Turning the Stones (26 page)

Eliza declared in a faintly defiant tone that she would take the sleeves and pay with a promissory note. She drew from her pocketbook the note Johnny had given her. It was limp
with overhandling, reduced almost to the consistency of tissue.

The mantua-maker examined the note carefully. She directed a thoughtful gaze at the floor and Eliza shifted her feet. Then the woman said, ‘I am afraid we are not able to encash this, madam.’

‘Is there a disorder?’

A hesitation. ‘Only it is in rather poor condition.’

‘I cannot agree with you,’ Eliza said in a huff. But she picked up the note and tucked it into the pocket of her coat. All at once I saw in my mind’s eye that letter from Hill & Vezey that had lain hidden under the catalogue on Mrs Waterland’s desk. Was it a routine communication or something more ominous in nature?

Once Eliza and I were in the street again, I whispered to her, ‘Do you think we ought to be concerned about the condition of Johnny’s bank?’

Eliza tossed her head. ‘Why don’t you ask him yourself? He is coming for tea this afternoon.’

*

You can imagine the bellow of delight from Eliza as Samuels leaned creakily around the door of Mr Paine’s parlour and announced the arrival of Mr Waterland. Johnny sauntered in on the end of a silver-topped walking stick as long as a barge pole. To my monumental surprise, Eliza’s enthusiasm was matched by a similar show from Johnny, who slapped his thigh with his glove and exclaimed, ‘By Jove, never was a brother so well pleased to see his sister. Welcome to London, my dear.’

I could see that Johnny was altered. His bonhomie could not hide the fact that he did not look well. His skin was as pale as wax and his eyes were hollow.

Eliza flushed to a shade of cerise that matched the extreme suit Johnny was wearing. I had never known him to make a folly of his costume, but his appearance was in general much intensified with a toupee brushed up and raised on pads so that it resembled a loaf upon his head. It made me think that his judgement was wanting.

Mr Paine entered then with an expression of welcome nearly as enraptured as Eliza’s. He beamed and patted at his own new wig as though it deserved its share of praise. The foretop and the sides were smooth and plain, with one horizontal roll of curls projecting above the ears. It was a style favoured by naval men and explorers, he reported. Johnny thumped the tuffet at his feet by way of inviting Eliza to sit and she sank on to it and gazed at him shining-eyed. In spite of my reservations about her brother, one was glad to see her so happy. Tea arrived, and gin for Johnny. I busied myself with the service, while a rackety exchange went on between brother and sister about how thrilling it was to be in London.

Mr Paine went away and returned again with an electrometer – I surmised so from the shape of the case. He sat down and leaned towards Johnny with a look, it hit me, of Dasher in relation to Abby. Good heavens, I exclaimed inwardly. Given that moist gaze, anyone would think that Mr Paine was in love with Johnny. I began to turn that thought over in my mind.

‘Will you remark this, sir,’ he said eagerly, proffering the mahogany case. More elaborate than the one he had shown us at Sedge Court, it was decorated with gleaming brass cartouches. ‘I’ve just had it made by my apothecary.’

A spark of irritation crossed Johnny’s face. ‘Oh, the marvellous electrometer,’ he said. ‘The key to all our fortunes, I am sure.’

‘How so?’ Eliza asked.

Mr Paine said, ‘As all the world knows, Eliza, I am an improver. It has ever been my intent to reverse processes of decline. With this useful instrument, I shall undertake a course of experiments that will ultimately bring about a boost to the value of your brother’s properties in Ireland.’

I looked up at that. What had happened to Mr Paine’s lifting of the famines? How corrupting was Johnny’s influence, I thought then. I could not imagine who else could have persuaded Mr Paine to cheapen his ambition until its only concern was the enlarging of an investment. If Mr Paine noticed my surprise he gave no sign of it.

Johnny said, ‘You would be mad, Arthur, to go to Ireland these days. Haven’t you heard that all manner of terrorists are ravaging the countryside there? They will stab an Englishman as quick as look at him.’

Mr Paine blinked. ‘Terrorists?’ he said.

‘I am only thinking of you,’ Johnny said with a grin. ‘I should be rather amused to encounter one of those wild fellows. But given the political situation it is hardly the ideal time to go jaunting in the bogs with your instruments, is it?’

