The Rescue Man

by Anthony Quinn

  Drawing down the brim of my hat I descended into the vault, & found its interior to be quite as deplorable as its front had promised – a subterranean cavern of sawdust on bare boards, spotted looking-glasses, an atmosphere reeking of grog & in expressible gloom. Yet the dim gas-light allowed me to pass almost unremarked through its rooms, crowded even at this hour, & in the large saloon at the back I caught sight of my quarry once more, & now there could be no doubt. Jem was seated amongst a loose crowd of drinkers, most of them navvies & old salts, whose entertainment – aside from the bibulous sort – was presently being addressed by a barefoot girl of about ten or eleven, who stood pertly on a table, a curious little slouch hat set atop her lustrous auburn hair. The men gazed on at this sprite who, meditatively lifting her finger as a conductor might his baton, began her performance. The piece was some mawkish folk lament, yet she sang it in a quaveringly sweet alto that held her audience rapt; my attention was riveted by the girl’s eyes, which were quite plainly conscious of her effect upon the listeners – it was not innocence one discerned in them, but an impersonation of innocence. I never saw anything so daintily, or disquietingly, calculated. As she finished her song she dropped a grave curtsy, & the room exploded into applause. Our little friend, with barely a pause, set about collecting the men’s coppers – I now saw the purpose of that hat.

  I was standing at the bar, my face turned away from inspection, when the sprite came round to me, her expression still ingratiating, & held forth her hat. When I dropped a sovereign in it her eyes briefly flickered, & she bobbed another little curtsy by way of thanks. I wondered at that moment how long she would be able to maintain this form of income before some bawd got her claws into the girl (she was extraordinarily pretty) & set her to work at more than singing. In the meantime I kept an eye out for Jem, who was thoroughly settled in with the gang of topers at the back, & stayed for a full two hours – when he did finally make to leave a chorus of drunken oaths and yells rose to serenade him thither. Then I was once more on his tail as he sauntered through the darkening streets, where, to judge by his frequent salutations & saucy exchanges, he appeared to be well known. Presently we came to a terrace, where he mounted the steps of a tall old house, perhaps once the property of a shipping merchant. We were close now to the docks – close enough to smell the river – but I had no clue as to what this place might be. Still I kept to the shadows as Jem knocked at the door & a few moments later was admitted. Some instinct prompted me onwards; I did not carry my life-preserver, so I should have to rely upon my wits if trouble lay ahead. I waited for ten minutes before crossing the street & knocking on the door. For some reason I had expected the doorkeeper to be a hulking brute, but instead an old, delicately featured Chinaman answered my summons. I was momentarily at a loss – how to announce the purpose of my visit? – but I dare say the man had quickly surmised from my attire that I was a gentleman, & that a gentleman would probably be carrying money – with a bow he invited me within. He held a lantern, for the hall was unlit, & beckoned me with quick little gestures up the staircase. I presumed myself to be in some den of vice, but as I proceeded upwards I saw no brightly painted doxies, heard no raised voices. I was led into a first-floor room lit with a few mean candles, its windows blacked out by thick curtains; after some minutes a crone, possibly the Chinaman’s wife, entered carrying a copper kettle which brimmed with some strong infusion. I was left alone to wonder whether this place was merely – a tea-house? I tried the door on the far side of the room & found it gave on to a back staircase, which servants would have used in bygone days. It was Stygianly dark, & I had to feel with my hands along the walls as I ascended. Below my feet I heard the scratching of mice. Two doors I tried on the way up were locked (the house was more commodious than I had thought) but the one at the very top opened on to a narrow corridor, & I walked, arms held blindly in front of me, until I saw a faint light spill from beneath another door. My pulse was racing as I turned the doorknob & entered. The smoky, candlelit room was shrouded in muslin veils, like a field hospital, & through them I dimly discerned figures lying stretched on divans. A sweetish scent permeated the tenebrous fug. The first face I saw, peering through the gloom, was Jem’s; he sat on the floor, resting his head against a low divan, whereon lay a frail apparition. It was Frank, almost insensible, the effects of whatever drowsy opiate he had been smoking evident in his heavy-lidded, unseeing gaze. Jem, his expression briefly clouded, now recognised me, & taking the pipe from his mouth he raised his chin in salutation. Perhaps he saw shock in my expression, for he gestured casually at Frank and said, ‘Yer man’s just had a big hit – not up to sayin’ much, you know?’ I knelt down to look in his face. In the year or more since I had last seen him Frank wore the evidence of a most dismaying physical decline: his cheeks were sunken, dark rings smudged his eyes, & his teeth looked brittle with decay. ‘What has – happened to him?’ I asked. Jem frowned, & shrugged. He seemed not to understand the question. At that moment I became decisive, & told him to help me get Frank to his feet. The boy demurred at this, & I thrust my face close to his – would he prefer to discuss an unsolved case of burglary with the police? ‘Dunno nothin’ about that,’ he replied. ‘So you’ll not mind helping me with my brother,’ I said, & with that he saw his hand was forced. We had got him between us on to the stairs when the Chinaman reappeared, barking out fierce, rapid remonstrances which Jem sought to defuse – certain large Oriental gentlemen then emerged from below, the strong arm of the operation, yet my eyes must have carried murder in them for we bustled past them down the stairs, with foreign imprecations ringing in our ears.

