Saturday's Child

by Ruth Hamilton

  ‘Why didn’t I get it?’ she asked the chair opposite, the seat in which her husband usually rested after a day down the pit. And it had come on so quickly, too, man and boy toppling one after the other, pains in limbs, sweat-beaded brows, then the delirium. Was it typhoid? There had been talk of that, something to do with imported corned beef. But they hadn’t eaten any corned beef just lately. And what about the others, those who worked with Sam and Danny, kiddies who were in Aaron’s class, in Roy’s class? Was this going to turn into an epidemic?

  The door opened. ‘Lily?’

  It was Magsy O’Gara. ‘Stop where you are,’ yelled Lily. ‘They’ve got summat and it could be typhoid.’

  There followed a short silence. ‘Are you all right?’ was Magsy’s question.

  ‘Aye, I am the only one what is all right,’ replied Lily.

  ‘Only my Beth’s gone missing.’

  Immediately, Lily’s spine was rigid. ‘She came for the dog, love. Then she went next door to do a message. Eeh, that was over an hour ago, Mags, because I went for the doctor, then I waited for the ambulance men, and . . .’ Oh, God. Roy and Beth had spent a lot of time together lately, training pups to walk on leads, encouraging the dogs to go outside to perform their toilet. ‘Aye, it’s well over an hour,’ she concluded, her heart banging in her chest.

  ‘Paul Horrocks is looking for her,’ shouted Magsy.

  Lily jumped up and pulled on her coat. ‘Get home,’ she said, ‘wait there in case she comes back. I’ll go out and search for her.’ It was too late to worry about spreading germs. In her heart of hearts, Lily already knew that little Beth had the same illness as Roy, that the child was in trouble.

  Then she heard the noise. It was an unearthly sound, something between a roar and a screech. Without hesitation, Lily ran out of her house, down the yard and into the back alley. There she found Nellie Hulme, two little dogs at her feet, the unconscious Beth in her arms. Nellie was crying, screaming, howling. In all the years she had spent in Prudence Street, Lily had heard no sound from Nellie. ‘Wait,’ she ordered, her mouth wide so that Nellie would get the drift.

  Yes, it was far too late to worry about germs and quarantine. Lily dashed back through her house and dragged Magsy inside. ‘Back street,’ she said breathlessly. ‘Nellie’s got her. Go on, hurry up.’

  Lily forced herself to sit down while Nellie and Magsy carried the child into her kitchen. The two little dogs greeted their mother with a joy that seemed inappropriate on this occasion. When Beth was stretched out on the horsehair sofa, Nellie sat down at the table, tears streaming down her face. She had carried Beth for two blocks, had found the child in a frozen heap, the already loyal Tinker lying on top of her, as if offering his warmth to the sick girl.

  Lily sighed, weariness and misery etched into the sound. ‘Get the ambulance,’ she advised Magsy. ‘Go up to Dr Clarke’s – he’ll sort it out for you.’ She watched the Irishwoman, who seemed frozen to the spot. ‘Magsy,’ she yelled, ‘get gone, because there’s talk of typhoid.’

  Galvanized by this statement, Magsy fled from the house, Lily’s front door slamming in her wake.

  Lily studied the cleaned-up Nellie, watched the face of a woman who seemed truly grief-stricken. ‘You’d better go,’ she mouthed. ‘All my lot’s in hospital.’

  Nellie nodded, stood up and took hold of Spot’s lead. ‘Write a note if you want anything,’ she mouthed. She pointed to Spot. ‘Get me if you need me. He tells me. He’ll tell me if you come.’

  Lily kept a close eye on Beth after Nellie had left. The child’s breathing was rapid and shallow, while twin spots of colour on her cheeks advertised fever raging beneath the skin. Was this going to be like the plague all over again? Lily had read about that, had learned that the fire of London had been the killer of that particular epidemic. Oh, God, she felt guilty. ‘I’m selfish,’ she told Skinny and Tinker. ‘I prayed for change and it looks like I’m going to get it.’

  Absently, she fed the bitch and the pup a few scraps from the beef tea meat. She covered Beth with a shawl, gave both dogs a dish of watered-down milk, brewed tea for herself.

  The third ambulance arrived just as the doctor and Magsy walked into number 3. Lily sat by the fire, the two dogs held in close so that they would not interfere in the work of the masked men. Like Lily, Magsy was told to stay away from the hospital and to report any symptoms of her own which might develop.

