by Dilly Court
At closing time on Christmas Eve Charity knew for certain that she would be unable to find the rent at the end of the month. It was Saturday and the prospect of a lonely Christmas Day filled her with horror. Violet had told her she was welcome to join them for their festive meal of boiled bullock’s head and carrots, but Charity had improvised wildly and said that Dr Marchant had invited her to Old Fish Street for the day. It was untrue, but Bert Chapman was still a menace and she was finding it more and more difficult to avoid him. He worked odd hours at the brewery and she never knew when she was going to find him lurking in the back yard. His poor downtrodden wife was thin and shrewish and spent much of her time scolding her numerous offspring. When she could cope no more she would have one of her funny turns and take to her bed, leaving Violet to manage on her own. It would be better to spend the day alone than to become involved in the family’s interminable squabbles.
Next morning the bells of Trinity Church rang out over the silent streets, their chimes like molten silver in the cold crisp air. Charity had not been able to sleep and had risen early. She stood in the back yard, listening to the joyful sound, but to her ears it was a death knell to all her hopes and dreams. When Woods arrived on Friday she would have less than half the rent money, even without the extra cash he had demanded. In a desperate effort to boost sales she had marked down the price of all the stock, but it had not helped.
She stepped over the detritus that littered the narrow pathway through the banked snow and hurried back to the comparative warmth of the kitchen. Her small stock of coal had run out days ago, and she had been existing on bread and water. She had been profligate with Jethro’s money, she realised that now, albeit too late. A pauper’s funeral would have left her with enough cash to keep the shop going until trade picked up, but even if she starved on the street she knew that she had done the right thing. When all was said and done he had taken her in, given her bed and board, and had named her in his will. She had done her best to make the shop pay, but the purchase of a second-hand bed had been a wild extravagance. She knew now that she had been over-confident in her own ability, and had discovered to her cost that there was more to running a small business than mere enthusiasm. Her youth and inexperience had been her downfall.
Hunger gnawed at her belly like a wild beast that was slowly consuming her. She spent the morning in the shop, dusting the books one by one, and making sure that they had been put back in the correct section and in strict alphabetical order. It was a routine she went through every day, and each volume was like an old friend. She could not neglect them even though she felt sick and light-headed, and she knew she must eat soon or she would not have the strength to go on. The Chapmans’ chaotic, ill-tempered household seemed a better prospect than dying alone of cold and starvation, but she could not bring herself to climb the steps and knock on their door. To accept their charity would leave her open to Bert’s advances and there would be no turning back, but if the landlord sent the bailiffs to take her stock she would lose everything. If she could not find work she would be reduced once again to begging on the streets. There was only one place where she was assured of a warm welcome, and perhaps Dr Marchant could advise her on what to do for the best.
‘You turn up like a bad penny,’ Mrs Rose held the door open. ‘Come in, Charity.’
The aroma of roasting goose and simmering plum pudding made Charity’s stomach clench with anticipation and her mouth watered. Her hands were shaking as she took off her bonnet and shawl and hung them on the hallstand, and her knees were trembling as she followed Mrs Rose through to the kitchen.
‘Charity.’ Dorrie rushed towards her, arms outstretched. ‘I hoped you come today. Merry Christmas.’
‘I – I haven’t come to stay,’ Charity stammered. ‘I mean, I only came to wish you the compliments of the season. I wasn’t inviting myself to dinner.’
Mrs Rose gave her a pitying smile. ‘Pride goes before destruction and a haughty spirit before a fall, Charity. I’m afraid that’s a lesson you haven’t yet learned.’
Charity hung her head, unable to look Mrs Rose in the eye. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘You’re all skin and bone, girl. You look like the wretched little starveling the doctor brought home less than a year ago. What happened?’
‘I’ve been foolish, Mrs Rose. I thought I knew everything about keeping a shop and found I knew nothing.’
Dorrie wrapped her arms around Charity’s waist, clinging to her as if she would never let go. ‘You’re not foolish. You’re lovely.’
‘I’m afraid I made a dreadful mess of things.’ Charity stroked Dorrie’s wispy hair back from the child’s flushed face. ‘I was hoping that Dr Marchant could give me some advice.’
