Agnes saw the longing look in his eyes. ‘I see no reason why you shouldn’t go there,’ she said.
Hope lit up Eric Wardle’s face. ‘Do you mean it, Nurse?’
‘Why not? The fresh air will do you good. As long as you promise not to start digging?’ she warned him.
‘Nay, my Carrie will do all that for me. It’ll just be nice to be out in the sun, instead of being stuck in here.’ He grinned. ‘Thank you, Nurse. That’s just the tonic I needed!’
The memory of the smile on his face stayed with her all the way back to Dr Rutherford’s house. It was good to be able to cheer him up. Eric Wardle was such a nice man, Agnes wished she could have nursed him to better effect.
Those abscesses must have been festering inside him for years, she thought. Amyloid disease was very slow to take hold. Why hadn’t Dr Rutherford noticed the signs? If he had aspirated the abscesses, or cut out the infected tissue, then perhaps Eric Wardle might not be dying now.
She tried not to allow herself to judge. But she couldn’t help thinking that if Dr Rutherford put as much energy into his patients as he did into his garden and his fishing trips, the people of Bowden might be a lot better off than they were now.
She heard the voices drifting down the drive as she cycled through the open gates.
‘Go away! Go away, I said! Shoo! Off with you.’
‘I in’t going anywhere till I see t’nurse.’
Agnes pedalled faster, rounding the sweeping bend in the drive, past the high hedge so that the front door came into view. There she was met by the curious sight of Mrs Bannister on the front steps, wielding a broom like a weapon while little Elsie Stanhope stood her ground below, arms folded across her chest.
Agnes jumped off her bicycle. ‘Elsie? What’s going on?’
Elsie ran to her. ‘Nurse, you must come. It’s our Christopher. I think he’s dying!’
‘Dying, indeed!’ Mrs Bannister rolled her eyes. ‘Don’t be so dramatic, child.’
Elsie turned on her. ‘He is dying!’ she insisted. ‘He’s got a pain in his belly so bad he can hardly stand it. Aunt Hannah reckons it’s down to all the sausages and cake he ate at the gala but I’ve never seen him as bad as this. I don’t know what to do!’ she wailed.
‘Surely you should go and fetch your aunt, rather than bothering the nurse?’ Mrs Bannister said.
‘I in’t going into the woods, they’re haunted. Besides, she’ll only tell him it’s his own fault. Please, miss?’ She turned back to Agnes, wringing her hands. ‘Will you come and look at him? I’m that worried about him.’
Agnes glanced at Mrs Bannister, still standing on the steps, her broom in her hands, ready to lash out.
‘All right, I’ll come.’
As soon as she saw Christopher Stanhope, Agnes knew he was suffering from more than indigestion. He was curled up in a ball on his bed, groaning in pain.
Agnes felt for his pulse. It skittered under her fingers. ‘Christopher, where does your belly hurt?’
‘Everywhere,’ he mumbled, face pressed into the pillow.
‘Where is it worst?’ Agnes put her hand on his abdomen. The muscles felt rigid to her touch. ‘Is it here? Or here?’ She moved her hand to McBurney’s point, between the umbilicus and the anterior superior iliac spine. Just as she had feared, Christopher let out a yelp of agony.
‘How long has he been like this?’ she asked Elsie over her shoulder.
‘Since this morning. Aunt Hannah gave him some of her peppermint tea, but it didn’t do any good.’
‘And where’s your father?’
‘Down at t’pit gates with the rest of the men. Then he’ll be off to the Working Men’s while closing time, unless he decides to come home for his tea.’
‘Does he know his son is sick?’
‘Aye,’ Elsie said. ‘But Aunt Hannah told him it were nowt to worry about. Not that he’d worry about us anyway,’ she added in a low voice.
Agnes pushed down the surge of anger she felt. ‘Go and fetch him.’
‘I can’t. He’ll be angry.’
‘I said, go and fetch him!’ Agnes cut across her sharply. ‘If he’s angry then he can take out his temper on me.’ She was more than ready for Seth Stanhope.
Elsie must have seen the expression on Agnes’ face because she hurried off, slamming the door behind her.