  Paul Horrocks arrived, his square jaw dropping as he entered the house unannounced. ‘How long has she been like that?’ he asked Magsy, a hand pointing towards the stretcher on which Beth lay. ‘She was all right, wasn’t she?’

  Magsy shook her head. ‘She seemed all right, but it’s plain that she wasn’t.’ Her whole life lay on that stretcher. Without Beth, Magsy would have no reason at all to continue alive. When Beth had been removed from the house, when the bell announced the ambulance’s departure, Magsy walked to the door.

  ‘Shall I come with you?’ asked Paul.

  Magsy shook her head. ‘No. Thank you, but I want to be alone just now.’

  When Magsy had gone, Paul placed himself on a kitchen chair. ‘Can I get you anything?’ he asked.

  ‘No,’ replied Lily.

  ‘We’ve some brandy at home.’

  ‘No,’ she said again.

  He inclined his head. ‘What the hell’s going on? Beth only came for her dog.’

  ‘Nellie must have found her unconscious,’ said Lily. ‘Walking her puppy, I should think.’ She raised her head and looked him full in the face. ‘They’re talking about typhoid.’

  ‘Good God.’

  ‘Aye.’ She turned her face to the fire. ‘Ever since Dot Barnes got away – no – before that – I’ve been fed up. I even took to talking to meself in yon mirror.’ She lifted a limp hand and pointed to the overmantel glass. ‘I wanted to get out of here, Paul. I wanted it so bad . . . and bad’s the word. All I could see in front of me were years of drudgery here and up at the pub. I kept imagining living out yonder where Dot’s gone with her Frank and young Rachel. It’s as if I were jealous of her.’

  ‘But you’re not like that, Mrs Hardcastle. Stop blaming yourself. You’ve enough trouble without hitting yourself with a big stick.’

  ‘It should have been me,’ she said. ‘If anybody deserves typhoid fever, it’s not my kids and it’s not my husband – it’s me.’

  ‘Rubbish,’ he answered.

  ‘And you shouldn’t be here, neither. It’s catching, you know. You touch summat they’ve touched, and you could be dead in days. So get off with you, Paul, and give my regards to your mam.’

  He had no intention of going home. No way would he leave Magsy O’Gara by herself on Christmas Eve, the beloved daughter in hospital, not even the pup for company. ‘Will you hang on to Tinker?’ he asked.

  ‘Course I will. Go on, love.’

  He went. He would call tomorrow, just to make sure that Lily was all right. But for now, Magsy needed him.

  It was plain that Magsy wanted no-one. When his knocking brought no response, he let himself into number 2 and searched the house from top to bottom. She was not there.

  He sat by a dying fire, his mind rushing about like a mad hound. He knew where she was, oh yes, he knew, all right. Without her darling Beth, Magsy would shrivel and die like an autumn leaf. She had gone to the infirmary, of that he felt sure.

  Right. He stood up and drew a hand through unruly hair. It was time to call in a favour, time to appeal to the good nature of Pat Murphy. First, he must see Mam, explain what had happened, then he needed to get a van or a wagon from Pat. He would force Magsy to come home . . .

  An unbidden smile visited his face. Trying to imagine Magsy being forced into anything was not easy. She was a woman of guts and determination and that was why he loved her. However, he could only try . . .

  Nine

  When Paul Horrocks reached the infirmary, midnight had arrived. He drove Pat Murphy’s van up the side of the hospital, noticing a
s he passed the front entrance that a fracas had developed. He saw a couple of policemen, at least two nurses, then a blonde head that was definitely familiar. The mother tiger had arrived, it seemed, and was unwilling to depart before determining the condition of its cub.

  He parked the vehicle, took a deep breath, dashed to the infirmary’s entrance. Magsy was muttering and sobbing like a woman unhinged. Her hands were twin balled fists, while tears flooded down her face.

  ‘You can’t stop here,’ a constable was saying.

  Magsy seized his arm. ‘That is my child. They have to allow me to be with her . . .’

  The second policeman tutted loudly. ‘Isolation means isolation, Mrs O’Gara. Even on the ordinary wards, you can only come in at visiting times. You can’t go upsetting sick folk and them what’s supposed to look after them.’

