The Poor Relation

by Susanna Bavin

  Mary gave up trying to find a suitable answer. The remarks were every bit as bothersome to her, only she couldn’t say so for fear of being told she had brought it on herself.

  Dadda arrived home from the office, white-faced and ruffled because a reporter had nabbed him outside the town hall and fired questions at him all the way to the tram stop.

  ‘I hope you’re proud of yourself, Mary,’ he said stiffly.

  Then, on Saturday afternoon, Miriam arrived.

  ‘A reporter came to Candle Cottage. I tried to turn him away, but Mother made me invite him in. I wanted you to know it wasn’t my doing.’

  Everyone looked at Mary and she felt herself being lumped together with Granny.

  ‘My grandmother has talked to a journalist,’ she confessed to Charlie. ‘I can’t apologise enough.’

  ‘Not your fault,’ he said, but not before she had seen him flinch.

  It would be a relief when the wedding was over. She caught her breath. What a wretched thought. Her life seemed crammed full of censure and she longed to break free and feel normal again.

  The clinic.

  Why not? She had never said her goodbyes.

  ‘And I ought to apologise for bringing the place into disrepute,’ she said in her mildest voice.

  ‘You could do that by letter,’ said Dadda.

  ‘It would do her good to get out,’ said Lilian. ‘Heaven knows, I’d like the chance to go somewhere away from the whispers.’

  Mary tried to squeeze her hand, but Lilian withdrew it.

  ‘Very well,’ said Dadda. ‘You may go tomorrow.’

  ‘I thought I’d go on Friday.’

  ‘You can’t spend your wedding eve in a clinic in the slums.’

  Well, no, put like that, she couldn’t, but Friday would have suited her because Nathaniel wasn’t there on Fridays. But so what if she saw him? He meant nothing to her.

  As she walked through the shabby streets to the clinic, she marvelled at all that had happened since she last came this way. Coming back was refreshing.

  Imogen Brewer was on the other side of the road, heading the mother and baby group. Some women carried their babies in their arms; a couple had baby-carriages fashioned from boxes on wheels. Most also had small children in tow.

  She crossed over to greet them.

  ‘We’re on our way to the church hall to sing songs,’ said Imogen. ‘I believe the hall has a piano.’

  ‘It could do with tuning.’

  Imogen laughed. ‘We’ll manage.’

  ‘Jimmy, come away from the lady,’ said an exasperated voice.

  Feeling a tug, Mary glanced down at a snotty infant clinging to her skirt. She kept her smile in place in spite of the sour smell.

  ‘Sorry, miss.’ Jimmy’s mother, arms full of twins, pushed him away with her foot. ‘He’s into everything, this one.’

  ‘That’s all right, Mrs Whelan,’ said Mary.

  ‘We mustn’t keep you,’ said Imogen and led her followers on their way.

  Mary headed for the clinic, feeling lighter of heart with every step. Inside, she presented herself at the hatch and was surprised by a whoosh of nostalgia. She wouldn’t go out to work ever again. Goodness, she would miss it.

  A couple of nurses were in the office with Mrs Winter. They all looked her way and her nostalgia was swept aside by the delight in their faces. They drew her inside and pushed her into a chair, at the centre of a cluster of exclamations.

  ‘I hardly know what to say first,’ said Mrs Winter. ‘Congratulations, or you poor love, being put in prison.’

  ‘Congratulations, definitely,’ said Katie Evans. ‘You bagged yourself a good ’un there, girl.’

  Everyone laughed. These women had been accustomed to seeing Charlie collecting her from the clinic, so maybe the engagement felt like a natural progression to them. Did they know she wasn’t the social-climbing sort?

  Nurse Reilly returned from her rounds and joined the chattering group. Katie disappeared and came back with a tray of tea. Mary could have hugged them all for their warm welcome. In fact – why not? She did hug them.

  ‘Sounds jolly in here.’

  Nathaniel. Mary went cold with embarrassment but stepped forward.

  ‘I’m sorry if I damaged the clinic’s reputation.’

  ‘You understand we couldn’t have you back.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘But she’s getting married now,’ said Katie, ‘so all’s well.’

  She felt embarrassed all over again, which was stupid, because no one had ever known of her feelings for Nathaniel. Would he show some reaction to the news?

