by Kim Kelly
Look at the boy: gangly, coal-scuffed arms and legs, squiggle of a bootlace undone, face turned towards me not in pain but in the disbelief of having been hit. And he has been: almost ripped in half. Like the German boy, he is beautiful, and asking something unanswerable. The only clue to what’s done this to him is the rusty iron wheel his other boot is resting on: a skip wheel, without its skip.
‘Does this fluke have a name?’ the doctor asks.
Daniel says: ‘It’s Jimmy. Boy I started work with, killed our first year in.’
‘It is a tribute, to a friend.’ The doctor’s eyes are filled; so are mine: is this the Jimmy he had a good time with during the big strike, better than school holidays?
‘Yep. Suppose it is.’
Dear Lord, what have You done for Lent this year? What do You do to Your lambs?
‘And you would give this to me?’
‘Yep. If you want it.’
The doctor shakes his head, wipes his eyes with his silk handkerchief. Looks around the room. There’s the fastidious organisation of tubes and jars and tools, even folds the rag he wipes turpsy brushes on, on the bench he made, and there’s a riot of paint all over the floor, from the monsters, still showing their square outlines, though Daniel’s graduated to using easels now. I watched him make the first one, and asked him why he didn’t use easels before, and he said: ‘I don’t know, too barking to think of it, I suppose.’ There you go. And there’s the portrait of Captain Duncan that’s not quite finished, over the other side of the room: he’s bent over his extraordinarily little feet, as if he’s about to roll into a ball, with sadness, some secret sadness, and the only thing stopping his momentum is his toenail scraper, like the flourish of a joke against it; there’s a smudgy scrape at his right knee, which Daniel evidently wants to have another go at. And then behind his Dunc is paper roll pinned against the windowless wall full of drawings, mostly of my great self, mostly nude.
Daniel says, wry: ‘So can I call you Anton now?’
‘You can call me whatever you choose. But I’ll let you call me Sweet Fanny Adams if you’ll come to Europe with me one day.’
‘No chance,’ says Daniel, deadpan. ‘But I think I’ll call you Fanny anyway.’
Doctor Adinov’s laughter is a rich warm sound; funny old world: first friend I’ve seen Daniel with who isn’t a miner is a bourgeois to the tiny diamond in his tiepin Russian surgeon, who says now: ‘When the war is ever finished, Fanny wants to return over there, particularly to Berlin, if he can, and might like to take some of your work with him, yes? Some more flukes?’
‘I don’t know about that,’ Daniel frowns, back stiffened. ‘I’ve got proper work to get on with soon; don’t think I’ll be doing any of this sort of thing for a long while. You going to go back to Europe for good?’
‘No. Too partial to sunshine and Bondi Beach now. I’ll only go to indulge myself in the essentials unavailable here. To visit some old colleagues and to enjoy what some artists might call their proper work.’
Doctor Adinov stares at him, waiting. So do I: is Doctor Adinov suggesting he wants to take flukes on a tour to Berlin? What for? Oh. Goodness me.
Daniel shrugs. Doctor Adinov shrugs back and shakes his head again, but mystified. I can sympathise, with them both. Doctor Adinov is looking at a work of art, but Daniel is looking at a painting, which took him a month to do, and it can’t have been easy, technically or emotionally; not that he’s likely to admit to either.
He says to me, my Uxorious, avoiding further chat: ‘You look a bit tired, France. Come on.’ I am too; always.
And back inside we go; I waddle, fall into the sofa in the parlour, Danny released from corral and now trying to find purchase on the mountain I have become. While Daniel makes tea, Doctor Adinov says to me: ‘You should try to change his mind about work.’
Ha! If I do have magical powers, I doubt they extend that far. He laughs at my expression, full throated.
