by Wendy James
I do not have the heart to tell him that there is barely a book read, that I doubt that more than two or three of the bibles have ever been opened, and those probably only mistakenly; that those of us who can read depend upon the generosity of the wardresses, on their occasional cast-off penny romances and serials, and the blind eye of Mrs Henderson. I smile and nod. ‘Oh, yes. The library gives us all a great deal of pleasure. We’re very lucky.’
‘It’s given me a wonderful thought,’ he says. ‘I think I’ll ask my congregation to organise a collection – a donation of useful and instructive books. I’m certain our ladies would give generously! They do enjoy having a focus for their charitable activities. How would that be, my dear?’ He beams, obviously pleased with himself. ‘Thank you sir,’ I beam back. ‘It would be most appreciated.’
‘Well, I must get on, I suppose.’ He gathers his notes, rings the bell. ‘Thank you so much for your time, Miss … er … Hegarty. I think, from what I’ve seen, that your time here, if you use it wisely m’dear, your time here could prove to be most beneficial. Yes, indeed.’
The second winter I am here I get a cold and it does not go. At first it is only some coughing, which doesn’t bother me so much, except when it keeps me awake at night. I am taken to see the prison doctor, but all he says is that a bronchitis at this time of year is to be expected, half the city is so afflicted and there is nothing to be done. Soon I am coughing all day, as well, and there is pain – a sharp, cold pain in my chest. Sometimes at night I wake, my night clothes and bedding soaked through with sweat, though our cells are always cold.
When it becomes obvious even to Mrs Henderson that I am seriously unwell – I have lost so much fat that my pinafore can be tied almost twice around my waist, and I am so weary that it is becoming hard for me to even drag myself around the courtyard during our morning exercise – I am sent once more to the doctor. Again, he shrugs and says it is only to be expected, this inflammation. ‘It is the dampness,’ he says, ‘and the lack of ventilation. It can’t be avoided while you’re working in the laundry. Eventually the dampness transfers to the lungs, especially in winter.’
He could recommend some time in the hospital, he says. ‘Perhaps some rest and your removal from that steamy atmosphere will help to clear the congestion. But you understand that a break in the hospital means that any remission you have earned through good behaviour will be affected. You will lose two days for every week you convalesce,’ he says. ‘Then again, if you do not take this rest, your lungs may not clear for months.’
‘And there is nothing else?’ I ask. ‘No medicine?’
‘Nothing,’ he says. ‘There is nothing save leaving this place.’
‘Well, there is no likelihood of that,’ I say. ‘Not for some time.’
‘No,’ he is brisk. ‘I suppose not. Shall I recommend the convalescence, Miss Heffernan?’
I do not think too hard about it. I need the rest and it is only six days lost, after all.
Each night in the infirmary I wake up twisted in my sheets and shouting out of a nightmare. The nurse who is on duty tells me that I am yelling out ‘Jack, Jack, help me, oh Jack.’ Her eyes fill with tears. ‘That was your little laddie’s name, wasn’t it?’
‘It was,’ I say. ‘Yes.’
‘Can you remember what it was you dreamt, dear? It can’t have been a happy dream.’ She smoothes my sheets.
‘I can’t remember it at all,’ I lie.
‘Poor dear,’ she says. ‘You must have been remembering your dear little lost one.’ I close my eyes. I do not like to tell her that it is not my baby Jack whose presence disrupts my sleep.
Three months later the cough is back and worse than ever. I have lost my appetite and the pains and the fever have returned.
All the time I have been in Coburg I have not once seen myself in a mirror. There are no looking glasses here – I suppose they think we might hurt ourselves with the glass, but more likely it is so that our vanity is not excited. But one day I catch a glimpse of myself in a tin pannikin and I’m shocked by what I see. The girl in the reflection is not the Maggie I remember – that sturdy, dark, pretty thing; my Dad’s ‘game girl’ – but some poor, pale, miserable creature. I have become the Margaret of my imaginings. I am not myself. I cough and when I take my hand away it is wet with blood.
