Moon Rising

by Ann Victoria Roberts

  Stung, I retorted: ‘We’ll soon see about that!’ while my face flamed with guilt and fury. I flounced off in the direction of the cottage to write another letter to Bram, this one tersely phrased, to the effect that I needed his agreement to keep the roof over my head. A week later, all discretion was abandoned, my phrases to the point. I was expecting his child, I said, and didn’t know what to do; would he please contact me at once.

  I thought a reply would come by return, but when nothing came by the end of the week, I was forced to reach the conclusion that he had no intention of contacting me.

  I felt hollow. Well over a year had passed since I’d walked out on Old Uncle Thaddeus, and, instead of improving, my situation was infinitely worse than it had been then. I was carrying a child, my job was uncertain, and it seemed I was about to be turned out on the streets. Disgust overwhelmed me. I even suspected that Old Uncle was right and I was wrong. Had I been possessed of the right degree of humility, I could have gone to him and apologised; I might even have begged his help. But I was both too proud and too ashamed for that, and, more importantly, didn’t trust him not to come up with some means of punishment specifically designed to break my will. Instead, feeling desperate, I went to see Bella, and Bella went to see Nan Mills.

  That was the worst mistake I ever made. It was nearly the last, too, but by then fear and recklessness had mastered good sense. Before I met that appointment, however, I went to the bank on Low Lane to speak to Mr Richardson about investments. While I was there I mentioned to him my problem about the cottage, managing to imply that the owners’ agent was having difficulty accepting a young woman as a responsible tenant, and my previous guarantor was no longer in a position to help. Although it was not my intention at the time to play the part of a weak, defenceless and misjudged woman, that aura must have been clinging about me. I could not help but notice the speed and concern with which Mr Richardson prepared to spring to my aid, and before our interview was over he had noted all details and was making arrangements to pay the next month’s rent from my account.

  ‘But I shall have to find fresh accommodation before the end of September anyway,’ I told him, ‘and a new job, I’m afraid. What I’m doing now is purely temporary.’

  ‘And what are you doing now, my dear?’

  My shame-faced account of misfortune was no act. I explained that I’d been trained as a ladies’ maid by the Misses Sterne at Fylingthorpe, which calling I’d followed until my grandmother’s last illness called me back to Bay. Since then, I said, a combination of fortune and misfortune had led me to my present position at the hotel, which was as temporary assistant to the housekeeper. The claim was inflated and a risk of sorts, since he could have checked up; but I had the feeling he liked me too much for that. There was no need to fake emotion as I went on to tell him I thought it was time for me to leave Whitby and start afresh elsewhere.

  But I had plans for the future, I said, and with regard to my £100 I wanted it investing at once, in something with a chance of good return. At that Mr Richardson raised his eyebrows and asked whether I understood the risks involved. His advice to me would be to start small, and build up to the point where I could afford to lose a little.

  At that I cut him off, and with a tight smile said I wanted to invest all my money in shipping. I was prepared to spread the risk over two or three local owners who were always advertising shares in Baltic and North Sea cargoes, but I would like one of the ships to be the Lillian. Whether from sentiment or superstition – or simply as an antidote to my own sense of recklessness – I felt the need to held on to something, and Jonathan Markway, aboard his ‘good seaboat’, was the safest image I had.

  ‘It’s a gamble, I know, but less so at this time of year. And anyway,’ I added coquettishly as I gathered my things and prepared to leave, ‘don’t you think we come from a long line of gamblers in Bay? My father and grandfather gambled with their lives – and lost. This, after all, is only money...’

  On that piece of heresy I left, emotions high and my heart beating so frantically I thought it would burst.

  It was a fine, warm afternoon, and the bridge was busy with townsfolk and visitors, all having some reason for crossing from one side of the harbour to the other. Ladies with parasols jostled elbows with Scottish fisherlasses in headscarves and greasy aprons; smart young men in blazers dodged between elderly couples and invalids in bathchairs. Seamen and shipbuilders, coastguards and harbour officials, were all going about their business that afternoon quite unconscious of the reckless young woman in their midst, who had persuaded herself that the stakes were high enough to warrant risking all for a future free of shame and poverty.

