Remember Me (50 page)

‘At least London people seem to be mainly plump and well,’ Mary said.

Boswell sighed. ‘This is a respectable part of the city,’ he said. ‘There are other parts like St Giles which tell a very different story. But I’m not going to show you poverty and squalor, you’ve had quite enough exposure to that.’

The lodgings Boswell took Mary to in Little Titchfield Street were in a narrow but tall house in a terrace, with a gleaming brass knocker on the door and the whitest steps Mary had ever seen. She had a moment’s panic as Boswell
paid off the driver, for surely he didn’t think someone like her should stay in such a place?

But the apple-cheeked woman with a lace-trimmed cap who opened the door and was introduced by Boswell as Mrs Wilkes didn’t seem shocked or surprised by Mary’s appearance.

‘Come in, my dear,’ she said. ‘Mr Boswell has told me all about you, and I’m sure we’ll get along famously.’

Without stopping to draw breath, she commented on the fine weather, and told Mary that she provided breakfast and supper, was happy to do her laundry, and that she must think of her rooms here as home.

‘I have water heating for your bath,’ she went on, though dropping her voice as if this was a delicate matter. ‘Mr Boswell said that would be what you wanted. I only ask that you carry it up yourself because the stairs are too much for me.’

Mary could do no more than nod, for the closest she’d ever come to such startling comfort and splendour was peering through windows of the grander houses in Plymouth. From the narrow hall with its polished wood floor, she could see a thick fringed carpet, upholstered chairs and a shiny wood table with dozens of small ornaments. Yet the way Mrs Wilkes kept looking at Boswell, as if seeking his approval, suggested he was accustomed to even greater things. Mary felt weak with shock, terribly aware that she must stink of Newgate and had undoubtedly brought many of its smallest inmates with her.

‘I will leave you to settle in now under Mrs Wilkes’s
tender care,’ Boswell said, and took hold of Mary’s hand to pat it. ‘You need another woman now, and some rest and quiet. I shall return at six-thirty to take you out to supper.’

A couple of hours later Mary lay on her bed, too thrilled to sleep even though she was tired.

She had two rooms at the top of the house. The one overlooking the street was a living room, with a table and chairs and two wooden armchairs, one of which rocked.

Her bedroom at the back contained an iron bed, a closet for clothes and a washstand. Compared with what she’d seen downstairs, the rooms were simply furnished, with similar items to those she remembered from home in Fowey. But after so many years of hardship and terrible discomfort it was like a palace, and almost everything she looked at made her want to cry.

She had gladly lugged up the pails of hot water, laughed aloud as she stripped off her clothes and climbed into the tin bath. She couldn’t remember when she last had hot water to wash with, let alone submerge herself in. Nor could she remember when she last had a door she could shut others out with. As she scrubbed off the prison smell from her skin and hair, she felt reborn.

Mrs Wilkes was comfortingly blunt, once they were alone.

‘I think it’s best I burn all your clothes,’ she said. ‘Mr Boswell brought some things round for you last night, his daughter’s I think. And in a day or two we’ll go out
and buy others. You’ll find everything you need in the closet. But you make sure you wash that hair properly.’

Afternoon sunshine streamed in through the bedroom window, and as Mary sat up on the bed to look at her reflection in the looking-glass above the washstand, she was astounded to see that her hair shone the way it had when she was a girl. Mrs Wilkes had brought her up some fresh water with a little vinegar in it, as a rinse. She claimed it would make her hair shine, though Mary suspected it was really to kill off any remaining lice. But whatever the reason, it had performed a miracle, and her hair had never felt so soft or looked so pretty.

It would have been good to have found her face prettier than she imagined, but sadly that wasn’t so. Her complexion was grey and coarse, there were lines around her eyes, and her cheeks were hollow. But Mrs Wilkes had made her swallow a huge spoonful of malt, and she insisted that with fresh air, good food and plenty of sleep, in a week or two Mary wouldn’t know herself.

Yet happiness was already bringing a little colour to her cheeks, she thought. She’d had to enlist Mrs Wilkes’s help not only to lace up the stays, but to take her advice in which order she had to put on all the undergarments. The dainty soft chemise which smelled of lavender and reached to her knees went on first, the low neckline drawn up over her breasts with a ribbon. Then came the petticoat trimmed with lace, and a skirt of blue cotton before the stays. Mrs Wilkes had to show her how the front pointed part of the stays went over the skirt, with small tabs fixed
inside the waist. Finally the blue and white dress which had panniers over her hips went on almost like a coat, leaving the stays, chemise and much of her small breasts on view.

