Beneath the Southern Cross (33 page)

She wondered if he was lying. He looked like a ten-year-old caught with his finger in the pie. ‘Well, if you can't control yourself, you'll just have to be more careful. Norah's delicate, you know she is. She could throw a fit and lose the baby, finding out something like that. You're only lucky Nellie was here to talk her round. I don't know how she did it, Nellie's a genius.'

‘I have been careful, Mum,' Ben said defensively, his annoyance starting to show.

‘But Posie Brown saw you.'

‘Only because she was spying. She's been spying on me for a month now, ever since I knocked her back.'

Benjamin was not vain enough to invent such a lie. So Nellie had been right. Perhaps Nellie had been right about the rest too. Beth chose to believe so. She chose to believe that her son was not a lecher.

‘I'm sorry to interfere, Ben, I know it's not my place. I just worry about Norah, you understand?'

‘Yeah, Mum, I understand.'

Ben lay awake for much of that night, aware of Norah beside him, fitful in her sleep. He wondered whether she would bring up the subject the following morning. Beth's confrontation had come as a shock to Ben, it had been so unexpected. There had been nothing in Norah's manner, when he'd come home from work, to intimate the afternoon's drama. Over tea, when he'd asked why she was so quiet, she'd simply said she felt queasy and might go to bed early.

‘She'll keep her lip buttoned just like Nellie told her to,' his mother had said, ‘and you can thank your lucky stars for that.'

It appeared that Beth was right. The following morning Norah said nothing as she prepared breakfast for him and Billy. The Kendall brothers always left for the Wunderlich factory a good hour before young Tim needed to be woken for school, and throughout her pregnancy Norah had insisted upon getting up early and, still in her nightdress and dressing gown, she would cook them a hot breakfast.

‘Billy and me can get our own breakfast, love,' Ben had said on a number of occasions, and each time she'd smile indulgently. The men were not accustomed to getting their own food and they really wouldn't know how. ‘Well, Mum can,' Ben would add withagrin.

‘Beth gets the evening meal as it is,' Norah would adamantly reply. ‘The least I can do is see that you boys are well fed before a hard day's work.'

This morning she was pale and quiet, and Ben was silent, concentrating on his mug of tea.

But Billy wasn't to know. ‘You all right, Norah?' he asked as he mopped up his bacon fat with a lump of bread. ‘You don't look too good.'

‘I'm well, Billy, really, I'm well, just a little bittired that's all.'

‘You should have slept in, love,' Ben said. ‘We can get our own breakfast.' There was nothing in the smile she returned him which denoted displeasure, and it only added to Ben's guilt.

He'd never do it again, he told himself. There'd be no further straying. He'd not been lying to his mother either. He had only slept with Maureen McLaughlan three times, no more, and then only in the last month of his wife's pregnancy.

‘You should go back to bed, love,' he said, concerned at how very pale she was.

‘Yes, I think I might. When you've gone and I've done the dishes, I might just have a little lie-down.'

Norah's contractions had started, but it was still early and they were far apart, no cause to sound the alarm yet. And there was certainly no need to inform the men, men had no place at the birth of a child.

However, she thought, it would be a fine thing, if when Ben came home from work in the late afternoon, he could be presented with a fine, healthy baby. She tried to close her mind to all else, to rid herself of her anxieties. For months she had been unable to escape the horrifying, nagging fear that her child might be still-born, that she might give birth to a baby with terrible deformities. There were sins to be accounted for, and Norah lived in fearful agony that she would be called upon to answer them. A healthy baby, that's all she must think of now.

She saw the men off at the front door and tended to the dishes. She could hear Beth and Tim stirring upstairs. No point in raising the alarm with Beth just yet, she decided. Midwives cost money, and her labour with Tim had lasted sixteen hours. She'd wait until her time was ready.

‘I'm just popping upstairs for a little lie-down, Beth,' she said as her mother-in-law entered the kitchen.

‘Oh?' There was a definite question in Beth's eyes.

‘No, no, I'm just feeling a little queasy, that's all.'

She did look tired, Beth thought. But then, after the dramas of yesterday afternoon, the poor girl probably hadn't slept a wink. ‘All right, Norah, you give me a call if there's anything you need.'

