The Conviction of Cora Burns Page 16

  In the other direction, lay the town. She mightn’t need to walk that way for long until she’d come to the wide sweeping streets and stone facades. Why shouldn’t she? Surely she was strong and clever enough to make her own way in the world. And, for the very first time, there was no one around who could stop her.

  Cora sat down under the bridge and let her boots dangle above the canal. A fat drip fell from the damp curve of brickwork and sent rings rippling across the sluggish surface. Perhaps the envelope inside her bundle would help her decide which way to go.

  The apron was slackly tied but Cora’s fingers fumbled on the knot. Her nightdress and spare shimmy spilled on to the dirt. Then paper fluttered in her hands. The white rectangle had been folded for so long that the print had worn away along each crease. Printed columns revealed themselves one by one; under Name and Maiden Surname of Mother, a greyish copperplate hand had written Mary Burns.

  It was Cora’s birth certificate. And there at last was her mother’s name; a name so obvious that Cora felt suddenly sick. There were more Marys than anything else in the workhouse so if she had given the matter even a minute’s thought she could have guessed her mother’s name years ago. The next column: Name and Surname of Father was blank. And then, under When and Where Born, a cluster of words that made Cora’s eyes swim black as the canal: Third April 1865, Birmingham Gaol, Female Wing.

  Gaol. She was born in gaol. To a convict? There seemed nothing else that Mary Burns might be. Of course her offence could have been trivial; a drunken insult or the theft of a crust. But it might have been something much worse; a crime so wicked that Mary Burns could still be there, under that distant black roof.

  A crack echoed off the bridge and it was a second or two before Cora realised that the noise was a laugh that had come from her own throat. It barked again. Gaol. Yes, that was funny. And completely obvious. She should have known all along what her mother would be. How many times had Cora been told that she was a bad lot, the wickedest girl in the workhouse? And then there was that business with Alice…

  For a short minute, Cora let her mind skitter over the place in her memory that was usually sealed. The place where something bad had happened to a little boy. Percy they’d called him, although she never knew his real name. She could still see his face; dull-eyed and still, with something she thought of as a flower coming out of his mouth.

  She could not fathom what had happened next. Had she been taken straight from the privy block to the infirmary? If she’d gone somewhere else, the superintendent’s office or the Bridewell, she could not remember it. And she had no notion of how long she’d then stayed in the workhouse infirmary. Many months. Perhaps years. She’d become so used to the rough-fingered orderlies and the runny food that she was almost fond of the place. Sometimes she’d even been ill.

  When, finally, Cora had left the infirmary and returned to the dormitory, everyone she’d known before had gone. Not just Alice, but the whole Bolger tribe. And Mr Bowyer. The new teachers never again asked Cora to write on the blackboard. When she’d got too old for lessons, she’d been sent to the laundry. Others came and went from the girls’ dormitory until Cora seemed to be the oldest as – she could now see from the birth certificate – she certainly was. Because, although she hadn’t known it until two minutes earlier, today, the third of April, was her sixteenth birthday.

  The paper in Cora’s hand felt suddenly caustic, as if covered in lye. She flung it away from her and watched it drop, twitching, over the lip of the canal before drifting down. Brackish water began to seep over the words.

  Cora cried out. Those faded copperplate words, however hateful their story, were all that she had to tell her who she was. She scooped up the birth certificate, drying it quickly on the apron bundle and refolding the paper along the creases. Then as she opened the envelope to replace it, something weighty fell out. A dirty half-moon of metal landed on Cora’s palm.

  It was a coin cut through the middle; bigger, she thought, than the half-crown that Mr Bowyer had once showed the class when they were adding up money, but brown like an old penny. The straight-cut edge was slightly jagged but the back, apart from a small hole bored near the point, seemed entirely smooth. The front showed no sign of the Queen’s head which Cora knew to be on all proper coins. Instead, there were some folds that looked like badly pegged-out sheets and a tiny raised hand that pointed at the letters around the border. At the bottom, Ms and Cs spelt out nothing that Cora could pronounce. But above them, elegant capitals carved two words: IMAGINEM SALT.

