Michael, still holding, limpet-like, his fistful of Poppy’s dress, was pulled over by the violence of Kitty’s action and, around his thumb, began to wail dismally. The two thrashing bodies on the floor rolled over, crashing into them. Poppy was by now screaming hysterically, white-faced, her eyes glazed. Lottie had somehow broken Spider’s hold and had scrambled free of him. As Spider grabbed for her she came to her feet at a run and dashed for the open door, hampered by her heavy skirt. Kitty, desperately trying to protect the terrified children, saw Spider’s hand reach out swift as a striking snake and catch the woman’s flying hair. Frantically Kitty tried to disengage small, clinging hands. Brutally Spider jerked Lottie from her feet. The woman screamed with pain. Then with vicious strength and murderous intent the little man began to push Lottie towards the rickety bannisters of the landing.
‘No! No, Spider! Don’t—’ Kitty leapt forward, reaching for Lottie’s flailing hand.
She was just a second too late.
With a final, terrible effort Spider almost bodily threw Lottie’s slight frame into the rotten bannisters that snapped like matchwood and showered down with the tumbling, screaming body to scatter in the snow in the sudden awful silence that followed its landing.
Poppy’s screams, distracted and hysterical, were renewed.
Doors opened. Voices called. But it was for the most part in silence that the inhabitants of number twelve Rue Devine gathered on their landings to peer into the dimly lit well at the body that sprawled beneath them in the snow.
Spider, with no glance at Kitty, walked calmly down the three flights of steps to the door. He looked back, once, at the broken figure of Lottie Smith before slipping through the door to the street.
No one made any attempt to stop him.
In the filthy yard Lottie lay like a broken doll, limbs grotesquely twisted, blood seeping, half-hidden by the thickening, swirling snow.
Chapter 7
(i)
Astonishingly – and tragically for her – Lottie was not dead. Profoundly unconscious, she was carried to her room and laid upon the mattress. Poppy and Michael huddled beside the still body, shocked and silent. For the moment Kitty could do nothing for them. A woman from the floor above offered to fetch a doctor, and Kitty, sitting by Lottie’s side, watching the faint rise and fall of the pathetically scrawny chest and hopelessly trying to stem the flow of blood where shattered bone had pieced the flesh of her leg, commandeered the brightest-looking urchin from the interested group that refused to disperse from the open doorway and sent her to Montmartre with a note for Louise, hastily scribbled upon a scrap of dirty paper.
It seemed half a lifetime before the doctor put in an appearance. He was an elderly, tired-looking man with the florid complexion and dull eyes of a heavy drinker. He shook his head discouragingly over the unconscious Lottie – seemed indeed ready to give up before he had ever properly examined her. The woman would die anyway, he said – what was the point of wasting his time?
Even Kitty’s poor French was up to understanding that – the attitude, if not a translation word for word. She was outraged. ‘But – she must go to hospital! She must!’
He looked at her pityingly, spread none-too-clean hands. Hospital? Impossible. The hospitals were all packed to the doors with sick and wounded. There would be no place for a dying woman. Anyway – there were few medicines and fewer drugs. There was a war on.
Kitty, raging, pointed to the shattered leg. ‘At least you can do something about that, can’t you? You can’t leave her to bleed to death!’ Cursing herself for not having thought of it before she produced money from her small bag, waving it beneath the red-veined nose. ‘Money – I have money. For God’s sake do something for her! I can pay—’
By the time Louise came, breathless and nervously wide-eyed, led to the Rue Devine by the girl who had taken the note, the doctor had nearly finished his ministrations, such as they were, to the still unconscious Lottie. Relieved at last to have someone to translate, Kitty questioned him. The man shrugged. It was amazing that the – accident – had not been fatal. It was unlikely in any case that the woman would regain consciousness. If she did she would certainly be at least partly paralyzed and in great pain. He had done his best. He would call again tomorrow, if the woman lived. Apart from the ironically significant pause upon the word ‘accident’, which even Kitty picked up, he showed no curiosity about the nature of Lottie’s injuries.
‘Doesn’t he have something he can give her? Something to ease the pain?’
