‘Jolyon—’
‘And now look what has happened! The loss of your child. It would be unnatural if it did not shake you up. There is no shame, you know, in receiving help. Just a little something to steady your nerves, reanimate your spirit.’
‘I know that.’ She set her cup down on its saucer. ‘But it’s quite unnecessary. Please do not waste your money. I’ve dealt with things like this all my life.’ He opened his mouth to speak, but she got there first. ‘This is what happens to me, Jo. I trust people and they abuse that trust. It is time I pulled myself together and learnt from it.’ She realised she was shaking. Hurriedly, she folded her hands in her lap.
‘At least,’ he said gently, sitting forward in his chair, ‘accept some help in “pulling yourself together”. It is my duty, Elsie, as your brother, to look after you. You are so brave that I often forget you are a member of the fairer sex. You were not built to withstand these things.’
She sat on her retort, because she knew it would hurt him. At twenty-three he wanted to feel grown, the man in charge.
‘You have already discharged that duty.’
‘No, I have not.’ His brow contracted – he was serious, now. ‘I am worried for you, Elsie. We need to be careful. After . . .’ He struggled for a moment, his throat working. ‘After what happened with Ma.’
Her eyes locked on his: his hazel irises, flicking minutely from side to side, and the shrinking pupils. But she could not pierce deep enough. He gave nothing away.
She realised she had forgotten to breathe. ‘Ma?’ she whispered.
‘Because of how she went at the end.’
‘You were too young to remember that.’
‘I assure you, I recall it vividly.’
How could she hide it – this unaccountable trembling in her fingers, the twitching deep in her bones? ‘I didn’t know. I am sorry for it, Jo. It was a terrible time. I would have spared you the memory.’
There was a long pause.
‘I remember,’ Jolyon said, carefully, ‘how bad she got. Seeing goblins and devils. And then, at the end, such terrible stuff. She used to whisper me over to her bed and accuse you of all sorts.’
‘Me?’
‘Oh, she was quite mad. I understood that, young as I was. But she was our mother, Elsie, and these things can be hereditary.’
Her face quivered back into life. ‘She had the typhus! A fever like that would send anyone off into Queer Street.’
‘Her confusion got worse with the typhus, but it didn’t start with it. You told me yourself. You said she’d been that way since Pa died.’
‘Yes. I did say that. Of course, the grief changed her. But she was not mad, exactly. At least, I don’t think so.’
Did people know when they were going insane? she wondered. Did they feel the weave of their mind ripping apart? Or was it like passing into a gentle dream-world? She would never know, for she and Ma had never discussed the subject. And if she were honest, back then, she did not care if Ma suffered – in fact, she rather desired it.
‘Is it worth taking the risk? Is it not better to see a doctor?’
A strange lethargy washed over her. What did Jolyon know about risks?
‘You cannot make the comparison, my dear Jo, but if you had known our parents better, you would realise that I do not share any characteristics with them.’ The old ache lodged in her throat. ‘Nothing, do you understand?’
‘You do, Elsie. You cannot help it. They are always with us, in our blood, in our very being. Whether we like it or not.’
She shuddered. ‘Yes. Yes, I suppose they are.’
Her heart was beating too fast. It made her eyes cloudy, her lips dry. A faint singing started up. She could not tell if it was her ears, or the women working outside.
Daylight sifted in through the smog, prying at the curtains and splashing the tea tray yellow. The moment it touched her knee she stood, abruptly. Her cup and saucer rattled.
Jolyon stared up at her.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. She pressed a hand to her forehead. It was slick with sweat. ‘Forgive me, Jo. I’ve come over terribly unwell. I think I had better go and lie down.’
January passed into a raw, wet February with wind shrieking over the factory buildings, blowing smoke from the chimney in a diagonal stream. Elsie scarcely noticed the days go by. Whether it was the sleeping draughts prescribed by Jolyon’s doctor or the red lavender tincture she took in her wine every evening, she felt a sense of cushioned well-being, detached from day-to-day cares.
She made rounds of the factory, but she had no real responsibilities. She could idle past the dipping room and watch the boys paddling a phosphorescent mixture on the stove. Frigid gusts of wind carried the fumes up over the gates and out into the thicker smog of London. Occasionally her nostrils found snatches of the sulphurous odour, but it did not trouble her as it used to do. The scent was a pinprick, a little jolt, rather than a knife blade.
When it grew too cold to peer through steamed-up windows, she would enter the factory proper, where the splints were made. Here she moved and breathed freely, a fish put back in water. The steam, the whirr of the machinery, the woodchips and factory chatter were all as familiar to her as Jolyon’s voice. She looked down on her employees, dashing to and fro, and the seething glitter of the saw, and felt she had been resuscitated. Brought back to life.
By March she was restored and had begun to mentor the three young girls she had rescued from Fayford.
‘Here,’ Elsie said to the smallest, a little girl with freckles who was struggling to tie up her bundle. ‘Take this measure and put it under the spout. Each one is designed to hold eighteen hundred splints. That will be just the right amount for your bundle.’
The girl’s friend looked alarmed at the prospect of having to count to so great a number, but Elsie helped her while the freckled girl darted off, teaching her the best knot to secure the bundle with.
‘I used to do this myself,’ she smiled, ‘when I was your age.’ Of course she was not as dexterous, these days, with her scarred hands.
The girl did not reply, though it was evident from her face that she did not believe a word of it. Perhaps it was odd, for the owner’s daughter to labour amongst the employees, but Pa said you didn’t know a factory until you had worked it. As far as Elsie could recall, that was the only truly useful thing Pa had ever said.
When Elsie walked away from the girls, she noticed her shoes left prints on the floor, like a person walking in sand. Machinery whirred and splints sprayed into the trough, casting forth a nimbus of dust. The freckled girl from Fayford coughed. Gradually, the dust cleared. And just like that, Elsie’s footsteps were gone.