‘Siân’s had a fall. Where’s Doctor Roberts?’
‘He wouldn’t come, lad. Sorry.’
‘Wouldn’t come!’ Rhys turned disbelieving eyes on Alf. ‘What do you mean, he wouldn’t come?’
‘Said it was too great a risk.’
‘Iesu, Mr Bustle. You should have made him come.’
Annie smoothed the sheets of the lower bunk and held back its covers. ‘Here, Siân. Come lie down, quick.’
Siân trembled as Annie peeled away her sticky outer garments, revealing a heavily stained chemise. It seemed to Bridie that she used the last of her flickering strength to crawl into the bed. Ma wailed as another contraction took hold of her. Rhys pressed bloody fingers to his face.
‘Dear God, I’ll have to fetch him.’
Annie tucked the blankets around Siân. She pulled a towel from the cupboard, moistened it with water from the harness cask and dribbled it onto Siân’s lips. ‘She’s thirsty. You did right to bring her.’
‘I have to get help, Annie. I’ve waited too long already.’
‘I’ll go.’ Alf squared his shoulders. ‘It’s my fault. I should have been strong hours ago.’
‘Sorry, Mr Bustle. I can’t take the risk.’
Alf flushed, his face turning pink. ‘You think you’re clever, don’t you?’ He laughed, jabbing a blunt finger at Rhys. ‘Go on then, story boy—succeed where I failed.’
‘He’s cruel, Mr Bustle. Selfish. He’ll not come without persuasion.’
‘Forget it, son. I don’t want your pity.’
‘It’s not pity. Only, I know things … about Doctor Roberts.’
‘Hah! Know things, do you? Well, I know things too. There’s a line strung from the back hatch to the saloon doors. You didn’t know that, did you? And I’ve got this,’ Alf raised the mate’s knife, ‘and I’m not afraid to use it.’
‘Stop!’ Bridie thrust herself between them. ‘This isn’t helping.’
She saw the determined gleam in Alf’s eyes, the pale tension of Rhys’s face. Realisation flooded. They were scared. Both of them. Fearing they’d brought their wives to sea to die, knowing the guilt would be on their heads. Two men, one a dreamer, the other solid and reliable, both terrified. But who should fetch Doctor Roberts?
‘This thing you know, Rhys, will it bring him, definitely? Without bloodshed?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then I think you’d better go.’ She prised the knife from Alf’s fingers. ‘It’s not going to help Ma, or Siân, if Alf attacks Doctor Roberts.’
Chapter 27
Rhys stood, hands splayed, back pressed to the thin wood of the hospital door. He swayed, giddy. His knees trembled. A cold like black vice squeezed his chest. Dark, so dark, like the inside of a cupboard.
No! This had nothing to do with Tad. He was a man, not a child. No bolt held him captive. No one stood over him, belt in hand. There was only Siân, whose blood stained his fingers. Who’d always believed in him. Who even now might be dying because of him.
He groped for the bench; its cheap, splintery wood felt solid beneath his fingers. He found a bed post, took a halting step—followed by another. Past the single girl’s bunks, the long narrow table. He stopped, bent double, gasped for breath. Took two more steps. Had he reached the ladder? He swung round, arms outstretched, a desperate game of blind man’s bluff.
Warmer, you’re getting warmer. He heard Siân’s laughing voice in his head.
His arms quivered as he hoisted himself onto the ladder. For a moment, he feared he’d not have the strength. He closed his eyes, sucked air into his lungs. Found the rung. Was this courage? Not a courage Tad would recognise. But it would serve. And maybe that’s all that mattered? Maybe that’s all courage was anyway—terror honed to a point.
He fumbled for the mate’s knife, forced it up between the hatch planks. The canvas ripped. He hacked at the ropes. One severed, another, a board lifted. He heaved the remaining planks upwards. A plume of salt water broke over him. Head back, arms flung wide, Rhys let the rain pelt his cheeks.
‘Get down! It’s not safe.’ He heard a bellow.
Not safe! Here? The open deck was a haven to Rhys. But Alf was right. One of the yards had come down; the main deck, a trapeze of splintered wood and cables. Rhys grabbed the line and dragged himself hand over fist through the wreckage. At the saloon doors, a gnarled hand jerked him backwards.
‘What’re you doing, you mad Welsh bastard?’
‘My wife,’ Rhys yelled. ‘She’s bleeding.’
