‘But the money is up west.’
Doctor Munroe regarded her steadily. ‘But the sick are to the east, Mrs O’Casey. I am a doctor and I am needed by the sick, not the rich.’ He smiled down at her.
Holy Mother, but he’s handsome when he smiles.
They had reached the far end of the hospital.
‘Unfortunately, I have to leave you here,’ he said, giving no indication that he was going to relinquish her basket. His amused look had changed to one of speculation. He looked as if he was about to say something.
‘You have a thought to say, Doctor Munroe?’
‘I have, Mrs O’Casey. But am I brave enough to say it?’
Ellen folded her arms. ‘Let’s hear it then.’
‘I was going to say that the pink ribbon on the bonnet suited you.’
Ellen put her hand to the third-hand straw bonnet that she had trimmed with pink petersham just to hold the brim together. She snatched her hand away and stared at the pavement.
‘That’s why I had to be brave,’ he said softly. ‘Because, having coaxed you out of your shell, I didn’t want you to retreat again.’
Ellen couldn’t help smiling at the doctor’s contrite expression. The shock of light brown hair, that never seemed to remain where it was combed, sat over his eyes adding to the appeal of his expression. She smiled.
‘That’s better.’ He beamed at her. ‘The artists of this world may think they alone know of beauty, but we scientists could teach them a thing or two about observation. ’
They crossed the main thoroughfare and stopped at the corner of the hospital. She took the basket from him. ‘Thank you, Doctor Munroe, for carrying the basket and... and for your compliments.’
‘I spoke the truth. Nothing more.’
Maybe she had been wrong about him last night. Maybe he hadn’t come to the Angel looking for a bit of quick company.
She pressed her lips together. She didn’t want to let him think that she was a woman of loose morals, but—
She put her head on one side. ‘In particular your compliment last night. I am sorry. I was a mite too sharp in my taking of it.’
Robert sat back in the chair and watched as Polly Ellis swayed back and forth in the light from the window. She threw her hands over her head, smiled at him and then spun around. Robert clapped his hands softly.
‘You are the loveliest dancer I have ever seen,’ he said, signalling for her to come to him.
‘It’s all thanks to you that she can dance at all,’ Mrs Ellis said, as her daughter teetered towards him.
Polly stood before Robert regarding him with a solemnity that only a five-year-old child can muster. She had been one of his first patients. He had been the physician on duty when her mother and father rushed her into the hospital, limp and barely breathing. That was three months ago.
‘How does it feel?’ he asked.
‘It’s a bit diggy here,’ she indicated where the strap held her new leg brace to the top of her thigh.
Robert moved her dress aside. The brace had been fashioned out of metal by a gunsmith who had a workshop in Spitalfields and made the occasional implement for the hospital.
‘The brace has to rest here.’ He drew Mrs Ellis’s attention to where the soft kid padding sat at the apex of Polly’s thigh and groin. ‘And then be anchored by these straps. It might be sore for a few days but it will help to stabilise Polly’s knee joint while the muscles of her leg strengthen. These buckles need to be tight to hold the sides firm when she is walking.’ He pointed to the strap above Polly’s thin knee and ankle. ‘It has been designed to lengthen here, at the sides,’ he showed her where small screws held the two lengths of metal on either side, ‘And the strap that goes under the sole of her shoe also has to be tight over her instep.’
‘Will those shoes do? Because if not the pawnbroker said we can swap them for another pair,’ Mr Ellis asked, looking anxiously at him.
‘They are fine. And you have to remember to keep the brace joints greased, otherwise if they get wet they’ll seize up and rust.’
‘You can depend on it.’ Mr Ellis bent down to inspect the metalwork that encased his daughter’s right leg.
Polly studied her brown boots and stamped her feet. ‘Shoes feel funny.’
Robert watched her start to master the brace that she would have to wear for some considerable time. She was fortunate to be the Ellises’ only child. On the meagre wages her father earned as a dock porter Robert doubted that he could have afforded the shoes necessary to fit the brace if there had been more than one young mouth to feed. Mrs Ellis did the best she could, but the room in the eaves of a once grand house where they lived was sparsely furnished and shabby. Although the family was clean, their clothes had more darned patches than original cloth.
