Children of the Tide by Jon Redfern Page B

needy of the parish that had lost the ability to survive independently, through injury or poor harvests. The children had been deposited in the workhouse from many venues around the countryside: some were orphans, some unwanted babies. All had suffered equally under the dominion of the impatient Jemima Pettiworth.
    Now it is true that even in the meanest of breasts there hides a tenderness that must somehow express itself. In the case of Matron Jemima, now jaundiced and fading, this expression once took the form of lace making. Mrs. Bolton needed only to gaze around her sister’s sick room to see framed samples of Jemima’s fine handiwork. Beside these, there was on the mantel a runner of delicate lace flowers; on the back of the other chair, a draped net of cotton lace once used as a tea table cover. Jemima had an eye back then; even now on some afternoons, as she sat alone in her fetid chamber, she would rummage for her needle and hook and calmly pass an hour spinning out patterns.
    â€œEnough,” Jemima said curtly, her spoon sinking into the bowl.
    â€œVery well,” sighed Mrs. Bolton. She rose and took the tray. But she turned back to gaze at her sister who had in an instant changed from a cranky invalid into a wet-cheeked, weeping penitent. “Oh, oh,” Jemima cried, hands wringing, her hollow face staring ahead into the fire.
    â€œBut what is it, sister?” said Mrs. Bolton, setting down the tray.
    â€œI cannot speak the words,” her distraught sister moaned. “I cannot hear them anymore or I shall go …”
    â€œThere, there. Such remorse. What may I —”
    â€œNothing!” Jemima howled. Then letting her voice crouch into a hoarse whisper, she said: “Nothing can be done now. I must hear them. They will never leave me.” With this pronouncement, Jemima Pettiworth fell back against her thin pillow.
    â€œI see. Well,” said Mrs. Bolton. “I shall be in the kitchen, Jemima.” The tray was lifted, the door nudged open again. “You must climb from your bed today, Jemima. Move your legs. You are wasting away.”
    â€œThis bed shall be my coffin,” Jemima whispered. Mrs. Bolton muttered under her breath and returned to her hearth. Washing up, she heard rustling and lifted her eyes to see her sister, her yellow face like a mask, standing in the doorway of her sick room.
    â€œCome along then,” said Mrs. Bolton, her voice encouraging. “Step by step.”
    Jemima Pettiworth stepped into the parlour, opened the desk by the window and took out a sheet of writing paper. She held it to her chest as if it were a needy child; she then lifted it up to the light as if there was writing for her to read. Then she slowly crept back into her sick room. Once there, she let her spoken words float toward her sister in the kitchen:
    â€œSister, I beg of you,” Jemima said. “Bring me pen and ink. I have words I must write down before they burn away all of my strength.”
    â€œOh, dear,” said Mrs. Bolton. “Whatever are you planning to pen, sister?”
    â€œA confession.”

Chapter Nine
    F ish and F oul
    S tepping down onto the cobblestones in East London, Inspector Endersby reminded himself that he was in the business of executing the law. Thus, he ducked into a narrow doorway, pulled out a multi-coloured scarf from his satchel and wound it around his neck as if he had a cold. He folded his hat inside his pocket, giving himself a curious bulge on his right side. He mussed his grey-lined hair to seem eccentric — “mad north-north-west,” quoting his beloved Hamlet. Finally, he lifted from an inner pocket a pair of round spectacles he’d had made by a glass grinder in the Burlington Arcade, the lenses plain glass.
    Rosemary Lane opened before him as he gazed through his spectacles at the buyers and sellers gathered this afternoon. The lane held tall leaning houses, home to dredgers,