Dark Shadows (3 page)

Tom, the spokesman, summed it up by saying, “My son chose to die with his wife. What other answer to your questions can be given when we have none to give?”

Two sets of grandparents and the local vicar sat in stony silence, now in the Carvers’ parlour. Both men had teacups filled to the rim with whisky in their trembling hands. The women lifted cups of hot tea to their lips between intermittent sobs. The vicar held his Bible to his chest but appeared to be at a loss in finding any suitable words of comfort. Thus he murmured prayers that clearly no one wanted to hear.

The baby, for a time forgotten, was being rocked back and forth, sleeping contentedly in Sylvie Jennings’s arms. A wet nurse had been requested and was due to arrive any minute.

The curtains had been drawn in the room, and everyone else was still ignoring the vicar.

After a while, it became evident that decisions now had to be made. One set of questioning eyes looked at another. Funeral arrangements and the baby’s future should be discussed. All four grandparents were intimately involved, as the vicar reminded them after he’d probably experienced what was the longest silence in his career. “The baby must be placed in an orphanage, for there can be no other future for a sinner’s child.” The vicar’s voice rang out clearly and with a tone of authority.

This statement brought life hurtling back into all four grandparents. They shouted a vehement “No!” in unison.

“This baby’s going nowhere, Reverend Smith. How dare you even bloody suggest such a thing? My Thomas had flaws like the rest of us, but he was no sinner!” Tom hissed, clearly trying not to raise his voice or lose his temper.

The baby would go home to the Carvers’ house for the time being, all four grandparents agreed. It was also decided there and then that the best course of action would be to take equal responsibility for the child for the foreseeable future.

“What shall we call her?” Sylvie Jennings asked the others. “Thomas and Joan never mentioned a name for the infant. They wanted to wait until they saw the babe. Did they say anything to you?” she asked Grace.

Grace Carver shook her head. “No. They were sure a name would just come to them as soon as the child was born and its gender known. We could call her Joan.”

“No!” Sylvie barked at her. “Not Joan. I couldn’t bear that. I couldn’t live with that name. There is … There was only one Joan, and she’s gone. My girl Joanie’s gone – she’s gone …”

Joan’s father, Walter, cried. He’d said nothing since the sight of Thomas lying dead next to his daughter. He gulped down the last of his whisky, plainly unable to contain his emotions any longer, pain likely seeping into his veins and rushing through his body like a tidal wave.

“Dear God, my little girl, my Joan. My Joanie, asking for mercy. Christ almighty, that word will stick to me like bloody shit forever! That’s all she asked for, Reverend!” he shouted now, turning his anguish towards the vicar. “What bloody mercy did she get, eh? She was dying and in so much pain that I wanted to shoot her myself, just to put her out of her misery. God forgive me, but I did.” He sobbed. “Mercy – that’s all my Joan asked for, wasn’t it? That’s all she wanted. She didn’t call her old dad’s name or her husband’s. She didn’t scream for her mum either. Bloody mercy – that’s all she said. So where was your God, Reverend? Where was his blasted mercy, eh? Answer me that!

“They were just a young couple starting up. They had their whole lives to get through together. I’m sick and tired of seeing youngsters dying of plague and starvation whilst you sit in people’s houses claiming that God is merciful. You, your Bible, and your bloody mumbo jumbo prayers … Look at you. What words can you say from that bloody book that can ease our suffering, eh?

“Put the babe in an orphanage? Is that the best you and your God can come up with? Jesus Christ – go on, get out, and take your merciful God with you before I blaspheme any further.”

“That’s enough!” Grace half sobbed, half shouted. “Enough of the cursing, you! Your Joan’s at peace now and so is my Thomas. They’ve gone from us, but this is no time to blame God or anyone else. We have to think about a proper send-off for the two of them: a nice burial. And we need to think about the well-being of this baby. That’s all that should concern us now.” Grace turned to the vicar. “Reverend Smith, please stay. Walter didn’t mean it. He’s just upset and—”

“Bloody right I’m upset,” Walter butted in. “But you’re right, love. We need to get this sorted.”

The vicar nodded and visibly relaxed his tense muscles.

