The River Sings

by Sandra Leigh Price

  “I’d be much obliged, if it is not too much trouble. I’ve walked a long way.”

  “No problem at all, show him to the drawing room, Eglantine,” Makepeace said and disappeared down to the kitchen. I showed Mr Fookes to the drawing room, a somewhat closer resemblance to a Quaker’s meeting room than a cosy sitting room; only the damask on the walls and sofa lent it any warmth. The grate was cold. I left Mr Fookes and attended to the water on the floor in the entrance way, soaking the puddle up with a rag before I returned to the sitting room, where Mr Fookes still stood, shivering in his wet clothes.

  I pulled out the tinderbox and tried to coax a flame from the damp flint, but it wouldn’t kindle to my touch.

  “Don’t worry on account of me, Miss Stark,” he said, a suppressed chatter through his teeth. I ignored him and continued with a persistent strike, but no flame would play my servant.

  “May I?” Fookes offered, and I reluctantly passed him the tinder. He struck the flint decisively and fed the spark a curl of sawdust before he surrendered it to the waiting wood. The flue sucked at the fire like a baby at the breast.

  Makepeace came in, looked from me to Fookes and said nothing, settling the tray down on the table between the sofa and the chairs.

  “I’ve come about the room, Mrs Stark?”

  “Makepeace,” she said, her lace cap neatly arranged around her face.

  “Mrs Makepeace, I’ve come about the room. I plan to stay in London for a time before my ship is due to leave and take me with it,” he said proudly, “for I’m going to try my luck in New South Wales.”

  Makepeace’s face went grey. I picked up the teapot, poured the tea then handed her a cup; she barely kept the saucer from striking the base, all nerves.

  “But why have you need of New South Wales if you are a man that has a fortune?” I asked, gesturing to the leather case that he’d placed closer to the fire to dry, the steam a small fog in the room.

  He bent down over the case and opened it, unfolding the sides filled with small tools – pincer, awl, hammers large and small, a pair of compasses, rasps, kit files, nippers, shoe nails, leather laces sitting in a cloth pocket – to reveal a compartment beneath. Carefully he pulled out handfuls of tiny shoes, each finer than the next, and laid them in our hands.

  “A doll’s shoemaker,” I said, marvelling at them, the tiny stitches, the softness of the leather.

  Mr Fookes stood up and laughed. “No, they are samples of my craft is all.”

  “They are very fine, Mr Fookes,” Makepeace said. “Too fine for the likes of those in the Colony.”

  Fookes collected his precious samples from our hands and placed them back in the confines of his case. “There you are wrong, Mrs Makepeace. Why, a shoemaker is exactly what is needed, all those feet coming off the boats, shoes ruined by sea water. Then there is the need for workmen to have sturdier shoes and boots in the clearing of the land. The need for someone who can also make a saddle if need be, or nail in the iron to the hoof, if he’s comfortable with horses. Why, there’s work for the taking.” Mr Fookes looked from Makepeace to me and I was impressed by his confidence. How did Makepeace and I look to him? All we both thought of when he spoke of New South Wales was my father, his absence coloured everything. Mr Fookes swilled his tea down and resumed his seat.

  “Believe me, what I tell you is true, there are more opportunities for those willing to work than here.”

  Makepeace nodded, a slight shake to her hand as she stood and smoothed her skirts. “Eglantine will show you the rooms available. Breakfast is at seven in the kitchen. Rent needs to be paid a month in advance. Good day, Mr Fookes,” she said and hurried out of the sitting room, leaving Mr Fookes and myself standing opposite each other in her wake.

  “Did I offend?” he said, looking at me, his face earnest. “I didn’t mean to offend.” He waited for me to answer and I looked back at him, the colour flooded into my face; I’d never spoken to a young man before by myself, a young man with ambition.

  “We lost someone close to us to the Colony is all,” I said. “Come, gather your treasure and I’ll show you the rooms.” I watched as he picked up his case and his calico sack, noticing the strength of his arms press at his jacket sleeve. Could he really be a shoemaker? I’d learned to trust no one.

