The Day She Cradled Me Read online

  A fascinating novel based on the life of the infamous baby farmer Minnie Dean, the only woman in New Zealand history ever to be hanged.

  Accused of infanticide and awaiting trial and then sentence, Minnie confides in Reverend Lindsay. Alternating between these two contrasting personalities, the novel tells Minnie’s version of events. From her oppressive upbringing in Victorian Scotland to adulthood in Southland, Minnie battles her own nature and the hardships of colonial life and social hypocrisy. Once Minnie is tried, she has to face her impending execution, while Reverend Lindsay, who has become her unlikely ally, fights to prevent her paying the ultimate price for society’s sins.

  For Dorothy Edith Carter and Eva Hornsby

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Minnie

  Minnie

  Minnie

  Reverend George Lindsay

  Minnie

  Reverend Lindsay

  Minnie

  Reverend Lindsay

  Minnie

  Reverend Lindsay

  Minnie

  Reverend Lindsay

  Minnie

  Reverend Lindsay

  Minnie

  Reverend Lindsay

  Minnie

  Minnie

  Mr Josiah Hanan

  Afterword

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Little did my mither think

  The day she cradled me

  That I would travel sae far fra hame

  Or hang on a gallows tree.

  — From Minnie Dean’s manuscript

  Minnie

  Invercargill Court, New Zealand

  21 June 1895

  Dear Lord, I am done.

  ‘Prisoner, what is your age?’

  ‘Forty-eight.’

  ‘Do you have anything to say as to whether sentence should not be passed upon you?’

  A week Tuesday is little Arthur’s birthday. Let me go home. Please, I beg of you, don’t kill me.

  ‘No.’ My mouth is rough and dry as a cured pig’s hide. ‘I have only to thank Detective McGrath for his kindness.’

  Justice Williams lifts the black cap to his head. I know what is coming, though I can scarcely grasp it. He roars: ‘The judgment of the Court is that you, Minnie Dean, be taken from the place where you now are to the prison from whence you came, thence to the place of execution, and that there, in manner and form by law appointed, you be hanged by the neck until you are dead.’

  My legs wobble, threatening to betray me.

  ‘… And may God have mercy on your soul.’ With my back as straight as I am able, and my face, God willing, expressionless, I follow Mrs Bratby from the courtroom, away from the deafening shouts of jubilation. Only when we have crossed the yard into the gaol grounds and I am back in my cell do I allow myself thought. It was me he was speaking to. Me. Hanged until I am dead.

  I stare blindly, arms wrapped around myself, nails digging into flesh. This cannot be real. Cannot be happening. I was the cause of the child Carter’s death, yes, but only through carelessness — never, never was there any forethought. By law I am innocent. How can I be sentenced to death?

  I curl my pillow around my head, for I can hear an animal’s sickening cries. Why won’t I be left in peace? I snatch my Bible and bring it to my face, inhaling the musty scent of its leather binding. My fingers slide over the cool pages, seeking refuge in God’s words, but they dance behind my tears and I can’t catch them. Frantic thoughts fill my head. It won’t happen; they will never go through with it. They wouldn’t dare kill me, for I am a woman, and the colony has never executed a woman. It is unheard of.

  Help me, please, won’t someone help me?

  My fate overwhelms me and I close my eyes. Lord in Heaven, forgive these hateful thoughts. For those who have sought my demise with every ounce of their beings, may their hands lie drenched in my blood when they meet their Maker; may they pay for their sins, as I do mine. My consolation is this. Though their victory is absolute, it is also bittersweet, for they beheld no suffering in me. As God is my witness, to my dying day, my dying day, should it be near and should it be by hangman’s noose, I swear — on Mother’s grave I swear — I will die a woman and not a coward.

  Dear Lord, how did it come to this?

  Mrs Bratby brings a damp cloth to my face and begs me to hush. It is not an animal I can hear but my own screams.

  Minnie

  Three months prior

  The Larches

  16th March 1895

  Mrs Izett,

  Dear Madam — In reply to yours of the 6th inst. I will take the child referred to, and on the following terms: that my train fare is paid, and that I receive £4 10s per quarter for twelve months; that my solicitor prepare the deed of adoption at my cost. I will also register the adoption, but they are to pay your office fees. I would like if it could be arranged that the child be brought part of the way to meet me. I would like to be assured that the child is healthy. If these terms are accepted will you send the particulars, so my solicitor Mr Raymond can prepare the deed? This will be forwarded to you to witness their signatures. On the other hand, I am willing to take the child without any knowledge as to its parents, so long as they remain in ignorance of my name. In that case, I would register the adoption all the same, but would not require an agreement, and I would pay half of your fees. The quarterly instalments could be paid into your office, which you, after deducting commission, could post to me.

