The Way of All Flesh

by Ambrose Parry

  Mina’s expression indicated that this was a notion so self-evident as to be stupid, and was about to explain why.

  ‘Of course I would rather be reading. I would spend all my days reading if I could. But for reasons passing understanding, embroidery is considered a desirable accomplishment in a prospective wife, and therefore it is incumbent upon me to master it, such is my lot. So for pity’s sake, bring tea or I shall run mad.’

  Sarah looked again at the waiting patients. She was unlikely to be called upon to escort any of them to the consulting room soon, as a dependably garrulous old woman had only recently been shown in.

  ‘I shall bring up some tea directly,’ Sarah said as Mina retreated swiftly back up the stairs with her handkerchief at her nose, evidently having caught a whiff of the waiting room.

  Sarah plodded down to the kitchen, wondering if she should ask Mrs Lyndsay about Rose, the Sheldrakes’ missing housemaid. In her time at Queen Street, Sarah had developed a degree of scepticism about the veracity of Mina’s accounts of things. Her stories always contained a kernel of truth but this was frequently obscured by the embellishments she so liberally applied.

  The cook was bent over a large pot on the range. The kitchen was filled with a rich, meaty aroma and Sarah’s stomach rumbled in response to it.

  ‘Game pie, is it, Mrs Lyndsay?’

  Sarah liked to guess what was on the menu by the smell of it. She had a good nose and was usually correct in interpreting what it told her.

  ‘The doctor delivered the heir to a great estate last week and received a brace of pheasants and some rabbits for his efforts. Is her ladyship wanting tea?’ Mrs Lyndsay looked towards the ceiling as she said this, indicating that she had indeed heard the bell.

  ‘Yes. She’s doing battle with a troublesome bit of sewing,’ Sarah said as she filled the kettle.

  Mrs Lyndsay chortled, the laughter rippling through her large frame. ‘Still busy upstairs?’

  ‘There seems to be no end to it today.’

  ‘Having the new apprentice should help. And then perhaps you will be able to concentrate upon the job you’re actually employed to do.’

  ‘But I like helping out with the patients,’ Sarah said. ‘It’s the best part of my duties.’

  ‘That’s as may be, Sarah, but the floors won’t wash themselves. The medical work should be left to those who have been trained to do it. Don’t you think?’

  Sarah could see no point in arguing. ‘Yes, Mrs Lyndsay,’ she said with a sigh.

  As she placed the teapot and cups on a tray she thought she might risk bringing up the subject of Rose Campbell. As a general rule Mrs Lyndsay disliked gossip, but would often divulge small pieces of information if asked directly.

  ‘Miss Grindlay says that the Sheldrakes’ housemaid has run away.’

  ‘Apparently so.’

  ‘Why would she do such a thing? The Sheldrakes are good people, are they not?’

  ‘Who is to say what happens when the doors are closed and the world’s not watching.’

  Sarah waited for elaboration but there was none. Mrs Lyndsay’s aversion to gossip often meant things were referred to rather elliptically.

  Any request for further information was curtailed by a very insistent ringing of the drawing-room bell.

  ‘Best take that up,’ the cook said, indicating the tea tray.

  Sarah lifted it and left the kitchen before anything further could be ascertained.

  She entered the drawing room, happy that she had managed to navigate stairs and door without any spillage. Mina was propped up on a chaise-longue reading a book, her embroidery discarded on the floor beside her. Mrs Simpson was in an armchair by the window staring at the view outside. She looked pale and tired, her fatigue exacerbated by the black she was obliged to wear.

  ‘Are there any ginger biscuits?’ Mrs Simpson asked.

  ‘Yes,’ said Sarah. She was happy that she had anticipated this need – Mrs Simpson frequently suffered with her digestion – though she began to fear she hadn’t brought enough as Mina was already hovering above the tray.

  ‘Sarah, I wish to go shopping tomorrow,’ Mina said, biting into a biscuit before her tea was even poured.

  Sarah groaned inwardly at the prospect. Shopping with Mina was usually a prolonged affair. There was likely to be no time for books today and there certainly would be no time tomorrow.

