The Mother-in-Law(28)

“No . . . not really.” I thought about that. “Well she did give her a name.”

“Her?”

I shrugged. “She thinks it is a girl.”

Laurel nodded sadly.

“What is it?” I asked.

“The same thing happened Josephine, the first time I was at Orchard House. One day she told everyone she’d decided to keep her baby. The next day Josephine was gone.”

“She kept her baby?” I couldn’t keep the awe out of my voice.

“We assumed so,” Laurel said. But I saw Josephine on the outside, a year or so later. After she told Matron she wanted to keep her baby, Matron kept her downstairs in a different room and wouldn’t let her see anyone. They put her to work, night and day—cleaning, doing dishes, cooking. They said that if she wasn’t giving her baby up she’d have to pay for all of her living and hospital expenses herself, and she needed to start working for them right away. They worked her so hard she went into labor a month early. And when she had her baby, she hadn’t paid off her debt, so they held the baby for ransom. Eventually she had no choice but to hand the baby over. My guess is that’s where Pammy is.”

“Enough of that chatter,” Matron says from the other end of the corridor. “Off to bed with you all.”

I hoped that Laurel was wrong, that Pammy had got out and was somewhere with Christopher and her baby. I hoped for it, longed for it . . . but I never really believed it.

Mother came to visit when my belly was so round and tight that I couldn’t put on my shoes and had been wearing slide-on slippers for weeks. Mother was wearing her hat and gloves, like she was going to church.

“I want to keep my baby,” I told her, as she sat on the vinyl back chair. “But I need your help.”

“Diana,” Mother said. “You’re being utterly ridiculous.”

“I’m not. It’s 1970. Single women have babies nowadays.”

Mother smiled. “Oh? Which women are you referring to?”

I didn’t know any, of course. But they existed. The news said things were changing, that women were gaining more rights. Apparently single women were able to access welfare to help them support themselves and their babies.

“Meredith is divorced,” I said, because Meredith was the closest thing I knew to a single mother. Unfortunately it’s not the best example. My dad’s cousin Meredith had left her husband a couple of years ago after finding out he was unfaithful, but divorce had ruined Meredith socially, not to mention financially. Meredith had been tossed out of her family home and last Diana heard, was living in a rented house in Melbourne’s West, the industrial area. She’d gotten herself a job, apparently, in a factory cafeteria.

“Do you want to end up like Meredith?” Mother asked.

“I can just leave here, you know,” I said, defensively. “There’s no lock on the door.” In fact, I had no idea if this was true. In any case, I certainly wouldn’t be telling Matron about my plans.

“I suppose that’s true,” Mother said thoughtfully. “But what would you do then? Bring the baby back to your father’s house? I don’t think so.”

“I’d get my own place.”

“With what money? Who would rent a house to a pregnant single woman with no qualifications to work?”

“I’d stay with friends.”

“Which friends?”

I said nothing, trying to make my expression defiant. But I didn’t have any friends that could help me. The only friends I had that weren’t overseas or at university lived with their parents, most of whom were friends of my parents. I had nowhere to go. My plan was a giant bluff and my mother was calling it.

She placed a cold hand on top of mine. “Come on now, Diana, you’re nearly there. Have your baby, come home and make better choices next time.” She kissed my forehead and the matter, as far as she was concerned, was laid to rest.

That night, I ran.





14: LUCY


THE PRESENT . . .

The funeral director’s name is Pearl. She’s a kindly woman in her midfifties with a puff of overdyed chestnut hair and the patience of a kindergarten teacher. Thank goodness for her because, as it turns out, there’s a lot to do after someone dies. When Tom died, Diana organized everything and I never appreciated how heroic that was until now. How does one, through his or her grief, meet with funeral directors and select caskets, figure out mass booklets and choose flowers, all the while supporting others and managing the minutia of their lives at the same time? I guess I’m going to find out.

We’ve been at the funeral home for several hours selecting things, but my mind is elsewhere. Apparently Jones and Ahmed paid a visit to Nettie and Patrick yesterday too and told them about the cancer . . . or lack of it. Nettie and Patrick agree it all must be some sort of misunderstanding, but I can’t seem to shake the feeling that something isn’t right. Why hadn’t Dr. Paisley referred Diana to an oncologist? Why weren’t there any records of mammograms or ultrasounds? Why would she lie about it?

None of it makes sense.

“What about the wake?” Pearl asks us. “Will it be at your mother’s house?”

Nettie shudders. “No. Let’s do it somewhere else.”

“I agree,” Ollie says. “Knowing Mum died there . . . it’s different now.”