Widow Elphick shrugged and snorted. ‘I don’t be needing ’em opened—have you a-seen this?’ she said, suddenly whipping back the blankets from over her and raising her petticoat.
Harriet wanted to look away but the sight of the woman, entirely naked from the waist down was morbidly captivating. The amputation wound, covered with a strip of bloodstained bandage, was much higher than she had recalled from the night of the accident, running down up from the bottom of her nest of dark pubic hair.
Time seemed to thicken as both women became locked in a battle of wits.
Harriet, feeling sickened by the sight before her, raised her eyes to meet those of the rancorous lady.
It was Widow Elphick who broke the stalemate. She pulled the blankets back over herself and said, ‘You best get a-working then, girl.’ Another snort and she closed her eyes and turned her head, which Harriet took to be her cue to leave.
Harriet returned downstairs feeling nauseous and threw open the shutters. Despite the chilly February air, she cast open the parlour window, drawing in deep breaths and trying to clear her mind. ‘Come on, Harriet,’ she told herself. She pulled the window closed and set about cleaning the parlour fire before restocking it.
Having lit the fire, Harriet scooped a cup of water from the pail and carried it along with a bundle of kindling up to Widow Elphick’s bedroom. She tapped lightly on the door and proceeded inside, looking nervously at the old woman, who was either asleep or pretending to be. Either way, Harriet was happy to avoid any further confrontation. She placed the water beside her bed and set a small fire burning in the hearth.
Desperate to make a good impression, Harriet toiled hard for Widow Elphick; she mimicked her mother and swept up the sand on the wooden floors, before washing them and then reapplying fresh sand; she tidied and cleaned the kitchen, washed crockery and cutlery then set about making lunch.
‘Widow Elphick, I got you some food,’ Harriet whispered, as she crept into her bedroom.
Widow Elphick sat bolt upright. ‘If you be thinking of thieving my best silverware, you best be thinking again—I knows each and every piece of it—my Christopher shall be a-checking when he’s back tonight.’
‘I weren’t thinking that,’ Harriet said, offering her the plate. ‘It’s bread, ham and fleed cakes what I made.’
Widow Elphick eyed the plate suspiciously before leaning out to take it. ‘How be you a-knowing how to make fleed cakes?’
‘Ma showed me,’ Harriet answered, hoping that her resourcefulness had met with Widow Elphick’s approval. She watched and waited for her to take the first bite.
Widow Elphick looked up. ‘I don’t like being a-watched,’ she snarled and Harriet scuttled quickly towards the door. Just as her hand settled on the latch, Widow Elphick said, ‘Course, you might be a-brushing my hair.’
Harriet turned to face the old hag, who nodded towards the dresser beside the bed. She ventured over and picked up a hairbrush, instantly revolted by the mop of lank, greasy strands that hung limply from it like a decaying creature. Suppressing her repulsion, Harriet quickly tugged at the hair and tossed it into the fire, watching it being instantaneously devoured by the flames.
As Widow Elphick took her first bite of bread, Harriet began to carefully brush the woman’s hair.
‘Ouch!’ Widow Elphick cried with every stroke, food tumbling from her gummy mouth as she spoke. ‘You’ll have me bald as a gull be the end of lunch.’
Reluctantly placing her free hand on the oily head in front of her, Harriet continued to brush; Widow Elphick’s lamentations, along with her partially chewed emissions subsided until she set the plate down on her lap and closed her eyes. ‘I be jawled out; leave me be,’ she instructed.
Harriet grabbed the plate and scurried from the room, softly pulling the bedroom door shut behind her. At the top of the stairs, she closed her eyes and sighed. She knew at that moment that proving herself to be adult would be a lengthy and unpleasant process.
Harriet blew out the reed candle, jerking the room inside the shadows. ‘Goodnight,’ she said softly.
‘Hattie, I don’t be sleepy yet,’ Ann whispered from the darkness.
‘Close your eyes and sleep be a-coming soon enough,’ Harriet replied, herself exhausted.
From outside, the faint din of patrons hastening from the cold into the Black Horse began to filter through the shutters and Harriet wished that she were trusted enough to work there rather than to have to babysit her sisters.
Sitting down in front of the parlour fire, Harriet picked up her sewing and stared at it. She was in the middle of hemming a silk handkerchief but had no enthusiasm to complete it. At least, not now. Not this evening. Setting down the sewing, she walked over to the parlour window and peered through the thin shutter slats. Beguiling snatches of faceless people fleeted past—shawls and coats of all colours, leather shoes and hessian boots, breeches, pantaloons and trousers—all heading towards the warmth of the Priory Ground gin palace.
‘Curse it,’ she uttered defiantly, as she wandered over to the stairs. She peered up into the dark silence and listened. Nothing. Although she knew that silence didn’t mean that the girls were asleep. Navigating each step judiciously so as to avoid the inevitable rasps and moans from the old wood, Harriet climbed to the top and peered into the bedroom. A mild purring rose from the bed, which Harriet knew to be emanating from Keziah. But what about Ann? Harriet wondered. She had the exasperating habit of feigning sleep. ‘Ann?’ Harriet whispered. It was a risky strategy which might result in her sleeping sister being woken by Harriet’s calling but she felt it worth the risk. When no reply came, she tried again. ‘Ann?’
Satisfied that both of her sisters were sound asleep, Harriet stole back downstairs,
