Out of the Silence

by Wendy James

  Elsie and her brother are ‘chapel’, which is almost as bad, according to Ma, as being Roman Catholic like the Heffernans (excepting Dad, who was thrown out when he married Ma. ‘And what a good thing that was,’ says Ma with satisfaction. ‘Take note girls, how I have saved yer father’s soul’), which is to say practically heathen. Even so, Ma is happy enough for me and Doll to attend Elsie’s Sunday School. ‘It’s better ’n having you two wriggling all over the place during the sermon – it’ll give me a chance to concentrate,’ she says, and Pa gives us a wink, knowing that Ma is more likely to fall asleep than to listen.

  These classes of Elsie’s are held on the grass behind St Andrew’s. They start out well: before the church service is truly under way there is always the possibility of a parent overhearing unruly children, so for the first half hour or so we are all on our best behaviour – a picture of innocence and virtue. Elsie takes this opportunity to read from the Good Book and then conduct a little sermon, after which most of the older children, including me, disappear for a game of hide and seek. But on this particular day I daren’t. I am on my best behaviour – Ma has given me short shrift for tearing a hole in my dress by climbing on to the shed with Tom, and warned that a ‘good flogging’ is not far off – so I miss the game and stay back for Elsie’s ‘moral examination’.

  Elsie has, as usual, begged all the children ‘to listen to the words of the Lord, for they are writ to help you remain virtuous throughout your life, so that hard lessons will not have to be learnt later …’ But it is no use, the bigger children (except for me and those toadies Sarah Treece and Sally Bateman) all run off. Elsie presses on desperately. She begins by reading out a poem to those who remain, in her high, shaky voice:

  But liars we can never trust,

  Tho’ they should speak the thing that’s true;

  And he that does one fault at first,

  And lies to hide it makes it two.

  And has my darling told a lie?

  Did she forget that God was by?

  That God, who saw the thing she did,

  From whom no action can be hid;

  Did she forget that God could see

  And hear, wherever she might be?

  He made your eyes and can discern

  Whichever way you think to turn;

  He made your ears, and He can hear

  When you think nobody is near;

  In every place, by night or day,

  He watches all you do and say …

  ‘Well, my dears,’ she says, smiling hopefully upon us, now we are appropriately subdued, ‘who can tell me what a good Christian child should do in the following situation?’ She pauses to think for a moment. ‘What if you accidentally broke a plate as you were clearing up? Would you confess and tell your ma, even though you knew that your confession would lead to some terrible punishment, or would you avoid that punishment by perhaps hiding the broken pieces, and no one ever being the wiser?’

  As usual Sally Bateman’s hand goes straight up. ‘Why, I should tell my mother at once and take my punishment, of course, Miss Jeffries,’ she says, eyes wide and back ramrod straight.

  ‘Of course you would, dear,’ Elsie beams, and rewards her with a gumball, which Sally stows in her apron pocket. ‘Now, what would happen if you first tried to avoid your punishment and told a lie, and then later told your mother of your lie?’ asks Elsie. Sally Bateman opens her eyes wider still.

  ‘But I never would, miss.’

  ‘Yes, but what if you should happen to? What if you were so terribly afraid of the punishment that you decided it would be easier to tell a falsehood?’ Sally Bateman shakes her head. ‘I just wouldn’t, Miss Jeffries,’ says Sally. ‘I wouldn’t never.’

  ‘My dear, if you could just imagine you were someone else. What say you were Johnny Donnelly? What if you were Johnny Donnelly and you had broken your mother’s plate and lied about it? And then later, regretting your lie, went to your ma and confessed.’

  ‘But, miss, Johnny’s ma died when he were born.’

  ‘Well, what if you went to your father, then, and confessed everything. The broken plate and the lie. What then?’

  ‘Well, then,’ says Sally, smiling broadly, ‘then Johnny Donnelly would burn in the everlasting fires—’

  ‘No, my dear, that’s not what would happen. Once a lie is told it can never be unsaid, but if you repent, truly repent in your heart, no matter from what sin – and this is why our Lord Jesus died for us – if you repent of your sin you will always be forgiven, no matter what.’

  ‘Oh no, miss,’ pipes up little Jem Owens, ‘Johnny Donnelly wouldn’t tell his pa nuthin’. Johnny’s pa has a big whip – I’ve seen it – a cat-o’-nine-tails – and he’s black and blue more than half the time. He’d bury them pieces six foot deep and never tell a soul. Nor would I.’ Elsie is defeated, she knows it. She sighs and hands out the rest of the gumballs.

  But her lesson has not been a complete failure. I have listened carefully, taken it all in. I hadn’t realised that I only had to repent to be forgiven. It has always been difficult to imagine a hell hotter than my backside after a flogging from ma. And now I don’t even have to try.

