by Mary Hooper
Madame closed her eyes again, then opened them and said, ‘I’m afraid your wife has gone. Now, about your foundation . . .’
Chapter Fifteen
In Which Velvet Visits Mrs Dyer’s Baby Farm
Sometimes, Velvet thought to herself determinedly on the train to Reading the following morning, the spirits need a helping hand. The spirits need a helping hand, she repeated to herself several times, but it didn’t make what she was about to do sound any better. She was going to steal a baby! What she was doing was fraudulent, illegal and wicked, but she was doing it for Madame, who surely had the best of reasons – amongst them the saving of Mrs Fortesque’s sanity, maybe even her life – for her plan. Did that make it all right?
Velvet had been given the money for a second-class ticket from Paddington to Reading and as she had not had the experience of riding on a train before, this part of the journey, at least, was exciting and enjoyable. As London gave way to the suburbs, then to fields with horses and cows and sheep, she managed to clear her head of worrisome thoughts and found herself exclaiming with pleasure at every new scene. Picturesque cottages, pretty churches, ponds with white ducks, allotments with rows of vegetables and blooming gardens passed in a blur of colour. Daydreaming, she envisioned being married to George and living with him in one of the little thatched cottages. However, though she could just about imagine herself in the parlour sewing a patchwork quilt, the figure of George stubbornly refused to appear beside her. George seemed too tall, too dapper, too urbane a fellow to be chopping wood or toasting hunks of bread in front of the fire.
Early that morning, Madame had called her upstairs and shown her some particular advertisements in The Telegraph. They came under the heading of GOOD HOMES and there were seven of them, all saying more or less the same.
A lonely widow offers a good home
to a baby under six months.
If sickly, will receive a mother’s love.
No questions asked about provenance.
£12 annually, or for £20 would adopt entirely.
Velvet knew about baby farms, of course. Knew that many a young girl, desperate to keep her employment and her reputation, would sometimes give birth in secret and take her baby straight to a woman who would mind it until she was able to take care of it herself. If, as often seemed to happen, the baby died before she could reclaim it, then the girl would mourn the loss in private and try to get on with her life. Mrs Amelia Dyer of Reading had such a baby farm, and it was hers which had been selected by Madame.
Velvet was wearing her oldest clothes (those she’d been wearing the day she’d arrived at Madame’s, which she’d hoped never to wear again), her hair was deliberately unkempt and she had no gloves. She was posing as a girl in the family way and, wearing a roll of muslin as padding, might have been trying to conceal a pregnancy of seven months’ duration, or merely have been plump. To save her from any unpleasant comments or unwelcome speculation whilst on her journey, however, Madame had supplied her with a cheap wedding ring and Velvet, her hands crossed over the lid of her wicker basket, kept this in sight.
George had studied a map of Reading and had told Velvet where to go on leaving the station. He had also kissed her and said it was a wonderful thing that she was doing for Madame – for all of them – and she should feel very pleased and proud that she was helping in such a significant way. The closer she came to her destination, however, the more she realised she did not feel either of these things; she just felt ill. Her hands trembled, beads of sweat stood out on her forehead and there was a dull ache in her stomach. What was she doing here? How had she got herself into this situation? When she had said that she would do anything to stay with Madame, she hadn’t envisaged this.
Mrs Dyer’s terraced cottage was at the end of a row of equally shabby dwellings. In the front yard was a broken-down perambulator, a chair with two legs, a quantity of old wood, several stained mattresses of various sizes and two large, filthy dogs fighting over a bone. It did not seem the sort of place where one would choose to leave one’s child, but Velvet realised that unmarried mothers had little choice, so great was the stigma against them that it was well-nigh impossible for them to obtain work or shelter. To have their illegitimate children cared for was difficult, too, for most children’s homes were attached to the church and would only take orphaned or desperately poor children who’d been born in wedlock.