‘Can I offer you a dish of tea?’ Mrs Ellis asked.
Robert eyed the lazy bluebottle circling the milk jug on the table. ‘Thank you, no.’
Mr Ellis stood up. ‘It’s a fine piece of work is that. We are very grateful to you for all your trouble. Ain’t we, Mrs Ellis?’
‘That we are. We are very lucky that you know about such things,’ she said, coming forward to stand beside her husband.
‘You’re lucky that a damaged leg is all Polly has from her brush with poliomyelitis,’ Robert told them, as they all watched the little girl test her brace again by marching across the small room.
The wind rattled the window and the curtain drifted up with the draught. Robert’s gaze rested on the child. He noted how very frail she was. So small. Too small in fact. No bigger than a child of three, with barely any flesh beneath the pale skin of her arms and legs. She might have survived polio, just, but she would still be very lucky to see her tenth birthday. The innocent spark of life that was Polly Ellis could be wiped out in a day by any of the childhood illnesses rife in the area. A small lump lodged in Robert’s throat.
He coughed. ‘Now, Miss Dancing-feet, come here.’ When she was within arm’s reach Robert lifted her effortlessly onto his lap.
Mrs Ellis grew alarmed. ‘Polly, you sit still. Don’t you crease the doctor’s trousers now. Mind her shoe, sir. Keep your feet still, girl.’
Robert ignored Mrs Ellis’s fussing and fished around in the seat behind him.
‘As you are the best dancer I think you should have a prize.’ He pulled out the two oranges and held them up. Polly’s eyes opened wide in wonder. ‘One for today and one for tomorrow,’ Robert told her.
‘Oh, Doctor,’ Mrs Ellis said taking her husband’s arm. ‘You shouldn’t have.’
‘They were left over from breakfast, they would only have been thrown away,’ Robert lied as he handed the fruit to Mrs Ellis and set Polly back on her feet. ‘I know it’s hard, but if you can buy Polly an apple or a pear once or twice a week it will help her muscles grow strong.’
Mr Ellis touched his forehead. ‘I’ll try.’
Polly turned and faced him. ‘I like you, Doctor Munroe, and I’m going to marry you when I grow up.’
‘I don’t know where she gets such ideas!’ Mrs Ellis said, looking from Robert to her husband.
Robert laughed. ‘When you grow up, young lady -’ the lump in his throat returned ‘- you will want to marry a young lad who buys you violets, not some dull old man like me.’
Polly’s brows drew together and she stuck out her lower lip. ‘Well, if I’m not going to marry you then you will have to marry someone very, very pretty and nice, because you’re nice.’
Robert laughed again.
‘Polly, that’s enough,’ Mrs Ellis said, taking hold of her daughter’s arm.
Robert stood up and Mrs Ellis handed him his hat.
Mr Ellis opened the door that led onto the tenement landing. ‘It is very good of you to take such trouble.’
‘If you bring your daughter to the dispensary in a week or two, I’ll check the brace.’ He gazed down at Polly. ‘Goodbye for now.’
As he reached the top step Mr Ellis caught up with him and pressed a
coin into Robert’s hand. ‘It’s not much, Doctor, but I want you to take it.’
Robert glanced down at the half-crown on his gloved palm. It was three days’ wages for Mr Ellis. Robert knew he could ill afford to part with the money, but although it would have been better spent on fruit or fresh milk from the Whitechapel dairy for Polly, Robert knew he had to take it. People like the Ellises didn’t have much, but they did have their pride.
‘Thank you.’
Mr Ellis nodded and went back into the room. Robert slipped the coin in his pocket.
Somewhere below a baby was crying fitfully, a woman’s voice shouted and then the noise of a hacking cough sounded through a partition wall. Robert’s mouth drew into a hard line. He settled his hat on his head and descended the stairs.
Placing the mug of hot sugary tea on the table beside her, Bridget sank into the horsehair upholstery of the chair. She closed her eyes for a second and let her bones find their own rest. The pain across her chest and down her left arm receded. She picked up the mug, holding it against her bony chest, and sniffed its sweet steam. She had stirred in three spoonfuls, which was far too much, considering the price of an ounce of sugar these days. But she needed it.
