LONG BAY

Prison, abortion and women of the working class.

Eleanor Sweetapple Doctorate of Creative Arts University of Technology, Sydney 2015

ii Long Bay CERTIFICATE OF ORIGINAL AUTHORSHIP I certify that the work in this thesis has not previously been submitted for a degree nor has it been submitted as part of requirements for a degree except as fully acknowledged within the text.

I also certify that the thesis has been written by me. Any help that I have received in my research work and the preparation of the thesis itself has been acknowledged. In addition, I certify that all information sources and literature used are indicated in the thesis.

Signature of Student:

Date:

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i v Long Bay ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I would like to thank Rebecca’s granddaughter, Christine Jensen, for giving me her permission to fictionalise this story. Thank you for your generosity in meeting with me and sharing photographs and helping rediscover forgotten stories. Thank you as well to Annette Obree, Rebecca’s great-granddaughter, and Jan Peelgrane, Rebecca’s grandniece, for sharing family memories, photographs and documents. When I came across Rebecca Sinclair’s case I knew that I was embarking on a long and challenging project. Thank you Associate Professor Debra Adelaide for taking me on as a Doctorate of Creative Arts student at UTS and for all of your generous guidance, critique and clarity. I am also indebted to Professor Paula Hamilton, who steered me towards excellent sources of social history and asked important questions about what kind of book I wanted to write. Without Damian Moss, my brother-in-law who teaches art at Long Bay Correctional Facility, my curiosity about the history of the prison would probably have gone nowhere. Thank you Damian for your introductions. Thank you Peter Moss QC for helping me make sense of the court documents and providing excellent suggestions. Thank you Dierdre Hyslop from the Department of Corrections for your recommendations and guidance. Deborah Beck’s books about the history of Darlinghurst Gaol, particularly Hope in Hell, were invaluable to me, and I am grateful for her guiding me through the former prison. I would also like to thank Jane Cox, a correctional officer who led me on a tour of the former women’s prison, which is still an active correctional facility, at Long Bay, and Kara Lawrence from the media unit. Thanks to Lyn Smith, secretary of the Prince Henry Hospital Trained Nurses Association, for showing me around the Nursing and Medical Museum at Little Bay. Michelle Scott Tucker: thank you for the quilt information and the inspiration about waggas. Local Studies librarian Georgina Keep from Randwick Libraries helped me find some excellent images of the Women’s Reformatory. Yvonne Stewart from the Benevolent Society led me towards sources about the history of the charity and the Thomas Street Asylum where Rebecca gave birth to her first

Long Bay v child. Thank you Keith Williams from the Benevolent Society for giving me permission to access the Benevolent Society records kept at Mitchell Library. Glenda Veitch and other librarians and archivists at the State Library of NSW and the NSW State Archives at Kingswood have also been extremely helpful. Part of this novel was written as part of a Varuna residency fellowship I was awarded in 2013 and I am indebted to the family of Eleanor Dark for providing a sanctuary for writers. Various people have read parts or drafts of the novel and provided useful feedback, including Poppy Gee, Alma Klein, Bianca Nogrady and Amy St Lawrence – thank you. My publishers, Louise Swinn and Zoe Dattner at Sleepers Publishing have given me boundless support and excellent suggestions for the creative work. I am grateful for the work they do and the books they publish. Finally, thank you to my family: my mother Nancy Limprecht for her willingness to read and proofread the entire thesis, my husband, Simon for his unflagging love, support and patience, and my children Eliza and Sam for being welcome distractions.

vi Long Bay TABLE OF CONTENTS 1 List of images 2 Abstract 4 Creative Work: LONG BAY 274 Exegesis: Prison, Abortion and Women of the Working Class 276 Chapter 1: Introduction 298 Chapter 2: The State Reformatory for Women at Long Bay: the rise and fall of a ‘hospital for moral disease’ 314 Chapter 3: ‘Deliberate interference with the function of procreation’: the medicalisation of abortion in the early twentieth century and the criminalisation of midwife abortionists 328 Chapter 4: ‘Sad stories of misfortune’: the representation and expectations of working class women in the early twentieth century 342 References 352 Appendix

Long Bay vii LIST OF IMAGES 276 Rebecca Sinclair. Darlinghurst Gaol Photograph Description Book 1909-1910, NRS 2138, Item 3/6074 New South Wales State Archives, 154. 280 Donald Sinclair. Darlinghurst Gaol Photograph Description Book 1909-1910, NRS 2138, Item 3/6074 New South Wales State Archives, 153. 299 Photograph of the Entrance Block at Long Bay Women’s Reformatory. Image courtesy Randwick City Library Service. 303 Rose Scott, circa 1900. Photographer T. Humphrey & Co. Image courtesy of State Library of Victoria. 309 Long Bay Prison Tram. Image courtesy of State Records NSW. 319 Pessaries. 'Wife's Friends', in box, W.J. Rendell, Australia, 1930-1939, image courtesy Powerhouse Museum. 322 Uterine curettes. Nursing and Medical Museum, Coast Hospital, Little Bay. Photograph author’s own. 337 Weighing day, Woolloomooloo Baby Clinic, 2/5/1916. Image courtesy State Library of NSW. Government Printing Office 1-31725. 353 Donald Sinclair. Darlinghurst Gaol Photograph Description Book 1909-1910, NRS 2138, New South Wales State Archives, 153. 354 Rebecca Sinclair. Darlinghurst Gaol Photograph Description Book 1909-1910, NRS 2138, New South Wales State Archives, 154. 355 Dressmakers circa 1910, Casterton, Victoria. Image courtesy: The Biggest Family Album, Museum Victoria.

1 Long Bay ABSTRACT

In 1909 Rebecca Sinclair and her husband Donald Sinclair were found guilty of manslaughter in Sydney’s Central Criminal Court. She was sentenced to three years Hard Labour at Long Bay Women’s Reformatory and he to five years penal servitude. Rebecca and Donald Sinclair had been performing illegal abortions with Epsom Salts and a syringe when their patient – a mother of three children – died. After six months in prison Rebecca was taken to the Royal Hospital for Women in Paddington where she gave birth to a daughter. When her daughter was two weeks old, they returned to prison together. Long Bay is the story of how Rebecca Sinclair became involved in the burgeoning illegal abortion racket and how she was drawn into Donald Sinclair’s world. Her husband’s mother was a known abortionist called Nurse Sinclair who advertised her services in the back of the newspapers, and always managed to escape conviction. The creative portion of my Doctorate of Creative Arts is an 86,000 word novel Long Bay, based on Rebecca and Donald Sinclair’s story. The exegesis consists of an introduction (including an examination of my research process) and three separate essays about aspects of Rebecca Sinclair’s experience. The first essay details the rise of the Women’s Reformatory movement within the conceptual framework of Foucault’s work on prisons, and the creation of Long Bay Women’s Reformatory as the first purpose built women’s prison in Australia. The second looks at the demand for abortion in the early twentieth century and the medicalisation of abortion as traditional midwife providers were legislated against and replaced by doctors profiting from the illegal market. The essay examines how this also led to inexperienced criminal abortionists with no medical training (like Rebecca and Donald Sinclair) filling the gap left by experienced midwifes. The final essay examines the representation and expectations of working class women, and how often the most vivid representations of working class women at the time exist because their subjects have failed to fulfil traditional expectations and have come under public scrutiny as a result.

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3 Long Bay

LONG BAY a novel

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5 Long Bay 15.12.1909 The Medical Superintendent The Royal Hospital for Women, Paddington

Madam, According to arrangements made, an inmate of the Reformatory named Rebecca Sinclair (under sentence of three years’ Hard Labour) is being transferred to your Hospital for the purpose of being Confined. I would also point out that as the woman is under sentence she must not leave your institution. She is to be returned to the State Reformatory after her accouchement. If you would be good enough to inform me when the woman is fit to be returned to the Reformatory, an officer would be sent to your Hospital to take charge of the woman and bring her back. Your desire that the officer bringing the woman to your Hospital should be in plain clothes has been attended to. I have the honour to be Madam Your obedient Servant, Wm Urquhart Sr

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7 Long Bay Prologue

The pains wake her at dawn. Her belly grows hard with them, and her back aches. Last night she dreamt of a nozzle, syringe and some pessaries from the chemist on Oxford Street. Pain like a stab to the gut. She wakes, her nightdress cold with sweat, shivering. Thinking, I cannot be fit. Scared to sleep again, she watches daylight enter the long, high-ceilinged room. It illuminates the scrubbed white walls and the hard floor with coconut matting down the centre. The windows between the beds are hung with thin curtains that do little to keep the light from entering. As the other patients wake she hears dull coughs, bodies turning in crisp sheets. On one side a woman snores. She has grey hair. This will be her eighth child. All of her others were born at home, the seventh with his cord around his neck. The midwife, she said, was too slow to unwrap it. Her only son died before he could take a breath. She will have this baby in hospital, hoping it survives. From the other side comes the click of beads as the Catholic mother whispers her rosaries. She is young. This is her first child. Rebecca hears nurses’ heels, rustling skirts, the cut glass voice of the doctor. In this long room washed with daylight there are nine other women with her, each of them preparing to give birth. This is the Lady Renwick Ward, though there are few ladies here. The patients are all poor, for the hospital is run by the Benevolent Society. There are women on the ward who are married and many who are not. Some who are having their first and some who insist this will be their last. Still, she is the one they all speak of when they think she cannot hear. She is the only one chained to the bed. The tram brought her here two weeks ago, the prison tram as far as Darlinghurst Gaol, then a Black Maria. She wore her pale blue coarse prison dress, extra panels stitched to make room for her belly, a winged white bonnet and starched apron. She knew better than to meet anyone’s eyes. She pulls the string for the nurses’ bell. ‘Only call if you really need attention. Our nurses are very busy,’ the head matron said on the first morning. She had eyes as sharp as a magpie’s, and a cap

Long Bay 8 starched to sharp points above her ears. The loose skin of her chin hung over the white collar. Sister Planchett comes at the bell, rheumy eyes watering in the bright room. ‘Morning, dear. You look pale. Will I bring your toast and tea?’ ‘I think it’s starting, Sister,’ she says, trying to sound calm. ‘I’ll get the doctor to visit on his rounds,’ Sister says. ‘Perhaps some morphine will help. Or a vial of ether.’ She picks up the chamber pot to empty. ‘Do you want to get up? Sometimes it helps to walk around.’ ‘I would, please.’ The sister replaces the pot and pulls the blankets back, exposing the iron holding Rebecca’s ankle to the bed frame. It is just a single chain, welded to a shackle on her left ankle. The sister unlocks the padlock and pries the shackle open so that she can slip the swollen ankle out. There are marks where it has chafed against her skin. The sister mutters beneath her breath. Rebecca is slow to shift from the bed. Leaning on the sister, she takes tentative steps, pausing to breathe. The young Catholic mother pretends to be absorbed in the baby clothes she embroiders, but the grey-haired woman, Lillian, looks up from her pillow and smiles, showing a mouth of broken and missing teeth. ‘Is it time?’ she asks. ‘It seems to be.’ ‘I wish it were mine.’ Rebecca walks slowly, hanging off the sister, who smells of kerosene and wool. Between the spasms, when she cannot move or speak, she wants to ask why it was that Sister Planchett joined the order, what kept her from wanting to marry. Perhaps it was fear of this, childbirth, where one must defy death to bring life. When she had Ellen she was stronger – in body and mind. Now her stomach has turned to a fist, and it is pulling her towards the earth. Another contraction takes hold. They walk for a while, perhaps an hour. The contractions are coming closer together. The pain is all she can think of; she cannot even breathe. Then a spasm and a gush down her legs, on the floor. She slips, smelling hay. Sister Planchett calls for help. They lift Rebecca to her bed.

9 Long Bay A cloth to her face, the sharp sweet ether smell, and the walls turn green, yellow, deepest red. Time passes. Heart in her ears. In her mind’s eye, she sees the woman laid out on the sofa, poor Lucy, and the stain that has soaked her skirts. Don’s hard eyes turning towards her. She thinks: I won’t survive; it is God’s will. How can I even hope? She feels numb, no sense of the life slipping out. Away from her. It will be soft, rotting already, this child. Like the fruit that was thrown at her. Like those small, slippery bodies she buried. A sting between her legs. She remembers the crowds in the court, crow-like women, leering men, shouting: Murderer. Whore. The voice of cut glass, a cluster of heads, a sudden slackness. Then dark. Bottomless dark, blacker than any well.

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11 Long Bay Chapter 1

Her first memories are fragments only, scraps of fabric pieced together to make a whole. Father in the big bed, skin clammy and cold, whiskers wild, and mother wants her to kiss him. She runs and hides beneath the cane chair as weeping fills the room. Her mother’s frayed black dress and bonnet. Violet, Helen, Louis, Amy and Rebecca round her legs and Ruby squalling in her arms. Men lower a long wooden box into a deep hole in the grass, among stones, and she wonders what might be inside – a doll, perhaps, or nice things to eat. In the bed with her sisters, she is awake and crying, for she dreamt of a piece of bread and treacle and when she woke it was gone, her hands not even sticky, emptiness in her aching stomach. And Helen puts her arms round her and sings: And it's home, dearie, home, oh, it's home I want to be. My topsails are hoisted, and I must out to sea, For the oak, and the ash, and the bonny birch tree, They're all growin’ green in the North-country; With Helen behind, and Violet and Amy in front, she is warmed by their bodies, by their breath and their small hands. Then visitors arrive – women with sour faces checking that the girls’ hands are clean and that the cupboards of the house are indeed bare. And her mother saying, ‘I’ll do what I can to keep them.’ Women who will not look at her, just at their shoes and the door, the tall one with a handkerchief to her face as though she cannot bear the smell of their lack. Queuing for rations with the crowds at the Benevolent Society on Elizabeth Street. When it is finally their turn, the way her stomach quakes from just smelling bread, meat already beginning to turn, sugar and flour and tea. They rush home and cook the meat before it goes off, for there would be no greater waste than that maggots eat the meat.

Long Bay 12 Ration day there is bread with sugar, and meat, and stews, and then at the end of the week it is stale bread soaked in tea, spread with dripping, what is left of the stew made thick with flour. ‘It fills the belly,’ her mother says, but how she moans, how they all moan. All but Ruby. Then the man in shiny boots at their door – Mrs Perkins next-door sent him – looking for outworkers, and her mother takes all he will give her. Every Monday he brings orders and picks up the ones from last week, and there are always 10 or 15 shillings, hardly enough to pay the rent, but it has to do. And that is when it begins – the sewing – and that is what carries through. Her life becomes run through with stitches. Stitches tiny and neat. Bent over a piece of linen – no more than five or six years old – stabbing the needle in and out. Line after line until her mother is happy with her work. Until she can be trusted with the simple seams. Amy and Rebecca stitching, Helen cutting, Violet doing buttons. Ruby is of no use; she is tied to the sewing table leg with a cord, playing with wooden spools, speaking her secret language of grunt and gurgle. Knots hidden, no loose threads. Hands clean, for if the fabric is marked Shiny Boots deducts a shilling. Her eyes water and burn, but she stitches until the lamp gutters and dinner grows cold. ‘You’ll be glad to know this skill,’ their mother Lizzie says, pins in her mouth, bent over the Singer that the charity women brought. A charity, they said, for ‘gentlewomen in distress.’ Lizzie bit her tongue so as not to laugh at those words but the machine is the nicest thing they own, and easily the most valuable. For rooms, they let the bottom storey of a sunless terrace in Paddington – two rooms for the seven of them. The floor is worn and splintered and the walls layered with newsprint, each picture so familiar it’s become a part of her life. In the front room they work and take visitors; in the back room they cook and sleep. Not long after the sewing starts Helen grows ill with a cough that will not shift, and the whole bed quakes at night. Lizzie moves the rest of them to the floor, in case they catch the fevers that make Helen sweat and shake. The doctor just gives

13 Long Bay her a drop from a dark bottle to ease her pain, and says there is nothing more to be done. It takes her elsewhere, the drop. But elsewhere from that dark, deathly room is a better place to be. When she dies, Rebecca is given her shoes and dress. The neighbours help pay for the burial, not wanting a pauper’s funeral for a dead child. She is laid out in the front room and the neighbours all visit, to pay their respects. Rebecca does not want to look but does. ‘Go on – touch her,’ a neighbour says. It is not her sister anymore, that cold lizard skin. The sewing keeps on but they go to school some hours in the day. Ruby stays home, of course – no use teaching her anything. Lizzie could keep the rest of them home, being a widow, but she says they must go. They are not the worst off. They have patched, ill-fitting shoes, and a mother who makes them scrub their hands, faces and necks each morning. Nits are combed out and doused in kerosene each night. Before their father died they lived in a whole terrace on their own, with new clothes at Christmas and a girl who did the washing on Wednesdays. Now, they still have the manners that Lizzie insists are part of a proper upbringing, but not the right to hold them. At school they are teased for putting on airs. Rebecca feels as though she lives between worlds, for there is no place she belongs. Louis comes home some afternoons with his trousers and shirt torn and stained, a fat lip or grazed cheek from scuffles in the schoolyard. But Lizzie is never cross with Louis; she says he is the man around the house now. He is the one who – as soon as he is old enough – will make enough to support them. They keep doing outwork but Lizzie soon has women who come, having heard of her fine stitching. They are ladies, and want their dresses made to order. They come, cabs waiting on the street, their small, buttoned boots crossed at the ankle as they sit on the couch in the front room. Lizzie with dark patches of sweat down her dress, hurrying Rebecca or Violet to make tea – never the chipped cup – always swirling boiled water in the pot first to take away the chill. The ladies show pictures cut from the newspaper, or tell stories of another woman’s dress they envy, fingers fluttering at bosoms to show a cut, sweeping in and then out at the hips. Lizzie fetches her stub of pencil and paper, then

Long Bay 14 sketches an image of her own, rubs parts out, corrects it. When they leave they slip coins into her palm with promises of more. Those are the weeks they have to work twice as hard, late into the night stitching ladies’ frocks, and maintaining the outwork too. Rebecca fights to keep her eyes open at school those weeks but at tea she can eat her fill. At fourteen they are done with school. Louis first then Amy, Violet and Rebecca. The rest of them were thrilled, but when the final day comes Rebecca does not want to leave. The last morning she sits at the front of the class, as she always does, waiting for the results for the Merit Certificate. ‘You surprised me,’ the teacher says to her. ‘You got the highest marks on exams. 170/180.’ The teacher does not say anything more but slaps the wooden ruler on the desk. The students are shifting in their seats, watching. There is the drone of blowflies and the sound of pencil scraping slate. That afternoon Rebecca walks out of the school gates, pinching herself to keep real tears from coming. She imagined somehow that her marks would be worth something – that her teacher would ask her to sit for exams to enter secondary school – but he merely expected her to leave, to graduate from a working-class girl to a working-class woman. Violet finds work as a seamstress in a clothing factory. More slops, of course, but they have each girl just do the same piece of clothing, over and over: the collar, the hem, the sleeve. ‘They wouldn’t want us to learn how to make anything useful on our own,’ Violet says, and Lizzie hushes her. It is not the work that is a worry so much as the kind of girls that Violet starts keeping company with, and the words that come from her mouth now – the roughness. Louis should be working too, helping with the rent. Instead, he gambles at the two-up school and marks pakapu tickets. He sometimes slips money to Lizzie, and boiled lollies to the rest of them. From sewing there are small distractions: the parades at Federation, the fuss over women gaining the right to vote. When the election comes, Lizzie stays home to finish a dress rather than join the others at the polling booth. ‘Some

15 Long Bay things are more important than politics,’ she says to her daughters. ‘Like finishing my work on time so we can eat.’ Lizzie’s sight is fading, so she fails to notice how her daughters grow. She gives them each a bundle of clean rags when they start to bleed, but there is no talk of what it means, or what to avoid. Only here’s where to soak them, beneath the kitchen steps, hidden from common view. Violet, with her ginger hair always coming loose and skin so pale it’s blue – Violet is the restless one. At nights she waits until Lizzie sleeps and then slips from the bed that the girls share. She greases the hinge of the front door with lard so that it doesn’t squeak when she slips out into the night. Rebecca has always known that there would be a morning when she would wake and Violet would still be gone. But when that morning comes, her chest feels as though it has been pierced by the needle of the Singer – not once, but with the pedal held down – a hundred thousand times. Heart pierced, she cannot deny a sense of secret thrill. One day it will be her turn to leave. Then it is just three of them, for Ruby is no use. The only job they can give her is taking apart old garments, and even then she rents the fabric, rips a seam rather than cutting the stitches one by one. Violet returns a few weeks later, not to stay but to bring money. She is dressed in pink and green, china crepe with broad stripes, her hair falling round her shoulders. Lizzie shakes her head and pushes the coins away. ‘It’s sinful money, Violet. You’ll be in gaol or dead next. Come home, before it’s too late.’ Violet stamps her foot, showing a new, high-heeled boot. ‘I’m just making something to live on. Free to do as I please, I’m a grown woman now.’ ‘You may be grown,’ Lizzie says, ‘but you’re not free.’

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17 Long Bay Chapter 2

A year after Violet leaves, a scarred block of a man comes calling. He is looking for their father, he says: they sailed together long ago. Lizzie meets him at the door, ‘I hope he didn’t owe you any money,’ she says. ‘He’s been dead nearly thirteen year.’ The man takes off his hat. ‘Sorry to hear that. He never owed me a penny, Louis was a fine mate. Had some adventures together, we did.’ ‘None I should wish to hear of, I imagine.’ Rebecca can tell that her mother is looking to shut the door on him; a lady is visiting that afternoon for measurements. But the man is persistent. He wants to hear how Louis died. Lizzie sighs and her shoulders sink, but even with lines on her face and grey in her hair she is fine-boned and pretty. Rebecca grew out of her mother’s dresses and shoes the year she turned thirteen. ‘Come in, sit down,’ Lizzie says to the man, who introduces himself as Fred. ‘Becca will make you a cup of tea.’ Lizzie motions for him to sit on the couch. She speaks to him for an hour nearly while Rebecca and Amy finish a silk taffeta underskirt for a burnished orange mantua. Lizzie is doing the outwork more and more and giving her daughters the finer jobs, the ones for the ladies. On account of her eyes, she says. She is more likely to drop a stitch. The girls stay in the back room, though the light is better in the front. They listen to the rise and fall of voices. ‘I hope he leaves,’ Amy whispers, ‘before any lady comes calling.’ Rebecca nods. Amy has blue eyes from their father, a small nose and unblemished skin. A handsome man named John Wiley courts her and she says when she turns eighteen they will marry. Rebecca sits for hours listening to her worry over John – whether he likes her hair curled or straight, with a fringe or without, whether he will come on Sunday to take her for a stroll. Then there are the linens she is making for her glory box – tablecloth and sheet, napkin and lacework. Amy never pauses to notice whether or not she is listening. Rebecca

Long Bay 18 feels ugly and plain beside her sister. Brown-haired and brown-eyed, dull as a puddle of mud. She snaps a length of thread between her teeth. The way it squeaks gives her goose pimples. Ruby plays with her little bits of glass and stone at the corner table, humming to herself and rocking back and forth. Finally the front door shuts, and Lizzie draws the curtain aside to look in. Her cheeks are high with colour and her eyes, though still watery and unfocused, seem brighter too. ‘He wasn’t a bad fellow,’ she says. ‘Kind about your father’s character.’ ‘What was his business?’ Amy asks. Rebecca pretends to be absorbed in her work. ‘Nothing. Just wishing to have a yarn, to remember Louis. He might have work for Lou. That would be fine.’ Amy sighs and jams her needle into the pincushion. ‘Yes, if Lou were inclined to take it up.’

Fred makes their mother lighter with his visits, but he scratches against Amy and Rebecca like a rock on glass. ‘Where did he find these, in the horse trough?’ they whisper to one another, as he bestows a basket of wrinkled apples, or a loaf of bread they have to soak because it is hard as stone. Still, they eat what he brings. And then hate him even more. ‘We were right on our own.’ Lizzie speaks of it one night, when the lamps are out, as Ruby’s breath comes steady and shallow. Lizzie lies on the other side of the room, on a narrow pallet that Louis used to sleep on. Now when he stays the night he sleeps in the front room. ‘You know how hard it has been for me, ever since your father died.’ ‘We’ve done all right.’ ‘We’re lucky to be alive.’ ‘So what do we need another mouth to feed for?’ ‘That’s not him. He’s got his own money, Amy. And he doesn’t spend it all at the pubs. You don’t understand what it’s like for me. You’re still a child.’ ‘In one month I’ll be eighteen.’ Amy huffs and turns in the bed. Rebecca buries her head in the mattress and pulls the quilt towards her. It is made from

19 Long Bay remnants of her father’s clothes – an old wagga her mother stitched years ago. It is not the memory of her father that weighs her down – she can hardly remember him at all. It is the sense of being stuck, forever sewing slops in these dark, close rooms, the same newsprint turning yellow on the same walls. She has a desire to just put on her shoes and dress and run, as far and fast as she can go. But there is nowhere to go. It eats at her as she lies there, listening to the late-night rattle of the pie-man’s cart on the street outside. ‘You girls have always been a help to me. I don’t know what I should have done without you,’ Lizzie says in the dark, her voice thin. Her words are met with silence. The others are all leaving. Her mother needs her. It is her lot to grow grey here, wrinkled and sour, like one of Fred’s apples. Rebecca closes her eyes and listens for the rhythm of Ruby’s breath, wishing that her mind would be so empty.

Amy is right about John Wiley: the day she turns eighteen they are off to the registry office to marry. John is broad-shouldered with a strong chin and blonde, curly hair. He wears a suit and a bowler hat pulled low over his too-small eyes. Amy looks like something from a catalogue in the dress they sew her – two yards of lace and four of ivory satin. She will move into his parents’ house in Randwick while they save enough to set out on their own. Afterwards, they all go to the pub to celebrate, and for the first time in her seventeen years Rebecca has more than a few sips of beer. They squeeze onto benches facing one another across a long wooden table, and as the lamps are turned on and the sky darkens their party grows loud and gay. The barmaid brings jug after jug and no one notices when Rebecca refills her glass. Bladder full, she excuses herself from the table and goes to the back of the pub to find the dunny. Her head feels light and her vision wobbles as the barmaid points her outside down a dark, narrow laneway. She locates the washroom – a small kerosene lamp burns inside – and lifts her skirts above her waist, holding her breath and trying not to lose her balance over the grubby hole. There is a noise

Long Bay 20 outside the dunny door and someone tries to pull it open; she holds the handle firm while fixing her dress. It is just John, and he laughs when he sees it is her coming out, and her cheeks burn for he has caught her in the midst of a private thing. ‘My new sister! Come now Becca, give your brother a kiss.’ She shrugs and nearly trips trying to squeeze past him, but he grabs her by the shoulders and pushes his lips against hers, taking the breath whole from her chest. She freezes. His hands slide down her back to grasp her buttocks and squeeze. There is a strange rush of pleasure from this, a warmth that makes her want to push back against him, and then horror as she realises: her sister’s husband. She pulls away and tries to step backwards, but he has her by the wrist and holds it fast. ‘Aren’t you a keen little whore,’ he whispers, as the door to the pub swings open and light shines down the narrow lane. ‘I’ve heard it runs in the family.’ It is Louis in the doorway and she stumbles towards him while John scurries into the dunny. ‘What is it, Becca? Are you right? Who was that?’ Louis looks at her. ‘Nothing. No one,’ she shakes her head. Amy would never forgive her. She belches and covers her mouth with her hand, surprised at the sound, like that of a man twice her age. Louis laughs. ‘Ma sent me to find you. She thinks you’ve had too much ale. I’d say she’s right. Come, Bec, I’ll take you home.’ Rebecca wakes the next morning with the bright sun slicing through the window and falling across the bed, burning her eyes. Her mouth is dry and awful tasting, her head feels as though she’s been dropped on it. She kissed her sister’s husband and liked it. She is worse than Violet. She is a traitor and a whore. She groans and pulls the quilt above her head, biting her hand.

Now that Violet and Amy are gone, Lizzie is always rushing off with Ruby somewhere, Ruby who never left home. She was a perfect baby when she was born but she never grew from that. Or she grew in body, for she is the size of a normal fifteen-year-old, but not her mind. Lizzie blames their father getting sick

21 Long Bay and dying, says that all the sadness stopped Ruby from growing up proper. Which is nonsense – the rest of them are fine. Ruby might not help, but she is not such a burden. She is happy just sitting playing with her rocks and threads, watching the others and humming to herself. Fred does not like it though. He sits at the kitchen table across from her with his bottle of beer and says, ‘Why you keep staring at me like that, Ruby? Wipe the drool from your lip, girl. What’s wrong with her?’ He thinks she is bad luck, but she is just Ruby. At night she lies curled, a solid weight of flesh, beside Rebecca, and snores, sometimes waking with a start and reaching to feel that her sister is still there. She does not talk, but Rebecca can tell from the sounds she makes whether she is happy, frightened or ready to eat her tea. Rebecca boils potatoes on the stove one afternoon when Lizzie comes in with Ruby from the street. Lizzie and Ruby sit at the table and Lizzie sighs. ‘Did you finish the faggoting on the blouses?’ she asks, wiping the thin sheen of sweat from her forehead. ‘Let me just drain these.’ Rebecca spills the boiling water into the basin, careful not to lose any potatoes. Waving away the steam, she brings the pan to the table with bread. ‘Salt’s by the stove,’ Lizzie says, and Rebecca fetches it as well. ‘I finished the blouses.’ She sits beside Ruby and serves her some bread and potatoes from the pan. ‘I used up our last yard of lace as well. The leftover from Amy’s dress. Are we keeping tea for Fred?’ ‘Not tonight.’ ‘Where did you go?’ ‘Children’s Welfare,’ Lizzie says. She sighs again. ‘You won’t like what I’m going to say.’ Rebecca puts her fork down. ‘What is it?’ ‘Fred’s coming to live with us. Help with things. I’ve said he may. But I can’t keep Ruby. There’s not space. He wants her to go to a home.’ ‘A madhouse?’

Long Bay 22 ‘An asylum. They’re not as bad as you think. I’ve been visiting these last weeks. They’ll look after Ruby. She’ll be happy there.’ ‘She’s happy here. Look at her.’ Ruby crumbles a potato between her fingers. ‘For how long? It’s more of a burden the older she gets. A woman is harder to mind than a child. And I’m half-blind, I can’t keep sewing forever. I don’t want this to fall on you or the others. Fred’s kind, he makes me laugh, he knew your father. I can’t make him take her on as well.’ The food feels like gravel in Rebecca’s throat. Lizzie is up, reaching to the shelf, pulling down a dusty bottle and three chipped mugs that hang from hooks on the wall. ‘What’s that?’ Rebecca clears the plates, using a rag to wipe the food from Ruby’s hands. ‘A bottle of brandy. I forgot it was here til the other day, dusting the cupboards. It’s old but still smells as it should.’ ‘I’ve sworn off drink.’ Rebecca wakes every morning with fresh dread since the encounter with John. She has not visited Amy once since her sister left home. Lizzie laughs. ‘A sip won’t make you drunk, love. Two pints is a different matter.’ Her face flushes trying to pull the cork out. Finally it budges and she pours all three of them a measure. Rebecca takes a swig and coughs, nearly spluttering her mouthful across the room. It is sweet, then burns, then warms the insides. Ruby smells the mug and swallows a tentative sip. Lizzie laughs at the face Ruby makes and Ruby begins to hum. That is how Rebecca will remember Ruby, holding the tin mug to her lips, humming. Her sweet broad face, eyes closed, framed by dark curls.

It is a rare day that they ride an omnibus, but they do the day Ruby goes to the asylum. It’s an hour’s ride from Paddington – a place in Lilyfield called Callan Park Hospital for the Insane. The bus drops the three women at the park entrance and they walk only a few hundred yards, Lizzie holding Ruby by the arm, Rebecca carrying her leather satchel. The park is green and planted with

23 Long Bay saplings: stringybarks, ironbarks, banksias and wattle. There are the even rows of a vegetable garden and beds of flowering plants. The main iron gate leads them into a group of sandstone buildings. Above the entry arch is carved the year 1883, and though the hospital has been there for more than twenty years, the buildings still appear new. The main hospital has two sweeping staircases and pillars at the entryway. Beside it stands a belltower and behind, more dormitory-style buildings. They have brought the bits and bobs, Ruby’s stones and glass. Inside the main building they locate the room called Admissions and meet a nurse in a starched cap. She gives them a brisk introduction and leads them outside to Ruby’s dormitory. She is to have a small iron cot in a room of twenty others, and a few blankets to keep her warm. As a charity case she does not have one of the rooms that open to wide verandas. They expect Ruby to work and the nurse says that she will be put to service in the morning making mattresses. ‘We have inmates who work in the kitchen, washing, tailoring, blacksmithing, carpentry, mattress-making and gardening,’ she says, her mouth sagging a little on one side, ‘though naturally they are unable to do everything required of the tasks.’ ‘Every patient gets three meals a day but those who work get extra. Men who work get a half pint of beer with bread and cheese for lunch, and women get coffee with bread and cheese and tea in the afternoon.’ ‘Sounds like the life. Can I stay?’ Rebecca says, trying to make Ruby smile, but she is not listening, her eyes on the windows set with bars. ‘Your girl must be tired from the journey. We’ll let her rest and say goodbye now,’ the nurse says, taking Ruby by the arm. Rebecca kisses her sister on a soft, downy cheek. She wishes the nurse would use her name. But it is not the place that bothers her so much as the look in Ruby’s eyes when they shut the heavy iron dormitory door behind them. It’s a look like that of a cornered animal. There is no language to explain what they are doing or why she is being left. ‘Right,’ Lizzie says, ‘we’ll visit soon. And if we get home within the hour we can finish the hemming before tea.’

Long Bay 24 With Ruby gone, Rebecca’s girlhood is over – though there has been little, besides the incident with John, to distinguish girlhood from womanhood in the first place. In both she is hunched beside a lamp, thread and needle in her hand. She has seen pictures in the papers of children’s toys: kites and dolls, hoops and spinning tops, but she remembers very little time spent playing in the street before a piece of work was pressed into her hand and she was made useful. One Christmas, the ladies from the Salvation Army gave them each a gift: the girls a rag doll, Louis a ball. She was six or seven and loved that doll until it was only a scrap, but she also recalled her mother muttering that something to fill their bellies would have been a more welcome charity. So she does not miss her girlhood, but she is not certain how to proceed with womanhood either. Perhaps it will be a procession of men grabbing at her in laneways until there is one she goes home with, or perhaps it will be as it is in the novels she reads: a wealthy man sweeping in on his carriage and taking her to his mansion of stone. She longs for the latter, for finer things, but life thus far has shown her that these are not to be expected. She dreams of silks and taffetas, creams for her rough hands, and ribbons for her wild hair. She dreams that a husband, when he finds her, will give her these things. But she also dreams of John, or of other men like him, pushing her against the wall. His fingers in her mouth, his breath against her ear. She dreams of her sister’s husband, or the postal clerk, or the neighbour’s boy with black hair and green eyes, and wakes hating herself more than ever. She knows what base things occur between a man and a woman, what Violet and Amy tell her, what she has seen of strays on the street. But she had not experienced it until now. Shame chases her through the days. Love, when it finds her, must be different. A man with money will marry her. It will lift her above this, this panting and pawing, these shadows of men that she loathes and is drawn to. If anyone understands her it is Louis. He looks at her strangely now, since that night, as though he knows there are secrets she keeps. But he keeps plenty of his own. Ah, Lou. How many times has she heard her mother sigh these words, with every year more disappointment in the way she speaks them. Each time

25 Long Bay Lizzie finds him work – delivering papers, on the docks, at a boot factory – he lets it slip. The reasons he loses work are as colourful as his clothes – slouch hats worn back on the head, velvet collars, short coats with wide lapels, bell trousers and shoes with pointed, capped toes. He is broad in the shoulders, tall, with hair as brown as a chestnut gelding. Handsome as and does what he pleases. Hours at the pub, or squandered on the street with packs of other young men, smoking and calling to passers-by. He stays at the houses of friends. Still, he comes home for a meal, sits with them for tea. Still he has the best cut of meat and the biggest plate of food. Still their mother talks Fred into finding him another job, convinced that this will be the one he keeps. Rebecca could hate Louis, easily, but he is the one who borrows or steals the books that she craves, and never laughs at her for asking. She has nine novels of her own and each has come from him. They are all books of the sort written for ladies, with a dire predicament, a dashing hero and a happy ending. If he fails to bring a new one she simply rereads one of the ones she owns, again and again, though she knows them off by heart. Louis also knows dozens of poems and is happy to oblige when she asks him to recite them. It is his idea to take her skating for her eighteenth birthday. He says that even a girl needs a bit of fun now and again.

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27 Long Bay Chapter 3

The morning of her eighteenth birthday she wakes with a weight across her feet. Sitting, she sees a dress that looks familiar. She sewed it, but not for herself. Blue silk, as light and fine as a breeze. It was an order for a lady who never finished paying. Lizzie said she was going to sell it elsewhere, or take it apart to use the fabric again. Rebecca runs her finger across the silk and looks up. Her mother is standing at the curtain that separates the front room from the back. Rebecca sleeps in the front since her sisters left and Fred moved in. ‘About time you had a fine dress, seeing how you sew so many,’ Lizzie says. ‘Shouldn’t need more than a few stitches here and there to make it fit.’ The dress is blue but the lady called it cerulean, before she ran off. It sounded as though she was trying to swallow her tongue. A better description is the ocean at Watson’s Bay when you look down from the cliffs – down to where the waves crash against stone. Rebecca did it once and had to turn away after a minute, so dizzy was she. She thought: this is how you fall – the ocean calls you. But the lady who never finished paying, it was whispered she had syphilis. Another fancy word Rebecca thought must be something nice at first. Until the neighbour told her. Before church, Lizzie takes the hems up and the waist in. She buttons it, standing Rebecca in front of the spotted glass, and they catch one another’s eye in the reflection and smile. Lizzie’s eyes are failing but no one can fail to see how well it fits, how the colour suits – the blue against the dark of Rebecca’s hair and eyes. Rebecca brushes her fingers over the fabric and wishes her skin would not catch on the silk, wishes her hands were soft and pale. She can see, now, what those ladies come for: the sense that a dress opens doors. How it must feel to have a wardrobe full of dresses such as these. After church, they go to the roller skating rink at Prince Alfred Park. It is one of Louis’ haunts; he even had his name in the paper once for winning a skating race. May, who lives a few doors down the hill, comes too. Her hands are as red and coarse as Rebecca’s – worse even, for she irons, and the scars of burns mark

Long Bay 28 her pale skin. But May has twisted her damp hair in rags the night before so that ringlets of gold frame her plain, narrow face. The skating rink is in the middle of Prince Alfred Park, in the expo building. It is a grand, baroque brick structure with porticos and a curved roof, towers that stand four storeys tall. Queues stretch through the entryway and into the lawns on holiday weekends, out front a boy calling: ‘Two hours for a tanner, ladies and gennelmen. Tanner for two hours.’ Rebecca has only been once before. But she loves the sound of roller skates on the waxed white floor, the band that plays on weekends, the smell of hired skates – worn leather. The way wheels make her fly, her whole body light and quick. Quicker than is natural, quicker than she is meant to go. It is strange how the roller skates make the ground change beneath her. She stands gingerly after lacing them up, holding onto May’s shoulder, both of them laughing at the sight of themselves. The sun streams through fan-shaped windows of plate glass beneath the immense curved roof, arcing a hundred feet above them. They try to steady each other but instead just wobble together, their laughter proving as dangerous as gravity, echoing with the other voices in the cavernous hall. Louis comes over and takes a hand from each, patiently leading them onto the skating rink. Still laughing, they make slow and unsteady progress. After another circuit, Rebecca feels more confident. She lets go of Louis’ hand and skates ahead on her own. Building up speed, going fast, just to feel the blue silk of that dress billow behind her. The freedom and the sense of speed, like riding a bicycle. Her mother never knew, but Louis taught her on an old one he fixed up. He pushed her down a hill and she wobbled, nearly crashed, then steadied, picking up speed, pedalling. The wind whistled in her ears. She is not watching where she is going. Now Louis and May are no longer at her side. There are brakes on the front of the skates, little rubber stumps, and if she points her toe forwards they will slow her, but she does not think of them. One moment there is the ripple of air through her dress and the next she is flat on her back, the wind knocked from her, surrounded by shouts. She blinks as the world comes back into focus. A man in a morning suit reaches down from a circle of curious faces. He helps her to her feet.

29 Long Bay ‘Easy there. Was your dress on fire?’ His words are hard but he grins as he speaks, heavy-lidded eyes taking everything in. High cheekbones, lips full as a girl’s. She brushes dust from her skirts, and struggles to stand. Her right ankle twinges. ‘Hang onto the wall, that’s it – there we go. Can I help you find a seat?’ He has her arm, and is guiding her through the crowd of skaters to the seats that overlook the rink. She gasps with the pain of putting weight on her ankle. She looks down and sees a rip in the silk. Louis and May are nowhere to be seen. Her eyes water. ‘Don’t do that. I can’t bear a woman’s tears,’ he says, sitting beside her, passing his handkerchief. ‘What’s hurting? Have you got a fright? Are you here alone?’ All of his words tumble together. She says that her ankle is crook. He bends down to unlace her skates. What a strange sensation, him crouched at her feet. Touching her stockings. She hardly feels his hands, he is so gentle. There is the crown of his head, the white of scalp where he has parted his hair. He unlaces both skates and looks up. His eyes have depth that gives him a serious look even when he smiles. ‘It’s swollen. You said you’re here with your brother? I’ll fetch him, or will I get a doctor?’ He stands, his own skates still laced. Without the skates he would not be much taller than her. His suit is expensive-looking but made by unskilled hands. It ought to be narrower in the shoulders, longer at the wrists. ‘Why are you smiling?’ ‘You’re a sight with those skates on.’ ‘Here I am trying to help you…’ he grins. ‘Do you see your brother? Tell me what he looks like. Not so pretty as you, I hope. It’d be wasted on a man.’ ‘He’s like me all right, common as dishwater. There!’ She spies Louis and May on the rink, holding hands still. The man skates over, elegant and compact. He is quick but makes it seem effortless. The rest of the rink dims around him.

Long Bay 30 She sees him gesture, and May brings her hand to her mouth. The three of them are soon cutting across the rink. Louis clomps over on his skates, and then crouches down. ‘I let you go off for a moment, Bec… what’d you do to yourself?’ He bends to look at her swollen ankle, now twice its normal size. ‘I’m right, Lou, I just fell.’ ‘Ran me down, she did.’ ‘That’s me sister.’ May fans her with a handbill from one of the seats. The man is outside their little circle now, Louis edging him out. He turns and pats the man on the back. ‘I’m grateful you rescued her. Can’t leave her alone for five bleedin’ minutes. I’m Louis, by the way. Don’t know if she’s said but she’s Rebecca. This one’s May. Have I seen you around?’ ‘Donald Sinclair. Everyone calls me Don. I’m here a bit. Think I’ve seen you racing, eh?’ Louis nods, not able to hold back his grin. May turns and whispers behind the paper she’d been using to fan. ‘Was it really an accident?’ Rebecca kicks her with her good foot. She is nowhere near as brazen or experienced as May. Now she wishes she knew what to say. How to lower her eyelids, cross her ankles and tilt her head without looking like a fool. What is she meant to do with his handkerchief now? Give it back? It is wet and crumpled in her fist. Louis kneels and says she will have to lean on him, try to see if she can walk. If not he might have to carry her home. The thought makes her stomach drop. But they do not have money to hire a carriage. She stands, leaning on his shoulder, and sets her jaw. Don comes round to the other side. ‘Allow me,’ he says. She has one arm around his neck and one around her brother’s, keeping all the weight on her good foot. They make it out of the building, May nearly skipping to keep up, beside herself with excitement.

31 Long Bay It is one of those clear, cold days that are frequent in July, the sun so bright it makes her eyes water but the nip of wind harsh. Rebecca wears only a light woollen wrapper over the blue silk, borrowed from Lizzie and riddled with mended moth holes. Don stops and says she ought to wear his coat. Louis frowns, and Rebecca can see he does not approve. Don’s coat is large but warm against her skin. It has a dizzying smell of wool and dye and sweat, and an undercurrent of something else, like the perfume the ladies who visited wore, but muskier. She will learn later that it is his cologne. She comes from a world where men never wear such a thing, where scents are for ladies. The ankle throbs but she is distracted by other things – by the closeness of Don and even her brother. They hardly touch – not since they were little, when Louis would crouch on his hands and knees to play horse. Now she is being supported, nearly carried between the two of them. God, she is hopeless. Can she even be beside a man without her thoughts running low? Little wonder John thought her a whore. Groups of men are gathered outside the pubs as they turn along Foveaux; mothers push prams on the sunny side of the street. They hurry towards the tram stop on Cleveland. May watches from beneath her hat, narrowing her eyes, her lips turned up at the edges. When they are finally home, Louis uses his one free arm for the latch so that their mother will not have to come to the door. ‘Miss Rebecca,’ Don says, ‘you’ll let me visit, to check your health?’ He smiles, and one eye squints more than the other, giving his face an imbalance that she wants to run her hands across, to smooth it like a length of fabric. ‘If you wish,’ she mumbles. He ducks from beneath her arm, tips his hat to Louis and disappears fast down the street, his footsteps loud against the cobblestones, then fading, as they step through the door into the dark terrace.

After the accident she is in bed for four days, Lizzie applying poultices and wet rags to her ankle. They would have called the doctor straightaway, but Rebecca said that it was not worth the expense. It is only a niggle, she insists – it will heal with a few days’ rest. Lizzie is relieved not to be calling the doctor, although she

Long Bay 32 will struggle without any help for a few days. By the second day, Rebecca calls for some work to do in bed, saying she is bored, but knowing that they will otherwise fall behind. They face fierce competition from the factories that spring up around them, where young women are paid to do the same piecework – over and over – for twelve-hour days. They make dresses that are sold readymade from catalogues and department stores like Farmers and David Jones. Luckily, a lady still thinks a dressmaker will make her something of better quality, better suited to her shape and style. But it is becoming more and more tempting, as the quality of the factories improves, to be able to buy a dress from a rack and wear it. Why should a lady wait if she does not need to? She is stitching the buttonholes on a blouse and trying to ignore the throbbing from her ankle, sitting up in bed in the front room. There is a curtain they can pull around her bed to keep it out of sight when ladies visit. She likes how the light comes through the front windows, and it smells less of lard and wood smoke, but she misses the warmth of the back room, which has the stove – and she even misses the warm bodies of her sisters in the bed beside her. The night Ruby left was the first night she ever slept alone. Wintry nights, Lizzie warms a brick on the stove and wraps it in flannel for her, but Rebecca still wakes from cold. It is not like another person: a brick does not keep its heat through the night. She is wrapped in three shawls to keep warm, stitching, when there is a knock at the door. Lizzie draws the curtain round Rebecca’s bed as Fred answers the door. She does not see at first but hears his voice. Fred pokes his head round the curtain. ‘There’s a man, Don, here to see you – said it was him you flattened at the skating rink.’ Before she can even set down her work or fix her hair he sweeps open the curtain, revealing Don’s smartly dressed, black-clad form behind him. ‘Rebecca,’ he says, ‘I wanted to call, to see how you’re faring. I brought you these.’ He lifts the lid on a white cardboard box to show little cakes – iced pink and green and white – each perfectly formed. Lizzie gasps.

33 Long Bay ‘I never…’ she says. It is the sort of thing they have always stopped to stare at in bakery windows but never tasted. ‘Petit fours,’ Don says, emphasising the ‘p’ sound, his mouth swallowing the second ‘t’. Lizzie goes to boil the kettle, insisting that they each have one there and then. Don pulls up the peeling cane chair beside the bed and sits with his hat upon his lap. His shirt is spotless and he has taken off his jacket, beneath which he wears a waistcoat, with a gold watch chain dangling from a pocket, and tortoiseshell buttons. He looks out of place in the meagre room with her in bedclothes, all the evidence of her threadbare life. She wishes for a drawing room, a belted dressing gown – all things she has read of in the books Louis finds her. Not this room with stained newsprint and old smells and dark corners piled with rags. He does not seem to notice, though, and smiles as he asks after her health. The colour in his cheeks is high. His eyes are as lively as they were at the skating rink. Her stomach flips. Lizzie pours tea with a shaky hand, says how fine the cakes are, and then disappears with Fred into the back room. Silence spills into cold space around them. ‘Your brother doesn’t live here?’ Don asks. He sips from the good cup. ‘Not since Fred moved in.’ She holds her teacup so that he cannot see the dark crack in the china. She is about to tell him of her other sisters, but thinks better. ‘Do you live around here?’ ‘Glenmore Road. Not far. With my mother.’ ‘And your father?’ Don shakes his head, studies the knuckles of his hands. ‘Died when I was just a lad.’ ‘Oh dear. I’m sorry.’ Rebecca stumbles to keep the conversation alive. ‘My father’s dead too. He was a bookbinder. I was just three, my sisters were babes too, and Louis hardly bigger.’ ‘Your poor ma.’ The mood turns bleak. Luckily, Don fills the silence. ‘Has a doctor been?’

Long Bay 34 ‘For my ankle?’ ‘No, for your elbow. Of course your ankle!’ ‘No need. I’ll be up walking in a day or so. And I’m able to do a bit of work here, help out some. It still smarts though.’ ‘May I see?’ She thinks it a strange request, but does not know how to refuse. She pulls up the quilt to bare her foot, leans forward and removes the woollen sock. Without warning, Don reaches forwards and grips her ankle, hard. His touch feels like fire. She nearly gasps, but, not wanting to bring Lizzie and Fred in, she grits her teeth instead. The pain of it. ‘That hurts!’ She snatches the sock and pulls it back over her throbbing ankle. She cannot even look at him – her eyes have watered so. ‘It’s hot as coals,’ Don says, gathering his things and standing. ‘I wish you’d have told me the truth.’ ‘Why,’ she stutters. ‘What d’you mean by that?’ She wonders if he knows about John. About her kiss in the laneway. ‘It’s worse, not better,’ he says. ‘I’ll have a doctor call this afternoon. If you let it go on, they’d have had to cut off your foot. A blood infection. And I’m sorry I hurt you, but let’s get something straight, you an’ me.’ ‘What’s that?’ Her voice shakes. ‘I fancy you, Rebecca, but I want you to give me the straight talk. You can’t end up a cripple because you’ve got too much pride.’ With that, he turns and walks out the door. She looks at the crumbs on her lap. At first, she wants to scream – she is so cross with him, how he chided her like a child. What he said after, though – that he fancied her. They are words like the taste of pink icing from those cakes, which linger for hours afterwards. That afternoon, the doctor visits – a real one, with a card and a black suitcase holding sharp instruments and bottles of syrups. Says he works with Don’s mother. Rebecca wants to ask if she’s a nurse but feels too shy. Dr Granger does not grab her ankle as Don did, but thinks her just as foolish.

35 Long Bay ‘You should’ve seen someone straight away,’ he says, placing a splint to hold it still and giving Lizzie a jar of bitter black syrup that she is to administer through the day. He also instructs that she stay in bed two more weeks. ‘Two weeks?’ she repeats, but Lizzie nods. She sees that her mother feels guilty for agreeing to leave it be. ‘How much do we owe you?’ Lizzie asks, as he gathers his instruments and coat to leave. ‘Not a shilling. The gentleman who called for me has looked after that. And next week, as well, when I will return to check your progress.’ He gives a prim little bow, no doubt eager to leave the damp, foetid room, and exits through the curtain. Lizzie catches up to him at the door; she overhears her mother offering that if he ever needs a suit, or his wife a blouse… ‘You can hardly afford,’ she says, when Lizzie returns to her side, ‘to offer that sort of gift.’ ‘It’s not a gift. Rather than your friend pay. I don’t want us accepting charity.’ ‘But he didn’t give us a choice, ma.’ Lizzie sits beside her daughter, stroking the hair off her hot brow. She looks vexed though, the lines of her mouth in a solid frown. ‘I just don’t want you to feel as though you owe him something.’ The collar of Rebecca’s nightdress feels tight and she slips a finger to loosen it. ‘What if it is just a gift, though? What’s wrong with letting someone do us a kindness for once? Why must we always be the ones with nothing to spare?’

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37 Long Bay Chapter 4

Those first weeks after meeting Don are fuzzy. The thick black syrup makes her sleep during the day, and often when she wakes Don has already been, or he is sitting beside her bed. He folds his newspaper and smiles at the sight of her waking. Her heart beats in her throat as she smiles in return. Waking to him beside her is like remaining within a dream. She can hardly believe her good fortune. One time she wakes while he sits there, the newspaper on his lap but his eyes focused on something distant. There is something of a boy’s hurt in his look. Rebecca, propped up on her pillows, sees a shadow of a grimace cross his lips. She reaches over and puts her hand on the cuff of his shirt. He turns abruptly, jumping from his chair, and she watches his face rearrange. The boy is gone. ‘Rebecca,’ he says. ‘You’re awake.’ He looks down at her hand, which is still on his shirt cuff, and covers it with his own. His is softer, oddly, but larger too, with broad fingers and knuckles, and nails cut square across. He turns her hand over and strokes the palm of it, the calluses and coarseness. Skin chapped from cold. It is the first time they have touched since he examined her ankle. She watches his bowed head and how he strokes her hand, how he looks at it as if it were something precious. ‘Are you all right?’ she asks. He coughs and nods. ‘It’s an honest hand,’ he says. ‘You’re not afraid of hard work.’ ‘Well, that’s what I’ve done all my life.’ Don lifts it cautiously, looking at her as if to say: may I? She nods and closes her eyes. He brings her hand to his lips, and it’s a wonder that she does not die there and then. For who would have thought that any man, fine or callow, would wish to kiss her hand.

Lying in bed later, she overhears Fred and her mother arguing. She is behind her curtain – they think her asleep – and Lizzie is fixing a tear in Fred’s trousers.

Long Bay 38 ‘It don’t look good, is my opinion. She’ll have a hard enough time making a decent marriage with Violet on the streets and Ruby in the madhouse.’ ‘There’s nothing wrong, Fred, he’s just visiting. If he’s as well off as he makes himself to be – well, how can we refuse?’ ‘But I hear he’s a magsman. A bookie and a gambler.’ ‘You should know.’ ‘Yeah, well, if he’s in fortune now it’s not for long. Is that the life you want for your child?’ The Singer starts whirring and Rebecca can picture her mother’s foot pumping up and down, her back curved as she leans in close, squinting at her work. The machine nearly drowns her words, but they are loud enough in their finality. ‘She’s free to tell him to nick off. I won’t be the one. Besides, she might think it’s a better life than she’s got here. I wouldn’t disagree.’ ‘Don’t be so sure,’ Fred says. There are heavy footsteps, and then the slam of the front door. Lizzie sighs as she eases her foot from the pedal. Is Don a bookie, Rebecca wonders. She does not think him the sort who hangs around outside of pubs or the corner shop where they run SP bets, a stub of a pencil behind one ear and a dozen tiny shreds of paper clenched in his fist. He has the nervous energy but not the shifting eyes, not the hard, lined face. But Fred would know; he frequents those places and, much as Rebecca had foreseen, things have not grown any easier with him around. Another mouth to feed. As for his wages: they go to the pub, or to the horses, which are always about to make him a rich man. The week that Rebecca is up and walking again she spends all of her time helping her mother catch up on work. There is a dress for a lady customer, and stacks of slops for the factories. When Don comes with a bunch of blown roses and gives them to Lizzie, Rebecca sees her look away. Lizzie cannot meet his eye. She is not going to speak against him, but not for him either, and when he says he would like to take Rebecca for a turn, Lizzie does not argue, or insist that Louis or Fred chaperone. Outside, a spring cart waits, and Don helps her in. She changed quickly into a rose-coloured serge – it’s not her best dress, but she has not had time to

39 Long Bay mend the blue silk. The sun warms their faces as the cart draws out from the shadow of buildings and through the main streets. Spring has arrived and the breeze brings smells of jasmine and cut grass drying in the sun. Don has the reins, and the horses are dusty but strong, their hooves clattering along the cobblestones and dirt. The cart bumps up and down. She closes her eyes and watches the pattern of shadows fall against her eyelids. She wishes she had a hat to wear. She has not even asked where he is taking her. They see a motor car driving along the road in the opposite direction – a rare sight – and Don waves and takes his hat off as it passes. ‘Did you know them?’ ‘That was Rusty,’ he says. ‘Owns a couple of fillies that keep winning at Randwick. One day I’m gonna own one of them motor cars, Bec, What’d you think of that?’ ‘That’d be fine.’ He said Bec, she realises, and the word sounded warm and familiar from his mouth. She hopes he will say it again. ‘I’ll take you for drives. Not in an old, dusty dogcart like this. Beautiful girl should ride a motor car. That’s the life you ought to have.’ She does not say a word but smiles. She is not about to disagree. Don turns the cart through a grand set of iron gates. ‘Centennial Parklands’ is written in Gothic copperplate above. ‘You been for a picnic here before?’ he asks as they drive in the park beneath dusky figs, the cart wheels bumping over gnarled roots. ‘No, never.’ He turns to her and winks. She feels as though she is not here, but reading this in a book. It is like this – the way she feels when he looks at her: the exhilaration of merely being in his company. He pulls the cart into a shady place, ties up the horses and leaves them water. ‘It’s my mate’s cart,’ he says as he leads her along a path into a copse of gum trees. ‘Can’t bother keeping horses. Saving for bigger things.’ Don carries a basket and a rug rolled under his arm. The path is dappled with sunlight, there is the rasp of a crow overhead, the creaking sound of a currawong. A fat brown-spotted lizard scuttles beneath the leaf litter.

Long Bay 40 ‘Is it much farther?’ ‘Not long. How’s your ankle?’ ‘Fine.’ He looks over. ‘Well, a bit sore.’ He puts his arm around her, pointing out little stones in the path. His eyes seek hers out and crinkle at the edges. She feels heat pool in her chest. It is not long before they reach a clearing, a spot ringed by paperbarks where clumps of grass grow. There is light and shade, and a sprinkling of the yellow daisies that grow by the sea. ‘Did you bring someone else here earlier?’ she teases. ‘Another girl?’ He does not smile, or respond. He spreads the rug and busies himself getting out the provisions. She fears that she has spoiled things, but she stops worrying as he brings out the food. In his satchel there is cold roast beef, fresh bread and real butter, a bottle of beer and four fragrant golden apricots. She sits on the rug, tucking her skirt beneath her knees. ‘How did you get all this? It’s the nicest picnic I’ve seen.’ He sits beside her and, with a folding knife, pries the lid from the bottle of beer. ‘Plenty more where this came from.’ After drinking the foam that spills over, he passes it to her for a sip. The bubbles go up her nose. She laughs and passes it back. She is careful not to drink too much. He takes a long draw, then butters some bread and makes her a sandwich of roast beef. As she eats, he makes his own, sitting only an arm’s length away and watching as she chews. ‘I had a sister once,’ he says, leaning back and admiring his sandwich before taking a bite. ‘What happened to her?’ ‘She was older’n me by a bit. Kind of like another mother. In fact, the thought crossed my mind that she could’ve been my ma but you’d best not repeat that.’ ‘I wouldn’t.’

41 Long Bay ‘I hardly remember her, just her smell and her voice, her black curls that went to here when she took her hair down,’ he cuts in at his waist with a hand. ‘She and ma brought me over from Scotland in ’84. The good ship Invernay. I wasn’t more than a babe, and she was the one who looked after me. Made sure I didn’t crawl overboard, that when I was sick I had someplace to lay. Da had died and ma came over to make a new life. She didn’t have more than a crust to feed us with. I don’t know how she managed to pay for the passage.’ ‘But ma’s got ways, she’s not beef-headed. It’s how she’s survived, being tough as she is. But me sister was soft as a rabbit, and just as quiet. Have you ever held a rabbit, Bec?’ She shakes her head. ‘It’s the softest thing you’ll ever touch. That was like her, Isla. She was good to me, she was.’ Don has that look in his eyes again that she recognises, from when he sat at her bedside. She swallows the mouthful of sandwich and clears her throat. ‘What happened to her?’ Don is quiet, chewing, his heavy brow shading his face. He goes from handsome to not in the space of a moment, she thinks. Depending on the light. ‘I don’t know what happened. Ma said they’d had an argument after they settled in, found a place to live, set about making a living. She said Isla wanted to do things one way and she had other ideas. So she took off, Isla did, and we never heard from her again. That’s what ma told me anytime I asked. She says to me “How can you remember her, anyway – you was hardly walking.” But I was big enough when she left. I remember her rocking me in her lap, breath hot on the top of me head.’ She reaches over, placing her hand on his free one. ‘That’d be hard,’ she says, ‘not knowing.’ He catches her eye. ‘I’ve looked, even down the government offices, put a notice in the paper, but never found her. You’d’ve liked her though. The two of you would’ve been like sisters.’

Long Bay 42 She cannot help but think of her sisters, and starts telling Don about them. Each of them dear, each lost in a different way. Her determination to make something of herself, to get out of Paddo and set up as a dressmaker somewhere proper, somewhere clean. Her hand is still on Don’s and he leans in close so she smells the wool of his jacket, the beer on his breath. There is that scent again – his cologne – and a hint of something else, crushed grass, maybe, from beneath the rug. She is still talking when he reaches his hand over and puts it against that spot at the back of her neck, where the bones are thin and reedy and the hair grows soft and secret-like. She is still talking when he leans in further, close enough so she can see fine grains of black stubble on his cheek and above his lip. She is quiet by the time his lips are against hers, as soft as she imagined them, his fingers still stroking her neck. A rustle in the bushes and she leaps up, fast as a rabbit. ‘Hullo?’ Don calls out. ‘Anyone there?’ Her heart is still thumping in her ears when a bush turkey skitters out into the clearing. It snatches the crust of a sandwich and is gone before they can chase it. Don laughs so hard he nearly chokes, and she remains standing, flushed, brushing the grass from her skirts. ‘Sit down,’ he says, ‘I promise I’ll protect you.’ When she sits, a bit further away this time, he looks at her again, heavy- browed and serious. ‘What would you say if I proposed we should marry?’ She is dead silent. It is not what she expects. She had wondered if he would call her a whore, like John did. Instead he speaks of marriage. ‘Not just a marriage – a partnership. You know a trade, you will be able to pull your weight, eh? Not many girls can say that for themselves.’ He must be having a lark, she thinks. His words jumble around each other in her head. ‘What is it? Do you not fancy me? Do you find me too rough?’ She shakes her head.

43 Long Bay ‘I do like you. I just – I don’t know what to say. We just met. I’m a different sort, and I hardly know you.’ ‘And that’s part of what I like about you. You’re not some fancy moll. You’re not waiting for a man to come along so you can put your feet up and yarn the rest of your days.’ She looks up at the trees above and blinks. If only he knew the truth of her – what happened with John – he would not think her so worthy. Her eyes swim with tears that threaten to fall. ‘You’ll consider me?’ She nods. He wants her. An ant crawls up her stocking and she brushes it away. His hand is on her knee and she lets it rest there. It feels warm yet unbelievably heavy. But his lips, when they brush hers again, are as light as dandelion seed, and gone just as quick.

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45 Long Bay Chapter 5

Rebecca is in the front room cutting the bodice for a new dress when there is a knock at the door. She opens it to her sister, Violet, still in fine clothes but looking drawn around the face. Her rouge makes the skin beneath it seem pale, and her hair falls upon bared shoulders. ‘Don’t be cross, Bec. Don’t shut the door.’ The look on her face is so anxious that Rebecca hurries her in and puts her arms around her. Beneath the powder and perfume, she still smells her sister. But masking it is the scent of too much lavender water and musk. And she feels so thin that Rebecca can count the knobs of her spine. ‘Where’ve you been, Violet? What have you done?’ she asks, and sits her sister down. Not waiting for an answer, she hurries to the back room to fetch a slice of bread and treacle and a cup of tea. When she returns Violet is in a trance, almost, staring at her own hands. ‘Are you right? What’s going on, then?’ ‘Remember how we dreamed of soft hands, you and me? How at night we put lanolin on them, slept in cotton gloves, but none of it made a bit of difference. Look at me hands now. I haven’t picked up a needle in a year, maybe more. Feel how soft they are.’ Rebecca sits beside her and holds her sister’s hands. They are soft, but turning them over she sees the dirt beneath her fingernails. Violet pulls a hand away to push back the hair from her forehead. Her face hardens. ‘I have money you must give Ma,’ she says. ‘Hide it in her money box. Don’t say where it’s from.’ ‘Does Fred know where it is yet?’ Violet continues. ‘The money box?’ ‘I reckon.’ ‘Then hide it somewhere else. And tell her about it, but not when he’s in the room.’ ‘Calm down. I will. What are you so worked up for?’ ‘I’ve heard about you and Don. Do you know him well enough?’

Long Bay 46 Rebecca looks away. It pinches to think of others speaking about her, behind her back. ‘A little. He’s asked me to marry him.’ Violet pulls her mouth into a smile, her lips disappearing. It is a grim look. ‘I know his mother. All the girls do.’ ‘Why’s that?’ ‘Have you met her?’ She shakes her head. Don only spoke of her the once. ‘You will, if he’s serious.’ ‘What do you mean, if?’ ‘Just tell me, now – you haven’t, have you?’ ‘Haven’t what?’ ‘Don’t be a stupid bitch. You know exactly what.’ Rebecca stands and paces the small, airless room. She shakes her head. She has thought of it. Has felt the twitch of his groin into her hip as they kissed, felt that dizzy desire that made her press back into him, imagining what it would be like to take what she felt into her hand, how surprised and pleased he would be. His hands have never strayed below her waist, but she has wished they would. ‘Good.’ Violet stands, looking relieved, and smiles with her whole face. Rebecca feels exposed for a moment but her sister has not guessed her thoughts. ‘Glad to hear you’re not following in the footsteps of your dear big sis. Do yourself a favour and wait. You know it’s how girls end up with big bellies and no one to help them out. Same girls who end up smothering their babies and burying them in the rubbish tip.’ It is an odd speech to hear from Violet, of all people. She puts her hand on Rebecca’s back and strokes it as she did when they were girls and Rebecca could not sleep. ‘Stay,’ Rebecca pleads. ‘Don’t go again. Would you come back now? Ma would love you to come back.’ Violet snorts. ‘Yes, and Fred would love it too, wouldn’t he. He’d welcome me with open arms.’ She is right. There is something now that her sister knows too closely. Something that men like, but do not wish to live beside.

47 Long Bay ‘Is this what you want, then?’ Rebecca asks, wishing as soon as she speaks that she could take the words back. It is a cruel question – the kind only a sister asks while knowing better. Violet looks at her a moment, hair glowing in the afternoon light that comes through the window panes, her face shadowed enough that Rebecca cannot see the nuance of expression that crosses it. ‘What I want? When has that mattered?’ She turns for the door, quiet as she came, disappearing into the street. Rebecca tucks the notes into her stocking. That night, the money surprises her as she undresses for bed, tumbling to the floor. She puts the notes under the mattress. She hears her mother and Fred laughing in the next room.

Don continues to visit. He walks arm in arm with her on the street, kisses her goodnight in the laneway behind their house. Amidst the smell of the dunnies and rotting veg from the Chinaman’s cart she stands against a wall, the weight of his body pressed against her, sun-warmed bricks on her back, her sensible self too slow to push him away. His fingers find their way through the buttons of her blouse, brush the soft skin of her stomach and travel upwards. She stops them, thinking of Violet, and of John. The money is still beneath her mattress. She tells herself she is waiting for a time when Fred will not hear. Don moans and whispers into her ear. ‘You’re trying to kill me, aren’t you?’ She shakes her head, straightening the smile she feels on her lips. She folds her arms across her chest. She walks down the laneway; he follows. It is Sunday again when Don shows up on the street saying he’s flush and wouldn’t she like to go to Bondi. Rebecca sits with her mother on the front step, shelling peas for later. She promised to light the fire in the stove for tea but Lizzie just says ‘Go on, get out then. At least you’ll get a breeze there.’ She tells Don to wait two ticks while she changes. Lizzie helps do up her stays and all she has to wear is a hand-me-down green calico from Amy and an old straw hat with a ribbon but when she comes out of the house Don grins. ‘Any fella would be proud to have you on his arm.’