  There is a pile of books that Mrs Ralph has collected for the guests to read and in among these I find an old one called Advice to a Wife on the Management of Her Own Health (which is a strange thing for her to be leaving about, but perhaps it is one that has been left by some guest or other). I borrow it and peek into it every now and then. I read several times the chapter that is concerned with the final months of pregnancy. The author, a Mr Pye Henry Chavasse, gives advice on all manner of things: putting together a layette for the infant; preparing the labour room; choosing a monthly nurse who ‘ought to be near perfection as poor human nature will allow’; the first signs of labour – the show, the mild pains, the gushing of the waters.

  Then, he says:

  The premonitory symptoms of labour having commenced … all the patient has to do is keep up her spirits and to look forward with confidence and hope to that auspicious moment which has been long expected, and which is now about to arrive, when she will become a mother! A wife is now about to assume an additional and higher title than that of wife, namely that of mother!

  I cannot look forward with confidence and hope, and not being a wife, my being a mother will carry with it no elevation, only great shame. I have not even thought about making preparations for the baby, though I know I should. I ought to be doing something – buying flannel, sewing little nightgowns, cutting blankets – but as there is no one here who knows that this baby is on its way save for me and Lil, mostly I manage to put all thought of what is to happen right out of my mind.

  It is only when I am finished for the day, changing ready for bed, say, and I cannot avoid the sight of my swollen belly that I let myself think about the trouble I am in; or when I lay ready for sleep, exhausted with the day’s work. But often then sleep will not come. Instead, there is a terrible restlessness both in my body and in my heart, and it seems the baby feels this restlessness too. He is so quiet by day and yet at night, when I cannot seem to be peaceful and my heart is racing and my mind jumping here and there, so too is the babe. At night he will not be still.

  It is almost worse when I do sleep. It is not the dreams themselves: they are never dreams about the baby, they are not, as they probably should be, fearful dreams about what’s to come – they are almost always about Jack. They are the happiest dreams, where we are together – me and my Jack – close and loving, and things are still good between us. But when I wake, I wake crying, and it is not just tears and sniffles, but sobs so big and loud that I must bite down on my pillow to stop the sound.

  In the dreams, you see, Jack is there and clear and perfectly remembered, but when I wake, as soon as I wake, the memory of him – his face, his voice, his touch, his smell – it’s all gone. Awake, there’s nothing left of him.

  Awake, there’s only the knowledge of his absence, and the we
ight and worry of what’s to come.

  An event – the birth of her child who is ushered into the world with a cry (oh joyful sound!) – which she will realise as the happiest moment of her existence. She will then be amply repaid for all her cares, all her anxiety and all her anguish.

  So it is Jack, rather than the baby, who most occupies my thoughts, through the days as well as the nights. I am always, always on the lookout for Jack. Each new customer whose room I do, I am eager to meet in person, regardless of his name. When I read the paper I am never really taking in any story, but am scouring it for a mention of his name, no matter how unlikely – even in the death notices or at some gala opening or other. When I hang out the washing I am peering over the fence to see the face of every passer-by, and if I am out doing errands I am looking for a glimpse of Jack in every man I see.

  Melbourne is a big place and he could be anywhere, but no matter what sense I try to talk to myself, somehow I am still certain that Jack will find me, or that I will find him. That everything will turn out for the best.

  It is some sort of madness. And I am some sort of mad.

  Elizabeth

  Extract of letter from Elizabeth Hamilton to her brother Robert

  3 August, 1899

  I must say I was pleased to receive such a nice plump envelope, though I am afraid mine in return will seem disappointingly thin. I have no really exciting news, though you will be interested to hear that our household is to expand a little for the next few months. Vida Goldstein is to stay with us. She has very kindly given up her bedchamber to her sister Elsie, who requires several rooms owing to her husband’s ill-health – he has recently suffered a stroke. You may have heard of Elsie’s husband – Henry Hyde Champion. He is a journalist who achieved some notoriety as a Labour candidate at home, I believe, and is involved in all manner of movements here: anti-sweating, the Fabian Society, the Theosophical society, the Female Suffrage League, and all this in addition to running a literary magazine. However, for some reason, some past slight, it seems he is not much liked by the local Labour people. I have never met him, but James informs me that he is a puffed-up popinjay, a mountebank, forever namedropping – ‘as George Bernard Shaw remarked to me’, or ‘when William Morris and I’ and so forth. But, as James has a decided tendre for his cousin, and Mr Champion’s first matrimonial choice is strongly rumoured to have been the eldest Miss Goldstein, I think on this matter James’s opinion had best be taken with a dash of salt.

  The Goldstein family are to move from their current home in St Kilda, which is also the school, into a large apartment in the centre of Melbourne, in order to better accommodate their expanding numbers and needs. Just think, there are still the three grown-up daughters living at home, and a son-in-law. Vida will stay with us until the new accommodation is ready, which could be some time, as the construction isn’t even due to begin until the new year. I’m not sure what the move bodes for our little school. Vida has said nothing as to whether it too is to be relocated, and I dare not ask. Though no doubt once our charges’ parents hear of the impending move the question will require answering.

  I wonder whether Vida isn’t staying for some respite from her family situation. Her mother and father (a brusque, opinionated little man) are, from what I hear, often at loggerheads. He is not at all sympathetic to the suffrage cause though he is a committed socialist. From what Cousin H. says, they live under considerable strain, with the two elder Goldsteins barely speaking, and father and son-in-law not on particularly good terms either.

