Kate Howarth on marriage to a man who didn't want their child.

‘We haven’t had sex for weeks,’ my husband Darrol protested when I showed no interest in getting amorous on a wooden slat-bed with a paper thin mattress in a room reeking of stale tobacco in the hotel we were staying in.

The decision to take the trip to Queensland had been arranged at short notice. I was almost dead on my feet and Darrol hadn’t needed much convincing that we both could do with a week away. I was working alongside my husband, as a director of Manpower, one of the biggest recruitment agencies in the country. We had recently opened a second office in Parramatta and the business was growing quickly. I was working long hours, hiring and training new staff, as well as managing my own clients and I was stretched, almost to breaking point. At the time, Noosa had seemed like the perfect place to recharge.

‘It was cheap,’ he protested, when I asked him what possessed him to book us into such a dive. I reluctantly agreed to have sex, but made no effort to pretend I was enjoying it. The next morning, I realised I’d forgotten to take the Pill for three days. It wasn’t unusual for my period to be late, but when I still hadn’t had a show for six weeks I made an appointment to see my doctor.

After the examination, he smiled. ‘Your baby is due on or around 23 May.’

‘I’m pregnant?’ I asked, to make sure I wasn’t imagining things. For several moments I was totally speechless.

‘I trust this is good news?’ the doctor asked, gently.

‘Yes, it is the most wonderful news,’ I replied, feeling the smile stretching across my face as the news sunk in.

The circumstances were vastly different from the first time I had heard similar words but the effect was the same. I felt an instant connection between me and my child. I had been a fifteen-year-old unmarried mother when I got pregnant with my first son, Adam. With no family to take care of me I had been confined to St Margaret’s Home for Unwed Mothers. After my baby was born I had fought the nuns to prevent him being taken for adoption. In the end, desperate with no other options, I was forced to leave him with his father. Fourteen years passed before we were finally reunited. I was overjoyed by the thought of having an opportunity to have another baby – this time I was an independent woman in my own right and I wanted the chance to be the mother I never could be to Adam. I couldn’t wait to tell someone.

On my way back to the office I stopped for a coffee in Australia Square. Robyn, the regular waitress, sensed my jubilant mood.

‘I’m pregnant,’ I whispered. Robyn’s eyes filled with tears and she wrapped her arms around me. This was a very generous gesture from Robyn, who’d told me she and her husband had been trying unsuccessfully for years to have a child. Thoughts of Adam came to mind and I tried to imagine his reaction when he heard he was going to have a little brother or sister.

During the previous year Adam had become captain of the NSW Junior Rugby Team and had been selected to play for Australia against New Zealand. It was a proud moment when we had a photograph taken at the airport, with Adam wearing his green and gold blazer.

"You’re Adam’s mother?" his team manager had asked, surprised that someone my age could have such a big strapping lad as my son. Now I wondered how my pregnancy would be perceived – at 34 years of age I might look a bit old to be having a child.

I was feeling apprehensive about telling Darrol. We’d never discussed having children and to dump this on him without warning might be a shock. When I knocked on the glass partition to get his attention back at the office, he could see that I was excited and motioned for me to come in.

"You’re looking pleased with yourself. What’s happened?" he asked, putting aside his newspaper. "I’m pregnant." At first he smiled, and I went to go into his arms, but the smile vanished before I took a step. "I don’t want any more children," he said, stopping me short.

'I backed away feeling like I’d been hit in the guts with a wet bag of sand. ‘Do you understand what I just said? I am pregnant.’ ‘Well I don’t want any more children and that’s that,’ he said, as though we were in a business meeting and he had the first and last word on the matter. "And besides, you said that you didn’t want any more children."

I remembered the conversation we’d had in the car at Paddington when we’d first started to get to know one another. I had told him that I didn’t want any more children until I’d been reunited with Adam. He had the chance then to tell me he didn’t want any more, and if he had done so, that would have been the end to any relationship between us. I was 27 at that time, and while having a child was far from my thinking I had never discounted the prospect of having more children and surrounding myself with a loving family.

"You’ve tricked me into this," he said, defensively.

It was like a red rag to a bull. "Tricked you? If I’d wanted to trick you into getting me pregnant I would’ve picked somewhere more comfortable than a flea-bitten dive in Noosa."

"We can discuss this at home," he said, returning his attention to the article he’d been reading.

As far as I was concerned there was nothing to discuss. I was going to have the baby, whether he liked it or not. Darrol’s reaction re-opened some deep wounds concerning my first pregnancy, when no one but me had wanted my baby to be born. All kinds of obstacles had been placed in my way as people tried to convince me that I was too young and could never raise a child. At 15 years old they probably had a reason to be concerned, but I never expected this reaction from the father of my second child, whom I’d been living with for seven years. We were in a very sound financial position, and there was no reason, that I could see, for Darrol’s objection. Except perhaps a fear that I’d stop working and he’d have to run the company without me.

