by Liz Trenow
We walked in the orchards and she told me all about the different types of apples, which ones made good eaters and others good cookers, and how the bees kept in the beehives along the hedgerows were so important for fertilising the flowers. The tree she loved more than any of the others was an old, gnarled apple in the corner of the vicarage garden. As we ran our hands over the rough, broken bark, she told me how Ambrose had threatened to cut it down for firewood, but she had pleaded for him to spare it. After that, whenever I felt lonely or confused, I would go to sit under that tree for comfort.
She taught me about birds, too. How the robins and blackbirds would fight each other for their territories, but the starlings would happily crowd into a puddle together to splash themselves clean. She especially loved those with the brightest plumage: robins, blue tits, goldcrests and woodpeckers.
We talked and talked. It turned out that she was seven years older than me, but had been fostered with an aunt and had lost touch with our mother; that she too had felt very alone in the world, with no brothers and sisters, until she met Ambrose.
‘He rescued me.’ I longed to ask more: from what had he rescued her, and how, but she refused to elaborate. ‘The past is the past. Let us look forward to our future,’ is all she would say. For a while I was content with this. How could I not be, with all my dreams come true? Yet as the days went by it seemed that finding a sister had ignited an intense desire to discover more about my past, so I urged her to tell me more.
‘I never knew our father,’ she said, solemnly. ‘I believe he died young.’
‘But you must have known our mother. What was she like? Did she look like us? And why did she have to give me up? Did she not love us?’
‘I am sure that she loved us very much, dearest, but she fell upon misfortune and her life became so difficult that she fostered me to an aunt. I was very unhappy there, she treated me badly, neglecting my welfare and using me as an unpaid servant. I longed to return to our mother but they would not help me. After a while I realised that all I could do was try to put her from my mind.’
However much I pressed, she seemed unwilling to tell me more. ‘It was a very unhappy time,’ was all she would say. ‘Forgive me, I prefer not to dwell on it.’
So I let the subject drop, willing myself to be content with my extraordinary turn of good fortune.
Louisa’s husband the Reverend – he insisted I call him brother, or Ambrose, but neither fell easily from my lips – was often out visiting the sick and needy, or attending meetings of the diocesan high-ups. When at home he would join us for an evening meal but his presence always made me feel on edge, and conversation flowed so much more easily when he was not there.
He was a good few years older than Louisa, more like an uncle, a stern, imposing figure, broad and tall, with a white wig always perfectly powdered and dressed all in black – cassock, breeches and stockings – save for the stiffly starched white cravat at his neck. His eyes were dark and slightly terrifying beneath heavy brows, his lips a thin straight line rarely relieved by a smile. He appeared remote from everyday life, his mind elsewhere in the lofty realms of faith and intellect.
I thought him rather devoid of emotion until that Sunday when we went to church. As he preached his whole person became illuminated by a fierce internal flame.
His frequent absences meant that Louisa and I had much time to ourselves and I deduced that, for all her charitable engagements, she found life a little lonely in this small village. We were taking tea the afternoon before I was due to return to my post.
‘Do you have to return to Gloucester?’ she asked. ‘Could you not stay with us instead?’
Was this really happening? I hardly dared to take a breath for fear that I would wake to find it was a dream. I heard my voice responding: ‘Of course I should love nothing better than to stay. But I must return to work. I have no other means of supporting myself.’
She smiled, fondly. ‘Dearest sister, do you believe I would let you go so easily, now that I have found you after all these years? Ambrose and I have already discussed it. He says you may stay while we seek another position nearby, so we may see each other as often as we like. With your permission, I shall write to your mistress tomorrow, asking her to free you from your position forthwith and that we expect a good reference.’
I ran into her arms. ‘Oh thank you, thank you. I shall be the best sister in the world.’
It was the day on which I was due to start work as a ladies’ maid at the big house next door that I woke feeling sicker than I had ever known. My body was racked with spasms and it was all I could do to haul myself from the bed to the bowl. Louisa was calling, but I could barely summon the energy to respond. Then she was in the doorway, her face aghast. ‘My dearest, are you not well? What can I do?’
‘Water,’ I managed to croak. Once I had taken a few sips she helped me back to bed.
‘You are white as a sheet,’ she said, ‘and definitely not fit for work today. I shall send a note to Westford Hall at once.’
Several days passed, stretching into a week. I could not eat more than a crust of dry bread without the vengeful sickness returning, and I became weak and unable to stand without support. When after two weeks I did not seem to be recovering Ambrose called a doctor, who questioned me in detail, took a pulse and listened to my heart. He asked my sister to leave the room and, when she was gone, sat down beside me, his face solemn as a graveyard.
‘I understand that you are not married, young lady?’
I shook my head. What did that have to do with my sickness?
‘Then it is with regret that I must inform you that you are with child.’
Once I had finished weeping and cursing my misbegotten fate I asked to speak to my sister, alone. I had no choice but to tell her. How else could my sickness be explained? My condition would become apparent soon enough.
