The Way of All Flesh

by Ambrose Parry

  In keeping with its curator, there was a distinct want of method in the organisation of the study in general and of the library in particular, which Sarah would have remedied had she the time to do so. Books seemed to be randomly allocated a position on the shelf. For instance, there was a red-leather-bound compendium of Shakespeare sandwiched between the family Bible and the Edinburgh Pharmacopoeia, and she recalled how a list of the family’s pets had for some reason been inscribed within the cover.

  Her finger reverentially touched each spine in turn as she read the titles: Paley’s Natural Theology, The Anatomy and Physiology of the Human Body, Adam’s Antiquities, Syme’s Principles of Surgery. Then Jarvis popped his head round the door.

  ‘Miss Grindlay is calling for you,’ he said, rolling his eyes as he withdrew.

  Sarah allowed the tips of her fingers to linger for a few more moments on the spines of the leather-bound volumes. It was one of the great frustrations of her position: ready access to an eclectic collection of books but very limited opportunities to read them. Her hand came to rest on a book she had not seen before. She removed it from the shelf and slipped it into her pocket.

  As she left the room and headed for the stairs she became caught up in a storm of newsprint precipitating from the upper floors. The doctor was evidently on his way down. He liked to read the daily papers – the Scotsman and the Caledonian Mercury – in their entirety before getting out of bed, and thought it entertaining to drop them over the banister on his way down the stairs. This was much appreciated by the two elder children, David and Walter, who liked to ball up the paper and throw it at each other and the staff; less so by Jarvis who had to clear it all away. Sarah manoeuvred her way around falling newspaper, excitable children and grumbling butler and ascended the stairs.

  She entered Aunt Mina’s room on the third floor and was confronted by the usual chaos. The entire contents of Miss Mina Grindlay’s wardrobe appeared to have been scattered about the room, dresses and petticoats strewn over every available surface, bed, chair and floor. Mina herself was still in her nightclothes, holding up a dress in front of the mirror before discarding it with all the others.

  ‘There you are, Sarah. Where on earth have you been?’

  Sarah assumed the question to be rhetorical and so remained silent. Mina seemed to be continually frustrated at Sarah having to perform other duties around the house, oblivious to the fact that, being the only housemaid, if she didn’t lay the fires, bring the tea, clean the rooms and serve the meals there was no one else who would do so. Mrs Lyndsay seldom left the kitchen and Jarvis, butler, valet and general factotum, had his hands full tending to the doctor.

  ‘How many times have I said,’ Mina continued, ‘that a woman in my position should have a lady’s maid?’

  Almost every time I come in here, thought Sarah.

  ‘I can’t be expected to dress myself.’

  ‘Mrs Simpson seems to manage it,’ Sarah suggested.

  Mina’s eyes flashed and Sarah immediately knew she had spoken out of turn. She was about to apologise, but Mina had begun to speak and it would compound her transgression to interrupt.

  ‘My sister is a married woman and in mourning to boot. Her choice of attire is an entirely straightforward matter.’

  Sarah thought of Mrs Simpson in the heavy black bombazine she had been wearing for months, pale and wan from prolonged time spent indoors.

  ‘But Sarah, you really must refrain from giving voice to your every thought. Your opinions, unless specifically requested, should be kept to yourself. I was indulgent of this when you were new to the position, but I might have done you a disservice by not reining you in. I fear you will misspeak before someone less understanding and find you have talked yourself onto the street.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am,’ Sarah replied, casting her eyes down in contrition.

  ‘There is much to commend the simple discipline of holding one’s tongue. I have to do so often enough when I disagree with how my sister wishes to run her household. I am merely a guest here, and grateful for that, as you should be grateful for your position. We each have our duties, and dressing well is an essential one for a woman of my station.’

  Mina gestured towards the mountain of clothes on the bed, indicating that she required Sarah to help her choose what she should wear.

  ‘What about this?’ Sarah held up a modest grey silk dress with a lace collar which she had starched and pressed only the day before.

