by Jane Harris
I curtseyed, very low. ‘Yes sir, I am aware of that, sir. But I would do anything sir, to be able to stay on and help missus get better. Whatever is necessary, sir. Because I feel it is my fault, sir, and I want to—’
‘Wheesht wheesht!’ says master James, waving his hand in the air. ‘You have said all that. However, although there is no doubt that you’ve done wrong, I wouldn’t blame yourself as much as you do. This little haunting you carried out was a piece of mischief, of that there is no doubt. But I must impress upon you this fact—that it is very likely your mistress would have fallen ill in any case. Your little pranks are—quite frankly—not that important in the matter. We are almost certain that she would have been taken with delusions of some sort, whether you acted as you did or not. Is that not so, doctor?’
‘Indeed,’ says McGregor-Robertson. ‘You should not feel so responsible. ’ His eyes sealed over as he regarded me, his lips lengthened. I realised he was attempting a smile. It was like watching bacon curl.
I didn’t agree with what they were saying, but I had no wish to contradict them, given that I was out of favour. And so I held my tongue and stared at the floor as master James continued.
‘You see, in her present state Arabella is likely to misinterpret what all of us say and do, in order to make it fit with her delusions.’ He paused. ‘Look at me, Bessy.’
I raised my head and met his gaze. There were shadows like bruises under his eyes, I had never noticed them before.
‘For the moment,’ he says, ‘I have put Muriel in charge of looking after your mistress. Muriel is a less—suggestible—personality and is not so involved with my wife as you are. The doctor feels this will be better for her health. If she is exposed to too much emotion, it could be aggravating. For the time being you may continue with your duties but they stop at the threshold of your mistress room. Muriel will see to her most intimate needs, with the doctor in supervision. In return, you may have to take over some of Muriels duties. Have a word with Jessie about it, she may need you, she may not. But as for you—I am putting you on trial, Bessy. You will be under close scrutiny and should you fail to meet the standards I require or should you misbehave just once more, you will be instantly dismissed. Make no mistake about it.’
I could not bear to have him look at me any longer. My gaze dropped to the carpet. There was a lump in my throat, like a solid object rising up. I swallowed it down.
‘You should dismiss me, sir,’ I says.
He sniffed. ‘And I may yet do so,’ he says, and gestured towards the door.
My cue to leave, and I did so like a trueborn lackey, walking backwards and bobbing and scraping, it is quite an art to exit a room like that but I would have done it on my marrow bones if I had to, I was that sorry and grateful.
For the next few days, the heart in me leapt any time the bell rang or if ever master James hove into view. I felt myself to be on the brink of disaster, like an egg balanced on the edge of a table, set to topple at any moment. I truly expected to be dismissed and indeed felt it would have been no more than I deserved. Hector I avoided at all costs for the sight of him was a reminder of what a thoroughly rotten person I was. He came to the kitchen window one time and gazed in at me with cow eyes no doubt hoping for another stroll down Cock Lane but I chucked water over him and the next time he showed his face I threw a tray at his head and slammed the door on his fingers, he is lucky it was not his flipping nutmegs. After that, he left me alone.
Poor dear missus remained in a stable condition, according to the doctor. Thank gob, we were done with the milk and seeds and the clysters, he put the boots on all that. Instead she was to have normal food. Her reading books was restored to her room, as was pen, ink and writing paper and in a complete arsey-varsey of procedure, McGregor-Robertson now proclaimed that her brain must be kept active—since this would leave less room for bad thoughts and hallucinations to accumulate and fester.
A number of times when I took bachelor fare into the study I would find him there, making notes. He was most intrigued by her case and had begun composing another medical paper. It was not progressing well, he confessed. The problem was that since missus suspected him of being part of the conspiracy, she refused to answer any questions.
‘Has she said any more about the baby?’ I asked him once.
He shook his head. ‘Certainly not!’ he says. ‘Mark my words—when she spoke of that, the woman was quite delirious.’
