Rich Girl, Poor Girl

by Eileen Ramsay

  ‘Sorry to disturb you, Doctor Graham.’ Isa had come out without their being aware of it, so engrossed were they in the fate of the trees. ‘There’s a person to see you, doctor. I’ve left her on the step.’

  Lucy looked at her in some surprise. Usually Isa showed visitors into one of the waiting rooms, but this ‘person’ was obviously so disreputable that she had deemed it better to leave her outside the very door of the house.

  ‘I hope she’s not ill, Isa.’

  ‘Not unless light fingers is a disease, doctor. She looks no better than she should, and I told her if she had to see you she could wait till I found if you were available. She’s probably gone by now.’

  Lucy was annoyed with her maid’s officiousness. ‘I sincerely hope not, Isa. This house is open to everyone. Bring her into the morning room and I’ll see her there. Go ahead and do what you think best with the trees, Donald,’ she said and hurried back into the house.

  In a few minutes an unrepentant Isa was showing in a type of woman with whom her employer was only too familiar.

  ‘How sheltered does Isa believe medical training to be?’ thought Lucy with an inward laugh and went forward to put her frightened caller – for she was very frightened – at ease.

  ‘Do sit down, Mrs . . .’ she began.

  ‘It’s miss, miss. I mean I’m Miss Nesbitt, doctor. I’m fine, doctor, not ill. I’ve come about pair wee Heather. She telt her sister whae telt me, us being on the same stair.’

  Lucy looked at her in bewilderment for a moment. Never would she have considered that there might be a social connection between a woman like Heather Bell and the sorry woman who stood before her now. Miss Bell was obviously from the working class, but in every way she was superior to this Miss Nesbitt.

  ‘Miss Bell?’ she asked.

  ‘Aye, and I can see hoo you’re wonderin’ how me and Heather even kens one another. It’s men, doctor, men that’s the ruin o’ us all. Janet’s Heather’s wee sister, and she lives up meh stair. Her man’s useless. Never worked a day in his life, but he’s that bonnie Janet fell for him, mair fool her. Onyway. E’ll look after them, the auld ones, while Heather has a bit rest.’ She lifted up a sad face and looked the doctor directly in the eye. ‘You can tell my life history, I’ve nae doubt, doctor, but I’m clean in my person and in my cooking. I’ve had my lumps, same as everybody, but I have time tae help my neighbour if she’ll let me.’ The speech had obviously exhausted as much control over her nerves as Miss Nesbitt had, and she began to shake and Lucy was stirred with compassion. The woman’s body and dress were, indeed, relatively clean. Neither met her standards and they obviously offended Isa’s but they were respectable.

  ‘If you can persuade Miss Bell to take up your offer, Miss Nesbitt, I will do my best to see that she has a place in the hospital. You are very kind.’

  The woman blushed but she was in control again. ‘Oh, we all help wir neighbours up the Hilltown. They’d do the same for me.’

  *

  When she had gone, Lucy went back to the garden and Elsie Nesbitt walked back up the town with a light step. What a lot she would have to tell Rosie! It had taken great courage to go to see the aristocratic young lady doctor in her beautiful house at the West End, not an area of Dundee that Elsie was in the habit of frequenting. She was walking to save the tram fare, but suddenly she decided to splurge. She went into a café and bought a buster, that delicious supper of peas and chipped potatoes that the Dundonians loved. As she walked along eating her chips, there was a new spring in her step. She had actually seen the new lady doctor, had sat down in the same room with her and they had talked. One day, at last she believed that it was possible. One day soon, Rosie would be just like her. She wouldn’t talk so posh, but she’d be far prettier; they didn’t come much prettier than Rosie. And would she have a maid, a frozen-faced woman like that Mrs Murray who had looked down her nose at Elsie Nesbitt? You bet she would. But her mother wouldn’t see it.

  ‘I’ll never embarrass you, Rosie, love, not in places like that. Now I’ve seen it, I’ll keep it in my mind and picture you in a gown like that, sitting in a chair like that, having old sour-face and everybody else call you doctor.’

  Elsie felt good. Might as well earn a few bob since she was all dressed up and nowhere to go. She thought for a minute, finished her buster, and turned off the main street into one of the narrow streets that laced themselves like a spider-web behind the smart face of the town.

