The Conviction of Cora Burns

by Carolyn Kirby

  After a couple of months of living in, Alfred had agreed more readily than she’d expected when she suggested moving out to her own digs. She promised that it would be close by and she’d still have the stove on before he was up each morning. He’d been entirely decent with her whilst they were living and working all day together in the same close space but both had felt the unspoken strain on the boundaries of respectability. Rumours of anything untoward between them would be bad for business.

  Cora slipped the ruched skirt of the walking dress over her undergarments. Recently, she’d bought a modest bustle and had been getting used to it in the narrow confines of the shop and practicing how to sit very upright on the edge of a chair. But the new shape made all the difference to the fit of the walking-dress. It flowed smoothly over her small waist to a froth of soft fabric behind. She’d also bought a simple dark bonnet with wide silk ribbons, cut well back from her brow, as well as cheap but well-fitting kid gloves.

  Once she had put them all on, she eased herself down the narrow stairs into the shop. Alfred was waiting at the bottom with his arms folded and when he saw her his face flushed red into his beard.

  ‘By Jove! You look magnificent.’

  Cora could not quite meet his eye. ‘Please don’t.’

  ‘It’s true. I always knew you could look extraordinary.’

  ‘Well, thank you, and also for the loan of the dress.’

  ‘If you have the time, I could take a souvenir likeness, for your birthday.’

  ‘Thank you, Alfred, but I should be getting off.’

  ‘Very well.’ He turned to the counter and picked up a small package then came back towards her offering it out in his hands. ‘Please accept this instead.’

  Her smile held a twinge of apprehension. She hoped that he would not embarrass her with something too extravagant. But as she pulled open the tissue paper, her smile broadened. Inside was a set of three lawn handkerchiefs bordered with fine lace.

  ‘How kind of you, Alfred. They are exactly what I would wish for.’

  She did not like to admit that she could now make the old pudding muslins into dusters, or to tell him that this was the only birthday present she had ever received.

  Her skirts swished as she went to the counter and opened the strings of the velvet reticule on her wrist. The old sacking pocket, as well as the Melton jacket and linsey skirt had gone on to the totter’s cart early in January. As soon as she’d had a chance, she’d taken a crisp five pound note along Corporation Street to Lewis’s and bought the shop-dress and a proper coat.

  Cora put the handkerchiefs into the reticule beside an assortment of silver coins and a folded brown envelope then she pulled the strings tight. Alfred unlocked the shop door.

  ‘So, where are you off to for your birthday jaunt?’

  ‘Into the countryside.’

  ‘To Cannon Hill Park?’

  It was a place they had visited several times recently, taking with them the dry-plate camera and a Rover Safety Bicycle. On the last occasion, Cora had finally got the hang of riding unaided. Alfred had been overjoyed with the photographs.

  ‘No, further than that. By train. I’ve never travelled on the railway before.’

  ‘Never?’ He looked aghast. ‘My goodness. Well then, that will be a proper treat. Please keep the dress for the whole day. You can return it in the morning if you like.’

  He really was good to her. Perhaps in the future, when they might be on a more equal footing than now, and he understood a little more of her past… but she could imagine him only being horrified at her story. And she’d soon tire of his kindness. Once he knew where she was really going today her time at this shop might swiftly come to an end but by then, she hoped, she’d have learnt from him as much as she needed to know.

  journey

  Cora did not flinch when the clerk in the ticket office barked that there’d be no second-class carriages on the Coventry train today, so was it first or third she’d be wanting? First she said without missing a breath, or being sure that she had enough shillings in her reticule to cover the cost.

  But the price of both tickets – a return for herself, along with a single half-fare back – was only three shillings and ninepence. The first-class carriage did not seem especially luxurious, although it was clean and the seats appeared newly upholstered. She sat slightly sideways to accommodate the bustle and breathed out with relief that she had the carriage to herself.

