The Quietness (15 page)

I knew at least that was not true. Father cared only for his own reputation. ‘And the babies, Mrs Waters? What becomes of them?’

‘That is the whole beauty of it, Miss Swift. We take care of them too. You needn’t worry about that. You can wash your hands of the whole sorry business.’

For a moment my heart grew lighter, but as she held my gaze I turned cold. There was no hint of kindness in her eyes. I crossed my hands over my belly and looked back to the window. Queenie was still there and dozens of clean sheets were flapping in the breeze.

Something made Queenie look up. Miss Swift was standing at her window. Her hands were pressed against the glass and her face looked as white as the newly washed sheets. Queenie raised her hand and waved. Miss Swift didn’t wave back. She seemed to be looking far into the distance. Queenie quickly gathered up the peg bag and went back inside.

Mrs Ellis was holding one of the babies. Its mouth was open and its head was lolling against her arm. ‘I’m afraid this one’s a bit poorly,’ she said. ‘I’m going to have it with me for the rest of the day and the night. So I can keep an eye on it. Don’t want the others catching anything, do we?’ She wrapped it tight in a blanket. ‘You’ll be all right with me, won’t you my little one?’ she cooed as she took the baby away with her.

Queenie saw its bottle still lying on the sofa. She picked it up and went to chase after Mrs Ellis with it. Before she got to the door Mrs Waters strode in.

‘Make up some lunch for Miss Swift, will you. But don’t bother with any for me. I shall be going out shortly. And Queenie?’

‘Yes, ma’am?’ Mrs Waters looked at her closely.

‘Are you happy here?’

‘Yes, ma’am. Course, ma’am.’

‘You’re happy with us and in your work?’

‘Oh yes, ma’am.’

‘Well, that’s good. Because we trust you. You’re becoming part of the family now.’ Mrs Waters made an odd movement with her mouth. Queenie realised it was a smile. But Mrs Waters didn’t have the sort of face to smile.

‘Thank you, ma’am,’ said Queenie, and she smiled back, knowing it was the right thing to do.

Miss Swift was asleep in her bed when Queenie took her up a bowl of soup. She hadn’t touched her breakfast and the bread was hard and dry. Queenie thought how the little ones wouldn’t have cared a bit about that. They would have gobbled the bread down with relish, as if it had come fresh from the baker’s oven.

Mrs Waters’ words kept coming back to Queenie.
We trust you
, she’d said.
You are part of the family now
. Queenie felt proud of herself. But was it all right to have two families, she wondered? Mam, Da and the little ones, and then Mrs Waters, Mrs Ellis and the babies? First one then the other, or could she have both together? She liked that the sisters trusted her. It filled a hole inside her that had been there ever since she’d kissed Tally goodbye. Mam and Da were fading away now. Every time she tried to picture their faces they crumbled like ashes in the grate. She hadn’t had a proper family for a long time, she realised. Just people who shared the same space but wished they were somewhere else. At least here at Wild Street everything felt solid and real and she could enjoy the feeling of being alive.

I spent the afternoon in bed. I had no appetite and no strength for thought. When I woke there was a bowl of soup grown cold on the table, and when I looked out of the window the washing line was empty. I turned to the bag I had so hastily packed. I had no memory of what I had thrown in and little idea how I would manage in the long weeks ahead. I pulled out a nightgown, my hairbrush, some underclothes, ribbons, pieces of jewellery and a heavy dark blue gown. I laid everything out on the bed; it was all that I had. I picked up the gown and buried my face in the folds of fabric. I smelt the faint warm scent of lavender and it made me long again for Mary and the comforts of my own bedroom.

I took up the brush and began to comb the tangles from my hair. The rhythm calmed me and I brushed for a long time until each lock felt smooth and ordered. Then I stripped naked and washed in the water that had been brought to me the night before. I wiped my feet and legs, then under my arms and over my breasts. My body was so changed. I wiped gently and felt its heaviness. My nipples had grown dark and pale blue veins criss-crossed the swell of my breasts. I squeezed water over my belly and the child inside me shifted, as if startled by the cold. It shocked me to see how big I had grown. My skin was stretched and tight and I wondered how much bigger I would get before I burst open. It did not seem possible that a full-grown baby could fit inside me. I shivered from the cold and from the fear of being so alone. My belly shifted again. ‘Be still!’ I said out loud. I did not know whether I was talking to the baby or to myself.

