The Poor Relation

by Susanna Bavin

  And what was Miss Rawley’s opinion? That sly look on her face when she mentioned the force-feeding showed she knew exactly what she was saying. Had Sir Edward told her of Mary’s experience? Maybe she had seen it in the newspaper.

  Thank goodness for Mrs Burley and Edith, who were kindness itself. When Mary laughingly admitted to her craving for wine gums, dear Mrs Burley added them to the housekeeping list. She and Edith never asked prying questions, simply drawing her into their natter. She treasured these interludes, but were they enough to make Jackson’s House bearable?

  Miss Rawley detested her, that was clear. At first she had been taken aback by the hostility, then she had tried to let it wash over her. What did an old lady’s carping matter? But it did, especially when she was feeling ropey, like today.

  ‘You all right, love?’ Mrs Burley laid a meaty hand on her arm.

  ‘I feel a trifle odd. Nothing to worry about.’

  She had been feeling off-colour since she woke up. It was part of her condition, nothing more. It was the strangest feeling, having something growing inside her. She touched her bulge. Lilian was right: she had filled out, as if coming here had given her body permission to display.

  That night she helped Miss Rawley to retire as usual, marvelling at the old lady’s exquisite undergarments, though ever since a tentative compliment had earned her a sharp put-down, she had concealed her admiration beneath lowered eyelids.

  She was more than ready for her own bed, but when she undressed, she turned cold at finding spots of blood staining her underwear. Pulling her nightgown over her head, she jumped into bed. She lay on her side, drawing her knees up, trying to calm herself, but sleep proved elusive.

  She rose early, her throat clogging as she checked her nightdress. Sure enough, there were the stains she had dreaded finding. She dressed and went to assist Miss Rawley, then she went downstairs to Mrs Burley, clutching her nightgown.

  Mrs Burley took one look. ‘Back to bed with you.’

  Next thing she knew, Doctor Brewer appeared. She didn’t want him near her, didn’t want him taking her pulse or asking intimate questions. His fingers were gentle on her wrist, but his was the hand of a force-feeder.

  ‘I hear you’re spotting. You must stay put until this scare is over.’

  ‘If I’m to have bed rest, might I go home?’

  Just until this scare was behind her. But after that … She imagined a little place of her own and her heart gave a leap of pleasure. But what about her allowance? Some of it was paid to Miss Rawley for her bed and board. Would Sir Edward pay her the full amount if she left here? Or would he stop paying altogether to make her come back?

  ‘You’re not going anywhere for a couple of days,’ said Nathaniel, ‘but after that you may.’ He put his stethoscope in his black bag. ‘Let your mother take care of you.’

  ‘And my baby is safe? Good. That’s all that matters.’

  ‘Would you like me to inform the Kimbers?’

  A whoop of shock made her insides stand to attention. ‘It’s nothing to do with them.’

  ‘If you say so.’

  She wavered. ‘If there’s nothing seriously wrong, they don’t need to know.’ Would they wish it was serious? ‘Anyway, Charlie isn’t here to be told. He’s away on a tour of Europe.’

  ‘I wouldn’t go off gadding if I had a child on the way. I’d be at my wife’s side.’

  ‘I’m not his wife any more.’

  ‘I shouldn’t have said that. It’s just something I feel strongly about.’

  ‘Pressure was put on him and … here I am.’

  ‘Is that what he told you? That he was forced into it?’

  ‘We never discussed it.’

  He stared. ‘Your husband never talked to you about getting rid of you?’

  ‘It wasn’t like that.’

  ‘It sounds exactly like that. Being under pressure doesn’t mean you have to cave in. Either Charlie Kimber was pressed into separating from you, in which case he’s a poor excuse for a man, or he chose to throw you overboard but allowed you to believe it wasn’t his fault, in which he’s still a poor excuse for a man. Whichever it was, you deserve better.’

  The unexpected support pierced the layer of self-protection she had wound around herself. Warmth gushed through her, so sweet it hurt. But she mustn’t be vulnerable. And certainly not in front of this man.

  Force-feeder.

  ‘What do you mean, she’s going home?’ Helen glared at Doctor Brewer. What had he organised behind her back? They thought they were God’s gift, these doctors. ‘She has duties.’

