Stephen

by Amy Cross

  As she spoke those words, I glanced to my right and saw that two women were watching us, with their arms folded, from the doorway of a slate-gray house. I instinctively smiled at the women, although the smile faded slightly as I realized that they were staring with dour, unsympathetic expressions. Indeed, the women seemed highly unimpressed by the sight of us, as if they did not want us in their town at all and were just waiting for us to leave. At the time, I told myself that I was simply misunderstanding; with the benefit of hindsight, of course, I know that my initial instinct was correct.

  “Do you and your husband not come into town often?” I asked.

  “Only when one has to, dear. One usually prefers to send somebody.”

  “But you don't have staff at the house?”

  I waited for a reply, but after a few seconds I began to wonder whether she'd heard me at all.

  “We dispensed with staff some time ago,” she said finally, as if she'd taken time to formulate an explanation. “We thought it would be better that way.”

  “I see.”

  “Yes, you do.”

  “But then you decided to hire a governess,” I pointed out. “Well, two. The woman I replaced, was she -”

  “Oh dear!” Mrs. Brooks exclaimed suddenly.

  Turning, I saw that the carriage had bumped on a particularly rough flagstone. The wheel had bucked, and Mrs. Brooks only just managed to keep the entire carriage from tipping over. Reaching inside, she adjusted the blankets around Stephen.

  “I'm so sorry, my little angel,” she continued, “Mummy will be more careful in future, I promise. Mummy will pay more attention and stop talking so much.”

  She glanced at me, and even then I understood that I was to be quiet. Evidently Mrs. Brooks did not want to talk about Grangehurst's previous staff. Forty years later, of course, I understand why.

  I turned and looked over again at the other women, and this time one of them was shaking her head. It was at that moment that I realized they clearly knew something was amiss with the child in the carriage. During the long walk to town, across a barren and rocky landscape, I had been worrying that somebody might see into the carriage and realize that little Stephen was long since dead. Now, however, I realized that they all knew already. Of course they knew, how could they not? I supposed that news of Mrs. Brooks and her strange behavior must have reached the locals much earlier. Perhaps, I fancied, the whole Brooks family was regarded with some trepidation.

  “I shall have to go inside and speak to the baker's wife,” Mrs. Brooks said, stopping the carriage outside a dark green door. “Beryl, you don't mind waiting outside with Stephen, do you? It's just that I worry he'll cry if he's left alone.”

  “Of course,” I replied.

  She stepped around the carriage, but then she stopped and looked back down at the child. For a moment she seemed hesitant, and I half expected her to change her mind and send me into the bakery instead, but then she muttered something inaudible under her breath before making her way into the building.

  As the door swung shut, I leaned into the carriage and adjusted the blankets a little. I knew there was no need to do so, of course, but the afternoon air was cold and in some strange way I worried that the little child might get cold. It is strange how one can be influenced in this manner, because even though I knew full well that Stephen was not a living child, I could not help but try to look after him a little. Even though I knew that the entire affair was pointless, therefore, I continued to move the blankets a little, until I felt certain that a living child would be more comfortable. I even adjusted his little bonnet, so that he would look better.

  And then, suddenly, a small black rock hit the inside lining of the carriage and then dropped onto the blankets.

  Startled, I turned and looked around, and I noticed for the first time that a young boy – no more than eight or nine years old – was sitting on a nearby wall, swinging his legs as he stared at me.

  I thought to ask him whether he'd seen where the rock came from, but instead I merely took the thing out of the carriage and set it down on the ground.

  I immediately heard another small thud. Looking into the carriage again, I saw that a second rock had just landed. This time, when I looked over at the boy on the wall, I saw that he was indeed holding several of the rocks, and that he was making no attempt to hide this fact. Indeed, he was grinning as he watched me, and chewing something too in the most common and uncouth manner.

  “Did you throw those?” I asked. “Stop it at once, please!”

