Amy had worried that Malcolm might wake and want to be fed during the drive home, but the gig’s motion seemed to soothe him. He was still sleeping in her arms when they went into the house. She put him in the cradle Charlie had made, and went out to start cooking dinner. She knew it would take her what was left of the afternoon; she still tired easily, and her body ached if she stood for long without a rest. Amy ignored the pile of dirty dishes for the moment; cleaning the house would have to be done a little at a time.
That evening Amy once again had her sewing and Charlie his newspaper to hide behind, so that their silence did not appear awkward. At nine o’clock Charlie stood up and said ‘bed’. He put out the lamp, walked out of the parlour and into the bedroom. Amy sat on in her chair for a few moments, gathering strength for what was to come. She had never before denied Charlie anything he demanded.
When she had put on her nightdress, she made sure Malcolm was tucked snugly into his cradle by her side of the bed. He was sleeping soundly for the moment. The baby looked less disconcertingly like his father when he was asleep. But I’ve never seen Charlie asleep, Amy realised. She wondered if his face softened from its habitual scowl when he slept.
Charlie stood by the lamp waiting for her to get into bed. As soon as she rose from the cradle and climbed between the sheets, he put out the light. Amy was quite sure Charlie had not washed or aired the bedding during her absence. The stale smell of the room brought that horror-filled first night in this bed alive in her memory. I thought I couldn’t bear it. But I’m learning—things’ll get better.
She was so certain he would try to take her that she was ready to speak the moment she felt his hand on her shoulder: ‘No, Charlie.’ She was surprised at how calm her voice sounded; it gave no suggestion of the fear churning inside her.
There was the briefest of silences; then, as though he could not believe he had heard her properly, Charlie said, ‘What?’
‘There’s bleeding… from having the child.’ Amy spoke quickly, while her courage held.
‘Is something not right with him?’
‘No, it’s quite normal.’ Amy could feel her face burning, and was glad the darkness hid it. ‘Women always have this after a baby’s born.’
She sensed he was debating whether to believe her or to test the truth of her words. When he finally spoke again she let out her breath with relief, and only then realised she had been holding it.
‘How long?’ he asked.
‘Another three weeks,’ Amy answered in a small voice. Charlie made a noise in his throat and rolled away from her.
Malcolm woke an hour later. His mewling cries seemed much louder in the darkened bedroom than they had at Mrs Coulson’s, and Amy was awake at once. She took him up from his cradle, thankful that the moon gave just enough light for her to see by, and sat on the chair beside the bed while the baby nursed. Charlie stirred a little. She saw the dark outline he made against the window heave as he rolled over, but he did not wake.
When the baby woke next at one o’clock Amy tried to reach him again without Charlie’s being woken, but Charlie gave a snort and sat up against the pillows.
‘What’s happening?’ he said sleepily. ‘What’s wrong with him?’
‘Nothing,’ Amy said, putting the baby to her breast. ‘I’m just feeding Malcolm.’
‘Why are you sitting in the dark?’
‘I didn’t want to wake you up. I can see well enough.’
‘Well, you did wake me up,’ Charlie grumbled. But he rolled over, and she could soon hear from his breathing that he had gone back to sleep.
The sky was lightening when Malcolm woke once more, this time crying from wet napkins as well as hunger, as Amy realised when she picked him up. She glanced in Charlie’s direction and saw him looking at her resentfully.
‘He cries a lot,’ he said.
As if I’m doing it on purpose. ‘Babies do.’ She turned away from Charlie to attend to Malcolm’s napkin. The baby howled, waving his tiny fists in impotent protest against discomfort and hunger.
‘Humph!’ Charlie said, sitting up in bed. ‘I might as well get up now, I won’t get back to sleep with that going on.’ Amy said nothing. There was nothing useful to say.
Malcolm did cry a lot, Amy had to admit. She looked at his angry little face, red and screwed up, as she walked around the kitchen floor with him later that morning, trying vainly to soothe him.
