by Penny Jordan
‘Well, she ain’t gonna hold out her hand for you to kiss, Fred Larkins,’ Mrs Knox wheezed. ‘You’d have her rings orf her fingers in no time at all.’
This caused a great deal of amusement. The mirth was still circulating when the doctor appeared. ‘It’s refreshing to see my patients have a sense of humour,’ he smiled, unaware of the cause. ‘Now, who is next?’
‘Us blokes are gonna wait for the new nurse,’ Fred Larkins teased.
‘Miss Darraway, he means,’ Tilly explained, a little embarrassed at the comment.
‘Just gorn up to make herself a cuppa tea and put on her dress,’ Mrs Knox nodded. ‘Ope you left it tidy up there, Doctor!’
Dr Fleet quickly returned to his room. Tilly followed. ‘I’d like you to show Rosalind where everything is kept when she comes down. Now, shall we have the next patient?’
‘Your new girl ain’t too keen on kids, by the looks of it,’ Mrs Knox said as she entered.
‘No doubt she will get used to them,’ Dr Fleet replied as the woman made herself comfortable in the chair. ‘Now, what’s wrong with this young man?’
‘You tell me, Doctor.’ She removed the child’s nappy and dropped him on the doctor’s lap. He carefully adjusted Tommy, and began an examination of the spotty parts.
‘I hope you know you’ll have a long queue of healthy blokes outside yer door?’ Mrs Knox pointed out. ‘All waiting to see her Royal Highness?’
Tilly noticed Dr Fleet pretended not to hear.
‘I hope she’s got a strong stomach when they has to drop their trousers, though,’ continued Mrs Knox, undaunted. ‘’Cos she might never recover from the shock of it if my old man is anyfing to go by!’
Tilly smothered her amusement at this comment, but it was impossible not to laugh aloud when Tommy decided it was time to relieve his tiny bladder over the doctor’s clean trousers.
It was the end of the week, and confirmation had come from the New Cross hospital that Grace had diphtheria. Tilly did then what she always did when there was an outbreak of one disease or another. She prepared a bowl of water mixed with disinfectant and stood it on a table in the passage by the surgery door. She asked the patients to wash their hands, and she was constantly cleaning and scrubbing, taking every precaution possible to prevent infection.
Rosalind Darraway—or Nurse Darraway, as she preferred to be called—disliked intensely any close contact with illness, and had only acted in a nursing capacity to her invalid aunt. Miss Darraway spent much of her time upstairs in the doctor’s quarters, attending to the ‘correspondence’. This was when she was not meeting her father, Sir Joshua Darraway, for lunch.
Sir Joshua lived with his wife and two daughters in the country, but came up to town to visit his sister—the invalid aunt—with whom Rosalind was staying. His arrival meant that his daughter required a warm fire upstairs to change by. Her expensive-looking dark blue dress, termed as ‘uniform’, would be replaced by a more fashionable outfit for lunch. Hot water also had to be on hand, and a refreshing drink of some kind. These tasks were allotted to Tilly. Ones that she had to slip in between her duties.
Tilly was relieved, however, to note that Dr Fleet was unable to accompany Rosalind at such times. As the young lady vanished soon after midday and returned nearer to four than two, Tilly dreaded to think of the queue that might have formed in his absence!
On Friday evening she was in the kitchen, sterilising the instruments and washing the cloths that had been used during the day, when the doctor appeared. He looked slightly mystified. ‘Have you seen Rosalind, Tilly?’
Tilly paused, indicating the front door. ‘As far as I know, she hasn’t come back yet.’
‘Where has she gone?’ He seemed unaware of Miss Darraway’s busy agenda.
‘Her father called for her earlier.’
‘Oh, yes—of course.’ He nodded vaguely. ‘It’s just that I’ve mislaid Stanley Horn’s notes.’
‘Did Miss—er—Nurse Darraway have them?’
He nodded. ‘Yes—she was going to rewrite a few pages for me. I expect they’re with the correspondence. I’m sure they’ll turn up somewhere.’
