Tiger Men (44 page)

‘Oh everything, sir,’ Dot was taking the stairs two at a time, trying not spill the water, as this was her second trip to fetch fresh supplies, ‘everything’s happening all at once, it is.’

On the landing at the top of the stairs they encountered the housekeeper. Iris Watson bustled out of the master bedroom to take the bowl and towels from Dot, and through the open door behind her the muffled sounds could be heard of a woman fighting to stifle cries of pain.

‘What’s going on?’ Reginald demanded. ‘Is she miscarrying again?’

‘No, sir,’ the housekeeper answered, ‘she’s giving birth. The doctor and the midwife are both with her. Clive fetched them before going to the station in the hope of meeting your train.’ Iris Watson was aware of the master’s panic and, given past circumstances, she was not in the least surprised. ‘Everything is going splendidly, sir. It’s a little premature, but a perfectly normal birth the doctor says.’ She smiled reassuringly. ‘You stay here, and I’ll leave the door ajar so you can hear the baby’s first cries, it shouldn’t be too long now.’ She darted a glance at the maid. ‘Wait on the landing, Dot, in case you’re needed.’

Dot nodded, and the two of them waited, Reginald sinking into one of the two chairs that flanked the pedestal with its massive floral arrangement, and Dot standing rigidly to attention, like a miniature soldier in mob-cap and apron. Neither said a word, but both sets of eyes remained fixed on the four inch gap where the heavy wooden door sat ajar.

Evelyn’s stifled cries were intermingled with voices, one of which Reginald recognised as Dr Harvey’s. He couldn’t actually hear what the man was saying, but he could make out the words of the other voice, a woman’s; clearly she was the midwife.

‘Push, dear,’ she was saying, ‘don’t forget to breathe, there’s a good girl. Nice big deep breaths. That’s the way, very good. Now push, dear. Push and breathe, push and breathe . . .’

On and on she went, a meaningless litany, which Reginald presumed was supposed to be of some assistance to the woman in labour, although it didn’t seem to be having a great deal of effect. Evelyn’s cries were now more like strangled gasps as if in fighting them back she was suffocating.

Then the doctor spoke again, and this time Reginald could hear the man’s words.

‘It’s all right to cry out loud, Evelyn,’ Dr Harvey said, raising his voice to reach her beyond her pain. ‘Don’t hold back. You’re nearly there, the baby’s helping you, it wants to be born. Cry out if you wish.’

And Evelyn did.

Reginald jumped to his feet, shocked by the primal scream that sounded more animal than human. But the doctor seemed pleased.

‘That’s it. Good girl. I can see the head now. You’re doing wonderfully, Evelyn, not long to go.’

Reginald stood by the door, staring at the four inch gap that led to the other room, hearing his wife cry out, hearing the doctor’s words of assurance, hearing the midwife’s litany of instruction, but all the while he was listening for just one sound: the cry of a newborn child.

Then everything changed. Evelyn’s cries continued, but the doctor was not offering words of assurance now. The doctor was anxious. Reginald couldn’t hear the exact words he muttered to the midwife, but alarmingly it was something about feeling no movement from the child. His instruction to Evelyn, however, was loud and clear.

‘Push, Evelyn,’ he said. ‘Push as hard as you can.’

The midwife joined in, her words no longer a meaningless litany, but a series of distinct orders. ‘Take both my hands, dear. Come along now, hang on to me and push with all your might. That’s it. And again, push. And again, harder.’

Reginald listened as Evelyn’s screams became guttural growls that issued from the very core of her being.

‘Push, Evelyn, push,’ the doctor urged.

‘Hang on and push again, dear,’ the midwife ordered. ‘Push even harder.’

‘It’s coming,’ the doctor said. Reginald could hear his every word now. ‘It’s coming, it’s coming, well done, Evelyn, you’re nearly there.’

Then Evelyn’s unmistakeable wail of relief as she delivered her burden into the world.

Reginald waited breathlessly for the child’s first cry.

But there was none. He heard no cry at all. Instead, he heard muttered words from the doctor to the midwife, but he couldn’t distinguish what was said.

He waited a second longer and then another second, and still no newborn’s cry. What was going on? He had to know.

He pushed the door open and stepped inside. No-one noticed him as he stood there watching the doctor free the cord from around the baby’s neck.

