The Quietness (20 page)

‘Mrs Ellis?’ she asked carefully. ‘Has one of the babies gone to a new home?’

Mrs Ellis didn’t look up as she mixed a bowl of stuffing for the Christmas bird. ‘Yes, yes,’ she answered absently. ‘It was fetched while you were at the dairy.’

It was the answer Queenie had been expecting. It was what the sisters always said. Queenie wished with all her heart that it was true. She wished she could stop thinking such dreadful thoughts; of brown paper parcels and a tin box full of discarded baby clothes.

She looked at Mrs Ellis calmly mixing the stuffing. She didn’t seem flustered at all. Maybe she
was
telling the truth. A baby fetched to a new home on Christmas Eve? What could be better? But a present for a niece? Queenie’s thoughts whirled from one thing to another until she didn’t know what to think. Just stop it, she told herself. Stop being daft. If she could have kicked herself hard, she would have done.

‘Queenie?’ Mrs Ellis called her over. ‘How about, after you’ve finished cleaning, we mull some wine and bake a tray of mince pies for supper? It’s Christmas, after all!’

She smiled at Queenie like an excited child, and Queenie forced a smile back. ‘That’d be grand, Mrs Ellis,’ she said as she pulled out the broom to begin the sweeping.

Later that afternoon the kitchen was filled with the delicious smells of warm spices and baking pastry. Mrs Ellis was dipping her teacup in the pan of mulled wine and had become quite merry. She handed Queenie a cup.

‘Go on, girl. Drink up now. And Merry Christmas to you!’

Queenie sipped at the warm liquid. It tasted as delicious as it smelt and as it slipped down into her belly, she felt her spirits rise. She and Mrs Ellis clinked their teacups together and Queenie took another gulp. It felt good. She was all warm and rosy. Things weren’t so bad, were they? Here she was, having a fine old time on Christmas Eve. She had a job and coins in her pocket. She would take special care of Miss Swift’s baby until she came back to fetch her. She would even go home soon, she decided. She would walk right in this time and never mind she’d been away for so long. If Da could get away with disappearing and be forgiven, surely she would be too?

She slid the tray of mince pies from the oven. The pastry had crisped just right around the edges and the mincemeat was bubbling gently. Her mouth watered, but she knew she’d have to be patient or she’d burn her tongue. She put the tray on the table to cool. Mrs Ellis was humming as she sat by the fire with another teacup of wine. Queenie fancied another drop herself, and with the mood Mrs Ellis was in, Queenie knew she wouldn’t mind if she helped herself. She refilled her teacup, and as she carried it over to the table, the kitchen door opened and Mrs Waters stepped into the room.

‘Sarah,’ she said to Mrs Ellis. ‘Can I have a word with you?’

‘What? Now?’ said Mrs Ellis. ‘I’ve only just got comfy.’

‘Yes, now,’ said Mrs Waters over her shoulder as she left the room.

‘Can’t a soul have any peace?’ grumbled Mrs Ellis as she pushed herself from her chair with an exaggerated groan. She swayed slightly as she stood and hiccoughed.

‘Oops!’ she giggled, putting her hand to her mouth. She winked at Queenie as she followed Mrs Waters out of the kitchen.

Queenie took a gulp of wine and again felt a delicious warmth spread through her body. She shivered with pleasure. Mrs Ellis had left her freshly filled teacup by the side of her chair. Queenie could see faint wisps of steam still rising from the warmed wine. Oh, but it’ll get cold, she thought. Then it won’t be half as nice. She picked up the teacup, thinking to take it to Mrs Ellis, and maybe Mrs Waters could fancy a cup too? She put Mrs Ellis’s cup and another for Mrs Waters on a tray. No doubt they’d be in Mrs Waters’ room, thought Queenie. She put a candle on the tray between the two cups and made her way up the stairs. She was feeling giddy from the mulled wine, and it wasn’t until she was standing outside Mrs Waters’ door, that she realised she should have brought a plate of mince pies too. She hesitated. Should she knock, or should she go back and fetch the pies first? Before she could decide, she saw that the door had been left ajar and she could hear every word the two sisters were saying.

‘Stop whining, Sarah,’ Queenie heard Mrs Waters say. ‘I’ve told you. The fuss has died down. Have you seen any more about it in the paper?’

‘Well, no. But I still think it’s too soon. Can’t we wait a while longer?’

