Winnie was indeed a sorrowful case, sighed Mary. She only hoped the coming babe would bring some real happiness to Winnie and give her the family she was longing for. Try as she might though, she could not like her friend’s husband.
The miser checked the larder shelves every evening and woe and watch out if supplies had dwindled faster than his reckoning. His fortnightly trip to the town would see something missing from Winnie’s list of provisions in punishment.
His wife never had to think up new ideas for the dinner plates. Sloy made the rules clear. Baked lunch on Sunday and stew for tea the other six from a huge boiler on the stove that they were only allowed to cook up every three days. Tea was to be served at five in the afternoon, no exceptions, bar the days Sloy went to town and then it waited upon his return.
By the third night, Mary’s stomach heaved stirring the grey mess gone slimy on top, but with a little water added and a fresh carrot snuck in, the meal proved edible enough.
‘Why don’t we add a wee dash of wild rosemary or purslane to boost the flavour,’ she suggested to Winnie one afternoon. ‘There’s some growing behind the barn.’
‘Oh, no, Frank wouldn’t like that,’ said Winnie. ‘Frank likes plain food.’
‘Winnie, you make a perfectly fine stew. But let’s just make it up a bit, like in a recipe book: Fifty Flavoursome Stews by Mrs Winifred Sloy and Mrs Mary Merrilees.’
Winnie laughed. The imp in her eyes gladdening Mary’s heart; though Mary hoped she wasn’t sticking her oar in to Winnie’s detriment. She doubted they’d find even five ways without alerting Sloy to their mischief, but, ‘What Frank doesn’t know won’t hurt him.’ She winked. And later, Winnie beside her, giggling and chewing loose strands of her hair, Mary snuck in a few sprigs of herbs, chopped up unrecognisable and a sprinkle of salt and pepper.
During the meal, she kept her eyes down, but noted Sloy shovelled each spoonful into his gob slower than usual and without any rude remarks. He even nodded to his wife when he pushed back his chair to leave the table.
Winnie flushed, pink with pride. ‘That’s the best mutton stew I ever made.’
From then on, the pair took to throwing a few extras into the pot. Only things that wouldn’t be missed or came out of the garden. Mary thought the subterfuge worth it to keep Sloy’s tongue civil and Winnie beaming across the table.
Still, she couldn’t help but wonder where on earth she’d landed.
IN FRIENDSHIP’S NAME …
MID-SEPTEMBER 1915
‘Mary, are you in there?’
Mary glanced up at the back of the washhouse door and tugged the worn flannel, floating in the three inches of bathwater permitted in the tin tub, up over her chest, knowing it too miserly to cover anything but her bosoms. She sighed and called out. ‘Yes, Winnie, but don’t come in, I’m in the bath. I won’t be long.’ Her voice echoed off the corrugated iron walls.
She lay back, in no rush to get out after it had taken two weeks to get Sloy to spare enough water for a bath and him ranting at her, ‘There’s a bloody drought on, don’t you know?’
She couldn’t believe it then, the next second, when the door handle turned anyway and in burst Winnie.
‘Please, Mary. I need to talk to you. It can’t wait.’ Winnie closed the door on a giggle. ‘No-one can see you, except me. Frank’s out in the barn primping his prize porkers. Besides, ain’t we both girls and best bosom friends?’
‘Yes, but there are certain things even friends don’t share.’ Mary frowned, checking the flannel covered her scars, more disturbed Winnie might see them rather than any place more personal. Her cheeks pinked recalling her nights of worry over how she could ever show a husband something so ugly, never dreaming she needn’t have worried or that he would not care to look.
‘Oh, Mary. You look lovely being pregnant and all round and soft. Not a bit like scrawny old me.’
‘Winnie, don’t say that. I’m sure you look no different from me.’ Embarrassed under the girl’s awestruck gaze, Mary swapped the flannel for a towel hanging on a nail in the washhouse wall and began to heave herself up by the sides of the tub.
‘Yes. Yes, I do look different. That’s what I want talk to you about.’ Winnie stepped up close to the tub, wringing her hands and making no show of keeping her eyes to herself. ‘Mary, if you let me see something of yours, I’ll show you something of mine.’
