‘O’ course y’ can ’ave the borryin’ o’ it, gie me a minute an’ I’ll ’ave the ’oss in the shafts.’
It had all been so easy; the old man falling over himself in eagerness to facilitate ‘the goodness o’ you Mr Thorpe, a goin’ of seein’ folk after a long day a workin’ in that there foundry an’ then more hours along o’ the chapel, y’be a fair blessin’ to folk an’ no coddin’.’
If only the old man had known the ‘coddin’’ he spoke of had been his own in believing the reason for loaning his horse and trap. But he had not known and neither had anyone else.
The remembered fear of a moment before melted in the warm glow of self-praise as Thorpe gazed expansively about the small room, its only ornament the metal cross.
He had driven back to the chapel where it had been the work of minutes to transfer the body to the trap, relock the building and drive away again. He had seen no person in the adjoining street yet tension at the possibility had not eased until he turned the vehicle on to the Holyhead Road, where a trap would be unremarked on a highway busy with carts and trams.
He had chosen well.
Halfway along the rise of Holloway Bank it had been necessary to bridge narrow but fast-flowing water in order for traffic to continue on into West Bromwich; no one would notice a traveller leaving his vehicle to answer the call of nature beneath the shelter of its arch.
During a lull in the traffic, blessed by the dark of a moonless night, he had lifted the body from the trap to hurry with it down the embankment.
It had felt almost weightless in his arms, so light the rush of water might carry it away. But the wound to the head must be made to look like an accident should the girl be found here. Again the bridge had solved his problem. Hitting her head against the buttress would give rise to the theory she had fallen from the parapet, striking her head in the process.
Yes, he had chosen well.
As he had hoped the body had been carried along, finally being caught in weeds further along the valley where the Tame doubled back on itself, and of course the verdict had been accidental death.
Deborah Marshall had denied him but the loss of that pleasure had soon been recompensed.
Taking the hymn book back into his hands Thomas Thorpe smiled at the young girl entering behind an older woman.
Yes! He stepped from the pulpit.
He was most definitely being recompensed.
Chapter 11
‘It be only just beginnin’!’
With a frown Leah met the worried glance of the girl seated beside the bed.
‘Alec,’ Ann’s reply trembled, ‘I think he has a fever?’
Leah shook her head. ‘Fever, Lord, wench, whatever give you that idea, fever don’t come from no fall, it be tiredness ’as you imaginin’ things . . . now y’be goin’ to do as told an’ get y’self to your bed an’ no more worryin’.’
‘Please Leah, I know it sounds strange, but this is what followed once before, he became hot and feverish with nothing to account for it other than a fall.’
Leah’s protest was arrested by a soft moan. She moved quickly to the bedside, her own fears mounting as she looked at the flushed, perspiring face contorted with pain. The lad had no broken bones, no open wound, naught apart from bruising of the leg and no bruising she had ever known had given rise to fever, yet signs of that were showing clear.
‘The time y’ spoke on, did the doctor say the cause?’
Reaching for Alec’s hand, holding it as pain twisted his body, Ann replied tightly that there had been no doctor.
Leah’s bewilderment deepened. So how could the wench know the lad had suffered fever? Same as you be knowin’ it! Leah answered herself abruptly. It be marked on the lad’s face plain as a pikestaff, just as it be plain y’ needs do somethin’.
Perhaps Edward had missed some small cut when putting Alec to bed . . . perhaps the doctor had been overhasty in his examination. Leah gently turned back the bedcover, a sharp catch of breath held as she saw the spreading mass of bruises.
‘Bruises are simply bleeding ’neath the skin.’ The doctor’s words could have been her own, hadn’t she learned that from dealing with her sons; but this was something she had not witnessed before. The spread of darkening purple showed this was no slight bleed.
The doctor? He could take an hour to come. An hour’s delay meant so much more internal bleeding, a loss which the lad might be unable to survive. But to attempt to treat him herself . . . if it should fail . . .