  I pause and glance out of the window. Esther approaches through the early morn; she has finally finished milking the cow and her face sags like a wet Christmas pud. I fear if she glances down at the pail she carries the cream will all but curdle and I want to use it for the children’s breakfast when they wake. How blessed I was to have Maggie; how I miss her now I am left with only this girl on whom to rely. I imagine the poor cow feels the same, for she has all but dried up since Maggie left — though who wouldn’t with the sight and touch of Esther as her only form of relief?

  Yours faithfully,

  M. Cameron.

  I sign with Maggie’s name, for it makes me feel closer to her, though Lord knows I wouldn’t dare use my own. It is a risk even writing The Larches, for it is a well-known address in all the wrong circles, but how else can I receive correspondence?

  Esther opens the door and comes inside, placing the pail by my feet. ‘Not much there,’ she says, stating the obvious.

  ‘Use it sparingly,’ I tell her. ‘You, Dean and I can do without.’

  Even with the preserves I have stored away from summer we won’t last out winter. And if the cow is lost …

  P.S. I should like if this could be arranged as soon as possible, as the days are advancing and it will be chilly travelling at night for the little one.

  We need funds. The sooner, the better.

  Two and a half weeks later, I have still received no reply.

  ‘Surely something must have come?’ I ask, detesting the note of desperation in my voice.

  The postmaster looks casually about him. He lifts a pen and a piece of paper, and makes a show of searching beneath. ‘No,’ he says. ‘Nothing with the words Minnie or Dean written upon it.’

  I hold my tongue, for he is my only means of sending and receiving post, though I should dearly like to embed his stamp into his forehead. I smile politely and turn to leave. ‘Please let me know when something for The Larches does arrive.’

  ‘The Larches?’ he exclaims, successfully turning heads. ‘You want mail for The Larches? How foolish of you not to have been more s
pecific. I thought you wanted mail addressed to yourself, Mrs Dean, as the address itself does tend to vary somewhat, wouldn’t you agree? As it happens an item of correspondence did arrive several days ago for The Larches, but as it was addressed to M. Cameron, and of course being aware of her absence, I thought I would wait until next I saw her to pass it on. And,’ he adds, proud of his cunning, ‘you did not enquire after it.’ I rush home and tear it open.

  To M. Cameron

  The Larches

  Winton

  26th March 1895

  I have been to see the child we have been corresponding about. It is very small for its age, ten months past. Will soon, the mother thinks, walk. It is very fair skinned, with fine dark eyes, and appears to be a very bright little girl. The child’s mother is also a very gentle girl. Her mother says she never had the slightest trouble with her in her life. Her very gentleness was the cause of the child’s existence. She has so bitterly repented, and has suffered so much, that the result of it all is that the child is smaller than it would have been if born under happier circumstances. The mother’s house was beautifully clean and neat, although she has 14 children in all, 15 including the little one. She cannot possibly give more than £10, to be paid on the 1st June, but she could get a person to take it to the Bluff, if you will meet them there. I have wired you but have written as well.

  Yours faithfully,

  D. Izett

  I read back through and look again at the date — 26 March. A week gone. Hurriedly I pick up my pen and begin to write. If I am quick with my reply, Esther will run with it to the post office before the afternoon mail departs.

  The Larches

  2nd April 1895

  Mrs Izett.

  Dear Madam,

  I must apologise for the delay, but absence from home is my excuse. I accept the terms offered. I will send an elderly lady, a Mrs Grey, to meet the person at Bluff with the little one. Let them go to Mrs Browne’s Private Hotel and Mrs Grey will be there to meet them. I will register the adoption, and christen the child in my own name. I expect them to pay you your office fee, and you can post the £10 to me when paid, less the cost of Mr Werrington’s book of sermons. I am well pleased with the account you have given of the child’s relatives, and I, in return, promise to do my duty to the child before God and man, and will try to train her to become a good, useful woman. When you wire as to when the person leaves for the Bluff, please do not mention the child, as I wish no one to know where the little one comes from. When she comes to me, I wish all trace of her parentage to be lost. I want the child to be mine, and mine only.

  I am, dear madam, yours truly, M. Cameron

  Esther fumbles with the latch of the gate and then disappears at a pace towards Winton, my letter tucked in her pocket. I shake my head. Just ten pounds: it will surely not last us. We will need more.

  The newspaper lies unread on the chair. I open the pages, turn to the classifieds and scan the columns.

  Otago Daily Times

  2nd April 1895

  A respectable, married woman wants to adopt a child; comfortable home in the country.

  Childless

  Times Office

  I am relieved it has been included, for they are loath now to print an advertisement bearing my name — though they are only too happy to take my money when no one knows it. I can but pray it brings success and funds to my door.

  And it does. For as there will always be a market for food and clothing and suchlike, so there will always be one for the illegitimate child. I take out a sheet of paper straight away, for it would not do to keep a woman who is about to give up her granddaughter waiting.

  East Winton

  20th April 1895

  Mrs Hornsby.

