Rich Girl, Poor Girl

by Eileen Ramsay

  ‘They are so poor, Max, and they work so hard, but they seem to have no jealousy. And the children we see look healthy.’

  ‘Country living, Lucy. The back streets of the cities will teem with disease and squalor, just like every place else.’

  ‘I suppose you’re right. I must make notes, though. The chestnut flour for bread and their pastas, eggs, goat’s milk, and cheese.’

  ‘And a long summer of vine-ripened tomatoes, and countless other vegetables and fruits, but think of this paradise in the winter when the snows come down from the mountains.’

  ‘They must preserve food. I shall ask Stella.’

  ‘That will be an interesting conversation,’ laughed Max.

  ‘I meant, you will ask her for me, won’t you Max?’

  ‘I am clay in your hands, Lucy, not marble.’ He looked towards the mountains. ‘Carrara is over there. Carrara, where Michelangelo got his marble. I wonder if we could get there in a day?’

  They never got to Carrara; neither did they see Florence.

  ‘I’d like to paint the house from the top of the mountain. Let’s take a picnic up there.’

  Isa preferred not to go. ‘What am I supposed to do with myself while he sits for hours painting flowers and you get lost in a book? I’ll stay and work with Stella.’

  ‘Analyse that friendship, doctor,’ laughed Max as he encouraged the pony to trot up the mountain path. ‘One speaks not a word of English and the other no Italian, yet they laugh and chatter by the hour together.’

  ‘Perhaps they’re saying perfectly dreadful things to one another.’

  It was a glorious day, the warmest they had had so far. The air was soft and clean and clear. They reached a glade in the shadow of the ruined church that towered above the valley and unharnessed the pony.

  ‘I hope I can catch the little rascal this afternoon or we’ll have a long walk and some explaining to do to Mauro.’

  Max set up his easel and Lucy spread a blanket on the grass and sat beside him. She did not read, but closed her eyes to enjoy the feel of the warm sun on her face. The sounds of the valley floated up to join those of the mountain; bird-song, bells, the dull but rhythmic sound of a woodcutter, running water. Lucy slept.

  ‘Una biquieri di vino rosso, Signora?’ Max’s voice disturbed her. He was sitting beside her on the blanket, two glasses of Mauro’s raw red wine in his hands. ‘You hold the glasses and I’ll get the bread and cheese.’

  The food tasted as Lucy had never tasted simple bread and cheese before.

  ‘It’s the air,’ said Max, and then he kissed her and it was the most natural thing in the world. She was lost in his kiss; she knew nothing, thought nothing. All she could do was feel. His hand was on the buttons of her blouse and, for a second, Lucy’s eyes flew open and she could have said no. But her senses, so long repressed, were surging and seething and her whole body was on fire with longing. His fingers touched her breast, his lips found her nipples and she moaned with a desire for fulfilment. He moved away from her and she groaned and pulled him closer. She could not bear it; he must not leave her. She was dying.

  And then his body blotted out the sun and she knew nothing, nothing but the wonder of Max du Pay . . .

  She opened her eyes to a snowfall of white apple blossoms. They were on Max’s hair, his back, her breast. She laughed and Max opened his eyes.

  ‘Veronese,’ he said and kissed her again.

  ‘Canaletto,’ she answered and allowed her hand to slide with proud ownership over his bare broad shoulders. ‘But I’m too skinny for a Veronese portrait.’

  ‘You are magnificent,’ he said.

  Lucy shivered.

  ‘The sun has gone behind a cloud,’ he said and helped her to her feet. ‘Well, ma’am, I have come to a decision today. I love Lucy Graham and I want to stay here and paint for the rest of our lives.’

  Lucy turned away from him as she fastened her skirt. Her mind was racing. Stay here for ever? He loved her. She had to love him. She could not have responded to him so eagerly and fully if she did not. But stay here? What about her patients? Isa?

  He smiled down at her, a smile tinged with sadness. Had he expected her to say something? Of course he had. But what could she say?

  ‘Come along, Miss Modesty. Help me catch Generalissimo.’

