The words of Eliza White went round and round in my head. She had been with child . . . then it had been taken from her. Abortion. I had rarely seen or heard the word before. I had certainly never understood its meaning. I folded the newspaper and took it to my room. I hid it under my mattress so I could read the story again later that night. It was all I could think about. There must be others like Dr Smith, I realised. Plenty of others. But how I would even begin to find someone like that was beyond me.
Mary continued to bring tinctures for me to drink. Cinnamon water to calm my sickness, and raspberry tea, ‘a cure for interrupted menstruation’, she told me. But for all of her efforts, nothing changed. Another week passed, and then another. Mary sorted out my unused rags and took them to the kitchen. I did not ask what she found to soak them in this time, but Father inspected them as normal and dismissed her without comment. Now I had missed two bleeds. Mary could not deny it any longer. Now we both knew what had to be true.
‘Oh, what is to be done, miss? What is to be done?’ Mary was pacing around my room. ‘We cannot hide it for long. And your father! I cannot imagine what he will do!’ She threw her hands in the air. ‘I wish we could send you away somewhere. My sister would have you. I know she would. You could stay there for a few months to have the baby. Then you could come back and nobody would be any the wiser. But what excuse would we give to where you were? Maybe . . . maybe . . .’ She was talking fast, stumbling over her words. ‘Maybe we could say my sister is sick. That you had offered to go and nurse her. What do you think, miss? Would your father let you go?’
‘Mary, please stop.’
‘No, miss. Something has to be done soon. Before you begin to show. We must think what is to be done.’ She paused and put her hand to her head. Then she gasped. ‘He will dismiss me! He’ll know I helped you hide your condition. He’ll put me on the streets!’
She looked at me, helpless, waiting for an answer.
I went to my bed and pushed my hand under the mattress. I drew out the copy of The Times that was folded back at the court report I now knew word for word. I handed it to Mary and bade her read it. She sat in my armchair and held the paper close to her face. She was proud of knowing her letters, so I patiently waited for her to finish.
Eventually she looked up at me and let the paper fall from her hands and onto the floor. ‘What are you thinking of, miss?’ she whispered, a look of horror on her face. ‘You surely can’t be thinking of doing something so . . . so evil!’
I had not expected Mary to react in such a way. I had thought she would be pleased that I had found a possible solution. ‘But . . . but,’ I stuttered. ‘Don’t you see, Mary? It is the answer! All we need do is find a doctor willing to help!’
‘One who will kill you in the process, no doubt! As well as the child!’
I had never seen Mary as angry.
‘You mustn’t think of this any more, miss. Put it out of your mind.’
‘But Mary, it is the only choice! You must see!’ I needed her to agree. I needed her to help me. She was the only one who could find me such a doctor.
‘I won’t have anything to do with such an idea,’ she stated. ‘To kill an unborn child is the most evil of crimes. Many have hung for less. Do you know how many young girls have died alone in back rooms? How many have bled to death, their unborn children ripped from their wombs? I’ll have nothing to do with it, I tell you!’ She stood and looked at me; her eyes hard and her chin quivering with indignation.
The belief that had grown inside me the last few days, the belief that I had found the answer and that all would be well, was shattered. The familiar weight of black hopelessness returned.
‘What am I to do, then, Mary?’ I sobbed. ‘What am I to do?’
Mary’s face softened and she came to put her arms around me. ‘I will write to my sister,’ she said. ‘She will agree to have you there, I know she will. We just need to be able to persuade your father to spare you.’
‘If . . . if I go to your sister, what will happen to the child when it comes?’
‘She would find it a home, miss. My sister would make sure it was well looked after. Don’t you worry about that.’
‘I am not worried about it being looked after,’ I said. ‘I just want it to disappear.’ For the first time I understood how my real mother must have felt. How she had had no choice but to leave me behind. She would have been glad to get rid of me, I knew. I almost laughed to think how I had so unknowingly followed in her footsteps.
