A Thimbleful of Hope

by Evie Grace

  As her labour progressed, she began to lose track of time and who she was.

  She drifted in and out of consciousness as the pains gradually squeezed the life from her. It grew dark, and then light again.

  ‘We have to send for the doctor.’ She heard Eleanor’s quavering voice. ‘Even then, I’m afraid we have left it too late.’

  ‘If you can’t say anything useful, hold your tongue,’ May said. ‘The babe is almost ’ere now. You must use the pain to bring it into the world. Shake yourself, Violet, or you will both die.’

  She closed her eyes and summoned the little strength she had left. As the next pain began to build, she took a breath.

  ‘That’s good.’ May shouted into her ear, sending a tremor through her weary body. ‘Now push the babe out. Push for all you are worth. ’Arder! Ah, there’s the ’ead. Rest for a moment. Rest until the next pain comes and use it to push again.’

  ‘I can’t,’ she whimpered, limp with exhaustion.

  ‘You must,’ Eleanor hissed. ‘One more. Squeeze my hand and push.’

  And as though from a great distance, she heard Eleanor shout in triumph.

  ‘It’s born. It is done. A boy. He isn’t crying, May. Why is he so quiet and still?’

  Violet didn’t hear any more, slipping away into delirium: sometimes sleeping, sometimes dreaming. She was burning up: she was frozen. She was heading for the grave … like Arvin and her father, and poor Mama.

  ‘May the Lord save her soul,’ she heard somebody say, and just as she began to fade again, a baby cried. It was the thin, plaintive wail of a helpless creature calling out for its mother’s love.

  She would not die, she told herself. How could she have come this far only to give up? She had a child who needed her. She could hear him. Opening her eyes, she saw her sister at her bedside, like an angel with a halo of light around her head, holding a bundle of white swaddling in her arms.

  She opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out.

  ‘Violet, what are you trying to say? Oh, my dear sister. You have come back to us. It’s a miracle.’

  ‘The baby?’ Violet murmured.

  ‘He’s as well as can be expected, considering the start he’s had. Look at him, the poor little mite.’ Eleanor leaned down and showed him to her. He was pale and scrawny, not round and plump like other babies she had seen before. All her fears of not wanting him were washed away by an overwhelming rush of maternal love. He looked so vulnerable and innocent that all she wanted to do was hold him in her arms.

  ‘You look as if the vampires have dined well recently,’ Eleanor said. ‘I’ll fetch you some broth – you need to get your strength back so you can feed him. He will do better on his mother’s milk than pap and goat’s milk. Come on, dear Joe, let’s put you back in your crib. I’m afraid your mama might drop you – she’s been in a faint for two days.’

  ‘Joe? Did you say he is called Joe?’

  ‘I hope you don’t mind – we took the liberty of giving him a name. We can change it if you don’t like it …’

  ‘No, it’s a lovely name.’ Violet was at a loss, not knowing which way to turn, yearning to hold her tiny son, yet afraid of hurting him because he looked so delicate. She pulled herself up and pushed the coverlet aside. ‘How am I going to cope?’ she murmured. ‘How can I look after him when there are orders to be met?’

  ‘I’m going to help you,’ Eleanor said. ‘I owe you a great debt, and this is my way of repaying it. I’m going to work through the night, so that you can take a day or two to recover – you’re no good to anyone if you make yourself ill again.’

  Violet gave in gracefully.

  ‘I’ll fetch you something to eat and drink, then I’ll show you how to bathe and dress the little one.’

  Eleanor returned with beef broth and bread, then while Violet was eating, came back again with a ewer of warm water which she poured into the basin on the washstand.

  ‘Let me show you what to do – May has been giving me the benefit of her experience.’

  ‘I’m sure she has,’ Violet said wryly. ‘She’s a great one for giving instructions.’

  ‘You must be kind to her,’ Eleanor chided. ‘She’s been a great friend to us.’

  ‘I know. I don’t know what we’d have done without her.’

  ‘What are you waiting for? Bring Joe over here.’