  The pony was only too happy to be harnessed and Max seemed to be totally occupied in harnessing him and loading the little cart. Lucy reached for the picnic basket just as he did and their hands met. He tightened his hold on her fingers and Lucy trembled as the fire that had consumed her began again to glow.

  ‘Oh no, please, Max, don’t touch me. I can’t think.’

  ‘I know. I don’t want you to think, Lucy.’

  ‘It’s not fair.’

  He bowed; there were still blossoms in his hair and her hand ached to reach out and touch them.

  ‘We’ll talk at the table. You at one end, me at the other.’

  ‘We’ll have to shout,’ said Lucy and he smiled.

  Isa and Stella watched them arrive back at the house. Stella smiled and shrugged as if to say, ‘Of course it has happened. They are in love.’

  Isa did not shrug with the calm easy acceptance of the Italian. She shook her head and went back to washing the vegetables. Vegetables were the same in Scotland or Italy; they came out of the ground dirty and you washed them.

  Lucy wore the red dress at dinner.

  It seemed as if Stella had lit every candle she could find in Tuscany and the sombre dining room was bright as day. The candlelight glowed on Lucy’s white shoulders; it revealed highlights in her dark hair and it showed her eyes sparkling and shimmering.

  Max stood behind her to pour the wine. He did not touch her but still she felt as if his hands caressed her shoulders as they had caressed her body a few hours before. They did not shout, they did not even speak. They sipped the sparkling Italian wine and their eyes talked across the table.

  Stella placed the food before them and they made an attempt to eat. Lucy tasted nothing, she did not know what she ate. When Stella came to remove the plates of antipasto Max stood up and Lucy watched him as he came to her. She gave him her hand and he pulled her to him. He did not kiss her but stood for a moment looking down at her, and the desire in her rose to meet his. His arm went around her waist and, unafraid, she went with him.

  Stella found the room empty when she returned with the steaming vegetables. She shrugged and smiled.

  ‘Well, well,’ she said. ‘The chickens will feast tomorrow.’

  *

  For three days they lived in a world where nothing mattered but their love. All day they talked and said nothing that was significant, content to live for the moment in the world of their senses. They took huge picnics with them to local beauty spots and while Lucy ate – she could not believe her appetite – Max painted. He painted furiously as if he had already wasted too much time, or perhaps as if he knew that it would be years before he painted again. All night they loved and Lucy thought of nothing but Max and her need for his hands, his mouth, his body.

  On the fourth day they went once more to the orchard above the Casata, and Max painted Lucy as she lay among the blossoms. They returned to the house to find the telegram which had followed him from Venice and lay on the table. All her life Lucy was to hate telegrams.

  ‘They’re never good news, are they, Max?’ she said.

  ‘It’s my father.’ His face was grim. ‘I have to leave at once, Lucy. I may be too late already.’

  Less than an hour later, she said ‘Goodbye’ to him.

  ‘Oh, dear God, if only it wasn’t so far,’ he groaned into her hair as he held her close.

  ‘You’ll write, Max, when you can? I’ll wait for your letter.’

  She stood in the soft Italian dusk for a long time and watched the progress of the pony and trap as it went off down the mountain. Even after she could no longer see it, she stood on the terrace under the great vine and looked down into t
he valley.

  ‘Caffè, Signora?’ Stella was there and Isa, an Isa with eyes full of sadness.

  ‘Si, Stella. Grazie.’ She took the coffee. How hot it was. How good.

  ‘We’ll leave tomorrow, Isa. We really shouldn’t have stayed so long. Mrs Anderson-Howard – (somehow the name didn’t hurt) – has held the practice together too long on her own.’

  *

  They took a cab from the station when they finally arrived in Dundee. Isa was white with exhaustion and Lucy felt guilty. Isa was too old to be trundling around Europe like this.

  ‘I told Donald I’d aye bide with you to look after you, Miss Lucy, and that’s what I’m going to do,’ she had insisted.

  ‘You can have a good sleep in your own bed tonight, Isa, and a lovely long rest tomorrow.’

  ‘A rest . . . with my kitchen not scrubbed for weeks?’ The jute-filled air of Dundee had revived Isa as the clear air of Tuscany had rejuvenated Lucy. For the first time since the telegram, Lucy was able to smile.

