Washerwoman's Dream Page 18

  Winifred was at the stove stirring the soup for their supper, and without turning around said, ‘You know I never touch your things.’

  ‘If it wasn’t you, it must have been Fred.’

  ‘He didn’t mean any harm.’ She put a bowl of soup on the table. ‘Come and eat.’

  Ignoring her, Charles took off his belt. He bent over Fred, pulled off the cornsacks which served as blankets and shook him roughly. The child stirred and, still half asleep, looked at his father looming above him. ‘I’ll teach you to touch my things.’ He brought his belt down hard and the child screamed as he felt it bite into his bare legs.

  Winifred dropped the serving spoon. ‘Don’t hit him, he didn’t know it was wrong.’

  ‘Keep out of this or you’ll get some too. Children are like horses. They need breaking in. They’re my sons and I’ll deal with them as I see fit.’ He buckled on his belt, picked up his accordion and walked out the door.

  She bent over the small boy, cradling him in her arms. ‘Don’t cry. Daddy’s angry because you went to his box. You must learn to leave his things alone.’

  That night the child woke with a bad dream but Winifred didn’t go to him as she normally did, because Charles had returned and was lying by her side and she was afraid to provoke him.

  Fred and his father resumed normal relations, almost as if the child did not remember the incident. He followed Charles around the farm as he always did, walking over to Mutter Barbara’s to see if he was there, and sometimes looking in the dairy. Once he returned with blood streaming from a cut to his head. When Winifred asked him how he did it he said, ‘Aunt Kate hit me with the dog chain. She told me to go away.’

  Before he left, Winifred got Charles to plough her corn patch and turn over the vegetable garden, and when her fowls came into lay again he took her eggs to town, returning with staple items for the house, such as tea and sugar, but never any money. She suspected that he put it in his own pocket and it irked her, but there was nothing she could do.

  * * *

  Fred was old enough to start school at the beginning of 1905, but instead of sending him as she had planned, she kept him home to look after Jack and do odd jobs on the farm. She had given birth to her third son, Peter Andrew Stuart, on 30 December the previous year. Charles had come home briefly and then gone again, leaving Winifred to manage as best she could. It fell to Fred to fetch the water, tend the vegetable patch, watch his younger brother and look after the fowls. As soon as his hands were strong enough she planned to teach him to milk the goat.

  She tried to make up for keeping him home from school by teaching him to read from jam tin labels as she had done as a child. And she told him stories she remembered from her own school days. By now she had put all ideas of leaving home from her mind, knowing she had no way of supporting her children. She had accepted that she was locked into life on the Steger farm until she could fend for herself. Any feelings she’d had for Charles had diminished.

  Her dreams of making money from her writing had been shattered. She had sent some stories to Life, the magazine which had printed some of them before. When months went by and she heard nothing she wondered if the magazine still existed. But it did not stop her putting her thoughts on paper, being careful that Charles did not find out. But he surprised her one day as she was sitting hunched over the table, a stub of pencil in her mouth as she pondered over what to write, finding release in pouring out her unhappiness, her love for her children and describing life on the farm. She tried to hide what she was doing but it was too late. He grabbed the stack of papers from under her hand, his face black as he read what she had written. ‘You … you dom Britisher. No one asked you to come onto my father’s land, now you sit here wasting time while cockatoos eat the corn, while Mutter and my sisters do the work of men because … because I am away earning money to keep body and soul together.’ She had watched helplessly as he threw her stories into the fuel stove, steeling herself not to cry, biting back the angry words that rose to her tongue. She was always relieved when Charles left to go shearing. She felt only loathing when he reached out to pull her towards him, rolling onto his side of the bed once he was satisfied. Afterwards she would rise and stand at the kitchen door gazing out into the night, crying quietly and wondering how much longer she could go on.

  * * *

  Her eldest son was six when Winifred found herself pregnant again. The years of neglect and hard work had taken their toll and the young mother was certain she was going to die. As the time for the birth drew near, she begged Mutter Barbara to find her Aunt Lydia, whom she had not seen since her father and uncle had quarrelled. Vater Carl located Lydia and brought her to the hut where Winifred was awaiting the birth.

