So Long At the Fair

by Jess Foley

  The driver of the fly was the one who had driven her on her outward journey on the previous day and she took a morsel of comfort from seeing his kind face again. She got him to take her directly to the Woolwich pier, and found it once again besieged by hundreds of people seeking lost friends and relations, as usual their numbers added to by those who had come merely out of morbid curiosity.

  Leaving the cab, she joined the crowd. As she did so an ambulance wagon drew up and two bodies, covered and borne on stretchers, were lifted out. Their arrival caused a great stir and Abbie could see that several women looked near to fainting. With police officers clearing a path, the stretchers were carried up onto the pier and into one of the drill sheds, though the people were packed so densely that the stretcher-bearers had difficulty getting through. A shout went up some yards to Abbie’s right as an altercation broke out, and although the crowd prevented her from seeing what was happening it was clear from the sudden movement and the drawing back of the people that a struggle had ensued. There came shouts for the police and a murmur reached her ears that a pickpocket had been apprehended. She felt sickened – not least by the knowledge that the thief would be neither the first nor the last to take such cruel advantage of the situation.

  Going into the drill shed she saw that the bodies had been laid out on straw in two rows on either side, and it was clear at once that many more had been recovered since the previous day. Joining the line, Abbie slowly filed past them, as she did so recognizing by their clothes some that she had seen previously lying in the Town Hall, the Steamboat Company’s offices and the public houses in Woolwich and Rainham. Those that had already been identified had been covered with blankets. With the others, she noticed, an attempt had been made to clean them up, and the blood and mud that had previously stained many of the faces had been washed away.

  As she slowly made her way along the lines of corpses there would come every now and again a heart-rending shriek or groan as someone’s search came to an end with the recognition of one of the bodies lying there. For herself there came no moment of recognition, and eventually she left the shed and went back out into the crowd.

  Moving on into the courtyard of the docks, she found that in one section a number of army service wagons had been placed, in each of which three or four clerks were taking descriptions of anyone thought to be missing. Clearly such a monumental task had swiftly outstripped the limited manpower of the officers of the local police station. As Abbie approached, one of the clerks stood up at the front of a wagon and began to read out to the crowd the names of those saved. She heard her own name and those of Jane and Arthur, but there were no others that she knew. There was nothing more she could do for the present.

  It was just after twelve by the time she got back to the infirmary. As she made her way along the corridor towards the main females’ ward she was met by Arthur.

  ‘I saw you arrive in the yard,’ he said. ‘I gather you have no – no news.’

  ‘No, nothing.’

  He gave a groan. ‘Oh, Abbie, this is all so dreadful. And as terrible as it is, I know that Jane and I are not the worst off. But – oh, it’s so hard.’

  Briefly she touched his hand. ‘I know. I know.’

  He looked off into the distance. ‘They say everything passes. I suppose it does. It must be true that grief lessens in time . . .’

  She gave a little nod, thinking of her own experience. It was only weeks ago that Oliver had died and she, Abbie, was still here – perhaps proof that one did not die of a broken heart.

  ‘I so want to take Jane home,’ Arthur said. ‘And in spite of what the doctor says, I’m still hoping that it might be possible tomorrow. She seems a good deal better today – even with the news about Emma.’ He paused. ‘What will you do?’

  ‘I’m not sure. I can’t stay here.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Well, I’m not ill – and I feel a bit of a fraud taking advantage of all the kindness.’

  ‘Where will you go?’

  ‘I don’t know. I can’t go far.’

  ‘You could come back with us to Ladbroke Grove.’

  ‘Thank you, but – I think I’ll try to find a room at a hotel in Woolwich. I need to stay somewhere close by while I’m searching and waiting for news. After that – well –’ She gave a little shrug.

  ‘I hope you’ll be here anyway until I take Jane home. It’s so good for her – so comforting to have you near.’

  ‘Oh, I shan’t be far away, Arthur, don’t worry. But in any case, she’s got you. You’ve got each other.’

