Every Year I Am Here

CHAPTER 1 DUTTON PARK, BRISBANE, AUSTRALIA, NOVEMBER 1891 Lillian heard the woman before she spied her. A primitive groan carried on the breeze, causing her to lower the paintbrush in her right hand. She scanned the scrub one hundred yards to her left. There a figure crouched, partly hidden behind a thicket of stringy-bark and banksia, with skirt and petticoat pulled up to reveal slender thighs. Lillian sucked in a breath of tangy eucalyptus and tried to slink out of sight; she already had enough troubles of her own. However, her unwieldy corset prevented such a measure. There was nothing to do except remain upright. Besides, curiosity exceeded her usual sense of decorum as she watched the woman writhe on the ground. Over the past hour, Dutton Park had become deserted. Not a picnicker or ferryman appeared to be about for Lillian to summon any help. It was unusual for a Sunday afternoon. Until that moment, she had been glad of the peace and quiet, painting her watercolour and pretending to be the fine lady she was not… yet. How had the stranger managed to escape her notice? The seconds turned into excruciating minutes. In the branches, currawongs called to each other, piercing whistles soaring above a cicada chorus. A quick rustle beneath the leaf litter sent a thrill of alarm up her spine. The half-finished watercolour puckered on the open sketchbook and Lillian’s dream of being able to pull herself out of a miserable domestic position slid farther away. Green ants scurried by her boots. In that fugitive state, aware any movement might alert the struggler to her presence, at last relief was granted. The woman’s long mane swung as she lurched then sank against peeling bark. Lillian watched her drag an olive-green shawl from her shoulders to wipe the sweat away from her face and neck. The stranger then dropped the wrap on to the ground and fiddled with it. Finally, she rearranged her skirt and petticoat and staggered back on to her feet. The poor waif was simply dressed in a grey skirt and white cotton blouse still buttoned up to her throat. Even from that distance, Lillian could see the ordeal had left dirt smudged all over her cuffs and elbows. There was no way to get a good look at her face. Still unsteady, the stranger weaved through the adjoining cemetery’s headstones and headed in the direction of small cottages marking the park’s perimeter. Lillian waited until she had vanished from sight before rising to stretch her legs. They prickled all over with pins and needles as blood flow was restored, forcing her to hop from one foot to the other for relief. She bent down to snap the paintbox lid shut and packed it into her basket along with the brush. With the sketchbook tucked firmly into the crook of her arm, she wandered over to where the woman had struggled. The infant was silent, wrapped tightly in the knitted shawl and nestled on a bed of leaves and twigs. Flies and ants had already begun to infest the puddled afterbirth lying nearby. A couple of larger insects crawled over the baby’s slick hair to suckle at sealed eyes. Lillian wished she could say she was surprised to see the sorry sight but she had witnessed each of her sister’s labours. The moment she’d laid eyes on the stranger, it was clear birth was imminent. She darted another look at the cottages and shivered. Were they concealing witnesses to her conundrum? What on earth was she going to do? She’d specially chosen Dutton Park – a good mile’s walk from West End – because she had been craving some solitude. The shameful stray had usurped the last of her precious time. Why else would a mother have left her baby behind unless it was illegitimate? Lillian thought again of her sister and her worries intensified. Patricia would be fretting about why she hadn’t yet returned from her walk, not because she was worried about her but because she wanted extra help with the children. Lillian felt frozen with indecision. She had a plan to change her life. It was possible to do such a thing in the colony – her mother had always said so, even if her own dream had shrivelled the moment her foot had stepped ashore. Lillian finally stooped to bat the flies away from the newborn’s twitching nose. The gesture proved futile; the insects immediately returned to continue their scavenging. She crouched on her haunches and tugged the woollen wrap from the little one’s body to discover its s*x. It was a boy and a healthy-looking one at that. The umbilical cord had roughly been severed; by scissors, a knife or teeth, Lillian couldn’t tell. His mother had at least had enough sense to tie it off tightly with a small piece of twine. The baby’s fair-skinned belly rose and fell. Every part of him appeared to be located where it should, except for a large wine-coloured birthmark discolouring his right thigh. Lillian traced her finger around its irregular circumference. He wriggled in response, screwing his face up until he resembled a grumpy old man. She smiled and picked up a corner of the shawl that remained unmarred by dirt to wipe the muck out of his eyes and mouth. He was ugly in the squashed-up way newborns always were yet also quite adorable, especially the way he blinked up at her with old-soul eyes and began to squawk. She was already beginning to fall in love with him and the thought depressed her. Before his tiny siren could gain traction, she quickly wrapped his plump body up nice and secure again. As she tucked in the last corner, a piece of paper slipped from the layers. Lillian unfolded and discovered it to be a promissory note, to the value of one pound. She refolded it and slid it between her top two blouse buttons to lodge it safely between her breasts. A crunching step on dry bark and a small movement flashed at the corner of her eye. Scared, Lillian glanced around her yet couldn’t see anything out of the ordinary. She gently laid her hands on the newborn and felt his warmth emanate from the yarn. There was the sound again. Instinctively, Lillian pulled her own shawl up over her mouth and her bonnet down and twisted back toward where she had been painting. Another girl, younger than herself, stood like an apparition. A buzz filled Lillian’s ears. The cicadas’ cacophony re-entered her consciousness. She snatched the baby from where he was resting and began to run. Her shawl flapped against her face as she neared the girl, who instinctively held her arms out in self-defence. ‘Please, you must take him,’ Lillian murmured, thrusting the precious bundle straight into them. Without looking back, she hurried out to Gladstone Road – the thread to stitch her back to the safety of the West End and her sister. Unfortunately, the baby was of no use to Lillian, even though she missed him already. She’d never be allowed to keep him.