  Lydia arrived wearing the same elegant brown dress she had worn the first time Winifred met her. The boys came running in to tell their mother there was a lady outside when they saw Vater Carl handing her out of the waggon. Winifred was in bed when Lydia walked in, taking off her brown kid gloves and putting her hat on the table. She stepped lightly across to her niece and, taking her face in her hands, gazed at her. ‘My dear child, if you only knew how I have missed you. I had no news of you, no one told me. It is very sad. William and your father are still estranged.’

  She turned to the boys. ‘Are these your children? My, what fine, strong boys they are,’ and she kissed them, then opened her basket and took out a white apron which she put on. She bustled around the kitchen making tea, producing a plum cake and cutting the boys a slice before sending them outside again, so that she could talk to their mother.

  She carried a cup of tea and a piece of cake across to Winifred and sat by the bed holding her hand.

  Winifred looked at her with tears in her eyes. ‘I’ve thought of you so often, had conversations with you in my head. Will you stay with me?’

  ‘Of course … that’s why I’m here. I’ll help you have the baby —’

  ‘And after that?’

  ‘We’ll see, I can’t stay forever. I have to get back to your uncle.’

  ‘Aunt Liddy, it’s been so hard … I already have three children and I don’t want any more.’

  ‘Which of your children would you send back?’

  Winifred looked at her, surprised. ‘I want them all.’

  ‘Well then, be thankful that the Lord has blessed you. I would have given anything to have been a mother.’

  ‘You don’t understand … the family hate me.’

  ‘Surely not. Mr Steger is a very nice man. He told me how he and his wife came as shepherds, living miles from anywhere in a little hut until they got some land of their own. He’s so proud of your sons. And now you must rest. I’ll give you a cool sponge bath. It’s so hot in here. Not a breath of air.’

  Winifred watched as she went to the stove and rolled up her sleeves. Her aunt pushed her hair back from a forehead beaded in perspiration, and Winifred noticed the sprinkling of grey hairs. It had been so long since she had last seen her and now here she was, as beautiful as ever with her lovely clothes and her gentle kindness.

  The young woman looked around at the rusted tin walls, the three-legged table, the boxes that served as chairs, and felt ashamed that her aunt had come to such a place. And as Aunt Lydia pulled back the blankets and saw the calico bag filled with straw that served as the mattress, Winifred began to cry, wishing she could have managed better — made some sheets, bought blankets for the children’s beds, forced Charles to get her some real furniture. But there were always more important things for the farm … always the farm. And last time she had some money she had bought herself a pair of strong boots, boots she needed when she was in the corn patch or weeding the garden, and for the long walk into town. As for the children, they went barefoot, sometimes spiking their feet on old fencing wire that had been thrown into a paddock and covered with long grass, or treading on a nail that someone had left to rust in a piece of discarded timber. When they came limping home crying, she would make a poultice of bread and
hot water and make them lie down with a rag over the wound until the infection had gone down.

  Now her aunt dipped a cloth in a dish of lukewarm water and gently sponged her face, then lifted up her nightgown and rubbed her swelling stomach gently, laughing when the baby kicked. ‘Don’t cry, little one. Life is hard. Things will improve.’ She patted Winifred dry with a towel and wiped her eyes, then held out a corner of her apron, ‘Blow,’ she said and Winifred blew her nose.

  After she had emptied the water onto the vegetable garden, Lydia came back with an armful of kindling for the stove. ‘What time does Charles get home?’

  ‘He doesn’t always come home.’

  ‘Is he working away?’

  ‘Not now, but he goes … he goes to the hotel …’ And she began to cry again. ‘I have nothing. He drinks everything, even my egg money. No matter where I hide it, he finds it.’

  ‘Oh, my dear … Do you want me to speak to him about it?’

  ‘It will only make him angry.’

