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either.
    But the Chinese couple went immediately to work. I thank Our Lady for them, for their good sweet souls. The woman gently took the kettle from my hand and hurried into the tent. Her husband bent to hold the lamp close to my Papa as he lay silent on the ground.
    ‘Much bad,’ he said shaking his head. ‘Too, too bad.’
    He waved at me, indicating that I should go into the tent, but I was too afraid — fearful of Maman’s screams, and not understanding what had happened to Papa. Oh what a nightmare these memories are, even now!
    ‘Go, go,’ said the Chinese man. ‘I take care.’ He picked up the loose bundle that was Papa and carried him away into the dark.
    Maman was shouting, ‘Lili! Valentin!’ over and over. At lastI crept into the tent and held tight to her hot and desperate hand. The Chinese woman was murmuring words that might be soothing if only Maman could hear. She was out of her mind — I hope she was — moaning and thrashing, the lump of that unborn baby frightful inside her poor straining belly. I felt only hatred towards the child who was causing such distress.
    The Chinese woman tried to smile at me, but it was clear, even to one as young as I, that the situation was beyond her expertise. The woman laid her hands on the mounded stomach, tried pushing the baby into a better position, but Maman screamed so loudly that the woman withdrew her hands as if scalded.
    Oh, that long and horrible night! I bathed my mother’s feverish face, held the hand that gripped mine so fiercely that I bore the marks for many days. Bore them and wept: treasured those sad scars in my own flesh as a last memory of a mother lost.
    Maman’s moans grew weaker and weaker; her body burned with a terrible fever. An old digger drawn by the screams came to the tent flap, but quickly walked away again, afraid, perhaps, of some disease he might catch. The Chinese woman shook her head sadly. There was nothing she could do, but she stayed there all night. At some stage the Chinese man returned. Into my unwilling hand he pressed Papa’s leather pouch, then turned to whisper in his wife’s ear. She nodded, but would not look at me or try to explain. A dreadful fear chilled me to the bone.
    ‘Papa?’ I whispered.
    The woman touched her lips. She didn’t want Maman to hear.
    Maman died towards dawn. The baby was never born.
     
    My father, Monsieur Valentin Alouette, my mother, Madame Jeanne-Marie Alouette, and the unborn baby are buried in Pennyweight Cemetery, Mount Alexander. Only the Chinese couple and I attended the burial. I never knew whether the Chinese paid for the gravediggers, or whether it was done out of goodwill. I suppose a speedy interment was in everyone’s interest. They said many had died of the fever that week.
    For two nights, maybe more, I slept with the Chinese couple.They put small balls of rice and vegetables into my mouth, watching to make sure I swallowed them. They were so kind, yet I could not speak a word of thanks — I would sip at the hot sweet drink they held to my mouth, and then turn away, lie back on my blanket and shut my eyes as if that might erase the memories. At last, some time later, I knew it was time to move on. I was alone in a strange land and must somehow find my way in it.
    Before leaving, I offered the couple the smaller of the two nuggets. That good man’s eyes widened to see such a treasure, but he folded my small fingers about the dull gleam of it.
    ‘You need. You take.’
    Yes, I would need. I nodded, but then took his weathered hand in mine and led him back to our claim. I pointed down the hole.
    ‘You take,’ I said. ‘I go.’ I knew that now I must learn to speak English.
    The man smiled his understanding. He asked no question about my intentions, nor did he query my ability to manage on my own. He seemed to accept that I would survive. There were many wanderers and many lost souls on the goldfields.
    I packed what belongings I could carry, tied Papa’s leather