The Quietness (12 page)

‘I was going to show you my treasures,’ Queenie whispered to her. ‘You’ll have to wait till morning now.’

Queenie set out cold meat and bread on a tray and carried it up to Mrs Ellis’s room.

‘Come!’ instructed Mrs Ellis when Queenie tapped on her door. She was sitting in her chair with her feet up on a velvet stool. She had a glass of brandy in her hand and the orange flames of the fire were reflected in the golden liquid. She nodded to Queenie to place the tray on the table beside her. ‘That will be all,’ she said.

‘G’night, ma’am,’ said Queenie. She thought it was strange how sad Mrs Ellis looked, sitting in her comfy chair by a warm fire. Queenie thought that one day, when she had all that, pretty ornaments, lace curtains, thick rugs and a house to put it all in, she would be the happiest person alive.

Back downstairs, Queenie fetched her parcels from the scullery cupboard. She put them carefully on the kitchen table and sat down. She picked up the brown paper package first, and put it to her nose. The smell of sweet roses seeped through the paper. She undid the string slowly, savouring the moment. The paper crackled as she unfolded it from around the soap. She ran her fingers over the waxy surface, and sniffed them. Now she smelt of roses too. Next, she turned to the silver tissue package. It was so soft and delicate. It rustled like silk skirts when she unfolded it; carefully so it didn’t tear. She picked up the ribbon and let it fall to its full length. It felt like water running through her fingers. She would wear it on her next afternoon off, she decided. She would wash her hair first, in the rose-scented soap. Then she would tie the ribbon in a big bow and it would shine like gold against the blackness of her hair. She wrapped up her treasures carefully and hid them back in the cupboard.

Before she settled on her mattress, Queenie checked on the babies. It was usual to leave them with their bottles during the night in case they woke to feed. She felt their napkins, hoping that Mrs Ellis had done it earlier. They were all of them dry except for Little Rose. She was sopping wet and smelt sour. Queenie sighed. It was the last thing she felt like doing. She pulled off Rose’s pink blanket and unpinned her napkin. Something didn’t feel right. The baby’s legs were cold and rigid. Queenie pulled back. She straight away knew that Rose was gone. She didn’t know how to feel for a moment. Babies come and go all the time, she told herself. She thought of the baby at home and how she’d been glad it had died. She wasn’t sure she was glad that Rose was dead, though. But she was dead. Queenie felt her little chest. She was definitely gone. And that was that.

Mrs Ellis was very efficient. Queenie thought she’d be mad as a wet hen. Blame her for not looking after Rose properly. But she wasn’t. ‘Never mind,’ she said. ‘Another one gone to Jesus. Best place for her.’ She took Rose away and told Queenie to get to bed. It was hard to sleep, though. And although Queenie knew Rose was best off out of it, she couldn’t rid herself of the picture she’d had in her head of Rose being fetched by a finely dressed lady and being taken away to a healthy place in the country.

A week went by, and then another. Still the blood did not arrive. Mary asked me the same question every morning. ‘Has it come yet, miss?’ Every morning I shook my head. It got so that she did not bother to ask the question any more. She needed only to look at my face to see the answer.

My life on the surface went back to how it was before Jacob. I worked on my sewing and I attended to Mother on the rare occasions she asked for me. I took to walking in the garden again. The air soothed me and relieved the sickness that took hold of me every morning. I took my meals with Mother and Father, although I could hardly stomach Ninny’s cooking any longer, and I was polite to Father’s colleagues who sometimes joined us in the evening.

Everything was just as it had been all my life. Except now I had the biggest and most awful secret to conceal.

Mary tried to reassure me. ‘All will be well. You’ll see.’ But I knew all would not be well. However many times Mary told me my bleeds would return soon, I knew she was wrong. The blood would not come, because I was with child. I knew it to be true. I felt different; changed. I imagined Jacob’s offspring growing inside me, squirming and sucking away at my strength. It was a monster planted there against my will, and I was afraid. More afraid than I had ever been.

I hid away in the library most days, searching through Father’s books for mention of any maladies which might be mistaken for my condition. I could find none. I was always careful to replace the books in the exact place from where I had taken them.

I could not lose myself in my own books any longer. Romances and mysteries did not engage my attention. I began to flick through Father’s copy of
The Times;
distracting myself by reading the theatre listings, reports concerning the engagements of the royal family and the strange case of a Welsh girl who fasted to death. I bypassed the Parliamentary pages; that business bored me. But the court pages engaged my imagination and I spent hours reading of the trials of thieves, murderers and swindlers.

One day, I happened upon a court report at the bottom right-hand side of the page which caused the hairs on my arms to stiffen. I read it again and again.

The words of Eliza White went round and round in my head. She had been with child . . . then it had been taken from her. Abortion. I had rarely seen or heard the word before. I had certainly never understood its meaning. I folded the newspaper and took it to my room. I hid it under my mattress so I could read the story again later that night. It was all I could think about. There must be others like Dr Smith, I realised. Plenty of others. But how I would even begin to find someone like that was beyond me.