  Mina looked at it for a few minutes, assessing its suitability.

  ‘Oh, it will have to do,’ she said, ‘although I fear it is a little too plain to have men reaching for their pens in order to write me a sonnet.’

  Sarah glanced in response towards Mina’s writing table. As always there was a letter in progress, and beside it a novel.

  ‘What are you reading?’ Sarah asked, knowing the subject of literature would reliably serve to put her recent impertinence from her mistress’s mind.

  ‘A novel called Jane Eyre, by Currer Bell. I have just finished it. I was not previously familiar with the writer.’

  ‘Did you enjoy it?’

  ‘That is a complex question in this case. I would prefer to discuss it with an informed party, so please feel free to take it for yourself.’

  ‘Thank you, ma’am.’

  Sarah slipped the book into her pocket alongside the other slim volume she had just procured from the library.

  Now that an acceptable gown had been selected, Mina stepped into her corset and stood with her hands on her hips as Sarah grabbed the laces and pulled.

  ‘Tighter,’ Mina demanded.

  ‘You’ll be unable to breathe,’ Sarah said as she hauled on the laces again.

  ‘Nonsense,’ said Mina. ‘I haven’t fainted yet, despite the fact that all the ladies of my acquaintance swoon with great regularity. Sometimes with an element of stagecraft,’ she added, a hint of a smile playing upon her lips.

  Once Mina was suitably clothed Sarah then had to style her hair. This took considerably longer than tying a corset. A starch bandoline had to be applied to ensure that the hair, once wrestled into place, would remain there throughout the course of the day. The hair was then parted in the centre at the front, braided and looped round the ears. A second parting was made across the top of the head, from ear to ear, and the hair swept up in a tight bun at the back. The task required patience and precision, two qualities when it came to styling hair that Sarah seemed to lack.

  ‘This is why I need a lady’s maid,’ Mina said to her reflection, her lips pursing at Sarah’s efforts. ‘I know that you do your best, Sarah, but I will never attract a husband without the right kind of help.’

  ‘I could not agree more, Miss Grindlay,’ Sarah replied, gratefully laying down brush, comb and hair pins.

  ‘The problem is that good, reliable help is so hard to come by. Look at the difficulties Mrs Simpson has had trying to find a suitable nurse for the children.’

  The rapid turnover of nursery nurses was no mystery to Sarah. The Simpsons had three children: David, Walter and baby James. David and Walter were rarely confined to the nursery at the top of the house, their natural curiosity at all times indulged, and previous incumbents had baulked at the behaviour that was not just permitted but encouraged. Another factor was that Mrs Simpson seemed reluctant to fully hand over responsibility for her children to anyone else, presumably as a consequence of having already lost two at a young age.

  ‘The Sheldrakes have just lost one of their housemaids,’ Mina continued, turning in her chair to address Sarah directly.

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘I think her name was Rose. Do you know her?’

  ‘Only in passing. I know the other housemaid, Milly, a little better. What happened?’

  ‘Absconded. Just like that. Though there are rumours that she was seeing a young man. Actually the rumours are that she was seeing several.’

  Mina turned back to the mirror and applied a little rouge to her chee
ks. Sarah made it for her using rectified spirit, water and cochineal powder. She wondered why it should be considered so wrong for a housemaid to court male attention when it seemed to be Mina’s predominant purpose.

  ‘I met her just last week,’ Sarah said. ‘Outside Kennington and Jenner’s.’

  ‘How did she seem?’ Mina asked, turning in her chair again.

  ‘Fine,’ Sarah replied, ever aware that duty obliged her to give a neutral answer.

  In truth Rose would have seemed fine to anyone who had never met her before, but Sarah had been struck by the sullenness of her demeanour. She had come upon Rose and her mistress as they were exiting the shop on Princes Street. Mrs Sheldrake stopped to exchange pleasantries with an acquaintance, allowing Sarah and Rose to do the same, albeit more awkwardly. As Sarah had told Mina, she was more familiar with Rose’s colleague Milly, and was easier in her company. Rose was ‘vivacious’, according to Milly, a politer way of describing a girl Sarah regarded as flighty and full of herself, and of whom she was instinctively wary.

