House of Angels (8 page)

This agony seemed to go on for hours, yet was probably a matter of moments only. She could almost smell his anxiety, along with his sweat, which had a strong odour of farmyard about it.

Ella could feel the anguish growing in him, a fretting frustration.

Desperate to help him she put up a hand and stroked his hair, which felt surprisingly soft and clean. She tried to kiss his cheek but it landed clumsily on his ear instead. He made no reciprocal move to kiss her.

Wanting this whole thing to be over and done with, she suddenly said, ‘I don’t know what Father told you about Danny Gilpin, but I swear it’s not true. We did nothing we shouldn’t, not much anyway. So if he said anything different, he’s lying.’ Rather tentatively she added, ‘Would you like me to…’ and sliding her hand down between their two bodies attempted to drag away the thick fabric of his nightshirt, searching for bare flesh.

On a cry of horrified disgust he flung himself off her, almost leaping from the bed as if he’d been stung. ‘You’ve been with another man? You Jezebel! No wonder I can’t do my duty by you. I should have realised there would be problems marrying a pretty girl like you. Women are all the same.’

Instinct drove her to defend herself. ‘You’re not listening to me. I’ve done nothing wrong.’

Amos snorted his disbelief. ‘You lie! A virgin is without fault before the throne of God – “but thou didst trust in thine own beauty and played the harlot because of thy renown, and poured out thy fornications.”’

‘What?’

‘I will not have you play the whore with me, woman!’

Ella was struck dumb, not having the first idea how to respond.

To her horror he proceeded to again wash his hands, as if merely by touching her he had defiled himself in some way. Then he got back into bed, turned his back upon her and amazingly, seconds later, was snoring.

Ella lay unmoving, quite unable to sleep, staring into the darkness in a state of total shock and misery. Her husband couldn’t even bring himself to make love to her, or show her the least tenderness. And when she’d tried to help, to explain, he’d called her by that foul name. Oh, how different this night would have been had Father allowed her to marry Danny. Fat tears rolled down her face, soaking into her pillow.

How would she endure?

At some point in the early hours, when there was still no crack of light for her to see properly, Ella was woken by a strange sound. She became aware of a shadowed figure huddled in a corner of the room, presumably that of her husband. His shoulders were shaking, which quite mystified her. What he was doing she had no idea, but he was giving odd little gasps and sobs and whimpering sounds.

It came to her then with a new wave of shock that he was crying. She hadn’t realised that grown men could cry. But why would he? What could possibly have upset him? What had she done, and why wouldn’t he believe in her innocence? Had her own father blighted all hope of that?

Or could he perhaps still be grieving for his first wife? Ella’s heart filled with sympathy, for him, and for herself, trapped in this loveless marriage.

The noise went on for some long moments and when finally it stopped, she again heard the sound of water being poured, and the washing ritual begin all over again. After that, he climbed back into bed on a trembling sigh. Ella turned her face to the wall, as far from him as she could get in the big double bed, and wept her own silent tears of anguish.

If Fellside had seemed like a hell-hole, then Mercy thought she must surely have arrived in Hell itself.

She’d walked from the hansom cab in all innocence, not appreciating exactly what this great mausoleum of a building really was. She’d thought it was the lodging house where some of the girls who worked at the store must live, having assumed she was to be given employment.

Now she understood how cruelly she’d been tricked. Mercy saw to her horror that she was in a worse situation than before she’d asked Josiah Angel for help, or shown him her mother’s letter. He hadn’t given her a new future at all. He’d sent her to the workhouse.

What kind of father was he? What sort of man would condemn his own daughter, albeit one from the wrong side of the blanket, to incarceration? A devil, no less.

What had gone wrong? How had this all come about? More importantly, how could she let Jessie and Jack know where she was and what had happened to her? They’d be so worried, although what they could do to
save her was beyond Mercy’s imagining.

The woman now searching her and stripping her of her clothes, her very identity, paid no attention to her claim there’d been some mistake and that she shouldn’t even be here. Nor did she listen to Mercy’s plea that her friends be informed of her whereabouts. Her protests fell upon deaf ears.

‘You’ve no right to keep me here,’ Mercy cried. ‘Josiah Angel has no right to send me here without my agreement, not even a by-your-leave. Surely I should have a say in the matter?’

‘He’s
Mr
Angel to you. Mind your manners, girl. And you’re destitute, so where else would you go?’ Her voice was weary and disinterested, making it clear she’d heard it all before. The very fact Mercy’s pockets were empty with not a penny to her name proved her parlous state.

The woman, or Matron, as she instructed Mercy to call her, was tall and thin, her face composed of a number of planes and sharp angles that tapered to a long sharp nose. Dressed in a striped blue dress covered with a white bib apron, her tightly scraped-back hair was topped off with a fancy white cap, firmly tied under a narrow pointed chin.

Mercy was duly stripped of the clothes Jessie had so carefully washed and pressed for her, and put through the indignities of being bathed and deloused, her hair cut to no more than half an inch all over her head before being dressed in a scratchy cotton nightgown several sizes too big for her. When she protested about this too, she was smartly informed that head lice were
not welcome here, and didn’t she know that prayer, self-sacrifice and cleanliness was the way to reach the Kingdom of God?

