The Madness

by Alison Rattle

  He must be worrying about me, I think; hating himself for not getting a message to me. I’ll put him out of his misery. I’ll let him know that I’m waiting for him whenever he can get away. I’ll write that note and I’ll take it to the manor first thing in the morning.

  I feel better now and I manage to swallow some bread, though it lands like a rock in me belly. I prepare a plate for Ma and take it through to our bedchamber. She’s lying on her back under the blanket, snoring like an old dog. She looks grey in the face and smaller than I’m used to seeing her. I don’t wake her, though; me head is too busy with other thoughts. I put her plate on the floor and go back to the kitchen to wait for Smoaker to go to bed. I know it’ll be a long wait. Smoaker always stays up late these days, staring into the fire and smoking his pipe. He can while away hours smoking and stroking the cat. He’s such a silent man, with never much to say. I’m glad about that tonight, but I do wonder what thoughts fill his head that he can sit so long.

  I busy meself washing the supper pots and sweeping the floor. Still Smoaker stays sitting in his chair. He throws another log on the fire and I want to scream. Me fingers are itching to get at his papers and pen. I fold some linen that has been drying by the fire and take up a shirt of Smoaker’s that Ma has been mending. It’s quiet in the kitchen; only the sucking of Smoaker’s lips around his pipe, the spit of the fire and the distant rumble of the sea breaks into the silence. I hope Smoaker can’t hear the thoughts in me head, they seem so loud to me.

  My dear Noah, I think. I have missed you these last few days. I waited for you at the beach and was worried you had fallen ill when you didn’t come. I have something important to tell you.

  I write the letter in me head. I try to remember all the words I want to say. I need to get it right so I don’t use more than one sheet of Smoaker’s paper.

  I miss you, Noah. Just send me word when we can meet again. And please let it be soon.

  Yours always,

  Marnie.

  I say the words over and over in me mind and when at long last Smoaker goes to his bed, I rush to the dresser and pull open the middle drawer. I take out Smoaker’s dip pen, a brass ink pot and a sheet of yellowed paper. I bring a candle and settle meself at the table with the paper smoothed out before me. I hold the pen between me finger and thumb and try to get used to the feel of it. It’s been a long while since I was taught me letters and me hand trembles. The shaft of the pen is smooth, the bone worn to a shine. I like the warm feel of it. I dip the nib in the ink and tap it gently on the side of the pot. I hold me breath as I begin to scratch out me words to Noah. It takes a long while and me arm aches with the effort. It’s only when I sign me name at the bottom of the page that the ink drips and marks the paper with a black spot. It’s spoiled! The whole thing is spoiled. I want to rip it up and begin again, but me head hurts and me eyes are tired. Noah will forgive me the mess, I think. I blot the ink with the sleeve of me frock and hold the paper over the warmth of the dying fire to dry. I fold the paper carefully and before I place Smoaker’s pen and ink back in the drawer, I write Noah’s name on the front of the note. It looks good there; the black ink proud against the pale paper. I kiss his name softly before I slip the letter in me pocket and take up the candle to light me way to bed.

  ‘Marnie?’ Ma’s voice is cracked as I climb into bed beside her. ‘I’m so cold, Marnie. The sea has froze my bones. It won’t let me go.’

  I feel her forehead. It’s burning hot. ‘Go to sleep, Ma,’ I tell her. ‘You’re just dreaming.’

  I turn on me side and Ma’s murmurings soon settle to snores as I close me eyes and think of Noah’s face lighting up with pleasure when he receives me letter.

  54

  The Journal of Noah de Clevedon

  Clevedon. MARCH 30th 1869, Tuesday

  The weather was not kind to us today. The rain-heavy clouds that loured over the manor during breakfast soon burst and put paid to our picnic plans. But the day was not all wasted. Arnold and I took Prince for a long walk through the fields and woods behind the manor. It was exhilarating to tramp through the mud and mists, throwing sticks for Prince and laughing when the beast shook the rain from his coat all over the moth-eaten walking jacket Arnold had borrowed from one of the manor’s deep, dark cloakrooms.