  ‘I can’t,’ she stammered. ‘I don’t know how to pick him up.’

  ‘You can do it.’ Eleanor chuckled as the baby sniffled from the middle drawer of the oak chest where she’d left him for safety. ‘Go on.’

  Violet peered down at where he was peeking out from under his blanket, his button nose beaded with perspiration.

  ‘I wonder if he’s too hot,’ she said tentatively.

  ‘Carry him over to the bed – you can undress him.’

  She bent down and lifted him up, uncertain how to hold him. He gazed into her eyes and frowned, and from that minute she knew she would do anything for him.

  ‘Hello, my handsome boy,’ she murmured, tears of joy trickling down her cheeks. ‘I’m your mama.’ Carefully, she carried him to the bed where she put him down on his back. ‘I wish Ottilie was here to see him.’

  ‘She would adore him,’ Eleanor said. ‘I hope all is well with her and John. I miss her.’

  ‘So do I. She’s in my thoughts every day.’

  ‘I’ll write to her and let her know about Joe. I’ll invite her to stay as you won’t want to travel with a newborn.’

  ‘I’d rather not invite her here just yet. Wait until we are more settled.’

  ‘We are settled. This is our home.’ Eleanor raised one eyebrow. ‘Are you ashamed of it? Ottilie will take us as she finds us – you know that.’

  Violet sighed. ‘You’re right.’

  ‘I will ask her to pay us a visit.’

  Violet didn’t argue as Eleanor changed the subject.

  ‘May says one must bathe an infant every day. And you must sing to drown out his cries and teach him to get used to it. According to her, babies should be toughened up, but I don’t believe that, do you?’

  Violet glanced across to where Eleanor was checking the temperature of the water with her elbow. She didn’t believe it either. Having unwrapped the shawl that Eleanor had put round him, she unfastened the binder around his middle. A shilling fell clattering to the floor.

  ‘May says that applying a coin to where the cord was cut makes for a well-shaped belly button,’ Eleanor explained. ‘I haven’t put him in a nappy yet this morning. Now you must pick him up and bring him over here.’

  Violet carried him to the washstand and lowered him into the basin, where he wailed and wriggled, then screamed, his face turning dark purple like a ripe damson.

  ‘He’s getting stronger,’ Eleanor said in awe. ‘May wasn’t sure he’d make it this far. Oh, Violet …’ She burst into tears. ‘There were times when we didn’t think either of you would survive. All we could do was pray.’

  Touched beyond measure, Violet didn’t know what to say.

  Joe’s crying settled to a whimper, his belly hollowing in and out beneath his ribcage. She rinsed his scant brown hair, and his tiny hands and feet, then picked him up, wrapping him in a soft cloth which her sister gave her to dry him with. Once she was happy that he was dry all over, she placed him back on the bed.

  Eleanor passed her a pot of what looked like lard. She sniffed it. It was lard.

  ‘What do I do with that?’

  ‘It’s nappy cream – smear that on his bum.’

  ‘Eleanor!’ she exclaimed, shocked.

  ‘There’s no point in beating about the bush.’ Eleanor laughed. ‘You can’t be all refined and ladylike when you’re looking after a baby. Quickly, put on his nappy before he—’

  ‘Too late,’ Violet sighed. She wiped him and put on his nappy, folding it to fit as Eleanor showed her, and pinning it at his bony hips with large safety pins before putting on the cover to stop the leaks.
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  ‘I remember Mama telling me how we didn’t have safety pins when we were little ones and how she worried that our nurse would stab us.’ Eleanor handed her a cream flannel dress. ‘This is his barracoat to go on next.’

  Violet turned it inside out before she worked out how to slip it over Joe’s head and pull it down to cover his feet. She tied the cotton strips at his shoulders.

  Eleanor handed her a tiny cap. ‘I don’t think he needs his petticoat and frock – he’ll roast in this weather.’

  ‘Where did these clothes come from?’

  ‘May and I have been doing some extra sewing in the evenings after you’ve gone to bed. You’ve been so tired, you didn’t notice.’