‘Listen, you silly cat, if we want to take more on, we need rid of some to make room. This lot are beginning to cost us; they’ve been here too long.’

‘I know. But I’m so afraid we’ll be caught out. What if they find the next one and trace it to us?’

‘How can they? All babies look the same. Besides, I’ll walk further this time and throw the parcel in the river. By the time anyone finds it, there’ll be nothing to recognise anyway. And I’ll do it tomorrow. There’ll be nobody about on Christmas Day.’

Queenie’s hands were shaking. The candle flame trembled wildly. She began to back away from the door as quickly as she dared. It was happening. The unthinkable truth that had been squirming away in the back of her mind had finally been spoken of. Queenie’s head was reeling, her heart was pounding and her tongue had grown thick and dry with fear. The sweet smell of the mulled wine turned her stomach now. She swallowed hard and tried not to retch. She tiptoed back downstairs to the kitchen.

What was she to do? What in the Lord’s name was she to do? She paced the kitchen, wringing her hands together. She couldn’t bring herself to look at the babies. Poor mites. Being starved like that. And then . . . and then . . . She thought of the clothes in the tin box under the bed, stripped off poor, dead babies. She thought of the pink blanket she had pulled out – Little Rose’s pink blanket – and the parcels Mrs Waters wrapped in the scullery. She shuddered. How many more had there been? She thought of all the babies that had come and gone. None of them taken away to new homes in the country. She thought of the strange hours Mrs Waters kept, of all the letters that went to and fro each week and of the ladies that came for their confinement and left their babies behind.

The truth had been under her nose the whole time. It horrified Queenie more than anything had ever done in her whole life. But what was worse, what was much worse was that Queenie realised she had known it all along. Deep down inside, she had known what was happening. She had known what the sisters were doing and she had chosen to ignore it.

Married? Had Father just said
married
? The word sounded so ridiculous that I had to swallow a laugh that threatened to choke me. I glared at Mr Rumble, who was gaping like an ugly fish in the corner of the room.

‘I am sorry, Father, but what did you just say?’

Father sighed impatiently. ‘I said, Mr Rumble has kindly agreed to marry you. The ceremony is to take place next month. The twentieth of January, to be precise. Now, if you have any questions, please ask them quickly as Mr Rumble and I have important business to discuss.’

I swayed forward and gripped the edge of Father’s desk. Thoughts and images were racing around my head. I saw a room full of babies and my own daughter’s face squashed against Mrs Waters’ bosom. I heard her cry for me and I felt the hollow space inside me where she had been. I saw Jacob’s face, Mary’s face, Queenie’s face, and the wizened face of Eliza Swift, the woman I had always thought to be my mother. I saw all these faces swirling together in my head and the floor seemed to shift beneath my feet. I felt so feeble standing there in front of Father and it was hard to keep my anger from turning into fear.

‘May I speak to you alone for a moment?’ I asked in a low voice. I bit my lip to stop it from trembling.

Father raised his eyebrows at me. ‘Whatever you have to say, you can say it in front of Mr Rumble. He is to be your husband, after all.’

Mr Rumble coughed. ‘Yes, Ellen. Please speak what is on your mind.’ He licked his lips. ‘I hope we never have any secrets from each other.’

I gripped on to the edge of Father’s desk even tighter. This could not be happening. Father was acting as though the last year had never happened. Was he honestly going to ignore the fact that I had just given birth to his first grandchild? Did he care how I was feeling? Did he care about what would happen to my daughter?

He was drumming his fingers on the desk. His eyes kept shifting to a pile of papers and I knew he had already grown tired of me. I was just a possession – a thing. A piece of business to be dealt with. All he wanted to do was to return to the papers in front of him and show Mr Rumble his latest sketch of a dissected lung or the four chambers of the heart. He did not care about his own daughter’s heart. Anger and longing for my baby welled up inside me.

‘Father,’ I said, trying to keep my voice steady. I will not marry Mr Rumble. You cannot make me do this.’

Father stopped drumming his fingers. His neck flushed a deep red and the colour travelled quickly upwards, staining his jowls, cheeks and nose.

‘You dare to question me?’ he said. He laughed, but it was not a pleasant sound. ‘And pray tell me. If you do not marry Mr Rumble, what do you plan to do with the rest of your life?’

