by Benita Brown
Polly missed her mother and father and her large family of brothers and sisters. They were only a short walk away in Byker but she hardly ever saw them and she was lonely. They all thought she was lucky to live in a warm house, have plenty of food on the table and a bed to herself, even if it was only a truckle bed stowed under the kitchen table and pulled out each night.
She might have the work of two or even three to do but, as her mother had pointed out, most of the time she was left to get on with it in her own sweet way. She had an uneasy feeling that that was going to change.
‘Gerald! Would you look at your sister?’
‘Why on earth should I want to do that?’ Gerald Sowerby paused at the top of the stairs and closed his eyes in a weary gesture of resignation. He had hoped to leave the house without encountering his mother but she must have been listening for him.
‘Don’t be difficult. You know what I mean.’
He opened his eyes and turned to face her; she was hurrying towards him. Her left hand was pressed against the base of her throat and she was picking at the lace of her choker collar with her small white fingers.
She looked tired; the vibrant red of her velvet gown only accentuated her pallid complexion. Her right hand held a lavender-soaked handkerchief and she brought it up to dab at her face before she continued, ‘Annabel’s fever has risen. I think she’s delirious.’
‘Father will be home soon.’
‘He was called to a confinement. He could be hours yet.’
‘But what am I supposed to do?’
‘You are studying medicine, surely you can tell me.’
‘I can only tell you what you already know. Annabel was bilious when she came home from Ursula’s party and now she has a fever. It won’t hurt to wait until Father comes home.’
‘Gerald, please!’
‘Oh, very well.’
He followed her to his sister’s bedroom. He was sure that there was nothing seriously wrong with the girl. She had probably overeaten, as usual, at her friend’s birthday party, and she had made herself sick. As for having a fever, she would be overheated because his mother had insisted on piling on extra bedclothes and building up the fire in her bedroom. The warmth met them at the doorway and Gerald shrugged off his evening cape and tossed it on to a chair on the landing.
As he entered the room Annabel shrieked, ‘Get out! I don’t want you here!’
Gerald raised his eyebrows and turned to go.
‘No! She doesn’t mean you!’ His mother grasped his sleeve. ‘She’s taken against the skivvy. Each time Nella comes in to see to the fire, Annabel nearly has a fit. I’m sure it’s a sign of delirium.’
‘Of plain bad temper more like,’ Gerald muttered.
But when he turned to look in the direction of the hearth, he shuddered involuntarily. The maid called Nella was kneeling as she built up the coals with swift, precise movements. In the light from the fire Gerald fancied that the point of her chin and the tip of her nose grew towards each other like those of a witch. Each time she leaned in towards the hearth, the odd, twisted hump of her shoulders was thrown into sharp relief against the firelight.
His mother watched her impatiently for a moment and then she called out, ‘You can go now, Nella.’ The odd little creature got up. ‘But fetch up some more coals.’ Nella picked up the empty scuttle.
‘No, no, no! I don’t want her in here,’ Annabel wailed.
She was propped up in bed within a mound of fat pillows and her long fair hair hung in limp rat’s-tails round her face. Her usually fair complexion was flushed and blotchy. She had pushed the bedclothes back and Gerald could see that her nightgown was creased and clinging to her plump adolescent body. Scattered across the front of the garment there was a pattern of brown stains. Probably dried vomit, he thought, and he could barely control his distaste.
‘Wait.’ He raised a hand to stop the little crookback before she hurried from the room.
‘Yes, sir?’ She stopped and the look she shot him almost made him flinch.
My God, she really is ugly, Gerald thought, and I’m sure she dislikes us whereas she ought to be eternally grateful that my mother has given her employment. Many of my friends’ parents would not have her anywhere near them.
‘You wanted something, sir?’
‘Yes, Nella, I do. Before you bring the coals, you are to bring a basin of cool water and some towels and flannels.’
Gerald glanced down at the bony claws clutching the handle of the brass coal scuttle and grimaced with distaste.
‘And wash your hands first.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Even before Nella had left the room, Annabel said, ‘I don’t want that disgusting little creature to come anywhere near me. Why can’t Constance bring the coals?’
Mrs Sowerby’s expression of concern hardened for a moment. ‘Constance doesn’t work here any more. Now let me cover you up and make you decent. Your brother is almost a doctor and he has come to look at you.’
She hurried over to the bed and tried to pull the bedclothes up around her daughter but Annabel only pushed them away again.
‘Why doesn’t Constance work here? Have you dismissed her?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘She had to go. She was insolent; insolent and dishonest.’