I could not help but wonder what he and master James were trying to hide. My first thoughts, that Nora had borne a child, or was carrying a child, seemed disproved by what Janet had tellt me, but I could not be sure. For one thing, not all women grow fat in the first months, my own mother being an example. I was the only child she had ever brought to term right enough, but there had been other unlucky mistakes, they never lasted more than a few months and when they came loose, they weren’t exactly falls of soot, as she used to jest but they weren’t far off it. At any rate, always without exception Bridget had grown not fat but thin from all the sickness. So Nora could have been with child and been thinner, if she was just a few months gone.
Missus might be able to tell me what was behind it all, if only I could get a minute alone with her. However. I suspect that Curdle Features was not much of a nurse but by Jove she would have made a good Yeoman Warder, for there was no getting past her. In the hopes of catching a glimpse of missus or sending her an encouraging word, I often found excuses to knock at the chamber door but alas! Muriel would always emerge to block the threshold. You could never be sure that she would pass on a message and she was as broad-hipped and impassable as one of her blasted cows. She slept in the chamber and only left it to visit the dunegan, and even then she locked the door and took the key. Once or twice, while she was outside whistling away on the throne, I did consider tearing upstairs to talk to missus through the keyhole. But I was not sure how much sense I’d get out her with door between us. And were I caught it could mean marching orders. I decided not to take risks and to wait until the right moment presented itself.
As it turned out I did not have to help with the milking. Jessie claimed she had no need of assistance. Her aunt—a retired dairy-maid—had come to visit and apparently was happy to take on Muriels duties, without payment. Clearly Jessie preferred to work with somebody who knew what they were doing. And who could blame her. I tellt master James what had happened, in case he should think I was mitching, but I gathered he wasn’t fussed who did the work so long as he didn’t have to pay extra.
Day upon day, the books that they had found in the missus desk sat on the table in the study, Noras journal among them and all within a hands reach of master James and the doctor. Jesus Murphy, if either one of them cracked open The Observations and seen what she had wrote about my past, Mr Levy, all this, flip the scutting trial period, my feet would not touch the ground. But so far, apart from the first day when they glanced through some of the books, the gentlemen had exhibited little or no interest in what missus had wrote. Master James seemed to think that The Observations was partly to blame for her getting into such a state of nervosity in the first place. Scribblings, he called them and I heard him tell the doctor that it would be for the best for missus if she never wrote in her book again.
It so happened that one morning, while I was filling the coalscuttles, I found the study empty and noticed that The Observations and journals had gone from their place on the table and were nowhere to be seen. And when I returned to the kitchen I happened to glance out the window and caught a glimpse of smoke rising from the vegetable garden.
The Observations and journals gone. A fire in the garden. I could not help but think that these two facts might be related. And so I dropped what I was doing and hared outside. Sure enough, over by the broken-down glasshouse, I found a bonfire burning merrily. Somebody had used old branches from a fallen apple tree to form the base and the journals and Observations were piled on top. A few of the books were no more than ashes but by som
e miracle it looked as though The Observations had been thrown on last of all. Only a few flames were licking at it. I took a stick and dragged it out the fire. The front and back covers was charred but most of the pages inside were intact.
I poked around with my stick among the embers, in the hope of finding Noras journal, but I fear it was burnt. This was a blow, as I would have liked to read over her last entries once again. Now that I’d heard missus talk of a baby it was hard not to view what Nora had wrote in a new light. If I remembered correctly, she had been overly concerned with the subject of newborn animals. And I also seemed to recall that she had mentioned being ‘reflective’ of late. In the old days, I was acquainted with a few girls that had ‘sprained their ankles’ (which was what we used to say when a girl was in the family way) and some of them had got very reflective. That was how it took some people, my mother used to say.
