The Night Flower
Page 16
I s’posed by that he was meaning them ladies from the crime class.
Then he carried on, in this grave and serious way, and it was a way I hadn’t never heard him talk before, and I couldn’t make up my mind if I liked it or not. ‘Dear Miriam,’ he said, ‘your life is between the incorruptible and the irredeemable or, if you prefer, the path between heaven and hell. You can choose which path to take. If you spend your time learning your bible and attending church and believing in the Lord, you will become good. But if you follow the path of the irredeemable, by taking yourself to places like the Black Horse, or talking to those irredeemable souls from the factory, you will find yourself possessed of a wickedness that can lead only to one ending.’
He looked at me and smiled, in a gentle and caring sorta way.
I wasn’t entirely sure what the ending he’d gone on about was gonna be, but I s’posed he meant a life in Cascades with my head shaved and a bottle of liquor in my hands, or maybe he just meant hell.
I said, ‘Thank you, John Sutton,’ because I wasn’t sure what else I was meant to say. I couldn’t help being a bit offended in my heart, at how he reckoned I was a body of the corruptible sort and not of the kushti sort like he was. I knew I wasn’t a bad girl, for all what I’d got sent here to Parts Beyond the Sea. Of course, I’d took a few bits and pieces in my life what some folk might of said I didn’t have no right to, but I hadn’t never done no harm to no one’s feelings, and that was the real test of a kushti person, if you asked me.
I decided I’d do my best to take no notice of his words, though it wasn’t easy. I couldn’t help wanting John Sutton to think as well of me as I thought of myself.
I finished my tea. ‘Goodnight, John Sutton,’ I said, and I took myself off to my bed.
It was Wednesday, what meant Rose wasn’t there. I sat for a while at my window, watching what was happening at the Black Horse – all the coming and going, and the shouting, and the opening and closing of them mysterious windows upstairs. And then a man what looked to me as being very like the Reverend Sutton himself come out onto the street from a passage what went round the back of Ma Dwyer’s. I s’pose the back way was a disguise for them men what didn’t want no one to see em being anywhere near a place without morals, or the presence of the Lord.
The man what looked like Reverend Sutton was busy tidying up his clothes and my suspicions about just what that man got up to over there come to be stronger than they’d ever been before. I wasn’t sure as I could even call em suspicions no more. I was gonna start thinking of em as certains.
29
WINTER
Reverend Sutton finished reading the inspectors’ report with a sigh. The people in charge of the colony were deviating further and further from their path of reforming convict souls, and becoming more and more inclined to provide dangerous luxury. The inspectors had not recommended shutting down the nursery altogether, but they were speaking of putting plans in place for it to be moved to a new location – a building that was warmer and more modern, where there was a garden for the babies to get fresh air. They were also recommending the introduction of more vegetables to the convict diet, though this would be expensive, and not something that could be done straight away.
There was a knock at his study door.
‘Come in.’
His son entered. ‘Is that the inspectors’ report?’ he asked eagerly. ‘What does it say?’
‘It says that cleanliness is a problem. The floors are crawling with bugs and the blankets are black with fleas. They think this accounts for the sickly state of the children and they want it immediately fixed. They also say that bad food, bad nursing and lack of exercise are causing exceedingly high mortality among the infants, and that the nursery needs to be shut down and reopened in another location, with the current superintendent’s son at the helm.’
He looked at John, and saw clearly that he was trying to suppress his triumph. His son had won. His radical ideas were going to be recommended as realities and, within a few years, the nursery would become a breeding ground for depravity.
‘You know the fault of all this lies with the maids, don’t you, John?’ he said. ‘On those rare occasions that Hattie ever did some work, she was never thorough about it. Always taking a slapdash approach, never cleaning anything properly. And Miriam is just the same. Lazy. All these girls are lazy. If they’d kept the place cleaner, the babies would have survived, and we wouldn’t be facing all these radical plans for reform.’
‘I don’t think you’re being fair, Father. Keeping this place clean is a terrible challenge. Women are sent here straight from the ships. Their skin is dirty, their hair is full of vermin. And the rooms are crowded. There are far too many people in those dormitories. It’s almost impossible for one young girl to keep it clean.’
Reverend Sutton looked at him. He suspected his son to have been developing an inappropriate affection for the convict maid and now, hearing him speak, he was becoming sure of it.
‘I hope you are being careful with that girl, John,’ he said.
‘What do you mean, Father?’
‘The maid. I have seen you with her – strolling the streets of Hobart, as if she might be your fiancée. People talk, John. She’s a convict. You must keep a respectable distance.’
John laughed. ‘Rot,’ he said.
‘I mean it, my boy. You are a Christian man with a Christian man’s work ahead of you. Liaisons with a convict maid will lead only to shame.’
John said, with anger in his voice, ‘What about you and Hattie, Father? What about that liaison?’
The reverend turned away. ‘I do not know what you are talking about.’
‘Do you think my mother isn’t aware of what goes on between the two of you, and of the conditions you’ve imposed on her so-called retirement? All this talk of shame … but you are the one who is shameful. We all know what goes on.’
