by Lark, Sarah
Elaine gave Dr. Leroy a pleading look. “So what’s wrong with him, really?” she asked quietly.
“Complex fracture of the legs,” Berta answered quickly. She seemed to want to prevent her husband from giving a more precise diagnosis that would send yet another person into hysterics. “And a broken hip. It caught a few of his ribs too.”
“Is he paralyzed?” Elaine asked. The word “cripple” was seared into her brain. She had stepped closer to Timothy’s bed and wanted to touch him, to run her hand over his forehead, or to wipe the dirt from his cheek. But she did not dare.
Dr. Leroy shook his head. “He’s not paralyzed. He would have had to break his spine for that, and it looks like he managed to avoid that. Though you have to ask yourself whether that was a blessing. If a person is lame, at least he no longer feels pain. But in this condition…”
“But broken bones heal, don’t they?” Elaine objected. “My brother broke his arm once, and that healed in no time. And my other brother fell out of a tree and broke his foot. He was in bed for a while, but then…”
“Simple fractures can heal without complications,” Dr. Leroy broke in. “But these are comminuted fractures. “We can splint them, of course, but I don’t even know where to start. We’ll have a specialist come up from Christchurch. They’ll undoubtedly heal one way or another.”
“And he’ll be able to walk again?” Elaine asked hopefully. “Not right away of course, but in a few weeks or months?”
Leroy sighed. “Child, be satisfied if he can sit in a wheelchair in a few months. This broken hip bone—”
“Now stop all the doom and gloom, Christopher!” Berta Leroy was at her wit’s end. Her husband was a good doctor but a chronic pessimist. And even if he was usually right, there was no reason to scare Timothy’s friends and family. This red-haired girl, who was somehow connected to Madame Clarisse but apparently not a whore, already looked like the slightest breeze would knock her over. When her husband had mentioned the wheelchair, all the color had drained from the girl’s face.
Berta gripped Elaine’s shoulders energetically. “Take a deep breath, dear. You won’t be helping your friend any if you go fainting on us too. Like he said, a specialist is on his way from Christchurch. Until he gets here, there’s nothing we can say with certainty.”
Elaine halfway regained control of herself. Of course, she was being absurd. She should be happy that Timothy was still alive. If only she did not have that image from the horse race constantly before her eyes: Timothy as a radiant victor, smiling as he leaped from his horse, climbing the winner’s podium fleet of foot, and embracing Fellow before swinging back into the saddle. She could not imagine the same man in a wheelchair, condemned to inactivity. Perhaps the doctor was right, and he would find it worse than death.
But she would think about all that later. First she needed to ask Berta Leroy what she could do for Timothy, if there was anything that might keep her occupied.
Berta, however, had moved on to Nellie Lambert. “Now, madam, would you get ahold of yourself,” she hissed at Timothy’s sobbing mother. “There are a lot of women outside who lost their husbands and sons today. And, what’s more, they don’t even know how they’re going to scrape together the money to bury them. You, on the other hand, have your son back. You should be thanking God instead of crying your eyes out senselessly. Where is that pastor anyway? Madam, go see if you can find someone outside who will drive you home. We’re going to wash and feed this boy, and then put him to bed while he’s still unconscious. He’s got enough pain ahead of him. Christopher?”
His wife was pleased to see that he was already sorting his splints and bandages. She then turned back to Elaine.
“Feeling better, dear? Good. Then go look for Mrs. Carey. We need someone else here who knows how to do the work.” Berta turned to Timothy’s bed and moved to air the sheets.
Elaine followed her. “I can help.”
Berta Leroy shook her head. “No, not you. The last thing you need tonight is to be changing the dressings on your sweetheart’s legs and yanking on them. Then you really will faint on me.”
“He’s not my sweetheart,” Elaine whispered.
Berta laughed. “No, of course not, dear; you’re as cold as a dog’s nose! Completely indifferent. You’ve just stuck around by chance because you know Tim Lambert in passing, right? Tell it to someone a little more gullible. But before that, bridle that little horse of yours. Madame Clarisse’s carriage is still here, right? Find someone to take the seats out. We need to be able to fit a stretcher in there.”
