Her whole stomach shifted as the child changed position, and as she had done so many times, she silently cursed its existence. She hadn’t been able to believe the non-appearance of her monthlies at first, but once she had accepted that the preventative measures she had been instructed in by an older actress at the beginning of her career in the halls had failed, she had tried everything she could to get rid of the thing growing inside her. Bottles of gin, scalding hot baths, jumping down half a flight of stairs and lifting weights so heavy she thought her eyes would pop out of their sockets, she had done it all. All but visiting one of the old wives, of whose dark arts every actress knew. She had seen too many girls die as a result of their ministrations over the years to go down that route.
She shut her eyes, exhaustion uppermost from the last few days spent on uncomfortable seats in lumbering, swaying coaches and nights tossing and turning on bug-infested mattresses in wayside inns. She was cold and tired and hungry, and already homesick for London and the life she had led before this disaster had overtaken her.
She didn’t doubt that not a thing would have changed in Southwick; except, perhaps, the streets which had begun to spread eastwards from the village green five years before she left might have increased in number. But the glassworks, shipyards and all manner of industry that jostled for space with the lime kilns built to take the stone from Carley Hill would still be lining the river banks, and smoke and filth from the factories would continue to hang ominously in the air. Wearmouth colliery would still be dominating the western part of Monkwearmouth which led on to Southwick, and cinders and ash blown in the wind from the pit would inevitably find their way on to the washing of Southwick housewives.
Of course, the air could be thick with smog and the gutters running in filth in London, but it was different somehow, Esther thought drowsily. The taverns and coffee-houses, the theatres and exhibitions and concerts, the galleries and waxworks were all so vibrant and exciting, and the shops . . . Oh, the shops. Full of the latest Paris fashions and so elegant. Shopping being one of the few amusements considered suitable for unaccompanied women, she and her music-hall friends had often indulged themselves as far as their purses would allow. And if it had been one of the times when a group of upper-class young rakes had patronised the theatre the night before, looking for fun after the show, their purses might be very full indeed.
A small secret smile touched the corners of Esther’s mouth. The stories she could tell . . . But why shouldn’t she live life to the full? You were only here once. And when a woman got married she was finished. She was a slave to her husband, and unless she married well she was a slave to the home too. But in either case her freedom was curtailed, restraints came in their hundreds and all merriment was gone. Not that she intended to end up like one or two actresses she knew, reduced to working in one of Soho’s ‘pleasure halls’ where carnal depravity and unimaginable licentiousness was the order of the day. No, she would get out before her looks began to fade, take herself off somewhere in the country and pose as a genteel widow to snare some yokel who was wealthy enough to see to it she didn’t have to lift a finger.
She snuggled deeper into her warm fur collar, the rocking and swaying of the coach adding to the overwhelming weariness. And then she slept.
‘The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away, and it is not for us to fathom the mind of the Almighty, Mrs Skelton.’ Jeremiah Hutton placed a large bony hand on the shoulder of the little woman standing next to him. ‘Life and death is in His hands and His alone.’
A snort from the corner of the room where a wrinkled crone was sitting huddled in front of the glowing range with a sleeping baby on her lap caused Jeremiah to turn his head. This was the old grandmother, and he had had occasion to cross swords with her before. Shrivelled and skeletal, and possessing black teeth which protruded like witch’s fangs whenever she opened her mouth, she was nevertheless a force to be reckoned with and, in Jeremiah’s opinion, profane and godless. ‘You wish to say something, Mrs Woodrow?’ he said coldly, aware of Mrs Skelton at the side of him flapping her hand silently at her mother in an effort to keep the peace.
She might as well have tried to stop the tide from flowing in and out. ‘Aye, I do, an’ stop your flutterin’, our Cissie,’ the old woman added to her red-faced daughter. ‘All this talk of the Almighty an’ Him decidin’ what’s what don’t wash with me, Vicar. It weren’t Him who had Alfred standin’ on a plank weldin’ thirty feet off the ground, now was it? There’s not a day goes by that some poor so-an’-so don’t cop it in them blood yards, an’ you know it – but the owners aren’t interested in safety or workin’ conditions. Not them, in their fine houses with their lady wives takin’ the air in their carriage an’ pair.’
‘Mam, please.’