The Winter Rose

by Jennifer Donnelly

  During the last general election, in '95, the Independent Labour Party had failed to get even one of its candidates elected. A new Labour Party had come into being just this year, when the ILP combined with another political group, the Social Democratic Federation, and a handful of trade unions to form the Labour Representation Committee. Joe would be an untried candidate running under the banner of an untried party. The odds were totally against him, but he was determined to run anyway. He planned to make his status as a political outsider an asset instead of a liability. He would make it very clear that were he to be elected, it would not be busi-ness as usual. His would be a new voice in Parliament, one not bound by tradition or title, one who spoke solely for East London and its people.

  "Why should we trust you?" a man in a flat cap yelled out. "You're not a working man. You're running on the Labour ticket, but you're not Labour, you're Capital!"

  Joe smiled. "Too right I am!" he said. "I'm one of the richest men in the whole flipping country!" There was surprise at his answer, then delighted laughter at the honesty of it. "I'm rich enough that no one owns me and no one ever will," he continued. "But make no mistake, I didn't start out that way. I was selling apples on the streets in the wind and the rain when I was five years old. Costers had no union when I was coming up. We still don't. If I was ill or injured and couldn't work, I went hungry. I never forgot that. Never forgot what it's like to be on the outside looking in. I know what you're up against, the others don't. Do you think Lytton or Lambert ever went without a meal? Ever shivered because they hadn't the money for coal? I'm Capital, all right, but I'm Capital with a conscience."

  "That's a good one, that. He should put that on a banner," Mel said ap-provingly.

  Fiona shushed him. Another man was speaking.

  "Why should we vote Labour?" he asked. "Why should we vote at all? What's Parliament to us? The toffs in government don't give a toss about the working man. They never have. Any power we've won for ourselves, we've won through the unions."

  A cheer went up. Joe waited until it died down, then he said, "Yes, you've won power--through a great deal of courage and sacrifice, I might add--but how long can you keep it?"

  No one answered.

  "Capital wants it back, and they've formed a group called the Employers' Parliamentary Council to get it. You read the papers same as me, you've heard of it. And you know what they're doing. They're not going to fight you on the picket line anymore; they're going to fight you in Parliament. They've got blokes lobbying the government day and night to stop any bills favor-able to the working man. And they're succeeding. They're breaking strikes with lockouts and blacklegs, and they won't stop there. Rumor has it they're trying to get a law on the books that will allow them to sue unions for damages, and even take away the right to strike."

  "What'll you do about it?" someone shouted.

  "I'll meet them on their own battlefield," Joe shouted back. "I'll take the fight from the factory floor and the sweatshop and the waterfront all the way to Westminster. You live in the wealthiest city in the wealthiest coun-try in the entire world. That's wealth you--each and every one of you-- helped to create. With your graft, your sweat, your blood."

  He paused here, paced back and forth, then suddenly rounded on his audience and shouted, "So why are your kids hungry? Why do your wives go without? Why do you work twelve, fourteen, sixteen hour days and still have to choose between shoes for your son and a coat for your daughter?"

  There were more cheers, urgent and impassioned. Joe held up his hands for silence. Fiona could see his sides heaving. He was panting, nearly played out.

  "We can't hope to win playing by their rules. It's time we made a few of our own. Marches and strikes were the first step, legislation is the next. Let's go to Westminster together. Let's change the old laws and write some new ones. Laws that protect your wages, your jobs, your families. What do you say? Will you take that step with me?"

  Another enormous roar went up. It gathered and rose like a tidal wave, rolling over the brick canyon that was Wapping High Street, engulfing everything in its path. Hats were flung into the air. Hands reached up, straining to touch Joe.

  John Burns stepped up onto one of the wagon's wheels. "What do you say, lads?" he shouted. "Shall we give him a crack at it?"

  The roar grew louder. The reaching hands grasped Joe and pulled him down. The crowd closed over him like turbulent water. Fiona's heart skipped a beat, her hands came to her mouth, and then he suddenly bobbed up like a cork, seated on the shoulders of two burly workmen. The crowd parted for him and he was paraded down the High Street, past wharves and warehouses, where he was cheered from loopholes and gangways. Fiona saw him waving as he was carried around a bend and out of sight.

  "That clinches it. You're on your own for dinner, Mrs. B," Mel said.

  "I think you're right. I wonder if they'll bring him back in time for supper." She squinted after her husband. "I wonder where they're taking him?"

  "Where?" Mel echoed, laughing. "Why, Mrs. B, he's on his way to Westminster!"

  Chapter 21

  "Mary Ellerton, the little girl with TB, had a bad night. You'll want to see her first," the matron said. "And there's a Mr. Randall, a builder, came in

  an hour ago with a broken arm. Dr. Gifford set it, but wanted you to check on him."

  "Dr. Gifford's here?" India asked, surprised.

  "Yes. He had emergency surgery this morning. Gallstones. Sister Moskowitz assisted. Here's the entire roster."

