Custard Tarts and Broken Hearts

by Mary Gibson

  But Eliza left his office and walked in a dream through the Melbourne suburbs, unconvinced by all the doctor’s reassurances. He hadn’t understood at all and now she must speak to Ernest; he had to be told. But first she needed to think and calm herself. She took a tram to the Labour Office and cancelled her meeting for that evening, then walked to the riverside. It was a world away from the Thames, but she had always felt soothed by wide stretches of water. As she walked, she pondered. Was there any way she could be a mother to a child this time round? Her thoughts went back nine years to the other baby, the cause of so much heartache and regret.

  The child had been a girl. Eliza was surprised a pregnancy hadn’t happened before, but they had been careful. She was twenty-two at the time and had believed that the baby’s arrival would be the end of her life in Mecklenburgh Square. She and Ernest had been carrying on their affair for over five years, at first in secret, but then the situation had become obvious to most of the household and also to Ernest’s friends. But, still, an illegitimate child by his housekeeper? How could that be contained within his life? Even with his radical views, Eliza had expected that she and the child would be packed off and never spoken of again. In the years since, she had sometimes wished it had happened that way, but it seemed she had become essential to Ernest.

  She was never quite certain why. She doubted it was still passion. She liked to think he might value her for the work she had begun with the Anti Sweated Labour League, but in her darker moments she feared she might simply be his pet ‘cockney sparrer’, a trophy, to prove his radical credentials to his Bohemian friends and colleagues in the Labour movement. If she had left with the child her union work would have been over. Thousands of women, she could say for a certainty, would have been the poorer, but would she have been the richer? Instead, she had followed Ernest’s baldly stated wishes.

  ‘Eliza, you must give the child up,’ was all he had said and she had taken care of it. He did not wish to know the arrangements, had merely given her an allowance to be used for the child’s upbringing. It had broken her heart and it was then she’d thrown herself into union work, as distraction and a consolation: if she had lost her child, she would make it count for something. And for many years she had worked to that end, but this new baby forced her to admit that, on the scales of her heart, all that she’d achieved had never once outweighed all that she’d lost. Knowing that, how could she allow herself to make the same disastrous choice again?

  By the time she got back to their villa that afternoon, her decision was made and she had prepared herself to do battle with Ernest. This one she would not give up! He was home early and after supper they walked on to the verandah. Ernest smoked while leaning on the railing and Eliza joined him there, in the cool of the evening, wrapping a shawl around her shoulders and settling into one of the cane chairs in the corner.

  ‘Ernest, come and sit down, I want to talk to you.’

  He strolled over to her. ‘You seem rather pensive this evening, my dear. Is there something troubling you?’

  She shifted in her seat, the sounds of the night seeming exaggerated; insects clicking, frogs croaking and the wind soughing in the trees, all competed with the thudding of her own heart. ‘Ernest, I’m going to have a child.’

  At first he did not answer. He carefully put out his cigarette and then he sat down beside her. He reached out with his hand to cover hers. She sat rigidly, waiting for his reply.

  ‘Is this why you cancelled your meeting?’

  She nodded, still waiting.

  ‘Well, my dear, I suggest you cancel all meetings for the foreseeable future. Your life will be much changed. But not forever, you must remember that.’

  And he turned to her a face of inscrutable politeness.

  Her heart sank; now she knew she would have to fight. ‘Ernest, I wish to keep this child.’

  ‘And what of your work… our work?’

  ‘There is no reason this time to give up the child!’

  He interrupted her with a peremptory gesture. They had never spoken of their firstborn, not since the day Eliza took her away. But she would not spare his guilty heart, not now.

  ‘I’m sorry, Ernest, but we must speak about it. I know it wasn’t an easy choice for either of us, and we both agreed our lives would not allow for a child… not then. But this time is entirely different. We are in a new age now and a different world! Is it a scandal you’re worried about? No one here has ever questioned that we live as man and wife! They’re only too happy to have a man of your stature helping them, they don’t dare ostracize you!’ She would flatter and plead shamelessly, if it meant getting him to agree.

