by Liz Trenow
It had been a long and lingering illness: a slow decline followed by apparent recovery, bringing new hope, only to be dashed by further decline. Throughout it all, Anna and her sister Jane had nursed their mother, trying as best they could to shield their father who, as the village vicar, had plenty of problems of his own: difficult parishioners, the demands of his diocesan masters and the need to shore up the ruinous fabric of the church.
The exhaustion of caring for her mother and running the household had kept Anna from dwelling too much on the tragedy ahead. When it finally came, Jane took to her bed and wept, so it seemed, for several weeks. Nothing could console her except for the sweetmeats she consumed by day and the warmth of her sister’s embrace in their shared bed by night.
Their father, Theodore, though hollowed-out and grey in countenance, continued about his daily work, the only difference being that he retired earlier to bed than usual. Once or twice, in the dead of night, Anna would hear heartrending sobs through the wall and longed to comfort him. But she resisted the impulse, sensing that he must be allowed to embrace this misery without needing to keep face for anyone else.
As for herself, the anticipated collapse into despair never really happened. She rose each day, washed and dressed and did her chores, made meals for the family, organised the funeral tea and tried to smile when people commented on how well she was coping. But inside she felt empty, almost indifferent to her own misery. Grief was like sleep-walking through deep snow, its landscape endless and unchanging, every step painful and exhausting. The world seemed to become monochrome, colours lost their hue, sounds were muffled and distorted. It felt as though her own life had been taken, along with her mother’s.
Dragging herself away from these painful recollections, she turned back to the dining table, and her waiting aunt. ‘Thank you, madam, she was peaceful at the end.’ As she said it, she crossed her fingers in her lap. It was an old habit from childhood, when she believed it might save her from God’s wrath when lying. But then she uncrossed them as she realised that her words had a certain truth: the lifeless form laid out on the bed had indeed looked peaceful, now that all pain had gone.
‘And my dear brother, Theo? How is he coping with his loss?’
‘His faith is a great comfort, as you can imagine,’ Anna ventured, although she knew well that the opposite was true: his faith had been sorely tested these past few months.
‘It is a cruel God, indeed, who takes with one hand while purporting to offer solace with the other,’ her uncle said.
‘Each to their own, my dear,’ Sarah muttered.
‘It is an interesting conjecture, all the same.’ William’s eyes glittered, alert for the challenge, his thin lips in a sardonic twist. ‘Just what is the point of God, when all’s said and done?’
‘Shush, William,’ Sarah said, sliding a glance towards Lizzie and back again to her son. ‘Save such debates for your club fellows.’
A silence fell over the table. Anna took a couple of rather larger sips of claret. ‘I do hope you will forgive me for my tardy arrival. The coach was held up by a commotion, and we had to find another route into the city,’ she said.
William looked up sharply. ‘What kind of commotion? Where was this?’
‘I do not know exactly where, I am afraid. It was as we entered the city, and we could not see anything from the coach on account of having to draw down the blinds. There was much shouting – something about bread, I thought I could hear.’
‘Sounds like another food riot,’ William said. ‘Probably those Frenchie weavers again, like last month. They’re always revolting. Have you heard anything, Pa?’
Joseph shook his head, jaws working on the generous spoonful of meat and potato he had just stuffed into his mouth. ‘If they didn’t waste so much money on Geneva, they would have plenty for bread,’ he muttered. ‘And it would help if those Strangers would stop stirring things up.’
William took out his watch, put down his knife and spoon with a hurried clatter and pushed back his chair. ‘Forgive me, I am late for the club,’ he said, grabbing his jacket and bowing slightly in Anna’s direction. ‘We will meet again tomorrow, dear Coz. In the meantime do try to stay away from cabbages. They can cause the most odorous indigestion.’
Anna puzzled over this until, later, she recalled his ‘cabbage heads’ jibe. Why he should be so vitriolic towards two innocent and indeed most helpful young men was a mystery, but so much of this new world was unfathomable that it made her feel quite dizzy to contemplate.
After the meal Lizzie was deputed to show her the rest of the house – the upper floors at least, for the ground floor was entirely devoted to Uncle’s business and the basement, she presumed, was the domain of the servants. The building stood four storeys tall and, although deep from front to back, it felt less spacious than her own dear vicarage and nothing like so homely. She admired the opulent silk hangings, the elegant furniture, the painted wainscoting in each of the main rooms and the shutters on every window, but the overall effect was to make the place darker and more formal.
Next to the dining room, at the front of the house above what she presumed to be the shopfront, was a wide, elegant drawing room with a cast-iron fireplace and marble surround. Out of the window, Anna could see the street and the small square of grass with a few young trees which, she thought to herself, no doubt afforded the house its grand address. And yet the building was attached on either side to others so that it was difficult to see where one started and the other ended. Land must be very scarce in this cramped city, she thought to herself, that even in such prosperous areas they cannot afford to be separated from their neighbours by even a few feet.
‘Do you have a garden?’ she asked.
‘It’s just a patch of mouldy grass and a tree,’ Lizzie replied quickly. ‘I can show you tomorrow.’
‘I love to sketch natural things.’
