Ghost Child

by Caroline Overington

  Anyway, she went over the details of her shift for Bateson, saying, ‘I was on the roster from noon on Sunday 13 August until around 11 p.m., but I ended up staying longer because of what happened.’

  She spoke fairly clearly. There were no signs – not yet – of the distress and humiliation that was headed her way.

  Bateson said, ‘In the interests of this inquest, Miss Cameron, could you tell us exactly what an aide at a hospital does?’

  Lauren said, ‘What I normally do, or what I did that day? Because it really depends on the ward. If I’m working with the older patients … well, that’s different from maternity.’

  Bateson nodded, and said, ‘I suppose what I’m trying to get you to do, Miss Cameron, is give us a sketch of your normal working day. We can take August 13 as an example. Did you start work on the labour ward?’

  Lauren said no. She had started work on the geriatric ward.

  Bateson said, ‘And what did you do there?’ and Lauren, who seemed perplexed, went over some of her duties, saying, ‘Well, the geriatrics are the old people. You have to do a lot for them. You have to get them out of bed. I suppose I might have done that. It’s not good for patients to lie in bed all day. We move them into a chair, if they are able to sit. It takes two of you, so you normally do that with a nurse.’

  Bateson must have understood the difference, but he said, ‘And just so we are clear, you’re not a nurse?’

  Lauren said, ‘I’m an aide. I’ve done a ten-week course in being a nurse’s aide. I have my aide certificate. You need to do a nurse’s course to be a nurse.’

  Bateson said, ‘And in ten years, you’ve not attempted the nurse’s course?’

  Lauren said, ‘No,’ and Bateson said, ‘May I ask why?’

  I stood at this point. I said, ‘Objection. What’s the point of this? Miss Cameron has said she is an aide. She isn’t a nurse. We don’t need to know why she’s not a nurse, surely? Why is she not a doctor? Why is she not a lawyer?’

  That got a small smile from the Coroner.

  ‘Well then,’ said Bateson. ‘Please go on, Miss Cameron. What kind of work does an aide do?’

  I had warned Lauren that Bateson was likely to ask about her workload. I knew – and they knew – that she’d started work on the geriatric ward, and then been moved to maternity, as the crisis surrounding Baby Boyce unfolded. Probably, they wanted to suggest to the Coroner that she would have been tired, and perhaps confused. That would help their case. I had myself asked her about her duties that day, and we’d gone back through the rosters and the records, to piece together her movements.

  Lauren had spent an hour in the hopper, a room with a steel tub and a high-pressure hose, spraying faecal matter out of sheets and gowns before putting them in the laundry. She’d done a full bed change for a patient who had managed to smear faeces over the sheets, blanket, gown and mattress. She had shaved an old man’s face, and played bingo with one of the women who could still sit up and concentrate. She had listened to an old war story – one she’d heard 100 times before – and put Pond’s cream under the arms and breasts of a woman so deep into dementia that she barely woke any more.

  She had mopped a floor. Geriatrics have a tendency to poop all over the place when being lifted from their beds to the wheelchairs, and Lauren’s responsibilities included using soft cloths to wipe faeces off the wheelchairs and to shower the patient clean of waste. In her interview with me, Lauren had said that she took these and other tasks seriously. Her responsibility did not extend to healing the patients. That was for doctors, and specialists. She was not required to ease pain, or change dressings. That was for the nurses. Her concern, she said, was with ‘the dignity’ of patients.

  She’d told me, ‘I don’t try to pretend I’m a friend, and I don’t behave like a clown. I am professional, and I treat the patients with dignity. It’s not their fault they are incapacitated.’ She was appalled by aides who mocked the patients; in particular, one of the male nurses, Jonathon, who called the old ladies ‘Ducky’.

  ‘He puffs up their hair with the hairbrush, and says things like, “You look just like a beauty queen, Ducky,”’ she’d told me. ‘He talks about patients as if they aren’t there, saying to other nurses, “This one’s like a sack of potatoes!” when he was lifting an old woman, or, “This one’s a dead weight, if you get my meaning!”’

  Lauren had told me she’d requested a roster change, to stay out of Jonathon’s orbit.