‘That’s the fashion in London, my dear,’ Mrs Wilkes assured her when she saw Mary’s bewildered and anxious expression. ‘At least they’ve done away with those ridiculous hooped skirts I had to wear when I was your age. Now, let me help you with your hair, you can’t wear it all wild like a gypsy.’

Mary put her hand on the bedcover and smiled with delight. It was a simple woven material the colour of oatmeal, but to her it could have been silk. Would Mrs Wilkes realize that she hadn’t slept in a bed with sheets and real pillows since she left home for Plymouth eight years ago? Even there they’d been a rare luxury for ordinary people, and Uncle Peter had brought them home for her mother from one of his trips abroad. Would Mrs Wilkes understand, too, how strange it was for her to be in a room with furniture, when she had sat on either a dirt floor or a stone one covered in straw for so many years?

Mary didn’t think even Boswell would fully appreciate how miraculous, strange and even frightening everything would be to her for a while. How could he? She hadn’t even realized it herself until he brought her here.

‘Who is this gorgeous creature?’ Boswell joked when he arrived back to take her out for supper. ‘Surely there
is some mistake, madam? Your name cannot be Mary Broad!’

‘It is indeed, sir,’ Mary giggled. ‘London water, it seems, has magical powers.’

She knew her transformation wasn’t merely the result of a bath and new clothes but the spirit of freedom. She had stayed in the lodging-house all afternoon, but the thought that she could, if she wished, walk out of the front door and mingle with the crowds in the streets was like a tonic. To lie on the soft bed, knowing the airy, fresh-smelling room was just for her was so thrilling that she felt she could stay there forever and never be bored.

But Mrs Wilkes had fixed up her hair with some combs and a little lace cap, and she was wearing blue stockings and a pair of shoes with gilt buckles. Now she must go out and test her newfound freedom.

‘I don’t think I can do this,’ Mary said in panic as Boswell helped her down from the cab in a busy street full of shops.

‘You can’t eat supper?’ he exclaimed.

‘Not in there,’ she said, looking at the sparkling windows of the supper rooms he was intending to take her into. She could see a lady and gentleman sitting at a table by the window. The lady wore a pearl necklace and she was elegantly sipping wine from a glass. Mary thought that to go in there would be like bursting into Captain Phillip’s house uninvited when he had other officers for dinner.

‘Why on earth not?’ Boswell laughed.

‘It’s too grand,’ she blurted out. ‘I’ll make a fool of myself and embarrass you.’

‘No, you won’t,’ he insisted firmly, and tucking her hand through his arm he led her purposively towards the door. ‘All you have to do is smile, and copy what I do. I promise you there’s nothing to it.’

Boswell may have thought there was nothing to walking into a place like that, with every single face turning to look at you, but to Mary it was more terrifying than a storm at sea. She realized by the curious stares, the smiles and nods at Boswell and the buzz of muted conversation that they all knew who she was.

Mary felt herself growing hotter and hotter. Her face felt as if it was on fire, for even though the other people didn’t continue to stare at her once she was sitting down, she guessed they were watching her out of the corner of their eyes and talking about her.

Boswell was studying the bill of fare and commenting on various dishes he’d eaten here before. He didn’t seem to be aware how uncomfortable she felt. ‘What would you like to eat, my dear?’ he asked. ‘The beef pudding is very good here, but so is the rabbit and the duck.’

Mary had been ravenous before they left Mrs Wilkes’s house, but that had gone now and she felt sick instead. Her stays were digging into her and the new shoes were too tight. Yet after all the years of living with constant hunger she couldn’t possibly refuse a meal.

‘You choose for me,’ she whispered.

She tried to remind herself that she had been out to supper before, back in Plymouth with Thomas Coogan.
It hadn’t been such a smart place as this, there weren’t white tablecloths, but she hadn’t disgraced herself there, so she wouldn’t here. That was over nine years ago, though, and since then she’d become accustomed to gobbling down anything that came her way, whether it was ship’s rations slopped into a bowl, or whatever she’d managed to cook in one pot. Choice had never come into it.

