‘I hope my article will be published by the Manchester Evening News, though I write for other publications as well.’
‘Spreading your favours.’
‘Earning a living. I understand you hope to become an alderman.’
‘I do what I can for the general benefit. Should the good citizens of our fair city see fit to reward me by … well, let’s just say I’d be deeply honoured. I’ve given my support to various projects.’ He described them while she took notes. ‘But the trouble with this clinic is that it looks less and less likely to open. The Means Test Office has pulled out, as has Projects for the Ignorant Poor, leaving me with egg on my face.’
She kept her expression blank. It was all too easy to imagine golden yolk oozing from the corners of those fleshy lips.
‘We can help one another,’ said Mr Clough. ‘I’ll grant you this interview and you can highlight my unfortunate position. People think philanthropy a straightforward matter, that you bestow your money and watch others benefit, but there’s the responsibility of choosing causes wisely, choosing viable projects.’
‘And this clinic is no longer viable? Why not withdraw your support?’
‘Would that it were so simple. I don’t want to appear unreliable or …’
‘Mean?’
‘Uncharitable. Doctor Brewer would make certain that was how I appeared. He told me as much in this very room.’
‘He didn’t!’
‘He did. Threatened to expose my lack of charity to the local committees. You may well look shocked. It shocked me deeply.’ A smile spread across his podgy face. ‘You could highlight the precarious position of the philanthropist who backs a project that turns out to be … unfortunate.’
This was exactly what she was looking for. The Perils of Philanthropy. Local Philanthropist Learns the Hard Way. But to give her article credibility, she must see the clinic for herself so she could describe its problems first-hand.
Charlie attended the next meeting. Mary tried to keep out of his way, but she couldn’t help noticing how genial he was. He was happy to talk and join in, but he could listen too. She found him affable and easy to like – too easy. The poor relation should keep her distance.
But Charlie seemed determined to acknowledge her. She snatched a quiet moment to remind him of their relative positions, but he shrugged.
‘I know your family is invited to Ees House every summer, so you can’t claim there’s no social connection.’
‘Once a year, for form’s sake, by the kindness of Sir Edward.’
‘He’s a decent old stick, Uncle Edward.’
‘That says it all. To you, he is “Uncle” while to me, he’s “Sir Edward”.’
‘That doesn’t mean we can’t be friends.’
‘I think you’ll find it does.’
But she felt a pang. She liked him. He had a way of paying attention to you that made you feel you were the most important person in the room.
At the end of the meeting, he said, ‘I’ll walk you home.’
‘It wouldn’t be appropriate. What would Sir Edward say?’
‘Uncle Edward is above all else a gentleman. He’d expect me to show courtesy to the daughter of the cousin he holds in high regard.’
Warmth radiated through her. ‘He holds Dadda in high regard?’
‘Made a point of telling me so.’
After that, it felt churlish to hold out, but the moment they left the building, she regretted it and insisted they part at the corner of her road. What if they were seen? What would the neighbours think? What would her parents think?
Rhetorical questions: she knew precisely what everyone would think.
Nathaniel opened the clinic door for the lady journalist. She started to step inside, then jumped back as the floor poured away with a clicking, scuttling sound and dissolved into the scabby, peeling walls.
She turned on him, flushed with indignation. ‘You knew that would happen.’ She had caught at the rotten door frame to steady herself; he saw the moment when she realised the woodwork, like the walls, must be widely inhabited and snatched her hand away. ‘You should have told me,’ she accused.
‘Didn’t you tell Doctor Cottrell you wanted to experience the place for yourself? Well, now you’ve experienced the cockroaches. Consider yourself fortunate: we’ve already had the rat man in.’ He motioned with his hand. ‘After you – or would you prefer me to go first?’
‘I’m not scared of a few creepy-crawlies.’
