The Quietness

by Alison Rattle

  ‘Ha! Oh, Ellen,’ he said. ‘Your father really didn’t tell you anything, did he?’

  ‘No,’ I said quietly. ‘I did not even know he had a sister. Or that I had a cousin. All I know,’ I ventured, ‘is what Mary has told me since.’

  ‘And what is that?’ asked Jacob.

  ‘That my father and your mother had a falling out.’

  Jacob began walking again and I gripped the crook of his elbow to keep pace with him. ‘My mother was a good woman, Ellen,’ he said. She was a friend of the poor, you know. Not long after I was born we were forced to move from London to a small village. Father was ill and Mother nursed him until he died. Then she carried on; nursing the sick, visiting the poor and cheering up the old and infirm. Not much of a life, was it? She should have had so much more. She could have had so much more.’ He paused. ‘So, no, Ellen. I never did live in a house like this one.’

  He suddenly turned to me and took hold of both my hands. ‘Anyway,’ he said. ‘Enough of boring old me. It’s freezing out here! What do you say we go inside, get Mary to bring us hot drinks and I’ll challenge you to a game of Old Maid!’ He started to run, pulling me along with him, and by the time we were back inside we were both out of breath and laughing.

  The following month was the most heavenly month of my whole life. Jacob chose not to go to the hospital every day, and sought me out time and time again when Father was out of the house. He strolled with me in the garden and we talked of books and clouds and examined each other’s knowledge of shrubs and flowers. Jacob invariably knew more than me and I was flattered that someone so clever should take such notice of me. He read me passages from his favourite books and I thrilled to hear of Jules Verne’s A Journey to the Centre of the Earth and of Dr Frankenstein and his hideous monster. I did not tell Jacob that Dr Frankenstein’s laboratory reminded me of Father’s dissecting room. I concentrated instead on the sound of Jacob’s voice and the way it changed when he spoke the words of different characters.

  I loved to watch his face as he talked; the way his lips moved as he formed words, the glimpse of his tongue as he moistened his lips between sentences and the way his eyebrows drew close together during a particularly harrowing or exciting passage. Most of all I loved it when he smiled or laughed. The sorrow that lurked behind his eyes disappeared at those times. He became carefree, and I wanted to always make him feel like that.

  He never talked of his mother and I did not take it upon myself to ask. One day, though, a silence fell between us and Jacob leaned towards me and looked directly into my eyes.

  ‘Mother would have approved of you,’ he said.

  I looked back at him; at the flecks of grey in the green of his eyes. A strange longing filled my insides and I began to tremble. He was so close I felt the warmth of his breath on my face. I knew I should pull away, but I could not move. Instead I closed my eyes. At that moment he put his lips on mine and kissed me softly. I could not help but sigh. I felt as helpless and weak as a baby bird, and it was a while before I could bring myself to open my eyes again. When I dared to look at him, Jacob was smiling foolishly and I felt like a shy child. But I knew then, with a certainty, that we were now sealed together forever.

  That night as Mary was brushing out my hair I stopped her hand and said, ‘Mary, have you ever been in love?’

  ‘Once or twice.’ She winked. ‘A long time ago, mind.’

  ‘So you know what it feels like, then?’

  ‘Can’t say as I do. It was so long ago.’

  ‘It can’t have been proper love, then, Mary. You would never have forgotten if you had ever felt like this.’

  ‘You go careful, miss.’ Mary looked worried. ‘Don’t fall too hard too soon. After all, we don’t know the boy that well yet, do we?’

  ‘Oh, Mary! What is there to know? He has lost his mother, he is all alone in the world and he has come here to us, his only family.’

  ‘I am just saying, miss. Take care. Take care of your feelings.’

  ‘Why are you saying this, Mary? I thought you would be glad for me.’

  ‘I . . . I am glad for you, miss. But . . .’

  ‘But what, Mary? What is it?’

  ‘Well, I didn’t like to say anything, miss, but . . . I just have a feeling that something isn’t quite right. And Ninny has been overhearing things.’

  ‘Ninny? What things has she been hearing?’

  ‘Well, raised voices, mostly, coming from your father’s study. Your father and Jacob arguing.’

  ‘And what were they arguing about?’