Long Bay 48 The Bondi tram is packed with people. There is a clutch of young boys, slapping and swearing at one another, jostling everyone else out of their way. A family of six up the front, the father holding a baby as you might hold any old parcel, a one-armed grip to the side with the baby’s bonneted head lolling towards the street. A paperboy who swings from the footboards shouting ‘payur’, a stack of newsprint in his worn satchel, his hands and clothes stained with ink. There is not a seat spare but Don holds the strap and she clings to a post, wedged in between two sets of knees. He has an arm about her, and a lipless crone with a fox round her neck looks up at them evil-like, but what does she know – and who cares what she thinks? It is hot for November – a scorcher – and they fan themselves. Don’s suit jacket shows dark patches under the arms. ‘Have you been to Bondi before, then?’ Don asks, as they pick up speed down the hill of Bondi Road and the ribbon of blue appears on the horizon. ‘Once,’ she says. ‘I was just a girl then.’ ‘Still are,’ he says, and holds tighter as the tram swings the final corner to Campbell Parade. At the tram sheds everyone pushes off at once and there is a bright stretch of sand before them, the surf beyond curving up into smooth hills of blue then breaking white in the shallows, spraying foam and saltwater onto shrieking swimmers. The boys from the tram run towards the sea, stripping off their clothes as they go, discarding shirts and pants and shoes along the crowded beach. Rebecca stands with her mouth gaping for a moment, forgetting herself, mesmerised by the sight of the beach like a crescent of gold, more sand than she can remember seeing. They sit on the steps leading down to the beach from the promenade, and unlace their shoes. She follows Don barefoot in the hot sand up to the ocean’s edge, holding her skirts around her knees. At first it burns the soles of her feet but she grows used to it. Dark coils of seaweed lie in the wet sand and a breeze dries the sweat on her scalp. Don’s pants are rolled, his shirt pushed up above his elbows. His hat makes it hard for her to see his eyes but he smiles that uneven smile and she feels as light as one of the gulls ducking and swooping over the frothing waves. She has never swum in the surf. There is a woman in front of

49 Long Bay them in bathers that reach her knees, up to her calves in the cool frothy seawater. A wave crashes into her and she ducks under the roar of greenish water, then comes up with her hair wet, shaking her head as though daring another to come as well. Rebecca watches her, thinking that one day she will do it too. ‘C’mon, Bec,’ Don says, ‘All this water gives me a thirst.’ They walk back across the sand to the promenade. By now the sand feels pleasant, and Rebecca takes her time walking, wiggling her toes so that the grains fall across the pale tops of her feet. Don waits on the stairs where they left their shoes and they brush the sand from their feet before putting their stockings and socks and shoes on again. It is awful, putting her feet back into boots. If she was a girl still she would scream at the senselessness of it. But she is grown, now; she knows better. They stand and walk the promenade, linking arms, Don giving her a sidelong smile. Lined up beside the changing sheds are stalls selling chipped potatoes, ice cream, cigarettes and lemonade. They buy two bottles of lemonade and a penny’s worth of chipped potatoes wrapped in newspaper. Sitting on the steps he rips the newspaper open, steam billowing out, and offers her one. She holds it between her fingers and blows, smelling the rancid oil mixed with the salty breeze. She bites into the chip and scalds her tongue. A couple walks past arm in arm, the lady holding a silk parasol, twirling it as she laughs. Her dress is cut on the bias so it fits narrowly, only skimming out at the mid-thigh so that she can walk. Rebecca fingers the worn cotton of her dress and sighs. A seagull lands beside her, cawing so that she can see the pink gape of its mouth beyond the curved orange beak. She throws it a chip and it snatches it and flies off. Soon the chips are gone and they lick the salt from their fingertips. Don crushes the newspaper in his fist and chucks it into the sand, where seagulls flock and fight over it, tearing it to pieces, searching for any stray crumbs. ‘Hang on,’ she says, and turns his palm over. His sleeve normally covers it, but there, on his left forearm, is a tattoo. Blue ink against the pale white of his Scottish skin. It is a circle with a smaller circle inside it and some letters. ‘What’s this?’ she says, trying to keep her voice light.

Long Bay 50 ‘Just a little thing,’ he says. ‘I sailed to England once, when I was twenty. Got it on board from one of the sailors after I’d drunk my fill of rum.’ She leans in closer to see the letters. ‘D.R.S.’ She reads aloud. ‘Is that you?’ He nods. ‘It’s a lifebuoy, Bec. Like the ones they toss out to you if you’re drowning at sea.’ ‘What’s the R stand for?’ ‘Roderick.’ She puts up her hand to shield her grin. It is the sort of name that dashing heroes have in the novels Louis brings her. ‘You’d best not be laughing at me!’ Don says. ‘And what are the initials for? In case you forget your name?’ Don shakes his head. ‘Women,’ he sighs. He studies his own forearm, his brow growing heavier by the moment. ‘It’s a little reminder, Bec, that I’ve got to look after meself. I can’t rely on no one else to save my skin.’ He has that look again for a moment, that hurt look, and she sees there is more to it. She wants to know all there is to know about him. It takes her by surprise – how much she wants this. ‘Ever had an ice cream?’ Don asks, changing the subject. She can see he is pleased when she says no. They buy ice cream from a man calling ‘Ice cream and jelly is good for the belly.’ She will always remember the surprise of it: sweet cold on her tongue and how it melts. Like magic, turning from solid to liquid as it passes your lips. ‘How do they keep it from turning to soup before you buy it?’ She asks, licking around the cone before the drips run down her wrist. ‘Big blocks of ice,’ Don says. ‘Ice shipped across the ocean from places that are colder’n here. Like America. Huge ships of ice from America.’ He is very convincing. Don starts explaining how men are figuring out how to manufacture ice in the city so that it no longer has to be expensive, so that it no longer has to come across the ocean, when two women arm in arm stroll up to them and stop. They wear bright coloured dresses with striped skirts and one carries a purple parasol.

51 Long Bay ‘Don Sinclair,’ she says. ‘Fancy seeing you here.’ Don nearly spits his last mouthful of ice cream. He takes off his hat but uses it to shade his eyes, so that he can see them better. ‘Go on. Can’t I enjoy a little peace and quiet with my girl?’ The blonde leans in closer to get a better look. ‘Not your old girl, is it? Are you still with her? Are you here on the whisper?’ ‘Go on, get!’ Don stands, waving an arm like he is ready to hit one of them. Rebecca grabs his sleeve. ‘Leave him be,’ she says, leaning towards the two girls, her voice hardly audible. The blonde one leans in close. ‘You’re the one who’d best leave him be,’ she says. Sweat runs down the band of Rebecca’s straw hat into her eyes. She wants to swing at the blonde. She turns her back on the girls; she will not let them get the better of her. Soon Don is behind her, his brow heavy. ‘Bloody whores,’ he says. ‘Can’t just leave a fella be.’ She walks off. It takes him a minute to realise. ‘Hang on a tick, let me talk. Let me explain what they’re on about.’ She keeps walking. She pulls her hat low over her eyes. She should have known it was too good. How could she be such a dumb girl? Of course he was just having a lark – he is no different to other men. He catches her arm and spins her around, but she pulls away. ‘Don’t lay a hand on me. How could you? Letting them shame me like that. Not telling me there’s another girl.’ ‘There’s not, Bec. Hang on.’ He follows, talking as quickly as he can as she rushes towards the tram shed. ‘Can we go somewhere so I can explain? Where there aren’t all these people?’ The shed is crammed with sunburnt families. An old fella who has had one too many schooners at the Beach Hotel stumbles and nearly falls on top of her,

Long Bay 52 and the skinny young boys beside her with damp swimmers rolled together laugh and whisper to one another. ‘Everyone’s heard it already. You’re not taking me anywhere.’ They wait in silence for the city tram. On board, packed in like sheep, the crowd stinks of sweat and stale beer and ham sandwiches that sat too long in the sun. Rebecca finds a seat and Don sits facing her. She can feel his eyes though she refuses to meet them. She is beside the drunk old fella who has fallen asleep, his head against the rattling timber seat, a thin line of drool trailing down from his floppy lips. On Oxford Street Rebecca rings the bell. She wants to get home, take off her awful dress, and have a drink of water to wash the sickly sweet ice cream taste from her tongue. She wants to forget everything about the day. She does not even look at him as she steps off the car, relieved to be away from the press of bodies. She is not surprised that he follows her though. And she is not disappointed when she feels his hand on her arm again. She is turning onto Elizabeth Street, to walk down the hill home. ‘Slow down. You’re going to kill a fella trying to catch up with you.’ She turns to him. ‘Would it be such a shame if he died?’ Don tries to keep from smiling. She can see he is just glad that she is talking to him. ‘Stop a minute. You’re getting yourself all worked up. I haven’t got another girl. Let me explain.’ For some reason that brings it out in her. Those bloody tears. More than anything she wants not to care, but she already feels too much. Don sits at a bench at the edge of a square of park, patting the seat beside him. The only park in a neighbourhood of houses packed like biscuits in a tin. She is not going to bring him home in this state. She sits. He tries to edge in closer, to clasp her hand, but she pushes him off. ‘Say what you’re going to say, Don Sinclair. I’ve got to get home and help Ma with the tea.’ He takes his hat off and sets it on his knee. ‘I had a girl when we met. That’s what the whores were talking about. Zara – she lived next door to me – next door to my ma’s, and she was the first girl I kissed. She was my girl because I

53 Long Bay didn’t know better. But when I met you at the rink, Bec, I knew it was wrong with Zara. I didn’t feel nearly the same. Here I’d just met you, and couldn’t stop thinking about it. But with her, well, it was ordinary. So I called it off. Haven’t seen her since.’ She feels split apart. He’s not been able to stop thinking of her, but he’s kissed this other girl, and known her forever. ‘But you ought to have told me. If you’re asking me to marry you, you’ve got to tell me these things. Besides, what about those whores? How do they know you?’ Don plays with the brim of his hat. He slouches on the bench and looks up at the pink flowers of the crepe myrtle above them. ‘This is what I’ve been nervous about. See, I’m afraid you won’t want me no more if I tell you.’ ‘What’s so bad?’ ‘Promise you won’t go running off again?’ She does not answer, just looks at him, expectant. He sighs. ‘I suppose I’ll just tell you and we’ll see.’

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55 Long Bay Chapter 6

At first she does not understand what Don is on about. Seems he is lucky that his mother is well off – she runs a private hospital, he says, in their house at Glenmore Road. She takes in women who are pregnant and have no maid to look after them at home. He says that she has been a midwife as long as he can remember, but only in the last five or six years did she set up the hospital. There is even a doctor who visits and all their meals are prepared. It is popular with women from the bush, who are scared to be having their babies miles from help. ‘That doesn’t explain your friends. The ones who told me I’d best leave you be.’ Don puts his hand up, ‘I’m getting to that, don’t hurry me.’ He explains how business has dropped off for his mother lately. Women are more likely to stay at home for their lying-in and hire a girl who comes for a month to help out. So his mother is losing money. Costs of running the hospital are high. She keeps one girl to help and another in the kitchen. But then more women are coming asking her to get rid of their babies. It is becoming more and more common. His mother knows this is done, of course – every midwife worth her salt does. But these girls are desperate and taking pennyroyal and iron pills from the chemist, some crazy enough to try to get rid of it by throwing themselves down the stairs. Rebecca has heard of this sort of thing – every girl in the neighbourhood has. But it is always women’s talk and even then just hinted at, bubbling away beneath the surface. Someone’s sister in trouble and disappeared for a little while. She comes back pale but with no need for loose dresses and shawls held across her middle. A mother of seven telling Lizzie over a pot of tea how she had tried all the remedies and nothing worked, how she could not imagine feeding another. Lizzie had seen Rebecca listening and told her to fetch some thread from the front room, and take her time about it too. Don scratches at his chin. There is the hint of stubble growing in, and a scab on his cheek where the razor nicked him.

Long Bay 56 He says his mother just did what any clever person would have done. ‘She started letting those women come and stay. Then she looks after them while they recover. She calls it women’s troubles or miscarrying if anyone asks’ He says that she still had women come for lying-in, but most of the business now is different. And she still has the doctor she can call, in case any of them turn out bad. He is the one who visited for her ankle, Don says. ‘Most of ma’s business is women wanting to be rid of their babies now. Which is how the whores know me. All the whores know ma. They all need her now and again, some more’n others. There’s plenty of people doing the same thing as me mother, but she was one of the first. Still, she’s one of the best.’ Don puts his hat back on his head and straightens the brim. ‘Now I understand that it’s not what you call proper, but I won’t hear any bad spoke of her. I’ve told you and you can make your own mind up whether you want to stick by me. Understand?’ She nods, not knowing what to say. Yet there is something here that pleases her. Here she had thought how low Don sank to come calling on her, but he is not from such fine stock himself. His mother an abortionist. She remembers the visit from Violet, the other day, when she brought the money, the money Rebecca still has. And what she said about Don’s mother: all the girls knew her. How she ought to be careful. Don makes it sound like she was just helping out, but she is making a living out of their troubles. Rebecca starts to take the pins from her hair, aware that Don is watching. She shakes it out and then puts it up again, twisting and pinning it to the top of her head. ‘Cat got your tongue?’ What will she say? She is glad, somehow, that he is not perfect. You would not pair a ragged skirt with a brand new blouse and expect them to match. They need to be equal parts worn, or soiled. Still, Nurse Sinclair. Just her name makes Rebecca queasy in her belly. He sits beside her, the air alive with waiting. What does she think? She could stand and walk away now. He would not chase her. It could be done. But beside her his soft, long fingers drum the black trouser fabric stretched across his thigh. Beside her he waits, breathing, knowing already that

57 Long Bay things are never as easy as we make them out to be. She pictures herself in a hole, like the hole they lowered her father into, and Don at the top, silhouetted against the sky, a hand reaching down. Away from her family, from John and Amy, from the dirt which always finds its way to the creases in her skin. The distance between them is not as great as she thought. She leans over and rests her head against his shoulder, linking her arm through his. ‘I think she did what she had to do. I can’t find fault with your mother,’ she says. ‘I should have known you’d understand.’ He kisses her cheek, his whole body slack with relief. She shuts her eyes, letting him think she is overcome with emotion. His mother sounds awful, truly, but she would never say as much. She does not want him looking at her too closely, does not want him knowing how she lies because she does not wish to let him go.

Rebecca feels like a hatch has opened to show her his dark places, the things he keeps from most people, and so she feels closer to him. It is hard to believe they have only known each other three months because it feels like longer. It feels like she was born for this, to be with him. She still works most hours of the day in that dark, damp front room – Lizzie on the Singer, Rebecca cutting pieces, or embroidering, or doing the fine stitch work. But she is not thinking of much besides him: when she will see him next, what to wear, how to mend her dress, how to fix her hair. She has more pricked fingers and bloodied blouses in that month than in the seventeen years up to it, but Lizzie seems to understand. She just sighs and gets the salt to rub onto the stain, puts the fabric in the tub to soak. Lizzie’s eyes are as bad as ever and at night now she lies on the bed in the back room and uses special drops that Fred bought from the chemist. Rebecca brings a warm cloth to rest on her eyes and makes a drink of brandy and water. When Lizzie goes to see Ruby at the asylum now Fred accompanies her. Rebecca stays home, in case Don might visit. Fred is not a bad man, she decides, he has just lived all his life as a bachelor and is not used to the company of women. He

Long Bay 58 eats like a dog at a dish and wipes his greasy fingers on the tablecloth after. He loves his drink and his horses but at least he is not the kind of drunk who will come home and thrash someone – plenty on the street are. In those long hours stitching lace onto collars or doing buttonholes she begins to think that she could leave her mother with Fred and Lizzie would be all right. Surely that was expected. Besides, if Don’s family were better off, would not all of them be as well? She pushes aside thoughts of where Don’s money comes from, of the girls clutching their purse strings on Nurse Sinclair’s doorstep, with nowhere else to turn. In the evenings as it grows dark, Don knocks at the door. Sometimes he comes in for tea, and to his credit he never turns his nose at the stew and hard bread. Fred speaks to him of horses and politics and different characters they both know, and Don always asks Lizzie after her health. Rebecca’s favourite evenings are when they go out – just Don and her – to Bob Fenner’s dance hall, once to a show at the Tiv, or just to walk round Circular Quay to watch all of the ships – the great big mail steamers and the smaller, lit up ferries – twinkling as the waves slap wet against the soft wood of the wharf. Don holds her by the hand or the curve of her waist and pulls her into the shadows between buildings to kiss her. They are at the Quay one night, sitting on the sandstone wall and watching the mail steamers pass one another, their horns low and eerie, eating pies from the pie cart and laughing as they wipe the drips of gravy from one another’s chin. There is no proper way to eat a pie. Don finishes his last bite and tosses the paper into the water. ‘I wouldn’t like to think of what’s under there,’ he says. ‘All the sunken boats and cast off shoes and great pop-eyed fish.’ ‘You’re not scared of a few fish now, are you? Great big fella like you.’ He grins, for he is hardly taller than her, and grabs at her hand, that look in his eyes again. It is a fierce look, and she has grown wary of it. ‘What’re you waiting for, why d’you make me wait so?’ he asks. ‘What do you mean? We’ve only known each other three months.’

59 Long Bay She knows exactly what he means. How hard it is to keep their bodies apart when they feel as though they fit together. If Violet had not warned her, she is sure she would have given in already. He is persistent. ‘Then let’s marry already. Stop pushing me away. Be my wife.’ Those are the words that do it in the end. Be my wife. For before, all his talk of marrying seemed to circle around one thing: what would happen once they lay together, in the marriage bed. But being his wife means so much else. It means what is his is theirs. It means leaving the dark terrace, the threat of John, the bread and dripping, the endless work. It means something else: a future – a way out. And she believes him when he tells her it is what he wants – marrying, her by his side. A fella spends so long courting a girl, telling her how lovely and perfect she is, and she starts to believe him. She starts to think herself worthy of all manner of things. She looks up at the curve of the wharf and the golden yellow of gas lamps that span it. Don reaches over and tucks a stray strand of hair behind her ear, his fingers a light touch on the bare skin of her cheek. ‘All right then,’ she says, soft enough that he leans in, not certain what he heard. ‘What’s that? What’d you say?’ ‘I said all right. Let’s marry.’ He grabs her so hard that she nearly topples off the wall into the dark harbour below. And as he kisses her, she thinks: this is what it is to have him as my own.

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61 Long Bay Chapter 7

The money from Violet eats away at her. Rebecca waits for the right moment to give it to her mother, waits for a time when Fred is out, when it is just the two of them at home. She moves it from beneath her mattress to a hatbox with Lizzie’s wedding band, some old letters and a lock of Father’s hair. But after saying yes to Don, and with the date they agreed upon fast approaching, she goes into the city one day to look at dresses. Ready-made ones: dresses that hold not a drop of her sweat or a finger-prick of her blood. It is Don’s wish to not tell Lizzie until after they are wed. It makes sense. She will worry; she will want them to have a church wedding and spend money that is better spent on other things. Better to just marry in his house, in front of his mother, Ellen and his stepfather with a clergyman that he knows. And so, the Saturday before the wedding, she folds Violet’s limp banknotes beneath her chemise, against her breast, and makes up an excuse about running an errand. She walks along Oxford Street then Elizabeth Street, and past the Domain to Macquarie Street. Not daring to look up in case she sees someone she knows, Rebecca crosses King Street, then turns right on George Street to the department store David Jones. She has been here a few times, but never to shop, always to wander and dream. Of white gloves with pearl buttons, or fawn-coloured boots made from kid leather as soft as the butter they can never afford for their bread. Outside, the footpath is crowded with people: men in their summer suits, ladies in dresses cut of lighter cloth, hats angled to keep the scorching sun from their pale skin. A boy pulls at her sleeve, asking to shine her shoes, and she shakes him off. There are bicycles nearly colliding with horses and carts, peddlers pushing barrows, everyone dashing to get out of the way of the trams. The smell of dung and sweat, fruit going soft in the sun, and creosote poured into the open sewers. A doorman in a top hat and tails holds the heavy door. For a moment she is certain he will turn her away, but he just tips his hat and turns to greet the next person. Above are high, chandeliered ceilings, and below, her shoes click on the cool, marble floor. How pleasant it would feel against her cheek, she thinks.

Long Bay 62 There is a buzz of low voices, a distant piano, the slow whirr of ceiling fans suspended beneath chandeliers. Past hats and gloves and leather goods, past bottles of scent and cream she walks, trying not to stare. A man in a suit offers a tray of cold rolled facecloths, passing them with silver tongs to shoppers so that they might wipe away their perspiration. Following him is another man with a tray to collect the soiled cloths. She shakes her head, afraid she will somehow do the wrong thing. Rebecca climbs the grand, sweeping staircase to ladies’ fashion, where mannequins are outfitted in the latest European styles. Behind a long, mahogany counter a lady wearing a black silk frock with an ostrich feather in her hair looks up from a page of figures. Her eyes travel from Rebecca’s face down to her clothes and back again, her lips pressed together. ‘How may I help you?’ Her voice sounds as if she would rather do anything other than help, unless she is helping her find the door. ‘I’m looking for a dress. Ready-made.’ The lady motions her to sit on a couch. She brings a cup of sweet, milky tea. The cup and saucer are of fine bone china. ‘A salesgirl will be with you shortly,’ she says, looking at her as if to say, don’t waste her time. ‘Do feel free to look around.’ She sinks back into the leather upholstery and sips the tea, which is not hot. The other women shopping are in pairs, or clusters. She is the only one on her own. They fan themselves and giggle and order the shopgirls about. The notes she tucked into her chemise are already damp with sweat. And they are not even hers to spend. She nearly stands to leave, tea half drunk, like a rat caught in the lard tin. But the shopgirl appears just as she gathers her nerves, looking at her with eyes that crinkle at the edges. ‘Hello. I’m Miss Isabel Green. How do you do?’ Rebecca stands and, not knowing what to do, gives a little curtsy. Miss Green’s smile grows wider, stretching her lips to show two rows of perfectly white teeth. ‘Rebecca McDowell,’ she says, ‘Perhaps you could help me find a dress?’

63 Long Bay Miss Green takes her by the arm and leads her away from the long mahogany counter. ‘I’m happy to help, but here’s some free advice. Don’t let the haughty bitch frighten you. She’s an old dried out prune, so wrinkled even the crows wouldn’t have her.’ Rebecca smiles for the first time in what feels like days. Twenty minutes later Miss Green takes Violet’s damp bills in exchange for a paper-wrapped parcel. ‘Your fellow will be pleased as punch,’ she says. ‘You’ll make a beautiful bride.’ Rebecca swings the package by the string. She will still need to take in the waist a measure, shorten the sleeves, but Miss Green is right, the dress is beautiful. After several wrong attempts, she found a biscuit-coloured crepe de chine with lace at the sleeves and bust. It fits narrowly through the torso and thighs then frills out at the calves. The price made her pause, but it feels like a dress she could float in, lighter even than the blue silk she wore at the skating rink. Miss Green hands her the change. ‘And what sort of hat will you wear, Miss McDowell?’ ‘Oh. I hadn’t thought. I haven’t got enough for a hat.’ ‘Come see my sister, who works in millinery. Right this way.’ Miss Green links her arm through Rebecca’s and leads her down the staircase to the hat counter, where another young woman with a strikingly similar face arranges the display. Miss Green takes her aside and whispers something, the two of them sharing a smile. ‘Miss Rebecca McDowell, this is Miss Olivia Green.’ She nods, this time repressing her urge to curtsy. Miss Green winks. ‘Now if you girls don’t mind, I’d better hurry back up to the dresses before that witch sees I’m gone. Don’t hesitate to take my sister’s advice, Miss McDowell. You’ll look stunning.’ Miss Green’s sister leads her to a row of smaller hats, at the back of the display. ‘These are called toques, the brimless ones, and they’re just the fashion. Not too dear. Here, this one will look lovely.’

Long Bay 64 She chooses a simple black one with silk flowers, and pins it to Rebecca’s hair at a jaunty angle. When she holds up a mirror it does look fine. On the felt hat the flowers are pink and grey with leaves of green silk: rosebuds. ‘See?’ she says, and smiles, the same eye-crinkle as her sister. Rebecca says she will take it, and after giving Miss Green the rest of Violet’s money she walks out into the bright, early afternoon heat, packages dangling from both hands. God it feels wonderful having something new, something of her own. Here are these fine things and she cannot wait to get home and try them on, to make them perfect. She thinks of what Don might say when he sees her in them, the surprise he will get, how pleased he will be. Yes, the money would have fed Lizzie and Fred for weeks. But it gives her such joy holding these things in her hands, these store-bought things, the flattery of the Green sisters fresh in her head, so she pushes that thought away. She wants to feel beautiful. She walks to the tram station beside Hyde Park with a lively step, her head held high. I am going to be a lady yet, just wait and see, she thinks. A lady and a wife.

65 Long Bay Chapter 8

‘Where’ve you been? You’re late!’ Don says, opening the door of his house on Glenmore Road. ‘But gee I’m lucky, look at you. I nearly came to find you. Thought you’d done a runner maybe, changed your mind.’ Her nerves are so raw she would either be late or not at all. The day is windy with a low ominous cloud, threatening to rain. When she does arrive at his house, number 95, her boots and the hem of her new dress are covered with fine dust from the road. The house is a wide two-storey terrace, with lace ironwork on the balconies and a few adolescent plane trees sprouting from the front garden. The iron gate squeaks when she opens it and there is a steep set of stairs to the front door. Beside the bell hangs a small, brass plaque: Nurse Sinclair’s Private Hospital. It is his mother’s house, of course. The thought of meeting her made Rebecca so nervous she could hardly leave this morning. The first words out of Lizzie’s mouth were: ‘Where’d you get the dress?’ ‘Don gave it to me,’ she said, looking down at the floor. ‘Are you going some place fancy?’ ‘A matinee. With his mother. We haven’t met before.’ ‘Well, I hope he’s not dressing you up so she thinks you’re someone you’re not,’ Lizzie said, turning back to the Singer. ‘I’ll finish that batch tomorrow, Ma, you lie down.’ Rebecca leaned in to kiss the top of her head. It smelled like the wood stove she was bent over every morning trying to light. She wished more than anything that she could tell her then, wished that her mother could accompany her. Don made her promise, though. Said they could just keep it small and simple this way, said he could not bear to wait another minute. Now he ushers her inside through a long dark hallway with doors shut on all sides, leading to a narrow staircase. He wears a blue serge suit she has never seen and boots with heels on them so he is noticeably taller. The floors are

Long Bay 66 polished timber and along the wall beside the stairs hang paintings – landscapes of lush paddocks and hills – a different, greener place. ‘Did you make that dress, Bec? You look like an angel.’ She nods. ‘It wasn’t too much work.’ ‘You’ve got the nimblest fingers in Paddo.’ She changes the subject, before she can tell more lies. ‘Where’s your mother? And the clergyman? I’m all nerves, Don. Sorry I’m late but I had to sit a few minutes, I was so shaky.’ Don does not answer straightaway but leads her up the narrow staircase and into a room with two overstuffed couches and a large desk. He shuts the door behind her. A picture window looks out over the garden – a small fountain with a stone dragon spitting water and some boxy little shrubs around it. He grasps her hands, pressing her against the wall, so she can feel each of the buttons that run along her back. ‘Are you having second thoughts?’ She twists her hands from his grasp and ducks beneath his arm to the centre of the room, to stand on a patterned, Oriental rug. ‘No, I’m just nervous. Where will our wedding be? Here? Where is everyone?’ Don bites his lip. ‘Don’t be angry, but Mother and George and the clergyman have all had to run off.’ ‘They what?’ ‘Well you were so late, and George had theatre tickets and they didn’t want to miss it. Ma said she’ll meet you later. She’d love it if you come round tomorrow for tea. And the clergyman had a service to attend.’ She feels unsteady. Why was she so slow? Something seems not right. ‘What now then? I can’t go through this again.’ Don grasps her hands, stroking the knuckles with his thumbs. ‘Don’t fret. The clergyman, he left some papers we can sign. He even told me what to say. It’s all legal and whatnot, crossed t’s, dotted i’s. All I’ve got to do is take him the signed papers tomorrow.’ She studies his face, not certain what to say. It seems odd. When is the theatre more important than your son’s wedding?

67 Long Bay ‘So, the clergyman… he hasn’t got to be here at all?’ She looks up at Don, a different question in her eyes, and he smooths her brow with his thumb. ‘Not at all. Now isn’t that a relief. We can be man and wife.’ And so she puts her signature beside his on the paper, beneath the signature of the clergyman, and then he says: ‘Now I pronounce thee husband and wife. You shall kiss the bride.’ He takes her into his arms and kisses her, not the sort of kiss that is stolen behind bushes in parks, or against the dunny in the laneway, but one that is brash and eager. His arms around her waist feel firm and certain, as do his lips. Her eyes are closed and she smells his shoe polish and the pomade in his hair. He might not be much taller but he is far more solid. She feels the strength in his back beneath her hands, and the bulk of him pressing into her. She was too nervous to eat earlier and her stomach grumbles against his, through the crepe de chine. He slides his hand around to put it on her belly, a familiar gesture that reassures her. ‘Listen to that – you’re hungry. Lets go to the kitchen for a feed, then I’ll take you on a tour of my house,’ he says, looking at her with those shining brown eyes. ‘Oh wait, I nearly forgot.’ He dips his hand in his pocket and pulls out a little velvet pouch. He fumbles with the string, untying it, emptying the pouch in his palm. It is a narrow gold band. ‘Your ring,’ he says, and takes her hand. It is small for her raw red knuckles, but with some spit and pressure, they push it on. ‘We can swap for a bigger size,’ he says. ‘We could, but I don’t think this one is ever coming off.’ Nursing her sore knuckle, she follows Don through the house. The private hospital is the largest house she has ever been inside. Anyone could get lost in it, with so many dark warrens and little rooms. When they arrive at the kitchen on the ground floor, a wide-hipped, apron-clad woman that Don calls ‘cook’ is stoking the stove. She comes over and her palms on Rebecca’s cheeks feel clammy and hot. ‘Need to feed you up I see. Yer a skinny thing,’ she says, looking down at Rebecca’s waist.

Long Bay 68 ‘Don’t mind her, Bec, she’s just used to seeing ladies who are a good deal fatter.’ They sit at the kitchen table with bowls of soup and bread spread thick with butter, while the cook rolls out pastry for pies on the bench. When they finish, Rebecca clears their bowls to the sink to wash them, but cook pats her on the back and pushes her gently aside. ‘That’s my job now, miss. Off you go then, you two. The cat’s away the mice will play.’ It strikes her as they leave the kitchen that Don has not mentioned they are married. There was no congratulations, no ‘Mrs Sinclair’. She begins to worry. Don leads them back down the hall, opening and closing doors to show off the dining room, the water closet, the parlour. Up the first flight of stairs are rooms for the patients, he says, so they will not bother them. A maid looks after the patients when his mother is away. Up the second flight is his mother’s floor – she and George have their own rooms – and the attic is his. Rebecca climbs that last flight of stairs before him, lightheaded from the exertion, conscious of his eyes behind her. She wants to leave, suddenly. She wants nothing more than to turn and go. There is a little door at the top, and a handwritten sign that says ‘Private – No Trespassing’. ‘It’s like a little boy’s den,’ she says, turning side-on at the top stair. He flushes, the top of his head at her shoulder. She opens the door to a small white-painted room with a sloped ceiling and windows along all sides looking out across the city – over the tops of the roofs in varying shades of rust, the quarry and over Moore Park and beyond. ‘What a view,’ she says. He sits on the edge of the bed, unlacing his boots. ‘Not bad, eh?’ The room is small but not airless, the windows tip in their frames for a cross-breeze, even on the hottest days. There are hooks where Don’s hats and coats hang, a few wooden apple crates spilling over with clothes and books, and along a low shelf, the room is lined with model boats. They are small and

69 Long Bay intricate, with sails and fine decks made of miniature planks of timber, thin threads connecting their sails as ropes might, tensioning them into place. ‘Who made these?’ She kneels to look at their detail. ‘I did.’ He crouches beside her. ‘They’re beautiful,’ she says. ‘So small.’ She runs her finger along the sanded hull of one, which has three mainsails and tiny lifeboats, four of them, two on each side. ‘Well, I do have some talents.’ She feels his eyes on her as he speaks, and she turns to meet his gaze. ‘Nervous?’ he asks. She nods. ‘Don’t be. I’ll look after you. When was the flag up last?’ ‘Pardon me?’ ‘Your courses. When were they last?’ ‘A week ago,’ she says, her face burning. He grins. ‘It’s safe then.’ ‘Why didn’t you tell the cook that we are married?’ ‘Is that what’s bothering you?’ ‘A little. It just seems odd. She called me miss, and you didn’t correct her.’ They both stand. She looks out of the window at the roofs of all the houses again and he begins unbuttoning her dress. She can hear his skin rasp against the fabric. ‘She doesn’t matter, she’s just the cook. Would you like me to go down and tell her? I’m sorry, I was nervous, I didn’t think. It’s new for me as well, Bec, you being my wife.’ The dress is open now, and she feels the breeze from the window against the muslin chemise that she wears beneath it. She raises her arms to unpin her hat. He kisses the back of her neck, trailing kisses across the span of her shoulders. The feel of his mouth and the slight stubble around it makes her breath catch. The cook seems now not to matter so much. He pushes the dress from her shoulders and it falls to her ankles. She is standing in just a thin chemise and slip with her stays over it. He unties the laces

Long Bay 70 of her stays and loosens them. She takes a deep breath, and then pushes the corset over her hips and steps out of it, turning to face him. Only her mother and sisters have seen her wearing so little, but her nervousness leaves with his touch. It has been a strange turn of events but she will not let it ruin this moment, she thinks. A moment she has feared and desired. The angle of the sun is such that it comes through the window now, a rectangle of light falling across their bodies, warming her skin as she unbuttons his shirt. It is white, spotless, as his shirts always are. There are small whorls of dark hair on his chest and she touches them lightly, surprised at their coarseness. He removes his pants and belt, his socks and sock garters, and lies down, patting the spot beside him. She lowers herself to face him on his bed. If she could stop time, Rebecca thinks, she would stop it here. Directly before; the moment rich with anticipation. He runs his finger along her jaw, trails it down her neck, her shoulder, her collarbone, a breast. From his bed, the window shows nothing but a rectangle of sky, cerulean without a wisp of cloud. She watches it as he leans above her, as she helps him pull up her slip. The strap catches in a piece of hair above her ear and pulls. He pauses to help untangle it. She watches the blue, interrupted only by his head as he shifts above her. He uses his hand to push himself inside her. It feels as though it will not fit and then it does. There is a short sharp pain as he moves but beneath it a thrum of something else. A wish to draw him deeper. The pain is gone, as quick as a pricked finger. But she has only begun to enjoy herself when he gasps, collapsing. He lies beside her again, the weight of his leg pressing on hers, and she wonders how soon before they will be able to try again. But she does not think that for long, because downstairs, two floors down, there starts up the most awful, keening cry. A scream that is meant to bring a whole household running. She sits up, pulling her slip from where it has bunched around her waist. ‘What is it? What’s going on?’ Don pulls her back beside him, covers her ears with his hands. ‘Nothing. It’s just one of the women, it just must be her time, is all. Someone will look after her. There’s nothing you and I can do.’

71 Long Bay Rebecca allows herself to be comforted, to be kissed and held again, but that sound stays with her, even after it stops. The memory of lying with Don will always be blemished by that sound, by the bone-chilling cry of someone else’s pain.

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73 Long Bay Chapter 9

She had gone home afterwards, planning to tell her mother, but went to bed instead. How odd the day had been. The following morning, carrying in the tea tray at breakfast, Lizzie catches a glimpse of the ring glinting on her hand. She takes hold of her wrist. ‘What’s this?’ Fred stands, upending his tea. ‘What? What’s that, pray tell? And look what you’ve made me do,’ he says. Rebecca picks up a rag to mop the spilled tea. ‘I haven’t lied. It was only yesterday. Don and I decided to marry.’ ‘Without telling me?’ Lizzie says. ‘We didn’t want the fuss. I didn’t want you spending money. It’s best this way, over and done.’ Lizzie covers her eyes with her hands. Rebecca can see tears coming from beneath them, following the creases of her wrinkles. She feels drowned with guilt, she wants to throw the sodden rag and leave, run away from it all. ‘The only daughter besides Amy I could’ve seen wed. I weren’t there. Did you have to? Was it urgent?’ Lizzie puts her hand out and touches Rebecca’s stomach, feeling for a curve where there is none. She shakes her head and steps away. Lizzie’s hand hangs for a moment in the air and then she cradles it in her lap again. ‘I’m not so foolish as that, ma. I kept my honour.’ Rebecca wrings the rag in the basin, watching the tea swirl into the clear water, staining it. All that work of waiting, Lizzie ought to be proud of her. It had not been easy, always pushing him off. ‘Don’s finding us a place of our own. He’s good to me. I’ll set up a little dressmaking business, and you can send your ladies to me. I’ll be able to help – give you money each week, so you don’t have to work so hard.’ Lizzie wipes her cheeks and tries to smile, but her eyes are watery still. What am I doing, Rebecca thinks. But her mother sets her jaw firm and places a hand on hers. ‘You’re a good daughter and I thank God for that. You’ll find out on your own that marriage doesn’t make life easier, but I imagine any girl growing

Long Bay 74 up with eyes in her head knows as much. You have my blessing. I only wish you hadn’t kept it from me.’ Rebecca leans across and puts her cheek against her mother’s, against the soft, loose skin. ‘I am sorry,’ she whispers into Lizzie’s ear, but she is not. She cannot wait to leave.

Louis comes for tea that night and knows already. ‘Are you certain?’ he says, sitting back in the chair so that only two legs touch the floor. ‘Certain this is something you want to do?’ ‘Too late for certain,’ Fred says through a mouthful of bread. ‘She’s got the ring on her finger now.’ ‘I didn’t ask you, I asked Bec.’ Lizzie puts her hand on Louis’, to silence him. Rebecca nods her head. ‘He’s finding us a house. He’s a good man.’ Louis looks at the door. He is upset with her, she can see it, but he is not going to say as much, not in front of Lizzie and Fred at least. Afterwards he stays to help with the washing up; he dries while she scrubs the dishes. Lizzie and Fred are out on the front steps smoking a pipe. ‘Why don’t you ever visit Violet? She said you’ve cut her out.’ ‘I haven’t. She’s more than welcome to come home and visit me.’ ‘What’s it all about? I don’t know why you’ve changed, Bec. I wish you would tell me things. I might not always be around, but I am still your brother. I can still look after you.’ She blinks to keep back the tears. Still they come and she wipes her face against her shoulder, her hands deep in the dishwater. He does not see; he is placing a plate back in the cupboard. Precisely because he is her brother she cannot tell him. She cannot tell him about John in the laneway and about every man she has flinched past since. About how Don has kept on at her, weakening her resolve, until she could no longer trust herself to maintain it. She could no longer push him away. What would Lou understand of this? What would any man?

75 Long Bay ‘We all change, Lou,’ she says. ‘Nothing ever stays the same.’

Long Bay 76

77 Long Bay Chapter 10

Don finds a two-storey weatherboard in Woollahra at the corner of Old South Head Road and Albemarle Avenue. There is a small dirt yard with a copper where she can do the washing and hang it out to dry, a kitchen towards the back of the house, and three bedrooms upstairs – enough, Don says, to let the extras until they fill them with children of their own. The front garden has a few shrubs and hydrangea flowers blossoming beside a low timber fence. The house is on a corner, and while there are neighbours there is space between them – so much magnificent space. To her it is a palace. All of these rooms lit by sun, all of it theirs. Don carries her over the threshold that first afternoon, stumbles and nearly drops her. Then he kisses her in the light that throws long shadows across the floor. They bring in her case from the dray, and she unpacks as he goes out to settle some business. The place needs a good clean: it smells of mouse droppings and the furniture from previous tenants is dusty and cobwebbed. She walks through the rooms, touching everything. She finds a duster, broom, a rag and a bucket and sets to work. Each of the upstairs rooms has a bedstead, a chest of drawers and a mirror that hangs above them. Rebecca airs the mattresses and throws open all of the windows. In the sitting room downstairs she finds a long, worn velvet couch and a selection of mismatched chairs, as well as a few small tables and shelves grey with dust. The walls of the narrow stairwell are greased with handprints, which she scrubs with carbolic soap and a brush. She polishes the brass doorknobs and sweeps stray crumbs from behind the kitchen stove. A gas cooker, she notes, pleased – for a woodstove would tether her from breakfast to tea. Beside the stove in the corner of the kitchen is an enamel washtub to bathe in. Soon it is past dark and Don has not returned. She finds the kerosene lamps and lights them. She searches the kitchen for a trace of food, but there is nothing except a tin of grease that the mice have gotten to. In her purse are a few coins, but she does not want to leave in case Don returns to find her gone. Light with hunger and exhaustion, she feels uncertain what to do. She sits on the couch

Long Bay 78 that she beat the dust from earlier, biting her fingernails to the quick, when there is a creak on the verandah and the sound of boot heels. She is deciding whether to cry or to be cross with him for leaving her so long on her own, when he walks into the parlour, face grim. ‘Look who I’ve brought to visit. Say hello to my mother.’ Nurse Sinclair. Ellen. All these weeks since they married and Rebecca has managed to avoid her, until now. She knows how mothers can be with their sons – she is scared that Ellen will take one look at her and box Don around the ears. A common girl, skinny and poor. She composes herself, furious that she has not changed out of her slops or eaten a bite all day. ‘Nurse Sinclair, excuse my state, I’ve been cleaning.’ ‘Call me Ellen. And I’ll call you Rebecca, now that we finally meet.’ Ellen takes off her gloves, puts them in her handbag and sits on one of the mismatched chairs, which creaks beneath her weight. She is short and stout, like one of those gargoyles carved into the buildings by the Quay. Her eyes are large and bulging, her mouth a thin line that hardly moves – her mood is impossible to guess at. ‘I would offer tea but we haven’t a thing in the house.’ Rebecca looks at Don, hoping he will tell from her expression that this is his fault. ‘And I didn’t know when you’d return so I didn’t have a chance to buy anything.’ Ellen laughs – a short, sharp little noise, like some exotic bird. ‘The sooner you learn not to rely on him the better. You want something done you’ll have to do it on your own. Here.’ She rummages around in her handbag. ‘Take this and run up to the cart by the pub, Donny boy. Fetch us each a saveloy. And a jug of beer. Don’t be taking your time now either, or I’ll tear a strip out of you.’ Donny-boy. Rebecca nearly snorts. By the set of his jaw as he takes Ellen’s coins into his fist, Rebecca is not sure whether he will throw them back in her face or do as she says. He turns and stomps out the door. He will do as his mother says. ‘Now, sit, sit. I imagine he’ll have a pint while he’s there – so we’ll have a bit of a wait,’ Ellen says. ‘Time for a yarn. Tell me about yourself, girl. Hang on. Stay still a moment.’ She squints at Rebecca over her spectacles, turns and shifts

79 Long Bay in her chair. ‘Not pregnant, are you? Least not far along I see. Which is good. I suspected wrong then. Tell me, why was it that you two were in such a rush to marry?’ Rebecca frowns and tries to think of a sharp response. Ellen is not one to make things sound pretty. ‘It wasn’t that we had to,’ she says. ‘Just what’s the point of waiting?’ Ellen nods slowly, as though turning that over in her mind. ‘I see. Glad he’s found himself a willing one at least. What does your family think?’ Rebecca sits then and brings her shoulders down from about her ears. Ellen is not going to harm her – she is just sharp-tongued. Rebecca tells her a little about her mother, about her father dying. About her sister dead as well, though she does not mention the others. ‘Ma’s eyes are getting worse, so I’m planning to take on a bit of work, hopefully dressmaking but piece work if that’s what’s about. I’ve always liked to stay busy with my hands.’ Ellen nods, her chin tucked down into three further chins beneath, each sprouting a few fat, black hairs that Rebecca itches to reach out and pluck. How Ellen would jump. ‘What do you make from it – the needlework? A few shillings here and there? Save up to buy a leg of mutton for Sunday lunch?’ ‘It’s not much,’ she admits, staring at her hands in her lap. Ellen laughs, and she thinks of that strange bird again. She looks up to see Ellen’s cheeks quivering. ‘I shouldn’t laugh, my girl, but you’ll learn – I’m no lady. I’m sure Don’s told you as much already. I just think there’s ways and there’s ways. If you’re ever interested, I can teach you a trade that turns a pretty profit. You could help out with my patients – learn what you need to know. I’m always on the lookout for steady hands, sharp minds. Silent tongues, you know.’ ‘You mean, be a nurse? I don’t think I could stand the sight of all that blood.’ ‘Nurse, or whatever you wish to call it. Blood is the least of it. But if you decide it’s worth getting your hands dirty, the offer stands. Make up your own

Long Bay 80 mind – don’t let Don tell you what to do. I love him, he’s my only son, but I was too soft with him as a lad. Should have beat some more sense into him early. Best thing you can do is be firm with him. Firm and fierce, or else he won’t respond.’ The door creaks and Don enters with a greasy bag, a brown glass jug of beer. He pulls hot saveloys in rolls from the bag and sits down, taking a long swig straight from the jug, then wiping his mouth on his sleeve. ‘Eat em while they’re hot, now, don’t be afraid to use your fingers.’ Rebecca looks to Ellen to see what she will do. She bites into the bright red sausage. Her cheek bulging, and her lips shining with grease, she mutters, ‘Don’t hog the jug now, useless boy. Pass it over here.’ Ellen and Don eat, grease dripping down their chins, as though no one has ever taught them better. They pass the jug until there is not a drop left. Rebecca eats her saveloy, careful not to get any on her dress. She savours the richness, the luxury of it. When the food and drink are finished, Ellen stands. ‘So long, lovebirds. Thanks for showing me your nest.’ Don walks her down to the tram shelter and Rebecca clears up the rubbish. He returns home as she shakes her nightdress out of the valise. In the morning she will dust the wardrobe and then hang her few dresses and skirts. She hears him come into the bedroom but does not look up. ‘Bec,’ he says. She does not turn. ‘I couldn’t stop her coming. I tried. Believe me. There was no way I could warn you. You saw how she is yourself; there was nothing I could do.’ She turns to face him, white around the lips. ‘You didn’t have to be gone all day, though. I didn’t even know where you were. And I was on my hands and knees cleaning and wearing my tattiest things when in you come with her on your arm.’ She hears her voice get high and thin. She remembers what Ellen said – that Don needs someone to be firm with him, not to dissolve into tears every time something goes wrong. But that is Ellen, who Don seems to love and loathe in equal measures.

81 Long Bay He wraps his arms around her. Beneath the scent he wears is the smell of grease and beer, dust and sweat. ‘I’m sorry. I’m not used to telling anyone of my comings and goings, of having someone wait for me. I’ll get better at it, won’t I? I’ll give you money for the housekeeping and we’ll get the kitchen sorted, a girl to help out. We’ve got money, we’ve just got to figure out how to spend it. I’ll need your help. Now cheer up. This is our house and our first proper night as husband and wife. Don’t tell me I’ve spoiled it now.’ She does not say anything. She presses her cheek against his bristled jaw and he catches her chin in one hand, a little fierce. ‘Have I? Spoiled it?’ he says, and there is a flash in his eyes then, almost daring her to say he has. ‘Perhaps.’ She looks at him through lowered lashes. She will not let him think that he is always the one who has the upper hand. ‘Really? I suppose I’ll have to wait and see then.’ He kisses her again and leaves the room. Rebecca sponges herself from the basin and brushes out her hair, plaiting it over a single shoulder. She puts on the nightdress she made in a hurry before leaving home – eyelet cotton with Chantilly lace at the sleeves. She lights the lamp beside the bed and when he returns she is under the quilt, sitting up and reading, or rather pretending to, imagining herself as she appears to him. He undresses, skin smooth in the lamplight. She watches the muscles in his back gather together as he hangs his shirt above the door. He bends to remove his socks and sock garters. He sees her watching and smiles. ‘She likes you, you know.’ ‘Your ma?’ ‘Yeah. I could tell. It’s me she doesn’t like.’ He comes to lie beside her, wearing pyjamas of pale blue cotton. ‘Why do you say that?’ ‘Useless boy this ‘n that. She’s always thought I was a wastrel.’ ‘It’s just how she talks, isn’t it? She’s got a sharp tongue.’ ‘Let’s not talk of her anymore. Let’s not talk at all.’

Long Bay 82 His hand slides up her leg, beneath her nightdress, to the highest part of her thigh. She snaps the book shut and blows the lamp out, leaning over him so that her weight is pressed against his. ‘We’ll have to buy insect powder for the bedbugs,’ she says, wriggling underneath the covers. ‘I swear I just felt one crawling up my leg.’

An hour later, Don sleeps beside her. This is the first night she has ever spent away from home. How is she meant to sleep without her narrow cot, her old quilt, the familiar lumps of rags beneath her? She thinks of the sounds of her street, voices she can recognise with eyes shut. Her body is tired from a day scrubbing and dusting, but rather than sleep she watches the thin curtains rustle in the breeze, and listens to the different night sounds outside. A full moon lights the sky. A finger-width of moonlight slips through a crack in the curtains and casts a stripe of light across the floorboards. Don is her husband and yet there is so much still they do not know of each other. She feels a pinch of self-loathing; it has followed her here in spite of her effort to outrun it. Rebecca watches Don, his heavy brow smooth in slumber, his mouth open, and thinks: who is this man beside me, this husband of mine? And yet, when he touches her, she forgets all of that. All that matters is them, is there and then, is now.

83 Long Bay Chapter 11

Even strange circumstances become ordinary after a while. Lizzie sends over a few of her ladies who require dresses – so there is always work, and Rebecca grows used to Don’s odd hours: sometimes he is home all day, other times he is gone late into the night. He often brings something back: a posy of flowers or a basket of currant buns. Rebecca learns better than to ask him where he has been, but if she leaves it and just talks he starts to tell: of the police who have been hustling the SP where he was this morning, of this or that fella who made a mint on a scheme that no one else knows of yet. Don says he has the head for business, but he grows tired of doing the one thing. There is always something better just round the corner, a scheme that will make him rich for life. Sometimes he brings different mates home with him, all of them dressed smart in tight, shiny jackets, heeled shoes, cravats and slouched hats. They never call one another by their real names but they are Kicker, Spud and Chow. They call Don Rabbit, and Rebecca is surprised to see how quiet he grows round the others, how he sits back and lets them tell him how things are. A jug or two of beer gets passed around and after putting on the food she cleans up the dishes and sits quietly listening, working on the hemming or pleating a skirt while they play cards. Rebecca likes it best when it is just her and Don, sitting in the front room after tea. Him with his pipe sometimes and her with a bit of work in her lap, talking about what to buy at the markets and the best place to find boarders for the spare rooms. They have more money than she is used to, more than enough to get by. Rebecca does the shopping with a thrill in her belly – she can buy enough meat for him and his mates, soft white bread and milk delivered twice a week. She buys books from a stall on her own now, they are second-hand but still – they are of her choosing. Best of all, they hire a girl, Maude, to help out in the kitchen, with the washing and cleaning. The days begin to have a routine: she is up early to boil the water for tea and then Maude comes through the gate around eight. Maude cleans the boots then clears up the dishes and starts on what the meals will be for the day, and Rebecca wakes Don if he is sleeping. He cannot stand more than a pinch of

Long Bay 84 tobacco in his pipe in the morning and a cup of strong tea, and then more often than not he is gone for the day. With Maude it is easier to keep his clothes clean and pressed the way he likes them. He puts more care into his appearance than most ladies Rebecca knows. If Don is gone she settles in with her work, or else, if she has a customer, she helps Maude tidy the front room. She is not used to telling others what to do. Don tells her she is not meant to make friends with servants or they will take advantage of her, but she cannot imagine not speaking to the person beside her. It is odd being on her own, and having another body around she cannot help but make conversation. Some mornings Lizzie comes round and sits and chats while she works, and occasionally Ellen sweeps in, her cab waiting out the front, with a basket of freshly caught fish a patient gave her or a bolt of royal blue velvet. Rebecca is making a dress for Ellen from the velvet, or plans to as soon as she can get Ellen to stand still long enough to let her take her measurements. She misses her sisters – she plans to visit Ruby in the asylum soon but she is afraid to call on Amy, even now that she is married, for fear John will be there. Lizzie gives her the news one day that Amy is expecting her first child and Rebecca wonders why her sister does not visit her. Whether John has forbidden it. As for Louis, she tells her mother to give him her address, so he will call. She misses him most of all. Having Maude in the house brings others as well – maids who work in neighbours’ houses visit to borrow a cup of flour or a spool of thread and stay to chat. Rebecca knows she is a lenient mistress, but she does not mind their narrow bodies crowding round the small kitchen table for a cup of tea, whispering of this and that. They are mostly Irish girls – gossips, all of them – and they tell stories of the other people who live around them, most of whom Rebecca has not met. It is nothing like the old neighbourhood where everyone knows each other and which husband came home drunk the previous night. They are no longer living in such close quarters anymore, so while there is always a polite nod, none of the neighbours introduce themselves, or invite her round for a cup of tea. The girls do not have any such airs to keep up, and she envies their closeness. One of

85 Long Bay them, Mary, is sweet on a fella who works sometimes with Don, and Rebecca can see how closely the girl watches her. She imagines that Mary is thinking – that could be me – running my own house, having my own girl to help out. Wednesdays are washing day and Rebecca puts her needle down to help Maude with the mangle and the pots. It is heavy work, and they could send the washing out, but she feels she has something to prove to Don. So they do it on their own. She is in the little yard and Maude is bringing out the clothes that have boiled in the copper with half a bar of soap. Rebecca puts them in the rinse pot then the mangle. After blueing or starching they will hang out the first batch on the clothesline. Don has already left for the day. ‘Mrs Sinclair,’ Maude says, panting as she heaves a pot of wet clothes down in the dirt. ‘There’s something Mary told me, something that’s prob’ly just idle talk, that doesn’t bear repeating, but it is bothering me. It’s about Mister Sinclair.’ Rebecca shakes out a petticoat from the basket and pegs it to the line. She figures it will be about Don’s mother, some gossip she already knows. ‘Right then. So tell me.’ Mary leaves the pot to cool and comes to help hang out. ‘Here, I’ll hold them and you peg.’ ‘So?’ ‘You’ll not be angry with me?’ ‘Not unless you’re telling others like Mary does.’ Maude shakes her head, ‘You’re the only one I’d tell.’ She picks up a blouse of Rebecca’s, holds it close and inspects a small stain on the collar. ‘You know how Mary hangs round with that fella Spud.’ ‘Which one is he?’ ‘The ginger. He’s missing a front tooth.’ ‘Oh. Yes. I know him.’ ‘Mary says she was asking him why he didn’t ask her to marry and he said it wasn’t something fellas like him went and did. She said what about Rabbit and he told her that Mr Sinclair and you wasn’t really married. He told her that Mr

Long Bay 86 Sinclair tricked you into marrying him, that he’s not been straight with you. He said that you didn’t know but that your marriage was a sham." Rebecca drops a shirt on the ground. Maude scrambles to pick it up and hurries inside to rinse it before the dirt sets. The words are all noise in Rebecca’s head. But there are two that keep rising to the surface like dead fish in a pond: marriage and sham. Maude hurries back out and takes another piece of washing from the basket, holds it up for her mistress to peg. ‘I’m sure it’s just a tale, Mrs Sinclair. I’m sorry for repeating it. I should know when to keep me mouth shut, shouldn’t I?’ Rebecca pegs the toe of each stocking. ‘I’ve got the papers, Maude, from the wedding. The marriage papers. It couldn’t have been a sham.’ But as she reaches into the cooled pot of clothes and wrings out the washing for the mangle, Rebecca thinks of her wedding day again. The buttons digging in her back as he pressed against her, the small hand-built ships in the room where he slept. No Ellen, no clergyman, just Don and herself. The screams from downstairs after. She begins feeding the bed sheets through the mangle, careful not to let them touch the ground. Maude comes to help, turning the handle as Rebecca holds them clear. She focuses on the task at hand, tries to empty her mind. This could be a way to get the truth from him. ‘You all right, Mrs Sinclair? I can finish this. Go on inside, have yourself a cup of tea.’ ‘I’m fine, Maude. And I’d rather you not have Mary over to the house. The other girls I don’t mind, but not Mary. Not if she keeps store in spreading those sorts of tales.’ Maude nods. ‘I’ll tell her she’s not welcome.’ They work the rest of the hour in silence, the only noise the squeak and groan of the mangle and that of wet sheets being shaken loose. The sheets go in heavy with water but come out the other end only damp, everything crushed out of them.

87 Long Bay Don does not come home for dinner that night so Maude sits with Rebecca for tea. She talks about a dancing bear she saw by the railway station – one that stood on his hind legs and spun and clapped its great big paws like a person might. They have a stew with beef and Rebecca says it is a credit to Maude’s skill and that she will clear the dishes as there are only the two of them. Once Maude is gone she sits with her sewing in the front room with the lamp lit and thinks. If only she insisted that they go in front of a clergyman that day, but she wanted it over and done as well. A hurry to get away from John, to get away from the mistakes she already made, the ones she was bound to make. The weight in her chest grows as the sky darkens and he still has not come home. Rebecca thinks of her father in his sickbed, of Helen dying, of Ruby in the asylum and her narrow cot – and whether or not she still has her buttons and small stones. She thinks of how Violet smelled of rotting flowers the last time they met. Of the dress she bought with money she was meant to give her mother. Rebecca falls asleep in the chair and wakes to a banging noise that in her dream is a drum that she plays, while Don holds the chain of a dancing bear. Only there is no drum, no bear – it is just his footsteps, the door handle turning and his dark figure silhouetted in the doorway against the lighter moonlit night. The lamp has died and he has not seen her in the chair, there in that black room. He fumbles in his coat pocket for a box of matches and lights one. The first match snaps in two and the second smokes out before he can light the wick of the candle that they keep by the front entry. The room smells of phosphorus and finally it is lit; Rebecca realises that now is the time to say something. I’m here. I have been thinking. Are we married, or is it a lie? But instead she just watches him stumble into the kitchen, set the candle on the bench and reach into the pot for the remains of the stew. She hears the spoon scraping the pot, a belch, him blowing his nose. She hears his boots in the hallway, up the staircase and the creak of the bedroom door. Rebecca holds her breath, waiting for him to shout for her. To come out and find her. He has never been violent, but she knows enough now to stay clear of any drunken man.

Long Bay 88 All is quiet. After a few tense minutes Rebecca walks on the balls of her feet up the stairs to the bedroom, and sees him, fully clothed, asleep. The candle flickers on a small table. She thinks of what would happen if that candle fell. If it lit on the bedclothes, caught, and burned a blue-orange crackling flame. A common accident – hardly enough to warrant a few lines in the newspaper. He would not wake until it was too late. She picks up the candle. Her hand shakes. Some wax drips on the blanket. She blows out the flame and places it back on the table, smelling smoke. She crawls into bed beside him. She listens to him sleep. When she wakes the next morning he is still clothed, still asleep beside her. She holds her hand in front of his nostrils to check that he is breathing. She rubs her eyes and washes her face in the basin. Then she carries the chamber pot out to the dunny in the yard, though she knows she should leave that job for Maude. She returns and sits on the bed, her legs folded beneath her, until he feels her stare and startles awake. After some thrashing and muttering, he looks down and realises he is still dressed. Don lets out a small, choked laugh and sits up, running his fingers through his dark, tangled hair. He needs to shave his whiskers. He smells of liquor and stale tobacco. He looks so lost that she nearly feels sorry for him. ‘You didn’t come home until late.’ She will give him time to fill in the blank space in his head. ‘Have you seen my pipe?’ ‘In your jacket?’ He gets up, walks to the chair, reaches in the inside pocket of his jacket and pulls it out. He fills it with tobacco from a small pouch and lights it with a match, all in silence. She looks out the window as he struggles to get the plug of tobacco lit. ‘Ran into this fella I used to know, Jim, who kept buying rounds at the pub. I can’t recall how I got back home,’ he says, blowing smoke out the side of his mouth. She smooths her nightdress over her knees. ‘Did I say anything? When I came to bed?’

89 Long Bay She shakes her head. ‘What’s wrong, then? What’re you so quiet for?’ She coughs. She thinks of the words again: marriage, sham. ‘When I was just a girl, after father died, I didn’t understand why my ma didn’t take more charity. She took what she had to for us to survive, but if it were a choice between charity and work, she’d rather work. And so I asked her about it once, why it was she was so hard about it, and she said that the worst thing in the world is to be ashamed. And that if she took the charity, they always made her feel some sort of shame, but if she worked, the only shame was in what the people paid her.’ Don coughs and pinches another gob of tobacco into his pipe. ‘Your mother is an admirable woman.’ ‘I took her words to heart and always worked hard. And the worst thing you could do to me as well is to make me feel shamed. But you have, Don. I heard a story, and I wish it weren’t true. I wish it were only a tale.’ ‘Go on. Out with it.’ ‘It was that our marriage is false. That you told me it was real, but that it’s no more than a sham.’ His face grows mottled with pink. There is still a crease across his cheek from the pillow. He scratches the dried spittle from the corner of his mouth. ‘Why,’ he says, stretching the word long, ‘who’s been telling you such tales?’ ‘Mary, the girl who works with one of the neighbours, told it to Maude. She’d heard it from Spud.’ ‘Spud,’ he says, slapping his thigh and tipping the spent coal of his pipe out the window. ‘Always fond of a tale, Spud is. Makes them up just to see who’ll believe him.’ She is still kneeling on the bed and he comes from behind and puts his arms round her waist. It is – she thinks – meant to be a loving gesture, but it makes her freeze.

Long Bay 90 Speaking into the top of her head, his voice muffled by her hair, Don says abruptly: ‘They are pulling your leg. You should have more sense than to believe them.’ He lets go and walks to the door. ‘Where did I get the marriage certificate from?’ he asks. He does not wait for her answer, but leaves the room. By the time she has washed and dressed and come downstairs Don is seated at the table, Maude turning the pot before pouring a cup of tea. He looks at Maude over the racing results. ‘You’ll keep your friends from spreading idle gossip that is harmful to Mrs Sinclair.’ Maude pales and sloshes the tea out on the table. She looks at Rebecca, her eyes wide. ‘Of course, Mr Sinclair. I told Mrs Sinclair, Mary is no longer welcome in the house.’ ‘And this isn’t a tea house either, Maude. Mrs Sinclair may not be used to running a household but don’t go thinking that I was born yesterday. Working hours are meant for that – working – and if the situation doesn’t suit you I’m sure there are plenty it will.’ Don watches her a few moments without blinking, and then turns his attention back to the papers. ‘Yes, Mr Sinclair,’ Maude whispers, and disappears into the kitchen. Rebecca pulls the chair out beside Don and sits. ‘It’s not her fault your friend likes to tell tales.’ She puts her hand on his arm, ‘I don’t want you to scare her away.’ Don drinks the rest of his tea and sets the cup down on the table, his jaw tight. ‘When will you understand, you’re not meant to be friends with her. You’re meant to scare her. That’s the only way you’ll ever get anyone to do decent work.’ He stands and grabs his jacket from the back of the chair, slinging it over one shoulder. His voice softens. ‘How bout I get home early tonight and we go in to town, catch a show at the Tiv? Get you out of the house. It’ll do you a world of good.’ ‘I’d like that,’ she says. They have not gone to town at night since they were married. He kisses her cheek and walks out the door.

91 Long Bay Once he is gone she sits again at the table, head in her hands, turning Don’s words like a spinning wheel in her head. She can believe that Spud would lie, as a lark, but the other questions gather like fine wool. Questions about the ceremony and about the whores that day at the beach. Maude comes in with a tray of toast and the pot of tea. Rebecca looks up. Maude’s eyes are red. ‘I’m sorry, Maude. He’s not cross with you, just with the questions I was asking. I’ve never minded your friends coming round in the afternoon. Everyone needs a break from their work.’ Maude places the tray on the table and grabs the handkerchief tucked into her apron, wiping at her eyes. ‘It’s my fault, Mrs Sinclair. I should never have told you.’ ‘I’m glad you did. He said it’s not the truth, it’s just tall tales, but it’s good to know what others have been saying.’ Maude returns to the kitchen, suddenly shy of her place, and Rebecca remains at the table, staring at the newly papered walls, the dusted and polished wood of the table beneath her, the teacup in her hands, which has not a single chip or crack along its surface. She cannot think where to turn: who to tell, who to believe. None of these things which surround her give as much solace as a friend would, as her mother would, or as the world she knew before gave her. She clears her cup and plate to the kitchen. Maude is gone, probably folding the last of the washing or making a start on the ironing. She thinks of going to help her but remembers Don’s words. She turns several times on the carpet beside the window, in a streak of mid-morning light, watching the dust motes filter through the shut-up air of the house. And then she does something very strange. For the first time in her life, she returns to her bed.

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93 Long Bay Chapter 12

Her mother calls one morning – chest heaving, boots mud-caked from the road. Rebecca sits her down in the best chair and tells Maude to fetch them something to eat and drink. Lizzie leans forward once Maude has left the room. Her hair is well streaked with grey, but when she smiles she looks girlish again. ‘I’ve got news,’ she says. ‘And I hope you won’t worry. I thought I was too old, but I’m not.’ ‘For what?’ ‘I’m with child. Again after all these years. Would you believe?’ Her heart feels like one of those fish in Ellen’s baskets, glossy and limp. Her ma is too old, certainly. It will kill her. ‘It’s all right, love. I’ve known plenty of older women that find themselves this way, after many years thinking it was over and done. Besides, no turning back now. You wouldn’t believe, either, but Fred’s happy. He’s sworn off the horses and drink.’ ‘But you’re meant to not work so much now. You don’t have to go through with it. There are ways, you know.’ ‘Hush,’ Lizzie says, as Maude enters the room. ‘No need for that. Do promise me one thing, though.’ ‘What?’ ‘If something does happen, that you’d look after the baby? I’m sure you’ll be having some of your own to look after soon enough.’ ‘You wouldn’t ask Amy?’ ‘Oh, I’ve asked her as well. Just thought it was safest to ask you both.’ She agrees. It makes her feel shaky, though. The danger of it – and the work it will bring her mother. What surprises her, though, is how glad Lizzie seems. And Fred – Lizzie says he looks as though he won every race he has ever bet a coin on. Turns out he always wished for a child, just never thought he would find a woman willing to bear him one. ‘I’ve found another position,’ Maude says, after Lizzie leaves. They are clearing the dishes in the front room. ‘I’ll be leaving at the end of this week.’

Long Bay 94 ‘But I don’t want you to go.’ ‘It’s not you, Mrs Sinclair,’ she says. ‘I’m not suited here. You’ll find another girl to help out. You’ll manage, won’t you?’ She nods, keeping her face stiff. Don would be proud. It is not the right thing to show how much Maude’s departure saddens her. She watches a cluster of flies feed on the sticky buns Maude put out on a tray. None of them have been touched, but now the food is wasted. It all seems unbearable, on such a day. And so Rebecca is alone again. From when Don leaves in the morning until he returns, sometimes long after dark. She tries to stay busy but the desire to talk to another person grows so strong that one morning she dresses in her mauve china crepe with bell sleeves and her new kid boots and climbs aboard the Watson’s Bay line into Paddington to visit Lizzie. She stops at the Edgecliff shops and buys a loaf of fresh bread and a side of salted bacon, the white fat running through it like a ribbon. Don is generous with the housekeeping money since Maude has left. On the tram the open window brings a salt-smelling breeze. Rebecca thinks how she ought to get out more. Not knowing how a wife is meant to be she figured she must stay home and work – but though there is work, it does not fill her days. It is nothing like the endless sewing of slops and crowded house she grew up with. The tram comes closer to Paddington and it seems the terraces have grown shabbier and closer together since she left, since she has been so close to the sea, among trees and houses with gardens. Among ocean breezes rather than close air that smells of open sewers. She alights and walks down the hill, swinging the basket of gifts on her arm. From the edge of the basket are the heels of a pair of satin slippers that she brought to change into when at Lizzie’s house. She watched a customer do just that once, arrive and leave her mud- splattered boots in the entryway, changing into delicate satin slippers on the threshold. The image has remained with her so clearly that she bought a pair with her housekeeping money – not thinking that one must visit others in order to use them to their best effect. Like all things, they must be seen to be appreciated. This is her first opportunity, and she is afraid that it will be lost on Lizzie.

