The Year It All Ended (18 page)

‘Help me get her to the truck,’ said Ray, grabbing one of Nette’s arms.

Nette groaned. ‘Too late,’ she said between gritted teeth. But Ray was hauling her towards the open door.

‘Ray, stop,’ said Tiney. ‘She doesn’t want to go.’

‘She can’t have it here. We’ve got to get her to the hospital.’

Tiney rested her hand on her sister’s rock-hard belly. Nette had taken off her shoes and stockings, and her bare legs were streaked with blood. Tiney took a deep breath and raised her sister’s skirts, squatting down to look upward.

‘I can see the baby’s head. I can see the crown of its head,’ she said, feeling her heart swell with despair at the sight of her sister’s bulging vulva and the thick thatch of black hair.

‘Jesus,’ said Ray.

Tiney felt her own smallness, their shared inadequacy.

‘You’re a farmer, Ray,’ said Tiney. ‘You should know about how animals are born.’

‘I know about bloody oranges,’ he shouted, ‘not babies! You’re a woman. This is woman’s business.’

Tiney wanted to shout back, ‘I’m only seventeen!’ But she realised she knew more than Ray. She’d read a little about babies being born, couched in flowery terms. She knew that she needed to boil water and that things needed to be clean and sterile.

Between them, Ray and Tiney manoeuvred Nette towards the bed, but then she knelt on the floor beside it. She roared in pain and tore at the quilted bedcover. Then she grabbed Ray’s hand and Tiney’s forearm, dragging them down to kneel beside her. When the contraction had eased and Nette’s grip loosened, Tiney raced to the stove and tipped a jug of water into the kettle to boil.

Ray looked at Tiney. She’d never seen his expression so helpless.

‘We’ll all be fine,’ said Tiney, rolling up her sleeves as if she was confident, as if she knew what to do, scrubbing her hands at the sink. Inside her head a voice screamed, ‘You have no idea what you’re doing!’ as she folded back her sister’s skirts again and knelt behind her. Nette roared, a shout so loud that the tiny house trembled and all the colour drained from Ray’s face. Tiney watched as a damp, glistening head emerged from between her sister’s legs. She touched it gently, reverently. In the next moment, Nette roared again and the baby’s body slithered from inside her and into Tiney’s hands. It was warm and soft and magically alive.

Tiney turned the baby over and saw he was a boy; a perfectly formed baby with long fingers and a squashed, snub nose. She looked down into his face, greasy with a white slick, and the baby opened his eyelids to gaze up at her with cloudy blue eyes. Then he opened his mouth and a mewling cry came from between his lips. Tiney began to weep, tears streaming down her cheeks. She looked across at Ray and he too was weeping. She handed the baby to him, saw how small he looked in his father’s hands.

‘It’s a little boy,’ she said, rubbing her sister’s back soothingly. ‘It’s a beautiful little boy, Nette.’

Nette’s legs trembled and she buried her face in the quilt. Ray handed back the baby to Tiney and managed to carefully lift Nette onto the bed, along with the long bluish-white cord that still dangled from her, connecting her to the baby. Then Tiney placed the infant in Nette’s arms. She folded a towel and laid it between her sister’s legs to catch the fluids that were still seeping out.

‘There’s the afterbirth to deliver now, Ray,’ she said. ‘I’ll need a large bowl. And we have to cut the cord. We need to tie it off, very firmly, and then you must cut it. But sterilise the knife in the flame first.’

Obediently, Ray fetched a reel of cotton and a clean knife and together they tied and severed the umbilical cord. A moment later, with a groan, Nette pushed out the afterbirth, a dark, bloody lump of flesh that made Ray grimace. He put his cheek against Nette’s while he rested his hand on the baby’s head. His eyes were shut and the concentration in his face was like that of a man in prayer. For a moment, everything in the room was as silent as a chapel. Then Ray stood up swiftly.

