‘Well that all depends, doesn’t it?’ she says. ‘On how happy you keep the customers. On who you keep happy. On how much more money I have to spend on you. And now with a bairn to pay for. Well it depends, love, doesn’t it?’
I shut her out of my mind. Right there and then, I imagined her gone, evaporated, no longer sitting and polluting the air for my baby with her pungent perfume.
But I was scared. I’d heard rumours ever since Maggie had been killed. There’d been whisperings and when I leaned in closer, the girls told me that Maggie and Madame Camille had never gotten on. That they’d not seen eye to eye. That Maggie had stood up to Madame Camille and said she was leaving, that very week - the week she turned up dead.
And here I was, alone with Madame Camille, her sitting over me and telling me what a good idea it would be to give up my baby, for money, for a better future. Suddenly all the soaring my heart had been doing was gone. The baby started to cry and I looked down at his curled-up face. What sort of future was he facing at all?
Chapter Seventeen
GLADYS
The nursery was finished, the yellow paper with brown polka dots, carefully applied to the walls. Albert had hired a decorator from a few streets away and it had taken him two days to finish the room, brushing the paste on to the paper and hanging it with a pencil sticking out his mouth.
Gladys hated having him in the house, and she took to pacing the corridor outside as he worked, making sure he wasn’t poking about in her things. Most of all she hated the break in routine, the disruption that it caused having a stranger in the house, having to take him tea and speak to him politely and see him create dirt and dust and not a care by him at all for the upset it caused her.
The wardrobe was filled with muslins and binders, all the baby’s smocks and towellings laid out neat and pressed. Over and over she checked the things, feeling the cottony touch, smelling the material as though she were sniffing the baby himself.
She had padded out the cushions in her dress as far as it would go now and she knew that time was closing in.
Albert had asked her about when they might expect the baby to come but she had waved her hand at him and said the doctor couldn’t be sure and there was a mix up with her dates and it would be at least the end of April. He hadn’t questioned it too much, not knowing of these things.
She had decided that when the time came she would go away for a few days, and tell him that she was going into the hospital, where men were not allowed accompany their wives. It would be easy to keep him away - he was terrified of childbirth.
In March, she walked to the local primary school and said she wished to register her son for school.
‘Name,’ said the bored looking principal as he inscribed her details in a large ledger.
‘Robert Eccles.’
‘Date of birth?’
‘Well he’s not born yet.’
The principal looked up, his eyebrows coming together as he glanced over Gladys in her tight Alice bonnet. She was old-fashioned and prim, her large stomach a clue to the child she was discussing.
‘Not born yet?’ he said.
‘No, he’s due soon. I wanted everything in order.’
The principal closed the ledger and began wiping his pen down with a dirty rag.
‘I think, Mrs Eccles, it will be safe for you to come back and register your son when he is born.’
‘But I’d like things to be in order,’ she said, an agitation creeping into her voice.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘We don’t register children until they are at least three years of age, it’s simply not possible.’
She felt foolish that she did not know the rules, that he would think her stupid. She turned to leave, nodding at his advice, but still, it felt good to be putting these arrangements in place. It proved to the world what a good mother she was going to be and it brought everything a little closer. It was the first time she had said his name out loud.
Robert Eccles. A strong name. For a strong boy.
‘How do you know you are having a son?’ asked the principal, still rubbing the pen with the rag as she opened the door.
‘I just know,’ she replied.
* * *
She feigned tiredness most days now. She stopped preparing some of the more time-consuming meals, telling Albert she wasn’t up to standing over the stove. He touched her back and told her that was quite alright and that he would live on eggs and bread if he needed to while she looked after her health.
‘And when it’s time,’ he said. ‘Will the midwife come here?’
He had brought up the baby’s birth many times but so far, she had managed to avoid discussing the issue.
‘Well you know I am worried about it,’ she said.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I’m worried too love, especially with ...’ and he paused. ‘The age you’re at.’
She looked down at her hands, clasped together on the kitchen table. They were raw from bleaching the steps which she was still doing every day, something she had to do, for her mind’s ease. The skin around her nails was broken and bitten. Lately they’d been bleeding as she sat and chewed on them and made plans for what she had to do.
‘I’ve decided on the Lying-In Hospital at Aldersgate. I’ve looked into it. They’ll know exactly how to look after me, a woman like me. It will be costly, Albert, but it’ll be worth it. It’ll take the worry out of it. I thought of being here too and the midwife and all. But this could be our one chance. I don’t want to risk it.’
Albert reached across the table and took her hand.
‘My love, money is no issue, no issue at all. Whatever it is, I’ll pay. I want you to have the best care. I’m glad you’re going to the hospital. It’s a relief , a big relief. Are there any signs? Of him coming?’
He looked down at her stomach. He didn’t know much about how she would know, only that there was pain involved. He’d been terrified about her giving birth in the house. Now, she’d be with doctors and nurses and all the midwives she would need.
