Turning the Stones

by Debra Daley

  Eliza poked at one of the baffling apparatuses strewn about the table, a scioptic projector, according to Mr Paine, and announced that she was hungry enough to eat a horse and chase the rider. I was sent below to command her supper.

  Despite its modest dimensions, the house managed to accommodate a servants’ staircase at its rear, which I descended on vertiginous steps. The kitchen was bathed in blue smoke produced from the pipe of an ample woman seated before the hearth, who introduced herself as the housekeeper, Mrs Jellicoat. At her back a less lardy, younger woman laboured over a concoction boiling loudly on the hob. The footman loomed out of the haze with a tray holding the tea equipage and winked at me. Mrs Jellicoat wheezed, ‘Granger will fuck you as soon as look at you, so keep on your toes, lady’s maid.’ Granger laughed like a drain and swaggered towards the stairs.

  *

  After supper we were settled in an apartment on the first floor that had been used formerly by Cousin Arthur’s mother, Lady Paine. Some trace of her lingered still in the stuffy chambers, a suggestion of stale lavender water and unwashed hair. Of Mr Paine’s wife there was not a trace and I wondered if it were true that she and her husband lived apart, as I had heard.

  I was to sleep in the dressing room. Having tucked Eliza into her bed, I locked the door against the footman and padded to the window. I raised the sash and leaned out, wondering if I might glimpse the famous Thames. But I could see only countless buildings with fuming chimneys. The air smelled of cinders and it was difficult to see into the distance. The town was enveloped in a dark haze.

  I lay awake listening to noises rising from the street. Cats yowling, dogs howling. A horrible grinding sound of something being dragged. An argument, a song. The hollow roll of endless traffic. It was excitement, too, that kept me from sleep. I was afraid of London and the uncertainties it harboured, but my arrival there also put me within striking distance of the foundling hospital. I had not given up the possibility that I might find out who my parents were and where I had come from. It was a hope that I had hugged close to my chest all the way from Chester.

  The Paine Townhouse, Soho, London

  April, 1766

  The morning is well advanced by the time breakfast is served in Mr Paine’s house. ‘In town we rise late,’ the kitchen wench informed me flatly when I tried to obtain hot water from her at seven on that first morning. I was itching to go abroad. I tended to my tasks, unpacking, smoothing, folding, airing, and drafted a letter for Eliza to send to her mother confirming our safe arrival. After cooling my heels upstairs for another hour, I descended to the hall and hung about like a dog waiting for its walk. It says a great deal about the tight bonds of propriety that in spite of my fizzing curiosity I felt unable to open the front door of the house and step out to see what I could see. The restrictions by which virtuous women must live are designed to shield us from vicissitudes or at least to mitigate their effects on us, but we must exist at the same time in a quarantine. I had always interpreted that quarantine as security, and yet I found myself chafing like a captive in Mr Paine’s hall – I, who had always bridled so well.

  Eventually, from the parlour came the bossy chimes of a clock reminding the world that it ought to be getting on and at last Eliza and I were brought out by Mr Paine to accompany him to his peruke-maker. I had not proceeded five yards along the street when I had every kind of fright for my life. Coaches and hackneys and pedestrians alike seemed determined to bowl us over and we had constantly to step smartly out of their way. Mr Paine paid the hurly-burly no heed and we strode on, Eliza and I keeping our alarm and amazement to ourselves. We turned into a wider street flanked by large dwellings that might once have been grand but were fallen to lodging houses and rookeries. Numbers of raggedy irregular individuals were crying their wares of second-hand clothes, old bottles and nails and cracked pots, which they had set out on the stones along with their squalling children. ‘You see,’ Mr Paine said, steering us away, ‘how the world so fatally degrades and breaks down.’

  We edged along a squalid thoroughfare, which looked as though it might provide a convenient ambuscade for cutpurses or footpads, but Mr Paine seemed impervious to the potential for danger, his mind being so immersed in knotty thoughts, I presume, that he could not fully take in what lay before him. That is a kind of protection in its way, for he passed men with unquiet eyes as if they did not exist and they, having been rendered invisible, lost their power to threaten. Perhaps this is a common tactic for avoiding trouble in the metropolis, because I noticed that a beplumed young man, crossing in high heels and a showy coat towards a tavern, seemed deaf to the insults that his Frenchified dress attracted from fellows clustered about outside a print shop, where we had stopped so that I could buy a plan of London.

