Relieved

Arabella, Eric and Ida sit around a creaking table, waiting expectantly for their breakfast. Arabella, the eldest of the three Wood children, has already managed to spill cold milk, freshly delivered, down her ill-fitting floral dress. She sobs, pink cheeks flushing to a dark red, filling with the salty liquid that escapes from her tear ducts.

‘Come on now, Arabella,’ Mrs Wood hisses as she dabs the soggy sack of dress with a piece of brown stained cloth. She presses into the 3-year old’s chest, aware of the child’s bones poking through the dress and reaching the cloth. ‘It’s not as if we can ask the farmer for more; you know that.’

Arabella sucks her thumb intently, her tiny mind occupied by the vacuum created between her lips and tongue around the stubby flesh that had dropped the milk. Mrs Wood swats any remaining spillage and tends to Ida and Eric, neglecting to wipe any of the crumbs and drool from the day before. Ida gargles and giggles within the small not-so-white tunic which, only 15 months before, belonging to Eric. Eric had now moved on to a brown tunic, roughly sown and patched up from the abuse that Arabella had put it through. Each child is a smaller, darker version of the one before, as if the smog billowing from the iron factory has dyed each one in the womb.

As Mrs Wood plops down a piece of sparsely buttered bread in front of him, he pulls it up and starts to gnaw on the crusty edges, not yet removed. Mrs Wood inhales and extends a hand to stall her choking. As the dribble softens the warm crust, her arm falls, her intervention no longer necessary. She throws some ripped bread into a shallow bowl of milk, rinsed with water, before dropping Arabella’s buttered bread before her. Arabella lifts it with gusto and chews and rips at it like a puppy with a bone. Her thin, blonde hair harbours lost flecks of butter between its strands as rogue crumbs flitter to the bucket created by the material of her dress.

Finally, Mrs Wood pulls Ida onto her shoulder, drops the baby basket onto the floor, with a ripple of dust, and replaces the basket’s seat with her own buttocks. Leaning over Eric, she reclaims her soggy-milked bread and begins to feed it into the small mouth, so dependent on her benevolence. She should be breastfeeding, she thinks, with a baby of this age. But who can breastfeed with a body that granted no milk? Cow’s milk will have to do.

As Ida swishes and gulps the soggy bread into her small stomach, a shadow passes over the table.

‘Fa-?’ Arabella prods at the window.

‘No, Arabella. Father isn’t home.’ Mrs Wood sighs, her eyes never leaving the hand-to-mouth, hand-to-mouth, hand-to-mouth of Ida’s breakfast.

Eric drops his soggy crust, a splattering of crumbs hit the table. His eyes follow Arabella’s finger to the dust-speckled window.

‘Ah.’ Eric replies to Arabella.

‘Fa!’ Arabella responds.

‘Stop this nonsense immediately.’ Mrs Wood replies, mopping a leaky eye with her apron.

Knock, knock, knock.

The door rattles. Swiftly placing Ida in the basket, Mrs Wood shoots up, abandons the kitchen and marches through the front room to reach the door. She slowly opens it, just a crack.

‘Miss Wood?’ A tall man in peelers uniform quietly inquires through the narrow opening.

‘Mrs – Mrs Wood.’ She corrects, opening the door further with the press of his blundering authority.

‘Mrs Wood, I do apologise. I just assumed since -’

‘- He passed away, God rest his soul, a -’

‘I understand.’ The Peeler removes his hat.

‘What is it? What is this about -’ She leans against the threshold.

‘-I may have some information about your missing husband. May I come in?"

‘If you must speak, you shall remain here. But I cannot leave the children unattended.’

‘Mrs Wood, this isn’t appropriate for children’s ears -’

‘They are not yet in school Mr -’ He never gave his name. ‘- Sir. I am sure that they have little understanding of what you speak.’

‘Very well, Mrs Wood.’

She collects up the children and pulls them through to the front room, Ida and her basket placed slightly out of the strange man’s gaze, Eric and Arabella hiding behind their mother’s skirts. The Peeler stands with his feet hip-width apart, pointing his steel-capped toes towards the dust-packed house.

