A Greater World (26 page)

He leaned over the bed, parted the boy's pyjamas, and placed his stethoscope on the pale, skinny chest. Dr Reilly had the inscrutability learnt from a lifetime's care of the sick. Removing the stethoscope, he opened the boy's mouth and looked inside, then shook his head.

'Is it tonsillitis, Doctor? His throat's very swollen.'

The doctor looked about him. 'Ask Mr Kidd to come back in, please.'

'Tell me now.' She felt an icy chill pass through her body.

'It's not tonsillitis. It's more worrying than that. I fear your little boy has diphtheria.'

Her hands went to her mouth. 'Diphtheria? Are you sure?'

'Sadly, yes, Mrs Kidd. His neck's swollen and there are signs of the infection in his throat. Quite visible.'

'Where? Let me see. You can't be right. It was just a bit red.' She leaned over the cot and looked into the child's mouth. There, at the back of his throat, was a white spider's web growing across his tonsils.

'Dear God! What's that? Can you get rid of it?'

'Unfortunately not, Mrs Kidd. The membrane is quite undeveloped and if I try to remove it, it will bleed heavily and he could choke, and anyway it will grow back again if it's cut. Better to wait until it gets tough and leathery and then we may be able to take it out – indeed it will drop off itself in the end if...'

She choked in despair. 'If he doesn't die first?'

The doctor didn't reply, and just shook his head gravely.

'What can you do?'

'Wait and see. And pray for him, Mrs Kidd. Pray for him. There's no apparent pattern in the outcome of this disease. Some come through it and others do not. I have to tell you though that the child's age does not help the prognosis.'

'There must be something?'

'If he were older I'd suggest gargling with a sulphur mix. But that would be tricky with a small child – he may not understand how to gargle and we can't have him swallowing it. Besides, he's barely conscious and could choke. You can burn sulphur in the room – that can help keep the infection from spreading, but there's nothing we can do but keep him as comfortable as possible and in complete quarantine and hope and pray it will pass over. There's no vaccine against diphtheria.' He shook his head and his lips set in a hard line.

'No one must be invited to the house; no one must leave and you need to keep the rest of the household away from him. That includes Mr Kidd. Under no circumstances let the baby near him. You're breast-feeding?'

Elizabeth nodded.

'You'll have to stop at once or risk infecting the baby too. Let me look in your throat.' He was wearing a mask and looked down Elizabeth's throat. 'So far, so good. But I want you to wear a mask too and I'll send someone from town to drop a tin of formula outside the house. If you intend to care for the lad yourself in here you'll have to leave young Mary to take care of the baby. On no account may she or your husband or the baby be in this room. I hope the baby isn't already infected. I'll take a look before I go. Remember, no one leaves until I'm able to declare that the quarantine period has passed.'

A few minutes later he returned, with a crying Susanna in his arms. His eyes above his facemask told Elizabeth all she needed to know. She gave a little gasp then reached out and took her baby into her arms. The doctor spoke quietly. 'I've examined Mr Kidd and Mary and neither show signs of the disease, but they must stay away from you and the children and they must have no contact with anyone else. It can take a week to incubate and it's highly contagious. You, Mrs Kidd, must wear a mask at all times. All we can do is wait and hope they pull through.'

The following days passed in a blur. Susanna cried incessantly at first, her tiny body incapable of communicating her suffering in words. After a while she became listless and unable to feed. She died in Elizabeth's arms. Elizabeth cradled her, unable to leave go. She had known Susanna such a brief time. Not long enough to discover her personality, to hear her speak, to watch her first steps. While Mikey was still battling for his life she could not give herself over to the grief she felt.

At first he seemed to rally and she almost dared to hope, but then his temperature rose and his body became limp, his eyes staring vacantly and his breath stentorian, as he struggled to breathe. She never left his side, holding the dead Susanna in her arms for hours, refusing to eat or drink while she kept watch. The little boy could barely breathe, his throat covered with a thick white rubbery growth where the delicate spider's web had been. His temperature remained high and Elizabeth tormented herself with thoughts that she had brought this upon him by wishing him to die before he was born. Now she would give anything to save the little chap who loved to play horsey, spot birds and filled her life with happiness.

