She had enlisted the help of a neighbour to drag in the old tin tub from the yard, even though the man had laughed and said, ‘Tha’ll niver get him in that, nurse!’
‘We’ll see,’ Agnes had replied grimly, taking off her cuffs and rolling up her sleeves.
It had taken endless boiling of kettles to fill the tub. She had added a generous splash of Lysol, and warmed the towels by the fire. Everything was in place, and now all she needed was someone to wash.
But Mr Shapcott wasn’t coming out.
She pressed her ear up against the door. She could hear him shuffling about in there, so at least he was still alive. Agnes could only imagine Bess Bradshaw’s face if she’d returned to Steeple Street with the news that she’d accidentally managed to suffocate a patient while trying to give them a bath.
‘You can’t stay in there for ever, Mr Shapcott,’ Agnes pleaded with him. ‘It can’t be very comfortable for you.’
‘I’m all right,’ a muffled voice insisted stubbornly from the other side of the door.
‘Why won’t you just have a bath? I’m sure you’d enjoy it.’ There was no reply. Agnes sighed. ‘All right,’ she said. ‘Have it your own way, I won’t waste any more time on you.’
She stepped away from the door and made a great show of getting her things ready. ‘Can you hear me, Mr Shapcott? I’m leaving now. You can come out. I’ll see you next week.’
‘Not if I see thee first!’
Mr Shapcott wasn’t a trusting soul, and it was a full two minutes before Agnes finally heard the cupboard door creak open. She lurked in the shadows, ready to pounce.
By the time he spotted her bag sitting on the table it was too late for him. Agnes jumped out from behind him, wrapping her arms around him and trapping him.
He was so small she could almost pick him up, but he fought like a demon, kicking and twisting in her arms.
‘Help! Help!’ he shrieked. ‘Someone help me, I’m having a heart attack!’
‘No, you’re not,’ Agnes said, hanging on grimly, ‘you’re having a bath.’
She hauled him across the room, a tangle of flailing limbs. Close to, the stench of stale urine, sweat and filth coming off him made her feel sick. She managed to wrestle him over to the fireside, and dumped him in a chair.
‘There,’ she said. ‘Now sit down.’
He tried made to make a run for it, but Agnes stood over him. ‘Don’t you dare,’ she warned. ‘You’re not moving until I’ve had a good look at you.’
To her amazement, he complied, sitting still and quiet, his hands gripping the sides of the chair. Agnes could see his bright eyes darting as she inspected his hair.
‘Just as I thought,’ she said. ‘You’re crawling with lice. I’ll have to shave your head.’
‘Nay!’ he protested. ‘Tha’ll not scalp me. Tha’ll not! And tha’ll not bath me neither. I won’t have it!’
‘Oh, come on, Mr Shapcott, it’s only a bath. And you’ll feel so much better afterwards. Come on, let’s get this shirt off.’
She made a move towards him and he suddenly went hysterical. ‘Nay, nay!’ he screamed, flailing his arms. Agnes tried to dodge out of the way but he caught her with one hand, his long, thick yellow nails clawing the side of her face.
‘Ow!’ Agnes jumped back, her hand to her cheek.
She expected Mr Shapcott to make another run for it, but he sat rigid in his chair, staring at the floor.
‘You can blame yoursen,’ he muttered under his breath. ‘I told thee I didn’t want no bath.’
Agnes’ ears were ringing. She forgot her own rules about avoiding contact with the furniture, and sank down into an armchair.
Mr Shapcott was looking at her out of the corner of his eye. ‘What’s up wi’ thee?’ he asked.
‘I’m all right. I just need to sit down for a moment.’ She took her hand away from her face. Her palm was sticky with blood.
She heard footsteps scuttling across the stone-flagged floor. Mr Shapcott was going to his hiding place again, but this time she really didn’t care. If he disliked baths as much as that, she wasn’t going to risk life and limb giving him one.
But then her nostrils were filled with the overpowering stench of Isaiah Shapcott, and she knew he was standing over her. She felt the cool of a damp cloth being pressed to her temple.
‘For t’bleeding,’ he mumbled.
‘Thank you.’ She took the cloth away from her face and inspected it. It was a filthy dishcloth, but at least the thought was there.