I put my hand on my stomach. I felt a roundness, a soft swelling that only I knew was there. The child was so tiny; hardly there at all yet. But already it had ruined my life.
I was shocked and frightened by the power it had over me and my body.
27
Queenie
Mrs Ellis had taken to spending most of her days with Queenie. She came down to the kitchen early each morning and sat drinking her tea while Queenie stoked the fire, fetched in more coal and swept the floors. She helped Queenie wash the babies and made sure their bottles were topped up with the Quietness. Queenie decided she didn’t mind having her there. It was good to have someone to talk to. When the morning jobs were done, she asked Queenie to come and sit with her out in the backyard. It was summer now and the kitchen was stuffy and airless. It was a relief to sit out for a while.
Mrs Ellis told Queenie about her husband Thomas and how he had caught typhus and died half insane in a lunatic asylum. ‘Terrible it was. I do so miss him.’
Queenie told her about Mam and Da and the little ones. About selling apples and pears on the streets and how the baby had died. When Mrs Waters came out looking for them, Mrs Ellis jumped up. Her voice changed and she told Queenie to do things that had already been done. Mrs Ellis was scared of her sister. Queenie could tell.
There were no more ladies in the house. The last lady’s baby had come early and never taken a breath. The doctor was called out for that one. The lady had insisted. Queenie had opened the door and shown him the way to the lady’s room. She felt so proud when she said, ‘Yes, sir? Can I help you?’ and ‘Please follow me. I’ll show you the way.’ Not long after, an undertaker came to take the baby away and the lady had gone by morning.
There were eight babies on the sofa now. One evening when Mrs Ellis had had a drop too much brandy, she told Queenie how Mrs Waters met the mothers at Waterloo Station. They came from all over, she said, with their unwanted infants. Mrs Waters got ten pounds for taking the babies in. Sometimes more if the mother was rich. ‘Sshh, though,’ Mrs Ellis had giggled. ‘Don’t let on I told you so.’
Queenie thought hard about the money. If Mrs Waters got ten pounds for every baby, she must be as rich as a duchess. It was the best kind of secret. She could hardly believe it was that easy to earn so much money.
Queenie was used to the babies coming and going. She wasn’t surprised when one went or another one appeared. She didn’t give any of them names any more. It wasn’t worth it. They were never around for long enough. Mrs Ellis trusted her to run all the errands now. She didn’t like to go out herself. ‘I don’t know how I managed before you came along,’ she said to Queenie.
There were always fresh bottles of Godfrey’s Cordial to be picked up from Mr Epps the chemist. Queenie didn’t like to call it the Quietness. She made sure to always call it by its proper name. There was milk to fetch and bread and meat, and often a bottle of brandy or two. There were letters to be taken to the post office and replies to be brought back. There were so many; mostly from mothers making enquiries. Mrs Ellis wrote out advertisements to put in the papers and sent Queenie to post these too. Queenie hadn’t meant to look, but the envelope wasn’t stuck down.
Discreet rooms offered to ladies. All comforts provided, one advertisement said. And another, Married couple in good circumstances willing to adopt healthy child, nice country home. Terms, £10.
Queenie puzzled at that one. Maybe it was what Mrs Ellis used to put when her husband was alive. Still
, it was a good lot of money the sisters were getting. She wished Da could know how his big gal had landed on her feet. He’d be so proud of her. I’ll go back soon and show ’em all how well I’ve done, Queenie promised herself.
The next time Mrs Ellis sent Queenie out on errands, she had to walk further than usual to fetch a new lot of Godfrey’s Cordial.
‘Best you go to the chemist on Duke Street. Leave Mr Epps alone for a while. Don’t want him wondering why we get through so much of the stuff, do we?’ Mrs Ellis said with a pleasant smile.
‘He never asks,’ said Queenie. ‘But if he does I’ll just tell ’im we have lots of fretful babies!’
‘Oh no,’ said Mrs Ellis. The smile left her face and she clutched her shawl around her throat. ‘Don’t ever do that. You know Mrs Waters don’t like anyone to know her business. No . . . you run along to Duke Street now.’
