The Trespass (13 page)

The Married Englishwoman

Has no right

To own Money or Home or Property

She may not have custody of her children

Nor refuse any wish of her husband.

Mary persisted. ‘But then Mother’s money would at least come to you, as a dowry. It is a large sum.’

‘And it would go straight to my husband.’ Harriet gripped the foot hard in her hand without realising it.

‘Perhaps – perhaps you will meet a man who will allow you to keep part of your money…’

‘I do not want to get my freedom from Father by marrying another man! How would that be freedom?’ Her fingers pressed into the foot and Mary felt the tension in the fingers, felt them press the foot in the wrong way, hurting. ‘If only Father would let me go away for good and make something of myself, like Edward is doing. If only I was a man. If only I could be a governess to someone’s children. If only I could have just a little money of my own and
get away from my life.
’

‘Harriet my darling, leave my foot now. Let me brush your hair.’

‘As he got into the carriage—’ Harriet swallowed at air and her voice rose in hysteria,
‘he said he would be waiting for me!’

‘Let my foot go now, darling.’ Mary spoke deliberately slowly and calmly. ‘You are hurting me.’

Harriet suddenly looked down, saw her own nailmarks there, let the foot go at once. She stared at her sister, appalled.

‘I am so sorry, Mary.’

Mary smiled, moved her foot. ‘We are only tired,’ she said.

‘I am so sorry, Mary,’ repeated Harriet humbly. ‘And I am so very sorry about the Ladies’ College.’

Mary took her sister’s hand. She was silent for a long moment, and then she spoke. ‘If anything ever happens to me, Harriet, take all the jewellery and sell it. You will find it in the second drawer in my room. All Mother’s jewellery is there.’

‘Nothing is going to happen to you ever, Mary. Ever, ever, ever. If anything happens to you, I could not live. I would kill myself.’

‘Nothing is going to happen to me, my darling. Go to sleep now.’

*   *   *

Aunt Lucretia Cooper took to her bed the following day as soon as her sister and her nieces had departed for Nottingham. The depleted family stood on the steps to farewell Mary and Edward on their journey to London.

William Cooper and his younger son muttered together over last-minute arrangements while John stood rather superciliously by; Harriet held Mary tightly.

‘Take great care, Mary, wherever you go,’ whispered Harriet. ‘You know I cannot live without you.’

‘Come along now, come along,’ cried Uncle William at last.

Edward half-lifted Mary into the carriage and ran round to the other side. Mary leant out of the window and waved to her sister.

‘We shall be together again soon,’ said Mary. ‘Enjoy yourself, my darling.’ And the driver flicked the whip and the black horses trotted neatly down the overgrown drive with their heads held high and Cousin John felt glad that he would have his beautiful cousin to himself and Asobel took Harriet kindly by the hand, intending to, at last, show her how to catch butterflies.

SEVEN

Mary was aware, as she walked slowly over the broken stones (embarrassedly holding a handkerchief against the noxious stench of the alley, ashamed that she felt so hot and faint), that the little girl was following her. If Mary went into a house with her soap and her chloride of lime, the girl waited and then followed again, the eyes in the dirty face with its sores and running nose staring only at Mary in a fierce fascination.

Once Mary stopped and turned and smiled. ‘What is your name?’ she said to the girl. But the girl would not, or could not, answer; wiped dirt from her nose and continued to stare, unsmiling.

The man walking with Mary carried a bucket full of water, they knocked at another half-open door, entered the dark, fetid room.

The noise and the smell informed them of what was happening. In a dim corner a woman was vomiting over and over again and crying out in pain at the same time. Her family stood about her: fearful and knowing and incapable; they turned dull eyes to the visitors. The man with Mary was a doctor; quickly he went to the woman where she lay on some sacking, used the water he had to try and clean her, called for more.

Mary grabbed one of the young boys by the shoulder and picked up a bucket.

‘Quickly!’ she cried. The standpipe was not far, Mary limped hurriedly behind the boy with money to pay for the water; did not see now the little girl, still staring.

There was a queue for the water. In her panic Mary pushed the others away; they looked at her in open hostility as she tried to help the boy to pump the water out. She stared at the fresh water from the pump, then turned away, almost vomiting herself, to see brown particles swirling in it.