  We talked of Cissie, of course, and Arnold admitted he is quite envious of me. ‘You had better hurry up and propose,’ he said, ‘or I shall get there first!’ Naturally he is joking. Arnold is not the settling type. He is having far too much fun spending his father’s money in the whorehouses of London! He regaled me with stories of his most risqué assignations. How much of what he tells me is exaggerated, I cannot tell. But his bawdy tales made me weep with laughter and put me and my one encounter with the dipper’s daughter to shame!

  It was heaven, then, to return to the manor, kick off our sodden boots and soak in the hot baths that had been prepared for our return. Arnold’s London whores put images in my mind that stirred my senses, so I was longing for the sight and touch of Cissie as soon as I was bathed and dressed for dinner.

  This evening has been splendid. We congregated in the drawing room after dinner and gathered around the piano. Cissie played and sang for us, very sweetly, then we sat and played a hand of cards. I pressed my knees to Cissie’s under the table. She did not pull away, only coloured slightly along her cheekbones. I could smell her breath from across the table and it was sugary and soft like the glacé fruits we had eaten for dessert. I swear I love her madly! I will speak to Lord Baird at the earliest opportunity.

  55

  The Journal of Noah de Clevedon

  Clevedon. MARCH 31st 1869, Wednesday

  How very strange. A letter was brought to me on my breakfast tray this morning. It has disturbed me more than I would like to admit. I have had little appetite since. It was from the girl Marnie. The writing inside was crudely formed and the ink was smudged. I am surprised nonetheless that the girl can write at all. The letter was not in an envelope; only folded over with my name on the front. I sincerely hope the servant who delivered it to me did not think to pry. I should not like my boyish dalliances with Marnie ever to be made public. In the letter, the girl begged to meet me again. Of course it is not possible, and nor do I wish to. The time I spent with her last year is best forgotten about.

  I decided to destroy the letter, and so burned it in my bedchamber grate.

  56

  Thin Barley Gruel

  I took me letter to Noah up to the manor. It was received at the Grand door by a frosty-faced maid with eyes the colour of mud. She held the letter gingerly, at the very corner, as if it had fallen in a privy and was covered in unspeakable dirt.

  ‘Please see that Master Noah gets it,’ I said in me boldest voice. ‘It’s a matter of great importance.’ The corner of the maid’s mouth twitched and I thought for a moment she was going to smile. Then, without answering, she turned her head away and closed the door.

  That was two days ago and I wonder now if the maid threw the letter straight on the fire, as I’ve not heard a word from Noah. I feel ill from the want of him. It’s as though me heart has been sliced into tiny bits, the pain is so bad. I can’t get him out of me head. I think about him so hard that I believe I could make him appear right in front of me. I can see every detail of his face. The pale brown mole under his left eyebrow, the front tooth that hasn’t grown quite straight and the twitch that catches the corners of his mouth when he’s quiet and thinking. I need to go to the manor again. This time I won’t leave until I’ve seen him. But I can’t go yet. Ma has grown worse; with shiverings, pains and a thirst that can’t be quenched. Smoaker sent for Doctor Bentley. He was in with Ma a long time.

  ‘A case of severe fatigue,’ he announced when he came back to the kitchen to fetch his hat and coat. ‘Nourishing broths and bed rest will be best for now, and a spoonful of these powders once a day.’

  Now I’m trapped in the cottage trying to get Ma to take mouthfuls of thin barley gr
uel and beef tea. Most of it dribbles down her chin, so I give up and leave her to sleep. The rain has been lashing down from morning till noon. The bathing machines have stayed sheltered under the pier and Smoaker is cursing the loss of sixpences and the forthcoming doctor’s bill. But as he leaves the cottage to tend to the horses, he looks at me and I spy a softening in his pale eyes. ‘It’s as well the weather has taken a turn for the worse, I suppose. You can be spared from dipping and can mind your ma instead.’

  I poke half-heartedly at the fire. The lively flames do nothing to cheer me spirit. I can’t settle to any task; I am too restless. Even though the doors are not locked and I’ve committed no crime, I think I may as well be in Bridewell jail. I press me forehead against the window and watch as raindrops trickle down between the tiny bubbles in the thick glass. I close me eyes and straight away I can see Noah walking towards me. He has on his old blue suit and is waving his hand in greeting. As he comes nearer to me, he begins to run. ‘Marnie!’ he calls. I wait until he’s upon me, then I fling me arms around his neck and he lifts me from the ground. I push me face into his neck and breathe in the damp, salty scent of his skin.