When Daniel joins us we talk about the Wattle and what on earth lawyers do that can make a straightforward transaction take so long. I’m sure Mr Duncan’s lawyers have requested the last amendment to the loan document just to squeeze another bill from their bottomless pit of revenue: it’s taken them two weeks to discover that my middle name was missing from the front page, and that thereby, the entire thing has had to go back and forth again for Veronica. Messrs Stanley and Bragg have done their bit so promptly, even sending a young associate all the way out here, twice, but then, they’re angels, aren’t they. Daniel’s impatient to get it all over with and to get back to work. He won’t go to the mine or talk to Evan about it until he’s got the offer in his hand; then he’ll approach the miners, then he’ll approach Drummond. And, fingers crossed, we’ll then be swimming in debt. We will be anyway: if the miners reject the idea, we’re going ahead with the offer to Drummond, and if he refuses, Daniel will bully him until he capitulates into giving us the entire debt, up to our ears; and with our own savings at virtually nil, the slightest downturn in the price of coal could then send us all to the poorhouse, and generous as Mr Edward Duncan is, I’m not sure how pleased he’ll be if we are bankrupt.
Doctor Adinov does not appear overly interested; he seems to be more interested in Daniel’s forearm, exposed by neatly rolled sleeve and at present engaged in raising teacup. He says: ‘You look fit enough to tear this Drummond’s head off. Do you mind if I have a look at that arm?’
‘What for?’ Daniel is the rudest man that ever lived.
‘Because I gave it to you,’ says the doctor; and he’s rude too: ‘Take your shirt off.’
Daniel does as he’s told; Doctor Adinov says, before he’s risen from his seat: ‘You did not get that biceps lifting a brush, did you.’
‘No.’ Twelve-year-old caught pinching a biscuit before dinner.
‘This is a foolish risk.’ Doctor is examining hinge; very scrutable disappointment. ‘I said at least six months.’
‘I haven’t wrecked it.’ You’d better not have, darlingest.
‘No, you haven’t.’ But Doctor Adinov gives him a hard stare before adding: ‘Although any reasonable person would think that was your intention.’ Then he laughs: ‘But you’re not reasonable, are you. Daniel.’
‘Suppose not. Fanny.’
And it’s time for Doctor Adinov to go now, to catch the train through to Bathurst, to visit the hospital there.
‘Don’t get up, Mrs Ackerman,’ he says and kisses my hand.
Don’t worry, I can’t.
Daniel drives him to the station; he’ll pack up Jimmy and send him on to the doctor’s home tomorrow. I’ll wait here and play clap hands with Danny till Daddy comes home and can use unreasonable biceps to pull me up off the sofa.
I really can’t get any bigger, can I? I’m in the bath, in our luxurious new indoor bathroom, off the kitchen; it’s a massive, deep cast-iron bath, but it barely accommodates me. Daniel is rubbing my back with a flannel, trying to ease the pain with the hot water; not labour pain, just pain pain, like one of the babies is pinching the base of my spine. It’s around midnight or so; it’s the sixteenth of August and I just want them to come. It’ll be safe now, and Sarah will be coming to stay with us from tomorrow; she’ll sleep on the sofa, no argument she said, ready to help when they do come. But I want them to come now; I even try to push a bit, pointlessly, since neither one has moved down yet. Daniel is kissing my shoulder, and the late-night stubble on his jaw is as soothing to my skin as anything could be; at least I can’t see his face: he looks more scared than I am. And I am very scared now.
DANIEL
There’s not just a little bit of snow out there, the usual dusting that disappears with the sun: it’s a good foot deep. It’s been snowing on and off for three days. At the end of August. Why now? Just to be sure I won’t miss how much I’m panicking. I can’t get the fucking car to start. Fucking useless fucking pile of American shit. In lieu of being able to ask France to get the thing going, I’ve kicked a dent in the s
ide of it. So much for teaching me to drive, when I don’t know how it bloody works; should take the trap, but it’ll take too long to get Hayseed fitted up now.
One last go before I take the bike instead: start, you bastard. It does. Grab the kids, who’ve been watching my performance, frozen on the front steps, even Danny, and not just because it’s fucking freezing; still in their pyjamas, shit, chuck them round with Mim.
