‘It’s little Tommy,’ the woman explained. ‘He seems reet poorly. Got a cough and he’s lost his voice.’
Katharine knelt before the child.
‘Come here, Tommy, and let’s have a look at you,’ she said gently.
The child eyed her mistrustfully, his eyes swollen and red, his face hot.
Swiftly and gently Katharine examined him.
‘He’s got laryngitis – not severely though. You must take him home immediately and keep him in bed. I’ll call this afternoon.’
Katharine rose and crossed over to the medicine cabinet.
‘Here give him a teaspoonful of this in water every three hours. And mind you keep him warm and don’t let him try to talk much if you can help it. Give him warm drinks of milk, too. Now can I have your name and tell me where you live, please?’
‘Well, I’m Mrs. Gifford. But I don’t think you ought to call at t’house, miss. Tom, that’s my husband, wouldn’t like you to come. He’s at work and doesn’t know I’ve come here, d’you see?’
‘But Mrs. Gifford, your child needs my care. I must call.’
‘Oh dear.’ The woman blushed with anxiety, torn between fear of her husband and worry for her sick child.
Katharine felt a rush of pity for her. She could see that the woman herself had no qualms about accepting Katharine as a doctor. It was only her husband’s antagonism which caused her dilemma.
‘Will you call this afternoon about three o’clock, then, miss. He’ll be back at work then. He needn’t know.’
‘All right, Mrs. Gifford, for the sake of your child, I will.’
‘Thank you, oh thank you.’
The woman’s gratitude was touching, but it made Katharine angry to think that Mrs. Gifford went in such fear of her husband.
‘Tom idolises his brother-in-law, Kate,’ Anthony told her when she related her morning experience to him. ‘The only way you’ll win over the folk of Brackenbeck is to have Jim Kendrick on your side.’
‘And I’ve about as much chance of doing that as flying,’ Katharine retorted.
The afternoon was again devoid of callers and Katharine chafed against her uselessness until it was time to go into the village and see Tommy Gifford.
Had it not been for the disquiet in her mind she would have greatly enjoyed the walk from Anthony’s house down the hill to the Giffords’ cottage. The sun was warm and the beck bright and bubbling. In the village street several children were engrossed in a game of hop-scotch, some almost too small to play were bullied by the bigger ones. Katharine paused to watch, smiling as she recalled playing the very same game herself years ago.
She sighed and moved on. How quickly time passed, she thought. It seemed no time since she had been the same age as these children living with her parents in London. Her father had been a general practitioner in a poorer part of the city. They’d never had much money for his patients were rarely able to pay their bills. But Dr. Harvey was fortunate in that his wife, and later his daughter, Katharine, shared his devotion to medicine and to the patients. Now, both her parents were dead, but not before they had seen her accepted into medical school and known that she was carrying on the family work.
An only child, Katharine was often lonely and had it not been for her strength of character and resolve she might well have suffered greatly from the lack of the affection of a family.
She walked along the cobbled street, smiling at the women who sat in the doorways of their cottages, or passed her on the street. A few smiled hesitantly, several avoided her gaze and looked towards the ground, but the majority, much to Katharine’s dismay, returned her greeting with a stony expression of disapproval.
Katharine reached the two cottages belonging to Jim Kendrick, where he lived with the Giffords next door.
She knocked firmly at the green door and waited.
After a few minutes it opened and the scared face of Mary Gifford peered round it.
‘Oh, come in, Miss Harvey, quickly.’
Katharine entered and stood in the front parlour into which the front door opened. The room was small and overcrowded with furniture. A large table occupied the centre of the room surrounded by the four chairs. A dresser, overflowing with china ornaments and what was obviously the ‘best’ tea service, stood against one wall. From the rag mat in front of the range, a cat eyed Katharine sleepily.
‘I don’t want it to get about the village, d’you see, and get back to my Tom,’ Mary Gifford was saying.
‘Mrs. Gifford, your child is ill. Surely your husband cannot object to my attending him?’
