Day 16 an attempt to catch up with 3799 words

Ernest and Gabriel spent such time as they could together, becoming close friends. With Gabriel dressed in Ernest’s best winter coat and hat, and Ernest in cast-off items from Gabriel, they could roam around the boroughs in the fog or in the snow,  where neither would be recognised, and nobody would look twice at a couple of respectable boys, except to remark on them as twins. Gabriel and Ernest would look at each other and grin. Once, when the fog along the embankment was so thick that they were holding hands for fear of becoming totally lost, Ernest told Gabriel what the apple woman had said about the terrible murders of Jack the Ripper. Gabriel cheered Ernest up by teasing him for being scared like a little girl by such stories, but then after a while he said that he thought his Papa had a book on the case, somewhere in his study. Gabriel was never allowed into the study except to be punished or praised, but he could ask Chivers, the youngest footman, to get it for him. Ernest begged him not to do so, fearing the contents of the book would be worse than any rumours on the street. He hoped that Gabriel’s sense of adventure would not drive him to read it, regardless.

After work one Saturday in the middle of December, Ernest stopped to look in a pawn shop window to see if there was anything he could afford to buy for a Christmas present for his Mother. Giving presents was a recent fashion among the gentry, and he knew his Mother would be delighted by the gesture. As he agonised over prices, the shadow of a large woman darkened the plate glass.
‘I wouldn’t bother with him, Ernest. Shabby goods, all of it.’
‘Mavis!’ said Ernest with delight. ‘How are you?’
Mavis wrapped her small fur as far over her front as she could. ‘Not so bad, my dear. I’m not touring with the Cabinet no more.’ She leaned forward. ‘I’ve got my own show. I met this gentleman – he says he’s a count in Italy. I can’t say for sure as he is gentry, but he’s minted. He’s set me up in a nice way of going on, and paid for everything I need for the show. And a bit more besides.’ She dug Ernest in the ribs. ‘Still, I keep in touch with the old lot sometimes. Are you joining them for this nice do at Christmas?’
‘What nice do?’
‘Oh don’t say as you’re off the guest list. And I thought you and Gabriel was getting on so well.’
‘We are. I haven’t seen him for a while, though.’
‘Ah. That’s cos his Ma and Pa have come home and stopped his malarkying about. Well, Gabriel has talked his folks into having the whole company round in their very own house as a Christmas Eve show. ‘Cept me, of course.’ Mavis sniffed. ‘It’ll be the talk of the neighbourhood that’s for sure. Sals is that excited at meeting a real live Major she can’t hardly sing.’
Ernest smiled at the image of Sals in her costume meeting Ernest’s Papa - Major Kerford, a decorated war hero but sure to be a stiff-backed Officer.  ‘I can’t really expect to be there, Mavis. I’m not on the stage with the company, and I’m not a suitable friend for Gabriel.’ His shoulders slumped.
‘You will be the truest friend that lad will ever have’ said Mavis. Her voice was different, and she was staring through Ernest, into somewhere he could not see. ‘You will need to hold onto that friendship, in the darkest hour when the fog rolls down. Don’t forget him. Don’t ever lose sight of him.’

Rosalina was drawing again; large spirals, sinking down and down over the walls, and pairs of eyes, disassociated from any other features, staring down over the room.  When Ernest was gone to work, she crawled over the floor, drawing circles that might be for her protection, or a way to spiral out of the room itself. She was cold to her bones, sitting so close to the fire that Ernest feared a spark would land on her hair or dress. She was so distracted that she might never feel it strike. Ernest got her some paper and proper charcoal for her present, and she sketched babies, two little figures lying in a cot, two little babies holding out chubby hands to a shadow covering the top of the paper. She burned some of the pictures, but slowly, holding the lit paper by one corner, watching the flame creep across the image as if its destruction gave her a physical pain. Others she folded and put into her bag.
She could not hide the blood that she coughed up more frequently now. At first it had misted over the paper, forming a sinister, soft dark brown background to her sketches of tiny infants and disembodied hands. Now it dripped from her into her pillow, and the effort of expelling it caused her whole body to ache and shiver.  Ernest begged to stay with her, but she sent him off to work. She told him to earn money for the doctor, but she knew that she was beyond the help of even the best doctors. She had given Ernest enough pain and anxiety; she did not want him to witness her hourly deterioration.

