Proud Mary

by Proud Mary (retail) (epub)

  Canal Street had once been a respectable area with owners of local industries occupying the tall houses. Mr Waddington, proprietor of the Canal Street Laundry, had once lived there, but lately it had become run down and the houses had gone to seed a little.

  At the moment the house was occupied by Mary Jenkins who lately had been a little slow in paying her rent. Excuse enough for asking her to leave, Delmai thought, though it was a task she did not relish. Still, her overriding need was to get away from Rickie before she either went mad or did him a violence.

  She sighed as Gwen brought her clothes into the room and began to hang them in the large cupboard.

  ‘Put out only enough for a few days,’ she said firmly. ‘The rest you can pack away in my trunk, for I’ll be moving from here in a week or two.’

  She knew that the servants’ quarters would be buzzing with speculation as soon as Gwen went below stairs. The gossip would spread like wildfire to servants in other houses in the district, and perhaps people like Marian Thomas would speculate on Rickie’s failure as a husband. As she snuggled down into her bed, the thought of Rickie’s shame gave her an intense feeling of satisfaction.

  Chapter Nine

  The afternoon sun was shining in through the bedroom window, sending motes of dust drifting slowly downwards in a shaft to light. The bed was rumpled, the patchwork quilt had slipped to the floor and under the remaining sheets, Heath Jenkins tossed and turned –his fair hair darkened by sweat, his face unnaturally flushed.

  Mary stared down at her brother in dismay. She had been worried when he had failed to get up for work this morning, but to stay in bed until this hour was unheard of.

  She had gone into town to fetch some groceries, expecting to see him sitting at the kitchen table with a mug of tea in his hand when she returned, but the fire had fallen low in the grate and the kettle had gone off the boil. Even from the doorway where she stood, Mary could hear Heath’s laboured breathing and it was quite clear that he was very sick. She went to him and rested her palm on his forehead; his skin was hot and clammy and Mary’s heart plummeted in fear. He needed attention, but she paused at his bedside a moment, reluctant to leave him.

  Sally Benson’s mother lived just a few doors away; she was a nurse and used to sickness and whatever Mary felt about Sally herself, she could not allow her pride to prevent her asking for Mrs Benson’s help. With a last distracted look in the direction of the bed, she hurried down the stairs and out into the sun-splashed street. Her heart was in her throat as she knocked at the plainly varnished door of the Benson household.

  Heath had made too free, she told herself, as she waited on the step; he had caught a chill which had gone to his chest, but still he insisted on working in the gruelling heat of the mill. And he had spent his nights with some girl or other, courting on the high slopes of Kilvey Hill. Well, now the boy was suffering for it.

  ‘Mary Jenkins! Duw, what are you doing here, my Sally hasn’t taken sick at the laundry, has she?’ The nurse was plump-cheeked, her gown dark and neat, her hair coiled cleanly away from her face.

  Mary shook her head. ‘No, it’s nothing like that, I don’t work at the laundry any more. It’s my brother, Mrs Benson,’ Mary swallowed hard. ‘He’s sick and I don’t know what to do for him.’

  Mrs Benson looked at her for a moment in silence, reading the desperation in Mary’s eyes. ‘Right, I’ll get my things and come along with you at once,’ she said briskly.

  As Mary hurried back to the house, Mrs Benson had difficulty keeping up with her. ‘An old midwife I am, mind,’ she gasped, ‘not a young chit of a thing like you. Ah, here we are, let’s have a look at the boy.’

  Mary watched as Mrs Benson wrapped her ample form in a crisp clean apron. Even as she tied the belt around her waist she was staring down at Heath with experienced eyes.

  She bent over him and lifted his hand and Mary turned away biting her lip, dreading to hear what the woman would say, hopeful and yet deeply troubled.

  ‘It’s his lungs,’ Mrs Benson said at last. ‘Rattling like a bottle of pop, he is, poor boy!’ She shook her head. ‘The fever it is, got it bad too but we’ll see what we can do then.’

  She rolled up her sleeves. ‘Know how to make a bread poultice, do you? He’ll need one put on his poor chest every hour or so; then once it cools, change it. Can’t give the boy no medicine, got none handy, but I’ll stay by here with him while you run to the chemist.’

