Authors: Alison Rattle
The carriage lurched through the night. I felt as though I was melting away. Like a burning candle, drip, drip, dripping into nothingness. My mind was a blank, the future was a blank. I was terrified.
It seemed to take a long while before the horses began to slow. We came to a halt and all was still for a while. Then a woman’s voice, harsh and rough, said, ‘We’ll take over from here, thank you.’ The carriage door opened and a face peered in. It was a tired, faded face framed by a mess of bright orange hair.
‘Good evening, Miss Swift,’ she said, holding her hand out to me. ‘May I help you down?’
I shrank away from her. ‘Who . . . who are you?’ I whispered.
‘I’m Mrs Waters. Now come on. Let’s get you in the house and make you comfortable.’
‘But I do not know you! Why am I here?’ My voice rose to a wail. Panic gripped me. I wanted to scream.
‘Calm down, Miss Swift. Don’t make a fuss now. We don’t want the neighbours woken, do we?’
‘But I want to go home,’ I sobbed.
‘I’m sure you do,’ said the woman. ‘But you will be staying here until your child is born. Your father has arranged it all.’
‘No!’ I screamed. ‘I want Mary! I do not want to stay with you!’
‘Sshh! Now come on! The carriage isn’t going anywhere with you still inside. And I’m sure you don’t wish to spend the night in there.’ She held her hand out to me again. There was something about her that repulsed me, something about her fat, red fingers.
‘No,’ my voice shook. ‘No, I do not want to come!’
‘You have no choice, I’m afraid,’ she said. She grabbed my arm and began to pull at me. ‘Come on, now. Stop fussing. We’ll make you a nice pot of tea when we get inside.’
She pulled harder and jerked me towards the carriage steps. I felt my body slump and grow loose. I was so tired. I allowed her to pull me the rest of the way out.
I was standing on a pavement, facing a dirty, gloomy-looking house. In the grey light of the night, the front door looked like a dark gaping mouth. Hot tears filled my eyes and I could not stop the great gulping sobs that spilled from my mouth.
There was a loud banging and the sound of sobbing. Someone shook Queenie’s shoulder. She opened her eyes and saw Mrs Ellis standing over her.
‘Ah, good. Wake up now. We need your help for a minute. Put the kettle on and make some tea, will you.’
Queenie blinked her eyes awake. ‘Yes, ma’am,’ she mumbled.
Mrs Ellis left the kitchen. Queenie lit a candle then pulled her dress over her head. She sleepily poked at the fire to wake it up too. The sobbing noises grew louder before slowly fading into the distance. Queenie wasn’t sure if they were real or had been part of her dream. The kettle whistled and Queenie filled the teapot. Mrs Ellis rushed back into the kitchen. She was all in a dither, her hand flapping around her head and the flame of her candle dancing around madly.
‘Is it ready? Is it ready?’
‘Yes,’ said Queenie, nodding towards the table. ‘The pot is nice and hot.’
‘Good,’ said Mrs Ellis. ‘Take the tray and follow me.’
They walked through the dark hallway and up two flights of stairs. The sobbing started again and it grew louder when Mrs Ellis opened the door to the top bedroom. She beckoned Queenie inside. A girl with the whitest face Queenie had ever seen was sitting in a chair with a bulging carpet bag by her feet. She had dark hair that fell over her shoulders in a tangle. Her gown was creased and only half fastened. The silk fabric fell over her swollen belly and pooled in her lap. She was sobbing loudly and shuddering. She seemed surprised by the noises she was making and was trying to gulp down the sobs.
Queenie put the tray down. She wanted to catch the girl’s eye and smile at her. But the girl was looking everywhere frantically, not resting her eyes for a second. Mrs Waters turned from straightening out the bed.
‘Ah, Queenie. Thank you. Perhaps you could take Miss Swift’s jug and fill it so she can wash herself?’
It looked to Queenie that washing herself was the last thing on the girl’s mind.
Mrs Ellis came with her back to the kitchen. ‘She’s very young, ma’am,’ ventured Queenie. ‘Don’t look no older than me.’
‘If she’s old enough to be with child, she’s old enough to have done the tempting,’ sniffed Mrs Ellis.
‘She looks fair frightened, ma’am,’ said Queenie as she filled the jug with water.
‘And as well she might. But don’t forget how fortunate she is. Plenty of girls in her state will be birthing on the streets. Now, here, I’ll take the jug back up. She’ll be settled by morning, I’m sure. You can take her breakfast to her,’ she said as she sailed out of the room.