  ‘It was sensible to come back before I’d made any irrevocable decisions,’ Lucy told herself as she stood in front of her mirror brushing her hair, hair that Max had admired as it tumbled down over her bare shoulders.

  ‘You should always wear blossoms.’ She could almost hear his soft warm Southern voice.

  She trembled and was suddenly filled with an agonizing sense of loss. Max, Max, her body whispered across the miles. She ached for him. If only, if only. ‘Selfish,’ she scolded herself and tried to think of Max’s father and of Max’s unhappiness. Had he really made the decision to stay in Italy? Could she have, would she have stayed with him?

  She hardly slept and welcomed the bracing effect of the cold water she splashed over her face and neck next morning. When she had finished dressing she looked again in the mirror. Tall, thin, almost sallow. Brown hair pulled back tightly into a coil. A high-buttoned, plainly cut dark blue dress. This was the woman who had gone to Italy to nurse a broken heart. Of the naked girl in the apple orchard there was no sign.

  When Rose arrived for her morning consultations, Lucy was already seated at her desk going through the accumulation of letters and notes on cases that awaited her. Rose was conscientious and thorough and her notations were copious and detailed. They made it easy for Lucy to greet Kier’s wife.

  ‘And how is Kier?’ she was able to ask as they finished the coffee Isa brought for them.

  ‘Thoroughly happy,’ said Rose. ‘He is taking a real interest in finding us a house in Dundee. This daily travelling across the Tay is really not very sensible for me.’

  ‘No, you’re right. It does make for a tiring day. Where are you looking?’

  ‘Kier likes Broughty Ferry, but I think a small flat in this area. Kier thinks he’ll want to stay in town during the week but really, it would be more sensible for him to stay at home. We don’t need two large houses.’

  Lucy looked at her and heard the deliberately light tone. Six months’ married, and already Rose was talking of separate living arrangements. Of course it was sensible. She was seeing a problem where none existed, she told herself as she stood up.

  ‘You have had to work so hard while I was away, Rose. I don’t know how you managed it. Perhaps you would enjoy a few days at home, or to go house-hunting?’

  ‘I’ve loved every minute, Lucy,’ protested Rose. ‘I don’t mean that I haven’t missed you . . . the practice hasn’t missed you, I mean, but I’ve relished it, being responsible. At last, at last I am a real doctor and you trusted me enough to leave me in charge. I hope I haven’t made any mistakes.’

  ‘It’s unlikely that the best diagnostician of her year has made any mistakes,’ said Lucy drily, ‘but we ought to start seeing our patients. I have a paper to write on the health of Dundee school-children, and I would like to do as many home visits as I can today. If you’ll send in my first patient on your way out . . .’

  Eczema, ecthyma, strumous sores, psoriasis, scabies, warts; Mrs Campbell to be assured that her first pregnancy was progressing perfectly naturally; polite and encouraging words to tell Mrs Hartley without offence that there was nothing wrong with her that less rich food and more exercise wouldn’t cure; Mrs McLeod to be told that, yes, she had a tubercular disease and that it had gone too far for there to be much her doctor could do for her except make her more comfortable.

  There was no time for lunch, not that day nor the next nor the next. How had Rose managed on her own? Hospital visits had to be made – not many, only to her wealthy patients in their private rooms. Oh, the frustration of not being allowed into the general wards to see the women there, to see anyone, man, woman or child. Overworked, underpaid male doctors struggled along in the wards because too many still believed that women were too delicate and pure to be subjected to the sights they would see in a hospital.

  Rose raged. Lucy accepted.

  ‘It’s changing, Rose, but things move slowly and we will only hold up the changes that are bound to come if we antagonize everyone in power. You are a doctor. Isn’t that enough for now?’

  Rose’s answer was almost a groan. ‘No, no, no. It isn’t. I have to admit that I long to change the world.’

  Lucy smiled. This was the Rose she liked and admired. ‘You have changed it, doctor. Now go home. You have a husband to look after now too, and I have my paper still to finish.’

