Mrs Dulcimer turned her head, tilted her chin, frowned. Mrs Bonnet hushed for a moment, then said: things can’t be left like this.
Joseph, carting a bucket and shovel, a bundle of kindling, stepped forward, lifted one foot, pushed the door shut behind him. He’d come upstairs in his stockinged feet, having forgotten where he’d left his boots the night before. Doll hadn’t wanted him blundering around the kitchen, had waved him off: look for them later, Mr Benson, d’you mind? Give me a minute, will you?
He hovered just inside the sitting-room doorway. He hadn’t knocked before coming in. Was he supposed to? No one reproved him. No one took any notice of him. Two women confronted a girl in front of a dead fire, a grey-white heap of ash, blown feathery whiteness dusting the steel bars of the grate.
He hadn’t cleaned out a grate before. Doll’s job now, in this house, but she was dealing with the range, which had subsided overnight. When he woke, and went blearily into the shadowy kitchen, he’d found her kneeling in front of the iron monster on a piece of sacking, fiddling with a box of matches. Fingers black with coal-dust. Muddy footprints crossed the kitchen floor, a wavering line between back door and hall. Doll glanced up, sniffing, wiped her nose on the back of her hand. Her grey eyes flickered. Mouth pursed. Just leave me be, Mr Benson, and I’ll get her going again in a jiffy. I know her and you don’t. She has her tricks.
Feeling his way in the dimness, he headed upstairs to the sitting-room. The autumn morning surrounded the house in a crisp embrace. Ice-cold air filled the room, chafed his face. The blinds were half up, revealing frosted-over panes, the curtains pulled roughly back but not tied in place. Books piled higgledy-piggledy on the side table, Mrs Dulcimer’s writing-board and inkwell balancing on top. Joseph’s coat still lay on the floor, on top of the crumpled brown paper wrappings. Doll’s empty teacup stood where she’d left it. The brandy-glass he’d used.
The two women were concentrating on the small figure in white. Betsy was shivering; rolled up, clenched, into herself. Mrs Dulcimer curved forward, her hand reaching out to the stricken girl. The pendulum clock ticked, its gilt weight swinging back and forth. What time did they breakfast here? All at the same time, or the tenants before the mistress? What would Mrs Bonnet devour? A nice grilled chop, a basin of blood and minced bone. No: that was in his waking dream, Mrs Bonnet on all fours, mane of wild grizzled hair, guzzling from a saucer near the back door. Growling and weeping. He choked. That novel he’d plucked from the kitchen pile, been reading before he fell asleep. Currer whatsit. Feet padding over the matting in the passage outside the bedroom. Smoke and flame. A lost creature prowling and gambolling. A nightmare. Grateful to be roused, shed it.
Darkness. Someone’s feet had thudded down, kitchen opened up, crash of shutters, hall door banged, pale yellow lamplight seeped into his cubbyhole. Doll’s and Annie’s voices called. Feet trod rapidly down and up the stairs. He pissed into the chamber pot, hurried on yesterday’s clothes. First thing: get warm. Then he’d be able to think about cooking breakfast. Let alone washing. Nobody was going to bring him a can of nice steaming water, were they?
What was up with Betsy? Poor wee girl. Had she got the toothache? He’d seen Milly curl up tight like that, pressing a washcloth, boiled then wrung out, against her cheek. Biting down on a clove. Mrs Dulcimer leaned further forward, touched Betsy’s knee. The contact released something, because Betsy shuddered, and began weeping. She screwed her fists into her eyes. Tears dripped down her cheeks, around her mouth. Mrs Dulcimer said: Betsy, what happened? Where is the baby?
Betsy wailed on. A dolorous, unending cry. Just like her child yesterday evening. Into that bleat packed all the sorrow of the world. Joseph tightened his grip on the handle of the pail. The metal edge cut into his palm, steadied him. He willed Mrs Dulcimer to look round. Lord, missis, I know. Some of it.
Not a dream, then, those tentative footsteps in the middle of night. Those bolts gratingly drawn back; the clash of the latch. That hoarse breathing, as someone shuffled past the cubbyhole.
My duty to speak, I suppose. Poor little creature. Betsy or her child? Both. Joseph sighed. Wasn’t pity enough? Why add to her misery? Wretched girl. His lips seemed to thicken, grow heavy. Made of iron. Wanted to stay shut. He forced them open. He said: Betsy, the soles of your slippers are thick with mud.
He put down the pail and shovel. Nobody else moved. He picked up his coat, donned it. Just concentrate. Be very businesslike. The blue china pot on the mantelpiece didn’t move, either. It simply muttered: careful. Careful.
