Salem Street

by Anna Jacobs

  “Shall we retire to the drawing-room and leave Jeremy to his – er – ministrations?” asked Annabelle, trying to retrieve the jovial mood of the evening. She shepherded the Hallams and the Purbrights, who owned one of the smaller mills in town, out of the hallway, saying archly, “You’ll have to get used to Jeremy, I’m afraid. He can never say no to a patient.”

  “I admire him,” said Mary Purbright frankly. “It must be wonderful to have the skill to help people like he does. I’m really glad that this town has acquired a new doctor with proper modern training.”

  “A devoted doctor’s the best sort,” said Frederick, patting his hostess’s arm soothingly, “but it’s a bit hard on the doctor’s wife, eh?”

  Annabelle fluttered her eyelashes at him gratefully. “Not if one has understanding friends,” she cooed.

  “I’m sure we all appreciate your problems,” said Christine Hallam, taking her husband’s arm and smiling tightly at her hostess. She hoped Frederick wasn’t going to set up another of his flirtations with this hard-eyed woman. When he shook her arm off, Christine crept back to her chair and sat smiling vacuously at nothing, her usual defence against awkward situations. Mary Purbright tactfully started to talk to her.

  In the hallway, Jeremy made the child drink a little brandy and then a glass of milk, which the maid had reluctantly brought. He watched with satisfaction as a little colour returned to Annie’s cheeks. As he encouraged her to talk, he learned that their dad had hit Tom, who had fallen and hit his head on the fender and that she was afraid he’d die, like her mother had.

  “Is he unconscious?” asked Jeremy.

  “What?”

  “Is he – er – knocked out?”

  “Oh, aye. An’ he’s breathin’ funny, too.” She imitated Tom’s stertorous breathing as best she could.

  “That’s a good girl. I need to know exactly what’s happened. Now, I’ll just go and get my bag and then we’ll be off. You wait for me here and,” he made a quick foray into the dining-room, “eat this.” He thrust a piece of cake into her hands. As he turned, he saw that Henry Purbright had come out of the drawing-room.

  “Mary thought – maybe you’d like to take our carriage. It’ll be quicker. We left it waiting outside on a balmy night like this.”

  “Thank you. It could drop us off at the end of Boston Street. You can’t get a carriage into Salem Street, where this poor child lives. I’m very grateful to you, Henry. She’s absolutely exhausted. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll go and get my things.”

  “Oh, yes. Certainly.” Henry looked at the scrawny child sitting on one of Mrs Lewis’s velvet-covered chairs, stuffing cake into her grimy mouth and his lips twitched in amusement. It hadn’t taken him long to get Annabelle’s measure. Thank God his own Mary was a sensible woman, and compassionate, too. No airs and graces from her! It was a mystery to him why some people got married in the first place, for they seemed to have nothing in common. This doctor and his fine lady wife barely looked at one another and didn’t speak to each other unless it was absolutely necessary. Frederick and Christine Hallam were another funny pair, ‘the tiger and the mouse’, Mary called them. Poor Christine was frightened to open her mouth in company. Hell, she had a lot to put up with, for Frederick’s womanising was a byword in the town. And he was a man who liked his own way in everything, so she couldn’t call her soul her own.

  Annie hardly heard what the two men were saying because, now that the brandy had relaxed her and she had some food in her stomach, she was sitting goggling at what she could see of the doctor’s house. How bright it was! Fancy using all those lamps and candles at once! And the furniture so smooth and shiny! Furtively she stroked the side of the chair she was sitting on. It was beautiful. But most beautiful of all had been the doctor’s wife. She’d never seen a lady dressed up as fine as that. Just like the princess in Matt’s story book.

  Annabelle was wearing that evening a new and very becoming dress of soft blue watered silk, cut very low and swirling out over no less than eight layers of frilled and padded petticoats. It was embellished with soft blond lace and made a wonderful rustling sound as she moved. Annabelle always dressed well, changing for dinner, even when they had no company, because she considered it to be the ‘proper’ thing to do, and also because it kept her occupied for an hour or more beforehand.

