Like Father, Like Daughter

by Caila Grigoletti

Henry tightened his grip on the handle of the shovel and forced another load of black stone into the open vent of fire. His back muscles twinged at the repetitive motion, the weight on the end of the tool increasing with each swing. The heat washed over his skin, adding more drops of sweat to his soot stained face. Straining against every ache from the neck down his arms, Henry focused solely on the task before him. Patrick worked tirelessly beside him. He had the energy of a pack horse with arms the size of whiskey casks and hands that may as well have been welded to the shovel with how little they trembled. His cap sat atop his bald head that sheened with its own layer of sweat. As Patrick vigorously shoveled the coal into the furnace Henry could not detect a single sign of exhaustion. In silent competition, one the other man was not aware he was playing, Henry quickened his pace.

Just as the two reached the bottom of their pile, shovels scraping the cobbled floors, the foreman rang the bell and barked, “Break time men! You got ten minutes!” Henry released the shovel and let it fall where he stood before walking to an unoccupied crate. The clattering sound that followed mirrored the dozen or so other shovels that fell in unison, the workers too spent to worry about their placement when they would be at it again in minutes. He hopped up onto the solid crate and leaned against the steel post behind it, giving his muscles a well-deserved break. Panting in the dry, unrelenting heat of the forge did little to soothe him, but at least he was no longer shoveling.

“You’re lookin’ tired Henry,” Patrick said. He stretched an arm over his shoulder, pushing the extended elbow with his spare hand until the joint popped in a satisfying sound. “Takin’ double shifts again are ya?”

Henry shrugged although the action brought the burning sensation back through his limbs. “Gotta pay rent somehow, right? That pisspot of a landlord is bleeding me dry.”

“You’re telling me? The lady that runs my boarding house just demanded another ten pounds off me because I let a mate spend the night in my room last week.”

“Why?” Henry asked.

“Why whot?” Patrick questioned, cocking his head curiously.

“Why did you let this friend of yours stay with you? You know Mrs. Bradley would gladly pick the coins off a corpse and you let some bastard cheat you out of ten pounds?”

“Poor chap didn’t have a penny on him cause his wife tossed him out on the street for eyeing up some lass in the pub. Didn’t touch her, but the missus was not havin’ it,” he said. “And it wasn’t like he ate her food or took up much space, all he did was lay his head down for the night. Couldn’t leave him out in that bloody storm, now could I?”

“Look at you, going all soft on a bloke who was stupid enough to get kicked out of house and home. Something tells me he did more than give a lass the eye.”

Patrick scratched the back of his neck suspiciously, “Well, he might’ve been propositioning the girl as well, he was blind drunk when I found him that night.”

They shared a knowing chuckle as the sweeper boys made their rounds through the mass of tired old men, their water bottle cases hanging heavy off their arm. Each worker received two waters a day. If they needed more, they would have to walk to the well four blocks down on their breaks or bring their own. Henry snatched the bottle out of the boy’s hand, barely registering the child’s presence to say “thank you” or remember his name before chugging the lukewarm liquid down his throat. The sweet relief of water cleansing his windpipe of smoke and coal dust felt like he was drinking the finest wine than briny well water. Only until the bottle was half downed did he take a breather and wipe the sweat off his brow with the back of his hand.

The warehouse of Ferris Ironworks sweltered in the residual heat from the furnaces. The cobbled stone floors and brick walls gave the building a sturdy foundation for the metal machines within. Glass windows on the second story allowed some sunlight through, catching flakes of dust and soot swirling in the air. He could see the offices on the second floor and the upper management strolling along the wooden walkways above. They would look down on the grunts who worked the forges while sipping their morning coffee. Henry did not resent them or anything, but he did wonder what the view was like from that angle.

“How’s your wife?” Patrick asked in between gulps of his own bottle. Henry shook off the musing and turned his attention back to his friend. “Did this doctor find out what’s wrong with her?”

He shook his head negatively. “Nope. He said the exact same thing as the last one and then walked out.”

