by Wendy James
They work us hard at the Junction, or Ralph’s as the locals call it, but it’s not bad work, though Mrs Neal is not one to let a pleasant word or a smile get in the way of an order. Every now and then when they are short I work in the kitchen and the restaurant with Ling, who, as Mrs Ralph has said, only needs getting used to – though I would not like to get between him and his knife when his temper is up. Most of the girls are all right, and everyone gets on well enough together, except for Lily, who has been working at Ralph’s for years and has a tongue as sharp and as quick as Ling’s knife, and is never backward in using it.
Mrs Ralph is a kind woman, and sensible too. I think that if I were to confide in anybody it would be her – that she would be sure to know what to do – but she has not one moment spare, being too busy running the hotel, which she does almost single-handed – her other half being a completely different kettle of fish. Mr Ralph is a good ten years younger than Mrs Ralph and is a handsome enough fellow – it is easy to see why Mrs Ralph married him – but only one quarter as good-looking as he thinks he is. He doesn’t work in the hotel, but is a traveller, and only home one weekend in two, which is a relief – there is no real harm in him, but he is a terrible bore and will bail you up with some tale or other, which can only be stopped by Mrs Ralph, who will curtly order you back to work and then apologise later for her tone. ‘It’s why I got him to keep on with his travelling,’ she sighs. ‘We don’t need the money. He’d have all my customers leaving in droves with his talking.’
I do not make real friends with any of the girls, though they are a nice enough lot and I have no doubt that in ordinary circumstances we would be great chums. I say no to every invitation – to go gadding about town, say, or to picnic at St Kilda – so no doubt they have writ me off as a real old stick-in-the-mud, which is a joke since before this I was always the first one to want to go and have some fun, as anyone who knew me in Gundy would agree. If it wasn’t for the worry of what I am going to do next, which is all the time at the back of my mind, I would probably be having a great old time, but as it is I keep myself to myself.
I remember when Dad once remarked that the noise of cities and towns, and the way they never seemed to stop, drove him wild, I laughed and said I could not think of anything more exciting. I’ve so often dreamt of going here and there on trams and trains, spending whole days visiting all the arcades and emporiums I have heard about – stores even bigger than Mates Emporium in Albury, which is itself quite enough to get lost in. I have often imagined myself wandering up and down Collins Street with a few spare shillings in my purse, window shopping and watching the passers-by, and even joining the Friday evening promenade along the Block if I were given the opportunity.
So I would never have thought I would be burying my head under the pillow at night to block out the din of the hotel and the street. But now it is the neverending noise that gets under my skin and makes me pine for the peaceful sounds of home: the soft splash of the Kiewa in the bottom paddock, or the fussing and moaning of the cows. Even Doll’s snoring and snuffing. Here, the noises are unfamiliar – rowdy people and rackety carts and carriages – and there is nothing gentle or calming about any of it. Who would have thought I was such a country bumpkin?
I never imagined that I’d be so wet, being only a tram ride away from all manner of entertainments and never taking advantage of any of them. Instead, when my half days arrive I am happy just to rest in my room reading my magazines and romances, or to write cock-and-bull stories in letters home, which I send to May Heaney who posts them on from there. Or sometimes I write letters to Jack which, not having any idea of his whereabouts, I do not send anywhere.
I am not sure whether it is on account of my condition, but whatever the cause, I am a surprise even to myself, in more ways than one.
One Tuesday half day I catch the tram to Carlton and there being plenty of people about to ask, and Chummie Place being close enough to a tram stop, it’s no hard thing to find what I am looking for. It is not the dark and dingy shack I have imagined, but a little cottage with a pretty rose arch above the gate and a neat path that leads to the front door. For some reason this does not reassure me at all, but makes me suddenly anxious. I remember the Yarra River mystery and that poor girl, no older than me, who died after just such a visit, and I can no longer pretend – even to myself – that I am only out for a jaunt.
I am a little bewildered when the door is opened by a sweet-looking old lady who smiles and asks in a gentle way how she can help me. She is wearing a clean white apron and the smells of baking waft down her hallway. It seems that this is just an ordinary home and that I have somehow – though I have checked and rechecked the address – come to the wrong place. I tell the woman that I am very sorry for disturbing her, that I must have made a mistake, but she looks at me in a direct sort of way and says, ‘Never mind, my dear, we’re none of us perfect, but hopefully we’ll be able to do something to remedy your particular mistake. Now, how far gone are you?’
