‘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