95 Long Bay No one answers the first knock at the door. On knocking again she hears a muffled ‘who’s it?’ and then ‘come in’ from the back room. She turns the knob and opens the door to a choking smell of boiled mutton and sour milk. The front room is a jumble: bolts of fabric stacked on the Singer; a shoe cast aside on the settee, worn straight through at the sole; old newspapers and dirty washing on the floor. ‘Ma?’ she calls, hesitating at the door to the back room, which is just ajar. ‘Bec, come in. Don’t fret, I’m right. Just laid up is all.’ Lizzie is in bed, a soiled rag and a pot full to the brim with sick beside her. Rebecca nearly gags and hurries to open the back door, and then the front door, and then all of the windows in the small room. ‘Never was ill with you lot, but this time I can’t keep a thing down. Can’t even walk without feeling seasick.’ Lizzie presses a filthy handkerchief to her cheek. ‘Where’s Fred? Isn’t he meant to be looking after you?’ ‘He’s taken a job on a fishing boat for a few weeks. I told him it would be fine, that we could use the money. May next door has looked in on me a few times. I didn’t expect to be sick, love. It’s not like before.’ ‘I wish you’d sent for me, I would have come straightaway.’ ‘I knew you’d be grumpy. Come close so I can see you. Aren’t you a picture.’ Rebecca gingerly empties the pot outside and then sits beside Lizzie, stroking her drawn face. She is careful to breathe only through her mouth. Has a few months in comfort ruined her for this? She ought to look after her own mother. ‘Where’s Lou, then?’ ‘On the same trawler as Fred. He’s sweet on a girl – Alice – who gives him hell if he doesn’t bring in money. So after all these years of me trying to convince him, it was two minutes with her and he’s found a will to work.’ ‘Someone could have told me.’

Long Bay 96 Lizzie pats her hand. ‘We didn’t want to burden you. You have enough to think about, running a household on your own. How’s Don? And the girl you hired? She’s a good egg.’ ‘She left. Found another position.’ ‘Ah well, it’s probably hard to get good help nowadays.’ Lizzie’s lips disappear into a smile. She has not lost her stubborn streak. Rebecca spends the rest of the day cleaning out the rooms, making a clear broth and tea in the hope that her mother will keep it down. May comes round as it is starting to cool off in the afternoon. The blouse she wears looks cheap and tired and there is the smell of singed fabric about her. ‘I’m taking ma to stay with me until Fred gets back, so you needn’t bother yourself looking in on her.’ May tosses her blonde curls. Probably bitter since Lou has found another girl. ‘You should’ve visited more often if you were so concerned.’ Lizzie props herself up on her elbows in the bed. ‘Didn’t bother to ask me if I wanted to come stay at your house did you, Bec?’ ‘You have to, ma. Don’t be stubborn, now. You’re ill and you need someone to look after you. For the sake of the child you’re carrying, at your age, don’t be wilful. I’ll hire a cab.’ ‘Easy for some,’ May mutters, letting herself out while Rebecca fills a crate with Lizzie’s things. As for explaining it to Don, she will deal with that when she has to. Meanwhile she is pleased to have this purpose, this company for her empty house. They leave a note for Fred, in case he returns early, and Rebecca helps her mother – like a small, elderly child – into the waning heat of the evening. On the way to the cab she notices the heels of her satin slippers, still poking out from her basket.

That night, when she tells Don of Lizzie’s condition, he smiles and says: ‘Good on her.’ After that he comes home earlier than usual, bringing things to eat that he thinks Lizzie might like: a bottle of ginger beer to settle her stomach, a parcel of blood-red glistening kidneys from the butcher. He seems to know more about pregnancy than most women do. Lizzie never speaks of it, for she always thinks

97 Long Bay herself too proper. She lies in bed, slowly regaining strength, even keeping down some food. She never asks under what circumstances Maude left and Rebecca does not speak to her of the gossip about Don, but they spend many hours together, Rebecca sitting in the chair beside her bed with a piece of hemming or embroidery in her hands, listening to the neighbourhood news she has missed out on. After two weeks, though, Lizzie seems to feel that she has convalesced enough. She is eager to be home in case Fred returns. Rebecca accompanies her back to Paddington with a few baskets of food and a girl that Don’s mother has found for them. The girl is just thirteen and a ward of the state but she is big enough to help Lizzie to the dunny or make her toast and tea. Returning home to an empty house, Rebecca puts on the kettle and sets out some bread and ham. When Don comes in he takes off his jacket and sits at the table. He runs his hands through his hair so it stands on end. ‘Thank you for being kind to ma,’ she says, putting a plate in front of him. ‘She thinks highly of you.’ He pats the seat of the chair beside him. ‘Sit. You must be weary.’ They sit and eat in silence, except for the clink of the knife hitting the plate and the wet noise of chewing. Then he speaks, his words soft, hiding their weight. ‘The marriage lines…’ ‘I was wrong to question.’ ‘That’s the thing. You weren’t,’ he says. ‘I wrote them myself.’ The bread catches in her throat – she chokes. Don thumps her back and waits a minute, until she stops coughing. He gets out of his chair and kneels, placing his head in her lap. ‘Forgive me. I wanted to marry, but I couldn’t stand for you to know the truth. I thought you would leave me.’ ‘What truth?’ ‘That I am already married. The girl I told you of. Zara. She doesn’t even live here. We’ve never lived together.’ ‘So, our wedding?’

Long Bay 98 ‘I lied to you about the clergyman, about my mother. I made sure they wouldn’t be home. I was impatient, Bec. I thought I would die if I couldn’t have you.’ Rebecca cannot look at him, his dark head, his face in her lap. She wishes she could pull her skirt over him and make him disappear. It is what she suspected, but she could never tell him as much. He thinks her so naïve. She remembers meeting him at the rink, his head bent as he took off her skate. She has the same view now, the white of his scalp beneath. Only where her heart quickened she now feels nothing, a blistering cold. ‘It was so long ago, we were too young to know better. Thought we were in love. We kept it from our parents, even. Nobody but the clergyman knew.’ As he speaks, as night falls, the ruse becomes clear to her. The lies grow together, like the links of a chain. It is as if he is an ironmonger, holding their marriage to the fire, melting it down and hammering it into something unfamiliar. Something dreadful and heavy, clasping her. A weight she could spend a lifetime trying to shake free.

99 Long Bay Chapter 13

‘Do you, Rebecca Irvine MacDowell, take this man, Donald Roderick Sinclair, to be your lawfully wedded husband?’ The clergyman drones a monotone of cherishing, obeying, love and loyalty, but she is finding it hard to listen. She feels so small at the altar of this great, cavernous church – insubstantial. The only witness is her mother, Lizzie, who sits with ankles crossed and mouth a prim line in the front pew. Behind her, row upon row of empty seats stretch out beneath two high balconies of pews. In front is an organ, the largest one she has ever seen. Huge brass pipes that reach almost to the curved ceiling, all of them different heights, ascend and descend like steps. They are held together with strips of dark wood and beneath them stands a keyboard where the organist plays. When they arrived, the man, bent in half with age, had been practicing, the notes of the hymn great quakes of sound that Rebecca could feel right through her bones. Never before has a song sounded through her like that – filling her like blood, beating in her veins. It is only three days since she looked down at Don’s head, that dull weight in her lap, wishing that she could shout, or push him away. Instead, she froze. She became like an ice sculpture that the very rich had at their parties, slick and slowly melting. She looks at him now, dressed in his finest black suit, a cravat of grey silk tied at the throat and shoes with silver-capped toes. She said to Lizzie, ‘What other choice do I have?’ They have lain together; they have lived together. Don begged to marry again – saying this time it will be lawful – promising that she is the only one he loves. ‘It is either marry again, this time in a church,’ Lizzie said, ‘or leave him. I would be glad to take you back in.’ She said she would give Don just one more chance. He was so young when he married Zara. She is beginning to understand how lies could pile up on one another, how they became second nature.

Long Bay 100 Her dress is simple – from a length of ivory batiste. She refuses to wear the biscuit crepe de chine again. She does not smile during the brief ceremony, only looking at Don here or there. He keeps winking, trying to catch her eye. Since he confessed, she has slept in one of the spare bedrooms, as if her virtue is still intact. The mattress is lumpy, the room hot and airless, with windows that are painted shut. There was a smell the first night, one that kept her from sleeping, and in the morning she found the corpse of a mouse beneath the bed. She picked it up by its pink, scaled tail. The grey fur had begun to rot away in patches, showing dried and blackened flesh beneath. Holding it to the light, a safe distance from her face, Rebecca let it spin there and saw movement beneath the skin. She dropped the thing – it was so light, it barely made a noise – convinced that it was somehow still alive. But when she peered in, to look closer, she saw that it was the movement of maggots beneath the fur, feeding on the decomposing flesh. The inside of the church is white, the ceilings high and curved with ornate designs carved into cornices. The windows high semi-circles that let in blocks of sunlight. It is summer, December, and the air feels hot and still, her dress tight enough that it is hard to breathe deeply. The clergyman shuts his Bible and looks at them, only a shadow of concern on his face. ‘I said, sir, you may kiss the bride.’ Don places a hand on her waist, the other on her shoulder, and leans down to touch her lips with his. A brief kiss, there and gone before she remembers to close her eyes. ‘I now pronounce you man and wife.’ She hears Lizzie clap, smells the small bunch of roses that Don gave her. Feels his hand on the small of her back, guiding her down the aisle, out of the airless church and into the scorching sun. She thinks of their first marriage, the false one, the kiss he gave her in his mother’s house – how different it had been. Lizzie embraces her, their skin sticking together with sweat. ‘I’m glad I got to see you married after all,’ she says, hands cupping Rebecca’s face. In the daylight, Lizzie’s shawl looks frayed, the leather in her shoes split and worn.

101 Long Bay ‘We’ll take you home,’ Rebecca says. ‘Don’s friend has come with a car – would you believe?’ ‘Don’t be silly, love.’ Lizzie pats her forehead with a handkerchief, ‘I’ll take the tram.’ But they insist. Don leads Lizzie round to the front seat of the motor car. It is a beautiful, shining black contraption, with chrome all along the sides and seats of red leather. The car belongs to the man he works for sometimes, Jim, who has come to drive them home. Jim wears a motoring coat, cap, goggles and black leather gloves, despite the heat. He stays in his seat but nods hello. No one can hear anything over the roar of the engine. Rebecca and Lizzie hold their hands over their ears as the motor car jerks and bounces forwards, but still they grin, the eyes of all passersby on them as they splutter down the road. The springs in the seat bounce her along streets rutted by carts, wind in her face, Don’s arm round her shoulders. Perhaps, she thinks, after kissing her mother goodbye in front of the house on Hargrave Street, the neighbourhood children gathering round to touch the hot bonnet – perhaps this is all she needs. To be his true wife. Don climbs into the front seat vacated by her mother, and they wind through the narrow streets to the house in Woollahra, dodging stray cats and children, carts piled high with wares. Dark clouds begin to crowd the sky. Don looks back at Rebecca, his eyes shining and his chin as smooth as a boy’s. He shouts something she cannot hear and she realises they are stopping. With the engine still running they brake in the middle of the road to put up the roof of the car. Cleverly it is folded into place behind the back seat and springs up, accordion-like, to be clipped to the top edges of the windscreen. She watches the men work at this as the first raindrops begin to fall: fat tepid drops of a summer storm. There is thunder like a gunshot and a flash of lightning. The men have the roof on and clamber back into the warm, dry, tent-like car, the noise of the engine muffled by the wall of canvas. ‘Just in time,’ Don says. His hair is wet, plastered to his forehead. There is a drop of rain suspended from the tip of his nose. Jim fiddles with the gears and checks all of the gauges, and soon they are off again. Steam rises from Don’s shirt.

Long Bay 102 The warm, damp air inside the car, the tapping of rain on the roof, and the smell of dyed leather from the seats – a rich, expensive smell – all muddle together to make Rebecca drowsy, and when she wakes Don is lifting her from the car. They are outside of their house on Old South Head, the car engine still running and Jim behind the wheel. ‘Come, Bec, I’ll help you inside,’ Don says, and tips his hat to Jim. The rain has cleared. Either the storm was brief or the men have been sitting talking while she slept across the back seat. But as they make their way up the path to their neat cottage, the sky is as blue as she has seen it, a rainbow arced above them the only sign a storm has been. Her eyes ache to look at it. ‘Must be a good sign for your wedding day,’ Don says, shielding his face with his hand, squinting at the sky. She nods. The sun has the heat that comes from a summer storm. She cannot wait to get away from it, and pushes past him before he tries to do something foolish like carry her across the threshold again.

The birth comes earlier than expected. It catches all of them by surprise, but luckily Fred is home and able to fetch the midwife. Lizzie loses a great deal of blood giving birth to Lillian, her seventh child. The babe is healthy; it is Lizzie who suffers from the strain. Rebecca goes to help most days, leaving home early and not returning until late. Several weeks of scarce dinners and unironed shirts pass before Don pushes his plate away unfinished at tea. She looks up. She has not had much of an appetite these past weeks, and sometimes cannot keep down the little food she eats. Don lights his pipe. He scratches his brow and looks across the table. ‘We can’t go on like this, can we?’ ‘What do you mean?’ ‘The house is a sty, you haven’t got time to sew, business is bad for me and I come home to a chop that is grey from sitting in its own fat all day. You’re trying to help out your ma, but look at you. Don’t tell me you haven’t been feeling the strain.’

103 Long Bay She stares at the chops she cooked at breakfast before leaving for Paddington, knowing she would not have time in the afternoon. They have congealed, and if they were not tough to begin with they certainly are now. ‘I know,’ she says. ‘I can’t do this all on my own.’ Don reaches across the table, placing a hand on her shoulder. ‘Why didn’t you say as much? Of course you can’t do it all. But you can’t keep going to Paddo every day. That’s why we pay your mother’s girl.’ It is the first she had heard of business not going well for Don, and she puts her hands to her stomach. He watches, raising his eyebrows. ‘Do you have something else to say?’ She cannot help her own secret smile. He comes and sits beside her. He kisses her there, on the stomach, where they each imagine a better version of themselves growing. He gazes at her then, his face as open as she has seen it in a long time. ‘A baby. We’ll do right by it. Don’t worry. Everything will come together as it should.’

Don enlists Ellen’s help to hire Bess. Now Rebecca feels Bess’s small, black eyes watching her from the corner of the room as she sews. Bess beats the rugs into submission and cranks every drop of water from Wednesday’s washing. Once Bess is helping, though, Rebecca can take on more dressmaking, and so she slowly brings in customers. Women in the neighbourhood learn of her quick needle and deft hands. Her stomach is not noticeable, but she has loosened her stays. She settles into her chair by the window and loses herself in the parts of a dress: bodice, sleeves, skirts, pleats, buttons, lace, hem and collar, hardly noticing that the sun is gone until Bess comes round to light the kero lamp. Don returns to his irregular hours. He stays out late in the night and there are spirits on his breath the next morning, once a bruise shaped like a fist on the side of his cheek. He buries his head in her shoulder – contrite – as she sits in her chair sewing, but he never speaks anymore of what keeps him away. Money, she assumes, for she hears him argue with Bess one morning over wages. He says,

Long Bay 104 ‘You know I’m good, I’m just short this week. You’ll have to wait. There’s nothing I can do.’ She has more than herself to think of now, and she is determined to figure out what he is up to. She is surprised how easy it is to go through his things. Once she gets over the initial shock that she has done it – the dishonesty of searching her husband’s pockets and dresser – it comes easily. She finds herself doing it without thinking, as absentmindedly as scratching an itch. She does it while he sleeps in the morning, opening folded squares of paper as quietly as she can, trying to discover what it is that occupies his hours away. There are scraps of paper with figures scratched out and added together, lists of words like Heaven Sent, Tommy’s Truth and Black Opal with numbers written beside them. Names of horses, surely. Rarely do these bits of paper make sense to her; she folds them and returns them to the pocket, to rest between matches and coins and lengths of string. So when she comes across the note one morning it is not at all what she expects. Actual sentences. Words strung together to make sense. It takes a few moments for the meaning of the words to become clear to her.

Dear Don, I am pleased that you called on me and that we spoke. Perhaps I left too hastily. Let us try to make amends, although there is no quick cure for a broken heart. I enclose what I could spare to loan you, for we both know how you have helped me in the past. Is there any other way I can assist? Yours truly, Zara

No quick cure for a broken heart. Zara. Don is sprawled face down on the bed as she reads this, his face obscured by a pillow. She scans the note again and again. She sits on the edge of the bed, paper in her hands. Zara is educated, well off. She has given him money. She is a lady, and what is Rebecca? She feels like driving her own head into the wall, thumping herself senseless for believing. She gave him another chance and – once again – it is spent.

105 Long Bay He sleeps. She sits there, the thin scrap of paper in her hands. After all he has done. She is a fool. She sits until he wakes, with a start, sitting up straight as a flagpole and staring, taking a moment to figure his surrounds, to recognise this as his home. He looks at her and blinks a few times. Scratches his head. ‘What is it?’ he says, noticing her expression. The way she stares, the small bit of paper that she holds in her hand. ‘What’ve I done now?’ ‘From your pocket,’ she says. It does not matter anymore that she has been going through his things, for he is hiding far more. He takes it in his tobacco stained hands, looks at it and thrusts it back at her, shutting his eyes and shaking his head. ‘It’s not what you think Bec. It’s only for money. I was going to tell you I was calling on her, I wanted to ask her for money. She’s well off and I’m in a bit of a tight spot – paying for your mother’s help, our help, saving money for our babe.’ ‘It’s not how it reads, Don. She says there is no quick cure for a broken heart. You are courting her again, aren’t you? You still love her. After everything I’ve forgiven you.’ She crumples the page and throws it at him. He blinks and his arm shoots out to grab her, but she is quicker and runs from the room. Down the stairs, two at a time, and through the kitchen on her way to the tiny backyard. She is blind with anger. There in the middle of the kitchen is the washtub where Bess soaked the clothes overnight. She stumbles and knows she is falling. When she screams it is as though she hears it from a distance – from another room. But when she hits the ground it makes a terrible, solid sound. Right up through her stomach the pain grips her, taking more than just her breath away.

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107 Long Bay Chapter 14

The bleeding stops two days later, on Friday, by which time she has returned to Lizzie and Fred. By Sunday she is strong enough to walk to Zara’s house, next door to Nurse Sinclair’s Private Hospital. She carries a parasol to hide her face, and only crosses the road at the last moment, in case Ellen is watching. This house is larger and grander than Ellen’s, with a peaked gabled roof and intricate latticework on the balconies. She walks up the path, hidden by a hedge, climbs the steep steps, and stands at the front door while the sun disappears behind clouds. She knocks. A tall man in a strange cap opens the door. He looks at Rebecca, tilting his head. There is grey through his beard and hair, and he wears a white shirt and black trousers. ‘May I help you?’ His voice is gruff but musical and heavily accented. She opens her mouth. The insults she has practiced on the walk over will no longer do. She coughs and swallows. ‘I’m looking for Miss Zara Wolinski. Is she at home?’ The man nods. ‘My daughter,’ he says. ‘May I tell her who is calling?’ ‘My name is Rebecca.’ ‘Miss Rebecca…?’ ‘Sinclair.’ ‘Do come in. I’ll get Zara. Here, wait in the parlour. I apologise for the state. My wife has been unwell, I’m afraid.’ He shows her into a room at the front of the house. It is dusty and crammed with papers, children’s toys, books that lay face down, their spines cracked. The furniture is covered with white sheets and on the walls hang oval portraits of men with long beards like Zara’s father, women with dark skin and light eyes. She has no idea how Zara will look; the only thing Don has mentioned is her red hair. He would be furious to know that Rebecca is here, and to know what she is planning to say. A woman enters the parlour, bony arms and a long neck, a thin face and skin so pale it is almost translucent, except where it is speckled with freckles. She

Long Bay 108 wears a rose-spotted crystal chiffon dress that clashes with the red-orange of her frizzed hair. ‘Zara?’ Rebecca stands. ‘Do I know you?’ Her accent is carefully polished, more English than native, her back impeccably straight. ‘You don’t. My name is Rebecca. Rebecca Sinclair.’ She emphasises the Sinclair, her eyes narrowing as she speaks. Let there be no question why she is here. Zara freezes for a moment, and then folds, almost collapses, into a sofa. She shuts her eyes, pinching the skin between them and tilting her head back. ‘Go and shut the door, would you?’ Rebecca does as she asks. ‘Have you a handkerchief? I have a bloody nose.’ Rebecca passes her one edged with lace. She watches while Zara dabs her nose with it, the bloom of scarlet spreading across the white cotton. ‘Sinclair because you are of some relation, I suppose, to Don?’ Rebecca nods. ‘You didn’t say anything to my father, did you? They know nothing of my marriage.’ ‘I didn’t say why I was here to visit,’ Rebecca says, settling into a low carved chair opposite Zara. She is relieved to see that Zara is not beautiful – but her colouring, her carriage, her demeanour… she is extraordinary. How strange for Don to go from Zara to her, Rebecca thinks. From peacock to pea hen. Zara opens her eyes and sits straight. ‘What relation, exactly, are you and Don? You’re not his sister.’ Rebecca shakes her head. She is enjoying this, breaking the news to Zara. She is as low as any harlot. And yet, does she not deserve some small revenge? ‘I came to tell you, Don and I are married. I am Sinclair because I am his wife.’ Zara’s face turns from pale to bright red, a red so mottled she becomes covered with splotches, spotted like her dress.

109 Long Bay ‘But he is married to me,’ she says in a low, angry whisper. ‘He can’t marry you: that would be bigamy. He can’t have another wife.’ Rebecca hisses, ‘Yes, but who is going to tell? You? Since none of your family even know of your marriage?’ Zara looks at her, then tilts her nose back again, pinching the bridge. ‘At first,’ Rebecca says, ‘I didn’t know he was already married to you. It wasn’t until we had lived together. And then in so many ways it was too late. I wanted to leave – I tried to leave him – but he convinced me to stay. He promised me that he had nothing to do with you, that you were not even in Sydney. Only last week, I found that you were here. That he had visited you while he was married to me. He lied. I have left him now, see. I thought you should know.’ Zara stands and begins to pace. Her hands are beneath her ribcage. She has gone from splotched to pale, as though she might pass out. She looks like an invalid, Rebecca thinks – like someone too weak to bear children. Zara picks up a small bird carved in gleaming black stone from a shelf and turns it over and over in her hands. ‘I don’t know what to say. I am not often without words.’ She stands at the window and looks out between the heavy drapes at the garden and beyond that, the street. ‘So you have lived together?’ Rebecca nods. ‘And shared a bed?’ ‘As married couples do.’ Zara’s eyes narrow. ‘Yes, but he was married to me.’ ‘I understand this is unpleasant news. I only wished to tell you so you know the truth.’ She stands, brushing her skirts down, and walks to the parlour door. She wants to hurt Zara, as she has been hurt. ‘I don’t know the nature of your marriage, why you never lived together, but he said the marriage itself was a mistake. He said that he never loved you as he loved me.’ Zara just stands there, still holding the black stone bird in her hands. Rebecca leaves the room and lets herself out of the front door, as quietly as possible, out the gate and onto the street. Then comes the sound of breaking

Long Bay 110 glass. Through the bushes she sees Zara, still standing in the parlour, only the plate glass window is shattered and the bird no longer in her hand.

In the New Year Fred walks Rebecca to the police station, a red brick building with sandstone window arches across from Darlinghurst Courthouse. He will wait outside. He has convinced her to come. Her palms sweat inside too-tight white gloves. She approaches a counter with a desk behind it. To her right is an empty bench for members of the public and to her left an enclosed area for criminals waiting to be processed. Behind the desk, on a stool, sits an officer, and behind him are pigeonholes with long rolls of paper protruding from each of them. She stands there for a moment in front of the counter. The police officer on duty looks up at her through wire-rimmed spectacles with a lined but unreadable face. ‘May I help you?’ Waiting to find her voice, Rebecca studies his uniform. It is dark blue with creases from an iron, brass buttons down the middle and a badge pinned to the front pocket. The cap he wears is trimmed with gold braid, and there is only a short hint of grey hair beneath it. She calms herself thinking of how much a yard the gold braid would cost, how much fabric is required for uniform pants and jacket. ‘I’d like to report a man for bigamy,’ she finally says. The officer pushes up his spectacles and squints, studying her a bit more closely. ‘Right then. Someone you know?’ He holds a fountain pen in his right hand, hovering just above a sheet of paper, waiting. A blot of ink falls, staining the blank page. ‘Yes – my husband.’ To make a formal report, he tells her, she must wait on the bench for an officer to call her name. He says he is not able to record ‘domestic matters’. It is a lively place to wait, for she watches different officers come in and out in their uniforms, the pistol butts just visible against their hips, polished boots and buckles and buttons. A few men and one woman are led into the back and none of them re-emerge.

111 Long Bay Meanwhile, men come in off the street to speak to the officer behind the desk, one paying a hefty fine, another to report a two-up school, which he says is directly beside his house. She crosses her ankles and waits, smoothing her skirt along her thighs. Finally the officer calls her to the back and there in a small and windowless room she is told to sit at a table. She waits. It smells damp, of mouldy paper and rats. The top of the table is scratched and worn, and an electric light hangs above her, casting a yellow glow over the room. Two officers come – one carrying a roll of paper, the other a pen and inkwell – and sit across from her. These men are different from the officer at the desk – younger – the one with fair hair and wide-set eyes smiles at her, asks if there is anything that he can get her before they take down the report. She says thank you but no. They unroll the sheet of paper and the one with the serious face takes down her name, age, address and date of birth. The one who smiled before says, ‘You want to report your husband, then, for bigamy?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘And so,’ the serious one says, ‘he’s run off with another woman?’ Rebecca shakes her head. ‘We’re married but then I found out he was already married to another woman.’ The serious one looks at her now, his eyes hard and green like weathered copper. ‘So you didn’t know he was already married?’ She looks away and blinks. From the corner of her eye she can see the one she thought was kind smirking. She realises, looking at the floor, they will laugh about this later. She will be the source of their amusement. ‘Not the first time, no.’ ‘The first time?’ ‘The first time we married.’ ‘So it was more than once?’ Rebecca does her best to explain. The men record Don’s name, date of birth and place of residence. She gives them both the address in Woollahra and the address of his mother’s house. One raises an eyebrow when she says Nurse Sinclair’s Private Hospital, but they do not press.

Long Bay 112 ‘You realise,’ the one with wide-set eyes says, looking towards the door, ‘that if we report this you’ll be called to give evidence in court.’ She had not realised, but she nods. She just wants to get out of there, away from all of the dark, shining wood and the men polished to within an inch of their lives. Finally they roll the paper up and the one with wide-set eyes holds the door for her. ‘We’ll interview the man in question but we can’t promise we’ll be able to charge him,’ the other officer says. ‘Best be careful who you trust in the future.’ She hears them shut the door behind her and their voices, rising in pitch, then joining together in laughter. Her head aches; her mouth is dry. When she walks out into the street Fred is gone. She cannot blame him – it has been hours. She did not expect him to wait. But, adjusting her hat and pulling on her gloves, she wishes she had not let him talk her into coming. She meant to punish Don, yet walking along Oxford Street past the barracks and up the hill she feels only her own sense of shame. Like a hem on a dress that is too long, it drags behind her, gathering dirt, there for everyone to see.

The bigamy case is heard at the Darlinghurst Courthouse, and she is required to give evidence against Don. He wears his black wool morning suit and a vest beneath. He gazes at her while she sits waiting to be called but she stares straight ahead. Zara is not there, a small thing to be thankful for, and she has convinced Lizzie and Fred there is no need for them to attend. The judge takes less than an hour in his chamber before making the decision. Don is charged with bigamy and given a six-month sentence, which is suspended under the first offenders act. It means nothing, then – it is a slap on the wrist. It is as though it does not even count as a crime – as though her honour is worth so little that it may as well not exist. She leaves the courtroom and walks down Oxford Street stunned, not knowing where to go next. There is a butcher shop she pauses at, a window display filled with cuts of glistening meat: chops, sausages, steak, legs of lamb, warty pink tongues, and piles of mince. She walks inside and the air is heavy with blood and sawdust. A thickset man grins at her from behind the counter. His front teeth are gold.

113 Long Bay ‘What can I get you, doll?’ She has no idea what she is doing. She does not have money to buy meat. She smiles shyly. ‘Give me a moment, will you?’ ‘All the time in the world, love.’ He serves another customer. There is blood on his apron and blood smeared on the bench tops. Another butcher comes from the back room carrying a cleaver and something resembling the leg of a cow. He slings it onto the long marble bench behind the counter and commences hacking into it. She watches, wishing she were holding the cleaver, how satisfying it must feel. The first butcher comes back to her. ‘Made up your mind yet, love?’ ‘How much for a half-dozen of those sausages there?’ ‘Sixpence.’ She opens her purse to count her money. She will not have enough for one, much less six. The butcher watches her carefully. The colour rises in her cheeks. ‘I’ve another sort, a cheaper sort, in the back, if you like. Come have a look, if you like.’ She follows him into the back. There is a cool room, with more sawdust on the floor, and carcasses of meat hanging from great hooks in the ceiling. There are two cow carcasses, a pig, and five smaller ones that might be sheep. The air is cooler but the smell is enough to make her gag. There are flies. She swallows the bile that rises in her throat. He spins around again and smiles at her. It is not a gruesome smile, in spite of his teeth. ‘Come, love, come closer. I won’t hurt you. I’ll give you whichever cut you like.’ His hand is on her waist, pulling her blouse free. A fly lands beside her eye. She hears it all: the fly, his breath. She smells it all: the blood, his sweat. His hand is on the soft skin of her stomach. He moves to her skirt, to the button there at the waist, but she pushes him away. He comes back to kiss her. No.

Long Bay 114 He laughs then steps back and grabs a hacksaw from the table. He cuts off a leg of lamb there in front of her. The blood drips from the carcass onto the floor beneath. He wraps it in paper. ‘Come back for more any time.’ He lets her out the back way, into the lane, where a dog with her litter of puppies wags her tail, sniffing the package in Rebecca’s hands. She nearly gives it up, but she takes it home instead. Lizzie will wonder how she got it. She thinks up her story: she will say that at the bigamy case Don felt bad and given her some money. At home she washes herself from the basin with water so hot it still has steam. That blood smell lingers, and though she is hungry at tea she cannot bring herself to eat the precious meat.

115 Long Bay Chapter 15

The sunshine warms the front step of her mother’s house at Hargrave Street. Lily crawls in the dirt at her feet. It is early September: spring. Lily laughs, sits up and claps her small, chubby hands together. She is lucky to be born so late in her mother’s life, to have the attention of two parents and a grown sister. When they go out together, it is assumed that Lily is Rebecca’s child, and if corrected people smile sceptically. Now she has stopped correcting. Lily helps fill the hole Rebecca feels since returning home. The life of a spinster stretches in front of her like an endless afternoon of waiting. Garments for other women will be her only mark on the world. She thinks of what came away from her when she bled, too small to be anything, yet, still, she put so much hope into it. She watches Lily pick up a stone in her dirty fist and bring it to her mouth to suck. ‘No, no. Not for Lily,’ she says, reaching a finger into Lily’s mouth to pull it free. ‘Not to eat.’ She squats beside her sister in the dirt next to the front step, showing her how to trace patterns with the tip of her finger in the fine dust. She does not notice until they are thrown into shadow. He clears his throat. He has sneaked up on them. His shirt collar is ironed and white, his face clean-shaven, hair neat. He doffs his hat and taps it against his thigh. She squints up at him from her knees in the dirt. ‘Don’t run away now, I’ve come to talk. Will you listen?’ She stands, lifting Lily, who smiles at Don and holds her arms out. Rebecca tilts her hip in, so she cannot reach him. ‘Isn’t she a darling,’ he says, making no attempt to take her. Lily starts to fuss and Rebecca shifts and bounces her. That will teach you, Rebecca thinks, to hold your arms out to any man. Lizzie comes to doorway of the house at the sound, squinting, and seeing Don there, marches straight up to him. ‘What’re you doing hanging round here? Haven’t you caused enough trouble?’ The tips of Don’s ears turn red and he looks at Rebecca again, wide-eyed. ‘Could we go for a walk? I got things to say. Please, Bec, won’t you listen?’

Long Bay 116 He looks as though he has aged three years, and she does not want to admit it but just seeing him makes her feel better. She avoids looking at her mother, just holds out Lily so that Lizzie has no choice but to take her. Lily wails. ‘I’m just going for a walk,’ Rebecca says. ‘Don’t fret. I’ll be back.’ She brushes off her skirt and goes inside to get a hat, glad she has a new one. Weeks ago she traded it for taking a dress in. It is wide-brimmed and trimmed with pink silk peonies, a single bright spot in the past few months. In the glass beside the door, she pinches her cheeks. Lizzie watches from the doorway, Lily in her arms, pulling at the grey strands which fall from her bun. ‘Don’t look at me like that,’ Rebecca says. ‘It’s only to talk. I am still his wife.’ ‘I haven’t forgotten. Just don’t you forget what a bastard he’s been. Everything he has done. Do you think these months really would’ve changed him?’ Rebecca kisses her mother on the cheek as she edges past, stroking the top of Lily’s head. ‘I know. I won’t let him off easy,’ she says, and steps into the bright, spring afternoon. ‘Aren’t you a picture?’ He holds out his arm and she brushes it away. ‘There’s a place I want to take you, by the water. We’ll be back by dark,’ he says. She looks up at him and frowns. ‘What makes you think I have all that time for leisure?’ ‘I’m not… I didn’t mean. I just know that you won’t regret.’ ‘Oh, fine. Just do me a favour.’ ‘What?’ ‘Just be quiet. Don’t say a word until we get there.’ If he does not speak, she will not have to forgive him. They sit side by side on the tram into the Quay, she beside the window, a palm on the sill. Don keeps looking at her, opening his mouth and then remembering, smiling sheepishly. They disembark at the State Library on Macquarie Street and pause to look at the grand pillars and staircase. She thinks of the books it holds; she can

117 Long Bay hardly believe they are in one place and she has never been to see them. She will, she decides, one day. Not with Don, though – better on her own. ‘Come on.’ He leads her through the gates into the Royal Botanic Gardens. She thinks of the picnic at Centennial Park – it seems like a lifetime ago. The paths of this park are busy with people. Two businessmen walk past, sharply dressed and speaking in low voices. Schoolboys swing from the bars of the iron fence. She sees a young couple duck beneath low-hanging branches of a Moreton Bay fig, beneath the illusion of privacy. The air is still and smells of honeysuckle. They walk past a fountain with stone women pouring water from vessels, droplets shimmering as they fall. He removes his jacket so he wears only his white cotton shirt. He smells of scent and the soap he uses to shave, and, beneath that, of sweat. They weave through the paths and the crowds, around palm groves and a cactus bed until they look down a long path. She gasps then, for it is as if flowers grow from every possible surface. There are irises and hyacinths, wisteria and cherry blossoms, azaleas and rhododendrons. Blossoms cascade from peach trees and over the high stone wall – tulips in red and yellow, pink and white, orange and cream. He watches her face. ‘It’s good, isn’t it?’ She covers her mouth, nodding. She does not want words to spoil it. They walk slowly along the path, arm in arm, bending to smell a flower, to look more closely at another. He breaks off a small sprig of peach tree and tucks it between the flowers in her hat, so she will smell the perfume of it days afterwards. The path is short but every cranny blossoms. At the end they turn and walk back the way they came. A bee buzzes past her ear and she hears the hum of its wings, somewhere between a flutter and a vibration. They find a bench away from the crowds and sit side by side, in the dappled shade of a tree. ‘I was coming up from the Quay yesterday when I saw this, and I wanted to show you. I know how you like colours, and pretty things. I bet you could make a dress to look like these flowers. All this colour.’ He turns to face her and puts his arm along the back of the bench. He half-encircles her, and she cannot face away. ‘I don’t want you to be cross with me. It was terrible when you lost the babe. I feel as though it were my fault.’

Long Bay 118 ‘It was.’ ‘I’m sorry. I want us to have children, a house full of ‘em. I don’t want to let you down again. Zara’s lawyer sent me the papers the other day. She wants a divorce. She didn’t want to say it during the trial because of the extra attention it would call. You never should’ve had to go through all of this, Bec. Zara wants to tell you about the divorce herself. She said she was sorry about the way she acted last time you met, and she’d like to meet again.’ Rebecca tilts her chin to look at the branches of the tree they sit beneath. The leaves look so soft the way they flutter from the scarcest breeze, as though you could stroke them with your finger and feel velvet, or fur. To meet Zara again is not what she desires, but neither does she wish to live the rest of her life with Lizzie and Fred. It feels like a life given up, the worst she can do. She looks at Don, the fullness of his lips, an ear backlit by the sun, glowing like a pink shell. She wonders how it was when he lay with Zara – what she wore beneath her dress, how she looked in just her chemise, loose from her stays. She thinks of Ruby. How she has failed her sister – never visiting her once in all this time. Ruby would love the flowers. She would want to pick them all and carry them home, to keep them for herself. Or maybe she was thinking of her own self, her child-self, the one who went hungry, who sewed until her fingers were stiff. Don puts his hand on hers and she does not move it. She feels its warmth, its weight. In her mind, she is measuring up. Her fingers trace the tattoo on the inside of his forearm, the lifebuoy. She thinks: save yourself because no one else will bother.

119 Long Bay Chapter 16

She arrives early at the Burwah Tea Rooms on King Street. She does not wish to be at a disadvantage. She orders a cup of tea and looks at the little cakes under glass. She counts the money in her purse but there is only enough for tea and the fare home. There is a table beside the window, where she might watch the people walking up and down the street and carts carrying crates down to the ships at Darling Harbour, horses bracing themselves on the hill. She crosses her legs, leans on her elbows and watches the steam rise from the translucent china. There is milk in a jug and two spoons of sugar to make up for the lack of cake. There are no other women on their own, and she wonders if the others are whispering about her, commenting on her dress, her hat, wondering what she is doing. Her fear is that someone will recognise her from the bigamy trial. If they do not whisper now, they might when Zara comes, if her mood is anything like it was last time. She thinks of the black stone bird hurled through the window, the sound of splintering glass. She recognises Zara the moment she sees her. Hurrying down the street, face hidden beneath a wide-brimmed black hat, fiery hair coiled down the nape of her neck. She has on an emerald green dress with pearl buttons and a bustle of fabric at the back. Zara pushes through the doorway and talks to the waiter, her hands flying. Zara turns and Rebecca waves and stands as she approaches. ‘Rebecca. Sorry I am late. Sit, sit. How do you do? Thank you for meeting me again. I must apologise for our last encounter. I was in shock. I never even asked, is that what everyone calls you, Rebecca, or is it Becky, or Becca, or Bec? Did I say how sorry I am for being late? It’s never nice to wait in these sorts of places on your own. You don’t know what sort might approach you. Has anyone bothered you? I would feel terrible if they had.’ And so it goes, on and on. She tries to get a word in response, but then simply sits back, nodding and smiling, all the while picturing Don under a barrage of Zara’s words. After talking about her life (privileged), her family (large,

Long Bay 120 with nine brothers and sisters), her concerts (she sang soprano), Zara pauses for a sip of her tea. Rebecca jumps in. ‘The reason I agreed to meet you is not to gossip. It’s because I didn’t ask before if you had been with Don since he and I married. He told me he hasn’t. And is it true that you are asking for a divorce?’ That last word she speaks so softly that Zara has to lean across the table, her face tilted to one side on a thin, sinewed neck. ‘Pardon?’ ‘A divorce.’ At the word alone Rebecca swears the room goes silent. She feels every eye on her. Zara lets out a laugh like a horse braying, tea sloshing over the side of her cup into its saucer, her head tossed back to show the black of her back teeth. ‘A divorce,’ she nearly shouts. ‘Yes, yes. My solicitor is onto it, though it takes a little while to go through. It was never like that, Becky, you must understand.’ ‘What was it like?’ Zara leans forwards and takes Rebecca’s hands in her own. Zara’s hands are soft and pale, but her grip is fierce. She tells of how Don moved into the house beside hers when she was fifteen, of how he would slip beneath the back fence into their house. He was an only child, and she was one of many. ‘My parents didn’t mind, it wasn’t as though one more mattered then. So he was practically a brother, only we weren’t children – we were young adults – and it wasn’t long before we started to notice that about one another. And remember we were not related by blood.’ She says they would sneak off together, steal kisses when they were alone. But then her father began looking to arrange her marriage. She told Don and they decided they would marry, secretly. To be always sworn to one another. ‘I imagined we were Romeo and Juliet. Have you read the play? By Shakespeare?’ Rebecca shakes her head, wanting to pull her hands away, but Zara’s grip is steel.

121 Long Bay ‘Oh. Well, he hadn’t either, but it is a tragic love story. Young lovers go against their feuding families – the Montagues and the Capulets – and their blood to marry, in secret.’ So they did as well, she says, but – at her behest – continued to live apart. They didn’t tell anyone. Don suggested that they run away together, but she did not want to leave her music or her family. They lived apart and met sometimes, and then less, and then it was as though they both forgot that they were married at all. She went to Townsville to visit her sister, who was having a child. After a year up north she returned and learnt that Don had married Rebecca. ‘It gave me a shock, I’m sure you recall. I was upset, see, but I recovered. I knew that I would need to apply for a divorce. It is embarrassing, for the newspaper men will write something about the divorce proceedings as they did the bigamy trial, and my father is convinced I will never make a good marriage. But it is also to my advantage, for I don’t wish to marry. I will give my life to music, not to a man.’ Zara begins talking about her brother, an artist, in London. She says she will join him there, to study and sing. ‘I just want to leave this horrid place. I can’t go anywhere, can’t even breathe without feeling someone’s eyes upon me, someone saying Isn’t that the girl? So, is that better? Are you happy, now? Will you take him back?’ Rebecca wants to slap Zara. She snatches back her hands and clenches them, making tight fists. ‘Well, I’m glad you recovered quickly.’ Zara’s lips curl upwards. ‘Just watch out because he’s never been clever with money. Always losing it. He’d be nowhere without his mother. It’s why I didn’t lend him any this time around, I’ve learned better over the years. Just be careful of that, won’t you Becky?’ Rebecca almost laughs, almost throws her head back like Zara did earlier, for she cannot lose something she has never had. Instead she smiles, but it is just her lips, nothing to do with her eyes. Her tea has grown cold and outside the shadows lengthen. She knows already that she will go back to him, but if she were Zara, if she could go far away, she would.

Long Bay 122 She imagines Don crawling under that fence – his mother Ellen hardly noticing – trying his best among the neighbours to somehow fit in. Trying not to be that sisterless, fatherless, unmothered child. Zara rustles in her handbag and she draws out a piece of paper, unfolding it. ‘My statement to the court for my divorce petition. I thought you might like to see it.’ She takes the paper, studies it, and smooths it beneath her hands.

123 Long Bay

IN THE SUPREME COURT OF NEW SOUTH WALES MATRIMONIAL CAUSES JURISDICTION

BETWEEN ZARA SINCLAIR Petitioner -and- DONALD RODERICK SINCLAIR Respondent

On this seventh day of June in the year one thousand nine hundred and six ZARA SINCLAIR of Flinders Street Sydney in the State of New South Wales Married Woman being duly sworn maketh oath and saith as follows:- 1. I am the Petitioner herein. 2. I was on the ninth day of July one thousand nine hundred and three lawfully married to Donald Roderick Sinclair the Respondent herein at 471 Pitt Street Sydney aforesaid according to the rites of the New Unitarian Church. 3. I am informed by my parents and verily believe that I was born in Melbourne in the State of Victoria in the Commonwealth aforesaid and I am at the present time and have been for three years and upwards domiciled in the State of New South Wales. My husband the said Respondent as he informed me and as I verily believe was born in Sydney aforesaid and was as I believe at the time of the institution of this suit domiciled in the said State of New South Wales. 4. There has been no issue of our said marriage. 5. I am informed by Rebecca Irwin McDowall and verily believe that the Respondent did on or about the sixteenth day of December one thousand nine hundred and five at Sydney aforesaid go through the ceremony of marriage with the said Rebecca then of Rookwood in the said State of New South Wales thereby committing the crime of

Long Bay 124 bigamy. I am also informed by the said Rebecca Irwin McDowall and verily believe that he did thereafter commit the crime of adultery with the said Rebecca Irwin McDowall between the said sixteenth day of December one thousand nine hundred and five and the tenth day of April one thousand nine hundred and six at Sydney aforesaid. 6. I am informed by the said Rebecca Irwin McDowall and verily believe that between the sixteenth day of December last and the filing of the petition herein the Respondent committed adultery with the said Rebecca Irwin McDowall. 7. I say that there is no collusion or connivance between me and the said Respondent in this matter or suit in any way whatever.

Zara Sinclair

125 Long Bay There are too many unnecessary words, but she catches the gist of it. What she thought was marriage between her and Don had really been the two of them committing a sin – adultery. She passes the page back to Zara. ‘I never lived in Rookwood,’ she says. ‘Well, I didn’t know where you lived and my solicitor said to make it up. So I put you in Rookwood because that’s where they bury people.’ Rebecca swallows the remains of her cold tea. Zara looks out of the window, watching a horse hobble past with bald patches in its fur, mangy and badly shod. ‘It drives me mad when men don’t look after their beasts,’ she says. ‘I want to go out there and shoot that horse, put it out of its misery. Then hobble the owner, show him what it feels like.’ Rebecca smiles. ‘I don’t think he would appreciate your concern.’ ‘It’s just another thing. Another thing that makes me want to get out of this uncivilised place.’ They both stand. Zara pays for her tea and they walk out to the street together. ‘Good luck,’ Zara says, looking up the street. ‘And tread carefully.’ ‘Thank you.’ Rebecca surprises herself by taking Zara’s hands. ‘I’m sorry. I did not wish to hurt you. I wish – I wish I could leave as well. Perhaps I will one day. I’ll come to London, to one of your concerts. I would like to hear you sing.’ Zara stares at her, her eyes wide and then squinting into a smile. ‘Yes, you must. You absolutely must,’ she says. ‘So long, Becky.’ She watches Zara’s thin figure scurry up the street, towards the city. Is it possible to admire a person as much as you despise them? Perhaps her life has been too carefully measured. The rules she abides have brought her nothing but sorrow. Lifting her skirts as she steps over the cobblestones, she turns towards Lizzie’s house. She resolves to be reckless. For what is it, exactly, that she stands to lose?

Long Bay 126

127 Long Bay Chapter 17

Don’s mother meets her at the door. ‘Go and wash up. Put this apron over your clothes,’ Ellen says. ‘I’ll meet you upstairs.’ She scrubs her hands in the kitchen, where the cook eyes her but does not say anything. She knows, Rebecca thinks, just what I am about to do. She pulls her hair back so that it will not fall into her face. She ties the apron about her waist, doubling it over to knot it, and climbs the staircase to the second storey. She can see, in one direction, the room where Don convinced her that they were husband and wife. She goes the other way, towards the patients’ rooms. The wide, short figure of Ellen is in the very first one, attaching a nozzle and a length of rubber tube to a syringe. Rebecca stands in the doorway. Behind Ellen in bed is a pale woman with dark hair and eyebrows drawn on in pencil, older than Rebecca, probably in her thirties. Rebecca gives what she hopes is a reassuring smile. Ellen turns. ‘There you are. Dorothy, this is my daughter-in-law, Bec. She’s going to lend a hand today. Fetch me a chamber of hot water with a ladle of Epsom salt. It’s just beside the stove, in the kitchen.’ She returns moments later, the basin sloshing, her sleeves damp. Ellen motions for her to place it down on the side table. ‘Now, Bec, most of these women that come have already tried to get rid of this at home, but nothing’s worked, and I am their last resort. Is that right, Dot?’ The patient nods her head, eyeing the syringe, even paler than she looked before. ‘What did you try, Dot?’ Ellen urges. ‘Pills,’ Dot whispers, ‘Silent pills from the chemist. And then Permanganate of Potash. And then a length of wire to make me bleed.’ Ellen shakes her head. ‘Some fellow’s been made rich over the pills they sell at the chemist, but I’ve yet to find someone they work for. And poking around up there with a wire, Dot, what’re you trying to do? Kill yourself as well?’ The woman shakes her head. ‘If this doesn’t work I might have to.’

Long Bay 128 ‘Cheer up. It’ll be over and done before you know it.’ Ellen turns to Rebecca. ‘Her man left her, without a penny or a place to rest her head.’ She speaks as if Dot is not there. ‘A story I’ve heard as many times as I’ve done this.’ Ellen has the sheet pulled back and lifts Dot’s skirt to her waist. She has already removed her underclothes. ‘Keep your legs wide now, love, or I won’t be able to see what I’m doing. Just a bit of pressure, shouldn’t really hurt.’ Ellen motions for Rebecca to stand beside her and then fills the rubber bag with the saltwater from the basin. She attaches the nozzle and syringe. ‘Give me your hand,’ she says. Rebecca does. When told to put her hand inside of Dot, between her legs, she does, not pausing to think how strange this is. The muscles clench around her. She is to feel for the womb. ‘Firm, but gives a little, like it’s filled with water,’ Ellen says. ‘Good,’ she says, when Rebecca pulls her hand away, nodding. ‘Now I’ll put this in and inject it into the womb,’ Ellen says. ‘I don’t want to get any air into it, so we’ll make sure the tube stays clear.’ Ellen lowers her voice. ‘Let an air bubble in, and your patient’ll be dead before you can say au revoir.’ She sees Dot swallow, and Ellen speaks in a normal tone again. ‘Don’t you worry, love. I’ve been doing this half me life. I’m not going to kill you, not if I can help it.’ Rebecca watches as her mother-in-law puts her hand inside Dot and then empties the syringe, holding the nozzle upright so the water flows easily. Dot clenches her teeth but does not cry out. Less than a minute, it seems, and Ellen pulls away, a red bead of blood at the tip of the syringe. ‘Now lie flat there, Dot. Bec’ll fetch you a cup of tea. No getting up for a few hours yet, you want it to stay in place, do its work.’ Ellen puts some pillows under Dot’s knees so her bottom half is higher than her top, and Rebecca goes downstairs to fix the tea tray. She washes her hands at the kitchen basin. Inside that womb a baby was growing, probably around the same size as the one she lost. Tiny, no bigger than a furless mouse. Hers came out in the chamber pot, after the fall, smaller than her fist. Covered

129 Long Bay with blood, a sight so bleak it is impossible to forget. Bess buried it in the backyard, then came back inside and said not a word, just watched Rebecca with those beady black eyes as she tidied up the room. When Rebecca decided she was going, it was Bess who carried her case to the hired cart, Bess who helped her into the seat. Bess who said, in a quiet voice, ‘You’re right to go.’ She brings the tray to the room, and sets it on the table beside Dot. Ellen is gone. ‘You’ll be over your trouble soon,’ she says, lifting Dot’s head so she can comfortably drink her tea. ‘If only,’ Dot replies. Ellen has given her some pills to help her sleep, and her eyelids flutter. Rebecca helps place the cup down and adjusts the covers around her. ‘I just wish,’ Dot says, as she drifts into a drugged sleep, ‘I was brave enough to kill myself. That would have solved everything.’

One thing she is glad for. Years of needlework have given her steady hands. Ellen says she is a fast learner and begins to trust her with the syringe. At night Rebecca turns over in bed and shuts her eyes for sleep, but instead she thinks of the way a womb feels, taut against her fingertips. She thinks of what it holds, how sometimes life leaves it so easily and other times it fights to stay. Sometimes she thinks of the cool room at the butcher shop, the blood, and wondered if she is any different to a butcher. But after a few weeks doing the work, hearing the women’s stories, she sleeps easier. They are coming out of the woodwork, these women, knocking at Nurse Sinclair’s door, writing letters, putting advertisements in the newspaper to try to find her. They have six children already and the husband has lost his job, or they are not married and their family will put them on the streets in shame, or they are servants and the master has taken liberties, taken advantage, kicked them out when the consequences might no longer be hidden. She is steeled by their stories, able to keep attaching the syringe, mixing the Epsom salt in the basin, holding their knees apart. It is almost as if her sewing no longer exists; she goes weeks

Long Bay 130 without picking it up. She is late enough on three or four orders that the ladies come knocking, asking what is the matter, asking for their money back. Don tells her not to fret. ‘This is better money, and it will be even better when we’re the ones in charge. Ma’s just having you do all the work and only giving you a fraction of the reward.’ ‘Ellen’s teaching me, Don. She has a private hospital. I could never do what she does. She’s a real honest-to-God nurse.’ He laughs. ‘She’s got you fooled, Bec. She trained just like you’re training now. She’s no more a nurse than I’m a gentleman. Now come and sit beside me, talk to me while I finish my tea.’ She sits at the table, fidgeting as he eats the cold meat and bread, taking loud slurps from his cup between. She has finished her dinner and is anxious to wash up and go to bed, worn out from a day helping Ellen. She has been tired all that week, and late again with her monthly. The signs are there – the sore breasts, the exhaustion – she recognises them from before. It seems almost too mad to hope for, with the work that she is doing. Don carves at his chop and stabs it with a fork. He watches her as he chews. He is out odd hours again, coming home late in the night and sleeping until lunchtime. She has been too busy to care. As soon as he leaves for the night she will go to bed, knowing she will not be woken until the early hours. He puts the fork down and drains his cup. She picks up the pot to refill it but he hovers his hand over it, letting her know he has had enough. This is company, for him. Her sitting there while he eats, silent, waiting on him. She thinks of the women at Ellen’s, eating dinner from trays in their rooms, some of them eating nothing, racked with pain. She reminds herself to be glad of her situation, for what life has given her, but it still feels fragile. Like a teacup with a hairline crack, something that looks whole but breaks with the merest tap.

Lizzie visits later that week, Lily holding her hand and toddling up the steps to the door when Rebecca opens it. She is just leaving for Ellen’s, her purse already over her shoulder. Lily holds her arms out and Rebecca lifts her half-sister,

131 Long Bay holding her to her cheek and breathing in the smell of her hair and skin. ‘Beh-ba,’ Lily says, her version of Becca. ‘Hello! What a surprise! Oh I wish I’d known you were coming.’ Lizzie sits down on the top step, tired from the walk uphill. ‘Just as well. Where are you rushing off to? What’s going on? That’s what we’ve come round to see.’ ‘Why, what d’you mean?’ Rebecca closes the front door behind her, locking it as Don has taught her. He is always at her to lock the door when she leaves – saying she has no idea the kinds of criminals that prowl the streets. ‘Two of my old customers have come saying that they can’t rely on you anymore – you’ve been too slow finishing their garments. They’re asking me to pick up the needle again and I’ve said I can’t, but tell me, what’s the matter? Why aren’t you working?’ She has known these questions would come, and Rebecca sits on the step beside her mother, cuddling Lily in her lap. The child squirms down, and then turns to climb down the stairs backwards, her bloomers poking from beneath the little dress. Her hair is curly and tangled in the back, where it was slept on. Lizzie has dark purple circles beneath her eyes. ‘Don’s mother has taken me on, sort of. She’s training me to be a nurse.’ Lizzie nods, biting at her fingernail and then flicking the bitten piece over the side of the steps. She calls to Lily, who has reached the bottom. ‘Watch the street, now. Come back ’fore you get crushed by a horse,’ She glances back at Rebecca, but keeps her face towards Lily. ‘What sort of nursing?’ ‘Mothers and babies – lying in. You know she has a private hospital. Has had for years.’ She prays silently that Lizzie does not know more, or suspect more. They just sit there for a moment, side by side, in silence. She ought to at least offer them a cup of tea, but it is due to be a busy morning. Ellen asked that she be in by ten. ‘If you lose your dressmaking customers, they won’t return,’ Lizzie says. Rebecca stands, straightening her skirts, pretending she does not hear. She uses Lily as a pretence, picking up the child as she heads towards the road again.

Long Bay 132 ‘I’ll ride back with you, and I’ll come visit after work. You won’t be cross with me? It pays well, and we need it since Don has had trouble finding work.’ Lizzie stands and follows. Rebecca lifts Lily into her arms and carries her little sister down the hill, towards the tram stop. ‘So Don’s looking for work? I can ask Fred if there’s anything down at the wharves.’ ‘I don’t think – I’m not sure that’s the sort of thing he’s looking for.’ She gives the tram conductor fare for both of them. A young man stands to offer his seat and Rebecca gently nudges her mother towards it. Then she sets Lily on Lizzie’s lap. Lily bounces up and down with excitement as the bell rings and the tram begins to move along the track. Rebecca is not holding onto anything, so she topples backwards onto the same young man who offered his seat. He catches her and helps her stand again, letting his hand linger a moment too long on the small of her back as she assures him that she is unharmed. She can smell him behind her, sweat and rum and the earthy scent of horse dung. Lizzie has not noticed. Lily’s chubby arms are wrapped around her neck and she is pointing and chattering at something outside. Lizzie looks, squinting. It is evident that she cannot see whatever Lily is pointing out. Rebecca reaches for the leather strap above her, holds it so tightly that her knuckles turn white and begins counting the minutes until she can step off this crowded tram. The minutes until, hands freshly scrubbed, she takes her place at Ellen’s side.

133 Long Bay Chapter 18

The moment Rebecca knocks at the front door, she can tell something is wrong. There is an unfamiliar carriage out front, and the sound of many footsteps creak the floorboards upstairs. The maid lets her in and pulls her aside into the parlour before she can speak a word. ‘There’s a policeman and a doctor upstairs. One of the girls is dead.’ ‘Who?’ ‘The tall one. Elizabeth? The one that was a servant in Summer Hill.’ Elizabeth came in three days earlier with her sister. Tall and broad- shouldered but with a way of hunching to make herself seem smaller, and a drab grey dress that showed either she did not care much for clothes or could not afford nice ones. She said she had been ‘keeping company’ with a young man who would call in and sort out the payment. In spite of how she carried herself, her eyes were light green and lively when she fixed you with them. Ellen said she would not do a thing until she had the money. The young man showed up that afternoon with six guineas and sweat beading on his lip. He spoke as though he were well off, and while Rebecca did not take his money she watched him, and had the sense that he was paying for this merely to avoid scandal. They did the job two days ago, Rebecca holding the salts, Ellen administering. Elizabeth spoke of feeling ill afterwards, clutching her abdomen, but they all did – no one expected to feel well. But yesterday the girl was drenched in sweat from a fever, shaking with chills and bleeding heavier than usual between her long and knobbly-kneed legs. The doctor was called – the same one whom Rebecca had seen for her ankle. He gave Elizabeth some medicine to take, another dark bottle, and suggested they send a telegram to her sister. Rebecca sat with Elizabeth only yesterday afternoon, holding a cool cloth to her head, sponging her high, pale brow. Elizabeth drifted in and out of sleep, but when awake she spoke of the young man, how he had said he would leave home, make his own way in the world, make something of himself and then

Long Bay 134 come back for her. But now was not the right time. They would start a family, one day, but it was too early – see? His father would never understand. Rebecca could hear that the words were repeated, spoken as they had been said to Elizabeth – even in the young man’s educated speech. She wanted to shake the girl – but she realised how useless sense was at this late stage. She overheard the doctor say to Ellen that she ought to try to get the girl elsewhere, to the hospital, or her sister’s house, but Ellen shook her head, tight- lipped, ‘It’s too risky,’ she’d said. ‘Too late.’ Rebecca thought of the girl before she fell asleep last night, thought of those pained green eyes and her pale high forehead, the ridges of bone. Perhaps it bothered her so because the girl reminded her of herself not so long ago: naïve. Young and poor and easily led. For what if she had fallen pregnant and Don refused to make their marriage legal? She would be in the same predicament. She could not decide whether the girl really did believe that her companion would stand by her, or whether she told herself that because the alternative was too awful to contemplate. This was what Rebecca was coming to learn, though. Knowledge was necessary; it was important to be aware that the worst might come, and to find a way to steel one’s self for it. To love a little less to save some future hurt. ‘Her sister was here this morning,’ the maid says. ‘Nurse is saying it was pneumonia, that Elizabeth caught an infection in her lungs. Her sister went and fetched the policeman. They brought their own doctor – from outside.’ Rebecca walks back and forth across the room. ‘What of the others?’ she asks. ‘There was only one, and she was well enough to go off home last night. Two more were meant to show up today. I’m supposed to send them away if the coppers are still upstairs.’ Has she killed the girl, Rebecca wonders? Is it something she has done? Later, Ellen joins her at the kitchen table, after the policeman and his doctor leave. She lowers herself into a chair that looks as though it is too flimsy to sustain her weight. She sighs and places her fleshy arms on the oak table, her hands balled into fists.

135 Long Bay ‘Some things can’t be helped. You’ll learn that. There’s always going to be one or two. The girl was weaker than she looked, see.’ ‘Did she die of pneumonia?’ ‘No, no. It was septicaemia. Her blood was poisoned by something. Could have been the baby itself, coming out, that poisoned the rest of her. Didn’t do anything wrong, now, did we? That bloody doctor, though. Mister how-do-you- do.’ She screws up her face and puts on a haughty voice: ‘I’m afraid I cannot concur that this girl died of pneumonia, I see no evidence of a chest infection acting alone when I look at the septic conditions surrounding this case.’ Ellen peers at Rebecca over an imaginary pair of spectacles: ‘You understand, madam, that I am required to report that this death appears to be the result of a certain illegal (ahem) operation.’ She does the voice extraordinarily well, and in spite of the circumstances, Rebecca cannot suppress the snort of laughter that escapes. But she grows sober again thinking of the consequences. ‘What will happen next? Will you be in trouble? Would they send you to gaol?’ Ellen shakes her head. ‘Don’t you worry about that. I have people who will speak for me. This isn’t a safe business if you go it alone, but I’ve weathered a few of these storms in the past. I’d be surprised if I don’t make it through this one. Meanwhile, the policeman has gone off to bother some real criminals. When you finish your tea, you could get things ready for the next batch of girls. I have letters that say two will arrive today.’ Rebecca finishes her tea in a single scalding gulp and stands from the table, ready to show her mother-in-law that it takes more than a few coppers to scare her off her work. Upstairs she strips the blood-spotted sheets from the bed and opens the windows to clear the stale air. The body is gone but there is still a shape in the mattress where the girl was. Rebecca washes everything with carbolic soap and puts what she can find in a small box for the sister should she come again. There is the worn grey dress and a pair of boots in the wardrobe, a small battered suitcase beneath it with a sheaf of letters. Sitting on the floor, Rebecca glances at the first page. It is a love letter, filled with fancy words and

Long Bay 136 phrases that would have lit Elizabeth’s green eyes from within. It makes her furious, seeing these well-thumbed lines, knowing that they are more to blame for the girl’s death than anything. Empty sentiments, worth less than the ink it cost him to write them. All of her anger at Don and at Amy’s John finally boils over and spill upon this man. She is determined to make him suffer. She rolls the letters up and slips them in the pocket of her apron, where they crinkle against the side of her thigh as she works the rest of the day. By the time the first new girl arrives in early afternoon the room is fresh, the bedding aired and the instruments all boiled and sterilised, ready for use. She has cut three branches of wattle from the garden and placed them in a vase beside the bed. Elizabeth’s case is in the storeroom under the stairs, waiting for the sister to come and collect it. And Rebecca has decided on a use for the letters. She will speak to Don. He will help her. As she stands in the kitchen, drinking a glass of water, she feels a flutter in her belly, beneath her stays, down and to the left. It is the baby – not gas – she is certain of it. She lays her hand there. So faint, like a butterfly wing. It is a sign, she decides, that this is the right thing to do.

Don takes the letters from her in bed that night and flips the pages impatiently. ‘What’re you doing reading these? Going through some poor dead gal’s things?’ She sits on the edge of the bed brushing out her hair. Her hands are chapped and red from scrubbing and cleaning all day. Don came home late but she waited up for him with the letters, determined that he agree to her plan. ‘It’s not like that. Your mother asked me to sort her kit. And you should have seen the man that was responsible for her state, as well-dressed and posh- talking as they come. I grew to wondering whether this boy’s family knows about what happened to the servant. How it was she died. See, I suspected that she worked for him and I was right – he talks about it in the letter.’ She puts the brush down and sits beside him, tucking her hair behind an ear. She lifts some pages and finds the one, then reads aloud, careful not to muddle the words. ‘Today, my dear one, as you polished the silver and I slid past, my hand brushed against yours. The feeling that shot through me was as if lightning had struck, coursing through my very soul. My hand felt limp, useless, the rest of the

137 Long Bay day, for what purpose could it serve when it had already filled its most divine duty, when it had already touched that which could give it the utmost joy?’ Don coughs. ‘What a load of codswallop,’ he says, taking out his pipe. ‘Why doesn’t he just say, I’m wanting to visit you in your room while Daddy’s asleep so you can polish my candlestick.’ She pushes him. ‘Cause she would have slapped him, that’s why. But he’s daft enough to sign his full name at the bottom here. George Dylan Mountford. Isn’t Mountford the one who owns half the course at Randwick? And that one – Southern Star – or whatever it is.’ All of Fred’s horse talk has stuck with her. ‘This could be his son.’ ‘What, so I’m meant to sidle up to him at the racecourse and tell him his son was sleeping with the help? He’s not going to care one bit, is he? He’ll just have me sorted out and shut up is what he’ll do.’ She takes the letters from Don and rolls them back up, slipping the worn red ribbon around their circumference. ‘That’s not what I’m saying, if you let me finish. I’m saying, go to the boy. He’s likely to be feeling terrible about her dying. And guilty, scared that someone’s going to finger him. Show him the letters, put the fear of God into him. Tell him we have the upper hand and we could let the whole world know.’ Don leans against the wall behind the bed and shuts his eyes, taking a deep draw on the pipe so the red ember glows within. His oiled hair shows the teeth of his comb but he looks tired, his skin sallow and his stubble long and raspy. He takes the pipe in one hand and blows smoke from the corner of his mouth, away from her. His eyes open and fix on her, with an alertness that was not there before. ‘When’d you get so damned conniving?’ She cannot help but smile. He is the one who showed her how to speak one thing and do another. He stands and tips the pipe out the window, then unbuttons his shirt and pants, hanging them on a chair. He takes a flask from his jacket pocket and sips from it. ‘Want a nip?’

Long Bay 138 She nods, still sitting on the bed, and reaches across. It burns all the way to her gut, just above where the baby fluttered that afternoon. ‘I’ll look into it tomorrow. Don’t get your hopes up.’ She passes him back the flask and he drinks the last drop then crawls across the bed towards her. ‘Aren’t you a dark horse yourself?’ She hiccups and sits back as though to stop him. ‘Come here, you. Don’t know where it’s come from but I reckon there’s plenty more of it.’ She supresses a grin as he grabs her, scratching her neck with his whiskers as he nuzzles in close. That boy will suffer, she thinks, and deserves to. And with the weight of Don pressing against her she can forget the blood, forget the look of Elizabeth’s eyes.

139 Long Bay Chapter 19

They go on a Saturday. Don does not want her to come but she insists. He has done the legwork and figured out the pub George Mountford visits on Saturdays, his regular outing. It is in Manly, where his family owns one of the grand mansions built from sandstone and sweat. ‘I’ll pull him aside after he’s had a few drinks,’ Don says. ‘He won’t know what hit him.’ ‘You won’t, will you? Hit him?’ ‘It’s a manner of speaking, Bec. I won’t lay a hand on him. Don’t want him having a reason to go to the coppers. I’ll just present him with a little information, see.’ He pulls the letters out of his jacket pocket. A strong breeze ruffles the petal-thin pages. They walk along George Street towards the ferry wharf at Circular Quay. Rebecca has to hurry to keep up. Don is wearing a suit she pressed that morning and she has on her blue silk, the same one she wore to the skating rink the day they met. The blue is not as bright anymore but she has mended the tear and let the seams out to make room for her stomach. A stranger could not tell but there is no keeping it from Don now; he is glad she is pregnant again and treats her as though she is made of blown glass. Just convincing him to let her come took hours of talk, and she eventually said she would come whether he liked it or not. She does not want to put the hard word on George, but she wants to be there. She wants to watch him squirm. Don smiled in that way she had grown to recognise when she took him by surprise. He said they could take the ferry over, make a day of it. It clinched it when she said she’d never been to Manly. He still wanted to be the one showing her the world. The sun is high in the sky by the time they reach the Quay, ducking through carts and horse shit and wooden crates. The breeze brings the smell of caught fish unloaded from a boat. A man with long hair shouts, ‘Watch your step, miss,’ as Rebecca nearly trips over a rope coiled like a snake. Don takes her by the elbow. The bit of dry toast she ate for breakfast rises in her throat and she forces herself to swallow it down again.

