House of Orphans

by Helen Dunmore

  ‘Oh yes, Thomas Eklund, such an old friend of the family. We try to keep an eye on him. Men are no good at living alone.’

  Karl was, of course, perfectly indifferent to Thomas, as he was to almost everyone. Sometimes she’d wondered if there was something wrong with Karl; really wrong, not just unpleasant. Could anyone really have as little feeling as Karl, and still be human? He loved his wood, that had to be said. That way he had of caressing a fine piece of olive wood with his thumb, before he began to carve. He was always fondling his carvings. Even when they were finished, he couldn’t leave them alone. He would wander to the shelves, as if he didn’t know what he was doing, and take down one piece, and then another.

  Johanna is dead. The words still sounded strange and untrue. Johanna was her friend, in the way that women can sometimes be friends without any great affection. Lotta had helped as much as she could, during Johanna’s illness. For long hours she’d lain awake at night, questioning her conscience, asking if it were honest, this care of Johanna as her flesh failed. Could Lotta be sure of her own motives? Did she secretly relish Johanna’s weakness, when Johanna had always been so firmly in control of her own household, her husband, her child?

  But it had been honest. Lotta was sure of that now. If Johanna had changed, so had she. She and Minna together had helped Johanna to sit, to drink, to raise herself up in awkward agony so the bedpan could be slid beneath her. Thomas had procured an excellent nurse, of course, but Johanna took against her in the last few days. Johanna had always been so rational, but she whispered fiercely to Minna, ‘Don’t leave me alone with her. Promise you won’t leave me alone with her.’

  They never had. She had held Johanna’s wasted hand, and Johanna had not drawn it away. She seemed to notice Thomas less than she noticed her daughter, or Lotta. He had sunk beneath the rim of her horizon, Lotta thought, as if Johanna were a boat, voyaging out.

  In those few days, she loved Johanna.

  Thomas. Thomas alone in that house, covering the rooms with sheets. He ought to move into town, thought Lotta again. Yes, the house in the forest is his family home, yes, he has always lived there. But it isn’t good. The girl he’s got – what’s her name, Eeva – how can she possibly run a house like that on her own?

  Eeva. Lotta knew her name perfectly well. Dr Eklund says he likes plain food. She was too independent. She would be unsettling everything. It didn’t work, these girls from the city coming to the country. If the idea was that country life would influence them for the better, it was a mistake. Girls like Eeva hold on to what they are. On this question and no other, Lotta was with the Jesuits. Give me a child until he is seven…

  What had happened to Eeva before she was seven, wondered Lotta, and dark thoughts floated in her mind. She tried to smother them in pity, but it wouldn’t work. She saw only a smaller Eeva, knowing and complicit. They bring the city wherever they go. And the political ideas that were racing around Helsingfors now were contagious. Once those ideas were brought to the country, they spread and dug deep roots into the clean soil. He’s got plenty of money. Imagine a child like that making such an impertinent observation.

  But she’s not a child. No. Thomas hasn’t noticed, but she’s beginning to look much older, now that she’s got some good food inside her. A young woman who liked her own way, that was Miss Eeva.

  But she couldn’t read. Really, one should feel sorry for her. Ignorant, uneducated: no wonder she expressed herself awkwardly. Mrs Eriksson’s here to do the washing-up.

  I’ll arrange a reading class, thought Lotta.

  The sensation of benevolence was familiar, and safe. But it couldn’t entirely damp down the unease of those hours in the kitchen with Eeva. Yes, Lotta was uneasy, it had to be admitted.

  She crossed to her glass. There she stood, tall and well kept. No matter how her back burned, she would stand upright. You could call her a fine figure of a woman now There was no trace of the clumsy, too-eager girl she’d been. They had buried that girl between them, her and Karl. So why, when she stood opposite Eeva at Thomas’s table, did she feel big-boned and awkward, out of place in the kitchen of her oldest, dearest friend?

