The Quietness (13 page)

Queenie thought hard about the money. If Mrs Waters got ten pounds for every baby, she must be as rich as a duchess. It was the best kind of secret. She could hardly believe it was that easy to earn so much money.

Queenie was used to the babies coming and going. She wasn’t surprised when one went or another one appeared. She didn’t give any of them names any more. It wasn’t worth it. They were never around for long enough. Mrs Ellis trusted her to run all the errands now. She didn’t like to go out herself. ‘I don’t know how I managed before you came along,’ she said to Queenie.

There were always fresh bottles of Godfrey’s Cordial to be picked up from Mr Epps the chemist. Queenie didn’t like to call it
the Quietness
. She made sure to always call it by its proper name. There was milk to fetch and bread and meat, and often a bottle of brandy or two. There were letters to be taken to the post office and replies to be brought back. There were so many; mostly from mothers making enquiries. Mrs Ellis wrote out advertisements to put in the papers and sent Queenie to post these too. Queenie hadn’t meant to look, but the envelope wasn’t stuck down.

Discreet rooms offered to ladies. All comforts provided,
one advertisement said. And another,
Married couple in good circumstances willing to adopt healthy child, nice country home. Terms, £10
.

Queenie puzzled at that one. Maybe it was what Mrs Ellis used to put when her husband was alive. Still, it was a good lot of money the sisters were getting. She wished Da could know how his big gal had landed on her feet. He’d be so proud of her. I’ll go back soon and show ’em all how well I’ve done, Queenie promised herself.

The next time Mrs Ellis sent Queenie out on errands, she had to walk further than usual to fetch a new lot of Godfrey’s Cordial.

‘Best you go to the chemist on Duke Street. Leave Mr Epps alone for a while. Don’t want him wondering why we get through so much of the stuff, do we?’ Mrs Ellis said with a pleasant smile.

‘He never asks,’ said Queenie. ‘But if he does I’ll just tell ’im we have lots of fretful babies!’

‘Oh no,’ said Mrs Ellis. The smile left her face and she clutched her shawl around her throat. ‘Don’t ever do that. You know Mrs Waters don’t like anyone to know her business. No . . . you run along to Duke Street now.’

Queenie was glad of the walk. The new chemist hadn’t asked any questions and now she had the new bottle of Godfrey’s Cordial tucked safely in her pocket. She took her time coming back. The sun slipped warmly over her bare arms. She felt hugged and safe. Her mouth was dry, though, and she had a sudden yearning for an orange. She hadn’t had one for the longest time, but she remembered how the flesh burst in her mouth and how sweet the juice tasted.

A way down the road across the other side she could see a grocer’s on the corner. The greens of cabbages, the reds of apples, the milky whites of turnips and the yellows of melons shimmered in the distance. She quickened her pace, already tasting the orange in her mouth. As Queenie got to the corner, a newspaper boy took up his position, his arms piled with papers.

‘DEAD BABIES DUMPED ON THE STREETS!’ he yelled. ‘READ ALL ABOUT IT! ANOTHER BODY FOUND WRAPPED IN BROWN PAPER! READ ALL ABOUT IT!’

A tingle ran through Queenie’s body and seemed to pull at the roots of her hair. She carried on walking, feeling breathless and hot. She didn’t want to have heard those words. She walked fast, knowing that the faster she walked, the quicker the words would disappear. She began to run, not stopping until she got to Wild Street. Only when she was safely inside did she let the memory of Mrs Waters carrying the brown paper package out of the scullery slip into her head. It shook her up to think about it. She tried to push the thought away; to hide it behind the curtain in her head. Why was the world shouting about what she was trying so hard not to think about? It was none of their business. They had no right to pry. Just when everything was going so well.

It came as no surprise that Father refused Mary’s request that I nurse her sister. I had known it was clutching at straws. There was nothing left to do now but wait and hope for a miracle.

The weeks passed and my gowns grew tighter. Mary did her best to lace me in as tight as she could. I took to wearing my shawl at all times. I wore it hanging loose over my bosom so it helped disguise my growing figure. I knew I looked well. My skin glowed and my hair grew thick and glossy. I could sense Father watching me closely at the dinner table. I kept my head down and did not catch his eye. I made sure I was seated before he came in to dine and when I left the table I turned myself in such a way that my back was always to him.

