District Nurse on Call
Page 5
‘That’ll be the herbs Hannah put on,’ Mrs Farnley said with satisfaction.
‘I don’t know about that,’ Agnes said. ‘Most wounds heal themselves in time, if they’re kept clean. In fact, you’re better off not putting anything on them, Mrs Farnley, just in case it causes infection.’
Mrs Farnley muttered something under her breath and attacked another shirt collar with the soap.
Agnes set about putting on a clean dressing, aware that she was being watched by the two small children at their father’s feet. Agnes smiled at them, but they stared back at her with the same baleful, suspicious eyes as their mother.
‘So when do you reckon I can go back to work, Nurse?’ Mr Farnley asked, when she had finished.
‘Not until you’re fit,’ his wife interrupted from the other side of the room.
‘I am fit. I’ve still got one good hand, and I reckon I can swing a pick with one as well as I can with t’other.’ He flexed the fingers of his left hand as if to prove his point.
Agnes smiled, remembering what Dr Rutherford said. ‘I’m sure the pit manager will be pleased to hear that—’
‘I knew it!’ Mrs Farnley interrupted her, throwing down the bar of soap. It landed in the tub with a splash. ‘That’s why you’re here, in’t it? He sent you.’
Agnes stared at her angry face. ‘I—’
‘Now, Edie.’ There was a warning note in Jack Farnley’s voice. ‘Don’t start.’
‘Why not? Why shouldn’t I have something to say about it?’ Edie Farnley got to her feet, hands planted on her hips. ‘You come here, making out you’re on our side, but you don’t fool me!’ she sneered at Agnes. ‘You’re just like the rest of them. All you want to do is stop our money!’
‘I don’t understand?’ Agnes looked from one to the other.
‘What she means is my sick pay is due to finish in a couple of days,’ Mr Farnley explained, shooting his wife a dark look. ‘A week is all we’re allowed, unless the doctor signs us off for longer.’
‘Which he never does,’ Mrs Farnley said. ‘He’s in the Haverstocks’ pocket, and they don’t like paying out for men who in’t working, even when it’s the pit that’s made ’em ill.’
‘I’m sure that isn’t the case at all,’ Agnes said.
‘Aye, well, you don’t know owt about it, do you? You’ve only been here five minutes. I’ve seen the state of some of those men old Rutherford’s sent back down the pit. Coughing up coal dust, barely able to walk … He might as well be signing their death warrants as signing them off the sick. Well, you in’t sending my Jack back to work. Not until he’s fit.’
‘And how will we manage without my money?’
‘We’ll manage,’ his wife said firmly.
‘If they stop my sick pay we’ll have to go to the Poor Law—’
‘I said, we’ll manage,’ Mrs Farnley cut him off. ‘We’ve done it before, in’t we? We can do it again.’
Agnes saw the look that passed between them. It was as if they had both forgotten she was there.
She cleared her throat. ‘There won’t be any need for that,’ she said. ‘Your wife is right, Mr Farnley. You can’t possibly go back to work with that wound as it is. I’ll speak to Dr Rutherford and get him to sign you off for at least another week.’
Mrs Farnley laughed harshly. ‘And tha thinks that’ll do any good?’
Agnes straightened her shoulders. ‘If it’s my professional opinion—’
‘I told you, lass. I’ve known that fool Rutherford send men back down that pit on their last legs, just to save the Haverstocks a few bob in sick pay. I don’t see why he should listen to you.’
‘I’ve told you, I want to go back to work,’ Jack Farnley said. ‘I’d rather be down the pit than sitting at home feeling useless.’
His wife rounded on him. ‘You’ll go back to work when you’re fit enough!’
‘I’ll speak to Dr Rutherford,’ Agnes repeated. ‘I’m sure he’ll agree with me that you’re not well enough to go back to work.’
Mrs Farnley went back to her scrubbing. ‘And pigs might fly,’ she muttered.
Chapter Six
It didn’t take Agnes long to call on all the addresses on the list Dr Rutherford had given her, since they were clustered together in the various rows and lanes around the pit.
First she visited the men who had been injured the previous night. At the first cottage, she was met by a disgruntled woman wearing the same belligerent expression as Mrs Farnley.