  Mary nodded her thanks and hurried down the stairs. She took her purse from the back of the kitchen drawer and let herself quietly out of the house. Heath was sick, very sick. The gravity of Mrs Benson’s expression as she looked down at the boy confirmed Mary’s worst fears. Well, if he did not respond to the nurse’s ministrations, Mary would simply have to send for Dr Thomas. She knew his bills were steep, but she would use the rent money to pay them if necessary; all that mattered to her now was that Heath should get well.

  The chemist shop had a smell all of its own, a mingling of methylated spirits and petroleum. ‘George, I need something for my brother,’ Mary said quickly. ‘It’s his lungs, Mrs Benson says he’s got the fever.’

  ‘Duw, there’s sorry I am to hear that, Mary.’ The chemist stood before shelves filled with bottles and chewed his lip thoughtfully. ‘I’ll mix up a linctus, combined with an expectorant. It should ease the boy a bit.’ He moved about the shelves selecting bottles apparently at random while Mary waited in trepidation.

  ‘Terrible thing, the fever,’ George said softly. ‘There’s no telling which way it will go. But then, Heath is young and strong and he should pull through, so don’t look so worried, merchi.’

  When Mary returned to the house she hurried upstairs to find that Mrs Benson had already spread Heath’s chest with poultice and had covered it with a piece of old red flannel.

  ‘He seems a bit better already,’ the nurse spoke encouragingly. ‘Fetch a bowl of steaming water, gel, I’ll give you some mentholated crystals to put in it. Hold the bowl beneath his nose and let him breathe in the fumes, and the congestion should ease.’

  Mary hurried downstairs, glad to have something to occupy her mind. When she returned with the water, Heath seemed a little less flushed but his eyes were closed and his breathing still loud and harsh. Mary touched his cheek softly; it was burning hot as though he had sat in the sun too long.

  She shook her head. ‘I’m not happy about him, Mrs Benson,’ she said. ‘I’m sure you’re doing your best but he looks so sick.’

  Mrs Benson folded her apron meticulously, easing it back into the original creases.

  ‘These things take time,’ she said slowly, ‘but I tell you what, wait until nightfall and if Heath is worse, then get the doctor.’

  Mary gave the midwife a few shillings and when the coins had disappeared into a deep pocket, Mrs Benson smiled.

  ‘Now don’t forget to call me if there’s anything more I can do.’ She paused on the step. ‘There’s a strangeness about fevers I can’t explain,’ she said pensively. ‘Sometimes they move away by themselves, there’s just no telling.’

  Mary watched Mrs Benson as she bustled away along the street and then hurried back up the stairs. Heath was tossing and turning, his face puffy, his hands restlessly plucking at the edge of the sheets. He opened his eyes and they stared at her as though seeing a thousand demons.

  ‘Water!’ he said in a hoarse whisper and as Mary held a glass to his lips, he drank thirstily. She wrung out a cloth and placed it upon his forehead and though he seemed calmer, his breathing was still uneven. Mary dragged the old rocking chair nearer to the bed and sank into it wearily. Her shoulders ached and her eyes were so heavy she simply must close them just for a moment.

  A knock on the door startled her and she sat up with her heart pounding. It was dark in the room and hurriedly she lit the lamp. Heath was quieter and he seemed to be sleeping more easily.

  Mary hurried downstairs as the knocking became louder and more insistent. She lifted the latc
h and froze for a moment, then remembering her manners, she stepped back and opened the door wider.

  ‘Mr Sutton,’ she said, stumbling over the name. ‘What are you doing here?’ Mary was aware that she must sound ungracious but her heart had begun to beat uncomfortably fast at the sight of Brandon standing on the step.

  ‘I heard from one of the men that Heath was sick,’ he replied. ‘I’ve come to see if there’s anything I can do.’

  Mary stood behind a chair, her hands gripping the wooden back so tightly that her knuckles showed white. ‘Heath’s bad,’ she said despairingly, ‘there’s a fever inside him and it’s burning him up.’

  She hoped he would not touch her, for she would make a fool of herself by bursting into tears at any sign of softness.

