Tattycoram (22 page)

“You told me once he did not take kindly to criticism.”

“That was true, but when I first addressed him, I wasn't criticizing.”

“Your old name was criticism enough. I reckon he thought he'd never see you again.”

“And now I still don't know what to do if Elisabeth Avis includes me in her suit.”

Two days later the whole world knew that Charles Dickens was dead. Sam bought the London papers so we could read about it. Dead of an apoplexy, they said. Beloved of millions. “Only one year older than myself,” Sam said. “They say he wore himself out.”

And then, later, an envelope containing an item torn out of a newspaper. “On Friday last, the body of a female was fished out of the Thames below Waterloo Bridge. It has been identified as that of Miss Elisabeth Avis, a recent arrival from Australia and a lodger at number 40, Lant Street. The coroner ruled it a suicide, and from certain marks on the body it was clear that suicide had been attempted at least once before.”

Poor woman. Poor woman. Hopkins, whoever he was, must have had the grim task of identifying her. There was no accompanying note, just the article.

“Well,” Sam said, “she won't bother anyone again, poor soul.”

Mr. Dickens was buried in Westminster Abbey. The papers said thousands of people, rich and poor, lined up to pay their respects. For thirty-three years, in one way or another, my life had been entangled with his. In spite of his recent bizarre behaviour, I could not judge him harshly and was sorry he was gone.

At sunset we walked onto the Downs — Sam, myself, Rosie and the two dogs — and looked out over the beloved hills. Midsummer's Eve was fast approaching, and the land lay before us as still as a landscape in a painting, while the sky changed from deep pink to streaks of orange, and the bright ball of the sun sank lower and lower until it disappeared altogether. We spoke not a word to one another, just drank in the beauty of the scene, absorbed it, witnessed the going down of the sun, sure in our hearts that it would rise again the next morning.

A nightingale sang, far away, and I thought to myself, how could I be any happier than I am at this moment? I have been one of the lucky ones.

“Mam's crying,” Rosie said, touching my cheek. “Why are you crying, Mam?”

If this were one of Mr. Dickens's novels, I might feel obligated to go on and tie up everything neatly, complete my history and the history of my family. But this is real life and I have no idea what the future holds. I could predict that Sam and I will grow old together, stiff in the joints like Digger and Angus, shortsighted, perhaps a little querulous and cranky. The real future lies with Rosie. Will she stay in the village or go? She says she wants to be a teacher, or perhaps a nurse, like Miss Nightingale. There is a certain restlessness in her — I notice it more and more — which may lead her to seek out a livelier place than this. I watch her running barefoot down the lanes or across the fields, her red hair gleaming like a bright beacon of hope.

Someday soon I will take her up to London, take her to Guildford Street. We'll stand outside the hospital gates and I'll tell her my story. Sam says she probably knows most of it — our village is too small — but she has never asked a single question, which is unlike her. Perhaps she is waiting for us to begin. Someday soon, but not just yet, not just yet. Never again will she be as free as she is now.

Sometimes, when I am in a melancholy mood, I think about the woman who gave birth to me and about women like her, and I have an awful vision: a multitude of women, hurrying through the streets of London, coming from Southwark, Cheap-side, Camden Town, Wapping, from wherever women live, that is to say, from everywhere, all in black shawls, each carrying within her shawl the living proof of her shame. Hundreds of them, thousands (nearly fifty years ago, was I not No. 19,176, Girl?).

Platoons, companies, battalions, regiments of women. And in my vision the salt of their tears creates a vast inland sea, upon which float millions of little candles in memory of the children they have given up. And I see my mother amongst them, with curly black hair, as black as a raven's wing, clutching me to her breast for the last time.

All the Rachels, weeping for their children.

And the line stretches out, the hordes of women keep coming. Will it never stop?

I would like to thank the following libraries, museums, individuals and funding bodies for their help and support during the writing of this novel: the staff at the British Library; the staff at the London Metropolitan Archives; Mr. Don Staples, volunteer librarian at the Dickens Museum, Doughty Street, London; Rhian Harris at the Foundling Museum, Brunswick Square, London; the museum at Shere; Valerie Glassman and Ruth Slavin, for additional research in London; Marybeth Hovenden, of Guildford, Surrey; Kate Dallyn, of Foxton, Albury, Surrey; the British Columbia Arts Council; and the Canada Council for the Arts.

And, as always, my cheerful typist, Carole Robertson.