The Day She Cradled Me

by Sacha De Bazin

  He shakes his head.

  Esther’s mother lives more than five miles out of Christchurch. Please, dear Lord, that the woman is there. But I am soon disappointed, for all she can afford me is the fare to Dunedin, and once there, I am in exactly the same penniless position.

  ‘Doctor Fitchett,’ I call. ‘Doctor Fitchett, if I might have a word.’ His office door remains closed. ‘I need a word with Doctor Fitchett,’ I say more loudly, ‘on a matter of urgency. Doctor Fitchett?’

  The door opens and he ushers me inside. ‘Mrs Dean.’

  ‘I am here on account of debts owed me by your clients. You are obviously familiar with my case against the Phelan boy’s mother, Mrs Olsen?’

  ‘Hush. Keep your voice down,’ he says. ‘I have no say over the activities of my clients, and Mrs Olsen is no exception. My only advice to you is to go and visit the woman yourself, and ask her of her intentions.’

  But she too is impervious. ‘What do you want?’ she demands as she opens the door. Her belly is round.

  ‘I have come about the money you owe me for the upkeep of Willie.’

  ‘My son is here with me now, as you well know.’

  ‘Yes, but the court found you owe me over twenty pounds — which you well know. I’ll accept twenty pounds here and now, and we’ll consider the matter done.’

  ‘How generous of you, Mrs Dean. But I am unable to do anything until the return of my husband, and it is a pity that he will not be home before Saturday night. So I shall have to decline your offer and furthermore ask you to leave.’

  A cold wind blows at my skirts; drops of rain fall on the porch beside me.

  ‘Could you not just spare a few shillings?’ I say. ‘You see, I haven’t come to Dunedin prepared to stay.’

  ‘Not very well thought out, your little jaunt? No. As I have already explained, I haven’t got it.’ She starts to close the door, but I block it with the toe of my boot.

  ‘Might you tell me where I can find your father?’ I ask, lifting the tone of my voice. ‘Seeing as I have judgment against him also for the burial fees of his child.’ She steps back a little as a neighbour passes by, so I raise my voice even further. ‘It would seem these things run in the family, do you not agree, Mrs Olsen?’ I look at her belly.

  She pulls me inside. ‘Cumberland Street,’ she hisses, then pushes me back out, slamming the door closed.

  I know of Cumberland Street. By the time I reach it my fingers are purple and the flowers on my hat trail wet over my forehead. I visit each and every house on both sides of Cumberland Street before I learn the woman’s father now resides in Caversham.

  ‘Caversham?’ I am unable to disguise my desperation.

  ‘You won’t make it there before dark,’ the woman says. ‘Best get back to your lodgings before the storm breaks.’

  I have one last hope. Although it has been some time since I have seen her, the woman who had nurse of Flossie before us gave me urgent invitation to stay with her such time as I am in Dunedin. After what seems like an endless walk, I locate her gate and hurry through the garden. I do not see the pond until I have stepped into it, so that I am truly sodden by the time I reach her door.

  ‘Please,’ I say, relieved it is her but unable to keep the cold from catching my voice. ‘Will you let me stay the night? I have lost my purse.’

  Her eyes sweep up and down. I drip on her darkened doorstep and shudder from the cold. A moment becomes several moments. She is not pleased to find me here.

  ‘I have no room.’ Her eyes do not meet mine. ‘I have a visitor staying and no spare blankets. Good day to you.’

  ‘Wait — please,’ I say, frantically trying to think. Who will help me … who will help me? She knows Flossie’s people! ‘You know Mrs Jacobs, don’t you? Please, give me her address and I will be on my way.’

  I think I will never make it. My legs ache, I am cold to my core, my belly rolls with pain, and by the time I reach Mrs Jacobs’ house my spirit is crushed.

  ‘Mrs Jacobs?’

  The words have scarcely left my mouth before she gasps and draws back her skirts as though she has seen vermin.

  ‘Please. All I ask is for a bed for the night.’

  ‘Where is Flossie living?’ she says.

  ‘She is with me.’

  ‘With you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Can she walk yet?’

