Book 2
It was late afternoon, the humidity was making the conditions most unbearable.
“Isolated thunderstorms, that’s what it said on the hospital wireless last night,” said Phyliss as she gazed expectantly towards the north, beyond the gorges and breakaway country—as if she was willing the rolling clouds to move faster and empty their contents on this arid thirsty town.
The two friends could hear the thunder clouds rumbling in the distance. “The storm might get here about suppertime,” predicted Phyliss hopefully.
“Yes, might be suppertime, he come,” agreed Lucy, nine months pregnant and extremely uncomfortable and restless. She was seated on a single bed in the bough shed. Phyliss and Jack Donaldson’s eighteen month old son Michael John lay asleep on the bed opposite.
“You alright Lucy?” asked her friend with a slightly worried expression on her face. “Can’t you rest today? You know what Matron O’Neil and Dr Callahan said, ‘Get plenty of rest.’”
It was impossible to relax. Even the black iron stones across the flats were shimmering in the heat, making it worse by reflecting the midsummer heat.
“I’ll be glad when the sun goes down,” sighed Phyliss. “At least it will be a little bit cooler for us.”
Lucy said nothing but nodded in agreement. She was absolutely sick of her condition. Big and fat. Can’t walk around much. Never mind, she thought to herself—soon be over—everything. The prospect pleased her greatly. Not long now, she smiled softly.
About 5:00 in the afternoon there was a loud clap of thunder followed by flashes of lightning. Excitement and peals of laughter came from the houses behind them, accompanied by shouts of expectancy, “Yore, yore!”
The two friends had spent months cutting out and sewing a layette for the baby. There was still plenty of calico left to make more matinee jackets and nappies as the baby grew and developed.
Raindrops on the roof? The women pricked up their ears. Then it came down, the heavy, powerful torrents of rain came to give them relief. The frightening loud, unusual noise had woken Michael John who began howling in fear. His mother picked him up and tried to pacify her frightened son.
“Phyliss, my baby, he coming now,” said Lucy.
“Oh, my God,” blurted the panic-stricken friend, holding her own child closer to her chest. “You take Michael John, while I go over the road and get Clarry Pincher,” said Phyliss as she raced out into the storm.
“Lucy’s ready to go to the hospital, will you take her?” Phyliss was dripping wet but that was the least of her worries right now.
“Clarry’s car was one of those square things—olden day cars. Worth a lot of money nowadays,” informed Jack.
“He took us to the Kingsley Hospital and dropped us off then drove to the railway yards to tell Mick,” said Phyliss.
Phyliss stayed with her friend until Matron O’Neil and Dr Callahan came into the labour ward, then she went in search of her husband the hospital gardener. The couple drove home in their brown run-about.
Water was everywhere, like a large lake—the creeks were filled to overflowing. What a lovely sight—most welcome indeed. The sight of it made the locals feel cooler.
The Donaldsons had an early supper then sat in the bough shed to watch the storm and wait for news of the birth of baby Muldune.
“Your grandfather came home about one o’clock in the morning looking like a drowned rat. His black hair was straight and dripping wet,” said Jack.
“He had the biggest grin on his face. Yeah the biggest I ever saw.”
“It’s a girl! It’s a girl! We’re calling her Margaret Bridgid Muldune, Margaret after Maggie O’Neil and Bridgid after me mam,” he said excitedly.
She weighed 6lb 5oz and she was beautiful, the proud father told them. The resemblance was remarkable. He was perfectly satisfied that Peggy—that was what he called her—was the most wonderful gift in the whole wide world. He doted on her from her birth and continued to dote on his only child throughout the following years.