  Out on the street I held Frank as he slumped groggily against me, & I gave Jem a couple of shillings to go & fetch a cab – I expected the boy to take to his heels, but minutes later a coach clattered round the corner, & Jem darted out to hold the door. I directed the cabman to Tithebarn-st., where I made up a couch for Frank in my office – I did not dare bring him home lest his cadaverous aspect frightened Emily & the children. While he slept I had a desultory conversation with Jem, still sulking over the interruption of his evening. I gathered a little of Frank’s recent history – the squandering of his money, the gambling debts, his surrender to drink, & now to opium. Finally I asked what had happened to Jess – ‘Ah, they’ve fallen out, them two – that’s why Frank’s on the fuddle all day.’

  8th September 1867

  I endured an uneasy night. As dawn seeped in I woke from fitful sleep & began to ponder whether I should take Frank to Abercromby-sq. & risk terrifying my parents, for his appearance was indeed more alarming in daylight than it had been at the Chinaman’s den. Then I reasoned that they would prefer to see him even in this state than not at all, & I was leaving to hail a cab when Frank lifted his head in a daze from the couch. I explained to him where he was, & what I intended to do. He rubbed his face, & smiled in that guileless way of his youth. ‘Pete, you’re such a good son. You always have been.’ I replied, lightly, that I would only deserve the tribute if I restored him to the care of those who loved him best. He looked away then & said, quietly, ‘You know it was me, don’t you?’ I nodded, & we held silence for a few moments before he said, ‘I can’t go home.’ I then spoke to him very earnestly, arguing that whatever he had done was forgiven – that all Ma & Pa wanted was to have him near – that nothing else in the world mattered to us but his being well again. He did not reply for a long time, his face turned to the window. Presently he said that he didn’t feel quite well enough to move, but that if I went down to fetch a cab he would accompany me wherever I wished to take him. I asked him for his word that he would be here on my return, & he gave it. I hurried down into the street to find the early-morning traffic starting to thicken, first on Tithebarn-st., then Moorfields, until I almost threw myself before a cab coming down Dale-st. & bade the man make haste to my office. The errand had taken me no more than five minutes, but I returned to find – mea culpa – the door open, the room abandoned.

  I write t
hese words three days later. I should not have let him out of my sight, not even for five minutes. It seems as though I have hauled a drowning man from a river who directly has thrown himself back in again.

  October [1867]

  I took a walk south yesterday down Princes-road, & spent some hours wandering the edges of the new park being laid out on land purchased from the Earl of Sefton. It is to be the largest public park in the country outside of London. New houses are to go up around its perimeter – & so the town will extend itself yet further. This building delirium rages on, yet it seems that I, alone of architects, am untouched by its symptoms. I continue to pursue commissions, & meet with failure so often that I have become inured to it. Urquhart tells me that our finances are in good order, for the last revenues from Magdalen Chambers have recently been disbursed. I must count it a blessing that money has never been a trouble to me – such is the accident of birth – yet truly I could bear to be poor so long as I were acknowledged for my talent.

