The Trespass (30 page)

‘Thank you, Walter. I think – I think I will be much better after today.’

‘Oh well. That’s good.’

‘And I shall begin my Journal again, as you suggested. In your notebook.’

His face lit up in genuine pleasure. ‘Oh that’s good, Harry.’

‘Yes.’ And the brother and sister clasped hands rather self-consciously for a moment and then Walter was gone.

Not once had anyone mentioned Mary.

Harriet at once went to her room, looked carefully around, asked for the carriage to be brought round immediately, to take her to St Paul’s Church in Covent Garden.

‘Is it not too early, madam?’

‘No. The Vicar is always there early.’

Her veil was already down over her face when Lucy came to tell her that the carriage was ready; she had put an extra petticoat under her gown, two extra shawls under her mantle. She gave Lucy the letter for Asobel. The bag, she told Lucy, had a few more of Mary’s things, something she had been embroidering, to give to the poor. She would leave it at the church.

She did not look back as she left her room: she knew she could not risk calling Quintus, to say goodbye. Quintus would know.

The footmen climbed up; Lucy assisted Harriet, picked up all the skirts, noting the extra petticoat, before she clambered in beside her mistress. Harriet did not look back as the horses trotted off down the side of Bryanston Square.

Pale yellow light tried to shine from the east and light the grey, cold fog of the city. As they trotted up towards Covent Garden they overtook costermongers and carts. Somehow a herd of sheep had come the wrong way, they skittered in front of the vehicles, slipping on the ordure and the mud, their eyes looking sideways in terror, their bleats mixing with the shouts of drivers and boys with carts.

‘It’s too early to be out, miss, said Lucy dolefully, ‘ladies and gentlemen come later,’ but Harriet’s face was hidden by her veil and she did not reply.

When the carriage stopped at the front of the church, Harriet said to Lucy: ‘I would like to speak to the Vicar alone. He is a busy man, and I may be some time,’ and she alighted quickly from the carriage: despite her extra clothing a thin veiled figure in black. She took a few steps and then whirled back, reached inside for the embroidery bag. ‘The Vicar will advise me as to where to send these things,’ she said to Lucy, and one of the horses jangled at his bridle and its feet moved sharply on the cobblestones as a cabbage rolled under the wheels through the excrement of the sheep. Outside the church a man in a cassock kept the wrong sort of people out; he bowed low to Harriet’s veiled figure and she disappeared inside.

She walked quickly down the long, dark aisle, past the pews and the flowers and two gossiping, yawning clerics and the women cleaning. Already she heard the shouts of the sellers, calling their wares. Just before the altar she paused, knelt. She could not think of anything except the Lord’s Prayer, began quickly
Our Father who art in heaven hallowed be thy name
as the market men shouted and bargained just outside. Then she slipped out of one of the side doors opposite the altar and into the wild, crowded, jostling, shouting, hectic madness that was Covent Garden. The smell hit her as she came out into the piazza.

Somehow the noise and the energy and the vitality around her gave her energy, and a kind of desperate euphoria spurred her on. This was her only chance to be free and she could not let herself think of what would happen if she failed now. She held her precious bag very tightly, both her gloved hands around the handle, knowing that this, more than anywhere, was where she could lose it; pushed through the noise and the people swirling about her: out of place, observed.

‘ORANGES!’ called the voices. ‘SWEET ORANGES!’ ‘CARROTS!’ ‘POTATERS!’ ‘VIOLETS!’ ‘CABBAGES!’ ‘LILIES!’ ‘PUMPKINS!’ and people pushed past her, other people’s servants and cooks, dog sellers, farmers’ lads, pickpockets, fools. Open drains swirled their contents nearby, horses stood ankle-deep in dung. In her blind haste Harriet tripped over, but did not even see, a young girl clutching a baby and some dead bunches of flowers, who sat in the mud weeping. Her face under its grime was as pale as Harriet’s, looking up with her hopeless bunches; seeing Harriet’s panicky haste, she did not even bother to call out. Harriet saw nothing but the end of the market. She pushed on, not knowing or caring that mud and other filth smeared her skirts, that rotten vegetables stuck to her boots, that watching eyes continually swept over her as her incongruous figure hurried past, a black veiled figure out of place in the wild chaotic world of the market. At last she came to the south side. A hansom cab appeared, she called urgently to the driver to take her to Blackfriars Bridge. Once inside, hidden from view, she thought her heart might burst, so breathless and heated and frantic was she; the market and the extra clothing and the fear of someone calling her name. She took up her veil, tried to breathe calmly, felt trickles of perspiration running down her body under her corset. She knew very well she might faint again but she could not faint now, not now, and even as her head spun she spoke aloud to herself in the cab,
only a little longer, only a little longer.
She passed great edifices she might never see again: the palaces and churches and spires and bridges of her city; she gave no sign. From building hoardings advertisements shouted to her: GUINNESS DUBLIN STOUT, CHARRINGTON’S ALE, but Harriet did not see or hear. The Blackfriars Bridge was the only thing she was interested in; at last it came into view. She lowered her veil as she descended from the cab, handed the driver some coins from under her glove.

