by J. D. Oswald
She hurried to the end of St Thomas Street, up St Swithun’s Street and then onto St Cross Road and was soon climbing the steps to Godwin’s surgery. This time the maid invited Philippa inside without question. In the packed entrance hall, Eddie Palfrey swayed his head in Philippa’s direction.
‘Is that you nurse?’
‘Yes it is Mr Palfrey.’
‘I’ve been a good boy and rinsed my eye every day. Do I get a reward?’ A few of the men sniggered.
Philippa stared sternly around the room and the sniggering subsided. It was a look that she had learned from her Matron during the War. ‘I’ll see you later Mr Palfrey.’
Doctor Godwin was waiting at the door of his consulting room. ‘I’m glad you weren’t put off by your first experience Miss Lambert.’
‘Not at all. I’ve been looking forward to it.’
‘Right well, let’s get on shall we. Please would you fetch Albert Glasspool, the young man with microstoma.’
She found Albert in the chair nearest to the consulting room. He had developed sores around his shrunken mouth since she had last seen him. He winced as he wiped away the saliva with his handkerchief.
‘You should put petroleum jelly on your skin,’ she said to him, ‘it’ll form a barrier against the wetness.’ He nodded and tried to smile, making him wince even more.
Doctor Godwin waited until Albert had seated himself stiffly in the chair in front of the desk and then opened up a file. ‘I have a date for your operation,’ he said cheerfully.
Albert’s only reaction was a slight widening of his eyes.
‘Friday 19th December. It’ll mean you’ll be in hospital for Christmas but it’s worth that small sacrifice I’m sure you’ll agree. Miss Lambert, please take my chair and I’ll run through Albert’s case.’ Godwin vacated his seat and moved to stand next to the patient. ‘Albert sustained injuries to both his upper and lower lips, although thankfully there was no loss of bone. Unfortunately his military doctors failed to prevent the mouth contracting due to this ring of keloid scar tissue.’ Godwin pointed to the rubbery lesions surrounding Albert’s mouth. ‘There’s been considerable loss of mucus membrane from the lower lip. The good news is that Doctor Gillies at Sidcup has operated on a similar case. I wrote to him about Albert and he sent me the case notes and photographs. You’ll find them in the file.’
Philippa moved a few papers aside to reveal three photographs. The first showed a young man with a ragged gaping hole where his mouth should have been, as if a shell had exploded from inside. This was labelled Early condition. In the second photograph, Healed condition, the young man’s mouth had sucked itself inwards in a remarkably similar way to Albert’s. The remaining photograph was labelled Final; the man’s upper lip had been reconstructed and his teeth were visible although he still had the sunken lower lip of a toothless old man. She read the accompanying notes: This case is one of interest and also of partial failure. Before plastic repair, a preliminary excision of all scar tissue was performed. In regard to the upper lip, careful resuture, combined with the pulling out of the mucus membrane, gave a sufficiently satisfactory result. For the lower lip, double nasolabial descending flaps were used. However, there was a great shortage of the lining membrane of the lip which prevented the fitting of a lower denture. The patient refused further treatment.
‘Do you wish to go ahead with the operation Albert?’ Godwin asked.
Albert reached forward for a pencil and paper. Will it work? he wrote.
‘I have every hope but you may need to have more than one operation, so you must stick it out. Can you do that?’
Albert nodded.
‘Very good. Here’s the address. You should arrive the day before and pack your pyjamas and a change of clothes. See the maid on your way out and she’ll give you the money for the journey.’
Albert’s eyes widened again. He stood up and stretched out his hand. Doctor Godwin shook it. ‘Good luck,’ he said.
After Albert had left, Godwin went to the window and peered out of a gap in the blind.
‘Do you think the operation will be a success?’ Philippa asked.
‘I do hope so,’ Godwin said quietly. He turned to face her. ‘Now for Mr Palfrey, if you don’t mind Miss Lambert. It seems he is rather an admirer of yours.’
