by Clare Flynn
He didn't hesitate. He ran into the yard and took the child by his leg and bending low over his stricken form, sucked on the leg in an attempt to get out the venom. He realised at once that there was none.
'You'll live. The snake didn't get you.'
The door of the school opened and the schoolmistress emerged and ran across the yard. She pushed her way through the crying children and cradled the boy in her arms. She asked Michael if he'd seen what happened.
A tall girl spoke before he could answer. 'It was a snake Miss. The man sucked out the poison.'
'I did nowt. There were no poison. Looks like a dry bite. Just a bit of a sting. But as well to 'ave the doc take a look at him. Especially as I don't know the snakes round here.'
'Thank you so much, Mr...?'
'Winterbourne.'
She stretched out her hand and smiled. 'Verity Radley. I'm the schoolmistress. Thank you for what you did.'
She turned towards the crowd of passers-by and parents gathering at the edge of the schoolyard and called out.
'All's well, ladies. You can go home now. School will be starting as usual.'
Michael helped the boy onto his feet but was almost knocked aside by a woman who burst through the crowd and swept the child into her arms. She set him down again, grabbed him by the hand and led him away, the recipient of a quantity of advice from the crowd on home remedies and choice of doctor. As she hurried off to put some or all of these suggestions to the test, she called back over her shoulder to Michael. 'Thank you, mister. You saved my boy's life.'
'Get the lad to a doctor. He should be fine.'
Michael picked up his jacket from where he'd flung it on the ground and made his way through the dispersing crowd of onlookers. As they stepped aside to let him pass, one woman blocked his path. With a shock of recognition he looked into the face of Elizabeth Morton.
She was as astonished as he was. They stood rooted to the spot staring at each other in disbelief. Michael was paralysed, unable to move or speak, as the schoolyard, the crowd and the last straggling children were wiped from his consciousness and the world stopped. There was only her.
How many times he had dreamt of this moment? Now that it was a reality he couldn't remember the script. From the look on her face she felt exactly the same.
She pushed away a lock of hair that had escaped from her chignon. He wanted to take her in his arms. Her face was a mixture of joy and disbelief. He went towards her, half stumbling, his throat choked with emotion as he said her name.
As he reached for her, she stepped back and her hands dropped to her belly. He saw the ring on her wedding finger and his heart almost stopped.
Her face contorted as she struggled to speak and he realised she was not only married, but expecting a child. Her hands were gathering her open coat across her stomach as though she was trying to disguise the fact, but it was unmistakeable. He stood looking at her. Frozen. Dumb. Afraid. Eventually he spoke.
'You're married. And yer having a bairn?'
She nodded.
'That's why you didn't come to meet me? Did you think it were a bit of a joke? Were you toying with me? A way to pass the time on the voyage? A fine lady having a laugh leading me along? Slumming it?'
'It wasn't like that at all. Please ... let me explain.'
'What's to explain? I can see for meself.'
He paused, then shook his head. 'I waited four hours for you. I see now why you didn't turn up. You never intended to. I bet you had a right old laugh about the poor sod that was daft enough to think someone like you might feel summat for him? If you wanted to make me feel stupid, you succeeded.'
Elizabeth stretched a hand towards him, but he shoved it away. She said, 'I didn't want to hurt you and it's not as it seems. I can explain. I tried... I wanted...' She paused, suddenly at a loss as to what to say. Then as though she realised it was pointless, she bent her head and covered her eyes.
Seeing her standing there with her swollen abdomen, he felt as though he had been kicked in his stomach. The nerve endings in his skin prickled and there was a hollowness inside. Something was blocking his chest cavity, tightening, threatening his ability to breathe.
Elizabeth started to speak. 'I tried to get to you that afternoon, but...'
