by Lizzie Lane
Walking the wards ended at lunchtime when Doctor Friesman gathered them round, his eyelids flickering like Venetian blinds, fold upon fold.
‘Gentlemen. We resume at three. This evening we are entertaining in our club; not far from here. Seven. Sharp.’ His omission of mentioning the two female doctors was deliberate. It was a well-known fact that he didn’t think them worthy of the calling, even though women had been admitted to the profession for many years.
As they filtered away from the wards and Doctor Friesman, their footsteps clattered along the corridor that led to the canteen. One of the students, a sharp-faced young man with oiled-back hair and a hooked nose, drew level with her. She vaguely recalled that his name was Paul Swann; ‘Double n,’ he’d stated with a lofty toss of his head, as though to only spell his name with a singular n was something of a disgrace.
‘Amazing what a pair of flashing eyes can do. No doubt you’ll pass your finals with flying colours.’
‘I will pass my finals, Mr Swann with two n’s, but I can assure you it will be on merit and not because my people happen to know Sir Reginald Cliff!’
It surprised her just how much of his boasting she had overheard. Her head had been bowed over her medical notes and the map of unending passages and wards. But there it was; she’d always had the ability to concentrate on more than one thing at a time. Winnie had told her it was a female thing. ‘Men can only concentrate on one thing at a time. Women tend to concentrate on many things at once.’
Magda smiled at the thought of Winnie and what she would make of this young man striding beside her who’d boasted of his connections.
‘Hmm! And there you were, pretending not to be listening. Well, that’s typical of young women like you: make contacts on the social ladder with a view to finding yourself a wealthy husband. Isn’t that really why you’re here?’
‘No.’
Magda grinned. Winnie had also known Sir Reginald Cliff, but in an entirely different capacity. At the thought of it, Magda’s smile widened.
Swann saw her smile and immediately assumed that she was laughing at him. Despite his outer air of uptight arrogance, Paul Swann had issues with his nose, his glasses and anyone who appeared unimpressed by his cut-glass voice and air of good breeding. Women had never exactly fallen at his feet, certainly not the pretty ones.
Increasing her stride, he gradually fell behind. She heard him imparting to someone else that once he had qualified and established himself, he would open consulting rooms in Knightsbridge.
‘I’ll make much more money that way. Wouldn’t want to be a panel doctor,’ he drawled. ‘I’ll leave the unwashed and lazy to the idealists amongst us! Why work with patients who can only pay pennies when others are willing and able to pay in guineas?’
There were titters of amusement from some of their number, though certainly not from Magda. She clenched her jaw at their ignorance. She wanted to trumpet that the East End poor would prefer not to be poor and even those in Winnie’s brothel had not planned to end up there. Careers and jobs for ill-educated women were confined mostly to domestic servitude, shop and factory.
And rich men took full advantage of this. How would it be, she wondered, if Swann knew that Sir Reginald Cliff had specific sexual tastes, which included using the services of the lower women of society? Not that she would tell him: after all, she reminded herself, she was here to fulfil a wish for Winnie and also for herself.
Nobody needed a map of the hospital in order to find their way to lunch; it was just a case of following the smell of overcooked food – mostly cabbage and potatoes.
The corridor had been built as an afterthought onto the main building in a conservatory style so that staff could get to the canteen without getting wet. The consequence was that the nearer the canteen, the more the panes of glass ran with condensation.
Each area of the canteen was segregated; blue for doctors, green for nurses, red for ancillary medical staff.
Magda headed for the tables set with blue table linen and administered by waitresses.
Male students of a similar background to Paul Swann followed him to the table he would no doubt come to consider as his own. Like Bradley Fitts, he was territorial – what was his was his; he also needed lesser men to defer to him.
As she sought a place for herself, she heard them tittering between speaking in loud voices. She caught a few comments, mostly about the suitability of women as doctors.