Betsy fingered away tears and snot, lifted her sleeved arm and blotted her cheeks. She addressed Mrs Dulcimer. Confidentially. A bit puzzled. She said: he wouldn’t stop crying. I doubt I’ve slept a wink since he was born. You know that. None of us could settle him. Not me and not you either.
Betsy folded her arms and frowned. She shifted position, drew up her knees to her chin. She pulled down the hem of her nightgown to cover her slippers. Her voice pattered out like ice drops. Then I woke up, and he was next to me, he was still.
Joseph buttoned his coat. He hastened downstairs, his stockinged feet slithering over the wooden treads. Doll, her skirts pinned up, was washing the kitchen floor by lamplight, pushing suds to and fro, a cloth folded under her broom’s bristles. Where are my boots my boots? Fuck sake Mr Benson how should I know? Mind my floor! He ignored her, trod into his mud-stiffened boots, wrenched open the back door, plunged up the area steps into the garden.
Cold air surrounded him, grazed his face and hands. Yellow streaks flared at the horizon. The moon showed palely in the grey-blue sky. Feathery, dew-loaded stalks reached out from the beds, brushed him with wet. Damp grit sank under his tread. He paused, to let his eyes accustom themselves to the darkness. This enclosed him, then seemed to draw back. Moment by moment the morning grew lighter.
He gazed about. Someone had gone ahead of him, and then returned. Criss-crossing footprints small as a child’s showed on the sludgy path. He followed them across to the side gate, opened it, found himself in a passageway running between the side of the house and a low wall. A stile faced him. He climbed the stile, got over into a meadow.
An orange glow in the east. The new day was arriving, the colour of the sky changing to transparent indigo. They were all tilting unstoppably towards the sun.
He paused, panting. He could see clearly now. A muddy track led straight ahead, across uncultivated ground thick with thistles, to a patch of rough grass. Clumped horse-droppings, woven with straw, suggested a gypsy camp somewhere close by. They’d put out their fire in a hurry, stamped on it. The flattened mound of grey-white ash sent up a thin white plume. A heap of rags lay near him, half under a bramble bush. Time unreeled, spun out, tripped and trapped him. His mother whispered. Clots of red mess your stepfather tipped down the privy.
Joseph threw up into a bush. Pure arc of last night’s supper.
Nettles stung his hands and wrists as he reached under the sprawl of thorny stems, scooped up the bundle of dirtied white. Pleats of linen stiffened with frost. He sat down on the ground, cradling the dead child in the crook of his arm.
After a while, Mrs Dulcimer arrived, a cloak dragged on over her dressing-gown, and squatted beside him.
He handed her the tiny corpse, stood up, felt for his bandana handkerchief in his coat pocket, blew his nose. Shimmer behind the mist, as the sun began to burn through. Long, low lines of gold reached out to the dug-over vegetable plots beyond them, clumps of Michaelmas daisies edging a bed of bolted cabbages. A blue haze wavering. Twisted turquoise stems and frilled fan-leaves, lavender-coloured flowers, Mrs Dulcimer’s blue robe, patches of blue sky appearing.
Dogs yapped behind the far belt of trees. Figures shifted in the distance. The gypsies, perhaps, waiting to see what Joseph and Mrs Dulcimer would do. They wouldn’t want to be hauled before the police as witnesses. At the first glimpse of blue uniforms they’d melt away, vanish behind the hedgerow. They’d move on, with their horses and dogs. W
here did they spend winter?
Mrs Dulcimer shifted the dead child onto one arm, touched Joseph’s shoulder. She said: do your weeping indoors. We shouldn’t wait about here. We could be seen.
The baby’s mud-smudged face. Caked eyelids shut. Curve of brown-powdered lashes. Puckered little mouth clotted with earth. Mrs Dulcimer said: we need to hurry.
Joseph took the baby, tucked him inside his overcoat, held him there. They clambered back over the stile. Joseph looked behind him at the trail of footprints in the mud. Nothing he could do about those right now. He opened the side gate, and they entered the garden’s orderly enclosure. The back of the house rose up, bleak as a judge. He didn’t want to go inside, face whatever trouble waited there. He loitered by a bed edged with russet chrysanthemums. Two rows of spinach. Domes of thyme and sage. Late pink roses bloomed, held by wires pinned to the brick wall. In the far corner, opposite the privy, a twig broom leaned against a heap of brown and yellow crinkled leaves, swept together and then left. In the first wind to shake up they’d whirl about, settle back all over the grass and paths. She needed a gardener. Someone who’d do the job properly, burn those leaves on the bonfire or pack them into netting, to rot down for mulch. He could do that for her. Course he could.