  SALT. Her heart leapt. What else could this be but a gift from Alice Salt? Alice must have come back to the workhouse asking for Cora but got no further than the porters’ lodge. So Alice had left instead this keepsake. Alice had, after all, lived with a family of japanners and metalworkers, so the coin must have been made in the workshop of Salt & Co. Alice might have retained the other half herself, giving Cora the portion that would act as an instruction to keep faith in her friend. If she could no longer see Alice every day, Cora must at least imagine her. And when the two halves were reunited, the girls would be sure to know each other, however much they might have grown up and changed.

  Cora folded her hand over the thing, squeezing until the points dug into flesh. Alice had not forgotten her. And perhaps she’d come looking for Cora with a confession about what had happened in the privy block. A few heartfelt words from Alice would instantly release Cora from the unsettling gnaw of guilt.

  She now had no choice about which direction to take along the towing path. If Alice again went to the workhouse to ask for Cora, they would direct her to the laundry at Birmingham Lunatic Asylum. So that was where Cora must go. She secured the half-coin back inside the envelope and retied the bundle. Then as she jumped up, a dark figure seemed to glide across the mirrored surface of the canal. Gooseflesh rose on Cora’s arms.

  But it was a reflection of a dark figure on the path; a man, well-dressed with a parson’s collar, marching towards her. The path beneath the bridge was narrow and in avoiding Cora, he tripped on the coping of the water’s edge. His words bit the air.

  ‘Out of my way, girl. Know your place.’

  Fury filled Cora with sudden strength and she felt her body swerve towards the parson. One firm shove from behind and he would be in the cut, flailing and sinking. With any luck, he’d never get out. But already the man was beyond the bridge and striding towards the town, his long black coat flapping at the back of his knees.

  Cora floundered into the light. Lord in heaven. She’d almost pushed a man, a gentleman priest, into the canal. Almost murdered him. And she’d no idea why, except for Mary Burns’ savage blood running through her veins.

  The smell from the workhouse piggeries, or maybe the gasworks, blew across the canal as Cora stumbled along a path that pointed to the lunatic asylum. Black and white birds dived over the yellow field with plaintive whooping calls. Then the path forked on to a tree-lined track that widened to a carriage turn. Black diamonds patterned the red-brick facade behind the thin trunks. Stone steps led to entrance doors beneath a mullion window set with coloured glass.

  Uncertain whether to knock, Cora clutched her bundle to her chest. As she reached out to touch the brass handle, the door seemed to open on its own.

  ‘Yes?’

  The man wore a blue calico suit with matching cap. His bushy grey eyebrows scuttled into a frown as he looked over Cora’s head and across the field. He seemed as like to be a lunatic as one of the staff.

  ‘Are you seeking admission?’

  Cora’s brain was blank.

  The man bent closer. ‘Who brought you?’

  ‘No one. I’ve come for a position. In the laundry.’

  ‘You’ve picked a funny time for it. They’ve knocked off till Monday. Why’ve you come today?’

  ‘I had to come today. It’s my birthday.’

  The man’s look was suspic
ious. If he thought she was an imbecile she couldn’t blame him. But he pulled open the door and it was only then as she entered the cavernous white hall that Cora realised, with the unmistakeable punch of truth, that she shared her birthday, and indeed, the very day of her birth with Alice Salt.

  Nineteen

  December 1885

  cycle

  Alfred Thripp, in shirtsleeves and fancy waistcoat, was rolling up his cuffs and whistling. Cora listened through the crack at the door. The tune was familiar, although the words escaped her. She stepped further back into the studio to slip off her Melton jacket and then her linsey skirt. Winter light lanced through the roof window, turning her bare arms the colour of newly skimmed milk.

  The outfit he had laid out for her on a chair was more handsome than anything she had ever held. It was fine wool, cashmere she guessed, that was soft as down. Stripes of dark purple and heathery mauve ran head to toe through the fabric. She guessed that the pattern would draw the eye and intensify the vividness of the stereograph.