  ‘Whatever happens, you can forget her duties for the next few days.’

  She wouldn’t have to go back to being fussed over by Edith, would she? Mary’s help was infinitely more palatable, compassionate but not soppy, efficient but never cold. But Helen had alienated her. Belatedly, she realised she liked her young companion, admired her spirit. Was it too late to rectify matters?

  For the next couple of days, she submitted to Edith’s ministrations. She saw Mary once a day, a stiffly polite visit. She didn’t want to be stiff and polite, but after the way she had treated the girl, she didn’t know how else to be. Then she was ashamed of herself: she had paid Greg more attention when he was incapacitated.

  The day Mary got up, Helen went to the kitchen, in need of company. To her surprise, she found Mary drinking tea with Mrs Burley and Edith. The three of them looked up, startled.

  Mary stood. ‘I was saying goodbye.’ She left the kitchen.

  Helen asked stiffly, ‘Is there more in the pot?’

  ‘No, but I can brew a fresh one,’ Mrs Burley offered.

  ‘It doesn’t take a whole pot of tea to say goodbye. Am I right in assuming Mrs Kimber is a regular visitor to your kitchen?’

  Mrs Burley met her eye squarely. ‘Mrs Mary often pops in.’

  ‘We like to see her,’ Edith added stoutly.

  ‘She’s a good lass. There’s no side to her.’

  ‘Well,’ said Helen. Her servants clearly thought the world of Mary while she, stupid old wretch that she was, had been busy resenting her for not being Eleanor.

  Feeling for the sliver of wood holding the window open, Greg raised the sash. Just like last time. Picking up the canister, he leant into the study, placing it on a cupboard before hoisting himself inside. He shut the window and stood listening in the darkness. Just like last time.

  Just like bloody last time. This was why he had been obliged to stay here overnight after Helen snapped her wrist instead of her neck. He had had to doctor the window again. Now here he was – again – and this time Helen’s death was going to be a lot more agonising.

  He cracked open the study door and moved to the stairs, pausing at the top before approaching Helen’s door. There was no light underneath. Grasping the knob, he turned it smoothly, opening the door a fraction. He could hear her breathing. He slid inside and pushed the door to.

  He stood there a while. He was good at waiting. You had to be if you wanted to be any good at cards. When he was sure he hadn’t disturbed her sleep, he set down the canister and removed the torch from his pocket, checking that the film of fabric was in place to dull the beam before he switched it on, noting how the furniture was positioned.

  He unscrewed the lid of the canister, releasing a whiff of paraffin. Taking exquisite care, he moved about the room, stopping here and there to let oil trickle out. Three ha’pence a pint resulting in a sizeable inheritance wasn’t a bad investment. Helen shifted and mumbled and he stood like a statue, waiting for her to settle before he resumed his task. When the canister was empty, he lifted the lamp from Helen’s bedside and laid it on the floor. Let it take the blame.

  He withdrew to the door. As he opened it, his wrist brushed the key. Yes? No? Yes: he slid it from the lock before striking a match and dropping it. Stepping backwards onto the landing, he turned the key and pocketed it.

  Mary’s mind was crammed full. She couldn’t stop thinking
about the baby, trying to imagine handing over a son. Would she be allowed to see him? Would he grow up believing the social climber story? What if it was a girl? Would her allowance be expected to provide for them both?

  She threw aside the bedclothes. A warm drink might soothe her into sleep. Pulling her dressing gown around her, she tied the cord above her bump, slid her feet into her slippers and padded from her room. Could she smell something? She started down the stairs. The smell was still there. Smoke!

  She scuttled down a few more stairs before realising the smell was getting fainter. As she turned back, there was the loud crack of glass exploding. She gasped. She hurtled upstairs, tripping and barking her shin.

  ‘Fire! Fire!’

  Her voice wasn’t anything like loud enough. Making a split-second decision, she raced up the attic stairs, barging through the first door she came to.

  ‘Get up! Get up!’ She tried to pull Mrs Burley from the bed.

  ‘What is it? What’s happening?’

  ‘Fire! Wake Edith and get out. I’ll fetch Miss Rawley.’

