In the Shadow of the Lamp

by Susanne Dunlap

  She started pushing. “Best get down where you can help it out,” she said, nodding toward her feet.

  I should’ve been embarrassed, I supposed, but it was what I had to do, for Lucy. It wasn’t long before I could see the baby’s head.

  “The baby’s coming!” I cried. I looked up and saw a fleeting smile on Lucy’s face before she began to bear down again.

  Then, after two more pushes, so sudden I could’ve dropped the poor mite, the little baby girl came slipping out of Lucy. She was squirming but not making any sound.

  “Now tie!”

  My fingers trembled as I tried, as fast as I could, to knot the string around the cord that still stretched into Lucy.

  “Now cut! Quickly!”

  I was too careful at first, but soon Lucy’s fear made me cut fast.

  “Let me have my baby,” she said.

  I gave her to Lucy. She held her upside down by the ankles and patted the tiny creature’s bottom. Her little mouth opened, and a pinched but lusty cry emerged. “She’s alive! She’s all right. We did it!” I jumped up, nearly upsetting the basin of water.

  Lucy clutched her baby to her for a moment, then handed her to me. “I’m too tired. You bathe her.”

  Careful and gentle, I sponged the infant down, then wrapped her in the receiving blanket that was ready in the bassinette next to the bed. Lucy’d fallen asleep, her face drawn but healthy looking. The baby began to cry again. Lucy’s eyes opened. She smiled and put out her arms. Soon the baby was nursing and making sweet, contented sounds.

  I stood and the room swayed a little. I steadied myself, realizing that there hadn’t been any time that night where I felt I couldn’t do it. Even when Lucy was near fainting with pain I kept my head. I could be a nurse, for good and all, I thought. And there was that time when my hands calmed Lucy, when I laid them on her belly and they made the pain fade away. It reminded me of how I helped Janet. Only this time it turned out just the opposite.

  Of course, nursing at war would be more concerned with death than new life, but right then, although I was completely done in, I felt high and happy. “I’ll tidy up here. You rest.”

  By the time Jim returned that evening, Lucy looked well and the baby was by turns eating, sleeping, and messing her linens. How Lucy would ever manage on her own when I wasn’t there I couldn’t say. And with Arthur to tend as well. But there was no way I could stay. I had to earn money, not just my keep. I had to do something that would allow me to hold my head up when I walked through the door into my mother’s house.

  My mother. All the time I thought of her. How were the little ones doing? Was everyone well? I suddenly ached to see them, to tell my mum what I’d just done for Lucy. But I couldn’t. Not yet.

  We were expecting Will the next day; he had a half day and had promised to come. I knew he’d want to spend most of his time talking to his sister and fussing over the baby. But I needed to talk to him too, alone. I was glad, then, that the baby was asleep when he came in.

  “I have something to do in the kitchen,” Lucy said, smiling at Will. Jim was working in the market stall his father owned, so Will and I had the parlor to ourselves.

  I turned to him and started in quick. No sense waiting. It would have to come out sooner or later. “I have to—,” but I couldn’t go on. The words stuck in my throat. How could I ask him for more than he’d already done?

  Will took my hand in both of his. Those eyes stared into mine until I had to look away. “What is it, Molly? You can tell me. Do you want to go home to your mother?”

  I almost said yes, but that would’ve been weak. “No! No, that’s not it at all. Only I have a plan and I still need your help.” I took a deep breath and then told him everything as quickly as I could.

  He let go of my hand and sat down on one of the wooden chairs, nodding as he listened to all I said. When I finished, he said, “Are you sure that’s what you want, Molly?”

  I was sure, but his question made me think all over again. “What else can I do? A factory job is no life at all and not much money. And you know no one will ever take me on in service after being dismissed from the Abington-Smythes.” I wished I could tell him about Janet and Lucy, and how when I put my hands on them it made the pain go away a little. But I wasn’t sure of myself. Not yet.

  “What’s next?” he asked, his voice dipping down at the end like it wasn’t really a question, but a sort of wondering out loud. I’d hoped he’d be glad for me, excited, like I was, but instead he seemed disappointed.