‘There is little to inspire an artist,’ Lizzie said. ‘Although I know where we could see flowers and fruits in great abundance.’
‘Where is that?’ Anna asked.
‘At the market. All sorts, from farms and Strangers’ gardens and from foreign countries too, piled high in their thousands. It is a wonderful sight.’ Lizzie laughed suddenly. ‘I do not suppose that is what you had in mind for a painting?’
‘Not really,’ Anna said, pleased to be talking of lighter matters after so many serious hours. ‘Although I should love to see it.’
‘Mama will not let us enter the market; she says it is common. “’Twould not be decorous for a young lady.”’ Lizzie mimicked her mother’s tone, crinkling her pretty features into a grimace. ‘I think that’s silly, don’t you? But I shall ask if we can visit our new church tomorrow, so we can pass by.’
Anna demurred. It would be unwise to appear disloyal to her aunt at such an early stage. ‘I could turn my pen to architectural scenes instead, but I do find the perspective of buildings such a puzzle, don’t you?’
Lizzie’s face fell, her smiles gone as quickly as they arrived. ‘I would love to be able to draw, but my tutor is so scornful of my attempts that I scarcely dare to try.’
‘Then I shall teach you,’ Anna said.
‘Oh yes,’ Lizzie said, instantly recovered. ‘I should like that very much.’
After her tour of the house Anna begged leave to retire.
‘Of course, you must be exhausted,’ her aunt said. ‘But I must warn you that your chamber is up many stairs, and it is rather plain. We are short of rooms because the ground floor is given over to the business. We hope to move shortly, to an address more suited to Sadler and Son’s status, do we not, my dearest?’ She smiled at her husband but his face remained impassive. ‘Lizzie, why don’t you show Anna to her room? Her luggage is already there and I shall send the maid at once with water.’
They climbed a narrow wooden stairway to the very top floor, which Lizzie called the ‘old weaving loft’. It had been converted, she said, now that Uncle Joseph had finished
with the weaving and turned to selling finished silks for his living. The room, next door to one shared by the cook and Betty the maid, was indeed small and plain, with a wooden chest of drawers, a side table with a bowl and ewer, an upright chair and a bed that, although simple, looked marvellously inviting to her weary limbs.
After Lizzie had clattered back down the stairs, Anna opened the casement, took a long breath of warm night air and sighed deeply, releasing the muscles of her face that had grown painful from holding a polite smile.
She climbed under the covers, but sleep was slow to come.
The bed was short, the horsehair mattress lumpy and the blanket smelled unaired. But if not as comfortable as her feather bed at home, she was at least warm and safe. What more could she want for?
It was certainly warm in this attic on a hot July evening. Little breeze stirred the air, even up here on the top floor. The noise from the street was astonishing – did people in the city never rest? It seemed hardly to have abated since she first stepped from the coach this afternoon: brays of laughter from boisterous gangs of young men, the shrill calls of women and wails of children, the howling of dogs and keening of cats, the clanging of coaches and the hammering of handcart wheels on the cobbles. In her village all would be quiet at this time of night except for the rhythmical boom of the breakers when the wind was in the east.
What an adventure it had been. Despite the sorrow of leaving and the heaviness in her heart which had not lifted since her mother’s death, she could not help being a little excited.
‘Life has much to offer a talented young woman such as you,’ her father had said as they sat together that last evening. ‘There is so much to see and so much to learn, much in the world to savour and enjoy. But you will not find it here in this little community. You must go and seek your fortune in the city.’
‘Like Dick Whittington, I suppose?’
‘Indeed,’ he laughed. ‘And if you become Mayor of London, then you must invite us to your grand residence. But remember you can come home whenever your black cat leads you here.’
Even though the first day on the road had been perfectly straightforward and without incident, every small event came as a surprise for a novice traveller. She had been instructed to refrain from conversing with the other passengers for fear of encouraging intimacy, but it was so rare to spend time in the company of strangers that she could not prevent herself from scrutinising them, as covertly as possible to avoid appearing rude.
All ages of human life seemed to be represented in the cramped space of the stagecoach. Next to her on the bench was a stout gentleman who studied his newspaper in a self-important kind of way, harrumphing with disapproval at what he read and digging her in the ribs whenever he turned the page. After a while he fell asleep, tipping alarmingly sideways onto her shoulder before stirring and sharply pulling himself upright, only to repeat the process every few minutes.
She could not see the faces of the two women on his other side but knew they must be herring girls from Yarmouth, unmistakeable from their odour and redness of hand. On the opposite bench, two stout housewives from Bungay occupied sufficient space for three and chattered unceasingly all the way to Ipswich. Each jiggled a small child on one knee and a baby on the other.
The children whined incessantly before falling asleep with dribbles of snot streaming unchecked from their noses, while the chubby cupids took it in turns to cry: piercing, disturbing sounds in such close proximity. In between wails these babes would bestow cherubic smiles upon any who caught their eye, and all would be forgiven until the next bout of yowling. When it went on for too long, their mothers would yank down their tops and stuff the wailing infants’ faces into the exposed folds of disconcertingly white flesh.
