Folly

by Marthe Jocelyn

  "Hey!" he whispered at Frederick's cot. "You awake?"

  "Shht!" shushed someone, but it was a boy hiss, not a matron hiss.

  Frederick rolled over. "What?" he grumbled.

  "I've got an idea," said James.

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  "Save it for morning."

  "It's about food," said James. "Aren't you hungry?"

  James could feel Frederick sitting up. He glanced toward the west end of the dormitory, thirty cots away, where the matron had a tiny room. There was no light.

  "She's on rounds," whispered James. "Old Aldercott."

  "Full-of-Snot," mumbled Frederick.

  "Come on." James slid off the bed. His nerve was up; he had to stop himself from running across the floor. Frederick would surely follow. He tiptoed away from Matron's closet to the east stairwell. A scuffling behind him, a grunt and curse. Not just Frederick but Walter, too, Frederick trying to stop him. James snapped his fingers, then swiped one finger across his throat. At the top of the stairs, James pressed them both against the wall.

  "There's no messing things up," he whispered. "Quit yapping or go back to bed."

  Nods from both plus a salute from Walter.

  The kitchens were locked. Of course they would be, in the middle of the night.

  "All this way for nothing," Frederick complained. "You think you're so clever."

  James would prove how clever.

  "We aren't here for the kitchen," he said. "That's next time. Follow me."

  The masters had a separate dining room, not so fancy as the one where the governors gathered, and not so plain as the boys' refectory. There must be something in there worth having? James crept along next to the wall,

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  Frederick and Walter bumbling behind him. His team needed training if they were to match the Pie Peter raiders.

  Ahh , the door handle clicked neatly open and his chilled feet stepped onto a carpet.

  "Cor," said Frederick.

  "Shhh."

  Moonlight shone faintly through the window, striping the table in the middle of the room and illuminating a silver tray on a lace cloth. There sat a sugar bowl, a pitcher for cream, and--oh glory!--a jam pot with a spoon poking up through the hole in its lid.

  James reached across the table to pull the cloth toward them. Frederick lunged for the sugar bowl, but James smacked his arm away.

  "Ow!"

  "We're not pirates," said James. "We'll take turns."

  "Who says?"

  "I say." James had a hand on each precious vessel, one covering the sugar, the other holding the jam pot. "You obey the rules, Frederick, or you won't come next time."

  "Who says?"

  "I say." James handed the bowl to Walter, who pinched up sugar between thumb and fingers and drizzled it onto his tongue with a sigh of rapture. James flipped off the jam pot lid to find marmalade! He scooped a spoonful into his mouth. Ah! The slightly bitter burst of orange seemed as bright as sunshine for the moment that it lasted. Walter passed the sugar bowl to Frederick. James handed the

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  jam pot and spoon to Walter. On the next trade, James could hardly taste the sprinkle of sugar over the lively bitter sweetness of the marmalade. Frederick must have found the same thing because at his turn he tipped the bowl and poured a stream of sugar into his open mouth.

  "Hey!" cried Walter.

  "Pig!" cursed James, joggling Frederick's arm. Sugar sprayed across the table and floor, but Frederick wouldn't let go of the bowl.

  "What did you go and do that for?" Frederick glared at them. "You spilled it, stupid!"

  Walter was already pressing moist palms against the snowfall on the tabletop, licking them off and pressing again, picking up every last speck.

  "You forfeit marmalade," said James. "For being a pig with the sugar."

  "Nasty stuff, anyway." Frederick retreated to a corner and quietly finished off the whole bowl of sugar by himself. James and Walter passed the spoon back and forth until the jam pot was empty.

  Sneaking back up, Walter murmured, "This was the best night of my life, ever."

  "Since we came here," said James.

  He spent all of prayers next morning thinking about how that marmalade had tasted on his tongue, from the first lick to the very last sliver of orange nibbled off his lips. It was hard to think of Jesus Christ under such circumstances, He who likely never had jam in all His life.

