Paupers Graveyard (13 page)

‘Perhaps you would like my wine, Charles? I have no stomach for it.'

Carey stopped her.

‘He's to have none of it. If you don't want it, leave it.'

She was glad when the meal finally ended and she could escape to her room.

Later that night she heard arguing downstairs and crept out to the landing to listen. A distraught Charles was begging and pleading with Carey to give him a drink. She almost cried in mortification for her brother-in-law. Then, with growing terror, she heard Carey's words.

‘How can you repay me, Charles? You have nothing left that I want. I own everything you once had. Not as much as a blade of grass belongs to you any more.'

She couldn't make out Charles' answer and turned to go back to her room, when, suddenly, the dining-room door flew open and Charles came out with Carey following behind him. When she saw they were coming towards the stairs, she ran. Throwing her dressing gown on a nearby chair, she jumped into bed. Then, she realised with dismay that she had forgotten to lock her door. At that moment it was thrown open. Charles stood there, gasping for breath, and holding Carey's sleeve, ‘Do you still say I have nothing you want?'

The men looked at one another and Elizabeth watched as Carey took the key to the cellar from his pocket and handed it to Charles. Her heart was beating wildly as Carey locked her door and stood looking at her, with his back against the wood.

‘No, please no,' she pleaded, shrinking against the headboard.

Her screams echoed throughout the house. Annie and Thomas crossed themselves and silently prayed for her. Agnes looked up from her knitting and cackled, while, in the cellar, Charles soothed whatever guilt he felt with the first bottle of port.

****

There was stillness within the house the next day, the hush of death. No one spoke and, for the first time, Carey rode out without Charles. Annie crept up to Elizabeth's room after he had left and found her huddled whimpering in a corner, covered only by a sheet. Her nightgown lay in tatters on the floor and the bed was in total disarray.

‘Come my lady, let me help you up,' the old woman reached down and touched her. ‘That's right,' Annie spoke as to a child. ‘That's a good girl, you're safe now and he's gone. Come on, up you get.'

Once Elizabeth was on the bed, Annie left for a moment to fetch some fresh water and returned to find her sobbing uncontrollably.

Wringing out a cloth in the water, Annie tried to wipe her face, but her hand was brushed away.

‘Don't touch me, I'm dirty, diseased, I want to die,' Elizabeth wept.

‘There, there, my lady, don't take on so. This is not your doing and you can't allow him to destroy you.'

Elizabeth nodded and her crying ceased. The woman was right; she could not let Carey win.

‘There now, my lady, let's clean you up.' Taking the hair that was flowing loosely around her shoulders, Annie drew it back and tied it with a ribbon. Only then was she able to see clearly what Elizabeth had suffered. One cheek was swollen and already darkening to a bruise. Her lower lip was cut and caked with dried blood.

There were bruises on her shoulders and breasts and something else, some kind of indents, on the skin. Looking closer, she was horrified to find these were bite marks. She washed them as best she could and tried not to cry, when she saw he had broken the skin in places.

‘Lie back now, my lady.'

Elizabeth lay down and allowed her to remove the sheet. The woman never spoke as she washed her mistress' body. Not even when she rubbed gently at the dried blood on her thighs. Turning her over, she could see more bite marks on her buttocks and the marks of his fingers were clearly visible on her back. When she was finished, Elizabeth sat up, and pulled the sheet around her once more.

‘He really hurt me.'

‘Yes, my lady, he did.'

‘I have to get away from here before he returns. But, where will I go? I have no one to turn to.'

‘There's always your father's house.'

‘No,' Elizabeth knew she would not be welcomed there.

‘The only place open to you then, dear lady, is the workhouse. He'd never think to look for you in that place. Though God knows things are bad there as well. There's fever raging and barely enough food to feed those inside.'

‘I'll take my chances. I'd rather die than let him touch me again. This will be my life from now on if I stay here.'

They both knew she was right, although the old woman wondered how her mistress could possibly survive in the workhouse. She helped her to dress and, taking a carpetbag, filled it with a few items of clothing.

Before leaving the house Elizabeth told Annie about the letter she was expecting from America and made her promise to look out for it and keep it safe. After swearing that she would, the old woman led her down the back stairway and out into the kitchens. Thomas, who was sitting in front of the fire polishing Carey's boots, jumped up when they entered.

