The Favourite Child

by Freda Lightfoot

  ‘Every two hours,’ Bella agreed, smarting at having her most earnest endeavours so casually tossed aside, as if she were not truly sincere in her work. ‘I have the aching arms to prove it.

  ‘Splendid, splendid. I’m sure we’ll see some benefit soon.’ Leaning closer, he addressed his patient in ringing tones. ‘We’ll have you up out of this bed for one hour every morning, Mrs Ashton. We’ll enjoy that, won’t we? Do us the world of good.’

  Emily made a spluttering sound, very like fury, deep in her throat.

  As he stepped away from the bed to collect his bag, Bella stubbornly returned to her own defence, ‘The women in these parts are in need of whatever help they can get, since their doctors give little enough attention to female problems.’

  He raised a pair of mildly enquiring brows. ‘You have some criticism of the medical profession, Miss Ashton?’

  ‘I merely criticise standards which seem to be deeply rooted in the dark ages.’

  ‘For instance?’

  Casting an anxious glance at her mother, Bella led him smartly from the room and briskly closed the door. In truth, she felt rather caught out, since he’d already admitted to working for nothing on occasions for those in greatest need, and she could hardly blame him for the behaviour of his less altruistic colleagues. Even so, Dr Lisle seemed determined to find fault and demand from her a devotion which surely ranked far beyond the call of duty.

  Out on the landing, Bella hesitated only a fraction before making up her mind to grasp the nettle. Adopting a pleasantly professional tone, she calmly announced, ‘Birth control. So many women I meet are desperate to learn more about it. Their health, in many cases, depends upon it yet who will explain to them the facts? Certainly not their doctors who seem to imagine the woman would be committing some crime against humanity by using any kind of preventative measure. The only crime is against the women themselves, inflicting unnecessary ignorance upon them so that a man may enjoy his “rights” at cost of his wife’s health, even her life.’ She stopped, mainly through want of breath.

  Dr Lisle was staring at her as if she had grown two heads. It took several moments before he found his voice. ‘The general view is that these matters should best be decided on moral rather than medical grounds.’

  ‘How bad must a woman be to procure the help she so desperately needs? I have witnessed prolapsed wombs, procured miscarriages, fevers, stillbirths, frequent haemorrhaging and dreadful pain, not to mention exhaustion and varicose veins by the score. You may dismiss me as a lady of charitable good causes if you wish, but I have seen more real distress than most young women my age.’

  Clearly embarrassed at mention of such personal female matters, Doctor Lisle’s pallid cheeks turned a dull red as he closed his eyes and held up one hand in a peremptory fashion, as if to ward off further disclosures, or perhaps to remind her of the presence of their patient, separated from them by only a door. ‘I can see you have strong feelings on the subject but this is neither the time nor place for such a debate.’

  Tossing her head so that the coppery skeins floated behind her as if with a life of their own, Bella preceded him down the stairs, a flounce in her step as she descended. ‘And I see that you take the usual masculine view that a single woman should continue in the fanciful notion that babies are found under a bush, or perhaps that they come with nightly prayers, though clearly praying for the opposite will do nothing to help such as poor Mrs Stobbs.’

  ‘Mrs Stobbs?’ He sounded out of breath in his efforts to keep pace with her.

  ‘A patient of mine who...’

  ‘Patient, Miss Ashton? I thought you said you had no qualifications.’ His voice was irritatingly agreeable.

  ‘I mean friend, client, a woman in desperate need of help.’ Bella pulled open the front door with a flourish, furious at her slip, and stood back to allow him to pass.

  Dr Lisle smiled at her, gracious as ever. ‘Abstinence is the most moral victory of all, Miss Ashton. And extremely effective. I will say that you are surprisingly vehement on this, harrum, rather delicate matter for one who has clearly chosen to remain, as I have myself, on the shelf.’ And before she had time to frame any sort of cutting reply to this, he bid her a polite good day, collected his hat, and departed.

  Bella flew back upstairs in a storm of temper, pausing at the top to draw breath and calm herself. Perhaps a walk in the fresh air might calm her shattered nerves but first she really must peep in on Mother, just to check she’d suffered no ill effects from this unprofessional squabble conducted over her prostrate figure.

