He eyed me from his prone position, head tilted, hair greasy against his pillow. He’d been perspiring but now I noted him trembling slightly, although he was working hard to hide the shiver of a breaking fever.
‘I earned it. I usually do.’
‘So this happens regularly?’
‘Not with quite such deadeye aim. Did you have brothers to teach you that hook?’
I laughed aloud now, helplessly amused. ‘No,’ I gusted. ‘Just me and my pet rabbit, Horace.’
‘A boxing rabbit? Perfect,’ he said, slipping away from me, words slurring. I wanted to brush back the tuft of golden hair that fell forward as his head turned.
The soft tap at the door arrested any further notion of that. ‘Come in,’ I said, stepping back from the bed. The bearer tiptoed in. ‘Thank you, just lay it out there and I’ll pour.’
He was gone as quickly as he’d arrived. It was just the two of us again, with a choir of cicadas selling their suitability to females with their shrill mating call. I recall seeing a range of these winged insects in the British museum, some so brightly coloured they were as beautiful as any butterfly, but my mother taught me that the brightest of all was said to impersonate a toxic moth to dissuade predators.
It occurred to me in that odd moment of memory to wonder whether Vickery’s toxic behaviour was contrived to ward off interest from predators . . . women in need of company. Was that because he was married? Was his wife the jealous kind? Perhaps she wasn’t if she permitted him to live alone so far away? Or maybe she disliked him – that wasn’t hard to counter – and yet I suspected it was none of this. Nor was it about permission, I admonished privately . . . it was about trust. In the same way that Jove trusted me to be away from him, Saxon’s wife likely trusted her husband not to let her down while absent. I wanted to think the best of her as I watched her husband fighting fever so far away from her.
Maybe he sensed the burden of my gaze upon him because he stirred, turning his head back towards me, knowing eyes glinting, still a bit glasslike behind heavy lids. ‘I’m feeling observed,’ he confirmed.
‘I don’t deny it. Doctors observe, that’s our job.’
‘I see. Will you be observing me all night?’
‘No.’ I smiled. ‘But I do want you to drink some of this tea, please. It will help to keep you hydrated and I always think tea is a great perker, isn’t it?’
‘Perker? Is that a word?’
I had to laugh. ‘I’m sure you catch my drift.’
‘All right. I shall drink some tea to perk myself.’
I was at his side quickly, helping to lift him. I was going to rearrange the pillows but it was faster and more expedient for me to sit behind him and let him lean against me. ‘Do you mind?’ I asked, concerned.
‘Not at all. Who minds resting a weary head against a beautiful woman dressed in pink chiffon?’
‘I’m impressed you know the fabric.’
‘Oh, I know lots of womany things,’ he confirmed.
‘Womany? Is that a word?’ I wondered, reaching for the china cup.
I felt his body bump against mine as his shoulders moved slightly in amusement. I would be lying if I denied this didn’t feel curiously pleasant. I wouldn’t call it erotic because this was a man who was ill but I could feel the feverish warmth of his skin through my flimsy dress, which he was crushing, and I could smell that skin. The vaguely acid tang of perspiration was blended against a spicy soap residue. It smelled manly – like walking into a barber’s shop.
‘Strange, walking dictionaries, us two,’ he joked and I could tell he would be fine with some rest.
‘I swear you have the fragrance of coconut about you.’
‘You would be right. I have my soap made locally from coconut flesh. It’s cooling, softening, and above all prevents prickly heat. Far better than gentian violet, don’t you agree?’
I did. ‘It smells spicily sweet, rather lovely, actually,’ I admitted and cleared my throat. ‘Here, drink it all. It’s weak deliberately.’
‘It’s also Assam. I prefer Darjeeling.’
‘You can tell the difference?’
‘In a heartbeat,’ he said, sipping obediently like a child. I held my hand beneath the cup to stop him dropping it, as I feared he was not paying enough attention to it. This meant that he was now essentially lying back in an embrace of sorts. I was glad that he didn’t mention it and I certainly wasn’t going to, so I pushed on with the discussion about tea to distract both of us.
‘How?’