The bosun’s mate shook his head. ‘You’re wasting your time. He’ll not come out in this.’
Rhys jerked free and pushed through the saloon doors. He paused, letting the familiar wave of nausea pass, grasped the table and worked his way around, stopping in front of Doctor Roberts’ door. He knocked once. Didn’t bother waiting for a reply. He lifted the latch, stepped into Doctor Roberts’ cabin. Smelled sherry, and the musky scent of Mrs Scarcebrook’s perfume.
‘Who’s that?’
‘Me, Rhys Bevan. Light a candle, Doctor Roberts.’
‘I can’t come out. It’s madness. I’ve told Bustle already.’
‘He’s not asking. I am.’
‘My answer’s the same.’
‘You don’t remember me, do you, Doctor Roberts? Or the pretty young Welsh girl whose abscess you drained. We were warned, you see, by the apothecary’s wife. The surgeon wasn’t to be trusted. He’s a womaniser, she told us, and a gambler.’
‘Another of your stories, is it, Welshman?’
‘Does your wife know you’re here, Doctor Roberts?’
‘My wife!’ A bark of laughter. ‘You’ll have to do better than that. She asked me to leave.’
‘Light the candle, or I’ll be asking the captain to join us.’
‘He won’t care. The whole ship’s falling apart.’
‘You had a little girl, if I remember correctly. A babe in your wife’s arms. They’d be anxious for news, I’m guessing.’
‘You’re Welsh, son, from a mining village. Yet for some reason, you don’t like steerage. A bit odd, don’t you think? Hiding behind the horsebox all day? Sleeping out at night? Then again, maybe it isn’t. Some men are cowards.’
So he knew. What did it matter? What did anything matter compared to the enormity of losing Siân?
‘I know my weakness, Doctor Roberts. As I know about the credit notes in your strong box. Made out to a Doctor Franklin R Wilson, I believe. The captain may be interested in that small detail, maybe even the immigration agent. A crime, it is, to falsify documents. And to flee creditors. Maybe enough to put you in prison.’
Rhys heard the flint strike. He blinked in the sudden flare of light, saw Doctor Roberts’ scowl, Mrs Scarcebrook’s deer-wide eyes.
‘What do you want from me?’
‘I gave you a penny, remember, at the beginning of the voyage? Lest my wife require your services. She’s labouring now, Doctor Roberts. She and Mary Bustle need your assistance. Bring Mrs Scarcebrook, seeing as she’s in there.’
Rhys watched unsmiling as Doctor Roberts pulled on his coat. Was it wise to include the matron? She looked so ill. Perhaps he should leave her behind. But no, the burden of two birthing women was too great for Annie’s shoulders.
Doctor Roberts fastened Mrs Scarcebrook’s bonnet, his hands fumbling with the ribbons.
‘This isn’t Easter. No need to fuss over her bonnet strings.’
Doctor Roberts spun round, his eyes a blaze of hatred. ‘You think you’re clever, don’t you? Blackmailing a ship’s surgeon? You’ll get away with it now. But not in the long term. So watch your back, miner’s brat. I’ll make you pay for this, eventually.’
The first thing Rhys noticed on re-entering the hospital was the fresh ripe smell of vomit, with Mary Bustle up on all fours and heaving her guts onto the floor. Alf squatted alongside, stroking her face with a calloused hand.
‘You’re doing fine, love. Fine. Look, Doctor Roberts is here now.’
Mary wailed, rocking back and forth. ‘It’s coming. I tell you the baby’s coming. Never mind the bloody surgeon.’
‘Now then, Mrs Bustle. I expect a better welcome than that.’
Mrs Scarcebrook sank down onto the stool. Rhys shoved past her and dropped to his knees beside Siân. Iesu, she was pale, her face a white mask of pain. And the blood … Dear God! It was dripping onto the floor.
‘Siân? It’s me, cariad. Can you hear me?’
Siân’s head turned at the sound of his voice, her lips moving, soundless.
‘Here.’ Annie thrust a bucket and sponge into his hand.
Rhys moistened the sponge, lifted Siân’s head, drizzled water into the corner of her mouth. Her lips moved again. He leaned close. ‘I’m here. Please, cariad, speak to me.’
Still no sound.
Over the roar in his head, Rhys heard Mary’s wails, Doctor Roberts’ snapped queries. Annie’s calm, matter of fact replies.
