by Anna Jacobs
“I know me letters,” Matt volunteered. “I’ll learn you them, if you like. But I’m not so quick at readin’, though.”
Annie blinked at him, uncertain whether he meant it or not. He smiled across at her. He had a lovely smile, did Matt, she thought. It made her feel all warm inside. “D’you mean that?” she asked at last, very hesitantly, hardly daring to believe her ears.
“Aye, ’course I do. An’ our Ellie can learn her letters with you. It’s time she learned, isn’t it, Dad?”
The two little girls squeezed each other’s hands in mutual excitement.
“When?” demanded Ellie.
“Next Sunday.”
Annie walked home on a cloud that day, her expression so blissful that even her father forgot his worries and asked her if she’d found a sovereign.
“Better’n that,” she assured him. “Matt Peters is goin’ to teach me an’ their Ellie our letters. An’ Mr Peters is goin’ to help us, an’ all. An’ I bet I learn to read better’n you, our Tom, so there!” She stuck her tongue out at him for emphasis.
“You won’t, neither! You’re only a girl.” Tom gave her a shove and she spilled some water over her dress.
She shoved him back at once. “You watch what you’re doin’, you daft lump!”
“Stop that, Annie!” Lucy intervened, as she so often had to. “An’ you give over too, our Tom!”
The two children subsided, for neither parent would tolerate any disobedience.
“When’re you goin’ t’start your lessons, love?” Lucy asked diplomatically.
“Sunday.” Annie beamed at her mother, restored to good humour at the mere thought of learning the magic that enabled you to make sense of the lines of black marks in books.
“I daresay we could run to a slate for her, couldn’t we, John?” Lucy reached out to hold her husband’s hand and smile at him. She could always bring peace to her family. “She’ll need to practise her letters.”
“I daresay we could,” he agreed. “If she’s been a good girl.”
“She’s allus a good girl, our Annie is. I don’t know how I’d have managed without her lately.”
“Good lass,” said John, but his eyes were on his wife and they held anxiety behind the smile.
Annie flushed with pleasure, both at the rare compliment and at the thought of getting a slate of her own. She had few personal possessions. None of them did. Even a chargehand’s wages did not allow many extras, though Lucy always tried to put a bit aside for a rainy day, which was what she called it when the mills were on short time. Annie had long envied Tom his slate, which he would not even allow her to touch.
The lessons began on the very next Sunday afternoon, with the rain pelting down the windowpanes and the children sitting cross-legged on pieces of sacking in front of the Peters’ fire. Annie knew her alphabet within the week, drawing Ellie along with her in her burning enthusiasm to learn to read. Matt found himself enjoying giving the lessons to such willing pupils and his own reading improved rapidly in the process.
Sam was pleased to see the children working to better themselves, and began to ponder yet again how he could help set up a Methodist chapel here in Bilsden. If he could only manage to do that, they’d be able to run a proper Sunday School for the children – yes, and have evening classes for the adults, too. At present all he’d managed was a twice-weekly prayer meeting with a few other staunch souls, but he ached to spread the gospel more widely and to help bring others to salvation, as he himself had been brought into the fold years ago by a visiting preacher.
Bilsden had grown so rapidly from a hamlet to a mill town that it lacked many facilities. It had only two places of worship, the parish church, St Mark’s, and the brand new Catholic church, St Anne’s, which had caused a lot of fuss when it was built. Papists were barely tolerated, but the mill-owners knew that they wouldn’t keep their Irish labour if there weren’t a church for them to go to, and a priest to christen, marry and bury them.
When he first moved to the town, Sam had tried going to the parish church, but had found its welcome cold. Its parson was unwilling to listen to the views of an impertinent labouring man who didn’t know his place in society, and Mr Kenderby was outraged when that same man dared to question what his betters told him. Sam, deprived of the theological discussions which were his favourite form of entertainment, now tried to console himself with the thought that at least he had found himself a good job and was free to scheme for his chapel. He had come to respect Dr Lewis greatly and to admire the good he was doing among the Rows. If he’d been born rich, Sam sometimes thought wistfully, he’d have become a doctor – or a minister. But ifs didn’t build castles, he told himself firmly. Be thankful to the Lord for what you have got, Sam Peters!