‘What in God’s name are you talking about, Winnie? Have you gone gilhooley mad? I’ve got to get dried and dressed before I catch my death.’ But how could she when Winnie began to bawl, her words tangling in her tears?
‘Mary, I … I know I sound potty, but I’m that worried. Look at me.’
Before Mary could stop her, Winnie began unbuttoning her blouse and slipping her arms out of the sleeves. She tugged her chemise over her head, revealing no further underwear, only her bare breasts – skinny, flat little things with nipples as dark as prunes.
Their lack of plumpness for Winnie’s time caused Mary’s brow to crease.
‘See I told you – there’s something wrong with me, ain’t there? And look.’ Winnie pulled her skirt down over her belly. ‘Look there. That horrid line. What’s wrong with me?’
Mary towelled herself off, choosing her words carefully, sensing this another important talk missing from Winnie’s life. How to explain that the purplish-brown line from her navel to down there only evidence that her babe was near to coming. ‘There’s nothing wrong, Goosey Lucy. You’re as normal as the sun rising in the east. You’re having a baby is all.’
She ran her hand then gently over the bulge of Winnie’s belly. ‘And carrying a very neat package. The line down there is quite normal. Lots of women expecting have it.’
‘You don’t,’ Winnie shot back, her lip wobbling. ‘Frank says it’s a sign … something’s wrong with me.’
‘Oh, Winnie. That’s not true,’ Mary soothed. ‘Mrs Merrilees had the exact same line.’ Quickly she bit her tongue to stop from saying anything further about Mrs Merrilees. But really she could strangle Sloy. Him and his lies.
‘Look at me bosoms then. A girl’s supposed to get big boosies when she’s having a baby. Frank was expecting them too. He says mine are no bigger than me sponge cakes and likely to go flatter after the baby’s born.’
For a moment Mary wanted to march out of the washhouse, find Frank Sloy and punch him hard on the nose for treating Winnie worse than his pigs. Except it was becoming clearer by the day Winnie had more need of her than doing housework alone.
‘Winnie, I will show you something of mine. Ain’t none of us perfect. See?’ Mary closed her eyes before pulling open the towel to reveal the scarring on her breasts to Winnie’s horrified gasp.
‘Lordy, Mary, what happened to you?’
While Mary explained the overheated poultice, she stepped into her knickers and tugged on her chemise and half-buttoned blouse. Then she pulled Winnie into her arms and hugged her fiercely, before holding her apart to gaze solemnly into her face. ‘You are beautiful, Winnie. You’re having a baby is all. Some women have lines on their bellies and small bosoms. It don’t mean anything is wrong and only an ignorant person would say other. Now dry your tears and let’s go for a walk while I dry my hair. We’ll pick some pretty wildflowers to cheer us up and the shack … I mean, the house a bit. Then I’ll make you a lovely cup of tea.’ She wiped the last of Winnie’s tears from her cheeks.
‘Thank you for showing me your awful scars,’ Winnie gulped. ‘I feel better for seeing them. I don’t know what I’d do without you as me friend and come to live with me, Mary.’
‘No, Winnie. Let’s be clear. I have to go back home soon and see if my husband has written to me yet.’ Inwardly she sighed, glad to have Liam as her excuse to leave at least.
‘Well, I hope your husband never writes,’ sulked Winnie. ‘Cause I’m never gonna let you leave.’
WHERE IN THE WORLD?
LATE SEPTEMBER 1915
In the days following, Mary
worried the way Winnie practically clung to her skirts, as if Mary might disappear if she turned her back.
For Winnie’s own good, Mary began to drop hints about going home. She doubted Sloy would much mind her going, from the fellow’s failure to address any real words her way. She didn’t think he thought much of her beyond being the maid. His attitude smacked like she should be grateful for the food on his table and her lumpy mattress teeming with beasties. The same mattress she’d dragged outside in the middle of the first night and beat the daylights out of just to get enough peace to sleep a few minutes before dawn. If it weren’t for the recurring picture of Maw’s bitterness, she’d have gone home that very first week.
At least Sloy was away from the house most of the day, busy with his precious pigs or his small herd of cattle or checking on his hay. If not, he was barking orders at Nathaniel Carr.