  ‘I shall be anxious to see your paper, if I may. Remember I have first-hand experience of both the Harris and the city centre schools.’

  Lucy looked up from her notes. Rose was standing in the doorway. Where had she come from, the beautifully groomed and dressed woman who stood there, a diamond and ruby brooch glittering amongst the lace at her throat?

  ‘Rubies, let me buy you rubies.’ She heard Max’s voice so clearly that she almost answered him again: ‘Don’t be foolish.’ She had packed away the red dress carefully. When would she ever wear it again? Italy. Italy. Just a few days ago I was in Italy in an orchard and Max . . .

  ‘Are you all right, Lucy?’ Rose’s voice was concerned.

  ‘Tired, as you must be.’

  ‘I’ll say goodnight then. You must visit and tell us all about Italy, Lucy. Kier is especially keen to hear all about Venice.’

  Venice. Casata d’Aurora. In the busy days that followed Lucy began to feel almost as if it had never happened. She prepared her paper:

  I have examined 539 girls. Among these were six mentally defective twelve-year-olds who are being dealt with in the infant classes. They have learned nothing.

  There are appalling differences between children from various schools. In good schools, and I mention particularly the Harris Academy, girls and boys seem equal in their intelligence and ability, but in the poorer areas girls are much brighter.

  Lucy stopped writing and looked again at her notes. Bodies very dirty. The boy with honeycombed teeth. Rickets. Lice. Enlarged hearts. St Vitus’ dance. Bowed legs, flat feet, spinal curvatures, knock-knees, pigeon breasts, rickets, rickets and more rickets, wryneck, cleft palates, anaemia . . . oh, God, would the list of the sufferings of children never end? If they could only get better food; if there could be cleaner air in the classrooms. Surely opening windows would be a good start? Could there be some way that they could remove outdoor clothing indoors? Cloakrooms of some kind? Sometimes it appeared that the ones without shoes and coats were healthier than those well wrapped up. Perhaps it was because wet feet dry much faster than wet shoes.

  In the poorer schools, the older girls are usually quite clean, but the bodies of the smaller children are very dirty and their heads are lousy . . .

  It was then that Lucy realized that for the first time since she had begun to menstruate she had missed a flow.

  17

  Dundee

  IT WAS IMPOSSIBLE to expect a letter from Max so soon and yet Lucy found herself feverishly turning the letters on the breakfast table over and over, half hoping that somehow she had missed an envelope with Max’s
distinctive thick black writing on the front.

  ‘I will not panic,’ she told herself a million times a day while she dealt with other women’s wanted and unwanted pregnancies.

  ‘Shall I write to him?’ She did not. If she wrote she would be forcing him into a decision which he had to make for himself. Instinctively Lucy knew that, if she were to tell Maximilian du Pay that she was expecting his child, he would move mountains to marry her.

  ‘He has to want me, just for me,’ Lucy whispered as she lay night after night in sweat-soaked sheets, and tried to work out how long it would take a letter from Max to reach her.

  ‘He needs to write it first, and if his father is ill he will be too worried and too busy, and if his father has died then he will have the funeral to arrange and the family business to re-organize. He will have no time to write to me until everything is settled. It could take months. I must be patient.’

  Lucy remembered that Max’s father had been a member of the United States Senate, and she tried hard to recall everything her mother had said about the family, but try as she would nothing came back. The young Lucy Graham had been too interested in flirting with a Russian count – or had he been French? She could not remember. He had mattered so little and Max du Pay mattered so much. How had he come to mean so much and in so short a time?

  I didn’t even like him, she told herself in anguish. He was so arrogant, so sure of himself. And then she turned her head into her pillow and wept. ‘I must have been so young: too young to realize, to see how really wonderful he was.’

  And still no letter came.

  ‘Are you all right, Lucy?’

  It would be impossible to hide from the trained eyes of another doctor, a doctor bursting with youth and beauty.

  ‘You have been working so hard since you came back. You must come and dine with us on Saturday,’ Rose went on. ‘I have made a few changes to the house, just a few, and I would like to hear what you think of them. And then there’s Venice. You promised to tell us all about Venice.’