  Dear Madam,

  I am in receipt of your favour of the 17th inst. I am quite willing to accept the terms offered by you, and accept your assurance that the little one is healthy and of healthy parents, and for the sake of all concerned I would like to get the baby as soon as possible. I will register the birth in our name as our own child; also christen her as such. I will also have to register the adoption to make it legal, so my solicitor informs me. I will give you a receipt for the £10, as being payment in full of all demands present and future. If this is agreed to, I am ready to go for the little one as soon as you are ready, but would be very pleased if you could meet me part of the way, say as far as Milburn. You could deduct the amount of your expenses from the £10, but please understand I wish the child to be entirely my own. I wish her to grow up in the belief that I am, in truth, her mother. I wish to put it out of anyone’s power to tell the child that I am not in truth her mother, or that the stain of illegitimacy is on her birth. So I wish no one but those interested to know where the child has gone. I will do my best, with God’s help, to train the child to become a good, useful woman. I pledge the word of a mother who has loved and lost her own, that I will be a mother to the child in weal or woe. In sickness or in health, a mother’s loving, watchful care will be bestowed on her. If accepted, please name an early date. I live about five miles from the Post Office, but will send daily until I hear from you. The little one will have plenty of milk, and will soon grow up to be a big, fat girl.

  Truly yours, M. Deane

  My letter is sealed. And so is my fate.

  Minnie

  Friday 26 April 1895

  It is a terrible thought that comes to me.

  Watching Esther trudge her way home across the pasture, shoulders hunched and moving more slowly than a pregnant heifer, all I can think is how dearly I long to be rid of her. In a flash of that sullen eye I’d have her back with those people in Christchurch who would bind the child’s wrists behind her back and send her out into the garden to keep birds from their fruit. I wonder how she would feel knowing they were in fact her own grandparents, and that her mother had paid them for her keep. That they would oftentimes be at the poor woman for payment before she herself had even seen it. Maybe then the wretched girl would be thankful for this life I give her.

  It is a selfish thought, I know, and I don’t like myself for the pleasure it brings me. But if I had a shilling for each time I have entertained it, I should be a rich woman, as a more fitting use of that scowl than a scarecrow I simply cannot imagine. She could frighten the very feathers from the birds if she had a mind to. Although the fruit would be dreadfully soured.

  I chide myself again for harbouring this notion, and lift my arm to wave out to her. It is a gesture she does not return. Instead the vixen points her bonnet to the ground and moves even more slowly, if this is possible. Well, there is no use me waiting here any longer, for it will only serve to make the girl crawl on all fours before long.

  I turn from the gate and make my way back through the flower garden towards the house. I have spent much of the day here, clearing away the dead bracken of summer, a job I have put off because it is not so charming a sight, an autumn garden. The ground now lies bare, as though the remaining plants are dead. At the first hint of winter they have curled their roots and descended deep into the earth.

  Tomorrow’s frost already prickles my skin and its dampness fills my nostrils. It will be a chilly one tonight. I shall have to call the children inside or they will catch cold, and it will be the worse for me to have a house full of sick bairns before winter is even upon us. But I can hear laughter from behind the house — it involves dirty clothing again, no doubt — and I can’t resist creeping round back to catch them unawares.

  Just as I thought, there they are. The wee rascals have gathered some of the thick old bean pods left over from the vegetable garden and prised them apart, emptying the carcasses of seeds — which, I am pleased to note, are carefully saved to one side. They have threaded leaves onto sticks and poked one into each pod to use as a sail. An empty pail lies nearby, and I suspect that behind the four hunched backs in front of me lies a large hole of very muddy water. It is of no surprise either that neither Arthur, Cilly nor Punch has anything on t
heir feet, for I have yet to meet any child who feels the cold. Only little Flossie has on her stockings and shoes, though this is to steady herself rather than for warmth. I’m sure if she were able, she too would kick them off quicker than anybody. Watching her run to see the giant worm Cilly is dangling over Punch’s head, it’s hard to believe she had such early troubles.

  From behind the back hedge comes the holler of a train whistle, and the children drop their boats and rush to see it pass the house, puffs of smoke swelling above the trees. Inside, Baby begins crying, woken I expect from the noise of the train, but he stops before I reach the lean-to door. So Esther has finally returned and brought herself to pick him up. No doubt she will wait for me to come and find her, despite knowing how desperate I am for the news.

  ‘Come and wash yourselves.’ They all come running at once, pushing and giggling, and I could not love them more at this moment if I were their real mother. I bend to catch Punch. She throws herself at me, wrapping her arms around my neck and crying something about a worm. When she calms down I put her back amongst the commotion of children and slip inside to make sure the fire is still burning before they tumble in, blue and shivering.

  Esther is on a chair, nursing Baby. She sits silently, rocking him while I stoke the fire and stir the broth simmering above it. I add some potatoes, onions and carrots from the garden. I put a bottle of milk in a tin of warm water and adjust the sacks on the floor so no one will trip on them when they run inside. I wait, and still she says nothing.