The Day She Cradled Me

by Sacha De Bazin

  ‘I have no reason to believe otherwise.’ My heart races. ‘But do you think it is enough?’

  ‘Enough?’

  ‘Reasonable doubt. Surely when the judges hear what I have told you, it will put enough doubt in their minds to suspend the sentence?’

  ‘Suspend the sentence?’

  ‘Or order a retrial. I do not know, sirs. That is your domain. I have said all I came to say. Now the rest is up to you.’

  The two men exchange glances. ‘I am afraid, Reverend,’ Mr Hanlon says at last, ‘your journey has been wasted if you think to alter Mrs Dean’s fate.’

  ‘I do not understand.’

  ‘The rules of appeal,’ Mr Hanan explains, ‘are such that what you have told us today, though relevant, would be deemed new evidence.’

  ‘And an appeal,’ Mr Hanlon adds, ‘is based solely on a point of law. New evidence is inadmissible. I am sorry, Reverend.

  ‘Reverend?’

  Minnie

  Invercargill Gaol

  There are two times I feel close to my former self: when I write and when I sleep, though the latter often turns on me and brings me screaming to my senses in the form of a hangman’s noose or an open grave. Even when I dream of happiness, the conscious world is the nightmare. I can’t awaken from it.

  I fear for the children. What will become of them?

  Reverend Lindsay

  St Paul’s Presbyterian Church, Invercargill

  ‘Let us begin,’ I say.

  The organist raises his eyebrows. The depleted congregation takes in the empty church, the empty pews, and looks at each other knowingly, as though a secret has at last transpired.

  ‘Begin,’ I repeat, more firmly this time, and the music echoes throughout the church.

  Minnie

  Invercargill Gaol

  Men. There are too many men here; they take up too much room. I can barely breathe.

  ‘Mrs Dean, the Court of Appeal has reached a verdict.’

  These walls would be more pleasant in a pale shade of blue and then perhaps I should feel more space, like an open sky on a summer’s day. I shall speak with Mrs Bratby.

  ‘Their decision is unanimous.’

  I should love to see a butterfly dip and swoop. The children love butterflies.

  ‘Mr Hanan, where is Mr Hanlon? Surely he should be here, after all it was he who —’

  ‘He was called away last week. Family matters.’

  ‘Don’t tell me he wasn’t even in Wellington for the appeal?’

  ‘Reverend Lindsay, Mrs Dean had very good counsel. Both myself, and a very promising young man by the name of —’

  Arthur loves butterflies the most out of all the children. He cries when Cilly catches them and puts them in old jars. I taught him once how to hold out his hand so the butterfly would crawl onto his finger. If you touch its wings, it loses its special dust and can’t fly. I should like to fly. I should like to be a bird.

  ‘I am sorry, Mrs Dean. Their verdict was no.’

  There it is, on the ledge. The little fantail. It is as if I can call it in my mind. The children love birds. They love butterflies too.

  I think I shall have this room painted blue.

  Reverend Lindsay

  Invercargill Police Station

  ‘You have been chosen by God to help the woman accept the fate she has been handed.’

  ‘Is that what you believe?’

  ‘Do you not?’

  ‘I will not accept it.’

  Sergeant Macdonnell shakes his head. ‘Reverend Lindsay, I have to say that I am surprised. And disappointed. Surely a man of your experience and fortitude can discern the innocent bleats of a lamb from the lies of Satan?’

  ‘She is one of God’s children, and we should not suppose to elevate ourselves to His standing and presume to cast mortal judgment upon another.’

  ‘Then what have you come here for? Surely you don’t expect me to bow before you and beg forgiveness for bringing to justice a cold-blooded child killer?’

  ‘Your words are harsh.’

  ‘Reverend, before I say something I may regret, let me first ask you the purpose of your visit?’