  ‘Yes.’ Solemnly he nodded. ‘Thanks to you.’ The thought came to her that there was no awkwardness between herself and Arthur. After what had taken place between them, culminating in their encounter on the boat, one might have expected that they would have known such constraint that they would have been unable to find any meeting point. But it was not like that. That had all been made as nothing by the horror they had so recently gone through.

  And now, looking at Arthur in the cold light of this dreadful day, it came to her once again, without the shadow of a doubt, that she had never loved him.

  ‘What will you do for money while you’re – looking?’ Arthur said, breaking into her thoughts.

  She gave an ironic little smile. ‘I’m hoping you’ll lend me some more, will you?’

  ‘Of course. I’ll go to the bank this afternoon.’

  ‘I’ll pay you back just as soon as I – as I get things sorted out.’

  Later, in the infirmary ward, Abbie went to Jane’s side where she sat next to her bed.

  ‘Arthur tells me he’s taking you home tomorrow.’

  Jane nodded. ‘Yes.’

  They fell silent. Turning, looking around, Abbie became aware that the bed behind her was empty. There was no sign of the elderly woman, Mrs Childs. As she looked at the empty bed Jane’s voice came quietly: ‘She died. Mrs Childs. While you were out this morning.’

  After lunch Abbie went to the nurse and told her that she too hoped to be leaving the infirmary the next day.

  ‘Are you sure you feel well enough to go?’ Miss Wilkinson asked.

  Abbie assured her that she did, adding, ‘And you’ve got enough to do without having people around who aren’t ill.’

  Miss Wilkinson looked at her judiciously. ‘You’ve been through a dreadful ordeal, Mrs Randolph. And apart from its physical impact you mustn’t underestimate the effects of the shock. And there’s also the matter of your other trouble – your miscarriage.’

  ‘I realize that,’ Abbie said, ‘but I shall be all right, truly.’ She went on to say that she would move to a hotel close by, so that she could keep on with her searching as long as was necessary. “There seems to be such confusion everywhere,’ she added. ‘It probably isn’t so in reality but it appears that way with so many people wandering around not knowing where to go or what to do next. I know the authorities are doing everything they can, but how does one begin to cope with such a thing? No one has experience of such a disaster.’

  The nurse gave a deep sigh. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘New difficulties are being thrown up all the time. As one problem is solved so another arises. And one hears so many tragic stories.’

  It was true. Since Abbie’s arrival at the infirmary she had heard of the experiences of other survivors who had been brought in. But none of them had spoken with any kind of sensationalism; on the contrary, their stories had been delivered in a straightforward, matter-of-fact manner. There had been no need to embellish them, for the reality had been horrific enough. Neither had there been any effort to impress – for as often as not the listener’s own experiences had been as bad. Also, in telling the tales there were never manifestations of self-pity and rarely any emotion shown over the shock, the experience itself, or physical hurts suffered. It was only when speaking of loved ones still missing that the emotions sometimes came to the surface and tears were shed. But not always. In some cases there was still that barrier, that shell
– and behind it the survivors continued in a dull, stunned, detached way, almost as if they were untouched by the calamity that had taken place.

  That night Abbie lay awake in her bed. In the distance a clock chimed the hour of ten. On soft, silent soles a young nursing assistant passed through the ward checking that all was well, then moved out again to continue on her rounds. All was quiet. Arthur, who had sat with Jane as long as he had been permitted, had long since returned to the men’s ward. Also, there were fewer patients now. Two had left during the day, sufficiently fit to be discharged, going off in the care of friends or relations, facing lives shattered by loss. Tomorrow, Abbie reflected, she herself would be gone, as also would Arthur and Jane; they to their home in Ladbroke Grove and she to a nearby hotel. She couldn’t wait to get away. And, please God, she would soon learn some good news – though with each minute that passed the chances of such a thing happening were vanishing like smoke. She felt very restless. The day just past seemed to be as unreal as the one preceding it, and she had gone through the hours as if in a dream.

  ‘Abbie . . . ?’

