Out of the Silence

by Wendy James

  We have our half days Saturday afternoon and Sunday morning, though this is not really a half day – it being expected that we will attend church – and as this is the only time that Jack can get into town we arrange to meet then. The entire Brann household, including the servants, are Protestant, so it is quite useful to have the name Heffernan – even the housekeeper takes me for a Catholic, and no one questions my religious devotion when I leave the house before everyone else on Sunday mornings (first mass is at seven) and do not return until after lunch.

  Each Sunday it is the same. I walk towards town for a few blocks and when I am quite out of sight, I turn east and go on until I am at the outskirts and then follow the Melbourne road. It is always a relief to be outdoors. It is pretty country and not too hilly, so even though I am that eager to see Jack that really there is nothing in my head but thoughts of him, this early morning walk is a pleasant enough way to fill the time. But it is nothing to what comes after, when me and Jack are together.

  Each week Jack pulls over in the cart he has borrowed from his boss and calls out to me as if I were a stranger. ‘Morning, miss,’ he’ll say. ‘Would you like a ride somewhere? It’s a pity to see such pretty shoes get worn through on such a rough and dusty road.’ Then he’ll grin and pull me up into the cart, and with my heart almost bursting at the sight of him, we’ll head off to some place or other that Jack has discovered – a wood at the edge of a property, or some picnic site that is rarely used. I could not say whether we head east or west, north or south, for my eyes (and ears and every part of me) are all for Jack; for his twinkling eyes and merry smile and his head of dark curls. And for the next few hours nothing else will matter, nothing else will exist.

  Our meetings here are as they always were. We walk and talk, eat. We lean close. We lie, arms around one another, breathing each other in. We whisper. We kiss. We caress. Nothing more.

  Mrs Nolan is always made cross by my high spirits on Sunday afternoons. ‘It shouldn’t be allowed,’ she huffs. ‘You oughta come along to chapel with me, miss, or else stay at home. What those heathens do in that church I will never know, but what I do know is that you are no use to us at all after – why, you’re half off your head!’

  And never once do I say anything back. She’s right – I am half off my head: I skip when I should walk, laugh when I should be silent. I am no use at all.

  Eventually Jack does what I know he will do. Asks what I know he will ask.

  We are laying back, not talking, drowsy in the sunshine, when so slowly and cautiously that I am barely aware of it, he begins to unbutton my shirt. I let him get down to the final button and just as he is preparing to slip his fingers inside, I open my eyes and grab his hand. ‘And what do you think you’re doing, Mr Hardy?’ I try to make it snappy, but my voice comes out all breathless.

  He grins. ‘Only what any fella would try to do, given half a chance,’ he says.

  I sit up, start buttoning. ‘But you’re not being given half a chance, Jack. Not even a quarter.’

  ‘What if I asked you to marry me, Mags. What then?’

  My fingers fumble with the buttons. ‘Well …’ my voice has all but disappeared, ‘ask away, Mr Hardy.’

  ‘Then, will you marry me, Maggie Heffernan?’ He has got hold of my hand, is pressing it between his two, is looking hard at me, not smiling.

  ‘D’you mean it?’

  ‘Of course I mean it.’ He’s grinning again. ‘D’you think I’d joke about something like that.’

  ‘Yes … no. But you’ve never … I didn’t …’

  ‘Not like you to be stuck for words, Mags. What do you say?’

  I throw my arms around his neck. I feel like shouting but can barely manage a whisper. ‘Yes, oh yes, oh yes, oh yes.’ I press myself against him, breathe him in. I leave my shirt unbuttoned.

  It is close to midday when we get back in the cart and head back towards town. ‘Mags,’ Jack’s voice is subdued, serious. ‘Mags, let’s just keep quiet about getting married for a little bit. Don’t write home and tell your parents straightaway, or anything.’

  ‘Why not?’ I already have a letter to Doll half written in my head.

  ‘Well – it wouldn’t look good, would it? They’ve never even met me. There’ll be all sorts of questions about how we’ve gone about our courting.’