Queenie felt wide awake then. There was still hot water in the kettle, so she made a cup of tea and sat in Mrs Ellis’s chair by the fire. It was so warm and peaceful. Queenie felt safe wrapped in the darkness with only the glow of the flames to light up her space. It was all quiet and she thought of the girl in the bedroom at the top. She wondered if she had taken herself to bed yet. Mrs Ellis was right. She was one of the lucky ones, that girl. It was all taken care of for her. She would have all the comforts. And when her baby came she could leave it behind and go back to her life like nothing had ever happened. There was no need for her to be sobbing.
I woke suddenly. My eyes were tight and aching. There was a pain in my head, pressing down across my brow. I wondered why Mary had not come to wake me. I opened my eyes slowly. A chink of daylight knifed through the room from between a gap in the curtains. I winced and blinked hard. I saw ivory curtains with faded roses climbing across the surface. The hems had come unstitched in parts and dragged across the floor. I suddenly remembered where I was.
I closed my eyes again and pushed my face into the pillow. It did not smell right. Instead of clean cotton and lavender, I smelt dampness and the woody scent of a morning chamber pot. I rolled over and pushed the covers off me. The mound of my belly seemed to have grown larger. The child jabbed at my insides; little punches to let me know it was awake. The night came back to me in a blur. Father’s cold anger, the breath of horses, the hollow emptiness of a carriage and a strange woman with bright orange hair. I needed to know who she was. I needed to know
where
I was.
I climbed out of bed and drew back the curtains. Dust flew into the room. The sunlight picked it up and sent it swirling through the air. I coughed. I looked around and saw a grey film settled on everything: the scuffed floorboards, two small tables and on the back and arms of a threadbare chair. Green striped paper was peeling from the wall above the bed and black patches of damp darkened the corners of the room. There was a fireplace across from the bed and a small bookcase. Above the fireplace was an ornate gilt mirror with empty candle holders.
I looked at the girl in the reflection and I did not recognise her. The girl in the mirror was deathly pale. Dark circles were scoured under her eyes. Her lips were shrivelled and dry and her dark hair hung in lifeless knots.
I turned away and went to look out of the window. I saw immediately that I was at the back of a house. But there were no lawns to gaze at or colourful flowerbeds to please the eye. Instead there were rooftops and chimneys and a patchwork of back yards with lines of washing hanging limply in the sun. I had no idea where I could be.
There was a knock at the door. I jumped away from the window and rushed back to the bed. The knock came again. I pulled the covers over me. Again the knock came, louder and more persistent.
‘Who is it?’ I asked. My voice sounded thin and barely there.
‘It’s Queenie, miss. Got your breakfast here. Can I come in?’
It did not sound like the woman with the orange hair. It was somebody young. Like one of the housemaids at home. ‘Yes, yes. Come in,’ I said.
I heard the turn of a key and the door opened. A dark-haired girl poked her head around the door.
‘You decent then, miss? Oh yes, can see you are. I’ll just pop your breakfast down here then, shall I?’ She put the tray down without waiting for my answer. ‘See you’ve opened your curtains, miss. Lovely day, ain’t it?’ She smiled at me and two dimples appeared in her cheeks. She picked up the teapot and began to pour.
I noticed how strangely she was dressed. Her apron was tied around a blue silk day dress that was trimmed with lace. Her hair was held back with a yellow ribbon, and on her feet she wore a pair of old, worn boots that looked far too big for her feet.
‘Here you go, miss.’ She handed me a cup.
‘Thank you,’ I managed to say. ‘Your name is . . . Queenie? Is that right?’
‘Yes, miss. Named after Her Majesty, I am. You feeling better this morning, miss?’
I had a glimmer of a memory from the terrible night just gone. She had been here, in the room, this Queenie girl. I remembered her eyes. Green and knowing, like the eyes of a cat. My hands shook. I could not keep my cup steady in its saucer. Tea slopped over the sides. Queenie took the cup and saucer from my hands.
‘Maybe you’d be best having that in a bit, miss,’ she said gently.
I nodded my head and gulped hard. ‘Where . . . where am I?’ I could not hold my tears back any longer in this strange room with its strange smells and with this strange girl who was not Mary.
‘Don’t worry, miss,’ she said to me. ‘You’ll be quite safe here. I’ve got me work to do now. I’ll come back and see you later.’
