The Conviction of Cora Burns Page 18

  How had Mrs Flynn chosen between the two little girls that were so alike? Was Violet quieter and more timid; more likely to go along with what would be wanted of her by the gentleman? Or did Letty, more fiery and funny, hold a secret place in her mother’s heart? Perhaps the babies were so alike that even their mother couldn’t tell them apart.

  Cora looked up. The gables of Smithfield Market seemed to shudder and close in on her. If only she’d been delivered of two babies. She’d gladly have given one up if that meant she could keep the other. At the edge of the high pavement, as she went to lift her skirts, Cora realised that the paste-head doll was still in her hand. She stumbled up the kerb then stopped and felt suddenly empty of everything. Her hands opened and the garbage-doll dropped into the gutter. As it fell, the sacking arms seemed to fling up, reaching out to her before the whole misshapen body settled into the stone channel. Black pin eyes stared up.

  The sight of the forlorn bundle suddenly made Cora buckle. Her throat tightened and she crouched down to scoop it up, shaking her head as she dried the rags and the painted head gently on her skirt. How she could be so cruel, even to a child that was not real?

  Through the fading light, a steam tram went past in a yellow glow, its bell clanking. Cora wiped her cheek and, cradling the papery doll in a careful embrace, she set off at a run towards the terminus.

  Twenty

  FROM: Thomas Jerwood Esq.

  An Essay on the Measurement of Man

  A mathematical man of my acquaintance, fired with a desire to prove the usefulness of statistics in the study of human biology, took it upon himself to measure the circumference of his children’s heads. Throughout their early years, as my friend laid down the dimensions of each child’s cranium, he noticed how interludes in growth coincided with an episode of common childhood illness: scarlet fever, diphtheria, measles or the like. Thus, by way of his living experiment, my friend contributed to a deeper understanding of the effect of disease upon bone growth.

  Man’s body is, however, only one component of the human machine, although the easiest to measure. To survey an individual in his entirety, intellect and character must also be gauged, and if the measurements are to be rigorous and capable of accurate comparisons, they must be given numerical values. For intellect, examinations (such as those set by the Grammar Schools or the Imperial Civil Service) provide clearly quantifiable scores. Character, as attentive readers will know, may be evaluated numerically by means of the moral test (viz. Experiments in Human Nature WQ Autumn 1885).

  All very good, the sceptical reader may say, but how can a person, even a child, be studied as if he were a captive zoological specimen? I would reply that the scientific study of children requires no more than careful observation and record-keeping, along with the application of well-chosen tests. Consider again my mathematical friend and his offspring. How easily he might have measured his own children in their entirety; body, intellect and character rather than simply their skulls, and how much more instructive his endeavour might consequently have been. Indeed, I would even venture to suggest that my friend might have elevated his work to a higher level still had he taken it upon himself to create a comparative study by measuring not just his own offspring but also the urchins who habitually called at his kitchen door seeking a cupful of leftover dripping. For, armed with an arsenal of numerical facts detailing the physical, mental and moral capacity of children from contrasting stations in life, my mathematical friend would have been equipped to detect and demonstrate, not merely the effect of disease upon the skeleton, but the entire impact of all manner of influences, stemming from both heredity and upbringing, upon human development.

  Yes, yes, doubters may cry, but what new would be proved? Is it not self-evident that the lower orders are smaller, duller and less morally robust that their betters in society? To which I would reply: where is your statistical proof for such assertions? We may assume, for example, that inadequate nutrition stunts the growth of the lower orders but perhaps some other factor is at work. Only rigorous measurement and statistical analysis can tell us if it is diet that gives the public schoolboy his head and shoulders above a street-seller. Perhaps, in fact, the poor are naturally smaller than the rich, just as some of the African races are shorter than neighbouring tribes.

