by Jess Foley
Perhaps it was nature’s way of ensuring one’s survival. For how could one take in all that had happened, all the horror that had taken place? That day she had seen hundreds of people dying before her eyes – men, women, children – shouting and screaming as they had vainly struggled to stay afloat in the water. She had been one of the lucky ones, as had Jane. But what of the others – Louis, Iris and Alfred, Arthur, little Emma, and Emma’s nurse Flora . . . ?
Now here she was, lying in a narrow bed in the workhouse infirmary of a south-east London suburb. In the next bed lay Jane, her old, much loved friend – her friend whom she had thought never to see, never to love again. She turned on her side to face Jane’s back. She could hear her breathing. For the most part it was regular, though now and again it stuttered out of its rhythmical pattern as though she was disturbed by a bad dream or some physical discomfort.
As if in sympathy for Jane’s physical hurts, a little stab of pain pierced Abbie’s lower abdomen and lingered there with a small, burning intensity. Over the past couple of hours she had frequently experienced a similar pain – a kind of sharp, biting cramp – but it had never been this intense. Now she gritted her teeth, held her breath and waited for the discomfort to pass. It was due to the filthy river water, she told herself again; there was no telling what diseases one might not pick up from it. To her relief the cramps began to fade slightly after a few moments and she let out her breath on a sigh of relief.
Then, just as she felt the pain diminish to little more than an echo, it suddenly returned more sharply than ever, biting with a fierceness that made her catch her breath and sent her body into a spasmodic jerk. The pain lessened again, but did not go away. Instead, it lingered just below the threshold of unbearableness, all the while threatening at any moment to clutch at her again. Lying there, holding her breath and waiting for the next attack, she knew what she had tried not to face all along – that the pain had nothing whatsoever to do with having swallowed water from the river.
As she sat up the pain stabbed at her abdomen and she sucked in her breath. She swung her legs out of bed, took from the chair the towel that had been left for her, hitched up her nightdress and wrapped the towel about her loins. Then, holding it in place, she opened the locker and took out the shoes and the cape lent to her by Mrs Plaister. She put them on, gave one last look at Jane’s still form beneath the bedclothes, and crept swiftly from the room.
The bleeding had started by the time she reached the WC. When, in the cold glow of the gaslight, she pulled up her nightgown and removed the towel she saw how bright – much, much too bright – was the blood.
How long she sat there, hunched over, forearms crossed over her belly, head hanging down, she did not know. Half an hour? An hour? When at last, wrapped in the towel again, she made her way along the corridor, her joints felt stiff.
Miss Wilkinson was still up and in her office. Standing at her desk, she looked round in surprise when Abbie appeared in the doorway.
‘Mrs Randolph,’ she said, frowning, ‘is there something wrong?’
Abbie came into the room. ‘I wonder . . .’ she said after a brief hesitation, ‘I wonder whether I might take a bath.’
The nurse’s frown deepened. ‘Take a bath . . . ? At this hour? It’s almost three o’clock. Why don’t you –’ Becoming aware that Abbie was in some distress, she came to a stop. Then she saw the way Abbie was holding the towel around her beneath the nightgown; saw too the traces of blood on Abbie’s hands.
‘What’s happened?’ she asked, moving towards her.
Abbie steeled herself. ‘I – I was pregnant. Getting on for eight weeks. And I’ve just . . .’ Unable to bring herself to speak the final words, she came to a stop and stood holding herself, hands gripping the towel through the coarse fabric of the nightgown. She knew that she had lost the baby. There could not have been so much blood without that loss. But she would not cry. She must not allow herself to cry. There would be another time for tears and perhaps others to weep for. ‘Please,’ she said, struggling to control herself, ‘I must wash myself . . .’
‘It will be difficult for me to arrange a bath for you right now,’ the nurse said. ‘But I’ll get you some hot water, a bowl and clean towels.’
‘Thank you.’
