Falling Angels

Lavinia Waterhouse

I was truly shocked when I saw Maude’s mother.

We almost didn’t see her. We had stopped at Maude’s house on our way home from school only because I wanted Maude to lend me a book about plants so that I can copy passages from it for a school essay. Maude was reluctant to get it, and I thought it was because she disapproved of my copying, as our essays are meant to be original. (It is so tedious to think up things to write, especially about “the life cycle of leaves”!) But now I think it was because she did not want me to see her mother. Indeed, when I think back on it, Maude has been coming to my house almost every day for months-even more than before.

She hurried me up to her room for the book and hurried me down again. Just then Mrs. Coleman came out of the morning room. She looked at us so vaguely that I was not even sure she really saw us until Maude said, “Hello, Mummy,” very softly, and she nodded slightly.

I was so surprised by her appearance that I did not even say anything about it to Maude-which made me rather sad, as I thought we shared all our thoughts. But I could not bring myself to ask her why her mother is so thin, and her hair suddenly has gray in it, and her skin looks like ditch water. Worse than that-for one can always dye or pull out gray hair (as Mama does) and apply a tonic to dull skin-Mrs. Coleman does not sparkle as she used to. Admittedly her sparkle felt a little wicked at times-which is why Mama does not care for her-but without it she is very flat indeed.

Clearly something is wrong at the Colemans‘. Not only is Maude’s mother not herself, but a few months ago their maid Jenny was suddenly taken ill and had to go away. Perhaps they have the same illness. Maude says Jenny is returning soon. I shall have to look to see if she has gray hairs as well. It is just as well she’s coming back, for the temporary chars have been dreadful. Maude hasn’t liked any of them, and the house looked none too clean, the little I saw of it. The plants on the landings were terribly dusty.

I said nothing of this to Maude, poor dear. She was very subdued as we went on to my house. I tried to be especially nice to her, even suggesting that we attend the official opening of our local public library. They have been building it on Chester Road all summer, and there is to be a ceremony on Thursday afternoon. I am not keen on going-it will be all tedious speeches-but it may cheer Maude as she is so fond of libraries. And it would mean we could leave early and miss the last class at school, which is math. I can’t abide math-all those dull numbers. In fact I don’t like any of my classes, except for domestic arts and composition, though Miss Johnson says my imagination needs reining in-a compliment, I should think!

Mama will have to get permission for us both to leave school early, as Maude’s mother is clearly incapable of making such arrangements. And I expect Mama and Ivy May will have to come with us, although it is only a few minutes away. Maude and I are eleven years old, yet we are still not allowed to go anywhere alone except to walk to school together. Mama says you never know what might happen, and reads all sorts of terrible things out from the newspapers-babies left to freeze on the heath, or people drowning in the ponds, or rough men looking for girls to prey upon.

When we arrived home I asked Mama if we could all go to the library ceremony. She said yes, the dear. She always says yes to me.

Then Maude asked a funny thing. “Please, Mrs. Waterhouse,” she said, “could you ask my mother to come with us? She hasn’t been well these past months, and she could do with getting a bit of air.”

Well, Mama was nonplussed by this request-surely Maude could ask her own mother!-but she said she would. I was a bit put out, as I am not at all sure I wish to be seen with someone who has clearly let herself go. Nonetheless, I must stand by my friend. Besides, Mama may not be able to convince Mrs. Coleman to come with us-it is not as if they are close friends. If she does, though, perhaps I will steal over to their house one night and leave a bottle of hair dye on the doorstep.

Gertrude Waterhouse

I did not have the heart to say no to Maude. It is horrifying to think a girl cannot even ask her mother to escort her somewhere. I wanted to inquire why she felt she could not, but she looked so meek and sad that I simply said I would do my best and left it at that. I did not think I could do much good, though, even for something as insignificant as arranging an outing. I have never had any influence with Kitty Coleman, and if Maude cannot convince her to come to a little local event, I do not see how I will be able to.

