Return to Paradise

by Erica Brown

  His shadow fell over her. ‘Mrs Heinkel, we shall be late for our lunch…’

  Deeply moved and angry at what she’d seen so far, Blanche did not move, but addressed the woman. ‘Have you eaten today?’

  The woman shook her head. ‘I couldn’t go to where we eats. I couldn’t leave my John.’

  ‘Food should have been brought to you.’

  Trembling with emotion, Blanche got to her feet and turned to face Smart. ‘She needs food.’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ he said, nodding vigorously in the vain hope that it might enhance her opinion of him. ‘I will get some porridge brought immediately. There’s sure to be some left from this morning.’

  Sensing she could get her own way in this, Blanche resolved to push the repulsive creature as far as she could. ‘I fear the child may not last, but perhaps he will take some of the porridge. His mother, on the other hand, needs something more substantial.’

  The nodding continued. ‘Of course, of course. Cheese, dear lady, and bread.’

  ‘She needs meat and vegetables, perhaps a pudding too. I smelled something quite delicious cooking when I was upstairs. Perhaps she could have some of that.’

  Smart’s eyes fluttered like bats’ wings. He was trapped. ‘I will tell Betty to fetch it.’

  He was true to his word. When Betty appeared, wearing the dull grey uniform with the yellow stripe, he ordered her to do all that Blanche had asked for.

  The doctor would take a little time coming, but Blanche insisted they wait until the food arrived before departing to eat their own.

  Betty returned with a bowl brimming with meat and vegetables plus a hunk of bread.

  Blanche lingered until the bowl was half empty, the smell of rich gravy hanging in the air.

  On the way back the Reverend took a different route, which skirted the men’s quarters and had an open aspect over a yard. The odour was like nothing she’d ever experienced. It was so offensive that she covered her nose and mouth with both hands.

  ‘What is that terrible smell?’

  ‘You’ll get used to it. It’s only old bones being crushed.’

  ‘What old bones? What do you mean?’

  Smart did not notice her appalled expression. ‘Old bones are brought in from the slaughterhouses, broken and smashed and ground into powder, then sold as fertilizer.’

  She noticed he had finally ceased calling her ‘dear lady’, his solicitous attitude gradually diminishing since the incident with the woman and child.

  The full stench hit her in the face as she leaned over the parapet. An orchestra of hammering also arose, along with a grinding sound from a machine that looked like a large cider press. A steady shower of matter fell into troughs around its base. Small children, some hardly big enough to tie their own bootlaces – if they were lucky enough to own boots – were scooping the ground bone into metal buckets, which in turn were tipped into a series of sacks hanging from nails. Each full sack was then taken down and replaced with an empty one. She saw a child hiding away where he thought he couldn’t be seen, gnawing on a bone that might once have belonged to a horse. Whatever it was, it was days old and turning green. Some instinct warned her not to bring the child to the Reverend’s attention. In good time she would look into the truth of what went on here. Until then she would bide her time, get to know those working here and those on the Board. Her comments would carry no weight until they had accepted her.

  ‘A most enlightening morning,’ she said, offering her hand to Smart before they entered the room where lunch was to be served. ‘Your comments have been most illuminating. I can see I am going to have some interesting times serving on the Board.’

  And my face might very well crack, she thought, as she forced the widest smile she owned across her mouth.

  The smile, the comment and the offering of her hand had the desired effect.

  ‘My dear lady,’ he gushed, his oily voice returning. ‘And now we shall dine and you can tell us all about yourself.’

  Blanche cringed at the thought of telling him or the Board too much about herself. No, as always, she would edit the truth. Being of Spanish extraction was barely acceptable in these days of empire. If they should ever find out the truth, almost every door in the city would be barred to her.

  She was invited to sit between the Reverend and Mr Tinsley, the warden. Mrs Tinsley’s chair stayed empty as she oversaw two inmates who had been chosen to wait on table that day.

  Blanche eyed the magnificent lunch. The table was spread with a sparkling white cloth and groaned beneath cold chicken, steak and kidney pie, bread still warm from a local bakery, Double Gloucester from Minchinhampton, Cheddar from Somerset, cream from a local dairy, a pork pie with a shiny crust, and a huge fruit cake, sultanas and cherries falling from its cut side. Bottles of wine, port, brandy and whisky were set out on a side table, trays of good quality glasses laid out around them.