  ‘I’m sorry I’ve stayed away for so long,’ he whispers in me ear. ‘I promise it will never happen again, Marnie.’

  ‘Marnie!’

  ‘Marnie!’

  I jump back from the window and open me eyes. Ma is calling me. It’s just Ma calling me. Me heart sinks like a stone in the ocean, as the ghost of Noah drifts away.

  When I go to her, Ma is sitting up in bed with her shawl around her shoulders. Her face looks suddenly ancient and her lips have no colour. For the first time, I wonder what will happen to me if she never gets better.

  ‘How are you feeling, Ma?’ I ask. ‘Shall I fetch you some broth?’

  ‘I’m parched, Marnie,’ she mumbles. ‘My throat’s so dry. Some beer. Bring some beer to wet my mouth.’

  I go to the pantry and pour a beer from the big jug that Smoaker keeps there. Then I go to the fire and push the poker deep into the embers for a moment. I plunge the glowing end of the poker into the pot of beer, and there’s a hiss and the yeasty smell of hops. The beer is as hot as blood now and good enough to quench Ma’s thirst. I carry it through to her and she grabs it from me and gulps it down so quickly that her face flushes and her eyes shine.

  She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. ‘Promise me you’ll stick by Smoaker,’ she says suddenly.

  ‘What do you mean, Ma?’

  ‘My dipping days are well and truly over, Marnie. I can’t do it no more.’

  ‘Don’t be daft, Ma. You’ll be as right as rain once the doctor’s powders get to work.’

  ‘No, Marnie, no.’ She coughs a little. ‘You don’t understand. My bones have grown too cold. I’m weary of it, Marnie. I’m cold and weary.’ She coughs again. ‘You’re a good girl, Marnie. You’ve been doing well at the dipping, Smoaker says. When you’re in the sea, no one knows you’re a cripple.’ She whispers the last word, cripple. ‘You can keep the business going, Marnie. It’s your turn now. Just you and Smoaker. Stick by him and he’ll look after the both of us. Promise me.’

  I don’t know what to say to her. I hear her words and a part of me can’t help but be proud of meself again. This really is me chance now, to be the best dipper in Clevedon; to be better even than Ma. To have the very best of London ladies ask for me by name. It’s what I thought I always wanted. Just me and the sea. But that was before Noah. That was before Noah made me feel more alive than the sea ever had.

  ‘Oh Ma, it’s not going to come to that,’ I say. ‘You wait … a few days rest and you’ll be as good as new.’

  Ma shakes her head and slips back down under the blanket. ‘Promise me, Marnie,’ she whispers.

  I don’t know what to say. I can’t promise her anything. I can’t be a dipper for ever. Not now that Noah will want me near him. I want to tell her this. I want to tell her not to worry; that Noah will look after both of us when the time comes. But I know there’s no point. She won’t believe me yet.

  ‘I promise, Ma,’ I lie.

  She closes her eyes and I go back to the kitchen to wait for Smoaker’s return. I’ll go to the manor as soon as he gets back. I sit in his chair by the fire and stare into the centre of it. I stare so hard that soon the shapes of the flames are burned into the back of me eyeballs. I must fall asleep, for the banging of the door wakes me and I open me eyes to see Smoaker hanging up his jacket. I see by the shortness of the candle that it’s late and I can tell by the smell of him that Smoaker has been to the inn. Me first thought is that it’s too late now for me to go to the manor. Smoaker has spoiled me plans and I curse him under me breath. He turns at the sound of me whisper.

  ‘Marnie,’ he slurs. ‘Why aren’t you in bed? Has your ma got worse?’

  ‘She’s asleep,’ I force meself to answer. ‘I didn’t want to rouse her.’

  Smoaker takes off his hat and scratches at the bare skin on his head. For a moment I think he’s going to want his chair and I’ll have to go in with Ma. But instead he puts his hat on the table and says, ‘I’ll bid you goodnight, then.’ His tread is heavy on the stairs as he takes himself to bed and I sigh with relief to be alone again.

  I stay in Smoaker’s chair and wrap me arms around meself. I rock gently, backwards and forwards, until I am sleepy again. I pretend me arms are Noah’s and I hug meself as tight as I can.