'I don't want to know.' He spat the words out, afraid he was losing control of his emotions. He wanted to be as far from her as possible. Away from the shock of seeing her with another man's ring on her finger and carrying another man's child. He began to run. He didn't look back, picking up speed. He ran past the post office, past the hotel in the centre of the town, past the neat rows of wood-panelled tin-roofed houses and on until he reached the edge of the town and had to stop where the land changed to a steep escarpment and the thick forest trees and undergrowth barred his way. Exhausted and gasping for air, he flung himself down on the grass and closed his eyes as the earth tilted beneath him.
He'd never expected to see her again. And certainly not here in a remote mountain town. He tried to piece together what had happened. She must have been pregnant when he met her? Married all along. Or if not, on her way to get married. There was no doubt in his mind. She had dallied with him, an on-board flirtation. It was probably common practice on those long sea voyages. He thought of how he had confided in her. How he had opened his soul to her and told her what he'd done to Danny. He thumped the ground with his fists. I'm a fool. I've been taken for the biggest idiot.
He didn't know if she were living in MacDonald Falls or passing through? It was a small town and he risked running into her again. Pull yourself together, mate. Get on with the job. Make some money then move on. Forget her. She wasn't worth it. Yet as he thought this, he knew he didn't really believe himself.
Elizabeth leaned on the schoolyard wall, fighting to hold back the tears. That afternoon on the Sydney harbour front seemed aeons ago, unreachable, a dream. Hopeless. A chasm had opened between her and the man she loved. She remembered looking into his eyes the last time they had met, knowing with certainty that he loved her. But today there was nothing. When she saw him in the playground she'd experienced a surge of joy. She'd forgotten her pregnancy until she saw the look in his eyes as he recognised her condition and a curtain dropped over his face and shut her out. His eyes had had a blankness. He had run from her. Actually run away, as though he was escaping a fire or a flood.
Panic swept over her. Helplessness at her inability to undo what had been done. Alone. Lonely. Cut to the quick by his coldness. She steadied herself against the wall and took some deep breaths. The baby kicked inside to remind her of its presence and she cursed it.
Suddenly aware that someone was watching her, she turned round and saw Harriet in the schoolroom door. Had she witnessed the meeting with Michael? The girl, seeing her looking, went inside without acknowledging her presence. Elizabeth abandoned her plan of calling on her. She was in no state for another difficult encounter.
She slipped her hand into her pocket and felt the familiar rough linen of Michael's handkerchief. For a moment she contemplated throwing it away, but couldn't bear to lose the last vestige of him. Despite the cruel look in his eyes and the way he'd run from her, this brief meeting had reinforced the strength of her feelings for him. She walked back to the waiting car.
Chapter Twelve - Birth
The pain started in the middle of the night. Kidd was beside her in bed. In the last few weeks he had left her alone, sliding into bed and falling quickly into a noisy sleep. Elizabeth was unsure whether this was out of consideration for her condition or fastidiousness about it. The bed was wide and very comfortable after the lumpy mattress at Wilton's Creek and so big that she was able to pretend she was alone in it.
The early contractions had been merely uncomfortable and she lay there quietly, counting between them, while Kidd slept. They went on for hours without seeming to get anywhere. The pain was dull and lasted only a short period each time it came. But then as the first light emerged below the heavy bedroom curtains, it
changed. She never imagined it would be like this. She remembered the screams of her sister when she gave birth. In Sarah's case, the labours had been blessedly short and she showed little discomfort afterwards, so Elizabeth had put the screaming down to Sarah's desire for dramatic effect. But now, as her whole body felt as though it was being ripped apart, she could not hold back her own cries.
Kidd leapt out of bed, flung on a dressing gown and ran onto the landing to call Mrs Oates. The portly, but still sprightly woman was at their door in seconds, her husband dispatched to summon the doctor and Kidd relegated to the drawing room and the comfort of a bottle of whisky. Mary appeared at the bedside with a bowl of water, a pile of towels and a cheery smile. As Elizabeth sobbed and moaned, Mrs Oates was calm and authoritative and Mary full of chatter and reassurance, regaling them with stories of the birth of her numerous younger brothers and sisters. Elizabeth wanted to tell her to go to hell but lacked the energy.