  ‘I found myself going around the wards after he’d finished his shift, smoothing down the patient’s hair,’ she’d said. ‘I couldn’t leave them sitting there, with their hair all puffed up and ridiculous, and nothing they could do about it.’

  I’d almost fallen for her myself, when she told me that, but when Lauren gave testimony at the inquest of Baby Boyce, she kept it neutral. She told Bateson that she would have ‘changed some sheets and cleaned the patients, and I would have done some charting’.

  Bateson said, ‘Charting?’

  Lauren said, ‘The nurses have to fill out the charts at the foot of the bed: what did they eat, did they pass urine? Did they have a bowel movement, and anything else that might be important, like did they vomit? I don’t fill the charts but I make sure a blank chart is there, and a pen.’

  Bateson said, ‘Is the work tiring, Miss Cameron?’

  She said, ‘It’s finding a pen that’s tiring. Good luck finding a pen.’

  The Coroner smiled at her.

  Bateson said, ‘Right. But go on. What else does an aide do?’

  She said, ‘It was a normal day.’

  Actually, it wasn’t, not for Lauren. Probably, she spent the whole day thinking about Stephen Bass, and wondering whether he’d call.

  Bateson said, ‘A normal day? You mean, it was boring?’

  Lauren said, ‘Not boring, no. I know some people think it must be boring, but it isn’t. Often, I am the only person a patient will see in a day. It’s sad, when they say, “I want to go home,” and there is no home for them to go to, but you learn to just take care of them. I don’t feel I’m entitled to feel bored.’

  The press was taking a few notes but Bateson was only half-listening. He was looking down at the white binder in front of him, doubtless reading Lauren’s written statement that we’d prepared for him, and for her, earlier.

  He said, ‘It says in your statement you then cleaned up some finger painting. I wonder if you might explain to us the term “finger painting”. What does that mean?’

  Lauren said, ‘It’s a reference to the patients sticking their fingers in their own faeces and painting on the walls with it.’ Lauren had told me earlier, ‘I don’t think people understand how often it happens, and, if you don’t get to them immediately, they are off, smearing it everywhere. They don’t know what they are doing. They are back to being like babies.’

  Bateson said, ‘And cleaning the finger painting, that was one of the things you might have done, according to your statement here, before Baby Boyce was born? All these tasks – cleaning faeces, changing beds, lifting patients – you would have been doing all of that for some hours before you were called to the labour ward on the Sunday afternoon?’

  Lauren said, ‘Yes. I worked on the geriatric ward and then, when I was near the end of my shift, they asked me to go to the labour ward, because something was happening there, and they obviously were short of staff, and so I did.’

  Bateson shuffled his papers and said, ‘And the labour ward is on the same floor as the geriatric ward?’

  Lauren said, ‘It’s a floor below.’

  I was sitting up pretty straight by now. Obviously, we were getting to a critical point, the point where Baby Boyce was born, and died.

  Lauren told Bateson there were nine patients – about a normal number – on the maternity ward. Three had already given birth and three were waiting, and three were in labour, to some extent. She told him that she was called into the delivery room C, where Mrs Boyce was labouring. Mr Boyc
e was there; so, too, was a midwife, several nurses, an anaesthetist … and Stephen Bass.

  Bateson looked up. He said, ‘The obstetrician, Stephen Bass, was there?’

  Lauren confirmed this.

  I looked over at the press gallery. Journalists were moving around in their chairs, the way they do when they sense something exciting is about to happen.

  Bateson said, ‘And Mrs Boyce was in labour?’

  Just as I’d instructed her, Lauren said, ‘I don’t think I’m qualified to answer that.’

  I thought, ‘Good girl.’

  But then she went on. ‘It was obvious to me that she was delivering the baby. Mrs Boyce was in the stirrups, so I could see … um, I could see that she was giving birth, the baby was crowning – ’

  Bateson interrupted. ‘You could see the baby’s head?’

  Lauren said, ‘Yes.’

  ‘And was Mrs Boyce conscious?’

  Lauren said, ‘Yes. She was in a lot of pain. She was moaning and her husband was saying, “Can’t you give her something?”’

  Bateson said, ‘And what was your job, as you saw it?’

  Lauren replied, ‘I didn’t have anything to do with the birth. I was there to assist the nurse.’