  Mr Fookes followed me up the stairs and I showed him the newly transformed rooms, Ada’s room, my father’s – and he stopped at each and looked out each of their windows, though the view was swirling in rain. I watched from the thresholds as he looked at the old pitcher and jug on each chest of drawers, the linen newly washed and darned and hidden beneath the best of the counterpanes. Mr Fookes ran a hand along the barley twists of my father’s chest of drawers, admiring their craftsmanship. I held my breath, hoping he’d not ask me who had last slept in this room, concerned my father’s taint would reach us still. I buried my hands in my pockets, banishing the thought that my hands were just my father’s creatures.

  “How long have yourself and Mrs Makepeace run your establishment?” he asked, placing his leather case on the bed.

  “You’ll be our first guest,” I said. “Do you need any more assistance? If not, I’ll leave you to get yourself settled.” My fingers in my pocket toyed with an errant string, curling it and uncurling it with one finger. I missed the comfort of my doll, but I’d not retrieve her, my stolen goods, my first theft as my father said.

  “Thank you, Miss Stark, or shall I call you Eglantine?”

  “Makes no difference to me, sir,” I said, sweeping up the stairs to my own room. Beneath me I listened to the sound of the drawers open and close as he filled them with his possessions, his footsteps shuffling along the floor, the sigh and release of the springs of the bed. I tiptoed over to the window, not wanting him to hear my own footsteps, and looked out the window at the river, a dark line beneath the incoming fog.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Patrin, 1821

  As we neared the grounds I heard a dog bark and I immediately whistled, expecting Jupiter to come to my heel, my father’s tread behind me, the bridle of the horse keeping time like a tambourine. The smell of my mother’s herbs came rushing up to me on the wind. I closed my eyes and willed them back. But all that came to me was the pulse of my own fever making the fields glow greener, the trees wave higher, the sky leached of all colour around the sun.

  As we approached I wiped Little Egg’s face and mine with a corner of my cloak and took a deep breath. We passed through fields, the sheep never turning their eyes to us as they harvested the sweet grass. Egg plucked off tufts of wool from the odd nettle and set them free to the breeze, tumbling curls of wool. We passed beneath the windbreak, interlaced trees bordering the edge of the palace grounds, the dew soaking our skirts, a dark tideline. All the palace windows seemed dark, the windows that Amberline had counted as if they were silver pieces for his pocket. I had planned to walk up to the palace and ask after the housekeeper, hoping she would remember me and give us shelter for the night in a stable or barn, maybe some food. Would she remember the fortunes my mother had given and the rats that my father had cleared the house of? The young German duchess with her swollen ankles, had she delivered a healthy child? On cue a rat crossed our path before bolting to the undergrowth. Little Egg let out a squeal, but when I turned to look at her, it wasn’t the rat that had caught her attention – it was a squeal of pleasure.

  On the grass ahead of us was a tiny carriage, a dappled pony still in its miniature harness, its tail sweeping the air contentedly while a little girl by the pony’s side played in the long grass. She was as fair as Little Egg was dark and of a similar age and height, but there the similarities ended. The little girl was oblivious to us, plucking dandelions from the grass and offering them upon leaves to her tiny dolls propped up against each other, their wooden heads looking like toadstools in a circle. She looked up at Egg and her whole face burst into a rapturous smile, a playmate built from her wishes.

  “Come,” she called and Egg ran at th
e summons, her whole face fixated by the sight of the little fair girl in her grass-stained muslin, a little red jacket also abandoned to the damp grass.

  The little girl offered Egg an array of dandelion petals on a leaf and Egg carefully put out her palm to receive it. I held back, not wanting to disturb their little game. The maid was lying further off, cap over her eyes, fast asleep; could this be the little girl grown from the duchess’s belly? The child that I had predicted would be queen? And here she was queen of her grassy patch, her dolls the subjects of her kingdom. It felt so long ago and now she was as bright as an angel, in piping conversation with my girl, her equal. The little dolls sat silent and watched the living, one wore a little red velvet gown, the same as the one the duchess had been sewing, the bodice sewn with gold thread. I fondled the putsi around my neck and rubbed until I felt the velvet beneath the leather.

