Authors: Martine Bailey
On my return to the bank a week later I was all eagerness, having found a pretty house with a garden that cost only one hundred pounds per annum. But I had been unable to leave a deposit, since my poor purse by this date carried only copper. I found the same gentleman at the mahogany table, and he in his turn invited me into a magisterial office panelled with dark wood.
‘Mrs Croxon,’ he said, and I knew at once that bad news awaited me. ‘I am afraid I am unable to oblige you in your request.’ His tone was not pleasant; he looked upon me as one might a petty irritant. ‘The account you wish to draw upon is empty and has been closed.’
‘That is ridiculous,’ I said. ‘I would know if I had closed it.’
He raised his palms in a gesture of exasperation, as if it were all quite outside his hands.
‘So where, sir,’ I demanded, ‘has my land income been sent?’
‘It is not for me to say. I may only give you intelligence of the account that was formerly held at this bank. And that, I am afraid, no longer exists.’
By now I was hot in my face and tight-knotted with apprehension.
‘I demand that you tell me how it is that an account I have made no instructions upon this last six months has been closed and emptied. Who pray has signed my name for such an instruction? It is your responsibility, sir!’
He shifted in his seat; he did not like my spirit one bit.
‘I am merely relaying the facts, madam. Our instructions were received by way of your advisor, a Mr Tully. Might I suggest that you pursue your enquiries with him?’
‘I most certainly will.’ I stood up, feeling horribly dishevelled and shabby, as well as clumsy from my large girth. In the bank’s front office I wrote a hasty note to Mr Tully. I was incensed, I said, that he had closed my account without my direct instructions. I demanded two hundred pounds by return. Once I had paid a sixpence for paper and ink and a tip to the servant for the privilege of his taking it to be posted, I realised I no longer even had the fare for a hackney.
I began to walk back to Glasshouse Street in a fury. I ranted to myself that I was an idiot to expect Michael to have left my account untouched. What a first-rate numbskull I was. Fuelled by annoyance I ploughed on, up road and down alley, until every step was a weary effort. At first I tried to persuade myself that Michael had merely dipped into the money to live on, and simply rearranged our accounts. Yet for Mr Tully to act without my instruction? It was abominable. Then, of course I saw it – Michael had told the notary I had gone abroad, and used that as an excuse to meddle with my money. Why had I not acted sooner to secure my future income? Because I was a prize idiot, I told myself.
To crown my misery, every few minutes a pain nipped at my back. Rousing myself, I looked about for familiar signs of Golden Square, and saw I had unwittingly entered a part of the city quite unknown to me. Gone were the carriages and gated gardens, the bow-fronted shops and flower stalls. The afternoon was passing to early evening, and in the fading light the streets had a mean aspect, the only trade being gin shops and alehouses. I stopped in my tracks and looked back the way I had come. A couple of ragged bystanders whistled softly at me from across the way. I turned about and retraced my steps. But now the blackened alleys seemed to tighten about me, winding this way and that in a labyrinth worthy of Ariadne’s thread. I followed a promising lane, but it ended in a dank court, where a brazier gave off a lurid glow; I halted again, looking for a respectable place to enquire the way. Just then a girl of no more than ten years old appeared beside me and slid her hand in mine. Her face was pinched with hunger, and her cut-down woman’s gown was torn and matted with mud.
‘You lost, missus?’ She had a pert expression, but her hand was marble-cold.
‘I need directions to Golden Square.’
Though swarthy with dirt, she smiled up at me. ‘Come wi’ me.’
Together we wound our way through alleys that every moment grew more sinister as the daylight leached away. From behind flimsy walls I heard raucous oaths and howling dogs, and hurried footsteps clattering on the boards.
‘Are you certain of the way?’ In answer the girl nodded like a puppet, her bony arm pulling me ever onward. The pain in my back was gnawing now, like a biting dog. A vision of my narrow bed at Glasshouse Street danced before my eyes. How much longer could I walk? At last she halted in a benighted court that reeked of foul tanned leather.
‘Just tell me ma I’m ’elpin’ a lady,’ she said, and scampered up a rackety ladder to a sort of hovel, built of collapsing crates. Once alone, my powerful instinct was to turn about and leave, but I was frightened of tripping and falling in the murk. I persuaded myself that the girl’s mother would most likely assist me once she saw my condition.
Then all in a few sudden moments, three beggarly characters leaped down from a gallery above my head and swaggered towards me, cursing and harrying me.
‘What ’ave we ’ere?’ The rogue had one blind eye and a loose-lipped drunken manner. ‘A frigate well-rigged and all a-mort.’
‘Go away,’ I said stupidly, but it was too late, for a bony woman buffeted my elbow, knocking me towards the wall. I staggered backwards. With a sudden blow from the other man, I was knocked to the ground, and felt a searing crack as my head hit the stone cobbles. In my last lucid moments before falling senseless, I felt merciless fingers turning me this way and that, rifling my pockets, stripping me of every last good possession I owned.
28
London
August 1793
~ Water Gruel ~
Take a pint of water and a large spoonful of oatmeal, stir it together; let it boil up three or four times, stirring it often. Strain it through a hair sieve and add a little salt.
Bill of Fare of the Covent Garden Poorhouse
I woke up scarcely knowing where my body ended and the world began, pushed and pulled on a red tide that submerged me in waves of pain. Slowly, I comprehended that I was in a mean, narrow bed beneath rough grey linen. A bloated coarse-looking woman sallied back and forth, puffing on a pipe as she eventually heaved herself down by my side.