“That’s unfortunate,” Patrick’s attempt at sympathy fell short, averting his eyes and mumbling while Henry looked visibly disturbed by this news. “Whot are ya gonna do now?”

He shrugged again, this time with a heavy, defeated sigh. “I’m not sure. But we’ll be fine. We always are.”

“I thought you said your neighbors were gonna have ya evicted if she caused any more disturbances.”

Henry’s fist clenched around the glass bottle till the skin on his knuckles went white and rigid. “That’s not gonna happen. We’re gonna give the medicine a little more time to take effect. She’ll get better, I’m sure of it.”

“You mean the rubbish miracle syrup that Welshman conned you into buying three weeks ago? I’m no doctor, but shouldn’t it have worked by now?”

“You don’t know what you’re talkin’ about, Pat. Marcy is just fine and this medicine is keepin her calm at least.” His words sounded fake, even to him. When he declared that she was doing better because of the herbal tonic, it felt like he was trying to convince himself more than trying to convince Patrick.

“But you told me she wasn’t sleeping anymore. That she’s screaming bloody murder-”

“Oi,” he exclaimed. He leaned forward in his seat and pointed a finger at Patrick’s nose. “Why don’tcha mind your own bloody business for a change, yeah?!” Patrick raised his hands in surrender, meeting Henry’s glare with a solemn look.

“Alright, calm down now mate. I didn’t mean nothing by it.”

“Just leave it be, I know what I’m doing.” Patrick nodded, conceding defeat before crossing his arms and closing his eyes for a quick rest. Henry, however, felt hollow. The emptiness in Henry’s stomach was not caused by hunger. None of the treatments had worked. Not those pills that were supposed to control manic episodes. Not the herbal syrup form the Welshman keep her from having the nightmares. Nor the walks or the eating less. Marcy would still wake in the middle of the night screeching like a banshee, reaching for the candlestick on her nightstand to wield as a weapon. During the day it wasn’t much better. She would call their daughter by a different name and forget where she was practically every day. Over the course of two months she lost three stone in weight and the color of life in her cheeks had faded to a sickly pallor. He barely recognized his wife anymore. Henry could only pray that when he got home that his daughter had managed to calm Marcy enough to take another dose of the wretched medicine so they could all sleep in peace.

Henry and Marsalli Hammond’s flat in the corner building on Cavell Street was poorly lit and too small for two people let alone a family of three. The kitchen, living room, and dining room could not be distinguished from each other. One door on the south wall beside the stove led into a private room where the husband and wife slept, but it was barely big enough to fit the double mattress and the armoire. Meanwhile, their fourteen-year-old daughter slept on a creaky box spring mattress with a metal frame shoved into the corner of the living room. The wallpaper had already been peeling when they first rented the place, and the smoke stains on the ceiling from candles and the fire pit proved its age even further.

Catharine flinched at the harsh words Mr. Price was spitting into her face. Spittle from his mustache would fly every time he spoke a sharp syllable and her face became the unfortunate target of his rage. She was used to hearing these protestations from him, although his vulgar language was not in the least bit gentlemanly. After apologizing for her mother’s violent outburst, at least eight times, he was still deeply unsatisfied. The only reason he walked away in the end was her promise to visit his flat later that day to do the housework his elderly wife was too weak to do. She knew Mr. Price would eagerly accept these conditions since he made it quite clear he had a “fondness” for her.

“I promise, once I put her to bed, I will come over and clear away your supper so you and Mrs. Price can enjoy the rest of your night without any more problems.”

Mr. Price grinned deviously, flashing his yellow, two teeth missing smile and purred, “I’ll be waiting for you, young lady.” He petted her hair for several seconds too long before nodding his head and marched back to his flat two doors down the hall. The other neighbors watched in pity but said nothing and turned their backs. She subdued the urge to shake in revulsion at the memory of his grimy hands on her. Instead, Catharine waited till the door was closed before scratching her head to remove the feeling of his touch.

