by Emma Hornby
‘Aye. All right, love. Ta, Minnie.’
They had their teas in their hands and had been conversing for all of half a minute when a gust of rain assaulted the draughty window, sending the thin glass rattling in the frame. They turned as one, Flora’s face falling at the sight of the rapid droplets bouncing off the panes. ‘Bugger.’
‘I’ll go and fetch your foodstuffs, Flora,’ offered Eliza. ‘Save you and the babby trudging out in that foulness.’
‘Ay, good thinking, good lass.’ Minnie nodded in agreement. ‘You’d both be soaked to the bone in moments, Flora, wench, else. That’ll not do, nay it’ll not, Jewel as young as she is.’
‘I were for calling in at my mam’s, though, on t’ way. She ain’t been too well these few days past, as you know.’ Flora gnawed her lip. ‘Mind, I’d not want the babby here to develop a chill …’
‘Course you don’t. ’Ere, you leave Jewel with myself and Eliza, how about that? That way, you can check in on your mam still.’
‘Oh, I don’t know, Minnie …’
‘Now come on, wench. Now you know she’ll be in safe hands with me. God above, the number of babbies that have been in my care—!’
‘I know, I know, love,’ Flora cut in quickly. ‘Eeh, there’s norra soul more experienced than thee where infants are concerned in all the land, I’m certain. She couldn’t be in safer hands, nay. It’s just …’ She swivelled her gaze to drink in her daughter’s delicate features. ‘Well, happen the weather will brighten in a minute, eh? Mebbe we should wait it out.’
‘Aye, and yon shops will be closed and bolted by then, an’ all. And what will your Fred say to that, coming home famished after a day’s graft to an empty table? He’d be for taking his belt to you, missis, and you’d not blame him for it.’
Eyes still on the child in her arms, Flora chewed her lip again. ‘Eeh, I don’t know …’
‘Wench, she’ll be fine. I’ll not take my eyes off her bonny face forra second, you have my word. Anyroad, I reckon the break will do you good. Not been from her side since birthing her, you’ve not, and it ain’t healthy. You need space to breathe, an’ all.’
‘She’s precious to me is all.’
‘Well, of course she is. By, you waited for her long enough. But it’s me what will be minding her, remember? Besides, you’ll not be away long, eh? Tha can be there and back again in less than ten and twenty minutes.’
Flora nodded, albeit reluctantly. ‘Aye, all right then. Ta-ra, you,’ she told her child, planting a tender kiss on her brow. ‘I’ll see thee soon and ay, you be good, now, for your Aunt Minnie.’
‘Course she will.’ Minnie lifted the girl and waved her friend off. ‘No need to rush back, neither, wench. Take a sup of tea with your poorly mam and be sure to send her my love whilst you’re about it.’
The woman dithered by the door. Minnie flicked her hand, shooing her on her way, and, chuckling, Flora drew her shawl over her head against the elements and left the house.
‘Eeh, I don’t know,’ said Eliza, crossing to the bed to lay the new, freshly bathed and clothed baby with the others. ‘Protective ain’t in it.’
‘And who can blame her?’ Minnie motioned to Jewel, asleep in the crook of her arm. ‘Waited half a lifetime for this angel, she did.’
‘Suppose so. Oh!’ Eliza looked to the door as knocking came and, at Minnie’s nod, went to answer it.
Their visitor was the pregnant young woman they had been expecting; Minnie waved aside her apologies for her lateness and ushered her inside. ‘Bedroom’s all made up ready for thee, lass. Eliza here will show you up and get you settled in whilst I brew us a fresh pot.’
‘Ta thanks, Mrs Maddox.’
‘Plain owd Minnie will do, lass. Go on now, go and get yourself out of them wet things and we’ll speak in a minute over a sup of tea.’
They disappeared upstairs and Minnie released a small, sad sigh. Worried witless, the poor thing had looked. A full belly, no ring on her finger, and with the same old sorry tale to tell. The fellow she believed loved her had had his way with her then reneged on his promise of marriage, denying any involvement in her predicament into the bargain. At her horrified parents’ insistence, here she was, sent before her belly began to grow so as not to arouse their neighbours’ suspicions – gone away working or nursing some sick relative or other, they would no doubt be told in explanation of her absence.
