Page 49 of Return to the Waratah Inn

“Move aside, Dot,” Mrs Thompson commanded as she followed the girl into the room. She glanced around, her gaze taking in Fran on the bed with the baby, and Mima holding a pile of sheets and towels in her arms. “Well, now. Haven’t you been busy?”

“The baby came fast,” Mima said. “We didn’t have time to call anyone, and you’re all run off your feet with the patient load today.”

“That’s fine. That’s perfectly fine,” Mrs Thompson replied, her voice like honey. She stepped closer and examined the baby. “She’s a pretty one. Well done, Fran. You’re a tough young bird—there’s no denying it. I didn’t hear a squeak out of you.”

Mima released the breath she’d held in her chest. It was going to be okay. They weren’t in trouble. Everything would be fine. “She looks healthy to me. The labour was rapid and clean. No issues.”

“Wonderful. Thank you, Mima. You’re a stellar midwife. You should be proud.”

Mima felt herself glow under the woman’s praise. It was the first time since she’d arrived that Mrs Thompson had said anything remotely encouraging. “Thank you, Mrs Thompson.”

“Things have slowed down in the maternity wards, although there’s still no empty beds, so I’ll send some nurses in to help you. The doctor should check you both out sometime tonight as well. But for now, get some rest, and I’ll see you all in the morning. Dot…” Mrs Thompson shot Dot a look of disapproval. “Get some sleep.”

“Yes, Mrs Thompson.” Dot scuttled from the room, her eyes downcast.

After they were gone, Mima sat on the side of the bed with a grunt. The anxiety of the last few hours slowly drained from her body, leaving her slumped with exhaustion. “See, that wasn’t so bad.”

Fran offered a tired, tight-lipped expression. “Yeah, maybe you’re right. I’m gonna get some sleep. Could you find a bassinet? I don’t think there’s room in this bed for both of us.”

“I’ll wheel one in here as soon as I get these linens to the laundry.”

When Mima returned to the room with the bassinet, two nurses were there. They were fussing over Fran and the baby. One was changing sheets, the other weighing the newborn. They looked up when Mima walked in.

“There’s the heroine of the hour,” a nurse said.

Mima dipped her head in response. She was tired. Bone tired. At seven months pregnant, she’d been on her feet all day long, first in the laundry and then the kitchen. Ending the day by delivering Fran’s baby had drained the last of her energy reserves. She fetched her nightgown from under the pillow, picked her dressing gown off the hook in the wardrobe, found her toiletry bag, and carried them all to the block toilets at the end of the long hall for her nightly ablutions. By the time she’d brushed her teeth and returned to the room, Fran was tucked beneath warm covers, her eyes shut. The nurses were gone and the room smelled faintly of vanilla, with a small candle burning on the nightstand.

With her dressing gown hanging loose around her ample belly, she sat on the edge of the bed to say her nightly prayers. She’d gotten back into the habit after many years when the police first brought her here, and the nightly routine had since brought her some comfort. For a few minutes, it felt as though she was back in her childhood bedroom, surrounded by the noises of the familiar country town where she’d been raised. All those years, she’d wanted nothing more than to get out of there and find a life of adventure. Now she yearned to go back, to be embraced by her parents, safe in her bedroom, encircled by streets filled with houses and people she recognised and who cared about her.

Fran lay on one side, her hands curled up beneath her pillow, her thin hair dark against the white linens. Her eye sockets looked bruised in the dim lighting. Her cheeks, thin and gaunt. The bassinet beside her was empty. No doubt they’d taken Marli to see the doctor for her checkup. It was standard procedure, although Mima couldn’t stop the sudden tingle of nervous energy in her abdomen.

She sighed, climbed into her own bed and pulled out a book she’d borrowed from the hospital library. She would read for a few minutes and wait for Mali to be returned to the bassinet before she’d go to sleep. She wanted to make sure the baby was settled by Fran’s side, and she couldn’t relax until that happened.

Two hours later the book fell to the floor with a thud, bringing Mima to sudden wakefulness with a rushing heartbeat. She wiped the corner of her mouth with the back of her hand and blinked a few times. Fran was still fast asleep, but her watch showed that it was late. Where were those nurses with the baby? She got to her feet, padded over to Fran’s bed, and shook her gently.

“Wake up, love. Mali still isn’t back from the doctor.”

Fran’s eyes flickered open. Then she was sitting in a flash. She jumped to her feet with a grimace as the pain and discomfort hit her. “What? Where is she?”

“I don’t know. I’m sure it’s fine, but let’s wander down to the ward and check on her. Maybe they’ve kept her there for some reason. We should go and find out.”

Fran stepped gingerly with Mima waddling a few steps behind her along the hallway, down the stairs and across to the maternity ward. The ward was semi-dark, with mothers sleeping or feeding crying babies. The nurses there shushed them and told them to leave when they asked about Mali, saying she was probably in the nursery and to leave them alone. The nursery was only a little way further down the hall.

When they arrived, they saw a doctor moving between the small bassinets that held the sleeping babies. He checked a chart, and then stepped out of the room. Fran approached him, the tie of her dressing gown dragging along the floor behind her bare feet.

“Where’s my baby, Doc?”

He glanced at her with a frown. “Excuse me? Who are you?”

“Francine Bowman. The nurses brought my baby, Mali, down for you to check a couple of hours ago. Where is she?”

He shrugged. “She’s gone. I thought you knew that.”

“Gone? What do you mean, she’s gone?” Mima asked, stepping up beside Fran and reaching for her hand.

He huffed with impatience. “Why does no one do their job but me? I don’t have time for this. Take it up with Mrs Thompson. She’s the one making all of the decisions on these matters.”

“What matters?” Mima asked. “What’s going on?” She looked at Fran, whose face was drawn, her eyes wide, her mouth open. A look of panic washed over her angular features.