The Daughters of Eden Trilogy

by Michelle Paver

  Cursing under his breath, Adam ran out into the street. It was only two in the afternoon, but the place was eerily quiet. He hammered on doors, and still no-one came. There was no-one about. It was like the dreams he used to have before the War, when he knew that he had to reach some vitally important goal, but obstacles kept springing up, each more impossible than the last.

  At the end of the street he spotted a public telephone booth. Salvation. But when he reached it, he snarled in frustration. It was chained shut ‘to prevent infection’. He cast around for something to snap the chain.

  A piece of luck. The landlady’s boy was back, hunched in a doorway, watching him with unblinking blue eyes.

  ‘Crowbar,’ said Adam, tossing him a sixpence. ‘Fast.’

  The boy caught the sixpence one-handed and sped off, returning a few minutes later with a length of iron railing. ‘You’ll get done for that,’ he muttered as he watched Adam breaking into the booth.

  ‘Quite probably,’ said Adam. ‘Here’s a shilling. Run up to number eight and keep an eye on the lady till I get back.’

  The telephone exchange was undermanned and maddeningly slow, and it took for ever to get through to St Thomas’s Hospital. They didn’t have a bed to spare, and seemed astonished that he was even asking. He tried the Lambeth Infirmary; then the two doctors whom they recommended. Still no good. All were awash with patients, and scoffed at the very notion of a private nurse. Adam began to feel like a man trying in vain to get rid of an unwanted stray.

  He telephoned Clive. By some fluke, his friend was at home, snatching a quick meal before hastening out to see more patients. ‘Sorry, old man, but I’m up to my eyes in patients of my own.’

  ‘But what am I supposed to do?’ said Adam in disbelief.

  ‘See her through,’ said Clive.

  ‘But I’m not a doctor!’

  ‘Listen, old man. You won’t get her into hospital, and you won’t find a nurse for love or money. It’s down to you. You’ve done a spot of medicine in the trenches; it’s not that hard. Besides, one way or the other, it’ll be over in a day or so.’

  Adam cut the connection, and leaned against the side of the booth. How could this be happening? A simple visit to see if an acquaintance was all right, and now he was marooned in the slums, dizzy with fatigue, with claw-marks throbbing on the backs of his hands – and he didn’t even like the girl.

  It’s down to you, Clive had said.

  Bloody hell, thought Adam.

  Through the open door, a flash of yellow caught his eye. It was a shrine: one of tens of thousands which had sprung up on street corners since the start of the War. A wooden tablet surmounted by a simple cross bore the names of those from the street who had been killed at the Front. A ledge below held flowers: in this case, chrysanthemums in a jam jar.

  Suddenly, Adam felt ashamed.

  Back at number eight, he found Isabelle Lawe raving at the snakes, while the boy stood in the doorway, trying not to look scared.

  Adam gave him two pounds plus sixpence commission, and sent him off for quinine, phenacetin, a thermometer, and a bottle of whisky. He couldn’t remember much about his own bout of fever in Arras, and he wasn’t even sure if this was the same illness; but he had a hazy recollection that quinine and alcohol had pulled him through.

  While the boy was gone, he ransacked Isabelle Lawe’s valise for anything that might help. Among the flimsy silk blouses and the ridiculously impractical lace all-in-ones – didn’t the girl know how to pack? – he found some eau de Cologne which would come in useful as an alcohol rub, and a sixpenny booklet entitled The Nurse’s Guide to the Treatment & Management of the Influenza Patient.

  ‘Not a child,’ whispered Isabelle Lawe.

  Startled, Adam turned round.

  The illness was draining her from within. The skull beneath the skin was disturbingly visible: the blue ridges of cheekbones, the sharp line of the jaw. Her eyes were dull and sunken, and they stared at him without recognition. He wondered what she saw when she looked at him. Whom was she trying to fight?

  ‘Right,’ he said, and his voice echoed in the dingy little room. ‘It’s just you and me and the Nurse’s Guide.’

  Then he pulled up the stool and started to read.

  ‘Why are you doing this?’ gasped Isabelle Lawe.

  Adam stopped sponging her neck, and sighed. Damn, she was awake again. Every time he thought she’d fainted, she came round. If she didn’t get some rest soon, her heart would give out.