Tilly tidied up each evening after Rosalind had left. The doctor’s desk upstairs was laden with effects, but Tilly had noted only fashion periodicals.
‘Stanley Horn has a leg infection,’ the doctor went on a little glumly. ‘I prescribed a cream, but it seems to have had little effect. I thought I would review his notes…’
‘Dr Tapper always prescribes the Jamaican balm,’ Tilly said without thinking.
‘You mean one of his remedies?’
‘It’s just arrowroot, really, grated up and boiled and made into a pap,’ Tilly blurted. ‘The plant comes from the West Indies and…er…is known to have healed the wounds of injured Indian warriors.’
For a moment he just stared at her. ‘Indian warriors?’ he gasped softly, and his face fell. ‘But this is 1928, Tilly! We are living in the twentieth century in the City of London, not the Wild West!’ He pushed his hand through his thick dark hair. ‘Please bring me some fresh bandages and hot water. And please, whatever you do, don’t bring up the subject of one of those—remedies—in front of Mr Horn! I’m having quite enough trouble as it is, trying to convince him to take another prescription!’
With that, he turned and marched out. Tilly filled the kettle and took a fresh roll of bandages from the drawer. How could she explain to the young doctor that the patients trusted Dr Tapper and his methods? Sometimes the old remedies worked and sometimes they didn’t. But in the absence of another alternative—normally a very expensive one—it was Hobson’s choice. For many amputees like Stanley Horn the future was bleak enough. Dr Tapper tried to give them hope and a little relief. It was all these people had. And sometimes it was all they needed to help them through their troubles.
The following week several cases of diphtheria were reported in Poplar, the hamlet closest to the island and often cut off by the tide. It was only the lifting bridges that allowed ambulances, fire engines and motorised traffic to travel to the docks. Stories of people dying in the ambulance whilst waiting for a ‘bridger’ abounded. Combined with terrible tales of the rampant disease, the passageway echoed with stories.
The smell of carbolic soon filled the streets, and as the weeks went by, it became unremarkable. East Enders were resilient people, and at their best in a crisis. This was another of Dr Tapper’s sayings, and Tilly repeated it often to the patients.
Despite all her efforts to keep the children well, they all got colds. Frank insisted on going to work, as November was very busy at the market, but Tilly let the two girls stay at home. She didn’t want them to spread their germs, and she didn’t want them to catch anything else either.
It was a grey Saturday after morning surgery when the doctor gave her the news that his uncle was leaving London for Bath.
‘He’s well enough to travel by train,’ Dr Fleet informed her. ‘I’m going to drive him to the station from the convalescent annexe of the hospital. If you’d like to write a letter, I’ll be happy to give it to him.’
It was almost five weeks since Dr Tapper had gone away. She was beginning to feel less certain of the future. What would happen if he didn’t come home?
‘I was wondering if you had a free hour tomorrow, Tilly?’ The doctor broke into her thoughts. ‘After seeing off my uncle I would like to—er—look round a little. Not in the car, as I always seem to travel, but on foot. I really haven’t had time to investigate the island properly yet.’
Tilly was very surprised at this request, but she agreed. ‘I could spare a little time in the afternoon.’
‘That will do nicely. Will the young people come with us?’
Tilly was even more shocked at this. ‘No, they’ll be quite fine at home for a short while.’ She couldn’t imagine the doctor fitting in with the children at all.
‘In that case I won’t keep you long.’ He smiled. ‘If you would like to write your lette
r to Uncle and give it to me later?’
‘I’ll put it through the letterbox this evening.’
He smiled again—a rather nice smile, Tilly thought, and one that made his dark eyes come quite alight.
That afternoon she wrote her letter. She tried to say everything that would keep up Dr Tapper’s spirits. But at the end she couldn’t stop herself from saying how much she missed him!
That evening, she took the letter up. It was becoming foggy—a dense river fog, mixed with the smoke of coal fires, thick and yellowy, rolling around the lamplight and along the pavements, tumbling against the doors and windows. As she came to the top of the airey stairs she saw a car draw up. Waiting where she was, she watched Rosalind Darraway climb out. The air cleared for a moment and her evening gown glistened, partially covered by a short silver cape and fur collar. She was assisted by an older gentleman wearing a cape and top hat.
