by Jane Rogers
Saint Joanna did not come down again till prayer time; she was still very pale.
‘I have been thinking about your birds,’ I told her. She did not look at me, only at her hands twisting in her lap. There is something quite pathetic about her these days, I am sure the cares of this household do her no good at all. ‘There may be other interpretations,’ I told her, ‘for there really only were five fledglings, which can not accurately represent the seven of us. Might one not think of the cat – which after all, is the more intelligent and beautiful creature – as a sign of goodness? If he were a figure of goodness, then we might rejoice that he has destroyed the nasty sinful little birds.’ I had not really thought much about it, only I did feel a little pity for the woman. Her days, and those of the others in this household, are numbered – though I shall press for Rebekah to be kept. Five to leave and two to stay; this must be the most accurate interpretation, if she will insist upon a sign.
It was my turn to read to him tonight, and I asked if it is true we shall be going on a mission to the coast.
‘Yes. We will be away for two or three weeks.’
‘Will you take all of us women?’
‘You are looking well, Sister Leah. How is your son?’
‘He is a little fretful at present. But I think he will be well enough, if only Sister Joanna give him some peace.’
‘Would you be content to leave him here in the care of others, while you were away on tour?’
‘In Joanna’s care?’
‘Sister Hannah. Sister Joanna. Sister Rebekah. I am not yet decided.’
He would come to no harm, I am sure; and if the Prophet is taking only a few members of the household with him …
‘Yes, I am content to leave him.’
‘Then I shall take you, Sister Leah. Now, I am expecting Elder Ezekiel –’
I let myself out. My hopes are up again. ‘I shall take you, Sister Leah.’ I pray he may take me, and not just once, but in a permanent way. Of course it will be easier on tour, to contrive some time together, outside the rigid timetables of this house, and the hordes of supplicants and visitors in the hall. And especially if he leaves some of the others behind.
*
I have seen them: Wroe and Hannah. If I had not seen with my own eyes, I would never have believed it. Which is stupidity, blind stupidity on my part. For look at the privileges she enjoys; might I not have guessed? She comes and goes at all hours, on her night-class teaching and her goody-goody errands. Her time is practically her own, for she plays no part in the religious side of our duties; where hard work is concerned she leads a charmed life. Joanna may be a poor cook, but at least she is there, in the kitchen, sweating over her latest batch of heavy, chewy dough. When has Madam Hannah rolled up her sleeves and got her hands dirty? Her skinny, ugly, bony hands; the woman is a skeleton, dwarfish and bony. What sort of man could look twice at her?
I have my answer, and it proves him mad. What appetite sucks upon a lemon, when it could have a ripe juicy peach?
She has been cunning in the extreme, affecting all along a dislike both of the church and of him: disobeying, never seeking to please – of course, this is what has singled her out to his attention.
I can still scarcely credit the events of yesterday afternoon. Their boldness stuns me. I was at work in the sewing room, with Rachel and Rebekah, sewing nightdresses for the seven of us, Saint Joanna being busy with her idiot charge Martha, and Dinah sick in bed. I knew Hannah was excused, after she had sided the dinner dishes, without rightly knowing why. The sewing-room door being ajar, I watched her pass along the corridor from the kitchen, and listened to hear her footsteps continue into the housebody. But they did not. They moved on along the corridor, and I knew I was not deceived when I caught the sound of her knocking on the Prophet’s study door. The next I heard was the door closing; she was in. It was but a half-hour after dinner – mid-afternoon. It is unknown for any to be allowed into his room in the afternoon. But in went Hannah, bold as you please. After a while I made some excuse to my sewing companions and walked down the corridor past his door. It is dark and gloomy at the far end, one may lurk there and not be seen from the kitchen. Putting my ear to the wall I heard the sound of voices, his and hers, chattering away. It struck me that they may even have been arguing. I was not sure at first whether Samuel Walker was with him, but after a couple of minutes the animation of their discussion convinced me that they were alone, and I was quickly able to verify this by glancing into the housebody, where Samuel sat in his customary place by the door.