Agnes took off her coat and hung it up on the peg on the back door. She found some clean sheets of newspaper, which she spread out on the table before she put down her bag. She had just finished washing her hands when Billy appeared in the doorway.
‘Where’s Elsie?’ He stood in the shadows watching, his eyes round with apprehension.
‘She’s gone to fetch your father.’
‘Our Chris is being sick.’
‘Oh, Lord!’
She tipped the water from the bowl and rushed into the other room, but Christopher was already hanging over the side of the bed, retching on to the bare wooden floor.
‘He’s going to get a wallop for that,’ Billy whispered, by her side.
‘We’ll soon clean it up.’ Agnes handed him the bowl. ‘Fetch some more water and a flannel for me, would you? There’s a good lad. And some more newspaper, if you can find it.’
Billy took the bowl and hurried off.
Christopher finished retching and flopped back against the pillows, tears running down his cheeks.
‘Here.’ Agnes took the glass of water from the table at the side of the bed and held it to his lips. ‘Try to drink this.’
Christopher took a sip then gave up. ‘Oh Nurse, I feel awful!’ he groaned.
‘I know, pet. But we’ll soon have you better.’ Without thinking, Agnes tenderly pushed back the damp tendrils of dark hair from his perspiring face. Young tearaway that Christopher was, at that moment he was nothing more than a child in pain.
Billy returned with the water and the newspaper. Agnes dampened the flannel and wiped Christopher’s face, then set about clearing up the mess on the floor. She had already made up her mind what needed to be done for the boy. Now all she had to do was wait for his father to come home.
She had lit a fire and was burning the newspaper when the back door opened. Agnes turned, expecting to see Seth Stanhope, but instead found herself staring into the cold black eyes of Hannah Arkwright. She carried her dusty old carpet bag in one hand, and a cooking pot tucked under her arm. It was black and heavy cast iron, like a cauldron.
‘What’s going on? What are you doing here?’
Agnes pushed down the surge of dislike she felt. ‘Elsie asked me to come. She’s worried about her brother.’
Hannah gave an angry sigh. ‘She had no business getting you involved. I told her there’s nowt wrong with the lad.’ She dumped her bag on the floor and set the pot down on the table. ‘Anyway, I’m here now. So you can be on your way.’
Agnes stood her ground. ‘I’m not going anywhere until I’ve spoken to Mr Stanhope.’
‘You think he’ll want to speak to you?’
‘I don’t care what he wants. His son is very sick and needs to see a doctor.’
Hannah looked scornful. ‘For belly ache?’
‘I think it’s more than that.’
‘Aye, well, that shows what you know, doesn’t it?’ Hannah opened her bag and started rummaging through it. ‘Another dose of peppermint tea is all he needs.’
‘He needs a doctor,’ Agnes repeated quietly.
’His father won’t want that fool Rutherford coming here, I can tell you that now.’ Hannah pulled a small brown paper packet out of the bag. ‘A bit of peppermint will sort our Chris out in no time.’
She made a move towards the other room but Agnes stepped in front of her, blocking her path.
‘No,’ she said.
Hannah’s thick brows drew together in a frown. ‘What?’
‘You can put your potions away. I’m not letting you treat him.’
Hannah towered over her, and for a moment Agnes thought she
was going to be attacked, but she stood her ground.
‘Out of my way,’ she growled.
‘No.’
‘I won’t tell you twice!’
‘Hannah?’
The back door was open and there stood Seth Stanhope, Elsie behind him. He looked from one to the other of the women. ‘What’s going on?’
Agnes found her voice first. ‘Mr Stanhope, your son is very ill,’ she said, as calmly as she could manage.
‘It’s nowt, Seth, honestly. Just a touch of indigestion, like I said,’ Hannah put in. ‘There were no need for you to come home. I don’t know why Elsie had to go and fetch you.’ She scowled at the little girl.
‘Hush, Hannah.’ Seth looked at Agnes. ‘What’s the matter with him?’
‘I think your son may have acute appendicitis.’
Seth’s face blanched. ‘Appendicitis?’
