He had opened the door and the dog had bounded out, but before he could follow Fred, Sarah checked him with, ‘’Tisn’t fair takin’ that poor animal out in the cold; he’ll freeze up in that trap.’
He looked at her over his shoulder and said flatly, ‘Well, I’m not leaving him here to be ruined. I think I’ll do as the doctor’—he jerked his head now back towards the hall—‘said should be done, stick him in a box in the yard.’
Now she was bobbing her head at him. ‘Aye, aye; I can see you doin’ that, doctor; that’s after you’ve sneaked him up to your room. Daisy said your quilt was nowt but footmarks yesterday.’
‘Did she now?’
‘Aye, she did now.’
They grinned at each other, and he was laughing to himself as he went into the yard. He liked Sarah and the two young ones, but particularly Sarah. She put him in mind of his mother, although his mother would certainly not have been pleased to know that she was classed on the same social standing as Doctor Pippin’s cook. Yet what had her own mother before her been? Only one step removed in the servant hierarchy, you could say, a housekeeper. But of course that was never alluded to, for the housekeeper had married her widowed master, and he a solicitor…Funny thing class; and strange too that there should be that in him which always tried to level it. He didn’t know whether it was a genuine feeling of pity for the under-privileged, or just a perverseness that he had acquired early in order to annoy that side of his mother which he hadn’t liked. Yet it was that very side, her pushing, her clinging on to the fringe of class, that had enabled him to be practising as a doctor today, for when his father had walked out leaving her with three children to fend for she could, like many another woman, have given in and let her family be scattered among relatives. But not she. She had used her one talent. Before she died nine years ago she had owned her own thriving hat shop; but he himself had not benefited from it for she had left everything to be shared between his two sisters, thinking no doubt that she had done enough for him already. Or was it in case his wife should reap the benefit from all her hard work? Women were vindictive creatures, every damned one of them.
As he mounted the small trap Peter Watson said, ‘If you take my advice, doctor, you’ll make your trip short and sharp.’ He nodded at him from where he was holding the horse’s head, and Harry, looking up at the sky, said, ‘Yes, perhaps you’re right, it won’t keep off much longer. Up you come…Come on, put a move on, man.’ He now hauled the dog up onto the seat beside him, took up the reins; then bending forward, he spoke to Peter Watson as if he might be overheard, saying, ‘if the doctor has to go out, you go along with him. The roads are slippery, he may need support.’
Peter Watson held his eye knowingly for a moment, then nodded once, saying on a laugh, ‘Aye, aye, he’ll need support.’ If he had added, ‘What! is he full already?’ Harry wouldn’t have been surprised for when Peter had been inside for his orders early this morning the old man had been sipping then. It worried him, for he could see the old fool was killing himself.
‘Get up there!’ The horse trotted smartly out of the yard, along the side street and into the main road. A few minutes later they were crossing the bridge over the river where the waters had risen considerably during the night. Five minutes more and they were well out of the town and bowling along a rough but passable main road. Here the air became ever colder, and the sky lower, and Harry, after peering into the distance without lifting his chin out of the deep collar of his coat, glanced down at Fred and said, ‘It won’t be long now,’ and Fred looked back at him as if to say, ‘You’re right,’ then swivelled his long body around in the seat until his muzzle was pressed against Harry’s thigh. Again Harry looked down at him; then gathering the reins into one hand, he thrust the other through the ribs in the back of the seat and groped to where he knew the extra rug lay; after tugging it through the aperture he spread it over the dog, saying, ‘Don’t you dare leave a hair on it else the old fellow’ll dock your tail up to your ribs.’
Fred wriggled his body into a new position under the comfort of the rug, but kept his muzzle clear of it and pointed upwards so that his glance should be ready to catch any look his master might drop on him.
