by Lisa Bigelow
‘Mae, are you all right? Your face has gone deathly white.’
Mae looked down and saw blood splashes on the floor beneath her chair. The stain slowly spread and her heart began to pound as she realised something was very wrong. Oh, Lord, please no—not like my mother!
‘Claire?’ she whimpered.
‘Here, let’s have you lying on the floor. We need to get your legs up.’
She let Claire help her lie down then Nicholas began to cry.
‘Mumma, she’s bleeding.’
‘I know, darling,’ Claire said calmly. ‘Get Mummy some towels, please.’
Mae clutched her stomach as more pain gripped her belly. It felt like something was trying to tear her open. The floor beneath her dipped, the walls swayed.
She could hear Claire’s voice speaking faintly, as if from a long way off.
‘Mae, can you hear me? I’m leaving you for a minute to call an ambulance. I’ll be back soon.’
Mae tried to reply but exhaustion overwhelmed her. Fear ebbed away. She was cold, she needed a blanket. Most of all, she needed Harry.
When Mae awoke in hospital the next day, Et was by her side, knitting something small and white. Mae lay very still, watching the needles clacking. Her aunt’s expression was a mixture of concentration and tiredness, the circles beneath her eyes closer to black than their usual purple smudges. Knowing Et would start to fuss as soon as she realised Mae was awake, she waited a few moments before drawing attention to herself. Without moving she took in as much of her surrounds as she could. She was lying on her side. She couldn’t feel anything from her waist down. She had flashes of what she assumed were memories: lying on Claire’s floor; swaying and rocking in the ambulance; feeling pain and cold; then nothing—until now. It was impossible to tell whether the baby was still inside her or not. She lifted her hand and moved it towards her stomach.
‘There you are, dear. Don’t fret; you’re safe now.’
‘Et, the baby?’
‘Fit and well, down in the nursery. You can see her in a couple of days, when you feel stronger.’
‘Her? She’s a girl?’
‘Yes, dear. Quite the dramatic arrival, but she’s doing very well. You will too, when you recover from the surgery.’
‘Surgery? What do you mean?’ Mae tried to sit up, conscious again that she couldn’t feel anything below the waist. ‘What’s happened? Where are my legs?’
‘Settle down. You had a hysterectomy, to stop the bleeding. They had no choice. You’ll be fine in a month or two.’
‘A hysterectomy? But that means no more children!’
‘No dear, no more.’
It took several moments for Mae to realise that she was crying. All that time expecting the baby, all those lost babies, and now, no more. Harry would be devastated. He’d always said he planned to have a football team. Each time she’d lost a baby he was every bit as upset as she was—not tearful, but painfully quiet, serious, for weeks at a time. He’d tried to be cheerful for her sake, bringing flowers, rubbing her feet, even cooking eggs on toast a couple of times for their dinner. But it seemed he took as long to recover—to find his smile—as she did.
In the days following the birth, Mae hardly slept. She was in pain from the operation and was constantly poked and prodded by the doctors and nurses. All she wanted to do was curl up with Harry, somewhere quiet away from the bustle. He’d make her feel better. Because it seemed nothing was going right. Being four weeks early, the baby spent her first week in an oxygen tent as a precaution. She was ten days old before Mae held her for the first time. The nurse tried to help her feed the squawking and fidgeting child with a bottle. It ended with mother and child in tears and the nurse taking over.
‘She just needs time to get used to you,’ the nurse said brightly. ‘You’ll get the hang of it.’
While the other mothers in the ward cooed and smiled at their babies, Mae tried to comfort the angry-faced infant that seemed to hate her. Mae couldn’t understand why the baby wouldn’t settle.
‘Some of them are just like that, especially when they come early,’ another nurse said.
A small stream of visitors—women from church, neighbours and Harry’s family—brought booties and bibs and lots of advice. As each visitor dispensed wisdom on subjects like how to soothe a crying baby, how to avoid colic, how to wash nappies, Mae began to dread taking the baby home. There was so much to remember; her visitors were overwhelming her with information. But she smiled, thanked them for their gifts and nodded politely when they said her life was complete now she had a child.
