Song of the Sea Maid Read Online Free Page B

the door. It opens immediately.
    Once inside, I almost stumble with amazement. The walls are lined with chairs, upon which are seated gentlemen and ladies dressed in every type of finery, fluttering fans and nodding and smiling. To one side waits a patient line of poor women – I estimate twelve of them, no, thirteen – all holding babies, some of whom sleep and some cry and the mothers are shushing them, rocking them or simply staring into space as if the baby makes no noise, as if they are deaf to it. All eyes turn on me as I enter, then immediately dismiss me as an object of no interest. Matron leads me to a corner, to await the founder, who is perambulating along the chairs of the quality and offering witty comments to make the ladies titter, his wig powdered white for this formal occasion. The sideboard where he keeps his ink and quills has been cleared and in their place are plates of food and jugs of wine, luxurious food I have never set eyes upon before: tarts of all sorts and sweetmeats and fruits; sea creatures – the like of which I have only seen in books – are seated quite dead on ice alongside peas and salad; and every kind of meat and poultry piled up glistening in silver dishes. I am astounded to discover that food comes in so many colours other than shades of brown or grey. The appetising scents waft about the room, admixed with pomade and powder. The quality do not regard the table of treats, but many of the poor women ogle that food, even while their babies squeal ignored in their arms.
    The founder finishes his round and claps his hands, at which all the poor women turn their heads to him expectantly. The room hushes. The founder gestures to my schoolmaster who stands beside the table. He fetches a cloth bag and hands it to the founder, who takes it to the first poor woman in the line. Holding her mewling babe on one arm, she reaches in and takes something from inside. It is a ball, a black ball, and she frowns. The founder shakes his head. There is an audible sigh from the audience. The next woman is offered the bag, and she too takes a ball, this time white. She smiles and looks behind her at the next woman, who will not meet her face. This one takes a ball and it too is white and they smile together and pet their babies and jiggle them. Some of the quality clap their hands together and nod approvingly. The next takes a black ball, the next black and the next. Then appears a red ball, and the mother looks quizzical, but no one answers her questioning face. There are three more white balls and smiles, one black and three red. The mothers with the black balls are led across the room by a maidservant; dejected and wordless, they are shown out and the door closed behind them. The whites huddle and mutter to each other, joined in success. The red wait, separate, alert. The founder speaks to these.
    ‘You are hereby upon the list of reserves. Leave the details of your place of abode with my secretary and he will be in contact with you in due course if a lot becomes available.’
    Another maidservant is there to lead away the victors. Matron steps over to her and says, ‘Can you administer the medical tests for these five yourself? I must stay here with the child,’ to which the maidservant nods and leads them on. The founder continues his jolly banter with the guests, while Matron and I stand in the corner waiting.
    I tug at her sleeve. ‘What game was this?’ I whisper hoarsely.
    ‘’Tis no game. ’Tis a ballot. These women sue to be admitted to the orphanage. Those with the white balls have won a place for their babies here.’
    So this is how they come. An orphan lottery. Yet it strikes me that there are no babies living here. I am one of the youngest. The orphans range from four years or so to fourteen.
    I ask Matron, ‘Where do the babies go?’
    ‘They are sent away to wet-nurses until they are four or so, then they are returned and live here till apprenticed.’
    How very hard it must be