  He took away his heavy hand from hers and stared into her frightened eyes. ‘I’m sorry, my dear, it may well be that the mores of the old country haven’t the same grip on society here, but I thought I made it clear the last time. You must understand that my life will not allow for a child. Really, my dear, the last thing I wish to do is give you pain. Make whatever arrangements you need to and I will see to it you have the very best of care.’

  He smiled at her and as his hand closed around hers again, in what might have been clumsy reassurance, it felt to her like a shackle. He got up and went silently to his study, leaving her to mourn the choices that had brought her back to this place. The bird had taken flight and delighted in riding the wind for a while, but then had come the familiar tug on the jesses, calling her back. She might fly halfway across the world but she could never escape this particular falconer. Underneath all their newfound freedom, the unequal alliance persisted. She was, after all they had shared, still his scullery maid.

  Christmas Eve found Eliza strolling along a wide Melbourne street, arm in arm with Ernest James. Even though this was her second in Australia, she still hadn’t got used to celebrating Christmas in summer time. The heat was oppressive and she held the pale blue parasol at an angle, grateful for its meagre shade. She tried to imagine a London Christmas, replacing in her imagination the unbroken blue skies above her with foggy streets lit by small circles of gaslight. She saw, in her mind’s eye, the great dark river at the heart of her childhood, the crowding wharves and teeming streets. But then, as though her memory were a moving picture, a black screen cut in and the scenes of home vanished. She came back to herself as Ernest pointed out their destination. They had been invited to attend a luncheon at the impressive villa of a prominent Labour politician. Their work had brought them into contact not only with grass-roots union members but also a number of influential socialists and reformers.

  Ernest turned towards her; he leaned his head under the blue shade of her parasol and kissed her perspiring cheek.

  ‘Are you quite sure you are up to this, my dear? The afternoon is abominably hot and Edward McMahon’s chairs are dreadfully over-stuffed. Why people who live in a hot climate should adopt the furnishings of a castle in Ireland, I can’t imagine!’

  Eliza outwardly smiled at his accurate description of the McMahon residence, while inwardly grimacing at his overprotectiveness. The child she was expecting had brought out the worst in his controlling nature.

  ‘I’m perfectly fine, Ernest, you must stop fussing. You forget, I’ve done this before.’

  It was out before she realized it and though she regretted her thoughtlessness, she did wonder if she might have done it half on purpose. Sometimes like a bird in a snare she would flail and peck – too bad if his hand were on the net and got stabbed by her beak. His concerned expression changed to tight-lipped disapproval and he ducked his head back out into the blazing sunshine.

  ‘At least Mrs McMahon always keeps a good table,’ Eliza said. ‘She tells me the latest sensation from her cook is an ice-cream Christmas pudding melba, with a nod to Dame Nellie. Thank God it hasn’t been boiling in a pan for eight hours!’

  Ernest laughed; she had deflected him. She would enjoy this Christmas and be thankful it wasn’t like the bleak festivities of her childhood when an orange emerging from a stocking w
as like a magical sunburst into the world of sooty walls and slate roofs.

  After dinner, Eliza joined the other women gathered on the wide wraparound verandah, while they left the men to smoke. A cool breeze tugged at her white skirts and she leaned on the wooden railing with one hand. She felt the baby kick and gasped. She felt it again and looked around for someone to tell, but the others were deep in conversation.

  Eliza found herself caressing the swell of her belly beneath the voluminous flowing garments she had taken to wearing. Unease gripped her. Justice, fairness, equality – these were all the things that she and Ernest had worked towards. But how were they served by the treatment meted out to these two children of hers? The child she was carrying seemed to protest and kick even more, but soon Eliza realized it was not so much a protest as a demand to be born. Surely it couldn’t be happening now; her baby wasn’t due for another fortnight! But she was almost certain these were contractions!

