by Iris Cole
The man seemed affronted by her boldness. “You’re the one in need of something, not me. I’ve got all the time I desire until we set sail again.”
“So, you are Captain Dunbar.” She smiled victoriously. “If you weren’t, you’d be toiling away like your men behind you.”
His eyes narrowed. “What do you want?” Clearly, he did not appreciate being outsmarted by a woman, much less one who was having a hard time standing still.
“Who is F.C.?” She showed him the back of the coin, where her father’s old markings dented the metal. “He sailed with you once, according to this.”
Captain Dunbar snorted. “You expect me to remember the names of every sailor I’ve ever had on my crew?”
“Um… yes,” she replied stiffly, realising that she might have overestimated the information etched into the copper coin. Captain Dunbar was still sailing, despite his advancing years—he must have had countless men working aboard his ships over the last seventeen years alone; never mind the years prior.
Captain Dunbar eyed the coin. “I couldn’t help you, lass, even if I wanted to. I don’t, but that’s by the by.” He jabbed a finger toward the gangplank. “Now, get off my ship before I have you dragged off it.”
“You have to know him! Please… he’s my father. You have to remember him!” Clary cried in desperation, as all of her hopes crumbled away to dust around her.
The last three months could not have been for nothing. She could not bear the notion, nor could she think of the quantity of gin it would take to chase that anguish away.
Captain Dunbar kept his finger pointed at the gangplank. “I don’t, and I’m not inclined to. I can barely remember the names of this lot.”
“It might’ve been seventeen years ago, or more. He sailed with you. You have to know who he is, or I… I… I don’t know what I’ll do.” She lunged for the captain and clung onto his lapels for dear life. “Who is he, Captain?! Who is the man who left this coin with me? I have to know!”
The captain beckoned for his men. “I guess that’s your mystery to solve. If it was seventeen years ago, you’ve no chance of me remembering.” He shrugged. “I’d wager this pa of yours is dead. If you sail long enough, you live to see most of your crew die, whether it’s the sea that takes them or something else.”
“No…” An agonised gasp escaped Clary’s throat. “No… he can’t be dead. I won’t believe it.”
The captain smiled. “I can’t make you, but I’m rarely wrong.” He turned to his men. “Get this lass off my ship before she curses us all.”
Four men swarmed Clary and seized her by her weakened arms. She flailed and writhed, trying to fight them off, as she had tried to fight those wretches in the alleyway, but they were much too strong. And she had no Bill to swoop in and defend her, this time.
“Please! Please, you have to remember!” she yelled as loudly as she could, as the sailors hauled her away from the ship, but the captain had already vanished back into the gloom of the top deck. He did not care who her father was. He did not care that she was hurting, or that she had a void inside her that could not be filled until she found out who had given her life. It was her mystery to solve, and she had come to her final dead-end, for she had no paths or clues left to follow.
In the span of one early morning, after seventeen years of longing, her very last hope had been dashed on the rocks. And she was the only one who could decide if she would let this drown her, or if she would raise her head above the surface and cling onto the life she still had.
“I… hope you find him,” one of the sailors said, as the quartet released Clary and sent her on her way.
She did not reply. There was no point, now.
Chapter Seventeen
“Clary! Clary! Wake up!” A sharp voice disturbed Clary from her weary slumber. Her eyelids cracked open to find Dora standing over her, holding a jar of water as though she intended to throw it over Clary.
It had not even been a full day since she had been shooed away from Captain Dunbar’s ship, and left to struggle through the weight of that crushing devastation. She had drifted through her work at the mill, as though she was not even control of her own body, and had seen another line of patients when she had finished for the evening. They had gone away happy and content that they still had hope for their family and children’s afflictions, while Clary was left with no cure for hers.
It was all for nothing, in the end. I stayed for no reason whatsoever, other than to bring some cheer to these lost souls.
And yet, for that moment at least, it did not feel like enough to merit her coming here. Indeed, though she was only too happy to make the lives of these people a little easier, she had lost the love for healing she had once had. Or, perhaps, the cups of gin had robbed that joy from her.
By now, the matron at the Saint Pancras Female Orphanage would have found another nurse to join the staff, whilst Clary was destined to spend her days toiling away at the nearby mill until her hands were raw, or until she made an inebriated mistake at the machines that killed her.
“What’s the matter?” Clary rasped: her throat dry.
Dora jabbed a finger toward the far side of the room. “It’s me Mammy, Clary. She’s havin’ her labours.”
“Already?” Clary immediately sat up. “It’s too soon. Your ma has at least a month left before she gives birth.”
Dora shook her head. “She says it’s comin’ now!” Panic flickered in the young girl’s eyes. It was enough to urge Clary out of the chrysalis of threadbare blankets and despair that she had wrapped around herself for warmth and make her drag herself to her exhausted feet.
Biting back a yawn, she rushed over to the Coyles’ corner of the room to find Alwyn lying on the floor with her knees bent up.
“This is too soon, Alwyn,” Clary said, kneeling beside her friend. In that instant, she almost forgot about her own woes, for there was someone here who needed her strength, and not her broken shell.
