Paper Doll

by Janet Woods

  It was indeed mostly coughs and colds, boils and blisters, with several blossoming cases of German measles. The women and children tended to be pale, malnourished and anxious looking.

  Mrs Seeble was quiet and respectful, and went about her job efficiently.

  He got the bulk of evening patients out of the way quickly, dispensing bottles of cough medicine and diagnosing two pregnancies – to which pronouncement one earned him a sour look.

  ‘It’s not my fault; you should take precautions,’ he said.

  ‘Aye . . . well, that’s all reet for thee, mon, but tell it to my husband and yon pope in his Italian palace,’ the woman said.

  Just as Mrs Seeble was about to lock the door, a boy came in, blood flowing from an ugly gash in his arm.

  ‘Joe Harris,’ Mrs Seeble murmured, reaching for the iodine bottle.

  ‘How did this happen, Joe?’ Martin asked the boy

  ‘I climbed over a wall and it had broken glass on the top. Are you the new doctor?’

  ‘I am that.’

  ‘You talk posh.’

  ‘Do I?’ He examined the jagged edges of the wound.

  ‘Do you reckon you’ll have to stitch it, Doc?’

  Martin looked up at him and smiled. ‘I reckon I will, at that. What were you doing climbing over the wall?’

  ‘I got locked out, didn’t I . . . sides, it ain’t no business of your’n.’

  ‘Would you prefer me to stitch it with, or without, an injection, Joe?’

  ‘What’s a jection?’

  ‘A needle with anaesthesia in it to numb the pain.’

  ‘I ain’t no bleddy girl, and I don’t want any jection . . . You won’t get a soddin’ yelp of me.’

  Martin gave him a sharp look. ‘Don’t swear in front of the lady.’

  ‘Sorry, Mrs,’ and the lad gazed with some alarm at the instruments Mrs Seeble was laying out. ‘Ere, what are all them things for?’

  ‘The iodine will sterilize the skin so germs won’t enter the wound. This thread is for the stitches, and this needle—’

  Joe Harris fainted clean away.

  Martin swabbed the wound with iodine. ‘Fetch the procaine if you would, Mrs Seeble. Master Harris isn’t as tough as he imagines.’

  The woman smiled. ‘Yes, Doctor,’ then a few minutes later, ‘Very neat embroidery. I’d heard you were good.’

  Astonished, he gazed at her. ‘Have you? From whom?’

  ‘A man called Stanley Bridges. He said you saved both his legs and his life during the war.’

  ‘I can’t say I recall his name. There were many casualties at the front . . . too many of them to remember names.’ Too many legs, arms, guts!

  ‘He has cause to remember you, Dr Lee-Trafford. I imagine many other people would remember you, and be grateful for the diligent practise of your profession under duress.’

  ‘I suppose there would be people who remember me. How odd, when I only seem to remember the ones who died.’ He didn’t know why this motherly woman invited his confidence, but she did. ‘It all caught up with me eventually, you know . . . a mental collapse. I’ve only just returned to my profession.’

  ‘Mental turmoil under extreme stress can be expected if a man has any degree of sensitivity. You’re being too hard on yourself. You were endowed with the skill to heal and comfort, and that can only be used to the greater good. You were not born with the power to select those poor unfortunates to whom your gift would be of the most benefit.’

  Her words gave his spirits a lift as he injected the procaine around the wound.

  Half an hour later Joe Harris swaggered off with his arm in a sling and with a reminder to come back in ten days to have the stitches removed.

  Mrs Seeble called after him, ‘Tell your mother that the bill will be two shillings and sixpence, and you’re to bring it the next time you come.’

  ‘It didn’t hurt a bit,’ Joe bragged, as he went off.

  ‘Wait until the anaesthetic wears off you cheeky little tyke,’ Martin muttered and turned to his companion. ‘Why do I feel we’ll be lucky to see that particular bill settled?’

  ‘It doesn’t take much working out. They’re poor and the boy thieves. His mother will probably remove the stitches herself, and use dirty scissors. If it gets infected they’ll blame us and use it for an excuse not to pay.’