‘No,’ she said. ‘No signs at all. He’s very comfortable in there he is. Could be weeks yet Albert.’
‘Do you think so?’ he asked.
‘Oh yes,’ she said. ‘He’s moving well, but I’ve no symptoms yet.’
‘Right,’ said Albert. ‘I am so looking forward to meeting him though.’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘He’ll be a topper.’
That was the first part of her plan organised. She hoped the rest would be as plain sailing.
MOLLY
When I left him that morning I was sad for him.
That I would come back as something different.
That he would be drinking the milk of a whore.
I sat in the hosting room, in my new uniform of chemise and stockings, the neck opened low, my bare thighs showing.
The door knocked and in came a man, a small man with a cap pulled low - a shift worker from a glue factory up the road. His clothes smelled of burnt meat and bleach.
His lustful eyes wandering made me sick. I worried it would come up my throat as he kissed at my face and pawed at my stinging nipples.
He was breathing deep now, and he sucked in a breath with the shuffle of my dress to the floor.
Do what you have to do to make him finish quick. So, I did.
He wasn’t interested in my body, only my hands and my mouth. They were enough for him. I was shocked when he finished, warm and all over me, after just a few minutes.
I now knew what the smell was in the kip-house.
The lingering smell that I could never describe before.
It was the traces they left in and on us, mixed with our sweat, with our wet.
‘Good girl,’ he said and he left the room, walking taller for such a small man.
The house madam said, ‘Now that wasn’t too bad, was it?’
But she was wrong. It was the worst thing that had ever happened to me in the whole world. What Mr McKenna did to
me was force. What I was doing here was something else.
I wanted my mother so bad. I wanted her to hold me and tell me that she would take me away from all this and wipe my soul clean.
But all I could see was her face. Her sad eyes. Her disappointment in me.
I couldn’t even think of my father.
That would have been just too much to bear.
Part Three
Chapter Eighteen
GLADYS
London, Louisville Road, 1900
Robert Eccles was a quiet boy. He ate his breakfast in silence, biting his toast all the way round the edges and nibbling at it, like a rabbit. Gladys felt her skin crawl as she sat holding her scalding tea, waiting for Albert to finish his breakfast, so she could hand him his lunch and kiss him on the cheek goodbye. Then she and the child could have their argument over finishing his food.
Motherhood was different to how she expected it. So much cleaning and washing and the added pressure of trying to keep the crumbs and crusts of dirt he seemed to drag with him everywhere. She had it now so that he would watch her and her hands, seeing where they were moving, wondering if they were coming near him for a short, sharp smack.
She’d found that surprising him with the back of her hand and never giving in on any of her strict rules, was starting to work. At four, he was calm most of the time, the boisterous running around that he was so fond of when he was younger, almost eliminated. He understood that if she found him with dirty hands, or bringing anything from outside into the house, he’d get what he deserved. The welts had healed. But he’d learned his lesson.
Still, it was difficult to keep to her routines with him in the way. He always seemed to be under her feet, or standing behind her, looking at her, wanting for something. Things had been calmer before he was here. More straight. Easier on her mind and her nerves. If she could go back to then, before he was here, well, yes, she probably would.
He was starting school in September, going to the small schoolhouse where she had tried to register him before he was born. She’d wondered if the school master would remember her, but he showed no flash of memory when he took the details and scribed them in the ledger. She expected the headmaster would make a good teacher - he’d take no nonsense. Robert could do with some proper discipline. Albert was far too soft on him, always cuddling up to him and patting him on the head and telling him he was a good boy. He never seemed to see what she saw - the impudence, the cheek, his thirst for dirt.
He’d pushed them apart, had Robert. During her pregnancy Albert had fawned after her, did everything for her, showed her how much he loved her. When she’d brought the baby home, Albert poured all that love into the boy. Something else he’d taken from her life.
The last time she could remember having all of Albert’s affection was in those weeks when they waited for their baby to come home. She’d been too wound up to enjoy them, to wallow in his affection, to take pleasure in the last times they would spend together, just the two of them.
* * *
When Gladys Eccles could no longer keep up the pretence of pregnancy she carefully scribed a note to Albert. She told him that she had been having mild pains and that she was taking a horse tram to the hospital. She said she would send a telegram with news and details of when he could visit in the next day or two. She said she didn’t want to hear that he had come to the hospital before the telegram, she wouldn’t like that. She told him of her love for him and that she was looking forward to meeting their baby. ‘I’m thinking the name Robert?’ she signed off.
She left the house carrying the small brown case she had packed and repacked a thousand times with the baby’s first clothes. Inside the case, the glass bottles rattled against the tin of formula and she thought about the guest house, how she would set everything up on the table, lined up, clean and ready. Albert would expect her to be giving the child the breast, but she would continue with her story that she couldn’t bear to be touched. She would arrive home with the formula and that would be that. And it meant he could give the child a bottle or two himself. He’d like that, would Albert.
