No Wings to Fly

by Jess Foley

  The phial was shattered into several pieces, its contents making a tiny wet stain on the floor. The doctor frowned, shaking his head. ‘Well, there’s no saving it now,’ he said. There was an unmistakable note of anger in his voice at her clumsiness. ‘It’s done for, and I shan’t be able to get any more until tomorrow at the very earliest.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Lily said. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Yes, well – it’s done now. We’d better get something to clear it up.’

  She got a piece of newspaper and an old cloth. Carefully she picked up the fragments of glass, put them in the newspaper and then wiped up the residue of the mess. The doctor watched her for a moment and then put his things back in his bag.

  ‘I’ll try to get some more vaccine and bring it tomorrow,’ he said. He shook his head. ‘It’s a great shame that that’s happened. Every hour is important in a situation like this.’ He turned from her and looked back at the boy. ‘I’ll call to see him again this evening.’

  Millie came round later on, asking if there were any errands to be run, and also bringing good wishes from her grandmother. The old lady would come round in person, she said, but she was afraid to. Millie had no such fears.

  Later, when the girl had gone, Lily sat alone watching over the boy. Pulling his nightshirt up around his upper chest she sponged his small form with a soft flannel wrung out in tepid water. He watched her through half-closed eyes, suffering her ministrations without a word. His limbs as she lifted them were like those of a rag doll, without life. In the late afternoon light she knelt on the mat before the sofa looking down at his exposed little body. The rash now was everywhere. With tender fingers she touched some of the lesions on his thigh. They felt soft and velvety, and they were growing larger all the time. On the inside of his nightshirt, beneath his buttocks, she saw a stain, and realised that it was blood. He had bled from the rectum. Her eyes started from their sockets as she gasped out in horror, the tears springing up and coursing down her cheeks. What have I done? What have I done? She lowered his shirt to cover up the dreadful sight, then pulled the blanket back over him. Softly, lightly, she touched at his cheek where the dark lesions were creeping up inexorably from his jaw. The little crescent moon by his ear had been swallowed up, but they had not yet reached his eyes, those blue eyes, now dull, that seemed to watch her every movement through their dark and heavy lids. She leant down and kissed his cheek, kissed the lesions there, feeling their softness beneath her mouth. You must try to avoid direct contact with him, the doctor had said. Try to avoid breathing in his breath. She could hear the man’s words like some distant echo as she kissed the boy again, her parted lips lingering on the lesions, the monstrous disfigurements of his perfection. Her slightly open mouth moved onto his own lips, and she kissed them too and drew in his warm, foul breath.

  He became delirious within the hour, thrashing his arms and legs, and groaning and gasping and crying out, his eyes wide and full of fear. Lily, her well of tears having run dry, tried to comfort him and bring him ease. She got him to take a little more of the opium in water, and it calmed him after a while and he fell again into a stupor. The lesions on his throat and face had continued to grow, and, like those on his torso and legs, had now joined together, making one blackened mass beneath the skin.

  Late into the evening, in the light of a single candle, she knelt on the hard floor beside the sofa, watching every twitch, every tremor of his face and body, listening to every nuance of every harsh breath.

  He died just before seven o’clock.

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Lily sat in the old grandfather chair. She had not moved in a long time. Her head was aching, her tear-swollen eyes were sore, and tiredness drenched her body. She had poured water into a glass, and she sipped at it, trying to quench her thirst. Looking at her watch, she saw that it was close on four o’clock. Just before noon two men had come, driving a mortuary wagon, to take Joshua’s body away. It would not go to the old town mortuary, they had told her, but to the special, temporary one that had been opened in the district of Hillcot on the outskirts of the city. Everything had been arranged by Dr Trinshaw, who had arrived at the house less than an hour after the child’s death.

  He had not been surprised, of course, to find that the child’s life had ended. He had been expecting it, the inevitable. After making a cursory examination of the body, he had covered the boy’s face. Then, sitting down at the table, he had said to Lily, ‘The child’s parents will want to see me when they come, I have no doubt. Give them my card, will you?’

  ‘Yes, sir – of course.’

