The History of Mischief

by Rebecca Higgie

  Then Robert offered, ‘This is my brother Elliot, the awful one I buy books for. He likes to play games. Very silly games. Let the poor girl go, please.’

  Elliot released me. Slowly.

  ‘Come this way, Lizzy. I’m terribly sorry.’

  I did what I was told. Elliot and Robert didn’t exchange any words, but I felt Elliot watching us as we went inside. Robert acted like nothing had happened.

  ‘Are you putting the baby up for adoption?’

  ‘I … I don’t know.’

  ‘Be aware that they’ll mark your records as such when you go in. You’re young and unmarried. If you want to keep it, you should make that clear.’

  I nodded. ‘Will you be there?’

  ‘Unlikely. The midwives will take care of you, unless you have complications.’

  ‘Please,’ I said.

  He smiled reassuringly. ‘You mustn’t worry. You’ll be in good hands.’

  ‘I’ll steal Frostiana for you.’

  He let out a surprised laugh. I smiled, enjoying the way it burst out of him. ‘A tempting offer, but I fear Mr Summers’ wrath wouldn’t be worth it.’

  By the time I left, it was dark. Elliot was waiting, smoking in the dark. He glowered at me, his eyes as wicked as the shrivelling red embers on his cigarette. He said nothing, not even when Robert told him he was taking me home.

  The next day, I got up early, bought the bread, made my daily mountain of sandwiches, and went to work. Alexander came down late. That was when I noticed.

  Old Man Summers sat in his chair, his head slightly bowed. He sagged like the overburdened shelves behind him. He smiled. His classic napping pose. But his eyes were open. He didn’t blink.

  I touched Alexander’s arm and gestured towards the old man. He said, ‘What?’ but then frowned. He took a step towards him. Then another. Slowly he made his way over. He knelt down, looked into those yellowed staring eyes. Checked his breath.

  ‘If you’re pulling my leg, Papu.’

  Checked his pulse.

  Owen was called. But no one wept like Alexander.

  There was no funeral. Old Man Summers’ will was direct: Scatter my ashes somewhere inconvenient. Remind the world what’s coming to them. A week later, we went to Forrest Place, threw the ashes over a balcony, watched them shower down onto annoyed shoppers. In the following days, Alexander sat on the floor by the old man’s chair. Eventually, Owen replaced the chair with another, and started to go through the accounts.

  That night, as I was gripped by pain, Alexander noticed how I was sweating and breathing heavily. He brought me a damp cloth and wiped my face.

  ‘Lizzy, after the baby’s born we should go. Visit somewhere, or work somewhere different. Maybe Greece or Turkey. Papu said how beautiful it was. All that history.’

  ‘How?’ I asked. ‘We don’t have money.’

  ‘I saved a little.’

  ‘How can we travel with a baby?’

  ‘Well, we won’t have the baby, will we?’

  I didn’t say anything. We sat in that awkward silence. Then, ‘I want to go home.’

  ‘We can never go home,’ he said.

  I nodded.

  ‘I want –’ he stopped himself, paused, then took my hand. ‘It’s okay. We can see every place on earth in the books downstairs.’

  I nodded and squeezed his hand back. He took the damp cloth from me, turned it over and placed the cool side back on my forehead.

  After an evening of building agony, my waters broke. Alexander was out. Owen took me to the hospital and just left. I begged him to stay, but he seemed even more terrified than me.

  I didn’t tell them I was unmarried. They just guessed from my age and lack of a wedding ring. The way I was treated confirmed I could never go home. I was left on a cold, narrow bed, nurses, doctors and trolleys rattling past as the pain flared.

  I started to scream for Robert early on, begging them to find Dr Stewart, or just to help me, please, do anything. One nurse told me off for all the noise I was making. I was checked periodically, to see how far along I was. Other than that, I was left with that growing crescendo of agony for hours, alone. I kept begging for Robert. He never came.

  But you did. Because of course, Harry, the baby was you. As the pain reached its zenith, I was taken to a delivery suite. I was sure I was dying, being torn apart. Then I felt you slide out of me, and a beautiful warm wet relief flooded me. The nurses lifted a sheet so I couldn’t see you. I heard you cry, and the relief was washed away with terror. They wouldn’t let me see you. They were taking you away.

