A Greater World: A woman's journey

by Clare Flynn

  The funeral was the next day. The doctor insisted the bodies could not be placed in open coffins, as there was too great a risk of infection. The ceremony passed in a haze to Elizabeth. She didn't even notice that the masked minister officiating was the same one who had married Michael and Harriet. The party at the graveside, all wearing masks, consisted only of herself and Kidd, Doctor Reilly, Will, Verity, the Oates and a tearful Mary.

  She stood at the edge of the open grave and watched the two tiny coffins lowered on ropes into the ground.

  'Farewell, my lovely babies. I'll love you forever. I'll never forget you.' Her cheeks were dry. She had exhausted a lifetime's supply of tears.

  With a flash of vibrant colour, a group of rainbow lorikeets burst through the trees just as the mourners threw their clods of earth on the coffins. She looked up at them, remembering how Mikey loved those birds. She watched them disappear behind a bank of tall gum trees. Maybe he and Susanna were with them, little lorikeets themselves, flying free above them all. As she thought it, she knew it was stupid. They were down there beneath their feet, already starting to dissolve into the soil, a feast for the worms. Her adored boy and her beautiful baby girl.

  It had happened so quickly that it was hard to accept it was not a dream. Will was inconsolable. He had loved his little brother and had been devoted to his newborn sister. Now he too was bereft. He and Elizabeth walked from the grave arm in arm, not needing to speak.

  Kidd looked after them, and then stared down at the small coffins, as the gravediggers shovelled earth on top. He shook his head, recalling how many times he had stood in this place, burying stillborn children in miniature coffins, then watching as his wife's was lowered into her grave with the last of their dead children.

  Chapter Nineteen – Strange Meeting

  Michael was in Sydney. He'd been giving a lot of thought to his marital problems. Harriet was headstrong and immature. He took the marriage vows seriously and wanted to stand by the promise he'd made for better or for worse. His father's last letter was full of pleasure that he was married. He didn't want to hurt his parents again by telling them the marriage was already dead. He still wanted them to join him, but reading between the lines of his father's short letter, his mother was too ill for that to be a possibility yet.

  He took a taxi from the railway station to the house that he'd reluctantly rented for Harriet in Potts Point. The place was an unnecessary extravagance, but he'd hoped if he went along with her wishes she might eventually grow tired of living in the city.

  When he let himself in there was no sign of either Harriet or the housekeeper. He went upstairs to leave his bag in the bedroom. As he reached the door he thought he could hear a sound behind it. The low murmur of conversation. He hesitated then swung the door open.

  Harriet was on the bed, propped against a pile of pillows, smoking a cigarette through a long mother-of-pearl holder with a glass of champagne in her other hand. She was wearing a nightgown and it looked from the state of the bed as though she'd only just got out of it. The curtains were still drawn at the windows and the room lit only by the light from a bedside lamp. Two empty champagne bottles lay on the carpet. At the other end of the bed, leaning against the velvet-upholstered footboard was a man, wearing evening dress without the jacket and with his shirt collar and white tie hanging loose from his neck. His highly polished shoes were still on his feet and he looked as though he'd just arrived from a party. Between them on the counterpane was a large book, in the centre of which was a small pile of white powder.

  Harriet looked at Michael with narrowed eyes, then leaned forward and scooped some of the powder onto the back of her hand and snorted it up her nose. When she finished she looked defiantly at her husband.

  The man turned round to look at Michael. His brilliantined hair was parted in the centre and his voice was arrogant and effeminate as he said with an exaggerated drawl, 'Hell-ohhh there! Who are you? Care to join us? Plenty here for all of us.' And he stretched out a hand to indicate the little heap of cocaine.

  'I'm her husband. Who the hell are you?'

  Harriet spoke. 'Tommie, meet Michael. He's a bit of a spoilsport, aren't you, darling?'

  'Right, Tommie, lad. It's time you went home. Back to the rock you crawled out from.'

