Paupers Graveyard (11 page)

Some refused to move and tried to return to a dream world, where everything was happy. Instead they received a sharp slap on the legs and sat up howling.

‘No, missus,' Timmy ran to stop this.

‘Who do you think you are boy, telling me what to do?'

‘No, what I mean is, missus, I'll wake them up for you. I know how busy you must be, and I want to help in any way I can.'

She looked at him for a moment before deciding that perhaps he was right. She took no pleasure in coming into this room, especially as the stench was worse in the morning. As she read the list of rules to him, he nodded, as if hearing them for the first time. Before she had a chance to leave, he begged for the use of a brush and something to kill the smell.

‘There's a brush in the kitchen and some lime in the outhouses. Mix that with water and throw it on the floor.'

He thanked her and she grunted. ‘You're wasting your time, you know. This lot are like animals, shitting on the floor, pigs all of them. You,' she shouted to one of the boys, ‘show him the way to the kitchens.'

The child jumped to attention and she glared once more around the room before going outside. When she left the children ran to him. Some showed him the red marks on their legs, left behind by her stinging slap. He rubbed the redness on the older children and kissed the smaller ones on the offending mark. A bell rang outside in the corridor and the children rushed for the door.

‘Wait, what does the bell mean?'

‘Food,' they chorused, hopping up and down.

He looked at the sea of hopeful faces before him. The woman's words rang in his ears and he was surprised to find he was shaking in anger. Pigs were they, these tiny helpless children?

‘Line up,' he ordered.

No one moved.

‘Get into a line and we'll walk one after the other to the kitchen.'

They did as he asked. At his request some of the older children carried the younger ones. When he was satisfied there was some sort of order they set off. Peter led the way, pleased to be of such help to Timmy.

The kitchen was enormous, long wooden tables with benches on either side seemed to stretch for miles. Each place was set with a wooden bowl and spoon. Dozens of silent children took their places at the tables. At the head of the room was a huge fire and over it hung giant, black cauldrons.

When Timmy led his band inside, a woman pointed to one of the tables. Once they were seated, the children nearest to the fire got up and, taking their bowls, stood in line before each pot. A ladle descended into the pot's dark innards, was withdrawn and its gluey contents slopped into each waiting bowl.

When their turn came, Timmy led his children forward and waited until each had been served before taking his own food.

‘Thank you,' he said, smiling at the serving woman who was sweating profusely from the heat of the fire. She was taken aback.

‘You're welcome lad, I wish it was more.'

He walked back to the table where the children were already gulping down the hot porridge. At home, his mother would have sprinkled salt on it for flavour or, when things were good, a slurp of milk. Still, he was grateful for what he had and surprised at how hungry he felt. He looked down the table, watching the children as he ate. Smiles appeared as the food filled and warmed empty bellies. He winked at one or two and was rewarded with a crooked or gapped smile. Many had held the bowl to their faces, trying to lick any stray bit of porridge that might lurk inside, with the result that it was sticking to their hair or in their ears. He was surprised to see a couple of women moving down the rows of tables; each carried a bucket full of milk and basket of bread. A tin cup was filled with milk and poured into the now empty bowls. The slice of bread thrust down beside each child disappeared instantly. The milk, he discovered, was half water and the bread hard. Still, it filled a gap.

When they were finished each took their bowl to one of the large stone sinks in the room and washed it out. Some of his girls were ordered to stay behind and help in the kitchen, while the older boys were to fetch wood for the fires throughout the building.

Timmy was instructed to take the younger ones to their room and keep them there. This would have been a daunting task, if it were not for the fact that the children were weakened from hunger. Many wanted to just lie down on their beds and sleep, but he wouldn't allow it. There was a room to clean and beds to air, anyone who was big enough helped to shake and fold the blankets. The straw-filled sacks were pounded until no trace of dust was left. The smaller ones enjoyed this, jumping and rolling on each one.

