The Quietness

by Alison Rattle

  I hesitated for a moment. I desperately wanted to stay, but I had to regain my composure. I did not want him to think me a complete idiot.

  ‘I hope we will be,’ I replied. Then I left the room and took in a deep breath as I closed the door behind me.

  13

  Queenie

  Queenie hurried towards Waterloo Bridge, wrapping her shawl tight around her. The air was cold and even at that early hour the streets were busy with costergirls carrying baskets and barrowmen pulling carts heaped with rags, onions, turnips and all manner of bric-a-brac. As the traffic thickened, she saw the huge grey arches of the bridge come into view. She dodged carriages and horses snorting clouds from their nostrils as they skidded on the iced roads.

  She had crossed the bridge once before. A long time ago, on a hot summer’s day when she was small and it was only her and Mam and Da. It was Mam who had taken her, holding her hand tightly all the way. Queenie couldn’t remember the reason why they’d gone. But she had never forgotten the day. It was one of the only times she’d ever had Mam to herself.

  The streets had been wider over the other side; the houses were big and white, with spaces between them. There were no children playing out and the buildings all seemed half asleep.

  Mam had stood on the road, outside a house with a brass knocker in the shape of a horse’s head. She stood there for a long time, hushing Queenie every time she tugged her hand. After a while, the front door opened and Mam pulled Queenie to one side. They both watched as a woman in a stiff grey gown came down the steps with a girl following behind. The girl was wearing a white dress patterned with rosebuds and had a yellow sash tied around her waist. Her dark hair was held back with a long yellow ribbon and Queenie thought it was the prettiest thing she had ever seen. The woman in grey had hurried past, not even glancing at Queenie and Mam.

  ‘Quick, child!’ the woman ordered, and Queenie watched the girl half run to keep up with her.

  Mam told Queenie to stay put and had gone after the woman and girl. She’d stopped the woman, and although Queenie could hear the rise and fall of Mam’s voice she couldn’t make out the words. Mam bent down and said something to the girl, and then the woman in grey grabbed the girl’s hand and pulled her along, away from Mam. Before she turned the corner, the girl looked around and smiled. Her face was pink and clean and the white of her dress glowed bright in the sun. Queenie had looked down at her own grubby petticoats and the holes in her boots and at that moment decided she wanted more than anything in the world to have a clean white dress and live in a grand house and be just like that girl.

  ‘Who were they, Mam?’ Queenie asked. ‘Do we know them?’

  ‘Don’t be daft, girl,’ Mam said in a tight voice. ‘They’re not our sort.’

  ‘But you looked like you knew ’em.’

  ‘No,’ said Mam. ‘It was my mistake. Now hush.’

  Mam hadn’t said much else on the way home; she just seemed more tired than usual and not all there. She had bought Queenie an orange and the sweet juice had washed the hot dust from Queenie’s throat. Mam had never taken her across the river again, but Queenie had always remembered the girl in the white dress and the way she had taken a piece of Mam away.

  Queenie reached the other side of the bridge and looked carefully at the torn piece of newspaper clutched tightly in her hand. A shopkeeper arranging his wares on a wooden trestle table looked up at her and smiled.

  ‘Beg your pardon, mister, which way to Wild Street?’

  ‘Wild Street? You’d be best carrying straight on for a while, young miss, up the Strand till you get to Drury Lane. Past the Nag’s Head and the theatre. Look out for Wilkins Dairy. If I remember rightly, s’on the corner of Wild Street.’

  ‘Ta very much, mister,’ said Queenie.

  ‘Anything to assist a pretty young lady,’ said the shopkeeper with a wink.

  Queenie looked at his eager face and stained overcoat and her head filled with a hot anger. ‘Go hang yerself, you dirty dog!’ she shouted over her shoulder as she walked off with her head held high.

  14

  Ellen

  ‘What is it, miss? What has happened?’ cried Mary as I ran into my bedroom and threw myself on the bed. ‘Are you ill? Let me see your face. Let me see.’ She pulled at my shoulder and I turned over and lay on my back. ‘Oh, miss. You are not well.’ She felt my forehead. ‘You are so flushed. How do you feel?’