Velvet tapped on the front door, listening for any noises. Madame had assured her that Mrs Dyer would have at least half a dozen babies, but that they would be drugged with opiates to make them docile, so it was unlikely she would hear any crying in the house. Drugged babies were also too sleepy to drink milk, and this saved money. Of course, sooner or later, Madame explained, lack of nutrition would lead to a baby’s death, but the baby farmer would pocket the monthly fee for as long as the mother continued to send it. If the mother wrote to ask about her child, a false report would be given, and only if she turned up at the door to enquire would the sad news be given out that the child had just died. Recalling all these details, Velvet shuddered as she tapped at the door again.
This time a rough female voice shouted, ‘Round the back!’
Velvet took a deep breath and, walking round, tried to affect the gait of a pregnant woman, putting her hand on her back as if it pained her. ‘Mrs Dyer?’ she called.
Attached to the back of the cottage was a little glass outhouse looking as if it had been constructed of ancient doors and windows. Just outside sat a stout middle-aged woman smoking a clay pipe. She wore a dirty apron over a black cotton dress and her hair was patchy and balding.
‘Who wants ’er?’
Velvet fought to control a sudden urge to be sick, reminding herself that she was supposed to be anxious and desperate. ‘I saw . . . saw your advertisement in the paper.’
Mrs Dyer looked her up and down. ‘Expecting, are you?’
Velvet nodded.
‘Know who the father is?’
Velvet nodded again.
‘Has he got money?’
‘He has not,’ Velvet sighed. ‘And his parents have sent him to France in order to keep us apart.’ She had cooked up this sad tale on the train. ‘They say we are never to see each other again.’
Mrs Dyer blew out a cloud of smoke through lips which were cracked and stained with nicotine. ‘Usual tale,’ she said. ‘Want me to adopt it, do you?’
Velvet had already decided she could never in a hundred years leave a baby – even an imaginary baby – with such a woman. ‘No, just to have it minded.’
‘A year’s fee in advance is my terms. That’s twelve pounds. You’ll need to provide clothes and bedding for the year, and there’s no refund if the child dies.’
Velvet looked round. There was no evidence of any children: no cots, toys, or clothes drying, no napkins, bottles or any other nursery paraphernalia. ‘Have you many babies here?’
‘One or two,’ Mrs Dyer said. She coughed and spat on to the ground. ‘A mother’s love, I gives ’em.’
Velvet shivered.
‘Got somewhere to lie-in, have you?’
‘Not yet. I . . . I have about a month to go, I believe. I’m trying to persuade my sister to take me in.’
Mrs Dyer puffed on her pipe. ‘You better book a place here for the child, then, because you’ll not find many what’ll take bastard children.’
Velvet nodded, thinking how fraught, how achingly desperate a young girl would have to be to leave her baby here, with such a woman.
‘I’ll need a deposit, non-refundable, in case of anything going wrong.’ Velvet winced and Mrs Dyer added, ‘Risky business, childbirth. Plenty don’t make it through.’
Velvet handed over the ten-shilling note which Madame had given to her for a deposit, adding, ‘Here’s something else that my sister said you’d like.’ She delved into the basket and brought out a bottle of gin. ‘She said you may look especially kindly upon my child if you have a little treat.’
Mrs Dyer’s eyes lit up and her gnarled, yellow-stained hand reached for the gin. ‘Good on you, girl,’ she said. ‘Yer sister is the kind of woman who understands an old lady’s needs.’ She pushed the bottle into the pocket of her apron. ‘See you in a few weeks, then,’ she said, then crossed herself piously. ‘God willin’.’
Velvet hesitated, then asked, ‘Could I see the babies’ accommodation?’
‘No, they’re all asleep.’ Mrs Dyer gestured up to a little window. ‘Wouldn’t want ’em woked up, would we?’
‘Then I wish you good morning,’ Velvet said.
She set off, but before she had reached the front of the house she heard – just as Madame had predicted – the sound of the bottle of gin being unscrewed, of someone taking a gulp of liquid and giving a grunt of satisfaction. Now all she had to do was wait.
