I take my shawl and wrap it around my shoulders. The wind is brisk and cuts through the holes like blades of ice. Curse that Willie — when I find him, I will teach him to forget his chores.
There is no sign of him in the shed where the chips are stored. I will have to cart them inside myself. But as I bend to pick up a bundle I pierce my finger on a splinter. Bother, bother, bother. Where is he?
‘Willie?’
I suck on my finger to stop the flow of blood. The splinter is still lodged and I have no means of removing it till I am back inside. I try to grasp the bundle again but drop it in pain; I hold my hand up to the light, only to discover several larger splinters embedded in my palm.
‘Willie?’ I call again. ‘You get in here right now!’
There is no reply, and I cannot carry the chips myself, so I stride back out of the shed to find him before the fire goes out completely.
‘Willie?’
The little wretch is still not answering. I check behind the shed and up the tree where he likes to play. He is not in the chicken coop. By the time I round the back of the house, my hand throbs so badly I am certain if I find him I will wring his scrawny neck like one of his chickens.
‘Willie!’
First thing tomorrow I will send word to come and get him.
I round the corner towards the pigs. If he is in there, rolling around with them in the stink, I will …
… Willie?
I forget my hand as I rush to the trough and pull the dark shape from the water. His body is heavy, sodden, and I too am dripping with water as he flops to the ground. ‘Willie.’ I don’t know what to do. I start to shake him, then take his head in my hands; I shake it hard, so that droplets of water fly everywhere. ‘Willie. Wake up! Do you hear me? Wake up!’ I slap his face then. Slap it hard. ‘You stupid boy,’ I shout at his lifeless face. ‘You stupid, stupid boy.’ Blood covers my hands; it spills from a gash in the back of his head; but I can’t stop. I shake him, shake him, shake him, will him to life, refuse to accept …
I know what this means. The stupid wretch is dead; his eyes stare up at me from the mud. But that is not what gives me most pain.
I know what this means.
In one last act of stupidity, the little imbecile has got me. Now I face my biggest nightmare. Dear Lord, no.
Another inquest.
What am I to do?
‘Mother?’
‘Esther! Get away.’
‘What are you doing?’
‘Nothing. I have hurt my hand. Take the children to Mrs Porteous. See if she would like some more crocus bulbs.’
‘But Mother, I —’
‘Stop whinging, Esther. Go!’
As soon as they are out of sight, I drag Willie’s body to the shed and lie it behind the sacks of grain.
What am I to do? Maggie will not last another inquest. I cannot last another inquest. Rasmussen will get me this time. They’re waiting for this; they will never let it go. I could go to prison. Or worse.
Bother that Willie, bother, bother, bother him. Stupid, stupid little fool!
I leave him there. I have no choice. I clean the blood from the edge of the trough where he fell and go inside to tend my hand.
‘Nothing at the stock sale,’ Dean says at dinner that night.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘The stock sale. Where are you, woman? You seem distracted.’
‘No.’ I shake my head. ‘Tired, is all. Stock sale?’
He looks at me oddly.
‘Willie’s gone.’
‘Arthur, don’t talk with your mouth full.’
‘But where is he, Mother?’
I lower my fork and look at them. ‘He’s gone, Ethel. Willie has left us.’
‘Where?’
‘Is he coming back?’
‘Can we say goodbye?’
‘Hush everyone,’ Maggie says. ‘How can Mother answer when you all talk at once?’
‘Didn’t see him go,’ Esther says.
I take a deep breath. ‘He has been adopted. You knew he was going. While you were all away, his new mother came and collected him.’
‘Was she nice?’
‘Did she have a bugger like Cilly?’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘She was lovely. And Willie was so happy. You should have seen his face. Beaming and excited.’
Esther nods towards a pile of clothes. ‘Why are all his things still here?’
‘His new mother already had clothes for him. New clothes. And he looked so handsome in them.’
‘I wish I could have seen him.’
‘Me too.’
‘What do you think he’s doing right now, Mother?’
Willie’s cold body lies behind sacks in the shed.
‘I don’t know.’ I make myself smile at the children’s eager faces. ‘But I’m sure wherever he is, he’s as happy as happy can be. Now eat your dinners.’
I bury him beneath a rose bush.
I remove all his clothes — I can scarcely afford to destroy good garments. I dig a hole and put him in. Then I cover it back up with soil. Spade upon spade of soil, until all traces are completely gone. And after that I go inside, and I resolve never to think on Willie Phelan again.
‘What is significant about that rose bush?’
I wield my clippers and turn to face him. ‘I’ve decided not to prune it back so harshly this year. Seeking gardening advice, Constable Rasmussen?’
He looks affronted by the thought. ‘Certainly not,’ he says. ‘I am here on serious police business.’
As always. ‘Anything particular this time?’
‘Madam, you are, of course, aware of the Infant Life Protection Act?’
‘Of course.’
‘You are also aware that it is a breach of that Act to have in your care any infant under the age of two years without registering your establishment, along with yourself?’