  8

  Dundee, 1897

  ‘YOU MUST COME. Just think. A stately home, well almost, but more importantly, Rosie, glorious free food and lots of it.’

  Rose Nesbitt had long ago trained her stomach not to expect too much food; she remained unimpressed. ‘There’s too much work to do.’ She gestured towards the pile of books beside her under the tree.

  Mary Black arched her back in an almost wanton gesture and held up her pale face to the sun. ‘There will always be too much work to do. That’s the profession we’ve chosen.’ She sagged back against the trunk of the tree. ‘Rosie, there’s a man, an older man, just the way you like them.’

  ‘Harmless,’ laughed Rosie. ‘In his dotage?’

  ‘Gorgeous.’

  Rose sighed. She was not interested in men; the only two she had ever liked were Frazer and old Wishy. She never stopped to analyse that she liked them because she felt completely safe with them. Frazer was her brother, and as for old Wishy? He was far too old for any of that nonsense. ‘Who is this Kier Anderson-Howard?’ she asked. ‘Already I don’t like him.’

  ‘You don’t like his name. It’s the little hyphen that bothers you.’

  ‘Utter pretension. He should be Anderson or Howard; not both.’

  ‘Don’t fight with me, Rosie,’ laughed Mary. ‘It has something to do with money. Either an Anderson or Howard heiress wouldn’t marry unless they got to keep their name.’

  ‘Then I shall marry him,’ joked Rosie, ‘and insist that Nesbitt be added too. Anderson-Howard-Nesbitt. Nesbitt-Anderson-Howard.’ She played with the variations and then, serious again, asked, ‘But why are they dispensing largesse to the women students?’

  ‘His parents are rolling in money, absolutely amazingly rich, and his mother is on the board or something like that. They wanted to have annual garden parties but he got wounded or something; he’s a soldier, or was. Now he’s on the mend.’

  ‘I’ve never met a soldier.’

  ‘Then you’ll come?’

  But Rosie would not be drawn. Graduation with her first degree and matriculation into the medical faculty was so close, so very close that sometimes she woke from an exhausted sleep terrified that the struggle of the past ten years was all a nightmare and that she was not a student at the world-famous University of St Andrews but Rosie Nesbitt, mill-worker.

  As usual Ma was waiting at the station to walk up the road with her, to share the load of books.

  ‘Maybe somebody’ll think I can read them,’ she had joked and Rosie had laughed with her, but had understood that her mother really would like to have been able to read and understand the material in the heavy old volumes.

  ‘And what did you learn the day, hen?’

  ‘I had only one lecture today, Ma. Mary and I sat under a tree and studied.’

  ‘Aye, you look the better for a wee bit sun. I bet Mary does tae. Awfie pasty-faced, that lassie.’

  ‘She invited me to a party.’

  ‘What like party could Mary Brown have?’

  ‘Well, it’s not her exactly, but she lives in, remember, and she hears everything that’s going on. Seemingly some rich family near the town is giving a party for this graduating class.’

  Elsie knew better than to say outright that Rosie should attend the party. That would make her daughter think of a dozen suitable excuses not to go.

  ‘In their hoos, Rosie, a grand hoos. My, would I love to be invited to a grand hoos.’

  ‘I don’t really have much time for parties, Ma.’ Rosie w
as weakening. ‘There is so little time left before my finals. Besides, I have nothing to wear. I can hardly go in my gown.’

  The red gown had saved the pride of many a St Andrews student through the years. Costly garments and the threadbare were equally hidden by the thick red wool.

  Wisely Elsie said no more, but next afternoon she went up and down the Hilltown, stopping first at Gallagher’s.

  Gallagher was usually happy to have the attentions of someone reasonably clean. ‘I’ve no the notion, Elsie, but I’ll be bursting for it the nicht.’

  ‘I’m needing money noo, Sandy.’

  ‘One o’ the bairns?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Get yoursel’ spayed, Elsie,’ said the big man, reaching into his till. ‘I’ll want full value for that, after closing time.’

  Closing time. She was too old to stay awake till the small hours. Clutching the coins, Elsie went out. If she could find what she needed, then she could sleep all afternoon and thus be ready to fulfil her part of the bargain.

  She was at the station when the train from Leuchars pulled in but said nothing about her purchases. It was only after Rosie had eaten the simple supper of skirlie and mashed potatoes that she brought them into the front room.

