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Heading south, rushing towards a new life she wasn’t ready for, the train whistle was too cheerful for Meg’s mood as she looked through the window. Cane fields and small settlements and occasional glimpses of a distant blue ocean passed by beyond the window frame, but nothing lightened her low spirits.
Although, she reminded herself, Doc had managed to arrange ‘leave’ from duty for her to travel to Brisbane for ‘medical treatment’. With any other superior officer—she supposed that included everyone who hadn’t proposed to her—she’d have been sent away as soon as her pregnancy had become known. For that, she must be grateful. Given the expectation that a woman would be married before she had a child, most didn’t have a choice to keep working once they were married.
Except army nurses.
Was that meant to include nurses in other arms of the services?
Frowning, she took out and unfolded the newspaper cutting Mum had clipped from the Newcastle Morning Herald and Miners’ Advocate from mid-June:
MARRIED ARMY NURSES
CAN KEEP JOBS
MELBOURNE
Tuesday. - Australian Army nurses who are already married or who marry while in the service may retain their appointments in the A.A.N.S., provided their marriage does not interfere with the performance of their normal nursing duties.
This was announced to-day by the Minister for the Army (Mr. Forde).
Previously, the appointment of a member of the A.A.N.S. who married or was found to be married was terminated.
Under the new arrangement, army nurses may retain their appointments at the discretion of the Director-General Medical Services.
The report was unclear, but if she could find care for her child, she would return to Townsville. Doc had gone out on a limb for her, so she supposed he really didn’t want to lose her. She thought of his proposal again, and about how willing he was to marry her if Seamus didn’t return.
Still no letter had arrived, but she consoled herself with the thought that neither had she received a telegram regretfully informing her of his death.
‘Excuse me, miss, do you have your ticket?’ The raspy voice came from a ticket inspector in an old-fashioned cutaway coat.
‘Yes.’ Meg ferreted through her handbag, certain she’d put the ticket in her purse. ‘It’s here somewhere.’ Unable to find it amongst the coins and a couple of one-pound notes, in a moment of anxious annoyance she upended the contents into her lap. ‘Here it is. Sorry.’
‘A nice cup of tea helps settle the nerves, miss. Just head down that way to the dining car.’ The inspector pointed towards the next carriage, touched the brim of his hat in a polite but very un-army salute and moved onto the next row of passengers.
Muttering softly to herself, Meg tidied her bag and snapped the clasp shut. ‘Settles the nerves indeed. What does he think I am?’ She was proud of her uniform, and her rank in the RAAFNS had been earned, like any serving soldier. Why did most men—Doc not included—insist on treating women as weak creatures?
When did I become so bolshie?
Her mother would look askance were Meg to express such views, but Gerry would agree and cheer her on.
Deciding she needed to stretch her legs and get out of her own head, Meg set off for the dining car. If Don Newton hadn’t recommended a no alcohol diet, she’d have ordered a Whisky Sour and sat sipping it as the ticket inspector worked his way through the carriage. Maybe she’d have raised it in a mock toast to him and said something sophisticated like, ‘Real women prefer whisky’.
The silly image cheered her, as did an egg sandwich, and she decided she’d follow Gerry’s recommendation of several smaller meals more often in the day.
Gerry—did I make the right choice?
Doc had accepted her recommendation of Gerry to fill her shoes while she was away, but Catherine had seemed a little disappointed when the announcement was made yesterday. On paper, Meg hadn’t been able to select one set of skills above the other. In the end, her instinct—perhaps swayed by their close friendship? —led her to choose Gerry.
‘Can I get you anything else, miss?’ The attendant removed her plate and nodded at her empty Queensland Railways mug. ‘Another cuppa, on the house?’
‘Yes please. That’d be lovely. Do you know when we’ll get into Brisbane?’
Her mug was filled and the oversized QR teapot set down before she got her answer. ‘Well, generally the powers-that-be claim it takes forty-eight hours. Our top speed is thirty-five miles per hour, so that’s probably right, but there are often delays at switch points. We have to give way to northbound military trains of course.’
‘Of course.’ Meg sipped her drink. The tea was well and truly stewed, stronger than she normally liked, but it was hot and wet and all that mattered right now. ‘What about Ambulance trains? Are they allowed to pass us?’
The attendant shrugged. ‘You’d hope so, but I don’t know.’
Another passenger raised an imperious finger for attention and Meg was left alone.
Back in her allocated seat, Meg tried to concentrate on her new novel, delivered in the most recent care package from her mother. But her thoughts rambled and even Agatha Christie’s Evil Under the Sun couldn’t hold her attention. It dropped into her lap and she turned to the window, watching the long day pass into a gradual fading into night.
