No Cure for Love

by Jean Fullerton

  He took the narrow wooden stairs two at a time. He went over to the bed where Bridget Shannahan lay without making any real indentation in the mattress. Beside her on the floor was a washing pail with vomit in it and a full night-soil pot.

  Quickly casting his eye over both, he turned to his patient. He said a prayer of thanks when he saw she still breathed. To be sure it was laboured, but it was still breathing. Taking his stethoscope out, he knelt carefully beside her to avoid upsetting the foul containers on the floor. Bridget’s eyes flickered open, bright with fever.

  ‘Doctor Munroe,’ she whispered.

  ‘Is it too early to say top of the morning to you, Mrs Shannahan?’ he said with a smile as he felt her pulse. It was weak, irregular and thready. She didn’t answer, just smiled back and closed her eyes again. He laid the broad end of his stethoscope against her chest over her nightdress, put his ear to the other end and listened.

  There was the same irregularity he had felt in her pulse, with the odd half beat, but with an occasional squeak between beats. He stood up and put his hand on her forehead. It was hot against his palm. Bridget opened her eyes again and looked up at him.

  ‘What have you eaten today?’ he asked.

  ‘The usual, same as Josie and Ellie,’ Bridget answered.

  ‘Have you eaten anywhere else in the last couple of days?’

  Bridget shook her head very slightly. ‘Not that I can think of. I visited old Ma Grady two days ago, in Jane Street, poor soul, and had a cup of tea with her.’

  Jane Street was the street next to Katharine Street. Robert didn’t need to enquire further. Josie came by the side of him and took hold of the washing pail.

  ‘I’ll come back up for that in a moment,’ she said nodding towards the tin pot to the left of Robert.

  ‘Have you got some tar soap?’ he asked as she lugged the pail to the top of the stairs. Josie nodded. ‘Then wash your hands well once you’ve emptied it. The same when you empty the night pot.’ He turned back to Bridget.

  ‘Josie’s a fine girl, like her mother,’ Bridget whispered, as her gaze followed her granddaughter. ‘Do you know, I have seven grandsons, three in America and four in Ireland, along with six granddaughters, four in America, and two in Ireland, and so many nieces and nephews in Liverpool, Bristol and Manchester, that I couldn’t even begin to count, but I’ve never seen them. So I only have Josie, but she’s as good as a dozen.’ Her gaze rested back on Robert as he folded away his instruments. ‘I’ll be sorry to leave her.’

  ‘I’m moving you to the hospital. You can see her and Ellen there,’ Robert told her, wilfully misconstruing her meaning. Bridget’s eyes didn’t leave his face.

  ‘You take my meaning, Doctor,’ she said. ‘I’m old and I can’t pull my weight any more. I’ve become a burden on Ellen.’

  ‘I know your daughter enough to know she’d roast you for saying that,’ Robert said, bringing a ghost of a smile to Bridget’s grey lips.

  ‘Aye, that she would. But it’s true. I had to let three of my regular washes go a month past. That lost us three shillings. And I can only do sewing repairs and not make a whole gown, so we’ll lose more. That’s why my Ellen has to sing in Paddy’s Goose to make up my money,’ Bridget crossed herself.

  Josie came back up and replaced the cleaned pail beside Bridget. She sat up. ‘Excuse me, sir, but I will have to—,’ Robert stood up as Bridget grabbed the pail and retched into it.

  There was a sound below and Robert heard Bulmer call up the stairs, announcing the arrival of the litter. Bridget had now sunk back in the bed and Josie was sponging her forehead and wiping her mouth.

  ‘Get the litter ready, I’m bringing Mrs Shannahan down,’ Robert shouted to the men below. With one swift movement he wrapped the blanket that covered her around her, scooped her up in his arms and carefully carried her down the narrow stairs. As he deposited her on the wicker litter, she looked up at him.

  ‘You’re fond of Ellen, Doctor Munroe,’ she said, sending Robert’s emotions soaring.

  ‘I am,’ Robert replied as levelly as he could.

  ‘Go and fetch her from Paddy’s Goose. My Ellie’s too good for that godforsaken place, don’t you think?’