They stood on the brick apron flanking the back door. Mrs Dulcimer raised her hand to the latch. Joseph said: don’t go in just yet. Wait a moment.
Words struggled inside him. Mrs Dulcimer folded her arms inside her shawl. Their breath hung in clouds in the frosty air. Joseph said: we must think carefully what to do.
Mrs Dulcimer stared at the front of his coat. She said: if we inform the authorities, I know what will happen.
Joseph said: yes. As I do too.
Mrs Dulcimer’s brown eyelids curved down. She smelled warmly of bed, of sleep. Her skin breathed out a sour-sweet scent of apples and spice. She had not had time to wash before Doll or Annie banged on her bedroom door, reported the missing child. If the police were to be called, she’d better look sharp, get properly dressed.
She said: an inquest will be held, Betsy will be charged with infanticide and put in gaol and sent for trial. If she is found guilty, as is most likely, she will be hanged.
She studied the doorstep. White stone, fissured, with bright green weeds, tiny-leaved, in the cracks. They just needed nipping up between finger and thumb, throwing on the compost heap.
Joseph leaned closer, and murmured. Who knows about the baby? Your tenants won’t inform against Betsy, surely. Or you could pack Betsy off before they come down, before anyone’s the wiser. That might be safest. Tell ’em she’s gone to stay with friends. Taken the baby off for a change of air. That kind of thing.
Mrs Dulcimer said: the tenants will be stirring already. On a Sunday they go out later than usual, but still. They’ll be getting up. Mrs Bonnet would take Betsy home with her, I’m sure she would. Keep her there for a while. Betsy’s got no family that I know of. No one to come searching for her, rat on her.
A gust of wind shook plane leaves, sycamore leaves, from the tall trees behind the wall. They sailed down, slowly twirling, rocking to and fro. Rock-a-bye-baby on the tree top when the bough breaks the cradle will drop. Stop! The cruel song snapped in two.
Joseph kept his voice low. If there is no baby, there can be no inquest.
Mrs Dulcimer’s tone matched his. Let me wash him first. Let me take him into the kitchen. With luck, the tenants won’t be down for breakfast just yet. Or I could take him into my room upstairs and wash him there.
Joseph said: no. Stop out here with me. Better nobody catches sight of him. Just in case questions do get asked.
From the garden shed next to the privy, Mrs Dulcimer fetched a spade. She pointed towards a space at the near end of the border under the espaliered rose trees, where clumps of asters were opening their salmon-pink buds. There. That bare patch behind the flowers.
Far from ideal. This green strip ran between the backs of two terraces. Anyone looking out of a back-facing window would spot them. Wonder what on earth they were up to. Would remember, if asked. The blinds of the houses opposite were still down. Hurry, hurry.
Spiders’ webs, beaded with dew glittering in the sunlight, laced the shrubs. In the middle of each gauze veil hung a small, golden spider. They left these spinners undisturbed, their shining filaments unbroken. They took it in turns to hold the child and to dig. The damp ground yielded easily. Dug over for years it must have been, weeded, raked to a fine tilth ready for sowing seed; easy to work. The edge of the spade bit cleanly into it.
Mrs Dulcimer said: just a couple of spits deep. No time for anything more.
Joseph spat on the corner of his handkerchief, wiped the baby’s face as best he could. Mrs Dulcimer hooked her little finger into the baby’s mouth and nostrils, clearing them of plugs of mud. They wrapped the corpse in the bandana, which hardly covered him. Joseph took off his overcoat, folded it around the small body. He bent down and laid it in the grave. They stood still, next to each other, bowed their heads. Joseph reached for Mrs Dulcimer’s hand. She breathed out something, he couldn’t tell what. Then bent to the spade again. Between them they covered over the brown bundle with soil, again taking turns. They trampled it well down against foraging dogs and foxes.
Each seemed to know what to do; without speech; just a glance, a nod. Joseph gathered armfuls of leaves from the corner heap, scattered them on the flowerbed. Mrs Dulcimer fetched a rake, and roughed over the traces of the footprints leading back and forth between the house and the garden gate. Joseph, shivering in the cold, wiped the rake and spade free from earth on a clump of grass, and Mrs Dulcimer replaced them in the shed, locked it, dropped the key into her pocket.
