by Joy Dettman
A couple of times, between wives, he’d come close to getting his heart’s desire. Amber had been the fly in the ointment each time. Gertrude put her first in everything. After a time, a man grows tired of coming in second place.
Vern sighed, and folded himself into his car, but sat on looking down the wide dustbowl the locals called Cemetery Road.
Woody Creek was spreading south along Cemetery Road, the younger folk preferring to see ghosts walking in the night than floodwaters creeping. If things kept going the way they’d been going since the war, that cemetery would end up in the centre of town.
Lack of transport had a lot to do with the town’s growth. Most born in Woody Creek stayed on to wed, which may have led to a bit of inbreeding but it kept money earned in the town working for the town. The rains had been coming when they were supposed to come; the farmers were doing well, which meant the businesses were doing well. Not that Woody Creek relied on her surrounding farmers to keep her afloat. Timber had got this town growing. The railways’ order for sleepers was up each year. Timber was used in the mines. They built wharves from red gum, bridges, used it for fencing, and burned what was left over.
Vern was making money hand over fist, as were his mill workers, tree fellers and the bullockies who dragged those logs into the mill. A lot of folk lived well off timber. The big steam-driven mills could cut more in a day than the old pit mill could do in a month.
Uncountable tons of timber were freighted to Melbourne each year, yet barely a dent had been made in that forest. There was wood enough around this town to keep those mill saws screaming for a hundred years.
EXPECTATIONS
A forest doesn’t evolve unless it finds the right conditions. It doesn’t ask for much, other than space in which to spread. It will stand up to years of drought — if that drought is balanced by a decent flood every once in a while. The creek, twisting through the forest like a stirred-up snake, could be relied on to strike more or less regularly. Crops were lost beneath its floodwaters, stock drowned, families washed from their homes, but that forest drank her fill and gave birth to saplings.
Gertrude was eyeing a healthy clump of the things growing beside her boundary gate as she dragged it shut, looped a circle of rusting wire around a leaning gatepost — and for the umpteenth time promised her gate a new gatepost — and the gatepost a new gate. She’d been making similar promises for a year or two now, but hadn’t got around to keeping them. She promised that clump of saplings an axe — and that was a promise she’d need to keep before the things started pushing over what was left of her fence. Everywhere she looked this morning she saw something that needed doing.
Her father had wrestled these fifteen acres from the forest, fenced them, then spent the remainder of his life fighting an ongoing war against red gum saplings hell bent on reclaiming his land. Had he followed his father’s wishes and wed a neighbour’s daughter, he might have ended up with more. An independent man, Gertrude’s father, he’d learned to live without money — as had his daughter. In this old world, some are written down to do it easy but most are born to do it hard.
Amber had chosen a harder row to hoe when she’d wed Norman Morrison. She’d had a few nice boys come calling, then ended up with the worst of the lot — which Gertrude blamed on the last flood. The Morrisons had offered Amber a bed for the duration, and after three weeks in that railway house then coming home to floors covered in mud and green slime . . .
They’d been shovelling side by side for an hour or more, scraping up that stinking mud and pitching it out the door, Gertrude pleased to be home, pleased she’d had no floor coverings to lose, when Amber had let out a howl of the damned, pitched her shovel out the door, then followed it.
‘To hell with it,’ she’d said. ‘I’m marrying him.’
‘Who?’
‘Who do you think!’
‘Wally Dobson?’
‘Norman!’
‘Norman Morrison! You don’t suddenly decide to marry someone like Norman Morrison just because you’re sick of shovelling mud. Now pick that shovel up and get me some water. We’ll sweep the rest of it out.’
‘I deserve something better than this.’
‘Then you don’t marry a man like Norman Morrison, you fool of a girl. You don’t love him.’
‘Who are you to give advice on love? You left my father before I even knew him.’
‘He went missing.’
‘So you say.’
‘I wasn’t much older than you are now, I had you in my belly, I was stuck in India and he was gone, and if I’d stayed there I would have starved. And he didn’t worry too much about you starving either, my girl. Now get me a couple of buckets of water and the old straw broom.’