Later, when Abbie was clean and dry and wearing a fresh nightgown, the nurse gave her a sleeping draught of a little laudanum and accompanied her back to the ward. She followed her in and watched her safely into bed.
‘Will you be all right now?’ she whispered.
Abbie nodded and murmured her thanks.
‘Is there anything else you need?’ the nurse asked.
‘No, thank you.’
‘Right – you settle down. One of the other nurses will be in and out to keep an eye on all of you, and I’ll try to call by in a little while to make sure you’re all right.’
‘Thank you.’
When the nurse had gone Abbie closed her eyes. She felt no pain now – only a dull ache. That, and a feeling of emptiness that was not just a physical sensation; it had to do with something else. Louis. She thought of how she had stood in the garden of her father-in-law’s house and told Louis that she was pregnant. The thoughts, the memories began to pour into her mind, churning over and over, until she felt she would go mad. But then the sleeping draught began to take effect and sleep released her, for a time, from reality.
Towards morning she dreamed – a dream that was in many ways like the ones before. As in earlier instances she saw before her the shape, slowly swinging to and fro. But this time its movement was much less pronounced; it was hardly moving at all. Its shape was different, too. It no longer had the compact form that she expected to see. But had it ever had that? Now it appeared strangely amorphous, and still, try as she might, she could not make it out. Then suddenly the weight was in her arms – and too heavy for her. Much too heavy. How could she carry it? She had no choice but to set it down, let it go. But how could she? No, she could not, she dared not. She must never, never do that . . .
Suddenly she was awake and sitting up in bed, staring into the room. Dawn had broken and daylight was creeping in through the cracks between the curtains. For a few moments she could not get her bearings and she was on the point of panicking. But then the sight of the empty beds facing her brought recollection back and she realized where she was.
‘Abbie . . .’ It was Jane’s voice, deep concern in her whispered tone. ‘Are you all right?’
She turned and saw Jane looking at her from the next pillow.
‘You cried out,’ Jane said. ‘You sounded so – so frightened.’
‘I’m all right. I – I had a bad dream, that’s all. I’m sorry I woke you.’
‘I wasn’t asleep.’ Jane’s words were the most she had spoken since their rescue.
Abbie took in the rest of the room. All was quiet. After a moment she slipped out of bed, stepped across the intervening space and sat on the side of Jane’s bed.
‘How are you feeling?’ she asked.
Jane gave a little shrug. ‘I ache all over. Apart from that I don’t know. I just don’t know.’
‘Poor thing.’ Gently Abbie touched a hand to Jane’s cheek.
After a few moments Jane said: ‘Abbie . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘What is to happen now? What are we going to do?’
‘I don’t know,’ Abbie replied. ‘We’ll decide when we get up. Go to sleep now, and try not to worry.’
A little later Abbie crept back to her own bed. As she lay there she thought with irony of her words. Try not to worry, she had said – while she herself was almost sick with fear.
Abbie woke again just before seven, looked around her at the cheerless room, and felt all the despair of the previous day come flooding back. And with it came the added, shocking, knowledge that she no longer carried the growing child in her body. Looking back on the miscarriage she had suffered in the night it was almost like remembering a dream, a part of the
living nightmare that she was going through. As for her physical feeling, there was little to tell her that the miscarriage had even taken place. There was no pain now – nothing but a very slight, dull ache. Other than that she was aware only of feeling a strange kind of emptiness inside. Whether it was a physical sensation or one brought on by her mental condition she did not know.
In the next bed Jane lay with her eyes closed, breathing regularly. Further along were the other survivors. The furthest, a woman in her thirties, was sitting up in bed, staring dully ahead of her. Of the other, much nearer, only her grey hair was visible, giving an indication that she was not young. As Abbie passed by the woman’s bed on the way to the washhouse she could hear her breathing, loud and rasping in her lungs.
