The Poor Relation

by Susanna Bavin

  He turned and saw her.

  ‘Oh – it’s you. Come to do more of Clough’s dirty work?’

  He walked past her. It was only when she stopped smiling that she realised that being here, seeing these people working so purposefully, had brought a smile to her face.

  She hurried after him. ‘I heard how worthwhile the clinic is from Mr Charlie Kimber and Miss Eleanor Kimber.’

  He stopped. ‘Did you hear that crash?’

  She looked round. ‘No.’

  ‘Sounded to me like names being dropped. Now if you’ll excuse me …’

  ‘Wait – please. Let me tell you why I’ve come.’

  ‘Other than to drop names?’

  ‘What an annoying man you are.’

  That got his attention. ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘I was going to apologise, but—oh, never mind. I want to write a different article, about how you took a derelict building and turned it into a clinic – and I’m so glad I decided to.’ Her anxiety about money, the pressure of rushing from one article to the next, had vanished. Here, now, what she felt was the excitement of finding something that cried out to be written. ‘All this: it’s a transformation. I had no idea it would be like this.’

  ‘You’ve your friend Mr Clough to thank for it.’

  ‘He isn’t my friend—’

  ‘What now?’ Doctor Brewer looked in the direction of voices and footsteps. His face brightened. ‘Evening, Saunders. Forgive my not shaking hands. As you see …’ He displayed filthy palms. ‘Come to view our progress?’

  ‘Indeed I have.’

  This Mr Saunders looked out of place in his smart suit and hat, even though he was the one correctly dressed and Doctor Brewer – well, she had never seen a gentleman looking so casual before. Even when he dug the garden, Dadda looked smarter than this.

  ‘You’ve made great strides,’ said Mr Saunders. ‘It’s a pity you won’t finish on time.’

  ‘Come back tomorrow at five and see.’

  ‘I will indeed return at five o’clock … tomorrow morning.’

  ‘What? Five in the morning—’

  ‘You cannot hold my client to blame if you neglected to determine which five o’clock on Saturday was the deadline.’

  ‘That’s preposterous.’

  ‘No, Doctor.’ Mr Saunders stepped closer. ‘It’s checkmate.’

  Chapter Eleven

  Scribbling furiously in her notebook, Mary followed the doctors as they marched round the building, listing jobs.

  ‘I’ve sent to the pub for our blokes,’ said Doctor Brewer, ‘but they came here straight from their factory jobs and they’re tired. Now we need them to work through the night.’

  The men filed back in, looking weary and put out. There were grumbles as Doctor Cottrell explained they must keep working.

  Mary seized the chance to pop outside. Over the road, women were chatting. Their clothes were drab, their faces deeply lined. They looked old, or had life wrenched their youth from them? One saw her, which made the others look too. Consciousness of her smart appearance made her skin prickle.

  Another woman appeared and rounded up her children. Mary went to her.

  ‘Excuse me. I need someone to run an errand to Chorlton. I’ll pay a florin and the fare both ways.’

  ‘Our Eddie could do that.’

  She tore a page from her notebook. It was a good job Dadda’s leg was in plaster or he would come steaming to Moss Side to drag her home. As it was, he would have to wait until tomorrow morning to play merry hell, by which time she suspected she would be too worn out to care.

  Back inside, work had resumed, but the pace of work had slackened. Rounding a corner, she stopped short of bumping into Doctor Brewer.

  ‘Time for you to leave, Miss Maitland.’

  ‘No. I’m going to write about this. Where can I leave my things?’

  ‘You aren’t reporting on the local tennis trophy and I can’t offer you a locker in the clubhouse. This is serious. If we don’t get finished in the next few hours, we’ll lose the building.’

  He strode away, rolling his shoulders as if they ached and slowly rolling his neck too. His hair had a slight curl.

  She left her things in the office cupboard, transferring her purse and house key to her pockets. She went to see what the men were doing – but it would be a tedious night if that was all she did. Besides, wouldn’t mucking in add more flavour to her article?