  November [1867]

  It has been intensely cold. Yesterday at the Goree I saw a horse slip & fall on the icy cobbles, throwing its rider. When I returned to the scene later, the blood from the man’s head wound was itself a frozen puddle.

  28th November 1867

  I was at home & about my breakfast when I heard Joanna, our maid, answer a knock at the door – there followed a startled shriek. I hurried out into the hallway to see what had alarmed her, and there, outside, loomed the figure of Jess. I suppose the appearance of a six-foot Negro at the door could not be considered an everyday occurrence, but I told the girl to apologise to our visitor in any event, which she tremblingly did. I invited Jess to come in, but he shook his head & said, ‘Your brother – he’s ill.’ I realised some time later that these were the first & only words I ever heard him speak. I hurriedly donned my coat & hat, & we proceeded without a word across Upper Duke-st. into St James-rd. A few minutes more & we had gained Chesterfield-st. which abuts the courtyard of St James’s Church. Jess’s footsteps slowed at this point, then paused at a narrow, dank, gloomy little court between nos. 9 & 10. Still he said nothing, but his expression seemed to prepare me for what lay ahead. I knew these were poor dwellings, & I had some experience of their interiors from when I visited Frank in Greenland-st. It was a shock nevertheless to see the desperate squalor in which people were sunk – whole families I saw occupying a single room, their faces like ghosts at the soot-smeared windows. The sanitary arrangements of the place I could smell for myself. Jess led the way into one of these wretched enclosures – we started up a staircase, & then entered a room on the first floor back. Let me describe it – a chamber, with a tiny fireplace – unlit – & a single chest of drawers, the walls leprous with damp, a single window so mean & dirty there was barely light enough to see. On a bed in the corner lay my brother, his face spectre-thin & pale; his eyes were closed, & I might have thought him dead were he still not drawing breath in ragged, piteous gasps. I took the single chair & sat down by him. Jess had quietly closed the door & stood watching. I turned & asked him if he had called a doctor, & he nodded. Sick to my heart, I went down to buy a sixpenceworth of coals from the landlady, & returned to make a fire. Then I took Frank’s shrunken hand in mine, & lowered my head near to his. I spoke his name, but he gave no sign of having heard. For the next hour as we awaited the doctor I remained in that attitude, my eyes a salt blur. Every rasping breath he took seemed to announce the end, but then another, slower than the last, would come. I prayed – I hardly knew what for – that he might live, that he would not suffer. But the one prayer seemed to contradict the other.

  At last came the doctor, a brisk but not unsympathetic fellow in his fifties. His examination was brief, & I read the worst on his grave countenance. We left the room together to speak privately – he told me that congestion in Frank’s lungs was advanced. I urged that we remove him immediately from this terrible hole, but the doctor shook his head – he was much too weak to be moved; he knew of a nurse who might be engaged to come, if I were willing to pay. I assured him that I was. ‘He should never have been allowed to get into this state,’ he said, sombrely. ‘You are his – brother?’ I heard his faintly accusing tone, but was much too anxious to begin defending myself. Might he be saved? I asked him. He replied that Frank’s condition was too precarious to offer any assurances, but – an ambiguous shrug – one had to trust to the mercy of God. Then he left, having promised to send the nurse.

