by Wendy James
Harriet at Try Society (Trying Society would be a more apt name if some of the stories she tells are to be believed — she does try so hard to teach these girls to prepare nutritious meals, she says, and they so frequently reward her by making off with the crockery & cutlery). James called to the hospital. Ate alone.
3 May
Teaching Vida’s juniors trigonometry today. All seemed unbearably dull-witted and slow and uncomprehending and completely resistant, but suddenly remembered my own thick-headedness when first I encountered these very same rules. I recall sitting at the kitchen table on a dark winter’s day with both Daddy and Davey enthusiastically attempting a similar transmission of knowledge. Both so adamant that I would understand, I would … and Mama scolding me for my morose disinclination, yet secretly sympathetic – a sympathy I of course sensed, and made subversive use of.
I should have treasured those moments. How did I let them pass (and there were so many – every moment of my previous life) without marking them in some special way? How did I fail to realise their significance?
9 May
First typing class today. Girls very enthusiastic. Only one parent objecting to it, calling it an unnecessary evil. The same parent, incidentally, who opposed his daughter’s algebra lessons. The girl’s father is a member of the lower house, formerly a grocer, who made his fortune during the gold rush. She tells us he can’t see the point (and nor can she for that matter). Why train her to do things she’ll never need? Not as if she’ll ever have to earn her living, he says. Which is fortunate, really …
25 May
Cousin H. persuaded me to accompany her on her district visit this evening. ‘It will do you good,’ she said. It so happens that the visit was to Susy Day – the same dreadful woman to whom I paid out two shillings for silence.
What a terrible story hers is. Only six years ago, H. tells me, she had a perfectly ordinary, respectable life. Her husband was a tailor and she made some money dressmaking to help support their young daughters. But it all went quickly downhill when he died. Mrs Day couldn’t make ends meet; was evicted from several homes (and is now living in what I can only describe as a slum in Richmond). She managed to survive some years by having her own children adopted out to her, which Harriet tells me is a not uncommon practice here, and was in receipt of money and grants from various charities and churches. But when her youngest daughter turned fourteen the money stopped. She was unable to find work, bad times got worse and eventually Mrs D. took to the streets and to the bottle. She has since borne two more children, the other three have long ago absconded and of course help is less and less forthcoming when a fallen woman keeps falling … She was again very abusive to Cousin H. Blames these rich, interfering b——s, as she calls them, for all her difficulties.
The two little bairns live in the most abject circumstances imaginable, and yet seem bonny enough. Susy Day, who H. informs me is only in her late thirties (not so much older than me!), looks almost elderly – so degraded and wizened and filthy. H. very tight-lipped and quite unsympathetic, sternly told her that there was no excuse, that there was money enough if she were to stop the drink and that if on her next visit there remained such language and filth she would not renew the grocery coupon and would have the children taken to the orphanage. In which case, I remarked later, surely the woman would starve? Replied Harriet, ‘We have done all we can and need not be expected to do more. She has had every opportunity. It will not be on my conscience.’
Cousin Harriet’s certainty about what is fair and what is not is really quite formidable – in such a situation I should be unable to be so rational, nor so severe.
I don’t think that the experience has, as H. promised, done me good. Indeed if the pounding of my head is any indication, quite the opposite …
2 June
Taught three sewing lessons – thumb sieve-like and sore. Even the most maladroit girls more competent than I am – shall suggest to Vida that if she or Aileen cannot take on the sewing we ask one of the senior girls to sit with the class, perhaps for some relief with fees if not a little pin money.
Brief letter from Robbie — he has reached Mexico and is to make his way back to Boston via a rather circuitous route. He has sent copies of his ‘adventures’ as published. He’s had some dreadful moments, though rendered rather hilarious. He assures me they’ve been exaggerated for copy – I rather suspect the opposite … He has had another story accepted by The Atlantic, and is confident that he will be ready to begin work on a novel once he is returned home. His experiences and observations would be enough for ten novels, he says.