‘You should be grateful Mr Angel took the trouble to find you proper care and accommodation.’ As if to emphasise her point, on the way back from the bathrooms Matron permitted Mercy to look through a window to see the long line of tramps, known as casuals, who were already queuing up for a night’s board and lodging.

Mercy was appalled at the thought that anyone would actually volunteer to get in here. ‘Why does the man in charge send some of them away?’ she asked, curious over the way the line was being managed.

The woman sighed heavily. ‘Because they’ve come begging a bed once too often lately. Those who are allowed in will be given the order of the bath too, just as you have, missy, but tomorrow they’ll be out on the streets again. So thank your lucky stars you’re at least sure of a bed every night. You’re a very lucky girl.’

Mercy didn’t feel in the least bit lucky. She felt as if she’d been abducted, kidnapped and locked up, and someone had thrown away the key.

A fracas broke out and seconds later the tramp appeared on the stone-flagged corridor ahead of them, frogmarched along by two officers and thrown into a cell. Mercy was allowed to peep through a slit in the door as they passed by, her insides turning to water at the sight that met her eyes.

The poor man was bent double, a huge hammer in his hand, which he swung time and again to break a pile
of huge stones. He was already shaking with the effort, near to collapse, probably from lack of food as much as anything.

‘He’ll have to break them small enough to push through that grid set in the far wall,’ Matron told her. ‘When he’s finished all the stones in the cell, he’ll be let out. Shouldn’t take him more than twelve hours or so, then he’ll be given breakfast and sent on his way. Serve him right for being feckless and quarrelsome. Not a bad bargain for a night’s accommodation, eh?’

It didn’t seem much of a bargain to Mercy. But the point hadn’t escaped her that clean and neat though the place might appear at first glance, there were rules to be kept, and darker issues at work beneath the surface.

With shock still blurring her mind so that she found it hard to think straight, Mercy followed the woman along endless dark corridors, and was finally allotted a bed in a large dormitory.

The room seemed huge, the ranks of beds numbered fifty or more. Nobody spoke to her and the place stank of stale sweat, urine and vomit. Mercy curled up on the straw-filled pallet, pulled the single red wool blanket over her head and wept silently for her dead mother, overwhelmed by despair.

How she wished, in that moment, that she’d never gone near Josiah Angel.

Mercy endured her first night with fortitude and no small degree of bitterness. She barely slept a wink for
all the snorting and coughing and weeping she could hear going on in the other beds. It was the longest, coldest, most miserable night she could ever remember, far worse even than the Angel buildings at Fellside. How she longed for her mother, or for Jessie to come bounding in bringing her a warm barm cake and a morning kiss.

Instead, she lined up with the other women for the lavatory and to wash her face in cold water. After that, dressed in a blue cotton dress and a pinafore that might once have been white she followed them to the dining hall, where she ate a silent breakfast of salted porridge and a mug of weak tea. She saw that the staff sat at a separate table on a platform at one end of the hall, Matron in the centre, clearly in charge. And although Mercy was aware of many sidelong glances and curious stares in her direction from the other girls, no one said a word to her.

Since she was too old now for school, Mercy had rather assumed that she’d be put to weaving, knitting or carding, since she had skills in these tasks. But she soon learnt different.

A large girl a few years older than Mercy, a Nurse Jenkyns with a round face, red hair and a cheerful smile, was delegated to take her on to the wards. Mercy’s task, she explained, as they set off at a cracking pace down a long corridor, would be to scrub floors, make beds, empty chamber pots, turn mattresses and other menial tasks.

‘We calls ’em scrubbers, since that’s what they do.
Matron is very particular that everything be kept spanking clean, which includes patients’ bottoms.’ She laughed at the look of shocked distaste on Mercy’s face. ‘You won’t find it as bad as it first appears, once you get used to it,’ she told her kindly.

Mercy was not reassured.

‘It’s a bit of a facer at first, I will admit. We get some odd sorts in here, and quite a few nutters. Still, the food isn’t bad and nobody knocks you around, eh? Leastways, not if you mind your Ps and Qs. Anyway, if you’ve any problems, come to me. I’ll put you right.’

‘Thank you, Nurse Jenkyns, I’ll remember that.’

The other girl grinned, revealing two missing front teeth. ‘Call me Prue, and sorry about the missing gnashers; me pa knocked them out for me, which is why I come here. No place else to go.’

‘
I
shouldn’t be here at all,’ Mercy burst out. ‘It’s all a big mistake.’

‘’Course it is. No doubt you’ve got a bleeding palace somewhere. Right, we go through here. Don’t panic, it’ll look a bit like bedlam but that’s upstairs actually.’

Mercy looked at the other girl in horror. Where had she come to? What sort of place was this?

The ward did indeed seem to be packed with people, many wandering about aimlessly, singing or shouting and making a lot of noise. Others were lying comatose in their beds. Prue explained that they were mostly old, or abandoned by their families in this the final refuge for the unemployed. It seemed to Mercy a cruel fate.