By the time they got back to the room the woman was unconscious, lying in her own vomit and excrement. The doctor held her pulse; Mary approached with some soap and a wet cloth, attempted to bathe the woman’s face, trying not to breath in the stench, felt the coldness of the skin, saw the faintness of the breathing and the way the face changed so that it seemed to have become suddenly old. Around her the family stood as if paralysed: Mary saw tears pouring down a young girl’s face as she stood there silently: futile, wretched and bereft. Frantically Mary tried to clean the woman but there were no towels, no cloths but the one she had brought, no blankets. And then she saw that the face had changed again, there was a blue tinge about the lips and the nose. She looked up at the doctor who shook his head. ‘The blue is the fatal sign,’ he said quietly. ‘It is the cholera.’

Within minutes the woman was dead, and the doctor stood. ‘There is nothing else we can do,’ he said to Mary. He turned to the family, who seemed so passive, unenergised, dull. ‘It is the cholera,’ he said. ‘I am so very sorry. We were too late. You must burn everything, and you must wash the room with the disinfectant we shall leave with you. The cart will come for the body.’ He gave one of the men some money.

The doctor led Mary outside, saw that she tried to take breaths of air but there was little air, in the alley. A kind of screaming came now from the room they had left, as if the family could only show grief when the intruders had gone. Mary looked back in horror.

‘Come now,’ the doctor said. ‘That is enough for today. We can do nothing else.’ He gave Mary his arm. As they walked, someone threw something from an upper window, wrapped in newspaper. It hit Mary’s arm, fell open just ahead of them. The newspaper was smeared with human excreta. Mary’s face turned bright red, the two stepped round the newspaper but said nothing. The same little girl followed them as they moved through the broken pavements and the crowds of people towards Tottenham Court Road, not speaking. Mary could hardly take in what she had known that afternoon.

Just as they came out to air and barrel organs and carriages and laughter Mary felt again the eyes of the little girl and she turned again and tried to smile.

‘What is it?’ she asked gently. And she felt in the pocket of her mantle and gave the girl a penny. The girl took the coin, but almost without interest, and then she spoke at last as the gentlefolk turned away, pointing at Mary’s foot.

‘Have you got the LEPORASEE?’ she called out.

As they came at last to Oxford Street and the doctor helped Mary into a hackney cab, advising her to wash carefully and rest, he remarked wryly, ‘It is beyond me to understand how a child like that could know the word
leprosy.
’

‘Ah,’ said Mary, smiling brightly, ‘I expect they have been visited by a missionary, who told them of the suffering of the children of Africa.’

She alighted from her cab at the corner of Bryanston Square, tried to calm herself as she walked, from all the things she had seen. The sound of a piano being played in one of the houses in the Square drifted downwards. Someone was playing, not very well, ‘Song without Words’, but the music caught at her heart as she walked towards her father’s house and tears came to her eyes as she saw that the leaves had fallen now, from the oak tree in the Square.

It was Edward, full of schemes and plans for emigrating, staying with his relations at the house in Bryanston Square, who saw Mary return, saw her pale face and her shaking hands.

‘What is the matter, Mary?’ he cried, deeply alarmed. ‘Are you ill?’

She shook her head. ‘No, I am not ill. But I have been with people who are ill and it is so – so – terrible.’ And she burst out in a kind of rage, ‘Eddie, why does nobody do anything about the cholera?’

Edward would have liked to suggest that there was no-one better to ask than her own father, who was responsible for much of the water in London. But he was a well-brought-up young man and suggested instead to Mary that she should take great care, for it was said that the cholera had not yet properly abated. And that when she was rested he would very much like a game of chess.

*   *   *

Harriet and Augusta took Asobel to see Edward’s little home-made house. They walked over the fields; the rays of sun beaming down through the heavy, wild clouds looked like a picture from The Child’s Illustrated Bible. Harriet thought a man with a long white beard should appear in the clouds immediately, and smile upon them. Edward’s house looked even more un-workmanlike in the daylight, the straw of the rather oddly shaped roof seemed as if it might fly off at any moment, but Asobel was enchanted. She wanted them to build a fire, she wanted to sleep on the wooden bed, she wanted Harriet to continue her lessons here now that the summerhouse was too cold. While she ran about exclaiming, Augusta and Harriet sat once more on the uncomfortable bed.

