6

A WEDDING AND A BIRTH

While we were busy working full-time, campaigning in the Vietnam Moratorium movement and having occasional candlelight dinners at the Alcron restaurant or the Villa Franca, I discovered I was pregnant. In the 1960s, doctors would not prescribe the contraceptive pill unless you were married. We both knew the risks and didn’t discuss contraception.

Stuart seemed delighted with the news of my pregnancy. ‘Well, we will have to get married then,’ he said. I don’t know what his dreams were, but mine were brimming. Wife, mother, home and babies – it was all exciting and full of hope. I had my own Prince Charming, my knight in shining armour. Stuart Wynter, my future husband. No-one in the world was happier than me. If he didn’t want to talk about things like love and feelings and dreams, then that was OK. He had many more important things to think about like saving lives, healing people and ending a war. I didn’t intrude into his space, but I suppose I trusted that he shared some of my dreams and loved me. Otherwise he’d have married someone else. I was chosen.

We were married on 29 August 1970 among family and friends. I was twenty and Stuart was twenty-six. The boys wore their Mora-torium badges and the girls wore big hair. Mum’s brother, Uncle Bill, drove us in his gleaming white Ford Fairlane and took the wedding photos in Gregson Park near the church.

We chose the Hamilton Methodist Church because the young minister had marched with us and spoken out against the war. The wedding ceremony was poignant, directed towards us in a personal and lovely way. The minister emphasised our capacity to look beyond our own lives. He said our future looked promising as our relationship was founded on a shared cause, a desire for peace, not just in our own lives but for people elsewhere in the world.

The reception was held at the City Hall, with chef Hans Meyer providing the feast. Feeling deliriously happy and three months pregnant, I prayed my small bump wasn’t too noticeable under my simple white wedding dress.

We caught the train from Newcastle station early next morning to go to Kings Cross for our honeymoon. Our future together stretched out before us. In my excitement I lost a contact lens down the bathroom sink. Too bad! Thinking about it today, I can almost taste the happiness I felt. The perfume and outfit I wore, Stuart’s clean, shaved skin, his leather jacket and good shoes, his beautiful soft hands.

After a short honeymoon we returned to begin our married life in a little rented flat in Church Street, Newcastle, overlooking the harbour. Stuart was busy at the hospital and I worked as a public servant up to the last few weeks of the pregnancy. Neither of us brought much into the marriage in terms of material possessions. Like all young newlyweds, we lived on the love that is shared each evening when intimacy and human contact are one.

But I was startled by an unpleasant incident that occurred towards the end of my pregnancy. I’d already observed that minor things often made Stuart angry, but this was more serious. I was heavily pregnant and had spent a big day preparing for the birth of our first child, so I lay down to rest on the sofa. When Stuart arrived home from work, he asked, ‘What the hell are you doing?’ I didn’t know what to answer and felt very foolish.

I told myself that, being a doctor, he probably didn’t like people around him being tired. Perhaps his mother had complained of aches and pains. I wasn’t sure of the reason for his outburst, but I took care not to rest outside of sleeping hours in his presence again. It was fortunate that I enjoyed an uneventful pregnancy. After the morning sickness and fatigue that accompanied it had subsided, I felt fabulous and loved being pregnant.

Sarah Emily Wynter was born at Woodlands Private Hospital at the end of our street on 15 February 1971, a month before my twenty-first birthday.

Dad by now had acquired Uncle Bill’s beautiful white Ford Fairlane with red leather seats, and he and Mum drove into town to be with me the moment the contractions started. We ate a light lunch and took a leisurely drive around the beaches of Newcastle until it was time to be admitted to hospital. So there I was in the back seat of the Fairlane, enjoying the anticipation with my mum and dad. As the contractions grew longer I was more excited than uncomfortable, having waited nine months for this day.

Mum stayed with me throughout the day, while Stuart stayed on standby from his hospital at the opposite end of the street. Everything is close in Newcastle. Dad sat patiently in the hospital waiting room, waiting for news. My obstetrician decided an epidural was in order. This was an era before such procedures were explained, and before I knew what was happening the needle was in the base of my spine. For the rest of the afternoon I sensed the contractions but felt no pain.

By the time Sarah was delivered by forceps, Stuart was at my side. Fathers were beginning to take an active role in the birth of their children, and Stuart had delivered many babies by the time his daughter was born.

Sarah was small (6 lb 10 oz) and very pretty with fine auburn hair and almond eyes. For some reason all the other babies born that week in the same hospital didn’t look right next to her. I felt very sorry for the other mothers, but kept my opinion to myself. Mum, who was never entirely comfortable sewing and knitting, had made all Sarah’s baby clothes for those first few months. Our perfect little daughter looked exquisite and real at last.

In this private hospital that was once a grand old home high on the hill, I experienced motherhood in luxury. My huge room overlooked the city and harbour. It was more like a five-star hotel than a hospital suite, and I stayed there for a week.

Newborn babies have a smell like nothing I can describe, and my nose was seldom more than an inch from Sarah’s soft cheek. When my milk came, she was hungry and took too much too quickly, then immediately bought it all up in a projectile vomit. It was everywhere. How could a tiny baby hold all that milk? I was in awe, with a miracle in my arms, overwhelmed with a love I hadn’t anticipated.

Each day a white-haired gentleman delivered flowers to my room and wished me well. I later discovered he was Bill Bowmore, a philanthropist and collector of world art, who also owned this little hospital. His own residence was across the road, and he often opened it to the public so that people could view his art treasures, with original Rodin sculptures on the mantels and paintings by classic masters on the walls.

We took Sarah home and settled her into her own little nursery at the back of the flat. The morning sun flooded her room and sparkled on the water in the harbour. At any time of the day or night, I could watch the tugboats and ferries while I fed her.

Stuart called her his little nog and sat her up on top of the fridge in our kitchen. He insisted on the most expensive fancy bassinette from David Jones. It was covered in beautiful white lace, fit for the little princess she was. The Hebrew meaning of Sarah is ‘Noble Princess’, and I still tease her about sensing a pea under 27 mattresses.

She was an easy baby, sleeping all night, never unduly upset or anxious. I loved her more than anything I could have imagined and whiled away the hours cuddling, smelling, touching and adoring her. Every moment spent with her was special – feeding, bathing, sleeping, strolling, talking and watching each second unfold with wonder.

We didn’t own a car, so we carried her everywhere in a blue papoose, walking up and down the hills of Newcastle. She often fell asleep with her head on a little tea-tree pillow.

One day I’d been shopping at David Jones and had a heavy load of groceries, so I caught a taxi up the steep hill. As I was alighting from the taxi, I bumped Sarah’s head slightly on the door, enough to make her cry. As soon as we got inside, I set the papoose down on the settee, knelt down in front of her and said ‘I’m sorry, sweetheart. I didn’t mean to hurt you.’ She stopped crying and smiled at me with tears still wet on her face. My heart felt it would burst with love for her.

The first time Stuart and I went out for dinner after her birth, Stuart’s mother Eve babysat for us at her home in Mayfield. I had all bases covered: breast milk, nappies, boiled water and soft toys. In the middle of dinner, the thought occurred to me that a meteor might hit her grandmother’s house. It was a relief to pick her up and have her back in my arms. I was totally responsible for another human life, but it felt good.