  She found the kitchen, where an assortment of used mugs and cups was piled higgledy-piggledy beside the vast sink. No washing-crystals, so a rinse would have to do. There were two kettles and a tea caddy, but only a drop of milk. The sugar bowl needed replenishing. She removed the spoon, found it encrusted with granules and chucked it in the sink.

  It didn’t take long to find a corner shop. She had brought a jug for milk and she purchased a few ounces of sugar.

  ‘Are those today’s loaves?’

  ‘Aye, Mam bakes ’em. She’s a good baker, our Mam.’

  ‘I’ll need a pat of butter as well.’

  She took her bounty back to the clinic. Soon she had a tray of tea and doorsteps, which ensured she was greeted with smiles as she did the rounds. Even Doctor Brewer gave her a nod, which pleased her, but then she felt annoyed: why should his approval matter?

  When she returned the tray to the kitchen, she dumped it on the table. She wasn’t going to spend the night chained to the sink. She went in search of Doctor Cottrell.

  ‘Give me a job.’

  Armed with a chair and a box of small glass shades, she went from one gas bracket to the next, setting the chair underneath before climbing up to fit a shade. When she reached the last room and commenced her task, Doctor Brewer walked in.

  ‘You needn’t check up on me.’

  ‘I’m not. I’m switching the lights on. In case you hadn’t noticed, it’s dark outside.’

  She positioned the final shade. When she turned to climb down, Doctor Brewer offered his hand. In all politeness, she had to accept. She placed her hand in his and her heart thumped. Be-dum, be-dum, be-dum. As she stepped down, she looked at him, startled, dazzled, aware of herself as she never had been before, aware of him too and how close he was, how close they were to one another.

  He moved round the room, setting the lamps burning. She watched, a breathless, yearning feeling pumping through her. When he left, she hurried after him, her fingers and palm warm from his remembered touch.

  Doctor Cottrell appeared, looking serious. ‘We won’t get finished.’

  Doctor Brewer shut his eyes. Then he opened them and his jaw hardened. ‘We need more men. We’ll send our blokes to wake their friends. It’s the only way.’

  ‘Even that might not be enough.’

  Inside an hour, the workforce had grown. Everyone was bog-eyed and there was a lot of grumbling. Mary put the kettles on again, taking round strong tea in batches, as there weren’t enough mugs. Everyone else might be fighting fatigue, but she was wide awake, senses tingling, wanting to be useful, wanting Doctor Brewer to notice, wanting him to rely on her.

  Feeling hopelessly self-conscious, she approached one or two of the men to ask for the doctors’ first names. ‘For my article,’ she said. Was the truth plastered all over her face? But the men didn’t know. Finally, she asked Doctor Cottrell.

  ‘I’m Alistair, he’s Nathaniel.’

  Nathaniel! Doctor Nathaniel Brewer.

  The night dragged on, feeling at once long and heavy, and far too fleeting. She swept up, producing clouds of grimy dust that settled on her clothes and skin. Some of her hair came loose and she batted it aside.

  When she saw Doctor Brewer – Nathaniel – sitting on the stairs, just sitting there, elbows on knees and hands dangling, slumped forwards, head bowed, she went to sit beside him. Her heart overflowed at seeing him dejected.

  ‘We aren’t going to do it,’ he said. ‘The men are exhausted. Some have gone home.’

  ‘Talk to them. Make them wan
t to stay.’

  ‘Want to?’ He almost laughed. ‘I’m so tired I can barely think. I don’t blame them for wanting their beds.’

  ‘Well, I suggest you don’t say any of that.’

  She got up and walked away. She ached to stay with him, but he should be alone to sort out his thoughts.

  Soon word went round for everyone to assemble in one of the waiting rooms. Mary’s skin tingled with anticipation as Nathaniel walked in and stood on a box at the front. The men fell silent as he looked round at them.

  ‘I’m a cross-country runner. I’m a member of a club and we run competitively against other teams. When you’re running, you have to pace yourself, but even so there comes a point when it’s almost unbearably hard to continue. When that happens, I look round the field at my fellow runners. The sight of them reminds me that we’re a team and I don’t want to let them down. I remember the training we did, the work that went into preparing for this event, and I picture the sense of achievement that comes when all our runners have crossed the line. Win or lose, there’s always camaraderie among the team members, because we know we’ve done our best.’