He went back to the kitchen and asked for the broom. The woman who handed it to him was amazed. He asked the way to the outhouses to get the lime. These were three small sheds at the back of the house that were converted to lavatories. These consisted of wooden boxes with a hole cut in each. Next to it stood a pile of lime and a small shovel with which the user covered his body waste. The lime was to burn the waste and to disguise the smell. There were so many people using the toilets, that the treatment didn't have time to take effect. The stench was overpowering.

Timmy pulled his jumper up over his nose and held his breath, but it was useless and he had to run outside gulping for air. It took him three tries before he could fill the shovel and empty it into the bucket he'd found standing outside. This would have to be enough, as he was already retching.

The women in the kitchen stopped working as he passed and each wondered at this strange boy. He arrived in the room like a lone pilgrim returning from his travels. Small faces showed relief on seeing him.

Timmy opened the windows to shift the clouds of dust hanging in the air. Upending each bed, he stood it against the wall and jumped back in horror as black rats ran from beneath two of the beds. Without thinking, he swore out loud and threw the brush at the vermin.

‘Rats, rats, rats,' the children chorused, chasing them as though they were puppies.

The rats, like many of their kind, were quick to escape and dis-
appeared into holes in the corners of the room. Once the place was swept clean, he threw the liquid lime on the floor and brushed it in all over. Its effect was swift in quelling the smell, but its fumes burned the throats of the young ones, making them cough and gag, until Timmy stood them next to the open windows.

When he was finished, the beds were put back in place and the sacks covered with the blankets. The children were delighted with the results and little hands smoothed and fussed over each bed. Timmy realised he was sweating and needed a bath. They could all do with a wash. There was bound to be a tin bath somewhere. He was about to go back to the kitchens, when he noticed one of the smaller children squatting down in a corner.

‘No! Stop!' he cried, running towards the child, who whimpered in fear. ‘You must use this.' And picking her up, he placed her over the bucket. When she was finished he turned to all the children. ‘From now on you must use this bucket, understand? We have to keep the place clean, so that we won't get sick.' They nodded and he called Peter to him. If there were a bath, he would need some help carrying it. Back in the kitchens the women listened to his request in wide-eyed wonder.

‘Proper little lord we have here,' one of them jeered. The woman, who had served his porridge, quickly silenced her. ‘Leave him be. He's to be proud of, not sneered at. I'll show you where it's kept, son.'

Timmy and his helper followed her to what had been the stables, where she pointed to a rusty tin bath hanging on a nail. The familiar smell of hay and horses pained him. He helped the woman to lift the bath down and carry it outside.

‘Half fill it from the well,' she instructed, ‘then come inside and I'll heat it with some water from the pots.'

They did as she asked and struggled back into the kitchen with the massive weight. Her ladles of hot water were barely able to heat the freezing water, but it was soon tepid enough for washing. She also found him a bit of soap and a number of rags. The boys thanked her, as they struggled away with their bounty. She watched them go, shaking her head in wonder.

The next hour passed in a haze of soapsuds and squealing children. Ears that had not been washed in weeks were thoroughly cleaned, as were crevices between fingers and toes. Hair that had been dull and lank now shone and flowed. The older ones wished to wash in private and he made a screen from an upturned bed to save their modesty.

****

Though still ragged, it was a much-improved group who sat to eat at the evening table. The woman who had helped him winked as she served his soup, and he beamed up at her. She felt a lump rise in her throat as he walked away. There was a boy who could become a great man, given the chance.

Timmy used some of the rags to block the holes where the rats had run through. The others were kept for washing, now a twice-weekly ritual. The room was swept and washed each day. Rumours reached him of a fever that was raging in other parts of the workhouse, and he became obsessed with cleaning. Try as he might, he was unable to completely rid the children's hair of lice. One of the women had given him a comb and he spent hours grooming and picking them from heads. The beds were also harbouring fleas. No matter how many times they took the blankets outside and beat them against the walls, the fleas returned. It was a losing battle, though diligently fought.