  57

  The Church Bells Chime

  It’s Sunday now, and still there’s been no word from Noah. Every night I’ve waited on the beach and there’s never been a sniff of him. I can’t understand why he hasn’t come to see me. I’ve wanted to go to him, but it’s been mild these last days and the new pier has brought trainloads of curious visitors to the pier. Smoaker and me and the other dippers have had a job keeping up with the demand. I’ve never been so weary. By the time it’s evening, there’s been no strength left in me leg to carry me up to the manor.

  I’m sure he can’t be ill. He looked the picture of health when I spied him through the manor window the other afternoon. And surely he won’t have gone back to London so soon. He wouldn’t have left without telling me. But I’ve been stuck at me work and stuck in the cottage and I’ve not been able to do a thing about it.

  Then, this morning, just as I heard the church bells chime, I had a clever notion. I thought of a way to be certain of seeing Noah. Ma’s never bothered with us going to church; she’s always scoffed at the idea. She says after working our fingers to the bone all week we deserve a proper day of rest. But all the gentry from round about attend regularly, if only to parade themselves to the locals. The de Clevedons are sure to be churchgoers; I just know it. So that’s where I’ll go; to the church, to the Sunday service. I’m busting with me own cleverness as I tidy meself up and comb me hair. Smoaker’s off busying himself with the horses now and Ma’s still in her sick bed, so no one will give a jot where I get to.

  I walk through the village and up the hill to St Andrew’s church. I need me stick today as me leg is aching bad. I take me time walking so that I can slip into the church after everyone’s settled in their pews. It’s quiet in the village and I don’t pass anyone much on the way. Only the Mistress Miles is outside her cottage, hanging out wet linen in poker-straight lines. She looks down her long nose at me and turns away. She’s never forgiven Ma for treading on her toes with the laundry business. I poke me tongue out at her back. She’s welcome to rinse out piss stains for ever for all I care.

  As I come to the foot of St Andrew’s Hill, I see carriages waiting on the pathway. One of them is the gold and black liveried carriage from the manor. Its matching footmen are lolling against the wall. They barely look at me as I limp by and make me way up to the church. The deep echo of organ pipes is fading to nothing as I lift the heavy latch of the huge wooden door and creep inside. I slide into a pew at the very back of the church. No one turns round to look. Reverend Strawbridge is standing up in the pulp
it looking very pleased with himself, as though everyone’s come to see him and not God. As he starts to speak, I begin to search the pews in front of me for any sign of Noah. There are plenty of bonnets and fancy hats balanced atop towering piles of hair and I have to peer between them to get a better view. I twist and turn and wriggle in me seat as if I’ve got spiders in me drawers. And then I see him. Right near the front. I want to kneel straight away and thank God!

  I can’t see much of him; just one shoulder and half of his head. But it’s enough. I feel all warm inside now; like everything’s all right. I don’t listen to a word of the Reverend’s sermon or sing a word of the hymns. I just stare hard at the back of Noah’s head and pray that he’ll turn around and see me. I cough out loud twice, but still he doesn’t turn around. A woman right in front of me does, though. She glares at me and tsks, so I cough again. When everyone bows their heads to pray, I tear a corner from a page of a hymn book and quickly roll it into a ball. I keep me eyes on the back of Noah and throw the roll of paper over the top of the bent heads. The paper catches in a strand of his hair and I hold me breath. It trembles for a moment, and then falls on his shoulder. Still I hold me breath. Suddenly, in a tiny movement that I almost miss, Noah brushes the paper from his shoulder. I am staring so hard now that me eyes are watering. But he doesn’t turn around and I finally let me breath out in a small whisper of frustration.

  I nip out quickly as the service finishes and wait at the back of the churchyard, leaning against the old stone wall. They all come out, the gentlefolk, and gather around each other, parading their finery. Then finally Noah appears, looking like a proper toff in his Sunday-best buttoned-up frock coat. But I drink in the sight of his face. He doesn’t see me standing here. He’s too busy chattering with his father. The dark-haired girl is standing behind him next to Lady de Clevedon and another gaggle of decorated ladies. I wonder who she is and why she is here. They start to move out of the churchyard. The men place their hats back on their heads and the skirts of the ladies sway and bob over their wide under-cages. I wait to see what Noah is going to do. The churchyard empties. There is only Noah, Sir John, Lady de Clevedon and Reverend Strawbridge left.