How different to a woman’s life. To be able to make such good use of his ‘freedom’ from family ties and responsibilities. To be so busy, so overwhelmed by the new that there is not time or space for loneliness. But then would I choose such a life even if it were available? Perhaps not. Perhaps for me – for many women? – the life that is bound by such ties is the only life worth living. Unmoored, I founder, aimless, lost. And the prospect of sinking is before me, always.
8 June
We were at lunch today when a telegram came telling of Vida’s dear friend Annette Bear-Crawford’s death. I had never met her, but knew of her from Harriet and Vida. She is the head of the United Council for Women’s Suffrage, in whose place V. is currently acting secretary. She had been visiting England to represent Victorian women at a London congress when she was struck down with pneumonia. Vida very, very shocked. Cried out and then apologised for it, though obvious she was extremely distressed. But somehow managed to compose herself almost immediately; did not wish to make it worse. I pressed her hand as I left for my class and offered my help, but of course nothing I could do.
Harriet also shocked: a terrible blow to the suffrage movement, she says, and a great sadness for Mrs Bear-Crawford’s husband and young family. Even James a little subdued. ‘She was a sensible woman,’ he said, ‘and never aggressive or bad-mannered. Almost made me think these women have a point.’
Extract of letter from Elizabeth Hamilton to her brother Robert
30 July, 1899
… Last week I was persuaded by Harriet (much to James’s disapproval – he muttering darkly about the dire consequences, etc.) to attend a suffrage meeting, where Vida was to make her first public appearance. Up till now I have managed to avoid such meetings pleading tiredness, headache, letters to write and so on. I think H. has supposed me to be in opposition to the aims of the suffrage movement, which is not true at all. Either that or she thinks me shockingly ignorant, which of course I am. She & Miss Goldstein have asked me on several occasions for my opinion of the advances being made ‘back home’ & I fear I disappoint them terribly. Perhaps I should have taken up Aunt Lizzie’s offer to stay longer in Edinburgh, then I should not have felt quite as out of my depth here and would even have been able to converse intelligently on such matters.
As to my reluctance, it is just my old aversion to the general dullness of such assemblies, however sympathetic I am to the principles in question. I realise this is mere childishness & indulgence, but it is a small remnant of the old ‘wild, naughty Bess’, & one that I should dearly like to hold on to.
In the end the meeting was far more entertaining than I had imagined and happily I was able to subdue my tendency to mutiny and dissent (!), and managed to enter into the spirit of the occasion, nodding and ‘hear hearing’ along with the more seasoned disciples. Miss Goldstein spoke remarkably well I thought – there is no doubt she has a talent for public speaking and a passion for the subject. She talked of the advances made by and for women in those states and countries where the suffrage has been extended, and what can be hoped for here. She was utterly in her element, all her words fluid and fluent, highly persuasive and passionate without being at all aggressive.
A curious set of women in attendance, of every age and varying degrees of gentility. Of course they were all terribly earnest – there was barely a smile in the hall and V’s occasional quips produc
ed not even the merest quiver of a lip. But you will be pleased to hear that there was a great taking of notes.
The next speaker — a Miss Gordon, I think – was something of an anticlimax, though the topic itself was actually fascinating – the physical suitability of women to a professional life. She pooh-poohed the absurd idea that women will make themselves barren through overuse of their intellect (an idea promulgated by Dr Maudsley, apparently — wasn’t his younger brother or son a colleague of Davey’s?), relating her own experiences — she works as a clerk in a legal firm and is studying law at the university — as an example. But the woman herself was not compelling and though she gave the proliferation of note-takers an abundance of ‘facts’ to note, her address was far too dry, too passionless. There is a lightness and grace to Miss Goldstein that is surely what this movement needs. Her vitality will attract a different sort of woman – and man, perhaps …
Maggie
Hillview, via Albury
July, 1899
May Heaney’s a cousin of a cousin, so she’s family, even though there’s no blood between us. I’m here to help for the three months before her baby’s due and then while ever she needs me after. She’s a big woman, May Heaney, but it’s hard to tell just how big, and I worry that she’ll burst; can’t see how she’ll get through another three months of growing, though it may be just that the sight of the straining seams of her dresses and aprons (‘Ah God, I’ll have to do sumpin about ’em soon’) has put that fear into me. This baby will be her fifth with the eldest not yet eight and the house is worse than Aunt Martha’s – water from a bore to be fetched in buckets; no privy, just a hole dug in a new spot each week; and her old man off gallivanting in some gold field or other. But, still, he’s sending the money home fairly frequently and she can afford help, which is a greater luxury than some women have.