‘I niver meant to hurt thee,’ he mumbled. ‘I just didn’t want a bath, that’s all. I swore no one was ever going to do it to me again, not after last time—’
Agnes looked up at him. ‘Last time?’
His mouth shut like a trap, his eyes lowered, and she knew he wouldn’t say any more.
He jumped back as Agnes rose to her feet, but she stepped past him and went to her bag for some antiseptic and a swab. She could feel him watching her with interest as she carefully cleaned her wound in the spotted scrap of mirror hanging over the kitchen sink.
‘It in’t my fault,’ Isaiah muttered, over and over again. ‘I told thee I didn’t want no bath, I told thee.’
‘Yes, you did, Mr Shapcott,’ Agnes sighed. She wrapped the swab in newspaper and went to throw it on the fire. ‘Well, I wouldn’t worry about it. No one is going to try and force you to have one again. Well, not me, at any rate.’
‘Tha’ll not?’ His voice sounded wavering, uncertain.
‘I’ll not,’ Agnes said firmly. ‘I can’t say they won’t send another nurse, but I won’t be coming again.’
Bess Bradshaw could howl about it all she liked. It might seem like a cruelty to leave Mr Shapcott in his filth, but it was an even bigger cruelty to put him through this terror.
And it really was terror. For some reason Agnes couldn’t fathom, Isaiah Shapcott was petrified of having a bath.
She lifted her gaze and noticed for the first time a solitary photograph on the mantelpiece of a smiling young man sitting astride a chestnut horse. It faced the camera boldly, nostrils flaring, proud head tossed, showing off the powerfully muscled neck.
Without thinking, she said, ‘What a beautiful creature. Racehorse, isn’t it?’
‘That’s right, missus. That’s Jackotino. By Roustabout out of Sweet Susanne. Won five of his twelve starts over seven furlongs, and was placed in four more. One of the toughest beasts I ever met.’ Isaiah squinted up at her. His voice had lost its tremor, she noticed. ‘Know much about ’orses, do you?’
‘I used to ride, when I was a child.’
‘Did you have an ’orse?’
Agnes nodded. ‘A pony, Daffodil.’
He leaned forward eagerly. ‘What were it like?’
‘She was dapple grey, an Arab, fourteen hands high. She was very good-natured, but she hated going out in the rain.’ Agnes smiled to herself at the memory. It was all so long ago, she felt as if she were describing someone else’s life. ‘She belonged to my sister really, but Vanessa never liked riding so she passed Daffodil on to me.’
‘There were nothing good-natured about Jackotino.’ Isaiah Shapcott sidled over and took the photograph from the mantelpiece. ‘He had a temper on him all right. And if he had a mind not to do summat …’ Isaiah shook his head. ‘None of the other lads understood him like I did. I used to tell ’em: he’ll come round in his own time, you can’t rush him.’
‘You were a stable lad?’
‘Not just a stable lad, missus. I worked at Paddy O’Neill’s yard, out in Middleham. Tha’s heard of it, I suppose?’ Agnes hadn’t, but she nodded anyway. ‘Aye, he trained some champions there.’ Isaiah’s chin tilted up with pride. ‘I were going to be a jockey.’
‘You’ve certainly got the build for it.’
He smiled sheepishly. ‘Aye, the Superintendent at the workhouse said it were all I were good for. That or going up chimneys!’
‘You were brought up in a workhouse?’
Agnes quickly changed the subject. ‘Tell me more about Jackotino.’
Isaiah looked down at the photograph in his hand, tracing the horse’s profile with the tip of one finger. ‘We were going to Royal Ascot together, him and me. Might have even won, too. Except I had my accident before we could go.’ His face was bleak. ‘I broke my hip and hit my head, knocked myself out cold for a week, so they told me. Not much good for racing after that,’ he said, his mouth twisting. ‘Could barely even sweep the yard, let alone anything else. I got laid off, and Jackie boy was sold not long after. Not that it were his fault,’ Isaiah went on hastily. ‘I in’t blaming the horse. It were me that let him have his head.’
‘What a shame,’ Agnes said.
‘Aye, that’s what it was.’ He propped the photograph back on the mantelpiece. ‘Happen you could bring round a picture of your pony next time you come, if you’ve got one? I’d like to see it.’
