Tattycoram

by Audrey Thomas

  I continued my rambles and brought back things for the children to examine: an abandoned robin’s nest, the shed skin of a grass snake, a razor-sharp fungus from the Hurtwood. One day a boy brought in a dead crow, and we admired the glossy blackness of its feathers and the lightness of its bones.

  “Why can’t we fly, Miss?”

  “Because we are too heavy, and besides, we have no wings.”

  “Angels have wings, Miss. We’ll all have wings one day.”

  No one called me “orfink” or “fondling.” It was “Good morning, Miss Coram,” “Good afternoon, Miss Coram,” “Yes, Miss,” “No, Miss,” “Please, Miss, I know the answer, Miss.”

  The curate married a pale girl from Albury; she had very little chin and seemed almost as limp as he was. In time, I thought, they will produce a string of pale, boneless children — and told myself not to be so nasty.

  Then my father died, suddenly, just keeled over while he was walking behind a plough. No time to make our farewells, no time for me to tell him once again how much I loved him.

  There was his pipe on the mantel, his clean smock-frock drying on the line. I had never been so alone before and could not adjust to it. The little cottage was full of ghosts, and although I tried to tire myself out with teaching and walking, I slept badly and had terrible dreams. Sometimes I was back at the Foundling and had been thrust into a ring of fine ladies, all pointing their fingers and chanting “base-born! base-born!” or a stern voice was commanding, “Hold out your hands!” Sometimes I was on a London street in the fog and night creatures were clutching at my skirts. I went down street after street, trying to find my way home. Street after street, turning this way and that, but nothing looked familiar. Once I dreamed I was being walled up like the anchorite and woke up screaming. There were several nights after his passing when, sleepless, I sat downstairs, wrapped in an old shawl of my mother’s, and never went up to my bedroom at all.

  And there were practical things to worry about. We did not own the cottage of course (somehow I had forgotten that when imagining my future), and I knew I would have to leave, perhaps right away. Would I end up a domestic servant after all? I seemed sunk in a bog of grief and worry; it was all I could do to drag myself to school each morning. When I helped to arrange the flowers in the church, I looked towards the place where Christine, the anchorite, had had herself walled up. Twice! She came out and then she went back in. How could anyone do that? Was she allowed to speak to the person who delivered her daily bread and water, or had she taken a vow of silence as well? There were stories in the village, passed down from generation to generation, that after she died and her body was brought out, her fingers were worn down past the first joint, that there were gouges in the wall where she had tried to remove some bricks. If that were so, then there was more to the story than we thought. What if she had not gone willingly? What if it were punishment, not devotion, that placed her there? Was she one of the unwise virgins perhaps? Was she taken in adultery?

  Whatever was to become of me, even if it meant cleaning out grates at dawn and carrying cans of water up and down stairs, even if it meant encountering another Miss Georgina (and I had heard that some of the farmers’ daughters were just as high-handed with their servants), I would never be walled up again for any reason; I would never give up on life. I had had enough of walls and silence at the Foundling.

  Once again, my benefactors came to my rescue. The Misses Bray had decided to buy our cottage from the farmer who owned it, but he balked at this, said it was a labourer’s cottage and a labourer’s cottage it would remain. However, if they were willing to pay the rents, I could remain until the next Lady Day.

  “And before that,” said Miss Amelia, “we shall have built a teacherage.”

  “We need a teacherage anyway,” said Miss Louisa.

  “You must let me pay the rents.”

  “Nonsense, my dear. Your stipend is so low, we couldn’t allow it.”

  “Is there no way I can repay you for your kindness?”

  Miss Amelia smiled. “The daughter of a young cousin is getting married. We have seen examples of your embroidery and tatting, and we wondered, if we brought over a set of linen — sheets and pillowcases — if you could embroider something on them and do a pretty edge?”

  “I would be pleased to do that.”

  That night I thought of something my father had said when I was reading to him from Robinson Crusoe: “Wonderful, the way he got on. No lyin’ down and given’ up for that one, Hattie, none o’ that.”

  Here I had been bemoaning my lot like some spoiled, incompetent girl. I did not deserve the Misses Bray. There were no Misses Bray to haul Robinson Crusoe out of his despair, no Misses Bray to say, “We’ll build you a house, my dear.”

  The teaching continued; the children came and went. Thanks to the rector, I was able to get some music sent out from London and I even began part-singing with them. I thought we might give a little concert on May Day.

  Now is the month of May-ing

  With lads and lasses play-ing

  Fa la la la la, fa la la la la

  Fa la la la la — lah.

  I adopted a little black kitten — or the kitten adopted me — and I found myself confiding in him as though he could understand. I let him sleep in my bed, and his small contented hum seemed to take the edge off my loneliness at night. Soon he began to present me with gifts of mice and voles, and I decided to name him Orion after the mighty hunter in the sky, Ori for short.

  And then, one morning, a “Whoa!” and a great clatter of hooves outside the schoolroom door. The children dropped everything and jostled for space at the windows to see who had come to visit us. I thought it might be the bishop and looked anxiously around to see if everything was in order.

