by Maggie Ford
Going over to the washstand she wiped a wet flannel over her face and armpits, dried herself on their shared towel, noting in the washstand’s oval, pock-marked mirror her thin nakedness, which was steadily growing shapely with coming womanhood, that womanhood like all around here seeming to be delayed by poverty and lack of fresh air.
Ellie rinsed her mouth, donned her nightdress, which was old and becoming too tight around the breast, briefly combed her long, dark hair and finally slipped into bed beside Dora.
‘Goodnight,’ she whispered. Dora didn’t answer. But she wasn’t asleep, for Ellie could feel the bed shaking very slightly to Dora’s silent weeping.
After a while it subsided, but rather than falling asleep hersielf more than half the night was spent awake, thinking of how she was going to pay for any decent funeral. In all this time she hadn’t cried. It felt as if she couldn’t – perhaps never would. Her insides felt empty – as though it was her body that lay dead.
* * *
Next morning she was up at the crack of dawn, dressed in her one Sunday dress, her hair combed until it shone, a damp rag to clean up her boots a bit.
‘Mrs Sharp said you can go into her,’ she told Dora as she left. ‘I’m off to the undertaker’s and don’t want you staying in the house all on your own.’
‘Can’t I come with you?’ Dora asked plaintively, her eyes still a little puffy from crying herself to sleep.
‘I shan’t be long.’ It was a promise she knew would be kept. Her business with the undertaker wouldn’t amount to much. No fine coffin to be selected, just a plain box wheeled on a handcart to a far corner in the church cemetery where paupers were laid to rest, several together in one grave.
Thankfully she wouldn’t have to descend to that. Like a lot of people, Mum had for some years denied herself by putting away a penny a week into a burial fund which would give her and her husband a piece of ground of their own, if only a cheap plot far from those on the main pathway with its fine tombstones and imposing monuments.
No tombstone for Mum, though. The cheapest stone was around thirty shillings, well beyond the burial fund. Perhaps in time a wooden cross – who knows? – but at least there’d be a personal grave number to identify her, which was more than a pauper’s grave got.
For some reason that last thought caught her suddenly, just as she opened the door to leave for the undertaker’s, as if something in the depths of her heart had burst. Abruptly closing the door again against the outside world, she sank down in the corner in tears, silently weeping as she had seldom wept before, crouched there alone and in privacy, relieved that Dora was still upstairs in bed, most likely nursing her own silent misery.
Finally, her nose blocked and her throat aching, her eyes no doubt reddened, she stood up, wiping her damp cheeks with a not-too-clean handkerchief fished from her jacket pocket, and slipped out into the chill early-morning air, head now held high.
The arrangements didn’t take long, as she knew they wouldn’t, the lugubrious undertaker being interested only in clients with money to spend on a fine funeral with black plumed horses, ornate carriages and caskets, and even a couple of young, professional mute mourners.
On her return home Dora handed her a letter. ‘Came fer you while you was out,’ she said. ‘Seems ter be something wrapped up inside.’
There certainly did seem to be: a single sheet of notepaper folded around something hard. As she opened it, the contents fell heavily on to the floor. On the verge of bending to retrieve it she saw it was a guinea – a golden guinea winking up at her. Ellie heard her sister gasp ‘Oh, Lord!’ but she had frozen, able only to stare down at it in disbelief almost bordering on alarm, not daring even to touch it.
‘Did you see who sent this?’
‘No. Whoever it was, they was gone by the time I found it lying ’ere.’
Reaching out, Ellie forced herself to tentatively touch it, withdrawing her fingers quickly as if it might burn her, while Dora stood by wide-eyed. Still wrapped in disbelief, she finally forced herself to pick the coin up. It lay heavy in her palm. Never in her life had she held a gold guinea. It felt cold, solid, almost evil.
‘What’s the letter say?’ She vaguely heard her sister’s voice. Coming to, she looked at the note again, sure that there must be some mistake – sent to the wrong address, not for her at all. But if this was a mistake, then it was providence. Why go to all that bother trying to trace the right recipient? Why shouldn’t she keep it?
