Every Year I Am Here

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Every Year I Am Here - book excerpt

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 sex. 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.

Chapter Two

Good Decisions

With lungs on fire, Lillian raced along Gladstone Road, drawing ever closer to Patricia’s house. Her heart pounded as she put a mile between herself and Dutton Park. The younger girl had screamed with outrage the moment she found herself clutching the baby. Lillian imagined her finger pointing towards the city like a compass. Any Good Samaritan emerging from the cottages to see what the matter was would easily be convinced to set chase after the culprit who had committed such a callous deed. They would drag her straight to the police station if they caught her. Lillian shuddered at the idea of having to defend herself against charges of child abandonment. The fact she’d not been the slightest bit pregnant that morning did nothing to quell her distress. She was a worrier. Patricia always teased her for blowing situations with a justifiable explanation out of proportion. At that moment, Lillian’s nervousness knew no bounds but, despite her panic, she forced herself to throw a glance back over her shoulder. Nobody was coming.

She pulled the shawl fringe from her mouth, slowed to a trot and began to feel foolish. It was such a relief finally to reach Musgrave Park, so close to home, and stop for a moment on a park bench to take a rest.

Sweat beaded on her forehead and under her arms, soaking into her cotton blouse. Whether because of shifting the problem on to another girl or knowing how her brother-in-law would react if she’d brought the baby home, her stomach was churning. She collapsed on to a bench beneath a sprawling Moreton Bay fig tree until her heartbeat returned to normal and she felt well enough again to complete the last leg of the journey.

*****

Lillian found her sister in the kitchen, head bent, darning a sock.

Patricia looked up and frowned before resuming stitching more vigorously than the task required. ‘Where have you been? You said you would only be gone for two hours. Why did you bother coming home at all if you weren’t going to spend any time with us?’

Lillian contemplated a pile of unwashed clothes in a wicker basket, cooking utensils scattered across the table, and her younger nephew, Thomas, kneeling on the floor rolling a toy train. She scooped him up and pulled him on to her hip. He clutched his train with his left hand and entwined the pudgy fingers of his right around the strands of hair at her nape.

‘Ow! Be gentle, little chum,’ she murmured against his apricot ear.

Lillian took a seat at the table and manoeuvred the small boy so he faced his mother. She tickled him until he erupted with laughter. The ploy to lighten her sister’s mood worked somewhat. Patricia set her darning down, licked her thumb and smeared it across her son’s cheek.

Still sitting, Lillian craned her neck to see into the adjoining parlour. ‘What’ve you done with Peter?’

Patricia studied Thomas’s face for signs of more grime. ‘Alf took him to the wharf to watch the sailboats. The yacht club’s holding a regatta today.’

‘Isn’t that nice of him?’ Lillian couldn’t hide her sarcasm any better than her sister knew how to suppress her irritation. She was sorry Patricia had ended up married to an oaf. At least from observing them she knew what not to accept from a future suitor. Hers would be a marriage of the heart and the purse.

‘He’s doing his best,’ Patricia snapped. ‘You can keep your judgement to yourself, thank you very much.’

‘Oh, so it’s all right for you to say mean things about him but not me? I see how it is.’ Lillian paused before trying to cajole another smile from her sister. ‘Very well, I’m sorry. I didn’t want to be out for so long.’ She meant what she said, even though none of it had been her fault.

Patricia pushed her sleeves all the way up past her elbows, revealing forearms browned by the summer sun. Long, delicate fingers that would have been far better suited to piano playing – if only they’d grown up in a different world – resumed flying rhythmically as she turned her attention back to the sock.

In a final effort to placate, before she’d have to admit the whole afternoon was a complete disaster, Lillian decided to confess the reason for her tardiness. Her conscience needed soothing. It was impossible to decide on her own whether the decision to pass the baby to a girl even younger than herself had been the right one or not. It certainly didn’t feel right. She didn’t need to be a mother herself to know that. The image of her unsuspecting saviour rose sharply in her mind. The girl wore an embroidered dress and hat, a mother-of-pearl comb pinned back her rich brown wavy hair and a pair of gold drops hung from her ears. A split-second glance had told Lillian everything she needed to know – the baby would be safe. The girl no doubt had a wealthy, respectable mother who would know what to do, not a poor, dead one like hers and Patricia’s.

Book Details

AUTHOR NAME: Joanna Beresford

BOOK TITLE: Every Year I Am Here

GENRE: Historical Fiction

SUBGENRE: Australian Historical Fiction

PAGE COUNT: 330

IN THE BLOG: Best Historical Fiction Books