Everywhere I go they point, heads bowed together in gossip, for now I am but a spectacle.
I am the Winton baby farmer.
‘Mrs Dean, how are you?’
I don’t have to look up to see the condescending smile on his lips. I continue turning the garden soil as if I have heard nothing but the wind.
‘I thought I would stop by to make sure you and your charges are well enough.’
‘We were up till a moment ago.’
‘Come now, Mrs Dean. There’s no need for hostilities, surely.’
I bite my tongue to hold it silent.
‘That hole you’re digging will be mighty large if you keep at it in that manner.’
I stand to face him. ‘What is it you want, Detective?’
‘I told you. To see you are well, after your loss.’
I can stand it no longer. ‘How dare you speak to me of such things?’
‘Mrs Dean, I’m sorry. I genuinely am. I was only doing my duty at the inquest.’
‘Your duty?’
‘I was required to seek the truth in the name of justice —’
‘You sought to slander me and got your way.’
‘You were found innocent.’
‘I was not on trial.’
‘Of course not.’
‘And nor was Maggie.’
‘Ah, Miss Cameron.’
‘Yes, Miss Cameron.’
‘I am also truly sorry for any pain I may have inflicted upon her. I give you my word.’
‘Your word?’ I spit the words. ‘Your word means nothing. I know you contacted parents on the list I gave you. How many of them, Detective? How many did you seek to check out?’
‘Mrs Dean, I —’
‘I waste my time. You will hardly speak the truth.’
He raises his chin. ‘Why do you not ask them yourself?’
‘Perhaps I shall. If only to see what a liar you are.’
I shake my fork right under his chin. He does not flinch, but backs away slowly.
‘I see you are preoccupied as such. I shall take my leave.’
‘Please, Dean, consider it.’ I am desperate to adopt another baby.
He sniffs and looks at all the children about him. ‘All right,’ he says. ‘You can have your way, but on two counts. First, you make darn sure it’s healthy. And second, for God’s sake stop collecting them!’
The doctor looks from the children’s faces to the holes between the floorboards and shakes his head. ‘Try to keep warm,’ he says. ‘Let me know if the situation worsens.’
How can it worsen? The inquest caused me to lose the three children I had arranged, and without their funds I’ve lost option on the Winton house. Under a mountain of dirty napkins, wet clothes, mud, mud and more mud, I try to keep going. If we make it through the winter, spring will bring hope. There will be another property. People will forget the inquest. We will carry on, despite the cold, despite the mud, despite the crying, despite the neverending illnesses …
At five o’clock on the morning of May twelfth, I hold my second May Irene as she too slips from the world. We’ve barely adopted her, and now she is gone.
‘Mrs Dean, what a … surprise.’
‘Rasmussen.’
‘Rather cold day, is it not? How are your charges?’
All the way I rehearsed. Now the words freeze in my throat.
‘Winter will be upon us soon enough,’ Rasmussen says. ‘Plenty of snow. Can’t be good for those in your line of work, though I dare say you know that already …’
‘I have to tell you Irene is dead.’ The lump in my throat swells. ‘Five o’clock this morning.’
Rasmussen’s mouth opens. He stares at me, apparently speechless.
‘Will you see the doctor?’
‘Why?’ he says. ‘Why should I see the doctor?’
‘Well, if you’re going to see him then I won’t need to.’ I pause. This is not going well. ‘If there should be an inquest on the child —’ my words come out a confusion of my thoughts — ‘well, I should scarcely think it necessary, as the last inquest did nothing to shut the mouths of the people and I don’t think another will.’
This time I am, in a manner, fortunate. The coroner rules natural causes. But I of all people know good fortune comes thinly spread. I am treading upon dangerous ground. Henceforth I must be careful to watch my step.
Southland Times
28 October 1891
OBITUARY
A pilgrimage of eighty-one years came to a peaceful end on Monday evening, when Mrs Christina Kelly, the first European woman to set foot on Southland’s soil, passed away. ‘Granny’ Kelly, as she was affectionately called by a wide circle of acquaintances, landed in New Zealand on the 15th of April, 1848, from the good ship Philip Laing, which, commanded by the late Capt. Elles, brought to Otago a band of immigrants, members of the Free Kirk of Scotland, who, with the passengers by the John Wickliff, which arrived on the 23rd of March of the same year, were the pioneers of the Otago settlement. Mrs Kelly had as a fellow passenger the late Dr Burns, and many another worthy who has long since embarked on the last great voyage. The subject of these lines was then the wife of Mr D. Niven, who died a few months after their arrival from the effects of an accident which befell him while working in the bush. In 1850 his widow married Mr John Kelly, and with him left for the island of Ruapuke, in the Foveaux Straits, then thickly populated by Maoris. The only other Europeans on the island at that time were the Rev. Mr Wohlers and his wife and Mr Honore, missionaries. In 1855 Mr and Mrs Kelly came to the Bluff, and subsequently they travelled over the swampy expanse between the port and Invercargill in order to secure better grazing ground for their stock. They decided that the site of our town would suit them well, and accordingly settled down here, but ere long the surveyor and his chain appeared on the scene, and the pioneer couple had to ‘move on’. They then took up an allotment in Seaward Bush, now the site of the township of Enwood, and there, in 1857, Mr Kelly died. With her children, Mrs Kelly soon after removed to Ythan Street, where she led a cheerful and contented, and till a few weeks ago, comparatively active life. She is survived by a son and daughter by her first marriage and one son by her second, namely, Mr D. Niven, Mrs W. J. West, and Mr J. Kelly, and is survived by 31 grandchildren and 24 great grandchildren. She had a wonderfully good memory for the birthdays of the youngsters, and they never passed unmarked so far as she was concerned. Although she underwent her full share of the hardships incidental to life in the colony when not only railways but roads were unknown, she enjoyed very good health until recently, and died not so much from any positive disease as from gradual decay of physical powers. The old lady lived to see great changes in the country — a peaceful revolution, in fact — and when she foregathered with an old identity many were the interesting reminiscences given of bygone times, when vessels were delayed through stress of weather and supplies of food ran short, when neighbours were few and far between, and valued accordingly, and when the conditions of life generally were such as to call forth the resource, courage, and self-reliance of the brave old pioneers whose ranks the great Scythe Bearer is thinning so quickly. The funeral of the late Mrs Kelly takes place on Friday.
