The Day She Cradled Me Read online

  ‘None more so …’ Her voice drifts away. ‘It would hurt her deeply to see what has become of me.’

  ‘We cannot alter the past, Mrs Dean. Only the future.’

  Her chest heaves. ‘When I was growing up, I wanted to be like her.’

  ‘A natural desire for a daughter.’

  ‘No matter how hard I tried —’ She stops. ‘But you don’t want to hear the trifling of a child.’

  ‘On the contrary.’

  She glances back at the fire and for some time does not speak. Her eyes seem filled with memory, pondering … what? Her childhood? Youth? Things more disturbing?

  I rise and pour a mug of water. I must not rush her, for it will do no good.

  God walks beside me. And the woman will speak when she is ready.

  Minnie

  Invercargill Gaol

  Tuesday 28 May 1895

  The Reverend wants me to confess.

  I see it on his brow; the furrows pull together like a pair of knitting needles, in and out, in and out. He is a handsome man — if I may think so of a man of the cloth: around the same age as I, most like, for his hair gives that away, disappearing back from his forehead and touched with grey.

  My heart is lonely. I should enquire whether he has made contact with the children, but fear of his response swallows my voice. I can barely wait until I am freed. I will spend the rest of my days in gratitude to Mr Hanlon, for he and Mr Hanan are representing me without charge, and they will win the case, I am sure, for I am without guilt. But for now I must endure this most tormenting of sufferings, trapped within these cold stone walls, separated from Punch and Arthur and the others.

  I lower my head to pray, but my mind is distracted. It has been a long time since I have thought of my early days in Scotland. What would Mother, the most devout Christian I have known, think if she were to see me here, under lock and key, accused of infanticide?

  The Reverend pours himself water and brings me a cup. If he wants to hear my story, then he shall, for I have nothing to keep from him. The truth is simple. Trouble finds me no matter where I hide. It always has. It follows me about like an old cattle dog, ears pricked and tail wagging, until I have no choice but to bend down and scratch its miserable rump.

  I close my eyes. My mother’s face lingers just beyond reach like a whisper in the wind. I try to recall it, to catch hold of her memory and tame it, put it in a cage to bring out when my heart is broke. Bella. She is there, and then gone. And then they are all there, captured in my mind, and I am frightened to open my eyes lest I lose them.

  Where are we? A church … Yes, the West Church, in Greenock, and I am there, about three or maybe four years of age, seated upon the rear pew and trying to sit perfectly upright, like Mother. My hair is pulled back in a chignon beneath my bonnet, but the pins hurt and I keep reaching up to rub at my head.

  I wriggle about on my seat, trying to see past the boy in front; I am sure his head is covered in that mass of curls purposely to annoy me. How tragic if finally the woman appears and all I can see of her is the tip of her head. Unless, of course, it has horns. Then I could say I’ve seen proof.

  ‘It’s your fault,’ Janet whispers, pinching me as she pushes past.

  ‘Williamina.’ Father hisses my name. ‘You have made us all disrespectful to God. Just you remember to pray for forgiveness.’

  I rub my arm. I am constantly praying for forgiveness. This time I’ve made us late and we’ve been forced to sit right here at the back, all for the sake of these annoying shoes. I wriggle my toes uncomfortably, making a soft squelching sound. The mud has pooled inside them, and I wonder if God is punishing me by making me sit still for so long with cold wet feet and itchy stockings, unable to move or speak to anyone. And I need to pee.

  I cross my legs and look down at my dress. Mother made it for my birthday. It is as blue as the sky on a sunny day, and has a white apron with tiny flowers embroidered about the edges. It is the prettiest dress I have ever worn, and I reach down to smooth the fabric over my legs, wondering how many times I will feel its softness, for the Sabbath is the single day I’m allowed to wear it and already it is tightening.

  Breathing in, I turn my head to the side and sneak a glance at Mother, only to find her head bowed in prayer beside Father. On further inspection I find almost every head in the room is bowed; I can look up freely without anybody noticing. The boy in front is struggling to sit still. He turns round to look at me and sticks out his tongue. He pulls down the bottom of his eyes and looks upwards, leaving only the whites of his eyeballs showing.