Safe in my room in the evenings, Mary loosened my corset so I could breathe freely. The relief was only momentary. Most nights I could not wait for the mornings to arrive so I could be safely laced up again, despite how uncomfortable it had become.

One morning as I lay in bed watching Mary sort my corset and gown for the day, I felt a strange sensation; like wings fluttering about my insides. It stopped for a moment and I held my breath. Then it came again; a fragile butterfly trapped in my belly. ‘Mary,’ I whispered. ‘There is something wrong. I have a peculiar feeling inside me.’

She turned to me. ‘Does it hurt, miss?’

‘Oh no,’ I said. ‘Not at all. But it is very odd. Like a . . . like a tapping.’

Mary smiled and came to put her hand on my stomach. ‘It’s the quickening, miss. It’s your baby’s first stirrings.’

I looked at her, but could not speak. I lay still, not daring to move. Then I felt it again; a tap, tap, tapping inside me. The child was alive and wriggling. It was letting me know it was there. A surge of dread filled me up.

‘Oh, Mary,’ I said. ‘It is truly happening.’

‘Yes,’ she said with a sigh. ‘I fear this child is coming, whether we want it to or not.’

It was late. I had read until my eyes were heavy. I blew out my candle, settled into my pillow and waited for sleep to come. The child was still now. There were no more flutterings. I imagined it lying in wait inside me, waiting for me to sleep, so it could prod me awake again.

There was a noise. I opened my eyes. The door creaked and I saw a shadow and the flicker of a candle. ‘Mary?’ I whispered. What did she want at this late hour?

The candle moved into my room and I saw at once that it was not Mary. Father’s bulk filled the doorway and the smell of cigar smoke stung my nostrils. My heart was racing, the thumping filled my head. What did he want? He had never come to my room before. I pulled my covers up to my chin and slid further down the bed. He walked over to me and shone the candle in my face.

‘I see you are awake already,’ he said. ‘That will save me the trouble.’ He took hold of my sheets and flung them off me. ‘Get up and get dressed,’ he ordered.

‘What . . . what is happening, Father? Is something wrong? Is Mother ill?’ I looked around frantically for my shawl. I could not have Father see me in my nightgown. I had to hide my condition.

‘Hurry, girl. What are you waiting for?’

‘I just need my shawl, Father.’ I could not see well enough in the light of his candle. But I dared not light another one.

‘You do not need your shawl! Do you think I am such an idiot? Such a fool that I have not known about your condition since almost the very beginning?’

What was he saying? That he knew about the child?

‘Get up!’ he hissed. ‘Get up now!’ I was shivering with fear, my legs trembling. I climbed from my bed and stood, not knowing what to do next. Father stared at me. His eyes travelled up and down and rested on the shape of my pregnant belly, shrouded in my nightgown.

‘Look at you, you little whore. I should have known you would never amount to anything. Education and manners have been wasted upon you. Now get your gown on!’

‘But why, Father? Why must I get dressed?’ I wanted to crawl back into bed, to bury myself deep under the covers and to sleep. I wanted to pretend this was not happening, that it was all just a nightmare.

‘Did you actually think you could hide from me? Deceive me with pig’s blood? Hide your sins under a well-placed shawl?’

‘But Father, it was not my fault. You must believe me! I am innocent. It was Jacob, Father. He . . . he forced himself on me.’

‘Do not utter that boy’s name to me!’ Father hissed. ‘And do not use the weakness of men as an excuse for your lack of morality! I will wait outside your door while you dress. Now hurry!’

‘But Father, please!’

He turned away from me to walk from the room. Fear was thudding through me. Did he mean to throw me out on the streets? Could he be so cruel?

‘Father . . .’ The word caught in my throat as tears streamed down my face. ‘I know about my real mother,’ I managed to say. He stopped and turned back to look at me. ‘I know about Dolly,’ I said. ‘You kept me then. Please don’t throw me out now.’

Father walked towards me. His face tightened and he narrowed his eyes. ‘It is all arranged.’ He touched his candle to another beside my bed. The flame caught and quivered. Father took hold of my chin and stared into my eyes. ‘It is true,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘The sins of the mother are revisited in the child.’ He dropped his hand. ‘You have two minutes. And you may wish to pack a bag.’ He left the room, the door banging shut behind him.