  India took the clipboard and thanked the woman. She paged through the names. Twenty at least. It was already eight a.m., and she was sup-posed to see patients at Varden Street at ten. She finished reading the ros-ter, drained her cup of tea, and prepared to start her day. She had just pulled her stethoscope out of her bag when she heard a knock at the door. It opened before India could say "Come in" and a beaming Ella appeared, followed by what seemed to be two enormous fruit baskets on legs. The baskets were breathtaking--lined with moss and decorated with ribbons and fresh flowers--and were piled so high with fruits, nuts, biscuits, and sweets that India could not see the faces of the men carrying them.

  "Gorgeous, aren't they?" Ella said.

  "Oi! Ella! These ain't light. Tell us where to put them."

  "I'll tell you where to put them, all right."

  "Come on, will you? Me back's breaking!"

  "Ella? What's going on?" India asked.

  "Put them on the floor, right there," Ella said.

  The men did as she said. When they'd put down the baskets, India saw who they were--Sid Malone's men.

  "Mr. Betts, Mr. Smith, why have you brought these?" she asked.

  "They're a thank-you, missus. From the guv. And from us. For fixin' him up."

  "Mr. Betts, I can't--"

  "Believe how generous this is," Ella said. "It's much too kind of you. Isn't it, Dr. Jones?" She turned so that only India could see her face and gave her a warning look.

  "Why... yes. It certainly is."

  "Thanks, El," Frankie said. He leaned over and kissed her cheek.

  "Wasn't me. It's Dr. Jones you want to be thanking," Ella said.

  Frankie looked as alarmed as India felt at the prospect of a kiss. He doffed his hat instead. "Yeah, well... thanks, missus," he said.

  "Your thanks are not required, Mr. Betts. I was only doing my job."

  Frankie looked as if he'd been gobsmacked. Ella shook her head and India felt she'd said something terribly wrong. A wave of irritation washed over her. Why was it always so hard for her to talk to these people?

  "Well, we're off now. Ta-ra, El. See you at the caff."

  "Ta-ra, lads. Thanks again."

  As soon as the door closed behind them, India said, "Ella, throw the baskets out."

  "What?"

  "I don't want them here. We both know how they were paid for. From theft and drugs and God knows what else. I don't want any part of Sid Malone's illgotten gains. Get rid of them."

  Ella sn
orted. "The hell I will."

  India blinked at her, taken aback.

  "Your eyes all right? You see in color? Blue, red, green, yellow?" Ella asked.

  "Of course I do."

  "Then why is everything so bleedin' black and white to you? There's a whole ward of sick kids downstairs. The poor little blighters would love a biscuit or an orange."

  "So it's all right to corrupt children, is it?" India asked, stung by Ella's criticism. "Feed them on the profits of others' misery?"

  "I don't care if Sid Malone has hooves and a pointy tail. Those kiddies are getting that fruit."

  "Fine, Ella. Do what you like," India said stiffly, returning to her roster.

  "For God's sake, let your hair down a bit, will you? Let a bad man do a good deed. Even if it's us doing it for him."

  India wanted to ask Ella how she, an upstanding woman who dutifully observed the Sabbath, could banter and joke with criminals, but she couldn't. Ella had left.

  A sudden knock on the door startled her. A junior sister, Alison Fitch, poked her head in.

  "You're needed, Dr. Jones. A Miss Milo just came into the emergency ward. Won't tell us what's wrong. Says she's your patient."

  India was out the door before the girl had stopped talking. "Milo... Milo..." she murmured. The name sounded familiar. It came to her. The young woman who'd asked for contraceptives.

  Emma Milo was leaning against the wall in the admitting area. Even from yards away, India could see there was something terribly wrong. Her eyes were half closed. Her face was drained of all color.

  "Miss Milo?" she said. "Miss Milo, what is it?"

  With effort, Emma Milo opened her eyes. "Please help me," she said.

  "Can you walk? There's a bed right over here."

  Miss Milo pushed herself off the wall. She took one slow step, then an-other, keeping her eyes fixed on India.

  "Good Lord," Fitch said. She was looking at the floor where Miss Milo had been standing. India followed her gaze. There was blood on the tiles. Far too much of it.

  India rushed to the woman, catching her just as she slumped. "Get me a trolley!" she barked.

  Fitch raced off and returned with one. Together they lifted Miss Milo onto it. She cried out as they did, then drew her knees up to her chest. The back of her dress was soaked with blood.

  India collared another nurse. "Take her to Surgery One," she ordered.

  "Dr. Gifford used it this morning. It's still being cleaned," the woman said.

  "Two, then. Go!" The nurses rolled the trolley away. India ran ahead of it and burst through the surgery doors. She knew she should scrub, get a clean apron, but there was no time. She raced to the sink, fumbled for a bottle of carbolic and poured it over her hands, then rushed to Miss Milo's side. Fitch was assembling a tray of instruments. The other sister-- Arnold--had cut the waistbands of her skirt and undergarments and pulled them off. They lay in a bloodstained heap on the floor.

  "Miscarriage?" she asked.

