Beth breathed in deeply and got up to her feet. “I'm gonna go and lie down.” Heading toward the stairs, she didn't so much as glance in Lynne's direction.
Outside the sun still shone, and the wireless still played its cheery tunes, oblivious to the dull ache that had set into Lynne's heart.
* * *
Compared to The London Hospital, Bethnal Green Infirmary was a stone's throw away from the house, but when Lynne and the family relocated to the area when Beth was three, it was the former that needed her services. Luckily for Lynne's purse, it was still within walking distance, and she took the stroll come rain or shine. Today, it was only when she was halfway there and looked at her fob watch that she realized her pace was quicker than usual. She didn't bother making any kind of effort to slow down. The time she was making was valuable.
Walking through the main entrance of the East Wing, she dipped her head again and again in quick and polite greeting to the nurses and doctors passing by. She went straight past the door to the staff room, and on to the office. She closed the door behind her and started to leaf through the brown paper folders containing results of various tests done on numerous patients.
“Wade … Wade,” she murmured, as if saying the name would tease the results out. “Ah! Wade, Elizabeth Josephine.” Leaning back on the desk, she opened the folder and scanned the handwritten notes, deciphering what even the best German cryptographers would have had difficulty in decrypting. Reading doctors’ handwriting was a pre-requisite of the job however, and she had a pretty good idea what these results implied. But no recorded facts were a substitute for first-hand discussion.
The door that stated Kenneth Hawkins M.D. was closed, but Lynne had checked the roster and knew that he was somewhere in the hospital. She left a note for him before starting her rounds, and kept an eye and an ear out for the doctor. In this massive building, he would remain the needle in the haystack until he was officially needed. And Lynne's need, though sincere, was not official.
It was late afternoon when Lynne finally passed his door and found it ajar. Overlooking his ignorance of the note she'd left, she knocked and walked in.
Dr. Hawkins was a handsome man despite his thick round glasses and stunted height; he couldn't be much taller than Lynne's own five foot five. It may have been all these characteristics that made Lynne feel she could talk more freely with him than most other doctors. “Is it what I think it is?” She held out his report, which he took and quickly studied.
It took a couple of moments, but recognition finally spread across his face. “Yes, I'm afraid so. Anemia.” He looked up from the paperwork. “I did these tests a fortnight ago.”
Lynne knew exactly what he was inferring. “Her symptoms have been erratic.”
“And what symptoms are those? Tiredness? Loss of appetite?”
“All of the above. They seemed to … subside for a while.” As she said it, Lynne realized how odd it would sound if she were to claim Beth's anemia, as it had now been diagnosed, had temporarily vanished. “What do you suggest, doctor? A simple tonic is the usual remedy, is it not?”
Dr. Hawkins shook his head disapprovingly. “I'm afraid much of what's been said about the effectiveness of tonic is largely unfounded.”
“Largely?”
“It does appear to have some benefit in the relief of symptoms in secondary anemia, but its effectiveness in primary anemia has proved to be minimal.”
“So she has primary anemia,” stated Lynne.
“Probably.”
“Probably?”
The doctor, becoming slightly more relaxed it seemed, leant against his worktop, took a deep breath, and crossed his arms while still holding on to the paperwork. “Your daughter's blood work did yield some unexpected findings. You see, red blood cells age and die over time and there are ways you can tell the older cells from the new. With anemia, I'd expect to find a higher count of aging cells and or signs of hemolysis.” The doctor paused, seeing Lynne was unfamiliar with the term. “The premature loss or destruction of the cells,” he clarified. “However, in your daughter's case, there was none of this. All the cells seemed perfectly healthy, with ratios suggesting usual rates of aging. It's simply the overall numbers that were down. It's as if her body has all of a sudden shut off production. Turned off the tap, as it were. Meanwhile, her white blood cell count is fine … better than fine, in fact. I'll be honest, it doesn't make an awful lot of sense.”
