Elianne

by Nunn, Judy

  ‘You did nothing wrong, Ellie,’ Jim said comfortingly, ‘she just died in her sleep. It’s not your fault.’

  ‘Oh yes, it is. It is my fault, it has to be.’ She kissed the baby’s cold little face. ‘Oh my poor darling, how did this happen, what have I done?’

  The housekeeper, too, tried to comfort her distraught mistress. ‘It’s a tragedy, Mrs Ellie,’ Bertha said, ‘but you mustn’t hold yourself to blame.’

  ‘But I do,’ Ellie wept, ‘I do, I do.’

  Nothing either could say would convince her she was blameless, and eventually Big Jim sent a man to fetch the doctor.

  ‘It is not healthy you should lay blame upon yourself in this manner, Ellie,’ he said stringently, as if he were speaking to a wayward child. ‘The doctor will inform you I’m sure that there was nothing you could have done to save the baby.’

  Alfred Benson arrived six hours later and in some trepidation. He’d been told the news en route and was unsure of what treatment he might expect from James Durham. He was relieved by the cordiality of his reception.

  ‘Thank you for coming, Doctor Benson,’ Big Jim said, ‘I’m most grateful. Do please forgive me for calling you away with such urgency, but my wife is convinced she is responsible for the child’s death and is driving herself to distraction. I am hoping you can help.’

  ‘Of course, Mr Durham.’

  Jim ushered the doctor through to where Ellie lay curled up on the bed, her dead baby still cuddled to her breast. She would allow no one to take Beatrice from her – no one until Alfred Benson that is.

  ‘I should like to examine little Beatrice, if I may,’ Alfred said, and Ellie finally relinquished her child.

  She watched as the doctor made his examination. At first she was quiet, but the silence seemed more than she could bear and she soon became agitated.

  ‘I fed her twice during the night,’ she said. ‘I didn’t think there was anything wrong. She was making snuffling noises, but she always did that. She was swallowing all right; she didn’t choke or gag. I don’t know what I did wrong, Doctor. I don’t know what I did wrong.’

  ‘You did nothing wrong, Mrs Durham,’ Alfred Benson assured her. ‘There is no obstruction in the baby’s windpipe, no undue swelling in the throat, nothing that would present a possible cause for asphyxiation.’

  ‘Then what happened?’

  ‘Sadly we will never know. Such events have occurred in the past and they appear inexplicable. For no apparent reason, a baby can simply stop breathing and suffocate in its sleep. This would appear to be the case with little Beatrice, I’m afraid. Under no circumstances must you feel in any way responsible.’

  Jim was delighted that the doctor’s report had proved him correct. ‘You see, my dear, I was right,’ he said, ‘the baby died in her sleep. There was nothing you could have done.’ Good, he thought, Ellie was absolved of guilt. They could get on with their lives now.

  But Ellie could not get on with her life. She no longer blamed herself, it was true, but she was inconsolable in her grief. Little Beatrice was laid to rest in Bundaberg Cemetery and, in the weeks that followed, Ellie remained listless, distracted. Sometimes she was maudlin, sometimes moody and irritable; at no time was she the Ellie of old.

  Big Jim found it all very tiresome. He tried cheering her up with reports of the new house, which was nearing completion, but she showed no interest, and when he attempted to play the nurturing husband he was rebuffed.

  ‘You have a lot to be thankful for, Ellie,’ he would say, ‘you have a healthy son –’

  Her reply would bounce back as an accusation. ‘If Beatrice had been a boy you’d be grieving her loss,’ she’d say.

  After several such responses Jim ceased his nurturing attempts.

  Christmas came and went, and then the whole of January, by which time he’d had enough. The planters’ conference in Townsville was the perfect excuse, he decided. After the conference he’d stay up north for a month or so and allow her to grieve on her own. When he got back she’d hopefully be over the worst of it.

  ‘I regret having to leave you at this crucial time, my dear,’ he said, ‘but I’m afraid my trip north is unavoidable: the planters’ conference in Townsville is of great importance to us all.’ Her indifference irritated him. She might at least have had the courtesy to show some interest in his business concerns.

