by Syd Moore
Terrible poverty exists in the complex of dwellings belonging to the fishing folk by the water’s edge. The residents are rough and boisterous. They work hard and long. Yet, not a year goes by without a tragedy and, as such, when ashore they take their pleasure in the numerous public houses.
The town is much diminished from that which it once was at the height of its wealth: a small port that housed a remarkable shipbuilding centre unrivalled outside of London. Its demise can, I am told on good authority, be attributed to the silting up of this part of the Thames.
There are several fine estates and furthermore, some admirable inhabitants that distinguish the town from its neighbouring villages. Some of the more prominent members of this society I have had the good fortune to meet at the St Stephen’s Day ball given by the Lady of the Manor at her lodgings, Cliff Hall. The Lady of the Manor does not reside in Leigh permanently and rents Leigh Hall to a tenant farmer, preferring to keep lodgings when she visits the town. She is a keen huntress and has retained the right to shoot and fish on Leigh Hall land. She has built stables and keeps a gamekeeper there to manage it for her. By reputation she is a God-fearing woman of strong will and a benefactor to the people of Leigh.
Despite the outwardly impressive structure, the interior of Cliff Hall was surprisingly dour for the festive occasion. The good Lady Olivia does not approve of decorative fripperies. The large hall was possessed of some interesting Spanish panelling and a mantelpiece in the same oak. The only indication of the blessed day was a tree by the door. The room was tastefully furnished but chilly. There was, however, a largely agreeable gathering of persons who more than filled the room with festive cheer, one of these being our neighbour Mr John Snewin, a local land owner and fellow of exceeding good nature whose acquaintance I was fortunate to make prior to the party, and who since our first meeting has been a frequent dinner guest at our table.
In the service of good Mr Snewin we were introduced to several quite charming families of Leigh who offered dinner invitations, the promise of which enthused Emma (the location further south has necessitated a removal from society which she has not enjoyed).
A small group of guests, clustered sycophantically around the Lady of the Manor, were rather more cautious in their welcome: a sullen farmer, Henry Wilde, and a widowed physician by the name of Doctor Festus Hunter, being but two. Wilde’s expressions were awkward and he seemed uncomfortable in society, for lack of manners more than anything else, barely answering Emma’s mild enquiries into his farmlands. Like most agriculturalists I have encountered, he appears to find the company of women frivolous and cares not to conceal it. Hunter, however, does not.
The man was of middle-age and handsome for it. Eyes of the palest blue were set in watery pools as if he were constantly on the verge of weeping. It lent him a womanly aspect to his character that I found disagreeable. Snewin had warned me of the Doctor’s acute ambition for the favours of Lady Sparrow. His political manoeuvring, indelicate and clumsy, soon became plain to see.
I was impressed by her Ladyship’s dress, comportment and her presence, that left none unacquainted of her importance. Her face, however, attractive as it can be for a woman in her fifth or sixth decade, bears the bitter scars of bereavement and cares. There was compassion in her Ladyship’s smile of greeting but an ice to her eyes that I was soon to experience.
After initial introductions, Hunter’s would-be patroness enquired into plans for my incumbency. Prompted by Lady Olivia I eagerly outlined the first intended project: that day I had just approved architectural applications for the construction of a new rectory (our present accommodation is a crumbling wreck) and advised Lady Olivia of the design, which follows a fashionable Elizabethan style.
‘I have a legacy, which I wish to put to good use,’ I told her, with my customary passion. Though Snewin offered a ‘bravo’ the effect on the other members of my audience was quite the reverse. Wilde withdrew abruptly on the pretence of addressing a newcomer. Doctor Hunter withheld his expression, looking after the Lady of the Manor. Lady Olivia had remained expressionless throughout my short speech, the faint smile that had greeted us growing colder on her lips. After a moment of thought she ventured, ‘But what of your new role, pastor?’
I was sure it was not a rebuff but a prompt to some verbal amusement and was about to respond with a smile when Doctor Hunter cut me off with the most obsequious of replies: ‘It is not in works or glorifications that one finds salvation. It is in the heart and scripture.’
The impertinence of the man! I expected Lady Olivia to rebuke him instantly but to my horror I found her smile had returned to shine on the doctor. The remark had unequivocally endeared him to her and at once I saw what he was – one of the most dangerous types of men: a political creature. Hunter would injure those of his own standing to ingratiate himself to those above. His dress was ostentatious, garish even, and yet in his words he concurred with this plain Lady. And she, for all her outward austerity, clearly enjoyed his lavish attentions. I would have to watch my step, I rued.
The good Snewin commented that the words seemed not of Hunter’s own mind but smacked of dissent, which the latter would not rejoin. Lady Sparrow, sensing the distasteful turn of atmosphere, took Emma by the arm and led her to a group of aged dowagers gathered round the furthest hearth who would ‘delight’ in her company.
Never before have I regretted the departure of my dear wife so directly.
