At dinnertime, Daniel came trotting home. He came and found me in the kitchen. He must have only been five or six but he was the little man of the house, no doubt about that. In he came, crackling away. It was the vests I made him, out of brown paper. I had tried newspaper but the print came off on him and made him filthy, so crackly brown paper it was. That’s how cold it was outside.
He had already been into our little parlour, the only room with a fire lit, where Mehitable was lying on the settee clutching a blanket and staring at the walls.
‘Me and Mehitable need something hot to eat, Mam,’ he said firmly, as he came in the kitchen.
I said, as gentle as I could, ‘There a piece of bread each I’ve saved. It’s a bit stale but it’ll be okay, we can toast it. I’ve got a slice of brawn for you to share but there’s nothing hot.’ Brawn was the cheapest thing the butcher had that was edible. Elijah sometimes ate whips, but you can’t feed children on cow’s tails.
‘Why don’t we warm it up in the fire?’ Daniel suggested.
I wasn’t thinking straight. I said. ‘All right. Use the spike.’
He took the toasting spike, found the slice of brawn in the cold box in the pantry and brought it in. Then he took it into the parlour room. I heard him say, ‘Here you are, Billy. We’re going to have hot brawn on toast.’
She always smiled for Daniel, did Mehitable. He was like a god to her
.
There was a moment’s silence, then a wail of despair from Mehitable.
In Lord’s name what now?
I thought and went into the sitting room.
Daniel was sitting on his heels before the fire, holding the empty spike and looking disconsolate. Mehitable was sat next to him, her mouth open, howling.
‘Sorry, Mam,’ said Daniel.
The slice of brawn was in the fire. When Daniel had held the spike in the flames, the fat had melted straightaway, of course, and the brawn had fallen off among the coals. It was all I had for them. There was nothing else but stale bread in the house.
‘Never mind, Daniel,’ I said, thinking of how stupid it was of me to have let him do it. Mehitable was still screeching. You would’ve thought it was her on the end of the spike.
‘Oh for God’s sake, Billy, shut that wailing, will you?’ I couldn’t help myself from snapping at her. Daniel had been trying his best.
We all three of us looked into the fire, and I thought,
marrying Elijah Smith was the biggest mistake of my life
.
*
Later that afternoon, Clementina came home. Somehow she had got the wherewithal to buy us some giblets, so’s we could make a broth. She was more helpful that way than her no-good son; I’ll give her that.
I was feeling low, as low as low could be, but as she came in, I forced myself to rise from my chair and take the packet from her. A little blood was leaking at one corner. I unwrapped the giblets and put them in the colander, rinsing them under the tap. I left them to drain while I washed my hands and put the kettle on.
And then she started in on me. Were the children over at Mrs Herne’s house, yet again?
Yes they were, I replied. Mrs Herne had three boys now and Daniel loved playing with them – he liked doing boy’s games that he couldn’t do with Mehitable.
Did I know that Mrs Herne felt so sorry for our two that she fed them?
I had always suspected as much as they didn’t nag me for tea when they came home – I had been pretending to myself that I didn’t know
.
I let her rattle on at me while I tipped the giblets on to the chopping board. The butcher had already trimmed the crop, so I didn’t have to worry about that. I took the short knife and cut the top off the heart. There was a small well of dark red blood inside, which I cleaned beneath the tap.
How did I know what Mrs Herne was feeding my children? Clementina went on …
I turned the liver. It was fresh and shiny, the colours shimmering on its surface. Behind me, Clementina had stopped going on about Mrs Herne. There was a moment’s blissful silence.
Oh
please
just
leave
the
room
, I prayed to myself,
please just go away and leave me in peace
.
Then she said, calmly and purposefully, ‘Don’t forget to cut out the bile.’
I slammed down the kitchen knife, leaned on my knuckles on the counter top and took a deep breath. ‘Yes, thank you, Mother,’ I said between gritted teeth. ‘I think I know how to trim giblets by now …’
I still had my back to her, otherwise she might have seen the look on my face and realise she shouldn’t push me further.