  ‘You are possibly not aware, Ellie,’ he said, ‘indeed it is hardly a woman’s place to be so informed, but the government passed legislation some time ago to stop the importation of Kanaka labour by 1890. A year, which I might point out,’ he added drily, ‘is currently upon us. The same government also denies planters the right to import Indian coolies for fear of upsetting the British Colonial Government. The position is untenable.’

  She remained staring into space, which annoyed him even further.

  ‘Do you not realise the significance of what I am saying?’ he continued testily. ‘Some sugar growers in the north are actually contemplating removing their mills to the Northern Territory if a supply of coolie labour can be guaranteed them there. These rulings will have an immense impact upon our entire industry. It is imperative we fight for the continuation of the Kanaka labour system.’

  He had finally gained her attention, what little she afforded him anyway, and for what little it was worth.

  ‘Then fight,’ she said, ‘go to your conference. But I know the real reason you’re leaving: you want to get away from me, you’re tired of my grief.’

  What could he say? In essence she was right, although her petulance was irksome. ‘I can assure you,’ he said stiffly, ‘that the conference is of vast importance . . .’

  But she wasn’t listening. Staring once again into space, she’d become maudlin. ‘What would you know of grief?’ she said. ‘You never loved Beatrice. You never held her in your arms. You don’t even care that she’s dead.’

  What a stupid remark, he thought. Of course he didn’t care. He’d felt no remorse at all as he’d smothered the child. His only fear had been Ellie herself as he’d watched her through the mosquito netting that shrouded the four-poster. He’d had his lie at the ready. If she were to awaken he would pretend he’d heard the baby cry and had come to its assistance. But she hadn’t awakened.

  ‘If Beatrice had been a boy you’d care,’ Ellie said. ‘If Beatrice had been a boy you’d –’

  ‘You’re wrong, I would not.’ He looked at her, wallowing in her world of self-pity, and all he could feel was contempt. ‘I would care nothing for a boy with a deformity like that,’ he said coldly. ‘Any child with such a deformity is better off dead.’

  Ellie was shocked from her torpor. His chilling words broke through the grief that had consumed her for weeks and, like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle thoughts and images flooded through her mind to make a hideous connection. She remembered his reaction upon first seeing the baby, the way he’d avoided the house, how he’d ignored little Beatrice’s presence as if willing her not to be there. Never once had he held her. Never once, she now realised, had he even uttered her name.

  ‘What have you done?’ she said her voice barely a whisper. Why, she wondered in horror, had such a possibility not occurred to her? She’d been so absorbed in her baby that she’d failed to read the signs. ‘In God’s name what have you done?’

  ‘What have I done?’ Big Jim asked in all innocence. He was grateful that he’d garnered her attention at long last. What have I done? Why, an act of kindness. I’ve put a maimed creature out of its misery. The child should have been destroyed at birth, before the mother was allowed to form an attachment. ‘I don’t understand you, Ellie. What is it exactly that you’re asking?’ He rather enjoyed making her say it out loud.

  ‘You killed her.’ She could not believe the words even as she said them. ‘You killed my baby.’

  His smile was indulgent. ‘Now, now, you’re being silly, silly and fanciful – your imagination is working overtime. You heard what the doctor said. Sad though it
is, such deaths are not uncommon.’

  Ellie felt confused. What was she to think? What was she to believe? He didn’t appear in the least confronted by her accusation and yet . . .

  ‘You’re glad Beatrice is dead, aren’t you?’ she said.

  ‘Yes,’ he replied matter-of-factly, ‘yes I am.’

  His eyes were cold now. Remote, emotionless; she had seen such a look before, but never once had it been directed at her.

  ‘Things have turned out for the best, Ellie,’ he said. ‘It is time you realised that.’ Then he turned abruptly and left the room.

  They did not speak of the matter again. He left the following day, and his parting words were a direct order.

  ‘You must rid yourself of your melancholy, my dear. You have a son to look after.’