‘I’ve been counting, like you told me. Mrs Bustle’s pains aren’t far apart. She’s been pushing for a while but can’t seem to get the baby out. And Siân, well, she’s had a fall. As you can see, she’s bleeding.’
‘Right.’ Doctor Roberts clapped his hands. ‘Out. Everybody. Out. No, Bustle, I won’t have arguments. Your stepdaughter as well. This isn’t a family picnic.’
Alf bent, pressing his forehead to Mary’s.
‘Be strong, love … trust the surgeon. It’s almost over, I promise.’
‘Oh, for God’s sake, Bustle, leave me to my business.’
Alf rose, his face wooden. For a moment, Rhys thought he would reply. But he only nodded, lips pressed thin, and left the hospital with jerky steps.
‘And you, Welshman. Leave the poor girl alone, for Christ’s sake. She’s enough on her plate without your craven need for comfort. Annie, you too.’ He swung round. ‘This is no place for a young girl.’
In the doorway, Rhys froze, fingers tight on the latch. This was it, the moment he’d feared—and with Doctor Roberts’ recent threats still ringing in his ears.
‘Please, Doctor Roberts. You promised.’
‘This isn’t a schoolroom, Miss Bowles, despite your macabre desire to be present. I might have to intervene. Use a scalpel and forceps.’
‘I’m not afraid of blood.’
Doctor Roberts’ mouth turned down at the edges. ‘Dear God, you ill-favoured girls are all the same. Desperate to hold other women’s babies. It won’t be pretty, girl, I tell you. No matter what you’ve heard to the contrary.’
From the corner of his eye, Rhys saw the Annie’s chin lift.
‘Lancing a boil wasn’t pretty, or checking heads for lice. Besides, I might be ill favoured but you’ll need my help with two babies coming.’
Chapter 28
Bridie had never seen so much blood, on the bench, the floor, in the deep red soak of Siân’s mattress. Away from the hospital, Rhys sat, shoulders hunched, his back to their sodden bunk. Alf slouched on the bench beside him as, all around, steerage took on signs of life.
The carpenter dragged himself away from the splintered yard to relight the lamps. Tom fetched boiling water from the galley. Pam scooped leaves into the teapot and jammed on the lid as if determination alone could improve the situation. Once the tea had steeped, she slid a steaming mug across the table.
‘Here, Alf. No. Don’t shake your head. I was in labour two days with Lucy and, as you can see, we’re both fine.’
She passed a second cup to Rhys. ‘You too, love. No point getting upset over a drop of blood.’
Rhys didn’t answer. He had his gaze fixed on the hospital door.
‘I knew a woman once. She had a fall. Lord, you’d have thought she’d been bled dry. But it wasn’t all blood. Only her waters.’
Still, Rhys didn’t say anything, though Bridie couldn’t help noticing his skin quivered at the mention of blood. That was a good sign, surely? Meant he was listening. She didn’t know why that was so important. Only that he looked scooped out, hollow, his back a curl of anguish. She had seen her dad in that posture too many times.
‘Here.’ Pam pushed the mug right under his nose. ‘Keep your strength up.’
Tom took the cup from Pam’s hand. ‘Give over, love. Can’t you see he wants to be left alone?’
‘It’s not good for anyone to be alone.’
‘Well, he ain’t alone, technically. He just don’t want to be bothered, that’s all.’
Pam nodded, blinking back tears, and squeezed Rhys’s hand.
At the far end of the deck, Bridie caught a stirring. She swivelled round and saw the hospital door flung wide, Annie in the doorway. By the clasp of her hands, Bridie guessed she was pleading. Though it didn’t work. The door slammed in her face. Rhys lurched to his feet and shoved his way along the deck. Bridie watched him beat an urgent tattoo on the hospital door. It didn’t open, no matter how hard he pounded. With a final despairing thump, he sank to his knees. Beside her, Bridie heard Annie trying to explain.
‘She’s fine, Mr Bustle. They got the baby out.’
‘And … is it alive?’
Annie’s chin quivered. ‘There’s something wrong. Doctor Roberts covered the back of its head … as if there was something dreadful he didn’t want me to see. And, well … there was no crying.’
‘Mary? What about Mary?’ The question rasped from Alf’s throat.
‘She’ll be all right, I think.’
Got it out? What did Annie mean? Had they lost another baby? Bridie turned to Alf. His face held the worst possible answer. She sat down with a bump. Ma was all right. At least, Annie thought she was all right. But the baby hadn’t cried. Which meant it must have died … before it was born. Another stillborn child.
