‘Then we’d better get out there now or Christmas will be gone.’
The platform is full, but it does not take me long to find them — it seldom does. A woman carrying a baby she is about to give up looks out of place no matter how hard she tries not to.
‘Here,’ she says and thrusts my new daughter at me. I take hold of the infant and smile sweetly at her, and then at the young woman beside me.
‘She will be well cared for,’ I say.
The woman is clutching another package, and is busy explaining the payment details, or something to that effect, when I reach down to touch the baby’s legs. The woman stops talking immediately.
‘She’s a cripple?’ My hand jolts back.
The woman bites her lip.
‘I can’t …’
It’s too late. She drops the package at my feet and disappears into the crowd.
‘A cripple?’
What will I do with a cripple?
‘She’ll never walk.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. Course she will.’
Dean shakes his head. ‘Saw a pig born like that. Had to be finished.’
I glare at him and turn back to the letter. ‘The father won’t pay for an operation. And he says go ahead at your own risk.’ I look at little Floss, who lies on the floor, giggling at the dog and trying to poke its eyeballs.
‘Nothing for it,’ Dean says. He disappears out to the lean-to.
The following morning there are two pieces of wood lying on the table where Dean is finishing breakfast.
‘Did you put those there?’ I say.
He picks up Floss and holds her out to me, and then positions each piece of wood beside her legs. ‘Splints,’ he says, ‘or as good as I can make them.’
I look from Dean, to Floss, to the pieces of wood, and back again. By nightfall we have wrapped the wood in soft rags and strapped them to Flossie’s legs. I watch my husband as he holds Floss’s hands to keep her steady. I put my hand on his shoulder, wondering what he is thinking. The child seems to have stolen his heart. Might he consider another adoption after all?
‘You know,’ he says. ‘If this works on her I might even try it out on the pigs.’
‘Mother? Mother!’
‘Whatever is it, Esther? Can you not see I am changing baby?’
I tuck the corner of little Bertha’s napkin gently into the fold and bend to kiss her cheek. ‘There.’ She starts to cry and I lift her to my shoulder. She has been with us now two weeks; when I collected her she was raw waist down, poor lamb, and it is still painful for her to be changed.
‘Some gentlesmen are here.’
‘Gentlemen,’ I correct. I glance around at the shambles — clothing everywhere, mud across the floor. The meeting, with whoever it is, will best be conducted outside in the garden. First impressions are vitally important for prospective parents.
‘Good day to you, gentlemen,’ I say as I rush with Bertha down the steps and towards the gate.
I stop. ‘Forgive me, you are …?’
‘Constable Rasmussen, Winton Police.’
‘Constable Rasmussen,’ I say slowly, attempting to gather my wits.
‘And you are Mrs Dean, I understand. May I introduce Detective Maddern?’
I extend my hand and try to hold it steady. ‘To what do I owe this call?’
‘Oh, nothing really. Just a friendly visit. We’ve had reports of children residing here. Checking all is well.’
‘We are fine as you can see.’
Detective Maddern watches Cecil run past with Cilly close behind. Maggie carries John to the garden and places him beside Arthur and Flossie. ‘A large number of children for such a small dwelling.’
‘We are taking possession of a much larger house on the first of April.’
‘Is that so?’
I smile at him. ‘Yes. The seven-roomed house opposite the railway. Perhaps you know of it.’
‘That will certainly be more pleasant.’ He smiles at Willie, who hides behind my skirts. ‘Tell me, how many children do you actually have here, Mrs Dean?’
‘Twenty-ten,’ Willie shouts and runs away.
Detective Maddern nods thoughtfully. ‘Yes, indeed.’
‘Yes, indeed,’ Constable Rasmussen says.
‘They are not all your own, though, obviously.’
‘Obviously,’ Constable Rasmussen says.
The three of us stand in silence.
‘Well, Mrs Dean,’ Detective Maddern clicks together his heels. ‘Thank you for our little chat. It has been most enlightening.’
‘Most enlightening,’ Constable Rasmussen repeats.