  ‘I guess it’s all right if I see him?’ Brandon asked and Mary nodded dumbly towards the stairs.

  She waited in the kitchen, half afraid of what Brandon might say and yet filled with relief that there was someone she could rely on to give her guidance. She sat down and clenched her hands in her lap and waited stoically for him to return. When he did, his face was grave.

  ‘You must send for the doctor.’ He spoke decisively. ‘I realise there’s some expense involved, but if I may be allowed to help?’

  Mary shook her head. ‘It’s not the money.’ She spoke through stiff lips. ‘I have enough to pay Dr Thomas, but I just didn’t know what to do for the best.’

  Brandon shook his head. ‘I shouldn’t worry too much.’ He stood near Mary but without touching her. ‘Fevers usually seem worse during the night.’ She longed to lean against his broad shoulder, to find comfort in his strength.

  ‘I’ll fetch Bryn Thomas, I won’t be long.’ He paused, waiting for her to speak and after a moment she nodded.

  ‘Yes, thank you.’ She went slowly up the stairs and sat beside Heath, leaning over him and watching him intently as if she could banish the sickness from him by sheer strength of will.

  The doctor’s examination of Heath was thorough and after a time, he stood back sighing softly. ‘Keep him cool, Mary, sponge him with cold water at least once an hour. Open all the windows and persuade your brother to drink plenty of boiled water.’ He took a small packet from his pocket and smiled ruefully. ‘Here’s something else you might try.’ He gave her the pouch and it lay lightly in the palm of her hand. ‘It is an old remedy for the fever,’ Dr Thomas continued.

  Mary peered into the linen bag and saw what looked like dried yellow flowers. ‘What is it?’ she asked and the doctor smiled.

  ‘It’s a herb called bugloss and I want you to make a cordial of it, do you understand?’ He paused. ‘It’s said that it protects the heart and takes away the heat of fevers.’ He smiled somewhat wryly. ‘I’ve found it very useful, but then I’m old-fashioned. In any event, try it, my dear; it certainly won’t do any harm and it might do some good.’

  He moved to the top of the stairs. ‘I’ll call again tomorrow, Mary. Now take care of yourself, it won’t help matters if you become overtired.’

  Brandon did not leave with the doctor as Mary expected. Instead, he filled a bowl with water and carried it up the stairs to the bedroom.

  ‘I’ll sponge Heath down while you make up that potion.’ He gave her a quick look. ‘I guess I could use a little refreshment, so could you by the look of it.’

  ‘There’s only lime water or tea,’ she said apologetically.

  He smiled at her and she trembled. ‘Lime water sounds fine and dandy,’ he said.

  The night hours passed as slowly as if every minute was an hour, made bearable only by the presence of Brandon Sutton. He and Mary took it in turns to watch over Heath as he moved restlessly between the sheets, battling for every breath.

  Even when Mary sank on to her bed and tried to rest, she was conscious of Heath lying near to exhaustion in the next room and of Brandon caring for him as though he was his brother.

  She heard the church bell strike every hour and at five o’clock when the grey of dawn was streaking the sky, she rose and pulled a shawl around her shoulders, ready to take her place at her brother’s side once more. As she opened the door, Brandon was standing over Heath, a glass of water in his hand. He stared at Mary in the dim light and beckoned her forward.

  ‘Look!’ His voice was filled with elation. ‘The crisis has passed, Heath is sleeping peacefully.’

  Mary felt her throat thicken with tears. She knelt beside Heath and touched his face with her fingers; his skin was cool and dry. ‘We’ve done it,’ she said in wonder. ‘Between us, we’ve done it!’

  She was warm with relief and gratitude and almost unthinkingly she made a move forward. Then she was in Brandon’s arms and he was holding her close. She wept silently, her tears falling against the crisp cotton of his shirt.

  ‘Come, you can sleep now.’ He led her into the adjoining bedroom and with his arm still around her shoulders, stared down at her in the dim morning light. Neither of them spoke, but Mary felt as though a spring of tension had been released within her. Slowly, Brandon lifted her chin and then his mouth was on hers and she clung to him, feeling the silkiness of his hair under her fingers as they locked around his neck. ‘It’s all right now,’ he whispered, ‘everything is going to be just fine.’

