The Whispering Road

by Livi Michael

  That soup tastes grand! It's so good I want to hold on to the taste forever. I'm sure I could down the full tureen, but in fact after only a few mouthfuls I've had enough. Then the little maid feeds me something crisp and sweet that melts away on my tongue. ‘Meringue’ she calls it.

  Now I really have had enough and I feel a wave of sickness. I sink back, close my eyes, and the next thing I know it's all coming back, wave after wave of it, all over the silk sheets.

  The little maid leaps back with a cry and Mr Bung curses like a trooper, and I cower, expecting to be beaten half to death, but though his face is black as thunder all he says is, ‘Fetch Mrs Quivel,’ and disappears, mopping at his trousers with a napkin.

  In comes the stout housekeeper with a steaming bowl and some fresh linen and I'm made to lie on a long chair while the little maid changes the sheets. Mrs Quivel hands me a clean nightgown then says, ‘Look at the state of you! You need a bath.’

  ‘I don't then,’ I say, and she looks as though she'd like to box my ears but daren't quite.

  ‘Go and fetch Mr Bung,’ she says to the little maid.

  Bung arrives with another fellow and they're carrying a tin bath between them. How many servants are there? I'm thinking, and, You're not getting me in that.

  If I were any stronger he wouldn't've stood a chance. As it is he slings me over his shoulder and carries me, kicking, behind a screen that Mrs Quivel and the maid pull across. Next thing I know he's dropped me in the tin bath, nightgown and all. Then he reaches into the water and drags the nightgown off me while I roar.

  It's the shock of the water, that's all. I sit there gasping and not knowing what to do. Then I realize that he's staring at me. There's something in his eyes I don't like. He reaches out a hand.

  ‘Excuse me,’ I say.

  The Quivel returns. ‘Mrs Quivel!’ he says, low. ‘Look at this!’

  ‘Certainly not!’ says Quivel.

  ‘Do you mind?’ say I.

  ‘Come here!’ he orders, and Quivel peers round the screen.

  I feel a right prune, sitting there, and I don't know what they're staring at. If I wasn't stark naked I'd leave. Then Bung reaches out a finger and traces something on my back, and I realize what all the fuss is about. It's scars, innit, from when my back was opened time and again by the birch, in the workhouse and at Bent Edge Farm. I've never seen them, of course, but from the pattern his finger's making I can tell they're all over my back. They can't be a pretty sight, because Quivel's got her apron pressed to her face.

  Good to know that the sight of you makes someone feel sick.

  ‘Heaven preserve us,’ she says. I've had enough of this.

  ‘If you've quite finished,’ I say, staring back, and Quivel's face disappears. There's a furious whispering behind the screen. I make out the words, ‘Master'll have to see,’ then there's silence. I move my legs in the water. Even the bits of me I can see aren't pretty. My legs and feet are bruised and scabby, one toenail's ripped off and my hands look like I've dug up a field without a shovel. Feels strange sitting in the water and I'm just wondering when to get out when Bung reappears and tips a jug full of water over my head, just like that!

  ‘OW!’ I roar.

  ‘Does it hurt?’ he says.

  ‘No,’ I say, surprised.

  ‘Well, this one might,’ he says and another jugful comes pouring down.

  I sit there, holding my breath with my eyes closed tight while they pour one jug after another over me. Feels like they're trying to wash me away. When it stops I say, ‘Can I get out now?’ and Bung hands me a towel. I stand up carefully, draping it round me, and over the screen there's a clean nightgown.

  My legs feel wobbly and weak, but somehow I pull the nightgown on and climb back into bed. All I want to do is sleep.

  When I wake up it's dark, except for a little lamp shining in the corner. I can hear the sounds of the city through the window but they seem far away. My skin feels different, soft. As I lie there memories come flooding back, of Queenie and Pigeon, Lookout and Half-moon. Not happy memories. And there's a gap in them because I don't know how I got here.

  Then I hear another sound, a quiet tap-tapping along the hall outside. Tap-tap-tap-tap – coming my way. I glance round the room but there's nowhere to hide. Except under the bed, of course, and I'm just thinking about diving under when the door creaks open.