Brushing off the remnants of the encounter, she crossed the room to where her mother lay hunched by the fire, rocking back and forth on her side and mumbling incoherently. Her skeletal frame worried Catharine greatly but anytime she offered her food, Marsalli would swat it away and ignore her obvious hunger. Last week she had stolen a knife from the kitchen and chopped off most of her bronze-colored hair. It now hung off her head in a jagged bob instead of the long and flowing waves she knew her mother loved. Red nail marks covered Marsalli’s forearms from her own hands. Some had scabbed over while others still appeared prominently along her pale flesh.

“Ma, are you alright?” Catharine asked, placing a gentle hand on her mother’s trembling shoulder. No response. “You can’t keep bothering the neighbors like this. You know Mr. Price will go to the landlord and get us evicted.” Marsalli remained silent. She looked into the hearth fire longingly, as if she was seeing something that she desired more than the world and wished she could reach for it in those flames.

Catharine sighed and rose to her feet to pick up the mess her mother left behind. Upturned tables and chairs, a broken cup, and the remains of the cabbage soup they cooked for dinner lay scattered across the apartment. She started with the soup, grabbing an old dish towel and a bucket of water to clear away the rubbish. Marsalli remained unaware to the activity happening behind her, too focused on the fire to notice her daughter performing the work she was supposed to do as the woman of the house.

An hour passed before Catharine heard a pair of boots pound on the corridor floor outside the flat. Her ears perked at the familiar tread of footsteps. Henry hesitantly opened the door to their home, stepping one foot into the apartment almost as if he were trying to sneak his way in. Catharine snickered at the stealthy manner her otherwise clumsy father attempted to perform.

“Da,” she whispered gratefully so as not to disturb Marsalli’s thoughts. Father and daughter crossed the space between them to embrace each other in a tight hug. The smell of sweat and smoke filled her nose when she buried her face in his soot stained shirt. The callouses on his hands scratched the skin on her arms but the sensation felt familiar rather than irritating. He patted the top of her head, unknowingly erasing the discomfort left by their lecherous neighbor.

“You’re home early,” she noted, stepping back to look him over. His mossy brown hair curled at the ends from the grease on his scalp and the muddy brown eyes she shared with him looked upon her with pure love.  

“The boss told me off for workin’ all that overtime, says he can’t have a coal shoveler run him out of business cause he has to pay me so much,” he said before pulling up a chair at the kitchen table. “But how’ve you been? Mum doin’ any better?”

Catharine’s head bowed and she stared at her feet for several seconds. “No, Mum woke up before I came back from the market and went on a rampage in the flat. Mr. Price came knocking and threated to make another complaint.”

“Did ya forget to give her her medicine?”

“No, I swear,” she promised, taking the half empty, green bottle off its shelf in the cupboard and showing her father its contents. “I gave her two doses because she started cryin’ in her sleep. I turned my back for two seconds and she has a screaming fit that would wake the Devil himself.” Henry nodded in understanding and held the bottle of medical syrup in hand, running his thumb over the label unconsciously.

“How did you manage to calm down that prickly, old sod this time?”

“I told him I’d clean his flat later tonight,” she explained with bated breath.

Henry reacted distastefully, as she knew he would. “Oh, for fuck’s sake!” he groaned, pounding a fist on the table. “You know I don’t want you alone with that dirty old bastard and now you’ve gone and promised him that!”

“I had no choice, da.” Catharine tried to reason with an unreasonable man. She took the seat next to him and clutched his hand on the table in effort to comfort his raging emotions. “He was furious, and I had to do something to make-up for ma’s… outburst. He was goin’ straight to the landlord if I didn’t give him something in return.”

Henry shook his head and grimaced at the thought of Mr. Price anywhere near his little girl. “I don’t like it. He’s gonna try something, I just know it.”

