Two Women Went to War

by L E Pembroke

  My eyes snapped open. A sharp stab in my abdomen, although by the time I was fully focused, the pain had dissipated. What was the cause of that severe but transient pain? Possibly a muscle cramp. I must have been restless in bed, and why not after a day like that? Better go to the toilet again. I flung on dressing gown and slippers and made my way to the bathroom and the chamber pot. I would not consider risking my life and that of my unborn child by going outside to the small building partially disguised by climbing plants. In fact, nothing would make me leave the house until Albert arrived tomorrow.

  Once again, I collapsed on the bed, fell into a deep sleep, then began to dream – a vivid dream. The memory of it stayed with me for the rest of the night.

  A swaggy came to the house: It was the same tall fellow who terrified me earlier. In my dream, I tried to run away but my legs, lead-like, dragged me into slow motion. The man leered at me and dived forward. A knife flashed – no, not a knife – a bayonet. I knew what he was up to; he intended disembowelling me – killing my baby – just the way they said the Germans did in Belgium during the war. I felt the sharp prick of the blade against my skin – screamed – again woke and sat up shaking with terror.

  The pain lingered for a second, but this was no prick; it was a full-blown stabbing pain similar to the earlier one. I rolled to one side, drew up my legs, hugged my knees, rocked on the bed and moaned. After only two or three seconds the pain receded, but still I trembled with fear, wondered what was happening. This must be something to do with the child. Had the day’s exertions caused me to go into early labour? Beginning to worry seriously, I returned to the bathroom to empty my bladder. Glancing down, I noticed something in the chamber pot. A smear of blood! Oh no, not a miscarriage! I had to think logically and control my fears. It couldn’t be, strictly speaking, a miscarriage. At seven months it could mean I was about to have a premature baby, alone and miles from medical help.

  Overwhelmed by feelings of guilt, I sat on the bed, stunned into inactivity. I should have done as I promised – stayed at home with my feet up. My ankles were dreadfully swollen and my headache even fiercer. Weren’t they the classic symptoms of toxaemia? Was I headed for kidney failure? Then again, that terribly hard physical work this afternoon, all that pulling. I imagined Andrew’s distress if my action had harmed the baby. Oh my God, what if my thoughtlessness hurt our baby? What will I do? If only he were here! I missed him dreadfully, needed him more than ever and couldn’t believe it was less than a week ago that he left for Sydney. It felt more like a month.

  Of course he had to go. I had wanted him to go, but someone had to stay here to supervise Albert. Anyway, it was not advisable to travel long distances towards the end of a pregnancy. I had known my mother-in-law for only two years, but right from our first meeting we had a mutual rapport. What a terrible shock it had been to learn that gentle, loving and amusing lady was critically ill, that cancer had come upon her suddenly, like a thief in the night, and that the doctor did not expect her to live for more than a few days.

  *

  Before leaving for Sydney Andrew arranged for Amelia Maxwell from town to come and stay with me. Amelia, middle-aged widow of the previous vicar, loved to help out families on the land during their difficult times. She was staying with another family when Andrew left but promised to be at Cooinda within forty-eight hours of his departure. Amelia most often travelled to the sheep stations with Joe, the postman who brought the mail and newspapers every second or third day.

  *

  Neither Joe nor Amelia had turned up as expected. How could they? The roads would have become impassable because of the rain. During the worst of the downpour it would have been impossible for them or anyone else to get out here. Even if they tried, the chances were they’d have soon been bogged and in need of a draught horse to pull them out of the mud. Then, with the telephone lines down, I was totally incommunicado, except for Albert.

  Despite his distress, poor Andrew was distracted by worry about leaving me. He said at the last minute that he would go later; he wasn’t happy about me being alone at this time. He said, ‘I will wait until Amelia comes.’

  Shocked, I said that he couldn’t be serious. How could he even fleetingly consider delaying his journey and perhaps arriving too late to say goodbye to his mother? I scoffed at the thought of anything happening to me, and promised to be very careful, take gentle walks, have plenty of rest and do nothing to upset the infant I carried. Further, I reminded him that Albert would be along each day and Amelia within forty-eight hours.