Nonetheless, I called on Kitty the next morning when the girls were at school. The moment I saw her I felt terribly guilty for not having gone there sooner. She did look awful, thin and pinched, and her lovely hair no longer glossy. It is such a surprise to see the lifeblood sapped from someone once so vital. If I were a more spiteful person, it might have made me feel better to see such loveliness brought down. Instead my heart went out to her. I even squeezed her hand, which surprised her, though she did not jerk it away. Her hand was chilly.

“Oh, you’re so cold, my dear!” I exclaimed.

“Am I?” she asked absently.

I pulled the yellow silk shawl from the back of the sofa and wrapped it around her. “I’m so sorry that you have been ill.”

“Did someone say I was?”

“Oh, I-” I grew flustered. “Maude-she said you’d had pneumonia some time ago.” That much at least was true, or so I thought, though from Kitty Coleman’s reaction I began to wonder.

“Is that what Maude said?” she asked. I wondered if Kitty would actually answer a question rather than ask one. But then she shrugged. “I suppose that may as well do,” she muttered, which made no sense, but I did not try to question her.

She rang a bell, but when the girl appeared-it was not their usual maid-Kitty looked at her blankly, as if she had forgotten why she summoned her. The girl stared back just as blankly.

“Perhaps some tea for your mistress,” I suggested.

“Yes,” Kitty murmured. “That would be good.”

When the girl had left I said, “Have you seen a doctor recently?”

“Why?”

“Well, for your convalescence. Perhaps there’s something you could take-a tonic. Or go to a spa.” I was trying in vain to name remedies for whatever afflicted her. All I could think of were novels I’d read in which the heroine went to spas in Germany, or to the South of France for the climate.

“The doctor said I must build up my strength with plenty of food and fresh air,” Kitty repeated mechanically. She looked as if she ate little more than a mouthful of food a day, and I doubt she went out at all.

“That is just what I was coming to speak to you about. I am proposing to take the girls on a little outing to the new library that is about to open on Chester Road, and I wondered if you and Maude would join us. We could go afterward for tea up in Water-low Park.” I felt a little silly, making it sound as if I were suggesting an expedition to Antarctica rather than a trip just around the corner.

“I don’t know,” she replied. “It’s a bit far.”

“The library itself is quite close,” I said quickly, “and we don’t have to go all the way up the hill for tea-we could choose someplace closer. Or you could come to me.” Kitty had never been to my house. I did not want her to sit in my cramped parlor, but I felt I had to offer.

“I’m not…”

I waited for Kitty to finish her sentence, but she did not. Something had happened to her-she was like a little lamb that has lost its way and is wandering aimlessly in a field. I did not relish playing her shepherd, but I also knew that God did not intend for a shepherd to judge His flock. I grasped her hand again. “What is wrong, my dear? What has distressed you so?”

Kitty gazed at me. Her eyes were so dark it was like looking into a well. “I have spent my life waiting for something to happen,” she said. “And I have come to understand that nothing will. Or it already has, and I blinked during that moment and it’s gone. I don’t know which is worse-to have missed it or to know there is nothing to miss.”

I did not know what to say, for I did not understand her at all. Still, I had to try to answer. “I think that you are very lucky indeed,” I said, making my voice as stern as I dared. “You have a fine husband and a good daughter, and a lovely house and garden. You have food on the table and a cook to cook it. To many you have an enviable life.” Though not to me, I added silently.

“Yes, but…” Kitty stopped again, scanning my face for something. It appeared she did not find it, for she let her gaze drop.

I let go of her hand. “I am going to send around a tonic that my mother used to prepare for me when I felt low, with brandy and egg yolk and a little sugar. I’m sure it will be an effective pick-me-up. And do you have any brilliantine? A bit on your brush will do wonders to your hair. And, my dear, do come with us to the library ceremony on Thursday.” Kitty opened her mouth to speak, but I bravely talked over her. “I insist upon it. Maude will be so pleased, as she so wants to go with you. You wouldn’t want to disappoint her. She’s such a good girl-top of her class.”

“She is?”