Velvet passed what seemed like an interminable time walking around the back lanes of Reading, not enjoying being poor. She was too used to being Madame’s companion, to travelling in her pretty carriage, to wearing satin shoes and taffeta underskirts that swished as she walked, to take kindly to walking the streets wearing cheap shoes and raggedy gowns again.
She sat in a park and thought about George. When, oh when would he declare himself? What was holding him back? She sighed, closed her eyes and imagined him kissing her passionately, then getting down on one knee and telling her he loved her. Was that ever going to happen?
Thoughts of George led inexorably to thoughts of Charlie. It was surely more than a month since she’d seen him, so perhaps he’d finally realised that there was no future in their relationship. Either that or Lizzie had won him over. This notion, for some reason, made her feel breathless and anxious, so that she had to start walking and quickly think about something else.
Judging that near two hours had gone, she walked back to Mrs Dyer’s, passing the dogs in the garden, still fighting, to tiptoe to the rear of the cottage. If Madame was right (and she was usually right about such things), Mrs Dyer would be in a drunken sleep. If she was not, then Velvet had a question ready as an excuse for returning, and would have to think again about what to do next.
That Mrs Dyer was sound asleep, however, was immediately evident. Her pipe had dropped on to the ground, where it still smouldered, the gin bottle was empty and the lady herself was snoring loudly. Velvet slipped past her and went inside, where, once through the glass outhouse and into the kitchen, the stench hit her like a wall, so much so that she gagged and had to return to the outhouse to take in some fresher air.
Three deep breaths, then, trying to steady herself for what she might see, Velvet went back into the house, straight through the kitchen (which was full of newspapers, stinking clothes, old plates covered in flies, torn towels and rags, cups and bottles half-full of sour milk) and up the stairs. At the top were two rooms, one with its door open and one shut, and it was into the latter that Velvet went.
She opened the door slowly, her eyes closed, then peeped out through screwed-up lids, unwilling to take in the scene all at once. There was a tatty screen standing in front of the window to stop the light coming in, but her first view was of boxes lined up across the floor – rough wooden crates, such as vegetables came in at the market. Turning to take a breath outside the room, for the stench inside was even more appalling, she went right in and saw that each of the crates contained a comatose infant. None of them wore napkins and each was lying in its own mess on straw or newspaper, apart from one, the smallest, who was swaddled around so tightly that it looked like a little Russian doll. The infants looked to be of slightly different sizes and ages, for only some had hair, and – probably according to the length of time they had been with Mrs Dyer – some were in a worse condition than others, with gummed-up eyelids, cradle cap or bloodless lips.
Velvet, surveying this scene, pushed her nails into her palms and felt her body folding in on itself with horror and grief. Stealing a baby had seemed such a terribly wicked thing to do, but now she had seen these poor innocents, she wanted to take them all out of the hell they were living in. Which one to choose? Which to condemn to death? Oh, their poor, desperate mothers . . .
Hurriedly, Velvet looked the babies over. Madame’s only stipulation was that the child should be a girl, and there were four of these. The smallest, the wrapped baby, looked to be the pinkest and healthiest, so it was probably a new arrival, but Velvet could not spare the time to undo its wrappings and discover what sex it was in case Mrs Dyer woke up. She therefore picked up the girl nearest to her and quickly cleaned her as well as she could on a piece of newspaper. The child was as thin as a skinned rabbit, with legs held in a frog-like position and stick-thin, dangling arms.
Quickly opening her basket, Velvet lifted out a blanket, unfolded it and placed the little girl within it, then loosely rolled it around her and put the bundle on the cushion in the basket. The child did not move or murmur during these attentions, and Velvet, suddenly frightened that she might be dead, made herself open the blanket in order to watch the baby’s little chest rise and fall several times before she went on.
Going downstairs and finding Mrs Dyer in the same position as before, Velvet was filled with a fearful anger. She realised she need not have concerned herself about the ethics of stealing a baby, for Mrs Dyer would be only too pleased it was off her hands – it would save her the trouble of slowly starving it to death. Seeing the evil woman slumped there before her, lumpen, drunk and gross, Velvet felt she could have kicked the chair from under her, but knew that to do so wouldn’t have helped the poor infants upstairs. All at once it struck her that there were many degrees of evil in the world. She’d thought her father wicked, but his doings were nothing compared to the heinous crimes of this woman.
