Except the Dying

by Maureen Jennings

  He propped the crucifix against the candlestick, then dropped to his knees on the hard floor. He’d seen Therese cross herself and he imitated her as best he could, fluttering his hand across his chest. He bent his head in prayer, saying out loud the only Latin he had gleaned.

  “Ar vay Maria, Duminee nose tree.”

  There was no one to hear and make a mockery of him, and he repeated these words over and over.

  It was in early December that he’d first crept into her room. There was a severe frost that night and the cold had bitten through his blanket until he woke shivering, unable to sleep. Normally he would have gone down to the stable and burrowed into the pile of straw beside Silver, but he was afraid to. He’d seen two large brown rats vanishing down the drain in the centre of the stable, and them he truly hated. He knew what they were capable of. This particular evening he and Therese were seated at the kitchen table, snug against the wind soughing at the windows. The Foys were on a rare evening out and Joe had basked in the warmth and peace of their absence, and talking what was, for him, “a blue streak,” as Tess put it. She soon pried out of him what sort of conditions he was living in.

  “You can come to sleep in my bed, if it pleases you,” she whispered. “But we mustn’t let anyone know.”

  She hadn’t needed to say that. He was quite aware what would happen if they were discovered. So beginning then, on the coldest nights, he climbed through the back window of the house and tiptoed up the back stairs to her room. Infrequently at first, not trusting, only when the cold was unbearable. But always she welcomed him. Always until a week ago. When he came this night she pushed him away like an unwelcome dog and he fell to the floor. Seeing his face, she jumped down and knelt beside him, kissing his cheeks and hands.

  “Forgive me, mon ami. I regret.”

  She got back into bed, lifted the counterpane and let him climb into the warm cocoon.

  “You can place your head here if you wish,” she said and guided him to the soft pillow of her young breasts. The feeling was so sweet it made him dizzy and he swelled into uncomfortable manhood, his groin throbbing. Memories of the coarse jokes he’d heard at the Home came to his mind but he pushed them away. He could not bear anything to sully the purity of his love.

  “You cannot come any more,” she whispered, her breath warm on his face. But she would not say why, and when he crept away early that morning before it was light, his body hurt as if he had been beaten.

  If he had been the one to find her lying in the snow, he would have lain beside her and brought her back to life with his own heat.

  He shifted. His knees were aching and his fingers had gone numb with cold. The little room was silent. No voice of God had spoken. No Devil either, for that matter. He thought the Christ stretched out on the cross looked at him with pity, but there was no miracle forthcoming. Stiffly, he got to his feet. He had no idea how long he had been on his knees, but he knew it must be time to prepare the horse and carriage for Dr. Rhodes.

  Next to the trapdoor was a washstand where his pitcher and bowl stood. There was a bar of soap in a dish and a razor. Soon after he had arrived, Foy made a scornful remark about the downy hair on his lip and chin, and Joe had immediately purchased a razor and tried to make sure he would never offend again.

  He rolled up the sleeve of his jersey, exposing his forearm. A round white scar by the base of his thumb was testimony to his first placement in Elmvale. He’d tried to defend himself against the farmer’s belt and the buckle had ripped out a piece of flesh on his wrist.

  He picked up the razor in his right hand and drew it firmly down his arm.

  A red mark, thin as a pencil stroke, appeared instantly. He clenched his teeth but tears sprang involuntarily to his eyes. He waited a moment, then cut himself again, deeper this time. Then he dropped the bloody razor into the bowl of water, breaking the skin of ice into delicate shards. The water turned pink.

  He pulled down his sleeve. Beads of sweat had broken out on his temples and he felt faint. However, the burning pain in his arm was a relief, as if he had transposed the grief that threatened to drive him mad.

  Dark plumes of smoke, slow and lazy in the cold air, hung over the tall stacks at the distillery. The old lunatic who lived at the edge of the lake to the east used the smoke as a barometer to the mood of God. If the clouds were white and scattered it meant God was happy, and out-of-doors would be pleasant. If the smoke was dark and still, as it was this morning against the flesh-coloured dawn, God was angry and His breath would burn on your face. It was a time to be careful not to offend Him.