‘Level of oxidisation,’ he said in a tone as though it should be obvious to all. ‘Assam is darker, more robust in flavour. Now, Darjeeling black tea . . . well, where to begin? It’s fruity floral and of course the season in which it’s picked is vital to the taste. If you want me to drink a weaker tea, then I’d recommend a first flush Darjeeling.’
I blinked with consternation, not that he could see this.
‘Spring harvest,’ he qualified for me.
‘Is my patient a connoisseur of teas?’
He turned and for one terrible moment I thought he was going to kiss me. ‘Does that surprise you?’
I nodded. ‘A little. I prefer this feverish version of Professor Saxon Vickery than the entirely healthy one, to be honest.’
He turned away with a ghost of a smile curling briefly and drained the cup. Time to go. I replaced the cup in its saucer and eased myself out from beneath him, laying his head back on the pillow. I could feel a damp warmth from where our bodies touched, separated only by the thinnest of sheaths of pink fabric that now looked crumpled.
He noticed. ‘I’m sorry to have crushed you like that.’
I lifted a hand as though it hadn’t crossed my mind as I busied myself straightening the tea paraphernalia.
‘I’m grateful to you, Isla, but I fear I’ve made an enemy for you of Miles.’
‘Oh, I doubt it.’
‘He’s in love with you, that’s his problem. Infatuation makes him unreasonable.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ I snorted, although I knew what he said was likely right. ‘Anyway, I haven’t encouraged him.’
‘No, but that doesn’t make it any easier for him to bear. If I were you, I’d set him straight.’
‘But you are not me, Saxon.’ I smiled again and answered him properly. ‘Be assured that if Miles is in any doubt then his confusion him that I am betrothed to be married this November and I have no desire to compromise myself or disrupt those plans.’
He cut me a look that was deeper than made me comfortable. Although this time I was ready for him and it felt like an invisible tug of war, except we weren’t pulling, we were pushing back . . . and it wasn’t physical, it was all mental. I blinked first, I suppose, because I straightened but it didn’t feel like I’d lost the challenge. He was smiling at me, however, as though we both knew something emotional had just occurred: an awakening of sorts. I needed to put genuine distance between us.
‘So, I don’t expect to see you at the hospital tomorrow. I’m going to order regular pots of tea to be brought up – Darjeeling, if you insist, first flower and all that —’
‘First flush,’ he corrected, sounding drowsy.
‘I want you to drink and stay hydrated. Then drink the broth that I’ll also order; solids by tomorrow evening. And I will be checking on you via spies – be assured of it. If you flout my arrangements, I will not go and visit your patients in your absence.’
Ah, now I had his attention fully on me. His head whipped back, his eyes snapped open. ‘You will?’ He sounded plaintive.
How could I resist it? ‘Of course, because I know if I don’t, you’ll somehow drag your bony self in and just make it worse. Saxon, you have fever, which we’ll discuss tomorrow. It needs to break. Until it does, you’re a liability to everyone. What’s more, you’re no good to your patients if you genuinely collapse and are ill for days on end. If you trust me, this will pass quickly and you’ll be back in your ward by the day af
ter next. I’m guessing it’s latent TB?’ The question hung for a moment.
He nodded. ‘I’d prefer not to share that. And I’ll follow doctor’s orders,’ he promised.
‘I’ll . . . er . . . do you want me to call in tomorrow evening?’
My hesitation amused him. ‘Only if you have nothing better to do.’
I felt my lips flatten in irritation. Now it was left to me to decide whether to look in on him. Somehow in my slightly rattled state I felt as though it would be a capitulation if I did . . . as though I’d become like one of the other women around the hospital who were so entranced by Vickery.
‘We’ll see,’ I said, without commitment. ‘Sleep soundly.’
He sighed, settling deeper into the bed, pulling the sheet up over his naked shoulders. ‘Goodnight, fair Isla.’
I left quietly, tiptoeing down the parquet floors of the corridor of the first level to avoid my heels clacking. I passed a row of past presidents and the portraits continued to watch me as I finally made it to the carpeted stairs and all the way down to the lobby and into the reception area. I didn’t expect to see Miles, nor was he waiting for me, which was a relief. I didn’t feel like any further confrontation.
