The Quietness (23 page)

Mary coughed. ‘Miss,’ she said. ‘This is Queenie’s mother.’

‘Yes, I know that,’ I said, nodding towards the woman.

‘I didn’t recognise her at first,’ Mary continued. ‘It has been a good few years since she worked here.’

I was confused. I looked at Queenie’s mother, then back to Mary again. ‘You are saying you used to work together? Well, I am sure that is a fine coincidence.’

‘Miss . . .’ Mary put her hands on my shoulders and looked me straight in the eyes. ‘She was a maid in this house sixteen years ago. Her name is Dolly.’

My stomach flipped over. I thought I was going to vomit again. Dolly? The name was imprinted on my brain.

‘She is your mother, miss,’ said Mary gently. ‘And none of us can quite take it in yet that she is here.’

There was a long silence. The words Mary had spoken would not stay still. They flew about the room and I could not grab hold of them.

Dolly Mother Dolly

Round and round the room they flew. I looked at Queenie. ‘This is why you are here? You knew this all along?’

Queenie shook her head violently. ‘No, miss. No! We came here for another reason, then Mam recognised the house and . . . and when Mary opened the back door . . .’ Her words trailed off. Then her mother, who had not yet said a word, cleared her throat to speak.

‘My Queenie here needed to see you about something dreadful and she asked me to come with her. I was fair shocked when she brought me here. Nobody ever knew about you, you see. Not my Queenie, not my husband, no one. Well, your Mary did, of course. It was her that was all for telling you just now. Said she would never forgive herself if she didn’t let you know your own mam was sitting downstairs in the kitchen. It’s a shocker, I know. I reckon my Queenie’s as floored as you. Finding out she has a sister and all.’

She paused for breath. I stared at her dark hair that was the same shade as my own and Queenie’s, and at her nose that was as straight as mine.

‘I never forgot you,’ she said. ‘I always wondered how you were doing. I would walk here sometimes, you know, and stand in front of the house and watch. Sometimes, if I waited long enough, you’d be brought outside for a walk. I could see how big you’d grown and how pretty you were. And such a lady! I talked to you once when you were a little ’un. Do you remember?’

I shook my head. All those years she had been there; close by, watching me, and I had never known.

‘I remember,’ said Queenie suddenly. ‘I remember the horse-head knocker on your front door! And I remember you! You were wearing a white dress with yellow flowers on it. You had a long yellow ribbon in your hair. I thought you were the loveliest thing I’d ever seen.’

Dolly raised her eyebrows at Queenie in surprise.

‘You took me with you once didn’t you, Mam?’ said Queenie. ‘I never forgot it. It was a hot day. You bought me an orange to suck on.’

‘Well I never!’ said Dolly. ‘Fancy you remembering that!’

It was so peculiar to hear myself being spoken of like this. The woman was my mother! She was Dolly. Although I had wished so hard to meet her, now she was sitting in front of me, I did not know how to feel. And Queenie. My sister. I kept looking from one to the other. My mother, my sister. I began to tremble, from shock or fear or happiness, I did not know.

Then everyone fell silent. There were too many questions and too many answers to be spoken. Queenie was shifting nervously in her chair. Suddenly, she pushed her teacup to one side, and stood up.

‘Ellen,’ she said. ‘You have to come with me back to Wild Street now. You have to get your baby out of there. That’s what we came to tell you. We have to hurry. And me Mam is going to fetch the coppers.’

She turned to her mother,
our
mother, I realised with a jolt, and I saw the look of a fearful child pass across her face as she said, ‘You’ll tell them how it really was, won’t you, Mam?’

Evening had fallen cold and frosty by the time Mam set out to fetch the coppers and Queenie hailed a cab to take her and Ellen back to Wild Street. Ellen had fallen into a strange and silent state since Queenie told her of Mrs Waters, Mrs Ellis and the brown paper parcels. The maid Mary wept hysterically and then wrapped Ellen in a warm cloak and pressed another one upon Queenie. Queenie had never worn anything so warm before. It was like being covered in a dozen soft blankets. She imagined, with a flicker of pride, that any stranger seeing her and Ellen together in their cloaks would straight away know they were sisters. She wanted to talk to Ellen about it. She wanted to hold her hand and feel close and know that everything was all right. But that would have to wait.

Queenie asked the cab driver to let them off around the corner from Wild Street, and now she felt the horses begin to slow.

Queenie stepped out of the cab into the quiet of the street and waited for Ellen to follow. She handed the driver some coins and asked him to wait.