“So what are you saying? Is it anemia or isn't it?”
“I think it's primary anemia.”
“Well, how do we confirm it or otherwise? What do we do?”
The doctor sighed shallowly, as if looking for something for the hundredth time. “If I were to look into it further, I'd need a new sample of her blood. Comparing it with these results,” he shook the report, “should shed some light.” Lynne bit her lip knowing how much her daughter disliked needles, but nodded. “In the meantime,” Dr. Hawkins continued, “there's certainly no harm in trying a tonic. At worst it'll do nothing and at best it may revive her a little.”
“I'll take some blood tonight and bring it to you first thing in the morning,” said Lynne. “And then we'll try the tonic.” Dr. Hawkins gave a single nod and brief smile. Lynne knew it all too well; it was the same smile she gave patients when there was nothing more she could do for them. “Thank you, doctor.”
“Of course, Nurse Wade.”
Lynne turned to leave, but stopped at a nagging thought. “Doctor, I know this is awfully silly of me, but I am right in saying that anemia can't come and go, aren't I?”
Something in the doctor's smile told Lynne that he thought her a little foolish. “We're getting better at managing anemia all the time,” he said, “and at identifying its causes. Clearly your daughter has spent the first thirteen years of her life unaffected, and if it is what we suspect then something must've triggered it, such as a change in diet, perhaps. But no, it's certainly not something that can cure itself. I'm afraid if someone is found to have anemia, it is for life.”
The words stabbed Lynne. Beth wasn't her flesh and blood but she may as well have been. She was her daughter, and when something bad happened to her it hurt just as much as if it had happened to Oliver. Everything was pointing to a condition that, if proved true, would be with Beth for the rest of her life—it would need managing until her dying day.
As she turned and left the doctor, Lynne couldn't help hoping that Beth's dying day was still a long way off.
ELEVEN
MARY LINED UP THE KNIFE on the carrot, playing her own game where she tried to make each slice an equal width. Beth was too tired after school to help with food preparations, sitting restlessly in the sitting room instead. Mary didn't mind. She felt a sense of satisfaction that she was contributing in some way to the household. It also kept her busy, making it easier to ignore the ever-present gap left by her own mother. Thoughts like those threatened to pull apart the tissue of the world with which she'd covered her own eyes. Occasionally she wondered how much of the happiness and confidence she expressed in the presence of the Wades was genuine. She didn't feel like it was all an act, but she was too afraid to dwell on the possibility.
“Come on, Mary. The water's almost boiling,” said Mrs. Wade from the scullery.
Mary refocused on the carrot and on the knife that had cut a quarter of an inch into it. So much for precision, she thought. “Any news on Beth's results yet, Mrs. Wade?”
“Goodness, no.” Beth's mother walked up to Mary's side, took a knife of her own and began helping with the last few vegetables. “I only took the new sample in this morning. It'll be at least a few days.”
“She was yawning and stretching all day today. I think it's getting worse again. And quicker.”
“I can hear you, you know,” called Beth weakly.
“She's only telling me what you should already have said, young lady,” said Mrs. Wade. “These are things I need to know, may I remind you.”
“I just
don't want you fussing over—”
Mrs. Wade stopped slicing at the abrupt slicing. “What is it?”
“The butcher's here,” said Beth with no emotion or interest.
Mary looked at Beth's mother, who returned her look of confusion before they both looked at the wall as if they could see through it, at the front door. Someone knocked. Mrs. Wade put her knife down and began to undo her apron as she walked around the table and through the sitting room, throwing a suspicious glance in Beth's direction. With heightened curiosity, Mary waited to hear the door being opened.
“Good evening, Lynne.” It was the butcher's deep, jolly voice.
“Jeff …” Mary picked up on Mrs. Wade's hesitancy. “D-do come in. Sorry.” Mary finished the last of the carrots as the butcher strode into the sitting room.
“Hullo, Beth. And how are you?”
