by Evie Grace
Catherine recoiled.
‘Agnes, I’m here.’ She swept her up into her arms, spat on the corner of her apron and wiped her face and hands. ‘What’s that on your knee?’
Catherine tried to pick out the grit from the graze on her skin. Agnes grimaced but she didn’t cry. It was as though she couldn’t be bothered, her spirits weighed down by the black clouds and stormy sky.
‘How did this happen?’ she asked the other children. There were five – two girls and three boys, all under six – in Annie’s charge. ‘Annie, why haven’t you been watching them?’
She looked thinner than Catherine remembered. Her elbows poked out from her blouse and her apron ties were wrapped twice around her waist.
‘I’ve bin trying to keep my eyes on them, but they’ve worn me out.’ Racked by a fit of coughing, she covered her mouth, but when the coughing stopped and she opened her palm, it was spattered with fresh blood.
‘Oh my dear, you are sick. You shouldn’t be looking after the children at all. Have you seen the doctor?’ Catherine had more confidence in the junior medical officer who worked at the Union than she’d had in Doctor Whebley.
Annie shook her head.
‘What good will it do? I know what it is. My mother and my sister had the same. They are both dead and buried.’
‘You poor girl. Look, I’m sorry for shouting at you. I’ll speak with Mrs Coates about what can be done.’
‘Ta, miss. You’re very kind.’
‘Come along, the dinner bell has rung,’ Catherine said, carrying Agnes inside.
She couldn’t eat. What kind of life was it here for the children? She remembered her childhood: the farm, the hens, the fields and fresh food. Here, the sunshine crept into the courtyards and through the grimy windows for a limited time as though it feared being trapped like the inmates if it tarried for too long within the Union’s walls. If Agnes stayed here for much longer, she could end up like Annie: skeletal and consumptive; or she might go mad like the lunatics who rocked back and forth and shouted out at night, and wandered half naked around the workhouse.
She bit her lip, recalling the bitter fragrance of the hops at hopping time, how her body ached at the end of a long day in the fields, the taste of a cool draught of beer and bread and cheese taken in the shade of the trees that rustled in the summer breeze. Agnes would never experience those joys, only the drudgery of the Union.
Was she being selfish, refusing to give up the most precious thing she had in the world?
Mr James had said that the couple who wanted her were prosperous. Catherine dreamed of wealth beyond measure: a house grander than Squire Temple’s; clothes more fashionable than Mr Hadington’s; a golden carriage pulled by two pairs of white horses. But possessions didn’t mean as much to her as the idea that Agnes would be educated and move in polite society, where she would meet potential suitors and marry for money as well as love, because, much as she’d refused to countenance Ma’s suggestions that financial security was more important than affection when it came to marriage, she could see now that she’d had a point.
She had loved Matty and he had loved her, but it hadn’t been enough. If they’d had money and education, and been born into a higher class, they would never have ended up in this situation.
Mr James was offering Agnes a free ticket to a new life, and Catherine the chance of independence. What should she do? What would Matty want her to do? What decision would he expect her to make?
Chapter Sixteen
This Little Piggy
The next morning, she sent word to Mr James, and within the hour, they were standing face to face in the meeting room.
‘Do I take it that you’ve changed your mind?’ he asked quietly.
She nodded.
‘Thank you, Mrs Matthews. You’ve made the right decision. She’ll have the best of everything, I promise.’
‘How can you be so sure?’
‘I’m an honourable man who keeps his word. You have experience of my dealings with other people.’
‘Indeed, sir.’
‘Then you must trust me on this matter. Now, go and fetch the child.’
‘At this minute?’ she exclaimed. It hadn’t occurred to her that it would be so soon. She’d thought she’d have plenty of time to prepare herself and say goodbye.