Tom poured some more whisky into the cup. The bottle was getting empty. He looked at Walter, still reeling. “Here, Walter boy. We may as well finish it off.”

Walter nodded, and seemed grateful to have some more whisky to calm him down or send him into a drunken stupor.

Tom Carver looked at the two women and decided that for once the women could have their way. He shrugged. He didn’t really care what the infant was called. “You two decide on a name between you. Call the babe whatever you deem fit. I don’t care one way or the other.”

“Well, you should, Tom. She’s our granddaughter, and she needs a name – a nice name,” Grace admonished him.

“Mercy,” Sylvie sobbed, staring at the newborn baby. “We should call her Mercy. It’s a fitting name … and the last word my Joan ever spoke. Mercy Carver – that’s what we’ll call her.” She looked at the other faces.

“Are you off your head?” Walter said in a raised voice. “Have we not heard that blasted word enough today? Don’t be so bloody stupid. Mercy’s a rotten name. She’ll be laughed at her whole life. Mercy? Don’t you think it’s bad enough that her father stuck a dagger through his neck and left her? What’s folk going to think? Jesus Christ!”

Walter and Tom shook their heads. The vicar crossed himself and stared at the Bible on his lap.

Sylvie, usually as quiet as a mouse, spoke up again. “You two listen to me,” she said, wagging her finger at Walter and Tom. “This baby is alive against all the odds. Another minute and she would have died inside her dead mother. It’s only by God’s grace that she made it into the world in time.” She sobbed again. “My Joan got her wish. She got mercy. Walter, Tom, don’t you see? She delivered a healthy child. Grace, what do you think?”

“God saved this baby; that’s merciful enough for me. It’s a good name, fitting and beautiful. I’m with you, Sylvie.”

The two men shrugged, clearly defeated and drunk on whisky. The wives had spoken.

Chapter One

London, 1860

Mercy Carver strolled sedately down the street, pensive and distracted. When someone called her name, she waved back absently, without looking up to see who had greeted her. It was her eighteenth birthday, a day that under any other circumstances would have been celebrated with all the pomp and ceremony the family could muster. Not today, though. This was not a time for parties or happy reunions with family. She had been adamant with her remaining grandparents, Sylvie Jennings and Tom Carver, that she wanted nothing to do with any birthday party they might be planning.

Mercy’s lacklustre enthusiasm with regard to this milestone year and anything her grandparent had to say about it was like a heavy weight on her shoulders. As far as she was concerned, her grandparents were selfish and cruel. Their secret deal four years earlier to marry her off to a grocer called Mr Black, or Big Joe, as the community called him, would now have to be honoured. This day was not to be celebrated, for it heralded the end of her dreams for a better life and the beginning of a dismal future that she would rather not face or even think about. Her grandparents had ruined her life.

This morning, she had managed to persuade Grandma Jennings to allow her to take this excursion on her own. This had only been made possible because her grandma had come down with belly sickness. Mercy had prayed for forgiveness this morning, for she’d secretly prayed for an intervention that would somehow stop her grandma from coming with her, and God had answered her prayers.

This morning’s walk to the dressmaker felt like a walk to the gallows, with Mercy being the condemned prisoner facing death. This was to be her final fitting for a wedding gown she didn’t want to wear in a ceremony that would bind her for life to a man she already detested. She would rather face the gallows.

Her thoughts had clarity this morning. She had tried the wedding dress on three times already; but on all previous occasions, her grandma had been with her, gushing over her beauty, how expensive the dress must be, and how kind Big Joe was for buying it.

Mercy was now convinced that her grandparents had not cared one little bit about what she thought or what she wanted from life when they callously made the deal with the old grocer. When she turned fourteen, she had been dreaming about grand adventures and travel to other lands. Her grandparents, on the other hand, were signing her life away for profit, and they hadn’t even bothered to tell her what they’d arranged back then. Therefore, their supposed love for her was nothing more than a selfish commitment to material gain.

Today is the first and last day of my life in so many ways,
she thought, quickening her stride. She was going to disobey all her grandfather’s rules, and she couldn’t care less. Being disobedient was not in her nature, but she wasn’t bothered about stupid laws and punishments. Not anymore – she didn’t respect her family, and they didn’t respect her.