When he died there was no drama. He just slipped away. His breathing was so slight and so laboured that it was like a slow drowning. It was a few moments before she realised he was no longer breathing at all and felt his little hand go cold, as the life drained out of him. She was blinded by her tears. Her body heaved and she wanted nothing more than to take his hand in hers and go with him to wherever he'd gone. To stay beside him. She couldn't stand thinking of him facing whatever lay beyond, all by himself. She gave a guttural cry then collapsed on the floor. Kidd found her there and carried her in his arms to their bed and laid her down, pulling the coverlet over her.

The funeral was the next day. The doctor insisted the bodies could not be placed in open coffins, as there was too great a risk of infection. The ceremony passed in a haze to Elizabeth. She didn't even notice that the masked minister officiating was the same one who had married Michael and Harriet. The party at the graveside, all wearing masks, consisted only of herself and Kidd, Doctor Reilly, Will, Verity, the Oates and a tearful Mary.

She stood at the edge of the open grave and watched the two tiny coffins lowered on ropes into the ground.

'Farewell, my lovely babies. I'll love you forever. I'll never forget you.' Her cheeks were dry. She had exhausted a lifetime's supply of tears.

With a flash of vibrant colour, a group of rainbow lorikeets burst through the trees just as the mourners threw their clods of earth on the coffins. She looked up at them, remembering how Mikey loved those birds. She watched them disappear behind a bank of tall gum trees. Maybe he and Susanna were with them, little lorikeets themselves, flying free above them all. As she thought it, she knew it was stupid. They were down there beneath their feet, already starting to dissolve into the soil, a feast for the worms. Her adored boy and her beautiful baby girl.

It had happened so quickly that it was hard to accept it was not a dream. Will was inconsolable. He had loved his little brother and had been devoted to his newborn sister. Now he too was bereft. He and Elizabeth walked from the grave arm in arm, not needing to speak.

Kidd looked after them, and then stared down at the small coffins, as the gravediggers shovelled earth on top. He shook his head, recalling how many times he had stood in this place, burying stillborn children in miniature coffins, then watching as his wife's was lowered into her grave with the last of their dead children.

Chapter Nineteen – Strange Meeting

Michael was in Sydney. He'd been giving a lot of thought to his marital problems. Harriet was headstrong and immature. He took the marriage vows seriously and wanted to stand by the promise he'd made for better or for worse. His father's last letter was full of pleasure that he was married. He didn't want to hurt his parents again by telling them the marriage was already dead. He still wanted them to join him, but reading between the lines of his father's short letter, his mother was too ill for that to be a possibility yet.

He took a taxi from the railway station to the house that he'd reluctantly rented for Harriet in Potts Point. The place was an unnecessary extravagance, but he'd hoped if he went along with her wishes she might eventually grow tired of living in the city.

When he let himself in there was no sign of either Harriet or the housekeeper. He went upstairs to leave his bag in the bedroom. As he reached the door he thought he could hear a sound behind it. The low murmur of conversation. He hesitated then swung the door open.

Harriet was on the bed, propped against a pile of pillows, smoking a cigarette through a long mother-of-pearl holder with a glass of champagne in her other hand. She was wearing a nightgown and it looked from the state of the bed as though she'd only just got out of it. The curtains were still drawn at the windows and the room lit only by the light from a bedside lamp. Two empty champagne bottles lay on the carpet. At the other end of the bed, leaning against the velvet-upholstered footboard was a man, wearing evening dress without the jacket and with his shirt collar and white tie hanging loose from his neck. His highly polished shoes were still on his feet and he looked as though he'd just arrived from a party. Between them on the counterpane was a large book, in the centre of which was a small pile of white powder.

Harriet looked at Michael with narrowed eyes, then leaned forward and scooped some of the powder onto the back of her hand and snorted it up her nose. When she finished she looked defiantly at her husband.

The man turned round to look at Michael. His brilliantined hair was parted in the centre and his voice was arrogant and effeminate as he said with an exaggerated drawl, 'Hell-ohhh there! Who are you? Care to join us? Plenty here for all of us.' And he stretched out a hand to indicate the little heap of cocaine.

'I'm her husband. Who the hell are you?'

Harriet spoke. 'Tommie, meet Michael. He's a bit of a spoilsport, aren't you, darling?'

'Right, Tommie, lad. It's time you went home. Back to the rock you crawled out from.'

'He's going nowhere.' Harriet's voice was shrill. She put down her champagne flute and swung her legs off the bed. 'You're the uninvited guest here.'

Michael grabbed her arm and pulled her towards him, then pushed her in front of him towards the doorway. He looked over his shoulder. 'What are you waiting for? I told you. Time to go home. Or do you want me to throw you down the stairs?'

