The Silk Thief (32 page)

Harrie opened her mouth and howled.

George charged out of the bedroom he shared with Nora and bellowed, ‘What the bloody hell’s going on here?’

Over the noise, Friday shouted in Harrie’s face, ‘Charlotte’s all right, Harrie! I promise! She’s in the orphanage!’

But the voices in Harrie’s head weren’t just chattering now, they were shrieking, clamouring for attention, clawing at her brain, demanding vengeance. It was too much. A door slammed shut somewhere inside her, trapping all that she was and everything she’d ever been. The voices had won. She was damned. She was … no one. Her scream built and built in intensity and pitch until even Clifford whimpered.

Horrified by her unnerving response, Sarah yelled at her to stop.

Harrie did, abruptly. She stared at Sarah for a second, her clenched white fists jammed into her temples, then her eyes rolled up and she collapsed on the floor.

‘Shit, she’s fainted,’ Friday said.

But Harrie hadn’t fainted. Sarah crouched over her; Harrie’s eyes were open and staring, the pupils enormous but unseeing. She rolled away from Sarah, then curled up and covered her ears with her hands.

‘What’s the hell’s going on?’ George said a second time, glowering at Harrie on the floor. ‘Is she drunk again?’

Nora handed Lewis to him. ‘Take the baby and go back to bed.’

‘Did you not hear me? I said, is she drunk?’

‘And did you not hear me?’ Nora said, her hands on her hips. ‘I asked you to go away.’

‘Don’t you speak to me like that in my own house.’

‘George, please! For the baby’s sake.’

‘You’ll be hearing about this in the morning!’ George barked. ‘And get rid of those two,’ he added, pointing at Friday and Sarah. But he turned on his heel and marched back into the bedroom, slamming the door.

Friday stood staring down at Harrie. ‘Christ, Sarah, is she all right?’

Sarah gazed into Harrie’s blank and unresponsive face a moment longer, then straightened up. ‘No, she isn’t. I think this time we’ve truly lost her.’

Chapter Eleven

November 1831, Sydney Town

George Barrett poked at the runny yolks of his eggs with his fork, then shovelled one onto a piece of bread, cut it in half and jammed it into his mouth. The new girl Emma had cooked them. He quite liked her — she was pretty, cleaned the house properly and didn’t talk back — but she couldn’t cook eggs to save herself. Harrie had cooked much nicer eggs, but Harrie, unfortunately, was madder than a sack of ferrets. It was a shame, really. The kids adored her.

He glanced at Hannah sitting opposite him. There was a hole in her slice of bread, she had jam on the handle of her table knife, on her face, on the outside of the jam pot, in her hair, on her pinafore and on her fingers.

‘What are you doing to that bread?’

‘Putting jam on.’

‘Give it here.’

Hannah passed her jammy plate across. George dipped his knife into the jam pot, and spread a dollop across the soft fresh bread.

‘Harrie always does it right to the edge,’ Hannah complained.

‘Well, I’m doing this, not Harrie.’

Nora sat down at the table and settled Lewis on her knee.

‘Is Harrie sick again?’ Abigail asked, wiping a smear of butter and jam off Samuel’s face.

‘Yes.’ Nora avoided George’s eye. They’d had an enormous row the day before about Harrie, and she didn’t want another one. George had stomped around insisting he was going to send her back to the Factory, and she’d argued with him ferociously until he’d finally, and very reluctantly, agreed to change his mind. ‘She’s staying in bed for the day.’

In fact, Nora suspected Harrie could well be staying in bed for the next few months. This morning the poor girl seemed almost cataleptic. She barely moved, she didn’t seem aware that Nora was in the room with her, she wouldn’t speak, and most distressing of all, she’d wet the bed. Nora had had to strip the damp sheet from under her, spread a piece of oil cloth over the mattress, put on fresh sheets, sponge Harrie clean, and get her into another nightdress. All while the poor thing sat there like a big, brainless doll. She couldn’t go back to the Factory like that. She couldn’t go anywhere.

‘Where’s Emma?’ George asked, watching Hannah cram her bread into her mouth.

‘Downstairs in the washhouse. Why?’

‘It’s not washing day. Is it?’

‘We’ve got behind. I’ve asked her to do a bit extra.’

‘That’ll keep her busy.’

‘It will, unfortunately,’ Nora said. ‘I wanted her to go to the market. Now I’ll have to go, and I’m that busy. Hannah, that’s Samuel’s bread, not yours!’

