Out of the Silence

by Wendy James

  I can see that I have upset Harry with my plain speaking. He says nothing, but his face colours and he turns away to hide it. I know that he doesn’t like to be reminded that I am not a respectable woman any longer, but I’m sick to death of all the hemming and hawing about it, as if I’m too delicate for such conversation, or else too silly to understand the pickle I’ve got myself into.

  ‘I suppose,’ he turns back, ‘I suppose you’ll get a day off a week.’

  ‘A week! – a month more like.’

  ‘A month, then.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So, poor Flo here’ll be fair pining to see this little lad, so you’ll be visiting us, won’t you? I’d say it’s the least you can do.’

  ‘But I thought you were off, Harry? I thought you had work to go to in Sydney next week?’ His sister’s question is vague, she’s more interested in inspecting my now wide-awake Jack.

  ‘Nothing stopping me coming back once a month or so, is there, Flo? And anyway, I just might have some business in this town if things pan out …’

  We are saved from asking Harry what business by a visit from Sister Freeman, who is an old battleaxe if ever there was one. ‘Right, this pair need their rest now. Visiting hour’s up. Off you go.’ Harry does his best to win her over, as he does with every one of the nurses, young and old. But, though he never gets even the glimmer of a smile from Sister Freeman, there is a certain softness in her voice when she says to me later, ‘That young fella of yours has some cheek. I’ll be glad to see the back of him.’

  ‘He’s not my fella, Sister Freeman,’ I tell her, and not for the first time.

  ‘No?’ she says. ‘Well, more fool you.’

  Mrs Cameron is not as I imagined her. I had thought she would be about Ma’s age, but she is probably only ten years or so older than me, if that. She is not bad-looking at all, in a prim sort of way. It’s obvious that she tries hard to appear as starchy as any of the old sisters at the Women’s: her hair is pulled back so hard that it looks painful and her dress is plain as plain, but that doesn’t disguise her big cornflower-blue eyes and pretty figure. She is slight and delicate and gentle-looking, and I can’t help but wonder how she comes to be running a place like this, and cannot imagine how she is able to keep order. I have seen some of the girls about the place, and a few of them look to be big, rough girls and not at all the respectable types I was led to believe would be my housemates.

  ‘You are Margaret Heffernan?’ she asks, frowning down at the letter of introduction I have handed to her.

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  ‘And the infant is Jack, is that right? Not John? Jack Heffernan.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  ‘He is feeding properly?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And his weight – he is gaining?’

  ‘He lost some at first, but Matron said that’s usual, and he’s getting it back now.’

  ‘Good. And he has had his inoculations?’

  ‘He has, ma’am, yes.’

  ‘I suppose that’s something. Some of the girls who come here … Some of the babies are …’ she sighs, looking directly at me for the first time.

  She motions for me to approach her desk. ‘Show me your hands please,’ she says. ‘Just one at a time.’

  She examines my fingernails, which I am pleased to say I have cleaned and cut before leaving the hospital.

  ‘Now if you would stand before me for a moment.’

  I do as I am bid.

  She looks me up and down, as bold as you like, and all at once I can see how it is that she gets on. She has that look in her eye that Ma gets on washday, when she will be at your throat for no reason that can ever be determined and you know that to cross her would be to put yourself in considerable danger. Despite her looks and her age, I’d say Mrs Cameron is as tough as old boots.

  ‘Turn around, please. Right around …’

  I turn around.

  ‘I think it would be a good idea if you were to use pins instead of combs to keep your hair in place, Margaret,’ she says. ‘I’ll give you a net to ensure that no hair escapes. Hair is a dreadful carrier of disease, and your curls are particularly unruly, I’d imagine.’

  Next, she asks me to hand over Jack, who is fretful, being ready for a sleep or a feed or both, and the moment she takes him I can see it is for the babies that she is here. For, though she says nothing – she just lays down Jack on a special table set up with towels and pillows, then undresses him, poking and prodding and pulling at every bit of the poor wee thing – she is as gentle as you could want and manages even to keep him from crying, which is nothing short of a miracle in my opinion. ‘Well, he does seem to be a good healthy specimen,’ she says as she hands him back. ‘You’ve given him a good start, at any rate.’

