by Judy Nunn
Amy Stanford-Balfour did indeed love her husband very much, but upon marrying her father’s overseer she had become far more than a farmer’s wife. She had turned her intellect to the family business, developing a great passion for, and a great knowledge of, Merino breeding. There was no denying Amy had inherited her father’s talents as a producer of fine wool. Little wonder Silas Stanford had been happy to leave his cherished property in the hands of his daughter and the highly capable man who had managed it for years.
Upon the men’s return to the farmhouse Reginald continued to hide his boredom to the best of his ability, but with little success, which Amy as usual found mildly amusing. Her brother was first and foremost a businessman and his sporadic visits to a property that ran like clockwork without any necessity for intervention were either to appease his father or to irritate him – she was never sure which – and in the process he bored himself for no purpose. The relationship between Stanford father and son borders on ludicrous, she thought.
To Reginald’s vast relief, the customary gathering of the clan was not to take place that evening. Edwin, who lived with his family in the comfortable home he’d built on the sub-divided property just a mile or so away, was keen to get back to his wife, who had not long ago given birth to their third child.
‘We won’t be coming over for dinner,’ he said. ‘I’ll be getting home to Liz. I hope you don’t mind, Reginald.’
‘Not at all, not at all.’ Reginald accepted the big farmer’s hand Edwin offered. Like father like son, he thought.
‘Wish Evelyn all the best for when her time comes,’ Edwin said. He felt sorry for Reginald, who must surely be worried for his wife. It didn’t seem fair that Evelyn should have such trouble giving birth while his own Liz popped her babies out like peas from a pod. ‘Everything will go well, I’m sure,’ he said awkwardly.
‘Yes, I’m sure it will,’ Reginald replied.
Edwin beat a hasty retreat, grateful for the excuse to leave: he never felt comfortable in Reginald’s company. If the truth be known, he didn’t actually like the man.
Business discussion cropped up over dinner, which was natural enough, there was little else they had in common, but after recounting to his sister and her husband the reports of his meetings with the European wool agents the previous year, talk turned towards the recent acquisition of two new stud rams and Reginald became bored. His mind started to wander.
There was no denying the Stanford-Balfours were good farmers and top breeders and, despite the needling he gave his father (more to irritate the old man than anything), Reginald believed they were correct in keeping the property exclusive to Merino wool production. But his eye was always on the far broader picture. Regardless of quality, the selling of a commodity was never enough, in his opinion. The path to wealth and power lay in total control. He’d told Henry Jones so just the other day.
‘Set your sights on tin mining, Henry,’ he’d said. ‘There’s big money in tin, and you can cut out the middle man in your cannery.’ Jones had been very keen on the idea and would no doubt see it through, for he was an extremely crafty businessman. Indeed The Mercury had recently referred to Henry Jones as ‘a tiger of industry’ – a term which had rather annoyed Reginald. Half of Jones’s ideas had come from him, after all, and where would the man be without the initial funds he’d provided? Reginald was aware his irritation was unreasonable for it had been his choice to keep their relationship shrouded in secrecy, but he considered himself far more ‘a tiger of industry’ than Jones. Besides, the term was altogether too grand for Henry. Henry was such a common little man.
Common or not, though, Henry is certainly moving up in the world, Reginald thought as he feigned interest in Donald’s talk about the healthy number of spring lambs the ewes were producing this season.
‘We need to police the births rigorously though,’ Donald was saying, ‘we’ve had a bit of a problem with feral dogs lately . . .’
Reginald nodded, although he hadn’t really heard what was being said at all. Henry understands the importance of control, he thought. Why, Henry Jones’s business was well on the way to becoming The House that Jack Built. He has the fruit that gives the pulp that makes the jam . . . The rhythm of the nonsense poem from his childhood bounced about in Reginald’s brain. He has the mine that yields the tin that makes the cans that store the jam . . . he has the mill that cuts the wood that makes the crates that hold the cans that store the jam . . . Reginald found himself so amusing he nearly laughed out loud. Good God, he thought, all the man needs now are the ships that carry the crates that hold the cans that store the jam across the seas to England.