  It was some time after midnight on the second night. She’d been delirious for nearly two days. So perhaps, he thought, it’s a good sign that she’s regaining her senses? But he wasn’t too sure. The Nurse’s Guide was full of stark warnings about false dawns.

  ‘I’m giving you a sponge bath,’ he told her. ‘Cold water and eau de Cologne. It’s supposed to—’

  ‘No, no,’ she muttered, screwing up her eyes at the penny candle on the rickety deal table. ‘Why are you doing this. Why you.’

  ‘I couldn’t find anyone else,’ he said bluntly, moving the candle onto the floor where it wouldn’t bother her.

  ‘Well, now you can go.’ She said it haughtily, as if she were dismissing a servant. It almost made him smile.

  He dipped his handkerchief in the bowl and started doing her chest – or as much of it as he could reach while foraging blindly under the blanket so as not to embarrass her. Although, he reflected, she was probably too ill to be embarrassed, so maybe he was doing it to spare his own blushes; and when one thought about it, that was pretty irrational, given that he’d spent months at the Front living cheek by jowl with his men— ‘I told you to get out,’ she snapped. ‘Go away. I want to die.’

  ‘Don’t be so melodramatic,’ he muttered, ‘and drink this.’ Holding her head, he poured a few drops of the mixture into her mouth.

  She spluttered. ‘What on earth is that?’

  ‘Quinine, seltzer, and Scotch.’

  ‘It’s horrible.’

  ‘I know. According to the book, you’re supposed to have Apollinaris and champagne. But they’re a bit hard to come by in Walworth.’

  ‘Where did you get the whisky?’

  ‘Billy,’ said Adam. To stop her talking, he explained that Billy was the landlady’s boy, and that he’d been a godsend for fetching supplies, and was earning a small fortune in commissions.

  She twisted her head away, refusing more to drink. ‘Then pay – the landlady to look after me. And go.’

  ‘I can’t,’ said Adam. ‘She’s dead. Now, no more talking.’ To make his point, he stuck the thermometer in her mouth.

  While he waited for the mercury to rise, he told her that Billy – whom he’d sent off to bed an hour before – had been hanging around ever since his mother’s death three days before. He was waiting for his aunt Lucy from Stoke Newington to come and pick him up – ‘Only she never,’ he’d told Adam through a well-earned corned beef sandwich. ‘I dunno if she ever got word.’

  Another one needing help, thought Adam, kneading the tiredness from his eyes. And the worst thing was, there wasn’t much he could do for either of them. The best he could do for Billy would be to see him safely to his aunt’s. The best he could do for Isabelle Lawe was – what? Watch and wait, and feed her the odd trickle of whisky?

  Most of the essentials in the Nurse’s Guide were out of his reach. Chapter one made a great fuss about gasifying the air with an Alformant lamp, and injecting liquor strychninae to calm a racing heart. It was also stern about the need for frequent ‘delicate, small meals of nicely made gruel or tapioca pudding, thoroughly cooked’. Adam had no idea how to make either of those, nicely or otherwise, and he suspected that even if he could, his patient would simply throw it up, as she’d thrown up the phenacetin he’d tried to give her for the pain. But tapioca pudding was beginning to sound extremely good to him, even though he’d hated it at school. He hadn’t eaten since the corned beef sandwich, and that had been ten hours before.

 
‘The snake is back,’ whispered Isabelle Lawe, spitting out the thermometer.

  ‘It isn’t real,’ he told her for the twentieth time.

  ‘Then why is it shooting venom in my eyes? Why do you keep lying to me?’

  ‘I’m not lying. I—’

  ‘Get off me,’ she snarled, clawing open the scabs she’d gouged in his hands the night before.

  ‘There is no snake,’ he said through his teeth. ‘Look, I’m throwing a book at it right now, you can see it bouncing off the wall.’

  ‘Stop lying!’ she shouted.

  ‘Lie still or you’ll—’

  ‘Stop lying!’

  Black blood jetted from her nose and soaked the bed.

  Something had snapped inside her head, and let loose a torrent of steaming black blood. Out it came like water gushing from a tap: pints of it spraying the blanket, the wall, the floor.

