Polly's Story (16 page)

When I could see through a crack in the door that Lily had reached the nursery and then gone back inside, I seized my chance and dashed back along the corridor as though all the hounds of Hell were after me. Down the first flight of stairs I flew, holding Ralph’s head against my chest so he would not be jolted over much and then down the next, pausing only for a few seconds to listen out for the matron. It was dangerous to run, but I had no choice; there was not a moment to spare. ‘Quietly now, Ralph,’ I whispered as we hurried down the long corridor. I could see the inmates shuffling dejectedly around outside in the exercise yard - as though they had given up the will to live, poor souls. Where was the matron? Safely shut up in her warm office, I hoped. Quickly I sped along the final passage to the porter’s lodge and rapped on his door. How long would he ever take to answer?

‘First she’s all in a rush to get in, now she can’t wait to leave,’ he grumbled, fumbling for an age to find his keys. ‘So how did you enjoy the visit, Your Ladyship?’

‘Quite well, thank you,’ I said, fighting to control my ragged breathing as I listened out for the clamour behind me that was bound to follow.

‘Not making off with any of our valuables, are you?’ he asked, giving me a shrewd look as we walked (achingly slowly!) towards the gate. ‘If I didn’t know better I should say you was running away from someone. Has Matron given you the say-so to leave? She usually comes out with a person what’s going.’

And then the worst happened. Before I could answer, Ralph let out a loud wail from somewhere deep in my coat. He must have had enough of being bumped up and down like a sack of potatoes, and decided it was time to make his feelings known.

The porter and I stared at each other for what seemed a very long time. Then the old man tugged at the top of my coat to reveal the baby’s red, cross face, bobbing about against my chest as he cried.

‘Please don’t say anything,’ I begged the porter, trying to comfort Ralph at the same time. ‘I’ve not taken any workhouse property, only this little mite, and my sister asked me to. Please let us go!’

He scratched one of the sideburns thoughtfully, whilst I nearly burst out of my skin with impatience. We had to get out before the matron came for us! And then at last he said, ‘Ach, be off with you. One bastard child more or less in this place won’t make much difference.’ And he opened the gate to let me out.

We had escaped! But what was I going to do with Iris’s baby now?

Thirteen

Girls if taken from the workhouse school at thirteen or fourteen with previous good character, and trained for half-a-year in a lady’s house or a cottager’s, can be turned into very nice, good servants. But before sent off to service they should be under
special, kind
, loving care and interest, so their heart and mind is touched and, as it were, opened to good influence.

From Our Servants - Their Duties to Us, and Ours to Them, Mrs Eliot James, 1882

I did not get back to the Hall until after midnight, having tramped all the way from Edenvale station in the bitter cold. Our bedroom was empty, although I’d thought someone would have been tucked up there asleep by now, since Megan and Becky were meant to have had the afternoon off. I unlaced my boots and lay down on the bed as I was, too weary even to think of undressing. Just as I was closing my eyes, Megan came into the room, wearing her black uniform and cap.

‘Oh, there you are,’ she said at the sight of me. ‘And how’s your poor mother? Any better, is she?’

I had thought it safer not to tell anyone where I’d been really going that day. Luckily Megan didn’t wait for a reply, but sat down on her own bed with a thump and kicked off her shoes. ‘Lord, there’s tired I am! My hair will have to look after itself tonight.’

I’d never seen Megan go to sleep without first putting in her rag rollers; she must have been worn out. ‘I thought you had the afternoon off?’ I asked, already feeling guilty that I’d not been there to do my part.

She yawned. ‘There was a telegram, see, to say the Brookfields are back early. Staying in London tonight, and then down to Swallowcliffe tomorrow morning. Mrs Henderson don’t know what to do with herself. Running around chasing her tail, she is.’

‘Let’s hope she’s made up her mind and Master Edward will be put out of his misery,’ Becky said, coming in with Jane. ‘She must know whether she wants to marry him by now, surely.’