  After placing his calling card on the table he had glanced back at the covered body and said, ‘Those blankets will have to be burnt, of course, and anything else he used. Toys, everything.’ He had closed his bag then and got up from the table. ‘I’ll be back later on with your vaccine, if I can get it.’ Frowning a little, he studied her. ‘Have you eaten today?’

  ‘Yes,’ she had said, the lie coming easily.

  ‘Good.’ Then, having taken in her dull, red-rimmed eyes: ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘All right, sir. Thank you, yes. I’m fine.’

  ‘No headache, no ache in your back? No nausea?’

  ‘No, really, I’m fine, thank you.’

  ‘Good. You’ve got to look after yourself.’

  Millie had come in soon after his departure, and hearing of Joshua’s death had wept. She had stood before the sofa looking down at the little shape covered by the blankets, the tears running down her face. She had not lingered long.

  When the men came to take the child, Lily had turned her head away, not wanting to see them touch him. But even that had not been enough, and she had gone out into the yard. Without a coat in the cold, bitter wind she had stood hunched up in the lee of the old garden shed. Her head was pounding now, her brain seeming to throb against the inside of her skull. Eventually she had taken her courage and gone back indoors. The men’s errand had taken little time, and they had long since left. The little blanket-covered form was gone from the sofa. The blankets themselves had gone, too, and so had Bunny and Mr Charlie Dobbin.

  Now, still sitting in the chair, she became vaguely aware of the coldness of the room. It did not matter.

  When the knock came she started slightly, then rose and went to answer it. Opening the front door she found Mr and Mrs Soameson standing on the threshold, their faces looking grave and gaunt, their mouths pinched with desperation. The cab that had brought them was still in the street, the driver standing beside the horse. She had known that they would come, must come, but the sight of them brought her heart pounding.

  ‘Oh – sir – ma’am . . .’ She stepped back a pace.

  ‘We came at once,’ Mr Soameson said, taking off his hat. ‘As soon as we got your telegraph. We travelled all night.’

  ‘How is he?’ Mrs Soameson said breathlessly. ‘How is my boy?’

  Lily did not answer. She could not, but stood dumbly, one hand up to her throat.

  Followed by her husband, Mrs Soameson came into the narrow, dimly-lit passage. Her eyes were fixed on Lily’s face, searching, reading there what she could. Mr Soameson did the same, and they saw in an instant that all reason for hope had gone.

  Mrs Soameson gave a moaning little cry and sagged, leaning against the wall. ‘We’re too late,’ she cried out. Then to Lily: ‘Don’t tell me – oh, don’t tell me we’re too late.’

  Lily, searching for words, said nothing, and her silence only confirmed their dread.

  While the carriage waited in the street, the three sat in the cold kitchen, neither of the two visitors having taken off their coats. After telling them that the boy’s body had been taken to the temporary mortuary at Hillcot, Lily told of how he had fallen ill, and of the rapid onset of his sickness. She spoke of Dr Trinshaw’s visits and of how he had ministered to the child, but had been able to do nothing to save him. Of the child’s suffering at the end she said nothing, choosing to let them be
lieve that he had slipped quietly and painlessly away. Mrs Soameson wept throughout, leaning forward, twisting her wet handkerchief in her fingers, while Mr Soameson sat with a grim expression, his mouth set in a tight line, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. At one point Mrs Soameson straightened a little and protested pathetically, her voice breaking, ‘But he was vaccinated! Everyone was vaccinated. We had to be.’

  Lily said, avoiding their eyes, ‘It was my fault. I brought him away. I should not have done.’

  Mrs Soameson responded quickly, her words bursting out on a little sob, ‘No! No, you should not have!’ and then leant forward again, her hands to her face.

  Frowning, her husband touched her on the shoulder, and said softly, a little hoarsely, clearly struggling for control, ‘Oh, Edith . . . Edith, dear . . .’ Then to Lily he said, ‘No, Miss Clair, you should not have done. But – but you were not to know. And I do believe that what you did was with the best intentions – trying to give him a little pleasure.’

  At his words, Lily wanted to say, But I did it for me. I wanted him with me. But she kept silent.