  ‘I am here, Sergeant Macdonnell, not in the name of forgiveness, for I see you do not hold that in your heart. I come therefore in the pursuit of mercy, which all God-fearing gentlemen such as yourself must surely hold sacred, for did not God himself display mercy on us all? God is the only one who can dictate when a person should leave this world, not you, not I, nor all the judges in the land. To execute this woman, or any other, is to go directly against the word of God. It is to presume ourselves as His equals, to hold ourselves in such high favour that as mere mortals we think we can cast the greatest judgment of all. I am here, Sergeant, to ask you, nay to plead with you, in the name of the Lord God on High, to go to those of great influence and beg leniency, to grant the woman Dean a chance of redemption, for is that not the better solution?’

  ‘Reverend, you talk like a man possessed. She has committed the greatest atrocities. Nothing you or I can say will change that. Do you not read the papers? People want justice. And justice they will get.’

  ‘But surely you don’t believe God would condone this course?’

  ‘I don’t see why He would not. Have you not thought God wanted her caught and to pay the full price of the law?’

  ‘Utter nonsense.’

  I can see that the Sergeant has completely lost his patience. ‘Even if I were to share your sentiments, which I emphatically do not, just what do you think I could achieve? The case has been through an appeal. She has lost. She may as well accept her fate now. As well you might.’

  ‘The Premier has not approved the sentence. If you were to convince those ranked above you that she should receive leniency, life as opposed to death —’

  ‘You should know better than to think the Premier would sway his opinion based on my — or more exactly your opinion.’

  ‘But if there were enough pressure from within the constabulary?’

  ‘I can assure you here and now that there would not be. Do you know how long and hard we have fought for this? Society must be protected from people such as Mrs Dean. Children must be protected from her. Why do you think we have the Infant Life Protection Act but for the likes of your Mrs Dean?’

  ‘Are you so ignorant you cannot see the irony in your words? Yes, I read the papers, I listen to the people, and I would imagine far more truthful stories meet my ears than that which meets your own. Children are found killed at the hand of their own for lack of someone to raise them anonymously. So who exactly are you protecting the children from? Mrs Dean? Or those who created them? Or society itself?’

  ‘I see you feel very strongly on this matter. I can understand this, for I warned you some time ago, when you went in search of a confession, as to the woman’s nature. I can see my words went unheeded, though they have indeed come to pass. Premier Seddon will cast his own judgment over this sorry affair. He will do it without interception by me or any man from this constabulary. But I have to say, should I hold any sway whatsoever over his decision, I shall do my utmost to hang the woman before the day is out. Apart from that, I have nothing more to say regarding the matter of Mrs Dean excepting this. You could do far better in choosing where to place your allegiance in the future, Reverend Lindsay, for this has done nothing for your public standing within the community or the Church. It is all very well to bleat the woes of the murderess, but what you neglect to notice is that you oppose rather than represent the majority of your flock. There are a number of extremely influential people around town calling for you to step aside, and who can blame them? A reverend who sympathises with the murderer more than the victims? And when the victims are innocent children?’

  I turn on my heel and make my way towards the door.

  ‘So we have an understanding?’

  Yes. We do.

  I have failed her, failed God.

  Now there can be only one pathw
ay forward and it is one I do not wish to take.

  I must walk the woman to the doors of death.

  And there I must leave her.

  Minnie

  Invercargill Gaol

  The walls are talking. I don’t listen to their idle chatter; they only want to disturb my writing. Their insidious voices swirl round and round inside my head like loose sand at the beach on a windy day.

  He’s signed the papers, the papers are signed, he’s signed the papers, the papers are signed …

  They are so ignorant they do not bother to say who he is, or even what the papers are for.

  I ignore them and continue writing.

  Reverend Lindsay is saddened today. He looks at me as though he can already see me dead. He says he has failed me, for he wanted to have my sentence altered to life in prison.

  I tell him I would rather die than spend years locked away.

  I can see it brings him some relief to hear me speak these words, as it did yesterday for Mrs Bratby when I spoke the same words to her also.

  Dear Lord, forgive me my lies.