Queenie took extra care with Miss Swift’s morning tray. She cut the crusts off the bread and arranged the slices neatly on a plate, and she went out in the yard and picked a small sprig of daisies to put in a glass of water. The young lady was awake and dressed when Queenie went up. She was sitting in the chair with her hands clasped in her lap. She looked as though she’d been waiting for the door to open. Queenie put the tray down and smiled.

‘Shall I pour for you, miss?’

Miss Swift nodded and said, ‘I . . . I wonder if you would help me with my gown?’

She stood and turned her back to Queenie. The gown was gaping; only half the buttons had been fastened. Queenie started at the top and began to pull the loops over the tiny pearl buttons. The first few fastened easily, but further down Queenie’s fingers fumbled to stretch the fabric to meet.

‘I’m sorry, ma’am,’ she said. ‘But these lot just won’t do up. You’ll be needing a bigger gown, I think.’

The young lady sat down heavily in her chair and sighed.

Queenie poured the tea and then watched how she took delicate sips from the edge of the cup.

Miss Swift picked up a piece of bread, then hesitated for a moment.

‘Queenie,’ she said. ‘Can you please tell me where I am? Where is this house? Am I still in London?’

Queenie laughed. ‘Still in London? ‘Course, miss! Where else would we be?’

The young lady’s cheeks flamed red and she bent her head. ‘I . . . I was quite distressed on my journey here. I lost track of time and could not tell for how long I was in the carriage.’

Queenie wished she hadn’t laughed. ‘Sorry, miss. We’re in Wild Street,’ she said in a softer tone. ‘Not far from Drury Lane.’

‘Drury Lane?’ the young lady whispered to herself. ‘That is not too far from the British Museum and . . . and Gower Street and Euston Square.’ She looked up at Queenie. It’s where my father works,’ she said. ‘At the University College Hospital. I cannot be too far from home, then.’

Queenie didn’t know what to say next. She felt awkward just standing there with nothing to do. Just as the silence between them began to pound in Queenie’s ears, Miss Swift turned to her.

‘Are you the daughter of Mrs Waters?’ she asked Queenie carefully.

‘Oh no, miss, no,’ said Queenie. ‘I just work here is all.’

‘So have you seen many like me come and go?’

‘One or two, miss. But I ain’t been here more than a few months.’

Miss Swift was looking at her as though she needed her to say something more.

‘There’s nothing to worry about, miss,’ said Queenie. ‘Mrs Waters and Mrs Ellis will look after you right. And they’ll find a good home for your baby when it comes too.’ She thought of Little Rose and all the others that were down in the kitchen now. It was best she said nothing about those, she decided. She knew the sisters didn’t like their business talked about.

Miss Swift had tears in her eyes now. She reached out her hand to Queenie and held on to her wrist. ‘Thank you, Queenie. I needed to hear that.’

Queenie felt so grand to be talking like this with a proper young lady. It seemed the strangest thing. But everything about her new life had been strange at first. This would be no different, she supposed. She was somebody worth talking to now and it felt good. She wasn’t just another faceless urchin on the streets any more. She wasn’t a grubby, ragged pauper that nobody gave the time of day to. That was her old life, and she was never going back to it.

‘Would you have a needle and thread, Queenie, and some scissors?’ Miss Swift asked her. ‘If you would be kind enough to bring some to me, I could let out my dress.’

‘Yes, miss. I’m sure I can find you some.’ Queenie picked up the breakfast tray, pulled her shoulders back, and held her head high as she left Miss Swift’s bedroom.

The babies were quiet as usual. Sometimes Queenie forgot they were there and was so busy with her chores that she only remembered to check their bottles at the end of the day. Mrs Waters seemed not to notice the babies at all. She was only pleased when they first came into the house. There hadn’t been any new ones for a while now, but there was room on the sofa for more. Queenie knew that one day soon, Miss Swift’s baby would be at the end of the row, lying there with all the others.

There was no sign of Mrs Waters, Mrs Ellis or the baby that Mrs Ellis had taken away to look after.
It’s gone to a new
home
, Queenie told herself. She didn’t want to think any more about it. She wanted to find a sewing box for Miss Swift. There must be one somewhere in the house, she thought. She wanted to find it to please the young lady; to help her. Miss Swift needed her and that felt wonderful.

