Alice scolded her, carefully closing the cellar door behind them and chivvying Beulah down the steps. It was hot down there; the stove was kept constantly alight, for, despite the July day outside, the thick walls let none of the warmth in. Without a fire, it would become cold and damp as a cave and the precious worms would sicken and die. The master had schooled both of them in the signs of pebrine and muscardine fungus, and the dire results for them if they failed to keep the air warm and dry. The pungent aromas of lavender, rosemary and pennyroyal rose to meet them: the floor was strewn with herbs and vinegar to keep the atmosphere of the magnanery smelling sweet. The sound of the roomful of caterpillars eating was that of torrential rain playing on leaves: unceasing, deafening and overwhelming.
Alice, her dress open at the neck and her corset loosened beneath, fed the stove with coal and mopped her brow with the back of a red, chapped hand. ‘Well, what are you standing there for? Get on and feed them!’ she snapped at Beulah, who took up a handful of leaves and began to poke them into the first worm bed at intervals along its length. The tiers of beds were only inches apart, so that her hand hovered horribly close to the worms as she tentatively fed the leaves in. In the murky light from the small high windows, she peered into the trays at the fat oyster-white worms, taking care not to brush against them. If your hand came too near the worms they telescoped their heads and their first few segments back into their bodies so that they swelled out, and rose up menacingly towards your fingers as if they would bite you. Beulah didn’t know if they would bite. They might even be poisonous. She didn’t want to find out.
For the third time that week, she noticed a foul smell coming from one or two of the beds and, looking carefully, found a scattering of worms in each that were black and inert. She beckoned Alice over.
‘Not more! Are you sure you’ve never let the stove out, not even once?’ Alice said in a low voice.
‘I swear.’
‘Nor let them run low on fodder, nor disturbed them with banging the door, or singing, or jangling the fire-irons?’
Beulah shook her head vigorously.
Alice tutted and muttered as she picked out all the dead worms. She added a few more sickly-looking worms to the handful and threw them into the stove, saying, ‘This must be kept from the master. Do you understand?’
Beulah pressed her lips together tight to show she did. They both returned to work, Alice sweeping up the ash around the stove and stacking a new delivery of sacks of coal and kindling beside it, while Beulah went back to feeding the worms.
Moving from tray to tray, engrossed in her careful task, she didn’t hear the master enter and jumped at his voice behind her.
‘Has the girl been silent?’ he asked Alice, for the worms, he had told them, hated noise and she was neither allowed to sing as she carried in the baskets, nor to speak to Alice unless she was spoken to.
‘Yes, and the worms thrive.’
‘The air’s heavy outside and a storm can stop them from eating. If it becomes thunderous later you must take a live piece of coal from the stove with tongs and carry it near to each bed. ’Tis said it calms them and can ward off contagion.’
He walked along the rows of beds, looking into each to check the health of his prized worms and see that Beulah had spread sufficient leaves, until he came level with her and looked over her shoulder. He marked her cautious approach. ‘Would you like to go back to your friends?’ he said in a conversational tone. ‘Do you miss the bobbin shop, Beulah?’
Beulah, slowly and carefully spreading the leaves beneath his gaze, nodded almost imperceptibly.
‘Of course you do. Who wouldn’t rather be with their friends in the light than alone down here in this wormhole? You know, only your own stubbornness keeps you here.’
Beulah’s hand shook a little as she took another handful of leaves but she said nothing.
‘Still naught to tell me, eh? Not a thing brought back to mind that your vandalous brother told you? Nor any word of him?’ He leant closer as if he expected her to whisper a secret to him, his cheek next to hers. Suddenly he reached into the space above the worm bed and took her hand, forcing it to the back and her bare arm down upon the worms so that she cried out at the touch of their cool yielding bodies. He held her arm there and she felt the sickening sensation of the worms moving on her. As they contracted and stretched in their foraging quest, the tickle of their hooks and suckers rippled over her skin. ‘What would you like to tell me?’ he asked again, his breath sour with the smell of old tobacco.