  The skirt tied snug at the waist. An apron pleat at the front swept up to a drooping mound of fabric behind which needed a bustle for support. But only the walking-dress had been left out. Alfred cannot have thought too deeply about the detail of ladies’ underwear. Which was a blessing, she supposed.

  As she began to fasten the gilt buttons on the jacket, the whistling stopped and Alfred called out.

  ‘Nearly there?’

  ‘Yes, nearly.’

  Cora took a breath and looked down at herself. The dress was too long in the skirt and too tight under the arms but it more or less fitted. A faint tidemark along the hem and some wear on the cuffs showed that it was not entirely new. Perhaps Alfred had a sister to whom it belonged, or even a wife, although the dress seemed too grand. Cora itched to see her reflection but there was no mirror in the studio. The stereographic likeness alone would show how she might look as a lady.

  ‘I’m ready.’

  The door then sprang open as if he’d been waiting behind it.

  ‘My goodness! You look fine.’

  Alfred brought with him into the room a clean waft of tar soap. His face was flushed and Cora sensed that he was trying not to smile too wide.

  Cora breathed in. ‘It doesn’t fit exactly right.’

  ‘But it looks grand. I’ll arrange the fabric once you are in place with the safety bicycle.’

  The Rover was leaning against a stool, cramped into the corner of the studio. Carefully, Alfred lifted the bicycle forward, casting an eye at the camera lens as he placed it in front of a wobbly screen painted to show a faded woodland glade.

  ‘Here, Miss Burns, if you could put your hand on the saddle to balance the machine, like this.’

  ‘Oh, just call me Cora.’

  ‘Would you not mind?’

  She shook her head. Being called Miss made her feel as though there was someone else standing beside her who was too close to be seen. Her hand replaced Alfred’s on the stitched leather saddle and in the changeover their smallest fingers stroked against each other. Cora sensed Alfred’s eyes flicker up but she kept her gaze on the Rover’s seat. He went to the camera and looked into the back of it.

  ‘There. Yes. A little more towards this way. Yes. Good. And if you would just permit me…’

  He came towards her across the room, his eyes shining with purpose, and bent almost to one knee behind her. Before Cora could look round, she felt her skirts being lifted and a rush of air move up her legs.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘I’m sorry, I’m just arranging your attire into a more fashionable aspect. Do you mind?’

  Getting intimate with ladies’ garments must be a normal part of his work. She shrugged and looked over her shoulder as he lifted the mound of unbustled fabric from her behind and tried to balance it on the Rover’s back wheel. It took several attempts to make the skirt stay where he wanted. As he manipulated the woollen folds, Cora felt her underthings rub back and forth across her buttocks. A little needle of heat jumped up inside her.

  ‘If you could stay, Cora, exactly there and not move…’ Alfred put out both hands as if commanding the walking-dress to do as it was told and jumped back behind the camera. ‘And now, as you look into the lens, imagine yourself outside of the town on a country lane. You are about to mount yourself on to the saddle and glide the machine down a gentle hill.’

  The heat inside Cora spread to her gut and then up to her throat. She stared into the camera, her breath quickening. The shutter made a faint click. Alfred raised the flat of his hand in a sign to stay where she was.

  ‘Please, now if you can, do not move a muscle. Just for two minutes whilst I reset the device.’

  Cora did as he said and kept her eyes forward and her hand clamped on the bicycle seat. But her insides churned. She watched Alfred change the camera box that held the plate and then, hurriedly but deftly, he moved the device a few inches to the left. She admired the confidence and precision of his actions. His body was compact and wiry beneath his shirt. She breathed lightly but the jacket of the walking-dress felt even tighter than when she had put it on and her heart pulsed against her stays.

  Alfred looked up from the camera and nodded. ‘Right then. Again, you’re at the top of that hill, a light breeze blowing into your face.’ The shutter snapped and Alfred smiled. ‘Very good. You are a natural. Not many can hold still so well.’