‘I don’t think he’d like it. You see, Jim says …’
‘Say no more, I quite understand. Now, if I can see the little chap, the sooner I can leave.’
‘This way, then, miss.’
Katharine climbed the narrow stairway to an attic-like bedroom where the small boy lay in bed. He seemed a little better than at the surgery, no doubt the warm bed helped, but Katharine saw he was still ill enough to be kept in bed and would be so for some days.
She tried to impress upon Mrs. Gifford the need for her to visit Tommy again, but the young woman’s fear of her husband and brother gave her strength in another direction – to resist Katharine’s pleading.
Whilst they were still arguing, downstairs again out of the child’s hearing, they heard footsteps on the path and the sound of men’s voices.
‘Oh no, ’tis Tom and Jim, home early. Oh, my goodness …’
Escape was impossible. Katharine had no fear of either of them, but she felt desperately sorry for the nervous woman, who wrung her hands and bit her lip, as the front door opened.
Tom Gifford entered first and stood aside as Jim bent his head and stepped into the room. Immediately his huge frame seemed to fill the tiny room and his presence overawed the company.
‘Good afternoon, Miss Harvey,’ he said politely. ‘I see you have met my sister. This is her husband, Mr. Gifford.’
Katharine presumed he had no idea of the reason for her visit, thinking, no doubt, that her call was social, to which he could have no objections.
‘Tom,’ Mary began as Katharine and he were shaking hands.
‘It’s young Tommy. He weren’t well this morning, so I took him to the doctor and …’
Katharine saw the frown on Jim Kendrick’s face deepen and Tom Gifford glanced from his wife’s anxious face to Katharine’s and at last, to Jim’s face.
‘What’s to do?’
‘Your son has laryngitis, Mr. Gifford, but with careful treatment he’ll be up and about in a few days.’
‘Nay, ’tis nowt but croup. Ah’ve seen it afore,’ Tom Gifford laughed. ‘Don’t mamby-pamby the lad, woman.’
‘The child is ill, Mr. Gifford, and must be kept in bed.’
Tom laughed again, whilst Katharine felt her temper rise.
Tom Gifford opened the door.
‘I’ll bid you good-day, Miss Harvey, we have no need of your services here.’
‘You’re being extremely foolish in refusing my care for your son.’
She turned to Jim, her green eyes flashing.
‘I’m not unaware that the fault lies with you, Mr. Kendrick. It seems the whole village obeys your command. Let me tell you something, if anything happens to your nephew, or to anyone else in this village whilst I am here, it will be your fault, not mine.’
And with that she marched out of the cottage.
Not until she reached the bridge did she stop to think. Sighing heavily, she sat down on the low wall of the packhorse bridge and gazed at the rushing water of the beck.
She did not regret her harsh words, even though perhaps they were hasty, for they were fully justified.
Jim Kendrick, she thought, was an arrogant, conceited man, who ill-used the villagers’ respect for him.
‘I never want to see him again,’ she said aloud, but knew in that instant that if she were never to see him again she would know a sense of loss.
She laughed wry
ly.
‘I just like someone to fight with, that’s all,’ she told herself.
Katharine saw a child running towards her along the beck side. A small thin little girl in a worn cotton dress.
Katharine looked down again at the water and thought the child had passed by, so that she was surprised when the steps slowed and stopped beside her. She felt the child’s hand grasp her arm and she turned swiftly to meet the upturned gaze of wide brown eyes. The thin, pale face was smudged with dirt and showed signs of recent tears.
‘Are t’doctor?’
‘Yes.’
The small fingers tightened on Katharine’s wrist and pulled at her with urgency.
‘Coom, see Grannie Banroyd. She’s reet bad.’
Katharine hurried after the child, who ran ahead of her along the cobbled street, from time to time stopping to look back at her, urging her to hurry, then running ahead as if she could not bear to delay.
They reached a tiny cottage on the outskirts of the village.