‘He’s out on a call,’ Mrs Rose said, sighing. ‘The poor man never gets a moment’s rest.’
‘Will he be long, do you think?’ Charity extricated herself gently from Dorrie’s grip. ‘If you don’t mind I could sit and wait.’ Her knees buckled and she sank down onto the nearest chair.
‘When did you last eat?’ Mrs Rose eyed her sternly. ‘Dorrie, fetch a cup of milk from the larder and butter a slice of bread.’
‘Perhaps I’d better leave now if he’s going to be away for a long time.’ Charity half rose from the chair but once again her legs gave way beneath her.
‘He’s gone to help a destitute woman in labour. That man is a saint, if you ask me. He was out half the night and again first thing this morning with no thought for himself.’ Mrs Rose took the cup from Dorrie and pressed it into Charity’s hand. ‘Drink slowly if you want to keep it down. I’d say by the looks of you that you haven’t eaten much for days. Hurry up with the bread and butter, Dorrie.’
The milk was rich and creamy and sweet to the taste, but Charity could only manage a few sips. Mrs Rose took the cup and thrust a slice of buttered bread into her hand. ‘Eat this and sit quietly. Dr Marchant would never forgive me if I let you go without seeing him.’
‘Thank you, ma’am,’ Charity murmured through a mouthful of food.
‘Get on with your work, Dorrie,’ Mrs Rose said sharply. ‘The doctor will want his dinner when he returns and we must have it ready.’
It was early evening when Dr Marchant eventually arrived home. He did not seem surprised to see Charity when he entered the kitchen, but she was shocked by his appearance. Dark circles underlined his red-rimmed eyes and his skin was the colour of aged parchment. ‘Are you all right, sir?’ she said anxiously.
He gave her a tired smile. ‘Just a little fatigued, my dear. But it’s good to see you, even though I suspect you have a sorry tale to tell.’
Mrs Rose took his overcoat and hat from him with a disapproving sniff. ‘You should take better care of yourself, doctor. You’ll be no use to your patients if you take to your bed.’
‘Don’t worry about me, Enid. I’m perfectly all right and looking forward to my festive meal.’
Mrs Rose held out her hands for his scarf and gloves. ‘Dinner will be on the table in fifteen minutes, sir. There’s a fire lit in the dining room as it’s Christmas Day, and there’s a glass of sherry wine waiting for you.’
‘What would I do without you, Enid?’ Dr Marchant held his hand out to Charity. ‘We’ll get out of Mrs Rose’s way.’
Charity followed him out of the kitchen and along the narrow hallway to the oak-panelled dining room at the back of the house. A fire blazed in the grate and the gas mantles had been lit although it was not yet dark. The wine-red wallpaper and thick Turkey carpet added to the warmth and homely comfort of the room. Dr Marchant pulled up a chair. ‘Take a seat, my dear. You look done in.’
‘I should be taking care of you, sir. Mrs Rose told me that you’d been called out in the night as well as this morning.’
‘Babies come in their own good time. They don’t keep surgery hours,’ he said with a wry smile as he took his seat at the head of the table. ‘Now tell me what brought you here today.’
Charity had not meant to blur
t it all out, but once started she had to tell him everything and confess that she had failed. Jethro had put his trust in her and she had let him down. She was about to lose everything.
Dr Marchant listened intently, leaning his elbows on the table and steepling his fingers. ‘You mustn’t blame yourself, Charity,’ he said slowly. ‘Jethro must have known that you weren’t ready for such responsibility, or else he was not thinking straight at the last.’
‘Perhaps I should have accepted Mr Barton’s offer,’ Charity said miserably. ‘With a better education I could find work as a governess or even a schoolteacher, but as it is I’ll probably end up begging on the streets.’
‘Nonsense. It won’t come to that, but it sounds to me that your landlord has planned all along to raise the rents so that he can evict the tenants. It would have been the same had Jethro lived.’
‘I just feel that I’ve failed and I don’t know what to do next.’
Dr Marchant looked up as the door opened and Mrs Rose brought the roast goose to the table, placing it in front of the doctor for him to carve. Dorrie had followed her into the room carrying a tureen of spiced red cabbage and a jug of apple sauce. The appetising smell made Charity feel faint with anticipation. Dorrie placed the dish and jug on the table and sat down next to her. ‘I’m allowed,’ she whispered. ‘It’s the one day of the year when I sit with the master and Mrs Rose.’