  In comes a man I know instantly must be the master of the house. Dark blue waistcoat and silver hair. There's a watch chain from his pocket like many a one I've nicked in my time, and he carries a cane with a dog's head for a handle. He says nothing to me but crosses to the chair by the lamp and sits down, propping his stick on the chair arm. Then he pushes his gold-rimmed glasses further up his nose.

  ‘My name is Sheridan Mosley,’ he says. His voice is higher than I thought it would be and he talks funny, not like me. ‘What is your name?’

  I think back over all the names I've had. ‘Dodger,’ I say.

  He makes a noise that might have been a laugh. ‘That is not a name,’ he says. ‘Do you have no other?’

  I shake my head, watching him. His eyes are a bright, light blue and his face pink and white despite the silver hair.

  ‘Well then, I shall call you Nathaniel,’ he says, ‘Nat, if you prefer,’ and I think of objecting but then I think, so what? Just one more name to add to the list.

  ‘How did I get here?’ I ask.

  ‘You were fortunate in that I ran into Dr Kay, quite by chance. He told me there was a new child in the hospital who did not have cholera, and that he wasn't sure what to do with you. I said you could come here.’

  He pinches snuff delicately with his long fingers.

  ‘Now I have to ask you the same question,’ he says and I look at him blankly. ‘How did you get here? Tell me your story, Nat.’

  9

  Doctor

  Tell him my story? I've never told anyone my story. Suppose I tell him about the workhouse and he sends me right back? Yet somehow here, in his house, in his bed, I feel like I haven't a choice. He could send me there anyway, I realize. Besides, I'm too weak to make anything up. I'm all out of ideas.

  So I start telling him, about being left at the workhouse, and sent from there to Bent Edge Farm. I make the escape as exciting as possible, and tell him about Travis showing me how to use a sling. Then I tell him about the forest and how creepy it was, and Dog-woman, and telling stories at the inn, and Barney trying to sell us at market, and about the travelling fair.

  Of course, I dress some bits up and leave out others. My escapes are more heroic and I'm more of a star at the fair. I skip the bit about selling Annie and when I get to living on the streets, there's not much I can say at all. Don't want him calling the police on me.

  ‘So one by one the others were falling sick,’ I tell him, ‘and I hit on the idea of taking Pigeon to hospital. I were just waiting around to see the doctor, when I fell ill myself. And now… here I am.’

  I finish lamely, and even to my own ears the story sounds strange. But Mr M's leaning back with his eyes closed and fingers still pressed together. He says nothing and I can't tell what he's thinking.

  The silence goes on for so long I'm about to speak, when there's a knock at the door and the little maid enters.

  ‘If you please, sir, the doctor's here,’ she says, and Mr M gets up immediately.

  ‘Show him in, show him in,’ he says.

  In comes the doctor, smiling and looking worried at the same time.

  ‘And how's our patient today?’ he says, asking Mr M, not me.

  ‘Oh, very much better,’ says Mr M. ‘He's just been telling me the story of his life. And a fascinating tale it is too. Told with flair.’ Then just as I'm feeling pleased with myself he adds in a lower voice, ‘I think the fever might have inflamed his imagination.’

  Well, I like that! I think. I tell the God's honest truth for the first time in my life and he doesn't believe me! I may have dressed it up a bit, but it
all happened. That'll teach me, I'm thinking.

  Doctor comes over and starts prodding me about and I say, ‘Ow,’ at intervals. Then he looks down my mouth again. Don't know what he thinks he'll find there. Maybe he's after my teeth. He puts the funny cold thing on my chest again and listens. I wasn't going to speak to either of them, since they won't believe me anyway, but there's something I need to know.

  ‘Please, sir,’ I say, ‘how's Pigeon?’

  He looks at me blankly.

  ‘The girl we brought to the hospital,’ I say, and my heart's in my mouth in case he tells me she's died.

  ‘The little white-haired girl?’ he says. ‘She's gone now.’

  My stomach gives a great lurch and I think I might be sick again, but he says, ‘Her sisters came for her. She wasn't fully recovered but they insisted they had to take her home.’

  Her sisters? I think, and he must have seen the blank look on my face for he says, ‘One of them had a great hat on with feathers.’