  Martin was relieved to discover he’d performed the simple procedure without so much as even thinking about flinching.

  He helped Mrs Seeble to clean the surgery and instruments ready for use the next day. ‘You needn’t do this. You go next door and get your dinner while I wash the floor,’ she said.

  ‘I’ll make sure you get home safely first.’

  ‘Don’t worry about me; my son will be here with the car in a few minutes.’

  There was the sound of a car sputtering to a halt, and the door was thrust open pushing a splatter of wet wind before it, ‘What ho! What have you done with all the patients, Mrs Seeble?’

  ‘They’ve all been dealt with, Doctor.’

  ‘Good, because I overtook your boy on the way.’ A smile sped across Tomlinson’s face when his glance fell on Martin. ‘You look too healthy to be one of my patients so you must be Martin Lee-Trafford. I’m Jack Tomlinson. I’m so glad you got here. It looks as though the women got you organized the minute you walked through the door?’

  ‘Yes . . . they did rather, but I’m here to work. I was just going to follow up on my dinner. Sister Catherine invited me to your table.’

  ‘Then follow me . . . I’m starving, and I imagine you are too. I’ll be working with you on emergency for the next few days until you get to know the district. It’s cold these nights, so it’s best to get a good dinner inside you.’

  ‘Goodnight, Mrs Seeble,’ they both said together.

  ‘Goodnight, Doctors . . . God bless,’ she said.

  It was pitch dark outside, except for a sputtering gas lamp on the corner, which acted as an unintentional beacon for the surgery. A car coming round the corner flooded them with light. A horn honked and Jack waved.

  Colifield was a far cry from London – or from Bournemouth for that matter, where Martin intended to end up eventually.

  Catherine had cooked a solid hotpot with suet dumplings for dinner and Martin’s stomach expanded as every nook and cranny of it was filled.

  Later, he fed the cats on leftover hotpot, and saw to their comfort, allowing them to explore the yard. He’d just finished unpacking his suitcase and was about to go to bed, when Jack came through the adjoining door in the wall and thumped on the back door.

  ‘One of the patients has gone into labour. The mother’s a veteran, so I thought this would be a good start for your first baby. Look lively though, the infant is not going to wait.’

  Watched by two young girls of about twelve and thirteen, who bustled about carrying water and flannels for their mother, Martin brought his first baby into the world, a strapping, squalling boy.

  ‘There’s a bonny lad,’ the woman said. ‘Go next door and tell your da he’s got himself a son, our Jessie.’ She beamed a smile at Martin. ‘We’ve got five daughters, and this is our first lad.’

  ‘He’s my first lad too; in fact, he’s the first baby I’ve delivered.’ And he felt a wonderful sense of achievement as a result.

  ‘Well, you made a damned fine job of it. I reckon we’ll be calling him after you then, as well as his father. What’s your name, Doctor . . . out wi’ it.’

  ‘It’s Martin.’

  ‘Martin it is, then. Martin Bertram Ucklesbury; that’s a reet grand name to go through life with.’

  Even if that life was short. A few days later whooping cough broke out of its confinement.

  As Martin learned that first week, the surgery might be a poor living, but it was a busy one, and just as much a battleground as the war had been. It was just that the casualties were different.

  Fourteen

  Latham spared no expense when considering the prenatal co
mfort of his wife and coming child.

  Without any more objections on his part, Ellen was hired to take care of Julia’s personal needs, and to help Mrs Finnigan in the house. Julia was able to convince Latham that she didn’t need a nurse to look after her – at least, not in the early stages.

  ‘I’m not ill,’ she insisted. ‘This is an entirely natural state for me to be in.’

  ‘I insist on you having a nurse for the last two months . . . you might fall.’

  ‘So might you. Stop wrapping me in cotton wool.’

  The good thing was that Latham didn’t hit her any more, and Julia thought the doctor might have mentioned her bruises to Latham, as he’d suggested he would. He still paid her regular attention in bed.

  ‘The doctor said it would be all right up to the seventh month,’ he told her. ‘After that we can find another way to satisfy our urges.’ His urges, she thought. She didn’t have any of note where he was concerned.