  She grew so bored at times! She didn’t really care for reading, had no talent for sketching and kept her embroidery, which was exquisite, mainly for showing off in company, because to do it by candlelight tired her eyes and she didn’t want to encourage wrinkles. Jeremy humoured her fancies, spent as much time as he could during the day with his little daughter Marianne and often escaped to his dispensary in the evenings, leaving a furious Annabelle to her own resources.

  When the doctor and Annie got back to Salem Street, they found that Tom was no worse, at least. He was lying unconscious on a rag rug on the floor, covered with a blanket. John had sobered up somewhat, thanks to Sally’s ministrations, and Lizzie was asleep upstairs, thumb in her mouth and belly full of bread and cheese.

  Jeremy took immediate charge, as he had learned to do in the homes of his poorer patients. The father was, he noted angrily, still too drunk to be of much use, but the neighbour turned out to be a sensible woman and Annie too made a useful assistant. She watched with deep interest as the doctor stitched up the cut on her brother’s head.

  “I didn’t know you could sew people up like that,” she said. “Won’t he look funny with stitches sticking out of his head?”

  “Oh, we’ll take the stitches out in a few days, when the cut’s healed,” said Jeremy, smiling at the solemn-eyed slip of a girl to whom he had rather taken a fancy. She might be dirty, but she seemed an intelligent little thing, with her sparkling green eyes.

  “Can I watch you do it?”

  “Of course you can! And help me, too.”

  She nodded happily, then her eyes slid round to the remaining sandwiches.

  “You eat ’em up, love,” said Sally easily. “I’ve fed your Lizzie an’ she’s in bed asleep now.” She turned to the doctor and whispered, “I don’t think the children’ve had much to eat since their mam died. He’s taken it badly.”

  Jeremy finished with Tom and carried him upstairs, then came down to confront John Gibson. “Are you sober enough to talk sensibly now?” he asked coldly.

  John struggled to his feet and stood there swaying. “Aye, sir. I didn’t mean to do it, though!”

  “I’ll slip off home now,” said Sally quickly. “I’ll pop round again in the morning, Mr Gibson, and see if there’s anythin’ I can do. You get off to bed when you’ve eaten those sandwiches, Annie.”

  “Have you been back to work since your wife died?” Jeremy asked, taking in John’s unkempt appearance and the reek of gin that still clung to him.

  “No, sir.” John’s voice was so low that Jeremy could barely tell what he was saying.

  “Speak up, man! Where did you work?”

  “Hallam’s. I was a chargehand.” A touch of pride lifted John’s head for a moment, then it faded and his eyes fell. “But I’ll have lost me job now. Mr Hallam don’t allow more than two days off for a death in the family – and someone’ll ’ave told him I were drinking.”

  “Have you finished your drinking now? And your beating of innocent children?” The doctor’s voice was stern. “What would your wife have said about that?”

  Tears were rolling down John’s face. “She’d have gone for me with a stick, she would. She didn’t like drinkin’ – just a glass of ale now and then is all I used to have, all I used to need after I’d met her. It were just – it were losin’ her, sir. I couldn’t bear things without ’er!” He broke down completely.

  Jeremy waited for a moment or two, then said briskly, “Right then, pull yourself together now. I know Mr Hallam. He’s at my house at this moment. I think he might give you your job back if I asked him. You’re sure you’ve done with the drinking?”

 
John shuddered. “Oh, yes, sir. Never again.”

  “Then turn up for work tomorrow as usual.”

  John stared at him, half-blinded by tears, hope fighting the despair in his face. “I – you – you’ll not regret it, sir, I promise you. I won’t let you down. An’ I’ll look after the childer from now on.”

  “See that you do!” Jeremy began to gather his things together. “You’re all they’ve got now.”

  When he arrived home, the guests were just on the point of leaving, but he had time to persuade Hallam to give John Gibson a second chance. Then, when everyone had gone, he had to face the inevitable scene with Annabelle.

  “Bringing filthy children into my house!” she stormed. “I won’t have it! Just look at that chair! It’ll have to be recovered. And that’s the second time this week you’ve got your clothes messed up!”