Surely Kitty must know how well her daughter was doing in her studies! “We shall come to collect you at half past two on Thursday. The fresh air will do you good.” Before she could object I stood up and pulled on my gloves, not even waiting for the tea to arrive (their girl is very slow) before taking my leave.

For the first time since I have known Kitty Coleman, I was in the position to dictate the tone of our relations. Rather than relishing the power, I simply felt miserable.

No one ever said Christian duty would be easy.

Maude Coleman

I don’t know why Lavinia was so keen on going to the library opening. She seemed to think I would be thrilled to go as well, but she has confused celebration with function.While I am of course glad we are to have a local public library, I was more interested in borrowing books than in the ceremony. Lavinia is just the opposite-she has always liked parties more than I do, but she cannot sit still in a library for five minutes. She does not even like books much-though she is fond of Dickens, of course, and she and her mother like to read aloud Sir Walter Scott. And she can recite some poems-Tennyson’s “Lady of Shalott” and Keats’s “La Belle Dame sans Merci.”

But to please her I said I would go, and Mrs. Waterhouse somehow persuaded Mummy to come out with us-the first time she has been out at all since she was ill. I do wish she had worn something a little gayer-she has so many beautiful dresses and hats, but she chose a brown dress and a black felt hat trimmed with three black rosettes. She looked like a mourner among partygoers. Still, at least she came-I was pleased just to walk with her.

I do not think she understood very well where the new library is. Daddy and I had often gone on a summer evening to inspect the progress of the building, but Mummy had never come with us. Now as we turned into Chester Road from Swain’s Lane she grew very agitated at the sight of the southern wall of the cemetery, which is bounded by Chester Road. She even clutched my arm, and without quite knowing why, I said, “It’s all right, Mummy, we aren’t going in.” She relaxed a little, though she held on to me until we had passed by the southern gate and reached the crowd outside the library.

The library is a handsome brick building with tan stone trimmings, a front porch with four Corinthian columns, and side sections with high arched windows. For the opening the front was decked out with white bunting, and a small platform placed on the front steps. Lots of people were milling about on the pavement and spilling into the street. It was a windy day, making the bunting shake and men’s bowlers and women’s feathers and flowers fly off.

We had not been there long before the speeches began. A man stepped onto the platform and called out, “Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. It is my great pleasure, as chairman of the Education and Libraries Committee of the St. Pancras Borough Council, to welcome you to this most auspicious occasion, the opening of the first free library in the borough as the first step in adopting the Public Libraries’ Acts in St. Pancras.

“We are indebted to the Alderman T.H.W. Idris, MP, and late mayor, for his successful endeavor in getting Mr. Andrew Carnegie, of Pittsburgh of the United States, to give forty thousand pounds for the purpose of the adoption of the Acts-”

Just then I felt an elbow in my ribs. “Look!” Lavinia hissed, pointing. A funeral procession was coming along Chester Road. The chairman on the platform stopped speaking when he saw the carriages, and the men in the crowd removed their hats while the women bowed their heads. I bowed mine as well but looked up through my lashes, counting five carriages behind the one carrying the coffin.

Then a great gust of wind made the women all grab at their hats. Lavinia and Ivy May and I were wearing our green school berets, which usually stay snug on our heads, but Lavinia pulled hers off as if the wind had loosened it, and tossed her hair and shrugged. I’m sure she did it just to show off her curls.

The undertaker’s men walking alongside the front carriage clamped their hands on their top hats; one blew off anyway and the man had to run after it in his long black coat. The horses’ black plumes were swaying and one horse whinnied and bucked as the wind got up its nose, so that the driver had to crack his whip, making some ladies scream, and halting the procession. Mummy trembled and clutched my arm.

The wind had loosened the bunting on the library so much that the next gust caught a length of it and blew it up in the air. The long white cloth sailed over our heads and did a kind of dance over the funeral procession, until suddenly the wind dropped and the bunting fell, landing across the carriage that carried the coffin. The crowd gasped-Lavinia of course screamed-and the nervous horse bucked again.