  Unable to sleep, I sat up in the kitchen. Thirty minutes passed. A sharp pain ripped through my abdomen. I clung grimly to the seat of the chair, screwed up my eyes and moaned. The spasm passed. I waited, looking out into the dark. How different from last night. The storm clouds had rolled away; the sky was like black velvet dotted with diamonds. I remained sitting by the kitchen stove. Once again, about thirty minutes later, that low, intense pain. It passed quickly. I stood up, wanting to pack quickly before I was once again disabled. Paradoxically, by accepting the fact that my baby was on the way I became calm. Remaining composed in a crisis was something I’d learned in the war. I had to get into town; dozens of things could go wrong if I stayed here alone. I glanced at the clock: it said three in the morning.

  The postmistress, Mrs Bolton, phoned through Andrew’s telegram five days ago. That was the last communication I’d had because of the lines being down. He said his mother died within hours of his arrival. The funeral was arranged for Thursday; he would come home as soon as possible after that. I considered various possibilities. He might return later today; the train gets in around five in the afternoon, then there’s the drive home. I could still be in labour – they say eighteen hours or so is quite usual for a first baby. But what sort of a state would I be in? He would have to turn around immediately and drive me back the fifty-odd miles to the Cottage Hospital. Premature babies need special care. I couldn’t risk it. I had to go now.

  Anyway, there was no guarantee he would be home this evening; it might be tomorrow, and why did I expect to have a long labour? It might only be a matter of three or four hours. I needed help; had to go now. What state would the road be in? There had been no rain for more than twelve hours. It should be safe; it had better be safe. But what about leaving the house unprotected? Those fellows might still be hanging around. They might see me leave and scuttle back, sniffing and prying among our things. Forget them. They are probably miles away by now. Priorities, Genevieve, priorities. The house is not important.

  I would stop on the way: tell Albert, if he’d recovered enough to comprehend my words, to get up to the house immediately and stay there, sleep there, if necessary, until Andrew turned up. If only Albert knew how to drive. Very few shearers drove when we were first married; they took the train to each district, then walked or rode a bicycle to the various properties.

  I dressed and began to pack my suitcase; rushed around grabbing everything that might be necessary for my confinement. In minutes the case was full. If only I didn’t have to drive that awful car. We owned two cars. I still had the one Tom had given me when I returned to Australia. Problem was it was presently in town parked near the railway station. Andrew’s car was a powerful Sunbeam. When we bought Cooinda there was no such thing as a utility truck. We carried everything we needed on our small tractors. Andrew made a number of modifications to strengthen the Sunbeam structurally. He removed the rear seat and back doors, replacing them with iron railings that could be slid open to allow sheep, bales of hay or other goods to be loaded and transported easily around the property. But the Sunbeam was heavy to handle. I hated driving it and had only done so on one or two occasions. Nevertheless, it was my only means of getting to town.

  Wide-awake, I rushed into the kitchen, shut down the fuel stove and blew out the lamps. I picked up my case and headed towards the kitchen door, then stopped. What was the matter with me? I hadn’t prepared for all eventualities. The journey could take
up to three hours if the roads were still muddy and wet, and who knew what might happen in that time? As I tried to anticipate what could happen I was aware of a quickening of my pulse and tightness in my chest because I realised I should take a birthing kit. I relit a lamp.

  The prospect of giving birth on my own on a cold damp morning in the back of a vehicle that often carried sick animals, feed or tools appalled me. Nevertheless, I picked up scissors, a bottle of peroxide and a roll of tape, and shoved them into my handbag. Then I pulled two towels, sheeting and a blanket from the linen cupboard, at the same time telling myself not to panic. Lots of women have been alone when they have their babies. But I wouldn’t be, not if I went straight away. Of course, one can’t be sure of anything, yet I was confident of being safely tucked up in the Cottage Hospital within three hours. What else had I forgotten? Looking around, I noticed the rifle and ammunition. I wasn’t going anywhere without them.

