He held her hand until she relaxed again. On the box beside the bed Joseph noticed the bottle of tonic. He reached for it.
“Why don’t you try some of this, my love.”
“I don’t have a headache,” she snapped.
“I know but it might help.”
He held the little bottle to her lips and she sipped, wrinkling her nose. She gripped his hand tightly as another pain swept over her. Joseph saw her through it then went to get Jundala.
He hurried out through the kitchen and out of the back door, almost knocking William over. He gripped his son by the shoulders.
“Why aren’t you with Mary and the children?”
“I didn’t want to go.” William looked down and shuffled his feet.
He was wearing the new boots he’d been bought for his seventh birthday only last month from Mr Garrat’s shop. The boy was growing so fast he’d soon grow out of them, no doubt. Still there were three more children to pass them on to, soon to be four.
A cry sounded from the house. William looked up, his blue eyes wide.
“Mother.” His voice carried an edge of fear.
“It’s all right, son. Your mother is having the baby. I’m glad you’re here. I need you to fetch Jundala.”
“Yes, Father.”
Without another word, William spun and raced away in the direction of Binda’s camp. Joseph returned to the bedroom where Clara writhed and moaned. Her hair and face were damp with perspiration. He bathed her forehead and helped her change into a fresh nightgown. She was resting on the bed when Jundala appeared with William and Binda close behind.
Joseph stepped from the bedroom and closed the door on Jundala and his wife, relieved at the presence of another woman to support her. He was beginning to think Clara was right, this birth was different to the others. Binda made cups of tea and the three of them, Joseph, Binda and William, sat at the table in a silence punctuated by Clara’s moans and cries from the bedroom. Joseph would have preferred William not be here. He knew Clara wouldn’t like it, but he couldn’t send the boy away now.
They all looked up as Jundala let herself out of the room and closed the door behind her. She went to Binda and spoke rapidly in her own language. Joseph knew many words of Binda’s language but his concern for his wife and the speed of Jundala’s speech meant he understood none of what she said. Binda nodded and turned to Joseph.
“Jundala says the baby is wrong way up. It’s trying to come out back end first.”
“Backwards?” Joseph looked towards the bedroom. Clara had said something wasn’t right with this birth.
“She is worried for Clara,” Binda said. “She wants me to get the old woman from her tribe who has experience with such babies.”
Once more the air was pierced by a deep guttural scream from Clara. Jundala gave Joseph a reassuring smile and went back to her.
“Yes, please go, Binda.” Joseph clapped a hand on his friend’s bare shoulder. “Go fast.”
Thankfully he knew Jundala’s tribe were camped not too far away. At this time of the year they were still in the foothills, close to water and an abundance of game.
Binda fixed Joseph with a steadying gaze. “Don’t worry my friend.”
No sooner had he gone than William spoke. “What about Grandma?”
Joseph looked down at his son.
“She will know what to do.” William’s look was pleading.
Joseph knew Clara’s baby would arrive long before William could make it to Wildu Creek and back but his mother would be a big help with the children. It would give Clara time to rest and get over this difficult delivery. And the trip would give William something to do other than listen to his mother’s painful cries.
“I can do it, Father.”
“All right. Take the small cart.”
“No, I’ll take the horse. I’ll get there quicker and we can come back in Grandpa’s cart.”
Joseph patted his son’s head. “You’re a smart boy. I’ll come and help you saddle the horse.”
They hurried outside, Joseph to the small stone hut where they kept the horse tack and William to the horse yard. They strapped a swag to the saddle and kit for a fire and a billy.
“If you don’t make it before dark find a sheltered place to sleep for the night.” Joseph’s heart lurched. It wasn’t until he thought of his son camped alone at night in the bush that he fully realised the enormity of what he was asking.
“I’ll be all right.” William’s determined look reminded Joseph of the woman he was going to find. Lizzie Baker might be small but she was indomitable and he would be most grateful for her reassuring presence.
In no time at all Joseph was waving goodbye to his son. The ominous clouds had moved closer and William was riding towards them. Joseph felt a lump rise in his throat. He was sending a seven-year-old on a man’s mission.
William urged his horse forward. He didn’t want to leave his mother but he knew the adults wouldn’t let him near her and he wanted to do something useful.
He had seen the look that passed between his father and Uncle Binda. A secret look William didn’t fully understand but it had made him fearful for his mother. He didn’t know about babies and how they could come out backwards but he had seen enough sheep give birth to understand what was happening to his mother. He didn’t want her to have only the help of a couple of native women. He wanted his grandma to take charge. She would know what to do.
By the time he reached the gate in the fence that marked the boundary between Smith’s Ridge and Wildu Creek his horse was in a lather. He walked it through the bluebush to the heavier trees that marked the waterhole. To his surprise there were already horses there and then, even more surprising, he saw it was his grandma bending over a billy at a small fire while Eliza, their manager’s wife, cleared some foliage from the edge of the waterhole.
“William?” His grandma peered at him. “Is that you?” She looked beyond him. “Are you alone? What’s happened?”
William slid from the saddle and into his grandma’s outstretched arms. It was such a relief to feel her warm embrace, her hand brushing at the hair on his head. Then he remembered his mission. He pulled away.