  So it was with uneasiness he set out to forage for firewood and debris along the shore.

  He saw what looked like a bundle of clothes some yards out on the frozen lake. When he went to investigate, he discovered the body.

  He circled her once, twice, then poked her gingerly with his stick. In the night, snow had drifted across her body, and beneath that cold blanket she lay with her arms outstretched, legs bent beneath her. Even the confused mind of the lunatic registered that something was terribly wrong, and with a moan of fear he stumbled back over the frozen, rutted ground to the hut of his nearest neighbour. The widow, Maria Jenkins, was deaf and suspicious and he had difficulty rousing her. When she finally opened her door, he was gesticulating wildly, swaying from one foot to the other like a frightened pigeon. She understood him to say that an angel had fallen from the sky.

  Later, when Murdoch saw Alice’s face, he found it hard to fathom why the old man would have said such a thing.

  Donalda had been awake for almost an hour but she lay in her warm bed, not wanting to get up. She had slept badly again, with a terrifying dream of drowning that woke her over and over as if she were rising and falling to the surface of the sea. Finally she willed herself to stay awake. She heard Cyril’s door open and close and she slowly got out of bed. She couldn’t bear the thought of having breakfast alone, and even her husband’s company was preferable. Owen, she knew, wouldn’t be up until nine at least, and she never liked to wake him unnecessarily. She slipped on her satin wrapper and went downstairs.

  The breakfast room was filled with sun and she could see that the sky was a brilliant, cloudless blue. In the warm room it was as if this were summer and not another cold February morning.

  Cyril was seated in the window nook, reading the newspaper, and as she entered he looked up in surprise.

  “Donalda, what gets you up so early?”

  “I was awake and decided that I was getting tired of seeing only the four walls of my bedroom. It is much more pleasant down here.”

  “There is no reason you shouldn’t take your breakfast here all the time.”

  “You’re quite right. After all, I could eat alone in either place, couldn’t I?”

  “Please, l-let’s not start a quarrel. You’re quite aware of my habits. You have chosen not to accommodate yourself to them.”

  She moved restlessly over to the sideboard. She didn’t want to argue with him this morning. She tugged at the bellpull. She could sense Cyril observing her warily and tried to be more pleasant.

  “Has anyone come forward with information about Theresa?”

  “There is no more m-mention. Shepcote is offering a reward, so that might d-do it.”

  “Cyril, I –”

  There was a tap at the door and John Foy came in.

  “I’d like my breakfast served here this morning, Foy.”

  “Yes, madam. Mrs. Foy was just preparing it. It won’t be a moment.”

  Donalda thought the butler looked as grey as old dishwater and wondered if he was sick.

  “May I pour your tea, madam?”

  She nodded. Foy went to the sideboard, removed the cozy from the teapot and poured the strong amber tea into a fresh cup. As he handed it to her, she could see his unsteadiness.

  “Are you ill, Foy?”

  “Thank you, no, madam. Just a touch of my stomach again.”

  His eyes met hers and for a moment
there was no gulf between mistress and servant. She saw the fear reflected in his liverish eyes but, a second before that, utter dislike. Then he blinked and the expression disappeared as if the aperture of a camera had closed. Her butler stood before her, steady and impassive.

  “I’ll bring some more hot water and some toast, madam,” he said and left, carrying the jug.

  Donalda took her teacup to the table. She wondered if she should mention Foy to Cyril, but she was overwhelmed with inertia. She felt almost as if she were still in her dream, trying to move underwater. She sipped at the hot, sweet tea and regarded her husband. The bright light was not kind. It accentuated the grey-ness of his beard and the thinning hair at his temples. He looked drawn and tired. She realized he wasn’t reading but had gone into a reverie.

  “A penny for your thoughts, Cyril.”

  “What?”

  “You were lost in thought. I offered you a penny.”

  For once, he didn’t respond with irritation. He smiled slightly. “I’m afraid even a farthing would be overvalue.”

