The Beloved by Alison Rattle

walks carefully, steadying the bowl of water in her hands. The bundles of cloths are thrust under her armpit. It is only when we reach Papa’s bedchamber that I understand what she is about to do.
    â€˜Are you coming in, miss?’ she asks.
    I shake my head. ‘I can’t,’ I whisper.
    She tuts in sympathy then nods at the door. ‘Would you mind opening it for me, miss?’
    I do as she asks and she slips past me and into Papa’s chamber. The smells of lavender and burning wax coil out of the room. And another smell too: the warm comfort of Papa’s tobacco. I find that I cannot close the door on it. So I leave it open, but just a snatch, and I stand still and watch.
    I see Mama first. She is hovering at the foot of Papa’s bed. Then I see William. He is stripping Papa of his nightgown from under the modest covering of a sheet. He pulls the nightgown over Papa’s head and hands it to Sarah. I watch, with my heart sliding around in my chest, as William then packs freshly laundered rags into Papa’s mouth and deep into his nostrils. I let out a breath. Then Mama ushers Sarah to the bed. She brings with her the bowl of water and bundle of washcloths.
    Sarah wets one of the cloths and wrings out the excess water. Then she reaches under the sheet and begins to wash Papa’s body. She washes him from his neck down to his feet and not once does she baulk at her task. She might as well be wiping down a table. I can’t help but wonder what it must be like to touch Papa now. Is he still warm? Or is his body already cold and stiff like the pig carcasses I sometimes see hanging outside the butchers on Friarn Street? I shiver in disgust, but I can’t help feel a pang of envy that Sarah is able to be so close to him.
    William brings a set of clothes over to the bed and with Sarah’s help he dresses Papa for the final time. Between them, they put Papa in a white shirt with a high, starched collar and then they bend his arms into a low-cut embroidered vest. They pull a pair of tapered woollen trousers onto Papa’s useless legs and then they button him into a matching frock coat with velvet lapels. Finally, William ties a black cravat softly at Papa’s throat and tucks Papa’s gold pocket watch into his vest.
    I swallow hard. Papa looks so handsome now. Except his hair is ruffled from where William and Sarah moved him. I want to go and smooth it back. It is the least I can do for him. I push at the door gently. It whines at the hinges. Mama whips her head around and she fixes me with a glare.
I haven’t forgotten about you
, she says, without even opening her mouth. Then, as though she has read my mind, she walks to Papa’s side and smoothes his hair flat again.

Sixteen
    Sarah comes to help me clear the mess of broken mirror from my floor. I tell her it was an accident and she says to never mind, miss. All the mirrors are covered anyway. And she hangs a piece of black cloth over the empty frame. I am to dress now, she tells me, for the photographic artist, Mr Gibbs, is on his way and I will need to look my best. I ask her if she has had much practice arranging hair, and she tells me that as she used to plait the mane of her father’s horse in readiness for the springtime fair, she’s sure she could manage.
    Sarah helps me into a green shot-silk gown. You will do very well in this one, miss, she tells me, until your mourning gowns arrive. She brushes my hair to a shine and with a simple twist, she pins it to the back of my head. ‘There,’ she says. ‘I think you are ready.’
    I walk through the house towards the front parlour. Everywhere there are candles burning and whispers hanging in the shadows. I walk by the long-case clock and it is strange to see it so still. The door to Papa’s study is ajar. I catch a whiff of brandy and smoke and it stops me in my tracks. I cannot resist pushing the door open to see if Papa is there, sitting in