  ‘Congratulations. I’m off on my rounds, Mrs Winter.’ He turned away, then turned back. ‘Miss Maitland, I hope your time in prison wasn’t too … arduous.’

  Oh, those serious hazel eyes. Times were when she would have sold her soul to have her gaze held by his.

  ‘Thank you.’

  He nodded and left.

  ‘Let’s hear about the dress,’ demanded Nurse Reilly.

  She felt her attention being pulled back to the others.

  ‘It was made at Constance and Clara, where my sister works. It’s ivory silk with a fitted bodice, and the skirt falls straight down at the front and flares at the back, and I’m wearing Mother’s veil.’

  That was a minor disappointment. She would have loved to wear Mam’s, but Lilian had done so much for her.

  A great boom sounded. Thunder? No, a rounder noise than that, more contained. The room quivered. Mary froze – they all did. Then they all reacted at once.

  ‘What was it?’

  ‘An explosion?’

  ‘Come on. We must help.’

  She joined the bustle rushing into the corridor. The front door banged open and a woman stumbled in. She was grey with poverty. No, she wasn’t, she was coated in a thick layer of dust.

  ‘Come quick! The Marshalls’ house has blew up.’

  ‘Blown up? How could it?’

  ‘That damn gas supply—’

  ‘You go ahead. I’ll fetch medical supplies—’

  ‘Where’s Doctor Brewer?’

  Mary ran outside. Tiny particles stung her eyes. A powerful rotten-egg smell poured into her nostrils, her mouth. Her gut uncoiled, faltering at the stench. She felt sick and light-headed, but the sight of a house, a whole house, missing from the row brought her senses sharply into focus. She ran towards rubble, bricks, sticks of furniture. Two women, crying, bent over another lying crumpled in the gutter.

  ‘I’ll see to her,’ said Katie.

  Mary moved on, darting between women frozen in shock, others swarming about grabbing at children. Part of her mind registered surprise at the number of women, then she caught sight of Imogen – the mother and baby group had been heading for home.

  Hurrying across, she caught her foot on a clump of bricks and pitched forwards. Imogen’s hands gripped her arms. Their faces were close. Imogen’s hat was gone; her hair was matted with dust.

  ‘Are the mothers and babies all right?’ asked Mary.

  ‘I think so. We’d just come round the corner. The line was straggling or lord knows what would have happened. The first few women were blown clear across the street and their babies flew through the air. Fortunately they’re all crying, so they’re alive, but they need checking over.’

  ‘We should see if anyone’s under the rubble.’

  Mary felt a hand on her arm and swung about to see Mrs Winter.

  ‘We should evacuate the street in case there’s another explosion,’ said Mrs Winter.

  ‘You see to that. We’re going to dig in the rubble.’

  ‘It’s not safe,’ began Mrs Winter, but Mary gave her a push.

  ‘We’ll be careful.’

  She and Imogen edged forwards. The odour of gas was more pungent with every step and she took the shallowest of breaths, but the gas must have been playing with her senses because she could hear squealing. She closed her ears to it, tried to listen for
crying or groaning, the scrape of brick being clawed by a feeble hand.

  ‘Here.’ Imogen hurried towards fabric showing beneath a heap of bricks and floorboards.

  Mary dropped down and put her mouth close to the heap.

  ‘Can you hear me? We’re going to dig you out.’

  Piece by piece, they lifted the obstacles away. The bricks, fixed together in clumps, were heavy. Try as she might, Mary couldn’t put them down carefully, each one tipping from her grasp at the last moment and smashing apart as it landed.

  ‘Mind out. We’ll do it.’

  A man stepped in front of her. He didn’t shove her aside, but he might as well have done. He seemed to want to stand precisely where she was. She stumbled backwards. Several men set to work removing the debris and looked like making short work of it. She watched, her heart twisting with anxiety for whoever was trapped beneath, but when she glimpsed Imogen also watching, it gave her a jolt.

  ‘We must see if anyone else needs help.’

  She looked at what remained of the Marshalls’ house, but before she could start climbing over the rubble, a voice halted her – Nathaniel’s.

  ‘No, you don’t. Make sure the mothers and babies are accounted for.’