  He continued to stare at me for a few seconds, before pulling his right hand back and then launching another rock. This one hit me on the chest, harmlessly enough, but I let out a shocked gasp nevertheless.

  “What on earth are you playing at?” I called out. “Where are your parents? I demand to speak to them at once!”

  At this, the little boy merely giggled.

  I looked around, but the rest of the town square was inordinately empty.

  “Do you always throw stones at perfect strangers?” I asked, although deep down I already suspected that I knew the answer. “Be gone with you, and mind that you reflect upon your behavior!”

  I waited, but the child merely continued to stare at me for a few seconds before suddenly raising his right hand and throwing another rock at me. I ducked out of the way, causing the rock to hit the wall behind me harmlessly enough, but I was quite clear that the little tyke would soon launch yet another projectile my way.

  “Tommy!” a voice called out suddenly, and I turned to see a woman leaning out of a nearby house. “Get inside! Now!”

  “Is this your son?” I asked her. “Please, he's being the most dreadful nuisance!”

  “Tommy, come inside this instant!” she continued, her voice filled with concern. She seemed, however, to be very much ignoring me. “I told you, never go near those people!”

  “What people?” I asked, as the boy jumped down off the wall and began to walk toward the woman's door, albeit keeping his eyes fixed on me. “This is frightfully awful,” I stammered, turning to the woman. “Did you see what he was doing? He was throwing rocks at me! He had the audacity to -”

  Suddenly I heard another thud, and I looked down just in time to see yet another rock in the carriage. Turning back to the boy, I was shocked to see that he was grinning at me.

  “What's wrong with you people?” I asked, turning to the woman. “Are you just going to let him do that?”

  “Get inside!” she said sternly, grabbing the boy as soon as he was close enough and shoving him into the house. She made no attempt to admonish him for his actions; nor, however, did she think to apologize to me. Indeed, she scowled at me for several seconds before retreating into the shadows of her home, and a moment later the door swung shut.

  “You poor thing,” I muttered, taking the last rock from the carriage. I knew that there was no point speaking to Stephen, but at the same time I genuinely felt bad that he'd been assaulted in such a manner.

  And then I heard the most awful shouting from inside the house, and I realized that the mother was now berating her son. This sound was swiftly followed by a loud thud, and then by the sound of a child crying, and I instantly felt sorry for the boy. After all, although he had been wrong to throw rocks at me, he seemed now to be suffering a rather cruel and unusual form of punishment. For a few seconds, I was minded to go over and knock on the door, and to castigate the mother for her violence.

  A moment later, the door to the bakery opened and Mrs. Brooks emerged carrying a loaf of bread. She looked a little disorientated, however, and I immediately began to worry that something was wrong.

  “People can be so...”

  Her voice trailed off, and she glanced back toward the door for a moment before turning to me again.

  “Is there much more that we have to do?” I asked, hoping that she would tell me our trip was over.

  “There's a butcher in the next street,” she replied, before looking down into the c
arriage. In that instant, all the fear left her face and she smiled. “Oh, you tucked him in a little better,” she continued. “How thoughtful of you, Beryl. It is rather nippy today, is it not?”

  “It is,” I replied, supposing that there was no need to tell her about the rock-throwing incident. “Should I place the bread in the carrier beneath the carriage?”

  Taking the bread, I stowed it safely before we set off again across the market square. As we approached the far side, however, I saw that several men were loitering about a public house named the Horse and Hounds. This, by the way, happens to be the very same public house in which I sit now, writing this account. Back then, of course, the place was much rougher. The men each held a pint of beer, and they were watching us with what I can only describe as a sense of pure disgust. Indeed, the closer we got to them, the more disgusted they seemed, and they were talking to one another in low, furtive voices until finally they fell silent as Mrs. Brooks pushed the carriage directly past them.

  Following, I did my best to smile pleasantly at the men, although I felt their gazes almost pushing me away. Still, I remembered Mother Superior's words when she told me that one must always present a friendly face to the world. The Lord judges, and we do not.

