The Mothers

by Rod Jones

  The contractions came, and the screams.

  Alma pictured Alfred on the back step in the dark with his cigar, miserable and useless, blaming Alma for their situation. All her screams now would seem to his masculine mind like some brutal natural justice of the beasts. He’d be terrified.

  She heard Mrs Lovett say, ‘You need something to occupy yourself, Alfred. Why don’t you go out and chop some wood? We’ll need to keep the stove burning.’

  Alma, too, was glad Alfred had a task. She could hear the distant sound of chopping, the back door opening and closing, the thump of another armful of wood in the kitchen. He would like the reassurance of feeling the rough logs against his arms, so different from the distressing sounds of the female world in the front room.

  After a while, the sounds of chopping and stacking ceased. He would have dragged a kitchen chair in front of the fire now, even though the April night was mild. She heard Mrs Lovett say, ‘Why don’t you try to get some sleep, Alfred? I’ll wake you if anything happens.’

  ‘How can I sleep? Just as things get bearable, that dreadful screaming starts again.’

  ‘Go down to the henhouse. That always helps, when you’re troubled.’

  ‘You hear that? Another scream. Unpredictable, they are—that’s the worst thing about it. Every time I hear her, it’s like something inside myself being ripped apart.’

  Alma heard him stomp out and slam the back door. She imagined him down at the henhouse, next to the fence, squatting on his heels, curled up, even trying to sleep for a few minutes in the midst of the familiar smells and sounds. He was part of the world of the chooks, not what was happening inside the house, and he would find comfort in the stench, the darkness. The fowls wouldn’t mind his presence there.

  All night Alma was in labour. Now, in the hour before dawn, the spasms were more frequent. She was sure all of Empire Street could hear her screams. To keep herself from thinking of the pain, she sang a nursery rhyme to herself, over and over: Miss Molly had a dolly who was sick, sick, sick. So she called for the doctor to come quick, quick, quick.

  Early the next morning, the 10th of April, Alma gave birth to a daughter. She named the baby Molly. Since there was no doctor, no midwife, the birth of her little girl was never registered.

  THE FOLLOWING WEEK Mr Goble arrived at the house in Empire Street on his reinforced bicycle.

  ‘Look who’s come to see you,’ Mrs Lovett said to Alma, ushering him into the kitchen. Alma, sitting with the baby, detected the false cheerfulness in Mrs Lovett’s voice, and guessed that this wasn’t just a casual visit.

  Mr Goble announced that he was the bearer of good news. He had managed to find a cottage in Seddon for Alma and the children. Alma guessed that Mrs Lovett had asked him for help to find her a place, so she could be rid of Alma. It was more than a mile from Empire Street, out of the way, in Pilgrim Street, where people wouldn’t know what had happened to her. Teddy and Olive would go to a new school, the state school in Hyde Street, which was closer to Pilgrim Street than their old school in Geelong Road. Alfred had agreed to pay for their rent and housekeeping. It would be a new start, Mr Goble concluded with a smile.

  When she heard the house was in Seddon, Alma’s heart began to race. The foundry where Alfred worked was nearby; he might call in to see her after work. Of course, he would want to visit Molly.

  Their house was in a row of worker’s cottages, three rooms off the hallway, a fireplace with broken tiles. There was cold running water in the stone trough in the kitchen and the pan in the outhouse had not been emptied. From the backyard Alma could see the chimneystacks of the factories on the other side of Whitehall Street, and when the wind came from that direction, she could smell the tannery near the river. The corrugated iron roofs and fences in these streets had red and brown patches of rust, as though something inside them was bleeding.

  She spent two days with a tin bucket and scrubbing brush, scouring the floorboards, washing down the walls. She kept the kettle on the boil, refilling the bucket with vinegar and hot water. She cleaned the mouse droppings out of the cupboards, and washed all the windows. There were some ragged curtains, which had to be washed, pegged out in the sun to dry and sewn up where the seams had split. She paid particular attention to the front step. It was a slab of bluestone, on top of which was a flat brass rail, and she wanted that brass shining so that the neighbours, when they passed, might form a good opinion of her.

  Her days were busy. While Teddy and Olive were at school, she kept the house clean, made sure there was food to eat, tended to little Molly. She arranged to have coal delivered for the stove and the account sent to Alfred in Empire Street. On Saturdays, Alma heated a big pot of water and filled the tin hip bath she had placed on the kitchen floor. The baby was bathed first, then the other two children, then finally Alma herself.

  Although Mrs Lovett hadn’t said so in as many words, Alma felt that they would not be welcome to visit the house in Empire Street. The move to Seddon was to be a decisive break. The thing Alma missed most was playing the piano. Music gave her the feeling that she was on the threshold of discovering the key to her life. Her fingers striking the first chords of a song were like an intimation of happiness. But here in Seddon, there was no piano, no music, no joy, Worse, every possible future she imagined for herself and her children looked just as dull.