Gerald’s eyes widened with surprise. It had been obvious last night that his mother did not like Constance but he had not realized the depth of her antipathy. Even now, with the girl safely out of the house, she was prepared to lie about the reason that Constance had left their service.
Why? Of course his mother had always been possessive. She had not liked it when he had spoken to Constance, teased her about her wedding to her Prince Charming. She had liked it even less when it became obvious that the girl was flirting with him.
His loins quickened with remembered excitement as he recalled the way the pulse in her throat had throbbed when he’d stroked her skin, the way her violet eyes had widened with agitation, a sure sign of her arousal. And then, instead of retreating from him, as any decent girl would have done, the minx had raised her chin and stared brazenly into his eyes, a clear invitation if ever there was one. No, his mother was not stupid. She had guessed what was going on.
But that was not all of it. She had obviously detested Constance long before the incident in the hallway last night. Was it simply because the girl did not behave as a servant should? Her manner and her speech set her apart from the usual run of workhouse skivvy.
Considering how quietly and efficiently she carried out her duties, why had Constance never been promoted above stairs? Could it be that she had never shown sufficient gratitude for being rescued from the workhouse? Had never known her place?
Gerald realized then that in all the years that Constance had worked for them, his mother had probably made her life a misery, culminating in that astonishing act of malice last night when she had thrown her out on to the streets. She had not cared what could have happened to the girl.
What had happened to her?
Gerald flushed. He found that his breathing was shallow and that his face was bathed in perspiration. He took a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at his brow. The room was warmer than ever; a sickly sweet miasma of vomit rose from Annabel’s bed and seemed to engulf him.
‘Stop it, Mother. I’m too hot!’ Annabel pushed the bedclothes away as her mother made another attempt to cover her up.
‘But, darling, I must make you decent.’
‘Leave her, Mother. You will only make her condition worse.’
His mother looked up at him distractedly, and, at that moment, his sister drew up her legs and began to writhe furiously. Her mother sprang away as Annabel kicked out and sent the sheets and blankets flying. They slithered to the floor, Annabel’s foot caught in her nightgown and, as she gave one final kick, the fine fabric tore from the neck almost to the waist.
‘Annabel!’
His mother darted forward an
d pulled the torn edges across his sister’s body but not before Gerald had seen the ugly red stain which started midway down her neck then ran down to spread out over and almost encompass her right breast. He had known the blemish was there, of course. When Annabel was a small child, the mark had been like a faint pink blush above the collars of her baby clothes. As she got older she was able to wear higher collars and Gerald had almost forgotten about it.
However, he had had no idea that the birthmark was so extensive, nor that its colour had intensified so angrily over the years. Poor old Annabel, he thought. That will spoil her chances.
He glanced at his mother and suddenly realized why she was so fond of those high, boned collars. She’d been wearing chokers or something like them for as long as he could remember. He wondered what his father thought about it, how it made him feel. But then perhaps he hadn’t seen it very often. Women like Violet Sowerby almost certainly preferred the dark.
‘Nella, come here.’ His mother had succeeded in covering Annabel with the top sheet, and she turned as the little crookback appeared carrying a basin of water. There were some towels folded over her arm. ‘Put the water and the towels on the table and go and fetch a clean nightgown for Miss Annabel. Gerald, would you wait on the landing for a moment?’
‘Mother, I really must go.’
‘Must go? Why?’
‘My friends are waiting for me.’
‘But I want you to look at Annabel.’
‘I’ve looked at her.’
‘Gerald, please be serious!’
‘I am being serious. I don’t think there’s very much wrong with her. She has obviously eaten something that has disagreed with her and that, as well as making her bilious, could have given her a slight fever.’
‘A slight fever!’
‘Yes, slight. At least it was until you covered her with blankets and got Nella to build up the fire.’
‘But she had to be kept warm.’
‘No, she ought to have been cooled down.’
‘But, Gerald—’
‘You wanted my advice and I’m giving it to you. Nella must bathe Annabel in the cool water I asked her to bring, then you can make her comfortable in a clean nightgown.’
Nella had already dipped a flannel into the basin and was wringing it out. Gerald stopped talking and watched, fascinated, as the skeletal fingers grasped and squeezed the cloth. Her bony wrists twisted in opposite directions until every drop of excess water had been extracted. Nella was much stronger than she looked.
‘Gerald?’ His mother was staring at him and he was suddenly infinitely weary of the whole episode.
‘Give her only water to drink. Don’t pile the bed up with extra blankets and don’t put one more lump of coal on that fire!’
‘But—’
‘If you won’t take my advice, ask Father when he comes home.’
He turned brusquely and made for the doorway but then paused and frowned. Annabel had been quiet while he had been talking. Too quiet. She hadn’t even objected when Nella had approached her with the flannel and towels.