  I burst into laughter. ‘I feel wonderful, Mary. I have never felt so happy!’ I thought of Jacob’s eyes looking at me and the feel of his hand on my face. I could still smell his warm lemon scent. I jumped from the bed and ran over to the mirror. I hardly recognised the face that looked back at me. Tendrils of hair had escaped from their fastenings and were curled around my face. My eyes were wide and bright and my cheeks were indeed flushed a delicate pink. I am beautiful, I thought. I put my hand to my face where Jacob had touched me.

  Everything around me seemed changed. There was colour where there did not used to be. Mary’s apron was a startling white, the blue of the walls glowed bright, and the hangings on my bed shone rich reds and yellows. Even the silver of my brush on the dressing table sparkled.

  Mary was watching me with a bemused look on her face. ‘So, tea with Jacob went well?’

  I smiled at her. I wanted to tell her how Jacob had looked at me. How he had held my face in his hand. The moment had been so beautiful it felt fragile. I decided to keep it to myself for now; to keep it safely wrapped up, like a precious gift.

  ‘Yes, Mary. It went well.’ I sighed and pulled at the loose strands of my hair. ‘You can leave that for now.’ I nodded towards the pile of linen that Mary was sorting through and turned back to my reflection in the mirror. ‘But come back later and fix my hair before dinner.’

  ‘As you please, miss,’ she said, walking towards the door. ‘If you’re sure you are feeling well?’

  ‘Quite well, thank you,’ I replied. ‘Oh, Mary, it is so good to have him here, is it not?’

  Mary’s reply was lost as she closed my bedroom door behind her.

  One of Father’s colleagues joined us for dinner that evening. He was a fair-haired young man with pleasant eyes who seemed uncomfortable in his stiff suit and starched collar. Usually I would have studied him with interest, being so unused to outside company. But apart from his annoying habit of pulling at the end of his nose at frequent intervals, he left no impression on me.

  Jacob was concentrating on his meal and barely looked up from his plate. I caught his eye only once, when he lifted his head to nod thanks to Mary for refilling his glass. The expected smile in my direction never came and heavy disappointment took away the little appetite I had. He is just being discreet, I told myself. A real gentleman would never allude to our earlier intimacy. I tried to eat a little potato, but it seemed to fill my whole mouth and I had to force it down with a sip of wine.

  I hoped that the visitor would occupy Father in the drawing room and Jacob would be left free to sit by me and maybe pass me pins as I sewed. But he stayed close to Father and our guest, even though he did not join in their conversation. He seemed intent on keeping his back to me and I began to wonder if I’d imagined our exchange in the library. There was no need for him to be this cold. I pricked my finger on my needle and although the pain was very slight, it brought tears to my eyes which felt hot and foolish.

  It seemed an eternity before Mary came in to take Mother to bed. Blood had stained the small embroidery I was working on, but I did not care. I wanted to leave the room too, as quickly as I could, and be on my own in my bed. I put down my sewing and bade the men goodnight. Although our guest broke off from conversation to wish me a good evening, Father merely grunted and Jacob nodded his head.

  I told Mary I could put myself to bed once she had unlaced me and hung up my gown. She did not protest, probably being only too glad for an early night. The quietness of my room was all that I wanted, and as I heard Mary’s footsteps disappear down the corridor, I
let myself feel what had been filling my insides all evening.

  I sat on the edge of my bed and thumped my pillows hard. How dare he make me feel like this? To ignore me so rudely? No harm would have come from him showing some politeness. I was not going to cry. I would show him that it did not matter to me in the least. He was only a poor orphan, after all. I deserved much better, didn’t I?

  I unpinned my hair and sat at my dressing table brushing through the tangles with quick, hard strokes. I would not go down to breakfast in the morning, I decided. I would feign some complaint and stay in my room.

  A small tap at my door made me pause in my brushing. Mary checking on me, no doubt. I fancied I could do with her company now and she may as well finish my hair while she was here. My arm was beginning to ache. ‘Come in!’ I called. The door did not open. ‘Mary. Come in!’ I called again. Still she did not open the door. What was she doing? I put my brush down on the dressing table and, wrapping my shawl around me, I went to open the door myself.

