Chapter Two
My name was scored off from the hospitals register on a scorching day nearing the end of June. I was released straight after I had cleared away my things, got dressed, packed my suitcase, and most importantly, packed away the only memory I had left of my son; his little penguin teddy.
When I held it, I brushed my nose against the face of the penguin. Inhaling the scent of it, I could still smell the aroma of complete youthfulness from my boy. It took all I had not to cry. I didn't want to cry, because if I did then the sisters would claim that I was suffering from the Baby Blues again, even when I wasn't. And anyway! if I did cry, it would've been because they had taken my child from me, giving me no authority whatsoever. With that specific thought inside my mind, I still didn't cry. Not yet. To be honest I think I hadn't any cries left in me... now. I wept the remaining of them that very morning.
I remember thinking, when I had finally discharged myself out from the hospital altogether, "What am I to do now?"
I repeated my question in my mind straight after Mr. Crookston said farewell to me, which comprised of a tender and lingering goodbye embrace. I was surprised by such human contact – I had only expected a quick good-bye hug – but deep down it made me feel warm.
Then, alone, I had momentarily told myself that nobody would have come to collect me, but astonishingly, I was greeted by my mother. She was waiting in an impatient manner next to a taxi with opened doors.
Her approach to me was her most famous grimace of disgrace. The muscles were working hard beneath the flesh around her throat — showing her thin features most conspicuously — and when I stood before her more closely, her lips bore backwards from her teeth as if she was inhaling a ghastly scent of some kind.
"Get in!" Mother ordered. I had stupidly hesitated about getting into the taxi for I was scared of the woman who stood before me. I was scared of her for the very reason that she was the woman who ruined my life and took my son from me. Mother, always having been a very quick and observant woman, never disregarded my hesitation. Her eyebrows made an unusual effort as if to get lost up behind her fringe while she ordered me more strictly, for the second time, to get inside of the taxi. Being the obedient daughter I once was, I got in, soon followed by my mother, who grudgingly sat in the back-seat of the taxi next to me. Saying that she sat next to me would have been underestimating it though, for she sat so far away from me, touching the window with her elbow, that her breath imprinted against the glass. It was as if I had some transmittable infection. Some contagious, sinful disease! I sighed inwardly, whilst the taxi driver threw my suitcase into the boot and began driving. He started humming along to the smooth voice of Rosemary Clooney singing on the radio. I wished that I could have sang along too, but I couldn't. I knew the lyrics and all, but I just couldn't. I guess I wasn't in the singing mood to be honest. But it was no wonder, though.
* * *
We drove for what felt like hours. When I sat behind the passenger seat, which was on the left side of the taxi, my head was ironed against the cold glass of the window, like mothers. I couldn't focus correctly. The scenery of the city and then the countryside fled by disregarded. All I could do was observe, making sure I analysed everything; every sing detail and movement within the car in such nervousness that I was close to passing out. I observed from my mother that she reacted to me as if I were scum, a murderer, a rapist, a foreigner, a thief, or even worse in her books — an atheist. That was my own mother thinking of me as those horrible things. I observed from the never-ending journey that with each movement the car made, more blood flowed out from me. The pad which I was wearing, invented to soak up the blood, was preventing any spillage. Even then I could still feel it. It was so ghastly. Mr. Crookston said it should be stopped no later than Wednesday, two days from now. I then observed, when the taxi at long last came to a halt, that the meter reached four pound and five shillings, which was rather expensive during the age of the early 50's.
I felt the taxi driver slam the breaks down, causing me to slide forward. But I stopped myself from bashing my head against the chair in front by blocking it out with my arms. Wherever we were going, we had arrived. Or, in fact, I will rephrase that now: wherever I was getting sent to, I had arrived.
It was only a minute after the taxi driver jumped out and took my suitcase from his boot, when my mother launched out from the car too, slamming the door behind her. Quivering, I followed her steps and tried to take a firm hold of my old, lily-livered suitcase.