  Her stomach churned more vigorously than before. The bone yard had been enough to turn anyone’s stomach, but the thought that here they were, sitting in comfort before a table piled high with food, while a child gnawed on a rotten bone, was obscene.

  She was so engrossed in the unfairness of it all that she didn’t notice the Reverend Smart’s hand on her knee until he proposed grace, and his hands became clasped in prayer.

  As he intoned a rambling thanks to the Almighty, her eyes stayed open and fixed on the food. All this for the Board, while the inmates, the poor whom they were supposed to serve, ate a thin gruel.

  The sound of cutlery accompanied resumed conversation. Blanche picked up her fork and she studied the well-fed, self-satisfied faces around the table.

  Above the heads of those sitting opposite her was another of the ubiquitous texts: ‘Lead us not into temptation’.

  The gentleman opposite noticed her interest. ‘A commendable sentiment, don’t you think, ma’am?’ he said.

  ‘Yes,’ she replied, feeling the Reverend Smart’s hand wander back onto her leg. She smiled and discreetly took her fork onto her lap. ‘Very commendable.’ She stabbed it into Smart’s thigh.

  Smart dropped his knife, gasped and leapt from his chair.

  ‘Good Lord! What’s wrong, man?’ someone asked.

  ‘Gravy! Some gravy slopped on my hand.’

  ‘Rachel!’ Mrs Tinsley grabbed the arm of the girl who’d been serving at table and shook her so hard the girl’s mob-cap fell off. ‘You clumsy, stupid girl.’

  ‘It wasn’t her fault,’ said Blanche.

  Her smile dared the Reverend to disagree.

  He looked at her, the shape of his mouth altering from accusation to amiability as he fought to regain his self-control.

  An enormous amount of food and drink was left on the table after they’d finished. The men asked to be excused and went out to smoke as Blanche took tea. Mrs Tinsley made her excuses to join them, armed with bandages and ointment, determined to stick to the Reverend Smart whether he wanted her to or not. The woman with the wig disappeared muttering something about knitting needles. She had looked as though she were going to be sick.

  Blanche was left alone and went to use the water closet about which the warden had boasted in much detail.

  On her way back, Blanche peered out of windows into the grim yards below, saw women hanging out washing in one yard, children stacking sacks and boxes in another and men heaving bags of used bones into a long trough. Walking slowly back, she thought about what she’d seen, how she felt and what she intended to do next.

  When she got back to the dining room, the door was open. She could see Rachel hanging over the table and presumed she was clearing dishes. But she couldn’t hear the sound of crockery being gathered.

  Tip-toeing slowly so that her skirts wouldn’t rustle, she edged forward and stood in the doorway, watching as Rachel tugged pieces from the chicken and the ham, tore chunks of cheese and bread, and shoved it all down the front of her apron.

  Her chest infection still lingered and, after the dust
of the bone yard, Blanche couldn’t stifle the cough that came.

  Rachel spun round and Blanche took in the pale face, the dire uniform, the stiffness of the girl’s shoulders. She pointed at the girl’s mouth. ‘Your lips are greasy. Wipe it off or Mrs Tinsley will know what you’ve been up to.’

  Rachel wiped her mouth on the back of her hand. ‘You won’t tell on me, will you, missus?’

  ‘What would you normally have for lunch?’ Blanche asked her.

  ‘Soup.’

  ‘But not today?’

  The fear returned. ‘Please, ma’am. I ain’t took too much, just enough to keep us going. My grandmother’s here, and she ain’t had a bit of meat for days. I thought just a little, not enough for Mrs Tinsley to notice… anyways, I can’t carry much.’

  Blanche eyed the girl’s apron bib. ‘Not much at all. You need something to carry it in. Have you a teacloth?’

  The girl shook her head. ‘No.’

  Blanche tried the dresser. There were no cloths in the first drawer, but plenty in the second. ‘Here’s one,’ she said, bringing out a piece of red checked cotton.

