After Such Kindness (21 page)

‘You can’t, always.’

‘Papa says you can.’

‘Then he is a most superior human being,’ I said, adding quickly, ‘which, of course, he is. That is generally acknowledged by town and gown alike. I hope you are making good use of his superior knowledge in your preparation lessons. We want you to astonish Bishop Wilberforce with your learning.’

‘I am doing my best,’ she said. ‘Although I don’t always understand why things have to be the way they are.’

I thought she was still fretting for her old nursemaid and the unfair ways of the world, and I was attempting to furnish an appropriate reply, but before I could do so, she surprised me by asking, ‘What is Heaven like, do you think?’

It is a weakness of mine that I have always found the idea of Heaven difficult to imagine. I know
how
I should imagine it, of course: cherubim and seraphim bowing down; endless songs of praise; the community of saints; worship and glory illimitable:
Holy, holy, holy, merciful and mighty
. I say the phrases aloud every day of my life as I announce my credo in chapel and in my private prayers. But all the same, Heaven remains oddly unreal, and I have always felt the need to suppress a certain distaste at the monotony of it all. But seeing Daisy with her sweet little form standing in front of me, her clear eyes so trusting, her innocent soul so enticing, I found myself experiencing an epiphany. ‘Heaven is when you are united with those you love,’ I ventured. ‘When you are intertwined with them, almost as if you and they are one. As if nothing else matters.’

‘What about God and Jesus?’ she asked. ‘Isn’t that the main thing?’

‘Of course,’ I said hastily. ‘In Heaven, you will be in God’s arms. We all will. And before you ask if there is room for everyone, I will remind you, as the earnest Confirmation candidate that you are, that God’s arms are infinite. He is not confined to time or space. He is all around, past and present and future. He is here now. I can feel His Presence at this moment.’ I smiled at her. ‘Especially at this moment.’

She glanced around surreptitiously as if the Deity might be hovering near the tea table, but it was only Benson setting out the bread-and-butter, so she looked at me again, frowning. ‘But if God is all around us, and Heaven is everywhere that God is, that makes Heaven and earth exactly the same.’

‘Well,’ I said, choosing my words as carefully as I could. ‘Heaven
can
be with us on earth if we try very hard. We can have little glimpses of it, as if we are looking at a beautiful garden through a knot-hole in the fence. We can’t get into the garden, but we can see that it’s lovely, and we can enjoy its loveliness even though we are still on the outside.’

‘Yes, I see.’

‘And it’s much easier for children to see into that garden,’ I said. ‘Because they notice things like knot-holes and don’t mind getting down on their knees to look. I expect you’ve done that, haven’t you?’

She nodded, slowly. ‘So, Heaven is simply happiness – and beauty?’

‘A special kind of happiness and beauty.’

‘It sounds nice and simple the way you say it. When I’m with Papa everything seems very complicated. He says God is Immanent and also Transcendent, but I didn’t know exactly how that could be until now.’

‘Well, you will impress your papa with your new-found understanding. And you can tell him that it was Mr Jameson who helped you to it.’

She smiled. ‘I will.’

That smile gave me courage to do what I have wanted to do for weeks. Daisy and I have continued our photography work on most of the days when we have taken our walks and I have been delighted at the results as they come into being in the developing tray. Daisy is an apt pupil and doesn’t need telling more than once how to hold a pose. I have explained how important it is that she remains still while the image is impressed upon the plate, or else it will become blurred and of no use, and she understands perfectly. I always lay out in my bedroom the clothes she will wear, and she dresses herself in them very prettily, only asking for my assistance in pinning a flower to her hair, or tying a sash. I love her best when she is dressed at her most artless, in the simple shift of a woodland nymph or the rags of a beggar-maid. Her shape shows through in such a tantalizing way that I have long wanted to rid her of the artificial covering and reveal it to the world in all its natural glory. So now I decided I would broach the subject, at the risk of rejection or, worse, that my request would get to the ears of Mrs Baxter.

‘Do you recall the story of Adam and Eve?’ I asked, as I set up the tripod with Daisy standing obediently in front of me.

‘Yes, of course. The Garden of Eden and the Serpent.’

