by Liz Byrski
‘Simon! You are doing that slimy toad thing you do with difficult guests.’
‘Well, maybe. But I certainly don’t touch up the guests’ arses at the same time. That’s something I save just for you.’
Julia laughed, pushed him away from her and tugged at his towel. He stood there stark naked as they faced each other, both relishing the rising tension.
‘You know what has to happen now,’ Simon said softly, taking a step towards her in an attempt to look menacing. And Julia, no longer able to contain her laughter, let out a shriek and ran to the bedroom with Simon following close behind.
Richard walked out onto the street wishing he could have a drink, but, in the absence of alcohol, smoked two cigarettes in rapid succession. Very soon he would be a father and the prospect was awe inspiring. For weeks now, he’d been imagining himself on a river bank teaching his son to fish; god knows why, he’d never held a fishing rod in his life. At other times, he was pushing a swing on which his daughter sailed higher and higher, squealing in delight, dark curls flying in the wind. He was about to become responsible for another human being, and the beauty and weight of it brought him once again close to tears. Grinding the remains of his cigarette onto the pavement, he went back into the hospital lobby and up the stairs to the labour ward.
‘Ah! Mr Linton,’ the sister said. ‘Things are moving much faster now. We’ve transferred your wife to the delivery room. Would you like to put on a gown and come in? Remember what I told you about how the gas and air works?’
Richard washed his hands, donned the gown and followed her along the corridor, past another delivery room, from which blood-curdling screams echoed through a closed door. Zoë, by contrast, was quiet. She was propped up on pillows, her knees drawn up and her pale face beaded with sweat.
‘How is it?’ he asked, feeling totally useless.
‘Ghastly,’ she said between breaths. ‘I am never having another one. Never, ever, in my whole life.’
‘No, darling,’ he said, grabbing her hand. ‘Of course not, one’s enough for . . .’
But she was panting furiously now and pointing to the cylinder by the bed. Richard grabbed the mask, put the elastic over her head and switched on the supply.
Zoë inhaled deeply and seemed to relax a little.
‘Let’s have a look at how we’re doing,’ the sister said, lifting the green cloth covering the lower half of Zoë’s body. ‘Oh, that’s much better, Mrs Linton, you’re dilating nicely now. Big breaths, that’s right, lovely big breaths, you’re doing really well.’
Zoë let out a low grinding howl that made Richard shiver. He put a hand on her shoulder.
‘Don’t touch me,’ she yelled. ‘Don’t anybody touch me.’
He leapt back in shock, looking at the sister for help.
‘Don’t take it personally,’ the sister said. ‘Her whole body is acutely sensitive. It’s quite common. She really is doing wonderfully well. I don’t think it’s going to be long now; after all that hanging about, she’s dilating very quickly. Doctor’s on his way.’
Richard tried to take deep breaths in time with Zoë; it felt like an act of solidarity, as well as helping him to calm down. Everything he had ever done seemed remote and superficial compared with this. This is what it was all about – the great unending cycle of life and death, a cycle that only love could make worthwhile. He wanted to hold Zoë and tell her how much he loved her; how desperately sorry he was for his moods, his ambition, his absences, everything he had ever done wrong. In this moment, with her face crimson and scrunched into a grimace, she was more beautiful to him than when he first saw her.
The curtains were flicked aside and a middle-aged doctor appeared. ‘Nearly there, Mrs Linton? Good. Let’s have a look, please, sister.’ He positioned a stool between Zoë’s legs and sat down.
‘Is she okay?’ Richard asked.
The doctor looked him up and down. ‘You’re the husband, presumably? Well, your wife is doing splendidly, nearly there. If you’re sure you want to stay, just keep quiet and out of the way, and if you’re going to throw up or faint, do it outside.’
‘I’m staying,’ Richard said, feeling new strength flow into his body. ‘I’m definitely staying.’
‘I want to push,’ Zoë yelled suddenly.
‘Not yet,’ the sister said. ‘Just pant, big breaths and then pant.’
Zoë breathed and panted, breathed and panted, groaned and growled. And Richard ground his teeth and sank his nails into the palms of his hands.