  He took his time looking round at the exhausted men.

  ‘I look round today – tonight – and I see a fine group of men whom I’d never have met if it hadn’t been for this project. I’m thinking of the commitment and the darned hard graft that has got us this far. I’m thinking of the people in this community whose lives will be changed for the better when we’ve achieved what we set out to do, and I’m thinking of the pride we’ll all feel at knowing we made that happen.’

  Silence, then a smattering of applause. Men squared their shoulders and stood taller. Some of them spoke and instead of grumbling, they sounded alert and determined.

  ‘Come on, lads, back to it,’ one of them said and the room emptied, the men who had slouched in a while ago pushing forward to return to work.

  Mary dashed to find her notebook and wrote at top speed, her heart bursting with pride at being part of this remarkable night.

  Later, she couldn’t resist – be honest, didn’t try to resist – seeking him out.

  ‘One hour to go,’ Nathaniel said. ‘Saunders wants the place finished and ready by five and we’re going to do it.’

  She beamed at him, but he was already working again. She went in search of a job, but something niggled at her mind. Finished: that meant repairs and decorating, obviously. But what did ‘ready’ mean?

  She raced back to Nathaniel, who was eyeing a spirit level.

  ‘What does “ready” mean?’

  ‘Just a minute.’

  ‘No – now.’ She pulled his arm. Beneath the creased cotton, his muscle was taut. ‘The work will be finished, but what if the clinic needs to look ready too?’

  He frowned. ‘It will look ready with all the work done.’

  ‘It’ll look finished, but if Mr Clough doesn’t want you to have this building, his man might claim it isn’t ready if it’s dirty and unfurnished.’

  He stared at her. ‘What time is it? We’ll never—’

  ‘Yes, we will. If we wake up the street, the women can clean and we can borrow furniture. We need tables and chairs, a few cupboards if we can get them. It doesn’t have to be perfect, just clean and habitable.’

  Soon the clinic was alive with people. Women marched in with mops and buckets. A stream of furniture followed, shabby and rickety, but that didn’t matter. Someone brought a hatstand and an old man came wheezing in with a clock under his arm.

  ‘I’ll put this on’t shelf and no one’s to touch it. This is th’only clock our road has.’

  At quarter to five, there was a scramble to tidy up, then the helpers stood outside, with the doctors in the doorway. Mary eased her way through until she was near the front door.

  A motor car turned into the road and came to a stop. Mr Saunders got out, as did another fellow, a working man, to judge by his clothes, carrying a cloth bag. He was followed by a police constable, who set his helmet on and straightened his tunic before accompanying them to the door.

  Mr Saunders spoke clearly. ‘I am the legal representative of the owner of this building. I’m here to determine whether the place is finished and ready. If it isn’t, Mr Phelps here will change the locks. Constable Todd will deal with anyone who causes trouble.’

  ‘Come right in, Saunders,’ said Alistair. ‘You might as well put your bag in the motor, Phelps. Your services won’t be needed.’

  ‘We’ll see about that,’ snapped Mr Saunders and marched inside, followed by the doctors.

  A few minutes later, he stalked out and threw himself into the motor. It was only the fact that the starter-handle needed turning that prevented him from roaring away without his companions.

  The crowd cheered as he drove away, then everyone was shaking hands and clapping one another’s backs. The doctors pumped the hands of those nearest. Mary edged closer, but as she presented herself in front of Nathaniel, he turned away, his face clouded.

  ‘I’d better—’

  ‘Yes, go,’ said Alistair. He caught Mary watching Nathaniel slip away from her. ‘His sister is poorly. His wife is caring for her.’

  His wife.

  She expected her heart to deliver an almighty clout. Instead it went utterly still.

  ‘I was about to send for an ambulance,’ said Imogen. ‘I kept checking her fingernails and toenails to see if they’d gone blue, but none of the symptoms you told me to watch for has happened – yet look at her.’

