by Carol Rivers
Ettie felt a flicker of her old happy self; the Ettie before Gwen, Lily and Gino. The Ettie before losing Michael.
Chapter 27
A soft June breeze lifted Ettie’s newly hung curtains in the nursery. It was here in this small room that Ettie had spent many hours preparing for the baby’s homecoming.
Whenever the salon doors closed, it was in the nursery she could be found; cleaning, polishing and dreaming of the family’s return.
Her greatest achievement so far, was her trade with the rag and bone man. He had, with some persuasion, exchanged a crib and nursing chair for the collection of battered Tobacco Dock crates that had accumulated since Christmas in the salon’s backyard. Ettie was delighted. For though the crib was old, it swung to and fro on a squeaky iron mechanism. She had made a liner for its interior and a frill of white cotton for its sides. As for the nursing chair, it had needed a good wax but was perfect for Clara’s petite form.
A tobacco box, covered in brown paper now stood in the corner on the thick rug that Ettie had carried in from the floor of her own room. This box would contain all the toys that would doubtless appear. Perhaps there would be a pretty porcelain or wax doll if the baby was a Charlotte or Emily or even a Clara. Or a tiny wooden dog with a real horsehair tail for a John, James or Lucas.
Then there were the silks that Clara would buy for her daughter as she grew and learned to embroider. Or the wooden frame and its many coloured beads a little lad might enjoy to learn his numbers.
Ettie had all this planned, and though the room looked a little sparse with only the crib and chair, it was clean as a new pin. The next time Terence called she would ask him to help her remove an elderly chest from the attic. Though threaded with cobwebs and needing a good dust, it was free of worm and would fit snugly under the window.
Into its deep drawers she would lay the baby’s clothes. Aggie’s bundle had been washed, ironed and darned. Ettie loved to hold close the long white dress, somewhat faded but still entirely practical. The fragrant smell of the newly laundered article reminded her of the convent laundry. Of those freezing days, when her fingers turned blue with cold as she wrung out the nuns’ wimples and folded them over the rack. And, the summer afternoons, when a flood of sweat oozed from her every pore.
Ettie often allowed herself a reverie as she worked in the nursery. Sometimes she sat on her heels and rocked an imaginary baby. Sometimes she whispered words of love or sang hymns. And at night, should the future child wake, she would rush to comfort and soothe. Just as she had done for Kathy, Megan and Amy.
If only she had a small crucifix to hang on the wall! Jesus would watch over His dear child and keep Clara and her baby safe on the long journey back to England.
Ettie knew there was only one place she could find this gift.
The mid-day Angelus was ringing out over Soho as the pony and trap arrived outside the salon. Ettie climbed aboard, dressed in her Sunday best. She wore a soft blue wool summer coat purchased from Aggie and a straw Panama hat with an upturned brim. Ettie had covered an unsightly hole in the base of the crown with a pale blue ribbon. To keep it steady on her head she had folded her long, thick hair into a neat coppery bun, pinning it accordingly. Before she left home, she had taken her rosary from the crib and tucked it in her pocket. Perhaps the nuns would allow her a half hour’s prayer in the chapel.
Ettie leaned forward to pay her fare in advance. She had hired the driver’s services yesterday as he’d passed by the salon. He wore a cap over his eyes and was not very talkative as he sat up on the dicky seat but he agreed to take her all across London and back to the East End for a fair rate.
It was now over a month since she’d seen Michael. The ache inside her heart had not healed but time had brought acceptance. And with it, came a desire to make peace with the past. A flicker of excitement went through her as she began the journey back to her old home.
Out the pony trotted from the dingy, dishevelled terraces and shops of Soho and into the wide streets of London city. They passed grand mansions with their gleaming white stucco exteriors and pretty front doors, black-painted railings and top-hatted gentlemen, stately hansom cabs, landaus and carriages, shady greens and flowery borders. London was a city resting from its busy week.
Ettie recalled her last journey to Oxford Street to buy Clara’s new clothes. Perhaps her next visit would be made with Clara and the baby?
