Mr Wroe's Virgins

by Jane Rogers

  I shake my head.

  ‘You do not have monthly courses?

  ‘No.’

  ‘Have you never –?’

  He will not make me say it into words. Do not bring it in this light do not.

  ‘You are crying Martha. Hush.’ He touches my cheek with his finger. I keep still. He watches me then he goes in the house. Not in this place of sweetness. Nothing else can harm me now, look I am free. Once I think no. The old Martha is still there, in that life. I am a new Martha, but the old one still lives that life. I begin to sweat. Is it true? How can I bring her here? She is that, as the mushroom on horse-dung: the mouse in owl’s beak. I am not moving away from her.

  No. Hannah says, ‘You should learn the months then you can make sense of time. January, February, March. They follow one another, Martha, there is an order – then the number of the year. Do you know what year it is? Eighteen hundred and thirty. That’s how many years have passed since Christ was –’

  No. No. Old Martha in the dark place, new Martha in this sweet life. She is there still I will not make it into this world with words for them to see. Could I bring her? The old bad time is stronger. I will not go near it I will not touch. Only the past is to fear.

  Dinah will die. She smells bad. I do not go in her room.

  Joanna tells me to empty the slops from the bedrooms.

  ‘Sister Martha! Why have you not emptied the slops from Sister Dinah’s room?’

  ‘She will be dead.’

  ‘Martha! You must not say that.’ She looks at me, I wait.

  ‘Come upstairs with me now. Come on.’ We go to Dinah’s room. Dinah breathes fast and light as a small dog. Joanna wipes her wet face and neck. She gives her a spoonful of drink. I wait.

  ‘Martha – Sister Dinah is ill – so we must help her. We must help the sick, tend them, try to ease their suffering. Christ asked us to help the sick. The love of God has healing powers. Do you understand, Martha? We must pray for her. Come here, kneel by me.’

  When an animal is dead it does not move. It is finished.

  Hannah

  How I dreaded that first class! The night before, what little sleep I had was dogged with dreams of not knowing what to say or how to proceed, and watching, in ghastly silence, my pupils rise one by one from their seats and contemptuously quit my presence.

  My worst fears were justified when I arrived at the Methodist Hall at seven o’clock to find no sign of Catherine. I waited outside the door for a while, then knocked and went in. The building was open but perfectly empty, then after fifteen minutes two dirty-looking young men came and sat on the doorstep and began to feast upon a hunk of bread and cheese they had wrapped in a handkerchief. They did not seem surprised to see me, so I asked if they came for the classes. Yes, they had come straight from work at the foundry, and were taking their bait before class. I began to imagine she might not come, and that I would be left alone to deal incompetently with all comers. It was nearly ten minutes before eight, and the place full of people who looked at me strangely, when she appeared. A lad with her was carrying a box of books, but she did not make any excuse for her lateness, only saying I should not worry as there was plenty of time.

  She divided the students into two groups; beginners, and those who already had some rudiments of the skill. The second, smaller group (twelve in all) were to be my pupils. She gave me a pile of those penny alphabets children use, and some copies of the Cooperators’ magazine. They are attempting to build up a library of simple readers, but do not yet have so many as a dozen copies of any one book. She told me how I should proceed with them, and then led me to my classroom; a small bare side-room which the Methodists use for their Sunday school. It was stuffy from the heat of the day, and smelled quite strongly of sweat. I expected that the majority of my pupils would be men, but I had not expected so many of them to be older than me. Standing at the front of the room with all their eyes expectantly on me, I felt as if my nightmare was coming true, and that I should never be able to force a sound from my throat. But I gripped my books, and stared down at them until the panic subsided a little – and then I managed to blurt out my name. Passing round the alphabet books, each one read or stumbled through a page aloud, repeating my corrections hesitantly. This was until we came to a thin, ill-looking youth who simply stared at his page in silence. ‘Try the first word,’ I urged him, and then, when there was no response, ‘F – F – Fox, Fly – can you try the next word?’ He continued to stare at his page in mute misery, so after a moment I passed on to the next, who read that page and the following with ease.

  As they concentrated, I became calmer, and was able to look at them more steadily. Eight men and four women, all of them in working clothes. They had the pale complexions of factory operatives, and accents so strong I had some difficulty in telling whether it was their reading or their pronunciation that was at fault. After she had read, one of the women, who was older than the others, looked up at me and smiled. I passed around the magazine and we read the first article aloud together slowly. I watched the young man who had failed to read earlier, and saw that he was simply mouthing the words, a little after the others, copying them, in an attempt to seem to be able to read with them. For the final half hour I set them to work in pairs, a weaker reader with a stronger, spelling out the words together, whilst I moved from one pair to the next, guiding them over the more difficult parts. When I came to the young man, his partner was reading aloud, while the boy sat listening. I asked him if he would read a sentence for me, whereupon he burst into tears. Everyone stopped what they were doing to stare at him, and then continued their mumbled readings more loudly. God knows I am not tall, but I seemed to tower over him where he sat on the low bench. I crouched beside him. ‘It does not matter if you cannot do it. I am here to teach you. There is no disgrace in it, there is no need to cry. If these words are too difficult, you may join the beginners’ class.’ His partner passed him his handkerchief, and he blew his nose. He would not look at me, only kept staring down at his page, and began to talk in a soft voice so that I had to bend closer to hear.