The uniformed man was waiting for me, though. I discovered his name to be Mr Johar.
‘How is the Professor, Dr Fenwick?’
‘Sleeping.’ I smiled and discussed the refreshed pots of tea on the hour. ‘A meaty but clear broth when he stirs fully, probably around mid-morning tomorrow is ideal . . . as much as he can take. Black tea all day – make that Darjeeling, please – and some solids tomorrow evening: something simple. Steamed fish, perhaps.’
‘Very good.’ He nodded. ‘I shall see to this personally.’
‘Thank you. I’ll . . . er, I’ll look in on him tomorrow night to see how he’s doing.’
So there it was – I’d committed to returning without even giving myself a night to think it over. I convinced myself on the way home that this was purely in my professional capacity, but a tiny voice, echoing from an empty space somewhere deep, was warning me otherwise.
12
I arrived at Saxon’s ward, anticipating an hour or two at most of checking on each patient’s status and briefing his team. I hadn’t imagined I’d look up at the clock and realise it was already dusk and that I’d been walking in his footsteps for ten hours. He’d gathered a good nursing team around him; to be honest, I’d barely noticed them but only because they were so well trained and took their instructions quickly and adroitly. They moved around me quietly, fulfilling every request so I could shift to the next patient as quickly as possible. And still we were immersed for hours on end. I could see the remains of an afternoon tea on his desk where I’d consulted paperwork and I do dimly remember nibbling on food around midday but only because I was pressed to do so by Matron, who’d called in. She hadn’t seemed surprised to see me; in fact, she’d looked close to smug, as though she always knew it was just a matter of time before she saw me in this part of the hospital. Or perhaps that it was inevitable in the professor’s absence that I would cover him.
It didn’t matter. What did count was the feeling I was experiencing at being on this ward. Maternity was fun but here lived true reward for the clinician in me because these patients presented enormous challenge. I suspected only Saxon might understand if I explained that it was the tension of ever-present death that nourished my excitement. The anxiety of knowing time was never on our side with these sick folk drove me, so that I did not notice time passing or people talking to me, or did not think to pause and take on some fuel of food without being coerced. I was not tired, not even a little. If anything, I felt energised, as though I had boundless stamina, didn’t need sleep, with a sense that I could be in several places at once, giving instructions.
The range of illness was profound and it was inevitable, I suppose, that I drifted unhappily but fully conscious now towards the isolation ward where TB sufferers dwelled. They would be my last patients of this gruelling yet exciting day. What I discovered would likely stay with me for the rest of my life and it was perhaps as I lifted the notes of Saxon’s scribble on the first patient that I knew I was not only breaking my promise to my father and to Jove, but that I was doing so with relish and with a sense of arrival. I was finally where I wanted to be. The spangles of excitement to be walking a similar path to my mother’s in her beloved India felt charged with high emotion but also a sense of rightness, as though I couldn’t escape my destiny.
I looked up from the notes into the desperately disfigured face of a woman who might have been only a few years older than me. She was suffering from tuberculosis of the skin. Saxon had written down ‘lupus’. In the cot next to her was a child, perhaps no more than twelve, suffering one of the most common incarnations of the disease. The old nickname for it was ‘King’s Evil’ and it affected the lymphatic glands in the necks of young people. This girl was still in the ulceration stage and her neck was a mess of wet sores, with yellow curdy pus escaping the wounds. That poisonous material would be filling her glands, I knew; so did Vickery. He had planned – I could see from his notes – to operate on her today. The TB would heal with our treatment but I knew she would be left horribly scarred. I told the nurses to prepare this girl for surgery in the morning.
‘She must fast from now. Nothing solid, only water.’
‘Will Professor Vickery be returned, Doctor?’
‘I can’t answer that but this patient needs immediate treatment as per his plans. Each day matters with this disease. Whether he is well enough to attend or not, I will do the operation.’
She nodded, made a note on the page, and I had no doubt that my stern look forbade her from questioning me further.