  "I don't think so," India said. She'd seen this kind of bleeding before. A long time ago. In a hospital in Wales. Images of Bea and Hugh came flooding back to her, and with them feelings of panic and grief. She clamped down on them.

  "Miss Milo, can you hear me? Miss Milo? Salts, Fitch." Her voice was low, confident, and full of authority. It did not betray the fear she felt. She would not allow it to. Fitch waved smelling salts. Miss Milo coughed and tried to turn away.

  "Good girl. Stay with me now," India said. "Fitch, get the stirrups up. We'll lift her onto the table."

  "This table doesn't have them, Doctor. Only Surgery One," Fitch said.

  Fury flared inside India. Gifford had used One for his patient. A male patient. He should have left it open. "Take her left leg, Fitch. Arnold, take the right." The two nurses lifted Miss Milo's legs and bent them at the knee. Her bottom and thighs were covered with blood. More was pouring out of her. India tried to get a speculum in. Miss Milo arched and screamed; the instrument slipped out and clattered to the floor. A piece of Fenwick's ad-vice came back to her: Screaming is good. Encourage it. It means your patient is still alive. Once, she'd been horrifled by his flip statements. Now she un-derstood why he used them: they were the only armor a doctor had in the face of such suffering.

  She tried again. She placed one hand on the woman's abdomen, the other disappeared inside her. Her hands became her eyes. They told her what she had suspected. "Her uterus is punctured. In several places. I'm going to have to operate. Arnold, carbolic. Fitch, chloral and a mask."

  "Dr. Jones, please..." It was Miss Milo. Her eyes were open and lucid. "When my parents come for me, don't tell them what happened. There was a baby. It was my employer's. He's married."

  "Who did this to you? Where did you go?"

  "I don't know. Thomas took me. It was in someone's kitchen. A woman did it. It was dirty there and it hurt so."

  Miss Milo swallowed, her eyes fluttered closed. Her hands scrabbled at the air. India caught them in her own bloodied ones.

  "I'm afraid," Miss Milo whispered. "Oh, God, I'm so afraid..."

  "The chloral, Fitch!" India shouted.

  "Right here."

  India watched as the nurse pressed a mask over Miss Milo's face. She took three deep breaths then stopped breathing altogether. Her chest sank.

  India ripped the mask off. She started chest compressions. Behind her, the two nurses traded worried glances.

  "One... two... three..." she counted, pistoning her palms into the woman's chest. "Fitch, roll a sheet and put it under her back. Arnold, pull her arms above her head. Come on! Where are you? Move!"

  "Dr. Jones... ma'am, she's gone," Arnold said quietly.

  India stepped back, shaking her head. "She's not. She can't be. I've never lost a patient. She can't be." She looked at the woman, at the blood between her legs, at her lifeless eyes. "Oh, God," she said, pounding the heels of her hands against her forehead.

  "Don't blame yourself, Dr. Jones. She did it to herself and it served her right. What she done was wrong. Dead wrong," Fitch said.

  India closed her eyes. She took a deep breath, but it didn't help. "Get out," she said.

  "Beg your pardon?"

  "Get out of here."

  "But I have to take her to the mortuary."

  "Don't touch her. Get out. Go."

  "Yes, Dr. Jones," Fitch said, looking sullen but stepping smartly.

  India straightened Miss Milo's splayed legs, then covered them with a sheet. She wiped her own bloody hands on the hem of her even bloodier jacket, then gently closed the woman's eyes.

  "I should be doing that, Dr. Jones," Sister Arnold said.

  "I can manage."

  India and her nurse picked the dead woman's underthings off the floor in silence, folded them, and placed them next to her body. Arnold snapped open another sheet and draped it over Miss Milo.

  "I should have helped her," India said hollowly.

  "You did help her," Sister Arnold said. "There was nothing more anyone could have done. She'd lost too much blood."

  "I meant earlier. When she first came to see me. I should have helped her. I'm a coward. A damned coward." She turned and walked out of the surgery and back to her office. She'd left her roster there in her haste to get to Miss Milo.

  She'd meant to get the roster and leave. She had rounds to do. Instead, she sat down in her chair and put her head in her hands. Hot tears welled behind her eyes. She squeezed them back.

  She heard Fenwick's voice again. You what, Jones? You feel... You are not in my class to feel.

  Don't feel, she told herself. Don't feel this. Don't feel anything.

  There was a knock on the door. India didn't hear it. The knob turned and the door opened.

  "Dr. Jones?" a masculine voice said.

  She lifted her head. It was Sid Malone. She quickly stood, embarrassed. "Mr. Malone," she said. "What can I do for you?"

  Sid said nothing. He was staring at her coat, wide-eyed. She looked down at it. It wa
s covered in blood.

  "Sorry. I didn't realize..." India started to say. She stopped, then started again. "A girl. No more than seventeen. Botched abortion. I lost her. Just now."

  "She's the first, isn't she? The first one you lost."

  "Yes, she is," India said. "How did you know that?"

  "You told me," he said.

  He held her gaze, and she wondered how such a hard man could have such gentle eyes.