Return to Paradise

by Erica Brown

  Desdemona began to cry. Samson attempted to comfort her, his heart full of foreboding and wishing that he’d never left Barbados. Perhaps he should have gone to another island instead of coming here. It was cold, unfriendly and so far he’d had little chance to try and find his aunt, or cousin or whatever she was.

  ‘You bin in a fire?’ someone in the queue asked Abigail. ‘You stink of smoke.’

  None of them answered. Samson wrapped his great arms around his small family like a protective barrier. If any of those waiting had considered pushing them around, they eyed the size of his biceps and thought again.

  A woman poked at his arm. For a moment he thought she was being threatening, but when he looked he saw her eyelids were tightly shut and almost flat.

  ‘Do you mind if I follow you in? I can’t see where I’m going, but if I keep sniffing and smell the smoke on you, I’ll know when we’ve moved forward.’

  ‘Yes,’ Samson replied. He found it hard to take his eyes off her, humbled to see that despite his own dire circumstances, there was someone here worse off than him and his family.

  One half of the high wooden gate gradually creaked open. The crowd surged forward.

  ‘Stop! No rushing, or you’ll get no more than a look at that door, and be outside the gate.’

  ‘I fought Boney, now I’ve come to this,’ grumbled an old man.

  ‘Sshh,’ said another. ‘Any backchat and he’ll throw you out. I’ve seen him do it. So keep quiet and whatever you do, don’t look at ‘im.’

  Abigail exchanged a worried glance with her husband.

  A man in a mixed-up uniform eyed them up and down when they entered. ‘Wass the likes of you doin’ ‘ere, then?’ Samson curbed his temper as the man sniffed at his sleeve. ‘You stinks of smoke.’

  ‘A stroke of luck for me,’ said the blind woman. ‘I’m followin’ me nose. This kind gentleman said I could,’ she added, tapping Samson on the shoulder.

  Raising the baton he carried until the end of it was an inch from Samson’s chin, the man in the uniform fixed him with small, shrewish eyes. ‘Just remember I’ll be watchin’ you, darkie. Got that?’

  Samson tensed, looked away and kept his mouth shut. His jaw was as rigid as his body, but he wouldn’t retaliate; he dare not.

  * * *

  The interview room was on the ground floor. It was as large as the one above it in which they dined, but the lower windowpanes were painted out with whitewash. Visible through the upper panes, the Workhouse buildings surrounding an open yard brooded like black cliffs casting long shadows. The slate roof tiles, shiny from recent rain, dulled to dark grey as they dried. The floor was also of grey slate and the walls were bare. The room was dark, chilly and forbidding. A row of chairs had been set up in front of the window and behind a long refectory table of dark, dense oak, on which were a large ledger, a zinc inkpot and a quill pen.

  With a flourish of coat tails and a supercilious air, the Reverend Smart sat himself before the table.

  Blanche, three other members of the Board, including Colonel Barnes, and Mrs Tinsley ranged themselves in the other chairs provided, the latter making sure she was seated next to the Reverend Smart, and Blanche choosing to sit as far away as possible.

  Taking the quill pen in hand, the Reverend Smart entered the date in the ledger. He took his time, his face rigid with concentration as he carefully wrote down the day and month in a fine copperplate hand, the figures in stiff Roman numerals.

  Blanche sensed the impatience of her colleagues: the shuffling of feet; the fidgeting posterior against a polished seat; the polite cough behind a starched white cuff. She also sensed that the Reverend Smart knew exactly what he was doing. The Workhouse empowered him and being clerk to the Board made him feel important.

  Once he’d finished, he turned to Mrs Tinsley. ‘Mrs Tinsley, pray be so kind as to tell Corporal Young to make a start.’

  ‘Certainly.’ Pursing her lips in a self-satisfied manner, she got to her feet, self-importance shining around her like a halo.

  Families, old men, young women and destitute children began to file before the refectory table, each telling a sad story, each face engrained with starvation and want. One old woman didn’t know where she was, but insisted she used to work for a bishop. She’d thought she was going to the coal yard to purchase a bag of coal. No one could find out where she used to live. By a majority decision, she was sent to the lunatic asylum.