  Mrs Lovett had been clear about Alfred facing up to his responsibilities. He had bought a few pieces of secondhand furniture and found a baby carriage that was being given away. He paid their rent at the real estate agent’s office in Footscray.

  He visited on Sundays. If the weather was fine, they went for a walk. To passers-by they might have been just another family taking the air or returning from church. For an hour or two each week, Alma had the appearance of respectability she craved. Her back straightened and she stood taller; a feeling of lightness and optimism lifted her spirits and her thoughts turned to the future. Perhaps she and Alfred might be able to live together and be happy, after all? At the very least, there was hope.

  But then she had to put the thought out of her mind. She had been deluding herself. It was quite out of the question for Alfred to come and live with them. She knew nothing had really changed for him: living in Empire Street with his mother; riding his bicycle to work at the iron foundry; at knock-off time still showing off to the girls from the ammunition works.

  Alfred gave Alma extra money when he could spare it. Two bob. Five bob. ‘There you go, Tuppence,’ he’d say, tossing her a few shining coins.

  ‘You know I hate that name.’

  ‘Where’s your sense of humour?’

  ‘I lost it a long time ago.’

  The groove in his upper lip was deeper these days. Alma could sense Alfred’s feelings shifting away from her. He might have still loved her—or told himself he still loved her—as the mother of little Molly. But the Alma who had instigated such a sudden, violent change in his life—to that Alma, he was less sympathetic. She blamed herself for his unhappiness. The young man had entrusted his soul to her. And what had she done with it?

  If Alma had received undivided love from him, perhaps she might have been able to love him in return. She was grown-up enough at twenty-five to know that life rarely granted long periods of uninterrupted happiness. Even if she could obtain a divorce, even if they then did get married, she knew she would never be happy with Alfred, and that he wo
uld always be disappointed with her.

  She made friends with Moira, the woman next door, who was twenty-eight. Her husband worked at the bottle factory in Spotswood. Moira, who had five children, was often worn out. The first time Alma invited her in for a cup of tea, she instinctively decided to trust Moira. Anyway, she knew that a lie would not explain Alfred’s visits on Sundays.

  ‘I didn’t like to ask, but I thought it must have been something like that,’ Moira said. For once, Alma felt that she was not being judged. They became firm friends. Alma could rely on Moira when her spirits were low, and Teddy and Olive often went next door to play.

  Times were tough. If Alma had only a few pennies in her purse, she bought half a pound of oats or some flour. Eggs were a luxury. So was meat. She stood before the window of the butcher’s, staring at the meat she could not afford. What she wouldn’t do for a nice lamb forequarter roast! The trays of meat were displayed on gleaming white tiles—purple rump and flank and skirt steak, crimson chops with their bands of thick white fat, strings of sausages, glossy ox liver, shallow cups of lamb’s brains, flaps and folds of honeycomb tripe. The prices were written in shillings and pence on white cards. The butcher wore a blood-smeared white coat and a striped blue apron, a scabbard of knives bumping against his thigh. On the chopping block, one quick slap of the cleaver and he could cut clean through the bone. Mr Heritage was friendly, in the manner of butchers. Once he saw her standing there for ages and called her inside and gave her an ox-tail to make soup.

  One ordinary Monday in November, in the middle of the morning, Alma was startled by the sound of factory whistles. It was not just one—every factory in Melbourne seemed to be blasting its whistle. She picked up the baby and went out the front, wondering what could be wrong. Already, women from neighbouring houses were standing at their front gates, looking up and down the street. Church bells began to ring. Cars and trucks driving along Whitehall Street were sounding their horns.

  Moira, too, had come out of her front door. ‘What’s all this racket?’ she asked over the low fence. ‘I’ve never heard so many whistles.’

  ‘There must have been an accident at a factory,’ Alma said.

  ‘The war’s over!’ cried Mrs Birtles from two doors down. ‘Kaiser Bill has abdicated! Germany has signed an armistice!’

  An armistice? It took a minute for Alma to understand. Then she felt herself grinning, and tears filled her eyes. She laughed at herself and quickly brushed away her tears.

  ‘Things will get better now,’ Moira said.

  ‘Yes,’ Alma sighed, but she could not feel the same elation. After this past hard year, blow upon blow, she felt numb. Things would get better? Alma didn’t really believe it. The factory whistles went on for hours. Molly was exactly seven months old.

  When Teddy and Olive came home from school, they too had caught the hysteria. Olive was hopping from one leg to the other, screaming, ‘We won the war!’ and ‘The war is won!’, just as she must have heard other children say at school. Teddy was solemn with emotion, overcome perhaps by being part of this great moment. Alfred turned up on his bicycle, unwashed, in his shirtsleeves and vest, straight from work at the foundry. Like everyone else that day, he had just downed tools. ‘Have you heard the news?’ he asked. ‘Tomorrow’s been declared a public holiday!’ He promised to take Alma and the children into town to watch the celebrations.

  He arrived at nine o’clock the next morning, wearing a suit and hat. Alma had put on her only coat and a hat with a wide brim. It was a clear-blue spring day in Melbourne and it was hard to find a seat in the train carriage, there were so many people going into the city, all in their best clothes.

