‘Or the boy McKernan?’
‘His was fair.’
‘So when you first saw it, you thought the skeleton was Willie Phelan?’
‘Before it was moved, I did.’
‘And do you still think it is?’
Christ give me strength.
‘Yes.’
‘Miss Wallis, how long have you been living with Mrs Dean at The Larches?’
‘Five years last April.’
‘Do you remember a boy there by the name of Cyril Scoular?’
‘Yes.’
The woman was a drunkard? She beat the children?
Sergeant Macdonnell sighs loudly and throws up his arms in despair. ‘I state here that this witness shows much unwillingness to give evidence.’ He glares at Miss Wallis and pounds his hands down upon the desk. ‘I also state that Charles Dean on Saturday after his release from custody forced his way into the Old People’s Home where Esther Wallis was placed and had an interview with her, perhaps providing an explanation for her reluctance.’ He pauses a moment to collect himself and eyes her steadily. ‘Miss Wallis, answer the question. Did Mrs Dean often used to get drunk at home?’
‘Yes.’
‘How did she come by the drink?’
‘She used to send me for it.’
‘Thank you. Step down. I call now Mary Caroline McKernan.’
I close my eyes. Pain throbs at my temples. When I open them again, a young woman with red hair is on the stand.
‘Did you have a child in Dunedin on the fourteenth of March, 1892?’
‘Yes, a boy.’
‘What happened to this child?’
‘Soon after its birth it was given to a strange woman, who gave her name as Minnie McKellar.’
‘Did she receive any money for taking the child?’
‘I believe she was paid a premium.’
‘What did you know about this woman?’
‘She told me at the time she was a farmer’s wife and daughter of a clergyman of the Free Church of Scotland.’
‘You would have been happy with that?’
‘She said he would be brought up a good member of society, well treated, and have a comfortable home.’
‘When did you next see this woman?’
‘I afterwards made enquiries who this person was and in consequence visited The Larches on October second, 1893. I saw Mrs Dean. She was the person to whom I had given the baby.’
‘Did she recognise you?’
She shakes her head. ‘I did not make myself known to her on that occasion.’
‘When did you next see her?’
‘On November fifteenth, 1893, I went there again and asked to see the child.’
‘What was her response?’
‘She started to abuse me and denied ever seeing me at all, and said she never got a baby from me.’ She sniffs and dabs the corner of her eye with a handkerchief.
‘I call now Mary Margaret Olsen as witness,’ Sergeant Macdonnell says. The women exchange places. ‘Please state area of residence and connection to this inquest.’
‘I reside in Dunedin and am the mother of Willie Phelan.’
‘What age would the child be?’
‘He would be six years old now, had he been alive.’
‘How old was he when Mrs Dean first got him?’
‘Two.’
‘What money was Mrs Dean to receive?’
‘Twenty pounds for adopting him.’
‘Did you give this to her?’
‘She had no payment at first, but as soon as I got the twenty pounds I offered it. She declined and wanted more money. I then came to Invercargill to take the child back and met Mrs Dean at the Invercargill railway station.’
‘Did she give you the child?’
‘No, and I did not see it. She took me to her solicitor’s office, and afterwards sued me for keep of the child.’
‘So you went back to Dunedin without the child?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did you again see him?’
‘Shortly after getting judgment against me she brought the child to Dunedin.’
‘What happened, Mrs Olsen?’
‘She received twenty pounds and legally adopted the boy.’
‘Did you hear anything further?’
‘I received a letter from Mrs Dean.’
‘Please read it aloud.’