Painfully she scanned the writing. Her reading skills were not vast. Having left school at twelve, teachers having viewed the cane as the greater part of learning, it was good that she was for the most part intelligent or she might not have learned to read at all. She frowned at the difficult small writing and saw that her name was in fact there. Laboriously, she deciphered the words: ‘I am sending this towards your mother’s burial. You are alone now and need help. Please oblige me by accepting this, as it is my regret for not attending her in her illness. Doctor Lowe.’
Opening her fingers, Ellie gazed again at the coin now warming in her hand. She could do such a lot with this money: twenty-one shillings – more than she’d ever held in her life, and all hers.
Dora too was gaping. ‘Cor! It’s a blooming fortune! We could really do with that.’
The words brought Ellie’s thoughts back into line. She closed her hand abruptly over the guinea and glared at her sister.
‘No, it’s for Mum. A stone for ’er grave, just a small one. She worked ’ard all ’er life. She wanted respect ’spite all the odds and she never ever got none, not from Dad or Charlie. An’ we all took ’er fer granted. And now she’s gone, taken by pneumonia, which she didn’t deserve, out in all weathers to take ’er work back and collect more, and working all hours God sent just to keep us. It just ain’t fair. Now at least we can show ’er a little bit of respect by her ’aving a gravestone of some sort.’
She bit back a catch in her throat as she spoke, and turned viciously on her sister as Dora pouted, ‘But what about us?’
‘What about us?’ she cried. ‘We’re still here. We’ll fend for ourselves.’
‘What on?’ Dora retaliated, glaring up at her.
‘We’ll manage. But we should at least give Mum something to be proud of. She deserves that much. And if there is a bit left over…’
She suddenly stopped. What was she saying? This money didn’t belong to them. She’d been about to take the doctor’s money – money he’d sent so that he could ease his conscience. Well, she wasn’t going to make it that easy for him.
‘I’m returning this to the doctor – telling him we don’t need his charity.’
‘What?’
‘No, I’ve made up me mind, Dora. Mum never took a penny off anyone she didn’t earn honestly. She certainly wouldn’t want ter start now. So I’ve decided. I’m sending it back.’ Dora was looking at her, horrified. ‘What about us? We could do with the money. And what about Mum’s gravestone?’
‘She’d understand. I know we could do with the money, but I don’t intend ter let ’er standards down now.’
Resolutely she folded the coin back into the note, ignoring Dora’s protests. She would go there this afternoon, be polite but firm and hand it back to him, telling him thank you for the kind thought but she didn’t need it. It would make her feel much better than if she kept it, even if it had promised to be a small bit of salvation to their plight.
Two
Doctor Bertram Lowe glanced up briefly to the tinkle of the front-door bell. Lowering his midday newspaper, he watched the chubby figure of Florrie, his housemaid, hurry past the open door of the morning room to answer it. Her high, youthful, slightly nasal voice rang out.
‘I’m sorry, miss. The doctor’s surgery is closed till two o’clock unless it’s an emergency, and you must go round the back like everyone else.’
‘This is a personal call,’ returned a young voice, pleasantly low, but the accent strongly East End.
‘I’m sorry, miss. Unless you’re a personal friend of the doctor you’ve still got to go round the back.’
‘I need to speak to ’im now.’ The tone was becoming argumentative. ‘It’s a private matter. It ain’t nothing to do with illnesses.’
‘Well, I’m really sorry, love.’ Florrie’s tone had begun to match that of the caller. ‘You must come back at two. The doctor’s not available at any old time. He’s just had his lunch and unless someone’s urgently sick…’
‘No, I need to see him now. Tell him…’
‘Look, miss, if it’s not nothing medical, I’m afraid the doctor can’t help you.’
Bertram glimpsed his wife Mary hurrying past the room. ‘What is it, Florrie?’
‘A young lady, madam. She won’t go away.’
Mary reached the street door. ‘I’m Doctor Lowe’s wife; can I help?’
