by Rebecca Tope
But the squawking somewhere under her bedclothes had not gone away. Pushing back the cover, she found a red-faced little body, mouth wide open and eyes tight closed, expressing extreme displeasure. Arms jerked spasmodically and legs kicked. How such a thing could ever expect to grow into a proper human being was beyond Fanny. It was all noise and mess. There was a deposit of something revolting underneath it, she found. Yellow and sticky, it could only be the first bowel movement of the new child. It would have to be swaddled somehow, in rags that would catch the stuff. And then the rags must be washed or replaced. There would be leakage and smell. It was all entirely horrible to Fanny’s mind. The sooner that doctor found a willing foster mother – or better still, a permanent adopter – the better.
Or, she supposed idly, she could simply kill it. By holding the thick coverlet over its face, she could quickly stop its breath. It could be buried with its mother, and nobody the sorrier for it. Its father was already dead – the whole family could meet in heaven, and good luck to them. She put an experimental hand over the small face, wondering how such an act would feel. The infant squirmed vigorously and cried more loudly. Hugo whined. The dog, it seemed, would be sorry to lose their little interloper. And her parents, if they knew of its existence, would value the new grandchild, even though a boy would have surely been better than this black-haired girl.
The black hair was dry now, and oddly spiky. It stood in tufts from the head, like a brush. How could Carola, so fair, and Reuben hardly less so, have created such a creature? The question soon flew away. What did she know of such matters? Likenesses were ephemeral, shifting, one moment conjuring a remote cousin, the next a replica of a grandfather. There had been people in Providence who made much of the family nose, passed down from an early Pilgrim Father, or a recurring rolling gait that was said to repeat through every successive generation. But in general it was a matter treated more in jest than otherwise.
If she refrained from killing it, then she would have to feed it. Impatiently, she took it downstairs, wondering how the doctor had accomplished so much with the baby balanced on one arm. When she tried it, she spilt some milk and almost dropped the bundled infant. Finally, she set it down on its blanket in the middle of the table they used for eating, and managed to provide some lukewarm milk and the same sucked muslin as before.
It did not go well. The baby continued to cry, and turned its head away from the offered sustenance. Hugo’s whining became such an irritant, that she shut him outside in the yard. Where was that doctor? What about Carola’s stiff body upstairs? The questions crowded in on her, bringing panic and confusion in their wake. How could she be expected to deal with it all? Nothing in her experience had prepared her for a situation such as this. She had begun to shake the child in an effort to force its cooperation, when rescue arrived.
The man from the previous night was in the doorway, hat in hand, worried frown on his face. ‘Here,’ he said, striding forward and snatching the baby. ‘That’s no way to treat it.’
He laid the little body along one forearm and began a gentle rocking, accompanied by a soft crooning sound that put Fanny in mind of a pigeon. ‘The little thing is wet and hungry and frightened,’ he summarised reproachfully.
She looked at him. ‘Why are you here again?’
‘Simple curiosity as to how events turned out. I have a liking for small beings, as I might have mentioned. This is a fine little … fellow?’ He pushed aside the meagre covering and corrected himself. ‘A little lass, then. And only a useless young whore to care for her.’ He smiled to soften the words.
‘Take her,’ said Fanny, furious. ‘And welcome. Raise her in your fine mansion, with the peacocks and cavalar, or whatever it was. A ready-made daughter to call your own.’ For a moment it seemed entirely and deliciously possible that he would do as she bade.
‘You are not your normal self,’ he said. ‘Now we must be practical. Have you a bottle? Milk? Diapers? A tiny new baby requires a quantity of equipment, I believe.’
‘The doctor said the same. I am to go and purchase it all, somehow.’
‘Then go. I will remain here as childminder, until you return. And mind you do,’ he finished with a close look at her face. ‘No running off and abandoning your responsibilities.’
‘I will come back, but more for the sake of my dog than this nuisance.’
He smiled and sat down in the best chair, wrapping the child closely in a towel that had been warming above the stove.
