Slammerkin - Emma Donoghue [47]
Matron Butler's eyes suddenly reminded Mary of her mother's, on the last night in Charing Cross Road. She looked away, unable to bear their weight. A long moment, and then the Matron's voice vibrated like the string of a violin. 'In the space of a month or two, Mary Saunders, when you are lying broken and naked in Fleet Ditch—'
'I'm not a whore any more,' said Mary. The vehemence of her own words startled her.
The Matron's eyebrows lifted infinitesimally.
'That's all over,' said Mary, almost pleading. 'I want ... a better life.'
Those stony eyes softened a little. The Matron pulled her chair nearer and leaned over the desk. 'Mary,' she murmured as if imparting a secret. 'I know you to be a young woman of great capacities. Your education is solid, your wits are original, and your will is strong. In less than two months, with my own eyes I have seen you blossom into a seamstress of remarkable skill. But still the shadow hangs over you.'
Mary looked away.
'If you truly mean to escape from your former degradation, and your former so-called friends, then you must stay here with us until all your old habits are broken.'
'They are,' said Mary shortly.
Matron Butler shook her head sorrowfully. 'Not yet. You're still restless and perverse. I've seen you pick up work and then throw it down a minute later. Your face shuts up like a safe whenever you hear the Holy Word of God. You tell lies, such as this nonsensical story about Monmouth. The seeds may be planted, my dear, but it's not yet harvest-time.'
Mary stared at the wall, traced the pattern of the wainscoting.
'Just a few months,' coaxed the Matron. Her hand slid across the desk and enclosed Mary's chilly fingers. 'To prepare you for a truly better life, you need to remain a little longer here in the safety and sanctity of—'
'I can't,' the girl interrupted, throwing off the Matron's hand. The words broke out of her throat. 'This is no life!'
The Matron watched Mary as if across a great gulf. 'Very well,' she said, almost coolly. She got up and turned her back, lifting down a huge leather-bound volume and placing it in the dead centre of the desk. She pressed her hands flat on its cover. 'You are among the third.'
'The third what?'
'Ever since this institution was founded,' said the Matron, 'it has been our experience that we cannot expect to save more than two of every three.'
Mary was struck between the ribs by something like regret. 'I truly mean to better myself,' she mumbled.
The Matron ignored that. She opened the huge volume with two hands as if it were Scripture, and read in a low voice: 'Sarah Shore, restored to her friends by the grace of God, placed in service as a washerwoman in Glasgow.'
God help Sally, thought Mary; bleeding from the nails by now.
'Betty Vale, sent to St. Benet's Hospital.' The Matron ran the words together under her breath. Mary remembered Betty, who somehow hid her belly till her waters broke in Chapel. How the Reverend Dodd extemporised!
'Moll Gatterly, dismissed for irregularities.'
Was that the word for it? Moll had threatened the smaller girls with her needle till they handed over their puny wages.
'Jessie Haywood,' the Matron murmured, 'restored to her friends by the grace of God, married a journeyman of good character. Lucy Shepherd, died contrite.'
Died raving about worms, more like, remembered Mary. Did this book contain the full list of destinies, ever since the Magdalen had opened its gates?
'And Mary Saunders,' said the Matron at last, slowing down as her quill marked an inky path across the page, 'discharged at her own request.' She looked up, her eyes as dry as salt. 'What reason?'
'Uneasy under confinement,' suggested Mary gravely.
The Matron paused a moment, then wrote it down. 'You will leave at the end of the week.'
'No,' breathed Mary, 'tonight.'
CHAPTER THREE
Liberty
THE ROCKET cracked a mile above her head. Mary felt the jolt in her spine; her eardrums crackled and itched. Another, and another; the yellow-tailed stars fell as slow as leaves on the heads of the watchers.