by Nancy Carson
‘She’s already had diarrhoea, Doctor …’
Dr McCaskie nodded. ‘I am going to prescribe chloral hydrate and bicarbonate of soda for the pain. She must also be allowed alcohol – port wine is ideal, especially during frequent warm baths so that she may sweat the toxins out of her system. Once she gets over this fever she must never be allowed to come into contact with opium ever again.’
The doctor searched in his bag, withdrew an evil-looking hypodermic syringe and part-filled it with morphia. He located a vein in Sarah’s wrist and injected it. It all looked decidedly painful.
‘Give your sister as much to drink as she will take. Fight the fever by keeping her cool, keep a window open. She will sleep peacefully now but when she awakes, she must try to eat something and drink water – for the sake of the child as much as for herself. And give her the medication as I shall prescribe.’
Daisy nodded her understanding. ‘So what about the baby?’
‘All I am going to prescribe for the baby is Mrs Winslow’s Soothing Syrup or Street’s Infants’ Quietness. Both contain a small amount of opium, so either should give the child some relief. We have to give the mite some comfort even if its chances of survival are low. However, it cannot go unnourished so I am going to find a wet nurse. I believe I know of somebody. Expect her within the hour. The poor little thing is already critically ill.’
‘Now, what about my father?’
‘Very well. Let’s tend to the old man now.’
A wet nurse arrived, a young woman about the same age as Daisy who said her name was Rose. Daisy sat her down on a chair behind her father while she fetched Sarah’s baby from its drawer upstairs. She handed it to Rose. Rose unfastened her blouse to expose a plump, white breast and the child began sucking hungrily.
‘The poor little soul must be clammed,’ Rose commented. ‘See how he’s goin’ at it? Like a pig at a tater.’
Daisy smiled at Rose’s lack of inhibition. ‘He’s had barely anything since he was born. I don’t think my sister’s got much milk for him. The doctor doesn’t think he’ll survive.’ Daisy explained how she had arrived home from Italy only the day before and found out that her mother was dead, her sister was in the advanced stages of labour and her father was starving and incapacitated with grief.
‘Struth! It must’ve been terrible for yer.’
‘And now Sarah’s got childbed fever, the doctor says. The trouble is, she’s been taking opium or something and got herself and the baby habituated – that’s what the doctor called it. I don’t know what I’m going to do.’
‘Ain’t she wed?’
Daisy shook her head.
‘Who’s the father?’ Rose asked.
‘She won’t say.’
‘P’raps she don’t know.’
‘Oh?’ The thought and what it implied troubled Daisy. ‘What makes you say that, Rose?’
‘Sounds just like a friend I used to have …’ She rocked Sarah’s baby gently as she fed him. ‘Got mixed up with a right crowd – not that I’m saying your sister has, o’ course. She had a chap who used to make her have laudanum regular. I ’spect it was ’cause ’er’d let him do whatever he wanted with ’er when she was half-baked. There’s some evil sods about.’
‘Oh, I’m sure Sarah would never do anything like that, Rose. She was always brought up to abhor anything like that.’
‘No, I’m sure you’m right. I was just saying about me friend …’ She looked down at the tiny head of the child. ‘He ain’t taking no more. He ain’t had an eyeful either. Still, his little stomach must be full.’ She drew him away from her nipple.
‘Maybe he’s got some wind.’
‘I daresay.’ Rose lifted the baby so that he was upright against her shoulder, his head was lolling over it, a grimace on his tiny face. He emitted a little burp and Rose smiled. ‘There, that’s better. Shall we try some more now?’
‘It puts you off having babies,’ Daisy remarked. ‘But when they’re as sickly as he is you can’t help feeling for them. You can’t help doing your best for them.’
‘Oh, you have to do your best and no two ways.’
The child seemed sated and Rose wiped her nipple. ‘I think that’ll do him for a while.’
‘When shall you come back, Rose?’
‘This afternoon. Just afore teatime.’
Daisy smiled. ‘Thank you, Rose. I’ll have the kettle on and we can have a cup of tea together.’