Louisa’s reaction was cool at first. ‘This man, Tobias. Why could you not have resisted him?’
‘I would have lost my post at the Manor.’
‘You’d have lost it anyway, in this state.’ She sighed. ‘Whatever are we to do with you now, Agnes?’
I spent the next twenty-four hours paralysed with terror, fearing that any day I would be cast out of paradise. Surely Ambrose would send me packing? With his high moral standards, how could he possibly allow a fallen woman to remain in his house? That night I overheard loud conversation from their chamber, but it was too indistinct for me to make out what was being said. Nonetheless I felt certain that this was the end.
All of my good fortune was lost. My new family had been just a mirage. I barely slept that night for the dismal scenarios that paraded through my mind: of me being sent packing, walking the streets of London with my few belongings, starved of food and forced to sleep under bridges, and all the while trying to keep my baby alive.
When Louisa called me into the drawing room the following day, I felt sure they were about to give me my marching orders. She and Ambrose were formally seated at the table and tea was being served in the best china, with delicate sugar biscuits on the side. Was this some exquisite kind of torture? Had they been set there deliberately to emphasise what I was about to lose?
My hands trembled as I took the cup. At last, Louisa began. ‘Ambrose and I have been giving your situation much thought and prayer.’
‘I understand . . .’ She silenced me with a finger.
‘Wait until I have explained. We have a proposal.’ She glanced at Ambrose, who gave the slightest tilt of his head. ‘I think you would agree that it is most unthinkable for you to have a child out of wedlock?’
Blood smarted in my cheeks.
‘And you will probably appreciate that it would cause us considerable embarrassment for you to stay here, once your condition is evident?’
I turned my eyes to my lap. Here it comes, I thought, steeling myself. I would leave with dignity, I would not cry.
But no. The greatest surprise was yet to come.
‘It has for a few years now been our dearest wish that we should have children of our own but God has not seen fit to grant us this blessing, and we had almost given up hoping.’ I could not fathom what all of this had to do with my situation, but she had not yet told me to pack my bags, so I remained silent.
‘God has now brought you to our house and now, it seems, He has blessed us in an unexpected way. He has brought with you an unborn child.’ She paused a second. ‘A child, I think you would agree, that you cannot keep for yourself.’
My head whirled. I had not thought beyond the fact of my pregnancy, nor of my situation as being anything more than a burden I fervently desired to be rid of. I had not considered what might happen to the baby.
‘But which, if you are willing, Ambrose and I could raise as our own. What do you think of that, Agnes?’
My mind struggled to understand.
‘Agnes?’
I tried unsuccessfully to stutter something. ‘It . . . perhaps . . .’
‘This child is my flesh and blood, too, after all,’ she continued. ‘He will likely look like you, and thus like me. So how would anyone know if we reversed our roles and I were to be his mother? You would be his aunt. We are all family, after all. He will grow up in a comfortable, loving home and you can see him whenever you want.’
Now, at last fully comprehending her meaning, I fell into stunned silence.
‘What do you think, Agnes?’ This was Ambrose, curt with impatience.
Stupidly, the only question I could think of was, ‘What if it is not a boy? Will you still want a girl child?’ I stuttered.
‘My darling, of course. We should love a girl just as much.’ Louisa leaned across the table to take my hand. ‘Oh please say yes, dear heart, I implore you. You will make us the happiest parents in the world.’
Of course, in the end and after much heart-searching, I agreed. I was in no position to refuse. And that is how I gave up my child, much as my mother had done.
8
Damask: a silk stuff with reversible pattern woven with one warp yarn and one weft yarn, usually with the pattern in warp-faced satin weave and the ground in weft-faced or sateen weave.
The two months before Christmas are the busiest of the year in my shop, with clients demanding reassurances that their gowns will be ready for the round of balls and other social gatherings that seem to be necessary to celebrate the birth of Christ. What He would have made of it, heaven knows, but it keeps my coffers well filled and for that I am most truly grateful.
Not that I need much for myself, other than to pay the rent and my own modest living expenses, but I am pleased to be able to pay my seamstresses generously for their overtime since many of them are raising families on their own, or have the disadvantage of useless husbands. When I hear their unhappy tales it makes me glad that I only have myself to worry about. We cannot all be so fortunate as to find a love like Anna’s.
In my few moments of spare time, often late in the evening, I began work on Peter’s jacket. There were a couple of yards of dark blue damask remaining from a customer’s order that she had allowed me to keep. I measured it out carefully, and then measured it again, to make absolutely sure that it would be enough. It was the perfect shade for a young boy and I chose the latest style, of course; for although Ambrose might disapprove of him looking too fashionable, Peter was already beginning to take pride in his appearance. I wanted him to feel special, proud of what my expertise could provide.
As I cut and pieced, tacked and sewed, every stitch seemed to hold my love. If I slipped – for when you are tired it is so easy to make a small mistake – I would unpick it, for there could be no covering up, or making do. A mother’s love is unconditional, it should never be perverted or distorted, and this embodiment of my own devotion must be perfect too.