  Perhaps I would ask Johnny if he could indicate on the plan where he lived. He had recently moved house, apparently, and no one seemed able to say what his new address was. I had begun to form the idea that Johnny was untruthful about his circumstances – which gave me a sense of dismay.

  As Mr Paine led us towards Piccadilly, where his perukemaker kept a shop, I was greatly diverted by the sights around me. It was clear even to a novice visitor that London could easily mince one’s soul without giving a hoot, so enormously absorbed is it in its own interests, but at the same time there was something exhilarating about the indifference of those humming streets. There was a freedom in them that made one feel anything was possible and that one could do anything.

  We came eventually to a wide, racing thoroughfare beset by speeding conveyances and men on horseback, all of whom seemed to be dashing to an emergency. You have already followed me along this route on a later occasion. There was the peruke-maker’s establishment across the road in a range of shops with bowed windows. There was the White Bear Inn.

  While Mr Paine was having his wig fitted, Eliza, who rarely exhibits any interest in la mode, as I am sure you know by now, decided to inspect a pair of sleeves displayed next door in the window of a mantua-maker’s establishment. ‘I might wear them when I go out with Johnny,’ she said, and bit her lip. So: they had been in communication. But I knew better than to enquire after details at that moment. Eliza is never forthcoming when she feels she has been caught out. Instead, I asked to be shown the sleeves. The mantua-maker spread them upon the counter. They were dove-grey satin embroidered with silver thread. As she bent her sleek head over them, I caught the fragrance of her hair powder – oranges or perhaps bergamot.

  Eliza declared in a faintly defiant tone that she would take the sleeves and pay with a promissory note. She drew from her pocketbook the note Johnny had given her. It was limp with overhandling, reduced almost to the consistency of tissue.

  The mantua-maker examined the note carefully. She directed a thoughtful gaze at the floor and Eliza shifted her feet. Then the woman said, ‘I am afraid we are not able to encash this, madam.’

  ‘Is there a disorder?’

  A hesitation. ‘Only it is in rather poor condition.’

  ‘I cannot agree with you,’ Eliza said in a huff. But she picked up the note and tucked it into the pocket of her coat. All at once I saw in my mind’s eye that letter from Hill & Vezey that had lain hidden under the catalogue on Mrs Waterland’s desk. Was it a routine communication or something more ominous in nature?

  Once Eliza and I were in the street again, I whispered to her, ‘Do you think we ought to be concerned about the condition of Johnny’s bank?’

  Eliza tossed her head. ‘Why don’t you ask him yourself? He is coming for tea this afternoon.’

  *

  You can imagine the bellow of delight from Eliza as Samuels leaned creakily around the door of Mr Paine’s parlour and announced the arrival of Mr Waterland. Johnny sauntered in on the end of a silver-topped walking stick as long as a barge pole. To my monumental surprise, Eliza’s enthusiasm was matched by a similar show from Johnny, who slapped his thigh with his glove and exclaimed, ‘By Jove, never was a brother so well pleased to see h
is sister. Welcome to London, my dear.’

  I could see that Johnny was altered. His bonhomie could not hide the fact that he did not look well. His skin was as pale as wax and his eyes were hollow.

  Eliza flushed to a shade of cerise that matched the extreme suit Johnny was wearing. I had never known him to make a folly of his costume, but his appearance was in general much intensified with a toupee brushed up and raised on pads so that it resembled a loaf upon his head. It made me think that his judgement was wanting.

  Mr Paine entered then with an expression of welcome nearly as enraptured as Eliza’s. He beamed and patted at his own new wig as though it deserved its share of praise. The foretop and the sides were smooth and plain, with one horizontal roll of curls projecting above the ears. It was a style favoured by naval men and explorers, he reported. Johnny thumped the tuffet at his feet by way of inviting Eliza to sit and she sank on to it and gazed at him shining-eyed. In spite of my reservations about her brother, one was glad to see her so happy. Tea arrived, and gin for Johnny. I busied myself with the service, while a rackety exchange went on between brother and sister about how thrilling it was to be in London.

