The Lemon Tree

by Helen Forrester

  Two other people in the dining-room looked up, as Mrs Biggs said with forced cheerfulness, ‘Well, now! Then you won’t have been here before? It’s as well you’ll be his last – he likes to get the medical history of new patients, and he’ll have time to do it without keeping anyone else waiting.’ She smiled absently at the two other patients and softly closed the door behind Wallace Helena.

  The room was made gloomy by heavy, dusty red curtains draped over lace ones. The dim light caught the mahogany features of a middle-aged working man in rough clothes and a battered bowler hat. He stared unsmilingly at the new arrival.

  Wallace Helena sat down next to a heavy woman wrapped in a shawl. Her greasy black hair was caught up in a tight knot on the top of her head. Her hands were folded under her shawl. Her face was ashen and her lips compressed.

  Despite her obvious pain, the woman looked sideways at Wallace Helena. Though Mrs Hughes might think Wallace Helena dowdy and old-fashioned, to residents close to the docks she seemed much better dressed than most of Dr Biggs’s patients. As an opening gambit, the woman said to Wallace Helena, ‘Doctor won’t be long now; you’re best off comin’ late I always says.’ She sighed.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Oh, aye. He’s goin’ to have to take ’is time on me finger. I got a whitlow, and he’s goin’ to have to cut into it, to get the pus out.’

  ‘That sounds very painful.’

  ‘Aye, it is, luv. Have you never had one?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, they come if you get a splinter under your nail. Wood floors is the divil! I were scrubbin’ the floor a couple o’ weeks back and one went right under me nail. Proper mess it is. I won’t show it to yez; you’d throw up if I did.’

  Wallace Helena felt that she had dealt with enough sickness and injuries not to vomit. ‘I hope it won’t be as painful as you expect,’ she said gently.

  ‘Well, me hubby give me the money to come to Dr Biggs, rather than go down to the Infirmary or the Dispensary. Dr Biggs is proper kind. Does ’is best not to hurt you. He cares, he does.’ Then she said, ‘You’re furrin, aren’t you?’

  For the second time, Wallace Helena said she was from Canada.

  This caused an outpouring of information about the woman’s nephew, who, she said, was working as a carpenter in Winnipeg. As she spoke, a distant bell rang and the man left the room. Distracted from thoughts of her painful finger, the woman seemed to gain a little colour, so Wallace Helena told her that she had actually been to Winnipeg, and this kept the conversation going.

  When the bell rang again, the woman rose, bobbed gracefully to Wallace Helena, and said, ‘It’s bin a pleasure talkin’ to you. Missus. I’ll try not to be long.’

  It was, however, almost ten o’clock by the black marble clock on the mantelpiece and the room was dark, before the little bell rang again.

  Wallace Helena got up and went uncertainly into the hall. She paused, and then saw that the door opposite was marked Surgery. She knocked and a male voice told her to come in.

  When she entered, she faced an unexpectedly long room. At the far end, between two long windows covered by the same type of dusty curtains she had seen in the waiting-room, a man sat facing her, at a desk. He was obviously elderly, and two sharp eyes peered at her over small, metal-rimmed spectacles, as she slowly crossed the room towards him. He gestured towards the chair set opposite to him, and said in a soft, melodious voice, ‘Please sit down. We haven’t met before, have we?’

  She mechanically drew off her gloves, as she sat down. The doctor’s shabby black suit and his bald head both shone in the light of lamps set on either side of his desk. He had a generous white moustache which emphasized a firm, but kindly, mouth. He continued to look at her, while he waited for her to reply.

  Wallace Helena subjected the doctor to a slow, shrewd stare. Then, deciding that she liked what she saw, she told him about die cold and her subsequent coughing, and, a trifle reluctantly, that she had, that day, fainted in her lawyer’s office.

  In view of the fact that most of his patients hardly raised their eyes to him, he was rather amused at the weighing up of him that she had obviously done. He put her down as a lady coming to a slum doctor to whom she was unknown and where she was unlikely to meet an acquaintance, a lady who had something to hide.

