Miss Moonshine's Emporium of Happy Endings: A feel-good collection of heartwarming stories

by Helena Fairfax

  The cherries on Miss Moonshine’s hat did a little dance as she turned back to Beatrice.

  ‘Dr Sawbones is an old soak,’ she said. ‘The last time he was in my shop, he reeked like a whiskey distillery.’

  Dr Sandbone – or ‘Dr Sawbones’, as Miss Moonshine called him – was the most fashionable doctor in the town. He was a frequent visitor to the large stone villas on the outskirts, where the wealthy manufacturers, the lawyers and the bankers lived. His portly figure was never seen in the slum dwellings where the poorer people were housed.

  Beatrice sighed. ‘I wish Sylvia wouldn't send for him. But Captain Osborne made her promise to see him regularly while she was expecting. It was the last thing he said before he left for India, and Sylvia would never dream of going against his wishes. But I can’t tell you how worried I’ve been. She’s been so wretched since the birth. She lies on her bed most of the day, and I know she’s weeping when she thinks no one can hear her.’ Beatrice gripped her purse. ‘And poor baby Evie is a terrible colour. Yellow, like a piece of old silk. And all Dr Sawbones did was prescribe an expensive tonic for Sylvia, and the old fathead told her to keep Evie indoors, with the curtains drawn, away from "foul air".’ Her eyes flashed. ‘And the book you lent me says what the baby needs is sunshine. I’m going home to draw back the curtains at once and let in some light. And I’m never letting another doctor over the threshold again, no matter what my brother-in-law may say.’

  In Beatrice’s frustration and distress, she hadn’t noticed the man in the window draw near. She turned to go and almost bumped into him. Beatrice registered a dark moustache and neatly trimmed beard, and a pair of serious brown eyes meeting hers.

  ‘Beatrice, dear, this is my godson, Edward,’ Miss Moonshine said. ‘Edward Lawrence, the son of a very old and dear friend of mine from over the Pennines.’

  Beatrice held out her gloved hand, gazing up at the handsome features with frank interest. She had never heard Miss Moonshine mention any friends or family. Indeed, sometimes it seemed the kind-hearted lady and her shop had simply arrived from nowhere and had been a part of the town forever.

  ‘Beatrice Diamond. Pleased to meet you, Mr Lawrence.’

  The young man took her hand in his and hesitated, before giving a wry smile. ‘I'm afraid I must disappoint you, Miss Diamond. My name is Dr Lawrence. Not Mister. I'm one of those quacks you dislike so heartily.’

  Beatrice reddened. She would never have taken Miss Moonshine’s young godson for a doctor. His open expression was so unlike Dr Sawbones’ smug arrogance, and he had a rugged vigour about him. Then she took in the fine tailoring of Dr Lawrence’s worsted suit, the gold pin in his tie, and the hint of expensive cologne. Her eyes narrowed. No doubt Dr Lawrence charged the sick a tidy sum for his medical fees. She withdrew her hand and would have made her excuses and left, but the young man detained her.

  ‘Would you allow me to give you some advice? You see, I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation. I believe your sister’s baby may be suffering –’

  ‘From jaundice, I know,’ Beatrice finished for him. ‘My niece shouldn’t be kept indoors. A walk in the perambulator in the sunshine will do her the world of good.’

  Beatrice’s tone was cold. Now it was Dr Lawrence’s turn to redden. He gave a stiff bow. ‘I beg your pardon.’

  Miss Moonshine broke in cheerfully, ‘There’s not much Beatrice hasn’t taught herself, Edward. She pores over my medical books whenever she gets the opportunity. The mill girls often come to you for advice, don’t they, dear?’

  Beatrice thought of her hours of self-study. It was true, she was now able to diagnose many illnesses, but there was a limit to what one could discover just from reading. At the university in Manchester, the male students had proper clinical instruction. They carried out dissections in the lecture theatre, and they observed the latest surgical procedures. There was no comparison between their practical training and Beatrice’s haphazard reading.

  She gave a wistful sigh. ‘What I’d give to be able to study properly.’

  The cherries bobbed on Miss Moonshine’s hat. One of them rolled off and fell to the floor.