When the time came, Minnie would deliver the child and see to its adoption whilst the lass returned home, taking no baby and therefore no shame on to the family with her. Likely a gaping hole in her heart that would never be filled, too.
Aye well. Hers wasn’t to question the rights and wrongs, was it? she reminded herself, placing Jewel on the bed and heading off to refill the kettle. She’d just begun pouring out tea into three cups when Eliza’s thin figure appeared at the top of the stairs:
‘Min?’
‘Aye, lass?’
The girl’s voice dropped further. ‘Come up, will thee? She’s overcome with upset up here; I don’t know what to do.’
Minnie gave a sad nod. ‘Poor thing; it’s likely just hit her what being here means. Hang about, I’m coming.’ She abandoned the teapot and, flashing the babies a look to check they were all right and wouldn’t miss her, made for the bedroom.
Ten minutes later, after much tears and talk, the woman was undressed and in bed. Quieter now she’d finally unburdened her worries to someone, and that Minnie had put her mind at ease as to her child’s future, she settled down for a well-needed sleep.
‘You rest easy, child,’ Minnie told her softly. ‘The lass, here, shall stay with you awhile whilst I get back to my duties.’
Holding Eliza’s hand, eyes drooping, the woman murmured a thank-you, and Minnie headed back downstairs.
What alerted her to the fact that something was wrong she couldn’t say. She felt it the instant she entered the kitchen. She scanned the space, frowning – all appeared as it should be. Then her eyes settled on the bed and, for reasons she couldn’t fathom, her heart tripped a few beats in quick succession. She swallowed hard and made her way across.
One by one, she peered at the slumbering babies. All the while, she knew, she just knew …
She touched a trembling hand to the last infant’s cheek. Still warm. So perfect, peaceful … She fixed her gaze on the tiny chest anyway, watched intently for its rise and fall. It never came.
As though observing the scene from afar, Minnie watched herself cover the purple-tinged mouth. Then, with the tip of a finger, she compressed one nostril; into the other she blew steady puffs of air, inflating the lungs, all the while praying silently, fervently, the words falling over each other in her mind. And yet she knew – knew – her pleas were landing on deaf ears.
Again, as if witnessing everything from outside of her body, her hands loosened the clothing then turned the child’s body on to its right side. She saw herself reach for the brandy, dip her fingers inside the bottle. Starting at the head, she quickly, sharply, rubbed the spirit the length of the spine to evoke heat in it – a tried-and-tested method that had worked more than once over the years. But not now. Not this time. Once more, her lamentations filled her brain. Still, she knew she’d hear no gasp, no cry – faint or otherwise.
Nothing could alter the truth that Jewel Nightingale was dead.
A sudden clap of thunder broke through the rain, momentarily dazzling the room with light – and Minnie stilled. Like herself, many believed thunder following a death to be a sign that the recently departed had entered into heaven. She didn’t much go for the idea that children who passed from this life before they had a chance to be baptised were set to languish in some form of infant limbo for eternity. What God would allow such an awful thing? No. The Lord she knew and worshipped received every lost soul into His arms, she was certain.
Gently, Minnie laid the girl down and on limbs that felt attached to someone else’s body crossed to the window. The chimney-stack sky held its u
sual factory tint – a red sheen that cast the city in a haunting light. A numbness had seized her brain in its grasp and she could neither feel nor think. A strand of sound tapped at the mind fog. She heard in her memories the decades of bitter tears telling of Flora’s painful yearning. And she heard the joyous cries as she’d held her so-longed-for child in her arms. Then she imagined the unearthly ones to come at her friend’s return to discover she’d had the priceless title of motherhood snatched away from her.
Flora would die, too. There wasn’t a single doubt of that. She would follow her daughter into the black ground, would make sure of it, for she could never function, never exist, now, without her.
As with the child Eliza had found in this very bed, deceased for no apparent reason, who had lain cold in his box in Minnie’s bedroom until she’d watched him be buried only last week, the dreaded cradle death was commonplace. Small babies were spirited away in their sleep sometimes, everyone knew it; though why was another matter.