  Bonnet, I think, and Queenie. I close my eyes.

  ‘They assured me she'd be well looked after and that they'd moved from the place they were staying, which was just as well. These cellars aren't fit for rats. I sent the men round with some chloride of lime to get rid of any infection… If only we could teach the poor about sanitation,’ he says to Mr Mosley, ‘half the problems of Manchester would be solved.’

  I'm not listening. So Pigeon's with Queenie and Bonnet now, I think, and they'll all be with Bailey. And I'm here. I open my eyes.

  ‘How long have I been here?’ I ask, and the doctor looks at Mr Mosley again.

  ‘Best part of a week?’ he says and Mosley nods.

  A week! I'm thinking. They'll all have forgotten me by now. Moved on. And I can't join them. But the doctor's talking again.

  ‘I think the main thing is to get some food down you now,’ he says. ‘Are you hungry?’

  ‘Starving,’ I say, and Mr M rings a bell. Soon Quivel appears, looking very bad-tempered, and when the doctor tells her to prepare some food for me she looks more bad-tempered than ever.

  ‘If you please, sir,’ she says. ‘He's not keeping anything down. I don't know how many times I've changed the sheets.’

  ‘Well, we have to keep trying,’ the doctor says mildly. Quivel doesn't move.

  ‘I just hope what he's got's not catching,’ she says. ‘I can do without catching cholera at my time of life.’

  The doctor frowns. ‘Cholera isn't catching, as far as we know,’ he says. ‘And in any case, he hasn't got cholera. The worst you could catch from him is malnutrition. And,’ he says, eyeing her stout form, ‘you're unlikely to catch that.’

  Quivel stumps off grumpily. Mr M catches me smirking and I expect him to be cross, but he just smiles back. He chats to the doctor for a while about boring stuff like drains. Both of them seem to have forgotten I'm here.

  I gaze round the room. There's a portrait on the wall of a stern-looking man, and silver candlesticks on a dresser with the china bowl. There's a vase with flowers and a gold clock with angels, and a black, carved statue of a foreign-looking gentleman with a fat stomach. There's lots of stuff I could nick here, I think, and then I think, but where would I take it?

  When Quivel comes in she makes a great show of spreading towels all over the bed. She holds the spoon out to me, standing well back.

  ‘Well, I think I'd better be going,’ the doctor says, and both he and Mr M stand.

  ‘I'll leave you to it, Mrs Quivel,’ Mr M says.

  When they've gone, I half expect her to start beating me about the head with the ladle, but she just stands like a soldier at the side of my bed, staring angrily at some point above my head.

  This time I keep it all down, and sink back exhausted as she clears it away. She leaves the towels, though, just in case, and pulls a bowl out from under the bed. More pot angels.

  ‘Try and aim at that, will you?’ she says crossly, before stumping off. Then she leaves me to think my own thoughts, and watch the shadows from the window flicker about the room. I've got a lot of thoughts, but none of them seem to lead anywhere. Seems like I'm safe here, for the time being, but soon I'll have to leave. And I don't know where I'll go, or what I'll do when I get there. Seems like I've lost everything I started out with, and I feel a bit sick when I think about it. I've lost Annie I got rid of her to be with the gang, and now I've lost them, so what's next? That's the biggest thought I've got, and I don't know what to do with it. Keeps coming back though, like the chiming of a bell. What next? it chimes. What next, what next?

  10

  Visitors

  What do rich people do with their lives? Blowed if I know. On the streets there was always something to do, something to nick, someone to run away from. And the fighting, of course. Great fighting, with lots of blood.

  There's none of that here. The little maid comes in maybe three or four times a day with food, which is good, of course, and more than I've ever eaten. Once or twice I try to get her to talk.

  ‘What's your name?'

  ‘Milly,’ she says.

  ‘My name's Nat now,’ I say, and she nods and smiles. ‘How old are you?’

  ‘Thirteen,’ she says, and looks at me shyly. ‘How old are you?’

  ‘Fourteen,’ I say, and she shoots me a look. ‘Or thereabouts,’ I add. ‘Do you live here?’ But she only nods and clears away the dishes quick.