‘Next contraction, you can push,’ the doctor said, looking up over the top of his glasses from his seat between Zoë’s legs. ‘We’re coming along nicely.’
As the next contraction gripped her, Zoë let out a low, animal-like roar and grabbed Richard’s hand. She looked about to explode with the effort of pushing, and the strength with which she crushed his fingers startled him.
‘Good, well done,’ said the doctor. ‘I can see the head.’
The sister beckoned to Richard. ‘Want to come and see your baby’s head?’
Standing behind the doctor at the end of the delivery table, Richard’s skin prickled with goosebumps and a great lump swelled in his throat at the sight of the dark, slimy bulge of the baby’s head. ‘Oh my god, Zoë,’ he said, ‘I can see her, I can see her head. She’s got dark hair. It’s incredible.’
‘Push hard now, Mrs Linton, hard as you can.’
Zoë roared again.
‘Splendid, we’ve got the head now,’ the doctor said. ‘Well done. Same again next contraction and we’ll have the shoulders.’
Richard caught a glimpse of the back of the tiny head, with its moist swirls of hair, cradled in the doctor’s hands. He was weak with emotion.
‘Right, here we go,’ the sister said. ‘Give us another big push now, there’s a good girl.’
And, as Zoë ground her teeth, tears sprang into Richard’s eyes. With a swooshing noise, the tiny body slipped out of the impossibly small gap and Zoë let out a cry of shock and relief.
‘You have a son,’ the doctor said. ‘Congratulations.’
His view obstructed by the nurse and the doctor, Richard went to Zoë’s side, took her hand and kissed her. ‘You were right all the time, Zoë; we’ve got a son.’ He knew he would always remember this moment – the most dramatic, thrilling experience of his life – and he felt incredibly grateful for being able to share it with her. He picked up the flannel that lay on the bedside table, rinsed it under the tap and began to wipe the sweat from Zoë’s face. ‘You were wonderful,’ he said, kissing her tenderly again. ‘So brave. I’m so proud of you.’
On the other side of the room, the sister had weighed the baby and was wrapping him in a small white blanket.
‘Is he all right?’ Zoë asked.
The doctor looked up. ‘Perfectly,’ he said. ‘All the right bits and pieces in all the right places.’
But while the words were reassuring there was something about his tone that struck alarm in Richard.
‘What is it?’ he asked. ‘What’s wrong with him?’ For the second time that night he thought he might faint and he knew absolutely that, for some reason, the extraordinary peak of joy had passed.
The sister handed the white bundle to Zoë, giving Richard a nervous sideways smile.
‘What is it?’ Richard demanded again, and the doctor turned away.
Behind him, Richard heard Zoë gasp. As he turned back to her, he saw the tiny perfect face, its darkness a stark contrast against white linen. And, in that moment, he knew this child had nothing at all to do with him.
SIXTEEN
The Wheatbelt, Western Australia – May 1969
‘This is lovely, Justine,’ Mrs Fitzgerald said, holding up the apron Justine had made with her guidance. ‘I think we can move on to something a bit more interesting now. What do you think about a dress – a very simple one, of course, to begin with? Perhaps without sleeves, they’re always so hard to set.’
‘Wou
ld I really be able to make a dress?’ Justine asked.
‘Yes, you can learn to make all sorts of different clothes for yourself. You’re very good with a needle; I don’t think you’ll find it hard.’
Praise had been a new experience for Justine, who was accustomed to the petty cruelties, punishments and constant disparagement of the convent. Life on the farm was very different and a whole lot better.
‘I do miss the other children sometimes, though,’ she had confided to Gladys once. ‘I wonder what they’re doing.’
‘Well, you’re a lot better off here with Miss Gwen,’ Gladys said. ‘So don’t you go saying nothing about it. She’s very fond of you.’
Justine didn’t tell Mrs Fitzgerald anything about it; nor did she tell her that she also missed the regular prayers in the chapel, times that had been like little oases each day. But then, she didn’t need those intervals here because although she worked hard, she wasn’t bullied. The legacy of harsh treatment had not disappeared overnight, but, as the weeks turned to months, she had learned to trust Mrs Fitzgerald’s kindness. Even so, she still thought daily about her box, and fell asleep at night wondering how she could get it back, and how, one day soon, she might find her way back home.