  'He's going nowhere.' Harriet's voice was shrill. She put down her champagne flute and swung her legs off the bed. 'You're the uninvited guest here.'

  Michael grabbed her arm and pulled her towards him, then pushed her in front of him towards the doorway. He looked over his shoulder. 'What are you waiting for? I told you. Time to go home. Or do you want me to throw you down the stairs?'

  The man jumped off the bed quickly and gathered up his evening jacket from the chair. Harriet pulled away from Winterbourne and put her arm out to stop her friend.

  'Ignore him, Tommie, darling. He's a big bully. Let's head over to your place and carry on the party.'

  Michael reacted quickly and before she knew what had hit her, he swung her off her feet and over his shoulder like a sack of coal. She screamed in indignation and struggled to get down but he was too strong for her. He carried her across the room and dumped her in the middle of the bed, scattering the cocaine powder in a cloud.

  The man was at the doorway, his face a mixture of fear and fascination. When he saw Michael move towards him he bolted from the room and clattered down the stairs, crashing the front door behind him.

  Harriet's face contorted with rage. She spat her words at Michael. 'How dare you do that to me, you beast. This is my house and I'll do what I want in it with anyone I like. Go back to your filthy coalmine and leave me in peace.'

  It wasn't going the way he'd envisaged when he set off that morning. Harriet pulled herself into a tight ball with her head on her knees and wouldn't look at him. He could hear her sobbing.

  'Hat, we need to talk. We have to find a way to make this marriage work. I won't let you do this to yourself. Drugs are no good. You'll make yourself ill. You'll get into all sorts of trouble. I don't like you being around people like him. Wasters. Rich bastards with nowt better to do. You're a married woman, for God's sake. Act like one. Instead of a spoilt schoolgirl. Grow up!'

  Through her sobs he heard her say quietly, 'I hate you. I wish you were dead. You've made a show of me. It's not fair! I'm married to an old wowser who wants to stop me having fun with my friends.'

  He sat down on the bed beside her. 'Is he the one? The chap as helped you get the abortion? Are you sleeping with him?'

  She dropped her arms and brushed her hand across her face to wipe away the tears. 'Of course I'm not sleeping with him! Are you stupid? He doesn't like women. He likes men.'

  Michael didn't know what to say.

  Harriet rushed on. 'He's a good friend. We go to the theatre together. He knows all the right people. Now he'll never speak to me again and it's all your fault.' She began to wail.

  He suddenly understood how some men could be provoked enough to hit a woman. It was tempting, but he'd never do it. He flung her silk dressing gown at her. 'Get dressed and come downstairs. We need to talk.'

  He slept apart from her that night. She made it clear that she had no intention of sleeping with him again. She also made it clear that she didn't want to be married to him any more. They argued for hours until he acknowledged there was no hope of making her see reason about anything. He looked at her and wondered how he'd ever thought her attractive. Her expression had settled into a permanent sulkiness and her complexion was beginning to show the signs of her fondness for drugs and alcohol, with blotchy skin and puffy eyes. She clearly needed help. He was out of his depth. Nothing had prepared him for this. As he lay in bed, sleepless and exhausted after the rowing, he cursed his stupidity for agreeing to marry her in the first place. And for doing so for all the wrong reasons.

  He needed to speak to Kidd to convince him that she must see a doctor. He'd failed to get through to her himself. The more he had tried, the more obdurate she became. He was
exhausted. Spent. He could do now more. He no longer wanted to try.

  Next morning he left while she was still sleeping. He had intended to look in on her before he left, but her bedroom door was locked. He booked himself into a small hotel and went to find a lawyer.

  Elizabeth was losing weight. The sight of food made her stomach churn. It was as though she were sleepwalking, catatonic and barely conscious of her surroundings. Day ran into identical day. The nights were worse. She lay on her back in bed, gazing unseeing at the hammered tin ceiling.

