Slammerkin - Emma Donoghue [153]
She felt quite faint with the idea of it. Money from nowhere: not worked for, not sweated! Mrs. Jones stood motionless, for a moment; anyone who saw her would have thought she was praying. And she was, in a way. Judgement, was the word she was mouthing to herself. Remember the Day of Judgement.
She glanced around: no one in sight. Then she pulled the stocking out of her pocket and rushed over to the Poor Box on the wall. Her hands came up full of coins; she stuffed them into the slot.
The air cooled a little in the second week of September. Down by the river, Jennett the Gelder was cutting the boars; their incredulous squeals rang through the town. Mary walked home with a basket of malt for the winter brewing. Her legs trembled under her; her breath was shallow. The fields were newly seeded with rye. She saw a small child racing at the birds to scare them away. How many days would it take him to earn a penny? Her eyes stung. Ever since the fever broke she'd been ready to cry over nothing.
But she hadn't been entirely idle, during her convalescence. She'd come up with a good story at last: so simple, Mary cursed herself for not having thought of it before. The money, she was ready to confide in Mrs. Jones, was a secret legacy from her mother. Tell no one you have it, Mother said to me on her deathbed. Keep it hidden away for hard times. For your old age. Mary had been rehearsing this story all week, till it sounded like Gospel truth.
There was something black hanging from a fence by the bridge into town. Mary's eyes were weak and blurry still from the fever; she went up close. A dead crow, hung by its feet, its wings sagging wide as if it were flying downwards, about to hit the ground. It swayed on the wind. Mary picked up the smell coming off the body, dark and musky.
She hurried home.
She knew if she watched and waited, the right moment would come, and it had.
'How do you feel in yourself, now, Mary?' asked her mistress.
'Quite well.' It was only a little lie. Her vision was only slightly blurred. She could stop her hands shaking if she remembered to.
Mr. Jones was out at his club, where he went more and more, these evenings. Mrs. Ash was upstairs mumbling over her Scripture. Daffy had gone walking by the river on his own. Even Abi was out for a taste of the mild evening air.
If Mary didn't speak up now, she might never get the chance. 'I was wondering,' she began, 'now that I'm in my health again...'
'Yes?' said her mistress.
'Can I have my money back?'
That bright, loving face disintegrated all at once. Mrs. Jones's breath seeped away. 'Oh, Mary.'
'I'm ready to tell you, now, where I got it,' the girl said with what she hoped looked like an innocent smile. 'I should have—'
Mrs. Jones shook her head and interrupted. 'No need, no need.'
'But I want to tell you,' Mary insisted. 'I want to set your mind at rest. I can trust you with what I've never told a soul.'
'Mary.' Mrs. Jones put her fingertips against her maid's lips to hush her. After a long moment, she went on, almost in a whisper, 'It's gone.'
Mary's face went stiff. 'Gone?'
Mrs. Jones licked her lips nervously. 'I did what was best.'
The girl waited.
'I put it in the Poor Box.'
Mary heard the words, but she could make no sense of them. The thing was impossible.
'You see, my dear,' said her mistress in a rush, 'I know you did wrong—though I don't know what, exactly—but I feel sure in my heart that you're not a wicked girl. This way, the money is put to good use and you're cleansed of it. Do you see? It'll go to paupers, and orphans.'
'Orphans?' repeated Mary hoarsely.
'Yes, poor creatures,