She cannot reach me. She does not know where I am. She needs to find me once again, to look at me for the last chapter of the book. Her desire awakens me, her hunger, her need reaches my nostrils with the animal fear of it. Oh my sweetest rose, my gentle flower, you will not be growing in this garden for much longer. I wish I could hold you. I wish I could stroke your hair, kiss your brow, make this so much easier for you. I wish I could watch over you through this cold night. I wish I could watch you die.

On Christmas Eve Rosalina was asleep before dusk turned to dark, and Ernest sat for a while before the fire, dozing, and wondering what Christmas would be like in Gabriel’s house, with a Christmas tree, lights and food. And the actors, awkwardly polite in the drawing room, trying not to get too tiddly on champagne and sherry. 
When Ernest woke with a start it was dark outside, the fire was out and he was half frozen. The wind was blowing snow into the room; he discovered as he got up and quickly pulled on his coat that both the window and the door were wide open. As Ernest crossed the room to shut the window he stopped in bewilderment at the charcoal landscape that now covered one whole wall.  Rosalina had drawn a desolate slope, the ground broken and pitted, blackened and twisted trees in the background. But the centre of the scene was covered with crosses, endless rows of them, marching over the hill and stood up on the skyline. Ernest shuddered. It was a scene from one of his own dreams, a hill that he struggled up and slid down, before falling into a deep pit full of cold water and other, unnameable horrors. Frozen in front of this drawing, Ernest had to force himself to turn his attention to Rosalina, who must be freezing in her bed. He pulled aside the thin curtain that separated them.
His Mother was gone, and her dress lay at the end of the bed. She would be only in a thin cape and her nightdress.  Ernest ran down the stairs and then stopped in the yard, tracking the soft footprints of her slippered steps in the snow. Rosalina seemed to have walked off with purpose; there was a depth to her stride, and she had not wavered or stumbled. The snow was falling in fat thick flakes, and the evening sky was still, so Ernest hoped that he would soon catch up with her, but as soon as he got onto the busier roads he could not see past the throngs of people, dressed up for an evening in the pubs and dance halls, or buying some last minute food items for the holiday. Surely a woman in white must be noticed, but he could not hear any commotion ahead of him, and he lost her footprints in among all the others.  Then he thought he saw her, walking along beside the river, then again turning North up the Grays Inn Road.  Yes, there she was – Ernest called but she was too far ahead. A few knots of people passed him, and then she was gone. Ernest tracked this way and that across the road, looking for her footprints in the newly fallen snow.
He followed the trail towards Russell Square. Where was she going? When he caught a glimpse of her, she was moving ahead with speed, almost gliding through the swirling snow, with no hint that she was suffering from the cold or from her illness. Now they were in the quiet squares, the gaslights on the streets competing with the brightness of the electric lights shining out through the windows. Ernest heard laughter from the warm drawing rooms, and, through one half-open door, he heard carols being sung.
But ahead of him Rosalina was slowing. Whatever strength of will had propelled her this far could not be sustained any longer, and she staggered, holding on to the wrought iron railings of the blank faced houses.  Ernest ran to her, slipping on the cold pavement. He lifted her head as she coughed. Her eyes were wide, and she gave no sign that she knew her son, or even that he was there.  Ernest frantically looked about for anyone who could help, but all the doors were closed and the inhabitants of the square would all be insulated inside, sitting down to the first feast of the holiday. As he looked around, he realised that he knew where he was. Just across the street was Gabriel’s house.
Before he could lose his desperate courage, Ernest banged the heavy door knocker again and again. Chivers answered the door and recognised him, beginning to shake his head to bar Ernest from the house. But Ernest took no notice and pushed into the hall, standing on the polished tiles and shouting for help until doors were opening all around him, and somehow, at last, men in evening dress were hurrying across the street, calling for blankets, hot whisky and a doctor. A woman in purple velvet put her arm around Ernest, as they watched Rosalina be carried into the house.
‘The Good Lord has led you to us, child. In a street full of the ungodly, you have found a charitable household. We will do everything we can for your dear sister.’
‘Thank you Ma’am’ said Ernest quietly, before adding ‘She’s my Mother.’
‘Oh my dear child. She looks so very young.’ She scrutinised Ernest more closely. ‘And you have something of the look of my own dear son.  I cannot imagine the pain of being separated from my boy, or his anguish were I to be taken. Bless the Lord, we are all in good health.’