He followed her in. He had raised his eyebrows at the idea of a lady journalist when Alistair told him about her. He was surprised by how young she was – early twenties – but then, girls these days … girls these days, indeed! When had he started thinking like an old fogey? It must be Evie’s influence. Poor girl. The forcible feeding had knocked her for six. He hadn’t known her crowd was using hunger-strikes as a strategy or he would have gone to London and hauled her home, even if he had to chloroform her.
Had she learnt her lesson? Poor brat, she hadn’t had it easy since arriving. As if her swollen face and missing teeth weren’t bad enough, he had seen how gingerly she moved. Then, to cap it all, she had gone down with a severe gastric complaint and there was nothing he could prescribe to prevent the violent bouts of vomiting.
Imogen was looking after her as competently as she did everything. She was a good little woman. He couldn’t imagine anyone calling Evie that – or this lady journalist either. What was her name? Maitland. She was a pretty girl. How come she hadn’t found someone to marry her? He caught the dismay in her face as she took in the dingy corridor with its walls sopping wet in places and the telltale scrabbling behind the wainscot. He saw too that convulsive little movement of her throat as the rotten-egg stench of decay streamed into her nose and mouth.
‘You’ll be tasting that smell for hours,’ he warned her.
‘This place is squalid.’
‘It is now, but come back when the work is done and see the difference. Those rooms on the left will be waiting rooms, one for shawlies, one for hat-women; and this will be the office.’ He opened a door on the right. ‘Picture it. Desks and chairs, cupboards, a noticeboard, a hatch in the wall where people announce themselves.’
Miss Maitland stepped inside. ‘Your imagination is conveniently skating over the work that needs doing.’
‘I want you to see the place through my eyes.’
‘How realistic is that view, Doctor Brewer?’
‘What’s unrealistic about having office furniture?’
‘I refer to the repairs and refurbishment the building requires.’
‘If you listen, you’ll hear the workmen upstairs.’
‘Who is to pay them?’
‘Mr Clough, who owns the property, generously offered to have it made good.’
‘But other supporters have dropped out, haven’t they? The Means Test Department and Projects for the Ignorant Poor?’
‘You’re well informed, Miss Maitland.’
‘A writer needs to be.’
‘I didn’t know the Manchester Evening News was aware those organisations had parted company with us.’
‘Oh – well …’
He gave her a hard look. ‘You are from the Evening News – aren’t you?’
Dear heaven, she had been rumbled. What an idiot she had been to imagine she could get away with it. Mary forced herself to look Doctor Brewer in the eye. His serious features hardened into unswerving sternness.
‘I never claimed to be from the paper. I simply said I hoped they would publish my article.’
‘And when Doctor Cottrell misunderstood, you failed to correct him.’
‘I have previously been published in the Evening News.’
‘That’s all right, then,’ he answered drily. ‘That cancels out the lie.’
‘I didn’t lie—’
‘A lie of omission. Come, Miss Maitland, you knew exactly what you were doing. Don’t deny it.’
‘I wasn’t about to.�
� Did he have to twist the knife? ‘Yes, I misled Doctor Cottrell, but it was with the best intentions.’ She stopped. The best intentions as far as her article was concerned, but Doctor Brewer wouldn’t think so when she denounced him for being foolhardy with his patron’s money. ‘Thinking I was from the paper, Doctor Cottrell was happy for me to come here.’
‘That’s all right, then.’
‘Is that your only put-down?’ she retorted. ‘You’ll find sarcasm more effective if you use a variety of ways to express it.’
‘You’re doing yourself no favours by being rude.’
‘So when you say it, it’s sarcastic and no doubt witty, but when I say it, it’s rude.’
She saw his eyes flicker. He wasn’t used to people answering back. He said, ‘Perhaps it’s best if I show you out.’
That brought her to her senses. ‘No, wait – please. I’m a good writer; and to be frank, my family needs the money. My father had an accident and he’s off work.’
Doctor Brewer regarded her. She returned his gaze earnestly, but it was impossible to tell what he was thinking.
