Circle of Pearls

by Rosalind Laker

  ‘Ow do ye know that trick?’ he asked between grudging respect and curiosity.

  ‘Something similar happened to my mother once when she bought from a pedlar to do him a good turn and was swindled in the process. I’ve never forgotten it.’

  The forger slid away. Julia made for the nearest coffeehouse, feeling ravenously hungry and realizing that it was now early evening and she had not eaten since before six o’clock that morning. After a simple meal she made a slight detour, harrowed by sights on the way, to reach the place where Abigail lived, being anxious about her. The young woman was one of her best workers, good-natured and merry; and the baby had been eagerly awaited. As she entered the narrow street she found that the house was the fifth one along in a row of timber-framed houses that on both sides seemed to lean against each other for support. The projecting top storeys left only a gap of two feet between the facing houses. Strangely, when the occupants on both the right and the left could have exchanged the proverbial handshake out of their highest windows, only Abigail’s row bore the red crosses, proof again of the vagaries of the pestilence. A single watchman patrolled the whole row and at the moment had his back towards her as he slowly paced his beat.

  A tapping at one of the small-paned windows of Abigail’s home drew her attention. Mrs Webb was beckoning to her. Julia went near, thankful to see her.

  ‘Where is he?’ Mrs Webb mouthed through the glass.

  Julia knew whom she meant. ‘Going down the row.’

  The bottom pane of the window had been broken and was blocked with rags and paper. Mrs Webb managed to pull back a corner of the obstruction and her low tones could be heard outside, though little more than a whisper. ‘I hoped you might come and I’ve been keeping a look-out. Listen to me. All is going well with Abigail, but we both want you to do something for her. She’s in the final stages of labour and the baby should be here in about half an hour. Go round the back of the house opposite and get in somehow. The family left about three weeks ago, according to Abigail. When she has given birth I’ll hand the new-born infant to you through the top window. It’s essential to get the babe away from the infection in this house without delay.’

  Julia nodded and drew away. A life was to be saved and there was no question about it. She went cautiously to the rear of the house to find a cobbled yard that ran the length of the row. Nobody was about. The back door was secure, but she thought it would be easy enough to push in the lead-set panes of the window. As she placed her hand, wrapped in her cloak, against the glass a voice spoke, causing her to spring round guiltily.

  ‘There’s no need to do that.’ A stern-faced woman was looking out of the neighbouring house, ‘I have a key.’ She disappeared for a moment to reappear with it and set it into its lock. ‘I’m minding this house for my neighbours, because I’ll not be going myself whatever happens. I’ve two elderly bed-ridden parents.’ Entering the house, she looked over her shoulder at Julia, who still hesitated in her surprise. ‘Come in then if you’re going to collect Abigail’s infant.’

  ‘How did you know about that?’ Julia followed the woman inside and the door was shut.

  ‘I saw the midwife arrive and then I watched you in conversation with her. Whether you knew it or not, you glanced up at the top windows of this house. People in infected houses have been handing out little children stripped of their garments to neighbours to save their lives, but this is the first new-born one I know of that is to escape the watchman’s vigil. The fellow in this street has eyes in the back of his head, but I’ll distract his attention if you like.’ All the time the woman was talking she was leading the way up the twisting flight of stairs.

  ‘You’re a good neighbour indeed.’

  ‘I’ve known Abigail’s husband since he was born in that house and when she came here as a bride she proved herself a good housewife, looking after him and his old father. We had a nice chat most days, she and I. What are you going to put the baby in?’

  ‘I’ll use a petticoat.’

  ‘Do you know how to feed the little one?’

  ‘I’m leaving London in the morning and I’ll get a wet nurse as soon as I’m home. Until then it will have to be drips of milk into the mouth.’