Fanny was compelled to give an account of herself to the storekeeper and his wife, enduring their curiosity with a poor grace. They assembled an impressive parcel of items, and advised her to obtain goat’s milk if possible, as being better for a small infant, as well as more readily obtained. Goats were plentiful around the town, with milk offered for sale on every corner. The death of one of the town’s two whores did not appear to cause the couple any grief, Fanny realised resentfully. There was no bereft husband, after all, to commiserate with. She was unlikely to receive active help with the child, it seemed.
But Carola was dead. Her body was still lying abandoned on her bed as if forgotten already. The ill-begotten child was consuming all the time and concern that should rightfully go to the tragic young woman who had not deserved to die as she did. Angry all over again, Fanny stormed home to rectify the shameful neglect.
The man was where she had left him, the infant whimpering miserably in his arm. ‘At last!’ he cried, jumping to his feet. ‘Get the milk prepared immediately.’
‘I have no milk – only what is left from yesterday. I am to obtain some from a goat, they say.’
‘Yesterday’s will have to suffice for now.’
She thrust her bulky package at him and went determinedly up the stairs. ‘I have to lay out my dead friend,’ she called back.
Ignoring the baby’s cries, she threw open Carola’s door and stood on the threshold, more than half expecting her friend to open her eyes and smile at her, revealing that the whole unhappy business had been a creation of Fanny’s imagination. Instead there was a sickening stink, and a grey-white corpse lying crookedly on the bed. The only detail that matched her hopes was the open eyes, and they stared with a ghastly sightlessness at a point somewhere high on the wall.
Why had the doctor not covered her face or folded her hands? He had done nothing except for taking the undersheet and bundling it into a corner of the room where it was stiff and vile from the blood that had soaked it. But the mattress was almost as badly affected, so that Carola lay on a coarse linen ticking, her nightdress rucked up around her torso, leaving naked white legs for all to see.
It was because she had been a whore, Fanny supposed. The doctor saw no cause for modesty or decency. And yet, he had been civil enough towards her. Perhaps he was not aware of the procedures for a laying-out. It had always been women’s work, after all. His task was to save lives, by giving medicines and issuing instructions. Having arrived too late, he had dismissed Carola as no longer in need of his attentions. Her baby was his concern, and he had made a paltry fist of tending her.
But Fanny knew nothing about dead bodies, either. Birth, death – she was equally ignorant of both. Her speciality was that which lay between the two – the warm adult pleasures of the bedchamber, which gave no heed to death and worked assiduously to prevent birth. Somebody must come and carry this thing away, to be buried in the ground. Carola was finished, gone beyond recall. Gone so far that it made no sense even to bid her goodbye.
She went down again. ‘What is your name?’ she asked the man. ‘It is ridiculous that I should not know it, after all that has taken place between us.’
‘Philip,’ he said with a small bow of his head. ‘Philip Scott. At your service, Miss.’ With the infant in the crook of his arm, sucking placidly at the bottle he held, he made a comical picture. ‘She is a vigorous feeder,’ he added, with a hint of reproach.
‘Praise be,’ she said with blatant irony.
‘Now – I can stay no
longer. I have business matters waiting for me. I never intended to linger here. Perhaps I ought not to have returned today at all.’
‘I am profoundly thankful that you did.’ Suddenly, Fanny was almost too weary to stand. The enormity of events overwhelmed her as she understood she was to be left alone again. ‘What am I to do?’ she whined pathetically. ‘Where do I begin?’
‘The doctor will send a woman and men with a coffin. He cannot leave a dead body in the house for long. It is against all regulations.’
Fanny gave a silent prayer of thankfulness that she was in Chemeketa, where there were at least laws governing such matters, and not the anarchic San Francisco. ‘You trust they will come to a whorehouse?’ she said.
He nodded. ‘Undoubtedly.’ Then he handed the baby to her, making her sit in the chair he had vacated, and showing her the best way to hold the bottle. ‘You will get the knack in no time,’ he promised her. ‘There is nothing to it.’