“You want to send the man home tonight, Berta?” Dr. Leroy asked reluctantly. “In his condition?”
Berta Leroy shrugged. “His condition is hardly going to change in the next few weeks. Besides, he’ll wake up tomorrow, and then he’ll be able to feel every pothole. This way, we spare him that torture.”
Elaine began to see who in the Leroys’ practice was really in charge.
“But the family—”
Berta, interrupting her husband, turned to Elaine.
“What are you waiting for, girl? Off you go to the stables.”
Elaine ran outside. Deep down, she knew that Dr. Leroy was right. If she brought Timothy to the Lamberts’ house, his father would assail him with accusations, and his mother would hardly be able to look after him in her distressed state. She now understood why Timothy spent every evening in the pub. It must have been hell to have his parents cast helplessly upon him.
Banshee and Fellow whinnied as Elaine entered the stables. Several miners had collapsed in the straw, exhausted after the rescue operations. She had not noticed the men before, or she would never have gone to sleep there so fearlessly. She had to shake a few of them awake, as she would never manage to prepare Madame Clarisse’s carriage to transport Timothy on her own. She chose two of the older, more easygoing fellows she knew in passing from the pub. Although the men were not especially enthusiastic, they acknowledged the urgency and fetched their tools.
Unfortunately, they left dirty fingerprints all over Madame Clarisse’s red velvet upholstery. Elaine would have to clean it afterward. She sighed. Would the day ever end?
When Elaine pulled up in front of the office building with the modified carriage, the Leroys were still quarreling. Berta seemed to want to treat Timothy at their medical facility, which had a small two-bed hospital. The doctor, however, was of the opinion that a nurse hired by the Lamberts could do just as much for Timothy at home. And Timothy was going to require months of care.
Berta shook her head at such male lack of understanding. “The nurse would be able to wash him and change his bandages, but what else? You’ve seen what the Lamberts are like. If you send him into that, you’ll have a serious case of depression on your hands. And do you think any of his friends would brave that place to visit him? Matt Gawain maybe, every three weeks in his Sunday suit. There’s always something happening at our place, though. His chums can pop in, all of the town’s respectable ladies will send their daughters by, and Madame Clarisse’s girls come by unchaperoned, anyway.” Berta smiled when she saw Elaine standing in the doorway. “Especially that one,” she added, “who doesn’t think much of him.”
Elaine blushed.
Dr. Leroy gave up. “All right, fine. In our hospital then. Do we have two men to carry the stretcher? And we’ll need at least four people to maneuver him onto it.”
Timothy’s body, including his chest, was wrapped in bulky bandages. His arms, however, looked unharmed. That gave Elaine hope. She turned pale again, though, when the Leroys and their assistants raised him from the bed, and he groaned loudly.
“I’ve lined the carriage with blankets,” she said.
Berta nodded and followed the stretcher-bearers to the carriage. “Very nice, you think ahead. I’ll ride with you and try to keep him soothed. Who does that second horse belong to?”
Elaine had tied Fellow to the back of the carriage.
She pointed to Timothy. “Hi
s. The Lamberts forgot about him. But he couldn’t just stay behind here.”
Berta grinned. “You really are a saint. Caring for a man nothing ties you to and even looking out for his nag. It’s exemplary! Maybe the pastor should give a sermon about that sometime.”
Elaine directed Banshee to walk the entire way, but she did not manage to avoid every pothole in the dark. Even in his unconscious state, Timothy cried out softly every time, and Elaine gradually came to understand why Berta Leroy had insisted on transporting him that night. As the men carried Timothy into the doctor’s office, Elaine took care of the horses. She followed the Leroys into the house once Banshee and Fellow were contentedly munching on hay.
“Can I help with anything else?”
Berta Leroy cast an appraising eye over the petite girl in her soiled riding dress. Though Elaine looked pale and deathly tired, she had a look in her eyes that told Berta she would not be getting any sleep over the next few hours anyway. Berta herself, however, needed a bed. She would sleep like a rock.
