by Valerie Wood
Betsy shook her head. ‘I’ve nothing left.’ She turned away from the poster. ‘I owe my rent and I’ve barely a copper left for food. I’ve nothing until we get our wages.’
Both girls worked at the Greenland Yards, where they scraped blubber from the whalebone in preparation for it being boiled. It was messy, smelly work, and Betsy felt that she could never get rid of the sickening stench, no matter how she scrubbed under the pump in the court where she lived.
After she had parted company with Craddock, she had at first managed to obtain employment in a grocer’s shop, and found cheap but clean lodgings, but after a week she had noticed her employer eyeing her suspiciously, and at the end of the following week he had given her her wages and told her not to come back.
‘But why?’ she asked. ‘What have I done? Isn’t my work satisfactory?’
‘Oh, aye,’ he said. ‘Your work is all right, but you’re not. You look as if you’re about to drop at any time.’ He shook his head at her. ‘You’re not wearing a wedding ring. This is a respectable establishment. I can’t keep you on. It just won’t do.’
She changed her lodgings, taking something cheaper, and sharing the dingy room with another woman. She sold her yellow gown at a secondhand shop and bought in its place a black skirt and flannel blouse, and also a cheap ring which she wore on the third finger of her left hand, but she kept the cloak to hide her protuberant swelling as she looked for other work. She managed to convince her next employer, a stallholder in the market, that she had been suffering from the dropsy but was otherwise very fit, but she had to give up the work when she could no longer lift the sacks of potatoes and cases of oranges.
Now she felt at least that she was safe. She told the foreman at the yard that her name was Mary Brown and that she was a widow; he was uninterested, simply telling her to hand in the flensing knife every evening before leaving, otherwise the cost of it would be deducted from her wages.
‘It says she’s dark-haired and pretty and was last seen wearing a yellow gown.’ Dora read out the description slowly and haltingly. ‘She must’ve been in trouble for her to run off. Why else would a lass leave a good home?’
‘I can’t imagine.’ Betsy stared across the road. There was Gilbert hurrying along on the opposite side, looking as if he had the weight of the world on his shoulders. She only had to call his name and things would be very different for her.
‘Here, he’s all right, isn’t he? I fancy him.’ Her companion followed her gaze. ‘Shall I whistle of him?’ She grinned at Betsy. ‘I might be able to earn a shilling!’
‘Do as you like,’ Betsy snapped and turned away. ‘But I’ve not yet stooped to prostitution.’
‘No? Well, how have you got in that state then?’ Dora pointed towards Betsy’s stomach. She laughed, not reprovingly, but with a lackadaisical indifference. ‘You don’t expect me to believe that story of dropsy, or of you being a widow? I’ve heard it all before.’
Betsy didn’t answer. How she hated these women with their crude humour and low morals.
‘Just don’t let ’foreman know tha’s pregnant, that’s all.’ Dora shrugged and walked off in the other direction from Betsy. ‘I’m onny warning thee. Tha’ll finish up in ’workhouse next, thee and tha bairn.’
Sammi entered the mill house without knocking, debating whether she was making matters worse by coming so often. Tom seems to be so short-tempered, which is not like him at all; yet I can’t stay away.
Tom was in the kitchen as she entered, about to lift a heavy pan of stew onto the fire, while Jenny stood by. She felt a small pang of annoyance as Jenny smiled at Tom and thanked him, before greeting Sammi and then disappearing with her duster into the parlour.
‘Hello, Sammi. It’s good of you to call again.’ Tom avoided looking at her. ‘I, er, I keep meaning to say, don’t feel that you must come because Betsy isn’t here. We can manage. Jenny is shaping up very well.’
‘Oh!’ She felt a chill of disappointment. ‘Would you rather I didn’t?’
‘Oh, no. You know I didn’t mean that. It’s just that I realize you have other things to do.’
‘What else do you think I have to do, Tom?’
‘Well, I don’t know.’ He looked perplexed. ‘What do ladies do? Shopping? Sewing? Good works?’