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  MARY 1877 Telling About Christmas

  I woke up blinking dizzy, with some quick and wily rodent darting about my belly. It brought my innards rushing to my mouth as I sat up. Ohh , I didn't like that, not one bit. No time to pull on shoes, my bare feet stumbled me down four flights, lickety-split, across the yard to the servants' privy.

  Eliza were waiting when I came back up, eyeing me like a market fish she weren't likely to put in her basket.

  "What got you moving so fast this morning?"

  "Not well," I mumbled, sloshing water from the jug over my wrists. But then, with the knot of doom tightening itself around my throat, I produced a sunny smile.

  "All better now!"

  And weren't I then as strong and fast as two? The way I collected the boots for polishing, and hustled room to

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  room, sweeping the grates, carting down the ashes, lighting the fires ... like I were ablaze myself.

  I wasted no time a-trying to trick myself. I knew full well that I were knapped and having a baby. My life were over at the same instant it had just begun. Every bit of me trembled; in love, in a panic to keep it hid, and sure too that I would die the way Mam had, birthing Nan. And what would I do, anyway, without Mam? That was what set me to whimpering, pretending it were a cinder in my eye, not all the other terrible true things that occurred to me in those few minutes, but only not having me mam to tell--or not tell, however I might choose.

  I scuttled to the cellar with the ash bucket to finish choking and sniffling. Lordy, I were sick of crying. I sat there still as stone for a bit, the cold air clearing the heat and damp from my face, soothing me even.

  Finally I thought of Caden and got a blow of hope through me, like when you think there's only gray ash in the grate, but with a few strong puffs you've got sparks like scarlet dust and then, wouldn't you know it? Day after day, the fire lights up after all, from one tiny, fiery ember straight to having enough water hot for Lady's bath, and the tea, and the washing up, and oh, if it's Monday, the laundry.

  So I kept Caden's cheeky smile right there in my mind, to get me back up the stairs and doing what had to be done to pass the hours--how many would it be?--days, maybe ... until I'd touch that smile with my own chapped fingers.

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  OLIVER 1888 Kings

  The boy could rattle off the kings and queens of England right from the beginning, from Egbert in 828 AD, long before William the Conqueror, right up to Queen Victoria, including the dates of all their reigns. He was keen, all right. Oliver liked to think of tasks for him. Little mental challenges. It wasn't right to favor him, Oliver knew that, but what was a teacher to do with a bright boy? He was naturally inclined to lists, so let him proceed....

  "Mr. Chester, I've learned what you suggested. Shall I tell you the kings whose names began with the letter E ?"

  "If you can recite while you clean the slates, boy, I'll listen."

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  James cheerfully dipped a cloth into the bucket of murky water and began. "Egbert, Ethelwulf, Ethelbald, Ethelbert, Ethelred. All those Ethels were Ethelwulf's sons, and so was Alfred, who came next, but he's not an E . Then Edward the Elder, Ethelstan, Edmund the Magnificent, Eadred, Eadwig the All-Fair--"

  "Watch it, Nelligan, you're splashing the floor. How many are there, anyway?"

  "Edgar the Peaceable, Edward the Martyr ... I think there are twenty, sir, but does Elizabeth count? She'd make it twenty-one."

  "And why wouldn't she count?"

  "She's not a king, sir, is she?"

  "Then you'll
have to rename your category if you want to include her."

  "All right then, monarchs whose names--"

  "Hey, I asked for clean slates, not lakes, boy!"

  "I'll mop the floor after, sir. Sir?"

  "Yes, Nelligan."

  "We both have brown hair, don't we? And we both think gruel is foul."

  "Indeed we do."

  "We both like knowing things about kings."

  "You've got quite a list!"

  "And football! We both love football!"

  "Better than anything."

  "Don't you think that's a lot of things the same?" James wrung out the cloth and spread it neatly on the edge of

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  the bucket before looking straight into Oliver's eyes. "What if you're my father?"

