Whisper My Secret

by JB Rowley

  Myrtle stood beside the armchair her mother settled in. Ma Bishop sat in the matching chair opposite. Behind them, heavy brocade curtains, pulled back with a cord, framed the window that looked out onto the front garden. Myrtle wondered where Henry was. She hadn’t had a chance to warn him. He had not been to visit her since she told him about her bouts of sickness, preferring to leave her in peace to recover. What would he say when he found out what her illness really was?

  “You’d better call your son, Agnes,” said Etti.

  “Henry? Whatever for?”

  “What I have to say concerns him.”

  Agnes Bishop raised her eyebrows and fixed her eyes on Myrtle’s mother. Etti returned the stare in silence. Finally Ma Bishop rose from her chair and opened the door wide enough to thrust her head into the hall.

  “Henry! Come here a moment would you, dear?”

  Leaving the door ajar she returned to her seat. Myrtle heard footsteps in the hall. The door hinge squeaked. She kept her eyes lowered, mentally tracing the circular rose pattern on the rug. She saw Henry’s canvas tennis shoes in her peripheral vision as he entered the room and closed the door behind him. The shoes remained near the door. She heard Henry’s father tapping his pipe on the mantelpiece; a familiar sound that reminded her of her own father. Raising her eyes, careful not to allow them to wander in Henry’s direction, she watched John Bishop separating the strands of tobacco from the brown clump in his leather pouch. He cradled the bowl of the pipe in one hand and pushed the tobacco down with the forefinger of the other, packing the tobacco firmly into the pipe. With the pipe in his mouth he struck a match against his boot and held it to the tobacco sucking through the stem of the pipe to encourage ignition.

  “Well?” said Ma Bishop, directing her gaze at Etti Webb.

  Myrtle felt her stomach clamp tightly as her mother delicately presented the news of her condition and its relevance to the Bishop family. She heard Ma Bishop’s sharp intake of breath. Myrtle’s heartbeat quickened. The pungent smell of pipe tobacco filled the room. She fixed her eyes on Mr Bishop. Apparently unshaken by Etti Webb’s startling revelations he sat back in his chair, picked up his newspaper with his free hand, shook it out and settled back to read it.

  Agnes Bishop set her lips in a hard line. She looked at Henry, her eyebrows raised slightly. She was clearly intent on extracting a denial from him and made it plain without saying a word that she thought Myrtle had lied about the identity of the father of her unborn child. Myrtle could see that the idea of Henry getting a girl into trouble was unthinkable to his mother. But Henry could not meet his mother’s confident gaze. Ma Bishop stared at her son. She could not ignore the evidence—Henry’s shame-faced expression and lowered head. Myrtle watched the look on his mother’s face change as the truth began to crystallise in her mind. Her jaw slackened. Her mouth opened as though to speak and remained open, wordless. Henry stood, silent, nervous and uncomfortable. Myrtle saw his right hand move toward the door. But his mother’s voice, harsh with anger arrested any idea of escape.

  “Henry?”

  His hand dropped back to his side. He glanced across the room. Their eyes met. Myrtle saw the same look of desperation she had once seen in the eyes of a rabbit her father had trapped in a cage. She had wanted to reach out and comfort the animal but her father stopped her.

  “Don’t touch it, lass. Even rabbits are dangerous when they are cornered.”

  Henry dropped his gaze quickly. He shuffled his feet. In his home environment he seemed different somehow, thought Myrtle.

  “Henry?”

  His mother waited, hoping for some explanation from Henry that would, like the sweeping wave of a magician’s wand, reveal his innocence. He tightened his lips and shoved his hands in his pockets. Myrtle shifted her gaze to the family photographs standing sentry in silver frames at either end of the mantelpiece. One was a photo of a baby, probably Henry, wearing a little suit and bonnet. The other one was a family portrait of Henry swaddled in a draping shawl in his mother’s arms with Mr Bishop standing close behind them. Myrtle suddenly remembered her mother’s words telling her about Agnes Bishop.