  Paul pushed his way into the small group and took hold of Magsy’s shoulders. ‘Come with me, love,’ he bade softly. He could feel the hysteria shuddering through her body. ‘Carry on like this and you’ll be ill yourself.’

  ‘Tell them,’ she implored, ‘tell them I can’t live without her and that she can’t live without me. She can’t die, because she’s going to be a doctor.’

  He made secure eye contact with her. ‘Magsy, love, if they let you into isolation, you’ll come out with all sorts on your clothes. Can’t you see that? These lads and lasses are only doing what’s right. Now, do you really want to spend the night in a prison cell? Do you? Because that’s where you’ll finish up if you don’t give folk a bit of peace.’

  Magsy held his stare. ‘But where will I go?’

  ‘Come with me,’ ordered Paul. ‘Now. This minute, before I ask a doctor to knock you out with something or other. This is no way to behave.’

  She continued to gaze levelly into his eyes. Something about this man reached out to calm her. He was dependable, trustworthy. Putting herself into his care would do no harm at all. ‘I don’t want to go home,’ she said eventually. ‘I know I can’t see her, but I have to be near her.’

  ‘We’re not going home,’ he told her. ‘We’re camping out.’

  ‘In this weather?’

  ‘That’s right.’ He spoke now to the policemen. ‘You’ll have to forgive her, I’m sorry. Beth’s all she has in the world. She lost her husband in the war – this is the last straw for her.’

  One of the two nurses wiped a tear from her eye. ‘We do understand,’ she said softly, ‘because I’d be just the same if it were my daughter. But we have to have rules, you see, otherwise we couldn’t do our jobs. Magsy knows the rules, because she works with us.’

  Paul led the weeping Magsy round the corner to the back of the van. He opened the doors. ‘Right – there’s your bed, so lie down.’

  She crawled in, placed herself on an old eiderdown, allowed him to heap blankets on her. When he stretched out beside her, she felt not the slightest fear. With a sureness that cut through all the grief and confusion, Magsy knew that this man would never, ever hurt her. He understood, realized that she had to stay here. Sitting or lying in a van in the grounds of a hospital might have seemed insane, but he accepted her craziness.

  ‘Next door’s looking after my mam,’ he said. ‘Now, get to sleep. If I catch hold of you, it’s only for warmth – I’ve no plans for rape.’

  ‘I know that.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘I just do.’ She closed her eyes. ‘Paul, what’s she got?’

  ‘I don’t know, love.’

  ‘And all the Hardcastles, too. She’s spent quite a bit of time just lately with young Roy.’ A shuddering breath made its way into and out of cold-stiffened lungs. ‘God help them all,’ she said.

  ‘Go to sleep, love.’

  ‘William used to call me that.’

  ‘Then I’ll try to stop.’

  After a pause of at least a minute, her sleep-slowed voice reached him. ‘I don’t mind,’ she said.

  There came a light tapping at the van’s back door. Paul struggled inelegantly out of his nest of blankets, crawled along, opened the van. ‘Oh, hello,’ he said.

  The nurse gave him two steaming cups of cocoa and a plate of toast. ‘Just to warm you up,’ she whispered, ‘and I suppose it’s no use wishing you a happy Christmas.’ She sniffed back a sudden need to weep. ‘Look after her.’

  ‘I will,’ he promised.

  And he did. He forced her to take small bites of toast, got half a cup of cocoa into her. When she finally slept, he remained at her side, senses tormented by her proximity, his mind firmly fixed inside the hospital in which her daughter lay. The question of touching Magsy was never on the agenda. He slept with her, held her, wiped away the tears.

  For this woman he would do almost anything. Her grief affected him beyond words, as he could find no language to assuage it. Whenever she woke, he simply stroked her hands until fitful sleep arrived once more; he soothed her as one would instinctively calm an animal or a human infant in distress.

  Morning found them huddled together, awakened once more by a little nurse who brought tea and bacon sandwiches. She imparted the news that there was no change in Beth, no change in any of the Hardcastles. The illness had not yet been identified, but several others from the Deane and Daubhill area had been admitted during the night.

  ‘It’s an epidemic,’ said Magsy.

  ‘Looks like it,’ Paul replied.

  ‘If she dies . . .’ The rest of her sentence was lost in a bout of weeping. There was no possibility that she could face life without her daughter.

