The Quietness (4 page)

Jacob Grey smiled at me slowly and I swallowed down the saliva that had gathered in my mouth as I heard Mary open the door to him.

She took him straight to Father’s study. I had more than an hour to wait before dinner and I could barely contain myself. I called Mary to my bedroom and she tried a new arrangement for my hair. It was the latest fashion, she said, all curls and fancy twists. I looked at my reflection in the mirror and wondered what Jacob Grey would see. I wished my hair were light and golden and not heavy and black as coal. I wished my eyes were blue instead of dull brown, and I wished my neck were pale and graceful as a swan’s. I hated my plain black mourning gown and was glad that as Isabella Grey was just an aunt, I would only have to wear it for six weeks.

‘How do I look, Mary?’ I asked.

‘Beautiful, miss. A fine picture indeed.’

‘No, truthfully,’ I said. ‘Do I not look too dull all in black?’ She stuck more pins into the pile of hair on my head and stood back to consider.

‘Truthfully, miss,’ she said. ‘You look a picture.’

I caught her hand and squeezed it tight, my stomach churning with excitement.

I hurried at last to the dining room. Father eyed my hair and frowned as I walked round the table. Mother was sitting in her usual place, dabbing at her top lip with a handkerchief. She did not even look at me. Jacob Grey stood immediately and pulled my chair out. I nodded my gratitude and blushed furiously as I smoothed my skirts and sat.

It was the longest of dinners. Ninny had cooked up a boiled calf’s head and had inserted a bunch of wilting parsley in both of the poor creature’s eye sockets. The air was damp and smelt of vegetable steam and gristle. All I wanted to do was to look at Jacob Grey, but I kept my head down and looked instead at the flap of calf’s cheek and slice of pink tongue sitting on my plate.

Mary moved around the room filling glasses and plates and removing empty dishes. Cutlery chinked on china and the sounds of Father’s chewing and swallowing made me wince.

‘Sir?’ Jacob Grey’s voice burst across the table. ‘Thank you again for having me to stay.’

Father kept sawing at the meat on his plate and did not reply. I willed him to answer, but the silence grew longer. I could feel my face burning and I wanted to slide under the table. How could he be this rude? Why had he not even introduced Jacob to me and Mother? As if he had read my thoughts Jacob tried again.

‘Aunt Eliza. You have a lovely home. And Ellen. It’s good to meet you. I never knew I had such a beautiful cousin.’

He had called me beautiful. Jacob Grey had called me beautiful. Father looked up slowly from his plate. Gravy dripped from the fork he held in front of his mouth.

‘Please refrain from talking at the table, Jacob. Conversation will be reserved until after dinner, when we gather together in the drawing room.’

The clock on the mantelpiece ticked and I found myself chewing in time to it.

‘Well, I shall look forward to that, sir,’ said Jacob. Father looked back to his plate but I saw his hand tighten around his wine glass. After a while, I dared to glance at my cousin. His neck was flushed red and he had barely touched his food.

Dinner was eventually finished and Father ushered us into the drawing room. He busied himself with a cigar and I sat down on the couch with my sewing. Jacob walked slowly around the room, studying the paintings on the walls and the ornaments on tables and shelves. He was so handsome; I could not stop looking at him. His skin was clear, his nose was straight and his hair fell below his collar in clean, shiny waves. There was no trace of the heavily sweet macassar oil that Father was in the habit of smoothing into his own hair. I looked at Jacob’s hands; they looked so strong for a boy. He had broad fingers and polished nails and small dark hairs grew on his wrists. As he passed close by me I caught his scent. He smelt of lemons, sharp and bitter, and it made my mouth water.

The drawing room was stuffy; the fire cracked and sputtered, sending its heat out in rolling blasts. Mother, forced by Father’s steely stare to join us for a while, was snoring in her chair; a thin string of saliva hung from the corner of her mouth. I saw Jacob glance over at her and he caught me looking at him and crinkled his eyes. I felt as if we had shared a delightful secret.

It seemed not a week went by that Mam didn’t bring a strange man home with her. The sheet hung across the room was never taken down. Sometimes when it wasn’t pulled across right, Queenie caught a glimpse of shabby boots or the legs of fine woollen trousers. Mam had coins in the purse around her neck now. There was money for food and coal for the fire. But Mam didn’t seem to care. She didn’t klatter on any more, or sing her songs or tell her stories. She was like a ghost who drifted through the days without ever really being there. She had given up on Da coming back, Queenie knew she had.