  Then the partition slid back and a large middle-aged woman entered in a heavy cloud of purple taffeta. Cora looked up, her jaw set firm, expecting a scowl of disapproval. But the woman’s face broke into a friendly smile. Cora must seem, at least on first glance, like someone genteel enough to be in the first-class carriage.

  ‘Good morning to you.’

  Cora nodded, unsure how to reply. With luck, conversation would be quelled by the huffing of engines under the great glass roof, and the shouts outside the carriage window from the porters and guards on the platform. But the woman sat down directly opposite Cora and as the locomotive eased itself into the sunlight, she smiled once again.

  ‘What a fine morning it is! I feel that spring is here at last. Do you have far to go on your journey?’

  ‘To Marston Green.’

  ‘For recreation?’

  ‘Not exactly. I’m visiting a relative.’

  There was a slight stiffening in the woman’s features. Did the mismatch between Cora’s apparel and her way of speaking give off a vulgar whiff? Cora’s senses prickled. Although not exactly coarse, the woman’s own voice had a definite lilt of the town.

  ‘Is your family home in that village?’

  Amid the clatter of iron wheels, Cora began to pull off her left glove. ‘No, madam. I am visiting my mother-in-law.’

  ‘Without your husband? Oh, that is good of you.’

  ‘I am a widow, you see.’

  Cora’s hand lay exposed on her lap revealing, on her ring finger, the plain band that she had got for a few bob from a pawn shop.

  ‘Many condolences, my dear. Was it a sudden loss?’

  ‘Very sudden, yes. My husband was an engineer and taken in a gas explosion. One day he was there, the next he was gone. In a puff of smoke.’

  ‘How tragic! And do you have no little ones to comfort you?’

  ‘Oh yes. A little boy, John. He is almost three now and has been staying with my mother-in-law.’

  ‘I see.’ The woman flung another glance at the ring, and perhaps also at the roughened redness of Cora’s hands against the fine cashmere stripes. Her voice jumped into an oddly high tone. ‘But you manage to live alone in town?’

  ‘Not any longer. John will be returning with me to my new lodgings. A delightful villa in Pitsford Street.’

  In fact, Cora had found a room with a widow-woman, Mrs Barker, on Allison Street which was not all that far from the Flynns, but on a sunny corner by the new brolly works. There was weekly washed lace at the parlour window and a private yard with a flushing lav. Mrs Barker had said she’d be glad of a kiddie about the place. It would be six shillings a week extra to look after him during the day.

  The large woman’s taffeta ruffles murmured with the swaying of the carriage. Her smile hardened. ‘How marvellous that you have found some way to support yourselves.’

  ‘Indeed. I recently used my compensation from the Corporation to purchase the lease of a small shop in Nechells.’

  The last part, at least, was almost true. She had seen an advertisement for the lease and might even visit the shop.

  ‘And what will you sell there? Haberdashery perhaps?’

  ‘Oh no, likenesses.’

  What remained of Mr Jerwood’s fifty pounds would be more than enough to purchase a full set of commercial photographic equipment.

  The woman’s shocked expression was swallowed in a grindin
g of wheels and the screech of a steam whistle. At the window, the colours had gone from grey and grimy to the brightest of greens. The trees, just coming into leaf, were drenched with dappled light and the first pink blossom budded in the gardens of red-brick cottages.

  It was not long until, in a blur of steam, the engine jolted to a halt and a voice outside boomed: Marston Green, Marston Green. As Cora stood up, resplendent in the bustled walking-dress, she felt a shiver of satisfaction that she could still lie so well.

  daffodils

  The ‘Cottage Homes’ were not cottages at all but large, detached villas with fancy chimneys and gauzy curtains at the sash windows. Two rows of them stretched along the daffodil-lined driveway beside a chapel and a school. New brickwork glowed orange in the afternoon sun and yellow-headed birds, bold as budgerigars, darted in and out of the hedgerows. Cora had never heard birdsong so deafening.