  ‘Well, well,’ he said. ‘Let us start from the beginning.’ He went on to ask her name and address and what illnesses she had had in her life. Was she married or single?

  She said she had enjoyed excellent health all her life, despite the harsh climate in which she had lived. He seemed interested, so she told him a little about her life as a homesteader and that she was now the new owner of the Lady Lavender Soap Works. She said she wanted to run the firm herself, and, therefore, particularly did not want to be ill at this moment.

  He caught in her words the mispronunciation of the letter p and one or two other small slips amid her American accent, and he asked if she had been born in Canada.

  ‘No, I was born in Beirut, in the Lebanon,’ she told him with a hint of pride.

  His wife brought in a glass of hot milk and put it silently on his desk for him. He accepted it with an absent nod; he was very tired. But the woman in front of him was most unusually interesting, so he carefully drew out of her the story of the massacre, of which he made a special note, of the flight to the United States, the awful journey to western Canada, and the subsequent loss of her mother and her stepfather.

  ‘You have had a most eventful life, Miss Harding. And now you expect to begin yet another life in England?’

  ‘All being well, I do.’

  ‘May I ask whether your lawyer had something stressful to impart to you, that you should faint?’

  ‘On the contrary, it was all good news. But I am very tired, as you can imagine, with such a long journey and profound change in life; in fact, I feel it may have precipitated the change of life in me.’

  ‘What made you think the latter?’

  ‘Well – er – my flowers have not come these past three months.’

  ‘I see. And you are thirty-eight years old?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It is possible.’ He considered her for a moment, and then he said, ‘I would like to listen to your chest and look down your throat, to see what is causing the cough. And, if you are agreeable, I would like to check you generally. Sometimes a cough is only a symptom of a deeper disorder.’

  ‘Certainly. I am anxious not to be ill.’

  ‘Well, well. We’ll ask Mrs Biggs to come in.’ He got up slowly and shuffled to a side door to call, ‘Sarah, my dear. Could you spare a minute?’

  Mrs Biggs put down her knitting and rose from her favourite basket chair. As she came into the surgery, she looked towards Wallace Helena, and inquired, ‘Yes, dear?’ of her husband.

  Dr Biggs explained the examination he wanted to do, and Mrs Biggs turned briskly towards Wallace Helena, to help her remove her bodice. She was surprised to find that Wallace Helena wore no stays under it; only a chemise and a camisole. Wallace Helena unbuttoned the fronts of both garments and slipped them down to her waist, to reveal a creamy body and firm small breasts with dark nipples. The doctor knocked with his knuckles, first down her back and then her front. When he had finished, he continued to look at her breasts through tired eyes, half-closed. Then, as she lifted her camisole to cover herself a little, he asked, ‘Have you noticed any other symptom of ill-health – a change in your normal weight, for example – during the last few months?’

  ‘Not really. The change to city life, after being outdoors all the time, has been quite profound. I don’t seem to be quite as energetic as I usually am. I’ve not lost weight; I’ve gained – probably because I’m confined – not out on horseback all day!’

  He lifted one of the small lamps from his desk and handed it to his wife to hold, while he depressed Wallace Helena’s tongue and looked down her throat. ‘A little sore,’ he told her, ‘probably from coughing. It’s not
putrid in any way.’ He stepped back and put down the spoon. He smiled gently down at his patient, and then said, ‘Miss Harding, I would like to examine you thoroughly all over, if you wouldn’t mind, to satisfy myself that all is well. I would not like you to walk out of here without help if you need it.’

  Fear of the unknown shot into Wallace Helena’s eyes. ‘Are you looking for tuberculosis?’

  ‘I doubt if you have such an infection.’ He laughed quietly, and added. ‘There are, however, so many woes that afflict the human race that I would like to make sure while you are here that everything is all right’

  Wallace Helena shrugged. ‘O.K.,’ she agreed reluctantly.

  While the doctor went back to his desk and added some notes to his record of her, Mrs Biggs took her behind a screen where she divested herself of the remainder of her clothes. The doctor’s wife wrapped a sheet round her, and then told her to lie on her back on a narrow, high bed against the wall. ‘Nothing to be afraid of. Doctor is being thorough, that’s all.’