Sloy kept Nate busy, working away from the house and sending him miles out to fence the back blocks. The poor man even had to do his own cooking. Most of the time Mary forgot Nate was even around unless she glimpsed him going to his quarters, a lean-to off the barn; the place as off limits to those in the house, as the house to him.
So her surprise matched Nate’s, one morning, him knocking at the screen door, if his look spying her belly any indication.
She wrung her hands inside her apron pocket before thinking to rub the one wearing the wedding band deliberate over her forehead.
‘What do you want, Carr?’ Winnie piped over her shoulder.
Nate tipped his hat and held up a brace of bunnies in his other hand, skun, gutted and ready for roasting. ‘Saw you had a visitor and these guys running amok in the veggie patch. Thought you might like a baked dinner.’
‘It’s Monday, Carr,’ said Winnie.
Nathaniel nodded, ‘Righto.’ Still he held out the carcasses.
Mary opened the screen door and took them from him. Glancing from the set of his face to the dark look on Winnie’s, she suspected she was not getting some obvious point, but was delighted to look back and see Nate flash her an impish wink.
‘Congratulations, Miss O’Donnell. I mean, Mrs – I didn’t know you’d got married. I looked out for you at the church supper dances a few times, but I never saw you.’
‘Carr, why are you wasting time gabbing? Ain’t you got work to do?’ Winnie hauled Mary back inside and pulled the screen door shut.
‘Yes, Missus. Just going now. Good day to you, ladies. Enjoy your visit, Mary.’ He tipped his hat again and clomped down the steps, whistling.
Winnie pursed her lips. ‘The cheek. That one’s too familiar for his own good. Tried fancying up to me too when I first come here to live. Frank told him not to come near the house.’
‘Winnie, what are you talking about? Nathaniel’s just being friendly. I rather like him.’
The glare she got in reply could have roasted both the rabbits. ‘Winnie, don’t look at me like that. He’s a nice chappie, I mean.’
‘I wouldn’t get too excited, Mary. You won’t see much of Carr. He knows his place, or did until today. Besides, he’s only working into the New Year to get in the hay, then he’ll be leaving to enlist – he promised Frank. I don’t even know whether to get you to bury those rabbits before Frank sees them.’
The way Winnie worried her bottom lip between her teeth made Mary wonder again where in the world she’d landed. It cheered her to know Nate Carr was not too far away.
She busied herself cutting up the rabbit carcasses before Winnie could do any such wasteful thing as dispose of them. She kept her head down, slicing between sinew and bone, as much to rescue any bit of meat she could as to hide a sudden flush at how much it gladdened her to know Nate had looked out for her at the dances.
Well, it was no sin to be flattered by a friend seeking out your company. It didn’t make it evil if that friend was a man.
RUBBING IN THE SALT
EARLY OCTOBER 1915
Four weeks away from home, Mary grew desperate to get back to Ivor Street to check if Joe had news of Liam.
The only war going on might be the one in her head with her husband.
She never even got to read the war news, except for when Sloy brought the newspapers on fortnightly supply days. She now understood Winnie’s desperate need for news of the goings on in Wonthaggi.
Hannah had sent a card, begging her come home for the union fete. No doubt without Maw knowing. With Jane’s help, she’d managed to send a sixpence each to her sisters. But she’d rather be home to take them herself.
She couldn’t bear the idea of being still out at the farm in another two weeks when Winnie’s baby arrived, what with Sloy denying his wife the chance to lie-in in town. His only concession, a promise to fetch a midwife when the time came.
So she jumped at Nate Carr’s offer the following Saturday. He drove her into town in the jinker and deposited her in front of Joe’s house as she’d asked, in the hope she’d get news of Liam faster. From the rowdiness echoing out the cottage windows, she’d picked the best day of the fortnight. Pay Saturday, being the day after Pay Friday. Her heart lifted at the thought she’d see Da along with his crossmates – Des and Robbie Clarke. The lot of them huddled around Joe’s table, surrounded by pound notes, shillings and pence, divvying up the wages. A huge sheet of butcher’s paper spread out before them, with days and tonnage and figures floating meaningless on the page to her, but which Joe could decipher and then share out everyone’s proper earnings. They’d argue and rehash the fortnight’s shifts, but not to quibble over the odd shilling, only a chance to talk and laugh and tell stories about their fellows, especially the overseers and the antics of the pit ponies.