  ‘Oh, you know Ninny. She couldn’t quite make it out.’

  ‘I am sure it is nothing, Mary.’ I laughed. ‘I expect Jacob dared to question one of Father’s opinions, that is all!’ I pictured Jacob’s tender smile and his fearless green eyes. ‘He is not afraid you know, Mary. He is not afraid of Father one bit.’

  ‘I know,’ she said as she turned to leave. ‘That’s what worries me.’

  I had thought that only Mary knew of my meetings with Jacob, but one day Father called me to his study and told me that on no account was I to spend time in Jacob’s company on my own. It would be entirely improper for me to behave in such a manner he said, and it was his duty as my father to prevent my reputation from being sullied. I would be committing the gravest of errors if I were to disobey him.

  But for all his harsh words and despite the fear that curdled in my stomach, I could not stop myself.

  The days slipped by, one drifting into the next. Days that were filled with Jacob. Thoughts of Jacob, dreams of Jacob and delicious stolen moments spent together. Poor Mary was torn in two. She did not want to disobey Father’s orders, but she could see that I would not be told.

  ‘Please be careful, miss,’ she pleaded. ‘You know your father has eyes everywhere.’

  Father was silent. More silent than usual. He spent the evenings in the drawing room reading his paper while Jacob and I were forced to break the quiet with snippets of polite conversation. Jacob still went most days with Father to the hospital, but on some days he returned early on his own and on other days he did not go at all. It was those times I lived for.

  Spring had come early and the walled flower garden was alive with colour: yellow buttercups, pink campions, lilac violas and white clouds of cow parsley. It was here we met, on the bench behind the carved stone archway, hidden from view. The household had come out of mourning for Aunt Isabella and I was able to wear my prettiest gowns again. On the day I wore my pale yellow silk, Jacob picked me a posy of daisies and sprinkled them in my hair. He looked at me thoughtfully. ‘My mother was very beautiful too, you know. And kind.’

  I nodded and waited, hoping he would tell me more.

  ‘She was too kind for her own good,’ he said, picking the petals off a buttercup one by one. ‘Too kind and too stubborn in her ways. She and your father fell out when I was just a baby.’ He crushed the remains of the buttercup in the palm of his hand.

  I nodded again, encouraging him to continue.

  ‘She wanted nothing more to do with him. And he wanted nothing more to do with her. I could never understand it.’ He stood and began to kick softly at the borders of cow parsley. The tiny white flowers trembled on their stems, some falling to the ground.

  ‘What happened?’ I ventured. He didn’t seem to hear me.

  ‘When my father died,’ he continued, ‘she could have asked your father for help. For money. He has all this, after all.’ Jacob spread his arms wide. ‘But she didn’t. She had too much pride.’ He pressed down on the tiny white flowers with his foot, crushing them to powder. ‘We were so poor.’ He looked at me and his face had changed. It was hard and angry. ‘And here you are,’ he said, ‘with all this! All of this that could have been shared.’

  ‘I . . . I am sorry, Jacob.’ I didn’t know what to say. I suddenly felt awkward and wished Mary would come looking for me.

  Then Jacob sat back down. He was smiling again. ‘Ah, Ellen!’ he sighed. ‘It is
so good to breathe in this air and to see things alive and growing. You cannot know what it is like in that hospital. Darkness and death and rot.’

  I was about to tell him that I did know, that I still had nightmares about that awful day Father had taken me there, but he turned suddenly and grabbed my shoulders, fingers digging hard into my skin. Tears sprang instantly to my eyes.

  ‘It is not the life for me, Ellen. But I will have the life I deserve!’ He let go of me and got to his feet.

  ‘Jacob?’ I said quietly. ‘Jacob?’ But he was walking away, back to the house. ‘Jacob!’ I called after him. He did not turn round.

  As he disappeared from view I saw my tears had spilt on to my skirts and darkened the silk.

  17

  Queenie

  Queenie had been at Wild Street for nearly two months and already life with Mam and Da and the little ones seemed an age away. She hardly ever thought of them all. Only sometimes the little ones came to mind; mostly in the quiet of the evening when Mrs Waters had gone out, the babies had been dosed and Mrs Ellis had at last taken herself off to her room. Mrs Ellis was always about. Telling Queenie to sweep the brick floors of the kitchen, rake out the ashes and fetch in coal and wood from the yard. And always to mind the babies.

