Mamma replied, "You're too indulgent with her, Edward.
It's not good for her to think she can do as she likes."
The parlour door closed and I couldn't hear any more so I went back to the desk. I stared at the three wooden owls on Papa's pipe-rack. They stared back. I dipped the pen in the inkpot and bent over the paper.
"Dear Aunt Phyllis—"
I sighed. This was going to be very hard.
Weeks ushers me into a high-ceilinged, narrow room with a stone floor. It has a row of windows like slits, high up in one wall, and along the opposite wall are shelves stacked with linen. A musty smell pricks my nose, a smell of unwashed clothes and damp.
Weeks gestures towards a wooden bench. "Get undressed."
I stare at her, too astonished to speak.
"You must have a bath."
"But I'm quite clean."
Weeks frowns. "It's the procedure." She has a London accent but speaks in a strange, slightly stilted way, as if she's trying to sound like a lady.
"But I'm not dirty. I—" I see the look in her eyes. She's not that much older than me, I am at least a head taller, yet I don't dare to defy her.
My hands move of their own accord, taking off my gloves and my hat. I hesitate and Weeks nods at the bench where I lay them down with my wrap. I turn my back on her, unbutton my bodice and step out of my skirts. All the time, a small voice in my head is saying, Why are you doing this? You don't have to do this. But I have the feeling that if I don't do what I'm told, something bad will happen...
"All of your clothes, Miss Childs."
She is not speaking to me.
She is speaking to me.
I undo my corset slowly, hook by hook. I've always hated its whalebone ribs but now I don't want to lose its protection. When the last hook is released, I hold the corset to me for a moment before dropping it on the bench. I take off my petticoats, unlace my boots and pull them off, rolling down my black stockings. When I have nothing on but my drawers and chemise, I stop.
"Those too." Her voice is expressionless, but her eyes insist.
Naked, I turn at last, my hands across my breasts. There is nowhere to hide.
"Give me your jewellery." She's looking at my locket and my jet ring. I cover them protectively.
"Come, I must have them."
"But I never take them off. They mean a lot to me."
She frowns. "All the more reason for me to keep them safely for you."
I hesitated and she takes a step towards me. What is she going to do? Take them from me by force?
Reluctantly, I undo the clasp of the locket, slip the ring from my finger.
"And have you any money? Or a watch?"
I nod.
"I must keep them for you too."
"What if I need some money?" My voice is too loud. It bounces off the walls.
"You may keep a few shillings. You don't need much money here, for there's nothing to spend it on." Her mouth twists in a spiteful smile.
I won't be needing much because I won't be here for long.
I fumble at my gown, unpinning my watch. A gift from Papa. Papa...
Weeks takes the watch and my purse and counts out some coins. She lays them on the bench. "When you need some more, I will give it to you."
She doesn't know that sewn into the waistband of my gown are some folded notes, a precaution Mamma insisted on before I ventured out into the dangerous world.
"What about my box?"
"It's quite safe. If you want anything from it, you only have to ask."
I stare at her. I don't believe her. I open my mouth to say something, but a shiver shakes me.
"You are cold, Miss Childs. Come for your bath."
***
Under Weeks's watchful eye, I sit in a few inches of greenish water and soap myself with carbolic. Afterwards I dry myself as best as I can on a thin towel the size of a napkin. Back in the room where I left my clothes I go to put them on but Weeks stops me.
"Your clothes will have to be marked with your name."
I stare at her. "But I—"
A flash from her dark eyes and my voice falters.
Don't antagonise her. You don't know what she might do.
She continues as if I haven't spoken. "You'll get them back. In the meantime, you may borrow some."
She hands me a set of underclothes then glances at the watch fastened to her bodice by a chain. Her lips tighten. I try to hurry, my fingers fumbling with tapes and fastenings. With each garment, I feel stranger and stranger. Bit by bit, I am losing more of myself. Soon I won't exist.
At the bottom of the pile, I find a flannel nightdress and one pocket handkerchief.
Weeks goes to the cupboard and takes out a dark dress. Involuntarily my hand goes towards my gown then I stop myself.
Don't give the game away. The money might still be safe.
The dress Weeks gives me is made of coarse cloth, linsey-wolsey, perhaps. I draw it over my head, smell someone's else's perspiration. Whoever it was, she was larger than me; even buttoned up, the bodice hangs on me in folds, the high neck is loose, the sleeves flap at the wrists.
"This is too big."