Alwyn nodded, red-faced and sweating profusely. “I know, but I know what I’m feelin’. The wain is comin’, Clary! What do I do?” She grabbed for Clary’s arm. “If it’s too soon, the wain won’t make it. Can I stop it comin’? Tell me what to do, Clary.”
“There’s no way to stop it,” Clary replied, turning to Dora. “Can you fetch a basin of water for your ma and ask around the lodgings to see if anyone has clean cloths.”
Dora nodded and sprinted away. A few moments later, Clary heard the sound of the girl knocking on doors, though Clary doubted anyone would be willing to give up their clean cloths for someone else. There was a firm sense of community in these tenements but, when push came to shove, the people here looked out for their own first.
“It’s goin’ to die, isn’t it?” Alwyn’s face contorted in a mask of utter despair, squeezing a tear from her eye.
Clary shook her head. “I’ll do my best, Alwyn. I swear to you, if there’s a way to keep your wain alive, I’ll make sure it happens. All you need to do is push when I tell you to and pray as hard as you can for this little one.” She took hold of Alwyn’s knees and urged them further apart, before bending around to see how the birth was progressing. The sight shocked Clary, for it appeared that the moment to start pushing was already upon them.
In the past three months, she had used every bit of knowledge she had gained from her secret, nightly readings at the Foundling Hospital to transform herself into a skilled midwife, as well as a physician, apothecary, and field surgeon. Indeed, most of the complaints that came to her door were to do with pregnancies or labour, or the sickness in new-born babies.
There had been tragic deaths during some labours, here and there, when babies were breech, or the cord had wrapped around the child’s neck and there had been no way to cut it free in time, but none could be blamed upon Clary herself. Although, that did not stop her from holding herself entirely accountable.
There had been deaths afterwards, too, of mothers succumbing to fevers and sudden declines, and
babies taking ill or ceasing to breathe in their sleep, or being suffocated by mothers who had accidentally rolled over onto them in these cramped conditions.
In every situation, Clary had done everything she could to save her patients, but she lacked the tools and medicines and true expertise to do much, once an affliction had fully taken hold. And with patients so small and fragile, it became an even harder task to find the necessary supplies that might save them.
“Why didn’t you wake me sooner, Alwyn?” Clary looked back at her friend. “How long has it been since the pains started?”
Alwyn lay her head back on a makeshift pillow, formed by a rolled-up blanket, and began to sob. “I thought… it were a stomach-ache. I thought it were… too soon. I didn’t want to… wake ye in case it were nothin’, after the day ye’ve had, but they… started this afternoon.”
It was now well into the early hours of the morning, meaning this poor woman had been suffering alone, and in silence, for nearly twelve hours.
Clary cursed herself under her breath, knowing that if she had not taken that last sip of gin to make her pass out, she might have been aware of Alwyn’s pain earlier.
Moreover, if she had not told Alwyn of her encounter with Captain Dunbar that morning, her friend might have been more inclined to speak honestly about her labour, instead of putting on a brave face because Clary was bereft.
“Oh Alwyn,” Clary murmured. “Well, it looks like you need to start pushing. Are the pains close together?”
Alwyn nodded. “They’re one after… the other.”
“That’s good. That’s good, all right?” Clary took hold of her friend’s leg and bent back around, so she would be able to help the baby into this world when it came. “When you feel the next pain, I want you to push as hard as you can. Can you do that?”
Alwyn panted in visible distress. How could she not be in turmoil, knowing she was about to birth a child that was much too early?
If she had been born to wealth, perhaps there would be hope, but in the slums of Manchester, there was little hope to be found in any of these dirty, infested streets.
“It’s comin’!” Alwyn cried out. She sat up in alarm and held onto her knees as that cry turned into a guttural roar of pure, feminine power. Her face twisted up as she pushed with all her might, while Clary kept watch for the head crowning.
“That’s it, Alwyn,” Clary urged. “Let’s have ourselves a miracle tonight, eh?”
Alwyn’s head sagged back: her breaths coming in sharp, pained gasps. “It passed,” she said.
“Then we wait for the next one, and you push twice as hard.”
Alwyn gave an obedient nod, the two women readying themselves. It saddened Clary that there would be no father to witness this new life, for the man responsible would never leave his wife in favour of a woman who already had a child with another, unknown man.
And it seemed Alwyn had no desire to make the mill overseer pay for what he had done, likely in case he decided to render her unemployed.
In this case, her silence would preserve her livelihood, and with children to raise, that was more important than having a father present.
Is this what my mother went through? Clary wondered, though the morning’s refreshed ache of not knowing her lost family had faded somewhat, thanks to the exhaustion from the mill and the numbing properties of the gin she had imbibed.
But it would undoubtedly come back to stab at her heart again, when she heard the clink of her twin coins jingling together, or when she ventured back to the docks, one day soon, to search for any sign of Bill.
“Here’s another…” Alwyn bent forward and gripped her knees harder, as another guttural growl rumbled out of her throat. The other women murmured in their sleep, but none awoke.
They were used to peculiar noises in the middle of the night, and a sound like this was nothing compared to the screams of warring lovers coming from the floors below.