  ‘Now,’ she says, and it seems to me that some of the fierceness has gone from her eyes, ‘if you’d like to sit down – yes, yes, feed the child – I’ll give you some idea of how my house is run. You’ll no doubt think that I expect a great deal from my girls, but it’s all for your babies, and I hope you’ll always remember that I ask nothing of you girls that is not ultimately going to benefit both mother and child. Your stay here will only be an advantage for you if you are willing to see it that way. Of course, you will find it difficult and oppressive if you are so inclined, and it is indeed possible to spend your time here feeling miserable and hard-done by, but you have responsibilities now – an object greater than your own immediate pleasure – and as I see that Dr Hawkins thinks you are a sensible girl who will be receptive to the assistance I can give you, I pray you will look to the future.’

  I nod and smile, a genuine smile, so relieved am I that she has not yet mentioned sin or penance or redemption – notions that I expected to be constantly on the lips of the guardian of such an establishment.

  ‘Now, Margaret,’ she goes on, ‘I’ll give you this list of house rules and daily routine. You’ve been assigned to work-group A. We have a rotational system, so you are never at work in one area for more than a week at a time – variety is a sure way to keep melancholy at bay, I find. And this most important document,’ she waves a little blue pamphlet, ‘summarises the regulations concerning the general care of infants – regulations that must be scrupulously adhered to if your stay here is to be at all beneficial.

  ‘For a newborn babe, my regulations are probably no different to your current practice. For instance, at this young age your babe should be fed every two hours during the day. You will be allowed to leave your work at two-hourly intervals to go to the infant nursery for feeding. You may still nurse him through the night, though I would suggest that you try to restrict nursing after 10 p.m. in order to train little Jack to sleep through the night as early as possible. After the sixth week there is to be no feeding after 10 p.m. Contrary to what you may have been told, constant feeding isn’t suitable for an infant digestive system, and it’s not at all conducive to health in the mother.

  ‘During the night the infant is to sleep in the cradle provided. On no account are you to bring him into your bed. Apart from the possibility of overlaying, you are encouraging a disciplinary and hygienic practice that is most undesirable and very difficult to break.’ She stops for a breath and for the first time smiles. ‘I’ve always found the best cure is prevention, Maggie. Don’t you think that’s so?’

  All I can do is nod. I have never heard of anyone trying to teach any rules to a newborn and can’t imagine how we are to make the little beasts follow them, but I am not likely to begin arguing the fact here and now.

  She must see something in my face, for her smile disappears and her tone becomes quite sharp. ‘I expect you think my ideas are very silly, Miss Heffernan, and no doubt you’ve spent a great deal of time with sisters and aunts and cousins and friends, and think that you already know about the business of child-rearing. But, believe me, Margaret, it is not just a matter of intuition and commonsense. There’s a great deal that has been done wrong over the
years by mothers, even the best-intentioned mothers, through ignorance. As unlikely as it may seem now, your little babe will benefit from your very strict application of my methods.’

  She pauses and rings a small brass bell. ‘Now, you should spend this afternoon resting and familiarising yourself with your duties. I’ll have one of my girls show you to your room. They’re all single rooms – it’s a dreadfully unhealthy state of affairs to have a number of women bedding together, there’s just no way to ventilate properly. That’s one of the reasons for the very restricted numbers here.’ A girl dressed in a uniform similar to the sisters at the Women’s enters the room, giving an awkward curtsey.

  ‘Maud, I’d like you to take Miss Heffernan up to her room. Maud is one of our great success stories, aren’t you, dear?’

  The girl mutters something about it being a great privilege, at which Mrs Cameron interrupts her.

  ‘Maud has been here for more than two years and this year we’ve finally been able to employ her properly. She helps me with the day-to-day running of the home and, like all our girls, has been thoroughly trained in Dr Emmett Holt’s principles. One day she might look to run an establishment like this herself. And of course her daughter, Emily, has grown into a fine, healthy, well-behaved toddler under my regime. She is a paragon of strength, both of constitution and character. Our Emily provides a wonderful physical example of the benefits of applying Dr Emmett Holt’s principles, doesn’t she, Maud?’

