Bess dismounted, propped her bicycle against a wall, then crossed the yard to one of the front doors, which stood half-open.
She knocked sharply. ‘Hello? Mrs Willis? Are you in, love? It’s the district nurse,’ she called out.
‘Can’t we just walk in, as the door’s open?’ Agnes said.
Bess sent her a withering look. ‘You’re not in a hospital ward now, Miss Sheridan. You can’t stroll in and out as you please. This is someone’s home, and we are guests. I don’t know about where you come from, but up here we wait to be invited in where possible.’
Before Agnes could reply, a voice called out, ‘Come in, nurse. I’m just in the scullery.’
They walked in and Agnes was stopped in her tracks by a strange, sickly odour. She put her hand over her nose.
‘What is that awful smell?’ she whispered.
‘Bugs,’ Bess said matter-of-factly, putting her bag down on the kitchen table. ‘Don’t worry, you’ll get used to it. And mind you don’t pull that face, it’s very rude.’
The Assistant Superintendent took off her coat and Agnes did the same, still trying to hold her breath. Following Bess’ lead, she rolled it up so the lining was tucked inside, then placed it on the scrubbed table beside her bag. She then unpinned her apron, which had been tucked up inside her coat.
By the time they had finished preparing themselves, Mrs Willis had emerged from the scullery, a baby propped on her hip. Three other small children clustered around her, peeping shyly past her skirt at the visitors. She was in her late twenties, only a few years older than Agnes, but the careworn expression on her thin face made her look much older.
‘Sorry about that, nurse. I was just getting the pan ready for you—’ She stopped speaking when she saw Agnes. ‘Who’s this, then?’
‘This is Miss Sheridan, who is training to be a district nurse. She will be with me for the next month, so I expect you’ll get used to seeing her around and about. Miss Sheridan, this is Mrs Willis.’
‘How do you do?’ Agnes greeted her politely.
‘Fair to middling, I s’pose.’ Mrs Willis smoothed down her skirt with her free hand, then turned to Bess. ‘I’ve got your tin out for you, nurse. It’s on the dresser.’
‘Thank you. Now, we’ll just wash our hands and then we’ll get started. Miss Sheridan?’
Agnes was so busy staring at the huge black patches of damp blossoming on the faded wallpaper, she didn’t realise Bess had addressed her until she caught the older woman’s eye.
‘I’m sorry, were you speaking to me?’
‘I was indeed, Miss Sheridan.’ Bess’ smile grew chilly. ‘Fetch your things and we’ll wash our hands.’
Agnes took her soap and towel from the outside pocket of her bag and followed Bess to the tiny scullery, where they stood side by side at the stone sink, washing their hands under the cold tap. But no matter how much she scrubbed with carbolic soap, Agnes wasn’t sure she would ever feel clean. How could people live like this? she wondered. The mouldering brick walls of the scullery seemed to sweat filth and decay.
But Bess hardly seemed to notice as she finished washing her hands, dried them on her towel and then opened her bag and took out three sets of forceps ready for boiling in the pan Mrs Willis had provided.
‘How is your husband today?’ she asked the young woman, who stood in the doorway watching them.
‘Oh, you know my Norman, nurse. He’s not one to say much about anything. But I reckon he’s in a lot of pain.’
‘Well, let’s see if we can make him more comfortable, shall we? Now, you said you have the tin of dressings prepared?’
‘I have, nurse. I put them in the oven last night, while I was cooking the tea—’
Before Mrs Willis could finish her sentence, a man’s voice called out from beyond the scullery doorway.
‘Is that t’nurse?’
‘It is, Mr Willis,’ Bess called back. ‘I’m on my way. Just making sure everything is nice and clean for you.’ She turned to Agnes. ‘Finish boiling those forceps and then bring them in, please, Miss Sheridan. And I’ll need another basin, some soap and a towel to wash the patient, if you could prepare them for me?’
She left the room, leaving Agnes in the tiny scullery with Mrs Willis and her assorted children.
Agnes could feel the woman’s gaze on her as she set about filling the basin with water and preparing the wash things. The children were unnerving her too, staring up at her with their vacant eyes. Agnes braced herself, terrified that one of them might reach out and try to touch her with their filthy little hands.