  She tortured herself with the accusation that she had somehow brought about Mikey's death herself. She knew it to be untrue – as well as her own children the disease had claimed several others, an elderly couple and a newly-wed bride – but she couldn't stop thinking it.

  She was alone at Wilton's Creek. Kidd was at the mine.

  Her spirits were lower than they'd ever been, even after the death of her father and her discovery of her pregnancy. It was too hard to accept that from one day to the next she had stopped being a mother. Motherhood had become the primary purpose in her life. It had been an unexpected joy and nothing could replace her children, even other children. She blamed herself for not protecting them better. But from what and how? She knew these thoughts were not rational.

  Kidd seemed to understand what she was going through and her need to be apart from him and everyone else, including Will and Mary. Perhaps it was because his former wife had lost so many children? Whatever the reason, he raised no objection to her request to stay alone at the Creek.

  She lay on the bed, listless, while her mind churned over the short illness that had caused the children's deaths. How was it possible they had ailed so rapidly, that a happy little boy could be stricken so fast and his end come so quickly? That a little baby could be taken before she had a chance to experience life? The letters of condolence lay unread in a pile on the small table beside the bed. What did these people know or care of Mikey and Susanna, or what she was going through now?

  Her nerve endings jangled and her skin felt as though she'd been flayed. It was as if she inhabited a netherworld, strangely positioned inside the real one. The sun rising each morning and sinking each night was a mockery of her pain, as were the songs of the birds and the rain rattling onto the corrugated iron roof above her. How could life go on without the children? Why hadn't the world stopped too? She was trapped in an invisible cage, where all she could think about was her loss and the terrible brief suffering of her children.

  Kidd stayed away, sensing his presence was neither needed nor wanted. After the funeral, he laid a hand on her sleeve and squeezed her arm in wordless sympathy, but she pulled away from him and stared silently out of the car window.

  On the fifth day of her seclusion, she rolled off the bed and fetched some water. She could no longer bear lying there unkempt and unwashed.

  Looking in the old spotted mirror above the kitchen sink, she was shocked at the person who looked back. Her face was gaunt with dark circles under her eyes, like bruises. Her normally lustrous hair was matted and dull and her lips were dry and cracked. She stripped off her clothes and put them in a basket ready for washing, filled the sink and began to wash herself. She stood naked on the rag-rug that had survived the improvements Kidd had effected over the past weeks, wincing as she splashed cold water over her face and neck – she could still feel after all. She scrubbed vigorously at her thin body with a washcloth and some lavender soap. The cold water and the aroma of lavender woke her from her torpor and she looked around the room. It was dusty and neglected.

  Activity was what she needed to break out of her trance. It wouldn't deaden the pain, but it would distract her from thinking. She wrapped the towel around her and began to rub herself dry.

  Her back was to the door so she didn't see him enter and nearly jumped out of her skin when he spoke.

  'You're a beauty aren't you?'

  She turned round, clutching the towel tightly. The man was short, dark-haired and the stubble on his chin signalled that he hadn't shaved for several days. His frame was wiry and his features like his father's. The resemblance was unmistakable. Elizabeth knew at once she was looking at Nathaniel Kidd.

  He leaned against the doorpost, a cigarette dangling from his mouth. A long dull scar ran from the left corner of his top lip to his eyebrow, where it sliced a path through the brow, before petering out just above it.

  'The old man did good!' He blew a pantomime wolf whistle. 'So where did he find you, Beauty?'

  'Wait outside while I get dressed. I've been unwell and wasn't expecting visitors.' She moved behind the fabric screen that still divided the main sleeping area from the living area.

  He called after her. 'Don't mind me. I'm not going anywhere, so don't hurry on my account.'

  She grabbed the holdall that lay beside the bed, fumbling for clean underwear and a fresh blouse and skirt. She threw on the clothes and dragged a comb through her tangled and still unwashed hair and emerged again into the kitchen. Nat Kidd was sprawled in a chair, feet up on the gingham-covered orange-box that still served as a makeshift side table, a bottle of beer at his lips.