  There was an air of duty being done about Latham. He developed a schedule where he came down from London on Friday nights and went back on Monday morning. It was clear that he preferred the busy push and shove of London.

  She missed seeing Martin, and had a sick feeling in her throat every time she thought of him. In the end she gave in to her resolve not to ring him, waiting until Latham was out with the dogs. At the factory she found it hard to hear against the background din.

  A man called Harold Clapton told her loudly, ‘Mr Lee-Trafford no longer works here.’

  When she rang Martin’s flat a woman answered. ‘Doctor Lee-Trafford has taken up a medical appointment in the North of England, I understand. A pity, since he was such a lovely tenant. Very clean and tidy.’

  Her heart sank. ‘Do you know where he went?’

  ‘It was one of the mining towns up North. I can’t remember the name. He left a forwarding address in case any mail came for him. Hang on a minute, love.’ A few moments later Julia was given the address and phone number of his lawyer in Bournemouth. She wrote them on a notepad kept by the telephone.

  She rang the lawyer.

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t divulge my client’s address, Mrs . . . um?’

  She heard a noise from the kitchen and the dogs noisily lapping up water from the drinking bowl. Quickly, she hung up, then she tore the paper with the lawyer’s details on off the pad. She stuffed it in her pocket.

  Latham came in. ‘Who was that on the telephone?’

  Guilt filled her. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘You don’t know who you were talking to?’

  She’d learned that he became suspicious in his questioning if she lied, though that could be her own imagination, brought about by her guilt. She wasn’t a very good liar, no matter how hard she tried. ‘No . . . She didn’t give a name.’

  ‘Why did she ring you then?’

  ‘She didn’t. I rang her.’

  Latham heaved a sigh. ‘Julia, are you being deliberately obtuse?’

  She didn’t want to incur his anger. ‘No . . . Actually, I wanted to talk to Martin Lee-Trafford so rang his landlady.’

  His eyebrows rose like a pair of grizzled wings on a bird about to take flight. ‘Lee-Trafford? What on earth do you want to talk to him for?’

  ‘He was my friend, and I wondered how he was getting on. She told me he’d left London. Did you dismiss him?’

  ‘Certainly not. Lee-Trafford handed in his notice and said he was going back to his profession. I have no idea where he went.’

  She was upset by his revelation. ‘Why didn’t you tell me he was leaving?’

  ‘I didn’t think it was that important. People leave my employ all the time.’ He took her in his arms. ‘I know you thought a lot of the fellow, my love, but perhaps you should ask yourself something. If he was such a good friend, why didn’t he tell you he was leaving?’

  The only thing worse than Latham being mean to her, was Latham being nice.

  She felt smothered.

  Julia already knew why Martin had wanted to get away from a situation that couldn’t be resolved if he stayed. He’d covered his tracks, so she wouldn’t be able to find him. There was a bottomless pool of tears congealing inside her for him. Martin hadn’t believed that the baby might be his, and she’d encouraged him in that. He’d chosen to be cruel to be kind. She felt abandoned, and wanted to bawl like a baby.

  ‘You’re right; I’m a bit out of sorts today,’ she said, her voice quavering.

  ‘You’ll feel better after you’ve had a nap. Have one now. I’m going to run Robert into the garage to pick up your car. I put it in for a service.’ He called Ellen in. ‘Take Mrs Miller up to her room; she needs to rest.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Ellen helped her into her nightgown. ‘Is there anything I can do to make you comfortable?’ she said, sounding slightly worried when tears trickled down Julia’s cheek.

  ‘Thank you, Ellen, I’ll call you when I wake, and you can bring me a cup of tea.’

  As soon as Ellen left, Julia began to cry in earnest. Everything was too much to cope with – her marriage, her father’s death, falling in love with Martin – and having to give him up. And now she was having a baby and didn’t know who’d fathered it. Her life was a mess, and there was nothing to look forward to.

  She didn’t hear the door open, just a soft, ‘Mrs Miller? Ellen told me you were upset.’

  ‘Oh, Agnes . . . nothing is going right in my life.’