More immediate and disturbing, though, was her growing fear of Mr Fitzgerald. Sometimes the way he looked at Justine made her think he was angry with her, but there was something else about him. He made her feel ashamed. Shame was a familiar feeling, the nuns could ignite it with a word or a glance, but this was different; more intense and threatening. The maleness of life on the farm was alien to her, and Malcolm Fitzgerald and his right-hand man, Greg, terrified her.
‘You stay outta his way, girl,’ Gladys told her. ‘He’s trouble. Don’t look him in the eye, and don’t say nothin’.’
One morning, on her way to the kitchen, Justine heard Mr Fitzgerald’s raised voice echoing out across the yard and the crash of shattering china; there were a few seconds of silence and then she saw him stride out of the kitchen, yelling something back over his shoulder. As he headed off to the barn, she darted over to the kitchen door. The floor was littered with broken crockery, and Gladys was leaning against the sink, sobbing quietly, holding the side of her face, on which a dark red mark was spreading rapidly.
‘Would you make some tea, please, Justine?’ Mrs Fitzgerald said, rinsing out a cloth and making it into a cold compress. ‘And then clear up this mess.’
Justine did as she was told and, as she tipped the last shards of china into the bin, she noticed that Mrs Fitzgerald also had tears running down her face. She smiled weakly at Justine and thanked her, and nothing was said about what had happened.
‘I don’t know why she bothers with him,’ Gladys muttered later when she and Justine were alone in the kitchen again. ‘Miss Gwen, she’s way too good for the likes of him. This is her place and he’s just usin’ her; he don’t got nothing of his own. Her father left her the farm. He’d turn in his grave if he could see how that man treats her.’
Justine sipped her tea and resolved to stay further away from him than ever. This was to prove more difficult than she imagined.
The first time it happened was when Mrs Fitzgerald went to Perth to visit her mother. She was going to be away for a week and promised to bring back some new clothes for Justine, who had grown in the months she’d been at the farm. Autumn was cooling the air; at dawn, a white mist hovered over the fields, and the evenings were closing in. On the first night of Mrs Fitzgerald’s absence, Justine heard her husband and some of the men laughing and talking. Their voices rang out across the patch of scrub that separated her room from the rest of the house. Her hands were sore from scrubbing and doing the laundry, but she was wide awake. Mrs Fitzgerald had been encouraging her to read and had given her some of the books she had read as a girl. More and more, Justine was learning to immerse herself in other worlds, in the adventures of children living lives very different from her own. Most nights, she would sit reading in bed by the light of the kerosene lamp. Tonight, lost in Canada with Anne of Green Gables, she was only half aware of the sound of the men leaving for the bunk house and of the approach of heavy footsteps, until her door was thrown open. Mal Fitzgerald stood in the doorway, his face flushed crimson, matted dark hair falling forward into his eyes. The look on his face made Justine’s skin crawl.
‘Burning my kero, I see,’ he said, steadying himself against the door jamb. ‘Light the lamp for me, did you?’ And he stepped inside and kicked the door closed behind him.
Justine drew up her knees and dragged the blanket up to her chin, her heart pounding so hard she was sure he must be able to hear it. Was he angry about the lamp? She opened her mouth to apologise, but fear trapped the words in her throat as he lurched forward, tripped on the rug and staggered to the bed.
‘Old Uncle Mal’s come to see you,’ he said, pushing his face so close to hers that Justine could see the big pores on his nose, smell the whisky on his stale breath.
He laughed then and slapped his hand on his knee, and in the next instant he grasped her blanket and pulled it away.
Justine clasped her arms around herself and cowered back against the wall.
‘Don’t be shy,’ he said, leering at her, grabbing her arms. Stripped of her protective blanket, knees drawn up to her chest, Justine froze in terror.