‘That’s the idea … I do hope the little chap survives. It’s a shame. He didn’t ask to be brought into the world like this, did he?’
Chapter 27
Two weeks passed. There were some anxious days with Sarah, and even more anxious nights when Daisy sat up, watching over her sister, but eventually the fever abated. What remained were the debilitating, unbearable symptoms of early opium deprivation. The child, whom Sarah had decided to call Harry, had gained scarcely any weight at all but so far he had survived. He took a little food, just enough to sustain his tiny body, but he too, despite the soothing syrups Daisy administered to him, was plagued by the lack of opium to which his mother had unwittingly addicted him. His spasms of crying, his pale, cold sweats and his freakish, uncheckable shivering were heart-breaking to behold. Nothing could be done to help him. Only time would cure the awful, unimaginable craving and pain that poor Harry must endure.
It was almost a full-time occupation looking after Titus, let alone the other two invalids. The only relief Daisy had from the interminable drudgery was when she had to go out to buy provisions.
As dinnertime approached one Tuesday towards the end of February, Daisy was glad to escape the confines of the little terraced house and the incessant and frequently unpleasant demands on her. She decided to walk to the town and put some flowers on her mother’s grave. So keen was she to leave that she failed to take proper note of the dark clouds amassed in the sky that threatened a thorough dousing.
She bought some anemones from the florist in High Street and made her way up to Top Church. To get to the grave she had to pass the vestry and, as she reached the top of the steps on the path that led to it, the heavens opened. She had brought no umbrella, and tried the vestry door with the idea of sheltering from the downpour, but it was locked. So she hurried round to the front of the church and entered by the main door. She was not the only person with the same idea and she smiled resignedly at a poorly dressed, elderly woman who had decided to share with her the lofty main entrance beneath the church’s granite spire.
‘Damned weather,’ the old lady declared and her profanity reverberated up the wide curling staircase, echoing in the high void that led to the gallery and the organ loft.
‘Yes, damned weather,’ Daisy agreed, but disinclined to engage in a lengthier conversation. She looked down at the floor, fixing her eyes on the pattern of tiles and thought of John. She had received no word from him yet. It had been her ardent hope that she would have heard from him within a week of her return to England. The post from Italy obviously took longer than she imagined. If it took John twelve weeks to fulfil his obligation to Salvatore Vinaccia in Bologna, it would not matter too much; she was very likely to be stuck in England, nursing Sarah and her father back to health for at least that long. She could not leave them to their own devices. Not at all. Sarah was in no fit state to look after herself, let alone a seriously ailing child and a father rendered decrepit from the effects of chronic gout and galloping consumption. No, for the time being, her home was that unutterable place which belonged to her husband, stuck between untidy allotments and the spoils of mining that came up to the railings like a tide. There was no escape.
‘Who’s the vicar here these days?’ the woman asked.
‘I’m not sure,’ Daisy answered politely. ‘The Reverend Cosens, I think.’
‘I remember the o’d vicar. Cartwright.’
Daisy nodded politely. She had never heard of him.
‘ ’Twas ’im as married me.’ The old woman’s words echoed an
d rang off the cold stone walls. ‘And afore ’im was Luke Booker. He was the one as christened me. It was just afore I had the cholera. They dai’ think as I was gunna live, but I showed ’em. Me fairther died o’ the cholera an’ all. He was on’y thirty. ’Twas the wairter, yo’ know. Yo’ daresn’t drink it unless yo’ biled it fust. Good thing the guvamint did summat about it.’
‘Yes,’ Daisy said.
‘The wairter, I’m on about.’
‘Yes.’
‘Them anemones yo’n got in yer basket am bostin’, ai’ they?’
‘They are. But they cost enough.’
‘For a grave, bin ’em?’
‘Yes, if it ever stops raining.’ At the natural prompt, Daisy opened the church door and peered outside. ‘Oh, it looks as if it’s easing up now.’
‘Thank the Lord.’