Mary continued to bring tinctures for me to drink. Cinnamon water to calm my sickness, and raspberry tea, ‘a cure for interrupted menstruation’, she told me. But for all of her efforts, nothing changed. Another week passed, and then another. Mary sorted out my unused rags and took them to the kitchen. I did not ask what she found to soak them in this time, but Father inspected them as normal and dismissed her without comment. Now I had missed two bleeds. Mary could not deny it any longer. Now we
both
knew what had to be true.

‘Oh, what is to be done, miss? What is to be done?’ Mary was pacing around my room. ‘We cannot hide it for long. And your father! I cannot imagine what he will do!’ She threw her hands in the air. ‘I wish we could send you away somewhere. My sister would have you. I know she would. You could stay there for a few months to have the baby. Then you could come back and nobody would be any the wiser. But what excuse would we give to where you were? Maybe . . . maybe . . .’ She was talking fast, stumbling over her words. ‘Maybe we could say my sister is sick. That you had offered to go and nurse her. What do you think, miss? Would your father let you go?’

‘Mary, please stop.’

‘No, miss. Something has to be done soon. Before you begin to show. We must think what is to be done.’ She paused and put her hand to her head. Then she gasped. ‘He will dismiss me! He’ll know I helped you hide your condition. He’ll put me on the streets!’

She looked at me, helpless, waiting for an answer.

I went to my bed and pushed my hand under the mattress. I drew out the copy of
The Times
that was folded back at the court report I now knew word for word. I handed it to Mary and bade her read it. She sat in my armchair and held the paper close to her face. She was proud of knowing her letters, so I patiently waited for her to finish.

Eventually she looked up at me and let the paper fall from her hands and onto the floor. ‘What are you thinking of, miss?’ she whispered, a look of horror on her face. ‘You surely can’t be thinking of doing something so . . . so
evil
!’

I had not expected Mary to react in such a way. I had thought she would be pleased that I had found a possible solution. ‘But . . . but,’ I stuttered. ‘Don’t you see, Mary? It is the answer! All we need do is find a doctor willing to help!’

‘One who will kill you in the process, no doubt! As well as the child!’

I had never seen Mary as angry.

‘You mustn’t think of this any more, miss. Put it out of your mind.’

‘But Mary, it is the only choice! You must see!’ I needed her to agree. I needed her to help me. She was the only one who could find me such a doctor.

‘I won’t have anything to do with such an idea,’ she stated. ‘To kill an unborn child is the most evil of crimes. Many have hung for less. Do you know how many young girls have died alone in back rooms? How many have bled to death, their unborn children ripped from their wombs? I’ll have nothing to do with it, I tell you!’ She stood and looked at me; her eyes hard and her chin quivering with indignation.

The belief that had grown inside me the last few days, the belief that I had found the answer and that all would be well, was shattered. The familiar weight of black hopelessness returned.

‘What am I to do, then, Mary?’ I sobbed. ‘What am I to do?’

Mary’s face softened and she came to put her arms around me. ‘I will write to my sister,’ she said. ‘She will agree to have you there, I know she will. We just need to be able to persuade your father to spare you.’

‘If . . . if I go to your sister, what will happen to the child when it comes?’

‘She would find it a home, miss. My sister would make sure it was well looked after. Don’t you worry about that.’

‘I am not worried about it being looked after,’ I said. ‘I just want it to disappear.’ For the first time I understood how my real mother must have felt. How she had had no choice but to leave me behind. She would have been glad to get rid of me, I knew. I almost laughed to think how I had so unknowingly followed in her footsteps.

I put my hand on my stomach. I felt a roundness, a soft swelling that only I knew was there. The child was so tiny; hardly there at all yet. But already it had ruined my life.

I was shocked and frightened by the power it had over me and my body.

Mrs Ellis had taken to spending most of her days with Queenie. She came down to the kitchen early each morning and sat drinking her tea while Queenie stoked the fire, fetched in more coal and swept the floors. She helped Queenie wash the babies and made sure their bottles were topped up with
the Quietness
. Queenie decided she didn’t mind having her there. It was good to have someone to talk to. When the morning jobs were done, she asked Queenie to come and sit with her out in the backyard. It was summer now and the kitchen was stuffy and airless. It was a relief to sit out for a while.

Mrs Ellis told Queenie about her husband Thomas and how he had caught typhus and died half insane in a lunatic asylum. ‘Terrible it was. I do so miss him.’

Queenie told her about Mam and Da and the little ones. About selling apples and pears on the streets and how the baby had died. When Mrs Waters came out looking for them, Mrs Ellis jumped up. Her voice changed and she told Queenie to do things that had already been done. Mrs Ellis was scared of her sister. Queenie could tell.

There were no more ladies in the house. The last lady’s baby had come early and never taken a breath. The doctor was called out for that one. The lady had insisted. Queenie had opened the door and shown him the way to the lady’s room. She felt so proud when she said, ‘Yes, sir? Can I help you?’ and ‘Please follow me. I’ll show you the way.’ Not long after, an undertaker came to take the baby away and the lady had gone by morning.

There were eight babies on the sofa now. One evening when Mrs Ellis had had a drop too much brandy, she told Queenie how Mrs Waters met the mothers at Waterloo Station. They came from all over, she said, with their unwanted infants. Mrs Waters got ten pounds for taking the babies in. Sometimes more if the mother was rich. ‘Sshh, though,’ Mrs Ellis had giggled. ‘Don’t let on I told you so.’