  She stood in shadow at the front door of the porter’s lodge and wiped her face with one of the new handkerchiefs from her reticule. Sweat ran from her bonnet into her eyes but her mouth was entirely dry. This wasn’t the sort of place she had been expecting. Not in the least. What child would choose to leave here for the soot of Allison Street?

  Her hand hovered at the bell-pull as she wondered whether to turn away. Then, inside, footsteps clipped on a hard floor and the door opened.

  ‘Mrs Burns, is it?’

  The woman wore pale lilac cotton with a collar starched white in the manner of a nurse. Her fair hair was piled into a lace cap. She was not much older than Cora but a wrap of brisk confidence made her seem matronly. Cora nodded and stepped inside the hallway.

  ‘And do you have the discharging letter?’

  Cora took the brown envelope from her reticule and the woman smiled.

  ‘I’m Miss Mooney, Johnnie’s house-mother. He’s such a dear little thing. He hasn’t been with us very long but is already something of a favourite. So clever. And such sweet sayings he comes out with.’

  There was an Irish twist to her voice and a natural friendliness in her round, open face. How the children must love her.

  ‘Would you care to wait here, Mrs Burns, whilst I fetch him?’

  She indicated a row of wooden chairs alongside the bottom of the stairs and Cora eased her skirts on to what looked to be the largest seat. Then Miss Mooney disappeared behind a varnished door.

  Encaustic tiles, spotless as new, made a pattern of brown and blue stars that repeated neatly around the staircase. A lace curtain flapped at an open window and through the gap came the faint trickle of children’s voices, singing. Cora could remember all of the words: …The balm of life, the cure of woe, the measure and the pledge of love… But she had never heard the hymn sung so eagerly.

  Cora took a sharp breath and let it slowly out. She had thought to pluck the boy away from the sort of bare grey rooms she had known as a child. That thought had given her confidence that however lacking she might be as a mother, her love would always outdo the indifferent stare of a workhouse attendant. But this place was perhaps better than any home she could ever provide. If the boy wished to stay, she would not force him away.

  The varnished door burst open. Miss Mooney led the way, bending down to the small figure at her side. Cora sat frozen as they walked together over the brown and blue stars. The boy wore a pale calico jacket with short breeches and black stockings pulled up over his knees. His head was hidden in the folds of Miss Mooney’s skirts.

  Miss Mooney kept hold of the boy’s chubby hand as she nudged his shoulder with her elbow.

  ‘Come now, Johnnie, say hello nicely to your mother like we practised.’

  The lilac cotton flapped as John shook his head.

  Miss Mooney smiled at Cora. ‘Don’t you worry, Mrs Burns. ’Tis usually like this on a first meeting. Perhaps if you were to take off your bonnet and gloves? The effect can be a little overwhelming to a wee one.’

  ‘If he would prefer to stay here…’

  ‘Oh fie, no! Every child wants their ma. Even if they don’t know it yet.’

  Cora untied the silk ribbons and laid the bonnet with her gloves on the chair. Her heart was thudding so hard she was sure that it might, at any moment, stop. Above the folds of lilac cotton she could see a mop of dark hair that had been wetted and combed to one side. She directed her gaze toward the small hidden face and took the deepest of breaths.

  ‘What a pleasant day it is for a walk along the lane. If I had someone small to help me pick the pretty flowers, I could take a nice yellow bunch of them home with me.’ A rosy cheek appeared at the edge of the lilac skirts. ‘And if he’d like a ride on the choo-choo train, I have a spare ticket.’

  Miss Mooney winked at Cora then held out to her a small bundle wrapped in a navy blue handkerchief. As she stood to take it, a softly furrowed brow emerged from the shadow of the skirts. And then, in a rush of hotness which seemed to swallow Cora’s heart, a pair of large and serious stone-grey eyes blinked into the light.

