Tattycoram (3 page)

I had never slept alone in a bed before, and my small cot seemed enormous and cold too without Jonnie's warmth next to mine; no one had kissed me goodnight or told me they loved me. Even my handkerchief baby had been found and taken away from me. I twisted up a corner of the pillowcase to make another baby and sobbed myself to sleep. They could not really have loved me — Father, Mother, Grandfather, Sam, Jonnie — or they would not have cast me off like this. That was the terrible thing; they hadn't cared enough to rescue me.

“Will I ever see you again?” I had asked my mother, and she, her eyes red-rimmed from weeping, said, “Of course, I promise you. We shall come to visit on your birthday, and when you learn to read and write, perhaps you will write us letters.”

“But who will read them to you?”

“The rector or his wife. One of the Misses Bray. Don't you worry about that.”

But I no longer believed her — or not on that dark night. I knew I would never see any of them again. My mother could cry all she liked; she'd soon forget me.

Years later, when Sam told me about his first days on the convict ship, I thought, yes, I might just as well have been condemned to transportation for the wretchedness I felt that night and for many nights to come. Cut off from the family I loved, the landscape I loved, and the freedom I had enjoyed in our little village, I might just as well have been confined to prison. At least poor Sam knew what his crime had been; I did not yet understand mine.

Nurse slept at the end of the ward, behind heavy curtains. Once she started snoring, we could whisper, and we soon discovered that our beds were just close enough together that we could reach out and hold hands. That was how we often comforted ourselves at night, with whispers and a hand to hold, for when the moon was bright, its flickering light came through the barred windows and cast dreadful shadows on the walls. A chain of little girls in rough muslin nightgowns, holding hands, up one side of the ward and down the other, until one by one the hands dropped away, and we fell asleep.

The wet-beds didn't hold hands. They slept in special canvas cots right at the very end. They stayed there until they learned their lesson.

My new life at the hospital bore so little relation to the life I had led in the country — I was going on for six when I arrived — it was as though I had to start all over again. To begin with, there was the uniform, made of a heavy brown material which
scratched our necks raw. On top of that was our apron and bib, and on our heads a strange tall, frilled cap. Almost as bad as the scratchy dress were the high laced shoes. Our feet were not used to shoes and they dragged us down. Just lacing them up to Nurse's satisfaction made us weep with frustration. Nurse scolded us: “You don't know how lucky you are.” I soon taught myself never to cry in front of any of them, no matter what happened, no matter what the punishment. By the time I was eleven, I was known as “iron hands.”

In the spring and summer we arose at six (five when we grew older), washed and dressed ourselves and were marched down to breakfast. In autumn and winter we could stay in bed until seven. Breakfast was always milk pottage or water gruel; dinner at noon depended on the day. Three times a week we had butcher meat, either beef or mutton; three times a week, for supper, we had bread and cheese. We never had fish or poultry, nor an egg, except on Good Friday or if our foster parents brought some on their annual visit. Mondays were always meatless. The food was adequate, more meat, in fact, than any of us were used to, but food does not taste the same when you are marched down to a dining hall to eat it, when a rap on the table tells you when to sit, another rap tells you when to begin, and you eat in silence. All our natural high spirits were pushed down by the countless rules and regulations. We never raised our voices; we girls never ran. Spontaneous gestures of any kind — a shout, loud laughter, an inappropriate giggle — usually led to reprimand and often to punishment. It was made clear to us, right from the beginning, that we were not like other children; our previous life in the country had been necessary for our bodily health, but that life was over now, just a brief interlude in a life that was to consist of service of one kind or another.
Although we would learn to read and write and cypher, we were not, because of this, to think ourselves above our station, which was low, very low indeed. The lowest.

For me, Sundays were both the best days and the worst. On Sundays we had chapel and the delight of singing in the choir, but on Sundays the ladies also came to visit. I can hear them still, their skirts going swish, swish, swish, as they moved around the dining hall, examining the dear little foundlings at their Sunday dinner. Swish, swish — and many with pretty children. We were as exotic to them as baby animals at a zoo.