I turn and carry Bertha back into the house. By the time I peer out the window, they are gone.
Several days later, Constable Rasmussen and Detective Maddern return. They wait at the gate and in the most cordial manner enquire after my health.
‘I am well, thank you,’ I say, trying to ignore Cilly’s coughs behind me.
‘And the children?’
‘The usual change-of-season illnesses. Nothing more.’
‘I see. Regarding the children, Mrs Dean. I wonder if you will provide us with a list of their parents, where they live and so on.’
I cringe. I have promised those concerned not to reveal this information to anyone. ‘They are mine and known by my name,’ I say.
‘Mrs Dean, I really must insist. The names of all parents.’
‘I won’t do it.’
‘I see. Perhaps I should make myself a little clearer. This is not a request. It is an order.’
I give him my most innocent of expressions. ‘I don’t remember,’ I say.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘The names of the parents. They escape me.’
Maddern narrows his eyes. He leans over the gate to pat Willie on the head. ‘There’s a good lad,’ he says. ‘You go inside and ask everyone to come out.’
‘Willie, stay where you are.’
‘You have my word, Mrs Dean, any information you give will stay confined to the three of us. I myself will place the document in the safe in the strong room and use it only in such event as for the children’s protection. As, perhaps, the unfortunate occurrence of your death, Mrs Dean.’
Willie looks at me and waits. I shake my head. ‘That won’t be necessary. I have no intention of passing.’
‘Actually, Mrs Dean, I think you will find it is indeed necessary. The instruction, you understand, comes not from us but from the Inspector of Police. And,’ he adds with a smile, ‘if you do not oblige us, we will get the information anyway. Do not be in doubt, it will only be the worse for you.’
I take a deep breath. ‘All right, Willie,’ I say. ‘Go and fetch the others. Tell them to come out here and meet these gentlemen.’
Willie trudges off barefoot through the fallen leaves and a shiver runs up my spine.
‘Bring those berries inside — and take off your boots first. I said first. And hurry up, all of you, there’s a storm not far off and I need someone to run over and tell Dean to tie down the sacking over the lean-to. Maggie, can you take Bertha? Give Irene to Esther, Lord knows her hands are most likely idle. I know she’s burning up. Just hold her a second, we’ll sponge her down once I get these others cleaned up — Willie! Get off those clothes with your muddy boots! How many times do I have to tell you? Just try to keep her from crying, Maggie, take her to look out at the lightning, anything.
‘Esther? Have you gone yet? Honestly, by the time Dean gets back here the storm will have passed and the lean-to will be flooded.
‘Who left the basket of berries on the floor? What did you expect? Of course he’s going to tip them out; he’s a baby, for goodness sake. Willie! Watch where you’re running! You’ve trampled them across the floor! Why do you never look where you’re going?
‘Just sit down over there, all of you. I said sit! Don’t you dare move! Esther, thank Christ you’re back. Quickly, fetch the mop and pail and clean that up. I don’t know wher
e it is — where did you put it last time? By Christ I’ve had just about all I can take from you children. Maggie, please, stop that baby from crying, she’s making my head pound …
‘What is that smell? No. You haven’t. Please tell me you haven’t. Willie, you stupid boy, you’ve soiled yourself again! Why? Why? Why? Why? Why…’
Dean emerges and pulls the boy from my grasp, shoving him into the lean-to. Not a sound comes from the other children as my breathing gradually slows. ‘I’m sorry,’ I say. I rise to my feet and stare at my hands that beat the boy’s head against the floor.
‘Mother?’ It’s Maggie. ‘She looks real bad.’
I fumble my way into the bedroom. Bertha’s skin burns my fingertips. ‘Quickly, bring the sponge.’
For the next two hours we fight to bring down the baby’s fever, but as fast as we place the cooled rag against her body it becomes hot again.
‘It’s not working,’ Maggie cries. ‘Her eyes are rolling back. I’ll go for Doctor Hunter.’
‘No, Maggie. The storm. Listen to that wind. It’s too dangerous. Dean will go.’
