by Evie Grace
‘They’re no use now,’ Eleanor said grimly, as Violet unfastened the buttons on her lovely French silk boots. One of the heels had come off, and the material was in tatters. Violet tossed them into the hop garden behind them. ‘Don’t throw them away, though. What are you going to wear on your feet?’
‘Petticoats. I’ll tear them into strips and bandage my blisters. What choice do I have? There’s nowhere to buy shoes in the countryside, and we couldn’t pay for them if there were.’ Violet felt the consequences of being poor beginning to sink in. The bandages were not a success. By the time they realised that they’d taken a wrong turn and were heading towards Selstead and Swingfield Minnis rather than Lydden, her feet were bleeding through the cloth.
An elderly woman with white eyes, a stick and a bag of lavender, tried to persuade them to cross her palm with silver, but Violet refused, and Eleanor spent the next few minutes worrying that she would place a curse on them out of revenge.
‘What difference does it make? We are cursed already,’ Violet said as a carter drove up behind them, calling, ‘Ladies, was that woman making a noosance of ’erself? She’s always makin’ trouble.’ He hauled on the reins, slowing his piebald cob to match their pace as he came alongside. ‘Can I be of assistance? You seem to be in some kind of trouble.’
‘We’re trying to get to Dover,’ Violet said.
‘Ah, you’re ’eading in the direction of Folkestone. Where ’ave you come from?’
‘Canterbury,’ Eleanor said.
‘Why don’t I give you and your’ – he stared into the basket – ‘livestock a ride? I don’t expect any reward except for your company.’
‘Thank you, mister,’ Violet said. ‘It’s very kind of you.’
‘Whoa!’ The horse stopped, and the carter – a red-faced, middle-aged man in a straw hat, long shirt, twill trousers and boots, jumped out and helped them into the cart, loading the cat, along with the rest of their luggage. Violet glanced at Eleanor, who gave her a quick smile of reassurance. The man seemed harmless enough.
He flicked his whip at the cob’s rump and the cart jolted forward and rumbled down the hill.
‘It seems odd to find two refined young ladies like yourselves out ’ere,’ he bellowed over his shoulder.
Violet gave Eleanor a warning glance to keep her mouth shut.
‘We’ve been visiting our aunt,’ Violet said.
‘For pleasure or out of dooty?’
‘Our mother passed away yesterday,’ Eleanor blurted out.
‘I’m sorry to ’ear that. I’m always putting my great big foot in it.’
‘We’ve lost everything,’ she went on.
‘It’s a shame. Life’s ’ard – the best anyone can ’ope for is to be ’appy and live without sin. I reckon I’ve achieved the former, but I’m still working on the latter.’ He chuckled to himself. ‘I take it that your ’ome’s in Dover?’
‘Yes,’ Violet said. ‘Where are you heading to?’
‘Just the other side of Hawkinge – I’m delivering a couple of wheels and picking up some tools to take back to Denton. Are you two all right in the back? It isn’t the most comfortable ride, but beggars can’t be choosers,’ he said brightly. ‘I’ve got two grown-up sons, and a daughter who’s about your age. In fact, you remind me of her. I’m giving ’er away next month and I’m going to be the proudest father in the county.’
Violet felt a pang of regret, remembering how her father had given her away to Arvin.
‘It’s getting dimpsy – you really shouldn’t be wandering about at night.’
‘We can make our way to Dover – it can’t be much further,’ Violet said, aware that Eleanor had fallen asleep, slumped over Dickens’s basket.
‘It’s far enough, and considering the state you’re in, if I were your father, I’d tell you to stop somewhere for the night before setting out again,’ the carter said sternly.
‘I appreciate your concern, but—’
‘My brother runs the Valiant Sailor on Dover Hill. I’ll drop you there. Really, miss, let me ’elp you. I couldn’t have it on my conscience if anything should ’appen to you. It’s what any decent father would do on finding another man’s daughters in need of assistance.’
‘You are a true gentleman,’ Violet said.
‘We’re few and far between, but we do exist.’ The carter clucked at the horse, encouraging it to walk out faster.
