Tuppenny Times

by Beryl Kingston

  Her two little brothers fought back all the time, shouting ‘No!’ and ‘Shan’t!’ and running away or rolling about on the floor, and being smacked and shaken for their disobedience, but Annie would never have dared to offer such bad behaviour. Even when she was so cold that she felt sick, or so tired that she would have sat down in the snow, if that had been allowed, she said nothing, but stood stoically at her post, enduring, newspaper in frozen hand, aware of the burden of keeping that roof in place.

  So on that miserable December day when she first felt ill, hot and dizzy and with no strength in her arms, she went on enduring. It was the only thing she could do, for she didn’t want to upset Mama when she was working so hard. Besides it might make her cross, and that was something she couldn’t even contemplate, leave alone provoke. For Annie was a gentle creature, like her father, and she shrank from any hint of unpleasantness, curling in upon herself, silently, like a rose folding for the night.

  She told Bessie she didn’t feel well, of course, when they were back home and Mama was safely out of earshot, and Bessie put her to bed and got a hot brick to warm her feet which were so cold she couldn’t feel them, which was odd when the rest of her body was burning hot.

  During the night she began to cough and her chest hurt her ever such a lot and Bessie got up and went bustling off downstairs and presently returned with a cup and gave her little sips of some syrupy stuff, which tasted quite nice but didn’t stop the cough, even though Bessie had promised it would.

  In the morning they were both tired out. When Billy came leaping on to the bed to wake her up, she didn’t have the strength to tell him not to. But Bessie hauled him away and dressed him, and grumbled at Johnnie to look sharp, and after an age of loud voices that made her head throb, and kicking feet that jarred her aching arms, they all went away downstairs and left her to sleep again. As her mind began to drift away, she was glad she didn’t have to get up and go to work.

  ‘Where’s Annie?’ Nan asked, when Bessie ushered the two boys into the dining-room and settled them at the table. She was sitting before the tea caddy.

  Bessie steeled herself for the struggle that would have to come. It was the first time in her life that she had ever dared to obstruct the will of an adult, and her heart was beating painfully just at the thought of it. ‘If you please mum,’ she said, timidly, ‘she ain’t very well this morning an’ ’tis uncommon cold.’

  ‘She can’t stay in bed just because it’s cold,’ Nan said mildly. ‘I don’t always feel well, let me tell you, but I always turn out. We can’t afford to spend our days rolling around in bed. That’s not the way the world is. Go and get her.’

  ‘No, mum,’ Bessie said, blushing but steadfast. ‘She ain’t well, beggin’ yer pardon.’

  The blush alerted Nan. This might be serious. ‘You two boys sit in those chairs and don’t you dare move, not so much as an inch,’ she said. Then she put the lid on the teapot and set off upstairs.

  It surprised them both when Bessie, mild obedient Bessie, who wouldn’t say boo to a goose, suddenly kicked up her heels and ran in front of her, charging up the stairs like a thing demented, to fling herself against the nursery door, legs astride and both hands clinging to the jambs, wild-eyed and scarlet in the face. ‘No,’ she shouted. ‘Beggin’ yer pardon mum, but you shan’t take ’er out! No indeed you shan’t! My poor lamb’s ill, so she is. You shan’t!’

  ‘What is the matter with you?’ Nan said, much surprised. ‘Stand aside, pray do, and let us have a little less of this nonsense.’

  But Bessie had completely misjudged her mistress’s intentions, and went on defending her young. She burst into tears but she didn’t stand aside. ‘She’s five years old, mum,’ she said. ‘Poor little mite. Five years old, that’s all, an’ she ain’t a-goin’ out in this weather with a fever, that she ain’t, not if it was ever so.’

  ‘If she’s ill, the sooner I see her the better,’ Nan said, wondering whether she would have to use force to pull Bessie aside.

  But Bessie looked as though she’d been stuck to the door, and she was no longer the fragile child Mr Easter had hired when Johnnie was born. That red face had a womanly look to it, despite its present distortion, the short little body had put on weight and most of it was muscle, those outstretched arms were strong. Strong enough to overpower her mistress if it came to fisticuffs. Surely it wouldn’t come to fisticuffs! Good heavens, what was the matter with the girl?

  Fortunately, just at that moment, Thiss arrived. He’d finished his first delivery and had come home for breakfast. Bessie’s squeals had him up the stairs in an instant.

