Chapter Four
"Come on, Mac, even you have to be allowed a swift gasper at some point," pestered Phryne.
Recognising that this was an argument she wouldn't be allowed to win, the doctor put down her scalpel, washed her hands and reached into her pocket for her cigarettes. They strolled out of the building and found a shady tree under which to sit and chat.
Phryne briefly explained the problem, and Mac nodded absently. The tale was, sadly, not a new one.
"So, she can't get rid of the baby; and she can't legitimise it in the eyes of her religion. Beats me why she thought that suicide was an improvement on either of those options, though."
"I'm not sure she really did, Mac. She was mostly just helpless."
"I take it the Magdalen isn't an option?" asked Mac, though she already knew the answer.
"Mac, go and wash your mouth out with some of that loathsome institution's laundry soap. If the poor girl was feeling suicidal this morning, sending her to a place specifically designed to make her feel judged and found wanting is practically guaranteed to put the nail in the coffin," replied Phryne crossly.
"Sorry. Does your aunt need another maid?" suggested Mac.
"I don't know. Worth a try, perhaps – and she does love a baby. Good thinking."
Mac took a final puff and stubbed out the cigarette.
"What about you?"
Phryne gave her a sideways look.
"What about me? I'm fine. Wishing I still liked gin but apart from that, fine. No nausea – on the contrary, I'm eating like a horse. Mr Butler's thrilled."
Mac said nothing, but looked at her directly and waited.
"Mac, I'm fine. It's all very, very strange, and very new, but I made the decision without any pressure from anyone, and I'm committed to it."
She leaned back on her arms and gazed into space.
"I know what you're thinking, and you're right. Would the Honourable Phryne Fisher ever have been expected to get married and have a child? Of course not. Left to myself, I'd still be living the life of Riley, exploring all the wonderful new alternatives to Lin Chung that might present themselves."
Then she tipped her head at Mac and grinned – a proper, irreverent, devil-may-care Phryne grin.
"But I wasn't left to myself. Jack arrived. He didn't muscle in, didn't try to take over, just gradually became indispensable, and showed us both sides of ourselves we didn't know existed. Oh, I wouldn't have married him so quickly if it hadn't been for the Gervase Carstairs affair – but I think I'd have realised eventually that married We Should Be."
The grin became a smile of the kind that Mac hadn't seen before.
"I still don't think I'm ever going to be one of life's natural mothers, Mac." She broke off and slapped her friend's arm in response to the snort that brilliant example of self-awareness elicited. "But I'm interested, and it's a responsibility I can handle. And Jack is …. I've never seen him like this."
She stood and faced her oldest, closest friend.
"We're going to need some luck to get us through this thing, I think – but not as much as you might imagine." Then she sobered. "And not nearly as much as poor Ellie's going to need. I'll let you know how I get on with her and Aunt P. Thanks, Mac."
They hugged, exchanged a mock salute, and parted – one to reconstruct the living, the other to deconstruct the dead.