‘You’re not from round here, are you?’ Mrs Willis broke the tense silence.
‘No,’ Agnes said, folding the towel over her arm.
‘I thought not. You speak proper posh. Where are you from, then?’
‘London.’
‘London, eh? You’re a long way from home, in’t you?’
Agnes looked around her, at the rough, damp-stained walls of the cottage. Further than you can ever imagine, she thought.
‘I’ll take these wash things through first, and come back for the instruments,’ she said, before Mrs Willis could ask any more questions. ‘Then the nurse can get started.’
She followed the sound of Bess’ voice through the kitchen and up a darkened passageway. The Assistant Superintendent was in a room at the far end of the passage, talking to Mr Willis.
‘Is this her, then?’ he asked, nodding towards Agnes. He lay on the double bed in the front room, a wiry man in striped pyjamas. One trouser leg was rolled up to the knee, revealing a bandaged calf.
‘Aye. This is her,’ Bess said, not looking up as she laid out sheets of newspaper on the floor.
Agnes could only guess what Mrs Bradshaw had been telling him about her in the few minutes before she’d entered the room. But she was determined not to let it bother her. She smiled at Mr Willis, who glared back at her with the utmost suspicion.
‘Well, don’t just stand there, girl,’ Bess interrupted. ‘Put those things on the dresser.’
Agnes set the basin down as she was asked, and then went off to fetch the saucepan containing the boiled forceps. By the time she returned, Bess had set out everything she needed and was removing Mr Willis’ dressing.
‘Is there anything else I can do?’ Agnes asked.
‘Not just now. Stand over there and watch what I’m doing. And try to keep out of the way.’
Agnes stood at the foot of the bed, fighting down her irritation. Why should she have to watch Bess Bradshaw change a dressing, for heaven’s sake? She’d been doing them herself since she was a probationer. In fact, she reckoned she could probably do a better job than the district nurse herself.
But she had learned better than to question an order, so instead she stood quietly by, her attention drifting as Bess carefully cleaned Mr Willis’ ulcerated wound. His leg was a terrible mess, Agnes noticed, criss-crossed with old scars.
She gazed around the room. It might once have been a parlour, judging by the ornate cast-iron fireplace, faded floral wallpaper and lace curtains. But now the whole room seemed to be made up of beds of one kind or another, filling the small space so it was difficult to pick a path between them. The room was dominated by the high iron bedstead on which Mr Willis lay. To one side of the bed was a cot, and under the window were two grubby-looking horsehair mattresses, made up with a thin blanket and some pillows.
Did the whole family sleep in here? Agnes wondered. She hadn’t noticed a staircase, so she supposed they must. She couldn’t imagine living in such grim, awful surroundings, packed into a couple of rooms together. How depressing it must be. No wonder the place was crawling with bugs …
She looked up and realised Mr Willis was watching her, eyes narrowed as if he could read her thoughts.
‘Be it ever so humble, eh?’ he said bitterly.
Agnes looked away, feeling hot colour flood her face.
Bess didn’t seem to have noticed Mr Willis’ comment as s
he briskly rolled up the dirty swabs in the newspaper and handed them to Agnes. ‘Take these outside and ask Mrs Willis to burn them, will you, Miss Sheridan?’
Mrs Willis was waiting for them in the kitchen. She took the newspaper bundle from Agnes and said, ‘I’ll put them on the fire. And I’ve got a pan on the stove ready for the dirty instruments,’ she added.
‘Thank you,’ Agnes said.
Not another word was spoken between them, and the silence stretched uncomfortably. It was almost a relief when Bess finally appeared. Agnes didn’t think she would ever be pleased to see her, but even Mrs Willis seemed to be smiling again.
‘You’ll stop for a brew of tea, won’t you, nurse?’ she said. ‘I’ve got the kettle on.’
Agnes glanced at Bess, expecting her to refuse. It was half-past ten already, and they had the rest of their list to finish before they returned to the district nurses’ home for lunch at one. But to her dismay, Bess smiled and said, ‘That would be very nice, thank you, love.’