‘People don’t live like this.’
‘No. There’s a lot who live worse.’
‘And plenty who live better.’
‘Yes, well, I can tell you now, you’d be a damn sight more comfortable riding a wet log downstream with a chook perched on one end and a goat on the other than in tying yourself up with those Morrisons. I didn’t raise you to be a fool, so don’t you go acting like a fool and ruining your life.’
Should have kept her mouth shut. Amber had wed him anyway.
Not that there was a lot wrong with Norman — or maybe there was nothing in the man to be wrong with him. He was lacking — lacking in self, or he’d had it drained out of him by his battleaxe of a mother. At times Gertrude made the effort to attempt some sort of communication with him, but it was like talking to a trained cockatoo — one trained by a parson. He could parrot plenty of big words, but when he’d finished what it was he had to say, you were left feeling that he’d said nothing at all — or nothing that made any sense. About the best Gertrude could say for her son-in-law was that he must have taken after his dead father, because old Cecelia hadn’t had a lot of trouble in making herself clear.
For a time after the birth of Amber’s daughter, Gertrude had tried to get along with Cecelia Morrison, aware that she’d need to if she wanted to play a part in her granddaughter’s life. She’d delivered that crumpled little mite, had loved her at first sight. Every Friday she’d visited Norman’s house, welcome or not. But old Cecelia had jumped Gertrude’s claim, and she wasn’t the type of woman to share her possessions. For six months Gertrude had persisted — while biting her tongue to a rag. Then one day she’d stopped biting it, and that was the end of that.
Things would be different with the next one. Gertrude may not have had anything specific against Norman, but she couldn’t say the same for his mother. Her feelings towards Cecelia Morrison had been very specific.
The saddle off, she set it in a crook of her walnut tree, sent her horse on his way and glanced towards her chook pens. She’d have eggs waiting to be collected, but she had that baby and Elsie waiting inside. The eggs could wait a little longer.
Not a sound coming from the house. She opened the door, expecting to see Elsie lying where she’d left her. She wasn’t there.
Old Wadi’s been here, she thought. She’d near come to blows with him the day she’d carried Elsie away from his camp.
‘Elsie?’
‘She bin cryin’, missus,’ the girl replied from the bedroom.
Gertrude lifted the curtain, walking from bright light into dark. No window in her bedroom, but a wide wooden hatch. She lifted it, propped it wide, and as the light streamed in she saw the girl holding the new titty bottle.
‘You’ve got her sucking? You good girl,’ she said. ‘You clever girl.’ Elsie stood on one leg, her hip adding balance against the bed. ‘How did you get in here, love?’
‘Slided,’ the girl said.
Gertrude checked the level of water in the bottle. It had gone down. She fetched a chair from the kitchen, got Elsie seated, and without disturbing that teat. ‘Let her suck for as long as she will, darlin’. It’s thirsty weather.’
A large stone bottle of water lived in the Coolgardie safe all summer long. Gertrude
filled two enamel mugs and carried them to the bedroom where she handed one to Elsie. No thank you was voiced, but those big brown eyes thanked her.
‘You like that baby?’
‘I gettin’ one sometime.’
‘Some long, long time,’ Gertrude said.
She went about her morning feeling a weight lifted. She’d ridden into that poor woman’s funeral feeling sick at heart that she’d missed something, that her carelessness had allowed the woman to die. She’d been concerned that the babe might follow her mother. But she was sucking, and if she’d suck on sugared water she’d suck on goat’s milk.
Eggs made up the bulk of Gertrude’s income. Charlie White at the grocery store and Mrs Crone from the café-cum-restaurant took the bulk of them. A few buyers came to her door for eggs and vegetables in season. A few bought her goat’s milk. The McPherson family, who lived near the bridge, were regular buyers, and had been since young John’s birth. They swore by her goat’s milk.
