Song of the Sea Maid (3 page)

‘Oh no, child. You do not learn to write here. Reading and numbers is all foundlings need. Writing is not necessary in your future forms of employment. Whoever heard of a cabin boy who could write, or a milkmaid? A charwoman does not even need her numbers, as she is not paid in coin but in broken meat and cinders. What need has she for a quill?’

‘I need one.’

‘Whatever for?’

‘To write down my thoughts so I cannot forget them.’

‘And what does an orphan need to think about?’

‘Everything.’

‘Is that so?’

‘Yes, Matron.’

She is frowning at me. She is thinking. ‘I said you were a clever one. My nephew says it too.’

‘That I am clever?’

‘Indeed.’ I grin. Matron cannot help herself and she smiles also. Yet she stifles it. ‘But there is nothing to be done about it, child. The founder is resolute on the matter. Orphans are not to learn to write. And the idea of a girl receiving an education would never be borne. He has three daughters himself and no sons and has given them all the same sage advice in order to secure matrimony, namely, that they should hide any vestige of a lively mind if they are to catch a husband. Wives who are cleverer than their husbands are unnecessary, as are clever servants likewise. Thinking never cleaned a floor. Better put it out of mind.’

But I do not put it out of mind, as I cannot. The following morning I hide a reading primer from the schoolroom inside my jacket. I carry it round all day – its weight a delicious secret against my heart – and hide it beneath my bedclothes that night. I wait in bed while the other girls whisper, then, one by one, their whispers cease and they all breathe heavy. I get up and creep across the room; the floorboards creak but everyone is too spent to waken. I fetch the candlestick from the stool and use the fire’s embers to light the wick. I make my way downstairs and along the hallway to the grand door and listen carefully. No sound emits, thus I deduce it is empty. I turn the handle to the court room and enter. There is no one inside, yet the dying fire throws shadows dancing on the walls that make me start. I am watched by the exalted ones from the wall paintings as I go to the side table and remove one quill from the vase, take one of the two inkpots and retrieve sheets of paper from the large table.

For a moment, I consider staying in this room to do my work, but cannot risk the double punishment for not only thievery but also inhabiting Eden when God has banished me from it. I carry my treasures back up the staircase and into the dormitory. There is a table beside the fire where our water jug is stored. I remove it to the floor and set up at the table, using the candle stool to sit on. The stolen book open before me, I dip the stolen quill in the stolen inkpot and try to imitate the shapes I see on the pages. My first attempts at writing are poor, scratchy efforts. The ink splashes and spills and resembles the murder of a pen across the paper. But I persevere and make a passable letter A through to E, after much effort. I look at the quill and think of its life as a feather, which bird dropped it in its moulting – perhaps a goose – and what sights this feather saw on its journeys across the skies, winging past treetops below and clouds above.

I work every night for weeks and teach myself to write. If the embers are not warm enough to light a candle, I write by moonlight if it be full. I hear the night soil collectors on their jolly route from pit to pit. Twice, I see a cartload of people pass by on the road, who all stand shoved together in the cart’s bed; by their clothes they look very poor, all rags and filth, as I was when found. Yet on their sleeves each wears a matching badge, with the letters SG sewn on. They trundle past in the middle of the night, one calling, ‘Where do we go?’ and I ponder this myself. I tell Matron it woke me one night; she explains they are the paupers of our parish of St Giles. These poorest of the poor are entitled to some paltry handouts only if they reside in the area, thus the parish regularly deserts cartloads of paupers outside its boundaries so that it has no responsibility for them. One woman she heard of was heavy with child and the parish did not want another pauper child born within its boundaries, says Matron, ‘and when the big-bellied woman was abandoned beyond the parish border, she fell to pieces and died moments later.’ On these long nights, I think of the woman who fell to pieces and comfort myself that by learning to write, I obtain a skill that could make me a living one day, and thus will prevent me from riding that benighted cart. I listen for the Watch as he passes our windows and I count the hours down. I leave three hours at the end of the night to pack away my tools and sleep till dawn, so that I receive the minimum of rest to feed my body what it needs.

