The Quietness

by Alison Rattle

  She didn’t hear the kitchen door open, so when Mrs Water bawled, ‘What are you feeding that child?’ Queenie jerked, and the bottle of milk fell from her hand.

  52

  Ellen

  I sat in the library in a daze. Christmas Day and all hope had been snatched from me. I stared into the fire as though I might find some answers among the flaming coals. I was vaguely aware of a flurry of excitement in the house; like mice skittering beneath the floorboards. The servants were in a festive mood. No doubt Ninny had cooked up a goose or two with all the trimmings and was probably already celebrating with a glass of port. Downstairs there would be colour and laughter, chatter and life. Up here, it was just another cold winter’s day.

  Father’s words turned over and over in my head. A lunatic asylum, or marriage to Mr Rumble? I could not imagine which horror would be the greater. The only asylum I had ever seen was Bethlem Hospital, or Bedlam as the servants referred to it. I had passed by its bleak grey walls and domed rooftop a few times when I was younger, on rare outings with one governess or another. I would be told to look away as our carriage drove past, but I would imagine I could hear the wails of the wretched inmates. One governess delighted in scaring the wits out of me and told me tales of poor unfortunates being chained by one leg or arm to a wall with only a blanket to hide their nakedness. People would pay, in days gone by, she told me, to view these lost souls sitting in their own filth and to hear their haunting screams. Whatever went on inside that place, I knew I could not survive such a thing. And Mr Rumble? The very thought of him made my skin crawl. How could I be dutiful to a man who repulsed me so?

  And what of my baby? There had been no chink in Father’s armour. She did not exist for him. A sadness weighed upon me as heavy as the iron grey sky outside.

  I stayed where I was, staring into the fire, wondering how my life had come to this. Even Mary did not seek me out. No doubt she was caught up in the preparations for Christmas dinner and in the task of dressing Mother for the feast. Mother . . . It was strange to think that I had ever believed I was part of that cold, brittle woman. She had made no attempt to visit me since my return or sent any word for me to attend her. If she knew I was aware of the truth, then she must be glad to call an end to all pretence. I did not miss her. I would be glad never to see her face again.

  With every passing hour I sank deeper into despair. I could see no way out. If I left here to fetch my baby, where would I go and how would I live? I had no money of my own and no kindly relatives to call upon for help. Mary’s sister came to mind. But I could not expect her to take in a stranger and her child with no means of paying my way. How could I ever earn a living? I had no idea what a woman could do out in the world. A servant or a governess, perhaps? But I knew without doubt that no one would employ me with a child in tow. I could go out and make my own way in the world, but I would be unable to be with my child. The best I could do would be to pay another woman to bring her up and content myself with occasional visits. That I could not do. Realisation dawned on me slowly and painfully. With a heavy heart I made the most difficult decision of my life.

  Hurried footsteps sounded up and down the hallway outside; servants carrying tureens and plates of steaming Christmas fare. The bell for dinner rang and I realised too late I had not prepared my dress or toilet. But what did it matter? My future was decided.

  Mr Rumble was seated opposite me at the dinner table. He looked more repugnant in the light of a dozen candles than he had in Father’s dimly lit study. Mother was sitting stiffly to my right. She was bedecked with jewels, feathers and fancy trimmings. She looked more dressed than a Christmas goose ready for the oven. Father was in his usual place at the head of the table. He carved the goose with precision and we watched as he delicately placed each sliver of fat-trimmed meat on a silver plate. I could not help but wonder if he applied such delicacy to the cadavers he carved up each day at the hospital.

  Mr Rumble’s gaze kept sliding towards me as his lips sucked on gravy and bone. He grunted as he swallowed each mouthful of food. Save for these sounds, there was silence as usual. I was barely aware of the food that passed my lips as I searched inside myself for the strength to carry out my decision.

  With the forlorn affair finally over, we retired to the drawing room. Mother and Father started a game of cribbage, and as I knew he would, Mr Rumble came to sit by me. His cheeks were aflame, reddened no doubt by the glasses of wine he had drunk at dinner. We sat in a heavy silence, watching Mother and Father, and I listened to the clock chime another hour. Mother soon tired of the game and insisted that Father escort her from the room. ‘Excuse me, Mr Rumble,’ said Father. ‘I shall not be long.’