  ‘But if we’re engaged surely none of that will matter?’

  ‘Listen – I just don’t want anyone to know yet.’ He is looking straight ahead and not at me. ‘I’ve got some business I need to sort out first. Can you just keep quiet about it? Can you do that for me?’

  I keep quiet. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for my Jack. Nothing.

  The next Sunday he takes it further. His hand moves from my breasts to the buttons on my skirt and is well on its way south before I come to my senses.

  ‘Oh, Mags,’ he pleads, ‘what does it matter? If we’re going to be married, what’s the difference?’

  ‘Oh no, Jack boy, too many women have been caught out that way. You know poor little Jenny Ivy?’ I say. ‘That rogue Bill Kelly, what promises he made that poor girl and did not keep! I am not as simple-minded as all that,’ I tell him. ‘I’ll see the ring on my finger first, thank you very much.’ And he groans and lays his great curly head against my chest. ‘Please,’ he murmurs, but I am firm, push him away. ‘No,’ I say. ‘You can wait for that. Wait till you’ve made an honest woman of me. How do I know you wouldn’t have your wicked way with me and be on your merry way? It’s happened to smarter girls than me.’

  ‘Oh, Mags,’ he says, pulling me to him so hard that my breath is all but knocked out, ‘Now that would never happen – not to us. Why, if I had my wicked way with you once I’d want it every day – twice a day most likely. I wouldn’t be going anywhere, that’s for sure.’

  ‘We can’t, Jack. Not yet. What if I – you know there’s no way to be certain.’

  ‘And if there was – a way to be certain?’

  ‘But there’s no way, Jack. None that I know of, anyway.’

  ‘But what if there was?’

  ‘Well – I don’t know.’ He lets me go. Moves away.

  ‘I thought it was me that you loved, Maggie. Not just the idea of a ring on your finger.’

  ‘Of course I love you. More than anything. You know that.’

  ‘I thought that what we had was different. I thought you wanted me as much as I want you.’ His voice is hard, the twinkle has gone out of his eyes. ‘I thought you were different, Maggie. Different to other girls.’

  ‘I am, Jack,’ I plead. ‘Oh, but I am different.’

  He looks at me and grins, but his eyes are cold and his smile is empty. ‘No, you’re not, Maggie. You’re just as scared and silly as the rest of ’em. Afraid you’ll put your soul in danger or something. Afraid of being ruined.’ He shakes his head. ‘You’re all the same. Love means marriage. I’m just a meal ticket. You don’t really love me. Any fella’d do.’

  ‘Jack – no. I …’

  ‘Then prove it, Maggie. Prove it.’

  In the serial Annie and I are reading it is our heroine’s immortal soul, her purity and goodness, that our hero is determined to save when he bests the villain and comes to her rescue on his white horse. And though she thrills to him when finally he clasps her in his arms, there is no question that he will make a bid for what the villain’s been foiled from taking. There is no question of our hero putting his beloved’s soul in mortal peril.

  In real life I know the peril is still mortal, but it is not my soul that concerns me when I push Jack’s hands away.

  I am dusting the missus’s bedroom, which is what I always do on Friday mornings after I have swept the verandahs (this is a job I quite enjoy, there being no one to see or care that I just push the dirt over the side and into the flowerbeds), when I find the book. It is only a small volume, slim enough to be pushed between the side of the dressing table and the wall, and at first I think that it has fallen here accidentally. I�
�m about to put it back somewhere the missus will find it, when I notice the title. Dr Freeman’s Famous Hints on Marriage Including Advice on How to Prevent Conception. So I know this is not a book that Mrs B. would want left lying about for all and sundry to see. But as it is a book that contains hints on a subject that is of particular interest to me, and knowing that the missus is out and Mrs Nolan is occupied with sorting the linen and Anna is out of the house taking the two little beasts on a walk, I put my duster down and crouch beside the bed. I skip the chapters that discuss the monthly and the change of life and go straight to the section on preventatives.