Upon arriving at Paddington station, Velvet decided to walk to Madame’s house, not wanting to take the basket on to a crowded omnibus in case it got bumped and caused the baby within to start crying. For this reason also she had travelled from Reading back to Paddington standing alone in the guard’s van, peering in at the baby every few moments and hoping and praying that, once Mrs Fortesque had taken possession of her, she might recover her health and strength. How dreadful it would be if she had chosen a child to replace Mrs Fortesque’s dead Claire, only to have that child die, too.
Reaching Lisson Grove, her mind refusing to dwell on anything but the horrors at Mrs Dyer’s house, Velvet came to the street corner and stopped abruptly. She knew her way home quite well, so could not have said exactly what prompted her to turn, quite deliberately, in the wrong direction. And then she came in sight of the blue lamp which indicated a police station, and she knew why she had come that way.
Clasping the basket tightly in her arms, she began running towards the gleaming blue lamp. She wanted – oh, most desperately wanted – to see Charlie.
Chapter Sixteen
In Which Velvet Speaks to Charlie about Baby Farms
Sitting in the vestibule of Lisson Grove police station with the basket beside her, Velvet had to wait ten minutes or so for Charlie to appear. She checked on the baby repeatedly, but she did not make a sound in all that time. There was a duty policeman behind the desk but, busy with paperwork, he didn’t even glance their way.
A headache pounded Velvet’s skull and she felt giddy, her mind whirling, so that she hardly knew what she was doing or what she was going to say. When Charlie appeared around the corner, his tawny hair showing bright as a lamp in the dark corridor, she was so terribly relieved to see him that she felt she wanted to cry.
He surveyed her anxiously. ‘Ki— Velvet, whatever’s wrong?’
‘Charlie,’ she said, ‘please will you sit down a moment?’ She patted the bench on the other side from the basket and tried to calm herself.
He sat. ‘It’s lovely to see you whatever you’ve come for – but you’re not ill, are you? You look very flushed.’
‘No, Charlie.’ Velvet shook her head. ‘I’m fine.’
‘Something upsetting has happened to
you, though.’ He studied her carefully. ‘I can see it in your face.’
‘Yes, it has. There’s something really important I want to report, Charlie.’ She lowered her voice. ‘But I don’t want anyone to find out that it’s me who told.’
Charlie nodded. ‘It’s that Madame Whatsit of yours, I bet. You’ve found her out and she’s as crooked as a five-bob note, eh? Or is it that folderol fancy man of hers who’s playing you up?’
‘No, it’s neither of them,’ Velvet said, ‘and really, I don’t want to fall out with you about them, Charlie. I just want to tell you something and please, oh, please, you must tell someone and they must do something!’ And so saying, Velvet burst into the tears that had been threatening ever since she’d set foot inside Mrs Dyer’s house.
Charlie put an arm around her. Even though Velvet made an effort to shrug it off, he persisted and she was immensely comforted by crying on to a navy serge shoulder. But she only allowed herself to be fragile for a few moments before turning to face him.
‘We’re wasting time, Charlie,’ she said urgently. ‘It was the most terrible thing I’ve ever seen. You must tell your superiors and get a deputation and go and take them all away!’
‘What on earth do you mean, Kitty?’ Charlie asked, and it was a measure of Velvet’s anxiety that she didn’t put him right about her name. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘Babies. A woman who runs a baby farm. She lives in Reading – Parkby Close, right at the end of the road. She’s got about seven babies there and they all . . . all . . . look close to death.’ Tears trickled down Velvet’s face and though she had a handkerchief in her basket she didn’t dare to reach in for it in case she disturbed the baby and Charlie realised what she’d done. ‘Please, please don’t ask me how I know, Charlie. Just go there as soon as you can.’ She pushed him away from her. ‘You must go now!’
