So Long At the Fair (64 page)

‘I don’t think you’re a goose. Though if the nurse comes in she’ll shoot me. She’ll think we’re very odd.’

‘Hang the nurse. She can think what she likes. And five minutes won’t matter.’

Abbie turned and put her left arm across Jane’s body. ‘I must be careful not to hurt your poor old ribs,’ she said.

Jane patted her hand. ‘I wish you were coming with us tomorrow.’

‘I’ve got to stay.’

‘I know. All the same . . .’ A few moments, then Jane added, ‘Do you remember those nights when we were young and we slept together?’

‘All that giggling. Your mother coming in and telling us to be quiet.’

‘Yes.’

A little silence, then Abbie said, ‘I’m so sorry I caused you so much hurt, Jane. Forgive me.’

‘Oh – that’s all in the past. That’s all over with.’

‘Yes, but – tell me you forgive me.’

‘Of course I forgive you.’

They lay quiet again for a while, then Jane said: ‘You saved my life, Abbie. Without you I would be dead.’

‘Oh, yes,’ Abbie said with heavy irony, ‘I’m wonderfully brave all right.’

‘Oh, you were – you were.’

‘Well – let’s not talk about that . . .’

A little silence, then Jane whispered, ‘How – how long will you stay in Woolwich?’

‘How long? Until I know.’

‘Oh, Abbie –’ Jane pressed her hand. ‘I’ve been so absorbed in my own . . . predicament – and you yourself are going through such a terrible time.’

Abbie said nothing. There was nothing she could say. They fell silent again. Jane lay still, her breathing even. After a time Abbie began to feel sleepy and closed her eyes. Then with an effort she opened them again; she should return to her own bed before she fell asleep . . . With the thought she began to edge backwards, but then Jane stirred and laid a hand on her wrist. ‘No . . .’ Her voice was drowsy. ‘Don’t go just yet . . .’

‘I won’t.’

Abbie settled herself again, wrapped her arm more closely about Jane’s warm body and closed her eyes. Soon she slept.

Some minutes later the night nurse, Miss Ketteridge, quietly making her rounds, saw the two lying asleep together. She stopped at the foot of the bed and looked at them. It was good to see them both looking so peaceful; to have escaped, if only for a while, from the horrors of the day’s realities. Turning, she moved on.

Chapter Thirty-Nine

The small cottages on the outskirts of Plumstead passed by on the periphery of Abbie’s vision as the fly moved on along the road towards Woolwich.

Just before her departure she had seen Arthur and Jane setting off for Ladbroke Grove where they would make their arrangements for the funeral of their daughter. Although they had one another, without Emma their little world as they had known it was finished.

Reaching the pier, Abbie got out and once more joined the streams of people making their way to the drill shed. On entering she could see at once that many more bodies had been recovered since her visit of the day before. There must now be two hundred or more laid out there, she reckoned, and even as she watched, two men set down another river-drenched corpse. A large number of the bodies were now covered, signifying that they had been identified.

The hush of the place was broken by the sounds of weeping and Abbie stood to one side as a sobbing, middle-aged woman came by, supported on the arm of a younger man. Abbie averted her eyes from the woman’s grief-ravaged face.

And almost immediately she found herself looking down at the body of Alfred.

In her last sight of him he had looked so smart in his dark-blue trousers with their outer-seam stripe and his tunic with the gold braid. Now his clothes were sodden, dirty and shapeless. He looked somehow smaller, too, added to which his face was discoloured and distorted, his mouth wide open as if he had died while crying out. As she looked at him she noticed that his hands were clenched – and then saw that there was something held fast in his right fist. Bending closer, she saw what appeared to be a little tangle of blue ribbon. And then she realized what it was. It was the silk ribbon bow from the front of Iris’s bodice. In her mind she had a sudden image of Alfred clutching at Iris in a vain attempt to save her, and ending holding only the ribbon from her dress.

With a sob she straightened, stood there for a moment to collect herself, then moved away.

Iris’s body lay only five yards further on.

Outside on the pier steps, Abbie stood clutching at the rail, while the crowds pushed past. Iris . . . She had dreaded that at some time she would find her body, but nothing had prepared her for the reality of the moment. Iris . . . She had looked so dreadfully pathetic. Her hat had come off, and also one of her shoes. Her stockings were in shreds, while the pretty blue dress that she had worn with self-conscious pride was now a torn, filthy, shapeless rag. It was her face, though, hideous in its distortion and discoloration, that stayed before Abbie’s tight-shut eyes – and she clutched harder at the rail, bowing her head in grief and despair.

