The Lost Boy
‘Did you bring the child?’ asked Mrs Sidney. ‘Yes,’ I replied, and folded back the edge of the blanket wrapping the small bundle I was carrying, so she could see the head of the little baby in my arms. ‘Dead, is he?’ she asked, looking suspicious. ‘No, of course he’s not, he’s fast asleep.’ But I brushed my hand against his face, to feel for warmth, to make quite sure. ‘I gave him Godfrey’s cordial.’ ‘Ah,’ said Mrs Sidney, grinning like a ghoul and baring blackened, rotten teeth. ‘I well remember using Godfrey’s—it’s every mother’s friend. Sarah-Anne, we don’t have time to gossip like a pair of fishwives. We’d best get down to Limehouse, where he’s waiting, and he don’t care for waiting.’ So off we went, clacking across the cobbles in our pattens, twitching our heavy skirts away from piles of rotting rubbish that lay strewn across the pavements, waiting for the scavengers who never seemed to come to this decrepit part of London. A week ago, I had been so relieved when Mrs Sidney called at the back kitchen door, summoned there by Betsy, saying she had heard there was a woman heavy with a child, and did the woman need her help? I needed help, most certainly I did—I should have sought it earlier, much earlier, and I would have done, had I not been afraid of being taken up for murder and hanged up like a dog. Mrs Kemp, my mistress, was elderly and wandering in her wits, but wasn’t deaf Page | 1
or blind. So, even though I laced myself so tight that I could hardly breathe, it must have been quite obvious that I was getting fatter by the day. The other servants proved to be my friends, and I thanked God for Betsy who delivered him, with me lying on the scullery floor. We were terrified he’d start to cry, but he didn’t murmur, he didn’t make a sound. ‘Do you want to see?’ she asked. Oh God, of course I did! I longed to see him, with all my breaking heart. But I turned away and stuffed my knuckles in my mouth, determined to be as quiet as he had been. The seven long days that passed since then tore at my soul. So tiny, he seemed to lack the strength to cry, but even so every sound he made threatened us. I let him suckle long hours, for the quiet and for the simple joy of it, but when joy is tinged with such fear and sadness, it is tainted through and through. Now we picked our way towards my salvation—but what of his? What awaited him at Limehouse, where he would be delivered into the custody of Mr Vilms? My heart lifted for a moment as I saw that Vilms was accompanied by a lady, but her countenance showed no sign of any feeling but of contempt. She took the child without a glance and held him slackly. ‘Do you go straightaway to the other gentleman?’ I asked. ‘That can be of no consequence to you,’ Vilms replied. I could feel my throat closing and tears splashed my shawl. ‘Now be sensible, Sarah-Anne,’ hissed Mrs Sidney. Her voice took on a wheedling tone to Vilms. ‘Has the gentleman spared me some return on the service I have rendered him?’ Vilms handed her a small cloth bag, and turning, pushed the lady and my boy ahead of him, and together they vanished from our sight. I will not speak of the hours that followed or the journey back. I suppose that Mrs Sidney meant well, but she is world-weary and can be harsh where she intends a kind of comfort.
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It was another nine days before I had an evening’s rest from work. Still weak from my delivery, I was bone tired. But I must return to Limehouse. Each day my mind told me one thing while my sense told me another. He was gone, but I had not let him go. Each evening I was not needed in the kitchen, my steps led me back there, and each time there was nothing but the usual commerce and squalor that attends that place. Until one evening as I neared the corner where we had parted, I recognised the lady, the one who I had last seen reluctantly holding my child. I hesitated for no more than a second before approaching her and gently catching her arm. ‘Excuse me, ma’am, but can you give me news of the child?’ The lady looked at my hand as though it would contaminate her and I quickly withdrew it. ‘Please, Ma’am, if you can give me any news at all’. She lifted her gaze from the sleeve of her blouse and, for the briefest of moments, caught my gaze. Then she turned her head away and whispered ‘What child, how do you presume to speak to me?’ I felt a cold fear grip me but I had to press on. ‘The little boy that Mrs Sidney and I gave to you and Mr Vilms four weeks ago.’ I had been mistaken. I had not handed my beloved to a lady, for this woman had no benevolence or decency. She turned from me, searching the distance for someone and said, ‘I do not know what you are talking about. You are clearly insane and if you persist in bothering me I shall see you end up in Bedlam. Harris, Harris come here, I need your protection.’ I saw a muscular, thick set man dressed in the garb of a carriage driver and carrying a whip respond to her call and hurry towards her. I thought that my heart would break, but I knew that I could not linger to make the acquaintance of Mr Harris. I turned and ran. I paid no heed to where I was going and did not stop until my lungs were screaming in my chest, echoing the screaming in my heart. I slumped to the ground on the steps of a large church and wept. My child was gone to scoundrels. The full extent of my own villainy overwhelmed me. Page | 3
It felt like an eternity, that I sat on those steps. The cold wind howled around my boots and grabbed at my hair. I found myself seeking refuge there time and time again, in an attempt to escape the drudgery of the kitchen... and my harsh everyday reality... yet too afraid of holy condemnation to enter the church building itself. The bells tolled and the wind blew, and time passed, days into months, and months into years. One particularly bleak night on the steps of the church, as I sat wrapped in misery, I felt the wind lessen and an arm being placed around my frail body. I looked up, and found myself looking into the dark pooled eyes of the vicar. I know it was him, for he wore long robes and a kindly expression. He motioned me down the steps of the church, and I stumbled along behind him down a winding path to the vicarage. I felt the warmth rush through my veins as we entered the cottage. He had coal he did. His wife was sitting stoking the fire. I stood awkwardly by the door, waiting. As I stood, I noticed movement in the corner of the warm, yet ill-lit room. My eyes fastened on a young boy, moving about in the shadows. A small kitten was clawing at his trouser pants. My heart pounded noisily against my ribcage. The child was of eight years of age if not more. He was of slight build, but swarthy complexion. My heart sank. It was not my baby. Yet I felt a swell of questions bubbling up. Was there a connection? For what purpose had I been brought here? I turned and looked at the vicar, who was watching me intently...
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