  She cried out, doubling up in pain, and was immediately surrounded by a bevy of clucking, dipping women, ineffectual hands flapping and plucking at her. Eliza James screamed and was saved by the arrival of the McMahons’ maid, a middle-aged Irish woman who had fortunately delivered many more babies than she had served ice-cream Christmas pudding melbas. Eliza’s eyes locked on to the deep, calm eyes of Mary Donovan and felt a rush of confidence sweeping away the bolt of fear that had seized her. Mercy’s directions were soft susurrations but full of authority, and Eliza simply did as she was told. It was impossible that Eliza should return through the dining room, where the men still sat drinking their brandy, so with Mercy’s strong arms around her she was helped round the verandah to the side entrance. A flustered Mrs McMahon led them to a spare ground-floor bedroom. Eliza, apologizing uselessly to her hostess who had catered so thoughtfully for everything except this early birth, gratefully allowed Mercy to help her to the bed. She was aware of a screen being erected round her and heard orders for towels and hot water. This child was in a hurry, her contractions were deep and violent, and she imagined the angry infant surging out into the world, demanding to be valued. At the stroke of midnight, under Antipodean stars, her son was born. He announced his arrival with an ear-splitting cry and as she looked down at his red face and clenched fists, Eliza knew she had given birth to a fighter. She prayed she would do a better job of motherhood this time round. She whispered to him as she drew the child up to rest its cheek against hers.

  ‘You’re going to need all that rage, little one. Hold on to it and I will hold on to you.’

  The Christmas of 1912 was an anxious one for Nellie, Sam and Lily. Lily and her family waited for news of Ted, or for a policeman to knock on the door; Sam waited for his mother’s illness to reach its natural conclusion and Nellie waited for all three. Sam had become a hero in the Bosher household and it was Lily who suggested he join them for a Christmas drink in the Land of Green Ginger pub. When they all met up after work to walk to the pub, Nellie was surprised to see that Sam had brought his best friend Jock McBride along, a lively round-faced young man who’d known Sam since their schooldays.

  Jock was full of embarrassing stories about their escapades. ‘What about the time the choir master caught us lighting up? Sam stuffed the dog end under the choir pew and nearly set the church alight!’

  ‘Sam! A choirboy? I always said he’d got an innocent face, eh, Nell?’ Lily was showing off a bit for Jock, but Nellie didn’t mind. It had been a bleak enough few weeks for them all – they deserved a bit of fun and, besides, Sam was laughing too as he and Jock launched forth in falsettos with a verse of ‘Lead Kindly Light amid the encircling gloom, the night is dark and I am far from home, lead thou me on!’

  Nellie had a sudden vivid sense of the two fresh-faced boys they must have been and she found herself being moved by the mournful tune. But then Lily jumped in with, ‘Gawd’s sake, give us something a bit more cheerful, you two!’ and they immediately started up a mock hymnal version of ‘Oh, You Beautiful Doll,’ with Sam doing the harmonies.

  ‘If you ever leave me how my heart would ache, I want to hug you but I fear you’d break, oh, oh, oh, oh, ohhhh you beeauuutifulll dollll!’

  The two girls applauded loudly and passers-by stared and smiled at them as they walked four abreast down Southwark Park Road. They still called this new wide thoroughfare ‘the Blue’ because it had once been the narrow, winding Blue Anchor Lane. Now it was a fine shopping street lined with shops, all of them still open, every shop front illuminated by pools of gaslight, showing off their Christmas wares. Shoppers were still milling about, buying last-minute groceries and cheap poultry. It was Christmas Eve and there were bargains to be had at the butchers and the fruit-and-veg stalls that lined ‘the Blue’.

  ‘Come and get yer cheap turkeys! Half price a lovely bit of brawn, if you ain’t made none yerself, yer lazy cows!’ The stallholders sang out their good-natured insults to the harassed housewives, who clutched their purses and counted out the pennies of every purchase.

  ‘Times is hard but you won’t get none cheaper’n ’at! E’are ’alf price the oranges, don’t disappoint yer kiddies, what did you say, madam, yer ’usband got ten knocked off from the docks. Where’s the Old Bill?’ There was never a pause in the patter, they sang out as though their lives depended on it, and indeed often they did.

  But Nellie, at least for this night, wanted to feel above domestic constraints like the price of veg. She was young! Or so she kept reminding herself, but as they strode past the stalls she felt a desperation in their light-heartedness, as though time were running out for their youth. If all the talk of war and the thought of Ted’s life in ruins wasn’t enough, there was still the nagging remembrance of her promise to Lizzie Gilbie. When the poor woman finally died, fate would come knocking on Nellie’s door, to call her to account. She wished Sam’s mother a long life, but she felt mean every time she did so, because she suspected it was more for her own protection than for Lizzie’s preservation that she prayed.