It was all terribly confusing. But above the shouts, the wind, and the whinnying horse, I heard a woman laugh. I looked around and saw her standing on the edge of the crowd, dressed entirely in white, with a great deal of lace trim which fluttered so that she looked like a bird. Her laugh was not loud exactly, but it penetrated through everything, like the rag-and-bone man’s voice as he walked along our street calling out, “Any old iron!”

Mr. Jackson came out from the cemetery gate and ran up to pull the cloth off the carriage. “Drive on!” he called. “Quickly before the horses bolt!” He ran back to the gate and swung it open, beckoning to the lead carriage. After the last carriage had passed inside the cemetery, he swung the gate shut, then picked up the bunting. As he began folding it he gazed at the crowd in front of the library, saw Mummy, and stopped folding the cloth. Mummy jerked as if someone had tapped her on the shoulder, and dropped my arm.

Then the chairman stepped down from the platform and crossed the road to retrieve the bunting. Mr. Jackson was forced to turn to him and Mummy suddenly drooped. Another gust of wind blew through the crowd and she looked as if she might topple. In a moment the laughing woman was at her side, casually taking my mother’s arm and holding her steady.

“Quite a show here, isn’t it?” she said with another laugh. “And the speeches have barely begun!”

She was a small woman, shorter than Mummy but with her shoulders thrown back in a way that made her look as confident as a taller woman. She had big brown eyes that seemed to sit right on the surface of her face so that you could not avoid their stare. When she smiled a tooth showed at the side of her mouth, reminding me of a horse baring its teeth.

I knew immediately that I would not like her.

“I am Caroline Black,” she said, holding out her hand.

Mummy stared at it. After a moment she took it. “Kitty Coleman,” she said.

I was horrified to recognize the name, though Mummy clearly didn’t. Caroline Black was a suffragette who conducted a long-running battle with various skeptical gentlemen about the subject of votes for women on the letters page of the local paper.

Daddy has been very scathing of the suffragettes. He says the word sounds like the term for a sort of bandaging technique developed in the Crimean War. The suffragettes have been chalking signs for their meetings on the pavements near us, and Daddy has occasionally threatened them-possibly even Caroline Black herself-with buckets of water.

The chairman had begun speaking again. “… The council has provided an open door through which every inhabitant of St. Pan-eras can enter without fee or without challenge to enjoy the treasures of literature enshrined and stored in this building.”

The crowd began to applaud. Caroline Black did not clap, though, and neither did Mummy. I looked around for Lavinia, but couldn’t see her. Mrs. Waterhouse and Ivy May were still close by, and I followed Ivy May’s gaze across the road. Lavinia was standing by the cemetery gate. She saw me and beckoned, pulling at the gate to show me that it was not locked. I hesitated-t did not want to leave Mummy alone with Caroline Black. On the other hand, the speeches were dull, as I had known they would be, and the cemetery would be much more interesting. I took a step toward Lavinia.

“That is all well and good, Mr. Ashby,” Caroline Black called out suddenly. I froze. “I do applaud the idea of free access to literature and education. But can we honestly celebrate such an occasion when half the population cannot apply its newly available knowledge to that part of life so important to us all? If women do not have the vote, why bother to read the treasures of literature?”

As she spoke, people around her took a few steps back so that she was alone in a circle of spectators, apart from Mummy and me standing awkwardly beside her.

Mr. Ashby tried to interject, but Caroline Black continued in a smooth voice that carried a long way and would not be interrupted. “I’m sure if our MP, Mr. Dickinson, were here he would agree with me that the subject of votes for women goes hand in hand with issues like public libraries and education for all. He is even now hoping to present a bill to Parliament about woman’s suffrage. I appeal to you”-she gestured at the circle around her-“as concerned, educated members of the public: each time you enter this building, consider the fact that you yourselves-or, if you are a man, your wives or sisters or daughters-are being denied the chance to be responsible citizens by casting your vote for those who would represent you. But you can do something about this. Come to the meetings of the local WSPU, every Tuesday afternoon at four o‘clock, at Birch Cottage, West Hill, in Highgate. Votes for women!” She bowed slightly, as if acknowledging applause only she could hear, and took a step back, leaving Mummy and me alone in the circle.