‘We won’t be long,’ she told him. Queenie pulled her cloak around herself and motioned to Ellen. ‘We’ll go round the back,’ she whispered. ‘Through the back door into the kitchen. We’ll be in and out before anyone notices.’

Ellen nodded. Her eyes were wide and staring and her face looked white as milk. They walked silently round the corner, into Wild Street and past the front railings of number 4. They turned down the passageway that led to the back of the house. The winter moon was so pale that its light didn’t reach into the shadows and Queenie trod slowly, taking care not to stumble. The narrow passage was piled high with dried, cracking leaves and broken twigs, blown in and forgotten since autumn. As Queenie crept forward she stepped on a twig. Her heart flew into her throat and she froze as the air filled with a noise that seemed as loud as a whip crack. Ellen grabbed on to the back of Queenie’s cloak and they both stood rigid, not daring to breathe. There was no sound and no movement from inside the house. Queenie’s heart slowed to normal. Mrs Waters and Mrs Ellis would probably be half drunk on Christmas brandy by now and would most likely be snoring in their chairs.

She stepped forward again, scrunching the leaves beneath her boots. Queenie felt the tremble of Ellen’s hand as she kept a tight grip on the back of her cloak. They reached the back door and Queenie turned the handle slowly, praying it wouldn’t be locked. There was a sharp click and Queenie let out a small sigh of relief as the door opened inwards.

The kitchen was in darkness. Queenie couldn’t see a thing. Not even the faint glow of a dying fire.

‘Wait here,’ she whispered to Ellen. ‘I’ll find a candle and some matches.’ She put out her hands and touched the cold walls. Slowly and carefully she felt her way into the kitchen and along to the shelf by the scullery door where spare candles and a box of matches were kept. She rolled two candles into her hand and with shaking fingers she lit both with one match. She carried them back to where Ellen stood waiting just outside the door and put one in her hand. Ellen’s face was still drained of colour, and she still hadn’t spoken a word.

‘Come on,’ said Queenie. ‘It’ll be all right. Let’s be quick now. Let’s get the baby and be out of here.’ She held out her hand to Ellen and pulled her gently into the house.

The candle flame threw a soft glow of light into the kitchen. Queenie could see the sofa across the other side of the room and the lumps and humps of the wrapped-up babies. She couldn’t believe it was gong to be so easy. She crept nearer and reached out to the first bundle. Her hand flattened the pile of rags into nothing and her guts jumped into her mouth. The bundle was empty. There was no baby. She quickly felt along the rest of the sofa. It was all just rags and cloths and old blankets. Behind her, Ellen whimpered. Oh Lord, thought Queenie. Not all of ’em. Please to God, not all of ’em.

‘Where is she?’ whispered Ellen. ‘Where is my child?’

‘I don’t bleedin’ know,’ said Queenie fiercely as she heard Ellen’s whimpers turn to frightened sobs. She pressed her own lips tight together to stop a scream of frustration from escaping into the shadows of the kitchen.

Queenie held her candle at arm’s length and swept it around the room. She shone the light on the door to the cellar, the table, chairs and empty crates. She turned on her heels towards the fireplace and there was the back window and the scullery door and . . . suddenly she screamed and dropped the candle on the floor.

‘Sneak into my house, would you?’ said a voice.

Queenie couldn’t move. How could they have missed her? She heard short rasping breaths and a thick cough. She picked up her candle, which was spluttering but still alight, and held it out towards Mrs Waters, who was sitting in a chair pushed close to the cold fire.

‘And who is this with you?’ Mrs Waters voice was slurred, like Da’s used to be after a night on the beer.

‘You know who she is,’ said Queenie. ‘It’s Miss Swift. She’s come to get her baby.’

‘Miss Swift, you say?’ Mrs Waters laughed nastily. ‘Never seen her before in my life.’ She took a long swig from the bottle in her hand. ‘And what baby? There’s no babies around here.’

Mrs Waters was in a right old state. Queenie could see that. Her face was mottled with red and purple patches and spit dribbled from the edges of her lips. Queenie looked at her as though for the first time, and knew for certain she was standing in front of a monster. If Da was here he would’ve knocked her right off that chair.

‘What have you done with ’em?’ she asked. ‘What have you done with the babies? I’ve fetched the coppers, you know. They’ll be here soon.’

‘I wondered if you really would. You nasty cat.’ Mrs Waters belched loudly. ‘Well, there aren’t any babies. They’re gone.’ She closed her eyes. ‘Gone, gone, gone,’ she sang to herself. ‘Into the arms of Jesus.’ She chuckled and lifted the bottle to her mouth again.