  She had just finished pouring when another bell sounded, the front door this time. She excused herself and exited in time to see Jarvis escorting one of the upstairs ladies into the consulting room.

  Sarah trudged down the stairs feeling increasingly irritated. On her way through the hall she passed the lower waiting room, where the same patients (to her mind suffering from more pressing complaints than the ones upstairs) sat listlessly, staring at their shoes.

  Sarah opened the door and what little patience she still possessed drained from her. She was confronted by two women who were, without doubt, of the upstairs variety. They were extravagantly dressed in what Sarah assumed to be the latest fashion: ermine-trimmed coats, kid gloves, boots with no mud on them (how did they manage that?), and elaborate hats perched precariously upon their coiffured heads. Compared to those already waiting they seemed to be in robust good health, though one kept dipping her head as if attempting to hide her face beneath her hat. Large, perfectly formed ringlets dipped down below the border of her bonnet. Her hair was the most remarkable shade of red.

  ‘Is the doctor at home? We should like to consult him,’ said the one with the bigger hat, the less retiring of the two. Her companion’s gloved hand was resting in the crook of her arm and she gave it a reassuring pat as she spoke. Sarah was momentarily distracted by the huge piece of millinery balanced at an improbable angle on her head. There was a profusion of feathers, brightly coloured ribbon and lace. Sarah could imagine magpies nesting in it.

  The lady looked at Sarah with disdain, as though she had expected the doctor to answer the door himself and was disgruntled at having to deal with an intermediary. Her gaze was so disapproving that Sarah initially thought she must have something unseemly on her apron to cause such offence. But there had been no contact with pus or blood that morning and a quick look confirmed that her apron was in fact quite clean.

  ‘I’m afraid the doctor is from home. An urgent visit,’ she said, hoping that this explanation would suffice.

  The lady in the bigger hat sighed and turned to her companion. ‘Shall we wait, dear? I think that we shall wait.’

  Her companion did not respond.

  Sarah took a deep breath and explained that there were already more patients waiting than could reasonably be seen upon Dr Simpson’s return, thinking while she did so that she might have been better fetching Jarvis to deal with this.

  Both ladies now looked at her as though she was being deliberately obstructive. Did they think she was lying about the doctor’s absence and the waiting patients?

  The lady with the large hat looked down her aquiline nose and spoke firmly. ‘My dear girl, I am sure we can be admitted. Take my name. Dr Simpson knows me!’

  Sarah looked back at the accumulated mass of human misery already installed in the waiting room. There were almost as many upstairs too.

  ‘Madam, Dr Simpson knows the Queen,’ she said, then closed the door.

  Seven

  Dr Simpson’s coachman had brought the brougham around after only a few minutes, the dog taking its preferred seat with proprietorial speed before Raven could climb aboard. Raven settled himself back against the red leather upholstery and closed his eyes. He hoped Dr Simpson would return to the book he had been reading all afternoon, but he was to be disappointed.

  ‘Where do you hail from, Mr Raven?’ the doctor said as the coach set off.

  Raven tried to sit up more erectly in his seat.

  ‘I was born in Edinburgh, sir.’

  ‘And what does your father do?’

  ‘He is no longer with us,’ he replied. ‘B
ut he was a lawyer.’

  Rehearsing this lie brought him back to last night in that alley not a hundred yards from here. It would have to serve once again, however. The truth was for another time, once Raven had enjoyed the chance to cultivate a reputation based upon his deeds rather than his provenance.

  ‘In Edinburgh?’

  ‘Originally. But lately in St Andrews.’

  This at least had a modicum of truth to it. His mother lived there now, reliant upon the generosity of her brother. He truly was a lawyer, and a miserable, pious and self-righteous one at that.

  ‘I once contemplated studying the law,’ Simpson mused wistfully.

  ‘Really? For how long?’ Raven asked, wondering how the man could possibly have accommodated more than one field of study given his relative youth and famously prodigious career.

  ‘Oh, at least the length of a day. An early encounter with the operating theatre had me racing off to Parliament House to seek employment as a clerk.’

