This Golden Land (23 page)

     Mary McKeeghan released a gruff laugh. "We don't need a midwife here!" she said, but she was smiling and Hannah took an instant liking to her.

     Mary McKeeghan was a handsome, broad-shouldered woman with a sunburnt face. She wore a dusty white bodice over a skirt that appeared to be made of soft kid leather. And on her orange, fly-away hair she wore a man's bush hat. Hannah guessed that she was in her thirties, and she wore a wedding ring.

     And then Hannah noticed with a start a black cloth band around each of her upper arms.

     Seeing Hannah's look, Mrs. McKeeghan said, "We're a house of mourning. But I've a mob of men to feed," and she gestured to the end of the hall where Hannah pictured the kitchen and a hungry crowd, "and haven't had time to go into town and buy a black dress. No crepe to hang on the front door either. It's our busiest time of the year."

     Hannah had already been told this at every cattle and sheep station she had visited, and if it wasn't stock, it was planting time at the crop farms. But as busy as folks were, babies were still being born and midwives were needed.

     "I am sorry for your loss," she said.

     "It was my sister," Mary said, grief flooding her green eyes. "Fell off a horse and broke her neck. It was bad enough, but she left behind a newborn as well." Mary McKeeghan glanced over her shoulder and shifted on her feet, as if she was going to dash off at any moment. A woman with little time on her hands.

     "A newborn!" Hannah said.

     "Well, five months old, and him not doing well either."

     "What's wrong?"

     Mary's green eyes seemed to size Hannah up, taking in the dark orange dress with the little black cape that went just to the middle of Hannah's back, the black gloves and small black bonnet tied under Hannah's chin. Hannah knew she gave an impression of maturity and professionalism, hoping it would make folks overlook her age. "Would you know something about babies, beyond delivering them, I mean?"

     "I have some experience, yes."

     "It's this way," Mary McKeeghan said and she walked with such a long, quick stride that Hannah had to hurry to keep up.

     The bedrooms were indeed in the rear, and the one Hannah now entered was spacious and sunny, with a four-poster covered in a patchwork quilt, a colorful braided rug on the scrubbed floor, and handsome dressers of dark wood. Near the window a cradle stood on a rocking stand. No sounds came from it.

     "He's five months old and he was fine until two weeks ago. We came back from the funeral and it was as if he knew his Mum had gone. Sylvie nursed him for three months, and then switched him to sugared milk which he took to with true appetite. She could leave him with the pap boat and he would feed himself. Now look." Mrs. McKeeghan bent over the cradle, picked up the ceramic pap boat and brought the nipple to the baby's lips. He turned his head away. "Won't feed," Mary said.

     The pap boat was made of Staffordshire ceramic, and resembled a bottle, slightly curved and lying on its side. Cow teats preserved in spirits were usually tied onto the end as a nipple, but in this case cheesecloth covered the spout for the infant to suck on.

     Hannah drew the baby's blanket back and was shocked to see how skinny and undernourished he was. She snapped her fingers on one side of the infant's head. He did not turn in the direction of the sound. "Is he deaf?"

     "Oh no. He used to respond. It's as though he doesn't care."

     "Does he roll over?"

     "He started to and then stopped."

     Hannah also noticed that no matter what sounds she made, how she tickled him, or grinned at him, she could not get the baby to smile. Retrieving her stethoscope, she listened to the tiny chest and heard the miniature
heart within, struggling to survive. As she folded the instrument back into her bag, it was on Hannah's lips to tell Mary McKeeghan that a baby needed more than to have a pap boat placed in his crib. He needed to be held. He needed to feel human warmth and touch, without which he would wither and die. But when she looked into Mary's tired face, saw the lines of grief and worry and stress around her eyes and mouth, Hannah realized that this woman's life was filled with demands that were pulling her every which way.

     As if she could read Hannah's mind, Mary said, "Between the baby and my own Mum, I'm at my wits end. It's our busiest time. I've even got my two children working the tar sticks in the shearing shed."

     "What's wrong with your mother?"

     Mary took Hannah into the next bedroom where a woman in her fifties, with graying hair and blank eyes, lay on her side, facing the wall. "Been like that since the funeral. I've begged her to get up, to eat, but she won't. I don't think she can even hear us."

     Hannah lifted the woman's wrist, getting no response, and felt her pulse. She touched the woman's neck, felt her forehead, tried getting her attention. But Mary McKeeghan's mother lay as still as death, staring lifelessly at the wall.

     Hannah thought: One failing to thrive, the other giving up.

     Going back into the nursery, Hannah lifted the baby from the cradle and, picking up the pap boat, went back into the other room. "What are you doing?" Mary McKeeghan asked.

     "Something I saw my father do once." Hannah placed the pap boat on the table by the bed, then she bent over Mary McKeeghan's mother and, nestling the baby next to her in the covers, warm against the woman's bosom, took one of the spare pillows that sat on top of a wooden chest and tucked it behind the baby, so that he was snug between pillow and grandmother. Neither made a sound.

     Hannah straightened and said, "What is your mother's name?"

     "Naomi."

     Hannah laid a hand on the woman's unresponsive shoulder and said, "Naomi, if you want to feed your grandson, the pap boat is right here by the bed."

     Out in the parlor, Mary McKeeghan said, "What will that do?"

     "I'm not sure," Hannah said truthfully. "It might not work. But it's a chance, as I can think of nothing else to save either."

     "Thank you stopping by," Mary said, escorting Hannah to the front door. "And for trying to help. It's not easy," she said, and Hannah saw guilt steal into the green eyes, "helping at lambing and shearing time, all those mobs of men to feed and see to. I had hoped my Mum would take care of little Robbie, and now they're both sickly and me with no time to spare."

