I dress slowly, wash my face with care and sit down as I am told. My empty stomach grumbles. I wait all morning. These will be my final hours beneath this roof. By this evening, I may be in hell. Yet even this does not break me, nor bring a tear to my eye. I consider this. I do not weep because I have no fear. Something has changed in me since I taught myself to write. This is my armour and protects me from the blows life may deal me. As the sun reaches its noontime zenith in the sky, Matron calls up the stairs for me to come. As I descend, I hold my head up and prepare to meet the founder’s fury.
Matron awaits me in the hall.
‘I have met with the founder this morning. He has considered your case. He has just this very minute summoned to see you in his room. There are people there. But he says he wishes to see you now.’
‘What people?’ I ask but she does not answer.
She grasps my hand and leads me briskly down to the court room, where she knocks at the door. It opens immediately.
Once inside, I almost stumble with amazement. The walls are lined with chairs, upon which are seated gentlemen and ladies dressed in every type of finery, fluttering fans and nodding and smiling. To one side waits a patient line of poor women – I estimate twelve of them, no, thirteen – all holding babies, some of whom sleep and some cry and the mothers are shushing them, rocking them or simply staring into space as if the baby makes no noise, as if they are deaf to it. All eyes turn on me as I enter, then immediately dismiss me as an object of no interest. Matron leads me to a corner, to await the founder, who is perambulating along the chairs of the quality and offering witty comments to make the ladies titter, his wig powdered white for this formal occasion. The sideboard where he keeps his ink and quills has been cleared and in their place are plates of food and jugs of wine, luxurious food I have never set eyes upon before: tarts of all sorts and sweetmeats and fruits; sea creatures – the like of which I have only seen in books – are seated quite dead on ice alongside peas and salad; and every kind of meat and poultry piled up glistening in silver dishes. I am astounded to discover that food comes in so many colours other than shades of brown or grey. The appetising scents waft about the room, admixed with pomade and powder. The quality do not regard the table of treats, but many of the poor women ogle that food, even while their babies squeal ignored in their arms.
The founder finishes his round and claps his hands, at which all the poor women turn their heads to him expectantly. The room hushes. The founder gestures to my schoolmaster who stands beside the table. He fetches a cloth bag and hands it to the founder, who takes it to the first poor woman in the line. Holding her mewling babe on one arm, she reaches in and takes something from inside. It is a ball, a black ball, and she frowns. The founder shakes his head. There is an audible sigh from the audience. The next woman is offered the bag, and she too takes a ball, this time white. She smiles and looks behind her at the next woman, who will not meet her face. This one takes a ball and it too is white and they smile together and pet their babies and jiggle them. Some of the quality clap their hands together and nod approvingly. The next takes a black ball, the next black and the next. Then appears a red ball, and the mother looks quizzical, but no one answers her questioning face. There are three more white balls and smiles, one black and three red. The mothers with the black balls are led across the room by a maidservant; dejected and wordless, they are shown out and the door closed behind them. The whites huddle and mutter to each other, joined in success. The red wait, separate, alert. The founder speaks to these.
‘You are hereby upon the list of reserves. Leave the details of your place of abode with my secretary and he will be in contact with you in due course if a lot becomes available.’
Another maidservant is there to lead away the victors. Matron steps over to her and says, ‘Can you administer the medical tests for these five yourself? I must stay here with the child,’ to which the maidservant nods and leads them on. The founder continues his jolly banter with the guests, while Matron and I stand in the corner waiting.
I tug at her sleeve. ‘What game was this?’ I whisper hoarsely.
‘’Tis no game. ’Tis a ballot. These women sue to be admitted to the orphanage. Those with the white balls have won a place for their babies here.’
So this is how they come. An orphan lottery. Yet it strikes me that there are no babies living here. I am one of the youngest. The orphans range from four years or so to fourteen.
I ask Matron, ‘Where do the babies go?’