  Rose had seemed uncharacteristically reserved that day, as though weighed down by a heavier burden than the packages she was carrying. She was pale, her eyes puffy, and she said little in response to Sarah’s gentle enquiries as to her health.

  Sarah had glanced across at Rose’s mistress, a heavy-set woman around the same age as Mrs Simpson but who seemed considerably older. This was partly due to her physical appearance, about which she did not seem to take the greatest care, and partly because of her austere countenance. Sarah wondered uncharitably what her husband must look like, never having seen Mr Sheldrake.

  It was well known that Mrs Sheldrake had a temper, of which the young women in her employ frequently bore the brunt. Rose was doubtless on the receiving end more than most, but this lifeless despondency seemed more than the result of a hearty dressing down. Perhaps it was cumulative, Sarah had thought gloomily, worrying for her own future. If life in service could dull the light in someone like Rose, what might it do to her?

  ‘Well, don’t just stand there, Sarah,’ Mina said, the subject of Rose’s disappearance quickly forgotten. ‘I’m sure you must have other things to attend to.’

  Thus dismissed, Sarah left the room and made her way downstairs, thinking about the many duties she could have completed in the time it took to squeeze Mina into a dress and subdue her hair. As usual there were more things to be done than hours in which they could be accomplished, and today there was the additional task of airing one of the spare bedrooms for the arrival of the doctor’s new apprentice.

  Sarah wondered if he could be prevailed upon to take an interest in Mina. At least that would make the extra work his presence generated worthwhile.

  Five

  A gust of wind whipped about Raven as he crossed the North Bridge, causing him to reach up with one hand to secure his hat. Its sting made the warmth of August seem a memory of a forgotten age, and within it he felt the harsh and certain promise of winter. There were other promises in that wind, however. The blast was cold but fresh, blowing away the pervasive reek that had surrounded him these past years. Here on the other side of the bridge lay quite another Edinburgh.

  He turned onto Princes Street and passed Duncan and Flockhart’s, where he caught sight of himself in the druggist’s window. In the glass he was reminded that though the Old Town’s stink could be blown away, its mark would be upon him for life. The left side of his face was swollen and bruised, the stitches sitting up prominently along the contused curve of his cheek. Beneath his hat his hair was sticking out at odd angles, matted together in places with dried blood. When he arrived at Queen Street, Dr Simpson was as likely to send him abed as a patient as to welcome him into his practice.

  The pavement was broader here, the crowds thinner. The people he passed were straight-backed and assured in their gait, strolling in a manner that was purposeful and yet unhurried as they browsed the shopfronts. By contrast, the Old Town was a hill of ants, its inhabitants bowed and scuttling as they hastened about its twisted byways. Even the road seemed to lack the mud and ordure that piled up relentlessly within the narrow alleyways of the Canongate.

  As he turned onto Queen Street, a brougham carriage drawn by two lively steeds pulled to a halt just ahead, prompting Raven to wonder absently if the coachman had trained his beasts to void themselves only in the poorer parts of town.

  No. 52 was one of the largest houses in that part of the street, spread out over five levels if the basement was included. Broad steps, clean and recently swept, led up from the pavement to a large front entrance framed by two pillars on each side. Even the railings appeared to have been freshly painted, giving the impression that cleanliness and order would be found inside. This caused him to think of how late he was, due to Henry’s laudanum. He considered what he might say by way of explaining himself. Perhaps his face would be excuse enough. And perhaps he would be told the offer of apprenticeship was void given that he had not shown sufficient decorum as to at least be prompt on his first day.