‘Pthysis,’ the doctor pronounces. ‘I’m recommending another three weeks in the infirmary.’
‘What’s pthysis?’
‘It’s the first stage of consumption, of tuberculosis,’ he says. ‘Your lungs are, to put it bluntly, Miss Heffernan, putrefying.’
‘Is it … am I very bad?’
‘Well, if you were outside I’d say you had a good prognosis. You have no history of lung disease, you have not advanced to daytime fevers and your haemorrhaging is not severe. It’s generally possible to arrest the progress of the disease at this early stage. If you could be allowed to convalesce for, say, six months, in a proper environment with fresh air and nutritious food, you would have reasonable hope of being cured. But here, I’m afraid …’
‘There’s not much chance of that.’
‘No,’ he says, ‘there’s not.’
‘And in two years time?’ I ask, ‘How much worse will it be then?’
‘Two years? In my opinion, given your situation remains the same, you will not survive two years, Miss Heffernan.’
‘Not survive? But I’ve two more years of my sentence to serve.’
He sucks on his teeth. ‘Yes,’ he says. ‘Hard luck that, eh?’ Shakes his head. ‘Hard luck.’
It seems the judge is to have his way after all.
I have already sent my letter for the quarter, but when Mrs Henderson hears of my illness she says that she is willing to break this particular rule, given the circumstances. I write to Harry, as he is certain to get my letter, and he will, I know, have some idea of the best place to start.
My dear Harry,
I have been sick for these last six months with coughing and the doctor has said that I have thysis which comes before consumption and that if I remain here I am not likely to survive. I would apresiate it if you would please contact either Miss Goldstein or her friend Miss Hamilton regarding this. I am certain they would like to know of it and perhaps it might mean that I could be released earlier otherwise I may as well have been hanged to begin with which they have worked hard to stop.
The address they have given me is Dunfermline St Martins Place South Yarra.
Your old friend,
Maggie H.
Less than a week later Mrs Henderson brings me letters from Harry and Miss Hamilton. ‘Well, while you’re in the infirmary, dear, some of the rules can be altered,’ she says. ‘I could have passed on the information, but I don’t really think it would hurt to let you read both.’
I read Harry’s letter first.
Dear Maggie,
I went first to see Miss Hamilton who was most upset to hear of your bad news and tho she was unable to contact Miss Goldstein she immediately penned letters to the Premier and the Solicitor-General, requesting that your sentence be urgently reviewed. She told me she would take them herself to Miss Goldstein for countersigning – Miss G. having considerable influence in such circles – and then to their recipients and says she will write to you via Mrs Henderson when she knows more, but that it would be a cruel and wicked system that would keep you imprisoned now. I hope she will be able to help – I cannot imagine any woman or man more determined to see justice done.
I have told Flo who sends you her love and says that she will have a room ready for you whenever you need it which fingers crossed will be soon. I will not say anything, but, my dear, you know my feelings remain, and always will, the same.
Your devoted friend,
Harry
Then from Miss Hamilton:
Dear Maggie,
I have been so sorry that I have been able neither to contact you (any letters I’d written were returned) nor to make any mo
re visits, Mrs Henderson feeling that it would not be beneficial. I was very pleased to have news of you from your friend Mr Harrison – and a friend he is indeed: it seemed to me that the young man would be willing to move mountains, if only he could, on your behalf – but most distressed as to its import. Mr Harrison and I weren’t able to see Miss Goldstein immediately, she is very busy preparing for a trip to America, where she is to represent Australia at an International Women’s Suffrage Conference, but we have since contrived to set the process in motion and, knowing Vida’s perspicacity, I doubt you will be left long in suspense. She has threatened editorials and public demonstrations if she is not given some immediate assurances. I have every confidence that she would carry out any threats she makes to publicly shame the authorities (and shamed they should be too!) and so will secure your release in no time.