  ‘Look what I found up the Hilltown,’ she said as she saw her daughter put the heavy books on the table when the meal had been cleared away. ‘I thought you might like it for your graduation.’ She did not add that the second-or-was-it-third-hand dress would be perfect for a party in a grand house.

  Rosie’s heart sank. She had innate good taste and everything in her told her that the dress was a disaster. At least it was not a flamboyant red; it was a demi-mourning gown, a lilac silk dress worn by the respectable in that period when good manners decreed that they might leave off their blacks but not return to flattering colour.

  ‘It’s a wee bit big and the colour’s no’ your best, but there’s only the one darn in it, Rosie. Heather Bell would take it in for you. The material’s bonny.’

  And it was. It was pure silk and the feel of it as it caught in her rough hands was sensuous.

  ‘Real silk,’ breathed Rosie as she gently laid it aside. ‘It’s lovely, Ma.’ She did not add that the dress was more suitable for her mother’s age than her own, and she did not waste time wishing she had skill with a needle for she would certainly not bother her mother’s friend Heather. Heather spent six days a week sewing. Leave her her evenings. Rose Nesbitt herself had always been too busy acquiring knowledge to acquire any domestic skills and, goodness knows, Ma had learned few of the arts that turn the simplest house into a welcoming home or a too-big dress into something suitable for a first party. She would go to the party, for it was only too obvious that Elsie needed the second-hand pleasure of hearing about a grand ‘hoos’. Anyway, what did it matter? There would be no one at the party whose opinion Rosie valued.

  Charabancs were hired to convey the parties of students to Laverock Rising, the house where the party was to be held. It was a fine summer day and the clouds that had hung threateningly over St Andrews all morning obligingly lifted to allow a rather weak sun to warm their spirits. Rosie was small and, pressed into the third row of seats facing the driver’s broad green back, she saw very little of the Fife countryside and did not really care to sway so high above the ground. The carriages had stopped before the imposing Georgian front of the house before she was aware that they had reached their destination.

  She stood on the gravel carriage sweep, her too-big hat slightly tipped over one eye by the proximity and exuberance of her companions, looking bewildered and, to Kier Anderson-Howard, totally adorable. Every protective instinct, long buried, came rushing to the surface and he hurried over to her as she stood, almost swaying, too close to the hind quarters of the rear horses.

  ‘Stupid brutes, horses,’ he said in the voice of one who loved them and accepted all their little foibles. ‘They get very nervous when they feel something at their . . . back ends.’ He took her arm and quite naturally she clung to it for a moment as the world righted itself.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said in a soft voice. ‘I’m not used to charabancs.’

  ‘They do swing about a bit, don’t they? Kier Anderson-Howard,’ he introduced himself. ‘May I get you some lemonade . . . and you too, of course,’ he smiled at Mary who had materialized behind Rosie.

  ‘Mary Black,’ said Mary. ‘My friend is Miss Nesbitt, Rose Nesbitt.’

  ‘Rose,’ he said. ‘Of course.’

  ‘He’s taken with you, Rosie,’ said Mary as their host went off to fetch the lemonade. ‘You’ve landed the biggest fish.’

  Rosie shuddered in distaste. For someone who had grown up in a home owned and occupied by her family, Mary was sometimes amazingly coarse.

  ‘You should have told him your name, Rosie,’ said Mary. ‘You don’t mind my saying, do you, but when someone introduces themselves, you tell them your name.’

  ‘Perhaps I didn’t want him to know it,’ lied Rosie. Mary smiled. ‘You are clever,’ she breathed and turned to their returned host. ‘Oh, this is lovely,’ she said. ‘Isn’t it, Rosie?’

  Rose sipped from the glass and, completely unaware of the power of her eyes, looked at Kier over the brim. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘I feel better now.’

  ‘May I show you the gardens, Miss Nesbitt, and you too, Miss Black? I believe my mother is on the front lawn, and tea will be there later. I hope you’ll feel like a little something.’ He smiled down at Rosie. ‘Mother’s cook has been baking for days. She is so excited by the thought of all you wonderfully well-educated young women. What are you planning to do with your degree, Miss Nesbitt?’

  As Rosie had dared to take a second sip from her glass just as he spoke, she was unable to answer and Mary spoke for them both.

  ‘We’re going to be doctors.’