The man jumped off the bed quickly and gathered up his evening jacket from the chair. Harriet pulled away from Winterbourne and put her arm out to stop her friend.

'Ignore him, Tommie, darling. He's a big bully. Let's head over to your place and carry on the party.'

Michael reacted quickly and before she knew what had hit her, he swung her off her feet and over his shoulder like a sack of coal. She screamed in indignation and struggled to get down but he was too strong for her. He carried her across the room and dumped her in the middle of the bed, scattering the cocaine powder in a cloud.

The man was at the doorway, his face a mixture of fear and fascination. When he saw Michael move towards him he bolted from the room and clattered down the stairs, crashing the front door behind him.

Harriet's face contorted with rage. She spat her words at Michael. 'How dare you do that to me, you beast. This is my house and I'll do what I want in it with anyone I like. Go back to your filthy coalmine and leave me in peace.'

It wasn't going the way he'd envisaged when he set off that morning. Harriet pulled herself into a tight ball with her head on her knees and wouldn't look at him. He could hear her sobbing.

'Hat, we need to talk. We have to find a way to make this marriage work. I won't let you do this to yourself. Drugs are no good. You'll make yourself ill. You'll get into all sorts of trouble. I don't like you being around people like him. Wasters. Rich bastards with nowt better to do. You're a married woman, for God's sake. Act like one. Instead of a spoilt schoolgirl. Grow up!'

Through her sobs he heard her say quietly, 'I hate you. I wish you were dead. You've made a show of me. It's not fair! I'm married to an old wowser who wants to stop me having fun with my friends.'

He sat down on the bed beside her. 'Is he the one? The chap as helped you get the abortion? Are you sleeping with him?'

She dropped her arms and brushed her hand across her face to wipe away the tears. 'Of course I'm not sleeping with him! Are you stupid? He doesn't like women. He likes men.'

Michael didn't know what to say.

Harriet rushed on. 'He's a good friend. We go to the theatre together. He knows all the right people. Now he'll never speak to me again and it's all your fault.' She began to wail.

He suddenly understood how some men could be provoked enough to hit a woman. It was tempting, but he'd never do it. He flung her silk dressing gown at her. 'Get dressed and come downstairs. We need to talk.'

He slept apart from her that night. She made it clear that she had no intention of sleeping with him again. She also made it clear that she didn't want to be married to him any more. They argued for hours until he acknowledged there was no hope of making her see reason about anything. He looked at her and wondered how he'd ever thought her attractive. Her expression had settled into a permanent sulkiness and her complexion was beginning to show the signs of her fondness for drugs and alcohol, with blotchy skin and puffy eyes. She clearly needed help. He was out of his depth. Nothing had prepared him for this. As he lay in bed, sleepless and exhausted after the rowing, he cursed his stupidity for agreeing to marry her in the first place. And for doing so for all the wrong reasons.

He needed to speak to Kidd to convince him that she must see a doctor. He'd failed to get through to her himself. The more he had tried, the more obdurate she became. He was exhausted. Spent. He could do now more. He no longer wanted to try.

Next morning he left while she was still sleeping. He had intended to look in on her before he left, but her bedroom door was locked. He booked himself into a small hotel and went to find a lawyer.

Elizabeth was losing weight. The sight of food made her stomach churn. It was as though she were sleepwalking, catatonic and barely conscious of her surroundings. Day ran into identical day. The nights were worse. She lay on her back in bed, gazing unseeing at the hammered tin ceiling.

She tortured herself with the accusation that she had somehow brought about Mikey's death herself. She knew it to be untrue – as well as her own children the disease had claimed several others, an elderly couple and a newly-wed bride – but she couldn't stop thinking it.

She was alone at Wilton's Creek. Kidd was at the mine.

Her spirits were lower than they'd ever been, even after the death of her father and her discovery of her pregnancy. It was too hard to accept that from one day to the next she had stopped being a mother. Motherhood had become the primary purpose in her life. It had been an unexpected joy and nothing could replace her children, even other children. She blamed herself for not protecting them better. But from what and how? She knew these thoughts were not rational.

Kidd seemed to understand what she was going through and her need to be apart from him and everyone else, including Will and Mary. Perhaps it was because his former wife had lost so many children? Whatever the reason, he raised no objection to her request to stay alone at the Creek.

