The Day She Cradled Me

by Sacha De Bazin

  There is the sound of movement from inside the house, followed by a latch. The door opens slowly.

  ‘Good morning to you,’ I say. ‘I did not wish to intrude or cause bother.’

  She looks at me grimly. ‘Just we’ve had more than our fair share of nosey beaks, since … well, you know, I’m sure. Please, come inside.’

  I follow her into the parlour, a modest example with only the most basic of furniture and a coolness that makes me shiver.

  ‘Mama should be back soon. Can I fetch you some refreshment?’

  ‘Thank you, but I have only just broken my fast.’

  ‘Oh, but I beg your pardon, Reverend. My name is Susan. Susan Hornsby.’

  ‘Susan — a very pretty name.’

  She smiles. ‘I’m the eldest.’

  ‘Quite a responsibility.’

  ‘It is, yes. Especially since father left —’ She stops and her face colours. ‘I don’t suppose I should’ve told you that. Mama says it’s my tongue what gets me into trouble.’ She sucks in her lips and turns away. ‘Amongst other things.’

  ‘Your secret is safe with me.’

  ‘We’ve not seen him at all this past year. He wanders about, works here and there, or so I’m told. When last he took it upon himself to visit he reeked of the drink from here to Christchurch. Took one look at my belly and was out the door.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘I didn’t want it.’ Her voice is so low I can barely hear. ‘Do you think that’s why it happened? Did God want me punished?’

  I shake my head, but the girl is off with her own thoughts.

  ‘I hated it for what it did to me. I couldn’t go outside — Mama wouldn’t even let me near the window lest someone saw me.’ She pauses. ‘But when she was born? Oh, she was so beautiful. She was perfect. I wanted to hold onto her and never let her go.’ Her face melts into a smile. ‘I begged Mama, but she wouldn’t allow it. Took her from my breast. Eva was crying out for me —’ she closes her eyes — ‘I can still hear her now. Once my milk dried up I was again allowed out, but the pain … I could only think that it was God’s wish I be punished.’

  She sobs in my arms. ‘Dear child,’ I say. ‘It was not your doing.’

  ‘I can hardly bear it.’

  ‘Your baby is in the arms of angels. She waits there for you. Her suffering has passed. She loves you, Susan. She would not wish to see her mother unhappy.’

  ‘But the shame, Reverend, the humiliation I have caused. It’s my fault and God will judge me harshly for my sins. I never intended to disgrace Mama — does God blame me too?’

  ‘You love your child. He knows that, as Eva too knows it. They forgive you your sins, Susan. You must learn to forgive yourself as well.’

  ‘I only wish Mama would. I’m not permitted to speak of Eva. And here I am breaking that promise also.’

  ‘It is perfectly natural to speak of things which cause pain. It helps us heal. One day your mama will be ready.’

  ‘No.’ She shakes her head. ‘Mama will never be ready. Father left more than four years ago, yet she refuses to speak of it even now.’

  The front door slams shut.

  ‘Susan? Who have you got in there?’

  I rise and extend my hand as Mrs Hornsby enters the room. ‘Mrs Hornsby, I believe we have not yet been introduced. Reverend George Lindsay.’

  ‘Mrs John Hornsby. Wait just a moment.’ She withdraws her hand. ‘Don’t I know you already?’

  ‘You may have seen me.’

  ‘Dear Lord, it’s you. You’re that priest from Invercargill. At the trial, that’s where I’ve seen you. You came every day. Reverend Lindsay. Of course!’

  ‘My dear madam —’

  ‘But you were there in support of the Dean woman?’ Spittle flies from her mouth.

  ‘The prison is overseen by my parish.’

  ‘That’s not what I mean, Reverend. Not what I mean at all.’

  ‘Reverend?’ Susan’s voice is quiet.

  ‘Get out of the room, child.’

  ‘But I should be here. It involves me.’

  ‘We all know that, you foolish girl. Without your stupidity, none of it —’

  ‘Mrs Hornsby, Susan has been through an ordeal herself —’

  ‘Don’t you come here and tell me about my daughter’s ordeal. Why, everyone knows about you. The Reverend and the baby killer. I should call for the Constable.’

  ‘That will not be necessary. I will leave you now.’

