‘Between you and me, there is a deplorable lack of organisation in that place.’
‘What place?’
‘Well, Queen Street, of course. Mr Quinton says that the household accounts are in a dreadful state. They are very fortunate to have found him as he will surely arrange things as they should be. Although I feel he is being sorely ill-used.’
‘In what way?’
‘He is at Queen Street from early morning until late. Sometimes it is after midnight by the time he returns to us. I do not believe that his salary is sufficient recompense for such excessive demands being made upon his time.’
Sarah felt words of defence rising to her lips, but before she could speak the door opened and a young woman entered carrying a red-cheeked infant.
‘Is it that time already, Nancy?’ Mrs Quinton said as the child was handed to her. ‘I insist on spending at least an hour with young Rochester before lunch.’
Young Rochester did not seem particularly enamoured with this arrangement and began to wail when relinquished by his nurse.
‘Now now, young man. That is no way to behave,’ Mrs Quinton said. She turned to Sarah. ‘Would you care to hold him?’
Sarah stood, took the proffered child and began to rock him gently, his crying quickly subsiding. Mrs Quinton waved her arm to dismiss the nursemaid, who retreated rapidly, leaving the two women alone again.
‘You might be wondering at his name,’ Mrs Quinton said. ‘Young Rochester here is of noble lineage. I know who his parents are, but of course that information must remain in our keeping. It would be quite the scandal if it were ever to be divulged. Fortunately, I am the soul of discretion,’ she said, placing a hand over her heart in emphasis. ‘I felt it was my Christian duty to offer the poor child a home, my husband and I having no children of our own.’
Sarah wondered if such charity would be forthcoming had the child been a street urchin rather than the progeny of the upper orders, but then chastised herself. Agreeing to take responsibility for someone else’s child was no small matter. She looked at the baby in her arms and wondered what her own child would be like; wondered, not for the first time, if she was equipped to be a mother.
As though sensing her ambivalence, Rochester screwed up his face, turned a rather disturbing shade of puce, and began to cry again. His crying this time was loud and insistent, not easily soothed. Mrs Quinton reached for a bell on the side table and summoned the nursemaid to take him away. The poor girl looked harassed and Sarah wondered if her pay was sufficient recompense for the demands placed upon her.
Mrs Quinton indicated that Sarah should sit again and then began to enquire about her own situation. Sarah was becoming used to this. She was a conundrum, representing a deviation from the norm that seemed to cause a degree of disquiet in the bosoms of those wedded to the notion of a rigorously imposed social hierarchy. In some this disquiet was expressed as curiosity, exposing her to probing questions that she was sure her interlocutors would find inappropriate should they be similarly interrogated. In others, her effrontery at presenting herself as above stairs when her origins were unequivocally below provoked outright hostility, so she put up with gentle questioning as best she could.
‘So, you were a housemaid?’
‘Yes.’
‘But no longer?’
‘No. I work as an assistant to Dr Simpson.’
‘I don’t understand. I would have assumed that the doctor’s assistant would also be a medical man.’
‘He has one of those as well.’
‘So, what do you do?’
Her tone was becoming imperious, as though she was beginning to doubt the veracity of Sarah’s claims.
‘I help to organise the patients in the waiting room—’
‘If his waiting room is anything like his account books, I imagine it is in grave need of organisation. But you are married, are you not?’
‘Yes.’ And here it was, the thorniest part of the issue.
‘And what does your husband say about you continuing to work? Mr Quinton would never permit such a thing. It would reflect very badly on him. Very badly indeed. What would people think? I will tell you what they would think, and more importantly what they would say. They would say that he had utterly failed in his duty to provide for his family.’
She stopped suddenly, her diatribe interrupted. She put a hand to her mouth, a look of concern upon her face. ‘Is he terribly poor, your husband?’
Sarah was sorely tempted to make something up, something salacious about gambling debts or misappropriated funds that she felt would gratify this woman more than the truth. But she thought better of it.
‘My husband is a doctor and understands the value of what I do,’ she stated, her even tone belying the irritation she was feeling.
‘A doctor? Really? Well, that is most irregular.’
‘Yes, I suppose that it is.’
Mrs Quinton changed topic at this point, preferring to discuss the difficulties of child-rearing, how demanding it all was. As the conversation continued – Mrs Quinton seeming in no hurry to be elsewhere – Sarah wondered if the woman lacked acquaintances in Edinburgh. Perhaps she had yet to make many friends. Sarah could empathise if this was the case. She herself belonged precisely nowhere, which made establishing and maintaining friendships difficult, if not impossible. Who could she confide in? Who could she share her innermost thoughts with? Only Archie. And, of course, Will Raven. In fact, she was confiding in Will more now as Archie was becoming increasingly unwell. There was a connection growing between them again. Given the circumstances, she was unsure whether this was a good thing.
Sarah became aware that she was being less than attentive, having lost the thread of the conversation. Mrs Quinton was expounding upon the subject of wet nurses, nursery nurses and the expense associated with finding the right help. Sarah’s distraction had gone unnoticed as she was not expected to respond, merely to listen. She thought that she should perhaps feel sorry for this woman but could not bring herself to do so. There were so many women who managed so much more, with so much less. She decided she could not sit and listen to this any longer and wondered at her lack of patience. A lack of sleep, perhaps.