But the child was displeased by the change of lap, and turned its head away from the teat. Crossly, Fanny gripped the small cheeks and tried to force the head back. The resistance in the tiny frame astonished her. ‘How strong she is!’ she said.
‘Do not fight her,’ he advised. ‘Her need to win is far greater than yours. Go easy on yourself and follow her lead.’
And then he left, though with several rueful backward glances.
Fanny slumped in the seat, hardly caring whether or not the baby fed. She dozed, until a movement woke her and she found the child had slid almost to the ground, lying across her thighs with its head dangling like a doll. Her first instinct was to let it go, and lie where it fell. But Hugo was close by, and seemed to read her mind. He put his great head against that of the baby and nudged it back into a more secure position. He gave Fanny a look that was horribly similar to that she had received from Philip Scott: a look that said, Have you no natural female feelings?
‘It is not my child,’ she told him. ‘Why do I have to do this?’
Again she sank into a fitful sleep, as if overtaken by a drug or strange illness. It was an escape into oblivion, away from the horrors and demands that her life had suddenly filled with.
Hugo uttered a single low woof! When someone knocked on the door. Fanny awoke and the baby whimpered. ‘Come in!’ she called.
A woman she recognised came in and rushed to her side, hands out as if to catch a something falling. She gathered up the infant and laid it on her arm, as Philip Scott had done. ‘Oh, the poor little lamb! What a terrible thing! I heard just now, in the store. The whole town is talking of it. Your dear friend, gone so young!’
It was Miriam Myers, who had cared for Marybelle in her final weeks, and then brought word of her death. A Miriam Myers transformed, it seemed, from a nurse into an angel of maternal mercy. She bent low over the child, making soft sounds and even shedding one or two tears. ‘You little darling, just look at you! What a size you are! And so chilled and wet, God help you.’
Fanny became aware of a large damp patch on her lap, where the child had been lying. She brushed at it disgustedly. ‘It’s constantly wet,’ she said irritably. ‘What is to be done about that?’
Miriam gave her a look that was growing horribly familiar. ‘Have you no little brothers and sisters? Have you never seen a woman caring for her child? Can a girl your age have no idea at all what to do?’
Fanny scowled. ‘I never noticed. Why would I?’
Miriam heaved a dramatic sigh. ‘There is a great deal to be done here. Have the undertaker men done their business here?’
Fanny shook her head. ‘The doctor is meant to be arranging that, I believe.’
‘So she’s lying dead and cold upstairs?’ The woman shuddered. ‘Has she been laid out prettily, at least?’ Her expression turned wistful. ‘I laid Marybelle out like a queen, though I say it myself.’
‘You can do it?’ Hope flickered in Fanny’s breast. ‘And take care of the child? Can you find it a new home? It cannot stay here. You can see for yourself that I make a useless mother.’
Miriam took a deep breath. ‘Even a useless mother can keep a baby warm. There must be clothes waiting ready for her, somewhere about. Find them, and small towels for use as diapers. I shall see what can be done for your friend.’ The final word was uttered with heavy meaning, that was not lost on Fanny.
‘My friend is gone, never to return. That thing upstairs is not my friend any longer.’
‘True enough. But there are decencies to be observed, nevertheless.’
The rush of tears took Fanny by surprise. She felt weak and helpless, and at the same time ashamed of herself. The world had turned against her, leaving her alone and afraid in a sea of ignorance. ‘I did not know what to do,’ she pleaded. ‘How could I know?’
‘Take the child upstairs with you, wrap her in warm clothing and lie down for a spell. I will do the rest,’ came the infinitely reassuring words. Even Hugo seemed to experience some relief. He returned to his scullery and settled to gnawing a dry bone that was all the sustenance he had found that day.
Chapter Twenty-Four
When the coffin men failed to appear, Miriam Myers went out in search of them, returning within the half hour, swiping her hands together as after a job well done. ‘They will be here by noon,’ she announced, waking Fanny from another uneasy doze. ‘Now, we must obtain a supply of milk for the child. She will be hungry in the coming days, and you must tend to her carefully.’