‘What’s wrong, baby?’ she asked helplessly. ‘You’re not hungry, I’ve just fed you. You’re not wet. Do you have a pain? I wish you could tell me.’ But Malcolm just screamed. Amy didn’t recall Thomas and George waking so much when they were tiny. Maybe I’ve just forgotten—I didn’t have to get up to them, only look after them in the daytime. Did Ann cry all the time like this? I don’t think so—but I lost Ann when she was younger than Malcolm is now.
After half an hour of Amy’s pacing back and forth, Malcolm finally tired himself out with crying and closed his eyes. Amy put him back in his cradle with relief.
Amy found it difficult to get her work done during the short periods when Malcolm fell asleep, but she knew she had to keep the house running smoothly. Charlie was going to be difficult enough with his sleep being disturbed and her body being unavailable to him; if he didn’t have his meals on time he would be unbearable.
Charlie came in at lunch-time, but instead of sitting down at the table he walked straight through the kitchen and into the parlour. Puzzled, Amy followed him, and found him in the bedroom standing over the cradle staring down at Malcolm. He looked so proud and self-satisfied that for a moment Amy forgot to be frightened of him. Perhaps we really can be like an ordinary family.
He turned and saw her looking at him. ‘He’s asleep,’ he said.
‘Yes, at last,’ said Amy. ‘Your lunch is ready.’
Charlie had something close to a smile on his face as he ate his lunch. ‘He’s a fine boy, isn’t he?’
‘Oh, yes, very healthy Mrs Coulson said. And big for his age, too. He’ll be strong.’ Charlie looked more smug than ever. ‘He looks just like you,’ Amy said, studying Charlie’s reaction carefully.
‘Don’t talk rot—saying a little mite like that looks like a grown man.’ But Amy could see he was pleased at the idea.
Charlie was less good-natured when Malcolm woke them an hour after they had gone to bed that night. ‘How long is this going to keep up?’ he grumbled as Amy sat in the chair nursing the baby.
‘Quite a while, yet, I’m afraid,’ Amy said into the darkness. ‘He’ll sleep a bit longer between feeds as he gets older, but he’s going to wake in the night for months yet.’
‘Months!’ Charlie repeated, thunderstruck.
‘Yes.’ Charlie said nothing out loud, but she could hear him cursing under his breath. ‘Would you like me to take him into the other bedroom and sleep there for a while—just until he starts sleeping a little bit longer?’
‘No—you stay where you are,’ Charlie said, surprising her with his vehemence. ‘I suppose I can manage without sleep for a while,’ he said in a martyred tone.
I suppose I can, too.
But it was hard to manage, Amy found. Malcolm wouldn’t let her sleep for more than three hours at a time, sometimes much less. He often cried during the day, and took a good deal of soothing. He fed well and was thriving, but Amy felt herself becoming more and more worn out over the next few weeks.
It made things even harder that she had to be as careful as ever not to annoy Charlie. She had to speak softly when he grumbled, appear calm and collected when Malcolm’s constant crying made him irritable, and do all her work properly, despite weariness from lack of sleep and lingering pain from the difficult birth.
‘He’s growing well, isn’t he?’ Lizzie said when she called in one afternoon on her way to visit her mother. ‘How old is he now?’
‘Six weeks.’ Amy felt a sudden stab of fear. ‘I’ve been home three weeks today,’ she said, more to herself than to Lizzie.
‘What? Oh, yes, everything’s all right—I’m just tired, that’s all, and I wish this one would start sleeping a bit more. He keeps us awake a lot.’
Afterwards Amy wondered if Charlie had been checking the calendar every evening to keep track of the time since that first night she had come home. He gave her a meaningful look as he bent over the lamp. ‘You’ve been home three weeks now, haven’t you?’
‘Yes,’ Amy said very quietly. She lay still, trying to will her muscles not to tense up.
The moment he started Amy knew it was too soon for her; the places where she had been torn during Malcolm’s birth had not yet healed properly. But it would be worse than useless to ask Charlie to stop.
I can bear it. It won’t last long.
Amy kept her teeth tightly clenched to stop herself from screaming with the pain. She felt herself going rigid, a reaction so strong that she knew Charlie must be aware of it. She tried to remember how she had learned to cope with it before: Relax… go limp… think about something else. But she hadn’t been in agony then. Her pain took on the rhythm of his thrusting. When he had finished it took her a few moments to realise it was over. Her body was still throbbing.
