Yes, Mama

by Helen Forrester

  ‘I thought, perhaps, Fanny could do it, for once. Mam’s real ill – she wouldn’t send otherwise.’

  ‘Fanny is too clumsy – and I am sure other members of your family can care for your mother for a few hours.’ Elizabeth was shaking with anger. ‘If you must go home, you may go immediately after you have brought in the tea and coffee trays. Fanny can clear up afterwards. But make sure you are back in time to take Miss Alicia to school in the morning.’

  Polly kept her eyes down, so that Elizabeth should not see the bitter anger seething in her. I’ll get another job, I will, she raged inwardly. Friend? She’s no friend. Aloud, she said, ‘Yes,’m. Thank you, Ma’am.’

  As she got the claret glasses out of the glass cupboard, she cried unrestrainedly for fear of what might have happened to her mother.

  When she went down to the basement kitchen, it was in turmoil. Mrs Tibbs missed not having a kitchen-maid and she still tended to lean on Fanny for help. Fanny worked hard. During the day, she still had to carry hods of coal to all the fireplaces in the house, in addition to her cleaning duties as housemaid. Though she resented the totality of her work, she was, like Polly, thankful to be reasonably fed and warm under a mistress who did not usually penetrate to the kitchen. Polly, also, found herself hard-pressed to keep up with the work of parlourmaid and take care of Alicia, as well as do the extensive mending required and the careful pressing of Elizabeth’s elaborate dresses, while Humphrey strove to keep the costs of his household down.

  Today, his housekeeper-cook, Mrs Tibbs, usually fairly calm, was in full spate in the steaming kitchen. She shouted to a reluctant Fanny to fill up the hot water tank by the blazing fire and then to peel the potatoes. The light of the fire danced on her sweating face, as she tasted the mock turtle soup and added a quick shake of pepper to it.

  Polly was weeping as she came through the door, and Mrs Tibbs, Fanny and Alicia all looked up. They listened in shocked silence as Polly told them what Elizabeth had said about her going to her mother. Polly turned to Fanny. ‘Could you manage the clearing up, Fan?’

  ‘’Course I can, duck. Mrs Tibbs and me – we’ll manage, won’t we, Mrs Tibbs?’

  ‘I’m sure I don’t know how – but we will,’ sighed Mrs Tibbs. She picked up a ladle and opened the big, iron oven at the side of the fireplace to baste the joint of beef in it. Then she carefully closed the door on it again. She turned to Polly, who was wiping her eyes with a corner of her apron. ‘Now, Polly, make yourself tidy again, and then you could beat the cream for the trifle – and give Miss Alicia her tea.’

  Alicia had come forward to watch Mrs Tibbs deal with the meat. The cook asked her, ‘Would you like a bit of our Shepherd’s Pie, luv?’

  ‘Yes, please, Mrs Tibbs. Can’t I help you – or do some of the dishes for Fanny?’

  Mrs Tibbs smiled at her. ‘No, luv. It wouldn’t be proper. Your Mam wouldn’t like it.’

  So Polly carried a tray containing Shepherd’s Pie and trifle up to the nursery – Mrs Tibbs had made the dessert in a little glass dish specially for Alicia.

  As Polly put the tray down in front of her, Alicia asked, ‘Why doesn’t Mama let me come down to dinner, now? All the girls at school have dinner with their parents. I’m nearly grown up – and it would save you such a lot of running up and down, Polly.’ She shook out her table napkin and put it on her lap. ‘I could even eat my meals in the kitchen with you and the others. And, you know, I could have helped Mrs Tibbs today, so as to free Fanny to wait at table.’

  ‘Bless your lovin’ heart.’ Polly bent and gave her a quick kiss on the top of her flaxen head. Then she hastily rewound the plaits of her own hair more tightly and settled a clean cap on top of them, while she considered how to answer the girl.

  ‘It’s not proper for you to eat with the servants, luv. And your Papa gets cross very quickly, as you well know. So your Mam probably wants him to have his dinner quiet, like.’

  ‘I don’t think it’s because of that, because I can be as quiet as a mouse. I think they don’t like me, not even Mama. There must be something wrong with me.’

  ‘Och, no! Parents always like their kids,’ Polly lied.

  ‘Well, I don’t understand why I can’t be with them.’