‘Enough!’ the reverend bellowed. ‘You and the maid are what I am talking about. It is dreadful, disgusting behaviour for the son of a reverend to openly court a convict, and I will not tolerate it under my roof.’ He balled up his fist and delivered a sound, hard thump to his son’s face.
30
After I’d had my talk with John Sutton, I didn’t go in the Black Horse no more. Even though I didn’t much believe what he’d said about my soul being of the weaker sort, I couldn’t help wanting him to like me, so I did as he said I should, like a kushti sorta girl.
A couple of times a week, when I was out doing the shopping, I’d bump into Ma Dwyer on Liverpool Street. She always brung a smile to my face, her being a lady what was so clever about the ways of the world. One morning, she said, ‘I haven’t seen you for your lemonade lately.’
I shook my head. ‘No, ma’am,’ I said. ‘John Sutton don’t approve of me being in your place with all them men, and all them ladies upstairs.’
Ma Dwyer tossed her head and give a sniff, like she didn’t think John Sutton’s opinions was worth much. ‘Oh, I shouldn’t listen to that sort of thing. Doesn’t he come in himself, often enough? And as for his father …’ But she tried to be a discreet sorta woman, so that was all she was gonna say on the subject of his father, though I could tell from the look on her face what she was thinking.
‘I know he does, ma’am,’ I said, ‘but his own soul ain’t as weak as mine.’ And I told her the conversation what I’d had with him a few weeks or so back, when he found me in her establishment with my lemonade and my wide eyes.
She laughed at that, ‘Rot,’ she said. ‘It’s rot, Miriam, and don’t you be listening to such nonsense. You do whatever you want to do, my love, and if what you want to do is have yourself a drink with your old friend Ma Dwyer, then you just come across the road and do that. And tell John Sutton I know how to look after a good girl’s honour.’ And she winked at me, and I blushed, because of course I knew what she meant.
Well, it turned out my honour didn’t need no looking after, because I didn’t get to
keep it long after that. Not that I was pleased or proud of this fact, I might add, and maybe it’d of done me better if I had gone round Ma Dwyer’s and got my honour took care of by a lady what knew about the world. But I didn’t, and that’s all there is to it, and there ain’t no point weeping about it now.
31
Letter from Thomas James Hodges Esq., prisoner of York Gaol, to his daughter, Mrs Rose Winter, 13th July, 1843
My dear Rose,
Forgive me for not writing to you for all this time. There was little I could say, as life in gaol is just as you know it to be, and I had no good news, or anything to say that I thought might alleviate your suffering.
But now I do have news for you. I have been granted release from my sentence and, if all goes according to plan, will be out before Christmas. You know, of course, that I have no money because everything I earned through my business had to be relinquished upon my conviction, but we do still have the house. As soon as I am able, I shall put it on the open market and once it is sold, buy myself something smaller, which will leave me with enough to last, I hope, until my death.
I will, of course, send as much as you need to help make your situation out there more comfortable, and to buy your passage home once your sentence has expired.
None of this will happen quickly, and I ask you to be patient until the Hazels is sold. But once that happens, I hope I will be able to bring some relief to your suffering.
Ever your loving,
Father
Letter from Mrs Rose Winter to her father, Thomas James Hodges Esq., 29th September, 1843
Dear Father,
I received your news with great joy. Life in the colony is tolerable, but not easy. Arabella was taken from me as soon as we arrived, and sent to live in the orphanage. I think there is a belief among the governors of the island that it is best for children to be separated from their parents, in case the criminal nature is passed on to them.
The only way I can think to get her back is perhaps by offering money to the orphanage, and seeing if they will release her to my care after that. This will, though, present further problems, as my master and mistress would need to agree to keep her, and I am not sure they would do so. The laws here are strict, and they are very obedient people.
I take joy in the thought of your release. Perhaps one day we will be reunited. I am due to get my yellow ticket of leave in three years’ time, which will allow me to settle here and live freely in my own home. It would also allow for my family to be sent to me if they can afford the fare. But it would not allow me to leave the colony. I must wait six more years before that becomes possible.
Perhaps, if all else fails, it will be possible to get Arabella back when I have my yellow ticket, though I fear the effects of another three years in the orphanage. I shall give the matter some thought, and write again when my plans are clearer.
Rose
Things at the nursery were changing. After the inspectors’ visit, recommendations were sent to the island’s governors that improvements and changes must urgently be made if they were ever to avoid such a shameful catastrophe again.
John Sutton was excited about it. ‘It’s just what is needed,’ he said one morning over breakfast. ‘I’ve been saying this for years. A modern building, good food, a garden … My only worry was how we could ever fund it, but if the governors can be persuaded that it’s a necessity, then we’ll have no trouble.’
Reverend Sutton snorted. ‘Unlikely, John,’ he said. ‘Unlikely. This is just reaction by the inspectors. Nothing more. It will all die down. The winter was bad, but it was a one-off. It won’t happen again and nothing need change. They will all come to see that.’