Eventually she straightened. It was still not over. She must go back into the drill shed and formally identify the two bodies. And then . . . then she must continue her search for Louis.

Some twenty-five minutes later, the formal identifications completed, she re-emerged from the drill shed and hailed a cab. She had fully intended to find a hotel today, but for the moment she could not think of such a thing. Perhaps tomorrow. All she could think of now was getting back to the sanctuary of the infirmary at Plumstead

On her return she encountered Miss Wilkinson who told her that in her absence the publican’s wife from the Steam Packet, Mrs Plaister, had brought her clothes. ‘She’s washed and pressed them,’ she said. ‘I put them in your locker by your bed. I’m afraid they’ll never be as they were, but at least they’ll do for the time being.’

‘People are so kind,’ Abbie said, touched by the thoughtfulness of the publican’s wife. She then asked the matron if it would be in order for her to stay a further night. Miss Wilkinson said of course she must stay, then she added as Abbie was about to turn and go:

‘Oh, by the way, our little boy – our little unidentified boy in the men’s ward – he turns out not to be foreign after all. Today he began to speak. He told me his name – Edward Newman – and said his mama keeps a shop. And not long afterwards one of the visitors remembered seeing him on board the boat with his parents – very respectable-looking people apparently.’ She gave a sigh. ‘Poor little fellow. I’m afraid he won’t be seeing them again.’

‘Oh – poor little boy.’ The stories of sorrow and tragedy seemed to have no end.

Taking her leave of the nurse, Abbie went out into the front courtyard. She found that she was greatly moved by the story of the little boy who had at last spoken. How swiftly everything could change. At seven forty on Tuesday evening little Edward Newman had been a happy child, safe in the loving arms and care of his mother and father. At seven forty-five he was an orphan and starting the rest of his life along a different path.

Three women, also survivors from the steamboat, were walking slowly together in the courtyard. She acknowledged them with a brief nod and walked on, past the porter in his little hut and out onto the street. She had to get away for a few minutes – anywhere, it didn’t matter where, just so long as she could escape for a little while from the constant reminders of the tragedy and the despair.

Without shawl or hat she walked, oblivious of the scenery around her and of the people who passed by on foot or in carriages. There was a feeling of numbness in her that seemed to pervade her whole body. She felt as if all purpose in her life had now come to an end; everything that had made life worth living was gone. She no longer had any reason to hope. They were all gone. All of them. Iris was dead, and Alfred – and she knew now without question that Louis could not have survived. If he had she would have learned of it. Now it was just a matter of waiting and searching – for that final confirmation. For if she searched long enough she knew she would eventually find his body too.

Eventually she came to a stop. For a second or two she stood looking about her at the unfamiliar terrain and then, reluctantly, turned and began to retrace her steps. The exercise had been pointless; wherever she went, there was no escaping the misery and the horror.

Reaching the workhouse gates she entered and started across the yard. And as she did so a man emerged from the doorway and moved towards her. Seeing him, she came to a sudden halt. He was the last person she had expected to see there. The next moment she was running forward to meet him.

‘Eddie!’

She spoke his name on a little choking cry, and a moment later felt his strong arms enfolding her, drawing her to him.

‘It’s all right, Abs,’ he said. ‘It’s all right.’

Hearing his dear, familiar voice; feeling his strength, his hands soft upon her hair; smelling the familiar smell of him, she could no longer keep down the well of tears that lay within her. And now they came surging to the surface and spilled over. Looking up at him, she saw that he was weeping too, the tears running down his weathered, suntanned cheeks.

She stayed there in the circle of his arms until her sobbing died away, leaving in its place a dry little rhythmic catching of her breath. Eventually this too faded. Her voice muffled against the rough fabric of his coat, she murmured:

‘Iris . . . She’s dead, Eddie.’

‘I know,’ he said gruffly. ‘I just come from Woolwich. I went to the drill shed. I saw the poor girl.’ He gave a groan. ‘Oh, God . . .’

‘And Alfred too. They’re both dead.’