  Raven straightened his hat and tried not to contemplate the condition of his clothes as he reached for the brass knocker. Before he could grasp it, the door began to open and a great beast of a dog bounded through the gap, almost bowling him to the floor. It continued towards the waiting brougham, where the coachman held open the door as though the hound itself had summoned the carriage.

  The dog was followed by a figure clad in a voluminous black coat and top hat. Professor James Simpson seemed equally intent upon the carriage until his attention was taken by the waif reeling on his threshold.

  Raven’s new employer stopped and looked him up and down. He seemed momentarily confused before one eyebrow shot up, signalling that some form of deduction had taken place.

  ‘Mr Raven. Not a moment too soon, yet within a moment of being too late.’

  Simpson indicated with a sweeping gesture that his new apprentice should follow the dog into the carriage.

  ‘We have an urgent case to attend – if you feel you are able,’ he added archly.

  Raven smiled, or at least attempted to. It was hard to know exactly what his damaged face was doing. He hauled himself aboard the carriage and attempted to squeeze in beside the dog, which seemed reluctant to surrender any part of his position on the seat to the newcomer.

  No sooner had he gained a small piece of the upholstery for himself than Dr Simpson took his position opposite and called to the driver to proceed. The carriage took off at impressive speed and the dog immediately hung its head over the edge of the window, tongue lolling as it panted with delight.

  Raven did not share its joy. He winced as they rattled over the cobbles, pain shooting through him as though the wheels were running over his ribs. The doctor did not fail to notice, and was intently scrutinising his damaged face. He wondered if he should try to concoct some more palatable explanation for his injuries, or whether he would be storing up greater trouble by lying to his employer on his first day.

  ‘I should perhaps have left you in the care of our housemaid, Sarah,’ Simpson said reflectively.

  ‘Your housemaid?’ Raven asked, his discomfort rendering him unable to moderate an ungracious tone. He wondered if this was Simpson’s subtle way of conveying displeasure at his tardiness, downplaying his afflictions by implying that they required no greater ministration than a hot cup of tea.

  ‘She is rather more than that,’ Simpson replied. ‘She helps out with the patients: dressings, bandages and so on. Quite a capable young woman.’

  ‘I’m sure I’ll manage,’ Raven said, though his ribs were telling him otherwise. He hoped that the patient they were going to see could be dealt with quickly.

  ‘What happened to you?’

  ‘If you don’t mind, I’d rather not revisit the subject,’ he replied, which was honest at least. ‘Suffice it to say I am glad to have left the Old Town behind me.’

  The brougham turned left onto Castle Street, prompting Raven to wonder where their
destination might lie: Charlotte Square, perhaps, or one of the fine townhouses on Randolph Crescent. On the bench opposite, Dr Simpson was looking through his bag, an expression upon his face indicating concern that he may have forgotten some vital piece of equipment in his hurried departure.

  ‘To where might we be bound, professor?’

  ‘To assist a Mrs Fraser. Elspeth, if I recall her name correctly. I haven’t had the pleasure of a formal introduction.’

  ‘A fine lady?’ Raven ventured, the promise of moving in more rarefied circles like a balm to his wounds.

  ‘No doubt, though we are unlikely to find her at her best.’

  At the foot of the hill, the carriage turned left again, proceeding east away from the castle. Raven speculated that perhaps Mrs Fraser was staying at one of the impressive hotels along Princes Street. He had heard tell that wealthy ladies would often travel from the country so that physicians of Simpson’s calibre might attend them.

  The brougham did not stop at any of them, however, instead continuing the very length of Princes Street before turning right onto the North Bridge and taking him straight back to the very place he thought he had left behind.

  The carriage drew to a stop outside a shabby building only yards from where he had found Evie last night, and just around the corner from his own lodgings. As he climbed down from the brougham he wondered if Mrs Cherry might be in the process of tossing all his belongings into the street, as he was moving out today and should already have been back to collect them this morning. He wondered too if Evie had been found yet. If not, she would be before long. The smell would become obvious soon enough, even in that squalid close.