  ‘She can run as well as I; her legs are now quite straight. She is strong and healthy.’

  She stares at me.

  ‘One night?’ I say again.

  ‘We only have a single spare bed which is taken up by my sister.’

  ‘Please?’

  She shakes her head. ‘I received a call from the police not so long ago.’

  I swallow. Everything starts to spin.

  ‘Oh yes, Mrs Dean, you can close your eyes, but you can’t hide from it. Told me all about the Winton baby farmer. Not that he needed to. I’d already seen in the paper the disgraceful affair of that inquest.’

  I stumble away from her porch.

  She does not follow.

  Slowly I retrace my steps along the empty streets and push open the gate. Again I tread in the pond. I seat myself beneath the narrow eaves of the shed and wait. Too cold to cry, I watch the clouds roll away to reveal the twinkle of stars. The temperature plummets; droplets on the grass turn to frost.

  God take me now, relieve me of my shame.

  As dawn breaks, I stand stiffly and make my way round to the back of the house to at least spare myself the indignity of having the husband see me this way. Only when he leaves do I return to the door.

  ‘Here,’ she says, ‘thought I saw you out there. Take this and be gone.’

  I have no pride left. I clutch the shilling and hurry back to Mrs Olsen. ‘Please,’ I beg. ‘You can see I am desperate. Spare me but a few shillings?’

  ‘I said yesterday I have not got it.’ Her eyes are wide as she stares at me.

  ‘I had Willie more than two and a half years and received no money for him. You yourself declared you were on the verge of starvation and that God Himself sent me to you. Could you not at least give me shelter whilst we await your husband’s return?’

  She looks horrified. ‘Well, I have been well pleased with the boy since you left him. I will make you a deal …’

  ‘Mother! Mother’s home! Quick! Come and see! And look — she’s brought Willie with her! Willie!’

  ‘Nice to see you, Guv’nor.’ Willie leaps into Dean’s arms and nearly knocks him over.

  ‘What happened to you?’

  ‘Nothing a good scrub won’t mend,’ I say as I carry our things into the house and lay them on the table. I am even glad to see the mud and clutter as I left it. ‘It’s good to be home.’

  The children run outside to play — all except Arthur, who looks expectantly at the table.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say. My heart aches. ‘I tried.’

  He looks down. ‘It’s all right,’ he says. ‘Didn’t want new boots anyway.’

  I pick up my pile of correspondence and glance through, taking the one from the bottom and tucking it away beneath my apron: I can only hope it was Maggie and not Esther who brought that letter home, unsealed and addressed to The Baby Killer. Mrs McDermott. You’d think I owed her a fortune, not a meagre few shillings.

  Curse the police. Curse them all. They’ll have no more chances to hurt me or the children ever again. Never, ever again.

  ‘I come on private business,’ the woman says. Her red hair is pulled tightly from her face; the sun shines in the window behind her, and her face seems aglow. I note the swelling of her belly and keep my eyes fixed on her face.

  ‘Could you be in search of someone to look after a child?’

  She smiles. ‘Yes, you are right. Of course. I am. Though it is not for myself.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘It is for … a friend.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Would you take a baby from birth?�
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  ‘Possibly,’ I say, though I know full well this would be against the new Act. ‘It would depend on the premium, obviously.’

  ‘Obviously,’ she says, and nods. She bites at her lip. ‘What amount of premium would you accept? The friends of the expectant girl are not in a position to pay a large sum, but they will do what they can.’

  ‘This is for your friend?’

  ‘I assure you it is.’

  ‘Let me see. I would be prepared to take the baby from birth for a premium of, say, thirty pounds.’

  ‘Thirty?’

  ‘That would, of course, be in addition to my expenses in going for the baby, as well as the solicitor’s expenses for preparing the adoption papers.’

  ‘I understand.’ She glances out the window at the children. ‘Very well, we have an agreement.’

  I think of all I can buy for thirty pounds. Footwear for the children, perhaps a dress piece for Maggie. ‘Wonderful. You … they won’t regret it.’

  ‘Could I have your address so I might write in a month or six weeks with the details?’

  ‘Do you not have it already? You have found us. The Larches.’