  As they descended the steps of Flinders Street Station, Alma could see the crowd stretched all the way up Swanston Street. Two huge Union Jacks billowed from either side of the clock tower of the Town Hall. The noise of the crowd was so loud, they couldn’t hear each other speak. People were singing ‘God Save the King’; as soon as they had finished, another section of the crowd took it up all over again.

  Alfred edged his way through the crowd, the baby in his arms, Alma and the other two following. She held their hands so that they wouldn’t get lost. Alfred held Molly aloft to see the brass band and the dignitaries on the balcony making their speeches and calling for three cheers. There were more jubilant crowds in front of Parliament House in Spring Street.

  Later, at the Hopetoun Tea Rooms in the Block Arcade in Collins Street, the waitress brought them a triple-tiered plate with chicken sandwiches and cup cakes with their tops sliced, scalloped into butterfly wings, filled with cream and dusted with icing sugar—it was the last of these that Teddy found irresistible. He wolfed down his first, then sat looking imploringly, waiting for Alma to offer him another.

  The noise of the crowds in the streets carried into the tea rooms. Baby Molly had fallen asleep in her pram.

  ‘One of these?’ Alma smiled, indicating the butterfly cakes. His desire for the cake was so urgent he was speechless; all he could do was nod vigorously. ‘Are you quite certain you wouldn’t like one of these lovely sandwiches instead?’ she asked. Then, to put the boy out of his misery, she snatched up the last cake and placed it on Teddy’s plate.

  ‘Mind you don’t make him sick, now,’ Alfred warned. Teddy worshipped Alfred, but Alma noticed that lately the boy was more reserved. He still watched Alfred, waiting for some spark of enthusiasm to fly between them, as in the old days when they’d played cricket in the street. Now, as often as not, there was something frightened in the boy’s expression, as though he expected to be disappointed. Alma hated to see such wariness in her child.

  Not wanting to spoil the mood of the day, she deliberately avoided raising a subject which she knew always made Alfred uncomfortable. But while they were sitting there with their tea and cakes, for all the world like a happy family, she found herself speaking anyway, against all her own earnest resolutions. ‘Now there’s a contented young man,’ she began, nodding towards Teddy, whose cheeks were still engorged with cake and cream. ‘It will be easier for us all to take our happiness, now the war is over.’

  Alfred half closed his eyes and a vague smile appeared.

  ‘If only your dear mother,’ Alma went on, ‘would assent to you living with your child—your children—your—’ she hesitated to say the words your wife. ‘We all belong to you now, you know. We could have such a happy life together, if only—’

  Alma broke off. Alfred’s expression had changed. Second by second, all his enthusiasm for the day drained away and, although the shape of his smile remained, there was nothing of it left in his eyes. Was it dread of crossing his mother? Or some secret of his own he was nursing in his heart?

  ‘I reckon things are all right as they stand,’ he said, after a while. Then: ‘Do you want more money—is that it?’

  ‘No! Why, oh why is it so hard for you to get it into your head? Are you really such an idiot, not to be able to see what is missing here?’

  Her strident tone made the children squirm in their chairs. Soon, Molly would wake and start crying, she knew, and they would have to leave the tea rooms, the afternoon spoiled, their special treat wasted, and all her own fault for not being able to accept her fate, for not knowing better than trying to change another human being. What she was asking, Alma realised, really was something he could not give—not to her, perhaps not to anyone.

 
‘I don’t see what more a bloke can do,’ Alfred went on. ‘I mean, fair crack of the whip. I give you extra money even when there’s nothing left for myself. When I call in to visit, you always carry on like a two-bob watch.’

  Alma wanted to scream. It was only by dint of great self-control that she smiled instead, and began to gather her things to leave. She was aware of people looking at them.

  ‘Why do you always have to go and spoil everything?’ Alfred said. With the change in mood, Teddy and Olive looked miserable. Alma tried to give them a reassuring smile.

  They trudged to the station, then passed through the loading yards and sidings of Spencer Street and North Melbourne before continuing back to Footscray. Alfred escorted them as far as the front gate at Pilgrim Street, then made his escape.

  In the weeks before Christmas, Alfred dropped in more often on his way home after work. Alma had tried to protect herself from the deceptions of hope. But the sight of him with his shirtsleeves rolled up, splashing water over his face and arms at the trough, reawakened in her body the memory of their love-making. When he had finished washing, she poured his tea and stood behind him waiting, arms folded over her apron. She wanted him, but if anything were to happen, it would have to come from him.

  Although Alfred was supporting them, and although he gave her something extra when the children needed new shoes, there were weeks when they had to survive on potatoes and porridge. There came a day when Alma was able to say to herself, I would rather live my life and raise my children however I might, without having to depend on any man. More and more, she was stung by the fact that she was dependent on Alfred.

  She wanted him to go away. She wanted him to stay. A dull feeling of futility crept into every aspect of her life.