  ‘Many people believe that to sit up in bed,’ I read, ‘and cough directly after connection will expel the semen from the vagina, and many doctors believe that this simple method will answer in most cases. I do not, however, see how all the semen can be expelled because the vagina has ridges in it and the semen lodges in the ridges and coughing, however violent, could not entirely dislodge it.’ I have never before read anything like this and am amazed by the blunt language. My only education in these matters has been to overhear the end of whispered conversations between my mother and her married friends, and some schoolgirl gossip that is best not repeated or dwelled on.

  I keep reading. Dr Freeman suggests that in order to avoid conception, connection should be avoided from five days before the monthly flow till eight days after, and that the time when a woman is most likely to conceive is the first days after the flow has ceased. But he points out that this method fails in about five cases out of a hundred and therefore cannot be relied on. Next he discusses withdrawal of the male organ but he says this too has a great failure rate, so I read on.

  ‘Although there is no certain method,’ writes Dr Freeman, ‘the following methods can be highly recommended: an injection of alum into the vagina immediately after connection can be very effective …’ but as a reverse current syphon enema syringe is needed (available from the author for 7/6), and the chance of taking a chill is high, I do not bother much with this, or the sheath made either of skin or thin india rubber worn by the husband (also available from the good doctor). But my interest is stirred when I read the following: ‘A very soft piece of sponge soaked in tepid water, or better still a solution of vinegar and water (one to six) might be inserted into the vagina, high up, before having connection. In order to withdraw the sponge easily there should be a piece of string or ribbon attached to it.’

  Sponges and ribbons I have, and vinegar will never be missed in the kitchen. I have found a way. I close up the book and slip it carefully back between the table and wall.

  And so the next Sunday I make preparations and when we have eaten I tell him quietly that I have found a certain way, and Jack laughs and says he always knew I really loved him, and when we come together he is as gentle and tender with me as any girl could hope.

  We only do what men and women are born to do, and should, when they love as we do. I am not ashamed of it and never will be.

  Mrs Brann gives both me and Annie notice in early May (she tells us it’s because she’s decided to send the little misses away to school, but rumour has it that Mr Brann has had a serious gambling loss) and Ma has arranged that after a short spell I am to come back to Albury, this time to May Heaney’s – a cousin of a cousin who needs help about the place while she’s waiting for a baby and for a few months after. The first week after I’m due to get back from Albury is the week of the picnic races. There is to be a race meeting on the Wednesday afternoon out at the Dodds’ place and the whole of Gundowring, Dederang and half of Yackandandah will turn out for the meet. Later there is a dance in the woolshed for all comers and it is a big event hereabouts and not one to be missed.

  I tell Jack about the race meet on the last Sunday we have together before I go home, it being probably the last time we’ll get to see one another for a while, as May Heaney lives too far out of town for me to travel in on Sunday, and anyway she’ll most likely know that I am Church of England and not Catholic. For anybody who knows my ma knows that she’d be burnt at the stake before allowing any of her family to set foot inside one of them Popish churches. Even poor old Dad, who was raised a Roman, has not been to mass since he was married. He is more afraid of Ma than of the Holy Roman Emperor or the good Lord himself, and would no doubt choose to suffer eternity in purgatory or the fires of hell rather than Ma’s punishment here on Earth.

  ‘It would be a fine thing,’ I say to Jack, ‘if you could find a way to get to the dance.’

  ‘Mmmm.’

  ‘Jack, will you come?’ I give his shoulder a shake. ‘Tell me.’

  ‘The boss has given us all the day off,’ he says slowly, still not opening his eyes. ‘He’s got a two-year-old in the line-up. Not a bad filly, either. So I reckon I’ll be there.’

  He has drunk one bottle of beer and takes sips from another, and as usual he is on at me to take a mouthful of it. But I don’t dare, for I am certain Mrs Norton would smell it on me, she being like Ma in that respect. ‘Go on,’ Jack says, ‘they’ll just think it’s the communion wine.’ But I refuse and as I do not like to think of the terrible sin I commit – the lie I tell coming here – it is unkind of Jack to remind me of my deception, and so I tell him without mincing matters and he, of course, just laughs and pulls me down to him and tells me he knows a sure way to make me forget. Which for a time, anyway, he does.