  It was Mr. Dickens, dismounting from a big black horse.

  “Give them a half-holiday,” he commanded. “I must talk to you.”

  “I can’t do that, sir.”

  “Of course you can. You’re in charge here, aren’t you?”

  “We are in the midst of a lesson.”

  “Yes, well, lessons can wait. What are you in the midst of?”

  “Simple fractions, sir.”

  “Well, one-half plus one-third is still going to make five-sixths tomorrow, isn’t it? That’s not going to change.”

  He turned to a boy named Noel.

  “You, boy. What’s one-half of sixteen?”

  “Eight, sir.”

  “Very good. Here’s a sixpence.”

  Then such a show of hands! “Try me, sir! Try me!”

  He smiled at me in his old pleased-with-myself way, but I was not pleased.

  “I can meet you at the end of school, sir, and not before.”

  “And what am I to do while I’m waiting?”

  “There’s an excellent inn here, the White Horse, on the west side of Shere Lane. Just carry on past the stream towards the square, and you will come to it.”

  “Is there a stable in the village?”

  “Of course.”

  “Very well, although why I should give in to you I don’t know. I’ve half a mind to go away again and not tell you why I’ve come.”

  “As you wish, sir.”

  “Heighty-teighty. But all right, I shall meet you outside the White Horse at — at what time?”

  “At half past two.”

  He mounted his horse and clattered away down the lane.

  “Who was that, Miss?”

  “Was that your sweetheart, Miss?”

  “Was that your long-lost brother?”

  Great envy fell upon Noel and his sixpence, which I feared might be taken from him before the day was out. Several boys were much bigger than he was.

  “That,” I said, “is the greatest writer in England, and if you are very good and finish this lesson, perhaps I shall read you a story.”

  They were good and did reasonably well at their lessons, and so after dinner I took out Oliver Twist. I did not begin a
t the beginning, but commenced at Chapter Two: “For the next eight or ten months, Oliver was the victim of a systematic course of treachery and deception — he was brought up by hand.”

  By the time I met him at the inn, Mr. Dickens seemed to be on a first-name basis with all the old men in the village. He could speak with authority about the Tillingbourne or the Hurtwood or the possible price of wheat this coming harvest. Even his accent had been modified to sound more countrified; I knew he was acting a part and enjoying it. He said he had never before in his lifetime partaken of such an excellent steak and kidney pudding and would have to bring his best friends down from London to dine at the inn. He reckoned there wasn’t a prettier village or a finer inn to be found in all southwest England.

  “Shall we go to your home?” he asked me.

  I did not think it would be proper, since I was living alone, so I suggested we sit at one of the big tables the landlord had set out under the trees. He asked if I would take anything and I accepted a ginger beer.

  “I expect teaching is thirsty work.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “But rewarding.”

  “Most of the time.”

  “Tell me about it, Harriet.”

  And so I told him about my scholars, particularly the naughty ones, for I knew that would please him. Of Noel, who always had to be first and wanted to be a sailor when he grew up. Of James, a shy boy who wrote his name on everything as if to convince himself that he really did exist. Of the girls and their skipping games and their ever-changing best friends.

  “I see you smile, I see your face light up, and I think perhaps I have come in vain.”

  “I do not wish to go into service again, sir, not if I can avoid it.”

  “You did not enjoy your time with us?”

  “That’s not the point. I would not enjoy being in service to the Queen of England.”

  “I shall tell her that, the next time I see her.” (But I knew he was only joking.) “Now listen to me for a moment, Harriet, and don’t interrupt until I finish. Agreed?”

  I nodded but had made up my mind not to be taken in by him.

  “There is a wealthy lady in London called Miss BurdettCoutts. You may have heard me mention her, for she is Charley’s godmother and always sends the Twelfth Night cake. However, she is much more than that.”

  I frowned. I thought I could see what was coming.

  “A frown like that is an interruption, Harriet, but I shall not stop to inquire why you frown at the mention of this generous and kind-hearted lady. In any event, she and I — her money, my ability to organize things — are going to open a home for destitute women, or fallen women, if you will, in Shepherd’s Bush. We have leased the building and grounds, the furnishing and decorating are going ahead at a great rate, and in a few months we shall be open for business.”

  He leaned across the table, his brown eyes sparkling with excitement.

  “You see, Harriet, I have a theory — and Miss BurdettCoutts agrees with me — that some of these poor women, most of whom are in prison at the moment, for I think we shall draw exclusively from the prisons, at least to begin with — that some of these poor women should be given a second chance. Given such a chance, and instructed in good moral habits as well as good housekeeping, they would be excellent candidates for emigration to Australia, or even to America.”

  “I don’t see what this has to do with me.”

