‘If you are not my mother,’ I shouted, ‘then who was she?’ My voice was brittle with anger. I hated Mary at that moment. ‘WHO WAS MY MOTHER?’
Mary lowered her head. ‘I never knew her, miss. Least not properly. She left a couple of months after I came. When you were just a newborn.’
‘She left me?’ I whispered. ‘Why? Why did she do that?’
‘Oh, miss,’ Mary said gently. ‘She had no choice. How could she have looked after you on her own? She was just a maid.’
‘But why could she not have stayed?’
‘Think of the scandal, miss! Your father would have been ruined. Your mother . . . Mrs Swift, I mean, could never seem to keep a baby inside her for long, as you know. You were the answer. You were the child they needed. Your real mother knew you’d be best off here.’
‘How do you know all this?’ I asked suddenly. Mary’s face clouded with guilt.
‘Oh, miss,’ Mary pleaded. ‘Don’t be angry with me. I always thought it was for the best. I helped bring you into the world, you know? And your Father . . . well, he paid me to keep quiet and promised me a job for life. It was for the best, miss, believe me it was for the best.’
‘Aunt Isabella did not think so did she? She hated Father for what he did and she probably HATED YOU TOO! Don’t you see it would have been better if I had not been born at all!’
Mary flinched. She looked at the floor. She suddenly looked old and worn out. I hoped that she was feeling some pain. She deserved to.
A sad silence filled the room. But I could not stop myself from thinking and wondering.
‘What was she like?’ I asked.
Mary looked directly at me. ‘She was beautiful, miss. Thick black hair and dancing eyes. Green as green, they were. But quiet, she was. Quiet and sad.’
‘And what was her name?’
‘Dolly, miss. Her name was Dolly.’
So now I knew. I knew why I had never belonged. I knew why I had never been loved. I was kept here to protect Father’s good name. To give him the respectability of a family. To save him from the embarrassment of a barren wife.
The day passed in a haze. I would not speak to Mary. I could not even look at her. She had known all along that I was no better than her. She had pretended all my life. I felt completely hollow; my insides scooped out and discarded. Everything I had ever known was all pretence, but it somehow all made sense now.
I thought of Dolly with her dark hair and green eyes. Did I look like her? I wondered. Where was she now? Did she ever think of me? I would go to Father, I resolved. I would confront him with the truth. Demand for him to find my mother. To bring her back. But even as I thought these things my stomach lurched with fright. What good would it do? He would never risk his reputation. He would put me out on the streets. Then where would I go? What would I do?
I sat in the library. The door leading to the garden was ajar and a faint smell of grass and rain drifted inside. The thought of outside still made me feel queer, but I forced myself to stay. I had searched the bookshelves for a particular book that I had once stumbled upon and read with horrified fascination. I had it now, open on my lap: A Treatise on the Diseases of Married Females.
Mary came in. She tiptoed around; straightening cushions and tidying up my tea things. My silence did not stop her from speaking.
‘I know it’s been a shock, miss. A terrible, terrible shock. All of it. But you know Dolly would not have coped with you out there on her own. Who would have given her a job with a baby in tow? You wouldn’t even have got a place in the workhouse together. And you’ve had a good home here. More than most people could ever wish for.’
‘I do not need you in here, Mary. Please go,’ I said abruptly.
‘As you wish, miss.’ She clamped her lips together and picked up my tray to leave. ‘But just so as you know,’ she said in a low voice. ‘Your father has been enquiring on your time of the month. So you will have to allow me to come to your room later to collect up your soiled cloths.’
She walked out and the true horror of my situation brought a half moan, half cry from deep inside me. Trying to control my panic, I bent my head to the book again. Strange words and expressions swam before my eyes: conjugal relations, encumbered with child, parturition, fecundation, lactation, conception. I put the book down again. It all made sense. But it could not be.
I was unwell with the horror of all that had happened, I told myself. I was fatigued and my imagination was inflamed. I jumped from my chair and hastily put the book back in its place. Then I wiped my hands on my skirts as though they had been dirtied.