As she walked, she took a closer look at familiar ugly buildings and realised just how boring her life had been so far. It had not been at all interesting. She had played in the street, gone to school, and then left school at the age of thirteen, expecting and intending to begin her search for employment, like every other girl she knew.

When she reached her fifteenth year, she was still sheltered at home and was met with a resounding no every time she asked if she could at least try to find work, which would help bring in some extra pennies. She did wonder about the sly looks between Grandma Sylvie and Grandpa Tom whenever she asked about what was to become of her. At that time, she’d even thought that there was something wrong with her appearance or that she wasn’t very clever, but as far as she could tell, she was just as clever as other girls her age were.

The girls she’d gone to school with were either in domestic service or, even worse, had been kicked out by their parents and sent into the workhouse. Why her grandparents continued to imprison her at home, teaching her to sew, cook, and clean house every day like
that
was her job had been a mystery, for it made no sense at all.

Her grandparents, both sets, had always struggled to make ends meet. Grandpa Carver had been laid off work because of bad lungs. He now sat staring out of the window all day, watching everyone else coming and going. Yet food was still put on the table, and Mercy was still being clothed. Grandma Jennings had never worked a day in her life, and her husband, Grandpa Jennings, had long since died of consumption, along with Grandma Carver.

Mercy picked up her pace again as her anger grew. Disgust still lay heavy on her heart, even after all this time. She felt the same rush of fury and despair every time she thought about the day she finally found out why she was excluded from employment, from going out with other girls, from talking to boys her own age, and from having even the smallest of freedoms, like walking to the grocer’s or visiting a relative alone. On
that
day, she found out why.

Her grandparents had sat her down shortly after her sixteenth birthday. They had made it clear, in unwavering tones and without emotion, that a deal had been struck with Big Joe: it involved her marrying him when she turned eighteen. The pact had been documented and signed by all parties when she’d entered her fourteenth year. They had shown her the papers with pride written all over their faces!

She remembered Grandpa Carver’s exact words: “How the bloody hell do you think we’ve managed to put food on the table these last two years, eh?” He’d raged at her with his gruff voice after all her protestations. “Do you think we’ve just been lucky enough to feed and clothe you with no money coming in?”

Mercy had cried for a week. She had found no consolation in the fact that her grandparents’ only stipulation at that time was that Big Joe would have to wait until Mercy’s eighteenth birthday before putting a ring on her finger. Clever, Mercy thought now, for in the deal was Big Joe’s promise of money every week and cheap food right up until the wedding day. He had agreed to the terms even though he would have to wait four years. He’d taken care of her family, and her family, in return, had sold her into an arranged marriage. Yes, very clever on her grandparents’ part, for they could have married her off much sooner had it not been for the ongoing funds and free food!

Mercy hated Big Joe. He was leery and old, and his saggy pot belly wasn’t hidden well enough under his dirty grey apron that should have been white. He had dirty teeth and thinning hair. His bald patch was sprinkled with freckles, and he had horrible dark moles that she could never bear to look at, never mind touch. He was at least forty-five, and why everyone called him Big Joe, she’d never know, for she towered above him i
n
height.

Since the truth had come out, she’d been forced to go to his shop every day, and she’d been threatened not to be offish with him. Her grandma told her she had to flirt and make him want her. She was also told that the way to a man’s heart was not through his belly, as most women thought. No, Grandma Jennings had added, the way to snare a man was to make him want your legs open every day of the week!

Mercy shivered with revulsion now, on an unusually warm October morning. Joe had the disgusting habit of dribbling at the mouth when he saw her. On her dutiful social outings with him, her grandma in tow, he made sure whispers in her ear with his wet tongue were understood. “I’ll be having my fill of you in no time, Mercy. You just make sure you keep that cunt of yours nice and tight for me. Don’t let another man’s cock in there, cos if you’re not a virgin when I sign those marriage papers, there will be hell to pay.”

She had no one to talk to, nowhere to run to, nobody to escape with. She was Big Joe’s property, and everyone knew it. No boys came near her, no girls wanted to befriend her, and her grandparents refused to talk about it further.

She laughed scornfully. Before she’d found out, she’d always joked about Big Joe with her friends. All the girls had called him a dirty old bastard, including her.