  I reach up and pull at my own eyelids, then poke out my tongue in reply. I’m very proud of my tongue. If I get it right, I can touch the tip of my nose with it. The boy tries to do the same, but he has to use his fingers to help make it reach, which is cheating.

  ‘Freddie McPhee,’ his mother scolds, catching him in the act, ‘turn back this instant.’

  It’s an enormous church. All the pews are full, and people are still coming in, taking their places in the aisle and standing three or four deep at the back. Late as we were, at least we arrived in time for a seat. I hate to think how cross Father would’ve been otherwise.

  ‘Minnie,’ Bella whispers, ‘stop swinging your feet. Father will get angry.’

  I bring my feet to an abrupt halt and steal another glance down the pew, past Bella, Janet and Elizabeth, to where Father sits with his head still bowed. I pull at my sister’s arm.

  ‘When is she coming?’

  ‘Shhh darling.’ Aunt Christina pats my knee. ‘It won’t be long.’

  Reverend McCulloch towers beside an empty stool at the front of the altar. I have the same last name as him, but I’m glad we’re not related: he’s far too scary to face more than once a week and easier to anger, even, than Father was when he realised I’d left my shoes behind and we’d have to go back.

  Suddenly I have a dreadful thought.

  Does that make me wicked? Will I be next? Do they put bad little girls who forget their shoes and are disrespectful to God on the stool? Is that what this woman has done? Forgotten her shoes?

  ‘Look! Here she comes!’

  ‘There she is!’

  I dare not look at Father. He warned me last night to watch closely lest I ever be tempted to the wickedness myself, and now look what I’ve done.

  Before the woman has even come out.

  ‘Aunt Christina, I want to go home,’ I say, but I’m cut short by voices and movement. On my seat and gripped by fear, I snap my eyes shut and cling to my sister’s hand as tightly as I can.

  ‘I can see her. Look, Minnie!’ Bella pulls at my arm. ‘Come on, look! Look!’

  What is she like? Is she hairy? Does she drip blood? Do they have her in chains, like Elizabeth said?

  Swallowing hard, I force open my eyes.

  And there she is.

  The wicked woman.

  ‘Whore!’

  ‘Bitch!’

  ‘Slut!’

  The shouts grow louder; feet stomp on the wooden floor, their vibration travels up through the pew and across my shoulders.

  Aunt Christina pulls my head into her chest.

  ‘Harlot!’

  ‘Wench!’

  I push myself right into Aunt Christina. Her strong arms bind around me, hiding my face and muffling the sounds.

  ‘Hush! Quiet!’ The Reverend’s voice booms loud and strong. ‘I’ll have none of this! None of this in the house of God! Remember where you are. We must listen to the words of the wicked for repentance!’

  Slowly the room is hushed and I pull back my head. A tall slim girl, barefoot and dressed in old sacking, climbs the steps towards the stool. She turns towards us, pale and shaking. Her long dark hair is pulled away from her face, and her white hands cradle her swollen belly.

  ‘Child,’ the Reverend says, ‘what do you say for yourself? What words do you have for God the Almighty that He might once more take you into His heart and forgive you your evil doings
?’

  The words vile, wicked and sin float thick like black smoke.

  The girl, for I no longer see a wicked woman, searches anxiously amongst us. Her eyes drop; the sadness on her face deepens. ‘I …’ she says, ‘I have been terribly wicked —’

  ‘Quiet!’ thunders the Reverend into the uproar. ‘Listen and hear, listen and hear!’

  We are silent. ‘I … I have led another astray,’ the girl says. She stares long and deep into the crowd. ‘I have committed the sin of fornication …’ I close my eyes as the chaos erupts. ‘… And for that I must be punished …’

  My face presses into Aunt Christina’s shoulder; I hear horse hooves clatter and cart wheels rattle past.

  ‘Chrissie, I can’t believe you’re doing it,’ Mother says. ‘Are you completely sure?’

  ‘Beth, look about you. I’ve never been surer.’

  A dog barks. A door slams.

  ‘You really shouldn’t carry Minnie,’ Mother says, ‘not in your condition.’

  ‘I’ll be fine. Though perhaps your good husband might care to explain?’