  ‘Yes, Mrs Cameron. Indeed she does.’

  ‘An example you would be wise to follow, Maggie. Now, before you go, I’d just like to remind you that this is not a prison: you are free to leave at any time. But if you are the clever, good girl that I believe you are, you will do your best by the boy, and that means serving your twelve months here.’

  ‘So, how did you go with Madam C.? Survived, did you? Surprised you’re not crying. She usually manages to get the new girls bawling, and then leaves me to pick up the pieces.’ Maud is a big girl, loose-limbed and gangly, with dark curly hair cropped as short as a boy’s. ‘So what do you reckon? Did she give you the lecture? You’ll know it by heart in a week or two: “The scientific advances of the past century have given us the knowledge to ensure that all babies are given the best opportunity – physically and mentally. We are at a crucial point in history, girls – the future of our race is not at all certain; the possibilities seem boundless; our understanding of the principles of life are so advanced. But we must ensure that we continue going forward, and to do that we will require strength and resolution in both constitution and character …”’

  She has a great booming voice and as we are hardly five yards away from Mrs Cameron’s room, I’m a little taken aback and don’t quite know how to reply.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ she says with a grin. ‘She’s half deaf. I reckon that’s why Mr Cameron took off. She’s not a widow, y’know, least not that I know of.’

  The room that she takes me to is at the top of several flights of stairs, and is not really what you would call a private bedroom, but one large room that has been divided into four, with partitions and doors. Still, it is more private than the hospital and much more comfortable than I have expected. There is a bed, a chest of drawers for my clothes and a wicker cradle for little Jack, and someone has put a vase of daisies on the chest to cheer it up a bit. I have half a window overlooking the back garden with its neat little vegetable patch and what looks like a row of fruit trees, which gives me an unexpected pang, reminding me of the orchard at home.

  The house itself is a grand old building of three storeys – a mansion. Maud tells me that it was originally Mrs Cameron’s family home; that she inherited this and a great deal of money when her parents died and as her husband had deserted her she decided to use the money to set up a home for mothers and babies. ‘It’s for the babies, really,’ Maud says. ‘She can’t stand any of us, any of us mothers, I mean. I’m sure she’d just take babies if only she could feed ’em herself. Jealous, I guess. Well, it’s not like she can have any, is it? Being deserted and all.’

  ‘So,’ she says, sitting down on my bed with a sigh, ‘what’s your story? You don’t look like a Melbourne girl. You’re from the country, are you?’

  I wonder how she can tell, for I can see nothing about me that makes me any different from her, or from any other girl for that matter. ‘Oh, I’ve bin in Melbourne for a while now, I don’t think I’d call myself a country girl,’ I say, wanting to take her down a peg or two, for I can see she is a nosy thing and have no wish to get acquainted with her right at this moment. As well, she is taking up a large part of my space, which is not very great to begin with, and keeps bouncing her backside up and down on my bed in a way that reminds me of Doll. My hand itches to slap her. ‘I suppose,’ I hint, ‘I should unpack and get the little one organised.’

  ‘Oh, your little one, I almost forgot,’ says Maud, bouncing right up on to her feet. ‘Can I take a peek?’ She leans over to look at my little Jack who is, I am pleased to note, quite peacefully asleep, otherwise that great head of hers would be sure to set him squawking, not to mention her breath, which stinks like cat piss. ‘What a funny creature,’ she says. ‘He takes after his pa, does he?’ I ignore her question, put little Jack into the cradle and, turning my back on her, begin to unpack my port. She doesn’t take this not-so-gentle hint, but sits back down on my bed and starts up with her prattle again.