***
Meg had almost reached the river end of Brunswick Street when she stopped to check the address on the slip of paper. The second to last house was a beautiful Queenslander set high on stumps with bull-nosed roofing shading wide, deep verandas around which Cupids frolicked in wrought iron railings. If this was her destination, Gerry’s aunt must be well to do.
The address matched the street number on the letterbox and Meg looked more closely at the home. How wonderfully cool it would be sitting out on the veranda in the summer heat.
If Gerry’s aunt has room for me.
Meg set a hand in the small of her back and stretched. After walking from the railway station her feet were sore and her back ached and she prayed Gerry’s aunt, who lived across from New Farm Park at the river end of Brunswick Street, was expecting her. Otherwise, she might curl up in a ball beneath one of the massive Moreton Bay fig trees and never get up.
Cream frangipani overhung the front fence and, on the river side of the garden, magenta bougainvillaea provided a bright splash of colour. Behind the house a huge mango tree shaded much of the back yard, but the front garden beds were filled with vegetables.
Meg opened the gate beneath an archway covered in purple wisteria, cringing when it squeaked both on opening and closing. Crossing her fingers that Gerry’s aunt was home, she followed a narrow brick path to the stairs.
Before she set a foot on the lowest tread, a woman’s voice called out, ‘I’m coming,’ and a moment later, a woman appeared around the corner of the building. ‘Can I help you?’
‘Good afternoon. Are you Mrs Burnett?’
‘Yes . . . Are you Geraldine’s friend?’
‘Margaret Dorset, yes.’ At least her arrival wasn’t a total surprise for Gerry’s aunt thank goodness. ‘Did Gerry—Geraldine mention—’
‘That you’ve come to Brisbane to have your baby, yes, my dear, she did. Come in and put your feet up. Would you like a cool drink or a cuppa?’ As they climbed the front stairs side by side, Mrs Burnett tugged off her gardening gloves and removed her broad-brimmed straw hat and patted her hair.
‘Either or both, thank you.’ Meg removed her hat and fanned her face. The weather was pleasant and less humid than in Townsville, but she was sure her cheeks were red and shiny after walking so far.
‘Let me just show you to your room and you can freshen up while I put the kettle on.’
Mrs Burnett showed her to a small but pleasant bedroom that opened via a pair of French doors off the end of the veranda. The single bed was dressed in a pastel patchwork quilt with a matching cushion on a cane chair. A small table could serve as both desk and dressing table if Meg was thoughtful about how she divided the space.
She set her case down at the foot of the bed and turned to her new landlady. ‘It’s lovely. Thank you so much for taking me in.’
‘You’re welcome, my dear. Geraldine told me you are her particular friend and she was sure we’d get along famously. She’s rarely wrong about people.’ Pausing at the door, she added, ‘Come along to the kitchen when you’ve unpacked. I baked last night in the hopes you’d arrive today.’ The door closed gently behind her.
Meg unbuttoned her jacket and draped it over the bed end then opened the window. She tipped her head back and lifted her hair off her neck. A breeze, soft but steady, cooled her damp skin. Bliss. Through slitted eyes, she took in the view. Between the trees of the neighbouring property, the wide brown water of the Brisbane River swirled past on its way to the port and the ocean. She drew in a deep breath and the smell of mud mixed with the scent of flowers surprised her. Shouldn’t the river smell clean and fresh, like the sea?
Making use of the jug and bowl she had a quick wash then changed into the only non-uniform dress she owned. Grateful for Gerry’s dressmaking skill and kindness, Meg tied the wrap-front dress to one side, smoothed the skirt and followed her nose to the kitchen.
‘There you are, my dear, and what a lovely dress.’ Mrs Burnett drew nearer and peered more closely at the ties. ‘Such a clever design to take you all the way through to the birth of your baby. Where on earth did you find it?’
‘Gerry made it for me before I left. Heaven knows how she found such pretty fabric in Townsville. That girl has talent.’
‘She gets it from my side of the family. My aunt Geraldine, after whom she was named, is a superlative dressmaker. I always thought if either had lived in Paris, they would have been designing for one of the couture houses.’ Gerry’s aunt sighed. ‘But Geraldine decided she had a calling and there she is now, nursing the sick and wounded. How was she?’
‘I’m delighted to tell you Gerry is now acting sister-in-charge of the theatre nurses at our hospital.’