Timmy and his numerous fairy tales kept up the children's spirits. Each night, before they fell asleep, he would tell tales of a wonderful land where everything was beautiful and there was lots of food. No matter how many times he recounted this story they listened in rapture, as he described clothes made of gold and fairies that rode on white horses. As the atrocity of the famine increased outside the walls, inside, in Timmy's room, each child fell asleep with visions of magic, instead of the horror that was reality.

September 2003

The story about the group suicide had spread throughout the country. The scene drew its usual share of ghouls that seemed to revel in such things, and for a while the tree became a place of pilgrimage. Flowers and stuffed toys were laid against the trunk, as the families gathered to mourn their loss. For weeks afterwards the tear-stained faces of the mothers could be seen on television screen and in tabloids, lamenting the death of their sons, sons that had become more precious in death than they ever were in life.

There were many that saw it as a just end for the boys; they were drug addicts in a climate that would no longer tolerate such things. Those who sat in judgement dismissed the fact that these young boys had once been sons and brothers, that their glazed eyes had sparkled with hope, until life had driven them onto the streets, where they developed their nocturnal habits. Preferring to regard them as predators, many kept their pity for the security man who, it was said, had died of shock.

The muttering from the workmen that the site was cursed was also drawing a lot of attention, and Bob Richards, the developer, alternated between threats and offers of pay increases in order to keep them quiet. By the time the members of the local archaeology society arrived en masse, claiming to have heard rumours that he was building on a famine graveyard, he was almost tearing his hair out in frustration. Though suspicious at first, and loath to accept his explanation that the bones they had heard about had been animal carcasses, the society was self-funded and the offer of a donation to make up for wasting their time was grudgingly accepted. It was only when the news crews had lost interest and moved on to another story, that he was able to clear away all signs of the graves. He even went as far as chopping down the tree and throwing away the toys and small gifts that had been left there. Such sentiments would not touch a man who was prepared to burn the bones of the dead.

When the first occupants collected the keys to their new homes a few weeks later, there was no sign that anything had ever been amiss. If they had read about the boys, and it was hard to believe that they had not, they made no mention of it. Once the last house was occupied, Bob could finally sit back and count his blessings. He had averted another disaster and, other than the odd complaint about cracks appearing as the houses settled, he expected to hear very little from the residents of Hillcrest.

The housing estate came to life as furniture vans arrived and were unloaded. Lights appeared in the houses and children ran laughing and shouting as they familiarised themselves with their new homes. The dead children watched from behind the bushes, amazed by the wonder of it all.

Timmy and Elizabeth were too busy watching Black Jack to join in the general excitement. By nightfall most of the houses had been visited. Yellow light streamed from the windows and the shapes of the people moving around inside could be clearly seen. Most of the new owners only stayed for a while, preferring to come back the next day to complete the move. The children's attention was focused mainly on the last three houses, the ones that had been erected on the graveyard. They sat and watched as the removal men carried furniture and boxes inside. Black Jack was biding his time as he too watched. Once the three houses were fully occupied, the children moved forward, to get a better look at their new neighbours.

****

Joe Mahoney had never considered himself a lucky man. His job, though well paid, was boring. Senior partner in an accounting firm was hardly a thrilling occupation, but for the most part he had been content, if not a little lonely. That was all in the past. When Helen Earls walked into his office, to apply for the post as his private secretary, something told him that his life was about to change forever. As a single mother with a young daughter she was anxious to get the job, and he was soon won over by her enthusiasm and winning smile. The fact that she was an unmarried mother was unfortunate. He had always considered himself a man of high moral principles and frowned on such things, but within weeks of their meeting, he was prepared to overlook what he saw as her past lapse.

Now, only ten months later, he was a married man, stepfather to seven-year-old Jenny and a father-to-be. Helen had been very persuasive and, despite his high morals, they had become lovers soon after their first meeting. Jenny, though timid at first, was warming to him, and there were even times when she admitted to ‘kind of' liking him. The role of stepfather came easy to him, and he treasured the time he spent with his new family. His bachelor flat had been a tight squeeze for the three of them and it was out of the question that he would share Helen's council house. Now, they had their first real home and, at last, they would have some much-needed space. The only thing that marred his new-found happiness was Helen's moods. He hoped that these were down to her advanced state of pregnancy and the upset of the move.

