‘Was someone out there?’
She brings a trembling hand to her mouth and I hold my breath. ‘It’s not what you think,’ she says.
I lay my hand on her arm and wait for her to settle herself.
‘Rasmussen,’ she says at last.
‘Rasmussen?’
‘At the station. He was there when the train came in. Mother, there were so many people, they were everywhere. Your mother, he said. He shouted that he had seen you with a baby and that we all know what that means. He ordered me to bring the details of the baby’s identity to the police station, in front of everyone, and that it would save him having to come over home to check. I’ve never been so humiliated …’ She sobs again, and I swear there and then I will not let this pass. How dare that idiot Rasmussen use my daughter this way?
The following morning I tie my bonnet beneath my chin and start off out the door to confront him; my head is filled with such rage that when I hear his voice at the gate I think my imagination has taken me over.
‘You have prior plans,’ Rasmussen says as I start with fright. ‘But I wonder if I might have a word, Mrs Dean. I have here a list —’ he flourishes it in front of me — ‘one which, you may recall, came from you yourself, identifying the children you claim to have here with you at The Larches.’
‘The one you obtained by fraud.’
He looks aghast. ‘Certainly not. I am interested in the boy Henry. You recall him, I presume. See —’ he taps the paper with his finger — ‘he is here on your list. I was hoping to see him.’
‘Henry has left me.’
‘Left you? Has he? And where might he have gone?’
‘Home,’ I say, which is true, strictly speaking. I know full well if I tell the truth Rasmussen will be there quicker than a pig to slop.
‘Thank you, Mrs Dean. I will be in touch.’
Less than a fortnight later I find him again at my gate, clutching the list of children’s names.
‘To what do I owe the pleasure this time?’ I smile broadly. I cannot help it.
‘With all due respect, Mrs Dean,’ he says through gritted teeth, ‘the boy Henry has not gone to his parents.’
I feign a look of shock. ‘But, with all due respect to yourself, Constable Rasmussen, I never said he had. What I said was, the child has gone home. And so he has.’
He sighs and shakes his head. ‘Mrs Dean. Why do you refuse to give me the information I ask for? I do not understand it.’
‘What surprises me, Constable Rasmussen, is that you would ask or expect me to give you any information whatsoever, after the way you ill-used the last I gave you.’
‘But it was not me, Mrs Dean.’
‘It was not?’
His face grows red. ‘If that is the way you want it,’ he says, ‘I will get a warrant and make you produce the boy.’
He turns on his heel and strides back along the pathway towards Winton.
‘Mrs Dean, what a surprise,’ Mr MacAlister says next morning.
‘You do not need to worry. No one saw me enter.’
He peers out his office window from behind the drapes. ‘Very well.’ He sits down.
‘Yes, I will take a seat, thank you for asking. I have come for advice.’
I tell him of the information I gave to Rasmussen and Maddern, and what they did with it.
‘You’re a bloody fool, woman,’ he says, beaming at my tale of woe.
‘That may be so, but now Rasmussen has come to my home threatening to use a warrant to make me produce the children.’
MacAlister throws back his head with a resounding laugh. ‘That fellow wants promotion.’
I stand to leave. ‘I should have expected more from my own solicitor. I am here seeking professional advice.’
‘Be seated then and I will give it you.’ I sit reluctantly and stare at him. ‘Now then, Mrs Dean,’ he says, ‘my professional advice is this. Do not allow him inside your gate and give him no information whatever.’
‘And if he continues in this same manner?’
He puts his hand to his mouth but I catch his smirk. ‘If he annoys you again I will write to the Minister of Justice and have him uncoated.’
‘He’s been harassing the children. On the railway platform and within hearing of a number of people, he ordered Maggie to send him full particulars about a child I’d been seen with. The poor girl was devastated, she was crying till near midnight.’
‘Mrs Dean, I can assure you that that will not occur again.’
‘You are confident?’