  With Jonathan on my mind, I was startled, walking through town, by the glimpse of a young man’s reflection in a glass window. He looked so much like him, for a moment I was stopped in my tracks, torn between apprehension and a rush of foolish longings. But then he moved and, when I saw his face, the resemblance to Jonathan was slight, mainly a combination of youth and colouring, of curly dark hair and tanned skin. A look so prevalent amongst the Cornish fishermen.

  Offshore, the luggers were idling at anchor in the heat of the afternoon. Watching them, I found myself wishing I could turn back the clock. Jonathan’s occupation, which had seemed such a drawback to begin with, now seemed no problem at all. I could even see advantages in being married to such a man. With the feeling that I’d give anything to start afresh, I wondered where he was, whether he still thought of me, and, laceratingly, what he would think if he knew what I’d been up to, the state I was in as a result.

  Reluctantly, I went back to the cottage. I knew I should eat, but there was no fire and it was too much trouble to light. Instead I cut a piece of cheese and buttered some bread, slaking my thirst with a glass of water. Why hadn’t Bram replied to my letters? He’d written so much, surely he could spare me a few lines? Like the thud of a steam hammer the questions banged at me as I looked at his desk, his chair, his view from the window. But none of the answers made sense. Even if my letters to him had gone adrift, I felt if he loved me at all he would have written anyway, just to ask how I was faring without him.

  But that was always the point where emotion took over from logic, when I had trouble controlling my grief. I swear, if I’d had any intimation that I still mattered to him, if the words uttered so sincerely just a few weeks ago meant anything, then I would not have gone ahead with what I was about to do. But with no word at all, I felt I had no choice. Life was hard enough alone, but with a young child, ostracised and unprotected, not even £100 would take me very far. At the end of it, I could see nothing more clearly than the workhouse, and I was too proud to contemplate that.

  Thirty-three

  At sunset I picked up the few things I’d been asked to bring, together with a sum of money, and set off for the Cragg. Bella met me at the top of Cliff Lane – no more than a few paces from where Bram and I had first kissed last autumn – and we went along from there. It wasn’t far, but as soon as we were out of sight of the road we stopped to drink from the bottle she’d brought. The neat gin tasted oily and made me want to vomit, probably from nerves as much as recent memory: it took an effort of will to keep it down. The second swig was easier, the third I barely noticed apart from a lingering shudder as we arrived at Nan’s and knocked at the door.

  The house, like so many on the Cragg, was tall and narrow, tucked into a corner between neighbouring roofs and walls; somehow managing to give an impression of solitude and secrecy amidst that rookery of homes and workshops and lodgings. As on my previous visit I was impressed by its cleanliness in an area that was generally poor and often less than cared-for. Even the outside walls were recently whitewashed, giving a cool blue tinge to the warm summer shadows and providing a foil to pots of herbs ranged along the window ledge. Inside, it reminded me of my grandmother’s house at Bay, with scrubbed stone floors and white deal tables, an array of pewter plates and utensils on painted shelves in the kitchen. In suc
h a place it was hard to imagine anything illegal going on.

  Despite the warm evening, a small fire was burning and a kettle steamed gently on the hob. Nan Mills in her white cap and apron reminded me of the children’s nurse at my first place of work, and I wondered if that was what she’d been, and why she was called ‘Nan’. But if she sought to give an impression of uniformed efficiency, better that than the smiling, slovenly, half-drunken carelessness of a Cousin Martha.

  She’d been pleasant enough a couple of days previously, when it was just a question of asking questions and conducting a brief examination to confirm what I already suspected, although her tone had changed once she understood what was wanted. Even then she’d been keen to assure me that the operation was simple; the only problem being that we had to be discreet. If she agreed to do it, then I must swear not to implicate her under any circumstances. This had been said as much to Bella as to me. Now, grimly, with the door shut and the kitchen lamps lit, she asked whether I’d brought the money. I had, and in the collection of coins I tipped out of my purse lay the equivalent of three weeks’ wages. I suspected that Nan Mills charged as much as she felt her clients could afford, and was thankful I’d not told Bella about the cheque.