She’s a kind, laughing soul, May Heaney, but she’s as lazy as an old sow. Would sooner go without than put herself to any trouble. It’s no wonder she’s so fat, she moves only when it’s unavoidable; sits down at the kitchen table for her breakfast and often as not is still there by lunch. She’s shockingly extravagant – the children’s clothes are all shop-bought, and the fabric and cut far better than their circumstances warrant – yet strangely penny-pinching where I can see no need, chipping me for using too many candles at night, or for overfeeding the fire. ‘You’ll drive us to ruin, Maggie,’ she says, plump fingers firm on what was once surely a hip, ‘with yer blasted intravagance.’
I should be happy enough here. It’s not like my last situation. The work’s constant, but May Heaney’s no slavedriver – as long as I put three meals on the table and get the washing done she’s happy enough, and not too particular about windows and carpets and dust. ‘Ah, we’ll get to that,’ she’ll sigh, ‘it’ll keep. Always does. Not goin’ nowhere is it?’ And I’m treated like one of the family here. It’s not like at the Branns’, where I was forever having to bite my lip, to remember my place around a missus who was, if truth be told, no better’n she ought to be. No, May Heaney might have some funny ways, but when it’s all said and done she’s a good enough missus and at night, when the children are in bed and the two of us are alone, she’s good enough company too – more than once she’s told me to put away the mending and give her a game of euchre, and on the odd occasion the two of us have even shared a bottle of beer.
I should be happy enough here, and would be, if it weren’t for Jack. For I think about him constantly. While I’m frying the chops for breakfast I’m wondering what he’s doing, what he’s thinking, whether he’s thinking of me. While I’m scrubbing the boards on the verandah I’m remembering the feel of him: the heat of his body against me, the warm beery smell of his breath, the softness of his lips, the scratch of his stubble.
I should be happy enough here, but I’m not. I’m miserable. Still, it’s a queer sort of misery. In some ways I enjoy the pangs (the salty tears I cry into my pillow at night, the clenched fist my heart has made beneath my ribs) and I hug my sorrow to myself like the kittens I snuck into bed as a child.
There’s no doubt it’s misery I’m feeling – but there’s a strange satisfaction in it for all that.
I have been more than a month at May Heaney’s and have not once been unwell. I know what it is straightaway – after that night at the races I’m half expecting it. I know the workings of my own body well; am not as ignorant as some girls are, nor perhaps as ignorant as a good girl should be. I’m not like Mary Coughlan, who nearly died of shock when her time came and who still thought that babies were gifts brought by angels. Though God knows how you’d still be thinking that after seeing your poor mother worn down and half dead after receiving her thirteen gifts.
I waste no time starting a letter to Jack to let him know how it is with me, but it takes three nights and half my writing paper to get it to say what I want. In the end there is no real way to break the news gently. No kind way to say it, and so my letter is short and plain.
My dear Jack,
I am writing to tell you that I have missed to months and am almost certain that we have a baby coming. I will write again when I am sure but thought I should let you know straight away because we will probably have to marry earlier than we had planned so there will be no talk. I hope this news does not come as too much of a shock.
dearest love,
your
Maggie
There’s no talk that I would be afraid of, and nor, I’m certain, would any gossip bother Jack, but I know that talk will cause trouble with Ma – and Ma I am afraid of. Making an early wedding date seems the best plan and then any talk will come afterwards when it will be too late. Half the girls I know have done the same thing, and I have guessed from things my aunts have said that maybe even Ma was married in a hurry, though there’s no way on God’s earth you could ever, ever, ever get her to admit to it.