‘I’m afraid that I must be going,’ she said, standing up. ‘Duty calls.’
Mrs Quinton looked a little put out that their conversation had been so suddenly terminated, but Sarah was adamant that she could not stay.
Mrs Quinton walked her to the front door. She paused before opening it, a thin smile on her face.
‘Please thank Mrs Simpson for the letter and for the package,’ she said. Her smile faded. ‘Also tell her I expect the next payment to arrive on time.’
FORTY-FOUR
t was dark when Raven was once again shown into the room where Alec lay. He remained by the window, but no light shone through it. The room was lit now only by candles and a single lamp.
A vast shape moved in the gloom, and once he got over his shock he saw that the giant was keeping vigil, seated by the wall. It seemed an odd sight, and it was only in that moment that Raven saw that Gargantua and the Weasel were friends. He had not imagined that there was anything to connect them beyond their common circumstances, comrades in criminality.
Alec was writhing, and doubtless would be writhing all the more had he the strength to do so. He was making a pitiable and unsettling keening sound, a combination of moaning and weeping. The man was in agony.
Now that he knew his given name, what others called him – what his mother must have called him – it changed how Raven perceived him. He thought of the revenges he had fantasised for this man, the strength of his desire to see him suffer. Now he was suffering beyond Raven’s imaginings and the sight shamed him for ever wishing it.
There was no sign of the family who lived here, still banished at the money-lender’s command. No sign either of the man himself.
‘Where is Flint?’
Even in the little light there was, Raven could see that Gargan
tua was uncomfortable at the question. He guessed it was for the same reason they did not wish to disclose where the shooting took place.
‘He’s away on some business that’s none of yours.’
Raven approached the bed. Alec was fevered, covered in a clammy sweat, his face contorted in the throes of his suffering. His hands were cold, his pulse small and frequent.
‘Take away … the pain,’ he implored.
‘Didn’t keep his medicine down for long,’ Gargantua grumbled from the corner, evidently unimpressed by Raven’s ministrations thus far. ‘You must give him something else, something stronger.’
Their eyes met. They both understood what Gargantua was asking.
Raven opened his bag and looked through the contents. The strongest thing he had was chloroform: destroyer of pain, gateway to oblivion. Should he use it? It would relieve the man’s suffering, no doubt about that, but wouldn’t it also hasten his demise? It was forbidden to deliberately kill a patient. The sacred Hippocratic injunction was primum non nocere. First, do no harm.
He thought once more of that alley in Berlin. He did not want the burden of knowing another man had died by his hand, but in this case not to act would be to hide behind the pretext of morality. A sin of omission was still a sin.
He had long desired to avenge himself upon this creature, to end the man’s life in retribution for the violence he himself had suffered. But this would not be vengeance. Vengeance would only be served by allowing his suffering to continue, and Raven did not wish that. He only had to think of the reason he bore his grudge, reflected upon earlier that very day. When a man was pinned and defenceless, defeated and posing no threat, to inflict pain and damage upon him was the act of a despicable coward. In similar circumstances, failure to relieve a man’s suffering felt equally craven.
Gargantua stepped closer, his heavy tread creaking the boards, bending the very floor.
‘What are you waiting for,’ he demanded, ‘a miracle?’
Raven removed the amber-coloured bottle from his bag and examined the contents. There would be enough.
‘What is that?’ the giant asked.
‘Chloroform. Considered by some to be miraculous.’
He poured a few drops onto a handkerchief and held it above the dying man’s face.
‘Sleep now, Alec,’ he said.
FORTY-FIVE
can speak now of a time beyond childhood, in which my memories do not feel at one remove. My mind puts up no barriers between the woman I am now and its recollections of the mere girl I was before, and for the most part I enjoy remembering. I did not enjoy all that was happening to me, but there is pleasure in revisiting the stations on a journey towards my becoming someone greater, someone stronger.
At each station I became less afraid.
I started work at the Royal Infirmary in Edinburgh when I was sixteen years of age. That was not merely when I became a nurse, but when I became defined by something other than those who had control of me, the people I belonged to.
Mrs Dempster was reluctant to spare me, but Mr Dempster proved my advocate and over-ruled her wishes. I have not spoken much of him, but I will say now that he was always fair towards me. He never for a moment regarded me as a daughter, but he did regard my upkeep as his responsibility. Consequently, he saw that were I to find employment of my own, in time I would be able to leave, and his obligation would be discharged.
Mrs Dempster deferred to his wishes, of course. His might have been the word of God, so obsequious was she in executing his authority over his household. I recognised it from how many of the women at the Institute had deferred to the Reverend Gillies: if he was God’s instrument on Earth, then they would be his instruments, and by extension a functioning part of His divine order.
Yet Mrs Dempster never demonstrated affection towards him, or even gave the impression she was fond of him as a person. I believe she merely liked the idea of him, all he represented and how that reflected upon her. He was a living totem of what she regarded as her achievements, the sum of which was being his wife.