Your Mr Harrison says that you are unlikely to want to return immediately to your family home, the associations being too painful, and that his sister will be happy to put you up at her hotel for as long as you need. This seems a sensible plan, but if for any reason your stay there becomes difficult, or your return to good health is delayed, please let me know. I will shortly be moving to a property near the village of Tawonga – I was married early this year – which is close to your childhood home, I believe. My cousin, Dr Hawkins, tells me that this region has a climate which is most beneficial to consumptives – the mountain air being so clear and clean. It would please me very much to be able to help you, that is if you wish it. If we can arrange proper nursing and medical attention our home might be the ideal place for your convalescence. Or, if you prefer, we can come to some sort of domestic arrangement – some light housework when you are feeling up to it, perhaps? – that you can be quite comfortable with.
Write when you can,
Elizabeth Tucker (née Hamilton)
At the end of my second week in hospital Mrs Henderson again visits. ‘Well, Maggie,’ she says, smiling, and it is a true smile – broad and sunny – the kind of smile that is rare around here and never to be seen on the governor’s face, ‘I have here papers signed by the Solicitor-General authorising your release.’
‘Oh, ma’am.’ I don’t know what to say. I don’t even know what to feel. It is something I have wanted and dreamt of, yet even so I never really thought how I should feel. I had expected to feel plainly happy, but not fearful, which I am in equal measure.
‘So, what do I do, ma’am? When can I go?’
Matron and two of the nurses, sensing the good news, have gathered around my bed.
‘Well, my girl,’ says Matron.’ I don’t know that you should go yet. You’ll need to be transferred to a hospital in my opinion, we’ll have to see what Doctor Barnes says.’
‘Oh, no, I’m not going to any hospital,’ I say. ‘I’ll get better some other way.’
‘Is there someone nearby you can write to?’ asks Mrs Henderson, ‘I know your family are too distant, but is there someone you can write to who can come quickly? We can release you immediately once we know you have somewhere to go, someone to go with. I can have a message sent now, if you like.’
Coburg Reformatory
21 December, 1901
The governor herself takes me down to the great iron gates. When the guard unlocks the little door, I am dazzled for a moment by the bright midsummer sunshine. I blink, peer cautiously out. The world appears to be just as it was, and just as I have remembered it: the road is choked with carts and horses; busy people walk briskly by; a dog ambles along the footpath, sniffs at a tree, then stops and cocks his leg. But it’s a strange and unfamiliar world, too: the past throws a long shadow over everything that’s ahead.
I hesitate, look this way and that, not knowing which way I should go. But then I see Mrs Ralph, who waves timidly, waiting beside a cab a little way down the road. And walking steadily towards me, unmistakeable in his loud check suit, is Harry.
I am nervous and a trifle reluctant, and though I step through the door, I do not move until Mrs Henderson gives me a gentle push in his direction.
THE WOMAN’S SPHERE
January 1902
Our readers will remember that some months ago we gave a résumé of the case of Margaret Heffernan, who was imprisoned in February 1900 for drowning her baby. All the circumstances surrounding the act pointed to the fact that the girl was suffering from puerperal mania, but the evidence of a young physician inexperienced in women’s diseases, and the inability of the girl’s counsel to grasp the purport of the medical evidence, combined to make her case hopeless from the start, and she was sentenced to suffer the extreme penalty of the law. As the result of a largely signed petition setting out the facts of the case, the sentence was afterwards commuted to four years’ imprisonment.
A few months ago a lady who has all along taken a great deal of interest in the case heard that Maggie Heffernan had developed consumption. Later information confirmed this report, and she at once waited on the Solicitor-General and asked that the state of the girl’s health should be officially reported on. The outcome was that the gaol doctor pronounced that the girl was suffering from pthysis and that she needed a change of air. The Solicitor-General thereupon recommended her release, an order to that effect was given, and Maggie Heffernan left the penitentiary on Saturday morning, December 21st.