The faces surrounding us stared curiously, probably wondering if we were suffragettes too. Mrs. Waterhouse at least gave me a look of horrified sympathy. Next to her Ivy May was staring at my mother. Mummy herself was gazing at Caroline Black, and for the first time in months she was smiling.

I looked across to the cemetery gate, but Lavinia was no longer there. Then I caught a glimpse of her inside the cemetery just before she disappeared between two graves.

Kitty Coleman

Her laughter rang out like a clarion call, sending a jolt up my spine that made me open my eyes wide. I had thought it was another foggy, muffled day, but when I looked around for the source of the laughter, I discovered it was one of those crisp, windy autumn days I love, when as a girl I wanted to eat apples and kick at dead leaves.

Then I saw John Jackson across by the gate, and I had to stand very still so that he wouldn’t see me. He did nonetheless. I had tried to walk up the hill a number of times to see him, and to explain. But I had never managed it. I suspected he understood-he understands most things.

I heard the laugh again, right at my side. Caroline took my arm, and I knew nothing would ever be the same.

Simon Field

I’m down the grave standing on the coffin when she comes along. The procession’s just left, and I’m shifting dirt so it fills the cracks round the coffin. Then I’ve to knock out the lowest shoring wood with a hammer and our pa and Joe’ll pull ‘em out with a rope. It’s twelve feet deep, this one.

Our pa and Joe are singing:

She’s my lady love

She’s my dove, my baby love

She’s no gal for sitting down to dream

She’s the only queen Laguna knows.

They stop but I keeps on:

I know she likes me

I know she likes me

Because she says so

She is the Lily of Laguna

She is my Lily, and my Rose.

Then I look up and see Livy standing at the edge of the grave, laughing down at me.

“Damn, Livy,” I say. “Wha’re you doing there?”

She shakes her hair and shrugs. “Looking at you, naughty boy,” she says. “You mustn’t say ‘damn.’ ”

“Sorry.”

“Now, I’m going to get down there with you.”

“You can’t do that.”

“Yes, I can.” She turns to our pa. “Will you help me down?”

“Oh, no, missy, you don’t want to go down there. ‘Tain’t no place for you. ’Sides, you’ll get your nice dress and shoes all dirty.”

“Doesn’t matter-I can have them cleaned afterward. How do you climb down-with a ladder?”

“No, no, no ladder,” our pa says. “With a deep un like this we got all this wood stuck in, see, every foot or two, to keep the sides from caving in. We climbs up and down it. But don’t you go doing that,” he adds, but too late, ‘cause Livy’s climbing down already. All I can see of her is her two legs sticking out from a dress and petticoats.

“Don’t come down, Livy,” I say, but I don’t mean it. She’s climbing down the wood frame like she’s done it all her life. Then she’s down on the coffin with me. “There,” she says. “Are you pleased to see me?”

“Course.”

Livy looks round and shivers. “It’s cold down here. And so muddy!”

“What’d you expect? It’s a grave, after all.”

Livy scrapes her toe in the clay on the coffin. “Who’s in there?”

I shrug. “Dunno. Who’s in the coffin, our Pa?” I call up.

“No, let me guess,” Livy says. “It’s a little girl who caught pneumonia. Or a man who drowned in one of the heath ponds trying to save his dog. Or-”

“It’s an old man,” our pa calls down. “Nat‘ral causes.” Our pa likes to find out something about who we bury, usually from listening to the mourners at the graveside.

Livy looks disappointed. “I think I shall lie down,” she says.

“You don’t want to do that,” I say. “It’s muddy, like you said.”

She don’t listen to me. She sits down on the coffin lid and then she stretches out, her hair getting mud in it and all. “There,” she says, crossing her hands over her chest like she’s dead. She looks up at the sky.

I can’t believe she don’t mind the mud. Maybe she’s gone doolally. “Don’t do that, Livy,” I say. “Get up.”