“Mother is having the baby. It’s early and it’s coming out backwards.” William saw the flash of concern cross his grandma’s face and she glanced at Eliza who’d come to stand next to her. “Jundala asked Uncle Binda to get some old native woman to help her but I thought you could do better.”
Once more his grandma glanced at Eliza.
The younger woman smiled at William. “You did well to think of your grandma. My first baby came out backwards and she was a big help to me.”
William was relieved to hear that. Eliza’s oldest son was a strong young man now who worked with his parents at Wildu Creek. Both he and his mother had survived this coming out backwards business.
The morning light turned grey as big clouds covered the sun. William looked up, glad he’d brought his thick coat. It looked like he might need it to repel rain.
Lizzie sprang into action. “Eliza, you ride home and let the men know what’s happening. I’ll go on to Smith’s Ridge. Tell them not to worry. I’ll send word with one of the natives once the baby’s arrived.”
William felt so much better. In spite of the grey day his grandma’s practical presence would make everything right. By the time she was ready he had watered his horse and together they turned for Smith’s Ridge. They had only made it as far as the boundary gate when heavy rain began to fall.
The afternoon was so dark William could see the lamps were already lit inside the house. He was relieved they had made it before they lost the light altogether. Thankfully the heavy rain had finally eased when they were halfway home. Now a gusting wind blew. His teeth chattered he was so cold. His grandma slid from the saddle. She gripped the reins to steady herself then thrust them at William.
“Tether the horses. Someone can see to them later. You need to get out of those wet clothes a
nd warm up.”
William grinned. His grandma was as wet through as he was. She hurried up the steps to the verandah, dragging off her sodden outer coat as she went.
William was only a few minutes behind her. He’d had trouble getting his frozen fingers to undo the laces on his new boots.
He opened the front door and let himself inside. The big front room was warm but empty. Low voices carried from his parents’ bedroom. The door was ajar and he could detect movement but not what the voices were saying. He edged closer. At least his poor mother wasn’t crying out. He hoped that meant the baby was out. He listened carefully. There was no sound of a baby’s cry either.
Suddenly the door opened wide and an old black woman came out. She was wearing nothing but a possum skin around her shoulders and another around her hips. William gaped at her. Her hands and body were smeared with blood.
She stopped when she saw him, her eyes opened wide and she cried out. Jundala came from the bedroom and Uncle Binda from the direction of the kitchen. Jundala looked at William with big sad eyes. She carried a basin full of pink-coloured water and blood streaked her dress. She murmured something to Binda then put a hand on the older woman’s shoulder and guided her through to the back of the house.
Uncle Binda moved towards him but William dodged around him and into his parents’ bedroom. One lantern glowed in the corner of the room giving him enough light to see the form of his mother stretched out on the bed, covered by a blanket. Her eyes were closed, her cheeks hollow and her lips dark. Her pretty golden hair was brushed neatly and fanned out on the pillow. His father sat on her other side, his head bowed. William turned at a movement in the corner of the room. His grandma had her back to him bending over the cradle. He tiptoed closer and looked round her. She was wrapping the tiny still form of a baby.
“William,” she whispered. “You should wait outside.”
“No, Mother.” William spun at the sound of his father’s stern voice. “He’s almost a man. He has to deal with it.”
“He’s seven, Joseph.” Lizzie’s voice held a hint of reprimand.
“Come here, William.”
He went to his father and stood beside him looking down at his mother. She was so still. William stared at her trying to see a sign from her nose or her mouth to show she breathed.
“Your mother died having your baby brother.”
William gasped and pushed himself back against the wall.
“Your brother is dead too.”
It was then that William noticed the pile of bloody sheets by the door and another basin of bloody water. He looked back at his lifeless mother. Her pale face was such a contrast to the black women smeared in her blood. Everywhere he looked there was linen red with blood. He didn’t understand what had happened here.
“He was round the wrong way,” Joseph said. “And he got stuck.”
William bit at his lip to stop the cry that wanted to erupt from his throat.
“Your mother wasn’t strong enough to push him out because of the bad medicine we got from the vile Mr Wiltshire. The old woman tried to drag the baby out.”
William gasped.
“Joseph.” Once more there was a warning tone in Lizzie’s voice.
“He’s old enough to know the truth, Mother.” Joseph spoke sharply. “Jundala said Clara had lost control.” He picked up a small glass bottle and waved it in the air. “Clara drained it, she was so desperate for relief, but it was the worst thing she could do. The old woman managed to taste a drip. It was some kind of drug that robbed Clara of her strength. Wiltshire is as much to blame for her death as I am.”
William stared at his father. Fear and disbelief snaked through him. What did his father mean, he and Mr Wiltshire were responsible for his mother’s death? It was the old black woman who’d been covered in his mother’s blood.
“Joseph, that’s enough.” Lizzie came and knelt down beside William and drew him into her arms.
William stiffened. If he let his grandma comfort him he would cry and he sensed that would make his father angry.
Behind him Joseph groaned. William glanced back. Joseph stretched his arms across his wife and laid his head on her chest.