  No you don’t, thanks be, thought Polly. I’d hate you to find out. She was anxious to get back to her work, but Alicia was following her own line of thought, so she lingered for a moment, as the child asked her, ‘Do you think Mama would be grumpy, if I asked Mrs Tibbs to teach me to cook? Some of the girls at school are learning from their Mamas. You see, I could then help Mrs Tibbs.’ She looked earnestly up from her dinner.

  ‘Well, you could ask your Mam. But don’t say nothin’ about helpin’ – she might not like that.’

  ‘Surely I can help a friend?’

  Polly did not respond. She merely said she must get back to the kitchen and fled before she had to explain the limit of friends allowed to little girls.

  Alicia licked both sides of her trifle spoon and sadly scraped the empty dish. She put the dish back on to the tray. As she slowly folded up her napkin and pushed it into the ivory ring which Edward had sent her from India, she thought there was no explaining the idiosyncrasies of parents. She leaned back in her chair and her lips began to tremble – she wanted to cry. It was so strange that the other girls at school had parties at Christmas and birthdays and went on holidays with their mothers and fathers, and no such things ever happened to her – she was not even taken shopping by her mother – Polly took her to Miss Bloom, the dressmaker, to have her dresses and coats fitted, or to Granby Street to buy the few Christmas gifts she did not make herself. Polly even took her to All Saints Church most Sunday mornings.

  She got out her spelling book to do her homework for the following day. But the letters seemed to jump erratically, as she realized suddenly that not only had she never given a party; she had never been invited to any other girls’ parties, either.

  Chapter Eight

  I

  James Tyson did not take much notice of his wife, Bridie’s, complaints of fatigue and of pain in her legs; women always complained of their feet and that they were tired. He himself suffered chronic pain in his back, a relic of his work as a docker; it made it impossible, now, for him to find work, except occasionally as a nightwatchman. It was Bridie selling her rags and old buttons in the market who kept them from starvation. When one morning she failed to get up in time for the opening of the market, it was suddenly brought home to him that her complaints were not the usual ones.

  ‘Me head,’ she nearly screamed to him. ‘It’s me head!’

  She was hot with fever, so a worried James suggested that she should go to the public Dispensary to ask for medicine.

  ‘I couldn’t walk it,’ she gasped. ‘I’ll be better later on.’

  James woke Billy and sent him off to work; he had a job cleaning up after the horses in a stable belonging to a warehouse. On the way, James said, he was to call in on his sister, Mary, and ask her to come to her mother. Mary arrived at Bridie’s bedside half an hour later, her newest baby tucked inside her shawl. She was followed by her daughter, Theresa, a fourteen-year-old who plied the streets at night. They both stared down at Bridie tossing on her truckle bed; neither knew what to do.

  Finally, Mary sent James upstairs to the tap in the court, to get some water to bathe Bridie’s face with. ‘Looks as if she’s got the flu,’ she suggested, as she handed her baby to Theresa to hold.

  Nobody else attempted to put a name to the fever; there were all kinds of fevers, and people either got better from them or they died. And pain such as Bridie’s was something you put up with.

  The news went round the court that Billy Tyson’s Mam had the flu. Nobody wanted to catch it, so they stayed away. James went to peddle Bridie’s fents in the market.

  Word that Bridie had the flu very badly reached her Great-aunt Kitty, who lived in the next court. She hobbled down the stairs from the attic in which she lived and, slow
ly and painfully, dragged her arthritic limbs into the Tysons’ cellar room. She was panting with the effort as James, returned from the market, made her welcome; few people knew as much about sickness as Great-aunt Kitty did. She pushed her black shawl back from her bald head and bent over to talk to the patient.

  ‘’Ow you feelin’, Bridie?’ she croaked.

  Her eyes wide and unblinking, Bridie tossed and muttered unceasingly.

  ‘Lemme closer,’ the old lady commanded Mary. ‘And give me the candle so I can see proper.’

  As was the custom, Bridie still had her clothes on; clothes kept you warm at night as well as in the daytime. Only her boots had been removed, to show black woollen stockings with holes in the heels and toes.

  As she shuffled closer to the bed, the old lady muttered, ‘Well, it int cholera, praise be, or she’d be dead by now. Is ’er stummick running?’

  ‘No. She ain’t even pissed.’

  Aunt Kitty paused and looked up at Mary. ‘She truly ’asn’t?’