  Bella pushed open the bedroom door only a fraction, wary of disturbing Emily if she were sleeping. The bed was empty. Stunned, Bella stepped into the room, gazing about her in cold panic. Had she fallen out of bed? Had she somehow become trapped beneath the bedclothes? There was no sign of her, and then Bella heard the tap running in the adjoining bathroom. Moving quietly forward she could see Emily standing at the sink. She felt as if someone had slapped her in the face. Her mother could not only move, she could get out of bed and walk to the bathroom unaided for a glass of water!

  Very quietly, without making a sound, Bella slipped out and softly closed the door behind her.

  The very next day, all sense of guilt now gone, Bella engaged a night nurse to sit with her mother.

  Chapter Seven

  The afternoon was a dull cloudy grey with a few spots of rain on the wind but Bella pulled on a warm coat, wrapped a scarf around her neck and set out, striding along the street with a lift to her step and a happy tilt to her chin.

  A day nurse had also been engaged and at last she was free to pursue her own interests. She felt like a child let out of detention. If Mother imagined that she could win the argument against her newly rebellious son by playing the invalid, how wrong she was. Bella had seen the light of certainty in her brother’s eye. He would not give Jinnie up, not for anyone, certainly not for a manipulating old woman.

  But Bella was regretting her outburst of temper with Dr Lisle. She’d handled it all wrong and gained not a jot of information as a result. If she was to be of any value to her ‘ladies’, she must acquire some degree of diplomacy and put the matter right without delay. The little doctor meant well, in his narrow-minded way and he too had been taken in by Emily. Even if Mother had indeed suffered a slight stroke, she’d made it out to be something far worse than it actually was. In Bella’s opinion, it would do her no harm at all to be left to stew in her own juices for a while.

  Today, Bella meant to call on Mr Solomon the fishmonger, to see how his wife was after her latest confinement and casually enquire if Dr Lisle was at home in his rooms on the top floor. If she got to see him, then she would apologise, unreservedly, and ask him point-blank to at least visit Mrs Stobbs.

  There was the usual queue of shawl-shrouded women with their clutch of bare legged children in the shop, hoping for a few bits of tripe, a pair of kippers or maybe a nice bit of haddock that would cost next-to-nothing and feed a family of ten. Mrs Solomon herself, a frail, birdlike woman who looked as if a breath of wind might blow her away despite her probably having more regular sustenance than the women queuing downstairs, sat up in bed wreathed in smiles as she clutched her sixth daughter to her breast.

  ‘Am I not the luckiest woman?’ she cried, as Bella slipped quietly into the room. ‘See. Is she not exquisite? Not the boy Eli had wanted for the business, admittedly, but he took one look at her and says at least she is healthy, next time we will have a boy, yes?’

  ‘Next time! Aren’t you tired of trying?’ Bella gently enquired, whilst agreeing that the baby appeared well. ‘Having six young children to look after, as well as helping your husband in the shop must be exhausting. Tell him it’s time to stop; that he must make do with a girl to follow him in the business.’

  Mrs Solomon seemed appalled at the very idea. ‘Many husbands would be angry at such persistent failure on their wife’s part, but not Eli. He gives me another chance. He is a saint. That’s wha
t he is. A saint,’ and Bella was forced to agree that Mr Solomon did indeed exhibit exemplary patience. But then he didn’t have to bear each child himself, did he? she longed to add, though managed not to.

  Bella made Mrs Solomon a mug of tea and a fish paste sandwich, since the blessed man himself never had time for such menial tasks. On learning that Dr Lisle was not at home she settled for a note, pushed under his door and, after seeing that mother and child were both comfortable, left the little woman to her joy. Bella went back downstairs where the ‘saint’ was arguing over the price of a pig’s trotter with a grey-faced woman who, judging by the number of babies in the bassinet she pushed, was in more desperate need of it than he.

  ‘I’m off now Mr Solomon,’ Bella called to him and, as she slipped unthanked out the door, she heard him say, ‘take it or leave it Mrs Blundell, it’s all the same to me.’