  Oliver caught his breath. "Oh, my dear boy ... I'm afraid that's not possible ... I ... I'm nobody's father." It pinched him to say it. "And nobody's son."

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  MARY 1878 Telling About Telling

  Telling Caden one simple sentence were an act of fierce bravery, and took some working up to. No rush , I'd say to myself ... I've got time before there'll be anything to notice. Aside from feeling wobbly in the mornings, and I can do better at hiding that . But on smarter days, time ticked like a grandfather clock between my ears, the pendulum banging away like a drum.

  The worst were seeing him, my mouth and body with all the same yearnings, but thinking, Lordy, no! and then thinking, Well, the horse is long gone from this barn so why not? But then thinking it were not fair to go on without him knowing the truth, and should I not tell him? Such worry, of course, about whatever he'd say, imagining every scene; him being sick into the gutter, him giving me

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  a slap, him bestowing a twist of peppermints with a promise inside ...

  The day came when I swore to myself not to dally any further. Spit it out, girl, and take whatever comes . Hard to remember, with all that passed later, that I were clutching the irregular notion there were some romance in it.

  "I've something to tell you," I said, without even a hello. He patted the bench and I shivered a little, sitting down next to him, waiting for the familiar feel of his arm slid around my shoulders, and him tucking the top of my head under his chin.

  "Face as grave as a tombstone," he laughed, doing just what I'd imagined, grinding his chin into my scalp, making me squirm.

  "Stop!" I said, but laughing too, letting another minute slip by, letting him kiss me, letting my heart skip one more time ... Is this the last kiss before he knows? Is this ? Will he shout, curse me, cry, run? Will he grin like a daddy?

  "Well, what is it, then?" he said. "What's your urgent matter?"

  Not knowing what I'd see in those blue blinkers at the end of my next sentence, I looked away.

  "I'm ... I ... I'll be having a baby."

  His arm twitched as he sat up straight. He were deadly quiet.

  I said, "You're not going to faint, are you?"

  He stood, and sat, and stood again.

  "Mary." He knelt in front of me, his hands taking mine. "I'm ... I don't know what to say. You ... Oh Lord ... a

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  baby?" He stood up again, like there were a moth in his britches. Me sitting still all the while, watching.

  "I'm ... surprised, but I suppose I shouldn't be," he said. "It's ... Are you certain?"

  I nodded. He sat. He closed his eyes. He opened them. He took my hand and bounced it ever so slightly.

  "Don't girls know about these things? What to do at such a time?"

  I pulled my hand away.

  His eyes implored me, like a beggar's eyes watching a market basket, wanting something there were no chance he'd get. My mouth were suddenly as dry as yesterday's cake.

  He ducked his head and laid it in my lap, where I could not resist stroking his dark hair.

  "I don't know yet." I answered what he hadn't asked. "I've not worked things out. I wanted ... I thought I should ... hear what you might say."

  "Oh, Mary"--sitting up again--"it's a big, big thing you're telling me! You can't be surprised that I'm ... I'm shocked a little. But I'll come round to it, I'm sure I will. If only, can I go away to think about it? Can we meet tomorrow?"

  Well, I'd had weeks to get used to the idea and he were just hearing. Of course there were some dazement on his part. It weren't till after we said goodbye--with a bit of a cuddle included--that I were struck with the notion that I might not see him again.

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  OLIVER 1888 The Bloody Nose

  Oliver gazed at the second-form boys studiously writing out the Act of Succession, 1534. When Henry VIII married Anne Boleyn and their daughter, Elizabeth, was born, the king had declared his first child, Mary, a bastard and no longer heir to the throne. He changed his mind, of course, more than once, but Oliver often wondered how the whim of one man in heat had affected the condition of bastards and foundlings throughout British history. Why was it only the king's own state of wedlock that determined whether it mattered, for the rest of time, that anyone else was married--or not--when a child was born?

  "Mr. Chester?"

  Oliver looked at James Nelligan.

  "Permission to speak, sir?"

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  "Yes, Nelligan."

  "It's Walter, sir." James pointed. Walter was hunched over with his hands pressed to his face.