  ‘No. Not a drop. I bin ’ere all day.’

  ‘That’s bad.’ Aunt Kitty bent still lower, the candle dripping wax on Bridie’s blouse, while she lifted the sufferer’s chin and held it firmly in order to take a good look at her face. ‘Lord presairve us!’ she exclaimed. She touched a dark encrustration at the corners of Bridie’s mouth, and then drew back thoughtfully.

  She turned to Billy and James and ordered, ‘You turn your backs. I’m goin’ to take a real look at ’er all over.’

  Filled with apprehension, Billy followed his father’s example.

  Great-aunt Kitty gestured towards Mary with the candle. ‘Lift up her skirts. I want to see her stummick.’

  Mary hesitated, her brown eyes wide with fear of what her great-aunt might deduce.

  ‘Come on, girl.’

  Kitty was said to be a witch, so rather than be cursed, Mary did as she was bidden, though she felt it wicked to expose her mother so.

  Underneath the black woollen skirt were the ragged remains of a black and white striped petticoat. Mary lifted this and her mother’s stomach was exposed; she wore nothing else, other than her stockings.

  Holding the candle so that it did not drip on Bridie’s bare flesh, Kitty ran her fingers over the sick woman’s stomach. She bent down to peer very carefully at it. Beneath the grime, she was able to see dark red blotches. Her lips tightened over her toothless mouth.

  She felt down the rigid legs and her sly old face, for once, showed only a terrible sadness. Very gently she took the petticoat and skirt hems from Mary’s fingers and laid them back over Bridie. ‘You can look now,’ she told the male members of the family.

  While she made her examination, James had retreated to the back of the tiny room. Now she turned to him.

  ‘’Ad any rats ’ere lately?’

  ‘There’s always rats, you know that,’ growled James.

  ‘Hm.’

  Billy interjected, ‘Mam found a near-dead one in the court a while back. Proper huge it were – like a cat. She threw it in the midden with the rubbish.’

  ‘I knew it,’ muttered Great-aunt Kitty. ‘I seen it before. She’s got gaol fever, God help us all.’

  A hissing sigh of fear went through the other members of the family.

  ‘Typhus?’ James whispered.

  ‘Aye. Haven’t seen it for a while. But I seen lots of it in me time.’

  ‘What’ll we do?’

  ‘Doctor from Dispensary might come.’

  ‘They’ll be shut by now.’

  ‘Well, first light tomorrer, you go after ’em. Aye, this’ll cause a pile of trouble.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘They’ll burn everythin’ you got, to stop it spreadin’.’ She pointed to Bridie, still staring at the blackened rafters above her head and chattering incoherently. ‘They’ll take ’er to the Infirmary no doubt – keep ’er away by herself.’

  ‘To die by herself?’ James was aghast.

  That’s wot ’ospitals is for, int it? To die in.’ She gave a dry, sardonic laugh. ‘They daren’t leave ’er here, ’cos everybody in the court could get it from her.’

  ‘Christ!’ He rubbed his face with his hands. ‘Are you certain sure?’

  ‘Aye, I’m sure.’ She hesitated, and then said, ‘Well – almost.’ She looked round the little room, lit only by the candle in her hand, at its dirty brick walls, its earthen floor, its empty firegrate. ‘And you take care o’ yourself and our Bill,’ she warned. ‘Take all your clothes off and wash ’em, and kill every bloody louse and flea you can find. The cleaner you are, the better you’ll be.’ She turned to Mary, and asked, ‘Anybody else bin in here?’

  ‘Our Theresa and the baby was here. I sent ’em home just now.’ Mary began to cry.

  ‘Well, you got a copper in your house. You go home and put all your clothes in it – and Theresa’s and the baby’s and our Billy’s and your Dad’s stuff. And boil the lot real hard.’ She looked disparagingly at the fat, rather stupid girl in front of her. ‘And if it’s wool and it can’t be boiled, borrow an iron and iron it well. Go over all the seams – with a good, hot iron, mind you.’

  She turned back to Bridie, who periodically was letting out short shrieks. She put her hand on her niece’s forehead again, and then turned to James. ‘See if you can get a bit of milk from somewhere and feed it to her.’ She swung back to Mary and snarled at her, ‘Stop wingeing.’