‘
Of Man’s first disobedience, and the fruit of that Forbidden Tree
,’ I murmured.

‘That’s not the Bible, is it?’ she said.

‘No, it’s Milton,’ I replied. ‘
Paradise Lost.
’

‘Papa likes Milton.
They also serve who only stand and wait.
That’s his favourite.’

I thought this preference strange. Baxter is – or was until recently – such an active man. But I had no time or inclination to ponder the matter. If I were to persuade Daisy to model for me without the encumbrance of dress, I would have to do it now, or I might never have another opportunity. ‘Well, you see, Daisy, in
Paradise Lost
we are shown how happy Adam and Eve were as they wandered in the Garden of Eden like innocent children, naked, and without sin.’ I could not look at her. I took out a new photographic plate and felt my hands trembling as I placed it in position.

‘But that was before the Serpent came along and persuaded Eve to eat the apple,’ said Daisy.

‘The Bible just says “fruit”. The Serpent brought the knowledge of nakedness to Adam and Eve through the fruit of the forbidden tree. As a result, Mankind is cursed with shame and we’ve made ourselves hideous with heavy and unbecoming clothes ever since. Think how free you feel now that your hair is shorter. Imagine how much freer you would feel without any c-clothes at all.’

I almost held my breath while Daisy considered this. ‘I’m sure it would be very nice,’ she said. ‘But I’m not allowed to take my clothes off even when we are at the seaside – even when it’s hot. I have to wear a horrid bathing dress and it gets very heavy when it’s wet, and is not a bit comfortable. Some of the fishing-boys just wear their drawers, which I think looks very comfortable, but Mama and Papa say young ladies need to be modest at all times.’

‘Oh, Daisy, don’t misunderstand me,’ I added quickly. ‘I hardly meant that you should walk n-naked through the streets of Oxford. Mrs Grundy, I fear, would have something to say about that – and we would both be in trouble. No, I mean I would like to take your photograph in what is called a “nude study”. There are many pictures done in this manner by many fine artists. I’d like to p-present you as a sea nymph, perhaps, lying on the ground as if it were the sea shore and you had just been washed up by the waves. I would maybe colour it too, to complete the effect.’

‘I’m not sure. Mama and Papa might be cross.’

‘That is why it is so essential to be secret – if you would do it, I mean.’ My heart was pounding. ‘There are so many people who cannot understand unconventional behaviour, even when it is perfectly innocent and proper.’

‘Are you sure it is proper?’ she said. ‘Hannah said –’

‘Hannah?’ I was brought up unexpectedly at the thought that Daisy had inadvertently shared with the servant anything about our sessions together. Hannah is, I suspect, a flighty girl whose own coarse mind might have led her to coarse conclusions. I recall that she always seemed rather uneasy when she chaperoned the children in my presence, managing to be both smirking and sharp. ‘What does Hannah know about it?’

‘Well, she asked me if I undressed myself when I wore the fancy clothes for you. And she said it in a funny sort of way.’

‘And what did you say in reply?’

‘I said that I did it all myself.’

Relief flooded through me. ‘And you will undress yourself this time, too. It will be perfectly proper. I will simply take the picture. Now, will you do it? You are free to say no, of course.’

She nodded.

And that nod sent the room spinning on its axis, so that I almost staggered in my joy. ‘Good,’ I murmured. Then I turned my back while she slipped out of her clothes. ‘Now, when you are ready, lie down on the floor and rest your head on your elbow. Have you done that?’

‘Is this right?’

I turned. There she was, my sea nymph, all pearly from the salt water, her hair in untidy fronds blowing in the breeze, her limbs so gentle and rounded, her toenails so tiny and rosy. ‘P-Perfect,’ I said, sliding the plate down with nervous fingers. ‘Now I’ll count to twenty. Stay as still as you can.’

The picture was so beautiful I could hardly believe it. The light fell on her skin as limpidly as it might have done in the Garden of Eden. Her limbs seemed to have just that hour come forth from the creating hand of God, her body as crisp and new as a perfect nut lying in its shell. Her shape was remarkable, ineffable, glorious. Who, I said to myself, could look at this and not feel the very essence of God’s love? Yet this image of pure beauty is worlds away from liturgies and catechisms, rubrics and responses and all that categorizes our religion now.