Suddenly, Ellen pushed Queenie to one side and stepped forward. ‘Where is my baby?’ she screamed at Mrs Waters. ‘What have you done with her, you evil old woman?’

Mrs Waters smashed the bottle on the floor. She picked up the jagged remains and tried to push herself up from the chair. She was a hefty size and she swayed from side to side as she stared at Queenie and Ellen with eyes that were like pieces of hard, black coal. Queenie looked about frantically for something . . . anything to grab in case Mrs Waters went for them. There was only the poker by the fire and Mrs Waters was standing right next to it. The whole of Ellen’s body seemed to be trembling. But she stayed where she was and stared hard at Mrs Waters. Hot candle wax dripped onto Queenie’s hand, but she didn’t flinch.

‘You get out of my house,’ hissed Mrs Waters. ‘There’s nothing for you here. No babies. No nothing.’ She flung her arm out, still holding on to the broken bottle, and pointed towards the back door. ‘Get out!’ she slurred. ‘Let the coppers come if they want. They won’t find anything here.’

‘We’re not going anywhere,’ said Queenie. Her voice was loud and strong. She felt hard as a poker herself, and red hot with anger. She wasn’t going to be scared off that easy. The coppers would be here soon, she was sure of it. Mam had gone straight to fetch them. Then Mrs Waters would get what was coming to her. Babies or no babies. Queenie would tell the coppers everything.

Just then, Queenie heard a small noise. It was far away and muffled, but the tiny sound made her prickle all over. She turned to Ellen and could see by the wideness of her eyes that she’d heard the noise too. The tiny sound grew louder. Queenie saw Mrs Waters cock her head and glance towards the cellar door. She had heard it now too.

‘Get out!’ Mrs Waters suddenly screamed again. She threw the broken bottle and a shard of glass sliced across Queenie’s cheek. Queenie cried out in shock. A warm wetness began to drip onto her shoulder.

‘It’s a baby!’ whispered Ellen, still listening closely. She grabbed Queenie’s arm and squeezed it tight. Queenie’s cheek was stinging like mad now.

‘You’ve hidden ’em in the cellar!’ she said to Mrs Waters. ‘Couldn’t risk dumping ’em all at once, could you?’ Queenie stepped towards Mrs Waters, so close she could smell the brandy on her breath. ‘Bet you dosed ’em up good and proper too,’ she said. ‘Didn’t expect any of ’em to make a noise, did you?’

Mrs Waters took a faltering step backwards. Her face turned the colour of uncooked pastry and she was breathing heavily. ‘Should never have taken you in,’ she panted. ‘Knew you’d be trouble.’ She sat heavily in her chair, muttering nonsense to herself, her head falling forwards onto her bosom.

Queenie ran to the cellar. She tugged at the door and twisted the handle from side to side. It was locked tight. She couldn’t hear the crying any more. It had stopped. The poor babies. Lying down there in the cold, damp darkness with not even a blanket to keep ’em warm. Ellen ran up beside her and began to twist at the handle too.

‘Where is the key, Queenie? We have got to open this door!’

Queenie’s mind was whirling. Where did Mrs Waters keep the keys? She couldn’t think.

The kitchen door suddenly creaked open and the tremulous voice of Mrs Ellis whispered loudly, ‘Margaret! Are you there? I heard noises. Is everything all right?

Queenie went rigid. She looked at Ellen and put her fingers to her lips. Mrs Ellis moved further into the kitchen. Queenie pressed herself into the shadows by the cellar door; Ellen close beside her.

‘Margaret!’ Mrs Ellis was shaking her sister. ‘What was all that noise I heard?’

Mrs Waters opened her eyes slowly and looked blearily at Mrs Ellis. Then suddenly her eyes widened, she sat upright and pointed a finger towards the cellar door. ‘They’re in here, Sarah. Look! They’re in here and causing trouble!’

Mrs Ellis turned round quickly, her hand clutching at her throat. She stared at Queenie. ‘Has she called the police?’ she hissed over her shoulder to Mrs Waters.

‘Says she has,’ Mrs Waters slurred. ‘They know where the babies are too. One of them squealed. You didn’t give them enough of a dose, did you? You stupid mare!’

Mrs Ellis turned white. She began to whimper, ‘We’re done for! Oh God, we’re done for!’

‘Shut up your whining!’ shouted Mrs Waters. She pushed herself up from her chair and grabbed the poker. Something clanked as she began to stumble towards Queenie and Ellen. ‘The keys!’ said Queenie, suddenly remembering. ‘They’re in her skirts!’ Before she had time to think any more, Mrs Ellis rushed towards her and grabbed her arms.