Karaka, South Auckland, October 1935
Alice Simpson straightened the daffodils in the vase and laid gentle hands on her daughter’s grave. “I’m sorry, sweet-pea. I’m not going to be able to visit you as often. Your daddy, brothers, and I are moving to a new district. I wonder what you’d think of that?” She spoke softly, consumed with an ache, an emptiness she could neither soothe nor fill.
Sitting back on her heels, she pulled the cardigan tight around her shoulders. It might be spring, but today a cold wind blew, bringing with it a taste of the sea. Grey clouds scudded overhead, heavy and threatening. She glanced into the wicker basket beside her, studying the cherubic face of her fourth child, dark lashes resting on pink cheeks, the tiny rosebud mouth. John was her special gift, a miniature of Harry, her husband.
Turning back to her daughter’s headstone, she whispered, “Bye-bye, little one. You are always in my heart and in my thoughts.”
A tear slid down her cheek as she stepped away from the grave, hearing her father’s words replaying in her ears. “Do as your husband bids and go where he goes. You’re strong and healthy enough to have more children, so stop your nonsense about a dead baby. Women have lost children since the beginning of time, and you are no different.”
Fury at his bitter words surged again, heightened by what felt like betrayal at the hands of her beloved eldest brother. Showing none of the childhood kindness she remembered, he had sided with their father. Between them, the two men had opened her eyes to how things really were—and would always be.
At the time, she had resolved to compose herself long enough to withdraw from the gloomy formal dining room, where the family gathered once a month after church, and seek Harry out.
On their homeward journey, she had leaned against her husband to whisper, “You’re right. It’s time we did what we want to do, not what our parents dictate.”
Smiling and squeezing her hand, he’d promised, “And we will have a good life.”
She tipped her head back as a raindrop splashed on her hat, and another one promptly landed on the tip of her nose. Wiping the drops and tears away, she picked up the baby basket and hurried to the buggy.
“You’re a good boy, Duke.” She patted the dozing horse before leaning over and placing the baby on the leather bench seat. Fishing out a raincoat from the seat pocket, she gave it a shake before thrusting her arms into the sleeves. When a gust of wind attempted to rip the coat from her, she turned her back to the squall and tied the belt firmly around her waist. Using the cast-iron step, she hauled herself into the buggy and grasped the reins. With the baby basket snug against her side, she clicked the gelding into a brisk walk and turned onto the road.
As the rain increased, pattering on the sparse canvas roof above her head, she urged Duke on, glad as ever of the horse’s kind, reliable nature. Recalling her family’s horrified reaction when Harry had gifted her the ex-trotter at Christmas, the edges of her lips tipped upward. She had come to love the gelding and quickly adjusted to his two speeds—a sprightly walk or a wild, extended gait, halfway between a trot and a run. Her siblings tut-tutted and neighbours leapt to the roadside whenever she careered past them, one hand on her hat, the other holding the reins in a firm grip, and a broad grin on her face.
On this occasion, she had the road to herself. She bent her head against the driving rain, shielding baby John with the skirt of her coat. Duke remained steadfast in the bad weather, his rhythmic gait devouring the five-mile journey to the small timber farmhouse.
Her home … but not for much longer.
***
Alice scurried towards the back porch as the door flew open and two young boys sprang out, closely followed by a wiry man of medium height.
Flashing her a smile, Harry rubbed a work-roughened hand over his balding head. “Welcome home, love. Got a bit damp, hey?”
She handed him the baby basket with its slumbering, precious cargo and wrinkled her nose. “Just a little. Have the boys been good?”
“Of course. They gave me a hand to get the cows in and feed the calves.” He gazed fondly at the two grubby faces. “You’re my special helpers, aren’t you?”
George and Timmy nodded, and Alice’s heart swelled with love for her sons. At seven and five respectively, they believed they were indispensable to their father—perfectly capable of doing a man’s job—and neither she nor Harry would ever disappoint them by indicating otherwise.
“Come on then. We’d better stoke the fire and get you into the bath.” She met her husband’s doting glance. “Is Paddy still at the shed?”
Harry nodded. “He’s washing down the yard and will be in directly. I’ll leave you to it then and see to the horse.”
“Thanks, love. He’s eating the hay left in the feeder.” Her husband tugged an oilskin coat over his shirt and trousers and pulled a weather-beaten felt hat over his ears.
The rain was steady now, but in the distance a faded rainbow hovered over the estuary. The days were lengthening, thankfully. More daylight meant Harry and his cowman, Paddy, could remain outside and complete the additional chores winter had seen them put on hold. With the impending move to the new farm, there were many preparations to be made.
Alice breathed a sigh of relief, secretly grateful the men would be late coming inside. It meant she could prepare the evening meal and feed the children without tripping over two pairs of legs extending from beneath the kitchen table.
After closing the door tightly behind her, she grabbed a block of firewood and used it to stoke the fireplace embers. When the children’s playful shrieks sounded from the hallway and the baby woke with a wail, she scooped him up and onto her hip and waved a scolding finger at his brothers. “Settle down now. Go and fetch a piece of wood each while I get the water ready.”
The boys shared a grin and raced outside to the porch where the wood box sat out of the weather against the side wall. By the time they returned, their mother, still jiggling the bellowing baby, had the water dribbling into the old enamel bathtub.
Her divided attention flicked from John to the taps protruding through the wall, relieved to see only water flowing into the tub. No frogs or lumps of rust appeared as had happened before—to her dismay, and in the case of frogs, to the delight of her sons. One pipe trickled cold water directly from the tank outside, while the other spluttered and coughed, finally divesting itself of a half-hearted stream from the wet-back: a small tank attached to the rear of the kitchen fire.
Without hesitation, George and Timmy stripped off and climbed into the tub. At the gasps and squeals on sinking into the tepid water, Alice’s guilt surged. The fire had been ignored for over two hours, so the water would not yet have reached a comfortable warmth. Bath time would be quick.
“Hurry now and wash yourselves before you get cold.” She handed George a well-used bar of soap and a small towelling washcloth, then sat on the stool next to the bath and put John to her breast. As his wailing turned to snuffles and then silence, she stroked her baby’s fine blond hair and gazed into his bright blue eyes.
He was so like Emmie.
If their daughter had survived, what she would look like now?
Swallowing the lump in her throat, Alice continued gazing at her youngest, who gurgled happily back at her, milk dribbling from the side of his mouth.
While the boys splashed and played in the tub, she pondered the decision she and Harry had made to move to a bigger farm. It was the right choice, one that would offer their family better opportunities. And it had always been Harry’s dream to be a sheep and beef-cattle farmer.
For over ten years, they had slogged to repay the debt on this dairy farm—the farm that Harry’s father had purchased while his son was in Egypt, fighting for his country. Now his parents had passed on, and the worry about offending his father was irrelevant.
Alice had thought her greatest stumbling block to relocating was being forced to leave Emmie behind, but regardless of her father’s words, she now realised that it had never been about Emmie. What had kept her bound to their old life was a sense of duty to both sets of parents—an obligation to follow instructions, dutifully visit, share food, and labour, and accept that they knew best.
An obligation that was now no longer a consideration.