  Kier stopped walking. ‘By all that’s wonderful,’ he said. ‘Doctors! My best friend is a doctor. Jenny,’ he called to a hurrying maidservant, ‘has Doctor Graham arrived yet?’

  ‘Doctor’ll be later, Mister Kier. There’s been an emergency.’

  ‘You see the life you’ve chosen, ladies. Every minute at the beck and call of your profession.’

  He led them to a garden seat and solicitously helped Rosie to sit down. He looked down at her with regret. How he wished she would raise those eyes to him again. Every atom of his being asked him to stay with her and to protect her. She was so small, so vulnerable; her frailty, and the colour and style of the too-big dress suggested that she was in mourning, for a father perhaps. Her voice, with the broad Scots words aching to get out, told him her social class. ‘And yet, she’s struggling to become a doctor,’ he thought to himself in admiration.

  ‘I’m afraid I must greet some of our other guests,’ he told the girls, ‘but I’ll certainly look out for you both later. You must meet Doctor Graham.’

  ‘We’ve landed on our feet here, Rosie,’ said Mary as they watched the elegant figure move away. ‘The son of the house for you, and it looks like a man for me as well.’

  ‘A doctor in his dotage, Mary? You must be desperate.’

  ‘He’s not that old: must be early thirties. And just think how useful a fully qualified doctor could be.’

  Rosie frowned. That thought had entered her head. She pushed it away. ‘Come on, Mary. We’re doing this all by ourselves. Rights for women: votes for women.’ She stood up. ‘Some tea on the lawn, Doctor Black?’

  Mary laughed. ‘How too, too thrilling, dear Doctor Nesbitt.’

  *

  Kier spent the next hour being the perfect host and neither his parents nor any of their excited guests realized that his mind was firmly fixed on a small figure smelling faintly of mothballs. Rose’s nose was so full of the smells of the closie and of the jute-filled air of Dundee that she had not noticed the slight odour hanging on her gown.

  ‘Either she is so poor that she had to buy the dress second-hand for her mourning period,’ thou
ght Kier, ‘or she has been given it by some kindly neighbour.’ Never could he have guessed that it had been bought with the sole aim of dazzling him, although poor Elsie had not known for sure but had only hoped that he might exist.

  He looked for Rosie as soon as manners decently allowed. She was in the middle and yet somehow slightly apart from a large group of her fellow students, and he had time to admire her small profile. ‘She’s like a bird,’ he thought and looked down at his hands. ‘I could circle her waist with these. How can she ever withstand the rigours of medical school . . . the horrors of the wards?’

  ‘Miss Nesbitt.’ He drew her aside. ‘Doctor Graham has not yet arrived but I should like to introduce you to my parents – and you too, of course, Miss Black.’

  Mary at least went with him willingly enough, although Rosie would have preferred to stay safely on the lawn admiring the trees and the beautifully laid-out and well-stocked flower gardens. She had learned Latin and Greek and Mathematics and for the last three years she had read great literature and history, but no one had ever told her how to speak to someone who owned a house like this one, a house bigger by far than the entire closie where several families lived. Rosie had got into the habit of holding herself slightly apart, listening and saying little and trying, trying hard to learn, stumbling sometimes as she struggled to develop taste. She could argue that such small matters were of little value, and of no value at all to a doctor who was going to work with the poor who would know no better than she, but, she realized as she walked by Kier Anderson-Howard’s side on his family’s immaculately cared for lawn, she wanted to feel at ease here, she wanted to belong. She held her chin up and straightened her spine and so, when she met Kier’s parents, she did not look frail and helpless but hard and belligerent.

  ‘How do you do, Miss Nesbitt, Miss Black.’

  ‘How do you do, Mrs Anderson-Howard,’ said Mary. ‘How very kind of you to have us here.’

  Rosie was tongue-tied. ‘How do you do’ sounded stupid – was that really what you were supposed to reply? – and she could think of nothing to say at all. She watched the easy and perhaps too familiar way in which Mary chatted to Kier’s parents and she desperately tried to unlock her jaws. She walked with them to the huge marquee for tea, and here was another insurmountable problem. How do you eat a sandwich and hold a cup and saucer at the same time? She clung to the saucer and prayed that she would not drop it; only once before had she held such fine china. She could not believe that this was what they used in the garden. Rosie was not enjoying her first garden party.