They say that sorrows come not as single spies but in battalions, and certainly that has been true of us these last weeks. First, my darling Benjy’s near-fatal fall, followed by all the dreadful upset of Nettie’s departure; then the lack of a nursery maid for weeks, with Hannah threatening to give in her notice, and Cook throwing the pans around in the kitchen to express her vexation; followed by Christiana’s infatuation with the wretched Leonard Gardiner, and finally Mr Jameson (whom I had thought a reliable man) allowing Daisy to run wild when we had entrusted her to his care. But now the poor child has been afflicted with scarlet fever and the whole household has been broken up.

It was Mrs McQueen who alerted us to the illness. She brought Benjy down to me late one afternoon and said she was of the opinion that Miss Daisy was sickening for something. She said she knew Daisy wasn’t her responsibility, but as she’d previously been chastised by my husband for not speaking out on a medical matter when he thought she should have, she felt the need to bring the situation to my attention.

‘What makes you think she is ill?’ I asked, instantly frightened out of my absorption in Mrs Browning’s sonnets. ‘I saw her only this morning and she seemed perfectly well.’

‘Well, fevers often waits until the afternoon to make themselves known,’ she said. ‘And Miss Daisy was out again with the Reverend Jameson in the heat walking everywhere about the place as usual. But when she came up to see Master Benjy just now, it struck me as she was very hot and, well, clammy – if you don’t mind the word. And then she says she don’t feel so well, so I told her to go to her room and take a glass of water and lie down while I come to tell you. I didn’t want Master Benjy to catch nothing.’

My throat tightened. I have almost a superstitious dread that the Angel of Death, having been once cheated of my son, is ever hovering over him eager to swoop again. ‘No, of course not,’ I said hastily. ‘You did right, Mrs McQueen. I’ll get Hannah to run to Dr Lawrence’s immediately. Please keep Benjy up in the nursery, well away from Daisy’s room.’

I rang the bell and dispatched Hannah for the doctor, then ran upstairs. Poor Daisy looked very red and hot and her forehead was burning. ‘Oh, Mama,’ she said in a whisper. ‘I have such a sore throat.’

‘When did it come on?’ I asked, loosening her little collar and wiping the perspiration away. ‘Why did you not say something earlier, you foolish child?’

‘It wasn’t very bad then. I had a headache, but I thought it was just the sun. It seems to have got much worse since I lay down. Oh, Mama, I hope I haven’t given anything awful to Benjy.’

Anything
awful.
My heart thudded against my ribs. I’d heard scarlet fever was rife again in the poorer parts of Jericho and that a number of infants had recently died. But I’d always felt safe here, in the better part of town, among trees and gardens and away from bad air and open drains. But nowhere, of course, is ever really safe. It took me all my self-control to appear calm to Daisy. ‘No, I’m sure he is quite well. Even if you have some sort of fever, you’ve hardly been with him any time, according to Mrs Mac. Now, let me undress you and put a cool flannel on your head. Dr Lawrence will be here very soon.’

Her little limbs were burning hot as I chivvied her out of her petticoats and drawers and put on a clean nightgown, and as soon as I was finished, she lay down quietly, her eyes closed. She made no fuss at all, and I thought what a sweet child she was, and how Daniel was right, after all, to have sung her praises. And as I gazed at her face, straining for any sign of the scarlet rash, I couldn’t help thinking how much the new way of having her hair suited her. I felt sorry that I had made so much fuss about it. I placed my hand on hers, and she clasped it softly, and held it until the doctor arrived.

Dr Lawrence said there was clearly a fever, but he couldn’t be sure as to the cause. ‘If a rash appears tonight or tomorrow, it will be scarlet fever, a hundred to one, so it’s important that she’s kept in isolation. Young Benjy’s the one you need to look to, given his age. In fact, if I were you, and if you have the means and opportunity, I would take him away from the household completely. I would suggest three weeks at least to be sure the infection has passed.’