I heard her talk to her friends about his position at the bank, exaggerating his importance, embellishing his achievements. I was sure everything they said of their own husbands carried the same weight of gilding upon the truth. It was all part of the dance, this institution of the family: revered and hallowed by all, yet clearly constructed upon lies and artifice and pretence.
The first days at the hospital were a punishing purgatory of drudge work, but many of the tasks were not so different to my duties at home: serving meals, emptying chamber pots, laundering bedsheets, washing floors, dusting furniture, stoking the fires and ensuring the lamps were filled. The head nurse, Miss Peat, was an austere and mirthless presence, constantly critical and enforcing her will with the threat of dismissal. I had been well prepared for the regimen of institutions through my years at the Belmont, and for working under harsh authority wherever I went. It was under her stern eye that I was then taught how to dress wounds, bathe patients and treat bedsores.
I was paid a pittance, and there was even less in my pocket after Mrs Dempster deducted a portion too.
‘You will contribute to the household while you remain under my roof,’ she insisted. ‘If you no longer have the time to carry out your previous household duties, then you must pay your way.’
It perhaps goes without saying that Martha was not required to contribute, unless one allows the endeavour of preparing herself for life as a wife and mother. Mrs Dempster was tirelessly on the lookout for a suitable match, talking about it as though the fate of the nation depended upon her success.
Her view of the world seemed so small, while mine was becoming ever wider. I shared responsibility for dozens of patients and my knowledge was rapidly expanding. I learned how to make and apply poultices, how to administer enemas and prescribed medications.
The medicines themselves fascinated me, the effects these liquids, pills and potions produced. Through careful listening I absorbed as much information as I could and purloined several medical textbooks from inattentive students, which I studied in their entirety until I fancied myself as wise as those who taught me.
‘The difference between a medicine and a poison is the dosage,’ we were warned, by way of impressing upon us the responsibility we had in dispensing powerful compounds such as mercury, quinine and opium.
I took pride in the care of my patients, and seeing a sick person restored to health partly through my ministrations gave me a sense of purpose and achievement like nothing I had known before.
The patients’ appreciation meant a lot to me too. They valued my cheerful manner, as did the other nurses, and as a result I earned the nickname ‘Merry Mary’. I got on well with most of my colleagues, though there were those who took a dislike to me for no clear reason, such as Gertie Cupar. Gertie was a haughty and self-possessed young woman who had started work at the hospital around the same time as I had, but who seemed to regard herself as my superior. I could not help but reciprocate her antipathy.
Nor did I like all my patients. Some of them just seemed so hopeless, so pathetic, particularly those advanced in years. Nothing seemed to make any difference to them, because the main thing ailing them was simply the decrepitude of old age, for which there was no treatment. It bothered me that they were taking up my time.
When I reminisce about those days I prefer to dwell upon the pleasant patients, the ones who demonstrated an appropriate degree of gratitude. I remember Arthur, a railway labourer admitted with painful legs and bleeding gums on account of the poor provisions supplied to the railway construction camps. I looked after him for some weeks, and from early in his stay I noticed how his face seemed to light up whenever I appeared on the ward. He always said his pleases and thank-yous, but more importantly, he spoke to me deferentially, as though I was a person of substance, someone who was entitled to his regard.
I was particularly diligent in my care of him and took pride in watching him recove
r. I recall my sadness at the prospect of losing him when the doctor pronounced him cured. I did not want Arthur to leave.
I altered the ward journal, ascribing symptoms to him that he did not have, and consequently delayed his dismissal. I was pleased with the outcome itself, but more so that I had been able to effect it so simply.
I subsequently did the same with other patients whom I found it pleasant to look after, especially when there remained the danger that the bed would otherwise be filled by some faltering ingrate who was a better fit for the cemetery.
Some of the physicians were more diligent than others, relying upon the evidence of their own observations rather than merely acting upon what was written in the journals. One such was Dr Hewitt, an ambitious and busy-minded young man who queried the accuracy of what had been recorded, noting that it bore little resemblance to what he could plainly observe. He demanded to know who had been responsible for these erroneous reports.
I lied and told him the patient had been under the charge of another nurse. It first occurred to me to blame the self-regarding Gertie, but I had learned well from Joyce back at the Institute. I had to choose my scapegoat with care. The doctor would never have believed it of Gertie, for she was fastidious in her habits and more importantly I knew she would have been vociferous in denying her involvement. Instead I blamed Nelly Campbell. I liked Nelly well enough and she me, but she was known to be clumsy, and furthermore was sufficiently timid. She meekly disputed that the patient in question was ever under her care, but was not listened to, and was summarily dismissed before the day was out.
Even so, this incident served as a warning. When next I wished to keep a patient longer, I knew I could not rely solely on presenting falsified documentation of troubling symptoms. I would have to induce them.
I administered doses of medicines that made my preferred patients demonstrably sick when they were due for examination. It was easy enough to do. It proved evidence enough to satisfy even the like of Dr Hewitt.
The Art of Dying Page 20