  ‘Try not to think like that,’ he said.

  ‘I can’t help it, Paul.’

  While they picked at the sandwiches, he found himself wishing that he could be in Beth’s place. If only he could make the swap, he would lay down his life for the sake of this woman’s happiness. So this was love, then. It was not just a physical need, was more than a meeting of minds. Love was an instinct that depended on no particular sense.

  ‘Why her and not me?’ she asked.

  ‘It happens, Magsy. Let them find out what it is, then they can shift it.’

  ‘She was unconscious.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘You could have fried eggs on her face.’

  ‘Yes.’

  They walked together into the hospital, requested and were given permission to use toilet facilities just off the reception area. In the ladies’ room, Magsy watched the pale ghost in the mirror, wondered what had happened to yesterday. She remembered the fun of packing parcels of books, most bought secondhand from a market stall, Beth’s giggles as she had wrapped Magsy’s gift. Where was yesterday? How could life change so suddenly, so easily?

  Paul warmed his hands on a radiator. It was Christmas Day and Mam was all on her own except for Bertha next door. Bertha next door was about as much fun as a burning orphanage, all downturned mouth and snide gossip. Yet he could not abandon Magsy at the infirmary.

  He joined her at the front desk. ‘Any news?’ he asked.

  Magsy looked at him. ‘Not yet. But isolation’s nearly full. And they want us out of here in case we are carriers of whatever this thing might be.’ She straightened her shoulders. ‘She would want me to go home. We can do nothing here.’

  So she was talking sense at last. ‘Yes, she would. And we have been asked to leave, anyway, in case we pass the disease on.’

  They left the hospital grounds and drove in silence through town and up Derby Street. As he reached Magsy’s door, Paul spoke for the first time. ‘You’ll be on your own.’

  ‘No, I won’t. I’ll be with Lily.’ She turned and looked at his profile, saw that his chin was darkened by new growth of beard. He was kind. He was a good friend. ‘Thank you,’ she said, ‘you have calmed me. I had better go and cook now.’ She considered the idea of planting a kiss on his cheek, decided against it, opened the door. It was time to think of practical things. The dinner intended for Ernest Barnes would go to Nellie Hulme. ‘Go to your mother,’ she told Paul, ‘
and I cannot thank you enough.’

  When Magsy was back inside her house, she placed all the Christmas gifts in a cupboard. From somewhere within herself, she had found a strength bequeathed to her by generations of starved Irish cottagers, a will to survive no matter what. Enclosed in that determination was a special seed, a small plant that seemed to take root of its own accord. Beth would survive. With a certainty for which she would never account, Magsy O’Gara knew that her daughter was not going to die.

  When the simple dinner was prepared, she washed her face, combed her hair and went across to visit Lily. Quarantine was senseless – everyone in this street had been exposed to whatever raged in the infirmary’s isolation unit.

  She walked into Lily’s house, only to find that the housewife was sitting beside a cold grate, no sign of food, no attempt to keep warm. ‘Lily?’ It was plain that the woman had not washed, had not combed her hair, had not taken as much as a cup of tea.

  ‘Oh, hello.’

  The bitch and her puppy leapt gladly at the visitor; a morning of silence and hunger had not pleased them. Magsy found them some scraps, then squatted in front of Lily, rubbing the woman’s cold hands. ‘Come on, love.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Over to my house for a bit of dinner.’

  Lily blinked, her eyes dull and empty.

  ‘I shall bring Nellie as well. If I knock, Spot will fetch her.’

  ‘Roy’s puppies,’ said Lily.

  ‘Yes.’

  The older woman’s mouth opened wide and she howled like a wild animal baying at a full moon. She railed against the Almighty for allowing the illness, at mankind for carrying it into her home, at the world for being a cruel place. But, for the most part, Lily Hardcastle’s anger was directed at herself. ‘I prayed for change,’ she howled.

  ‘We all do that,’ replied Magsy.

  Lily continued to berate herself, crying out about nose-picking, smelly feet, spotty faces, folk who ate with their mouths open. ‘It were all getting me down, then Dot went, then I wanted to go, then I knew I couldn’t. I hate this place and my job and everything, so God has repaid me. He’s made me watch this, Magsy. If I could be ill, I wouldn’t suffer in my head, because I wouldn’t know anything. So He’s making me eat my words.’