And therein of course lay the problem that confronted the Tasmanian export market in general. ‘We must turn our attention to shipping,’ he announced.
His comment was so abrupt and unexpected that Donald came to an immediate halt. What does shipping have to do with feral dogs? he wondered. Amy stared at her brother. He hasn’t heard one single word that’s been said, she thought.
‘For some time now the larger shipping lines, particularly P & O and the Clan Line, have been sending fewer and fewer freighters to Hobart.’ Reginald, undeterred by his audience’s confusion, quickly warmed to his theme. ‘With the expansion of the fruit export market, local shipping agents have been competing for growers’ produce and booking more freight space than they can fill. It’s hardly surprisingly the larger lines are refusing to come here when there’s barely sufficient cargo to fill half their vessels’ holds. This is an untenable situation for all of us in the export business. Fruit sits rotting on the harbour –’
‘Wool bales don’t rot,’ Amy interrupted coldly. She was cross with her brother. Boredom was one thing, but it was quite another to be so blatantly rude, and particularly to Donald, who was always so good-natured.
Reginald ignored the interjection: her comment was not worthy of response anyway, and she was only on the defensive because he’d interrupted her husband. ‘In order to ensure regular freight service with the major lines,’ he went on, ‘we need to book large amounts of cargo space and offer firm guarantees that we’ll fill them.’
‘That makes sense,’ Donald said with a nod to his wife. Donald needed no-one to spring to his defence. He was an easy-going man, comfortable within himself, rarely threatened and rarely offended. ‘How do you suggest going about it?’
‘I shall enter into an agreement with several other like-minded businessmen,’ Reginald said – in fact he had already done so with both Henry Jones and W.D. Peacock – ‘and between us we shall act as our own agents and offer our own guarantee. I’m sure there will be others queuing up to tender their cargo, which will pay for the exercise.’
‘There’ll no doubt be a lot of unhappy shipping agents too,’ Amy commented drily.
‘Quite possibly, yes.’
‘Very clever, Reginald.’ Donald gave an approving nod. ‘Very clever indeed.’
‘Thank you, Donald.’ Amy’s husband really isn’t a bad chap at all, Reginald thought. In fact there were times when he quite liked Donald Balfour.
The following morning Amy drove Reginald back to Brighton, dropping him off at the train station.
‘I won’t wait around for the train,’ she said as he was about to step down from the trap, ‘I’ll head off home if you don’t mind. There’s a lot to be done.’
‘Good heavens above, yes, you get back to work.’
She gave him another hearty hug, which he returned as best he could. ‘Don’t leave it so long next time, Reginald,’ she said.
‘I won’t,’ he replied, but they both knew he would.
He climbed from the trap and stood waving to his sister as the sturdy grey gelding trotted off up the dusty road on its way home to Pontville.
A half an hour later, while the train puffed up steam in preparation for the final leg of its journey to Hobart, he leant back in his seat and breathed a sigh of relief. Thank goodness, another stultifying trip to the country was over an
d he could return to the stimulation of the city.
Reginald returned to far more than stimulation. He returned to the all-too-familiar signs that spelt chaos and disaster.
The moment he entered the house he knew something was wrong. For a start, Clive wasn’t there to take his hat and his coat and his travelling case, and if Clive was engaged in other duties, then where was the maid? Where was the housekeeper? What was going on?
Even as he stood in the front hall wondering, the door that led through to the dining room and beyond that to the kitchen, opened. Young Dot, the maid, appeared carrying a bowl of hot water, fresh towels draped over her shoulder. Reginald dared not ask the question that sprang first and foremost to his mind.
‘Where’s Clive?’ he asked instead.
‘Mr Gillespie took the trap to the station hoping to meet you, sir,’ Dot said as she started up the main staircase.
He followed her. ‘I caught the tram.’ He tried to sound normal, tried not to let his panic show. ‘Why did he go to the station? What’s going on?’
‘Oh everything, sir,’ Dot was taking the stairs two at a time, trying not spill the water, as this was her second trip to fetch fresh supplies, ‘everything’s happening all at once, it is.’