Pay Saturday was the best day for good children too, with threepences on offer and the picture theatres touting their latest sessions. A day she’d once imagined would see her and Liam strolling arm-in-arm to a screening and in the interval sharing an ice cream or a bag of sweets. Pah!
All the nerves jiggling in her belly leapt into her throat when Maw opened the front door, ushering her sisters and Jane outside.
‘Hello, Mary. We’re going to Smith’s Pictures to see the new Keystone,’ said Jane, eyes shining and hugging her tight. ‘Do you want to come with us?’
‘No. Mary’s got her own business to take care of.’ Maw stood firm.
Mary shook her head and gave her sisters fierce hugs too, as best she could with her growing belly.
‘Gee, Mary, what do they feed you on that farm? You got fat?’ Hannah said, rudely poking her belly.
Mary didn’t dare answer or respond to Maw’s furious, ‘Tsk,’ behind her.
The younger girls all jostled down the steps laughing, Jane grimacing apologetically over her shoulder.
Mary breathed deeply, waving them off before turning back to her mother.
Maw eyed her with a sharp sniff and glare of fury. ‘You’d better bring yourself in then. You’re pale, girl. Could you not have sent a note to say you were coming?’
Mary picked up her travelling valise and followed Maw inside, tugging off her hat and fidgeting with her gloves in the hallway. ‘I didn’t find out I could get a ride into town with Mr Carr until last evening and it was too late to write you then. How are you, Maw?’
‘Fine, thank you for asking. I can’t walk a mile without falling down thanks to me useless knees, or cart the wash out to the line. I’ve lost two teeth in the past month and can’t chew a chop, but I’m fine. I suppose I’d better ask, how you are?’
It didn’t sound so much a question to Mary as the polite thing to say without caring on the answer. ‘Maw, I’m glad to see you. I’ve missed you all.’ It was a surprise how fast her tear-bags welled finding Maw grown grey in such a short time.
Or had she just never noticed, being so full of her own self these past months?
‘Have you, Mary? Have you missed us that much, you’re home so soon? I thought you might have stayed away until your husband sent for you, or you weren’t parading a belly as bi
g as a barn in front of your sisters.’
Stunned at the sharpness in Maw’s tone, Mary mustered a sick, little laugh. ‘Haven’t you even told Kate and Hannah I’m having a baby, Maw? I am married, you know. And God has forgiven me even if you haven’t. Ask the priest.’
‘Oh, and that makes everything all right, does it? An Act of Contrition and a few Hail Marys and a person’s free to commit murder. Is that what you’re saying?’
‘Oh Maw, murder? Leave off, will you? I’m that pleased to be home. My sisters won’t give all that a thought, unless you rub in the salt and remind them. Did you never make a mistake yourself?’ She searched her mother’s face for any hint of understanding, some flicker of compassion.
But Maw did not relent. Her face set harsh and indignant. ‘No, I’ve never committed a mortal sin, daughter. Or gone against the Church, or the expectations of me mother or father. God rest their souls. I’ve not lied or cheated or stolen. Nor opened me legs to a man out of marriage.’ She glared, the resentment of months blazing in her eyes. ‘You made your bed. Got into one you shouldn’t have.’
Mary stared back, knowing nothing she could say would change her mother’s bad opinion. Couldn’t she just be home? Put her head on her own pillow and get up in the morning with her own people? Would Maw never let her forget she’d fallen, was a mortal sinner?
They stood in the dim hallway. Maw didn’t lead her through to the singsong of voices in the living room, but planted her feet so that Mary couldn’t step further either.
Mary would wonder later if it was Da’s cough sickening on his chest and him seeming barred to her that made the devil take her tongue.
‘I don’t know why you step into the confessional each week then, Maw. You must have nothing to tell the priest being so bloody perfect and all.’
Maw’s slap struck hard. The sting across Mary’s cheek burned and she reeled sideways.
Maw stood gasping, rubbing her hand, her bun sprung loose from her head, the stringy plait hanging over her shoulder. Shock swam in her eyes, but her voice blew cold as a blizzard. ‘If you leave now you might catch Mr Carr before he heads back out of town. Joe’ll send word if he hears from his son. And next time, daughter, you might write us first if we’re to have the pleasure of a visit.’
No Small Shame Page 14