  ‘Soak a piece of clean linen rag in the milk and let the babe suck. I’ll get you some.’ They had reached the top room. The woman made sure the watchman was still farther down the street and then she opened the window just a crack. ‘Don’t open it wider yet, because he knows this house is supposed to be unoccupied at the present time. Sit down while you’re waiting. I suppose you’re Lady Warrender. You fit Abigail’s description.’

  ‘Yes, I am. And you, madam?’

  ‘Mrs Dealworth. I’ll get that rag and I can spare you a small flagon of milk.’

  ‘That’s most kind.’

  Julia was grateful for a little time of quietness on her own. She removed one of her petticoats and put it ready. Then she sat looking towards the top window opposite, seeing that it had also been opened slightly ready for the moment when speed would be essential. It had been one of the worst days in her whole life, and if some good could come out of it by saving Abigail’s infant she would be more than compensated. She felt as if a hundred years had passed since she had left the Webbs that morning, but with all the crammed hours that had passed it was still only seven o’clock. That left her just two hours before curfew!

  When the woman returned she had a bundle with her, a black shawl over her arm and the promised flask of milk.

  ‘I’ve put some more rags together that’ll help you keep the baby dry and this shawl is a spare one of my mother’s and should be useful.’

  ‘It will. At a happier time I shall tell Abigail of all that you have done.’

  Mrs Dealworth flapped one of her large bony hands to show she had done little enough. She was a garrulous talker, obviously one who never missed anything that happened in the street, but good-hearted with it. In a way she was only slightly less boxed in than if she had had a red cross on her door, for she was a widow, tied day and night to the care of two old people. It was no wonder she welcomed any diversion.

  Nearly an hour had gone by when Mrs Webb made a signal from the opposite window, but she had seen, as Julia had, that the watchman was directly below, talking to two men and showing no sign of moving on. No doubt Mrs Webb was also concerned by seeing Mrs Dealworth lounging in her open front door as if taking in the evening air. Julia pointed to her and then stuck up her thumb to indicate there was nothing to fear. Cautiously she opened her window and Mrs Webb did likewise. Mrs Dealworth was watching and promptly called out to the men, moving from her doorway at the same time. Then she gave a yell as if tripping over her own doorstep and went on shouting she had twisted her ankle.

  Mrs Webb appeared at her window, holding the naked, mewling infant upright. It was a little boy with a mass of black hair brushed up in a cocks-comb and a linen band round his navel. His little legs kicked as she thrust him forward into the open air. Julia reached out and seized him. Within seconds she had placed him on the bed and shut the window. Mrs Webb had already closed hers.

  ‘Welcome to the world, little man,’ Julia said softly between laughter and tears as she began to wrap him up in the soft folds of the petticoat. He seemed to be furious at the treatment he had received, his eyes screwed up, his mouth wide on his lusty cry, his tiny fists and feet working. When he was wrapped up, she added the shawl for extra warmth and carried him carefully downstairs, the bundle for him over her arm and the flagon in her pocket. Mrs Dealworth met her at the foot of the flight.

  ‘The watchman saw nothing. You’re safe now.’

  ‘I thank you.’

  ‘Go now and take care of Abigail’s son. London will be in need of such as he when this pestilence has run its course.’

  Julia arrived back breathlessly at the workshop with just two minutes to spare before curfew. All the women crowded round the baby, who had been asleep on the way. One took him into the weaving room and his
loud mewling resounded intermittently as the milk-soaked rag was removed from his mouth for redipping. Julia took stock. Alice had had to go home to avoid being caught by the curfew, but she had brought the food for the rest and knew she had only to wait with her aunt for transport. As Julia had expected, there were a few extra people in the regathering of her workers. One had brought a younger brother, another her two sisters and a third had felt unable to leave her friend from childhood behind. The group of interlopers stood a trifle sheepishly.

  ‘Has any one of you knowingly been in recent contact with a plague victim?’ Her strict tones demanded the truth. All shook their heads. ‘Very well. It is fortunate I have enough certificates of health to cover you. Naturally you must obey the same rules that apply to everyone else on this journey.’