‘Yes, yes,’ I cried, running through all the possibilities and coming to the solution before I had fully weighed things up. ‘We can go to my father’s in Herefordshire. The air is very fresh there. We can go tomorrow.’

Then Daisy’s voice broke in. ‘Will you be leaving me, then, Mama?’

And I experienced a sudden rush of guilt that my first thought had been for my son and not for my poor, sick daughter. I should be with her, of course. Yet Benjy needed me, too; I could not abandon him to Mrs McQueen for a whole three weeks. I turned and stroked Daisy’s shorn locks. ‘We’ll see. If I do have to leave you, it won’t be for long, I’m sure,’ I said. ‘And I’ll see you get the best care in the world.’

‘Thank you, Mama,’ she said, closing her eyes.

But how was I to manage her care if I were in Herefordshire? Sadly, I had no mother or aunt to turn to, and Daniel’s aunts were elderly and too far away to help. Naturally, Daniel himself would supervise the servants in my absence, but he could not be expected to sit by Daisy’s bed and do all the womanly acts required in these cases. I needed someone who could nurse Daisy in a proper, motherly fashion. But who? Mrs McQueen was out of the question, and I could hardly leave Christiana and Sarah in the house unchaperoned. What if Leonard Gardiner took it upon himself to write letters or pay visits when Daniel was not at home? I knew Christiana was not above encouraging his attentions, and there would be no competent person to prevent her (Hannah naturally being excluded from this category). And, of course, they might find occasion to set forth into the town unaccompanied. They had no idea of the dangers of the world and did not appreciate that even respectable Oxford was not always what it seemed. No, they would have to come with me. It was high time they saw their grandpapa, and a change of scene would suit them, as well as placing them at a distance from Mr Gardiner and his syrupy smile. But that still left Daisy with no one to nurse her. Not for the first time I bitterly regretted that we had been so hasty in dismissing Nettie: I knew her to be utterly reliable in the sickroom, and, had she still been with us, I could have travelled to Herefordshire in the full knowledge that Daisy would be both loved and cared for. As it stood, Hannah was the only household member in a position to tend to the child, although I feared she was too flighty for such a task. On the other hand, she had been her nursemaid before, albeit reluctantly. And Cook and Matthews, relieved of their habitual duties, would have to help with any other tasks. And, if all else failed, Daniel would have to hire a fever nurse.

I began to breathe a little more easily. Sickness is always such a cause for panic when there are small children in the home. I remembered how dreadful it was among the poor families in Poplar when sickness came. They could not afford doctors, of course, and all they could do was watch and wait. Every family put at least one child into its grave, and most had seen a good many more taken from them.
What will be, will be
, they said. They were so stoical, it made me ashamed. I was the clergyman’s wife, the one who should have uplifted them with hope of Heaven and Eternal Life; but it seemed as though it were they who were giving
me
a lesson in accepting God’s will. Yet the more I thought about it, the more I felt it could not really be God’s will that such little ones should die. It occurred to me that God had placed me there in the midst of them in order to fight against the dirt and poverty that caused such deaths. I was as angry as Daniel to think that such conditions existed within a mile or two of the Parliament building, and that none of our legislators were moved to lift a finger to prevent them. I sat with him as he wrote his pamphlets in the evenings, his tirades against the lack of schools, lack of honest employment, and the iniquities of child labour; and I even added a sentence or two of my own describing the plight of the poor people in our parish: the lack of clean water, the condition of the houses, the daily presence of rats and fleas. I was passionate in those days, and not averse to tucking up my skirts and scrubbing the floors in the worst of the hovels. My knuckles, I remember, were often red-raw, and our bishop once remarked on the fact when I sat drinking tea with his wife on the occasion of the annual diocesan Christmas party. ‘My, Mrs Baxter, you have clearly been practising what the rest of us only preach!’ And he’d laughed as if I was an embarrassment to him. I’d said it was only what Our Lord would do, and he’d looked at me very directly and said, ‘Ah, you know the mind of the Almighty, do you?’ and turned away. His wife had patted my wrist and said, ‘I used to be like you. But it is impossible for one person to put everything right in the world. Wait until you have children of your own, my dear. You will find your view of things will change.’