‘Of course.’
He smiles. ‘I have taken it upon myself to check, and I do believe that you have registered neither.’
‘What precisely is your point?’ I make my way towards him.
‘My point is this. Your unregistered self is currently in possession of an infant under the age of two years in your unregistered establishment.’
‘It’s not of my doing,’ I say. ‘As soon as I was aware of the law, I made every effort to get rid of the child. I’ve contacted both his natural parents more than once, and they won’t take him. I’ve placed advertisements in the paper and haven’t received a single reply.’
‘Mrs Dean, please refrain from shaking those cutters at me. My duty is simply to uphold the law, and you are currently in breach of the Infant Life Protection Act. I shall have to report you, of course, and let the system work its course.’
‘But I’ve explained I’m doing all I can to have the child removed.’
‘Mrs Dean, that doesn’t alter the fact you are in breach —’
‘Yes, I know, I know. You have already told me. But what am I to do about it? Would you like the baby, Constable? No? Are you certain? Here, take him right now. Will that uphold your law?’
Rasmussen’s wheels of justice must, of course, travel their distance, and several weeks later I find myself in court yet again.
‘Mrs Dean,’ Mr Rawson says, ‘I find you guilty of breaching the Infant Life Protection Act.’
Rasmussen grins broadly and nods his head.
‘I have duly considered the letters you have produced, particularly from the father begging you to keep the child, and from the maternal grandmother where the mother is staying that states the child shall not enter her home. I acknowledge you have little money and recognise it would seem unfair to expect you to return the child at your own expense at risk of a fruitless journey.’
Rasmussen’s face drops.
‘I am inclined to think that under those circumstances you have done the best that could be expected of you.’
Rasmussen’s face bulges red like an over-r
ipe tomato.
‘I therefore fine you one penny. You will also hire a suitable vehicle and transport the baby O’Brien to its natural mother. The child’s father is to pay costs.’
I dip my head gratefully to the Judge and slip a sideways smile to Rasmussen. His face is purple.
‘Thank you,’ I mouth.
‘We cannot survive.’
‘No more children,’ Dean insists. ‘The pigs should do better this time. And Andrews up the road, he says he’ll take twice as many as he did last year.’
‘Your pigs won’t be enough to keep us another winter, let alone a full year.’
‘I’ve work lined up for the end of season. Might roll over a little.’
‘Dean —’
‘You’re mad, woman. Mad. Just forget it. No more.’
‘The house is falling apart. The roof needs work. I’ve a quote for a small extension …’
‘Madness.’
‘But I wouldn’t break any laws if I don’t bring them here. I’ll collect them on others’ behalf. Take them where they need to go and collect a fee.’
‘You’d get a fee for doing that?’
‘Why not?’
‘You’re mad,’ he says again. ‘Rasmussen’s watching us like a sow on piglets. Any more children here and he’ll know about it before they leave the womb.’
But, as it happens, he doesn’t.
‘Dean won’t like it.’
‘Keep your trap closed, Esther, and don’t mention it. I’ll buy you a new dress piece. And I’m sure Maggie will hem it for you.’ I force a smile — she’s a devious vixen but I need her to co-operate.
There is a pile of correspondence on the table. I’ve placed but two advertisements — under an alias, of course — and the response has been irresistible. The rail journey to collect them, the luxury of a hotel: a tingle runs through me that leaves no doubt.
‘There’s another one from Mrs Izett,’ I say. ‘And one from that gentleman.’
‘Dean won’t like it.’
I shoot her a dirty look. ‘He only wants to meet. Where is the harm?’
‘Yes, but —’
‘Esther, don’t you have washing to tend?’
‘Please,’ he says, ‘I don’t have other options.’
‘Perhaps when the child reaches two …’
‘No. It cannot wait. You see —’ he lowers his voice, though no one else is here — ‘I am married.’
‘That may be so, but —’
‘What if I bring it here myself, as soon as it births?’
I shake my head. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘I’ll pay you, of course, pay you well.’
I am tempted. And he knows it.
‘What if she were to come here to your house to birth the child?’
‘Have the child here?’
‘Yes,’ he says as though this will solve all problems.
‘No, I have never had a child born in my house. I don’t think —’
‘No one need know.’ He pauses. ‘You will be well paid.’
He is a very persuasive man. I can well imagine this is not the first time he has been in this position.
Mrs Grey, as I am to call her, arrives at my home early in the afternoon of April sixth. I send Maggie to Mrs Porteous — it would be best she is away from the house when the final moment arrives.
‘My name really is Mrs Grey,’ the woman gasps and emits another throaty scream.
‘I am sure it is.’
‘The baby’s father drowned.’
‘I’m sure he did.’
‘You do not believe me.’
I set out sheets beneath her and wish I had paid more heed when Dean birthed his piglets. By the time Baby Grey is delivered, I for one am exhausted.
‘Why did she not want to look at it?’ Esther asks.
‘It’s the way it is.’
‘He sure is ugly.’