‘I’m going for the doctor,’ he said, not taking his eyes off Nette and their child as he backed towards the door. The screen door slammed behind him. Tiney heard him bounding down the steps of the hut and the truck roaring to life. A wash of relief broke over her. Help would be with them soon. She took the afterbirth away and covered the bowl with a cloth, then, tenderly, she set about cleaning Nette’s legs and exchanging the damp and bloody towel for a fresh one. Finally, she pulled a fresh sheet over mother and child and then sat on the end of the bed, watching her new nephew.

Nette stroked her baby’s face with her finger and the baby clamped down on it with his mouth. She unbuttoned her dress and placed the baby’s small head against her breast. The stillness in the hut now that the child was born was like the calm after a storm.

Tiney made a fresh pot of tea and poured a cup for her sister. ‘Will you really call him Floyd?’ she asked.

‘I thought I would, but he doesn’t look like a Floyd, does he?’ said Nette.

‘Will you call him Louis, after all?’

‘No,’ said Nette. ‘I want to call him Ray. Like his dad. Little Ray. Our ray of sunshine.’ And she kissed the top of his downy head and closed her eyes.

Dream’s end

The fever came first. Tiney had just finished scrubbing the kitchen floor at Larksrest when it hit her. As she stood up, she thought she might swoon. Surely it was just the rush of blood to her head. But her throat had been throbbing all morning. She touched her neck and swallowed hard. The throbbing pain wouldn’t go away. It couldn’t be influenza, she thought, prayed. The epidemic had passed. She had been spared.

When Mama came back from her shopping, she took one look at Tiney and made her sit down. ‘You look ghastly,’ she said, placing her hand on Tiney’s forehead. ‘Open your mouth and stick out your tongue.’

Having inspected Tiney’s tongue, Mama frowned. ‘Your throat has a whitish coating and your tonsils are swollen.’

‘I know,’ said Tiney miserably. ‘My glands are up too. I feel all hot and cold.’

‘I’ll fix you some soup.’

‘I couldn’t eat it,’ said Tiney, laying her head on the cool of the scrubbed timber tabletop.

Mama sat down beside her and stroked her hair. ‘I know it’s been hard for you. The last bird in our family nest.’ Then she put
her hand against Tiney’s forehead. ‘You’re burning up,’ she said.

Mama guided Tiney into her bedroom and helped her to undress. When Tiney looked down, she saw the rash, almost like sunburn, spreading from her chest to her neck, down her torso and around to her back. There were red streaks in her armpits and elbows. When Mama touched the burning skin, her fingertips left white circles.

The doctor came and left again but Tiney had only the vaguest impression of him, of his cold hands against her brow. She saw her mother and father loom above the bed. She called out for Nette, for Minna, for Thea and then for Louis. At one stage, she felt as if she could see them all, gathered around her bed, the living and the dead. She clutched the edge of her eiderdown and tried to speak but her lips were burning, her throat parched. Then, like a dream or a miracle, Thea was there, gently tipping water between her lips.

‘Thea?’ she whispered, half expecting the vision of her sister to disappear.

‘Mama sent me a telegram. I took the night train from Melbourne,’ Thea said. But Tiney didn’t know if it was now night or day or even how many days had passed since the fever had struck.

Mama and Thea took Tiney from her bed, their hands like vices around her arms, and put her in a cold bath. Her head rolled back against her will and she gasped. Then they carried her back to bed, with her matted wet hair thick around her head.

‘I’m sorry, Martina.’ She heard her mother’s voice and the sound of shears, close to her head, snipping, as her long tresses were cut away. She could see them lying on a sheet of newspaper
on the floor before Mama quickly folded the bundle of thick blond hair upon itself.

When Tiney awoke from the fever, properly woke, she felt as light as a feather. The bones of her face felt brittle, like china. The window was open and sunshine filtered into the room. Tiney raised her hand to her neck and felt its nakedness, the absence of her hair. Cautiously, she climbed out of bed. Her legs were like jelly but she felt clear in her purpose. She crossed the room, the linoleum floor cold beneath her feet, and stood before the cheval mirror. Her nightgown hung around her frame like a tent. There was so much less of her. She looked like a strange sprite. Her hair was short, and matted on the side she’d been sleeping on. She touched her ears, like two shells stuck to the side of her head. It had been so many years since she’d seen them. She had worn her hair long from when she was nine years old, and now it was gone.