In the empty kitchen they unlaced their damp, muddy boots, shed them. Mrs Dulcimer stooped, slid on her house shoes. She said: come upstairs and I’ll find you a pair of these slippers. There are always spare ones knocking around.
Joseph kicked the boots into a corner. I’ll clean those later.
Doll rose from her knees in front of the sitting-room fire, turned to face them in a swing of check skirts. A glow of red heat. The sharp fragrance of wood and coal smoke on cold air made him want to sneeze. He’d done that, when? How many days ago, when he first arrived here? Something else burned; a darker smell, like smouldering cloth.
Doll picked up the heaped pail of grey ash, the brush and shovel. Mrs Bonnet’s had to go, missis. She wouldn’t wait. She had me fetch a cab for her from the stand, and off she went.
The two women surveyed one another. Mrs Dulcimer said: what else?
Doll said: she took Betsy with her.
She sounded nonchalant; concealing her feelings under a show of delivering a message correctly. Still, white face; blank expression. She said: she got her dressed, she was sure she was on the mend, just needed a bit of a rest. She would be off. She left you her best love, and she’ll see you tomorrow, if she can. She’ll send you a message, later, by her boy.
Two shapes like thick slices of bread curled and smoked on the fire. Doll said: oh, them. I found a muddy pair of old slippers in here, I don’t know whose they were, so filthy, I chucked them away.
Joseph held the door open for her, and she tramped out, her brush clanking against her bucket. As she passed she clipped him with her gravel-grey eyes. She said: you’ll need to get the breakfast on, Mr Benson, fast as can be. Come down soon, won’t you?
She had cleared and tidied. Cup and saucer, brandy glass, removed. Books and writing-board straightened, inkwell placed neatly to one side. Cushions plumped, chairs pulled into alignment, crumbs of dried mud removed. Lace blinds completely up, the striped curtains tied back.
Mrs Dulcimer came from her room next door, handed Joseph a pair of grey felt slippers. Wear these for the moment. Later on, we’ll find you some clean clothes. I’ll come down and have breakfast with you all. That feels best.
Wouldn’t the tenants remark on her change of routine? Perhaps she wanted to field any awkward questi
ons they might ask. Didn’t trust him to be able to answer. She took him for a simpleton, obviously. Had she done this before? Rows of dead babies mulching her rose trees? Sobs rose in his throat.
Mrs Dulcimer said: in a minute. You go down and I’ll follow you in just a minute.
In the kitchen Doll, clad now in a clean blue pinafore, was stacking the new bowls on the dresser, lining up the new plates along the shelves. Bits of string and straw littered the floor. She nodded towards the wicker hampers of quilts. Give me a hand up with those after breakfast, would you, Mr Benson? They do get in the way so.
She’d dumped the bucket of ash and cinders by the back door. Who’s going to get rid of that, my girl? Joseph scrubbed his hands, collected together oats, jugs of water and of milk. He made porridge. Tentatively stirred the gloop as it puckered, belched, sent up bubbles that burst. Doll crouched beside him at the range, jiggled the fire. You’ll get to know how she works soon enough.
For some reason he counted the chairs. Two had been removed, upended, stacked with the other spares. Mrs Bonnet’s, from last night. Betsy’s?
Doll said: we should shift all those. Put them in the storeroom, maybe. Every time I pass I trip over them.
Something terrible had happened, and so you rearranged seats, to hide it. You moved the furniture, and wiped people out. Just as the developers put up new terraces in the neighbouring fields, turned meadows into streets. Soon you’d forget completely what those green spaces had looked like before. No one would know a dead baby had once lain there. The room was holding its breath. Wanted to collapse, bawl, strike the table. The air pushed back, held the walls up: brace yourselves. Emptiness outside him and inside him.
He fetched bowls, served the breakfast. Doll and Annie parked themselves in their places, joined by the three young women tenants, who were yawning, a bit sullen, spooning up their food without wanting to talk. They did not comment on Betsy’s absence. They obviously took it for granted that so soon after giving birth she’d still be in bed. Nor did they ask for news of the baby. Perhaps their thoughts concerned the coming morning, its burden of work; they searched for courage that had to be put on like a stout baize apron. Mostly they got Sunday afternoon off, didn’t they? Free time to go to church, go for a walk? Mrs Dulcimer had hinted so. Today, he remembered, they wanted to go to the fair. The provision of a half-day holiday must depend on the employer: how kindly, or otherwise, she was. Would Cara have given Doll a weekly half-day off? Probably. But first of all tackle the dirty work. Just get on with it. The refrain of Joseph’s mother. Everybody’s mother, perhaps.
The Walworth Beauty Page 29