  Cora could have told him that it must be due to the many hours she’d sat motionless in her cell thinking of nothing except the passing seconds and a resolve not to go mad. But that was something she hoped no one would ever know.

  ‘Are we done now?’

  Her heart dipped at the thought of replacing the sleek walking-dress with her coarse Melton jacket.

  Alfred, still scrutinising her, put his hand to his cheek. ‘Might we try another pose? Whilst the light is good?’

  ‘All right.’

  ‘I would like to see you sit upon the bicycle, if you dare.’

  ‘The seat looks too tall.’

  ‘Here, I can adjust it.’

  He came forward with a small spanner and bent over the Rover, twisting and pushing on the seat. The muscles on his forearms tensed into shadow lines as he took a firm hold of the handlebars.

  ‘That should do it. And here is a stool to step on. Perhaps you may wish to place a hand on my shoulder to help you mount the machine.’

  For a moment Cora looked straight at him. There was such a mix of seriousness and shyness in his eyes that she almost laughed out loud. She’d lay a pound, if she ever had one, on him never having done it with a woman.

  Bending her head to hide her amusement, Cora gathered the skirt away from the bicycle’s oily mechanisms then stepped on to the low wooden stool. She held on to Alfred to steady herself. His shoulder beneath the waistcoat felt tight and warm. Cora raised her leg and lifted it over the crossbar. Her stocking flashed black between her petticoats and she gripped Alfred hard. His breath was on her neck and he was willing her to fall against him, she could tell. The choice now was hers.

  ‘No. I’m sorry, Mr Thripp. I won’t be able to keep myself still like this.’

  She flung her leg back over the bar in a flurry of white cotton and purple stripes.

  ‘Please, it’s Alfred. And that’s perfectly all right. I think we have some excellent shots already. Would you mind waiting for me to develop the plates? Just to check? You can change, if you like, whilst I’m in the developing room.’

  He opened the door to the orange-lit cupboard that she had seen his father use on her first visit to the shop. His cheeks were crimson.

  The construction of cleverly cut seams and tiny darts allowed the walking-dress bodice to keep its shape even after Cora had taken it off. She’d have liked to take a closer look at the needlework to see how it was done, but couldn’t dela
y getting her own clothes back on. There was no telling how long he’d be in that cupboard. But as she walked out of the studio and back into the shop she let her hand linger on the soft woollen fabric of the walking-dress.

  In fact, Alfred did not reappear for quite some time. When he came into the shop, his face was glowing. He wiped the shine from his brow with a handkerchief.

  ‘Excellent results, I think. I shall just give the plates two further minutes. Let me pay you for your time as we agreed.’

  He went behind the glass counter and opened a wooden drawer with a small key from his waistcoat pocket. Cora heard coins dropping one on to another. Then he placed a neat pile of silver on the glass top and folded his arms.

  ‘There. A guinea.’

  ‘It’s too much.’

  ‘I thought we’d agreed.’

  ‘But I’ve done so little. It seems… improper.’

  Alfred flinched. ‘Believe me, there’ll be plenty of money changing hands in this Rover business. Why should you not have your share?’

  The coins squeaked against the glass as he pushed them forward. Cora licked her lips. She was due something, she supposed.

  ‘I’ll take ten shillings. To cover the trams and such.’

  ‘Yes. But take the rest next time.’

  ‘Next time?’

  ‘Of course. I still have in my mind that you should learn to ride the Rover. Perhaps over the darker months you could come back to practise. And when spring comes, try for an action shot out of doors.’

  ‘I don’t think…’

  He raised both hands to silence her. ‘Just wait. Don’t say anything until you have seen the plate.’

  He rushed back into the studio and emerged a minute later holding a wet plate by its edges. The glass, when he laid it on top of a sheet of white blotting paper, looked as detailed as a print although black where it should be white. Cora could see why he was pleased. The bicycle might really have been out on a country lane with a striking woman in a fancy outfit poised to mount it for an exhilarating ride. The woman’s dark face gave off such confidence that no one viewing it through a stereoscope could have had any doubt that she was capable of such a feat.