  Moments passed with only the sound of Mrs Soameson’s quiet weeping, and then Mr Soameson opened his coat and took out his watch. After consulting it, he slipped it back into his waistcoat pocket, turned to his wife and said gently, ‘My dear, we must go to Hillcot. We can see him there. If we go now we’ll get there before dark.’ He rose from his seat and put on his hat. ‘We must see the doctor as well.’

  ‘He’s expecting to hear from you, sir,’ Lily said.

  She passed him the doctor’s card, and he glanced at it and put it in his pocket. ‘He’ll need to be paid,’ he said. ‘Has he been paid any of his fee?’

  ‘Very little of it, sir.’

  ‘I’ll settle with him.’ He turned back to his wife. ‘Come, Edith.’

  Mrs Soameson rose from the hard wooden chair, her eyes red and swollen, her mouth contorted with grief. Her shoulders hunched, she followed her husband into the passage. When they reached the front door, she spoke no word to Lily but went straight out to the carriage. Mr Soameson, standing on the threshold, turned to Lily and said:

  ‘Well, Miss Clair – I doubt that we shall meet again.’ His face was grim, his mouth a thin, tight line.

  She did not speak.

  He shook his head, then suddenly the remnants of his fragile composure failed and his chin quivered and tears welled in his eyes. Stifling a sob, he lowered his head, eyes on the ground between them. He remained like this for several seconds, then, raising his head again, some of his control regained, he said, ‘You’ll be leaving here now, will you? Going back to Sherrell, I daresay.’

  ‘I expect I shall, sir.’ She had given the matter no thought.

  He nodded. ‘Just in case I need to get in touch – about things.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  He nodded again. ‘And how are you feeling? Do you feel all right?’

  ‘Yes, sir – thank you.’

  ‘Good.’ He touched at his hat and without another word turned and made his way out into the street. There he climbed into the cab beside his wife. Lily, standing at the open door, watched as the vehicle rattled away.

  Dr Trinshaw came back to the house just before six.

  ‘It’s mighty cold in here,’ he said as he preceded Lily into the kitchen, its sparse interior illuminated now by an oil lamp and a single candle. ‘You haven’t got any heating,’ he added. ‘Have you no coal?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I just forgot to light the stove. I’ll do it in a minute.’

  ‘I hope you’re looking after yourself,’ he said. ‘I told you, you can’t afford to take chances. You’re in a vulnerable state. You don’t look that bright to me.’

  ‘I’m fine, really.’

  He turned and took in the bare sofa. ‘When did they come,’ he asked, ‘the men from the mortuary?’

  ‘Just before twelve.’ Her voice was dull, flat.

  ‘Have you heard anything from the child’s parents?’

  ‘They came here – just after four o’clock. They went off to the mortuary.’

  He gave a sorrowful sigh, and set down his bag and hat on the table. ‘I’ve got your vaccine,’ he said, ‘and perhaps this time it won’t get wasted. Better let me have your arm . . .’

  While he washed his hands, Lily opened her dress and dragged it down off her left shoulder. The doctor dried his hands then took from his bag a slim glass phial and the container holding the scalpel. As he did his work she stood waiting by the chair. The ache in her head had become all-enveloping, and she was also aware now of a dull ache that had taken hold in the small of her back.

  ‘Sit down,’ the doctor said, stepping to her side. She perched on one of the hard chairs, and he bent to her. ‘This’ll be just a little scratch.’ He stretched the soft skin of her upper arm between his finger and thumb and scratched into the flesh with the point of the blade. A little blood appeared and he wiped it away with a bit of cotton wool. ‘Now . . .’ He took up the glass phial and shook it, and Lily felt the cool touch of the glass against her skin. Glancing down she saw the pus-like liquid come out of the phial’s opening. Firmly, the doctor rubbed the vaccine into the wound. ‘There you are – all done. Though it should have been done days ago.’ He produced a bandage then, and wrapped it around to cover the little wound. ‘You might want to wear an armband for a while,’ he said, ‘till the scab heals and the painful swelling goes down. A lot of people do, for if somebody knocks into you, you’ll know it.’ He patted her shoulder. ‘You can cover up now.’

