Mud and Gold (49 page)

‘Probably,’ Lizzie agreed in a sleepy voice.
She rolled away from him a little, and Frank lay waiting for a
drowsiness that refused to come.

Instead his mind turned half-formed ideas
over and over. If he could get some if those better-producing cows.
If he could make more money. He could get nice things for Lizzie.
She had looked so tired that evening, after spending most of the
day scrubbing at dirty clothes. Maybe he could even pay someone to
help her with the washing, outlandish though the idea seemed.

From her breathing he thought Lizzie was
deeply enough asleep not to be easily wakened. He reached out
towards her. Lizzie’s nightdress had ridden up around her hips, and
Frank stroked her thigh with a light touch, savouring the satin
feel of her skin. He wished her hands might have the chance to be
as soft as the rest of her body, instead of chapped and reddened
from all the rough work she had to do.

‘Don’t go getting any ideas,’ Lizzie said
drowsily. ‘I’m too tired. It’s Monday, remember? The wife’s night
off.’

‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you up.’

‘Go to sleep,’ she mumbled.

Frank rolled onto his back and tried to
sleep, but his mind refused to rest. He listened to Lizzie’s
breathing and decided that she was also awake, though only
just.

‘Lizzie?’

‘What?’ came a muffled response.

‘If you could have anything you wanted, what
would you have?’

‘A good night’s sleep. Shut up, Frank.’

At least that much was in his power to give
her. Frank rolled away, and was careful not to disturb Lizzie
again. He at last dropped off into a sleep that seemed full of
dreams of Lizzie wearing pretty dresses and displaying rings on
smooth, unblemished hands.

*

The house was full of the noise of three
lively children all day long, so it was the following evening
before Frank had the chance to raise the subject that had been
filling his head for much of the day. With the children all tucked
up and asleep, Frank broke the companionable silence as they sat in
the parlour, Lizzie stitching away as usual.

‘Lizzie?’

‘Mmm?’

‘Remember what I asked you last night? About
what you’d have if you could have anything you wanted?’

‘Did you? I must have been asleep. Oh,
that’s right, you kept talking when I was trying to get to sleep. I
didn’t take any notice.’

‘Well, what would you have?’

‘I don’t know what you mean, Frank. I’ve got
everything I need.’

‘But what do you
wish
you had?’ Frank
persisted. ‘There must be things you dream about.’

‘Of course not,’ Lizzie said, looking at him
with an utter lack of comprehension. ‘What would I want to do that
for? I’ve got healthy children, a nice house, and you’re all right
when you’re not going on with a lot of nonsense.’ She pressed
against him for a moment to take any sting out of her remark.
‘We’ve got plenty to eat, and we’ve no worries now we’re over that
bit of bother with the bank.’

‘I know, Lizzie, but what about other
things? I mean, there’s more than just what you need.’

‘Like what?’

‘Like…’ Frank tried hard to think of
something to illustrate the point he had trouble seeing clearly
even for himself. A fancy of his mother’s slipped into his head,
taking him by surprise. ‘Well, what about music?’

‘Music? What about it?’

‘You don’t
need
music, do you? But
people like having it. It’s sort of something extra, just to make
you happy. I remember Ma used to say she went to a concert once,
some man playing the piano. She said it was like hearing the angels
sing. Sometimes I used to hear her humming away to herself, and
she’d have a special little smile. I think she was remembering the
music. You see what I mean?’

‘Not really. You’ll be telling me we should
get a piano next.’

‘That’d be good. Maybe we will one day.’

‘Frank, we can’t
play
the piano.
You’re getting silly.’

‘But just because this is how things are
now, it doesn’t mean they’ve always got to be like this. Can’t we
think about how things might be different? I want special things,
Lizzie, things for you.’

Lizzie put down her sewing and stared at him
with a troubled expression. ‘You sound like Amy. Going on about
things you can’t have, dreaming about things till you talk yourself
into believing they’ll come true. It’s no good thinking like that,
Frank. It’s… well, only bad can come of it. Look what happened to
Amy.’

‘Did she used to dream about things?’ Frank
asked, surprised. As little notice as he took of her, he could see
that Amy’s life did not leave room for such luxuries as dreams.
Lizzie’s remark raised a curiosity in him. ‘Why did she marry
Charlie, anyway? They’re a strange match.’