  Bella made several more calls after that, most of them far more depressing than the eternally optimistic fishmonger’s wife, including Mrs Stobbs who, to her own heartily expressed relief, had lost the latest child she’d been carrying. Bella didn’t enquire too closely how that had come about but issued a warning that she should still pay a visit to her doctor.

  ‘What for?’

  ‘To make sure everything is in order, that whatever should have come away, has done so, otherwise you could get blood poisoning.’ Unsurprisingly, Mrs Stobbs refused point blank to even consider discussing her private functions with any doctor, partly through embarrassment but also because of her natural distrust of ‘official interference.’ Her-friend-Gladys had checked her out, purged her, and there was an end of the matter.

  More important, so far as Mrs Stobbs was concerned, was an answer to her question about how to prevent any further accidents and Bella promised to give the matter more serious attention.

  She next called on Mrs Heap to offer condolences over the loss of her youngest to scarlet fever. Out of eight pregnancies, she had only two surviving children and, since her husband had also gone to his maker, there would be no more. It was generally considered that Mrs Heap had watched her husband’s departure from this world with some relief, since he was known to have a fondness for the bottle. In an effort to feed her small family, she’d opened up her front parlour and taken up baking which had proved a greater success than most ventures of its kind. Parlour shops would frequently open up overnight, more out of desperation than hope, and just as quickly close. Mrs Heap was different. She produced the tastiest pies and pastries in all of Liverpool Street and was well loved by all, particularly the local children who called her Aunt Edie and were often treated to a currant bun or ginger biscuit. Smiling, she handed a bag of pastries to Bella, refusing absolutely to take a penny in payment for them.

  ‘You’ve done plenty for me and mine in the past,’ she insisted, patting Bella’s hand.

  Bella thanked her and decided to share them with her favourite client, who she’d deliberately left till last.

  ‘Will you call in on Sally Clarke when ye have a minute. She had her latest the other week and her husband is itching to get at her again.’

  ‘I’ll pop in on my way home this afternoon. Promise.’

  Violet Howarth was a large, amiable woman who seemed to be found most days with her big red hands plunged in hot soapy water. But then as she said herself, with a houseful of brats to keep clean, how else would she spend her time?

  This afternoon was no different. Bella found her leaning over the wash tub in the back yard she shared with her neighbours in Jacob’s Court, her substantial backside quivering with the effort of scrubbing a stubborn shirt collar on the rubbing board. She glanced up at Bella’s approach, and her round face broke into a huge grin.

  ‘Hey up, ‘ere’s a cup of tea and two biscuits walking down me yard.’ This was Violet’s way of saying that she was glad of the interruption.

  ‘I’ve brought you an Eccles cake, for a treat,’ Bella said, holding out the paper packet with a smile.

  ‘Eeh well, thee’s doubly welcome then. I were just thinking of putting t’kettle on. Our Dan’ll be right sorry to have missed yer. He’s only this minute gone on shift. I’d best rinse these through first, then we’ll have a natter.’

  Bella looked up to consider the glowering winter sky, heavy with the threat of rain, then back at the woman who, despite the shawl pinned about her substantial chest, had a dewdrop on the end of her nose and whose bare wet arms were raw with cold. ‘It’s time you did stop. The heavens are about to open. Why are you doing your washing in the yard anyway, instead of in your nice warm kitchen?’

  Violet drew out a large red checked handkerchief from her capacious pocket and blew musically upon it. ‘Cause I’ve just cleaned up in there and I were hoping not to fill it with steam and water again. But yer right. I’ll have to put myself through t’mangle an’ all, if I stop out here much longer,’ and she let out a great cackle of laughter.

  Whenever she laughed, which was often, great rolls of flesh would shake and wobble, performing almost a ritual dance of delight to accompany the raucous sound. For whatever else you might accuse Violet of: a certain brashness, a loud and cutting sense of humour coupled with a casual bluntness that frequently wounded more tender feelings than her own; an undeniable fondness for her food along with other delights of the flesh; taking life too seriously wasn’t a fault you could ever level against her.

  ‘Isn’t it always raining in Manchester?’ Bella teased, as she helped her to carry the dripping washing back inside.