A withered elderly gentleman had levered himself into the narrow space next to the two ladies and, when he too fell asleep, Anna feared that he might be silently squeezed to death, with no one the wiser until all had disembarked.
To reserve her stares and pass the time, she took out the pocket Bible her father had pressed into her hand at their parting. Her faith had evaporated during the long nights of her mother’s agony, and had never returned, but the familiar phrases of the epistles were comforting. As she opened the scuffed leather cover she saw for the first time that he had inscribed inside the frontispiece, in his vicar’s spidery hand: To my dearest Anna, God keep you and hold you. Tears prickled behind her eyelids. When will I see the dear man again? she thought. How will he cope, with just Jane to care for him?
Although she was only five at the time and had witnessed little of her mother’s labour, she understood that her sister’s birth had been long and arduous. When she finally arrived, the baby was blue and limp. Defying all expectations, her sister survived and slowly gained strength and weight. It was not until much later they discovered that the difficult birth had left long-lasting effects: Jane’s right side was weak and she walked with a limp, dragging her foot painfully behind her. And although sweet-natured, she was slow in her mind, struggling to understand those things that others found simple, and never managing to learn reading and writing.
How will she manage the household without me, strange little creature that she is? Anna thought to herself. Will she understand Father’s needs? Will she stay well? And will she find company and friendship with other girls in the village, now that I have gone? How she missed them both, already.
When they finally reached the staging inn at Chelmsford, the portly gentleman took her hand to help her disembark.
‘May I help with your overnight case?’
‘Thank you very much,’ she replied, grateful that someone had taken even a slight notice of her. ‘This is this one. I suppose the portmanteau and hatbox will stay on the coach for the onward journey in the morning?’
‘That is the usual custom, if you have informed them.’
He picked up her shabby canvas bag and his smart leather case and walked with her across the yard towards the front door of the inn. ‘Pardon me, madam,’ he said, ‘please do not think I am too forward if I offer a nugget of advice?’
‘Dear sir, any advice is most welcome, for I am unfamiliar with the customs of the road,’ she said.
‘Then may I recommend that you might ask for your meal to be served in your room? The tap can become somewhat rowdy and may not suit your gentle temperament.’ As if to prove his words, a roar of voices accosted them as he pushed open the door. She hesitated on the threshold but he took her arm and gently led her between the crowded tables through a fog of tobacco smoke towards a serving hatch. He shouted over the hubbub to a surly-looking woman Anna assumed to be the innkeeper’s wife and, shortly afterwards, a scruffy boy appeared and showed them upstairs. As they parted on the landing, Anna said, ‘You have been most kind, sir.’
‘May you rest well, madam,’ he said, with a slight bow.
The little exchange had so cheered her that she barely noticed how small and sparsely furnished was the room, how grey the bedsheets from too many launderings. When it arrived, the cold mutton was greasy and the potatoes pocked with black eyes, but she was so hungry she cleaned the plate without a thought. The candle stump they supplied quickly burned out and she found herself facing a long, disturbed night, trying to ignore the bedbugs as they celebrated the arrival of new flesh, and listening to the tap room below becoming ever more lively.
When she slept, finally, she dreamed of returning home to find all unchanged, the vicarage full of activity and laughter as it once had been, the fires lit, the family foursome intact. She fell into her mother’s embrace, smelling the mingled aromas of laundry soap and garden herbs that, to Anna, spelled love and security.
When she woke in the early hours and realised where she was the tears came at last, wetting her pillow with long, racking sobs that seemed to shake her whole body. How could she think of leaving that beloved place? But how could she return to it, when she would never again feel her mother’s warmth?
Yet next morning her
mood seemed to rise with the sun. She was sorry to discover that the kindly gentleman was not joining them again, but stepped aboard the coach full of optimism at the prospect of another day of travel, even venturing a smile at the only other passenger, a smartly dressed lady. After twenty-four hours of barely speaking to another person she would have welcomed a conversation, and was disappointed when the lady immediately took out her spectacles and opened her book.
She turned to her own thoughts, excited at the prospect of seeing at first hand all that she had heard about the great metropolis, and of making the acquaintance of her uncle and aunt, and her two cousins. After being confined to the house caring for her mother for such long, dutiful months she yearned to spread her wings and see the big city, and they had generously offered her this opportunity.
In the early afternoon, they stopped at a village to pick up two gentlemen who appeared to be father and son, and the coachman invited the ladies to disembark for what he called ‘a fine view of the city’.
At first, Anna could make out only the River Thames, reflecting the sun like a silver snake along the valley beneath a reddish-brown pall of smoke. As her eyes adjusted to the distance, she could discern ribbons reaching out towards them and in every other direction. After a few moments she came to realise, with astonishment, that these were streets of houses, in their hundreds, even thousands. The numbers of people all these buildings might contain was barely imaginable. In the densest part of the city before them, along the river’s edge, barely a speck of green could be seen; not a tree, not a field in sight.
How will I ever survive in such close proximity to so many others, all breathing that smoke-filled air? she wondered. Her village had but three hundred souls, with fields and woods occupying all the land to one side, sand dunes and the great empty sea to the other. What will I find to paint, in a place with no flowers or trees, no butterflies or birds?