‘Almost four months.’ I can barely hear my own answer, my voice has suddenly become such a whispery thing, but it must have reached the old woman’s ears all right, because without saying another word she has taken hold of my arm and pulled me inside. ‘I’ll collect the money now, if you don’t mind, deary,’ she says. ‘Otherwise, when it’s all over and done with we might forget.’
‘But I’m not really certain,’ I say. ‘I just wanted to find out … I thought I would have to make a time or something. I didn’t think—’
‘Oh no, no, no. No appointments here, it’s not Collin’s Street y’know,’ she chuckles. ‘No time like the present, I always say. Best to get it over with – best not to think about it. Why, you wouldn’t be in this predicament if you’d stopped to think, now would you, lovey?’ I fumble in my purse and hand over what she asks for, which is more than I had thought and nearly all of my savings.
She leads me down the hallway to a room at the very end of the house which looks just like an ordinary bedroom, with a bed in the centre and a pretty mirrored bureau along one wall. She pulls a stained oilskin sheet from a drawer, lays it over the bed’s lacy counterpane and gives it a pat. ‘Now, if you could take off your skirt and whatever you’re wearing under it, my darling, and pop up on that bed, we’ll see what can be done.’
I do as she asks as quick as I can, there is nothing else for it, then lay there uncovered below the waist, shivering, while she replaces her white apron with another, long-sleeved and cut from oilskin. ‘You’re lucky to have come when you did,’ she says, her cold hand pushing and poking here and there on my stomach. ‘I’ve a friend popping over for morning tea, but as that’s not for another hour or so I should have time to see to your problem. Now bend your legs, part your knees. Four months gone, you say?’
I would answer yes, but she has pushed her hand right up inside, and not a bit gently, and I am gasping with the pain of it – it is all I can do to keep myself from screaming out loud. ‘Oh, don’t make such a fuss,’ she says. ‘It’s not as if this sort of thing’s new to you.’ And though she is smiling as sweetly as ever, I see at once that she is not after all the nice old lady she appears. But there is nothing to be said and I must suffer this treatment.
She takes her time, but finally she is finished with that and is back prodding away at my belly again.
‘When did the baby quicken – how long has it been moving?’
‘A while.’
‘Has it been only in the last few weeks, or longer?’
‘Oh no. It’s been jumping around for quite a time – maybe a bit more than two months.’ I had thought at first it was indigestion brought on by May Heaney’s bad cooking, but when I realised it was the baby I decided it was no surprise that it was a wriggly little mite, knowing what I know of its father, and me being, as Ma puts it, as fidgety as a flea myself.
‘Does it matter?’ I ask. ‘Does it make it harder to …’
‘What it means is that even though you are ve
ry small, this baby is coming much earlier than you think. I’d say you’re just over six months gone. This baby will be here before the New Year.’
‘But – it’s not possible.’
‘Why – you’re not telling me that there was only the one time?’ she says, and the smile on her face is so knowing that, given the opportunity, I would be glad to slap it off.
‘No, it’s not that.’ I can feel my face hotting up. ‘There were other times, but there was only the once that—’
She snorts. ‘Only the once that – what? That you didn’t sit up and cough? Or that he didn’t pull out early? Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear – what you girls believe. It’s a constant source of amusement.’ She does not look at all amused, but angry, though I can’t see why it is she should be so bothered, as when all’s said and done it is the stupidity of girls like me that keeps her in business.
‘You can make yourself decent, then,’ she says, pulling off her apron. ‘For there’s nothing of that sort I can do for you. It’s far too late. The baby feels big and healthy and it would be too risky – both for you and for me.’
‘Is there really nothing you can do?’ I am buttoning my skirt with fingers that are trembling, and my voice seems to be coming from a great distance.
‘Nothing.’
‘There must be something. A pill … Some sort of mixture.’