  She should put Thomas on his guard. He wasn’t always very practical. It might be a good deed to take in a girl like Eeva, and give her a chance, but the girl would take advantage if he let her. He’s got plenty of money. It wasn’t just the words, but something hard and free in her tone which wasn’t suitable. You have to respect social realities, my dear Thomas, Lotta imagined herself saying. You are doing this girl no good, if you give her ideas. Everywhere, Lotta knew, the same spirit was rising. Restless, rebellious anger against the order of things. It comes from Russia, Lotta thought, like all extremes. We must look westward, to Sweden. To a properly ordered society which had yielded its empire without losing its character.

  Long ago, rebellion might have found its echo in her. But not now. She’d learned the hard way that things are as they are. People had their natures, which couldn’t be changed. Lotta the gardener had learned to bow to the sun, the wind, the rain, the late, piercing frost. She’d learned to yield. If she hadn’t had love, she’d had something else.

  We must adapt, thought Lotta. We must shape ourselves to reality, not expect reality to shape itself to us. Eeva’s face was clear in her mind. The dropped eyelids, the lips pressed together, the sudden rush of speech. That girl was angry. Perhaps she had a right to be. But an eye must be kept on her. A description from the newspapers popped into Lotta’s mind. Surely to goodness it couldn’t be applied to a girl like Eeva, an orphan with no education? But her mind said yes, in spite of her common sense. Troublemaker. Agitator, said her mind with newspaper certainty. Thomas has got a little agitator in his kitchen.

  8

  So why did she lie? Why did she tell Lotta she couldn’t read? The question troubled him even now, weeks after Lotta’s china-washing.

  It was spring now, real spring. The snow had washed away, the sour brown earth was prickling with fresh shoots. Everywhere water raced and gurgled, birds sang, mud oozed, sap rose. Every year the rush of spring grew more potent, more mysterious. When he was a child he’d taken it for granted. He’d pulled off his boots and squished mud through his bare toes, down by the stream.

  A lie is potent, Thomas thought. He had lied to Johanna, and the lie had acted upon the whole of his life, like a drug that the bloodstream carried to every part of the body. The power of a lie was so great. And he hadn’t known that. He’d lied hurriedly, guiltily, because it was the only thing he could think to do. He had never thought of himself as a man who would need to know what lies did to a life. He’d lied to Johanna, and betrayed Minna. It had taken less than twenty seconds, but the lie had spread like poison into the bloodstream of their three lives.

  Boiling water bubbled around his instruments. Thomas was meticulous about sterilization, and supervised it personally. He’d seen enough of instruments dunked in hot water, then wiped and used again. And by the time infection set in, the doctor had moved on and most patients would be too ignorant to guess the cause, or blame the doctor.

  Would Eeva lie to him, if he questioned her? I never learned to read. He could see her face as she sat reading in the kitchen, intent and absorbed. A student’s face, not a servant’s. He had been shocked at this other Eeva, this quite different person living unsuspected under his roof Under his roof, where the mice ran no matter how often the yard cat was sent up to catch them. Did she read up there, too, when she’d finished her long day?

  Maybe it was something in Lotta which had provoked the lie. Lotta was so upright, so sure of herself. Yes, there was something provoking about Lotta’s certainties. The girl didn’t want Lotta to know everything about her. She’d lied to conceal herself from Lotta, perhaps. And in a way he had a certain sympathy, a certain fellow-feeling for Eeva. Lotta was so sure. You’ll take a house in town. Of course you will. At least, Thomas, you have the comfort of knowing that you did everything you could for Johanna. No doctor,
no husband could have done more.

  I did more to Johanna than you know, Lotta. I conceal myself from you, too, though you are my oldest friend. I want you to think I am better than I am. Because I’m afraid.

  But it was senseless to lie about being able to read. If he asked her, and she lied to him, too, would he challenge her?

  The instruments were ready. He laid them on a clean white cloth to cool. Lies, he thought, yes, they’re an infection. You can die of them.

  ‘I’ll take you upstairs again, Dr Eklund,’ said the servant whose name he could not remember.

  He went back to the child’s bedroom. Henrik was propped up on pillows, while his mother sat beside him, holding his hands with the lavishness of emotion that was slowly crushing her child. He must get her out of the room.

  ‘All right, Henrik,’ he said, ‘what I’m going to do is prop your leg with these pillows, to keep it in a good position.’

  The bed linen was clean, the room immaculate.