A moan escaped Beulah. ‘Don’t! Let me go!’ She squirmed in an effort to get away.
Fowler gripped her hand harder, pushing it down so that the worms on either side reared up and Beulah yelped.
‘Tell me.’
Between great gulping breaths Beulah said, ‘Gone … to … London.’
Fowler let go suddenly and pushed her roughly aside. Beulah stood with her head bowed, her arm held stiffly away from her side. She longed to wipe the crawling sensation from her skin, to run outside to the water barrel and plunge her arm inside. She would not let him see it. She stayed absolutely still, feeling Fowler’s stare.
‘Work her hard,’ he said to Alice. ‘Give no quarter.’ Just a week or two longer, he thought, and she will break.
Beulah lay fast asleep, curled on her truckle bed, worn out by work at the week’s end. Effie picked up her sister’s boots, lying on their sides where they’d been kicked off, and placed them at the end of the bed. She folded Beulah’s clothes and pulled the quilt up over her bare arms; it was late in the evening and becoming chilly. She hoped Beulah would sleep through peacefully and not wake with nightmares. She had tried to discover the cause, questioning her to find out whether Fowler had been pressing her about Tobias, but Beulah insisted it was the worms that she feared and however much Effie said they were just big caterpillars and all God’s creatures, there was no reasoning with her. Tonight though, Beulah slept the deep sleep of exhaustion and didn’t move, not even when Effie bent to kiss her, touching her lips gently to the curve of her cheek and resting her hand lightly on her head.
She took out a folded paper from the cupboard by the mantel – the last letter she’d received from Jack, dated months ago, sat down at the table and unfolded its worn creases. The light from the panes of the tiny casement window was fading to a soft, summer twilight but the dimness made no odds for she knew the letter almost word for word.
My dearest Effie,
I think of you every hour of every day, my dear one, and cannot tell you how much I long to see you and with what keen anticipation I receive your letters, which I read many times and keep always in my breast pocket, close to my heart.
I write to you from outside Badajoz. I am well, although greatly saddened by the loss or wounding of thirty of our men when a shell from the town fell amongst us and exploded as we were working to throw up breastworks and batteries. In the morning the scene was terrible: mangled corpses and comrades with legs or arms severed from their bodies. We have subsequently taken Fort Picarina, a detached bastion that lies a little outside the town. It had been mined but our engineers searched for a train (that is, a line of gunpowder) at dead of night and, finding that the earth had been disturbed, dug down and cut it off. Despite heavy fire, we got our ladders up and our hay bags strewn to soften falls but when the French sentry received no answer to his cry of ‘Who comes there?’ such a hail of trees and boulders, shot and fire-balls rained down upon us that even as I cried, ‘Come on, lads!’ many fell or were shot and hung from the ladders with their feet caught in the rounds. I shall never forget that awful sight. I could not believe that any of us would escape and yet I, and around half my party, reached the ramparts unscathed. My father would no doubt say that I was watched over and see the hand of the Almighty in my good fortune. Eventually, at great cost, we succeeded in gaining the fort only to find most of the garrison escaped to the town, which is walled and strongly fortified.
We are to move c
loser now with the intention of forming batteries in order to make breaches in the walls with our twenty-four pounders and, ultimately, to storm the town. I shall lead one of the storming-parties; I trust I shall not draw the short straw and have to join the ‘forlorn hope’.
War is, indeed, a most terrible business and perhaps I should not write of it to you, Effie, by reason of your youth and womanhood but I know the Troubles of your family have made you wise beyond your years. We have always had frankness between us and I hope you will forgive me for unburdening myself thus, and that you will always feel able to do the same.
I hope and trust that you are well, Effie, and that all is well for Tobias? And Beulah too? This may not reach you for some time as it must travel overland and then by packet boat before it reaches England and the mail. I hope by the time you receive it you will have met with my parents and be under their protection. I know that you are anxious in this respect but they will love you, not just for my sake, but for your own dear self. Write to me soon. I long to see you. Wait for me.