  Oh, give over, you gloomy old stick, she thought to herself sternly and decided not to care if her joy were forced or not. She was seventeen years old and it was Christmas Eve and who knew what the future held for them all?

  As they pushed through the door of the pub she felt her spirits lift, the Green Ginger was full of the ‘custard tarts’.

  ‘’Ello girls, over ’ere!’ Ethel Brown stood up and beckoned to them. ‘We’ve been saving you a place, but we didn’t know you was bringing yer new chaps!’

  Nellie blushed, but Lily swaggered over to the table where Ethel sat taking up the width of two chairs with her wide girth and voluminous feather boa. Maggie Tyrell had squashed her skinny frame in beside her.

  ‘Well, you should’ve known we’d be in demand, Ethel,’ Lily said brightly.

  The women shoved up along the plush-covered bench and Sam found another stool. Nellie noticed he placed it at the end of the table nearest her.

  ‘You heard anything from your Ted, Lily?’ asked Ethel, but her currant-bun eyes flicked towards Nellie. The girls all knew that Ted had left suddenly and she’d heard them whispering about her being left in the lurch.

  ‘He’s found a job on the boats, but we ain’t heard no more.’

  Nellie hoped no questions would be directed at her, but admired her friend’s composure.

  ‘Shame for your poor mother, she’ll miss him,’ said Ethel, sipping her stout.

  Nellie felt the sympathetic eyes of Maggie and her workmates resting on her.

  Sam got to his feet. ‘What you drinking, ladies?’

  Nellie was grateful to him for the distraction as the girls gave full attention to their orders, but she wished he hadn’t offered. He wasn’t old enough to get a full carter’s wage yet and she knew only too well how his family depended on him. She didn’t want to feel responsible for depriving the Gilbie children of their Christmas treats, so she was relieved when Jock followed Sam to the bar. He was a good friend and he knew Sam’s situation as well as s
he did.

  They drank Sam’s round and then Jock got in another, and the pub filled to bursting, the air thick with smoke and chatter and good-natured laughter. The landlady, Katie Gilbie, a short buxom woman in her forties with a frothy halo of fair hair, famed for belting out the latest songs, struck up a tune on the piano. Then Ethel Brown planted her impressive bulk precariously on top of a bentwood chair to give her own tear-jerking rendition of ‘Silver Threads amongst the Gold’.

  For some it was too early in the evening for such maudlin sentiment and someone shouted from the bar, ‘Liven it up, for gawd’s sake, it’s Christmas!’

  Ethel’s ample bosom gave her a precarious centre of gravity at the best of times, but determined to finish and lifting her arms to emphasize the chorus, she toppled forward like a sack of coal, burying Maggie Tyrell beneath her black-coated bulk. Nellie leaped forward, pulling a breathless, laughing Maggie from the tangle of hats and feather boas.

  ‘It was me “shelf” done it, not the drink!’ Ethel protested.

  In all the confusion, Nellie saw Sam and Jock go over to the piano, whispering to Katie. When they burst into their own version of ‘Beautiful Doll’ the whole pub joined in. Nellie found herself smiling, and she realized she hadn’t really smiled since the moment Ted left. Her cheeks felt almost stiff as the grin spread across her face and what had become perpetual furrows in her brow eased. The grin turned to a giggle as the two boys hammed it up at the piano, gazing cow-eyed at plump Katie, their ‘beautiful doll’. Nellie relaxed back into her chair. Yes, she was having fun.

  The whole night went by in a blur of ease and banter; she felt a world away from the anxious fears of the last few weeks. Perhaps she really had escaped the consequences of that dreadful night when Ted had come to her burned and smoking and broken. For a moment she pictured him wrapped in furs with a Cossack hat at a jaunty angle instead of his flat cap, saw him waving a red flag on a barricade, and then the image faded. It was a fantasy – perhaps all her feelings for him had been as phantom-like as that image; insubstantial, just a girlish dream that had turned into a nightmare. She consciously turned away, putting her face to the real world around her: the warmth of the people she had grown up with, short on material goods but full of human sympathy and decency. She allowed herself to feel safe, to feel hopeful.