‘“The Larches, twelfth September 1893. Dear Mrs Olsen, I intended writing to you before this but I always put it off, but I am glad to inform you that we got home safely. Willie’s cold is all right now, and he is back to his old games again. Directly we got in sight of the house he saw Mr Dean outside, and he called out ‘There’s the guv’nor,’ and he ran to him. Then the other four came, and if you only heard how their tongues went. I hope that you have got over your troubles safely and that you and the little one are doing well. I will get Willie’s photo taken by-and-by and send it to you, if you would like to have it. Perhaps you will be able to come and see me sometime, and stay a day or two with us. It would be a nice change for you. I want to ask you not to let on to anyone, unless I give you leave, that I have got Willie again. I have got the boy to bring up as my own, and I do not want anyone to be able to tell him in the years to come that I am not in truth his mother. I do not want it known that he is the same child as I have had the court case over. If it was known, there are many illdisposed people who would tell him of his parentage by-and-by. He will be going to school in another year or so, and I do not want anything said to him that will vex him by anyone. So do not tell even if asked, for the child’s sake, where he has gone to. I may be in Dunedin soon again, and will explain more fully.”’
‘Have you heard of your boy since?’
‘No.’
‘What was the colour of his hair?’
‘It was fair, and it was curly.’
The woman steps down, crying.
‘Margaret Hogan?’ Sergeant Macdonnell waits as the woman comes forward. ‘Please state your occupation.’
‘I keep a fruit shop in Dee Street, Invercargill, and I have done so for four years.’
‘Have you ever received a child from Mrs Dean?’
‘No.’ Her voice is loud and resolute. ‘I have never received a child from her, nor ever seen her to my knowledge before today.’
‘Are you in any way acquainted with her?’
‘I received a letter from her once.’
‘When would that have been?’
‘I think it would be two or three years since.’
‘What did it say?’
‘In the letter she said she had a nice, bright, intelligent boy, with fair curly hair, three years old, which she would like me to take.’
‘What was your response?’
‘I never answered her letter.’
‘What about your daughters?’
‘My daughters, I am sure, never saw the woman and got no child from her.’
‘So, it is not true you sent a letter to Mrs Dean about any child or any agreement?’
‘It is not true.’
Constable McDonough is called to the stand.
‘What were your duties at The Larches on May thirteenth?’ Sergeant Macdonnell asks.
‘I was searching in the garden when we found the skeleton of a child buried forty-three feet from the door. It was about eighteen inches deep and had to be picked bone by bone. As I dug down I found the ground very wet. There was some hair on the skull, which fell off directly it was touched. There was no trace of clothing or covering about the skeleton.’
‘Can you describe the hair?’
‘The hair was on the back of the skull only. It appeared fair and curly, but had been lying for a long time in water.’
‘Has the jury reached a verdict?’
‘We have.’
‘What is that verdict?’
‘The jury are of the opinion that the identity of the skeleton found at The Larches on the thirteenth of May has not been definitely e
stablished, but are of opinion that the evidence points strongly to the remains being those of Willie Phelan, who had been adopted by Mrs Minnie Dean, of The Larches, Winton.’
I hear her wailing long before we reach the cell door.
‘She’s in a bad way,’ Mrs Bratby says as we hurry along the passage. ‘Thank goodness you’ve come. Her bottom teeth, Reverend, they were embedded in her gums at the top.’ She puts the key in the lock. ‘I pulled them apart, but the poor woman shakes, sobs like she’s possessed.’
Inside I kneel by the bed and grasp her hand. ‘Mrs Dean. Minnie. Can you hear me?’
‘My mouth,’ she says, touching her lips.
‘The swelling will reduce. Here. Put this to it.’ I take the ice Mrs Bratby has left and bind it in the muslin.
‘The lies, the lies that dear girl told,’ she says as she takes it from me. ‘What did they do to her so she would tell such cruel lies of her mother?’
‘Be calm while —’
‘I am no drunkard, Reverend, that was an outright deception.’
‘Keep the ice to your mouth.’
‘And if I had a temper, if I was to inflict discipline now and again, it was where needed. Never did I allow a hand to be raised on a child by anyone other than myself. Does a child not require discipline, Reverend?’