“And do you enjoy your dinner, dear?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

Stand up when spoken to and do not scrape your chair! Remember always who you are and how lucky you are to be here, for weren't you saved from the workhouse, a fate worse than death, or even death itself?

(Sometimes I lay on my back in the playground, risking punishment for grass stains on my clothes, just to see the sky and the free-ranging clouds.)

“Mama, why do all the children dress alike?”

“Because it's their uniform, darling.”

“But Mama, do they wear it every day?”

“Of course.”

“But why is it so ugly? Wouldn't they rather wear a pretty frock like mine?”

“I should think they are grateful to have anything to wear at all.”

“But Mama —”

“Come along now, that's enough questions.”

Every plate and mug had a picture of a lamb on it, a lamb with a sprig of thyme in its mouth. He shall feed his flock.

We went for walks with Nurse in the fields at the back of the hospital, but we girls were never allowed outside the gates. The servants gave us snippets of news from time to time, especially the cooks and the kitchen maids. We discovered that London was a big city full of lovely things to see and do: Punch and Judy shows and organ grinders with their monkeys, pie men and muffin men and halfpenny ices in the summer. Pleasure gardens and big parks right in the middle of the city. Once Cook had even seen the moon, close up, through a long glass. All life seemed to lie just outside the gates. We heard horses' hooves and distant laughter and, often, the urgent bells of fire engines as they hurried to a fire. London — the rest of London — was like fragments of a dream.

Mother came on my birthday, as promised, with kisses and hugs from all and a packet of hoarhound drops I was to share if Nurse approved. Jonnie had turned six the month before and was a big help to all. When he reached ten, he was to be apprenticed to the blacksmith and, eventually, would become a farrier.

“Mammy,” I said, “I don't like it here. You must take me home.”

She turned her face away and squeezed my hand.

“Is there another girl, now, Mammy, sitting on my throne?”

“Oh no, lovey, you were the last little girl. Your chair has been put away in Grandfather's shop, and Baby is wrapped up and put away as well.”

“For when I come home?”

“For when you are all grown up and perhaps have little ones of your own.”

And then our time was up.

She did not come on my seventh birthday, although I looked
out for her all afternoon. I did not know it, but Sam had been caught poaching, with his leg stuck in a mantrap. Jonnie had been with him, but Jonnie got away and ran off God knows where. Sam was locked up in one of the hulks, his foot all torn and twisted. There had been a trial and he was to be transported.

“Father suspected,” Sam told me later, “and Grandfather knew in the way he always knew everything. They warned me more than once, but at first it was only hares we went after, and surely rabbits and hares belonged to all of us, like the birds of the air, not just to those in the big houses. Times were hard at home, and even with Grandfather's carving and Mam's bits of sewing and Father and me working from dawn till dark, there were days when it was kettle broth and barley loaves. We were saving for Jonnie's apprenticeship, a few coppers at a time. There were many men on the tramp, whole families even, as wages fell lower and lower. And I confess I liked the excitement. You had to be quick if you wanted to get away with poaching. The gamekeepers were pretty swift — and they had guns as well. Each side tried to outsmart the other.

“The first time I brought home a hare, Mam would have nothing to do with it. She dug a deep hole and buried it and put a pile of stones on top. It made me wild to see her taking less and less of her share of the dinner, making excuses.

“She could have fostered more children, using a bottle and spoon — they called it ‘the metal mother,' she told me — but Father wouldn't let her, she suffered so when you left. It was like a game, really, the poaching. If she wouldn't accept what I snared, then I would sell it. There was a man in Gomshall who would buy anything, flesh or fowl, for the London market, no questions asked. I began a little store of coppers of my own, and
I bought a gun. And gradually I got bolder and went after game birds. The birds were my undoing, and taking Jonnie with me when I knew better. He begged and wheedled until I said all right, just this once.