France woke up just before the whistle, with the proper pains. I wanted to get Nichols straightaway but Mum’s been holding off. For what? Till the pains get worse. Where’s the logic in that? She even told me to leave the bedroom, said I was upsetting France. Jesus. I’ve already decided she’s not ever going to have another baby: this is horrible.
It’s three o’clock now, in the afternoon; I’m on the front steps watching the snow melting. Of course. One baby’s out. A boy. Of course. Mrs Moran brought him out to show me, but I’m a bit distracted at the moment. The other one is stuck. France is screaming; she’s been at it all day. No one’s telling me anything.
She screams again; it’s not like any sound I’ve ever heard. That’s it. I have to go in there.
Mum stops me in the hall; says: ‘No.’
‘Yes.’
‘No.’
And everything’s gone quiet now.
He is the saddest little thing; a proper heartbreaker. He’s perfect in every way, except that he’s dead. Mum shows him to me before she wraps him up again. Puts him in the other basket in the sitting room. France doesn’t know; she’s still out to it. And she’s not too well. She’s lost a fair bit of blood and, though she’s stopped bleeding so much now, Nichols is giving me a warning: she’ll have to go to the hospital if she doesn’t rouse out of the ether soon; he’s concerned she might be having a bad reaction to it, and that she needs blood. I can’t really hear him. I can hear the other baby crying, though. Can’t look at him.
They let me in now. Can’t tell you.
Just us, and that little oil lamp of hers. The room smells of blood, though I can’t see any.
‘Wake up, France.’ Begging. Much more than that.
I kiss her face and squeeze her hand, but she just goes on sleeping.
‘Please, France.’
A thousand years.
Behind me, Nichols: ‘We’d better take her, now. Her breathing is too shallow.’
No. No bloody way.
FRANCINE
My plump little hand is enclosed by Mama’s; we’re going to David Jones, and she’ll buy me a chocolate there. My favourite one, with a caramel centre. She bends down to me outside the doors and wipes some spot or other from my cheek with her handkerchief. I can smell hyacinths, her hyacinths. She’s saying to me: ‘Francy, you must not come to Sydney again.’
I say: ‘I don’t want to, Mama.’
She says: ‘Good. You’ve always been a good girl. The bestest. I trust you not to come back. All right?’
‘All right.’
‘Now, when you get home, you must look after Danny.’
‘Daddy?’
‘No, Danny.’
‘You don’t know my Danny,’ I say to her.
‘Course I do. Big fellow with the green eyes.’
‘Oh, Daniel?’
‘Yes. Him.’
‘He doesn’t need looking after any more,’ I say.
‘Course he does,’ she says, and stands up again.
We go through the doors; I can see the doorman’s shiny black shoes, and his hat all the way up there on his head. But there’s nothing in here. It’s all black beyond the doors.
Mama’s still holding my hand.
I’m crying. I’m so frightened.
And now she’s gone.
I don’t know where to go.
And it hurts. Everywhere.
DANIEL
Just as well, or I might have followed her. She’s moaning awake and I couldn’t be more relieved at the sound of that. I really don’t believe in any of that Irish Catholic rubbish, or spirits or whatever, but I do believe I would not be here without her. And if she’s not here, I’m not here. How could I be alive without her?
Nichols wants her to go to the hospital anyway. He’s not confident.
No bloody way.
She’s not going. Not to the local. Could be anyone there, with who knows what sickness; and I’m not letting her out of my sight. Mum can help me look after her, or I’ll pay someone.
He says: ‘Danny, be reasonable.’
I say: ‘I am. Couldn’t be more reasonable.’ Considering. ‘Treat her here.’
Mrs Moran says: ‘All right, Danny, I’ll stay tonight. But just tonight, and in the morning we’ll see.’
Good. And you can stop calling me Danny.
FRANCINE
Danny. There he is. Frowning, fierce Danny. It’s dark but I can see him clearly, his profile. And it’s his big rough hand around mine, not Mama’s. Mama? Josie? Can’t catch the dream back to hear it again; can only hear whimpering, mine.
He’s looking at me now, pushing the hair back from my face. The pain is going to shake me apart any moment. Tearing me up from the centre, but it’s everywhere; burning. I am inside it. Fire trapped in glass.