‘I'm so sorry, my lady.'

‘I know, Thomas, and I thank you.'

When he heard of her plan he was aghast. But there was no stopping her. Annie was crying and even Thomas dabbed at his eyes as she turned to go.

‘Just one more thing, Thomas,' she asked. ‘Will you please give something to Carey for me?'

‘Of course, my lady.'

She handed him a note. It read, ‘You will pay for this. I promise. E.F.'

August 1846

Seventy people a day were dying in the workhouse. Up until now Timmy had protected the children as best he could, but slowly, steadily, silently, with the vicious intent of a snake, it struck.

‘My throat hurts and I'm too warm.' Timmy woke up to find Peter beside his bed and even in the half-light he could see the child was flushed. Picking up Katie, who was as always sleeping beside him, he carried her to another bed. The only isolation he was able to offer the sick child was his own bed. There was no use going to the workhouse infirmary, because it was already full to capacity. People were even lying on makeshift straw beds in the corridors outside his room. He rushed out to the well and brought back fresh, cold water that he urged Peter to drink. But the boy's throat was too sore and after a few sips he lay back wanting to sleep.

The fever had taken hold and he knew there would be no stopping it. It hung in the air like a black cloud, swirling and merging into a dark spectre that moved from bed to bed. He blinked, rubbing his eyes, but he could still see it, though fainter now. Had he inherited the gift of sight from his mother, or was it just his foolish imagination?

Peter slept fitfully, tossing and turning, calling for his ma. Timmy ran to the kitchens and asked Nora, who had been so kind to him in the past, for something, anything, to help the child.

‘There's nothing, lad,' she told him. ‘No medicine, no food, nothing. I've been promised fresh supplies today, but that will only be cornmeal and perhaps a little milk. If his throat's that sore, he'll never be able to eat it anyway.'

‘I'll go up to the infirmary, then.'

They both knew he would be in serious trouble if he was found wandering around the sick rooms, but he didn't care. He had to get medicine for Peter.

‘Be careful,' Nora warned, ‘and I don't just mean of the guardians; the fever is worse up there. Tie this around your mouth,' she handed him a piece of cloth, ‘it might help keep you safe.'

He tied it securely over his mouth and nose and turned to go.

‘Timmy, this isn't your fault, lad. You cannot stop it reaching the children. They pass the sick and dying every day in the corridors. You've done your best.'

He nodded, feeling tears well up, but these were his children and it was up to him to protect them. He went into the yard and raced along in the shadow of the garden wall that hid him from prying eyes, the way it had once sheltered the vegetables. Now the soil lay bare.

He stopped short on reaching the infirmary, edging back until his shoulders came in contact with the cold bricks of the wall. Although the infirmary was within the workhouse grounds, it was set apart, and this was the first time he had seen it. He had seen many frightening things over the past two years, but this was the fabric of nightmares.

A long plank reached from an opening at one end of the gable to the ground. Heaped at the bottom lay ten, perhaps more, corpses. A nearby cart was already full and being led away. The loaders went indoors to await its return. The air, though cold with the sting of winter, hung with the smell of putrefaction.

Timmy wondered what the plank was for. Bodies were piled against the gable wall. Carefully picking his way over, he looked up into the door at the top. He decided it was just a black hole, and was just about to walk away, when a warning shout from above made him look up. The body of a small child came sliding down the plank and landed with a thud against him, knocking him off his feet. He opened his mouth to scream, but no sound came out, and he scrambled away in panic from the cold, glazed eyes. Finding it hard to breath, he pulled at the cloth around his face. He retched, unable to vomit, as his stomach had been empty for almost two days. The violent retching hurt his ribs and throat.

‘Timmy, lad.'

He looked up to see Nora running towards him. She didn't ask any questions, but led him inside and sat him by the fire. The heat helped to soothe his fear as she wiped at his face, brushing away the tears with one hand, holding him tightly with the other.

‘There were so many bodies,' he looked into her eyes, willing her to say he had imagined it.