Through the small back window that looked out onto their yard sheets flapped back and forth in the stiff breeze.
Praise be, it isn’t raining, she thought, then chuckled to herself. That had to be the prayer of every washer-woman on God’s earth. She let her head fall back.
Although the sharp chest pain of earlier was now just a dull ache, Bridget knew that it would awaken again as soon as she stood up and started the ironing. Every day it tightened its grip on her. That morning she had had black spots in her vision on the way back from the pump, but she didn’t dare tell Ellen. She had enough to concern herself with raising Josie and avoiding that brute Danny Donovan’s groping hands without having her mother as a burden.
Bridget felt her eyes start to flutter down. She yawned. She would just take five minutes, then put the iron on the range.
She was jolted awake half an hour later by the front door banging. Tidying her hair back into place she stood up, guilty at having been found idling while there was work to be done. Ellen breezed in and snatched off her bonnet, sending it flying onto the table.
She beamed at Bridget. ‘Stay where you are, Mammy. I’ll put the kettle on. We have an hour or two before we have to start pressing.’
Ellen danced over to the stove humming to herself. Although she had no idea what had lightened her step, Bridget was mighty glad that something had. Ellen was too young, too lovely not to enjoy life occasionally. Without her sacrifice, she and Josie would have been in the workhouse long ago.
Ellen started to sing softly as she arranged the cups on the table and uncovered the milk jug. She sniffed it and, finding the milk sound, poured it into both cups.
Bridget caught the refrain Ellen was singing and a lump formed itself in her throat.
‘Your pappy used to sing “The Sweet, Sweet Dawn” to me.’
Ellen smiled at her and poured out the tea, then came and sat on the stool beside her as she used to do when she was a little girl.
‘Tell me stories about Pappy,’ Ellen said.
Bridget settled into the chair. ‘You’ve heard them.’
‘Tell them again,’ Ellen pleaded, her eyes sparkling in the reflection from the window. ‘Tell me how Pappy courted you.’
‘We lived in farms across the valley from each other. He came from a large family, ten boys and eight girls, although six of them were awaiting resurrection day in the churchyard when I started to court your father.’ Ellen sat, hugging her knees.
Images of past days swam into Bridget’s mind. Days when the new life in England had held more promise and less heartache. ‘The Shannahan family was well known in the county for their argumentative way of being. It was said a Shannahan would have argued with the sainted Patrick himself about keeping the snakes had they ever chanced to meet him.’
Ellen smiled. ‘I see where Josie gets her contrary ways now.’
‘And not just Josie!’
Ellen pulled a face. They should be gathering in the washing not sitting around chattering. But Ellen was merrier than she had been for many months. Bridget reached out a hand and smoothed a stray lock of hair from Ellen’s face.
God grant her a better life than she’s seen so far.
‘Joseph Shannahan walked ten miles across the county every Sunday to come courting. I used to stand on my bed in the loft of our house to see him coming across the field then run down to be ready when he arrived.’
‘Did you think him handsome? Did you notice something special about him, like maybe his hands?’ Ellen asked.
Bridget gave her a sharp look. ‘Hands?’
The blush of Ellen’s cheeks deepened. ‘Or something.’
A smile crept across Bridget’s face. ‘Well, his eyes were sea-green like Josie’s, if that’s what you mean,’ Bridget said, willing Ellen to say more. She didn’t, so Bridget continued her tale.
‘My father was very strict with me and my sisters. He frightened most of the young men away with his blustering ways, but not your father, no. He was made of sterner stuff. He finally wore my pappy down and we were married a week after I turned seventeen.’ She paused for a moment and Ellen waited. ‘We were given a cottage on the estate,’ she scoffed. ‘Cottage. That’s a grand English name for a cowshed. It had weed in the thatch and mice in the foundations. But your pappy set to and made it sound.’
