Elizabeth’s first death was her father’s, barely six months after she was born. It came to her in the souring of her mother’s milk. The baby’s insistent mouth searched for succour in that life-stream, and with no words or language to separate one thing from another, Elizabeth took in with life’s sweetness also its sorrow.
The will of Sam Batts, victualler, was proved on the twenty-first day of July 1742, by the oath of Mary Batts, widow. He had left his wife the alehouse, the tenanted properties and a fatherless baby. When she had married Sam, Mary had hoped for a few more years than this. At least he had lived long enough to see the baby christened Elizabeth, quickly, seven days after her birth, for one never knew with babies.
Mary and Sam had carried their child, blanketed against the falling snow, across the marshy grounds to St John’s Church. Memento mori. Death was always the uninvited guest, but at the christening Mary said prayers and burnt herbs to keep death away. She had not thought, on that last day of January, that so joyous an occasion would be followed so soon by the slab of death. On the hot July day of Sam’s funeral, Mary carried the baby alone.
She knew what Sam wanted—for her to keep the business going. Her father, Charles Smith, agreed. Truth be told, it was one of the reasons he had assented to the transaction of marriage between his daughter and the businessman. Unlike other publicans on the waterfront, who gave it a try and lasted a year at the most, Batts had run his alehouse for more than fourteen years.
Mary hadn’t reckoned on this, she told her father, as she walked the baby up and down. It was the only thing she could do to stop Elizabeth crying. ‘You mustn’t pamper the child,’ her father advised her. Mary swallowed a hard lump in her throat. She would not succumb to tears in front of him. But didn’t he see that the whole thing was upsetting Elizabeth? She could feel the bristled air.
‘For the future of the child you must carry on,’ her father said more softly. Mary nodded. She knew it already, knew there was no choice. In the swirl of life on the waterfront you couldn’t stop. The tide would lap over you and eventually engulf you.
Mary held the baby to her after her father had returned home to Bermondsey across the river. She kept pacing. Sam had left her with two children to look after—sweet little Elizabeth and a big boisterous alehouse that would run into trouble if it wasn’t watched carefully. If she let the alehouse go she would be in ruin. The poorhouse or worse. ‘I will never let that happen,’ Mary whispered into the baby’s ear. She had worked by her husband’s side, she would imagine him still there, as indeed the ghost of him was, though a ghost could not serve customers or keep order, employ men to unload cargoes, conduct meetings or undertake any of the other business that dockside publicans engaged in. Mary sighed. Working alongside Sam was one thing, taking his place was another.
The tide was out and the river stank. The muddy iodine smell of it blended with everything else—the buckets of coal, stacks of timber, rope, beer and gin. Above all, the smell of men. Would the men respect Mary the way they did Sam? There were plenty who would seek to take advantage of a young widow.
The baby was fitful and wouldn’t sleep. Mary held her at the window and looked out at the night. It was rarely clear in London, there was always a haze, and coal dust settling on everything like black snow. The hubbub of the streets had died down somewhat, though Mary knew there were those who had business in the dark of night. Like the two small shadows moving across the shine of mud towards one of the ships. She’d seen the cargo come in from that one—tobacco from the colonies—all of it now safely behind the high brick walls of a warehouse, protected by watchmen peering out between slits in the brickwork. Behind those walls the riches of the world were amassed. Bolts of cloth, tobacco, spirits and tea, spices. Coal and alum.
Mary identified the shadows now—two boys, no more than seven years old, slipping across the mud, wading into the shallows and climbing on board the ship, ready to pilfer whatever came to hand, or perhaps, Mary thought more kindly, looking for somewhere to sleep for the night.
‘For the future of the child . . .’ Mary had to prepare herself for the daunting task ahead. She wrapped Elizabeth warmly in a blanket, and took out Sam’s ledger.
In the following year the Bell alehouse was thriving but the baby was not, one perhaps the result of the other. Mary had servants and employees to help, of course, but as Sam always said, the best way to run a business was to keep an eye on everything yourself. Mary was afraid she’d been keeping an eye on the alehouse at the expense of her daughter. The child remained small, despite Mary’s attempts to feed her, and had a dry cough, but thankfully no blood with it. Elizabeth seemed happy enough, and at least the cough got no worse, even in the spring when the winds blew in all kinds of sudden calamities.