‘Nurses, yes. I can quite see that,’ said Paul Swann. ‘The most ideal people for cleaning up vomit. And delivering babies I suppose, in which case let them be midwives.’
Fuming at their ignorance, she sat alone with a plateful of bangers and mash, a portion of jam roly poly and a cup of tea.
‘So! I am not the only woman mad enough to want to be a doctor.’
Magda looked up. The doe-eyed woman who addressed her had a wide smile and was wearing a long skirt of dark blue silk beneath her white coat.
‘Apparently not,’ said Magda feeling somewhat relieved.
The new arrival sat down opposite her, chatting merrily as a plateful of mash without sausages, rice pudding and a cup of tea were set in front of her by a chill-eyed waitress.
‘My name is Indira Pashan. Like you I am training to become a doctor. Also like you, Doctor Friesman did not invite me to his club. At seven. Sharp!’
Magda laughed at her impersonation, but added, ‘Please don’t take it personally. He’s not being exclusive just because we’re women. It’s a gentlemen’s club. We wouldn’t be allowed in.’
‘I am quite used to not being allowed into British institutions. As an Indian living in India, I am not permitted to enter British country clubs in India unless by personal invitation. Luckily this hospital does not differentiate between race and gender.’
‘I’m sorry I didn’t notice you, but I was so preoccupied. I really feel I need to do twice as well as everyone else.’
Indira’s plush lips curled over the edge of her teacup, her kohl-lined eyes deep set and sparking intelligence.
‘You are absolutely right. We have to be more singular about what we are doing. There is no room for flippancy.’ Loud laughter batted across from Paul Swann’s table. ‘Like those ill-mannered young men,’ she said, sliding her glance in that direction.
Magda found herself fascinated by Indira’s looks coupled with her forthright manner.
‘I must admit I’m somewhat surprised to meet you here. Being a woman and …’ She had been about to say being a woman and from a foreign background, but checked herself. Indira made the obvious assumption.
‘Ah! A woman and not English! I am hardly the first. Doctor Rukhmabai qualified in 1895. Now that is a long time ago. Doctor Jensha Jhirad, the first Indian woman with a degree in obstetrics and gynaecology, qualified in 1920. We have quite a history here, I can assure you.’
Magda’s mouth hung open in surprise. ‘I didn’t know any of that.’ Though she had known that the London Royal Free Hospital had established a hostel to deal with the rush of women wanting to study medicine after the Great War. Even though Winnie and her contacts had fabricated a far more illustrious background than that to which she was entitled, Magda did sometimes feel that she was a fraud. It was bad enough being a woman, but coming from her background she’d sometimes entertained the conviction that she had no business being here at all. She should know her place and had no rights. One conversation with Indira and her mind was made up.
‘They want us to feel inferior to them,’ said Magda, jerking her head sideways to Mr Swann and friends.
Indira sipped daintily at her tea and shook her head. ‘Of course they do. We are mere women daring to venture into a male stronghold, though I am afraid the door has long been open. The horse has fled. Too late to bolt the stable door.’
Magda laughed. Indira was easy to talk to. ‘I never thought I’d ever get to be a medical student. My father was a seagoing man, so it’s not as though …’
‘Look. It doe
sn’t matter who you are or where you’re from. The world is opening up for women. You can be whatever you want to be.’
‘You have vision.’
Indira laughed. ‘I have intellect. And instinct. Oh, and my father did drop a word or two with a friend. Good friends are useful in such situations.’
Magda laughed. She would have liked to have declared that she had friends too – or at least Winnie did. Some things were best left unsaid.
‘I think we have a battle on our hands. We are really going to have to prove ourselves in order to gain the respect of our male colleagues – if that’s ever possible.’
‘Male doctors will try to intimidate us, but I find that our resolve to learn and overcome prejudices is far too strong for them to do us much harm, don’t you think?’
Magda sighed and sat back in her seat. ‘Indira, I think you and I are going to pass our exams with flying colours. We have to. We both have a point to prove.’