  Next time I ask her, ‘What's up with your eye?’ because she's squinting, and she puts up a hand to her face. I feel sorry for her suddenly.

  ‘Mrs Quivel says it's a lazy eye,’ she says, and from the look on her face I know she doesn't like Quivel any more than I do.

  ‘How long have you lived here?’ ‘I ask her, but there's Quivel's step on the stair and she disappears. It dawns on me that she's been told not to talk. I do find out, though, that her family live in a village a long way off. The last time she saw them she had seven younger brothers and sisters.

  ‘Father's ill she says, ‘from working in the mine. That's why we all had to look for work.’ Her chin trembles and I feel sorry for her again. Don't know why. It's not like I'm better off.

  Her younger brother's in the mine as well, and there's another sister in service. That's all there's time to say, though, because Quivel's always hanging about, like she's got nothing better to do. Sometimes she comes in, looking about like she'd like to bite something, but she only swats at a fly and leaves again.

  In between times the clock ticks by slowly, slowly and I just lie back, thinking about leaving, wondering where I'll go. I wonder what Digger's doing now. And Annie.

  There's too much time to think, if you ask me. Good job I don't cry.

  In the evening Mr M pays a visit.

  ‘Please sir,’ I say, ‘where are my clothes?’

  He arches an eyebrow. Good trick that.

  ‘Clothes?’ he says.

  I pluck at the nightgown. ‘Well, I didn't come here in this.’

  ‘If you're referring to the rags that you were wearing, I'm afraid they had to be burned. We couldn't be sure, you see, that you weren't carrying any infection.’

  I stare at him, horrified. ‘Them were good trousers,’ I say. ‘And the hat were nearly new!’

  ‘We kept the hat,’ he says, ‘though I had it cleaned.’

  That's not much comfort. I'll look a right wally on the streets in a nightgown and hat. ‘But, sir,’ I say. ‘How will I leave?’

  There goes the eyebrow again. ‘Leave?’ he says. ‘Is there somewhere you need to go?’

  ‘No, but –’

  ‘But?’

  ‘Well… I can't stay here forever, can I?’

  Mr M smiles, settling himself back in his chair. ‘I wouldn't worry about that, if I were you. You can stay here for as long as it takes.’

  I shake my head. ‘What takes?’

  ‘For you to get better of course. You're still very weak. But if you're worried about clothes, I'll have my tailor measure you up
in the morning.’

  ‘How much'll that cost?’ I ask and he makes the small sound that passes with him for a laugh. ‘I wouldn't worry about that,’ he says again, and he takes out a newspaper and starts to read to me.

  Conversation over. I lie back and stare at the ceiling as he starts reading about something called a Reform Bill, and a Factory Act, but I'm not listening.

  I'm trapped, I'm thinking. No money, nowhere to go and no clothes, not even my trousers. I had a coin in them pockets, I think, giving him a hard stare, but somehow I can't bring myself to say it. After all, I probably owe him that much and more.

  He sees I'm not listening and folds the paper. ‘Shall I leave it with you?’ he asks.

  I shake my head. ‘Can't read,’ I tell him, and for no reason there's a gleam in his eye.

  ‘Would you like to learn?’ he says.

  Would I? I'm speechless and can only nod.

  ‘Well, I think that can be arranged,’ he says.

  ‘What… you mean it?’

  Steady on, Dodger, I tell myself. No need to go falling all over him.

  He gets up. ‘That's something else that can be arranged in the morning,’ he says. ‘But I think you've had enough excitement for one day.’

  Yeah, sure. It's thrilling, lying here.

  He smiles, as if he knows what I'm thinking. ‘I'll tell Milly to put out the lamp,’ he says, and leaves.

  Like you couldn't do it yourself, I'm thinking. That's the thing about rich folk – they never do owt for themselves.

  ‘Oh,’ he says at the door, ‘there may be one or two visitors for you as well,’ and he vanishes – but it's as if his smile's still hovering in the room, waiting to pounce.

  Now why should I think of it like that? I mean, I owe the man my life. He's taken me in, fed me, and even if he did burn my clothes he's having more made. And reading! I'm finally going to learn to read! That's enough to keep me here without complaining. That's a reason to stay, if ever there was one.