‘He’s out back bringing in the sheep in case of floods. I’ll have to go.’
‘It’s too dangerous.’
‘But we’re losing her.’ She holds the baby towards me, limp and mute, and I hurry to apply another wet rag, though God knows it’s of little use.
A crack of thunder sounds overhead and I make my decision. ‘Esther will go.’
I could not bear to lose Maggie too.
‘She can’t ride as fast as me.’
‘Esther will go. And that’s final.’
Esther puts on her coat and boots, and Maggie runs out to saddle the horse. Rain pours down our faces as twice we try to heave the scowling Esther onto the creature’s back. ‘All right,’ I say, ‘now go!’ I slap the rear of the horse with every ounce of strength I have, and send it galloping off into the night.
It is more than two hours before she returns.
‘Where is the doctor?’ I shout. I look out the door after her, but see no one.
‘He wasn’t in,’ Esther says. ‘I left a message.’
‘But — the baby …’
I sit by the fire and cuddle Bertha. I whisper to her as she comes in and out of sleep, pat her gently with the wet rag and pray to the Lord not to take her from us, to give her the strength to fight, willing myself to stay awake until the doctor arrives …
At daybreak, I open my eyes and stare down at the bundle in my arms. I run a finger over the tiny cheek and bend to kiss her forehead.
She is already cold.
‘I expect there will be an inquest, Mrs Dean,’ Doctor Hunter says. ‘Though I see nothing other than I would expect.’
I try to keep my eyes averted from the instruments as he puts them back into his case.
‘You said you gave the child medicine?’
‘Yes.’ I pass him the bottle.
‘How much did she have?’
I shake my head. ‘Two doses? No more than that.’
He studies the bottle, takes off the lid and sniffs, and then removes a sheet of paper and a pen from his case, and sits down at the table. I want to lift the sheet off the little body, but I dare not. Some of the children run past under the window; their laughter fills the room. ‘Last night — we sent message,’ I say. I reach out to touch the tiny form; it is hard, unpleasant, and I quickly withdraw my hand.
‘Yes,’ the doctor says. ‘I got your message when I arrived home.’ He lifts his eyebrows. ‘Nothing was mentioned of its being urgent. What with the storm and suchlike — I thought I would wait till this morning to visit.’ He pauses. ‘You might have thought to say it was urgent, mightn’t you?’
There is a pile of correspondence waiting by the door. I pick it up and take the letters to my bedroom, glad of an excuse to take my mind off the dead baby. I have opened three letters by the time Maggie comes in.
‘Mother? Are you all right?’
I cannot speak. I open two more letters. Page after page upbraids me for breach of trust, describes questioning by the police, sometimes in front of friends and family. How could I have been such a fool?
‘Mother?’
The police have contacted the children’s parents. After promising they wouldn’t use the information. How untrustworthy I must seem. How utterly dishonest.
‘Mother, there is a woman outside.’
I look past Maggie and out the window. A large woman is fumbling with the bolt and trying to open the gate. ‘Who is that?’
‘It’s Maud’s mother. She says …’ Maggie hesitates. ‘Something about the police. She wants Maud back.’
My blood is close to boiling. The police lied, and it is I who must pay.
The following morning I stand in my bedroom surrounded by strangers. Detective Maddern grins as the Judge stoops over Bertha’s body. I can hardly bear it. He does not care for the truth. What a mistake it was to trust him.
‘Oh my dear, dear baby girl,’ I say as I lift the stiff little body from its bed. ‘How could they think I should ever want to harm you?’
‘Mrs Dean,’ Maddern repeats, ‘can you please answer the question. How many rooms do you have inside your house?’
I want to scream, What does this have to do with anything? What does this have to do with the dead child? What does this have to do with them? I look at the row of reporters, vultures, who eye me greedily from across the courtroom.
‘There are two rooms in the house. And a lean-to.’
‘Up to Monday last, how many children did you have living there and what are their ages?’
I glare at him. ‘I had ten children in my keeping, ranging from six weeks to eleven years.’