The sun was lighting up the garden and shining through the windows. My chair was standing in a puddle of warmth. I sat back down in it. Tiredness swept over me again; in my toes and limbs and head, and in the pit of my stomach. I closed my eyes and let the warmth of the sun creep into my bones.
I dreamt of Jacob and of a beautiful dark-haired woman walking by his side. I was watching from the window of a dusty attic room as they strolled down the garden arm in arm. Jacob picked her a red rose. He pinned it to her gown and it looked like a splash of blood against the emerald-green silk. I watched them walk further into the distance. Then they disappeared. I banged my fists against the window and shouted their names. Mother! Jacob! But they could not hear me.
When I woke the sun had gone in. I sat in the quiet of the room and listened to my heat thumping in my throat. I had never felt so alone.
Mary came into my bedroom early the next morning and placed a glass of toast water on my bedside table. ‘Drink this,’ she said. ‘You’ve been looking very peaky of late. It will do you good.’
I looked at the brown water. I could smell its warm yeastiness and my stomach heaved.
‘I know you don’t wish to speak to me,’ continued Mary, ‘but I must follow your father’s orders.’ She looked around my room. ‘Now, where are your soiled cloths? Your father is waiting to inspect them.’
My stomach heaved again. I leaned over the side of my bed and pulled my chamber pot out from under it. My stomach rose and sour liquid poured from my mouth into the pot. Mary came to me at once. She pulled my hair back from my face.
‘There, there,’ she soothed as another wave of sickness hit me. When it had finished, I slumped back on my pillow and Mary dabbed at my mouth with her handkerchief. ‘You are in a bad way, aren’t you?’ she said gently.
Suddenly I could not be angry with her any more. I flung myself in her arms and sobbed and sobbed. My heart was squeezed so tight it felt like a hard lump in my chest. I thought of my childhood: full of pretty dresses and cold-hearted governesses. Never a smile or a word of warmth from Mother, never an embrace or a word of encouragement from Father. I thought of the sameness of all the bleak, grey days, marching one after the other. Then I thought of Jacob and how he let me know love for the first time, and how he had filled my heart before he smashed it into a thousand pieces. And I thought of my mother, my real mother. A girl with dancing green eyes.
‘Mary,’ I cried, hugging her tight to me. ‘It is all so bad. It is the worst thing you can imagine!’
‘What is, Miss Ellen? You tell your Mary now. What is so bad?’
‘I . . . I am going insane, Mary. I . . . I am sure of it.’
‘Don’t be so daft, my girl. Whatever makes you say that?’
I loosened my embrace and looked into her face. ‘My monthly bleed has not arrived. What am I to do? It is the first symptom of insanity, is it not? Father has always told me so.’
The corners of Mary’s mouth twitched. ‘Well now,’ she said. ‘I can’t say I always agree with your father’s opinions . . .’
‘If not that,’ I said quickly. I had to get rid of the knowledge that had been tormenting me all night. ‘If I am not going insane, then I must be with child.’
Mary stiffened for a moment, then began to rock me in her arms. ‘Oh, Lord above,’ she whispered. ‘Oh, my love. It’s what I feared. But we cannot be certain. Just because t
he blood hasn’t come yet, it doesn’t mean the worst. You haven’t been yourself. That can change things and make your bleeds late. I am sure that is what has happened. I am sure of it.’
I pulled away again. ‘But . . . but what about Father? He will know something is wrong if you do not take any soiled cloths for him to inspect.’
‘Yes,’ said Mary thoughtfully. ‘But don’t you worry about that.’
‘But he needs to see proof of my bleeds, Mary. You know he does. And I cannot give him any this time!’
She smiled at me. ‘I know,’ she said. ‘But it just so happens that Ninny has a fresh cut of pig in the kitchen. And blood is blood, is it not?’
25
Queenie
Back at Wild Street Queenie hid her parcels in the scullery cupboard. It was damp and full of greasy cobwebs, but at least no one else would look in there. Mrs Ellis was banging around in the kitchen. She looked up when Queenie came in. ‘Had a good afternoon?’ she asked.
‘Yes, thank you, ma’am.’
‘See your family, did you?’