‘She’s probably met somebody else in Italy.’ Jane took off her cap and began unpinning her hair. ‘A beautiful young lady like that, with all her money. Then we shall be in trouble - Thomas thinks half of us will lose our jobs in the new year, the way things are going. That means you and Megan, Polly. Junior maids are always the first to go.’

I grunted. Megan said nothing, having already fallen asleep.

‘Now don’t go worrying the poor girl,’ Becky said, slipping out of her dress. ‘You’ll just have to persuade Miss Brookfield to marry Master Edward, Polly. She’s taken quite a shine to you, hasn’t she? Although I still think she’d be better off with Master Rory.’

The very sound of Rory Vye’s name made my blood boil, after what I’d been through that day. He must have been Ralph’s father: the baby had his blue eyes and, now I came to think about it, the same dimple on his tiny chin. What was it Iris had said? The boy’s father had been ‘not such a fine gentleman after all’. Well, that was true enough. To have given her money to get rid of the child, as if that was all he needed to do! Miss Brookfield would have nothing to do with Master Rory if I could possibly help it.

Tired though I was, sleep took a long time coming that night. I couldn’t stop thinking about Ralph, and wondering whether I had done right by him. He had started crying in earnest as we ran out of the workhouse and back along Union Street; I guessed he must have been hungry. Only when we had reached the end of the road and turned a corner did I think it safe to stop and try to hush him.

‘Are you not going to feed the poor little thing?’ came a voice from somewhere near by, and I looked up to see a woman watching me from the doorway of a nearby terraced house, her arms folded.

‘This is my sister’s baby,’ I said, patting Ralph on the back and rocking him about in the way my brother and sisters used to like when they were small. ‘I’ve no milk to give him.’

The woman clicked her tongue, clearly not thinking a great deal of me or my sister. ‘Try Mrs Clare’s place,’ she said. ‘Mebbe ten doors away? Number 61. She’s had one of her own not long since.’ She went back inside and slammed the door.

I did not know what Iris would think about a stranger nursing her baby, but beggars can’t be choosers. Mrs Clare came to the door with a swarm of young children around her feet and said she would feed Ralph for a sixpence.

‘I’ve no money left, ma’am,’ I told her, ‘but I can scrub your floor and put the kettle on for a drop o’ tea whilst you sit down.’

‘And what makes you think my floor will need scrubbing?’ she said, drawing herself up in a huff. When I told her I’d only suggested it having nothing else to offer, however, she warmed up a little and told me to come in.

My mother would have died before she’d let her kitchen get in that state! There must have been a week’s worth of dirt, dust and vegetable peelings on the floor, and the table needed scrubbing too, though I made do with a wipe. Mrs Clare sat herself down and watched me work while Ralph guzzled away at her breast as though he were starving - which, come to think of it, he probably was. At least she made a better wet nurse than a housewife.

‘You’re a good worker, I’ll say that,’ she said when I had done my best in the kitchen. ‘If you scrub the front step as well, you can have some more of my milk to take away with you. None of mine likes the bottle, but this little fellow won’t be so particular, I reckon.’

Ralph slept all the way to the railway station. The rhythm of my footsteps helped clear my head, and by the time our train arrived, I had come up with a plan. There was no telling whether it would work, but at least it was worth a try. Instead of taking the train straight back to Edenvale, I got out at Little Rising and sat in the station for an hour or so until it was dark. You might be thinking I’d changed my mind about going to my mother, but I knew she’d never agree to look after Ralph. How many times had she told me all the work there was in bringing up a baby, besides the expense, and the heartache? Not to mention the fact that this child had no father to speak of, and everyone was bound think it was mine. No, I’d decided upon making my way to another house in the village - but not until it was dark, in case I came across someone I knew who might recognize me. This visit would be better kept secret.

Mrs Chadwick herself came to the door of the Rectory when I rang on the bell. She was all alone in the house; the Reverend must have been taking evensong and there was no maid about. When I reminded her who I was, she took me into the kitchen and listened without saying a word while I talked. I didn’t tell her everything, only what she needed to know: that here was a baby of a month old, whose mother was not in a position to look after him and whose father didn’t know he existed. He was in desperate need of a loving home, and I could think of no better place to bring him. Then I put Ralph in her arms and gave her the bottle of Mrs Clare’s milk to feed him with. He had woken up by now and was beginning to grizzle.