  Oliver stood up. "What's the mat--?"

  Blood was bubbling out from between the boy's fingers.

  Oh dear, not blood . Oliver sat down, instantly lightheaded. "Run and get one of the nurses, would you?" he mumbled. James sped toward the door, as Oliver pulled a thankfully fresh handkerchief out of his pocket.

  "Give him this," he said, handing it to the boy named Aiken. "And tell him to press the nose closed." The children clustered around Walter, shielding him from sight, but making wildly appreciative noises that told Oliver the flow was so far undiminished. He went to the door and saw James trotting beside a young, hurrying nurse, apparently demonstrating the bleeding volcano.

  "Hello," said the nurse. She looked quite jangled.

  Oliver tipped his head and then clapped his hands. "Please allow the nurse to come through. Collect your copybooks--calmly, please--from your desks and file into the hallway. Give Mr. Raleigh some breathing room." He felt better at once, away from the splashes of blood on the floor.

  Walter Raleigh's got a bleeding nose , he thought. He still got a bit of a chuckle when a famous name showed up in odd moments as entirely incongruous with the life of a schoolboy.

  "Raleigh's bad luck is your good," Oliver announced. "I

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  hereby--Hold on! You will complete your copy of the first Act of Succession before tomorrow's lesson and give some consideration to what the Second and Third Acts may have contained. Until then you are dismissed."

  That set off a whoop and a general stampede.

  "Oh! Except--" Oliver grabbed the nearest arm. "Aiken. Aiken, you wait for Raleigh. Accompany him back to the ward, would you please, when he's ready?"

  When the nurse was done pinching the nose and mopping the face, Oliver sent the boys off, Aiken's arm generously slung about Raleigh's waist for support.

  "Thank you," said Oliver to the nurse. "I'm not so bold with blood and mess like that."

  She laughed. "Most men aren't, for all their playing at war."

  "I haven't seen you before," said Oliver, stacking books neatly under his arm. "Are you recently arrived?"

  "Yes," she said.

  He locked the classroom and they walked together along the corridor.

  "Where did you work before this?"

  "At the Lying-In Hospital, on Old Street. I started there as a cleaner when ... when I were just a girl. As time went on, I helped with the babies and learned more about nursing. It were a marvel, so many babies being born. All the uproar! Never a dull moment, I tell you."

  "Why did you decide to come here?"

  It seemed to Oliver that he
r hesitation was as lively as a match being struck.

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  "I ... I ... The babies there, they all have mothers," she said. "The mothers ... they all are ... married. It seemed that here ... there would be more need ...."

  "I understand," he said, quietly. Even as an adult, he prickled with the shame he'd been taught to carry. But it seemed this stranger might understand what he usually pretended wasn't so. "I was a foundling," he heard himself whisper. "I know how these boys feel."

  The bright flush of interest on her face surprised and warmed him, though all she said was "Ah!"

  She was awfully pretty, Oliver thought. Soft-looking hair.

  A moment later, she spoke again. "That boy."

  "Walter Raleigh? With the nosebleed? He--"

  "No, no. The other one, who came to find me."

  "James Nelligan," said Oliver.

  "James? That's his name? With the very blue eyes?"

  "Yes. He's a clever boy, one of my best."

  "He ... seemed, yes, clever. And he cared about his friend. That's nice ," she said, as if the word weren't quite what she intended.

  "They raise them up here for a purpose, you know," said Oliver. "I'm an unusual case, staying close to home. So to speak. Most of them go off to be soldiers or bakers' boys or ... well, if Walter Raleigh is permitted to pick up pins for a tailor, he should consider himself lucky. But with James, I expect he could be a teacher, or better."

  "Really?"

  "Oh, yes indeed. Out there"--he nodded vaguely to

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  encompass the wide world beyond the walls--"who knows how far he might go? But, of course, as a foundling ... we're taught to be grateful, you understand? Grateful just to be alive. Pasts and futures are equally cloudy."