  There was no one outside. The corridor was empty. Foolish woman, I thought. She must be getting deaf in her old age and assumed I was asleep. As I went to close the door I saw a fold of paper lying on the floor just inside the threshold. I picked it up, closed the door and went over to the candle by my bed to see what it was. My fingers fumbled as I unfolded the paper.

  Ellen

  I will be back early from the hospital tomorrow. I will be in the garden at around three o’clock if you would care to take a stroll.

  Yours,

  Jacob

  I laughed out loud and hugged the note to me. How could I have doubted him? I had been childish and impatient. Now I just wanted the hours to pass, for the night to disappear in a blink and for me to be walking through the garden to meet Jacob. I chided myself for my continued impatience, and felt a smile stretch across my face as I slipped the note under my pillow and climbed into bed to wait for sleep to come.

  15

  Queenie

  Wild Street was quiet. Its grubby four-storeyed houses seemed to Queenie to be the grandest of places. They stood tall and proud and stared down their noses at the rest of the world. She looked again at the name on the piece of newspaper. Mrs Waters, she whispered to herself, I’ve come about the position, ma’am. She smoothed down her hair and straightened her shawl and hoped that no one would notice how Mam’s old shoes slopped about on her feet.

  Number 4 was the second house on the left. Its windows were streaked with dirt and the tiny front garden was a tangle of overgrown weeds. Queenie took a deep breath, climbed the ten steps up to the door and knocked hard.

  Footsteps echoed inside the house and Queenie heard locks being unbolted. Then a large woman with untidy orange curls opened the door and peered out.

  ‘Erm, sorry to disturb you, ma’am. Mrs Waters I’m after. Is she home?’

  ‘What is it you want her for?’

  ‘She needs a girl to help her with the housework and the children. Here, look, I saw it in the newspaper.’ Queenie held the torn paper advertisement out to the woman.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ said the woman impatiently. ‘Well, I am Mrs Waters, but I’m afraid you don’t look like the sort of girl I’m after.’ She went to close the door and Queenie’s heart sank. She didn’t want to find somewhere to sleep on the streets or worse, walk back home.

  ‘But please, ma’am,’ she said quickly. ‘Can’t you give me a chance? I ain’t scared of hard work and there’s enough little ’uns at home for me to have learned what to do with ’em. I’d be a good worker, ma’am, if you’d just let me show you.’

  Mrs Waters paused and looked Queenie up and down. ‘You’ve had plenty of dealings with children, you say?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  ‘And babies?’

  ‘Oh yes, ma’am. Plenty. Me Mam is always having new little ’uns.’

  ‘So why aren’t you at home helping her?’

  ‘No more room for me, ma’am. And besides we had a falling out and I’m making my own way in the world now.’ Queenie stood tall and straight.

  ‘Well . . . you’d have to live in anyway, you know. Tend to the babies in the night if need be. And keep the house in order and fetch the children’s milk.’

  ‘Yes ma’am, course ma’am. I could do all that.’

  ‘And does your mother know you’re here?’

  ‘Oh no, ma’am. Not yet she don’t.’

  ‘Well . . . maybe I’ll give you a go, then. Just a day or two, mind. See how you get on. Have you brought your things with you?’

  ‘Don’t have any things, ma’am. Only what I have on. But I’ll keep myself clean I will.’

  ‘Well, you’d better come in, then.’ Mrs Waters looked up and down the street. ‘And tell me your name, girl.’

  ‘Yes, sorry, ma’am. It’s Queenie, ma’am. I’m fourteen, and I’m ever so grateful to you.’

  Queenie hardly dared to say anything else in case she was dreaming. And if she was dreaming she didn’t want to wake up. A maid! She was going to be a maid in a grand house. And be trusted to look after the mistress’s children too. She wondered if she would have a uniform and a cap, or some new shoes at least.

  Mrs Waters shut the front door and bolted it. ‘Come on then, girl, you may as well start as you mean to go on.’

