Whisper My Secret

by JB Rowley

  Hope lit a warm fire in her heart. He had thought about it!

  “Is that what you really want?” he asked.

  She nodded her head vigorously. His face was thoughtful as he continued.

  “How would we do it? We’d have to take them from the Home, wouldn’t we? We’d have to kidnap them?”

  “Kidnap them? They’re my own children. It wouldn’t be kidnapping!”

  “It would be, in the eyes of the law, darl.”

  Kidnapping. It sounded awful but if that’s what it took then she’d have to do it.

  “If they found us I’d be arrested for sure, ‘cos they’re not my kids. They’d probably charge me with kidnapping. The army’d be after me as well for going AWOL.”

  “We’d be in Victoria, across the border.”

  “Yeah, that’s true. But I guess that won’t stop the army coming after me. And I reckon your husband’d track us down too if he wanted to badly enough.”

  Agnes Bishop’s dark eyes flashed before Myrtle. Oh yes she’d track her down. She wouldn’t let her get away with something like that. She realised the futility of the idea. Seeing her dejection he pulled her close. Gratitude swelled in her. At least he hadn’t told her she was being silly.

  “Albury’s a nice town, eh?” he said. “I don’t mind living here, you know. You could stay close to the kids and keep an eye on them that way.”

  How could she stay in Albury? For one thing everyone would know they were not legally married. Apart from that the pain of leaving her children to go to another state would be easier to bear than the agony of seeing them and not being able to have them with her. And what stories would be spun about her. Would her children grow ashamed of her? Would they stare at her as though she were a wicked woman? Would she become a figure of fun, like Minnie Ha Ha? Though her heart still ached she realised she would no longer hide from the truth with impractical dreams and fantasies. What was best for her children was the only choice available to her.

  “No,” she had said firmly. “It’s better that the kids forget me.”

  She would go to live in George’s town, in Orbost down in Victoria. It was a long way away and she could start a new life there as George’s wife. Her children would grow up in Albury well cared for by the Bishops without the presence of a shameful mother. They could hold their heads high and enjoy all the nice things that their grandmother’s money could buy them.

  A few weeks later George took her to the pictures at The Regent. He looked so handsome and she walked proudly beside him. She no longer felt restricted by the fear of gossips accusing her of adultery again because she knew now it was too late to get her children back anyway. She had already been condemned as unfaithful and loose without having done anything wrong. It was not the truth that condemned her it was the lies. What would they do with the truth she wondered?

  Approaching the Regent she saw Agnes Bishop coming towards them. Her first instinct was to run and hide. The older woman’s dark eyes fixed on her and then on George. She has got a face like a hard old nut thought Myrtle. Suddenly she felt a surge of anger. Looking straight at her mother-in-law, she took George’s hand in hers and smiled. The expression on Agnes Bishop’s face changed from righteous superiority to indignant disapproval. Myrtle looked up at George as he squeezed her hand. When they were seated in the picture theatre she reached into her handbag, took out the slim, shiny band of gold and placed it on her finger. Afterwards as they emerged from the theatre George reminded her of the ring on her finger.

  “I’m going to leave it on,” she said.

  She smiled up at him and he grinned back at her with delight.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  After that she wore her ring all the time. It was on her finger several weeks later when she sat in the office of Messrs Tietyens, Angel and Jackling, solicitors. She turned the ring on her finger several times in an effort to steady her nerves. In the austere office with a heavy wooden desk separating her from the serious faced solicitor opposite she felt overwhelmed. Mr Jackling pushed his glasses further along his nose, eyed her over the rims and fingered the papers on the desk in front of him.

  “You do realise what this means, Mrs Bishop?”

  “Yes,” she replied.

  “Mr Bishop will seek dissolution of the marriage and custody of the issue, er, excuse me, the three children, on the grounds of desertion.”

  “Yes.”

  He leaned back in his chair spreading his fingers and bringing both hands together so that his fingertips touched. He looked across at her thoughtfully.

  “And you don’t intend to fight it?”

