a mixed business in a city of grey streets and grey people, she’d never have left. Even now, she had a sense it had all happened to someone else and one day she’d wake up in her own bed in Sydney, hear her father sweeping and her mother complaining. But she couldn’t ignore the pain in her back or the need to pee again or answer customers’ questions: ‘Yes, Mrs Baker, Eddie is a hard worker; I’m not homesick, Miss Anderson; Yes, I come from Sydney; I miss my family; Windsor is a lovely suburb; my mother is not coming down for the birth.’
Vivien knew she had many reasons to be thankful to Gran, not only because she’d persuaded Eddie to buy everything a baby could need, inspected the shop and dwelling and made practical suggestions, but had cared for Vivien as if she were a truly loved daughter. They shopped for furniture together; Gran encouraged Vivien to make her own choices and arranged delivery to the shop before she was to return there to take up her married life. Between Gran and Helen, the baby would have more clothing, nappies and equipment any baby could possibly need, and she wore the maternity clothes Helen had designed and made for her.
There’d be a lull for a while. She perched on the edge of a stool, pushed her belly forward and rubbed her back. If Doug could see her now. The biscuit tins, bottles of sauce, jars of pickles, tins of fruit and jam, sacks of sugar and flour all faded when she thought about him, the colour of the Sydney sky, its hilly streets, the ocean and its green depths, luscious rampant gardens and brilliantly flowering trees, the heavy perfume of frangipani-lined streets.
With her belly straining against her green poplin smock, Vivien began to make sandwiches for the lunchtime trade when Eddie would take over until closing time. When the lunch rush started, she heard him clumping down the stairs. Somewhere between spreading pickles on ham and slicing tomatoes, the first labour pain gripped. She dropped the knife, knocked over the pickle jar and gripped the counter. Eddie helped her upstairs and settled her on the sofa before clearing the shop of hungry customers. The pains weren’t bad at first, but soon she was sure she was tearing in two. Her water broke. She babbled, ‘Hail Mary Mother of God Hail Mary Mother of God Hail Mary Hail Mary Hail Maaary, Jesus, Oh Jesus. Eddiiee.’ The pain took hold. ‘AAAGH.’‘Hail Mary, full of grace. Blessed art thou among women.’
‘Eddi e e e, help me.’
‘What’ll I do, Darl? Tell me what to do.’
‘Ring the hospital.’
‘What’ll I say?’
‘God, Jesus. It hurts. Move Eddie. Get my case. Get me there. NOW!’
Eddie tapped on the glass of the nursery window, held up a piece of paper saying BABY BERTOLI and looked at his bawling son. Jesus, it was ugly. Bald, wrinkled, red faced. No chin. Poor little bugger. A man’ll have to work bloody hard to make that up to him.
Vivien was happier than he’d ever seen her. She was over it in no time flat, although she’d yelled loud enough while the kid was on the way. A few hours later she was sitting up in bed staring at it and crowing. ‘He’s beautiful.’
Eddie couldn’t see it but said what she wanted. ‘He’s bonzer, all right.’
Vivien smiled at him, a real smile; not one she flashed when he knew she wasn’t listening or even seeing him. ‘He looks like you.’
‘You reckon? Gawd!’
‘What about names? I still like “Anthony”.’
‘You can’t do that to him. They’ll call him a bloody dago.’
‘They’ll call him that anyway. He might be dark.’
‘What about “John” then?’
‘John Anthony.’ Vivien beamed at him.
‘I give in.’
‘And I want him baptised Catholic.’
‘But you’ve finished with all that rubbish.’
‘I … have, but just in case. You don’t believe in anything, so it can’t matter to you.’
Eddie tried to keep his voice down, but growled. ‘It’s the thin edge. The next thing the bloody priest’s knocking on the door.’ The look she gave him would sour her milk. ‘We’ll talk about it when you get home. I’ve got to get back to the shop.’
Why did she have to spring this baptism stuff on him? Gran was going on about it as well. Methodist, she reckoned. Bloody women, they don’t know what they want. Trouble was he’d end up giving in, just to keep the peace. He couldn’t please them both.
As he was leaving, Chris walked in with a big bunch of roses. ‘Congratulations on your son, Edward.’
‘Thanks.’ Stuck up tart. Vivien wouldn’t have time to gas bag with her on the phone half the night anymore. Gran was right; Viv wouldn’t be able to look after a new baby and be at the beck and call of the shop all day. He’d have to give up the milk round. The business was good enough to keep them, but he wanted to make more money. He had a bit left over from what he’d stashed away from the sale of the gold nugget, but fitting up the place plus the baby stuff Gran convinced him to buy had put a decent sized dent in that.
Vivien hardly spoke to him on the way home, just cradled John and gazed at him, happier than he’d ever seen her. So that was mother love. When they walked through the shop, the customers looked at the small dark bundle, started cooing and clucking. Eddie called to her as she started to walk upstairs. ‘Down here, Viv.’
Eddie had moved the bassinette into the downstairs room at the back and stuffed it with baby clothes, layettes, nappies and soft toys.
Vivien yelled, ‘What have you done? John will sleep in our room.’
‘He’ll bawl during the night. A man’s got to get his sleep.’
‘You know damn well babies need to be fed at least every four hours. That’s why we arranged all his things upstairs.’
‘He’s not bloody sleeping in our room and that’s final.’
‘You’ll live by yourself then. I’ll take John and stay with Gran.’
Eddie looked at Vivien. She was riled up, all right. ‘He has to learn he can’t be picked up every time he blubs.’
Through clenched teeth, she hissed, ‘He’s not even two weeks old. I’m sure Gran won’t hold her tongue when she hears what you’ve done.’
‘All right, all right. You can sleep with the kid. I’ll doss down in the back. There’s a stretcher somewhere. But just until he bloody well sleeps through the night.’
‘I am not ever going to leave a baby alone down here. Get that into your head, once and for all.’
Eddie’s temper flared. ‘And you get this into your head, I won’t be told what to do by you or anybody else.’
Dotty, who was looking after the shop, opened the adjoining door and poked her head around it. “Shush. The customers can hear you two shouting.’
Eddie glared at Vivien. ‘I’ll bloody well move everything back upstairs.’
By the time John was six weeks old and smiling at him, Eddie began to feel like a father, not just a bloke who was handy to have around, but the head of a family. Although he liked watching Vivien feed John, the dreamy look on her face, her laugh when John, full as a goog fell off her nipple, milk dribbling from his gummy mouth, he wished she’d put him on the bottle. She always stank of sour milk and baby vomit.
Eddie had listened to Gran and the doctor and knew Viv had to heal for six weeks before he could touch her again, but it was worth the wait. She wasn’t what you’d call keen, but holding her close was enough. He’d gone with a few tarts up the bush who had more moves than a Swiss watch, yelled and squealed and that, but all the time he knew it was just an act to get a bit more money. Afterwards, he couldn’t get away quick enough, felt dirty as if he’d been rolling in pig shit. He’d remembered he’d