  There were a couple of other ladies in the house too, timid things with growing bellies under their loosened gowns. They stayed in their rooms all day at the top of the house and Queenie only saw them when she took them their meals on trays. They were fallen women, Mrs Waters told her; unmarried ladies who had given in to temptation and were now with child. They were here to have their babes in secret. Queenie wished she could talk to them, but they never looked at her or even thanked her when she said, ‘Your supper, ma’am,’ or some such thing.

  It was late now, gone ten, and the house was silent. It was Queenie’s favourite time of the day. Her jobs done, she fetched a plate of cold potatoes and bacon and set herself out a cup and saucer and a pot of tea on the kitchen table. She held her cup by its handle, like a proper lady, and washed down her food with tiny sips. She imagined how the little ones would gawp if they could see her now. Maybe she would go back and show them how well she was doing for herself. One day, she thought. But not just yet. She tried never to think of Mam or Da. Every time she did she saw Mam’s eyes, cold and uncaring, as another drunken stranger stood waiting his turn outside their room; and Da slumped drunk in a corner somewhere. So she hung an imaginary sheet across the inside of her head and kept Mam and Da hidden behind it.

  Queenie had heard Mrs Waters leave a while ago. She kept strange hours, going out late in the evening and not returning until gone midnight. She often brought a baby back with her, saying she’d met a poor mother on the streets who had begged her to take in her child. The last one had been a feisty little thing with fat red cheeks that had fair hollered the house down. Until Mrs Ellis had dosed it up, that was. It was as quiet as the rest of them now, and as pale. When Mrs Waters had first brought it back with her it had been wearing a beautiful blue velvet cloak and a fine lace bonnet. Mrs Waters had been in high spirits and had sent Queenie out for a bottle of brandy and some hot roast beef. The sisters drank the whole bottle between them then fell to snoring in their chairs while Queenie ate the last of the beef, cold for her supper. She wondered why they had been so pleased with the child. She never saw the cloak and bonnet again, but supposed they had been put away, to be kept nice for when a new home had been found for the babe.

  Queenie could hear cockroaches rattling around under the kitchen mats. A sure sign that spring had arrived. She filled a bowl with warmed water from the kettle to wash herself. She undressed and stood in front of the kitchen fire and wiped herself all over with a wet cloth. She rinsed out her drawers and hung them on the fender to dry. They would still be damp by morning, but she only had the one pair and she liked this new feeling of clean. She liked to see the pink of her skin and to smell clean cloth and watch the dirt and dust of the day fly away as she shook out her petticoats and dress. Mrs Ellis had given her the dress, petticoats and underclothing, saying they had belonged to ‘one of the young ladies that had been to stay’. The dress was Queenie’s pride and joy. It was sky blue with lace trimmings and it swished around her ankles as she went about her work. It had been the best feeling in the world to throw her old dress in with the potato peelings and other kitchen rubbish. She hadn’t even wanted to cut it up for cleaning cloths.

  Queenie checked on the babies one last time before she went to fetch her mattress. Poor little mites, she thought. All of them unwanted by their mams, Mrs Waters had told her not long after she’d arrived.

  ‘They’d be left for dead on the streets,’ she’d said, ‘if Mrs Ellis and I didn’t take them in. We look after them as best we can until we find someone who does want them.’

  Queenie thought the sisters must be do-gooders of some sort. Like the Salvation Army people that Queenie had seen near home sometimes, standing on street corners singing hymns and giving bread to children. The sisters might be a bit odd, thought Queenie, but they’d taken her in at least, and paid good wages too. Queenie thought of the pile of coins hidden in her skirts and promised herself a trip to the fancy goods shop to buy some yellow ribbons for her hair, as soon as she got a day off.