  ‘Maybe I shouldn’t have called you, Dr Eklund,’ panicked the mother, sensing the moment was near. ‘In a few days it’ll get better on its own.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said Thomas. ‘This boil needs to be lanced. Henrik will feel better then.’

  The mother’s fear was getting into the child. He sat stiffly, tensing himself to be hurt. Poor child, he didn’t have much luck. Asthma, eczema, bronchitis, weeks in bed each winter, and now a crop of boils which were among the worst Thomas had seen on a child. Hot fomentations had done nothing. The worst was on the left leg, angry, red, refusing to burst and release its poison. Thomas feared that the poison would go inwards, to the child’s bloodstream.

  Henrik was heavy-eyed, with a coated tongue. He had little resistance, after the long winter.

  ‘Mrs Brenner, I’d like you to fetch your girl, please. I want her to hold Henrik’s leg steady. You don’t want your leg wobbling like a jelly, do you, Henrik? Or maybe you like jelly?’

  The child offered a pale smile. He was a good boy, in spite of the mother.

  ‘Oh no, no, I can’t leave Henrik! He needs me here, don’t you, sweetheart?’

  ‘No,’ said Thomas. ‘I have a job of work for you, Mrs Brenner. I want you to go downstairs and make up the drink on this prescription for Henrik, with your own hands.’

  He handed her the paper. ‘Two dessertspoonfuls of raspberry jam, the zest of two lemons, the juice of two lemons, a teaspoonful of pepper vodka…

  ‘Pepper vodka! For a child of his age?’

  ‘Yes. Pepper vodka, one teaspoonful. It’s restorative. Mix all the ingredients thoroughly, let them stand for five minutes and then add the same quantity of boiling water and bring it to me. But send the girl up, before you begin.’

  Would she leave? He watched her narrowly. She looked at the paper in her hand, then at Henrik, then at him. She didn’t trust him, not quite. But she stood up slowly.

  ‘I’ll be back as soon as ever I can, my darling. Mother has to make up a drink for you.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Thomas encouragingly. Henrik said nothing, but he made no move to hold her back.

  She was gone. He winked at Henrik. ‘Sounds terrible, doesn’t it? Lemon juice and vodka and raspberry jam… I bet you were getting worried there. But you’re not going to drink it. It’s to give your mother something to do while we get on with the job. You don’t need anyone to hold your leg. Keep still now for me. It’ll hurt, but not too much.’

  Swiftly, he wiped the angry skin with iodine. The child flinched and made a noise in his throat. Thomas reached for his scalpel, keeping his eyes fixed on the child’s face, then very quickly he bent over the leg, holding it firm with his left hand while with his right he brought up the scalpel.

  ‘Big breath, Henrik.’

  It was done. Pus spurted from the boil. He wiped again with clean cloths, gently massaging the flesh towards the boil so the pus would drain. Tears started down the child’s pale cheeks.

  ‘It’s all right, Henrik, you did very well. You’ve had worse than this to deal with, I know.’

  ‘I know,’ echoed Henrik, with an old-man resignation that affected Thomas where the tears had not. ‘I think I’m quite brave really.’

  ‘I think you are. I shall tell your mother so.’

  ‘One night,’ said Henrik, ‘when my chest was bad, I thought, Shall I go on breathing? And then I said to myself, Yes, Henrik, you’d better.’

  ‘That was good advice you gave yourself,’ said Thomas. ‘We’ll put a dressing on this leg now.’

  He looked up, and there was the girl staring roundly at him from the door.

  ‘Missus said I was to hold his leg.’

  ‘It’s all done. Take these dressings downstairs and burn them. No, wait a minute. Have you any cuts or scratches on your hands? Show me.’

  The girl spread out her broad hands. ‘That’s fine. Now, before you change these dressings on Henrik’s leg, you need to wash your hands in hot water, with soap. Scrub your nails and scrub your hands with a brush, rinse them and dry them with a clean towel. And do the same afterwards, every time. Don’t think, because I’m not here, that I shan’t know whether you’ve done it or not. I shall be able to tell. You’ll need to apply fomentations today and tomorrow, fresh ones every four hours when the dressing is changed. I’ll leave directions. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I’m to wash my hands and dry them. Will you tell missus? I only get my one piece of soap, and it’s to do for my clothes as well. If I waste it, I won’t get another.’