Both stepped outside and looked warily up at the sky. The old woman turned left at the bottom of the steps and Daisy turned right. She mounted the streps at the side of the church and returned along the path that led to the graveyard, passing the vestry. Beyond the vestry the path petered out and she trod carefully, trying to avoid the puddles and patches of mud. She could smell the brewery close by, a smell that she liked and disliked at the same time; she liked the fact that it reminded her somehow of potatoes boiling but disliked how hungry it made her feel. Hawthorn trees were bare and stunted in the winter’s chill, but the grass beneath her feet was long and its cold wetness seeped uncomfortably through her dainty boots.
She put down her basket and stooped beside the grave to remove the flowers she had left on her last visit. Holding her coat and skirt up a little to save getting them wet, she made her way to the water butt at the back of the vestry and replenished the enamelled grave vase. She returned to the grave and set about arranging the fresh anemones, admiring them for a second or two, smiling with pleasure at their bright colours. She ignored the crack of a fallen hawthorn twig some way behind her, until the swish-swish of footsteps dragging through the wet grass made her turn round. A hideously familiar figure was striding towards her.
‘Daisy. I thought it had to be you.’
‘Lawson!’ She stood up, unsure how to react. She would rather have encountered some rotting corpse dragging the remains of its mouldering shroud.
‘As I drove up from Stafford Street I could see this figure through the railings bending over a grave,’ he said affably, as though no rift had ever developed, as though they had never been apart. ‘There was no mistaking you. I could barely let pass the opportunity to speak. Although, believe me, I have no intention of intruding on your grief. It goes without saying I was sorry to hear of the death of your mother. Please accept my heartfelt condolences.’
‘Thank you.’
‘However – on a brighter note – it must be said, you look very well.’ He smiled in anticipation of her accepting the compliment.
‘I have kept very well, thank you,’ she replied, unsmiling. ‘Italy seems to have had a beneficial effect on me.’
He had changed not at all. He was as handsome as ever, bright-eyed, smiling warmly, affable charm oozing from every pore.
‘It’s wonderful to see you,’ he continued, raindrops glistening upon the shoulders of his coat and on his hat. ‘Do you intend to stay in England now? Or is this just a fleeting visit?’ There was no rancour, no enmity.
‘I don’t intend to stay longer than necessary,’ she said, relieved by his cordiality and reasonableness. ‘But there’s the question of Sarah … and my father, of course. If you knew about my mother, no doubt you are also aware that Sarah has had a baby?’
‘I heard she was pregnant, yes.’
Daisy shrugged. ‘She had a son a couple of weeks ago. They didn’t expect the poor little mite to live. So far it has, though God knows how. She’s not married either. It’s a tragedy in a girl so young. She had so much to look forward to. She could have taken her pick of any number of decent lads, instead of one who let her down …’
‘I understand how you must feel, Daisy,’ he said, his voice gentle and full of sympathy. ‘I know you thought the world of her.’
‘Still do … Even after she sided with you when I left. Even after she shunned me.’
‘Perhaps the less said about it the better, eh, Daisy? What’s done can’t be undone. If she’s one of the unlucky ones now, all the regrets in the world won’t change it. But time can diminish the cruellest hurts … So how is John Mallory Gibson?’
‘Very fit and very well, thank you … last time I saw him.’
‘Oh? He hasn’t come back with you then?’
‘He’s still in Italy. He’s got a very lucrative commission to fulfil …’ She realised at once that she’d said too much, and looked self-consciously at the toes of her wet shoes poking out beneath her long skirt. Then she looked searchingly into his eyes. ‘Lawson …’
‘Yes?’
‘Lawson … Despite what happened between you and me, I feel bound to thank you for your kindness to my mother and father, and our Sarah … I mean, for allowing them to stay in the house … I would gladly have paid the rent for them. I did offer.’
He waved his hand dismissively. ‘It was the least I could do and honestly, it was of no consequence. Why should they have been punished just because you and me didn’t see eye to eye at the time.’
‘It’s just that, at one time, you said something about them having to get out.’