A group of patients were huddled together round a mean little fire shielded by a large fireguard at the far end of the ward as the two girls passed through. They didn’t seem to have any sort of occupation, or conversation, which seemed sad, used as Mercy was to the women of Fellside who were always gossiping or busy with their knitting sticks. These people sat unmoving, their eyes dead, their gaze unfocused, as if they’d given up the struggle and were simply waiting to die.

There were no pictures on the wall, save for one of Christ on the cross. Even the walls themselves weren’t plastered, the open brickwork painted a bluish white, and over all hung the sweet-sour stench of cloying sickness and decay.

The next ward was the children’s, which was even more distressing. One giant cradle, filled with half a dozen babies, was being rocked by a young girl who smiled at Mercy as she passed by. Infants stood holding on to their cot rails, many of them too frail to even cry, let alone smile or laugh as children should. Prue explained that deformities were common, the result of rickets, infections, or injury.

‘Some have had all the sense shaken out of ’em, quite literally,’ which made Mercy shudder at the thought that anyone could hurt such small children.

Prue picked up one baby and gave her a hug and a kiss before handing her over to a young attendant. ‘That sheet is wet, Nurse. Best change it before Sister sees it.’

None of the babies had napkins on them, Mercy noticed, but they did at least look pink cheeked and well
fed. She said as much to her new friend, who clearly held some status over the other attendants.

‘Oh, aye, they get well fed here; plain fare but substantial. All food and schooling provided by the local council. Just as well since most are orphans, or illegitimate, with no loved ones of their own to provide for them.’

That word – illegitimate – made Mercy shiver. This could so easily have been her own fate. At least she’d been more fortunate than these poor mites, having been brought up on Fellside with her mam.

One girl was rocking herself back and forth, banging her head in a tragic rhythm against the end of her cot. She must have been doing this for some time as there were large blue and yellow bruises on her forehead. The young nurse in charge put the child in a
straitjacket
.

Mercy could hardly bear to watch as the child stiffened and became rigid, screaming her protest at being so confined.

‘Is this where I’ll be working?’ she asked, a thread of hope in her voice. Surely she could try to make the babies lives more cheerful, perhaps by telling them stories or finding something to occupy them. She knew any number of games she used to play with her mam. All she needed was paper and pencil, or a bit of a string for cat’s cradle. Prue shook her head and hurried Mercy out through the big swing doors.

Crossing an open courtyard they came to a large door, which her companion proceeded to unlock with a
key hanging from her wide belt. A small knot of unease lodged itself in Mercy’s chest, some instinct warning her this wasn’t quite right. She wanted to ask why the door needed to be locked, but her tongue had somehow cleaved to the roof of her mouth, and her heart started to pound against her rib cage. All she wanted to do was turn on her heels and run. The trouble was, there was nowhere to run to.

‘This is where you’ll be working, for now at least.’

Mercy could barely believe the sight that met her eyes. She stared in horror at the inmates, all male with hair cropped as close to their heads as her own now was, dressed in unbleached calico suits, complete with waistcoats, although they wore no necktie at the collarless shirt. As she hesitated, Prue bustled her inside, locking the door carefully behind them.

‘Don’t panic, love. I’ll have you moved soon as I can, but all new girls start here. They might look odd but they’re harmless enough.’

Clearly curious about the newcomers who’d suddenly appeared in their ward, the men came shambling over, looking very much like a herd of cows examining a stray dog who’d wandered into their field.

Mercy took a step back. ‘What’s wrong with them?’ At least she’d found her voice, weak and trembling though it might be.

‘Nowt, so far as I know, ’cept they’re imbeciles, or so they call them. Real sad cases. Your job is to keep them – and the ward – nice and tidy and clean, which I’m sure
a fine strong girl such as yourself can do quite easily. You won’t get much help from them, mind. These poor souls barely have the sense to wipe their own bums.’

Mercy looked at her aghast, but Prue gave her a nudge. ‘Go on, get along with you then. Go and report to Nurse Bathurst. You’ll find her in her office. Keep your head down and do exactly what she tells you to, that’s my advice to you, love. Batty Brenda, as we calls her, isn’t exactly the patient type, and doesn’t much care for shirkers. Just keep your head down and get on with the job. That way you might survive.’ And having issued this bleak warning, her new friend turned on her heel and left Mercy alone in the ward.

Mercy had barely taken two paces when she found herself surrounded by men. They stroked her hair, pinched her cheek, fingered the buttons down the front of her dress as if trying to count them, or perhaps undo them. She was too terrified to decide which. One untied her apron strings and Mercy hastily retied it, in a double bow this time. Another patient, clearly male with stubble on his unshaven chin, was dressed like a woman in a stuff gown. He even wore a bonnet.

‘I like your dress,’ he said. ‘Have you got drawers on?’ And he lifted up the hem of her dress to see for himself, making his comrades giggle and grin like naughty schoolboys.

Mercy tried to tug her dress free. ‘Please don’t do that,’ she begged. Close to panic, she longed to slap him, to push them away, but was doing her utmost to
remain calm, remembering how Prue had told her that these patients might be simple-minded but were largely harmless. It was hard to believe this as one reached out and squeezed her breast, chuckling with delight when she squealed.