“You can stay by his side, dear,” she said after thinking it over briefly. “Someone should be there when he wakes up. Nothing can happen. His life’s not in danger. And if something comes up, just wake us.”
“What do I do when he wakes up?” Elaine asked hesitantly, following the doctor’s wife into the sickrooms.
Timothy lay motionless on one of the beds.
Berta shrugged. “Talk to him. Give him something to drink. And if he’s in pain, he should take this.” She indicated a cup filled with a milky liquid next to a water carafe on the nightstand. “He’ll go back to sleep again soon after that. It’s strong medicine. Just encourage him a little.”
Elaine pulled a chair up to the bed and lit the lamp on the little night table. Berta had already turned off the main light. Not that Elaine would have minded sitting in the dark. But when Timothy woke up, it shouldn’t be dark. She still had Roly’s words in her ear: He moaned and talked about how dark it was.
Timothy looked exhausted. Elaine only then realized how sunken his cheeks were, how dark the circles around his eyes. And the coal dust was everywhere. Elaine took a washbowl that she found in the room and poured some water into it. Then she washed the dust out of the corners of his eyes and ran the washcloth gently over all the lines that made his face look so rakish when he laughed. She was fastidious about touching him only with the cloth. She reeled back as though struck by lightning when her fingers inadvertently stroked his cheek.
She had not touched a man since those horrifying nights with Thomas, nor had she even been alone with one. Certainly not at night in a dark room. She had never wanted to do such a thing again. But now she almost smiled, thinking about her fears. Timothy presented no danger at the moment. And Timothy’s face felt pleasant. His skin was warm, dry, a little raw.
Elaine set the cloth aside and tentatively ran her hand over his forehead, his eyebrows, his cheeks. As she brushed the hair out of his face, she learned how soft it was. Finally, she played her fingers over his hands as they lay still on the sheet. Strong, sunbrowned hands capable of a firm grip. Yet she also recalled how lightly he’d held Fellow’s reins during the race. Timothy’s fingers were dark from coal dust, his nails broken off. Had he actually tried to dig out the buried men with his own hands?
Elaine stroked the backs of his hands. She finally took his right hand—and issued a muffled cry when his fingers closed around hers. It was madness, she knew, but even his weak grip was enough to make her draw her hand away and leap up, out of reach.
Her cry caused Timothy to open his eyes.
“Lainie…” he said quietly. “I’m dreaming. Who just screamed? The boy?” Timothy looked around, confused.
Elaine chided herself for her nonsensical reaction. She stepped closer and increased the lamp’s brightness.
“No one screamed,” she said. “And the boy is safe. You… you’re in Greymouth at the Leroys’. Matt Gawain dug you out.”
Timothy smiled. “And you took care of me.”
With that, he closed his eyes again. Elaine reached for his hand. This time she would hold it tight until he awoke again, and then she would smile at him. She needed to master her absurd fear. She must only take care not to fall in love again.
Morning had just begun to dawn the next time Timothy gained consciousness. Elaine was no longer holding his hand, having fallen asleep in the armchair. She started awake when he said her name. A male voice that ripped her from her sleep. It had always begun that way when Thomas… But this was not Thomas Sideblossom’s hard, domineering voice. Timothy’s voice was higher pitched, kinder, and—at the moment—very weak. Elaine managed to smile at him. Timothy winked in the morning twilight.
“Lainie, can you… do you mind… the window… light.”
Elaine turned the wick of the lamp.
“The curtains.” Timothy’s hand twitched on the sheet as though he wanted to open them himself.
“It’s still quite dark outside,” Elaine said. “But it will soon be morning. The sun is rising.”
Nervously, she got up and drew the curtains aside. The early light of morning cast a weak glow into the room.
Timothy blinked. His eyes were inflamed from the coal dust.
“I was thinking I’d never see you again, or the sun… Lainie?” He tried to move, but winced with pain. “What am I missing?” he asked quietly. “It hurts like hell.”