A low moan banished her indecision and Leah turned again to the wash stand. If she failed she could be counted a meddler; if she didn’t even try she would be branded heartless.
Wringing out the cloth she had soaked in cold water she placed it across the hot forehead.
‘Hold you that,’ she instructed Ann brusquely, ‘it’ll help cool ’im; wring it out again when need be.’
‘But I should fetch the doctor!’
‘Later,’ Leah’s reply floated after her departing figure, ‘first we ’as to do summat about that bleedin’.’
Leah stirred the sleeping fire to new life beneath the kettle, then carried the oil lamp into the scullery using its light to show a variety of bottles and jars lining a cupboard. She had needed to make her own medicines and cures as the children had grown and now gave silent thanks it was a habit she had continued, though her ointments and salves were now mostly requested by neighbours who found difficulty in paying the two shillings and sixpence doctor’s fee.
Would there be sufficient for what she needed to do? Holding the lamp closer, reading labels she had affixed to every container, she ran a finger along the shelf stopping before a tightly corked bottle. Arnica. She read the faded lettering. This had eased the pain of bruising both with Joseph and the boys, it had helped stem the under-skin bleeding, so please God it would do the same for Alec. But his fever needed to be brought down too.
Lifting down the bottle Leah continued to scrutinise other handwritten labels.
‘Mullein,’ she murmured, ‘that be for the curing of coughs. Coltsfoot?’ Again Leah shook her head. ‘That be for the soothing of joints plagued by the rheumatics; Platain,’ she read on quickly ascertaining the use of each remedy until her eye lighted on a pot-bellied jar whose label stated it was Fenugreek. This had proved its worth in calming fevers in many a child and with the blessing of heaven it would prove so now.
She took both bottle and jar into the living room, setting them on to the table before returning to the larder. Still by use of the lamp she searched its cool dimness taking honey and apple cider vinegar. She slipped a tiny box that caught her eye into her apron pocket.
The kettle was singing softly on its bracket. Leah stared at the ingredients and utensils collected on a table which years of daily scrubbing had made gleam pale as the cream from her cows.
Was she doing the right thing? Should she do nothing except wait for the doctor?
These were questions to which no answer came. She closed her eyes, placed the palms of her hands together then murmured quietly:
‘Lord you knows all things, what be in every heart, therefore you knows I wouldn’t never do no ’arm to the lad who ’as found a place in mine, that bein’ so Lord I feels I can ask you let of your Holy Angel set a hand over mine, to guide it in what that same heart be a sayin’ I must do; I prays that through that blessed angel your loving grace and mercy bring relief an’ comfort to a sick child.’
After crossing herself Leah opened her eyes. She had asked the help of the Almighty; now she must use it.
With a deep breath to steady her mind she took a handful of dried leaves from the pot-bellied jar, crumbling them into smaller pieces before adding a small amount of water from the kettle. Covering the basin with a cloth she set it aside. The herbs would take several minutes for their essence to seep into the water; that time would allow for the making of a poultice.
Pouring a generous measure of apple cider vinegar into a pan, setting it above the fire,
she reached for the bottle labelled Arnica. The contents gleamed pale gold in the soft glow of lamplight. She had picked the bright yellow flowers during long lonely summer evenings, had lightly bruised the silky petals, covering them with her own home-made apple vinegar, and once every day for two weeks had gently stirred the pot. Then once the beneficial properties of the petals were drawn out she had carefully sieved the mixture before bottling the resulting liquid.
While she stood in the small living room with the gentle hiss of the pan above the fire the only sound in the silence, Leah seemed to see again a patch of heath. Not yet fallen victim to the spread of factories it blazed with a carpet of vivid yellow.
Leah pushed the picture to its place in the past. Daydreams were pleasant but they could not help her now.
She glanced once more at the bottle then poured a small amount of the pale translucent liquid into a separate basin. Arnica made for a powerful tincture; those few tiny drops would be sufficient for her needs. Quickly she re-corked the bottle and lifted the pan from the fire, pouring the bubbling contents into the basin, stirring once before turning her attention to the leaves left soaking in water; pray God they had steeped a sufficient length of time.
