Pearl in a Cage (9 page)

His own father had died of his heart before Norman's birth, leaving mother and babe to the collective charity of the Duckworth family. No relative had come forward to claim this mite.

‘Your ears are transparent shells,' he said.

The child hiccuped again and her tiny mouth opened in what he chose to believe was a smile.

Young John McPherson's full-length photograph of the stranger in her pine coffin, sent via mail to the Melbourne police, was printed in the Saturday edition of a popular Melbourne newspaper, on page four, beneath the headline: ‘
DO YOU RECOGNISE THIS WOMAN
?'

Her mother, had she been alive, would not have recognised that dead face. The eyes were closed, the eye sockets twin dark smudges of shadow, the face greyed with grazing and her long hair pulled back like a Quaker's wife. She was clad in a cheap black funeral gown, run up by Moe Kelly's wife on her sewing machine.

Had they thought to dress her in the beaded, gold crepe frock, a Melbourne hotel maid may have recognised it. She'd sponged and pressed that frock twice. She might have heard the husband call her Jules.

The hotel manager, had he seen the photograph, may have recognised her as half of the couple who'd spent a week at his establishment during the police strike. He could have looked up the name of that couple, made the identification; however, he did not, on principal, purchase that particular newspaper, which claimed to sell eighty thousand copies daily. When he found time to read, he read the
Herald
.

A jeweller in a third-floor workroom near the corner of Collins and Elizabeth streets saw the photograph. At first glance, he was certain she was half of the couple from whom he'd purchased a diamond ring and two gold bracelets. But
only two days ago, the husband had returned alone, this time with a garnet necklace and earrings. He'd said his wife had borne him a fine strong son.

On guard against buying stolen property, the jeweller always got a name and address from the seller. On the first occasion, the chap had identified himself as Albert John Forest. On the second he'd been Alfred Forester, though on both occasions he had given a similar Hawthorn address. The jeweller remembered the couple well, not for any outstanding feature, but for the brooch the woman had worn. The chap would have sold it. His wife, a foreigner, had been adamant that it was not for sale.

The jeweller's first response was to contact the police, though since the police strike he had little respect for the swine. He'd spent thirty hours behind a locked door, expecting his to be the next door to fall to that rioting mob. He went about his business, though all morning he kept returning to stare at the newspaper photograph. It is odd how at first glance, something, someone, can hit a chord in the mind, how the mind can be so certain, but the more we look, the more we consider, the more we question our first judgment. By noon, the jeweller, now uncertain, decided it was safer not to become involved.

Albert, or Alfred, Forest or Forester recognised the woman in the photograph and wondered if the police had that brooch. He read the few lines beneath the photograph and found no mention of a brooch, but a brief mention of the brat. It was a female and currently being cared for by a stationmaster and his wife. He read of the farmer's wife who had found the woman, of the midwife who couldn't save her, of the constable, the photographer. One of them would have that brooch.

‘Some you win and some you lose,' he said, ripping that page from the newspaper, folding it once, twice, three times before sliding it between the pages of
Great Expectations
— not that he had any great expectations, not right now, but a month or two could see him right. The book tossed into a wooden trunk, he picked up another and glanced at the cover before tossing it after its mate. Three more followed it. He needed to shed weight, and shed it today.

Her jewellery box, a fancy thing, the lid inlaid with mother-of-pearl, was empty apart from a few trinkets. He slid a ring onto his smallest finger. It could be worth a bob or two. He scooped up a necklet and matching earbobs. The pearls were small, the gold had little value. He dangled one of the earbobs a while, watching it spin. A thing like that makes you wonder how it was made, he thought, then, with a shrug, he dropped the earrings and necklet into his pocket. The jewellery box could have been worth money. But not today. He was in a hurry. He reached for a handful of photographs, saw the brooch in one. She was wearing it as a hat ornament. He claimed that one — he could use it as proof of ownership. There was no doubting that it was the same brooch.

‘A great pity,' he said. ‘It was worth a lot more than a few bob.'