  “I need to get to Folkestone by the day after tomorrow.”

  I didn’t say a thing about money, but he reached into his pocket and pulled out a pouch. “I was going to give my sister a little extra. But I imagine I can spare some of that for you. This should be enough to get you to Folkestone. I’m sorry I can’t do more.”

  He handed me the pouch without looking at me. I took it and his hand in mine. “Will, there’s no one kinder than you. I swear I will pay you back.”

  He looked up then. Maybe I imagined it, but I thought there was a sparkle in his eyes, like tears that wouldn’t fall. “I’ll make sure of it, Molly, one way or another.” His words sounded harsh but his tone was soft, and I knew he meant it kindly. “Tell my sister I’ll come back Sunday,” he said, giving my hand a squeeze and standing. He pulled me up with him and we stood there, so close but not touching. I could feel something warm coming from his heart, reaching out to mine. Was it pain? Or something else? I wanted to put my hands on his chest. I wanted to share whatever was in his heart. I looked up at him. He leaned down and very gently, more like a breath than a kiss, touched his lips to mine.

  Before I could say another word, he put his hat on and took his coat from the peg and walked out the door. I clutched the pouch, feeling the weight of coins. I held my future there. But I was cold, like someone just tossed a bucket of water on the parlor fire, and I almost ran out the door to follow Will, to tell him to come back, to take his money. But I didn’t.

  I was sorry to leave Lucy. I wanted to do something nice for her, so I scrubbed the house top to bottom the day before I left.

  “The coach to Folkestone leaves at seven,” she said as I stood on her doorstep early in the morning on October 20, the mist still coating everything in dreary droplets.

  I wasn’t one to show my feelings much—working in service taught you it wasn’t safe—but I couldn’t help hugging Lucy close to me. “I’ve never met people as friendly as you and Will,” I said. “I wish I could stay and go at the same time.”

  “It’s all right, Molly. You did so much for me while you were here, you can’t imagine. You have a special gift. Just be sure to write to us.” By “us” I knew she didn’t mean her and Jim. I knew she included Will in that. She gave me a sheaf of coarse paper and a pencil. My reading and writing were coming along, enough to send a word or two. She’d taken care to write the direction on the top sheet so I could copy it.

  “Of course.”

  The time had come. I had to turn away and take my first steps to the future. I went off toward the south without looking back.

  Chapter 6

  I didn’t expect it to be so easy to get on a coach. All it took was a few shillings. Maybe that was because I asked for the cheapest fare and found myself sitting on the top, shivering in the drizzle that had begun to fall. As a result, I still had some money left from what Will gave me. Even with that, I feared what was left wouldn’t be enough for a ticket on the Boulogne Packet.

  Dawn made the gray sky pale when we left Charing Cross and set off over the river. The horses’ breath puffed out in little clouds as they clopped first over cobbles, then echoed on the wooden planks of the bridge, and after that thudded in the packed mud of country roads. I’d never been outside of London, so in spite of almost no sleep and my stomach tied in a knot, I just kept drinking in the sight of rolling fields with hedgerows cutting them up into neat parcels, brown now and dead after the harvest, stubble showing where hay had g
rown. At least I thought it was hay, for all I knew about farming. Whatever it was, the air smelled clean and earthy, not sooty like London. The wind up top made it too noisy to talk, and I was glad. I just kept my eyes turned away from the others up there with me, all men.

  We drew into Folkestone late in the afternoon, my backside bruised from bumping on the wood plank seat. The man who sat next to me hopped down and lifted me off like I was a sack of potatoes, but then set me gently on my feet and tipped his hat to me.

  I took my valise and set out to find the docks. Folkestone was so small I could walk across it in a half hour. Just a little ways in I saw the tops of the masts bobbing up and down on the waves and set my course toward them.

  The channel was chopped up with whitecaps. Must be a rough journey across, I thought. I couldn’t see to the other side. To France. If all went like I hoped, I’d be in a foreign country soon. Someplace where they didn’t speak the Queen’s English. I shivered, though the rain had stopped.