‘Mrs Dean —’
‘That they should put Maggie on the stand and make her say those things, after knowing what it did to her last time … I am no drunkard.’
‘So you have said.’
‘I am not guilty.’ She raises both her hands. ‘Not guilty of anything but the love of my children and of taking in those who were not loved by their own.’
‘Perhaps —’
‘I cannot be blamed for wanting a pound or two extra in the process …’
I sigh and take the ice from her. Whatever has she to say now?
Minnie
1891
‘Mrs Dean? Ah, Mrs Dean. A number of letters have again arrived for you. Let me see.’ The postmaster rifles through a pile of envelopes and hands me a half dozen. ‘Rather popular, all of a sudden.’
‘Thank you.’ I ignore his raised eyebrows and take my correspondence.
‘That will be all today.’
‘Nothing to send?’
‘Not today.’
‘Beautiful baby.’ He nods at tiny Arthur in my arms. ‘Boy or girl?’
‘Boy,’ I say quickly. There are two women in the line behind me; their ears flap like sheets in the breeze. I carefully slide the letters into my basket so as not to awaken the child, and turn to leave.
‘Is it not extraordinary?’
I sigh. I sense he cannot resist a snide remark. ‘I see you every day and didn’t even realise you were heavy with child. Extraordinary.’
The following is a hasty transaction. I have barely stepped from the carriage when the baby and bundle of papers are thrust at me.
‘I trust all will be well,’ the woman says and disappears into the crowd.
‘My granddaughter,’ I say to a woman on the up train. She leans towards us to get a closer view of the child. As the train pulls out with a jolt, the papers slip from the seat and across the floor. I lean over the baby to retrieve them and catch my breath. Her breathing is laboured.
‘How old?’ the woman asks as she reaches for the fallen documents.
‘How old is what?’ If only I could afford first-class passage I should be spared such idle chatter. I put my ear back down to the baby’s chest and press my cheek to her forehead. Perhaps I imagined it.
The woman glances at the papers as she hands them to me. Her eyes widen and she draws back as though she smells something rank. ‘I was merely enquiring,’ she says, and moves to another seat further to the front of the carriage.
The cold walk back to The Larches seems longer than usual. The child is heavy, listless in my arms, and I fear the biting air will only make her breaths more ragged. I can’t wait to be home again.
‘They’re here!’ I can hear Maggie’s voice from the gate. She clutches baby Arthur, and I fear she is going to drop him the way she jumps up and down.
‘Quick, Dean, close the door.’
‘What is it, woman?’
I feel the baby’s chest vibrate. ‘She’s not breathing right.’
‘You sure?’
‘Of course I’m sure, just listen to her.’ I pull off her bonnet and Dean brings the cot over to the fire. ‘She barely takes her milk.’
‘Perhaps she’s tired, or off from the journey?’
I am not convinced. I rouse baby May every four hours through the night to make her drink when Arthur does; the difference in appetite makes me more apprehensive. I fear she needs treatment.
Next morning, Doctor Macleod is silent as he makes his examination. The baby barely whimpers. Aside from her rasped breathing, the loudest noise to come from her is a broken cough.
‘Mrs Dean, how is it you have come by this infant?’
‘She’s ours,’ I say. ‘We’re to adopt her.’
He sighs. ‘And the other child?’
‘Arthur is not ill.’
Doctor Macleod turns to my husband. ‘I must advise you against this adoption, Dean. She’s a sickly one.’
‘That doesn’t mean she’s not to have a good home.’
‘No, but it is my opinion that you will never raise her. She is consumptive, of poor stock, no doubt, and —’
‘Thank you, Doctor. Just the medication.’ I lift May to my lips and kiss her forehead.
‘Very well. I have brought something with me and I will leave a script should you require more before she recovers,’ he says,‘which I think is highly likely.’ He scribbles on a piece of paper and hands it to Dean, along with a bottle from his bag. ‘No doubt I will be seeing you soon.’