The remainder of the photographs dropped into the jewellery box, he closed it and upended his own small travelling case onto the bed. Quite an accumulation. That was what happened when a man stood still too long: he accumulated. He enjoyed a good novel when he had nothing better to do. He'd accumulated seven. Weighty things, books. One after the other he tossed them into the trunk. He packed a few items of clothing, glanced at a notebook, read a word or two, smiled, then tucked it into the jewellery box with the photographs.

For an hour, Albert — or Alfred — selected and rejected as he sorted through the accretion of his months of stagnation. Then the case was closed; the lid of the trunk closed, locked and the small key slid into his wallet. One last glance around the room for forgotten items and he walked downstairs to pay his bill and order a cab.

It took him and his luggage to an address in Hawthorn where a maid let him in.

His sister was in the small sitting room, watering her indoor plants. She didn't turn to his greeting.

‘Tell the old man I'm leaving my trunk with him for a month or two,' he said. ‘Or has he croaked?'

She poured a little water and moved on to the next plant, wiping a spill from the windowsill with her finger. She wasn't
wearing black, which no doubt meant their father was still with the living.

The cabbie carried the locked trunk inside and through to the lumber room where they pushed it into a corner.

‘Give me two minutes,' he said. ‘I'll go back in with you.' And he returned to the sitting room.

His sister wasn't there. He stood a moment looking at the greenery, smelling the scent of damp earth, then he reached for a pot and upended it, smiling as the dirt scattered.

 

Of the eighty thousand copies of the
Sun News–Pictorial
printed on the last Saturday in January 1924, most would meet their end in lighting fires, polishing shoes, cleaning windows, wrapping meat and wiping backsides, though one copy survived intact for sixty years. Young John McPherson wasn't proud of his first published photograph. His mother was. She placed her copy in the bottom drawer of the writing desk.

John was rightly proud of the close-up shot he'd taken of the dead woman's face, though too embarrassed to show what he had captured. She appeared to be sleeping. He convinced himself that she had been sleeping, and in the dead of night made an enlargement, which he later placed with the newspaper in the desk drawer.

 

Norman read the article. By Monday he was expecting Ogden at his door to inform him the family had been found, that they'd be arriving to take the child away. No one came, and on the Wednesday, it was Norman who approached Ogden.

‘You have surely had some response, Constable?'

‘There's always some response, Mr Morrison, though we've heard nothing which you might call a positive response.'

‘You will keep me informed?'

‘As soon as I hear something, you'll be the first to know.'

Schoolchildren returned to the classrooms. Cecelia was old enough to go with them, though Amber did not agree. Norman didn't argue. He waited for the infant to be claimed, becoming stressed with the waiting and by his own thoughts.

Then Vern Hooper came to his door. He and his family would be travelling down to the city on Saturday.

The time had come. And far better if it had come sooner.

On the Friday night, Norman walked the house, walked it late while his family slept. His family. For most of his life he'd lived on the perimeter of the families of others, always craving his own family, his own home.

Late when he walked out to his front verandah to light a cigarette, it took two matches before he got it burning. And he sighted an answering glow from Ogden's verandah. A reflex action perhaps; certainly there was little conscious thought behind it. He found himself over the road, at Ogden's fence.

‘I am more and more convinced, Constable, that it is God's plan for my wife and I to raise that child.'

‘A very worthy thought, Mr Morrison, but there are a few legalities involved in the doing of it.'

‘It was . . . was more or less found on my doorstep, and on the night our own infant died. I believe God sent it to us.'

‘Is that your wife's view of things, Mr Morrison?'

‘It is my wife who has kept it alive, Mr Ogden.'

‘And that's a fact,' Ernie Ogden replied.

‘Does the good book not tell us that it is every man's Christian duty to provide for the more vulnerable in our society?'

‘The parson says so.' Ernie wasn't a big church man.

‘What is . . . what do you see as the . . . the major difficulty?'

