People of Abandoned Character

by Clare Whitfield

  ‘Would you describe yourselves as close?’ he asked.

  Why would he be asking about that? ‘Sister Barnard was a very good nurse. We worked together well.’

  ‘I recall seeing you together, always a pair, like twins, apart from the height difference of course, bobbing about the hospital like a pair of penguins.’

  I knew I must be careful. Others at the hospital had gossiped. I only hoped Thomas never heard this. It would be something else unnatural to accuse me of.

  ‘Yes, but I am married now. I am happy,’ I replied.

  ‘Of course you are.’

  I was being ushered out of the door, but I had to clear up one last thing.

  ‘Dr Shivershev, can I be sure our discussions will remain private?’

  ‘Why do you ask?’ He was obviously offended.

  ‘You know Thomas personally, so I wanted to be sure that our conversations will remain between us. I would not want to be the subject of discussion between men, however professional.’

  He laughed, which struck me as odd, and I realised I’d never seen him laugh before.

  ‘Mrs Lancaster, as long as your husband pays the bill, I can’t imagine I’ll be discussing anything at all with him.’

  12

  Aisling started at the London a few weeks after me. She never explained why she arrived so late and was always loath to talk about her background except in the loosest of terms. She would make a joke and steer the conversation in another direction, such was her way. I think she thought she rather got away with this technique, but I never pried because we all had our secrets, so I let her think her little method of throwing me off effective. I knew her father was uneducated in the traditional sense, but well connected; he had status as a landowner with a respected knowledge of horses.

  Lectures took place in a classroom, which made our training much like being at school as a young girl. We had to study a great deal of theory before they let us near a real patient, and much of it was banal: bedmaking, washing patients, bandaging, padding splints, preventing the spread of infectious diseases, how to observe and report symptoms. For weeks we were forced to sit and write for hours at a time and then complete test after test; it was torture.

  I distinctly remember the moment Aisling arrived. We fresh-faced recruits were dutifully absorbing the wisdom of a ward sister who relished her role and influence rather too much. She was making the most of her captive audience and labouring every point with a flourish worthy of a member of parliament.

  ‘A nurse must be prompt and intelligent, but above all of this, obedience is the distinguishing quality. Trustworthiness is also essential, for one must be relied upon. A nurse must adopt a kindly and pleasant manner; if she doesn’t have one naturally, she must conjure one, out of thin air if needs be. She cannot tire, grow bored of her duties or become weary of the unending churn of human suffering that she will toil to alleviate every day of her earthly life. Her reward comes with the satisfaction of pursuing a higher purpose and gaining the camaraderie of her fellow nurses.’

  I was about to let my head hit the table with the boredom of it when the back door creaked open and in walked a slight girl with a shock of bright red hair poking out from her cap. Aisling strode into every room as if she improved it merely by arriving – unlike me, who had to fight the instinct to apologise to a door for the inconvenience I had caused it by opening it. She stood at the back of the class and when our eyes met she smiled at me. I was too shy to smile back, so I turned around, immediately regretting my unfriendliness.

  ‘Probationers are warned not to indulge in gossip,’ our lecturer continued. ‘You will avoid leaning against the furniture or idling on patients’ beds as if catching up with an old friend. Nothing gives the impression of slovenliness more than allowing oneself to become over-familiar with a patient or indeed a colleague. We are professionals, and we are on duty. Have I made myself clear?’

  There was a chorus of acknowledgement, and Aisling was ushered in and told to take a seat. There were spaces here and there, but she took the one next to me. I edged further away and didn’t dare look at her.

  We sat next to each other, in those same seats, for three weeks before I managed to summon the courage to say anything beyond the obligatory greeting. Though we exchanged barely any words, I looked forward to those classes with stomach-churning anticipation, hoping she’d speak to me or look at me and throw me that smile again, which had felt like bubbles bursting all over my skin. I could think of nothing to say: words were thick as porridge in my mind. But then one day, when we’d been left to finish taking notes, she spoke to me out of the blue.