‘I should think it might still be possible if you were with me, to keep a lookout, as it were.’

Johnny slugged his drink, slapped the arm of his chair and changed the subject. ‘Now then, Arthur, have you sent your man over to Soho Square with the paraphernalia? You must have your electricals set up tomorrow and assure our hostess that the mechanics are sound. Don’t disappoint her or she will try to wriggle out of paying us our full amount.’

Mr Paine was crestfallen. ‘I wish you could give me a firm
answer about Ireland,’ he said. ‘I have already planned much of our trip there.’

Johnny said, ‘Ireland is not the sort of place that offers a firm answer, Arthur. Why must you be such a miser, I do not know. You could easily lend me a little to give me a respite from worrying about those mortgages without my having to go in person to inspect the properties.’

Mr Paine looked away. But it was easy to read his thoughts. His money was the only ace he held. Once he gave it up to Johnny, he was out of the game and it was likely he should not see Johnny for dust.

Johnny stood up and adjusted his toupee. ‘Em,’ he said, ‘we shall include you in our party at Soho Square on Friday. You know that my dear sister cannot manage without you. Please do your best to rig her out in a blazing style.’ He winked at me.

I said, ‘Do you know, she tried to buy sleeves today with your bill, but the shopkeeper would not take it.’

‘Em!’ Eliza was aghast. ‘How dare you!’

Johnny laughed easily. ‘Did you really try to use that note after all this time?’ He shook his head as though transcendentally unperturbed by the promissory’s rejection. ‘No matter. I shall buy Eliza a pair of sleeves myself, the more splendid the better. What do you think of that?’

Eliza gave a squeal like a combusting kettle.

*

To my astonishment, Johnny was as good as his word. The next morning he sent a chair for Eliza. We came down to find it standing in the hall like a portable sepulchre with two brawny porters stationed at either end. I tied Eliza’s mantle,
straightened her hat, she stepped into the chair and was borne away. She was still annoyed with me for embarrassing her brother, as she saw it, with that remark about the promissory note. Her irritation would turn to anger if she saw that I was wearing her coat, which I had run upstairs to put on, along with one of her hats, as soon as her chair was out of sight. I hoped that I would manage to return to Mr Paine’s house before she did and she would be none the wiser. It was a risk I was willing to take in order to appear at the foundling hospital looking as though I had risen in the world and had a right to information.

My plan of London showed that Lamb’s Conduit Fields, the location of the hospital, was not a great distance from Poland Street. I walked up to the Oxford Road and then east to a junction. The cross street was not named. I asked a woman in a fur hat for directions to the Fields. She pointed tersely north and said I might take a lane on the right off Tottenham Court Road and then ask someone else with more time on his hands. I pressed on in a state of nervousness, consulting alternately the plan and passers-by.

It struck me as I walked that there must be a great call for fancy needlework in London, judging by the purse-proud turn-outs on the streets, for even on a brief acquaintance, I could say that the people of that town are in love with their attire. Even the muck-shufflers sported a nosegay in a tattered coat or some rag about the neck that tried to make a distinction of itself.

Eventually I sighted in the distance treeless, open fields surrounding a dun-coloured building. My footsteps slowed and I came to a halt. I looked at the plan. I was in the right
place. A tremor passed through me and my hands shook in anticipation of what I might find out. I folded the plan and put it away in the pocket of my – actually, Eliza’s – coat. As I did so, my fingers brushed something that felt dry and flimsy. I drew out the object and found that it was the faithless promissory note. I thrust it back into the pocket and strode towards the clearing in front of the hospital. The architecture of the forecourt’s entrance is severe and I saw that watchmen patrolled back and forth, perhaps to prevent desperate women from leaving their infants. I applied to the gatekeeper to pass through. He asked me my business and I found myself saying quite fluently that I was desirous of having a girl out of the hospital to be in service to me. He allowed me admission.

A long, windswept driveway led to a deep portico at the front of the hospital, where I hovered while I marshalled my thoughts. I was not sure how to go about my mission, but I was at least determined. I wanted to know more of the life I might have lived had fate not intervened. I knew that my material circumstances would have been dreadful had I stayed with you, my mother, but the possibility of belonging to a person or a place by right – that had a powerful appeal for me. I realised that the odds of finding out who you were, and who I was, were doubtless stacked against me. But I had to try.

