Johanna Moran - The Wives of Henry Oades

She headed toward the road, asking the first woman she encountered, a plump lady in an everyday dress, about to drive off in an open rig. “Oh, I don’t imagine you’ll find a hack this time of day,” the woman said. “They’ll still be in church, or gambling their babies’ milk money away. One of the two.”

Margaret thanked her and turned to resume her search.

The woman called after her. “I can take you where you’re going.”

The unexpected kindness brought Martha Randolph to mind. “We’ll gladly pay.”

The woman laughed. “Did you bring anything for bunions?”

“Sorry, madam. No.”

“You’ll owe me then,” said the woman, introducing herself. Mrs. Anamim Bell.

“A lovely name,” said Margaret. “Biblical.”

“It’s a horrid name,” said Mrs. Bell. “You’ll call me Mim or I won’t take you.”

“Mim, then. Thank you, Mim. Thank you very much indeed. And you’ll call me Margaret. Or Meg if you prefer.” Her earlier energy had leaked away. She was tired now, wishing only to be settled. And here came her bedraggled family. “My husband, Henry Oades. My children, John and Josephine. We call her Pheeny.”

“The poor lambs,” said Mrs. Bell. “Step up now. You’ll send for your things. I know a reliable man. Though you won’t get him to work on the Sabbath.”

So be it, thought Margaret. They’d make do one night, sleep in their underclothes. All she asked for was a stable floor and a stationary bed. She sat up front, next to Mrs. Bell. Henry dozed behind them, an arm curled about the limp children.

“You’re nearly dead, aren’t you,” said Mrs. Bell. “Poor girl.”

Margaret smiled, beginning to drowse. She pictured a nice big bed with crisp dry linens, her husband sleeping beside her for the first time in months. Supper first, though. “Can you recommend a butcher, Mrs. Bell?”

“Can you recommend a butcher, Mim. ”

“Of course. Sorry. Mim. ”

“The most handy is a blackguard from whom I wouldn’t buy a bone for my dog.”

“Oh, dear.”

“Jones is the best of the lot. His gristle at least comes with a morsel of flesh. You’ll want to keep watch on his fat thumb, though. His wife’s as well. They cheat for sport here.”

Mim began to list the town’s shops, describing the goods within each, naming the slippery-fingered sneak-thieves to be avoided. “You’ll find everything you need, but it’s not like home.”

“I don’t imagine,” said Margaret, fighting to stay awake. The woman’s drone would put an insomnious owl to sleep.

After a while, Mim asked, “What’s your man to do here?”

“He’s been asked to take over the new accounting system at Her Majesty’s distillery.”

Mim nodded. “Quite the cap feather for one so young.”

Henry cleared his throat. Margaret turned around. He smiled, waggling bushy eyebrows, vindicated. Margaret smiled too, rolling her eyes.

They came over a wooden bridge, passing a broad orchard. “What’s grown here?”

“Pip fruit, mainly,” said Mim, “Apples and grapes. And tedium.”

THEY ARRIVED in late afternoon, tying up the horse in front of a dull brown building with small windows. A cheese shop and a sneak-thief bookbinder occupied the ground floor. “His paste doesn’t last a week,” said Mim. The flats were located above the shops, eight homes in all. Mim offered a hand with the children and satchels, bustling about, not waiting for an answer. Margaret started up the building’s stone steps behind John, thinking mainly about relieving herself.

Theirs was number four, two steep stories up. John opened the front door. “It reeks,” he said, looking around.

He was right. The air was stale and musty. A chamber pot sat in full view, in it a desiccated mess. Margaret scraped the pot along the gritty floor with her foot, moving it behind the coarse curtain separating the sleeping alcove. She summoned the children, saying don’t look, feeling their foreheads for fever as they squatted, opening her reticule then, dealing out a toilet square each. An aunt had presented her with a generous supply before sailing, saying you never know what you’ll find. Margaret took a square for herself and loosened her drawers, hovering over the putrid pot. Henry the camel feigned no urgent need, shy of Mim Bell, no doubt.

Henry led the tour. The main room contained a green divan, an empty curio cabinet, and three straight-back chairs, one with elegant tapered legs. There were no books, no paintings, no vases for flowers. The stove was greasy, the tub beside it filthy with private hairs and insect husks. There was no oil for the lamps. The kitchen curtains were dreadful, dirty and tattered, and they were one bed short. Margaret hung her head after a brief inspection, defeated. Henry came to her, springy, as if with a second wind. It was how they were, how they’d always been. When one tottered, the other rallied.

“We’ll hire a girl,” he said. “There’s no need to lift a finger.”

His beard was crusted with salt; his fetid breath turned her stomach and weakened her knees. “I’m a bit dizzy,” she said.

Mim produced a hankie and began flogging the worn divan. “Sit now, why don’t you?”

“Just for a moment perhaps,” said Margaret, grateful. “I seem made of rubber.”

“Mr. Bell and I arrived five years ago Saturday,” said Mim. “I remember the wretched day all too well. It’s the queerest feeling being on land again, the bobbing and weaving, the addled thinking. It’ll be with you awhile, I’m afraid. You’ll go to take the bread from the oven and find the raw loaf still sitting in the bowl.”

“ Five years,” said Margaret. “I cannot begin to imagine.”

Henry dipped behind the curtain and picked up the chipped chamber pot. “Come along,” he said to the children. “We’ll let Mum have a rest.” The three traipsed out. Mim followed on their heels. “I’m just round the corner,” she said before leaving.

Margaret closed her eyes, stupid with exhaustion. Moments later, on the other side of the wall, there came a clatter of pans, an angry man bellowing, “Get to it!”

A woman screeched, “Not on your bloody say-so.” He was a toad, an idler, a no-good. Her mother was right about him. She was a cow, a common draggletail. His brother was right about her. Margaret removed the pretty slipper meant to impress the governor and threw it against the wall. The man sneezed a blustery sneeze. Then all went silent. She retrieved the shoe and closed her eyes again.

She had wondered about the neighbors, never having lived where people were above, below, all around. She’d looked forward to it actually, had imagined a warren of like-minded women her own age, all helping one another, exchanging recipes and such. She nodded off, her head heavy as a melon. The next thing she knew a woman was letting herself in, butting the door open with a broad hip, a bulging sack in one arm, a limp tick folded over the other. Margaret came to disoriented, assuming herself at sea. “Hello.”

The woman grinned. “Your boy happened upon a little playmate.”

“He’s a friendly one,” murmured Margaret. She recognized the moldy place now, the stout woman with the overbite. “Where are they, Mim?”

“In the yard. No need to worry. Your mister’s minding them just fine. Lucky you, landing such a prize. Otherwise you’d string him up here and now, wouldn’t you?” Mim proffered the sack. “Give us a hand, will you?”

They laid out the supplies on the kitchen table, their backs to the one dirty window. Mim had brought back a sleeping pallet, lamp oil, tea and supper things. There were cheeses, sausages, toffees for the children, and a bottle of red wine.