I returned to the sewing. Rebekah and Rachel were asking foolish questions about the birth of Lizzie Ogden’s baby; but I had no patience with them, and snapped at them to be quiet. And in the silence that followed, broken only by the rustle of stiff callico and the small popping of needles, I heard her. That sound, unlike any other, which seems to cut the air; the short cry of a woman at the height of her pleasure. I held my breath, but it was not repeated. Rebekah and Rachel sewed on imperviously; I guess they have never heard it before, and so discount it as the cry of a gull or some such. Putting down my sewing I advanced along the corridor to his door again – but I could hear nothing. A burning desire to have my suspicion confirmed propelled me back past the sewing room, in at the office and out of the back kitchen door. If the shutters to his room were closed, that would prove it. And if they were not; then, I might see what I might see.
Turning right, I made my way over the rough ground at that side of the house. It is planned for an orchard, I have been told; but at present is no more than a lumpy, hillocky, weed-ridden mass, where the builders have stored their stone and materials. In places, parts of the former garden still survive among the weeds: against the wall before his window, a wilderness of rose bushes and stinging nettles. Some of the roses have grown so high as to nearly obscure his study window; standing on tiptoe, at a distance, I could not see in. I was afraid of being spotted from within, so drew closer to the wall. I was not overlooked from anywhere outside the house, the hummocky ground and open meadow lay at my back. So crouching down, I endeavoured to force a way through the thick growth. My dress snagged instantly on a hundred thorns. Pulling back (with ominous tearing sounds), I caught up a broken piece of planking from the ground and used it to press back the growth and force a way through. At the side of the window I paused, my back against the wall, straining for any sound from within. Nothing. Holding still the prickly branch of a rose before my face, to keep me at least partly hidden, I peered in. Once my eyes had penetrated the swimming thickness of the glass, and become accustomed to the darkness within, I realized what I was staring at; the two of them stood near to the window, with their backs to me – Hannah’s back being the first thing to make itself known in the semi-darkness, by reason of its naked whiteness.
She was clutching her dress (which was unbuttoned to the waist) to her chest, while the Prophet was about the fastenings at her back.
Though I knew what I had heard – still that sight leaps before my eyes. As if they cannot take it in, cannot accept it for a true image. I am beaten aside by Hannah, by ugly, untidy, careless Hannah. I, a fool like the other doltish women, go about my virtuous household duties of an afternoon, while the Prophet in his hallowed study fucks with Hannah till she shouts aloud.
That cry of hers seems to echo in my skull. Why, and for what, is she preferred? How will she use her influence? Already she works less, chooses her own occupations more, plays the lady while we drudge. And if she is insinuated into that place in his favours, that place is closed to any other … Shall I be her serving wench? And how have I been so blind, so stupid, not to see this before? All this time I have waited, trod carefully, avoided seeking him out too obviously … and while I have waited and wavered, she has marched in and taken the prize.
She shall not have him without a fight. No. I have failed to appreciate her cleverness. But now I know how things stand – I shall act. She is not the only one who may attract his attention.
I have enough signs already that he is not indifferent to me. It is only that she has been bolder, less afraid of seeming forward … She has made fewer scruples than I. I should have guessed that that was the way to success. From the first, when he showed such warm interest in who it was I visited, and if it were a lover; I should have guessed that he prefers boldness, shamelessness. Two can play at that game, Madam Hannah.
Images of that woman have been swimming before my eyes all night long; her quiet knowingness, her nasty furtive ways. What was she about, that night I met her in the lane? She affected to think it was only I who might have been out where I should not be. Where had she been? She shall be the centre of my attention from now on, for anything I can find which may discredit her.
Not only was my night made wretched by thoughts of her cunning, and the means by which she has insinuated herself into his affections: but Thomas also slept poorly. He has a little dry cough which wakes him, and when I touched him he felt feverish. I took him downstairs to the kitchen twice, to try him with sugar-water, but he continued restless all night long, and this morning he looks pale. I wish he and I were a thousand miles from this hateful place.
Martha
There are new things at nights. I ask Dinah. ‘Did you see the others?’
‘When, sister?’
‘In the night.’
‘Where were they?’
‘They were – they were here. Joanna was singing.’
‘Here? In this room?’