I returned to my office, packed up my desk and headed for home.

As I waited for a taxi on Hunter Street, Guido, who worked the fruit barrow at the front of our office, called the daily specials to the passers-by as he bagged fruit and rummaged around for change in the pocket of his worn leather apron. "Buongiorno signora! Come sta?" Guido greeted me, polishing a red apple before handing it over. "Grazie, Guido. I’m going to have a baby," I said. I wasn’t expecting this to be of any interest him, I just needed to hear myself say it. His face lit up. "Fantastico! Bella donna!" he said, throwing his arms around me. "Thank you, Guido," I said, hugging him and fighting back the tears. This was the reaction I’d wanted, but didn’t get, from my husband.

I’m having a baby! I wanted to scream it from the taxi window.

By five months I was looking like I might be having twins and driving Darrol’s car became impossible. I couldn’t get close enough to the steering wheel to reach the clutch. We had a row about the need for me to have my own vehicle, but when I told Darrol he’d have to take over the running of the Parramatta office because I wasn’t travelling out there on public transport twice a week, he had a change of heart. "Oh what a lovely car," my old friend Peggy Gazzard said, when I took her for a ride in my new Volvo. "Yes, it has a cassette player," I said, opening the sunroof and turning on Nina Simone’s Here Comes the Sun. "It was so good of Darrol to get this for you," she said, running her hands over the soft leather interior. "Darrol didn’t get this for me, it’s a company car." "Well, he owns the company, doesn’t he?" Peggy asked, pouting. "No, we both own the company," I corrected her.

Matt was the glue holding me together at that time. He used to call me at work to ask if the baby was moving yet. This was something I would have expected Darrol to do, and his total indifference triggered old memories of when the nuns at St Margaret’s had treated me like I was the devil’s spawn and resorted to all manner of ill-treatment to pressure me into giving up Adam for adoption. After four months of this stonewalling from Darrol by day, and by night still expecting me to satisfy his sexual needs, I’d reached breaking point.

My friend Vicki recommended a solicitor in Pitt Street, not far from our office. He’d handled Vicki’s boyfriend’s divorce and she said he wasn’t greedy.

After listening to my situation he told me that he was obliged to recommend that Darrol and I seek marriage guidance counselling. "I’m not going to see a shrink. You’re the one with the problems," Darrol said when I suggested that we make an appointment as advised. "You have no idea about family. Look at your role models," he scoffed.

Darrol had never met any of my family so I took this to be a racist dig at Aboriginal people in general. "You’re not fit to clean my Uncle Stan’s boots," I said, walking away.

The next day I called my own solicitor and he cautioned that this was probably not a good time to be making big decisions. "A divorce will almost certainly involve the break-up of your business." It was a sobering conversation.

One morning I was having a shower when I noticed clumps of my hair were falling out and clogging the drain. I’d already lost so much hair due to the stress of my first pregnancy; my hairline had noticeably receded and there was a thinning on the top of my crown. At this rate I was going to need a wig, but there was no time for self-pity. We were expecting a visit from the franchise owners of the Manpower office in Calgary, Canada. I met Karen and her partner, Brian, at the airport. After I’d given them a tour of our offices, Karen asked if I could show her around Kings Cross. As we drove along Darlinghurst Road even I was shocked at the apparent age of the child prostitutes. My stomach turned revolutions as I imagined old creeps, like Uncle George from my childhood, slobbering all over them. "Have you seen enough?" ‘Yes, indeed!’ Karen said.

I suggested that we go to the Sebel Townhouse for a meal before I took them back to their hotel. We walked into the restaurant and Haydon, the manager, came over to greet me. I apologised for not having made a booking, but as it was only six o’clock I was hoping we could have a quick bite. Haydon showed us to my favourite table next to the windows and, handing us the menus, advised that they were having a private function that evening and the restaurant had to be cleared by nine.

Karen and Brian were bubbling after visiting our offices and they wanted to discuss the ins and outs of the business. I lost track of the time and noticed that we were the only table still seated, all the other tables in the restaurant had been removed. Among the crowd that had started to fill the room were many famous faces, but that wasn’t unusual for the Sebel Townhouse. Then I saw Elton John talking to a British rock star, whose name I couldn’t put my finger on. I caught Haydon’s attention and he came to our table. "What’s going on?" "It’s Elton John’s wedding reception," he whispered.

After paying the bill I slipped Haydon a handsome tip for not tossing us out and embarrassing me. My associates from Canada were delighted to have inadvertently ended up at Elton John’s reception, when he married Renate Blauel in Sydney.