  ‘Please,’ I begged. ‘My baby.’

  One of them said, ‘It’s not your baby, dear.’

  I screamed in a hysterical voice that was not my own. ‘Let me see my baby!’

  The nurse that held you, her back to me, stopped.

  ‘It’ll do her more harm than good,’ one of the others warned.

  The nurse turned. ‘Let her just see him.’

  Then I saw you, this tiny red thing with a big mop of black hair. Black hair like mine. Like Chloe’s. In that moment, I knew you were mine, always would be. The nurse gave me one sad smile, and took you away. I screamed and cried and swore. I was given an injection, a sedative of some sort. As the poison leached through my body, something bloomed deep in my heart. You were mine. You, this baby with my hair. You were mine.

  When I woke, my breasts were bound. They were swollen, hard as rock, and no milk came. Whenever I heard the babies crying or cooing in the beds of the married women next to me, they throbbed.

  I was not alone. There was an unmarried girl next to me in the ward. During the day, a social worker’s insidious whispers wafted through from behind the curtain. This man told the girl she needed to sign the consent forms, that a perfect married couple was waiting for her baby, that she couldn’t possibly provide what they could. Only a selfish girl kept her baby when she couldn’t provide for it.

  ‘If you truly love your baby, you’ll let her go to this nice family. You love your baby, don’t you?’

  Eventually, she echoed his words. She spoke to herself, as if her brain short-circuited so badly that all she could do was mutter, in a constant stream, all the things he said to her. ‘It’s better, you know. She’ll have a better life.’

  I screamed for Robert.

  The social worker came for me next. He probably didn’t guess it from all the fuss I made, but I did feel shame. He was right. I couldn’t take care of you like a married couple with a proper house and income. But I kept asking to see you.

  ‘You can see him after you sign the forms.’

  But I wouldn’t sign the forms. I screamed again for Robert.

  Finally, after all my cries, after two attempts to get into the nursery, Robert came.

  ‘Lizzy, I hear you’ve been asking for me.’

  It was meant as a greeting. He smiled warmly, like someone there to take care of me. He looked at my charts, marked with that insidious red triangle, shaped like an A for Adoption, with a big arrow pointing at it for attention. He saw my breasts, squashed under the hospital gown. And he just smiled.

  I pulled myself up to get closer to him.

  ‘If you don’t give me my baby, I’ll tell them what you are.’

  His face changed. His smile gone.

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘I’ll tell them!’ I screamed, loud enough for anyone on the ward to hear.

  He took a step back.

  A nurse appeared. ‘What’s this about?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Robert said quickly. Then, he added, ‘Get the girl her baby.’

  ‘Doctor –’

  ‘Just do it.’

  They brought you to me. They brought their scowls, but they brought you. As soon as I held you, I could see nothing else.

  You, with your black black hair.

  From that moment on, they could say nothing to me. The kind assurances that adoption was the best thing to do. The cruel accusations that I was a selfish girl. Rob
ert must have said something to the nurses, because they fetched you whenever I asked and eventually brought a cot so you could stay by my side. I listened to the social worker, you in my arms or on my now liberated breast, and smiled. You can’t do anything to me, I thought. My baby is the only thing I have.

  I left that hospital with you in my arms. No one was waiting to collect me, so I just walked home. It wasn’t such a long walk, and you only cried once. As we came into the bookshop, you and I, we were greeted with disappointment.

  ‘You kept it,’ Owen said.

  ‘His name is Harry,’ I said, and went upstairs. I lay you down on that little bed of mine in the storeroom. I stroked your fat cheeks as Alexander and Owen argued downstairs.

  I went from wonder to terror overnight. No one had explained anything to me, how to breastfeed, how you couldn’t regulate your own body temperature, all the thousand terrifying sounds you’d make. I took you to Mrs Li on a daily basis. She sighed with every visit, but took me into her garden and explained what any good mother or midwife should’ve told me.