On the landing at the top of the stairs they encountered the housekeeper. Iris Watson bustled out of the master bedroom to take the bowl and towels from Dot, and through the open door behind her the muffled sounds could be heard of a woman fighting to stifle cries of pain.
‘What’s going on?’ Reginald demanded. ‘Is she miscarrying again?’
‘No, sir,’ the housekeeper answered, ‘she’s giving birth. The doctor and the midwife are both with her. Clive fetched them before going to the station in the hope of meeting your train.’ Iris Watson was aware of the master’s panic and, given past circumstances, she was not in the least surprised. ‘Everything is going splendidly, sir. It’s a little premature, but a perfectly normal birth the doctor says.’ She smiled reassuringly. ‘You stay here, and I’ll leave the door ajar so you can hear the baby’s first cries, it shouldn’t be too long now.’ She darted a glance at the maid. ‘Wait on the landing, Dot, in case you’re needed.’
Dot nodded, and the two of them waited, Reginald sinking into one of the two chairs that flanked the pedestal with its massive floral arrangement, and Dot standing rigidly to attention, like a miniature soldier in mob-cap and apron. Neither said a word, but both sets of eyes remained fixed on the four inch gap where the heavy wooden door sat ajar.
Evelyn’s stifled cries were intermingled with voices, one of which Reginald recognised as Dr Harvey’s. He couldn’t actually hear what the man was saying, but he could make out the words of the other voice, a woman’s; clearly she was the midwife.
‘Push, dear,’ she was saying, ‘don’t forget to breathe, there’s a good girl. Nice big deep breaths. That’s the way, very good. Now push, dear. Push and breathe, push and breathe . . .’
On and on she went, a meaningless litany, which Reginald presumed was supposed to be of some assistance to the woman in labour, although it didn’t seem to be having a great deal of effect. Evelyn’s cries were now more like strangled gasps as if in fighting them back she was suffocating.
Then the doctor spoke again, and this time Reginald could hear the man’s words.
‘It’s all right to cry out loud, Evelyn,’ Dr Harvey said, raising his voice to reach her beyond her pain. ‘Don’t hold back. You’re nearly there, the baby’s helping you, it wants to be born. Cry out if you wish.’
And Evelyn did.
Reginald jumped to his feet, shocked by the primal scream that sounded more animal than human. But the doctor seemed pleased.
‘That’s it. Good girl. I can see the head now. You’re doing wonderfully, Evelyn, not long to go.’
Reginald stood by the door, staring at the four inch gap that led to the other room, hearing his wife cry out, hearing the doctor’s words of assurance, hearing the midwife’s litany of instruction, but all the while he was listening for just one sound: the cry of a newborn child.
Then everything changed. Evelyn’s cries continued, but the doctor was not offering words of assurance now. The doctor was anxious. Reginald couldn’t hear the exact words he muttered to the midwife, but alarmingly it was something about feeling no movement from the child. His instruction to Evelyn, however, was loud and clear.
‘Push, Evelyn,’ he said. ‘Push as hard as you can.’
The midwife joined in, her words no longer a meaningless litany, but a series of distinct orders. ‘Take both my hands, dear. Come along now, hang on to me and push with all your might. That’s it. And again, push. And again, harder.’
Reginald listened as Evelyn’s screams became guttural growls that issued from the very core of her being.
‘Push, Evelyn, push,’ the doctor urged.
‘Hang on and push again, dear,’ the midwife ordered. ‘Push even harder.’
‘It’s coming,’ the doctor said. Reginald could hear his every word now. ‘It’s coming, it’s coming, well done, Evelyn, you’re nearly there.’
Then Evelyn’s unmistakeable wail of relief as she delivered her burden into the world.
Reginald waited breathlessly for the child’s first cry.
But there was none. He heard no cry at all. Instead, he heard muttered words from the doctor to the midwife, but he couldn’t distinguish what was said.
He waited a second longer and then another second, and still no newborn’s cry. What was going on? He had to know.