  “No.”

  “I see.”

  “But…”

  “Yes, Mrs Bishop.”

  “I don’t have anything. Photos or papers… to remember… I mean for the children.”

  Turning the ring furiously she fought to keep back the tears. She wanted to have something of the children with her. Agnes Bishop had paid for the one and only photo taken of Bertie and Audrey and insisted it was therefore hers to keep. There were no photos of little Noel. Perhaps, it was just as well not to have photos. Being able to see their images every day would be too difficult. But she did want to have something.

  “Ah. I see,” said Mr Jackling tapping his fingertips together and nodding his head. “Yes, I see. Well, I’ll do what I can, Mrs Bishop.”

  He smiled kindly as he pushed back his chair and stood up, signalling the end of the interview. Myrtle rose from her chair and moved toward the door. Then she stopped. Spinning around to face the solicitor she straightened her body and looked directly at him.

  “They are my children Mr Jackling. I don’t even have their birth certificates. I must have something. I’m their mother!”

  Startled at the sudden change in her demeanour Mr Jackling did not speak, though his mouth opened with the intention of doing so. Then he met her gaze with a look of respect.

  “Yes, Mrs Bishop,” he replied slowly. “You are their mother. You must have something. If you wish I could try to obtain their birth certificates for you. Would that be suitable?”

  She told him that would be suitable and left his office. As she stepped out into the warm sunshine she heard the familiar clackety clack of Minnie Ha Ha’s bicycle. She had wanted to see Minnie and almost went to visit her but decided not to intrude on the old woman’s privacy. Now as she watched her approach Myrtle had to resist the desire to run up and hug her and say, “I will have more children, plenty of them. Thank you Minnie.” She hesitated. It was the first time she had seen Minnie since that day outside the Children’s Home, except from a distance. This woman, who had seen her distress and stopped to comfort her, deserved gratitude and acknowledgement but Myrtle realised that in all the years she had known Minnie she had never called her by her name. Feeling awkward about approaching her she hoped Minnie would look up and meet her eye but Minnie seemed lost in her own world; her head down muttering to herself as she passed by. Myrtle started to walk on. The opportunity was lost. No. I will thank her. She might be strange but at least she really cared. Myrtle turned quickly.

  “Minnie,” she called.

  She ran to catch up with her.

  “Minnie.”

  Minnie Ha Ha turned around, slowing her bike and coming to a halt as Myrtle reached her. She looked at Myrtle. There was no recognition in her eyes. Myrtle hesitated. The poor old woman probably didn’t even remember the incident. Suddenly she felt foolish.

  “Winifred,” said Minnie. “They used to call me Winifred.”

  Myrtle was beginning to regret her impulse. It was clear the old lady did not recognise her. She spoke tentatively.

  “Minnie… Winifred.”

  The name Winifred sounded strange and didn’t seem at all suitable for Minnie Ha Ha. Minnie screwed up her eyes and looked at her. “I know you,” she said. “You’re Tom’s girl. Tom and Etti. I remember when they got you.”

  “Thank you, Minnie, for your kindness.”

&nbs
p; Minnie looked her straight in the eye. Myrtle saw the glimmer of recognition, the acknowledgement of their shared moment. Minnie remembered. Maybe the crafty old woman remembered more than she let on.

  “You’ll be all right now,” she said. “Don’t let ‘em beat ya. Just remember that.”

  She leaned across and brought her face close to Myrtle’s.

  “They say I had a kid, don’t they?”

  Myrtle nodded.

  “I never had no kid. Wouldn’t tell’em that though.”

  She laughed. The full force of her stale breath swept across Myrtle’s face.

  “But I had a lotta things they don’t know about.”

  She winked at Myrtle.

  “Tell ‘em all to go to buggery! That’s what I say.”

  She heaved herself back onto the seat of her bicycle and pushed down on the pedals. She turned back to Myrtle.

  “Just remember. There’s more than one Hitler in this world.”