George asked, ‘How long will you be?’

‘I don’t know, do I? As long as it takes.’

‘Who’s going to sit with Harrie? She’s mad, she shouldn’t be left alone.’

‘I will!’ Hannah declared.

Nora said, ‘Sometimes you can be a real bastard, George.’

‘Bastard!’ Samuel said.

‘Just stating the facts.’

‘Are you volunteering?’ Nora asked.

‘Hardly,’ George said. ‘I’m not a nursemaid.’

‘She doesn’t need sitting with. Emma will keep an eye on her.’

George eyed his second egg, decided he didn’t want it, drank his cup of tea in one go, and pushed his chair back from the table. ‘Will you take the kids with you? To the market?’

‘Just Lewis.’

George nodded and stood. ‘Right then, I’m off.’

As he clattered down the stairs to his shop, Abigail asked, ‘Mam, why is Da so grumpy lately? Is he worried about Harrie?’

Nora pulled George’s plate across the table, dipped a spoon into the cooling egg and fed it to Lewis. ‘That’s right, dear.’

‘When will she get better?’

‘Soon, I hope.’

‘Why is she sick?’ Hannah asked. ‘Has she got the Black Death?’

‘No, love, she’s just very, very sad, and it’s made her ill.’

‘If she had a kitten, would she get better?’

‘She’s got Angus, remember?’

‘Oh, yeah, I forgot.’

Nora said, ‘Don’t say “yeah”, love. Say “yes”. Now come on, all of you, finish up your breakfasts, we’ve got a busy day.’

George waited until Nora and Lewis emerged from the alleyway beside the house and passed the window of his shop, plus an extra ten minutes in case she’d forgotten something and came back, then turned the sign on the door so it read
CLOSED
.

Then he scooted through the house and out to the backyard. Abigail, Samuel and Hannah were playing some sort of game in a pile of sand, though Hannah seemed more interested in teasing the goat.

‘You lot keep away from the cesspit, do you hear me?’

They waved, barely looking up.

He found Emma in the washhouse, staring into the depths of the boiling copper.

‘Busy?’ he asked.

She started. ‘Mr Barrett! You almost scared the life out of me.’

‘Sorry. Need anything?’

She frowned. ‘Er, no thank you.’

‘Have you looked in on Harrie?’

‘I’m just about to.’

‘I’ll do that, if you like. I’m going up.’

‘Much obliged, Mr Barrett.’

George went inside and up to Harrie’s attic room. He knocked. No answer.

Cautiously, he opened the door. She was lying on her side, facing him. Her eyes were open but he didn’t think she could see him. That bloody cat of hers could, though. It was crouching on the end of the bed, giving him the evil eye.

‘Harrie? It’s Mr Barrett. George.’

No response.

‘Harrie, I want you to get dressed. We’re going for a little ride.’

Still nothing. Shit. Was he going to have to do it all himself? He stepped into the room and closed the door. Treading carefully in case she woke up and had another one of her noisy fits, he approached the bed and laid a hand on her shoulder.

The cat launched itself at him, hissing and clawing at his wrist. George swung at it, knocking it to the floor. It disappeared under the bed. Sucking his wounded flesh as he got down on his knees, George could see it under there, poisonous teeth bared and fur puffed out. Little shite.

He stood and prodded Harrie’s arm.

She barely moved. For God’s sake. He peeled the bedclothes off, sat her up and swivelled her around so her bare feet were on the floor. Now what? He opened her bureau and found a shift, pulled a dress out of the clothes press, and looked around for her boots. Not stockings, though — trying to get stockings on her would be out of the question.

He looked at her. Christ, this was going to be bloody impossible with her just sitting there like a lump of dough.

‘Harrie, wake up, will you?’

Except she wasn’t exactly asleep. It was uncanny and deeply disconcerting and the hairs on his arms were all standing up. Holding his breath in case something terrible happened, he slapped her gently across the face. Twice.

She blinked, and seemed briefly to focus.

‘Harrie, we’re going out. You need to get dressed, all right?’

Nothing. Leaning over her, George eased the nightdress out from under her bum, then lifted it off over her head. Underneath she was naked, and he tried not to look at her. Yes, he had an eye for the ladies, but Harrie didn’t fall into that category, and he wasn’t a rat who’d take advantage of her while she was so ill. He couldn’t help noticing, though, that she was as skinny as the handle on a yard broom, and that her full bust and rounded hips had almost disappeared. He felt a brief but genuine pang of sorrow for the bright, cheerful girl she’d once been.