‘Paperwork, Mr Morrison. And city folk wanting to stick their noses into places they know nothing about — in the main.'

‘A nameless child has no future.'

‘That's true enough too. There's little doubt the babe will end up in one of their orphanages, and some of them I've seen I wouldn't wish on one of Duffy's dogs. It's just the legalities of the thing, Mr Morrison. There's no doubt in my mind that she'd have a better future with you and your wife.'

No doubt at all, Ernie thought, so why make it difficult with legalities? He had that dead woman in the cemetery and Morrison's dead babe there. He had an infant very much alive and
a living mother with milk in her breasts. The stationmaster's income was assured. He lived in a well-kept house in the centre of town — his own infants kept dying. Maybe it was God's plan.

‘If we had a few more days to think about it,' he said. ‘There was one chap in the city who claimed to be the husband, though he seemed more interested in any jewellery she might have been wearing than in the infant.'

‘The Hoopers are travelling tomorrow.'

‘The best decisions aren't best made fast, Mr Morrison. Come through and sit down. I'll fetch another glass.'

Norman accepted a glass of ale. He was not a drinker, but he sat with his neighbour looking out over the sleeping town, while a cool breeze coming in soft from the south stirred the shirt on his back.

‘I dare say that when it's all boiled down, a bit of tidying up of bookwork could circumvent the legalities — so to speak. As long as you're certain; as long as your wife is certain, Mr Morrison. I mean, she'll be the one doing most of the raising.'

And thus J.C., a woman of good family, was forgotten — though not quite forgotten. While ordering a large and ornate tombstone for his mother's grave, Norman was moved to order a second stone for the mother of his shell-eared daughter. It was small, cheap, grey, with the minimum of words:
J.C. LEFT THIS LIFE 31-12-23
.

Norman named the infant Jennifer Carolyn, for the initials on the handkerchief, and through the remainder of that long hot summer, Amber kept her clean, comfortable and well fed. Gertrude visited once or twice a week, ate lunch with her family on Fridays.

All seemed well until the tombstones were erected and on a Sunday afternoon in early March the little family walked out to the cemetery with flowers to place on old Cecelia's grave. Her stone, of white granite, had three angels perched on it, at each side and on top. It looked very fine indeed, was one of the finest stones in the cemetery. She would have been pleased with it, and with her name cut deep.

No mention of the stillborn boy they'd buried with her in that grave.

‘It's as if I'd never carried him,' Amber said. ‘It is as if you expect me to forget him. You had no right to put him in with her anyway.'

She was expected to forget him, as Norman hoped others would forget him. Jennifer Carolyn had been registered in his place.

‘It was considered . . . considered expedient at the time, my dear.'

‘You should have opened up his brother's grave.'

‘Charles suggested —'

‘To hell with Charles, and all of your Duckworth relatives. He was our son and I carried him, and I'll never put her in his place.'

‘He will never be forgotten by us —'

‘Then why didn't you put his name on your mother's stone!'

‘We did not name him, Amber.'

She walked away from his ornate stone, left him there with the children, the pram pointed in the wrong direction. He manoeuvred the thing around, set its wheels back on the gravelled path and pointed it towards home. He lifted the stocky Cecelia to her feet, pointed her in the direction of her mother.

‘Walk,' he said. ‘Amber! Will you come back and get this child? Amber?'

She waited and took the bawling girl's hand. Norman pushed the pram home.

The subject of tombstone and name on tombstone was not raised over dinner. He hoped it was buried. She got the children settled while he read the paper. All seemed well.

But all was not well.

‘You and your Reverend Charles Duckworth didn't give me time to name him, did you? You let that praying old swine rip him from my arms —'

‘Enough, Mrs Morrison. You are upsetting yourself.'

‘I was upset when you wanted to name my daughter for your mother, when you wanted to name my boy Clarence Arthur. Why didn't you name this one for your family?'

‘Jennifer?' He glanced towards the nursery. ‘She is not . . . is not of the . . . line.'