He looks away and says to someone else: ‘Give her something for it.’
Yes please.
He’s still there. I can feel his hand around mine before I open my eyes. Bit more properly awake now; not shaking any more. Just hurts, there, lots. I can hear a baby mewling. Mine. How long have I been asleep? I have to feed them.
He says: ‘Hello.’
‘Hello.’ Ow, sore throat. ‘I want the babies.’
He strokes my face with the back of his hand and says: ‘There’s only one, one baby, France.’
One …
One baby … what does that mean?
It’s still dark but I can see the tears in the lamplight, running down his face. It was so perfect last time; not easy, but perfect, and Daniel wasn’t here. But this time it’s … the devastation on his face. That’s all I can see. I did everything I was told to do. I don’t understand. I couldn’t push any more. One baby? That means one baby is … is not. Not here. I know, but I don’t understand. It didn’t matter what I did, the baby just wouldn’t come. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Sorry?’ he says. ‘Jesus, France. You couldn’t have done anything more; he was the wrong way round. Nichols couldn’t get him out. He had to cut you a bit and pull him out backwards. But his brother is fine, beautiful.’
He. Brother. Two boys. My baby is still crying; I have to feed him. The one I have. I want him now. ‘Can I have my baby then please? Now.’
DANIEL
She’s barely conscious, and she takes him and feeds him. That’s more than a little humbling to watch.
Mum says I should give her some privacy for a bit. No. I’m not leaving her. I’m not leaving this house until I know she’s safe. Not leaving this room unless I have to.
In the morning Mrs Moran says France’ll be all right, so long as she doesn’t get an infection. Mum’s given a list of instructions, and the lecture, as if I’m not here. Excuse me, women, but I think I can manage this myself. No one is going to help France wash or dress today but me.
Her poor body is so sore, as if it wouldn’t be. Doesn’t matter how gentle I am taking her nightdress off; and she’s embarrassed when I first see her and the little bit of blood that keeps coming. I tell her I’ve seen a lot worse and looked a lot worse, and remind her that the second time we ever met I chucked up all over her floor, and I sound like an idiot and it doesn’t matter. I keep talking into her stare, I tell her all the ways she’s looked after me, I tell her it’s stopped snowing, I tell her I’ll have to get some paint to fix where I kicked the car, I tell her I love her, I tell her nothing matters more to me than that she is well. She looks so sore at that, she says: ‘But I am well. I’m all right, darling.’ No she’s not. I’d like to tell her how sorry, how cut open and gutted I am that she feels the need to say t
hat, but I don’t think that would be helpful right now. She doesn’t want to cry and I’m not going to make her.
Instead I leave the room to scrub out the bathroom and the toilet with bleach, so that later, when she needs to use them, they’ll be cleaner than clean. She can’t sit up yet, and she’s not walking anywhere in this state today, so I’ll carry her there. I’ll change the sheets and her nightdress every day and boil and bleach them too. And I’ll scrub my hands every time I leave the bedroom, before I come back in. I’d scrub my soul if had one. I know that I’m still very much beside myself, but that’s all right, in the circumstances. Mum doesn’t argue; she can help me or keep out of my way.
France wants me to bring the other baby in to her now so she can dress him and say goodbye. She tells me what to get from the drawers and as I watch her put the tiny clothes on him, I think this is what’s called grace. She asks me if it’s all right that she calls him Joseph Francis, after her parents, and I can only nod. Then she kisses him. She doesn’t carry on about it when she gives him back to me, but I might in a second.
Evan comes round and he and Mum take our little Joe out to the ridge beneath the paddock. That’s where France wants him buried; no priest, no funeral, no cemetery, just looking into the valley that runs into ours. When she says she wants him to keep my father company down there, I have to leave the room for a tick again; need to get her something to eat anyway. But I go out into the orchard first and bawl for a good little while.
She’s not hungry, but she’s got to eat something, so she forces it down.
Baby cries and I lift him over to her so she can feed him again.
She says: ‘What shall we call him?’