He laughs. ‘You doubt me?’
I fear I am being made fool of. ‘Thank you for nothing,’ I say, and stand to leave.
‘My pleasure. And Mrs Dean?’ I turn despite myself. ‘Beware the man with the nose.’
‘I believe I smell spring in the air. What do you say, Mrs Dean?’
‘I smelt something in the air, Sergeant Macdonnell, and here you are at my gate.’
He sniffs and looks back over his shoulder. When his gaze returns, he is smiling. ‘I have come to see what complaints you hold against Constable Rasmussen.’
‘I believe I made those perfectly clear in my correspondence.’
‘The children are well?’
‘They are.’
‘Looking forward to warmer days, no doubt?’
‘No doubt.’
‘About the boy Henry,’ he says. ‘Friends of his are in a terrible state about him.’
‘Is that so?’
‘They say that they have written to you repeatedly but received no reply. You might tell me where he went and who has got him.’
‘I might,’ I say.
‘I would appreciate it.’ He smiles broadly.
‘Very well, then. The people’s name is Thompson and they live in Christchurch.’ I hope there are one hundred Thompsons in Christchurch and it takes him the rest of the year to discover my falsehood. ‘Is that all, Sergeant Macdonnell?’
‘I believe you want to get the boy Brookland into a home. Might you give me the reason?’
I think on it a moment. Perhaps in this instance he might be able to help.
‘All right,’ I say. ‘The mother came to me and said that she had been discarded by her friends, and was earning less a week than it cost to keep the child. She cried bitterly and said how grateful she would be if only she had someone to give her a helping hand. She had been nearly twelve months in the employ of Mr Deegan, and indeed she had other references also. With this in mind I agreed to take the boy and keep him for twelve months, and I even said that if she should fall sick or be out of employ, I would keep him one month for nothing. I expected to be paid regularly every month, and I gave her a written statement to that effect.’
‘I see. So that is how it works.’
‘I had the boy ten months and in that time I received twenty shillings. That is all I have ever received for him. Having been so grossly deceived by the mother, I have no wish to keep him.’
‘It must be difficult to take care of a child day on day when you do not wish for it. For example, the girl with the limp —’
‘Flossie? She is one of whom I am most fond. We made her splints; now she can run about as well as many.’
‘I should love to see that, Mrs Dean. Is she here?’
‘Not at present.’
‘She is back with her friends?’
‘No, she is with Mrs Dunovan in Winton.’
His eyes sparkle. ‘Well, thank you, Mrs Dean, for your civility and your courtesy. I shall look into what may be done with the boy Brookland. Good day.’
‘Mother! Mother, Flossie’s back! Flossie’s home!’
‘That’s impossible, she’s with Mrs Dunovan. Willie, stop telling stories.’
‘No, she’s here. Out the window.’
I look up from the letter I am writing. The boy is right. Mrs Dunovan is through the gate and heading for the front door.
‘Good day, Mrs Dunovan,’ I say.
‘Good day?
Is that what you call it? After the embarrassment I’ve just suffered, I should say it is anything but.’
I look down at Flossie, who flings her arms round my waist.
‘Whatever happened?’ I ask.
‘Mrs Dean, in the name of God, what could possibly have possessed you?’
‘Flossie, let go and take your things into the bedroom. Mrs Dunovan, I don’t understand what you’re talking about.’
‘About the child, Mrs Dean,’ she says, and points at Flossie. ‘You and I have been friends many a year, but surely you realise that given recent events on no account would I want it known I have one of your children with me.’
‘Mrs Dunovan —’
But it is too late. She has headed back down the path and is pulling the gate closed with a clank.
‘She didn’t like the policeman,’ Flossie says.
‘Policeman?’
‘The one who visited her. That one with the big nose.’
Of course. Sergeant Macdonnell. Oh, what I fool I have been.
‘Mrs Dean. A twist of fate. Just who I was hoping to see.’