‘Yes, ma’am. Had a cup of tea with me mam.’ Queenie didn’t know why she lied. It had just come out before she thought about it. But she was glad she had. She didn’t want to share her afternoon with Mrs Ellis. She certainly didn’t want to show off her precious things.
‘Well, I’m glad someone had a restful time. Been run off my feet, I have. Not even had time for supper. I’m worn to the bone.’ Mrs Ellis made a show of filling the babies’ bottles, lifting the jug as though it was a heavy brick. She sighed and wiped the back of her hand across her forehead.
‘I’ll finish the feeds, ma’am,’ said Queenie. ‘And bring you some supper too?’
‘Yes, yes,’ said Mrs Ellis.
‘And Mrs Waters. Will she want supper too?’ asked Queenie.
‘Mrs Waters is out,’ said Mrs Ellis in a flat voice. ‘She won’t be back till late.’ She took off her apron and threw it over the back of a chair. ‘I’ll be in my room.’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ said Queenie as Mrs Ellis hurried out of the door.
The kitchen filled with silence. Not a soft, hushed comfortable silence. It was hard and brittle. Queenie was afraid to break it. The babies were as still as usual and there was not even a tap dripping. She picked up the jug. Its bottom scraped across the table. Then she began to fill the bottles Mrs Ellis had left. The milk trickled and gurgled and Queenie began to hum. The silence softened and Queenie felt better. She took the full bottles over to the sofa and placed one by the side of every baby. She jiggled the long teats between the babies’ lips and shook them all gently. One or two stirred and tried to suck at the rubber in their mouths. They were so tired they barely managed to swallow a drop. Little Rose was fast asleep. Queenie tickled her feet, but could not get her to open her eyes.
‘I was going to show you my treasures,’ Queenie whispered to her. ‘You’ll have to wait till morning now.’
Queenie set out cold meat and bread on a tray and carried it up to Mrs Ellis’s room.
‘Come!’ instructed Mrs Ellis when Queenie tapped on her door. She was sitting in her chair with her feet up on a velvet stool. She had a glass of brandy in her hand and the orange flames of the fire were reflected in the golden liquid. She nodded to Queenie to place the tray on the table beside her. ‘That will be all,’ she said.
‘G’night, ma’am,’ said Queenie. She thought it was strange how sad Mrs Ellis looked, sitting in her comfy chair by a warm fire. Queenie thought that one day, when she had all that, pretty ornaments, lace curtains, thick rugs and a house to put it all in, she would be the happiest person alive.
Back downstairs, Queenie fetched her parcels from the scullery cupboard. She put them carefully on the kitchen table and sat down. She picked up the brown paper package first, and put it to her nose. The smell of sweet roses seeped through the paper. She undid the string slowly, savouring the moment. The paper crackled as she unfolded it from around the soap. She ran her fingers over the waxy surface, and sniffed them. Now she smelt of roses too. Next, she turned to the silver tissue package. It was so soft and delicate. It rustled like silk skirts when she unfolded it; carefully so it didn’t tear. She picked up the ribbon and let it fall to its full length. It felt like water running through her fingers. She would wear it on her next afternoon off, she decided. She would wash her hair first, in the rose-scented soap. Then she would tie the ribbon in a big bow and it would shine like gold against the blackness of her hair. She wrapped up her treasures carefully and hid them back in the cupboard.
Before she settled on her mattress, Queenie checked on the babies. It was usual to leave them with their bottles during the night in case they woke to feed. She felt their napkins, hoping that Mrs Ellis had done it earlier. They were all of them dry except for Little Rose. She was sopping wet and smelt sour. Queenie sighed. It was the last thing she felt like doing. She pulled off Rose’s pink blanket and unpinned her napkin. Something didn’t feel right. The baby’s legs were cold and rigid. Queenie pulled back. She straight away knew that Rose was gone. She didn’t know how to feel for a moment. Babies come and go all the time, she told herself. She thought of the baby at home and how she’d been glad it had died. She wasn’t sure she was glad that Rose was dead, though. But she was dead. Queenie felt her little chest. She was definitely gone. And that was that.