  “Let me finish. I have engaged a matron, an excellent woman named Mrs. Morton, but I would like her to have at least one assistant, someone with a good head on her shoulders, someone who, because of her own background, perhaps might feel some sympathy for these woman. I observed you, Harriet, during your years with us. I think you are both sensible and spirited, and I know you have a kind heart. I thought of you immediately, and I told Miss Burdett-Coutts I would come down here personally to see if I could interest you in the situation. You would live in and all your meals would be included, as well as tea and sugar and an allowance for suitable clothing. I would not want you to wear anything resembling a uniform, just simple, attractive dress and sensible footwear. You will have your own room and share a private sitting room with Matron. There will also be generous free time and a salary of ten pounds a quarter. What do you think?”

  He sat back and waited for me to say yes.

  This home — was it not just another kind of prison? What if the women didn’t want to be saved? And there would be strict rules and regulations; I knew Mr. Dickens well enough to take that as a given. Didn’t he run his own household in a rather military fashion? But it would be Matron and myself who would ultimately be responsible for seeing that these sows’ ears were transformed into silk purses. What if we failed?

  Finally I said, “I don’t know.”

  “What don’t you know?”

  “I don’t know if I am the right person for this.”

  “And I know you are; I’m sure of it. I shall be very involved myself — this is a project dear to my heart. I intend to be concerned with every aspect of the business.”

  “May I think about it?”

  “For how long? I’m impatient to get this settled.”

  “A few days?”

  “How many?” He leaned forward again. “Harriet, wouldn’t you like to do something for these poor souls? We are going to take in only those we feel are worthy, those who would benefit from a second chance.”

  I suppose the words “second chance” set me off.

  “Just as my first mother got a second chance.” How bitterly I said it. “By abandoning me, she could pretend ‘all that’ — meaning me, her infant daughter — never happened. She didn’t need to emigrate. All she had to do was convince the Governors she was a creature of good character and then walk away from me forever.”

  “Is that how you see it? I’m surprised, truly I am. She did not, in fact, abandon you. She took you to a place where she knew you would be cared for. Would you have preferred that the two of you starved to death in the workhouse? And these women I am talking about are not ‘fallen’ in the same sense. They are women who have turned to prostitution or theft in order to keep body and soul together. None of them have children, abandoned or otherwise.”

  “So far as you know.”

  “Agreed. So far as we know.”

  I had been tracing patterns on the tabletop with my finger. Now I raised my eyes to his, and I could see that he was taken aback by my lack of gratitude.

  “It’s difficult to explain,” I said. “You come out of such places as the Foundling with a mark on you — invisible to others, maybe, or maybe not — which is with you the rest of your life. Perhaps it would be better to die beside our mothers in the workhouse. At least we would know they loved us.

  “And then to be sent into the country, to our foster mothers, to let us live in the bosom of a family for four or five years, at which time a number is once again hung round our necks and we are snatched away to be locked up behind stone walls. If we had never known freedom, it would not have been so bad. Twice abandoned, twice! Don’t talk to me about second chances.”

  He stood up. “I think, then, that I have your answer already.”

  I took a deep breath. “No. I said I would think about it, and I will.”

  “But if you are already prejudiced against the scheme, then you would be of no use to us. I’m sorry; I should not have come; I had no idea.”

  I too stood up and tried to smile.

  “I don’t think I had any idea myself that I felt so strongly about my history. I have never spoken out like that before. In truth, I am very fortunate, and in my heart I hope my first mother did get her second chance and is thriving somewhere.”

  “I hope so too.”

  He called for his horse to be brought round from the stables, and we waited a few minutes in silence. The air was so still, I could hear men calling to their horses far away in the fields.

  “You haven’t asked after Mrs. Dickens and the children.”

/>   “Are they well?”

  “Charley is ten now, a real little man. I have put him down for Eton. The girls are a delight, the baby no longer resembles a plump and tasty turkey but resembles himself, and himself is rather naughty. And there are others since you left us, Francis and Alfred. One more will pop out any day. Mrs. Dickens seems to be carrying on a Malthusian experiment of her own. Sometimes I feel like Macbeth, when the witches show him the vision of Banquo’s children: ‘What, will the line stretch out to the crack of doom?’”

  “And Fred?”

  “Ah, Fred is in love — or thinks he is.” (This said with a sideways look, so I did not pursue the matter.)

  “Miss Georgina is with us more or less permanently now,” he said. “We could not do without her.” He paused. “You did not ask about Miss Georgina.”

  “I was thinking only of the immediate family, sir — the household as I knew it when I left.”

  “I think from now on you will have to include Miss Georgina as well. Unless she marries, but she swears she won’t. She has already turned down one good offer. I think she is with us forever.”

  “And the raven?”

  “Strange you should mention the raven. Grip is long dead, having eaten something that disagreed with him. After his demise, when the gardener was digging a new herbaceous border, the most amazing things turned up. Bits of mouldy cheese, of course, and string, but also a lead soldier Walter had accused Francis of eating, one of Mrs. Dickens’s pearl eardrops and a golden guinea! I had him stuffed, by the way.”

  The horse came up, and the landlord stepped out to wish Mr. Dickens Godspeed. Just before he turned north towards Upper Street and the road to Guildford, he leaned down and beckoned to me.

  “How many scholars attend your school?”

  “Sixteen are enrolled. The number actually attending varies from season to season and day to day.”