She took one of the several pieces of clean white cloth gathered in readiness then spooned the mush of leaves on to it, folding it to form a pad which she dropped into the arnica mixture. Essence of fenugreek still present in the leaves would seep through the cloth to mix with the arnica adding to the potency of the poultice. But there was still the fever remedy to complete.
Leah frowned as her fingers brushed momentarily against the pocket of her apron.
She had forgotten a most valuable aid to reducing the effects of shock!
Chiding herself mentally she transferred the fenugreek-infused water to the pan adding honey, one cup of apple cider vinegar and finally from the small box a barest pinch of her prized cayenne.
It needs to simmer gently . . . the herb needs time to mix with the honey and vinegar.
Leah used the minutes to collect all that was needed on to a wooden tray then once the potion was ready she carried it upstairs.
Please let Leah return, let her be home before the process has to be gone through again. Leah had to be back . . . she had to!
Glancing at the boy, his eyes shut, his hand limp in hers, Ann strained to hear the sound of footsteps but heard only the tick of the tin clock Leah had brought into the room. Why could the woman not have permitted her to go fetch the doctor?
‘Where be the sense in that? You don’t yet be knowin’ the town so well darkness won’t ’ave you take of a wrong turn; best I goes, a body who has walked these streets so many years needs no light of day to show the way.’
Leah’s dismissal had been brusque as had that other given on bringing her mixtures upstairs.
‘Ain’t no time for blartin’, you can sit an’ cry later if you must but right now you needs ’ave clear eyes as well as a clear mind!?’
It had not been intended as a reprimand. Ann acknow-ledged the anxiety behind the sharpness, which had been due to her worries for Alec.
‘Watch well what be done.’
Leah’s voice had softened yet the instruction accompanying each ministration had been firm and precise.
‘The poultice needs be squeezed but not so tight it takes out all of the moisture. Wrap the pad quickly in another piece of cloth so it keeps in the heat then use a strip of cloth to bandage it to the leg.’
Lowering the bedcovers into place Leah had smiled down at Alec, taking a moment to press his shoulder gently. She had returned the basin, standing it beside the fire lit the moment Alec had been put to bed.
‘Remember, wench, that poultice needs be kept moist. Touch it every ’alf hour or so, if it be dry against the fingers then soak the pad again but take care the lotion be warm, settin’ it stone cold against the skin can only add more shock to the system so be sure you sets that bowl along of the hearth, that way will ’ave it ready for the next usin’.’
Ready for the next using! Glancing at the clock Ann’s nerves tripped. It had been almost thirty minutes since Leah went for the doctor. She had not strictly stipulated the time of reapplying the poultice, the ‘or so’ could allow a little extra . . . a few minutes and the doctor would be here to . . .
A spasm of the fingers held in hers swept the rest of the thought away. Ann felt fear bite at her throat. Alec was trying hard not to voice his pain but it was only too visible in his eyes.
‘That poultice needs be kept moist . . .’
‘I can’t, I can’t . . . if I should cause more pain . . .’
‘Ann.’ It was a whisper answering that which had slipped from her own lips. ‘Ann, you would not willingly cause me pain, we are friends and friends trust each other so please . . .’
Alec grimaced with pain and his words trailed off, leaving the plea only in his eyes.
Glancing at him, his eyes closed against a further spasm, Ann felt the answer swell in her heart. Alec was saying he trusted her, he was asking she attend to his injured leg.
‘Watch well what be done.’
Ann brought the bowl from the hearth, her fingers shaking. Had she watched well enough!
He had not cried out, he had not jerked away from the pad being replaced nor the bandage being wrapped. Afterwards Ann’s mind seemed suddenly empty. Beside her on the shelf above the small fireplace the tin clock murmured its rhythm.
Tick . . . tick . . .
It sang softly, unobtrusively.
Tick, tick, one two.
Tick, three . . . tick, four . . . tick, five.
