
ife by striking them on the head with a claw hammer. The Police have gone to arrest the man. The assault was the result of a quarrel it is alleged.
I lose my entire top set of teeth. I hold a rag to my mouth. I can hardly think, such is my pain.
‘You owe me thirty-seven pound,’ Dunlea says.
Dean nods, and promises to pay as he is able.
The two men shake hands.
Maggie helps me pick my teeth up off the floor.
‘Let me take a look at your mouth.’
I open it wide.
‘That’s good,’ Aunt Christina says. ‘It seems to have healed well enough.’
I close my mouth and put my hand in front of it.
‘Come now, Minnie.’ She gently eases it away, back down to my lap. ‘You can’t live your life hiding away. What’s done is done. You get on with it. Look at what a bright and beautiful day the Lord has given us. And here you are feeling sorry for yourself.’
I force a smile.
‘You can do a lot better than that, my girl. Now, you say that husband of yours has found himself a job.’
‘Labouring up the back of Winton.’
‘You’ll have a property in no time,’ she says. ‘Although I think it best to keep him out of the money side of things.’
‘He won’t like that.’
‘No, but he might not have much choice.’
‘I can’t see how we can —’
She smiles. ‘Minnie. Remember the dream you held as a child? The one with the big house and garden?’
‘Yes, but —’
‘Well, we shall see about making it happen. Would two hundred pounds help?’
‘It’s your money, do what you like, woman,’ Dean says.
The Larches stands one and a half miles from Winton township. The main route is nearby. When the train passes, I can hear the rumble as it approaches and the roar as it leaves. The house is double storeyed, with seven rooms in total, and is surrounded by twenty-two acres. There are thirteen cows here already, and the best part is the orchard — one hundred and fifteen fruit trees, which should give us more than enough fruit to bottle and sell at market.
It is perfect. Though we are renting the property, and by all accounts the landowner Nicholson is not the most amiable of men, I feel a gentlewoman at last.
Nightfall is closing in as we approach home. Maggie is asleep on my lap. I am stroking her hair and pulling the rug back up over her shoulders. Dean drives the horses hard; steam rises from their bodies in the cool air.
Dean sees it first. For my part I am bending down to adjust my skirt under Maggie’s head, so the first I know is when Dean cries out. There is a glow in the darkening sky, a bright, roaring glow.
The Larches is ablaze.
Our house and all our possessions lie smouldering.
‘We’ll never survive it,’ Dean says.
‘It will be all right,’ I say. I run a comforting hand over Maggie’s head. ‘We have the orchard. That will bring in something.’
‘What? Where …?’
We walk past the small cottage Dean has built from the ruined remains of our house, and out to the orchard, trying to make sense of it all. Every tree, every single tree, is gone. All one hundred and fifteen of them.
‘They’ve been stolen,’ I say, unable to fathom it.
‘Well, they didn’t up and walk out on their own.’
I glare at Dean. ‘Were they here when you left?’
‘Course they were, or I would have surely said something.’
I walk a bit further, kicking at the devastated ground. Maggie runs up and down the mounds of freshly dug earth.
‘They won’t get away with it. You can’t just dig out an orchard and hide it in the closet.’
‘True.’
‘Where shall we look?’
Dean shrugs.
‘For heaven’s sake, we’ve been robbed. What are you going to do about it?’
‘Fancy a brew?’
It does not take me long to find them. One hundred and fifteen fruit trees are not easily hidden.
‘James.’ The woman Thompson answers the door. ‘There’s a woman out here and you’d better come quick.’
‘I know nothing of it,’ Thompson says when he arrives at his wife’s side.
‘Nonsense. There they are.’ I point to the paddock where the trees are clearly visible. ‘What do you call those?’
‘Fruit trees.’ He grins.
‘How dare you —’ But the door slams in my face. ‘Open up, you thief, or I’ll get the law onto you!’
‘I welcome it,’ he shouts. ‘And they can cart you off with them, you madwoman. Get off my land before I get my gun.’
There is nothing for it; night is approaching and I have to get home.
‘You haven’t heard the end of this.’
Damn stubborn man. I’ll make him pay. He won’t steal our livelihood and get away with it. Not when he has me to deal with.
The Judge addresses Thompson. ‘Sir, this woman, Mrs Dean, claims you have stolen vegetation from her property.’
‘Your Honour, they are fruit trees, one hundred and fifteen fruit trees,’ I say.
‘Keep silent, woman, and do not address the Court unless you are asked. Now, Mr Thompson, how do you plead?’
‘Not guilty, your Honour.’
‘So you did not take fruit trees from Mrs Dean’s property?’
‘No, I did not.’
‘Then why are they on your land?’ I say.
‘Mrs Dean, one more such outburst and I will remove you from the Court and fine you for costs. Mr Thompson, are the trees to which Mrs Dean refers currently on your property?’
‘Yes, your Honour.’
‘They are?’
‘They are, your Honour.’
I smile at the Judge. I knew it.
‘Then, sir, would you mind telling us, if you did not steal them, how is it they came to have been removed from Mrs Dean’s property and replanted on your own?’