She lay on the bed, listless, while her mind churned over the short illness that had caused the children's deaths. How was it possible they had ailed so rapidly, that a happy little boy could be stricken so fast and his end come so quickly? That a little baby could be taken before she had a chance to experience life? The letters of condolence lay unread in a pile on the small table beside the bed. What did these people know or care of Mikey and Susanna, or what she was going through now?

Her nerve endings jangled and her skin felt as though she'd been flayed. It was as if she inhabited a netherworld, strangely positioned inside the real one. The sun rising each morning and sinking each night was a mockery of her pain, as were the songs of the birds and the rain rattling onto the corrugated iron roof above her. How could life go on without the children? Why hadn't the world stopped too? She was trapped in an invisible cage, where all she could think about was her loss and the terrible brief suffering of her children.

Kidd stayed away, sensing his presence was neither needed nor wanted. After the funeral, he laid a hand on her sleeve and squeezed her arm in wordless sympathy, but she pulled away from him and stared silently out of the car window.

On the fifth day of her seclusion, she rolled off the bed and fetched some water. She could no longer bear lying there unkempt and unwashed.

Looking in the old spotted mirror above the kitchen sink, she was shocked at the person who looked back. Her face was gaunt with dark circles under her eyes, like bruises. Her normally lustrous hair was matted and dull and her lips were dry and cracked. She stripped off her clothes and put them in a basket ready for washing, filled the sink and began to wash herself. She stood naked on the rag-rug that had survived the improvements Kidd had effected over the past weeks, wincing as she splashed cold water over her face and neck – she could still feel after all. She scrubbed vigorously at her thin body with a washcloth and some lavender soap. The cold water and the aroma of lavender woke her from her torpor and she looked around the room. It was dusty and neglected.

Activity was what she needed to break out of her trance. It wouldn't deaden the pain, but it would distract her from thinking. She wrapped the towel around her and began to rub herself dry.

Her back was to the door so she didn't see him enter and nearly jumped out of her skin when he spoke.

'You're a beauty aren't you?'

She turned round, clutching the towel tightly. The man was short, dark-haired and the stubble on his chin signalled that he hadn't shaved for several days. His frame was wiry and his features like his father's. The resemblance was unmistakable. Elizabeth knew at once she was looking at Nathaniel Kidd.

He leaned against the doorpost, a cigarette dangling from his mouth. A long dull scar ran from the left corner of his top lip to his eyebrow, where it sliced a path through the brow, before petering out just above it.

'The old man did good!' He blew a pantomime wolf whistle. 'So where did he find you, Beauty?'

'Wait outside while I get dressed. I've been unwell and wasn't expecting visitors.' She moved behind the fabric screen that still divided the main sleeping area from the living area.

He called after her. 'Don't mind me. I'm not going anywhere, so don't hurry on my account.'

She grabbed the holdall that lay beside the bed, fumbling for clean underwear and a fresh blouse and skirt. She threw on the clothes and dragged a comb through her tangled and still unwashed hair and emerged again into the kitchen. Nat Kidd was sprawled in a chair, feet up on the gingham-covered orange-box that still served as a makeshift side table, a bottle of beer at his lips.

As she moved into the main area of the room, she was conscious of him appraising her. She went towards the kitchen sink and mumbled something about making tea.

'Not on my account, Beauty. I'm happy with a beer. Glad to see the old man has some in. He doesn't change. Care to join me?' He offered another bottle to her but she backed away, leaning against the kitchen sink.

'Your father didn't tell me he was expecting you.'

'I expect that's 'cause he isn't.'

'He's in town at the mine.'

'I know.'

'You've seen him then?'

He gave a dry laugh and took a swig of beer. 'Why would I want to see the old bastard?'

Elizabeth was feeling increasingly uncomfortable. There was a lot about the man not to like. After not eating for several days, her stomach was hollow and aching and she felt unsteady on her feet. She must have started to sway, as the next thing, he jumped up, caught her and helped her into an armchair.

'You look a bit crook. I'll get you some water.' He returned with a glass, which he held to her lips and steadied her as she drank it hungrily. 'What's wrong with you? You ill or something?'

'I lost...' she stopped, unwilling to tell him.

'You need to eat something.' He opened the tucker-bag he'd flung in the corner of the room and pulled out a loaf and a small oilskin parcel from which he produced a hunk of cheese. He broke off a portion of each and handed them to her.

'Eat it slowly. Looks like you haven't had a decent meal for days, Beauty.'

'Don't call me that.'