  At first light I slammed the front door and dragged first my case, then the bundle of linen, a canvas waterbag and the rifle, to the edge of the veranda. The sky remained clear, the temperature near zero. I gave a passing thought to the stock, but there was nothing I could do. Albert would have to take over. Carrying the rifle, I squelched down the slope in the direction of the garage, then leant into the car, turned on the ignition, grabbed the crank handle and, with rifle in my other hand, sloshed through the mud towards the front of the car. In case those men were still about, I placed the rifle within easy reach on the bonnet of the car. It was still dark, and was difficult to see the slot for the crank. Beginning to panic again, I located it eventually. The handle engaged.

  ‘Shouldn’t be doing this,’ I was muttering while trying again and again to turn the crank handle. It’s never easy to crank-start a car; in the present circumstances, almost impossible. Sweat slid down my face. The engine finally turned over. I hurried to the driver’s side to pump the accelerator before it spluttered and died. Thankfully it roared. Never have I felt so relieved. I chucked the rifle onto the passenger side, looking around and wondering whether those men were nearby watching me. Nothing I could do about them; just had to get away quickly. I released the handbrake and began manhandling the heavy, cumbersome steering wheel. The car roared up the hill to the house. Breathing rapidly with fear, I brought it to a halt, fell out of the door and dragged my case down the steps. I tipped it on to the running board, then tumbled it over into the space behind the driver’s seat. The blanket and linen I tossed onto the front bench seat next to the rifle.

  On reaching the exit to the main road, I stopped the car, jumped to the ground and opened the gate. Back in the car again, I pumped the accelerator and drove out on to the road. Forget the gate; Albert will see to that. I pressed the accelerator until it was flat to the boards, then struggled with the steering as the car bounced along the corrugated dirt road towards Albert Bellamy’s small home.

  It was so difficult to see and almost impossible to avoid the potholes that had formed after seventy-two hours of heavy, drumming rain. Were we going to lose any more ewes and lambs? Nothing I could do about that; it was Albert’s responsibility now. I reached the top of the hillock beyond which Albert lived, scooted down the slope and began pressing the horn. Serves him right. That should wake him from his drunken stupor, I thought, as I pulled up in front of the shack.

  Again, I pressed the car horn; its blast resonated through the early morning silent countryside. Again, there was no reaction from the inmate of the small home. With increasing irritation, and leaving the engine running, I pushed open the car door and picked my way towards the gate in the wire fence; the narrow veranda was only a step or two away. I climbed the two steps to it – then saw the body. My hand flew to my mouth. It was Albert. What was the matter with him? I crossed the veranda in an instant and groped for a pulse. There was none. His body was ice cold.

  I eased past the inert form into the dim room, my heart crashing loudly against my chest wall. My mind was racing. Was anybody else here, hiding, waiting to jump out at me? The silence was profound. I wanted to run but had to investigate. In the gloom, I tried to recall the layout of the room I had seen only once before. Feeling my way towards the fuel stove, I crept through the room knowing there would be a shelf above the stove from which pans and saucepans hung on hooks, which is where the lamp would be. The stove was stone cold. I stretched and slid my hand along the grimy, oilcloth-covered shelf and felt the greasy glass base of the kerosene lamp, and next to it a flat packet of matches.

  My hands were shaking as I lit the lamp. Its flickering light revealed a shabby little room and clearly the dead body of Albert Bellamy lying prone, half in and half out of the door. The cause of death was immediately obvious; his skull was badly fractured near his right temple. He must have collided with something extremely sharp; splinters of bone from the indented temple were mixed with dried blood that caked his hair and streaked his face. There was no doubt in my mind. Albert had been murdered by those two fellows who came to the homestead yesterday.

  Stunned by my ghastly discovery, my first instinct was to run as fast as I could. It was easy to picture the scenario. They must have murdered him at least twenty-four hours ago, which is why he didn’t turn up yesterday. They might have been drinking together. There was an argument; they took an axe to him.