  Blanche bent her head rather than watch her leave. If she was indeed telling the truth after a lifetime of work and loyal service, she now had nothing, not even her mind.

  For the umpteenth time that day, she thanked heaven that she did not have to make decisions by herself. If she had her way, she’d let everyone in, even though she knew it wasn’t feasible. There were only so many beds and a certain amount of food. But the strain was telling. Out of sight behind the brim of her bonnet, she closed her eyes and mentally counted to ten. She’d reasoned it would stop her running from this place, never to return. She kept her eyes closed as the door opened again and more than one set of footsteps clumped across the bare boards. At least this family had boots. So many had not. Some had worn cardboard shoes, the sound of their shuffling likely to haunt her dreams for some nights to come.

  The Reverend barked. ‘Name?’

  ‘Sir, my name is Samson Marcus Rivermead though I used to be Jones.’

  ‘Why isn’t it still Jones?’ asked Colonel Barnes.

  ‘Because that was a master’s name. I decided to take one for myself.’

  Blanche froze. The accent itself would have been enough to give Samson away. The fact that he’d taken the surname of Rivermead convinced her that this was the boy she’d once known. But she didn’t look up. Her heart raced. Inside her smart kid gloves, her palms were moist and her neck ached with the effort of holding her head down. She told herself she had to be sure, but at the back of her mind, other reasons spread like a malignant rash. If she acknowledged him here, both her and her children’s lives in Bristol would be blighted. It was cowardly, it was weak and it cut her to the core, but she couldn’t look, she couldn’t take the risk. And anyway, cooed the smooth, silky voice of acquired comfort, you don’t know for sure that it’s the Samson you knew; Samson who was so proud of his learning that he scratched his name over walls, barrels and doors.

  Smart bent over the ledger. Holding his pen as though it were a sable brush and he were a Dutch master, he slowly and carefully noted the name.

  ‘Where are you from, Samson Marcus Rivermead?’ he asked, looking up at long last after careful scrutiny of his entry.

  ‘Sir, I am from Barbados.’

  Yet again, Smart took his time noting the detail, his penmanship seemingly of more importance to him than the family standing before him.

  Blanche felt herself flushing hot and cold. Of course it was Samson. Of course it was! Much as her conscience urged her to acknowledge him, her neck seemed to have solidified. She found it impossible to raise her head.

  ‘Why, pray are you here?’ asked Colonel Barnes, who was fast becoming impatient with Smart’s laborious penmanship.

  ‘I came here looking for a relative of mine. She’s kind of an aunt, related to my grandmother who was half-sister to her mother.’

  Blanche held her breath.

  Smart, who was obviously feeling threatened by the colonel asking a question, snorted and rose too abruptly, his thigh knocking the table as he did so. A droplet of ink flicked from his nib and onto the unblemished surface of the ledger. His face turned bright red. Not brave enough to confront the colonel, he directed his ire at Samson.

  ‘A likely story! And what is this aunt’s name, and where do you expect to find her? Answer that if you can!’

  Samson’s head jerked high, the humility he’d been advised to adopt vanishing before the cleric’s onslaught and the insinuation that he was a liar. His nostrils flared with impatience and his voice was big and bold. ‘My cousin’s name is Blanche and she m
arried a man in the sugar industry.’

  Smart leapt in. ‘A moment ago, you said she was your aunt.’

  Samson shrugged. ‘Cousin. Aunt. She’s a relative. My grandfather was half-brother of her mother. So she was only kind of an aunt, kind of a cousin.’

  ‘A second cousin,’ shouted Smart, slapping his hand down hard on the table so that the quill pen jumped from its well and, yet again, ink was flicked all over the neatly written ledger. He gasped in horror at the blemished page.

  ‘Do you know the name of this man she married?’ asked the colonel. At the same time he pulled Smart’s sleeve so severely that the cleric had to sit down or lose his coat.

  ‘No. I can’t remember,’ said Samson. He sounded devastated.

  Blanche stared unblinking at the floor. It was hard to resist the impulse to proclaim she was found. But she couldn’t. Foremost among her thoughts was the need to protect her children. What would happen if people – the powerful people whom Max was intent on impressing – should find out that their mother was of African blood, slave blood, and fathered out of wedlock.