  As the drawing room door closed, Mr Rumble dabbed at his forehead with his handkerchief. Now was my opportunity to say what I needed to say. I had to do it now before my resolve disappeared altogether. I turned to him and in a low voice I murmured, ‘My apologies, Mr Rumble, for my earlier behaviour.’

  Beside me, Mr Rumble jumped at the sound of my voice. ‘Par . . . pardon?’ he stuttered and took a gulp of his port.

  ‘I said, I am sorry for my earlier behaviour. It was most rude of me, and of course I should be most honoured to accept your proposal.’

  Mr Rumble coughed and a spray of ruby port landed on the front of his white shirt.

  ‘Well, well . . .’ he said, recovering himself. ‘I knew you would come around to your father’s way of thinking. It is better you marry me willingly, of course, but marry me you will. My career is on the ascent and I need a wife to take care of my domestic arrangements and provide me with a family.’

  I twisted inside at these words and had to hold on to my seat to prevent myself from bolting from the room.

  Mr Rumble straightened himself up and ran his fingers through his hair. ‘In return, your reputation can be salvaged,’ he said. ‘I will of course say nothing of your, shall we say, shameful past. If you do right by me, I am sure we shall be very happy.’

  ‘But of course,’ I said. ‘I shall do my very best to be a good and dutiful wife to you.’

  Mr Rumble grunted in reply.

  My heart was pounding painfully. My future and that of my baby’s rested on what I was about to say next. I took a deep breath and formed my face into what I hoped was a pleasing expression. ‘And . . . and, I am sure in time I shall be able to grow very fond of you, as . . .’ My voice shook. ‘As I am sure you shall be able to grow fond of my child.’

  Mr Rumble frowned. ‘Your child?’ he hissed. ‘Have we not just agreed that no more is to be said of your shameful past?’

  My mouth had grown dry and my words would not come easily. ‘Of course we shall not speak of my past, as such, Mr Rumble. But you must see the advantages of a ready-made family which in time I am sure we can add to.’

  Mr Rumble shook his head in confusion. ‘Am I to understand that you expect me to take in your child as well as yourself?’

  ‘Well, naturally. I cannot be separated from her, Mr Rumble.’

  ‘Ha!’ he spat. ‘You think I would bring the shame of a bastard into my home?’

  ‘But nobody need know,’ I said, trying to keep my voice steady. ‘In time we can let it be known that she is your child. There need not be any shame.’

  ‘I think your thoughts must be addled somewhat, Miss Swift. Or else you have taken me for a fool.’ He drained his glass of port and ran his tongue around his mouth.

  It was all going hideously wrong. ‘No . . . no indeed, I do not think you a fool,’ I began.

  He put his hand up to stop me from talking. ‘Miss Swift,’ he said patiently. ‘It is all quite simple. I have made an agreement with your father to marry you. Your past behaviour and your child are to be entirely forgotten.’

  I looked at his face and saw nothing but coldness and self-righteousness in the gleam of his bulging eyes. Was there any part of him I could appeal to?

  ‘Mr Rumble . . . please,’ I said and the tears rolled freely down my cheeks. ‘P
lease . . . please, Mr Rumble. I will do anything you ask of me. Only please do not deny me my child. I beg you.’ I reached out to grasp his hand, but he pulled away from me, a look of disgust upon his face.

  ‘I have said all there is to say on the matter.’ He stood up, taking his empty glass with him. ‘And I assure you once we are married the subject will be closed forever.’

  A fear so violent suddenly gripped my stomach. I ran from the room and got as far as the bottom of the stairs before I brought up my Christmas dinner all over the floor.

  53

  Queenie

  ‘I said, what are you feeding that child?’ repeated Mrs Waters as she stood in the kitchen doorway. She looked flustered and her orange hair was springing messily from out the sides of her bonnet.

  Queenie bent down and scrabbled around to pick up the dropped bottle from the floor. Her face prickled with hot guilt. ‘It’s just milk, ma’am,’ she said, sitting back up. Miss Swift’s baby began to bleat. Queenie hesitated, not sure whether to put the teat back in her mouth or not. The cries grew louder and more insistent.

  ‘Shut that brat up!’ shouted Mrs Waters. ‘Why is it crying, anyway? What is in that bottle?’

  ‘I told you, ma’am. It’s just milk.’