  Fear washed through Nathaniel. Evie’s skin was colourless but damp, her rapid pulse weak and fluttery, her blood pressure so low it barely registered.

  ‘She’s in shock, but there’s no reason why pneumonia would cause that.’

  He checked her symptoms again. Then he straightened up and forced himself to think. Evie was in shock, therefore either she had pneumonia plus another complaint that had caused shock, or else the pneumonia wasn’t pneumonia at all.

  The instant he accepted that, an ice-cold feeling ran through him.

  ‘She must go to hospital immediately.’

  Poor Evie, poor brat. What a vile thing to happen. There was a strong possibility the forcible feeding had caused this – but now wasn’t the moment to get hot under the collar.

  He only hoped it wasn’t too late.

  Just hours ago, Mary had felt too thrilled to be tired. Now, it was being stunned by disappointment that held fatigue at bay, the glittering hope of attraction replaced by a resounding emptiness. He was married. If only she had known beforehand, so that – so that what? Would it have made any difference? It was the touch of his hand that had sparked the reaction in her.

  Bloody married men. They should keep their hands to themselves.

  A stinging sparkle edged her vision and she blinked away tears. She had accepted what she was sure must have been a sound ticking-off from Dadda, only it had gone over her head. And now, here she was in the office, where Angela and Josephine, having discovered why she looked tired, had insisted upon her writing her article.

  ‘Then you must deliver it,’ said Josephine. ‘They’ll snap it up. You won’t catch the first edition, but it’ll get into a later one.’

  It was a good job she had written detailed notes, because her brain wasn’t working. Her pencil had flown across the pages last night, flinging down every detail. Her heart had flown too. How jubilant she had felt when Nathaniel had inspired the men to return to work with proud hearts. He had made her feel proud too, not just because his words had stirred everyone, but because of the personal delight she took in his achievement – as if she were entitled to be proud of him. She had stood there, smiling her head off, as if – as if there was something between them.

  A mug of tea appeared beside her. ‘How’s it going?’ asked Josephine.

  She just wanted to get the damn thing finished. ‘Actually, I wrote so many notes that I can type it up without writing it long-hand first.’

  ‘I’d better ta
ke this away, then, so you can concentrate.’

  She pretended to remove the mug; Mary made a play of hanging onto it.

  ‘That looks a good game. Can anyone join in?’ It was Charlie, his handsome face breaking into its ready smile. ‘If we’re picking teams, I’ll be on Mary’s.’

  Josephine shooed him away. ‘She’s working to a deadline.’

  Mary pulled the typewriting machine closer and fed in two sheets with carbon paper between. Last night, in her keenness, she had scribbled the opening sentences and once she had typewritten these, the rest followed without difficulty. She dashed off a covering letter.

  ‘All done?’ came Charlie’s voice. ‘Your chariot awaits. I’ve got the motor. I’ll run you into town.’

  ‘There’s no need.’

  ‘Yes, there is. It’s not often I get the chance to do something useful. Which one’s yours?’ Charlie went to the hatstand. ‘This one.’ He took Angela’s cartwheel.

  The others laughed, Mary planted a smile on her face. The sooner this article reached the newspaper office, the sooner she could put last night and Nathaniel Brewer and that idiotic attraction behind her.

  Nathaniel arrived home to find Imogen waiting, her face drawn with fatigue.

  ‘She’s going to recover,’ he said.

  ‘Thank goodness.’ She sank onto a seat. ‘Was it what you suspected?’ She shivered. ‘It doesn’t bear thinking about.’

  ‘It’s rare. I’ve never seen it before, just read about it.’ And thank goodness he had or Evie would be dead now.

  ‘Might it have been the forcible feeding?’

  He felt a flame of anger. ‘Presumably. They could have torn her gullet when they stuffed that tube down her throat – but then again, it might have been all that violent vomiting that tore it while she had the gastric upset. Either way, each time she vomited, some of it spilt through the hole into her chest cavity.’ He scrubbed his face with his hands. ‘Any messages?’

  She gave him an envelope with his name written in a bold hand.

  ‘Miss Rawley.’ He knew her writing from when her brother had been ill. ‘I wonder what she wants.’