  ‘She counts them,’ groaned Rachel. ‘I can’t.’

  Blanche put the cloth back and closed the drawer. She didn’t want to get the girl into trouble. Her eyes went to where her coat and bonnet had been hung. The veil of her bonnet, which Madame Mabel had referred to in disparaging tones, trailed down over her coat.

  ‘This bonnet is out of fashion,’ she said taking hold of it by its brim. ‘My milliner says so.’ With fierce determination, she tore the veil from the back of the bonnet. ‘This will do nicely,’ she said as she spread it out flat on the table.

  Rachel stood open-mouthed. ‘Ma’am?’

  ‘Come on,’ said Blanche as a piece of pie, followed by half a pound of cheese, half a loaf, a pound of ham and the bits of breast from the chicken carcass were bundled into the net that had once adorned her bonnet. ‘This should keep your grandmother going. Take it now, but be quick. I’ll be here when you get back and I’ll make excuses for you, but if you can, try to get back before the gentlemen return then no one will be any the wiser.’

  Rachel was swift on her feet. She paused by the door. ‘You’re a very kind lady, ma’am. There’s many ‘ere that will be thankful.’

  Once she was alone, Blanche sank into a chair, her chest aching with effort. She was not as strong as she used to be. Should she be here at all? She could see it all now: she would get terribly involved, perhaps upset some of the stuffed-shirted patrons of this place, and even annoy her family. Was it worth it?

  Staring out at the grim buildings, their roofs shiny now following a downpour, she thought it through.

  Here, but for the grace of God, would have been my home too, if it hadn’t been for Conrad Heinkel, she concluded. Life, she decided, was very full of ‘ifs’.

  Her musings were interrupted by the return of the men, Mrs Tinsley right behind them, her upper arm brushing that of the Reverend Smart.

  No one noticed that the leftovers were not so abundant. Blanche congratulated herself that she’d got away with it.

  Only Mrs Tinsley, sharp-eyed despite her fat cheeks, frowned at her as though something was not quite the same.

  ‘Will we see you next Wednesday?’ asked the Reverend Smart, who seemed quite recovered from being stabbed by her fork.

  ‘If that is when I am expected, I will be here.’

  ‘It is likely that there will be a new intake of wretches in need of bed and board. Perhaps you would like to see how these people are assessed? It’s amazing how many say they are destitute in order to obtain entry.’

  ‘I find it hard to believe,’ she replied, thinking that she’d prefer to take her chances on the street rather than enter this place.

  Smart misconstrued. ‘Do believe it, my dear lady. It is indeed the truth. Some people prefer to throw themselves on the parish rather than do a good day’s work.’

  * * *

  Sitting in the carriage, Edith tapped her feet impatiently and tried not to look at the forbidding walls of St Philip’s Workhouse.

  The day was warm. The sound of steam hammers sounded from the ironworks. Flies buzzed in black clouds around damp manure, the sound accompanied by the snores of Henry McDougal dozing up in his seat. Suddenly she heard someone singing, the words at first incoherent then becoming clearer as the singer came closer:

  Another little gin, another little gin,

  Penny a mug,

  And twopence a jug,

  Now get thur and get me another little gin…

  Another little gin, another little gin…

  Recognizing the voice, Edith poked her head out of the window.

  ‘Daisy Draper? You sings like an earwig!’

  The singer, her straw bonnet askew, staggered as she came to a halt and looked up at the sky. ‘Who said that?’ she asked, scratching at the tufts of hair that stuck out from beneath her bonnet.

  ‘Well, thee’s bisn’t gonna find me up thur!’ said Edith as she got out of the carriage.

  The heavy Bristol accent brought Daisy’s wobbly gaze back down to earth. She blinked as she attempted to focus her eyes on Edith, then her whole face puckered with concentration, as though a terribly important thought had crossed her mind.

  ‘Earwigs don’t sing.’

  ‘No, they don’t,’ said Edith, taking hold of her arm and sitting her on the side of a horse trough. ‘And neither should you.’

  Daisy attempted to push her bonnet straight, but only succeeded in making it flop the other side of her face. She suddenly noticed Henry who was still snoozing up on his perch, his chin fallen onto his chest. ‘Do you know that bloke thur?’

