The Day She Cradled Me Page 4

  ‘I am on my way to the Arrow, Mrs Dean. Where might you and the little baby be travelling?’

  ‘To Gore, Miss Hill.’

  ‘To Gore? But surely you know there is no connection to Gore today.’

  I catch my breath. Surely I could not have made such a terrible mistake. Now I shall end up miles north and it will be impossible to keep my schedule.

  Davies is passing through the carriage and Miss Hill puts up her arm to stop him. ‘Isn’t it true there is no train to Gore today?’

  ‘Quite correct.’ He creases his brow, as though proud to be asked such a question. ‘There’s no train to Gore until the Lumsden passage this evening.’

  I cannot believe my foolishness. ‘Is it not possible I might break my journey up ahead in Dipton?’ I ask. I would rather spend a week joined by the ankle to Esther than be trapped with this child and Lottie Hill. ‘I could wait there and board the Lumsden train when it comes through tonight.’

  ‘That would be truly kind, sir,’ Miss Lottie Hill adds, ‘helping out a lady so.’

  Davies’ cheeks blush. ‘Well, Mrs Dean, usually you would not be disposed to break the journey under twenty miles,’ his mouth widens into a smile, ‘but in this case, I daresay it would be all right.’

  I sink back into the plush cushions. They are a great deal softer than our wooden chairs at home. My back and neck are most appreciative, even if it is only for a short spell.

  At Dipton we alight into the sunshine and I make my way towards a gentleman standing alongside the platform.

  ‘Sir, would you carry my box to the hotel?’

  ‘Don’t you have anyone here to meet you?’

  ‘No, we’re waiting for the evening train to Lumsden.’

  He nods. As we walk he introduces himself as Thomas Baker and tells me that he is a painter. ‘Where did you come from?’ he asks.

  More questions. ‘Off the boat.’

  He has a friendly smile. ‘I’ll take you over to Aylin’s Hotel. Got a parlour there. Plenty of grub.’

  It would be foolish to offer him sixpence; instead I offer to buy him a glass of ale.

  ‘Shall I come back for your things?’ Thomas Baker asks, opportunity dawning on him. ‘Say six-thirty?’

  The child is ill. She is sometimes asleep, but mostly awake. She makes the most terrible whining sound, I dare not leave her. Meals I take in the parlour. I try to make her eat. She swallows carrot and meat but continues to cry. One of the servants offers to take her. I refuse.

  By six-thirty in the evening I am worn out, and still the child Carter cries miserably. I fear she suffers a severe illness. Worse still, the woman in Gore will be unlikely to take her in this state. Lord knows what I shall do.

  Thomas Baker retrieves us as promised and carries the box back to the train. ‘Have yourself a safe journey, ma’am.’ He clutches my coins and disappears back towards the hotel.

  I have the first-class carriage to myself. Carefully I lay the child Carter on a cushion beside me, almost crying with relief to see she is asleep. I give the guard my ticket. Outside it is dark; my face, tired and haggard, hovers in the window. The guard hurriedly reaches to draw the curtain.

  ‘Are you warm enough, madam?’

  I thank him, and he retreats into second class. Slowly, so as not to awaken her, I remove my cloak and place it over the child. She is like an angel now, so peaceful and content, such a blessed contrast to when she is conscious. Hopefully when she awakens she will be happier, and we shall spend a pleasant night in Lumsden. And tomorrow everything will be fine, and I can leave her in Gore and carry on for the baby Hornsby as planned.

  I sit back in my seat and take the Family Reader out of the box. Too tired to concentrate, I skip past the articles — I will read those later — and look instead at the advertisements, in particular those selling plants, for I think I might spend a little of the money I receive tomorrow on one or two to brighten up the garden. A few pansies would be nice, especially near the cottage door. Mrs Porteous always does well with pansies. I quite fancy yellows, and maybe reds or oranges. Dean can’t object to my spending just a small amount on something cheerful. After all, he will be so grateful to see me arrive home childless, surely he will overlook a small expenditure. Not that I will necessarily tell him. And I most certainly deserve a small treat.

  I glance over to make sure the child is still sleeping. What luck she has chosen the train journey to calm herself.