‘You tell that doctor to mind his own business,’ one told her as she stood in the doorway wielding a broom. ‘My Albert will be back at work when he’s right, and not a minute before.’
‘You don’t understand, I only want—’ Agnes tried to explain, but the door had already slammed in her face.
At the second house she was turned away again, this time with a polite, ‘I’ll look after my husband, thank you. It’s a woman’s job to nurse her mester.’
‘But he needs special treatment,’ Agnes said.
‘Aye, I’ve already spoken to Hannah Arkwright. She says she’ll come round later.’
With more of her special cow dung ointment, no doubt, Agnes thought sourly. She wondered how long it would be before she was having to deal with a severely infected wound.
It was the same story with most of the other patients she visited. Agnes would knock on every door with a smile on her face, only to be greeted by suspicion or downright hostility. By midday, she had only managed to bathe an infected eye, syringe two pairs of ears and treat a case of threadworms. Hardly a good morning’s work, she thought as she headed back to Dr Rutherford’s house. As she cycled past the end of Coalpit Row, heading back up the hill towards the surgery, Agnes noticed the cottage on the end had its curtains drawn closed, even though it was nearly midday.
It was a strange, silent contrast to the other houses on the row, which bustled with activity as women rinsed their clothes and worked their mangles and hung their flapping sheets on the line, all the while casting glances towards the closed curtains.
Agnes slowed her bicycle as the door suddenly opened and a heavy-set woman emerged, huddled in a black coat, a basket tucked over her arm. Agnes recognised her straight away from the previous night, her face blank with shock as she followed the cart carrying her son out of the pit gates. Agnes looked back at the cottage, just in time to see the curtain twitch and the pale, distraught face of a young woman briefly appear.
The black-clad woman had drawn level with Agnes now. She took a deep breath.
‘Mrs Kettle?’
The woman stopped. ‘Yes?’
As Agnes looked at her grim face, Bess Bradshaw’s voice came into her head.
You need to learn to think before you speak, Miss Sheridan.
‘I – I just wanted to say I’m sorry,’ she mumbled. ‘About your son.’
The woman nodded. ‘Thank you.’
‘How is your daughter-in-law?’
‘As well as can be expected, thank you.’
Agnes glanced over the woman’s shoulder towards the cottage. ‘When is her baby due?’
Mrs Kettle paused, as if reluctant to speak. ‘Not for another two months yet,’ she said finally.
‘When would be a good time for me to call on her, do you think?’
Mrs Kettle blinked at her. ‘Call on her? Whatever for?’
‘To introduce myself. Since I’m going to be delivering her baby, I’ll need to make sure …’
But Mrs Kettle was already shaking her head. ‘Nay, Nurse. Hannah Arkwright brings all our bairns into the world.’
‘But …’
‘Our Ellen wants Hannah. No one else,’ Mrs Kettle said firmly. ‘Now, if tha’ll excuse me, I must be on my way. We’re burying our Harry on Thursday, and I’ve a funeral to sort out.’
As she went to move past, Agnes blurted out, ‘Is there anything I can do?’
Mrs Kettle frowned, and once again Agnes heard Bess’ voice in her ear.
‘No, thank you,’ Mrs Kettle said. She glanced over her shoulder, back at the cottage. ‘It’s best if we’re all left in peace.’
‘Of course. I understand. But do tell her if there’s anything I …’ Agnes’ words were lost as the woman stomped off down the lane.
Agnes returned to Dr Rutherford’s house. She parked her bicycle round the back of the shed, carefully placing it well out of Mrs Bannister’s sight, then let herself into the kitchen.
Jinny was at the stove. And she wasn’t alone. Three small children sat around the kitchen table, dipping crusts of bread into a bowl of thick, creamy dripping.
Jinny swung round, her hand flying to her heart, then relaxed when she saw Agnes.
‘Oh, thank goodness it’s you, miss. I thought it were Mrs B, come back from Leeds early. She’d have a fit if she saw the bairns here.’
Agnes looked at the children. They all stared back at her, their eyes round above grease-smeared mouths.
