Break Your Chains Page 2

  She stirs and calls your name in a hoarse voice. You’re by her side in an instant, holding a cup of water to her cracked lips.

  ‘You’re going to be all right, Ma,’ you assure her, hoping she won’t notice the tremble in your voice. ‘Danny O’Reilly, he … well, he had what you have, and he’s fit as a fiddle now.’

  Your ma manages a weak smile. Both of you know that Danny was one of the only people back home in Kilkenny to survive the last outbreak of smallpox, which took the lives of dozens of others. But where there’s life, you reason, there’s hope. There must be.

  ‘I want you to go and stay with Mrs Raeburn down the road,’ she whispers. ‘If it’s my time to go, then may the Lord take me home – but it’s not your time. I can’t have you catching it too.’

  ‘But Ma,’ you burst out, ‘who’s going to look after you?’

  ‘Just go till I’m better,’ she whispers. ‘I can take care of myself all right.’

  Your ma can barely stand up – so how’s she going to take care of herself if you go? No way, you think. I’m here for her, smallpox be damned. But then again, you reason, you’re not going to be of much help to her if you catch it too. At least if you stay healthy, you can bring in a little money, sell your bracelet if need be, help her to stay off her feet a while longer while she recovers. If she recovers.

  Ma’s eyes have closed again. You settle yourself down on the floor beside her to think, and while you are thinking, you unpick the hem of your petticoat and slip the bracelet into the hem, then sew it back up. Whatever comes next, you know that you must follow the lady’s instructions: keep it close. Keep it secret. Only use it when you must – and don’t give it up until you understand its true meaning … whatever that is.

  Perhaps there’s a cure for the smallpox here in London, you think wildly, knowing deep down that if there were, you’d have heard of it. One that only the rich can buy. I can sell this bracelet to save Ma – that can be its purpose! Your mind is like a sparrow trapped indoors, beating at the windows for a way out.

  Your ma opens her blue eyes, the same summer-sky shade as your own. She seems to have summoned some of her fighting spirit, because she props herself up on one elbow. ‘Out with you,’ she says fiercely.

  ‘Down the street to Mrs Raeburn’s – that’s an order! Now go, you damn foolish girl!’

  But you can see she’s shaking with the effort, and there’s a tearing feeling in your heart that you know too well: the same feeling you had when Erin died; when they took Da away. The feeling of grief rolling in like a storm.

  If you leave to stay with Mrs Raeburn and look for a cure, go to scene 5.

  If you stay to care for your ma, despite the risk of catching smallpox yourself, go to scene 2.

  To read a fact file on smallpox click here, then return to this page to make your choice.

  You grit your teeth. You’re not used to defying your ma, but you know it’s the right thing to do.

  ‘Don’t be daft,’ you tell her. ‘You’re weak as a cat, and I’m staying here. I’m putting on some soup.’

  Your ma collapses back on the bed, too drained to fight you. Your little one-room home fills with the smell of boiling onions – almost good enough to drown out the stench of the nearby cesspools and the stink of your ma’s sweaty skin.

  Dinner isn’t much, just onion, salt, water and a little potato. Ma manages to drink a bit before slipping back into sleep. Her breath, and the sound of passing horses’ hooves, become the only sounds to be heard on this damp night.

  It’s not long after dinner, as you scrub the pot, that you begin to feel a little strange. The first thing that you notice is that your back’s throbbing, as though you’ve been carrying bricks all day. Then a headache starts up at the back of your head, as if someone has slammed an axe into it. The last thing you remember thinking is, I’m so cold…

  You wake up staring at the water-stained ceiling of your home. Your throat feels enormous. You’re on the floor… how did you get onto the floor? The fire’s gone out. It hurts to roll over.

  ‘Erin,’ you moan. ‘Erin?’

  Erin’s gone, some dim part of your brain tells you. She died in childbirth, remember? You don’t want to remember. You just want to sleep.

  A hundred flies are landing on you, and their feet are on fire. Your skin is erupting and swelling like sticky pudding on a burning pot. Dirt and drizzle, ash and prickles … the maid is in the parlour, eating bread and honey. Day, night, dim, bright. You’re so hot, your throat is a burnt field. Blackbirds baked in a pie.

