‘I love the elms,’ she said. ‘I wonder just how tall they grow. Wouldn’t it be amazing to be as tall as them?’ She raised her arms, made her dress pull tight across her chest.
I looked up into their fat, green canopy, watched the breeze twitch rough leaves, saw a wild rabbit come up to a grey, split-bark trunk, rub itself against it, shed its fur. ‘It would.’
We spent an hour sitting in long grass, an hour guessing the smells caught in the air.
‘That’s roasted coffee.’
‘That’s the harbour.’
‘That’s fresh horses.’
‘That’s a shucked clam.’
Our stomachs begged for food. ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘I know somewhere.’ I took her paper-thin hands in mine, pulled her up off the ground. We walked through the Common to School Street, went a little further till we came to Parker House hotel. I knew about this place. ‘Misses Lizzie and Emma eat here,’ I said.
‘And now you do.’
The hotel was all brick and limestone, like a manor house I’d once seen in Dublin when Daddy had to take work on the Liffey. We went in, took a seat in the dining room, listened to the rabble talk of people who knew people. We were brought fresh, crusty bread rolls, dark-yellow salted butter, a bowl of cream-grey clam chowder thickened with oyster crackers, a sprinkle of parsley. I dug my spoon in, slurped like a Borden. I’d never seen Mrs Borden smile so much.
We left in the afternoon, headed back to the cotton-mill fog of Fall River. Mrs Borden patted my hand all the way and when the train slowed, pulled up at the station, Mrs Borden said, ‘Staying has its benefits, Bridget.’
She soured me then, made me remember that I wouldn’t be going home anytime soon.
I woke, a new morning, same as all mornings. The heat itched me awake and I rolled over, felt my head swoon as I moved, my stomach flip. The day ahead would not be good. I turned on the lamp, looked at my family on the wall, told them, ‘I’m askin’ her today ta give it back.’
I lay in bed. The morning was quiet, like it hadn’t been in a long time, not anyone walking around, not the sound of a pigeon. ‘Alright, I’ll get up,’ I said, and I unlocked the door, came out onto the landing, noticed how light it was getting outside. I’d overslept. I heeled down the stairs, didn’t stop to listen to Mr and Mrs Borden. I got the mutton broth on the heat—God, it stunk—had to taste it to add more salt and I noticed the wall by the stove shined, had two long streaks of a silvery wetness. I wiped my apron across the wall, smelled the cotton. Butter and fat. I wiped again and the streaks started their dripping. I heard someone come down the back stairs, took a look behind. Mrs Borden. She came towards me, said nothing at first, and I stirred the pot. She stood and watched and finally she said, ‘You’re starting late.’
‘Sorry, marm.’
‘Don’t let being sorry stop you from working.’
I went on getting some johnnycakes started. She watched and soon Mr Borden came down the stairs, carried with him his slops pail, and I heard his urine swirl inside it, heard Mrs Borden grind her teeth. The smell was sharp and fungal. The kitchen got hot, got crowded. Mr Borden went outside, emptied the pail. I stirred the pot again and Mrs Borden watched me, scratched her temples.
‘Go get Mr Morse,’ she said. She gave me a look, tuttled her hand in my direction, and I did what I was told, did what I had to do to make the day go faster.
I knocked on his door, heard him clear his throat on the other side, his morning thickness coming up, being spat into the slops pail.
‘Mr Morse. It’s breakfast.’
He rushed to the door, opened it. We were face to face, too close for the morning. ‘Good morning, Bridget.’
‘Mornin’.’
‘Isn’t it a wonderful morning?’ His breath like old socks.
‘Yes.’
‘A good night’s sleep always puts a spring in my step.’
I nodded. ‘Breakfast is ready.’ I left him there, went back to the kitchen and began to serve up the mutton broth and johnnycakes.
John joined the Bordens in the dining room, and he and Mrs Borden talked about how they’d slept, the dreams they’d had. I took in food, tried not to smell the broth, tried to steady nausea. I left them alone, went and sat on the side door steps, put head between legs, felt like I was on a ship headed home, up and over waves, my head north and south. I listened to morning foot traffic along the street and closed my eyes, counted to ten and zero, zero to ten, again, again, waited for nausea to pass.
Lizzie was calling my name, got me to come back inside.
‘What are you doing today?’ She said it without blinking, looked at me in a strange way.
‘I don’t know until Mrs Borden gives me orders.’
‘There’s a fabric sale. You should go buy yourself a few yards so you can make yourself a new uniform.’ She’d sugared her voice.
‘I’d not be doin’ that. I don’t have the energy.’
‘But it’s only for today. Mrs Borden will be going.’ She rushed along, sounded pained.
‘I’m not well, Miss Lizzie. I’d not . . .’
She eyed me, said, ‘Fine, suit yourself,’ and left me alone, went to her father in the sitting room.
‘Good morning.’
‘Good morning.’
‘How are you today, Father?’
‘Remains to be seen. Still somewhat unwell.’ He said it slow. I wondered when he’d tell her about the pigeons.
I went to the dining room, collected the dishes and took them to the scullery, started to wash them. Mrs Borden came in then, was thunder, said, ‘Once you’ve finished you’ll be washing the outside windows.’ The way she said it, like we’d never known each other before.
I rubbed cloth over a bowl, said nothing to her. Mrs Borden stayed, watched, then said, ‘Are you still leaving?’
I rubbed. ‘Yes, Mrs Borden.’ I looked at her, her eyes a-droop, glassy, and she seemed so worn down. I thought of my mammy. ‘Marm, I was hopin’ for me tin.’
She shook her head.
‘Mrs Borden, it’s all me money in there. I cooked and cleaned. I stayed.’
She rubbed her temples. We looked at each other, heard Lizzie and Mr Borden talk and talk, the way they did, and she said, ‘Do those windows properly and we’ll see.’
‘Yes, marm.’ I tried not to be sour, so I told her something true. ‘I still think ’bout our trip ta Boston.’ I smiled.
‘Oh?’ she said. I couldn’t read her.
‘Thank you, Abby.’ Her name slid from the tongue, was easy. I was close to going home.
Mrs Borden took steps away from me, wiped her eye, went to speak but said nothing. Instead, she went up the back stairs, left me with the dishes, left me to hear Lizzie tell Mr Borden, ‘I’m going to feed my pigeons.’
I finished the last dish, came into the kitchen to see Mr Borden stand there, his shoulders rolled forwards. I wiped my wet hands on my apron and he said, ‘Excuse me,’ pushed me out of his way and tripped through the side door.