  ‘I’ll talk to Mrs Brenner. Don’t worry about that. Use plenty of soap.’

  And here was the mother, with the concoction of raspberry and pepper vodka held proudly before her. Her lower lip was caught between her teeth. He winked at Henrik again, and took the child’s wrist to take his pulse. Mrs Brenner waited respectfully, glass in hand, until he had finished counting.

  ‘Splendid pulse rate, Henrik. Do you know, Mrs Brenner, I believe he won’t need that drink, after all. It may even be a little too stimulating for him.’

  ‘What shall I do with it then, Doctor?’ she asked in open disappointment.

  ‘It looks perfect, you’ve followed my directions to the letter. But you might just… throw it away. As it turns out, the stimulation of the pepper vodka isn’t necessary. He’s a sensible boy, your Henrik. He’ll do very well.’

  Humbug, hocus-pocus, mumbo-jumbo, he told himself as he left the house. What had he come to? All those high ideas he’d once had of being in the vanguard of medical advance. And here he was, getting an overanxious mother to brew up a mess of raspberry jam and vodka while he lanced a boil. One of the hundred or so boils and carbuncles and whitlows he’d be dealing with over the next couple of months. Spring was the worst time. The body was at its lowest. A fine diet of ulcerated legs, suppurations, wounds that wouldn’t heal: that’s what he’d be living on. He thought of the curious expression of pride some patients wore, as they slowly unwrapped their home-made bandages to show him their weeping ulcers. He would treat them, and prescribe spring tonics, and listen to their stories of pain, and then it would be summer.

  Thomas walked faster. It was getting late and his back hurt. He felt old and tired. Here he was, forty-seven. The boundless energy he hadn’t even known he possessed, because he took it for granted, had suddenly dwindled. When it’s gone, then you know that you had it, he thought with grim amusement. Maybe that was true of more than health. ‘You’re looking tired today, Doctor. You must take care of yourself. We’re none of us getting any younger.’

  When you’re forty-seven, he thought, spring is difficult. All that uprush of sap and melting water and fresh growth. Maybe the joy of it would come back to him when he was truly old. He had seen old people, quite content, sitting on their doorsteps in the first warmth of May, doing nothing but turn up their faces to the light.

  ‘I’ll tell Matti to prepare the sauna tomorrow, he thought. Yes, that was what he needed. He coul
d almost smell the heat, the parched smell of wood and resin, the spurt of steam that made his eyes water. He could hear the sauna creak like a living thing. And he would sit there, blind with sweat, sweat trickling down his chest. He would go to the sauna and it would drive his thoughts out of him with his sweat. Let it bake to the very heart of him.

  He would go from the sauna to the stream, and wash in its icy meltwater. It wasn’t deep enough to bathe, but you could kneel in the current and splash the water over your head and shoulders. The cold took your breath away. The sauna was in among the birch trees, close to the stream and not visible from the house. Yes, he would do that. And then back to the steam, bathing in it to his heart’s content.

  Afterwards, back to the house in his dressing gown, put on clean clothes, every stitch clean, and sit at his desk with a glass of vodka and a cigarette. The delicious taste of that first cigarette after a sauna! Quite different from any other cigarette: almost spicy. He would draw in deeply and blow out supple coils of smoke. The only time he blew perfect smoke-rings was after a sauna. Then the vodka, with its faint oiliness and the fiery spread of it into every fibre of the flesh. Sauna and vodka, they do the same thing. They purify you.

  He’d been born in the sauna. Yes, his mother had followed the old custom. Her mother was Finnish, after all, even though she’d assimilated so well that many people took her for a Swede. She had her fine carved bed, her grand bedroom and a doctor from Åbo to attend her, but she’d been adamant. Her child would be born in the sauna, because it was healthier.

  She’d been perfectly right. By instinct or inheritance, she’d known what was now understood by most of the medical profession: that babies born in the sauna had a better chance of survival because it was clean, almost sterile, purified by years of intense heat. And their mothers had lower rates of puerperal infection. We knew that once, and then we managed to forget it, thought Thomas.