Authors: Jean Stubbs
*
The day after William’s arrival Charlotte felt poorly and lay abed. Toby reported her to be somewhat low in spirits, and catching up a copper can with a hinged lid he suggested they take a walk to St James’s Park, where they could buy milk fresh from the cows that grazed there.
‘For myself I mind not,’ he said carelessly, striding out into the turbulence of Fleet Street. ‘I take milk but rarely — in coffee or tea. So what matter if it is somewhat sour, or mixed with water? But Lottie is a country lass, and bewails her lack.’
‘But where could people keep a cow here?’ William asked of the maze of tenements.
‘Oh, they could not. But in many places near the city we have cowsheds, some of them underground, which are like to your mills, brother — dark, unclean factories employing their workers from youth onwards. The delights of fresh air and sweet grass are unknown there. The animals are milked until they can give no more, and then cast out to die. But the cow has one final use — she can be slaughtered for her meat and hide! So St James’s Park is the answer, unless we take advantage of that she-ass there.’
The small grey donkey had caused a traffic stoppage along the Strand, though people, carts and wagons were beginning to move round her. She stood patiently while her owner squatted on his stool, squirting her milk into a pail, ignoring the trouble he had made.
‘No, I think not,’ said Toby. ‘Her coat is something scabby. Oh, but look there, Will, at that fashionable she-ass!’
The lady in the sedan chair was regretting her toilette, which must have cost her maid and hairdresser hours of fabrication. Face, neck and bosom were painted white, lips and cheeks vividly rouged, a black star was placed cunningly upon one cheekbone, a black heart by her mouth. The lawn fichu swathing her shoulders was immense, and above all towered a vast white powdered wig raggedly cut so that the lady looked as though she had been severely shocked. Immobilised by the ass, she was the object of scornful eyes and mocking remarks, and William marvelled again at the frank rudeness of the London populace. They called, they mimicked, they caterwauled. The lady lifted a little fan to screen herself, but it was the hedgehog wig which entertained them and this reared over the pretty ivory sticks, unabashed.
‘Will no one rebuke them?’ William said indignantly.
‘Why should they? Pox on the fool for looking so! Though I dare say she is poxed already,’ Toby added cheerfully, ‘for her paint is very thick. No, Will, be glad of our bad manners. The freeborn Englishman is free-spoken. It is a mark of his liberty. And at heart he is a republican who despises the rich … ’
But William knew exactly where this conversation would lead, and so remarked upon the bad breath of a fellow who had just elbowed him aside — and earned a diatribe on folk who would not be vaccinated.
At Charing Cross Toby stopped and bought
eau
de
cologne
for Charlotte, and left his change upon the counter, which William prudently picked up and restored to him. At the Haymarket he bought oranges from a barrow. While all the time he rattled on in the most diverting fashion.
‘We must show you round, Will. Have you seen a circus? Or attended a play at the theatre?’
‘As an apprentice to a Quaker master,’ said William smiling, ‘I was forbidden such wicked pleasures. Tho’ I remember when I was in Birmingham that someone proposed a licensed theatre, but the church would have none of it.’
‘We must see the wild beast show,’ Toby continued. ‘I shall find out what is on, Will, to divert you.’
The milk purchased, they adjourned to a coffee-house where Toby assuaged his thirst for debate, and both argued interminably. Then they began a roundabout stroll back home. William wondered whether this sort of excursion was in his honour, or whether Toby in fact spent more time away from his business than attending to it. But whatever the man saw he could use as grist for his political or social mill, and he nourished a decided passion for France.
‘Our so-called pastimes are uncouth and vicious,’ Toby said. ‘The French, when they come over here, are aghast at our brutality. Cock-fighting! Bull-running! Bear-baiting! Football! (And what is that but an excuse for breaking coach-windows and knocking folk down?) Prize-fighting! Even our children will torment animals for their own pleasure. We take delight in cruelty … ’
‘These are the free-born Englishmen you praised not long since,’ William reminded him, ‘and before the slavish French speak of cruelty may I remind you that Damien was publicly tortured to death in Paris not thirty years ago? And the spectacle most lavishly advertised and attended, as though it were one of your entertainments at the pleasure gardens … ’
‘But here the hangings are a public spectacle … ’
‘An honest hanging does not compare with … ’
‘And what of our nobility, so-named? A set of feckless gamblers who will stake house and land, aye, and wives and mistresses, upon the throw of dice or a hand of cards? Oh, we are corrupt!’ Then suddenly changing the subject, as his attention was caught by a cookshop, he cried, ‘I must buy some mutton pies. We shall go hungry, else. Here, Will, hold these like a good fellow!’