  I stop and sit forward.

  Her face is pale and grey.

  I touch her.

  She is still. She is not moving.

  I touch her face. It is cool.

  I put my hand to her lips. I cannot feel breath.

  My chest tightens and my fingers are tingling.

  I lean down and put my cheek to her mouth.

  There is no warmth. I cannot feel anything.

  I shake her gently, then harder and harder.

  I cannot wake her.

  I cannot wake her.

  I cannot wake her.

  Oh, God.

  The child is dead.

  Dear Lord, what have I done? What have I done? Dear Lord, please help me. Dear Lord.

  I force myself to breathe. Breathe. Breathe.

  The child is dead.

  Dear Lord, please help me.

  Voices.

  Dear Lord, the guard!

  He mustn’t see. Dear Lord. The child is dead. Dead.

  I can’t breathe. The voices are growing louder. The guard. Dear Lord. The guard. The child is dead. The guard. The guard mustn’t see her. The guard mustn’t see her.

  The guard mustn’t see her.

  Hide the child. The child is dead. Dear Lord, the child is dead and the guard mustn’t see her.

  My hands are trembling and I cannot open the hatbox. I can’t open the box. Open, please open!

  The child is dead, dear Lord, put her in the box, the guard mustn’t see her, the guard mustn’t see her, dear Lord, oh, God, the child is dead and I have to put her little body in this box, and I want to cry and to scream, and the child is dead, and I have to put her in this box because she is dead and the guard mustn’t see her and I can hear his voice, and my hands are trembling and I don’t want to close the lid on her pretty face, dear Lord, the child is dead and she is in the box, the dead child is in the box …

  I close my eyes and the guard passes through. He does not ask where the child is. He thinks I am asleep. But I will not sleep. I will not sleep. Because, dear Lord, the child is dead and I have put her pretty face in my hatbox.

  Please help me.

  I get out at Lumsden station. There is a boy standing on the platform.

  ‘Please. Carry my hatbox to Crosbie’s Hotel. I can’t manage.’

  He nods.

  It takes him two attempts to lift it.

  At the hotel a woman answers the door. The boy who carried the hatbox drops it with a thud and holds out his hand to me. I give him sixpence. It is all I can do.

  ‘We … please, can I sleep here the night? My train, it has just arrived …’

  ‘Certainly, madam, though I think the maid has finished. Mrs Healey may still be here.’ She turns to a boy standing behind her. There is a cut across his cheek. ‘Willie, make yourself useful and go look in the kitchen. See if Cook is there.’

  He disappears off behind a door and returns with a large frowning woman.

  ‘Mrs Healey, please show Mrs … er?’

  ‘Dean.’

  ‘Right, please show Mrs Dean upstairs to bedroom number one. Good night, Mrs Dean. If there is anything you need, let Cook know, and she will happily fetch it for you.’

  I follow the grumbling cook up the stairs.

  ‘What have you got in ’ere? Iron bars? Christ it’s ’eavy. Maid’s work this. I ain’t no maid. I’s a bleeding cook’s what I is. Maid. Hmph. Christ it’s ’eavy.’

  I lock the door and lift the hatbox onto the bed. My throat is dry; I cannot swallow. My hands shake. Slowly
— slowly — slowly — I open the lid. I reach inside. I snatch my hand back — her body is stiffening. She is asleep. Her eyes are closed. Her eyes are blue. Her eyes are blue but they are closed. I cannot see her eyes. I will not see her eyes, her pretty blue eyes. Her eyes are closed and her body is soft but she is not asleep. She is not asleep.

  The child is dead.

  I prise her from the box and lie her on the bed. Her body stays curved. She is asleep. She is asleep. I cover her with the bedspread; I do not want her to get cold. She may awaken and begin to cry again, and I have had such trouble with her these past days. The pretty blue bedspread matches her eyes. I could sit her here in the morning and play with her, keep her amused so she does not cry before the train to Gore. I do not want those pretty blue eyes to cry. She is so pretty when she is asleep. So pretty.

  So pretty.

  I stroke her face with my fingers.

  It is cold.

  The child is dead.

  The child is dead.

