by Wendy James
All the time they are here they do not look at me. Mostly they can easily avoid it, looking down at their paper where they scribble and scratch, or regarding one another, and muttering and sighing as such men do. When it cannot be helped and they are forced to address me, they look a little off to the side.
‘Now, Miss Heffernan,’ they say. ‘You have said in your statement that you deliberately placed the child in the water, that you carefully undressed it first. Is this so? Were you perhaps undressing the child in order to change it?’
At first I think there is something wrong – that there is someone standing beside me, but there is no one. These men cannot look at me direct.
‘Have you any explanation for why you did this?’
Perhaps they can’t even see me.
‘Is there any part of your statement that you would like to correct?’
Statement of Margaret Heffernan
I, Maggie Heffernan, am a single woman and I make the following statement.
On my arrival in Melbourne I walked about the town with my baby. About 5 p.m. the same day I went into the Treasury Gardens where I gave my baby a drink from the breast. I then went to the Women’s Christian Association at the corner of Spring and Little Flinders Streets where I tried to get a bed for the night for myself and baby. I could not get a bed there. A lady there told me to go to a similar institution in Flinders Street where they took in women with babies.
This time the door does not even open fully. ‘We don’t take babies,’ you hear a woman say, and the door is slammed shut before you can say a word.
I then spoke to a woman in Collins Street who told me that I could get a bed at a restaurant in Little Bourke Street for 1/6.
It is a warm evening and if it were not for the child you would consider (if it were not for the child you would not need to consider) spending it out of doors. You think that you would, that you could, sleep anywhere: on the street, in a gutter, under a doorway. You think that the river itself would be a good place to settle down for the night. After all, you have camped out often enough with your father to know that on a night like this there would be nothing to fear, that the sound of the rushing water would bring only the sweetest of dreams. But there is the child to consider (he is contentedly asleep in your arms, you are so accustomed to the weight now that he is no more remarkable than an arm, a leg) and for babies you need a proper place – clean, sheltered, a bed, walls, blankets and pillows; not grass and earth and the protection of trees, which would never do. You can see Mrs Cameron’s frown, your mother’s tight lips. It would never do. Not for a girl like you. It isn’t seemly. It isn’t safe. It isn’t respectable.
If you are willing to ask the right people, it is easy enough to find a place. The city streets are still busy, even this late at night, but you’re wary of the well-dressed couples returning from late dinners, the theatre. Instead you turn to the very people who you would once have feared even to glance at. They are no longer strange, or frightening. Somehow you are able to recognise their various desperations as kin to your own, and when approached it is the least respectable who are most friendly, helpful, sympathetic, warm. They supply you with advice, addresses, directions, and some even give invitations that you are able to refuse as lightly and easily as they are given.
A scarlet-lipped woman, whose gait and scent tell of liquor, directs you to a restaurant behind Parliament House where a bed can be got for less than two shillings. ‘It’s not much of a place. It’s Little Bourke Street, so it’s not feather beds and quilts,’ the woman laughs, showing a mouth filled with black stumps, ‘if that’s what you’re expecting.’
You no longer expect anything.
I then went to a restaurant behind the parliament house where I got a bed for myself and baby. Baby and I slept there that night.
‘You can doss down there,’ she says. The woman hands you two grey blankets and motions to a space in one corner of the room. ‘But mind the child don’t make too much noise. Nancy there can be a bit of a bitch if she’s woke.’ You see Nancy in the huddle of blankets, snoring in the centre of the room. There are three other grey heaps, other sleepers, but it is only the oddly angled protruding limb that identifies them as being human and not just piles of rags. And the smell. This is not the mildly rank stew of too many sweaty female bodies that repelled you at Mrs Cameron’s, this smell is vile. You are not delicate that way – you are familiar with the stink of beasts – but, however pungent, you have never encountered animals whose stench is as offensive as the air in this room. There is a sickness and sourness, a foulness in the air. It is the stench of hopelessness, of fear, of corruption, it is the smell of those who have become less than human, less than animal. The stench not of death, but of dying.