  You awaken who knows how much later to the sound of rocks being thrown against your door.

  ‘Get away from it, Jimmy, or I’ll tan your hide!’ screeches a voice.

  ‘Aw, there’s no harm in it, Ma – they’re dead. She and her ma both. Me and Douglas peeked in and saw them. Dead as dormice, they are!’

  ‘And you want to be dead too? No? Then stay away from there!’

  There is one last rock – bang – and then footsteps patter away. It’s cold. You look around, bewildered. You see a dried-up patch of scum on the floor and vaguely remember vomiting. Your body is stiff as an old rag, and your skin – oh, dear God, it looks like someone has been walking up and down your body with red-hot nails sticking from their boots. It hurts to breathe, but you are alive, and the fever has passed, so it seems you will live.

  Ma?

  Panic flashes through you, sudden as lightning. You crawl to her. She’s rigid as a board, and cold.

  You pull the blanket up over your ma’s face, feeling giddy and numb, your heartbeat pounding in your ears. You notice the scrubbing brush still in the pot. You can’t take in any more. All the blood feels as though it’s swirling away from your head. Your limbs start to tingle, and you faint on the floor.

  You wake at dawn to somebody pounding on your door. ‘Open up! That’s an order!’

  You get to your feet, feeling stronger than before. Just before you make it to the door, though, you hear the same voice say, ‘Seems they’re right – nobody alive in there. Same as the last house, poor blighters.’

  You open the door to the astonished face of a constable who was, it seems, preparing to break your door down with one shoulder.

  ‘I’m alive,’ you croak, watching the horror spread over his face as he takes in the sight of you. ‘Ma’s dead, though.’

  A lump rises in your throat as you say it aloud for the first time. May the Lord take me home, you remember her voice saying, and tears prick at your eyes.

  ‘You’re naught but a child,’ he observes. ‘Where’s the rest of your family?’

  You hang your head. ‘I only had the one sister, and she died. My da’s in prison. He’s a good man, though,’ you add hastily. ‘He just—’

  ‘He’s pure as the virgin snow, I’m sure,’ drawls the constable. You’re not sure what he means by that, but you don’t like the tone of his voice. ‘Right then, milady, it’s off to the poorhouse with you.’

  ‘What?’ Shock floods your veins. You’ve heard rumours of the poorhouses, packed to the rafters with orphans, the unwanted human detritus of London: they’re not much more than storage houses for cheap labour, and they’re pits of crime and disease. ‘I can’t go there! I’m staying here!’

  ‘Like hell you are. This property don’t belong to you, miss, and you don’t have a choice in the matter.’

  But that’s the thing – you do have a choice. It wasn’t your choice to survive the smallpox, nor your ma’s to die from it, but you’ve got your life now, and where there’s life, you tell yourself again, there’s hope. There must be.

  If you shut the door in the constable’s face and lock him out, go to scene 3.

  If you try to slip past the constable and into the street, go to scene 4.

  Bang! You slam the door in the constable’s face before you have enough time to think about the world of trouble you might get into. This is your home, and no one’s going to take it from you.

  Yo
u hear a roar, and look down to see four fat, pink fingers wedged in the door. The constable must have put his hand out to stop you, and you have slammed the door shut on it. You’re in for it now.

  There is a splintering crash as he kicks the door open, and you retreat to the corner of the room as he advances on you, his face pink as a boiled ham, clasping his broken fingers and swearing like a trooper.

  ‘You bloody vermin! Poorhouse too good for you, eh? Thought you’d prefer a quick trip with a short stop? That’s what you’ll get, then, and may the devil take you!’

  Your heart is in your mouth – he means to hang you by the neck! In front of all those onlookers at the gallows, who watch and jeer and laugh.

  With his good hand, the constable grabs you by the collar. You wriggle, but he’s too strong. ‘Take me to the poorhouse, please!’ you beg. Even there would be better than gaol.