  Ellen gritted her teeth and stepped out onto the rickety stage. As the lights glared on her, Paddy Flanagan struck up a chord on the badly tuned piano at the side of the stage.

  The commotion in the public bar continued and Ellen had to raise her voice to be heard over the guttural voices of sailors and the shrill giggles of the women. After the first verse, a drunk at the front lurched forward and grabbed for the hem of her gown but fell short and ended up kneeling against the stage. He gabbled something, then slumped unconscious to the floor. Ellen took a step back as she launched into the chorus which at least set some in the room swaying in time to the familiar rhythm.

  Was the five shillings that Danny Donovan paid her to sing in Paddy’s Goose twice a week really worth it, Ellen asked herself as she started the second verse. Unfortunately it was.

  She had argued long and hard with herself before accepting Danny’s offer to sing at the White Swan, but in the end necessity had made her take the job.

  While their daily washing and sewing had earned them enough to live on, the money she made by singing in the Angel and Crown and the Town of Ramsgate went straight into the penny bank for their passage to America. So far, Ellen had nine pounds two shillings. That was two pounds eighteen shillings short of the money they needed for passage and supplies for the arduous twenty to thirty-day crossing. But now that Bridget was unable to work as she had, some of Ellen’s precious singing money was being used to supplement their living expenses. So as much as Ellen froze every time she walked into Paddy’s Goose, she had to do it, otherwise they would never save the money for America and would be trapped in poverty for ever.

  Taking a small bow at the end of the first song, she quickly gathered up the money thrown on the stage. It galled her pride to scramble on the dirt boards for pennies, but every coin given by an appreciative sailor was a penny more for the thrift bank. Some mauling sailor from Galway had pressed three shillings into her hand the week before because she had sung an old lullaby his mother used to croon to him. That went straight down to the bank the next day.

  Ellen cleared her throat. ‘Any requests?’ she shouted over the drone of voices.

  ‘“Old Mammy’s Ram”,’ a man at the back shouted. This brought forth a number of shouts of agreement.

  Ellen ignored the request. A rendition of the song about an energetic, over-sexed he-goat would only send the audience off in a lewd direction as they joined in the actions.

  ‘Any others?’ she asked, appealing to those in the back of the room by the bar.

  ‘“My Darling Sweet Maid”,’ shouted a slurred woman’s voice from the back.

  ‘“The Singing Waters of the Liffey”,’ another woman called and a few around her agreed.

  Ellen signalled for Paddy to start. He struck a chord and Ellen drew in a breath. There was a crash at the back of the room as a portly man stood up and shoved two tables aside sending the glasses and bottles on the top crashing to the floor.

  With an inward shudder Ellen recognised Brian Hennessey, a boon companion of Danny Donovan’s, stumbling towards her. The woman who had been on his lap was now sobbing noisily in a dishevelled heap on the sandy floor at his feet, while others around him were moving swiftly out of his way. Brian was not known for his forbearance.

  ‘Sing “Old Mammy’s Ram”,’ he demanded as he reached the bottom of the stage and peered belligerently up at Ellen. Her heart was in her mouth and pounding as if it was about to burst from her chest.

  ‘Maybe aft—’ she started, but, drunk though he was, Brian was swift. He leapt up on the stage and grabbed her by the throat with his brawny hand. They both swayed as he regained his foothold and then brought her close. Belching into her face he squeezed her throat slightly.

  ‘Sing “Mammy’s Ram”,’ he sai
d, smiling menacingly and revealing a row of tobacco-stained teeth. He slid his arm around her waist, ramming her onto his crotch. ‘We’ll do the actions later.’

  The audience roared at this and shouted possible actions that Brian might like to consider. Ellen’s mind was numb. It was well known that Brian would slash a full-grown man for gainsaying him. How was she going to escape from his iron grip? His hands were already fumbling with her skirt, hauling it up over her bottom as best he could.

  There was a sudden stillness in the audience that Ellen couldn’t account for. Were they waiting to see or what? Suddenly, Brian’s hand around her throat lost its strength and he was slipping onto the floor in front of her. As he went down with a crash into the dirt at her feet Ellen looked in disbelief at the figure who had taken Brian’s place on the stage. Relief flooded through Ellen as she saw Doctor Munroe.