‘Sir, I beg you to not draw this out any longer. My husband, their Father is presumed deceased, God let him rest, and we have come to terms with his missing from this household. You forget -’ she stumbles ‘- the authorities forget that we have lived without him for a season and are quite aware of the likelihood of him not returning. I am already considering our financial savings coming to an end and have due plans to -’

‘- I understand Mrs Wood, but I have been sent to inform you of further developments.’

‘Well, continue as you wish, Sir.’ she replies.

‘Thank you.’ He shuffles in the spot, as a boy does when asked to spell a complicated word in front of his class or read from the blackboard. ‘I have been sent to inform you that we have been alerted to an unidentified man who matches the description of your husband. We would like you to come to the asylum as soon as possible to identify him.’

‘What if it is my husband?’ Mrs Wood replies.

‘In that event, we will allow him home with you and your family.’ He puffs his chest.

‘You have made the presumption that he is fit to return home. What of his time in the asylum? I do not want my children -’

Mrs Wood slowly presses her body into the doorframe. Arabella and Eric suspend their drooling, eyes locked on Mother.

‘I understand your concerns Mrs Wood, but there is nothing further we can do,’ he shrugs, ‘If he is not your husband, he will be in the asylum until identifications have been made.’

The Peeler fiddles with his hat, still rested on a round belly, filled with meat and cheese.

‘Fa!’ Arabella blurts.

‘Ah!’ Eric spits.

Arabella sucks on her stubby thumb.

‘How much do you know about this man’s case?’

The Peeler shuffles his feet against the doorstep, pushing up thin layers of unswept dirt.

‘I am only provided with the information required to inform you of your obligation.’

‘Obligation?’ she reaches a respectable upright position, appearing at least a foot taller.

The Peeler interrupts.

‘Well, your children are fatherless.’

She places her hands on her hips, twisting her words towards his tall stature.

‘As for your obligation – do you not have a family? Are you not a father?’

‘Of course, I am.’

‘Are you at home with them?’

‘I am working -’

‘- Sir, I suppose being a peeler is a dangerous job?’

‘It’s a -’

‘Yes, and so is working in a factory. You are of the same obligation as my late husband. He worked, although there be a risk to it, to feed his family. He worked so hard he provided savings for us to live off -’

‘- how far do those savings get you?’ The Peeler gazes over the half-empty rooms and broken picture frames.

‘They have got me this far. Sir. Once childcare is arranged -’

‘- childcare?’

‘Not that my personal and work matters are of your concern!’

The children freeze.

‘I shall not be spoken to like this, Mrs Wood. I am here for the safety and benefit of our society.’ He puffs his chest again like a pigeon trying to lure a mate.

‘I am sure that you believe that you are doing that. Thank you for the information. I will consider the proposal of my… obligation and will come to identify him, if I feel that my interference is necessary. But since my husband is dead -’

‘- presumed dead -’

Mrs Wood raises her right hand to deflect the sound of his burly voice.

‘Thank you, Sir. I will take it into careful consideration.’

The children grizzle, pulling at her skirts to return to the kitchen and their small supply of buttered bread.

‘I must tend to my children. I suppose that you will be presumed to have done your job,’ Mrs Wood suggests, pressing flyaway hairs away from her face, plastering them down with the remnants of milk and sweat left on her hands.

The Peeler nods slowly, ducking his head and keeping it down for a second too long to have been placing his hat securely upon his oily hair. As he reaches the road, Mrs Wood presses the door closed, pushing one more time to make sure the lock has clicked.

The children excuse the Peeler’s disrespect and toddle off to source a new kind of entertainment. Ida and her basket are set against the squeaky door through to the kitchen, connecting the two shrunken rooms, assuring ease of monitoring at all times. Mrs Wood busies herself with mopping up lost crumbs and shifting children from floor to chair, chair to floor to catch lost flecks of starch stuck to their feet. Arabella and Eric find a round wooden ball that appears to have lost its string and cup. Arabella pushes it vaguely in the direction of Eric and Eric raises it to his mouth. As if an eagle catching small prey, Mrs Wood swipes it from him and places it onto a high shelf, propped against a cup as to prevent it rolling back into the reach of her children. Eric starts to whine at the removal of his new pacifier.

‘I think that noise ought to stop, Eric. You have food for mouths and toys for hands. If you cannot follow the rules you will have neither.’