‘And is that your considered opinion of my life, Tom?’ she said sharply. ‘Do you think I would prefer to do those things rather than be here with – with you and Uncle Thomas and George, while Betsy is missing?’
He sat down at the kitchen table and put his head in his hands. ‘I’m sorry.’ His voice was muffled. ‘Please try to understand. I’m at my wits’ end. It’s not knowing that’s the worst thing. Wondering if she’s dead! Wondering if she’s in any kind of trouble that she daren’t tell us about; or is she just enjoying herself somewhere and not bothering to get in touch?’
She moved towards him and rested her hand on his shoulder. ‘We’re all so worried, Tom. And I hate to see you so miserable. I wish there was something I could do or say to make you feel better.’
He gave a short ironic laugh and closed his eyes, pressing his fingers to his brow. ‘I’m sure there is, Sammi. I’m sure there is.’
She bent over him and gave him a squeeze. ‘Tell me then, what I can do,’ and as he looked up at her, about to speak, the door opened and Jenny came back in.
She stood for a moment, open-mouthed. ‘Sorry, Miss Sammi – Master Tom. I’ll come back in a minute,’ and turned to go back out.
‘It’s all right, Jenny.’ Tom pushed back the chair from the table. ‘Don’t be embarrassed. Miss Sammi and I are old friends. We often give each other a hug, don’t we, cousin?’ He gave Sammi a peck on her cheek.
‘Why, yes,’ Sammi said brightly, and unaccountably feeling a constriction in her throat. ‘Of course we do.’
‘Oh! That’s nice.’ Jenny gazed at them, her wide eyes bright. ‘That’s really lovely!’
She didn’t visit again for a week, Victoria was in bed with a heavy cold and Sammi spent time reading to her and keeping her company. On the days when the frost was sharp and the wind not too bitter, she walked along the cliff top, taking Sam with her, who was missing his daily walk with Victoria.
On the following week, she visited Mrs Bishop and told her that Adam would be leaving immediately after Christmas.
Mrs Bishop nodded. ‘It’s for ’best, miss, in ’long run.’
Sammi had mounted Boreas and turned for home. They had had a letter from Aunt Mildred the previous day, saying that she would either come or send for Adam as soon as Christmas was over.
‘Anne and I will not be celebrating this year,’ she wrote. ‘We shall go to church and pray for those who are missing from us, and I will also pray for the child. He will not want for anything material, and I trust that he will have a good life with his new family. I have not yet had a reply from James, but I am sure he will be happy with my decision.’
She hesitated before turning down the road which led to Monkston, debating whether to visit the Fosters before returning home. Tom’s words, though he had denied their meaning, had cast some doubt in her mind. Would he prefer her not to call too often? Was she interfering with the running of the household? Jenny, in spite of being so young, was proving to be a real home-maker. The house was warm and welcoming, and she was becoming a good plain cook.
I’m not needed, she decided. They can manage without me; and she turned the horse’s head towards home.
She heard her name called before she had gone a few yards. She reined in and turned in the saddle. Tom was waving to her. She waved back and he set off at a run towards her.
‘Hello. Is there any news?’
He shook his head and looked up at her. ‘None. Sammi! Why didn’t you call? I saw you from the lane and thought you were coming. Da has missed you; he’s been asking for you.’
‘Has he?’ And what about you, she wanted to say.
‘I thought about what you said, Tom, when I was there l
ast time; and, and I realized that I wasn’t helping; in fact that I was probably preventing you from getting on with your life, by reminding you by my presence that Betsy was no longer here.’
‘I don’t understand you, Sammi.’ He put up his hand to hers as she clasped the reins. ‘Preventing me from getting on with my life?’
‘Yes. Betsy and I were – are – such good friends and spent such a lot of time together and now, now that she’s not …’ Her voice trailed away.
‘Did you only ever come to visit Betsy?’ he asked brusquely. ‘Did you not come to visit the rest of us?’
‘Oh, you misunderstand me, Tom,’ she stammered, unable even to understand her own feelings, let alone explain them to Tom.
‘Do you not think that the rest of us might miss seeing you?’ His eyes were keen, searching hers.