  At the whispered sound of her name Abbie looked to her right. In the shadows cast by the gas lamp Jane’s face was a pale blur.

  ‘Yes? What is it?’

  ‘I – I wondered whether you were still awake.’

  Abbie turned on her side, the better to direct her whispered words. ‘Yes. But you should be asleep. If you’re going home tomorrow you’ll need all your strength.’

  ‘I was asleep, but I woke up.’

  ‘Are you feeling all right?’

  ‘Yes, I’m fine.’ A pause, then Jane said, ‘Abbie – come and be with me for a while, will you?’

  Abbie hesitated for only a second, then crept silently out of bed. Jane moved over and Abbie got in beside her. Jane gave a little sigh of contentment. ‘That’s better. You probably think I’m a goose but I just felt – oh, I want you with me tonight.’

  ‘I don’t think you’re a goose. Though if the nurse comes in she’ll shoot me. She’ll think we’re very odd.’

  ‘Hang the nurse. She can think what she likes. And five minutes won’t matter.’

  Abbie turned and put her left arm across Jane’s body. ‘I must be careful not to hurt your poor old ribs,’ she said.

  Jane patted her hand. ‘I wish you were coming with us tomorrow.’

  ‘I’ve got to stay.’

  ‘I know. All the same . . .’ A few moments, then Jane added, ‘Do you remember those nights when we were young and we slept together?’

  ‘All that giggling. Your mother coming in and telling us to be quiet.’

  ‘Yes.’

  A little silence, then Abbie said, ‘I’m so sorry I caused you so much hurt, Jane. Forgive me.’

  ‘Oh – that’s all in the past. That’s all over with.’

  ‘Yes, but – tell me you forgive me.’

  ‘Of course I forgive you.’

  They lay quiet again for a while, then Jane said: ‘You saved my life, Abbie. Without you I would be dead.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Abbie said with heavy irony, ‘I’m wonderfully brave all right.’

  ‘Oh, you were – you were.’

  ‘Well – let’s not talk about that . . .’

  A little silence, then Jane whispered, ‘How – how long will you stay in Woolwich?’

  ‘How long? Until I know.’

  ‘Oh, Abbie –’ Jane pressed her hand. ‘I’ve been so absorbed in my own . . . predicament – and you yourself are going through such a terrible time.’

  Abbie said nothing. There was nothing she could say. They fell silent again. Jane lay still, her breathing even. After a time Abbie began to feel sleepy and closed her eyes. Then with an effort she opened them again; she should return to her own bed before she fell asleep . . . With the thought she began to edge backwards, but then Jane stirred and laid a hand on her wrist. ‘No . . .’ Her voice was drowsy. ‘Don’t go just yet . . .’

  ‘I won’t.’

  Abbie settled herself again, wrapped her arm more closely about Jane’s warm body and closed her eyes. Soon she slept.

  Some minutes later the night nurse, Miss Ketteridge, quietly making her rounds, saw the two lying asleep together. She stopped at the foot of the bed and looked at them. It was good to see them both looking so peaceful; to have escaped, if only for a while, from the horrors of the day’s realities. Turning, she moved on.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  The small cottages on the outskirts of Plumstead passed by on the periphery of Abbie’s vision as the fly moved on along the road towards Woolwich.

  Just before her departure she had seen Arthur and Jane setting off for Ladbroke Grove where they would make their arrangements for the funeral of their daughter. Although they had one another, without Emma their little world as they had known it was finished.

  Reaching the pier, Abbie got out and once more joined the streams of people making their way to the drill shed. On entering she could see at once that many more bodies had been recovered since her visit of the day before. There must now be two hundred or more laid out there, she reckoned, and even as she watched, two men set down another river-drenched corpse. A large number of the bodies were now covered, signifying that they had been identified.

  The hush of the place was broken by the sounds of weeping and Abbie stood to one side as a sobbing, middle-aged woman came by, supported on the arm of a younger man. Abbie averted her eyes from the woman’s grief-ravaged face.

  And almost immediately she found herself looking down at the body of Alfred.