  ‘And what else did you see?’ Bateson persisted.

  ‘There was a lot of blood.’

  ‘Blood?’

  ‘Yes,’ Lauren said. ‘Mr Bass was slipping in the blood on the floor. It was my responsibility to throw down a sheet, to clean the area. But that’s normal enough, in a birth. There is blood.’

  Bateson said, ‘Okay. Now, Miss Cameron, this is important: you understand, don’t you, that what is at issue here, at this inquest, is whether or not Baby Boyce was alive when she was delivered?’

  Lauren said, ‘Yes.’

  Bateson added, ‘And you understand, do you, that Baby Boyce’s parents are saying that their baby was alive when delivered?’

  Lauren said, ‘Yes.’

  ‘And do you further understand that it is the position of the hospital, and of Mr Stephen Bass, that the baby died before the birth, and that no amount of intervention would have altered the outcome?’

  Lauren repeated, ‘Yes.’

  Bateson said, ‘Very good. Then may I ask you this, Miss Cameron. In your view, was Baby Boyce born alive?’

  I got to my feet. I said, ‘Objection. I’m not sure how Miss Cameron is going to be able to answer that. She is not qualified to monitor signs of life. As Mr Bateson has already established – indeed, has spent some time establishing – Miss Cameron is not a medical professional, and she has no clinical training.’

  The Coroner looked up from the scribbles on his notepad and said to Bateson, ‘Try another question.’

  Bateson changed tack. ‘Okay … Miss Cameron, I wonder, can you tell us, once the baby was delivered, did the baby cry?’

  Again, I said, ‘Objection,’ but the Coroner overruled it, saying, ‘I think that an aide can answer that.’

  Lauren gave an honest answer. She said, ‘I’m not sure.’

  Bateson tried again. ‘Well then, did the baby move?’

  ‘Objection,’ I said, but the Coroner was with Bateson. He said, ‘The witness may answer.’

  Lauren paused for a moment and then said, ‘I’m going to have to say that I’m not sure.’

  Bateson looked doubtful. ‘You’re not sure whether the baby was moving?’

  Lauren said, ‘Well, it’s difficult for me to be completely sure, because Mr Bass was handling the baby, helping the baby out, so the baby was moving …’

  Bateson said, ‘The baby was moving?’

  I said, ‘Objection,’ but it was kind of feeble. I knew that the Coroner was interested in these points. He said, ‘Overruled. Go on, Miss Cameron.’

  Lauren said, ‘The baby might have been being moved … What I mean is, things were happening pretty fast and there was a fair amount of blood, and I can’t be sure whether it was the baby moving its own limbs, or whether it was moving because it was being lifted in the surgeon’s hands.’

  Bateson jumped on this. He said, ‘So the limbs were moving?’

  Again, I stood and said, ‘Objection. That is not what Miss Cameron said, and not what she meant. She said the baby may well have been being moved.’

  Bateson rubbed his chin for a second. ‘All right,’ he said, ‘I apologise. I’m sorry. Yes. The limbs were moving, but you can’t be sure, Miss Cameron, whether the baby was kicking, the way a baby does upon delivery, or whether it was simply the surgeon moving the baby, from one hand to the other, say, that made it look like the limbs were moving?’

  Lauren said, ‘That’s right. The legs, they were sort of up and down, but I don’t know whether that was kicking or whether that was because Mr Bass was moving the baby. Things were happening fast.’

  In the public gallery, Mrs Boyce had started to weep. Her husband held one of her hands; her mother held the other. The three of them, all in suits, had been sitting with eyes wide open, so that tears wouldn’t fall, but now Mrs Boyce was cracking.

  Bateson tried another approach. ‘I wonder if we might turn again to what you heard as opposed to what you saw. Did the baby make a sound?’

  Lauren said, ‘You mean, did the baby cry?’

  The Coroner stepped in and said, ‘I don’t think that Mr Bateson is asking the witness whether she heard the baby cry. I think he’s asking whether the witness heard any sound, is that right, Mr Bateson?’

  Bateson said, ‘Yes, Your Honour.’

  The Coroner said, ‘Very well. You may answer, Miss Cameron. I’d like to know that, myself.’