Long Bay 140 ‘You warm enough?’ he asks, leaning across to rub her arm. There are goose pimples. ‘Fine.’ ‘Right, then. Let’s get ourselves a ferry.’ There is a boat to Manly every half hour and it costs four shillings for the round trip. They queue to buy tickets and Rebecca turns her face to the breeze, unblinking in the cool air until her eyes sting. Don leads her through turnstiles to the bench where they sit to wait for the next ferry. A family is beside them and the mother has a baby underneath her shawl, small bare feet kicking in her lap. Don’s hand is still on her arm and she looks at his thick fingers, the sparse black hairs below each knuckle. Since telling him of George and showing him the letters she has worried about what she is getting them into. But as her worry has grown so has Don’s excitement, and there is no way she could talk him out of the plan now. He has taken it on as his own, saying, ‘I knew the moment you showed me the letters we had a bona fide money-making scheme.’ The steam ferry chugs slowly towards them, painted a gay green. A thick smokestack spills steam into the sky and bright white lifebuoys hang from rails that span each side. People crowd the decks, emerging from canopied seats to watch the Quay approach. Once the boat is only a few feet away the deckhand tosses a rope to dock and another boy ties it in place. She can make out the name that is painted on the side now, Binngarra. ‘Double-engine screw steamer,’ Don shouts over the noise as he leads her towards the crush of people waiting to board. ‘We’re lucky; it’s one of the newer boats, not the old paddle steamers. Largest passenger ferry inside Sydney Heads. Ladies saloon, smoking saloon, powder room – she’s got the lot!’ Rebecca forgets how much Don knows about boats. He left his models at his mother’s house in Paddington – worrying that they are too fragile to move – but he still reads the shipping news each morning in the paper and speaks in detail of each boat he has been aboard. The deck hands lower a bridge to the dock and the passengers begin flowing out. Rebecca stands behind Don on the tips of her toes to watch. She does not tell Don but she has never been on a boat before, and just looking at the

141 Long Bay choppy dark water now fills her with dread. She will not say; she will manage. He will only use it as an excuse to keep her from coming. ‘We’ll sit up the top deck, by the side rail, in case you feel a bit green,’ Don says as they follow the stream of people. They climb the staircase and find seats up the front on the edge. Hard wooden benches stretch the length of the boat, filling up with families, couples, beachgoers, picnickers. Above is an awning to keep off the sun. The floors and benches are white and everything is well scrubbed. Don says that the facilities are downstairs if she needs them. As the passengers find seats, she tries to focus on the sound of water rhythmically slapping the sides. ‘Here she goes,’ Don says. Two sharp horns blast above. She feels the sound through the soles of her boots. Then the higher pitch of steam hissing in the chimney. Once they begin to move, the rocking calms. The boat turns and they are facing towards the heads, the city behind them and nothing but green sea dotted with sailboats, other ferries and mail steamers ahead. She feels exuberant at the sight. It is like escaping. The wind whips the hair back from her brow. Like a life’s trip in a single day. ‘It’s not so bad, the chop,’ she says, leaning into Don. ‘Just wait til we get past the heads.’ There is a house high on a hill as they pull out of the harbour, a twin- gabled house with steep roofs and fine green lawns that lead to the water. Don points it out: ‘How about we live there someday – will there be enough room for all of our children?’ He nudges her with an elbow. ‘Hardly!’ She imagines her brood tumbling down those grassy hills, sitting on the verandah, watching ferries pass. He points out Fort Denison. They pass inlets and bays with clusters of houses and thin ribbons of road. A pelican glides low, flapping its great black and white feathered wings. ‘There’s Sow and Pigs reef – right there – see the lightship anchored? So many boats have run ashore there they keep a manned lightship to warn at high tide, when you can’t see the reef.’

Long Bay 142 They pass empty sandy beaches with tree-covered hills rising above them and a jagged coastline of low cliffs that drop into the sea. The cliffs are close now and the wind picks up. ‘These are the heads,’ Don shouts. The water against the hull of the boat sounds more like waves crashing than a gentle lap. Rebecca leans over the railing, putting her head against it. The metal on her forehead is cool, and she sees the place, near her wrist, where the rail has been welded with another section. The seam is a rough spot along a smooth surface. It is rusting where the rest of the rail is not; the paint has chipped away and rust is blooming through. She runs her finger over it. A tide of nausea rises in her gut as the sweat gathers beneath her eyes. Leaning over the edge, she spews, hoping the wind will not send it back in the boat, or to the level below. Don, behind her, holds a handkerchief to her neck. She straightens up and he brings it to her lips. The other passengers stare until she looks up. They look away. When it is over she feels emptied of everything, strangely light. He looks at her with a wrinkled brow, concern tinged with disgust. ‘You’re wishing you hadn’t brought me,’ she says. ‘Well, if I’d known you’d be sick.’ ‘I’m fine now. I feel good, good as new.’ She forces her lips into a smile, her mouth still bitter and sideways. Even seawater would taste good now. She leans against Don’s shoulder and feels his arm around her. It is not what he needs to prepare him for George. ‘We’ll find a ladies lounge as soon as we land, get you a drink, freshen up,’ he says. What he really needs is a drink for himself. A glass of courage, filled to the brim. Manly, after the wilderness that surrounds it, looks like a settlement in the middle of nowhere. It is a strange collection of houses after all of the sandy coves and distant cliffs carpeted in green. The steam engine strains as they pull into the dock, the water beneath them swirling and opaque. To the side is a small beach, and beyond that a man stands in a tinny, casting a fishing line out into the water. His reel spins, catching nothing but light.

143 Long Bay Ten minutes later she is in the ladies lounge of the Pier – a brick façade pub opposite Manly wharf. The hotel, flanked by a chippy and Purves’ bakery is packed at the slippery-floored bar with daytrippers just off the boat, or those waiting for the next one to arrive. The ladies lounge is quieter and she washes her face and drinks a glass of lemon barley water. Don comes for her, and they walk out, squinting, to make their way down the Corso. ‘We’ll take a turn to the beach first,’ he says. ‘So’s you can have a look.’ They walk along the paved Corso past the rows of shops – a Chinaman’s fruit and veg, an estate agent, another pub. There is a merry-go-round and they stop for a moment to watch the children lowered, raised and spun around on the painted horses. Then the Corso curves around a stretch of low trees. They take the shortcut through trees, small pathways in the sandy soil cross and merge in dappled light. A fairy wren flits from a low branch to the scrub and back again, bright blue plumage framing a beady black eye. Through the knotted, grey limbs of frangipani trees she sees sandy scrub and the beach beyond, a line of blue neatly dividing the horizon: dark ocean and pale sky. Out of the low trees they cross a dune and the beach stretches before them. It is smaller than Bondi: smaller surf, smaller crowd. There are houses either side of the Corso but the headland is just low scrub and a steep hill. Ahead of them are people in the surf: men and women in their bathers, young boys with pants rolled up, girls holding their dresses at the knees. They sit on a bench watching. Rebecca tucks a frangipani blossom into the band of her hat. ‘I’ve half a mind to strip off and jump in,’ Don says. ‘And you’ll make a fine sight talking to George with water dripping down your neck.’ He stands and they walk the Esplanade to the high point overlooking the beach and the rise beyond, Norfolk pines at the far end silhouetted against the sky. At the rocks a dozen or so boys dive from a makeshift plank sticking out of some boulders into the surf below. It is a terrifying sight – they wait for the right moment as a wave comes in and then dive far enough to clear the rocks. A small

Long Bay 144 crowd of onlookers applauds each boy’s effort. Don whistles low at their bravery, but Rebecca turns to walk back to the Corso. ‘I can’t watch a child risk killing himself for applause,’ she says, when he catches up. ‘Wouldn’t be worth dying for.’ ‘Easy now,’ he says, lifting his hat off and wiping the sweat from his brow. ‘You’ll feel better once this is all done.’ They follow the curve of the road this time, which takes them right out the front of the pub, the Ivanhoe, where patrons have parked their carts and horses. ‘I’ll bring ’im out here to talk, it might take a little while,’ Don says. ‘Why don’t you wait over by that tree there?’ He points to a fig with low-hanging branches. ‘Don’t come over, let me come to you when it’s done. And be ready to beat a quick retreat.’ She opens her mouth to complain, to say she ought to come inside, but he is already gone. He climbs the stairs and pushes the door open to the pub. She can smell it from where she stands – the sickly sweet smell of rum, stale beer, sweat and tobacco all mixed together. The pregnancy makes everything smell stronger. Hand resting on her stomach, she leans against the trunk of the tree. At least here she can rest a little and watch the horses get dust brushed from them and the well-dressed ladies with hats and parasols strolling the Corso. Across from the pub she notices a church and feels self-conscious, as though surrounded by greater morals than her own. She studies an ant crawling across the toe of her boot. It feels as if Don has been in there forever. If only she had a chair, or even just a stool. Her feet ache and her mouth feels dry again with that same bitter taste she washed away earlier. I could just have a quick glass of beer at the ladies lounge and pop back out, she thinks: he wouldn’t even see me. But as she adjusts her hat she spots two men emerge from the pub, pausing at the top of the stairs as they blink away tears from the bright sun. The other man stands in the front, blocking her view of Don, but it is the same one who came to visit Elizabeth – he has that absent chin, the thin and nervous nature.

145 Long Bay Don comes from behind him and steers him by the elbow down the steps to a quiet spot in the opposite grove of trees. She will not be able to hear a word of their conversation. It looks as though things are still friendly, but then she sees George take his hat off and grab at his hair, as though to pull it out. Don looks calm, and he keeps getting closer and closer to George’s face as he speaks, shorter though he is, so that his eyes are level with George’s nose. There. Don pulls the papers out of his pocket. He shows them to George. George makes a grab to tear them away, and quick as a whip Don rolls them back up and shoves them deep in his pocket again. He stands a few feet from George now, giving him space to think, pulling the pipe from his jacket pocket and pressing a pinch of tobacco down with his thumb. George lurches at him then, face flushed, sticking his face in Don’s and poking a long, bony finger into his chest. Don shrugs, and she can almost hear the lack of emotion in his voice. He is good at this, she thinks – putting people over. She feels a strange sense of pride; he is doing it for her, for their child. George stalks off then, without a single backward glance. Don stands for a moment, his pipe in the corner of his mouth, looking back at the pub. He tips the spent coal into the dust at his feet, replaces the pipe in his jacket pocket and strolls towards her. ‘Walk slow,’ he says in a quiet voice. ‘Don’t look back, now. We’ll head towards the ferry and get straight on.’ ‘Did it go well?’ ‘I imagine. He was scared enough. Could you see?’ ‘You had him in a tight spot.’ Don links his arm through hers. They walk faster now that they are out of sight of the pub. ‘We’ve arranged a time and place. He’ll pay me for the letters. Monday. I had to give him a day to come up with the goods.’ ‘Pay you? I don’t want him to have them. I want him to suffer.’ Don looks at her and sighs, the corners of his lips widening into a grimace. ‘He offered me money, Bec. Of course we’ll take it. What did you think I was going to do? Keep them and stuff my pillow with them?’

Long Bay 146 Rebecca feels a twinge of anger. Of course this was all about the money to him. Nothing to do with justice or revenge. She feels lightheaded. This is not what she imagined. They sit up top again on the ferry ride back to the Quay, Don recounting what it was ‘the young Mr Mountford’ had to say for himself. ‘I came up to him where he was drinking, he’d already had a few, and says, “I’d like to have a word.” He says, “What do you mean.” I says, “It’s urgent business. Come outside. I don’t want others hearing us.” He comes out to where you saw us and I show him the letters, tell him he should be ashamed of himself, causing an innocent girl to die. He says, “That’s nothing to do with me,” and I say, “Well, whose signature is this then?” and turn to the page. I tell him I’ll have the letters published in Truth against him and all his family. He says, “That would be a cowardly thing to do and give you small satisfaction.” I say he can save all that by giving me ten guineas, and he says he doesn’t have the money. I say fine then make it nine. I told him to meet me Monday at the Manly Wharf at Circular Quay.’ She listens without looking at him. If she watches a steady spot on the horizon she feels less ill. There is no food in her stomach to lose – and now she is so hungry it is hard to think of anything but. She is angry with him but angrier with herself for thinking that this would bring justice. ‘Did he show any remorse for Elizabeth? Did he seem sorry that she had died?’ Don flicks a bit of something from his teeth over the edge of the rail. She wonders if he ate in the pub without her, bought a pie to go with his beer. ‘He’s sorry he’s got himself mixed up in all this, that’s for sure, but if we hadn’t come he’d have forgotten her. It’s why we’re doing what we’re doing, Bec. Not just for the money, but so as he doesn’t forget.’ It is little reassurance but enough to calm her as they come past the heads to the stiller water of the harbour. She keeps her eyes in the far distance and sits in silence with Don, the steam billowing above them and the Quay growing larger as they approach. She will not think of the money.

147 Long Bay She thinks of those boys diving off the plank from the rocks into the pooling surf at the north end. The way they have to time it just right, and jump far enough to clear the rocks in a single leap. She thought the boys were doing it for the applause, but now she realises it is something altogether different. They are in thrall to the feeling of getting away with it, to surviving in order to jump again.

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149 Long Bay Chapter 20

Monday she wakes with a sense of dread, but not a bit of nausea. For the first time in a month she goes downstairs for breakfast. Don is at the table already, drinking his black tea. He must be anxious about the meeting. ‘What if he doesn’t show?’ she says, when Bess goes back into the kitchen. Don looks up from his paper, running his hand over his chin. He needs a shave. He grimaces. ‘He’s bound to show. Do you think I didn’t scare him enough?’ ‘What if he brings the police?’ ‘If he’s got anyone with him it’s no deal. I said come alone and that’s what he’d better do if he wants the letters. I’ve done this before, quit nagging me. It’ll go fine. You’re making me nervous.’ Don stands and goes out the kitchen to the dunny. He is on edge. She wishes to take it all back now. While he is out there she shoves her hand in the pocket of his jacket. Inside the lining pocket are his pipe and a paper twist of tobacco. The hip pockets she checks last. There is a bulge there, a metallic sound as it bumps against the chair. She finds a pistol and a set of solid steel knuckledusters. She has never seen either weapon before and he has not mentioned them. The back screen door slams and – heart in her mouth – she hurries back to her seat. ‘I’m off,’ he says, coming through the kitchen door into the dining room. ‘Wish me luck.’ He gingerly puts his arms through the sleeves of his jacket and she averts her eyes when the metal clanks. She wishes she had never looked. ‘Have you got the letters?’ He nods, pats his pants pocket. She stands to give him a kiss. ‘Be careful,’ she calls after him, but the only response is the click of the door. She finishes her breakfast and prepares to go to Ellen’s: a clean apron and her hair brushed and piled on the top of her head. The pistol distresses her, but it is the knuckledusters that she thinks of for the rest of the day. What sound, she wonders, do they make when they crush a jaw, or a nose, or the socket of an eye?

Long Bay 150 How does Don have such an intimate knowledge of destruction? A pistol allows you to stay at a distance from violence, but knuckledusters are different altogether. With those you cannot avoid the feel of bruising flesh, of smashing bone.

She is carrying the basin up the stairs when there is a knock at the door of the private hospital. It is late afternoon, and Ellen prepares a girl upstairs – a nervous, mousy-haired thing who does not look a day older than sixteen. Rebecca stands at the top of the stairs as the maid answers, and hears Bess’s deep voice at the door. ‘Could you fetch Mrs Sinclair? Something’s happened.’ The basin crashes from Rebecca’s hands and warm water sloshes across her feet, spreading across the floorboards, soaking into the runner and spilling in rivulets down the stairs. ‘What is going on?’ Ellen comes to the door of the bedroom, a syringe in her hand. Rebecca has already descended the stairs. ‘Mr Sinclair’s been arrested, down at the Quay. The police are at the house now, looking through everything. They say he’s being held at Darlinghurst Gaol,’ Bess says. Ellen is down the stairs as well, the girl on the bed upstairs forgotten. ‘What’s that? What’s happened to my boy?’ ‘They said he was blackmailing a fellow down at the Quay. They arrested him and found a pistol. They searched the house and took away a box of things. I came as quick as I could get away.’ Ellen sits on the bottom step, all of the air going out of her with a great sigh. ‘What’s all this, then? Do you know, Bec?’ Ellen asks. Rebecca realises that she is standing there with her mouth open. Ellen speaks to the maid. ‘Go on up, clean the spilt basin, and tell the girl I’ll look after her later, my hands are shaking now. I think we’d better talk this over in the kitchen. Put the

151 Long Bay kettle on, now, Bess. Come. Tell me, Bec, what that useless boy’s been getting himself mixed up in.’ Rebecca follows them into the kitchen. She had a sense, this morning, of trouble coming. She sits at the table, dropping her head in her hands. ‘What is it, now, love? What did he say to you?’ Rebecca tries to think of answers, but no safe ones come. ‘It’s me, I told him. It was Elizabeth’s lover, the girl who died here. I found the letters he wrote her when I was clearing up her things. I was cross at him for putting her in that situation, for getting away blameless. I thought – here’s a way I can get even for her. So I told Don, and he thought he could get some money from it as well. It’s that fellow Mountford’s son – George Mountford.’ Ellen has her tell the detail, all of it. Then Ellen shuts her eyes, lips a narrow line. She shakes her head, saying nothing for a whole minute, maybe two. It is terrifying, that quiet, from a woman who never stops talking. And then the words all come at once. ‘What a stupid, what a cock-headed stupid thing to do, girl! Do you realise how much trouble you’ve put me in? Messing around through my patient’s things, and then thinking you’re going to give the boy his comeuppance. How did you think you could pull it off? How did you think that a family with so much money would stand to have their names dragged through the mud? Get out of me house, girl. You’re too stupid for your own good. Too stupid for me to look at. Out!’ Ellen stands and points towards the door, her eyes bulging from the rest of her face like they might pop from their sockets. Rebecca scurries out of the kitchen. She hears Bess’s heavy footsteps coming after her, and Ellen say: ‘Not if you ever want to find work in this city again, you don’t follow that whore.’ Rebecca turns at the doorway. ‘You stay, Bess. I’ll be fine.’ She turns to look at Ellen. ‘You might blame me, but it’s your son who hasn’t worked an honest day in his life.’ Ellen steps from behind the table. ‘The only thing worse than a criminal,’ she says, ‘is a failed one. And that’s you, you little slut. It’s your fault he’s ended

Long Bay 152 up in gaol. I says to him, when he found you, what could you want with that street urchin? That skinny, ugly orphan child. If he’d only listened to me!’ Rebecca slams the front door and, legs moving as fast as they will, hurries down the street. She stops at the corner to breathe. Last time she was so angry she lost the baby. She must stay calm now; she will not let Ellen get the better of her. A brewery dray clops past, the tray filled with wooden barrels of beer. The driver raises his cap. Ellen is right, she was stupid to come up with that plan, stupid to think that Don would get away with it. As if anything were ever so straightforward or simple. She considers going back to their house but perhaps the police will still be there. Her mother’s is only a short walk, but then she must explain this to her, and how disappointed Lizzie will be. Rebecca fiddles with the cuffs of her sleeves, buttoning and unbuttoning them as she thinks. A little boy approaches her with dirt-streaked cheeks. ‘Are you lost?’ he asks, his eyes framed by crusty lashes. ‘No.’ She starts to walk, just to get away from the child. It will do no good for a street urchin to see her cry. It comes to her, walking, who she might speak to. She just has to find her. Violet cannot judge her for how far she has fallen. The setting sun turns the terraces a burnished orange, and Rebecca pauses for a moment to watch the streaks of colour in the sky fade into low wisps of cloud. She has been walking for hours – from Darlinghurst to Surry Hills to the Rocks – calling in at as many brothels as she can find, asking all kinds of women if they know of her sister. ‘She’s got red hair, pale skin, name’s Violet,’ she has said to ageing and sharp-eyed women who keep these houses: thin ones, stout ones, ones who offered her tea and others who had not so much as opened the door, leaving her to shout through the mail slot. A few claimed they knew Violet, others were certain they had seen her, but no one has given her a lead worth following. Plenty of times she has been offered work herself, despite the roundness of her stomach. Soon the houses will be closed to her, soon their customers will be using the cover of dark to visit, so she will have no choice but to return home. There is a last stretch in the Rocks by Observatory Hill where loose women walk at night, and she promises herself it will be the last place she looks.

153 Long Bay She passes the Lord Nelson and crosses to where a narrow staircase leads up to Observatory Park. The street lamps are coming on and the closing whistle of a nearby factory echoes through the streets. In the silence afterwards her shoes on the cobblestones are the only sound. Women hang in the shadows by the sandstone walls, only emerging for possible customers. She peers in the dusk for outlines of bodies. ‘Pardon,’ she says, as an old man with a scraggly beard stares back at her. ‘I’m just looking for a friend.’ ‘Don’t go looking too—’ he says, his words cut short by a cough that comes from deep in the chest and ends with a sound of something being spat – heavy and wet – against the bricks. She hurries round the next corner. There are murmurings in a shadowed place, a man and a woman’s voice, and Rebecca is passing without a glance when she hears: ‘If that isn’t Rabbit’s missus. Mrs Sinclair! What’re you doing out this time of night?’ She stops and sees a familiar face, that of skinny, ugly Chow coming out of the shadows, buttoning his trousers, the face of the woman with him still half- hidden. ‘I’m on my way home. I had some business to attend to.’ He picks a strand of hair from his lip. ‘I heard about what happened to Rabbit today,’ Chow stumbles towards her as though to put a consoling arm around her, and she ducks away. ‘Yes, it’s been a real fright. I hope they let him go. I have no idea… I haven’t heard from them. I have no idea what they are going to do.’ She is aware of her own pitch rising, her enunciation becoming more careful, as if speaking that way will erase some of the horror from what they are discussing. ‘What I don’t get,’ Chow mutters, kicking his boot heel in the dirt, ‘was why he did it on his own. Why he kept it quiet. If he’d of asked for help I would’ve been happy to give it. Any of the boys would.’ She could answer but does not, just gathers her skirts and lifts them off the ground. ‘I don’t know. I must be going. It’s very late.’ Chow does not even wave, just chases the girl back into the shadows, where she shrieks and then laughs. Rebecca is foolish to think she will find

Long Bay 154 Violet. There are hundreds, even thousands, of girls like her sister on the streets and in the brothels. She starts home and the clouds, which have been hanging heavy and obscuring stars, open up. The drops are fat and frequent. By the time she reaches Darlinghurst she is soaked through. She will walk by the gaol before going home. There is no one in the yards, just the lights in the guard towers at the corner of each wall. The walls are thick and topped with broken glass. The guards in the towers are armed with rifles and ordered to shoot. As if she can get Don out, anyway, even if she tried. Her feet are aching and numb in wet stockings and shoes. While she stands on the footpath outside the gaol a boy of nine or ten ducks from behind a tree, takes something from his pocket and tosses it over the fence. ‘What’s that?’ she says, before the boy can hurry away. ‘A letter for my pop. He’s in for robbery.’ ‘But how will he find it?’ The boy shrugs and runs off, but she is soldered to the spot, frozen by the futility of it. Will Don be so lost to her now? She picks up a stone at her foot and thinks of the messages she could write him, the words she might or might not say. Don’t worry. The baby and I will be fine. I’ll wait for you. Don’t bother coming home. She turns the stone in her hand, chilly and damp, and shivers, wet to the guts. She turns to go then stops and throws it – hard – against the sandstone wall. It makes a small click and a thump as it falls. Still, it is strangely satisfying. She gathers her strength for the long walk home.

155 Long Bay Chapter 21

It takes a full day to clean the mess the police made searching through their place – the upturned crates and smashed glasses, the clothes shaken out and strewn across the floor. Her underthings lay separately on the bed – as though they have been held up and gone through one by one. She boils them and sends them through the mangle. She recalls the young policemen at the station when she reported Don for bigamy, how they sniggered when she left the room. Bess has not returned and Rebecca knows that she will not. Loyal as she is, there is no way she could want to find herself on Ellen’s blacklist. It is for the better – she does not have the money to pay for her. The housekeeping money is gone – taken by the police or thieves since the house was left open – and all Rebecca has is the two pounds six in her purse. Hardly enough to last a week. She locks the doors and sits inside, staring at the walls, wondering how on earth she will get by. This is how Violet finds her, in the sitting room in the dark that evening, not having bothered to light the lamps. Rebecca expects police when she hears the rap at the door, but then it is her sister calling: ‘Open up, Bec. It’s me.’ Violet stands in the doorway, all sharp edges and bright lips, her eyes tired and red-rimmed. ‘Put a light on, will ya? Are ya holding a séance in here?’ Violet pushes her aside and lights the lamps herself, puts the kettle on in the kitchen and brings out a plate with a few soft pears and a chunk of bread the size of a fist. ‘Eat something. I’ve heard everything, so don’t bother telling me. You’re in the family way, Don’s in the clink, and you’re sitting here in the dark feeling sorry for yourself.’ Rebecca nibbles the heel of bread and nods. ‘On top of that, your old bitch of a mother-in-law isn’t speaking to you. And I bet you haven’t told ma, cause she’ll say I told you so and you shouldn’t have taken him back in the first place.’

Long Bay 156 ‘Hang on,’ Rebecca says. ‘I haven’t seen you in a year, how do you know all this?’ Violet laughs in that familiar, silent way of hers. She picks up a pear and bites, then looks at it closely and spits the mouthful on the floor. ‘Nasty. Grubs all through it. What’ve you been eating? Is this how you look after yerself?’ ‘They’re from the neighbour’s tree. I haven’t got anything, any money. He left me nothing.’ ‘Probably didn’t expect to be arrested, did he?’ Violet shrugs with her palms up, and even with the dim light of the kero lamp Rebecca sees the reddish brown spots that cover them. She grabs her sister’s hand. ‘What’re these?’ Rebecca asks. Violet snatches her hand back. ‘Nothing.’ She stands, paces the room and stops to run her hand along the wallpaper, as though to smooth it, even though there are not any bumps. ‘I’m not here to talk about meself, I’m here because you need help. You need money in order to stay here, if you don’t want to move back in with ma. You need to eat something besides rotten pears if you want to keep that belly.’ ‘I can look after myself, thank you.’ Rebecca holds up her chin and watches Violet. She limps a little as she walks, and she looks so thin herself. Her hair, which has always been thick and rich-red, seems faded and shows the scalp in places. Violet must be sick, but with what she cannot tell. Spots on her palms. She does not dare ask. ‘Don’t be a fool. Has he been sentenced yet?’ ‘Tomorrow.’ ‘Are you going?’ ‘Should I?’ ‘You might be able to speak with him. So go, and ask him if he can get you any money. What about Amy? Could you live with her? Would she help ya?’ Rebecca shakes her head. ‘Why? What is it with you two?’

157 Long Bay It is all too much. She is too weary to lie. ‘It’s her husband, John. The night of her wedding we all went to the pub, drinking and carrying on. He kissed me out at the dunny and I was out of my head, I let him. Amy would die if she knew.’ Violet shrugs. ‘Who says she doesn’t? If that’s the sort of man he is I guarantee she has a clue. But you’re right. Don’t go knocking on their door now. Too messy. What else is there… Can you work?’ ‘I kissed my sister’s husband, Vi.’ ‘You were seventeen and pissed. So what? I fuck men for money. Who’s more of a whore?’ ‘I could find something in a factory. Dressmaking. It’s better paid, isn’t it, than the piecework at home. And my ladies have given up on me – I was so busy with Ellen.’ Violet wrinkles her freckled nose. ‘How you could work for that woman…’ ‘I didn’t mind,’ Rebecca says. ‘Someone has to do it.’ ‘I’d rather lay with my skirts around my ears,’ Violet says, ‘and get paid twice as much to boot.’ She smiles but there is something absent from her words, a conviction. Rebecca knows her sister well enough to know that she will never own to having made mistakes. ‘Factory sounds like the plan, Bec. They’ll be glad for someone with your skill. Go ask tomorrow, after the sentencing.’ ‘I will. I won’t take your money though,’ Rebecca says. ‘Do you want to stay here tonight? I’ll make up a bed for you.’ Violet looks around, as though she is assessing the house. Her tongue darts out to wet the corners of her mouth where the paint has cracked her dry lips. Where does her sister sleep, Rebecca wonders – in a brothel or on the street? ‘I’ll be more comfortable in my own bed, I reckon,’ Violet says. She spins around and waves, ignoring Rebecca’s pleas to stay a little longer, not to go. It is not until Rebecca blows out the wick of the lamp to go to bed that she finds the notes. Three pound notes – a great deal of money – folded and tucked beneath the brass leg.

Long Bay 158 Rebecca waits in the still courtroom, her hands folded in her lap and her breath shallow in her chest. There have been three cases already that morning but Don is on the list outside the courtroom. Ellen arrives and pushes her way to the front of the courtroom, not even glancing Rebecca’s way. There is a fly that keeps landing on her knee and Rebecca brushes it off. The man beside her keeps coughing and the gallery smells of too many bodies in a close space. Finally his case is called. Don is led up a stairwell from the basement into the centre of the courtroom – a caged area – weary-eyed but sharply dressed. She wonders how he has his clothes pressed in gaol. He is accompanied by a solicitor and sits at the table to the left facing the judge. The prosecution has the other table. The last time she was in a courtroom was for the bigamy trial, and once again she is baffled by most of what is said. Instead of saying something clearly and simply the solicitors turn the language round, like a glove that is inside out, so to put it on takes more work than it ought to. Finally, Don is called to the stand. Looking out into the courtroom, he notices her for the first time. There is a smile that he quickly holds back, and a look she cannot fathom. He looks away with what seems like a lot of effort, and glances over at his mother. She is shooting daggers with her eyes, and he just as quick looks back at Rebecca again. He knows, then, that Ellen is shutting them out. He mouths the words ‘I’m sorry’ to Rebecca – and the judge calls them all to order. ‘Please state the full name of the accused, and the conviction.’ ‘Donald Roderick Sinclair, your honour, charged with demanding money with menaces.’ ‘How does he plead?’ Don replies. ‘Not guilty, your honour.’ George Mountford is called for the prosecution, and he takes the other stand. His father – a white-haired man with a bushy moustache waxed at the ends – sits in the front row, pulling at his watch chain throughout the proceedings. George speaks of how Don approached him at the hotel, showed him the letters, and recounts nearly the same conversation that Don had told her of.

159 Long Bay The barrister for the prosecution then asks to approach the stand. They speak with the judge for a few minutes. Rebecca realises that they are talking about Elizabeth, that all of this is really about Elizabeth but that they will not bring it up. For the sake of the Mountfords. The family has enough power to buy silence. The questions after that change tack. It is all about what happened at the Quay. Don says he was not there to demand money, merely that George offered to pay him money for the letters which he says he had found. When asked how he came across the letters, Don replies, ‘I found them in an old suitcase, your honour.’ They ask then why he had a pistol and knuckledusters, and Don says he had no intention of using them, but has learned the hard way to be prepared. The judge calls a recess and says he will come to his decision after lunch. The police are taking Don away when she approaches them. ‘Go on, let me talk to my wife,’ he says, and they pause. ‘Sweetheart,’ he says, ‘why haven’t you visited?’ ‘I wasn’t sure I’d be allowed.’ ‘It’s gaol, though, I can’t come out and see you. And it looks as though ma is in a state.’ ‘She’s cross. And I need money, Don. Have you got any put away somewhere? How am I meant to get by?’ ‘I’ll get out of this. He hasn’t made his mind up yet.’ ‘If you don’t?’ ‘I’ll figure something out.’ The police pull at Don’s arms and he has to go. He looks at her as they pull him away with his sorrowful brown eyes, and she knows she is a fool but she pities him anyway. He blows her a kiss and she catches it, places it to her lips. After recess, the judge sentences him to a year’s Hard Labour at Darlinghurst Gaol. He hits the gavel on the desk and they take Don away before anyone can so much as wave. George’s father pats his son on the back and leads him out of the courtroom, disaster averted. Outside the Darlinghurst Courthouse, Ellen approaches her.

Long Bay 160 ‘This is what happens when you convince my boy to go in on your bloody stupid schemes.’ ‘It is my fault, Ellen, and I am sorry. I hope you one day find it in your heart to forgive me.’ Rebecca has been practicing those words in her head for days now. She knows that Ellen is an enemy she cannot afford to keep. If it calms the woman to think that it is Rebecca’s fault rather than her son’s or her own, so be it, Rebecca thinks. Ellen looks at her for a moment with surprise. It is not what she expects. It is as Rebecca has hoped: Ellen only knows how to cope with the enemies who declare themselves, not the ones who feign contrition. Not the ones who act as though they are still your friends.

161 Long Bay Chapter 22

She sits on the hard metal stool, working the pedal on her electric sewing machine, attaching another collar to a shirt. First she pins the already cut and stitched collar band to the neck edge. Then, using the machine, she stitches it on, keeping the pressed edge free. Then she trims it, presses the seam towards the collar band, and finally stitches the pressed edge over the seam. Each collar takes five minutes, including the time to press it. Never in her life has a clock figured so prominently. There is a large one on the factory wall, the only ornament in the high-ceilinged room where shreds of cotton float on the still air. Everything is ruled by the long and short hand. It takes her five minutes to attach one collar, so working ten hours, minus thirty minutes for lunch and two fifteen minute breaks – one in the morning, one in the afternoon – she attaches collars to one hundred and eight shirts in a single day. One hundred and eight. Sometimes she thinks of one hundred and eight men wearing her shirts, the collars tight against their sunburnt necks, the sweat from their work staining the fabric. She thinks of the women who wash and scrub the shirts, pressing the collars just so. She shifts in her chair. She has been pregnant for seven months now and her stomach has only just begun to get in the way. The foreman at the factory was not concerned when he discovered Rebecca’s condition. He wished to know whether she was married (‘Yes,’ she replied), and whether or not, after the child was born, her husband would allow her to return to work (‘I don’t imagine,’ she said, ‘that he will mind’). She did not mention that her husband was a prisoner at Darlinghurst Gaol. At the factory she works fast and does not waste time chatting with the other seamstresses. Her pile of finished work at the end of the day is nearly twice as high as the others’ – which gives them sufficient reason to shun her during lunchtime. She sits alone in the lunchroom eating her bread and thinking of names for the child who makes the food sit high in her stomach, difficult to digest. Today the sitting causes her more discomfort than usual, and the smell of singed cotton from the irons they use to press seams makes the back of her

Long Bay 162 throat sting. More than any other day Rebecca wishes she could have stayed home, in that empty house in Woollahra. But the house means rent to pay and despite his word, Don has sent her no money. No money, no letters, only the occasional word from his mates that he is still alive. She has never felt so poor in her life – the absence of money more stark because of the presence of it only months before. If she had not known what it could bring, she would not know to miss it, she thinks, removing the pins from a stitched collar and sticking them into the pincushion. Other seamstresses keep their stations a jumble of offcuts and pins and often lose their scissors, but Rebecca has a place for everything. She even rotates her pins on their cushion, to keep them from growing dull too quickly. She prides herself on her neat collars, the invisible stitch, the economy of it. This is what she spent her childhood learning. She can do it in her sleep. In some ways, things are simpler without Don. Her mother and Violet are free to visit as they please; she does not have to worry about what she is doing that might disappoint him. But in other ways she misses him. Simply the mass of him as much as anything, the knowledge that his body is beside hers in bed, the rough touch of his soft hands, the bristle when his cheek brushes up against hers. It is a strange way to feel, not what she expects while with child, but it is what she thinks of most often as she sews the collars. Him, and not just him: all men, as though the whole world of them are suddenly at her fingertips. As if her needle is only a fraction from their vertebrae, and her touch means the difference between a prick and a caress. Even George Mountford she pities, a little, as she remembers the flushed face she saw in the courtroom, his father hustling him out onto the street. No wonder he sought solace from the maid, when his father’s shadow hung above him like a crow, dark with expectation. The whistle at six is always a relief, but today more than usual. She stands and refolds her finished pile, and stretches the knots and creaks from her back. The other seamstresses rush out like a fire is about to tear through the building: kerchiefs ripped from heads, stools in the middle of the floor and machines with the needle midair. Rebecca is slower to leave – what is she hurrying to return to? She finishes straightening her workspace and dusting the snipped bits of thread

163 Long Bay from her apron. An old woman is ahead of her at the factory door and holds it open for her, looking down meaningfully at her stomach as she steps out into the dusk. ‘Are you going to hospital or having it at home?’ she asks, tilting her chin towards Rebecca’s protruding stomach. She smiles and there are wrinkles around her eyes, and Rebecca can tell that she meant her question to be kind rather than nosy. ‘Don’t know,’ she says, tying the ribbon of her hat under her chin as her bag dangles from her fingers. Truthfully, she has been waiting for Ellen to approach her, to offer some sort of help. ‘Your first?’ Rebecca nods. She has five minutes to catch the next tram, and if she is quick she might get some cold ham for her dinner from the ham and beef shop. The thought of it makes her mouth water: the thin pink slices almost translucent on the smooth waxed paper, edges overlapping. But the woman’s manner – the first friendly face that she has spoken to at the factory – makes her pause. ‘Have you any of your own?’ The woman laughs and puts her hands on her hips, as though she should guess by the width of them. ‘Six of ’em. Well, six that lived. It gets easier. The last two practically jumped out of me. But nothing prepares you for your first.’ Rebecca strokes the roundness of her belly, the bump of her navel poking out against her dress. ‘It scares me,’ she says, more to herself than to the woman, ‘to think of it.’ The streets are crowded with people leaving the city for home and the two women stand on the footpath outside the factory with foot traffic weaving around them on both sides. ‘Watch out. Move out the way,’ a man shouts, bumping past with a handcart spilling rags. The woman catches Rebecca’s arm and pulls her back against the building. ‘My daughter, she just had a child. Went to the Thomas Street Asylum and she said the nurses there looked after her. Royal Women’s the same – just bigger and harder to get a bed there. They give you clean cloths to use for the babies and

Long Bay 164 teach you how to keep things nice. Doesn’t cost a penny, not like those private hospitals.’ ‘How do they decide to let you in, though?’ Rebecca remembers the grim mouths on the ladies who visited after her father died, the way they peered in the cupboards and made the whole family feel shameful. The last thing she wants is women like that at her door. ‘I don’t know, but if you show up when baby’s nearly arrived, they’ll have no choice but to take you in. That’s what my girl did. Clever, she is. Lovely little grandson now as well. Joseph, she named him. A fat, healthy boy with the nicest blue eyes you’ve ever seen. Might be useful to figure out who the father is, that’s what I told me daughter.’ The woman smiles and pokes her with an elbow. Rebecca excuses herself to go home, embarrassed with the intimacy of detail. She wants to think she is better than to have to go to a place for single and destitute mothers. But on the tram ride home, Rebecca sits holding her stomach, swaying side-to-side and wondering at the alternatives. Showing up at Ellen’s door? Her mother’s? She feels a rush of anger that surprises her. She has so much to consider now because of this child. And everything falls to her. Don will be released and come home and call the child his without a moment of work or a drop of sweat appearing on his brow. Perhaps the woman’s daughter was lucky, in some ways. There was no man she had to answer to, no one to take credit for the suffering but herself. That night she cannot sleep. Her belly grows hard, then soft again, not hurting but changing – a clench and then release. She speaks aloud, studying the pale skin of her bare arms in the moonlight that comes through the bedroom window, the thin curtains. ‘Ellen’s or hospital or ma.’ She thinks of Don in his cell – whether he is on his own or in with other men. Wondering if he speaks of her, of his wife and soon-to-be child. She wonders if every man is such a mystery. Her mother never spoke of their father much, and Rebecca was so young when he died, but it seemed as though Lizzie knew his heart. She would say, occasionally, ‘Your father would have loved this,’

165 Long Bay as they ate a small piece of lamb from the butcher. Or: ‘If only your da were here,’ when at church the choir sang carols at Christmas. Lizzie knew what place things held for her husband in the world. How Rebecca wishes to know these things about Don, but the more she pushes, the further the answers seem. As though the hinges of that door did not even work. Perhaps prison will change him, she thinks. He will return with a kinder heart. She turns on her side, the only way she can sleep comfortably, and tucks her knees up as high as her belly will allow. Outside, there is the screech and flap of bats among the neighbour’s fruit trees as they fight over the remains of the rotten pears. She shuts her eyes and runs her fingers across her stomach, across the taut, tight curve of full-to-bursting skin.

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167 Long Bay Chapter 23

The pains begin in the factory, as she sits on her low stool threading the needle of the sewing machine. The thread is white and when the first pain hits she pierces her finger with the needle, staining the spool of cotton thread with blood. She curses, for her wages will be docked, but then she forgets as another pain takes hold. Her whole stomach feels hard as it did before, but this time there is the sense that someone is pulling at the core of her. A group of women gather around, placing their hands on her belly and against her cheeks. Their voices come at her all jumbled together: ‘Are you right?’ ‘Is it time?’ ‘Shall we send for someone?’ She shakes her head, speaking when she can. ‘My mother,’ she says, more out of instinct than thought. She gives the girls her address and one rushes off, while the old woman who told her of the asylum pushes through the crowd of women. She tells Rebecca to open her mouth and stick out her tongue. Then she takes both of Rebecca’s hands in her own and examines the fingernails, though Rebecca cannot help grasping the woman’s hands and driving her fingernails into her leathery palms when the next wave of pain comes. ‘You best not wait here,’ she says, patting her hand. ‘We’ll take you to Thomas Street, your ma can meet you there.’ Rebecca nods. She has planned for nothing. She did not reckon on it coming now. Perhaps she has the days and weeks wrong. The small crowd of women clear a path for the foreman, who comes quietly through and sees Rebecca, elbows on her knees, belly hanging down, panting in her chair. He sighs, pulls out a few coins and passes them to a woman. ‘Go and flag a cab to take her to hospital. This is not a barn; this far along you are meant to be confined. You ought to have known better than to come into work.’ The woman comes running back, her hair flying from its bun. ‘There’s a cab waiting just outside the gate.’ ‘Can you walk?’ The foreman asks.

Long Bay 168 Rebecca nods, her face burning. She kept working purely from necessity, not out of a wish to inconvenience him. The old woman takes one arm and the foreman the other. They walk out of the factory, pausing a few times for her to gasp and gather her breath. The girls who have kept their distance smile at her for the first time, some coming up to grasp her hands even. ‘Good luck.’ ‘Don’t worry.’ ‘We’ll be thinking of you.’ Slowly she climbs into the cab, cringing to think of what it will cost her to pay the foreman back. Surely he will dock her wages. The old woman climbs in beside her, patting her knee. ‘You need someone to come with,’ she says, ‘in case the babe decides she doesn’t want to wait.’ Rebecca wants to thank her but she cannot speak. Her knuckles grasp the rail of the cab, and she bites her lip until she tastes blood. She hates Don for leaving her alone to manage this. Hates herself for being so stupid to have stayed with him. She hates the foreman for shaming her, and just as she is thinking this he puts his head in the cab. ‘Godspeed. I’ve told the driver to use his whip.’ The few blocks pass in a blur, the old woman, Mary, tells her to breathe. ‘Deep, slow breaths,’ Mary says, ‘the more you let go the less it will hurt.’ They pull up outside a square brick building, two storeys high, with a second storey verandah and a modest sign above the entryway. ‘Thomas Street Asylum’. The cab driver climbs down from his box to help her out, and Mary stands to give her an arm. It is a moment without pain, and Rebecca climbs down with their assistance. ‘Why do you say she?’ she asks Mary, as they walk to the entrance, a door with chipped paint and a brass handle in need of polish. ‘It’s how you’re carrying, love, just a guess. But then again, I’ve not been wrong.’ They walk inside the foyer, where behind the desk sits a nurse in a starched cap. Women – some cradling infants, some obviously pregnant – are here and there. One sits in the corner sewing, two are deep in conversation at a window seat. From somewhere down a long hallway there comes the sound of wheels squeaking, of crying babies and heels clicking on polished floors. As soon as they pause after entering the room, Rebecca is seized by another surge of pain

169 Long Bay and sinks to her knees. The nurse comes over, registration book in hand, and everyone turns to watch. Mary gives the nurse her details, or enough for them to admit her, for Rebecca is again incoherent. They ask if she knew the father, and she hears Mary tell the nurse that he is in gaol. She is brought to a room with four beds, curtains between them, low-ceilinged and smelling of carbolic and eucalypt oil. The light is dim from windows high against the low ceiling, and what electric lights are there seem not to work. She is given a bed on which the sheets are fresh, and Mary grasps her hand again. ‘I best be back at the factory. I’m sure your ma’ll be here soon. Don’t fret – the nurses will look after you.’ Alone in the empty room, Rebecca feels as far from comfort as she has ever been. Those moments between the contractions are as terrible as the pains themselves, since you know with an awful dread what is going to come. And yet, when a nurse comes to check her over, feeling her stomach, opening her legs to look between them, she takes some solace in knowing what she does. At Nurse Sinclair’s she attended several births. She thought the women were being hysterical then. Nothing prepared her that the reality would be worse than it appeared. A nurse speaks directly to her for the first time since she has arrived. ‘You’re almost delivered, dear, why didn’t you go to Royal Women’s? Or come earlier?’ Rebecca replies through clenched teeth. ‘I didn’t realise. I must’ve had my dates wrong.’ The nurse shakes her head. The pains are growing closer and Rebecca cannot get comfortable. She turns, getting the sheets tangled around her dress and stockings. ‘Sit up and we’ll get a gown on you.’ The nurse helps unbutton her dress and tie on a gown that buttons in the back. Hours pass, she rolls and sometimes stands rocking in the pain. Finally, somewhere in the blur of it, Lizzie arrives. She left Lily with a neighbour and came on foot, her face and eyes red. She has a flask of water that she holds to Rebecca’s lips – the first drink that anyone has thought to offer her.

Long Bay 170 She goes out to the street to buy ice chips from a vendor for Rebecca to crunch between her teeth when the pain hits. ‘Did I cause you this much sorrow?’ Rebecca asks. Lizzie sponges her forehead with a cool cloth. ‘Not you,’ she says. ‘Only after you were born. But your brother’s birth was like this. The first is. Everything – your body, your mind – everything is ill- prepared.’ The nurse comes frequently now, but Rebecca is not given anything for her pain. The time comes, then, when the nature of it changes and the desire to push overwhelms her. The nurse fetches the doctor, and he arrives only at the last moment, as her muscles and fury gather to push it out from inside her. It is four or five pushes at least, her body so spent that each time she insists it must be her last. At last the head passes, and then the body, and then it is there, in the doctor’s hands. Her child. This slippery, bloody, wrinkled thing. ‘A girl,’ the doctor says. ‘Pass me the scissors.’ He cuts the thick blue umbilical cord and ties a knot. The placenta comes with another push, a bloody gush, the skin of it translucent, like a sausage casing. The nurse holds the infant by the ankles, smacks her on the bottom until she wails, washes away the blood and swaddles her in flannel before laying her on Rebecca’s chest. The little thing stops crying and purses her tiny, white lips. Her eyes are shut again. Rebecca cradles the child in her arms. What a strange sensation, she thinks, for something that has spent so much time within you to suddenly be out. She is hollow, emptied of everything. Her mother strokes her forehead, then the forehead of her granddaughter. Lizzie smiles. Rebecca feels a sudden, brimming joy, which disappears as quickly as it came. With her child still in her arms, she drifts, like a boat emptied of its cargo, into sleep.

171 Long Bay Chapter 24

She wakes with a start. She dreamt of a cat tormented by boys with stones, yowling in the street with terror. When she opens her eyes the sound does not cease, and she blinks, trying to find its source. Across from her are Ellen and Don, each gazing down in Ellen’s arms at the source of the sound – her wailing infant. ‘Don,’ she says, ‘how are you here?’ She holds out her arms for her child – has she even held her yet? But Don thinks they are for him and he kneels beside her, kissing her cheek, claiming her embrace. He has grown haggard – his cheekbones jut and his brown eyes are glazed. His precious mop of hair has been shorn close to the head, and without it he looks so different. ‘Can you believe it, Bec? Mother’s a legend. She heard you were having the child, went to the gaol and talked them into letting me free. Then she brought me straight here, so’s I could see you and be with my family.’ Rebecca looks at Ellen. She stands, holding her grandchild to her breast, rocking her so that the wails grow softer, then louder, then softer again. Rebecca fears she will smother the child with her bosom. ‘That’s the good thing about my work,’ Ellen says. ‘People everywhere owe me, and the governor of the gaol had a favour to ask. So there you go. Heard from the neighbour my boy’s wife gave birth in the poorhouse and couldn’t quite believe it. Had to come and see it with me own eyes.’ The infant’s wails are just loud now, so that her mother-in-law’s insults hardly register. ‘She must be hungry, she hasn’t fed yet,’ Rebecca says. ‘You’re tired, dear,’ Ellen says. ‘Look at you, pale as a pillowslip. I’ll soothe her for a bit.’ Rebecca clenches her fists. She lifts Don’s head, which is on her breast, and holds his face with both hands, looking into his eyes. ‘Don Sinclair,’ she says, in a soft voice. ‘Your daughter is hungry. Please fetch her to me.’ He needs someone firm, she remembers, and repeats herself, her hands on his face pressing a bit tighter, an edge to her voice.

Long Bay 172 Don gives her a harsh look but goes to stand beside his mother. ‘Come, ma, you’ll have plenty of time with her. Let me give her to Bec for a moment, so she can have a feed.’ Ellen looks at Don, her lips twitching at the corners, as though tempted to laugh at her son. The hairs on her chins quiver. The wailing grows louder. The sound is unbearable for Rebecca; it makes her want to rent her own skin. ‘This is the thanks I get for freeing you from gaol, for digging you two out of the mess you got yourselves in? I’ll give her back, don’t fret. But tell me – what name will you give the wee thing? Have you thought of that yet?’ Don steps towards his mother. For a moment Rebecca thinks he will shove her and snatch his child. He seems changed, that is certain. Instead he speaks, and when he does Rebecca knows she will have no choice in the matter. It is as if a part of her child is lost to her then. She can see the triumph on Ellen’s face when he says it, for she still owns her son and controls the decisions he makes. ‘A fine idea,’ Ellen says. ‘I’ve always wanted a namesake.’ Don hands the rigid infant to Rebecca. She has undone the buttons of her nightdress and places the child’s mouth near her breast, which already drips with thick yellow milk. They both cannot help watching, in spite of themselves. Rebecca aches as the small mouth grasps on to her nipple and her daughter begins to draw the liquid in, the silence in the room as stark and sudden as the noise was. ‘Ellen it is then,’ Rebecca says, looking down at the small new person in her arms. As a mother she has, in this simple way, already failed.

173 Long Bay Chapter 25

The morning after the birth Rebecca sits up in bed after breakfast, holding Ellen and singing to her, watching the sun break through clouds outside the window and wishing she had a book to read or some sewing to do. There are three other young mothers in the room, each fussing with her baby. A nurse is at the door. ‘Mrs Sinclair, you have a visitor. A Mr Willis.’ Rebecca frowns. She cannot think of who that is, but fixes her hair and drapes a shawl over her shoulders, returning Ellen to her bassinet. The nurse escorts a man into the room. She recognises him immediately as the foreman from work. Her eyes narrow, recalling his words at the factory. Is he after his cab money? He comes to stand beside her bed, removing his hat. ‘Good day, Mrs Sinclair. Is this the child? A boy or girl?’ ‘A girl, Mr Willis. Ellen’s her name.’ ‘A girl, how fine. What a lovely mouth, like a cupid’s bow. May I offer my congratulations?’ He has an Irish accent, and his words are soft enough that she strains to hear them. ‘Thank you sir. And about the cab fare. I will repay you.’ He shakes his head. His hair is cropped close and black. He has a thin face, heavy eyebrows and a stubbled chin. ‘That will not be necessary. I wanted to tell you that I am sorry, when you went to hospital, that I spoke harshly to you. I was out of place. I have come to regret my words.’ ‘No, you were right, Mr Willis. I shouldn’t have been working. I was unaware how close the birth was.’ ‘You must let me apologise, Mrs Sinclair.’ He puts his hand briefly on her arm. ‘I have brought your pay from the previous week. And a rug for the child. My sister knits, you see, and since her babies have grown she is desperate to continue making little things.’ He has a package wrapped in paper under his arm and hands it to her. She unwraps it, careful not to tear the brown paper. A soft knitted rug of lilac wool falls into her lap. ‘She chose the colour. I hope it is to your liking.’

Long Bay 174 ‘It is beautiful, Mr Willis. Thank you. You didn’t have to do any of this.’ ‘It is very little. Now, it is Sunday, but I have calls to make. Your position is waiting any time you wish to return to the factory. Good day to you, Mrs Sinclair.’ He bows and leaves the room. The girls in the other beds all watch him go. ‘Who was that?’ one asks, leaning across her narrow bed. Rebecca pretends not to hear.

She spends a few more days at the Asylum before they discharge her. The nurses teach her how to fold squares of cloth into nappies, how to scrub them clean, how to boil the bottles and mix them up if they use baby milk powder from the chemist. If they use cow’s milk it must be kept cold, they are told, and the milk must be from safe herds – free of tuberculosis. They show her how to wrap Ellen in a square of flannel, so tightly she cannot wriggle her arms or legs. Each mother is given a pamphlet with baby’s schedule in it: when you should wake the baby, when you should feed it, when it ought to sleep. The nurses say that it is not good to hold them overmuch or they will be spoiled, and that they are not to sleep beside you but in their own, separate cradle. You are not to feed them if they wake at night, lest you encourage bad habits. And do not pick them up if they cry, for crying is good for their lungs. Ellen’s cheeks and legs grow fat on Rebecca’s milk. She is quiet and still until she is hungry, and then she shows how loud she can be. Don comes to collect Rebecca and the baby. She notices a new set to his jaw, a changed look. They ride the tram home to Woollahra and walk; he carries little Ellen in his arms as though she is made of glass. The world outside has changed, she realises, over those short days she was in the Asylum. Suddenly everything is dangerous, a threat to their safety. The tram driver might throw on the brakes too quickly, a horse might rear and kick them, a street urchin might brush against her and give her a terrible, wasting disease. She wants to lock herself up in the house with Ellen, draw the curtains and not take visitors. The house is as she left it – the breakfast dishes in the sink from the morning she went to the Asylum, the bed in their room unmade, the table covered with a thin layer of grey dust.

175 Long Bay Don stands in the doorway as she walks around, murmuring something to Ellen, who sleeps in his arms. His shoulders are up around his ears. ‘Where will she sleep?’ she asks, standing in the front room now, looking with dismay on the shabby furniture and the dusty surfaces. Don shrugs. ‘In with us? I used to sleep in a chest of drawers.’ ‘It won’t do.’ She drops on the couch, unable to keep the tears back. ‘The nurses,’ she hiccups, ‘said they’re not to sleep with us. She needs a proper cradle.’ He sits beside her, shifting Ellen so that he can put an arm around her. ‘It’s all right, Bec. We’ll be right. I’ll go out this afternoon and buy something. I have a bit of money from ma. It’s a big change, but we’ll sort it out. We’ll look after her. You haven’t stopped caring for me, have you? You didn’t find someone else while I was in gaol?’ She shakes her head and snorts, her laughter getting all mixed up with her tears. ‘The fellas were lining up for me, my belly out to here,’ she says, holding her arms in a circle as wide as they go. ‘But I fought ’em off with a stick, Don. I was saving myself for you.’ ‘That’s my girl,’ Don says, leaning in to kiss her neck. Ellen stirs and belches in her sleep. ‘Look,’ Rebecca says. ‘She’s taking after your mother already.’ Don laughs and they both gaze down at the sleeping child.

He buys a baby carriage, not brand new but not so shabby that they feel ashamed to push it down the street. It is Ellen’s bed at night as well, at least until she learns to crawl out of it. Rebecca rocks it with her foot during the day while she sews, and the child sleeps, always with her lilac rug. Months pass in a rhythm of housework and caring for her, Don out during the day looking for ‘opportunities’. She asks him to promise he will not end up in gaol again, and he looks at her with a new hardness in his eyes. ‘You think I want to go back there? You have no idea.’ He storms out of the house. Later she tries to get him to tell her what went on those months he was locked up, but his mouth stays set. He refuses to say a word.

Long Bay 176 Money is as tight as it has ever been, even though he is back, for the SP does not have work and the boys from the Push are cutting him out. ‘Everyone’s got their nose out of joint,’ Don says one night, pushing away the plate of mince mixed with stale bread. She had shaped the mixture into little patties and fried them in oil, but it tastes as though the beef is old, or is not even beef, though she refuses to consider what else it might be. Rebecca has the baby on her lap. She calls her Nellie now, and feeds her morsels of bread soaked in water. Nellie is not sleeping well at night and Rebecca thinks that she might be tired of milk, so she is trying other food, to see if it keeps her full. Don hates being woken at night and once shook Nellie until Rebecca screamed at him to stop. ‘I could go back to the shirt factory,’ she says. ‘They were good to me.’ She thinks of Mr Willis visiting her at Thomas Street. She has never told Don – he would not understand. She told him that one of the nurses gave her the lilac rug. Don takes his pipe from his jacket pocket, tamps it down with tobacco and lights a match. The first one goes out, and the second as well. ‘Here.’ Rebecca puts Nellie on her hip and lights a match, striking it away from the baby’s face. She leans across and holds it to the bowl of the pipe while Don sucks in. It finally takes, and he blows a mouthful of smoke in their direction. She waves her hand in front of Nellie’s face and sits back down, finding another piece of bread. ‘Who’ll look after her? We’re not putting her with one of those baby farmers,’ Don says out of the side of his mouth. He’s thinking of the old crones who charge a small fee to take on the children of poor women so that they can go out and work. There have been cases in the papers recently where some of the infants died. Neglected, they starved or became ill, and the caretakers buried the small corpses beneath the house, or in garden beds, under layers of soil. ‘No! I’ll ask ma. She has Lily to look after. Another wouldn’t be too much. And I could give her something for it. It’s better money than taking sewing at home, though the hours are awful long.’

177 Long Bay Truly she dreads returning to that factory with its small, hard stools and the air choked with shreds of cotton. But they need to eat.

She moves from collars to cuffs, most of the girls familiar but the generous Mary gone. No one can tell Rebecca what happened to her, but at least the others are friendlier now, and she sits with them on her lunch break, talking about dress patterns and where to buy the best fabric cheap. There are one or two others who have babies and she finds herself drawn to them. They speak sometimes of their children but mostly of other things, for the more they speak of their children the worse it feels to be away from them. It is what they do not speak of that marks them as different. They do not go on about the Tiv and the dancehalls, of who brings them flowers or takes them walking in the park at night. It is winter and dark still when Rebecca drops Nellie off with Lizzie at Hargrave Street, and dark at night when she leaves the factory to pick her up. Don is not home when they arrive many nights and the house is cold and damp, with nothing in the cupboards for dinner. Sometimes she puts Nellie in the pram and walks out along the lamp-lit street, four blocks to the pie cart outside the pub and another four home, by which time Nellie is asleep and Rebecca almost too tired to eat the greasy pastry she has spent her money on. Other nights Don is home and she will send him out for something, or they will just have bread and beer again, and milk for Nellie. She thinks, some nights: this cannot last. This is too hard on her and too hard on Nellie, who clings to her and screams mornings when she leaves her at Lizzie’s. But what else is there? Don finds some work selling furniture second- hand, but the pay is paltry compared to what he is used to, and he grows dependent on Rebecca’s pay packet as well. On Fridays, when Rebecca’s pay comes, he takes half and leaves her the rest to buy food and household items, and to pay her mother for looking after Nellie. Some mornings she looks in the glass beside the front door on her way to the tram and her face has aged ten years. Her cheekbones stick out above her jaw, and there are dark circles like crescents

Long Bay 178 beneath her eyes. In this reflection she sees nothing of the girl with the blue silk, nothing of the young woman who read books and dreamt of finer things. The foreman had been glad to give her job back. Perhaps he heard of how Don had been locked up. Rebecca does not want anyone’s sympathy. Her work is still quick and neat; her mother taught her well. Mr Willis comes and stands across from her one day, blocking the light that comes through the high windows behind him so that his face is in shadow and the air around him glows with fragments of cotton. She takes her foot off the pedal and looks up, brushing a strand of hair from her eyes. ‘Can I help you, sir?’ ‘How is your daughter, Ellen?’ he asks. ‘You have a good memory. I call her Nellie or Nell. She’s well. My ma looks after her. I drop her in Paddo on my way to work here.’ He is silent for a moment and turns his head so that she sees the light on his face. He is not what you would call handsome, but his eyes are warm. Around his mouth are the faint lines of a person who laughs often. ‘That must be difficult, leaving her during the day to come here.’ She turns the cuff she works on over in her hand and pulls at a loose thread. ‘Some days it is hard. She loves the rug, the one that your sister made.’ ‘I’ll tell her, Mrs Sinclair. From Paddo, I have seen you on the tram. Perhaps, one morning or afternoon, we might sit together, if you would like some company.’ He turns on his heel and walks off down the row of seamstresses, and she is grateful for the hum of machines that made his words impossible for anyone but her to hear. Her face burns as she bends over her work, blinking away his silhouette. What a strange thing to say. To a married woman, no less. What an odd man, she thinks. That evening, on the tram to her mother’s house, Rebecca sits beside a window. She feels the seat shift as a weight comes in beside her, and she glances over, but it is a woman fixing her gloves, and she looks away quickly and out of the window. It is already dark and her own face looks back at her, ghostly pale. It is Friday, which she normally looks forward to – an entire two days with Nellie – but she keeps thinking of Mr Willis’s strange words and what he might mean by

179 Long Bay them. She knows flirtation when she sees it; she knows how men are. But this feels as though it is something different, something wholly unexpected. Lizzie asks if she has a fever when she arrives, for her cheeks are flushed, but Rebecca shakes her head. She gives her mother money and hurries out the door, Nellie on her hip. She chatters nonsense at the child in order to silence her thoughts all the way home.

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181 Long Bay Chapter 26

Saturday is Christmas and after lunch at Ellen’s they take Nellie to the marina at Rose Bay, where she sits up in her pram, mimicking the seagulls. They sit on a bench with Nellie beside them and feed crusts of hard bread to the birds. The rigging of the sails clinks together in the wind – a hollow, lonesome sound. Time spent together is something Rebecca always wishes for, but while she has it now her mind is elsewhere, blinking back the sunlight around Mr Willis at the factory. Why, she does not know. An escape, perhaps, from the drudgery of daily life. Back home, Don falls asleep on the couch and she washes the floors and irons his clothes and bathes Nellie. For Christmas she has sewed her daughter a cloth bear with buttons for eyes, and Nellie falls asleep in her pram that night with her cheek resting on the bear’s arm, her lilac rug clasped in her fist. At last Monday comes and she takes extra care fixing her hair, letting the tendrils frame her face, pinching her cheeks in front of the small looking glass before leaving. Don is still asleep upstairs. Nellie rides on her hip to Lizzie’s house, for the pram takes up too much space in the tram carriage. Rebecca has developed strength she did not know she was capable of, carrying Nellie every morning as well as her lunch pail, and on the tram they share a heel of bread and she offers Nellie her glass bottle of milk. Often Nellie falls back asleep, for it is not yet seven when they leave the house, and the clunk and sway of the tram subdues her. At Paddo they get off and she walks down the hill. Lizzie meets her at the front door, hair uncombed, Lily peeking from behind her skirts. Lizzie takes Nellie into her arms, and Lily shrieks in delight, for Nellie is now her favourite plaything. ‘Goodbye, ma. I’ll give you your Christmas present tonight,’ Rebecca calls as she hurries out of the gate, rushing for the next tram that will take her to the factory by eight. It is always a rush, for she often reaches the shed when the tram is nearly full, and she clambers on, out of breath, lunch pail banging against her leg. Most mornings she then finds the first empty seat and sinks into it, closing her eyes, hoping for a few moments of rest before work begins, but that morning

Long Bay 182 she looks at the other passengers on board. There are young women on their way to the factories, men going to city offices and those dressed in overalls for labouring work. There are children on school holidays clustered together by the doors, and at the end of the timber-slatted bench, with his bag on the seat beside him, she sees Mr Willis. Looking away at first, she makes her way towards him, for his bag holds the only free seat on the bench. He looks up from his newspaper. ‘Mrs Sinclair,’ he says in that soft, musical voice, moving his bag to the floor between his feet. ‘Do sit down.’ The tram jerks forwards as she sits, and she is thrown back against the bench, her lunch pail crashing to the floor. Out spills her leftover ham sandwich and plum, which rolls across the aisle. A man steps backwards to balance himself and plants his heel in the centre of her sandwich. ‘Bloody hell,’ she says, as Mr Willis bends to pick up the spilled pail. The sandwich is stuck to the man’s heel. He hands her the empty pail, covering his smile with his hand. A stifled laugh escapes. Rebecca allows herself to smile as well – it is ridiculous. And tragic – she was so looking forward to that ham. ‘Oughtn’t we tell him?’ Mr Willis says. She whispers, ‘Excuse me, sir, my lunch is stuck to your shoe.’ That makes Mr Willis no longer able to hold in his laughter. She has never laughed this hard, except perhaps with her sisters. She forgets where they are, and the people around them. They manage to quiet themselves and then the man walks off the tram and down the street, the sandwich threatening to fall with each step he takes. They squeeze beside the window, their laughter starting up again, watching and waiting for it to finally dislodge from his shoe. The tram jolts off again, and only then does she realise how she is pressed up against Mr Willis, leaning her body across his, only inches from his dark brown eyes crinkled with mirth. He must realise this as well, for he straightens himself, moving back. ‘That was ridiculous,’ he says. ‘Utterly ridiculous.’ She turns to him to agree but finds she cannot look at his eyes. ‘A tragic end for the last of the Christmas ham.’ He snorts.

183 Long Bay She keeps her eyes out the window. She is looking out still when he taps her shoulder and offers an arm. ‘Here we are, Mrs Sinclair. This is our stop.’ Rebecca rushes ahead off the tram and through the gate, into the queue of women waiting at the factory door, pulling her hat low over her eyes. He might have laughed with her on the tram but he would not wish to be seen with her now. Nor she with him. The deceit of it makes her face flush. But it does something else as well. It sustains her, as she sits on the hard stool and works the pedal of the machine. Even as she presses her finished cuffs and takes them, by the basketful, to the seamstress whose job it is to attach them to shirtsleeves. Even as she sits with the other women during lunch, as they pull out their bread and cheese and fruit. ‘Aren’t you eating?’ one asks, offering an apple. ‘I did already,’ she replies. Her stomach growls and she returns to her station early. There, beside her sewing machine, is a plate of cucumber sandwiches, buttered, the crusts cut off, on light-as-a-feather white bread. She devours them before any of the others return to ask where they had come from. Has he made them with his own hands? Has his wife? They almost melt on her tongue, they are so delicate, the bread finely sliced and the cucumber as thin as paper. So delicate they are insubstantial. Soon the plate is empty, and she realises that rather than sate her hunger, they have only made it grow.

That night she dreams of the factory, the snip of shears cutting fabric. Only there is a pain, then, a pull at her scalp that wakes her. She is not in the factory at all, but in bed at home, and Don sits above her. The lamp casts long shadows over his face. In one hand is her sewing shears, and in the other is a hunk of her long, dark hair. ‘Not going to like you now, is he, if you’re bald as a button?’ She sits up and puts her hand to her head. Her hair is still there, except a patch on one side, and she can feel the scalp where he has cut it away. ‘What are you doing? Are you mad?’

Long Bay 184 He reaches over and grabs the back of her hair, yanking her by it, so that her neck is arched, chin in the air. ‘You know what I’m talking about. The whole of Sydney knows after they saw you on the tram this morning.’ Don hacks away another chunk of her hair, throwing it into the lamp, so it sizzles and the whole room smells bitter and burnt. She presses herself against the headboard. ‘Mr Willis? He’s the foreman at the factory. We were speaking of work. There was nothing wrong, I swear. Calm down, now, Don. Don’t be rash.’ Her hand touches her scalp at the shorn place, and her gaze goes to the corner of the room, to Nellie’s pram. She sleeps in spite of their raised voices. Don waves the shears in the air. He grabs her by the arm and pulls her towards him. ‘You call this rash? After all I’ve done, rescuing you from that rat-hole you were raised in. Ma said I’d be better off with a whore, but it turns out I got one anyway.’ If she jumps out the window the drop will be too far. Besides, she could never leave Nellie. If she throws the lamp at him – no. She is not stronger, so she must be smarter. ‘It was nothing, he spoke to me and I replied – I didn’t want to be rude – he’s fired girls for less.’ ‘Chow said you were more than talking, that he touched you, you were laughing together. Chow was on the tram, Bec, do you see my point? He was watching. I heard things in gaol, you know, but I swore they weren’t true. I nearly killed a man for what he said, but now I wonder was he right? You listen to me, Bec. You’re not to speak with other men.’ He jabs her neck with the point of the scissors and when she puts her hand up to the place it comes away wet with blood. The shock makes her head light. Hours of drinking have fermented this gossip in his head. She can see that he is set on this: the stories he heard in gaol, his shame, his need to act like a man. He puts his lips to her ear, so she feels his hot breath. ‘I could cut off more than your hair, you know. What’s to stop me?’ He holds the scissors out and slices air. She makes a sound that is strangled, holding her handkerchief to her neck.