“I’ll be careful, promise,” she reassured, holding out her pinky finger like she used to when she was little. He could not help but smile at the childish action, wrapping his own pinky finger around hers and shaking it. The two sat quietly together, enjoying the stillness of the late evening. All the troubles in the world meant nothing now that they were safely at home. At least for this minute they could forget about the unfortunate nature of their life. And although Catharine wanted that minute to last a little longer, she felt obliged to divulge what else happened that morning.

“Da, I have something to tell you.” Henry sat back in his chair and waited for her to speak. “Well, um, Mrs. Green came by a little after you left for work and told me she showed my embroidery work to a dressmaker in Westminster.”

“Go on,” he insisted.

Catharine struggled to find the right words to describe what had happened since in her heart, she never believed her father would agree to what she would have to say next. “Well the seamstress at this shop wants to tutor me. Says I’ve got a knack or talent or something in this and I could be making a little extra money for us if I prove I’m good enough.” Her father eyed her suspiciously, biting his bottom lip in contemplation as she rambled. “I would only be gone during the day for a few hours, take the train over to Westminster and be back before supper.”

That is when Henry voiced the only problem with this plan. “And who will watch your mum?”

She wrung her hands nervously on the table, brushing her hair back behind her ears if only to do something other than sit stiffly under her father’s scrutinizing eye.

“I have thought about that, and because she usually sleeps through the day it should not matter cause I’ll only be workin’ mornings until three o’clock in the afternoon,” Catharine said. 

He shook his head and said, “No, you need to be home to look after your mum. You can’t just abandon her.”

“I wouldn’t be ‘abandoning’ her, I’d be helping pay the bills and have a shot at a better job for me.”

“Catharine,” he sighed in frustration, “you are not taking that job, end of discussion.”

“But da-”

“Enough!” he bellowed, earning a stunned silence from his daughter. “I will not put your mother in an asylum to rot so you can go traipsing around London doing God knows what!” And there it was. The reason why Henry would never leave Marcy unattended.

His father put his own mother in an insane asylum when he was nine years old. She never got better and he never was allowed to visit. His mother died in that den of drugs and psychos, long before he was old enough to save her from those villains. Catharine knew about her grandmother’s illness, but Henry had never told her about the letters he received, detailing the miserable conditions his mother lived in in that awful place. She’ll never be scarred by the descriptions of the ‘new and progressive tests’ those psychiatrists practiced on living subjects, or what the nurses would do to the patients if they tried to run. If he allowed Catharine to pursue this path, it would mean having to put Marsalli in the asylum. Condemning her to a fate he knew was worse than death.

“Your mother made me promise to never let her go into the mad house, not after hearing what my mother went through.” Abigail’s gaze landed on her lap during her father’s speech. “I know you think I’m bein’ unfair to you, but my decision is final. You’re not going to Westminster and you’re not taking that job. I can only count on to look after your mother. Do you understand?”

Although Catharine’s desperately wanted to scream and fight this battle to the end, she could not risk losing her father’s attention. Her mother had given up on her, after all.

“I understand da.” She checked the clock on the wall and cringed when she noticed the time. Half past seven, the exact hour and minute she promised Mr. Price she would visit. “I have to go. I’ll be back in an hour.”

Henry said nothing and didn’t watch his daughter walk out the door, knowing full well where she was going and why. He groaned in defeat and held his head in his hands.

“Like father, like daughter,” Marsalli sang, smiling at her husband knowingly.

His back straightened and he swiftly turned towards the voice of his beloved Marcy. “What did you say?”

“She’s like you. So sad and afraid. Afraid that your world will never be safe again.” They looked at each other, all the happiness and emotion shared between husband and wife locked in their eyes. For a brief instant, it felt like he was looking at the woman he fell in love with again. Then she blinked, her gaze became clouded with delusion and she looked back to the fire. She started humming some mindless tune, swaying to the rhythm of her own song.

Henry’s chest tightened against the pain and he nodded in solemn agreement.

Caila Grigoletti is a junior at Cedar Crest College. She is a writing major with a double minor in communications and history. Apart from writing, her interests include gaming, singing, and travel.