Charlie gave her an angry shove as he pushed himself away. ‘You’re worse than ever.’ Amy opened her mouth to say she was sorry, but the moment she did so she could tell that if she let her jaw relax she would cry out.
When Malcolm woke two hours later Charlie was snoring, while Amy was awake trying to muffle her sobs. She picked up the baby, still wrapped in his blankets, and slipped quietly out to the parlour, finding her way to the door by feel in the darkness. She sat down in one of the armchairs and unbuttoned her nightdress, then slipped a nipple into Malcolm’s questing mouth and suckled him till he was satisfied. She buttoned up her bodice, lay back in the chair and closed her eyes.
I’d forgotten. I’d forgotten how awful it is. It’s even worse now I’m all torn up. I wonder how long before I’ll heal. Maybe I won’t ever heal if he keeps doing that. A warm tear trickled down her face; she caught it with her tongue before it had the chance to drop onto the snugly wrapped baby.
Amy woke to find her shoulder being shaken, and saw that daylight had crept into the room.
‘What are you doing out here?’ Charlie asked grumpily.
Amy shook her head to try and clear it. ‘I… I wanted…’ I wanted to get away from you. ‘I didn’t want to wake you again. Malcolm slept right through,’ she said in surprise. ‘He must like being cuddled at night.’
‘You’re not taking him into bed with you,’ Charlie said quickly. ‘I’ll not have my son being made soft. And I’ll not have you sneaking out of my bedroom.’
‘I’m sorry. Do… do you want me to come back to bed now?’ The thought made Amy’s stomach turn over. Tears brimmed in her eyes.
‘Humph! It’s time to get up, near enough.’ He looked at her fear-filled face in disgust. ‘What the hell’s wrong with you, woman? Eh?’
‘It… it hurts me.’
‘Hurts you!’ Charlie echoed scornfully. ‘Are you made differently from other women, then?’
‘I don’t know. It just hurts me, that’s all.’ Amy cringed, waiting to be slapped, but Charlie was too conscious of the child in her arms to lash out at her.
‘I suppose you think I don’t know what I’m doing?’
‘No, I don’t think that. I’m sorry I annoyed you. I didn’t mean to.’ Amy closed her eyes and willed him to leave her alone. Charlie made an angry noise in his throat, then stalked off to the bedroom to get dressed.
Malcolm cried off and on all morning, as if reflecting Amy’s own emotions. His noise hid his parents’ silence over breakfast. Amy tried to avoid Charlie’s eyes; when her own did meet them she saw resentment there.
After he returned from the factory Charlie had his morning tea, still staring balefully at Amy, then rose from the table.
‘I’m going into town,’ he announced.
Amy stopped pacing the floor with the baby for a moment.
‘Can I come too? It would settle Malcolm down, he loves riding in the gig. And I need a couple of things in town.’
‘No, you can’t,’ Charlie said gruffly. ‘You can stop home and do your work.’
Amy was so startled by his refusal that she nearly asked why he would not take her, but stopped herself in time. That would sound too much like arguing with him. She followed him out the back door with the still wailing Malcolm in her arms and watched him saddle up Smokey.
‘Will you be gone long?’ she asked.
‘If it suits me,’ Charlie answered shortly.
‘Can you get me some—’
‘No, I can’t. You can wait until Saturday. Useless bitch,’ he flung at her as he swung his leg across the saddle and set Smokey moving with a hard kick. Amy saw the horse’s ears flick in surprise.
‘Your Papa’s annoyed with us,’ she told Malcolm. ‘He’s annoyed with you for crying all the time, and with me for not doing what he wants. No, that’s not right—I do whatever he wants. I think it’s because I don’t feel what he wants. That’s hard, isn’t it? I can’t help what I feel.’ She sighed. ‘I suppose if I was a good wife I’d feel the right things. Lizzie does.’