Mid-morning, she scalded a little, diluted it with boiled water, added a pinch of sugar, sat Elsie on the cane couch and handed her the baby and bottle. They got an inch of milk into that shrunken little belly, and two hours later she took an inch more.
Gertrude lost that day, but it was a hopeful, satisfying day — or it was until Ogden’s oldest boy came riding down her track just after seven.
‘Who wants me now?’ she greeted him.
‘It’s the stationmaster’s wife, Mrs Foote. He said it’s her time.’
‘It can’t be,’ she said, then bit her tongue. No use arguing due dates with a fifteen-year-old boy. ‘I wonder if you could fetch my horse up for me, love, while I grab what I need. He’s in the bottom paddock behind the orchard.’
It had to be a false alarm. She hoped it was a false alarm, or that babe could come backside first and Amber didn’t need that. Nor did Gertrude, not after losing the last one. It was too hard on the heart, too hurtful to the soul, when a grandmother delivered her own dead grandson.
She hadn’t planned to deliver this one. Vern had promised to take Amber down to Willama before it was due. There was a nurse down there who ran a house where expectant mothers could stay close to the hospital. That had been the plan. Amber had never been one to stick to plans.
She changed the babe’s sheeting napkin and considered how long she might be gone, considered leaving Elsie in charge. But she couldn’t. Having got the taste for goat’s milk, that wee stomach was demanding it every couple of hours. If things went bad in town, Gertrude could be in there all night. She’d have to take them in with her, drop them off with Ogden and his wife, which she couldn’t do on horseback.
‘I’ll take the cart, love,’ she told the boy. ‘I might get you to give me a lift with a few things before you go.’
He carried Elsie’s mattress out; she carried Elsie, then went back for the baby. She filled a jam jar with scalded milk, almost forgot the titty bottle, placed them with other bits and pieces into her basket, her every action reminding her of nights long ago, of lifting Amber from her warm bed and carrying her into a stranger’s house. Too many of those nights, and that little girl knowing too much too early. No choice back then, as Gertrude had no choice right now. Life might have been a whole lot easier for Amber had her grandparents made old bones. They hadn’t. Life was what it was; life was all there was, and folk had to do the best they could with what they were handed.
The door slammed shut and Gertrude stood checking her mental list. Out to the cart then, where she used the spokes of the big old metal-rimmed wheel as a ladder. Her seat was a backless bench — her cart no fancy rig. With a click of her tongue, a flick of the rein, she encouraged her horse to pull. He was an all black gelding she’d named Nugget, and he preferred carrying her to pulling her cart, but she got his head turned for town.
Norman was waiting at his front gate. She tied the reins to a cartwheel, which made an effective brake, then, Elsie and the baby looking comfortable enough on their mattress, she went inside to take a quick look at Amber.
Maisy was with her, and one of Norman’s aunts, and it was no false alarm. Her waters had broken and that baby was in a hurry to get out. He came headfirst an hour later, a good size for an eight-month baby.
‘He’s got the Hoopers’ long limbs, darlin’,’ she said.
He didn’t offer the newborn’s wail, which was of no immediate concern though it became a slight concern when Gertrude’s usual tricks failed to raise it. She took him out to the kitchen table, away from Amber’s eyes. There was a handful of Norman’s relatives out there. Seventy-five per cent had left town after the funeral; Amber’s batch had stayed on. Gertrude cleared them from the kitchen before clearing the babe’s airways. She slapped his little feet, expecting him to protest her treatment, needing him to protest.
‘What’s wrong?’ Amber called from the bedroom. Gertrude didn’t reply. She didn’t know what was wrong.
Maisy came to the kitchen door to see, and found Gertrude breathing her own breath into her grandson’s mouth. She’d birthed ten of her own; she didn’t ask what was wrong. She knew.
‘Get me a couple of basins, Maisy. Quick. Hot water in one, cold in the other.’
Knew her voice sounded too urgent but there was urgency now. She only had so much time to get him breathing and she didn’t want to think about how much of that time she’d already used up.