‘Oh we are Miss La-di-da this afternoon,’ she remarked casually. ‘Well, it’s a good job I know how to buy them, isn’t it?’
I still had my back to her and managed to keep my voice light. ‘You wouldn’t need to be going down to Neave’s for giblets if that son of yours brought a bit of money home once in a while.’
I knew that would needle her, criticism of her sainted boy.
‘Lijah’s been very busy lately.’
‘Aye, yes, and he’s been keeping the landlord of The Bleeding
Heart busy and all, all that pulling of pints he’s been doing for Elijah. Rushed off his feet.’
I turned to face her. She had sat down at the table. She looked at me steadily. ‘Bit full of airs and graces today, aren’t we?’
‘If it’s airs and graces to want my children fed, instead of relying on other people’s charity, then yes I am. My mother raised me all on her own and she never had to do that.’
At the mention of my mother, she made a
humphing
noise. ‘Yes, well, I daresay your mother found ways to get the wherewithal to feed you, didn’t she?’
I stared at her. She stared back. The kettle on the hot-plate began to whistle and I turned and removed it. I realised I was shaking. We were rushing headlong into something, this woman and I, and I knew something unpleasant was about to happen. I felt sick, and the palms of my hands were sweating, but I could not stop myself. Without either of us meaning to, we had crossed a line.
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ I asked, quite calmly, as I turned back to her
.
She pulled one of her faces, turning down the corners of her mouth. ‘Well, let’s just say
I
knew who my father was.’
I was so astonished that she should raise this that I stared at her in disbelief, and when I spoke my voice was unsteady. ‘It may be true,’ I faltered, ‘that I was born illegitimate, but as I understand it so was Elijah.’
‘That’s none of your business!’ she snapped back, and closed her mouth firmly, glaring at me.
‘It is my business when you start making unfair remarks about my mother and casting judgement on me,’ I replied. ‘Do you think it is easy to be a fatherless child? I assure you it is not. Indeed, it was one of the first topics of conversation between Elijah and I, that we had this in common.’ I saw from her face that this remark hit home, that she did not like the thought that Elijah and I had something in common and that we had discussed it between
ourselves, especially something that affected her so closely. And then I added something I had not intended to add, but in truth my head was spinning with her rudeness and I was a little too flush with having got one over on her. ‘Although it is true that our stories differ in one respect, mine and Elijah’s.
My
mother never lied to me.’
Her mouth had opened again, but only a little, to form a small, round ‘o’. Her eyes were tiny and black as raisins. I knew that I had cut her to the quick. I should have had the sense not to press home my advantage, but all the small slights I had received since she had come to us were boiling up in me, and I could not prevent myself. How dare she sit there casting slurs on my mother, and me not able to say a word against her son who had all but deserted his family?
‘And as far as I gather, you continue to lie to him. The King of Russia! Do you think you’re the only one who told him stories? The rumours he’s heard, and to this day he does not know who his father is, and have you never stopped to think what that might be like for him? He has children of his own now and still he does not know …’ I was speaking fast, my words running away from me, spilling from me.
She raised one hand sharply and held it up flat, to silence me. I stopped, breathing hard, awaiting her response. But instead of speaking, she levered herself up from the chair slowly, pressing her knuckles against the tabletop to raise herself, as if she was infirm. She turned to leave the room.
I could not stand that she would answer me with silence. It was not right, not when I was making a fair point and had bested her in argument. ‘I am talking of Elijah’s feelings,’ I insisted, my voice high and hollow with fury.
She had her back to me by then, and lifted her hand, again flat, then patted the air with it, as if to push away some invisible force that was pressing in on her. With the other hand, she reached out
and grasped at the rail of the range, to steady herself. Then she walked slowly to the door.
I allowed her to reach the bottom of the stairs, then stepped after. Still she did not turn.
As she mounted the stairs, leaning on the banister, I called up after her, wildly, ‘He’s not stupid, you know! He’s got a good enough idea! His father was a baker’s boy by the name of Freeman, that’s what he got told, although
you
may never have owned up to it! A baker’s boy who fancied a bit of
gipsy
skirt, was he? I s’pose it was in a ditch somewhere … or … or maybe …’ I had nearly used up all my strength, ‘… beneath a
hedge!