  Little Egg plucked her own dandelion harvest and sprinkled the soft confetti all over the golden girl’s pale eyelashes. Their laughter was like a crystal glass singing with a wet finger, a bright circle enclosing them, the life and light of them. I felt lucky just to witness it, to be near its glow. I leaned near against a tree and felt the sun’s warmth seep up my back, the bark rough, reassuring, and I closed my eyes, feeling my own blood run like sap, the pounding ache swell over me, the sun leaching into my bones.

  “Alexandrina!” A voice shouted and I started, not sure where I was or what was happening – the sun was still in its same position in the sky. How long had I slept? Hurrying, I rose to my feet. Little Egg and the fair girl stood arrested by the sound of the screeching voice tearing across their imaginary world like a thrown stone.

  “Alexandrina, what are you doing?”

  The maid who had been asleep scrambled to her feet, her knees catching in her skirts and sending her sprawling.

  “Playing, Madame Lehzen,” the little golden girl replied, sprinkling more petals from her upturned skirt like a farmer’s wife sows seeds.

  “Come this instant,” the governess said before flipping the child’s skirt down. The spilled petals made her frown, the swell of a tantrum souring her features.

  “I shan’t,” the little girl said and proceeded to lean down and start her harvesting again.

  Egg was all eyes, watching the scene unfold, stepping back towards me. The governess clutched the child by the wrist and the girl screamed. Egg reached for me. The pony’s ears swivelled with only slight irritation, undeterred from his green breakfast.

  The governess raised her voice. “And you, who are you to be trespassing? Off with you!”

  “The housekeeper, Mrs Davey, knows me,” I said, seeing my chance slip from my grasp.

  “Does she now?” the governess replied, pulling at the child’s arm, but the little girl had mettle and would not budge. “She won’t be much help to you where she is now. She moved east to be closer to her family.” And with a final yank she pulled the child up towards the palace, the heels of her satin slippers kicking the sod. The threats grew fainter as they walked off, the maid nearly running to keep up with them.

  The pony remained attached to the carriage and Little Egg took her opportunity to sit upon the seat and feel the weight of the reins in her hands and I bid her be quick about it, not wanting another lash of the governess’s tongue.

  From the direction of the palace came a stableboy racing across the grass towards us so Egg jumped off the soft plump cushion and sought my hand. He tugged his cap when he saw us and blushed before taking the pony by the bit and walking the ornate little carriage back to the stables.

  Egg watched as the pony vanished from her sight. I took her hand and we walked back through the windbreak where I stopped and ran my hand over the trunk of a poplar, the white bark as supple as a page. My father had left a mark here once, a patrin for us to find our way, but it was long gone. I checked all the other trunks, but time and the seasons had done to the mark as it would do to us all.

  As I walked my eyes kept flicking to the branches, hoping to find a thread caught there, or a nick in a tree trunk, a stick stuck through a leaf, something to show me they had been here, that I was still here, that I was heading the right way. I stumbled with Little Egg in my arms, the horizon tilting, but I didn’t fall. Little Egg craned her neck as we walked around the lake and long water, her eyes taking in the sight of the palace, the sunlight turning all the windows to quicksilver, until we found our own way back to the river to use as our guide.

  We heard it before we saw it, the babble of the waters obscured by the brambles rich in blackberries hanging over the banks. The air blew across our faces, cool. A moment’s relief. Little Egg’s body was damp through with the sweat from my body. I let her down to the ground gently when I noticed I was wet through. I hitched our skirts to our knees, tying the excess into a knot, then reached for the nearest blackberries. I fed them to Egg, one by one, her whole face animated with the sensation of the blackberry releasing its juice into her mouth, dribbling down her chin, staining her clothes. The world came to me in waves, all the colours growing brighter. Egg smeared another berry into her mouth, her lips and cheeks stained purple. My limbs were slow, heavy, turning to tree trunk, tree root, branch. Soon I’d be nothing but a leaf. Egg was beside me then suddenly far away, hungry for fruit. The sun lit them, berries like jewels. I watched her move away, but I was slower than slow. Her little hand reached through the overhanging foliage. Her frustration at getting tangled in the bramble, the thorns nicking her fingers. She inched closer to the riper fruit, closer to the edge. I called for her to come, my feet slowly obeying me. I reached her just as the dirt rolled down the riverbank, when she fell into the water without a sound. Her little body disturbed the froth of frog spawn before the water closed over her head as if it was receiving a gift.