‘They all look that way at first.’
We watch as the woman makes her way slowly up the lane. ‘Does she live far away?’
‘Two streets over.’
‘So she will come by from time to time?’
‘I doubt it, somehow.’
‘What is that?’
‘An envelope.’
‘Don’t give me your talk.’
‘Calm down, Dean. It is a baby.’
‘You stupid woman!’
‘It was born here. In the house.’
‘Do you think Rasmussen gives a damn?’
‘Stop using that language, the children will hear. And it will only be a short time before I place him. Besides, look at the money.’ I open the envelope and hold out the contents. Dean’s glare softens. ‘And there’s more to come.’
‘You’re mad.’
‘He’ll never find out.’
‘Goddamn you, Minnie.’ Dean strides back out the door. He slams it closed behind him.
‘Mrs Dean, didn’t mean to startle you.’
‘Rasmussen.’ I look up slowly so as to regain my composure.
‘May I introduce you to Detective Herbert.’
‘Good day, Mrs Dean.’
‘Good day, Detective.’
‘Detective Herbert is new to the area. We have just been out having a stroll, and thought we would call.’
I doubt that, but extend my hand politely.
‘While we are here, I thought I might ask about the boy Scoular.’
‘What about him?’
‘Your husband just told us you had him adopted.’
‘Some two years ago,’ Herbert adds, nodding cordially.
‘Collected by a lady in a buggy, we understand.’
I resist the temptation to scan the paddock for the foolish man. ‘That is correct.’
‘I hoped you might do us a great favour.’
‘Which is?’
‘We would appreciate your giving us the boy’s address.’
I shake my head. Will they never give it up? ‘Do you really think after all that has happened I would give you one shred of information relative to the children?’
Rasmussen sighs. He gives Herbert a knowing look. ‘We were rather hoping you would see things differently. Your husband has been very forthcoming; we have been with him near an hour. We know you got the child from Oamaru around mid-1890 when he was barely a month old. He left about two years ago with a lady in a buggy. Yet unfortunately your husband does not seem able to provide us with his current whereabouts.’
‘Of course not. He doesn’t know them.’
‘Then we implore you, madam.’
I glare at them. ‘I will tell you this. I received thirty pounds with the boy. You would of course want to know that, but there was no agreement, only a receipt for the money. In December of 1892 I made arrangements to have the boy adopted, but these fell through when he developed a severe illness after eating some unripe fruit.’
‘As boys do.’ Herbert smiles encouragingly.
‘Carry on,’ Rasmussen says.
‘It was not until the following April — that is, of 1893 — that Cyril was adopted. But listen here, before I had him adopted I went to great pains to notify his parents. I wrote to Mr McLachlan, the boy’s father, and gave him all the particulars. I received no reply. I also wrote to the boy’s mother through the superintendent of the asylum where she has been since July of 1891. To that letter I did receive a reply. The superintendent said that he might be able to let her out, but that there was no hope of a permanent recovery.’
‘And she is still there?’
‘As far as I am aware, she is now in the Wellington asylum.’
‘So he went with a lady in a buggy?’
‘I have already said that is correct. And I have pledged the Lord,’ I say, looking directly at Rasmussen, ‘not to reveal where he is.’
‘I see.’
‘I took no step in the disposal of the boy without consulting the child’s father.’
The two policemen look at each other and Herbert shrugs his
shoulders.
‘I did my duty to the boy in every way.’
‘Mrs Dean, the reason we wish to make contact with the boy is that there might be some money coming to him. His father is recently deceased.’
Does he really think I am that stupid? ‘Constable Rasmussen, surely you know the boy was illegitimate?’ I speak the last word with emphasis. Both men blush. ‘So you see it stands to reason that the boy can claim nothing, unless of course he was remembered in the will. And if this was the case, gentlemen, do you not think I would have been contacted directly by the trustees? Because I can assure you, here and now, that I have not.’
I hear nothing more of the matter until the following Saturday.
‘I’ve spoken with Rasmussen,’ Dean says. ‘Young Cyril has been left quite a sum; Rasmussen is elated.’ I imagine he is. ‘He needs the boy’s whereabouts before the master of some school with another of the mother’s children gets the money. I told him I’d be straight to speak with you.’
‘Did he make mention of the other boy’s name?’
‘Dobham? Durham?’
‘Denham?’
‘Denham. That’s it.’ He looks at me with suspicion. ‘How did you know?’
‘It’s a pity Rasmussen can’t concoct a more feasible story.’
‘There’s no Denham?’
‘There is a Denham, yes. Everyone knows there’s a Denham. He’s three years or so older than Cyril. And yes, it is widely known that he is also Ellen Scoular’s son. But did Rasmussen forget to tell you he isn’t McLachlan’s?’
Dean looks disappointed. ‘You sure?’
I am ready for him.
‘I have been positively inundated with letters of enquiry about the boy,’ Rasmussen says. He clasps his hands in front of him.
The Day She Cradled Me Page 24