  Thirty-Four

  October 1886

  made

  The girls were holding on to each other and giggling so hysterically that both of them thought they might be sick. No one else in the huddle of stiff Bluecoat pinafores thought that anything was funny but the two new girls, who were twin sisters, were absorbed in their private bubble.

  ‘Are we sure it’s her?’ Letty whispered.

  Violet nodded sagely in reply then collapsed again into peals of hiccupping laughter. Letty told her sister to buck up or Miss Arnold, not knowing which girl was which, would chastise them both. But the sight of Violet trying to arrange her face into seriousness caused Letty to fall back into hilarity.

  ‘Ada! Stop that nonsense.’

  Miss Arnold had noticed the silliness and, for once, she had got the right name. Letty was still startled by it. At home she’d been called Letty ever since Violet was taken away, which was before she could remember anything very much. Ma had seemed to decide that in transferring Violet’s name to the remaining twin, she had made her matching daughters into one. Even though they were now reunited, both girls thought it magical to share a name as well as a face.

  When it was time for the class to straighten themselves into neat rows, Miss Arnold directed those at the front to sit and others to stand at the back on a low wooden bench. She did not quite have the energy to separate the Flynn twins so they were left standing together in the middle of the group, secretly, or so they thought, holding each other’s hand. Miss Arnold instructed everyone to put on a straight face and so keep the likeness from blurring. But the twins simply could not stop themselves beaming at the camera. And behind the lens, the lady photographer could not help but smile back.

  Anyone examining the school photograph, even years into the future, might marvel at the alikeness of the grinning twins. But a close search would also reveal the slight differences between them: Violet’s taller stature and her meek, somewhat lop-sided smile; Letty’s pock-marked skin and the enlarged pupil that made her right eye appear black. Closer scrutiny still would disclose, amongst the girl-scholars’ dark sleeves and spotless aprons, two furtive hands holding on to each other tightly. And although the photograph caught no more than a few frozen seconds of an October afternoon, the sisters’ fingers would remain forever entwined.

  Acknowledgements

  This novel was begun in 2013 on the Writing a Novel course at Faber Academy. Thank you to the tutor Richard Skinner and to the other students for putting me on the right track. I’m grateful to all of the dedicated writers, published and unpublished, who continue to share wisdom and fiction-focused conversation with me.

  Some exceptional professional readers and editors have helped me to raise my game as a novelist. Massive thanks to: Jacqui Lofthouse, Sarah Savitt, Sam Copeland, Imogen Roberston and Lorna Gentry. I’m also hugely grateful to the judges and administrators of the follow
ing competitions for unpublished writers: The Bridport Prize, Mslexia Novel Competition, DGA First Novel Prize and thebluepencilagency Novel Competition. Recognition from these fantastic organisations kept me writing when I might otherwise have given up.

  The Conviction of Cora Burns would, however, still be hidden inside a ten year-old laptop if it wasn’t for the faith shown in the story by David Haviland and Andrew Lownie at the Andrew Lownie Literary Agency, and then by Ion Mills and Clare Quinlivan at No Exit Press. Thanks also to Katherine Sunderland and Claire Watts for making the book and the campaign around it so fabulous and to Elsa Mathern for a genius design.

  Many friends and relatives read this book at various stages and provided feedback that was always useful. Thanks to you all, especially: Caroline Fox, Trish Tazuk, Eileen Milner, Sally Kirby, Lynne Thoms, Pete Thoms, Polly Milner and Emily Milner. Dave Milner spent a few of his last days reading the manuscript with a characteristically sharp eye for typos. I’m so glad that he saw my work.

  I’d like to thank Berkshire Record Office and the marvellous staff and volunteers at Woodcote Library. Artangel facilitated the public opening of Reading Prison for a short period in 2016 and I made at least four visits there to sit in a cell with the door closed. Gaynor Arnold, whose novel After Such Kindness helped inspire this one, very kindly showed me around central Birmingham.