  For the rest of the day I kept vigil by his bedside. Jess had vanished as mysteriously as he had appeared. Under the bed I saw a clay pipe, its bowl cracked: I picked it up & hid it in my pocket. The nurse arrived just before nightfall, & her capable solicitude kindled a thin flame of hope. As the evening wore on Frank vacillated between waking & dreaming. The gas-light showed sweat beading on his brow. I addressed him quietly, & he spoke, but they were no words I could discern. He was in a delirium, & as the shadows in the room thickened, his tongue fell to confused muttering – he appeared to be earnestly addressing some invisible interlocutor, first in heated tones, later in a more conciliatory manner. I watched in an agony of remorse. Then, of a sudden, Frank seemed to waken fully & looked about the room, as if for the first time. His gaze met mine, & he said, ‘Pete,’ & then, ‘Am I dying?’ Hot tears stood in my eyes, as they do now, & I croaked out, ‘No, no, you’ll always be here with us.’ Whether he knew it to be a lie I cannot say. He sank back into unconsciousness, his harassed breathing a torment to the ears. I heard the midnight bell of St James’s, & at intervals I drifted into sleep myself. At just after four in the morning the nurse shook me gently awake & whispered, ‘I think this is the end.’ Frank’s breathing had all but given out – now only a dreadful rattle in his throat could be heard. We waited, listening to the life slip away, until he was gone. The nurse held a small looking-glass above his mouth, examined it briefly, then turned a face of honest sympathy to me. Good-bye, my brother.

  30th November 1867

  I am benumbed with exhaustion, but must complete this sad narrative. I left the nurse at seven in the morning & sent for the doctor, who gave me the death certificate, & then for the undertaker. I paid the landlady the rent owed to her by Frank – he had taken the room unfurnished for 2/- per week. Then I took a cab home to tell Emily the news, & on seeing her at play with the girls I broke down & wept – nothing to be done. I feared that if I were to stay there I should be for ever paralysed, so I took a clean suit of clothes with which to dress the corpse & returned to Chesterfield-st. & that miserable back room. Neighbours who had seen the arrival of the undertakers were now thronging the stairs – nothing draws a crowd more quickly than a death – but the nurse (bless the woman) had warded them off. I stepped into the room – the bed had been stripped & on it lay Frank, in a coffin. I went about the chamber & collected the paltry evidence of his occupancy. On the mantelpiece stood a row of his cherished books – Marryat, Scott, Byron, Keats, a pocket volume of Shakespeare – I opened this last & found on its flyleaf a plate from our old school, St Jude’s, & written in faded ink. June 1849 – Presented to Francis Eames for First Prize in the School Poetry Competition. I had quite forgotten what a versifier Frank used to be – to think that he had kept this tattered volume with him right to the end. I went to the chest of drawers & drew them out – in one I found a number of pawn tickets, disordered clothes, a few mementoes of his time as a boxing manager. In another I found all of my letters to him in Jamaica, & all of Ma’s, too. In the last drawer were a few broken fragments of ship’s biscuit – a more pitiful thing I never set eyes upon. I asked the undertakers to leave me alone for a few moments – when they had gone I looked long at Frank’s face, the eyes sunken deep, the awful rictus of his mouth. I cut a little lock of hair from his head (why, I could not say) – bending down I kissed his cheek, & left the room.

  12

  WEEKS PASSED, AND Baines heard nothing from Bella. At first he felt a dismal ache of sadness, for he could only imagine that their encounter
, while momentous to him, was now a source of mortified regret to her. When he heard nothing from Richard either he began to feel stirrings of alarm, and envisaged scenes in which Bella was confessing her infidelity to him and imploring his forgiveness. It was not that he feared the retribution of a wronged husband: the possibility of a violent reaction on Richard’s part would be much easier to endure than the hurt he knew he had caused, and the inevitable sunderings that would follow. Bella would resent him for allowing herself to be seduced; Richard would loathe him for the shabby betrayal it was. Yet when he replayed in his head that fateful morning on which Bella had returned with him to Gambier Terrace, he found that he was not of a mind to wish that it had been otherwise. The goadings of conscience were as unignorable to him as a stone in his shoe, but had they been doubled, trebled, in severity, he would not have renounced the memory of what had happened between them.

  He had had more time to brood because the raids had thinned out. Bad flying weather in January and February had limited the Luftwaffe to reconnaissance missions and the occasional attack, with nothing of the savagery that had characterised the Blitz of late November and December. He still reported for duty at Hackins Hey, and in the absence of serious rescue work he did periodic stints of fire-watching, usually with Mavers. The city had battened itself down for the winter, and some nights they would patrol the blacked-out streets without meeting another soul. Liam had finished reading The Secret Agent and had moved on to Heart of Darkness, which he was describing to Baines as they sauntered down Whitechapel one evening.