‘You’re both doing well, Mrs Parker,’ the doctor said during their third week in hospital. ‘The baby has put on weight. You’ll be ready to leave in a few days.’
Mae wept.
‘That’s right,’ he said with a smile, ‘your ordeal is nearly over. Now you can get on with things.’
But they weren’t tears of joy.
Mae watched rain pouring down the windows and whitecaps whipping across the bay, wishing she could turn her life back to the way it was before Harry left.
The bell rang for afternoon visiting hours and within minutes Mae saw her aunt striding towards her.
‘How are you feeling, my dear?’ Et asked. She reached into a large shopping bag and pulled out a stack of clean, pressed nightgowns. She laid them on the shelf in the cabinet beside Mae’s bed.
‘The doctor says I should be ready to go home later this week.’
‘That’s wonderful news; everything’s ready,’ Et said, sitting down in the chair beside Mae’s bed and pulling from her bag the baby blanket she was knitting. ‘William’s put the pram in your room. She can sleep in that for the time being. I’ll wash and starch your old layette. It’s big for the pram but it will suffice.’
‘Thank you, but please don’t go to any more trouble. I can just wrap her in blankets.’
‘Nonsense. No child of this family will be treated like a foundling.’
Mae sank back into her pillows, not caring about winning the argument. ‘It’s just for a few weeks, Et. I’ll be going home soon.’
Et tutted as her needles flew at lightning speed. ‘It makes no sense to waste money renting a house when you could easily stay with us. Harry will be gone for at least six months and you’re trying to save for a house.’
‘It’s important to me, Et.’
‘You get your stubborn streak from your mother, dear. She’d never be told anything and she made some terrible decisions over the years.’
‘Like marrying my father?’
‘Well, in a way, but if she hadn’t married him we’d never have had you, would we?’
Mae had only ever seen one photograph of her parents together: their wedding picture. She’d never heard much about her father, just that he’d left to find work up north when her mother was expecting. As far as she knew, they’d never heard from him again. Her mother, Katherine, moved home to be with her sister and brothers then died giving birth. As a girl, Mae was drawn to stories of single children and orphans, but she also wondered how it would feel to be part of a real family; a mother and father, brothers and sisters. She was so close to finding out, but what if Harry had changed his mind and didn’t want to be a father after all? He seemed pretty keen to be at sea. Maybe he only liked the idea of fatherhood. Or what if he thought she was a bad mother, a bad wife, now she couldn’t give him more children? He might leave, just like her father had, with no explanation. She’d have to go home to her aunt and uncles for good. Mae knew better than to ask about her father; Et refused to talk about him. But she suddenly needed to know much more about her mother.
‘Do you think my mother would have been good at raising me?’
‘She’d have been very good; she certainly would have made a much better job of things than we did. It took three of us to muster half the ability your mother had in her left hand before you were born. She mothered all of us, you know, especially William when he was injured.’
‘You didn’t do too badly with me.’
‘We did what we had to do, and now you will too.’
Mae dropped her voice so the other patients wouldn’t hear. ‘I don’t know if I can. I think the baby hates me. All she does is cry when I go anywhere near her.’
‘Don’t be silly. They all do that.’
Mae reached for her hanky. ‘Do you think Harry will mind only having one child? I couldn’t bear it if he thinks I’ve let him down.’
‘Mae, there’s nothing more you could have done. It’s very likely that what happened to you is exactly what killed your poor mother. Besides, Harry adores you. Just count your blessings. People dream of having a life like yours—especially now, with the war on.’
Mae looked out the window and sent another silent plea for Harry to return. There’d be no one to help when she and the baby left the hospital. Et would be working at the shop all day, and William and Albert were too old.
‘Have you thought any more about a name for the baby?’
