Ms Jed Kelly
Dribble, Australia
17 March 1973
Darling J,
I did it! Don’t you dare say I do nothing in Deadsville. Today I changed Thompson’s Industries. Equal pay. Equal opportunity.
I am going to celebrate with a dinner here tonight, cooked by Leafsong. Carol is coming, because I can’t ask Leafsong to stay for dinner without her, and Sam McAlpine, who built the chook palace.
Have enclosed a photo of said palace. The girls are Queen Mary, Elizabeth I, Elizabeth II and Catherine the Great. They are giving three eggs a day, which is more than enough for me and Scarlett. Catherine the Great’s eggs are blue-green, because she is an Auracana, which is a wild breed from South America.
And there is nothing emphatically nothing between me and Sam.
Love and three cheers for women’s lib,
J xxxx
PS And I can’t believe you saw Germaine Greer on a bus in Regent Street! Shame you didn’t have your copy of The Female Eunuch with you so she could have signed it.
NANCY
Nancy stared at the baby in Moira’s arms. The too-small baby, even though he was six months old, his head supported, his arms and legs unmoving, though the eyes were bright and intelligent. ‘Moira . . .’
‘I know,’ said her sister-in-law stiffly. ‘I shouldn’t have accepted him. The doctors say it’s Spinal Muscular Dystrophy. He’ll never be able to sit, or even feed himself. He’s taking the place of another child and there’s nothing we can do for him.’
Nancy reached out and pressed her hand against Moira’s and the baby’s warmth. ‘We can give him love.’
And watch him die, she thought. Children who developed SMD so young rarely lived more than two years.
The baby looked at her. He’s . . . interested, Nancy thought. Excited by the change of scene. Not scared at all. A bright intelligence imprisoned in that unresponsive body.
‘I . . .’ Moira’s face collapsed in tears. Tears unshed for more than a quarter of a century, since her four-year-old son, Gavin, was killed by a Japanese hand grenade, just as the war ended, and their prisoner-of-war camp was liberated.
‘It’s not just his name,’ she managed at last. ‘He was in a horrible place. Just horrible. The stink of urine and, and . . . untrained staff. I couldn’t leave him there. And it’s not hopeless. Scarlett was almost as helpless, and look at her now.’
At six months Scarlett had been able to lift her head, move her fingers and toes. But it was true her prognosis had been terrible. Like Moira with this helpless baby, Nancy had been unable to turn away, even though River View policy was to take older children.
And no child was hopeless. When you loved kids, there was always hope. Had to be hope. And if this baby was to have only a year or two of life, then all the more reason to fill that time with love.
Nancy had fashioned a sling for the baby Scarlett, though that wasn’t her name then, of course. The sling supported her floppy body so she could see the world; it must still be in a cupboard somewhere. She made a note to check their respirator, to make sure it was suitable for a baby.
‘Can he swallow?’
‘Yes. His swallowing reflex is weaker than normal, of course, so feeding takes longer. But, Nancy, they said he was feeding better all the time. Not worse. That means he’s getting stronger. And his lung function is good. No distended abdomen . . .’ A distended abdomen was often a sign that the diaphragm was doing the work a baby’s lungs could not.
Nancy forced herself not to cry at the hope in Moira’s face.
The baby’s green eyes watched her, almost as if he knew her thoughts. Almost as if he were smiling.
‘We’ve had our share of miracles,’ she said softly. ‘Let’s see what we can do with Gavin too.’ It was strangely good to say the name again, after so many years.
Gavin, their butterfly child, loved, and lost, but still so deeply loved.
And this small Gavin? Nancy managed a smile. They would love him too.