It wasn’t until I was driving home that it occurred to me that it was Valentine’s Day. I couldn’t remember the last time Darrol and I were romantic on Valentine’s Day, or if in fact we ever had been. I felt the baby kick. "Happy Valentine’s Day, my darling," I said, gently stroking my bump.

As the baby started to grow and make its presence known, I felt the isolation from my family more and more. Since I’d been with Darrol my entire focus had been on making a home for him and his children. Now that I was reunited with Adam and having another child, I wanted my children to be connected to my family and also our culture. I’d arranged for Uncle Stan, Aunty Shirley and my brother Robbie and his family to come to Balgowlah for lunch. I’d lost contact with my brother Dan, but Robbie was looking forward to meeting my son for the first time. I was disappointed when Adam didn’t show.

Darrol was confused as to why I called Robbie and Dan brothers, when they were actually my mother’s brothers, making them my uncles. I explained that Mamma, my grandmother, had seven children by two husbands. Uncle Les, Uncle Stan, my mother Phyllis and Aunty Daphne were born to her first husband. Then to her second husband she had Kevin, who died young, Robbie and Dan, who were closer in age to me. When my mother left me with Mamma, her youngest sons and I were raised as brothers and sister. "So they’re really half uncles?" Darrol asked, trying to piece it all together in his mind. "No, we don’t talk in halves, they’re my brothers," I said.

To my delight, Aunty Lorna came with the rest of the family. I adored Aunty Lorna, Mamma’s sister, who had often stood between us when Mamma was about to give me a belting. "Leave the kid alone, she’s only a baby," Aunty Lorna would say, pushing Mamma out of the way. Aunty Lorna was the only person in our family who wasn’t intimidated by Mamma, and Mamma knew that Aunty Lorna would drop her where she stood if she pushed it too far. "You’re havin’ a girl!" Aunty Lorna said, throwing her arms around me.

Being with my family again was like reconnecting with the missing link to my whole existence. Looking into their faces I could see traces of myself, my mother, Aunty Daphne, Mamma and Granny, through whom we could trace our lineage back to a time before the 1788 invasion. We had a history that connected us to this land and each other in a way that nothing else could. They were my mob and being back in their company made me realise how deeply I had missed them. "G’day, Katie,"  my brother Robbie smiled, and put his arms around me.

Growing up, Robbie and I were the black sheep of the family. Mamma hated Robbie’s father and Robbie paid for that every day of his life, being told he was just like his ‘fucking no-good father’.

For Darrol, this family gathering was probably the first time he realised he had married into an Aboriginal family. He was polite, but stayed in the background.

Aunty Lorna finished her tea and handed me the cup. "Whadaya see, Katie?" she asked, reminding me of our favourite game when I was a child.

Feigning a look of deep concentration, I peered into the cup, turning it around in my hands for dramatic effect. "You’re going to die with a broom in your hand, Aunty," I laughed, handing her back the cup. "Jesus! Not yet I hope," she said, with that big laugh of hers I’d missed so much.

"Here love, I’ve been looking after this for you," Uncle Stan said, pressing something metal into my hand. It was my Bronze Medallion from the Lake Parramatta Life Saving Club. At the time I was the youngest person to obtain a Bronze Medallion and that was because I’d lied about my age and told the examiners I was 12 years old, the minimum age, when in fact I’d only just turned 10. I’d left the medallion behind when Mamma sent me to Bidura Children’s Home; trust Uncle Stan to know what a treasure it was.

Before they left Aunty Lorna took me aside. With tears welling in her eyes she said, "I’m sorry, love". She was referring to a time when I was unceremoniously banished from Nudgawalla, an outback sheep station where Mamma had worked as the housekeeper and cook to a wealthy family. The station-owner’s wife had accused me of touching and taking her things, and Aunty Lorna knew it wasn’t me and said nothing. I’d been banished from the property as a result and had returned to the city, only to be buffeted between a children’s home, then across the road to Sandy Andersen’s place, and then to Aunty Daphne’s, where Uncle Jack held such tight control over his family they were afraid to speak.

"Aunty, there’s no need to apologise. I’ve worked out why that happened," I said, acknowledging the guilt she must have been feeling over the years. We hugged, both crying, then she pulled back and looking me straight in the eye she asked: "Whadaya doin’ married to him?"

About two weeks later I got a call from Uncle Stan. "Aunty Lorna’s gone, love," he said, gravely. "She was vacuuming the lounge and poof! Off she went, just like that."

This is an abridged extract from Kate Howarth’s new book Settling Day, published by UQP. Kate Howarth is appearing at Sydney Writer’s Festival 21 & 24 May. 

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