The Look of Lorna

 The Look of Lorna

By Janet Baldey

Even today, I hear the name Lorna and I’m transported back to a time when I was both at my happiest and most miserable.

 She first came to me late one night after the whispers, sighs and creaking of bedsprings finally ceased as a dozen girls drifted off to sleep.  Silence deadened the room and it was only then that my body unclenched and the tears flowed, soaking my pillow. Wracked by loneliness and grief, I lay remembering my father, his death and the way my life had changed.

‘Hush…’

Clad in a long white nightgown, she stood by my bed.  Moonlight, streaming through the window shone upon her red gold hair turning her into a candle holding back the dark.

Covering her lips with a finger, she drew back the sheet, slipped in beside me and held me tight.  Her kisses dried my tears and her body made me forget.  By morning, she was gone but as time passed I grew to know her and learned her story.  Like me, she was fatherless and like me, she pined for a life that had vanished as completely as smoke blown by the wind.  She already knew about me.  Everybody did.  A poor relation kept afloat by charity, every day was turned into purgatory by a myriad of petty slights and humiliations. Only the nights spent in Lorna’s arms made my life bearable.

But even that comfort came to an end when suddenly the covers were stripped from our bed leaving us naked and shivering as if doused in iced water. An oil lamp dazzled as we stared into the face of a gargoyle. Disgust and the wavering light had transmuted the Head’s features and her eyes glistened with malice as she hissed like a snake and hauled us from the room.

* * *

‘Sit down girl and don’t utter a word.’

Steel grabbed my shoulder and pushed me towards a chair.  Hardly daring to breathe I perched on the wooden seat and listened to the scratch of pen upon paper.  Head bowed, I stared at the floor. Darkly varnished, its knotholes were filled with the dust of years and my eyes blurred with the effort of concentrating on the filthy wood.  My shoulder was throbbing but I feared to move. Too well, I remembered the hiss of the cane as it whipped through the air.

There was the sound of a pen being thrown down, followed by the screech of a chair and the rustle of silk. Suddenly I saw the tips of highly polished boots and my gaze travelled upwards….. black skirt, black blouse, a rope of glistening jet. Before  reaching her face, my scalp burned and my head was jerked backwards as I was pulled to my feet by my hair.

I closed my eyes, sickened by pain and the smell of onions on her breath as her tirade began; each vitriolic word honed to slash, wound and scar.

‘Worthless…perverted….a disgrace on the road to hell.’  

 Her speech was familiar and had lost its power. Nothing could touch me now that Lorna had gone. Suddenly her litany slackened, her tone changed and despite my misery, I began to listen.

‘For the good of your soul, you must make your own way in the world.  A post of scullery maid has been found for you.  You leave on the morrow.’

My lids flew open and I stared into her eyes. Their colour, shifting from slate blue to grey, reminded me of the sea in winter.  

* * *

It was late when I arrived and I sat at the scrubbed table staring at broth congealing in its bowl.  It was the first food I’d seen all day but, nauseated by the lurch of the carriage, I couldn’t bare to taste it.  My head felt heavy and a yawn threatened.  Desperately, I bit down hard on the inside of my cheek and pain chased all thoughts of sleep away.  Staring at the woman seated opposite, I tried to concentrate.  The cook’s face shone as if oil oozed from every pore, stray wisps of hair escaped from her bun and she seemed almost as weary as I, but her manner was kind. Ticking an imaginary list off on her fingers, she detailed my duties.  They seemed endless and just as I began to despair, the drone of her voice ended.

‘Off to bed with you now.  Molly will show you the way.’

Through the door, along the corridor, up some back stairs I followed the sway of her hips until we came to yet another flight, almost hidden behind a dusty curtain.   Pausing only to light a taper, Molly continued to climb.  No longer wood but metal, the stairs coiled upwards disappearing into a soupy darkness barely pierced by our frail flame.

‘Ere we are then.’

Only slightly taller than my head, the cramped room was hot and its air smelled sour. Plaster was falling off the walls and in each dim corner, a smudge of cobwebs clustered. I walked towards the window but it was sealed shut with age and mouse droppings decorated its sill.  The tiny space was empty, save for two small beds nestled close to each other. 

‘You sleep here as well?’ 

She nodded.

‘Its not much. But it ‘as its good points.  Nobody, ever comes up ‘ere.’

Her bed groaned as she threw herself down.  Her cheeks were stained with scarlet and her eyes had the glitter of fever. 

‘It’s very private.’

There was something in her voice. Startled, I noticed her skirt was rucked and showed a glimmer of flesh.  My pulses throbbed as sudden realisation banished my fatigue.   Plump not slim; dark not fair; rough not gentle;  still, she had the look of Lorna.  

Copyright Janet Baldey