Why stop there? Why did the song not pass five?
Five! For a moment it hung meaningless, then recognition dawned.
Leah had emphasised the number while carefully measuring from a cup kept apart from the bowl in the hearth. ‘Five drops, no more’n that; give it to drink in a spot o’ water an’ it’ll help bring fever down.’
The uncertainty she had felt had transmitted itself to Leah and now the woman’s answer calmed as it had then.
‘Should y’be unsure wi’ the drops then a teaspoon o’ the mixture be their equal.’
After following the instructions Leah had given, Ann returned to sit at the bedside.
Only then did she let the tears of nervous exhaustion slide down her cheeks.
Chapter 12
‘They trusted me as they would no other man.’
The lad drifted into sleep. Ann, holding his hand, let her mind wander slowly into the past.
‘They asked I take into my keeping their most treasured possession . . .
‘Do it for me, child.’
Behind closed eyes Ann saw the figure of her father buckle and slide to the floor of a drab soulless room, saw the framed photograph clutched in one hand, the entreaty in eyes already glazing, heard those last dying words.
‘Keep my promise for me.’
Across the room half-burned coals settled deeper into their cast-iron bed but no sound penetrated the depths of Ann’s mind.
What was your promise, Father? How could I keep it when I didn’t know what it was? I tried . . .
I searched the house not once but several times for the precious possession you spoke of, and when I found nothing I enquired at the embassy but the official I spoke with said nothing of yours remained; there was nothing more I could do, yet even as I went to the port to take ship for England I felt I should try again but . . .
Drawn deep into bygone horror Ann lived it again. In her head echoed the screams of terrified women, the shouts of angry men, shouts suddenly subdued by the drum of galloping hoofbeats. With them came mental images, flashing, rolling, tumbling together, picture upon picture rapidly sweeping one from the path of another: uniformed men, swords glinting silver streaks as they struck out at others running away. A man clutching her sleeve . . . a boy, his face drawn with disbelief . . . a shot . . . a man falling dead at her feet . . . now a room . . . an unhappy soulless room
. . . a figure slumping to the floor, a figure clutching a silver-framed photograph. Relentlessly, as if on some macabre carousel, her inner vision returned the picture of her dying father, his lips stilling on the murmur: ‘Do it for me, child.’
‘I couldn’t!’
Ann bent her head to the hand clutched in her own.
‘I couldn’t do it . . . I failed you as I failed Alec.’
‘I failed Alec!’
The words drifted across the room and held Leah in stunned embrace. The girl had said she couldn’t deal with the dressing of the lad’s leg; her hands had trembled when passing the wrappings, her mouth had quivered at being told the care which must be taken to keep the fever mixture distant from the bruise potion.
Leah’s nerves jolted sickeningly as she stared at the figure bent across the boy lying motionless in the bed.
Weakened by shock and fever, he would not have been able to fight against the effect of arnica, a herb so potent in its natural form it must never be given internally as a medicine nor used on cuts and open wounds.
Was that what had happened? Had Ann been so flummoxed, so feared of what she had been left to do, she had mistakenly dosed the lad, wrongly given him arnica to drink instead of honey and fenugreek?
Had it already proved too much? Blame could only lie with Leah Marshall; it was her had disagreed with the wench’s fetching of the doctor, Leah Marshall who had gone herself leaving a wench with no knowledge of herbal medicine to treat a lad ill of fever.
Leah crossed to the bed. She alone would do what must be done. Hesitating for the briefest time she touched Ann’s shoulder.
‘Be no fault o’ your’n,’ she said quietly. ‘Come you away wench, I’ll see to the lad.’
‘Leah!’ Ann looked up. ‘Oh thank goodness you are back, the doctor—’
‘Doctor won’t be comin’,’ Leah interrupted, ‘we won’t be seein’ of him for some hours, not if Leah Marshall be any judge.’
Ann took a second before asking, ‘But why? He must surely know you wouldn’t go for him in the middle of the night unless it was serious?’
Friendship's Bond Page 9