‘But, you said, you said that there was no need for me to call so frequently.’ She took a trembling breath. ‘You said that I probably had other things to do. I thought that perhaps you were really saying that you didn’t want me to call so often.’
‘Oh, Sammi, you little idiot.’ He put his arms up to grasp her. ‘Come down, I can’t talk to you when you are up there.’
She slid down into his arms and wound the reins around her hand. ‘Am I being silly, Tom? I did want to come.’ She was choked with tears. ‘I’ve been to see Adam, he’s going away after Christmas, and I miss Betsy such a lot, and I feel so miserable, and when I thought that you didn’t want me either—’
‘Don’t want you?’ He put both arms around her and held her close. ‘How could you ever think such a thing. I shall always want you, Sammi,’ he whispered. I love you, he murmured beneath his breath. He held her away from him and she saw pain etched on his face. He swallowed and said softly, ‘You know that we all love you. Da and George and Betsy, and even Mark would say he did.’ He gave a twisted grin. ‘If he was here and if he dare.’
She gazed at him, her lips parted and a tear trickling down her cheek. ‘And you, Tom?’
He kissed the top of her head and then wiped away the tear. ‘I just said that we all did, didn’t I? We all love you, Sammi, so don’t ever forget.’
He won’t say it. She rode away and turned back to see him still standing watching her. He loves me – and he won’t say it! And I love him, she realized with sudden clarity. I love Tom! But why won’t he say? Does he consider me still a child? Surely not! Does he think that I might love someone else? No, he can’t. He must know that I would have said if I did. So why?
The day was drawing on, and the road was dark with overhanging branches. There was a sharpness in the air which tingled her nostrils and sent a chill through her. Then comprehension flooded through her. He doesn’t want to spoil my chances. He wants me to make a good marriage; just as Mama and Pa do!
She gave a sudden shudder. It’s going to snow. She clicked her tongue, urging Boreas on. We shall have a cold, hard winter.
The lofty wharf buildings around the London Dock appeared to hang suspended in the yellow mist which swirled around them. In the doorway of one of these buildings a huddled figure sat, his knees bent towards him and his arms wrapped around them, absorbed in contemplation.
So what have I achieved? he cogitated. I’ve worked as a labourer in ’fields. I’ve done some prize-fighting. Travelled the length of ’country and seen such poverty as I would never have believed, and for what? For nowt! For a chance to prove my braggardly worth. Nowt else. I left a good home and family to sit here in Port of London and contemplate whether I should go back wi’ my tail between my legs or spend ’last of my money on a passage out.
And so Mark, with his great ambitions shattered, sat through the night in disillusionment, waiting as he had done so often, for the dawn to break and another day to begin. He had tried for work as he travelled, only to find that others were there before him; pale-faced, faded men who had gone without sleep in order to be first in line.
He had never been entirely without money; he had taken all his savings with him when he left Tillington and had subsisted stringently so that he always had enough money for food at least once a day, and he had joined the queues at the soup kitchens when hot soup and bread were given out to the deserving poor.
Deserving poor! He’d sneered so many times when he had heard the expression from the comfort of his home, but now that he was almost ready to join their ranks, he had different views. He had arrived in London during one of the bleakest winters in living memory, and he had been heartened to see great jollity as the crowds skated on the frozen Serpentine, their faces flushed from the exertion and merriment. There was a carnival atmosphere as brass bands played and people danced on the ice; tents and charcoal braziers were set up to provide refreshments of ale and chestnuts, sausages and hot meat pies. It was only when he had joined the thronging mass on the frozen ice that he had realized that, among the warmly dressed, in bright scarves and muffs and skating boots, there were others, gaunt and thin with hollowed cheeks, who were rushing around the ice in a vain attempt to keep warm and forget their desperate hunger.
London during those cold weeks was filled with thousands of people in distress. They queued at the overcrowded workhouses and other charitable societies, begging to be let in or be given relief, and when they were turned away because of their sheer numbers, some, in their anger, stormed the bakeries and butchers, and wantonly emptied the shelves.