She still lies there, her eyes closed, and I stare at her face. It’s strange seeing something so pretty lying there in the mud. She’s got a mouth makes me think of some chocolate-covered cherries Maude gave me once. I wonder if her lips taste like that.

“Where’s Maude?” I say to stop thinking of it.

Livy makes a face but keeps her eyes shut. “Over at the library with her mother.”

“Mrs. C.’s out and about?”

I shouldn’t have said nothing, nor sounded surprised. Livy opens her eyes, like a dead un suddenly come to life. “What do you know about Maude’s mother?”

“Nothing,” I say quickly. “Just that she was ill. That’s all.”

I’ve said it too quickly. Livy notices. It’s funny-she’s not like Ivy May, who sees everything. But when she wants to she notices things.

“Mrs. Coleman was ill, but that was over two months ago,” she says. “She does look dreadful but there’s something else wrong. I just know it.” Livy sits up. “And you know it.”

I shift from one foot to the other. “I don’t know nothing.”

“You do.” Livy smiles. “You’re hopeless at lying, Simon. Now, what do you know about Maude’s mother?”

“Nothing I’m going to tell you.”

Livy looks pleased and I wish I hadn’t said even that. “I knew there was something,” she says. “And I know that you’re going to tell me.”

“Why should I tell you anything?”

“Because I’m going to let you kiss me if you do.”

I stare at her mouth. She’s just licked her lips and they’re all glistening like rain on leaves. She’s trapped me. I move toward her, but she pulls her face back.

“Tell me first.”

I shake my head. I hate to say it but I don’t trust Livy. I have to have my kiss before I’ll say a word. “I’ll only tell you after.”

“No, kiss after.”

I shake my head again, and Livy sees I’m serious. She lies back down on the mud. “All right, then. But I must pretend I’m Sleeping Beauty and you’re the prince who wakes me.” She closes her eyes and crosses her hands over her chest again like she’s dead. I look up. Our pa ain’t hanging over the grave-he must’ve sat down to wait with the bottle. I don’t know how long I’ll be lucky, so I lean over quick and press my mouth against Livy’s. She stays still. Her lips are soft. I touch them with my tongue-they don’t taste like chocolate cherries, but like salt. I move back onto my heels and Livy opens her eyes. We look at each other but don’t say nothing. She smiles a little.

“Simon, get yourself going, lad. We’ve another to dig after this,” our pa calls down. He’s standing up top leaning over like he’s going to fall in. I don’t know if he saw us kissing-he don’t say. “You need help up, missy?” he says.

I don’t want him coming down here when Livy’s with me. Three people is too much in a grave. “Leave her ‘lone,” I call up. “I’ll bring her out.”

“I’ll come up myself as soon as Simon answers my question,” Livy says.

Our pa looks like he’s going to climb down, so I has to say it quick. “Mrs. C. visited our ma,” I whisper.

“What, on a charity visit?”

“Who says we need charity?”

Livy don’t answer.

“Anyhow, it were business, not charity.”

“Your mother is a midwife, isn’t she?”

“Yes, but-”

“Do you mean she’s had another child?” Livy’s eyes get big. “Maude has a secret brother or sister somewhere? How exciting! I do hope it’s a brother.”

“It weren’t that,” I say quickly. “She don’t have a brother nor suchlike. It were the other. Getting rid of the brother or sister before it’s born. Else it would’ve been a bastard, see.”

“Oh!” Livy sits up straight and stares at me, her eyes still big. I wish I’d never said a thing. Some people’s meant to be innocent of life, and Livy’s one of‘em. “Oh!” she says again, and starts to cry. She lays back down on the mud.

“It’s all right, Livy. Our ma was gentle. But it took her a time to recover.”

“What will I tell Maude?” she sobs.

“Don’t tell her nothing,” I say quickly, not wanting it to get worse. “She don’t need to know.”

“But she can’t possibly live with her mother in those circumstances.”

“Why not?”

“She can come and live with us. I’ll ask Mama. I’m sure she’ll say yes, especially when she’s heard why.” Livy’s stopped crying now.

“Don’t tell her nothing, Livy,” I say.