“Oh, Joseph, my dear son.” Lizzie let go of William and put a hand on his father’s back.
William edged along the wall and crossed the room. At the door he looked back at his grandma comforting his father, who clung to his dead wife. A shuddering sob escaped William’s mouth. He ran through the empty house and out the back door. He could see a light shining from the window of the shepherd’s hut and smoke wisping from the chimney. No doubt Mary was there with the little ones. It would be warm in there but he didn’t want to be with Mary. He didn’t need a babysitter.
He stumbled through the late-afternoon gloom, tears flowing down his cheeks. Rain began to fall again and too late he realised he’d run out without his coat and boots. What did it matter? He was wet through already but there was no-one to chastise him. He no longer had a mother to tell him to wipe his feet, take a bath, feed the hens. The memory of the blood and her still body burned in his brain. William made his way to the tack shed. Inside he curled up on the dirt floor with his back against the stone wall and cried for his dead mother.
Twelve
Lizzie stooped over the fire, coaxing it back to life, trying to bring some warmth to the big front room that had been Clara’s pride and joy. The flames flickered and Lizzie watched them a moment, resting one hand on the long polished-wood mantel Joseph had set in the wall above the fire. Every muscle in her back ached. The children had needed so much attention. Over the last day and night she’d carried, rocked and soothed. She was out of practice at lifting and holding little bodies for long periods of time.
Out in the kitchen she had two cakes in the oven Joseph had built for Clara and a big pot of broth bubbling on top. Lizzie sucked in her bottom lip to hold back the tears. Everywhere she looked she pictured Clara, so proud of her big new house.
She straightened and put her hands to her hips, then arched backwards. Her throat was also sore. She hoped that didn’t mean she was coming down with something like poor William had succumbed to.
The night of Clara’s death had been every bit as cold as a winter’s eve. By the time she had comforted Joseph and gone looking for her grandson, night had set in and so had more rain. The air was freezing and William hardly any warmer when she’d found him huddled in the tack shed. She’d heated water, bathed him and warmed him up before she’d tucked him into his bed. She’d kept him there most of yesterday. Mary had managed the little girls and Lizzie had looked after Robert and William.
The two younger children didn’t understand that their mother wasn’t coming back but Violet had been inconsolable and William the same, although reluctant to show it. Now he had a slight fever and a cough to add to his misery. She just hoped all four children would sleep a little longer. The sun wasn’t up yet and it was going to be a long day for all of them, one Lizzie wasn’t looking forward to. Today they had to bury Clara.
Lizzie had tried her best to shield the children from the sadness but Joseph was insisting they all be part of the funeral. It was the only way they would understand, he’d said when Lizzie had questioned him on it. At least Thomas would be here today, and their dedicated stockman, Timothy and his wife Eliza. Timothy was like one of the family. He had come to live with them as a young man. On one of his visits home to Port Augusta he had met Eliza and she became part of the Wildu Creek family, as did their children who were almost grown now. Lizzie would have plenty of others to help with the food and the children.
Lizzie turned at the sound of the bedroom door opening. Joseph stood in his crumpled clothing, the same clothes he’d been wearing two days ago when she’d arrived. His hair stood out all over his head and his face was haggard. He looked around the room through bleary eyes as if he didn’t know where he was.
“Did you get some sleep, son?” Lizzie asked gently.
He turned
to her, frowned, then winced as if in sudden pain. His legs wobbled beneath him. Lizzie rushed to his side and helped him to a chair. He raked his fingers through his dishevelled hair and put his head in his hands.
“How am I to survive without her?” he whispered.
Lizzie bent down and wrapped her arms around his wide shoulders. She felt him shudder as deep sobs wracked his body. Bearing witness to his raw grief nearly broke her heart. She was grieving too, for her daughter-in-law but also for her poor son who had lost his wife. Finally his soundless sobbing abated. She let him go and made some tea. They sat at the table together.
“I can’t get the sight of her and the sound of her pain out of my head.” Joseph stared into his cup of tea. “And the blood.”
Lizzie reached across and gripped his arm. “I’m sorry I didn’t get here sooner but I don’t think there would have been anything different I could have done. Jundala and the other woman had more experience than me.”
“It must have been that damn tonic of Wiltshire’s.” Joseph looked at her with wild eyes. “Clara had no trouble birthing the others.”
“Each birth can be different. Sometimes babies get stuck. It can be especially difficult if they’re the wrong way round. Clara may have been worse without the tonic.”
“No. The old woman said it robbed her of the strength to push.” Joseph dug his fingers into his eyes as if he was trying to block the memory. “Clara said it didn’t feel right. I should have done something sooner.”
“There was nothing you could have done, son.”
“Perhaps if I’d taken her to the Port, to a doctor, instead of leaving her with natives.”
“Don’t go blaming yourself, Joseph. I am sure the old native woman was as capable as any doctor when it comes to birthing. This was nobody’s fault.”
A cough came from behind them. Lizzie turned to see William hovering in the bedroom doorway. He was already dressed in the set of good clothes Lizzie had laid out the night before.
“How are you feeling, William?” She could see his cheeks were still flushed and his hair damp.
Dust on the Horizon Page 11
