I went to the basement, got my soap for the windows, heard Lizzie scream. The pigeons.
Outside in the heat, my face like a fire, my stomach churned a terror, made my head bounce, had me on all fours letting myself go, all that vomit into the grass. After, I thought I heard a tapping from the barn, thought it must’ve been pigeons, must’ve been Lizzie, and went to the left side of the house, started cleaning the windows. Along the bottom of the glass were finger smudges and I wondered when they’d got there, when it was that Lizzie decided to grubby my hard work. I tipped the bucket out, headed to the house to refill, thought of telling Mrs Borden what I had found.
With clean water I went back to the windows, noticed half-eaten pears leading from the pear arbour to the side of the house. John and Lizzie had been out there the night before. What strange games had they played? Sweat dripped down thighs and I let myself go again, vomited at my feet.
‘Bridget?’ Mary’s voice behind the fence.
‘Yeah?’
‘Are ya alright?’
‘Never better.’ Oh, I wanted to sleep then. I leaned into the fence.
‘What’s gotten into ya?’
‘Me own cookin’.’ I paused, waited for nausea to pass. ‘Or maybe Mrs Borden’s punishin’ me.’
Mary laughed.
‘I’m meanin’ it. Probably rather see me poisoned than leave.’
‘Lordy. Wait there.’ Mary scuffled behind the fence, limped away, and soon enough she was in front of me, her cherub cheeks rosed, her skirt hiked up so that it showed the bottom of her knickerbockers.
I looked her over. ‘I interrupt somethin’, did I?’
Mary punched me in the shoulder. ‘Shut up. I’ve been cleanin’ floors.’
‘Ya’ll cause the scene, runnin’ round like that.’
‘Bet not as much as you did when Mrs Borden heard yer news.’
‘She’s got me tin.’ My stomach groaned, a little devil.
‘Ya’ve been held ta ransom!’ Mary hobbled closer to me, put her hand on my forehead. ‘Bridget, yer bloody boilin’.’
I gently pushed her hand away. ‘Keep that up and ya could be a detective.’
‘Ya shouldn’t be out here.’
‘I’ve got no say.’
Mary shook her head. We both looked up at the house, at its little chips of green paint falling, at a spat of dried pigeon dropping next to the sitting room window. A spider spindled its legs in a web. Mr Borden never bothered doing anything about the sides of the house.
Then Mary looked at me, said, ‘Reckon ya’ll be well enough to play Irish switch on Sunday?’
‘Not a worry. I’ll beat ya even if I’m still sick.’
She grinned. ‘Well then, I better get back, get to practising after I wash them floors.’ Mary touched my forehead again, her hand cool and soothing, and she turned to leave.
‘Mary,’ I said, ‘what am I gonna do if I can’t get me tin?’
She shrugged shoulders. ‘I bet ya’ll think of some way ta go.’
That was my some way. I looked up at the house, could hear wood cracking in the stove, coming up through the chimney. I went back to washing windows. There had to be some way.
Mrs Borden knocked on the sitting room window, was cross-faced, told me to do it properly, like I never cleaned a window before, like I’d never done this job before. I washed, my hands working the glass in smaller circles, and Mrs Borden squinted eyes, scoured mouth. My wrists cramped. She disappeared and I stopped. I didn’t feel like doing anything after that. I sat awhile, heard my stomach hiss like a demon, heard people thundering up and down Second Street. Everything was getting too much. ‘I’m not doin’ anythin’ more,’ I said, and when I went into the house, saw no one about, I noticed someone had been sick near the dining table. Not even the decency to go outside. ‘Bloody typical.’ I went to take a closer look and Lizzie came up behind me. I told her about the mess, that I was worried about Mrs Borden. ‘She’s too old ta be sick on a hot day like today.’
Lizzie patted my shoulders, I didn’t like her touch, and she stood too close, looked red-cheeked, like she’d been running. ‘Don’t worry about a thing, Bridget.’
‘Where’s Mrs Borden?’
She cocked her head to the side, looked at me like I was a little stupid. ‘She’s had a note to see a sick relative.’
I’d not heard anyone deliver a note, not heard her leave. Lizzie kept looking over her shoulder and I wondered if she was expecting John.
‘No, he left a while ago.’ Lizzie chewed her nail, spat it onto the carpet.
I hadn’t heard him leave either. I wasn’t hearing anything properly. I really needed to rest. Lizzie broke her own vow then, offered to help me clean the dining room mess. ‘You finish the windows and I’ll take care of it.’
I hesitated. If it wasn’t cleaned properly Mrs Borden might not give my tin back. But the thought of having to do it myself . . . ‘Alright.’
Lizzie was up and down, made banging noises, made throat noises, little grunts. She darted into the barn and out again and I couldn’t help but feel she was up to no good. I went to check on her. Lizzie was using a broom handle to pile the vomit into a brown slime hill before picking it up with a cloth, throwing it into a pail. Lizzie and her dry-retching. I wanted to laugh at her. Lizzie only cleaned when she wanted something. I walked away.
The morning kept on, got hotter. I washed a window by the basement, damned Mrs Borden to a fiery pit for making me do this, and Lizzie came to me like a saint, said, ‘Why don’t you come inside and rest.’
In we went. We drank water together. She stared at me. The hairs on the back of my neck stood.
‘I’m going upstairs now,’ she said.
‘Alright.’
When she left, I stuck my head in the dining room. She’d gone without cleaning the sick from under the table properly. I took my water into the sitting room, sat awhile on the sofa. The house made no sound.
The clock struck ten and sometime after there was a rattling at the front door, someone trying to get in. I stood, waited. There was a knock, another knock, and Mr Borden yelled out, ‘I can’t open the door.’
I ran to him, fumbled my keys—‘Pshaw!’—and opened the lock, saw him all pale and sweating.
‘Mr Borden, ya alright?’
His eyes rolled, like they didn’t mean to. ‘Unfortunately not. I’ve been sick at work, can’t quite stomach the day.’
He came in, gave me his hat and coat, and I heard Lizzie laugh, saw her standing on the stairs, halfway up, rocking a bit, side to side. Mr Borden went to sit on the sofa in the sitting room, rubbed his hands over his face.
‘Let me make ya comfortable,’ I said.
‘No, Bridget. I’ll look after Father.’ Lizzie was there behind me, hands clasped in front of her. ‘Why don’t you go upstairs and rest?’
‘Okay,’ I said. ‘Call out when ya need me.’