‘They are sent away to wet-nurses until they are four or so, then they are returned and live here till apprenticed.’
How very hard it must be for the children to leave their wet-nurse ‘mothers’, those women who have fed them from the breast and have filled their unformed early minds with every close memory one would call Mother, only to discover somewhat younger than I am now, that this is not their mother, not their home, and not their life. And they are to be sent away for good to an orphanage, their real home, where their desperate mothers left them years before, the true mothers, the ones they do not remember, abandoned for a second time. But this is the worst betrayal of the two, for this one they are old enough to understand, and they will always remember. I think of my mother and father, of how I have not one memory of them, of their faces, of their voices – and I decide it would be better to have a recollection of affection and to suffer the loss of it, than to have no remembrance of love at all.
I ask Matron, ‘Why are the ladies and gentlemen here?’
‘Child, such questions! They come to watch the spectacle, for entertainment. Now hush!’
As they leave the room, the chosen mothers hold their babies tight and pet them, gaze upon the unformed faces and fingers with blank eyes, and I feel a hollow of sadness at the thought of what these mothers are about to do, when they must give up their babes for good; a sorry scene played offstage, as the company may not find this part so very entertaining.
Once the show has concluded, the ladies and gentlemen applaud and gossip. Some stand and make their way to the refreshments, which they pass around and gobble politely from tiny china plates. The men all wear the same kind of frock-coat, stiff and full-skirted, yet each one is a different colour and pattern – one striped in pink satin, another encircled in red and gold embroidered apples – as if they engage in an elaborate competition of design on a theme. The ladies are far more varied – mantuas, sack dresses and circular hooped skirts – all with caps yet many are topped with fancy hats, some with long lace lappets hanging down their backs, all set about with jewels and spangled shoes. Several wear richly decorated filmy aprons, a kind of mockery of their high station in life, that they will never, ever be required to muddy that apron with something as vulgar as work. Some of the ladies wear a gauzy scarf at their neckline, while others seem to have tugged down their stays to show as much as is decent of their bosom. All is cotton, silk and velvet, no linen or wool as we orphans wear. Every person in the room rustles and creaks as they move. It is the sound of money.
‘Price,’ says the founder, scowling, and his stern tone shocks me back into recollection of my situation. ‘Come with me.’
I glance at Matron, who nods, and I follow him to an old gentleman who is seated alone, holding a large glass of golden liquid. He wears a full-bottomed peruke wig with curls that smother his shoulders and looks mightily uncomfortable in it. As we approach he stands and reveals that he reaches only to the chest of the founder, who bends down to address him. ‘This is the object of which I spoke. Dawnay Price.’
I recall my manners and sink, something I have practised since my first disastrous attempt. The gentleman finds his seat and says, ‘Sit beside me, child.’ The founder has moved on and a thousand questions race through my mind: is this gentleman to be the instrument of my punishment? Is he perhaps a magistrate to take me to the courthouse or to the pillory or even to the gallows? Or worse than all of these, worse even than death, is he from the workhouse?
�
��I did not mean to steal it, sir. I am no common thief. I meant only to educate myself. The good Lord gave us free will, did He not? And I used mine to better myself. Is this a crime, sir?’
The old gentleman smiles at me and his small dark eyes disappear in good-natured crinkles.
‘You speak well, my dear. There is a niceness in your turn of phrase. I understand from your schoolmaster that your particular strength is mathematics, yet clearly your mind extends to the power of the word also. Is it truly so that you taught yourself to write alone, at night, by candlelight?’
‘It is true, sir.’
‘An extraordinary child, it is. Let me explain to you my presence here, as I perceive you are frightened of me, or what you believe I may represent. Yet calm yourself, as I represent no organisation but myself. My name is Markham Woods. I am a merchant, a trader in madeira and port and other beverages. I was raised in a modest home, left it at a young age and travelled the seas to make my fortune. And make it I did, returning home from the New World a rich man. I now inhabit a place on the margin of polite society. I am tolerated by the ladies and gentlemen you see here because I am so very wealthy. They cannot afford to ignore me, particularly when they fall into debt – as many of them do – and require my financial assistance. Thus, I am welcomed into this circle by my friend, Mr Beelsby – your founder here – yet, as you see, I sit alone, as the quality may acknowledge my right to be admitted, but they do not deign to speak with me.’