At the jetty she understood the crowds and the weeping families; quickly she made her way through the people to one of the small steamboats that was going to Gravesend. A man thrust a paper into her hand, she did not see what it was. She knew she must go inside the cabin where the women and children gathered; she could not sit in the air however desperate she was, it would make her too conspicuous, she was conspicuous enough, travelling alone. Her lowered veil gave her a kind of protection; she sat alone quietly. In her hand she saw to her horror she was holding a leaflet offering CURES FOR VENEREAL DISEASE, quickly she crumpled it and thrust it behind her seat. At long last a bell rang, the small gangway was removed and in an important and noisy manner the steamboat turned, steaming past St Paul’s Cathedral and towards the mouth of the river, pushing its way past the sailboats and the lighters and the barges, belching smoke into the smoky sky. On deck people waved and called, in the cabin they wept and laughed and pushed against the windows; everywhere there was calling and loading and passing and colliding: it all drifted past Harriet as if in a dream; she sat very still, clutching her embroidery bag. Just once she looked back: London was wreathed in fog and smoke and soot, and disappeared.

As the boat steamed past, all the great docks and warehouses bustled about their business: Harriet did not see. All she heard, suddenly, were the screaming gulls, proclaiming that the sea was near. Her eyes hidden under her veil, she willed the boat quickly onwards, she prayed that Cecil had carried out her instructions: yet if he had not she would sleep on the bare boards of her cabin; nothing mattered now but that the
Amaryllis
set sail and was gone.
Lord, help thy servant in this, her affliction, give me strength for just a few more hours so that I may be saved in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ.
Children nudged each other at the lady praying.

Greenwich came into view, the domes of the naval college. Her brother Walter had wanted to join the navy: their father had insisted to Walter that the world of business was the only one to enter; to which he, Sir Charles Cooper, held the key.

The domes were gone. Walter was gone.

The steamboat ploughed on and on through the grey morning, hour after hour, its own black smoke mixing with all the other smoke and fog and grime that rose from the docks and the factories all along the Thames. When at last they arrived at Gravesend, they saw at once that all the boarding and loading of the
Amaryllis
was in full swing. Harriet was helped on to the dock; she quickly raised her veil, stared at the ship that was to save her. She saw at once that it was smaller than the
Miranda
and just for a moment her heart gave a great leap at the thought that this small vessel was to take her across oceans; in this she would traverse the world. Then she saw, at the prow, another figure, a kind of mermaid, hair streaming (red hair, her hair had been painted red and her fins were blue), straining to lead the
Amaryllis
onwards and Harriet Cooper, standing alone on the Gravesend dock, smiled. Then, collecting herself anxiously, clutching her embroidery bag to her, she looked about for Cecil. Huge boxes stood everywhere, beds and bundles, traders were selling their wares, knots of steerage passengers stood anxiously on the deck and on the dock with their small possessions, sailors were hauling ropes and boxes, women were being winched aboard, swinging wildly in their copious skirts.

She saw him. He had seen her already, stood beside his cart with his arm raised. She saw with alarm that his cart was empty, hurried towards him. He grinned. He was wearing the same slightly squashed top hat.

‘It’s all aboard, miss, I had to leave it at Deptford but I watched it like a hawk, it come aboard about an hour ago from one of the lighters. You must go aboard at once and point it out and sailors will take it to your cabin.’