  Slowly, we got used to one another, you and I. Owen got used to you too. Robert came in once, to ask how I was. He then played with you for half an hour, singing to you, laughing at the way you looked around wide-eyed.

  ‘I always wanted a family,’ he told you.

  He left that day without buying a book.

  Three months, we settled in. Still frightened. Still getting it wrong. No sleep. But we were safe. We had a home.

  That all changed when Alexander finally decided to do the long-overdue chore of taking down the Christmas decorations. He went out early to clean them away before we got up.

  They said he fell. From the top floor balcony. A footprint on the balustrade was offered as evidence. I found him when I went to get bread. In the middle of the street, on the asphalt, eyes wide open. They said he broke his back. Burst internal organs. I can still remember how shocked he looked, how surprised he was to have fallen. Owen cried more than when Old Man Summers died. I didn’t shed a tear. I felt only fear. My guardian was gone.

  It started after the funeral. You would be quiet for days, just the occasional mew, but then you’d unleash hours of relentless screams and crying. If the shop was open, Owen banged on the roof with a broom handle. When customers left, his footsteps pounded up the stairs. He flung open the door to my storeroom without knocking.

  ‘Would you shut that bloody thing up?’

  ‘I’m trying.’

  ‘Try harder!’

  Your cries continued to turn patrons away. Owen’s girlfriend stopped coming around. And I was useless. I couldn’t help in the shop. I couldn’t serve people when Owen was away without having you in my arms, cooing or crying.

  Eventually, he said to me, with his first attempt at gentility in weeks, ‘You need to go home.’

  ‘I can’t go home,’ I told him.

  ‘If you don’t leave, I’ll tell them where you are. You’re from the lighthouse. I could just send a letter,’ he said. ‘It’s best. Your family might be angry but they could help you. I don’t know what to do, I’m sorry. A shop is no place for a baby.’

  I thought of the last time I saw my mother.

  ‘I know it’s difficult. But it can’t be worse than this.’

  ‘Okay,’ I said. ‘Can you give me a few days?’

  He nodded. Smiled as if we were friends again. I hugged him then. Because he was a friend, once. We were playmates, fellow mischiefs. I’d miss him, despite what he was doing to us.

  Early next morning, I wrapped you up like Mrs Li had shown me. I took a few sandwiches made from Serafin’s bread. I half-filled a backpack, noting how few possessions I had. I left the bookshop, but then came back. Gazed at that forbidden glass cabinet full of treasures. And I took it. Frostiana. Put it in my nearly empty backpack.

  I was seventeen. I walked to Robert’s rooms as the sun was coming up. I sat down outside, right under his window, and waited.

  I didn’t hear him come in, but he heard you, crying. He poked his head out of his window. He looked alarmed to see us.

  He disappeared. Then I heard the backdoor slam. In a few moments, he was there, standing beside us.

  ‘Hello Lizzy,’ he said.

  ‘Hello,’ I said.

  He carefully adjusted the way I was holding you. You went quiet. I smiled at him. He didn’t smile back.

  With one free hand, I took Frostiana out of my bag and handed it to him. He took it gingerly, opening it to the title page. He then tried to hand it back, but I was holding you in two arms now. He lay it down on the backpack.

  ‘This is a gift,’ I said, motioning to the book.

  ‘It’s not yours to give.’

  ‘No. I stole it. Those of us with secrets must do what we can to survive.’

  From his face, I could tell he heard my threat.

  ‘I’m homeless,’ I said. ‘I don’t have anywhere to go.’

  He didn’t know what to say, or what I wanted. He was nervous.

  ‘You need to help me,’ I said.

  ‘Okay,’ he said, drawing the word out. ‘How can I help you?’

  ‘I need somewhere to live. Just for a while.’

  ‘Lizzy,’ he said with a sigh. ‘I know you love your boy, but there’s still time for adoption. You could find a job then. Perhaps I can offer you work in the office here, but most single mothers … there’s nothing for you. Who can look after him when you’re working? Who will employ you? If you don’t have family, there’s nothing you can do. This world won’t help you.’

  ‘I’m not asking the world to help me. I’m asking you,’ I said. ‘Who do you think the world hates more, you or me? What world will help you, Doctor?’