  She took one of the lamps and indicated that we should follow her up the circular staircase to the floor above, where a small back room was closely curtained against prying eyes. There was a long table, such as might be found in any good kitchen, with layers of newspaper spread over it, and a wooden chair and wash-stand to one side.

  To my surprise, having expected a bed, I was asked to climb on to the table and lie down with my knees up. Nan folded back my skirts and placed a thick wad of paper beneath me, then turned aside to wash her hands. She told me to spread my knees wide, and, when I hesitated, became impatient. ‘Come on now, we don’t want to be here all night.’ The hands that pushed my knees apart adjusted the set of my ankles, and then moved in from there. To my intense discomfort and embarrassment, she placed one hand on my abdomen while pushing the other inside me, feeling and probing with fingers that had no respect for my tender parts.

  On that unforgiving table I felt naked and exposed, like a goose at Christmas subject to the prize-fighting fists of the cook. Bella was seated on a chair, head down and chewing her fingernails, obviously preferring not to watch. I didn’t blame her. Wincing, trying not to cry out, I bit my lip instead. It seemed a nonsense to be told to relax, but at last, as Nan withdrew her hand I heaved a great sigh of relief, in my ignorance thinking the whole thing was over.

  But as I moved she stayed me with a dry laugh. ‘Nay, lass – we haven’t started yet.’

  From a cupboard in the wash-stand she took out a slim leather bundle and unwrapped it. My heart leapt with fear as I saw scissors and a thin knife, and long metal instruments that looked like meat skewers or crochet hooks. Bella shook her head and reached for the gin. This time I almost snatched the bottle out of her hand, took one hefty swig and then another, the thought of sick hangovers infinitely preferable to the coming ordeal.

  Fear made it worse, of course. And being threatened. Nan Mills made it terrifyingly clear that if she was to perform the operation safely, I must keep very still indeed. She had to find the neck of the womb and insert a probe in order to pierce the membrane; she did not want to pierce me by mistake, she said, just because I was stupid enough to wriggle at the wrong moment.

  Putting the gin aside, Bella took my hands instead. I was intensely thankful for that, as I was shaking so badly I began to be afraid that a sudden twitch might kill me. Nan arranged my knees to her satisfaction, then felt inside me again, all the while telling me to push out, not clench up. The next moment I felt something graze me deep inside, something at once sore and sharp that prompted an involuntary clenching of every muscle. Bella gripped tight, but even as I whimpered it was over, the hand was sliding out and my stretched and bruised parts were miraculously flexing back into place.

  While I lay there in a haze of gin and dizzy relief, with tears pouring down my face, Nan Mills issued instructions I was incapable of taking in. Then she took her instruments and went downstairs.

  Bella helped me up and wiped my face. ‘We’ve to go down – there’s some medicine she wants you to take.’

  I was beyond protest. My legs felt like twine but with Bella’s assistance I managed the stairs. Nan was pouring boiling water into a cup, and I thought gratefully of tea. But it was a herbal tea, a spicy, slightly bitter drink of raspberry leaves and ginger, that she said would help the action of the womb. I was to take it three times a day for a week, and must expect a heavy flow of blood.

  Feeling dizzy and confused, I found myself outside in the darkness. Bella put her arm around me and suggested going back to her house until I felt better. It was kind, but I dreaded feeling worse; and anyway, couldn’t bear the thought of Isa’s prying eyes. I wanted peace and quiet, a measure of order and cleanliness, and, most of all, what I had come to think of as my own bed.

  Fresh air sobered me, and in spite of everything we managed a reasonably steady progress back to Newholm. Bella insisted on staying overnight and I was glad of that; the bleeding had started and we were both apprehensive, not knowing what more to expect. Next morning I felt weak and unwell, but bound myself up and elected to go to work as usual.

  Having lately impressed the housekeeper with my diligence, I was able to gain a little forbearance for my malady. I said it was something I’d eaten, which gave an excuse for frequent visits to the privy, where at least I could sit down for a few minutes. By mid-afternoon, however, although the bleeding had stopped, I had pains in my stomach and back and was beginning to feel light-headed. One of the other girls took over the ironing and made me sit down in the linen room. Not long afterwards I keeled over in a swoon, and came to on the floor.

