Silver Wattle (40 page)

I leapt up and sent the milk jug over the table. ‘You have to stop it from being shown! You have to buy it back!’

Freddy had been expecting me to be pleased and was bewildered by my outburst. ‘Why?’ he asked.

‘Because my stepfather might see it. Then he will know where we are.’

Freddy reddened under the strength of my retort but he still could not comprehend what had warranted it. ‘What does it matter if he knows where you are?’

I had never told him the reason why Klara and I had fled Prague, not even after we were married. I wanted to forget what had happened. I was also afraid of Freddy’s bullheadedness. If I told him the full story, he was likely to go to Prague and finish Milosh off. He would either end up getting himself killed or hanged for killing a man with no evidence.

‘Because my stepfather murdered my mother and wants to get rid of me and Klara. We came here to hide from him,’ I said.

Freddy was dumbstruck. His eyes fixed on my face then he said, ‘I thought you left Prague because your mother died. I thought you had nowhere else to go so came to stay with your uncle and aunt.’

I pressed my face into my hands. It had been wonderful to feel safe in Australia and now that was ruined. I looked up at Freddy. His eyes blazed with anger.

‘I’m your husband,’ he snapped. ‘You’re supposed to tell me everything. How come you couldn’t tell me that?’

Freddy had never spoken to me so harshly. I was too overcome by remorse at my own folly to say anything further. We sat in silence for a while, neither of us looking in the direction of the other. Finally, Freddy stood up.

‘I’ll send a telegram to Germany now,’ he said.

Freddy bought
The Bunyip
back from the exchange but it had already been screening at a cinema in Prague. What were the chances that Milosh had seen it? When Mother was alive he had always said that the cinema was for the lower classes. But things had changed rapidly since then. Almost everybody went to the pictures these days. All we could do was wait for further news from Doctor Holub.

On Ranjana and Uncle Ota’s wedding anniversary, Klara, Esther and I decided to take Thomas to Bondi beach for the day. Not only because we wanted to play on the sand with him, but also because we felt that Uncle Ota and Ranjana needed time together. Klara, who considered herself an expert on romance, convinced us that the flirtatious looks Uncle Ota and Ranjana once exchanged had ceased and that they treated each other like comfortable old armchairs. ‘It is exhaustion,’ she said with such authority that I was convinced by her argument. ‘They have worked hard and they have supported us. They need a day to themselves.’

We agreed to give Ranjana and Uncle Ota time alone together. After all, they had a very romantic beginning: not many men could claim to have snatched their wife from a burning bier and fallen in love with her the moment their eyes met. While Ranjana and Uncle Ota were in bed, we made them a breakfast of freshly baked rolls. ‘What’s that wonderful smell?’ I heard Uncle Ota ask Ranjana from the bedroom. We put camellias in a vase in the centre of the table and checked that the plates and silverware were set out correctly on the lace cloth. When we heard Uncle Ota and Ranjana coming down the stairs, we snatched up our coats and fled before they could see us. Klara stuck our note to the back of the front door:

Happy Anniversary, Ota and Ranjana! We will be back at five. Love from your nieces, Klara and Adela, your friend Esther, and your adoring and adorable son, Thomas.

PS Freddy and Robert are watching over the cinema today.

Freddy was giving me driving lessons, but I was not confident enough to take passengers yet, so we caught the tram to Bondi beach. Although it was late autumn, the weather was mild and the sun shone brightly on the sea. Thomas, who normally would not have hesitated to take off his shoes and run through the sand, dragged his feet. Klara tried to entice him to build a sandcastle with her. Such an invitation usually sent Thomas into a mind spin of intricate plans for moats and turrets decorated with shells and necklaces of seaweed. He sat down with Klara to help her mould the structure but after only a few minutes his hands flopped listlessly to his sides and I could see that his heart was not in it.

‘I’m tired,’ he said, looking at us with drooping eyes.

It was the first inkling that something was wrong. Thomas was normally enthusiastic about everything. While some children would count to a hundred if pushed, Thomas would count to one thousand—if you let him.

‘Let’s get some tea and cake,’ Esther suggested. ‘It’s too windy for sandcastles anyway.’

Although most of the teahouses were closed in preparation for the winter, we found one whose interior smelled alluringly of vanilla, hot chocolate and cinnamon buns. Thomas stared at the bread and butter pudding that was placed in front of him.