  I knew what I had to do. Blow out the lamp and get out of there. Leave everything as I found it; just go. I stumbled down the veranda steps and across the verge towards the car. Another spasm hit me, causing me to falter and gasp. I stood stock still, waiting until it passed. My only thought was, quick, must get to the doctor and the police. I grabbed at the door handle and leapt into the car, accelerated savagely and steered towards the centre of the road away from ridges of wet, black and sticky soil. The car slewed dangerously; I was driving too fast. I began talking, reassuring myself. ‘Calm down, take it easy. You don’t want to end up stuck in that black glue.’

  The sky ahead began to lighten. Dense black clumps beside the road metamorphosed into grey shades of green now easily distinguishable from ribbon-like grasses stirring above the ground around them. Small scrubby eucalypts emerged, their leaves olive green and motionless. A wattle was in full bloom – a perfect golden ball – but that morning I was blind to its beauty.

  A little after seven o’clock, I reached the crest of Mulligan’s Hill and began the descent to Twenty-Mile Creek. I was in the last half of my journey. Near the bottom of the slope and close to the creek I stared ahead, unable to believe my eyes.

  The narrow bridge was under water. There was water across its roadway almost to the top of the flood indicator. A distance not much longer than a cricket pitch separated me from the flat, easy drive to town. I pulled over to the left, jammed on the brake and stared at the creek. Water rushed and swirled across the timber planks, carrying with it fallen branches and saplings built up over the dry years. I had never expected this possibility because Twenty-Mile Creek had always been no more than an ineffectual trickle.

  ‘Oh God, help me,’ I sobbed. I will never forget my feeling of devastation sitting in that car and finally accepting that there was little chance of making it to town and safety in time to have my baby.

  CHAPTER 38

  It was by now nine o’clock in the morning. I pulled out of my shocked state. Having driven to within a few yards of the bridge, I was sitting staring almost without comprehension at the scene in front of me. I opened the driver’s door and puddled towards the swollen creek. My worst fears were confirmed. It would be utter madness to attempt to drive through that. What to do? How could I have my baby here by the side of the road, twenty miles from anywhere? What was the alternative – to turn around and drive home? Impossible. Those men were murderers and would be making themselves comfortable in our home. Sleeping in our bed, rifling through our drawers, sprawling on the sofa and turning the kitchen upside down.

  Trying to stay calm, I took a sip or two of water from the canvas waterbag, trickled a little
over my muddy hands, then sat in the car to ponder yet again a solution to my catastrophic situation.

  Another spasm hit. Phantom fingers clawed at the base of my uterus, long fingers grabbing, tearing, fingers determined to create a viable opening. My taut muscles resisted. Something pressed on my bladder; a trickle of urine and other fluid ran down my leg and was greedily soaked up at mid-thigh by my stocking tops. Now what was happening? Had the membrane ruptured? The flow increased. Fluid gushed down my legs. Some was absorbed by my skirt; the remainder welling over the edge of the car seat and slopping on to the car floor. Moisture ran down my face, a mixture of sweat and tears. I sobbed words of desperation. ‘I can’t bear it. What shall I do?’ I cried out for Andrew. ‘Oh darling, where are you? Please come home soon.’

  Despite being emotionally and physically exhausted, I had to prepare for the birth. I was wearing a serge suit, the waist of the skirt tied with tape and a hole cut out through which my enlarged stomach fitted. The suit was navy blue; its jacket loose like a blazer, and under that I wore a fine woollen cream blouse. I spread the drenched skirt, stockings and knickers across the bonnet, leant into the car, dragged my suit case towards me and pulled out fresh underwear. Taking the towel from the front seat, I dried the sticky liquid from my legs, wrapped the towel around my waist and pulled the blanket around my shoulders. The sky was clear, but it was still cold. My head ached as if pierced by a knife. I got back into the car, this time on the dry passenger side, and slumped in the seat while pondering about the immediate future. My mind was racing, but it didn’t seem to be assessing the situation logically. I simply worried.