What Louisa had told me had revived my curiosity about our mother. Although the information was still vague and incomplete, at least I now had something to work with. That evening, I wrote down:
She probably looked like me and Louisa
Her surname was Potton
She lived near the ‘night soil’ grounds close to Stepney Green
People thereabouts might still remember her
The following Sunday I took a coach eastwards. It was surprising to discover that so many more new houses and manufactories had been built between Spitalfields and Stepney Green that it was no longer a separate village, but an extension of London. The weather was chilly and grey, the streets quiet and all of the traders were closed.
I walked the length of the main street imagining my mother to be here, walking this same route, stopping to chat with people she knew. I had planned to stop one or two of the elderly residents to ask whether they might have known her, but few people passed. Only after several minutes did I realise that most of them would be in church.
That gave me a better idea: I could ask the vicar. I could see a church tower in the distance and headed for it. It was a fine, proud flint stone building, set in a wide acreage of churchyard crowded with headstones, the dead of centuries past laid out here. From inside there came the joyful sound of singing – a service was under way.
I began to walk between the graves, my eyes scouring the inscriptions on the stones. What a story they told: the plague must have hit this hamlet especially hard, for I counted numerous stones dating from those times, sometimes many dozens of names with the same date of death. Other stones were decorated with anchors and fishes, clearly the graves of sailors, dating back centuries. By the time I heard the final hymn being sung my legs ached and my eyes were burning. I must have read hundreds of names, but none of them was a Potton.
At last the congregation began to emerge. It took an age, for they all wanted to pass the time of day with their vicar, a fresh-faced youthful-looking fellow who seemed to have a glad word for every soul in his care. If anyone in this village had known my mother, it would have been him, or his predecessor.
He caught my eye and smiled. ‘I’ve seen you waiting, miss. Can I help you?’
‘I have a question, sir,’ I said.
‘Ask away,’ he said.
‘I am looking for any information about my mother. She lived hereabouts.’
‘What was her name?’
‘Potton. I have no Christian name.’
He frowned, and shook his head. ‘It is not a name I recognise. Is she still alive, do you know?’
‘I’m afraid she died some years ago,’ I said. ‘But I have searched your graveyard without any luck.’
‘Do you know where she lived?’
‘All I know is that she was very poor, and lived close to the night-soil pits.’
‘Ah, yes. Those pits are long gone,’ he said. ‘You will have seen the new houses being built? That is where they were. People tell me there were many poor souls squatting in those parts, but the builders threw them off the land; some ten or fifteen years ago, this would have been, long before I arrived here.’
I must have looked crestfallen because he added brightly, ‘But if you have a few moments, miss, I can let you look through our parish records, the births, marriages and deaths. It is possible that you may find what you are looking for there.’ He led me into the church and then through into the vestry, a dark, dusty-smelling room, lined with shelves on which were lodged dozens of leather-bound volumes.
‘Can you give me the approximate date when your mother lived here?’
‘I was born in June 1741, so perhaps around then?’
He searched for a few moments, running his fingers along the spines, before taking down three ledgers and placing them onto the table. ‘Births, marriages and deaths 1740–1750,’ he said. ‘Feel free to take your time.’
The first was titled Births, January 1740–December 1749. I turned to June 1741: John, Margaret, Jethro, Sarah, Susan, Marshall, Job, Lancelot, Henrietta, Iris and plenty more babies had been born in that month, but no Agnes. It seems that I was never registered, at least not in this par
ish.
I turned to the next: Marriages, January 1740–December 1749, and scanned page after page in hope of discovering whether I had a father. No Potton appeared.
Finally, I turned to Deaths, January 1740–December 1749. The lists made melancholy reading, especially because they included the names of so many babies and young children. How rare it was to find anyone who lived to the full three score years and ten that was promised to us in the old psalm. I turned each page with renewed optimism that I might discover at least when my mother died, and whether she had a grave somewhere. But there was not a single Potton among these pages either.
An hour and a half later I reached the last page of the final ledger, shivering with the cold and wondering whether my mother had actually ever existed. She seemed to have left so little trace of herself. Perhaps my sister had misremembered the name of the parish, and her records were elsewhere? Or she had another name altogether? Would I ever discover anything about my mother?
Tuesday afternoon is a half day for the seamstresses, and early closing for the shop. I was tidying the sewing room when I heard rapping at the front door.
At first I thought it might be the beggar girl, who had been in my thoughts these past few weeks, but squinting out of the window into the street below I saw a capacious lady standing on the doorstep, heavily wrapped in cloak and shawl against the weather. I would barely have recognised her but for the basket: the one in which Mrs Jane Hogarth carries the elderly pug dog that was the constant companion of her dear late husband, and now cannot be separated from his mistress. She comes into the city less frequently since being widowed, which makes these visits all the more precious.