At any other time you would have retched into a handkerchief, covered your nose with your hand, turned away. But you have paid more than a shilling for this space and these blankets, and like the other remnants you are in need only of shelter and rest. You tiptoe to your designated corner – spread one blanket on the floor, make a pillow of your bundle, then let yourself down slowly, cautiously, baby clasped tight to your chest, trying hard not to think of what squalor the blanket might be hiding, or harbouring. You undo your buttons awkwardly with one hand, unloose your breasts. The boy is sleeping now, but you need to be prepared to shove your tit in his mouth at the first squark, lest he wake any of these fearsome rag-creatures. You manoeuvre the baby from one arm to another, make yourself as comfortable as you can. Another of Mrs Cameron’s rules comes to mind: ‘On no account should an infant sleep with its mother. Such intimacy will have a weakening effect on the child’s developing character, and can lead to the child’s suffocation.’ You pull the other blanket up over your head, wonder whether your tuppence will pay for a cup of tea in the morning.
You do not dream. You do not sleep.
I left there about eight or nine o’clock next morning. I was given a cup of tea before I left.
Tea is only a penny but the woman serving at the front of the restaurant pushes your money back. ‘Here love, you just take this,’ she says, ‘and don’t worry. I can imagine the night you’ve had back there.’ She shakes her head and mutters something you can’t quite make out. You’re grateful, but haven’t the energy to thank her properly. She leads you over to a table, cooing and clucking at the boy, who is fretful. Hungry again. ‘Now you sit down here, lovey, with your tea, and feed the babe. Stay as long as you need. I’ll go and see about those eggs you ordered.’ You look up at her, confused, ready to protest, but she gives you a wink and a smile, and you find yourself relaxing, smiling back. You sip your tea slowly, making it last, savouring its heat, its sweetness, while the baby gulps noisily, fiercely, as if starving. You try hard not to think about eggs, to ignore the kitchen smells, the heaped plates set before other diners, the sharp emptiness of your belly.
You wait and wait, but the woman does not return and you have been there a full half hour, your cup empty, the babe sated and sleeping, when the woman from the night before approaches you, empty-handed. She is smiling pleasantly, so you smile back – hopeful, unprepared. ‘This is a restaurant, my girl,’ she says, picking up your empty cup, ‘not a railway station. You can’t sit here all day. If you’ve finished your tea you can move on now.’
I walked down the street and bought an Argus, which I read to see if I could find a situation anywhere. I then went over Princes Bridge and into the Botanic Gardens.
It is going to be another hot day, but it is mild enough in the gardens this early, and you find a spot to sit down. You unwrap the baby and spread his blanket out on the grass, then lay him gently on his back in the sunshine. He is awake and alert now, and you watch him for a bit, his little jerky limbs, his head turning this way and that, his funny blind eyes. You wonder what it is that he sees – whether it is anything, or nothing, or perhaps, as somebody once told you, a whole other world, one that is lost to the rest of us.
You don’t bother with the fi
rst few pages of The Argus – you are not interested in the news from South Africa, the Melbourne Hospital bazaar, or the wreck of the Queen Christina. You find what you want quickly. There are only a half dozen situations advertised, and none of them suitable for a woman with a newborn child.
I remained in the gardens with baby until eleven o’clock.
You lay down beside the babe. Touch his cheek gently, watch his face turn towards you, mouth gulping like a fish. Touch his little palm – he makes a fist around your finger with a surprisingly firm grip. Watch his eyes close, flicker open, close, stay closed. His chest rises, falls, rises. He is still holding fast to your finger – you let him cling, breathe in his soft, sweet baby smell. You doze, then, for the first time in two days, fall into a deep dreamless sleep.
