by Wendy James
For the very first time I am truly glad of this new life. I move his little head up to my shoulder, breathe in his sweet newborn smell, see as if for the first time his funny little old-man face. I sing to him, a pretty song I learnt from Dad.
Sweet and low, sweet and low,
Wind of the western sea,
Low, low, breathe and blow,
Wind of the western sea!
Over the rolling waters go,
Come from the dying moon, and blow,
Blow him again to me;
While my little one, while my pretty one, sleeps.
An old lady stops to admire him. ‘Ohhh,’ she says, ‘let me see the little love. Oh,’ she whispers, ‘they are so precious, my dear, the little ones. God has truly blessed you with such a bonny lad.’ I nod and smile, impatient to move on. ‘I can see you’re a good girl. You’ll keep him safe, I can see that.’ The old woman has stopped smiling, is looking at me through teary eyes. ‘For it’s a hard road lies ahead of him, a hard road ahead.’
And in that moment I can see the road to the future unwinding endlessly before me and if it’s a hard road it’s a happy road, and I won’t be walking there alone.
‘Oh, yes,’ I tell her, cradling the baby to me, ‘we’ll take good care of our boy. We’ll take the best care in the world, his father and me.’
Sleep and rest, sleep and rest,
Father will come to thee soon;
Rest, rest, on mother’s breast,
Father will come to thee soon;
Father will come to his babe in the best,
Silver sails all out of the west,
Under the silver moon:
Sleep, my little one, sleep, my pretty one, sleep.
It is past ten when finally I reach Brooks Guesthouse. I have had to stop only once along the way to feed baby Jack, which I did at Flinders Street. By then I was eager for a rest myself – my arms were stiff and aching and my stomach grumbling away so as to be heard even above the noise of the trains – and I was thankful for the sandwiches and pudding that cook had sent along with me.
But finally I am in Preston, only a few blocks away from Ralph’s and marvelling that I had so often walked past this home and admired its pretty garden path – rows and rows of daffodils and snowdrops in spring, and now in summer roses blooming – never knowing that it was at this very place that I would be reunited with my Jack. I leave my bundle at the front gate, not wanting to look less respectable than I need, though I know that my dress is not as clean as it could be, and my hair too is probably in a state as I have left off fixing it properly these last few weeks.
I do not know whether it is the loud ringing of the bell or the paining of his empty belly, but the baby starts up wailing just as the door is opened and the woman who opens the door – a stout old woman, fifty at the least, though she is obviously doing her best to hide it, with hair that looks as if she’s been at it with bootpolish – frowns at the noise. When I ask her whether a Mr Jack Hardy is currently residing there – and I have to shout to be heard above the din, for the little frog will not be comforted by any amount of jiggling and patting – she says, deliberately quietly so that I have to ask her to repeat herself, that it is not within her powers to divulge such information about her guests. ‘This is a respectable guesthouse,’ she says with a smirk, ‘and it is very unlikely that you would have any proper business to conduct with any of our visitors. Good day to you.’ She goes to push the door closed, but I am too quick for her – ‘Good day to you,’ indeed – and have my foot wedged between door and jamb so that she cannot shut it without causing considerable pain to my toes which, being a respectable woman as she professes, I am fairly certain she would not wish to inflict.
‘Excuse me,’ I say, thinking quickly. ‘I believe you have a cousin of mine staying here – a Mr Jack Hardy, who’s down from the country. My husband and I,’ I say, and the words trip off my tongue without any effort whatsoever, ‘we live nearby, and hearing that he is staying in the area we had thought he might like to meet his new little cousin.’
She is not the hard case that she first appears – I can see that by the look she is giving me: suspicious that I am a fraud, yet anxious lest she should offend her guest by treating me badly if I should really turn out to be his cousin. ‘Well,’ she says slowly, ‘it may be that we do have a Mr Hardy staying here. I shall go and make inquiries. Who shall I say is calling?’
‘Just tell him it’s Maggie,’ I tell her. ‘He’ll know who I am.’
