In Her Mothers' Shoes (32 page)

Rose was certain she was in for a telling off.

‘That seems perfectly satisfactory.’

‘It does?’

‘Yes. Why? Aren’t you pleased with that?’

‘Well no. That is, I don’t know. The Karitane said that she wasn’t putting on enough weight.’

Mrs Lowe, uncharacteristically, snorted. ‘They always say that at Plunket. I think they want to have a nation of chubby babies force fed every four hours – except, of course, after ten p.m. Karitane babies are trained to be so regimented they could form an army. It’s simply shocking!’ Mrs Lowe thrust Katharine’s little brown book on the table where it landed with a loud thwack. ‘Personally, I’ve always had my doubts about all that. I suppose they told you not to feed her in the middle of the night either?’

‘Yes.’

‘And have you?’

‘No. Of course not.’ Rose could see where this was heading. The Grey Invader was testing her. ‘I’ve done everything Truby King says, I promise you.’ She hoped fervently that Mrs Lowe wouldn’t ask to see his book.

Two nights ago, when trying to get Katharine to settle, yet again with no success, she’d become so upset at the persistent crying she’d picked up
Feeding and Care of Baby
, opened the window, and thrown it out. As if pleased, Katharine had almost immediately stopped crying, which had come as such a relief Rose had gone straight to bed and forgotten all about the book until the morning. It wasn’t until she was hanging the nappies out on the line that she’d seen the book lying there, its cover wrinkled and the outer pages more than a little lumpy. Even when it had dried, it was still badly misshapen.

‘And baby keeps crying, right on into the night?’

‘Yes. The nights are difficult, it’s true.’ Rose tried not to let Mrs Lowe see just how difficult, keeping her face as expressionless as she could.

‘You wouldn’t believe how many young mothers say that to me. I hear it all the time, you know. And do you know what my advice is?’

Rose shook her head, no.

‘Ignore Truby King. Throw the book away!’

Rose thought she was joking and laughed.

‘No, Mrs Stewart, it’s no laughing matter. I’m perfectly serious.’ While Rose sat there stunned, unable to think of a word to say, Mrs Lowe picked up her purse, clicked it open, and produced a shiny new copy of the book by Dr Benjamin Spock,
Baby and Child
. ‘Have you seen this before?’

‘No. I’ve heard of it though.’

‘You’ll find its advice is almost completely the opposite of what you’ve been told so far. But if that’s not working for you, then I dare say there’s no harm in giving this a try. I’ll leave the book with you.’

‘Thank you. That’s very kind …’

‘Nonsense, it’s part of my job to make sure baby is doing well.’ Mrs Lowe snapped shut her handbag and stood to go. ‘I don’t know how many of those books I’ve given to young mothers these past few months. But they do seem to work.’

After she’d gone, Rose ran back upstairs and, without stopping to pick up the tea things or check on Katharine, she opened the book.

‘You know more than you think.’ The opening words stunned her. How could someone say that to her, when she clearly didn’t know the first thing about infant care. She read on and the more she read, the more a glimmer of hope beamed across the room all the way to the nursery door.

Could she give Katharine a bottle whenever she wanted one? Even in the middle of the night? Could she let her go to bed when she was sleepy and stay up when she wasn’t? Was this the answer to all her difficulties?

A small cry came from the nursery, followed by another, just a whisper of a cry, but Rose knew it would soon become more persistent.

She didn’t look at her watch. She didn’t worry about the tea things or making Katharine fit into her schedule. She went straight to the baby’s room, picked her up out of the crib and held her.

‘Good news, my darling,’ she said. ‘I’m allowed to pick you up when you cry and feed you when you tell me you’re hungry.’ Katharine snuggled into her and stopped crying, nuzzling her mother for milk. ‘And best of all, the book says I’m allowed to cuddle you. Well guess what? I’m never going to stop.’

~   ~  ~

On her first birthday, Katharine – or Katie as she was known by now – was to have a party. Rose invited the little girl next door, Vicki-Jane, who was almost exactly the same age; fifteen-month-old twins Keith and Kathy from around the corner; and of course her parents and the aunts. George’s parents had been invited too, but never ventured far from their farm in Nelson and had declined.

Rose would never forget the day George drove her all the way from Christchurch to meet his father for the first time, long before the War, long before they moved to Wellington. His father had gone as far south as he was prepared to travel, arranging to meet them at Stanley Brook Hill. They’d arrived first and waited beside the car in the chill wind.

George’s father pulled his truck over to the side of the road; it was a long time before he got out.

‘Should we go to him George? Is he waiting for us?’

‘No. He’ll come when he’s ready.’

So they’d waited until C.T., as he was known, casually pushed open his door, clambered from the cab and strolled over. He said nothing. Just looked her up and down then said brusquely, without even a smile, ‘You’ll do.’ To her astonishment, he held out a banana. ‘Here, you must be hungry. Have this. But save the skin. I want it for the pigs.’