  In her last sight of him he had looked so smart in his dark-blue trousers with their outer-seam stripe and his tunic with the gold braid. Now his clothes were sodden, dirty and shapeless. He looked somehow smaller, too, added to which his face was discoloured and distorted, his mouth wide open as if he had died while crying out. As she looked at him she noticed that his hands were clenched – and then saw that there was something held fast in his right fist. Bending closer, she saw what appeared to be a little tangle of blue ribbon. And then she realized what it was. It was the silk ribbon bow from the front of Iris’s bodice. In her mind she had a sudden image of Alfred clutching at Iris in a vain attempt to save her, and ending holding only the ribbon from her dress.

  With a sob she straightened, stood there for a moment to collect herself, then moved away.

  Iris’s body lay only five yards further on.

  Outside on the pier steps, Abbie stood clutching at the rail, while the crowds pushed past. Iris . . . She had dreaded that at some time she would find her body, but nothing had prepared her for the reality of the moment. Iris . . . She had looked so dreadfully pathetic. Her hat had come off, and also one of her shoes. Her stockings were in shreds, while the pretty blue dress that she had worn with self-conscious pride was now a torn, filthy, shapeless rag. It was her face, though, hideous in its distortion and discoloration, that stayed before Abbie’s tight-shut eyes – and she clutched harder at the rail, bowing her head in grief and despair.

  Eventually she straightened. It was still not over. She must go back into the drill shed and formally identify the two bodies. And then . . . then she must continue her search for Louis.

  Some twenty-five minutes later, the formal identifications completed, she re-emerged from the drill shed and hailed a cab. She had fully intended to find a hotel today, but for the moment she could not think of such a thing. Perhaps tomorrow. All she could think of now was getting back to the sanctuary of the infirmary at Plumstead

  On her return she encountered Miss Wilkinson who told her that in her absence the publican’s wife from the Steam Packet, Mrs Plaister, had brought her clothes. ‘She’s washed and pressed them,’ she said. ‘I put them in your locker by your bed. I’m afraid they’ll never be as they were, but at least they’ll do for the time being.’

  ‘People are so kind,’ Abbie said, touched by the thoughtfulness of the publican’s wife. She then asked the matron if
it would be in order for her to stay a further night. Miss Wilkinson said of course she must stay, then she added as Abbie was about to turn and go:

  ‘Oh, by the way, our little boy – our little unidentified boy in the men’s ward – he turns out not to be foreign after all. Today he began to speak. He told me his name – Edward Newman – and said his mama keeps a shop. And not long afterwards one of the visitors remembered seeing him on board the boat with his parents – very respectable-looking people apparently.’ She gave a sigh. ‘Poor little fellow. I’m afraid he won’t be seeing them again.’

  ‘Oh – poor little boy.’ The stories of sorrow and tragedy seemed to have no end.

  Taking her leave of the nurse, Abbie went out into the front courtyard. She found that she was greatly moved by the story of the little boy who had at last spoken. How swiftly everything could change. At seven forty on Tuesday evening little Edward Newman had been a happy child, safe in the loving arms and care of his mother and father. At seven forty-five he was an orphan and starting the rest of his life along a different path.

  Three women, also survivors from the steamboat, were walking slowly together in the courtyard. She acknowledged them with a brief nod and walked on, past the porter in his little hut and out onto the street. She had to get away for a few minutes – anywhere, it didn’t matter where, just so long as she could escape for a little while from the constant reminders of the tragedy and the despair.

  Without shawl or hat she walked, oblivious of the scenery around her and of the people who passed by on foot or in carriages. There was a feeling of numbness in her that seemed to pervade her whole body. She felt as if all purpose in her life had now come to an end; everything that had made life worth living was gone. She no longer had any reason to hope. They were all gone. All of them. Iris was dead, and Alfred – and she knew now without question that Louis could not have survived. If he had she would have learned of it. Now it was just a matter of waiting and searching – for that final confirmation. For if she searched long enough she knew she would eventually find his body too.