  ‘I can read, Miss. I can read. Father taught me. I can read my Bible. Only, I cannot make out the words.’ I was at a loss what to do or say, but then the woman who had smiled at me leant back from the bench in front.

  ‘It’s his eyes, love. They’re not so good.’ He looked up at me then; his pale blue eyes seemed clear enough.

  ‘Can you not see?’ I asked him.

  ‘Yes. I can see,’ he said defensively. ‘Course I can see.’ But at length, by questioning him on items close by, and a notice pinned to the far wall, I discovered that he could make out very little nearby, and only strong, clear shapes in the distance. Promising that I would find him something he would be able to make out, for next week, I left him listening to his partner and moved on to hear the others.

  I had anticipated finding myself the butt of humour, and even insults, concerning my dress, my (to their ears) strange foreign accent, and my stiff nervousness; but instead they showed the greatest respect, and were indeed so quiet and timid, that I found myself desperately seeking for kindly or humorous remarks to set them at their ease. When Catherine came in to tell us it was time for the class to end, they all said goodbye and thanked me as they left, leaving me suddenly weak with relief that it had passed off so well.

  Catherine and I have discussed the blue-eyed boy, Albert. His sight is clearly impaired, and, at a guess, worsening, for how could his father have taught him to read the Bible, with such vision as he has now? I have found a book of children’s verse with very heavy, large print, which he reads fluently. He is not even willing to admit that his sight is poor, so much does he fear that he may become blind and unfit for work. It is a mystery to me how he can continue about his daily life and tasks at work without accident.

  At the end of the second class, since Catherine appeared to have forgotten her offer, I asked Albert if he would be kind enough to walk me home; to which he readily
agreed. He has shown me a number of short cuts to my journey, and now waits for me at the canal bridge before class, to guide me there as well as back. The streets are busy in the evening just now, for when the people get home from work the carts go round with water drawn from the Tame. Albert tells me most of the wells and pumps are dry, after the past month’s heat. I have persuaded him to visit Catherine’s husband, William, who might be able to find out what is wrong with his eyes.

  Apart from Albert, the other who has shown especial friendliness is the older woman, Annie. Arriving early for class one time, she came and sat beside me and, in answer to my questions, told me about herself. She works fourteen hours a day in the carding room at Albion Mill. Her daughter is grown up, so she and her husband Peter can both come to school. I asked her if she only had the one child; no, the others she lost as babies. Her third, the only one not sickly, she lost through leaving it in the care of an old nurse, and going back to the mill. The woman gave it opium to quieten it in the day. It is a common cause of infant deaths hereabouts, she tells me – and the nurses rarely blamed; more often are the mothers condemned, for leaving their children in the care of others. ‘Although if we did not work, we should starve,’ she told me cheerfully enough. Her daughter and her husband live with them, and a grandchild is soon expected.

  I cannot describe the poignant mixture of sadness and pride I feel, at seeing these grown working men and women tracing along the lines of their reading books with a forefinger, attempting and stumbling over words, hungry for the sense of them. When I look at the children tumbling home from the mills, as I set out to teach my class, I burn with anger to think of the ignorance in which they are kept.

  *

  This afternoon I went in to discuss with Mr Wroe the question whether the Israelite press might be used to run off the spinners’ handbills for their meeting next week. Members of my class are full of the news of the return to Ashton of Mr John Doherty, the spinners’ leader, who will address the meeting and bring news of the General Union of Spinners which he has helped to establish. They want to get handbills out before the weekend; but the printer who has worked for them in the past has been arrested for publishing unstamped newspapers. I thought of the Israelite press straight away, then dismissed it as impossible; then changed again to thinking at the very least it is worth a try with Mr Wroe. In the right mood, he would say yes – and even in the wrong mood, he might say no more than that he did not care. The Israelite press stands idle from one week’s end to the next, it was last used for a pamphlet of six sermons, back in July. No one else need even know we have had the use of it.

  He was, however, resistant to the idea. Loan of the press must be requested of all the elders in conference, and is not within his power; if used for political ends (and how else could I define the spinners, with their incitement to strike and civil disorder?) the press could legitimately be impounded; and so on. We were in the middle of a heated argument (which I still had some hopes of winning, as he was arguing, not dismissing me with that cold contempt he uses at times) when I felt a sudden sharp pain in the small of my back. It was so unexpected that I cried out. Mr Wroe leapt to his feet and asked me what was the matter. I could only think that a bee had somehow got inside my dress and stung me – but when I moved the stabbing pain came again, just as sharp as before. He examined the back of my dress. ‘There is nothing here I can see – we had better look inside.’ He began to unbutton my bodice, which seemed to increase the repeated stabbing pains, so that I could not hold back tears. He unbuttoned the dress to the waist and began to loosen my stays. I felt a sharper hurt as he held aside the fabric to examine my back; then he knelt down, peering inside the dress, and suddenly exclaimed, ‘Here it is! I have the little rascal!’ He fumbled at the waistband, and pulled out a long needle, still threaded – clearly left in when the dress was made. ‘It has made you bleed,’ he said, handing me the needle. ‘Who is the careless seamstress?’