The child disappeared through the low door and Katharine followed. The interior of the hovel, for it was little more than that, was dark and smelt musty. The furniture, old and decrepit, was covered with a film of dust. Pots and pans cluttered the hearth. The table held the remains of an unappetising meal – watery broth and thick, grey bread.
The child had run to the far corner of the room, where, Katharine saw as her eyes became accustomed to the shadows, a frail old woman lay on a bedstead. A thin blanket covered her and she clutched an old, crocheted shawl about her rounded shoulders. Her face was wrinkled and wizened, and white, wispy hair framed her face in untidy tufts. Her eyes were closed and every few seconds a soft moan escaped her parted lips.
‘Grannie,’ the child whispered. ‘’ Tis doctor.’
The eyelids fluttered open and slowly the old woman turned her head to look at Katharine. The moaning grew louder and she shook her head painfully.
The child recoiled – wide-eyed and fearful.
‘Doctor – I want t’doctor.’
The child, thinking the old woman misunderstood, leaned forward again and repeated her words.
‘Grannie. ’Tis doctor!’
Her grandmother lifted herself feebly and waved her bony hand.
‘No – no – not ’er. Dr. Stafford.’
And she fell back against the pillow as a spasm of coughing seized her.
The child shrank back in fear and disappointment. Katharine touched the small girl kindly on the shoulder but the child shook off her hand and turned her back.
Katharine watched helplessly as the child’s thin shoulders shook with her sobbing. The old woman’s coughing quietened. Katharine turned to her.
‘Mrs. Banroyd. Let me help you, please. Dr. Stafford has sprained his ankle. I am a qualified doctor …’
Katharine felt the familiar resentment rising within her, but kept her voice calm. After all, the old woman was very ill with bronchitis, as far as Katharine could see without a proper examination, and the sick cannot think rationally, she reminded herself.
The small face on the grey pillow turned determinedly from side to side in negation.
‘If you won’t let me examine you, at least let me bring you some medicine for your cough?’
Again no response.
She could not forcibly examine Grannie Banroyd, Katharine knew, neither could she get her to take any treatment, but at least she could bring a bottle of medicine to the cottage in the hope that the old woman would weaken in her resolve as her coughing became worse, and take some of the mixture.
Katharine left the cottage a little while later without either the child or her grandmother having spoken to her again. A cool breeze whipped down the narrow street as she walked back through the village.
Katharine felt helpless against the stubbornness of these people and was ashamed of her powerlessness.
Reaching the house and surgery she quickly prepared the medicine and was about to return immediately to the Banroyds’ cottage, determined not to be beaten by the stubborn old woman and resolving this time to examine her, when Mrs. Rigby knocked and entered the room.
‘Dr. Stafford would like a word with you, miss. He saw you return. He’s in the drawing-room.’ And without waiting for a reply, the housekeeper left the room.
‘What is it, Anthony?’ Katharine asked as she entered the drawing-room.
‘Ah, there you are, Katharine.’
She noticed at once the frown on his face. An expression so unusual on Anthony’s cheerful countenance that immediately she felt a sense of panic. Something must be seriously amiss for Anthony to be disgruntled.
‘Mrs. Rigby tells me that Grannie Banroyd has bronchitis again. Shall you go down at once and see her?’
‘I’ve already been. In fact, I’m on my way back there now with this.’
She held the bottle out for him to see. He took it, opened it and smelt it.
Then he nodded.
‘That’s all right. It’s what I normally give her.’
‘I’m glad you approve, doctor,’ Katharine said sharply.
‘Now, now, Kate,’ Anthony said, trying to pacify her. ‘ Surely I’ve a right to maintain an interest in my patients even if I am laid up?’
‘I’m sorry, Anthony,’ Katharine said immediately. ‘But Grannie Banroyd would not let me examine her and her refusal has distressed me.’
Anthony shrugged and grunted.
‘No more than I would expect. Tell you what. Take that back and say I’ve made it up.’