The whole idea of sitting at a table to eat was alien to her now. When she looked at the silver cutlery she blanched because a spoon and a knife were all she was used to, and she’d often had to eat with her hands.

‘I expect everything feels a little strange to you,’ Boswell said solicitously as he filled her glass with wine, ‘but you’ll soon get used to it. Now, drink up and enjoy your first night of freedom.’

Mary couldn’t enjoy it, however. She was more on edge than she had been on her first night in the hospital in Batavia. There it was rats she was watching out for, now it was for people watching her.

The supper arrived, and it looked and smelled wonderful, but it seemed that every time she managed to get a mouthful of food on to her fork, the way Boswell ate, someone would come up to the table to slap him on the back and compliment him on his outstanding success in getting Mary pardoned.

They meant to be kind, their smiles were warm, and they wished her a long and happy life. But she was tongue-tied, and all she could do was force a smile and murmur her thanks.

‘You can’t blame them for wanting to meet “the girl from Botany Bay”,’ Boswell said, after it had happened several times. ‘Everyone in London is talking about you.’

Mary couldn’t bring herself to complain. She thought he had a right to take pride in what he’d achieved, and to bask in his friends’ admiration. So she pretended she was every bit as happy as he was, and kept it to herself that she wanted to go home.

When they finally left, Mary was a little unsteady on her feet. She had drunk far more than she’d eaten, but she felt she’d managed to get through the evening without letting Boswell down.

‘Goodnight, my dear,’ he said, as Mrs Wilkes opened the door to them. ‘Sleep well and savour your newfound freedom. I’ll call on you tomorrow.’

Mary could hardly wait for Mrs Wilkes to light her a candle to see her way up the stairs to her room. Yet as soon as she’d shut the door, she felt afraid. For nearly a year she’d shared a cell with four men, often cursing them for their snoring or coughing at night. But now this sweet-smelling room with the comfortable bed seemed so eerie by candlelight and too big for her to sleep in all alone.

‘Don’t be foolish,’ she told herself. ‘Surely you wouldn’t rather be back in Newgate than here?’

Chapter twenty-one

A month after Mary’s release from Newgate, she was strolling with Boswell one afternoon in the sunshine of St James’s Park.

Visiting London’s parks had become one of Mary’s greatest pleasures. It was so good to get away from the noise and dirt of the city’s streets and see grass, trees and flowers. Many had enclosures with deer in them and there were sheep and cows too. She found it amusing that the cows in St James’s were led back to Whitehall in the afternoons to be milked, and you could buy a glass of milk for a penny.

During the week the gentry used the parks to meet friends and be seen in their most fashionable clothes. They didn’t appear on Sundays, however, as that was the day the common people came in their hordes. Staymakers, milliners and shop girls had a chance to enjoy their day off and perhaps meet a handsome young clerk, or even a dashing soldier.

St James’s Park was Mary’s firm favourite, as the only riders or carriages allowed to use it were from the Royal Households. There were ducks, swans and geese on the lake and the flowerbeds were a riot of colour.

‘I think I should find some employment now,’ Mary said thoughtfully as she and Boswell stopped to watch some children feeding the ducks with stale bread. ‘That money won’t last forever.’

He patted her hand tucked into his arm. ‘No, it won’t, my dear, but it will last for a good bit longer yet, and you have to decide what you want to do, and where you want to go first.’

Mary was tempted to argue with Boswell, maybe even to tell him she wasn’t entirely happy about her increasing dependence on him. But in the light of everything he’d done for her, that seemed ungracious.

It seemed absurd to Mary now that she had been so afraid when she was first released. Now she woke up each morning and gave thanks to God for His mercy and for sending James Boswell to her. But for the first week there had been many times when she’d almost wished herself back in Newgate.

It was wonderful of course to feel clean, to be free, to have a comfortable bed and good food to eat. Yet freedom was terrifying too, especially when Boswell drove her headlong into it, as he had at that first supper, making no allowances for her lack of knowledge of the world he lived in.

Boswell’s friends were all gentry, and when he took her to visit some of them in their homes, she felt she would rather be left below stairs with their servants than be studied as if she were some curious specimen brought from overseas.