The days pass in routine: schooling, meals, service. Some of the orphans leave us, three boys and two girls, apprenticed to those in trade. One girl is thirteen years, a lumpish thing who no one would take for a time, yet the others are much younger, from ten down to one of seven years only, the brightest boy here. The gifted ones go soonest. Matron holds a solemn ceremony of farewell to mark each orphan’s entry into apprenticeship, the boys to a cobbler, butcher and calico printer, the girls to household business. The best thing is that the leaver is given a final meal of fat bacon and the rest of us watch with wet mouths; the worst is that none of us knows how our new master or mistress will treat us. There are frightful stories whispered of apprentices beaten, starved, bound and worse. It fills me with shuddersome fear.

I estimate I have at the most three years left before I am apprenticed – nobody knows my precise age, but Matron estimates gone six or seven years by now. Perchance I have fewer years remaining here, as they say I am very sharp and forward, so I must make progress with my writing before I am gone and have even less freedom than the wretched amount I have now, the portion I steal of it after dark. The nights are where I become myself. In the long days, I have come to an unspoken truce with my fellow occupants and they leave me be, though I sometimes find one or two staring at me at bedtime. Perhaps they know what I am about in the night. I hide my scribblings, the quill and the inkpot beneath my cot. I am forced to steal again, as my quill needs sharpening, and thus I pilfer a knife from the kitchen. Nobody has discovered my treasures, or, at the least, disturbed them. But I cannot sustain this progress with so little sleep. During the day, I am chastised for falling asleep at my desk in the schoolroom, falling asleep at the needle when practising my stitches, falling asleep even at mealtime over our long-awaited weekly soup. And finally one night I fall asleep at my writing and am awoken with a clout about the head and a clump of crowing inmates surrounding the furious face of Matron, who hits me again and cries, ‘Get up, girl!’ I am made to stand facing the corner of the room while I listen to the others dress and wash their faces without a word and leave.

Once we are alone, Matron says in a quiet, cold voice I have not heard her use before, ‘I fear the founder will send you to the workhouse for this.’

I turn from my corner and cry, ‘Oh please, Matron. Not that,
please
!’

‘No use in begging me. You should have thought ere committing the crime of theft. And from the founder himself? ’Tis unheard of. I know not
what
he will do.’

‘Will you not help me, Matron?’

‘I have tried, believe me. When you slept at your work, the other girls knew I would have beaten them about the ears for less, but I let you go with a harsh word. And there are things of which you know nothing. I have argued for you, more times than you could imagine. When I saw your hunger for learning, I went myself to the founder and asked him, Cannot the Price child have a little extra time for school work? My nephew I persuaded to give up his free time to help you, but the founder refused. No foundling would waste the precious God-given day on learning to write when there is real work to be done. He knows wastage of time is a sin and would not have a wretch wasting its time under his beneficence. But I asked again, another time, and another. The Price child is a prodigy, sir, and would perhaps do better in life with some learning to quiet her restless mind, but no. He is adamant and I cannot tell you how far I pushed his goodwill to me as his employee, to the point where he raised his voice to me and said that no girl ever possessed a brain for learning, no more than a bear that performs tricks, and that I must stop this minute from asking and asking for such a wretch or he would have to find another housekeeper. There, you had no idea of that, did you, girl? And now this? Oh, what is to be
done
with you?’

‘Keep my secret, Matron. Please. Keep it our secret and do not tell the founder.’

‘You are crack-brained! An inhabitant of Bedlam stands before me! Every orphan in this place knows about it by now. The founder would hear of it ere luncheon. And how long do you think my post here would be mine if he knew I sanctioned theft from his room and hid it from him? And a knife too? What havoc did you plan with that?’

‘To sharpen my quill, that is all. I had no evil intent. Believe me, I beg you! Protect me!’

‘No, you are discovered and that is the end of it. Get dressed now and prepare yourself for what is to come.’