So that William fumed, even as he obeyed.
‘But do not imagine,’ Toby continued, coming out of the hot little shop with his savoury purchases, ‘that I concern myself with our morals and our politics alone, Will. I have but recently wrote a pamphlet upon the Unprincipled Adulteration of Foodstuffs in the City of London. Ah, you who come from country stock, what shall you know of the rubbish with which we fill our bellies? You live off the fat of the land, while we are at the mercy of every poxy vendor who colours his butter and cheese to make them look fresh! There is sand in our sugar and dust in our tea, and soap-suds in our beer to give it a good head. And heaven only knows how much stinking horse-flesh we consume in the name of … ’
Here they both looked suspiciously at the mutton pies, and walked on in an uncomfortable silence. Then Toby laughed.
‘The devil of it is, Will,’ he said frankly, ‘that if governments were sane and people honest — how could I earn a living?’
Which made William laugh, and like him again.
Charlotte had known, even as Toby swore he would fetch the milk back directly, that the two men would be gone for hours. At first she did not mind, for the strains and festivities of the previous evening had left her with a troubled heart and a queasy stomach. So she lay quietly until she felt able to rise, then manoeuvred herself out of bed and made her heavy way downstairs, pursued by the black kitten. The kitchen was dark and cold and empty. Where the servant was she did not know, and feared to ask or complain. And she thought how her mother would have dealt with such a situation, and made order out of chaos. She needed her mother then with an intensity that brought tears to her eyes. If only Dorcas could, by some miracle, walk briskly in, don the vast white apron worn for all family ailments, and put Charlotte back to bed and scold her, how preferable that would be to this solitary imprisonment. Since that was impossible she must brew tea for herself and sit close to the hearth for warmth and comfort.
The stitch in her side was nagging her, and she endeavoured to soothe it, but no matter how she shifted position and rubbed the place gently with her fingertips it would not go. The infant had been quiescent now for some days, lying low in the womb, and this morning the pressure was noticeable. She knew nothing of childbirth, too timid to ask her new friends, too proud to ask Dorcas, so she entered each stage in fear and ignorance, hoping for the best.
‘You always take the hard road, Charlotte,’ her father had said. ‘I’m not saying that’s wrong, lass, but many a time you punish yourself when you needn’t.’
Well, this was her hardest road so far, and the most lonely. And now there was a stitch in her other side, and she felt as she used to before her monthly courses when the pain made her ill. The smell of hot tea which had been refreshing became offensive. She broke into a great sweat and knew she was going to vomit Clumsily she pushed herself to her feet and hurried to the door, where she was violently sick. She leaned against the doorpost, trembling with shock and cold, knowing she had not the strength to move or clean up her own mess. Then as nausea ebbed, pain flowed: a seeking of pincers from the small of her back to her belly, a dull hot ache in the groins.
She heard the printing press clack steadily in the shop. Davy, an apprentice who taught himself while his master was absent, would be tending to business. She was too ashamed to call him, yet too weak to shiver in the November air without fear of catching cold. The pincers gripped her tenderly and retreated, then gripped again.
‘Davy!’ Charlotte called. ‘Davy, will you come, if you please?’
He was out in moments, a good-natured round-faced lad of eighteen. The eldest of nine children, all conceived, born and bred in two rooms, he knew more about midwifery than his mistress, and grasped her plight in an instant. Carefully, supporting her weight, he walked her indoors, sat her down again, and brought a bowl lest she vomit a second time. Then he prepared to find the absent servant, the doctor, and Toby and William.
‘Oh, do not leave me!’ cried Charlotte, as the pincers seized her firmly.
‘You’ll be all right, Mrs Longe,’ said Davy cheerfully, ‘never fear. There’s naught’ll happen between now and tomorrow, with it being your first’
‘Tomorrow?’ cried Charlotte, horrified.
‘Aye, or the day after,’ said Davy, more truthful than tactful. ‘My mam was two days having me, and none so quick with the others!’
So he ran off, leaving her to her own sorry reflections and to the claws which reminded her that life would crack her open.
*
It was four in the afternoon before Toby and William brought home the mutton pies, and were greeted by a self-important apprentice. Davy was a decent lad, but bad tidings are always more interesting than good, and he had run hither and thither to little avail for some hours. The doctor could not be traced, the servant had been found drunk and insensible in the larder, and Mrs Longe was now downright poorly and asking for her mother.
