‘Could happen?’ Jessica becomes at once suspicious but won’t say so. Instead she says, ‘What? That it’s not born alive?’ She sticks out her belly and pats it. ‘It’s alive orright, it’s gunna kick its way out if I’m any judge,’ she says, trying to sound confident.
‘Let’s just wait and see. No use telling the whole flamin’ world until we know for sure.’
Jessica now looks anxiously at Joe and says, ‘Father, you won’t take my child away and put it in one of them orphanages?’
‘No, Jessie, it’s your child, it stays in the family,’ Joe says somewhat guiltily. ‘There’s been enough trouble at home, what with the death of Mrs Baker. Don’t want no more, do we?’ he says, trying to reassure Jessica.
In fact, the death of Mrs Baker has caused little comment and it isn’t more than a couple of Sundays before the folk at St Stephen’s are congratulating themselves on having found a much better organist in the verger. Nor has Mrs Baker’s death been a surprise. Everyone knew about her crook heart, her arithmetic, and secretly most of them would have dearly loved to see the old girl topple from her stool, taken off to meet her Maker in the middle of a hymn as she’d always wanted. Nevertheless, things settle down very nicely with the verger, a man of sound heart who puts a great deal more enthusiasm and vigour into the makings of a hymn.
The church folk soon stop asking Hester or Meg about Jessica. Some even openly admire their fortitude in the matter, for being so unfailingly cheerful when it must be very difficult to care for someone who has gone round the twist.
There is much favourable comment that Meg will make a very good Mrs Jack Thomas. The vicar, with an eye to the future, is especially anxious to stay on the right side of the pair of them. He is as nice as pie when they come to church and never fails to ask about the state of Meg’s pregnancy, which is becoming increasingly apparent, likewise her constant knitting of tiny booties and matinee jackets. Hester has it in mind to ask the vicar to Sunday dinner quite soon after the birth of Jessica’s baby, or — as the world will know it to be — Meg’s baby. Her excuse will be that they want to discuss the christening.
It’s mid-afternoon, a Friday in late November. Suddenly Jessica hears a woman’s voice calling out, and she comes to the door of the hut.
‘Hello, missus Jessie, you remember me?’
‘It’s Mary, ain’t it?’ Jessica says, squinting against the bright afternoon light before stepping out of the hut.
Four years have passed since the ragged bunch of starving blacks turned up at the kitchen door and Joe allowed them to stay. But Jessica immediately recognises the Aboriginal woman she had befriended among the little mob of blacks when she was fifteen years old. ‘Your memory good one, missus,’ Mary Simpson laughs. ‘You remember me?’
‘Same as if it were yesterday. ‘Owyergoin’, Mary?’
‘I heard about you,’ Mary says quietly.
‘Heard? About me?’ Jessica asks, surprised.
Mary points to Jessica’s stomach. ‘That. You gunna have a baby, your people kicked you out.’ Her English has improved over th
e years and she now speaks with confidence.
‘But nobody’s supposed to know!’
‘Bush talk, miss us. Blackfella know, we watch over you.’ Mary doesn’t explain any further.
‘Jessie. Call me Jessie,’ Jessica grins, pleased to have the unexpected company. ‘You’re older than me, it should be me calls you missus.’
Mary grins too. ‘You gunna need help, Jessie?’
Jessica looks forlornly down at her belly. ‘I dunno, I’ve never had one before, but my mother’s supposed to know what to do.’
Mary can hear the doubt in Jessica’s voice and sniffs, rubbing her hand across her flat nose. ‘Your mum, eh? She done it before, then?’
Jessica shakes her head. ‘No, I don’t think so. The doctor says there ain’t much room, me hips is too small.’ Mary places her head to one side, examining Jessica’s hips expertly. ‘First baby always like that,’ she says reassuringly. She points to her own somewhat broader hips, then laughs softly. ‘After number one, the buggers jump out like a frog in yer hands, no worries.’ She stops talking for a moment and looks kindly at Jessica. ‘Never mind hips, that baby find a way for bloody sure. It don’t want to stay in there more than it must.’
Jessica suddenly feels safe and happy for the first time in months. ‘Mary, come inside, I’ve got soup and a bit o’ damper.’ She then adds, smiling, ‘Ain’t much room though, me with me big stomach an’ all.’
Mary moves across to the doorway and pokes her head into the tiny hut. Jessica has lit the hurricane lamp and the interior is bathed in warm light, a fire crackles on the hearth under a pot and she can smell the hot soup. ‘You made it nice,’ she says after a while.
Jessica nods. ‘It’s bloody cold at night, though, lemme tell ya.’
‘It’s a real good humpy,’ Mary concludes, bringing her head back out of the door.
‘You going to stay for some soup? I’ve got two plates but we’ll have to share the spoon.’
Mary shakes her head. ‘It’s your tucker. I just come to see you orright.’ She smiles at Jessica and points to her stomach. ‘Your baby look pretty right. Got three of me own now, also two died. Girls, no boys, boys is trouble.’ ‘I’d like a boy,’ Jessica laughs. ‘Joe, that’s me dad, he always wanted a boy.’
‘You better pray God gives you a girl, Jessie, boy’s no bloody good,’ Mary repeats.