  ‘Nay, that’s a wicked lie made up by a chap who come up from t’south and caught a fish in his turn-ups. Manchester’s a grand spot. Capital of the north.’

  Both women ate two Eccles cakes each, licking up every flake of crisp sugary pastry, every squashy currant. Not a word was exchanged between them during the repast as complete concentration was required to fully appreciate each delicious morsel. When her plate was clean of the last crumb, Violet heaved a great sigh of pleasure and regret as she sank back in her chair. ‘Eeh that were right gradely. Pour us some tea, lass. It’ll be strong enough to stand a spoon in if we leave it to mash much longer.’

  Bella filled the two pint mugs which stood waiting on the table, almost to the brim and passed one to her friend, enquiring after the health of her large family as she did so.

  Violet ran swiftly through them all, from little Joe the baby of the family at two who was having trouble walking because of a faulty hip, the six year old twins Emma and Hannah, then there was Pete and Georgie, always up to some prank or other; and Kate the eldest girl at fifteen who was causing her mother much grief over some boy she’d taken up with. Finally there was Ernest who’d found himself rushed into a hasty marriage at nineteen and Dan, the eldest and most sensible at twenty-four. He it was who brought in the highest wages and made all the decisions, acting more like the head of the family rather than the eldest son in lieu of a father who, in Violet’s own words was ‘A feckless lump, good fer nowt but one thing. All animal passion and no brains, ‘ceptin what he keeps in his trousers.’

  Bella strived not to giggle to hear the inoffensive and overburdened Mr Howarth so described. Though it was true that for a man not known for drink, being a strong Methodist and teetotal, Cyril Howarth had certainly ‘done his duty’. He’d now been diagnosed with emphysema and was unable to hold down a job. Violet treated this tragedy with her usual degree of black humour and made sure everyone knew he still had his ‘faculties’. She’d been heard to complain for years that if she could have found a way to stop her numerous children from coming, she certainly would have done so. There had been several others, who now resided in the local cemetery and were visited every week, without fail.

  ‘I never wanted a large family and if I could find some daft cluck to take ‘em off me hands, I would. But who else would put up with ‘em but me, eh?’

  Bella always smiled at these remarks for it was clear to all who knew her that Violet worshipped the ground her children walked u
pon. Her house was spotless, if Spartan so far as furniture was concerned, and if the children’s clothes were an odd assortment and practically threadbare, they were at least carefully darned with not a ‘bobby’s winder’- that is, hole in a stocking - to be seen. Despite her husband never earning more than twenty-six shillings a week throughout a lifetime of labouring on the docks, the stock pot had always been packed with good vegetables, grown on Uncle Albert’s allotment. From time to time it was enriched with the scraggy remains of an old hen, or a bit of mutton. Now Violet depended upon her older children to keep it filled but, despite all the family’s difficulties, was often heard to declare that no one in her house would ever go hungry, and she’d suffer no long faces neither.

  ‘Anyroad,’ she said now, finishing her tale along with the thick brown steaming tea, ‘I reckon I’ve fettled it. I’ve found a way to stem the tide,’ and chortling merrily she gave Bella a huge wink. ‘Not that I should be talking about such matters to a young lady such as yerself, but I’ve been and got summat that seems to be doing the trick nicely.’

  ‘What trick? Stem what tide? You’re talking in riddles, Violet.’

  Violet leaned forward, picked up the tea pot and weighed it in her hand. ‘There’s happen enough for one.’ Bella shook her head so Violet half refilled her own mug with the brown sludge. ‘I’m talking about childer. What do you think I’m talking of?’

  ‘Childer. Lord, you don’t mean..?’

  ‘Aye, I do. I’ve worked out how to stop ‘em comin’ at last, though happen a bit late in the day. At least I’ve found a new doctor who’s worked it out and is willing to let me in on the secret.’

  Bella gazed at her friend now with eager attention, leaning forward in her seat. ‘You’re saying that a doctor has told you what to do. A doctor who - who gave you something?’

  ‘Aye. You could say so.’

  ‘Tell me. I want to know. Need to know.’