One morning, I wake up and notice new neighbors at the church. A mother and daughter are sleeping with their backs to the stone wall. The little girl sleeps on the mother’s lap. The mother sleeps with her head against the church stone. They must have come during the night.
Without thinking, I put my hand to my pocket to feel for the Thieves Oil. It is there. My one possession in the world has not been stolen.
I walk from the church’s doorway down to the steps. Ready to beg. Every once in a while, I look back at my neighbors. Eventually, they wake up.
“Mama, I need to go …” says the little girl.
The mother looks around. She seems unprepared.
“Oh dear.” She looks around for a place to take the girl to go to the washroom.
“There’s a tree behind the church,” I volunteer.
“Thank you,” says the mother with a nod. With that, she leads the little girl around the back of the church. When they return, they come and sit on the other end of the lowest church step.
“Can I see your necks?” I call out to them.
“My neck? Whatever for?” replies the mother.
“To check for symptoms of the Great Plague,” I say matter-of-factly. I think of Father’s fever and buboes.
The mother understands immediately. She lowers her collar. Then, her daughter’s collar. They have nothing that looks like chicken eggs under their skin.
“My name is Elizabeth,” says the mother, “and this is my daughter, Clove.”
Elizabeth wears a dress the color of ginger and boots the color of pepper. Her cap covers what looks like curly black hair. Clove wears a beige dress the color of potatoes. She does not wear a cap and her wild, black ringlets fall to her shoulders. They both look tired despite having slept.
“My name is Rose. Nice to meet you,” I introduce myself.
“Nice to meet you, Rose.” Elizabeth nods. Clove waves her hand shyly at me.
A fisherman walks by and I extend my hand.
“Coins, sir … please?” I beg.
Elizabeth catches on and copies me, extending her hand as he walks past.
“For the children, sir?” she asks.
He ignores us both.
Elizabeth looks over to me with an ashamed look. I understand the embarrassment of begging for the first time. I smile supportively at her. And we, at a distance to each other, beg on the lowest step of the church the rest of the day.
I am surprised and earn a coin. Elizabeth has to take Clove to the tree behind the church many times, keeping her away from the busiest times of day when people walk by.
“We could share some bread,” I offer as I stand to go to the bakery.
“We would be grateful. Thank you, Rose,” replies Elizabeth, taking Clove’s hand.
“Let’s wash up first,” I suggest. I take the bottle of oil out of my pocket along with the cloth. I pour some oil onto my cloth and use it to clean my hands. “Do you have your own cloth?” I ask Elizabeth.
“No,” she responds.
“Can you cut a strip from the bottom of your dress?” I ask.
Elizabeth cuts a strip, as I suggest, and holds it out for oil.
“What will this do?” she asks, looking at the bottle.
“It will do no harm. It just cleans,” I say. I don’t fully explain what the oil does. I know I should still keep it a secret since people seem to be desperate to get it.
As we walk to the bakery, I look around for my brother. I still hope to find him. I still wonder why he hasn’t come back.
While sharing a single piece of bread between the three of us, Elizabeth tells me her story.
“I was a maid at a fine lady’s house. Over on Halt Robin Road.”
“Where is that?” I ask.
“On the posh side of London,” Elizabeth explains.
“Like all the fine people, her ladyship moved to a country house to get away from the sickness. Her servants could go with her but not their children,” Elizabeth says. She looks over at Clove who smiles back to her mother.
Elizabeth continues, “We came from Kent to work for her ladyship. What an opportunity to work in London at a fancy house! But then the sickness came, and her ladyship declared the household was to move. But she wouldn’t allow children to travel with her. I couldn’t abandon Clove, but Clove’s father went. We had nowhere to go. And no money to return us to Kent. So here we are.”
“Here we are,” Clove says, mimicking her mother.
“Clove is too little to stay on her own just yet. So, I can’t look for another job in service. We stayed with some friends for a while. But I didn’t have any more money to contribute to food. And they couldn’t afford to keep us. That’s how we ended up at the church.”
Elizabeth puts her arm around Clove and gives her a squeeze. I feel lonely. Having someone put their arm around you: that is a comfort I have not had for weeks. I miss my parents. I miss Lem too.
“What brought you to the church steps, Rose?” Elizabeth asks. I take a breath. I feel like I can’t trust anyone. So, I simply say “The Great Plague.” And leave it at that.
Elizabeth nods and understands.
I want to change the subject.
“Clove, how old are you?” I ask.
“How old am I, Mama?” Clove asks her mother.
“You are five years old, Clove,” Elizabeth says with a smile.
“I’m five!” Clove says brightly.
“I’m twelve,” I reply.
“Well, perhaps you two will be friends,” Elizabeth says.
Clove and I smile at each other.
We finish our bread and play on the steps of the church. Clove holds my hand and chats about fireflies and fairies. After a while, Elizabeth says, “It’s getting late.” Elizabeth and Clove walk up to their part of the stone wall and I walk to my doorway.
For the first time in a long time, I don’t feel alone.