‘It’s the best way. I’ll arrange for you to receive the money tomorrow morning.’ He mentioned a sum that was beyond her wildest dreams. ‘I know of a small property for rent in Faversham. You may live there rent-free for six months to give you time to find work of some description so that you are no longer dependent on the Union to pay the rent. You’re making a wonderful gesture. You’ve made sure that she has a secure future, and restored delight and happiness to a marriage that’s been devastated by a wife’s grief over her barrenness. You will have other children. You are still a young woman.’
He was making out that a child was an object, something that could be easily replaced.
‘Fetch her,’ he went on.
‘I insist on waiting until I have the money.’ Catherine was careful, like her pa. You didn’t give up the goods before you were paid.
Mr James thought for a moment, then smiled.
‘You have an acumen for business which is unusual in a woman. It’s agreed then. I will bring the money tomorrow at nine o’clock sharp. You will bring the child to the boardroom.’
She nodded, turned and fled. One day and one night was all she had left, and she was going to make the most of it. She didn’t go to work in the laundry. She took Agnes out through the wooden gate and carried her into the heart of Faversham.
She showed her the market stalls lined up beneath the timber-framed Guildhall where the traders sold eggs, fish, meat, butter, fruit and wool. She took her to the creek to see the boats moored at the quay, the barges and oyster bawleys. She told her about her father and how he had gone to the other side of the world in a sailing ship. Hiding her tears, she explained how much he’d loved her even before she was born, while Agnes smiled and cooed at the fresh sights and smells.
When her arms grew weary, Catherine returned to the Union.
‘Where have you been, ducks?’ Mrs Coates said sternly. ‘We thought you’d gone for good. You can’t miss a day’s work and expect to be fed.’
‘I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.’
‘I should by all rights put you in front of the Board of Guardians in the morning.’ Mrs Coates frowned as if she was grappling with her conscience. ‘Oh, go on. The bell has been rung.’
Catherine didn’t eat. Having made sure that Agnes was fed, she stayed on the children’s ward with her. She filled a bucket with warm water and used the end of a cake of soap that she’d acquired from the kitchen to bathe her baby for the very last time. She tore strips from a sheet to dry her, and combed her hair which was growing longer and darker, becoming less like Matty’s and more like her own. She held her close and inhaled her soapy scent, trying to embed it in her memory for ever.
‘Shall we say the little piggy rhyme?’ she asked.
Agnes grinned. Catherine took hold of her big toe.
‘This little piggy went to market. This little piggy stayed at home. This little piggy had roast beef. This little piggy had none. And this little piggy went, “Wee, wee, wee,” all the way home.’ She tickled Agnes’s tummy. She was giggling and squirming to get away even before her mother’s fingers touched her smooth, baby skin.
‘Again?’ Catherine asked when her giggles had subsided.
Agnes nodded and they played until she could hardly keep her eyes open. Catherine took her to bed with her and cuddled her, listening to her breathing and the tiny cries she made in her sleep.
‘Sweet dreams, little one,’ she whispered, pressing her lips to her cheek. ‘I love you, my darling.’ She felt like a monster. How could she be doing this cruel, wicked thing out of love?
The light of dawn came cold and quick, and all too soon she was back in the boardroom in fro
nt of Mr James, who was accompanied by a lady wearing a white bonnet and dark blue linen dress.
‘This is Miss Treen,’ he said. ‘She’ll be taking care of the child until she’s placed with her new mother.’
Catherine felt sick as Miss Treen reached across to take Agnes.
‘Where is the money?’ she said, clinging on to her.
‘It’s here.’ Mr James pointed to the leather purse on the table. ‘There is a contract for you to sign. Hand over the child so that we can attend to it.’
‘I insist on knowing what is in it first.’
‘You are a shrew, Mrs Matthews,’ Mr James sighed. He gave her the address, number eight, Davington Street. ‘There is a neighbour at the property who is holding a key for you. Her name is Mrs Strange. The rent is paid in full for the next six months. After that, as I said before, it is up to you.’ He pulled a document from his coat pocket and spread it across the table. She wondered how many times he’d rescued a child from the workhouse before.