  “Do you realize we have hardly set eyes on each other since Monday evening?”

  “That so? Hmm, I s-suppose you’re right. I have been devilishly busy.” He started to fold the newspaper. “And I still am. I must be off.”

  If he had shown the slightest inclination to stay and talk to her, to share in any way what he was so busy with, Donalda, in her loneliness, would have remained softened towards him. However, his haste to leave stung her and determined her resolve.

  “Cyril, I intend to return to England.”

  He stared at her. “For a holiday?”

  “No, I want to go back permanently.”

  “This seems a sudden decision, Donalda.”

  “Not really. I’ve been contemplating it for a long time but I haven’t had the courage to follow through.”

  “I see.”

  He regarded her bleakly, not making any attempt to dissuade her or question her decision. She continued, trying to hold her bitterness in check.

  “Theresa’s death decided me. She was such a young girl to lose all promise of a life. She would have liked children and a family, I know that. Since it happened I have been scrutinising myself, and I don’t particularly like what I see.”

  “How so, D-Donalda?”

  “There is something wrong when a woman of my age takes most of her comfort from a servant.”

  “You’re talking like this because you are still upset. What h-happened was dreadfully shocking to all of us –”

  “Was it? Well, regardless, that event has forced my hand.”

  “What about Owen?”

  “I will suggest that he transfer to Guy’s Hospital. It is far superior, anyway. I am confident he and Harriet will make a match, and we could leave after the wedding. Don’t worry, we will devise some story to put abroad.”

  “I am not con-con – er, concerned about that.”

  “Aren’t you? You must have changed, then, in the last week. Public opinion has always seemed to matter a great deal to you.” She met his eyes. “I have kept your secret, Cyril, and because of Owen I remained, living this pretext. I can do so no longer. Oh, don’t look so alarmed, I’m not going to put a notice in the newspaper. I simply would like to return to my homeland. After a while perhaps we could divorce. I would like the opportunity to live the rest of my life with some honesty.” She paused and her voice was low. “I am not that old, after all. It is not inconceivable that I could find love again.”

  To her surprise, Cyril put his head in his hands, his voice muffled so that she almost didn’t catch what he said.

  “I am so sorry, Donalda.”

  When Foy returned to the kitchen, his wife was busy chopping vegetables for the midday meal. Beef stew was on for today.

  “She wants her toast.”

  “It’s ready, just needs buttering.”

  “Shall I do it?”

  “I haven’t got four pair of hands, have I?”

  He took the toast off the fork and slathered butter on one side.

  “That’s too much,” Edith snapped. “You know she likes it spread thin.”

  His head was throbbing and he was tempted to snarl back at her, but he knew that would precipitate a full-scale war and he wasn’t up to it. He scraped off some of the butter, licking at the knife. Edith was slicing at some carrots with an unpleasant vigour.

  “She’s in a blue mood this morning,” he said.

  “Has a right to be, if you ask me. Mind you, if I were in her shoes, I wouldn’t be blue, I’d be bloody red.”

  “How’d you mean?”

  “Him. Coming in at all hours of the night.”

  “Dr. Rhodes?”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “Was he in late last night?”

  Edith demolished a parsnip and dropped the slices into the pot of water on the stove. “Late! You might just as well say it was early. Two o’clock in the morning. I heard him knocking up Joe to put the carriage away.”

  “I didn’t hear a thing.”

  “No, you wouldn’t have, would you?”

  Foy winced but didn’t pursue the matter. “I suppose he was with one of his patients, then?”

  “Ha! Funny how he always has extra work to do Saturdays and Wednesdays. Very convenient.”

  Her husband was befuddled but had the feeling that it was better to remain quiet. Edith put a hunk of raw meat on the cutting board and began slicing it into chunks.

  “Look at the fat on this. And I asked for prime. That man is a cheat if ever I saw one.”

  “The butcher?”

  She gave him a withering look. “Men!”

  Foy arranged the toast in the silver rack the way Donalda liked it.

