Chapter 16
SYMPHONIES AND STINKS
Sofia was going through her music sheets as early as she had promised and took it as seriously as if she was preparing for a concert in the Royal Albert Hall. When I came through the double door she gave me the most dazzling smile.
'Oh, Jo. I do not know which song to choose. This one is fast and joyful and expresses my feelings so well but this other one is so full of melancholy and passion that you positively must hear it,' Sofia agonised.
'How about you play the sad one first and the cheerful after to lift our spirits?' I offered.
'What a marvellous idea,' she exclaimed and positioned the sheets. 'Will you turn the pages for me?'
'Nothing will give me more pleasure.'
Another smile graced her features and then changed to utmost concentration. She lifted her chin and her hands, as the fingers touched the ebony keys and began dancing magically, and a rich melody filled the room and the trees outside seemed to sway to the tune. The sun chose this perfect moment to push the clouds away and trace Sofia's profile with golden light as if thanking the girl for the blissful music. Her straight nose which was very much like Hanson's lowered at the last note. After a moment of silence she looked at me expectantly.
I clapped my hands enthusiastically out of rhythm to Hanson who had joined us without me noticing.
The morning turned to afternoon quickly with Sofia chatting on lively throughout breakfast and early dinner and the time in between.
After I had overcome the uncertainty which knife and fork to use out of the collection of cutlery around my plate I enjoyed the meals very much. Hanson laughed at my table manners. Sofia scolded him for mocking me and inquired after my well-being in regular intervals as if afraid I might stomp off angrily at the slightest annoyance.
For the last few days I had survived on baked beans and potato mash both of which had tasted like sand but I could not think of a dignified way to tell Sofia that I would stay as long as they fed me.
And feed me they did. There were five courses to each dinner and I was usually stuffed after the third because Miss Durdle insisted I should have seconds, and there was no stopping her from putting a mountain of food on my plate over and over again. It was hard to tell whether she was driven by devotion or a wish to kill me. Consequently, I felt very sick after the custard and wild berry sauce we had for dessert.
'Perhaps we should go for a walk, Ryde? You do look rather green round the nose,' said Hanson with the keen sense of a doctor and a touch of amusement.
Sofia protested persistently for she could not join, and missing even one word of our conversation was the equivalent to a painful and slow death according to her.
'In that case we shall write down every monosyllable. Let us begin with an exasperated sigh from me.' He made an exasperated sigh. 'There, have you written it down, Ryde?'
'Was that four or five 'h's after the 'a', sir?' I pretended to hold a pen and write into my palm.
'Five, I believe,' he answered after counting on his fingers.
'Oh, you are such a tease, Charles, and you too, Jo,' she sulked, 'even if he is your teacher you should not learn all bad manners from him.'
Hanson and I laughed at the precision of her observation and Sofia joined eventually for she could not hold up a straight face, and eventually, granted her permission.
'Ryde, would you like my coat?' Hanson asked when he saw me dressed in the coat he had not acknowledged to be one previously.
'Thank you, sir, but I will ruin it if I wear it because it is too long for me, and the weather is milder, my own one is a all I need.'
'As you wish,' he shrugged.
The afternoon air became colder when the sun disappeared behind the clouds. With each breath condensation formed before my face and dissolved into the foggy sky. I could not allow myself to shiver and give Hanson the satisfaction of having been right, hence I tensed my muscles to make them work up more body heat.
'Sofia is very fond of you. It is good for her to have company other than Miss Durlde and myself,' said Hanson to start a conversation.
But the effort was wasted on me for I was utterly preoccupied contemplating on her condition afraid that asking might give offence.
'You are not very good at hiding your thoughts, Ryde,' scoffed Hanson.
'I am sorry, sir,' I mumbled into my collar.
'It is called Lobstein Syndrome, or,' he paused as if the next words were harder to say out loud, 'Glass-Bone Disease.'