When Abbie returned to the ward she found Jane awake and anxious to get up. Abbie tried to persuade her to remain in bed, but Jane would not, so Abbie helped her to wash and dress – a relatively slow procedure as the bruising to Jane’s ribs and the wrenching of her shoulder made movement painful. Abbie put on her borrowed clothes without concern for her appearance. She made no attempt to dress her hair in anything resembling style but instead wove it into two braids which she then coiled about the crown of her head and fixed in place with pins donated by one of the nurses.
Breakfast was brought to them on trays, carried by two of the female inmates who regarded them curiously. There was oatmeal, eggs, bread and butter, and coffee. Abbie ate some of it – having to force it down, even though she was hungry. Jane ate nothing but sat looking off, her eyes fixed on some point far distant in time and space.
‘Jane,’ Abbie said, ‘you must eat. You really must.’
As if coming back to the present, Jane turned to her and frowned while at the same time she gave an irritable little smile. ‘What? Oh, yes – later on. Perhaps later on. I’m not hungry right now.’ A moment’s pause, then she said, ‘I wonder whether there were any more admissions of survivors last night . . . ?’
‘We gave the nurse the names,’ Abbie said. ‘If there had been any word she would have told us. But anyway, I’ll go and check soon.’
‘If there’s no word I shall go and look for them,’ Jane said. ‘I must.’
‘You’re not fit yet to go anywhere.’
Jane made no response. Abbie did not know what to do; she felt helpless. Hearing a little moan, she turned and saw that the younger of the other two inmates was sitting on the side of her bed, head in hands, quietly weeping. One of the nursing assistants stood beside her.
After a while Jane set down her tray and lay on the bed. Abbie put aside her own tray and went to her. Jane lay on her side, her face towards Abbie, her eyes closed. ‘It’s this not knowing,’ she said.
‘I know.’
Jane opened her eyes. ‘I shouldn’t be speaking like this,’ she said. ‘After all, you’re worrying about Louis and Iris and – oh, but this not knowing! This not knowing!’ Her hand clutched at the pillow, fingers digging into the coarse cotton. ‘I don’t know what to do. I feel as if I – I’m not really alive. Just – just waiting. Arthur – Emma – shall I ever see them again?’
‘Oh, Jane . . .’ Abbie leaned closer to her, laying a gentle hand on her shoulder. But how could she give comfort? It was the blind leading the blind.
The doctor came to the ward not long afterwards. When he got to Jane and Abbie they at once enquired as to any survivors who might have been brought in during the night. As they feared, however, he could give them no good news. Five more male survivors had arrived at the infirmary, he said, but they were not those being sought by Abbie or Jane. When he was on the point of leaving he murmured to Abbie that he would like a word with her in private. She followed him out into the corridor.
‘I couldn’t mention it in the ward in front of the other patients,’ he said when they were alone, ‘but the nurse reported to me the matter of your miscarriage. What with that and the accident – you shouldn’t be walking about.’
‘What else can I do?’ Abbie said. ‘I can’t stay in bed. For one thing I’ve got to try to find out what’s happened to – to our families.’
Dr Rice nodded and gave a sigh. ‘Well, I understand that, of course. But you must be careful not to overdo things. Otherwise – truly, I can’t answer for the consequences.’
Abbie thanked him for his concern and then asked him about Jane. She was worried about her, she said.
‘Well,’ the doctor replied, ‘she must rest for the present. Even if she just sits beside her bed. Certainly she mustn’t try to get about.’
Abbie nodded then said, ‘She’s been talking about going out to try to find news of her husband and little girl.’
‘That’s out of the question,’ he said. ‘She’s got to rest. She was very badly bruised in the accident – and that’s apart from the shock she’s sustained.’
Abbie nodded. After a moment she went on, ‘You said that only five more male survivors had been brought in.’
‘Yes. Four men and a little boy. We don’t know the name of the child as I’m afraid he hasn’t yet spoken a single word to anyone. He’s a dark-haired little fellow of about five.’
‘How many survivors are here now?’
‘Sixteen including you and Mrs Gilmore.’
‘Only sixteen? The nurse said you had beds prepared for a hundred.’