  Violet began to thank her as Joe started to cry again.

  ‘He’s hungry,’ Eleanor said. ‘You must feed him. May says that the more he sucks, the more milk you make.’

  Violet had expected to be repulsed by the idea, but she found that there was nothing she loved more than holding her baby close and nurturing him. He was a darling.

  Little Joe slept through the days and kept Violet up at night. It meant she could get on with her work, but she was exhausted. They still weren’t bringing in enough money, and she had to pawn the very last of Mama’s jewellery to pay the rent. To her relief, though, Ottilie declined their invitation to visit because she was indisposed. She gave no reason, only reassured them that she wasn’t seriously unwell, just reluctant to travel. She asked them to visit her when they could, but Violet had to explain that they were overwhelmed with work, so she didn’t have to confess that they didn’t have the money for the train fare.

  One morning towards the middle of August, Eleanor had boxed the latest batch of embroidery, and Violet was ready to deliver it to Mr Evercreech.

  ‘Will you look after Joe for me?’ she asked, keen to get away from the sweltering confines of the workshop for an hour or two.

  ‘Of course. He loves his auntie.’ Eleanor smiled. ‘Don’t be long, though.’

  ‘You know I’d never leave him for long.’

  Violet put on her bonnet and the best of her black mourning dresses before setting out with her arms full of boxes. She threaded her way through the narrow streets to the seafront where she paused to look out across the Channel where the sea was an expanse of sapphire blue and jade beneath the blazing summer sun. She couldn’t help sparing a thought for William Noble. She was a fool, she knew, but she imagined she could detect his scent on the sea breeze and hear his voice in the waves as they washed back and forth across the shingle.

  ‘Violet?’ She turned on hearing her name. Was she dreaming?

  ‘How lovely to see you, William,’ she said, as he strode up to her and doffed his hat.

  ‘Would you allow me to carry your boxes?’

  ‘I’m very grateful for the offer, but I can manage.’ She felt awkward, recalling the last time they’d met.

  ‘I know you can – you’re obviously more than capable … Here. Let me take half.’ He took the top ones from her before she could protest. ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘Up to the other end of town. It’s a little way from here.’

  ‘I don’t mind. I was hoping to see you again. How should I address you now?’

  She frowned as they started walking along the promenade.

  ‘What I mean is, are you … have you remarried, or anything?’

  ‘Oh no. Do you really think I’d take a risk on marrying for a second time after what happened?’

  ‘Maybe not,’ he admitted, glancing down at her hand, making her feel shy that he’d caught her out not wearing gloves to hide her roughened skin. ‘I apologise for bringing it up. I’m an idiot.’

  ‘You can address me as “Violet”,’ she said, watching how he blushed. ‘Plain “Violet”.’

  He gazed at her as if he regarded her as anything but.

  ‘Look where you’re going.’ She smiled.

  ‘I haven’t seen you in such a long time. I’ve often thought of you.’

  ‘That’s very kind,’ she said politely. Was it wrong to tell him that she’d thought of him too?

  ‘I wasn’t expecting to see you again. When you disappeared last time, I made some enquiries, but nobody knew where you’d gone. I came to the conclusion that you’d moved away, but I didn’t give up hope.’

  ‘I’m afraid that I took off in rather a hurry.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. I understand, I think. The last thing you wanted was your name in the newspapers again, for whatever reason. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said …’

  ‘It’s all right.’

  He smiled, and her heart turned a somersault.

  Keep calm, she told herself. She had liked him before, admired him for his heroism and good sense, and now the sight of him filled her with warmth and affection, but nothing could come of it. They were from two different worlds, separate layers of society. William’s fortunes were on the rise while hers were in the doldrums. She was proud of what she’d achieved, keeping her head above water by her grit and determination, but she had no expectation beyond that now. She was Miss Violet Rayfield, embroideress and unmarried mother of an illegitimate child.

  ‘You are still in mourning?’

  ‘For my parents, Mama especially,’ she said.

  ‘I’m sorry. I hadn’t heard.’