Three or four ladies of quality were also waiting in the portico. They were grandly cloaked and wore lavish hats. When a manservant came to conduct them inside, I attached myself to the tail of the group and followed the ladies into a hall without attracting notice. They were met by a short woman in black taffeta, with frizzy grey hair and a sheepish
expression, whom they greeted by name as Mrs Collingwood. She conducted them to another room, leaving me alone in the hall with its muddy shadows and walls lined with portraits of worthies.

The halo-haired Mrs Collingwood reappeared in the hall. I approached her and launched my petition straight away.

‘My name is Mary Smith,’ I said, ’and I am in search of my mother. I was taken as a foster child from this hospital by a family called the Waterlands, who live in Cheshire. They brought me up in comfortable circumstances and I hold them in great affection. Since I have had advantages, it occurs to me that perhaps I might be of assistance to my mother, but I do not know how to find her.’

Mrs Collingwood said briskly, ‘I am afraid your curiosity cannot be satisfied at this time, madam, but you are at leave to fill in a form petitioning to know the details of your admission. The committee of governors meets each Saturday morning to deliberate on requests received.’

‘I see. Where shall I find the form?’

‘You will need to see the registrar.’

‘I suppose there is no doubt that you would have a record of my admission?’

‘No doubt at all. Our records are meticulous. When an infant is admitted, he is numbered, baptised and sent to a nurse in the country. He generally stays with the foster family for several years before being returned to us. Each of these steps is recorded in our billet books in the event that a parent later makes enquiries about a particular child. You fill in your admission number on the form and if the governors agree to release the information, the registrar will consult the billet
book for the year of your birth. You will find the registrar down there.’ She pointed at a door on the left-hand side of the hallway.

‘Unfortunately I do not have my admission number. I am not even sure of the year of my birth.’

Mrs Collingwood said, ‘Well, your birth certificate will be able to tell you that.’

‘My foster family never had one for me.’

‘Of course you have a birth certificate. We do not take foundlings without one. We must ascertain that they are not more than twelve months old on admission.’

I felt a rush of optimism. ‘Perhaps the certificate is held in your records.’

‘I could not say. You must make an appointment with the registrar.’ She excused herself and bustled away.

I knocked at the registrar’s office and a clerk in a coat that was too big for him came to the door and told me that the registrar was indisposed and probably would not return until the next day. I asked him if I could make an appointment, but he said that must be done with the registrar directly. Oh, the frustration of it! I breathed in a huge sigh. Now that I was there, I could not stand to walk away, not knowing whether I’d even be able to come back another day.

‘Excuse me,’ I said, and stepped uninvited into the office. It contained a large table covered in papers, a couple of chairs and a tall glass-fronted cabinet tight with folios. A sickly odour of sealing wax hung in the air.

‘Madam? Are you in order?’

The clerk was a dumpy man in middle age. Encouraged by the mild expression on his face, I asked him if I might sit
down. His hand dangled in the direction of a chair and I sank on to it, my gaze downcast.

He cleared his throat and said, ‘Beg pardon, madam, but I am not in charge here. The registrar …’ The sentence trailed away. His voice was soft and disheartened.

‘I am only trying to find my mother,’ I burst out. ‘But I don’t have an admission number and I am not even sure when I was born. I was fostered to Mr and Mrs Waterland of Cheshire in 1749, I think it was, from this hospital. I believe I was about four years old.’

Almost before I knew what I was doing I had risen to my feet and was leaning towards the clerk in the manner of a supplicant. My heart was beating hard. He blinked rapidly. His face had turned pink.

He must have recognised that I was an unstoppable force, because he suddenly said, ‘If you were fostered in 1749, there will be a record of that in the general register along with your admission number. Your foster parents would have been given a receipt as proof of the transaction. The hospital is always careful about that.’

‘Thank you,’ I said.

He pulled at his plump lower lip and then offered me a sorrowful expression. ‘But it does not seem to me that we would release a child to permanent fosterage unless there was proof that the child’s parents were dead.’