‘Well,’ she says, ‘I’ll see. You wait here.’ She pushes the door closed and this time I move my foot out of the way willingly, relieved that in only a few moments it will all be over. I try to quiet my poor little Jack while I wait, but he will not be soothed – it is feeding the poor thing needs. He pushes his little face up against my breast, then when it is denied him arches his back and screams fit to wake the dead. ‘Jacky, my baby, do not fret,’ I murmur, rocking him this way and that. ‘He’s coming now. Daddy’s coming and nothing will ever be hard for us again,’ I whisper.
But when the door opens it is not the woman with the bootpolish hair from before, nor is it my Jack, it is some other woman. She is older than me, small and plainly dressed, and her face is not pretty, but she smiles kindly down at little Jacky, and before I know it she has drawn me inside and shut the door. She holds out her hand. ‘It’s Maggie, is it?’ Though her voice is quiet, I can still make out that she’s English, not Australian. ‘I’m so pleased to meet you. I’m Jane, but of course you’ll have guessed that.’
I have not guessed anything, but am so pleased to have been treated with some civility – my feet are sore and I’m parched, as is poor little Jack, whose wailing has finally subsided into shaky sobs – that I’m willing to agree to anything this lady, who I assume to be the owner of the house, suggests. ‘I’m sorry to say that Jack is out,’ she says. ‘But Mrs Barker here says you are his cousin and I’m sure he’ll be back soon, so you must come in and wait. Come – I’ve asked Mrs Barker to make us a pot of tea. I hope she wasn’t too unfriendly. She’s a suspicious creature, but her heart’s in the right place.’
I follow her along the hall, saying nothing. ‘Come into the parlour here, it’s by far the coolest room on a day like today and it’s already so hot, isn’t it? I don’t think I’ll ever get used to your Australian summers. Impossible to imagine that it’s Christmas time!’ She leads me into a large sitting room and motions for me to sit, then sits down opposite me.
‘I have to feed the baby, if you’ll excuse me,’ I say. ‘We’ve come some way and he’s thirsty as a priest.’
‘Oh yes,’ she replies, ‘do – and don’t mind me. You mustn’t keep the dear little one waiting. He’s so new, isn’t he?’ She sighs and does not look away, but stares openly as I unbutton my shirt and chemise and loose my nipple into the infant’s ready mouth, then watches closely, curiously, as he starts on his noisy gulping.
At first I think maybe she’s a bit soft in the head, the way she just sits there gawping at Jack’s feed, as if I was some freak in a show, but then it dawns on me. ‘You’re expecting, are you?’ I ask. ‘You must be a bit of a way off, though. There’s nothing of you.’
She laughs and pats her stomach. ‘Oh dear,’ she says. ‘Am I that obvious? We haven’t really told anyone yet – it’s such early days and anything could happen – but we’re both so excited. I hope your husband’s been kind – it can be such a difficult time otherwise.’
‘Oh, yes,’ I nod, ‘he’s been a great help, my husband.’
Mrs Barker brings in the tea and a plate of cakes. She pours and hands me a cup and then we sit silently, me with Jack on my breast and this Jane all eyes, and eventually I’m uncomfortable, wondering why she persists in waiting here with me. Though I’m grateful for her kindness, I’m thinking that surely she must have other things to attend to, and wishing wishing wishing that Jack would hurry up and get back.
Then she says, ‘He’s never ment
ioned you to me. But then isn’t that just like Jack—’
‘Well, I don’t suppose he’d really have any reason to mention me to you,’ I say.
‘I suppose you’re right. Why, I haven’t even met his mother. She was to travel down from Sydney for our wedding, but was taken ill, poor thing. And neither of his sisters could attend. Are you from his mother’s side or his father’s, Maggie?’
I am wondering what sisters she’s talking about and why they or Jack’s mother would want to attend her wedding and cannot think what to answer anyway, when the door crashes open and it is my Jack – Jack himself. He bursts into the room all wild-eyed and larger than life, but the same as ever, and I jump to my feet, forgetting the babe at my breast. ‘Oh, Jack!’ I cry. After all this time and all that has happened, it is all that I can say.