  He tucked the walking cane with which he had poleaxed Brian under his arm and offered her his hand. ‘May I have the pleasure of accompanying you home, Mrs O’Casey?’

  In a wink she grabbed hold of his hand, her nails digging into his palm. He could feel her shaking and took the opportunity to put his arm around her waist to lead her through the crowd of gawping onlookers. After the first few steps she stumbled. Robert squeezed her waist and made her look up at him. The fear was still simmering in her eyes.

  ‘It’s all right, Ellen,’ he said, holding her closer and enjoying the feel of her hip against his thigh. ‘I’m here and no one will hurt you now. I promise.’

  ‘Oh, Doctor Munroe,’ was all she could manage but it was enough. All her desire and love were in those three words and Robert’s heart fixed for all time on Ellen. Taking his coat off, he put it around her shoulders and steered her towards the door.

  As they reached halfway across the floor their path was blocked by a bull of a man with dark red, curly hair. Two piggy eyes stared belligerently at them out of his bloated face. By the way he stood chewing a fat cigar out of the side of his mouth and blocking their way Robert guessed he was the landlord.

  ‘Out of my way,’ commanded Robert.

  The man stood his ground. ‘I’m Henry Forster and who the feck are you, when your mother knows you?’ he said, squaring up to Robert.

  Despite being taller than most, Robert was eye to eye with Forster, and although as broad, he judged he was several pounds lighter.

  ‘I am Doctor Munroe. I take it that you are the landlord here,’ he said, casting his eye around the room.

  ‘I’ve heard of you. You’re the doctor that’s been poking his nose in where he’s no business to.’

  ‘Have you?’

  Forster swallowed, then jabbed his index finger at Robert. ‘Now, see here, doctor or no, you have just laid one of my best customers flat. I’ll have to call the constable.’

  ‘Please do. I’m sure they would be most interested to see the type of house you keep here.’ He glanced casually towards where a woman with her skirts up her legs was rocking back and forth on a sailor’s lap.

  Forster’s eyes darted uncertainly to the sailor, then back to his face. ‘Even so, where the feck do you think you’re taking Ellen? She’s booked for the evening and has only done one song.’

  ‘Step aside.’

  Forster, however, still stood in front of them blocking their exit.

  ‘And what if I don’t?’ he said sneeringly.

  ‘I am asking you for the final time to step aside,’ Robert said in an ice-cold voice, ‘or you will have Inspector Jackson and his men from Wapping swarming over these premises by morning. I doubt Danny Donovan would thank you for that.’

  For a few seconds their eyes locked, then Henry Forster stepped aside, spitting the now soggy cigar in Robert’s path. Leading Ellen gently, Robert walked past the landlord and towards the door.

  ‘Mr Donovan will have something to say about this, Ellen,’ Forster called after them. Robert felt Ellen quake at the mention of Danny’s name.

  Robert half-turned as he reached the door. ‘If Danny Donovan has anything to say, he can say it to me,’ Robert informed everyone within earshot as he put his hand to the brass plate on the door and pushed it open.

  After the oppressive, smoke-filled atmosphere of the White Swan’s main drinking room the cool air, even with the smell from the Thames close by, was refreshing. Silently they made their way along Ratcliffe Highway. After a few moments Ellen stopped and started to shake again. Swiftly Robert took her in his arms and held her. He allowed himself the luxury of letting his lips rest briefly on her hair. He held her closer to still her fears, relishing the feel of her head on his chest and her soft breasts pressed into his chest.

  ‘It’s over, Ellen, you’re safe, my love,’ he said, liberated by saying her name out loud.

  The shaking subsided and Ellen pushed away from him slightly. To his satisfaction she did it to look up at him and not to free herself from his embrace. The temptation to kiss her was almost too much, but he held back.

  ‘Why on earth were you in Paddy’s Goose?’ she asked with a confused expression on her face.

  ‘Ellen. It’s your mother.’

  Bridget lay, ghostly pale, on the clean sheets of one of the beds in the cholera hospital. Ellen and Josie sat beside her, huddled together in a large wooden chair. Around them the two night nurses moved quietly amongst the patients, seeing to their needs and offering a word of comfort as they went. Of the sixteen beds only ten were occupied. The rest were neatly made, waiting, like cool marble slabs, for the next sufferer to be laid on their pristine surfaces.