  ‘Are you still working at the Packet Yard?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, I’m still there. Although I say it myself, I’ve worked hard and succeeded on my own merit. I acknowledge that I might have climbed the ladder more quickly if I’d accepted your father’s offer, but I have my pride.’

  ‘I admire you for not compromising your principles. I regret how my father behaved towards you.’

  ‘You weren’t to blame,’ William said.

  ‘I seem to remember you saying that you worked at the boiler-making department. What do you do there exactly?’

  ‘I’m foreman. I order the best wrought-iron plates from Staffordshire and Yorkshire, then I direct the men to cut out the shapes from them, using the drawings given to me by the superintendent of works, and the sketches I make to guide them. The plates are moved by crane to the forge to be flanged and curved, before they’re riveted together. After that, they go to the fitting department to be finished. It gives me great satisfaction when I see one of my boilers installed and working on one of the ships. But that’s more than enough about me. What’s in your boxes?’

  ‘I have an embroidery workshop in Oxenden Street. Our former maid and my sister, Eleanor, work with me. These are the orders we’ve finished this week.’ She wondered what more they could have to say. What did they have in common? ‘How is your mother?’ she began.

  ‘Ah.’ He looked away, but not before she caught the glistening in his eyes. ‘She left this life over a month ago. It was a relief in a way because her struggles were distressing to see. I miss her – I tended to her every day.’

  ‘What was she like?’ she asked gently.

  ‘She was the best ma in the world and I miss her terribly. I don’t miss my father in quite the same way – he spent many months away at sea. I remember how Ma would dress me and my brother in our sailors’ outfits when we went down to the dock to meet him. She’d scold us for shouting out loud and running too fast to greet him. Pa would swing me up in his arms and sit me on his shoulders and I would cling on tight, running my fingers through his rough whiskers, while he picked up my brother and carried him on his hip.

  ‘He was incredibly strong and handsome, and my mother would lean up and kiss him full on the mouth without regard for anyone else who happened to be looking on.’ He sighed. ‘Her joy never lasted long. After a few days, Pa would start beating her – out of kindness, he used to say.’

  ‘That’s dreadful,’ Violet said.

  ‘He left her with a black eye on more than one occasion. When he went back to sea, she would cry, but as soon as he’d gone, we’d feel this great sense of relief because our mother would be young and
gay again.’

  ‘Your father was not a good man, then?’

  ‘He was a loyal husband and father, but he was a stickler for discipline. Maybe that’s what made him such an excellent master – he liked everything to be shipshape and Bristol fashion. When he was at home, my brother and I had to stand to attention beside our beds while he checked that the sheets were tucked in and there were no dirty socks left lying around. But he inspired us with his tales of brave sailors and audacious engineers, and after listening to him, I wanted to follow in Brunel’s footsteps.’

  ‘You enjoy your work?’

  ‘I couldn’t live without it. It gives me a purpose, a reason to go on. I think I can understand your father’s desperation towards the end. He’d lost his business and the prestige that comes with it.’

  She caught a glimpse of the sadness behind his eyes.

  ‘We have both been through the mill,’ she said.

  ‘I have to console myself with the fact that I had my family around me for over twenty years. I have fond memories of them and I cling to the hope that one day I’ll have a new family to love and cherish: a wife and children.’

  As they approached Mr Evercreech’s shop, she felt a pang of regret that William’s new family would be nothing to do with her.

  ‘This is where we must part. Thank you for helping me,’ she said, stopping outside.

  ‘I’d be honoured if you’d agree to meet with me again soon,’ he stammered.

  ‘I don’t think it’s a good idea.’

  ‘Why? Is it because you still have feelings for Mr Brooke? I’d be grateful if you spoke frankly.’

  There was something in his tone – an urgency and firmness – that made her change her mind about the wisdom of unburdening herself. She could trust him to keep her secrets.

  ‘I have regrets, of course, and I’m still angry at him for his deception, and at myself for not seeing what he was like, but this isn’t about Mr Brooke. This is about my regard for you.’