For a moment it seemed that Hunter faced me with a look of triumph, which then disappeared with his protector. Left with two gentlemen superior in rank and intellect the doctor shrivelled and assumed the unease that farmer Wilde had previously displayed.
‘Lady Sparrow will not tolerate popery, Rector.’ This was said without malice of tone by Hunter, but the effect of his words was to anger me once more.
‘Sir, nor would I. The church that I serve is the one true church,’ I retorted.
Hunter smirked. ‘You serve the church, not the Lord?’
At this point Snewin intervened. ‘Goodness, Hunter! What a welcome is this for our new pastor? Never fear. The reverend has much to occupy himself with in the parish and will not usurp the dog on the lap of the Lady.’
Hunter apprehended the insult and turned on his heel, making first in the direction of his mistress, then came to a stop and instead left the room, darting one last look at us.
I remarked to Snewin what an extraordinary character the doctor had.
Snewin shook his head. ‘He has much wealth and authority here and yet his hunger for more continues to grow. Rumours suggest that with Lady Olivia’s assistance, he intends to become mayor.’
The thought was repugnant but I withheld additional comment on spying Emma return with two female companions. These, I was made aware, were two charming daughters of a local family, the Hiltons, and quite agreeable in their disposition. Soon they had delighted myself and Mr Snewin out of our previous ill temper and back into the life of the party.
The night passed without any further occurrence and Emma and I found ourselves at home just after midnight. And yet over my mind a sense of foreboding had crept. I believe I must take care with the Lady of the Manor and her puppy dog. This would be a sensible course of action by any means.
I look forward to your next letter and hope you continue to excel in health and spirits and persist in the advancement of your career.
Believe me, sincerely your friend
Robert Eden
My head was beginning to ache as I put down the first book. Night had eased into the kitchen without me noticing. I stretched my arms and yawned. A glance at the clock told me bedtime was approaching but I was desperate to know where the journal would take me, and curious as to Andrew’s reasons in starting me with the letter. Was it scene setting or something more?
I switched on the table lamp and put the kettle on for coffee. Then I opened the second sketchbook at the place indicated by the Post-it. Here was an extract from the reverend’s personal journal
.
The exact date had been smeared but I could make out the month: August, 1849. Eleven years had passed. I waded through a lot of extraneous detail about sermons and notes to visit parishioners. Then I came to this:
The events of the last week have depleted my resources so. I have been unable to sleep, nourish myself adequately or come to my writing desk, something of an extravagance at this time. I scoff at my vanity when my mind wanders back to the disputes of last year that induced such a wretchedness about my own self. Lady Olivia’s irksome rebuttal of my teachings, her insistence and dissemination of such Low Church views, are factors as influential to the administration of my parish as the children’s quarrels. The dreadful events of the past six days has hardened my resolve to carry on my work as I see fit. I will not be drawn away from the service of God by the interference and defamation of the Lady’s agents, though now I believe my suspicions are confirmed as to the origin of that slanderous letter to my parish. While the men, women and children of Leigh lay dying, Doctor Hunter remains at Lady Olivia’s Suffolk rest. The man is as a snake in the grass, duplicitous and able to weave through society, claiming favour and consolidating power. Indeed if things were not such as they were I would have a mind to pursue the doctor through the courts. But no, the distraction of anger will not take me. It is wasteful and no good will come of it I am sure. My Lord above has sent me to this place where more than ever my services are required to assist the sick of heart and body.
The cholera has worsened, claiming more innocents. It is of little surprise the disease has spread throughout the town: the fishermen’s cottages by the riverside are little more than slums with only a conduit and two wells to afford them fresh water. The conduit is often contaminated by weeds and waste. The stench of disease reaches everywhere. As the populace has grown the sanitation has become inadequate.
The people of Leigh have shown their customary charity in the face of such dire circumstances and the parish has donated funds enough to employ two women to launder infected linen. Some of the men have taken charge of burning the bedding of the deceased.
My wife’s Christian charity has been rousing. The children make enough demands on her, yet gentle Emma has not ceased in her efforts to relieve the suffering of the afflicted: travelling to Southend to collect fresh linen and food relief for the poor.
Stimulated to action by my wife’s example, I too resolved to go down to the sick to offer my hands in the comfort of God and administer to the dying.
On Saturday I attended a cramped dwelling on Strand Wharf to assist a local woman by the name of Sarah Grey. I had been warned by several upright and decent men to avoid Mother Grey on account of her ‘cunning’ cures. The citation of Deuteronomy did silence their tongues: ‘Thou shalt not harden thine heart, nor shut thine from thy poor brother.’ In the event she seemed no more than other wretches.
Her household was badly afflicted. The cottage was small and draughty and infected with the dreadful smell of death. In such conditions the disease had already claimed her husband. The woman had lived a tragic life, with not one but two of her husbands taken by the Lord: Robert Billing, the first, I heard tell, was lost at sea; John Grey, her second, to this dreadful cholera. Now two of her sons were stricken: George, but sixteen years and unlikely to reach his seventeenth, and John Grey, the elder of the two at nineteen. With seven other children to tend I ascertained on my arrival the woman was in dire need of assistance yet was in receipt of none from her neighbours.