  ‘Please. My mind is full of holes.’

  I find an envelope and pen, and place them on the table in front of her. ‘The Larches —’

  ‘Please,’ she says again. She picks up the pen and holds it out to me. ‘Would you mind? I cannot —’

  ‘Very well.’ I write my address neatly on the envelope and pass it back to her. ‘There you are.’

  She tucks the envelope away in her purse and stands to leave. ‘I will certainly be in touch,’ she says.

  To judge from the size of her belly, I am in no doubt.

  ‘Mrs Dean, what a beautiful garden this will make.’

  ‘Mrs Porteous, good day. How are you?’ I stop digging and make my way to the gate.

  ‘Well, thank you. I can see you have been busy.’

  I unlatch the lock. ‘Come and take a closer look. Maggie has made scones for tea. We have plenty.’

  ‘Very kind but I won’t stay. I’ve just called to ask you about something.’

  ‘Oh?’

  She tilts her head. ‘Have you had a visit from Constable Rasmussen lately?’

  ‘Rasmussen? No. Not in quite a while. And I can’t say I’m sorry, either. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Have you had a different visitor then? A woman?’

  I nod. ‘As a matter of fact I did, not three days ago.’

  ‘One of the children’s mothers?’

  ‘No. She was looking for someone to take a baby in. She said it was for a friend, but from the look of her I’d say it was herself. Why? Has something happened?’

  ‘You had not seen her before?’

  ‘No. I would surely have remembered that red hair. Why? What is this all about?’

  Mrs Porteous sighs heavily. ‘It’s about you, Mrs Dean. You. It seems a woman has been going about from house to house proclaiming to be in search of her missing child.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I am afraid so, yes. She did not come as far as us, but I have heard from a number of sources she declared a premium of fifty pounds was given with the child —’

  ‘Fifty pounds …?’

  ‘Quite a sum, I agree. Apparently she has been to see you and procured your handwriting.’

  ‘She has done nothing of the —’

  The envelope. The address.

  ‘Mrs Dean? Are you all right? You seem pale.’

  ‘Yes. Yes. Of course. Is there anything further?’

  Mrs Porteous hesitates. ‘She’s to use it as evidence, have it identified and sworn to.’ She pauses and shakes her head. ‘Unless you give back the child. You can keep the money and there will be no more of it. But that is what I have heard. Like I said, she did not get so far as us.’

  How generous of her. ‘Did she give the people of Winton the name of the child?’

  ‘Only so far as to say that it is not hers but a friend’s.’

  ‘Of course,’ I say. ‘Mrs Porteous, let me assure you, I have never seen that woman before. It is impossible I have a child belonging to her, or I would remember.’

  ‘The Wintonites are in a fury.’

  ‘I can well imagine.’

  ‘I must tell you also, they have been to Rasmussen over it.’

  This is all I need. ‘Are you sure?’

  She nods solemnly. ‘They requested an enquiry.’

  ‘Mother?’ Maggie says. ‘A woman is coming up the lane.’

  I look at my watch. It is not much past seven-thirty in the morning, a strange time for a visitor to call, and the house is in no fit state to receive her. I grab for my shawl and hurry up the path to intercept her at the gate. The sun rises behind her head and lights her red hair like burning embers.

  ‘I have come to see the boy I gave you,’ she says. She stares at the children who have gathered on the doorstep, and points wildly. ‘Come on. Where is he? Is it that one?’

  She must suffer madness. ‘Children, get inside at once,’ I say. How dare this woman, how dare she show herself here, at my home, after the slanderous remarks she has spread about me?

  ‘I have never seen you before,’ I lie through clenched teeth, ‘nor do I wish to any longer. Leave now or I will set the dog on you.’

  She looks about in brief alarm but the wretched dog is nowhere to be seen.

  ‘I said leave my property. I have seen neither you nor your shameful offspring, so be off if you know what’s good for you.’

  I turn my back to call the dog, though I know full well he will give her but a lick. It doesn’t matter; I have achieved my purpose, and with satisfaction I see her retreat and make her way quickly up the lane. The nerve of the woman.