Mark saw when he’d walked amongst them that not all were drunken, work-shy or from the criminal classes, as he might once have believed. Most were honest labourers out of work, some were clerks and men with a tradesman’s mark. The women were laundrymaids or shopgirls with tattered finery drooping from their thin bones, or widows with a clutch of children hanging around their skirts.
He had decided that he would stay for another month before returning home, and because he was strong, he had found casual work as a porter in a market, shifting barrow-loads of meat, and earning half a crown a day. He found cheap lodgings run by a widow who gave him breakfast and a hot supper, and who was devastated when he gave her notice, when without any reason, he had lost his job.
So what do I do? he considered as he sat. Do I go home and eat humble pie? Or do I take my chance in another country? Bleakly he pondered. I could have sailed for America from Hull, I needn’t have travelled over half of England if I’d wanted to do that. And now that Lincoln has been made President they say there’ll be civil war, and knowing my luck I’d be embroiled in ’middle of it. Australia! I could afford a ticket – just. He had enquired of cost, of assisted passages, of when the ships sailed and how long the voyage would take. He had half made up his mind to go, but some homing instinct held him back.
He wouldn’t have described himself as being a family man, yet he found increasingly that his thoughts turned to home, to his father, his brothers and specifically to Betsy, whose memory tore at his conscience when he remembered his boorish treatment of her. I’m lonely, he admitted. I miss them all. If there was just one of them here with me, someone that I could relate to, someone that I could care for or grumble at, I would buy the tickets and sail.
He shifted his position as his legs stiffened, and stretched. He wasn’t tired, merely weary; it had been a long day and even longer night. A clock had struck three a short time before; three more hours and then he would have to move from his quarters.
Suddenly he was alert. He wasn’t alone; he could hear a whisper, someone else had chosen to spend their waking hours by the waters of the Thames. No. Not a whisper, a song. A soft refrain, like a lullaby with words he couldn’t understand. He tensed and strained his ears to listen, but as the soothing melody washed over him he relaxed, it was as if he was a child again at his mother’s knee.
It was a woman singing, or a girl, and the music was plaintive, as if she was weeping. He sat up. She was weeping. Well, he couldn’t help her, there was so much sorrow, and hadn’t he troubles enough of his own?
Another sound reached his ears,
hoarse whispers and shuffling feet, and he turned his head at the movement to his right. Two figures, shadowy, yet by their outline, broad and thickset, were crossing his path toward the weeping woman. He shifted his position yet again, crouching on his heels and with fingertips touching the floor, hidden from view, he watched the scene.
‘Don’t scream, my lovely, and we’ll not hurt a hair on yer head,’ he heard one say. ‘Just give us what you’ve got and we’ll be off.’
‘Mother of God!’ A voice shrieked. ‘Give me back me bag! You’ll have to kill me first, for I’ve nothing else left in the world.’
There was a scuffle. ‘Come on, lady,’ the man began, but his words choked in his throat as Mark sprang.
His movement was swift, his aim sure. Not for nothing had his miller’s biceps developed, and his short career in prize-fighting been successful. One man lay groaning on the ground whilst the other sped as fast as his feet would carry him.
He put his foot on the man’s chest. ‘Does tha want to run for ’constable?’ he asked the girl, for he saw, now that he was closer, that that was all she was.
She got up from her corner, clutching a tattered canvas bag and peered down at her assailant. ‘Sure they’d want to know why I was here and why wasn’t a daicent girl in her bed at night. Let him go and take his conscience with him; he’s a poor specimen of manhood, sure enough, if he’s robbing the poor.’
He pulled the man up by his coat collar and thrust his boot into his backside. ‘Clear off,’ he threatened, ‘before I chuck thee in ’river.’ He turned to the girl. ‘I heard thee singing,’ he said. ‘It was grand. Then tha started to cry. Afore them varmints struck,’ he added.
‘And can’t a woman cry in peace if she wants to,’ she said defiantly. ‘I thought I’d found a place to be alone and I find it’s as busy as Dublin itself.’