I immediately made myself useful with the ailing men, bathing their heads and rubbing their flesh. They were both pale and confused. George was by far the worse of the two. Mrs Grey urged him to drink water and offered a salty concoction, but his heart was failing and as the hours passed his breathing came in short, fast gulps. It became plain to me there would be little I could do to avert God’s will. George’s soul was soon to go before Him. I urged his mother and the children to come together in a family prayer. Mrs Grey refused and persisted in the belief that both her sons would regain their health. I should state for my own memory that this repulsed not my sensibilities. The woman’s rejection was born out of fear. She was not as I expected from the reports of gentle folk. Certainly she made potions from herbs; evidently these gave some relief to her sons. There was no evidence of witchery, only poverty and a bleakness of vision that had come from her recent loss.
She spoke in a quiet manner. Though the texture of her voice was as coarse as her hands, she enunciated her words like a gentle woman. If I had not been busied with nursing the sick I would have entertained the idea of knowing her story. I did not know I would hear it later.
As the sun faded beyond the castle we nursed the men through the night in silence that was broken only by the arrival of her daughter, Harriet, with a broth. By then John’s condition had also deteriorated. Mrs Grey urged me to go home and rest. I assured her I was an instrument of God’s will and He had directed me to her.
I lose track of time as I recall those nights but I think it was before dawn on Sunday morning that young George expired. He had lapsed into an unresponsive sleep, which was at least of some comfort to his mother, who was spared the unendurable cries of delirium that this illness provokes.
Mrs Grey could not be removed from the corpse for some time. When at last she was roused by John’s plaintive cries, I carried George downstairs for her daughter and old Dame Alworth to perform the laying out. But for the pallor of his skin it was as if he slumbered in a deep restful sleep. He rests in peace now.
The parochial ministrations of the Sabbath required a swift return to the church. Mrs Grey seemed not to hear me as I left the cottage with a promise to return that night to provide counsel to John.
My flock were in need of consolation. With many fallen to the infection the congregation was diminished. The second chapter of Jonah was appropriate to strengthen them in this time of great suffering. I cried out from the pulpit verses nine to ten: ‘I will pray that that I have vowed. Salvation is of the Lord. And the Lord spake unto the fish and it vomited out Jonah upon the dry land.’
After evening prayer I retired to my study with the church wardens to discuss the distribution of alms. It was my honest intention to return to the wharf but the day’s cares and onerous night had taken much from me and I was awoken in my chair by Emma early Monday morning.
Urgent ministrations requiring my attention prevented me from returning for two days – there are many that seek help – the death toll increases daily: we are too busy with burials.
Only on Wednesday evening did a lull in my duties permit a visit to the cottage on Strand Wharf.
The malady had made steady progress with John. He breathed with great difficulty and had become insensible. Mrs Grey had attended to his bedside night and day. She was drawn and languid and at my request went downstairs briefly to repose while I prayed over young John.
Mrs Grey called me down. She had made tea. I was hesitant to take it as the smell of the cottage was repugnant. The stench of death and disease crept through the walls and seemed to seep into the very mortar of the building. But inspecting the stone floor I saw that, though there was little comfort, she had kept the place tidy and as clean as she could. We sat on hard wooden chairs in front of the feeble hearth. Mrs Grey placed a clay pot of hedge roses on the mantelpiece and presently their fragrance eased the sour reek of the air.
Both beyond the point of exhaustion we supped in silence. In the absence of conversation I conveyed my condolences to her once more. She turned to me and, with some ferocity, informed me it was her due. I refuted that and alluded to God’s mystery and the divine plan for each soul. She meditated on this awhile. Then she asked how much sorrow a soul should take for a sin they had made when young?
I said my Lord was a God of Mercy: there was no sin that could not be forgiven if the sinner were truly repentant. She sighed, I think, with understanding. So I asked her the circumstance of the sin.
At this point it was plain to se
e the burden of grief that agonised the woman’s senses. Her pallor was grey, her eyes, which were of a dark green, seemed to see past the walls of the cottage, flitting skyward then to the bare boards. She wrung her hands as she began to speak, rambling falteringly through the memories of her childhood. She took a locket, bejewelled with garnet, from her dress and begin to twist it fretfully, then Mrs Grey, Sarah, as she now bade me call her, described a decent home with a firm father, Alfred Sutton, who schooled her in some basic principles of education. His Christian upbringing was tempered with instruction from the mother, who was cousin to a local man of some notoriety: the sorcerer Cunning Murrell. This man alleges he can break curses, cure warts and such and seek answers from the stars. Sarah Grey’s own mother was rumoured to have inherited some gifts similar to that of Murrell: the ability to locate lost objects and such.
She kept me enthralled as she described the family cure-alls that her mother brewed, formed by various concoctions of herbs and plants collected along the wayside by her daughter. At this Sarah confessed she exceeded in aptitude.