Jeremy Lewis was equally satisfied with his new man. It would have been more normal to employ an apprentice, but Annabelle refused point-blank to have one living in her house, and he was reluctant to expose any lad to her temper and malicious whims. He had a boy come in daily to tend the pony and the garden, but young Bill was not over-bright and had neither the time nor the aptitude to help the doctor.
Sam was invaluable in dealing with the poor, who seemed to trust him on sight, and he was absolutely reliable when it came to mixing standard draughts and rolling pills, for with no apothecary in the town, Jeremy had to make his own medicaments.
Jeremy Lewis wanted very much to help the suffering he saw all around him. It gave a meaning to his life that tending the rich did not, filling a need Annabelle would never understand.
He smiled grimly at the thought of Annabelle. She was not capable of being any man’s wife or even a good mother to Marianne, although she was settling down a bit now in Bilsden. It had cheered her up a little to buy some new furniture in Mr Watts’ Manchester Bazaar in Deansgate, and to be given free reign to furbish up the house. Her temper had also improved when she’d met and been accepted by a few of the local dignitaries and their wives. The industrial gentry had fewer reservations about the social eligibility of doctors than the landed gentry had. It must have been sheer desperation, he mused, that had driven Annabelle to snare a young doctor of moderate means, but nothing like the desperation he felt now, four years later, about their sham of a marriage.
4
Early June 1830
In the first week of June, Lucy Gibson had to take to her bed. She’d been feeling poorly all through the pregnancy, but things had got much worse during the last week or two and she now felt dizzy and breathless if she stood up, while her legs were swollen to twice their normal size. Even her fingers were puffy.
Annie, very self-important, took over the housekeeping, helped occasionally by Bridie or one of the other women in the street. And she coped well, in spite of Lizzie, who whined constantly and kept getting in her way. For once, Tom fetched coal and water without complaint and refrained from teasing Annie. He had realised at last how ill his mother really was.
Lucy’s pains started during the night, but by morning they didn’t seem very far advanced, so John went off to work, a little anxious, but knowing that his Lucy was never quick to give birth. He went to say goodbye to her and Lucy summoned up a wavery smile to speed him on his way, then she abandoned herself to the ministrations of Widow Clegg.
When John hurried home that night, the baby had still not been born and Lucy was very weak and only semi-conscious. Elizabeth Peters had taken Lizzie and Tom round to her house, but Annie had refused point-blank to go with them. Widow Clegg told John bluntly that things were going badly and that there was little more she could do to help Lucy, who was exhausted. Neither of them noticed the little girl crouched by the fire, her hand pressed to her mouth and her eyes filled with terror.
“Tha’d better go an’ fetch that there new doctor,” the widow wound up. “Perhaps he’ll be able to do summat.”
John fought down a rising panic and asked hoarsely which doctor.
“That new ’un,” she said impatiently. “Doctor Lewis, the
y call him.”
“Doctor Lewis,” John echoed blankly, his mind still not functioning properly.
“Aye. Lewis. The one as Sam Peters works for. He lives in that big corner house near t’park. There’s a bell round t’side that you ’ave to ring when you want the doctor.”
“Will he come out for such as us?”
“Aye. He’ll come for anyone, that one will. He come to a woman down Claters End last month as lived in a cellar. Given ’er up, I had. But he saved ’er. No better’n a pigsty, that cellar was, but he didn’t seem to notice. No, an’ he never asked her to pay, neither!”
“We can pay!” said John sharply. “We’ve allus paid our way!” He looked despairingly up towards the bedrooms, then rushed out. He ran most of the way, till the breath was sobbing in his throat, not even seeing the people who got out of his way. He pounded past Hallam’s Mill, along by the Bilsden Permanent Dye Works and across the corner of the new park they were still working on, arriving at last at the better end of town.