  ‘Can I ask your name?’ she whispered.

  I was so taken aback, I didn’t understand the words. I was mesmerised by the pinkness of her lips, how indescribably soft they looked, how the points in the centre formed a defiant bow curving up towards her nose.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Your name?’ she whispered again, leaning forward, her eyebrows raised as if she worried she was speaking to an idiot. ‘I might save you by calling it, if I should see you about to be crushed by a carriage on the Whitechapel Road.’

  ‘I’m Sister Chapman,’ I said, smiling my best smile.

  She looked at me a little strangely, and replied, ‘I’m Aisling.’

  ‘Oh!’ I understood. ‘I’m Susannah.’

  ‘I am fond of that name.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I had a horse called Susannah, when I was a child.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Where are you from, Susannah?’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Where are you from?’

  ‘I’m from… places, I think.’

  ‘I see,’ she said, then turned back to her notes as if that was the end of it.

  I was desperate to continue, and to not come across so foolish. In the absence of anything meaningful, I gabbled away at the first thing that came into my head.

  ‘I was born in these parts. I lived with my parents until they died of scarlet fever.’

  ‘What! The both of them? What a terrible misfortune. Do you have brothers and sisters?’

  ‘No, none. Yes. I mean, no brothers or sisters, and yes, they both died. I was extremely lucky; I was taken in by my mother’s parents. They raised me, in Reading. That’s where I lived before here.’

  ‘So you’re from Reading.’

  ‘I suppose I am. You’re Irish.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘No, I know you know. I meant only to observe the fact.’

  ‘Yes, and you are English.’

  ‘Yes, but we’re in London, so that’s a very ordinary thing, isn’t it?’

  ‘I’m quite sure half of London is Irish, or will be at this rate. I’ll wager you can’t throw a stone without hitting an Irishman wherever you are in the world these days. We’re restless types.’

  ‘Is that because of the potatoes?’ I asked.

  ‘I beg your pardon,’ said Aisling. It was not a question, and she gasped as she said it. This had gone horribly wrong.

  We didn’t speak again for at least another three weeks, maybe four. The training schedule was so gruelling, there wasn’t much opportunity for recreation. The only places for casual conversation were the nurses’ lounge and the dormitory, but we were all so shattered, we craved sleep above all else. Besides, I had never had a close friendship and had no idea how to go about forging one. Other people’s friendships seemed to sprout into existence like weeds, without effort, when they weren’t looking, whereas I kept staring at them and willing them to grow. Then one day Aisling just came out with another question, picking up where we’d left off.

  ‘What about your grandparents?’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Your grandparents. Your parents died of scarlet fever and you were raised in Reading by your grandparents. Are they very proud of you becoming a nurse?’

  ‘Oh no, my grandmother thought the idea abhorrent! A disgusting concept. They’re dead.�
�

  ‘Who are?’

  ‘My grandparents.’

  ‘Jesus! Both parents dead, and grandparents, and no brothers or sisters! What about cousins?’

  ‘No, none.’

  ‘Shocking! I have a million. That’s why I’m over here. You are welcome to a few of mine.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘No. I was exaggerating.’

  ‘Oh.’ I didn’t know what to say, so I said nothing.

  ‘I was trying to make a joke,’ she said. ‘I only meant to ask a question to get to know you, but so far everyone I’ve asked about is dead, so I wanted to lighten the mood.’

  ‘Oh, I couldn’t tell. I’m sorry.’

  ‘No, my family are all still alive, so it’s I who should be apologising, in more ways than one.’

  ‘Where are you from?’

  ‘Kildare. It’s in Ireland, but then you knew that, as you’re so very clever.’

  ‘There’s no need to be rude.’

  ‘I was doing it again,’ she said.

  The sister supervising the class shot us a stern look and held a rigid finger in front of her dry lips. ‘Sshhhhhh!’

  ‘Doing what?’ I whispered.

  ‘Joking,’ Aisling whispered back.