I wake sometimes rushed and afraid, my heart pounding so I can almost hear it and the sheets soaked. Other times I wake soft and humming, my head full of thoughts of Jack, my hand warm and damp between my thighs.
‘So,’ says Mrs Heaney, ‘is there any fella you’re keen on back home? Any wedding bells in the air?’ She’s leaning up against the doorway of the washroom watching me haul the wash from copper to basket. She could help with the mangle, but doesn’t offer, just stands chatting while she waits for me to cart each load out to the washing line, where she’ll help by passing me pegs. (‘Oh, I’m not bendin’ down to that basket, Maggie. Young Georgie come on early, I’m cervinced, from too much bendin’. That’s why he’s still such a peaky little fella.’) I don’t answer – I’m hot and breathless and it’s clear from her teasing expression that she’s not waiting for me to answer anyway, that she has her own ideas. ‘I heard from Biddie Ivers, who’s heard from Mary O’Doherty, that there’s some lad bin takin’ you about a bit before you come up here, one of Mrs O’Malley’s nephews, a young fella from Sydney,’ she says, smirking. ‘John, is it? – or Joe? Anyway, she reckons she heard that you and he was gettin’ about together before you come up here?’ She pauses. I say nothing, pull a heavy sheet from the basket to the mangle. ‘Nice lookin’ fella, and a real style about him too, Biddie tells me. Nothin’ like a bit of tone to set up a young fella. Biddie says he’s got half the girls in town in a state, even though as far as anyone can see he’s got no prospects …’ She pauses again, eyebrows raised, but I keep quiet. I need all my strength to turn the handle.
Another month goes by and there is still no blood. And no reply from Jack.
Dear Jack, I write.
I’m sure now that I have a baby coming next February so we’ll have to be married by summer before I am really showing. Mrs Heaney’s baby will come soon and she will not be needing me so bad and I will be owed three pound at least which will be some help for us setting up. I will wait until I hear from you before I write to my parents about our plans, though I do not think they will be to surprised seeings that word has somhow
got out about us courting.
Remember me to your uncle and aunty and I hope this finds you well. I am keeping well so far.
with all my love,
your
Maggie
PS. Please write back quick so it can all be arranged early & without to much talk.
August passes and the spring is almost here and still no letter from Jack. I have had to loosen the waists on my dresses but am still not really showing. The usual time for sickness has come and gone, but suddenly I am feeling ill and tired. Mrs Heaney’s baby is early (a boy, 9 lbs 11, and a long hard labour, despite him being her fifth) and there is twice as much work to be done about the house. I drag through the days and the nights, which are worse – nights that seem to last for ever – with my guts heaving even then, and the constant worry about Jack.
I am not myself. Mrs Heaney comments that my face is enough to give anyone a fit of the miseries and that she’s half a mind to send me home. I’m not ready to go home, not yet, so try to buck up a bit – smiling when she’s around and making an effort to be cheery and patient with the children.
I write to Jack again, plainer and straighter than before.
Dear Jack,
I need to hear from you soon. This baby will come whether or not we are married and I have to make plans.
Your friend,
Margaret Heffernan
May Heaney looks up from her letter with a sigh. ‘Well, Maggie,’ she says, ‘Biddie says that Mary tells her that your young man’s taken off to Melbourne, just packed his traps and left, no goodbye, no thank you for having me. A bit of a rascal, eh? None of ’ems got any idea why he’s gone. No one’s saying, anyway. Been gettin’ friendly with the Bateman girl, Biddie says. Too friendly for her old man’s likin’ I’m guessin’. Not much to him, I reckon. Better off without a fella like that, lovey. Sounds like a bit of a scallywag. Owes money all round, too, they’re saying. You best watch out for those sorts, Maggie, butter won’t melt and shit won’t stick. Better off without ’im, I’d say. You wanta get yerself some good reliable fella like my Fred. Doesn’t drink. A good provider. Never raised a hand to me or any of the children – though that bloody Georgie could do with a floggin’. My Fred might be nothin’ much to look at, but that’s not what counts in the end, is it, Maggie, my pet?’ She sighs again, contentedly.