Author’s Note
Out of the Silence, though based on and inspired by historical events and real people, is a work of fiction. While Vida Goldstein, Maggie Heffernan and many of the characters portrayed are historical figures, my diarist Elizabeth Hamilton, her cousins James and Harriet, and all goings-on in the Hawkins’ household, are entirely imaginary.
I have been careful to remain true to most of the larger, immovable historical facts (trial dates, readings of bills and so on), but a certain degree of poetic license has been taken in the construction of the narrative. Where facts are uncertain, or where the historical record contains conflicting accounts (such as the date of the Ingleton School closure), I have let the shape of the fictional narrative be my guide. Occasionally, again in the interests of narrative shape, historical acts and characters have been conflated or omitted. Some details of Maggie Heffernan’s background and actions – the little that can be gleaned from court transcripts, letters and statements – have also been changed.
Interpretations of events and personalities, and any inconsistencies or inaccuracies, are entirely my responsibility.
Historical and biographical information has been widely and variously sourced (from archives, diaries, newspapers, magazines, child-rearing manuals, accounts of prison life, government reports, novels and histories), and it would be impossible to list all my references, but the works cited below were indispensible to my research and may be of interest to those who are inclined to read further.
Vida Goldstein
That Dangerous and Persuasive Woman, Janette M. Bomford, Melbourne University Press, Carlton, 1993
The Goldstein Story, Leslie M. Henderson, Stockland Press, North Melbourne, 1973
Maggie Heffernan
‘Melbourne’s Magdalenes: Crimes of Reproduction, 1895–1902’, J. Gammon, BA (Hons) thesis, Monash University, 1991
Australian women’s suffrage movement
Passions of the First Wave Feminists, Susan Magarey, UNSW Press, Sydney, 2001
Woman Suffrage in Australia: a Gift or a Struggle?, Audrey Oldfield, Cambridge University Press, Cambridge, 1991
Silk and Calico: Class, Gender and the Vote, Betty Searle, Hale and Iremonger, Sydney, c. 1988
General
The Governesses: Letters from the Colonies, 1862–82, Patricia Clarke, Hutchinson, 1985
No Place for a Nervous Lady, Lucy Frost, Penguin, Ringwood, 1984
My Wife, My Daughter, and Poor Mary Ann: Women and Work in Australia, Beverly Kingston, Thomas Nelson, Melbourne, 1975
Sex and Suffering: Women’s Health and a Woman’s Hospital: the Royal Women’s Hospital, Melbourne 1856–1996, Janet McCalm
an, Melbourne University Press, Carlton, 1998
Freedom Bound Vol. 1, ed. Marian Quartly, Susan Janson and Patricia Grimshaw, Allen & Unwin, St Leonards, 1995
Single Mothers and Their Children: Disposal, Punishment and Survival in Australia, Shurlee Swain with Renate Howe, Cambridge University Press, Cambridge, 1995
The Disenchantment of the Home: Modernizing the Australian Family, 1880–1940, Kerreen M. Reiger, Oxford University Press, Melbourne, 1985
Acknowledgements
This novel was originally conceived as the creative component of a doctoral degree and could never have been written without the financial assistance provided by the Deakin University Postgraduate Research Award that I was privileged to receive. The ongoing support of the School of Communication and Creative Arts at Deakin University has been invaluable – my particular thanks to Judith Rodriguez for her helpful comments on the earliest drafts. And I’m immensely grateful to those ‘guardian angels of paper’, the Deakin University off-campus library staff, who were essential in helping me overcome the difficult distance of both time and place.
Thanks to my first readers: Becky James, Sharie Kocher, Sophie Masson, Jane Sloan and Felicity Plunkett, whose enthusiasm, encouragement and advice kept me writing.
I’ll be forever grateful to those who’ve made publication both possible and pleasurable: my agent, Pippa Masson; my publisher Meredith Curnow; and my remarkable editor, Catherine Hill.
And to those who’ve been in close confines with me over the long years of writing: Darren, Sam, Abi, Nell, Will and Amy – my sympathy as well as my heartfelt thanks.