He tightened his hold about her, then after a moment said: ‘Is there somewhere we can go and talk?’

‘What?’ She broke from him, wiped a hand across her tear-stained face, looked distractedly about her, then gestured off. ‘There’s a little garden at the back.’ She led the way around the side of the ugly, sprawling building, through the rear courtyard and into a flower garden which was made up of a green lawn with rose beds and herbaceous borders. Beyond it lay a wide kitchen garden where half a dozen men were at work. Side by side she and Eddie went down the narrow path, the gravel crunching under their feet.

There was a small arbour over to the right of the path with a rough wooden bench in it. They moved to it and sat down. Abbie looked at Eddie beside her. Vaguely on the fringes of her awareness she thought how odd it was to see him out of his usual environment, to see him in these strange surroundings, so far away from home. Also the manner of his appearance was unfamiliar. He was wearing his best suit, his only suit, and his unaccustomed stiff collar looked tight and a little uncomfortable around his muscular neck, while his cravat had worked itself loose. His cap, designed for informal wear, did not go with the cut of his jacket.

‘I can’t get over it,’ Abbie said. ‘Coming into the yard and seeing you.’

‘I’d been waitin’ for you,’ he said. ‘The nurse said as ’ow she’d seen you go out.’

She nodded. ‘But Eddie – how did you know I was here?’

‘How? It was in the paper. All the papers ’ave been carryin’ lists of survivors. And they said many of ’em were brought ’ere.’ He paused. ‘I saw that Jane and ’er ’usband were among the lucky ones too, but the nurse told me that they lost their little girl.’

‘Yes . . . They – they’ve taken her body home. They left this morning.’

He gave a deep sigh. ‘Ah, there’s no doubt about it, Abs, this is a terrible business.’

Neither spoke for some moments, but sat silent in the warm September sunshine, the only sound that of the occasional murmur of the men at work in the kitchen garden beyond the wall. Then Abbie said, looking unseeingly across the green lawn:

‘It’s not only Iris and Alfred and Oliver . . .’ She put her hands up to her face, covering her eyes.

‘Abbie . . .’

She felt Eddie’s hand lightly on her back. Steeling herself, she went on, ‘It’s Louis, too. I haven’t . . . found him yet. But it must happen soon. I go every day to look.’

‘Abbie,’ he said, ‘Louis is alive.’

She straightened, turning, looking into his eyes. He would not pretend such a thing. ‘Alive? Louis is alive?’

‘Yes. He’s alive and quite safe.’

‘No, Eddie, I’ve searched everywhere and –’

‘He wasn’t on the boat.’

And with his words all her newly dawning hope began to rush away. ‘Oh, yes, he was, Eddie. We got on together. He –’

‘No, Abs. ’E wasn’t on the boat when it went down. ’E’d already got off again – when it pulled in to Gravesend.’

Louis had got off the boat at Gravesend . . . She felt that she could hardly breathe. ‘He’s alive. Louis is alive.’ She closed her eyes in a surging rush of relief and happiness. ‘He’s alive. He’s alive.’ Then, sudden doubt creeping once more into her voice, she said, ‘How do you know this? About his getting off the boat?’

‘I’ve seen ’im. ’E told me what ’e did.’

‘You’ve seen him?’

‘Yes. ’E come round to see me. On Wednesday evenin’.’

‘In Flaxdown?’

‘Of course in Flaxdown. ’E wanted to talk to me. ’E told me as ’ow the two of you ’ad parted. That it was all over between you now. ’E’d got on the boat with you, ’e said, and went down to Sheerness, but then ’e got off again when it got back to Gravesend – and caught a train to London, and eventually went on to Frome. ’E didn’t get ’ome till next mornin’. That evenin’ ’e come round to see me and we ’ad a long talk. Though it wasn’t till next day – yesterday – that ’e picked up a paper and saw that the steamboat had gone down. ’E come straight round again then and told me. That was a shock, Abbie, I don’t mind tellin’ you.’ He looked down at his large, work-roughened palms. ‘In the same paper you were listed as one of them who was saved. There was no word about Iris, of course. All I knew about ’er was what Louis told me – that you were plannin’ to meet ’er on the boat.’ He shrugged. ‘So I ’ad to come ’ere, of course, as soon as I could. I couldn’t do nothin’ else.’