  The perspicacious reader may still be wondering how rigour can be brought to this investigation. Height, for instance, varies even within the classes; every Eton rowing crew has its diminutive coxswain. Can we ever disentangle the multifarious influences that make each person who they are? I believe that we can. Think again of my mathematical friend and imagine, if you will, that he has invited one of those urchins from his kitchen door to share the nursery and education of his son. Both children are then regularly measured in character, intellect and physical traits and their progress plotted by means of statistical tables and graphs. More importantly, another child is also measured; a child who is a peer of the erstwhile urchin, perhaps even his close relative, but one who continues to inhabit the degradation of the slums.

  It seems an incontrovertible truth that the ‘rescued’ boy growing up in my friend’s genteel household would emerge taller, cleverer and more civilised than his former companion in the rookeries, but a scientific experiment upon the validity of this apparent ‘truth’ has never, to my knowledge, been completed. Even if it were, the unconvinced reader might still argue that any unexpected divergences in development were simply a result of the measured individuals being from different stock. How, indeed, can we ever know definitively that a person has been ‘changed’ by the manner of his upbringing?

  This question goes to the heart of my thesis and my answer requires further consideration of the erstwhile slum-dweller, now a young gentleman, and his comparator who still lives in poverty. The two children might not be simply related by blood, they could be chosen for a similarity which is as close in age, body and circumstances as two humans can be; they would, in other words, be a matching pair of twins. With one twin in his keeping (and access allowed to the slum ‘double’), my friend might scientifically test the origin of any divergence in growth, capability and character. The respective effects of nature (heredity) versus nurture (upbringing) upon any individual would then be beyond doubt.

  Of course, the likelihood is low, to say the least, that a set of twins might be separated at an early age to be brought up in contrasting circumstances and measured throughout their childhoods. Some readers of a more delicate sensibility might baulk at the very idea of a living experiment such as this. Can it ever be right, they might say, to extract a child, however disadvantaged, from their natural family? Any person putting forward such an objection has probably never visited the worst habitations in one of England’s industrial towns. Had they done so, their response might be rather to rescue as many unfortunate children as possible from the noxious air, adulterated fodder and vermin-infested beds of such places.

  The same righteous reader might also object to the separation of twin siblings who, it is commonly held, share a bond so intimate that each feels an almost supernatural attachment to the other. Who has the right to shear such a cord of natural affection? My answer would be that a man of science must keep his eyes upon his lofty ideals and steel himself against any ensuing scenes of maternal heartache and childish distress. The demands of scientific endeavour must prevail. For, once we have obtained incontrovertible evidence of the relative effects of nature and nurture upon human biology, intelligence and character, a clear path may be prepared towards the complete physical, intellectual and moral improvement of our species.

  Thomas Jerwood Esq.

  Spark Hill, Warks.

  Twenty-One

  December 1885

  muslin

  There was so much dried fruit to pick over and chop that Cook called Cora into the kitchen for the morning. Ellen was there too, as usual; she might as well be a kitchen maid during Christmastide. Everythin
g in the scullery as well as the heavy lifting and dirty upstairs work was now left to Cora, although nothing had been said about additional recompense for her trouble.

  Cook cleared a space on the scrubbed table and put out a flour dredger and a cup of dripping. Then she laid out a circle of flimsy white cloth.

  ‘First, get your whole hand greased and wipe it across the muslin. Then, flour the cloth lightly and shake off the crumbs. We don’t like a thick skin on our plum puddings here.’

  Cora ran her finger up the pile of muslins. ‘How many shall I do?’

  ‘All of them. The master likes a pudding to go to the tradesman and to various village folk with a connection to the house. Now, let me see you do one.’

  Cora scooped a lump of pale fat from the cup and smeared it over the delicate fabric. Flour fell like soft snow from the dredger on to the white roundels.

  Cook nodded. ‘Make a pile of them, floured sides together. Then you can help Ellen with the fruit. Miss Violet will have to wait for her ox tongue.’

  Ellen, at the meat grinder, laughed. ‘’Bout time that girl got her tongue back!’