When Buckingham Palace appeared in all its shining glory, Ettie took a breath. One day she intended to push the perambulator past the red-coated sentries who stood to attention in their tall black hats and tell her tiny charge about how the young Victoria had inherited the throne at just eighteen. How she had fallen in love and married her first cousin, Prince Albert. And best of all, how the couple had won the people’s hearts and minds.
As the pony trotted towards the great River Thames, Ettie began to think of the news she would give to the nuns. How she had learned to keep accounts and open the salon in Lucas’s absence. Sister Patrick would raise an eyebrow at the gentlemen’s conversations on politics and the military. But then there was the problem of mentioning the decanters and their regular filling to keep the patrons happy. This perhaps, could be no better or worse than the incident of the green fairy.
Ettie’s pale cheeks flushed in confusion as the warm breeze rushed past blowing whips of coppery hair around her face. Might she spoil all her positive news with an event so bad?
After some thought, as the green trees of the parks passed by, Ettie came to a decision. She would instead, describe the magnificent mountains of Switzerland and the good Dr Ruegg who had cured Clara of her malady. For if anyone appeared to be a saint it was this clever man. Only praise could be heaped on his head, a far more wholesome topic of conversation. And one that shed a far better light on Ettie’s new life. A life that Mother Superior herself had arranged. A life that had been approved by Sister Patrick.
Chapter 28
All the sights that Ettie had witnessed on the day she travelled to Soho, returned again. The magnificent Houses of Parliament reflected in the water of the great river, Cleopatra’s Needle pointing upward to the heavens, the steamers and river traffic, an Embankment enjoyed by the Sunday strollers and the Tower of London and its looming shadow that gave Ettie a chill on the back of her neck.
This time they went by way of Ludgate Hill and Ettie glimpsed the spectacular dome of Saint Paul’s Cathedral. She held her breath as the clouds parted and a ladder of sunshine reached down to its summit. It was a sign, Ettie decided, that her plans for the day had received God’s blessing.
It was at the bottom of the hill that the pony tired a little and the trap bounced slowly over the rough cobbles of the East End. Ettie recognized the sights and sounds of the Commercial Road and her heart beat even quicker. For just a little further on was Poplar and her destination.
By the time they arrived in the East India Dock Road, the old nag refused to continue.
‘You’d better get off here, Miss. I’ll water and feed her in the tavern stables,’ the driver told her. ‘You know where you are?’
Ettie nodded as he helped her dismount. ‘The convent isn’t far from here.’
‘Hope you find it,’ he replied, taking the reins and beginning to lead the pony towards the drinking house. ‘Can’t say as I’ve heard of it but then I’m not from round this way.’
‘Where shall I meet you?’
‘I’ll be here when you want your ride back.’
Ettie felt nervous as she walked down the street. Just a short distance away was the market where she had visited so often with Sister Ukunda. A short walk on and she would arrive at the high walls of the convent. What would it be like to see the nuns again?
As if her blessing was continuing, the late May sunshine spilled down on the narrow streets, tracing a golden pathway for her to follow. There was no market held today, but the traders’ stalls were collapsed and leant against the dirty walls of the terraced houses. Stray dogs and mic
e scurried here and there. Street urchins in their tatty caps and torn breeches sat on the upturned sides of barrows. A rank smell of rotting vegetables rose up with the briny odours of the docks.
Making her way through the rubbish-strewn lanes and smoke-tarred terraces, Ettie came to a long road that she knew so well. At the end of it was the convent of the Sisters of Clemency and the orphanage where she had lived for the most part of her life.
And where she was returning today.
Chapter 29
The old gate was tied with a length of rope, its frayed ends tucked into a plank of wood that substituted for the broken lock. The squeak that the gate emitted was loud enough to send a wild tabby cat shooting out from the bushes.