  Raven responded with a smile, no doubt a lopsided one given the burden on his cheek. He too had little love of the operating theatre. Much as he had admiration for the swift and steady hand of the surgeon, he had no wish to spend his time excising tumours and hacking off limbs. The barbarity of it appalled him, for no surgeon was as steady and swift as to spare the patient unimaginable torment.

  ‘What brought you back?’ Raven asked with genuine curiosity.

  ‘The desire to alleviate pain and suffering, and the belief that one day we will find a means of achieving it.’

  ‘And are you of the belief that ether has done that?’

  ‘It is a step in the right direction but I believe we can do more. Now we understand that the inhaling of certain chemical compounds can produce a reversible insensibility, I am sure that if we experiment we will find something better than ether. It was one of the reasons I decided to take on an apprentice again this year. I need as many hands as possible to assist me in my search.’

  This was not Raven’s primary interest in working with the professor but he quickly warmed to the idea. If he was involved in the discovery of a new anaesthetic agent, his success in the profession would be assured. A share in the patent, aye, that would be the keys to a fortune.

  ‘And do you believe you can succeed?’ Raven asked, the prospect of such riches prompting a cautious scepticism.

  The professor leaned forward in his seat. ‘I believe that with a passionate desire and an unwearied will, we can achieve impossibilities.’

  The door to 52 Queen Street opened the moment the doctor’s carriage pulled up outside the house. A young woman in a starched cap stood in the doorway adjusting her apron as Raven stepped down onto the pavement. She recoiled momentarily at the sight of him and a sadness fell upon Raven as he realised that this was something he would have to get used to.

  The dog ran into the house first, followed by the professor, who shrugged off his coat and handed it to a male servant who had materialised behind the young woman as though from thin air. He was tall, clean-shaven and immaculately dressed, which only served to emphasise Raven’s state of dishevelment. The man stared down at this unkempt new arrival with unguarded disapproval.

  ‘Jarvis, I’ll take tea in my study,’ Simpson said.

  ‘Very good, sir,’ he replied, before nodding at Raven, who was still loitering on the threshold. ‘And what would you like me to do with that?’

  The doctor laughed. ‘This is Mr Raven, my new apprentice. He won’t be joining us for dinner as I believe he’s in need of his bed.’

  Simpson met Raven’s eye with a knowing look. Raven endured a moment of concern regarding just what the doctor knew, but mainly what he felt was relief.

  ‘Show him up please, Sarah.’

  The doctor proceeded along the corridor towards the back of the house. ‘Jarvis will arrange to have your belongings collected,’ he said over his shoulder.

  ‘That is assuming you have any belongings worth collecting,’ the butler said, closing the door.

  Raven followed the housemaid up the stairs to a bedroom on the third floor, the ascent sapping the last of his energy so much that he feared she might have to grab his lapels and drag him up the final flight. She breezed fussily ahead of him into the room and placed a towel onto a chair before he could sit on it, any concerns about offending him apparently trumped by the state of his clothes.

  ‘We’ll need to draw you a bath,’ she said, evidently deeming his current condition an affront to the crisp white sheets adorning the bed. Raven hadn’t seen linen so clean in a long time. He could think of little he wanted more right then than to crawl underneath it, but was too weak to argue. He sat holding his head in his hands, only vaguely aware of the bustle around him.

  When he raised his head once more, he saw that a hip bath had been placed before the fire and filled with warm water. The butler helped him off with his clothes and offered an arm to steady himself as Raven climbed over the side. There appeared to be petals and twigs floating in the water, which caused him to pause with one foot in.

  ‘Camomile, rosemary and lavender,’ Jarvis offered by way of explanation. ‘Sarah says it will help with the bruising. And the smell.’

  Raven sat down in the warm, fragrant water and felt his aching muscles begin to relax. He could not remember having a bath quite like this. At Ma Cherry’s, an old tin tub would be grudgingly filled with tepid water, just enough to cover the buttocks and feet. He could still hear the old sow’s sighing and tutting as she hauled in the cans, as though bathing was some strange and alien practice he was inexplicably insisting upon. From the smell of her, it was certainly strange and alien to Mrs Cherry.

