Pearl in a Cage by Joy Dettman Page A

say, you were left feeling that he’d said nothing at all — or nothing that made any sense. About the best Gertrude could say for her son-in-law was that he must have taken after his dead father, because old Cecelia hadn’t had a lot of trouble in making herself clear.
    For a time after the birth of Amber’s daughter, Gertrude had tried to get along with Cecelia Morrison, aware that she’d need to if she wanted to play a part in her granddaughter’s life. She’d delivered that crumpled little mite, had loved her at first sight. Every Friday she’d visited Norman’s house, welcome or not. But old Cecelia had jumped Gertrude’s claim, and she wasn’t the type of woman to share her possessions. For six months Gertrude had persisted — while biting her tongue to a rag. Then one day she’d stopped biting it, and that was the end of that.
    Things would be different with the next one. Gertrude may not have had anything specific against Norman, but she couldn’t say the same for his mother. Her feelings towards Cecelia Morrison had been very specific.
    The saddle off, she set it in a crook of her walnut tree, sent her horse on his way and glanced towards her chook pens. She’d have eggs waiting to be collected, but she had that baby and Elsie waiting inside. The eggs could wait a little longer.
    Not a sound coming from the house. She opened the door, expecting to see Elsie lying where she’d left her. She wasn’t there.
    Old Wadi’s been here, she thought. She’d near come to blows with him the day she’d carried Elsie away from his camp.
    â€˜Elsie?’
    â€˜She bin cryin’, missus,’ the girl replied from the bedroom.
    Gertrude lifted the curtain, walking from bright light into dark. No window in her bedroom, but a wide wooden hatch. She lifted it, propped it wide, and as the light streamed in she saw the girl holding the new titty bottle.
    â€˜You’ve got her sucking? You good girl,’ she said. ‘You clever girl.’ Elsie stood on one leg, her hip adding balance against the bed. ‘How did you get in here, love?’
    â€˜Slided,’ the girl said.
    Gertrude checked the level of water in the bottle. It had gone down. She fetched a chair from the kitchen, got Elsie seated, and without disturbing that teat. ‘Let her suck for as long as she will, darlin’. It’s thirsty weather.’
    A large stone bottle of water lived in the Coolgardie safe all summer long. Gertrude filled two enamel mugs and carried them to the bedroom where she handed one to Elsie. No thank you was voiced, but those big brown eyes thanked her.
    â€˜You like that baby?’
    â€˜I gettin’ one sometime.’
    â€˜Some long, long time,’ Gertrude said.
    She went about her morning feeling a weight lifted. She’d ridden into that poor woman’s funeral feeling sick at heart that she’d missed something, that her carelessness had allowed the woman to die. She’d been concerned that the babe might follow her mother. But she was sucking, and if she’d suck on sugared water she’d suck on goat’s milk.
    Eggs made up the bulk of Gertrude’s income. Charlie White at the grocery store and Mrs Crone from the café-cum-restaurant took the bulk of them. A few buyers came to her door for eggs and vegetables in season. A few bought her goat’s milk. The McPherson family, who lived near the bridge, wereregular buyers, and had been since young John’s birth. They swore by her goat’s milk.
    Mid-morning, she scalded a little, diluted it with boiled water, added a pinch of sugar, sat Elsie on the cane couch and handed her the baby and bottle. They got an inch of milk into that shrunken little belly, and two hours later she took an inch more.
    Gertrude lost that day, but it was a hopeful, satisfying day — or it was until Ogden’s oldest boy came riding down her track just after