Fred was eight years old, at least as far as Harry could guess. He had first seen him on the day he buried his wife. It had been a day similar to this one, heavy with the promise of snow in the air. It was as he walked from the graveside that he noticed the dog. It had crossed his path twice; he had almost tripped over it the second time. It was a weird looking animal, definitely a mongrel and half starved. But it was no unusual sight, for there were hundreds of such animals roaming the city streets.
He recalled that someone had guided him into the sole cab and closed the door. There had been no-one to return to the lodgings with him. He was living in Manchester at the time and had been there only a matter of three weeks. It was his second appointment since qualifying eighteen months previously and he was then merely an assistant, with no hope of ever becoming an ‘assistant with a view’, as was his position now.
He had known perfectly well that it was madness to marry so early in his career, but when emotions run high people do mad things. But in his case he hadn’t only saddled himself with his wife—saddled wasn’t the correct word, for Katie, give her her due, had been no burden, not like her fifteen-year-old sister; she it was who had ruined their happiness. Yet to be quite fair, he had asked himself more than once if those first few weeks of bliss would have lasted—even without Angela’s irritating presence—while moving from one temporary post to the other, and scraping and saving the while, in order to have something to fall back on when he should be lucky enough to buy himself a third, or even a half share in some practice, which could only be done by taking a depleted salary over a long number of years.
Yes, that was the question he frequently asked himself. Would her love have stood up to such trials, in addition to her having to contend with his own impatient brusque nature and uneven temper?
It was two days after the funeral when he saw the dog again. It was unmistakable, standing out from all the other mongrels in that it gave evidence, and prominently, of at least three of its forbears. It was on the step outside his lodgings and he had stopped and looked down on it, and it had looked up at him, then turned and followed him. It followed him for the rest of that day, waiting outside houses large and small, and when finally he reached home there it was still at his heels but with its legs looking as if at any moment that they might refuse to support its elongated body for one step further.
Once he had fed it he knew that he had made a mistake. It was back the next day, and the next. On the fourth night he sneaked it into his room. If he hadn’t he knew that he would have found it frozen stiff on the doorstep the following morning. That was the beginning. Whatever rooms he’d had since they had shared.
Over the years he had fallen into the habit of talking to the dog and had made himself believe that it understood every word he said and this seemed to be proved true because never did he give it an order but it obeyed implicitly. ‘Stay!’ he would say when he left the trap for any length of time, and when he returned he would find him sitting in the middle of the driving seat, his nose in line with the horse’s tail. It was a guard position, but ruefully Harry had to admit to himself that that was all it was; it was merely a fake deterrent, for the animal in spite of his size was timid.
‘Well, here we go; hold on to your tail.’ He issued the warning jocularly as he turned the horse from the main road onto the rough track, then added soberly, ‘I wonder how we’ll find the little one this morning…And what will be the mood of her ladyship when we walk in? There’s the making of a dour spinster if ever I saw one.’
When he drew the horse to a halt in the yard he did not immediately alight but looked about him. This was the first time he had seen the place in daylight. It was just as Sarah said, it looked as if it were going to rack and ruin. The house was sturdy enough, being built of stone
. But it was an odd shape, the middle part seeming to have sunk. It looked as if three buildings had steps leading up to long glass windows similar to the main steps leading to the front door. The gable ends were dripping with creepers and ivy. These put him in mind of huge moustaches.
Altogether it was a strange-looking place, which was probably why it had acquired the odd nickname of ‘The Habitation’. To his mind the inhabitants too had acquired some of its oddness. Those three girls! He couldn’t place them in any social category, their isolation had left them classless, neither fish, nor fowl, nor good red meat.
‘Good morning.’ He looked towards the back door where Dilly was standing, and she answered, ‘Good mornin’, doctor.’
He nodded towards the stables, saying now, ‘Is the boy about? I don’t know how long I’m likely to be and so I’d like the horse taken out of the shafts for a while; there’s a bag of feed in the back.’
‘I’ll call him, doctor.’
He now bent slightly to the dog standing by his side and, patting its head, said, ‘Go along with Bessie.’ Then he turned and went into the kitchen.