‘I – I cannot tell.’
‘What happened?’
‘Joanna was singing. There were candles. I was singing too.’
‘I would have woken up. It must be a dream, Sister Martha.’
‘A dream?’
‘Yes, while you were asleep.’
Next night I see new things. Outside, and sun is shining. I am with Rebekah in the garden. We are digging up food from earth, eggs, carrots, cabbages, cheeses. All of it buried in earth. We are laughing and holding it up to show.
In the morning I ask Dinah again.
‘You are dreaming, sister. You must have had dreams before?’
I cannot tell. She laughs. ‘Dreams! When you are asleep – you imagine things, you see them in your head – people or places you know, or sometimes you do not. Like a story.’ I watch her. ‘Do you understand what I am saying? It is not real. It is in your imagination.’
There was nothing before. Only blackness at night. Now there is a new thing every night. People, sounds. And from before. Warm arms lift me. I am held. I have a mother. These are alive at night.
If this world is at night, that was not there before … There may be more.
Before I had none and now I have two, of daytime brilliance and of night-time dreams. My eyes and ears and skin are new and can perceive. If there is a world in dark sleep, there may be one behind the surface of stone. Another beneath water in the well. Another on the other side of black night sky. As my senses grow I will reach each one, as I have gained day and night. In one is my mother, I will see her fully. I have her warm milk smell.
In one maybe I am not there. If I could see into that one, that has no Martha …
There are new worlds. I grow to accommodate their size, as if I swallowed eggs that hatched and grew within.
Joanna teaches me the songs now. Not to sing, but to speak the words. She sings it for me, and I must say it after.
Saviour if of Sion’s city
I through grace a member am,
Let the world deride or pity,
I will glory in thy name:
Fading is the worldling’s pleasure,
All his boasted pomp and show;
Solid joys and lasting treasure
None but Sion’s children know.
‘Good, good girl. Well done, Sister Martha. You have the whole thing by heart!’ She looks at me anxiously. ‘Do you understand it, Martha? Can you understand these words?’
Solid joys. I understand.
Sunshine. The green. Leah comes to me in garden.
‘Get in. Get in the kitchen, you.’ I go. It is dark I stand next window. The fire makes smoke in my throat. Hannah sits her arms across chest she is shut in. Leah stamps her foot like a tethered horse.
‘Sister Joanna says you must learn to make the oatcakes. You two. We end up doing all the cooking. So watch, and listen. DOLT!’ She shouts. ‘How can anyone see to cook when you are blocking all the light? Get away from the window.’
I move. The warmth furs my skin like night.
‘Here.’ She tugs bowl it slides fast towards. The mixture slops to the front side and dribbles down. Her hand smears quick as if not there.
‘This is the batter. Hannah, are you listening? You make the batter the night before. Five pounds oatmeal and a pitcher of water – use the big one at the end here.’ She taps it. From the beam are hanging three brown jugs three white-round-green bundles of rushlights kippers greygreen herbs the empty creel white onions –
‘Martha! Martha!’ Leah shouts. She stands by fire circling a board. A round of batter grows across it. ‘Listen, you thing. How will you ever learn?’
Hannah watching me. She speaks quietly. ‘That is a riddle board, Martha. Coat the board with dry oatmeal; pour on a ladleful from here, make it go round like that.’ Leah makes a sudden tip. The round of batter flops on to a board in her other hand and flip on to the hot.
‘What do you call it?’ Hannah says, pointing.
‘Bakestone. Make sure it is hot.’ Leah speaks as if she wishes not. ‘When it is brown at the edge – see?’ She steps back. ‘Take the peel and flick it over –’ She does it quicker than I see. Stands quiet by the hot then bends again. Scrapes it up with one movement on up over her head. It hangs limp over the creel, making steam. ‘Now you.’ Hannah takes the ladle, pours on to board. The mixture runs fast to edge and down her skirt.
‘You will have to move quicker than that!’ Leah’s voice is glad. She grabs board and shows.
Hannah does not speak. She ladles a little. Tilts board once. Tries to make it drop on to stone. It does not hold together.