  While the doctor put his things away, Lily pulled her dress back in place and began to secure the buttons of her bodice. As she finished, he put his hand on her brow. ‘My dear young woman,’ he said, frowning, ‘you’re on fire.’

  Even as she asserted that she was feeling well, he was reaching for his thermometer. Moments later it was in her mouth. Then his watch was out of his waistcoat pocket and he was feeling for the pulse in her wrist.

  As he put the thermometer away he said, ‘Your temperature is high and your pulse is rapid. Have you been eating? When did you last eat anything?’

  ‘Not long ago,’ she lied, then added, ‘I don’t get that hungry.’

  He gave a little snort. ‘All living things need food.’ He looked at her for a few moments in silence, then drew up a chair. ‘I hope you’re not taking this too hard,’ he said. ‘How long had you been with the boy?’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘You’re employed by the boy’s family, you said. How long had you been with him?’

  ‘Two months.’

  ‘Two months. Well, that’s not so very long – though one can get attached to children in a very short time. As I said, they can wind their way into your heart. And a dear little fellow like that . . .’ He leant forward and briefly touched the back of her hand. ‘This will pass, believe me. You mustn’t let it – hold too great a sway.’

  She was silent for a moment, then she said, ‘I took him to the aquarium.’

  He frowned, as if a little puzzled, then gave a nod. ‘What are you going to do now?’ he asked.

  She did not know what to say. It came to her that now that the child’s body had been taken away, and Mr and Mrs Soameson had been to the house, there was no longer any reason for her to remain.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said.

  He picked up his hat. ‘Well,’ he said, a little gruffly, ‘I’ll come back tomorrow at some time. I want to see how you’re getting on.’

  ‘Oh, sir,’ she said quickly, ‘it won’t be necessary, truly.’

  ‘What d’you mean, it won’t be necessary?’

  ‘I – I shall be all right. Really. Besides, I haven’t the money to –’

  He broke in, cutting off her words: ‘I’m not concerned only with money.’ His voice was sharp with disapproval. ‘I’m not in this to make my fortune.’ He put on his hat and reached for his bag. ‘As I said, I’ll come back tomorrow. And I
hope, when I do, that I find this place a bit warmer – and that you’ve had something to eat.’

  After he had let himself out, she continued to sit there.

  Millie came in later. It was so cold in the kitchen, she remarked. She looked at the sofa in silence for a moment, but said nothing of it. She had brought some food in a basin. It was still hot. She set it down on the table. ‘Look, miss, I brought you a little lamb stew. There’s not much meat, but the vegetables are nice, and it’ll be good for you. Grandma said I was to see that you ate it. While you do, I’ll light a bit of fire. Get the place warmed up a bit.’

  She set out a plate and a fork and spoon, and stood for a moment as if waiting for Lily to begin eating. Then she turned away and busied herself at the range, raking out the ashes and setting paper and kindling. She soon had a fire going. When she gave her attention back to Lily a little while later, she saw that the basin of food was still untouched.

  Millie left the house not long afterwards, and Lily sat alone. The kitchen was growing warmer now. She looked at the watch. It was after eight. Soon she would go to bed. There was nothing to sit up for. The ache in her head was stronger now, as was the ache in the small of her back, and she felt a fatigue that seemed to drain her body of all vitality. A wind had sprung up again, rattling the window and sighing around the walls. She was lulled by it, and when the knock came at the front door she was startled, and sat up in the chair. It could not be Millie, not at this time, and she could think of no one else who might be likely to call.

  The knock came again. She waited a moment longer, and then, taking up the candle, rose from the chair and went into the passage. At the door she stopped, one hand on the doorknob. ‘Who is it?’ she said, her mouth close to the wood.

  ‘Lily? Lily, is that you?’ She could hear the voice clearly. ‘It’s Joel.’

  She stood stock still, her breath held.

  His voice came again. ‘Lily? Are you there? It’s Joel.’ She pulled back the bolt and opened the door onto the night. Joel was standing on the step. Beyond him, in the street, stood a horse and carriage.