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‘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 warmthof 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.