‘I’m truly grateful.’
‘Your pa would ’ave done the same thing in my position,’ he said, but Violet was afraid that he wouldn’t.
The lights of the inn were glinting in the dark. Somebody was shouting and laughing, hanging out of an upstairs window. A cow mooed from nearby, making Violet jump.
‘Don’t you think it looks like a place for common people?’ Eleanor said after he’d dropped them off.
‘That’s what we are now: common people, keeping themselves to themselves and living quietly.’ Violet pulled her bonnet down so that it shaded her eyes. The last thing she wanted was to be recognised: the infamous Miss Rayfield. She wished she had Arvin’s ring to put back on her finger so that she could pass herself off as a married woman, but the bailiffs had taken it, along with the rest of the Rayfields’ jewellery.
The carter had spoken to his brother, the landlord, who’d said that there was a room available with one bed, and that the cat could stay for an extra sixpence. He showed them upstairs and opened the window for them.
‘It looks out across Steddy Hole,’ he said. ‘Two sisters were murdered there – stabbed to death. You might ’ave heard of it.’
‘We haven’t, sir.’ Violet refused to be cowed.
‘The soldier who did it was hanged outside Maidstone Prison a few years ago. If you don’t believe me, just ask some of my regulars who went along to watch. I’ll ’ave your supper sent up.’
‘We didn’t order food,’ Violet said quickly.
‘My brother ordered it on your behalf, and he’s paid for it too. I’ve always said that he’s too soft in the ’eart and ’ead for his own good. Goodnight, ladies.’
After a supper of soup and cold meats, they let Dickens free to wander around the room, and retired to bed. As Violet lay beneath a sheet with her arms around her sister, listening to the unfamiliar sounds of the inn, she felt the baby kicking in her belly.
‘The baby – he, or she – won’t let me sleep,’ she said, in wonder.
‘Are you scared?’ Eleanor asked. ‘I would be. It’s daunting enough to think you’re going to become a mother, but when you haven’t … I’m sorry.’
‘It’s all right. I know it’ll be a terrible struggle, bringing up a child out of wedlock and without its father’s support, but I’ll do my duty.’
‘You’ll do your best,’ Eleanor said, ‘and when the infant arrives, you will adore it, and everything you do for it, you’ll do out of love.’
‘I’m afraid that I won’t look at the infant with any fondness.’
‘But you will. It will all work out.’
‘You can write happy endings for the heroines in your books, but not for real life, not for us,’ Violet said sadly. ‘I don’t know how I’ll manage. I don’t know anything about bringing up children.’ She could recall Eleanor’s arrival, the hushed tones of the midwife, the sudden squall of an infant, and the nurse whisking her sister away to be raised in the nursery.
‘I’ll help you. We’ll take it in turns to soothe him, or her.’
‘How do you know these things?’ Violet said.
‘I watch and listen, and I read.’
‘What you read isn’t the truth.’
‘It always contains elements of reality. Writing is like baking a cake – you take handfuls of raisins and nuts, and stir them together so you end up with the finished article looking very different, but essentially being the same. It’s like a riddle.’
‘It’s too much for me at this time of night, and the thought of cake – even one of May’s – is making me hungry agai
n.’ Violet recalled the warmth of the kitchen at home, and the way the maid used to run around after them. Even May had abandoned them, but she didn’t blame her. She had done more than enough for Violet and her sisters, and poor Mama. Who else could they turn to? After everything that had happened, nobody favoured the Rayfields. They were on their own.
In the morning, Violet paid their bill and they did without breakfast. They repacked their bags, leaving a few odds and ends behind to lighten the load. They tried to clean the stains from their clothes with some fresh water, but it did little for the smell.
‘I wish we had some lavender,’ Eleanor said.
‘And soap,’ Violet added, putting on her slippers for the walk.
Eleanor caught Dickens and pushed him back, protesting, into the basket.
‘We could leave him behind,’ Violet said tentatively.
‘No, absolutely not. I know he’s an extra burden, but when Mama first fell ill, she made me promise I’d look after him.’ A tear trickled down Eleanor’s cheek.