  ‘You shouldn’t do that, you know,’ I said.

  ‘Do what? I’m sure I haven’t done a thing.’

  ‘Make fun of me. It’s very confusing.’

  ‘I’ll bear that in mind.’

  The next lesson I didn’t say much, and Aisling didn’t either. But the one after that I thought I would be the braver person and ask her about herself. My grandfather had always said it paid dividends to ask questions of a person, that it was important to show an interest, even when they were hostile. He used to say that I was far too inward-looking, which might come across as taking an unhealthy interest in myself.

  ‘What type of place is Kildare?’ I asked, holding my pencil in front of my mouth so the sister couldn’t see my lips moving.

  ‘Oh, it’s awful,’ whispered Aisling. ‘It’s a big bog and it rains constantly. A big wet peat bog. There are horses, and peat bogs, and that’s about it.’

  ‘What’s peat?’

  ‘You don’t know what peat is?’

  ‘I’m sure I don’t.’

  ‘It’s earth. Red, fluffy earth. You can grow anything in it. You can burn it. And you can bury things in it. My father owns a lot of land and he’s forever having men dig up people from the Middle Ages, and then an overexcited aristocratic Englishman who claims he’s an archaeologist will turn up and demand we leave it alone so it can be studied and put in a museum.’ She looked up at me then and flashed me a smile and then her eyes glazed over until she appeared to be somewhere else together, before she shook herself back to the moment. ‘It’s a good place for keeping the dead. It preserves them, nothing can get to them there. The bodies, when they find them, look as if they’ve only lain down and fallen asleep.’

  ‘Well, now that I know so much about bogs, I shall bear that in mind,’ I said, hoping to make her laugh again. It worked.

  ‘Well done! That’s impressive, Susannah.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You made a joke of it. In the moment. I feel we’ve come on leaps and bounds – we’re practically best friends.’

  ‘I can’t tell if you are being cruel or not,’ I said.

  ‘I’m never cruel. I don’t have it in me.’

  ‘I still can’t tell,’ I said. I had a sharp pain in my tongue and I winced.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ asked Aisling.

  ‘It’s my tongue, I think it has lumps on it.’

  ‘Show me. You can trust me – I’m a trustworthy nurse with a pleasant and obedient manner.’

  Without thinking, I poked my tongue out, and Aisling squinted and studied it, went almost cross-eyed.

  ‘Sister Chapman!’ shouted the ward sister at the front of class, looking straight at me with my tongue still out. ‘What do you think you are doing! Outside at once. Such manners!’

  I was sent to sit outside Matron’s office and had to explain my tongue and show her the ulcers. She waved me away, irritated that I’d been sent to her, and told me that in future I should keep my tongue in my mouth where it belonged, unless specifically instructed otherwise by a doctor, and only within hospital walls, as if I needed the additional clarification.

  When I emerged, Aisling was standing in the hallway.

  ‘Are you waiting for me or did you get into trouble too?’ I said.

  ‘Did you get a telling-off?’ she asked.

  ‘It wasn’t so bad.’

  ‘Good. Would you like to come and walk in the garden for some air? It’s quite pleasant out. We should make the most of it. It’ll be cold again soon.’

  Little Lost Polly

  At about midnight, someone shouted that the sky was burning, and they all poured out of The Frying Pan and onto Thrawl Street, pints in hand, to see for themselves. They said there looked to be great yellow tongues licking at the heavens on this last night of August 1888. The rain was coming fast and heavy, and the thunder and lightning made the air thick and tense.

  Polly was drunk, but she hadn’t realised quite how drunk until she was outside and heard herself squealing. The Shadwell docks were on fire and the flames were coming from the South Quay warehouses, full of produce from the colonies; brandy and gin. It made a hellish scene. The ash was showering down on Thrawl Street like snow. The smoky air hit Polly square in her weak chest and made her giddy, but she skipped beneath the falling grey flakes anyway, danced with some other women from the pub, women she barely knew, and giggled as the ash got caught in her new black straw bonnet with the velvet trim. As she hopped about, she slipped, landed on her backside and had to be dragged up between two dockers, her linsey frock now wet with muck. She laughed but found it harder to stay upright than she should. It was at this moment precisely that the dark mood came.