185 Long Bay ‘You’ll put in your notice tomorrow, at the factory, understand? I’m not letting you out of the house to work. You’ll know your place, or you will pay. And it will be more than your hair lost.’ Don flings the shears away then so they clatter to the floor, skidding beneath the pram. He pushes her down against the mattress. Rebecca closes her eyes and holds her teeth together. She thinks of the sandwiches she ate for lunch, the paper-thin slices of cucumber, the bread buttered on both sides. She thinks of the blood dripping onto sawdust, and the flies. How could she be so stupid? To think those things could be hers without consequence. Don rolls beside her, spent, and falls asleep, and she lies there, the lamp guttering and the smell of burnt hair still thick in the room, along with his rum-sweet breath and the sound of his snore. She puts her hand to her head, feeling the mangled patches, the hanks that still hang long. It is the least she has to worry about. She stands, pulls down her nightdress, and goes to the square of looking glass beside the front door, carrying the lamp and the shears. There she cuts away the remaining hair, cropping it close to the scalp. Her eyes look large once her hair is gone, and her ears stick out. She cleans the twin wounds made by the sewing shears on her neck. She sweeps up the mess then and, seeing the blood on the sheets, knows she will have to soak them in the morning. She looks into the pram, where Nellie sleeps as though nothing has happened, lips twitching. She wheels the pram close to the bed, on her side. She thinks of her sister Violet then, the marks on her palms, the scent of lavender water and musk and the fading red of her hair. The last time they saw each other was before Nellie was born. Since Don returned Rebecca has not bothered seeking her sister out. The last time they spoke they talked about Ruby, who Lizzie reported had died of consumption in the asylum. ‘Poor Ruby,’ Rebecca said, telling Violet the news. Her sister fixed her with a hard stare. ‘Pity is for princesses. Don’t cry false tears for her. She was in the madhouse but she was freer than you and me’ll ever be.’

Long Bay 186 Rebecca shrugged off the words, for Violet spoke that way often, but they come back to her now. Now that she has Nellie, the cost of leaving is even higher than it was before. She blows out the lamp and shuts her eyes, everything she fears and loves most within arm’s reach.

187 Long Bay Chapter 27

Outside the factory door her heart beats in her neck. She has taken such care dressing this morning, covering what is left of her hair with a hat and hoping that her high-necked dress hides the marks. Don stands on the footpath, pushing the pram back and forth, waiting and watching. She rings the bell and hears footsteps down the corridor, and the hum of sewing machines. Mr Willis opens the door, and she steps inside, out of the sunlight. ‘Mrs Sinclair! Why are you late?’ ‘I’ve come to give my notice, Mr Willis. I can’t work here any more.’ ‘What, why ever not? Here, come to my office. Follow me.’ His office is in the far corner of the factory, on a mezzanine up a flight of stairs, so they must walk past the room of women and up the staircase together. She hears the machines go silent, and the whispers dart through the stifling room. He shuts the door, walks behind his desk and motions to a chair for her. She has never been in the office before – there is a desk of polished cherrywood with stacks of papers, a fountain pen beside a jar of black ink, and a hatstand. A window looks out to the brick façade of a neighbouring building. The walls are empty except for an oil painting of a ship tossed by wild seas, and on his desk is a studio portrait of a woman with two small children, all dressed in frilly finery with unsmiling faces. She sits at the edge of her chair. The factory smells of dye and sweat and burnt fuses, but in his office it is leather and polished wood, like wealth might smell, if it has a scent. ‘Do take off your hat, Mrs Sinclair.’ She shakes her head. ‘I’d rather not.’ Her hands shake. She must be quick or Don might come in after her. Mr Willis takes off his jacket and hangs it on the back of his chair. He wears a charcoal-grey waistcoat that shows his slender frame. He is taller than Don, but stands no chance with him in a fight. ‘Did he hurt you? I can call the police. Was that him outside?’

Long Bay 188 She nods. ‘Don’t call the coppers. We’ve both got families to think of, Mr Willis. The best thing you can do, the best thing is to leave me be. Don’t follow me, don’t speak to me. Just give me my last pay packet and let me go. I’m sorry it’s come to this, but you don’t want to get involved with my husband.’ Mr Willis sits at the desk and drops his head into his hands. Rebecca can see the place, up top, where his hair is beginning to thin. Strange the way life happens, she thinks, the futures you might have had if you met people at different times. He looks up at her and his eyes are wet. He opens the drawer of the desk and takes out a box, unlocks it with a key, and begins counting bills. His fingernails are shiny and the cuticles perfect half-moons. He passes the money across the desk to her, keeping his hand on the bills so that their fingers are forced to touch. ‘Did he hurt you?’ She is counting. She shakes her head. ‘No. This is too much.’ She passes half of the notes back across the desk. ‘Take it. I insist that you do. And if he didn’t hurt you what is that on your neck?’ She folds the bills back in with the others and tucks them into her purse. If she can hide them from Don, perhaps, she can save them. Her fingers fly to her neck, to feel the place that throbs there beneath her jaw. He kissed it this morning and begged her to forgive him, said that he hadn’t wished to hurt her. He would never do it again. If she would only listen. If she would only try. She stands and walks over to open the door, but Mr Willis springs from his chair and across the room, his hand on the polished brass handle, holding it closed. ‘What happens in a marriage, sir, is a private affair,’ she says. ‘Would you want your wife to tell people what goes on behind closed doors?’ His face flushes and he speaks in a quiet voice, the muscles in his jaw visible. ‘I am not married, Mrs Sinclair. I live with my widowed sister and her two children. But if I did choose to marry, I would do so because I loved my wife, not because I wished to own her.’

189 Long Bay With those words hanging in the silent room he opens the door and holds it for her. She passes through, and it clicks behind her as she walks down the staircase and back through the factory. The entire time she keeps her head down, lest she catch another woman’s eye, holding her purse string and blinking back the shreds of cotton that float in the dense air. Love. What a lofty thing to speak of – how absurd. All she cares for now, Rebecca tells herself, is keeping safe. Survival: her own and Nellie’s. She tells herself this yet it takes all her will to walk back out onto the street. Don sits on a bench, puffing at his pipe and jiggling the pram with his foot. He sees her emerge from the doorway and walks over. She blinks in the bright sunlight. ‘Did you get the money?’ he asks, holding his arm out. She nods, not trusting her voice to speak. She threads her arm through his, and he pushes the pram with his free hand as they walk the crowded city streets. Beneath her hat the stubble of her shorn head itches against the prickly straw, but the breeze on her neck feels cool on newly naked skin. She closes her eyes for a moment and watches the sun pattern the inside of her eyelids. Eyes closed, even walking, she can imagine, for a moment, that her life has possibility. Until her husband tugs her along, and the baby cries, and the wound on her neck begins – once more – to pulse and ache as only flesh can.

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It is about the money, as every one of Don’s schemes is. The coppers are cracking down on the private hospitals, and Don’s mother shut up shop, saying a smart woman knows when to sit back – when to play and when to pass. Don sits at tea one evening reading the Daily Telegraph, Nellie squealing in her high chair. ‘There’s an ad here looking for ma.’ ‘What’s that?’ She comes out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on her skirt, He points to it and she leans over to read the small newsprint.

Nurse Sinclair, formerly of Sadowa, Glenmore Rd, kindly give address this column.

‘I’m not surprised. There’s plenty of desperate women out there, and those pills they sell at the chemist are about as useful as a slice of cake.’ Don grabs her arm, ‘Do you see what this could mean, Bec?’ She pulls away and goes to fetch the plates. ‘No.’ ‘Here is our chance! We put an ad – anyone looking for Nurse Sinclair please call on our address. And then the girls show up and we take care of them. You’ve worked with ma. You know how it’s done. How much does she charge? Five pounds? Ten?’ She lets the plates clatter down on the table and returns to the kitchen for the mince patties. ‘You’re mad. Five is the most,’ she calls out. ‘And I could never do it on my own.’ ‘Not just you,’ he says. ‘You and me together. I grew up amongst it, remember? All we need are a few syringes, Epsom salts, clean sheets.’ ‘And what am I meant to do with Nellie, then?’ She dishes the patties onto the plates, and then the boiled potatoes. She stands beside Nellie and cuts her food into tiny bites so that the child can feed herself. ‘We’ll hire a girl. She’ll look after Nell and she’ll make up the rooms and such. Can you imagine? Her salary will be a fraction of what we make. We’ll be minting money.’

Long Bay 192 Rebecca sits down beside Nellie and waves a fly off the child’s plate. She stands back up to shut the window. Some help would be nice, but Don’s scheme is batty. Just like all of his schemes. She shakes her head. ‘I wouldn’t dare.’ ‘A few weeks. Give it a try,’ Don says. ‘If you don’t like it after a few weeks, we’ll pull the plug.’ He pushes his plate away, standing. He has only had a few bites. He shoves his arms into the sleeves of his jacket, and fetches his hat from the hatstand by the door. ‘I’ve got to make plans, talk to some people, see what we need,’ he calls on his way out the front. ‘Don’t wait up.’ ‘Da?’ Nellie says, after the door has slammed, crumbling a bit of potato in her fists. ‘Doesn’t matter what I think, does it?’ Rebecca says, grabbing a cloth to wipe the child’s hands. She takes the plate away from Nellie and begins to feed her, spoonful by spoonful, letting her own food go cold. Nellie eats the potatoes but makes a face at the mince and shoves it back out of her mouth with her tongue, so it dribbles down her chin. ‘Just once, could you make things easy for me?’ Rebecca says, throwing the spoon on the table so that it clatters and falls to the floor. Nellie’s mouth drops. Her face crumples and she begins to wail. ‘There, there, I’m sorry. Don’t fret.’ She bends and picks up the spoon, using the cloth to wipe Nell’s chin. Could she do it, she wonders. She remembers the steps, the way a womb feels against her fingertips, taut and full. But Ellen was always there, watching. There is worse work, certainly. And do they ever need the money. There are women crying out for it, women who are desperate. But still, it bothers her. Could she manage on her own? Don insists that Rebecca write out the advertisement the following morning.

Nurse Sinclair, late of Paddington. – Will Jean Harper call, “Sadowa”, 486 Old South Head rd., nr. Bondi Junction.

193 Long Bay ‘What’s with the Jean Harper business?’ Don says. ‘The dona looking for Nurse Sinclair didn’t give her name.’ ‘No, but we’ve got to have a name, so we can place it in “Personal and Missing Friends”. Otherwise the coppers find a reason to call. You’re not advertising your services, you’re looking for a particular person. But all the desperate women are reading it, and they know what you’re up to. You’re telling them that Nurse Sinclair has moved. This is her new address.’ Don grins and gives her a light slap on the back. ‘Clever, aren’t you? Lucky fella I am. You’re the brains and I’m the muscle.’ He takes it that morning to the offices of the Daily Telegraph. When he returns, Rebecca is in the front room by the window, doing the lacework for a wedding dress with a high collar and bell sleeves. Nellie plays with the spools at her feet. ‘It worries me,’ Rebecca says, when he comes in. She does not look up from her sewing. ‘Pretending to be Ellen. Can you imagine if she found out?’ ‘Why, what will she do?’ He throws himself in the chair across from her and twists the waxed ends of his moustache. The moustache makes him look older, yet he is still as handsome as he was at the skating rink. ‘I’ve spent my whole life being ordered around by that woman. Those days are over now. This is my best idea yet, Bec. Now we just sit back and wait for the money to come.’ She looks up into his face. His mouth twitches with excitement. He wants Ellen to find out, she can tell. He wants to test the limits of her fury. She returns to the lacework in her lap. A wedding dress. Imagine: that a girl could set upon a single day so much hope. Annie Shrimpton, who ordered it, is not a bad sort, but Rebecca wants to shake her. Why not wear an old apron and your petticoat, she has to stop herself from saying, for you are only promising yourself as his slave for the rest of your days. One thing she is not going to let slip is hiring a girl again, and she tells Don that they must do that first thing. Not from his mother either, not another of Ellen’s spies. From the classifieds she finds Isabel, a quiet, gap-toothed girl who will sleep in the room off the kitchen. She is the eldest of eight brothers and sisters, so she is more than suited, Isabel says, to looking after a child. She is to

Long Bay 194 do the work downstairs and look after Nellie – Rebecca decides it would be better if she stays away from the upstairs rooms. The day after they take Isabel on, the first patient calls. Rebecca feels an excitement that is almost giddy when she hears the knock at the door. A tall, narrow-hipped woman stands there, lips painted dark red and a fashionable toque pinned in her black hair. ‘Nurse Sinclair?’ Rebecca nods. ‘Come in.’ She asks Isabel to fetch tea for them and leads the woman into the parlour. Truthfully, she has no idea how this is done, but the woman blurts her story as soon as Isabel leaves the room. ‘I’m in trouble,’ she says. ‘I want to get rid of it. The father of the child won’t help me.’ ‘I’ll pull you through,’ Rebecca says, stirring a lump of sugar into her cup. ‘It’ll cost you five guineas.’ The woman sits back in the chair, resting her hands on her abdomen. ‘I can’t afford that,’ she says. ‘I have to get the money myself.’ Rebecca sips her tea. She is not the real Nurse Sinclair, she cannot hold fast as Ellen does. Not with a desperate woman. ‘Could you manage four?’ ‘I can get three pounds ten.’ ‘What is your name?’ ‘Miss Murphy. I’m obliged, Nurse Sinclair.’ ‘Come tomorrow, with the money, Miss Murphy. You’ll stay a night or two, depending how it goes.’ Miss Murphy stands and pulls down her wine-red, tailored jacket. It is fitted but there are stains on the collar and sleeves. Her tea is untouched. Rebecca, her whole body tingling, shows her to the door. She spends the rest of the day getting things ready. Don has not yet bought what they need from the chemist, so she walks to Carl’s Pharmacy on Oxford Street and does so herself. The druggist does not blink when she recites her order. Two large syringes with nozzles

195 Long Bay Two metal basins Four boxes Epsom Salts Three boxes ergot of rye He looks peeved when she asks for credit, but she promises to keep bringing him her business, and he writes her out a slip, winking as she takes it from his hairy hands. Don can come up and get the rest of the things as she needs them, Rebecca decides, carrying the full basins all the way home. It is hardly work for a lady. ‘Well done!’ He cries when she tells him the news that evening, as they undress for bed. She shushes him because of Nellie, who is already asleep in her cot, beneath her purple rug. Nellie was in her own room but now sleeps in theirs again so that they can have two patients in separate bedrooms at once. ‘Have you got the money?’ ‘She’ll bring it tomorrow. She’s paying three pounds ten.’ His eyes narrow. ‘I thought we said five.’ ‘She was desperate. Besides, she’s our first. We need the word of mouth, we haven’t got the reputation.’ ‘We do,’ he says, pulling the curtains closed. ‘We have my mother’s reputation. You must be firm, Bec. It won’t be worth it if you let them whittle you down on the price.’ She sits at the edge of the bed, unbuttoning her boots, placing them side- by-side beneath the bedstead. ‘It’s still a lot of money.’ ‘It’s too cheap.’ ‘Don’t be mad.’ Though it has been more than a year, she still wakes at night thinking she hears the slice of scissors beside her ear. Her hair has grown enough to wear tied back with a kerchief, like a scullery maid. As though he can read her mind, he comes over and runs his hand through her short curls. ‘I’m not,’ he says, standing there, his belt buckle before her face. ‘Next time we’ll charge more, though, won’t we?’ ‘Yes.’ Her voice comes out smaller than she hoped it would sound. ‘I’m glad. And I’m glad that you’re happy.’

Long Bay 196 To her relief he walks back to the basin then, and washes his face and teeth for bed. She undresses hurriedly and puts on her nightdress, lest he see her and get an idea in his head. She covers herself with the quilt and lays her head on the small, flat pillow. She wonders if he really thinks her happy. She shuts her eyes and hears him climb in beside her, feels the mattress shift. He belches and scratches his whiskers. She hears him blow out the lamp, and breathes relief when he does not reach across to her and touch her. She is trapped is what she is – not happy. A bear on the end of a chain, forced to dance to the master’s tune. Miss Murphy comes to stay the following day, Wednesday, and gives Rebecca the money. On Thursday, she wakes with the knowledge that it will happen that day. After dressing, she goes and knocks on the door of the spare room where Miss Murphy slept. ‘You need not dress in all your clothes,’ she says, when the woman peers out, her hair in disarray and her face creased from the bedclothes. Rebecca takes up a tea tray that Isabel has prepared. She told the maid that Miss Murphy is a temporary boarder, who pays by the week. After breakfast, while Isabel is dressing Nellie, Rebecca fills a basin with hot water and Epsom salts. She places the syringe and the nozzle and bag on a tray. Don is in the parlour, and she calls him to the kitchen. ‘Carry this up for me and leave it outside Miss Murphy’s door,’ she says, giving him the basin of water. ‘Should I go in with you? Do you need someone to give you a hand?’ ‘No, but stay near. If I call, come straightaway.’ Rebecca’s hands shake as she carries the tray of implements upstairs behind Don. She has washed them with hot water and soap, as Ellen taught her. Don waits while she knocks on Miss Murphy’s door. ‘Come in.’ Miss Murphy sits at the dressing table, plucking her eyebrows into dark crescents. She turns and watches them enter. Don places the basin on the bedside table. She raises an eyebrow at him, and he blushes all the way up to his

197 Long Bay hairline. He ducks out, scuffing his shoes on the floor, shutting the door behind him. ‘Who’s he?’ Miss Murphy asks. ‘My husband.’ Rebecca sets the tray on the bed. Miss Murphy is wearing her combinations, a petticoat, and a dressing gown. ‘Take off your dressing gown and lie on the bed.’ Miss Murphy lies down and Rebecca pulls up her petticoat. ‘Let your knees fall to the side, now.’ She puts petroleum jelly on her hand and then feels inside Miss Murphy. A drop of sweat falls from her forehead. She feels the taut vaginal wall, the softer give of the uterus. She brings out her hand and wipes it on a cloth. Without someone to hold the bag, she will just have to place the nozzle into the basin and fill the syringe from that. She places the syringe inside of Miss Murphy, finds her uterine wall and pushes up the plunger so the syringe empties itself into the womb. Ellen’s words come back to her: ‘Don’t get any air into it, make sure there aren’t bubbles.’ It is easier with someone to hold the basin, or hold a bag high, but she does not want to ask Don for his help. When she is done, she takes a pillow and places it under Miss Murphy’s knees. ‘You all right?’ The woman nods, her skin pale and waxy. ‘Lie still for a while, I’ll bring you some Westcott’s pills and we’ll do this again tomorrow.’ Rebecca leaves the room, carrying the tray, and brings it downstairs into the kitchen. Isabel is there, making Nellie something to eat. She glances at the tray but says nothing, and Rebecca is silent as well as she scrubs her hands and then the implements in the sink. Nellie toddles over and grabs her around the legs and Isabel unwinds her, lifts the child and tickles her under the chin. Nellie laughs, and the two of them leave the room without Rebecca speaking a word. Silence is a useful thing, simpler than a lie.

Long Bay 198 Though she is run off her feet it feels as though much of her time now is busy with waiting. Waiting for more women to show up at the door, waiting for Miss Murphy to bleed. Waiting for Don to come home and help her, waiting until Isabel and Nellie are out of the room to speak to him. She repeats the procedure with Miss Murphy just once more and then on Sunday she is called to her room. She told the woman to have a bath, as hot as she could stand, and Miss Murphy is lying curled on her side in bed, in her dressing gown but still damp from the bathwater. There is blood on the quilt. ‘I have some pains,’ she says, clutching her abdomen. ‘Sit on the chamber if you have any more,’ Rebecca says. She goes downstairs, thinking of how she will have to soak and wash the quilt now. An hour later Miss Murphy calls her again. She does not say anything when Rebecca comes to her door, only passes her the chamber pot. Rebecca looks inside. ‘You are over your trouble now.’ She takes it away – she will bury the contents in the garden. Later, Don helps her hang out the blanket and quilt after they have been soaked and scrubbed and sent through the mangle. ‘How did it go?’ He asks, holding up the weight of heavy, wet wool as she pins it into place. ‘She’s over her trouble,’ she says, frowning as she sees the bloody contents of the chamber in her head once more. ‘Twins.’

199 Long Bay Chapter 29

Miss Murphy is resting to leave tomorrow and there is another woman, Miss Marsh, who has arrived and received her first treatment. So both rooms are full and Rebecca has not a moment to spare between tending to her patients and cleaning up the aftermath. Don, to his credit, is staying home to help. On Monday, he is hanging a shelf in the kitchen for the implements, a place for them to dry, and Isabel is washing the breakfast dishes. Rebecca is tidying the upstairs room when there is another knock at the door. Don calls her from the bottom of the stairs. ‘Nurse Sinclair,’ he smirks. ‘A lady calling for you.’ In the entryway stands a petite, neatly dressed woman carrying a small suitcase. She has deep crow’s feet etched into the skin around her eyes. She looks at Rebecca, frowning. ‘You’re not Nurse Sinclair.’ They are all silent for a moment. Then Rebecca laughs, trying to keep her voice light. ‘You mean my mother-in-law, a big stout woman.’ ‘Yes, she treated me about three or four years ago.’ ‘That’s my mother. She’s retired, my wife trained with her,’ Don says. ‘If you excuse me, ladies, I have some work I was attending to in the kitchen.’ He shuts the door behind him. The two of them stand for a moment in the entryway, the morning light streaming through the glass in the front door. ‘Do you require treatment again?’ Rebecca asks. ‘Yes, I’ve taken pills, but to no avail.’ ‘Come to the parlour,’ Rebecca says. They sit on the chairs, facing one another. ‘My rooms are full, but I can move my patients around. Have you the money now?’ ‘How much do you charge?’ ‘Five guineas.’ ‘I only have four. That was what I paid before.’ ‘That was years ago.’

Long Bay 200 The woman looks at Rebecca. She is not going to plead with her, but there is a look in her eyes. Rebecca thinks again of how she is no good at staying firm. She twists the ring on her finger that Don has put there. ‘Four it is, then. Wait here while I prepare a room. I’ll have the maid bring you some tea.’ Miss Murphy is leaving the following morning, so Rebecca puts her in Isabel’s room for the last night. Isabel can sleep in the servery. Then it is fresh linen and wash the instruments and show the woman her room. Her name, she says, is Mrs Smith. They never give their real names anyway. Rebecca asks her to loosen her skirt and stays, and take off her belt, and lie on the bed. Down in the kitchen, Don is talking to Isabel. ‘Where’s Nellie?’ she asks. ‘Out the back, playing with a ball,’ Isabel says. ‘Mind you keep an eye on her out there, she could slip through the fence palings easily enough.’ Isabel nods and goes outside. ‘Look at you,’ Don says, leaning against the bench, stroking his moustache. ‘Mistress of the house.’ ‘This wasn’t my idea, was it? I have all the work from it, though. Would you at least help and bring some Epsom salts in the basin upstairs?’ ‘Anything you wish, madam,’ Don bows, twirling his arm. ‘I’d help more if you let me,’ he says in a low voice, following her as she carries the tray. ‘And it’d be quicker as well. Just a tumble down these steps would do the trick.’ His words cut her. It is as it always is with him, light and carefree until he lifts the mask and there is this ugliness. ‘Don’t speak to her, just carry the tray and set it down and leave,’ she whispers. ‘You’ll frighten her.’ He does as he is told and Rebecca stands beside the bed, rubbing her hands with petroleum jelly, trying to warm them. ‘How far gone are you?’ ‘Three months, maybe four?’ Mrs Smith smiles. She does not seem the slightest bit nervous.

201 Long Bay Rebecca puts her hands on the woman’s abdomen. There is a noticeable curve there with her corset loose. She places her legs apart, asks her to bend her knees and then feels inside of her. She can feel that this one has children already, the looser muscles, the place where her labia has torn and healed again. The body, as we age, is like a map, she thinks – a map to read with my hands. She tries to be gentle as she brings the syringe inside of Mrs Smith, keeping the basin higher, so the liquid will flow through the tube. Depressing the syringe her hand is steady, but the woman kicks her leg when it pricks her womb, knocking the basin with her foot. Rebecca does not see until she is finished. Then she looks down and the tube has been pulled from the water by the movement; it hangs loose in the air. She gasps. Mrs Smith’s eyelids open. Rebecca feels her arms and legs go heavy. ‘Are you all right?’ Mrs Smith nods. ‘I’ll fetch the pills. Lie back and rest, I’ll be just a tick.’ She takes the tray downstairs to the sink, her heart fast in her chest. Maybe it only came free at the end, so no air entered. Her mind races to find ways it might be explained. Don is finishing the shelf. He does not look up, ‘How’d it go, Nurse Sinclair?’ ‘Fine, I believe.’ She leaves the tray by the sink, takes the pills from the cupboard, and hurries back upstairs. When she knocks at the door, there is no reply. ‘Mrs Smith?’ she says. ‘Mrs Smith?’ Inside the room Mrs Smith lies back on the bed. Her eyes are open, as though she has fainted. Rebecca drops the pills and runs to her, puts her head to her chest, but there is no audible breath or heartbeat. She shakes her, but there is only limpness, a loose warmth. She looks down: on the quilt a bloom of blood blossoms from beneath her body. She runs to the door. ‘Don,’ she screams, her voice strangled in its desperation. ‘Don!’ ‘Calm down. Quit your carrying on,’ he says, moments later. ‘I’ve sent Isabel to fetch the doctor.’

Long Bay 202 ‘I’ll carry her downstairs. We put her on the couch, in the parlour. This is what you tell the doctor: she came in, asked if you were Nurse Sinclair, and then she collapsed. She told you that she had been trying to syringe at home.’ Don picks up the body, which looks limp and small in his arms. He struggles with the weight and leans back to steady himself. ‘Hold the door open, damn it. And bring the quilt, so we don’t get her blood on the leather couch.’ She follows him down the stairs. Where is Nellie? Isabel has gone to fetch the doctor. Rebecca spreads the quilt over the couch and Don lays the woman’s body on top of it, so her head is propped up by the couch arm, and her stockinged feet dangle over the edge. Her skirt and blouse are loose still. He pulls the skirt down. Her head lolls to one side. Rebecca gasps, thinking for a moment that the movement is intentional – that Mrs Smith is still alive. ‘I’ll fetch the brandy,’ she says. ‘Mama?’ Nellie stands in the doorway, thumb between her teeth. Her eyes are wide. Rebecca lifts her and carries her upstairs, into their bedroom. ‘Time for a nap, Nell. I’ll put you in your crib with dolly. Promise mama not to cry?’ Nellie nods her head. ‘Ing?’ she says. Rebecca sings for her. Downstairs, she hears the door slam. Isabel is back. She says she has called at the doctor’s house, and his wife says he will come presently. Don paces the hallway. Rebecca takes the bottle of brandy and puts it to Mrs Smith’s lips. She tries to pour a little in her mouth, but it only trickles down her chin. ‘I’ll go then,’ Don says. ‘He needs to come before she’s cold.’ Rebecca pours herself the last dram of brandy from the bottle. ‘Will you get more brandy as well?’ She sits to wait in the parlour with Mrs Smith’s body, watching it for any sign of a breath. Somehow she holds on to hope that the woman will take a great gasp of air and return to life. She remembers her father’s body and her sister Helen’s. The way that death brings silence not just to the body but also to those who are with it. Don returns. She hears him pouring more brandy in the kitchen and then coming in, collapsing into a chair.

203 Long Bay ‘The doctor will be here any moment,’ he says. ‘What did you do, Bec? How did you fuck it up?’ She does not answer but sits there, moving her lips, the prayer she learned as a girl – the only prayer she can remember – repeating silently in her head. Our Father, Who art in heaven, Hallowed be thy name; Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our sins forgive us our sins

Don leads Dr Marr into the parlour. ‘Here she is. Can she be revived?’ Rebecca rises from her knees. Dr Marr places his black satchel on the floor and crouches where she has been, beside Mrs Smith. ‘She came to the door and wanted to speak to me and when I asked her into the parlour she collapsed,’ Rebecca says. ‘I don’t know what from.’ Dr Marr takes a matchbook from the pocket of his trousers, strikes a match, and looks into the woman’s eyes. He then retrieves a small, palm-sized mirror from his black satchel and holds it over her mouth. They wait; no one makes a sound. Dr Marr checks the mirror. ‘I’m afraid she’s gone,’ he says, standing and pulling his waistcoat over his protruding stomach. He returns the mirror to his bag, pulls a fob watch from the pocket of his waistcoat and looks at the time, recording it into a small book he carries in his bag. ‘Go to Bondi Junction and bring a police officer back with you,’ he says to Don, making a few more notes in the book. ‘Have you noticed the blood?’ he asks Rebecca. She nods her head. ‘Walk me to the door,’ Don says to her, tilting his head.

Long Bay 204 While the doctor attends to the dead woman. Rebecca walks and they stand out on the verandah, before the steps. ‘You remember what to tell him now. Stick to your story,’ Don says. ‘I’ll bring the coppers back and you say the same to them, all right? Otherwise both of us’ll swing.’

From the notebook of Senior Constable Michael Roche – 26th April 1909 Rebecca Irwin Sinclair states: In answer to a knock at the front door I opened it and this woman (nodding to deceased) said I want to see Nurse Sinclair. I said ‘come inside’. I brought her in here. She said ‘You are not Nurse Sinclair’. I said, ‘You mean my mother in law, a big stout woman’. She said ‘Yes she treated me about three or four years ago. I have been taking drugs and syringing.’ Then she said. ‘Oh, I’m hot,’ and collapsed. I knocked on the floor and my husband came in. He placed her on the couch and sent for the doctor. I gave her smelling salts and brandy. Dr Gordon Marr arrived about twenty minutes after.

James Macpherson, sworn, states: I am a Constable of Police stationed at Waverley. About 3.35 p.m. on the 26th April with Senior Constable Roche I went to the house of Donald Rhoderick Sinclair and Rebecca Irvin Sinclair at No. 486 Old South Head Road, Woollahra, and we met Dr Marr at their front gate and went into the house with the doctor. Mr and Mrs Sinclair were in the hall. We went into the front sitting room and on a couch there I saw the dead body of a woman lying on her back on the quilt which was spread over the couch underneath the body. The quilt is bloodstained and has not been interfered with since. Dr Marr said “I can do no more” and left the room. The body was fully clothed and the clothes seemed to be loose about the waist. She had on a skirt, an Eton coat or jacket and a blouse. The coat was unbuttoned and the blouse was underneath it and pulled down in front, and the skirt was as usual but seemed to be loose at the waist. Her belt was lying on the floor near a table. I said to Mrs Sinclair, “Are you Nurse Sinclair?” She said, “Yes.” I said, “Do you know this woman?” She said, “No, I never saw her before.” She

205 Long Bay then dictated a statement to me which I took down in writing and read over to her in the presence of her husband and Roche and now produce it. On the 29th ultimo at the Paddington Police Station in the presence of Senior Constables Turbet and Roche I showed Mrs Sinclair the syringe produced and she said, “Yes, that’s mine, I use it on myself” and I showed her the douche produced and she said, “That’s mine but it hasn’t been used for a long time, I believe it is broken.” As far as I could see there was no blood on the skirt. There was no money in the clothes but there was some in the purse.

MICHAEL ROCHE, sworn, states: I am a Senior Constable of Police stationed at Waverley. About 3.35 p.m. on the 26th ultimo I accompanied Constable Macpherson to No. 486 Old South Head Road, Woollahra, and in the front room there I saw the dead body of a woman lying on a couch. In a box in Mrs Sinclair’s bedroom I found the syringe and nozzle produced in the case but the nozzle was disconnected. Under a table in the same room I found a box containing a large number of packets of Epsom Salts and in the fireplace in the same room I found about 25 empty Epsom Salts packets. In the front bedroom upstairs I found the douche produced hanging on the wall. In the front sitting room I found the belt, hat, pair of gloves and purse bag containing a pocket handkerchief, two keys and a pencil and 12/0 ½ a necklet and locket produced and a parasol, and I produce the lot. I found the parasol produced near the window. I also found the bank deposit slip produced for £3 in the purse. After the body had been taken away I said to Mrs Sinclair, “How do you account for the blood on this quilt?” and she said, “I don’t know”. I then took them to Paddington Police Station and charged them with causing the death of a woman whose name was unknown at Woollahra on the 26th April and neither of them made any reply. On the following morning I recharged them with causing the death of Lucy Edith Smith at Woollahra on the 26th April and neither made any reply.

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207 Long Bay Chapter 30

The police have seen the boxes of Epsom salts in the fireplace. They have seen the tray with the syringe and nozzle in the kitchen. They spoke to Miss Murphy and Miss Marsh in their rooms. They were not, they say, born yesterday. The dead woman is Mrs Smith, Mrs Lucy Edith Smith. Her name is inscribed into her small suitcase, and there is a daguerreotype of a family – a husband and three small children – two girls and a boy. The youngest policeman holds it up to Rebecca, saying, ‘See what you’ve done? You’ve killed someone’s mother. You deserve to hang for this.’ Her legs give way. They say she and Don are under arrest, they will be charged with wilful murder. Don looks at her as if he does not know her, as though she is a madwoman he has seen on the street and is desperate to get away from. They let her say goodbye to Nellie, who has only just woken from her nap. She is red-cheeked, rubbing her eyes, her sticky lashes. Nellie clings to her, afraid of all the strange, serious men, and Isabel has to pry her loose, promising a lump of sugar, a trip to the shops. ‘Take her to Lizzie and Fred, on Hargrave Street, in Paddo. Don’t forget her rug,’ Rebecca instructs. ‘My ma will take her in. Swear to me you will take her there.’ Isabel swears it and Rebecca pulls her wedding ring loose and presses it into the maid’s palm. ‘Be sure you do,’ she whispers. Don is still arguing with the uniformed men. A Black Maria takes them to Darlinghurst Police Station. It is just the two of them in the back, but they sit on opposite benches, each in their cold steel handcuffs. They do not speak, for what is there left to say? She cannot see but feels the cart stop outside the front, hears the sound of other police, of iron gates open and close. He looks at her, then, and she can see thought ferment behind his eyes. ‘You can’t get off, Bec, but you needn’t drag me into this as well. It was you that killed the woman. One of us should be out to look after Nellie. Tell them I had no part in it.’

Long Bay 208 Rebecca turns from him and looks at the door to the wagon, which is bolted shut from the outside. Light enters through the narrow cracks. She could save him, if she took the full blame. But when Nellie clutched at her, saying goodbye, where had Don been? Arguing with the policemen. He had not given a thought to his daughter then. There is a whinny and the crunch of boots hitting gravel, a key in the padlock, the rattle of a chain. He will be led one way and she another. She tilts her head to glance at him: he watches her, his forehead creased. ‘I’ll tell them nothing,’ she says in a low whisper, as the doors swing open and the light comes in, causing them both to blink. ‘And I want nothing more to do with you.’ From the Black Maria they are put in the lockup, and then formally charged before being taken across the road to the gaol. The policeman who charges her tells her more about Lucy Edith Smith. She had young children – aged seven and a half, six, and four – and lived in North Sydney with her husband. He is a linotype operator at the Sydney Morning Herald. He tells her how her husband read of her death as he laid it out in type, and came to the police station that very afternoon. At the gaol, they are led through heavy iron gates. A prison guard takes them into the bathhouse, the lower level of a round sandstone building. Rebecca is taken into the women’s area where she is told to take off her dress, stockings and combinations. A curtain is all that gives her privacy. There is a basin of cold water, a flannel and grey soap to wash with. Afterwards, a female guard comes in and checks her while she stands shivering and naked. She checks her fingernails, her hair for nits, and her skin for signs of disease. The guard, a broad shouldered, sharp-nosed woman, then hands Rebecca a pile of clothing. ‘You have two dresses, two aprons and one cap. Two sets of woollen underclothes and a pair of boots. Everything must be kept clean or you will end up in solitary.’ Rebecca dresses in the shapeless, ill-stitched garments and laces up the too-tight boots of cracked leather. She places the starched cotton cap over her hair and ties it under her chin.

209 Long Bay ‘Follow me, then, to your cell,’ the guard says, and she follows. They walk outdoors where the sun shines as though the world has not stopped – as though it is a normal day. The guard leads her through a warren of sandstone buildings. They stop outside one that is oval-shaped and three storeys tall. The door to the outside of the women’s cellblock is heavy and iron. The guard draws a long key from a hoop attached to her belt and unlocks it. Once inside, Rebecca’s eyes take a moment to adjust to the dark. The only light comes through high slits in the heavy, sandstone walls. There are three storeys of cells, with a stairwell at one end and a room used as the Women’s Hospital at the other, the guard explains. The cells are meant to hold two female prisoners but because of the number of criminals, there are four in each. At the end of every floor is a solitary cell for prisoners who are dangerous or who misbehave. ‘There’s a padded cell too, for the ones who’ve gone mad,’ the guard says, leaning so close that Rebecca can smell cabbage and beer on her breath. Rebecca sits on a low wooden pallet watching the sky turn pink through the high slit in the stone wall. The cell is ten feet long and eight feet wide, so with four pallets on the floor there is not much room to move between them. The stone walls are painted Reckitt’s Blue and marked with lines and crude markings. It is not yet dark outside but there are no lamps to light and the evening meal of hominy and bread has been brought in on scratched metal trays. The other women eat sitting on the floor. They use their hands and the bread to scoop up the watery gruel. A cockroach scurries onto a tray and one of the women squashes it beneath her mug. It makes a wet crunch. ‘She’s not going to eat?’ A young woman with matted hair asks, gesturing towards Rebecca. ‘Probably thinks she’s too good for gaol food. It’ll change, once the hunger hits,’ says a grey-haired woman with a patch over one eye. ‘Don’t eat then, love,’ a third woman says. ‘Give it to us.’ Rebecca slides her tray across, and the three women share it between them. ‘What are you in for?’ The one with matted hair asks. Rebecca shakes her head.

Long Bay 210 ‘Doesn’t speak either,’ the one-eyed woman says. Rebecca’s three cellmates ignore her then and go back to eating, scraping their bowls clean and leaving them beside the heavy iron door for the guards to collect in the morning. The room grows dimmer by the minute, but Rebecca can hear the scurrying sound of roaches and rats, and the muttering of the others in their pallets. She pulls the stiff woollen blanket over her, lies down on the straw- stuffed mattress and bites the inside of her cheek until she tastes the tang of her own blood. It is all she will allow herself for her hunger. She lies fully dressed beneath the blanket, her gaol cap and shoes on the floor beside her. There is an awful keening from another cell, muffled by the high walls. Rebecca clenches her fists to stop herself from joining in. She will not close her eyes, for all she will see is blood. Through the night, Rebecca relives every moment of the procedure, thrashing and moaning in the crowded room. In the morning, her eyes ache but she is hungry enough to eat the cold, grey porridge. Breakfast and lunch are outside in the narrow, triangular exercise yard, at long wooden benches under a canvas awning where they sit in silence. Other prisoners carry the bowls and Rebecca feels oddly envious of their responsibility, their small inclusion. Walking over, the woman with the matted hair gives her a stare that is almost tender. ‘You get used to it,’ she says. ‘I’ve been here two month. Soliciting, the coppers said. I didn’t have enough to bribe them and that’s why they brought me in.’ Rebecca scrapes the last spoonful of porridge into her mouth, forcing herself to swallow. There are streaks of blood on her arms and legs where she scratched the bedbugs in the night. ‘When do they let us bathe?’ She asks the woman beside her at the table. ‘Once a week they take you one by one to the bathing room. I wouldn’t be looking forward to it, if I were you. It’s the guards you have to watch out for, when you’re on your own.’ ‘Is that true?’ Rebecca looks to the others. ‘We’ve all had it ’appen.’ The one-eyed woman says. ‘And no use complaining either. They’ll just say – what would a guard want with a slattern like you?’

211 Long Bay After breakfast they go to the chapel for morning service. To get to the chapel, they return to the women’s cellblock and then up the staircase to the third storey. They then cross a narrow bridge that leads to the balcony of the chapel, so that they do not enter from the same door as the men. The women sit in the balcony of the chapel and the men beneath. As the women shuffle in, men in the front pews turn their heads to watch; there are a few who wave and nod. The guards stand watching carefully. No speaking is allowed. The chapel has a dome-shaped ceiling with glass that lets the light in at the apex, and then behind the pulpit are three panels of stained glass: bright yellows and reds, purples and blues. The panels seem to portray Jesus, wearing a robe and sandals and embracing a man. On the ground is a lamb, and there are words about repentance above. Is it so simple, Rebecca wonders; would it only take repentance to be saved? She looks down at the main chapel floor, which has pews arranged in a semicircle around the pulpit. As the clergyman enters she spies Don in a far pew by the entrance. He looks thinner and older than yesterday. He wears the prison uniform. His skin is grey and he is probably desperate for a drink. She leans back into her seat so that she will not be in his sightline, but it is unnecessary, because during the prayer service there is not a single instance when he looks up. The service closes with a hymn, ‘Abide With Me’, the high voices of the women rising above those of the men. Abide with me; fast falls the eventide; The darkness deepens; Lord with me abide. When other helpers fail and comforts flee, Help of the helpless, O abide with me. They walk the narrow bridge again back to their cells, where the women are each given a long bundle of seagrass to weave into mats. The strands prick their fingers and cause the skin to split and bleed. The woman in the pallet beside her, the one with the matted hair, shows Rebecca how to braid the strands, then how to coil and knot the braids. Her fingers fall quickly into the rhythm and her mind welcomes the opportunity to focus on something. A set of keys outside the cell door interrupts them before

Long Bay 212 lunchtime. A whiskered, plump guard opens it. ‘Rebecca Sinclair,’ he calls, wrinkling his nose at the smell of the foetid room. ‘You’ll be coming with me, then.’ The one-eyed woman cackles, ‘They always like a fresh ’un.’ Her legs feel as though they are bolted to the floor, and her breath comes so fast she is certain the other occupants of her tiny cell can hear it. ‘Get moving, you, we haven’t got all day!’ Rebecca stands and walks towards the door, dragging her feet. The other women look at the floor. The guard takes hold of her arm in a tight grasp. ‘Right this way’. He smells of bacon grease and tobacco smoke, and his trousers make a swishing sound as they rub together. He carries a parcel wrapped in brown paper. They walk down the long corridor to the stairwell and Rebecca wonders how she might fight. Whether they hurt you more if you try. The guard unlocks the heavy door to the outside and grunts as he pushes it open. The bright daylight shows the wrinkles of the dress she has slept in, the rough uncombed tangle of her hair. He leads her into a narrow passageway between buildings where she smells bread baking, a warm smell for such a bleak place. Her arms are rigid with fear as he leads her through a yard that goes to the interior wall of the gaol. Then down a narrow set of stairs, at the bottom of which a locked gate stands. Setting down the package, he unlocks it. It opens into darkness – a tunnel that leads beneath the ground. Is this where, she wonders. She thinks of John in the laneway all those years ago. A lifetime ago. She is not so foolish now. The guard pauses to light a small kerosene lamp, casting an orange glow. The walls are simply dirt and smell of clay and iron, the smells that would choke her if she were buried alive.

213 Long Bay Chapter 31

They walk slowly, his grasp on her arm firm. They cannot walk side-by-side so he pushes her in front of him, holding the lamp in his other hand, the parcel beneath his arm. The lamp lets off more smoke than light in this airless place, and she is aware of loose stones and bits of broken clay underfoot. She has been staring at the ground, but when she looks up she sees a steep staircase before her and another gate, which the guard unlocks, extinguishing the lamp with a single breath. They are in a strange corridor inside a building. There are muffled voices and rhythmic pounding behind a door. Fear tightens her throat. The guard opens this door and Rebecca finds herself in a room crowded with people waiting in chairs and standing in a long queue in front of a desk. Her shoulders sink in relief. It is the police station: Darlinghurst Police Station. The pounding is the sound of a police officer stamping forms. The guard points to the queue. ‘You’ll need to wait there to sign some forms. Someone’s paid your bail and you’re free to go, as long as you show for your trial when it’s called.’ He gives her the parcel. ‘Them’s your clothes and things. They’ll show you a room to change in and give them your gaol clothes for the laundry. Unless you want to keep them for when you return.’ He winks, grinning at his own joke. She blinks. Is it really that simple – one moment she is in and the next out? Before she can thank him he is gone and Rebecca feels a touch on her back, then two firm hands grasping hers. ‘You are in a world of strife. Come, let’s get you changed and out of here, before I punch some copper in the nose.’ It is her brother Louis, taller and broader than she remembers him, with hair that curls over his collar and a scarred chin. Rebecca bursts into tears at the sight of him. ‘There, now sis. Don’t cry. I’ll take you to Amy’s. You can have a bath and a cup of tea. You look as though you need both. Nellie’s there with ma, and she’s fine. What with Uncle Lou and Granny, she’s hardly noticed you’re away.’ Rebecca changes in a small room and then stands in the queue to sign the forms, promising to return for court, while Louis fetches his cart. It is there she

Long Bay 214 sees that it has cost him and Amy’s husband John Wiley 250 pounds each to put up her bail. She shivers. Just what she does not need: to be beholden to Amy’s husband. In the cart, once she has changed into her own dress, still stained with Lucy Smith’s blood, she thanks her brother. ‘How can I ever pay you back?’ ‘You don’t, Bec. We get the money back when you show for your court case. It’s a surety. It’s a guarantee you’re not going to do a runner.’ ‘But why so much?’ ‘You’re up for murder. I don’t know what sort of nonsense Don had you wrapped up in but a woman’s dead. It’s in all the papers. No one’s going to let you off lightly, sis.’ Louis looks at her as he says this, the reins in his hands, his back stiff and straight. His suit fits well and he looks as though he has done all right for himself at sea. ‘Does Amy know we’re coming?’ ‘We’ve spoken. Ma and Fred weren’t willing and I haven’t got a regular place. Amy wanted to. She convinced John to put up the bail as well. You’re not still quarrelling with her, are you?’ ‘No. We never quarrelled.’ She pulls her hat low over her eyes and lets a few tears of self pity trail down her cheeks. This is only going to be a short reprieve from that dreadful place. She is bound to be sent back. Amy lives in Randwick. John Wiley built their house and they have children, three of them, Lou tells her on the drive. Rebecca wants so much to see Nell but dreads the thought of John Wiley. She is tempted to leap from the cart and run off, anything to push back the past. But her daughter is there, and Lizzie as well, and Louis spent every penny he had to let her free for a few weeks, to bring her to her family. They pull up outside a sturdy, brick two-storey house on Battery Street. It is on the high side of the street and it gets the winter sun. They climb the steps and then there is green lawn and a wide verandah where her sister Amy stands. Amy with her light eyes and clear skin, her high cheekbones. Her sister clutches her. ‘Bec.’

215 Long Bay ‘Don’t get too close,’ Rebecca says. ‘I need a hot bath. I’m a mess.’ Amy backs away, her face crumpling, ‘I just can’t bear it, what they’ve done. It’s all his fault.’ She leads Rebecca inside and there, in Lizzie’s lap on the couch, is Nellie. Rebecca kneels down and Nellie reaches out her arms. To feel that small, warm body again is the only thing that matters. ‘Mama,’ Nellie says, and puts her hands on Rebecca’s face. ‘Ing?’ ‘Not here, later,’ she whispers, and stands. She sees anger in the set of Lizzie’s eyebrows, the way they make a straight line across her forehead. Louis notices the same. ‘There’ll be time for explanations later. Let her bathe and rest. Amy, did you say that Bec could have one of the spare rooms?’ She squeezes her brother’s hand gratefully and follows Amy up the stairs. Her sister is wide-hipped now, three children and a fourth on the way, but there is always plenty of work for John, she explains, with the suburbs expanding and his business going well. Rebecca is glad he is not home, but knows that she will have to face him soon. Her room is beside the nursery; there is a bed with a clean white coverlet and, if she likes, a crib can be brought in for Nellie. ‘Ma thinks,’ Amy says in a low voice, ‘that Nellie ought to stay with her, rather than grow used to you again when you might be taken away. I think you ought to be allowed to spend this time with her, though. We’ll speak to ma later.’ Rebecca puts her small case on the floor and looks at the room – its thick carpet with polished floorboards beneath, the sparkling glass on the windows. ‘I don’t deserve anything,’ she says. ‘Why are you being so kind?’ Amy shakes her head. ‘Hush. I’ll show you where to bathe.’ Rebecca lays her head against the rim of the claw-foot tub, the steam billowing around her. She has scrubbed her skin raw and dunked her head, and her hair sticks to her now in dark tendrils. That moment when the tube slipped, when the air got in – that was bound to come. Nurse Sinclair had women die on her hands several times, but she always wormed herself free. Will she do the same for her son? Rebecca holds her breath and bends her knees to go underwater again, feeling water enter her ears, her nostrils, opening her eyes. The water is murky, the sides of the tub a greyish white. Her hands as she holds them

Long Bay 216 in front of her face are pink and scrubbed, wrinkled at the fingertips. There is no dirt beneath her nails. As many baths as she takes now, though – as long as she soaks, as hard as she washes – some things will never scrub free. She is helping set the table for dinner when she hears him come through the front door. Amy rushes out of the kitchen to greet him, and she hears her sister gather the children in the hall. She peers round the door of the dining room. They stand in an orderly queue, youngest to eldest, each saying ‘Good evening father’ when it is his turn to kiss them on the cheek. ‘Everyone behave today? Nobody needs the strap?’ she hears him ask. She lifts Nellie and goes to stand beside her sister. Amy introduces them as though they are strangers. ‘John, my sister, Rebecca. And you have met little Nell.’ John smiles stiffly. ‘I hope you find the house comfortable?’ ‘I am much obliged to you.’ ‘Yes, well, I imagine anything is comfortable compared to where you’ve been. I’m starved, is dinner ready?’ Amy nods. ‘Right, better than prison gruel I hope for your dear sis. Let’s eat.’ They all make their way into the dining room, except Amy and Rebecca, who gather the dishes from the kitchen. It is evident that John will enjoy holding this over her. ‘Don’t mind him,’ Amy whispers. ‘Simply don’t respond. Let it wash over you. Pretend it doesn’t matter.’ ‘I am sorry,’ Rebecca says, touching her sister’s arm. Amy puts the dish of beef down on the bench again and hugs her. ‘Don’t be. It’s not your fault. It’s good to have you here.’

It is Sunday, the day is warm and the cousins are playing with Nellie inside. Rebecca sits on the verandah listening to their shrieks of delight and the sound of their footsteps running through the house. Nellie is their doll; they argue over who can hold her hand, who will brush her hair, who will feed her biscuits from the tin. Rebecca sits in a wicker chair, Amy’s mending basket at her feet, glad that

217 Long Bay she can be of use to her sister. John is at church still, where they all have been that morning. He is on the board of a church committee. Naturally, he is a deeply religious man. There is a date for the trial now in two weeks, and she tries to spend every moment with Nell. The house is their sanctuary when John is not there, but the moment he arrives home from work, there is no place she can hide. When the children are in bed he asks after Don, lecturing her, blaming Lizzie for not raising her daughters properly and not teaching them right from wrong. At night she sleeps with a knife beneath her pillow, but she has not had to use it. Sometimes she feels as though the years of her life with Don are not real – they are something she read, snatches of a dream. She sits, the needle in her fingers familiar, her mind able to wander when her hands are busy. On the sloped lawn are two magpies pulling up worms. Every so often they hop closer and watch her, tilting their heads to show a bead-black eye. Then they move away, towards one another, as though together they are safe. Rebecca once would have assumed them to be lovers, a male and female bird, but now she imagines a mother and daughter – the mother the slightly larger one who flattens her head and runs at the other birds threatening their grassy patch, and the daughter the one with glossy wings that shine like a wet stone in the sun’s light. Inside, a kettle whistles and down the street there is a whistling sound as well, a man walking up the narrow footpath. He is far away but there is something in his walk, a looseness that she knows. The hat, the hands in pockets. He comes closer and looks at the numbers on the houses he passes. She can smell him already: the sweat-damp wool, the scent he always wears, the grog on his breath. He stands outside the gate, taking his hat off, squinting. He grins. His cheeks are red, his moustache and whiskers gone. He opens the gate and ambles up the path, as though he has every right. When he reaches the steps to the verandah he speaks. ‘Been waiting long?’ She puts the piece of mending in her lap. ‘Not for you.’ ‘Becca, Bec.’ He walks up and leans against the railing, his legs crossed. He studies her for a moment. His eyes are bloodshot.

Long Bay 218 ‘Did Ellen post your bail?’ she says, picking up the sock she was darning, piercing the needle through the looped wool. ‘Yes. Wasn’t very happy about it, though.’ ‘I imagine she blames me.’ ‘You’d imagine correct.’ He plays with the brim of his hat. ‘I don’t think we have much to say to each other, now,’ she says. His hair sticks out at odd angles. It is not like him to be so unkempt. He lifts himself then to sit on the railing and it creaks with his weight. The magpies get a fright and flap into the neighbour’s tree. He kicks his boot heels against the posts and scratches his cheek. ‘Will you go for a walk with me Bec?’ She shakes her head. His face collapses then in a strange way and his lips become loose, misshapen. What is wrong with him, she thinks, and then – oh – he’s crying. She has never seen him cry. His chest heaves; he looks as though he might tumble backwards over the verandah and she wonders what sound he would make, falling. ‘I’ve been thinking of Isla,’ he says, his face wet, ‘and when I told you about her, it wasn’t all true.’ It takes Rebecca a moment to remember who Isla is – his sister, the one he spoke of the day of their picnic at Centennial Park. She thinks of those apricots and the golden beer, the tickle in her throat. Why Isla? Why among all of his lies is this the one he wants to clear up? ‘What’s the truth then?’ Don shakes his head. ‘Ma didn’t get rid of her, I did. See, she came here, and we set up house but she had a man who was sweet on her, a fellow who worked at the coal factory. Ma didn’t mind but I was jealous; she had always been just mine. I spied on her and caught them in bed together. Her calling out; him grunting over her like a pig. I ran down and told ma. She and Isla argued. She told Isla to leave. I always thought she’d come back. I never thought she’d be gone forever.’ He sobs. ‘What’s wrong with me, Bec? Why do I chase them off? First Isla, then Zara, then you. Only girls I ever loved.’ He pushes himself off the railing and

219 Long Bay kneels in front of her, placing his head on her lap, so she sees the white scalp beneath, the pink shells of his ears. How she wants to touch him, then, to touch his head, the curve of his shell-ears, to hold him to her breast. How easy would it be to comfort him, she thinks, but what comfort would it bring her? She is finished with giving away parts of herself. What remains she needs. There is a thump against the screen door then and she sees Nellie, holding the hand of her older cousin, standing behind the screen. Don has not heard, but Nellie and her cousin look at this man with his head in her lap, weeping into her skirt. Rebecca pushes him off her lap, stands, and goes inside. Shushing the children, she closes and locks the front door. She watches through the window as he gathers his hat, brushes off his jacket, sets his face and walks away. She watches the small flask he takes from his jacket, the way he tips it to his lips and runs his tongue around its rim. Amy calls from the kitchen. ‘Is someone here? Did I hear voices?’ ‘Just one of those pedlars. I told him we didn’t need any soap.’ Rebecca says, and swings Nellie onto her hip, tickling her at the waist so she giggles. The next time Rebecca glances out the window again he is gone, and the magpies are back on the steep lawn, poking their beaks into the soft wet earth.

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221 Long Bay Chapter 32

They leave early enough to see the light cast pink and orange hues between the houses, to hear cocks crow. A woman in bare feet spills a bucket of wash water onto the road. Nellie is still asleep when they leave; Rebecca brushes the dark hair off her brow and kisses her on the temple where the skin is thinnest. In the cart, she inhales the smells of woodstoves being lit and the hay-rich dung of horses as they ride past the stables and racecourse. She sets her jaw and tries to think of anything but the child she is leaving. They pass people in rags sleeping in doorways beneath piles of newsprint. It is June, cold to spend the night outdoors, and Rebecca thinks of Violet. Amy and Louis know nothing of her whereabouts and Rebecca has not seen or heard from her since Don returned from prison the last time. She shivers, hoping her sister is still alive, remembering the marks on her palms, the signs of syphilis. Louis drives the cart in silence. He has a fine pair of horses: a gelding and a speckled mare. The horses turn when he pulls their reins into the sweeping circular drive of the Darlinghurst Courthouse. Rebecca was instructed to meet a police officer at the courthouse three hours before the trial is due to begin. ‘We’ll be in the gallery, watching,’ Louis says, helping her down from the cart. Rebecca wears a sombre black calico that she has hemmed, washed and ironed, with a crocheted cream morning wrapper over her shoulders. She wears her black hat with the ostrich feather and the artificial white rose. She wishes for a cup of strong tea to settle her queasy stomach, and her hands shake as she takes her brother’s larger hand between her own and stands on her toes to kiss his cheek. ‘I am so grateful for everything you’ve done.’ ‘Hush. I’ll take you in. It’s hardly the time for speeches, is it?’ Louis takes her elbow and they walk inside. There is no one at the desk and the courtrooms are locked and presumably empty. He checks his pocket watch to see if they are early. ‘The officer said seven o’clock, though why they need you here at this hour is a mystery.’

Long Bay 222 Behind the courthouse is the gaol, and across the street the police station, the very same one where she reported Don for bigamy. ‘We can always go over to the station – I’m sure they will take me from there,’ Rebecca says, thinking of the tunnel she travelled. Her thoughts are interrupted by the sound of footfalls on the stone steps outside and an officer enters, taking off his hat and then shaking Louis’ hand. He does not so much as look at her, and she is relieved that he is not an officer she recognises. There are forms for Louis to fill out to receive a refund for the bail payments he made, now that the prisoner is safely returned, and while he is led to a room with a desk the officer unlocks a pair of steel handcuffs from his belt. ‘Just a precaution, Mrs Sinclair. We’re going to take you to the cells beneath the courthouse.’ Rebecca holds out her wrists and the cold hard bracelets click on. The cuffs feel loose and heavy around her narrow wrists. Her arms dangle in front of her body. ‘This way.’ The officer leads her through an empty courtroom, at the centre of which is a fenced-in area. He unlocks the door to it. ‘This is where you will sit during the case.’ There are three chairs in front of a table. To the side of that, within the fenced area, is a stairwell, a narrow one with a low roof so she must duck her head to avoid hitting it. The stairs lead down into a dark, damp- smelling corridor. The officer pulls a chain hanging from the ceiling and a dim light flicks on. She blinks, taking in her surroundings. There are two cells. The officer unlocks one with the keys that hangs from his belt. The cells are merely cages of bars set beside one another with a wall behind and no other privacy. Each is no larger than five feet square, with a pallet much like the ones in Darlinghurst gaol. It is chilly and the wall behind is mossy – there is not a blanket on the pallet or a window to the outside. ‘You’ll wait here until your case is called,’ the officer says. ‘I’ll bring tea in a bit.’ He lifts her wrists and unlocks her handcuffs, reattaching them to his belt. He stands there, waiting for Rebecca to enter the cage. When she does, she turns to look directly at him as he shuts the door and locks it again. He glances at her but then looks away, doing his best to avoid her gaze, as though it will taint him.

223 Long Bay ‘May I say goodbye to my brother?’ she asks, before he disappears with his jangling belt of keys. ‘He would not be allowed down here,’ he says. ‘Will I pass on a message?’ ‘Tell him I’m fine,’ Rebecca says, grasping the bars, feeling the metal against her forehead. ‘Tell him it is quite comfortable here, I have everything I could wish for.’ The officer looks at her again then, into her eyes, probably to see if he spies madness in the weak light. She looks away first. ‘I’ll see if I can find you a blanket,’ he says, as he turns to climb the narrow stairwell. ‘It is bloody cold.’ Rebecca sits on the pallet and hugs her knees to her chest. Her mouth tastes chalky. Somewhere, water drips in a distant corridor and the sound echoes off the stone walls. There is the smell of mould and sewage, the absence of fresh air, and that familiar clay and iron smell from the tunnel. She thinks about what life must be like for people who work in the earth, those men who mine coal and spend their lives in these dark, damp places. She thinks of sunlight, how it might, upstairs, be just breaking through clouds as Louis drives his cart back to Randwick, having finished his grim task. He will come back later in the morning for the court case. He will bring Amy – John would love to come, she is certain, but he has to work – and Lizzie will stay home to look after the children. Rebecca’s family will sit in that courtroom and watch her be led up into the cage. They will listen to all of the horrible things she has done. She did them with Don, for Don, but he did not force her hand. She buries her head into the fabric of her skirt. Her own breath is amplified and she can hear her heart beat. How can a body survive so much and die from something so tiny, so harmless as a mere bubble of air? There are footsteps on the staircase again. She is comforted by the anticipation of the blanket and tea. She feels faintly nauseous, perhaps from hunger. But looking up, straining her eyes down the corridor she can see two figures and hear two sets of feet. Then she smells it – the scent he wears, the drink he required to steady himself this morning.

Long Bay 224 ‘Your husband’s here, Mrs Sinclair. Afraid I can’t let you share a cell, though. That sort of thing’s not allowed here.’ The same officer smirks as he unlocks the door to the cage beside hers. Don nods at her. ‘Hello love,’ he says, and the officer shoves him into his cell with an edge of force. ‘Fancy meeting you here.’ He is drunk again – she can hear it in his voice – and she studies the wall rather than look at him. She knows that his high white collar will be pressed and his hair perfectly styled. He will be pressed against the shared bars of their cells, watching her. ‘You’ll have plenty of time to make up. The case has been postponed til eleven,’ the officer says, his voice echoing off the walls. ‘Your solicitor will visit shortly.’ ‘I don’t need anyone to defend me, I’m innocent,’ Don says, the sound of his piss in a pot filling the space. Rebecca covers her nose and mouth with her skirt so that the smell will not overpower her. ‘Well, we send one anyway, so perhaps your wife will take advantage of his services.’ The officer disappears back up the stairs and Don belches, buttoning his trousers and sprawling across his pallet as though it is covered with cushions of duck down. ‘Did you work your charms on him, Bec? Did you give him a little kiss to see if he’d set you free?’ ‘Shut your trap, Don. I don’t want to hear your voice again for as long as I live.’ ‘I’m afraid you’re stuck with me sweetheart. We might even swing together, like real lovebirds. You and me, his and hers nooses. What colour rope do you fancy?’ Rebecca does not reply, just pulls at a loose thread from the hem of her dress. She thinks of the slippers she bought herself in Woollahra – the fine little house slippers – the delusions of grandeur she held for herself. They were delicate satin things; how she wishes she had kept them to pass on to Nellie. A girl needs something to remember her mother by – a locket, a strand of plaited hair. Don begins singing in the cell beside hers, as though he can read her mind:

225 Long Bay If I had money I’d buy you All the things you needed, Satins and furs, strings of pearls, Dresses richly beaded.

If I had money I’d take you Far from New South Wales. This is why my heart dies With every ship that sails.

If I had money I’d buy you A house and coach and four, But I’ve no money and you know I will die very poor.

Rebecca thinks of Nellie’s face, of her mouth when she sleeps. She thinks of Don’s body pressing hers against the sun-warmed bricks of her childhood home, the feel of blue silk billowing behind her on the skating rink. She thinks of the kiss outside the dunny after Amy’s wedding, whether that has changed the course of her life. She was a girl then. She blamed herself wholly. There was so much she had to learn. The way blood can blossom, the feel of a woman’s insides. She clenches her fists. Her father in a coffin. Her sisters. Was there a funeral for the woman she killed? Did her children wear black? Did they understand? As they lowered her into the ground, did her children feel the earth’s pull, the eternity of a mother’s love?

The solicitor, JW Anderson, is with them. He arrived an hour before, a balding, red-whiskered man with a tailored suit which hangs from his tall, loose-limbed frame. They have met – he represented Don in the bigamy case. This time Don shakes his head. ‘I’ll speak to my own defence.’ The rum is wearing off and he is despondent.

Long Bay 226 Mr Anderson tries to dissuade him, but Don is stubborn as ever. ‘It’s a jury,’ he says, ‘they’ll feel sorry for me. They’ll realise what a mistake it is that I am being held.’ Mr Anderson turns his back to Don then and puts his hands on the bars to Rebecca’s cell. ‘What about you – do you see the sense in allowing me to defend you?’ Rebecca sits on her pallet still, her hands crushed in her lap. ‘I want to be free, I want to look after my child,’ she says. ‘I would not dream of refusing any assistance now.’ Mr Anderson smiles and pulls at his drooping moustache. A murder trial is time-consuming. It could mean a great deal of money. ‘Right, let’s begin from the beginning then,’ he says, pulling out his notebook, resting his back against the sandstone wall across from the cell. ‘Tell me what brought you here.’ Now he follows behind her as the guard leads her up the narrow staircase and into the overflowing courtroom. She is behind Don and another guard, and she focuses on the dark hair curling over Don’s collar, the red rims of his ears, the whiteness of his collar. When he takes the stand she has no idea what he will say. They are visible to the crowd now and Rebecca hears the buzz turn to roar. Someone shouts ‘Murderer!’, another ‘Whore!’ Mr Anderson told her to keep her eyes downcast, saying it would help her appear modest rather than brazen. ‘I will portray you as innocent and young,’ he says, ‘so your way of holding yourself must at all times communicate this.’ They are given chairs at a long table within the caged area – the dock. Behind them at a long table sits the bar – their barrister and the barrister who will present the case of manslaughter against them. He introduces himself as Mr Mant. Rebecca’s body feels rigid with terror; she does not dare look backwards at the gallery. Instead she looks up, where electric lights hang suspended in glass globes connected by an X-shaped fixture, so that each fixture holds four glass globes. All of the benches and furniture and dividers are of dark, polished timber and there is a dyed wool carpet on the floor.

227 Long Bay To her left sit the jurors in the jury box, all twelve of them men, all of them watching her carefully. The bailiff enters the room. ‘All rise. Hear ye, hear ye, the Central Criminal Court for the Supreme Court of NSW is in session, the Honourable Acting Justice Francis Edward Rogers presiding. All having business before this honourable court draw near, give attention, and you shall be heard.’ The judge walks in from separate chambers. He wears a long, black robe over a white, collared shirt with a white cravat, a red sash over one shoulder tucked into his belt and a long white wool wig with flaps that descend over the ears to rest on his shoulders. His whiskers are darker than the wig and trimmed into a small beard, and behind silver-framed spectacles Rebecca can see that his eyes are the brightest shade of blue. He sits at the magistrate’s bench in the front of the room. ‘You may be seated,’ the bailiff calls to the courtroom. Justice Rogers thumps his gavel. Silence falls. The trial goes on for many hours. Donald is called to the stand. He says he was merely in the kitchen the entire time, helping the hired girl hang a shelf. Then he heard his wife call and ran to the front room, where he saw Rebecca supporting a woman who was sitting in a chair. The woman had fainted, he said, so he got a quilt and spread it on the couch and they laid the woman down. They loosened her clothing and put smelling salts to her nose and gave her brandy. When she did not come to, they called the doctor. He says that Rebecca worked with women to be confined under a head nurse, and that was the reason for the other boarder in the house. He says that he had never seen Lucy Smith before, and he was not aware that she was going to be a patient. He looks as though he believes his own words. He has always been such a good liar. Don is excused and led back into the cage. He sits at the table beside her, hands behind his head, legs sprawled before him. She shifts her chair away. Rebecca is called to give a statement from the dock. Her words are so quiet that Mr Abigail repeats them to the judge and jury.