  But before Lauren could speak, Bateson said, ‘Miss Cameron, what I am trying to determine is whether you heard any sounds that might indicate life? You understand that the hospital contends there were no signs of life. That would mean that there were no sounds of life.’

  I was going to object, but Lauren interrupted. She said, ‘I know what you’re asking. There was a lot of noise in the room. Mrs Boyce was in a lot of pain. The father was distressed. There were a lot of sounds.’

  Bateson said, ‘Yes, but the baby, Miss Cameron. You understand that the Boyce family believes that their baby made a sound. What do you say? Did you hear a baby sound?’

  The room had gone very quiet. Mrs Boyce was looking up, through tears.

  Lauren hesitated, and then said, ‘There were sounds … but the sound I heard … it was not of life. The sound I heard … it was more like love.’

  Bateson said, ‘I beg your pardon?’

  Lauren said, ‘There were sounds. The mother, the father, everybody was so upset. There were sounds, and that’s what was in the room, sounds like that. Sounds like hearts breaking. Sounds like love.’

  Sounds like love.

  It was a beautiful way to describe the events of the day, and so it did not surprise me when those words – not Lauren’s actual words, but a new and sexier formulation – became the headline in the next day’s newspapers.

  ‘Aide Heard the “Sound of Love”.’ That was how the Telegraph put it. The Herald went for a similar line, ‘Nurse in Baby Boyce Inquest Heard “Sound of Love”.’

  After that, of course, journalists began referring to the ‘Sound of Love’ inquest; the ‘Sound of Love’ trial; and, finally, the ‘Sound of Love’ settlement.

  Lauren, of course, became the ‘Sound of Love’ aide. There would be some sniggering about that, but not yet.

  Jane Postle, Reporter

  I was one of maybe fifteen reporters assigned to cover the Baby Boyce inquest. Some were from the Telegraph, some from the Australian, from Nine news and the ABC, plus there were the old hands from AAP and the wire services, guys who have been in the business since my father was a journo.

  My dad, Frank Postle, was a reporter on the old Melbourne Sun. He was the one who told me, ‘Get into the business if you can. You’ll travel the world on somebody else’s dime; you’ll have a front-row seat into history. You’re not on the
pitch, but by God, you are on the sidelines.’

  He didn’t get me the job, though. I want to be clear about that. I got the job on my own. I don’t work for Dad’s old paper, the Sun. I’m at the Herald, in Sydney. It’s a different stable. Dad wrote me a reference but I had to pass the cadet’s test, and I had to get the degree and in the end I had to get the job and work my way up from the bottom.

  There hasn’t been much travelling the world. I’ve done stock markets. I’ve done football matches and I’ve done ‘death knocks’, where you have to bang on the door of the family of somebody who has died and say, ‘How do you feel?’ It’s not pleasant, but it’s what you have to do to get yourself graded, and now I’m graded. I’m a senior reporter. I do courts, and I do inquests. The dirty underbelly of Sydney society, the stuff that happens at the intersection of drugs, money and murder, that’s my beat.

  The Baby Boyce inquest was obviously a bit different from the stuff we normally see in the Coroner’s Court: it was a right-to-life case. It had everybody talking. Should people abort their disabled foetuses? The data shows that almost everybody does, so is the world a less welcoming place these days, for the disabled kids who make it through? That kind of stuff gets people going. You get the right-to-lifers revved up, and then the women’s groups jump on, the academics, the churches. It was a case that seemed to interest people. It helped that Mrs Boyce was pretty and sweet; her husband handsome and stalwart; and the doctor, Stephen Bass, so establishment.

  I didn’t expect to get much out of Lauren Cameron’s testimony. She was listed among the witnesses because she’d been on duty the day the baby had died, but she was an aide, not a doctor, so I couldn’t see what she’d have to say. But then, of course, she turned out to be the one who gave the inquest its name. Because of her, we started calling it the ‘Sound of Love’ inquest. Sound of Love! We didn’t realise how funny that was, until later.

  So, anyway, I was covering the Baby Boyce inquest for the Herald and we’d put a photograph of Lauren in the paper, and that was when Dad called me up, said he had this nagging feeling that he’d seen Lauren somewhere before. He said, ‘Can you look in the files? I’m sure I’ve done a story about her.’