‘Oh, but I thought you didn’t want me to—’ Agnes started to say, then changed her mind. ‘I will,’ she promised.
She moved away from him and had started to pack up her bag when Isaiah said quietly, ‘I’ll have that bath now, if you like?’
Agnes looked over her shoulder at him. Isaiah was like Jackotino, she thought. He needed to come round in his own time.
‘If you like,’ she said, trying to keep her voice casual.
‘But I’ll do it myself. I don’t want you coming near me.’ He eyed her warily.
‘I’ll tell you what. Why don’t we make a screen out of the clothes horse and a couple of blankets? Then you’ll be nice and private.’
He nodded. ‘Good idea, missus.’
Agnes found a couple of blankets in the cupboard. They were none too clean, but they were the best he had.
As he undressed behind them, Isaiah said, ‘Tell me more about your pony. Did you go riding much?’
‘All the time, when I was a child. My brother Peter and I—’ She took a deep breath, her voice faltering at his name. ‘My brother and I used to go off hacking in the woods,’ she finished. ‘We’d lose all track of time and come back late and filthy, and of course my mother would be furious.’
‘What was your brother’s horse called?’
‘Prince, I think. Or was it Storm? I can barely remember.’ As Agnes struggled to recall the name of Peter’s pony, she heard a splash. Isaiah Shapcott was in the bath.
‘What colour was it? How big? Was it an Arab?’ he bombarded her with questions.
‘Goodness, I don’t know. I can scarcely remember the poor beast’s name, so how am I supposed to recall anything else? It was a bay, I think. Yes, definitely chestnut bay. And bigger than Daffodil, so I suppose it must have been about fifteen—’ Agnes stopped dead. She had been pacing the room as she talked, trying to remember the answers to Isaiah’s questions. But without thinking, she’d looked up and caught his reflection in the mirror over the mantelpiece.
She wanted to look away, but she couldn’t. Her gaze was drawn and repelled at the same time by the silvery, withered flesh that covered his back. It spread across his skinny shoulders and down his arms.
She had only seen a scar like that once before, during a stint on the Children’s ward at the Nightingale. A little girl had tipped a pan of boiling water from the stove all over herself …
Isaiah glanced up and Agnes caught his gaze, sharp and accusing in the mirror.
‘Workhouse,’ he said in a low voice, his voice thick with shame. ‘Didn’t want a bath so they said they’d make me.’
Their eyes met, and Agnes understood.
‘No one will ever make you do it again, Mr Shapcott,’ she said quietly. ‘I promise you that.’
Once she’d finished her rounds for the day, Agnes made sure her route home took her past the Franklins’ shop on the corner of Myrtle Street. She had waited two whole days since her last visit, which was longer than she would have liked. Besides, she wasn’t really defying Bess Bradshaw if she had to walk past anyway, she reasoned.
She had spent most of the previous two evenings reading through her old study notes from her training days at the Nightingale, searching for the piece of the puzzle she knew was missing.
And she thought she might have found it.
Mr Franklin had just finished serving a customer when Agnes walked into the shop.
‘Hello, nurse,’ he greeted her in surprise. ‘I didn’t expect to see you today.’
‘I was just passing, so I thought I’d drop in,’ she said. ‘How is your wife today?’
Mrs Franklin’s smile faded. ‘Not good,’ he said heavily. ‘No better than t’other day, at any rate.’
‘Is the pain still bad?’
‘It comes and goes, nurse. I’ve been giving her hot water bottles, but she’s still having a tough time of it.’
‘Has she eaten anything else?’
‘Not since the other night.’
‘And you say it was a salad she ate?’
He nodded. ‘That’s right, nurse.’ Then his expression changed. ‘You don’t think I made her ill, do you? Oh, don’t say that, I’d never forgive myself …’
‘It’s all right, Mr Franklin, I don’t think you’ve hurt her,’ Agnes assured him. ‘If my suspicions are right, you might even have helped get to the bottom of what’s troubling her.’
‘You think there’s something wrong with her, then? Not just the gastric business?’
Agnes took a deep breath. ‘I’d like to have another look at her, if that’s all right?’ she said. ‘And then we’ll see, shall we?’
Chapter Twenty-One
‘You did what?’
Bess Bradshaw could scarcely contain herself the following morning. Her lips were white with fury.