Queenie knocked on Mrs Ellis’s door. There was no reply. When she knocked on Mrs Waters’ door there was no reply either. She turned the handle and found the door was locked. Queenie walked through the house checking each room in turn. The other rooms in the house were unused and mostly empty of furniture. There were only a few strange shapes covered by dust sheets. Queenie threw back the sheets but there was no sewing box to be found, only a moth-eaten velvet sofa, a cabinet full of stuffed birds and a few wooden tables and chairs.

Queenie went back to Mrs Ellis’s room and knocked again. There was silence. She tried the handle, expecting the door to be locked like Mrs Waters’ had been. But the handle turned and the door opened easily. She shouldn’t go in, Queenie knew that. But if she was quick Mrs Ellis would never know.

It was shadowy inside, the curtains were drawn shut and the room smelt of cold ashes. Queenie stood for a moment to let her eyes get used to the gloom. Aside from Mrs Ellis’s bed, her chair and velvet stool, a table, a chest of drawers, a wash stand and a wardrobe, Queenie could see nothing that might be a sewing box. She was not surprised. She had never seen the sisters mend a tear or sew on a button.

There were photographs on the mantelpiece over the fireplace. Queenie recognised Mrs Ellis in one of the pictures. She was much younger and was holding a sleeping baby in her arms. Behind her was a dark-haired gentleman all buttoned up in a stiff collar. He had his hand on Mrs Ellis’s shoulder and Queenie thought he must be the poor husband who had died of madness. Queenie picked up the photograph. She wondered where the baby was now. All grown up, no doubt. It was strange to think that Mrs Ellis once had a little family all of her own.

Queenie put the photograph back in its place before having one last look about the room. As she turned, her shoulder caught the edge of the photograph frame and knocked it to the floor. It skittered across the wooden floorboards and came to rest by the rug at the side of the bed. Queenie took in a sharp breath. How would she explain to Mrs Ellis if the frame was broken? She hurried across the room and bent to pick the frame up. It was in one piece, there was not a scratch on it. As she went to straighten up, the dark space under the bed caught her eye and she dropped to her knees to get a better look. She saw two boxes, a small wooden one and a larger tin one. Queenie slid them both out and opened the lid of the smaller one. She smiled to herself to see a tangle of threads, ribbons, tapes, tins of needles and a pair of small silver scissors. She took the scissors, a few needles and some thread and put them all in her pocket. Then she pushed the box back under the bed and looked again at the larger one. What harm could it do to look inside that one too? The lid was tight and Queenie had to use her nails to prise it open. She inched it loose, bit by bit. Suddenly the lid sprang open and a musty smell caught in her nostrils. It looked to Queenie like a bundle of blankets had been shoved into the box. She reached inside and pulled at one. Her heart stopped as she saw that the blanket was pink and edged with silk. Queenie pushed her hand further in and pulled out more blankets, some tiny chemises and petticoats, baby flannels and small lace caps. Some of the pieces looked familiar to her. She had washed and dried many of them. What were they doing here when the babies that had worn them had been taken to new homes? Why had their clothing been left behind?

With trembling hands she put everything back inside, hurriedly put the lid back in place and pushed the box under the bed, making sure the rug was straight. She got up from her knees and walked to the fireplace, where she carefully stood the frame back in place, even though her hands were shaking. Her heart was thumping loudly in her chest. Dark thoughts gathered in her head. Babies coming and babies going. And never had she seen or heard the carriages that had been sent to collect them.

She hurried from the room. As the door closed behind her, she hid the picture of the tin box and its contents behind the imaginary sheet that hung inside her head.

Queenie brought me needles, thread and scissors. I cut fabric from the full skirts of my blue gown and added new panels to my bodice. I sat by the window and looked out over the rooftops as I worked line after line of tiny, neat stitches. The gown fitted me well now and there was room enough for if I grew even bigger in size.

The days passed slowly. I did not leave the bedroom. I grew comfortable there and Queenie brought me everything I needed. She brought fresh water for me to wash every day and cloths for me to dry myself. She took care of my chamber pot and brought my meals to me on a tray. When I developed a longing for stewed apples she brought me a dish with every meal. I read the books in my room and I lost myself in the mysteries of Wilkie Collins’s
The Moonstone
for days.