  Then she was off, pedalling down the road singing at the top of her voice. “Hooray and up she rises, Hooray and up she rises, earlie in the morning.”

  The following week when a large brown envelope arrived from Messrs Tietyens, Angel and Jackling, Myrtle opened it with trembling fingers. Inside was a letter from Mr Jackling indicating he had enclosed the birth certificates for Albert Brian Bishop, Audrey Vera Bishop and Noel Andrew Bishop. She picked up each precious piece of paper and held it to her chest. She gently stroked each name in turn with her fingers. Then, one by one, she held each certificate up to her lips and placed a soft kiss where the name was printed.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  The Spirit of Progress hissed and chugged its way south toward Melbourne. On the floor of the compartment Myrtle’s over-packed string bag was pushed up against her feet. The luggage rack was overflowing with suitcases, carry bags and a varied assortment of packages, which threatened to topple down onto the heads of unsuspecting passengers below, most of whom were weary people who had transferred from the NSW train at Albury.

  Opposite Myrtle sat a well dressed, pale-faced young woman, her efforts to sit primly in her seat defeated by the motion of the train. A neat blue hat was perched on her head and her stockinged feet were clad in a smart pair of navy shoes. Her beautifully manicured hands held a copy of The Australian Women’s Weekly, which she was reading intently. Next to Myrtle sat a young soldier, his hat pulled down over his eyes as though asleep. Opposite him, next to the smart blue hat sat another young fresh-faced soldier with clear blue eyes. Their bulging kit bags, too bulky to squeeze onto the luggage rack occupied most of the floor space around their feet covering their shining boots.

  Next to the window sat a woman, her face weathered by the sun, running her fingers through her short-cropped hair in a gesture of fatigue. A girl of around six years of age sat opposite her. Myrtle judged them to be mother and daughter. The girl was looking out the window clearly captivated by the scenes passing by; houses, paddocks with tall stems of maize, others dotted with sheep and some with grazing horses. The woman closed her eyes, taking advantage of her child’s preoccupation to snatch a few moments rest. Myrtle followed suit, leaning back on the plush headrest, allowing the rhythm of the wheels on the tracks to relax her while thinking of her own mother and the surprising news she had presented her with before she left Albury.

  Etti had just finished making bread dough. It was the first time Myrtle had seen her making bread since her father died. Her mother wiped her hands on her apron when Myrtle entered the kitchen.

  “Sit down, love.”

  Myrtle sat at the end of the table that wasn’t covered with flour and utensils. The tone of her mother’s voice told her she had something on her mind.

  “The time has come, love,” said Etti, reaching back to pick something up from the dresser behind her, “for me to give you this.”

  She handed Myrtle a tattered, folded piece of blue legal paper lined with thin pink stripes. Myrtle was baffled.

  “What is it Mum?”

  Her mother sighed heavily.

  “Read it.”

  Myrtle looked at the front of the folded paper and read the heading:

  DATED 1 June 1920.

  Underneath were names she did not recognise, below them her parents’ names.

  Thomas Andrew Webb and Henrietta Audrey Webb

  Typed beneath that were the words:

  MEMORANDUM OF AGREEMENT.

  At the bottom was a name.

  John Wilkinson, Solicitor, Albury.

  Mystified, Myrtle opened the document, spread it out and began to read slowly, trying to decode the legal jargon as she read. Some of the phrases sank into her consciousness.

  (Hereinafter called the adopting parties)… Myrtle Millicent Webb… hereinafter referred to as the infant. The parents shall at all reasonable times hereafter have access to the infant and shall have the rights of parents… In the presence of...

  She looked at the strange signatures of the witnesses and at her parents’ signatures and closed the document. Opposite her at the kitchen table her mother waited, an anxious look on her face. Though Myrtle was numb with surprise, the discovery that she was an adopted child did not cause her the shock and distress that Etti Webb evidently expected. Myrtle looked at her.

  “I always knew there was something.”

  Silence linked mother and daughter.

  “Thanks for telling me, Mum.”