  Cora shot a look over her shoulder. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well. You know what she’s like; sometimes mardy and moon-eyed, other times you can’t shut her up.’

  ‘Why is that, then, do you think?’

  ‘How should I know? I thought you were thick with her.’

  At the kitchener, Cook rapped a metal spoon against the edge of a stew-pan.

  ‘That’s enough chatter.’ She shot a look at Cora. ‘You’ve no concern being friendly with Miss Violet, you need only see that her tea trays are delivered sharpish and the library scuttle doesn’t run out of coal.’

  ‘Yes, Cook.’

  Cora’s eyes dropped to the muslin. Cook must know the truth about Violet. Why else would she flash that warning look? Ellen might think there was nothing behind Violet’s extremes of temper apart from childish moods. Only yesterday Cora had thought the same. The Flynn sisters were so alike that anyone might be taken in. Although now that she had seen Letty in her street rags, Cora realised their subtle differences. The green dress and the plaited hair disguised the poorer girl’s slighter frame and paler complexion. Her voice, though, could not be covered up. The girl might have been told not to say anything during her visits to The Larches but of course, she did. So Cook can’t have been the only servant to suspect something untoward going on, even if Ellen was oblivious.

  Cora’s greased fingers pushed across another skin of muslin. As they pulled back, a gash of floured tabletop appeared through a rip in the cloth. Cora winced then looked up at Cook who was staring into the bubbling stew-pan that filled the whole kitchen with the scent of cinnamon spice, raisins and beer. If Cora stuffed the ripped muslin into her pocket Cook might not count up the rest to know that one was missing. But slyness would only increase her fault. She took a quick breath of the intoxicating air.

  ‘Cook. This muslin has torn. I’m sorry…’

  Cook tapped the stew-pan then came to the table with the spoon held out in front of her like a teacher’s cane. It pointed, no doubt, to a deduction from Cora’s miserable wages.

  ‘Let me see the damage.’ Cook sniffed. ‘No matter. It’s one of last year’s. And not much use even for dusting.’

  A sudden thought flew into Cora’s head. ‘Can I have it?’

  ‘If you wish. Are you needle-working?’

  Cora nodded. ‘I thought I might make something useful. Are there other scraps about the place?’

  ‘Susan Gill keeps a rag-bag for mending. I daresay she’ll let you look through it and have anything she can’t use. Especially at this time of year.’

  It wouldn’t take much to prettify the ugly paste-head doll that Cora had unexpectedly bought from Letty. A new set of clothes might be enough to tempt someone wanting a Christmas toy to pay over the half-crown it had cost her.

  ‘Thank you, Cook.’

  ‘Now finish these off then help Ellen with the mincemeat. You can stir up.’

  Ellen was dropping bloody handfuls of shredded beef into the earthenware basin. She flinched as Cora’s bare arm, pushing a wooden spoon into the meat, brushed hers. If she was still wary Cora could not blame her. When Cora thought of what had happened amongst the brambles and afterwards when she’d stood naked in the kitchen, she wondered if she’d gone briefly mad. Maybe Ellen thought she still was.

  ‘Is this right?’

  Ellen did not look up. ‘Aye. Just keep stirring, slow like, while I drop in the fruit.’

  ‘On to the meat? But it’s raw.’

  ‘You don’t heat mincemeat. The sugar and spirit will cook the meat whilst it rests in the jar. That’s why we’re making it in good time for Christmas. Have you never had a mince pie?’

  Cora shook her head and Ellen gave her a queer look as if she was about to ask which foreign place she had been living in until now. Instead she shouted over to Cook.

  ‘It’s ready for the brandy.’

  Cook took a key from the belt beneath her apron and dragged a chair toward the high corner cupboard. Her heeled boots clacked up on to the seat and she reached into a huddle of dark bottles. The cork squeaked out of a bulbous bottle and amber liquid glugged into the bowl across the mix of currants, chopped apple and fatty beef. The smell that came off the mixture was better than anything Cora could ever remember.