  The babies were all lying still as usual, like little marble statues. Most had their eyes closed but a couple were staring into the distance, their eyes half open. They didn’t even blink when Queenie put her face to theirs. Queenie wondered sometimes why none of them seemed to be getting any better. Mrs Ellis was very strict with dosing them up with their medicine. She had taught Queenie how to mix it up and now Queenie made a jugful every morning. A piece of builder’s lime, as big as her hand, was left to stand for an hour in a quart of water. She would then add a dessertspoonful of the mixture into each of the babies’ bottles. ‘So the milk doesn’t curdle,’ Mrs Ellis said. Queenie wasn’t allowed to give them the other stuff, mind – the Quietness, as Mrs Ellis called it. A foul-smelling liquid from a sticky brown bottle that was kept in Mrs Ellis’s pocket.

  ‘Godfrey’s Cordial,’ Queenie read on the label.

  ‘A drop each morning and night,’ Mrs Ellis said, ‘and they’ll sleep without a murmur.’

  Queenie thought that was half the trouble, though; they slept so much they were hardly awake to suckle their bottles. And they were all growing so thin.

  ‘Those children is ill, ain’t they ma’am?’ she’d said to Mrs Waters.

  Mrs Waters had been angry at her. ‘Of course they’re ill, girl! Little bastards never fare well. But are we not doing the best we can by them? Are there not always full bottles waiting for them? They will feed when they’re hungry. They are sickly creatures and with so many of them our nerves can’t stand the fussing. Do you want your nights disturbed by their whinings? I would think not indeed. It is a mother’s blessing, the Quietness, a mother’s blessing.’

  Queenie didn’t mention it again; after all, Mrs Waters must know best.

  There were only six babies on the sofa now. Mrs Waters had taken some of them away. ‘To healthy homes in the country,’ she’d told Queenie.

  ‘Not long for the rest of you,’ Queenie whispered. ‘Mrs Waters’ll find you new mams too, I’m sure of it.’

  Queenie lay on her mattress and pulled a blanket over. It still felt strange having a bed to herself. Sometimes she missed the little ones snuggled into her and their snufflings and coughs. It was lonely on the kitchen floor, with the dwindling fire throwing strange shadows on the walls and lighting up the cobwebbed corners of the room. The silence hurt her ears. No squabbling neighbours or drunken caterwauling, no dogs barking or cats screeching. Nothing, not even the sound of another’s breath. She closed her eyes and wished one of the babies would stir. Just so she wouldn’t feel so alone.

  18

  Ellen

  ‘What are those marks?’ asked Mary the following morning as she helped me dress.

  ‘What marks?’ I re
plied. Although I knew exactly the marks she meant. I had felt the grip of Jacob’s fingers on my skin all through the night. Now the bruises must be showing.

  ‘Your shoulders, miss. They’re black and blue,’ said Mary.

  I sat heavily into my chair.

  ‘Oh, it is nothing,’ I said. ‘I fell from my bed in the night.’

  I was ashamed of my lie, but more ashamed of the truth. Unwanted tears pricked at my eyes. I felt empty inside and desperate to see Jacob. He had not meant to hurt me, I was sure. Mary was looking at me, her eyes full of concern. I put my arms around her waist and buried my head in her soft stomach. Only Mary has ever truly loved me, I thought.

  She smoothed my hair. ‘There now,’ she said. ‘All will be well.’

  A great shouting noise suddenly came from downstairs and made us pull apart. Mary frowned and went to open my bedroom door. Father’s voice rose up to us, loud and angry.

  ‘You will leave this house today, boy! I will not be threatened again! Be gone when I get back!’

  I looked at Mary and whispered, ‘Jacob?’ Something crashed, a door banged and then Jacob’s voice.

  ‘Go to hell! I will ruin you! See if I don’t!’

  I jumped from my chair and went to run downstairs.

  ‘No, miss!’ warned Mary. ‘You are in your dressing gown! Stay here. Let things calm down.’

  ‘But I need to go to him! He cannot leave! Oh, what has happened, Mary?’

  ‘I don’t know, miss. But I think it best if you don’t interfere.’ She went to the window and pulled the curtains to one side. ‘Your father has just left in the carriage.’

  ‘Then I must go and see Jacob straight away!’

  ‘No, please, miss! I don’t think you should get involved.’

  ‘But I am involved! I love him, Mary. He is the most wonderful thing that has ever happened to me. I cannot just let him leave! I have to go to him.’

  ‘Then at least finish your dress, miss. Please.’