‘Of course she is. That girl is destined for great things.’ Her aunt smiled. Picking up the teapot, she poured tea into two dainty cups painted with a variety of pastel flowers barely contained within heavy gold rims.
Meg picked up the fine china cup and saucer very carefully. ‘These are beautiful. So wonderful after army-issue tin mugs.’
‘They’re Royal Albert’s Spring Meadow. The set was a wedding gift from my husband’s family.’
‘And where is Mr Burnett now?’
‘Pushing up daisies, my dear. He passed away before the war. This current war that is. He was injured in France and his lungs never fully recovered.’
‘I’m sorry, Mrs Burnett.’
‘Don’t be, and please call me Vera, dear. We had a good life. A good marriage, even though it was cut short.’ She gestured around the kitchen, a broad, sweeping gesture that encompassed the room and possibly the whole building. ‘Reg built this house in the Twenties. He said it would be high enough to escape flooding, and cool through our Queensland summers. He was right—on both counts.’
‘It invites one to enjoy the outside while being perfectly comfortable inside. Your husband must have been a real craftsman. All that beautiful woodwork.’ Impressed by the attention to detail in the fretwork above the doors and the high ceiling, Meg promised herself she would live in a home like Vera’s.
‘You’re right about that. I spend time outside most every day. Working in one’s garden is so satisfying, don’t you think?’
Meg nodded. ‘I’m not much of a gardener myself, but I love being outside.’
‘You’ll find spring here is lovely, but the midday sun can be enervating. At least I found it so when I was with child.’ Vera’s gaze dropped to her teacup shuttering her expression. ‘I only had the one child, a son called Phillip. He was the bonniest little fellow, but he died when he was not quite two years old. Perfectly healthy one day and gone the next.’
Meg’s throat constricted with pity for Vera and fear for her unborn baby. With all that medicine could do to save lives, why did such things still happen? Why did God let such awful things happen to innocents?
Instinctively she reached for Vera’s hand: mother to mother; woman to woman in the age-old need to comfort. ‘I’m so sorry, Vera.’
Vera smiled, a cross between reassurance and a grimace, and patted Meg’s hand. ‘You’re a sweet girl to care so, but I shouldn’t be talking about such memories. Not when you’re looking forward to the birth of your own babe. When is he due?’
‘By Christmas, my doctor said. Maybe a little before.’
‘Perfect. He can be Baby Jesus in the manger for the Nativity play.’
A jolt of possessive anxiety skittered through Meg. Her hands settled over her still small baby bump. The idea of allowing her as yet unseen baby to be placed in a crib surrounded by excitable, child-sized shepherds was unthinkable. For the first time since her pregnancy had been confirmed, she found herself keen to meet this little stranger. Her stranger, the child of her and Seamus’s love. The welling of unfamiliar maternal feelings threatened to overturn her. Fumbling in her pocket for a handkerchief she said, ‘Let’s wait and see when he or she decides to arrive. It might not be until the New Year.’
***
Despite the warmth of the mid-September day, as Meg turned the corner into Chalk Street in Wooloowin, a chill went through her at the sight of the Holy Cross Magdalen Asylum. An oppressive air clung to the stern brick building with small, shuttered windows and a high fence. It had few redeeming features other than its function, but it was where Gerry’s friend, Sister Rosemary lived and worked. The nun belonged to the Order of the Sisters of Mercy who, according to a discreet sign beside the door, ran the home for unmarried mothers, disabled girls and infants. From the outside, a less welcoming sight Meg couldn’t imagine.
Unless it was a planeload of Japanese bombs descending on her.
A smaller sign below pointed the way to the laundry operated by the inmates and brought to mind Gran’s story about spending time in a London workhouse after her husband left them to fend for themselves. Weren’t they decades past such institutions? Meg shivered.
Stop being silly. You’re not going to end up here.
Putting her shoulders back, Meg stepped up to the front door and lifted the heavy knocker, letting it fall in two quick raps before stepping back to wait. Time passed slowly, reluctantly it seemed; but her anxiety about the dark institution fed on memories of Gran’s pinched mouth as she recounted her bitter experience.
Finally, a latch clicked, and the door opened, revealing a sister with a young-old face framed by her white wimple and dark habit. Her gaze flicked over Meg, pausing at her thickening waist before lifting to look her in the eye. ‘How may I help you?’
‘Good morning. I wish to speak with Sister Rosemary. I have a message for her from an old friend with whom I was working.’
The door opened wide enough to allow her to enter and closed behind with a soft thud. ‘Wait here.’