Now that Noras journal was gone, I wondered again about those missing pages. They might have been destroyed—burnt or torn to shreds—and I might never know what they had contained. And yet something tellt me that they were still in one piece somewhere. If Nora had snipped out the pages herself, I got to speculating where she might have hid them. After all, her domain would have been the same as mine—the kitchen, the pantry, the washhouse, the little bedroom in the attic.
I stuffed The Observations up my apron and skulked back to the house. Luckily, I did not encounter a soul. Upstairs, I hid the book under my mattress. And later that morning I scoured every place I could think of for those missing pages, but found nothing except 3 buttons, a bawbee and a dead mouse.
Then I remembered Noras box. Right enough, I had nosed around in there before but it occurred to me that I might easy have overlooked a few old scraps of paper.
It was no more trouble than a fleabite to get up to the attic unnoticed. Although master James had said he’d be keeping an eye on me, in actual fact he was far too busy with the installation of his fountain to watch over me every minute, and McGregor-Robertson did not skulk about the place so much now that there were no clysters to administer. On that particular day, the doctor wasn’t expected until late afternoon and master James had went down to the village after breakfast.
Here’s what I did. At midday I delivered a tray to the missus chamber and waited a while until I knew that Muriel would have the nose-bag on. Then I took a lamp and slinked up to the attic, silent as an eel in a barrel of tripe for (God forbid!) I didn’t want missus to hear me and get the wrong idea, not again.
Last time I had went up there was to wipe the message off the skylight. Now, I avoided even glancing upwards, for the sight of that little window made me feel like ending myself. I kept my head down and my mind on the trunk. For starters I emptied it and peered into every corner but as far as I could tell there was no false bottom and nothing hid behind the lining paper. Then I examined each of Noras belongings. I flicked through the flimsy pages of her Bible and emptied out her workbox. I pulled off her dolls cap and poked around under the skirts. Now I came to think of it, was the doll Noras at all? Or had it perhaps been bought for a baby? Whatever the case, it concealed no visible scraps of paper. And so I started on the tracts, a dozen of them there was in total, some of them with scribbles in the margins, not rude words like you might expect but little comments and questions about what was printed there. By Jove, that Nora was a Holy Mary right enough! I flapped every single one of those blasted pamphlets in the air to see if a scrap of paper might come floating out, but I might as well have tried to get milk out a pigeon. The last thing I done was (ever so gently) to lift the trunk and look underneath, but I found nothing. Either those pages were stashed good and proper or somebody had made them disappear forever.
By this time, it was early March. That week, I remember, ½ the farm servants had come down with the influenza. The weather turned filthy again, we were plunged back into the depths of winter. Rain and hail lashed down for two days, the kind of weather nobody goes out in unless he must. Then, on the afternoon of the 2nd day, the rain stopped and it turned bitter cold. Despite this, master James threw on his coat and boots and went down to Snatter. The fountain ceremony was to take place on the following day and he was anxious to see how much the weather had held up the last stages of work. It was his intention, he informed me, to dine at the doctors house and so he would not be back until late.
Missus had been quite calm for the past few days but an hour or so after the rain stopped she became agitated and Muriel tellt me she had gave her some remedy to quiet her down. By the time I took up their supper—a light meal of egg and toast—Arabella was fast asleep. There was no gentlemans dinner to prepare but I was banjaxed and so after I had collected the tray from Muriel I brought my arse to anchor in the kitchen and sat there bringing my little book up to date, in case I should ever get a chance to show it to missus.
I had been there 5 minutes or so, when I heard a pattering at the window. Rain, I thought, and did not even glance up. There was silence for a while then came another patter, this time louder, as of a fresh and heavier burst of raindrops. Once again, I did not lift my eyes from the page. A minute later, however, I was startled by a loud rattle at the glass which made me look up, believing that the rain must have turned to hail. And then, as I watched, a handful of muck and grit spattered against the windowpane, making the same sound.