Big Joe had two shops. His wife had died years ago. He was, however, very well off and respected in the community. He led the local council and had a house bought and paid for. Marrying him was an honour, as her family had told her every day for the past two years.

Mercy understood her grandparents’ need for money. She was well aware they couldn’t provide for her anymore. She wondered if she was being selfish. If this was to be her lot in life, she shouldn’t really complain, should she? After all, she might have ended up in the workhouse if not for Big Joe and his free food.

She walked on. She would try on the wedding dress for the final time, and then she’d forget about him and her wedding. Today was not a day to think about a bleak future in his bed or behind a counter, measuring flour and getting tins off a shelf for girls her age who would pity her and laugh at her behind her back. No. Today was her day.

Mercy had thought often about what her life would have been like had she grown up with a mother and father. She had never mourned them, never known them, and never missed them. The only thing she could honestly say she missed was the actual experience of having parents, instead of grandfathers who had been overly tough with her and grandmothers who were too weak to argue with their husbands. She was not allowed to cry or to moan, not even when she’d fallen down and cut her knee or her elbow. Tears were forbidden and would lead to a good thrashing.

She now lived in an almshouse with her grandma because Sylvie Jennings was a widow. Grandpa Carver lived with them as an unemployable invalid. Big Joe had made sure they’d gotten to the top of the housing list. She hated the house and her lumpy mattress that stood in the pantry by day and lay on the kitchen floor at night. But as much as she hated that mattress and floor, the thought of living in Big Joe’s house was even more abhorrent to her.

In 1848, Parliament had established the Metropolitan Commission of Sewers. It ordered the commission to survey the antiquated sewage systems and clear the cesspits. As far as Mercy was concerned, they’d made the air even smellier instead of better.

She had grown up with the smell of shit and pee. One of her greatest ambitions was to walk in the countryside, miles from London and its suburbs. To smell clean air and lie in a field of newly cut grass would be a wonderful thing, she’d often thought.

Mercy wiped her brow with her hankie, complaining to herself as she did so. Heat was beginning to settle in the air, and that made the stinking open sewers even more unbearable than usual.

Last year, London’s summer had been even hotter and had lasted just as long as this year, which added to Londoners’ many years of ongoing misery. The stink of overflowing sewage in the River Thames and many of its urban tributaries was something they had learned to live with. Mercy and her grandma never went out without large handkerchiefs in their pockets or bags to cover their mouths and noses when they had a good distance to walk. The warmth in the summer air encouraged bacteria to thrive. In the previous year, many people had become ill. Even work in the great House of Commons had been affected – so she’d heard from just about everyone who’d been to the other side of the river.

“This is why you shouldn’t disobey your grandpa and me by going across London Bridge. The centre of London is the best place to be if you want to make yourself sick,” Grandma Jennings often told her.

As she passed St Mary’s Church, Mercy thought about the life she had dreamed of. She had known from a very young age exactly what she wanted to do when she was grown up. She was going to be an explorer, perhaps an archaeologist, and she would write about her travels and about all the treasures she found along the way.

Walking and looking at buildings, graveyards, parks, and shops was her favourite pastime, but she had done that so often in this small area that the sight of them no longer gave her any satisfaction. Nothing seemed to change. The streets and the houses were always the same, day after day, year after year. The park and its trees changed colour in the seasons, but it was still the same park and the same trees. The people she saw had the same faces she saw every day, and her small world was suffocating her.

As she walked along the street towards the more elegant part of Southwark, she began to dream about all the possibilities and opportunities that Central London could bring her, were she free to choose. She could, for instance, live in the attic of a grand house and work in the kitchen or, if she was lucky and did well at her job, serve tea upstairs. She could clean rooms in one of the larger hotels, where she would meet new people. She would have a half day off every week and would walk down unknown streets, through new parks. She would visit museums and have tea in quaint little tea rooms, and her curiosity would be appeased. She would write about her experiences in a journal, learn about the world and unusual people in it, and save money in order to travel even farther. But her loyalty to the grandparents, who had brought her up without question, convinced her that they were much more important than her own selfish ambitions. Fate had therefore dictated that she, Mercy Carver, would never have what she wanted out of life, apart from today.