Arabella’s eyes widen and she escapes to play in the front room, shrunken with age, and finds a wooden train, paint chipped so that it now resembles an engine which has been tossed off its tracks. She is still too young to remember her father’s disapproval of her playing with a boy’s train.

‘Arabella is a girl. She should not be exposed to trains and cars at this age; it will affect her in school. She won’t be able to play with any of the other girls.’ A gruff voice urged above a baby Arabella’s head; her Father’s legs were strong, the cotton covering them laden with dirt and flecks of firewood. Upon surveillance of where her Father had come from, she notices an axe by the door. It’s soggy and bits of woods are stuck to it. She hopes that the axe means that they’ll have a hot dinner, rather than soggy bread and milk. Mothers voice interrupts as Arabella starts to crawl towards the axe, affectionately known as a ‘big boy toy’. Mother scoops her up and balances her on her hip. Arabella pushes at the skinny shoulder and is released back down again with a sigh.

‘She is too young to know either way; you don’t understand the price of toys nowadays. If Mr and Mrs Thompson would be kind enough to donate the train to us for the baby’s use, then it’s best that we keep it.’ Mother’s voice retorts.

‘Once I receive my pay, a doll will be the first thing on the list.’

‘After bread and milk, I hope.’

‘After bread and milk. The factory, you know that new building up in the town, It’s paying well. I’ve heard other men say that they could buy meat once, maybe twice, a week on the wage there.’

‘Ridiculous.’ Mother replies, flapping a sheet out and hanging it in front of the lit fireplace.

‘Honest. With another one on the way, maybe the train will be useful for the next one – I hope you don’t only make girls.’

‘Assuming there is another. And this is partly of your making too.’ She smiles.

Arabella tips her head as her Mother rubs her belly as she did after a big Sunday roast.

‘At least we waited until marriage.’

Father shuffles around Mother, feet plastering the floorboards with mud and wood chippings dragged in from the garden. The shoes follow behind her Mother’s every sway, between the clean washing and strange structure before the fireplace, resembling a clothes horse.

‘Perhaps if we didn’t have another child, we wouldn’t need a factory wage to buy a doll for our daughter.’ Mother returns, finally standing, pressing her lower back with her hands rough with hard skin built up from hard work and a hard beating.

‘But we could afford it. The men in town were saying -’

‘You’re delusional.’

Arabella is now pushing the train across the floorboards, leaning on it until her weight prevents the wheels from turning. Eric crawls over, muffled rustling of his tunic mopping up dust and carrying it to the front room with him. He grabs the top of the train. Arabella glares at him and growls quietly. Eric lets go.

Upon hearing this altercation, Mrs Wood glances at the source of the aggravation. Mrs Thompson will have to watch the children. Just so that she could run some errands in town. With this thought, she hoists Ida and Eric onto her hips, barks an instruction for Arabella to join her and marches out of her front door, straight to the opposite door adorned with a small knocker and a brass handle. As her feet meet Mrs Thompson’s doorstep, she notices that she doesn’t need to hold her breath for dust. Of course, she has only seen Mrs Thompson out sweeping this very morning.

Mrs Wood has hardly returned Eric to the ground to pull the knocker before Mrs Thompson appears.

‘Good morning, Mrs Wood. What am I able to do for you today?’ a kindly older woman questions, smiling so that Mrs Wood can see her soft pink gums lightly clasping onto teeth.

‘Mrs Thompson, I am sorry to ask but I have to run into town this morning and I fear it would be too much for the children.’ Mrs Wood tosses Ida to rest on her hip and prevent slippage.

‘Of course. It wouldn’t have anything to do with your visitor this morning, would it? Is everything alright?’ Something glistens in her eye, a furrow too concerned flickers for a moment, ‘I haven’t seen authorities here since -’ Mrs Thompson presses her shoulder against the doorframe, widening the opening to her hallway.

‘- Actually, it would. It’s about their Father.’