  Mr Paine went away and returned again with an electrometer – I surmised so from the shape of the case. He sat down and leaned towards Johnny with a look, it hit me, of Dasher in relation to Abby. Good heavens, I exclaimed inwardly. Given that moist gaze, anyone would think that Mr Paine was in love with Johnny. I began to turn that thought over in my mind.

  ‘Will you remark this, sir,’ he said eagerly, proffering the mahogany case. More elaborate than the one he had shown us at Sedge Court, it was decorated with gleaming brass cartouches. ‘I’ve just had it made by my apothecary.’

  A spark of irritation crossed Johnny’s face. ‘Oh, the marvellous electrometer,’ he said. ‘The key to all our fortunes, I am sure.’

  ‘How so?’ Eliza asked.

  Mr Paine said, ‘As all the world knows, Eliza, I am an improver. It has ever been my intent to reverse processes of decline. With this useful instrument, I shall undertake a course of experiments that will ultimately bring about a boost to the value of your brother’s properties in Ireland.’

  I looked up at that. What had happened to Mr Paine’s lifting of the famines? How corrupting was Johnny’s influence, I thought then. I could not imagine who else could have persuaded Mr Paine to cheapen his ambition until its only concern was the enlarging of an investment. If Mr Paine noticed my surprise he gave no sign of it.

  Johnny said, ‘You would be mad, Arthur, to go to Ireland these days. Haven’t you heard that all manner of terrorists are ravaging the countryside there? They will stab an Englishman as quick as look at him.’

  Mr Paine blinked. ‘Terrorists?’ he said.

  ‘I am only thinking of you,’ Johnny said with a grin. ‘I should be rather amused to encounter one of those wild fellows. But given the political situation it is hardly the ideal time to go jaunting in the bogs with your instruments, is it?’

  ‘I should think it might still be possible if you were with me, to keep a lookout, as it were.’

  Johnny slugged his drink, slapped the arm of his chair and changed the subject. ‘Now then, Arthur, have you sent your man over to Soho Square with the paraphernalia? You must have your electricals set up tomorrow and assure our hostess that the mechanics are sound. Don’t disappoint her or she will try to wriggle out of paying us our full amount.’

  Mr Paine was crestfallen. ‘I wish you could give me a firm answer about Ireland,’ he said. ‘I have already planned much of our trip there.’

  Johnny said, ‘Ireland is not the sort of place that offers a firm answer, Arthur. Why must you be such a miser, I do not know. You could easily lend me a little to give me a respite from worrying about those mortgages without my having to go in person to inspect the properties.’

  Mr Paine looked away. But it was easy to read his thoughts. His money was the only ace he held. Once he gave it up to Johnny, he was out of the game and it was likely he should not see Johnny for dust.

  Johnny stood up and adjusted his toupee. ‘Em,’ he said, ‘we shall include you in our party at Soho Square on Friday. You know that my dear sister cannot manage without you. Please do your best to rig her out in a blazing style.’ He winked at me.

  I said, ‘Do you know, she tried to buy sleeves today with your bill, but the shopkeeper would not take it.’

  ‘Em!’ Eliza was aghast. ‘How dare you!’

  Johnny laughed easily. ‘Did you really try to use that note after all this time?’ He shook his head as though transcendentally unperturbed by the promissory’s rejection. ‘No matter. I shall buy Eliza a pair of sleeves myself, the more splendid the better. What do you think of that?’

  Eliza gave a squeal like a combusting kettle.