‘Can you read?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ she said, but although she tried, the copperplate hand was loopy and long on the parchment, and the words were too complicated. Frustrated, she pushed it back across the table.
‘Read it to me, sir,’ she said. ‘I will not sign until I know what it says.’
He read it aloud. The terms were exactly those that he’d negotiated: that Catherine would hand him the child for him to deliver to the childless couple as their intermediary. She would never see Agnes again, or attempt to make contact with her.
She signed with his pen, blotting the ink with her tears.
‘Take the child, Miss Treen,’ Mr James said. ‘We are done here.’
Agnes started to cry as Miss Treen took her in her arms and whisked her out through the door. Catherine pushed her fingers into her ears to block out the sound of her baby’s screams. It was all she could do not to run after them and snatch her back.
‘Goodbye, Mrs Matthews. We will not meet again.’ Mr James left the boardroom. Catherine picked up the purse and walked out into the corridor where she ran straight into Mrs Coates.
‘What’s wrong, ducks?’ she said. ‘I saw the lady taking little Agnes.’
‘She’s gone.’ Catherine’s face was wet with tears. ‘I’m leaving the Union today. I’d like my clothes back.’
‘I don’t know what to say.’
‘Don’t say anything. I wish to leave as soon as possible.’
Catherine followed her down to the receiving ward and Mrs Coates unlocked one of the linen cupboards with a key from the chain around her neck. She rummaged around on the shelves.
‘Well, I never did. What a muddle. I don’t hold out much hope of finding the outfit you were wearing when you arrived. Many have passed in and out since then, and they’re not always honest in their remembrance of which clothing belonged to them.’ She picked out a decent dress, coat and bonnet that smelled of bad eggs and dust where they had been folded and put away damp. Not that Catherine minded. She was beyond caring about what she looked like.
She put on the dress, a muddy-coloured muslin with a dark green ribbon sewn into the neckline, over her petticoat, remembering that Matty’s half a sixpence was still safely secured within the hem. She slipped the purse into the pocket of the coat and placed the crumpled bonnet on her head.
‘I’ll miss you,’ Matron said. ‘Good luck, Mrs Matthews.’
‘Thank you for your kindness, Mrs Coates. Farewell.’
Catherine stepped through the door in the gate and took a breath of fresh, untainted air before she set out on her new path.
She walked along the Lower Ospringe Road towards the centre of Faversham, and made a slight left onto Tanners Street, sensing the wind against her face and the drifting scents of the sea, fish and baking bread in her nostrils. She continued along South Road, and turned right into West Street. As she reached Market Place, her heart missed a beat when she recognised Pa Rook, his back bowed and his hair completely white, at the reins of a horse and cart. She turned her face away and ducked into the shadows beneath the stilted Guildhall until the cart had passed, then she scurried along East Street where the smell of malt and hops grew stronger as she approached one of the town’s breweries. Before she reached it, she took another right turning and arrived at her destination.
Number eight was one of the houses in a row of ten, built from Faversham brick with tiled roofs. There was a pump outside and a sewer in the middle of the road. She walked up the path which was overgrown with weeds and peered through the window. Something scuttled away in the darkness, but she couldn’t see anything else inside except for a broken pail lying on its side. She looked up at the window above. The drapes were drawn across and some ivy had started to poke its tendrils between the wooden frame and the bricks.
It would do, she thought. It just needed some love and attention. This was her one chance of independence and she wasn’t going to waste it, especially after the sacrifice she’d made. There was no way she was going back to the Union. Ever.
She knocked at the neighbour’s door as she’d been instructed.
‘What do you think you’re doing disturbing someone at this hour of the morning?’ A middle-aged woman opened the door.
‘I’m sorry.’ It was gone midday. ‘My name is Miss …’ Catherine hesitated just long enough for the woman’s eyebrows to quiver in question. ‘Mrs Matthews. I’ve come to collect the key for number eight.’
