I am not aware of how old I was when I was taken from my mother. I have struggled to recall anything meaningful about her. My strongest memory is of her warm, strong hands and I remember darkness, too, but I do not know if it is my mother’s colouring or her shadowy skirts where I buried my face.
I did not go gently when they came for me. I remember that I clung to those skirts, put up a fight. Kicked. But I was taken away and made to stand on a wooden board. My clothes were stripped off me, my face put under a water butt, my shivering body pummelled and soaped and rubbed and rasped and kneaded until I wailed like the child I was.
I was trussed up in undergarments and leggings and a dress, with a white pinafore pulled over my head. My hair was brushed and plaited, boots strapped onto my feet, and I was taken by the hand and led away. Still snivelling. Still whimpering. Still damp behind the knees.
Outside, in the street, the evening was drawing to a close and the gas lamps were being lit. I wanted to pause, to watch howroof of the carriage. We lurched forward and the horses’ hooves went clip-clop clippity-clop on the cobblestones. The man slid the watch away. He bit the side of his great forefinger.