Then she was gone.
Queenie trotted back down to the kitchen, humming under her breath. She liked the new lady. Well, she was a girl, really. She was different from the others. They hadn’t talked to her or looked at her mostly. But this one was softer somehow. She seemed so young and lost. Queenie wanted to know her story.
Mrs Ellis was in good spirits. ‘How’s our young lady this morning?’ she asked when she came in the kitchen with an armful of laundry.
‘Very weepy, ma’am,’ said Queenie. ‘She don’t seem to know what’s happening to her.’
‘They’re all like that at first. Scared little rabbits. They soon come to terms, mind.’ Mrs Ellis smirked. ‘She’ll be no different . . . Good drying weather today.’ She put the laundry on the kitchen table. Queenie sighed. She’d be hours in the scullery now with that lot.
‘Oh, Queenie,’ said Mrs Ellis. ‘Just a minute.’
‘Yes, ma’am?’ Queenie gathered the laundry in her arms and turned to Mrs Ellis.
‘Have you heard anything while you’ve been out on your errands?’
Queenie’s eyes widened. ‘Heard what, ma’am?’ she asked very slowly.
‘About this awful business with babies? Being found dumped about the streets, they are.’
Queenie pulled the washing close to her and held on to it tight. ‘Yes . . . well . . . yes, ma’am, I did hear something.’
‘Poor little mites,’ said Mrs Ellis. ‘Their mams couldn’t afford to bury them, I expect. Don’t you think?’
‘Yes,’ said Queenie slowly. ‘I reckon so, ma’am.’
‘Don’t know why anyone should think we want to be reading about such things. Do you?’ Mrs Ellis was staring at her.
‘No, ma’am,’ said Queenie.
Mrs Ellis’s face relaxed into a smile. ‘Right,’ she said. ‘Well, hurry now, and get this washing out while the breeze is up.’
Queenie’s hands were red raw by the time she’d finished scrubbing the sheets and blouses. She put the sopping pile in the tin bath and carried it out to the yard to mangle. It was hard work and her arms ached. It was good to see the fresh linen flapping about freely in the wind. Queenie wished she could feel as carefree, but Mrs Ellis’s words were nagging in her head. Had she just been passing the time of day with innocent gossip, or had Mrs Ellis meant more then that? It muddled Queenie to think about it. She didn’t want to think about it. Instead, she pegged the last sheet on the line and stood back to admire her work.
I was weighed down with misery. It was as if a heavy blanket had wrapped itself around me and I could not escape from it. The door of the bedroom was locked from the outside, and although I pounded on it for a while and shouted out, nobody came. I was trapped in this shabby, dirty room in a house full of strangers. I stared out of the window. The girl, Queenie, was hanging sheets on the line. Her arms were pale and thin as matchsticks, yet she lifted the wet linen with ease. She was smiling as she worked. I thought of home, of Mary and her strong capable arms. I missed her so much.
I heard footsteps outside the door and the lock clicked. The woman with the orange hair came into the room. ‘Good morning,’ she said. ‘I trust you slept well?’
I glared at her. ‘Who are you and why am I locked in this room?’ I demanded.
The woman bristled. ‘As I told you last night, my name is Mrs Waters. We only locked the door for your own safety, until you’d calmed down. See, look – you can have the key yourself now.’ She went to the door and wriggled the key out of the lock, then held it out to me.
I snatched it from her.
She cleared her throat. ‘I am sorry I had to be firm with you last night,’ she said. ‘But you do understand I only had your best interests at heart. I hope you will report that back to your father.’
‘My father?’ I said, startled. ‘Is he coming here?’
‘Oh no,’ she said. ‘I should think not. Our young ladies don’t usually have visitors. They keep themselves to themselves until their babies come.’
‘Is that what this place is?’ I asked. ‘Somewhere to hide me away?’
Mrs Waters bristled again. ‘We prefer to think of our home as a refuge or a retreat. Most ladies in your situation do not wish to be seen out in public. They want discretion and to be able to go back to their lives without any scandal chasing at their heels.’
‘So all the ladies go home when the time comes?’
‘Oh yes, Miss Swift. Indeed they do. Back to their lives as though nothing had ever happened.’
Relief rushed through me. Maybe Father had not thrown me out after all. ‘So . . . so Father arranged all this for me?’ I asked.
‘He did, Miss Swift. You are fortunate he cares for your reputation. Some would have their daughters on the streets without as much as a backward glance.’