  Adam Palairet was cursing softly and continuously as he pinned her down with one hand and with the other pressed a handkerchief to her nose. She made a gurgling protest. The handkerchief wasn’t stemming the flow, it was sending the blood back down her throat; he was drowning her.

  Just when she thought she was going to pass out, he realized what was happening and snatched the handkerchief away, and out spurted the blood, narrowly missing his chest.

  The iron band around her ribs tightened unbearably – then snapped. She sank into darkness.

  She awoke to feel her face being sponged with cool water. She recognized the smell of eau de Cologne – recognized it, and yet experienced it as if for the very first time. Sharp, clean and cool. She’d never smelt anything so wonderful.

  With an enormous effort, she lifted her eyelids a fraction. The light streaming through the open window was soft, the soft light of dawn. It caused her no pain. The burning needles were gone. The iron band was gone. She felt weightless and empty, as if she might float away on the breeze. She felt no pain.

  Adam Palairet sat beside her on a rickety little stool, unshaven and red-eyed with exhaustion. He wore a pink, moth-eaten crocheted shawl round his shoulders, and no shirt. His shirt lay in a heap on the floor. It was black with blood.

  Belle frowned. ‘But – I missed you,’ she murmured. ‘I know I did.’

  He stopped sponging and glanced at her. ‘That was the first time.’

  She took that in. ‘How many . . .’

  ‘Five. But there’s been nothing for an hour. I think you’re over the worst.’

  Belle knew she was, but she felt too weak to say it. Shutting her eyes, she gave herself up to the wonderful, clean smell of the eau de Cologne. She felt incredibly weak but also strangely cleansed.

  After a while she opened her eyes a fraction and said, ‘Thank you.’

  He threw her a glance. ‘Do I take it from that that you intend to live?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You kept telling me to leave you to die. I became rather tired of hearing it.’

  She frowned. ‘How – melodramatic of me.’

  ‘Quite.’

  Another silence, while she lay listening to the sparrows squabbling in the eaves. Then she felt the tears leaking out of her eyes. ‘I miss Sibella,’ she said.

  ‘I know. So do I.’

  With the damp handkerchief he wiped away her tears, leaving trails of coolness. Then he dabbed gingerly at her nose.

  Eventually she stopped crying. ‘What – happens now?’

  He hesitated. ‘You must keep very still, don’t talk, and try to sleep.’

  ‘No, I mean later. What happens later?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said.

  By the following afternoon, Adam had things under control.

  With the help of the resourceful Billy, he’d found a Mrs Benson who lived three houses down, who agreed to see to the laundry and ‘do for’ Belle. He’d obtained a camp cot for himself, and written in guarded terms to Drum, who’d sent on his post and a change of clothes without asking any questions, as well as some much-needed cash – ‘Don’t mention it, old chap, we’ll settle up in Scotland.’ He’d also scribbled notes to Maud McAllister, giving her his new address, and to Sibella’s friend Mrs Pryce-Dennistoun, who’d left numerous irate messages at his club, without specifying what they were about.

  On the evening of the third day, he sat on the camp bed with a whisky on his knee, reading his letters. Belle was asleep, having for the first time taken a little milk pudding laced with Scotch.

  The Nurse’s Guide approved of Scotch. A daily diet of milk, raw eggs and whisky is most fortifying. It also approved of Benger’s Invalid Food (when properly made up, it is never lumpy) and the food-drug Sanatogen. Mrs Benson, however, sniffed at the notion of special provisions for invalids. Adam suspected that with milk at ninepence a gallon and himself footing the bill, she preferred to make a substantial pudding which would sustain her own brood, too. He didn’t mind. He was becoming quite fond of milk pudding.

  The first of his letters was a hasty note from Drum, announcing his arrival in Galloway, and thanking Adam for the loan of the tithe cottage, which he anticipated would be ‘just the ticket’.

  The second was a letter from Maud McAllister, expressing bemusement at his Walworth address, and explaining, with her usual blend of apology and brisk common sense, that she’d got as far as she could with the estate manager, and it was high time Adam tackled him face to face over the running of the Home Farm.

  Feeling suddenly tired, Adam put down the note. Maud was right, it was time he went home. And he wanted to. He longed for the peace and solitude of the hills where he’d grown up.