  Miss Vida herself is currently in a rather excited state – a female suffrage bill, which would extend the franchise to women here in Victoria, has just been passed by the Victorian Legislative Assembly – the lower house – and will now go to the council – the upper house – for approval. Though it has been rejected on previous occasions, there are some hopes of it being passed this time (though James is rather sceptical – the Victorian upper house is not subject to popular election, rather like our Lords, and is evidently ridiculously conservative, a ‘bastion of privilege & corruption’, says Vida) and there is currently a great deal of activity – letters, meetings, speeches & so on – being undertaken in its promotion. Which is actually a great nuisance as it means that I have additional classes to teach, Miss Vida having become something of a star in this particular firmament. After the death of her dear friend Mrs Bear-Crawford she was appointed acting secretary of the United Council of Women’s Suffrage (UCWS) here, which oversees and organises the many smaller colonial societies and leagues. This is a position of some prominence, with numerous responsibilities, and her expertise is frequently required on matters of rather more consequence than our little school. Thus more and more of my energy is required.

  Anyway Rob, dear, am so glad that your novel is coming along well. And your Miss Edwards sounds delightful, though perhaps to court the daughter of your employer could be considered rather dangerous. I have no doubt that she finds you equally charming, despite your misgivings. You do have a great deal to recommend you, Rob, & should know that when a woman truly loves, a small income and uncertain future mean very little. It’s at such times that I feel our distance most keenly, Robbie. I would so much like to meet her …

  Elizabeth Hamilton’s diary

  15 August

  Attended a demonstration in support of female suffrage at Town Hall last night. The female suffrage bill is to be put to the Legislative Council tomorrow and there are some hopes of it being passed. Huge crowd, someone said over a thousand, which would not surprise me as it was a terrible crush. Went with Harriet – James refused, feels Vida is being a fool. That she will live to regret making such a spectacle of herself, putting herself up for such scrutiny.

  The Mayor spoke first. He made it clear that he does not agree with women’s franchise, but feels he has no right to deny supporters their say and admitted that he might even hear something to convince him. Then a Mrs Lowe, who is quite old and rather frail, took the stage. She spoke in such a warm manner and had the entire audience laughing at her quips. She proposed the first resolution – that the meeting approves the principle of women’s suffrage – then spoke v. impressively of rights and stressed that women did not want to overturn the natural order of things, that duties of the home were still paramount. She ended on a positive note – the day is coming, etc. There was great cheering and then Mr Deakin, a most endearing politician and obviously popular, spoke briefly, making some jokes about the cowardice of the members of the upper chamber, which were well received, and seconding the original motion. He is a very practised speaker; he reminded the audience that where the vote had been granted only good had come.

  Then Harriet’s Dr Strong spoke: he again was most impressive and made the point that the fight for the franchise had only enhanced the womanliness of those engaged in it, and that the franchise would promote true womanhood & respect & love for women, and turn on its head the idea that those who supported the franchise were women who swore and smoked cigarettes and stood in public places with their arms akimbo. Goodness, what an image!

  Another member of the lower house spoke, then several supportive members of the assembly, and then Vida took the podium. Her speech – her first major public speech – was short, but to the point. I was impressed, as was everyone else in the hall, if the cheers and laughter her words gave rise to were an honest assessment. She made the point that men cannot see things from a woman’s point of view, and that men could not do women justice. That the physical unfitness of women for the fighting of war – a barbarous way to settle national differences – did not count against them. That many women reformers, like the late Mrs Bear-Crawford, were cruelly misrepresented and held up to ridicule. That women were no longer merely engaged in domestic work, but had more time at their disposal, and practical politicians needed to ‘dip’ into the future.

  There is no doubt that Vida stole the show with her unique combination of eloquence and commonsense. She was so crisp and clear i
n her speech that she almost sparkled. Even in looks she is appealing – attractive and womanly – thus scuttling the notion that all suffragists are somehow plain and unsexed. She is certainly a presence.

  One young man, a journalist who stood beside me scribbling all the while, immediately fell in love with her, I am convinced (as did half the men present). He was all agog – his eyes alight with admiration. ‘Such a woman,’ he murmured, ‘if only we had such men …’

  James was waiting up when we returned. He feigned disinterest, but could not help showing his pleasure when his mother reported Vida’s success.

  At school today Elsie and Aileen could speak of little else. Vida was absent – on more important business – so I had to take some of her junior classes as well as my own. Children must have sensed heightened atmosphere – they were refractory & excitable. Happily only a half day.

  17 August

  Vida arrived in the afternoon. She has been given the bedroom next to mine and is to stay until the new apartment has been completed, which is expected to be next January at the earliest. James obviously enjoyed her company – he did not remove to the drawing room after dinner, as is his usual custom. We didn’t forbid his port, though Harriet was adamant that his cigar would not be smoked in the dining room. He made the sacrifice, though not without complaint.