Her body was wracked with pain and she prayed to die so that it would be over. Instead it got worse with each contraction. Sweat poured down her face faster than the attentive Mary could wipe it away.
Mrs Oates clutched her hand. 'Come on, Mrs Kidd, take a deep breath and try to relax. Breathe in now.'
Every time she tried to relax in the lull between the waves of pain, another contraction hit her in a crescendo of agony. The dawn turned to day and she was vaguely aware of the presence of the doctor, barking instructions at the two servants. It was February and the summer was unusually hot for the mountains.
Mrs Oates wiped her brow. 'Be glad you're not in the city. I'd not want to be in labour with the temperature it is in Sydney at the moment.'
Elizabeth was unimpressed. She barely took anything in, as the contractions came fast and furious, until she felt her body could take no more. But still her labour went on. Every now and then, Mary or Mrs Oates whispered words of encouragement, as if she were a small child who had done well at her schoolwork and deserved a pat on the back.
It finally came to an end. With an effort, of what seemed to her superhuman proportions, Elizabeth was relieved of the burden she had carried for so long. She lay back exhausted on the sweat-soaked sheets, while the doctor and Mrs Oates ministered to the baby. The child yelled with lung-bursting intensity. Mary, ready with fresh linen, prepared to change the bedding, but Elizabeth pushed her away.
'Please leave me alone. Let me rest.'
'Come along, Mrs Kidd. The sheets are soaking. You can't lie in a wet bed. Here I've done this side. Just ease over and I'll do the other. Now you're ready to see your lovely little boy. Just listen to him. A strong little laddie. Just like his Da. Mr Kidd's going to be proud of the little fella.'
Elizabeth groaned, sank back into the pillows and closed her eyes. The agonies of labour had left her exhausted and anxious. Now she must face what she had until now pushed to the back of her consciousness: seeing the face of Charles Dawson in the child. She broke into wracking sobs.
'There, there my dear.' It was the gentle voice of Mrs Oates. 'Doctor Reilly has checked this beautiful little boy and he's fine and healthy – just perfect. You can hold him now.'
Eyes still tightly shut, Elizabeth snarled. 'Take him away. I don't want to see him. I never want to see him.'
Mrs Oates stepped back, eyebrows raised but the young Irish girl spoke first.
'Come on, my lovely. You're just tired. You've been very brave and it's all over now. This little fella needs a feed and a bit of a cuddle from his mammie.' Mary was cradling the crying child in her arms. 'See what a little charmer you have here. I'll be off to make you a nice cup o' tea.'
With that the girl placed the small bundle in his mother's arms and left the room, leaving Mrs Oates standing guard at the bedside.
As soon as she felt him in her arms she was lost. He was so small and so light. It was hard to imagine that such a tiny creature had been capable of inflicting so much pain in his entry to the world. He had stopped crying and nuzzled up to Elizabeth's breast, making soft noises like a small animal. He had his own special smell. It was like nothing she had known before. She looked at his face and was overwhelmed with love. It was extraordinary.
His face was nothing like Charles Dawson's. As she gazed into it she didn't even think of the father. Her own face lit up with a smile. The baby's skin was soft, downy and flawless. His features were in miniature but all perfect. She had never seen anything so beautiful. She stared enraptured at his miniature fingernails and his little hands clenching and unclenching into fists.
'Let him have the breast, Ma'am. He'll know what to do.'
Elizabeth drew aside her nightgown and turned the baby towards her breast. The child began sucking with gusto as Elizabeth winced in discomfort, but smiled with pride at the greedy way he sucked.
She knew then that she would fight to the death for this child. Nothing would take him from her. He was hers and she was his. As she looked at him, the pain of labour was forgotten; the identity of the boy's father an irrelevance.