And then it is not to me that he comes, but to this woman. He barely glances at me. ‘Jane, Jane darling, is everything all right? What has she been telling you?’ he asks. The woman is confused, looks from one to the other of us. ‘Maggie’s come to introduce you to your new cousin. See,’ she says, ‘isn’t he a darling? And we’ve been having a nice little chat while you were out. It’s been lovely to meet someone from your family, dear.’ And she is smiling again – first at him and then at me. ‘Oh, Jack, look at you, you’re shaking!’ She laughs, puts her hands on his shoulders, ‘Whatever were you thinking? Whoever did you think was here, Jack? Have you some long-lost relative, my darling, who you don’t want me to meet? Some skeleton in your family closet?’
‘Whatever she’s been saying,’ Jack says quietly, his hands on her shoulders now, pulling her close, ‘whatever she’s been telling you, it’s not true. She’s crazy, believe me. She’s not right in her head.’
He looks away from his bride, then, and for the first time, he faces me squarely.
His gaze is cold and hard. His eyes are empty. It is as if he is looking at nothing …
‘She’s nothing but a poor mad fool, my darling. A fool and a liar.’
… As if there is nothing to see.
I have been walking for more than six hours, clutching the baby in one arm and my bundle in the other. I think perhaps I should get rid of the bundle. There is nothing much in it, after all, and my arms are aching, the muscles cramped and burning. But to let go requires something – some decision – that is beyond me. I walk quickly, though it feels somehow that I am moving slowly, wading through treacle.
The baby is crying, has been crying for some time. He is wet, he is hungry; he is soaking and starved. I hear him and know this, know there are things I could do, should do. But somehow the crying doesn’t move me, I do not wish to stop.
I don’t know where I’m going and I don’t care; know only that I need to keep on walking. The sureness of the movement comforts me: step comes after step, and then there will be another step and another, and this way I can keep going through the tiredness, through the crying, wailing, screaming of the child.
This way I know what comes next: I walk on. And on.
The woman who answers the door asks me my business in a kindly enough way. ‘I have heard,’ I say, and the words have to be forced out – it is as if I have stones in my mouth – ‘I have heard that you have beds and meals for those who have no money and no place to go.’ The woman, who is not much older than me, but dressed well, smiles and opens the door wider to admit me, but then Jacky lets out a cry. ‘Oh,’ she says, ‘I didn’t see the baby. I’m afraid we can’t take infants here.’
‘But he’s no trouble,’ I tell her. ‘I’m happy to sleep with him and he’s not a crier, he’s a good, contented little thing. I’m sure he’ll be no trouble.’
‘I’m very sorry,’ she says, ‘but it’s against our regulations, and we are very strict with our rules. There can’t be exceptions.’
‘But we have nowhere to go.’
‘There are plenty of places you can go. There’s another YWCA in Flinders Street – I’m sure they can take babies. Just wait while I write down the address, I won’t be a minute,’ she says.
But I don’t wait. I walk on.
At the Flinders Street YWCA the woman is not so friendly. She is frowning when she opens the door and the frown deepens to a scowl when she sees Jacky plainly, and hears him too. He is wailing now, and she says straight out without me even having to ask that they do not take infants, and then without another word pushes the door shut in my face.
Then there is the Victoria Coffee Lounge, which I have heard spoken about often enough as a good respectable cheap place to stay, and I am sure I have heard that a room can be got for less than two shillings, but the fellow at the desk says no, it is 2/6 and as I have only got 2/4 there is nothing for it but to keep moving. This fellow is kind enough to give me the names of nearby hotels he thinks may be able to help, and so I keep on. It is getting late and I try two hotels on the list and get nowhere – they both charge more than I have.
So I go back out on the streets and it is dark now and the footpath is crowded with people pushing and rushing, and I cannot even tell which way or where I am headed – to pause for even a moment to get my breath or my bearings would mean being knocked over or worse. As soon as I can I turn into a narrow lane where it is quieter. But this is worse somehow – the lane is dark and the buildings are not the grand ones that I am used to seeing in the city, but shabby and dilapidated and are not at all respectable-looking. I stand stock-still, afraid to go on and afraid to go back into the crush.