  Jeremy picked up his medical bag and looked at her wearily. “In an emergency,” he said, trying to speak calmly, “one doesn’t worry about chair covers – or clothes: one just tries to save lives. That little girl was in a desperate state. Her mother had died two days previously; she hadn’t eaten properly since; and her father had just knocked her brother senseless.”

  Annabelle’s lip curled scornfully. “Please spare me the sordid details,” she said coldly. “Just keep such creatures out of my house in future!” She sought for a way to make him squirm. “Oh, and I’d be grateful if you’d also make sure that you keep your womanising quiet while we’re living in Bilsden. This is a small town.”

  “What?”

  “Your womanising. Creatures like Mary.”

  “You knew about her?”

  “Of course I knew! She was a maid of mine once, after all!”

  “I never went near her till you threw her out into the street,” he said quickly, shocked that Annabelle had even mentioned it.

  “She deserved to be dismissed. She was a clumsy fool.”

  “She didn’t deserve to starve!”

  “Well, you saw that she didn’t starve, didn’t you? And if she hadn’t found you, she’d have no doubt found someone else.”

  “You don’t seem to mind about her all that much.”

  “As long as you keep out of my bed and keep your whoring quiet, I don’t care who you lie with!”

  “I’ll do my best to meet your conditions. Keeping out of your bed, Annabelle, will be very easy indeed.” He turned and went up to his room, even more sickened than usual by her coldness and callousness. Whatever had made him imagine himself in love with a woman like her? If he hadn’t been still convalescing from the influenza and still missing his parents, he would probably have seen through her wiles in time to avoid the altar. At least, he hoped he would.

  And he and Annabelle could have made something of their marriage, even then, even without real affection, if she were not frigid in bed, if she did not refuse to bear him any more children. It was bitter gall to him to deliver so many babies to other women, women who often didn’t want any more children, and then to come home to a house where Marianne was alone in the nursery.

  It was ironical that the work he loved so much should so heavily emphasise the lacks in his own life. But he had married Annabelle for better for worse and would just have to endure the emptiness at home as best he could. And at least he had one child; at least he had Marianne.

  5

  June 1830 to 1832

  With the doctor’s help, John Gibson got his job back at Hallam’s, though not, of course, as chargehand. Frederick Hallam did not put drunkards in authority over others.

  Young as she was, Annie shouldered the burden of running a home and did her best to be a mother to Tom and Lizzie. It was hard going, but she never complained. She knew her mam would have wanted her to look after the others. She wished her dad would talk about their mam sometimes. It would have been a comfort. When she could, she went to the churchyard and put some flowers on her mam’s grave and that made her feel better. And even Lizzie behaved herself on those outings.

  Tom’s head healed slowly, and he was fretful and difficult to manage for weeks. Lizzie had never been an easy child and now she seemed to Annie to whine all the time. The other women in the street came in occasionally to help, especially Bridie, but most of them had their own families and troubles, and John’s glum face was enough to drive anyone away, though he was nothing but polite and had apologised to everyone for his rudeness.

  Annie rarely had time to play out with Ellie now, but Ellie came into Number Three and helped with the chores whenever her mother would let her, which was only when John was out. Mrs Peters seemed to have taken against John Gibson for some reason, even though she sometimes allowed the Gibson children to come round to Number Seven.

  The high spot of the week for Annie was the Sunday afternoon reading lesson there, for on that day John would look after Tom and Lizzie, and send Annie along to the Peters’ house with her precious slate.

  At first Sally Smith, who was lonely, tried to go on helping the Gibsons, but the other women she met there made it plain she wasn’t welcome and she stopped coming. Annie went round to Sally’s house one day and demanded to know why.

  “Oh, I – I think the other women – er – don’t like me comin’ to your house, love,” said Sally.

  “Why don’t they like you?” asked Annie, not to be put off with half-tales. “My mam didn’t explain it proper when I asked ’er.”

  “Because – because I’m not married.”

  “That’s silly,” said Annie scornfully. “You’ve been a good friend to us and you helped us when we needed you.”

  “I know, love, but – but I’m not respectable.”

  Annie’s eyes were puzzled. “Because of your Harry?”

  “Yes. Because he keeps me here when we’re not married. That’s not respectable.”