Norah lay on the bed and tried to blank out her mind as she
listened to the sounds of the day. Beth farewelling Tim at the door, then the raucous return of the Putman boys.

‘Got a present for you, Ma,' Norah heard Spotty say, then a guffaw from Nellie, a cheer from Geoff, and the cry of the baby. You'd swear there were twenty people next door.

The sounds were comforting and, between each spasm of pain, Norah drifted in and out of a fitful doze. She was so very tired, exhausted in fact, and grateful that her body was allowing her these intermittent moments of rest. She would need all the strength she could muster soon.

Twice she was aware of Beth's gentle tap on the door, her head appearing and the whisper, ‘You all right, Norah?' And the second time, ‘You want some lunch, dear?' But she feigned sleep, although by now the contractions were closer together and she was no longer dozing.

Two hours later, as each spasm seized her, Norah clutched the head of the old brass bedstead and clenched her teeth against the pain. Then, as it receded, she counted the minutes until the next one came. Soon. She would call Beth soon.

Downstairs, Beth boiled the kettle. It was two o'clock in the afternoon, she would take Norah a cup of tea and some fresh-baked bread and cheese, the girl had to eat something.

Norah felt a trickle of moisture between her legs. But her waters could not have broken, she thought, it was not yet time. She pulled aside her dressing gown, lifted her nightdress and reached down to touch herself. Feeling the wetness, she withdrew her hand and inspected it, to find her fingers covered in blood.

She lifted herself onto her elbows and looked down at her parted thighs. Dear God, what was happening? She was aware of no added pain beyond that of the contractions, and yet blood was pouring from her vagina. Not a trickle, but a steady stream. Her nightdress, her dressing gown, the bed, all were soaked in her blood.

She panicked and tried to call out. ‘Beth!' But her voice was weak. Why couldn't she call louder? ‘Beth!' Beth was obviously unable to hear her above the sound of the sewing machine. But Norah could not hear the swift click-clack of the machine—Beth must be downstairs.

She struggled to her feet, feeling weak and faint as she opened
the bedroom door, and she stood for a moment on the little top landing, trying to gain her balance. At the bottom of the stairs Beth appeared in the open door to the kitchen, a plate in one hand and a mug of tea in the other.

‘Beth,' Norah opened her mouth to call, but the words didn't come out. The world spun for one dizzying moment, and then, it seemed in slow motion, the stairs rose up to meet her.

Beth dropped the mug and the plate and stood frozen, horrified and helpless, as Norah pitched headfirst down the narrow stairway, a tumble of arms and legs, her belly bumping shockingly on every step. Then Beth flung herself forward onto her knees in a desperate attempt to cushion the final blow of landing.

Norah's head struck her painfully in the ribs and Beth fell onto her side, holding the girl to her, as Norah's body crumpled and slithered to a halt at the bottom of the stairs.

‘Norah?' Beth struggled to her knees. Gently she rested Norah's head on the floor and searched for signs of life, but the girl seemed shockingly still. ‘Norah?' Oh God, don't let her be dead.

A guttural sound escaped Norah's throat, and her body spasmed. The baby, Beth thought, the baby was coming.

It was then she noticed the blood on the lower steps. She pulled aside Norah's dressing gown. Both it and her nightdress were soaked in blood.

Beth was shocked but she kept her voice steady. ‘Don't you worry, girl,' she said, just in case Norah could hear her, ‘don't you worry.' And she raced out through the kitchen to the Putmans' back door.

She was back in a matter of seconds, Nellielumbering behind her, and behind Nellie were the Putman boys, Spotty and Geoff, dragged from their beds and still half asleep.

Delirious, barely conscious, Norah was moaning and clutching her belly.

‘Get the midwife, Spotty,' Nellie ordered.

‘Don't bother with the midwife,' Beth countermanded, ‘it's old Mack we need. And as quick as you can.' Wide awake now, Spotty dived for the front door. ‘Tell him she fell down the stairs, and tell him she's bleeding,' Beth called. ‘There's a lot of bleeding, tell him.'

‘Gently, gently,' Nellie said as, upon Beth's instruction, Geoff lifted Norah onto the old grey-pink sofa. Then, ‘Sweet Jesus,' she
whispered as she saw the blood, ‘I hope Mack gets here soon.'