The tram took her most of the way to City Road and when she dismounted, she began to act as though she were in pain. She imagined the labour as taking hold in her body, her stomach sending great crashing cramps through her. The hospital loomed large and grey ahead, its pointed turrets and drab front unwelcoming. She was glad that Albert had agreed to the hospital. She had worried that he would insist on a midwife at home, where he could be near.
She passed through the front doors and into the hall, where the smell of disinfectant hit her. There were women leaving with their new babies and others with large, round stomachs coming in. It looked busy and with her head held high, she walked right past the desk at the front where a lady was writing and through a set of white doors. A sign pointed her in the direction of the labour ward. There were also the private rooms, a laundry room, and a resting room for husbands. She feared that Albert might come here after all, to enquire about her, his curiosity getting too much for him. She was relying on his weak stomach and the words she had been casually mentioning in the past few weeks. Haemorrhage. Fever. Chaos.
She climbed the stairwell, one step at a time acting as though she herself were in labour. It was important that she kept up the act should anyone see her. In the corridor, there was a baby’s washroom, six sinks all lined up, laundry drying on the piped radiators. A nurse had a small, screaming infant in the water. She was holding its red head above the water and soaping it down.
Past the wash room were the general wards, beds laid out in each, some with women already in, others empty. They had a crib beside each bed and a large table and armchair in the middle of the room. She could see why women were choosing to come here and why it cost so much. She had taken the money Albert had given her for her maternity stay and hidden it in the brown case she was now carrying. It would help pay for the next few days and she would save the rest. For whatever she wanted. For whatever the baby needed.
The general wards were no good to her. She could be seen. She turned back and walked straight into a nurse, her white cap perched high on her head. ‘Can I help you?’ she asked.
‘I …’ said Gladys, panicking. ‘I’ve ... I have some pains. I think it’s labour. I’m in labour.’
‘Didn’t they take you to the labour ward?’ said the nurse. ‘This is the wrong part of the hospital dear. Only for women who’ve had their babies. Let me take you to the front desk.’
The nurse gripped her by the elbow to take her back down the corridor.
‘No,’ said Gladys. ‘It’s alright. I got mixed up, turned the wrong way. I’ll go back to the desk now. So silly. But I’m demented with these pains.’
She stopped and put her palm flat on the wall, breathing deep as though she had a big pain coming.
‘You’re all right,’ said the nurse kindly, rubbing her on the back. ‘I’ll help you back down the stairs.’
‘No need,’ said Gladys, puffing out her cheeks. ‘Honestly, I know where I’m going. I’m sure you’ve got plenty of work to be doing.’
‘Aye,’ said the nurse, still rubbing her back. But when Gladys straightened up and said her pain was gone, the nurse let her walk off on her own, watching her shuffling, back down the corridor.
When she reached the stairwell again, Gladys ran up the steps to the next floor. She couldn’t delay any longer, she’d been seen now. She had to get in and get out. And be quick about it.
The corridor she was on was much better. There were rows of doors ahead of her, a name holder at each one, telling which were occupied. The private rooms. The ones she needed. She made her way quickly along the doors, peering through the small windows, waiting to find one where the mother was asleep, just like she planned.
Voices sounded at the end of the corridor, nurses coming right towards her. Panicking again, she opened the door of the nearest room to her. She looked at the bed to find a woman with dark hair, asleep. Gla
dys stood to the side of the door and watched two nurses and a doctor pass. They went into the room of the patient next door. She had to be quiet. She had to get this done quickly.
A white crib, a drape from the ceiling over it, stood beside the bed. She tiptoed over to it and peered in but there was no baby in the cot. Looking closer at the mother she realised the baby was in the bed, tucked right under the woman’s arm. She bent over them, holding her breath so as not to disturb the woman’s bare skin and put her hands around the baby’s shoulder and middle. She tugged and lifted the baby right from under its mother’s arm.
She had a hold of the baby now and she pulled it right in close to her and backed out of the room.
As she left, she glimpsed the woman wake, their eyes locking for just a second. She turned and ran, rushing through the corridor, the infant cradled in her right arm, her suitcase swinging in the left.
She heard the woman scream as she reached the top of the stairwell and cursed herself. This was not how this was supposed to happen.
She had not even looked at the baby yet. She didn’t have a good grip of it, clutching it with one arm, almost round its neck. When she reached the stairwell, she glanced back to see if anyone was following her. When she turned her head back, she saw the nurse she had met earlier climbing the stairs in front of her.
‘You,’ said the nurse, her eyes now falling on the baby. ‘Stop!’ she said.
Cornered on the stairwell, Gladys thought about pushing past the nurse and making a run for the bottom of the stairs. But she had no hands free. The nurse put out her arms and sidestepped her, blocking her way. The panic was real now. She wasn’t going to escape.
With a scream of frustration Gladys thrust the baby at the nurse and pushed past her, holding on to the wall as she took the stairs two at a time, almost falling over the last steps. She ran through the front hall of the hospital, not looking at anyone, and past the front doors and into the midday air.
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