‘I had to bring them wi’ me,’ Jinny said. ‘Ma needed them out of the house. You’ll not say anything to Mrs Bannister, will you? She’ll sack me for sure, and Ma says we need the money.’ Her small face was screwed up with worry.
‘I won’t say a word,’ Agnes promised. She went off to hang up her coat and put away her bag, then returned to the kitchen.
‘You’ll be wanting summat to eat?’ Jinny said. ‘I’m sorry, miss, I weren’t expecting you back while one o’clock. What with having to keep an eye on this lot, I’ve fallen a bit behind.’ She looked vaguely around the kitchen. ‘I think there might be some cold cuts, if you fancy them?’
Agnes looked at the children’s plates. ‘This bread and dripping looks nice.’
Jinny’s pale eyes widened. ‘Oh, no, miss, I couldn’t give you that!’
‘Why not? We used to eat it all the time at the hospital when I was training in London.’ Agnes pulled out a kitchen chair, keeping a careful distance between herself and the children’s greasy hands.
‘Well, if you’re sure?’ Jinny put a plate down in front of Agnes, her expression reluctant. ‘But Mrs Bannister wouldn’t like it.’
‘Then we’d best not tell her that either, had we?’ Agnes reached for the dripping pot, smiling at the children who watched her in awestruck silence.
‘And you’re sure tha don’t mind about the bairns? I’m taking ‘em back home soon. Ma just told me to keep an eye on ’em while Mrs Arkwright came round.’
Agnes looked up. ‘Arkwright? Would that be Hannah Arkwright?’
‘Aye, miss. That’s her.’
‘I’m sick and tired of hearing that woman’s name.’
‘You’ll hear it a lot round here.’ Jinny wiped the mouth of one of the children. ‘She and her mother have been nursing people in the village for years.’
Agnes stopped in the middle of spreading dripping on her bread. ‘I’d hardly call it nursing, from what I can see,’ she said. ‘Real nurses don’t go round concocting potions. My nursing is based on real medical knowledge. I don’t suppose Hannah Arkwright and her mother have any formal nursing training.’
‘I don’t s’pose they have,’ Jinny agreed cheerfully. ‘But everyone swears by them, all the same.’
‘Really?’ Agnes went back to her spreading. ‘Then I think I shall have to have a word with this Hannah Arkwright.’
‘Rather you than me, miss!’
‘Why’s that?’
Jinny glanced at the children and lowered her voice. ‘Because she’s a witch. Her and her mother.’
Agnes laughed. ‘Is that what people think?’
‘It’s the truth,’ Jinny insisted. ‘Her mother used to frighten us all when we were bairns – no one went up to their farm if they could help it. Mind, some of the older lads used to do it for a dare, but not me.’ Her thin shoulders shuddered. ‘No, there was summat not quite right about that place. There was talk that Hannah’s father was a bad ’un, and her mother cast a spell to kill him and then got Hannah to bury him in the woods. I dunno if it were true or not, but there were some as reckoned they’d seen his ghost, wandering through the woods in t’dead of night.’
‘It all sounds like superstitious nonsense to me,’ Agnes dismissed.
‘Happen it is, but you won’t find many round here willing to fall out with the Arkwrights.’
‘So why is she visiting your mother? Is she ill?’ Agnes asked.
‘Oh, no, miss. It’s our Ernest. The baby …’
Jinny stopped talking suddenly, her mouth closing like a trap. Her hair hung in a limp curtain over her face, but Agnes could still see the bright crimson tinge in her cheeks.
‘Is he ill?’ she asked. ‘Because I could always pay your mother a visit …’
‘Oh, no, miss,’ Jinny said quickly. ‘Ma wouldn’t want that. She don’t like strangers poking their nose into our business.’ She stopped short, biting her lip as she realised what she had said. ‘Sorry,’ she mumbled.
‘It’s quite all right, Jinny,’ Agnes sighed, helping herself to another slice of bread. ‘It’s no worse than I’ve been hearing all morning, I assure you.’
‘Give me the bairn,’ Hannah Arkwright said.
Ruth Chadwick looked into the other woman’s coal-black eyes and without thinking tightened her arms around her baby, holding him close to her bosom.