A narrow bench hard enough to be a discard from a church was the only seat in the cool foyer. Faded linoleum covered the floor and a strong smell of carbolic soap and cabbage wafted in the air. Meg perched; her handbag clenched between gloved hands on her lap. Why she was nervous within these religious walls she couldn’t say. Perhaps it was the foreignness of it compared with the Church of England rectory back home. Raising her eyes she met the all-seeing gaze of a benign Jesus, His plaster hand raised in blessing. At least it wasn’t one of those stabbed-through-the-heart statues casting agonised eyes over the world in the Catholic Church down the road from home. That one had seemed out of place at the wedding of her neighbour’s daughter. Why remind worshippers of such pain and suffering instead of offering them light and life? And hope.
Footsteps approached, tapping along the corridor to her left. Meg stared at the doorway, hoping Gerry’s friend had been found; hoping she had found a home for Meg’s baby, although in the past couple of days in the peace of Vera’s home, Meg had begun to wonder about leaving her baby when she returned to work. The pamphlet she had picked up spoke about the unique bond formed between mother and baby in the early months. If she returned to Townsville and the hospital, would she destroy that precious bond with her child?
The nun who approached was young, with cheerful blue eyes and a gentle smile as she held out a hand and shook Meg’s. ‘You must be Margaret. Gerry wrote glowingly of you. How is she?’
‘Sister Rosemary, good morning. Gerry is well and doing my job now I’m down here in Brisbane.’
‘We are both sisters to different callings now, but we were best friends in school.’ The nun drew Meg back to the hard bench and sat, still holding her hand. ‘I believe I have found a suitable home for your baby when you are ready to return to work, but I wasn’t sure if you preferred a wet nurse or would be happy for your child to be bottle-fed? It’s becoming popular with mothers now, so I’ve heard, and supposed to be better for the baby.’
Meg had barely begun to think of all the decisions she would have to make regarding the care of her child, let alone changing social and health practices. ‘I’m not sure yet. I’m still waiting to hear from Seamus.’
‘Your husband?’
The word dropped like a stone into the well of quiet expectation.
Could she tell such a bald-faced lie and claim she and Seamus were wed? With Jesus looking down on her, could she lie to a nun who was willing to help her?
Above the door through which Sister Rosemary had entered a clock ticked loudly; ticking away seconds; ticking away her chance to hold her secret. Ticking away her time to agree and move on and live with the lie.
The minute hand moved onto the half-hour with a loud tick and Meg met the nun’s eyes. ‘He will be as soon as he gets home on leave.’
‘Ah.’ Sister Rosemary rolled her lips as though she might hold Meg’s secret.
‘I missed him by two days or we’d already be married. I’m sure he’ll get leave before our baby is born.’
Lifting her chin, the nun patted Meg’s hand before standing and folding her arms inside the wide sleeves of her habit. ‘There are many such consequences in this war. Our home is kept fully occupied with such children and mothers still waiting, with hopes pinned on a man’s return. I regret your baby’s placement cannot go ahead as planned.’
‘But why not? If this woman is willing to take my baby—’ Dread curled in Meg’s stomach like a ball of lead, weighing down her baby. The message was clear; unassailable and unbending in its judgement.
Unmarried mother, unwelcome baby.
Her chest hurt where the hard knowledge lodged in her heart, and she prepared to plead her case even as the nun shook her head. ‘The foster mother was willing because she believed the parents to be married. As a devout Catholic, she cannot accept a child such as yours into her God-fearing home. I’m sorry. We can take your child in and offer him or her for adoption?’
Sucking in a breath that was not enough to feed her heavy heart or fill the void opening inside her, Meg rose and faced the nun. ‘My child will not grow up unknowing of his parents, or of the love we share. Thank you for your time, Sister. I’ll see myself out.’
Later, Meg wasn’t sure how she made it out of the asylum, or how she made her way back to New Farm Park. Her feet simply took her to the bus stop and back along the path she had walked this morning. The path she had blithely taken, trusting in the goodness of Gerry’s friend.
She passed the stone commemorating the park’s opening by the
Queensland Governor Hamilton Goold-Adams, which had been delayed until July 1919 because of World War I. So many things were delayed because of war.
Including my wedding.
Why were words spoken in a church any more binding than promises made beneath the moonlight? A promise was a promise, whether spoken before God in a church or in one’s heart. If Meg didn’t believe that, then Seamus wasn’t going to return to her. To them.
But she did, as much as Gerry had believed her friend the nun would help Meg find a home for her child. How had Gerry got it so wrong with her old friend, or had she forgotten how rigid Catholic teaching was?