Perhaps she really was ill, Gerald thought. Perhaps he ought to stay until his father came home. He didn’t want any trouble from that quarter, any accusations of neglect. How aggravating.
He looked over his shoulder towards the bed. His sister was sitting up amongst the pillows again, but she had both hands wrapped around her body and she was clutching herself as if she were in pain. Her eyes were glassy. Gerald turned and took a step back into the room. At the same moment his sister groaned and was sick all over the bed. The little crookback stepped aside neatly, but his mother had not been so fortunate. Her red dress was covered in yellowy-green, evil-smelling gobs of vomit.
‘Annabel?’ Gerald hurried to her side and she looked up at him. Her eyes were moist but her cheeks were already a better colour. The blotches had gone, to be replaced by an even, rosy pink. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.
‘It’s all right, Gerald. You can go out with your friends. I feel much better now.’ Brother and sister smiled at each other as their mother hurried from the room.
‘Nella,’ Violet Sowerby screeched, ‘come to my room and take my dress away to be cleaned. But first you must see to Miss Annabel.’
‘Will you be all right, now, Annabel?’ Gerald’s mood had lightened now that the prospect of having to do something about his sister’s condition had been removed.
‘Yes, really. You may go to Alvini’s.’
‘How do you know that I go there?’
‘Oh, everybody’s older brothers go there, all the time. I think you go there every night, just about. But, Gerald?’
‘What now, nuisance?’
‘One day you must tell me what goes on there.’
‘Perhaps, Annabel, perhaps. But now, forgive me if I don’t give you a brotherly kiss before I go. The fact is, odious child, that you stink.’
Annabel hurled one of the stained and foul-smelling pillows at him and they both laughed. Gerald turned to go and nearly collided with the little crookback. The wet flannel she was grasping dropped on to his polished evening shoes.
‘You fool,’ he snarled, and then stopped when he saw the look on her face.
She was looking at me like that when I woke up this morning, he remembered. She detests me. The misshapen little monster is not just angry with the world in general, it’s me she hates. But why? I’ve hardly ever spoken to her. What can have happened to make her loathe me so?
Chapter Nine
‘Frank, you must go and help your brother.’
Gianfranco Alvini looked up and frowned. He was studying a diagram of the human circulatory system. His papers and medical textbooks were spread out across the green chenille cloth. The pool of bright light cast by his reading lamp did not extend to the person standing at the opposite side of the table. He sat back, blinking. As his eyes adjusted to the dimmer light of the overhead gasolier, he saw his mother looking at him anxiously. He sighed and she seemed to shrink into herself at this sign of his displeasure. But she persisted.
‘Please, Frankie.’
Maria Alvini had been nearly forty when Frank’s older brother, Valentino, had been born twenty-four years ago but now, were it not for her severely styled white hair, it would be hard to guess that she was much older. She had never been a conventional beauty but she had good bone structure and expressive eyes.
Her husband, Alfredo, many years younger than she, had needed money to turn his ice-cream parlour into a high-class restaurant, and Maria’s prosperous father, who had no sons of his own, had seen him as a good investment. Maria had loved Alfredo; she had been a good wife and it was her tragedy that he had died before her.
Now, she stared unwaveringly at the younger of her two sons; the unrelieved black of her widowhood giving her fine-boned, sallow features a dramatic appearance.
Frank closed his eyes for a moment and rubbed the muscles at the back of his neck with the fingers of one hand. Then he flexed his shoulders and stood up, lifting his jacket from the back of his chair.
‘I am sorry to interrupt your studies,’ his mother said. ‘I know how hard you work and how much it means to you to succeed. But who else can I send?’
‘No one. Of course I’ll go. What is it this time?’
‘He is with those young men again. The same who were here last night - and nearly every night. The ones who think it is clever to make fun of him. They have invited him to their table. Mr McCormack does not want to offend them - they are good customers - but he thinks Valentino should be persuaded to come away. He sent Jimmy up to tell me.’
‘Valentino is drinking?’
His mother shrugged and raised her hands in a helpless gesture of acknowledgement. At times like this she looked wholly Italian; yet her own mother had been English; a wealthy confectioner’s daughter whose inheritance had been the start of the family fortune.
‘Tell Valentino that if he comes up now, I will make hot chocolate for him,
hot chocolate and a slice of cake - torta di cioccolata.’ His mother smiled as she followed her younger son to the door.
‘You treat Valentino as if he were a child.’ Frank could not hide his impatience and his mother looked wounded.
‘He is a child.’
‘He’s twenty-four years old.’
‘You know what I mean.’