‘That’s right. But as I said, survivors are going to other places as well. There are certain to be more. We just don’t know about them yet.’
‘Who would know?’
He shrugged. ‘The police are kept informed. And the people at the Steamship Company might also know. They’ve got offices in Woolwich. Near the wharf.’ He frowned. ‘You’re not thinking of going out into the town today, are you?’
‘What else can I do? I can’t just stay here and wait for news.’
He shook his head in astonishment. ‘Mrs Randolph, you had a miscarriage last night. You shouldn’t even be out of bed – let alone thinking of going walking around the town.’
‘I shall be all right, Doctor,’ she said. ‘But if I stay here I shall go mad.’
Back in the ward she found Jane sitting in a chair beside her bed. Abbie put on the cape that Mrs Plaister had lent her and said, ‘I’m going out. I’m going to Woolwich to make some enquiries.’
At once Jane started up. ‘I’m coming with you.’
‘Oh, no. No, Jane, you stay here. Please. I’m just going to try to find out what’s going on, and then I’ll come straight back. Please – promise me you’ll stay here and rest.’
‘All right.’
‘And will you try to eat something, too?’
‘I’ll try.’
There was a small, speckled looking-glass hanging beside her locker, and Abbie took a cursory glance at her reflection. What an awful sight, she thought. She had no hat and the grey cape had been mended on the shoulder. The plain brown dress lent to her by Mrs Plaister was not only a little too short but also slightly too large around the waist. At least the shoes, although old and worn, felt reasonably comfortable.
She moved back to Jane, kissed her on the cheek and assured her she would return as soon as possible. Going to the nurse, Miss Wilkinson, she borrowed enough money to pay for a cab to Woolwich and back, then went from the building.
To her relief she found there was a cab waiting near the workhouse yard and she got in and set off for the Woolwich police station.
She had stopped off at Woolwich one day in the past with Louis, when returning from a visit to his father at Gravesend. It had struck her then as a quiet little town. Not so today. Now the streets were teeming with anxious people as crowds arrived by the early trains in the hope of finding news of loved ones. As Abbie was driven through the busy streets she saw that many of the shops had, out of respect for the dead, put up their shutters. The hired cab let her off at the police station and there she joined the many others who crowded into the building. Seeing a throng of people gathered around a board near the entrance, she jo
ined it and eventually got near enough to be able to read a notice that was pinned there. It gave a list of survivors that had been reported to the police. Her heart thumping, she read down the columns of names. There were some ninety-odd listed. Among them she saw her own and Jane’s, and also that of the man McGibbon who had been rescued with them. The particular names she sought, however, were not there. With a heavy heart, she turned from the notice board and pushed her way towards the entrance and into the crowded building.
There were a number of police officers on duty. Sitting at desks, they spoke in sympathetic tones to anxious searchers and carefully wrote down names and descriptions of missing friends and relatives. While Abbie waited to be seen her glance moved from one to the other of the careworn, desperate faces. Men and women of all ages were there, searching for news of lovers and friends, husbands and wives, fathers and mothers, sons and daughters, brothers and sisters. In spite of the mental anguish that was evident she was touched by the quiet dignity with which most of the people conducted themselves. Now and again she would hear a little cry and see perhaps a woman, near collapse, supported in someone’s arms, but for the most part the people came and went quietly about their melancholy business.
Her glance moving on, she saw at the back of the room a sorrowful pile of personal belongings that had been gathered up from the river – a huge heap of bedraggled hats, bonnets, jackets, capes and bags. She could even see there a broken violin. Seeing the wrecked instrument she at once thought of Alfred and his fellow musicians.
Eventually it was her turn and she was beckoned forward by a middle-aged sergeant who sat behind a desk. She took a seat on a chair before him. He was a tall, lean man, with grey hair and a lined, weather-beaten face that bore an expression of kindness and concern. Abbie told him that she was a survivor of the riverboat disaster and that she was searching for her husband and other relatives and friends.