‘Where am I?’ I asked, after the woman gave me a sip of beer.
‘The lying-in ward at the Covent Garden Spike. Robbed you was, young missus – found half-naked in the road. You’s only here thanks to an old codger what found you.’
She left me alone, and slowly the events of the previous evening returned to me, renewing my anguish. Misery racked me that long day, as I lay stranded in that beggarly place, utterly powerless to assist myself. I reached for my crucifix and found nothing; it had been snatched from my throat. The ring that bore Anne’s hair and my wedding ring, both of those were gone too. My skin felt as naked without my talismans as a soft creature cracked from a shell. Bereft, and not knowing if I wished to be alive or dead, I prayed in frantic snatches for the safety of my child. All day the pain tormented me, twisting and racking my body. Was this my fate, I asked myself – to die here among strangers? I had heard once, and quailed at the recollection, that mothers who died in childbed were thrown in the common burial pit, like any stranger to the city.
It seemed a great age later that the midwife returned and took my feverish hand in her hard-knuckled grip. When she ordered it, I screwed up all my strength and gave a mighty push. Again and again I strained and, at last, at the midwife’s cry, my baby entered the world.
‘A bonny boy,’ she announced, as I lay back gasping.
‘Is he healthy?’ I cried, as I heard a piping squeal.
‘A proper handsome little fellow,’ she said, and passed him to me.
Indeed he was. His slate-blue eyes met mine, fringed with golden lashes. I held my little son, quite overcome by every detail of him: his fingernails like fragments of mother-of-pearl, his mouth curved like a rosebud, and the down on his head pale gold. In looks he was undoubtedly Michael’s son. Then he blinked and looked into my eyes and I lost myself in his fathomless gaze. I thanked God we were both safely delivered from evil-doers. And I vowed that my golden child would not live as a pauper. I would move heaven and earth to regain what was rightly his.
I am not saying that the poorhouse was not a Christian place, for the master, the matron, and assistants were all decent folk; yet there was about the place such a dismal air of want that I battled to stay cheerful. The paupers themselves had lost all independence of mind, for the regulation by ringing bells, shuffling of weary feet, the thinness of the gruel, and the sour smell of illness might have sapped any spirit. The lying-in ward was much used by street girls, born ignorant, and hardened by brutality, who cursed and complained, however kindly they were treated. With scarcely a sigh they handed over their babes, pulled their gaudy frills back on, and crept back to the streets. I urged the timid Irish girl in the next bed to keep her babe, but she was persecuted by a brawny bully-boy who checked on her from the window. ‘Can you not get a position and keep your child?’ I urged, my heart nearly breaking to see her push her baby away.
‘Aw, stow it,’ she grumbled at last. ‘The parish is more of a chance for ’im than hangin’ on my petticoats. If the bawd as I works with gets a sight of him, she’ll silence him with Mother Gin.’
Shortly afterwards, word came of the captain; the brave fellow had by good luck been at the Justice’s Office that same evening when the watchman reported finding me in the road. He and a band of men set out armed with cudgels and set on those villains who had robbed me, and transported me to the lying-in ward. As for himself, he had taken a terrible blow to the head – so it was with great relief, but also apprehension, that I set off to find the men’s ward. I scanned the pitiful row of beds, but could not at first find him amongst the many decrepit fellows. An assistant finally led me to him, and I saw that a great cloth now bound his skull.
‘Why, you are setting the new fashion in headdress,’ I said cheerily. He managed a wince of a smile.
‘Here is someone else to see you.’ I pulled little Henry out from under my blanket.
‘Well, I’ll be damned,’ he said, his white-whiskered face reviving at the sight of my infant. ‘You have been busy. What a fine brawny chap.’ He broke into a fond smile, as elderly persons often will at the sight of babies. ‘Many a time I’ve cursed myself that I let you go off alone. It is all the fault of the Justices’ office, keeping me outdoors all night and day.’ We exchanged our news, and he told me of his battle with Mrs Huckle to prevent her throwing all my possessions out on the street.
‘I must leave that harridan as soon as I am stronger.’
‘That would certainly be wise, Mrs Frankland.’
Yet how, now I was penniless, might I find another lodging? With a choke in my voice, I told him of my disappointment at the bank. ‘I believe my husband has helped himself to my money.’
He stroked Henry’s cheek with his knotted finger, listening keenly. ‘You may not like it,’ he said at last, ‘but it will be best if you do go back to Glasshouse Street for a spell. Just till you return to health. Then we can take a proper look into this case of yours.’
‘I should like to, Captain. But I have not a farthing left. I have written to my notary to demand an explanation, but until I see his reply, I have no hopes at all.’
‘Mrs Frankland, it will be an honour to assist you,’ he said, ‘though it is a pity my own funds are not larger. But I could manage a loan of a few pounds.’
I loathed my dependence; but I had no choice but to accept. ‘Thank you. I will repay you.’
‘I know. Now listen, I have some most interesting information to pass on to you.’ The captain pulled a comical face, for Henry was happily exploring the fellow’s whiskers.
‘I hope it is good news.’
‘That is for you to determine, Mrs Frankland. While I was waiting on Justices’ business, for a certain felon to appear at his coffeehouse, the time hung mighty heavy. And finding a heap of old newspapers, I read them every line. It happened that a name I recognised jumped out at me in the Notices of the
London News
.’
Here it was, what I had been dreading. ‘Has Michael died?’ I demanded. So Henry would, indeed, be fatherless?
‘No. The name was Sybilla Claybourn.’