‘Let’s start afresh, shall we?’ he suggested.
‘As long as it doesn’t involve a repeat performance by the cockroaches,’ she dared to joke and, to her relief, he responded in kind.
‘You inveigled your way in and I caught you out with the wildlife, so we’re quits. Feel free to ask questions as we go round.’
She took out her pencil, opened her notebook and stuffed her gloves in her pockets: so much easier to write without them. She scribbled:
rat man
c’roaches – floor got up & ran away (a good line: she must use it)
hat-wm & shawlies
As Doctor Brewer showed her round, he described the work the clinic would do.
‘Doctor Cottrell and I will work some hours for no remuneration and we hope to encourage other colleagues to donate time too. Nursing staff will be employed, as will someone in the office.’
This was her moment. ‘So there’ll be paid staff. Who will pay them?’
‘They’ll be employed by the clinic.’
‘Who will foot the bill?’
‘Originally, PIP was going to.’
‘But now they’ve dropped out because they don’t regard the clinic as viable.’
‘No, they dropped out because the means test people have reservations.’
‘So the Means Test Office doesn’t regard it as viable?’
‘No, they stuck their noses in because we’re going to offer medical treatment at a reduced rate.’
‘So you think you know better than the established system?’
‘In this case, yes.’
‘Who will subsidise your generosity? Who will pay the nurses’ wages? And why do you persist in having work done on this building when these questions have yet to be answered?’
‘Who says they’ve yet to be answered?’
‘I do, since you avoid answering them. No one can deny your good intentions—’
‘Gracious of you.’
‘—but you can’t say where the money’s coming from. Aren’t you taking advantage of Mr Clough by steamrollering on with the building work when there’ll be no money to fund your altruistic but, let’s face it, wild ideas?’
‘Wild ideas?’ His eyes glinted, hazel deepening to amber.
All right, she had gone too far, but this wasn’t the moment to admit it, not when she had him cornered.
‘I should have shown you the door when I realised you’d tricked your way in.’
‘Avoiding the question again.’
‘Two things, Miss Maitland. First, you’d get more information if you adopted a less forceful manner, and second, I have questions of my own. How do you know about our difference of opinion with the Means Test Office? How do you know PIP pulled out? These things aren’t generally known, and I don’t imagine you’re in Lady Kimber’s confidence.’
A chill streamed through her. ‘Lady Kimber?’
‘Barney Clough sent you, didn’t he? As a matter of courtesy, we told him what happened and now he has despatched his tame would-be journalist to visit the clinic as a preliminary to writing a damning piece about this project to prove – to quote you, and I imagine you’re quoting him – “it isn’t viable”.’
Heat tingled up the back of her neck and across her face.
‘Turn left onto that corridor, Miss Maitland, and you’ll see the front door. Close it behind you.’
When Nathaniel pronounced Evie recovered, she immediately retorted, ‘Thank you, O mighty medical man, but I could have worked that out for myself, since I haven’t thrown up since yesterday.’ After a moment, she added, ‘I’m sorry. I don’t mean to sound ungrateful. Imogen’s an angel.’
He was pleased to have Imogen acknowledged. ‘You can get up today, but don’t get dressed.’
She didn’t argue, which told him how fatigued she was, and no wonder. She hadn’t had time to recover from the forcible feeding before succumbing to this bout of sickness. Her bruises had cleared up and the swelling had subsided, returning her face to normal – no, that wasn’t right. Her face had hollowed, as if the swelling had reduced but then continued deflating.
Telling Imogen that Evie could come downstairs, he started giving instructions about suitable foods until he caught her patient smile.
‘I know what to do,’ she said mildly.
‘Of course you do. She’s in good hands. I’ve a busy few days ahead.’
‘You always have a busy few days ahead.’