You wake suddenly. He is screaming. You think he is hungry, unbutton your dress, offer your breast. He will not take it, turns his face away, bucks and squirms. You wrap him tightly. Stand. Rock him back and forth, sing softly, sweetly. You cannot comfort him.
I then returned along St Kilda Road to some steps near Princes Bridge. The steps lead down to the south side of the Yarra River. I descended the steps and walked along the riverside for some distance on the east side of the boatsheds, I walked up and down the riverside for about an hour.
The baby is screaming. You walk towards the road. The baby is screaming. You cannot comfort him. There is a railway station nearby, you still have your twopence, you could—
‘Is everything all right? Can I help?’ The woman is young, well-dressed, concerned. Well-intentioned. You snarl and she bites her lip, turns away. You take the steps down to the river. The day is heating up, the child is screaming, is hungry, is thirsty, but will not drink.
You pace. Up. Back. Up. You are all ache – arms, back, legs, head – and hunger. You have twopence, you could—
The baby is screaming. You cannot think straight. You cannot think.
I then sat down with the baby.
Little bastard, he will not stop his screeching, he will not take the breast, you try to force your nipple into his mouth but he resists, arches his back and screams louder, his face all red now. No matter what you do, however you shake and push, the little bastard will not suck, and will not stop screaming.
The baby was dressed in only a little gown and a small piece of flannel. The flannel was of a white colour and the gown was white too. I sat close up to the edge of the water. I took the gown from off the baby. I took off the flannel too.
You want it to stop. It is the heat, you think. You are hot, the baby is hot – too hot, has overheated. You lay him down by the water’s edge, red, screaming, nose bubbling. You untie his little gown, unpin the flannel. He kicks, he screams, you want it to stop.
I then let the baby drop gently into the river. The baby was alive when I dropped it into the river.
You are there at the water’s edge and speaking low and gentle. ‘Shush now, shush baby, shush.’ Your arm is crooked beneath his head as they have shown you at Mrs Cameron’s and you are lowering him gently into the sweet, sweet water, careful not to let it enter his ears, or touch his face. But he is still screaming, screaming louder than ever, his mouth wide and angry, and you think of the river at home, of the softness of the sand at the bottom, of the quiet, the peace and stillness. And you let him right down into the cool and at last his mouth closes and then his eyes.
At last he is quiet, content, his little face perfectly calm and peaceful. So you do not wait to see him settle into his smooth, silty bed.
I did not look to see whether the baby sank or not.
You tiptoe away quickly. Tiptoe away before he stirs.
I then walked away carrying in my hand the gown and flannel. It would be about one o’clock in the day then. I then went to Flinders Street Station, got a ticket and travelled by rail to Preston, where I went to Ralph’s Hotel. I stayed there that night – 16 January.
The foregoing statement covering eight pages in this book and each of which page is signed by me is my statement and it is true in every particular.
This statement was made of my own free will and accord and without hope of favour or fear of threats.
Elizabeth
Elizabeth Hamilton’s diary
19 February, 1900
Started at Merton Hall. Six hours of classes today. No classes Tuesdays and only three on Wednesdays, five on Thursdays & Fridays. Rather less than I would like, still, it should pay enough to keep me from drawing on my capital. A boarding college, so quite a few country girls. All very well-behaved, despite classes being far larger than those at Ingleton. Teaching staff pleasant enough. Particularly taken by the young music teacher, a Miss Cecelia John. A tall, handsome girl with a wonderful contralto voice, her achievements are quite impressive. She’s only just arrived from Tasmania (all alone, brave girl!), and already she’s been given a place in the chorus of the German Opera Company. Has some wonderful teaching theories – believes that the body as much as the voice is involved in the making of music. Knows Vida and Harriet from the Australian Church, where she is a member of the choir. As was Nellie Melba, she informs me, back when she was plain Miss Mitchell.
Maggie Heffernan’s trial tomorrow. James is a witness; I am to accompany Vida. I hope the poor girl receives a fair hearing.