When I fully closed the taxis black door, I turned around and looked ahead. We were parked outside a brownish, two-leveled house that had a chapel and a yard for its neighbour. The taxi was parked on a murky, cobbled road. The house in front of me, which had an immaculately polished, white door — two windows on the bottom, three on the top and a small circular one near the chimney — was near enough the only brown house. The other, constructed replica's trailing from the browns' left and right side were either a bland black or white colour. Everything was quite simple and somewhat bleak; as if I just stepped into a world which was untouched by colour. Maybe colour had felt what I was feeling, and ran away.
The flagged road which I was standing on was the cause of separation between the houses and the fells. The street looked so refined, but at the same time it appeared to be cramped. That was, putting aside, the little solitary cottage at the end, which was situated on a curve that led on to the open fells and woodlands. Behind the cottage; the view was most promising. For shadowing the cottage were rivulets and stretches off heather on the fells, with trees billowing beneath the distance of the hoary, achromatic sky.
"Move!'" mother hissed, breaking up my train of thoughts. I blinked, then moved forward.
I followed my mother instinctively up a small, coarsely groomed path, which was surrounded by a white-spiked fence and gate like the others. When my mother knocked on the white door with her satin black gloves, I looked up at a random window that was on the second floor. Eight eyes were peering down at me from behind thin, white drapes. Of a sudden my nerves began to arouse again, and my heart beat paced faster. A moment later, I heard the sound of keys clattering. Making sure mother was unaware, I looked at her for a few seconds. She was fashioned in her most refined looking clothes like always; her Sunday finery. She looked so out of place here compared to her mansion back home.
"Oh!" gasped a female voice. Mother grinned as the door pulled back further. "I've been waiting on you, Eliza! It's never like you to be late."
A lady, who was small, thin, and fairly attractive for being in her mid-forties, led the two of us into her home. I left my suitcase abandoned near the door. The front door led me straight into an convenient-sized living room, which connected to the kitchen and led on to the scullery. Beneath the archway there was a saying inscribed deep into the mahogany wood, saying: "For dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return."
I shivered.
"Sit down, Eliza — please!"
The black haired and grey eyed woman gestured her skeleton-like hands towards the sofa; I remember pointing out to myself how this woman before me was verging emaciation. She looked so ill; more colourless than even myself.
Hastily I followed at mother’s heels, as would a lap dog might, towards a long, grey sofa which was adjacent to a bland fireplace. Behind the sofa there was a foreign crafted table and chair resting against a lean, starved bookshelf. It looked like a place someone, most notably a child, would use for studying. When I sat down, again about two feet away from mother, I studied the room. Each mahogany shelf, which was almost everywhere and anywhere, all proudly withheld an elegant-looking ornament on them.
As I listened to the low, relentless voices of mother and the small woman exchanging words, I stared intensely at a heavy looking vase that was in front of the window. Squinting my eyes, I saw that there was a horse whip pouring over the china plated rim, along with some black and red rosary beads. Ah, ha! I sneered to myself; that explained the chapel next door. What better way for mother to punish me than to send me to be condemned inside, what I guessed to be, a Priest's home. She had left me in the hands of God, like she threatened to do to me at the beginning of my pregnancy. After all, her last words to me before I went into labour were, God deals with the wicked in the same way he deals with all those who sin. God will make no exception to you, Molly Taylor! In time you will get your comeuppance, just you wait, Madame.
"Girl go and prepare some tea for your mother!" The woman started. "She's had a long journey."
My mouth fell into an elongated O shape. It was like she was testing my capability skills. I stared at the small and thin woman, analysing her quite a lot. She could have been described as being a beautiful woman, though she was no spring chicken, around mid-forties I'd have said, Her hair was like black plaster by way it was drawn back from her face and clipped into a firm bun at the nape of her neck. The way she pulled back her hair had seemingly pulled back the skin away from her face and stretched her cheek bones even wider than what they already were.