  But this Sunday there is the question of the dance as well as some other matters to clear up, and so after I have buttoned the front of my dress I push him in the shoulder again and tell him to wake up, for I have serious matters to discuss.

  He is lying on his back under a tree and is in that half-asleep state he seems always to go into after we have been together.

  ‘Serious matters, eh?’ he says, and does not even bother to open his eyes. ‘And what could these serious matters be, Miss Maggie serious-matters Heffernan?’

  ‘I think this would be a good time – while I’m between situations and back home for a little – for us to tell Ma and Dad.’

  ‘Tell Ma and Dad what?’ he asks, opening one eye.

  ‘Why – about us, Jack.’ I say it quickly, lightly, as if it is no great matter. ‘And it would be smart to tell them at the dance after the race, for Ma is sure to be in a good mood with all those squatters and graziers to impress.’ She is always a different woman around people who are grander than her, an aspect of her character that has always amused me.

  ‘But what do you want me to tell them, Maggie?’ Jack asks. He is wide awake now, sitting up and brushing grass and leaves off his shoulders. ‘D’you want me to tell them that I’m having my wicked way with their daughter? I don’t see how that is something that your mother could ever be in a good enough mood to hear.’

  I push him again. ‘Don’t be a fool, Jack Hardy. Of course that’s not what I want you to tell them. You know what it is I’m talking about.’

  ‘No,’ he says, ‘can’t say that I do. I think you’ll have to explain to me exactly what it is that you want me to tell them, otherwise I’m afraid I might tell them the wrong thing. Should I tell them that I’ve spent many happy Sundays in your fair company?’

  ‘No, Jack,’ I say. ‘Please be serious.’

  ‘Shall I tell them,’ he says, reaching one hand into my hair and pulling gently, ‘that their daughter has the most beautiful black hair that it has ever been my pleasure to—’

  ‘Jack—’

  ‘Would you like me to tell them,’ he says, his other hand moving to my top button, ‘that the buttons on their daughter’s Sunday dresses are damned difficult to undo?’ but that one pops open easily and his fingers are quick to find the next.

  ‘But Jack,’ I say, ‘We haven’t—’

  ‘Perhaps I could tell them,’ he says, slipping his hand inside my blouse, ‘perhaps I could tell them that their dear daughter Margaret has breasts sweet as ripe peaches and that I find it hard to keep my mouth away from them.’ He nuzzles his head between my breasts
and after that, as is always the way, I am content to be silenced.

  As it turns out, Ma being Ma has decided this year that the racetrack is not a suitable place for well-bred young ladies, and so Doll and I are not allowed to attend the meet itself, but are to come after for the dinner and dance. As we have been going to the races for years it is obvious that Ma has something up her sleeve, and it doesn’t take us long to work out that she has cooked up a good way to get all the farm chores done for the day without doing any herself. She leaves Doll and me with a list a yard long and that on top of the milking and churning, which we do every morning regardless.

  They leave early in the morning in the buggy, which has been cleaned for the occasion, Dad in his Sunday togs and Ma in a dress made especially. We are to travel in the dray with Tom, who has work on his own place and so cannot go either (though there is no way Ma would have anything to say against it should he want to go, as that is just how the trouble started with Bill last year, with her trying to keep him at home from a race meet he had determined to attend). We are only to leave when all the list has been settled (‘And don’t you dare show your faces if it’s not,’ warns Ma) and are to bring four baked fowls and a Dundee cake – that being Ma’s contribution to the supper.

  We get through all our work as quickly as we can and with not too much arguing, though Doll of course nags at me all day, wanting to borrow my blue lace gloves. I tease her and tease her, saying that as her hands are so fat they’ll be stretched all out of shape and ruined, but in the end – after she has threatened first to kick me in the shins and then cried until her face puffs up like a balloon – I give in and tell her that she can have the silly things if she wants, I have no use for them, having bought three new pairs in Albury, for which I am rewarded not with thanks but with a glare.