Thompson turns to me and winks. ‘They were legally removed by he who has the legal ownership.’
‘Continue.’
‘Nicholson. He owns the property. It was he who dug them up. Planted them with me. For safe keeping, like.’ He turns back. ‘And with the likes of her, I’d say he had every reason to.’
Nicholson. I should have guessed. Well, he has it coming to him. He won’t get away with this.
‘Mother,’ Maggie says as I fasten new boots to her feet, ‘why do you not get something for yourself?’
I look down. It is true, my clothes are ragged, my boots full of holes.
‘As long as you are warm and well, I am happy.’ I kiss her forehead. ‘Now don’t you worry. Run along and play. I have things to do.’
Dean has work, but it is not enough. We need more. I need to find some sort of income.
‘Washing? Cleaning?’ Aunt Christina suggests during one of her regular visits.
‘There are plenty in that line already.’
‘Teaching? You were governess once.’
‘That was a long while ago. They have schools now. And I have Maggie.’ I feel guilty for objecting so, though my aunt’s suggestions fill me with horror. I am obviously unable to repay the money she has given me, even if she has never yet made mention of it.
‘Come now, Minnie. I’ve never known you to give up. There is always a way out, you just haven’t found it yet. Keep looking, girl. Keep looking.’
I keep looking. And one morning as I glance through the paper I do find it.
‘You’re mad, woman. I won’t allow it.’
I look at Dean and say nothing. He can’t stop me. It is our only hope.
Southland Times
April 17, 1889
WANTED, by a respectable married woman with no young children — a baby to nurse, or one or two children to bring up, or a baby to adopt. Thoroughly comfortable home in the country. Terms very moderate. Apply by letter addressed ‘B.D.’ office of this paper.
‘Run it a month,’ I tell him.
‘That will cost. Cash up front.’
‘I said, a month.’
Reverend Lindsay
9 June 1895
Before I reach the gate I take the newspaper cutting from my pocket. This is the fifth time I have read it since Mrs Parsons gave it me, yet still my heart aches from its words. Thirteen years gone, come August:
Southland Times
8 August 1882
A Melancholy Affair
Early yesterday morning Mr Dawson rode in from Woodlands to inform the police of an occurrence in that neighbourhood, which is somewhat shrouded in mystery and involves the lives of three persons. About a mile from Woodlands there has recently resided Mr James Milne, his wife Ellen Ann and two children. Mr Milne being engaged upon contract at Wyndham, was necessarily absent from home, and had made a friendly arrangement with a family named Alexander, who were his nearest neighbours and lived about a quarter of a mile off, to visit his house and do anything that might be necessary for the comfort of his family. Mr Milne left home on this day, and at this time Mrs Milne is said to have been complaining of poor health. With the object of seeing a medical man she visited Invercargill on Friday last, but failed to find one at home, and had to content herself with receiving medicine from a chemist. She complained chiefly of headache and expressed herself as better for the trip to town. About 10 a.m. on Sunday, Mr Alexander saw Mrs Milne, when she again complained of having a bad night with her head. He, however, did not notice anything unusual in her demeanour or conversation. At one o’clock he saw her walking about outside of the house, which was visited two hours later by Mrs Alexander, who found the doors closed and saw nothing of Mrs Milne or the children, who were two years, and nine months old respectively. Mrs Alexander concluded that the family were out walking among the sheep, as was Mrs Milne’s custom on fine afternoons. Mrs Alexander returned home and no further notice was taken till 5 p.m., when Mr Alexander also visited Milne’s house and found the door still closed and the house untenanted. He observed that the lid of the well was removed and lay about a yard away. Mr Alexander became uneasy on seeing this and endeavoured to see down through the aperture of the well. As darkness was falling he could discern nothing, and he went for a light and the assistance of Mr Laidlaw. Returning with him, the light showed them the feet of the youngest child visible on the surface of the water. Sliding down the rope on the windlass, Mr Alexander passed the child Ellen Ann up to Mr Laidlaw. An alarm was at once given, and grappling irons having been procured, the bodies of Mrs Milne and her son, John Henry, were raised from the bottom of the well. The dimensions of this are 30 feet in depth by six by four feet in area, and there are about 20 feet of water in it at present. The aperture for drawing water is, however, only 16 ½ inches square, and the lid is of a weight sufficient to prevent any young child from lifting it. How all three got into the well is a matter about which there is much room for surmise. It may have been, though not probable, that both children fell in, and that the maternal instinct was so strong that Mrs Milne forced herself, as she must have done, through the narrow opening, in a vain endeavour to save them. On the other hand the head affection of which the deceased woman complained,may have been of a much more serious nature than others supposed, and in a paroxysm, being temporarily derived of reason, she may have thrown the children and herself into the well. The fact that her features have a composed expression would seem to point in this direction. Everything about the house indicated order and care. The general impression about the locality is that an enquiry should be held, and acting on these particulars, brought by Constable Carroll, the police have decided upon holding an inquest at Woodlands touching the matter; probably to-day.
The Day She Cradled Me Page 17