  “Disgusting,” one of the men muttered suddenly, spitting the word out with venom. “It's a perversion of God's will.”

  The others mumbled their agreement.

  “Good afternoon,” Mrs. Brooks said brightly, as if she meant to charm them into submission. “I hope it won't rain later. There's so much -”

  “Be gone with you!” one of the other men shouted gruffly. “We don't want your kind here!”

  “Filthy!” another said under his breath. “You're nothing but animals!”

  I wanted to say something, but instead I took Mrs. Brooks' lead and followed her past the corner of the public house. Glancing over my shoulder, I saw simmering fury in the eyes of several of the men, but at least they seemed to be leaving us alone. Indeed, they seemed to have something of a mob mentality, and I recall being very glad that they were not following us. Looking back now, I have a better understanding of why they were so angry, and I suppose they had a very natural reaction to something that disgusted them. I still wish, though, that they could have been more tolerant in the eyes of the Lord.

  Turning, I hurried to match pace with my employer, and I recall feeling a moment of relief that the men were not to bother us again. I was shocked, then, by the sudden recrudescence of their anger a moment later, as I heard somebody rushing up behind us. When I glanced back and saw him, I feared for a fraction of a second that I was about to be accosted.

  “Swine!” a man yelled, before two others grabbed his arms and pulled him away. “Filthy curs!”

  Then he spat at us, and I was unable to move out of the way in time. A thick glob of phlegmy saliva hit my cheek as I stopped and turned away, and I stumbled slightly on the uneven stones. I could hear some of the men telling their associate that it was “not worth” pursuing us further, but I was close to tears as I fumbled in my pocket for a handkerchief.

  I wiped the saliva from my cheek, although this took several attempts.

  With tears streaming down my face, and my bottom lip trembling, I finally turned to see that Mrs. Brooks was some distance ahead now, having apparently not stopped. I hesitated for a moment, glancing back and seeing the men still watching us, and then I hurried to reach Mrs. Brooks once again. She appeared completely undeterred, as if she cared not for the men and their threats. Now, of course, I realized that she was most likely simply used to such events. Or perhaps she simply rejected any encounter that did not fit into her narrative. After all, as far as she was concerned, we were simply taking little Stephen out for a mid-morning stroll.

  “Just the butcher,” she said calmly, as if nothing untoward had transpired, “and then home.”

  Chapter Twelve

  “I cannot do this,” I whispered, kneeling in my room with my hands clasped tight together in prayer. “Dear Lord, the burden is too great. I cannot possibly stay here. It's not right, it can't be right. None of this can be right. I just feel it in my heart, please...”

  My eyes were shut, but tears were welling and escaping, running down my face. Since our return from town, I had been struck by the most sudden and overwhelming fear. It was as if, after twenty-four hours at Grangehurst, my true feelings and instincts were bursting through and were refusing all my attempts to keep them in check. I could not stop thinking over and over of that poor dead child, and of his mother's smile whenever she spoke of him. I thought my feelings were wrong, that I was weak. I did not realize that in face I was absolutely correct to be horrified.

  My word, was I truly such a blinkered fool back then?

  “Give me a sign,” I continued. “Please, if I am meant to remain here, can you not give me one sign? I know I should not ask for such things, but I feel as if I shall surely scream.”

  I waited, but all I heard was the silence. I'm not sure what kind of sign I expected, exactly, but I was desperately hoping for something that might grant me solace and courage. I remained perfectly still, locked in prayer, but all I heard was the sound of my own breaths and all I felt was a slight pain as I continued to kneel on the rough stone floor. I was willing to wait for a sign, however, no matter how long it might take. I believed then, as I believe now, in the love of the Lord. The difference is that my belief as a young woman was rather basic, whereas now I am more mature and rounded. Now I would never ask for a direct sign.

  And then slowly, as my mind was wont to do back then (and still is today sometimes, though now I fight the impulse), my thoughts turned to blood.