A picture of the cottage with its bare white walls floated into her mind. She saw herself as a young bride, eager and frightened in equal parts. She remembered herself and Joseph in that old rickety bed, loving each other. They had both been so young, so strong, back then. Where had those years gone? The loneliness of the years since he had died, a broken man with coal dust clogging his lungs, swept over her.
‘I just remember that cottage,’ Ellen said, cutting into her memories. ‘Me and Joe used to chase the chickens in the yard.’
‘That you did, and we would have had more eggs had you not,’ Bridget replied.
‘I remember how the roof slanted at one end and the rain would come under the door if the wind was in the East. Pappy would shout at the wind to turn around. I remember one day it did and I was afraid that God would punish him for ordering his wind about. And how I swung on the gate waiting for Pappy to come home after market day and he always asked, ‘Where’s my smiley angel’ although I was right in front of him.’
Both women sat silently with their thoughts for a few moments, then Bridget placed her empty cup down.
‘You look a bit of a smiley angel today, Ellie.’
‘Do I?’ Ellen gazed at her fingers.
‘What’s he like?’
Ellen stood up and started to collect their cups together. ‘Who?’
‘The man who’s put the sun in your smile.’
Ellen gave a forced laugh. ‘Man? What man?’
‘That’s what I asked you.’
‘I’m just...’ She shrugged and raised her hands palms up on either side of her. ‘I’m full of the joys of spring. That’s all.’
‘Oh, that must be what’s making you sing, skip around the room and be talking about “noticing hands”.’
Ellen’s hand went to her hair. She pulled out a couple of pins and held them in her mouth, then, twisting her hair around, she jabbed the pins back. She glanced at the window and snatched up the basket from the table.
‘It’s past midday, I’d better get the washing in and ironed.’
A smile spread across Bridget’s face. She hauled herself out of the chair, took up the other basket and followed her daughter. As she reached the back door the grinding pain returned to her left arm.
Four
Danny tapped the open book in his hand and shook his head slowly. Black Mike, his giant right-hand man with fists the size of hams, standing behind him, did the same. Both of them looked at Pet
er Petersen, the chandler. Stood on the shelves were tins of various shapes and sizes, sealed at their rims with wax and sporting nautical scenes. Behind the chandler, coils of rope hung from hooks from the rafters. Danny fixed Petersen with a steely stare.
‘My book here,’ Danny jabbed at the pages, ‘says you have been short of coin for me for three weeks now.’
Petersen pulled out a crumpled handkerchief and mopped his broad brow. He shoved it back in his inside pocket and smiled apologetically.
‘Times is very hard, yar, Mr Donovan,’ said Petersen, his oiled hair shining in the light from the lamp above.
‘That they are,’ Danny agreed, his face a picture of concern. After a second his expression changed to a perplexed one. He pulled a fragile-looking chair over, turned it around and sat on it, legs astride. ‘But, as I take me morning stroll by the docks, the ships are fighting each other to get a berth.’
Petersen ran his finger around his collar and stretched his neck out. ‘That they are. But, Mr Donovan, sir, the prices are low. Why, only yesterday I heard that some ships’ masters are carrying tea and sugar as ballast, so low is the price vot they get in port.’ Beads of sweat sprang up on the fair bristles of his upper lip.
‘Is that so?’ Danny asked.
‘Yar, yar.’ Petersen shrugged expressively at Danny and Mike. ‘They are practically giving away their goods.’ He gave a forced laugh. ‘Only dis morning I was saying to my good Hilda, that as things go, I have barely enough to put food in my children’s mouths.’
Danny shook his head again. ‘Do you hear that, Mike?’
‘I do, guv’nor,’ Mike said, casting his gaze around the overcrowded interior of the ship’s chandler’s.
Danny’s eyes rested on a stack of coal shovels leaning in the corner, their unused blades gleaming in the light from the window. His gaze moved on to a dozen or so pristine cork floats then came back to the chandler.
He rose from the chair and circled around the counter. ‘Now, I’m just a simple man. Made my way in this old world, did me and Mike, without the benefit of much schooling, so put me straight if I am astray. If these poor seamen are out of pocket after sailing to the corners of the earth, why would you be stocking up with all manner of seafaring goods?’
No Cure for Love Page 4