This was hell. ‘Did she?’
‘Not then,’ the PM said. ‘We have searched for her. She was found, taken by the police, handed over to Family Services.’
‘And then?’
‘We don’t know. They lost the bloody paper work. She disappeared into the system and we have no idea if she is alive or dead.’
‘Is it horrible that I hope she is dead?’ Lois whispered. ‘So that she hasn’t had to grow up feeling like she wasn’t loved. Because she was. Once I got better, I loved and missed her so much.’
Something about the story didn’t make sense. ‘How did they lose the paper work so quickly?’
‘It wasn’t quick.’ The PM put his hand on Lois’s shoulder and squeezed it. ‘I didn’t know that Lois had left the baby behind until a few years ago.’
That was unexpected. ‘What did you think when you got home and there was no baby?’
‘At first I told him the baby was sick, and kept them separated a few days,’ Lois said. ‘I was so panicked, and I couldn’t admit what I had done. I knew that Michael would hate me, would leave me, and I couldn’t bare that. Then, when I couldn’t do that anymore, I came up with the story that Ernestine had died and I had been so ashamed that I was such a bad mother, I’d disposed of her body. Michael was devastated, and furious, and our marriage almost ended. But it didn’t, and we mourned Ernestine and over time, I actually convinced myself that story was true. I told people that we’d had a little girl but she’d died. I believed it totally, until her twenty-first birthday. I was sitting there, thinking about the party we would have had, about the woman she might have been, and then this flash came to me, a memory of the train station and the shopping bags and the basket and Ernestine. Over the next few days, it all came back to me. I had a psychotic break, and had to be hospitalised.’
Alec nodded. Everyone in politics in Australia was aware of her hospitalisation for mental illness, although no one had known the real reason she’d broken.
‘Then I confessed the truth to Michael. It was like losing Ernestine all over again, having to adjust to the new truth. That’s when we searched for her, but couldn’t find her. By then, I’d had the boys and we knew about PND and Michael was able to understand and eventually forgive me for what I did, but it took a long time.’
She gave her husband a watery smile and he kissed her cheek and Alec’s admiration grew.
Lois turned back to Alec. ‘That’s it. That’s the story I want to tell on Tuesday night. You hate me now, don’t you?’
‘No.’ Alec squeezed her hand again. ‘I don’t. I admit, I’m shocked. It’s a terrible story. You’ve been through hell. And that poor little baby …’
‘I know.’ Lois began to cry in earnest. ‘You can see why I hope she died when she was little. So she didn’t have to live that horror.’
‘You don’t need to tell this story to make your point on Tuesday,’ Alec said. ‘You don’t need to do this to yourself.’
‘I do,’ Lois said. ‘You said it yourself, that women suffer and until people realise it, they won’t get the help they need. Well, this will convince people. I don’t care if they end up hating me, as long as it forces them to take PND seriously.’
She did care. Of course she did, clinging to him now, begging him to not hate her. ‘You have suffered enough, for something that wasn’t your fault.’
‘And I need to make sure that other women don’t suffer as I have,’ Lois said. ‘I am telling the story. I am.’ She glared at Alec, then at her husband.
The PM nodded. ‘Then tell it. But know that if you decide not to at the last minute, you don’t have to.’
It occurred to Alec that if Cecily was here, she could do a great deal to help relieve Lois’ fears about the baby and make this better. But Cecily wasn’t here and she wouldn’t accept his call if he tried to get her here.
‘Lois, I happen to know a young woman who was a foundling and she has made a great deal of her life,’ he said. ‘She’s a very strong, intelligent, interesting woman who will do amazing things. I am sure that your Ernestine, if she is alive, has done the same.’
‘Really?’
‘Really. This is something for you to consider. If you tell this story, Ernestine may recognise it and contact you.’
‘I do not want to think about that,’ Lois said. ‘It is just as likely that she will not. This story is not an attempt to reconcile with my daughter. That is for another time. This is about helping other mothers.’
The PM walked Alec out. ‘Thank you for trying.’
‘I do hope she won’t tell,’ Alec said. ‘You and I both know the media will crucify her. And she will put herself through so much pain.’
‘I’ll keep trying to convince her, but once she has an idea in her head, it is very hard to budge. See you Tuesday night.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Alec stepped out into the cooling late afternoon. His heart ached and he really, really wanted to see Cecily, because he knew she’d make him feel better. But his own foolishness had rendered that an impossibility. So he pulled his collar up and began the walk home.
John
The marble lobby of Parliament House was full of men in suits and women in long dresses. They drank from crystal glasses, nibbled on delicious little hors d’oeuvres and acted as though eating and drinking in the lobby of Australia's parliament was a normal thing. Which for many of them, it was.
John still found it difficult being sociable in his workplace, but then really nothing about this particular workplace was normal so why should this be? He sipped on his red wine and wished that Gwen was going to be here. She'd made the last of these events fun. This one was going to be a crashing bore.
Or may not. For there, walking in through the front of the building, was Alec.
John made his way over, arriving by Alec's side at the moment the other man took a flute of champagne from a waiter's tray.
‘Alec Moncrieff. At a social event. Why, if I do live and breathe.’