  The food was laid out for supper with mugs of ale. Julia went into the weaving room and took the sleeping baby from the woman there, telling her to go and eat. It had grown dark and she went to sit by the window with him, not bothering with a candle. Then there came the distant ringing of a handbell. Soon she heard the dreadful shout that had become a new London street cry.

  ‘Bring out your dead!’

  Instinctively she cuddled the sleeping baby up against her protectively as she watched the bell-ringer come along the street ahead of two more dead-collectors, all reeling drunkenly and each leading a horse and cart, both of which were half full of corpses, some not even wrapped in a shroud, arms and legs dangling. The watchman on duty unlocked in turn each plague-marked house where he had been signalled that death lay within. The door would open, the light of a candle-lamp would fall across the filthy cobbles and then people appeared carrying their sad burden, and at some houses they would return inside for a second or even a third one. As they wept, some loudly, the watchman would shepherd them indoors again. He would lock up and move on to the next grief-stricken household. Always the awful shout was unceasing and it was a long time before the ringing of the bell faded away into the distance.

  In the morning there was excitement among the women that the time of leaving London had come. Several older ones competed cheerfully as to who should carry Abigail’s infant, the girls more interested in looking their best for the journey. It was the first time for weeks that any of them had not woken to dread what the day might bring.

  It was another warm morning. They streamed out of the workshop in high spirits, their laughter and chatter a bright, unusual sound in any street these days, causing heads to turn almost on a tilt of hope. Men stoking bonfires exchanged badinage with them and there was more from those trundling hand-barrows of fruit, vegetables or creels of freshly caught fish to the markets. London was not going hungry in its torment, the majority of its citizens sticking doggedly to their trades.

  When the women had crossed London Bridge they gave a cheer. A few danced a jig. Five miles farther on, some had begun to drag their feet and complain of thirst and tiredness. Only two now took turns with Julia in carrying the baby, whom they were calling Boy because he had no name that they knew. Julia allowed them to rest at the next tavern where, after she had shown the health certificates to the innkeeper, they were served a pot of ale each and some bread and cheese. She asked him about transport and it transpired he had one horse, which she hired, and after that whoever held the baby could ride. The competition flared up again and once more Boy regained general popularity.

  Gradually, by asking at each village and town they reached, Julia gathered a dozen horses. Only one of the women had ever ridden before, but once in the side-saddle all soon felt secure and always another woman led the horse at a walking pace. This chance to rest raised everybody’s spirits again and a few of them would look smugly down from horseback at those unfortunate people without health certificates being barred at bridges, or prevented at toll-pikes from entering where they themselves were waved through.

  The day passed in mile after dusty mile until at last in the distance on the other side of a shallow river Julia saw the Sotherleigh vehicles waiting. Luckily a barrier stopped the women from swarming across it in their excitement. They waited for Julia to show the certificates to the guards, who as elsewhere were local men armed with fieldpieces or muskets once carried in the war.

  ‘I’m not taking the slightest risk of infection being carried in the clothes of my party,’ she told the guards. ‘Therefore I’m taking them all down to those trees on the bank. There they will strip, douse themselves in the river and reclothe themselves on the other side where my coach servants are already setting down some hampers of clothes. I’m asking you to be courteous enough to turn your backs during this procedure as my servants will.’

  The guards guffawed, but agreed. One asked her about the garments that would remain behind and she explained that as she would not be accompanying her party she would burn the garments herself. The guard obligingly offered to supply flint and tinder, which she accepted.

  At first the women squealed in protest. ‘That water will be cold! The guards and those other men in livery will spy!’

  ‘The coach servants have their instructions and know better than to disobey and you’re far enough away from the guards in any case.’ Julia saw how the young brother brought along was also hanging back.

  ‘I’m not taking off no clothes in front of a lotta females!’ he declared vehemently.