‘Thank you, Doctor.’
‘Like I said, poor stock.’
I hold May to my breast and open the door. ‘That’s no way to talk of our daughter, Doctor Macleod.’
He tips his hat at me. ‘Mrs Dean. Whoever said I was?’
In loving memory of May Irene Dean, died October 10, 1889, aged six months. To those who mourn her here below this consolation’s given: she’s from a world of woe relieved, and blooms a rose in heaven.
‘We can take the morning train and be back by supper,’ I say as I place baby Ethel in her cot.
‘No.’
‘What do you mean no? Are you working?’
‘I mean no.’
‘I don’t understand. Shall I arrange it for another day?’
Dean grabs his hat.
‘Dean?’
‘There’ll be no more adoptions.’
‘But she’s strong and healthy.’
‘No more, woman.’ He opens the door, slamming it closed behind him, but I can still make out his words as he heads for the gate. ‘Bloody woman for bringing me trouble. Trouble, and cursed children.’
‘You’ve what?’
‘I’ve purchased The Larches on time payment.’ Dean rolls his eyes. ‘You stupid woman,’ he says.
‘What choice is there? The house is to be sold, whether or not you like it. We’d be evicted.’
‘You’ll wash a mountain of dirty linen to pay it off.’
‘There are other means. If I bring in another child we’ll have enough.’
‘There’ll be no more children,’ he says and stomps his foot.
I smile and take Arthur from Maggie. His bottle has warmed and he does not like to be kept waiting. ‘Just the one more,’ I say. ‘Just the one.’
‘Where will it stop?’ Dean asks, several months later. ‘We have more children than I know names of.’
‘Nonsense. Do we want for anything? For food? Well, you can thank those same children for filling your belly, Charles Dean.’
‘You can’t keep them all. It’s worse round here than a crate full of piglets.’
I lift Cilly off the chair and sit down. John Brookland begins to wail and Mag
gie bends down to rub his back. Cilly tries to climb onto Dean’s knee, and I lean over and take the child before he creates a fuss.
‘I’m taking out an option on a place in Winton,’ I say to Dean. ‘The large one opposite the station. It’s got seven rooms.’ I hold my breath and await his response.
‘You what?’
‘Only until we’ve saved enough to add on to The Larches. Seven rooms, Dean.’
‘You’re mad.’
‘It’s the only sensible thing to do. There are far too many children for a house this small. It was fine after the fire for just the three of us, but now … as I said, it makes sense.’
‘There’s nothing sensible ’bout what’s going on here! What makes you think you can manage a house that size and raise all these …’ He throws up his hands as Cecil runs past, waking baby Clark from his sleep. ‘It’s madness, madness and nothing less. I want no part in it.’
He is right about one thing. Even with Maggie to help me, I can’t raise this number of children by myself. I need further help.
‘You’ll rue the day you got her,’ our neighbour Mrs Porteous says when I tell her of Esther Wallis’s brutal background. ‘A child that age is already formed, Mrs Dean, already set in her ways. You’ll live to regret it.’
‘Help is help, Mrs Porteous,’ I laugh, though I don’t add that this help also comes with a premium. ‘It is already arranged for Tuesday next. I’m certain she’ll be one of the family in no time.’
‘Please, Dean, let us adopt another baby girl.’
‘You have enough round here. That there’s a new one and don’t tell me otherwise.’ He points at two-year-old Willie Phelan who has soiled his nap yet again.
‘Esther, tend to this, will you?’ I call, before fixing Dean with what I hope is my most pleading look. ‘But none of our own,’ I say.
Dean picks up the axe he’s sharpening and runs his thumb along the blade. ‘I’m going out to chop the tree.’
‘You haven’t answered me.’
‘Woman, do you want a tree or not?’
I would rather talk about another baby, but the expressions on the children’s faces stop me short. I nod my assent.
The Day She Cradled Me Page 19