When he arrived at the doctor’s house, he leaned against the wall, panting, and tugged on the bell pull. Within seconds, he pulled it again, so that the maidservant who answered it spoke sharply to him. He didn’t even notice her annoyance. Chest heaving, he gasped out why he needed the doctor.
She pursed her lips in disapproval, showed him into the empty waiting-room, and then went off to fetch her master. Her mistress was not going to like this and then the servants would suffer, as they always did from Annabelle Lewis’s bad moods.
The doctor and his wife were holding a dinner party that evening. Annabelle still sneered at the Bilsden gentry behind their backs and bemoaned her days in civilised Brighton, but she had decided to make the best of a bad job and now wished to make a stir in local social circles. Now the house was in immaculate order, two dinner parties had been planned for that week to impress the leading citizens of Bilsden and show them that their new doctor was a cut above the average medical practitioner and most definitely a gentleman. She had driven the servants hard for days with her preparations. Her elegantly-furnished parlour shone and sparkled in the light of the graceful lamps she had found in the Manchester Bazaar, and her dining-table was a masterpiece of floral art and gleaming napery.
Annabelle was as much a work of art as her rooms and table. She was superbly gowned in self-striped pale green silk, which had a close-fitting and décolletée bodice with darker ribbon bows all down the front. Her short beret sleeves were the largest ever seen in Bilsden and her female guests wondered how she got them to stay so puffed out. Her hair was swept up from a central parting into a tightly plaited chignon on the crown of her head, the forehead softened by small curls. Around her neck were her mother’s pearls, borrowed for her wedding and never returned.
The parlourmaid served a brandywine punch to the assembled guests – no gooseberry wine in Annabelle’s house, thank you, however popular it might be with those who knew no better! The hostess was just congratulating herself on how well everything was going, when the chambermaid, who always came down to help at such functions, entered the room and whispered something in her master’s ear. Jeremy rose at once, excused himself to his guests and followed the girl out. He spoke to John Gibson, then returned to apologise to everyone before going to collect his medical bag. He was about to leave the house when Annabelle swept into the surgery and demanded in a far from polite tone to know why he was doing this to her.
“I’m not doing anything to you; I’m going to attend that man’s wife, who is having a difficult confinement,” Jeremy replied curtly.
“But we’re in the middle of a dinner party! It’s my first proper function in Bilsden! You can’t leave me now! Go and see her later!”
“She needs me now,” said Jeremy, unmoved. “She’s been in labour since early this morning. You’ll manage perfectly well without me, Annabelle. You always do.”
She bit back an angry retort. Jeremy was becoming harder and harder to manage since he’d dragged her to this wretched town. But she would find some way to get back at him for this, she vowed, as she watched him leave. She always did, usually through their daughter, with whom he was besotted. Forcing a smile to her lips, she returned to her guests. “I’m afraid my husband can never refuse the call of a sick person. He’s so devoted to his work.”
“A good fault in a doctor,” said the man next to her, raising his glass to admire it and wondering how much it had cost.
“Yes, isn’t it?” Annabelle had trouble maintaining her smile as she said this, however. “So, if you will please excuse my deficiencies, I shall do my best to act as both host and hostess.” She bowed her head modestly, as they assured her that they were already impressed with her hospitality. Later, she had at least the satisfaction of knowing that the evening had been an unqualified success, even though Jeremy had not returned at all.
Oblivious to his wife’s anger, Jeremy hurried across the town with John, not bothering to get his pony and trap out for a visit to the Rows, for he’d have nowhere to leave it safely. As they walked, he questioned the man about his wife, her pregnancy and her previous confinements. He did not like the sound of things. Why did poor people only call in a doctor when it was too late? It didn’t occur to him that he was still in his good clothes and that people were staring at him as he strode along next to John. The ruin of his best brown evening coat and new buff trousers was yet another piece of fuel to Annabelle’s anger the following day.