But Nora shook her head. ‘It's the fever. They're burying them by the scores every day. No one in the country has been spared. The children are the worst. They're too weak from hunger to fight it.'

‘I'll fight it.'

‘I dare say you will, or die trying.'

‘I can't die.'

‘We all have to die sometime, even you.'

‘No, I promised my ma that I'd stay alive and look after my sister and brothers. So you see I can't die.'

‘You're not an orphan then?'

‘No.' A few months before he would have been afraid to tell anyone that he'd lied to get in, but now he didn't care. ‘I had the fever,' he explained, ‘and my da was afraid to let me back in the cabin, so I came here. I'm going home again though, one day soon.'

He was about to get up and go back to check on Peter, when she stopped him.

‘Stay sitting a while longer, lad. You've had a bad fright and I'll make you a drop of tea as soon as I get a new helper. You'll have noticed most of the others are gone?'

He had been wondering where everyone had disappeared to.

As if reading his thoughts she answered. ‘The fever; it's taken most of them and I'm blue in the face from asking for help. I've been promised someone today, though I suppose there's not that much to do now, with many too sick to eat this muck,' she said, banging the ladle on the side of the pot. ‘Peel's Brimstone, the people call it and bad luck to him. It goes through you like a dose of salts, and those that can stomach it get no nourishment.'

The door opened and she looked up. ‘Have you been sent to help me?' she asked.

Timmy heard none of the conversation; his mind was in turmoil trying to think what he could do to save the children. A hand on his arm startled him, and he looked up to find Nora was speaking to him.

‘I'll go and check on the child while you have your tea. It won't be long brewing and will help calm you.'

He nodded and went back to staring into the fire. Soon a cup was held under his nose, he took it and sipped. He could feel the warmth run all the way down into his stomach. He smiled, looked up to thank the giver and threw the cup in the air almost scalding himself.

‘My lady!'

‘Timmy, I can't believe it, Timmy, is it really you?'

‘Yes, it's me.'

‘You're alive, I can't believe it. I've though of you often, but I never expected … come,' she led him to a table and sat down beside him, ‘tell me all that has happened to you since we last met.'

They sat like old friends and exchanged news. She told him about her girls, their leaving, and how Black Jack was now in charge of the Hall. He listened wide-eyed to the news and could understand why she was there. Anything Black Jack touched turned bad.

Still, he cheered up when she told him about the expected letter and her plans to join her girls. He begged for news of his family. She had none, and explained that she never left the Hall, but would check the next time she went there.

‘I have to explain something to you,' she whispered. ‘I told them I was a ladies' maid and had been turned out. Things would be very bad for me, if they found out who I really am.'

‘I won't tell anyone, my lady, I promise. I said I was an orphan.'

‘Aren't we an awful pair?' she smiled. ‘And remember now, my name is Elizabeth, don't forget.'

‘I won't my … I mean Elizabeth,' he blushed at being so familiar.

Nora returned with the news that Peter was still sleeping, but burning up. They took turns sponging him down and trying to make him drink. Elizabeth charmed one of the doctors into coming out to see the child … anyone who entered the infirmary now left by way of the plank. After checking Peter thoroughly, the doctor shook his head.

‘It's typhus all right. See the rash starting on his stomach?' He indicated red pinpricks on the skin. ‘By morning this will cover most of his body. There's nothing I can do for him. Medical supplies are sparse. The best thing you can do is to try and get him to drink.'

‘But his throat is so very sore,' Elizabeth said, ‘is there nothing at all you can do?'

Taking her aside, he whispered, ‘Within a day or two the child will die unless a miracle happens. If, and I say if, the fever breaks and you manage to get him to drink, he might make it, but I can't see that happening. I've seen seven die since daybreak. I'm sorry. I wish there was something I could do.' He shook his head and she could see the lines of fatigue etched deep in his face. ‘Is the young lad his brother?'

‘No, but as good as.'

‘It'll be hard on him then.'

She thanked the doctor. It wasn't his fault that the child would die. It was this dreadful famine.