Louise shook a helpless head. ‘He says such things are very scarce. And very expensive.’
Kitty glanced at the ashen face upon the dirty pillow. ‘Tell him I’ll pay.’
With a great show of reluctance the doctor opened his bag once more and produced a tiny phial. Kitty took it, thrusting a roll of notes into the man’s shaking hand, and thankfully closed the latchless door behind him, ramming the back of the single chair under the doorknob to keep it closed. Lottie lay unmoving upon the mattress, to all outward appearances lifeless already. Beside her, huddled in the corner, Poppy and Michael sat, Michael enclosed by the circle of the little girl’s thin arms.
‘Louise’ – the sight of the children spurred Kitty from the numbness of shock – ‘we need some things from the apartment – blankets, food, clothing. And fuel for the fire – we can’t move her, so we have to make her comfortable here.’
‘But Mam’selle – how?’
Kitty restrained herself from shaking her. ‘I don’t know how! But somehow! Find someone to help you. Here—’ She thrust a couple of notes at the girl. ‘There must be some man who’s willing to earn a few francs! Go! And be quick!’
As the door shut behind the bemused Louise she shoved the chair back under the knob and looked around helplessly, seeing almost for the first time the utter poverty in which Lottie and the children had been living. There was nothing of comfort in the two bare rooms at all. Her own warm cloak was all, apart from a threadbare blanket, that covered Lottie as she lay. In the small kitchen there was no food apart from a stale half loaf of the almost inedible grey bread known as pain Ferry. She went back into the main room. Lottie still lay as quiet as death. The eyes of the children followed her, fearfully. They had resisted every move she had made towards them.
She knelt beside them, seeing Poppy flinch from her. ‘It’s all right,’ she said, softly, ‘I won’t hurt you I promise. Don’t you – don’t you remember me?’
Poppy blinked, owl-like. Michael did not move. His thumb was in his mouth, his free hand tangled in Poppy’s tattered skirt. Very, very gently Kitty held out a hand. ‘Michael. It’s Mama. Don’t you remember me? Your Mama—’ The unshed tears of reaction, of shock, of desperate disappointment sounded in her voice. In all the times she had imagined this reunion she had never imagined it so, never believed that in six short months he could forget her.
The little boy shifted a little, pressing closer to Poppy.
‘S’true, little Mick,’ Poppy said, unexpectedly. ‘She is your Ma! I remember ’er.’
Great tears formed in the younger child’s dark eyes. With a small, strange sound he turned from Kitty and buried his head in Poppy’s lap. The little girl, very gently, laid a roughened hand upon the unkempt dark hair, looking at Kitty with empty eyes.
Beside them Lottie made the faintest sound, then lapsed again to stillness and silence.
Kitty sat back on her heels. Every instinct she possessed urged her to touch Michael – to pick him up, hug him to her, reassure him of her love. Yet she knew she must not. He was confused and terrified. To frighten him further now, to demand too much of him, would be to jeopardize their relationship forever. He must be won round, with calm and gentleness. And the other child, too. She glanced at Poppy, nursing Michael, her eyes upon her unconscious, dying mother and a great surge of pity for the child brought fresh tears welling to her eyes. Absurdly, she had thought that finding Michael would be the end of her troubles. Sitting here now in
the dark room that was cold and bare as a tomb she perceived clearly the foolishness of that.
* * *
It was thirty-six hours before Lottie regained consciousness, during which time the doctor grudgingly returned, shook his head, grumbling, changed the dressing on her leg, accepted his fee and left; and Louise and Kitty between them transformed the two rooms to something with at least some semblance of comfort. There was another large mattress, to accommodate Kitty and the two children, there were blankets and pillows and for the children warm clothes, bought from Louise’s family. There was food in the kitchen and a fire in the stove, albeit a small one. Poppy and Michael sat beside it for hours, staring at the flames, refusing to move even to eat. Kitty, watching the pinched faces that were lit by the meagre flames, wondered how long it was since they had known such comfort. Warming to her task, Louise had enlisted the help of two of her brawny brothers, and the main room now boasted a couple of battered armchairs and a rug on the floor.
