Pearl in a Cage by Joy Dettman

Showing her the beast’s child, ugly, clumsy.
    And showing her the infant’s finer bones, her well-defined features, her big blue eyes. Loved her beauty. Loved that tiny nose, that little chin. Hated her own daughter’s flat, fat face, her thick Duckworth feet, her coarse dark hair.
    Hate and love became confused. Had to hate the child of that stranger and love her own. Must love her own. She’d carried her. Did love her. Did. Did. Hadn’t she rejoiced at the moment of her birth?
    Ruby she’d thought to name her, Ruby Rose, a pretty name for a pretty child. Ruby and Amber, she’d thought, mother and daughter. And I will be the perfect mother to my perfect child. I will make a perfect home. I will cleanse myself in my child.
    His mother had scoffed at her choice of name. For two weeks her beautiful baby had remained nameless, and at the end of those two weeks there was no beautiful Ruby Rose, only Cecelia Louise, flat-faced, hook-nosed, infant replica of the old Cecelia.
    Hated the sight of her.
    Had to love her.
    How could anyone love that pig-eyed, sullen, wilful, screaming, resentful . . .
    Resentful of Jennifer.
    And why shouldn’t she resent Jennifer? Amber resented her beauty.
    And she smelled wrong.
    Cecelia smelled right.
    In the dark, Cecelia smelled beautiful. Smelled like home.
    Home?
    Wanted to go home.
    Where was home?
    Not her mother’s hut. She hadn’t been down there since she’d left the place. Norman’s house was home, his mother’s fine furniture, her velvet rug big enough to near cover the parlour floor, her peacock feathers in their expensive vase, her heavy drapes.
    This house was home.
    Not Norman. Couldn’t stand him. Couldn’t stand the smell of him. Always hovering over her. Always watching, trying to touch her. Couldn’t stand the thought of his thick hands on her.
    Cecelia had his hands. She had his feet. But in the dark, in bed, when she couldn’t see her, when she held her close, she could feel love for her.
    Did love her. Not him. Loathed him.
    â€˜You are my wife, Mrs Morrison. You swore your vows before God —’
    â€˜Take your God and shove him, Norman. And take that baby with you.’
    In an era when God sat assuredly in heaven, when man, made in God’s image, sat a few degrees to his left, when wives loved, honoured and obeyed their husbands — whether they did or not — Amber was severely out of step.
    She had been raised by an independent woman to believe that man’s reward was gained on earth by hard labour, that Sundays could be better occupied in digging post holes than in praying. In a good woman of sound mind, wrongful attitudes can be forgivable.
    Amber’s mind was not sound.
    It happened in mid-March. She’d nursed Jennifer at ten at night, then crawled back into Cecelia’s bed where she’d slept soundly until dawn. She’d dozed thereafter, waiting forJennifer’s call, but for the first time the baby had taken it into her head to sleep through the night. Amber’s breasts were full. Perhaps the low neck of her gown released a leaking breast, or dreaming again of her crumbling son, had she bared her breast so he might suck. The how of it was of no concern, just the awakening to bright light and to the pure and perfect peace of her own girl’s mouth at her breast, and to the sweet relief of a full breast emptying, and the blissful relief as love for her girl filled the gaping hollows within her soul.
    â€˜Mummy’s precious girl,’ she whispered as she kissed the sweet-smelling hair, buried her nose in the scent of it. ‘You’re Mummy’s own very precious girl, aren’t you? Take it all, my beautiful,’ she said. ‘Empty me.’

THE BIRTHDAY
    Cecelia celebrated her fifth birthday on 26 March. Gertrude rode in on the Friday for a birthday lunch and was relieved to see her daughter looking more relaxed.
    Norman appeared