"Yes, Mistress." I said, my lips twirling up into a slightly derisive smile. Before I went into the kitchen, I heard the woman mutter to mother that now she knew what mother meant, saying, "I see what you mean"
Groaning, I stepped into the kitchen. It was an overly spacious room, about the same size of the living-room. The kitchen had some bunkers linking together, with all the average kitchen facilities. Her kitchen was no homely one though; old cook back home used to tell me that the kitchen was always the heart of ones house. This kitchen was definitely not the heart of this house. (I was in the latter to find out that my new mistress had no heart for that matter.) This kitchen was dirty, but not cleanliness wise. The only light being drawn into the room was from a huge window which stood above the sink, layered with white curtains. In the middle of the kitchen there I saw a long and wide dining table that had six empty, silhouetting chairs. I walked down three steps, through the walk-in cupboard, and entered the scullery. And, like any other scullery, it was about medium size and had a sink also, which, of course, was used to peel potatoes and such. A scullery was nothing new to me. I used to hide in mine back home with Zackary's father while the cook tossed us things to peel or dice. It was during those times when cook taught me how to prepare food myself.
Eventually I found the kettle. It wasn't in the scullery like I had quite foolishly predicted. It was on a shelf inside the walk-in cupboard which lead down to the scullery, right beneath the larder.
The kettle whistled like a train arriving at his destination. Dutifully I collected it, poured the water over the teabag, but before I could even pick the mug up, mother stalked into the clearing of the kitchen, halting near the table and the woman froze behind her, holding her concentration together with her folded arms. What now?
It seemed to be a full two minutes until anybody spoke, but before that happened, mother and I stared at each other very powerfully for a while. Like always, mother stared at me in clear disgust. It was that identifiable look of hers which triggered off my insanity from within me. At any minute I was going to explode, and my lips were going to part and I was going to say something that I had been holding back on for eight whole months. It was quite strange though, for about eight minutes ago, I had almost been terrified by these two women, but then mother finally spoke. No longer was I going to bite my tongue. I was not the compliant little girl she always took granted for.
Like many of the times before, mother spoke pompously of her knowledge from the Bible, trying to put the fear of God in me. Like that was ever going to happen.
"When one sins, Molly, they become known to be lawlessness. Sin corrupts ones soul and smothers it with lawlessness. You are, which is known to be, sheerly lawless!" Mother brought out her long, slender hand and began pointing. "In the eyes of our Lord your soul has been blackened by the Devil. There is no going back — you're no child of mine! Your sin is unforgivable in my eyes. After all the things your grandmother and I taught you to avoid as a child... It is I who will have to pay for this with my dignity back home. I've had to dismiss half my staff due to the circumstances involving that slave boy! Therefore I find it only fair that I be the one to punish you... But by punish you I mean for you to learn your mistakes through scrubbing these very floors." She pointed her fingers down towards the tiles beneath our shoes. "I mean for you to see your sinful reflection upon these sodden tiles. I mean for you to be punished as a slave would be! Slaves have to obey their earthly masters with a deep respect and fear. They have to serve them sincerely as they would serve Christ. You will serve Ms. Harrington, here, as you would serve the Lord Himself. You will, in the end, be grateful for your punishment!" Her voice was truly non-descriptive, yet in comparison her face wasn't; it was that exact expression she used to pull when mother's sister came visiting, and they would bring their new-born baby. This expression was once highlighted to it's capacity when she held her infant niece who then vomited over her. It was her great moue of disgust; or her grimace of disgrace.
"I've done nothing wrong apart from bringing my creation into existence! You can sweep everything under the carpet, mother, but you can't throw away the evidence, and you will never be able to get rid of the existence; the existence of my child!" I took in a deep breath before shouting, "He will always be my son!"