The kitchen was almost empty save for Timmy's group and the occasional other child scattered here and there. It was the same at the adult mealtime. Where the room had once seated over two hundred at a time, there was now perhaps twenty. Many of the adults were too ill to come for the food, while others just couldn't stomach it. The huge pot of meal was almost untouched and would be reheated the next day. There was no need to steep any more corn, as Nora had been doing, in the hope of making it more digestible. The two women had been working in silence, each lost in their own thoughts, until Nora spoke.

‘He'll take it very bad you know.'

Elizabeth nodded; she had been thinking of nothing else.

‘I'll sit up with Peter tonight to relieve Timmy and maybe he'll get some sleep,' she said.

‘Won't you be missed, if you don't sign back in?' asked Nora, knowing that once Elizabeth signed herself into a workhouse she became a prisoner of the state.

‘No,' Elizabeth told her, ‘there are so many going over the walls these past few nights to escape the typhus that they've stopped all that.'

Many escaped late at night and Elizabeth knew she would soon have to do the same. She had calculated that the letter should arrive in another three weeks or so, and had been listening to the inmates as they compared escape routes in whispers. Her route was planned, all she had to do was to wait.

Timmy was still hard at work washing Peter down. Despite his best efforts, the child seemed even hotter than before, and his face and throat were very swollen. Elizabeth tried trickling water between his parched lips, but he choked on the slightest drop. The others sat in silence; even the youngest sensed something was dreadfully wrong. Hours crawled by, night fell, and the room became colder.

Elizabeth tried to persuade Timmy to lie down on one of the other beds, but he refused. They spent the night praying and taking turns to wipe Peter's fevered face. The flesh on his wasted body burned beneath Elizabeth's hands, and at times she almost cried out in frustration and anguish. She had been in the workhouse for over four weeks and seen many horrid and disgusting things during that time; senseless fighting over food and bits of clothing, parents climbing through windows and over high walls during the night, abandoning their children to the system, rats feeding on corpses in the hallways and on some that were not yet dead, but nothing could compare to the horror of a child dying.

‘Do you think he'll get better?' Timmy startled her out of her reverie.

‘It's in God's hands now. We just have to wait and see.'

He nodded and went back to wiping Peter's body. The boy tossed and turned, calling for his ma. In his quiet periods, they sat watching him, willing him to live, but it was useless. As the first fingers of dawn crept slowly across the sky, the atmosphere in the room changed. A cold stillness descended, rousing them both from their thoughts and striking fear into their hearts. Sitting on either side of him, they each held a hand and stroked the bony fingers. Peter eventually opened eyes that were glazed over with fever and, just for a moment, smiled up at Elizabeth. He was seeing what he wanted to see, and managed to whisper, ‘Ma?'

‘Yes, darling,' she sobbed, ‘Ma's here.'

Timmy was crying too, but he didn't make a sound. He had never seen anyone die before and was expecting something dramatic to happen. Surely, an event such as death would warrant a fanfare of trumpets, something to warn the watchers. But it was nothing like that. Peter pulled away from him, turned on his side and cuddled closer to Elizabeth. She brushed the wet blonde curls from his forehead, murmuring little words of endearment between sobs, and with just a brief sigh he drifted into death.

‘No,' Timmy looked at the still form. ‘He can't be dead.'

‘I'm so sorry, Timmy. He's gone.' She didn't know what else to say.

Running over into a corner, Timmy scrunched down, folding in on himself, wanting to disappear. He couldn't face the awful pain, the sense of loss.

Elizabeth got up from the bed, covered the body and went to fetch Nora. She found her sitting alone in the kitchen, staring into space. The woman looked up hopefully, but Elizabeth shook her head.

‘How's Timmy?' asked Nora.

‘Overcome with grief,' she said, sitting opposite. ‘What do we do now?'

‘We'll have to take the body to the burial cart. No one will come for it otherwise. There are dead and dying lying side by side all over the place, and no one to give them a Christian burial. God be with us all this day.'

‘Amen,' Elizabeth whispered.

‘Well, no use just sitting here,' Nora said. ‘We'll carry him between us; God knows he won't weigh much. It's best he's gone before the others wake.'

Elizabeth followed her back to the deathbed. The only sound came from the steady, rhythmic breathing of the sleeping children, and the muted sobbing of the boy in the corner. They wrapped the small body in the blanket and were about to lift it from the bed when Timmy stopped them.