Long Bay 228 ‘I am twenty-three years of age,’ she says. ‘I am innocent of this awful charge. I have a little baby girl.’ The tears overwhelm her and she is unable to speak for a moment. ‘I have been married for four years. I have always tried to assist my husband, by taking in confinement cases and dressmaking. This is the first time I have been in trouble. I know nothing of this poor, unfortunate woman, beyond what I told the police and the doctor. I have nothing more to say.’ Rebecca is led to her seat. She cradles her face in her hands. Isabel, the servant girl, is called to the stand. Her hair hangs lankly over her eyes. She says that she was only at the house for a few days when the woman died. She says she thought the women were just boarders, and it was not her job to clean their rooms or deal with them, just to work downstairs and look after the child. She says she was hanging a shelf with Don when Rebecca called out for water. She says she saw him take hot water in a dipper, put Epsom salts in it, and carry it to the top of the stairs. ‘For fuck’s sake,’ Don curses beneath his breath. There goes his story. Rebecca wants to kiss Isabel. She feels guilty for having been short with the girl. The Government Medical Officer, Dr Palmer, gives evidence saying that the rupture that happened brought air into the veins that travelled to Mrs Smith’s heart. He insists that the woman could not have had the procedure done in one establishment and travel to Mr and Mrs Sinclair’s house before dying. ‘Such a rupture would cause death more instantaneously than a bullet in the heart,’ Dr Palmer says. ‘There are cases where men have been known to walk and talk after receiving a bullet in the heart,’ Justice Rogers says. ‘Yes, but I have never known a woman to walk or talk after a rupture of this character. In a paroxysm of pain she might shout out something, or in dying fall out of bed, but that is all.’ There is a short recess and Rebecca turns. She sees Ellen, watching her boy. She sees Louis and Amy, sitting together in the gallery. Amy is holding her

229 Long Bay stomach, for she is very pregnant now, and she must be weary sitting on that hard wooden bench. Rebecca turns to face forwards again. Another wave of nausea grips at her gut. She counts back the weeks. Seeing her sister makes it clear. It is not fear, but life that has planted itself within her. She would not dream of telling Don. This will be her secret for as long as she can keep it.

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She wakes in a different room. Hands to her stomach. Grabs at the loose skin and cries out. ‘My baby!’ She sits up and tries to swing her legs out of the bed, but her leg catches and jerks. Ah the iron. Still chained. A nurse comes, holding a long, thin needle. Snatches of the past day return. ‘Sorry sister, I forgot where I was,’ Rebecca says. ‘I don’t need that.’ ‘You haven’t got pain?’ ‘No, but my baby. Did it live?’ The sister picks up the board that hangs at the end of the bed, the scrawled notes. ‘Mrs Sinclair?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘I’m Sister O’Donoghue. Your little girl is in the nursery. Would you like me to bring her?’ She falls against the pillow. Relief. A girl; she is glad of it. Don always wished for a boy. Best he never know. She nods to the sister, looking around for the first time at the different ward. Mothers and babies. There are women holding bundles, small cries and hiccups. The nurse comes closer. ‘I know they would have brought this up with you before,’ she says, ‘but you have considered adoption? The place you will be returning to is grim for a wee child.’ ‘I haven’t decided, but I’d like to see her. Please.’ Sister O’Donoghue clicks off and returns with a tightly wrapped bundle. Rebecca sits up against some pillows, holding her arms out. A little face watches her within white swaddling. Dark, clever eyes and a wide mouth. The girl blinks and opens her mouth to a pink O. Rebecca gives her a finger to suck, using her other hand to undo the clasp on her nightdress. ‘There is no need to nurse her, Mrs Sinclair, if you wish to give her up. We have an abundance of artificial milk in the nursery and they will give her a bottle.’

Long Bay 232 ‘She won’t be needing that, Sister.’ Rebecca loosens the swaddle to free small, milk-skinned arms. She watches the perfect tiny hands and curved fingernails as her daughter feeds. There is a pull in her gut as the milk comes. Like an aftershock, a small reverberation. She does not mind it, though – everything has already shattered. A name comes to her during that first suckling, as natural as the baby’s hand against the freckled skin beneath her neck. Freda Hope McDowell. Freda for how it sounds, freedom. Hope for what she needs. McDowell for a fresh start. There will be no more Sinclair. Freda shuts her eyes drowsily, purses her mouth and falls asleep with her cheek against Rebecca’s breast. Sister O’Donoghue’s short, wide shape appears in the doorway and her brisk skirts rustle all the way to the end of the room, the last bed. ‘I can take her to the nursery now, if she’s finished,’ she says, not unkindly. ‘I’ll bring her back after tea.’ The moment Freda is gone Rebecca’s heart grows heavy and doubtful again. Still, just that brief moment, holding Freda – feeling her small, hot cheek – it is the happiest Rebecca can remember being in a long time. Years. She expected the child to be stained with the grief of Lucy’s death, but instead she found consolation when holding her. Outside the windows are street sounds: cart wheels on cobblestone, voices, the call of a paper boy. His voice is high and reedy thin. In the bed across from her, a visiting man sits holding a bundle, looking at his child as if he will never grow sick of the sight. The swish of a mop and she looks up to see a tall, bony man pushing it around the beds, beneath the chairs. He catches her eye and tips an imaginary hat. His shoes are worn but there is lightness to his step as he almost dances around the wet patches made by the mop. The sky will grow dark again, certainly, but now it is light, outside and in. The man hums a familiar tune. It takes a moment for her to recognise it. Dreaming of Home and Mother. How Lizzie would love Freda – her long fingers, her perfect nose. How Nell would love her tiny sister. My darling Freda, she thinks, what have I done?

233 Long Bay To be born to a prisoner – the world is already set against you. She will teach her girl to be silent – to hide the shame. She will teach her to survive.

The morning comes, when Freda is two weeks old, for their return. Sister Planchett helps her dress the infant. Several other nurses and patients wish her well, but not Sister O’Donoghue. Not since Rebecca told her she is keeping Freda. ‘Plenty of mothers would love a healthy baby, and they can keep her in a far better situation,’ she said, clasping her short stubby fingers around her apron. At 11 a.m. the warder arrives: Miss Lovel, a tall, broad-shouldered woman in a drab dress. She takes Rebecca’s suitcase without looking at Rebecca holding her baby. ‘We won’t use handcuffs on the way back, so you can hold the child,’ she says in the hallway, walking towards the exit. ‘Thank you.’ ‘You be on your best behaviour.’ Outside, another Black Maria waits at the hospital entrance. They stand on the footpath for a moment. ‘This,’ she whispers to Freda, ‘is the world.’ The sun shines in a cloudless sky and the streets buzzes with life. In the park across the road, boys fly a kite, a brightly coloured thing that dives and soars on a hot breeze. The policeman comes down from the cart to open the rear doors of the cab. Rebecca turns away from him, looking up the street and then down at Freda, who cries at the bright sun or the onslaught of noise. ‘Come miss, I’ll give you a hand,’ the policeman says. She grits her teeth, holds tight to Freda, and climbs inside. The door of the cab is locked shut behind her. There is a small bench to sit on for the ride to Darlinghurst courthouse. She tries to keep Freda’s head from bouncing at the ruts and bumps in the road. She is still crying. ‘Shhh, little darling,’ Rebecca whispers. Through the high, barred window she glimpses limbs of gnarled fig trees and the muted yellow of sandstone. Her dress is damp with sweat though it is only mid-morning.

Long Bay 234 At the courthouse they unload and Miss Lovel leads them into the familiar tram car. Number 948: drab green and brown, with the words ‘No Passengers’ painted on the front. Four cells lead off a side corridor with sturdy wire mesh across the door window and a smell of sick. There are no windows to the outside from the cells, only from the long corridor. She is padlocked into cell number three. Already another woman is on board, an inebriate. Rebecca is hungry, for breakfast was only a piece of dry toast. The car begins to shift, the slow creak along tracks and hum of wire, the clunk-clunk and sway side-to-side. The cell is airless and hot. She sits on the hard slats of the wooden bench with Freda asleep on her shoulder, a wet patch beneath her mouth. She can hear the drunken woman moaning in the cell beside hers, her nails scratching against the floor. Rebecca whispers into Freda’s scalp, which still smells of the hospital talcum powder and her own milk. ‘We’re going home.’ The journey takes an hour. She no longer sees buildings through the corridor window, only sky broken by bars, and the occasional tree. The breeze blows hard and hot as though there is little to stand in its way, and it smells of sun-scorched leaves and sandy earth. The tram speeds and slows and pauses, and finally comes to a screeching halt. The window only shows a blue rectangle of sky but she knows they have arrived. She hears the great heavy wooden doors at the prison entrance creaking open for the tram to drive in. When she first arrived, she stood on her toes, face pressed against the wire to see the prison from the outside. It was an imposing entrance, how she imagined a castle would look – a tall brick entry block with turrets and chimneys and an arched gateway with lions carved into the stone above it. The bricks were dressed with blocks of stone and the windows all narrow and set with bars. The surrounding grass was brown and windblown, the landscape treeless and bleak. The prison is on a hill overlooking Botany Bay and the distant city of Sydney on the horizon. She does not stand to look out now, to press her face against the wire, because she knows that none of this has changed.

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Prisoner Rebecca Sinclair, who was removed to the Royal Hospital for Women at Paddington, on the 18th of December last for the purpose of Confinement was brought back to the Reformatory this day, she brought with her a female child 14 days old. Wm Urquhart Sr 14.1.10 The Deputy Comptroller of Prisons

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The morning bell rings before dawn. The small shelf and desk in the corner of her narrow cell are only shapes in the dim light. There is the scrape of a key unlocking the Jackson 4 padlock and the bar slides across the heavy steel door, the guard leaning in. It is Miss Lees, her favourite, who always looks as though she has dressed herself and combed her hair in the dark, without the help of a mirror. ‘Let’s see the little one.’ Rebecca sits up in her low cot, leans over and checks that Freda is still in the fruit box lined with blankets. She is asleep now, but woke often through the night. Miss Lees walks in, her cotton skirt brushing against Rebecca’s bare arm, leans over Freda, and tickles a cheek. ‘Sweet as toffee, isn’t she?’ Rebecca yawns behind an open palm and nods. ‘You haven’t missed much while you’ve been away. Usual crop of whores and drunkards come and gone. Was it awful?’ Miss Lees is one of those women who could be twenty or forty; it is impossible to tell. She is a spinster, but Rebecca does not know whether it is by choice or necessity. She is the sort of handsome woman who makes no effort with her appearance, and who walks and speaks and carries things as easily as if she were a man. There are whispers of some of the female warders lying together as a man and a woman might, but Rebecca does not know whether there is any truth in it. ‘I don’t know. I was hardly awake, as they gave me ether. It was like a dream, but I have Freda, so it must have been real.’ There is banging against the doors of other cells then, the noise of other prisoners waiting to be let out. Miss Lees backs away from Freda, clutching the ring of keys. ‘The first month you are excused from drills and work. You’ll want to take her outside for fresh air, though – a guard will chaperone you twice a day. And to the library, and chapel. Otherwise best for you both to catch up on your rest.’ ‘Thank you.’

Long Bay 238 ‘Oh, and I meant to tell you, the doctor will be coming to examine you both today.’ Rebecca waits for Miss Lees to leave the narrow door and lock her back into the cell before pulling off her blanket to stand. The walls feel so close, after that long, airy hospital room which flooded with light in the morning and late afternoon. Normally she hurries to dress, to pull on the rough calico frock and apron and cap. But now she sits in her nightdress, her legs folded beneath her, watching Freda’s chest rise and fall. Her daughter’s lips are parted, dry and cracked in the corners. She can hear the other prisoners lining up outside their cells, Miss Lees’ contralto voice instructing them to stand tall and quick march their way into the yard – any lip and there will be no sugar with tea. She almost wishes she could join them. Out there, at least, is something to do to keep herself from going slowly mad. Before Freda, her schedule was this: 5am-6am: wake and bathe 6am-7am: drills in the yard 7am-8am: breakfast 8am-11am: work 11am-12pm: lunch 12pm-3pm: work 3pm-4pm: drills in the yard 4pm-5pm: dinner 5pm-8pm: cells with lights allowed for reading and study 8pm: lights out

On her very first day of drills, Rebecca stumbled over her own feet, trying to keep up with instructions. A thin-faced, yellow-haired woman behind her muttered something about putting donkeys in with the horses. ‘I could eat a horse. When’s breakfast?’ she had replied, and the woman laughed, not bothering to stifle the sound with her hand but letting it echo off the high stone walls. ‘What will your first meal be when you’re free?’ she asked.

239 Long Bay And before Rebecca could answer, the woman said, ‘Roast beef with gravy, that will be mine. And potatoes boiled and buttered and trifle for dessert. Swimming in cream.’ She was in for gingering, the woman said. Her name was Annie. A customer was rude so she lifted his wallet from his trousers while he slept. How was she to know his brother was a john? Annie worked in the sewing room as well, and they sat together and were not meant to speak but they came to know in glances what the other thought. Moments in the yard, or when the warder left the sewing room, or when they stood in queues waiting, Rebecca and Annie whispered. They made light of everything – the thinness of the porridge, the width and breadth of the head warder, Miss Eagle’s, bosom. Beth, the prisoner who acted as though she ran the place. Beth who watched them through narrow eyes, and was always chewing something – a piece of tobacco, perhaps? – a chunk of her own lip? Beth now is the one who delivers Rebecca’s breakfast when the drills are over. The warder unlocks the padlocked doors and Beth wheels the trolley that carries the buckets of gruel. No one knows what she has done to get such privileges. Annie and Rebecca speculated one day that she actually served her sentence, but rather than go out in the world, chose to remain inside. Beth puts the bucket on Rebecca’s desk with a clatter that makes Freda flinch in her sleep. ‘How was your holiday?’ ‘Not bad. What’s new?’ ‘Couple new girls. Sweet things. Seen Annie yet?’ She shakes her head, eyes on Beth’s prison-issue boots. Even her boots are finer than anyone else’s. Beth makes no secret of not liking that Annie and Rebecca are friends. She does not like close connections that she cannot control. ‘That’s cause she’s in Lock Hospital. Poxy, I imagine. Her sort can’t get far without catching it.’ Beth snorts and marches off, ignoring Freda, pleased to be the bringer of bad news. Rebecca spoons up her porridge before it can grow any colder. She cannot let Annie’s situation worry her too much, she has so much else to think of. She

Long Bay 240 looks to the high window; the sky is lightening, changing from close grey to a squinting blue. Another cloudless day. Sometimes she can smell the ocean, when the southerlies blow, or in the morning when it has rained through the night. But now it is the smell of dryness – even the leaves on the gum trees outside the prison walls will be edged with brown. She wonders how the gardens are holding up, for they grow most of what they eat. All winter it was sweet potatoes – the first winter since the prison was built and that was the only crop. Sweet potato with its orange-hued earthy sweetness, boiled until it loses any texture but stringiness and mush – but even that was better than porridge so thin it flows through the gaps in her teeth. Thinking of food, Rebecca is startled by the first powerful, throaty cry. It takes her a moment to realise the source. Pushing her bucket aside, she picks up Freda from the box and sits with her in the chair, unbuttoning her dress and placing Freda’s mouth to her breast. She sits there, touching a finger to the whorls of dark hair on Freda’s scalp, watching the sky brighten through the small square above them. Her cell feels different now, with Freda to occupy her. It feels, for the first time, as though it could carry some dream of home. When the warder comes to clear her breakfast Rebecca asks for permission to visit the library. What she really wants is to visit the Lock, but there is little chance of being allowed that. She will have to wait until Annie is better. At the small library, she finds a few novelettes that she has not read, and returns with them tucked under one arm, Freda nestled into the crook of her other. The Ladies Prison Society donates the books, and at first they only allowed books encouraging self-improvement. Those who could read, though, begged for something lighter. ‘How else,’ Annie said, ‘are we meant to escape?’ Rebecca does not recall but has been told that she fainted when the sentence of three years Hard Labour for manslaughter was read out in Central Criminal Court. She woke in the cell beneath the courts with a doctor beside her. He confirmed what she already knew. She was once again with child. In August of 1909 all female prisoners from NSW were moved to the new women’s prison at Long Bay. Each woman had her own clean cell, electric light,

241 Long Bay hot and cold water, and the warders were all female. Having been at Darlinghurst, briefly, Rebecca knows enough to be grateful. Now Freda sleeps on the bed beside her while Rebecca reads. After the lunch tray is cleared, the prison doctor coughs beside the open steel door. ‘Mrs Sinclair.’ She jerks upright. She had drifted into sleep, the buttons at her dress undone. She does them up, refastening her apron, fixing her hair, conscious that he watches. ‘Sorry, Doctor. I didn’t know when to expect you.’ ‘No apology necessary. I have been sent to check up on you and the infant. This is her, I presume?’ He gestures at the bed. Freda’s eyes are open and she moves her legs. ‘Freda.’ Rebecca lifts her. ‘The nursing sisters at hospital said she was in perfect health. She hardly cries, only when she is hungry.’ Dr Williams sets his black bag on the floor. His scalp is hairless and oiled and he sports a thick moustache of grey hair on his upper lip. Beneath his eyes are pouches large enough to hold coins. He needs them, for he is paid twice the salary of other doctors for having to look after such a depraved lot. ‘Yes, so I hear. A girl. Huh. I will perform a basic examination.’ They clear the desk of books and fold a blanket on it. It is such a narrow space that they keep bumping into one another. Dr Williams instructs her to undress Freda. The air is warm and still, and he listens to her heart, looks in her mouth, beneath her knees, between her toes. Already she grows fatter. Rebecca sits on the bed. ‘Excellent health,’ he says. ‘This can be a dangerous environment for infants – beware the proclivities of the criminal classes to disease and filth. But you are a literate woman, Mrs Sinclair. Educated, to a degree, and in possession of some skills. You will do your best to avoid – ahem – the degenerate population.’ She looks at her lap. Dr Williams must know of her sentence, as it is quite an unusual one. She thinks of the doctor coming to declare Lucy dead, how he held the mirror to her mouth. What she would have given for that mirror to fog.

Long Bay 242 ‘I will keep her safe.’ ‘Excellent. Now, I will stand outside while you remove your garments except your chemise and call me when you are ready for examination. We must check that everything is healing after the birth.’ Her stomach sinks. She places Freda back in the makeshift cradle, removes her clothing and covers herself with the rough blanket. She keeps her eyes closed as he pulls it back, instructs her to bend her knees and prises her legs apart. How cold his hands are; she always kept her hands warm. Dr Williams places his fingers inside her and feels for her womb. His fingernails are long, his breath heavy – he smells of hair oil and damp wool. Then she feels a long, wooden- handled uterine curette scrape inside of her. It would be apt if it killed her, she thinks. Her own ineptitude, the irreversible mistakes. In her mind, the blood from the butcher’s floor melds with the blood on the quilt blossoming. Her eyes are shut, willing the tears away because she does not want the doctor to think her weak. He straightens and cleans his curette with a rag. He wipes his hands on the same cloth then rinses them with the pitcher and basin. She realises that he did not bother washing his hands before the examination, only after. She always used soap, before and after, and did her best to keep everything clean. Ellen drilled it into her. Not that it had done her much good. ‘You’re healing well, Mrs Sinclair. Just rest as much as possible. I’ll send up some tablets to build your vitality, keep you energised. Such a great deal of blood loss can take its toll on the weaker sex.’ She covers herself with the scratchy woollen blanket again, wishing he would take his leave. He does, without so much as another glance towards Freda. She steps into her stockings, prison dress and apron, and lifts the child, who has started to mewl like a kitten. ‘Such a lot you have to learn,’ she whispers, rocking the baby in her arms, turning in the small, dimly lit room. Freda moves her mouth, making a tiny sucking noise. Rebecca wants the companionship of the prison sewing room, to laugh with the other women at the doctor, at his stiffness, his ‘criminal classes’. She will

243 Long Bay ask to return to work early. Freda can lie in a basket at her feet. It is how it was with Nellie: she always knew the whirr of the sewing machine, the bang of the washtub, the sound of water turning to steam against a scalding-hot iron. Having a baby does not excuse the work, it only creates more. Freda has fallen asleep again, before Rebecca could feed her. She straightens her cell and begins a note to Ellen. To say that she was sorry, for she is, for pretending to be something she was not. She might not have always liked Don’s mother, but the woman’s skills are better than most doctors she has encountered. Ellen is not a benevolent woman, but she is not a criminal either. She is a professional. She did her work because women required it done, and she did it well. The words are not coming out right, though, and she crumples the precious sheet of paper. It is dangerous to begin a correspondence with Ellen, for with Ellen comes Don, and she plans to never see him again. She brushes the crumpled paper to the floor and watches Freda. Her daughter stirs and she jiggles the box, rocking her back to sleep. Is it wrong to love one child more than the other? She cannot help herself, for it is not that Freda needs her more but that she needs Freda. She needs a reason to make a new life.

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Excerpt from Logbook of the Deputy Comptroller of Prisons 14 February 1910

Subject Recommendation or explanation Disposal or direction

Prisoners in Institution: 125 Inebriates: 36 Prisoners Applications: All prisoners interviewed and requests dealt with. Female Warders Lovel & Hourigan: Officers seen and warned against imparting improper motives. Warder Hourigan may submit application for a transfer to Darlinghurst Application herewith

Prisoner Sinclair’s Infant: Cradle to be procured from Darlinghurst Write memo to Director of Labour

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When Freda is six weeks old a cradle arrives. Two men carry it between them into the cell and position it beneath the window. They take the fruit box with them as they leave, and smile at Freda, who has learned by now that a smile to another human face means she receives one in return. The cradle is made of heavy timber and set upon rockers. Carved into the wood are the initials of women who have placed their infants within it, women who have given birth as prisoners and made their infants guilty of their crime. Freda likes to be rocked in it – she is too large for the fruit box – but Rebecca never grows to appreciate the thing. The crude marks carved on its surface serve to remind her of everything that marks Freda and her, as though they are branded or tattooed, as though the past will always be visible on their skin. There is a rhythm to their days now: the sewing room, the exercise yard, planting pumpkins in the paddock behind the stable, meeting the visitors from the Ladies Prison Society. If one agrees to meet with a lady visitor, one is allowed to go to the gazebo in the centre of the prison, the outdoor courtyard which is otherwise off-limits for prisoners. In the gazebo, surrounded by gardens, grow miniature palms, staghorns, flowering plants and ferns. A cage of three canaries hangs from the ceiling, and Rebecca might sit, Freda in her arms, while a lady questions her about plans for when she leaves the prison. Above them, canaries twitter and flap against the bars of their cage. The ladies are always surprised to learn of Rebecca’s skill, and shocked to hear of her crime. She has learned to steel herself for this intake of breath and the silence that follows. She assures these ladies that, upon release, she will never return to such activities. The lady who comes most frequently to visit Rebecca is Mrs Minter and she has the most disturbing mole at the end of her nose, which quivers when there is something of which she does not approve. She speaks of Christian values and the importance of cleanliness. She does not look at Rebecca when she speaks, but at Freda, and Rebecca can see that the child is what she covets. She tells Rebecca that upon release she might be able to offer her a position as maid. It

Long Bay 248 will be difficult for her to find other work, burdened as she is with the child. Rebecca does not respond but smiles and looks down, as though overwhelmed by the generosity of the offer. But that afternoon, as the warder Miss Lees walks her back to her cell, Rebecca says she would prefer not to meet anymore with the visitors from the Ladies Prison Society. ‘Are you sure? They can make things easier for you when you get out – they’ve got influence.’ She nods, cradling Freda tight against her chest. ‘Here, I’m not unhappy,’ she says. ‘But when that lady looks down her nose at my daughter, her mole quivering, it’s all I can do not to slap her face.’ Any other warder would report these words to Miss Eagle. Any other warder would place a mark against her name in the book, but Miss Lees just looks at Rebecca and nods, pulling at the lobe of her ear with broad-knuckled, clean-scrubbed hands. ‘Best you not meet with them then,’ she says, and smiling to herself, unlocks the padlock to allow Rebecca and Freda back into their thirteen-by-seven-foot cell. ‘Why are you so kind to me,’ Rebecca blurts, before Miss Lees can shut the door. The woman looks at her and twists her mouth into a grimace. She looks out to the corridor and steps beneath the low arch into the cell. Her head remains bowed. ‘I know of your sentence, Bec, all of the warders do. Some of them think it’s scandalous but I don’t. What happened was unfortunate but the work you were doing needed to be done.’ ‘I wish I hadn’t. I didn’t know what I was doing. That woman died.’ Rebecca puts Freda into her cradle and sits on the edge of her cot. Miss Lees sits in the chair beside her. ‘Listen, if not for the work you were doing, women like me wouldn’t be here. I would’ve killed myself twenty years ago, when my father’s associate put himself inside me. I was seventeen and my mother knew the best course of action was to get rid of the pregnancy. I would never have carried a baby from that barbaric man. I would’ve thrown myself from a bridge. He forced me while in my house, while my parents were having a dinner party, and my own father never

249 Long Bay believed my word against his. I was a virgin, Becca. I haven’t been with a man since. I swore afterwards I never would.’ Miss Lees shakes her head. ‘It was terrible what happened, but you cannot spend the rest of your life caning yourself for it. It was an accident, a mistake. If that woman who died didn’t come to you she would have gone elsewhere to do it, she might have done it herself, and the chances are just as high she would have died. What’s necessary is for it to be done cleanly, in hospital – a proper operation. That’s what will happen when we’re a civilised society. You can’t make a woman have a baby she doesn’t want to have, Bec. It’s a bad business but that isn’t your fault. It’s everyone’s fault, everyone who refuses to see how necessary it is, who keeps on pushing it under the rug and into the places which are dirty and foul.’ Rebecca unclasps her hands from her lap and reaches across to grasp one of Miss Lees own. ‘Do you really think, one day, it will be accepted? It will be done in hospital, so women don’t die?’ ‘God I hope so. I think most women do. But I must go. I oughtn’t have told you that. I could lose my position.’ Miss Lees stands and looks to the doorway, as though Miss Eagle could appear there any moment. ‘Thank you. I promise not to tell a soul.’

Annie is back from the Lock, even thinner than she was before, but she takes her place beside Rebecca in the needle room and smiles at Freda in the basket at their feet. The next morning she brings a mobile of brightly coloured yarn hung with empty spools that she hangs from the basket handle, and Freda garbles and grabs at the spinning spools, drooling with anticipation as she gets one near her mouth. The work they do in the needle room is as drab and dull as any work Rebecca has ever done, worse than the slops she stitched as a child with mother, but it keeps their hands busy. A room of women with busy hands, even if they are prisoners, is a room full of women with busy minds, and it is maddening not to be allowed to speak or even sing while they sew. Some warders are more lenient than others, and a low whisper is tolerated, and Rebecca and Annie are lucky that

Long Bay 250 they have one of those warders this morning. Rebecca is doing the buttonholes on the prison shirts for men and Annie sews buttons on and they speak in low words about the Ladies Prison Society. Annie chuckles as Rebecca tells of how she felt like upending a potted fern on Mrs Minter. Her chuckle turns to a laugh as Rebecca imitates the face Mrs Minter had made: the pursed, whitish lips and furrowed brow. But her laugh goes silent as the girl in front of them, Dulcie, stands from her chair, knocking it to the ground and spinning to face them. ‘Don’t you laugh at me, you little slut,’ she says, a pair of scissors in her clenched hand. ‘I never whored myself across Woolloomooloo.’ She stabs the long, sharp scissors at the table beside Annie’s hands, and Annie screams. Rebecca throws herself across the basket, thinking of nothing in that moment but protecting Freda. The warder comes barrelling across the room towards them but Annie runs to the door and Dulcie chases her, the scissors now brandished high above her head, a high, bodiless scream coming from her open mouth. The other prisoners are shouting now too, and Freda wails and the guard grabs Dulcie by the waist and her hands still flail with those scissors. The guard pushes her to the ground and Dulcie’s feet slide from beneath her and her hand twists so she falls on the scissors herself. The screaming is just her own suddenly as everyone else has grown quiet. The guard rolls her over, scissors poking from her stomach, blood darkening the fabric of her dress around it. ‘Get it out, get it out,’ Dulcie shrieks, and even the warder is frozen at the sight of it, her mouth gaping, the blood leaking now from the wound and the other women clustering toward the other side of the room, as if to get as far as possible from the sight. It is Annie then who reaches toward Dulcie’s abdomen and gives the scissors a firm yank, so they disengage from the flesh. She holds them, dripping, aloft. ‘Are you mad?’ she says, her voice hoarse, looking at Dulcie who holds her hand over the wound the scissors made, as her hand becomes stained with red. ‘I said nothing about you or Woolloomooloo.’

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The next morning, Beth brings breakfast with a grin on her face. ‘Heard you were trying to do one of your abortions on Dulcie in the sewing room yesterday.’ Rebecca frowns. ‘What? She’s batty. She fell on the scissors she was trying to stab Annie with. Have they put her in the padded room?’ ‘The hospital more like it. She was pregnant, or didn’t you know? Pretty rough even for your sort of operation.’ Beth slams the bucket onto the desk, spilling porridge and waking Freda, who begins to wail. Rebecca lifts her from the cradle. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. What about Annie? She was only defending herself. She was the one who helped Dulcie.’ ‘She’s in solitary for a week. So don’t cry your heart out, lovebird, nothing you can do. She’s taken the rap for you.’ Rebecca turns towards the wall, away from Beth. She hears her walk closer, and feels breath on her neck. ‘I know one way we can get Annie out,’ Beth says. Rebecca feels the woman’s icy hands on her neck, and then she feels them slip inside her collar, and it takes all of her strength not to slap them away. She stands as still as a stone, not moving, not saying a word. The warder calls and Beth scurries, the heavy iron door slamming shut behind her. This is what she fears. Beth has connections. She is not a good enemy to have. Rebecca brings Freda’s hand to her mouth and kisses it. Freda pulls at her dress and she sits down to feed her. Dear Annie in solitary, locked up for being attacked and then saving the woman who attacked her. Dulcie in the hospital rather than the madhouse, where she belongs. Rebecca wonders if she is truly pregnant. From what she knows the girl is in for soliciting, and has only been in for a couple of months, so it is entirely possible. She shudders, recalling Beth’s cold hands creeping down her collar.

She is given the task of sweeping scraps off the sewing room floor. They sew prison uniforms, all coarse and grey, so the material is nothing interesting, but a

Long Bay 252 small scrap of purple calico catches her eye. Prisoners often have their own little projects that they do on the sly. She picks the piece up and puts it in her pocket; it is nothing, really, but she pats it through the day, to check that it’s still there. At home she had always had bags of these scraps, but in prison they are precious commodities. She begins to search them out, to find them wherever she can. Freda’s wraps that she has grown too big for, the lining of a cloak that has torn; she collects all of these bits and pieces, like a bowerbird might for its nest. The brighter the better, and in the moments in her cell when Freda sleeps or plays, the hours between dinner and lights-out, she appliques the pieces to a large piece of muslin from the prison kitchen – a sugar bag which she has cut open and laid flat. There is no discernable pattern: some are long and thin, others curved and small, some with sharp edges. She only trims the sides to make them fit: there is no structure to this strange thing she is stitching, no sense of sameness. All of the pieces are different – colours, textures, patterns and shapes – and she likes this; it is a small stand against the tide of monotony. Anything pretty she finds will go to this. She sews buttons on and uses colourful thread to embroider birds and leaves at the edges. Freda runs her fat little fingers over it while she sits in her mother’s lap. She likes the different textures and colours. Some of the other prisoners learn of her project and bring her pieces. When she is let out of solitary, Annie gives her a wine-red velvet pouch that has torn at the top, where the drawstring feeds through. ‘Are you certain? I could fix it for you.’ ‘I’d rather see you use it in your, what-do-you-call-it? A quilt?’ Annie says. ‘I suppose it’s a quilt. Like a wagga quilt.’ ‘Waggas are ugly though. This is pretty, but crazy.’ ‘Mad as Dulcie,’ Rebecca said. ‘Though not half as deadly.’ They stifle their laughter. They are always being told off for laughing. Rebecca remembers wagga quilts from growing up, sewn from wheat bags and sugar bags for backing, scraps of old jumpers in the middle for warmth, and suit samples and whatever else fitted on the front. They were dull colours, sewn out of pure necessity, only to eke the last bit of use out of a piece of fabric.

253 Long Bay Rebecca and her sisters slept under a wagga made from her father’s clothes after he died. She remembers the weight and warmth of it, remembers her mother making them and selling them to the neighbours when work was slow. Miss Lees brings some pieces from home for the quilt. She has not time to sew, she says, and no use for scraps. They are silk, tulle and satin. Rebecca imagines Miss Lees wearing them before, at her father’s dinner parties. ‘From another life,’ Miss Lees says, and Rebecca nods. She finds beads in odd places, in corners of the sewing room, in a grate in the prison yard, and these she sews on as well: little glass beads – one that looks like a pearl, and one that is cut so that it catches the light and sparkles. Some things which are not beads she picks up as well: a sharp shard of glass that someone missed while sweeping. Broken things, useless things, things that no one has use for any longer. She will gather them up and make something with them. Something beautiful. Sewn together with stitches so tiny and tight they will last.

Annie is leaving. Her sentence is up, she tells Rebecca in the garden, where they are digging potatoes. The Deputy Comptroller of Prisons visited yesterday and said they would arrange for her to leave tomorrow in the prison tram. Freda sits on a rug beside the guard, in a spot of sunlight. She is learning to crawl, up on her hands and knees, rocking back and forth, trying to move forwards, trying to connect the thought with the motion. The vegetable plot is outside the high stone walls, so they are always closely watched while working in it. ‘Where will you go?’ Rebecca asks, keeping an eye on Freda. ‘Ma says she’ll take me in as long as I promise not to drink or whore myself.’ ‘Can you bear it? ‘The not drinking and whoring, or living with my ma?’ ‘Any of it. All of it.’ ‘Not drinking and whoring is fine. I’ve managed in here all right. But ma’s a different story. She’s the one drove me to it in the first place. If I can find some factory work I can make enough to move out on me own. It’s harder than it sounds though. Particularly once they find out where you’ve been.’

Long Bay 254 Rebecca brushes the dirt from her hands onto her apron and stands, stretching her back, before kneeling again beside Annie. ‘Is there anywhere else you could go?’ ‘One of the ladies from the prison society offered me a job in her laundry, washing her unmentionables, but I think the stink would be too much for me.’ Rebecca snorts. Annie tosses a potato into the basket, but it falls shy, and she picks it up from the ground before the guard can see. Rebecca pulls from the ground a fat, misshapen potato that bulges in odd places. She holds it up to the light. ‘I think I know the lady you’re speaking of. Was her head shaped like this?’ They collapse with laughter and the guard shouts out to them to quieten down. ‘Get back ta work!’ she says, and Rebecca sees Freda flinch at this loud voice so close to her ears. Annie has only herself to worry about, and for that Rebecca envies her friend. She has not heard from Don since her sentence began, but perhaps he will come looking for her, insisting they are still man and wife. The thought makes her shudder and she bends over the plot to lose herself in the task. The potatoes are cold and damp, and they trail thin, stringy roots when she pulls them from the sandy soil. Soon the baskets are full, and the warder leads them back to their cells, carrying Freda so that Rebecca can manage her harvest. The potatoes are left at the door to the storeroom, beside the kitchen, where eventually they will be scrubbed clean and peeled and boiled. Rebecca will think, now, when eating potatoes, of Annie. Their laughter. Her first true friend.

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Annie is gone. Freda changes every week and as she grows so does the quilt. Soon there are only a few small spaces left to fill and Rebecca grows particular about the fabric that will fill them. She has pieces of lace on it now, as well as at least a dozen buttons, and some velvet and silk, cambric and tulle. A girl named Susan who is in for fraud has a square of organza that she offers to sell Rebecca in the exercise yard one morning, but that goes against the purpose of it. These are things she has found or been given; besides, what money does she have to buy something? For their work in the sewing rooms and the vegetable plots they are given a small allowance every week, which they may use to buy fabric and sewing notions, cocoa and jam, postage stamps, coffee and fish in tins from the prison shop. She saves hers, although once she used it to buy a small jar of plum jam for Freda. Her daughter was eating some porridge and toast, and Rebecca wanted to give her a change from just dry toast. Freda smiled a gummy smile when she tasted the jam and soon it was all over her face and hands as she pressed the toast into her mouth faster than she could chew it. Rebecca cannot recall the moment Nellie had her first taste of jam. Freda has learnt to crawl now, and it feels as if the cell is shrinking. The floors are cold concrete – easy to sweep clean, but not nice to crawl across – and Freda spends many hours pulling herself up on two feet in front of the heavy iron door, pounding at it with her little fists and pointing out the window. ‘I?’ she says, ‘I?’ ‘Sky,’ Rebecca replies, picking her up and holding her close to the bars so she might see. ‘That’s the sky, and those are the clouds.’ ‘I’ is to be Freda’s word for outside. As in, ‘I want to see the sky, I want to be beneath it.’ And Rebecca wishes that she could give her this one simple request.

The weather grows warm. It is November when Beth’s shadow falls over Rebecca in the vegetable plot. The prisoners are planting beans in even rows, and behind them Beth carries the watering can. Rebecca has used a shawl to tie Freda around

Long Bay 256 her hip. This way she can work without worrying about her crawling off and surprising a blacksnake in the tall grass that borders the plot. ‘It won’t be long before you’ll have to give her up,’ Beth says, looking down on them, spraying the water unevenly so that rivulets wet Rebecca’s shoes in the sandy, grey soil. The soil seems to repel water rather than absorb it – it is of poor quality and their vegetables suffer as a result. ‘What do you mean?’ She squints up at the bright sun. Beth’s face is entirely in shadow. ‘When she turns one. They don’t let you keep them after they turn one. They send them to a home – like an orphanage – or your family takes them. How long is your sentence, for killing the woman? How many years did you get?’ Rebecca crouches to plant the bean seeds. Freda’s wriggling loosens the scarf and Rebecca stands to adjust it. She has a crust of bread in her apron pocket and passes it to Freda to suck. ‘Three years,’ she says, shifting to the next row. Her sack of bean seeds is still half-full. ‘This is my sixteenth month.’ ‘Still a ways to go then. If you ask me, you got off easy. Killing a woman and three years! They must’ve felt sorry for you. Youth and prettiness are such fleeting things. Pity to be wasting them in a place like this. You’re lucky you didn’t hang. I’ve seen a woman hanged, you know. They didn’t get the weight right and after she dropped her neck ripped nearly clean off. So the flesh was torn away and her body was hanging just by a thread.’ Rebecca tries to speed up her planting, to create some distance between herself and this gruesome image. Luckily, Beth runs out of water and has to go to the tank to fill the watering can. Rebecca works as quickly as she can, shoving the beans into the soil, into their little caves of earth. She feels Beth’s eyes on her. Some seeds will never sprout but most will send a small green shoot towards the sun, unfurl veined leaves and grow, needing nothing more than water, sun and soil. Rebecca wishes it were as simple for her girls. If only she knew that they could thrive without her, but she is the place where they plant their roots. She feels Nellie’s absence in her flesh still most days, an ache in her arms where her first daughter was. If Freda is lost as well she will have nothing left.

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Beth becomes more brazen now that Annie is gone. She often finds a way to sidle up to Rebecca – in the mornings when she brings the breakfast tray, or in the exercise yard when Rebecca stands with Freda in the shade. Beth warns off other women, and it comes that no one else speaks to her. In the sewing room, the chair beside her sits empty. Once, when they are planting, Rebecca sees Beth take Freda off over the hill where flannel flowers grow towards a copse of trees. Freda rides Beth’s hip, trusting whomever holds her. Rebecca runs to the warder on duty. ‘Where is she taking her?’ ‘Just for a walk. Get back to work. She’s not going to steal her.’ Her heart sits in her throat until they return over the ridgeline. Freda is crying, and Rebecca senses that something is deeply wrong. She undresses her later, in the cell, and finds bindis nestled between Freda’s skin and her clothes, sharp seeds digging into her soft skin. She sets her mind that something must be done. Truly, she has Don to thank, for there are things he taught her. Ways to intimidate. The threat of violence. Prisoners are not allowed implements that are dangerous in their cells. After the incident with Dulcie, they are not even allowed to use scissors in the sewing room; the guard has to do the cutting for them. But there is, as Don used to say, more than one way to skin a cat. Anything might be a weapon if you put your mind to it. Before breakfast the next morning Rebecca claims she is feeling ill, and the warder says she may skip drills. She moves the cradle to the furthest corner of the cell, sits Freda inside it, and gives her the nearly finished quilt to play with. Freda likes to drape it over her head, playing peek-a-boo. At breakfast time Rebecca hears the cart, the sound of steel doors opening and closing. Sometimes it is not Beth but this morning, thankfully, it is. She comes into the room while Rebecca is sitting on the bed, rolling a stocking up a bared calf. She places the bucket down and sits beside her on the bed. ‘Let me help you,’ she says, running a cold finger along Rebecca’s shin. Freda starts to whimper in her cradle.

Long Bay 258 Beth sits up and puts her hand on the back of Rebecca’s neck. ‘This is where they place the knot when they tie the noose,’ she says, grazing the back of Rebecca’s ear. ‘For a clean break.’ Rebecca turns to her, the shard of glass she gathered in the yard sharp against her palm but sharper beneath Beth’s breast, where she presses the point of it. Beth gasps. Rebecca clamps her hand over the woman’s mouth. ‘I’ll tell you how you can help me,’ she whispers. ‘Don’t come near me or my daughter again. If you do – God help me – I will sink this into your heart.’ Beth’s eyes are wide. Rebecca smells her rotten breath. She takes her hands away from Beth’s mouth and from beneath her breast. She stands and lifts Freda from the cradle. Beth struggles to her feet. There is a small stain of blood beside the placket of her dress. ‘You are a fool,’ she says, pulling a handkerchief from her pocket, and holding it to the blood. ‘And I pity you. Good luck to you, foolish girl. You’ll need it.’ She storms out to the corridor, slamming the iron door and bolting it shut. Rebecca sinks into the mattress, Freda still in her arms. She has to find a way out now. Before it becomes too late.

Only minutes later she hears a key turning in the lock. The bolt slides and the door opens. She has been pacing the cell. Miss Lees enters. ‘Beth is with the Head Warder now, Rebecca. What happened? You could go to solitary for weeks.’ ‘I was defending myself, Miss Lees. I promise. You have to believe me. Please get me away from her. How does she have so much power?’ Miss Lees sits on the bed, bringing her head to her hands. She looks closer to forty than twenty now, marked with a hard life. ‘I cannot answer that. Now, the Comptroller General comes this afternoon. When he comes to your cell, I’ll distract the Head Warder. When you have a moment alone with the Comptroller General, you tell him that you wish to go to Shaftesbury. Say it’s so you can keep your child. Beth has far too much influence with the Head Warder, she’ll poison her against you.’ ‘What is Shaftesbury?’

259 Long Bay ‘Where they send the inebriate women after their stint here. It’s between a prison and a boarding house. We usually don’t send the prisoners in your criminal class, but perhaps he’ll make an exception.’ Miss Lees looks up at Rebecca, her face serious. ‘It’s your only hope.’

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Rather than work that morning, the women are called into the central quadrangle of the prison. The head warder, Miss Eagle, is to instruct them on protocol for the visit from the Comptroller General of Prisons. Rarely are all of the prisoners gathered together at once, and Rebecca gapes at the number of them. It is easily over a hundred, and she is surprised how many faces she does not recognise. They keep the inebriates and most of the short-term prisoners away from long-term, serious criminals like herself. She scans the faces for Beth, but does not see her. She does not know whether to be grateful for or worried by her absence. Freda squirms on her hip; she is usually in the sewing room by now, playing with her spools of yarn and being pulled into a dozen different laps. Miss Eagle climbs the stairs of the gazebo to address the gathered crowd. She is under five foot tall so requires some height to gain their attention. She instructs a warder to move the cage of canaries into the Entrance Block, so that they will not distract from her speech. The birds flap and squawk as their cage is carried off. Then she claps her small, pale hands three times. ‘Ladies! I expect each of your cells to be in spotless condition when the Comptroller General inspects. You are not to bring any queries or problems to him unless you have raised them first with me, and as none of you have done that yet I expect that no one will interrupt his important duties. If you do you will be punished with diminished rations and solitary for a week. If your cell is untidy the punishment will be the same. If you are insolent or speak out of turn, the punishment will be the same. I want shoes polished, dresses mended, caps clean, and hands and faces washed. If you have an infant in your cell,’ here Rebecca can feel Miss Eagle’s eyes upon her, ‘I expect the infant to also be clean, properly dressed and silent for the Comptroller’s visit. Now, back to your cells. I expect to hear nothing but the sound of tidying and scrubbing.’ The prisoners begin to disperse and there is the sound of some muttering and stifled laughter. ‘Prisoner Sinclair!’ Rebecca turns. Miss Eagle motions for her to approach the gazebo. She does, her feet like lead.

Long Bay 262 ‘I have been informed of the manner in which you attacked a fellow prisoner this morning. Beth reported to me that it was completely unprovoked. I will admit that I am surprised at your violence. I would not put it past some of the other prisoners but I did not expect it from you. I will decide on your punishment after the Comptroller’s visit. Now return to your cell.’ Rebecca bows her head and hurries off. She knows better than to try to explain Beth’s threats. Her bed is made, her books stashed, her trinkets hidden and the quilt tucked into Freda’s crib by the time the afternoon rolls around. The floor is swept clean, the lunch trays gone and Freda is, for once, napping when she was meant to. Rebecca sits at her desk, trying to look industrious, writing a letter to her mother. There have not been many letters between them since she began her sentence, but this week she got a note that had been opened, refolded, and placed back in the worn and creased envelope. It was dated the 13th of November, a month prior.

Dear Becca, I hope that this letter finds you well. Lillian is writing this as my eyes are only worse. Nellie is growing fast. She has more words and is as pretty a thing as always. She misses her ma. Your brother Lou is finally to be married to Alice. They will live in Petersham in a fine house which is on the train line so I hope we will still see him often. Amy is pregnant again, I don’t know if you heard but she lost the baby last year to croup. Luckily the other three are sturdy and well. I hope that the Reformatory is not too bleak a place for Freda. I hope that I will one day meet her. I pray for you and hope you are finding solace there. I have heard nothing of Donald nor his mother, Nurse Sinclair, though a woman told me last week she has moved north, to Rockhampton. Your brother says you need not file for divorce from Don once you leave prison. He said the marriage is not recognised because he was already wed. I hope this helps. I send my love, as we all do. Elizabeth Wallin

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Rebecca sits at her desk, pen in hand, a rare blank sheet of paper before her. There are so many things she wants to tell Lizzie, but she does not know where to begin, and the longer she leaves it the harder it becomes. She is grateful at the news about her marriage to Don. She knows it means that her children are bastards – yet another weight she shackles her daughters with – but the shame of it matters less than the horror of being tied still to Don. She hears the commotion of the Comptroller General’s party making its slow way towards her, the high pitch of Miss Eagle, the low, obsequious voices of other prisoners, the officious bass voice of the Comptroller. If Miss Eagle is with him when he reaches her room she has no chance of garnering his sympathy. It will be solitary – that dark, windowless cell, and a bread and water ration – and no way to explain it to Freda. Will they even allow her to take the child? Lost in these thoughts, she has not written a single word when the key scratches and turns, and the door creaks open. There they stand: the Comptroller General and Miss Eagle. Rebecca’s heart sinks to her toes. She stands. ‘This is Prisoner Sinclair, who has an infant, ten months old. Mrs Sinclair is a dressmaker who was convicted of manslaughter – do you recall her case?’ The Comptroller nods, stroking his chin. He is tall and of a medium build with grey hair combed back from his high forehead, a waxed moustache curling upwards towards his cheeks, and a neat goatee. ‘How do you do, Prisoner Sinclair?’ She curtsies as they have all been taught. ‘Well thank you, Comptroller.’ Miss Eagle opens her mouth to speak again but there is a clatter of footsteps and Miss Lees appears behind her. ‘Miss Eagle,’ she says, ‘Miss Eagle. There’s been an accident in the kitchen. Do come.’ ‘Shall I follow?’ the Comptroller says. Miss Lees replies, ‘It’s not serious sir. Miss Eagle, perhaps you would prefer him to continue the rounds and you can rejoin him.’ Rebecca is struck by her friend’s brilliance. Miss Eagle opens her mouth to disagree but the Comptroller waves her off. ‘I’ll see you soon, Miss Eagle. You’ll find I am perfectly capable on my own.’

Long Bay 264 Miss Lees shuffles Miss Eagle off and Rebecca stands, her heels together, in the centre of the cell. She has mere seconds to convince this man. She takes a deep breath in and a cry cuts through the room. Freda sits up in her cradle, rubbing her eyes, blinking away the sleep. ‘There’s the infant,’ the Comptroller says. ‘What a fine looking child.’ Freda grins, showing her four new teeth and two dimpled cheeks. She has been surrounded by women since birth and is fascinated by the hair that grows from this creature’s chin. She raises out her arms, ‘Ga-da!’ ‘May I?’ the Comptroller says. Rebecca nods, speechless. He squeezes past and picks up Freda from the cradle. She laughs and wraps her fist in his goatee. ‘Gentle, Freda,’ Rebecca chides. ‘How have you found it, raising a child here?’ The Comptroller glances at her, untangling the chubby hands, but it is clear he is enamoured of Freda. ‘I am lucky that I could keep her, sir, but I do have one concern. I would like her to remain with me, but within the Reformatory it is becoming hard. Soon she will be walking, and this is no place for a child. Perhaps I could be transferred to Shaftesbury to serve the remaining years of my sentence? I truly believe that it is in her best interests to stay with me.’ The Comptroller studies her through wire-rimmed spectacles. ‘Shaftesbury is primarily for inebriates at this stage, but there are some mothers and babies there. I agree that it is in the best interest of a child to remain with its mother.’ Freda puts her hands over her eyes, waiting for this new plaything to commence her favourite game. ‘Where’s the baby gone?’ he asks, and Freda takes her hands away, delighted. ‘There she is!’ ‘I’ll see what I can manage. Would you say you are reformed from your crime?’ ‘Oh yes, sir.’ Rebecca holds out her arms as he passes Freda back to her, feeling as though that simple action makes her whole again. ‘I would be an ideal inmate. If you would only let me keep my child.’

265 Long Bay The Comptroller leaves, winking at Freda, and shutting the door behind him. Rebecca spins Freda in the small square of light. ‘Aren’t you brilliant, Freda. What a clever girl.’ Freda laughs, and Rebecca dances, humming to herself, spinning and spinning, making the two of them dizzy with joy.

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267 Long Bay Chapter 39

The morning sky is as pink as the boiled flesh of a quince when the dray pulls up to the gate of the Shaftesbury Institution. Freda sits in her lap on the seat behind the driver, delighted by the horses that pull them. She squeals each time they snort or break into a trot. The only dampener to their mood is that the head warder, Miss Eagle, accompanies them, saying she has to ensure that the situation at Shaftesbury is sufficient for a prisoner who has shown ‘dangerous tendencies’. But the Comptroller has insisted upon Rebecca’s transfer, and Miss Eagle is simply not permitted to go against his wishes. Miss Lees was put on probation after interrupting her visit with the Comptroller for nothing more than a kitchen worker with a minor scald. ‘What does that mean – to be on probation?’ Rebecca asked when Miss Lees stopped by her cell the previous evening to say goodbye. News of the transfer had travelled fast. ‘I hope I haven’t put your job in danger.’ ‘It means nothing, don’t worry. I’ll miss this little one.’ She tickled Freda under the chin. ‘Thank you,’ Rebecca said, and threw her arms around Miss Lees. ‘I hope I can one day repay you. I feel like you’ve saved my life.’ The warder patted her stiffly and backed away from the embrace. ‘It was nothing,’ she said, flushing. ‘You deserve something nice, for once, to happen.’ Rebecca watches the gates of the Institution swing open to show a series of single-storey cottages with wide verandas, well-tended gardens and, rather than a great stone wall, simply a corrugated tin fence. Miss Eagle speaks to the Matron while a young woman in an apron and cap shows Rebecca her room in one of the small cottages beside the main house. She has a bedroom, a proper one, with a small rag rug on the floor, a crib in the corner, a desk, bed and wardrobe. The window has bars on it, but it is wide and deep, and looks out to the garden with a flame tree directly across from it, the red flowers just blossoming. The girl shows Rebecca where the bath and toilets are, and where to ring the bell for the main cottage, where the Matron is and where the kitchen is,

Long Bay 268 where the meals are served. There are three bedrooms in her cottage and the others have two women in each, inebriates, the girl says, who will be at work now in the kitchen or gardens. Rebecca has her own room because of the child, the girl says. The doors are locked at night but during the day their cottage is kept open. ‘If you wait in your room the Matron will come and visit. She will go over the rules,’ the girl says. Rebecca thanks her and sits on the bed, setting down Freda on the rug. Their few possessions are in the valise on the floor. Rebecca opens it, placing the unfinished quilt on the bed and hanging her spare dress in the wardrobe. There is a mirror inside the wardrobe door and she glances at herself. It has been over a year since she has seen her own reflection. The woman who looks back is older, her face narrower, the lines beside her mouth more certain. Her eyes have new creases fanning out at the corners; her hair is pulled into a tight bun. She remembers a blue dress, standing in front of a spotted glass – a sense of possibility. Cerulean. The word comes back to her, as though from a distant world, another life. She whispers it, and behind her, a squeal of delight makes her turn. Freda is up on two chubby legs, wavering, unsteady. She stares ahead, determined, and takes a single step forwards, then another, before landing with a thump on her bottom. Rebecca scoops her up. The matron stands in the doorway, her black dress silhouetted in the bright morning.

269 Long Bay Chapter 40

It is his voice she hears at her mother’s door, a week after being released. A woman just out with a three-year-old child, her other daughter – aged five – a stranger to her. ‘Beg your pardon, is Mrs Rebecca Sinclair home?’ ‘Miss McDowell, please,’ she says, stepping from the back room. She recognises him immediately. Mr Willis’ hair is grey at the temples but there is that softness in his eyes when he smiles. She sits on the front steps with him, letting the sun warm her scalp as the girls play with a ball on the street. He says that he heard that she is staying with her mother now. He followed her case in the papers when it was on, and always wanted to write to her. ‘So you have left your husband?’ he asks, not looking at her but at the little stones he has gathered in the palm of his hand. She nods. Louis was right: the marriage had never been legal in the first place. Don had been sent to Goulburn Gaol, but upon his release he disappeared. ‘I think he changed his name, or perhaps he went abroad?’ she says. ‘I don’t know. I think he wants a new life. Which is lucky – I do as well.’ Mr Willis looks at her then and smiles. ‘How rude of me,’ she says, ‘I haven’t asked after your family.’ He looks back at the stones and rolls them in his long, thin fingers. ‘My sister and her children are well,’ he says. ‘I have no family of my own.’ ‘I’m terribly sorry.’ ‘I’m not.’ She cranes her neck after her daughters, who have run up the street. ‘Nellie, come back!’ she calls. She fiddles with the cuff on her blouse. Words roll differently in his mouth, but the sound is still pleasant to her. She smiles at the ground. ‘Remember that man, on the tram, how my sandwich was stuck to his shoe?’

Long Bay 270 He looks at her again, a crease between his brows. ‘I can’t think of that without thinking of what happened afterwards. I ought to have done something, Miss McDowell. I can’t live with myself that I did nothing. I just wish I could turn back time.’ ‘Call me Rebecca.’ ‘Only if you call me Chris.’ ‘What would you have done, Chris?’ ‘Told the police. Come after him myself. I want to apologise, now. I feel as though, still, as though it were all my fault.’ She stands, brushing the seat of her skirt. ‘It wasn’t, not in the least.’ The girls are fighting over a ball in the street. Nellie is jealous of Freda and often takes things from her, this sister who was with her mother while she was apart from her. Rebecca scolds them and sends them both inside. Chris stands now as well and lets the small stones from his hand fall to the road. ‘Your regret,’ she says, ‘is small compared with mine. I killed a woman, Chris. I deserved to be in gaol. But now I am free again and I’m determined to live. My daughters need me. I need the present, not the past.’ He tilts his head and places his hat back on it. He is taller than her by quite a bit, and stands so that he blocks the sun. The filaments of cotton on the edge of his shirt glow, a soft fuzz, reminding her of the factory, of the room humming with industry. She thinks of his leg pressed against hers on the tram, the warmth it brought. ‘I would like to be part of this present,’ he says quietly, taking her hand and holding it in both of his own. ‘May I call on you again, perhaps tomorrow?’ She nods her head. There is a knot in her throat as if she has swallowed a button. He tips his hat and walks off down the street, his figure receding into the glare of late afternoon. She stands there, with the sounds of wives cooking their evening meals, of cats fighting in the laneways, of children shouting in their games. Far off, an engine of a car chokes and sputters, and then roars into life. A small patch of dandelions grows from the dirt in front of the neighbours’ house, their slim petals glowing so that they look warm to touch. She plucks one and watches the white sap drip from its hollow stem to her finger. She puts it to

271 Long Bay her tongue. It is a strange taste, not a pleasant one, but one which curls her tongue with its bitterness. She drops the flower, crushing it beneath her foot. A breeze blows against her skirts, tickling her legs. She walks back to her mother’s house. Her daughters are waiting.

THE END

Long Bay 272 Sources

P. 6 Copies of Letters Sent 1909-1913, Long Bay Women’s Reformatory, Item 5/2276-77, NRS 2489. P. 116. New South Wales State Archives. P. 12 ‘Ambletown (home dearie home)’. Lyrics: traditional. P. 124-125 Divorce papers of Zara and Donald Sinclair. (1906) Container 13/12633. Item 5695, NRS 13495. NSW State Archives. Pp. 205-206 Court papers from criminal case against Rebecca and Donald Sinclair (includes papers from inquest into death of Lucy Edith Smith). Supreme Court Records, Acting Justice Rogers, Item 9/7137, NRS 880. NSW State Archives. P.212 ‘Abide with me’. Lyrics by Henry Lyte, 1847. P. 226 ‘If I had money’. Lyrics: traditional. P. 236 Copies of Letters Sent 1909-1913, Long Bay Women’s Reformatory, Item 5/2276-77, NRS 2489. P. 199. New South Wales State Archives. P. 246 Inspection Book, Long Bay Women’s Reformatory, 1909-1913. Item 5/2253-54, NRS 2509. NSW State Archives.

273 Long Bay

EXEGESIS PRISON, ABORTION AND WOMEN OF THE WORKING CLASS

Long Bay 274

275 Long Bay CHAPTER 1 Introduction

The novel Long Bay is based on the case of a woman named Rebecca Sinclair, a prisoner at Long Bay Women’s Reformatory in 1909. She was convicted of manslaughter after an abortion she performed illegally resulted in a woman’s death. Rebecca Sinclair was only 23 and pregnant at the time and gave birth in prison. Afterwards she kept her daughter with her. The novel is a reimagining of her early life, her involvement with her husband (a criminal) and her time in Long Bay Women’s Reformatory. Rebecca Sinclair was among the first prisoners in the newly opened gaol, the first purpose built women’s prison in Australia. She was working as an abortionist at a time when abortion was the most popular form of birth control in Australia – the first decade of the 1900s – and when one in four pregnancies was estimated to end in abortion (Allen, 1993; Finch and Stratton, 1988). Rebecca Sinclair’s life, her fall into crime and her incarceration, is just a small example of the way working class women were treated at the time yet it is representative of much more. There are so many silences and gaps in the history around women’s reproductive choices and their methods of getting by. The demographics of Australia were changing but little Australian fiction represents this, particularly from a working class perspective except for marginally Louis Stone’s Jonah. In later decades Ruth Park’s The Harp in the South and Come in Spinner by Dymphna Cusack and Florence James were published, representing Sydney in the 1930s and 1940s. Pre-World War I and post-1880s depression, Australian society was in a state of flux. The Industrial Revolution opened up the labour market so there were more options for women, women campaigned successfully for the right to vote, fertility rates plunged as women chose voluntary rather than enforced motherhood (Sheridan, 1993), gaols were being reformed, and increased

Long Bay 276 institutionalisation meant that there were records of the marginalised poor. Yet the options for women were still severely limited, class was still a crippling issue and shame meant many private, personal matters went undiscussed and secrets were kept from even the closest family members. The publicity and tabloid-style coverage of Rebecca Sinclair’s murder trial would have remained with her for the rest of her life, and indeed she reverted to her maiden name while in prison and remarried afterwards, perhaps in an attempt to escape her notoriety. Rebecca Sinclair’s daughter, Freda Kathleen Hope McDowell, who was born in Long Bay Women’s Reformatory, never told her own daughter or even her closest friends that her mother had been in gaol. Freda’s daughter Christine Jensen only found out after her mother died, when she requested a copy of Freda’s birth certificate. Yet, if it were not for her time in the courts and in gaol, we would know nothing about Rebecca Sinclair’s life, living as she did in poverty and obscurity. As it is, we only have official records to rely upon, and no letters or documents written by Rebecca Sinclair exist as far as I can determine. The records that do exist, the ones that are kept by the NSW State Archives and the State Library of NSW, are a rich source of information about lives that would otherwise be completely forgotten, stories that were hidden because of the shame that they carried.

1.1 The process of discovery

I live in the Sydney suburb of Maroubra and often go on runs south down Anzac Parade, past Long Bay Correctional Centre. The part of the gaol facing Anzac Parade is all razor wire and modern buildings, but down the side streets, behind the razor wire and chain link fences, there are some original high stone walls and behind them old buildings. I knew very little about the place, and I began asking questions and reading what I could find online. The prison, I discovered, was first a Women’s Reformatory and opened in 1909. Many of the infamous female criminals involved in the razor gangs of the 1920s like Tilly Devine and Kate Leigh

277 Long Bay were prisoners there, and I wondered what other women had been behind those high stone walls. I learned that some of the original prison documents, including the records of letters received and sent from the early years of the Reformatory were kept at the State Archives at the Western Sydney Records Centre in Kingswood. So I drove out there one day, uncertain of what I would find. At the time, I was hopeful that they kept the actual letters received and sent by the prisoners. I imagined that I would stumble across a rich trove of first- person stories, but what I realised after gaining access to the archived documents was that the books actually held the letters sent and received by the Prison Comptroller: letters about mundane things like the electric lights requiring fixing and whether the doctor could visit on Thursdays rather than Tuesdays. Still, as I slipped on my latex gloves and sat at the long desks flipping through crumbling pages I saw rare glimpses into the daily lives of women within the prison. One woman was put on basic rations for ripping apart her cell, and many were found to have syphilis. There were letters written to relatives to see if they would be willing to provide support for female inebriates and reformed prostitutes when they were released. The first volume I inspected was from 1909-1911 and the prison had only just opened in June 1909, so there were various structural and building issues still unresolved, and the question of what should be planted in the gardens and what industries the women should be kept occupied with. Then I came across the mention of a prisoner, Rebecca Sinclair. She was being sent to Royal Hospital for Women in Paddington for her ‘confinement’. ‘I would also point out,’ the letter reads, ‘that as the woman is under sentence she must not leave your institution. She is to be returned to the State Reformatory after her accouchement’ (Copies of Letters Sent, Long Bay Women’s Reformatory, 1909-1911, p. 116). I wondered how this woman fell pregnant, what her crime was, and whether she was allowed to keep her baby. I flipped through the next letters, hoping for further mention of her. Approximately one month later, there is a letter from the Deputy Comptroller of Prisons to the hospital’s Medical Superintendent, saying Prisoner Sinclair had safely returned to prison with a

Long Bay 278 fourteen-day-old female child in her care (Copies of Letters Sent, Long Bay Women’s Reformatory, 1909-1911, p. 199). I was immediately compelled to find out more. What was Rebecca Sinclair’s life like, what brought her to prison and what would happen upon her release? The letters were so faint and barely legible, I was struck by the fragility and impermanence of the source. I looked in several volumes of the prison’s Photographic Description Book held at the archives for further information about Rebecca Sinclair but couldn’t find her record. The librarian assisting me led me to look in the books for other prisons, where I eventually found Rebecca Sinclair’s description card among the records for Darlinghurst Gaol, where she began her sentence.

1.2 The story emerges

Rebecca Irwin Sinclair, as she is listed on prison records, was born in Paddington in Sydney in 1885 to Louis and Elizabeth McDowall (NSW Historical Index of Births, Deaths and Marriage). She was the fourth of six children – all girls except for one boy. In 1888, when Rebecca Sinclair was three, her father died (‘Deaths’, 1888). Two years later, her older sister Helen died at the age of six (NSW Historical Index of Births, Deaths and Marriage). Rebecca Sinclair’s mother may have turned to dressmaking to keep her family fed, because Rebecca Sinclair had the skill from a young age. Widowed women, particularly widowed mothers living in poverty like Rebecca Sinclair’s mother, faced great hardship at the time in Australia, for there was no government assistance and little help from charities. In her book, Poverty’s Prison: The Poor in New South Wales 1880-1918, Anne O’Brien writes: ‘The mother who was forced into the role of breadwinner was forced into occupations that were the most menial and ill-paid. She spent long hours doing arduous and heavy work. She was performing traditional female tasks within the home: sewing, cleaning, washing, minding children and keeping house, but she was doing it for others and was paid the merest pittance’ (O’Brien, 1998, p. 100).

279 Long Bay Rebecca Sinclair’s mother remarried when Rebecca was nine, in 1894, to a man named Alfred Wallin. In 1896 Elizabeth Wallin gave birth to another girl, Lillian Wallin. In 1905 Rebecca Sinclair was 19 and at the roller skating rink at Prince Alfred Park when she met a dark haired, well dressed 23-year-old man named Donald Roderick Sinclair (‘Police Courts: Charged with Bigamy’, 1906). He was compactly built and from the beginning he apparently made his affections known. He claimed to work for the Temperance and General Mutual Life Assurance agency (Coronial inquest into the death of Lucy Edith Smith, 1909). He also claimed that he bought and sold furniture. After just three weeks Donald Sinclair proposed, and eventually Rebecca Sinclair accepted. She agreed to meet him at his house in Glenmore Road to be married in front of his mother and stepfather. But when she arrived late, Donald Sinclair told her that his mother and stepfather had gone to the theatre and that the clergyman couldn’t wait either. Instead, he said the clergyman had left a document for them to sign (‘Police Courts: Charged with Bigamy’, 1906). She signed it, and he hastily took it away; she may have believed they were then legally married. I gleaned this information from newspaper articles about the bigamy case, which reported what was said in court at the time. There were articles in the Sydney Morning Herald and the tabloid The Truth on this case. None of the information is completely reliable because it is a journalist’s record of their testimonies at the time. Donald and Rebecca Sinclair began living as man and wife, but before long gossip reached Rebecca Sinclair that her marriage was a sham. On 12 December 1905, she confronted Donald Sinclair, and he said she was foolish to believe other people’s tales. But a few days later, he admitted that he wrote the marriage certificate himself. Two days later they were genuinely married, on 16 December 1905, in the Pitt Street Congregational Church (‘Police Courts: Charged With Bigamy’, 1906).

Long Bay 280 In coming months, Rebecca Sinclair claims to have discovered another unpleasant surprise. Donald Sinclair had been already married when he married her – to a Jewish woman named Zara Wolinski. Zara had been living in Townsville with her sister for the past year. It emerged that Donald and Zara married secretly in Sydney in 1903, when he was 20 and she was 21, although they claimed that they never lived together (‘Divorce Court: Sinclair v Sinclair’, 1906). Zara only returned to Sydney from Townsville in December 1905, and saw her husband occasionally up until April. Donald was still living with Rebecca. In April, Rebecca confronted Zara, who did not know Donald had married another woman, and then moved out of their shared home (‘Police Courts: Charged with Bigamy’, 1906). In August Donald Sinclair was charged with bigamy in the Water Police Court. He was found guilty in October 1906 and sentenced to six months’ hard labour at Goulburn Gaol (‘Quarter Sessions: Sentences’, 1906). The sentence was suspended because he was a first time offender. In December 1906 Zara Wolinski was granted a divorce (‘Divorce Court: Sinclair v Sinclair’, 1906). Rebecca Sinclair must have forgiven Donald Sinclair to some extent, because in 1907 she gave birth to his daughter, Ellen Lillian Daphne Sinclair (NSW Historical index of Births, Deaths and Marriage), in the Benevolent Society’s Thomas Street Asylum for ‘destitute and homeless mothers nursing their children’ (Benevolent Society Thomas Street Asylum). Notes from the Thomas Street Asylum Inmates Journals from Mitchell Library show that Donald Sinclair was listed as her husband when she was admitted, with the word ‘emergency’ beside her record (Inmates Journals, Thomas Street Asylum, 1907- 1909). Other records show the word ‘destitute’ beside a patient’s name so it could be inferred that perhaps she was ill-prepared for the birth rather than in completely dire straits, but certainly the young couple were struggling financially. In April of the following year, 1908, Donald Sinclair appeared in court on an unrelated blackmail charge, and was sentenced to 12 months’ prison (‘Metropolitan Quarter Sessions’, 1908).