‘Appendicitis, indeed!’ Hannah scorned. ‘As if—’
‘I said, hush!’ Seth snapped. His gaze didn’t move from Agnes. ‘What’s to be done?’
‘The doctor will need to see him. If he agrees with me, Christopher may need to be moved to hospital.’
‘Hospital now, is it?’ Hannah shook her head. ‘Take no notice of her, Seth. I can put him right. I’ve always taken care of the bairns in the past, haven’t I?’
There was a long silence. Agnes could feel the tension in the room like a band pulled tight, ready to snap.
Then Seth spoke at last. ‘Fetch the doctor, Elsie,’ he said over his shoulder.
‘Seth!’ Hannah let out a cry of dismay.
Agnes’ knees sagged with relief. ‘I’d best go myself,’ she said, remembering how Mrs Bannister had greeted Elsie the last time. ‘I can explain what’s wrong.’
‘Aye.’ Seth glanced towards the other room. ‘Will he be all right while you’re gone?’
‘I’ll be as quick as I can.’ Agnes didn’t look at Hannah, but she could feel the other woman’s dark gaze boring into her back as she put on her coat.
As she closed the door, she could hear Hannah’s voice rising furiously.
‘Why are you listening to her and not me … I know what I’m doing, you know that … The lad doesn’t need a doctor, Seth …’
Evening surgery had just finished by the time she returned to Dr Rutherford’s house. Agnes caught the doctor as he was leaving his office.
‘Miss Sheridan. Whatever is the matter?’ He gave her a bemused smile over the rim of his spectacles. ‘You look all of a fluster!’
‘Doctor, you must come. The Stanhope boy is very unwell. I think he may have acute appendicitis. He’s been vomiting, and there is severe abdominal pain on the right side that has been steadily getting worse, and—’
‘Slow down, Miss Sheridan, please!’ Dr Rutherford shook his head. ‘You know I can’t see the boy. What would the Haverstocks say?’
‘But Christopher is very ill, Doctor. I believe there’s a strong chance the appendix might burst, if it hasn’t done so already.’
‘But the Haverstocks …’
‘Did you hear what I said, Doctor?’ Agnes fought the urge to grab him by his tweed lapels and shake him. ‘The boy might die. Do you really want that on your conscience?’
She saw Dr Rutherford hesitate, the flicker of doubt in his eyes.
‘You took a vow,’ she said. ‘When you became a doctor. You promised to help the sick, no matter who they were. Surely that means something to you?’
Dr Rutherford’s mouth thinned, and for a moment she thought she had gone too far.
‘Very well,’ he said tautly. ‘I will see this child. But I want you to know I don’t appreciate your tone, Miss Sheridan. Nor do I like being placed in a difficult position like this.’
‘No, sir.’
‘Please be assured I will have words with your Nursing Superintendent about this matter.’
‘I understand, sir.’ Agnes was sure Miss Gale would be staunchly on her side once she found out what had happened. But at that moment, she didn’t care if she was hauled up in front of the District Association and stripped of her badge, if it meant saving Christopher Stanhope’s life.
At the cottage, they found Seth pacing the kitchen. He swung round to face them, and Agnes caught a glimpse of the raw dislike in his eyes when he looked at Dr Rutherford, before the mask came down.
‘Thank you for coming, Doctor,’ he said gruffly.
Dr Rutherford’s gaze skimmed past him towards the parlour. ‘Is the child through there?’ He addressed himself to Agnes, ignoring Seth.
‘Yes, Doctor.’
Hannah was sitting by Christopher’s bedside, sponging his face with a damp flannel. Agnes hoped she hadn’t slipped the boy one of her concoctions while she had been away.
Agnes was afraid Hannah might try to cause a fuss but she set down the flannel and moved aside to allow the doctor to examine the boy. Agnes could feel Hannah’s resentful glare fixed between her shoulder blades while he did so.
Dr Rutherford examined the boy. As he did, his expression changed from one of irritation to a look of grave concern.
‘Well?’ Seth said.
‘You were quite right, Nurse, the boy is showing signs of acute appendicitis.’ Dr Rutherford still addressed himself to Agnes. ‘I’ll make arrangements to admit him to hospital immediately.’