That was true. He had never been one for idleness. As well as his regular rounds and surgeries, he must devote more time to the clinic. The infestation of bugs had been seen to and the repairs and renovations were almost done. Now the walls needed plastering and whitewashing, and the gas supply needed reconnecting, as well as a hundred and one fiddly jobs like putting up shelves, oiling hinges and scouring the place from top to bottom and back again. Some jobs, such as fitting locks and sweeping the chimneys, needed specialist tradesmen, but others could be tackled by the unskilled and his idea was to offer work, supervised by an experienced foreman, to local men.
‘Then the clinic will feel like it’s theirs,’ he had said at a meeting at the colonel’s house, ‘and I hope they’ll be happy for their wives to attend our classes.’
He felt cheerful as he went about his business, but the smile dropped off his face when he arrived home to find a postcard from Barney Clough, requesting him to come to his house tomorrow evening to discuss an important matter.
He called on Alistair, who had received a similar summons.
‘Surely he can’t intend to threaten us with the ill-informed scribblings of that would-be reporter if we don’t let him pull out?’ said Nathaniel.
‘I wish we could let him pull out,’ said Alistair, ‘preferably helped on his way by a kick in the pants.’
When they arrived at Clough’s house, another man was present whom Clough introduced as his legal man, Mr Saunders.
‘Pleased to meet you, Doctors,’ said Saunders. ‘Mr Clough has placed this matter in my hands. I have here papers that require you to have Mr Clough’s property finished and ready for use as a clinic by five o’clock on Saturday. Failure to do so will engender Mr Clough’s full and final separation from all matters appertaining to your proposed clinic, and any and all agreements previously made appertaining to the use of his property as the premises for said clinic will be nullified.’
Nathaniel glared at Clough. ‘You can’t do that. I was here in this room when you assured Judge Rawley—’
‘Ah yes, the late Judge Rawley,’ Saunders cut in. ‘I wouldn’t attempt to go down that avenue, gentlemen. There is a case to be made that my client made the agreement with the late judge and not with yourselves. Of course, that would be for a court to decide and, for the duration of the proceedings, all works and other matters appertaining to the property in question would cease.’
Nathaniel felt the angry
thump of his heart. ‘We can’t get the work finished that quickly and you know it.’
‘Mr Clough knows no such thing,’ Saunders replied. ‘Given that he is generously footing the bill for all works, it is reasonable that he should specify a cut-off date. Of course, if you wish to state here and now your inability to have the work completed, we can bring matters to an immediate conclusion.’
‘Certainly not,’ said Alistair. He turned to Clough. ‘I appeal to you—’
Saunders interrupted. ‘All communication should be directed through me.’
‘Very well. Mr Clough has made it clear he wishes to abandon the commitment he made—’
‘Come, sir, “abandon” is a strong word.’
‘Feel free to substitute a suitably bland one. Mr Clough is in too deep. If he withdraws now, it’ll set the project back months.’
‘It’ll set it back to the beginning,’ said Nathaniel. It was a bleak prospect, not least because Clough’s self-seeking generosity had provided larger premises than they had been looking for and their plans had expanded accordingly. It would hurt to scale things back.
‘Since you’ve admitted you can’t have the building finished and ready by the fixed date,’ said Saunders, ‘should I take it that you wish to bring the project to a close?’
‘No!’
They walked home rather than catching an omnibus, as they needed to talk. They hadn’t even got time to feel shocked.
Leaving Alistair at his gate, Nathaniel marched home, his mind whirling with lists and plans.
As soon as he walked in, Imogen appeared on the stairs.
‘It’s Evie.’
He ran upstairs. Evie was in bed, white-faced, her breathing shallow and rapid. How had this happened so quickly?
‘Hurts,’ she whispered, ‘when I … breathe in.’
He felt her forehead. She was burning.
‘Fetch my bag,’ he told Imogen.
He took Evie’s temperature and listened to her chest, having to break off while she coughed and gasped. Catching Imogen’s eye, he indicated with a tilt of his chin that she should accompany him onto the landing.
The Poor Relation Page 9