‘Purely based on gender?’
Laughter again from Paul Swann’s table.
‘Not purely based on gender,’ said Magda. ‘But because we’re more intelligent than they are.’
She raised her teacup. ‘Here’s to us.’
Indira Pashan clinked her cup with Magda’s and, when she smiled, her soft brown complexion grew glossy as though it had just been polished.
‘We are very lucky you know. This is a very famous hospital. I started out at the London Free, which has a history of teaching women doctors way back into Victorian times, but I wanted to come here to Queen Mary’s Hospital for the East End to broaden my experience. And then of course there is the opportunity to go out into the community – like a panel doctor. I will be going back to India where going out into the community will be commonplace. Have you ever been to India?’
Magda shook her head.
Indira went on to explain about the situation in India. ‘There are many poor in the countryside who never get to see a doctor. I will do my best to treat those too.’
Winnie was waiting for her that night with a hot meal and a whole list of questions.
‘How was it …?’
‘Did you make an impression?’
‘Do you think you will like it?’
‘What are the doctors like? What are the nurses like?’
Magda laughed. ‘Aunt Winnie, do you think I might get my coat off first before I answer?’
‘Of course,’ said Winnie, beaming because Magda was happy. She had been worrying that their relationship might have changed following the disclosure of Magda’s father’s visit.
‘Sausage and mash tonight. Best pork sausages. With gravy.’
‘Lovely,’ Magda responded, despite the fact that she’d had the same meal at lunchtime.
‘There,’ said Winnie after Magda had taken off her coat and put down the brand new Gladstone style bag that Winnie had bought her on passing her exams. ‘You sit there and eat while I drink my tea. Then you can tell me all about it.’
Magda was amazed at how hungry she was. The plate was cleared, and it was only after she’d drunk the last drop of tea that she wondered why Winnie hadn’t dined with her, as was her usual habit.
‘I had mine earlier,’ Winnie replied when she asked.
Magda didn’t question whether she was lying because there was no reason why she should. Her old eyes were glittering with interest and nothing but an in-depth dissertation on the day’s events would do.
She told her everything, including her interlude with Paul Swann and his reference to Sir Reginald Cliff.
Winnie threw her head back and laughed uproariously.
‘That old goat! Smooth as silk on top and coarse as a potato sack beneath. Liked fat girls. Fatter the better, and him as lank and rangy as a starved giraffe!’
As her laughter died, Magda began fingering the embroidered flowers on the corner of the tablecloth.
‘I’m applying for a spell with a charity clinic in the East End. It’s something I feel I need to do. I went there that night I got home late. Susan, that old school friend of mine, sent a message that I should come.’
She felt Winnie’s sharp eyes on her and knew she was half afraid of what she was about to hear.
‘Susan’s married now. She’s in the family way again.’
‘She asked you to get rid of it. That’s what she asked you to do.’
Magda was amazed at Winnie’s accuracy.
She nodded. ‘Yes. But I couldn’t do it.’
‘You’d end up in prison if you did. Anyways, there are women ’round who can do that. It’s not any special skill.’
They fell into a pregnant pause, Magda knowing that Winnie was expecting her to say something else; that there was something else to be said.
‘Bradley Fitts was outside where Susan lives waiting for me.’
She heard the sharp intake of breath. On raising her eyes she was surprised at the paleness of Winnie’s face except for a bright red ball on each cheek – as though something red had hit each one and left behind its stain.
‘He’s dangerous. As dangerous as that damned father of his. Curse the day I ever met him. Curse the whole damned family,’ she cried, throwing back her head so that the sinews of her neck looked like twigs. ‘What happened?’
She stared unblinking, her face petrified with fear.
‘He challenged me. I rejected him once some time ago, and I don’t think he liked it.’
‘He wouldn’t. Indeed he wouldn’t.’