  Mrs Biggs hovered in the background, as the old physician went slowly and carefully down her body, uncovering only that part of her which he was immediately examining. He prodded round her stomach, turned her over and ran his fingers down her straight backbone, noting the firmness of her muscles. Then he turned her on her back again, and said, ‘Spread your legs, please. This will feel a little odd to you, but it won’t hurt.’ He checked that she was not a virgin; then she felt his fingers probing carefully within. She lay perfectly still, gripped with fear. That was where cancers sometimes grew; she had heard about them. He said gravely, ‘You may dress now,’ and went to a washstand on the other side of the room, to wash his hands.

  Mrs Biggs helped her off the bed and handed her garments to her, one by one. When she was dressed, she escorted her back to the chair in front of her husband’s desk. Then, smiling sweetly, she slipped out of the room.

  Dr Biggs did not look at her. He sat chewing his bone pen while he read his notes.

  Then he looked up, and sighed, sharp eyes again peering at her over his glasses. Fiddling with his pen, he said, ‘The cough is caused by a trickle of catarrh down your throat, made worse by the cold you have had. Such catarrh is common here and difficult to eradicate. I see from the stains on your fingers and teeth that you smoke, and this is making the catarrh worse. My first advice is to stop smoking. And I’ll give you something to help to clear the catarrh.’

  Wallace Helena smiled wryly. ‘I’m not sure that I can stop smoking.’

  ‘It’s difficult, I know.’ He paused, and then added, as if the words were being dragged out of him, ‘I recommend that you stop for another reason.’

  A fresh twinge of fear went through Wallace Helena. ‘Why?’ she almost snapped.

  ‘Well, you must be aware that you are enceinte; it’s not good for the child.’

  ‘I’m what?’

  ‘With child.’ The doctor was obviously embarrassed, but he went on firmly, ‘You have already mentioned that you’ve observed a cessation of your menses – discharges. During the last three or four months?’

  Wallace Helena looked at him, speechless, as the colour ebbed from her face. Finally, she exclaimed, ‘But I’m thirty-eight! I’m too old! It’s surely the change of life?’ She nodded her head unbelievingly. ‘I’ve never been pregnant before – it’s impossible.’

  ‘I think you know that it is quite possible, Miss Harding.’ The old man’s voice seemed suddenly frigid.

  Wallace Helena breathed slowly and shallowly, as the inference sank in. It seemed to her that all her hopes and dreams lay shattered round her feet. A spinster soap mistress, pregnant, facing her employees? Proud, scornful Wallace Harding riding down the main street of Edmonton, round with child? And Joe? What would he think, after all these years of never fathering a child? She shuddered to imagine it.

  The doctor was saying, ‘I’m quite sure, Miss Harding; I suspected it when you walked in.’

  Wallace Helena licked her lips and stared at him dumbly, while with some bitterness, he added, ‘Women sometimes consult a poor slum doctor, who does not know them, in the hope that he can abort a child for them. Otherwise, I do not often see middle-class women in my waiting-room. So I watched your walk – and looked at your skin – your complexion, as you came in.’

  Wallace Helena was amazed. ’is it that obvious?’

  ‘Probably not – if you do not expect to observe it People see what they expect to see.’

  ‘I had no idea. I merely came about the cough and the fainting spell I had. With regard to – to my flowers, I simply thought I was getting old.’

  ‘Can you expect that the father will marry you, Miss Harding?’

  ‘He’s in Canada – way out west. It would take months to arrange.’

  ‘And you mentioned that you want to stay here to look after the Lady Lavender Soap Works?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I see.’ He sat considering the implications of all she had told him, and finally said, ‘There’s a nursing home in North Wales, an expensive but very discreet one – they could arrange matters for you, if you don’t want to bear the child. It’s a risky procedure – and time is running out for you; you should make up your mind immediately.’

  Wallace Helena made an enormous effort to get a grip on herself again. She bit her white lips and clenched her hands in her lap. Joe’s child. And Joe himself?

  No words came to her.