  I began to think of the times when I would use my discipline upon myself. For anybody reading this account who does not know, a discipline is a small cattail whip with seven cords – one for each of the deadly sins – and with three knots in each cord. Back in the convent, I would regularly punish myself for my impure thoughts by taking the discipline and casting it over my shoulder, lashing the skin on my back until blood ran down to my waist. Today, as I sit writing these words, I still have scars on my back from that practice, but they are mostly healed. Back on my first night at Grangehurst, though, I still had some scabbed and slightly open wounds.

  I had wanted to take the discipline with me when I left the convent, but Mother Superior forbade me. She told me that the time for using such an instrument was now over. I was bitterly disappointed, but I could not defy Mother Superior, so I left my discipline behind when I departed. Oh how hard it was, though, and how tempted I felt to sneak that precious thing into my suitcase. I had even thought that I could acquire another, but I did not want to defy Mother Superior's very strict orders. She had told me to live henceforth without a discipline, and I supposed that I must try.

  Yes, reader, it is true. As a young woman I was unnaturally addicted to the pain of the discipline. I pity myself as I look back to those days, but I cannot deny that that is how I truly felt.

  I had learned to enjoy the pain.

  And the guilt too.

  And the salvation that came after, obviously.

  The whole ritual, really, had come to mean so very much to me.

  I had come to savor that feeling of flagellating myself for my sins, of making my flesh pay for the sins of my mind, of feeling my blood spilling down my back as penance in the eyes of the Lord. Why, I believe that there were times at the convent when I entered a kind of religious ecstasy during the whippings, and when I arrived at Grangehurst I missed those pleasures terribly. Now, looking back upon that time, I can see that I was sick, but one can only understand my actions at Grangehurst if one accepts that I adored whipping myself. And that had I been in possession of my discipline on that cold, lonely second day, I would surely have split my skin again.

  And again, and again and again.

  Indeed, perhaps if I had possessed my discipline at that time, I might have stayed far longer at Grangehurst. I might ha
ve kept my true feelings in check.

  Since I did not have my discipline, however, I was forced to think back to its power, to imagine the sensation in my head. I had never considered myself to be a particularly imaginative young woman, but I was about to learn the truth as I remained kneeling on the floor, fantasizing about whipping myself once more.

  There have been other weak moments, too, over the years, but the desire for pain was strongest on that cold day. I was retreating into memories of blood and pain, and I entered an almost catatonic state of mind as I thought back to the sensation of blood trickling from the torn strips of skin on my back. I am quite sure that, had I still possessed my discipline at that moment, I would have flogged myself harder than ever before. Even without the discipline, I began to let out a series of faint gasps each time I imagined myself striking my own back.

  The more sensitive reader might with to skip past the next two brief paragraphs.

  Indeed, I began to tremble with anticipation, feeling the sensation build and build until finally a wave of pleasure burst up from my body. In my mind's eye I was striking myself again and again, and each lash seemed to tighten a knot deep within my body. I was gasping louder, although slowly these separate gasps combined to form a kind of long, continued moan. The knot was in my belly but moving slowly downward. And the pain, oh the pain, was growing and becoming just as ecstatic as if had ever seemed at the convent. I was in a trance, utterly captivated by the fantasy.

  Suddenly, finally, my legs stiffened and I fell forward, gasping as I bumped against the wall, and then the gasp became a moan as I slumped down – trembling and breathless – onto the floor. For a few seconds, I was seized by an unimaginably pleasurable cramp between my legs. It was the most thrilling, tender pleasure I had ever felt, and it left me utterly startled.

  Of course, now I know the name of what I had just experienced for the first time. Back then, however, I immediately felt a sense of shame, as if I had gone too far. The discipline had always brought me pain before, not pleasure. In truth, though, these two sensations had suddenly combined to form some other, nameless experience. And although I did not want to admit the truth, I understood deep down that what had happened had been very wrong.