The Sun Is Often Out

Molong, 1891

It is almost dawn; I know this by the currawong calls that carry across the paddocks, and the distant crackling hymn of the cicadas as they warn of blistering heat, for the shades are drawn and the room itself lit by candles, now burning so low more wax drips down their intricate silver holders than sits atop them to fuel the flame. Lit for the doctor as he bends his head to listen once more, to hear through an instrument what I heard hours before. A low rasp, louder and louder as it echoes in my head. He is dying, he is dying, Walter is dying.

A little crease forms between Dr Stewart's heavy brows as he kneels to examine him, to observe the sheen of sweat evaporating on his upper lip, as he notes the rattle in his throat. The fever is spent, but so is Walter's body.

I wonder if the tide is changing, all those miles away on the coast. My mother died as the tide went out, that was the old wives tale, but they also blamed death on the new moon and if a crow landed on your windowsill and other fanciful things that might be mere coincidence. People died all day and all night. Dr Stewart could confirm that, I was sure.

The doctor straightens, and Aunt Mary makes a movement towards him, as if pleading for some miracle. He stops her with a shake of his head, and asks after the other patient. She halts, shoulders slumping, but does not falter. Walter is her province alone now. This is not the first child she has lost, though the others now live only in the dim past of memory—taken years before by scarlet fever, only children, mourned but not unexpected casualties of life.

"Hazel, please take the doctor to Mrs Hale."

I do not want to leave him, and Aunt Mary knows this. She has used my Christian name for precisely that reason, for she knows how much I loathe it. But I do not disobey, though I dig my thumbnail into my palm behind my back as I lead the doctor to the other sick room.

We walk in silence down the empty hall to the other end of the house. The quiet is unnatural, unnerving. We three women are all who remain to minister to the sick—my aunt, my cousin, and myself. The rest removed to Redruth House, with all the children and the servants save a couple of farmhands who live far enough away from the main house to be safe, a quarantine recommended by the doctor himself. Olive suggested we work in shifts but in the past week I have only left Walter's room when forced, sleeping in the chair by the bed when I cannot keep my eyelids open. I wanted him to see me there whenever he came to from his delirium, to know that I forgave him.

The doctor's shoes click on the polished floor. I turn to him and say: "Amy did not come."

He shakes his head.

There might be a simple reason or a dozen convoluted ones to explain her absence. I know enough not to ask. Instead I incline my head towards the door and knock sharply.

I hear movement, and the door opens to Olive's tired face peering out at us. "Dr Stewart," she says, not smiling. "Come in."

I step back to let him pass into the room, and when she looks at me with the question in her eyes I turn away and begin to walk the way I had come. Little slivers of light come through the shutters, hitting the red patina of the floor at intervals, leaving a trail like breadcrumbs back to my Walter. There is a fluttering in my heart and I stop, leaning against the wall, curling and uncurling my fingers over the rich brocade wallpaper, and take deep breaths. He can never see me like this. I lean forward, and apply pressure with my other hand to the place under my heart which always calms me. 

I try to direct my mind to practicalities, the way Aunt Mary taught me, use the skills which have kept me quiet my entire adult life, never revealing the tumult inside. Instead my mind is flooded with memories—a warm spring evening in a pink muslin dress, the grave trees flanking us, the strange feeling of home in a foreign land; a brilliant cicada, the same vibrant colour as Aunt Mary's turquoise brooch, cupped in his hand; a kiss accepted and a kiss rebuffed.

No, not now. I push the thoughts away with a shake of my head and start to follow the trail of light back to his room. After a soft knock to announce myself I open the door and see Aunt Mary turn away, wiping at her cheeks. Walter's eyelids flicker as I sit down beside him, resuming my vigil.

"How is she?"

I watch him, his chest still rising and falling in shallow breaths. "I didn't stay."

"I'll go and see." She gives me a look of pity as she leaves the room, and I wonder if the pity is for me or for the plans she made, all come to nothing.

His hand is cold when I take it in my own, though I can feel the heat of the day already, emanating from the blinds behind me. With a little gasp his eyes open. "May-bells," he wheezes, and I brush his hair back over his forehead.

"I'm here." There is a desperation in his face, his pupils so big in the dim light that barely any of the grey of his iris is visible. His hair is still soft as I stroke it but no longer shines; his skin tinged yellow beneath the stubble of the beard beginning to grow in. He tries to lift himself up and I shake my head at him and gently push him back down.

"I'm sorry," he says, "I'm sorry."