The door of Tap House opened and the young doctor stood there. Light spilled out into the swirling fog. Tilly’s heart rushed quickly as she saw the tall, lean shape of the young doctor step forward to welcome them. He too was dressed in a formal evening suit, his dark hair slicked smoothly back across his head. Rosalind was soon in his arms, stepping up to kiss his cheek.
Tilly returned to the airey. She didn’t want to be seen in her dull coat and the same shoes that she always wore for work. Once they had felt very fashionable, but after seeing Rosalind’s changes of clothes and footwear for the past few weeks, Tilly was ashamed of looking the way she did.
‘Ain’t you posted it, then?’ demanded Molly as she went in.
‘Not yet.’
‘Why?’
‘The fog’s too thick.’
Cessie came running in from the bedroom. ‘I ain’t half hungry.’
Tilly was released from Molly’s suspicious gaze as she hurried into the kitchen. She pushed her letter in her pocket and hung her coat on the peg behind the door. Very soon she was busy making supper, helped by the girls and in one instance hindered, as Cessie dropped the bread pudding dish on the floor but quickly scooped up the contents with her sticky fingers.
But when Tilly sat at the table with the children to eat she felt lacking in appetite. Not that she had a good reason for it. Perhaps it was a case of indigestion? she told herself, as she rubbed the hard little knot under her ribs. It had been there ever since Rosalind Darraway had thrown herself into Dr Fleet’s embrace.
CHAPTER FOUR
HARRY examined his reflection in the mirror. He’d changed from his flannels into a dark grey suit, and with the addition of an overcoat to combat the November breeze he regarded himself as adequately dressed for a stroll. Last night’s fog had thankfully disappeared. Every so often the sun slid from behind the clouds and reminded him of early spring. But he’d been glad of his warm jacket whilst waiting for the train to arrive. Platforms were cold and draughty places at the best of times, and he’d been eager to find a comfortable compartment for Uncle William. When the journey ended at Bath a driver would be there to meet his uncle and take him to the house, with a hot meal waiting on his arrival.
He reflected on his uncle’s condition as he drove back across London to the East End. All in all Uncle William had recovered well. But the hospital tests had been prolonged and tiring. However, with the new regime of tablets Dr Wolf had prescribed, the outcome was looking better.
Harry frowned into the dark, rather sombre face regarding him from the mirror. He regretted the awkward situation that had arisen between him and Tilly. She greatly disturbed him, in a way no other woman had ever done before. When he looked into her beautiful eyes a warmth filled his chest and his heart raced. There was something about her that deeply attracted him, and yet he could tell she was suspicious of him. He had tried hard to allay her fears, but he found himself at a loss, daunted by her grace and strength of character. He knew why his uncle cherished her, and somehow he had to break his news gently—though neither he nor his uncle had been able to come to a decision about the future. But in all fairness Tilly had to be acquainted with the situation. There was her accommodation to consider, not to mention the children’s!
And what of those three young souls? Harry wondered, a little perplexed. Uncle William had explained Tilly’s background in more detail. An orphan herself, she had had a very hard life. It was no wonder she was sympathetic to the children’s’ plight. But the fact remained that something must be done about them. He wanted to help her with the problem, but had to tread lightly. He sensed she was a proud and independent young woman. What could he do to reassure her of his sincerity?
As he trod lightly down the stairs, a smile touched Harry’s lips. If Sir Joshua were to see him now, would he still approve of his potential son-in-law? For last night, a world away from the poverty-ridden streets of the East End, he had spent at the Ritz. Whilst dining in the company of Rosalind and her family he had been offered a proposition by Sir Joshua, who had just bought at auction certain properties. Amongst them was a handsome country house. Sir Joshua had hinted that it could be converted to be part surgery—both a home and a lucrative medical practice. An idea that had merit, Harry acknowledged, if he were to marry Rosalind.
But did he love her? He liked her well enough. She was amusing and good company, and their families were on good terms, having known one another from before the war, when his own late father had been the Darraways’ private physician.