  ‘Mrs Dean, there is something else I must share with you.’

  At this time of year it’s important to have the pantry shelves stocked full of preserves and the like, for nothing will grow in the garden apart from icicles off the end of your nose. Flossie will eat a full jar of pickled onions if I let her.

  ‘Mrs Dean?’

  I try to save at least one or two jars from the year before because she says they taste so much better the longer they are left. Dean won’t touch them. Says to pickle them is the absolute ruination of a perfectly good onion. You can’t do much else with them once they’re pickled.

  ‘I have received word from Mrs Bratby.’

  Flossie once got into a jar without my knowledge and upturned the entire contents. She covered it with a piece of sacking, but the stench was with us right into spring. Worse than rotten eggs.

  ‘The scaffold has been sent for, and Tom Long has been found.’

  Cilly can do a trick with a boiled egg. He removes the shell and places the skinned egg over the narrow neck of a bottle. Then he lights a small piece of paper with a match and slips it inside the bottle, putting the egg over the neck before the flame goes out. The egg squirms and contorts like a caterpillar making a cocoon, then pop! There it is! Inside the bottle!

  ‘Mrs Dean, they have their hangman.’

  Not an easy task to get it back out, though, I can tell you.

  Reverend Lindsay

  St Paul’s Presbyterian Church, Invercargill

  ‘Good day Reverend.’

  ‘Sergeant Macdonnell.’

  He rubs his arms to warm himself and looks into the church. ‘Excellent turnout. I hope you are pleased. I took the liberty of telling one or two fellows of your change of heart. We are looking forward to a blood-kindling sermon today, my friend.’ He grins and disappears inside.

  It is close to freezing but I am numb to it. I have my delivery prepared, one which should satisfy all, and it burns in my coat like the fires of Hell. Damn Macdonnell. Damn him to all eternity.

  ‘George?’

  I look up. Jessie is making her way towards me. She hurries, allowing her skirts to drag behind in the snow. She puts her arms around me and I hold onto her tightly.

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I understand my husband is to deliver a particular sermon today and I want to ensure it comes from his heart.’

  ‘I have failed, Jessie.’

  ‘No, my darling, you haven’t failed. It is I who has done so.’

  ‘No —’

  ‘I’ve given little George’s clothes to Sarah Dickson,’ she says. She reaches up to touch my cheek; the sound of her voice rings like a bell from above. ‘And I’ve told the boys we won’t be needing the extra place set at the table. I’m sorry I haven’t been here for you. But know this: whatever you must do, I’m here now.’

  In the pulpit I lay out my treacherous notes in front of me. The words on the page stare back. I look out and see Sergeant Macdonnell in one of the front pews. Behind him is Jessie, whose glance gives me the courage I need. I lift the Bible and place it on top of my notes so I can no longer see them.

  ‘Divine followers,’ I begin. Calmness descends upon me. ‘This morning’s service will consist of a prayer.’ I reach forward and place my hand over the Bible. I close my eyes and lift my voice to the heavens so that God Himself will hear my call. ‘Today, fellow worshippers, we join together in the house of Christ and we unite, unite in our prayers for a soul’s deliverance. We will sing to the heavens that the Lord God Jesus Christ might hear our pleas. For today, one and all, today we pray for the soul of Minnie Dean.’

  Minnie

  Invercargill Gaol

  ‘How is your manuscript, Mrs Dean?’

  ‘Almost complete. You will be sure to pass it on?’

  Reverend Lindsay dismisses the question with a shake of his hand. ‘Do not doubt me, please. You have my solemn word it will go to whom it is intended, and indeed it shall.’ He seems unable to meet my gaze.

  ‘Reverend?’

  He does not answer. Very well. Some things are best left unspoken. I pick up the pen and continue writing.

  Suddenly Reverend Lindsay leans forward and takes my hand. ‘Mrs Dean.’ His voice trembles. ‘I must tell you of something.’

  I pull away quickly.