She and her possessions and the
Amaryllis
were here at Gravesend: Harriet was so relieved that her legs seemed to buckle under her. She put out her hand to steady herself. Cecil understood, gave his arm for a split second. She said, almost weeping with relief, ‘I am so pleased to find you,’ as if he was a long-lost relation. Then she pulled herself together. ‘Cecil.’ She swallowed. ‘Could I ask you to come aboard with me, to assist me with my belongings. I will pay you, of course.’

‘Be glad to, Miss Harriet.’ If Cecil thought it was unheard of for a single woman to be trying alone to board herself and some furniture on a ship bound for the other side of the world without a single family member to say goodbye, he gave no sign; the odd couple walked the shaky gangplank to the ship, Cecil whistling some tuneless song of his own, Harriet assuring an official that she had no need of winching.

As soon as they had boarded, Cecil and a sailor almost immediately began – like a lot of other people around them trying to clamber past with boxes and wardrobes – arguing. The voices got louder and louder and the language was words Harriet had never heard before; then just as quickly the two found they knew someone in common, shook hands, enlisted the help of some carpenters, carried – banging and bumping and swearing, kicking at some squawking chickens in a small cage, lunging at dirty excited children who should have been down below in steerage – Harriet’s belongings to her cabin. It was so small she could not believe they would get the bed in the door but they laughed, said it was easy when you were used to it, unfitted the legs, pushed and shoved: the small bed, the chest of drawers, the small table, the locked boxes, all piled on top of one another. They quickly put the bed together again, the carpenters then proceeded to nail the furniture to the floor, as they had done in Edward’s cabin; all the while joking and laughing with Cecil who seemed to know them all; he persuaded them to nail some hooks into the bulwarks on which Harriet could hang things; Harriet paid them, they departed, shaking hands all round. From above them, on the poop deck, came the sound of people walking and running, outside the cabin people passed to go on deck; she glimpsed an arm, a hat, a waist through the half-open door. Through the small round cabin window she saw the legs of people passing.

‘What you got in them boxes?’ enquired Cecil politely.

She thought. ‘Clothes. Books. Candles, I think. Oh, yes, and a lamp.’

Cecil looked slightly embarrassed. ‘I been looking at your belongings,’ he said. ‘You got no wash things?’

‘I—’ She blushed brightly, looked around the tiny, now chaotic cabin. She hadn’t somehow thought of these essentials. In Mary’s empty room, the washstand stood alone by the window. Realising the enormity of her omission she put her hands to her face in mortification.

‘Well, they got a water closet on this boat. Nevertheless, for nights and storms and that, when you can’t get about.’ Her heart suddenly jumped at the idea of the danger. ‘You seen them traders,’ Cecil went on, ‘in the small boats hanging around, and on the dock?’

‘Yes.’

‘They sell everything. You won’t be the first person to come without.’

‘I—’ She paused, blushed again, quickly got some of her money from her embroidery bag. ‘Could you?’ She looked at him with such excruciating embarrassment that he laughed as he took the money, although kindly.

‘Excuse me, Miss Harriet, but I think you’ve got a few shocks coming crossing the world, if you don’t mind me saying so.’

While he was gone she took off her mantle and her extra petticoats and all but one of the shawls, unpinned her hat, sat for a moment on a small clear space on Mary’s bed, which looked so strange and different in its new home. The mattress was wet. All the time a feeling of fear gripped her, that something could yet go wrong. She got up and looked around her tiny, crowded cabin and out of the small window which let in the light and where people’s legs passed. She did not know what time it was, but it must be late afternoon and soon, surely, the ship must leave. Before dusk, they had told her. The servants would long ago have come into the church to look for her. What would they do? What would they think? Had they already sent word to her father? She knew she would not feel safe until the shores of England were no longer in view. She had that same feeling, of seeing herself. She was standing in a small box with a small, round window,
I am Harriet Cooper,
she whispered fiercely to herself.
I am Harriet Cooper and I am going to New Zealand where I will find my cousin Edward.
She found two small keys at the bottom of her embroidery bag. She stared at them for a moment: at last she unlocked the box-chests, opened the lids. She thought she saw some insects running away in a corner of the cabin, perhaps she imagined it. There was a knock at her door, she thought it was Cecil returning but a uniformed official stood in the doorway with some papers. ‘Miss Cooper?’