  “As for Henry, he must have been conceived on their wedding night because he arrived exactly nine months to the day after they were married…Well, according to Agnes anyway. She had the baby over in Culcairn you know. Spent the last few months of her confinement there, visiting her aunt. And there’s more to that than meets the eye, mark my words.”

  A glimmer of hope stirred within her. If Agnes Bishop had conceived out of wedlock she might have some understanding, perhaps some sympathy for her situation. The grandfather clock in the hall ticked loudly. Henry remained silent. Myrtle felt close to tears. Why didn’t Henry come to her, stand by her? She longed for his warmth and protection. Finally Ma Bishop broke the silence.

  “Henry! What have you got to say for yourself?”

  “Well ... I…”

  He glanced at his father but Mr Bishop seemed engrossed in the news of the day.

  “Well … I mean … It was just ... Well, I didn’t think…”

  “Didn’t think? Didn’t think is exactly what you did my boy!”

  She flung a sharp glance at her husband.

  “John. Did you hear that? Didn’t think! That’s all he can say. Didn’t think. He’s your son. Speak to him.”

  The newspaper rustled. Mr Bishop cleared his throat.

  “Seems to me it’s a bit late for that, dear.”

  “There’s no point getting upset, Agnes,” Etti said. “What’s done is done. We have to make the best of it.”

  Agnes Bishop glared at Etti Webb as if she were part of a sinister conspiracy to rob her of her only son. Myrtle could almost read her thoughts. A fine looking boy. He could have married well. He’s fallen for the oldest trick in the book. Snared by a little tramp.

  “Why are you pointing the finger at our boy, Etti Webb? How do we know what your daughter has been up to?”

  “Myrtle’s a good girl,” Etti sat up stiffly, chin forward. “You watch what you’re saying, Agnes Bishop. It’s your son that ought to take responsibility for this. He’s old enough to know better—a good ten years older than my Myrtle. Should have set an example, that’s what.”

  “Oh, she’s a good girl is she? Well, if she’s a good girl how has she managed to get herself into this situation? After all, boys will be boys.”

  Etti moved to the edge of her seat, her face flushed with anger. Myrtle gripped the back of her mother’s chair, her heart pounding. For a moment she feared her mother would strike Agnes Bishop.

  “That might be so, Agnes, but at his age it’s about time your boy acted like a man.”

  Agnes Bishop straightened, struggling to maintain control of her emotions. She paused before opening her mouth to deliver a suitably refined response. Etti’s voice stopped her before her lips could form the words.

  “More to the point… It’s about time you let him grow up!”

  Etti’s face was white, her lips set in a determined line. She glared at Henry’s mother. Agnes’ face flushed and her nostrils flared. She looked across to where her husband sat, still apparently engrossed in the newspaper. Henry’s voice interrupted them.

  “Mum. It’s all right ... Let it be.”

  Agnes looked at her son incredulously. Despite her indignation she knew she was defeated. Her son’s guilt was written all over his face. She had no choice but to accept it. Trapped by convention and her own Christian values she would have to let her son marry a dressmaker’s daughter! She directed her frustration at Myrtle in a quick, venomous glance. Myrtle felt her face burning. She struggled with a desire to burst into tears and an urge to shake Henry, to pound him on the chest with her fists and yell at him. She looked over at him but his gaze was carefully averted.

  CHAPTER TEN

  There was no time to be lost. Arrangements were quickly made for their wedding. It had to be done before Myrtle began to show.

  Myrtle faced each da
y with reluctance. Her mother measured her for a new suit and dragged her from store to store in search of suitable fabric.

  “This will catch the colour in your eyes,” her mother said, holding pretty green cotton up against her.

  Myrtle nodded with barely a glance at the material. She was thinking of the day Gwen Johnson was married. Gwen Johnson had been two years ahead of Myrtle at school but her younger sister Edna had been in Myrtle’s class. Myrtle had been shy of Edna because she always seemed to know so much about the things Myrtle knew nothing about; the right clothes to wear, the latest hairdos and boys.

  She had met Lily on the bridge on the day of Gwen Johnson’s wedding.

  “Let’s go down to the shop and look at the pattern books,” said Lily.