Dr Marchant picked up the carving knife and fork. ‘We are a small family, but today I want to invite Charity to join us.’ He cut a thick slice of meat and passed the plate to her. ‘It seems that you will be forced out of the shop, but you will always have a home here with us. Isn’t that so, Enid?’
Mrs Rose recoiled and her eyes widened, but she recovered quickly and managed to smile. ‘Of course, sir. If that’s what you wish.’
‘I couldn’t impose,’ Charity said quickly. ‘I mean it’s very good of you and I’m very touched, but I’m not your responsibility, Dr Marchant. I can take care of myself.’
He continued carving the bird. ‘You came here today for my advice, and it seems to me that the answer is obvious. We have plenty of room and I’m sure that Mrs Rose could do with someone to relieve her of some of her household duties.’
‘I manage very well, sir.’ Mrs Rose pursed her lips, frowning.
‘It would only be until Charity has found herself a more permanent position. Her grandfather and I were friends in the old days, before he became addicted to alcohol. I would be letting him down if I did nothing to help his granddaughter.’
‘You’ll come and live here,’ Dorrie said, nudging Charity in the ribs. ‘That’s the best Christmas present I ever had.’
‘Where’s the gravy, you stupid child?’ Mrs Rose pointed her knife at Dorrie. ‘Fetch it at once before the food gets cold.’
Dorrie slid off the chair and raced from the room.
‘Walk, don’t run,’ Mrs Rose called after her. She sighed. ‘I hope you’re not going to be a bad influence on the child, Charity. She needs a firm hand or she’ll never learn how to tie her own bootlaces.’
‘Come now, Enid,’ Dr Marchant said before Charity had a chance to speak. ‘Don’t be hard on the girl. It’s Christmas Day, after all, and she obviously has a fondness for Charity.’
‘Yes, doctor.’ Mrs Rose folded her lips together in a thin line of disapproval, but she refrained from making further comment when Dorrie returned with the gravy boat, slopping some on the tablecloth in her haste.
Charity had been about to stand up for Dorrie but she thought better of it. She was grateful to the doctor for his suggestion, but she doubted whether Mrs Rose would be as welcoming.
Dr Marchant said grace and the room was silent except for the clatter of the cutlery on the best china dinner service. If the goose was delicious, the plum pudding was a triumph. The blue flames of heated brandy licked about its glossy surface, filling the room with a heady aroma. Dorrie managed to get the custard sauce to the table without spilling it and Mrs Rose served the doctor first, waiting eagerly for his verdict.
‘Wonderful,’ he said, wiping his lips on his napkin. ‘Another of your culinary masterpieces, my dear Enid. Truly delicious.’
Mrs Rose glowed with pleasure as she passed heaped plates to Charity and Dorrie. ‘Thank you, doctor.’
‘I remember my granny’s puddings,’ Charity said, licking her lips. ‘But they weren’t anything like this, ma’am. It is truly delicious.’
Dorrie had taken such a large mouthful that she was unable to speak. Her thin cheeks were puffed out and a dribble of custard ran down her chin. Charity distracted Mrs Rose’s attention by raising her glass of water as she had seen Wilmot do on several occasions when there was something to celebrate, only then it had been a wine glass filled with expensive claret. ‘A toast,’ she said grandly. ‘To Mrs Rose and her unforgettable Christmas dinner.’
Dr Marchant rose to his feet, holding up his glass of sherry. ‘Mrs Rose.’
Dorrie choked down the last of her pudding and in her haste to join in somehow managed to knock her glass over. Mrs Rose leapt to her feet and began clearing the table. ‘You stupid clumsy little girl,’ she hissed. ‘We must get the cloth off before the water ruins the French polish. I knew it was a mistake to let you eat with us.’
Dorrie burst into tears and fled from the room.
‘It was an accident, Enid.’ Dr Marchant rose slowly. ‘If the table is marked we can call in the French polisher. It’s not the end of the world.’