***
Every December, the Mayor and Mayoress of Winchester held a sherry and mince pie reception in the Guildhall in aid of the Mayor’s chosen charitable cause. The Dean and Chapter were always invited. For the last several years, the Dean had made his excuses – he and the Mayor, Councillor Gordon Carew Cox, did not see eye to eye for a reason known only to the Dean – and so the task of representing the Chapter was allotted to his Canons. This year, it was Creswell’s turn.
He arrived at the Guildhall at a few minutes past six, hoping to register his presence early and then slip away. The same idea had occurred to many others. He joined the couples climbing the double staircase that led through granite columns into the lobby. He recognised many of them – parish priests, churchwardens, shopkeepers, surgeons, Councillors, senior army officers, gentleman farmers, all arm in arm with their wives. Head Constable Sim and his wife Peggy had just gone inside. The Headmaster of the College, the MP for Winchester and the Lord Lieutenant of Hampshire would have been invited but Creswell doubted that he would see any of those men here. He wondered if Dorothy Wing-Smyth and her husband would attend. The invitation had been addressed to the Dean and Chapter, and their wives, and no doubt the invitation to the Council would have been expressed in the same way. Creswell doubted that Dorothy would be deterred by that.
A young woman with an uninterested smile took Creswell’s hat and cloak and directed him along the main corridor to the entrance to King Alfred Hall. He followed the smell of spices and warm pastry. A waiter hovering in the doorway offered him a half-filled glass of caramel-coloured sherry. It was too sweet and warm for his taste. The army chaplains in South Africa had used watered down sweet sherry as communion wine – it kept better in the heat. He had found it as unpleasant then as he did now.
The Hall was a lofty rectangular space with arched windows high in the wall overlooking an iron-balustraded gallery. It was mostly used for dances and political gatherings and felt austerely functional compared with the Guildhall’s Gothic exterior. The two tables in the centre – one for mince pies and the other for collecting buckets – looked rather forlorn. Those who had already arrived had positioned themselves defensively with their backs to the walls, immobilised by their plated mince pies and sherry glasses. Mayor Cox in full red regalia and polished chain stood close to the tables talking intensely with another man, their heads almost touching. The Mayor shifted his position giving Creswell a clear view of his companion. It was Jeremiah Hibberd, dapper in a well-cut grey suit, his hair slicked back. He must have come alone. Jeremiah’s unwavering stare settled on Creswell and he whispered something to the Mayor who turned and strode towards Creswell, arms outstretched.
‘Canon Strange. Welcome.’ The Mayor’s gaze flickered over Creswell’s shoulder. ‘Can we expect any of your fellow Canons? The Dean...?’
‘The Dean sends his profuse apologies,’ Creswell interrupted. He lowered his voice. ‘A rather urgent and confidential matter has arisen, necessitating a meeting with the Bishop.’ It was better to let the man down gently.
‘Oh I see,’ the Mayor said in equally hushed tones. ‘I understand such burdens completely. Only last week I was forced to arrive half an hour late to the Mayor of Basingstoke’s Christmas reception as my secretary needed an immediate decision regarding the location of the Guildhall’s Christmas tree.’
Cox spoke in all seriousness. Creswell nodded and hid a smile. The Mayor moved on, leaving Creswell to help himself to two mince pies. Crumbly golden pastry, deep juicy mincemeat and plenty of brandy gave a little recompense. He dropped a note into one of the charity buckets and then surveyed the room. He was well aware that, as a clergyman, he was expected to strike up
conversations with strangers, although he would have much preferred to spend his time with Sim. After finishing his mince pies, he selected a haggard middle-aged couple who stood close to the door, ill-at-ease in their Sunday best. They almost pounced on his friendliness. He found out that they were newcomers to Winchester, having taken on the tenancy of Barton Farm at the end of the war. He felt a little sorry for them; it was not easy to infiltrate Winchester society. They had left three children at home, they told him, including a sickly baby. Once Creswell had shown an interest, the children were all the woman could talk about. Her husband looked on, smiling indulgently. Soon Creswell knew all about the boy’s fascination with newts, the girl’s talent on the recorder, their concerns that the baby boy had not yet been baptised. In situations like these, Creswell dreaded the inevitable polite question about his own family but these people were so self-absorbed, the question never came. Soon a small group had gathered around them, attracted by their conversation in a room devoid of it. Many spoke up for the urgency of baptism – it would be such a comfort for you; just imagine how you’d feel if the worst happened and it hadn’t been done; would the child even be a Christian? – turning to Creswell as they spoke, seeking confirmation of their position. There was one dissenter, a thin man sporting a handlebar moustache, who dismissed the concerns of the majority as ‘superstitious poppycock.’ Baptism would do nothing, the man asserted, to change the child’s ‘origins.’ He then began to lecture on ‘the scandal of the unmarried mother’ which in his ‘humble opinion’ could be blamed on the American troops who had been based at Morn Hill. Creswell did his best to keep the debate civil but fifteen minutes was all that he could stand. He was relieved to see that Dorothy had arrived. He excused himself and went to greet her.