‘I don’t suppose they have found him,’ Mrs Thompson remains pleasant, although an unconcealed disappointment glides across her wrinkled eyes. ‘I hoped…’

‘No, well, we can’t be sure of that yet, but I needn’t upset the children in the event that it isn’t him. Since it’s unlikely at this point…’

‘I understand, Mrs Wood.’ Mrs Thompson releases a breath and the smell of freshly baked bread floats over Mrs Wood’s nostrils, ‘I am sure they will have a wonderful time playing with my grandchildren’s toys while you are away,’ Mrs Thompson replies, her cheeks stretched with something that resembles happiness, opening the door wider, to allow Arabella and Eric to shuffle in. She reaches out for baby Ida and settles her onto her waist, allowing Ida to rest her head upon the soft shoulder that smells of lavender and toast.

‘Thank you, Mrs Thompson. I hope not to take too long. I’m sure you must have your own family to tend to.’ Mrs Wood smiles in a shape that could equally have been a grimace.

‘Don’t rush yourself. I will not let your wonderful children leave my sight.’

Mrs Wood stretches her mouth into something that resembles a grateful expression and tips her head. Mrs Thompson ushers the children indoors and Mrs Wood crosses the road to gather up her cape, in case of disagreeable weather.

As she walks, the trees start to disperse into streets of stone and smog. Children run around playing with toys that her children could only dream of. Each child dons a new dress, clean skirts or a tailored vest. Although the air is thick, the streets in this part are disturbingly clean, as if the air lingers above the land, not allowing the darkness to graze well-swept surfaces. The cobbled roads gradually lead through rows of grand, tall houses. Dollhouses and pianos parade through their large, bay windows.

After what Mrs Wood estimates to about a mile, heavy stone houses give way to fields, similar to those on her side of town. A trodden road directs her towards a patch that someone forgot to cobble. She follows it, aware of a strange structure, caging in buildings that used to be a market.

Her brother used to walk along this very road, carting his shoe-shining box through misty streets, waiting for the dawn to awaken rich customers. Upon reaching the long driveway, encapsulated by a huge metal fence, she reaches a gate. Mrs Wood catches sight of a security peeler, now positioned at the gates in a strange box. Mrs Wood approaches the opening.

‘Sir?’ she asks, the word flying across the threshold strong and clear.

The man tips his hat with approval and Mrs Wood recognises him as the very same Peeler who visited this morning.

‘I didn’t expect to see you, Mrs -’ He stutters.

‘- Mrs Wood. If you allow me to find the right building, sir, I would be glad.’

‘I would, Mrs Wood. But, you see,’ he blinks and flicks his gaze to his shiny steel toes, ‘I am on duty at the moment, I mustn’t leave my post. Filling in for sick security, see -’

‘Well,’ she replies, ‘I am sure that I will be able to find my way.’

Mrs Wood continues walking, admiring the paved path beneath her feet, porters shifting wheelchairs of bound childlike adults over the uneven stone and through to a building slightly out sight. Mrs Wood can vaguely remember visiting her brother at the markets, shining shoes, while Mother and she collected flour for the week’s bread. She imagines her own children, Arabella soon old enough to collect some flour or butter from the shop. Or Eric, one day grown enough to manage horses for an estate owner who has little time for such ‘gruesome’ work. Ida; she doesn’t know about Ida; she has yet to have much personality.

At the top of the steps stands a grey building that, she seems to recall, used to be a toy shop. A specialist one perhaps, crafting porcelain dolls with strange stringy hair and dresses more lavish than anything she could make for herself. Either way, it was not the sort of shop that Mrs Wood would have had the privilege or finances to enter. She had little time for exploring places that she did not need to purchase from and she could not afford it now. With the absence of the enchanting faces hollowly staring through the windows, the building seems far greyer. As if the colour had been sucked right out of it and the smog got to the dolls too. Startled by the squawk of a child running past, Mrs Wood realises that she should go inside. How odd they must think I am, gazing up at a building.

The asylum looms above her as she presses her hand firmly around the doorknob, cold and stiff between her similarly cold and stiff fingers. She step, step, steps up to a mahogany counter, occupied by a small, half-balding man, perched behind it.

‘Can I help you?’ The man announces.

‘Yes, I was informed that I should come to identify someone.’

Mrs Wood rests the tips of her fingers against the desk, clinging onto the edges.

‘Name?’

‘I have to identify him. I don’t have a name.’