She must have been raised a Catholic to have been best friends at school with the nun, and yet Meg’s lack of a wedding ring didn’t deter Gerry from being her friend too. How could two people raised in the same faith react so differently to the same circumstances?
Setting a hand protectively over her child, Meg wandered down to the riverbank and sank onto the grass. Breezes blew intermittently, ruffling the surface of the water into wavelets. A branch floated by, its leaves clinging tenaciously to its tip. She tipped her face to the sky and prayed for Divine inspiration. Whatever happens, she promised her baby, I’ll do the right thing by you. I love you.
##
It was late in the afternoon; so late that golden light tipped the trees in the park as Meg wandered home from the river. Vera was pulling weeds from the bed next to the gate when Meg pushed the front gate open. As the hinge squeaked, Vera stood with more speed than grace and put a hand on her chest. ‘Thank goodness. I was hopeful you were meeting a family when you didn’t arrive home for lunch. Did it go well?’ Meg met her gaze and Vera’s voice trailed away. ‘Oh no . . .’
Meg stood on the brick path; her hat held loosely in front of her stomach and shook her head. ‘Not very well. In fact, it’s safe to say it went terribly.’
‘Oh, my dear, I’m sorry to hear that. Come onto the veranda. I’ll make a nice pot of tea and you can tell me about it.’ Vera settled Meg on the swing seat Reg had hung for his wife years earlier before hurrying away to the kitchen.
Meg closed her eyes. The sounds of the city were muted here, and it was easy to lose herself in the domesticity and simple pleasure of being looked after by Vera. Gentle sounds – of fine china cups and silver teaspoons chinking onto saucers – floated down the hallway and melded with the sounds from the river – chugging boats and the slap of waves against the bank – and gleeful calls of children in the park.
‘Here we are.’ Meg opened her eyes and Vera set down a wooden tray on a round table, beautifully carved in patterns like the fretwork above the doors. ‘Nothing like a strong cuppa to forget the worst of days.’ Vera poured two cups, handed one to Meg then sat beside her. Pushing lightly, she set the swing seat gently rocking and sat quietly, easy company after the disappointment of today. They rocked back and forth, slow and steady, calming, soothing, and Meg’s thoughts wandered from river to park and park to river like water flowing to the sea.
Eventually, Vera set her feet down and stopped the motion of the swing. ‘Another cup?’
‘Yes please.’ Meg handed her cup and saucer to Vera for topping up.
‘It was never going to happen, Vera, not while Seamus and I are unwed. Our love, this war – nothing changes the fact that in the eyes of the church we’ve committed a terrible sin by making a baby before we took our marriage vows.’
‘So, Gerry’s friend couldn’t or wouldn’t find someone to help you?’
‘Oh, there was a woman lined up. Sister Rosemary spoke on behalf of the God-fearing woman when she declined to allow a bastard child to taint her household. But she did offer to have my baby adopted through their asylum.’ Subdued undertones of anger buzzed beneath her words in spite of the hours spent in contemplation on the riverbank.
Vera’s move, turning to face Meg, set the swing wobbling. ‘The very idea of— The gall of that woman! Did you tell her Seamus will be marrying you when he comes home on leave?’
‘It made no difference. She didn’t believe me—no, that’s not quite right. She believed I was just one more deluded and deserted fallen woman who had no right to bring a child into the world and expect more than her offer of adoption by some worthy married couple. As if a single woman is any less capable of caring for her own child than, say, a widow.’
Vera patted Meg’s shoulder. ‘I’ve never liked the look of that place, but it’s the last resort for some women and it does put a roof over heads that would otherwise have none. Still—’ Pushing gently, she set the swing seat gently rocking again and they sat companionably sipping tea and watching the sky darken into hot pink, purple, and finally midnight blue dotted with stars.
‘Margaret—’ Vera’s voice from the darkness beside her had a new note, one Meg hadn’t heard before.
‘Do you have an idea?’
‘I do, though what you might think of it I can’t say. How would it be if I were to care for your child?’ She sounded hesitant and hopeful at the same time.
Bless Gerry for sending me to Vera and bless Vera for everything.
‘I’d say you are a wonderful woman to even think of it.’ Meg set down her cup and saucer and, reaching for Vera’s hands, held them between hers. ‘Yes, and thank you. A thousand times, thank you.’ Happy tears spilled over and ran down her cheeks.
Lambent light showed Vera’s smile, as wide as the Cheshire Cat’s, before she pulled Meg into a fierce embrace. ‘Thank you for trusting me. I’ll care for your little one as I would for my own.’