I close the paper and drop my head down into my hands, and weep till I am senseless.
I do not attend the funeral. I cannot bare to bring her that shame.
‘I have the deed prepared,’ Mr Matthews says. I follow the solicitor into Mrs Whittaker’s sitting room and seat myself in the chair to which he motions with a sweep of his hand. ‘I hope you found the location all right.’
‘Tay Street is not difficult to find.’
‘Quite true, Mrs Dean, quite true. I … er, misplaced my office keys and this was at short notice.’ I let his lie pass. ‘I merely need to know the name of the boy to be put on the papers. As I recall, there was some confusion when you … er, first came by him.’
‘I have written to the mother and asked whether to use the name recorded
or that which she told me was his true name. Regrettably I have received no reply.’
‘Which do you prefer we use?’
‘Use the name the boy knows. I don’t want to upset him, not when he’s going to a new home.’
With the papers complete I leave the room and return with Henry, scrubbed and wearing the best clothes I could afford, knowing they will be discarded as quickly as his memory of me. ‘Now you be a good lad, won’t you?’ I kiss the top of his head and he puts his little arms round my waist. His look of determination gives way to sadness and I hurry to leave the room before my eyes betray me; I pull the door firmly shut and remind myself how fortuitous this adoption is.
‘Arthur’s missing.’ Dean has come to meet my train.
‘What do you mean missing?’ I say. ‘He’s a little boy, how can he be missing?’
Dean takes my parcels and glances over his shoulder.
‘Surely you don’t think he’s here?’
Dean lifts his shoulders. ‘Maybe he followed me.’
I take his arm and guide him from the platform. I am keen to move this conversation from prying ears.
‘He just … disappeared. One minute he was there, and the next …’ Dean shakes his head. ‘How do you keep track of so many?’
We arrive home to found Maggie on the doorstep with Arthur in her arms. ‘Look who I found on the way back,’ she says.
‘Arthur? Where did you go?’ I take him from Maggie, and he wraps his arms around my neck.
‘I went for the cows on horseback and he must have followed me,’ Maggie says. ‘I found him on my way home and put him up in front of me on the horse.’
‘Arthur, you must tell someone before you go running off.’
Arthur’s face pops around in front of mine. ‘Arthur on the ’orsey.’
Dean laughs with relief and ruffles the boy’s hair. ‘I’ll give you a ’orsey bite you won’t be forgetting, lad, if you do that again.’
The following week I gather a large sack of apples and take it over to the neighbours.
‘Good day, Mr Porteous. Our tree has spoilt us this year. I’m sure you could use these — tell Mrs Porteous they’re best as cookers.’
‘That’s kind, thank you. But Mrs Dean, I have been meaning to come by and see you.’
‘Please, if it’s about —’
He sighs heavily and looks around. ‘Rumours are rife, Mrs Dean.’
I almost laugh. ‘Since the inquest I —’
‘No, Mrs Dean. You shouldn’t make light. There’s a report that one of your children is missing.’
‘Missing?’
‘I’ve had first-hand accounts of police being seen on your property with spades, looking for the body.’
‘But there are no children missing.’
‘Well, it’s all around Winton, Mrs Dean, and unless it’s publicly contradicted it will stand against you.’
I don’t know what to say. ‘Whatever could have led to such a story?’
He shakes his head. ‘I heard it was your own husband who mounted the search.’
‘Dean? But …’
Arthur.
‘I’m not sure, Mrs Dean. But certainly if you appeal to the police, they could give it public denial?’
Dean is out back, feeding the pigs. ‘Did you tell anyone about Arthur missing?’
‘No.’
‘Are you quite sure?’
‘Yes … Oh, only Tom Alexander. Ran into him on my way to the train. I may have mentioned it to him. Wait — where are you going?’
‘To write Maddern a letter,’ I say over my shoulder.