‘Heat of the moment, I expect. We’re often sorry for things we say in the heat of the moment. Don’t you think?’
She nodded guiltily. ‘Yes, I daresay … Sometimes at least. I suppose I’m as much to blame as anybody.’
‘We all are. We wouldn’t be human if we weren’t …’
It started raining again. Daisy looked up at the sky as if it would yield a clue as to how long it might continue, and felt the cold spots on her face. She wrapped the collection of tired old flowers she was holding in the paper wrapping from the fresh.
‘I’d better go before I get drenched, Lawson. Thanks for stopping to say hello.’
‘There’s no need for you to get drenched, Daisy … Let me give you a lift. Remember there’s a hood on my cabriolet.’
‘So you still have the cabriolet?’
He smiled disarmingly. ‘And the same horse – Docker. Maybe it’s time I settled down to something less racy. Maybe I should buy a clarence or a brougham and employ a liveried driver.’ He gently took her elbow and looked into her eyes appealingly. ‘Let me give you a lift, Daisy. For old times’ sake.’
‘Thank you, but there’s no need. I’m quite happy to walk. Even in this weather. The fresh air will do me good. Besides, I’ve got some shopping to do. Things to buy.’
‘No matter, I’ll take you wherever you want to go. I insist. It would be very ungallant of me not to offer you that courtesy.’
‘Since when has your gallantry ever applied to me?’
‘Hey, that’s unfair, Daisy,’ he said smoothly. He picked up her basket and carried it as he led her away. ‘I was never aware that I was ungallant.’
She did not want to discuss that. ‘I have to go to the bin to throw these old flowers away,’ she said, veering from the path.
He unhanded her and watched her dispose of the rubbish, her face flushed as she avoided a muddy patch. ‘I’ve missed you, you know, Daisy,’ he said when she returned.
‘I don’t want to know,’ she replied.
He laughed affably as he took her arm again. ‘No, I don’t suppose you do. But it’s quite true. You left an indelible mark on me.’
She uttered a little laugh of derision. ‘Lawson, it’s me you’re talking to, not one of your young floozies.’
He laughed again, amused at her coolness. ‘No, maybe I shouldn’t expect you to believe it …’ They descended the steps and reached the pavement where his cabriolet was parked. He handed her up into the passenger seat. ‘Are you comfortable?’
‘Yes, thank you.’
‘As I was saying …’ He clambered in beside her, covered their legs with a waterproof leather carriage apron and flicked the reins. ‘I have missed you. Much more than you would have imagined. You were a good, decent girl and I was a feckless fool for driving you away. Fifteen months of us being apart has made me realise it.’
‘Lawson, I said I don’t want to know, and I really don’t,’ she said bluntly. ‘Oh, I appreciate your friendship, your kindness to my family. But it’s over between us.’
‘Except for the small matter of our still being married … Where do you want to go?’
‘Lipton’s.’
The rain was coming down in rods that hammered on the taut hood of the cabriolet. The horse trotted on over the cobblestones, oblivious to the tumult that was swilling the mire of High Street into the gutters on either side. There were few folk about now. Those that were, were evidently sheltering in the warmth of the shops.
‘Are you happy, Daisy?’
‘Very, if you mean am I happy with John.’
‘I envy him … I never imagined I could … But I do … Having you … His having some sort of ability to make you happy.’
She looked straight ahead, ignoring his comment as she felt his eyes fixed upon her. They fell uncomfortably silent, stuck for further conversation till they pulled up outside Lipton’s store.
‘I shouldn’t be long. I doubt whether it will be very busy. But you don’t have to wait.’
‘I’m in no rush.’
If she could have escaped from him she would. But there was only one way in and out of Lipton’s. So she bought what she needed and resigned herself to him driving her home. At least she would stay relatively dry. But fancy seeing him. His affability had quite disarmed her. She might have expected some aggression, some antagonism, but there was none; only obvious pleasure at seeing her again and his admission, which she was interested in hearing despite her denial, that he had been a feckless fool. Well, his feckless foolery had cost him her love.