  She darted out again, heading for Miss Rawley’s room. The smell was getting stronger. Had she made a terrible mistake by going to the attic first? She grabbed the door, but it wouldn’t open. She shoved hard, then banged her fist on it.

  ‘Miss Rawley! Miss Rawley!’

  Drat the woman, she had locked herself in for the night. There were spare keys in the kitchen. As she hurried downstairs, Mrs Burley and Edith were ahead of her. They rushed for the front door as she ran to the kitchen and then back to Miss Rawley’s room. With a shaking hand, she thrust the key into the lock, knowing she must push Miss Rawley’s key out the other side. To her surprise, the spare slid in.

  She threw open the door – and faced a stinking wall of heat, smoke and flame. Her heart went cold with panic. Gulping a breath, she plunged in and floundered across the room, eyes streaming, lungs bursting. Crashing into the foot of the bed, she threw out her hands, scrabbling to find Miss Rawley’s prone figure. The old lady wasn’t moving. Mary felt her way up her body, shaking her.

  As she reached Miss Rawley’s shoulders, there was an explosion inside her chest and she gasped in a mouthful of rancid air, coughing it up again immediately. Her head was buzzing, her chest tight and getting tighter, her throat red-raw, the backs of her eyes at melting point. She yanked the bedclothes aside and heaved Miss Rawley’s arm. The old lady flopped to the floor.

  Mary’s anguished sob turned into a choking fit. Bending, she grasped Miss Rawley beneath her scrawny armpits and staggered backwards towards the door, her feet scrabbling for purchase. Her flesh felt as though it was peeling off in the heat. Her eyes were clogged with smoke.

  At last she bumped into something – a piece of furniture. Not daring to let go of Miss Rawley, she felt behind with one foot, trying to make sense of where she was. She kicked and the thing behind her moved – the door! Choking, head spinning, she made one final effort and heaved her burden onto the landing.

  Coughing her guts up, she felt her body trying to crumple, but she mustn’t stop, not yet. Lugging Miss Rawley further, she let go of her and stumbled round her prostrate form, heat searing her flesh as she pulled the door shut.

  She had the oddest feeling she was still dragging Miss Rawley, because there was a dull pulling sensation deep in her abdomen. A sticky warmth appeared between her legs. Sick and dizzy, beyond making even the smallest effort, she felt her body fold as the floor came up to meet her.

  Helen sighed as she woke, eyelids fluttering. She started to swallow, then halted on a gasp. Her gullet was like sandpaper. Her eyes flew open. She was sore all over. Her wrist was throbbing, as if the fracture had only just happened.

  ‘There, there, madam dear,’ came Mrs Burley’s voice.

  Her eyes smarted. The inside of her mouth was raw, coated with a nasty taste. When she tried to speak, a gurgle rasped against her throat.

  ‘Hush,’ said Mrs Burley. ‘You’re safe now. I’ll fetch Doctor Brewer.’

  Helen lifted her good hand to stop her, but she was as weak as a kitten.

  ‘I won’t leave you. I’ll just go to the door and call.’

  She was in a strange bedroom, a plain room with whitewashed walls instead of wallpaper. What had happened?

  Mrs Burley called to someone, then returned.

  Helen managed to whisper, ‘Water …’

  She heard it being poured. Mrs Burley cupped a hand behind her head to raise it and a glass touched her mouth. Her lips were cracked, each crack a tiny line of exquisite pain. The water mingled with the horrid taste in her mouth, taking it down her throat.

  Doctor Brewer appeared. He looked tired, no jacket, sleeves rolled up. ‘When you’re up to it, you can berate me for tending you without a frock coat, but until you get your voice back, you’ll have to tolerate it.’ He smiled and something inside her melted. He smiled only when he meant it.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘A fire. Don’t worry. Everybody got out.’

  ‘Don’t … remember.’

  ‘That’s because you slept through it. Smoke inhalation. Mrs Kimber pulled you to safety. How do you feel? Headache? Groggy? Those will pass. Try to rest now.’

  ‘Want … to get up.’

  ‘Mrs Burley, sit on her if she moves.’ He patted her good hand and left.

  ‘Where …?’