  “I don’t see how Polly Dykes can be respectable an’ you not,” said Annie stubbornly. “She’s dirty an’ she gets drunk every Saturday an’ she’s allus down at the pawn shop. Them kids of hers are lucky to get a piece of stale bread an’ scrape.” Annie, in her own eyes, was no longer a child, and spoke as one woman to another.

  Sally sighed. “Well, that’s how the world is, love. Take my word for it. You have to stay respectable, else folk don’t want to speak to you, let alone invite you into their houses.”

  “Well, I don’t care about that. I like you. An’ if you won’t come to see me, then I’ll come round to see you. So there!” Annie set her hands on her vestigial hips and nodded to emphasise her words, just as her mother had used to do.

  “Look, I’ll tell you what,” said Sally, tempted, but trying to do the right thing by the child. “You ask your dad. If he says it’s all right, then you can come round sometimes. I’d like that, I must admit. It does get a bit lonely when my Harry’s not here. Maybe you could have tea with me, eh? Bring your Lizzie too, if you like.”

  “I’d have to bring her. If I leave her on her own, she breaks things.” Annie thought bitterly of the mischief Lizzie could create within minutes if the mood took her.

  John, when applied to for permission to visit Sally, at first demurred. He knew how the other women ostracised her and he didn’t want his own children to get at outs with their neighbours. Within seconds, he found himself faced with a raging fury, half the size of his Lucy, but so like her that it unnerved him. He capitulated almost instantly and later wept into his bedclothes at the memory of his wife.

  From then on, every Monday and Friday, Annie and Lizzie scrubbed their hands and faces and went to take tea in some state with Sally. Ellie would have been welcome too, but was not allowed by her mother to go. Annie always gave Ellie a faithful account of everything they had to eat and what they talked about, for Sally made the occasion a treat each time and even Lizzie looked forward to going there.

  Elizabeth Peters, her conscience pricking her at the thought of the motherless child consorting with a loose woman, even one as well-behaved as the tenant of Number Six, tried to have
a talk with Annie. She was not a tactful woman, being more in the habit of ordering her own children around than of reasoning with them, and she put up Annie’s back within seconds of broaching the subject. Like John, she found herself faced with a miniature virago, for the child hotly defended her friend and would not listen to a word against her.

  “That Annie Gibson’s a stubborn young madam, and she’d be all the better for a good spanking,” she said crossly to Sam when she got back. “I don’t think we should let our Ellie play with her any more.”

  “You’d break Ellie’s heart if you tried to separate her from her best friend!” said Matt indignantly.

  Sam signalled to his son to be quiet and put his arm round his wife. “Nay, Elizabeth, we can’t do that to the child. You know how shy she is at makin’ friends. An’ besides, she thinks the world of Annie.”

  “Oh, you never see any harm in anyone, Sam Peters!” Elizabeth saw that he’d got his stubborn expression on and abandoned the attempt, but she was the sort of woman who could hold a grudge for years, and she never felt the same about Annie after that encounter.

  Annie had another new acquaintance too, in the person of Dr Lewis. He came to the house several times, ostensibly to see Tom, but in fact to check up that the family was all right. He let Annie help to take the stitches out of Tom’s head, as he’d promised, and was touched by her intent face as she bent over her brother.

  He also stopped to talk to her a time or two in the street and even, on one wonderful occasion, bought her and Lizzie a gingerbread man each from a street vendor. How they’d enjoyed eating those! They’d nibbled delicately at the feet and made them last as long as possible. Annie saved some of hers for Ellie, who didn’t get many treats from a mother who preferred to spend her money on soap than titbits. Lizzie ate every bit of hers, to Tom’s loudly expressed annoyance.

  Once John was back in work, Annie insisted that they pay the doctor, though he’d never asked them for money. John felt guilty. He should have remembered this himself, but since Lucy’s death he had felt a bit vague at times, as if he were only half-alive. Annie consulted Sally Smith, then presented Jeremy with two shillings, which, after a slight hesitation, he gravely accepted. He knew, even if his wife didn’t, that two shillings represented a considerable sum to most people in the Rows, but those shillings also represented self-respect to Annie and her family, so he could not refuse them.