Jeremy Lewis worked all night on Lucy Gibson. He had the baby out within two hours. It was a little boy, perfectly formed, but a bluish white in colour and it never breathed. At first, it seemed that he was going to save the mother and he won Widow Clegg’s deepest admiration for the skill he showed. But about dawn, Lucy had a massive haemorrhage and died a few minutes later, before they could even call her husband up to her side.
Jeremy sat there for a moment, staring bitterly at her dead body. There should be some way to help women like her. If only more were known about the dangers of pregnancy! But few doctors that he had met cared for that field of study. It was neither fashionable nor lucrative nor, to most of them, of much importance. Women had always died in childbirth and always would. Unlike most doctors, Jeremy took Lucy’s death as a personal failure. He stood up and nodded to Widow Clegg to tidy things up, then went down to inform John himself. He never left that job to others.
When John was told that Lucy was dead, he went mad, hurling everything off the table and cursing the doctor, God and finally himself. The rage was soon succeeded by loud and bitter grief and he stumbled upstairs and flung himself upon Lucy’s body, sobbing dementedly and begging her to come back to him. The doctor did not notice the white-faced child curled up in the corner behind the rocking-chair, but Annie noticed him, noticed the ruin of his lovely clothes, noticed the angry way he brushed away a tear.
After he had gone, Widow Clegg came down for some water and found Annie still in the corner, curled into a tight ball, weeping quietly.
“Does ta want to go up an’ see thy mother?”
Annie blinked the tears away and shivered. “No!”
“Where’s t’water?”
“It’s all gone.”
“Then tha’ll ’ave to go an’ get some more, for I need to wash thy mother’s body.” She didn’t wait for an answer, but turned and went back upstairs.
With the sound of her father’s sobbing echoing in her ears, Annie took hold of the empty bucket and went out of the house. The sun was just coming up now and people were beginning to stir. At the tap she met Matt Peters.
“Tom an’ Lizzie are both asleep,” he told her. “How’s your mam?”
She could not speak, only sob and collapse against him like a little rag doll. He held her for a moment or two, then turned her gently around, “You come home to us, Annie. I’ll get the water for you.”
“I can’t!” she wept. “I hafta get the water. She’s got to wash me mam’s body! Mam allus likes things to be clean.”
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br /> “I told you, I’d get it for you. See, I can easy carry two buckets.”
A woman came up to the street tap. “Shame on thee, a great lump of a lad, teasin’ a little lass like that!”
“I haven’t been teasin’ her!” he answered indignantly. “Her mam’s just died.”
The woman peered more closely at Annie.
“Isn’t that John Gibson’s lass?” she asked. “Well, I never! I used to work with Lucy when we were little ’uns. Eeeh, poor Lucy!”
They left her at the tap, still muttering about the news, and went back to Salem Street. Annie was calmer now, comforted by Matt’s fussing. She refused to go home with him and insisted on taking the bucket of water inside the house herself. It seemed important that she do this last service for her mam. As she was opening the door, Sally Smith’s gentleman friend came out of Number Six and made his way swiftly along the street, and Bridie O’Connor poked her head out of the door and shouted along, “How’s Lucy? Has she had it yet?”
Annie burst into tears again and rushed into the house, and it was left to Matt to spread the news to the shocked neighbours that Lucy Gibson was dead.
Widow Clegg finished laying out the body. John wouldn’t leave the bedroom but sat by his Lucy, locked in grief. He cursed Annie when she went upstairs, laid a hand on his shoulder to get his attention and asked if he’d like a cup of tea. He cursed Widow Clegg when she asked him what he wanted to do about the funeral. She just shrugged her shoulders and left him to it. She had her lodgers to see to and this was not the first grief-stricken husband she’d dealt with. He’d have found himself a new wife within a month or two, she thought cynically. Men couldn’t manage on their own.