Alec smiled. ‘Old chap, you make it sound as if I never come.’
‘You don’t,’ John said. ‘The last time was five years ago and you said, and I quote, ‘If you ever see me walk into the marble hall for a social event again, shoot me because I have been overcome by an alien parasite’.’
‘Well, isn’t it a good thing that you’re not allowed to carry.’
John readied questions to find out why Alec was here now but was stymied when Lobelia Prism appeared by their side.
‘Alec. Late.’
‘Lobelia, darling, you look heavenly.’ Alec kissed the lobbyist’s cheek.
‘She's been asking for you. She's nervous as hell.’
‘Then I shall go calm her. Excuse me, John.’ Alec held out the champagne, which John took. Then Alec and Lobelia headed off through the crowd.
Alec was involved in tonight. How the hell had that happened? Why the hell had that happened? John took a sip, grimaced when he realised he'd tasted the champagne and not his wine, and signalled a waiter over to dispose of both glasses. Then he followed in Alec's trail.
It led to the large wooden doors to the Great Hall but there, John was stopped.
‘I'm sorry, Mr Worthing, but you don't have clearance.’
John nodded at the guard. He didn't remember the guard's name, but then that wasn't his job. Thankfully it was the guard's job to know him, and indeed pretty much everyone who worked in the building. ‘Any idea what's going on in there?’
‘Preparations for tonight, I guess.’
Preparations for tonight. That Alec was allowed to access but he, John Worthing, faithful servant of the party, was not.
John hadn't paid much attention to tonight, beyond the fact he had to attend because Mrs B didn't want to. He knew it was a fundraising for mental health, in particular postnatal depression. He knew the PM was very involved because the PM's staff had been running around the past couple of days like nutters, and now guessed it was because of the PM's wife, who ha
d confessed in an article a few weeks ago that she had suffered postnatal depression after the birth of both their boys.
How the fuck was Alec involved?
The door opened and Alec appeared. He looked at John and frowned. ‘What did you do with my drink?’
‘Ditched it,’ John said. ‘What were you doing in there?’
‘Being my normal charming self. Don't worry, I've done nothing to embarrass you. Ah, waiter. Perfect.’ Alec snaffled another flute of champagne.
John took a red wine. ‘Are you serving scotch tonight?’ he asked the waiter.
‘We can get you some once everyone is seated, sir. But it is at cost.’
‘Do it. In fact, bring me the bottle. I have a feeling I'm going to need it.’ John glared at Alec, who smiled.
‘You worry too much.’
‘I know you. I have to worry.’
Again, that strange seriousness in Alec's gaze. ‘I promise, for once in my life I am only doing good, and for other people. Nothing in it for me.’
‘I doubt that,’ John muttered but the doors were opening and people were being allowed into the hall.
It was done up in pastel shades—blue, pink, yellow, the kinds of colours usually associated with babies. Candles inside coloured glass reflected on large mirrors that threw a haze around each table. On the tables were pamphlets from the charity, talking about postnatal depression and the terrible impact it could have on families.
John was surprised Alec sat next to him, at the back of the hall. ‘Don't you have to sit on the VIP table?’
‘Don't be jealous, Johnny-boy. It's not my fault your boss likes me more than you. Waiter. This man wants a scotch.’
Torn between hating Alec for his smugness and liking him for getting the scotch, John decided the safest route was to down his red wine.
The people who sat with them were all general public, there because they had each needed to be supported by the charity. They were openly sharing their stories with each other, and John was touched by the pain they'd gone through and the courage they were now showing to overcome it.
The entrée was served and quickly eaten. Then the speeches began.
The MC was a famous television journalist and she pointed out that with the pamphlets were envelopes for donations, and she hoped everyone could be generous. Then she introduced the PM.
For once, he was brief. ‘I want to thank you all for being here tonight. This is a cause that has been close to my heart for many years. I have donated, I have volunteered, I have been helped and supported. More so my darling wife, who's bravery knows no bounds. This is really her story, not mine, so I will step aside and let her speak.’
John quite liked the First Lady. She was genteel and kind and made a point of getting to know you so every time you came across her, she asked a real question about your life and really listened. She obviously loved people and was one of her husband's greatest strengths. That said, John really didn't want to listen to her rehash the story he'd read in the magazine. So he got out his phone to check some emails.
‘Thank you. I am so appreciative that you are all here tonight to support this wonderful cause. When I went public with my story, I wondered what the response would be and I was heartened that it was nothing but positive. In particular, I was honoured and touched by the number of men and women who opened up to me about their own journey with postnatal depression. The past few weeks have been humbling and inspiring.
‘Tonight, I am going to talk to you about the part of the story that I did not share in the magazine. It's a story that may well change your opinion of me. That scares me, but it is a story I am determined to tell because so many people have been open and honest with me, and they deserve my full honesty.’
John noted a movement beside him. He looked to see Alec standing, giving a big thumbs up to the stage. Then Alec sat down.
Shit. The 'she' that had been asking for Alec, that he had needed to calm down, was the PM's wife. Something big was about to go down, and John laid aside his phone, determined not to miss any of it.