  Mary sniffed and wiped her face with the end of her shawl. She cast a glance of pure hatred at the humped back bent once more over Bridie; witches ought to be burned, in her opinion. Aloud she said, ‘I’ll go and get the fire lit under the copper. Tell our Billy to come straight over to our ’ouse – I’ll do ’im first. While the water’s gettin’ hot, I’ll run back with a bit of conny-onny for Mam.’

  Kitty straightened up and sighed. She felt around in her skirt pocket and brought out a penny. ‘Get a pennorth o’ fresh milk, as you go by Mike’s dairy. Conny-onny int goin’ to do her much good.’

  With a pout, Mary took the proffered coin, said goodbye to her father and clumped up the steps to the court.

  ‘I’ll stay for a while,’ the old woman told James, who had moved closer to look anxiously at his tossing wife. ‘Gi’ me a chair, Jamie boy.’

  James hastily moved a small stool closer to the bed and she slowly lowered herself on to it. ‘’Ave you got any firing? I could use a cup o’ tea.’

  ‘Aye, I got some driftwood.’ He took the water bucket up to the court to draw water for tea from the common tap.

  Crouched against a wall, Billy had listened dumbly to Great-aunt Kitty’s diagnosis. His mother was his world. Sharp-tongued and quick to slap, nevertheless, she kept the family together. Without her, there was only darkness. Now he crept forward, to ask, ’is she goin’ to die, Aunty?’

  His great-aunt looked up at him from her stool, her bloodshot eyes glittering in their black hollows. ‘Coom ’ere, duck.’

  The lad moved closer to her, and she put a long bony arm round him. ‘She might,’ she said. ‘She ’asn’t got no strength.’

  Billy began to blubber like a small boy, while his mother raved on her bed. ‘Na, then, luv.’ Great-aunt Kitty’s arm tightened round him. ‘There’s a time when all of us has to go. You must pray nobody else gets it.’ She sighed. ‘Your Pa should’ve asked the Dispensary for ’elp before.’

  ‘Mam didn’t want ’im to. She’s afraid of us all endin’ up in the Workie.’

  The very word ‘Workhouse’ was enough to make anybody panic, thought Great-aunt Kitty, so she nodded understandingly.

  ‘Well she is real ill now, lad, and the Dispensary is the only one what might save her.’

  II

  Wrapped in a black woollen shawl, her straw hat skewered by two huge hatpins to the top of her plaited hair, Polly ran through the ill-lit city. Though she was by no means young she was nervous in the Woodmans’ neighbourhood of being cornered by half-drunk, smartly dressed men out for an evening’
s entertainment; further into the city itself, prostitutes paraded followed closely by their pimps, all of them anxious to defend their own particular territory. As she cut through side streets to reach her home near the junction of Scotland Road and Cazneau Street, homeless men dozing in doorways called to her, and an occasional group of seamen on shore leave shouted after her. She gave them all wide berth.

  The narrow street off which the court led was almost dead dark, and she feared she might not find the entrance. As she passed, she let her fingertips brush along the rough brick wall, watching that she did not trip over front steps which occasionally protruded on to the pavement.

  A slight difference in the light and nothing under her fingertips told her that she had found the narrow archway.

  As she entered, the smell hit her, the appalling reek of the midden full of a month’s rubbish and the overflowing earth lavatories. Very faintly, from the steps leading down to the cellar, came the glow of a candle. She walked lightly towards it, afraid of slipping on the cobblestones, greasy from half a century of filth. Then she ran down the narrow outside staircase and into the room.

  Though there were only three of them, the cellar seemed full of women, wrapped in their black, crocheted shawls, all watching tearfully, as her mother on her straw mattress muttered softly. The light of the solitary candle barely reached her father, who was pacing up and down a narrow space by the fireplace. He was beating his breast with one clenched fist, in time to the movement of his feet. Crouched on another palliasse laid on the floor, his head against the wall, Billy dozed, his tousled hair shadowing his face.

  Polly’s quick footsteps on the stairs woke the boy, and all heads turned towards her.

  Polly had eyes only for her mother, and the women edged back as she ran to the narrow bed and flung herself on her knees by it. ‘Holy Mary!’ she breathed, as she saw the black-encrusted mouth and the frightening staring eyes. She laid her arm round her mother’s head and whispered, ‘Mam.’

  Bridie ignored her, and continued to toss and mutter with an occasional near shout.