  ‘There’s some stuff I can tell you about this place,’ she says, and as I cannot quite bring myself to ask her to leave straight out, I am forced to listen. ‘There are some girls here who are not so respectable as they say. There’s Elsie Rowan, who for certain has been on the streets, though she pretends that she is the daughter of a minister, but I have heard her talk to her bubba when she thinks no one is listening and if she’s not a tart I’ll eat my hat. And there’s Agnes Voges, who has only been here for a month and insists that she is a married woman; that she’s a widow with no parents, but I have a cousin who comes from the same town as her and she is no more married than I am, and her parents, who are good enough people, have cast her off. Which is how it is for most of us here,’ she says, shrugging. ‘So, I don’t see no sense in pretending. We’re all in the same boat, aren’t we? And none’s better’n any other, so far as I can see. Oh, though there’s them as wouldn’t agree – like Miss hoity-toity Henrietta Beringer, who says she were a school teacher before she fell pregnant and she will not have anything to do with the rest of us common lot, but sits with her nose in a book at every opportunity. She would feed her babe and read if the matron didn’t forbid it outright!

  ‘But what I’m saying is, we’ve all made the same mistake and whatever we was before don’t mean anything anymore. We all have to work for our keep, even if Mrs Cameron do take a particular interest in Miss high-and-mighty Beringer, and there’s a rumour that at the end of her year, or when her little girl is weaned, she’s planning to give her to Mrs Cameron to adopt, which seems to me to be the most callous, cold-hearted, unnatural thing a mother could do.’

  I still have not said anything, but she does not need any encouragement and she starts off on the next matter. ‘I suppose you will be wanting to know about the situation here. Well, let me tell you, we is worked hard enough,’ she says. ‘I’ve had some tough mistresses and some disagreeable situations, but there’s no question Mrs Cameron takes the cake. You’re lucky that she has given you the rest of the day off. I’ve known her to start a girl in the laundry the moment she walks in.’

  It seems to me that the matron cannot be too hard a taskmaster, or so fearsome as she would have me believe, as Maud has been sitting jawing for the past ten minutes at least and does not show any sign of letting up. I have had enough and Jacky is stirring and will soon need feeding. ‘Well,’ I say, smiling as friendly as I can (I do not want to be getting a reputation for being stuck-up like poor Miss Beringer), ‘I think I might do as Mrs Cameron has suggested and have a bit of a nap while the babe is s
leeping. It sounds like I won’t get much of an opportunity after today.’

  ‘A nap!’ Maud sighs and gets up off the bed, slow as slow. ‘Imagine that. Can’t remember the last time I had a kip in the day.’ Then, as she is leaving the room, she turns back and clutches my arm, her eyes wide, suddenly panicked. ‘Oh, blast, and I haven’t told you any of the things I was meant to – like where the dining room and the babies’ room is. If Mrs Cameron finds out—’

  ‘No, no,’ I say, ‘it’s all right. I’ll find them, don’t worry. I’m sure it can’t be too difficult, there’ll be someone who can direct me if need be.’

  ‘Oh, but it’s very important that you’re down in time for prayers, she won’t stand … Oh dear.’

  I push her back towards the door.

  ‘Mrs Cameron has given me a list of all the rules. I’m sure it’ll be fine, Maud.’

  ‘Oh, I suppose so, but just … The bell rings at six-twenty and we have to assemble right away. If you’re late there’s a penalty. She can’t abide tardiness …’

  I finally manage to close the door. I can hear her muttering as she stamps down the hall.

  I feed Jack and wrap him and settle him down to sleep, then glance through the work routine that Mrs Cameron has given me. I am to start in the laundry tomorrow and then next week in the sorting room, and then a week in the kitchen, and then a week on nursery duties, and then a week as Matron’s assistant, and so on. Her general house rules explain the way the household is run. The work day begins at 7 a.m. (babies to be fed at 6 a.m., breakfast at 6.30), and most days there is no work after 8 p.m. unless you are on kitchen duties, when there is cleaning and clearing until 9 p.m., supper being served then. Evenings are to be spent in quiet activities: letter writing, sewing or reading. On Mondays and Thursdays Mrs Cameron gives instruction on ‘The Proper Practices and Principles of Infant Care’, as formulated by L. Emmett Holt. There are prayers twice daily, church on Sundays and the Anglican minister visits twice a month to give spiritual guidance and instruction.