  ‘Too late for that now,’ snarls the constable. ‘But you won’t have to worry, my pet,’ he goes on. ‘They tie the ladies’ legs together before they fall, so that no one can see your knickers flashing while you kick and die like a fish on a hook! Oh, it’ll be a proper dignified death you’re going to, for assaulting a constable at work!’

  The last thing you see as you’re dragged from your home is Ma’s body lying covered on the bed, and right now you almost wish you’d died of smallpox in your own home too – better than the terrifying prospect of the gallows in front of Newgate Prison.

  In this matter you have no choice. Go to scene 12.

  You duck, and then wriggle past the constable’s knee and through the doorway, dodging his thick arms. The constable blows a shrill whistle behind you and gives chase. Your bare feet slap the cobblestones, and some local boys laugh and point as you streak down the street. You’re still weak from the smallpox, but you’re amazed at how fast you can go once fear starts pumping through your veins.

  As you glance behind you, you hear a soft thump and your world goes white. Suddenly, you are lying on the ground, entangled in somebody’s wet washing. You hear angry shrieks from the washerwoman and the huffing of the guard as he closes in on you and grabs you by the scruff of your neck. The local boys are laughing fit to wet themselves. You murder them with your eyes as you are dragged away.

  You feel small as an ant as you are led up to the face of the poorhouse, which towers above you like a red cliff, its small windows reflecting the grey sheen of the sky.

  You’re thrown into a room with some other young women, who sit around a pile of old rope, unrolling and teasing out the fibres with their fingertips. Some of them have a blank look in their eyes, as if they’ve lived a thousand years on earth and nothing would surprise them anymore. Others seem bright and almost obstinately cheerful, commenting and laughing as they work. They’ve still got a bit of the fighting spirit in them, Ma would say.

  You think of Ma’s bright eyes, determined to the last. I won’t let this place beat me, you think.

  ‘Well, would you look at this lambkin. A strong wind would blow her away!’ says the nearest woman.

  ‘Tsk, her face is a sight, though – enough pox scabs on the lass to frighten the grim reaper,’ laughs another. ‘We’d give you some oatmeal for your skin, girl – only we ate it all!’

  You know you look a sight. You may have survived the smallpox, but your face is still knobbly with sores. You wish you did have some oatmeal to soothe the itchy scabs.

  A girl who introduces herself as Annie – a tough, cheeky sort, with a dimple in her chin – shows you the work for the day. You must unwind and pick apart chunks of the old rope. The bosses will then take the rope fluff – oakum – to sell to the shipyards, where it will be jammed between joints in ships’ hulls to stop them from leaking. ‘So this old bit of oakum,’ laughs Annie, ‘will see more of the world than we poor girls ever will!’

  At first it seems boring, but easy: just unwind the rope into smaller and smaller threads until you have a fluffy, fibrous mass that reminds you of Da’s unruly beard. After three hours, however, it’s still boring, but certainly not easy. The tiny, tough rope fibres slice your fingertips. The room is filled with fluff and dust, and the oakum irritates your skin. Your fingernails fill with blood, and blisters pop up on your hands.

  By dinnertime, your hands are such a wreck you can’t hold a spoon to eat, but instead have to lift the bowl of gruel to your mouth and swallow. Bed is some wooden planks and a rough blanket. The next day is more of the same.

  For the first couple of days, it’s a shock to wake up and find yourself in the workhouse – but the grim, repetitive days just keep coming, and you soon find yourself retreating into your own faraway thoughts. The life you shared in Kilkenny with Ma, Da and Erin now seems like a distant, pretty dream.

  ABOUT A WEEK after your arrival, a lady comes to the poorhouse. A fine lady she is, too, with button-up boots of leather, a crisp skirt that makes a shushing sound as she walks, and a parasol in her hand. She introduces herself as Madam Miriam, and says she runs a school to train young girls to be maids in rich men’s houses.

  You imagine yourself holding a steaming plate of golden roast potatoes in your hands, serving them to the master’s dark wooden table with its gleaming cutlery and starched napkins. All the other girls get stars in their eyes too. You suddenly know that you will give anything on God’s green earth to convince Madam Miriam that you are the most impeccably mannered, thoughtful, righteous, hard-working and obedient girl in that poorhouse. You are going to Madam Miriam’s maid school.