An Officer in full dress uniform – Major Kerford himself -  took the lady’s arm and spoke to her. ‘I’ve laid the poor woman in my study on the chaise – the fire’s going well there, and we’d never get her up the stairs. Ask Mrs Daniels to get some clothes, I don’t know, some of the maid’s stuff – you’ll know what she needs. She’s practically naked. Is this her boy?’ He looked down at Ernest, who felt very small.
‘I apologise, Sir, for the intrusion. There was nothing else I could do.’ Said Ernest.
The Major raised his eyebrows as Ernest spoke. ‘Think nothing of it young man. Your Mother has been taken ill, I gather?’
‘She has been  - failing – for some time. I fear that her fever has caused her to… to…’ Ernest could not sustain the conversation any further.
‘She has been sleepwalking. I have heard of it, in other cases of illness.’ Said Lady Kerford.
‘Ah. Well then, bit of rest and she’ll soon pull round, what?’ said the Major.
Above him, Ernest wished he had not seen Lady Kerford softly shake her head at her husband. ‘The Lord will decide the fate of this poor soul, my dear. But I have seen this look before. It is want, and cold, as much as the illness. I fear she will be called before the night is over.’
Unnoticed, Ernest padded in the direction of the open door, behind which his mother had been taken. Maids bustled past him, with pitchers of hot water, extra fuel for the fire, and thick bundles of fabric – blankets, or clothes. As they withdrew, he saw his Mother. Rosalina lay on a chaise longue, drawn up before the fire. Her hands were warm, and although her face was deathly pale, the pulse at her throat was stronger. Ernest bent over her, thinking she was sleeping, but she opened her eyes, and grabbed at him, struggling to sit up.
‘Are we home? This looks like my home. Where is Nanny?’
‘Yes, we’re home, Mother.’ Said Ernest.
‘My dear. My darling child. I must tell you – I must tell you now. I should have told you sooner, but I could not. But he is close. He has been in this room. Oh! He has looked upon me while I slept!’ She looked around, her eyes growing wide and her breathing becoming faster.
‘Mother, there’s nobody here. No danger here.’
‘There is danger. Danger in the full moon. Danger in his eyes. Oh, his eyes. He is walking now, we must warn the girls, must run to them.’  She took a deep breath and coughed.
‘Don’t distress yourself, don’t speak any more. You need to rest.’ Said Ernest.
‘No. No I cannot rest. I cannot rest with this secret, with this shame.’
‘If you mean – my Father’ said Ernest, firmly ‘there is no shame. And if his name is nothing to you, then it is of no consequence to me.’
‘His name- well, not that, but he was known across London.’ Rosalina sat up, and took a sip of water from the cup Ernest held for her. ‘If I had told anyone, I would have been thought an accomplice, I would have been interrogated. Who would have believed me? I was innocent, I swear, Ernest I was innocent.’
‘I believe you. I know you could have done nothing wrong.’
‘Ernest you accused me of not knowing his name. You were right. I do not know his name, but I know who he was.’
Ernest became aware of a noise behind him. Gabriel stood in the doorway, and Major Kerford just outside, waiting discreetly.
‘Ernest!’ His Mother whispered, urgently. ‘There is danger. As long as I am alive I could accuse a man just from his eyes. I know his face. I know his eyes.  Oh my son be vigilant. Stay away from your true class, from the rich and the well born because he walks among them. If he sees you, he will know you. He will know his own child. Keep to the lowly paths, Ernest. Your only hope of peace lies in living undiscovered.’
Ernest took his Mother’s hand as she pulled him close to her. He felt her wavering breath on his ear as she whispered to him ‘Ernest – your Father is the man known as Jack the Ripper.’
Instinctively, Ernest pulled back, and he caught the distress in his Mother’s eyes as she saw the horror on his face.
‘I did not know!’ she cried. She got to her feet and staggered towards him. Ernest backed away. ‘I went to a summer house to be a life model for a group of artists. But when I arrived, there was nobody there – the paints, the easels, all laid out, but no one was there except me. I hesitated, wondering if I should leave, when I heard a voice. A deep voice, educated and confident. He told me to  - to undress and assume the agreed pose. I did so, assuming the man was merely smoking out in the garden.
‘Mother – enough. ‘ said Ernest, who had by now enough knowledge to understand what he thought might have happened next.
‘He restrained me. He showed me sketches he had made. Sketches of those poor girls. Some of them he’d followed for days before…before he caught them. He said he’d been watching me. He talked of love. But he didn’t let me go. He said he could never let me go. Oh, Ernest I was sure I was about to die!’
‘But how did you escape from him?’ said Ernest.
‘Someone ran in, disturbed him. He threw me against the wall and I lost my senses. When I woke, it was dark, and I was alone. I was so alone. I wandered through London with only the full moon to save me. I knew he was following me. All the time I was carrying you I knew he was there. And when my time came, I threw myself upon the mercy of the Church, and the sisters took me in while I was confined. ‘ Rosalina fell to her knees, coughing, and both Ernest and Gabriel ran to support her. She looked from one to another. ‘So. You have discovered my worst secret. I knew it would not hold. I could not mend…could not mend…could never put it right. But everyday I hoped. I hoped, Ernest. I prayed for you.’
She put her hands together in a gesture of prayer, and then fell to the floor. Ernest called to her, but knew even as he did so that she had left him, and that he was left alone with only his Mother’s stories to sustain him in the world.