“Fine thank you, Mr. Morris.”
“You don't sound very happy about it.”
Mary looked up to see the butcher put his free hand on his hip, looking like a big soldier from one of those military posters. Under the other arm he carried what was most likely a cut of some meat or other wrapped in newspaper.
“She's feeling a bit under the weather, aren't you dear?” said Beth's mother on her behalf.
“Nothing serious I hope?” asked the butcher.
“We're not quite sure exactly what it is,” said Mrs. Wade. “Please?” She held out her hand to invite the butcher into the kitchen.
Mary put her apron on the table and passed them, taking a seat in the sitting room. She leaned toward Beth while Mrs. Wade and the butcher carried on their conversation. “How did you know the butcher was coming?” Mary whispered.
Beth shrugged. “Didn't you hear the footsteps?”
“No. But even if I had, how did you know it was the butcher?”
Beth looked at Mary with slight puzzlement, as if she'd said something stupid. “Can't you smell it?”
“Smell what?”
Beth glanced at the butcher before making the effort to lean toward Mary slightly. “He stinks of meat … raw meat.” She sat back in her chair and cricked her neck.
Mary paused for a second, then turned toward the kitchen.
“… happened before?” the butcher finished asking. Mary sniffed the air.
“It's the strangest thing, honestly,” began Mrs. Wade, while Mary looked back at Beth staring up at the wireless. She couldn't smell anything, now or before, and wondered whether to believe her friend's absurd claim. She could feel in the pit of her stomach that something wasn't quite right. She sat back in the chair, looking at Beth as she supposed a psychiatrist might look at a particularly intriguing case. Whether she felt Mary's burning eyes or not, Beth turned to her and caught the stare. “What?”
“You ain't half weird, sometimes,” said Mary. It was supposed to sound warm, in jest, but before Beth looked away Mary saw sadness in her eyes.
* * *
Mary shook her head as she walked toward the school gates, arm-in-arm with Beth, whose walking line occasionally wavered like an old tramp. Mary kept correcting her direction. “You should be at home.”
Beth groaned her disagreement with a croaky voice.
“Why not?”
“If I do that,” said Beth, sounding like she needed to clear her throat, “then I'll be stuck there for God knows how long.” She paused for breath. “Cooped up in that room, unable to leave.”
Walking side by side, Mary noticed their pace quickened a bit. Talk of being a prisoner in her own home had seemingly provoked a temporary burst of determined energy in Beth. It had been three days since Mrs. Wade had taken that blood sample. Every night Mary asked if the results had come back and every night Lynne shook her head, while the day that had passed sucked more energy out of Beth. During those evenings, the sirens had been quite busy, though the raids were very light and of no concern to their corner of Bethnal Green. But it took them longer and longer to get to the shelter. In so little time Beth had weakened considerably, and the effects were all too visible. Once more she wore the look of death.
“Mary.”
She looked up at the familiar voice. Gibson was waiting at the gate with George and came over to walk at her side. “Come to the park after school,” he said with a smile.
She looked at George, who rolled his eyes at Gibson's suggestion. She gave a small smile in return before declining the offer in light of her duty to Beth. “I can't, can I?” she said, twitching her head toward her ill-looking friend.
“Oh. Right.” Gibson leant forward to look at her. “Hey, Beth. How are you? Do you, um, wanna come, too?”
“Gibson,” said Mary with a frown.
“What? She can keep George company.”
George's head snapped up. He looked almost horrified. Mary heard Gibson snicker slightly. Beth sighed. She sighed a lot recently, but Mary could tell that this time it was out of contempt. She had to wonder whether George's reaction was due to the way Beth looked now, or the stigma attached to being seen with her, illness or not. It was the kind of reaction that Beth didn't have to put up with quite so much now that she and Mary were friends once more, but it still happened.
“I can't,” Mary reiterated. They all walked through the gates and George joined them, though he made sure to stay on Gibson's side.