I am afraid to say that she was right. After Christiana was conceived, both Daniel and I vowed that we would stay in the parish and continue to fight the good fight. But I was not well when I was carrying her. I was often unable to eat, and liable to faint as a result – and, even with a maid-of-all-work in the mornings, I found it hard to do my own domestic chores, let alone shoulder the burden of others. Nevertheless, once she was born, I bound her close to me in a big plaid shawl, and went out on my visits as usual – tramping up broken staircases to mouldy little attics with holes where the rain came in, and where the bedclothes were live with vermin; helping with the cleaning and washing when the women were laid low; teaching the children simple hymns and prayers on the wash-house steps, with the smell of melting tallow and boiling tripe drifting over from the factories and almost stifling me; and, not least, learning to avoid the drunken embraces of men who had found day-work on the dockside and spent their wages in the public house before returning to take a poker to their wives. At the end of one particular day, I was so overcome with exhaustion that I fell down in the street and was picked up by a passing chimney sweep and carried home on his cart. ‘This is no life for you, missus,’ he said, and I began to fear that it was not. And yet I had dedicated my life to such work: I could not let God down. I could not let Daniel down, either. Day after day, I hid my weariness from him. Day after day, when we had both toiled in the parish until our heads ached, I would settle Christiana in her cradle and continue to work by candlelight. There were always threadbare sheets to be mended, and I had to keep detailed accounts of my expenditure in the parish: bandages, sewing needles, pocket-handkerchiefs, tin bowls, enamel jugs, carbolic soap and combs. Then, when all was accounted for, the books balanced, and the candles burned down, sometimes all I wished for was to fall into bed and sleep. But every night I had to pray with Daniel in the way he liked best. I had once found this so uplifting, and had entered with joy into our naked intercessions; but at that time I found it hard to match Daniel’s ardour. He never seemed exhausted, in spite of a day as hard as mine, and was always anxious to do more than his duty as a husband. As a result, it was often two o’clock when we fell asleep. Such nightly bliss, I feared, would have its consequences, and indeed it was not long before another baby was on its way. I recall leaning my face against the greasy wall of the kitchen and nearly despairing. I did not know how I would manage, and I wondered how the poor women I ministered to could give birth to child after child with no one to assist them – no kind mother or considerate husband – and still could endure with simple fortitude the filth, violence and drunkenness that were all around them. I began to admire rather than pity them. I began to wonder what right I had to preach to them – I, who was broken down by my encounter with so much lighter a load.

Daniel was always so fresh and strong, up every day with the lark and whirling around the parish like a dervish – from the ragged school to the workhouse, from a funeral to a baptism – but he was not blind to my smaller struggles. When Christiana was just taking her first steps, and Sarah still not weaned, he decided the time had come for us to move to a more genteel parish. ‘You are not well enough for this, my darling. The work is too hard, and rubs against your gentle spirit. If I am not careful, you will begin to wish you had taken yourself off to the Lay Sisterhood and had nothing at all to do with me.’

I told him I had never regretted the life at Caerwen House, and that nothing would induce me to go back or separate myself from him. I pressed myself to him in a rush of ardent spirits. ‘Give me another year, I beg, to show you my worth. I am getting stronger, and there is so much to be done.’

But Daniel was adamant. ‘You must have proper servants,’ he said. ‘Not just a girl from the workhouse. You must have proper help with the children. We must all have better surroundings. You must let me do what is best.’

What he
did
do (unknown to me) was make his case to my father; and within the week I received a letter from Papa insisting that I bow to my husband’s wishes and move to a more congenial parish.

In my humble opinion you have done your share with the Poor, and you now deserve a Reward. You will say your Reward will be in Heaven, I know that, Evelina, and I commend you for it. You have chosen a hard path and I have until now stood back and let you tread it, knowing your dedication – and if I may say – stubbornness. But you must think first of your two girls, and of course of any son who might follow them. Who will your children meet, and who will they play with in that most confounded place? If you do not see them properly brought up, I shall be obliged to see to it myself. I shall have them made over to me as my wards unless you come to your senses. Daniel is with me on this, and I hope that if you do not yield as a daughter, you will do so as a wife.