  He let out a long sigh. ‘Come inside,’ he said. ‘We’ll figure something out.’

  That afternoon, we drove into Guildford. When we came over the bridge, onto the main street, we were transported to the past. The romantic shops with their tin signs of peeling calligraphy. The train tracks lined with giant sugar gums. Colonial buildings in various states of majesty or disrepair. The town looked like it’d remained in the 1800s, with cars the only object of modernity to be welcomed. We pulled up outside a beautiful little house.

  ‘I’m moving into general practice,’ Robert explained as he took us inside. ‘The local surgery was looking for a new doctor, and they liked the idea of having a GP who could offer obstetrics. I’ll be moving here in a few weeks. We haven’t moved much in, but there’s a bed in the master bedroom.’

  I walked around in a daze, into tall ceilinged rooms with a hodgepodge of boxes and furniture.

  ‘We don’t have a cot, obviously. I will … I’ll get one soon. You can keep it when you leave.’

  When you leave. I nodded. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Oh, the cupboard’s empty. I’ll get some food from the local store.’

  I stood on the patio and watched him go. Sat with you, admiring the view of the street. An elderly woman was out in her garden. She kept glancing at us.

  Robert came back, two bags of food in tow, and then handed me the key. Aware we were being watched, I took his hands suddenly.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said and kissed him on the cheek.

  He pulled back and nodded. ‘It’s alright. This is only temporary.’

  ‘Of course,’ I said.

  The woman, watching from across the road, smiled and waved.

  I explored my new home, rudely going through boxes. I found a jewellery box that I later learnt belonged to Robert’s late mother. She’d left him many trinkets, including her wedding ring. I put it on.

  ‘Where did you find that?’ was Robert’s immediate question.

  ‘I was looking for some blankets and found a jewellery box.

  I just … I wanted to go to the bakery and didn’t want anyone to think badly of me.’

  And go out I did. I made myself seen with that ring on my finger. Strangers stopped me to comment on my beautiful baby and ask when I
’d moved in. ‘You’re the new doctor’s wife?’ I smiled and nodded.

  Every day, Robert checked on me, though he paid more attention to you, singing and playing games with you. He bought a cot and a pram. Then a few toys. Some clothes. Every time: ‘You can keep these when you go.’

  A week later, Elliot came in without knocking. I heard his footsteps thumping down the hallway as I was feeding you in the living room. I covered myself as he flung open the door.

  ‘You’re leaving soon,’ he said.

  ‘I know,’ I replied.

  ‘You remember what you are,’ he said, coming close. ‘No one’s going to believe the word of a whore. You remember that, darling.’

  He didn’t speak to me again, but visited often to unload his books in the study. When it looked as though the house was ready to move in, Robert sat me down. I was prepared to rebuke the eviction notice I knew was coming.

  ‘The neighbours keep asking about my wife,’ he said.

  It wasn’t the sentence I expected.

  ‘How odd,’ I said.

  ‘I met with my new colleagues yesterday. One doctor said his wife met mine as she was strolling in the park with my son. Thought she was very witty.’

  ‘They must’ve been confused by the ring.’

  ‘Hmm,’ he muttered. A moment passed. Then, ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Somewhere safe,’ I said. ‘To keep my baby.’

  ‘Is that all?’

  ‘That’s all.’

  He sighed. ‘You’ve made this difficult for me. I can’t be a man who seemingly abandons his wife and child. It would look very bad. I couldn’t stay here.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I offered, though I meant none of it.

  He looked down, shy. ‘You want safety. To keep your baby. We can, perhaps, you and I … we can come to an arrangement,’ he said. ‘I don’t trust you, but I like you. You’re quite formidable. And you’re smart. And I like your boy. As long as I live in this town, we can, if you wish, be a family.’ Then, quietly but earnestly he said, ‘I would like a family.’

  I nodded.

  ‘We wouldn’t be, it wouldn’t be, what it normally is, if you understand me,’ he added quickly. ‘But I’d look after you. I’d be a good father. Boys need good fathers. And, maybe, you can look after me … and Elliot.’