‘If it was that easy …’ she pauses, thinks. ‘There is a mixture that I could give you, but it doesn’t work in all cases and it’s very expensive – it’s hard for me to get. A single dose will cost you a pound on top of what you’ve already given me.’
‘And what will it do?’
She snorts again. ‘What will it do? If it works the infant will be poisoned and die.’
I don’t give myself time to think. I hand over the extra pound, which means that I won’t have enough left for the tram ride back and will have to walk.
I take the preparation, which tastes and looks just like the honey and lemon that Ma gives us for coughs, though the old cow tells me that the syrup is used to disguise the bitterness of the herbs.
‘How will I know if it’s worked?’ She has taken hold of my arm, is hurrying me back down the hall.
‘I’ve already said – you’ll lose the baby.’
‘But, what will happen?’ I stand still, pull my arm out of her grasp. She rolls her eyes, sighs. ‘If the poison is to take effect, it will happen in the next day or so. You may get some sign – a small quantity of blood, perhaps – and eventually the infant’s movements will cease.’
‘And then?’
‘And then nature will take its course. You must prepare to give birth to a dead infant in the next few weeks. There is a risk that the infant will stay and putrefy and a blood poisoning will occur, but this is a risk in any pregnancy.’
‘And then what should I do? If it doesn’t come out? Should I come back here?’
‘You’ll be very sick, you silly girl, and will need to see a doctor straight away. On no account should you come back here, nor mention that you have ever been.’
She opens the front door, pushes me out gently, smiles her kindly smile. ‘For there’s a gaol sentence for us both if you do.’
The potion does not take and I am not sure whether to be glad or sorry, for I am used to the baby’s strange jumps and jiggles. It is something to keep me company through the long nights – something to tell me that I am not all alone.
It is my link with Jack Hardy too, and it will connect the two of us for ever, whether or not he ever knows it.
I am sitting out in the courtyard on my half day. It is a sunny spot and protected from the wind, which is still nippy in the mornings, so I have taken the opportunity to be outside and read my serial, which is really my only pleasure these days, when suddenly my eyes are covered over.
‘Who’s that?’ I ask, thinking it is one of the boys who work about the place, as the hands are too big to be any of the girls and I cannot budge them, though it is strange that any of them would think to play such a trick – I’m not really on such friendly terms with any of the fellows here.
There is no answer, and when I put my own hands over them and feel the warmth and strength of those fingers covering my eyes I think – oh, and how my heart turns! – I think that it is Jack, that he has found me somehow. Then, when I manage to peel the hands away and turn to see my tormentor, I see that it is not my Jack but some other fellow, who I take no real note of – only that he has a head of wild red hair and looks like a madman – and I am so let down I cannot help it, I start to cry.
The poor fellow himself looks startled, as if he has been bitten by a snake, and lets out a yelp.
‘Oh dear,’ he says, ‘I had thought you were someone else.’
Usually such behaviour would see me firing up and giving a set-down that would make a fellow’s ears burn, but there are tears running down my face and I am so overcome with disappointment that I can’t even look up, let alone come back with any smart comment.
‘Oh dear,’ the fellow says again. ‘I am really sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you. I had thought you were Flo – your hair … Oh please, don’t cry, I had no idea.
Here,’ he says, ‘here, take me hanky.’
I’m glad of the rag and dab away at my eyes, and manage to stop my noise. Presently I am cool enough to look up. He is gawking down at me, as worried as a rabbit. ‘I’m really sorry, miss,’ he says. ‘I didn’t mean to give you such a fright.’
‘A fright! What makes you think I was frightened? There is nothing frightening about a chump like you putting his silly paws over a girl’s eyes!’ I say as crossly as I can manage. ‘You must have got dirt in my eye with your filthy big hands.’ Which is as great a piece of nonsense as I have ever come up with, for this fellow has the palest, cleanest hands I have seen on a man.
He stares down at his hands and looks as if he will say something, but being of a gentlemanly type collects himself in time. ‘Oh yes, of course, that must have been it. I have been doing some … some digging and it just slipped my mind. I must apologise again,’ he says, putting his hands casually into his pockets so that the evidence of our shamming is completely out of sight. ‘Ah well,’ I say, pulling myself up. ‘No real harm done I suppose.’