‘Joe, come and help me,' Jenny called from upstairs.

He put down the box he was carrying and took the stairs two at a time. He had screwed a number of small hooks into her bedroom ceiling to accommodate her collection of model rockets and spaceships. She was standing on the bed trying to attach the strings to each hook.

‘My arms are too short,' she looked up at the ceiling.

He took the strings and hung each one on a hook.

‘Well, what do you think?' he asked.

They looked up to survey his work.

‘Cool.'

‘Yes, indeed.'

They stayed like that for a while, watching the swirling models and their mesmerising silver, gold, blue and red paint.

His wife's call from below broke the spell and they both hurried down the stairs. She was in the kitchen, pulling various items from the many cardboard boxes that surrounded her and placing them on the shiny new work surfaces.

‘I don't know where to start,' she waved around the room.

‘I know,' Joe rubbed her back. ‘Why don't you have a lie down and we'll make a start?'

‘Yes, perhaps I will,' she agreed.

He didn't notice the glare she gave her daughter or the way the child shrank from her gaze and none of them were aware of the stares of the many watching eyes that were hidden by the shadows of the trees.

After Helen had gone upstairs, Joe continued with the unpacking. As Jenny emptied the cutlery into the designated drawer, he thought about his wife and the way she had changed towards him. Now that they were spending even more time together, he had come to realise that what he had once mistaken for self-confidence on her part, was actually narcissism.

Upstairs, Helen threw herself down on the unmade bed. The neatly folded sheets and pillowcases that Joe had stacked there were kicked onto the floor, as she tucked a pillow under her head and tried to get comfortable. She was tired of being pregnant, her huge stomach ruined the line of her clothes, and she felt frumpy and unattractive. This baby, she patted her bump, was another accident, but at least this time she was married. Biting down hard on her lip, trying not to cry, she closed her eyes and thought back over the last few months. If someone had told her a year ago that she would one day be living in a house like this, she would have laughed. Since the birth of her daughter, life had been a constant struggle to make ends meet. True, she could have done as her friends advised and got rid of the baby, but that had not been an option. She may have been many things, but she could not kill the life within her. It was out of the question.

A clatter of falling utensils from below signalled that the bottom had fallen out of another carton and she smiled at Joe's mutter of irritation. He was a good man, she thought, and kind to both of them; what more could she ask for? Well, a lot more, really. It was true that she had settled for Joe. She had realised during the first few weeks they worked together that he was trustworthy. The fact that he was financially secure had made him seem even more attractive. She had access to his personal computer and had used one of her lunch hours to check up on his bank and stock options. It was an hour well spent.

So here she was, in what had once been her dream home, with a man she cared very little for. She was old enough and wise enough to realise that there would never be a knight on a white charger for her kind. That dream belonged to those privileged enough to grow up surrounded by the comforts only money could buy. Yet now she was trapped. There was no way out for her and the baby that moved inside her signalled that this was indeed the case. Still, once it was born she could go back to work. Not for Joe, God no. It was enough to see him at night, without having to be around him all day. Of course, he had no idea of what she was planning, as she had been looking forward to staying at home. But the past few months had shown her how boring housework could be and the novelty of not being controlled by the alarm clock had soon worn off. She had envisioned the life of a kept woman, but the reality was something else. The dinner parties that had played such a vital role in her fantasy, had not come to fruition, as she found it difficult to mix with Joe's snooty friends. They looked down their noses at her and she knew that they whispered behind her back that she was a gold-digger. Well, let them say what they liked, she thumped the pillow, it would not be long until the birth and then she would really give them something to talk about.