‘A knight in shining armour happened to be passing by. I’d met him on the underground just moments before but knew him years ago when I was a kid diving beneath the vegetable stalls in the market. He was kind then. He’s kind now. You ought to have seen that Bradley Fitts. He was back in his car and out of there quick as you like. Then after that, my knight in shining armour walked me home.’
Winnie was eyeing her warily. ‘What did he want, this knight of yours?’
‘Aunt Winnie, you haven’t been listening. He really was my knight in shining armour. He took nothing from me, but gave me advice to stay away from Bradley Fitts. And then he brought me home. No demands were made, not even for a kiss,’ she added, unable to stop smiling and blushing just at the very thought of it.
‘He’s a policeman,’ Magda said.
Winnie scratched her chin and the depth of her frown almost buried her eyes in folds of loose flesh.
‘No uniform?’
‘Good gracious, no. Well-dressed, but no uniform. His name is Daniel Rossi.’
Winnie’s saggy eyelids disappeared as her eyes popped wide open.
‘Rossi? A policeman you say?’
‘What is it, Winnie? What’s the matter?’
Winnie attempted to answer, but trembled, one side of her face sliding downwards and one side of her mouth falling open.
She gave a convulsive movement, throwing her head back as though she were trying to shake it from her shoulders.
‘Winnie!’
A long thin finger pointed at the satinwood cabinet that Winnie had brought with her from the old house.
Magda leapt up, throwing one arm around Winnie’s back, checking her pulse with her free hand.
‘Hang on, Winnie. Please. Hang on.’
Chapter Thirty-seven
Joseph Brodie 1937
The road into the village of Long Ashton was pleasant enough, winding as it did between green meadows. Cattle grazed on the higher ground and sheep on the low-lying salt marshes where tough grass exploded in tufts between shallow pools.
Joseph Brodie staggered his way along the road, leaving a trail of whisky breath behind him. The skipper of the ship he’d worked on from Lisbon to Bristol had paid him off handsomely, though only half of what he’d been paid remained in his pocket. If it hadn’t been for the fact that he’d stolen and supped a bottle of port from the cargo, there could have been half as much again.
Ahead of him was a church spire, which looked not to be too far off the main road.
<
br /> He rubbed at the ache in his side; the result of too much to drink and having walked too far on an empty stomach. A little rest is in order, he said to himself, and you’ll get that soon enough once you make the acquaintance of your boy again.
His breath curled from his mouth like wisps of hair on an old lady’s head. Resting his hands on bent knees, he leaned forward to better catch his breath. Once he was sure he was hale and hearty again – as hale and hearty as he was ever likely to be – he straightened himself and thrust his hands into his pockets.
Dust was mostly what his dirty fingers found except for the one thing he was looking for, folded and creased with age, and tucked in a corner.
The paper he pulled out looked unfamiliar and for a moment he thought it was not the piece he was looking for. Surely that had been whiter and smoother than this piece, which was as wrinkled as a turkey’s gizzard.
Spreading it out on top of an old milestone that said six miles to Bristol, he smoothed it as best he could and yet again read the address.
Church Lane Cottage, Church Lane, Long Ashton, Somerset.
‘Church Lane. Has to be close to the church,’ he said, his words drifting away with the whiteness of his breath. ‘Of course it does,’ he said to himself. ‘Now where else would it be?’
‘Back in you go,’ he muttered, shoving the folded-up paper back into his pocket. ‘You’ll be safe there my boy.’
In his mind he was imagining how grateful his son Michael, now grown, would be to see him. Of course he couldn’t possibly visualise how he would look now. The fact was he could barely remember what the boy had looked like as a baby.
Had he had fair hair, dark hair? Blue eyes, brown eyes?
No matter how hard he tried, no picture popped into his mind. Neither was he realistic about the welcome he was likely to get. As he stumbled along, he considered how lucky he had been that the woman from the workhouse – Miss Burton wasn’t it – had forwarded on the address where his son had gone to live.