She would call him William after her father. Then she remembered Will. As far as the world was concerned the baby's father was Kidd. It would be absurd for a man to give two living sons the same name. The boy would have to take her father's middle name. William Michael Morton. Michael? It was a crazy idea. But somehow it was also very sane. It was still a link to her father, a means of honouring him as the man he had once been and the first step in trying to forgive him. But to bear the same name as Michael Winterbourne? What better model could she have for how she would like this child to grow up? Tall, handsome, strong, caring, independent, fiercely proud. Yes, she would name him Michael.
There was a knock at the door and Kidd entered. He strode to the end of the bed. 'Let me see the brat.'
'Oh Mr Kidd he's beautiful.' Mrs Oates was beaming.
'Looks like all new-borns. Ugly little runts.' He glanced at the child and turned to go. Then paused. For a fleeting moment Elizabeth thought she detected a softening in his countenance, until the customary frown reasserted itself.
'Mr Kidd, I thought we could call him after my father, but obviously we can't call him William. Michael was Father's second name. I think that would be a fine name for him. Do you agree?'
'He should be named for me, John.'
'It would mean so much to me to remember my late father too. ' She gritted her teeth. 'Especially as it was through him that I came to be married to you, sir. Shall we say Michael John?'
'Call him what you like. I'm off now to Wilton's Creek. Don't know when I'll be back.'
'Please give my good wishes to Will. Tell him I can't wait to introduce him to his baby brother!'
Kidd ignored her and moved to leave the room, pausing by the dressing table.
'This is for you. But don't go near the bloody thing when I'm in earshot.'
He placed a large, brown-paper, wrapped parcel on the dressing table and left the room. The parcel's shape was unmistakable: a violin. The old devil had remembered she played. Life was full of surprises. She looked down at the baby, listening to the little noises he was making and wondering what he had made of his first moments.
'Welcome to the world, Michael John Kidd.' As she slid into an exhausted sleep herself, she realised she was actually happy.
The fellow he'd met in the bar had told him that what would take a year to earn on a sheep farm, could be in his pocket after a couple of months in the mines. But the promises had been empty ones. Michael had paid over the odds for a place on the wagon that brought him here, only to find that pay and conditions in the coal mines were nothing like the man described. There was discontent in the workforce and even talk of strikes, but with so many men out of work and the economy struggling after the impact of the Great War, they had little choice but to get on with it and take what they could get.
He had been lucky: he still didn't fully understand what it was about him that had taken the boss's fancy? One morning, as he'd been about to descend in the shaft to the coalface,
the owner pulled him aside.
'What's your name?'
'Winterbourne, sir.'
'You're the Pommie then? Look lively. I've a job for you. Pick four or five men and get yourselves over to the North side. The pithead entrance has collapsed. I want you to shore it up and seal it off as it's out of use and I don't want any children or animals falling down the shaft. Do it as fast you can.'
Before Michael could ask for further instructions the mine owner strode back to the pit offices. The other miners looked at Michael dubiously.
'Get you, Pommie! Who's the boss's pet? How come he's picked you, mate? You've only been here five minutes and you don't know your arse from your elbow!'
'Aye, that's as may be, but I know your arse from your elbow and I'll give you a kick up it if you don't look lively, mate. I'll take you, Ned, along with Walt and Frank. Shift your arses, lads.'
'We don't get paid full whack if we don't go below,' one of the men protested.
'You'll get paid just the same.'
There was muttering among the men, but Michael cut in. 'You'll get paid the same. I've told you.'
Looking at each other doubtfully, the chosen crew gathered up their tools and followed Winterbourne to the disused shaft where they began clearing away fallen debris and shoring up the broken supports, ready to seal the opening. They'd been on the job about two hours when Robinson, the colliery accountant appeared.
'What the hell do you think you're doing? You should be down below. I'll dock all your wages for this.'
Michael carried on heaving a block of timber into position and replied with his back to the man. 'The gaffer's orders.'
'You're paid as miners and the pay is for going below, not for spending the day in the sunshine doing odd jobs. Get yourselves down number three shaft, like the roster says. If this job needs doing, then casuals can do it. And I'll make sure your wages are half the rate for the last couple of hours.'
