It was a good many weeks since Aunt Tilly’s sentence had been handed down for her part in the crimes of the smuggling gang, but still she was in Lewes prison, awaiting the boat that would transport her to the colonies. Her proximity to me was disturbing and I fretted constantly to be rid of what I felt to be a malign presence.
Every day began with the same thought: I won’t let Aunt Tilly’s presence spoil my day. Every day I failed in this desire. Somehow she was always in my mind, hiding behind thoughts, sneaking out when I least expected it, infecting me with her malice.
One day I woke particularly early. The dawn had barely begun its climb to dispel the darkness. I padded barefoot to the window and watched as fingers of opaque light threaded through night clouds; a pale shred of sunlight gently lifted the shadows until the light was full and vibrant. Gradually the birds began their songs and chirrups until the sky was full of exuberance and hectic activity. I might have been the only human on earth for nobody else stirred.
Beth turned in her truckle bed and I watched as she began to fidget: yawning, stretching and finally blinking rapidly before she opened her eyes fully. I motioned her to the window and she scrambled out of the pile of bedding and together we watched the morning arrive. It was going to be a lovely day and we held hands together to welcome it.
Our day proceeded as normal, breakfast, working in the doctor’s study, seeing patients and preparing medicants. Today Dr Grieve was due to sit in the coroner’s court and we started our lunch without him. His hours on such days were unpredictable so Mrs Jenkins plated up some cold meats, bread and cheese. I spent several hours with Beth who was learning her alphabet. We used some chalk to practice letters on a slate. Beth was two and a half, as she proudly declared to everyone she met, and she absorbed all the experiences of her daily life like Mrs Jenkins’ mop.
I heard the door slam as the doctor arrived. Mrs Jenkins scurried to meet him and he shouted for me, ‘Esther, Esther, come and join me.’
We sat at the dining table and he began eating, all the while looking at me with concerned eyes.
‘What is it?’ I whispered, suddenly afraid.
‘It’s your aunt, she has asked to see you. Can you face it? You are not obliged but it might help you to put this all behind you.’
‘Have you heard about the boat?’
‘Yes, she is to be taken to Tilbury tomorrow where she will be put upon a vessel bound for the Australias.’
‘Tomorrow?’
‘Aye, tomorrow. If you want to see her before she leaves you must go now, before dark. There will be no opportunity tomorrow. Esther, my dear, I know you are troubled by her and I think it might be an opportunity to lance the boil.’
I smiled at his use of a medical term but inside my heart was pounding at the thought of meeting her again. The last time we had met we were in court and she had watched me with anger in her eyes as I told the story of my abduction, imprisonment and almost marriage to her son, Sam, my cousin. During the trial I was asked, at great length, about my relationship to the Kempe family.
I tried to think why she would want to see me. It was my testimony that damned her.
In the end I decided to go, if only to satisfy myself, again, that she was indeed a very wicked woman and deserved no quarter from decent people.
Dr Grieve accompanied me to the doors of the house of correction but I declined his offer to escort me inside. I was admitted by a young man who was new to the job and much kinder to me than the gaoler who had previously incarcerated me in the very same cell as my aunt. I looked through the bars to see her crouched on a three legged stool looking very unkempt. ‘You wanted to see me, aunt?’
Unkempt she might be but her eyes were as clear as ever and her look was withering.
‘You asked us, girl, to be a family to you and you wanted to know about your mother. Well I am going to tell you. You might not wish to hear all that I say but it is your right to know.’
She spat into the corner of the room as she called for the gaoler. ‘Bring the girl a stool, boy, can’t you see she be crippled?’
I gasped. I didn’t see myself as a cripple.
The lad brought a chair and I sat, waiting. I hid my hands in my cloak, I didn’t want her to see that I was nervous.
‘Your ma, Sarah, was my older sister and she were a bright spark. Our grandmother Meg took a liking to her and taught her everything she did know about her craft. She didn’t bother with me.’
‘Craft?’
‘Aye, craft. Meg were known as a wise woman.’ She looked up at me nastily. ‘Or, in some circles, a witch. You be shocked girl, but there is not much difference ‘tween the two. People think that a wise woman be for the good, and a witch for the bad; your great-grandmother Meg would be a bit of both, according to who she were treating. My mother was her daughter, and she were a weakly sort so it were a spell that bound our father to her, a spell cast by Meg.’
She paused in her tale before saying, ‘Meddlin’ in such things be dangerous and with all her knowledge and herbal skills she bound they two together as should never have been. Pa didn’t want her but he sired Sarah then me, then ma died of the effort. It suited Meg to keep him tied to the family while she brought us up an’ he took out his frustrations in smuggling. He led a gang of ’em, including many local lads who were looking to earn more than the few pennies they got legally. It weren’t all about money – the drink and the excitement were heady payment and outwitting the law was part of the thrill.’ She was looking into the distance as she said this and I could sense that she missed the life they had led, pitting their wits and cunning against authority.
‘Our whole life revolved round the trade and your ma was as much a part of it as the rest of us. She were a bright girl and comely; our dad used her to deliver messages and keep the local constabulary sweet. She just crooked her little finger and sweet-talked them into befuddlement. She had learned well from Grandma Meg.’
‘It were a bad day for us when Sarah met a young man, a stranger to our parts. She should have been acting as a lookout but she got flustered by this good-looking fella who stopped to ask the way. Because she took her eye off the game, two young lads were caught and one of they were later hanged; he were a bonny lad. Sarah were beaten as a punishment, as was the way with those that flouted our rules.’
‘Who beat her?’ I asked.
‘Why, her dad, who do you think? He loved her, more an’ me, but she nearly got us all caught.’
‘Didn’t her grandmother protect her?’
‘You’re not listenin’ are you girl? We was all in it together and that was her punishment.’
Aunt Tilly spat on the ground again and continued.
‘Some months later Meg took sick and died. ‘T’were very sudden and with her death the spells broke. Our pa went looking for a new woman. Sarah, your mother, left us soon after, but not afore he had satisfied hisself.’
‘No.’
‘You’m not daft girl, your ma was useful in that way to your grandfather. He took her as he later took me. Who knows how many childer he got roundabouts.’ She looked at me and laughed. ‘D’you know how long it were before she got herself hitched to your dad?’
I felt sick and struggled for breath as I gasped, ‘No, it’s not true, you are just saying all this to get back at me. You’re an evil woman and I wish you were hanged, just as you deserve.’
‘Aye, maybe I do deserve hanging but you’m come from our seed girl and you’ll never know whether the badness is in you. Your grandfather might be your father – he might not, but you’ll never know and if you have childer they might be born idiots as some of mine were. They’m all dead now – two died after they was born, they were afflicted and one were a cripple–’ she was looking at my lipsy leg ‘–and their dying was a blessed relief, but my two strong boys Sam and Jeremiah, there were now’t wrong with they, but you got them killed.’ She looked at me, accusing, accusing.
‘Is this why you wanted to see me, just to tell lies? Well, I don’t believe you and I won’t let you destroy my memories of my parents. They were good people and they loved each other. I don’t believe you. I don’t believe you and I won’t believe you. I won’t!’
My cries had brought the guard running and I was let out of that hateful place. I ran, as best as I was able, all the way back to Dr Grieve’s house and flung myself on my bed. Oh, how I cried.