Hobbling nearby was a hunchbacked man who led me into the ward of men. Apart from his misshapen body, I thought he looked hale. I learned from the nursing team that he helped out in the ward, having suffered the disease that attacked his bones as a child. His deformity meant he couldn’t earn his keep, but rather than beg he preferred to help in the ward in exchange for food and being able to curl up and sleep in one of the corridors. Apparently Vickery permitted it. A man coughed, desperately gagging for air. Reading his notes, I learned this patient had been in a feverish state for nearly two years. At one time he’d had his own shop, been in a reasonable financial state, but had beggared himself in pursuit of a remedy that had not been found. He was too weak to work – too frail in this moment to do much more than lie down. He was so skeletal his skin looked as if it had been sprayed onto his frame in the thinnest of layers.
All the male patients in this ward had a similar appearance that marked the disease: sunken cheeks, deep hollows above the collarbones – especially those with consumption – and scraggy hair. One man knelt in a corner, too beleaguered to move.
‘Why is this fellow here?’
‘He is too sickly to be anywhere else.’
‘Is he receiving treatment?’ I frowned. I couldn’t imagine a patient left in such a state.
‘He is in final stages.’ She didn’t whisper this.
I could feel the sharp pain as I bit my lip. ‘What about his family?’
The nurse shrugged. It wasn’t meant unkindly or carelessly, I didn’t believe. She was a realist, I decided, who’d seen her fair share of death from this disease and talked matter-of-factly. ‘He is a burden; they cannot nurse him. He received treatment here but did not improve. We needed the bed and his family wouldn’t have him home for fear of infecting others. He had nowhere to go. Matron thinks he’s been sent home to die but Professor Vickery has asked us all to keep it secret and let him see out his days here. It won’t be long.’
In that moment I could have admitted to feeling overwhelmed with a fleeting sense of wanting to run away. But I couldn’t show any of that despair in my expression. Too many gazes were resting on me, waiting for instructions, waiting for answers. I thought of my mother and wondered how she got through each day; I cou
ldn’t imagine how Saxon faced this daily, for I’d already learned that for every patient he treated, there were another dozen or more awaiting a bed or medical help of some sort. Hospital stays for full-blown TB were usually lengthy anyway, often months of treatment with no promise of cure, or even respite.
‘No other doctors here . . . ever?’
The senior nurse looked down. ‘The professor prefers to work alone.’
She was loyal, I’ll give her that, but it was obvious what she wasn’t saying is that no one could work with him.
‘Right. Well, the first change around here is that from tonight I want everyone wearing a mask. Fashion them as best you can. All this coughing means sputum, and in that sputum are the minute tubercle bacilli that cause this disease.’
She blinked back at me, calm but clearly not grasping what I was saying.
I sighed, mimicking covering my mouth and nose with my hand. ‘Masks on every single person who enters this ward, whether it’s family visiting a patient, whether it’s Matron, whether it’s any of the nursing staff. No one – I repeat, no one – on this ward for any reason without a mask on.’
‘Yes, doctor, but Prof—’
‘Nancy, isn’t it?’
She nodded.
‘Well, Nancy, the professor is not here. And I don’t see any other doctor except me, so that puts me in charge of these wards for now and everyone on the nursing team will just have to do as I instruct. This is how we’re treating wards in Britain at the moment and it makes a whole lot of difference.’
She lowered her gaze. ‘Yes, Dr Fenwick.’
‘Thank you. Right, lead on and make sure that man is as comfortable as we can make him. Pillows and a sheet, please. I can tell even from here that he doesn’t have days. He may only make it through one more night, so ensure it’s one that ends with a smile and a kind word.’
_________
I had thought twice about returning to the Calcutta Club. Fatigue had me in its grip and it was nearing ten at night, hardly an appropriate time to be paying a visit to a gentleman’s room. Furthermore, all I could think of was a bath and bed. Food held no interest for me but I knew if I wasn’t careful, I would go the same way as Saxon. I needed to stay well fuelled and so that too was nagging at the back of my mind.
The Tea Gardens Page 17