‘Detective O’Connell, I’m very busy. I only have the day in Christchurch; I want to make the early train down.’ I try to walk on, but he steps in front of me and blocks my path.
‘You told Sergeant Macdonnell you got a child from a woman by name of Thompson, is that correct?’
‘I said nothing of the sort.’
‘So the Sergeant is telling a lie?’
‘Of course not,’ I say. ‘Sergeant Macdonnell is incapable of telling an untruth.’ I smile as I walk away. ‘He’s just made a big mistake.’
‘When is Cilly going?’ Arthur asks for the hundredth time.
‘As soon as his mother arrives to collect him.’
‘But when?’
‘Willie, get outside with those muddy feet. Now stand up, Cyril, and let me take a look at you.’ The poor child has lost his courage and looks ill. ‘Oh, but you’re positively handsome!’
‘Mother,’ Flossie calls out excitedly. ‘Here she comes. Look, Cilly, look.’
The children crowd around the window as the buggy pulls up by the gate.
‘Come now, Cyril. Say your goodbyes.’
There are cuddles and kisses, and I usher the child out the door. Five minutes later we stand on the step to wave him farewell.
‘Esther, go over to the Porteous’s and see if Maggie needs assistance.’
‘Cilly’s gone in a bugger,’ Willie chants. ‘Cilly’s gone in a bugger, Cilly’s gone in a bugger …’
I look at him, and I feel my arms tense and my heart race. If those people of his won’t pay what’s due, he’ll be gone from here so fast his head will spin.
‘How long has the child been in your care?’
‘I have now had Willie Phelan for two and a half years, your Honour.’
‘And in that time, how much money is it you have received to support the child, Mrs Dean?’
‘I have received no money for his keep.’
‘I understand. Now, the other matter. It concerns a relation of the boy?’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Willie’s grandfather. I had his infant daughter with me also; I have the agreement with me here. Sadly she has passed, and burial costs are not cheap.’
‘You have the man’s grandson and you also had possession of his daughter?’
‘Correct.’
‘The young boy’s aunt?’
‘Yes.’
He coughs. ‘An infant?’ He scratches his head and takes a deep breath. ‘I don’t condone the nature of the contracts nor, Mrs Dean, your particular line of business. But I have looked at the deed presented, and it is fair and reasonable to expect the agreed amounts should be paid in full. I therefore hereby rule in favour of Mrs Dean on both counts.’
Arthur’s little toes are poking out from the hems of his trousers. His eyes brim with tears.
‘Whatever is the matter, child? What do you expect if you won’t wear shoes when it’s darn near snowing? And now it’ll just hurt more if you get close to the fire. I don’t know how many times I’ve said it — I’ll not be running after you just to keep shoes on your feet. Perhaps you’ll remember better with a couple more chores? When your feet warm up, you can start cleaning out the lean-to. It’s a shambles, needs taking to with a broom and pail. Here —’ I pass him a blanket — ‘wipe your feet so they might dry out and warm up slowly.’
He pulls up his trousers. He is wearing shoes after all; the holes are so large his toes poke through.
I cannot meet his eyes as I wrap his feet in the blanket. ‘I’ll see to it,’ I say. ‘New boots, what do you say?’
I have no idea how I am going to keep my promise. We have barely enough for food. And with the children running riot I can hardly hear myself think. Willie’s the worst of them, shouting at the top of his voice and constantly making a nuisance of himself. He’s at it again now.
‘Damn you, Willie Phelan, what’s the noise this time?’ I fling open the door and look out through the sleet. ‘Stop chasing those pigs or you’ll sleep with them tonight. And get those filthy trousers into the copper before you come inside. And don’t you dare bring those muddy feet into my house until you’ve scrubbed them clean!’
I can stand it no longer.
‘Willie. Leave the baby alone. Stop doing that! If I have to come down there myself, I swear to God you’ll feel the back of my hand.’