‘Look, now you’ve started me off.’ Violet blew her nose. ‘You carry the cat. I’ll take the rest.’
They trudged up Dover Hill to Capel-le-Ferne, turning off the turnpike road to walk along the top of the cliffs: Abbot’s Cliff then Round Down Cliff, where they paused to watch the samphire gatherers taking their lives into their hands, climbing down the cliff face from ropes attached to iron bars lodged in the rock.
‘I don’t like it up here,’ Eleanor said with a shiver, as they passed one of the gun emplacements left over from Napoleon’s time. ‘It reminds me of Pa.’
‘The good times and the bad,’ Violet said.
‘And Mama.’
‘I know.’ She took a deep breath of fresh air as a train belched smoke from the railway line which ran on the chalk bank hundreds of feet below. In the distance, past the coastguard station, she could see Dover. They were going home, but to what? Violet wished she could write to Ottilie to ask her her opinion about what they should do, but she didn’t know where she and John lived, and Ottilie couldn’t send word to her and Eleanor without a forwarding address.
‘Where shall we stay tonight? The Lord Warden or the Dover Hotel?’ Eleanor said.
‘We can’t—’
‘I know. I’m teasing, but seriously, Violet, I don’t like the idea of sleeping on the street after the other night.’ She sniffed at her sleeve. ‘We stink to high heaven.’
‘We’ll see if we can find a room, so that we can leave Dickens behind while we look for work.’ Violet felt guilty – she couldn’t protect her sister from the real world, for that was what it was. She could see that now. The Rayfields had been living on a cloud, a frail construction of their imagination which had evaporated bit by bit with each misfortune they had suffered. She and Eleanor had tumbled to the ground where they had landed, bruised and battered, yet still alive.
‘Do you think the Chittendens would take pity on us? Or Mrs Pryor?’ Eleanor said. ‘I think I could be a maid for them, as long as I didn’t have to empty their pisspots and launder their clothes.’
‘Whoever you work for, you’ll have to do as you’re bid.’
‘I could apply to be a governess or work in a shop.’
‘You’d need a character reference for that.’
‘I could ask Aunt Felicity …’
Violet gave a dry laugh. ‘I don’t think so – we’ve burned our bridges with her.’
‘What will you do? Nobody will employ you now you’re with child.’
‘I know – I’ve been thinking about little else. How are we going to support ourselves, and an infant?’ Her worst fear was that they would end up in the Dover Union with the wretched and insane.
They went down towards the Western Docks and made their way into the Pier district, a maze of streets and alleyways where the houses and inns were crammed together, as if they were fighting for space. It wasn’t the Dover she recognised, not the grand mansions and crescents, and the sweeping promenade in front of the white cliffs. There were slopsellers, selling clothing and bedding for sailors and workmen; a herbal shop with grimy glass bottles in the window; a pawnbroker. Street sellers accosted them, trying to sell their wares, from candles to salted cod.
They found the address, from an advertisement in a corner shop window, of a ‘respectable’ landlady who had rooms for rent. Continuing through the narrow streets where the drains were overflowing with stinking black liquid, and men in rags and boots with holes sat on their doorsteps, chewing baccy and smoking pipes, they went to look for it. On their way, a child came running out of one of the houses, shouting and screaming.
‘Hey, what’s wrong?’ Violet caught hold of him as he came running headlong into her, but she let go quickly: he was an urchin with one eye half closed, snot pouring from his nostrils and his hair … crawling with lice.
‘It’s Ma. She ’it me again.’
‘Norman, come here.’ A young woman appeared, wearing a filthy apron. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’
‘He says he’s been hurt,’ Violet said.
‘An’ so ’e ’as! I’ve given ’im a good ’idin’ for gettin’ up to no good, but don’t you go tellin’ me ’ow I should treat my son.’ She had just two blackened stumps for teeth. ‘What are the likes of you doing ’ere anyway? You don’t belong around ’ere.’
Violet felt Eleanor’s hand on her arm.
‘Leave it,’ she said, and they walked on. ‘Let’s find somewhere to put our heads down. I’m worn out.’