“Just this once!

“When the trap bit down into my ankle, I let out a great howl, I couldn't help it, it hurt so much — the worst pain I had ever felt. I could hear the bones break.

“‘Run,' I called to Jonnie, ‘run for your life!'

“I thought he would run home, but he must have believed nothing could save him if he went back to the village, so he just disappeared. Seven years old and on the run and all because of me.

“I was taken to the infirmary at Guildford, and when they had done what they could for my foot, I had to stand trial at the assizes. They came to see me — Mother, Father, Grandfather — before I was led away. There was no news of Jonnie. He had vanished.

“The magistrate said he was going to make an example of me, never mind it was my first offence, never mind I had already been punished with a nearly useless foot. Transportation for fourteen years. Bang. All rise.

“Father went all the way to London to look for Jonnie, but no matter who he asked or where he asked, no one could help. Seven years old!” Sam drew his sleeve across his eyes. “Even now it makes me weep. And how Mother must have suffered. All her children gone now, me to Australia and you to the Foundling and Jonnie to God knows where.”

“She lived in hope of seeing both of you again before she died.”

“I wrote letters.”

“She got only one, the first year you were out there. The rector came and read it out to them.”

“I wrote more than one letter.”

“They didn't arrive.”

“Jonnie never found a way to send them a message?”

“Never. I think at first he was afraid. When he disappeared, everyone knew he must have been with you that night. Some thought at first our parents were hiding him. Tongues wagged. He said he once came back as far as London Lane, but he was frightened by some dogs and never tried again.”

“He could have found a way to send word.”

“Yes, I suppose so.”

“You never asked him why not?”

“They were dead by that time — all those who loved him. Except me.”

We sat quietly, thinking about the past, about what might have been. How resentful I had been when she didn't appear on my birthday! It was Mr. Brownlow who called me down and told me what had happened. Mother had asked the rector to send him word.

Now, surely, they would let me go home?

One night I awoke to a snick, snick, near my ear. I cried out but Nurse put her hand over my mouth. “Hush, you'll wake the lot of them. Go back to sleep.” She had cut off a lock of my hair.

The other girls thought it was so romantic; it was obvious my real mother wanted a memento.

“Or maybe Nurse is a witch,” Amy said, “and she wants to cast a spell on you.”

“What sort of a spell?”

“I don't know what sort of a spell. We'll have to wait and see.”

But nothing happened and she never did it again.

“If my mother ever came to claim me,” said Caroline Bragg, “I'd spit in her eye.”

We were in sewing class, making nightgowns for the babies and learning to hem sheets. The sewing mistress often left us alone; we were big girls now.

“I'd show her my back,” said Amy Turtle, biting off a thread with her sharp little teeth.

“If she was a grand lady,” Phoebe Sparrow said, “I'd go with her gladly.”

Phoebe had good bones. She was sure her mother was an Honourable, if not a full-blown duchess. She had been seduced by the handsome gardener.

“What if he were handsome beyond belief? What if he handed her a pure white rose each morning as she walked the garden paths with her little lapdog in her arms?”

“What if the little dog bit him?” Amy said, and we all laughed together.

“Look at Mr. Twigg,” she said, and his name set us to giggling. “Can you imagine our Mr. Twigg with an Honourable?”

“They can't all be as old as Mr. Twigg.”

“Or as ugly!”

But there had been a girl and an under-gardener, right here
at the hospital, not so long ago. We were never to talk to any man except the Governors or the masters. Never. Cook said the girl had had a child who was found dead in the potting shed. Cook had been here for ages and had bristles growing out of her chin. She was not supposed to tell us things like that; we solemnly promised never to repeat them.

We had all lived in the country, had seen cocks mount hens, had seen dogs and even horses, but we had only a vague idea of what the gardener had done. Caroline said if you kissed a man six times, that would do it, but Caroline was a fool.