'Is it-'
'Terminal? In some cases it is, in others not quite. I think, in her case we were lucky,' he paused for 'lucky' was a very relative term. 'The worst threat to a weakened system such as hers constitutes infection, apart from the more obvious one.'
Even though Hanson chose not to elaborate, the title 'Glass-Bone Disease' gave me a vivid idea as to what the obvious threat was.
Judging by the vast amount of books on medical research Hanson owned and the grim expression on his face there was no cure found yet. Suddenly, I saw all his actions and every word he had ever said to me in a different light.
'I am sorry for bringing it up,' I whispered.
'You did not bring it up, it is on my thoughts every waking hour,' he smiled sadly. 'And not just the misery of it but also the pride I take in her strength. I could not love or respect her more regardless of her health.'
Suddenly, I remembered Terry's broken leg and how routinely he had dealt with it wondering if maybe he had done the same for his sister on more than one occasion. Watching Terry's pain had broken my heart but I could not imagine what Hanson must have felt when his patient had been his own sister.
'You are shivering, Ryde, are you cold?'
'No, it is not on account of the weather.'
'Would you like to see the Thames?' Hanson asked unexpectedly. The abrupt topic change was much appreciated and I really did want to see the river.
From the district of Holborn, where Hanson lived, we walked down Fleet Street, Ludgate Hill, and Cannon Street, passing on our way St Paul's. The majestic white cathedral with its spire-framed dome dominated the view of the city as much from afar as from closer on. The cross on top, according to Hanson, pierced the sky at 111 metres and was thus the tallest building in London. I admired its towers and columns and walls, to think that human hands and minds had build it left me in awe.
While I was still craning my neck to get a good view of it Hanson pushed me from left to right to avoid collision with the heavy traffic. Noises of horse hooves, clattering carriage wheels, driver's shouts at each other and the passer-bys filled the dusty winter air. The massive traffic had no apparent structure but somehow it all flowed naturally like a river.
From the busy Cannon Street we turned towards the much quieter Southwark Bridge where walkers like ourselves were much more frequent. Even though Hanson was pointing out the names of the streets to me I was already lost and would not find my way back if he abandoned me. Knowing him it was not the most unlikely prospect. I wanted to slide my hand through his elbow pit but remembered not to.
Suddenly, a man with a crutch who was dressed in rags jumped at me with an outstretched hand.
'Give to the poor,' he said in a hoarse, cracking voice and the stench of his breath made me step back. His face and hands were covered in red spots that were protruding from his skin.
Hanson wasted no time to come between us and instructed him to go to the depths of a very warm place. I was surprised at the harshness of his conduct. But the man merely withdrew and limped to the next person who side-stepped him without bothering to take a glance.
'What aisles him?' I asked for lack of anything better to say.
'Syphilis... makes me want to throw him over the side of the bridge.'
'How cruel,' I mumbled crossly.
'You want cruel?' Hanson hissed grabbing my arm and dragging me away from the scene. 'Do you see the girl over the there? The one selling matches from her basket?'
There was
a childish woman, weather-beaten and scarcely dressed, standing under a lantern with a babe in her arm. Both she and the child had Syphilis.
'Guess who gave it to her? Both the disease and the child,' he trembled angrily.
I gulped.
Wide eyed I continued after him as his pace grew rapidly faster. I had to exchange two of my steps for one of his as our surroundings became dirtier, poorer, and smellier.
The houses were darkened by the smoke from the city. They were build from wood and mud, sometimes stone. The ground was not properly paved and it, too, was mostly mud. Because we walked so quickly my trousers were covered in brown droplets up to the knees. The street noises were now dominated by moans from beggars and sometimes wailing children who did not even wear shoes on this cold December evening. Everything and everyone was filthy and ragged. Hanson stood in stark contrast to the people around him. His elegant black coat, hat, and walking stick which he held in a gloved hand made me fear we would be attacked and robbed. Without realising I drew closer and closer to him, until my arm touched his. Under the relative safety of Hanson's protection, I eyed the on-goings about us with fearful suspicion.