He watched the doctor hold the child upside down by its ankles and smack its bottom sharply. Still there was no cry. There was no sign of life whatsoever and the child’s face had a distinctly bluish tinge. It was a boy, Reginald noticed.

He watched the doctor hand the child to the midwife and turn his attention to the mother, his duty now clearly directed to the living.

‘Rest, Evelyn,’ he said, ‘you’ve done very well, and now you must rest.’ Evelyn was becoming agitated: she too was listening for the cry of a newborn.

Reginald’s eyes did not leave the child. He watched as the midwife continued to perform presumably life-offering ministrations, patting its back, even blowing air into its tiny mouth as some midwives did in such situations. What is the point? he thought dully, the child is dead. The son that should have been his was dead.

Iris Watson, who had been positioned to one side waiting to be of assistance, made the sign of the cross and turned away from the sight. It was only then she noticed him standing motionless where he was over by the door.

She quickly came to his side, her movement calling the midwife’s attention to the fact that the master of the house was present. The midwife frowned disapprovingly but did not cease her ministrations. She kept patting and puffing as if the child might live.

‘What a tragic thing, sir,’ Iris whispered, ‘how sad you should be witness to such a sight. But rest assured, the mistress has survived. Your wife is quite safe. ’

Reginald said nothing. He wished his wife was dead. His eyes remained fixed upon the child’s lifeless body. His wife had given birth to a stillborn. He wished she’d died along with this corpse that should have been his son.

‘Come away, sir,’ Iris whispered. The poor man is in shock, she thought. ‘Come away, sir, please. Come outside.’

Reginald did not budge. He continued to stare at the corpse as though mesmerised. But surely his eyes were deceiving him. He blinked to clear his vision. He could swear he saw movement.

The midwife saw it too. She felt the child stir and saw the quiver of a hand, and she held the infant out before her, waiting expectantly as if she had known this would happen. Then the baby lifted up its head, and the mouth in the little blue face opened wide like a miniature cavern. The chest gave a mighty heave as tiny lungs hauled in air and suddenly the room was filled with the scream of a newborn child who was very much alive.

The midwife would later boast it was her ministrations that had saved the day, although the doctor swore the triumph was the child’s. The baby had put up its own fight, he said; the baby had simply wanted to live. Whatever the reason, within only seconds the baby’s face became a rosy red and its little arms and legs punched the air as if announcing a personal victory.

‘You have a healthy son, Mr Stanford,’ the doctor said, joining Reginald at the door. The midwife, who was now placing the baby in its mother’s arms, had informed him of the intruder. ‘I suggest you wait outside while we prepare the room. You may see your wife and child shortly.’ The doctor too considered Reginald’s presence to have been most unseemly.

‘Of course.’

Reginald did as he was told and meekly retired to the landing where he sat by the flower arrangement and watched as Dot and Iris bustled past on their way down the stairs with armloads of bloodied linen and towels and bowls of murky water. He watched them again as they came back up the stairs with armloads of fresh linen and towels and bowls of clean water; each time they bustled past Iris Watson gave him a special smile.

Finally the servants and the midwife departed and Reginald was summoned to the bedside.

‘You may see your wife and son now, Mr Stanford,’ the doctor said, stepping out onto the landing. ‘Both are in good health, although your wife is weary. She needs to sleep. I shall leave you alone together and call back tomorrow morning. In the meantime, Mrs Watson has my full instructions.’

‘Thank you, Doctor. Thank you very much.’

The two men shook hands, the doctor left and Reginald stepped into the bedroom, closing the door behind him.

She was sitting propped up by pillows, the baby asleep in her arms, and crossing to the bed he sat gingerly beside her, wary of any movement that may disturb. He gazed down at his sleeping son, at the curl of the eyelashes, at the curve of the lip, at the little hand that clutched the edge of the blanket with such seeming purpose, the perfect little hand with its perfect little fingers and perfect little fingernails. Everything is so beautifully formed, he thought, lost in the wonder of it all.

‘Meet Rupert Stanford,’ Evelyn said with a smile.

He dragged his eyes from the feast of his son and looked at his wife. Her hair, normally held in a tight black bun, hung freely to her shoulders. It was freshly brushed, but still damp with the perspiration of her efforts and there were deep shadows of fatigue under her eyes. Reginald thought she had never looked lovelier.

‘My love,’ he said, ‘my dearest love,’ and, leaning forward, he kissed her gently on the lips.