  Two days later, I still fume from the woman’s boldness. ‘Willie, get that blessed piglet out from my kitchen.’

  ‘But it follows me all over.’

  ‘Look at the mud it has trailed inside. Oh, it’s from your feet. I should have known. That pig is cleaner than you. Get it off the bed!’

  ‘It wants a sleep.’

  ‘I said get it off and out of this house or I’ll take to you with the belt!’

  I re-read the letter I have just received; it is from the Dunedin solicitors who arranged baby Sydney’s adoption. ‘Information has been laid that the baby you adopted in March 1892 has been foully murdered,’ it reads, ‘and although we ourselves do not believe it to be true, yet the accusation has been made.’ The bitch. The red-headed bitch! She has gone to the boy’s father with her malicious lies. These were his solicitors, employed by him, not her. She wasn’t even given their name, which was how well he trusted her. She did not even know that the baby’s father was married. Or that he had children. Eleven! The bitch. How I would love to see that pompous expression of hers drop when she learns of that.

  ‘Well written if I may say so myself.’

  Maggie reads the advertisement over my shoulder. ‘It’s not that truthful.’

  ‘That’s not the point,’ I say as I close the newspaper. ‘The point is to find him somewhere else to live. And if I need to bend the truth a little —’ I watch as Willie tips the slops over the backs of the pigs — ‘then I am sure they will grow to love him. Willie, stop that right now or you’ll be joining them for your supper. Do you hear me? Now, Maggie, if you’re to begin dressmaking, we shall have to get you something a little more modern to wear.’

  ‘But we can’t afford it.’

  ‘We most certainly can afford to go down and take a look.’

  ‘I don’t begin till April.’

  ‘Good. That gives us plenty of time. We can search in Invercargill for a dress piece.’

  The following week I stand in the dressmakers and look dismally at the prices pinned to the fabrics.

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’ Maggie puts an arm about me. ‘It will not be long before I am able to purchase my own pieces. And one for you.’

  She is such a be
autiful child. I sigh and release the cloth from my fingertips, wishing I could dress the children all in gold, for they deserve it at the very least.

  ‘Well, well,’ I say, ‘it seems two women wish to speak with me about Willie. Do you know of a Mrs Hogan? The only one I know is at Wreys Bush. I doubt it could be her.’

  ‘There’s a Mrs Hogan with a fruiterer’s shop in Dee Street,’ Maggie says. ‘She has a number of daughters.’

  I waste no time in relaying to both Mrs Hogans every ounce of positive information I can muster about Willie Phelan, hoping one of them will be sufficiently impressed to take it further. And it works.

  At dinner three weeks later I make the announcement. ‘Willie,’ I say, ‘I’ve found you a new mother. She wants to adopt you. What do you say to that?’

  His eyes light up and the other children yap with questions. How old is she? Is she rich? Where does she live?

  ‘It’s not the fruiterer,’ I say to Maggie. ‘But you will all find out soon enough. She’ll come for you, Willie, when she’s got things ready — I should say before the winter.’

  For all the grief he has caused me, and it is considerable, a part of me will miss him when he leaves. Though it is not a large part, and I am sure it will not last for long.

  ‘Thank you, Willie,’ I say, when the day of his departure is nearly upon us. He has brought in chips for the fire without being asked. ‘We might need more, though. It’s cold out.’

  ‘I’ll get you them,’ he says.

  I ruffle his hair with my hand; he is little more than a simple sheep dog. ‘You’re a good boy.’ He grins up at me and flicks his feet as he leaps, proud of himself and of being praised. He dances out the door and down the steps.

  A chill wind finds its way under the door and I push a woollen blanket against it to stop the draught. There are still more clothes to wash; perhaps I should call Esther inside to help me, but I am enjoying the quiet too much, and she is out keeping the little ones amused, which is worth more than gold bullion.

  After a half hour or so the fire dies back, and I start to wonder where Willie has got to with the extra chips he promised. If he doesn’t hurry I will be left with nothing but embers, and I have the iron to keep hot, not to mention the pastry rising. I go to the window and peer out, but there is still no sign of him. The little imp has forgotten his task and found something else to amuse himself.