  I strolled back and forth on the docks like someone taking the air, while really looking for a place I could buy a ticket. All I saw were dock workers, though. I watched them bend and lift, muscles tensing and sweat streaking their cheeks, even though it was cold enough that I could have worn an extra cloak and been grateful for it. Boulogne Star. I made out “Star” and guessed the first word, since she was the only boat that wasn’t a fishing boat, with deck chairs and a cabin where passengers could sit.

  What if I couldn’t get a ticket? If there were none left? Or if they were more costly than the few shillings I had in my pocket? I had to suss out if I could get aboard some other way.

  Where we lived in the East End, near the docks, I used to play with my brother Ted before the littlest one came along and I had to stay home and help. We’d go and see if we could sneak aboard the finest and biggest ship, and usually we managed it. We pretended we were going to sail off to the South Seas, but of course we never did. As soon as we heard the sailors cry that the tide was on the turn, we’d get off as quick as we got on, sometimes by swinging from a rope to the dock, sometimes we’d just scamper down the gangplank when no one was minding us. There were always children running around on the docks in London, begging or playing or thieving.

  Not here, though. What I saw of the town was neat and quiet. No one was begging or thieving that I could see, not even on the docks. And there was only one narrow gangplank leading to the deck. It’d be hard to pass unnoticed. I put my best face on and walked right up to a man on the dock; he was official looking, with a uniform, but not a policeman. I thought he might tell me about the fare for the packet.

  “Beg pardon, sir,” I said, and I added a little curtsy just for good measure. “Can you tell me where I might purchase a ticket on the packet boat to Boulogne?”

  “Fancy a jaunt to France, eh?” he said. He smiled with his lips closed. I stared right back at him and waited for his answer. “The purser’ll be coming by soon. You can get your ticket from him. If you’ve got six shillings, that is.” He turned his back on me when a gent walked up to him and asked him a question.

  How did I know what a purser looked like? It didn’t make a bit of difference though. I only had two and six left. I couldn’t buy a ticket. I’d have to think of another way.

  I was no longer a little urchin who could squeeze by everyone quick and invisible. Some of the dock workers stared at me as I walked, one or two calling out things I wouldn’t repeat to my mum. I ignored them and pretended I was going into the town. Back to the train station. Perhaps I’d meet the train Miss Nightingale and her nurses were on.

  I joined a queue of people at a kiosk. When it was my turn I said, “Excuse me, but what time’s the train from London?”

  “From London? Don’t get in until morning,” he said and looked behind me to the next person, dismissing me before I’d even stepped aside.

  Morning! What would I do with myself all night? I didn’t have money for lodgings. And after dark they probably locked up people just wandering around. It was that kind of town. Like the nicer areas in London. So now I’d have to find someplace I could hide, somewhere to put myself out of view all night, and where I’d be safe too.

  As I suspected, even though Folkestone was a prospering town, the harbor had its secrets. I wasn’t the only one lurking there waiting for daily business to stop. There were lots of nooks to tuck myself away behind crates and great coils of rope. I just hoped the weather wouldn’t turn against me, or some thief set on me. Little chance of that, since anyone with something worth stealing would likely have a room at the inn. No, my only difficulty would be managing to keep dry all night long and still look decent in the morning.

  So, stomach rumbling and hands now numb from cold, I wandered until the to-ing and fro-ing stopped and the dock workers went home, then found a corner to hide myself in and tried to sleep, sitting on a crate with my back against some sacks of grain.

  The train’s whistle woke me. My back and neck ached. I wiped a little drool from the corners of my mouth and stretched, straightening my clothes. At least I was dry. And no one made off with my valise—which had nothing valuable in it anyway, but I’d seem even odder aboard a packet with no luggage.

  I hurried to the station, arriving just in time to see the London train come steaming in, great puffs billowing from the smokestack in the front. The whistle blew again and again so loud I had to cover my ears.