Ever yours,
Jack
Effie finished reading and laid one hand on her swelling belly and the other flat upon the paper, as if by touching the letters formed by his hand she could touch the hand itself, across time, across oceans. The paper felt soft, worn to the floppy texture of cloth by constant folding and unfolding, as she had read and reread it ever more desperately as weeks turned to months and no more letters had come. She ran through all the scenarios she had imagined many times: letters had been lost and he was at this moment on his way back to her (this was the scene she dwelt on as an attempt to comfort herself); for some reason letters could not get through; he was unable to write because he was ill, or perhaps captured; he was not … She could not, would not, contemplate that possibility. She had written and written, sending message after message full of love and care. They disappeared into a void and every morning, whilst hanging out the washing, though she stared along the track until her eyes ached, no messenger ever came.
Jack’s words about the frankness between them pricked her conscience as sharply as a bee-sting. She had still not told him she was with child. Her reasons were a tangle even to herself. Partly, even now, with the roundness beneath her hand and the movement of life inside her, as long as she didn’t write the words, she could pretend it wasn’t happening, hiding it from herself in the same way that she covered it so successfully from the view of the world under layers of loose clothes. And how could she speak of it? If Jack knew, he would insist that she go to his parents and would brook no disagreement even though she would be bringing shame on the family, shame on him. She would not do it. She had her pride. If only he would come home so that they could face it together! He did not come … and every day she grew heavier.
Unbidden, a memory came to her of her mother pacing from one end of the tiny room to the other, like an animal in a cage, lumbering and weighed down, pausing to lean on the back of a chair in pain as her time approached. Effie had been young and scared and when her mother asked her to go for a neighbour she had dawdled over putting on her shoes and shawl, afraid to leave her mother, afraid of what was to come. ‘It will happen whether you will or no,’ her mother had said, seeing her fear. ‘The infant’s time in my belly is done and ’tis beyond me or any man to stop it now, so you must hurry and get help.’ Effie had heard the resignation in her voice and had run pell-mell along the track to fetch the woman. She remembered the sound of her feet on the dry, packed earth, time ticking in her steps.
As if in answer to the rhythm in her memory, she heard the sound of a horse in the lane and for a moment felt that she had wished Jack into existence. She rose to her feet. The hooves were louder and heavier than Maisie’s though, and as Effie peered out it was Hob’s broad-brimmed hat and wide shoulders that she saw above the hedge. She hurried over to the cupboard and stowed the letter away. The rent wasn’t due for another two weeks but she pulled out the tin and took it with her to the door, hoping to circumvent his pretext for entering.
As she opened the door, Hob swept off his hat in an exaggerated greeting and leant against the doorjamb. His face had a soft, jowly look and a smell of whisky clung about him. He was clearly dressed for the town, in tight corduroy breeches, brass-buttoned weskit and a swallowtail coat of blue frieze.
‘Mr Talbot, you are early; I … I cannot pay you the month’s rent as yet,’ Effie said. ‘I can pay two weeks on account and have the other fortnight by the due date, I promise you.’
Hob waved her words away. ‘Aren’t you going to invite your landlord in?’ he said, pressing his hat to his heart with a great show.
Unwillingly, Effie stepped aside. He levered himself from the doorframe, righting himself with some effort and led the way inside. Sitting down heavily at the table, he pushed his hat aside. ‘What do you think of my market day finery then, Effie?’
‘Very smart, I’m sure, Mr Talbot.’ She stood well back, drawing herself up tall and holding the tin in front of her, glad of her work smock and loose pinafore.
Talbot looked her up and down; appraising her appearance with such obvious admiration that Effie was forced to look away.
‘A fine day’s work, though I say it myself,’ he said. ‘We sold all the beasts we took and got a good price, so there’s cause for a little celebration. What do you say, Effie? Do you have ale in the house?’