  I shouted out her name but my voice was like a bird cry in my ear. The river rose to meet me as I scrabbled down the riverbank, screaming for my Little Egg, my Eglantine. The fruit she had picked began to disappear beneath the water, fish mouths puckering against the surface.

  I willed her presence back to me, holding the pouch around my throat, and prayed for all I was worth for my daughter to be returned to me. I prayed to Dark Sarah, to Jesus the Lord, I prayed to the water itself as I waded into it. The cold entered me, the current hungry to sweep me off my feet. Duckweed stuck to my fingers and I tried to scry the surface of the river to see below, but only the hurrying clouds reflected from above.

  I plunged my face into the water but drew my head quickly back, my breath knocked out of me, the water freezing. The current made my skirts billow up, fabric seaweed, a fish nibbled at my leg and my whole heart screamed for my daughter. My feet slipped on the slime of the riverbed; I plunged again beneath the river’s surface, against my will.

  Below the line of the water I could barely see a thing. My own reaching, searching hands were lost to me, until a ray of sunlight sliced through the silt and mud and I could make out the pebbly bottom of the riverbed.

  Please, I thought, give her back to me. I pushed against the current and reached out my arms into the shadows, clutching at what I thought to be my Little Egg’s hair, but found only a clump of wild orris root in my hand. I released it and it bobbed past me in the water. Ahead I saw a flash of silver, the promise of her hand, and I struggled against the current to reach it. But it was no hand, they were minnows flickering through my fingers, and I gulped a lungful of water in despair.

  Then I saw her, wrapped in a tangle of weeds, her eyes staring at me like periwinkles, bubbles forming on her fingertips. I reached for her hand and found it cold, heavy, reluctant to be pulled upwards towards the surface, the weeds fixed, firm as a fist. I ran my hand down her legs, her old shoe trapped in a tangle of roots from the willow. I tugged at it and felt her release. She was in my embrace and I dragged her upward, her lips blue. We were near the surface when a root untangled from the undercroft of the bankside and reached for my daughter, clutching at her wrist, but I pulled onwards. Li
ght danced on the surface above us, the promise of air. I tugged harder. But the roots pricked deeper into her skin, a spawn of blood clouding the water. She was my daughter, my love, I’d be damned if I’d let the river have her.

  Before we broke the surface, I saw an eye, older than life, unfurl from the darkness, milky as the interior of an oyster shell, and I pushed against the current even harder until I broke the mirrored surface and placed my Little Egg, fragile and floppy, on the riverbank, her heels still puddling in the water. I pulled down her chin and greenish water trickled out. I squeezed her stomach, leaned her on her side, slapped her on the back and willed her to breathe. But she just lay there, muddy dress, weeds for hair. The river had made her its creature and I fell into the mud and scooped her up in my arms. “Please,” I cried, “please, please, please.”

  I placed my lips over hers and breathed into her and she stirred, retching out all the water she had swallowed, a tadpole wriggling in her bile.

  She looked at me and cried until all the river had been expelled by her tears. She looked down at her hands, two sodden blackberries bled into her palms. I scooped them out of her hands and flung them into the water, where they disappeared beneath the surface without a word. They reminded me too much of the Romany tradition of laying acorns in lost children’s palms, to bury them by the side of the road, so that they could be found again.

  With each step I took with my daughter back to the city I saw that eye. The spirit of the water or a fevered delusion? Every time I closed my eyes it opened: old, ancient, familiar. The water was with us still; it squeaked in my boots and dripped from Little Egg’s hair; it was wet between our clothes so that it felt as if we were joined together, skin to skin. Had the river wanted to claim her? Was it only the pity of Old Father Thames that had released her into my keeping? The little red linked lines around Little Egg’s throat glistened like coral knotted on a string. My daughter had been born in the river, her name given in the water, the river had given her gifts.