Extract of letter from Elizabeth Hamilton to her brother Robert
22 February
Vida, James and I attended the trial of Maggie Heffernan earlier in the week.
Vida had arranged to meet Maggie’s parents (who had travelled to Melbourne for the trial) prior to the proceedings. They seemed decent, respectable people, but (strangely, I thought) had made no attempt to visit Maggie during their stay. The mother explained that her husband’s health could not bear the strain, and that they had worried their distress could only upset the poor girl further. They would visit later, she said, when things were more ‘settled’. The father’s suffering was evident — his hands shook and he rarely spoke; the mother was cool and seemed rather more concerned with the ‘shame’ that Maggie had brought down on her family than the plight of her poor daughter.
James was required to give evidence on Maggie’s general post-partum condition before her hospital release and her visit to the hospital following the baby’s death. He could only tell the truth – that she had always appeared to be a good little mother, had no problems nursing and, most damningly, that she had appeared to be perfectly sane – ‘quite collected’ was his phrase – on her later visit. It would have been so much better for all if those first few days had been more difficult for her, or if her infant had had some complaint requiring further treatment.
Vida was satisfied that James’s account, whatever his privately expressed attitude might be, was perfectly correct & without prejudice. She was less impressed with the testimony of a certain Dr Stawell, however, who, when questioned, claimed that it is a well-known fact that a woman suffering from puerperal mania cannot clearly remember the acts committed whilst in the grip of that particular mania. Vida is certain that in making this point Dr Stawell was not only wrong, but by excluding the mitigating circumstance of insanity, he made it impossible for the jury to reach the more humane verdict of manslaughter. Even James is quite sure that Dr Stawell’s assertion is not borne out by the literature & he is making a study of all current work on the matter. Stawell, he says, is NOT an expert in this field, but is a general physician, and his opinion is worthless.
Maggie’s defence was pitiful. Her counsel were even more hopeless than Vida had feared, making only the most cursory attempt to state her case and rarely cross-examining where it could have had some beneficial effect, as in the testimony of Dr Stawell.
Maggie seemed only half-conscious throughout the terrible ordeal, such a still, sad, silent figure she made – and so painfully alone.
The jury deliberated for only a short time before they gave their verdict. The poor girl has been convicted of murder & is sentenced to hang. (It is, though, a
lmost certain that the sentence will be commuted & she will be given instead a prison sentence.) After the judge had made his final pronouncements Maggie became quite agitated, and may have even murmured something in her defence. She was quite overwhelmed at the sentence (it was carried out in such a manner, Rob, that I was stricken with fear myself: the judge lowering a black cap to his head, his face expressionless & yet somehow transformed, beatific; his voice deep with portent as he made his pronouncement – ‘Death’) and had to be carried from the court.
I have enclosed newspaper accounts of the trial, also letters penned by James & Harriet in Maggie’s defence.
The Age, 21 February, 1900
CHILD MURDER: A PITIFUL CASE
A young woman named Margaret Heffernan, formerly a servant employed at the Junction Hotel, Preston, was placed in the dock, on a charge of murdering her child, by throwing it into the Yarra. The accused, who appeared to feel her position acutely, entered the dock on the arm of an attendant, and throughout the hearing of the case, remained in a condition akin to stupor. Sir Bryan O’Loghlen (instructed by Messers Gillott, Bates, and Moir) defended and the case for the Crown was conducted by Mr Findlayson QC. A plea of ‘not guilty’ was taken on the previous day. Sir Bryan O’Loghlen addressed the jury briefly on behalf of the accused, urging them to consider the woman’s state of mind at finding herself alone, 150 miles away from her relatives and friends, and without a soul, apparently, that knew her except Mr and Mrs Ralph, who had been most kind to her. He asked the jury to bring in a verdict to the effect that she was of unsound mind at the time of the commission of the offence.