Putting his bag on the table, he asked, ‘How is she?’
‘In deep pain, doctor. She came to for a bit around dawn and it was in me heart to wish she hadn’t.’
He nodded, then picking up the bag again, he walked out of the kitchen and into the hall. Here he looked about him for a moment thinking, It’s quaint inside an’ all, and damn cold. He took off his outer coat and threw it over a chair, then went towards the study.
When he opened the door there was, he saw, only one of the younger sisters beside the couch. He nodded at her, saying quietly, ‘Good morning.’
Nancy had risen to her feet. She did not return his greeting but said, ‘She keeps waking up and crying, doctor.’ There was the sound of tears in her own voice.
He walked towards the couch and sat down and looked at the small white, pain-seared face; then gently he put his hand under the sheet-covered makeshift cage and his fingers moved over the small bare breast. Her heart was still beating rapidly and feebly. If she took on a fever or pneumonia there would be no hope for her, and perhaps that would be just as well for then there’d be no weeks of agony to face, and at the end a return to lifting dead weight iron kettles. What people expected from their servants! And from a child this size.
He now drew the sheet from off the cage, and then he was staring down at the oil-soaked strips of linen covering the two thin shanks of legs.
So quick did he jerk his head that a crack sounded in his neck. ‘Who did that?’ He was pointing.
As Nancy stared into the face that was now flushed with anger she stammered, ‘Martha Mary. She…she thought it…it might ease the pain.’
‘Where is she?’
Nancy pointed her finger slowly upwards, then stammered, ‘Up…upstairs. She…she went to wash…’
‘Go and get her.’
Damn and blast her, interfering young snipe! He could understand when he was up against a medical opinion as to what was the right treatment for burns, scalds or anything else, but for that stiff-necked young madam to take it upon herself to disobey his order, and his orders last night had been firm and to the effect that the child was not to be touched in any way until he saw her again. If those rags were stuck into the flesh he’d have to give her another whiff of chloroform…And he’d make that one stand by and watch. More than that, he’d make her take those rags off.
When the door opened he did not turn his head towards it but he was aware that she was advancing up the room some way ahead of her sister. Not until she stopped at the bottom of the couch did he turn his head slowly and look at her. He pointed downwards, then said, ‘What orders did I leave with you last night?’
‘You didn’t leave any orders with me.’
‘I stressed emphatically that the child hadn’t to be touched until I saw her today.’ His voice was low but his words were like grit being pressed through his teeth.
‘You did not give me any such order. You may have given it to Dill…the maid, but you did not speak to me about what you wanted done.’
She had been about to say Dilly, as the old one was called, but she had substituted the maid. The upstart!
‘That is mere prevarication; you knew what I wished. Now you’ll have the pleasure of stripping those bandages off and taking more flesh away with them. It will be a very painful experience for you but more so for the patient, for they usually scream.’
Martha’s hand moved to her throat. Again she felt the choking sensation of anger that never seemed to be far from her nowadays. Her eyes dropped for a moment to the white linen strips she had put round the tortured limbs early this morning. They no longer looked white, not even olive coloured with the melted butter, but brown, a dirty brown. She felt sick. She said now, ‘They won’t have stuck…I…I put plenty of butter on.’
‘Try one. Go on.’ He flapped his hands downwards. ‘Try one.’ His voice was still quiet, ominously so.
She remained still and stiff, staring at him. He was a horrible man; he looked ugly, coarse, common. He had no right to be a doctor, there was no semblance of a gentleman about him, neither in looks, manner, speech, nor in any other way.
‘Go on, I’m waiting to prove your theory, oiled bandages don’t stick, strips of soiled linen…’
‘They weren’t soiled, they were clean.’ She was up in arms now, ‘Perfectly clean.’