He pushed the door open and stepped inside. No-one noticed him as he stood there watching the doctor free the cord from around the baby’s neck.
He watched the doctor hold the child upside down by its ankles and smack its bottom sharply. Still there was no cry. There was no sign of life whatsoever and the child’s face had a distinctly bluish tinge. It was a boy, Reginald noticed.
He watched the doctor hand the child to the midwife and turn his attention to the mother, his duty now clearly directed to the living.
‘Rest, Evelyn,’ he said, ‘you’ve done very well, and now you must rest.’ Evelyn was becoming agitated: she too was listening for the cry of a newborn.
Reginald’s eyes did not leave the child. He watched as the midwife continued to perform presumably life-offering ministrations, patting its back, even blowing air into its tiny mouth as some midwives did in such situations. What is the point? he thought dully, the child is dead. The son that should have been his was dead.
Iris Watson, who had been positioned to one side waiting to be of assistance, made the sign of the cross and turned away from the sight. It was only then she noticed him standing motionless where he was over by the door.
She quickly came to his side, her movement calling the midwife’s attention to the fact that the master of the house was present. The midwife frowned disapprovingly but did not cease her ministrations. She kept patting and puffing as if the child might live.
‘What a tragic thing, sir,’ Iris whispered, ‘how sad you should be witness to such a sight. But rest assured, the mistress has survived. Your wife is quite safe. ’
Reginald said nothing. He wished his wife was dead. His eyes remained fixed upon the child’s lifeless body. His wife had given birth to a stillborn. He wished she’d died along with this corpse that should have been his son.
‘Come away, sir,’ Iris whispered. The poor man is in shock, she thought. ‘Come away, sir, please. Come outside.’
Reginald did not budge. He continued to stare at the corpse as though mesmerised. But surely his eyes were deceiving him. He blinked to clear his vision. He could swear he saw movement.
The midwife saw it too. She felt the child stir and saw the quiver of a hand, and she held the infant out before her, waiting expectantly as if she had known this would happen. Then the baby lifted up its head, and the mouth in the little blue face opened wide like a miniature cavern. The chest gave a mighty heave as tiny lungs hauled
in air and suddenly the room was filled with the scream of a newborn child who was very much alive.
The midwife would later boast it was her ministrations that had saved the day, although the doctor swore the triumph was the child’s. The baby had put up its own fight, he said; the baby had simply wanted to live. Whatever the reason, within only seconds the baby’s face became a rosy red and its little arms and legs punched the air as if announcing a personal victory.
‘You have a healthy son, Mr Stanford,’ the doctor said, joining Reginald at the door. The midwife, who was now placing the baby in its mother’s arms, had informed him of the intruder. ‘I suggest you wait outside while we prepare the room. You may see your wife and child shortly.’ The doctor too considered Reginald’s presence to have been most unseemly.
‘Of course.’
Reginald did as he was told and meekly retired to the landing where he sat by the flower arrangement and watched as Dot and Iris bustled past on their way down the stairs with armloads of bloodied linen and towels and bowls of murky water. He watched them again as they came back up the stairs with armloads of fresh linen and towels and bowls of clean water; each time they bustled past Iris Watson gave him a special smile.
Finally the servants and the midwife departed and Reginald was summoned to the bedside.
‘You may see your wife and son now, Mr Stanford,’ the doctor said, stepping out onto the landing. ‘Both are in good health, although your wife is weary. She needs to sleep. I shall leave you alone together and call back tomorrow morning. In the meantime, Mrs Watson has my full instructions.’
‘Thank you, Doctor. Thank you very much.’
The two men shook hands, the doctor left and Reginald stepped into the bedroom, closing the door behind him.
She was sitting propped up by pillows, the baby asleep in her arms, and crossing to the bed he sat gingerly beside her, wary of any movement that may disturb. He gazed down at his sleeping son, at the curl of the eyelashes, at the curve of the lip, at the little hand that clutched the edge of the blanket with such seeming purpose, the perfect little hand with its perfect little fingers and perfect little fingernails. Everything is so beautifully formed, he thought, lost in the wonder of it all.