  ‘Hardy Farm. While Mrs Mary was getting you out, Edith and I ran here for help. They brought buckets and we used water and earth, then someone had the idea of taking up a carpet to smother the flames. Then the fire brigade arrived. One of the farm lads went on his bicycle to find the bobby on the beat and he organised the fire engine.’

  And she had been unaware of any of it.

  The next day, she felt stronger, though no one would let her climb out of bed without Doctor Brewer’s say so.

  ‘Anyone would think you were King Solomon,’ she grumbled at him.

  ‘If that’s your inimitable way of politely asking to go home, yes, you may.’

  ‘Fetch some clothes,’ she ordered Edith.

  ‘Unnecessary,’ said Doctor Brewer. ‘You can have a dressing gown and, if you insist, a coat. You’ll be going straight to bed in Jackson’s House.’

  ‘You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?’

  ‘One of the perks of the job is bossing old ladies about.’

  Wobblier on her feet than she was prepared for, Helen hoped no one would notice. Edith fetched her dressing gown and Helen sent her back for a hat. Then she descended the stairs, offered heartfelt, if croaky, thanks to her hosts and tottered home, supported by Doctor Brewer’s arm.

  ‘What happened?’ She stared in dismay at the front hedge.

  ‘The firemen chopped down part of it to allow the engine through.’

  ‘My flower beds,’ she mourned.

  ‘I suppose we should be glad you care about something,’ Doctor Brewer said with asperity. ‘You’ve displayed more concern for your garden than you have for Mrs Kimber.’

  ‘You said everyone was safe.’

  ‘Mrs Kimber saved your life, and at considerable risk to her own. When you publicly shamed Barney Clough into doing the decent thing, you earned my gratitude and my friendship, but after witnessing your cavalier attitude to Mrs Kimber, I wonder what your friendship is worth.’

  Shame tingled in her cheeks. She had seen Mrs Burley and Edith with her own eyes, but she ought to have asked after Mary.

  She started to speak, but he cut her off.

  ‘Help Miss Rawley to bed, Edith.’

  He stalked away, displeasure radiating from the set of his shoulders.

  Edith opened the door and Helen recoiled. The house reeked. They went upstairs, the smell growing stronger. Helen turned towards her room.

  Edith protested. ‘You’re in the master bedroom. Your room …’

  ‘I want to see.’

  She opened the door. The stench rolled out to envelop her as she stared into the blackened r
oom, taking in the charred furniture, the dollops of earth and the mound of carpet. She looked at her precious flower album, made by her mother when she was a girl, lying on the chest at the foot of her bed, its singed pages warped and swollen by water.

  She clutched the door frame.

  ‘I had no idea. Mary – Mrs Kimber – is she all right?’

  ‘Yes, madam. Let’s get you to bed.’

  She submitted. Soon the door was pushed open and Doctor Brewer came in, carrying Mary in his arms. Edith pulled back the bedding and he set Mary down beside Helen, standing back to let Edith tuck her in.

  He eyed Helen. ‘I expect there are things you wish to say to Mrs Kimber. We’ll leave you to it.’ Allowing Edith to precede him from the room, he looked back. ‘You might start by asking why I insisted on carrying her here.’

  The door shut.

  ‘I assume he means you were injured.’ Helen was appalled by how cold she sounded. She didn’t mean to be cold. It was shame that held her rigid.

  ‘There was danger of losing the baby.’

  ‘It would have got you out of a difficult situation if you had.’

  ‘I’m sure the Kimbers will think so. My parents probably will too. I’m sorry everyone else finds my baby such an inconvenience, but I love it.’

  ‘Love it? It’s not even born.’

  ‘Not born, no, but it’s here, it’s real.’

  Helen retreated from the subject, frightened, as she sometimes was, by the distant yearning of childlessness. ‘I ought to thank you.’

  ‘Ought to?’

  ‘Want to. It didn’t hit me until I saw my bedroom. It was brave of you to enter a burning room. I’m deeply grateful.’

  ‘I didn’t think about it. I might not have been so brave if I had.’

  ‘Yes, you would. You’re that kind of person. You do what’s right. The way I’ve treated you has been shabby and utterly undeserved. The truth is, I wanted them to send Eleanor.’