  His arms held her closer, his body was hard and firm against hers and Mary was suddenly plunging into an abyss of emotion where there was nothing but joy and desire. She felt his hand linger on her breast and like a wanton she was pressing against him. His tongue was probing hers and she shuddered with longing, wanting the bliss to go on and never cease. She might have lain upon the bed and let him take her, except that Heath moaned softly in the other room and the spell was broken.

  She drew herself sharply away from Brandon and stared at him with anguished eyes.

  ‘It would be better if you went now,’ she said raggedly ‘But thank you.’

  Without a word, he picked up his jacket and left the room and as she heard his footsteps hurrying away down the stairs she felt as though he was taking part of her with him.

  Chapter Ten

  The summer sun was warm, patterning the cobbled roadway, shimmering on the water of the canal so that it shone molten gold. The soft breezes that drifted over Sweyn’s Eye were fragrant with the scent of honeysuckle growing wild in the hedges.

  Mary sat in the window seat, staring out through the lace curtains but seeing nothing except the words on the piece of paper that had fallen to the floor. She bit her lips, her mind searching for a way out of her dilemma, but there seemed to be no solution. Delmai Richardson was asking for the rent arrears to be paid in full and Mary simply did not have the money. Too proud to allow Brandon Sutton to help, she had paid the doctor herself.

  But at least Heath had improved a hundredfold. He was looking well and strong now, with a good colour to his cheeks and the strength returning to his slender young frame. He had grown like a weed in the two weeks he had been in his bed, and his hair had become long and curly so that he had the look of a bard about him. Mary’s face softened in to a smile – a bard indeed, her brother a poet. This was certainly not likely, he was too much a man of action for that.

  She rose restlessly to her feet. Heath had left the house early, before she was out of bed, and she saw with misgivings that his working clothes were missing. She knew deep in her bones that he had returned to the mill because of the letter lying discarded on the floor. He had read it yesterday when a young maid from the Richardson household had delivered it and his frown told Mary that he was as worried as she. But she had not wanted him to go back to the gruelling work and the blistering heat of the tinplate – not yet, not ever if the truth be told.

  She sighed and rose to her feet, since there was bread to be baked and potatoes to be scrubbed and nothing at all would be accomplished by sitting around dreaming the hours away.

  Mary pushed the dreadful empty feeling of panic to one side. She still had no job and the town seemed full to bursting with folks
looking for work. But she must not despair, she told herself, nor did it do any good to brood on the problem of the arrears. Yet the spectre of the hovel in which she had been brought up had never ceased to haunt her. Again she felt the weight of the coarse blankets against her limbs, recoiled from the bite of vermin that clung to the weave of the bedding, heard the scurry of rats in the corners of the dark foetid room where her father lay sick and dying and his wife sucking on her bottle of gin, stretched out next to him. But she would never live like that again, Mary vowed; she would do anything rather than return to such squalor.

  She threw all her energies into her household chores, kneading the dough with vigour as though the physical effort could ease her worries, but the possibility of losing the home was like a weight inside her.

  When Heath returned home, his face was shadowed with fatigue and the healthy colour had fled, leaving his cheeks drawn and pale. He threw down his grub-sack and sank into a chair sighing heavily.

  As Mary poured him a cup of fragrant tea and pushed it towards him, he smiled and her heart went out to him.

  ‘I’ll have good wages this week, Mary,’ he said proudly. ‘We had some fine heats today, not many rejects in the tinplate.’ He sipped the tea. ‘You can pay off some of the rent then, and ask Mrs Richardson can you catch up with the rest when you’ve got a job of your own again.’ He lay back and closed his eyes, appearing very young and vulnerable yet with the beginnings of a moustache above his firm mouth.

  Suddenly the future didn’t seem so bleak and Mary smiled, ‘You’re right enough, boyo.’ She rested her hand on his shoulder. ‘There’s daft I am to sit here worrying when I should be out searching the town for something to do. The Canal Street Laundry isn’t the only place to work, is it? There’s always the tin, in the last resort.’