Bridie’s vision blurred. Through a wash of tears, she watched Rhys rise and give a final despairing thump on the hospital door. He stumbled back towards them, then stopped alongside Annie and rested a hand on her shoulder.
‘You did your best, Annie bach. I couldn’t have asked for more.’
Tears slid down Annie’s cheeks. Once the mugs had been cleared, she made the weary transition to her bunk. Mr Rolf and the steerage cleaners set to work on the wreck of their quarters. Alf didn’t join them. He sat, head in his hands, staring at the table.
Annie woke at six bells and began to sob silently in her bunk. Bridie had never seen anyone so upset. She didn’t know why. Anyone could see she wasn't to blame. Pam was clearly of the same mind.
‘Come on down, Annie love. I’ve kept some tea.’
‘I t-t-tried to stay.’ Annie wrapped her hands around the steaming mug.
‘Well, of course you did.’
‘B-b-but something was wrong with … with the baby’s head.’
‘You’re tired,’ Pam pulled a grubby hanky from her pocket, ‘imagining the worst. But Doctor Roberts is with them now. He’s not a good man, Annie. Or a kind one. But he’s a qualified surgeon. We can trust him, I think.’
It was hours. At least it seemed like hours before Doctor Roberts finally emerged. To Bridie’s surprise, Ma was bundled up, leaning on his arm. Behind him, Mrs Scarcebrook nursed a swaddled form.
‘Mary!’ Alf sprang to his feet.
‘Mrs Bustle needs rest,’ Doctor Roberts interrupted Alf’s clumsy joy. ‘I’m moving her down to the men’s hospital. She’s not to be disturbed, on any account. The other girl will stay where she is.’
‘She’s all right?’ Pam’s homely brow creased.
Doctor Roberts paused, mouth tight. ‘She’ll need care.’
That was good news—better than expected. Siân was alive and she was going to need care. Bridie looked round to see how Rhys had taken the news. But he was gone—sprinting along the deck.
‘The child?’
‘The child is dead.’
Ma’s face crumpled at his words. She clutched Doctor Roberts’ arm as if her knees would give way. The bundle in Mrs Scarecebrook’s arms squirmed; a tiny fist escaped the
swaddling. A seal dark head.
Alive! Their baby was alive, moving. Its head perfect. What was Annie thinking?
‘And Siân?’ Alf asked quietly.
‘Will need nursing.’
‘She’ll be all right though?’ Bridie blurted the question. ‘She’ll get well?’
‘I doubt that,’ Doctor Roberts said, after a long pause. ‘I doubt that very much.’
Annie wasn’t the only one sobbing now. Bridie heard a wail, realised it was her own, the sound echoing as the news began to work its way along the deck. Siân dying. Rhys’s lovely, gentle fairy wife leaving him. She’d never wanted to die, or given up on life. Yet, here she was dying; amid blood and chaos, on the far side of the world.
Chapter 29
Rhys paused at the hospital door. Eyes closed, hand claw-like on the latch, he tried to gauge the horror within. There were no clues. The cabin lay silent, voiceless. He pushed open the door.
Iesu! He recoiled. Sweet Jesus, she was lifeless as a corpse. ‘Siân,’ he croaked. ‘How is it with you, cariad?’
She didn’t answer, though for a moment, Rhys fancied he saw her eyelids flicker. He crossed the room. Her fingers cold, so cold—icy as a new fallen snow. He rubbed them, trying to summon their warmth.
‘Sut wyt ti cariad? Please, Siân, speak to me.’
Nefi, how slender she looked beneath the covers, hardly a bump to the sheets. Slender! Dear God, the baby. Where had it gone? Rhys spun round. Saw the hawse bucket filled with blood. Siân’s blood, dripping out of her, slow, measured, like a heart beat. He scanned the tiny cabin, found their baby tucked on the other side of the bed. Still. Cold. Rhys leaned over and lifted the lifeless form. A waxy face stared back at him—perfect the nose, the mouth, the cheeks. But dead. Tears welled as he laid the baby on the bed and began to unwind the sheet.
‘Stop!’ He heard Doctor Roberts’ clipped tones. ‘Sometimes we want to know things. But afterwards, we realise it would have been better not to know.’
Rhys paused, but only for moment.
The Tides Between Page 24