’
At that, she stopped on the stairs, bent almost double, but did not speak or turn. Then she continued up.
I stood at the bottom of the stairs, shaking. I felt such a sense of triumph and anger that I was almost alight with it. I burned.
Then, almost immediately, a feeling of wretchedness and shame washed over me. My knees almost gave. I thought of how, with these small houses, all the neighbours up and down the street had just heard me shout out how Elijah was got – and how they would all look at Clementina and me next time we went out of doors …
I turned and went back into the kitchen and put the kettle back on the hot-plate, not because I wanted to boil the water but because I had to do something ordinary. And my chest was heaving up and down, and, sure enough, the tears came. I thought of how, for the first time since her arrival, Clementina and I had argued openly, and how I had wounded her, how I had won. And I knew that the feeling should have given me great satisfaction but in truth it did not.
*
Clementina stayed in her room for the rest of that day. When the children arrived back from Mrs Herne’s, the three of us ate our giblet soup together. Hungry as I was, I could not finish my bowl. It had no taste. Later, I put the children down, head to toe in my
bed as Clementina had still not emerged from her room and there was not so much as a single sound coming from it. I found myself tiptoeing down the stairs afterwards.
I tidied and cleaned, swiftly and quietly, listening all the while for her door to creak open and wondering what on earth I could say to her when she emerged. I prayed that Elijah would come home that evening, so that I would not be alone with her, but he did not, and I retired to bed at my usual hour, pushing the children over gently as I climbed in, so as not to waken them.
*
Elijah had still not returned by the following morning, which was not unusual at that time. Daniel went off to school and Lilly came over and said would Mehitable like to come and sit in her shop and help her count the pennies? Lilly often had her in her shop in the mornings, out of pity, I suppose. Usually I couldn’t wait to get rid of Mehitable so that I could get on with my chores undisturbed, but that morning I said, ‘I am not sure, Lilly, Mehitable seems a bit chesty. Maybe she should stay at home.’
Well, of course Mehitable piped up, ‘No, I’m not, Mum, I’m not chesty at all,’ and gave a clear cough to prove it. Children always like to make liars of you, don’t they? Mehitable loved going to Lilly’s as there was usually a small treat in it for her if she was good.
Lilly gave me a straight look.
I sighed and said, ‘All right then, but no spoiling her. She’s gets spoiled quite enough as it is.’
*
So it happened that I was alone when Clementina finally emerged from her room. I had been laundering bed linen and it was flapping nicely on the line. It was warm and breezy outside and the sheets would dry quickly. I had just sat down for a minute, and was resolving that, whatever I said when she came down, I would not apologise. Or maybe I would apologise but make it quite clear that
she had pushed me to it. Or perhaps I would just wait to see what she said, then take my cue from her.
As I was thinking this, I heard her step on the stairs. The back of my neck prickled with anxiety at the sound. I rose to face her. She came into the kitchen and said, ‘Those sheets should be ironed while they’ve still got a bit of dampness in them. If you heat up the iron, I’ll do it.’
Instead of all the speeches I had prepared in my head, I found myself saying. ‘The stove is stoked. The iron’ll heat in a minute.’
‘Best go and fold them, then,’ she said, and turned towards the back door
.
I put the iron flat on the hot-plate and followed her out, meek as a lamb. While we folded the sheets, we talked quite normally of how the sky was darkening already and it was a good job I’d done them early and not waited until the afternoon. I could not believe how normal we were being, and even started to question in my own head whether the events of the previous day had really happened at all.
What is she thinking? I thought to myself as we took the folded sheets inside. Is she in inner turmoil, like me? She shows no sign of it. She was acting quite ordinary – much more ordinary, in fact, than she ordinarily did.
When we got back inside, she said, ‘I’ll do this. You get on, if you like.’
So I left her to it and went about my other tasks, a little humbled, I have to say, a little washed out and empty – and enormously relieved.
*