‘I believe you have a rightful place here, sir. You have all the proper clothes and such. And your wig is remarkable.’
Mr Woods chuckles and replies, ‘I do like you, Miss Price, very much! I am afraid I overheard a lady here remark that I found my hairpiece in a wig dip.’
My heart is at ease with this gentleman. Yet I still cannot quite believe my good fortune and continue to fear the founder’s intent.
I ask, ‘What is to become of me, sir?’
‘I understand there will be some punishment for your actions: of removal of your tripe ration for one month. I believe a strong lass such as yourself will bear this well. However, your crime has alerted the founder to an understanding of precisely how keenly your ravenous mind cries out for learning, and that is to your great advantage. Some time ago, on my entry into society and acquaintance with your founder, I offered to sponsor one orphan from this establishment who he deemed worthy of a full education, so that the child might rise above its unfortunate origins and achieve something in this life of trials. I asked him to look out for such a child. He has shown me two boys so far who I felt had nothing special about them whatsoever and who did not inspire my mind or my pocket. But when he told me today about a girl who had stolen a quill and ink from his very desk and taught herself to write? Well, I knew this child was the one. He was not easily convinced that a girl should receive any further education at all, as it is common knowledge that a woman’s mind is but a shadow of a man’s. But I have travelled across the world, my dear, and seen many a strange thing perhaps unthought-of by your venerable founder, and I have somewhat differing views about what is common knowledge and what can and cannot be achieved in this life. I asked to meet you, and persuaded him with a generous donation to the asylum’s funds that if I chose Miss Price, then Miss Price it would be.’
‘Choose me for what end, sir?’
‘Why, to afford you a decent education, my child. In the week to come, you will be introduced to a very dear friend of mine, a tutor somewhat down on his luck who also happens to be the most learned and intellectual man I have ever met. He will be your teacher in all things academic; he will visit you early every morning and will continue your mastery of writing, teach you the sciences, geography, history and Latin, as well as all manner of logic, rhetoric and ethics. We are going to train that extraordinary mind of yours, child, and thereby discover what treasures it contains.’
I am staring at Mr Woods. My mouth is dry and cannot move.
‘Can you speak?’ says he. ‘Are you happy?’
‘I believe you have seen into the heart of me, sir.’
‘Not your heart, child. Your mind.’
4
My tutor’s coat is shabby and his shoes are muddy. Matron tuts at him as she wipes the floor with a rag behind his steps.
‘I do apologise, madam.’
Matron ignores him and I suspect that to be a tutor is not a very high station in life.
Once we are left alone in the front room, the one with the broad bow-window, I see with a gasp that the table is furnished with a stack of paper, several quills and enough ink that I believe my pen will never run dry. I have been plucked from obscurity by the hand of fate and placed at this table to learn my fill. To work no longer in secret, at night, by moonlight! I am eager to begin. My tutor bids me sit and I notice his cuffs are frayed.
I ask, ‘Are you poor, sir?’
My tutor smiles. ‘I knew your benefactor, Mr Woods, since boyhood, when we attended the same ridiculous day-school. We were beaten daily, you know, for forgetting a book, or sneezing, or blinking, or breathing. Mr Woods escaped it all at a young age by going off to sea, but I had not his courage or adventurous spirit and stayed to be beaten. I did learn a bit more than him though, so now we are in our proper places: he is a rich man with life-learning his legacy, and I am not a rich man yet my head is filled with bookish knowledge. Which is best, do you think?’
‘To be rich and clever.’
He guffaws and holds out his hand, my first handshake.