  Her mother heaved her chest and released a sigh from deep in her throat. Silence. Finally Etti spoke.

  “Your natural mother was only fifteen, love. She didn’t want to give you up. She had no choice.”

  Myrtle nodded. Tears welled in her eyes. Her mother continued.

  “You can see from that special agreement Mr Wilkinson drew up for us how much she loved you. Both your parents wanted to make sure they would have the right to take you back if anything ever happened to Tom and me.”

  Myrtle walked around to where her mother sat. She put her arms around her and embraced her for the first time since she was a small child.

  “Thanks Mum. Thank you for adopting me.”

  Etti Webb remained quiet, her head bowed.

  “I wanted you to know… because...”

  “I know, Mum. It does help. Thank you.”

  “It does help,” she repeated slowly.

  “You did all right, didn’t you?” said her mother.

  “Yes, Mum. I did all right.”

  She marvelled at her mother’s courage in choosing to reveal a secret she surely would have preferred to keep to herself. She wanted to somehow offer comfort to Myrtle in coping with her own painful separation. A mother, Myrtle realised, would do anything for her kids regardless of whether those children had been acquired through natural birth or through adoption. This new knowledge about herself gave her much more than comfort in her time of need. Ever since she could remember unanswered questions had hovered in the recesses of her mind, lurking just out of reach in the background like a puppy dog hovering at the doorstep, knowing he was forbidden, yet hopeful and fearful at the same time.

  It surprised her that she felt no desire to know who her real mother was. As far as she was concerned her parents were Etti and Tom Webb. They had always had her best interests at heart and she saw no need to seek love and comfort elsewhere. But in a strange sort of way knowing she had travelled through life this far without the care and guidance of her biological parents gave her a new confidence and strength. Not everyone can do that, she thought. That’s something isn’t it? The Shirley Townsends of this world might have the glamorous clothes, the social graces and superior attitude but they have achieved that within the comfort of normal secure upbringings. Consequently their achievement, she decided, was much less compared to hers.

  “Don’t you worry about your little ones,” her mother had said before she left Albury. “I will be watching out for them.”

  The piece of paper Etti Webb had handed Myrtle that day was now with her diary
and the precious birth certificates secure in her string bag, where she felt it would be safer than in her suitcase, lest for any reason she was separated from her luggage. To reassure herself the bag was still there she moved her leg slightly to rest against it. The deep voice of the soldier next to her interrupted Myrtle’s thoughts.

  “Our stop coming up, Bob.”

  The other soldier nodded. A few minutes later the train whistled and hissed to a smooth standstill at Seymour Station. The two soldiers picked up their kit bags and struggled to get through the narrow door of the compartment.

  “Excuse us,” said the soldier called Bob cheerily as he tried to control his bag that was in danger of hitting Myrtle on the head. She smiled at him and squeezed her body back into her seat in an effort to give them more room. Then the soldier behind Bob began laughing, pointing to his friend’s rear end.

  “Hey mate, look at your backside,” he guffawed, dropping his bag back on the floor. “What?” asked Bob.

  His friend continued laughing. Myrtle saw a large dark stain on Bob’s khaki trousers where he had apparently sat on a piece of chocolate that had melted during the journey under the combined warmth and weight of his body.

  “You can’t front up to the brass like that!” said his mate.

  Bob dropped his bag, turned his head and twisted back as far as he could to view the damage.

  “Hell!” he said. Then, remembering the presence of the female occupants, “Excuse me ladies.”

  “Sorry little miss,” he added to the young girl who was eyeing his trousers with amusement. The girl giggled.

  “You sat on chocolate,” she said.

  “Yes. I can see that,” he replied wryly.

  “Righto mate, bend over,” ordered his friend.

  He pushed Bob’s back, bending him into an undignified position with his rear end facing his mate, who started rubbing at the stain with his handkerchief. Myrtle reached into her string bag drawing out a tea towel and her water flask. Releasing the lid of the flask she carefully emptied some water onto the end of the towel. She passed it over to the soldier.

  “Here,” she said.