  This was something they both liked to do, look at pictures of wedding dresses in the sewing pattern books.

  “All right. But I don’t want to be late for Gwen Johnson’s wedding.”

  “Ooh come on Myrtle Turtle. There’s plenty of time.”

  “All right. Let’s go.”

  They jumped up, brushing the grass from their skirts before heading back toward the town.

  “What sort of dress do you think Gwen Johnson will wear, Lily?”

  “Ooh, something exquisite, I think. Elizabeth Perry says she’s having six bridesmaids.”

  “Six!”

  “Yes, and a page boy. Oh, it’ll be a wonderful wedding Myrtle.”

  They walked arm in arm along the street to the store. Feigning bold confidence to hide their shyness at entering the shop under false pretences, having no intentions of buying anything. They walked past the bolts of fabric to the ledge where the pattern books were stacked. As always the pictures of happy brides filled them both with wonder. Lily flicked through the pages of one of the heavy books with gasps of delight. Myrtle chose her favourite book and stopped to daydream on the same page she always did, admiring a long satin dress, its shimmering white skirts swirling around the model’s feet. Lily glanced across at the picture Myrtle was studying then fixed an adoring look on her cousin.

  “Ooh Myrtle. That would look beautiful on you. You are so slim… and beautiful!”

  Myrtle laughed.

  “I’m nothing special, Lily. Just a normal girl, that’s all.”

  She looked at her cousin, already beautiful with exquisite blue-grey eyes, clear skin and cheeks as rosy as a baby’s. Her slight plumpness only added to her attractiveness.

  “You’re the one that’ll have to watch out for the boys, Lily.”

  Lily gave Myrtle a playful shove, shaking her head.

  “Come on. Let’s go,” said Myrtle. “I want to be there when the bride arrives.”

  She allowed her gaze to linger on the dress a moment longer. Then they hurried out of the store and along the main street walking briskly until they reached St Matthews in Kiewa Street. Small groups of people were already gathering. Lily and Myrtle positioned themselves opposite the church, leaning against a fence. The occupants of the house were probably used to that, thought Myrtle. They would have witnessed many weddings from their front veranda. Their fence would have hosted hundreds of curious onlookers over the years. One day, thought Myrtle, people will be leaning on this fence waiting and watching for me to arrive in my bridal dress. But it hadn’t turned out like that at all.

  Myrtle steeled herself against the tears as she thought of the beautiful dress she had dreamed of; snow-white lace, long sleeves that hugged her arms and a high collar. On her head a coronet of tiny orange blossom buds and a long veil of Limerick lace. An Easter bride in white. In her mind’s eye she could see the church decorated with white daisies. She could hear the church organ as she walked down the aisle. A musty smell mingled with fresh flowers and perfume. Pews full of guests; hats turned, faces peering at her, gasps of admiration. She heard the whispers. Doesn’t she look beautiful? The church organ. The wedding march. Walking slowly in perfect wedding step with Uncle Jack by her side. Her mother’s face turned to watch her, dabbing the corners of her eyes with her handkerchief. Butterflies in her stomach. Henry waiting. Proudly slipping the ring on her finger and gazing into her eyes. And afterward. Standing on the steps of the church. Laughing and ducking the flying grains of rice. Throwing the bouquet to Lily.

  She felt the loss of that perfect day as she walked with her mother along Dean Street in the August sunshine, the neatly wrapped package of fabric carefully stowed in her mother’s shopping basket. By the time the wedding day arrived Etti’s deft hands had transformed the green cotton. Standing in the church in the stylish little suit with its generous waist, a pair of her mother’s gloves and a borrowed hat Myrtle was uncomfortably aware she looked anything but stylish. It was a small gathering. Henry, looking handsome in a dark blue suit, stood stiffly by her side. She longed for him to put his arm around her. She could bear it all if only she knew he loved her.

  Seeing Lily’s serious face looking at her she felt a twinge of sadness. Would they share happy times again? Her young cousin smiled and blew her a kiss. Dear Lily.

  The ceremony was over quickly. Myrtle hardly heard a word. Henry’s kiss was cool and polite. She felt none of the warmth that had been present in their earlier times together. Lily hugged her and wished her well.