  The child is dead.

  I will not sleep tonight.

  If the police discover this, I will be done. I must not arouse suspicion. Continue as though nothing has happened and I will be all right. I will be all right. No one need know anything. I will tell them at home the child was delivered to the woman in Gore as planned. I will collect the child Hornsby and deliver her. As arranged. No one need know. I will be all right. As long as I do not arouse suspicion I will be all right.

  I put the child in the hatbox and padlock it closed so it will not be disturbed. I must forget what is inside and carry on as usual and not arouse suspicion. I could not stand another inquest. There will not be another inquest. The hatbox is locked. I will carry on as before, I will not arouse suspicion. I will be all right.

  Next morning I leave the box in my room and venture out. There is sunshine on my face; people smile and say good day. I smile back. As though nothing has happened. There is no reason for anyone to find me odd. They see a woman in a fine dress and hat. She is smiling. They have no cause to think she has a dead baby in her hatbox.

  There is no baby in my hatbox in my room. I believe it. I believe it. I will behave normally and deal with it later and no one will ever know and there will be no inquest.

  I will be all right. I will be all right.

  At the Telegraph Office I wire Mrs Hornsby that I will be later than agreed. I purchase a shilling stamp and return to the hotel, where I ask for paper, pen and ink, and write out the receipt.

  I feel better. I can do this. I have a plan.

  It is the real maid this time that carries down the things from my room. She tells me her name is Evelyn, which I say is a very pretty name. I do not tell her my own. She struggles to get the hatbox down the stairs. I want to carry the hatbox to the train myself because I am tired of being told it is heavy. But Mrs Crosbie insists Willie do it for me to keep him out of any more trouble, and I follow his small stumbling figure as he lugs it across to the station.

  Throughout the journey between Lumsden and Gore a thick fog is descended upon me. I can’t think. I can’t feel. A sign sits upon my hatbox: Did you know there is a dead baby in here?

  At Gore my hatbox and I transfer onto the Dunedin Express, and the next part of my journey is under way. My funds are low; I have opted for second class. A long-limbed man who looks like a mantis sits across from me, staring around the carriage with large accusing eyes. I swear he is watching me.

  It would be impossible to manage the hatbox and do business with Mrs Hornsby, so four miles south of our meeting place I get off the train and leave the hatbox secure in the stationmaster’s room. It does not seem proper that I should collect the child Hornsby whilst there is what there is inside the hatbox. I transfer back to first class, thankfully leaving the insect man behind, though it is with a pounding heart and trembling hand that I board again and continue without the box.

  It is not difficult to identify Mrs Hornsby. She is waiting with the baby on the Milburn station platform, her long nose protruding and her hair pulled sharply back from her face. Her eyebrows are drawn so tight they almost meet in the centre: she reminds me of Esther.

  She thrusts the tiny baby at me, and steers me back towards the train.

  With not even a glance at the whimpering child, she leads me to where we board. ‘You will do me the favour of travelling with me to the next station.’ Settling herself in the carriage she tells me she has the money with her, and I can send the receipt.

  ‘But I have it here,’ I tell her as she hands me the envelope. ‘Where can I write to you?’

  Her eyes widen with horror. It had not occurred to her we would communicate once this was over. ‘Oh, well, er, address your correspondence to the Dunedin Post Office, if you must.’ She catches my look of surprise and says, ‘I am going backwards and forwards. It is much simpler.’ Her mouth pinches up; she still does not look at the crying child.

  I have seen many separations between people and their babes. I can tell she will not be sorry to say goodbye to this one.

  ‘The child has been placed out to nurse,’ she adds, as if in afterthought. ‘When I went to collect her, the woman had nothing ready.’ She gives me two parcels wrapped in paper. ‘Oh, and the name is Eva.’ She looks down the bridge of her nose at me now, and if she could wipe her hands together and make both the baby and me disappear she would. Her work is done.

  With the baby in my arms I struggle to put straps around the parcels, and have only just secured one when the train jerks to a halt, throwing me off balance. Mrs Hornsby does not help and stares out the window. With haste I carry the baby and parcels out of the train. If I am not quick, I will end up on my way to Dunedin.