‘But I believe the news has been circulated to Britain, sir,’ I said. ‘You know this is a matter of concern for the British government, too. Campaigners will seize on it.’
He said nothing; just gave me a hard look that told me my opinions were not important. I fell silent and returned to my food, my spirits low. Last night had been one of my monthly visits to Arabella at the orphanage. I stayed for my allotted time of one hour, but she barely knew me now and hardly spoke. I embraced her as I left and said, as I always did, ‘I will get you out of here, my love. I promise I will get you out.’
She simply stood there in my arms, her face expressionless. There was not even a murmur of excitement from her lips, nothing at all to suggest she would like to leave the orphanage. I wondered if she might have preferred to stay there. She remembered no other life now.
But my father’s recent letter was helping a little. I was heartened at the thought of him having back his freedom, and the hope of some small return of his fortune brought me huge relief, as there was no denying that money opened options. In my experience, there were few people who could not be bought. I was hoping to have a discussion with the matrons of the orphanage, to see if I could offer them enough that they would see fit to return Arabella to me. I had lost too many children.
Saturday, 8th May, 1841
It is now exactly two months since the children’s nanny passed away and left me the care of them on my own. I hardly know whether I am a nanny now or governess – I can only assume I am both. In the mornings, Isabella comes with us to the schoolroom, and I try and teach Charles while she’s with us, though it is hard, as she is not able to occupy herself at her age. Mostly, our lessons involve me reading Grimms’ fairy tales, which Charles listens to with relish, though I know Mrs M would prefer him to be instructed in modern languages and arithmetic. As she comes up here so rarely, however, I feel at liberty to teach him only what I think he can cope with, and Mrs M might have to accept that her son is not going to be proficient in algebraic calculations before the age of seven.
I admit, I do not have the feeling that I owe Mrs M a great deal. My salary is a very low one, and our original understanding was simply that I was to act as governess to Charles. I don’t mind in the slightest taking on the extra care of Isabella, as she is a dear, sweet thing and perfectly enchanting when not wailing, but what I do object to most strongly is the burden of sewing my employer has recently put on me. Every evening now, I find myself sitting up till nine or ten o’clock, straining my eyes over oceans of needlework, making and mending everything from frocks and suits to tippets and outdoor wear. There is no time for writing letters, or for pursuing any interest of my own. I am in no position to complain, though, as I’m entirely dependent upon my place here, so I must toil away nightly, and feel my resentment burning into the small clothes I am making.
This afternoon, I took a walk into the town. A great number of people were about. Or perhaps it wasn’t a great number … Perhaps it just felt that way to me. They were mostly young couples I saw, and sometimes the sight of two people drinking bliss from each other can make a stranger feel as invisible as a stray cat in a London market. Though possibly that is the fault of my drab governess’s dress, making me nothing more than a shadow wherever I go.
I do try not to feel sorry for myself all the time, but it is humiliating, living here as a servant, and being treated as an object of pity or scorn, when I have always been so used to being mistress of a grand house myself. Mrs Murray reminds me as often as she can of my inferiority, and I don’t know why, as she keeps hundreds of lesser mortals than me. She could bolster herself with them, I’m sure.
‘Mrs Winter,’ she said to me today, ‘I know this is Saturday and your afternoon off, but please do keep to your part of the house and don’t stroll through the grounds for the next couple of hours. I am expecting some callers, so all staff need to confine themselves to the private areas of the house. Flora is cleaning the bedrooms, Lucy is in the kitchen, and I would appreciate it if you might remain on the top floor. You can come down after three o’clock if you need to use the exit to go and do any of your own shopping.’
I nodded. There is little else for me to do, other than stay quiet and obey, even though I worry the resentment will one day overflow and leak out, like nausea.
The woman grabbed my hand hard and squeezed her bony knuckles around my palm. ‘My dear, do not speak so. I see for you journeys, adventure, romance and children. One shilling, my love, and I will give you more.’
I shook my head. ‘I’m sorry,’ I told her. ‘I have no money to spare.’
And so I went home, and I am almost ashamed to admit that the peddler-woman’s words made the walk back far more pleasant that it might otherwise have been.
Monday, 7th May, 1841
Despite the dreadfulness of Mrs Murray &c, I am very, very fond of both Charles and Isabella – much fonder than I could have imagined when I first arrived. Back then, when my duty was only to teach Charles (which seemed an impossible task – to instil silence and mathematics and religion into one whose only interest was making a loud noise), I began to feel that all that was good in my life had ended, and the only things that lie ahead were drudgery and loneliness, and a terrible, incurable homesickness for my family and the life I once had. But now the three of us know each other so well, I find them a huge comfort and snatch a good deal of happiness from them. Certainly, love can add worth to even the dreariest of lives.
I try not to think of my own, and all that I have lost. I focus on these instead. Sometimes at night, when I hold Isabella to my breast and give her the milk meant for my own dear twins, I can almost believe she is mine, and that my youngest, at least, has come back to me.