‘I am Mr Stephen Applebee. My wife is called Susan and works as the cook at Mr Woods’s house. Our son Owen serves in the army as an ensign, his commission having been bought for us by Mr Woods; Owen from a boy did insist on his intention to wear the preposterous red coat and would have run away to be a common soldier had we not had the good fortune to be aided by our generous friend. I am a master at a boys’ school in Marylebone at which I teach Latin, algebra, mathematics and the use of the globes. I walk over there four afternoons a week and teach from two till five. It does not pay exceedingly well. Thus, I supplement it with tutelage of which you are one of my charges.’
‘You do talk a lot.’
‘I do, I do. But that is a good thing, for a tutor, I think, don’t you? You would not be too impressed if I stood silently and glared at you.’
‘That is true. And you do own more knowledge than me and have more experience of thinking. Therefore, it will be good for me to listen to you.’
‘Thank you for that condescension, Dawnay.’
He is a thin man, with dark shadows beneath his eyes. His wig is tidy, though, and his cravat has such neat stitching on it. I think his wife Susan must look after him very well and that is why he possesses such a jovial turn. I wonder if they miss the company of their son and that is what makes his wide brown eyes seem melancholy.
‘Has your son killed any foreigners?’
‘I can see one must be quick-witted with you. You are always listening, aren’t you? Even when it seems you are bored. My son was like you, but he squandered it all by joining those infernal idiots in the army. He had a nomadic soul, you see, which could not be cured by reading to him from The Arabian Nights each bedtime, as I hoped. No, he has not killed any foreigners, as he has not left the British Isles as yet. He very much hopes for a war some time soon, and I very much hope we will never have another.’
‘What means nomadic?’
‘A nomad is one who wishes to roam about from place to place.’
‘I am that, sir. At night, I sometimes lean from the window in the dormitory to see further, but I can only see the lamp before the last house in this street. I would very much like to walk beyond it one day.’
‘You mean, you have never seen the end of this street?’
‘No, sir. I have not left the orphanage since I was brought here. I would like to see St Giles.’
‘You would not like it, my dear, if you did. I mean to say, St Giles is a carbuncle. But there are other parts of
London – oh, visions to behold!’
I sit up straight and clasp my hands, my heart soaring at the thought of it, to see London; to pass through these walls; to be free. ‘From my window I often think I should dearly love to sprout wings and rise above the rooftops and see beyond the buildings, the city and the river. I should like to see whence the moon rises. I want to go where the sun sets.’
My tutor looks at me for some moments, curiously. ‘Do you get sick in hackney coaches?’
‘I do not believe so, sir, but in truth I do not have enough experience of them to know.’
‘Then come, child. I am sure Mr Woods would not object to funding a little trip. Our first lesson will be conducted in a mobile fashion. Thus, we take to the streets.’
‘Where are we going, sir?’
‘The marvellous Menagerie!’ he cries with a flourish and stands.
I have no clue as to what a menagerie may be, but the word fills me with the spirit of enquiry.
London, in all its variety, flows past our carriage. It is a hot summer day and the streets stink to high heaven. As the images fleet past my eyes, dim memories of my time before the orphanage gather in my mind: running along the road behind my brother, dodging down an alley – that is all I can recall. Today I see ox-waggons and herds of sheep. Chair-men trotting through the traffic shouting, ‘By your leave, sir,’ as they elbow and shove their way, pushing unaware pedestrians into the walls and puddles as they rush on. A polluted channel runs down the middle of the road and this emits the worst stench of all, fetid and rotten. Another memory of my brother: the two of us sitting on a wall, a fancy gentleman walks beneath us in the street, his sword hanging from his hip swaying as he strides, and we throw bits of mouldy apple into his wig as he passes and we hoot with laughter. Then the memory is gone again.
‘The streets spark pictures in my mind!’ I tell Mr Applebee.
‘What kind of pictures?’
‘Of my brother.’
‘Where is he now?’
Song of the Sea Maid Page 3