Abruptly, he turned into a narrow alley. One could only see a slim strip of grey sky, between the buildings that were bending towards one another under the weight of their roofs.
I was so scared that I grabbed his arm. He did not seem to mind, too focused was he on the path ahead. On the left knelt a woman with her skirt raised. She was urinating against the side of the house. The whole street, if indeed it could be called that, smelled of human excrements conserved in the thick black smog which lay like a lid on the air. Hanson did not seem to notice any of it. He might as well be walking through Buckingham Palace.
With the sleeve of the hand that did not hold on to his arm I covered my nose. It helped very little.
As abruptly as he had turned into the street as abruptly he now stopped and I bumped my nose into his back. He tore away his arm from me and knocked on the door. It opened just a crack and a girl's eye peeked through. Upon seeing the visitor her scowl changed into pleasant surprise.
'Mother, mother,' she shouted over her shoulder, 'it is Doctor.'
Immediately after this revelation the girl was joined by her mother who was holding another small child by the hand.
'Oh, Doctor Hanson,' she exclaimed joyfully, 'how good of you to visit us.'
Her northern accent was even heavier than her daughter's.
'Can I come in,' asked Hanson, and by the sound of it he was smiling.
Inside, the house was even smaller than it had looked from the outside. Wooden beams supported the untrustworthy ceiling. The floor was made of cold stone and the only furniture consisted of a wooden bench, two wooden chairs, and a wooden table. A makeshift bed of hay and blankets was in the corner, dangerously near to the crackling fire place. There was another dark room in the back. There were more makeshift beds in it.
'I was just about to make tea,' said the woman putting a cracked cups and pot on the table.
Following Hanson's example I sat down on the bench. Not to seem impolite I poured myself a cup. The tea was very thin for it gave the water only a hint of brown.
'Oh no,' said the women taking the cup from me and pouring the water back into the pot, 'I haven't put in tea, yet.'
I blinked questioningly at Hanson who ignored me.
'Weren't they supposed to install plumbing?' he said instead.
The woman just shrugged, 'they have and it was all good in summer but winter froze the drains and there is hardly any water coming through.'
'Insufferable, does it take another Cholera epidemic to finally get them up there in Westminster moving?' he tapped his foot agitatedly on the floor.
'Oh, I am sure the plumping in Westminster is working just fine,' said the woman bitterly.
They continued talking in this familiar manner for another half hour. Somewhere in between Hanson remembered to to introduce me but other than that I just listened. When we were preparing to leave Hanson took the woman's hand, whose name was (curiously) Eleanor, in both of his.
'Oh, no, no,' she protested trying to return the gold coin he had placed in her palm.
'Just until your husband and sons return. It is a cold winter,' he said firmly.
'Bless you,' she breathed and her eyes started shimmering in the candle light. 'Husband and son,' she corrected and wiped away the single tear that had escaped her and was trailing down her cheek.
Hanson paled a little.
'Bernard?'
She nodded.
Once we were back in the stinking alley, I waited for Hanson to explain the fragments of the conversation that had been thrown back and forth between them. He did not disappoint me.
'Eleanor Banks,' he said, 'she used to work in my father's cotton mills but then she and her husband moved to London. They accepted that living conditions in the big city would be worse but were lured by the prospect of more work and more food. Unfortunately, none of the above awaited them in London. What made it impossible for them to go back, was her condition. She was with child – children to be precise, twins. They were the first two out of six.
'Because they knew no one else, they came to find me. We talked for hours that night, and the only possibility that I saw, was for him to join the crew of a ship. I advised against it though, because of all the dangers it entailed and the long months spent from home. It was, however, the only possibility that presented itself.
'Mrs Banks' husband is a skilled and hard-working man. His salary as a sailor is enough to keep his family out of the work house and, as his sons have grown older, they now join their father as ship's boys. I have voiced my disapproval and concern, but Mr Banks was so proud of them and the boys were so proud of him, that there really was no way to convince them. Now the younger boy has died at sea.'