She was wearing a softly cut black silk dress, very different from her usual woollen jackets and long skirts. It showed off her slim figure.
‘Hello Creswell. It’s your turn this year is it?’ She took a sip of sherry and pulled a face.
‘Not to your taste either?’ Creswell asked.
‘I’ve never got used to it,’ Dorothy smiled, ‘despite the Council’s proclivity for serving it at every possible opportunity.’
‘Is Robert not with you?’
‘He’s still stuck out in India. I heard today that he won’t be returning until January. Christmas will be rather dull without him.’
‘Well your arrival has rescued me from a rather tiresome conversation concerning the state of the country’s morals.’
Dorothy glanced over Creswell’s shoulder. ‘Councillor Umpleby. No doubt it was a great deal of talk about very little.’
Creswell laughed. ‘Yes, that’s a rather accurate description.’
‘All children born out of wedlock would be sent to the orphanage and their mothers to the workhouse, if he had his way. He has no compassion.’
‘How did he take to your election?’
Dorothy sniffed. ‘My name forces him into grudging courtesy, although the same could be said for all of them at first. Some have come round. Sometimes I believe they’ve forgotten that I’m the only woman. Never Umpleby though – he always makes a point of asking what “our lady Councillor” has to say.’
‘I’m sure you’re able to hold your own.’
‘I am but it’s exhausting. I wonder if it’s worth the...’
The sound of a spoon chinking against glass directed all eyes towards the Mayor. He picked up one of the charity buckets and clambered onto a stool, assisted by Jeremiah Hibberd who then moved to one side.
‘Ladies and Gentlemen, could I have your attention please. You are most welcome to this modest event in aid of the National Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children.’ There was a smattering of polite applause. ‘Christmas has long been a time of over-indulgence for a few, while the poor, the neglected and the maltreated can only look on. I know from my own modest beginnings how even the smallest act of charitable kindness can make a difference between a life of ignorance and pain, and a chance to better oneself. I would ask that you give generously. There are some here who have already done so.’ The Mayor inclined his head towards Hibberd who returned the compliment with a lopsided smile. ‘I’m certain that those who’ve already donated would urge others to do the same. Future generations depend upon it. And finally, may I wish you all a very merry Christmas and a peaceful New Year.’
He stepped down to a cry of ‘three cheers for the Mayor’ from someone at the back.
‘He won’t get much,’ Dorothy whispered. ‘We’re surprisingly mean in this great Christian city.’
As if to disprove her words, there was a surge of people towards the collecting buckets, many ostentatiously depositing ten bob notes or handfuls of half crown coins.
‘It seems you are wrong,’ Creswell said.
‘Yes it does,’ Dorothy said thoughtfully. Then she turned to face him. ‘Tell me about your investigation. There are two bodies now I hear.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Any suspects?’
‘One or two.’
‘How’s Philippa faring?’
‘Very well. She’s keen to help.’
‘Unpaid I understand,’ Dorothy said.
‘As am I.’
‘Ah. Then why...?’