Queenie was glad of the walk. The new chemist hadn’t asked any questions and now she had the new bottle of Godfrey’s Cordial tucked safely in her pocket. She took her time coming back. The sun slipped warmly over her bare arms. She felt hugged and safe. Her mouth was dry, though, and she had a sudden yearning for an orange. She hadn’t had one for the longest time, but she remembered how the flesh burst in her mouth and how sweet the juice tasted.
A way down the road across the other side she could see a grocer’s on the corner. The greens of cabbages, the reds of apples, the milky whites of turnips and the yellows of melons shimmered in the distance. She quickened her pace, already tasting the orange in her mouth. As Queenie got to the corner, a newspaper boy took up his position, his arms piled with papers.
‘DEAD BABIES DUMPED ON THE STREETS!’ he yelled. ‘READ ALL ABOUT IT! ANOTHER BODY FOUND WRAPPED IN BROWN PAPER! READ ALL ABOUT IT!’
A tingle ran through Queenie’s body and seemed to pull at the roots of her hair. She carried on walking, feeling breathless and hot. She didn’t want to have heard those words. She walked fast, knowing that the faster she walked, the quicker the words would disappear. She began to run, not stopping until she got to Wild Street. Only when she was safely inside did she let the memory of Mrs Waters carrying the brown paper package out of the scullery slip into her head. It shook her up to think about it. She tried to push the thought away; to hide it behind the curtain in her head. Why was the world shouting about what she was trying so hard not to think about? It was none of their business. They had no right to pry. Just when everything was going so well.
28
Ellen
It came as no surprise that Father refused Mary’s request that I nurse her sister. I had known it was clutching at straws. There was nothing left to do now but wait and hope for a miracle.
The weeks passed and my gowns grew tighter. Mary did her best to lace me in as tight as she could. I took to wearing my shawl at all times. I wore it hanging loose over my bosom so it helped disguise my growing figure. I knew I looked well. My skin glowed and my hair grew thick and glossy. I could sense Father watching me closely at the dinner table. I kept my head down and did not catch his eye. I made sure I was seated before he came in to dine and when I left the table I turned myself in such a way that my back was always to him.
Safe in my room in the evenings, Mary loosened my corset so I could breathe freely. The relief was only momentary. Most nights I could not wait for the mornings to arrive so I could be safely laced up again, despite how uncomfortable it had become.
One morning as I lay in bed watching Mary sort my corset and gown for the day, I felt a strange sensation; like wings fluttering about my insides. It stopped for a moment and I held my breath. Then it came again; a fragile butterfly trapped in my belly. ‘Mary,’ I whispered. ‘There is something wrong. I have a peculiar feeling inside me.’
She turned to me. ‘Does it hurt, miss?’
‘Oh no,’ I said. ‘Not at all. But it is very odd. Like a . . . like a tapping.’
Mary smiled and came to put her hand on my stomach. ‘It’s the quickening, miss. It’s your baby’s first stirrings.’
I looked at her, but could not speak. I lay still, not daring to move. Then I felt it again; a tap, tap, tapping inside me. The child was alive and wriggling. It was letting me know it was there. A surge of dread filled me up.
‘Oh, Mary,’ I said. ‘It is truly happening.’
‘Yes,’ she said with a sigh. ‘I fear this child is coming, whether we want it to or not.’
It was late. I had read until my eyes were heavy. I blew out my candle, settled into my pillow and waited for sleep to come. The child was still now. There were no more flutterings. I imagined it lying in wait inside me, waiting for me to sleep, so it could prod me awake again.
There was a noise. I opened my eyes. The door creaked and I saw a shadow and the flicker of a candle. ‘Mary?’ I whispered. What did she want at this late hour?
The candle moved into my room and I saw at once that it was not Mary. Father’s bulk filled the doorway and the smell of cigar smoke stung my nostrils. My heart was racing, the thumping filled my head. What did he want? He had never come to my room before. I pulled my covers up to my chin and slid further down the bed. He walked over to me and shone the candle in my face.