  Once again his expression was detached, his eyes the eyes of a stranger. He did not smile, he did not kiss her farewell, he did not even wave goodbye as the horse and buggy set off for the train station.

  Ellie was left in a state of utter distraction. Had her husband killed her baby? No, no it was not possible. No one was capable of such an atrocity. But he had willed the event. He was glad the child was dead. How was she to live with a man like this? How was she to live at all? She could end her life, drown herself in the dam perhaps. But Big Jim had been right about one thing. She had a son. There was Edward to consider.

  In her grief and despair, she turned to the only friends she had: Mela and Pavi Salet.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Mela and Pavi have been my salvation. I cannot write of what happened, not yet, perhaps never. But I owe them both if not my life, then my sanity.

  Upon his return, Big Jim was relieved to find his wife in a stronger frame of mind than when he’d left. Indeed despite a certain reserve, which he supposed was to be expected, she was very nearly the Ellie of old. He was pleased that his approach had proved the right one and that she’d come to her senses. He’d been a little callous with her, certainly, but she’d needed to be shocked out of her melancholic state and it had obviously worked. He could be kind to her now.

  ‘Oh my darling girl, how I’ve missed you,’ he said. Engulfing her in his giant embrace, he lifted her from her feet to whirl her about the living room. The sight of her beauty and the sound of her voice as she’d welcomed him home had filled him with joy: his Ellie was back.

  Little Edward, now nearly eighteen months old and ever-eager to exercise his newfound mobility, joined in the game, scampering about, grabbing a fistful of his mother’s skirts as she swirled past, falling over as she swirled on, then picking himself up to repeat the exercise.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ Jim laughed at the boy’s antics, ‘I’ve missed you too, Edward. Oh it’s so good to be home with my dearest ones.’

  He finally released her, breathless and dishevelled, and they sat down to talk while Bertha arrived with the afternoon tea.

  ‘Was the conference successful?’ she asked, still panting a little.

  ‘Extremely so,’ he replied. ‘There was a great show of strength, powerful men all, our cause is strongly supported. The Queensland sugar growers are not prepared to lose their Kanakas. We are quite confident the government will be forced to repeal its legislation, or if not, at least to grant a ten-year extension before its enactment.’

  ‘That will be a relief for many, I should imagine.’

  ‘It most certainly will.’

  ‘Thank you, Bertha. I’ll pour.’ Ellie nodded to the housekeeper, who left.

  She poured her husband’s tea, added sugar, stirred it and handed him the cup. How strange, she thought, to be serving him tea and having a normal conversation as if everything was as it had once been, as if Beatrice had not died. No, no, rather as if Beatrice had never existed. That is how Jim sees things, she thought. To Jim, Beatrice was no more than a brief, unwelcome visitor who has now ceased to exist. I wonder, had she lived, what his treatment of her would have been. He surely could not have ignored his daughter for the whole of her life. Perhaps they may even have grown close over time . . .

  Ellie forced her mind back to the present. She must not torture herself with thoughts of Beatrice and what might have been. She focused instead upon her husband as he forecast the dire consequences that would ensue should Queensland be deprived of Kanaka labour.

  That night, when Big Jim came to her bed, Ellie welcomed their union. She would give him children just as she had planned, as many children as she was physically capable of producing. But the children she bore him would not be the salvation of her marriage as she had intended. They would be the salvation of her life. She knew now that there was no form of love she could share with James Durham, even that of common parenthood. She would dissemble though. For the sake of her children she would dissemble even to herself.

  Children were already proving a great source of comfort to Ellie. Edward and Malou had become inseparable. The two little boys delighted in each other’s company, and she regularly visited the Salets’ cottage in order that they might play together. Big Jim commented on the fact not long after his return.

  ‘I am glad to see, Ellie,’ he said, ‘that in my absence you have had the friendship of the Salets to help you through your difficult time.’

  ‘Yes.’ It was the first reference he’d made to Beatrice’s death, and although Ellie found his attempt to sound sympathetic the height of hypocrisy, she was indeed grateful for the provision of Mela and Pavi in her life. ‘I am thankful to have such friends,’ she said.