‘I want to talk to you all about my very first experience with postnatal depression, although I didn't know at the time that was what it was. Instead, I thought I was a horrible person, who hated my child, who wasn't capable of being a mother. I thought I was unnatural. I thought there was something wrong with me and I hid it from everyone, even my husband, because I was scared that if they knew, they would desert me because who wants to be with someone not truly human?’
Her voice rang with pain and every woman at the table nodded their understanding. John's admiration of the First Lady grew.
‘You are probably all thinking that I am talking about my son Ryan. But I am not. While he is my eldest, he is not my first born. On September 25, five years before Ryan, I gave birth to a little girl. Her name was Ernestine.’
A deep silence fell on the room as every person there realised this wasn't just a normal speech. They were about to hear a confession.
‘She was beautiful. Green eyes. Dark hair. From the moment she was born, a happy placid baby. She never cried much. She fell into a perfect sleep routine as soon as we left hospital. She was the dream child, particularly as a first child. And yet every time I looked at her, I felt nothing. When she fell asleep and I could close the door and pretend she wasn't around, I felt such a sense of relief. And then I felt guilt for feeling the relief. Why didn't I love my daughter? Everyone kept telling me how wonderful she was, how lucky I was, what a wonderful gift she was. I felt hollow inside. Nothing gave me joy, not even spending time with my family and friends. But I hid it. I acted the part of the happy mother. When they cooed over my beautiful baby girl, I smiled as if I understood. But I didn't.’
The others at the table were wiping away tears. John looked at Alec and saw he was doing the same. Alec Moncrieff was crying?
‘One day, I decided that I needed to break the cycle. So I packed my little girl up and went off to do my favourite thing in the world. Shopping. We took the train into Sydney, and I went to my favourite shops and bought beautiful things. I went to my favourite restaurant and had lunch overlooking the harbour. It was a sunny day and the ripples of the water were kissed with light. Everywhere I went, people commented on Ernestine, on how beautiful she was, on what a well behaved little thing she was. I smiled and nodded and felt nothing.’
There was pause and the First Lady looked around. The PM came forward with a glass of water. He gave it to her, and kissed her. In that moment, John saw his leader look more human, more caring than at any other time.
After a drink of water, the First Lady continued. ‘Back at Central Railway Station, ready to catch the train home, I went into the locker room. There, I put the carrier down, and my shopping bags. I got out Ernestine, and laid her on the seat. Then alongside her I laid out all the clothes I'd bought. Looking at those clothes bought more joy and a better sense of accomplishment than looking at my daughter and I realised the day had failed. I was wrecked, despondent, wanting to bend over and wail out my grief but I couldn't. So I put the baby away. I put the clothes away. I picked up the carrier and walked out, leaving the shopping bags behind.’
A chill moved over John's body. Something about the story was getting dark, and it unsettled him.
‘I caught the train home, staring out the window the whole time, trying to convince myself that I needed to confess my failure to my husband and we needed to get rid of the baby. When we got home, I put the carrier in Ernestine's bedroom, closed the door because she hadn't made a peep, poured myself a drink and sat out in the backyard until it started going dark. A couple of hours I sat there, until I could barely see. Then I went back inside. I needed to get ready for my husband to come home. I got dinner started, then went into Ernestine's room to get her ready to see her father. I went to the carrier, peeled back the blanket and instead of looking down at my daughter's little body, I was looking at the clothes I had bought.’
A ripple went through the room. S
hock, probably disgust, anger, sadness. So many emotions. John knew he couldn't decide what to think of it.
‘To this day, I actually can't recall what happened in the locker room at Central Railway Station. It is darkness. All I can surmise is that when I put everything away, I put my shopping in the carrier, my daughter in the shopping bags and then walked out without her.’
It took a moment, but then the First Lady's story matched with another story in his memory.
Cecily. She'd been found in some shopping bags in the locker room at Central Railway Station. She had been born in the year the First Lady mentioned, although her actual birth date was the day she was found.
Was Cecily the Prime Minister's oldest child?
John grabbed his phone and pulled up Cecily's number. He paused. Should he tell her what was going on?
Then he realised that if someone told him he’d had a chance to see his mother once more and they hadn't told him, he would never forgive that person. Standing, John dialled. He was half way out the room when Cecily answered.
‘This better be important because I'm about to go dancing.’
‘It's very important. It's about your life. Your past. Your future. You need to come meet me.’
‘Where are you?’
‘Parliament House. Marble Lobby. Under the left staircase. I'll wait for you.’
John hung up and nodded. He'd done the right thing. Cecily would be reunited with her parents tonight and a whole lot of pain would be healed.
‘Is Cecily okay?’
John spun around and rolled his eyes at Alec. ‘You are Cecily obsessed. Get over it, my friend. She is over you.’
‘You just spoke to her.’ Alec jerked his chin towards the phone in John's hand.
‘How the fuck do you know that?’
‘You had her number on your phone, then you ran out of the room like it was an emergency. Is she all right?’
Damn smart phones and their bright screens. ‘She's fine, and this isn't about Cecily. So go back in there. The First Lady needs your support.’
The Importance of Ernestine Page 20