  *

  To my astonishment, Johnny was as good as his word. The next morning he sent a chair for Eliza. We came down to find it standing in the hall like a portable sepulchre with two brawny porters stationed at either end. I tied Eliza’s mantle, straightened her hat, she stepped into the chair and was borne away. She was still annoyed with me for embarrassing her brother, as she saw it, with that remark about the promissory note. Her irritation would turn to anger if she saw that I was wearing her coat, which I had run upstairs to put on, along with one of her hats, as soon as her chair was out of sight. I hoped that I would manage to return to Mr Paine’s house before she did and she would be none the wiser. It was a risk I was willing to take in order to appear at the foundling hospital looking as though I had risen in the world and had a right to information.

  My plan of London showed that Lamb’s Conduit Fields, the location of the hospital, was not a great distance from Poland Street. I walked up to the Oxford Road and then east to a junction. The cross street was not named. I asked a woman in a fur hat for directions to the Fields. She pointed tersely north and said I might take a lane on the right off Tottenham Court Road and then ask someone else with more time on his hands. I pressed on in a state of nervousness, consulting alternately the plan and passers-by.

  It struck me as I walked that there must be a great call for fancy needlework in London, judging by the purse-proud turn-outs on the streets, for even on a brief acquaintance, I could say that the people of that town are in love with their attire. Even the muck-shufflers sported a nosegay in a tattered coat or some rag about the neck that tried to make a distinction of itself.

  Eventually I sighted in the distance treeless, open fields surrounding a dun-coloured building. My footsteps slowed and I came to a halt. I looked at the plan. I was in the right place. A tremor passed through me and my hands shook in anticipation of what I might find out. I folded the plan and put it away in the pocket of my – actually, Eliza’s – coat. As I did so, my fingers brushed something that felt dry and flimsy. I drew out the object and found that it was the faithless promissory note. I thrust it back into the pocket and strode towards the clearing in front of the hospital. The architecture of the forecourt’s entrance is severe and I saw that watchmen patrolled back and forth, perhaps to prevent desperate women from leaving their infants. I applied to the gatekeeper to pass through. He asked me my business and I found myself saying quite fluently that I was desirous of having a girl out of the hospital to be in service to me. He allowed me admission.

  A long, windswept driveway led to a deep portico at the front of the hospital, where I hovered while I marshalled my thoughts. I was not sure how to go about my mission, but I was at least determined. I wanted to know more of the life I might have lived had fate not intervened. I knew that my material circumstances would have been dreadful had I stayed with you, my mother, but the possibility of belonging to a person or a place by right – that had a powerful appeal for me. I realised that the odds of finding out who you were, and who I was, were doubtless stacked against me. But I had to try.

  Three or four ladies of quality were also waiting in the portico. They were grandly cloaked and wore lav
ish hats. When a manservant came to conduct them inside, I attached myself to the tail of the group and followed the ladies into a hall without attracting notice. They were met by a short woman in black taffeta, with frizzy grey hair and a sheepish expression, whom they greeted by name as Mrs Collingwood. She conducted them to another room, leaving me alone in the hall with its muddy shadows and walls lined with portraits of worthies.

  The halo-haired Mrs Collingwood reappeared in the hall. I approached her and launched my petition straight away.

  ‘My name is Mary Smith,’ I said, ’and I am in search of my mother. I was taken as a foster child from this hospital by a family called the Waterlands, who live in Cheshire. They brought me up in comfortable circumstances and I hold them in great affection. Since I have had advantages, it occurs to me that perhaps I might be of assistance to my mother, but I do not know how to find her.’

  Mrs Collingwood said briskly, ‘I am afraid your curiosity cannot be satisfied at this time, madam, but you are at leave to fill in a form petitioning to know the details of your admission. The committee of governors meets each Saturday morning to deliberate on requests received.’

  ‘I see. Where shall I find the form?’

  ‘You will need to see the registrar.’

  ‘I suppose there is no doubt that you would have a record of my admission?’

  ‘No doubt at all. Our records are meticulous. When an infant is admitted, he is numbered, baptised and sent to a nurse in the country. He generally stays with the foster family for several years before being returned to us. Each of these steps is recorded in our billet books in the event that a parent later makes enquiries about a particular child. You fill in your admission number on the form and if the governors agree to release the information, the registrar will consult the billet book for the year of your birth. You will find the registrar down there.’ She pointed at a door on the left-hand side of the hallway.