  ‘How dare you come here to my house? Impose yourself upon my daughter.’

  ‘I never intended —’

  ‘Get out, Reverend Lindsay. Get out! Get out now! And don’t you ever even think about coming back here again. Man of the cloth, indeed. You should be stripped of your collar. Get out. Get out!’

  The return train passes through Clarendon. I stare from the window to the shelter shed and shiver. Dear Lord. Ten minutes. Ten minutes was all Mrs Dean said she had the baby alive in her care. Such a short time — one can only assume that either she fully intended to do away with the child and did just that, or she was under such incredible duress from the previous child’s death that she could barely contain herself, or … or the baby was in difficulty before Mrs Dean was given it.

  ‘Excuse me. Excuse me, please. I must get off here.’

  The guard holds up his hand. ‘Wait till the train stops, sir.’

  ‘How long before the next train down?’

  ‘An hour, no more. And best not miss it unless you want to spend the night.’

  I cross the Milton platform and hurry straight to the first cab I see.

  ‘Where to, Reverend? The manse?’

  ‘No, not the manse.’ I leap aboard and lean around the side to talk to the driver as he urges the horses forward. ‘No, my good sir. I know just where I need to go, and it is not the manse today.’

  The woman shakes her head, and I fear she is about to close the door.

  ‘I really don’t believe I know you,’ she says again.

  ‘That is not surprising, Mrs Dryden,’ I say quickly. ‘Allow me to introduce myself once more. My name is Reverend George Lindsay of St Paul’s Presbytery in Invercargill.’

  ‘That may be so. And I did hear you the first time. But again, I don’t believe I know you.’

  I step back. ‘I need to speak on a matter of urgency.’

  She shakes her head. ‘Your visit is most irregular and I have a prior engagement.’ She reaches for the door.

  ‘No! Please. I have only a short while. I beseech of you, good woman, a few minutes and nothing longer.’

  She hesitates, but to my relief the door widens and she stands aside. ‘Say your will and do so quickly.’

  I follow her to the parlour and she gestures for me to sit. The room is of comfortable means and the utmost cleanliness.

  ‘I believe you are acquainted with Jane Hornsby — Mrs John Hornsby, that is.’

  ‘This truly is most irregular. I cannot say I am altogether comfortable with this line of questioning.’

  ‘Madam. Indeed in this we are shared. I too am most uncomfortable with this situation. However, I feel I have no choice in the matter. A woman stands to lose her life.’

  ‘If there is one thing you should know about me, Reverend, it is that I say what I mean and I mean what I say. I have no time for dalliers, nor do I fools. Nor,’ she adds, ‘uninvited guests.’

  ‘I am here because I understand you are a friend of Mrs Hornsby, as well as the last person to spend time with her and her granddaughter before … well, before the young child’s demise.’

  ‘You are correct on one count, Reverend. I did unwittingly spend much of the child’s last hours in the presence of her and her grandmother. But as to the woman herself, I am afraid to say she is no friend of mine. I see you are surprised. As I suppose you should be, given the woman’s testimony in court. Ah yes, Reverend, I was there too. And now you look quite startled. I was there, but not in support, I can assure you.
I assumed I would be questioned. But, as it came to pass, I was not.’

  ‘You were spoken to?’

  ‘Yes, in the beginning. But only the once, mind. And by a little nobody constable barely out of napkins. He could scarcely think of a question to ask and in response I had little to say. And why should I, if they couldn’t find someone more suitable to speak with me?’

  ‘What did he ask you, Mrs Dryden?’

  She lifts an eyebrow. ‘Why should you want to know that?’

  ‘A baby died. Surely all factors should be explored?’

  ‘All right. If you want to know the truth, Reverend, I shall give it to you — though I still think this is most irregular.’

  She takes a deep breath.

  ‘It had barely gone ten in the morning when I fancied someone was at the door, though it was not Thursday when I should be inclined to expect visitors, and I found the forcefulness of the knocking somewhat abrupt. Nevertheless, when I opened the door I found a woman standing upon my porch, clutching a baby. It was a cold morning, Reverend, and straight away I could feel the chill against my cheek. Anxious to return to the warmth of my fire, I informed the woman I was not receiving visitors that morning, especially uninvited ones, and made to close the door. But this woman would hear nothing of it, and on seeing two of my neighbours pass by the gate she exclaimed loudly how wonderful it was to be reunited with a dear friend such as I, and how frightfully cold the morning was. Well, I ask you. What could I do? With a parade of onlookers, I had no choice but to invite them inside, and no sooner had I done so when she put the baby on the floor by the table, right there, Reverend, by where your feet now sit, with no blanket, and left it there. I could not fathom the woman.

