Birrung the Secret Friend by Jackie French

now?
    There was only one reason I could think of. I squeezed Elsie’s hand harder, and she squeezed back.
    Mr Johnson stared at the bedroom door. His lips moved again in a silent prayer.
    A baby cried, a sort of choke at first, and then a wail.
    Sally looked out of the room. ‘Hot water,’ she ordered, just like she was the mistress, and Mr Johnson the servant. Then she smiled and said, ‘You have a daughter.’
    Mr Johnson cried out, but not to Sally or to me. Maybe he cried to God. He grabbed the pot and ran into the room.
    Smoke came from the bedroom, funny smoke that made me feel like I wasn’t quite there, as if the hut had floated into another land.
    At last the door opened again. Mr Johnson came out, with a baby wrapped in a blanket. He looked red-eyed. The baby had a red face too. He sat on the splintery chair by the fire, and looked at the tiny baby. Looked and looked, like he’d never seen anything so lovely. ‘God has not forgotten us,’ he whispered. ‘Even if England has.’
    I got up, and Elsie too, still holding my hand. I peered at the baby. She wasn’t lovely at all. Her face was all crumpled and screwed up. She looked a bit angry, as if she was saying, ‘What have you brought me to?’
    â€˜She’s got no hair!’ I said, before I could stop myself. Poor Mr and Mrs Johnson, going through so much and getting a bald daughter!
    Elsie let go of my hand and gave me a sharp elbow in the ribs.
    Mr Johnson didn’t even glance up. ‘Babies often don’t have any hair,’ he murmured. ‘It will grow. She will grow. She will be tall and happy . . .’ His voice died away. His eyes shut, like he was asleep, but he still held the baby close to him.
    It was getting light. Sunbeams danced through a crack in the wall. Down at the barracks the drum rolled, telling the convicts to get up and go to work. I opened the shutters and glanced back into the bedroom. Mrs Johnson lay on the bed. Her eyes were shut, but she was smiling. She was breathing too, her chest going up and down.
    Birrung sat beside her, holding a big shell with smoky burning stuff in it, what I had smelled before. Birrung’s basket lay on the floor next to her. Sally was doingsomething in a corner I couldn’t see. At last Birrung put the shell down. She and Sally came out. Sally shut the door behind her.
    Sally picked up the frying pan. ‘Potato cakes for breakfast,’ she said.
    Birrung began to peel and grate the potatoes without being asked. Elsie cut up the onions and beat the eggs, just as Mrs Johnson had shown her. I was embarrassed sitting in my shirt and bare legs. I went and put my trousers on. I wondered if I should put my shoes on, like it was Sunday, for the baby. But then I thought: The baby won’t notice. Nor would Mr Johnson neither. And those were the only shoes I had and no chance of getting more till a ship came from England.
    Mr Johnson still sat by the fire, the baby in one arm, his eyes closed, despite the noise Sally was making with the frying pan. The baby was asleep now too.
    Birrung set the table quietly, plates and knives and forks and spoons.
    The potato cakes smelled good, pan after pan of them fried in mutton dripping, piled up on the hearth to keep warm. Sally kept mixing and frying, and Mr Johnson sat dozing with the baby. I just wanted to get my stomach around those potato cakes.
    At last Sally said loudly, ‘Breakfast’s ready.’
    Mr Johnson opened his eyes. Sally smiled. She didn’t often smile like that. ‘What name have you given her, sir?’
    â€˜Milbah,’ said Birrung softly.
    Sally glared at her, like she hadn’t forgiven her for taking charge in the bedroom. ‘What name have you given her, sir?’ she repeated.
    Mr Johnson looked down at the baby again. ‘Her name is Milbah.’
    Sally glanced at Birrung, then at him. ‘But that’s a native