Mrs Ellis was very efficient. Queenie thought she’d be mad as a wet hen. Blame her for not looking after Rose properly. But she wasn’t. ‘Never mind,’ she said. ‘Another one gone to Jesus. Best place for her.’ She took Rose away and told Queenie to get to bed. It was hard to sleep, though. And although Queenie knew Rose was best off out of it, she couldn’t rid herself of the picture she’d had in her head of Rose being fetched by a finely dressed lady and being taken away to a healthy place in the country.
26
Ellen
A week went by, and then another. Still the blood did not arrive. Mary asked me the same question every morning. ‘Has it come yet, miss?’ Every morning I shook my head. It got so that she did not bother to ask the question any more. She needed only to look at my face to see the answer.
My life on the surface went back to how it was before Jacob. I worked on my sewing and I attended to Mother on the rare occasions she asked for me. I took to walking in the garden again. The air soothed me and relieved the sickness that took hold of me every morning. I took my meals with Mother and Father, although I could hardly stomach Ninny’s cooking any longer, and I was polite to Father’s colleagues who sometimes joined us in the evening.
Everything was just as it had been all my life. Except now I had the biggest and most awful secret to conceal.
Mary tried to reassure me. ‘All will be well. You’ll see.’ But I knew all would not be well. However many times Mary told me my bleeds would return soon, I knew she was wrong. The blood would not come, because I was with child. I knew it to be true. I felt different; changed. I imagined Jacob’s offspring growing inside me, squirming and sucking away at my strength. It was a monster planted there against my will, and I was afraid. More afraid than I had ever been.
I hid away in the library most days, searching through Father’s books for mention of any maladies which might be mistaken for my condition. I could find none. I was always careful to replace the books in the exact place from where I had taken them.
I could not lose myself in my own books any longer. Romances and mysteries did not engage my attention. I began to flick through Father’s copy of The Times; distracting myself by reading the theatre listings, reports concerning the engagements of the royal family and the strange case of a Welsh girl who fasted to death. I bypassed the Parliamentary pages; that business bored me. But the court pages engaged my imagination and I spent hours reading of the trials of thieves, murderers and swindlers.
One day, I happened upon a court report at the bottom right-hand side of the page which caused the hairs on my arms to stiffen. I read it again and again.
The Times
April 6, 1870
LAMBETH. Mr. Charles Smith, and Mr. George Thomas – the former being a surgeon, and the latter a chemist – were placed at the bar before the Hon. G.C. BARTON, on a remand for being concerned in using a certain instrument, with the view of procuring abortion, on the person of a young woman at Clapham.
The first witness called was Miss Eliza White. In the month of October last, she stated, an improper intimacy took place between herself and a Rev. George Campbell, who lodged at her mother’s house. ‘In the month of December I had some conversation with Mr. Campbell as to the state of my health. As a consequence of this conversation I visited the shop of the prisoner Thomas. I accompanied him into the surgery behind the shop where he felt my bosom and my stomach and told me I was in the family way. He said that he had got a friend who would put me all right. He said I would have to pay 10 shillings. On the following Monday, I saw the prisoner Thomas again at the chemist’s shop in Leather Lane. He told me he had seen Dr. Smith and ‘he would do the job for the 10 shillings’. He gave me a bit of paper with Dr. Smith’s address upon it. I went to Dr. Smith’s address, and asked for him. I was directed into the surgery. Dr. Smith pulled down the blind, and was going to examine me, but he would not do it without the money down. I gave him the 10 shillings and he told me to lie on my left side on a sofa in the room, and I did so. He used some instrument under my clothes. A full quarter of an hour elapsed during the operation. I cannot tell how far the instrument went, but during the operation, in which both the prisoner’s hands were engaged, I felt something going round like a worm or a corkscrew. There was not any particular pain. I went every day for about a week and on each occasion that I went the operation was the same. I lay on my side every time and felt a pain, a short pain, when the instrument was used. Towards the end of the week he brought me some powders, which were taken in water, and were very nasty to the palate. They were of greyish colour, and gave me great pain in my stomach. I felt very ill indeed. Dr. Smith said, that the ‘pains were coming on’ and, ‘it will be soon over.’ My pain at this time was very great, and Dr. Smith took something from me with his hand, which he put into a piece of paper and carried away with him.’
The Quietness Page 9