Of course I receive no reply, so have no option but a journey to the Winton Police Station itself.
‘That is ridiculous,’ Rasmussen says when I have finished. ‘I have heard nothing of a child missing.’
‘Nevertheless it is what the people think. I want you to publicly deny it.’
‘Publicly deny it? How can that be done? Shall I shout it from the station steps?’
I wait till he stops his laughter. ‘You could have it printed in the paper.’
He guffaws now like a cat is stuck in his throat. ‘Mrs Dean, regrettably it would be against regulations for me to have anything of that nature put into print.’
‘Then what are you going to do about it?’
‘I … well, if anyone should say it, you can refer them to me.’
‘And what will that do?’
‘I know it to be false.’
‘And you would say as much?’
‘But of course. Anything to be of assistance, Mrs Dean.’ He wipes a tear from his eye. ‘I protect the truth. You know that.’
The man’s face is drained of colour. He shuffles in his chair. ‘It’s not for me, it’s my wife. She wouldn’t survive it should the knowledge of my … little infidelity … become public.’
‘When is the woman due to birth?’ I say.
‘We already have a large family. She is a wonderful mother.’
‘I understand that, sir. When is the child due to be born?’
He plunges his face into his hands and his shoulders heave with sobs. I sigh. I know better than to interrupt at this stage. I gaze from the solicitor’s window to the row of trees that line the road. Already they are changing colour; I must remember to charge Dean with bringing the wood up to the house in case of early snow. ‘Her heart is broke,’ the man says. ‘I will do anything to save her sorrow.’ He pauses. ‘So will you take it?’
I do not see the gentleman when I go for the child; it is already out to nurse. I like to make these matters brief and have the adoption papers already drawn up by my solicitor for the mother to sign. I leave my part blank, for it is not my intent to formally adopt this child — Dean will have no more of that, and besides, it should not be difficult to place a newborn, especially a boy.
The solicitors say nothing of the empty space. And so I take possession of baby Sydney.
Mud. The house is full of it. The floors. The beds. The washing is piled against the wall. I stand at the door, clutching Sydney and his parcel of clothes, and I could cry.
‘Dean?’ I stand on the top step and holler towards the pig shed. ‘Esther?’
Still nothing. I shift the mess of bowls and half-eaten bread from a corner of the table and lay the baby upon a pile of clothes.
Where are they?
‘Mother?’
‘Esther? What are you doing in bed? Where are the children?’
‘Out there somewhere.’ She waves a hand in the direction of the lean-to.
‘What is the matter with you?’
‘Not well.’
‘You look fine to me. Where’s Dean?’
‘Got a job Thursday last. Said to tell you two or three weeks, a month at the most.’
I hurry through the house and out to the lean-to. There they are, surrounded by pails, walking, crawling or just sitting in mud like piglets in Dean’s sty.
John Brookland sees me. ‘Run!’ he shouts, and they scatter towards the hedge. The only one I catch is Flossie on account of her legs, and I drag the screaming child to the sink.
‘Esther, you get yourself out here this instant and clean up.’
The truth is as inevitable as the onset of winter.
Some of the children will have to go.
‘It’s only for a short while,’ I say, as much to myself as Flossie. The girl’s face is brave as she lets go my hand and surveys her new home.
‘Very well, I shall do my best by her,’ Mrs Dunovan says.
I bend to give Flossie a kiss on the top of her head, then bow to the nurse. ‘I’ll send cream for her daily.’
I leave quickly.
Arthur still stands where I left him by the gate, but John Brookland is nowhere to be seen. Bother that boy. He is one of the most irritating children I have ever encountered and I curse him for not being the one I have had to leave behind. Not that I haven’t tried to rid myself of him, but no one in their right wit will consider
nursing the wretch, let alone adopting him.
‘Brookland!’
I search behind the fence, hoping I won’t be noticed. ‘Brookland, where the devil are you?’ Arthur peers over the fence too, but there is nothing to be seen but a small ginger cat beneath a tree. Then an apple flies from the branches. ‘Get down right now,’ I say as loudly as I dare without alerting the occupants. ‘Brookland, come down here or I’ll —’
A face appears at the window. I lift my hand in a friendly gesture and start off down the road. I’ll just leave the child here, if that is the course demanded. In fact, I hope I do lose him.
I lift my pace, but the little horror rejoins us before we even turn the corner of the street.
‘Should Maggie not be back already?’
I ignore the complaint and tell Esther to hurry with supper preparations; I suspect the girl is trying to pass duties over to her sister before she has even set foot in the door. But ten minutes later I too am worried. I heard the train pass some time ago and Maggie should be here by now. I open the gate and hurry along the path towards Winton, glancing briefly over my shoulder towards the cottage, praying that Esther will manage without me.
And then I see her. The girl is slumped on the ground. Her face is swollen, her eyes red and filled with tears. I rush to her side, and she throws her arms around me, holding tight as we stagger home. I keep my reason in case the responsible party lurks close by, so it is not until we are inside the house with the door firmly bolted that I am able to try to calm her.
The Day She Cradled Me Page 21