Augusta stared discontentedly around the shack. ‘He is ridiculous building this – this
thing,
I don’t know what he imagines. Surely there will be towns in Canada, and proper houses. Mamma will not hear of me going of course, nor Papa either. They say he must make his fortune first. But that could take years and years.’

‘Do you want to go?’

‘I do not know. It depends on what is there, I mean whether there would be suitable society for Edward and me to feel at home.’

‘Do you mean like in England?’ asked Harriet. ‘I should not think it would be like England.’

‘Mamma and I have begun calling again,’ said Augusta, ‘and of course we wonder if such customs will be properly established in Canada. She is to ask you to come with us, by the way, Harriet. I heard Papa say that your father was not happy about you giving lessons to Asobel, and that they were to cease.’ If she noticed that Harriet had paled she did not mention it.

Asobel charged in. ‘It is raining,’ she cried gleefully. ‘We will have to stay,’ and indeed the rain followed her in through the doorway.

‘We must go back,’ said Augusta.

‘No, I want to stay here and have an adventure like Robinson Crusoe,’ said Asobel excitedly, and she pushed and pulled at the door to try to close it. ‘Now we shall all sit here and tell stories and I will be first, now,
once upon a time …
’ and she launched into a fantastical tale about witches and weddings and castaways and footprints in the sand and journeys across the sea and shipwrecks and rafts. Augusta stared dejectedly at the rain and Harriet, blank-faced, stared at the rain also; saw how things would be now because her father decreed it: making calls and talking of nothing. The rain came in under Edward’s door and started snaking along towards them, turning the floor of the little house to mud.

‘If Canada is to be like this,’ said Augusta, ‘I will certainly stay at home,’ and she firmly brought Asobel’s story to a swift conclusion and shepherded everyone back to civilisation, over the stile and through the fields, as the rain continued to fall.

Three very bedraggled young ladies ran up the stony drive and into the hall where Aunt Lucretia hardly scolded, so delighted was she with the message she held in her hand that said Edward was close behind it. And immediately there was a great rush of hot water for tin baths and hair-drying and dressing so that by the time the carriage actually arrived everybody was already waiting by the door and peering into the rain.

Edward catapulted out of the carriage like a man possessed, unwilling to wait for one of the servants to bring an umbrella, carrying an armful of papers and a round parcel and calling for Donald to bring in a pile of books. Dripping rain, Edward kissed his mother, shook hands with his father, extricated himself from Asobel and said, ‘I have so much to tell you all.’ And then he handed the round parcel to his youngest sister. Inside the wrapping, astonishing and delighting Asobel so much that she was reduced to awed silence, was an exquisite, beautifully painted china globe of the world.

At the dinner table, after a long grace in which William, thanking God for the food, managed also to thank Him for the safe arrival of his younger son from London; after Lucretia had asked for news of London society; after Cousin John had launched into a long discussion about some cows with his father; then at last Edward was allowed to speak. He was so excited he kept swallowing air, choking on his ale, and his neck and his face got redder and redder. None of them had ever seen him in such a state.

‘I have bought some land,’ he announced.

‘You have
already
bought it, was that wise?’ his father queried, shocked. ‘You are not in Canada yet.’

‘I am not going to Canada. I have decided to go to New Zealand. I have bought some land – not bought it exactly but I have purchased a Land Order entitling me to select from land already purchased from the natives by the New Zealand Company. Only a hundred acres to farm to begin with,’ he added quickly, seeing the looks of consternation on the faces around him, ‘and a small town section as well. In a place with a name to please you,’ he said to his mother. ‘It is called Wellington, after the Duke.’

‘But – but you were set on Canada. Where is New Zealand? It has savage natives, I have read of them, and fearful earthquakes.’

‘The earthquakes are seldom severe, Mamma, and the fighting with the natives is over now. Everyone gets along splendidly. There are many missionaries there, I have heard, who have had a softening effect on primitive hearts. And I have it on good authority that a painting of Queen Victoria was earlier this year presented to a group of native chiefs in Wellington by the good offices of Earl Grey himself, among great celebration and feasting. This does not sound like savage natives, Mamma, you must surely agree.’