“Suit yourself,” Gibson said, “but we're gonna practice marching.”
“And why would I want to do something like that?”
“I dunno. You could …” he shrugged again, “watch?”
“I've got enough watching to do,” Mary said as they all slowed to a standstill in the playground. “Besides, it's pointless. Like I said before, you're too young to join the Army.”
“Dad says that in the last war there was boys as young as twelve, and the enemy had ‘em even younger than that!”
“That was then,” said Mary as Mr. Nichols came out into the yard, readying himself to ring the bell in his hand.
“I'm still gonna join. Sooner or later,” said Gibson. He and George separated off to start forming the boys line while Mary and Beth stood in the girls. She stood behind Beth just in case her equilibrium escaped her, but it wouldn't have mattered; Mary found herself staring at the ground, caught off-guard by Gibson's determination to leave.
A short while later the class had settled in their seats, sitting silently and upright … all but one. Mary could see her out of the corner of her eye since moving back to the desk beside Beth's. She was slumped forward with her elbows on the desk and her black hair draped down covering her pale skin. The tips brushing the desk swayed slightly at the approach of Mrs. Humphries. With a deliberate clearing of her throat, Beth slid her elbows off the table and slumped back into her chair, making the desk squeak slightly on the floor.
The teacher hesitated, but realized it was the best she was going to get and returned to her desk at the front.
As a faint pitter-patter of rain started to fall against the tall windows of the room, she addressed the class. “Right then, children. Today we'll be learning about the effects of—”
A desk and chair screeched loudly along the floor, amplified by the silence of the lesson. The teacher flinched. Mary spun around in time to see Beth's head hit the side of her desk. Gasps flowed like a wave across the room, and Beth's limp body started to slide to the side. Mary leaped from her chair, almost tripping to the floor. She grabbed the desk behind to steady herself, unable to reach her friend before her body landed on the hardwood floor with a horrible slap of flesh.
TWELVE
LYNNE THREADED THE SAFETY PIN carefully through the gauze, attaching it to itself on its previous wrap around Mr. Adams’ head. Clipping the sharp pin inside its catch, she pressed gently to ensure it didn't stick out. “There you are, Mr. Adams.” The unshaven man smiled up at her, wincing from the cut on his lip.
“Nurse Wade?”
Lynne turned to find Dr. Hawkins standing behind her, clutching a brown paper folder to his chest.
“Do you have a minute?”
“Of course, Doctor.” She looked back at her patient. “I'll check on you again before I leave,” she told Mr. Adams. Then she pulled the curtain across and walked with the doctor down the corridor.
“I've analyzed the new sample of your daughter's blood,” said Dr. Hawkins.
“And?” asked Lynne. She shouldn't have needed to prompt.
“I think something must've happened.”
“What do you mean?”
“Did you …” The doctor seemed embarrassed to ask. “Is it possible that the sample got contaminated?”
Lynne took a second to understand the implication. “Are you asking if I contaminated it?”
“Not on purpose, of course, but it's the only explanation.”
Lynne's frustration was turning into anxiety. “Explanation for what?”
“Something that simply isn't possible. The red blood cell count,” the doctor took a breath, “has increased.”
Anxiety suddenly turned to confused joy. “But that's good. Isn't it?”
“Like I said, it's not possible. Not for someone with her condition.”
Lynne was waiting for him to expand on his thoughts and make greater sense of what he was saying.
“Notice I said the red blood cells. Not her red blood cells. Hers are still in there, but they're not alone.”
Lynne stopped walking. She felt as stuck to the floor as the words seemed stuck in her throat. “Excuse me?”
“This is why it has to be contaminated. Half the sample you gave me appears to be animal blood.”
Lynne didn't know if it was the arrogance, the inconvenience or even the absurdity of it all, but she felt flushed with anger. “That's ridiculous. You've mixed the samples up.”
“I'm sorry Nurse Wade, but that's not—”
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