281 Long Bay He couldn’t have served the full sentence because he was at home on 26 April 1909 when a doctor was called after Lucy Edith Smith, aged 38, suddenly collapsed at Rebecca and Donald Sinclair’s home. When the doctor arrived Lucy Smith was lying on a couch, dead. She lived in North Sydney and had three children, aged seven, six and four. She was three months’ pregnant and her husband Andrew Smith, a linotype operator at the Sydney Morning Herald said in court that he did not know why she would visit 486 Old South Head Road (Coronial inquest, 1909). He learned of her death as it came through the Herald newsroom. From the inquest into her death she was found to have died as the result of an illegal operation (‘Charge of murder: two persons committed for trial’, 1909). Rebecca and Donald Sinclair were charged with her wilful murder (NSW Police Gazette, 1909). Rebecca Sinclair was also charged with unlawfully using an instrument to procure the miscarriage of Lena Carter earlier that week. Lena Carter had been staying at 486 Old South Head Road as well. Statements from the Inquest into the death of Lucy Edith Smith held at the Coroners’ Court on 6 May 1909 show that Lena Carter had miscarried twins at the house earlier in the week (Evidence from Criminal Court Case, 1909). Rebecca and Donald Sinclair had only been in business for a few weeks performing illegal abortions with a syringe and nozzle and hot water with Epsom salts. They charged five pounds though court records show they would negotiate down to three pounds ten, cheap for the time and possibly indicative of their relative inexperience. The service was advertised in the classified section of the Daily Telegraph and the Australian Star under the name ‘Nurse Sinclair’ (Evidence from Criminal Court Case, 1909). The original ‘Nurse Sinclair’ was Donald Sinclair’s mother, who had been advertising in the SMH classified section as early as 1900 (‘Advertising: Personal’, 1900). Ellen Sinclair emigrated from Scotland in 1884, when Donald was aged two (Darlinghurst Gaol Photograph Description Book, 1909). She appeared in court twice on cases of suspicious deaths that had occurred at her private hospital – or lying-in home – in 1901 and 1905. She was never found guilty (‘Central Criminal Court: Alleged Unlawful Use

Long Bay 282 of an Instrument’, 1901 and ‘A Suspicious Death’, 1905). She moved quite frequently, and with each year her advertisements grew more vague. Her final advertisement appears in 1909, in the ‘Lost and Found’ section of the Sydney Morning Herald Classifieds: LOST, Lady’s HANDBAG, with money and certificate, inscription inside, “To Nurse Sinclair, Sadowa, Glenmore-road Paddington, 1902.” Finder keep money on returning bag, etc to 129 Palmer street, city (‘Advertising: Lost and Found’, 1909). It appears that this was not a genuine lost and found advertisement, rather it was a clever way of letting her past clients know that she was at a new address. Ellen Sinclair was a trained midwife, which is probably why she escaped conviction all those years while Rebecca and Donald didn’t. Ellen Sinclair certainly used her private hospitals as genuine ‘accouchement’ homes as well, and there were babies born and doctors who visited. Perhaps by masking her illegitimate practices within her legitimate business the abortions appeared simply as miscarriages and the deaths within the normal ranges of maternal mortality. Indeed, in an inquest into the death of a woman who died at her private hospital in 1905, an inspector in the State Children’s Relief Department deposed that he had paid frequent visits to Nurse Sinclair’s home during the past four years and always found the place ‘conducted strictly within the provisions of the law’ (‘A Suspicious Death’, 1905, p. 5). Nevertheless, as I will examine in greater detail in a later chapter, the increasing medicalisation of abortion meant that midwives were facing competition from doctors who were moving in on a lucrative field. In 1908, the Private Hospitals Act was passed in NSW, which threatened the livelihood of midwives. Their lack of qualifications made them ineligible for licensing, and so if they continued to work they could no longer take their abortion patients into their homes to look after them. The risks apparently became too high for Nurse Sinclair, for she stopped advertising her services. In a bid to trade off her reputation Donald and Rebecca Sinclair placed an advertisement in the paper offering similar services at their home address under the name Ellen used – ‘Nurse Sinclair’ – in 1909.

283 Long Bay Donald Sinclair told the court that his wife worked as a dressmaker at their house in Old South Head Road and took in confinement cases under a head nurse. Ellen Sinclair’s name, however, was not mentioned once in the notes from the case. Rebecca Sinclair had a solicitor, Mr James William Abigail – that her mother-in-law previously used during inquests – but Donald insisted on representing himself and cross-examined the witnesses in court. In the Supreme Court of NSW, in a case presided over by Honourable Acting Justice Francis Edward Rogers, Rebecca and Donald Sinclair were found guilty of manslaughter (not murder) by a jury on 21 June 1909. Donald was sentenced to five years’ penal servitude and Rebecca to three years’ imprisonment with hard labour. In some senses, Rebecca Sinclair was lucky, because in August 1909 Long Bay Women’s Reformatory opened 12 kilometres to the south of Sydney. Prisoners were taken there by a new tram line directly from Darlinghurst Courthouse. She would have been transferred to Long Bay from Darlinghurst immediately after the gaol opened, and the space, cleanliness, hot water and focus on reform would have been a change from the outdated, crowded facilities at Darlinghurst Gaol (‘Women’s Reformatory: Important step in reform’, SMH, 1909). In January, Rebecca Sinclair gave birth to Freda Hope McDowell at the Royal Hospital for Women in Paddington, returning to her maiden name. She kept this daughter with her at Long Bay. On 14 February 1910 in the inspection book for the State Reformatory is a note that a cradle is needed from Darlinghurst Gaol for ‘Prisoner Sinclair’s infant’ (Inspection Book, Long Bay Women’s Reformatory). In 11 August of 1910 is a note in the Inspection Book that they were to be transferred to Shaftesbury Institution at Watson’s Bay, a halfway house which mostly held inebriates. After their release, Rebecca remarried Christopher Willis and changed her name to Willis. She died at the age of fifty- two (NSW Historical Index of Births Deaths and Marriage) and is buried in Waverley Cemetery. The daughter she left when she went to prison, Ellen, became estranged from her. The daughter who was born in prison, Freda, remained close to her mother for the rest of her life. At the foot of Rebecca Willis’

Long Bay 284 grave in Waverley cemetery is a polished granite plaque which reads: ‘MUMMY’. The headstone bears the inscription: A beautiful memory of my dear mother Rebecca Irvin Willis passed away 18 Jan 1940 Aged 52 years A tribute from her loving daughter Freda

1.3 Why fiction?

When I first read about Rebecca Sinclair’s case, and as the particulars of her story unfolded for me, I knew that I would not be able to rest until I had written something about it. I was fascinated and moved by it – she haunted me. Rebecca Sinclair was a woman who did something illegal with terrible consequences, but the consequences of this action changed the rest of her life. I was driven to explore the motivations that led her to allow Donald Sinclair and his mother to inculcate her into their underworld, and that made her keep returning to Donald in spite of his deceit. I wondered what finally drove her to sever those ties when she went to prison, when she gave birth to her second daughter and left to live a life that was, from that point onwards, quiet and unremarkable. The research I have done led me to believe that the subject is best written about within the framework of a historical novel. Not because historical sources are deficient, in fact, without the historical sources the slivers of this story would not exist. I believe that we need to get beyond the model described by historian Paula Hamilton as the ‘history as deficit’ model: that fiction is necessary to patch over the holes of history (‘Historical Fiction and Writing Seminar’, June 14 2012). Fiction is as subject to gaps, ellipses and lies as history is. The sources – prison records, newspaper articles, court records are what have given me the story of Rebecca and Donald Sinclair – without them these fragments wouldn’t exist. It takes further creative, imaginative work to reveal what their motives were, what drove them to do what they did. Thus I have written a historical novel about the

285 Long Bay story – a criminal historical novel of marginalised subjects in a time of changing social morality.

1.4 The essays

In addition to the novel, my exegesis is a series of essays on issues that are central themes to the work. The first essay, ‘The State Reformatory for Women at Long Bay: the rise and fall of a “hospital for moral disease”’, concerns prison design and the women’s reformatory movement within the conceptual framework of Foucault’s work on prison structure and historical criminology. The State Reformatory for Women at Long Bay was created to address overcrowding in mixed-sex prisons but, more significantly, to change the way female prisoners were treated and introduce the concept of reformation to the ‘fallen women’ of New South Wales. Previously, women had been held in men’s prisons in substandard accommodation. When it opened in 1909, Long Bay’s inmates came from Darlinghurst, Bathurst, Bileola, Goulburn and Cockatoo Island gaols, where they had inhabited the areas of the gaol deemed unfit for the men. In Darlinghurst Gaol there were four or five women in cells that were meant to accommodate two. The place was dark, gloomy and crawling with bedbugs and lice (Beck, 2005, p. 48). As male inmates made up the majority of the prison population, the problems and specific needs of the women had been largely ignored. The reformatory movement changed this but it also lowered the standard for which women could be imprisoned – women could be incarcerated for twelve months if they were certified as habitual drunkards. Weak morality became a crime. While the environment of Long Bay was more pleasant than the previous prisons, there is little evidence that it was effective in changing the mores of the women held within it. The second essay: ‘“Deliberate interference with the function of procreation”: the medicalisation of abortion in the early twentieth century and the criminalisation of midwife abortionists’, examines the medicalisation of abortion and the changing demographics and sexual choices. Abortion was

Long Bay 286 undergoing both a surge in popularity and a shift from midwife to doctor provided as demographics changed and women sought smaller family sizes. Abortion was the most relied upon method of birth control in the first decade of the twentieth century (Allen, 1993; Finch and Stratton, 1988) and whilst it was illegal, doctors were protected. There was a shift as they replaced midwives as the primary providers of abortions. This shift meant that the business model of midwives was threatened and the essay examines how this affected Rebecca Sinclair and her husband and mother-in-law and led to Rebecca and Donald’s incarceration. The popularity of abortions and the decline in the birth rate led to the Royal Commission into the Decline of the Birth Rate and Mortality of Infants in NSW in 1904, the report of which makes for fascinating reading about the changing morality and the inability of lawmakers and the ‘ruling class’ to accept the result. As Neville Hicks writes in his book on the Royal Commission, This Sin and Scandal, ‘In the generation to 1911 Australia went through a demographic revolution. A woman who began her childbearing in 1911 would probably have four children or less. Her mother would have had five children and her grandmother, completing her childbearing in 1891, would have had at least seven’ (Hicks, 1978, p. 157). The Royal Commission reported its main concern was the use of contraception (which was illegal) and ‘induced miscarriages’ to bring about these lower numbers. ‘There is remarkable unanimity of opinion among the medical men, who are perhaps better able to judge than any other persons in a community, that deliberate interference with the function of procreation has during recent years become extremely common’ (Notes from the Report of the Royal Commission on the Decline of Birth Rate and Mortality of Infants in NSW, 1904, p. 14). The commission heard from doctors, chemists, religious figures and wholesalers regarding the increased desire from women and men for contraception and pregnancy termination. Statistics from two Sydney hospitals showed that they had treated 97 cases of abortion or miscarriage in the first nine

287 Long Bay months of 1903, and those would only be the cases that required hospital treatment because they had been botched (Hicks, 1978, 46). The third and final essay: ‘Sad Stories of Misfortune’, is about the representation and expectations of working class women in the early twentieth century. I examine the newspaper coverage of Rebecca and Donald’s trials and the way the description of her physical appearance changed with the assumption of her criminality. The poor were split into two categories: the deserving and the undeserving. Working class women were particularly expected to act ‘deserving’, as Kreiken has argued: ‘Given the ideological construction of women as bearers of society’s domestic virtue, the girls’ moral behaviour and the threat it posed to respectability was examined more closely than that of boys’ (Kreiken, 1989, p 413). Thus working class women came under scrutiny as their ability to mother was questioned under the auspices of the Infant Welfare Movement, all while they were criticised by middle-class reformers for going to work in the factories and domestic service in order to make enough to live on. I also examine the charitable work of middle and upper class women during the time and the way they worked to educate the working class women with their Victorian mores. The ideal of Victorian womanhood was that the woman does not work outside the home except to help those less fortunate than herself. So that by cultivating the characteristics of ‘self denial, forbearance and fidelity – women were to teach the whole world how to live in virtue.’ (Burstyn, 1984, p 32). In this essay I find that the most vivid representations which exist of working class women are often only available because they have failed to fulfil these expectations of them and are profiled in the newspapers or detailed in institutional records. In spite of the different subjects in the following essays, the topics often cross paths. It was the medicalisation of abortion that led to the imprisonment of female abortionists in women’s reformatories, and the representations that exist which give us the scant picture of what these women’s lives were like. It was the middle class reformers that instigated the idea of Long Bay Women’s Reformatory, and the Victorian ideal of womanhood that the female prisoners were to aspire to.

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1.5 Sources & theories

I have been using various sources for my research – primary sources include: the archives at the NSW State Records at the Western Sydney Records Centre, papers of suffragist and prison reformer Rose Scott and Comptroller General of Prisons Frederick Neitenstein that are available at the Mitchell Library, the Notes from the Report of the Royal Commission on the Decline of the Birth Rate and Mortality of Infants in NSW 1904 from the Mitchell Library, court documents from the Western Sydney Records Centre and newspaper articles from the time. I am taking into account the unreliability of the historical record in these accounts – which is nowhere more evident than in the varying newspaper articles about the trial. Some have claimed Rebecca and Donald Sinclair were brother and sister, their ages have been changed, their livelihoods and so I am fully aware that I can’t rely wholly on them for truth. As early as the 5th century BCE the Greek historian Herodotus refused to claim that any one account or interpretation of the past events were true. As Anne Curthoys and John Docker write in Is History Fiction: ‘In Herodotus’ view, every act involves interpretation’ (Curthoys and Docker, 2006, p. 19). I found their analysis of the history wars helpful: they say that the debates ‘highlighted how difficult it is to decide what constitutes reliable historical evidence, and reminded us that where evidence is sparse and partial, our moral sympathies, political understanding, and cultural assumptions all affect what we judge as likely to be true’ (Curthoys and Docker, 2006, p. 232). The debates about whether or not historical fiction is an abuse of or a valid form of history have filled many books and essays written by historians, academics and fiction writers including but not limited to Inga Clendinnen, Mark McKenna, Ian Mortimer, Kate Grenville and Jane Kamensky. I have read widely on the topic but have chosen not to address the question in depth as many have done this so thoroughly. They have been asking whether history can tell the truth about the past, whether we can make moral judgements about people in the past and whether

289 Long Bay even the most careful historian can tell an unbiased version of the past. Authors of historical fiction have been criticised for ‘making up’ the past, but any time we look back are we not filling the gaps in the record with conjecture? And how reliable is that record in the first place? Who wrote it, and for what purpose, and what did they wish to achieve? Certainly there are strengths and limitations of historical fiction in reimagining the past. I am drawn to the genre because of the ability to select events and utilise perspective to give a full-immersion portrayal of what might have occurred, giving the reader the chance to empathise and understand motives. It allows the exploration of secrets and silences which history has forgotten. I am interested in the novel’s ability to interpret and represent with the inherent unreliability of the form. After criticism for her use of history in The Secret River, Kate Grenville said to Ramona Koval on the radio ‘…the historians are doing their thing, but let me as a novelist come to it in a different way, which is the way of empathising and imaginative understanding of those difficult events’ (Koval, 2005). This isn’t to say that there are not limitations to writing historical fiction. Coming from a contemporary perspective, at times I have struggled to find a voice that is suited to the story without being self-consciously ‘historical’. There have been instances when I have known certain things to be true but changed them for the sake of the story, and then questioned my right to do this. There is a constant vacillation in historical fiction between story and history, imagination and fact. In addition to using the primary and secondary sources, I have visited Darlinghurst Courthouse, the birthplaces of Rebecca Sinclair and Donald Sinclair (which are still standing, in Paddington), Rebecca’s grave in Waverley Cemetery, undertaken a tour of the old Darlinghurst Gaol with Deborah Beck and a tour of the old Women’s Reformatory building (still a functioning gaol) at Long Bay Correctional Centre. While the creative work that makes up my DCA is historical fiction rather than history, I am nonetheless drawn to the concept of microhistory. Comparing biography to microhistory, Jill Lepore wrote in the Journal of American History: ‘If

Long Bay 290 biography is largely founded on a belief in the singularity and significance of an individual’s life and his contributions to history, microhistory is founded upon almost the opposite assumption: however singular a person’s life may be, the value of examining it lies not in its uniqueness, but in its exemplariness, in how that individual’s life serves as an allegory for broader issues affecting the culture as a whole’ (Lepore, 2001). I believe that Rebecca’s life is symbolic of broader issues affecting the culture as a whole, and over the following pages I will show the strands which connect her story to the culture, community and place she existed in.

1.6 The Creative Process

The process of writing Long Bay offered many challenges, despite the research I had done and the way the story was grounded in reality. Writing historical fiction presented problems as to how accurately I could portray Rebecca Sinclair’s life when the documentation of it was so scarce. Initially I hoped that writing Long Bay would be a refreshing departure from my previous experience writing fiction because it is based on actual events and thus there was a timeline to follow. My first novel, What Was Left, is a work of contemporary fiction about a mother with postnatal depression who abandons her daughter and goes in search of her own father, who left when she was a young girl. The story was a product of my imagination, though I understood the motivations of the characters and set the story in environments with which I was familiar. In many ways, Long Bay was the opposite: I came in knowing the central drama of the story but had to familiarise myself with the environment, which was completely unknown to me. I wanted to base the novel as closely as I could on Rebecca Sinclair’s life, so I came to the project with an idea of the where, when, what and how. The timeline of the novel was already decided: I just had to write around it and when the critical events happened make them ring true. I spent a great deal of time researching the particulars of Long Bay – from the scant details of Rebecca Sinclair’s life to the period she lived in and how day-to-day life looked for a young

291 Long Bay woman of her station. I studied many photographs from the period and spent hours looking at household objects and clothing that someone like Rebecca Sinclair would have used and worn. In an essay about using police photographs of criminal subjects from the 1930s, Ross Gibson writes: ‘They offer me ambivalence, subjective instability, and a failure of poise and proper behaviour. Therein lies their power – they show me what I want and what I want not to see’ (Gibson, 2000). I found the photographs from Rebecca’s period equally powerful: while they gave me a sense of things, they also raised many questions that I then sought to answer. But when it came time to write I relied so heavily on this research that I found it difficult to find Rebecca Sinclair’s voice, to let her personality emerge and allow the reasons for her decisions to be evident to the reader. I was so worried about getting a historical detail wrong that I wasn’t occupying her character as I hoped, and I tried several different narrative styles in order to try to get around this. I initially attempted to write from a first-person narrator, but I found that third person limited was the most effective method to represent the character of Rebecca Sinclair. Many books of historical fiction that I admired, such as Andrew Miller’s Pure and Kate Grenville’s The Secret River, were in the third person limited style. Still there was something stilted, and on advice from my supervisor I put the research aside in order to write. At this point I realised I needed to stop worrying about getting things ‘right’ – after all, this was fiction – and just worry about the story. Italian historical novelist Alessandro Manzoni wrote in the 1800s in his essay On Historical Fiction that the historical novelists’ task is not to give us ‘the bare bones of history, but something richer, more complete. In a way you want him to put flesh back on the skeleton that is history’ (Manzoni translated by Bermann, 1984). Rebecca’s voice became clearer once I put the research aside, and I saw that staying true to every detail of the research that I had done was not as important as creating a character that felt real. Voice was always going to be tricky because I approached the story as an outsider. I was born in the United States and grew up in many different countries

Long Bay 292 but didn’t move to Australia until I was in my twenties. Australian English is not my dialect, but I have lived in Australia longer than I have lived anywhere else and so it is a familiar way of speaking for me. But I wondered if my language would be inauthentic. At the same time, I think my being an outsider provided valuable perspective and ensured I took little for granted. I also knew that I did not want to write a dialect-heavy book; occasional slang is useful for authenticity, but too much slang and dialect can distract from the characters and action. In the case of historical fiction, it is essentially impossible to use an ‘accurate’ voice because that way of speaking has been lost, so I simply had to figure out how to convey the otherness of Rebecca’s world while also making it accessible. I created for myself a small ‘dictionary’ of terms that I collected: words which were used at the time in Australia but which have largely disappeared. I only used a few of these words in Long Bay, but collecting them brought me closer to a sense of how people would have spoken. Some of the structure of Long Bay came from original documents that I have included in the novel. During my research these were crucial pieces to me and so I chose to include them to tether the story to historical fact and to bind the narrative. One was the letter from the prison superintendent to the hospital where Rebecca was sent to give birth to her daughter. Another was the letter when she was sent back. There are the divorce papers from Zara and Donald, some of the police witness statements from the trial and the wording from the newspaper advertisements that Rebecca and Donald used. In prison there is also an excerpt from the superintendent’s logbook noting that a cradle is to be requested for ‘Prisoner Sinclair’s infant’. Other documents I invented – such as the letter which Rebecca’s mother Lizzie sends her in prison. Using these real and fictional documents gives the work a hybrid feel – a sense of the interplay between real and fictional worlds. In his book The Historical Novel, Jerome de Groot writes: ‘Historical novels are keenly interested in the interaction between what is “known” and what is made up, querying, for instance, the deployment of varieties of quoted “evidence” which is often literary, therefore highlighting the innate textuality of history, to form a persuasive narrative, and the use of the realist mode to present a story which is clearly

293 Long Bay fiction’ (113). The use of these documents brought me closer to that realist mode, but with a story that had so many gaps, I was required to invent patches of fiction to create a text that appeared whole. I was concerned about the ethics of fictionalising an actual person’s story – using names and identifying characteristics and the facts that I could glean from history. Certainly this has been done before, most popularly with famous historical figures, but also with unknown figures from history as Margaret Atwood does in her novel Alias Grace. However, the question was how Rebecca Sinclair’s descendants would view my attempt to rewrite her story. Before beginning the Doctorate of Creative Arts I joined the online genealogy site Ancestry.com and made contact with a woman who had Rebecca and Donald Sinclair on her family tree. Her relation to them was hidden on the public site but when I wrote her a message and told her about my project she told me that she was Rebecca Sinclair’s granddaughter. Her mother – Freda – was born in Long Bay Women’s Reformatory in 1910. This woman, Christine Jensen, wife of former Sydney Archibishop Peter Jensen, told me that she had been unaware of her mother or grandmother’s history until after her mother died the previous year. When Freda passed away Christine requested a copy of her birth certificate from the NSW Registry of Births Deaths and Marriages and saw that the place of birth was Long Bay Women’s Reformatory. Then she began looking up the reason she was there and discovered the sentence for manslaughter. I shared with her the rest of my research, which was quite a shock to her but which she told me that she appreciated. As the wife of the Anglican Archbishop at the time, Christine’s husband had a public stance against abortion and she admitted that the fact that her grandmother was an abortionist made her uncomfortable. Unfortunately because her mother had kept the grandmother’s crime a secret, Christine had no papers, documents and hardly any photographs of Rebecca. She said that her mother had been quite a distant and unhappy person, and had kept everyone at an arm’s length. It was something of a revelation to learn about her past, because Christine said she could understand why her mother acted the way that she did, harbouring such a secret. It was a time when

Long Bay 294 shame was a far greater concept, and shameful secrets about one’s past were not aired, even to the closest family members. After completing a final draft of the novel I sent it to Christine to check whether she approved of me seeking publication for it. She sent me her approval, which I am immensely grateful for. Another challenge that I came across while writing Long Bay was whether to use only Rebecca’s voice or to provide the story from other voices and angles. I played around with this for quite a while and wrote several chapters from different perspectives. Rebecca’s sentence of manslaughter comes from an illegal abortion she performed which accidentally killed a woman in her thirties named Lucy Edith Smith. Lucy had three children and lived with her husband, Andrew William Smith in North Sydney. He was a linotype operator at the Sydney Morning Herald, and in the court documents I found that he learned of his wife’s death while at the newspaper offices when the story came up. To learn of his wife’s death in this way struck me as particularly tragic, and I wanted from quite early on to write a chapter from his perspective. I spent a great deal of time researching linotype machines and the shift from hand-laying type to linotype machines in the early 1900s, then the gradual digitisation of printing and the extinction of linotypes. It was a highly skilled job and when printers stopped using the machines the bank of knowledge from linotype operators disappeared as well. When I wrote the chapter from Andrew’s perspective, I thoroughly enjoyed the research that I included about linotype machines but it was a little too much information for the reader. I also wrote chapters from the perspectives of Donald’s mother Nurse Ellen Sinclair, Donald Sinclair, Rebecca’s daughter Freda and Rebecca’s sister Amy. I ended up cutting all of these chapters. For me, they were valuable to write, but for the reader they ended up distracting from Rebecca’s voice, which is so central to the story. What was required was more motivation for Rebecca to do what she did, not the perspectives of others. But writing around the story, from the outside I came to realise something was missing in Rebecca’s character. As I removed the other stories, it occurred to me what happened to her to cause her to marry Donald so rapidly, and to seek to escape her childhood home. Her

295 Long Bay sister’s husband, I decided, must have attempted to seduce her on the night of her sister’s wedding and the guilt she felt from this was crippling. Events unfolded in a way that I had no evidence for in the research but that slotted into the story so faultlessly I almost felt they held a germ of truth. The event touched on two themes that are central to the story: shame and sexuality, the precise two reasons why this story has not been told up to this point. Finally, I found a specific challenge in the writing of Long Bay to be its ending. I wrote at least four possible endings: one after Rebecca has died with her daughter Freda going to visit her grave; one when Rebecca is an old woman after her second husband dies; one when she is released from Shaftesbury Institution and returns to live at her mother’s house with her daughters; and one when she is moved from Long Bay to Shaftesbury Institution (more of a halfway house than a prison). The ending as Freda visits Rebecca’s grave I wrote because I wanted that sense of the closeness that Rebecca shared with Freda, in spite of everything. I visited Rebecca’s grave in Waverley Cemetery and it made a deep impression on me, how every aspect of it communicated Freda’s love and intense bond with her mother. The ending when Rebecca was old I wrote because I wanted to give a sense of the happiness she found in her middle age with Christopher, and the peace they experienced together, and her connection with Freda and the loss of connection with her other daughter, Nellie. Both of these endings were too neat, they tied everything up in a bow. This is not a pretty story and I dislike fiction that insists on concluding with everyone’s fate referred to, giving a potted summary of what happened afterwards for each of the characters. Still, it was important that I retained some hope for Rebecca, and so I kept the chapter when Rebecca has been released from Shaftesbury and is at her mother’s house, and Chris comes to visit her there. I am drawn to endings that also hint at beginnings, which this does. I found that while I wrote a great deal which was not included in the novel, this writing was often part of the process of figuring out the story and how it was best told. Every story is as much about what is told as what is left out. I

Long Bay 296 hope that I have chosen what to keep and what to take away wisely. My intention was to shine a pinprick of light into a dusty and little known corner of women’s history, and cause my readers to look at the period and place where Rebecca lived in a slightly changed way; with more understanding, perhaps, of how limited the choices were for the marginal poor – for young women particularly – and how with virtually no sexual and reproductive freedom it was necessary to take things into their own hands. I hope that Long Bay opens a crack in the history we know – it is a subversive story about a subject that has been silenced because of shame. Stories are how we navigate the world around us, and that world shrinks when those stories are not told. The women who sought illegal abortions and the women who made a living providing them kept to the margins of history, our only record of their words is what they said under duress in courtrooms and statements to police. With a combination of research and imagination I have sought to bring this story into the light.

297 Long Bay CHAPTER 2 The State Reformatory for Women at Long Bay: the rise and fall of a ‘hospital for moral disease’

In August of 1909, 23-year-old Rebecca Irwin Sinclair McDowell was among the first prisoners delivered by tramline to the newly opened State Reformatory for Women at Long Bay. Rebecca, together with her husband Donald Roderick Sinclair, had been performing illegal abortions from their home at 486 Old South Head Road in Woollahra. On 26 April 1909 a doctor was summoned to the house because Lucy Edith Smith, aged 38, had suddenly collapsed. Lucy had three young children and a husband in North Sydney. She was three months pregnant and she died after a syringe abortion caused an air embolism (Evidence from Criminal Court Case into the death of Lucy Edith Smith, NSW State Archives 1909). Rebecca told the court that she worked as a dressmaker at their house in Old South Head Road and took in confinement cases. She was found guilty of manslaughter and sentenced to three years imprisonment with Hard Labour. Her husband, Donald, was also found guilty of manslaughter and sentenced to five years penal servitude. I was intrigued by the nature of Rebecca’s incarceration and by the fact that she gave birth while in prison. She was young, she had a trade, yet she had become involved in this risky, illegal business of providing abortions. I wanted to discover what drove her to become an abortionist and what her time at Long Bay would have been like, how her days were structured, what happened upon her release. In order to write a novel inspired by the story of Rebecca Sinclair, I had to research the environments she lived in – discover the texture of her days. One of the places she lived was the State Reformatory for Women at Long Bay. To the south of Sydney, on the coast between Maroubra and Botany Bay, the first purpose-built women’s prison in Australia opened in 1909. Long Bay Women’s Reformatory was created to address overcrowding in mixed-sex prisons but, more significantly, to change the way female prisoners were treated and introduce the concept of reformation to the ‘fallen women’ of New South Wales.

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Long Bay Women’s Reformatory: Randwick City Library Service

Prisons in New South Wales were influenced by the British-based Crofton system, which included solitary confinement for the first nine months of incarceration. The 1890s depression had left the prison system reeling: between 1890 and 1894 there were twenty thousand more arrests than usual, with the crime rate rising by a third (NSW Statistical Register, 1890-1894). The collapse of banks and increases in unemployment meant that people turned to crime in order to survive. The state government and Comptroller-General of Prisons George Miller responded with stronger disciplinary measures (Garton, 1989, p. 54). The gag and lash were re-introduced to try to manage this influx of ‘criminals’, as well as solitary confinement in a dark cell. While torture was no longer an accepted form of punishment for all crimes, prisoners who acted up whilst in prison were frequently subdued with state-sanctioned violence. The increase in numbers of people incarcerated was matched only by an increase in the populations in insane asylums (Garton, 1982, p. 89). An increase in the level of intervention of the state in social life and to ensure social order was clearly evident. In his seminal work Discipline and Punish Michel Foucault surmised that from the nineteenth century onwards ‘the body as the major target

299 Long Bay of penal repression disappeared’ (Foucault, 1975, p. 8). Torture was no longer acceptable as a method of avenging crime, as not only was it random, unpredictable and unevenly distributed but it actually brought public sympathy to the criminal: ‘ ... the people never felt closer to those who paid the penalty than in those rituals intended to show the horror of crime and the invincibility of power’ (63). Torture was replaced by a more generalised and controlled means of punishment in institutions. ‘The example is now based on the lesson, the discourse, the decipherable sign, the representation of public morality’ (110). Increasingly, in New South Wales, the public was becoming aware of the charges of brutality within the prison system. In 1893, former Minister for Mines Francis Abigail, imprisoned for white-collar crimes, embarrassed the government by publishing a series of articles about the woeful state of the prison system (Garton, 1989, p. 56). Into this environment and with a mandate for reform William Frederick Neitenstein was appointed to the position of Comptroller-General of prisons from 1896 to 1909. The former commander and superintendent of the nautical school ships Vernon and Sobraon, which placed young delinquent boys on a military-style ship docked at Cockatoo Island, Neitenstein was to implement major changes within the NSW prison system. The London-born former merchant marine introduced grading (inmates received privileges for hard work and good behaviour), physical drill programmes reminiscent of naval exercises and the policy of ‘restricted association’ to reduce contact between the different criminal classes. He believed that criminals were not born but came from environments that had failed to instil good habits. He believed that offenders, particularly young ones, could be re-educated and their bad habits eradicated (Ramsland, p. 151). Under his leadership, prisons were to be turned into ‘hospitals for the treatment of moral disease’ (Prisons Department Annual Report, 1896, p. 63.) During his time as Commissioner of Prisons Neitenstein got rid of the dark cells, the gag and the lash, saying: ‘These things only tended to develop the animal in man. The ideal prison is that in which a man has his faults remedied by

Long Bay 300 scientific methods. You can do with reason what you cannot achieve with the bludgeon’ (‘Prison Reformer: Death of Captain Neitenstein’, 1921, p. 6). Neitenstein travelled abroad to examine prisons in the United States, England, France and Belgium and to select what he believed to be the best practices for the system in New South Wales. From Belgium and France, he approved of the canteen system, where a prisoner is paid for his work and can purchase food and other necessities from a canteen with this money. In the United States, the Elmira Reform Prison in New York impressed him with its ‘wonderful successes through education, drill and discipline, with the star of hope always in view’ (Spence, 1905). Though reform was needed for both sexes, Neitenstein found the situation of female prisoners in New South Wales particularly dire. This isn’t to say, however, that he felt single-handedly equipped to tackle it. As Ramsland argues in his social history of corrective services in NSW, With Just but Relentless Discipline: ‘He believed that treatment of women in prison required special attention and needed different regulations to those of men in the areas of food, discipline and work because of their susceptibility to “emotional instability”, and “great nervous depression” and their tendency to “break out in fits of ungovernable hysteria for no apparent reason”. He quickly realised the urgent need of a charitable society of women to provide him with advice on the question and the right kind of reformatory guidance and emotional support for the female inmates themselves’ (Ramsland, p 156). This ‘charitable society of women’ was found in the Ladies Committee of the Prisoners’ Aid Society. The first president of the women’s committee in 1898 was prominent Sydney women’s rights campaigner and suffragist Rose Scott. The period between 1880 and 1910 was one of great change for Australian women. The Industrial Revolution opened up the labour market so there were more options for women, the fertility rate plunged as women chose voluntary rather than enforced motherhood (Sheridan, 1993), and women campaigned (successfully) for the right to vote. Additionally, ‘first-wave feminists’ such as Scott fought to increase the age of consent, to give women better access to

301 Long Bay divorce and to introduce industrial rights for women and children (Magarey, 1993). In her biography of Rose Scott, Judith Allen speculates that Scott may have become involved with the Ladies Committee after receiving the following undated letter from a female prisoner, which reveals the violence that women endured from male wardens:

deer miss,

this is always going on and we are torn to pieces everywhere we are lockup. The Lockup Keeper will say we are nousy and put us in a cell of oursefs he will then do what he likes. Even at the centril when the matrons are away for holidays they do it. do help us deer lady for God sake. We are bad enuf don’t let us be made worser and we will bles you for ever

Mary Canes Rilly Strett (Allen, 1994, p. 153)

Under Scott’s leadership, The Ladies Committee campaigned for female prisoners to be under the care and supervision of female warders at all times, and that separate institutions be built for women. Separating female prisoners would protect them from some of the abuse and embarrassment suffered in a mixed gaol. Allen writes: ‘In the 1880s and 1890s, scandals occasionally came to light concerning women prisoners, specifically when those sentenced to two or more years’ imprisonment became pregnant late in their sentences. In one instance, the father of the child was the son of a warder: the prisoner was used as a servant in the family quarters, a common practice in prisons all over the Australian colonies. In another, a woman prisoner proceeded against a warder in a paternity case’ (Allen, 1994, p. 155).

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Rose Scott, circa 1900, photographer T. Humphrey & Co.

The Ladies’ Committee was made up of charitable, educated women from Sydney’s upper-middle classes. They visited female prisoners, most of whom were from the lowest classes of society, and engaged in regular visits to invite ‘their confidences regarding their lives, so that by knowing their stories they might lend a helping hand to their erring sisters’ (Ramsland, p. 276). They used their connections in order to find domestic positions for the women upon their release, occasionally employing them as domestics themselves. They organised concerts and guest speakers on health and women’s ‘physical problems’. The Ladies’ Committee also provided clothing for those who were released so they could go to their new situations ‘properly dressed’ (Ramsland, p. 167). In her book, Partial Justice, Nicole Hahn Rafter describes this relationship between the middle-class reformer and the working-class offender in American reformatories of the time in a less charitable light. ‘Two groups of women – the working class offenders and the middle-class reformers – met, so to speak, at the gate of the women’s reformatory. The struggle between them was economically functional to the reformers: it helped maintain a pool of cheap domestic labor for women like themselves and, by keeping working women in the surplus labour force, it undergirded the economic system to which reformers owed their privileged positions’ (Rafter, 1980, p. 175).

303 Long Bay Whether or not Ladies Committee president Rose Scott was interested in maintaining a pool of cheap domestic labour, she certainly thought these women would be better off if they assimilated her values. She gained permission at the end of 1898 to inspect the conditions that women faced in NSW gaols. Her never- published, handwritten report is in her papers, which are kept by the Mitchell Library. Scott found the situation for women severely lacking. Female warders were cruel, the work was monotonous and dull and the daily routine ‘depressing’. In a moving and detailed report, she describes her visit to Darlinghurst Gaol and how it affected her:

… the Men had a great variety of occupations; in consequence everything appeared brighter, more wholesome, less depressing. The busy workshops with their great variety of employments and especial interest. The great kitchen and its complete arrangements for Invalid cookery as well as the usual dinners for all. The Library, where the men could go, and choose books according to their various tastes, some even learning to read and write, or, as in the case of a Blackfellow, be taught to tell the time of day by a little cardboard clock on a board. The Chapel had a brightness and interest in the Men’s quarters that could hardly dwell in the dreary gallery where the women in a mixed gaol must naturally sit. Then the Hospital so bright and comforting – the garden also where some could work or, in passing, see was an antidote in itself to depression. I have dwelt on this part of our visit to show how terrible to our minds, was the contrast we found as we compared the Women’s quarters and environment, with that of the Male prisoners. Work in the Women’s quarters appeared to consist solely of scrubbing, cleaning, washing and needle work of the most hideous and dreary description, all necessary work no doubt – coarse and colourless flannel shirts etc, no variety, no brightness, no colour. This needlework from 9- to 12-, then from 2- to 4-, to bed at 5. Could any better preparation be found than this, for scenes of terrible re-action and outbreaks? Restrained physical energy let loose, after a daily routine of work, without interest,

Long Bay 304 monotonous, colourless, depressing, without movement or life (Scott, 1898, Pp. 2-3).

Scott’s suggestions to improve the lot of the female prisoner centred on building a separate women’s prison, training more humane, all-female wardens, allowing for varied work, physical activity, education and a more cheerful environment. She wrote that women should be given better clothes as a reward for behaving well, assuming that her own tastes would or should be shared by the female prisoners. Neitenstein agreed with Scott’s conclusions and wrote to her that he wished to construct a new, modern prison for female inmates. But it wasn’t until 1909 that this goal was achieved. Scott and Neitenstein were well aware of overseas examples of the women’s reformatory movement at the end of the nineteenth century. Prior to 1870, female criminals were viewed as the lowest of the low: ‘totally ruined, totally depraved individuals’ (Harm, 1992, p. 95). The traditional perspective on women prisoners was that they were irredeemable. They were also a minority in the prison population and less valuable than male prisoners. Nancy J. Harm writes in a historical analysis of social policy on women prisoners: ‘Prisons were designed by men, and women were often supervised by men. Prisons made no provisions for pregnancy, birth, or child care. The relatively small number of women prisoners also meant fewer programs and options for female offenders. Thus, the women were usually assigned to make and wash uniforms for male convicts; because this work was less profitable than the work to which male convicts were assigned, women were less valuable economically to the institution’ (Harm, p. 96.) With the Reformatory Era, which began in 1870, there was a shift from classic criminology to positivist criminology, ‘which emphasized understanding, diagnosing and treating the criminal, rather than understanding and punishing the crime’ (Harm, p. 96) Early champions of these ideals were Elizabeth Fry in England and Zebulon Reed Brockway who founded the House of Shelter for Women in Michigan in 1869 and Elmira Reformatory in New York in 1876.

305 Long Bay It was Elizabeth Fry who, in 1813, visited Newgate Prison in England and described the conditions there as ‘hell above ground’. She found 300 women and their children huddled together in two wards and two cells. They slept on the ground without bedding or nightclothes, and had to sleep, cook and wash in the one place. Afterwards she wrote that the ‘swearing, gaming, fighting, singing and dancing were too bad to be described’ (Simpkin, 2012). A Quaker, Fry took it on as her religious duty to visit the women of Newgate regularly. She provided them with clothes and started a school for the children and a clinic. She introduced compulsory sewing and Bible study classes to replace the carousing. Fifty years later in the United States Zebulon Brockway opened the nation’s first reformatory in upstate New York. Rather than religious conversion, Brockway’s reformatory was based on the theories of educational reform to teach prisoners how to become law-abiding citizens (‘Elmira’, 2012). Classifying prisoners according to their crimes and history, Brockway introduced the grading system that allowed privileges including early release for those prisoners who worked hard and behaved in accordance with regulations. In Partial Justice, Nicole Hahn Rafter argues that four conditions influenced the women’s reformatory movement. These were: male wardens wishing to rid themselves of the trouble of female prisoners, the rise of social feminism (which celebrated traditionally feminine roles), the social purity movement (which wished to cleanse society of its degenerates) and the changing perspective on female offenders. Rather than depraved witches, female criminals were now seen as wayward children – women that had been led astray due to their innocence or lack of experience. Prostitutes in particular were portrayed in the literature of the social purity movement as victims rather than evildoers. ‘Thus,’ according to Harm, ‘the stereotype of the female criminal changed from the utterly depraved to the childlike naïve lost soul. The treatment of the female inmate moved from the custodial to the reformatory, from the neglected to the paternal’ (p. 100). Rafter speculates that the model for the women’s reformatory came more from juvenile institutions than it did from prisons for adult males (Rafter, p. xxiii). So Neitenstein’s former role as the commander of the school ships for

Long Bay 306 juvenile delinquent boys gave him a solid foundation on which to build the Reformatory for Women at Long Bay. Neitenstein’s willingness to look to other countries for examples also helped him form the philosophy that drove his major reforms to the penal system in NSW. Before the Women’s Reformatory was completed, Neitenstein had implemented regular healthy outdoor work in the other prisons of NSW, lectures and musical concerts, a greater variety of work and a far more detailed system of classification and reward. Prisoners were no longer placed in solitary confinement for the first nine months of their sentence: instead, they were introduced to a new system of restricted association, where they only associated with other prisoners while working, exercising and attending chapel. Otherwise, during meals and all other times, inmates were kept in individual cells. These practices were to be implemented at Long Bay, and when it finally opened in 1909 Neitenstein had a four-acre blank canvas on which to create his ideal environment for reform. Terry Kass writes in a history of the Long Bay complex: ‘It was the physical manifestation of the sensitivity and care of Frederick Neitenstein to female prisoners and marked a major landmark in the care of women in prison’ (1995, p. 31). The prison was built in a radial form, with buildings extending out from a courtyard and enclosed by a Federation Gothic entrance block and wall. The buildings were made of brick with stone dressings and roofed with iron. In the centre were gardens and a pagoda decorated with palms, staghorns, flowering plants and ferns. A cage of canaries hung from the pagoda ceiling (‘Our Social Degenerates’, 1917). This was where women from the Ladies’ Committee met with their chosen charity cases. Radiating out from the courtyard were four two-storey ranges of cells each holding 72 inmates in single accommodation. Every cell range had a semi-circular bathroom at the end with hot and cold water. Galleries and stairways were built of steel. Each individual cell had a window to the outside, electric light and a bell. Cells measured 13 feet long, 7 feet wide and 10 feet 6 inches high, spacious when compared to Darlinghurst Gaol, where individual cells measured 7 ½ feet long, 5 feet wide and 10 feet high (‘Our Public Institutions’, 1860, p. 5). Floors

307 Long Bay were of concrete. The exercise yards between the blocks were divided by 10-foot high concrete walls and each had an open drill room staffed by warders at the end (Kass, 1995). There were two sewing rooms, kitchens and a workshop. The prison grounds had flower and vegetable beds, and the prisoners grew enough vegetables to be self-sufficient. The prison was enclosed by an 18-foot high wall that contained the entrance block, in which there was a guard room, visitors’ rooms, admission rooms, bath rooms, fumigating rooms and rooms for warders. Outside the walls were the Governor’s and Matron’s quarters and four warders’ cottages. There was also a hospital, chapel and laundry. The opening of Long Bay Women’s Reformatory received ample attention in the press. An article in the Sydney Morning Herald declared: ‘Arrangements have been completed to transfer here the whole of the female prisoners now at Bileola, Cockatoo Island, Bathurst and Darlinghurst. They will be subjected to treatment according to the most modern ideas, the main object being reformation’ (25 August 1909, p. 12). The following year, an article on women warders at Long Bay was also published in the Sydney Morning Herald – on the Herald’s ‘Page for Women’ – which ran every Wednesday. Alongside the household hints and society notices is this piece in which the unnamed author waxes poetic about the view from the upper floor of the prison, ‘which shows the hazy blue of the distant mountains – soft smudges against a western sky – and the sapphire waters of the Pacific, a broad band on the east, punctuated with the movement of fishing craft, ocean tramps, and smart mail steamers’ (9 November 1910, p. 5.) The description of the lovely view just sets the scene, however, for the primary subject, the women warders, who were more akin to kindly aunts or gentle nurses than overlords: ‘Between the woman warder of to-day and the female gorgon of twenty years ago there lies an abyss. It has been bridged by public opinion. And it is a portion of that upward trend in which reform rather than drastic punishment has inspired the control of modern prisons’ (p. 5). Reflecting the now-popular reformist theories, the journalist continues to write that a warder ‘must be outwardly calm, with that reserve of self-control

Long Bay 308 which exercises a marvellous influence over women who are often more weak than wicked. Self control is absolutely the greatest factor for good a woman warder can possess. Why? Because she is handling those whose downfall has been chiefly due to a fatal facility for yielding to every emotion’ (p. 5). These fallen women were brought to Long Bay on a new tramline that had been purpose-built, departing from Darlinghurst Courthouse with a special prisoners’ car containing locked cages.

Long Bay Prison Tram: State Records NSW

Another journalist – Rosa Raupach – again from the Women’s Page of the Sydney Morning Herald visited the prison in 1914 and found ‘cleanliness, brightness and silence’ (Raupach, 1914, p. 7). Alongside a recipe for yeast bread- making and an article about a dolls’ carnival, she writes: ‘The cells are beautifully clean, dry, and cemented, so that there are no pests, and electric light is provided. It is a healthy environment and it is a surprise how well and strong some poor prisoners become after a few days’ regular life. They are all civil, respectful and well-behaved as a rule.’

309 Long Bay Into this idyllic-seeming environment prisoners were placed into one of 12 classifications based on their crime, the length of the sentence, their age and experience levels (Kass, 1995). Exercise yards were also arranged on the basis of what the Prisons Department called ‘scientific grading’. Upon arrival each woman was scrubbed clean, checked for lice and venereal diseases and given her uniform. Those who had previous convictions were placed in their cells for seven days of solitary but allowed an hour’s exercise morning and evening. Those with venereal diseases (most frequently syphilis) were placed in the Lock Hospital. Afterwards they were classified further and placed at work along with similarly classified prisoners, so that the youngest offenders were not brought into contact with the re-offending criminals. A Visiting Surgeon paid regular visits and had a great deal of control over the women’s diet and schedule, and women were only allowed into the ordinary division when they were deemed fit by him (Ramsland, 1995). From arrival to departure, the treatment of the female prisoner ‘was carefully structured and orchestrated in fine detail along Foucauldian lines.’ (Ramsland, 1995, p. 37). An ‘Indulgence List’ published in a 1907 Government Gazette listed some of the special purchases allowed to inmates of the Higher grade.

Postage stamps. Newspapers. Tea. Coffee. Cocoa. *Flat tobacco. *Matches. *Pipes. Butter. Jam. Fish in tins. Cheese. Milk. Fruit. *For males only.

‘Female inmates on the special list will be allowed to purchase material for woolwork, needlework, and for special sale, and also material for making clothing

Long Bay 310 for wear on release. Work of this kind to be performed apart from the ordinary working hours’ (Neitenstein, 1900, p. 3). One result of the reformatory movement and the environmentalist ideals that were gaining fashion was that women who previously would not have entered the prison system now were being incarcerated. When it was seen a ‘hospital of moral disease’, as Neitenstein hoped, Long Bay Women’s Reformatory became crowded with women whose only crime was that of moral decrepitude. They included women with alcohol and drug problems, women who had given birth to children out of wedlock, and those who used indecent language, had been charged with ‘riotous behavior’ or had run away from previous institutions (Harm, p. 97). According to Rafter, the founders of women’s reformatories institutionalised a double standard – one in which women could be incarcerated for offences which men were not. ‘Reformatories incarcerated working class women for minor sexual misbehaviors and tried, often successfully, to instil middle-class values. Through the reformatory movement, the criminal justice system became a mechanism for punishing women who did not conform to the bourgeois definitions of femininity’ (Rafter, xxxii). This is echoed in Foucault’s work with his theory that the carceral system as a whole increases our tolerance to punishment – it effectively ‘lowers the level from which it becomes natural and acceptable to be punished’ (Foucault, 1975, p. 303). As a result of the Inebriates Act of 1901 and the Amendment Acts of 1909 and 1912 people in prison who were certified as habitual drunkards could be detained for a maximum of twelve months for treatment (Garton, 1982, p. 100). The daily average occupancy went from 124 in 1909 to peak at 199 in 1919 (McCormack, 2008). Unfortunately for Neitenstein’s grand ideals, however, he retired in 1909 at the beginning of a long illness that would eventually lead to his death in 1921. Almost immediately at Long Bay Women’s Reformatory these carefully constructed classification systems began to erode. In his history of the Long Bay Complex, Terry Kass describes how the separate classifications and periods of isolation that Neitenstein had insisted

311 Long Bay upon deteriorated. ‘In 1911, there was a significant alteration in sentencing of females with separate treatment for first offenders eliminated completely and separate treatment times reduced for those with previous convictions. In later years, the intermixing of females at the prison was to be claimed as the most effective way for old offenders to recruit new talent. The classification scheme was also revised’ (Kass, p. 14). In 1925, journalist and well-known bohemian Dulcie Deamer wrote an article about the Women’s Reformatory for The Australian Women’s Mirror in which the cracks in the façade of the reformatory movement had begun to show. ‘But these women, like the men who worked in the wind-swept open between the upper and lower walls, were not of the folk one sees in streets and trams, and on ferry wharves and in ice cream parlours. One glimpses their kind, sometimes, among the broken garbage cans of city alleys, and in dubious wine- bars or in the shadows of still more dubious, half-shuttered shops. They were not so much a sub-race as off-scourings and discards’ (Deamer, 1925, p. 57). Ultimately, these were the women society could not find a place for, and though the numbers of prisoners in the 1920s and 1930s were dwindling at Long Bay Women’s Reformatory, the same prisoners were coming back again and again despite the best attempts at reform. The notorious brothel madam Tilly Devine was among the regulars: between 1921 and 1925 Devine was arrested 79 times (Writer, 2009). This recidivism led to a growing disillusion with the reform movement, according to Garton. ‘By the 1920s prison reformers were turning to the medical profession to explain why ‘criminals’ were intractable. There was little faith in Neitenstein’s belief in the role of prison routine as an instrument of reform’ (Garton, 1989, p. 62). By this time as well there were other institutions or societal safety nets for dealing with women who were classified as inebriates or mentally ill, and in post- war Australia, the desire to lock women up for weak morality declined. The State provided inebriate asylums, mental hospitals, psychiatric clinics and ‘boarding out’ for juveniles rather than widespread incarceration (Garton, 1989, p. 61). Worldwide, the reformatory movement was dying because ‘in part … the progressive policy of extra-institutional reform that resulted in reformatories

Long Bay 312 receiving only “hard-core” felons, not “hopeful” delinquent women’ (Harm, p. 100). Certainly hope was seen as a thing of the past. In the words of Deamer, again:

So the Reformatory, with all its efficiency and beautiful machinery of hygiene and human discipline, was much sadder than any hospital, for a hospital is a place of great hope. Here there was indeed no need to grave “Hope Abandon” above the entrance. For the majority of those entering there had never really been any hope to lay aside (Deamer, p. 57).

So much for Neitenstein’s ‘hospital of moral disease’; by 1937 there were only 42 occupants in 276 cells. In 1945 part of the Women’s Reformatory was taken over by inmates from the neighbouring, overflowing male penitentiary, and in 1969 the remaining women were moved to the Mulawa Correctional Centre at Silverwater (McCormack, 2008). The entire reformatory was converted into part of the men’s prison, and today it is known as the Metropolitan Remand Prison within the greater complex of Long Bay Gaol. While much of the original structure of the Women’s Reformatory has been renovated – the original Federation Gothic gatehouse and two-storey cell ranges still stand. In the central courtyard, rather than a pagoda with a cage of canaries there is a sculpture of a man’s torso emerging from a block of stone. Sculpted by former inmate Tim Guider in 2002, the work is titled ‘Hope’.

313 Long Bay CHAPTER 3 ‘Deliberate interference with the function of procreation’: the medicalisation of abortion in the early twentieth century and the criminalisation of midwife abortionists

The history of abortion is as old as the history of childbirth – it has always been a part of human experience, even when it was prohibited (Miller, 45). Different societies had different ways of viewing the use of abortion and abortifacients (often traditional herbs), but there was a general understanding that prior to quickening (the time when the pregnant woman feels the foetus move) the foetus had no soul and abortion was not a criminal act. In A.D. 1230, Henri de Bracton interpreted the common law as saying if a pregnant woman is struck or given poison in order to procure an abortion, if the foetus is already quickened, the person who struck or poisoned her commits homicide (Miller, 6-7). For more than a thousand years women in England were free to abort an unformed or ‘pre- quick’ foetus (Riddle, 3). At the time of American Independence in 1776, the state of the law was that ‘pre-quickening abortion was not illegal, post-quickening abortion was misdemeanour feticide and post-quickening abortion that resulted in the birth of a live child which subsequently died of its injuries was murder’ (Miller, 8). In England, abortion was first made illegal in 1803. The British Offences Against the Persons Act of 1861 made all attempts at abortion illegal, even if the foetus had not quickened. Australia was governed by this legislation and it remained in place at Australian Federation in 1901 (Francome, 30). But despite abortion’s illegality, women in Australia were using it in increasing numbers in an attempt to control their fertility. It is a little discussed aspect of history, and one almost forgotten now when access to birth control and abortion are considered a woman’s right. Abortion during the early 1900s was a badly kept secret, and a government-led crackdown on (female) midwife-provided abortions meant that (male) doctors stepped in to provide the illegal service with protection provided by the status they held.

Long Bay 314 The case that the creative portion of my thesis, Long Bay, is based upon hinges on the criminalisation of midwife-provided abortions. Rebecca Sinclair and her husband Donald Sinclair were imprisoned for manslaughter after attempting and botching an abortion on Lucy Edith Smith. They were inexperienced and ill-prepared, but they were trading off the name of Donald’s mother, Nurse Sinclair, who had closed her private hospital because of the crackdown on private hospitals (where midwives worked out of their homes taking in pregnant women for births and occasionally abortions). Nurse Sinclair had been providing abortions since as early as 1901 in her home, advertising her services in the newspapers under Nurse Sinclair’s Private Hospital. Contrary to what authorities had hoped to do, the Private Hospital Act caused the competent midwife abortionists to retreat and sent desperate women to inexperienced criminals, like Donald and Rebecca Sinclair, hoping to profit from the gap in the market. In this essay I will review the existing research about the medicalisation of abortion and the criminalisation of midwife abortionists in the early 1900s and then show how this very criminalisation drove Lucy Edith Smith into the hands of real criminals pretending to be reputable abortionists.

3.1 The desire to limit family size

There is much evidence that women were undergoing a great shift in their attitudes towards the size of their families at the beginning of the twentieth century, seeking out new methods of contraception and procuring abortions in increasing numbers. Because of the secrecy which has always cloaked abortion, reliable figures are difficult to obtain, but several indicate that between one in three and one in five of pregnancies ended in abortion in the first decade of the 1900s (Allen, 1993, 91; Finch and Stratton, 1988, 52). The authorities at the time were so concerned about the plummeting birth rate that in 1903, one year after the enactment of women’s suffrage, there was a Royal Commission called to investigate the Decline of the Birth Rate and Mortality of Infants in NSW. The report, published in 1904, makes for fascinating

315 Long Bay reading about the changing morality and the inability of lawmakers and the ‘ruling class’ to accept the result. As Neville Hicks writes in his book on the Royal Commission, This Sin and Scandal:

In the generation to 1911 Australia went through a demographic revolution. A woman who began her childbearing in 1911 would probably have four children or less. Her mother would have had five children and her grandmother, completing her childbearing in 1891, would have had at least seven (157).

Birthing seven or more babies – often within a short period of time – took its toll on the mother. There were frequent spontaneous miscarriages, stillbirths, and infants dying within the first year of birth. In her book Sex & Secrets, historian Judith Allen writes: ‘Prior to asepsis, anaesthesia and penicillin, death in childbirth was a significant risk, while post-natal morbidity and chronic conditions such as prolapsed uterus and torn perineum were familiar, painful probabilities’ (27). Judith Allen writes in her biography of prominent Australian suffragist, women’s rights campaigner and Ladies’ Prison Society president, Rose Scott, that part of the impetus behind Scott’s early feminism (and decision not to marry and remain childless) was her own mother’s experience with childbirth:

Scott’s closeness to her mother, who had eight surviving children, three infants who died, and possibly other stillbirths and miscarriages, may contextualise her sentiments. Her married sisters produced the smaller families beginning to be evident in the final decades of the nineteenth century….Her knowledge of the problems that women faced in negotiating marital sexuality, frequent pregnancy, childbearing and rearing, amidst already pressing household responsibilities, was considerable (91).

Long Bay 316 Meanwhile the population was shifting towards urban areas and so a large family to help on the rural property was no longer an issue. In an urbanised social structure, large families meant more costs and more mouths to feed. In her chapter ‘Intimate Strangers’ in Making a Life: A People’s History of Australia since 1788, Marilyn Lake writes: ‘By the last decades of the nineteenth century, many women had begun to identify large families as their destroyers: babies stood between themselves and economic and physical survival. Infanticide and abortion became common’ (160). And yet, the Royal Commission was damning of those who claimed they couldn’t afford more children, claiming: ‘People who say they can’t afford more children are inherently selfish and unwilling to fulfil the obligations of the community’ (Notes, 1904, 17). Besides not having as many children, increasing numbers of women did not marry at all. In the ten years between 1891 and 1901, the proportion of women aged between 25 and 29 who did not marry almost doubled, ‘rising to more than 10 per cent in all colonies except Tasmania’ (Magarey, 1993, 92). For unmarried women, the shame of having an illegitimate child cannot be underestimated, for Victorian morality stigmatised the unmarried mother to such a degree that ‘the situation had to be avoided at all costs’ (Sumerling, 1). The dichotomy of saint or whore – where the married mother was a saint and the unmarried a whore – was still prevalent in the popular mindset. Women were either wives, thus entrusted with the ‘moral guardianship of society’, or they were objects of sexual gratification (Summers, 1975, 21).

3.2 The Methods

As the population became more literate and educated, the use of contraception spread. In 1877 in England, Annie Besant and Charles Bradlaugh republished a pamphlet advocating contraception originally written by Charles Knowlton called The Fruits of Philosophy. Knowlton, an American doctor, wrote in the first half of the nineteenth century about a method of preventing conception which involved washing out the vagina with ‘a solution of sulphate of zinc, alum, pearl-ash, or any salt that acts chemically on the semen’ after intercourse (Besant & Bradlaugh,

317 Long Bay 73). Annie Besant went on to write her own book about birth control called The Laws of Population. Her arguments were based on the neo-Malthusian position that with ‘universal knowledge of contraception people would have only as many children as they could afford, and poverty would disappear’ (Francome, 37). Besant and Bradlaugh went to trial in 1876 for publishing Knowlton’s pamphlet and Besant stated that contraception would lower the numbers of both infanticide cases and abortion. They were found guilty and sentenced to six months’ imprisonment but were freed upon appeal. The media attention to the trial brought them a great deal of attention and the sales of the book grew from 1,000 a year to 125,000 copies between March and June 1877 (Francome, 37). Civil servant Henry Kaylock Rusden rewrote The Fruits of Philosophy to create an Australian edition in early 1878. It was published in Melbourne and then Sydney (Forster, 240). During the 1904 Commission these books received some of the blame for the changing attitudes towards and knowledge of contraception (Hicks, 62). Whilst family limitation was high among all social classes, the Royal Commission heard that prevention was the preferred method of the higher, and abortion of the lower classes. Their concerns were both the use of contraception and ‘induced miscarriages’ to bring about the lower birth rate. ‘There is remarkable unanimity of opinion among the medical men, who are perhaps better able to judge than any other persons in a community, that deliberate interference with the function of procreation has during recent years become extremely common’ (Notes, 1904, 14). The commission heard from doctors, chemists, religious figures and wholesalers regarding the increased desire from women and men for contraception and pregnancy termination. Statistics from two Sydney hospitals showed that they had treated 97 cases of abortion or miscarriage in the first nine months of 1903, and those would only be the cases that required hospital treatment because they had been botched (Hicks, 1978, 46). The Commission heard that the rate of deaths in childbirth had gone up 50 per cent from 1881 to 1900, which is relevant because women who died as the result of a botched abortion were recorded as having died in childbirth (Notes, 1904, 30).

Long Bay 318 It is interesting now to read some of the euphemisms at the time that were used to refer to abortifacients and contraceptive devices. Chemists and door-to- door salesmen sold pills, potions, pessaries and syringes that promised to ‘cure nervous debility’.

Pessaries, 'Wife's Friends', in box, W.J. Rendell, Australia, 1930-1939.

There were steel pills and pennyroyal pills, chromate of potash, copper sulphate, bronze sulphate and metallic mercury. Other substances included ergot, aloes, colocynth, cantharides and arsenic (Allen, 1993, p. 96). The products went by a range of names: Malthus Soluble Quinine Tablets, Lambert’s Improved Secret Spring Check Pessary, the ‘Sanitas’ Sponge, the ‘Hygena’ Spray Syringe, ‘Malthus’ Sheaths, Lambert’s Improved Vertical and Reverse Current Syringe and Rendell’s Quinine Pessaries. The Marvel Whirling Spray promised to return a woman’s regularity (Hicks, 1978, 124). The Commission heard:

… these articles are carried from house to house by hawkers, and by women (some of whom wear a dress resembling that of a nurse), who find their way into the homes of the people on various pretexts for the purposes of trading in these “preventatives”, or abortifacients (16).

319 Long Bay In October 1903 imports to New South Wales of sheaths and pessaries amounted to more than 21,000 pieces (Hicks, 124). Women asked the chemist for emmengogue pills and Permanganate of Potash. They asked for Silent Pills and Wescott’s Pills – no. 1 and no. 2 – for which the advertisement read: ‘If No. 1 does not answer No. 2 will’ (Royal Commission, 1904, 28). Dennis Miller argues that the concept of ‘bringing on the menses’ was not always connected to ending an early pregnancy, as the prevalence of amenorrhea and spontaneous early miscarriages meant that menstruation was frequently irregular anyway. ‘Thus,’ he writes, ‘when some women took home preparations, and later patent medicines – made up of pennyroyal, tansy, ergot, snakeroot, cotton root or savin (juniper extract) – it is possible that they did not conceptualise them as abortifacients terminating pregnancies, but rather as remedies that would “bring on the menses” (i.e. cure their amenorrhea)’ (Miller, 2004-2005, 11). An estimate in the British publication The Malthusian (14 May 1914) was that 100,000 working women took abortifacient pills each year. Some of these pills included lead and caused, in addition to abortion, blindness and death. Colin Francome writes in his book Abortion Freedom: ‘Women of childbearing ages in some areas were routinely examined to discover if they had a blue line on their gums which was symptomatic of lead poisoning’ (33). Another common abortifacient was ergot – claviceps purpurea – a fungus found on grain such as rye. Besides acting as an abortifacient, the fungus caused ergotism, also known as St Anthony’s fire. Ergotism led to blood constriction in the limbs, and eventually gangrene. Other side effects included nausea, convulsions, psychosis, oedema and death (Manning, 2013). When the pills and preventatives were unsuccessful, some women attempted to induce their own abortions with catheters, crochet hooks, pen handles and knitting needles (Finch and Stratton, 1988, 56). ‘Women would mix solutions of various kinds – water and Condy’s crystals, Epsom salts or saline and attempt to inject them into their uterus or pay a midwife to do it for them’ (Allen, 1993, 96). This was the method used by Rebecca and Donald Sinclair. The danger of this method, besides infection, was that an air bubble entered the tube and

Long Bay 320 thus the woman’s bloodstream, causing an air embolism. This happened to their patient Lucy Edith Smith, mother-of-three, and swiftly caused her death. Another method, frequently used by midwives, was the insertion of an object (a rubber and wire catheter, an expandable tube) into the mouth of the uterus that would be retained until expelled or until contractions started (Allen, 1993, 97).

3.3 Midwives vs. Doctors

In her book Abortion Regimes, Kerry Petersen draws parallels between the increased range of uterine/vaginal irritants, ‘female pills’ and pessaries and the loss of traditional skills in midwifery to bring about abortion. She writes: ‘…it appears that maternal mortality and morbidity rates increased with the decline in standards of midwives and the greater availability of commercial abortifacients and devices’ (12-13). Yet the demand for illegal and affordable abortions made midwives the natural port of call to fill the role. The Commission heard: ‘The number of persons: midwives, nurses, lying-in-home keepers and others, including some few medical practitioners – plying the business of abortionists is not only large but increasing’ (16). Most midwives had a doctor they could call upon if things became complicated. In the early twentieth century, however, the balance had begun to shift towards doctors rather than midwives providing illegal abortions. The practice was safer for doctors because if a patient died on the operating table, it was easier to get a fellow doctor to sign the death certificate (Finch and Stratton, 1988, 61). Additionally, the increased use of curettage (pioneered in France in 1843) among doctors in Australia brought about a new technique for abortion that was quicker and less likely to require overnight stays in a lying-in hospital or similar establishment. Allen writes: ‘Men and women abortionists differed in their methods. Doctors generally used curettage (scalpel scraping of uterine contents) whereas midwives induced miscarriage by “breaking the water” with a surgical sound, or implanting a catheter or tube in the neck of the uterus to achieve the same result’ (1990, 99).

321 Long Bay

Uterine curettes at the Nursing and Medical Museum, Coast Hospital, Little Bay.