‘Oh, my poor sister!’ cried William, running up the stairs after Toby.
For once Charlotte took precedence over those weighty matters which so preoccupied her husband, and Toby being most grieved was most useless. First he ran into the room calling her name. Then he ran downstairs, calling for a doctor. Finally he put his head in his hands and reproached the God whose existence he denied. Though touched by this sincere affection William could not help doubting its efficacy, and himself (having spoken to his sister and bade her be of good cheer) ran for help in one direction, while Toby ran in the other.
London was a shade less intimidating to him now and, adopting the easy manners of its regular inhabitants, William dared ask advice of a kindly woman who recommended him to try Mrs Coates of Ludgate Hill.
‘For she is both clean and sober, and will come if she can, sir.’
A message being left for Mrs Coates, which suggested that the Thames was afire, William hurried home again, threading and elbowing his way through the throng like a born Londoner, and found the household in a greater uproar. Numerous ladies had called, and were sitting round Charlotte’s bed drinking tea and discussing their confinements, while his sister approached her ordeal with a brave face and a quailing heart.
‘Oh, what shall I do?’ cried Charlotte as Toby and William entered together. ‘Oh, please to send them all away for they make my head ache. Oh, that I were home again. Oh, help me, God!’
‘Out! Out!’ Toby shouted, running into the press of callers like a madman, flailing his arms as though they were geese to be scattered.
Whereupon they departed with shrugs, smiles, frowns, raised eyebrows and meaningful looks, leaving a litter of unwashed crockery behind them.
‘Oh, help me!’ cried Charlotte, holding out her thin young arms in supplication.
‘God help us all,’ Toby echoed, burying his head in her pillow.
The servant, now miserably sober, threw her dirty apron over her head and burst into loud sobs. While William, numb with apprehension, clasped his sister’s fingers and felt the vibration of her pains through his own.
It was that hour of a winter’s evening when fog descends and lamps are lit, and the house becomes enclosed in a private world. What Toby thought of no one knew, but brother and sister, handfast, had conjured up a childhood vision of Kit’s Hill to shield them. There Ned forever stood guard, and Dorcas sat serenely in her parlour, and however wildly the wind called it could not harm them. As each contraction came Charlotte clutched her brother’s hand and gasped, and as it ebbed she opened her eyes and smiled upon him. So that they did not hear the footsteps on the stairs, sounding hollowly, and stopping now and then as though their owner paused to take breath. And when the short sturdy woman pushed open the bedroom door and looked sharply about her, she too seemed to have risen from the past, with her high colour and small black eyes and her air of knowing best what was good for everyone.
Betty Ackroyd, their old housekeeper, would have stood thus: striped dress bunched over a plain petticoat, mob cap on her head. She would have taken off her woollen cloak in the same brisk manner, rolled up her sleeves in the same aggressive fashion. But when the midwife spoke it was the pert twang of a Londoner, not the broad Lancashire voice of Betty Ackroyd.
‘I’m Mrs Coates, I am,’ she said, announcing herself with a nod of importance. Then, seeing the disordered room, the distracted company, added, ‘And come about time, too, I reckon!’ She sized up the servant accurately. ‘Now, Miss Sluts,’ she said without ceremony, ‘just you run downstairs and boil some water, and fetch up a bucket and scrubbing-brush. I like a clean room, I do, for the lying-in. And we’ll have a fire lit this place is cold as charity — which should have been done before, with the poor lady a-shivering of herself to death. So fetch plenty of coals. And I’ll have a saucepan of hot posset, which if you can’t brew — and that wouldn’t surprise me! — I’ll need milk and wine and spices. And be quick about it!’
She stared the girl into action and watched her disappear, then turned to the two men.
‘Now which is Mr Longe? You, sir? Well, I should take your head out of that pillow if I was you, it don’t do no good to nobody if you should suffocate. And this is a friend of yours, is it? Oh, your brother-in-law? Well, that’s nice for you. Some gentlemen drink theirselves silly, and others work theirselves tired, but to my mind a gentleman needs a friend to talk to in times like these. Now would you like to take yourselves off while I make the lady easier? And I’d be obliged, Mr Longe, if you wasn’t to hang about outside the door, an-asking of questions every five minutes. For we shall be a while yet. And you might as well have this little feller, too, for we shan’t be needing him neither!’ Scooping up the kitten, who was swinging on a torn bed flounce.