I slam the door shut and look across the kitchen to Maggie, who bounces a baby on each knee. ‘That boy will be the death of me,’ I say. I still have not received a penny’s worth of payment, despite the court ruling. Why should I have the child, keep the child, raise the child for no return? ‘Esther? Come in here. Pack three sets of clothes for Willie. Come on, don’t give me that look, you earn your keep. Pack them up now. He’s coming with me back to Dunedin.’
Mrs Olsen’s mouth remains an O as I leave her Willie standing by the door. I make my escape out the gate and back to the train station, where I catch another on to Christchurch. One child delivered and another to collect.
‘Where to?’
I look up at the cab driver. ‘Doctor Oventon, do you know of him?’
The baby has thrush but little else to upset either the doctor or myself. I take payment from its grandmother and head quickly outside before there is any chance of them changing their mind.
Money and a whole day to enjoy it.
I leave the baby with the daughter of the boarding-house keeper, and instruct the driver to take me to Papanui where there is not only a shoe shop but also the plant nursery where I have unfortunately accumulated quite a tab. What bliss it is to have time to myself, to be accountable to no one. It is late afternoon before I bid the driver farewell.
I gather my parcels and am barely inside the door before the girl thrusts the baby at me.
‘Been crying all day,’ she says.
‘Here.’ I drop some coins into her upturned palm. ‘You bought it milk with the money I gave you?’
‘Wouldn’t touch it. Just cried like it wanted its mother or something.’
I don’t sleep that night. The girl was right: the baby is terribly unsettled and I have no laudanum with me to keep it quiet. The thrush sores are worsening.
Next morning, before I’ve time to break my fast, a loud knock comes at the door. I look at the police constable’s grin and my heart sinks.
‘Good morning, madam. I have one or two questions relating to the infant there.’
‘And I have nothing to say.’
‘Then you can accompany me to the station. Bring your belongings with you.’
He takes the baby, still crying and squirming, and I gather up my belongings — the tin box I brought with me, now full of the baby’s soiled clothing, and the parcels I bought yesterday. I follow him down the stairs to the street.
‘Good day to you again, madam.’
I glance at the driver in the front of the cab.
‘Y
ou know this woman?’
‘Know her? Course I do. One of my best customers yesterday.’ He winks. I shake my head but to no avail.
‘Is that so?’ the Constable asks. ‘Please, tell us.’
‘What is the meaning of this?’ Doctor Oventon says.
‘Do you recognise this woman, Doctor?’
‘Yes, I do. She adopted a child not forty-eight hours ago from a patient of mine.’
‘Do you realise,’ the Constable says, ‘that this woman is the notorious baby farmer from down south?’
Doctor Oventon gasps. ‘No, of course not, or I never would have allowed such a thing.’
‘Do you know whether an exchange of money took place?’
‘It most certainly did. I believe she received a premium of twenty-five pounds with the child.’
‘This woman is not a fit or proper person to have the child.’
‘Indeed, she is not. We must return it to its rightful people at once.’ The doctor bends down as he passes me by. ‘Why did you not just go by the Express as you intended?’ he whispers.
It is after four in the afternoon when I leave the station, penniless, near four hundred miles from home, with not a morsel of food in my belly. I walk the darkening streets and am close to tears. I have no one on whom to call; indeed, the only person I can think of is Esther’s mother, but she lives many miles out of town and it is already close to nightfall.
Along the street is a pawn shop. I take off my mantle and offer it to the broker in the hope he might give me enough to get home. But greed is in his eye and desperation is in mine: I get five shillings — enough for one night’s lodgings and nothing more.
The following morning I make my way back to the nursery in Papanui.
‘A detective visited yesterday with your receipt,’ the proprietor says. ‘He demanded I return the money. You wouldn’t be here for that same reason now, would you?’
‘Just, say, two shillings?’
The Day She Cradled Me Page 22