Ettie now not only felt nervous, but apprehensive, for the long path leading up to the convent and orphanage was now completely overgrown with weeds and briars. She lifted her skirt to avoid them catching on her hem and studied the way forward as best she could. One trip and she’d end up in the undergrowth or a prickly bush.
Breath held, she advanced slowly, noting that it was impossible to see very far ahead or either side of her. The tall, slender trees that had once provided an elegant entry to the grounds were now a dense wilderness. Mother Superior had always insisted that the gardener’s priority was the entrance to the convent. For it was here that the bishop arrived, driven on the sandy path in his elegant coach right up to the doorstep, where a carpet or rug was placed down for him to walk on.
But this might be another world altogether, Ettie thought, as she negotiated the clumps of dandelions and tall grasses that had invaded the driveway.
When at last the convent came into view, she stopped abruptly, her eyes opened wide at the unrecognizable scene. For the beautiful pale brick building and belfry had changed beyond recognition. Every window had been boarded or was partially covered, though not in a very secure way. Some of the glass was exposed, with needlelike fragments that revealed a bare interior.
The belfry itself had collapsed, and lay at a twisted angle above the broken slates, as if any moment it might fall in on itself. The roof was a puzzle of exposed timbers, that had attracted a community of pigeons.
Taking a hesitant step towards the entrance that was now entirely covered in ivy, the smell of dampness and decay emitted from a broken window. Carefully she picked her way towards it, recoiling at the obnoxious rotting smell.
Keeping her distance, she tried to peer inside. Where was the heavy, ornate door that led to the chapel? Her eyes adjusted slowly and to her horror she saw there was nothing there. The chapel or what was once the chapel was now just a space in which vegetation grew over what remained of the altar. Stepping a little closer, Ettie stared at the ravaged interior. The rows of pews had vanished, the beautiful glass windows and holy pictures were now just crumbling walls. A stranger would never know that this was once a place of worship.
With her heart drumming under her ribs, she retraced her steps over the weeds and took a side path to the schoolroom and dormitory at the rear. But as she came upon the place that she knew so well, tears filled her eyes.
Burned timbers pointed upwards where once the desks had stood in their neat rows. Blackened rafters lay crisscrossed on the earth between piles of ashes. Over all the chaos had crept a bright green lattice of ivy, clinging to even the smallest fragments of debris.
‘How could this have happened?’ Ettie questioned as she carefully negotiated the derelict site, her eyes scouring the charred remains of what had once been her beloved classroom. Had she not known that it had been a schoolroom once, where children had occupied the wooden desks and learned their lessons from the books the nuns so lovingly preserved, then she would not have recognized it at all.
With a sense of foreboding she picked her way over the thistles and briars towards the dormitories. Even before she reached the annexe that housed the boys’ and girls’ sleeping quarters, she guessed that she would find very little of the home she remembered.
But to discover the skeletons of a dozen broken and rusted metal bedsteads piled one upon the other in an overgrown thicket was almost more than she could bear. There was nothing that remained of the dormitories but a scrapheap reclaimed by nature. Ettie could no longer hold back the tears. Her heart felt again as though it was breaking. Where was the home she so loved and fondly remembered?
It was some while before she thought of the laundry. Drying her tears on her handkerchief she made her way slowly down the incline to the outhouse where she had worked summer and winter alike with Sister Ukunda and Sister Patrick. Afraid to discover another ruin, she could barely bring herself to look for the ancient building that had accommodated the nuns’ ancient wash house.
So, it was with some surprise that she discovered a clearing where the laundry still stood. It was a little more ramshackle than it had been almost two years previously, but otherwise appeared in good repair; with a roof that had not collapsed, though it sagged dangerously in the middle. Small windows still retained their glass. A battered wooden door swung open as if to greet her and from inside, a faint movement.
‘Hello? Who’s there?’ she called.
The sound of shuffling footsteps and the door creaking wide caused Ettie to hold her breath.
An old man stood there; silver-haired, bent and bearded, but with a stumble he came forward and squinted into her face.