The man raises his eyes slowly from some form of paper she can’t quite make out.

‘Not his. Your name.’ His voice appears to be moving further into his nostrils with every new inconvenience she presents to him.

‘Oh. Mrs Wood.’ She leans over the counter, squinting at his tiny hands flicking through moving pages of scribbles, illegible to her education.

‘Yes,’ he mutters, stalling the pages, ‘Mr Bennet will assist you.’

Upon hearing his name, a tall man who closely resembles the Peeler from before, approaches the desk. Mr Bennet stares down at Mrs Wood, seemingly scanning her cloak for openings or peeks of flesh. Mrs Wood pulls her cloak tightly around her, ensuring her dignity.

‘Mr Bennet?’ Mrs Wood asks, her voice straining as if its source is being tugged.

‘Yes. That’s me. Mrs Wood, are you? Albert told me not to expect you.’

‘Albert?’

‘The Peeler at your door this morning. Great man, a true testament to the new system.’

‘Right.’ Her throat heals itself. It seems that their appearance is not their only similarity. Mrs Wood scans his wide shoulders and responds by pressing hers into her chest, lengthening her neck and lifting her chin. Anything to make herself appear larger, stronger and more educated. ‘Could I see the man? The man I was contacted about.’ Her face settles but her jawbone’s tense.

‘This way, please,’ he replies, and leads her through to a tiny doorway, large to her, shrunken against Mr Bennet.

Mrs Wood’s heart starts to race, the dread, loss and excitement flooding her chest all at once at the expectation of it not being alright and that Mr Wood would be on the other side of those bars. Mr Bennet swings his keys around a lumpy sausage finger, whistling all the while like a wind-up toy. The entire situation is absurd. The swinging keys keep clashing together and the cut metal appears to clink like broken glass.

Other cell-like rooms hold fragile people, children, women and men. Each individual wears strange white fabric, oversized and poorly sewn. Some are chained to beds; others appear to be asleep. A child, perhaps eleven, squeals in a cell before nurses run towards him with stiff white fabric that resembles a backwards jacket of the sort a factory owner would wear. Mrs Wood watches, feeling hot slime rise into her throat as the little boy goes stiff and starts shaking. The expectation of his mouth beginning to froth was not far off the reality. A small woman in an angular white hat presses a needle into the boy and holds him to the floor. Mrs Wood tears her eyes away as Mr Bennet calls something that resembles ‘here we are’.

The corridor feels heavy, the air squashing Mrs Wood’s thoughts and the end of the dark tunnel pressing stale sweat up into her nose. Dust lingers around every piece of roughly sculptured metal and mud blankets the floor, somehow having made its home indoors.

‘This is him, Mrs Wood. Is this man -’

‘Mrs Wood,’ a small, skinny, rat-like string of skin clinging to bones whispers through the bars. His eyes flashing, his hands shrunken. A mark resides atop his skull, clasping together torn skin-like cloth and string. The strength of the marks suggests to Mrs Wood that this scar was purposeful, as though intended for the head of a man without the advantage of defence. The man starts to cry, his tears cleaning his dirty face, leaving stripes of almost pure white against his cheeks. His nose still reflects, in almost perfect mirror image, Eric’s nose. ‘M-m-mn,’ he mumbles.

Mr Bennet hears a clatter from another cell. A yelling, indistinct to Mrs Wood. Mr Bennet’s reply appears to crackle as another nurse burns through the corridor behind them. Mrs Wood’s turns her ring slowly, tucks it behind her, pulls it off, and presses it in her skirts, creating a makeshift pocket. Her eyes drop to his wedding finger, wrinkled with time, a thin rusty band engulfed by a season of abuse. The sliver of metal is not even important enough to be tampered with.

The man in the cell looks up at her, tears staining his familiar eyes, the only thing that hasn’t aged since she last saw him.

Since Mr Wood had started working at the factory, the family had been doing well. They had savings for a nicer house, maybe a few chickens. Mr Thompson would call in to see if there was anything going at the factory.

‘My grandson, his family, could do with an extra wage. Put in a good word for him, will you?’ he would ask, fiddling with his hat, pressing it between fingers. ‘I hate to ask,’ he finishes, hanging his head so far that his wrinkles almost appear to melt to his collar.