  ‘“I am Mrs John Hornsby,” she said when I enquired as to her name. “Surely you must remember me.” She went on to describe our brief encounter some time past when I inadvertently suggested she call should she find herself in Milton. Admittedly, Reverend, the encounter could be altogether possible, though to this day I cannot recall it. However, I am not, let it be said, a poor hostess, and I made tea and brought a blanket with which to warm the baby. And do you know? Rather than placing the article over the crying child, or even stooping to lift it, she placed the blanket over her own knees and drank her tea. While all the time the baby remained on the floor and cried. In the end it was I who picked the poor wretch up. She informed me it was the child of a friend, and she was to meet the afternoon train in order to reunite it with its friends. I will tell you straight as I saw it — she did not once tend that child, not for warmth, nor food, nor comfort. It was none of my business, mind, so of course I did not care to interfere. But on two occasions when the child’s cries bore a hole through my skull I picked the thing up, just to render some peace and quiet.’

  ‘She was with you how long?’

  She wrinkles her nose in disgust. ‘It was mid-afternoon before I watched them go. And not a moment too soon either.’

  ‘And you say Mrs Hornsby did not feed the child that entire time?’

  She shakes her head. ‘On one occasion I entered the room to find her gripping the child, like this.’ She pretends to cradle a child, with one hand to support its body, the other shaped behind its head, third finger and thumb splayed apart. To my horror, she begins vigorously shaking her arms. ‘She was shouting to stop its wailing. I had to take it away from her. No, she never cared for it, or fed it. I thought to myself in that courtroom, no wonder the child had as empty a belly as she had. I waited for someone to ask me.’ She lifts her shoulders. ‘And now, finally, here you are.’

  I shake my head. ‘Mrs Dryden, a woman’s life was at stake. Why didn’t you tell someone?’

  Her eyes narrow. ‘What if I had? There were other babies — Lord knows they were digging them out of the woman’s garden here, there and everywhere. What if this child did not die directly by her hand? Others no doubt did. And even if the woman Hornsby neglected the child, who’s to say the Dean woman didn’t finish her off? No, Reverend. It was not my place to answer questions I had not been asked. But one thing is certain. That Mrs Hornsby, she wasn’t up to much.’

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Reverend Lindsay.’

  There is a sound of shuffling chairs, then Alf Hanlon appears at the hotel room door. He looks drawn and weary. I can see Mr Hanan seated at a desk behind him; he too looks tired.

  ‘Reverend. What a surprise. Please, come in. I was just about to pour a wine. Care for one?’

  ‘Indeed, thank you. It’s been a long day.’

  I wait as Mr Hanlon prepares the drinks, and after we are seated I raise my glass in a toast. ‘To Mrs Dean and a successful appeal.’ Our glasses clink, but I am the only one to take a sip.

  ‘I wouldn’t raise her expectations,’ Mr Hanan says after a few moments. He empties his glass in a single gulp.

  ‘But surely?’

  Mr Hanan shakes his head and returns to his papers while Mr Hanlon looks at me thoughtfully. ‘You were at the trial, Reverend. Do you really think she has a chance?’

  I am dumbfounded. ‘As her lawyers you must hold out some optimism, surely?’

  ‘Only that the judges have a momentary lapse into insanity.’

  ‘But what if there were another scenario, gentlemen? One perhaps not previously thought of?’

  ‘Another scenario?’

  I take a deep swallow. ‘We all know there is more than reasonable doubt she poisoned the older child intentionally. It all came down to the little Hornsby baby, am I correct?’

  ‘Yes. Pretty damning evidence, though.’

  ‘But what if the child Hornsby was already beyond saving before Mrs Dean received her?’

  There is a long pause before Mr Hanlon speaks.

  ‘Do you know what you are saying?’

  ‘Of course I know. It hardly bears thinking about.’