  I am barely off the step and onto ground when the train pulls out. Mrs Hornsby is gone. But the little baby is not. Whatever I have done to deserve another crying child, particularly at this point, I do not know, and now I see that I have alighted the wrong side onto the gravel rather than the platform, such was my hurry. I shall have to make my way to the shelter shed across the tracks where I can wait for the train back to Milton.

  The child Hornsby is crying bitterly. There is a bottle in the parcel and I try to get her to suck the teat, but she will not. I don’t know what is wrong with her. I’ve made her warm, and she is still too young to know that where one has left another now stands.

  I remove the teat from the bottle and draw some milk up the tube. The milk is ice cold. How dare that woman be so callous as to give me nothing but this for such a tiny babe — she’d have known full well how far I have to travel before I can get something else for her. If she were here right now I would slap that pointed snout southwards. I cuddle the crying child and wonder how long it has been since she has fed, given the state of her bottle.

  At last her crying turns to a whimper, then that too dies down to nothing. She must be exhausted to fall asleep like this while her belly still aches.

  My train can’t be far away, but I seize the chance to tie my bundles more securely so that they’ll be easier to transport when we stop. I lay the child gently on the bench, spread the shawl on the ground, and place the two paper parcels inside ready to wrap into one bundle. In the distance I hear someone whistling and I look over at the child. If she awakens during the journey I have nothing to give her to make her sleep and will have to do what I can to keep her quiet. Dear Lord, this is not what I need tonight of all nights.

  I glance over to make sure she is not waking.

  The hairs along the back of my neck bristle.

  I do not like the way she is sleeping. She is still.

  Too still.

  I shudder. She reminds me of the child Carter.

  I reach out to touch her.

  This could not happen again. This can’t happen to me twice.

  Dear God, He would not punish me such.

  The whistling is growing louder. I poke the baby Hornsby with my fingers. She does not stir. She is not stirring and I cannot feel breath against my ha
nd.

  Oh, dear Lord. She must be dead. She is dead!

  I try to breathe calmly but a person is approaching, I can hear footsteps. I know what to do. I know what to do. I close my mind and watch my arms as they lift the baby down onto the shawl and my hands as they close cloth firmly around the parcels. My eyes do not see the baby; I keep my gaze on my fingers as I pull the fabric tightly around the lump and fasten the straps. In a moment I am up and seated on the bench just as a man appears in the door.

  ‘Evening, ma’am. Cold one we’re having. Early winter this year?’

  He is grinning. He did not see anything. I am all right. I am all right.

  I take two quick breaths. I make my lips smile. ‘It certainly seems so.’

  He tips his hat and disappears. His footsteps grow quiet.

  I can’t move.

  Less than ten minutes in my care and now dead.

  I can’t think. I am on the train and almost at Milton. I am carrying a dead baby and need to collect my hatbox. With a dead baby inside. Dear Lord, this cannot be real. Dead baby. Dead baby. I try to think. Think, think!

  I will collect my hatbox and get to Clinton. Then I will see what I must do. Get the hatbox. Get the hatbox.

  The train pulls up; I am so relieved to find my hatbox untouched I could cry. I pick up the box, carry it to the carriage, place it on the seat. My head pounds like an iron hammer. Nothing is wrong. Behave like nothing is wrong. I will be all right.

  I wait until the guard has passed and quickly open the parcel and hatbox. There is room enough and I try not to think of what I am doing as I hastily transfer the body of the child Hornsby into the hatbox. Close it … Padlock it shut … Tie it with string … Rewrap the shawl parcel … Put on the straps …

  At Clinton a gentleman takes the hatbox from me and puts it in the stationmaster’s room. Its contents will rest easier than I will tonight.

  Next morning it is well before six that I leave for Mataura. On arrival I stumble my way to Fielding’s Hotel, my thoughts unfocused and much of my body numb. Mrs Fielding is speaking to me but the room is spinning and I can’t retain her words long enough to decipher them. I nod when she nods. I smile when she smiles. Sigh when she sighs. I put the breakfast food she has prepared into my mouth and force myself to chew, but I am dry and nearly choke upon the swallow.