Jacky is starving again – it seems he is always so, is screaming as loud as his little lungs will let him, but there is nowhere here that I can stop and feed him. There are people nearby, but they’re not those I would care to ask for assistance or even directions: there’s a Chinaman standing at the top of a narrow flight of stairs smoking a pipe, and a black fellow is propped up against a building, half undressed and scrawny as you like, jabbering away to himself in some queer lingo. Two women trip past. ‘Sorry, lovey,’ one giggles as she lurches into me. There is the stink of grog on her breath.
Oh, I am hot and tired and so very afraid, and all of a sudden I can bear it no more – it is as if the very air around me has become thick and dense and poisonous, and it is too much to move through and I can hardly breathe, and my legs will not carry me a step further, and I sink …
‘Oh, dear God. Alfred, look, there’s a baby – we must … My dear, let me help you. Now, I’ll put my arm about you and we’ll see if you can get up.’ Suddenly I’m standing again, with a woman supporting me on one side, a man on the other, and somehow, miraculously, Jacky is still in my arms. He is crying – but only with hunger.
‘My dear, is there somewhere we can take you?’ the woman asks. ‘Is there some way we can help you?’
I cannot speak for fatigue and I can hardly make sense of what she is saying. I see her companion whisper into the woman’s ear and she nods and says, ‘There is a place nearby that we can take you, get you some food, some drink, you can see to your infant. Would you like that?’ I have no choice but to answer yes.
We walk for some time, the pair half pushing half carrying me, still one on either side, and me clutching the now exhausted, quiet Jacky. I have no notion of where we are, only that it is a dim street without a proper path – we are walking along the road, which is rutted and uneven – perhaps it is even that same lane, but much further along. Eventually we come to a halt outside a heavy wooden door on which the woman raps several times. ‘This is our home,’ she says, as if to hearten me. The door is opened and I am led, the man still supporting me, down a long hallway and into a parlour, where I am sat down gently in a comfortable chair. A glass of brandy is brought to me and the woman asks if I would like her housekeeper to see to the baby; she could perhaps change him and clean him up a little, then bring him to me for feeding when I have got my strength back. As Jack is still peaceful, I hand him over gratefully enough.
‘Now,’ says the woman, when it is only the two of us in the room – he
r gentleman friend having gone to see to food and drink, and the housekeeper to tend to my Jacky. ‘Now, my dear, you must tell me how it is that you come to be here – all alone and in such a state – and what I can do to help you, for you are obviously in need of help.’ In the light and with my senses beginning to come back, thanks to the brandy, which I have gulped down as if it were water, I am able to take my first real look at my Samaritan. She is a middle-aged woman, slight, with sharp features and fine gingery hair. She is dressed smartly – her gown a striped silk that I know would cost a pretty penny, and in ordinary times I would covet her little white kid boots. The room is furnished and decorated in a style that would make even Mrs Brann green about the gills, and I am so relieved to find myself safe and comfortable, and amongst sympathetic, respectable people, that in no time at all I have told this woman my circumstances.
She is a good listener – she sits quite still and does not interrupt, only giving a sigh or a click of the tongue or shake of the head every now and then. ‘Well,’ she says when I have finished, ‘I have to tell you, my dear, that though your tale is a terrible one, and your situation could hardly be worse, I am sorry to say that it is not at all uncommon. No, indeed. I have heard the same story time and time again. More times than I care to repeat. It is an unjust world, my dear, for one such as you. One might even say a cruel world. And it seems there is so little one can do to help – so few solutions.’ She sighs again and fills first my glass and then her own. ‘We’ll talk more of that presently,’ she says, ‘but I think I’ve been a little ill-mannered. I haven’t even introduced myself. My name is Caroline Beckham, and my companion is my cousin Alfred, who lives here with me.’