  Since Robert Munroe had materialised at Paddy’s Goose, the evening had taken on an unreal quality for Ellen. She had gone from terror to joy at his appearance, from fear of what Forster might do to him to ecstasy as he held her tenderly in his arms, and finally to dread as he told her of her mother’s condition. Her emotions were now completely unravelled and scattered around her.

  Ellen had given up all pretence of being merely fond of Robert; when he appeared on the stage in the White Swan and rescued her from Hennessey, she knew that she loved him.

  She had diligently guarded her heart against love since Michael had died, only to find that it was now taken by a man who could never be hers before God.

  Ellen gazed at her mother, who was breathing peacefully. Next to her Josie had nodded off to sleep. Ellen adjusted her position and eased Josie under her arm. Her daughter stirred, but did not wake.

  After they arrived, Robert had led her to Bridget and left her and Josie. But Ellen knew that he would stay as long as she needed him.

  Knowing that he cared, that he cherished her, warmed her from within. She gazed at him as he stood next to a bed at the far end of the ward and spoke to the attending nurse. He had opened his waistcoat and loosened his cravat, his hair was tousled and there was a dark shadow on his cheeks and chin where his night beard was beginning to grow through. He turned towards her and their eyes met. He said something to the nurse and walked over. Ellen eased Josie onto the chair and covered her with a blanket.

  ‘Has your mother opened her eyes?’ he asked in a whisper. Josie stirred and muttered in her sleep, so he took gentle hold of Ellen’s arm and moved her away into the corner.

  ‘No, but she is peaceful,’ Ellen replied, feeling the strength of his presence wash over her. He left Ellen and went back to Bridget’s side. Taking her limp wrist and sliding out his gold hunter, Robert took her pulse. His mouth drew into a tight line and he lifted the covers from her mother’s feet, pressing the pad of his thumb firmly into her flesh. Bridget didn’t stir. Robert regarded her legs for a second or two, then covered them again. He picked up his stethoscope from the table next to the bed and listened to Bridget’s chest. He replaced the stethoscope and returned to Ellen’s side.

  ‘Is something wrong?’

  He took hold of her hand, his fingers caressing her gently. ‘I’m afraid there is,’ he said, his troubled eyes looking deep into Ellen’s. ‘Your mother is very ill indeed.’
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  Ellen staggered back and Robert’s arm circled her waist. ‘But you said that she was only in the early stages of the disease and with proper care she had a good chance of recovering.’

  ‘And that is true, but your mother has had a problem with her breathing, has she not?’ Ellen nodded. ‘Your mother’s heart has been failing for some time.’

  Ellen’s world crashed around her. Her mother, who had rocked her on her knee, kissed away the scratches and scrapes of life, was dying. She let out a quiet sob and Robert took her in his arms and held her close. She did not resist, just rested against him and allowed her tattered emotions to flow through her and over him.

  Tears shuddered from her and Robert held her tighter. ‘Ellen.’ His hand left her back and went to her head, stroking his fingers lovingly through her hair and kissing her head softly.

  ‘I am so sorry, my love,’ he said, as his lips moved down to her forehead. She felt the firmness of them on her brow. ‘I wish there was something else I could do.’

  My love. His love.

  Wonderful though it was holding Ellen so close, he had to stop. They were at her dying mother’s bedside.

  ‘Let me sit with you a while,’ he said, breaking away.

  She nodded. ‘Thank you, Doctor Munroe. That is kind of you.’ She smiled and walked with him over to her mother’s bed. Pulling up a bench he sat her beside her mother. Ellen gently took hold of Bridget’s hand and smiled down at her. Robert slipped onto the bench on the other side of her. Although he wanted to take Ellen’s hand, with the staff walking back and forth, it would have been unwise, so he contented himself with resting his leg against Ellen’s as they sat.

  ‘How old were you when you married, Ellen?’ he asked quietly, as the nurse settled at the table at the far end of the ward.

  ‘Fifteen,’ she answered, still looking at her mother.

  Fifteen! ‘That’s young,’ Robert said, as she turned her large green eyes on him and smiled a haunted smile.