There was a moment’s hesitation. ‘Would yer give ’im this?’
‘What is it?’
‘He’ll know what it is. I’ve come to give it back.’
Bertram Lowe suddenly recognized the voice. Letting his Manchester Guardian fall to the floor, he got up and lumbered out to the hallway.
‘I’ll deal with this, Mary. I know the young lady.’
The two women withdrew, Florrie gratefully, his wife reluctantly, as he turned his attention to the wan face looking up at him and smiled gently.
Again came that poignant sensation experienced on first seeing the girl. It had struck him how much like his daughter she was. Millicent had been taken from him and his wife eighteen months ago, despite all his efforts. He had tended hundreds of patients in his time yet had been unable to cure his own daughter.
This girl was about the age his daughter would have been now. Though Millicent, enjoying the advantages of good upbringing, had been healthy and robust, her blue-green eyes bright and sparkling until TB had claimed her, wasting away her health while cruelly bestowing on her cheeks that high colour that belied the ravages of the disease.
TB was rife among the poor. Called consumption, or the wasting disease, it could spread like wildfire in any cramped, unsavoury locality. Yet it was no respecter of persons: despite wealth or privilege, with upper- and middle-class people going to great pains to avoid contact with those among whom it played havoc, it could still sneak its way into fine homes.
As a professional man he could hardly avoid contact with those who had it but had done his best to keep his small family from the diseased. Then, five years ago, it had struck, taking from him his only child.
He’d sent her to a sanatorium as soon as he’d realized what it was, but it had been of no use. She’d become thin, listless, the flush of her cheeks not the rosy glow of health but the trademark of the disease; she’d died, pale and wasted, like this young girl standing on his doorstep, though this girl’s pallor came from the smoke-filled atmosphere of London’s East End, lack of fresh air and good healthy food. But underneath that, he knew this skinny waif was strong with a natural instinct for self-preservation. At this moment she was holding out a folded sheet of paper to him with a firm, determined hand.
‘Thanks very much for yer kind thought,’ she began, her green eyes a steady, almost aggressive stare. ‘But we don’t ’ave no need of yer ’elp.’
He experienced a moment of confusion. ‘It was given with the best of intentions. You seemed as though you needed help in some way.’
‘It would of been better ’elp if you’d of come when I called at yer surgery while me mum was alive. She might be better now if yer’d come when I asked. I know I didn’t ’ave no money for a doctor’s visit, but she’s dead now. If I’d ’ad money then, she might still be alive, so I don’t feel it’s right you giving me money now it’s too late, and I don’t think I ought ter take it. So I’m giving it back. But thanks for the thought.’
It was a long speech and Bertram Lowe stood silent and stunned throughout, finally finding his voice.
‘I want you to have it, child. With no one to bring in a wage – you said your father had left and your brother run off – you could end up destitute.’
‘I can’t remember saying me dad’s left and me brother’s gone.’
‘Few remember what is said in the shock of bereavement.’
She shrugged off the comment. ‘Anyway, I ain’t that destitute as ter be obliged ter take charity.’
‘It was not charity, child, merely given out of kindness of heart.’
‘As I see it,’ she broke in calmly, ‘it was out of need to ease yer conscience at not coming when yer was most wanted.’
He stared down at her. She thought she had hit the nail on the head. How wrong she was. How could he tell her she bore such a likeness to his dead daughter that she had reawakened a grief he’d thought he’d begun at last to overcome? This gesture of helping her because God hadn’t blessed him enough to help another had been his natural reaction.
He had spent his morning’s surgery half-regretting having sent her that money. How else could she have taken it but in the way she had? She was nothing to him – just another child of the East End. Yet somehow he hadn’t wanted to lose touch with her. Unknowingly she’d prompted in him a need to cling to the memory of his sweet, darling Millicent.
‘I’d rather yer take it back,’ she was saying.
He watched her bend down to lay the note he’d sent her with its contents on the lower of the two stone steps leading up to his door. But as she turned away he came to life, waddling down the steps, holding on to the wrought-iron railings for support, in time to catch her thin wrist.