It was Hector, playing some trick on me. That is what I thought for just a second. I set aside my journal and hurried over to the window. But then I remembered that Hector had took the influenza and been ordered to bed after fainting like a big Miss Molly in the byre. Perhaps it was the 2nd sight, but of a sudden I imagined that there was something nasty in the way the dirt and stones had struck the glass. My heart began to thud—for by dint of superstition or imagination, the next culprit my mind settled upon was Nora.
The lamp and firelight reflected on the glass, making it hard to see out and so I opened the back door and stepped into the yard. The cat ran out behind me and disappeared with a yowl into the shadows. Through the window I could see the chair I had just vacated, and realised that anybody could have stood outside watching me. The very thought made my flesh creep. I whirled round and peered into the night. At first, I could make out only the pump and beyond that the dark shapes of the trees thrusting their branches this way and that in the wind. And then I seen her. A figure emerging from the darkness, her pale gloved hands raised towards me, coming at me quickly, like something out a nightmare. I knew her at once and yet wished to gob I didn’t know her. I seen her and wished I had never seen her. As she approached, the wind grabbed her hat veil so that it streamed upwards, to crack and ripple like a long thin flag.
Raising a finger to her lips, she stepped into the pool of light that fell from the window, and whispered. ‘It’s me dear, your mother. No need to be frightened.’
I must have staggered back a few paces for my ankle hit something hard and then I stumbled and sat smack down on the cold step.
Bridget (for it was she!) chuckled quietly. ‘Woops!’ she whispered. ‘Watch where you put your feet, love.’
It felt as though all the air had been knocked out me, I couldn’t move a muscle, as on she came a further step or two. She wore dark clothes, a jacket fitted over her frock, the veiled hat. She bent down. Her hands gripped my arms. I smelled her scent, the same old Gardenias. She helped me to my feet but as soon as I was standing I recoiled from her, back up the steps.
‘What do you want?’ I asked her.
‘Want?’ she repeated in a whisper, and then she smiled. ‘I don’t want anything, dear. I just wanted to see you, to know that you are all right. You gave me quite a scare, going off and disappearing like that.’
She was nervous, I could tell by the way her fingers rubbed against her thumbs. She gazed beyond me into the kitchen then tipped back her head and looked up at the house. ‘Don’t you think we should go inside, dear?’ she says, in a soft wheedling voice. ‘Somebody might hear us if we stand around chatt
ing on the step.’
‘Chatting’ was the last thing in the world I wanted to do, and I resented her nerve. I believe she sensed my lack of willing, for she gave a little laugh. ‘I am not exactly a gentleman caller, now am I?’
I said nothing to that. But part of me had to admit that she was right. Any noise in the yard could be heard from the upstairs rooms on that side of the house. God forbid Muriel would come down and stick her big neb in. And if my missus woke up I didn’t want her hearing a strange voice that might send her airy. At least if I took Bridget into the kitchen, nobody would hear us. And so with some reluctance I led the way inside.
By the light of the lamp, I could see her more clearly. The hem of her frock was damp and muddied. She looked foundered. I wondered how far she had walked that night, how long she had stood outside, waiting. She wore no crinoline, which might have been her one concession to country manners. The fingers of her gloves were dirty, probably from the handfuls of muck she had thrown at the window. She was pinning her veil to her hat, looking about her with a glassy smile. I had a feeling that she wanted to mock the surroundings, but was holding her tongue.
‘This is the kitchen, is it dear?’ she says. ‘Where you work?’
‘What do you want?’
She gave me an injured look. ‘Now then,’ she says. ‘No need to be like that. All the trouble I’ve had to find you! My own daughter! My very own daughter!’
How strange to hear her claim me as offspring! when she had denied it so frequently in the past. I almost laughed in her face. Then for dear sake what did she do but pull my chair closer to the fire and sit down at it, unbuttoning her jacket and spreading out her skirts to dry! I could have knocked the bark off her.
‘How did you find me?’ I says.