  Aunt Christina crosses the rug and stands behind him. The Reverend’s boots are caked in mud. They will mark the rug if he stands on it.

  ‘The Sheriff has received notice.’

  ‘I hope I will face it as a brave woman and not as a coward.’

  I have a particularly good recipe for soap that can remove even the deepest of mud stains. Cilly, of course, never wears a stitch of clothing on his body that doesn’t return covered in some sort of filth.

  ‘It must be carried out within a week.’

  I have never known the soap to fail. Even on white garments.

  ‘Mrs Dean, the date is set for Monday next.’

  I must remember to give the recipe to Mrs Bratby. It really is unequalled, even in comparison to shop-bought varieties.

  ‘Mrs Dean?’

  It was near impossible to remove the soot from Da’s trousers. Do you remember, Janet? We had to scrub them with that heavy meal soap till our hands bled.

  ‘I am sorry.’

  Bella was once beaten when Da’s clothes were not cleaned enough. He made her eat the soap until she vomited. She never let on it was I who had been left in charge of cleaning.

  ‘There is something more. It concerns your husband. Mr Dean has made some … arrangements. For your body … afterwards. It will not lie here, Mrs Dean, within the gaol confines. Mr Dean is to transport it back to Winton. Your body will rest there, just outside the cemetery, on the hill overlooking The Larches. I … I thought you would like to know that. Mrs Dean?’

  ‘I’m sorry for the trouble I’m causing.’

  Oh Charles, I don’t want to die! Please God, no! Help me, someone, please.

  ‘Dear woman, you are weeping …’

  Minnie

  Invercargill Gaol

  Mother likes to sit by the window and watch the fantail peck crumbs that we leave him on the sill. When I awaken she is already here. Her head tilts to the side as the bird hops about. She turns to smile at me. I untangle my legs from Bella’s and sit up on the edge of the bed.

  Mrs Bratby has already stoked the fire; it burns brightly. On the table there is a meal with which to break my fast, though my appetite has dwindled of late. I wash, and then take a small cup of tea, but that is all I can stomach. I am eager to finish my writing.

  I have barely picked up the pen when he arrives, knocking first as though I am a lady of distinction.

  I smell the whisky before I see his face.

  Mother puts her hand to her nose and turns away.

  ‘Minnie.’

  It is all he says, but it is en
ough. He is here. I had wondered if he would come.

  ‘It is all right, Dean,’ I say, but his eyes fill with tears. He sniffs and wipes his nose on the back of his sleeve.

  Mother winces and crosses the room.

  He hasn’t shaved. Not in some time.

  He sits down at the table, clutching his hat. His eyes are bloodshot. ‘I … I tried to be a good husband,’ he blurts.

  He should put some drops in his eyes.

  ‘I’m … sorry, Minnie.’

  If he does not lower his voice, he will wake Bella, and I kept her up half the night with the flickering candlelight.

  ‘Did they tell you? You’re coming back with me … after.’

  The flames dance on the rug. They chase each other up and around … up and around …

  ‘I’m bringing the cart.’

  I put dahlias round the side garden the colour of the flames, reds, oranges, golden yellows …

  ‘Fixed the suspension. Should make it all right.’

  I divided them at the start of autumn and put a few outside the lean-to. They make a good cut flower, if you trim the stems well and change the water often.

  ‘You were a good mother to those children. They were lucky to have you. We all were.’

  I can’t think … can’t think …

  ‘I’ll visit you, Minnie. I will.’

  Mother holds my hand and rests her chin on my head. She is singing something, though I can’t quite hear her. Mother?

  ‘I’m so sorry, Minnie, please forgive me …’

  Bella is singing. They fold their arms around me … the flames are leaping … swirling … Bella … Mother …?

  Can ye sew cushions and can ye sew sheets

  Can ye sing balleluh while the bairn sleeps

  Balleluh lambie, ballaluh lamb

  Ballaluh lambie, my bonnie wee one