‘Please, my dear. Let me explain.’
She pulled against his grip. ‘I ain’t taking it back! I don’t want yer blood-money!’
He hung on, thankful no one was passing, though perhaps curtains might be twitching. ‘My dear, you look cold. Come inside for a moment. My wife will give you a warm drink. I didn’t intend to insult you. I understand.’
He did understand this strange pride of the poor – at least, of those who had pride. Those who didn’t had hands ever outstretched for easy handouts. This girl, he felt with an odd prick of satisfaction, wasn’t one of them.
‘Please accept my hospitality,’ he urged.
He saw her glance over her shoulder at the cold-enwrapped street and her thin body gave a small shiver. She had ceased pulling against him, her pride dissipating, and he was able to draw her up the two steps and into the house, closing the door. Momentary panic flashed in the wide, green eyes as he did so, but faded as his wife returned along the hallway.
‘You poor child,’ she began. She held out a hand while he released his from Ellie’s thin arm. ‘I overheard what my husband said. I shall have a warming drink made straight away to take the chill out of you, my dear.’
She was a small woman. Her roundness made her look even smaller as she conducted Ellie gently across the wide, brightly lit hallway, the gas lamps lit despite it being daylight outside. It seemed to Ellie as astonishing that some people were able to burn gas with no thought at all to the cost.
The room she was shown into was bright, without need of lamps. There were two upholstered easy chairs and sofa in green brocade, flowery wallpaper with pictures and framed photos suspended all around the room from picture rails. Side tables held large potted plants. The sideboard held a clutter of family photos, vases and ornaments under glass domes, and there was a large oval mirror behind it – all typically Victorian; tasselled runners everywhere.
The mantelshelf above the fireplace, in which a huge fire blazed, held more ornaments, a gilt clock, also under a glass dome, and another mirror. A patterned rug almost covering the floor completed the sense of the room’s being warm and cosy, if just a little overstuffed. Ellie had never seen such a room.
The doctor’s wife guided her to the sofa, told her gently to sit down as she hesitated. ‘I’ll have our maid bring you a mug of warm milk. Or would you prefer cocoa?’
Cocoa. When had she last had cocoa? I
f Mum had a good day’s work and she could afford some little luxury, perhaps.
Annoyed at herself for feeling a little overwhelmed, Ellie nodded. ‘I’d like cocoa, please,’ she said, trying to sound positive.
Going to the door to summon her maid, the woman paused, glancing back at Ellie. The fingers moved slowly to her lips and her eyes began to fill with tears; she turned her gaze towards her husband. Her voice shook. ‘My dearest, she looks so much like our…’
‘Mary, the cocoa,’ he interrupted sternly.
She recovered herself with a start. ‘Yes, dear, of course.’ As she departed, Doctor Lowe positioned himself with his back to the window’s thick lace curtains and heavy drapes, surveying Ellie.
‘My wife is an emotional woman. Some eighteen months ago we lost our daughter Millicent. Had she lived, she would have been about your age. My wife has never fully recovered from our loss and I am afraid she sees a resemblance to our daughter in every young girl she meets.’
He began to pace. With her own more recent grief to surmount, Ellie felt no particular interest in his. She let her gaze follow his portly figure and found herself wondering how two such plump people fitted into one bed with any comfort. Families she knew often crammed six or seven children into one bed, arranged top to tail or even sideways. But her parents had both been thin; plenty of room for them, though, in past times made room for a couple of little ones. But with Mum dead and Dad gone, the bed lay empty.
Skinny old cow, her father had called her. He himself was well built and muscular. Hard work had taken the flesh off Mum’s bones while he strode around showing off to whatever woman caught his eye. The money to tog himself up, to treat them handsomely – them and his mates, who thought him a swell sort of bloke – came from his wheeling and dealing. Mum, on the other hand, saw very little of that money.
If she had a bad week, sheets and tablecloths and often her treasured jet brooch would be taken down to the pawnshop, her self-respect blown away, to be redeemed the moment more work came in.