  ‘And from a reverend,’ Mr Hanan mutters.

  ‘No, gentlemen, please. Hear me out. If we could just place enough suggestion of doubt —’

  ‘You obviously don’t have a notion of what you’re saying.’

  ‘Mrs Hornsby was left financially and socially ruined after her husband’s abandonment. Add to that the knowledge that her eldest daughter conceived a child out of wedlock, and it was more than she could bear. The rage inside her now had a focus …’ My voice is raspy. ‘Her unborn grandchild.’

  Mr Hanan looks away but Mr Hanlon starts to fill in the story. ‘After trying to conceal the pregnancy as well as she is able, the child is born. She cannot stand the sight of it and makes arrangements for its care. Anyone will do, so long as it is out of sight.’

  ‘Yes, but not out of mind. For her daughter still yearns for it, and the care she has found is only temporary. So she finds something permanent.’

  ‘Anything,’ Mr Hanan puts in.

  ‘Anyone,’ Mr Hanlon adds.

  I nod. ‘She does no background checks.’

  ‘Mrs Dean.’

  ‘Correct. So arrangements are made.’

  Mr Hanlon leans back in his chair. ‘She retrieves the child from Mrs Bennett and has to put up with it for the duration of the journey from Dunedin to Milton.’

  ‘She wants nothing to do with it,’ I say, ‘and ignores its cries. At the station, she learns to her horror that the woman she is to hand the child over to will be late — hours late — and so is forced to seek out the one person she can think of in Milton who should provide her with shelter and refreshment but who does not know her well enough to gossip.’

  ‘Mrs Dryden.’

  I nod. ‘But, remember this, Mr Hanan, when Mrs Hornsby collected the baby, Mrs Bennett had barely time to even wrap a shawl around the infant, and no time to feed it. So what did she do? She gave Mrs Hornsby a bottle of milk for the journey.’

  ‘Which remained untouched,’ Mr Hanan finishes.

  Mr Hanlon looks winded, his voice is almost a whisper. ‘The baby was starving.’

  ‘And it received nothing
at Mrs Dryden’s either. The woman even recalls seeing Mrs Hornsby in such a temper that she held the child like this.’ I demonstrate the way Mrs Dryden showed me. ‘And shook it with force.’

  Mr Hanlon reaches out to where my hands are still splayed and slowly puts his fist inside my cupped hand. With his other hand he presses against my thumb and middle finger. ‘Enough to bruise?’

  ‘I cannot say, but I do believe it would not take much pressure to mark such a young child.’

  ‘I don’t know what to say.’

  ‘By the time Mrs Hornsby met with Mrs Dean, the child was malnourished and dehydrated. It was cold. It was expiring.’

  ‘Dear Lord.’

  ‘Mrs Dean was already in a panic from the previous child’s death. She laid it on the bench of the shelter shed to retie her bundle. It stopped crying. And when she looked up —’

  ‘It was dead.’

  ‘No — well, at least Mrs Dean thought it was. Two babies? What panic must have swept over her. So what did she do?’

  I can picture her now, frantically listening to the sound of approaching footsteps, moved on by sheer, overwhelming terror.

  ‘Reverend?’

  ‘She grabbed the unconscious baby, gentlemen. She grabbed it, put it in her bundle, pulled the cloth around tightly and fastened the straps.’

  Mr Hanan gasps. ‘Pulled the cloth around tightly,’ he repeats as he looks to see if Hanlon grasps the implication of what he has said.

  ‘Thus,’ I finish, ‘suffocating the child and rendering it dead.’

  We sit in silence, each caught up in the weight of the moment.

  ‘You have taken quite a risk in coming here, have you not?’

  ‘Mr Hanlon, I felt I had no choice.’

  Mr Hanan rubs at his brow. ‘So why did Mrs Dean claim the baby fell? Surely that worked only to incriminate her further?’

  ‘Look at it from her perspective,’ Mr Hanlon answers. ‘If this theory is true, Mrs Dean would not have had any notion whatsoever as to how the child died. Probably, she still doesn’t. What explanation other than falling could she possibly come up with to explain the unexplainable?’

  Mr Hanan shakes his head. ‘If what your sources have told you is true, Reverend, then this certainly is a worthy scenario.’