She was wearing the nightdress she’d had at the convent, and he grabbed at the neck; old and thin from much washing, it ripped easily in his hands. She opened her mouth to scream but he smothered it with his hand.
‘Shut your mouth. This is between you and me. Our secret. Understand?’
Justine’s eyes widened and she nodded, her scalp prickling with fear, as he took away his hand.
‘You want it, don’t you, slut,’ he hissed in her face, and he then thrust his hand, rough as sandpaper, inside her nightdress, squeezing the small buds of her breasts.
Justine gasped and clawed at his hand but he laughed at her feeble effort and gripped her arms again, his fingers sinking painfully into her flesh.
‘Like a fight, do you?’ He shook her so violently that her head cracked painfully against the wall. ‘Fight and you get hurt. Or,’ he paused, running his tongue over lips cracked dry by the sun, ‘we can just have a bit of fun.’
Slowly he released her arms, and Justine pressed herself back against the wall, the iron rail of the bedstead digging into her back. Breathing fast, he began to unbuckle his belt and she felt something like relief that he was going to beat her. The strap, the cane, she was used to those. But, instead of dragging the belt from its loops, he unbuttoned his trousers and fumbled with his underpants releasing a huge red and purple thing that bore no resemblance to anything Justine had ever seen on the small boys back home.
She twisted away, but he grabbed her hand and put it on the big throbbing thing, and started moving her hand up and down. He groaned and closed his eyes. She thought he was going to faint but suddenly he let go of her hand, dragged up the hem of her nightdress, and thrust his fingers between her legs so that she cried out and tried to pull away.
‘Oh, no you don’t,’ he said, and, dragging her back, he pushed her face down into his lap. ‘Now, I’m going to teach you a trick; something very useful. Something much more useful than anything you’ll learn in a book.’ And, with one hand gripping her neck he took the great purple thing in his other hand and forced it into her mouth.
‘But you can’t just leave her there in the hospital,’ Julia said, handing Richard a large brandy. ‘Do you really mean you haven’t made any contact with her since the baby was born? That’s two days; she must be feeling terrible.’ They were in the Branston family’s suite at the Belgravia hotel, at which Julia had arrived a couple of hours earlier.
Richard took a swing of his drink. ‘I expect she is.’
‘Richard, for heavens sake! Poor Zoë. When she was in labour, you were blubbing about how brave she was and how much you loved her. And what do you expect me to do about
it?’
‘Help me?’ he said, and the pain of his expression made Julia shiver as though someone had walked over her grave.
‘How?’
He shook his head. ‘I’ve no idea. I just don’t want to be alone.’
‘But you’re happy to leave Zoë alone, in a hospital where, presumably, every member of the staff and every patient disapproves of her, and knows she’s been abandoned?’
Richard shrugged. ‘I’m not proud of it but I’m human, for god’s sake. What am I supposed to do? Pretend the baby’s mine and hope no one notices that he’s black?’
‘Is he very black?’
‘Black enough. Does it matter?’
‘Well, I don’t know. But you’re still married to her; you have to do something to help her. They’ll discharge her and you have to get her home. She must be worried sick.’
Richard downed the remains of his drink in one gulp. ‘It’s not my responsibility.’
‘The baby isn’t. But Zoë’s your wife and –’
‘She’s only my wife because of the baby. I married her because she was pregnant. Remember?’
‘But you did marry her, and said you loved her, and she certainly loves you.’
‘In that case, why . . .’
Julia held up her hands. ‘I don’t know why, Richard. I don’t want to know. It’s your marriage, and you weren’t the most delightful companion around that time. Whatever happened, my guess is that it was a mistake, an accident, a one-off thing.’
‘That’s what she said about the pill,’ Richard said bitterly. ‘It was an accident, a mistake.’
‘Well, whatever it was, we have to do something now,’ Julia said, eyeing the glass that Richard was refilling. ‘I mean, I know this is dreadful for you but you can’t just abandon her. Imagine how she must feel. I certainly can’t abandon her.’
‘Then go and see her, Jules, please. I can’t go, not yet. I can’t even walk into that hospital. And you’re right, I can’t just leave her there on her own.’