‘Must I?’ whined Fanny, muzzily. ‘How long until we can find her a foster mother?’
‘You are her foster mother, my dear. Your friend would surely expect that of you? You will abandon your shameful work and devote yourself to a decent life. This is a sign to you to mend your ways.’
Here was yet another side of the woman. The soft doting of an hour before had given way to a prim tyrant with the standards of a missionary spinster.
‘I cannot,’ Fanny said. Tears choked the back of her throat. ‘You cannot force me.’
‘It is not a matter of forcing. There is a need, and you can do no other than to meet it. You have had a great shock, and I am here to help you through the first stages of recovery. We must find the good in the situation. That is what a Christian does.’
‘You are telling me that God killed Carola so I might change my ways?’
‘I am telling you no such thing. We cannot read the mind of God. But we must have faith and trust that there is a greater purpose. I have seen so many instances where such trust was more than justified. There is a reward, my dear, in simply doing what’s right. And in this particular case, the way is perfectly clear.’
‘Not to me.’ Fanny pouted like a mulish child. ‘I detest that child. I cannot feed myself or it if I do not work.’
Miriam gave her a probing look from under her thick brows. ‘Now that is not true, is it? Remember that I had a woman in the same line of work under my care for some time. She revealed much of what the work entails – and what the rewards can be. I have no doubt that you have substantial savings on which you might live a considerable time.’
Fanny remembered the wad of banknotes that Philip Scott had thrust at her the night before. Where had she put it? She had not changed her clothes since that time, throwing a cloak over the stained wrapper she had worn as Carola died, when she went out to the store. The money was surely tucked into a fold somewhere. But when she patted herself in a search for it, nothing was evident. Had it fallen out in the street, to be picked up by some lucky passer by?
Miriam was watching her. ‘Have you lost something?’
‘Money a man gave me. I believe it was a large sum. Now it has gone.’
‘It will be found. You are in a wretched state indeed.’ It was as if the woman had just noticed this. ‘There is blood on your skirt, and an odour around you that is not pleasing. I suggest a thorough wash and complete change of clothing. Then we will conduct a search for the money. But, dear, you are forgetting Marybelle’s legacy. It will come to the
child, and as her foster mother, you will have control over it. I imagine, besides, that you received a half share of it, in any case.’
‘I did not. Carola invested the bulk of it, and kept back a little for expenses. We were unable to agree as to where I might stand in the matter. Carola wished to leave Chemeketa and live as a widow with her child, in Astoria or someplace like that.’
Miriam took a moment to absorb this. As she sought for words, a knock announced the coffin men, and all turned into a kind of dignified bustle. Fanny tried to keep away from them, but she heard the sounds of disapproval coming from Carola’s room, and mutterings about the awkward position of the body. It had gone stiff, it seemed, and was difficult to handle. The baby wriggled and flailed in Fanny’s arms, as if aware of the permanent removal of its mother. Then it began to emit loud wails that tore at Fanny’s nerves. There was nowhere to set it down, other than the crib which was upstairs.
It was like being on a hellish carousel, with no means of climbing off. Round and round, one crisis following another, endlessly dragging her into despair and helplessness. The child was wet, hungry, cold. Its needs were piling up, with no prospect of a moment when they would all be satisfied at once. She jiggled it feebly, with no real expectation that this would help. Miriam had gone with the men. Nothing had been resolved. There was no milk left in the house. The child’s garments were in a drawer alongside the crib. Warm water would be required for washing both Fanny and the infant. Other matters flitted through her mind. There would be papers, she assumed. Carola’s death would require official record. And money. Where was that wad? How could she lay her hands on Carola’s investments? And work. She could not abandon her work completely. Somewhere deep down, she suspected that she had no wish to give it up. There were other considerations than financial ones. She would miss the company, the satisfaction that so often came from her encounters with the men, the laughter and music and stories.