  Winifred’s waters broke that night and Aunt Lydia woke the older boys and sent them to tell their grandmother, who came over in her nightgown and white cap, a shawl draped around her shoulders, holding a lantern. The boys stayed behind with their grandfather. On 2 February 1907, eight hours after she had gone into labour, Winifred gave birth to a baby girl, whom she named Winifred.

  ‘The image of you. A beautiful child,’ said Aunt Lydia as she put the child in her arms, bending over to kiss her niece on the forehead.

  It was a week before Charles came to see his new daughter, a week Aunt Lydia spent sleeping on the floor of the little hut, tending to the mother and child and getting to know the children. She baked bread and girdle cakes and cared for two-year-old Peter, walking him round the farm so that Winifred could rest, going to the dairy to talk to Vater Carl and sometimes to the main house to have a cup of tea with Mutter Barbara.

  She tackled Charles when he was leaving the hut one morning. ‘Mr Steger, I am concerned about my niece. She needs things, things which are the right of every woman. She worries because the children do not have proper blankets and there are no sheets for their beds. She does not want them to grow up like savages. There is the egg money … most women have the use of it to buy things … things for the house … but my niece …’ She hesitated, gazing into Charles’s eyes.

  For a moment he held her gaze and then he looked away, an angry flush rising in his cheeks. ‘No one asked you to come prying into my affairs. I decide how the money is spent in this house. My wife and children want for nothing. There is milk from the goat, vegetables and eggs, cheese and meat from my parents that we have earned by hard work. I know how to look after my own, and now you, a dom Britisher, dare to tell me what I should do in my own home! You are not welcome here, madam, stirring up trouble. The quicker you are gone the better. Tomorrow, when he goes to the dairy, my father will take you back where you belong.’

  ‘You are no gentleman, Mr Steger,’ Lydia called after him as he went striding across the paddock. She was sorry she had spoken and looked across to where Winifred was lying with the child by her side.

  ‘It’s all right, Aunt Lydia, I’ll manage,’ Winifred said. She tried to smile but dissolved into tears, feeling like a child again as her aunt took her in her arms and held her close.

  The next day Vater Carl stopped by with the waggon as he was going to the dairy and Winifred bid her aunt a tearful farewell.

  ‘I’ll write,’ said Lydia. ‘It’s time I went home. William has been too long alone. He needs me. He’s not cut out to be a farmer.’

  * * *

  By the time Winifred’s fourth child was one year old Jack and Fred were both at school. In addition, they had taken over a lot more of the work. Fred milked the goat, chopped wood, dug potatoes and helped Vater Carl with the hay-gathering. Jack looked after the fowls, weeded the vegetable patch and chased the cockatoos off the ripening corn. It made life easier for Winifred, until Charles returned home during harvest and took the boys with him to help out on a neighbour’s farm.

  Once again the bulk of the work fell to her. She came to the realisation that this was how it would always be. Her two older sons had gone from her. Charles had taken them. And she knew that if she was not careful he would take Peter too. Of all her children he was the one she loved the best because he reminded her of her father. She was determined not to let Charles spoil their relationship. Now it was Peter who fetched and carried for her when she was feeding her little daughter. It was Peter who listened to her stories and who handed the pegs to her when she was hanging out the clothes. And though he followed his older brothers around when they were home, at other times he was like her shadow, working with her as she bent over weeding the garden, or shooing the flies off his little sister who was sleeping in the butter-box cradle beside them. Now when she resumed her walks into town Winifred left her baby daughter with Mutter Barbara, who had become attached to the little girl, and took Peter with her, walking slowly and taking rests so that he did not get tired, determined to build a strong bond so that he would not want to leave her.

  Her relations with Charles had not improved. She was only happy when he was away, and when he was home she was glad when he stayed at the hotel so that she did not have to resist his sexual advances.

  That Christmas the plum tree had a particularly large crop of fruit. Winifred had watched it carefully to make sure that the birds did not get at it, encouraging the older boys to rise early one morning to pick the plums, promising that she would bring them back something special from the market. Jack coveted a pocketknife like the one Vater Carl had given his older brother. She asked Charles to go with her to the market because she could not manage the heavy load on her own.