  Julia shouted across the river to a groom, ‘I believe Molly was including some charade clothes in the hampers. Try to find a coat and a pair of breeches.’ While this was being done she signalled to the head coachman, who climbed down from the box of the Pallister coach, which she had not expected to see, and came within earshot on the bankside.

  ‘I’ll want the lightest of the carts brought across the bridge for me to drive, because I have to return to London to collect two more people, who couldn’t come before,’ she called to him.

  ‘I’ll drive you, my lady.’

  ‘I’ll not expose you to the risk of the plague.’

  ‘I ’ad it once when I was a nipper at sea. I ain’t likely to get it again. Permit me to drive you. The footman that shared the box with me can go back with the rest. It’ll be quicker if I take you.’

  ‘It will and I’ll not forget that you volunteered.’

  He jumped back up on his box to drive across the bridge while she went to supervise the women. They were giggling and laughing and saying everything they could to embarrass the young lad, who was still adamant about not undressing.

  ‘You shall go first and we’ll all turn our backs,’ Julia assured him. ‘Make sure you put your head right under the water to wash any infection out of your hair.’

  He was persuaded, tossed his clothes on to the spot where the bonfire was to be and splashed into the water. After a few minutes he gave a shout and all looked across at the far bank where he was dressed and drying his hair with a towel. With one accord the women became hysterical with mirth, for the coat enveloped him and the breeches came down to his ankles. He was furious and went stumping off along the bank to where the carts awaited.

  Julia held the baby as the women stripped. Considering they had feared to be seen they shrieked so loudly at the chill of the water that they attracted attention they had not anticipated. Four gentlemen sprang out of a coach that had been halted by the guards at the bridge to clap and cheer, and several field workers came at a run to stare. The guards also forgot what they had promised and turned to enjoy the sight of pale female forms dousing themselves under the water and then rising up like a host of Venuses out of the sea. The women’s shrieks turned to screams of outraged modesty when they saw they were observed. It speeded up their dressing, for where they might have taken time in selecting and arguing about different garments, they snatched up whatever came first and hid among the bushes to clothe their still wet bodies.

  When they emerged to dry their hair with the linen towels provided, they were cheered again. Some of the younger ones with well-shaped figures were not so averse to the approbation as they ha
d made themselves out to be. No shoes or stockings had been provided and they walked barefoot along the grassy bank to where the carts waited, Julia keeping pace on the opposite side.

  Then, as arranged, one of the older women came across the bridge carrying a soft woollen cape. Since Boy had been only in uncontaminated wrappings there was little risk in his keeping on what he was wearing, apart from the shawl, which had been in contact with the women’s clothes, but as a precaution Julia undressed him completely. He was handed, protesting loudly once more, to the woman, who wrapped him up and bore him off to one of the carts.

  Julia waited until all were aboard and exchanged waves with the women as they were driven away, staying where she was until a bend in the road hid them from her sight. Then it was as if she had been left in a vacuum, shut off not only from them, but from Sotherleigh and most of all from Adam. She was seized by a dreadful premonition that she might never see him again. A sensation of utter despair swept through her.

  18

  There was no time left that day to go back to London and leave again before curfew. While the coachman returned the horses that Julia had hired to the nearest post-tavern half a mile away, the guard from the bridge lit the bonfire for her and kept an eye on it to make sure the flames did not spread. The grass was dry from the continuous hot weather, and they both agreed there could be no lull in the plague until that changed. He was more eager to talk than she, for the exercise and stress of the day had caught up with her. When the coachman returned to drive her to the tavern where he had secured accommodation she had already decided on an early night, for she wanted to set off at dawn on the morrow for London again.

  It was mid-morning when the Pallister coach arrived at the entrance to the alleyway where Alice lived. It was too narrow for more than a hand-barrow to pass, the wooden houses pressing in on both sides, black-pitched with small windows and narrow doors. The coachman had sprung down from his box, but he looked through the window at her instead of opening the door, his haggard expression showing how shocked he had been by the plague sights since they had crossed London Bridge.