     Hannah guided the buggy back toward the main road, but stopped and pulled over to look back at the house. She carried paper with her, and a pen and inkwell, for recording her experiences and jotting down observations. She retrieved a sheet of paper now, spread it on her lap and, dipping her pen into the ink, proceeded to sketch Mary McKeeghan's house on it.

W
HEN
A
LICE SAW THE BEAUTIFUL GIRLS LINED UP OUTSIDE TO
audition at the new music hall, she wondered if she had made a terrible mistake. Did she have even the slightest chance of being hired?

     Since Hannah had been called away to deliver a baby, Alice had come into town on her own. Hannah had wanted to accompany her, but Alice had insisted that, with Hannah trying to build up a practice, it was more important she went on the call.

     Since they had not been able to find makeup, Hannah and Mrs. Guinness had helped Alice choose a bonnet that sufficiently covered her head so that most of the scarring was hidden, and then they had used a writing pencil to fill in the blank eyebrow. "The idea is to emphasize your positive attributes," Hannah had said as she coaxed a few of Alice's natural blond curls out from the other side of the bonnet, and over her forehead, to show off her beautiful tresses and to frame her lovely blue eyes. They had also spent precious money on a new gown
that, although not showy and expensive, was tasteful and the latest fashion.

     Her hopes had run high as she had walked toward the music hall, and then she saw the line of beautiful women, waiting to audition. Not all were singers, but those who were possessed stunning faces and figures. Alice felt like a stick next to them, and an ugly one at that.

     The doors opened and everyone crowded in. Alice found herself in one of the new style of saloon-bars where patrons sat in chairs at small tables, allowing them to eat, drink alcohol and smoke tobacco whilst watching the show.

     The proprietor moved through the crowd, sending various applicants to different parts of his establishment, where men went to apply for jobs as waiters, bartenders, janitors, and women hoped to work in the kitchen or back stage. The artistic applicants, Sam Glass saw to himself, calling them onto the stage one by one and either watching patiently as they juggled, tumbled, and pulled doves out of their coats, or dismissing them with an impatient wave of his hand.

     Glass wore a brown suit with a checkered waistcoat and a tweed cap on his head. He spoke in a deep, gravely voice that made one think of sandpaper, and chewed constantly on a soggy cigar. He sported a strange moustache—a straight black line along his upper lip that looked as if it had been drawn there with a lump of charcoal.

     The auditions moved swiftly as most acts were too amateurish for the new Elysium Music Hall, and when it came Alice's turn, as she mounted the steps to the stage, Glass looked her up and down. Pretty eyes. Was the hair natural blond? That would be a plus. "Take off the bonnet," he said.

     "My bonnet?"

     "You aren't going to wear it on stage. Folks'll want to see your hair. Take it off."

     Alice looked at the crowd, most of whom were so involved in preparing their own songs, recitations and musical instruments that they weren't watching. She came back to Glass, who sat at a table with a large schooner of beer by his hand. "Hurry up!" he barked. "I haven't got all day. Take off the bonnet or clear the stage."

     She did so, and when her face and scalp were exposed in the stage lights,
Sam's eyebrows shot up. "Jesus Christ! Are you having a joke on me?" He narrowed his eyes and leaned forward. "Did Jacko King put you up to this?"

     When he saw that she was serious, Glass said in a kinder tone, "Listen, love, I imagine you have the nicest voice in the world. But my customers will have eyes as well as ears. Know what I mean? There's pubs by the harbor that can use singers and don't care what they look like." He gestured for her to leave the stage, and shouted, "Next!"

     Alice didn't move. As Glass turned to say something to the man who shared his table, Alice thought of Hannah Conroy's kindness, and Mrs. Guinness's encouragement. She recalled evenings in the hotel parlor practicing and rehearsing, with Hannah and Mrs. Guinness telling her what a beautiful voice she had. She thought of Lulu Forchette who kept telling her she was ugly. And she thought of all the faces that had come to the music hall, unblemished faces with perfect cheeks and intact eyebrows.

     Alice squared her shoulders and drew in a deep breath. The drovers and shearers at the Australia Hotel had said, "Sing something merry to cheer everyone up." "Sing something risqué, like they sing in pubs." "Sing something funny and make everyone laugh." But when Alice opened her mouth and began to sing, there was nothing merry, risqué or funny about the hymn that came from her throat.

Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound,
That saved a wretch like me . . ..
I once was lost but now am found,
Was blind, but now, I see.

     Those standing near her turned and stared. Hearing the pure, high voice, they stopped talking and listened.

T'was Grace that taught . . .
my heart to fear.
And Grace, my fears relieved.
How precious did that Grace appear . . .
the hour I first believed.

     People backstage, and those beyond the footlights also fell silent, giving Alice's voice more room to reach walls and rafters and glittery chandeliers, until performers in the sidelines, tuning their instruments or practicing their moves, ceased their tasks and turned in the direction of the hymn.

Through many dangers, toils and snares . . .
we have already come.
T'was Grace that brought us safe thus far . . .
and Grace will lead us home.

     Sam Glass looked up with a frown, and the silence spread through the tables and chairs and back to the liquor bar at the rear. Carpenters stopped hammering. Painters lowered their brushes. Men on ladders steadied themselves as they swiveled about to see where the hypnotic sound was coming from.

The Lord has promised good to me . . .
His word my hope secures.
He will my shield and portion be . . .
as long as life endures.

     People out in the foyer now came into the hall, silent, listening. Not a sound was heard except for the golden tones that floated like silken ribbons over the heads of the awestruck crowd.

When I've been here ten thousand years . . .
bright shining as the sun.
I've no less days to sing God's praise . . .
then when I've first begun.