He lifts his eyebrows. ‘Rather a large number. Add to that, you, your husband and, of course, your adopted daughter Margaret Cameron. Am I correct?’
‘Yes,’ I say.
‘I beg your pardon? I could not quite catch that.’
‘I said, yes.’
‘That surely can’t leave much room. Where do you all sleep?’
‘In my room three children sleep in the same bed as me and there are four in boxes …’ There is a gasp from the journalists, followed by furious flicking of pens. ‘Two sleep with Mr Dean in the lean-to and one shares the girl Cameron’s bed in the kitchen.’
‘I understand you receive payment for these children. Can you explain how this works?’
My heart lurches. ‘Some of the children I am paid for by the week, others in a lump sum. And some —’ I raise my voice — ‘I do not get paid for at all.’
‘Is it true you have had children removed recently from your care?’
How does he know?
‘I had one little girl taken away on Tuesday,’ I say, ‘and that was on account of her mother being on the point of getting married.’
Maddern laughs. ‘Is that so? What are the children in your care fed, Mrs Dean?’
‘The little children get cream twice a day, and the others are fed on meat, bread, soup, maizena and suchlike.’
‘Do you believe the house in which you currently reside is too small for the number of children that occupy it?’
I look him directly in the eye. ‘I am aware, Detective Maddern, and I have bought a seven- or eight-roomed one, and intend to remove into it on the first day of May.’
‘Will you be adding more children before then?’
‘I have made arrangements for three more children. But,’ I say quickly, ‘I will not be taking them till I am removed.’
Detective Maddern nods. ‘Who pays when the children are ill?’
‘I provide medical attendance and trust to be refunded by the parents.’
‘Do you have a guarantee?’
‘No, I don’t.’
‘How much did you get for the deceased?’
I lift my chin. ‘A month’s pay.’
‘Which was?’
‘Twenty-eight shillings.’
‘In advance
?’
I ignore the implication. ‘Yes.’
‘Did you give the child medicine, Mrs Dean?’
I glare at his mocking smirk. ‘The child suffered from diarrhoea, for which I administered a chalk mixture that I got from a chemist in Dunedin.’
‘Indeed. Thank you for your time, Mrs Dean. I now call Margaret Cameron as witness.’
It is the most dreadful thing to watch the poor child as she stands unsteadily before Maddern.
‘Do you remember Mrs Dean going to Invercargill last Saturday?’
‘Yes.’ Maggie’s voice is scarcely above a whisper.
‘Did she bring home a medicine for the deceased?’
Maggie swallows and nods. Her breathing is fast. ‘She gave her two doses.’
‘I see.’ He pauses and looks grave, almost sympathetic. ‘Miss Cameron, is it not true that Mrs Dean is often absent from the house, and all these children, for around a week?’
I put my hand across my mouth.
‘Now and again.’
‘And is it not true, Miss Cameron, that during such time it is you who has management of all those little children?’
‘Yes,’ she whispers.
He bangs his hand on the desk. ‘Is it not also true that these poor little children are fed nothing other than milk and potatoes?’
‘No.’ Her voice is louder. ‘They eat meat, bread, rice, maizena … they are well provided for.’
‘Ah, but I have been to visit on more than one occasion, Miss Cameron, and I have seen for myself they are hardly dressed for the cold of winter. They run barefoot upon ice.’
‘The children are well clothed, Detective Maddern. And if they go about without boots and stockings in cold weather, it is their own fault — they often take them off.’
Maggie looks at me now, a slight rise in the corners of her mouth, and I nod my head in return.
I could not be more proud of her.
‘That will be all, Detective,’ the coroner says. ‘I do not think the jury will find any difficulty in arriving at a verdict as regards the death of the child, as the doctor’s evidence has proven conclusively it died of natural causes.’ He turns to me. ‘Though I am certainly of the opinion that the house is too small for the number of children in it. If the jury has any recommendation to make, I would be most happy to forward it to the Government with the view of giving the police more power over such establishments.’
The Day She Cradled Me Page 20