  Cook pushed the cork back into the bottle. ‘Cora, you’d better go to find Miss Violet and ask her if she is to have her cold meats in the dining room or on a tray.’

  Cora’s pulse quickened. ‘Yes, Cook. Where should I find her?’

  ‘Downstairs, I think. In the morning room.’

  a letter from Sun Street

  Thin flurries of snow whipped across the windows giving the morning room a hard, empty brightness. Violet was standing by the fire with her back to the door and fidgeting with something in her hands. Cora never quite knew whether to curtsey. It seemed especially absurd now that she’d seen the dirt and degradation of Violet’s natural home.

  ‘Cook sent me to ask where you’d like your meats.’

  As Violet wheeled around, her face broke into a tangle of nervous excitement. She ran to Cora waving a stamped envelope and, bouncing on her toes, breathed a whisper into Cora’s ear.

  ‘Oh Cora, I’ve been praying that you’d come!’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘To show you this.’

  Violet flapped the envelope. It was addressed to Miss V Poole in a neat cramped hand.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘From the Gazette. It must be.’

  ‘Have you not opened it?’

  ‘Of course not. It’s for you.’

  ‘It has your name on it.’

  Violet shook her head. ‘No one would write to me. It’d be thought odd if I got a letter. That’s why I’ve been running out to catch the postman every day, just in case something came with my name on.’

  ‘What about your mother? Or father? Are you not expecting a Christmas greeting from them?’

  Cora’s stomach churned. She hadn’t realised quite how queasy this particular lie would make her.

  Violet rolled her eyes. ‘Then it’d have an Indian stamp, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘Perhaps your parents have returned from abroad. Or maybe one of your sisters or brothers has written to you.’

  ‘I don’t have any sisters or brothers, silly! And I’d have been told if my parents were to return. No. This is from your sister, from Alice. I just know. Please open it.’

  Cora swallowed and took the envelope turning it over in her hand. The cream paper was plain, neither cheap nor fancy and there was no name on the back for any return. Could this really be from Alice Salt? After so many years? Cora’s mind was suddenly numb as she tried to imagine what the message might say.
>
  ‘All right.’

  Her nails fumbled into the gummed lip of the envelope. She should have taken it to read elsewhere. If the letter really was from Alice she would not be able to keep herself in check.

  She opened out the single folded sheet. The page was covered in the same small neat hand as the envelope. Alice had never mastered so much as a slate pencil at the Union house but if she could read well enough for the Birmingham Gazette, she must also have learned to write a plain note. Cora felt sure that she would recognise Alice’s hand as easily as her own. And so her heart dipped when she saw that the sender was someone who found writing with an ink pen as natural as speech.

  12th Dec.43 Sun Street

  Edgbaston

  Dear Miss Poole,

  I write in reply to the ‘Missing Persons’ advertisement which appears in the current edition of the Birmingham Gazette. I do, indeed, recognise the face in the sketch, though whether the child that I remember from the Birmingham Union Workhouse is the person you seek, I could not say. The girl I am thinking of went by a different name. Yet the resemblance is so strong, and the date you mention so significant, that I feel drawn to offer my help. It would assuage much in my own mind if I were able to assist with your search and perhaps impart some important advice.

  I would prefer not to correspond further in writing but should the weather be clement, I intend to spend the early part of this coming Sunday afternoon in Council House Square, close to the statue of Joseph Priestley. I shall be reading the Birmingham Gazette. Perhaps, if you pass by, you would introduce yourself.

  Yours most sincerely,

  George Bowyer

  For a second, Cora’s eyes fixed on the name. And then, as her mind slithered on to a half-remembered face, she was hit by a school-room reek of scoured wood and sweaty wool. Mr Bowyer. Cora’s knees crumpled and she reached out for the armchair. Her body slumped on to the horsehair cushion, winded by the turbulence in her chest. She told herself distantly that she must get up, but she could no more stand than crawl across the ceiling.