I do not know how I dressed. My hands were trembling, my teeth were chattering. I could not reach to do all my buttons. I pulled a carpet bag from a cupboard and found some underclothes and another gown to put in it. ‘Mary,’ I sobbed quietly. ‘Mary, please come to me.’ I knew she would not. She would be asleep at the top of the house. When she came to wake me in the morning she would find my bed empty. Then a terrible thought occurred to me. Had Father thrown her out too? He must know how she tried to help me. Had he made her pack her bags? I cried harder, thinking I might never see her again.

The door opened and Father came in.

‘It is time to go,’ he said. ‘Pick up your bag.’

I could not speak. My voice felt like a lump of coal lodged in my throat. Father took me by the arm, and by the light of his candle he led me down the stairs. I was numb. I could not think. Father took me out of the front door and down the steps. There was a carriage waiting at the bottom. I could hear the soft breath of the horses. Father spoke to the driver in low murmurs, then took something out of his pocket and handed it to him. The driver nodded his head and touched his hat. Then Father opened the carriage door and gestured for me to climb inside. He pushed my bag in after me and, without another word, he closed the door.

It was dark and stuffy inside; the curtains were closed. There was a jolt and I was thrown back in a seat as the horses began to move. ‘No,’ I whispered. Then louder. ‘No!’ I pushed the curtains to one side and banged on the window. ‘No!’ I shouted. ‘Father! Mary!’

I saw the dark outline of Father walking back up the steps to the front door. He did not turn around. I looked up at the house and I saw a light flickering in the topmost window.

‘Mary! Mary!’

Then it was gone. The house disappeared, the street disappeared and the horses kept pulling.

It was hot in the kitchen. Queenie was breathless and agitated after her fast walk back from the chemist shop. Her skin was sticky and uncomfortable. Mrs Ellis was asleep in the kitchen chair, an empty glass on the table beside her. The newspaper boy’s words echoed around Queenie’s head.
Dead babies dumped on the streets.
Queenie checked on the babies. Eight of them sleeping peacefully, a bottle of milk resting by each head.

Queenie walked quietly into the scullery. It was cooler in there, with no fire. She splashed her face and the back of her neck with water. Still the boy’s words banged in her head.
Another body found wrapped in brown paper.
There was no room for any other thoughts. No matter how hard she tried. Just the same words repeating themselves over and over. She scooped up a handful of water and drank it. Drops dribbled down her chin and splashed back into the bowl. She needed to do something to make it all all right. She knew what she had to look for.

She began to search the cupboards, bringing out piles of old rags, brushes and empty glass bottles. She pulled storage jars, an old rolling pin, a bag of laundry bluing and an enamel jug from off the shelf. Queenie looked inside the jug and her belly tightened when she saw a small roll of brown paper. She turned the jug upside down, and the paper and a coil of string fell out onto the floor. Queenie stared and stared, her heart thumping loudly in her ears. She had no idea what to do. Then without knowing quite how it happened, she found herself picking up the paper and string and shoving it outside with the kitchen rubbish.

There, now she didn’t have to think about it any more. Her heart slowed and began to beat at its proper pace. She took a deep breath and put everything else back in its place.

‘Queenie? Is that you?’ Mrs Ellis shouted through from the kitchen.

‘Yes, ma’am. Just coming,’ Queenie shouted back. She fastened her apron around herself and picked up the new bottle of Godfrey’s Cordial to take to Mrs Ellis.

Later that evening Queenie took her candle over to the babies. She looked at them one by one. They were the lucky ones, she thought. They were here in the warm, with milk to drink and a place to sleep. Better than being out on the streets with a starving mother and no hope. She thought of the miserable room at home, and the cold and the hunger. Even Mam and Da hadn’t been able to keep the last baby alive. She lay on her mattress and hugged herself tight. Only then did she realise she’d forgotten to buy the orange. Tomorrow, she thought. I’ll get one tomorrow. Then she blew her candle out and the darkness closed in.

Queenie dreamt of Da. He was sauntering down the street with a tray of oranges around his neck. The oranges were piled high into a tower, each orange as big as a baby’s head. Da was singing and a crowd gathered around him to listen. The crowd grew bigger. It pressed in on Da, who grew smaller and smaller. The oranges began to spill from his tray. They rolled on the ground and disappeared between the legs of the crowd. Da cried out. He bent down and tried to catch the oranges but they rolled away too quickly. There was only one orange left in the tray. Da held it tenderly in his hands As the crowd walked away, Da wrapped the orange safely in a piece of brown paper.