  Chapter Forty

  In the distance the marble clock in the waiting-room chimed eleven. It reminded Dr Biggs that he had had a very long day and he might well be called out to a patient during the night. He got slowly up from his chair, and came round the desk to assist the frightened woman who had consulted him.

  Realizing that she had kept him very late, Wallace Helena rose and thanked him stiffly. She promised to pick up tomorrow the cough medicine which he would make up for her.

  He realized that his diagnosis had shocked her to the core, and his manner towards her softened; it was clear that she had not suspected that a pregnancy was the basis of her fatigue, and, in the back of his mind, he wondered why she had discounted this obvious result of coitus. At her age, surely she knew where babies came from!

  She said, ‘I will think about what you have told me, and I will come to see you again, if necessary.’

  ‘Well, you’re in good health,’ he assured her. ‘But remember that at your age you should have a doctor, preferably a specialist, in attendance when the child is born.’

  Wallace Helena laughed shakily. ‘If I go home to have it, there’s only one doctor in the whole of the Territories and I doubt if he would want to come specially to Edmonton for the sake of a normal pregnancy.’

  They were walking towards the door, and Dr Biggs suggested, ‘Have the child here, and then go home.’

  ‘I have yet to decide to have it,’ she reminded him, her eyes large and sad.

  He looked at her with pity, and said kindly, ‘Well, come and see me again, if you need any further advice.’

  Her pride in the dust, she walked slowly through the dark streets, empty except for a couple of cats growling at each other. She felt numb, unable to think clearly.

  Though it was so late, the lights of the Fitzpatrick house still gleamed softly through the white curtains. She saw a woman’s shadow flit across the window of the small upstairs hall. It jolted her. She had forgotten about Elsie’s struggle to bring her baby into the world.

  The panting cries of a mother giving birth and the mumble of other women’s voices hit her ears the moment she opened the door. From the kitchen came the rumble of men’s voices, and she presumed that John had a friend sitting with him to sustain him through the birth. He heard her entry and came out to meet her. Behind him she caught a glimpse of one of the older fishermen who also lived in The Cockle Hole.

  Whether it was because he had company or had been drinking fender ale, John looked fairly cheerful as he greeted her.

  ‘El
sie said as you was to have a fresh cup o’ tea when you come in. Would you like one, Miss? It’d be no trouble – I’m up for the night, anyways.’

  She stared at him, as if she had not taken in what he had said. She looked so desolate that he wondered if Ould Biggs had indeed found her tubercular – Elsie had told him where she had gone. She swallowed and responded with an effort, ‘I would, John. I’d be most grateful.’ She hesitated, and then inquired, ‘Do you happen to have any rum? If you do, could I buy a thimbleful from you?’

  ‘I don’t, Miss. But I bet Ben here has. He can usually find a bit of brandy or rum for any as wants it.’

  Even in her misery, Wallace Helena felt a quirk of humour, as she undertook to buy a small bottle of top-quality Jamaica rum from a smuggler. But she needed something to ease her sense of helpless shock. A few minutes of complete abandon had cost her her future. Even if she went home, would Joe believe the child to be his? She had not lain with anyone else, so it was his, conceived during a mad night in a noisy hotel in Calgary, while they waited for the train to take her to Montreal. For the first time, she had ignored the careful count she had always kept of the natural cycle of her menstruation. Like her mother, she had had no desire to bring children into her hard, relentless world. And no amount of importuning had made her break that rigid rule; not until she had been faced with parting from Joe for the first time since she was twelve, she thought. And she sensed again his anxiety at the long journey she was undertaking. Even then he had been afraid that she would not return, she remembered.

  And she had promised that she would come back, that all she wanted to do in England was to see that she was not being cheated over the sale of the soap works.

  Because of the slowness in obtaining Probate, she had remained in England much longer than she had intended, long enough to realize the comfort that life in Liverpool offered, long enough to make her want Joe to join her there. What a stupid hope! Every letter that Joe wrote asked her when she was coming back; and his jealousy, when she mentioned the men she had met, was clear in every word. He had ignored the letter in which she had first slyly mentioned the possibility of his coming to England; neither had she received a reply to her direct question in a later letter.