  Agnes took her in her arms, rocked her back and forth, then lay her down on the pillow and tucked her in. ‘There, there, my dear. It’s your body doing this to you. It has to adjust, you see. It’ll soon settle down when the baby gets a bit bigger. Close your eyes and settle down, dear. I’ll sit here with my knitting until you go to sleep. It’s going to be a shawl to wrap the baby in. It will be a bonny baby, just you wait and see.’

  Julia had very little choice but to wait and see. She gazed through her tears at the pretty fan-shaped pattern and gave a watery smile. ‘It’s pretty, and so sweet of you. Thank you so much . . . I wish my father was here. He would have so much enjoyed being a grandfather.’

  Of course there was something to look forward to, she thought as she drifted into sleep – her baby. If it were a boy she’d call him Benjamin after his grandfather. He would have liked that.

  The winter was warm and mostly dry. Latham insisted that she eat a proper diet; oatmeal for breakfast; vegetable and chicken broths for lunch; steak and vegetables for dinner. And there was fruit, some of it out of season. Where Latham got it from she didn’t know. He came home from London one day with a peach. Another day he handed her a small basket of perfect grapes.

  Eating so much didn’t seem to do her any harm. The only weight she gained was on her breasts, which were tender, and which grew even larger as her pregnancy progressed.

  Ellen smoothed oil into her distended stomach every day. ‘It will prevent stretch marks,’ she said.

  The nurse arrived in March. Fiona Robertson had an accent to match her name and wore an air of efficiency. If Julia had been regimented by Latham before, now it was doubly so.

  With her body getting unwieldy, and the baby using her as a punching bag from the inside, she found it easier to do what she was told. Fiona Robertson had a routine. When the nurse told her to eat, Julia ate. Told to sleep, she slept immediately. They walked together for an hour every day, though Julia’s was more of a waddle than a walk.

  ‘Don’t walk too fast and tire yourself out, now. Let’s stop and rest.’

  They sat on the garden seat, and where once Julie would have listened to the sounds of nature, now she had a talkative Scot.

  ‘It’s pretty here in the spring. Are those bluebells growing up near the copse?’

  ‘No, they’re anemones.’

  ‘Fancy that. Up you get now. The exercise is good for you. Mind you don’t slip on those loose stones.’

  ‘It’s gravel and I’m used to it. Please don’t fuss, Fiona.’

&
nbsp; A chiffchaff sang a song from a branch of catkins when they passed.

  ‘Such a sweet song,’ Fiona observed.

  ‘Don’t say another word, and look at that.’ They watched entranced as a gaudy peacock butterfly emerged from its dull larva, then smiled at each other and headed back to the house for afternoon tea.

  Julia had gradually gathered her infant’s clothing together. Agnes Finnegan’s shawl had become a complete layette, with sweet little bonnet, booties and mitts edged in crocheted blue shells. Latham had brought her a catalogue to choose clothing from, and came down from London every week with parcels to unwrap.

  The nursery had been prepared and the latest Marmet baby carriage purchased, shining with chrome.

  Her child was to be born in the little flat her father had occupied, which had now become the nursery wing. Fiona Robertson was already settled in there.

  ‘I’ll get a nanny for the child,’ Latham said.

  Dismayed, Julia frowned at him. ‘I don’t want a nanny. I intend to care for the baby myself.’

  There was an argument. Julia was getting her own way more and more because Latham didn’t want to upset her. He made a concession. ‘At least agree to me asking Fiona Robertson to stay on for three months after the birth. It will give you time to recover from the birth.’

  Because Julia quite liked the nurse, she couldn’t hurt her feelings by saying she didn’t want her, so she nodded.

  ‘Don’t blame me if the child grows up with a Scottish accent,’ she warned Latham, and he laughed.

  She was in her final month when Irene arrived on the doorstep. ‘Good lord, darling; you’re an absolute giant.’

  Julia managed a laugh, despite knowing that she and Latham were still involved. ‘Believe me, I feel like one.’

  ‘Who’s that fearsome Scottish creature who guards the entrance to your cave?’

  ‘Nurse Fiona Robertson. Latham hired her to look after me.’

  ‘Poor you . . . She looks terribly grim.’