  ‘I’m not stupid, girl. I can see it’s milk. But it’s not watered down, is it? Why aren’t you using the proper mix?’ She snatched the bottle from Queenie’s hand and her eyes darted around the kitchen. Queenie saw them land on the big jug on the table that was full of the watered-down milk, lime and drops of the Quietness, and the smaller jug next to it full of creamy milk and sugar. Mrs Waters strode over to the table and looked inside both jugs. She dipped her finger into the smaller jug and licked off the drips. The baby’s cries changed to a constant wail. Mrs Waters turned to Queenie and looked at her hard.

  ‘No wonder the child is mithering. What were you thinking of, girl? This stuff is far too rich, and how are we meant to keep them hushed without the Quietness?’

  ‘I’m sorry, ma’am,’ said Queenie.

  ‘Sorry?’ Mrs Waters banged her fists on the table. ‘How dare you! How long have you been doing this behind our backs?’ Mrs Waters was wild. Her eyes had narrowed to thin, black slits and her heavy bosom trembled with rage. Queenie hadn’t expected this. It was all happening too quickly for her to think.

  ‘I haven’t, ma’am,’ she stuttered. ‘Honest. This is the first time I’ve done it.’

  The baby was still wailing and Mrs Waters put her hands to her ears in frustration. ‘Shut that child up!’ She rushed towards Queenie and grabbed the baby from her arms. She flung the child over her shoulder and pulled the kitchen door open. ‘Sarah!’ she screeched. ‘Sarah! Get down here!’

  ‘What are you doing, ma’am?’ Queenie was horrified. She stood up quickly. ‘What are you going to do with the little ’un?’

  Mrs Waters said nothing. She stood tapping her foot while the baby pressed its red screwed-up face into her shoulder and began to hiccough between sobs. Queenie heard the scurrying of footsteps and Mrs Ellis’s shrill voice.

  ‘What is it? Whatever is happening?’

  Mrs Waters shoved the baby towards her. ‘Just take it. Take the thing away from me. I can’t abide its noise. If it doesn’t stop soon, I shan’t be able to account for my actions.’ Mrs Ellis did not question her sister. She looked at Queenie in puzzlement and then hurried away with Miss Swift’s baby.

  Queenie tried to stay calm, though her insides were turning over faster than a rolling barrel. Mrs Waters’ heavy breathing filled the now quiet kitchen. The other babies were still sleeping. Not one had been disturbed by all the commotion.

  Mrs Waters glared at Queenie. ‘Don’t you ever do that again. Do you hear me, girl? You disobey my orders again and you’re OUT!’

  Queenie looked at Mrs Waters. There was no hint of softness in her coarse face and no kindness in her angry eyes. Why would any mother hand their child over to a woman like her? thought Queenie. Those mothers had trusted this woman, had given her money to take care of their little ’uns. It weren’t right, thought Queenie. It just weren’t right.

  She stood up tall and pushed her chin out. ‘You can’t talk to me like that no more,’ she said. ‘Cause I’m going anyway. Straight to the coppers.’ It felt good to see the shock in Mrs Waters’ eyes and to see her mouth go slack.

  ‘What on earth do you mean, girl? You can’t go to the police for a telling-off!’

  Queenie snorted. ‘I ain’t going for that reason, am I?’

  Mrs Waters shuffled her feet and crossed her arms over her bosom.

  ‘Well . . . whatever do you want to be going to the police for, then?’

  Queenie stared at her for a moment. There was no going back now. ‘Where did you go this morning?’ she asked carefully.

  ‘Why . . . why . . .’ Mrs Waters spluttered. ‘That’s none of your business, girl!’

  ‘Well, I already know where you went,’ Queenie spat the words out. ‘You went to get rid of a poor, dead baby didn’t you?’ Queenie’s voice cracked and she was dismayed to feel her eyes filling with tears.

  Mrs Waters stayed quiet for a minute. Then she pulled her shoulders back and the hardness returned to her face. ‘So what if I did?’ she said.

  Queenie was taken aback. The hairs on her arms began to prickle and stiffen. ‘You . . . you murderer!’ she whispered uncertainly. Then louder. ‘I’ll get the coppers on to you!’ She started to move away, towards the back door.

  Mrs Waters laughed: a soft, mocking sound. Queenie suddenly felt cold all over.

