Free A Bird on My Shoulder by Lucy Palmer Page A

try her time-honoured routine of two daytime sleeps – for the mother as well, when possible – and this became my blueprint for the future. George was so adaptable that even when other plans took over, he simply went back to sleep or lay awake smiling.
    I was coping reasonably well, but I had moments of panic, particularly when I was on my own with him; there seemed to be so much to learn. It was overwhelming to realise, when I held George’s tiny body in my arms, that after many years of pleasing myself, I was now responsible for another human life.
    Julian had seemed quite unfazed by the arrival of a newborn child – this, after all, was his fifth son. But he was not a particularly hands-on carer, as he came from another era, and so when I returned to Port Moresby he decided that his contribution should be to take over the shopping and cooking – something I was quite happy about as he was a much better cook than me.
    With a new baby in the house, Nina was transformed. She immediately fell in love with George and, because of him, the two of us grew closer. I observed how carefully she swaddled and carried him, how she soothed him to sleep. Sometimes I would watch from the window as she sat under our mango tree, quietly rocking George in her lap when he would not settle. And later, as she walked up into the sunlit house, I could see her stroking his hair and hear her humming to him.
    Alongside ML, who I visited in the Solomon Islands two months after George was born, Nina became my main model of motherhood; my own family was really just too far away. She showed me through her actions how to care for a young baby. I tried to emulate her example and find within myselfthe unique quality of deep tranquillity that so many mothers in Papua New Guinea seemed to possess. I never achieved it.
    Nina had never been to school so could not read or write; her wisdom came from a much older, less fragmented place. For so many years she had brought order and consistency into Julian’s family life and had looked after all of the older boys from a young age. Even many years after Charmian gave birth to their youngest son, Edward, in Port Moresby General Hospital, Nina would speak about him as if he were her own flesh and blood.
    ‘ Bebi bilong mi . My baby,’ she would say about Edward with shy pride. And now George, also ‘my baby’.
    •••
    When George was about six months old, we went to England. It was wonderful to take him home to see my parents, my sister Libby and her children and my ageing grandmother, Granberry, who was now in her nineties. Charlie was travelling through Europe and also came to stay with us. After about three weeks, the holiday ended and Julian went on to Brazil to see Henry, who was on a student exchange, while I stayed in the UK to spend more time with Libby and her three young children, Hannah, Beatrice and Samuel. Florence was to come later.
    When Julian and I were reunited in Sydney a fortnight later, however, I was surprised to see him walking slowly with a slight stoop.
    ‘You’re not going to believe this,’ he said as we threw his bag into the back of the car. ‘I sneezed on the plane and I think I’ve cracked a rib.’
    I laughed. That was ridiculous. ‘It’s not like you to be a hypochondriac,’ I teased.
    I soon felt bad for making light of his injury as it became clear that he really was in a lot of discomfort. The next day he organised to see a doctor who confirmed his diagnosis. It was strange to think he had done such damage due to something so seemingly trivial.
    After we returned to PNG and the pain had subsided, we both shrugged off the incident as one of those inexplicable events and, once Julian had fully recovered, I thought no more about it.
    Dear darling Lucy,
    Twenty-eight storeys up with a splendid view is a fine place to think of you and George and reflect on the world . . .
    I love being alive and I love having you. Little Georgy fills a lot of gaps. The feelings