Matron turns to leave the room but I touch her arm.

‘Thank you for all the times you spoke for me.’

‘You must stay here in this room until you are called for. Sit on your bed and
do not move one inch
.’

I dress slowly, wash my face with care and sit down as I am told. My empty stomach grumbles. I wait all morning. These will be my final hours beneath this roof. By this evening, I may be in hell. Yet even this does not break me, nor bring a tear to my eye. I consider this. I do not weep because I have no fear. Something has changed in me since I taught myself to write. This is my armour and protects me from the blows life may deal me. As the sun reaches its noontime zenith in the sky, Matron calls up the stairs for me to come. As I descend, I hold my head up and prepare to meet the founder’s fury.

Matron awaits me in the hall.

‘I have met with the founder this morning. He has considered your case. He has just this very minute summoned to see you in his room. There are people there. But he says he wishes to see you now.’

‘What people?’ I ask but she does not answer.

She grasps my hand and leads me briskly down to the court room, where she knocks at the door. It opens immediately.

Once inside, I almost stumble with amazement. The walls are lined with chairs, upon which are seated gentlemen and ladies dressed in every type of finery, fluttering fans and nodding and smiling. To one side waits a patient line of poor women – I estimate twelve of them, no, thirteen – all holding babies, some of whom sleep and some cry and the mothers are shushing them, rocking them or simply staring into space as if the baby makes no noise, as if they are deaf to it. All eyes turn on me as I enter, then immediately dismiss me as an object of no interest. Matron leads me to a corner, to await the founder, who is perambulating along the chairs of the quality and offering witty comments to make the ladies titter, his wig powdered white for this formal occasion. The sideboard where he keeps his ink and quills has been cleared and in their place are plates of food and jugs of wine, luxurious food I have never set eyes upon before: tarts of all sorts and sweetmeats and fruits; sea creatures – the like of which I have only seen in books – are seated quite dead on ice alongside peas and salad; and every kind of meat and poultry piled up glistening in silver dishes. I am astounded to discover that food comes in so many colours other than shades of brown or grey. The appetising scents waft about the room, admixed with pomade and powder. The quality do not regard the table of treats, but many of the poor women ogle that food, even while their babies squeal ignored in their arms.

The founder finishes his round and claps his hands, at which all the poor women turn their heads to him expectantly. The room hushes. The founder gestures to my schoolmaster who stands beside the table. He fetches a cloth bag and hands it to the founder, who takes it to the first poor woman in the line. Holding her mewling babe on one arm, she reaches in and takes something from inside. It is a ball, a black ball, and she frowns. The founder shakes his head. There is an audible sigh from the audience. The next woman is offered the bag, and she too takes a ball, this time white. She smiles and looks behind her at the next woman, who will not meet her face. This one takes a ball and it too is white and they smile together and pet their babies and jiggle them. Some of the quality clap their hands together and nod approvingly. The next takes a black ball, the next black and the next. Then appears a red ball, and the mother looks quizzical, but no one answers her questioning face. There are three more white balls and smiles, one black and three red. The mothers with the black balls are led across the room by a maidservant; dejected and wordless, they are shown out and the door closed behind them. The whites huddle and mutter to each other, joined in success. The red wait, separate, alert. The founder speaks to these.

‘You are hereby upon the list of reserves. Leave the details of your place of abode with my secretary and he will be in contact with you in due course if a lot becomes available.’

Another maidservant is there to lead away the victors. Matron steps over to her and says, ‘Can you administer the medical tests for these five yourself? I must stay here with the child,’ to which the maidservant nods and leads them on. The founder continues his jolly banter with the guests, while Matron and I stand in the corner waiting.

I tug at her sleeve. ‘What game was this?’ I whisper hoarsely.

‘’Tis no game. ’Tis a ballot. These women sue to be admitted to the orphanage. Those with the white balls have won a place for their babies here.’

So this is how they come. An orphan lottery. Yet it strikes me that there are no babies living here. I am one of the youngest. The orphans range from four years or so to fourteen.