  Jack was hanging on the gate waiting expectantly when his parents returned. He cried bitterly when his mother produced a bag of boiled lollies and told him to share them with his brothers. His father began to unbuckle his belt saying, ‘Stop crying or I’ll give you something to cry about. You’re lucky to get anything.’

  Winifred watched, unnerved, unable to tell her son that Charles had taken all the money, even though she had been expecting to keep it and buy the children some little treats for Christmas, because, like the fowls, the plum tree belonged to her.

  Baby Winifred was a year and ten months old when Winifred came to breaking point. Charles was home again and she had resisted all his advances, turning her back on him when he tried to take her in his arms. She knew that if she gave in it would mean another child and another, until she would be like Mutter Barbara. One evening, instead of swearing at her as he usually did, then rushing angrily out of the hut, when she told him to leave her alone, using all his strength, he pushed her out of bed. She fell heavily to the floor and lay there, stunned. Later she crawled over to curl up beside Peter, and lay awake in the dark, knowing that she could no longer live under the same roof as her husband.

  Her older boys were away when she made her preparations for leaving. Charles was still home but was working on a neighbour’s farm. Winifred left her little girl with Mutter Barbara, saying she was taking Peter into town. She had saved up her egg money for weeks, hiding it in a new place where she was sure Charles would never find it. She thought she would catch the train to Towoomba and ask Mr Jackson to give them a bed until she could find something to do, planning to send for her daughter once she was settled.

  She was never sure how Charles had found out she was leaving. She thought later that the sisters might have seen her put a bag outside the hut. She was writing a note to tell Charles she was going, but he returned before she had finished. She looked up guiltily, trying to hide the paper, but he snatched it out of her hand and read it.

  She stood staring at him with defiance, holding Peter by the hand. ‘I’m going. Don’t try to stop me.’

  ‘I never wanted you in the first place. Your father wished you on to me. You may be the mother of my children, but you are shiete. Just shiete. If you leave n
ow you can never return.’

  He had raised his voice and Winifred could see the veins standing out in his neck. He stood between her and the door. She had to walk past him if she wanted to leave and was afraid of what he might do to her if he lost his temper. ‘I was going to put the kettle on before I left,’ she said, hoping to calm him. If she could get him to sit down at the table she could get her treacle tin of money from where she had hidden it under the steps. If she went without it, there would be no money for the train and there was no way she and Peter could walk to Toowoomba.

  She felt sick, knowing that her plan had backfired. Miraculously Charles came and sat at the kitchen table. She lifted down three mugs, filling one with milk for Peter and putting a loaf of bread and some cheese on the table. Then she took the teapot outside and emptied it, glancing quickly under the steps where she could see the lid of the treacle tin, wondering how she could get it without her husband noticing.

  As he drank his tea he appeared calmer. ‘Things have never been right between us. If you must go, then go, but take Winifred. She is a girl and needs her mother. You will be able to give her things that I can’t. Leave me my sons. Wait here and I’ll fetch her.’

  As soon as he had gone, Winifred ran outside and pulled out the treacle tin, carrying it into the kitchen where she prised off the lid with a knife. The tin was empty. She slumped down, feeling ill. He had known about her hiding place all along. Now she had nothing.

  She saw Charles running across the paddock, Winifred on his shoulder. He was holding a rifle in his hand. She stood and told Peter to hurry, then ran down the steps.

  Charles called to her, ‘You’re not taking Peter.’

  She was trembling, ‘You have taken my other sons. Peter is mine.’ And she held out her arms to the small boy.

  ‘I will not let you have my sons!’ He was level with her. He put the baby girl down and turned to Peter. ‘Take your sister by the hand and go down to Mutter Barbara. She will give you a slice of bread and jam.’ The child looked at his mother and then back at his father. ‘Do as I say,’ his father said and the child obeyed. Holding his sister by the hand he began to walk down the path.