The news that Mam had taken to selling her body spread quickly through the alleys and back streets of Blackfriars. Queenie couldn’t think of Mam as being a whore. She wasn’t like the others. She didn’t paint her face or leave the buttons of her bodice undone. She didn’t spend her days at the gin-shop sitting on the laps of drunken men. She wasn’t like Dirty Sal from out the back.
She
cursed like a sailor and spent her earnings on blue ruin instead of bread for her five children. Mam didn’t have to go looking for customers. Mam was a beauty. Da was always telling her so. A rare flower.

Queenie took the little ones out on the streets. The grunts of those faceless men and the thought of Mam with her skirts up round her swollen belly were more than she could bear. She hoisted Albie onto her hip and held Kit’s hand as they wandered through the back alleys. Tally trailed along behind, but he kept close to Queenie, tugging her skirt every now and then.

‘Where we going?’ he asked. ‘Can we stop now? Me feet ’urt.’

‘In a minute,’ said Queenie. She didn’t know where they were going, but she knew Tally’s feet would be burning with the cold. It was Kit’s turn to wear the boots.

They turned a corner into Friar Street. It led to Waterloo Station. There would be hot salted potatoes to be had from the barrows lined up to tempt hungry passengers and maybe, thought Queenie, today would be the day she spotted Da’s face in the crowds.

Part way down the road Queenie saw three women stood in the doorway of a pawnshop. They were all of them wearing bonnets, the lace on the edges frayed and yellowed. One of them was smoking a pipe. As Queenie and the little ones came closer, she took it from her mouth and pointed it towards them.

‘Look who we have ’ere,’ she sneered. ‘The hoity-toity whore’s little bastards.’ Queenie gripped Albie tighter and tugged Kit’s hand. She turned her head.

‘Tally!’ she hissed. ‘Keep up!’

‘You tell your mam we ain’t too pleased with her goings-on,’ said the woman, with a smirk. ‘Pinchin’ our custom without so much as a thank you. You tell her to watch ’er back. That pretty little face of ’ers mightn’t be so pretty for much longer.’

The woman turned back to her friends. They cackled and stared at Queenie as she walked past, her heart thumping loudly. Was Mam going to end up like that? Hard and ugly, and even more worn out than she already was? Queenie felt so tired all of a sudden. She wanted to find a warm corner to curl up in and sleep and sleep. Then she wanted to wake up far from here and not have to think of the little ones or look at Mam’s face or keep hoping that Da would come home. It had been too long now. The part of Queenie that still believed he would come back was getting smaller and smaller.

Waterloo Station was busy. The smell of hot oil, coal and smoke hit the back of Queenie’s throat. It tasted of freedom. One day, thought Queenie. One day I’ll leave here and I’ll never come back. Shouts of
Hot Green Peas! Eels! Baked Taters!
reminded her that the little ones needed warming and feeding.

‘Here, mind Albie,’ she said to Tally as she settled them all on some steps. ‘I’ll just be a minute. Then you can warm your hands.’

She counted the coins in her pocket that Mam had given her earlier and dodged through the crowds towards the shouts of
Baked Taters!
Soon she had four hot bundles wrapped in newspaper clutched to her chest. The little ones’ eyes lit up when they saw her coming back.

‘Me! Me! Me!’ they chorused and they snatched the hot taters that Queenie held out to each of them. Albie’s parcel looked huge in his tiny hands. They pulled the paper off and began to nibble at the crispy skins and to suck out the steaming flesh.

‘Ow!’ cried Kit. ‘Burnt me tongue.’

‘Careful!’ scolded Queenie. ‘Don’t scoff it so quick. And blow it first.’

She smiled to see Albie copy his big brothers; blowing hard and loud on his tater. His eyes watered as he gulped down a big lump. Queenie unwrapped her parcel and spread the sheet of newspaper out on her lap. She cupped her hands around the tater and let its warmth seep into her hands and thighs. Her eyes roamed idly over the newspaper and she began to pick out words and sentences. Mam had taught her her letters when she was only eight and Queenie could get by reading most things. MACASSAR OIL, she read.
Preserves and beautifies the hair, and prevents it falling out or turning grey.
BROWN’S SATIN POLISH.
For ladies’ and children’s boots and shoes.
Then an advertisement in bold letters right at the bottom of the page:

Queenie read the advertisement again. Wages £8. That was a fortune. Before she could think any more of it, a lump of thick brown spittle landed on the top of her tater. Queenie looked up and saw the woman with the pipe standing next to them.