‘Well . . . well,’ I stuttered. ‘I would like to be reunited with my daughter.’ I shot a glance at Mr Rumble. He did not seem the slightest bit disconcerted by my admission. He must already know. ‘And . . . and, I should like to have some choice in the man that I marry.’

Father pushed himself up from his chair and leaned over his desk towards me. His whole face was now crimson and his jowls were trembling.

‘ENOUGH!’ he shouted. ‘You have
no
choice in the matter. You have brought
disgrace
upon this family, and now you want to defy me when I have done everything in my power to hide your wickedness from the world?’ He straightened up and took a deep breath. ‘Mr Rumble has shown himself to be a highly honourable man in agreeing to take on a
fallen woman.
Did you think there would be men queuing up for you to choose from?’

Mr Rumble was looking at his feet. A strand of greasy hair had fallen from its place on his rather large head and I could see beads of sweat glistening on his forehead. I summoned up all my courage and looked straight into Father’s eyes. ‘But surely, Father, you disgraced this family first in the matter of my mother?’

Father clutched at his chest and droplets of spittle flew from his mouth as his lips formed words he did not seem able to speak. I had never seen Father lose control like this. I hoped I would not regret my words.

‘You . . . you,’ he spluttered.

Mr Rumble rushed to his side and proffered his handkerchief. ‘Are you quite all right, sir?’ he asked.

Father batted him away as though he were an annoying fly buzzing around his head.

‘You,’ he continued at me, his voice wavering with anger. ‘You are clearly suffering from the very worst case of hysteria. You will speak no more of your lies and accusations.’

‘Lies?’ I protested. ‘You know I am not lying.’

‘BE QUIET!’ bellowed Father. ‘You leave me no choice. You will marry Mr Rumble and lead a good and quiet life and repent your sins, or I will have you committed to a
lunatic asylum
!’

I stumbled back as though I had been kicked by a horse. The only sound I could hear was Father’s heavy breathing. ‘But –’ I began to say.

‘BE QUIET!’ he shouted again. Then in a more controlled voice he said, ‘Do not forget, I am a highly respected doctor. Do you think anyone would question my diagnosis on the state of your mind?’

A shiver ran through me. He was right. I could think of no answer. All of the fight, anger and indignation drained out of me at that moment. I felt as weak and helpless as a newborn lamb.

‘Go now,’ said Father and he sat back in his chair and picked up a pile of papers.

I looked to Mr Rumble, but he was staring at the wall above the fireplace at something that was not there, his handkerchief still clutched in his hand.

‘Out!’ said Father.

I turned away from them both and as if in a trance, I opened the study door and walked out of the room.

That Christmas Eve night was the longest of Queenie’s life. Although she’d pulled her mattress out from the scullery and tried to get comfy, sleep just wouldn’t come. She stared into the darkness for hours, her skin covered in goosebumps. She would have to fetch the coppers, she knew. It couldn’t carry on. She couldn’t stand by and watch more babies die. She couldn’t see anything happen to Miss Swift’s baby. It was murder, after all.
Murder.
The word filled her with dread. She could see it written inside her head in tall, black, heavy letters. In the small hours of the morning the heaviness of the word weighed her down, pinned her to the mattress and made her breathless.

As the light of dawn filtered in through the back window, she heard faint footsteps and the sound of the front door closing. She pictured Mrs Waters in her bonnet with the brown paper parcel hidden beneath her thick, black cloak. It was too late for that baby. She shuddered to think in which dark and lonely place the poor child would be laid to rest.

She should go now, she thought. Go and fetch a copper quick, before Mrs Waters got back and before Mrs Ellis rose from her bed. She lit a candle and pulled on her clothes. Her bones were aching with tiredness and her head was thudding. She checked on the babies first, praying none had passed on in the night. She put her fingers to each mouth and waited to feel the slightest touch of breath. All were well. Miss Swift’s baby even stirred and let out a tiny whimper. ‘I’m so sorry,’ Queenie whispered to them all. ‘I’m so sorry I didn’t look out for you better.’

She hurried to fetch her shawl and as she wrapped it around her shoulders, a thought struck her. What would happen when the coppers came? What would happen to the babies? The workhouse, she realised with a shock. They’d be taken to the workhouse! When Miss Swift came back for her baby she’d be gone and there’d be no way of her knowing where to find her. Queenie didn’t know what to do. She’d promised Miss Swift she’d mind the baby and once the coppers came there was no way of telling what might happen.