William rose obediently and motioned Toby to come with him.
‘For Lottie is in good hands,’ he murmured, ‘and we can sit the night out together if need be.’
Toby cried that he was the best of fellows, but still had to embrace Charlotte lovingly, asking her forgiveness, stammering his apologies. Until Mrs Coates had enough of his nonsense, as she told him roundly, and turned him out of the room by his shoulders and closed the door upon him.
‘For it’s no use a-saying he’s sorry now,’ she observed. ‘He should have thought of it sooner, but they never do!’
The room scrubbed, the fire lit, the place in order, Charlotte began to feel better though her pains were stronger. Her courage returned with each word the midwife uttered: so safe they seemed within these walls, bent on woman’s business, the meddlesome world of men excluded. And as the midwife worked she talked.
‘Never a man but got in my way during a lying-in. Now, Mrs Longe, let’s make you comfortable. There, lean on me, sweetheart. Ah, you’re going to be one of those good ladies, I can tell, that don’t make a fuss and bother. Brave as a martyred saint. Come, loveday, where is your clean shift? There’s my lovely lady-girl. Aye, stop a bit when the pain comes, and breathe out, love. Never hold yourself. Let it go, for you won’t stop it. Let go, sweetheart.’
Something good had entered the room with her, which Charlotte hazily recognised but to which she could put no name: something ancient, fundamental and well-tried. Living with Toby had been an unacknowledged war of attrition, resulting in her temporary defeat. She loved him and therefore could not be rescued, only encouraged to survive until she found herself. That he cared passionately for the many she did not doubt, that his ideas were far-sighted and humane she truly believed; but it seemed to her, in her simplicity, that it was best to begin at home before looking for problems abroad, to help a few loved people rather than rave over the wrongs of a multitude. Thus she proved herself to be merely a woman, caught up in personal concerns, rather than a man of wider views and greater intellect. So it was satisfying to engage in this venerable act of creation, and know that nothing was expected of her but to deliver a healthy infant, and be praised for doing so.
The birth was slow and hard, alleviated by drops of laudanum and constant attendance. She was aware of Mrs Coates’s identity, though towards the end, as morning came, and pain and the hour were dark upon her, she confused both name and place. And thought she was at Kit’s Hill; and called upon Betty Ackroyd — dead these six years — and Betty answered her, and gave her water, and told her not to fret, though Charlotte was terrified lest she burst open like ripe fruit and the sensation was unbearable.
‘There’s the head,’ said Mrs Coates briskly. ‘Hold back now, loveday! Don’t go with it no more. Two or three more pains and we’re through, sweetheart. Hold hard, now.’
Charlotte held as hard as she could, and then screamed aloud, and with the scream the child sprang forth, wailing at the loss of his warm lodging. And soon after, muddled with laudanum and exhaustion, his mother fell asleep.
It was bright day when she woke, to find the room at peace and the midwife sitting over the fire, dipping sippets of toast into her mulled ale and eating them with relish. The broad short back spelled strength, the round red arms comfort; and in the round red face now turning towards her, whose eyes were black cracks, whose smile gaped with lost teeth, past and present fused into one image. By her side, clucking and snuffling in his cradle, making good headway in a hard world, was Charlotte’s son, whom the midwife now placed in her arms.
‘You have been so good to me,’ said Charlotte, smiling her thanks over the baby’s cotton cap. ‘I thought you were Betty, from home. She would have befriended me as you did, but she has been dead these many years. Oh, where is my husband, and my brother William, and how have they been?’
‘Mr Longe’s been a nuisance,’ said Mrs Coates plainly, ‘but then, they all are. A-rattling on the door knob, and a-calling on the landing, when a body has enough to do! But he’s creeped in and see’d you and the baby. You’ve been sound off, sweetheart, with the laudanum. And now you’ve come to I’ll go my ways. Babies comes in batches,’ she remarked philosophically, ‘so I lives betwixt and between, as you might say, never knowing when I’ll get my washing done, but I’ll be round tomorrow, all being well.’
‘We were to have had Dr Southwell,’ said Charlotte, uncertain of medical etiquette, ‘but he was otherwise engaged. Should we not ask him to call in?’
‘Leave him be,’ said Mrs Coates, packing a great number of small articles into a large bag. ‘He’s best left. With gin at a penny a pint, why trouble him?’