It was all most uncomfortable. Agnes perched on the edge of a kitchen chair, hardly wanting to settle on it in case she caught something. All the while she was conscious of the children watching her curiously from the scullery doorway, as if she was some kind of sideshow exhibit.
‘Are you sure we have time for tea?’ she hissed to Bess.
‘We always have time for tea,’ Bess replied, smiling past her at Mrs Willis as she came in, bearing a tray.
Agnes stared at the teacups that Mrs Willis was setting out. They were aged china, veined with so many black cracks it was astonishing that they held together at all. The thought of drinking out of one of them made Agnes shudder. She would catch something for sure.
‘No tea for me, thank you,’ she said quickly, as Mrs Willis went to pour from the pot. She’d thought she was being polite, but Mrs Willis’ face fell.
Bess stepped in quickly. ‘Well, I certainly won’t say no,’ she said. ‘Mrs Willis makes the best cup of tea in Quarry Hill.’
‘If you say so,’ Mrs Willis muttered, but there was a definite chill in her voice.
Agnes stared down at her hands folded in her lap and didn’t meet anyone’s eye. She didn’t care, she told herself. She would rather offend Mrs Willis than end up in the sick bay with some dreadful infection.
Not that it seemed to worry Bess Bradshaw. She sipped her tea happily and discussed the worrying rash that Mrs Willis’ youngest had developed.
‘It sounds like ringworm to me,’ Bess said. ‘A touch of gentian violet should put it right. I’ll bring some next time I come.’
‘Thank you, nurse, I’d be much obliged.’ Mrs Willis looked grateful.
Finally, after what seemed like a lifetime, Bess declined a third cup of tea and they were able to take their leave. It was a relief to step out of the cottage into the weak sunshine of the yard, where Agnes could finally breathe some slightly fresher air. She could taste the sickly odour of the cottage on the back of her throat.
No sooner had the front door closed on them than Bess turned on her.
‘That was ruddy rude of you,’ she said.
Agnes blinked at her. ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Did you have to sit there like a sentry on guard duty? And why couldn’t you have had a cup of tea?’
‘It was all so dirty, I was afraid I might catch something.’
‘Well, that much was obvious! Poor Mrs Willis was mortified, and so was I.’
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to embarrass anyone …’
‘Well, you did. Not everyone was born with your advantages, Miss Sheridan. Mr and Mrs Willis are trying to live a decent life and it isn’t easy for them, especially since they don’t have much money coming in. But they’re doing their best, and the last thing they need is someone like you coming in and looking down her nose at them!’
‘I – I wasn’t—’ Agnes tried to say, but Bess wasn’t listening. She was marching ahead, wheeling her bicycle back down the alleyway that led to the main street.
‘You’re going to meet a lot of families like them, and you’d better get used to it,’ she said to Agnes over her shoulder. ‘Not only that, you will have to learn to care for them, and to take an interest in their welfare. You may even learn to like them, over time.’
‘I – I’ll do my best,’ Agnes promised. But her heart was already sinking in her chest. She could never imagine learning to like the residents of Quarry Hill, with their dirty, bug-infested houses and their hordes of filthy children.
They turned the corner and headed further down the street. Somewhere in the distance, the sound of raised voices mingled with the steady clip-clop of dray horses from the brewery and the sound of a pot mender on his bicycle, calling out his wares.
‘Now then,’ Bess said. ‘It’s Lil Fairbrass’ house we’re visiting next. Her father’s got another chest infection. And you’d better not go inspecting the cups there, if you know what’s good for you.’
‘Who’s Lil Fairbrass?’ Agnes asked.
They turned the corner and were greeted by a loud bellow of rage from the far end of the street.
‘You’re t’scum of the earth, Annie Pilcher! I’ve a good mind to knock your block off!’
Bess turned to Agnes, a mischievous smile on her broad face. ‘That’s her,’ she said.
Chapter Six
The two women squared up to each other, almost nose to nose in the middle of the cobbled yard. One was small and scrawny, the other at least twice her size, her sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms as hefty as tree branches. But her intimidating stature didn’t deter the smaller woman from standing her ground.