  ‘Here, Doctor,’ a man called. ‘We’ve nearly got Mrs Banks out.’

  Nathaniel crouched, dumping his medical bag beside him. ‘She’s alive. Get the rest of this stuff off her. We’ll need a stretcher. What the hell are those idiots doing? That building’s unsafe. Look at that ruddy great crack down the wall.’

  Mary turned. Out of the house beside the gap came a couple of lads carrying a table, followed by a little girl clutching an aspidistra.

  ‘You check the mothers and babies,’ Mary told Imogen. ‘I’ll see to this.’

  Taking care where she put her feet, she hurried over.

  ‘You can’t go back in,’ she said as the boys set down the table beside assorted possessions.

  ‘Mam wants everything out.’

  ‘The house isn’t safe.’

  The boy shrugged. She pushed ahead of him and entered the house, trying to call out, but dust crowded her mouth. Pressing her hanky against her lips, eyes smarting, she marched across the room to check the scullery. No sign. She hurried back to the stairs, dancing impatiently behind the boys, who were manhandling a squalid-looking armchair. The stairs creaked and shifted beneath her feet.

  She found the mother in the upstairs front, moaning as she hurled bits and pieces into a patched and darned blanket on the bed. When Mary attempted to take her arm, she wrenched herself free, her dust-thickened features twisted with grief.

  ‘I’m not going without me things.’

  A deep shudder vibrated through Mary’s body and the floor dropped by several inches. Her stomach whooped in fear. Was she about to die? The woman shrieked, then choked, but there was no time to let her recover. Mary shoved her at the door, stumbling behind her down the stairs into the street.

  She ought to forbid the family to go back inside, but a fit of choking overtook her. She doubled over, coughing so hard her ribs almost cracked. When she recovered, the tears that had poured down her face had melded with the dust, leaving her with a mask that tightened her flesh, rendering her skull too big for her skin.

  Over the road, Imogen hovered around the mothers. Going to them, Mary saw dazed expressions and smears of blood.

  Imogen raised her voice. ‘Everyone ready? Let’s get the children away from here.’

  As the group started to shuffle off, a woman darted out.

  ‘Jimmy Whelan’s missing—’

  Mrs Whelan, a baby clutched within each arm, tried to break free. Mary stood in front of her and looked into panic-filled eyes.

  ‘Take the babies to safety. I’ll find Jimmy.’

  The group absorbed Mrs Whelan. Mary grabbed a couple of onlookers.

  ‘Jimmy Whelan’s missing. He might have returned to the church hall. Go and see – Doctor Brewer’s orders.’

  She headed for the gap between the houses. A hand caught her arm. Imogen.

  ‘I’ll help. Mrs Winter’s seeing to the mothers.’

  Rubble shifted as they clambered over it. Mary waved her arms, snatching at balance, then lurched down the other side. Imogen thudded into her from behind and she staggered forwards, stopping dead as she took in what was before her. The explosion had caused more than a gap in the row – it had blown a massive hole in the floor, too, in the ground. Jagged edges of floorboards remained round the fringes.

  And there was that squealing again. The adjacent walls creaking? Her gaze fixed on the hole. She didn’t want to look, but didn’t dare look away. A hand nudged hers and she curled her fingers through Imogen’s. Together, they crept forward. Mary craned her neck to peer into the chasm from as far away as possible.

  ‘Oh, dear heaven,’ murmured Imogen.

  The hole teemed with rats – hundreds of them, some as large as terriers. Beneath her dust-mask, Mary’s expression tried to crumple in disgust but was locked in position. Sourness trickled down her throat.

  Imogen nudged her. ‘Over there.’

  On the far side, Jimmy Whelan bobbed about at the edge of the crater. Losing his balance, he plonked down on the brink, but his wail was cut short when he saw the rats. They stepped forward instinctively as he leant over to stare.

  Mary looked up as the wall gave a groan. Did it shift a fraction or was that her imagination?

  ‘We’ll go round the hole on different sides,’ said Imogen. ‘One of us will catch him.’

  Moving as swiftly as the wreckage permitted, Mary started on her way.

  ‘Oy! Come back,’ yelled a man’s voice. ‘I’ll fetch him.’