  “I’ll come and visit you often, Myrtle,” she said, squeezing her hand.

  Etti kissed her. Old Ma Bishop glared at her. Mr Bishop congratulated her and kissed her on the cheek. Then it was all over. She was married. She was Mrs Henry Bishop, but she didn’t feel any different. She still felt like little Myrtle Webb—a silly ignorant girl who hadn’t learned the hidden rules of social games, a naïve child who took people at face value as her mother was fond of telling her. She had often puzzled over the expression face value, not knowing what it meant, but now that she found herself thrust to the isolation of the outer circle she was beginning to sense its meaning. A sudden flash of insight brought with it the realisation of the presence of undercurrents deep below the surface of everyday communication. It was a fleeting moment that left her feeling vaguely uneasy.

  They couldn’t afford the luxury of a honeymoon. Neither could they afford a home. She and Henry were to live with his parents. In the Bishop house Myrtle felt uncomfortable, like an unwelcome visitor. She longed for the familiarity of her mother’s flat.

  That night Henry lay silently by her side with his back to her. They had hardly had a chance to speak to each other since the day her mother had broken the news of her pregnancy. Now he didn’t seem to want to talk at all. Myrtle faced the opposite wall listening to his steady breathing. She longed for him to take her in his arms and tell her he loved her. She wept silently.

  The next morning she did not join the Bishop family at the breakfast table, telling Henry she did not feel well. Alone in the bedroom she stood before the mirror in her petticoat and placed her hand over her stomach. Was it showing? Yes. It seemed to her that her stomach was like a balloon between her hips. She sank down on the bed, her head in her hands. All her dreams were dashed. Even the wonderful feeling of being with Henry seemed to be lost. Did he blame her? Is that why he was so cold? Was it her fault? How she envied those girls who held their heads high, who knew exactly what to do and how to behave. Elizabeth Perry, for instance. She would never get herself into trouble or lose her head in foolish moments of passion. She would be in control. Sensible. There was proof in the pudding because Elizabeth Perry had married one of the most eligible bachelors in Albury.

  Myrtle wished she were more like Elizabeth Perry; cool, calm and collected, always saying and doing the right thing. If only I’d known, thought Myrtle. If only I’d known how babies were made. Why didn’t somebody tell me? She beat her fists on the pillow. Why didn’t they tell me straight instead of pussy footing around, saying things like ‘don’t sit on the grass with a boy’ ‘don’t let a boy touch you’? How was I supposed to know what that meant, she thought.

  When the doctor, matter of fact and clinical, had delive
red the facts to her she was embarrassed at her ignorance. Before that she hadn’t even understood the connection between menstruation and pregnancy. She could vividly remember the day she had her first bleeding. Her alarm and confusion. She hadn’t said a word to anyone. Her mother had discovered her trying to wash out her panties. Etti simply looked at her, went away and returned a few minutes later, handing Myrtle a packet of sanitary napkins and a belt.

  “You’ll need these now… And it won’t be long before you’ll be needing a brassiere, as well.”

  Myrtle blushed and took the unfamiliar items back to her room. She shoved them to the back of a drawer. Several days passed before she found the courage to recover them. She tried to work out how to wear them. The belt was like the belt her mother used for her stockings. She shut the door firmly and stripped to her panties. She wondered if she should pull it over her head but decided to step into it and pull it up onto her hips. She lowered her panties, placed the sanitary pad in position and fumbled with the fastenings but eventually managed to hook the pad in place. It felt large and uncomfortable between her legs. She pulled her panties up again and walked around the room, legs apart. If Lily had been there they would have laughed about her waddling around the room like a duck with its tail out. Alone she felt stupid. She’d never be able to wear it in public. In her mind’s eye she could see the skirt of her school uniform hanging awkwardly at the back and the other girls staring and pointing. She couldn’t bear the thought of everyone knowing she was wearing it. But as time went by and her menstruation became heavier she had little choice. Gradually she became accustomed to the cumbersome undergarment and pad and wore it at that time of the month when her visitors came.