  ‘Course I do. That’s the coachman.’

  Daisy burped. ‘Posh carriage. Fancy you riding in one of them. I rides in posh carriages too, you know.’

  This didn’t come as a surprise. Edith had known Daisy when she’d been little more than fourteen and lifting her skirts for anyone with the price of a meal. It was only natural, as well as more financially rewarding, that she’d gone upmarket.

  ‘Oh yeah?’ said Edith with a wry smile. ‘Pays better, do it?’

  ‘Not what yer thinking, Edith Clements what was. I’ve got a proper job. I’ve ‘ad training, I ‘ave.’

  Edith was bemused. ‘And what might that be?’

  Daisy pulled herself up as straight as she could, which resulted in a succession of sharp hiccups. Then she gave Edith the shock of her life. ‘I’m a nurse. Even got a proper uniform – well, a big white apron and a cap anyways… ‘ Her expression changed suddenly. ‘So what you doin’ yur?’

  Although she couldn’t believe that Daisy would take it in, Edith explained the reason for being there.

  Once she’d finished, Daisy tapped at the side of her nose, and said, ‘Well, I’ve had reason to go in that place, though not on account of being destitute, you know. Oh no! I went in there on business, for which I was paid a princely sum – a very princely sum.’

  Edith tried not to breathe as the woman’s gin-laden breath assaulted her nostrils, then paled as Daisy went on to tell her all about the dark-skinned baby born to Horatia Strong. At the end of it, unaware that the colour had drained from Edith’s face, she added, ‘I was supposed to keep it a secret, but there… two sovereigns only keeps body and soul together for a while, don’t it? And nursing don’t pay that well, though it’s usually an easy job. The wet nurse suckles the newborn in these rich houses, and I do the looking after, though that ain’t hard. I swear by laudanum. I put a tiny spot on me finger and let ‘em suck. I promise yo’ it keeps the little mites quiet.’

  Edith was hardly listening. It was bad enough to learn about the fate of Horatia Strong’s baby, without hearing this. Poor as she’d been back when she’d lived in the Pithay, she’d never administered anything that might put her babies to sleep so they wouldn’t bother her. It just wasn’t right.

  ‘Best be going,’ said Daisy, staggering to her f
eet. Patting Edith on the shoulder, she leaned close to her ear. ‘And I’ve a mind to earn a bit more if I can. Wonder what that Horatia Strong’s husband would say if he knew that there ain’t no baby buried in that graveyard out near Marstone Court. That the little nigger brat ended up in here…’ She jerked her head at the Workhouse. ‘Wonder what he’d say that his milk-white wife produced a dark-skinned son? How much do you think he’d pay to keep it secret?’ She nudged Edith’s arm a bit too aggressively and almost fell over. ‘Poor little soul might even still be alive, though I doubt it. They don’t last long once they go in there.’

  Edith’s first instinct was to grab the drunken Daisy by her bonnet strings and throttle her if she dared go near Tom Strong, whom she had once loved. Instead she was glued to the spot. There was so much at stake and too many courses of action she could take. Should she tell Blanche about the baby? Should she tell Captain Strong?

  Engrossed with myriad concerns, she hardly noticed Daisy bidding her cheerio and staggering off in the direction of the Bath Road. Once she became aware of her disappearing figure, she shouted, ‘Say nothing, Daisy. Say nothing!’

  Whether Daisy heard or took it in, she didn’t know. But her shout roused Henry who jerked awake and asked her what was wrong.

  ‘Nothing,’ Edith snapped, folding her arms and rubbing them as if they’d suddenly turned to ice. ‘Nothing. Just a drunken woman who shouldn’t be out by herself.’

  Chapter Six

  Horatia watched Tom wash himself. He was naked, the light from the window outlining the perfection of his physique, which was still firm despite him being in his forties.

  He straightened suddenly, as though he’d just thought of something. ‘What did he look like?’

  She became as stiff as the starched nightdress she was wearing. ‘I don’t want to talk about it.’

  ‘It? Surely, the word is “he”?’

  She felt her jaw clenching as though she were going to retch. Her hands became clasped in her lap. ‘Don’t!’