‘Clean? Lying in musty drawers. Handled by one and another of you. Clean! Let me tell you, miss, that no linen is clean unless it has been sterilised. What you stuck round that raw flesh was yards of germ-filled material. But, of course, you’ve never heard of germs. I can’t blame you for that. Well, now is the time for you to learn about them. Go and wash your hands in carbolic if you’ve got any, if you haven’t I can supply it.’
He now turned his head towards Nancy where she was standing staring at him as if he were the devil himself and although his voice was still low when he said to her, ‘Bring me a dish of water,’ she reacted as if he had barked at her.
She went scurrying from the room in a manner not unlike that which had been Peg’s usual mode of walk. And it would seem that she had found the water outside the door, so soon did she return. And it could have been that time had really stood still during her absence because she saw that Martha Mary had not moved.
She watched the doctor pour some liquid into the water, swill it round, then without looking at Martha Mary motion his head towards her, saying, ‘Wash your hands, and be quick about it.’
There was a brief silence in the room before Martha parted her lips and in a low voice that nevertheless trembled with indignation said, ‘You have no right to come into this house and speak to me in that way.’
‘What!’ He turned his head to the side, his nostrils widening as if he were sniffing. Then in a voice that had lost most of its aggressiveness, but which to her conveyed more insult, he said, ‘Don’t be silly, young woman. Come off your high horse and make yourself useful. I’m going to give her a whiff of chloroform. It won’t last long. Now you take one leg and I’ll take the other, and start unrolling those bandages.’
‘I wo…I can’t.’
‘You put them on, didn’t you?’
‘I…I don’t want to hurt her.’
He straightened his back for a moment, and again he was staring at her; then quite gently he said now, ‘She won’t feel anything. If you do what I tell you she won’t feel a thing. Wash your hands.’ He nodded towards the dish. ‘Go on.’
As if she were now mesmerised she washed her hands in the carbolic water, and when she looked around for something to dry them on he said, ‘Don’t dry them, don’t touch anything, just those bandages…Now.’
A minute passed, two, three, she made the effort, some of the bandages had stuck, others hadn’t. Then came the moment when she knew for certain she was on the point of collapse.
When she was pushed roughly aside, not by his elbo
ws but by a thrust of his hip, she could not call up any feeling of indignation to her aid, but stood like a chastened child gripping the back of the couch and watching his hands moving with swift skill until the two raw pieces of flesh around the ankles and the calves were once again exposed.
When he had finished he gathered the bandages up in his hands and stared at them for a moment; then looking at her, he said, ‘Why didn’t you continue your good work on her arms? They’re in a worse condition than her legs. Hadn’t you any more linen left?’
He now thrust his hands into the bowl again, then raised his eyes to where Nancy was standing, still looking at him as if she were viewing the devil. She was a pretty girl, with a sweet face, not a bit like that of her elder sister, and he should imagine her disposition was different too. He wanted to say to her, ‘It’s all right. Get that look off your face, I’m not going to eat you,’ but what he said was, and quietly, ‘Throw these away, please, and bring me some fresh water…’
Fresh. Here was another problem. The water would be all right if it was from a well, but he had seen no sign of one in the yard. If it was pumped up from the river into which the sewage flowed, well what then?
As Nancy went out Dilly entered bearing a tray on which there was a bowl and a plate of thick slices of new bread. Laying it on the side table, she said to him, ‘I thought perhaps you could do with this doctor, an’ there’s tea if you want it.’
He was bending over the couch again, but he turned his face towards her, then looked at the tray and said, ‘That’s very kind of you. Soup, is it?’
‘Aye, soup.’
‘That will do me fine now, but I’d be glad of a cup of tea before I go; I may be here an hour or so.’
‘I’ll see to it, doctor.’ She nodded to him, turned about and walked out of the room.
She hadn’t looked towards Martha; it was as if she hadn’t seen her standing with her hands still gripping the back of the couch, but she had seen her, and she thought to herself laconically, He’s the last straw for her.
Miss Martha Mary Crawford Page 12