‘I shall have to talk to my husband,’ Mrs Chadwick said. ‘It’s quite an undertaking, to bring up someone else’s child. What if the mother wants him back one day? And what sort of woman is she, anyway?’

I took the photograph of Iris out of my coat pocket and showed it to her. ‘She is an honest, decent person, even though she might have taken a wrong turning in life. I don’t think she will ever be in a position to care properly for her son, but she loves him very much and wants only the best for him. That’s why she gave him up, and it nearly killed her to do it. Will you take him in, out of Christian charity? You can see what a dear little thing he is.’

We both looked at the baby. He had stopped sucking on the bottle for a moment and was gazing up at Mrs Chadwick’s homely face with such an expression of wonder, she couldn’t help smiling down at him. I knew there and then he had stolen her heart; the decision was made, no matter what Reverend Chadwick might have thought about it. All that remained was to tell her the baby’s name (I felt we should let Iris decide about that - it was the least she deserved, even if the name was a little too close to the boy’s father’s for my liking), give her the locket and the photograph, and ask whether I might come and visit the child from time to time - without my mother’s knowledge, if possible. Somehow I did not want her knowing it was Iris’s baby who had come to the village.

‘Leave me your address,’ Mrs Chadwick said, as I was about to leave. ‘We shall write to you about him. Discreetly, of course.’ Perhaps she too thought Ralph was my own son, despite what I’d told her.

I felt as though I had done the best I could, but very much alone as I walked back to the station. I missed Ralph’s warm body snuggled against mine, the smell of him, and the little snuffling noises he made while dropping off to sleep. My heart went out to Iris. She had lost her child: the pain of that must have been a thousand times sharper than anything I felt. How could she bear it?

I thought about Iris a great deal over the next few days, what with Christmas coming up and all those carols about the birth of the Christ child. Mr Wilkins taught us a new one called ‘Away in a Manger’, which had something about the ‘little lord Jesus laying down his sweet head’. Every time we came to that, it made me think of Ralph on his straw mattress in the workhouse, and I was hard pressed not to burst out crying. The Hall seemed so merry and bright - decorated with red-berried holly, evergreen branches and a great fir tree lit up with candles - and everyone in such fine spirits, looking forward to the wonderful dinner we would have in the servants’ hall on Christmas day, and the fun and games afterwards. Of course I was pleased to see Miss Brookfield again, and hoped with all my heart that she would make up her mind to marry Master Edward, but I couldn’t take pleasure in anything; not now I knew the state Iris was in, only a few miles away.

On Christmas Eve I received a card in the post from Mrs Chadwick, wishing me the compliments of the season and encouraging me in my Bible study - Luke’s Gospel, Chapter two, Verse forty, would be particularly helpful. I looked it up and read, ‘And the child grew, and waxed strong in spirit, filled with wisdom: and the grace of God was upon him.’ That was a relief, but it made me sorry that I could not tell Iris her son was safely settled, with good people looking after him. It was dreadful to think of her, shut up in the workhouse all alone and desperate for news. And yet how could I go back there? Matron would have me up before the magistrate for kidnapping, soon as winking.

Later that evening, the table in the servants’ hall was piled high with presents which Lady Vye gave out; we maids each had a length of printed cotton to make new work dresses, while the menservants were presented with starched collars. Afterwards the rest of the family and their guests came through to listen to us sing. We ran through all the old favourites like ‘Good King Wenceslas’, ‘God Rest Ye, Merry Gentlemen’, ‘The Holly and the Ivy’, and then Megan started ‘Silent Night’ on her own, without the piano or anything. It might have been her beautiful voice, ringing out clear as crystal, or the picture of a mother and child in the first verse, but that carol undid me completely. By the time everyone else had joined in, the tears I had held back for so long came bursting out and I had to slip away before making a proper spectacle of myself.