Neither rhyme nor reason could explain either case, here. The children in her care had suffered no injury, their little faces hadn’t been accidentally covered by the bedclothes, nothing like that. It was just something that happened, with no explanation or means of prevention. It didn’t make it any less heart-rending. Nor did it make the truth easier to accept. And Flora wouldn’t, not at all. She’d do whatever it took to be with her daughter, whether that meant in life or death. She’d do it, all right.
Minnie’s breaths came in short gasps. She glanced up and down the street then behind her towards the stairs. Then she hurried to the bed.
Her gaze went not to Jewel but the female child with the violet eyes who had been thrust into her care not half an hour ago. She was virtually the same size and stature as the dead girl. They shared the same colouring, the same button nose and rosebud mouth, both no more than a dusting of downy hair. They even had the same features, as far as she could see. The passage of time hadn’t yet begun to define their individuality – babies at the beginning of life did, by and large, look the same. Aye, they did …
Tongues would wag for certain, questions would be raised. The demise of two of her charges in as many weeks – whom she’d received money for, no less? The possibility of her coming under suspicion by the authorities was a very real one. Her good name, her spotless character, would be tarnished. She’d be ruined. And she didn’t care. Flora mattered more to her. Much more.
Now, Minnie was in full control of her actions. Swiftly, deftly, she stripped the new girl of her clothing. Then she did the same with Jewel.
The beautiful garments Flora had lovingly knitted, she now dressed the new girl in. Seconds later Jewel was wearing the items from the dresser’s bottom drawer. After switching their blankets and wrapping both children up, Minnie stepped back and surveyed them through eyes blurry with tears. She swallowed at the panic threatening to choke her.
They really did look one and the same. To her, at least. But what of a mother? Would Flora …? God above, what was she doing?
‘I don’t know.’ Minnie answered her own thought in a small whimper. ‘Don’t know what I were … were thinking …’ With a cry, she rushed forward to right the madness of her actions. She’d begun removing the babies’ blankets when the sound of rainfall filling the room as the door was opened, then Flora’s cheery welcome, halted her in her tracks. On jerky legs, she turned.
‘Eeh, it’s foul out there!’ Flora jiggled on the spot, shaking the outside from her wet shawl. ‘Ta ever so, Minnie, love, for minding my angel. How’s she been?’ Her hungry gaze looked beyond her to the bed, seeking out her child. ‘Not fretting over me, were she?’
Minnie couldn’t breathe. Speaking was an impossibility. She shook her head.
‘Oh, I am glad. Been worried summat sick, I have.’ Flora flashed a sheepish grin. ‘What am I like, eh? I knew she’d be gradely, course I did. I’m a daft beggar, that’s what.’ When Minnie didn’t answer, she cocked her head. ‘You all right, love?’
‘Aye.’ Her voice sounded off to her own ears. Short, high-pitched. Guilty. She tried to smile but failed. She watched Flora’s own smile slip from her lips, watched unable to do anything, wide-eyed and frozen, as her friend crossed the space towards her. Towards the bed. Towards the children. Again, that sensation of being out of her body had returned and, like the rest of her, her tongue acted without her say-so: ‘The lass … The new lass entrusted to me earlier has passed away, wench, in her sleep.’ She waited. Nothing. Flora was staring intently at the sleeping infant adorned in her daughter’s clothes. ‘Love? Love, I—’
‘I’ll be off home, now, Minnie.’
Minnie’s brow creased in a frown. She exhaled slowly. Flora was still stooped over the children and her eyes swivelled continually from one girl to the other. Her expression was unreadable. After a last, lingering look at her dead daughter, she lifted the other girl and turned for the door. Close to tears, Minnie stumbled after her.
‘Ta again, love, for minding my Jewel. I’ll be seeing thee.’
Before she could say or do anything – grasp at Flora’s arm, pour out her guilt, cry, beg her forgiveness – her neighbour was gone. The door clicked shut and Minnie sagged against the wall.
She knew. Minnie had heard it in her flat tone when she’d bid her goodbye, had seen it in her eyes before she’d turned dazedly for home. She knew. She knew and had done nothing. God in heaven above. Horror and panic swamped her – she gripped the mantel for support as her legs threatened to buckle. She knew.
