A Dreadful Splendor (11)

I still heard Maman’s voice, her French lilt so unlike my own East London accent. She came to England with my father, a Brit of no social standing, but a man of free spirit and a talent with words. When her family learned of the elopement, they disowned her immediately. She had previously been engaged to a wealthy acquaintance of the family, but he was too old, she had told me, shuddering with a cringe. He had thin lips and never smiled.

She and my father were young, but they were in love and thought they could survive anything so long as they were together. Whatever little money they had ran out quickly. They scrounged for work—he at the wharfs hauling goods off ships, and she cleaning houses.

One day, while working for one of the wealthier families, my mother was on her knees scrubbing the floor when word came that my father had been in an accident. He’d fallen off the plank under a heavy load and into the Thames between the wharf and the schooner.

Maman said the world changed forever that day. Penniless and pregnant, she knew her family would never take her back. She had nothing to offer her unborn child but a cruel life of despondent poverty. In a daze, she wandered through the city until the posh homes became row houses with slated roofs and narrow chimneys that puffed coal smoke. She found herself standing in the dockyard, ready to fling herself into the harbour and join my father in watery eternity.

I shivered at this part of the story, imagining Maman sinking to the bottom of the Thames, unable to breathe. The weight of the river pushing her down until her feet disappeared in the oozing silt. What if she changed her mind then, but couldn’t get back to the surface? Her hands clawing uselessly at the water as she stared at the hint of daylight far above.

Then she felt me kick inside her belly. A quick session of jabs that woke her from her morbid trance.

I was so unrelenting that she stopped in the street, hand on her belly, leaning over. A knocking sound made her look up. A wrinkled face surrounded by white hair stared back at her from the other side of a dirty window. My mother thought she was seeing a ghost, but then the woman beckoned her inside.

The house was part of a bedraggled row of merchant establishments along the harbour. The space was sparsely furnished. There was a smell of cabbage, and dirt had gathered in the corners. The old woman invited Maman to sit down at the round table in the middle of the room. Then she lit the stub of a candle and took both of my mother’s hands. Her bracelets tinkled, and Maman took note of how out of place the elegant jewelry seemed.

In a dreamy voice she told my mother that even though she was far from home and scared, there was a bright spirit keeping her safe. Maman nodded and squeezed the woman’s hands. She was in awe, certain my father’s presence was close by. Then the woman asked if she wanted to know the future for herself and her unborn daughter.

Daughter? Maman did not hesitate. The old woman’s words had lifted the lure of death that had nearly convinced her to jump off the pier. She opened her purse and paid a sum to learn her future. Not a small decision when you have barely a penny to your name and a baby on the way.

“You are worried,” the woman began. Maman nodded. “But you are strong,” she said. “You work hard and are proud, but sometimes that pride is a curse.”

Maman lowered her eyes. It was all true! She looked at her red and cracked hands cradled in the old woman’s. She felt protected somehow.

“You will overcome your present hardships,” the woman said with absolute certainty. “There is a great love in your future. A love that will change your world and make you stronger than you ever imagined. I see a beautiful baby and a happy mother.”

When she was finished, Maman thanked the woman with tears running down her cheeks. The woman hugged her goodbye, also a little misty eyed.

Only when she had walked a few blocks from the shop did the euphoria wear off. Maman reconsidered everything the woman had told her. She felt so foolish! The old woman had noted her French accent, obviously pregnant belly, and drab cleaning uniform and had told her things that anyone would have been able to guess. And Maman had given her so many clues by nodding and squeezing her hand. She was only telling Maman things she wanted to hear.

So much of Maman’s labour had gone into earning those coins, and yet she had willingly parted with them in exchange for a few pretty words.

At this moment Maman said I kicked her stomach again, harder this time. She told me it was my instinct that saved both of us that day. She marched back to the shop and called the old woman a thief and demanded her money back.

To prove it, Maman told the woman’s fortune. It was all about noticing the little things, the truths, she called them. Most people weren’t comfortable with their truths, so they tried to distract you with other qualities.

Maman could tell the woman had once been successful, as she had so many fine furnishings. But she had fallen on bad luck and had to sell many of her treasures, only keeping mementos that meant the most, like her bracelets—a gift from a lover long gone? And her health was suffering, but she was proud and presented herself as best she could. Maman sensed this woman was lonely. Hadn’t she cried as well when Maman left? Then she added that she saw the old woman taking someone younger under her wing—like a daughter, perhaps? Maman was smart like that, a survivor.

The woman was impressed and asked Maman to work for her. She said Maman’s accent and dark curling hair would bring in more customers. Soon, the little shop was cleaned, and instead of cabbage, the smell of fresh bread filled the air. Little by little, the business flourished.