Life had been good then, with a bright future. But the war had changed all that. At least for him. He’d seen bloodshed on the battlefield in France, watched men die and, worse, seen them torn apart before they died. As a young and inexperienced trainee doctor he’d volunteered to go to the Front. Somehow he had survived those nightmare days in the French trenches. But he could never forget them. For eight long years after the end of the conflict he had chosen to travel and work around the world, trying to rid his mind of the images of war.
Now he was thirty-two. But the ghosts were still there…
Harry looked down at his hands. Sometimes, after the fighting, the tremors had been so acute he had administered morphine to himself in small quantities. He’d known a little peace for a while…but not for long.
Now he took life neat. Work was his liberation. But how long must he continue to roam in order to forget? Was it possible that he could settle down to life in the country with Rosalind as his wife? Become a family physician like his father before him?
Harry found himself downstairs, staring at the front door. He pulled back his shoulders and blinked his eyes. Taking a deep breath, he opened it and the chill breeze blew in.
He adjusted his hat and stepped out.
It was time for his appointment with Tilly. And he was immensely looking forward to it.
They took the Westferry Road to Totnes Cottages, a row of tumbledown dwellings, one of which was home to Charlie Atkins. The doctor stood still on the cobbles as he studied the impoverished conditions. Above the roofs of the cottages a forest of masts rose into the sky. The children on the other side could be heard playing in the mud and clambering over the moored barges.
‘The river is so close that it’s no wonder the cottages are flooded,’ Tilly said. ‘Some of the residents go away whilst their homes dry out. But Mr Atkins has no relatives.’
‘A deplorable situation,’ the doctor said quietly. ‘And a very unhealthy one—especially as there seem to be plenty of those.’ He nodded to the scurrying balls of fur that darted between the tin sheds.
‘Everyone’s used to rats.’ Tilly shrugged. ‘When there’s too many to kill the rat man comes with his dog. Then the water soon brings them back again. You can even see them jumping from the tall ships to the roofs as the vessels come right up to the walls and hang their bowsprits over the houses. Nevertheless the figureheads are so beautiful, and the sails whistle in the breeze like an orchestra. It’s a wonderful sight.’
He frowned down at her. ‘So the river can be forgiven for her cruelty?’
‘You won’t find many that complain.’ Tilly smiled. ‘Even people like Charlie Atkins. He’s happy enough with what Dr Tapper gives him, and life just goes on as it always has.’
They strolled on through streets of smoke-blackened houses, past tall factory chimneys and railway sidings that bordered concrete backyards and lines of washing, all encircled by the river and the traffic of the busy port. They paused at the dock walls and the big iron gates of the dock authority, where Tilly indicated ‘the stones’—the place where the men lined up to be selected for dock work if they were lucky.
‘Is there no secure employment?’ the doctor asked.
‘The strikes and unemployment have made competition fierce even for even the smallest job,’ Tilly explained. ‘The most desperate of the men, those who have so many mouths to feed they will do any work, will volunteer for the skin boat, where the cargo is often contaminated with Anthrax.’
He looked shocked. ‘You mean the port authorities allow a diseased cargo to land?’
Tilly shrugged. ‘The holds have to be cleared and the infected skins burnt. But by then it’s too late for the men who moved them.’
They walked on to pass the two attic rooms that were shelter to Noah Symes and his grandmother, and the noisy, cramped terraced house in which the Mounts lived.
As the sun began to set Tilly was thankful for her warm scarf and gloves—quite old now, a gift from her previous employer, Lady Felicity Hailing. She had worn her best coat too—a smooth fawn camel that, many years ago, had been a donation from the Ladies of Charity. James had told her that she looked like a little deer when she wore it. The expensive weave was smooth and soft. This memory brought back her husband’s face—not handsome, but regular and dependable. A small man in stature but big in heart, often dressed in his smart chauffeur’s uniform, pale grey, with a flat cap and highly polished boots. She had been very proud of him. Why had he been taken from her so soon?
‘Are you cold, Tilly?’