  Big Jim rightfully took her remark as the personal vote of thanks it was intended to be and was delighted. Their relationship once again on harmonious ground, he would do anything and everything to please his wife.

  ‘I should like to visit Beatrice’s grave on our trip into town tomorrow,’ she said.

  ‘Of course,’ he replied after only the briefest hesitation.

  It was April and this was to be Ellie’s first social outing since the death of her baby four months previously. They were to attend a garden party at the home of Cedric Tatham, a wealthy entrepreneur with whom Big Jim had had a number of business dealings.

  ‘The directors of the rum distillery will be present with their wives,’ Jim had told her, ‘and as I am about to invest in the company, I would very much like you by my side. That is, if you feel up to it,’ he’d added as a hasty afterthought.

  He’d sensed that she did not at all welcome the prospect, but she’d agreed dutifully and with good grace, so he now supposed that a visit to the child’s grave was a fair exchange. He would not allow such visits to become regular though: they were not healthy and could evoke maudlin bouts. He hoped tomorrow’s wouldn’t. She hadn’t been to the cemetery since the burial.

  He stood ten yards or so from the grave and watched her. She presented an attractive but forlorn picture, lace parasol in one hand, posy of flowers in the other as she gazed down at the little headstone. He had physically distanced himself in the pretence that he had no wish to intrude, but he hoped more to serve as a reminder that a pressing engagement awaited them and her visit must be kept brief.

  As she bent to place the flowers on the grave, he saw her lips move. It seemed she was saying goodbye. Then after a further moment’s contemplation she turned away. The entire exercise had lasted barely five minutes.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, taking his arm as she joined him, and together they walked back to where the horse and buggy was waiting.

  Her show of restraint pleased him immensely. And she looked so lovely in her pretty lavender dress. Her choice of lavender, he knew, was evidence she was still in mourning, but no matter – at least she hadn’t insisted upon black. And her hair, pinned up beneath the little straw boater as it was, displayed the elegant line of her neck to perfection. What an asset she is, Big Jim thought proudly, she will certainly serve me well today.

  After leaving the cemetery, they drove down the wide thoroughfare of Bourbon Street towards the Tathams’ house, past the Royal Hotel with i
ts majestic balconies, past Buss & Turner’s ever-busy department store and past other businesses that Ellie could swear had not been there on her last trip to town. Bundaberg seemed to grow by the day.

  The Tathams’ house, like many, was of Queenslander design, but a little grander than most as befitted Cedric’s status. Broad verandahs overlooked spacious grounds that were perfectly designed for garden parties. Tables with umbrellas and wicker chairs dotted the lawns and there was ample room for the erection of a marquee that comfortably housed twenty to table. The Tathams, a stylish middle-aged English couple, held their annual garden party always in autumn, never spring, which would clash with the crushing season, and despite an air of social occasion the event unashamedly lent itself to the business of the day.

  In only several decades Bundaberg had blossomed from little more than a logging camp into a thriving timber town, and had then gone on to become, barely overnight it would seem in historical terms, the prosperous centre of a major sugar-producing region. A number of entrepreneurs had emerged during this massive boom, clever men who recognised and seized the opportunities that abounded. One such was Cedric Tatham. A prominent citizen and member of the Bundaberg Municipal Council, there was very little local commerce in which Cedric was not involved and very few major businesses that had not benefited from his investment, silent or otherwise.

  Cedric’s garden parties were therefore specifically designed for the purposes of mixing and mingling. Along with wishing to consolidate his place in the town’s hierarchy, Cedric Tatham firmly believed that business conducted on a social level was expedient for all concerned. Besides, his wife very much enjoyed playing hostess.

  Contrary to Ellie’s expectations, the garden party did not prove a gruelling affair, although in its early stages, it augured to be all that she had feared.

  ‘My goodness gracious, just look at them,’ Margaret Tatham said with a flippant wave of her hand, ‘you’d swear, would you not, that our husbands are solving the gravest problems the world has to offer.’