‘I have small beer, sir.’ She fetched a tankard and set it before him.
‘You’ll drink with me?’ He leant back in his chair, his eyes following her as she poured herself a smaller measure. ‘Sit.’
She sat down opposite him, the rent tin on the table between them.
‘Are you well, Effie? You look unconscionably pretty tonight,’ he said.
‘I’m well, thank you, sir,’ she conceded, lowering her eyes.
He took a long draught. ‘Northampton is a fine town, Effie. Perhaps you would care to come with me next market day? There are sideshows and entertainments – ’tis not all beasts and bidding – and there’d be a good square meal with as much as you can drink and a comfortable ride home after. Show you a little of the world, eh? You must tire of always biding in the same spot.’
‘That would hardly be proper, sir,’ Effie said quickly. ‘People would talk.’
‘Pff for their talk!’ He snapped his fingers. ‘What business is it of theirs if I choose to take one of my farmhands?’ He leant forward. ‘I would pay you’ – he looked directly at her as if to measure her response – ‘for your company.’
Effie drew in her breath, blood rushing to her cheeks. ‘I would rather have more work here – honest farm work, sir.’ She rose from the table but he reached forward and took her hand, holding her back. He turned her hand within his.
‘I’m loath to see this hand roughened further; ’twas never meant for hard labour.’ He pressed it to his lips and Effie snatched it away with a cry.
He staggered to his feet, saying, ‘Come now, Effie, I can make your life easier. Make the sensible choice or there’ll not be hard work either.’
Effie stepped back and he lurched towards her, knocking the table so that the tin tipped over, rolled to the edge and fell to the brick floor with a clang.
‘Effie?’ Beulah stood in her nightgown beside the bed, her hair tousled, rubbing her eyes with her knuckles. ‘What is it? What was that noise?’
Talbot steadied himself with one hand on the table and let the other fall to his side, while Effie bent to recover the tin. She placed it deliberately back upon the table. ‘I shall expect you Friday week, when I shall pay the rent as due, sir,’ she said with dignity.
Talbot scowled at Beulah and swept up his hat. ‘Friday week,’ he said to Effie. ‘Be sure to have the full amount.’ He pushed past her and yanked the door open, leaving it swinging on its hinges as he departed. Damp evening air flowed in with the scent of lavender and stocks upon its breath.
Jack, his body slick with sweat, lay on his back under a coarse blanke
t. Sometimes he muttered to himself and one of the nuns would pause in their pacing along the rows of rough pallets that served for beds and tend the dressing of the suppurating wound in his side or try to feed him water or gruel. He would choke a little down and then turn his head away, wanting only to rest, exhausted by the fever that burned and shivered through him and turned his muscles to straw.
He inhabited a strange nightmare world in which the sights and sounds of battle returned to him in horrifying hallucinatory detail: the climb to the ramparts, drawing himself up over a ladder quite smothered in dead bodies, men falling on the blades of the cheval-de-frise that lay before a deep entrenchment, the slaughter as they gained the advantage and turned the guns around upon the French. He dreamt of entering the town amidst the clamour of the rabble as it was plundered and then, from a window, the sound of a shot and the hot blood pouring from his side …
Racked by fever, faces moved in and out of his vision. He saw again the Portuguese convicts carrying away the naked dead, slung over their shoulders like pigs, held by their legs, heads dangling down behind, to be carted away and interred in a narrow hole, so small that they needs must be packed together with great nicety. The face of one of the corpses changed before his eyes, becoming that of a young boy, someone familiar, staring up at him in terror with pleading eyes, but although he shouted out that the boy was alive and must be saved, the convict kept up his steady plodding pace away from him. He tipped the boy into the cart with the others as if he were a log of wood.
Men marched on a square parade ground, a drummer boy beating out a rhythm, red tunics and brass buttons bright in the sun. A voice – his voice – shouted a command and the men halted and stood to attention. He walked along the lines and as he passed, each crumbled as if turned instantly to dust.
The Silk Factory Page 22