And yet still, until around 1910, almost all working class abortionists were female, generally nurses or midwives, particularly since midwives did not require training or registration until 1915. A commission in NSW in 1907-1908 looking into the sales of drugs and poisons found about 100 doctors practicing abortion at this time (Finch and Stratton, 1988, 61). Doctors were far more protected and the traditional midwife figure, as her position was threatened, became more rare. Doctors could also get away with partially inducing abortions in one centre and then admitting the women into public hospitals for a legal curette, something which midwives were not able to do. This period of the late nineteenth and early twentieth century was one in which medical doctors were gaining more power – both professionally and politically (Petersen, 32). Meanwhile, the quality and consistency of midwives varied greatly because there was no formal training available until the 1860s and there was no compulsory registration until the early 1900s (Petersen, 36). Lying in homes and private hospitals were not subject to licensing, and the Commission heard that the majority of midwives were: ‘uneducated, untrained and unsuitable’

Long Bay 322 (Notes, 1904, 32). According to the 1901 census of 1,923 individuals engaged in midwifery, 200 had been through training and 1,700 were unqualified (Notes, 1904, 32). There came a class divide in the use of midwives versus doctors, with urban middle class women generally preferring the care of a doctor when giving birth and poorer women engaging a midwife, often to come and stay at their house as a ‘Ladies Monthly Nurse’ during and after childbirth. In 1908, the Private Hospitals Act was passed in NSW, which further threatened the livelihood of midwives. Their lack of qualifications made them ineligible for licensing, and so if they continued to work they could no longer take their abortion patients into their homes to look after them. ‘Thereby, there was a deterioration in the service non-medical abortionists could offer their patients and indirectly this assisted the gradual “medicalisation” of abortion.’ (Allen, 1990, 72). Later I will examine how this legislation led to Lucy Edith Smith’s death. In the late nineteenth century in America, doctors led the campaign against abortion and defended the rights of the embryo or foetus. The American Medical Association organised doctors to campaign (successfully) to outlaw abortion, essentially removing the source of income from non-medical professionals and leaving the controlling choice about abortion in the hands of doctors. Kristin Luker writes in Abortion and the politics of motherhood: ‘What was at the core of their movement, therefore, was a reallocation of social responsibility for assessing the conditional rights of the embryo against the woman’s right to life, both narrowly and broadly defined. From the late nineteenth century until the late 1960s, it was doctors, not women, who held the right to make that assessment’ (35). In order to accomplish this responsibility shift, the American doctors portrayed the foetus as no longer one with its mother during the pregnancy, but a protected miniature adult (Luker,12). American doctors were making a conscious attempt to drive midwives out of business with this move partly because they feared ‘families who regularly employed the neighbourhood midwife might, from habit or familiarity, turn to her as the first source of treatment for any ailment. By controlling reproductive

323 Long Bay medicine, the AMA hoped to control the “gateway” to medicine as a whole’ (Miller, 2004-2005, 10). In step with this change from midwife to doctor control was the medicalisation of birth itself, the pathologisation of pregnancy, which became ‘a legitimate subject for medical discourse and treatment’ (Oakley, 145). As doctors became the first port of call for childbirth advice, they became the ones that women would turn to for advice on abortion as well, and there were many who benefited financially from this shift. This does not mean that abortion became safer for women. Certainly there were many women who, faced with having to go to an abortion doctor rather than a neighbourhood woman, chose to attempt a self-induced abortion or went to less savoury, unknown providers. Some of these cases are detailed in the book edited by Jo Wainer – the wife of Bertram Wainer, Melbourne doctor and abortion campaigner in the 1960s and 70s – Lost: illegal abortion stories. In 1931, abortion deaths represented 28% of maternal deaths (Wainer, 2006, 4). The interviews show the extent women were willing to go to in order to prevent another pregnancy. There is the story of Amy, who in the 1940s tried pessaries made from quinine and coconut butter; sitting in a bath with washing soda, hot gin and half a cup of mustard; syringing with cold water and vinegar and a sponge rubbed with Lifebuoy soap. Still she fell pregnant and after two difficult births and a husband who beat her she went to a house on Geelong Road and paid £10 for a curette with a doctor (Wainer, 25). Amy survived her abortions, but there were women who didn’t. An interview with a hospital administrator at the Royal Women’s Hospital in Melbourne, A.J. Cunningham, recalls the number of women coming in from self- induced abortions as so high that an investigation was conducted into Victorian hospitals about the need for a septic hospital. ‘In the 1920s and early 1930s puerperal sepsis was so bad in Melbourne that land was acquired for the purpose of building a 100-bed hospital devoted to the treatment of this killer of women … Most of the women had long, lingering illnesses extending over months before they died’ (Wainer, 38).

Long Bay 324 In England, abortion caused 13 per cent of maternal deaths in 1934 – mostly in married women and following a septic infection (Oakley, 91). Kelvin Churches, a doctor at the Royal Melbourne in the late 1930s and early 1940s recalls performing six to nine incomplete aborts every morning before breakfast from the post-abortion ward, using chloroform as anaesthetic (Wainer, 39). He said there were about 40 deaths a year at the hospital from abortions not performed in the hospital. In 1926 at the Coast Hospital in Sydney, more than 600 cases of abortion were treated in the post-abortion ward (Morris, 1928). A study of coroners’ inquests into abortion deaths between 1876 and 1938 in the US state of Rhode Island found that the cause of death in over 75 per cent of cases was ‘infection from septicaemia, septic peritonitis or tetanus’. Poisoning accounted for 15 per cent, haemorrhage/shock and pulmonary thrombosis and ‘twisted womb’ accounted for 3 per cent each. ‘Had the majority of these abortions occurred after 1940, most women would have survived with antibiotic treatments’ (Caron, 2009). The shift to medically provided abortions meant that curettage was frequently the initial and only method used (Allen, 1993, 97). But curettage was certainly not fail-safe. Prior to the introduction of antibiotics, abortion made women vulnerable to puerperal fever by creating sites for infection within the uterus. Even if infection was avoided, there are cases of doctors who curetted so vigorously that they caused permanent damage to the internal organs – such as the case of a doctor who left filaments of foetal cranium embedded in the vaginal walls (Allen, 1990, 100).

3.4 The Deception and Death of Lucy Edith Smith

In 1908, when the Private Hospitals Act was passed, Nurse Sinclair appears to have closed her private hospital. She no longer advertised her services in any of the newspapers. Without being able to take women into their own homes, midwives were no longer able to watch as closely for complications from the abortions they performed. Their patients were therefore more likely to experience complications and midwives were more vulnerable to indictment.

325 Long Bay The police were prosecuting those midwives who disobeyed the Act. Whilst Nurse Sinclair was always providing an illegal service, she had done so in the past with some level of protection and with that gone, the riskiness of her livelihood appears to have become too high for her to continue with it. Criminals like her son stepped in to fill this gap in the market. Lucy Edith Smith, 38, was a mother of three children, aged 7, 6 and 4. She lived in North Sydney with her husband Andrew Smith, a linotype operator at the Sydney Morning Herald. They had migrated to Australia from Bristol, England. In Rebecca Sinclair’s statement to police she says that Lucy Smith had come to their house because she had used Nurse Sinclair previously, three or four years ago. When she saw the advertisement that Donald Sinclair had put in the newspaper using the name ‘Nurse Sinclair’, she assumed it was the same Nurse Sinclair and that she would be in safe hands. When Lucy Smith arrived at their Woollahra address she said ‘You’re not Nurse Sinclair’, and Rebecca explained how she had worked as a confinement nurse under Nurse Sinclair. It is unlikely that Lucy would have trusted Rebecca and Donald Sinclair with her abortion without thinking she was at Nurse Sinclair’s Private Hospital. And this distrust was well placed: she died of a botched abortion under their care while another of their patients, Lena Carter, was in the Coast Hospital when she gave a statement to the police about being treated for an incomplete abortion. Rebecca and Donald Sinclair operated for less than a week providing illegal abortions – it is not known how many – before they were arrested and charged with manslaughter. The number of midwives indicted for murder and manslaughter whose patients had died doubled in the beginning of the twentieth century, as compared to the last twenty years of the nineteenth century. Allen writes:

While roughly equal numbers of men and women were initially charged with abortion, accused men experienced higher rates of magisterial dismissal and … executive reluctance to indict them than did women. Supreme Court trials on abortion-related indictments most commonly had women defendants – forty-nine out of the seventy cases located in the

Long Bay 326 period; and women defendants were three times more likely to be convicted than were male defendants (1990, 101).

It is challenging to find a full picture of abortion history because, as Allen writes, ‘most abortion was at once successful, and criminal, and thus created no historical evidence. On the other hand, what we do know about Australian abortion history derives precisely from its criminalised position. Much can be discovered and inferred from the instances that found their way into criminal courts’ (1993, 88). Rebecca and Donald Sinclair’s case was one of these, and it was symptomatic of both the increasing demand for abortion and its medicalisation. As we see from the Royal Commission into the Decline of the Birth Rate, the legislators and lawmakers were less interested in understanding the reason behind these changes than expressing their moral outrage:

Most of the public commentators, being either secure or affluent, were largely out of touch with the circumstances leading a large proportion of the population to limit the size of their families and the criteria by which they made their judgements were moral rather than rational. It followed that when many Australian couples began to please themselves, for the first time, about the results of their sexual behaviour the novel freedom of choice was unwelcome to those who were accustomed to see themselves as moral exemplars. (Hicks, 158)

Unfortunately, what they failed to understand was that women were going to continue to end pregnancies which they did not feel fit to carry through, and that regardless of the criminality associated with abortion there would always be practitioners willing to provide it – at a significant cost. The case of Rebecca and Donald Sinclair is just one example of how high this cost could be: a woman’s life, three motherless children, a young mother in gaol and a legacy of shame that persisted for generations.

327 Long Bay CHAPTER 4 ‘Sad stories of misfortune’: the representation and expectations of working class women in the early twentieth century

Institutional archives and newspapers provide a rare picture of marginalised poor women in Australia during the late 1800s and early 1900s when their lives went otherwise unrecorded. Often these records only exist because the women have in some way flouted society’s Victorian-era expectations of them and they are being publicly shamed or placed within institutions as a result. I have used these records as a basis for my historical fiction, and yet they leave a great deal out. Here I examine the gaps and inconsistencies as well as the rich, rare source material they do provide, and the societal expectations which the offending women have failed to live up to.

4.1 Representation

One source for my work has been the weekly scandal sheet Truth. Truth reported divorces, abortion cases and other sensationalist crimes to a primarily working class readership. While the tabloid nature of the paper meant that one could not expect an absence of error, it was consistent in its reporting and populist voice. I read the articles in Truth with an awareness of the purpose of the paper and a healthy scepticism about the ‘truth’ contained within. Nonetheless, the paper provides rare and colourful descriptions of the women associated with these crimes, which – while highly subjective – nonetheless provide a view into the women’s desperation and poverty. It is also instructive regarding the few avenues that existed for such women without many of the skills or the education to earn a living. In Truth, the description of a woman’s appearance changed greatly depending on whether she was being depicted as the ‘perpetrator’ of or whether she was the ‘victim’ of a crime. This is the case for Rebecca Sinclair: the newspaper’s description of her physical appearance varies drastically from when

Long Bay 328 she is described as a victim of bigamy to when she is being tried as the defendant in a murder case. Truth was a populist Sunday paper with a devoted audience of working class people who read it for the exposes, coverage of divorce cases, crime and sport. The purpose was entertainment by titillation, though the newspaper also campaigned for reforms and exposed scandals in politics and public life. In his book, That Damned Democrat, about Truth editor John Norton, Michael Cannon writes that the weekly ‘…consistently campaigned against flogging and capital punishment and in favour of greater protection for the weak and oppressed – slum dwellers, exploited workers, women and children’ (11). The coverage of Rebecca and Donald Sinclair’s trial in a traditional broadsheet like the Sydney Morning Herald was fairly dry and gave a straightforward account of what was said and the decision:

Rebecca Sinclair, a young woman of 23, also made a statement from the dock. She said that she had been married four years and assisted her husband by doing dressmaking and taking confinement cases. She absolutely denied the charge, and broke down during the giving of her statement. (‘Central Criminal Court’ Sydney Morning Herald, 22 June 1909, p 5)

The tabloid scandal sheet Truth offers us more detail including the appearances of the people involved (with artist sketches) and judgments on the likelihood of their involvement:

Mrs. Sinclair spoke in a very low tone. Her words had to be repeated by Mr. Abigail for his Honor and the jury. “I am,” she began, “23 years of age. I am innocent of this awful charge. I have a little baby girl, a year and ten months old.” Mrs. Sinclair here burst into tears. She was unable to speak for some seconds. (‘Sinclairs Snared’, Truth, 27 June 1909)

329 Long Bay Truth was the most detailed source of information about the Sinclair trials, and it was not the first time that Donald and Rebecca appeared on its pages. Three years prior there was an article on the bigamy case brought against Donald Sinclair after he married Rebecca while still being married to Zara Wolinski. The article ran sketches of a young Donald and both Zara and Rebecca under the headline: ALLEGED BIGAMY. A JEWISH RABBI’S DAUGHTER AND A PRINTER’S LASS CLAIM NURSE SINCLAIR’S SON AS HUSBAND (Truth, 26 August 1906). In the headline alone we see references to class, race, scandal and religion. Within the body of the article, Nurse Sinclair is merely described as ‘not unknown to the public’. So even though the scandal sheet was not going to refer to her known profession, it was evident that the general public knew her as a practising abortionist. Halfway through the article was a description of the two women whom Donald was accused of marrying. Zara Sinclair was described as ‘…a fine looking young Hebrew woman of splendid carriage’. Truth continues:

The first wife was decidedly dark. The second [Rebecca] was somewhat fair. She was nicely dressed and was of decidedly attractive appearance.

The article hinted that Zara Sinclair, whilst Jewish, was from a wealthier background than Rebecca Sinclair. Yet the article also made it evident that both women were attractive and innocent and both were the victims of Donald Sinclair. It is instructive then to compare this language with the description of Rebecca Sinclair less than three years later when she was on trial for the death of Lucy Edith Smith. In ‘SINCLAIRS SNARED. THE DEATH OF LUCY SMITH. DR PALMER ON THE PAROXYSM OF PAIN’ Rebecca Sinclair is described as having ‘light, tow-coloured hair and in build a thin, wiry little woman, with a sharp, ferrety sort of face’ (Truth, 27 June 1909). To be described as ‘decidedly attractive’, and then three years later as having a ‘sharp, ferrety sort of face’ is a rapid decline, unless perhaps the journalist is allowing the case to influence his judgement of Rebecca Sinclair’s

Long Bay 330 appearance. It was a widespread belief in late Victorian and early Edwardian times that a person’s outward appearance signalled their mental state, that, as Lynette Finch put it in The Classing Gaze ‘faces act as maps of hidden perversions’ (Finch, 1993, p 43). Psychiatrists during the Victorian era often analysed patients using only asylum photographs, as it was assumed that just by looking at a patient’s face they could determine their deficiencies (Finch, 1993 p 42). Interestingly, Donald Sinclair’s appearance does not change greatly – in the bigamy article he is described only as ‘jaunty-looking’ (Truth, 26 August 1906) while in the later one it is written that ‘the most striking thing about Sinclair’s personal appearance is his gigantic mop of hair, parted on the right side, and brushed up to the left with a massive sweep – in height and length’ (Truth, 27 June 1909). While his appearance suggests that of a larrikin, Rebecca Sinclair seems to hold the bulk of their shame within her thin frame and ‘ferrety’ face.

4.2 Expectation

Historians such as Anne O’Brien have charted the difficulties for working class women in the late nineteenth century. They, like men, were divided into two main categories – the deserving or respectable poor, and the undeserving. The ability of working class women to mother was under scrutiny with the rise of the Infant Welfare Movement; they were also criticised by middle class reformers for going to work in the factories and domestic service in order to make enough to live on. The accepted portrayal of womanhood – the charitable work of middle and upper class women during the time – further pressured working class women into adopting their counterparts’ Victorian mores. One of these is that women not work outside the home except to help those less fortunate than themselves. This led women who wished to be outside the home to develop or join charities as an acceptable outlet for their boredom; ironically these charities were often assisting the women whose troubles stemmed from their need to work to earn money.

331 Long Bay In essence the working class woman was given impossible ideals to live up to, and when, in desperation, she broke societal conventions, she was outed and shamed in a public forum. Yet, paradoxically, it is only the records of these events – the public shaming and societal condemnation – which give us any solid evidence of the lives they lived. In The Classing Gaze, Lynette Finch describes how the working class were divided into two classes: the respectable poor and the dangerous poor (Finch, 34). The general view was that the dangerous poor were best dealt with in institutions: lunatic asylums, Lock Hospitals, prisons, children’s homes and lying in hospitals (Finch, 41) while the respectable poor were given the assistance of charities, once they were deemed worthy. The respectable poor might be admired for their battle to keep their children clean and fed despite their poverty, but the dangerous poor put all of society at risk. Shurlee Swain has also researched working class women of this period and writes of how charities took careful measures to weed out the dangerous poor by visiting their homes and questioning neighbours as to the suitability of applicants for assistance. Nevertheless, some of the undeserving poor outsmarted the charities with lies and tall tales. Swain claims:

The clever imposter was able to manipulate the system so as to obtain assistance in almost any situation. The respectable poor, whose poverty was of accidental origin and whose behaviour was impeccable, were well and generously aided, often being helped to mobilise their considerable personal resources to re-attain a position of economic independence. But for those whose behaviour did not conform to middle-class expectations, however well adapted it might have been to the poverty with which they had always lived, little more was being offered than a continuation of the insecure lifestyle for which they were being condemned. (106)

So regardless of whether they were able to obtain assistance from these charities, for the ‘dangerous poor’ this assistance was always short lived and merely kept them afloat until the next method of survival was found.

Long Bay 332 If survival was becoming too difficult, the dangerous poor often found themselves in institutions, and this is where we discover the details of the schemes necessary for survival. With institutionalised record-keeping we have resources like the Photographic Description Books from New South Wales Prisons, which provide images of an underclass which conventional history has done its best to ignore. The primary sources of information on Rebecca Sinclair at the time of her imprisonment are scant. There is her image in the Prison Photographic Description Book, an entry in the record book on her arrival at Long Bay and another on her departure, and a note requesting that a cradle be provided for her infant child. There are several letters upon the birth of her child – one to the Royal Hospital for Women in Paddington as she left for her accouchement and one as she returned to prison with an infant girl, fourteen days old. Without these there would be no evidence that she was pregnant when she was convicted of manslaughter and sent to gaol, because this was not mentioned at the time of the trial. The papers from her manslaughter case are the statements given by the defendants and witnesses with several pieces of evidence. They are conflicting first-person accounts of what occurred on a single day in a house in Woollahra, which would lead the jury to decide whether or not Rebecca and Donald Sinclair were responsible for the death of Lucy Edith Smith. The Sinclairs were found guilty of manslaughter, not murder. Rebecca Sinclair’s shame was not just her crime of manslaughter, of unintentionally causing the death of Lucy Edith Smith when the abortion she was performing with the assistance of her husband went wrong. Rebecca Sinclair was an example of the working class woman as the antithesis of the good mother, as a member of what Finch refers to as ‘“secret” networks which were the organised enemy of the foetus’ (1993, p 112). She embodied the opposite of what a woman and mother was meant to be: clean, sober, chaste and a model of good character. Joan Burstyn defines the role of the Victorian woman as cultivating feminine characteristics of ‘self denial, forbearance, fidelity – women were meant to teach the whole world how to live in virtue’ (1984, p 32). Women were meant to be a civilising influence on the wilder nature of men.

333 Long Bay Rebecca Sinclair was a mother, but one who was killing the unborn babies of other mothers, and killing another mother as well in the process. She was married, but the bigamy trial with Donald Sinclair proved that she was involved in promiscuous behaviour – involving herself with a man already married to another – whether or not she was aware of this at the time. In his article, ‘Towards “Good and useful men and women”: the state and childhood in Sydney, 1840-1890’ Robert Van Kreiken surmises that the bulk of the burden of virtue fell on girls rather than boys, since women were seen as the virtuous sex. ‘Given the ideological construction of women as bearers of society’s domestic virtue, the girls’ moral behaviour and the threat it posed to respectability was examined more closely than that of boys’ (1989, p 413). Rebecca Sinclair had to be punished, but the judge urged leniency because of her and Donald Sinclair’s relative inexperience and youth. Even the Truth, in spite of its salacious reporting, ended its article on the case with the following sympathetic words: ‘The impression is that Mrs Sinclair owes her imprisonment today wholly to the malign influence of Sinclair. Among the most interested spectators at the trial were Sinclair’s mother (Nurse Sinclair, at present of Manly), and a grown-up sister’ (Truth, 27 June 1909). Thus Rebecca Sinclair was also portrayed within the parameters of another prejudice at the time – that women were weak-willed and easily led by the men they loved. We will never know exactly the role that Rebecca Sinclair played in the death of Lucy Edith Smith, but the decision of the jury was that both Rebecca and Donald Sinclair were guilty of the more lenient charge of manslaughter. He had already been in gaol and the reports of him at the trial showed him to display little remorse or regret for what occurred, but the newspapers all refer to Rebecca Sinclair breaking down and needing to be pulled away from Donald Sinclair after being sentenced. The greatest devastation would have been separation from her husband and daughter, but there was also the immense expectation that the shame of what she had done would taint the rest of her life. The expectation was that women of all classes absorb the values of society as a whole and act as the guardians of all that was right and good.

Long Bay 334 4.3 Charitable Women & The Baby Health Movement

Although working was seen as an unfeminine pursuit at the turn of the century, women were encourage to fulfil their duty as moral creatures through charity, and between 1870 and 1900 there was a great increase in the number of charities run by women. Philanthropy, as Anne O’Brien has argued, allowed women to gain some measure of control in society, while not being seen to step outside of their proper place (O’Brien, 2008). Rebecca Sinclair probably came across these charitable women many times – both in her early life after her mother was widowed and as Rebecca went to the Thomas Street Asylum to give birth (to her first daughter, Ellen). Later she would have come across them in the Women’s Reformatory at Long Bay with visitors from the Ladies Prison Society. While the women in charge of these organisations like the suffragist Rose Scott often worked to improve the lives of the working class women they came across, their expectations were often unrealistic and emphasised virtue as the saving grace. It was the exposure to poor women’s extreme vulnerability that made women like Rose Scott embrace the early strains of feminism (O’Brien, 2008). Nevertheless, charity work was by its very nature reinforcing the stereotypes of sex and class. As Burstyn writes in Victorian Education and the Ideal of Womanhood: ‘Women were not expected to accept remuneration for such work, because men of the middle classes took financial provision for their female relatives as a duty. Their success in fulfilling this duty was a sign of their success in life’ (64). Thus only wealthy women could participate in this work, while the women of the labouring classes still had to work in factories or domestic labour and were judged less virtuous for doing so as in the process they were neglecting their families. In their book Class Structure in Australian History, R.W. Connell and T.H. Irving argue that middle class women worked hard to ensure that working class women did not escape the demands of the family and of virtue:

…indeed, one aspect of the first women’s movement was the attempt to ensure that working-class women did not weaken the case for equal rights

335 Long Bay by escaping the restrictions of the family and bourgeois sexual morality. Maybanke Anderson, for example, the wife of a university professor, espoused women’s suffrage and higher education for women on the one hand, but compulsory domestic science for schoolgirls, state aid for the family and sexual repression on the other (204).

One pervasive example of this intrusion into the domestic life of the working class family by middle-class charities was the burgeoning infant welfare movement, meant to raise the standard of health and quality of life for Australia’s youngest citizens, yet at the same time extending the state’s policing of families in a general extension of the disciplinary power of the prison into society as a whole (Krieken, 1989). For the first time mothering began to be seen as a national duty rather than a private task – stemming from the concern about the plummeting birth rate and the Report from the Royal Commission into the Decline of the Birth- Rate and the Mortality of Infants published in 1904. The commission brought about the public takeover of motherhood, and according to Finch: ‘It started with the families of the working class and spread throughout all levels of society’ (107). Motherhood came to be perceived as a skill that was taught rather than instinctively known. The first Baby Health Clinics came into existence in NSW in 1914 and the concept of what came to be known as mothercraft was taught to the primarily working class women who were deemed not to know enough to parent safely. In her essay ‘Imperialism and Motherhood’, Anna Davin writes: ‘The authority of state over individual, of science over tradition, of male over female, of ruling class over working class, were all involved in the redefining of motherhood in this period, and in ensuring that the mothers of the race would be carefully guided, not carried away by self-importance’ (92). I wrote of the medicalisation of abortion in a previous essay, but this was the medicalisation of motherhood; the ‘experts’ giving their knowledge about how a child is to be raised and under what conditions survival was optimal. While previously some infant mortality was considered part of life, now it was the fault of feckless mothers who had failed to do what was best for their child.

Long Bay 336 Weighing day, Woolloomooloo Baby Clinic, 1916, image courtesy State Library of NSW.

‘Failure to breast feed, taking an infant to the minder in the cold early morning before clocking in at the mill, going out to work at all, were all signs of maternal irresponsibility, and infant sickness and death could always be explained in such terms,’ Davin claims, going on to suggest that the focus on mothers was a cheaper alternative to actually expanding social and medical services beyond a few public education classes or clinics (105). As we see in Rebecca’s case, these services were available and utilised, because we know that she gave birth to her first daughter in the Thomas Street Asylum, which opened in 1904. In the annual report of the Benevolent Society in 1906 there is a summary of the type of case seen at Thomas Street and the attitude towards the women taken in.

Many of these inmates are mere girls, and the cases dealt with during the year have contained many sad stories of misfortune. In a large number of cases the girls are entirely friendless, the institution providing an asylum for them in a very literal sense. In too many cases the mothers are mere

337 Long Bay girls, numbers are totally unfit through ignorance of domestic life or mental capacity to properly face the future, and, worst of all, their home training has evidently been of such a neglected kind that they fail to adequately realise their true position. All these difficulties have had to be met, parents found, the aid of friends sought and, as far as possible, situations discovered. For these destitute women, the institution has proved, during the past year, as in the years before, to be a home, a friend and a foster parent too. (Rathbone, 1994, p 137-8).

Implicit in this is that the young women would not know how to mother without being taught to do so by the asylum, and so their lives and the lives of their children come to rely on the knowledge that is imparted there. No doubt many of these women literally had nowhere to turn, but it was their poverty rather than their innate maternal ignorance that brought them to this desperate place. And upon release, it is doubtful that much of the hygiene and habit taught within the asylum and baby health centres could be put into use at home. In Struggletown: Portrait of an Australian Working Class Community 1900-1965, Janet McCalman writes of how scarce safe cow’s milk was in poor communities: ‘Above all, the working-class mother faced immense practical difficulties in keeping milk fresh and feeding bottles and tubes sterile’ (48). For women who had to keep a home and look after a large family, there was also the work of lighting the woodstove every morning and doing the washing outdoors with a copper and a mangle. There was cooking and cleaning before the advent of time- saving household appliances and keeping a family healthy before antibiotics and indoor plumbing. McCalman writes that whatever good might have been done by the Baby Health Centres, they were:

Too often staffed with nursing sisters addicted to bossiness and possessed of an unerring knack of making young mothers feel guilty, they insisted that babies be fed four-hourly on the dot and never at night lest that breed “bad habits”; that babies should be left to cry because it was “good for

Long Bay 338 their lungs”; that “excessive” physical affection overstimulated infant nervous systems. Few women have the milk supply to hold up under such infrequent suckling, especially if their own diet is marginal through poverty. (209)

It does not come as a surprise, then, that some of these mothers turned to vice or to crime, that they could not live up to these expectations placed upon them. It is more surprising to consider how few did, how hard most battled to keep their children clean and fed despite dire poverty and the little charity available attached to the association of shame. Forty years before Rebecca became a mother, police witness Sergeant O’Reilly described the shock of the ‘vice of intemperance spreading to women’ in Sydney in 1867, as quoted by Finch in The Classing Gaze.

I find more women half drunk during the day, when I go round to collect moneys and rates from the houses. I collect rates by warrant when they do not pay, and I generally go to the very poorest people, and I find that the women drink so much beer because there is so much competition among the beer houses that they sell it very cheap. If I go to those low places, I generally go as early as I can to get them sober, for in the after part of the day it is impossible to find them in a state of perfect sobriety…The women do not care what it is so long as it keeps their spirits up when they are washing and working, and so long as it intoxicates them. (46)

Intoxication clearly made the dull and endless nature of their work tolerable, their lives tolerable, if only for the afternoon. These were lives that most people thought unworthy of recording, and these were people without the leisure or tools to record them on their own. Or the desire. In the case of Rebecca Sinclair, she would not have wanted to give further oxygen to the flame of the scandal that came to define her; she would have spent the rest of her life trying to shake off her criminal past, to remove the taint of it.

339 Long Bay The fragments of the lives of women like Rebecca Sinclair deserve attention. They are fragments of lives that, by what they show, promise the presence of so much more beneath the surface. In Cat’s Eye the novelist Margaret Atwood writes: ‘You don’t look back along time but down through it, like water. Sometimes this comes to the surface, sometimes that, sometimes nothing. Nothing goes away’ (1988, 3). I felt as though I was looking through the past into Rebecca Sinclair’s life, as one might look into a body of water. Sometimes an article would come to the surface, sometimes a document from the prison, and there were many days when I found nothing. My fear was, however, that this story would go away. That the papers in the archives would grow older and crumble and it would just be another story of shame and loss, another buried family secret. In her book of essays A Field Guide to Getting Lost Rebecca Solnit writes: ‘Some ideas are new, but most are only recognition of what has been there all along, the mystery in the middle of the room, the secret in the mirror. Sometimes the unexpected thought becomes the bridge that lets you traverse the country of the unfamiliar in an unprecedented way.’ The histories of women imprisoned for illegal abortion have been here all along; it is how they become told that is important. Rebecca’s story became my bridge.

Long Bay 340

341 Long Bay REFERENCES

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343 Long Bay Budd, D. & Wilson, R. (2011) Bondi to the Opera House: the trams that linked Sydney. Australian Railway Historical Society New South Wales Division: Sydney. Burstyn, J. (1984) Victorian Education and the Ideal of Womanhood. Rutgers University Press: New Brunswick. Butler-Bowdon, C., Campbell, A. & Clark, H. (2009) Shooting Through: Sydney by tram. Historic Houses Trust of NSW: Sydney. Cannon, M. (1981) That Damned Democrat: John Norton, an Australian populist, 1858-1916. Melbourne University Press: Melbourne. Caron, S. (2009) ‘“I have done it and I have got to die”: Coroners' inquests of abortion deaths in Rhode Island, 1876-1938.’ The History of the Family 14: 1-18. Clendinnen, I. (1996) ‘Fellow Sufferers: History and Imagination’. Australian Humanities Review, September 1996. Australian National University, 100-109. Connell, R.W. and Irving, T. H. (1980) Class Structure in Australian History. Longman Cheshire: Melbourne. Cope, I. & Garrett, W. (1997) The Royal: A History of the Royal Hospital for Women 1820-1977. The Royal Hospital for Women: Sydney. Curby, P. (2009) Randwick. Randwick City Council: Randwick. Curthoys, A & Docker, J. (2006) Is History Fiction. UNSW Press: Kensington. Cusack, D. & James, F. (1951) Come in Spinner. Heinemann: London. Davin, A. (1997) ‘Imperialism and Motherhood’ in Frederick Cooper and Ann Laura Stoler, eds, Tensions of Empire: Colonial Cultures in a Bourgeois World. University of California Press: Berkeley, 87-151. De Groot, J. (2010) The Historical Novel. Routledge: New York. De Waal, E. (2010) The hare with amber eyes: a family's century of art and loss. Farrar, Straus and Giroux: New York. Deamer, D. (1925) ‘In a Women’s Prison.’ The Australian Women’s Mirror. 24 March. 18: 57. Donnison, J. (1988) Midwives and Medical Men: a history of the struggle for control of childbirth. Historical Publications: London. Doyle, P. (2005) City of Shadows: Sydney Police Photographs 1912-1948. Historic Houses Trust of New South Wales: Sydney.

Long Bay 344 Ehrenreich, B., et al. (2010) Witches, midwives & nurses a history of women healers. Feminist Press at the City University of New York: New York. Erll, A. (2011) Memory in Culture. Palgrave Macmillan Memory Studies. Finch, L. (1993) The Classing Gaze. Allen & Unwin: North Sydney. Finch and Stratton, etc. (1988) ‘The Australian Working Class and the Practice of Abortion 1880-1939.’ Journal of Australian Studies (23) 45-64. Forster, M. C. (1978-1979) ‘Birth Control in Australia.’ The Victorian Historical Journal 49-50: 240. Foucault, M. (1975) Discipline and Punish: The Birth of the Prison. Vintage: New York. Francome, C. (1984) Abortion Freedom. Allen & Unwin: London. Funder, A. (2011) All that I am: a novel. Penguin: Camberwell. Garton, S. (1982) ‘Bad or mad?’ in Sydney Labour History Group, eds, What Rough Beast? Allen & Unwin: North Sydney. 89-110. Garton, S. (1986) ‘The Rise of the Therapeutic State: Psychiatry and the System of Criminal Jurisdiction in New South Wales, 1890-1940’. Australian Journal of Politics & History, Vol 32, Issue 3, 378-388. Garton, S. (1989) ‘Frederick William Neitenstein: Juvenile Reformatory and Prison Reform in New South Wales, 1878-1909’. Journal of the Royal Australian Historical Society, Vol 75. Part 1, 51-64. Garton, S. (2002) ‘The Scales of Suffering: love, death and Victorian masculinity’, Social History. Vol 27 No 1, 40-58. Gibson, R. (2000) ‘Where the Darkness Loiters’, History of Photography. Volume 24, Issue 3, Autumn, p. 254. Gilmore, M. (1986) Old days, old ways: a book of recollections. Angus & Robertson: North Ryde. Godden, J. (2008) ‘Nursing’ Sydney Journal. 1(3) December. 29-35. Gray, V. (1917) ‘Our Social Degenerates’. Grit. 6 September 1917. Pp. 9, 14. Grenville, K. (2011). Sarah Thornhill. Text Publishing: Melbourne. Grenville, K. (2005). The Secret River. Text Publishing: Melbourne. Grenville, K. (2006) Searching for the Secret River. Melbourne: Text Publishing.

345 Long Bay Hagar, T. (2008) ‘Compassion and Indifference: The attitude of the English Legal System toward Ellen Harper and Selina Wadge, who killed their offspring in the 1870s’. Journal of Family History. 33(2). 173-194. Hamilton, P. (2012) ‘Historical Fiction and Writing Seminar’, June 14, UTS. Unpublished. Harm, N. (1992) ‘Social Policy on Women Prisoners: A Historical Analysis’, Affilia, 7:90, 95. Hay, A. (2013) The Railwayman’s Wife. Allen & Unwin: North Sydney. Hicks, N. (1978) This Sin and Scandal. Australian National University Press: Canberra. Jackson, Teece, Chesterman, Willis & Partners. (1981) Long Bay Gaol Master Plan Stage 1 Report. NSW Public Works Department. Johnson, L. (1984) Gaslight Sydney. Allen & Unwin: North Sydney. Kamensky, J. (2011) ‘Novelties: A Historian’s Field Notes from Fiction’. Historically Speaking, Vol. 12, No. 2 pp. 2-6. Kass, T. (1995) ‘Long Bay Complex 1896-1994: A History – Final Report’, New South Wales Public Works Department. Kerr, J.S. (1988) Out of sight, out of mind: Australia’s places of confinement, 1788- 1988. SH Ervin Gallery in association with the Australian Bicentennial Authority: Sydney. Kelly, M. (1978) Paddock full of houses: Paddington 1840-1890. Doak Press: Paddington. Kennedy, P. (2009) From Long Bay to Malabar: A Village by the sea. Self- published: Heathcote. Krieken, R. Van. (1989) ‘Towards “Good and useful men and women”: the state and childhood in Sydney, 1840-1890’ Australian Historical Studies. Vol 23 No 93. 405-425. Kyle, N. (2009) A Greater Guilt: Constance Emilie Kent and the Road Murder. Boolarang Press: Brisbane. Lake, M. (1988) ‘Intimate Strangers’ from Verity Burgmann and Jenny Lee, eds, Making a life: a people's history of Australia since 1788. McPhee Gribble/Penguin: Fitzroy. 152-165.

Long Bay 346 Lepore, J. (2001) ‘Historians who love too much: reflections on microhistory and biography’ The Journal of American History. Vol 88 No 1. 129-144. Lerner, G. (2005) The Majority Finds its Past: placing women in history. University of North Carolina Press: Chapel Hill. Long Bay Correctional Complex Conservation Plan. (1997) Sydney: Department of Corrective Services. Luker, K. (1984) Abortion and the Politics of Motherhood. University of California Press: Berkeley. Magarey, S. (1993) ‘Sexual Labour: Australia 1880-1910’ in Susan Magarey, Sue Rowley and Susan Sheridan, eds, Debutante nation: feminism contests the 1890s. Allen & Unwin: North Sydney. 91-99. Manning, K. (2013) ‘Leeches, Lye and Spanish Fly’. The New York Times: A25. Mantel, H. (2009) Wolf Hall. Fourth Estate: London. Mantel, H. (2012) Bring up the bodies: a novel. Henry Holt and Co: New York. Manzoni, A. (1984) On the Historical Novel. Translated by Bermann, S. University of Nebraska Press: Lincoln. Maynard, M. (1994) Fashioned from penury: dress as cultural practice in colonial Australia. Cambridge University Press: Cambridge. McCalman, J. (1984) Struggletown: Portrait of an Australian Working-Class Community 1900-1965. Penguin: Ringwood. Mcconville, C. (2008) ‘Rough women, respectable men and social reform: A response to Lake’s “Masculinism”’. Historical Studies. 22:88. 432-440. McKie, R. (1974) The Mango Tree. William Collins Ltd: Sydney. Miller, A. (2011) Pure. Hodder & Stoughton: London. Miller, D. R. (2004-2005) ‘The alley behind First Street, Northeast: criminal abortion in the nation's capital, 1872-1973.’ William and Mary Journal of Women and the Law 11(1): 1-45. Morris, S. E. (1928) ‘Comparative Statistics in Regard to Maternal Mortality’ Medical Journal of Australia: 747-749. Mortimer, I. (2011) ‘Why historians should write fiction’. Past and Future, Issue 10. 7-8.

347 Long Bay Müller, W. (2012) The Criminalization of Abortion in the West: its origins in medieval law. Ithaca: Cornell University Press. Neal, R. S. (1983) History and Class: essential readings in theory and interpretation. Oxford: Blackwell. O’Brien, A. (2008) ‘Charity and Philanthropy’ Sydney Journal. 1(3). 18-28. O’Brien, A. (1988) Poverty’s Prison: The Poor in New South Wales 1880-1918. Melbourne University Press: Carlton. O'Hara, J. (1988) A mug's game: a history of gaming and betting in Australia. Kensington: New South Wales University Press. Oakley, A. (1984) The Captured Womb: A history of the medical care of pregnant women. Oxford, B. Blackwell. Park, R. (1975) The Harp in the South. Ringwood: Penguin Books Australia. Peterson, K. (1994) Abortion Regimes. Dartmouth Press: Sydney. Rafter, N. (1980) Partial Justice. Transaction Publishers: New Brunswick. Ramsland, J. (1995) ‘Dulcie Deamer and the Women’s Reformatory, Long Bay’. Journal of Interdisciplinary Gender Studies. Vol 1 no 1. 33-40. Ramsland, J. (1996) With Just but Relentless Discipline. Kangaroo Press: Kenthurst. Rathbone, R. (1994). A Very Present Help: Caring for Australians since 1813. The History of the Benevolent Society of New South Wales. State Library of New South Wales Press: Sydney. Ratner, V. (2012) In the Shadow of the Banyan. Simon & Schuster: New York. Raupach, R. (1914) ‘Prisons Then and Now’. Page for Women. The Sydney Morning Herald, 21 January, 7. Reeves, M. (1979) Round About a Pound a Week. Virago: London. Riddle, J. M. (1997) Eve's herbs: a history of contraception and abortion in the West. Harvard University Press: Cambridge; London. Roberts, E. (1984) A woman’s place: an oral history of working-class women, 1890- 1940. B. Blackwell: Oxford. Rowntree, B. Seebohm. (1922) Poverty: A study of town life. Longmans: London. Russell, E. (1975) Victorian and Edwardian Sydney from old photographs. John Ferguson: Sydney.

Long Bay 348 Sheridan, S. (1993) ‘The Woman’s Voice on sexuality’ in Susan Magarey, Sue Rowley and Susan Sheridan, eds, Debutante Nation. Allen & Unwin: North Sydney. 114-124. Shields, J. (1992) All Our Labours: oral histories of working life in twentieth century Sydney. UNSW Press: Kensington. Smedley, A. (1923) Daughter of Earth. The Feminist Press at the City University of New York: New York. Southwood, A.R. (1937) ‘Notes on the prevalence and reasons for illegal abortion’ Report National Health and Medical Research Council, June. 29-32. Spence, C.H. (1905) ‘Prisons, Fines and Probation’ Adelaide Register, 7 March. Solnit, R. (2005) A Field Guide to Getting Lost. Penguin: New York. Staples, A. (1964) Paddo. Ure Smith: Sydney. Stedman, M. L. (2012) The light between oceans. Vintage Books: North Sydney. Stone, L. and N. Lindsay. (1933) Jonah. Endeavour Press: Sydney. Sullivan, J. (2006) ‘Making a fiction of history’. The Age. October 21. A2, A12-13. Sumerling, P. (1983) Infanticide, baby-farming and abortion in South Australia 1870-1910, University of Adelaide, Dept. of History. Thesis (B.A., Hons). Summers, A. (1975) Damned whores and God's police : the colonization of women in Australia. Penguin Books: Ringwood. Swain, S. L. (1980) ‘Destitute and dependent: Case studies in poverty in Melbourne, 1890-1900’. Historical Studies Vol. 19, No. 74. 98-107. Sydney Labour History Group (1982). What rough beast? : The state and social order in Australian history. Allen & Unwin: Sydney. Szijarto, I. (2002) ‘Four Arguments for Microhistory’. Rethinking History. 6:2. 209-215. Taksa, L. L., Martin (1992) ‘“If Mother Caught Us Reading”: Perceptions of the Australian Female Reader.’ Australian Cultural History 11: 39-50. Tennant, K. (1946) Fouveaux. Sirius Publishing Company: Sydney. Tietze, C. L., Sarah (1969) ‘Abortion.’ Scientific American 220(1). Wainer, J. (Ed.) (2006). Lost: illegal abortion stories. Melbourne University Press: Carlton.

349 Long Bay Women’s Co-Operative Guild. (1915) Maternity: Letters from Working-Women. G. Bell and Sons: London. Writer, L. (2009) Razor. Pan Macmillan: Sydney.

NSW State Archives Copies of Letters Sent 1909-1913. Long Bay Women’s Reformatory, Item 5/2276- 77, NRS 2489. Pp 116, 199. New South Wales State Archives. Divorce papers of Zara and Donald Sinclair. (1906) Container 13/12633. Item 5695, NRS 13495. NSW State Archives. Court papers from criminal case against Rebecca and Donald Sinclair (includes papers from inquest into death of Lucy Edith Smith). Supreme Court Records, Acting Justice Rogers, Item 9/7137, NRS 880. NSW State Archives. Darlinghurst Gaol Photograph Description Book 1909-1910, Item 3/6074. NRS 2138. Pp 153, 154. NSW State Archives. Inspection Book, Long Bay Women’s Reformatory, 1909-1913. Item 5/2253-54, NRS 2509. NSW State Archives. NSW Statistical Register, 1890-1894. NRS 691. NSW State Archives.

Mitchell Library and State Reference Library of NSW Inmates Journals (1907-1909) Thomas Street Asylum, Benevolent Society of NSW. Mitchell Library. July 1907-January 1909. Microfilm Z A7248 CY1984. The Report of the Royal Commission on the Decline of the Birth Rate and Mortality of Infants in NSW (1904) Q312/1B1 -1B2. Mitchell Library. Prisons Department Annual Report (1896) p. 63. Mitchell Library, Q365.06/2. NSW Police Gazette (1909) No. 20, 19 May. P 173. State Reference Library, REF10/ RAV/ DISC10/ 1469 SET 1906-1910. ‘Regulations under the ‘Inebriates Act 1900’ to be observed in institutions established by the government’. (1907) Government Gazette. No. 84, 17 July. Department of the Attorney General and of Justice. Mitchell Library, The Scott Family Papers ML MSS 38/56 Item 3.

Long Bay 350 Rogers, F. E. (1882-1917) Legal Papers: Legal Correspondence. Sydney: Mitchell Library. ML MSS 5878/4. Scott, R. (1898) ‘The Amelioration of the Condition of Women Prisoners’. Papers relating to Rose Scott, Mitchell Library, Microfilm CY1503 frames 68-286. Pp. 2-3. ML MSS 38/38/36.

Online resources Benevolent Society Thomas Street Asylum, accessed February 2013 http://www.findandconnect.gov.au/nsw/biogs/NE00315b.htm#related Besant, Annie and Charles Bradlaugh. (1876). The Fruits of Philosophy. http://www.gutenberg.org/files/38185/38185-h/38185-h.htm Cannon, M. ‘Norton, John 1858-1916’. Australian Dictionary of Biography. http://adb.anu.edu.au/biography/norton-john-7863. Accessed 13 June 2014. ‘Elmira’, accessed 3 November 2012, http://www.correctionhistory.org/html/chronicl/docs2day/elmira.html Koval, R. (2005) ‘Kate Grenville’. Books and Writing. ABC Radio National, 16 July 2005. Accessed 10/10/14. http://www.abc.net.au/radionational/programs/booksandwriting/kate- grenville/3629894#transcript McCormack, T. (2008) ‘Long Bay Prison’. Dictionary of Sydney. Accessed August 2012. http://dictionaryofsydney.org/entry/long_bay_prison#ref=44164 NSW Historical Index of Births Deaths and Marriage, accessed 13 June 2012, http://www.bdm.nsw.gov.au/familyHistory/searchHistoricalRecords.htm Simpkin, J. ‘Elizabeth Fry: biography’, accessed 3 November 2012, http://www.spartacus.schoolnet.co.uk/REfry.htm

351 Long Bay APPENDIX – COURT TRANSCRIPTS AND OTHER DOCUMENTS

Long Bay 352

Donald Sinclair’s entry in the Darlinghurst Gaol Photograph Description Book 1909, NRS 2138, Item 3/6074, p. 153. New South Wales State Archives.

353 Long Bay

Rebecca Sinclair’s entry in the Darlinghurst Gaol Photograph Description Book 1909, NRS 2138, Item 3/6074, p 154. New South Wales State Archives.

Long Bay 354

Dressmakers circa 1910, Casterton, Victoria. Source: The Biggest Family Album, Museum Victoria

355 Long Bay STATEMENTS FROM INQUEST INTO THE DEATH OF LUCY EDITH SMITH 6 May 1909 & 13 May 1909

GORDON WILLIAM SINGER MARR, sworn, states:- I am a legally qualified medical practitioner at 21 Old South Head Road, Bondi Junction. About 20 past 3 p.m. on the 26th ultimo I was called to No. 486 Old South Head Road, Woollahra. Mr. Sinclair was ahead of me and met me at the door and Mrs. Sinclair was in the hall. Mr. and Mrs. Sinclair are now in Court. Mrs. Sinclair said, ‘A woman came about 5 minutes before I sent for you and asked for the address of my mother-in-law, saying she was in a certain condition and had been taking drugs. She then complained of feeling hot and of pains, and then fell forwards, I tried to bring her round with smelling salts.’ I then went into the front room with Mrs. Sinclair and I think Mr. Sinclair came into the room with me and went out again. I saw the body of a woman lying on a couch on her back, I took her to be between 35 and 40 years old, and on examination I found life extinct. The body was quite warm. She was fully clothed, the hat, belt, purse and gloves were on a chair at the head of the couch, her jacket was wide open and thrown back on either side, her blouse was unfastened at the back, and her undervest was rolled up towards the neck, her corsets were unfastened and thrown open on either side, the other garment which I took to be the upper part of her combinations was unbuttoned, the skirt and the garments under it were also loosened, that left the lower part of the chest and the upper part of the abdomen exposed. On the left edge of the combinations near the opening of the vagina there was a small wet patch slightly bloodstained, on the upper and inner parts of the thighs were several bright pink mottled patches, they were under the skin or in the skin. I examined the lower part of the abdomen, it was distended and gave the sensation of free fluid in the abdominal cavity. After that I sent Mr. Sinclair for the police and waited till they came. Constables Mackenzie and Cordy came and I spoke to them and they sent for Senior Constable Roche and Constable Macpherson. I waited outside the house until they arrived and I went into the room afterwards with them. On the following day I was present at the Morgue with Dr. A. A. Palmer when he made a post mortem examination of the

Long Bay 356 same body. I was present the whole time. I am of opinion that death was caused by the entrance of air into the veins which had got into the heart. There was a rent on the membrane lining of the posterior wall of the uterus and the membranes overlying the cervix were also ruptured and air must have got in through that rent in the membranes and then into the heart and it would cause a sharp pain and the air must have been introduced by an instrument, and an instrument such as the syringe produced could have been used for that purpose and it would not have caused much force to cause the rent in the membrane. I noticed the air had entered into the veins and then into the right side of the heart where there was a lot of frothy blood. The entrance of the air would bring on immediate embarrassment of the heart and lungs and death would follow very quickly. I don’t think it was possible for the air to be introduced somewhere else and then she walked to that house, I think the embarrassment would come on immediately after the air got into the veins. Under the rent in the membrane lining of the uterus were the open mouths of several veins and tracing the veins along we found several air bubbles. That was a general condition right through the veinous circulation. The blouse and undervest were both rolled up together towards the vest.

ANDREW WILLIAM SMITH, sworn, states: - I am a linotype operator and live at 350 Alfred Street, North Sydney. The deceased was my wife and on the 27th ultimo at the Sydney Morgue I identified her body in the presence of the Coroner. She was 38 years old and was born at Bristol, England, and she left no property, we have three children, aged 7 ½, 6, and 4 years respectively. She was of strictly temperate habits. I last saw her alive at on the 26th ultimo when she left home about ½ past 12 p.m. She said she was going first to the bootmaker and then to the bank and she was then in her ordinarily good health. She was about 3 months pregnant. From something I saw in connection with my work at the ‘Sydney Morning Herald’ Office I went to No. 4 Police Station and there saw Sergeant Barry and then I went to Sydney Morgue and saw my wife’s body. I can form no idea at all why she went to No. 486 Old

357 Long Bay South Head Road, Woollahra, and she never complained about being pregnant. I went home before I went to No. 4 Police Station. TO MR. MANT. The deceased always took a certain sum for housekeeping purposes, £2-15 per week and there was no rent to pay out of it, and she had an account of her own at the bank and there is £3-8-9 to her credit.

JAMES MACPHERSON, sworn, states:- I am a Constable of Police stationed at Waverley. About 3-35 p.m. on the 26th ultimo with Senior Constable Roche I went to the home of Donald Rhoderick Sinclair and Rebecca Irvin Sinclair at No. 486 Old South Head Road, Woollahra, and we met Dr. Marr at their front gate and went into the house with the doctor. Mr. and Mrs. Sinclair were in the hall, we went into the front sitting room and on a couch there I saw the dead body of a woman lying on her back on the quilt produced which was spread over the couch underneath the body. The quilt is blood stained and has not been interfered with since. Dr. Marr said ‘I can do no more’ and left the room. The body was fully clothed and the clothes seemed to be loose about the waist. She had on a skirt, an Eton coat or jacket, and a blouse. The coat was unbuttoned and the blouse was underneath it and pulled down in front and the skirt was as usual but seemed to be loose at the waist. Her belt was lying on the floor near a table. I said to Mrs. Sinclair ‘Are you Nurse Sinclair’ She said ‘Yes’ I said ‘Do you know this woman’ she said ‘No, I never saw her before’ She then dictated a statement to me which I took down in writing and read over to her in the presence of her husband and Roche and now produce it. I read all that was written on the paper produced to her. Exhibit 1. I afterwards said to her ‘Was there any other person in this room after this woman entered it excepting your husband and yourself’ and she said ‘No, not till the doctor came’ I said ‘Where did that quilt come from’ pointing to the quilt produced which was on the couch and she said ‘My husband brought it in off a bed in another room’ (Exhibit 2) I remained with the Sinclairs in that room until about 5-45 p.m. and afterwards

Long Bay 358 removed the body to the Morgue and there helped to undress it and I know produce all the clothing (Exhibit 3). The two petticoats and combinations were blood stained as they are at present. On the following day I was present at the Morgue and saw Dr. Palmer make a post mortem examination of the same body, and I was also present when Mr. Smith identified the same body as that of his wife. On the 29th ultimo at the Paddington Police station in the presence of Senior Constables Turbet and Roche I showed Mrs. Sinclair the syringe produced and she said ‘Yes, that’s mine I use it on myself’ (Exhibit 4) and I showed her the douche and can produced and she said ‘That’s mine but it hasn’t been used for a long time’ I believe it is broken. I heard Senior Constable Turbet read to Mrs. Sinclair the statement I now produce and she said ‘She’s a little liar’ I also read the statement that I previously mentioned and which is marked Exhibit 1 and said to Mrs. Sinclair ‘Would you mind signing this’ and she said ‘No, not until I see J.W.A’ As far as I could see there was no blood on the skirt. There was no money in the clothes but there was some in the purse. TO DONALD RHODERICK SINCLAIR. I was not present when the syringe produced was found, Mrs. Sinclair said she knocked and you came in and she said she knocked on account of the woman collapsing, the quilt was spread over the couch and the body was lying on it. I should say it was there to protect the leather on the couch. I don’t remember how much was in Mrs. Sinclair’s purse. TO BENCH. I found a wedding ring, a keeper ring, and a brooch on the body at the Morgue.

MICHAEL ROCHE, sworn, states:- I am a Senior Constable of Police stationed at Waverley. About 3-35 p.m. on the 26th ultimo I accompanied Constable Macpherson to No. 486 Old South Head Road, Woollahra, and in the front room there I saw the dead body of a woman lying on the couch. I was a sitting room. Mr. and Mrs. Sinclair were present, and I heard Mrs. Sinclair make a statement which Constable Macpherson wrote down in his note book and he read it out to her and she said ‘That’s true’ In another

359 Long Bay room of the house which was a bedroom I saw a young woman who gave the name of Katie Marsh and she made a statement to me which I now produce in the presence of Senior Sergeant Holmes and she signed it and I then brought Mr. and Mrs. Sinclair into the room and Holmes read the statement to them and Mrs. Sinclair replied ‘I’ll say nothing till I see J.W.A.’ I then searched the house and in a box in Mrs. Sinclair’s bedroom downstairs adjoining the kitchen I found the syringe and nozzle produced in the case but the nozzle was disconnected. Under a table in the same room I found the box produced containing a large number of packets of Epsom Salts and in the fireplace in the same room I found about 25 empty Epsom Salts packets. (Box and contents marked Exhibit 5) In the front bedroom upstairs I found the douche produced hanging on the wall. In the front sitting room I found the belt, hat, pair of gloves and purse bag containing a pocket handkerchief, 2 keys and a pencil and 12/0 ½ a necklet and locket produced and a parasol and I produce the lot. I found the parasol produced near the window. I also found the bank deposit slip produced for £3 in the purse. After the body had been taken away I said to Mrs. Sinclair ‘How do you account for the blood on this quilt’ and she said ‘I don’t know’ I then took them to Paddington Police Station and charged them with causing the death of a woman whose name was unknown at Woollahra on the 26th ultimo and neither of them made any reply. On the following morning at the same station I recharged them with causing the death of Lucy Edith Smith at Woollahra on the 26th ultimo and neither made any reply. Katie Marsh was in bed. TO DONALD RHODERICK SINCLAIR. I don’t know how much money was in Mrs. Sinclair’s purse, I did not search it. The nozzle was disconnected from the syringe, and in the case with it were the parts of an ordinary enema.

ARTHUR AUBREY PALMER, sworn, states: - I am Government Medical Officer for Sydney. On the 27th ultimo at the Sydney Morgue I made an internal examination of the dead body of a woman said to be named Lucy Edith Smith and Dr. Marr was present. There were no marks of violence externally. The right ventricle of the

Long Bay 360 heart contained a large quantity of fine bloody froth. There were bubbles also in the right auricle, large veins, and liver and other places. The uterus measured seven inches internally and contained a male foetus five inches in length. The covering known as the decidua was torn below, at it’s lowest part, and that particular covering known as the amniotic sac was stripped off from the rest of the decidua. The other portion of the covering that was stripped off showed a tear about halfway up the posterior wall of the uterus and from that there was copious bleeding coming from the open mouths of the veins of the uterus. Air bubbles were seen beneath that covering. The organs were healthy, there were no signs of decomposition. The cause of death, in my opinion, was the entrance of air into the veins of the uterus and that must have been brought about by mechanical interference with the contents of the uterus, in other words it must have been brought about by a syringe, I don’t know any other way it could have been produced, and the patient would collapse immediately at the entrance of the air and would die in a few minutes. Occasionally air enters and people recover but in fatal cases they die within a few minutes. The syringe produced is of an unusual kind and I should say the nozzle was probably made for the purpose as a uterine douche. It would take a good firm pressure to make the injuries and there would be pain but in a case like this death would take place so quickly that she would not have time to feel much pain. In cases of this kind they always collapse at once and die within a few minutes. It is quite impossible for this woman to have been operated on in another house and then have gone to the house where she died, the most I have ever heard of a patient doing was staggering about for a second or so. There would not necessarily be much bleeding because she would die so quickly but the bleeding would go on after death and in this case there was bleeding inside. I have known this sort of thing to be self inflicted but it would be quite impossible for a woman to do any walking after having inflicted it herself and I don’t think it would be possible, if fact, I am sure it would not be possible for her to carry on a connected conversation afterwards but they might cry out or say something such as an exclamation but she could not keep up a conversation. This woman was in about the fourth month of pregnancy.

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ISABEL WILLIAMS, sworn, states:- I am a domestic servant and live at 71 Watson Street, Bondi. On last Tuesday fortnight I went to Mrs. Sinclair’s to work as a servant and it was at No. 486 Old South Head Road Woollahra and I saw Mr. Sinclair when I got there as well as Mrs. Sinclair. I had to look after the baby and do the work downstairs. On the 26th ultimo about 3 p.m. I was in the kitchen with Mr. Sinclair putting up a shelf and Mrs. Sinclair was in the wash-house and Katie Marsh was in bed upstairs. She came there the day after I went there, the 21st ultimo. There was also a Miss Murphy in one of the rooms, she had come on the previous Sunday but she was not in bed. I heard a woman call out ‘Nurse’ and Mrs. Sinclair went upstairs and then she called out for some hot water and Mr. Sinclair took some hot water in a dipper to the top of the stairs after he’d put some Epsom Salts in it and then he came back again, but I could not say if he had the dipper or not. I did not see Mrs. Sinclair again until about 5 minutes after when she came down and asked me to go for Dr. Gordon Marr as a woman had collapsed. I did not see the deceased until I saw her dead in the front room after I had come back from a message after I had returned from the doctor’s. I could not say how long Mrs. Sinclair was upstairs after she had called for the water and before she asked me to go for the doctor but it was five minutes at least but not very long. I have seen Miss Murphy and she was not the deceased. I could not hear anyone knock at the front door from where I was downstairs. I did not hear anyone knock on the floor of the room upstairs. Mr. Sinclair was with me all the time except when he took the water up. I do not know what business was carried on by Mrs. Sinclair I could not tell if any sewing was done. I was the only servant there. I only saw the Salts put into the water the once. I went a message after I came back from the doctor’s. I could not tell what Katie Marsh was doing there, but she was in bed but I did not know if she was sick. She had been there from the day after I went there but she was not in bed all that time. I had not to clean up her room, I could not tell who did it. I was only there a week and did kitchen work only. I only saw Miss Murphy and Katie Marsh there, no other visitors. TO DONALD RHODERICK SINCLAIR.

Long Bay 362 You were putting up the shelf and someone called you, I did not here any knocking that attracted your attention. There was a wedding dress there Mrs. Sinclair had made and it was for Annie Shrimpton.

CHARLES TURBET, sworn, states: - I am a Senior Constable stationed at Randwick. On the 3rd instant in the presence of Senior Constable Macpherson and a gaol official at Darlinghurst Gaol I saw Donald Rhoderick Sinclair who is now in Court and showed him the copy of the ‘Daily Telegraph’ of which the document I produce is a portion and said to him ‘There is an advertisement here under the “Personal and Missing Friends” Column, it says “Will G Harper please call on Nurse Sinclair, ‘Sadowa’ 486 Old South Head Road near Bondi Junction”’ and I also showed him the clipping from the ‘Australian Star’ which I produce and which is a similar advertisement and he said ‘Yes, I put them in’. I said, ‘I have also seen a slip of paper at the Daily Telegraph office and there is a similar advertisement there for the 26th, 27th and 29th’ and he said, ‘Yes, I left that advertisement’. I said, ‘I have a letter here which I found in your house does that refer to that last advertisement’ and he said ‘Yes’. (Telegraph marked Exhibit 8 and the ‘Star’ Exhibit 9) TO DONALD RHODERICK SINCLAIR. I am certain that I showed you the ‘Star’ clipping and the letter.

ROBERT McCALLUM, sworn, states:- I am a clerk at the ‘Daily Telegraph’ Newspaper office and live at ‘Gwencot’ Australia St. Woollahra. I produce an advertisement slip which a young man lodged at our office and Mr. Sinclair is he. (Donald Rhoderick Sinclair here voluntarily says, ‘To save time, your Worship I’ll admit putting that advertisement in’.) After the slip was lodged I wrote the letter produced to Nurse Sinclair and got no reply. (Slip market Exhibit 6 and the letter Exhibit 7).

DONALD RHODERICK SINCLAIR, sworn, states;- I am an agent and live at 486 Old South Head Road, Woollahra. I wish to give evidence myself and understand I am not compelled to. About ¼ past 3 on the

363 Long Bay afternoon of the 26th ultimo I was in the kitchen with Miss Williams and heard someone knocking and calling ‘Don, Don’ and I ran upstairs and in the front room saw Mrs. Sinclair supporting a woman who was then sitting on a chair. She gave me to understand in a few words that the woman had fainted and I then went and got a quilt and spread it on the couch and we laid the woman on it and unloosened her clothing and put smelling salts to her nose and gave her brandy to drink and did all in our power to bring her to. I sent for the doctor within 10 minutes. I could see there was no sign of life and sent Miss Williams for the doctor and she returned in about 5 minutes and said ‘Dr. Gordon Marr will be here presently’. Another ten minutes elapsed and Dr. Marr did not come and I then went myself without a coat or hat and left word for Dr. Gordon Marr to call up and I went to the hotel for more brandy and got back to the house and found Dr. Marr had not come yet but he came a few minutes after. I heard Mrs. Sinclair explain to him that the woman had collapsed suddenly and the doctor struck a match and looked at her eyes and put a mirror over her mouth and said ‘I’m afraid she’s gone’ and he then said ‘Go to the Junction and bring a police officer back with you’ I went to the Junction and saw Senior Constable Mackenzie and whilst he was beckoning another police constable I went back home and they arrived almost immediately after and met Dr. Marr at the gate, and they conversed for some time and Senior Constable Roche and Constable Macpherson came on the scene and after a short conversation they all entered the house and went into the room, I was going in but Dr. Marr beckoned me to remain behind and remain in the hall. Afterwards, about 5 minutes after, I entered the room. That was the front room. I remained there with Constable Macpherson whilst the police searched the house and I gave a statement to Constable Macpherson of what had happened and he wrote it down in a note book. Mrs. Sinclair also gave a statement, and we were then taken to Waverley Police station and transferred to Paddington and there charged with causing the death of a woman unknown. Next day I identified the body of the woman at the Morgue as the body of the woman who died in the front room. I did not know the woman was dead but we saw no signs of life and sent for the doctor. TO MR. MANT.

Long Bay 364 I never saw the woman before in my life to my knowledge. As far as I know it was her clothing scattered about the room. My wife made a hurried explanation to me that she had come there and asked to see Nurse Sinclair and my wife had invited her inside and she had said ‘You’re not Nurse Sinclair’ and that my wife had said she must mean my mother. My wife acts as a nurse at a confinement case under a head nurse. I know nothing more about Miss Murphy than that she was there as a boarder. I did not know the other woman was there to be confined. I did not know she had twins while there. My wife never told me that. I am an agent for the Temperance and General Mutual Life Assurance Company and I buy and sell furniture. I have heard the girl Marsh referred to as Lena. I knew her as Katie Marsh but she gave her name as ‘Lena’ when she gave her statement to the Police. She was a boarder there but had not paid anything and had been there since the previous Wednesday. My wife made the arrangements and gave me to understand the girl was to pay £1 a week. That was the first boarder we had ever had. We were never in a house of our own before. Miss Murphy was a boarder too under the same arrangement as far as I know. There are 3 spare rooms. Jean Harper is a friend of my wife. Jean Harper is a dressmaker and we don’t know where she lives, I have not seen her for some years. I take Epsom Salts. We have only been in that house a fortnight but we did not use all the salts that were contained in the empty packets that were found there. I had seen Lena but not spoken to her, that is the girl known as Katie Marsh. TO REBECCA IRVIN SINCLAIR. There are 3 spare rooms but Miss Williams, the servant, occupied one.

Rebecca Irvin Sinclair states that she does not desire to give any evidence. City Coroner’s Court, Sydney 6 May 1909

13 May 1909 The deponent Lena Carter on her oath saith as follows: - I am a single woman at present staying at the Coast Hospital. From something I saw in the newspaper I went to 486 Old South Head Woollahra on the 20th of last

365 Long Bay month. When I arrived there I saw the accused and had a conversation with her. I told her ‘I am in trouble and want to get rid of it as the father of the child will not help me.’ She said, ‘I will pull you through, my fee will be five guineas.’ I said, ‘I cannot afford that I will have to get the money myself.’ She said, ‘could you manage three pounds ten.’ I said, ‘I can get that.’ I then left there and I came back the next day. I then saw the accused, she took me to a bedroom – upstairs. I said, ‘I had better pay you before anything else.’ I then gave her three sovereigns and a half sovereign. The rest of that day I walked about the house. On Thursday the 22nd in the morning the Accused came to me and asked me how I was. She said, ‘you need not dress in all your clothes.’ I put on my combinations, petticoat and dressing gown. On the Thursday afternoon I saw the Accused again in my bedroom. She told me to get on to the bed. I did so. She then used a syringe with hot water from the chamber. Before she used the syringe she brought the hot water in the chamber into the room. When she used the syringe I felt the accused put something into my womb. I felt no pain. When I felt her put the syringe into my private parts she made no remark. I saw her again the following day and she again put something into my womb. She gave me two pills to take each day. She used a syringe with a nozzle longer than the one now in court. On Sunday morning I had a few pains. I saw the accused that morning, I told her that I had a few pains, not much. After I had my bath I saw blood coming from my private parts. The Accused gave me a chamber and told me to sit on it if I had any more pain. The pain left me when I saw the blood. When I was sitting on the chamber the form of a child came away from me. I called the accused, she came and said, ‘you are over your trouble now’. She said nothing else that I know of. I then went to bed.

This deponent Isabel Williams on her oath saith as follows: - I live at 71 Watson Street Bondi. I am a single woman. From the 20th to the 28th of last month I was employed by the accused as a servant at 486 Old South Head Road Woollahra. I remember the last witness coming there on Wednesday the 21st of last month. She was moved from one room into my room on the Sunday.

Long Bay 366 When she was there I did not see her very often. I saw her having baths there – hot water baths – on several occasions. On Sunday I heard the accused call her husband to bring hot water, she said the last witness had collapsed. I do not remember exactly how she referred to the last witness. After that the accused’s husband took some hot water upstairs. I saw some salts put into the water. Later on I saw the husband come downstairs, he took some blankets and put them on the line, I would not be sure but I think he put a pillow on the line. I saw the blanket after it was dry and noticed a white mark on it like dried salts. After he had put the blankets on the line I heard the accused say to him, ‘Lena is over her trouble, Lena has had twins.’ When I was going to bed that night I found that the last witness had been moved into my room.

This deponent Michael Roche on his own oath saith as follows:- I am a Senior Constable of Police stationed at Waverley. At about 3:35 p.m. on the 26th of last month from something I was told in company with Constable Macpherson I went to 486 Old South Head Road Woollahra and saw the accused there. She showed me the dead body of a woman lying on a couch in the front room. I afterwards saw a woman who gave the name of Lena Carter lying in bed (The woman who now appears in Court is the woman I saw – Lena Carter). I produce a syringe and a box three parts full of Epsom Salts. I found them in the accused’s bedroom, also in the same room in the fireplace I found 26 empty Epsom Salts packets. In a tub half full of water in the laundry I found the soiled night dress and the towel produced. I brought them up to Lena Carter and in the presence of the accused I said to Carter, ‘Is this your nightdress?’ Carter said, ‘yes’. I said, ‘Is that the night dress you were wearing when you had the miscarriage?’ She said, ‘yes’. I said, ‘is this the towel you were lying on?’ She said, ‘yes’. I then took the accused to the Paddington Police Station and charged her with another charge. This morning at the Paddington Police Station I charged the accused with the charge now read to her. She made no reply. Carter was afterwards removed to the Coast Hospital.

This deponent James Sheddes Davis

367 Long Bay on his oath saith as follows: - I am a legally qualified medical practitioner at present residing at the Coast Hospital. I saw Lena Carter in Court. I remember her coming to the Coast Hospital on the 27th April last. I examined her. She was bleeding from the Vagina – a slightly fetid discharge, the womb was enlarged. She had a temperature between 99 and 100. She was apparently suffering from an incomplete abortion. I curetted the uterus and removed from it several fragments of placenta. There was some blood clot in the vagina and the uterus. I have continued to treat her till the present time, she is now out of danger. A miscarriage could have been brought about by the introduction of the nozzle of the syringe produced into the uterus.

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