Robyn Hogan

It’s every parent’s nightmare, the call in the night, even after the children have left home, have become parents themselves. Steffie was gone. A four-wheel drive, running a light, had collected her. Crushed her almost beyond recognition. And Paul, so incoherent in his telling, it took me some time to patch together the horror news.

‘I’m coming over.’ I dressed swiftly, packing a few essentials even more swiftly, and relieved the policewoman who had stayed to mind the children. Steffie’s four beautiful babes; my four marvellous grandchildren.

Paul staggered in soon after I arrived. A handsome man, his face now weary and wretched as tears grooved down his cheeks. He pushed the coffee aside and sat, slumped, on the kitchen stool. My tears were just beginning, the shock just starting to take its toll, but there were the children to think of.

The baby, Chloe, woke first and I suddenly realised Steffie was still feeding. It was thirty-five years since I had mixed formula and, anyway, there was unlikely to be any in the house. Later, I could contact the Baby Health Clinic, or whatever such places were called these days, for help, but, for now, the baby was crying, hungry. I tried to think.

‘Paul, have any of your friends a new baby?’ He lifted his haunted face briefly but did not answer. Nor did he make any move towards the baby so I went to Chloe, changed her nappy, patted her back and offered my shoulder as comfort. Her little fists twisted in her mouth, anger blotched her cheeks, as she sought blindly for her mother, her mother’s breasts.

‘There must be someone,’ I said sharply to Paul over Chloe’s cries.

‘Emma,’ he muttered and dropped his head on his arms again.

‘Emma who?’ but he was sobbing too hard to answer.

Still holding the baby, I went to their telephone and, hoping her name was programmed, fingered the digits. ‘Paul’, ‘Mum’, ‘Sandra’, ‘Pizza’, ‘Emma’. Five. I lifted the handset and pressed the five and waited through several rings. A sleepy voice, a man’s, answered and I realised how early the day was. I stuttered a bit and choked on the words as I tried to tell this stranger about Steffie and Chloe’s need. But he became alert quickly, made arrangements and Emma was on her way.

The house was stirring with Chloe’s cries by the time Emma arrived, carrying her own little one. ‘I’m a great milker,’ she said cheerfully, as she took Chloe from me, seated herself and tucked Chloe into position. ‘How’s Paul taking it?’

‘Hard. So very hard.’

‘I bet. Can’t take it in myself yet.’

‘Nor I.’ But the practicalities of the situation were fast mounting round me.

Jules wandered in, thumb in mouth, dragging a piece of blanket and gabbling a language I did not yet understand. I took her other hand and led her to the kitchen and Paul. ‘They are waking, Paul, you are going to have to tell them,’ and I burst into tears. Jules’ eyes widened, her mouth opened and she began howling.

‘What is going on?’ Patrick and Josh stood at the door. ‘What are you doing here, Granna?’ Josh continued, in his six and a half year old maturity.

But Patrick, so quick for a four year old, cut to the chase. ‘Where’s Mummy?’ Then, as no one responded, he spoke louder, more urgent. ‘Dad! Where is our Mummy?’

Paul, though, was not up to it. Paul, who must have told so many families a loved one was dead, could not tell his own. It was left to me.

As was so much over the days and weeks to come.

Somehow I muddled through, finding my daughter’s routine as best I could for the children’s security. It was chaotic in the days leading up to the funeral and, to this day, I don’t know who organised that. It was beyond Paul. Someone stood in for me for the few hours I needed to return to my home, pack my clothes and close the apartment up for I knew not how long.

But after the funeral life had to be resumed. And Paul was very little use, working long hours in his surgery, eating poorly and hardly speaking to any of us. Josh returned to school, Patrick to kindergarten. I managed to establish a reasonable feeding regime for Chloe though she was very colicky. And Jules, dear sweet Jules, clung to me at all times, one hand fastened in my clothing, the thumb of the other in her mouth.

I shopped locally as my car was not fitted to carry children and babies. With Chloe anchored on my front, Jules tagging me, I was quite exhausted before I even reached the store. I had made out a vague list but hesitated as I approached the shelves. The store owner apparently recognised us; took the trolley from me.

‘You leava this to me, Missus, I know what you want.’

‘Really?’ His attitude was a warm surprise in this day of giant, friendless supermarkets.

‘Anda I will deliver.’

I had returned to the house when he knocked on the back door, calling cheerfully, before striding into the kitchen. I hastily cleared a space on the bench for the large box of groceries, fruit and vegetables he shouldered. He put it down and began stacking the pantry, then the refrigerator. ‘You in a mess?’ he said, grinning.

I blushed, embarrassed, unable to answer him. Steffie had been an only child; coping with this instant family was a challenge indeed. The quantity of food he was packing away alone astounded me. Not to mention the washing, the cooking, the cleaning, the picking up and the vast amount of comfort to give out. I was also worried that the fortnightly professional house cleaners would refuse to continue unless I exerted more control. I was out of my depth, for sure.

‘I hava the daughter. She will come.’

Relief surged through me even as I knew I could not accept such an offer. ‘I’d have to ask my son-in-law for permission,’ I murmured.

‘It’s all right. She will come,’ and he waved, leaving, carrying the empty box.

Rosa was waiting on the doorstep when, again supporting Chloe and Jules, I returned from collecting Patrick. Early twenties, with glossy dark hair and clear, creamy skin, I invited her in, too weary to dismiss her. In no time at all she had Patrick giggling as he helped bring the washing in and fold it. And when Josh arrived home she involved them both in making a snack of cheese and apples. By the time Paul lobbed in, the house felt more spacious and even he seemed to notice. I introduced Paul to Rosa and, although she shyly bowed her head, they had a short, serious discussion. Thereafter, Rosa came each afternoon and was soon collecting Patrick on her way.

Slowly, oh so slowly, we settled down. Chloe was crawling, pulling herself up, would soon be walking, when I realised Paul was regularly coming home earlier. Con continued to select and deliver the groceries and I seemed to have more time to play with the children, listen to them. Then it was Christmas.

‘Will you come to the hospital party with me?’ Paul asked.

‘Me?’ I burst into tears, sudden, terrible, overwrought, out of control tears. I could not take my Steffie’s place. I rushed to my room, dived onto the bed and howled and howled. Unloading my pent-up grief. Gradually, the sobs eased and I rose, washed in cold water and faced the household again.

They were all tucked up for the night and I was giving Chloe a last feed when Paul sat down beside me. ‘I can’t, Paul. Why don’t you take Rosa?’ The words sprang without thought. ‘Con won’t allow her out, must be saving her for some arranged marriage. But he might agree to her accompanying you this once.’ I doubted he would but I had to make Paul begin to think for himself.

Con thought it a wonderful idea. ‘I will buy ’er the best dress. You see,’ he added confidentially, ‘Rosa, she cannot make-a the babies. With Paul she will have an instant family.’ And his broad grin was that of a proud father, pleased with the success of his secret scheming.

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