‘No,’ he agrees. ‘I s’pose not.’ Then, quickly, as I make a move to go, smoothing down my dress and gathering up my belongings, he asks, ‘You’re new here, are you? I mean – I haven’t met you before. I was down only a month or two ago and …’
It comes to me then that this must be Mrs Ralph’s brother, Harry, who has come down from Sydney to help out at the hotel. There has been a bit of gossip among the other girls, but I have not taken too much notice, being out of the way of all that for once in my life, and have heard only from Mrs Ralph that he is a clever lad who is bound to go far, and from Mr Ralph that he is a real little twerp with tickets on himself.
‘I suppose you’re Mrs Ralph’s brother.’
‘That’s me,’ he says. ‘Harry J. Harrison.’
‘Well, if you don’t mind me saying so, you’re not a bit like your sister,’ I tell him. And it’s true. That these two are sister and brother is an unlikely thing: the missus being tall for a woman – at least as tall as Ma, with dark hair and a swarthier skin than my own – and this fellow being entirely different. He is only a little man, a few inches smaller than me, and quite round, if not precisely stout, and he has the wildest head of flaming red hair that I have seen, with pale freckled skin to match. He is unlikely to be missed in any crowd, but to make matters worse he is dressed in an outlandishly loud checked suit. The cut is excellent, but the fabric … Well, I could more easily imagine it being used to cover a sofa than a body, it’s so coarse and heavy.
‘Well, it has been mentioned before now,’ he says, with a grin that shows a mouth full of little crooked teeth. ‘And it’s true enough. I’m afraid my poor old sister missed out on my exceptional looks. It happens in every family – there’s
always one such unfortunate …’ I laugh then, I cannot help it for he is such a cheery, comical little fellow.
‘Now, please don’t go, miss,’ he says. ‘You’re obviously enjoying a hard-earned rest and I’d hate to be the cause of you ending it any earlier than you should.’
‘Oh no,’ I say, ‘there are other things I should be doing. I was only reading a silly story, anyway.’
‘A silly story,’ he says. ‘Now that sounds intriguing. What sort of a silly story? I’m a bit of a sucker for a silly story myself.’
I hold up my paper. ‘Aaah,’ he says, ‘The Australasian. I’ll bet you are following Mrs Cotes’ novel – it’s not bad, though I don’t enjoy it half as much as the little stories … Who are they by?’
‘Well, if you mean the tales by “Lynette”, I think you are wrong to like them better. She’s far too preachy for my liking.’
‘Now, what makes you say that?’ he asks. ‘Don’t you think that the author has a duty to tell the reader the right way to behave?’
‘No, I don’t,’ I say. ‘They’re only ever such small mistakes her heroines make – a trick, a lie – and their punishment is always far more than they deserve. You may as well go to church and listen to the sermon.’
Our conversation becomes heated and we settle down to quite a discussion about the paper and the stories we have both read, which is something of a treat, for I have never before had the opportunity to talk about the stories and characters with someone else who knows them in quite the same way as I do. Before I know it, it’s past midday.
‘That’s my half day gone already. I’d best get to work or Mrs Neal’ll be on my back.’
‘It’s been a pleasure to talk to you, Miss Maggie,’ he calls, as I rush off to get ready, ‘and I look forward to more conversations.’
It is only later that I realise that I did not tell him my name.
After that Harry is my only real chum around the place, and I am better able to deal with those who think I am a miserable so-and-so. He seems always to be about when I am on my half day and as he is easy to be with it doesn’t bother me a bit. If I am in the courtyard or the parlour reading he will join me and we’ll have a chat or an argument about this or that, his opinion being nearly always opposed to my own. Some days he will bring a deck of cards and we’ll have a hand or two of euchre or poker. Unlike the other boys who work at Ralph’s, he is not always on at me to go here or there with him, but happy to be quiet in the ways that I want, and we are soon such pals that I barely even notice his funny appearance. On occasion, though, his clothes are so terrible – this on account of his having been apprenticed as an upholsterer for a few years, and not too proud to make good use of the cut-price remnants – that I cannot help but make some smart comment. Which he takes well, as it seems that he really doesn’t know how hideous his togs are and is always surprised by my having a bit of a chuckle.