  ‘Is something wrong?’ asked Belle.

  She lay curled on her side, watching him. Her skin still had the grey cast of sickness, and her eyes were shadowed and sunken. She looked about twelve.

  ‘I need to go to Scotland,’ he said.

  She closed her eyes. ‘So go. I’ll be fine here.’

  He repressed a movement of annoyance. ‘Don’t let’s go over that again.’

  ‘I’ve got Mrs Benson,’ she said with a frown. ‘And if that doesn’t satisfy you, I can write to Aunt Mildred.’

  ‘Aunt Mildred who doesn’t exist.’

  She did not reply.

  Adam said, ‘There’s a sleeper train to Carlisle. I’ll get you a berth.’

  She opened her eyes and stared at him. ‘Absolutely not.’

  ‘Then what do you suggest?’ he said irritably. ‘You know Mrs Benson can’t spare you more than the odd half-hour, not with six children to care for.’

  She chewed her lower lip, and he saw to his horror that she was close to tears.

  The recovering invalid will be prone to bouts of low spirits, said the Guide, and should be humoured at all times.

  Oh, Christ, thought Adam, now what do I do?

  ‘I just . . .’ she took a shaky breath, ‘I just want to be on my own.’

  He thought about that. ‘I understand. I really do. I want to be on my own, too. But I cannot simply leave you here.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘You’re four flights up, and apart from Billy, the rest of the house is deserted. You’ve lost pints of blood, and you’re so weak you can’t even stand.’ He paused. He was beginning to feel like a bully. ‘If you don’t say yes,’ he went on in a gentler tone, ‘I shall have no option but to send a wire to your people in Jamaica.’

  She looked horrified.

  Now he felt even more of a bully. ‘Well, then.’ He stood up. ‘Scotland it is. I’ll go down and make arrangements, and then—’

  There was a knock at the door.

  They stared at one another. For some obscure reason, Adam felt guilty, as if he’d been caught doing something wrong.

  ‘Don’t answer it,’ whispered Belle. To his surprise, she looked frightened. ‘It can’t be Billy or Mrs Benson,’ she breathed, ‘because they never knock. And I don’t want to see anyone else.’

  Adam went to the window just in time to see a black Daimler almost as wide as
the street sliding noiselessly away.

  The knock came again, this time more hesitantly.

  Adam strode to the door and flung it open.

  A small boy stood before him with an expensive leather suitcase at his feet. He had sandy red hair and terrified, slightly protuberant blue eyes fringed with pale lashes.

  ‘’e come in a motor,’ muttered Billy, who’d followed the boy upstairs, and was eyeing him with blatant hostility.

  The boy tried to swallow, and made a gulping sound instead. He was trembling, and his shoulders were up around his ears. ‘Cap – Captain Palairet, sir?’ he squeaked.

  ‘Yes, that’s me,’ said Adam. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Um. Maximilian Clyne? Sir?’

  Billy snorted. ‘Wassortofaname is that?’

  Again the Clyne boy gulped. ‘This is for you, sir.’ Shakily he held out an expensive-looking cream envelope.

  With a sense of impending doom, Adam took it and scanned the contents.

  It was a note from Mrs Pryce-Dennistoun. She’d only ever said that she could take the child for a very few days, simply out of the kindness of her heart, and it had now been over a week, which was going too far by anyone’s standards, and really was too much to expect . . . Besides, she finished crisply, the child is your responsibility, Captain Palairet, for I am reliably informed by the Clyne family solicitors that in her will poor dear Sibella appointed you his guardian.

  ‘Who is it?’ said Belle.

  ‘He’s not stopping here,’ snarled Billy.

  ‘Um,’ said Max, ‘where do I sleep?’

  Adam stood blinking at the note. Then he folded it and put it in his pocket, and rubbed a hand over his face.

  Two orphaned boys and an invalid girl. Great God Almighty.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Two troop trains had just come in, and St Pancras was heaving with uniforms. The porter cleared a path through the throng, and Adam followed in his wake, pushing Belle in the Bath chair, while Max and Mr Granger, the courier, brought up the rear.

  The grim little procession drew some curious glances. As well it might, thought Adam. It must be as clear as day that none of us wants to be here.