‘They
made
her,’ Lizzie flashed, her
eyes burning with indignation. She opened her mouth to speak again,
then snapped it shut abruptly. ‘That’s none of our business, Frank.
Don’t ask me about it.’

‘All right,’ Frank said, his momentary
interest easily diverted. ‘What about you, Lizzie? Didn’t you ever
have dreams?’

‘I wanted a place of my own, and lots of
children, and a nice husband. I’ve got all that. I’m lucky, aren’t
I?’ She turned a glowing smile on him, and Frank gave her a
hug.

‘Not as lucky as me. But you must have
dreamed about some things—things that weren’t sensible, I
mean.’

Lizzie gave him a sidelong glance, then
spoke almost shyly. ‘Maybe,’ she allowed. ‘When me and Amy were
little we used to read stories. You know, things about castles and
princesses and stuff. We used to make up our own stories sometimes
and act them out, up in the bush where no one could see us and
laugh. I used to think about those stories sometimes—only when I
was little, I mean. It was all a load of nonsense.’

‘What did you used to think?’ Frank
probed.

‘Oh, just how it’d be nice if some of that
stuff was true. You know, if I could live in a castle and wear
pretty dresses and jewels and things. And if…’ she turned her face
aside slightly. ‘Well, sometimes I wished I could be beautiful, and
have some handsome prince ride up and carry me away with him.
Silly, eh?’

‘Hmm,’ Frank said thoughtfully. ‘Well, I
can’t do much about the castle. A farm might have to do. And if any
princes come sniffing around here after you I’ll see them off the
place with a shotgun, never mind how good-looking they are. I want
to get you the pretty dresses and things, though. I’m going to do
it, too, Lizzie, you wait and see. I’m going to get better cows,
and I’m really going to make a go of this place. And Lizzie,’ he
slipped his hand under her chin and gently pulled it around to face
him, ‘you’re already beautiful,’ he whispered as he leaned over to
plant a kiss on her open mouth.

November 1890

Amy wondered why washing day seemed even
harder than usual as she lifted the heavy sheets, dripping their
burden of scalding hot water, out of the copper and into the first
rinsing tub. After the recent hot weather the rain barrel did not
contain nearly enough water for the tubs, so she had had to carry
load after load from the well. A dull ache had started low in her
abdomen during one of those wearying treks up the hill, and it grew
worse and worse as the morning wore on.

Even when she had finished hanging out the
last load of washing, the cramping pains did not ease. Late that
afternoon, after she had carried the dry washing inside, the pains
became severe enough to make Amy double over and clutch at herself.
She thrust some cakes at the boys to keep them amused and shut
herself away in the bedroom to expel what would have been a baby
had it been able to remain in her womb for seven more months.

She could not allow herself to lie down and
rest. She had the boys to watch, the clothes to fold away ready for
next day’s ironing, and it would soon be time to start making
dinner. And before any of that, she had the miserable job of
cleaning herself up. There was a harder task later. That evening
she had to tell Charlie she had lost yet another baby.

The tiny hope she still held that Charlie
might show her some sympathy, might open his heart over the loss
they shared, was soon dashed. When Amy tried to say something of
her own sadness he silenced her at once, burying his nose in the
newspaper though she could tell he was not actually reading it.

There was nothing to be done but try to go
on as if nothing had happened, although the latest miscarriage
seemed worse than the ones that had gone before. Her body
complained as she dragged herself around the house, trying her best
to do her work properly. She got up every morning already tired,
and by the end of the day she was often dizzy with weariness and
with the dragging pain that refused to leave her entirely. She was
barely twenty-two, but she felt like an old woman.

Amy had no one to share her sadness with,
and there was no one to tell her that she should rest for a few
days to recover her strength. It did not occur to her, much less to
Charlie, that she might be due any special care. For all the pain
of the miscarriages there was no baby to show for them, and thus no
right to the two or three weeks of rest giving birth would have
entitled her to.