It had been hard for Mary, especially at the beginning during those busy summer months. She’d spent night after night going over Sam’s ledger, forcing herself to do the calculations and to do them quickly. She had to keep her eye on everything, make sure that the servants and lodgers weren’t stealing from her or taking advantage. Mary was especially grateful for the support of the Quakers with whom she conducted business. She had heard that at Quaker prayer meetings women sometimes got up to speak and that what they said was accepted with the same gravity accorded to a man. Perhaps that was the reason the Quaker merchants readily accepted her in place of Sam. Mr Sheppard, part-owner of John Walker’s ships from Whitby, had helped her organise the gangs of coal heavers, and showed her how to keep a tally of what they drank.
The winter, with its slower trade, had brought Mary some respite and a little more time with Elizabeth, but now it was spring and the ships were starting up again and there were cargoes to unload. The alehouse was full of heavers turning money into ale, and ale into money, slaking their thirst only to sweat it out again over the next lot of cargo. An alehouse was not the best place for a child as young as Elizabeth, but there were plenty worse off. Mary tried to keep her daughter upstairs, but the little one had begun to walk and despite a barrier of servants and closed doors, had found her way out.
Elizabeth stood at the top of the stairs, her hands on the balustrade, and looked through the bars to the world below. Such a sea of bodies, some sitting, some standing, but all seemed to her to be in motion like a slow-moving tide. She breathed in the smell of it, a soup of ale and sweat and coal.
‘Mama.’ Her eyes finally lit on her mother, in conversation at the end of the bar with a couple of men in tall black hats and cloaks. Elizabeth began making her way down, each step an operation that involved arms as well as legs, one hand on the bars before the other let go to find its new place further down.
‘What do we have here? A fine looking morsel for my dinner.’ A big coal-smeared face loomed up at her, tobacco-stained teeth visible in the grin. Elizabeth stood stock-still, watching the flicker of bloodshot, rheumy eyes. She felt the roughness of his hands on her and suddenly she was lifted into the air, her little face only inches away from a timber beam. In the corner of it was a grey patch of cobweb.
Then she felt herself flying backwards, and the world was upside down. ‘Mama!’
Mary was already fighting her way through the crowd, ordering the drunk to put the baby down. ‘You wouldn’t miss a sippet like this, would you, missus, a tidy morsel no bigger than a rabbit? I’ve a mind to put her on the fire and roast her straightaway.’ He flaunted the baby high over his head, as if she were a prize he had won. Mary held her tongue, more fearful that the drunk would slip and fall with the baby than that he intended any harm to her. The muscles at the sides of her cheeks stood out as she clenched her teeth.
Then a lodger appeared on the stairway. Mr Blackburn. Mary had no idea how long he had been there. Her eyes were fully fixed on Elizabeth, the baby’s little hands swimming in the air, trying to right herself. Everyone in the alehouse was still, except for the drunk, who continued swaying with his prize, grinning in his glory. Mr Blackburn advanced one step then two, till he was right behind the drunk. The baby made a small sound as Mr Blackburn took the drunk’s prize as easily as if he’d relieved him of his hat. Then, with a deft movement, he kicked the drunk into the crowd.
Mr Blackburn handed Elizabeth to her mother. The baby gurgled but seemed none the worse for wear. Mary hugged Elizabeth to her breast, the baby’s little nose squashing against the bones in her mother’s stays. She saw no more of the drunk except fists pounding down on him and the back of his heels as he was eventually kicked out the door.
Mary walked the short distance along the High Street to the Quaker house of the Sheppards, lifting her skirts to avoid the mud, manoeuvring her way through the crowds of mariners, street girls and urchins, around a pile of oars and timbers, stepping over the feet of a beggar who had taken up residence in the street.