She caught Seth’s sharp intake of breath. From the corner of the room, Hannah gave a grunt of disgust.
Dr Rutherford put away his stethoscope and straightened up. He looked directly at Seth for the first time.
‘I take it you have the money to pay for his treatment?’
Seth glared back at him, eyes so dark with fury Agnes feared he might strike the doctor.
‘I’ll find it.’ He took a deep, shaky breath, his eyes moving to the still figure on the bed. ‘Just save my lad,’ he said quietly.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Carrie could hardly see the beans she was plucking from the stems for the thick veil of tears in her eyes.
Over in the corner of the allotment stood her father’s old wooden chair, which they had dragged up from the cottage a week earlier. Every day for the past week he had come to sit there, watching her work. Sometimes he sat quietly, reading his Bible, only looking up to offer advice on what she was doing. Sometimes they talked, about how things were growing or the world in general. But most of the time he would just sit, his face turned up to the sky, enjoying the warmth of the late August sun on his face.
But today Carrie had had to come alone, as her father didn’t have the strength to get out of bed.
Her mother had tried to reassure her. ‘He’s just having a bad day,’ she had said. ‘It’s only to be expected sometimes. You’ll see, he’ll be up and about again soon.’
Carrie had smiled and nodded to make her mother feel better. But deep in her heart she knew Eric Wardle would never sit in his old chair and feel the sun on his face again.
A tear plopped on to the leaf of the bean stalk, and Carrie dashed it away. She went on plucking the pods, yanking savagely at the stems and dropping them into the basket at her feet. She knew her father would have told her off for not doing it properly, but she didn’t care. All she wanted was to finish the job, run away and never come back to the allotment again. Nausea churned in the pit of her stomach. There was no joy in it any more, now she was alone.
But then she realised she wasn’t. Looking around, she saw Rob Chadwick standing by the fence.
Carrie hadn’t seen him since the gala, the previous week. So much had happened after that, with her being reunited with James and then her father taking ill, that she had barely thought about Rob.
‘I saw you from down the lane,’ he said. ‘You looked as if you needed some company.’ He climbed over the low fence. ‘Anything I can do?’
She was going to say no, but didn’t have the strength to argue. She stepped to one side, nudging the basket towards him with her foot.
‘If you like.’
He
started to pluck at the beans, pulling them from their stems. ‘I heard about your father.’ Carrie said nothing. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Thank you.’
‘I always liked him,’ Rob went on. ‘He was a good man. One of the best at the pit.’
‘Was?’ Carrie turned on him angrily. ‘Why are you talking about him as if he’s gone?’
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—’
‘My father is alive,’ Carrie said, turning back to her picking. ‘He’s alive,’ she repeated quietly. She couldn’t allow herself to think about anything else.
‘Aye.’ Rob looked awkward. They carried on picking in silence, standing side by side. Carrie wondered that she could stand so close to him and not feel anything. Once upon a time, she would have trembled at the nearness of him. But now she was barely aware of him, his shoulder brushing hers.
As they worked, she was aware of Rob’s silence. It wasn’t like him to keep so quiet, she thought. Usually he chattered nineteen to the dozen, cracking daft jokes and trying to make her laugh. But today he looked as if he had the weight of the world on his shoulders.
She didn’t ask what was troubling him. She had enough worries of her own not to need to burden herself with anyone else’s.
Finally, he spoke up. ‘I’ve been thinking.’
‘Oh, aye?’
‘The baby’s mine, in’t he?’
Carrie’s busy hands froze and for a split second the world seemed to tilt on its axis, spinning in front of her eyes. Nausea crawled up her throat and she wondered if she was going to be sick.
Calm. Be calm.
She forced her hands to start moving again, but her fingers felt strange, as if they didn’t belong to her.
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ she said flatly.
‘I’m no fool, Carrie. I’ve worked it out. The bairn was born in April, nine months after the gala. We lay together a couple of weeks before you got married.’
Be calm.
‘The baby arrived early—’ she started to say, but Rob cut her off.
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