‘Quick,’ she whispered to her brothers. ‘Time to go home.’ She ripped the advertisement from the newspaper and stuffed it in her pocket. She quickly wiped the spoilt tater on her skirt and put that in her pocket too. As she urged the little ones to hurry, shepherding them back down the road, the woman laughed and shouted, ‘Ha! Enjoy your meal, ducky. And don’t forget to send my regards to yer mam!’

‘What are you making?’ Jacob asked me. He had circled the drawing room twice and was now standing beside me with his hands behind his back.

‘Oh, it is nothing. Just a . . . just a repair on a collar,’ I stammered.

‘You have very nimble fingers. My mother was the same, you know. She could mend almost anything.’

‘Could she? I am sorry. I mean, not sorry she could mend things. I mean, I am sorry she is dead. I mean . . . oh . . .’ I stopped. How could I be so foolish? ‘I mean, you must miss her a great deal,’ I managed to say.

‘Yes. I do,’ said Jacob. I waited for him to say more, but he took his hands from behind his back and began to study his nails. The silence grew. I did not know whether to continue with my sewing or to think of something else to say. Father was of no help. He was standing by the fireplace swirling a drink around in a glass and staring into the flames. It was as though he had forgotten there was anyone else in the room. Just when I thought I would burst with awkwardness Jacob said, ‘She deserved a much better life.’ He ran his fingers through his hair. ‘Yes,’ he said loudly. ‘She deserved a much better life. Didn’t she, sir?’

Father looked up and frowned. ‘I am sorry your mother is no longer with us, Jacob. But I am sure she had as good a life as any of us.’

Jacob did not reply, but returned instead to studying his nails. I looked from him to Father. ‘I am sure she was a wonderful lady,’ I ventured. ‘I only wish I could have met her.’

Jacob looked up and opened his mouth to speak.

‘Enough!’ shouted Father.

Mother jumped awake in her chair. ‘What, what?’ she mumbled.

‘Ellen, take your mother to her room now. The evening has finished.’

I looked at Father. The veins in his neck were straining against his collar and his face had turned a dangerous red. I did not understand what had happened. I wanted to find out more about Jacob’s mother, my Aunt Isabella. I wanted to stay near Jacob and make him see that I was not so foolish. But he had moved to the other side of the room and Mother was flapping.

‘Ellen, Ellen! Come on, girl. Get me up from here.’

I sighed, put down my sewing and went to give my arm to Mother.

‘Goodnight, Father. Goodnight, Jacob,’ I said. Neither of them replied. I could feel an angry silence pushing me out of the door as I led Mother away.

Later in my room, as Mary was brushing out my hair, I asked her, ‘Did you ever meet Aunt Isabella?’

‘I did,’ she replied. ‘A very kind lady she was. And beautiful with it.’

‘So what happened? I do not understand why she was never spoken of. Please tell me, Mary.’

‘Oh, miss, don’t be asking me. I don’t know all the ins and outs. There was a falling out, I told you. But it is of no matter now. Your aunt has gone, but Jacob is here. So let bygones be bygones.’

‘But Father is angry with him. I know he is. Why would he be angry with Jacob if it was Aunt Isabella he argued with?’

‘You ask too many questions, miss. It’s late now and I need to see to your mother before I turn in. Get to your bed and stop fretting. ’

‘Maybe Jacob will tell me,’ I said quietly. ‘He must be in need of a friend. And he must be all alone in the world if he had no choice but to come here.’

Mary put my hairbrush back on the dressing table and patted my shoulder gently.

‘Sleep well, miss. I’ll see you in the morning.’

She closed the door behind her and I sat for moment thinking of Jacob. I imagined him standing alone at his mother’s graveside; throwing a handful of soil onto her coffin. A boy suddenly grown into a man. Somehow I would let him know that I understood what being lonely felt like.

Queenie took the little ones the long way home. With the promise of a sixpence worth of sugared almonds, they were happy to wander slowly behind. Queenie kept a look out for Da as they walked down Lambeth Road. Every head of dark curls drew her eye. But it was never him. Searching the crowds had become more of a habit than anything else. She wasn’t sure that she really wanted to find him now.