  Edith continued. “Good thing for Master Owen his father didn’t throw the bolt or we’d have had another incident like Saturday in reverse.”

  “Was he out too?”

  “Yes. Came crawling back just after the doctor.”

  Foy had no real affection for Owen but he felt compelled to counter Edith. “He’s a young fellow. Probably out sowing a few wild oats while he can.”

  Edith hacked the piece of meat in two.

  “Men!”

  Owen Rhodes knew that he should be getting dressed if he was going to be at his lecture on time, but every movement seemed an effort. He stared into his wardrobe, unable to decide what suit to wear. Courtney had shown up yesterday in a navy mariner’s sweater. He said it was practical, considering what they had to do all day. The demonstrator had been furious and would have dismissed him if it had been anyone else. However, Courtney’s father and grandfather were both directors of the college, so he got away with it. Owen didn’t own a mariner’s sweater, but he could wear his brown bicycle jersey. Yesterday he’d got blood on his cuffs when he was doing the dissection and, sickened, threw the shirt away.

  A female cadaver the colour of lard was ready for them on the table. An old woman, by the look of the wasted limbs and the grey hair, but the information card said she was forty-five, only two years older than his own mother. Illness and poverty had aged her like all the others. Dr. Cavin, the demonstrator, was excited. For the first time the class had the opportunity to see an example of galloping consumption first-hand. Its “ravages,” was the word he used. Owen had tried to hover behind his friend McDonough so that his view of the cutting was restricted, but Cavin made him step forward. He pretended to do it in a teasing fashion but Owen could feel the malice. The demonstrator didn’t like him and seized every opportunity to goad him.

  Cavin pushed aside the flaccid breast, the skin stretched and marked from the suckling of many children, then sliced through the sternum and moved aside the flesh to reveal the ribs, reddened with blood. “Take those pliers and open the ribs for me, Rhodes.”

  Owen clenched his teeth, determined not to retch or, worse, faint like a green girl. The woman was dead. He didn’t know her name or her circumstances. He didn’t know who grieved f
or her, if any did. He pried apart the bones of the rib cage, and Cavin reached in with his snips and severed the arteries and venous system of the right lung. He tugged and the organ came out with a sucking sound as if it were in mud. The blood ran over Owen’s fingers and he bit down hard so as not to gag. He was dimly aware that Hugh had stepped to the rear of the group. All the students were quiet.

  “See the holes that the bacillus had made? She must have gone fast,” said Cavin. He held the soggy mass aloft, admiring it. The woman’s chest gaped open, empty. “We’ll see if there are traces in the intestines, and the bones. Gentlemen, work in pairs. Each take a limb. You have one hour.”

  There were no traces of disease in the humerus that lay white in its bed of red muscle, but Owen and his partner found that the thoracic vertebrae were riddled with it, the bone crumpling to the touch. Feverell termed the cadaver “TB Tilly,” and all the students laughed. They never knew what her name was because it wasn’t on the card.

  Owen decided on his navy merino suit and pulled off his nightshirt. The wardrobe mirror reflected back his pale, naked body. For a moment he stared at his own image, assessing the slim shoulders and hips. He often wished he was taller and heavier, not so much like his father. Tentatively, he touched his finger to his lips. He could still feel the kiss, the soft tongue inserting itself between his lips. He took the sleeve of his nightshirt, spat on it to moisten it and rubbed hard across his mouth until his mouth burned.

  Chapter Thirteen

  THURSDAY, FEBRUARY 14

  THE WIDOW JENKINS HAD ROUSED a neighbour to go for help. The man, Jimmy Gallagher, who was not young, ran as fast as he could up the laneway to Mill Street. Excitement gave him strength as he slipped and staggered through the deep snow, but by the time he reached Parliament his chest was close to bursting and he had to stop for breath. A man in a bread wagon was plodding by and, realizing he knew him, Gallagher ran out in front of the horse and stopped him. Through gasps he related what had happened, but Taylor wasn’t too willing to give him a ride to the police station.

  “Rosie isn’t so spry any more and I’m not a-going to kill my horse for no strange Jezebel.”