Also – most important of all in this, neither the most salubrious of districts nor the safest to demonstrate possession of rather more than one’s penurious neighbours – a sturdy bar was set across the door, for the night time when Kitty and the children were alone. For almost in those first moments Kitty had seen that this was the only way. Lottie could not be moved, and she could not be abandoned. In any case Poppy would not have left her mother, and Michael would not have left Poppy. So she, Kitty, was bound there too, whilst Lottie’s shallow breathing, the fitful beating of her heart showed still that she preserved her tenuous hold on life. Kitty tended to her as best as she could, inexperienced as she was, and spent long hours sitting beside her, watching for change that never happened. Her advances to the children were at first disappointingly and determinedly rejected. They took what she offered by way of food and comfort, but gave nothing in return, speaking only when spoken to, refusing utterly to respond to any small gesture of affection. Poppy, obviously, was old enough to reason that her mother’s condition, if not exactly Kitty’s doing, was certainly connected with her arrival on the scene. And Michael took his cue from Poppy, whose side he never left.
As the darkness of the December evening, the second of her vigil, closed in and Louise, protesting dutifully but obviously anxious to return to her family, had left, Kitty settled down in the armchair that was nearest to Lottie and rested her head tiredly against the battered and threadbare wing. She was aware of the possibility of the wish fathering the thought, but it seemed to her that the sick woman’s breathing was just a little easier than it had been. She half-closed her eyes. For economy’s sake she had put out the candle and let the fire die a little, bitterly cold though it was. It glimmered redly now, casting smudged shadows. In the far corner the two children slept, dark head and fair head close together. A simple tune, remembered from childhood, slipped unexpectedly into Kitty’s head. She hummed it softly, then sang, very quietly, in the deceptively peaceful room. ‘Go to sleep, go to sleep, While the bright stars do peep—’ The pretty little lullaby soothed her, eased the worries that had been nagging at her waking hours – Now that she had found them, what was she to do about Lottie and the children? How long could she support them all? How long before the food and fuel in the city ran out altogether? Without Jem and his contacts, how far would her money carry them? She had spent an awful lot; how much longer might it last? How long before the Prussians grew tired of this terrible waiting, and bombarded the city—? ‘Mother’s a milkmaid, Father’s a king, They can bring baby everything. Go to sleep, go to sleep—’ Eyes still half closed, she became faintly aware of movement. In the shadows of the far corner a small figure had rolled off the mattress and come to its feet, staggering.
Kitty did not move. ‘Mother is pretty and Father is rich, Sister baby’s cap does stitch—’
Michael toddled sleepily towards her. She watched him come, her heart in her throat, a catch in her voice. ‘Go to sleep, go to sleep—’
He stopped, knuckling his eyes and watching her. Very slowly she turned her head, still singing softly, and smiled, lifting her arms in invitation. He hesitated for just one moment longer and then climbed into her lap as if it were the most natural thing in the world. She rested her cheek against the tangled dark hair, feeling the living warmth of her son’s small body in her arms at last. ‘Go to sleep, go to sleep—’ She sang the lullaby through again and then, reluctant to break the spell of enchantment that held them, she slipped to another song, one she had sung many times, the words as clear in memory as the pictures they conjured: winter evenings with the Bowyers about the fire at the Grange, the piano in the parlour on Mersea Island, Amos’ eyes upon her, his voice lifting with hers. ‘All round my hat I will wear the green willow—’ The peaceful Lot, in those magic months with Jem. Michael sighed and burrowed deeper into her lap. Then Kitty became aware of another small figure in the shadows. Poppy, the battered rag doll clutched under one arm, stood just beyond the range of the firelight, the expression on her face indiscernible. Kitty lifted a hand, extended it, open, in invitation. Very, very slowly the girl came forward, hesitated just out of Kitty’s reach, her eyes moving from Michael’s dozing face to Kitty’s tentatively smiling one. Kitty stretched her hand a little, curling fingers in invitation. Just one more step – she prayed – just one little step—
‘Oh, young men are false, and they are so deceitful, Young men are false and they seldom prove true—’
The great violet eyes, so like her mother’s had once been, blinked. Then Lottie’s daughter stepped forward into the circle of Kitty’s arm and leaned there, her head resting on her shoulder, her small hand lightly upon Michael’s knee.