Agnes straightened her shoulders, determined to defend herself. ‘I telephoned for the doctor,’ she repeated.
Bess let out a long, angry breath. ‘I can’t believe it,’ she muttered. ‘It’s bad enough that you defied my instructions and went to see Mrs Franklin again, but to call the doctor out—’
‘I had reason to believe she was very ill. I thought it was better to be safe than sorry.’
‘You’re the one who should be sorry!’ Bess turned on her, tiny eyes glittering with fury. ‘I’ve told you before, Miss Sheridan, no one is interested in your opinion. You’re to do as you’re told!’
‘But—’
‘Be quiet! You never know when to stop, that’s your trouble.’ Bess shook her head. ‘Well, you’ve done it now,’ she said. ‘You’ve not only wasted your own time, you’ve wasted Dr Branning’s too. He’ll be utterly furious. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if he reported you to Miss Gale …’
‘Did someone say my name?’ The Superintendent stood in the doorway to the district room behind them. Agnes hadn’t heard her come in, and from the look on her face neither had Bess. ‘What on earth is going on in here?’ said Miss Gale. ‘Mrs Bradshaw, you were making such a racket I could hear you all the way from my office.’
‘I’ll tell you what’s going on, Miss Gale. This girl’ – Bess jabbed a furious finger in Agnes’ direction – ‘has taken it upon herself to summon the doctor without asking my permission.’
‘I see.’ Miss Gale turned to Agnes. ‘Is this true, Miss Sheridan?’
Agnes nodded. ‘But it was an emergency,’ she said. Bess snorted.
‘And I take it you don’t agree, Mrs Bradshaw?’ Miss Gale responded calmly.
‘Indeed I don’t, Miss Gale!’
‘Well, if Miss Sheridan was acting on the basis of her nursing instinct, then I suppose we have to trust her judgement.’
Bess’ mouth fell open. ‘But …’ she started to splutter, but Miss Gale held up her hand.
‘We can argue the point later, Mrs Bradshaw,’ she said. ‘But now it’s nearly nine, and there are pat
ients to see.’
‘Yes, Miss Gale.’ Agnes hardly dared look at Bess as she slipped past her out of the district room. She could only imagine the Assistant Superintendant’s fury.
Agnes’ first call of the morning was to Mr Willis. After their brief meeting in Mr Franklin’s shop a couple of days earlier, Agnes wasn’t looking forward to seeing his wife again.
Mrs Willis looked just as uncomfortable when she opened the door.
‘Oh, it’s you,’ she said, and stood aside reluctantly to let her in. Agnes could feel the woman’s suspicious gaze on her as she washed her hands at the sink, along with the equally suspicious gazes of the children.
‘How is your husband today?’ Agnes did her best to make conversation.
‘You tell me. You’re t’nurse,’ Mrs Willis replied rudely.
Agnes forced her lips into a smile as she reached for her towel. ‘I’d best go and see then, hadn’t I?’
No sooner had Mr Willis recovered from his last leg ulcer than another had developed, even worse than the last. It had taken longer to heal, and Agnes braced herself for the worst as she removed the old dressing.
But to her relief, the wound was fairly clean, and granulation had started to form around the edges.
‘That looks as if it’s mending nicely,’ she said.
‘About time something started going my way,’ Mr Willis grumbled.
‘I heard about you losing your job,’ Agnes said, as she dabbed the wound with antiseptic. ‘I’m so sorry.’
She’d made the remark without thinking, and regretted it instantly as she felt Mr Willis’ limbs stiffen.
‘Who told you?’ he hissed.
Agnes blushed. ‘I – er – heard your wife talking to Mr Franklin,’ she admitted, conscious that every word she said landed her deeper in trouble.
‘Aye, well, I daresay it’ll be all over Quarry Hill by now. Norman Willis, the man who can’t support his own family!’
‘I’m sure no one is saying that.’
‘Then you don’t know the folk round here, do you?’ he spat. ‘Why do you think I never go out? Because I don’t like the way they talk about me. I can hear ’em whispering when I walk down the street.’ He jabbed a warning finger at her. ‘I don’t want to hear you’ve been spreading gossip neither!’ he snarled.
The Nurses of Steeple Street Page 16