  ‘I made this myself,’ I was forced to confess. My relief at the pain ending was considerable, but I was beginning to feel extremely embarrassed at my situation. ‘I am very sorry to be such a nuisance.’ I wanted him to fasten my stays and dress again quickly – if Joanna or Samuel had come in, what might they have thought? My face began to burn, and his serious expression turned into a broad grin.

  ‘My dear Sister Hannah! I have never seen such a blush – it is hotter than the fire. There is no need for embarrassment – I have seen a woman’s back before, you know.’ I turned my back so he could fasten me, and to hide my burning face. But before he did so, he seemed to gently stroke the hurt place, in the small of my back, with his fingertips. It gave me a very strange feeling. I was filled with confusion, then I realized that he was probably wiping off a few drops of blood: almost certainly, he was wiping away blood so that it would not stain my clothes. When he had finished doing me up I thanked him and left his room quickly, still feeling rather uncomfortable. I have no final answer on the press, but I think I shall leave it. The small of my back seems to retain the impression – seems unduly sensitive. No doubt the effects of the needle.

  *

  In late September Mr Wroe announced that he would take three of the women on a short missionary tour of Yorkshire and eastern Lancashire; the party would be away for about two weeks. Dinah by that stage was clearly in her last illness, Rachel her constant companion. When he told me he should take myself, Leah and Martha, I suggested the substitution of Sister Joanna for myself; sweet, patient Joanna, whose entire aim in life is preaching and missionary work, and who of all of us has had least escape from domestic drudgery. But – no. She was necessary at home, against the day of Dinah’s death.

  ‘Knowing our customs as she does, and being possessed of great love and faith, she will make an infinitely better guide and companion for Sister Dinah and those who watch with her than yourself.’

  I was sufficiently stung by this (albeit knowing it to be true) to refuse outright to go.

  ‘Then you may leave this household.’

  I suppose he knew I would not; which was more than I myself did, for I lay awake all night considering and planning what I might do. To take a post as governess or companion now (even supposing such a thing to be available, and I knew from past experience that was unlikely) would remove me not only from a household where I feel secure, but also from my night class and my new friends among the Cooperators. If I went on his idiot tour, well that would be two weeks away from Ashton. But if I leave the household, I must leave it all for good.

  I was angry at being forced to fall in with his plans; or rather, God’s plans, as he so often affirms, exculpating himself from any responsibility in a transparently childish manner.

  And so the packing; the arrangements to be made concerning my absence from night school; the sad farewell with Dinah, whom I honestly thought could not last till our return. We rose before dawn (when Joanna shook me I was convinced it was washday, and felt my shoulders begin to ache before I had even opened my eyes) and got into the coach without breaking our fast, baskets of provisions tucked under our feet, and a fourteen-hour or more journey to Whitby ahead of us. Wroe sat outside on the box with Samuel, which I wish I could have done. The roads were still hard and dusty after the long hot summer, and the jolting fit to shake our teeth from our jaws. A broken axle cut short our travelling day and we were forced to put up at a coaching house, a loud noisy dirty place where the chamber maid stared so insolently at our clothes that Leah slapped her face. This took her off sobbing to the landlord, who treated us three women with the greatest rudeness imaginable. Mr Wroe took refuge in his room with Samuel all evening, leaving no means possible for us to complain at our shabby treatment, and the supper served to us in our room was as dreadful as we predicted it would be: tough, dried up, wizened fowl, cooked to the texture of wood shavings, accompanied by a mess of vegetables swimming in salty gravy.

  Next day we passed through some pretty countryside, coming at length to the coast, which is
astonishingly lovely. All of us, I think, felt a rush of excitement on our first view of the sea. Martha had not seen it before. Leah told us she had been to St Anne’s and Blackpool ‘with my young man’, but that ‘it was not so blue there’. For myself, I had seen only the estuary at the Thames, flat and grey, bobbing with the scum and filth of the port. Here was an expanse of brilliant blue, crested with white; rocky cliffs and strips of yellow sand, and a clean salt smell that raised the spirits on the instant. They say sea air is a tonic, and I can believe it. Imagine if I could have brought my father here and let him breathe that pure clean breeze …

  But it was December then, there would have been gales, not breezes; an angry, not a gentle sea.

  Whitby is a charming town. The estuary bustles with fishing vessels, and the fishermen’s houses perch on the steep sides of the valley overlooking the harbour, with the romantic arches of the old abbey crowning the skyline above them. We were dispersed among two households, none of the Whitby Israelites possessing a sufficiently grand establishment to shelter us all beneath one roof. So steep are the cobbled lanes that our coach must be left in the yard at the Angel Inn, and we made our way on foot up to our lodgings. Martha and I stayed with a Mrs Brown, a baker’s wife, while the other three were at a house some ten minutes distant.