Then I hear a scream overhead and look up. Livy’s mother is looking down at us with Maude peeking over her shoulder. Ivy May’s standing by herself on the other side of the grave.

“Lavinia, what on earth are you doing lying down there?” her mother cries. “Get out at once!”

“Hello, Mama,” Livy says calmly, like she ain’t just been crying. She sits up. “Were you looking for me?”

Livy’s mum sinks to her feet and starts to cry, not quiet like Livy did, but noisy with lots of gasping.

“It’s all right, Mrs. Waterhouse,” Maude says, patting her shoulder. “Lavinia’s fine. She’s coming right up, aren’t you, Lavinia?” She glares at us.

Livy smiles a funny smile, and I know she’s thinking about Maude’s ma.

“Don’t you dare tell her, Livy,” I whisper.

Livy don’t say nothing, nor look at me. She just climbs up the wood fast and is gone before I can say more.

Ivy May drops a clod of clay into the grave. It falls at my feet.

It’s quiet when they’re all gone. I start scraping mud into the cracks round the coffin.

Our pa comes and sits down at the side of the grave, dangling his legs over the edge. I can smell the bottle.

“You going to help me or what, our Pa?” I say. “You can bring the Lamb’s box over now.”

Our pa shakes his head. “It’s no use kissing girls like her,” he says.

So he did see. “Why not?” I say.

Our pa shakes his head again. “Them girls ain’t for you, boy. You know that. They like you ‘cause you’re different from them, is all. They’ll even let you kiss ’em, once. But you won’t get nowhere with ‘em.”

“I’m not trying to get nowhere with ‘em.”

Our pa starts to chuckle. “Sure you’re not, boy. Sure you’re not.”

“Hush, our Pa. You just hush.” I go back to my mud-it’s easier than talking to him.

Lavinia Waterhouse

At last I have reached a decision.

I have felt sick ever since Simon told me. Mama thinks I caught a chill down in the grave, but it is not that. I am suffering from Moral Repulsion. Even Simon’s kiss-which I shall never tell a soul about-could not make up for the horror of the news about Kitty Coleman.

When they came to get me at the cemetery, I could hardly look at Maude. I knew that she was annoyed with me, but I genuinely felt ill and could not speak. Then we returned to the library and I felt even worse when I saw Maude’s mother. Luckily she paid no attention to me-she was in the clutches of a frightening woman who Maude told me is a local suffragette. (I don’t understand what all the fuss is about with voting. Politics are so dull-what woman would want to vote anyway?) They walked home arm in arm, talking intimately as if they had known each other for years, and ignored me, which is just as well. It is truly astonishing how brazen Maude’s mother is, given what she has done.

I have not been comfortable with Maude since that day, and indeed for a time felt rather too ill to see her or go to school. I know she thought I was simply pretending, but I felt so burdened. Then, thank goodness, it was half-term, and Maude went off to see her aunt in Lincolnshire, and so I could avoid her for a time. Now she is back, though, and the burden of my knowledge is greater than ever. I hate to keep such a secret from her, and indeed, from everyone, and that has made me sick.

I have not told Mama, for I cannot bring myself to shock her. I am feeling quite fond of dear Mama and Papa, and even of Ivy May. They are simple people, unlike myself, who am rather more complicated, but at least I know that they are honest. This is not a House of Secrets.

I must do something. I cannot sit by and watch the contamination at the heart of the Coleman house spread to dear Maude. So, after three weeks of soul searching, I sat down this afternoon in my room and wrote, in a disguised hand, the following letter:

Dear Mr. Coleman,

It is my Christian duty to inform you of Unbecoming Conduct that has taken place in your household concerning your wife. Sir, you are encouraged to ask your wife about the true nature of her illness earlier this year. I think you will be profoundly shocked.

I am writing this as behoves someone concerned with the moral welfare of your daughter, Miss Maude Coleman. I have only her best interests at heart.

With respectful concern,

I wish to remain,

Yours most sincerely,

Anonymous

I shall creep around this evening and slide it under their door. Then I am sure I will begin to feel better.