  As soon as the train screeched to a stop everyone flew into a tizzy. Porters and vendors bumped into me, all crowding up at once to help passengers with their luggage or sell them cockles and tea if they were continuing on to France. I wished I could make myself invisible in the crowd so I could watch for the group of women to get off the train. I assumed it would be a large number and easy to see. The newspaper said a hundred would go.

  The first-class compartment emptied. Only eight people got out, dressed very fine and one lady carrying a small dog with a squashed-in face. At the same time, all manner of men and women tumbled out of the third-class carriages, some smoking pipes or carrying bundles tied up with paper and string on their shoulders. Still no one who looked anything like a nurse, and no Mrs. Bracebridge.

  It was beginning to look like I would have to walk all the way back to London because I didn’t have enough for a coach when a second-class carriage door opened, and I recognized the gentleman who’d been introduced to me as Mr. Bracebridge getting down. He cast his eyes up and down the platform as if he was expecting someone. I turned away quickly, hoping he wouldn’t recognize me, but kept sight of the carriage door out of the corner of my eye.

  Soon they streamed out, one by one. There were two different sorts. One had uniforms, or something like them, like the nuns we sometimes saw in the poor neighborhoods bringing food. The others were dressed in ordinary street clothes. I counted them. Twenty-eight, not a hundred. Was one of them Miss Nightingale? Then Mrs. Bracebridge stepped down from the train, and by the way they all queued up behind to follow her, it didn’t seem like any could be the lady herself. Perhaps she was one of the others I’d seen get down from the first-class compartment.

  I stuck close to the nurses but out of sight, my only hope being I could somehow blend in with the lot and sneak aboard as if I was part of the group.

  They all stopped at an inn, most likely for a bite to eat. Lucky for me, they didn’t stay long. In twos and threes they came out after a bit and gathered on the cobbled street where other people also stood round in groups. I kept my distance but followed them again to the docks.

  Passengers already had their tickets out and were filing aboard the packet up the gangplank, all looking like they were on holiday. A man in a uniform, I guessed he was the purser, scowled at each ticket. He stopped people and looked carefully at their papers. My heart dropped like a stale roll to my stomach. How would I pass? There was no hope I’d get by unnoticed. After all this trouble, it looked as if I’d get no farther than Folkestone, and with not enough left over to make my way
back to London either. I watched the nurses get their tickets out, ready to take their turn, wishing so I was one of them. I clenched my jaw to stop the tears I feared might start any moment.

  Just as I was about to give up hope, a fat man wearing a sash like he was the mayor or something came bustling up to Mrs. Bracebridge with a handful of police officers scurrying behind to keep up. At first I thought the whole crowd of nurses would be arrested.

  “Are you Mrs. Nightingale?” he asked Mrs. Bracebridge in a booming voice.

  “No, I am afraid Miss Nightingale has gone ahead from Dover.”

  The broad smile on the man’s face faded and he started to bow and turn away.

  “But these are her nurses, whom I am to accompany to Turkey,” Mrs. Bracebridge added, touching his arm to stop him. His smile full of teeth returned and he kissed Mrs. Bracebridge’s hand.

  By this time a small band had formed. A cornet, a clarinet, and an accordion. At a signal from the mayor—or whatever he was—they struck up “The Girl I Left Behind Me.” Everyone watched the nurses. Even the sailors and dock workers stopped what they were doing and swayed a little to the music.

  My blood of a sudden rushed into my fingers and toes. Here was my chance! Before I lost my nerve, I slipped up the gangplank, all the while sure the whole crowd would see me and I’d be stopped and thrown in gaol. But I made it to the deck. Then, instead of hiding like I would have done when I was younger, I sauntered past the other passengers like I belonged there, forcing myself to move slowly. I even leaned on the rail looking down at the fuss on the dock. I had to be calm, but my heart thumped. I gripped the rail so no one would see how my hands shook.

  The mayor made a short speech—time was getting on and the boat had to sail—and then all the nurses and the Bracebridges climbed aboard.

  What next? I had got on the packet, but the hardest part was still ahead of me. How would I convince Mrs. Bracebridge to let me go along with them as if it was always the plan?