He put the shift on her, then followed with the dress, a much trickier proposition. Eventually he got it over her head and eased her arms into the sleeves, then helped her to stand up. When she let out a loud burp, he nearly had a heart attack. Could you still burp when you were in a trance? Obviously you could. After his heart had slowed down he spent what felt like hours fucking about trying to do up all the buttons, gave up and left half of them undone, slipped her boots on her feet, tied the laces, and draped a shawl around her shoulders.

Worried now that Emma would appear, he took Harrie’s arm and guided her down the stairs to his shop, where he collected his satchel, then outside onto the street. Tucking his arm into hers as though they were out for a leisurely stroll, he walked her to the stables up on Cambridge Street and, sweating profusely now but resolute, paid over the odds to hire a horse and gig with the minimum of fuss. Where they were going was far too far to travel on foot.

It took them much of the day to get there, but, to George’s relief, Harrie slept most of the way. Or, at least, he assumed she’d slept. After an hour of sitting on the seat next to him, staring blankly ahead, she’d curled up and put her hands over her ears. He’d checked a few times and once her eyes had been open, and twice they hadn’t. She hadn’t said a single word to him, though she’d muttered on and off as though she’d been talking to someone, which had been quite off-putting.

When he’d stopped for his dinner he’d been worried, not that she might run away, but that she might just wander off, so he’d taken his plate of food and tankard of ale outside and eaten it in view of the gig. She hadn’t wanted anything to eat or drink. Well, she’d not responded when he’d offered. And neither had she responded to his question about her need to use the inn’s privy, which he’d regretted later when she’d peed on herself and the gig’s seat.

The sun was beginning to slide down the sky by the time they reached their destination. By then, Harrie was truly, deeply asleep. George had to shake her quite hard to wake her. When he helped her down from the gig she fell over — he’d forgotten she hadn’t been off the seat all day and he looked around, worried anyone watching would think he’d pushed her. He picked her up and half walked, half carried her through the gates.

The building was disappointingly ordinary, given that it had once been a courthouse — he’d been expecting something much more grand. In fact, it was little more than a two-storey oblong box with a chimney at each end and windows on both levels. He hoped he was at the right place. Propping Harrie up with one arm, he banged on the door.

It was opened by a cove wearing navy-blue moleskin trousers, an unbleached cotton shirt and a brown waistcoat.

‘Is this the Liverpool lunatic asylum?’ George asked.

‘’Tis.’

‘I’ve got a new patient for you.’

‘You’ll be wanting to speak to Mr Plunkett, then. He’s the superintendent. He does the admitting.’

‘Well, can you fetch him?’

‘Hold on.’

‘Can I bring her in? We’re tired. We’ve travelled out from Sydney.’

The man shrugged, opened the door wider, then walked off.

George sat himself and Harrie down on a pair of hard wooden chairs in a moderately spacious foyer. Presently a second man appeared, carrying a clipboard and dressed, far more elegantly than the first, in pale trousers, a well-cut coat and waistcoat and polished boots. He offered a neatly manicured hand.

‘Good afternoon. I’m Thomas Plunkett. I’m the superintendent here. I’m told you’ve brought us a new patient?’

George stood, wiped his palm on his crumpled jacket, and shook Thomas Plunkett’s cool, dry hand. ‘Yes, this is Harriet Clarke. She’s … not well.’

The superintendent glanced at Harrie. ‘It’s very nice to meet you, Mr Clarke. I’m sorry about your wife.’

‘Oh, no, my name’s George Barrett,’ George said quickly. ‘Harrie’s my servant. We got her from the Factory.’

‘Ah. A bonded convict?’

‘That’s right.’ George opened his satchel. ‘These are her assignment papers.’

‘Thank you.’ The superintendent wrote down a few details and gave the papers back. ‘Keep these. You’ll need them. So the government will be paying?’

‘Er, yes.’

‘And what seems to be the problem?’

‘Well, she’s mad. Demented.’

‘Mad in what way, Mr Barrett?’

‘She won’t speak to anyone, she won’t eat, she won’t get out of bed, she has these terrible screaming fits, and she talks to herself. And, er, she’s incontinent.’

Mr Plunkett wrinkled his nose. ‘Yes, I’d noted that. Screaming fits, you say? She seems quiet and really rather docile at the moment.’

‘Well, yes, at the moment,’ George admitted.