Mother began to look as if she was struggling with something, as if somebody had just slit her throat. Her hands were around her neck, tightly caressing the flesh there. My hands, however, were clenched by my side. My knuckles, like peroxide bones, were sticking up from beneath my skin. My face, accentuated, was red. An ornate red, as if I were about to shatter into paroxysms. The redness of my face was reflected from inside mother's eyes. There was a deepening madness about her when we exchanged grimaces, and there was also an escalating madness within Ms. Harrington's eyes, too.
Mother choked a few times while exchanging a couple of glances with the astonished woman who I was now to live with and work for. Slave for!
"Do you see what I had to and still have to put up with? This girl... she is no girl at all! How she can stand there and lie to us so upfront I will never know. But be warned Molly, lying lips are an abomination to the Lord, and to commit such a felony as you did and to now react in such a way — it's just undignified! It's people like you which encouraged the Nazi's!"
"You, girl! Go up those stairs there!"Cried the small woman who was nodding along in agreement with mother whilst glaring at me. "And you wait until your suitcase is brought up to you so you can unpack! I will call you down shortly after your mother has overcome her shock!" With that being ordered, the woman yanked my body sideways, causing me to stumble towards a narrow staircase that towered up by the doors and looked never-ceasing.
But I soon realised that it wasn’t never-ceasing, for when I lingered on the last step, there was an unpolished mahogany door in front of me. I hesitated before entering, but when I did, I was taken aback slightly by the grisly smell of dust and wood decay. It was sickening, but after hearing a door bang from downstairs, I scurried into the middle of the small attic room, and without delay, I closed the door behind my trembling body and stared at my surroundings from inside the low-ceilinged room. There was an uninviting metallic bed placed against a dusty and unfinished wall, which looked as if it was merely nailed up by floorboards. Then, next to the bed, there was a filthy looking yellow cabinet that I figured I could have put my essentials into and across from the bed, which had a distance of about eight feet, there was a worn-down, oak wardrobe with a obscured mirror placed against the wood. I turned and faced the mirror.
"Welcome to your new home, Molly." I said to myself, soon followed by a prayer up to God, wishing I were dead. It was during that prayer when my skin started to crawl in dismay. I had prayed up to God for him not to let them take Zack away from me, yet, I was deceived and he was taken from me anyway. It was then when I vowed that no longer would I pray up to God or keep up with my faith. My faith was quite dead to me starting from then on, as well as my previous life.
* * *
It was around 3 o'clock that afternoon when the word girl was shouted from downstairs. I had unpacked and was in the middle of using an old sock to dust my new room, when suddenly I became immobile, and listened to the echoing voice. Five minutes later I heard the voice roar the word girl for the second time. It was then when I rose from the floor and scurried down the creaky stairs.
When I descended from the last one, I held my practiced slow pacing and walked forward a little. I stopped at the nearing of the sofa where four children were sat and across from them was Ms. Harrington. In the mistresses shadow there was a smallish man, silently brooding. His attention was brought forth when I looked at him. He was wearing a black cassock, with his clerical collar visible. I, of course, immediately recognised him to be a priest.
"These, here, are my children. Your future. You will tend to them; their needs not their wants. You will wash, clean, cook and whatever else is needed up until 10 o 'clock at night which is when you will be excused." The woman stopped, and, noticing the presence of the priest, she said, "This is Father Harrington, my deceased husband's elder brother. He is the rightful priest for the chapel, but he still finds it his obligation to live here in the process of his journey to his forthcoming parishes. You will tend to our needs also, and you will ask NO questions at all, not a single one! What goes on within these four walls will stay in my house at all times, and you will speak only when you are spoken to. Keep your soiled trap closed from now on! Now that is it. You may go back up to your room, but be up sharp tomorrow.,, Awake at half past five, you'll begin your duties then."
"Yes, Mistress." I grumbled, bowing my refusing head. Then, as if my body was under her control, my legs trailed themselves upwards and into my new room which had the unfortunate equivalent of a dog's shelter.