Katharine was about to retort that she had no intention of succumbing to the old woman’s whims, but the words died on her lips as she realised suddenly that if subterfuge was the only way to get Mrs. Banroyd to take treatment then that was the way it must be. The patient came before her own personal pride.
She sighed.
‘Very well, Anthony. By the way, I was going to try whatever diaphoretic remedies I could, a mustard and linseed-meal poultice, for a start, then perhaps a simple linseed poultice – do you agree?’
‘Of course, though it may be a little late for that if the attack is somewhat advanced – however, it may help. But I doubt she’ll let you, and you can hardly enforce such treatment. But do your best, Kate.’
‘I think one or two applications at least would be of value,’ she replied.
When she returned to the cottage the child was still sitting exactly as Katharine had left her, crying quietly. Turning to Grannie Banroyd, she found that the old lady was now too weak to resist her and Katharine was able to examine her.
But her examination was futile. She had been called too late. She applied poultices to the woman’s shrunken body and finally stayed until late in the evening, returning early the next morning and remaining all day at the cottage doing whatever she could – preparing steam inhalers and administering drugs herself in a desperate effort to save the old woman’s life, which was surely slipping away. But she was fighting a losing battle against all odds. It was impossible to achieve satisfactory conditions in this hovel for her patient, apart from the fact that the disease had been so far advanced when she had been called.
It was too late, and Katharine knew she could not save the frail old lady.
That evening, quite late, as she was leaving the Banroyds’ cottage and making her way back to Anthony’s, Katharine was confronted by the one person whom she particularly did not wish to encounter at that time.
She was weary. Her back ached. Her medical bag was a heavy lump of rock in her hand. And her spirits had sunk to their lowest ebb ever. She had to pass Jim Kendrick’s small cottage and as she did so, Katharine saw the door open and the lamp light flood the cobbled street.
‘Miss Harvey.’
His deep voice rang out into the night. She stopped and turned to face him. The light was on her face, but his in the shadow, so that she felt the disadvantage of not being able to read the expression on his face.
But could she not guess it from his voice
? His tone was cold and his words unfriendly.
‘Good evening, Miss Harvey. You’re abroad late, are you not?’
‘I’ve been with Mrs. Banroyd all day.’ Katharine knew her voice to be toneless with fatigue.
‘How is she?’
Slowly Katharine shook her head.
‘I’m afraid it’s only a matter of a day or two.’
‘What? You mean she is going to die?’
‘I’m very much afraid so. If only …’
‘Yes, Miss Harvey. If only …’ And although the words were unspoken between them, she knew he was implying ‘if only Dr. Stafford had been available instead of an ineffectual woman.’
Katharine raised her head defiantly.
‘I was going to say, if only she had called me days ago, then, perhaps, more could have been done.’
‘I’m sure you have done your best.’
Katharine could not fail to recognise the irony in his words and she knew also that he had meant her to do so.
‘And you mean my best is not good enough?’
‘She’s going to die, you say,’ Jim said quietly.
Katharine’s shoulders drooped. She nodded, not trusting herself to speak. She turned away quickly.
‘Good night, Mr. Kendrick.’
And he let her go without another word.
Jim Kendrick’s mistrust in her ability, his obvious rejection of her as a doctor, indeed, even as a woman, hurt her more than she cared to admit.
It’s just because you’re tired, she told herself fiercely, but knew it not to be the truth.
Katharine did not tell Anthony of her meeting with Jim nor of the distress it had caused her for he seemed irritable and on edge that evening.
‘You’re late, Katharine. How is she?’
As she told him, Katharine noticed that he moved restlessly in his chair and glanced angrily at his bandaged foot.
‘Is it paining you, Anthony? Shall I re-bandage it for you?’
‘No, yes, you can massage it a little, if you would.’
‘It’s the inactivity that’s boring you,’ she said as she unwound the bandage.
‘You’re right. I shall go mad sitting here. Can’t I get out into the garden again tomorrow?’
Brackenbeck Page 3