‘You’re not hungry?’ Klara asked him.

Thomas shook his head. ‘I feel hot.’

Esther pressed her palm to his brow. ‘He has a fever,’ she said. ‘We’d best get him home.’

Thomas fell asleep on my lap as soon as we boarded the tram and I carried him, wrapped in my coat, all the way from the stop to the house. Ranjana and Uncle Ota were sitting in the parlour when we arrived.

‘Did you tire Tommy out?’ Uncle Ota said, laughing. His face was glowing and he looked more relaxed than he had in years. I felt awful for what we were about to tell him.

Ranjana knew straightaway that something was wrong. She pressed her cheek against Thomas’s forehead then took him from me.

Uncle Ota’s smile collapsed.

‘He has a fever,’ Ranjana told him. ‘Quickly, go get the doctor.’

I helped Ranjana put Thomas in bed while Klara prepared a bowl of water and a washcloth for a compress. Uncle Ota returned with the message that the local doctor was delivering a breech baby but he would come to us first thing in the morning. ‘He said we must keep the fever down.’

When Freddy came by to pick me and Klara up, I told him that we would be staying. The three of us collapsed on the sofa but could not sleep. I stared out the window, hoping to see Angel and Cherub, my bearers of good luck, but they did not appear.

Thomas’s fever subsided in the early hours of the morning. He was asleep and he did not stir when each of us leaned over to stroke his face. Ranjana wanted to lie in the chair next to him, but Uncle Ota said she would be better with a proper rest in bed.

In the morning, I checked on Thomas and found him staring at the ceiling. When he saw me, he began to cry. ‘Adelka, I can’t move my leg.’

I tugged back the sheet and saw that he had one of his legs tucked up behind the knee of the other.

‘You have a cramp, that’s all,’ I reassured him. ‘You have slept on your leg and cut off the circulation.’

I straightened his crooked leg. The flesh felt cold. ‘There,’ I said. ‘Can you feel pins and needles?’

He shook his head. ‘I can’t feel anything.’

‘You sleep,’ I told him, kissing his forehead. ‘Sleep cures all.’

Thomas closed his eyes with the trust that only a child can place in an adult. When the others arose, I assured them all was well and that Thomas was sleeping. I did my best to quell the panic that was rising in my own chest. There was no point causing a commotion, which would only frighten Thomas, when the doctor was due to arrive at any moment. Klara was not fooled. I saw her staring at my quivering hands as I went about cooking the eggs for breakfast.

When the doctor arrived, he examined Thomas’s leg then listened to his pulse and chest. His grave expression did not bring us any comfort.

‘I will send for an ambulance,’ the doctor announced, returning his stethoscope to his bag. ‘We’d best get him to the Children’s Hospital without delay.’

Ranjana’s mouth dropped open and the colour drained from her face. ‘What is it?’

The doctor grimaced. I sensed this was a devastating prognosis he had delivered too many times to too many anxious parents. ‘Poliomyelitis.’

The word pierced me like a knife. Infantile paralysis.
The crippler
. It was the most sinister disease because it was fond of children.

Ranjana’s face contorted with disbelief. ‘How could Thomas have contracted polio?’

The doctor shook his head. ‘We don’t know exactly how the germ is spread. But we do know that the disease is quite common in affluent families. You haven’t done anything wrong by your son.’

The ambulance arrived and Ranjana was allowed to accompany Thomas in it. The rest of us travelled behind in Freddy’s car. The horse carts and pedestrians seemed to be moving in slow motion around us. My mind whirred with images of withered, shrunken limbs and wheelchairs. No, not Thomas, I prayed.

Thomas was admitted as a critical case. Because of the gravity of his illness, he was put under the care of a specialist and we were allowed to keep a bedside vigil. The specialist, a wiry man with a wrinkled brow and round metal glasses, examined Thomas’s reflexes and breathing. ‘Polio is like a landslide,’ he explained to us. ‘We can only watch and wait for when and where it will stop. It might only affect his left leg, but tomorrow it might be both and the next day his arms.’

We all let out a gasp. Uncle Ota turned grey in the face. ‘Surely not!’ he cried.