‘I dunno what you’re on about, Lil Fairbrass. I in’t done nothing.’
‘Tell that to Maisie Warren’s kids. They in’t got a mum now, thanks to you.’
Lil took a menacing step towards the smaller woman, who backed off.
‘Like I said, I dunno what you’re talking about. I in’t been near nor by Quarry Hill for days now. Been visiting my sister in Castleford. You ask anyone.’
‘You mean you ran off when you found out what you’d done! I dunno how you can live with yourself, Annie. I’d like to wring your bloody neck!’
‘You come near me, and I’ll—’
Annie didn’t get to the end of her sentence before the big woman’s fist came out, knocking her flat. The scrawny woman sprawled on the cobbles, her little stick-like legs in the air.
‘I’ll have you for that, Lil Fairbrass!’ Annie scrambled to her feet and flew at her, clawed hands raised ready to strike. The next moment they were wrestling in the middle of the yard, while the neighbours hung out of windows and stood in doorways, egging them on.
‘Here, hold this.’ Bess thrust her bag into Agnes’ hands and ploughed in to the fray.
‘Leave it, Mrs Fairbrass,’ she said, her arms wrapped around the bigger woman’s waist, trying to pull her away. ‘She isn’t worth getting into trouble for.’
‘She’s right,’ Annie Pilcher screeched, ‘I’ll have the law on you.’
‘Aye, bring ’em round!’ Lil threw back at her. ‘And I’ll tell ’em what you did an’ all!’
She took another swing at Annie. The blow connected and the smaller woman bounced off the privy wall. Agnes saw her staggering towards her, but was too slow to get out of the way. The next thing she knew, she was toppling backwards.
Annie managed to recover her balance just in time but Agnes landed with a crash among the dustbins, where she lay sprawled and winded in a stinking mulch of rotten rubbish. As she struggled to get up, her feet sliding away from her on the slimy cobbles, a sleek dark shape slithered past, inches from her hand.
Agnes let out a long, terrified scream that stopped Bess and the other two women in their tracks.
‘What’s up with her?’ Lil demanded.
But Agnes could only point helplessly as the dark shape slid away into the shadows. ‘It – it’s a—’
‘It’s only a rat, what’s the matter w
i’ you? The place is crawling wi’ ’em.’ Lil grabbed a broom and started poking around in the rubbish, looking for it. ‘It’ll be long gone, mind. You’ll have frightened it off, bawling at the top of your voice like that.’
‘Oh dear, Miss Sheridan.’ Bess came over to where Agnes lay. Her face was a mask of sympathy, but Agnes could see the twinkle of laughter in her eyes. Her mouth definitely twitched as she put out a hand to haul Agnes to her feet.
By the time she was standing up, Annie Pilcher was nowhere in sight.
‘Made herself scarce,’ Lil said grimly, setting down her broom. ‘Still, I daresay I’ll catch up wi’ her soon enough.’ She regarded Agnes through narrowed eyes. ‘By ‘eck, lass, you look a right state. You’d best come inside and get yoursen cleaned up.’
Lil’s cottage was just as small and drab as the Willises’ home. The first thing Agnes noticed were the two small children playing on the rug. There was something oddly familiar about them.
‘I see you’ve taken in Maisie Warren’s kiddies?’ Bess said.
‘Aye, well, I couldn’t let the poor bairns go to the workhouse, could I?’ Lil muttered. She looked embarrassed by her own kindness.
Agnes stared at the children. They had been scrubbed so clean, she barely recognised the dirty urchins from a couple of days earlier.
She hobbled off to the scullery to wash her wounds. Her black woollen stockings were ripped into holes, exposing grazed skin and blossoming bruises. But her pride was hurt far more than her skinned shins.
And it didn’t help that Bess Bradshaw was laughing at her. Agnes could hear her as she stood in the tiny scullery, washing the dirt out of her wounds.
‘I don’t think your friend found it funny,’ Lil was saying.
‘Yes, well, she doesn’t have much of a sense of humour, I’m afraid,’ Bess chuckled.
The Nurses of Steeple Street Page 5