  Both women were really quite glad to see him. ‘Ah, Thiss,’ Nan said. ‘She won’t let me into the bedroom. Perhaps you can get her to see sense, for I’m sure I can’t.’

  ‘Annie’s ill,’ Bessie sobbed. ‘She ain’t in a fit state …’

  ‘Now, don’t be a goose, Bessie,’ he said. ‘Dry yer old eyes, there’s a good gel, an’ we’ll all go in an’ see what’s what, eh?’

  And to Nan’s relief, that’s what they did.

  Annie was lying on the floor, with the sheets and blankets tumbled around her, tossing her head from side to side, muttering and groaning and completely delirious.

  ‘Oh, my lovey!’ Nan said, running to her side at once and lifting her damp head into her lap. ‘Oh, what is it, Annie? My poor love!’

  But the child was raving. ‘I can’t keep the roof up,’ she groaned. ‘Don’t ’ee tell Mama. Ba! Ba! Where are you? Oh don’t ’ee tell Mama, for pity’s sake.’

  ‘I’m ’ere, pet. Your Ba’s ’ere.’ Bessie said. ‘Don’t ’ee never think your Ba would ever leave yer. My poor lamb.’

  ‘Best get ’er back ter bed,’ Thiss said, and he lifted the child gently from Nan’s lap and laid her back on the mattress.

  ‘There’s no roof!’ Annie said wildly, grabbing at his jacket. ‘No roof!’

  ‘Thiss ’as got yer,’ Bessie tried to explain. But the child groaned and couldn’t understand.

  ‘Leave ’er be,’ Thiss ordered. ‘She don’t know who we are, neither one of us. Which ain’t ter be wondered at, seein’ the fever she got.’

  But she knew who she wanted, fever or no fever. ‘Ba!’ she called. ‘Ba! Ba!’ And Bessie held her hand and smoothed the damp hair from her forehead while Thiss tucked the covers smoothly round her.

  And Nan Easter, Nan the business-woman, Nan the empire-builder, Nan the mother, was superfluous. There was nothing she could do but stand to one side, her insides churning with fear, and wait until the fit subsided and the child was calm again. Then, of course, she took action.

  ‘Run you to Mr Whiteman,’ she said to Thiss. ‘And you,’ turning to Bessie, ‘tell Mrs Dibkins to give the boys their breakfast and keep them downstairs no matter what. ’Tis a fever and they might go a-catchin’ it. Then bring towels and a bowl of warm water and we’ll sponge her down.’ Then as they didn’t spring to obey her orders immediately, and she was tense with anxiety, ‘Hasten you up, do!’

  Mr Whiteman was a modest physician with a gentle manner, which was why Nan had chosen him, even in the heat and worry of the moment.

  He came to attend his little patient immediately, standing before her, grave and old-fashioned in his fustian breeches and his green cloth coat, saying nothing. His wig was unpowdered, a fact which Nan noted with approval, for it revealed that he put his patient before his appearance. But he took a long time to make any diagnosis, which annoyed her, especially as he did so many things that didn’t seem at all necessary to her, and did them so slowly. First he had Bessie lift the child’s nightgown so that he could examine her back and chest and all four limbs, peering at them closely and saying nothing. Then he lifted her eyelids and looked at her unconscious eyes, and opened her mouth and fished out her tongue and looked down her throat, saying nothing. And finally he put his head right down onto her chest and appeared to be listening to that too.

  ‘She has been ill for several days, I ima
gine?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Bessie said. ‘She ’as, poor little mite. Two days to my certain knowledge.’

  ‘Did she go out of doors during that time?’

  ‘Yes,’ Nan had to admit, and her heart lurched with anxiety and guilt. How was it that I didn’t see she was ill?

  ‘That would account for it, of course,’ the doctor said and sighed heavily.

  The sigh alarmed Nan and increased her guilt. ‘Well,’ she said sharply. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Your daughter has a congestion of the lungs,’ he said sadly. ‘That is the cause of her present fever. She is very gravely ill.’

  Nan’s heart contracted with such fear that it altered the sound of her voice. ‘What is to be done?’ she said, hoarsely.

  ‘Very little, I fear,’ he said truthfully. ‘We could try bleeding. Or blistering, should you wish it. But I should tell you I have never known either practice to be efficacious in such cases. In fact it has to be admitted, there have been times when in my considered opinion such treatments have done more harm than good.’