Quakers helped those in need. Fire was a constant menace in the crowded dock area, and there had been some terrible fires, especially when the flames got into the warehouses where gunpowder was stored. The Quakers took in those made homeless by the fires, and other unfortunate families. Mary didn’t think of herself as unfortunate, but the Sheppards had often expressed concern for Elizabeth.
When she came to the Sheppards’ alleyway, a woman in a raggy shawl and bare feet tried to sell Mary her baby. ‘A young’un for you, missus,’ said the woman, showing gin-rotted teeth. Mary, her thoughts full of her own little Elizabeth, momentarily forgot the riverside practice of ignoring such offers. She gaped at the baby in the woman’s arms. It was a scrawny little thing with a bluish tinge. Mary wasn’t even sure it was alive. She faltered, almost turned back. Mary gave the woman a shilling, much more than she’d normally give a beggar, and made herself knock on the Sheppards’ door.
A servant showed Mary in to the plainly furnished house. She sat rigidly on a chair and made the necessary arrangements with Mrs Sheppard. Elizabeth would be taken by boat to Barking, then on to the Sheppards’ country house at Crowcher’s Yard.
Mrs Sheppard suggested a monthly sum for lodging Elizabeth and Mary offered more, to make sure the child was well cared for.
‘That will not be necessary,’ said Mrs Sheppard gently. ‘I’ll look after Elizabeth as if she were my own. It will be a pleasure to have her,’ she added. ‘She’ll be a friend for my own little Sarah. Friday fortnight, would that be suitable, Mrs Batts?’ Mary slowly nodded her head. Mrs Sheppard could see that the conversation was not an easy one for her neighbour. She put her hand on Mary’s knee. ‘I’ll bring Sarah with me, that might make the . . . ’ she searched for the right word, ‘ . . . transition a little smoother.’
On the appointed day Mary packed Elizabeth’s bag. ‘You’re going to stay in the country with Mrs Sheppard,’ she said brightly as Elizabeth watched her clothes going into the bag. ‘She has a little girl about the same age as you. Won’t it be fun to have a playmate! There’ll be bunny rabbits and lambs,’ Mary went on. Nothing seemed to stop the toddler’s little mouth from quivering. ‘Oh, Elizabeth,’ said Mary, trying to stop her own mouth from quivering. How could she explain?
Mary carried her child towards the wharf. She took out her handkerchief and wiped the little one’s face. ‘We don’t want to greet Mrs Sheppard with tears, do we?’ she said, biting her lip. ‘Be a brave girl for Mama.’ She spotted the distinctive black Quaker dress in the crowd. ‘There’s Mrs Sheppard and little Sarah.’
Elizabeth looked at Sarah, a strange yet familiar creature, just like herself. When their mothers brought them up close, Elizabeth stuck out her hand, and after initial surprise at the gesture, Sarah put hers out too. The mothers smiled with relief.
Mrs Sheppard handed Sarah down to a servant in the waiting boat then stepped aboard herself. It was time to pass Elizabeth over. ‘Be a good girl,’ Mary whispered, smothering Elizabeth in kisses. ‘Do everything Mrs Sheppard tells you to.’
The boatman loosened the moorings. ‘Mama!’ cried Elizabeth when she saw that her mother wasn’t coming with them. ‘It’s all right, Elizabeth,’ said Mary, swallowing back her tears. ‘Look, Mrs Sheppard has a banana for you.’ But Elizabeth wasn’t interested. ‘Mama!’ she cried, reaching out for her. Mary clenched her fists to stop herself from plucking Elizabeth out of the boat and taking her home. ‘Be brave, my little one,’ Mary called as the boat pulled her child away from her.
Mary could hardly bear to watch yet she could not let Elizabeth see her mother turn away from her. She was not trying to get rid of her child like the gin-rotted woman, she kept telling herself, it was only a temporary measure. She steadied herself against the mooring post and waved her handkerchief, held it up high for Elizabeth to see. As the boat became smaller and smaller Mary felt her heart being dragged out with it as if she were tied to the boat by an invisible rope. Tears streamed down her face. She stood on the wharf waving her handkerchief long after the boat taking Elizabeth away had disappeared in a loop of the river.