Amy sat down wearily on the grass and watched Malcolm waving his tiny fists in frustration. She felt a rush of sympathy for him. ‘You’re not really bad-tempered, are you, baby? You’re just miserable, same as me. Poor little mite. Papa’s angry all the time, and Mama didn’t even want you. I do want you now, Mal. Well, even if I don’t it doesn’t really matter, does it? We’re all stuck with each other and we’ve got to make the best of it. I’ll be a good mother to you, Malcolm. I’ll try and make you happy, you and your Papa both. I just wish I was better at it.’
She dragged herself to her feet. ‘Come on, Malcolm, let’s walk you around out here and see if all this fresh air and sunshine can wear you out. Maybe if I get you tired enough you’ll sleep all through the night. I wish your Papa would.’
Amy looked down the road and watched Charlie disappearing. ‘I wonder why he wouldn’t take us today,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘He’s usually so keen to show you off, Malcolm. It’s strange he’s gone off by himself, and it’s not even a shopping day. I wonder where he’s gone.’ She shrugged and began pacing the grassy area, murmuring soothing noises to the baby in her arms.
8
June 1886
Frank lay in bed wondering what had woken him so abruptly out of a sound sleep. His head had somehow slipped off the pillow, and he slid slowly into a more comfortable position, careful not to disturb Lizzie. She was not sleeping well now that she was so big, and she needed her rest.
He had barely got his head back on the pillow before a sharp jolt shook the bed and set the windows rattling. Frank felt Lizzie awake with a start.
‘What is it? What’s happening?’ she cried out in alarm.
Frank slipped his arms around her. ‘Shh, Lizzie, it’s all right. It’s just an earthquake.’ He held her close while the bed slowly stopped shaking.
‘It gave me a fright. I was having such a good sleep, too.’
‘Mmm, it was quite a strong one. Never mind, try and go back to sleep.’
‘It took me ages to drop off,’ Lizzie grumbled. Frank felt her wriggling around, trying to find a comfortable way to lie. She stopped moving, and Frank listened to the sound of her breathing, wondering if she had fallen asleep again.
He had almost nodded off himself when another tremor rolled them both into the centre of the bed. The windows rattled loudly and the bedstead creaked and groaned under them until the shaking stopped.
‘That was even worse,’ said Lizzie. ‘I thought the bed was going to fall apart.’
‘Nah, this bed’s pretty strong—look what it put up with for a year.’ Frank grinned into the darkness. The bed had had a quiet time for the previous few months since Lizzie’s bulk had become too daunting, but the
memories of pleasure were still vivid. He reached an arm across Lizzie and gave her a careful squeeze. ‘Don’t worry, it won’t fall apart.’
Lizzie wriggled again. ‘I won’t get back to sleep now. Oh, I’m so uncomfortable tonight—even worse than usual.’
‘What’s wrong?’
‘It’s my back. It’s really aching.’
‘Roll over.’ Frank helped Lizzie heave herself onto her side, then slid his hand slowly down her back. ‘Here?’
‘No, lower—oh, that’s the spot.’ He rubbed Lizzie’s back through her nightdress, and she made little noises of pleasure. ‘Mmm, that feels good.’
‘This fellow playing up tonight, eh?’ Frank slid his hand over Lizzie’s belly and patted it, enjoying the feel of the firm, warm flesh through the fabric.
‘Who says it’s a fellow? Rub my back some more.’
‘Bossy,’ Frank teased. He nuzzled his way through Lizzie’s hair and planted a soft kiss on her neck as he began to rub her back once again.
‘You’re good at that. I suppose husbands are some use.’
‘Useful for making babies, anyway.’ A soft pattering stole Frank’s attention. ‘Hey, it’s raining.’
‘So it is. That’s good, isn’t it?’
‘Mmm. The ground’s been getting really dry lately.’
The noise on the iron roof grew louder. When Frank had soothed the ache out of Lizzie’s back, he put his arms around her and pressed his own body against hers. ‘It’s cold tonight. It’s a good night for cuddles.’
‘It’s always a good night for cuddles,’ Lizzie said drowsily. The next earthquake was so slight it almost seemed to be rocking them to sleep.
‘Frank?’ Lizzie’s voice had an oddly strained note in it that penetrated Frank’s slumber abruptly. The night seemed deeper than before. As he dragged himself back into wakefulness Frank realised he had been asleep for some time.
‘What’s wrong? Was it another quake?’
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