‘Of course,’ Mr Wood would reply, ‘Anything at all. It’s his.’

‘You’d better meet the boy,’ Mr Thompson mumbled, ‘George!’ he shouts, angling himself towards the fence where a small boy with jet-black hair and a torn cap shuffles towards them.

‘Afternoon, Sir,’ George Thompson murmured.

‘Speak up, boy,’ Mr Thompson replied.

‘Good afternoon, Mr Wood.’

‘I hear you’re looking for a job?’ Mr Wood replied, his shoulders leaning towards the boy, crushing himself until he had shrunken as far down as he could without crouching.

‘Yes please, Sir. Am very hard working, sir, and very strong for my age.’ George replied, lifting dark, glistening eyes to Mr Wood’s own.

‘No doubt you are. I’ll send a note for you.’

The next that Mr Wood saw of the Thompsons was the day that the newspapers read:

BOY BURNED TO DEATH IN FACTORY

Mr Wood watched from the window as a small casket was carried in front of the Thompson’s house, leading a heavy procession of weeping bodies. Arabella played with the train, the train that had belonged to the boy in the casket. His eyes glistened with guilt, his mind plagued with possibilities. If he hadn’t just got the Thompson boy a job. If he’d just let well enough alone…

If he had turned off that machine.

Arabella pushed the train across the floor. It hit the back of her Father’s ankles. Mrs Wood shuffled in from the kitchen, asking if he would like some bread. Neither interruption pulled his eyes from the shrunken box. He turned. Eyes dull, lifeless and twinkling all at once. He stared at his wife, his two children and the growing bump, resting underneath a tatty apron. He walked out the door.

Mrs Wood will never forget his eyes.

As Mrs Wood stares into his eyes, burned with memories, through the strange dirt scattered over his face, she thinks, that could have been one of ours.

‘Mrs Wood?’ Mr Bennet slaps her with his words.

A deep breath lingers underneath layers of soggy clothing, laden with salty sweat and unwashed stains. Mrs Wood tears her eyes away from those of the man.

‘What wrong with him?’ she barks.

‘Why should that matter -‘

‘- It will help me to identify him, Mr Bennet.’

‘Very well. Melancholia. Triggered by an excitement of sorts, an accident.’

Mrs Wood allows the breath to rise from her dress and into her head. It almost feels light, light enough to float away.

‘My husband had no accident,’ she replies. Her teeth rub themselves against each other.

The man starts writhing and whispering behind the bars, clutching onto anything within his reach, mumbling something that resembles the word, ‘please’. His dirty face is washed by spit and tears are leaking from his wrinkled eyes. He finally stands, his strange hospital tunic falling, revealing a red ring around his neck, the front of the mark adorned, like a necklace, with a print of a brace buckle.

Mrs Wood’s eyes fill with salty water. She swats the tears as she pushes away the image of the marked neck.

‘Can you identify this man at all, Mrs Wood?’ Mr Bennet presses.

Mrs Wood swallows a heavy lump, choking it down as a snake would a mouse. She starts to turn with her back towards the dirty man in the cell.

BOY BURNED TO DEATH IN A FACTORY

George Thompson age 13, the son of James Thompson, was burnt alive during an accident in which he was being taught how to use the machinery. Fellow workers ran to his aid. Dennis Wood, another worker, reported George Thompson’s death and alerted officials. Child Labour Committee is looking into it as this is the fourth fatal incident this week involving a child factory worker. The body of the young boy is being returned to his family this eve. A service in memory of George Thompson will be held at the local Parish Church this Sunday.

Mrs Wood’s head fills with newspaper clippings. Arabella, Eric and Ida reflect back at her in this man’s nose, mouth and eyes, the image printed onto her thoughts. She turns to Mr Bennet, who looks disgustingly pleased with himself. The words bubble up her insides, pressing against every uncomfortable lump accumulated by wear and tear. She wants her children to have a father. She considers the possibilities for a moment and thinks of Mrs Thompson’s kindly face as she agreed to watch them. Only he hadn’t been watching George. A breath explodes from her chest and all the gloop built up from anxiety dissipates into another part of her insides. Words crackle out.

‘He is not my Mr Wood.’