  The colonel bent his head and whispered to those on either side of him. ‘It strikes me that in time this family might find this relative, or the relative may come to claim them…’

  Smart was the colour of a ripe raspberry, his anger threatening to choke him.

  ‘In which case,’ said the colonel, blatantly ignoring the Reverend Smart’s fury, ‘I think he will not be here long enough to become institutionalized. ‘

  Smart’s jaw dropped. ‘Institutionalized? What the devil’s that supposed to mean?’

  The colonel had the habit of closing one eye and turning the other more beady specimen on the subject before him. Officers and enlisted men alike had cringed before him in his army days. Smart slid back in his chair as the colonel pounced.

  ‘Too long in a regimented place makes you forget how it is on the outside. And don’t tell me I don’t know enough about this place to say that. I’ve seen it in the army. Seen men of twenty years’ service unable to return to civilian life because they can no longer function without rules. Strikes me we should be looking to impress that this place is a temporary measure.’ His eyes briefly took in their surroundings. ‘Strikes me I wouldn’t want to be in here too bloody long. I say we let the man in.’

  Sir Bertram nodded in agreement over his port. Smart simmered. Blanche instinctively felt that she would not be asked for an opinion. The fact that the colonel had not apologized to her for his swearing made her think her presence was forgotten. It turned out she was correct.

  ‘I think that’s carried,’ said the colonel, his right eyebrow returning to its normal position, shoulders back and a triumphant tilt to his chin.

  Smart was still the colour of an infantry jacket. Acknowledging defeat, he nodded to the warden and Mrs Tinsley, and the Rivermead family were led away, mother and child through one door, Samson through the other.

  Blanche sat perfectly still, hardly hearing the rest of the proceedings and feeling ashamed of herself. Nothing of her pedigree had been divulged, but she’d lost something of herself. My integrity, she thought. Samson came looking for me, and I denied him.

  For the sake of your children!

  Of course. But was it worth it? Was it for the best that they never knew their heritage?

  Her heart lay heavy and, by the end of the proceedings, she ached all over and fine beads of sweat had broken out on her forehead.

  ‘May I escort you to your carriage?’ the colonel asked.

  Blanche gathered her thoughts and quickly worked out what she would do next. ‘I serve on this Board to visit as well as to officiate,’ she said without sounding flustered. ‘So today that is what I will do before making my way home. But thank you for your consideration, Colonel. It is much appreciated.’

  Courteous as ever, he doffed his hat and left her to do as she pleased.

  Mrs Tinsley, however, eyed her suspiciously. Ignore her, thought Blanche. Mrs Tinsley eyes everyone as though they’re about to run off with the bricks and mortar.

  ‘I’d like to visit the men who have just been brought in,’ she said.

  Mrs Tinsley pursed her lips and raised her eyebrows. ‘The men?’ She made it sound as though something lascivious had been suggested.

  Blanche felt her face reddening. Don’t let that harridan see it! With determined steeliness, she took out a lavender-scented handkerchief and dabbed at her upper lip. ‘I do believe I have a cold coming,’ she said in a casual manner before adopting a more assertive tone. ‘I may be able to help them get jobs, especially those with families.’

  Mrs Tinsley tried to look as though she wasn’t really taking in the checked dress, the red trim and a width of skirt that barely squeezed through some of the doors. But even if Blanche hadn’t noticed her scrutiny, she could feel her envy; it was like being pierced by a thousand tiny needles.

  ‘They’re having a carbolic wash first. Wouldn’t want to see that, would you?’

  Insult was intended, but Blanche pretended not to notice. ‘Then I will see the women first.’

  Mrs Tinsley made a sound that was halfway between ‘yes’ and a grumble. Keys rattling from the long chain attached to her belt, she led Blanche towards the women’s quarters.

  The corridor was long and cold. There was little light except that filtering through small, square windows set high up beyond eye level. This was not the first time Blanche had ventured along this corridor, but never had her body been so racked with icy shivers that seemed to begin at the nape of her neck and end in her toes.