  ‘Then what will you do?’

  ‘There is nothing any of us can do Mrs Easter,’ he sighed, ‘not for an illness of this kind. Nothing at all. I only wish there were. The fever must run its course, I fear. Keep a boiling kettle on the hob to moisten the air. That may ease her breathing, although it will not cure her, for there is no cure.’

  ‘But she will recover?’ It was only a question. There couldn’t be any doubt about that, surely? It would be too cruel.

  ‘The fever will run its course,’ he repeated. ‘It will get worse, I fear, but in a few days it will reach a crisis, and then one of two things will occur. Either she will turn the corner and get better. Or she will die.’ And seeing the anguish on Nan’s face, ‘That is the truth of the matter, Mrs Easter. I cannot gloss it.’

  Bessie was weeping, muffling her sobs with her apron. ‘Hush up!’ her mistress told her, furious with fear. ‘I got enough to worry about without you.’

  ‘I will call again tomorrow,’ Mr Whiteman said sadly. ‘I do truly wish I could have given you other and better news.’

  ‘Aye,’ Nan said. ‘So do I!’

  But however much she might struggle against it, she was caged by the truth and couldn’t escape from it, as the time passed slowly, day after delirious day, and Annie got worse and worse. She was ashamed by the careless way she’d treated her uncomplaining daughter, and was privately aware that it was far too much like the way she’d treated the child’s father. Now she realized how very much her little girl meant to her, and knew how good and helpful and undemanding she’d been, and suspected with a palpable sinking of the heart that the child must have been afraid of her, because she’d been ill for several days and hadn’t dared to tell her. ‘You should have seen all this before,’ she told her reflection angrily and every night. ‘But not you. Oh no! You got to wait till they’re dead or dying!’ And she was anguished at the thought.

  On Sunday, when the priest spoke to his Chelsea congregation about the evil of selfishness and the value of man’s immortal soul, she listened for once, and took his words to heart. From then on, she said earnest prayers every morning and every night, promising God that if only the child could be spared she would do everything in her power to be unselfish, she would think of others, she would treat all her children with the most loving kindness. They would never work in the streets again, there would be more fun and pleasure in all their lives, anything, anything. But the moment of crisis had yet to be faced, and the nearer it got the more she dreaded it.

  Bessie kept a constant vigil in the nursery and did her best not to cry when her mistress was in the room. And Thiss looked after the business. And the boys slept in Nan’s room, confused and depressed by the air of gloom and anxiety that surrounded them. And Annie struggled for breath and burned with fever.

  On Christmas Eve she was so very much worse, that Nan sent for Mr Whiteman again, even though he’d visited them in the morning, and she knew there was nothing he could do. Now every breath rattled in and out of Annie’s constricted throat, and she writhed for air, choking and coughing until phlegm bubbled from her lips.

  ‘It is the crisis,’ Mr Whiteman said. But he was confirming what they already knew.

  He and Nan and Bessie sat with their struggling patient all through the night, replenishing the kettle, relighting the candles, watching and praying but not daring to look beyond the moment. And towards dawn when a grey light began to filter through the darkness, and Annie had been sleeping rather less noisily for about an hour, she suddenly woke up and looked at them with intelligence. ‘I’s very thirsty Ba,’ she said. ‘Could I have a little water, pray?’

  The cup was in her hand almost before she’d finished speaking, and she drank greedily, and asked for more.

  ‘Is it …? Has she …?’ Nan whispered. Tears were coursing down her cheeks and when she looked at Mr Whiteman she could see that his eyes were moist too.

  ‘Yes, Mrs Easter,’ he said. ‘The crisis is passed. Praise be to God!’

  After he’d gone, she and Bessie fetched bowls and towels and gave their poor little patient a gentle wash. She was pitifully thin, and she still coughed, but she was undeniably cooler and her breathing had eased. ‘Soon ’ave you better now, eh my precious?’ Bessie said. But Nan was so anguished she couldn’t say anything.

  Later that morning, when the child was asleep again, and Bessie had gone to get the boys up for breakfast, she remembered her prayers, and said genuine thanks to God for His infinite mercy. I will keep my word, she prayed, I vow it. Children are to be cared for, not used. I will never make such a mistake again. I couldn’t have borne it if she’d died. I will keep my word.