  ‘We’re lighter,’ Imogen called. ‘You’d fall through.’

  A scraping sound was followed by a flurry of dust that spurted into the air from high up in the wall. Bits of plaster crunched as they landed. Mary stood still for a moment, then pressed on, her shoes filling with grit.

  As she approached Jimmy, the floor wobbled and her stomach flipped. She stopped moving. So did the floor. She took a tentative step and the floorboard flew up like a see-saw. Imagining her leg being thrust down into the rats’ nest, she hurled herself sideways, jarring arms and legs as she landed. Pulling herself up, she crept closer, testing every step before entrusting her weight to it, holding her breath as if that would make her lighter. She stopped a few feet away, glancing at Imogen, who nodded encouragement from beside the cracked wall.

  ‘Jimmy,’ Mary called. ‘Jimmy, come to me.’

  He turned, took one look at her, then threw back his head and wailed. She inched forwards, horribly aware of the rats in the hole beyond the child. Snatching him into her arms, she staggered back the way she had come. Jimmy didn’t struggle – couldn’t, given how tightly she was holding him – but, goodness, could he bellow.

  Regaining firm ground, she stopped and turned. Imogen waved to her and smiled. There was a prolonged grinding sound followed by utter stillness. She wanted to yell at Imogen to run. Then the wall dropped, simply dropped. Mary hugged Jimmy, cradling his head into her neck and turning away from the great cloud of filth and the bits flying through the air. Something struck her sharply on the back and she landed hard on her knees. She doubled over, rocking Jimmy, rocking herself, knowing she would never dare stand up again, because that would mean looking across at the place where Imogen used to be.

  Mary was dimly aware of Jimmy being prised from her arms. Her arm was held, she was led up and over, and through the piles of rubble. Her legs were rubbery and she stumbled any number of times, but with no sensation of falling, no sense of needing to be careful. Her head felt as if a gigantic bell had pealed right beside her and the clang had stupefied her mind.

  She wriggled free from the kindly hands and gaped at the mound of debris where Imogen had been. Men lifted clumps of bricks and chunks of plaster, passing them to one another. Nathaniel dug furiously, like a dog. More hands – why did they all wan
t to touch her? Mrs Winter, her mouth moving, saying something that she couldn’t focus on. She turned her face away and looked again at the heap that used to be a wall. She couldn’t tear her gaze away. It was impossible to believe it had happened. She had to watch to make it real.

  Her skin was moist, her pulse skittish. There were so many noises she ought to be able to hear, but the only one in her ears was the sound of her own breathing, rapid, shallow. Arms went round her, holding her: Mrs Winter. Mrs Winter used to be her enemy, but now here she was, holding her, steadying her. Mrs Winter’s arms disappeared for a moment, a coat went round her shoulders and Mrs Winter’s arms slid back into place.

  The digging went on. Mrs Winter forcibly lowered her onto a wooden chair. A chair from the house next door, rescued by that stupid woman and her children? The side of the house gaped open for all to see. The upstairs floor was broken apart and a bed had slipped into the crack. The blanket which the woman had been filling with her possessions flapped down. Stupid woman. As if possessions mattered.

  The digging continued. Some of the men stood back, moved away. Arms were raised, beckoning; a couple of men looked round, gesturing, giving orders. Then everyone stilled as Nathaniel lay down, wriggling into the hole they had dug. Mary stopped breathing. Mrs Winter’s arms tightened. Mary’s hand fluttered and came to rest inside Mrs Winter’s grasp.

  Nathaniel backed out of the hole and came to his feet. He stood there without moving. Some of the men came closer, but he didn’t respond. He turned and stomped away down the heap of rubble, his feet sinking in. He rounded the chasm and left the site.

  Seated on the wooden chair within the clasp of Mrs Winter’s arms, Mary tracked his progress. He walked into the road and stopped. He swayed and her body tilted forwards in sympathy. When he sank onto his knees, right there in the street, she shook herself free from Mrs Winter and tottered across to him. She sank down beside him and reached out, one human being to another, to draw him into the circle of her arms. Her forehead rested against the side of his head, against hair clogged with dirt. Her body tried to rock, instinctively seeking to give comfort, but Nathaniel didn’t move.