  What would she say to Samson’s wife? What would Samson’s wife think of her if she told her the truth now?

  She pulled her shawl more closely around herself and told herself she must be strong. She coughed. This place is damp, she thought, and rubbed at the tickle she felt in her chest.

  Her knees were knocking by the time they reached the last door that opened into the women’s quarters. Just a few steps away, the door swung open and one of Mrs Tinsley’s assistants, a one-eyed woman with no teeth, came rushing out. She was carrying a bundled blue shawl against her meagre chest. The smell of old food and mouldy clothes came out with her.

  ‘We’ve got a dead ‘un,’ she squawked, her voice high-pitched and grating on the nerves.

  Mrs Tinsley’s wide nostrils dilated into small slits and she looked quite put out. ‘Who’s that then, Ethel?’

  ‘Young trollop who came in with a big belly a few days ago.’

  Mrs Tinsley jerked her head at the bundle. ‘Is it dead?’

  The shawl moved. A small pink fist waved in the air, accompanied by the weak cry of a newborn babe.

  Blanche touched the tiny fist, which tightly closed around her finger. ‘Poor little thing. To be born in such a place as this.’ Concern for the child outweighed her own predicament. She addressed Mrs Tinsley. ‘What will happen to it now the mother is dead?’

  Mrs Tinsley sniffed. ‘It will go to the nursery, of course, and a wet nurse will be provided.’

  Blanche stared as Ethel tucked the baby’s fist back under the shawl and bustled away.

  ‘I’d like to see the nursery when I am next here,’ she said, her gaze following Ethel until she disappeared from sight.

  ‘Well, I don’t know about that. You’ll have to get the Reverend Smart’s permission. I couldn’t possibly let you in there without his say-so.’

  Determinedly, Blanche tucked her handkerchief back into her reticule. ‘Then I shall ask him.’

  Mrs Tinsley looked like thunder. ‘You do that! I’ve got a dead trollop to get out of here’. She flew into the room recently vacated by Ethel and slammed the door behind her.

  Blanche tried to decide which was most immediately important. Perhaps she was a coward, or perhaps it was genuine concern, but she decided on the nursery. Put it down to guilt, she thought. My children had every comfort in life. These poor little mites…

  She pushed the true reason, that s
he was not ready to confront Samson and his family, to the back of her mind. Another day, another ordeal. But for now she would confront the Reverend Smart and ask his permission to visit the nursery.

  She caught him standing on a chair looking out of the window. He almost fell off when he realized she was there.

  ‘Just checking on our charges,’ he said with a slimy smile as he regained the ground.

  Before she could ask him anything, Warden Tinsley entered and outlined the business of the dead woman, adding that they were bringing her through into the yard.

  ‘Good man, Tinsley. Harness up the cart and do what you have to do. I’ll come out and say a few words.’

  ‘Shall I ask the usual fee, Reverend?’

  With a sidelong glance at Blanche and a warning one to Tinsley, Smart ushered him to the far corner of the room where they spoke softly, heads almost touching.

  Curious to know what Smart had been looking at, Blanche scratched a small hole in the thick paint that covered the lower windows. At first all she saw was a bare, brown back. Someone was standing in front of the window. As if at a signal, the body moved and she saw what Smart had seen.

  There was a pump in the middle of the yard outside. The women who had just been given entry to the Workhouse were standing in a line waiting to fill bowls from which they washed themselves. Those without bowls washed beneath the pump. A large number of them, especially the younger ones, were stripped to the waist.

  Blanche felt her face burning. At the sound of his footsteps crossing the room, she turned round, her eyes automatically rising to yet another of the texts on the wall:

  ‘BY THEIR ACTIONS SHALL YE KNOW THEM.’

  She struggled for her handkerchief as the tickle in her chest turned into a spasm of coughs.

  ‘Mrs Heinkel!’ The Reverend helped her to a chair.

  ‘This is all too much…’ she said, holding her handkerchief to her forehead, both embarrassed and annoyed that she’d been on the verge of fainting. ‘The baby… upset me.’

  ‘Very upsetting,’ said the Reverend Smart, patting her hand. ‘The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away. Blessed be the name of the Lord.’