“You’re doing so very well,” Clary encouraged, her heart leaping as she saw the head. “I see the child, Alwyn! You’re almost there!”
Alwyn sagged again, drawing in shaky breaths as she awaited the next contraction. This would be the one that brought the child into the world, Clary felt sure of it. And yet, she feared that the hardest part of the night was still to come.
If she could not save this infant, it would tear her friend to pieces, for though
Alwyn had little love for the father, she had been looking forward to having a new son or daughter to hold close.
Alwyn has so little, and yet she wouldn’t dream of abandoning her child to an orphanage.
Bitterness cut through Clary’s chest. In truth, she had mostly come to terms with the not-knowing; it was the not-understanding that continued to torment her. For Clary had seen so many women in these tenements, who had barely two coins to rub together and no husband in sight, and yet they clung onto their children with everything they possessed.
She had also seen mistreatment, and heard the pained cries of starving children, but she saw maternal love and affection far more often, and mothers who would give their only crust of bread to their children instead of eating it themselves.
Sarah McLeod even sold herself in order to help her daughter… but I was left behind.
“Ah… Ah… It’s comin’ again!” Alwyn grasped her knees one last time, her mouth setting in a grim line of determination as she bellowed through the final push.
Clary shuffled down between her friend’s legs and reached out for the slippery child as it emerged. Cradling the child’s head, she waited until the baby’s narrow shoulders came out, before helping the child the rest of the way into the world.
At the same moment, Dora appeared with a small pile of cloths and a basin of water. Keeping hold of the child—a limp baby boy whose skin had taken on a tinge of unsettling bluish-grey—Clary did not even think about the supplies, for Alwyn’s son had not yet taken his first breath, and it did not look as though he was going to do so on his own.
Thinking quickly, Clary lay the child on the flat of her forearm, the boy’s head resting in her palm, and began to rub circles on his bird-like chest.
She dipped her head and closed her mouth around the boy’s nose, where she sucked until she had cleared an evident blockage. Spitting the contents into one of the clean cloths, she paused to open his mouth and check if there was a blockage there, too. When she found none, she continued to rub the baby boy’s chest, trying to urge some life into his unmoving body.
As Clary looked down at him, she saw the blue-tinged lips of baby Rose in her memories and felt the panic rise through her.
She had not been able to save Rose but, god-willing, she would do everything within her power to save this boy.
In truth, the same cruel remembrance came back to haunt her every time she helped with a birth, but this cut far closer to the bone, for this was a friend’s child in her hands.
“Come on, come on, come on,” she murmured, rubbing more vigorously. “You have to live, little one. Please… live. Be my hope, little one. Be your ma’s hope.”
In a moment of inspiration, she dipped her head once more and closed her mouth over the boy’s. Gently, she puffed a breath of hers into him, like she was giving a part of herself in order for him to survive.
“Is he dead?” Dora whispered, her eyes shining with tears.
Clary clenched her jaw. “No.”
“He looks dead,” the little girl said quietly.
“He’s not! I’m not going to let him!” Clary shot back, instantly regretting her harsh tone. But she could apologise later, once Dora’s baby brother was breathing on his own. Concentrating on her task, Clary dipped her head once more, and puffed another breath into the boy’s lungs.
Please live… Please live… Please live… I won’t lose again today. I can’t. Around her neck, the twin coins warmed to the heat of her perspiring body, until the metal felt as though it were burning her. Still, she did not stop, turning the boy over and r
ubbing his back, desperation making her blind to everything else in the room.
All of a sudden, a thin wail pierced the dense quiet of the room. At first, Clary thought she was hearing things, until it came again, slightly stronger this time: a definite cry, and the faint sensation of the boy’s chest pushing against her forearm.
“You made it,” she gasped, turning him over to find the pink cheeks, pink lips, crinkled eyes, and flailing limbs of a living child. “You made it… Thank the Lord. Oh… thank the Lord.”
She promptly burst into tears as she held the child to her chest, listening to the joyful sound of his strengthening cries. In that moment, she felt as though her heart might explode from absolute relief and gratitude.
“Clary?” Alwyn’s voice whispered, soft and frightened. “Is it all right?”
Clary twisted around and shuffled towards her friend, before delivering the little boy into his mother’s arms.
“He is breathing on his own, and he looks to be… entirely perfect. A little small, but small never hurt anyone.”
Cradling the child, Alwyn’s misty eyes met Clary’s. “I’ll remember this until me dyin’ day, Clary. Ye’ve saved him, and ye’ve saved me.” Tears rolled down her cheeks, while a sob wracked her chest. “I don’t know how to thank ye. If I had money, I’d give it all to ye.”
“All I want is to see him safe and well, and you and Dora happy,” Clary replied, her voice thick with emotion. “I thought we’d lost him, but… he came back.”
Her hand clasped the coins around her neck as she collapsed into a fit of sobs, her body hunched over as she let the pent-up swell of misery, grief, loss, and decimated hope pour out of her.
She was not crying only out of relief, but for the baby she must once have been, for the family she longed for, and for the two men whose coins she possessed who had not come back.