‘I’ve decided on Katherine—Katie for short—after my mother. Harry and I talked about that name for a girl.’
Et smiled and set her knitting aside to pat Mae’s hand. ‘She would have been terribly proud. What about a second name, dear? Elizabeth after Harry’s mother?’
‘I suppose we’ll have to, since there won’t be any more,’ Mae said. ‘But I’d prefer to name her Esther, after you.’
‘Oh no! You know I hate being called by that name.’
‘You used to let him!’
Et closed her eyes momentarily. ‘How do you know that?’
‘I saw it on the back of the photograph you showed me.’
‘Of course,’ Et said, looking back to her knitting; a white blanket with cables done on the finest needles. Et had already finished a matching cardigan. At least the baby would leave hospital in style.
‘This is nearly finished. What else do you need? Singlets? More hats? We don’t have much time to get ready.’
‘She has more than she needs. We might have to start giving things away.’
‘They don’t tell you how much mess babies make. She’ll use it all.’
Mae pictured the baby’s cot in the spare room of their cottage, the pram in the hallway. She imagined Harry carrying the baby down the hospital steps to a taxi, settling her on Mae’s lap, then tucking a blanket around them for the trip home. Then they’d begin life as a family, Harry smoking a cigarette and reading the paper as she fed Katie. After the baby was asleep they’d eat dinner and snuggle in front of the fire, just the two of them, as though nothing had changed. Everything will be so much better when Harry’s home, she told herself. It will be just perfect.
CHAPTER 6
* * *
September 1941
SAM’S TELEPHONES RANG FASTER than Grace could answer them. As soon as she transferred a call the phone would ring again. The stack of messages from reporters across the country grew as they called to discuss their stories before the news conference in twenty minutes. Grace loved the constant drama, never knowing what each day would bring. The only thing that would make it better was adding her own stories to the list.
She spent her spare time researching and writing stories, then typing them up after Sam left the office. Practice stories about homeless families she saw in the Botanic Gardens, an interview with the men fishing off Station Pier in Port Melbourne, who turned out to be a foreign merchant crew who couldn’t afford to buy meals during shore leave so they were catching their supper. Only one of the sailors spoke halting English, but she’d managed to find out that the war was making people suspicious of foreigners, so they weren’t welcome in their usual cheap pubs and hostels. She’d left several stories on Sam’s desk but never had a response. He was probably trying to spare her feelings. After all, she’d had no real training.
As she sorted Sam’s messages and handed them over, he nodded his thanks but stayed focused on his work. That was one of the things she’d enjoyed most about working for him over the last six months: no matter how busy Sam was, he never shouted at his staff, never lost his temper. When he was busy he put his head down and concentrated on his work until the edition was safely put to bed. But so many of the reporters were signing up and heading overseas that gaps were opening on the staff roster, and the growing number of empty desks was making her restless. Twice now she’d raised the subject of a cadetship. His firm response was the same each time: ‘No, not possible, Miss Fowler.’ So she’d changed tack, casually mentioning stories she’d covered on her father’s paper; the fireman who baked fruitcakes for the local nursing home and the elderly librarian who loved to tap dance. Colour stories, yes, but she was happy to start there before being given harder news.
‘Good morning, Miss Fowler. How are you today?’
Grace felt the hairs on her arms rise. Whenever she looked up from her typing lately, she’d catch Phil Taylor staring at her. Her skin would tingle and she’d quickly look away. The first few times she’d thought she must have buttoned her blouse strangely or perhaps her hair was sticking out at a funny angle, but several trips to the ladies’ room had assured her all was in order. He probably wasn’t really staring at her, she reasoned, but was just lost in thought as he worked on a story and his gaze happened to be turned in her direction. After all, he seldom spoke to her unless he needed something from Sam.
‘Can you let Sam know I’ve finished my feature article?’ Phil said now, standing by her desk.
‘Does he know what it’s about?’