  The housekeeper was not pleased by the inconvenience, but, after issuing several dire threats and warnings about taking time off for illness, finally gave me permission to go home. By then I was feeling too ill to care. For a while I sat on a public bench on the west cliff, wondering whether to go looking for Bella who had gone home that morning, or to carry on to Newholm. In spite of the distance the latter seemed easier, certainly more straightforward, if only I could keep putting one foot in front of the other. How I managed to cover those two miles I’ll never know, but after many stops along the way I staggered down the path and into the cottage.

  I remember going into the scullery and pumping water into the ewer. I remember it being too heavy for me to lift, and feeling distraught because I knew I had a fever and needed plenty to drink. Everything hurt and my ears were buzzing and all I wanted to do was lie down and shut my eyes, but I had to have that water. I drank some, poured some more away, then lurched across the kitchen with it. In the bedroom, shivering violently, I started to undress, but was suddenly seized by agonising pains. Nausea gripped, then came the urge to evacuate, so powerful it was all I could do to get to the privy and sit there through spasms of agony, groaning and gasping for breath, convinced that I was dying.

  And without Bella, I would have died. Not quite then, perhaps, and certainly not from the pain alone, but I could not have survived the ensuing fever without care and attention. Although my memory of the next few days is unclear, I know Bella arrived at the cottage not much more than an hour or so after me. She said she’d been worried all day, and after waiting near the hotel about the time I should have left, finally plucked up courage to call at the tradesmen’s door and ask for me. When she heard the tale from one of the kitchen maids, she set off for Newholm at once, running most of the way.

  I owe her my life for the way she looked after me, for cleaning me up and putting me to bed, for nursing me so well and so unfailingly through the delirium that followed. The fever kept me in its grip for days, with endless dreams of water and falling, of bloody wounds and accusing fingers, hissing snakes and erotic visions that turned into nightmares of rape and impalement and dead men walking. Amidst
the parched desert of my agony I had moments of clarity in which I recognised Bella, anxious and hollow-eyed as she bent over me, feeding me water from a spoon, or wiping the sweat from my face and breast. Then I would drift away again and be terrified, surrounded by pale, drowned faces with seaweed hair and sightless eyes, or black-clad devils with pitchforks, prodding me back into the flames.

  But it wasn’t the devil who had me in his grip, nor even Henry Irving at his most sinister. It was, in effect, childbed fever, which had snatched my mother’s life away, and came so close to taking mine.

  Thirty-four

  That summer was the last I spent in Whitby. Looking back, certain moments stand out vividly, moments that had nothing to do with Bram, except that that summer everything had something to do with him. Yet when I think of it now, even our involvement was like an echo of something that had its origins before I was born.

  I remember standing on the bridge, watching the fisherlasses along the quay, knives and fish flashing like silver in the sun, gutting and packing so fast their hands were impossible to follow. They were cheerful, confident, a joy to watch, their arms and faces bronzed by the sun. Their voices carried across the water, the accents of the Scottish girls reminding me of my mother, bringing a lump of loneliness to my throat. In need of comfort and reassurance, I remember wondering whether that young woman who was my mother would have understood the anguish of my predicament, or castigated me for its foolishness.

  I hoped she’d understand; after all, she had fallen in love with my father who, like Bram, belonged to a different class. He was used to a life far above the impoverished existence she’d known as a girl. On the face of it at least. The realities may have been closer than either side liked to admit, but even in households where cash was tight and income heavily committed, there were degrees of pride and gentility, accepted codes of behaviour that people clung to in spite of everything. Grandmother certainly did, and I can imagine my father as a young man burning to rebel, longing to flout all domestic rules and restrictions, particularly after finishing a long and disciplined apprenticeship at sea. He’d met a beautiful girl and fallen in love; and, like some medieval knight, was determined to rescue her from a life of brutal work and poverty, no matter what anyone else had to say.