  ‘And what would happen if you did bring the coppers here?’ asked Mrs Waters with a half smile. ‘What would you tell them? That some poor unfortunate babies died?’

  ‘They didn’t just die!’ Queenie retorted. ‘You starved ’em to death!’

  ‘Listen,’ said Mrs Waters, her face growing serious again. ‘We just helped them along, all right? That is all. Sent them into the arms of Jesus. Do you not think they would have starved to death anyway, unwanted and out on the streets with mothers who can’t provide for them? We just speed it along. Help those children find peace and help the poor mothers out in their time of need. You must see that can’t be so very wrong?’

  ‘But . . . but you get money for them! And you don’t even give them a proper burial!’ Queenie’s mind was in a whirl. She thought back to the baby at home. It was true it had died of hunger; it had been so weak. But Mam and Da had loved it. And Da would have made sure it had a proper burial. She thought of him twisting his precious neckerchief round and round in his hands. ‘You ain’t sent any of ’em to new homes in the country have you? I’ll tell the coppers that. I’ll tell ’em you just dumped the poor little mites!’

  Queenie was spitting mad now. But she was scared too. A wave of fear ran up and down her body. She wanted to get out quick, to run back home to Mam and Da and spill it all out. Maybe they would come to the coppers with her, and she would feel safe again?

  Mrs Waters calmly untied her bonnet and put it on the kitchen table. She shook out her hair and began to untie her cloak. ‘You run along to the police if you want,’ she said, as she fiddled with the knot at her throat. ‘But just you mind, girl. They find we’ve done anything wrong . . . then you’re up to your neck in it too. You work for us don’t forget. And no one will believe you didn’t know what was going on. Shame for someone so young to have to face the hangman’s noose.’

  Queenie froze.

  ‘On the other hand,’ continued Mrs Waters, ‘we could just carry on business as usual. You’re a good little worker. You could join us and earn more money than you ever dreamt of.’ She took off her cloak and put it over her arm. ‘And don’t forget,’ she said, ‘we are providing a good service. You think those mothers don’t know what happens?’

  Queenie couldn’t answer. She was finding it hard to breathe, imagining a noose around her neck.

  ‘I’ll leave you to think it over, shall I?’ said Mrs Waters.
‘You’ll see I’m right.’ She picked up her bonnet from the kitchen table and, without waiting for Queenie’s answer, she left the room.

  Queenie sat down and put her head in her hands. Mrs Waters was right. She had known what was going on all along. She’d just closed her mind to it. Taken in by coins in her pocket and new boots and ribbons. She’d turned a blind eye. Even now, she was tempted by Mrs Water’s offer of more money than she could dream of. It would all be so easy.

  She groaned out loud again. Then she thought of Mam selling her body to feed their bellies. She thought of Tally, Kit and Albie and how just a crust of dry bread would make them smile. She thought of Da and her out on the streets selling apples. Everyone looking out for each other. She thought of Miss Swift begging her to take care of her baby. She thought of Miss Swift needing her baby, and her baby needing its mam.

  Then Queenie was struck by a notion; a notion so plain and simple that it must have been there all along but she just hadn’t noticed it. That was it, wasn’t it? she thought. That was what it was all about. Being needed by someone was what made being alive worthwhile. Being needed by someone and looking out for them was more important than all the money in the world. Queenie stood up. She knew what to do now; she had a purpose and it felt real and proper and good. These babies all needed her, they all deserved a chance. Miss Swift needed her too and, Queenie thought, whether they liked it or not, she needed Mam, Da and the little ones more than she’d ever needed them before.

  Queenie walked fast. Every step that took her away from Wild Street made her feel lighter and safer. She prayed she hadn’t left it too late for Miss Swift’s baby. She headed straight for Waterloo Bridge and only stopped for breath when she was halfway over. She looked across the brown stretch of river at the hundreds of rooftops, smoking chimneys, church steeples and at the foggy outlines of fat grey buildings. Down in the river, despite it being Christmas Day, steamers and barges pushed through the water and Queenie heard the voices of the boatmen and the sounds of machinery. She looked along the bridge, back the way she had come, and she looked ahead of her towards home. Part of her wanted to stay where she was forever and not have to choose. But then she heard the sound of children’s voices and she looked down to see a bargeman hoisting a small child onto his shoulders while another danced around his legs. She smiled to herself and set off walking again, knowing she had made the right choice.