They called at the address they’d found, but the rooms had already been let. The landlady sent them to another lodging house where her friend, Mrs Chapman, had space available, thanks to one of her tenants having dropped dead from an apopleptic fit the day before. They found Mrs Chapman sitting in a chair outside her home, a four-storey building with several windows boarded over, and the drainpipes hanging off. She looked rather regal, though, Violet thought, waving them across to her as if she was the Queen on her throne.
‘Good morning. We’ve been told that you have a room available – please can you tell me how much it is?’ Violet said.
‘Don’t you want to see it first, ducky? I don’t think it’s what you’re used to.’ She smiled kindly. Her clothes were not à la mode – she wore a cape-jacket, a bell-shaped skirt and pins in her hair.
‘We don’t mind what kind of room it is, as long as it’s clean and furnished.’
‘Well, I pride myself on keeping a tight ship. Come on in, ladies.’
‘What about the cat?’ Eleanor said.
‘I don’t normally accept animals – they don’t make good tenants, but this one can earn its keep. It’s a good mouser?’
‘Oh yes, the best,’ Eleanor said, and Violet looked at her. The spoiled Dickens had never caught a mouse in his life. ‘He’ll keep the rats at bay.’
‘That makes him useful – we are often racksened with vermin.’
It wasn’t a good advertisement for the landlady’s premises, Violet mused as they followed Mrs Chapman into the house, and down a dark corridor all the way to the back, where she opened the door at the end into a yard.
‘The privy’s down there.’ She pointed along a muddy path to an old shed. Violet could smell it from where they were standing, and she began to doubt Mrs Chapman’s assertions of cleanliness. She wasn’t very clean herself, wearing a grubby lace cap and dirty apron. Her dress appeared to have been repaired many times, patched with different materials and patterns.
‘The cat can have the run of the garden. Oh, you mustn’t mock my illusions of grandeur, but this is my kingdom, my own little empire. When you’ve worked your way up from nothin’ to this, it’s a miracle indeed.’ She turned and unlocked the adjacent door. ‘This is the room. It’s nothin’ special, but it fulfils your basic requirements: a bed with a mattress – so it’s stuffed with straw, not horsehair, but it’s perfectly adequate; blankets in the chest over there; a mirror, rather foxed, I’m afraid; one stickback c
hair. The previous tenant burned the other in the grate, something that is expressly forbidden, according to the rules of this house. The rest of the regulations are on the back of the door.’ She eyed them curiously. ‘Where ’ave you come from?’
‘It’s a long story—’ Eleanor began.
‘And one which we prefer to keep to ourselves,’ Violet said. ‘How much is the room?’
‘Three shillin’s a week, paid in advance. Take it or leave it.’
That was close to all they had.
‘You won’t find anything cheaper.’
‘Then we will take it, thank you.’
The landlady held out her palm and Violet counted out the money.
‘Why did you silence me?’ Eleanor asked later. ‘I was playing on her sense of pity – I hoped she might offer us a little charity.’
‘She’s a businesswoman. Eleanor, do poor people really eat and sleep, and wash in the same room? And where do they receive visitors?’ Violet felt claustrophobic as she sat on the edge of the bed, watching a fly struggling to escape from the sticky grasp of a spider’s web. The more it fought, the more tangled it became, until eventually, it gave up and fell still. She couldn’t be like that fly, she decided. Poverty was like a spider preying on the weak, and she wouldn’t let herself and Eleanor be caught up in its web.
But they had no money, only their wits to fall back on.
During the week when April turned into May, they discovered that they were far from being the only tenants. The house had a cellar, coal store and kitchen on the first floor, a living room and bedroom on the second, and a total of four bedrooms on the remaining two floors. There were families in each of the four bedrooms, and a husband and wife lodging in the cellar. Eleanor had spoken to the wife who’d told her that her husband had fallen on hard times when the oil mills in Limekiln Street had burned down some years before. Even though the mills had been rebuilt, he hadn’t got his job back and now he worked as a bone gatherer, scratching through the ashes and dirt for a living.