Leah laughs. ‘Look. Hopeless. Watch.’ Leah’s hands move, the board swirls. Flick. Flick. Drop. Hiss. Scrape, flop, hiss, scrape – the swinging arm, round oatcake hangs on creel.
‘See how easy it is? I learned when I was six – it’s the one thing any fool can do – see?’ She swoops and circles, hard and bright. She does not tell me do it. I watch the round holding in not spilling. Her movement makes it hold. Alone, I will try.
Rain coming up. Storm coming up. They are making for their procession. Feast day. I say to Joanna the storm is coming.
‘Oh no, Sister Martha. I think not. I think we shall have sunshine tomorrow. The Prophet has not mentioned any storms, has he Sister Hannah? On the Feast of the Transfiguration, and a double wedding, we could not have such ill luck I am sure. And all the children newly apparelled in white and gold. God’s will be done my dear: but thank you for your concern. You would not wish rain to spoil our day – a sweet thought, Sister Martha.’
More than rain. A wind to uproot trees. But she does not.
In the morning. ‘You must come, Sister Martha. The seven of us must head the procession, with the musicians. Come, we must walk from Sanctuary through the town. Please God, many may be swayed by the sight of our simple faith.’
‘No.’
When they return the banner is ripped. Their silks are wet and splashed with mud. Their white horses with uncut manes and tails bolted and one has broke its leg.
‘Brother Tobias’s flute is ruined – and I know not how many of the other instruments besides.’
‘All the choir robes – there is not one not in need of repair.’
‘But we were lucky to come off unhurt, Sister Joanna. There are roofs and chimneys down all over Ashton. I have had two children to the door just now calling me out to Pottinger Street, where the collapse of two houses has left a mother and child still unaccounted for – and othe
rs injured. I beg you will allow Leah to accompany me.’
‘Take Sister Martha. She has more strength.’
‘How did you know, Martha?’
As we hurry across the drowned field. A split beech lies like a broken straw across the path.
‘I know.’
They have God. I do not know that. They have more words. They have different fear. They fear what is to come.
I have, which is given since I come here – body all lengths and shapes. Sight hearing smell touch taste I have senses inrushing as pumped water does to overlow your mouth and face. I have.
I know. That place and this. Bad and good. Weather. That Dinah will die. That Rebekah is with child. That Joanna has a rotten patch, like the soft brown side a stored apple has laid on all winter. I know Leah burns, and I know the Prophet will leave.
He fucks with me in the ditch at the back. I used to eat the bucket, in that ditch. Now I do not. There is food at table for people. Only now and then that great hunger rears up. Then I have to grab stuff grab and chew in handfuls. But now I know how to get in the larder.
He does not speak to me. He puts his hands at the sides of my head, with his thumb curled up behind my ear. His hands are hot. It makes my head a flower, held. But I know what he will do. I do not want. I move back.
‘I will not hurt you.’
Keep still.
‘Martha, I will not hurt you.’
Keep very still.
It hurts. My father hurt me. And then the thing inside me, coming out the bloody wriggling thing. My father picks it up with a sack and takes it away. My insides hurt so bad I cannot stand. The blood all down me. He got a bucket of water and threw over me. He told me shut your noise.
If I do not. This man can send me back.
I get on my hands and knees and pull the skirt over. I wait. Keep still. He moves around to my head, and crouches beside me.
‘No, Martha. Not like that.’
In this new world, nothing is the same. Bad is good. My body is not for pain. At first I. But no. And he stroke me. I am afraid. Keep still. But he pet me like a dog. He brush my skin. It hot. When the base of his belly touches mine ripples begin. His breath is fast like running. We go. On the ground we move and then our bodies jump together like voices singing up the notes. There is sweat and juice on our bellies, our thighs are slippery. When he pulls away his eyes are closed. He does his clothes. He gives me a sweetmeat from his pocket. Then he goes back around the hedge. I wait, as he tells me. I pull down my underskirt and dry between my legs. The cloth dries stiff, it has a musk-watery smell. He finds me on another day, and nods. For me to go to the ditch. Some days or nights he nods to me. At other times not. We do not speak. Once he says, ‘When is your time, Martha? Your women’s time for bleeding?’