‘I’ve often asked myself the same question. I once heard it said that the dead are the property of the living and the archaeologist is the world's agent for the estate of the grave.’ He realised that he sounded rather pompous. ‘I think of the detective in much the same way. I believe that no violent death should go unpunished.’
‘You’re an instrument of God’s justice then?’
‘No I wouldn’t say that.’ He hoped that she was teasing him.
‘So what is Philippa’s purpose?’
‘She...two minds are better than one, and she has knowledge that I don’t possess, about medical matters, women’s things...’ He tailed off under Dorothy’s unflinching glare.
‘Women’s things?’
‘Yes clothes and the like.’ Dorothy’s unimpressed stare had not softened. ‘She demonstrates excellent observation.’
‘I see. What will Philippa do when the investigation comes to an end?’
‘Do? Carry on with her work, the same as me.’
‘It’ll be hard for her. Other opportunities will come your way. The same cannot be said for her.’
Creswell could not disagree. They stood together in silence. People were beginning to say their goodbyes. He had planned to be doing much the same by this time but now felt reluctant to do so. Beside him, Dorothy sighed. ‘I suppose I’d better save those poor people from Umpleby. Every one of them is a future voter after all.’ She stretched out her hand and he took it and held it for a moment, feeling her long fingers wrap around his. Then she walked away.
In the doorway he looked back over his shoulder and saw that Jeremiah Hibberd was watching him.
When that nurse came out to get that poor wretch Glasspool, she bent quite close to me and her face came into focus (not sharp focus but just enough) for the first time. I hadn’t realised that my eye had improved so much.
Well, who’d have thought it! My little lady transformed into a stern matron. She doesn’t recognise me of course. Shall I tell her do you think? If I just said her first name, like Jesus did to Mary Magdalene, I know she’d know. It would be rather marvellous to see the look on her face.
How has she ended up in this Godforsaken city? I could get her back, I’m sure of it. Tempting! It might be fun for a while but from recent experience, probably more trouble than it’s worth. And she looks different – sad, withdrawn. I suppose I should take some responsibility for that. No, I’ll keep it to myself for the time beginning.
25
Thursday 11th December
The weather was dank and drizzly that evening. A strong wind gusted through the Cathedral buttresses, whirling the leaves into clouds and rendering umbrellas useless. Not that anyone would have known
from inside the Cathedral. Gales, lashing rain, even thunder could hardly disturb the stillness. Only sunlight was able to infiltrate its walls which Creswell thought rather apposite, although there were many dark corners that the sun’s lancing beams could not reach.
Turnout for Evensong was low. It was a congregation of stalwarts mostly, apart from a group of elderly women, visitors from another diocese, and a lone girl sitting on the decani side. She wore a belted fur coat several sizes too big and a leghorn trimmed with a bedraggled feather.
Creswell knew that he recognised the girl from somewhere. Not until the Magnificat and words ‘the lowliness of his handmaiden’ did an image – a shirt sleeve – and then a name – Mrs Barratt – come to him. She was the older, diffident one from the Diocesan Refuge.
After the service, he noticed that Mrs Barratt was loitering in the north nave aisle in that conspicuous way people tend to adopt when they are trying to achieve the opposite impression. She pretended to read the military memorials on the wall and then checked the contents of her handbag, glancing over at him from time to time. The final note of the organ voluntary sounded, so deep that the whole building seemed to quake, the vibrations felt before the sound was heard. He decided to save her the discomfiture of approaching him. He strode towards her, hand outstretched.
‘Mrs Barratt isn’t it? I’m glad you could join us on this dismal evening.’
Her hand hung limply in his. ‘I don’t usually.’
‘No. Where do you attend?’
‘I used to go to St Bartholomew’s regular as you like. Not anymore. I’m not welcome you see.’ The hurt behind her eyes belied her defiant voice.
‘Ah, I’m sorry to hear that.’ Creswell did not feel inclined to defend the Reverend Wynyard Kaye, a man well known for his attitude towards any woman classed as fallen or friendless. ‘I trust you found yourself welcome here.’
‘They gave me a seat in the front pew.’
‘Good.’
‘I’d rather have been at the back.’