****

Next door, at number 26, a similar operation as Joe's was being carried out with military precision. Mike Byrne had been an army sergeant for over thirty years and ruled his home with the same attitude that he used on his men. Rules were there to be obeyed. Without them there was no order and without order there was anarchy. This was his mantra and he lived by it. His young recruits wondered if his sex life, if he had one, was carried out with the same precision and tried to imagine the role his wife played in this. They mimicked what they thought would be his foreplay, ‘stand by your bed, knickers down, assume the position,' and dissolved into fits of laughter. Had he known that the fun was at his expense, they would have paid dearly for it.

Ruth, his wife, picked up another carefully marked box and searched for its designated area. She pulled savagely at the label that marked the space, glad that he was not there to order her about. He had gone for a walk with Brutus, his dog. At least she had some peace while they were out of the house. They say that people start to resemble their pets and they weren't far wrong in Mike's case. He and the rottweiler had the same hanging jowls and sulky scowl. She grinned, as she imagined them side by side. Theirs was certainly not a case of beauty and the beast.

A movement outside the window caught her attention and she walked over to the sink. Pressing her face against the glass, she tried to make out what it was, but the fading light made it difficult to see anything. She put it down to a cat or the movement of the many trees and bushes at the bottom of the garden.

‘Are you finished yet?' She hadn't heard the front door open.

‘Almost, just a few more boxes.'

‘Good, I'm starving and Brutus needs feeding.'

The sound of the television drifted in and she knew that he had put his feet up. He must be tired from doing nothing, she thought.

It was hard getting used to this new kitchen. She missed her old cooker and the familiarity of the worn knobs and jets. She missed the small, dark house that had been their home for so many years. Every nook and cranny had a comfortable feel and scent. This new place had a clinical, plastic smell of polish and new wood. The large amount that Mike had saved, coupled with his army pension, meant that they could afford this bigger place, and she knew that she should be thankful and try to adjust.

Another movement outside caught her eye. She smiled at the young woman in the next garden, who waved at her. A pretty young thing, Ruth thought, and happy in her marriage. She waved back and watched as they unpacked their belongings from an old farm trailer.

****

She was right about the couple next door in number 25. Tom and Sheila Ryan were almost newly-weds. They were just weeks short of their first wedding anniversary and at last things were starting to improve for them. After eleven months of living in a grotty apartment, they were now in heaven. The house had been a stroke of unbelievable luck. Tom had been offered a job as systems analyst for a new and fast-moving computer company, with a salary far exceeding anything they had ever imagined. It would involve quite a bit of travelling for him at first, but Sheila would get used to that and hopefully the neighbours would be friendly.

Besides, Sheila's teaching exam results had come through and they were overjoyed to find that she had passed with honours. By coincidence, an old friend called to say that she was leaving her post as junior teacher in a local school and did Sheila want to be recommended for the post? So she had found herself only days later, sitting before a panel of school governors with her purse clutched nervously in her lap, answering their questions. They must have liked what they heard and she had accepted the offered position.

She smiled and waved at her new neighbour. The woman waved back and Sheila wondered if it was the bare bulb that made her eyes look so sad and hollow. She shivered and hurried back inside. Tom would be back soon with their Chinese takeaway and she had a nice bottle of chablis chilling in the fridge. She had been too tired to cook, and he had offered to drive into town, even though it was quite a way off. She turned on the oven and put two plates in to heat. Taking a duvet cover, she spread it on the dining-room floor as a makeshift tablecloth. Having little furniture, their first meal would be eaten picnic style. She put two candles in the centre of the ‘tablecloth' and set glasses and cutlery on either side. Pleased with her work, she lit the candles and sat watching the flickering flames. She smiled, the candlelight reflecting off the specks of gold in her eyes.

She was unaware that she now had an admirer. Black Jack watched as she sat enveloped by the light. Death had diminished none of his primal urges. He wanted to drink real ale again, smell the perfume of a woman's body, sink his fingers into skin and taste the salty wetness of the flesh. Why should these people have the happiness he had been denied? Still there was plenty of time to change all that and the woman's look of joy would soon be replaced by one of terror. He was tired of the dark and the never-ending night. He wanted to walk in the light again and deserved to have these basic things. Nothing was going to stand in his way.