Dutifully, she accepted the banana and ate it while he and George talked about sheep. Looking back, she realised that was the longest conversation she and her father-in-law ever had.

It was a relief the reticent C.T. and his wife Margaret had declined the party invitation; their presence would have put a dampener on the day.

Ever since that roadside encounter, Rose had been more than a little scared of George’s father. George, for some reason, detested him. She’d asked him once why that was and would never ask again. The look of pure hatred that crossed George’s face was so frightening she’d not mentioned C.T. since. All she could do was garner clues from his childhood stories, from his discussions with his brothers Leslie and Trevor. The picture they painted was of a father so strict and authoritarian his sons had gone out of their way to be the exact opposite – to treat their friends, their wives and ultimately their own children with respect, kindness and, as often as they could, with laissez faire.

Of his mother, George said nothing, leaving Rose to guess that she had lacked – or had been deprived of – the spirit to stand up to her husband. Margaret had not been invited to accompany him on the journey to Stanley Brook Hill and Rose’s wartime wedding had been such a hurried affair, with just her own mother and father and a few Christchurch friends as guests, that George’s parents had declined to attend. So Rose had yet to meet her mother-in-law. Katie’s party would be another opportunity missed.

Rose knew she’d gone overboard planning for the party, but she was determined to celebrate having made it through the first year – and, though she barely admitted it, she wanted to show everyone she could be as good a mother, a better mother even, as ‘real’ mothers who had given birth to their own babies.

She’d certainly come a long way since those early months when Katharine refused to sleep at night. Thanks to Dr Spock – or really thanks to Mrs Lowe – Katie had gone to sleep almost straight away as soon as Rose had introduced a late-night feed. She’d written a thank-you note to the Lady Inspector and on her third and last visit just a month ago, Rose almost felt like she was entertaining an old friend – even though she was still dressed from head to toe in grey. For a moment, she’d seriously considered inviting her to Katie’s birthday party.

The party was postponed to the Saturday afternoon, so George could be there. The day was fine and warm so she and her mother decided to hold it outside, with the aunts and her parents seated on the veranda and the toddlers and their parents outside. She overheard George becoming involved, as he often did, in a serious discussion with his father-in-law – this time about the Mayor, Mr Macfarlane, and whether he was devoting enough time to the city when he was away in Wellington part of the year being a member of Parliament.

Rushing past on her way to the kitchen to collect the birthday cake, Rose paused for a moment behind George, intending to ask him to light the candles, when she noticed his left leg – the one shortened an inch when so badly broken by the encounter with a Wellington taxi – twitching uncontrollably. George, still embroiled in his discussion, was pushing down on his left knee, his knuckles white with the effort, but to no avail: the leg continued to jiggle up and down as if powered by an electric motor.

‘Are you …?’ She stopped herself. He wouldn’t want her drawing attention to it. She continued on her way past, balancing the cake over to the low table she’d laid with a white linen cloth.

Her mother brought Katie over and the aunts gathered around. Vicki-Jane was lifted down, protesting, off the rocking horse presented that afternoon by Great Aunt Doris and carried over to the table. The twins toddled over, their mother close behind. With the little ones gathered expectantly around the cake, the full presence of the adults was required.

‘Come on Jim, you’re missing the birthday cake,’ Doris called to her brother-in-law. ‘You too, George, come and see your daughter blow out her candle.’

The two men got up from their chairs and stepped down off the veranda onto the paved terrace. There was a cry and Rose, lighted match in her hand, saw George’s leg crumple under him as he fell to the ground.

‘Are you all right, old chap?’ Her father was right beside him, offering him a hand up.

‘I’m fine. My leg just gave way.’ George tried to stand but Rose could tell his leg was causing him pain. ‘No, I’m fine,’ he repeated as her father then Aunt Doris tried to help. George had that stubborn look on his face. She knew better than to intervene.

Slowly, George walked towards her, pretending nothing was wrong. But, almost imperceptibly, his left leg was dragging slightly along the ground. Nobody else seemed to have noticed.

That evening, they gathered around the piano, Katie clutched firmly at her grandmother’s side. Rose played and George sang, in his fine tenor,
Where e’re you Walk
and it seemed impossible to believe it had happened. They looked the picture of a happy family, the image of contentment; the rosy glow from the coal fire lighting a halo at the back of Katie’s dark curls; George’s voice strong and true, without a quaver in it; the song a tribute to love:

‘And all things flourish, and all things flourish,

Where e’re you turn your eyes.’

She put all her effort into the accompaniment, feeling a deep surge of love for her husband as he sang on. Was there something wrong with him? Was it linked to the episode in the car on the road out of Te Kuiti? Or was she just being silly? She’d asked him, after the party, after all the guests had gone home, but he’d brushed it off.

‘It’s nothing,’ he’d said. ‘My leg’s fine now. Must have pinched a nerve.’

The song finished and she looked up at George, who’d picked up the music sheet and closed it.