He has not called me his dearest love since the early days of our marriage, she thought. Not since those days when he’d shared his dreams with her, his dreams of the empire he would build for his sons to inherit.

‘There will be other sons, Reginald.’ Evelyn gave thanks to God. Her prayers had been answered. Her husband had come back to her. ‘There will be other sons, I promise.’

A
N EXTRACT FROM
‘A T
IGER’S
T
ALE
’,
A
WORK IN PROGRESS BY
H
ENRY
F
OTHERGILL

H
OBART, THE SIXTEENTH OF
S
EPTEMBER
1887

The Customs House Hotel on the docks was just across the road from Parliament House and therefore a favourite watering hole for parliamentarians. On this pleasant spring evening, a group of ten or more men were gathered at the bar discussing the legislation passed just the previous night when the voice of a stranger politely intruded.

‘Excuse me, gentlemen, but may I enquire, have you ever seen one?’

The speaker who addressed them was an Englishman, a tall, lean man with a weathered face, sporting a top hat and cane and wearing a cravat with a large gemstone attached.

‘Sorry?’ A short chubby man with an iron-grey beard queried.

‘Pardon the intrusion,’ the stranger said, ‘but I couldn’t help overhearing your discussion about the new bill placing a government bounty on the head of the thylacine.’

‘Ah yes?’

‘Well, I’ve been asking around ever since I arrived in Tasmania and no-one I’ve yet encountered has seen one. A thylacine that is, a native tiger.’

‘I’ve seen one,’ the chubby man replied, ‘I’ve seen several of them actually.’

‘Where?’

‘In Regents Park Zoo in London.’ There was an appreciative titter from his drinking companions. The chubby man was known as a bit of a wag.

‘Oh yes, I’ve seen those,’ the Englishman replied, ‘there are also specimens in the Paris and Berlin Zoos, but apparently they don’t last long in captivity. I meant have you encountered one in its natural habitat.’

‘Dear me, no,’ the chubby fellow said, ‘you wouldn’t catch me out there in the wild. Not my cup of tea at all.’ He glanced around at his companions, all of whom nodded.

‘If one is to believe Mr John Lyne and the other parliamentarians pushing the resolution through so vociferously last night,’ the Englishman said, ‘these animals are responsible for the deaths of between thirty and forty thousand sheep annually. Surely that is an exaggeration, wouldn’t you say?’

‘It does seem like an inordinate amount.’ The chubby man smiled as if at some private joke. ‘Are you sure you heard correctly?’

‘Oh, yes.’ The Englishman nodded. ‘I was in the public gallery. Mr Lyne went on to say that these “dingoes” run whole flocks of sheep down into gullies and maim more than they kill, and that they are the greatest pests the colony has.’

‘John Lyne is renowned for his fertile imagination and the sometimes outrageous claims he makes from the floor of the House,’ the chubby man said, again with a humorous twinkle in his eye. ‘Why only last month he claimed there were seven hundred thousand fewer sheep in the colony than there should be, primarily because of tigers.’

‘That is, indeed, a lot of sheep.’

‘I’m of a mind to agree with you, sir. Given that the total number of sheep in the entire colony is just over a million, one might be inclined to believe Mr Lyne’s mathematical skill leaves a lot to be desired.’ The last statement caused a roar of laughter from the group. ‘Forgive me, stranger,’ the chubby man said apologetically, ‘a little “in-House” joke you might say. Please allow me to introduce my dear friend, the Honourable member for Glamorgan, Mr John Lyne.’

An old man, eighty or more years of age stepped forwards. ‘John Lyne,’ he said, extending his hand. ‘And whom do I have the honour of addressing?’

‘Charles Elliot,’ the Englishman replied, shaking Lyne’s hand, ‘formerly Captain Charles Elliot of Her Majesty’s 3rd Dragoon Guards and now a special correspondent for The Times of London.’

‘The Times, no less!’ Lyne cocked an eyebrow. ‘So Captain Elliot, you were in the gallery and witnessed last night’s debate. Will you be reporting the resolution to our home country cousins?’

‘Well, the sad plight of a little animal on the far side of the world is hardly front page news, Mr Lyne, but I must say there is concern among some Fellows of the Royal Society in London regarding the fate of this particular marsupial. Several are of the opinion that its very existence is threatened.’