Elaine sat down again and reached for his hand. Her heart was beating wildly, but Timothy enclosed her fingers very carefully.
“Just a few broken bones,” she claimed. “Here, if you… if you drink this here…” She reached for the glass on the night table.
Timothy tried to sit up and reach for it, but even the smallest movement sent pain shooting through his body. Though he held back a cry with some effort, he could not suppress a small whimper of pain. Elaine saw drops of sweat on his forehead.
“Wait, I’ll help you. You need to lie there without moving.” She carefully slid a hand beneath his head, raising him lightly, and put the cup to his lips. Timothy drank with effort.
“That tastes terrible,” he said, trying to smile.
“But it will help,” she said.
Timothy lay still and looked out the window. He couldn’t see much from his bed, not much more than the silhouettes of the mountains, one or two roofs, and a headframe tower. But it was getting light quickly.
Elaine washed the sweat from his brow.
“In a moment, it won’t hurt anymore,” she said, trying to comfort him.
Timothy looked at her inquisitively. She was keeping something from him. But she was there. He opened the hand he had balled into a fist at the rush of pain and held it out to her.
“Lainie, even if it isn’t bad, it feels pretty bad. Could you… could you maybe just hold my hand again?”
Elaine blushed but laid her hand in his. And then they watched in silence as an exceptionally beautiful sunrise bathed the town outside the window, first in fiery reds and then in radiant sunlight.
4
The sun rose over a shaken, grieving town. The citizens of Greymouth, including the traders and artisans who had no connection to the mine, seemed worn out and disheartened. Life went on in fits and starts, but it was as though the people and vehicles were moving in a thick fog.
Most of the private mines did not close, however. And the workers who had helped dig the day before had to enter their own mines again unless they wanted to forfeit their meager pay. Profoundly exhausted, they signed in for their shifts and could only hope that an understanding foreman assigned them to an easy job or put them to work aboveground.
Matt and his colleagues, however, did not want to stay aboveground. If the men remained idle too long, the images of the victims would sear into their minds, and they would fear the mine from that point on. A few men always quit after mining accidents, but the majority continued to enter the mine day after day, some of them full of fear, though few would admit as much
. Most of these men came from generations of mine workers. Their fathers and grandfathers before them had toiled in the mines of Wales, Cornwall, and Yorkshire, and their sons would enter for the first time at thirteen. All the Paddys, Rorys, and Jamies could not imagine anything else.
Matt and his people dug the last corpses out that day. It was a demanding and arduous job, but there were still women and children in front of the mine waiting for a miracle.
The pastor attempted to stand with them while simultaneously trying to make arrangements for the sixty-six dead. He sent the ladies of the women’s association to visit the families of the dead—and pacified them when they returned afterward, horrified at the conditions of the miners’ residences. The grime, the poverty, and neglected-looking children were all conditions for which Greymouth’s matrons held the miners’ paltry wages and the cupidity of the mine owners less responsible than the miners’ wives’ lack of domestic skills.
“No sense of aesthetics whatsoever!” Mrs. Tanner exclaimed, becoming riled. “And yet you can make even the poorest shack cozy if you only place a cushion here and there and sew some curtains.”
The pastor held his tongue and thanked heaven for Madame Clarisse, who was offering meaningful assistance to the two widows who had once worked for her as prostitutes. She loaned them both money for the burial, then promised the younger one another job in the pub and the older one, who had three children hanging from her apron strings, a position in the kitchen. Clarisse’s girls also helped identify the dead who did not have any family. The parish would have to scrape together the money to bury almost half the victims. In addition, their affairs needed to be placed in order and their relatives in Ireland, England, and Wales identified and informed. It would be difficult, tedious, and bitter work.
More than anything, however, the pastor dreaded visiting Marvin Lambert. Whether the man liked it or not, he needed to take some responsibility for the victims’ families. The women and children needed support. Of course, Nellie Lambert would likely be mourning only the great calamity that had befallen her own family—this despite the fact that the younger Lambert’s life was no longer in danger, according to Dr. Leroy. The pastor had taken a detour through town specifically to ask about Timothy.