A shaky smile went over Arthur the gardener’s lips as he said in a gruff whisper, ‘Well bless my cotton socks, if it ain’t the O’Reilly girl! She said you’d be back one day, and she was right.’
Chapter 30
Ettie looked fondly around the laundry’s interior, which had never been in the best of order but had always felt homely as if the many years of washing and scrubbing had become part of its character. The ancient washtub and dolly – now unused – lay on its side, fallen from the bricks it was once steadied on. The glass windows that had run with steam were now crudely half-boarded to preserve the glass and the ceiling rack on which the nuns’ wimples had dried, was missing. But Arthur had made a home for himself here, she could plainly see. There was a chair that was holed and missing its stuffing, a few pots and pans piled on the wormy dresser and a stove of sorts that somehow heated his food.
‘The fire from hell broke out not long after the nuns left,’ Arthur told her as they sat together by an old table. ‘As if the devil had been waiting to make his mark.’
Ettie felt the hairs on her neck stand up as he described the event that had ended the convent’s days. The gardener’s lined face was barely visible under his silver cap of hair that straggled over his ears to join his unkempt beard.
‘Sister Ukunda took ill, see,’ he continued as he gestured with his arthritic hands. ‘She lay on her bed and never got up again. They found her one morning, cold as ice. We buried her ourselves, the two nuns and me, down the hill by the convent wall, just as she said she wanted.’
Ettie’s eyes were moist with tears. ‘What happened then?’
‘The bishop sent ‘em packing, the poor cows.’
Ettie wiped her eyes again. ‘If only I’d come before.’
‘Wouldn’t have made no difference. The land was sold from under the nuns’ feet. Just as if it wasn’t a sacred, holy place that had stood for years doing good and giving kids a start in life. But the new owners got their comeuppance and went to the wall. Some say they was cursed for what they did. Some say the bishop was cursed an’ all. ‘Cos he died an ‘orrible death in the fire.’
‘The bishop died in the fire?’ Ettie gasped.
‘No one knows why he come back here that day. But rumour has it that the greedy old fox came sniffin’ around to see if there was anything left valuable like. When they found him after the fire, there wasn’t much left, just his shoes. Always wore the best polished leather. Don’t matter about the starving kids on street corners with nothing but bare skin on their feet. Oh, no, don’t matter about them!’
Ettie shuddered. It was hard to believe t
he bishop had died in such a gruesome way. Had he really been cursed?
‘I lost me old nag this year,’ Arthur continued. ‘So I retired and made meself at home here. Rozzers don’t mind. I keep an eye on the place for ‘em.’
‘What will happen to the land now?’ Ettie asked.
‘Who knows?’ Arthur shrugged. ‘They say it’s been nabbed from Rome’s coffers by the revenue men.’ He poured her tea from an ancient tin pot and handed her the chipped mug. ‘No milk, but it’s hot.’ He leaned back in his chair and pleating his silver eyebrows, he told her again, ‘She knew you’d come back.’
‘Sister Patrick?’
‘Said you was like her own kin.’
Ettie felt weak with a deep sense of loss. ‘Did she leave a message for me?’
Arthur nodded vigorously. ’Said you was to go to the chapel and there you’d find her letter on the pew.’
‘But that was before the fire?’
‘I wish I could tell you otherwise.’
Ettie bit her lip hard so that she wouldn’t cry. When she thought of that precious letter going up in flames, it was almost a physical pain.
‘I miss her,’ she whispered hoarsely. ‘I miss them all. The sisters and the children and the convent.’
‘Was a terrible deed that bishop did to the nuns, not to mention them poor kids. If you want my honest opinion, I reckon it wasn’t just the earthly flames that got him, but another kind, that don’t ever burn out.’
Once again Ettie shivered at the bitterness in the old man’s voice. What good would bitterness or anger do now? The Sisters of Clemency had given service to God for many years before the new bishop arrived and made his fatal directive. Whatever God’s intentions were for the nuns, they had avoided the dreadful fire that had claimed their beloved convent.