  She remembered that she’d spent her night’s lodging three times over. The money she’d put aside for her bed had gone on gin and beer, and a wave of her own failings came back around for another blow. Stupid Polly. She attempted to berate herself sober. Silly Polly. She retreated back inside the pub to count what was left of her coins but couldn’t manage it. Even so, she knew it wasn’t enough and she could not ask for help from her friends because she could not trust them.

  Polly stumbled outside again and staggered up to Wilmott’s Lodging House further up Thrawl Street. She’d paid for a bed there often enough – and given her fair share to others too, when the begging cap came around the kitchen – so she fancied her chances. She hung about, mentioning to whoever would hear her that she was a few pence short, but she was met with glazed eyes, castaway glances and a change in conversation. Bastards. She’d hoped that when the lodgings’ deputy came down to collect his fee, the missing penny or two would be supplied by one of her pals, but there was no such luck.

  ‘I’m not in the habit of letting out beds to those that don’t have their money. You know that,’ he said. ‘You’re drunk – you should have thought of this when you were spending your money on gin.’

  ‘I’ll be back,’ she replied. ‘See, what a jolly new bonnet I’ve got.’ It was easier to pretend she didn’t care or else she’d get upset, or angry, which was much the same thing.

  She got as far as the corner of Osborn Street, where she was grabbed by a passing woman, causing her to stumble and fall against the wall. It was Ellen Holland.

  ‘Polly? Where you off to at this hour?’ said Ellen. ‘Polls? Jesus, how much have you had?’

  Ellen knew Polly liked to drink too much, but didn’t they all? Ellen sometimes shared a bed with her, was familiar with her bad and good habits, but on this occasion she was a particular mess.

  ‘I’ve had it, and spent it, three times over, Ellen,’ Polly said and burst into laughter.

  ‘What? What have you had?’

  ‘My bed! I spent it all. I’ll be bac
k, so can you tell him… can you tell him not to let my bed go? I’ll be back… Tell him not to give my bed away.’

  ‘Did you not hear the clock?’ said Ellen. ‘It’s struck two. What time did you think it was?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’m lost, I think.’

  ‘What do you mean, lost? You know where you are.’

  ‘It’s all gone to me. I won’t have a bed now, will I?’

  ‘Oh, Polly, come back with me.’

  Ellen tried to pull her back towards Wilmott’s, but Polly yanked herself free and fell against the wall again.

  ‘No, I’ve done all that. Not a penny from no one. I won’t play the idiot again, not tonight.’

  ‘You going to be all right?’

  ‘Course I am.’

  Polly peeled herself off the damp brick wall and stumbled off into the sobering rain. She half registered the worry on Ellen’s face and it had irritated her. Worry, guilt, sorry, all cheap and all too easily thrown about when it was a few pence that was needed.

  She staggered on up Buck’s Row, steadying herself on the small fences outside the cottages with their neat little hedges and clean steps. It wasn’t that cold. She was searching for a gap between stairs or a yard door where she could nestle down and hide until the morning. There was no one about. It was pitch black. She was so occupied looking for a spot, she’d not heard the footsteps approaching from behind. Maybe this man would be good for a penny or two? Perhaps her luck hadn’t run out after all.

  13

  In the early hours, I was woken by the sound of the front door slamming, the floor creaking and the rapid fire of feet along floorboards. I sat bolt upright, a jolt surging through me, and strained to listen to the furious whispers just outside my bedroom. I thought it had to be burglars and that I was about to be robbed and murdered in my own home. I sprang out of bed and on my toes watched a wavering light coming from under the door, shadows moving amidst it. Then I noted a familiar resonance to the voice, and my body collapsed like a paper bellows with relief.