Charity was already on her feet and had begun piling up the plates. She waited until Mrs Rose had marched out of the dining room with the remains of the Christmas pudding. ‘I’ll help, sir. Why don’t you sit by the fire and rest?’
‘I think I might. I’m not as young as I was, Charity.’ Moving slowly, as if each step was an effort, he went to sit by the fire. He leaned back in the armchair, resting his feet on the brass fender with a contented sigh.
‘I’ll help Mrs Rose with the washing up and then I’ll be on my way.’ She glanced at the window but darkness had fallen and lacy flakes of snow clung to the windowpanes.
Dr Marchant followed her gaze. ‘You must stay here tonight, my dear. I won’t take no for an answer. It will give you time to think about my suggestion that you reside here on a more permanent basis, or at least until I can find you a more suitable position.’
Charity folded back the tablecloth and mopped up the water. ‘No harm done,’ she said. ‘A little wax polish and a lot of elbow grease will soon set that to rights.’
‘Tell Mrs Rose to make up a bed for you,’ Dr Marchant said firmly. ‘We’ll talk more in the morning, but now I’m a bit tired.’ He lay back against the cushions and closed his eyes.
Charity picked up a pile of dessert plates and carried them to the kitchen. She could hear Dorrie clattering about in the scullery, and the swish of water as she washed the dishes. Mrs Rose was about to put the remains of the goose in the larder but she stopped in the doorway, giving Charity a questioning glance. ‘Well? Has he persuaded you to move in with us?’
‘Dr Marchant insists that I stay tonight, but I’ll go home first thing in the morning.’
‘What will you do when you lose the shop? He found you on the street and that’s where you’ll end up, I’ve no doubt.’
‘Don’t worry, Mrs Rose. I won’t accept the doctor’s offer to come and live here. It was more than kind of him to suggest it, but I have to make my own way in the world. I’ll find work somehow and a place to live.’
Mrs Rose’s taut features relaxed just a little. ‘It’s not that I have anything against you personally, but we have our own ways here, and another person in the house would make life difficult.’
‘I ought to help Dorrie with the washing up.’ Charity made a move towards the scullery but Mrs Rose held up her hand. ‘No need. The girl has to earn her living. It’s what she’s paid to do and I don’t want her to get it into her head that you’ll be here on a permanent basis.’
> ‘I think you’re very hard on her, ma’am. She’s just a child.’
‘And children have to learn their place. What use will she be in service if she can’t obey orders? I can’t have her talking back when I tell her what to do, and if you’re here she thinks she can get away with anything.’ Mrs Rose put the plate on the marble shelf and closed the larder door. ‘Come with me. I’ll give you clean linen and you can make up your own bed. I’ll send Dorrie up with coal and kindling and you’ll be able to make yourself comfortable in the spare room, but it is just for one night.’
‘One night,’ Charity said tiredly. ‘I’ll be gone in the morning. You need not worry about me, Mrs Rose.’
‘Good. We understand each other.’ Mrs Rose sailed out of the room, a bunch of keys jangling on the chatelaine hanging from her belt. Charity had a sudden vision of Enid Rose as a jailer, escorting her to a cell, and it made her even more certain that they would never be compatible. The doctor’s house was Mrs Rose’s domain and she would bitterly resent intrusion by another female whatever her age or circumstances. Poor little Dorrie was only tolerated because she was a slavey and too young to make a stand.
When she was comfortably ensconced in the double bed with its starched cotton sheets that felt like glass as she slid between them, and a fire burning merrily in the grate, Charity came close to having second thoughts. The wallpaper was patterned with bunches of violets tied with pink ribbons, which matched the cretonne curtains that shut out the cold winter night. Mrs Rose might have her faults but she was an excellent housekeeper, and the rich mahogany dressing table and wardrobe gleamed with polish. The scent of lavender emanated from the clean bedding and was echoed in a faint scent of beeswax polish. Charity lay back against the feather pillows, watching the shadows created by the firelight, and once again her thoughts travelled back to her early childhood and her tiny bedroom in her grandparents’ house. That, she thought dreamily, was the last time she had enjoyed the luxury of her own bedroom. She closed her eyes and tried not to think about the future, but in five days’ time she might find herself reduced to begging on the streets.