‘I’m taking the boy milking with me this
afternoon,’ Charlie announced a few days later over his afternoon
tea. ‘It’s time he got used to being around the cows. He’ll maybe
be ready to start helping next year, the rate he’s growing.’

Malcolm was delighted at the idea of being
treated in such a grown up way. ‘I’m going to milk the cows,’ he
said proudly as he sat on the back doorstep and Amy tied his boot
laces for him.

‘Now, you must do what Papa tells you,’ she
cautioned him. ‘Stand just where he tells you, and don’t get in
Papa’s way.’ She could not help but be relieved at the thought of
having a rest from Malcolm for an hour or two, but when she saw how
excited he was at the thought of ‘helping’ his father she had
misgivings. An over-excited child a few days past his fifth
birthday was not likely to stay calm and quiet, especially a child
as lively and self-willed as Malcolm.

‘I know what to do,’ Malcolm said
indignantly. ‘You don’t know.’

‘I know more about it than you do, Mal, and
don’t be cheeky,’ Amy said, looking over her shoulder to see if
Charlie was within hearing. But he had disappeared around the
corner of the house after finishing his second cup of tea, and she
had time to finish tying Malcolm’s laces before he reappeared.

‘Can I come too?’ David asked plaintively as
Charlie walked up to them.

‘No,’ said Charlie. ‘You’re too small.’

David’s lip trembled. Amy slipped an arm
around his shoulders as they stood and watched Charlie and Malcolm
out of sight, Malcolm scampering excitedly around his father as
they walked.

‘Mama, when will I be as big as Mal?’ David
asked.

Amy twisted one of his long, dark locks
around her finger. ‘Mal’s got a head start on you, Davie, you
mightn’t ever be as big as him. But you’ll be big enough to go out
with Papa one day, don’t worry. Next spring maybe you’ll be able to
help Papa feed the calves. Would you like that?’

‘Yes,’ David said, brightening.

‘Anyway, I’ve got to have someone to keep me
company. Come inside and help Mama make some cakes.’

She gave David scraps of pastry from the
tarts she was making, and he shaped them with his chubby little
fingers ready for her to drop spoonfuls of jam into the centre of
each lump.

‘Those are beautiful tarts, Davie,’ she
praised him. ‘Now we’ll have to wait for them to cook.’ She
carefully placed David’s tarts on one corner of the baking tray,
slid it into the range and closed the door, then started mixing up
a batch of biscuits.

David wandered out of the kitchen, but Amy
did no more than listen to make sure he did not open the front
door. David was not likely to get up to mischief pottering around
in the house. He was not a boisterous child, and even if he had
been there was nothing to break.

She wondered vaguely where the day had gone
as she tried to rush through her baking. Normally she would have
had most of her cake tins filled by lunch-time, but everything
seemed to be taking so much longer lately. She was tired all the
time, and pain was something that never quite left her, merely
varied from nagging aches to sharper thrusts. The bleeding from the
miscarriage had subsided into a flow no heavier than a normal
monthly blood loss (though it was longer than she could remember
since her cycle of bleeding had been anything like normal), but it
still seemed to be draining away what was left of her health.

When she closed the oven door on the last
batch of biscuits, she decided she had better check just what David
was up to. She had barely taken a step towards the door when a cry
of pain made her run into the parlour and thence into the bedroom
she shared with Charlie.

‘What’s wrong, Davie?’ she asked, but the
sight that met her explained it all. She would have laughed if
David’s sad little face had not made comforting him her first
thought. Ginger was trying to scramble out of the cradle that stood
against one wall of the room, hampered in his escape attempt by the
baby’s dress through the neck of which his head and one front paw
had made their way. He had a look of panic on his face, and as soon
as Amy had seen that David’s cry had been from nothing more serious
than a small scratch she caught Ginger and disentangled him from
the dress.

‘Poor Ginger,’ she soothed, stroking the cat
until she managed to coax a purr from him. ‘I’ll give you a nice
dish of milk in a minute.’

She put the little dress back in the drawer
that David had left open, then sat down on the bed and drew him
into her arms, kissing his scratched finger and wiping away his
tears with a clean corner of her apron. ‘Shh, Davie, it’s all
right. Ginger didn’t mean to scratch you, he just got a fright.
What were you trying to do with him?’