  As she moved into the main area of the room, she was conscious of him appraising her. She went towards the kitchen sink and mumbled something about making tea.

  'Not on my account, Beauty. I'm happy with a beer. Glad to see the old man has some in. He doesn't change. Care to join me?' He offered another bottle to her but she backed away, leaning against the kitchen sink.

  'Your father didn't tell me he was expecting you.'

  'I expect that's 'cause he isn't.'

  'He's in town at the mine.'

  'I know.'

  'You've seen him then?'

  He gave a dry laugh and took a swig of beer. 'Why would I want to see the old bastard?'

  Elizabeth was feeling increasingly uncomfortable. There was a lot about the man not to like. After not eating for several days, her stomach was hollow and aching and she felt unsteady on her feet. She must have started to sway, as the next thing, he jumped up, caught her and helped her into an armchair.

  'You look a bit crook. I'll get you some water.' He returned with a glass, which he held to her lips and steadied her as she drank it hungrily. 'What's wrong with you? You ill or something?'

  'I lost...' she stopped, unwilling to tell him.

  'You need to eat something.' He opened the tucker-bag he'd flung in the corner of the room and pulled out a loaf and a small oilskin parcel from which he produced a hunk of cheese. He broke off a portion of each and handed them to her.

  'Eat it slowly. Looks like you haven't had a decent meal for days, Beauty.'

  'Don't call me that.'

  'Well I can't call you Mother can I? Although I suppose that's technically what you are?'

  'My name is Elizabeth.'

  'E-liz-a-beth' He repeated her name, slowly drawing out each of the syllables. 'The old man's certainly done all right for himself.'

  She blushed. He looked at her as though still seeing her with just the towel round her. She shuddered at the thought that he might have been watching her through the window as she washed.

  'You're Nathaniel?'

  'The old dog actually mentioned me?'

  'Will told me he had an older brother who left home years ago.'

  'Ah little Willie. How is the lad? Still picking his nose and wetting his pants?'

  Elizabeth frowned with distaste. There was a real animosity in his voice.

  'I'm surprised the kid remembers me. He was just a wee lad when I 'left home' as you put it.'

  Elizabeth looked up, surprised.

  'I'd have said 'kicked out on my arse' was a more accurate description, if you'll pardon my French.'

  'I'm sure that isn't true?'

  'Can't imagine the old dog doing that?' He leaned back in his chair, nodding his head slowly. 'I hear he's quite the man about town these days. Owns the coal mine they tell me?'

  'Yes. That's where he i
s now.'

  'Leaving you here on your own? He doesn't appreciate you enough. An elegant woman like you shouldn't be stuck out here, shut away from folk.' He looked around him. 'Mind you, he's made some improvements to the old place. You could almost describe it as comfortable!' He laughed again with the same dry, hollow laugh. 'Not like it was when I lived here. Ma working day and night to keep food on the table and him off gambling the length and breadth of the county.'

  She didn't reply but looked back at him, her curiosity piqued.

  'Did little brother tell you the old man beat her?'

  'She shook her head and felt her face reddening again, not wanting to believe this of Kidd, but remembering the night he had struck her across the face.

  'He wasn't a regular wife beater if that's what you're worried about? Dare say he's never raised a fist to you has he? Well why would he? A looker like you. Or has he? You don't look too sure. Well he did hit my old lady. Only the once, but that was enough. He'd been gone for days. Ma was pregnant. She was pregnant all the time. The old goat wouldn't leave her alone.'

  He looked her up and down smiling, then continued. 'He came back with empty pockets. She was angry and went for him like a mad thing. He was drunk. That's what made her flip. She hit him so hard he was reeling, then he whacked her back. He bashed her so bad he knocked her out. Then he was weeping and wailing and begging forgiveness. Of course the silly cow did forgive him.'