Hannah must have noticed the gesture. She smiled, but there was no warmth in it. ‘You want me to make him better, don’t you, my duck?’
Hannah’s voice was soft and lisping, like a child’s. Even after knowing her for so many years, it still surprised Ruth to hear a little girl’s voice coming from such a tall, strapping woman.
Ruth handed over the bundle. But as soon as little Ernest was in Hannah’s arms he started screaming.
Ruth watched Hannah jiggling the baby roughly to shush him, biting her lip until she could stand it no more.
‘Don’t let his head loll like that,’ she blurted out.
Anger flared in Hannah’s eyes. ‘Do you think I don’t know how to hold a bairn?’ she snapped. ‘How many babies have I brought into the world over the years?’
But you’ve never been a mother yourself. Ruth couldn’t say the words. Instead she scratched at her arms, the way she always did it when she was nervous. Her skin was red raw under her long sleeves.
Hannah seemed to read her thoughts. ‘I don’t have to help him, if you don’t want me to?’ She went to hand the baby back, but Ruth shook her head.
‘No,’ she said. ‘No, I want you to help him. Make him better, Hannah, please.’
Hannah’s wide mouth curved in a smile of satisfaction. ‘Of course I will, duck.’
Ruth watched her examining Ernest and tried to remind herself what a good friend Hannah had been to her over the years. She had delivered all the Chadwick babies, and nursed them through childhood illnesses. Hadn’t she cured little Maggie of whooping cough, after Dr Rutherford had sworn it would be the death of her? And she had nursed Ruth’s mother and father through their various illnesses, and laid them out when they finally died. There was no reason to believe that she would harm little Ernest now.
Ruth felt the prickle of blood seeping through the sleeves of her blouse.
Finally Hannah handed the baby back. Ruth hadn’t realised she had been holding her breath until Ernest was in her arms again.
‘Well?’ she said.
Hannah’s face was solemn. They were the same age, but unlike Ruth, there wasn’t a single line on Hannah’s broad face, or a thread of grey in the swathe of flaming red hair she kept twisted up in an untidy knot at the back of her head.
It was what came of not having a husband or children to worry about, Ruth thought. Although she was sure Hannah must have troubles of her own, living with old Mother Arkwright.
‘You did right to call me,’ she said.
R
uth’s mouth dried. ‘What is it? Do you know?’
‘His muscles are deformed, shorter on one side than the other. I daresay there’s a fancy long medical name for it, but that’s the up and down of it.’
Ruth looked down at the newborn in her arms. Ernest had calmed down and was looking up at her with bright, inquisitive eyes. Bless him, the poor little mite had no idea …
‘Can you do anything for him?’ she asked.
‘Of course. I promised you I’d make him better, didn’t I? I’ll gather some herbs and make up a muslin bag to hang round his neck. Mind, he’ll have to wear it all the time, until his muscles have grown stronger.’
‘How long will that be?’
‘I don’t know, do I?’ There was a touch of irritation in Hannah’s voice. ‘It could be weeks, or months. These things take time, lass.’
Ruth stroked the baby’s downy cheek with her fingertip. ‘I’m not sure I like the idea of a string round his neck. What if it gets caught on summat and chokes him?’
‘And what if he grows up with a twisted neck because you didn’t help him?’ Hannah shook her head pityingly. ‘Oh, Ruthie, you always were such a worrier. For as long as I’ve known you you’ve been fretting about summat or other.’
Once again, Ruth pressed her lips together to stop herself from coming out with a sharp retort. She had seven children to feed and a husband who earned a pittance down the mine. Tom was a good man and provided for his family as best he could, but she lived in fear of him being taken ill or having an accident and not being able to work again.
And it wouldn’t be long before her eldest, Archie, got himself engaged. He had been courting Nancy Morris for ages, and Ruth knew her son was working himself up to proposing. She was pleased for him, but once they were wed and had set up home together it would be one less wage coming in. Something else for her to fret about in the early hours of the morning, when the rest of the household was asleep …
But she knew she wasn’t the only one. There wasn’t a woman in the village who didn’t have the same sleepless nights as she did, wondering how to make ends meet. The only difference was they didn’t make such a fuss about it.