Pearl in a Cage by Joy Dettman Page B

seven.
    â€˜Who wants me now?’ she greeted him.
    â€˜It’s the stationmaster’s wife, Mrs Foote. He said it’s her time.’
    â€˜It can’t be,’ she said, then bit her tongue. No use arguing due dates with a fifteen-year-old boy. ‘I wonder if you could fetch my horse up for me, love, while I grab what I need. He’s in the bottom paddock behind the orchard.’
    It had to be a false alarm. She hoped it was a false alarm, or that babe could come backside first and Amber didn’t need that. Nor did Gertrude, not after losing the last one. It was too hard on the heart, too hurtful to the soul, when a grandmother delivered her own dead grandson.
    She hadn’t planned to deliver this one. Vern had promised to take Amber down to Willama before it was due. There was a nurse down there who ran a house where expectant mothers could stay close to the hospital. That had been the plan. Amber had never been one to stick to plans.
    She changed the babe’s sheeting napkin and considered how long she might be gone, considered leaving Elsie in charge. But she couldn’t. Having got the taste for goat’s milk, that wee stomach was demanding it every couple of hours. If things went bad in town, Gertrude could be in there all night. She’d have to take them in with her, drop them off with Ogden and his wife, which she couldn’t do on horseback.
    â€˜I’ll take the cart, love,’ she told the boy. ‘I might get you to give me a lift with a few things before you go.’
    He carried Elsie’s mattress out; she carried Elsie, then went back for the baby. She filled a jam jar with scalded milk, almostforgot the titty bottle, placed them with other bits and pieces into her basket, her every action reminding her of nights long ago, of lifting Amber from her warm bed and carrying her into a stranger’s house. Too many of those nights, and that little girl knowing too much too early. No choice back then, as Gertrude had no choice right now. Life might have been a whole lot easier for Amber had her grandparents made old bones. They hadn’t. Life was what it was; life was all there was, and folk had to do the best they could with what they were handed.
    The door slammed shut and Gertrude stood checking her mental list. Out to the cart then, where she used the spokes of the big old metal-rimmed wheel as a ladder. Her seat was a backless bench — her cart no fancy rig. With a click of her tongue, a flick of the rein, she encouraged her horse to pull. He was an all black gelding she’d named Nugget, and he preferred carrying her to pulling her cart, but she got his head turned for town.
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    Norman was waiting at his front gate. She tied the reins to a cartwheel, which made an effective brake, then, Elsie and the baby looking comfortable enough on their mattress, she went inside to take a quick look at Amber.
    Maisy was with her, and one of Norman’s aunts, and it was no false alarm. Her waters had broken and that baby was in a hurry to get out. He came headfirst an hour later, a good size for an eight-month baby.
    â€˜He’s got the Hoopers’ long limbs, darlin’,’ she said.
    He didn’t offer the newborn’s wail, which was of no immediate concern though it became a slight concern when Gertrude’s usual tricks failed to raise it. She took him out to the kitchen table, away from Amber’s eyes. There was a handful of Norman’s relatives out there. Seventy-five per cent had left town after the funeral; Amber’s batch had stayed on. Gertrude cleared them from the kitchen before clearing the babe’s airways. She slapped his little feet, expecting him to protest her treatment, needing him to protest.
    â€˜What’s wrong?’ Amber called from the bedroom. Gertrude didn’t reply. She didn’t know what was wrong.
    Maisy came to the kitchen door to see, and found Gertrude breathing her own breath into