Captivated by his story I forgot the stench and was surprised to find it had not gone anywhere when Hanson paused.
'It is very peculiar,' resumed Hanson. 'I have delivered all of her children, and not only hers but also those of many other women in Southwark, and whenever one such child dies, it makes me feel very... peculiar.'
Hanson could not bring himself to say 'sad' as if he saved that word for another occasion. I, on the other hand, could not bring myself to say anything at all.
'I hope you forgive me, if I make another visit. After it I promise we can return home,' he said looking at me as if he was not even talking to me – evidently, he was more distraught by the news than he was willing to admit.
The next house was worse yet than the one before it. At least the previous one was a proper house. This one was merely a hut made of wood that was black from mould. The walls did not promise to last another year and the glass in the windows was mostly broken and stuffed with cloth. The door leaned against the entrance as it was not even attached to the hinges. It fell towards us upon our approach. Seven dirty faces belonging to children of different ages greeted us with the same enthusiasm as the Banks family. The enthusiasm reached unprecedented heights when Hanson produced from his pocket a bun for every child in the room. How he had managed to fit them all in his coat was beyond me.
Then he asked the oldest girl about her sister, who was lying in the corner covered up in blankets. The child was coughing occasionally. All the inhabitants were coughing occasionally.
'She is worse, sir, and mother and father only come home very late, too tired to do anything for her,' she took a big bite of the already half-eaten bun in her small hands and added, 'next year I will turn nine and then I can work, too. We shall have plenty to eat then.'
Hanson looked grim but did not say anything to dishearten the girl. He went over to the child in the corner and turned the poor creature around to look at her. It was a four or five-year-old girl with a pale face the skin of which was clutching to her skull.
'How are you, Hope?' he said softly.
'Be'er, sir,' she answered voicelessly, 'I am not col
d or hungry any more, just tired.'
'Would you like me to stay with you for a while?'
'Yes, please,' she almost smiled moving her tiny head a little so she could rest it against his knee. He propped her up a bit. We stayed for an hour or two until the little body was cold and partially stiff.
Molly, the oldest girl, allowed Hanson to take her with him after he had promised not to give her sister to the corpse sellers. He was even more convincing in her eyes when he gave her the eighth and last bun to share with her siblings.
We buried the girl in the back yard of a greasy, old chapel. The ancient vicar knew Hanson and provided a shovel and a few words on behalf of the deceased.
I was not sure I could ever be happy again in my life and wondered how Hanson found the strength to smile when he was so familiar with the hardships of these people. I was ashamed I had ever thought they might rob us just because they were dirty and poor.
By the time we approached Southwark Bridge I found my voice again.
'Have you helped deliver the Syphilis baby, as well?'
He nodded. The girl was still standing under the same street lamp asking everyone who passed by if they wanted matches. Because it was still quite full, she did not seem to have many customers.
'I help deliver some,' he said, 'and bury others.'
With that he crossed the road and headed towards the girl.
'Matches, doctor?' the girl inquired with a small voice that was tired from asking the same question over and over.
'How much is the whole basket?'
She eyed her goods.
'Two shillings,' and after a pause of uncertainty, 'and a sixpence for the basket.'
Hanson produced the coins but the girl faltered.
'The matches are probably damp,' she said reluctantly. 'I have been standing here for three days and the wind carried some drops from the river into the basket.'
'I shall dry them,' said Hanson strictly and put the coins into one of her freezing hands, then took the basket from her other. As he turned away from her she stopped him.
'Sir, perhaps there is some'ing else I can do for you,' she lowered her face and looked at him through her lashes, while her babe dangled limply at her side. Slowly, she, and all of her red spots, turned to me, 'or maybe for ye'r young companion.'
The Girl who was a Gentleman (Victorian Romance, History) Page 13