As the last note of Kitty’s song died Lottie moved her head a little, muttered and lapsed once more into unconsciousness.
* * *
The next day Lottie woke at last, and the doctor’s gloomy predictions were confirmed. She was almost completely paralyzed. She could move neither her legs nor her right arm. The movements of her left arm she could barely control. She was in terrible pain. She said little as Kitty tended her, only her eyes following the other girl’s movements, bleak and bitter with pain. Poppy sat beside her mother, holding her left hand, her eyes fixed fiercely on the skeletal face. Halfway through the morning Louise arrived with a basket of provisions from the store at the Montmartre apartment. She was talking as she entered the door. ‘—nothing to be had anywhere! And have you heard—? There’s been another battle. Oh, Mam’selle, it’s terrible – the wounded are everywhere! M’sieu’ – she glanced at Kitty quickly and hastily covered her mistake – ‘mon père, he says there is no more hope. Paris will surrender—’
‘Surrender?’ Kitty looked at her sharply. It was almost the first time she had heard the word, and oddly it shocked her.
Louise grimaced. ‘Mais oui. Before the people starve. For us there is no meat, no cheese, no butter, no milk. They hunt the rats in the sewers. And even the rats are too thin to eat. On the Champs Elysées they eat elephant and camel from the Jardin des Plantes, and they make a great joke of it, yes? The restaurants – so one hears – have fresh meat and vegetables. What do they eat in Bellevue? I tell you. They eat nothing.’ Muttering still, almost to herself, she continued to unpack the basket. It did not escape Kitty that this was the first such outburst she had ever heard from the docile Louise, and she was aware, uneasily, that the girl was probably not alone in her uncharacteristic and growing resentment. ‘The butchers – zut!’ The small sound was illustrative of total disgust. ‘They are – what is it? That sucks the blood?’
‘Leeches.’
‘Oui. Leeches. They should beware; the profits they make will do them no good when they dangle from a lamp post—’
‘Louise?’ Kitty said, sharply, holding up a tin.
‘And now the government talks of rationing bread!’
‘Louise!’
The girl stopped in surprise.
‘What’s this?’ Kitty held up the tin.
Lo
uise shrugged, avoiding her eyes. ‘I don’t know. I just take what is there.’
‘But this wasn’t.’
The girl looked at her, blankly.
Kitty read from the label. ‘Hominy and grits. Home cooking in a tin.’ She looked back at Louise. ‘Hominy and grits?’ she asked gently.
The girl shrugged again.
‘Jem,’ Kitty said.
Louise turned and busied herself at the sink.
‘Louise!’
Reluctantly the little maid turned back. Kitty waved at the goods that were stacked on the table. ‘Potted meat? And the label in English? Some of this is from the American Legation, isn’t it?’
Louise, discomfited, nodded.
‘I told you to tell Jem nothing.’
Louise sighed, her face the personification of injured martyrdom. ‘You say this, M’sieu Jem say that – how do I know—?’
‘You told him.’
‘Yes.’ The word was reluctant.
‘Then you can tell him this,’ Kitty said, grimly, fighting the spurt of near-hysterical laughter that the sight of the hominy and grits had brought on. ‘Tell him under no circumstances do I want to see him here. Tell him I don’t want – don’t need – his help.’
‘Mam’selle!’ Louise was shocked. Clearly in her world one did not tell young men such things.
‘Tell him—’ Kitty stopped. Clearly as if he had been standing beside her she heard his laughter, saw the quick lift of his head, the mischievous gleam in his eyes, pale and clear as sunlit water. Lord, she’d missed him over these past days! ‘Tell him,’ she said, ‘that he’s obviously got no more sense than he ever had. What for heaven’s sake are hominy and grits? Are we supposed to eat them or light the fire with them? Tell him that if he wants to help he’ll have to help sensibly; we’ve children here – we need milk, and eggs, and decent bread—’
‘Mam’selle, they are not to be had.’
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