Thea came into the room, carrying a tea tray. ‘Tiney,’ she said.

Tiney spun around, unbalanced, and made her way back to her bed where she sat down, folding her hands in her lap. ‘My hair. It’s gone.’

Thea put the tray down and hurried over to sit beside her, putting an arm around Tiney’s shoulders and holding her close. ‘I’m so sorry, Tiney. We couldn’t manage it. You were sick for two weeks and it grew into an awful bird’s nest, all matted and sweaty.’

‘Louis loved my hair. He said I mustn’t ever wear it short. Did Ma really have to cut it off?’ asked Tiney.

Thea looked stricken. ‘She only wanted you to be more comfortable.’

‘It’s all right. I don’t mind,’ said Tiney. ‘Really I don’t.
I look . . . modern. If you could tidy it up for me, then I might even look stylish.’

Tiney was so weak that Thea had to help her out into the back garden. She sat on a canvas chair beneath the jacaranda tree. Thea draped a towel around her shoulders and stepped back to study her profile. ‘You look like a porcelain doll or a little bird. You’ve grown so thin, Tiney.’

Tiney glanced down at her blueish-white hands, lying in her lap.

‘You’ve worked too hard,’ said Thea as she snipped and combed Tiney’s hair. ‘While we’ve all been sad, you’ve been taking care of things, too many things. When you were sick, Mama and I realised just how many household tasks you had taken over. Tiney, it was too much for you. You’re barely eighteen!’

‘Am I? Did I miss my birthday?’

‘Yes, darling. You did. And Armistice Day’s anniversary too. It’s more than a year now since the war ended.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Tiney.

‘What are you apologising for?’ asked Thea.

‘For disappointing you.’

‘Stop it. Now you’re being ridiculous. You didn’t disappoint anyone. But you need to take care of yourself and you need a holiday. Paul’s coming on Friday to take you up to Nuriootpa.’

‘No!’ said Tiney. ‘I promised Nette I’d go back to Cobdogla and help with baby Ray. I have to, as soon as I’m strong enough. And who’s going to help Mama take care of Papa? I haven’t time for a holiday.’

Thea laid down her scissors and knelt in front of her little sister. ‘Tiney, we nearly lost you. How could we bear it? You
are too precious, to all of us, to risk losing. I’m going to stay home and help Mama. We will be all right. We want you to get better. In the Barossa, you can simply rest. You won’t have to do anything at all and the country air will be good for you. Onkel Ludwig and Tante Bea have offered to have you stay with them for as long as you need.’

Tiney began to cry, though she quickly realised the tears were a mixture of relief and frustration. A flurry of petals drifted down from the jacaranda tree and landed on her skirt. As she brushed them from her lap, she thought of how a whole year had slipped by since she had stood under the jacaranda tree listening to the church bells of Adelaide ringing in peace. Her dreams felt as broken as the possibility of love.

Barossa

Paul held out his hand to help Tiney down from Onkel Ludwig’s car. For a moment, she felt like a girl from a cinema poster, standing on the running board of a Studebaker in her new dress with the tips of her sharply cut blonde bob peeping out from beneath a cloche hat.

Onkel Ludwig and Tante Bea’s home, Vogelsang, was a house of nooks and crannies, of gabled windows and intricate fretwork. It had five chimneys and a long return verandah that wrapped around the red-brick and sandstone walls. Tante Bea welcomed Tiney, and Paul carried her suitcase into the cool of the bedroom. Exhausted from the journey, she sat in the window seat, overlooking the garden. It was dry and sandy in comparison to Larksrest with low shrubs and a stand of gums near the new paling fence.