‘Welcome to the neighbourhood. I’m Mrs Strange – that’s strange by name, but familiar by nature.’
‘Good morning,’ Catherine said, having no desire to befriend this woman with her overpowering scent of essence of roses, low-cut dress and rouged lips. Her skin was marked with pox scars, barely disguised with powder. She plucked out a key from her breast and handed it over. It was still warm from being in contact with her person, Catherine noticed, slightly repulsed.
‘I don’t know why anyone would choose to live here,’ she said. ‘There’s bird’s nests in the chimbley and mices in the privy.’
‘That can all be changed,’ Catherine said, undaunted.
‘Have you any family? Will your husband be along to join you?’
‘I am a widow,’ she said.
‘I’m sorry for your loss, dearie.’
‘I’m planning to take in a lodger now and then to make ends meet.’
‘If I hear of anyone looking for a room, I’ll put him your way.’
‘Thank you, Mrs Strange. It was nice to make your acquaintance.’
‘I hope we shall see more of each other,’ she said, closing the door.
Catherine let herself in to the house and took stock of her new home. The stairs to the next storey went up from the single room on the ground floor, where there was a fireplace and a three-legged chair. The floor was alive with vermin and beetles, and many spiders dangled from their silks as though they were inspecting the new occupant. The grate was filled with ashes and feathers, and a dead pigeon.
The back door led out to a narrow strip of overgrown garden and a lean-to privy. Agnes would love it – she corrected herself – would have loved it.
Overwhelmed with grief and regret, she returned indoors and headed up the narrow stairs into the bedroom, a single room with a window overlooking the street. The bedroom was small and the walls sloped in towards the ceiling, making it seem even smaller, but it would do. There was a brass bedstead suitable for a lodger, as long as he wasn’t too tall.
There was much to do, and the sooner she made a start, the better.
She repaired the handle of the bucket and filled it from the well. She washed the dust from the windows, removed the cobwebs and scrubbed the floors. She cleaned the woodwork for bedbugs and washed the drapes. She fashioned a table from logs and a board that she’d found abandoned in the back yard and paid some attention to the stinking privy.
She collected firewood on a couple of expeditions into the woods, hiding the sticks under her cloak as sh
e walked home, and she purchased a small amount of coal to use in the grate in the kitchen. She obtained food – a bushel of potatoes, turnips and onions, and a ham hock from the butcher. She bought beer from the nearest alehouse. She cleaned the windows with cold tea to make them gleam, and stopped all the holes in the walls and ceilings with rags to stop the influx of any more vermin.
She chalked a sign on a piece of slate that she discovered on the ground in the yard, and placed it in the upstairs window to advertise her trade. Finally, she made a mattress for herself from straw tied together with twine, and hung a bine of hops above the fireplace for good fortune.
She was ready, but no one came and she began to worry that she would run out of money.
Every night, she put a candle in the window to light Matty’s way back to her, and to remember Agnes. She prayed that God would guide him and that He would watch over their daughter, before she went to bed and struggled to fall asleep, listening to the drunken sailors shouting and cussing their way about town, and to Mrs Strange who entertained a different bedfellow each night, or so it seemed.
Every day, she walked the streets of Faversham, looking out for Agnes. Whenever she saw a woman with her baby, she was compelled to follow her until she caught a glimpse of the infant’s face when she would be overwhelmed by a terrible, gut-wrenching sense of disappointment because it never was Agnes. It was as though she had disappeared from the face of the Earth.
Late one September afternoon, after she’d returned from yet another futile excursion, Mrs Strange called on her.
‘I’ve found you a customer,’ she said. ‘I told him you’re a respectable lady with a reputation as white as freshly laundered cotton sheets. He said in return that you’ll never find such a clean-living, well-mannered gentleman.’
Catherine didn’t know whether to believe her or not. How did you tell if a gentleman was truly respectable? Look at her own father, as in Mr Hadington. Appearances were deceptive and she certainly wouldn’t take a man’s self-professed opinion as the truth.