‘Consider it a mercy if it is only his limbs,’ warned the specialist. ‘If the paralysis travels to his chest he will have to be put in an iron lung.’

The next few days were a nightmare as a fiend racked Thomas’s body. Sometimes he would be awake and coherent and other times he would sleep for hours. The hospital was a parade of futures ruined by poliomyelitis. Children were pushed around in wheelchairs by nurses, while others stumbled along in leg braces or using walkers. Outside the physiotherapy department we saw a boy of no more than fourteen who had developed shoulders out of proportion to the rest of his body from using crutches. But the worst cases were the children in the iron lungs. I passed the respirator room on the way to the ladies’ lavatory and caught a glimpse of tiny faces poking out from the boxes, gasping for air. I overheard a mother tell the doctor on duty, ‘She says she can’t swallow.’

‘I am truly sorry,’ the doctor replied. ‘The polio has reached her brain.’

I rushed into the ladies’ room, stood in a cubicle with my hands over my face and wept.

When I returned to the ward, Robert was there with the others. I was glad that he had come to give Klara support.

Freddy noticed I had been crying and put his arm around my waist. ‘I’ll always be here for you and your family, Adela. Always,’ he said.

I buried my face in his chest. Freddy had become my best friend and the person I most relied on. I could not imagine life without him.

When the worst of the danger for Thomas passed he was transferred to the general ward for rehabilitation. He could not move his leg from the hip down, and yet we were grateful for this as only people can be who have been given an expectation of outcomes ranging from bad to worse. The specialist decided that Thomas’s leg would be put in a calliper to prevent his muscles from twisting and becoming deformed.

Uncle Ota and Freddy brought Thomas home from the hospital a few weeks later. The nurses had taught him to walk using crutches and he did it skilfully. But when the car door opened and Thomas limped down the path with a three-legged hobble, I thought Ranjana was the strongest woman in the world not to break down. She threw her arms around Thomas. ‘I’m so glad you are home,’ she said, covering his face in kisses. But I knew what she had witnessed was as devastating for her as it was for us. Thomas had always been a boy who ran and jumped for joy.

The person who most quickly reconciled himself to Thomas’s disability was Thomas himself. Once the illness and pain had passed, he was again his laughing, cheeky self. Esther understood this better than anyone. One afternoon, I stopped by the house and found her and Thomas in the backyard together. Esther was helping him sketch out a hopscotch pattern on the path.

‘Won’t it be too difficult for Thomas?’ I whispered to her. ‘What if he hurts himself?’

She straightened up and looked at me. ‘You’ve got to stop undermining his confidence and help him lead as normal a life as possible.’

Thomas smiled. ‘Don’t be concerned, Adelka. Hopping is something I’ve learned to excel at.’

His response sent Esther into giggles. I had to laugh too.

When Hugh heard that Thomas was home, he and Giallo became frequent visitors. It was moving to see the three of them together. It must have been painful for Hugh to watch Thomas adjust to his disability, but he did not show it. I appreciated that he was willing to come out of himself to try to encourage Thomas and to show his support for us.

One afternoon, after Hugh had played with Thomas in the garden he came to the parlour to talk to me. Esther walked in with a duster. When she saw Hugh, she retreated.

The dejected look in her eyes saddened me. I had intended to speak to her about Hugh’s lack of interest but she had worked it out herself. Ever since Freddy’s and my wedding, where Hugh had ignored her to the point of coldness, Esther returned to wearing drab clothes and hardly saying a word to anyone except us.

When it was time for Hugh to leave, I walked him to the front gate. Esther was in the garden watering the azaleas. Hugh lifted his hat to her but she did not see him. The blue and black butterfly was resting on her shoulder.

‘Do you see the butterfly on Esther?’ I whispered to Hugh.

He stared at Esther and I realised that he did not.

‘Call me whenever you need me to look after Thomas,’ he said.

‘I will,’ I replied, then gave a gasp of surprise when I saw that the butterfly had landed on his chest. Giallo noticed and cocked his head. But Hugh was puzzled by my reaction. I watched him hobble down the street and turn the corner before looking back to Esther.

I had no idea what to make of what had just happened.

Despite his optimistic attitude to his illness, Thomas suffered a setback the following month. The hamstring in his damaged leg contracted and he was in constant pain. He could no longer straighten his leg.