  The cold continued and street sales remained obstinately low, and early in the new year three more walks came onto the market because their owners could no longer afford to run them. All three were going cheap so Nan bought them at once, but this time true to her vow, she hired newsmen to run them. Then she and Thiss drew up a route map ready to tout for deliveries. Their new wealthy customers were delighted to have such a service offered. ‘In weather so exceptionally inclement,’ one titled lady said, ‘’tis a comfort to read of the misfortunes of others. We will take The Times and the Morning Post. ’Tis as well to keep abreast of affairs.’

  To everybody’s relief, Annie made a steady recovery, getting better as the weather got worse. By the time she was pronounced well enough to leave her bed and creep shakily downstairs to sit by the fire in the dining-room, the Serpentine was frozen solid, right the way across, and four of the seven streams in the Chelsea waterworks were too choked by ice to provide water for the populace.

  ‘There is no end to this dratted winter,’ Nan said, when Mrs Dibkins came hobbling into the dining-room one morning with half a kettleful of water and the news that the pump was dry.

  ‘We can always boil snow, Mrs Easter-dear,’ Mrs Dibkins said, chins a-quiver as she set the kettle on the hob. ‘That’s what we done last time. More than ten years ago, that were. Ho, what a time we had. They was skatin’ on that ol’ Serpentine then. Like a fair it was. Mr Dibkins’ll tell you. They had roast chestnuts for sale, an’ everyone on skates a-dancin’. Ho, my lor!’

  ‘What’s ’katin’?’ Johnnie wanted to know. Now that he was two-and-a-half, and didn’t roar quite so much, he’d been allowed out of his high chair and was sitting up to the table, but he was still so small that only his head and shoulders were visible above the cloth. ‘What’s ’katin’, Ba?’

  ‘’Tis a way a’ walkin’ on ice,’ Bessie said. ‘A skate’s like a sort a’ wedge made a’ bone. You ties it to yer shoes an’ off you goes, a-whizzin’ along. Quick as a bird.’

  ‘Ho, what sport!’ Mrs Dibkins said, watching the kettle spitting on the hob, so that she could lift it for Mrs Easter the minute it boiled. ‘Quick as a bird! Oh my lor!’

  Billy was thrilled by the idea. ‘Could we go ’kating, Mama?’ he aske
d, his eyes round with eagerness. Now that he was nearly four he was ready for any challenge.

  Nan lowered her newspaper and looked at him sharply. ‘No, you could not,’ she said. ‘The very idea! Do you all want congestion of the lungs? Is one not bad enough? We shall need some more bread, Mrs Dibkins.’

  The boys thought her most unfair, but they didn’t say so, of course. Not then. Not straight to her face. Young as they were they knew that you didn’t argue with Mama. She was a deal too sharp for that. The most you could dare was a ‘look’ thrown venomously in her direction when she was busy reading the paper. You said what you thought later, to Thiss and Ba.

  ‘It ain’t fair, Thiss,’ Billy said. ‘We could go ’katin’. We wouldn’t catch the digestion, would us, Ba?’

  ‘I couldn’t say, my lamb,’ Bessie temporized. She was much too much in awe of Nan to contradict her, even when she was well out of earshot.

  ‘We could go a-Sunday,’ Billy persisted.

  ‘She wouldn’t let me,’ Annie said sadly, ‘not when I been ill, she wouldn’t.’

  ‘Well not you per’aps,’ Billy said cheerfully, ‘but she could let us. It ain’t fair, Thiss.’

  ‘Tell yer what,’ Thiss offered, ‘you leave it ter me. Be’ave yerselves like good kids, an’ I’ll see what I can do.’ There were ways round Mrs Easter’s irascibility and the longer he lived in her household, the more of them he discovered. ‘’Er barks a sight worse’n ’er bite. I’ll see what I can do.’

  What he did was to drive her back to Chelsea by a different route the next morning after their first delivery in Marylebone. As she was quick to notice.

  ‘I simply cannot imagine why you should want to drive through St James’ Park, Thiss,’ she said, looking across the snow-covered lawns to where small bundled shapes were already sliding and tumbling on the ice that had once been the Serpentine. ‘You should be ashamed to be so artful, you rogue. That you should.’

  ‘’Tis a good healthy sport for young’uns,’ he said, grinning back at her over his shoulder.