  I peer out. Mother is shifting the baby to her other shoulder.

  ‘You can’t choose your days of worship,’ she says.

  ‘But the child’s still shaking.’

  ‘She’s got to learn.’

  ‘She’s not gone four. She’s a babe.’

  Mother sighs. ‘The world holds many temptations. She could be led astray if not taught early.’

  I shudder. Why aren’t I like my sisters? I didn’t mean to be wicked, truly I didn’t. It was excitement that made me forget my shoes. Father won’t put me on the stool. Will he?

  ‘Scotland’s no place to raise bairns, Beth, especially not in the city. Your privy, it’s overflowed with dung. The young ’uns play in that muck.’ I hold tightly as Aunt Christina bends to retrieve the hem of her skirt. ‘And I’m not surprised you don’t hang your wash out no more. You’d get better air from the back end of our cow.’

  ‘Christina!’

  It’s been an age since the privies were emptied — I’ve heard Mother talking about them with Old Widow Laird. Old Widow Laird has skin like leather and eyes that look different ways. Mother says she knows a thing or two about everything, stood in her doorway most of the day, watching. Janet says she’s out catching bairns to cook in her pot. Janet’s even seen the pot. Father says Old Widow Laird is full of the drink and not to be trusted, but I like her. Sometimes she gives me a boiled sweet when no one’s looking.

  Aunt Christina coughs. ‘There’ll be none of this foul smoke,’ she says. ‘Nor lots of folk, neither. Nothing but open fields, fresh air and water close by. It took three visits to the well yesterday morn, and I had your Elizabeth with me. We were lined up in mud half the day.’

  ‘We’ll be moved by next year,’ Mother says. ‘You’ll still be here then, won’t you?’

  Aunt Christina shakes her head. ‘Our passage is booked. We set sail November twenty-third.’

  ‘But that’s not four months hence. Dear Lord, what about yourself? You’ll be going eight months.’

  Aunt Christina lowers me down over her bump. ‘Come now, Minnie, you’ll have to walk the rest of the way. I’m not ready to have this bairn yet, and you’re a mite heavy.’

  Up ahead Father strides on towards our close; my sisters run to keep pace. I wish Bella had stayed with me so she could hold my hand. I am small between these two rows of tall blackened buildings, their bricks, dirt and smoke.

  ‘New Zealand,’ Mother says, ‘it sounds so far away.’

  ‘It’s beautiful, Beth. Acres of green grass, blue skies, plenty of land for a big home. And a garden, Beth. Can you imagine it?’

  Bella and Janet once took me past a street like that. Every family lives in their own building, big enough to fit our entire tenement, which is seven families. Janet says each one has at least a hundred rooms and the people who live there pay other people money to do all their work for them, to dress them and do their hair, and even to empty their pots. They don’t have to worry about remembering their shoes.

  ‘John would have no trouble finding work. It’s assured before you even board ship.’

  Mother bites her lip. ‘There won’t be a railway there.’ She looks in Father’s direction, but he has disappeared inside the close.

  ‘Ask him, Beth.’

  ‘He won’t consider it.’

  ‘Then he’s a selfish fool.’ Aunt Christina presses her lips together.

  ‘Christina! Not in front of people.’ Mother’s eyes drift to me, but I don’t mind; I’ve heard it before. ‘Leave it be, for my sake. Please, don’t stir up trouble. It’s wonderful you are with us, even this short time, and now you’re leaving for good —’

  I reach up to grasp her free hand. Doesn’t she know I’ll look after her? I can do almost everything my sisters can; I won’t let anything happen to her … ‘What is it, Minnie?’

  I drop her hand.

  I hadn’t meant to annoy her.

  I wasn’t thinking.

  I blurt out the first thing that comes to me. ‘I need to pee.’

  The close is dark and I have to blink. All I can think of is reaching my pot in time. I push past Mother’s skirts and run up the stairs. I look first under my cot and then around Janet and Elizabeth’s pulley; I am so focused on my pot I don’t notice Father by the window until I have pushed past him.

  ‘What do you have to say for yourself?’

  I open my mouth to speak, but can find no voice.

  ‘Yes?’ his voice is rising. ‘Look at me when I am speaking to you.’