‘Scissors from the sewing room upstairs, Geoff, and cotton,' Beth ordered. ‘Nellie, there's hot water on the stove.'

‘I'll get a bowl, and I'll fill the kettles and saucepans for more.' With uncharacteristic speed, Nellie made for the kitchen.

Beth pulled Norah's nightdress well up over her belly. If old Mack didn't arrive in time, then she and Nellie must deliver the baby. They knew what to do, they'd both assisted at births before.

But there was no baby coming. There was nothing coming out of Norah but blood. Was the baby dead? Was Norah dying? She was still breathing but she'd lost all consciousness now. Dear God, please let Mack be at home, Beth silently prayed. Get here quick, they're both dying, I know it.

To the working class of Surry Hills Old Mack was a hero. He'd ceased working long hours in 1900, the year he'd turned sixty-five, and his practice was no longer open ten hours a day, but Dr Alastair McBurney was always available to those in need. In the poorer streets of Surry Hills, it was sometimes hours before a doctor arrived at the scene of an emergency, by which time the patient was often dead, but Old Mack was different. Old Mack dropped everything and was there in minutes.

Geoff charged downstairs and handed Beth the scissors and thread, averting his eyes as he didso. It made him feel sick, all that blood coming out of a woman.

‘Go and get Ben,' Beth said. ‘He should be here.' Unseemly as it was for a man to be present at the birth of his child, he should certainly be present at the death of his wife.

‘Right.' Geoff was out the door in a flash.

The women bent Norah's knees up and parted her legs. They looked for a sign of the baby but they couldn't see a thing for the blood. The old grey sofa was crimson by now, and as fast as Nellie sponged between Norah's legs, the blood kept pumping out. Beth and Nellie, both strong women, reliable in a crisis, were sick with helpless panic.

‘Dear God in Heaven, Nell, what do we do?'

The front door opened and Old Mack stood there, Spotty Putman at his side.

‘Put her on the floor,' Mack panted, taking his Gladstone bag
from Spotty. He'd run three blocks in two minutes. A body his age wasn't used to it.

They did as they were told, and Mack opened his bag as he knelt beside the woman. His decision had been instant. The moment he'd seen the blood gushing from her he'd known that he had no choice.

‘Boiling water, and lots of it,' he said to Spotty.

‘Already hot on the stove, Spotty,' Nellie instructed her son, and she and Beth watched as the doctor set to work.

Old Mack took his scalpel from his bag. No point in wasting time with chloroform, the mother was unconscious, in profound shock. It was highly unlikely she would live anyway, and every second counted if he was to save the baby.

He made his midline incision, cutting from the umbilicus to the pubic area, exposing and folding apart the section of yellow fat. Then he started to cut his way through to the wall of the uterus.

The two women stood watching in horror.

‘Dear Father in Heaven,' Nellie crossed herself, ‘he's murdering her.'

‘We have here,' Old Mack said, his voice calm but his hands working quickly and efficiently, ‘either a ruptured uterus or a placenta praevia. Iam hoping for the latter.'

Beth nodded, not understanding a word he was saying, but reassured by the sound of his voice. She watched, shocked, unable to take her eyes from the gruesome spectacle.

The wall of the uterus was now exposed. It was intact. Good, Mack thought, some hope remained. If the uterus had been ruptured, the abdomen would have been filled with blood and the baby's chances for survival would be minimal, the mother's most certainly nil.

‘The baby's head has bumped onto the head of the placenta,' he continued as he began cutting his way through the uterine wall, ‘and the placenta is leaking blood and blocking the passage from the womb.'

He could see the baby now, curled limp amongst the blood and gore, but he couldn't tell if it was dead or alive. ‘A placenta praevia, we call it. Not an uncommon event, but a most unfortunate one.' He finished cutting. ‘A Caesarian section is the only way.'

He reached his hands inside and lifted out the baby. Holding it upside down by the ankles, he smacked it sharply on the bottom and handed it up to Beth. ‘Upside down and keep smacking,' he instructed as he clamped the cord. Then he turned his attention once more to the mutilated woman on the floor. There was little chance of her survival, but as yet she was still alive. There had even been moments of semiconsciousness throughout the operation, when she'd emitted low groans and moved her head slightly.