But did she really? Surely any mother would have said something – anything. Surely she would have? And yet … Minnie shook her head. She felt dizzy and sickness was swooping through her guts in waves.
It was only then that she remembered the birthmark.
Like that of little Jewel lying feet away, her own heart ceased its beating. Stare fixed on the fire’s hypnotic flames, she felt behind her blindly until her fingers brushed the shelf and the brandy atop. One baby departs this earth, another arrives to take its place in the world …
With tears coursing down her lined face, Minnie lifted the bottle to her lips.
Chapter 3
‘BY GUM! WHAT a sight. I ain’t never seen the like.’
Esther Powell shoved her niece aside with an ample hip. Resting her arms on the windowsill, she squinted through the driving rain to the square below. ‘Well, what do you expect?’ she asked in her usual withering tone. ‘It’s Bolton’s first royal visit. A bit of bad weather weren’t about to put the townspeople off catching a glimpse of the Prince and Princess of Wales, now, were it?’
Biting down on her tongue to stem a retort, as she was frequently forced to in the prickly woman’s presence – Esther had a knack of making a body feel as thick as a brick with her caustic remarks – Jewel returned her attention to the heaving crowds. As well as a strong police presence, there had to be thousands of people down there, she reckoned. By, but it was a gradely sight to behold.
‘Anyroad, lady.’ Her aunt speaking again scattered the smile from her face. ‘Why you up here, like? You finished your duties downstairs? Nay, I’ll bet. Skiving as per usual. Take yourself away and get back to it. That shop floor won’t scrub itself, you know.’
Jewel felt her cheeks flame with indignant colour that matched that of her hair – a sure sign her temper was about to show itself, whether she wanted it to or not. Fortunately, her uncle intervened:
‘Let her be, Esther. Sure, the cleaning ain’t going nowhere. The day’s an important one, after all, and should be marked as such; by everyone, aye. Besides, don’t it also happen to be the lass’s birthday an’ all, to boot? A few hours away from the grind won’t hurt none.’
Jewel flashed him a grateful look and he gave a discreet nod back. Esther merely sniffed. What she’d do without Bernard Powell on her side, Jewel dreaded to think. She wouldn’t stay, that much she knew. She’d turn stark staring mad without him here to buffer her from the worst of his wife’s nastiness,
she was certain. Or finish up in a prison cell for bashing Esther’s podgy face to a pulp, which most of the time she’d really like to do.
That last wicked thought – oh, if only her aunt could hear them! – brought a bubble of laughter, and she chewed her bottom lip to stop it escaping.
The electrifying atmosphere outside carried through once more and her smile returned. Despite the inclement weather, the scene was mesmerising. The Market Square, or the Town Hall Square, as most now called it – a proper market hadn’t been held here for years since the nearby constructions of the impressive Market Hall and Fish Market – had been transformed. So, too, had the carriageways and streets forming the route of the procession, which had been barricaded since ten o’clock that morning and would remain so until after the event. People and horses alike, scrubbed and groomed, stood proudly in their best, waiting patiently. Building fronts and gas lamps were garlanded with large, swaying flags, banners and bunting, which reflected in the glistening-wet cobbled setts, adding splashes of welcome colour.
To the north side of the square, where the Powells’ umbrella shop stood, a battlemented archway as tall and wide as the abutting buildings had been erected. Through this, the royal carriage would emerge from Oxford Street, containing their long-awaited visitors. Nose almost touching the pane, Jewel craned her neck left towards the decorated wooden structure, checking for their imminent arrival, but there was no sign yet. Instead, she trained her gaze on the centrepiece facing and the purpose of this auspicious occasion: the new Town Hall, towering over the town.
Neoclassical in style, the vast sandstone edifice was majestically designed. On both sides ran a high basement storey, above which sat two floors dotted with arched and rectangular windows and broad columns. At the centre was a six-columned portico and pediment adorned with sculptures. Bolton’s elephant-and-castle emblem, human and lion heads and figures by the doors holding date stones into which were carved this year, 1873, were included in the embellishments.