  My legs wobble. I lift my gaze from Father’s heavy boots, up his trouser legs, past his huge chest to the bottom of his thick curling beard. With every ounce of effort I can muster, I look to his eyes.

  ‘John? For goodness sake, hasn’t the poor child been terrorised enough for one day?’

  He turns his glare to Aunt Christina. ‘This is not your business.’

  ‘Christina, please,’ Mother says.

  Father looks back at me. ‘Williamina McCulloch? What do say for yourself?’

  ‘Stop this nonsense at once.’ Aunt Christina crosses the floor to stand in front of him. ‘The child has done no wrong.’

  ‘She brought disrepute upon this family.’

  ‘What absolute nonsense, she has done nothing of the sort.’

  ‘She shamed us in the face of God.’

  ‘She forgot her shoes. Even God would not chastise a child who forgot to put on her shoes.’

  I can hear my father grinding his teeth. ‘You rude and disrespectful woman, how dare you contradict me in my own home? In front of my family? Dugald may not be man enough to stand up to your insolence, but I will not tolerate it.’ He reaches around her and wrenches my arm towards the door. ‘In this family we know the difference between good and evil. We know right from wrong, and we know that for our sins we will be punished.’ He reaches for his belt.

  ‘Get your hands off her!’ I am pulled from my father’s grasp, over the bump and onto Aunt Christina’s hip.

  ‘Please,’ Mother says.

  ‘Get her out of my house!’ Father steps backwards and knocks over a chair. ‘Both of them. I don’t want to look at them. Get them out. Out!’

  Aunt Christina stares at Father, then turns. She carries me onto the landing, down the stairs and out onto the street.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say. My eyes sting with tears.

  ‘You needn’t be sorry. It was none of it your fault.’

  But that’s not what I mean. I’ve sinned again.

  I’ve made a big pee mark on her dress.

  ‘Min, are you all right?’ Bella’s hand reaches beneath the covers. ‘Look under your pillow.’

  I reach for the crust of bread she has left me. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I saved it for you at supper. I hid it under my skirts until Father came to fetch you.’

  We lie together in darkness; our feet are tangled tog
ether like strands of rope. Bella’s, then mine, then Bella’s, then mine.

  ‘Bell?’

  ‘Hmm?’

  ‘Why was that lady on the stool?’

  Bella rolls onto her side. ‘It was her bump.’

  I try to make sense of Bella’s answer. It can’t possibly be true, because Aunt Christina has a bump, and Mother used to have a really big one, and neither of them has been put on the stool.

  I climb out of bed.

  ‘Min,’ Bella whispers. ‘Min? What are you doing? If Father sees —’

  ‘It’s all right.’ I climb back into the cot and wriggle over, reaching for her hand. ‘Everything’s all right now, Bell.’

  ‘What are you talking about? Min? Have you got your shoes on in bed?’

  I tuck my knees up under my chin and smile into the darkness.

  I will never, ever forget to wear my shoes again.

  ‘I can’t see a thing,’ Bella says. ‘How will we find her?’

  The ground is dirty slush. We follow closely after the hem of Mother’s black skirt as she weaves this way and that about the dock; my boots are soiled with muck. We dodge clusters of people, duck in and out of stacked boxes. When the Philip Laing appears, I drop Bella’s hand and stare upwards at the three long masts. White sails are tied up — they look like Mother’s petticoats hung by the fire to dry, all joined by a tangle of ropes. Do they keep going up past the sky? Is there a special chair at the top? Janet says there is. Maybe it’s like Queen Victoria’s throne, with red velvet and gold edging.

  ‘Minnie? Are you there? Hurry up, will you?’

  I follow Elizabeth along the edge of the wharf, trying my best not to trip over ropes lying loose in the mud. Men are shouting and lifting crates, carrying boxes across the plank of wood to the ship, grunting like pigs. Now and then I glance at the ship’s round windows and smile at the faces peeking out. They look like little mice staring out from their holes, scared and excited, all at the same time.

  Mother’s black skirt is covered in tiny wet lines, like spiders’ webs. I hold out my arm — there’s a layer of them on my own dress. I wipe the sleeve with my glove, making lines. ‘Look,’ I say.