  Queenie looked around as she followed Mrs Waters’ bustling back. The hallway was bigger than their whole room at home, with a fancy dark-wood staircase that curled up and round and disappeared from view. There were faded paintings of stern-looking gentlemen on the walls and the floor was tiled with small squares of red, green and yellow which Mrs Waters’ shoes clacked on as she hurried ahead. She led Queenie through a door at the end and down a dark stairwell.

  ‘This is the back kitchen,’ she said, ‘where you’ll be doing most of your work. You’ll sleep here too. There’s a mattress in the scullery.’

  Another woman, shorter and scrawnier than Mrs Waters but with the same orange hair scraped back in a bun, was standing mixing something in a jug at the kitchen table.

  ‘Sarah, this is Queenie. Answered our advertisement to help out with the babies. Queenie, this is Mrs Ellis. My sister. You’ll be taking your orders from her too.’

  Queenie nodded, but couldn’t reply. The sight that met her eyes was far too astonishing. Lying on a worn sofa at the back of the kitchen was an untidy row of babies. All squashed close together with barely a stitch on any of them. Eight? Nine? Ten? Queenie didn’t have time to count properly before she saw the two wooden crates on the floor. They had babies inside too. A couple in each at least.

  ‘These are all your children?’ she asked before she could stop herself.

  ‘Yes, in a manner of speaking,’ said Mrs Waters. ‘But it is not your place to ask questions. You understand?’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Queenie, feeling more and more uncomfortable.

  ‘Good. Then we’ll say no more. You work hard, we pay your wages and then . . . we shall all get along just fine, won’t we? Now . . . you can help Mrs Ellis with the morning feeds.’

  ‘Yes ma’am,’ said Queenie. She suddenly realised why the room was making her feel so uneasy. Not one of the babies was making a sound. Not a whimper or a whine of hunger. They were all lying as still as still could be, their eyes open and staring. Queenie knew enough about babies to know that was just not right.

  16

  Ellen

  It was a bitter cold afternoon. Not a day to be leaving the comforts of the parlour fire. But warm anticipation had been flowing through me since I’d woken that morning and I barely felt the need for the winter cloak and bonnet that Mary pressed upon me.

  ‘Don’t stay out too long, miss,’ she warned me. ‘I don’t want you getting the chills. And mind your father does not hear of this. You know he would not approve of you and Jacob meeting alone.’

  ‘Do not fuss, Mary,’ I told her. ‘I will be discreet. And please hurry with my bonnet!’

  She finished tying the ribbons under my
chin and I hurried out to the garden. The air outside stung my cheeks with its delicious coldness. As I walked down the steps of the terrace on to the path that led away from the house, I tried to calm myself and slow my pace.

  The garden was quite bare except for a smattering of evergreen shrubs planted at intervals along the borders, but as I walked further along, I noticed the bright white of daphne flowers blinking at me and golden patches of winter aconite nestled underneath the trees. Where was Jacob, though? The garden was not so large for me to have to hunt him out.

  ‘Ellen!’ Jacob’s voice sounded from behind me and I turned to see him hurrying along the path towards me. I felt my cheeks grow hot, despite the cold.

  ‘Ellen!’ he said, as he came up beside me. ‘I hope I haven’t kept you waiting for too long?’

  ‘No . . . no,’ I assured him. ‘I have only been out here for a moment.’

  ‘Good,’ he said. Then he took my hand and hooked it in the crook of his arm as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

  We walked in silence for a while, around the walled flower garden and back up the pathway to face the house. Jacob stopped and I turned to look at him, expecting him to say something. But he was staring at the house. I took the opportunity to study his profile; the way his skin darkened along his jaw line and the slight dimple in his cheek.

  ‘You are very fortunate,’ he said, still looking at the house. ‘To live in such a place. To have such a life.’

  His words took me by surprise. ‘Yes, I suppose I am,’ I said. I did not want to sound ungrateful and I could not tell him how dull and empty my life usually was. ‘I have never really thought about it before.’

  ‘Of course you haven’t. My beautiful cousin. Why would you have had to?’ He was looking at me now and smiling. I felt encouraged to continue the conversation.

  ‘Did you not live in a house like this one? Before, I mean? Before your mother passed away?’