‘I see you are awake already,’ he said. ‘That will save me the trouble.’ He took hold of my sheets and flung them off me. ‘Get up and get dressed,’ he ordered.
‘What . . . what is happening, Father? Is something wrong? Is Mother ill?’ I looked around frantically for my shawl. I could not have Father see me in my nightgown. I had to hide my condition.
‘Hurry, girl. What are you waiting for?’
‘I just need my shawl, Father.’ I could not see well enough in the light of his candle. But I dared not light another one.
‘You do not need your shawl! Do you think I am such an idiot? Such a fool that I have not known about your condition since almost the very beginning?’
What was he saying? That he knew about the child?
‘Get up!’ he hissed. ‘Get up now!’ I was shivering with fear, my legs trembling. I climbed from my bed and stood, not knowing what to do next. Father stared at me. His eyes travelled up and down and rested on the shape of my pregnant belly, shrouded in my nightgown.
‘Look at you, you little whore. I should have known you would never amount to anything. Education and manners have been wasted upon you. Now get your gown on!’
‘But why, Father? Why must I get dressed?’ I wanted to crawl back into bed, to bury myself deep under the covers and to sleep. I wanted to pretend this was not happening, that it was all just a nightmare.
‘Did you actually think you could hide from me? Deceive me with pig’s blood? Hide your sins under a well-placed shawl?’
‘But Father, it was not my fault. You must believe me! I am innocent. It was Jacob, Father. He . . . he forced himself on me.’
‘Do not utter that boy’s name to me!’ Father hissed. ‘And do not use the weakness of men as an excuse for your lack of morality! I will wait outside your door while you dress. Now hurry!’
‘But Father, please!’
He turned away from me to walk from the room. Fear was thudding through me. Did he mean to throw me out on the streets? Could he be so cruel?
‘Father . . .’ The word caught in my throat as tears streamed down my face. ‘I know about my real mother,’ I managed to say. He stopped and turned back to look at me. ‘I know about Dolly,’ I said. ‘You kept me then. Please don’t throw me out now.’
Father walked towards me. His face tightened and he narrowed his eyes. ‘It is all arranged.’ He touched his candle to another beside my bed. The flame caught and quivered. Father took hold of my chin and stared into my eyes. ‘It is true,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘The sins of the mother are revisited in the child.’ He dropped his hand. ‘You have two minutes. And you may wish to pack a bag.’ He left the room, the door banging shut behind him.
I do not know how I dressed. My hands were trembling, my teeth were chat
tering. I could not reach to do all my buttons. I pulled a carpet bag from a cupboard and found some underclothes and another gown to put in it. ‘Mary,’ I sobbed quietly. ‘Mary, please come to me.’ I knew she would not. She would be asleep at the top of the house. When she came to wake me in the morning she would find my bed empty. Then a terrible thought occurred to me. Had Father thrown her out too? He must know how she tried to help me. Had he made her pack her bags? I cried harder, thinking I might never see her again.
The door opened and Father came in.
‘It is time to go,’ he said. ‘Pick up your bag.’
I could not speak. My voice felt like a lump of coal lodged in my throat. Father took me by the arm, and by the light of his candle he led me down the stairs. I was numb. I could not think. Father took me out of the front door and down the steps. There was a carriage waiting at the bottom. I could hear the soft breath of the horses. Father spoke to the driver in low murmurs, then took something out of his pocket and handed it to him. The driver nodded his head and touched his hat. Then Father opened the carriage door and gestured for me to climb inside. He pushed my bag in after me and, without another word, he closed the door.
It was dark and stuffy inside; the curtains were closed. There was a jolt and I was thrown back in a seat as the horses began to move. ‘No,’ I whispered. Then louder. ‘No!’ I pushed the curtains to one side and banged on the window. ‘No!’ I shouted. ‘Father! Mary!’
The Quietness Page 10