She is gone, my flower, my rose-red girl. She is gone, and another light in my life has been snuffed out. More pain will be heaped upon me. What did she tell him, the boy, the keeper of her secrets? Not everything. No, not quite everything. Still, he has more beads of the necklace of secrets than he knows. Why did she drag her spent and faded flower of a life to that place, to those people? To tell him everything – or just to make me suffer?

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Every day since his Mother died, Ernest ended his day with three prayers, one for his Mother, one for the sinful and desperate soul of his Father, and one for his benefactors, Major and Lady Kerford. He had been offering these same prayers for eight years now, and found this ritual helped him prepare for sleep, although it was not always proof against nightmares.  In the shock of Ernest’s immediate grief, he had been unable to dwell on much of what his Mother had told him, and he had certainly not shared it, even with Gabriel, who had stood up before his parents and acknowledged Ernest as a friend.
Gabriel’s parents had come to the rescue of the ten year old Ernest, seeing him suddenly orphaned in their own house. They had put him up in the nursery with Gabriel at first, while taking care of his Mother’s funeral. But Gabriel was due to be sent away to school, and from there to his Father’s Regiment.  Ernest knew that such a life was not open to him, and it would not suit him in any case. Lady Kerford used her charitable connections to find him foster parents – Mr and Mrs Letts of Barnet.  With them Ernest started a new life as apprentice to his foster father, who repaired antiquarian books and ran a second hand book shop.  Ernest joined his parents in their trade, and in their faith, becoming a Quaker. Mr Letts made only rare attempts at humour, but remarked that Ernest was growing into his name, being earnest in thought, word and deed.
Ernest had made just one visit to his old room only a day after his Mother’s death. He knew the room would not remain empty for long, and he had to retrieve the portrait that Rosalina had sketched in her first illness. As he looked at it again in that room, he was sure it must be a portrait of his Father. Feeling sick at the thought that this evil man had driven his Mother mad, even though she had escaped his clutches, Ernest rolled up the portrait and kept it hidden. He knew that his foster parents would be disappointed that he was keeping any secret from them, but he could not share this with anyone. His only other act of disobedience was to read the books in the shop that Mr Letts had firmly told him were out of bounds, until he was a married man. As Ernest grew up, he read more and more of the stock, not just the forbidden books, but the poetry, science and philosophy books that were the least popular with the customers and were left to gather dust, fading quietly on the more out of reach shelves.  He shared these discoveries in his occasional letters to Gabriel, who joked that Ernest was receiving a better education than he was. Gabriel wrote about harsh punishments, hunger, cold and other hardships, and Ernest was astonished that wealthy parents would send their children into a life that seemed to emulate that of many an East End pauper kid.
Of late, Gabriel’s letters had been a catalogue of fighting, breaking school rules, secretive episodes of drinking and consorting with barmaids in the town. Ernest had written back careful letters urging his friend to behave, to think of the pain he must be causing his parents, and the reputation that would go before him to Sandhurst. But in between the lines was a little admiration for Gabriel’s insouciance, and a little envy at his adventures.
Today the postman had brought Ernest not only a letter from Gabriel, but an invitation to a ball to be held in honour of Gabriel’s eighteenth birthday. Of course it was Ernest’s birthday as well, but he had no intention of celebrating for himself. Thoughtfully the letter included permission from Major Kerford for Ernest to use his account at the Major’s tailor. This removed Ernest’s only reason for possibly declining the invitation. He wanted to see his friend, but he knew he would feel uncomfortable in such company, surrounded by young officers in drink, and too many young women who would despise Ernest if he revealed anything of his background.