  A sponge and a bar of soap had been left just within reach, but Raven felt disinclined to move. He allowed his good eye to close and time to drift. He heard the tread of footsteps in and out of the room a couple of times but he chose to ignore them. He then felt the sponge move across the tops of his shoulders. He knew there was further insult implicit in Jarvis letting him know he did not trust Raven to clean himself properly, but he was too exhausted to object. He kept his eyes closed, however, as he had no desire to see the distasteful look on the butler’s face while he performed this task.

  ‘You’ll have to lean forward so I can rinse your hair.’

  It was a female voice that spoke. Raven lurched upright and opened his good eye. The housemaid Sarah was standing in front of him, holding a large ewer in both hands.

  ‘What do you think you’re doing?’ he asked, thrusting his hands down to cover himself.

  She smirked. ‘Helping you get cleaned up,’ she said. ‘No need to be bashful. I’m as much nurse as housemaid in this place, so whatever you’ve got, I’ve seen it before.’

  Raven hadn’t the will to do anything but submit, though he kept one hand in place.

  Sarah was very gentle, perhaps because of his obvious injuries – he seemed to have bruising from sternum to pubic bone. She smelled of tea and lavender and freshly laundered linen. Clean smells, healthy smells. New Town smells.

  His hair was duly rinsed, after which Sarah offered to help him get out of the tub.

  ‘I’m not an invalid,’ he objected, a little more harshly than the girl deserved.

  She gathered up his clothes. ‘I’ve left a nightshirt on the bed for you,’ she said, leaving him to perform the last of his ablutions alone.

  When he did attempt to stand, he was almost toppled by a sudden onset of vertigo. He sat down again and waited for the spinning to stop. Given the impression he had made on the household staff thus far, he did not wish to be found prostrate on the floor with his arse in the air.

  Rising more cautiously, he managed to get himself dried and into bed before Sarah entered again, this time carrying a tray.

  ‘Beef tea, bread and butter.’

  She put the tray down and took a small tin from her pocket.

  ‘I’m going to put some salve on your wound. It’s looking a bit red.’

 
Without waiting for his consent, she began applying some strange-smelling ointment to his cheek. With her eyes intent upon the work of her hands, he allowed himself to gaze upon her face: the freckles on her nose, the curl of her lashes.

  For a moment he pictured Evie before him, dressed like that, a housemaid in the New Town. He could not sustain the image, though, and it was rapidly replaced by his memory of her contorted body.

  Another deid hoor.

  As Sarah put the liniment tin back in her pocket and bent to pick up his wet towel, Raven hoped she appreciated how fortunate she was.

  Eight

  Consciousness came at Raven like an ambush, sudden and without mercy. For the second successive morning he had woken in an unfamiliar bed, but on this occasion it was not his new surroundings that disoriented him so much as what he had left behind in sleep. He had been with Evie, the essence of her suffusing a dream so vivid that upon waking he felt the enormity of her loss all over again. How could she be gone when she still felt so real to him? It seemed as though he could walk to her lodging this very morning and find that it was her death that was the dream.

  Raven looked at frost on the room’s tiny window and was instantly transported to a freezing cold day they had spent together in her room, sharing a dry loaf and washing it down with wine, only leaving her bed to use the privy. It was not the physical intimacies that echoed now, but the warmth of friendship, of being in the company of someone with whom he could let the hours drift. He recalled how he had talked about his ambitions, and his promises to help her as soon as he was in a position of any influence.

  He had caught her staring at him, that inscrutable look upon her face. It felt good to be stared at by her, to be the subject of her fascination, though he had no notion what she was thinking, what observations and secrets she was keeping to herself. Perhaps she heard such promises all the time. When he spoke this way, Evie seemed to accept that he was sincere, but that wasn’t the same as believing him.

  ‘You’re always looking to take up cudgels for a noble cause, aren’t you, Will?’ she had said, lying with her head propped up on one hand, gently stroking his back with the other. She sounded amused but sympathetic. ‘Always in search of a battle to fight.’