A stoneware basin and one of enamel were placed on the table. She dipped tiny feet into the cold water, then into the hot, attempting to shock him into gasping that first breath. She sat his tiny backside in each basin.
‘Mum! Mum!’
Shook him. Blew in his face. Tried the water again. The hot was cooling. And Amber was howling.
‘Go to her, Maisy.’
Maisy didn’t argue. She went. Only Norman standing at the door now, his eyes afraid. Gertrude looked at his eyes but couldn’t hold them. She turned to the bold-faced clock on the mantelpiece eager to tell her how much time had passed since the birth. Too much. Way too much.
This was her grandson, her flesh, her blood. Here was the little boy she’d lost to the crazy sod she’d wed. Here was one of the Hooper line. He had the brow, the hands, and he was dead. And her girl was crying for him and Gertrude wanted to cry for him.
No time for that now. She wasn’t the grandmother tonight, only the failed midwife.
‘Get your family around to the hotel, Norman,’ she said, hating him at that moment, cursing him for loving her pretty, moody girl and for giving her grandsons she couldn’t make live.
‘Norman,’ Maisy yelled. ‘Norman! You’re needed in here!’
He left the doorway. His parson uncle took his place there.
‘It will be better for all concerned if you move your family over to the hotel for the night,’ Gertrude said. ‘She’ll need . . .’ Amber was screaming. God knows what she’d need.
The parson left the doorway and Gertrude wrapped the tiny boy, kissed his little dead face, then carried him to the bedroom where Norman and Maisy were attempting to hold Amber down on the bed.
‘He didn’t breathe, my darlin’. I couldn’t make him breathe.’
Amber snatched him, crushed him to her breast. ‘Useless backward old fool,’ she screamed. ‘Get out! Get out!’
Her anger was ugly. It had always been ugly. She needed a punching bag tonight and Gertrude had always been a convenient punching bag, always swinging back for more punishment. She left the room, walked out to the front verandah, out to the gate.
Her horse heard her. He muttered his disapproval. She’d forgotten him, forgotten she’d left Elsie and that baby out there at the mercy of biting mosquitoes.
‘God help me,’ she said and she went to them.
They were sleeping, or silent. She walked to her horse to lean a while against him, her chin lifting, her eyes staring hard at a starry sky, and each star blurring, growing tails. Wiped her eyes, wiped them again, clearing the blur. Her tears weren’t going to help anyone t
onight. A couple of deep breaths might.
Heard the side gate slam, didn’t know if someone was coming or going until she heard a male voice praying, then two male voices — Norman and his uncle, or perhaps the cousin. Prayers could give comfort to some. She doubted they’d comfort her girl.
Who could have imagined this night? She’d seen it all so very differently. What more could she have done? What would Archie have done?
Amber was right in calling her a backward old fool. She was untrained in the modern ways of healing — just a grandmother with an enquiring mind and a desire to fix what was broken. All she knew she’d learnt from Archie, on Archie. She’d lanced her first boil one night when his hands were shaking too hard to hold the knife. He’d talked her through the stitching up of his own head. Just a girl then, a fool of a girl thrown into situations she couldn’t control, but learning from them.
‘A brat will birth itself if given half a chance,’ he’d said. He was right. She’d seen it happen many times. He’d been right about most things medical, but she’d known more about life, about people, and she knew now that she had to get that baby over to Ogden before its little belly started making demands. She was easing it from Elsie’s protecting arm when Amber screamed and Maisy came at a run through the front door.
‘They’ve taken it away from her, Mrs Foote.’
Gertrude pushed the stranger’s infant at Maisy. ‘Take her over to your place, love. I didn’t know this was going to happen. Take her and run. I’ll come by later,’ she said.
God works in mysterious ways, his wonders to perform . . . or perhaps the devil had his own tricks up his sleeve that night. It’s inconceivable how tiny lungs, how immature vocal cords, can raise the racket they do; surprising too, just how far a baby’s wail will carry in the night. Such helpless beings, all they have is their wail and God gave this baby a beauty.