  In an instant, it all comes true. Madam Miriam chooses you! And so you find yourself whisked out of the poorhouse by the side of this fine, good-smelling lady.

  But, as your ma used to say, If something seems too good to be true, then it probably is. Down an alleyway, through the back door of a tavern, behind a red velvet curtain you trot, wide-eyed, like a lamb to the slaughter, only realising when you see a man with black teeth and a knife that this is no school for girls.

  ‘This is our thieves’ den, pretty girl,’ says ‘Madam Miriam’, unbuttoning her jacket and shaking it off to reveal her tattooed arms. She suddenly switches back to the upper-class accent she used to fool the owner of the poorhouse: ‘And you’ll join us as a pickpocket from now on, or I’ll have your throat slit and your body dumped in the Thames. Isn’t that right, Earl?’

  The black-toothed man just snickers.

  ‘You’re to be the amuser’s accomplice,’ Madam Miriam continues, ‘on account of you looking so sweet and innocent. Earl here, the amuser, will throw snuff into someone’s face, to make them cough and sneeze, and then you run to their aid, patting them on the back, helping them find their hanky, and helping yourself to their wallet. You bring that wallet right back here to dear Uncle Earl and Aunty Miriam. Then we might get you a lovely roast dinner – can’t say fairer than that, now, can we? Unless you’d prefer to dine with the fishes?’ she leers.

  As the following week passes, and Miriam and Earl train you in how to be a thief – to slip your fingers into coat pockets, lift the contents swiftly, and conceal your pickings – you go over your options again and again in your mind. When your training is finished, you will be set loose on the streets of London as Earl’s apprentice.

  It would be a tough, dangerous life, but part of you quite likes the idea of evening the score a little: the poor taking something back from the rich. And if you stick with Miriam and Earl, you might learn a thing or two – and avoid them tossing you in the River Thames as a bonus.

  Or you could do a runner. You’re fast on your feet, and if you disappeared down a crowded street there’d be a good chance that bony, hunched Earl couldn’t keep up with you. From there, you could find yourself an honest job and a place to stay – although you could also find yourself back in the poorhouse.

  As the week draws to a close, Miriam announces that she’s satisfied with your training, and that tomorrow will be your first day of ‘work’. Now’s the time to make your decision.

  If yo
u choose to become a pickpocket for Miriam and Earl, turn to scene 10.

  If you choose to run away from them once you’re in a crowded street, turn to scene 11.

  To read a fact file on child pickpockets click here, then return to this page to make your choice.

  You leave your ma with tears in your eyes and a full cup of water by her bedside. The lady’s bracelet is secure in the hem of your petticoat, and your winter coat is drawn over your shoulders, though you can feel icy fingers of wind wriggling in through the holes. You drag your heart along the pavement behind you on a string, like some dirty, barely remembered toy.

  You work your way up to the high street. Night is falling, but you make your way to the apothecary’s lit window, clinging to your last forlorn hope, that with your bracelet you’ll buy Ma a cure for smallpox.

  The apothecary snorts. ‘Do you think little Prince Alfred would have died of smallpox if there were a cure? King Louis of France? Both of King William’s parents and his bleeding wife, pardon my language? And a little grub like you asks for a cure? Stop wasting my time and get out of my shop!’

  ‘Please,’ you beg him. ‘I may look poor, but I can pay. I’ve got something right here …’

  You reach for your petticoat and begin to lift the hem. He leers at you and you get a sudden, sick feeling in your stomach.

  Suddenly you’re backing out of the shop as fast as you can go, feeling furious. Of course there’s not a cure. But you’re sure that wouldn’t stop this horrid man from taking your precious bracelet from you. You resolve to keep the bracelet an absolute secret from now on, and never be tricked into parting with it.

  It’s dark and cold, and you decide you might as well try Mrs Raeburn’s for a place to stay, though you don’t know her well. When you arrive, however, she takes one look at you and slams the door in your face.