‘It has to do with how the war’s affecting the racing season. There probably won’t be many more races after the Melbourne Cup week. Not enough diesel to transport the horses.’
‘I see, well that sounds quite serious.’
Grace noticed that Phil was leaning awkwardly to one side, supporting his weight on the hand he’d placed on her desk.
‘Are you all right? You look as though you’re in pain.’
‘It’s nothing, just pulled a hamstring when I was training.’
‘Football?’
‘No, I’m a runner—a sprinter, actually. One-hundred-yard dash.’
‘Goodness, do you need time off for treatment?’
‘No, nothing like that. I’ve got the nationals next weekend; I should come good in time.’
‘Injuries are so miserable,’ Grace said, thinking of Mick’s football injuries. He seemed to be on crutches at least once each season.
‘Do you play sport, Miss Fowler? Netball, tennis?’
‘I’m more the enthusiastic supporter.’
‘Integral to any team,’ Phil said with a wide grin.
Grace’s blush raced from her chest to her forehead. One of her telephones rang and then the other.
‘If you could tell Sam I need to talk to him, tomorrow will be fine.’
‘I’ll let him know.’
Grace watched Phil limp back to his desk as she answered the calls and quickly wrote messages. Phil smiled at her as he sat, but her mood sank when she realised that his gaze had probably been fixed on Sam all this time, not her. How stupid! He was just like Mick, who had always treated her like a little sister. And having met Caroline, Grace knew it was impossible that Phil could see her as anything other than a mousy little secretary. So why was she still blushing whenever he paid her any attention? She really needed to grow out of that habit, and fast!
When the last edition was finished, Sam stood and stretched, grabbed his jacket and notebook then said he was off to see Mr Gordon.
‘I’ll probably be there for a while, Grace. You might as well head off too.’
‘Phil Taylor wanted to see you about his story on the horse races. He said it’s finished.’
‘Goodo. Tell him to come and see me in the morning.’
Grace looked across and saw that, again, Phil was watching. She nodded her head and mouthed, Tomorrow. He smiled that big bright smile of his and replied, Thanks.
The following Sunday after tr
ying another church, Grace took the tram to the library in the city and climbed the two flights of stairs to the reading room with its soaring dome and wooden desks arranged like bicycle spokes. She stacked the week’s magazines beneath a reading light and began to leaf through them one by one, adding to her list of possible profiles. When she opened the Melbourne Magazine and scanned the society page, her heart leaped painfully at a picture of Phil holding hands with Caroline in the ballroom of a Toorak mansion. He looked like a dream in his tuxedo, but she couldn’t drag her gaze away from their clasped hands. The caption added to her pain: Belles of the Ball. Miss Caroline Strickland and her childhood sweetheart Mr Phillip Taylor provide the glamour at the annual Lord Mayor’s Ball. The pair remain tight-lipped about wedding plans.
Grace suddenly ached for home, for fresh air, sunshine and a bright blue sky, a place far from the newsroom and a time before she’d set eyes on Phil Taylor. She knew it was silly to feel upset. It wasn’t as though Phil had ever shown any interest in her. He was always polite, of course, but he’d hardly asked her a question about herself; what sort of reporter did that make him? One who thought she had nothing interesting to say, that was for sure. Well, that was about to change, she decided. She might not meet people he found fascinating or go to the same parties, but that didn’t mean she had to live down to the stereotype of a mousy secretary. She could still have fun. Some of the girls at work had invited her to their monthly Friday night dinner, to be held the following week. She’d been invited once before but declined because she wanted to see a new Torchy film. This time she’d make sure she went.
Friday night in the ladies’ lounge of the Duke of Wellington Hotel was crammed to overflowing with tables of raucous women celebrating the end of the working week. Well, almost the end. Many—including Grace—would be expected to front up to work the next day, although by the looks of it some would have quite sore heads. There were four other women at her table: two secretaries from the advertising department, Del and Jo, as well as Angela from accounts and Barbara, a reporter from the women’s page.