  ‘Here’s Dr Sawbones killing people,’ she cried, ‘and an intelligent young woman is barred from clinical instruction and left to scrape what knowledge she can from borrowed books. It’s a criminal waste in this day and age, in – in –’ She brought her arched brows together, momentarily thrown. ‘What year is this?’

  ‘1908.’

  Beatrice and Dr Lawrence spoke together. Beatrice caught the doctor’s eye. Miss Moonshine was often eccentric about time, believing herself sometimes to live in Regency days, when she attempted to persuade her female customers to buy patches and hair powder. At other times she talked about fashions that were outlandish, with skirts well above the knee. There was affectionate amusement in the doctor’s eyes as they met Beatrice’s. He had a nice smile. Beatrice was surprised to find how warm it made her feel. Then she remembered what had brought her into the shop. She cast a hurried glance at the clock on the wall.

  ‘Is that the time? Sylvia will be fretting if I stay too long, and I have a long walk up the hill.’ She gave Miss Moonshine a grateful smile. ‘Thank you so much again. I’ll take Evie out in the sun as soon as I get home.’

  She gave Dr Lawrence a small nod and hurried to the door. Beatrice was anxious to get home, but as she stepped under the arch of roses outside Miss Moonshine’s shop she came to a halt, her eyes wide with wonder. There, drawn up at the side of the road, was a motor car, gleaming black in the sun. A group of children were clustered round it. Beatrice had seen a motor once or twice before, but never this close. Who could be driving such a dashing vehicle in Haven Bridge?

  She placed her gloved hand on the warm bonnet. The car had a hood which had been folded down so the driver could enjoy the sun.

  ‘Miss Diamond,’ one of the boys said, his eyes round. ‘It’s got leather seats, an’ all. Ah’ve never seen nowt like it.’

  She hurriedly lifted her hand from the shining metal. ‘Perhaps we’d better not touch it, Alfie,’ she said. ‘I’d hate to think we’d scratched it.’

  There was a quick tread behind her. Dr Lawrence appeared from beneath the arch of flowers. He looked from Beatrice to the group of children, his brown eyes alight with the same warm amusement he and Beatrice had shared in the shop.

  ‘Thank you for looking after the motor.’ He put his hand in his waistcoat pocket and drew out a penny, handing it to Alfie. ‘Perhaps another day I’ll take you out for a drive.’

  Alfie’s eyes bulged. There was a chorus from his pals. ‘Us an’ all, mister!’ and ‘Tin’t fair. Alfie ’as all t’ luck.’

  Dr Lawrence waved the children away good-naturedly. ‘You can all have a turn in good time.’ He turned to Beatrice. ‘But just now I’m going to drive Miss Diamond home.’

  Beatrice stared at him. His fees must be extortionate if he could afford to own a car. And was he seriously offering to drive her in it?

  ‘You mentioned you had a long walk,’ he explained, when she failed to answer.

  Beatrice felt a strong desire to tell him she’d prefer the walk in the sun. But the car gleamed invitingly, and then she remembered how much her sister loved engines. Sylvia was nutty about anything at all mechanical. Her spirits had been low for far too long, and it would be wonderful to see her eyes light up when Beatrice drew up in a car at their front porch.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, trying to sound as though she was accustomed to being driven every day of the week. ‘I would love a drive home.’

  Dr Lawrence held the passenger door wide, and she climbed gingerly inside. The doctor proceeded to crank a handle at the front of the car – an operation which appeared to require enormous strength. Beatrice caught a ripple of muscle beneath his smart suit. Then the motor fired into life, and the car began to judder. Beatrice was filled with a thrill of excitement.

  Dr Lawrence slid in beside her and took hold of the whee
l. When he moved a lever, the car moved forward. She caught hold of her hat with one hand as the motor picked up speed. They were trundling over the packhorse bridge when they passed the vicar’s wife, a shopping basket over one arm. Her mouth opened in astonishment at the sight of Beatrice bowling along beside a young man. Beatrice wanted more than anything to let out an unladylike whoop as she passed, but she restrained herself and merely lifted her hand in a polite wave.

  Dr Lawrence caught Beatrice’s eye and grinned. The car began to go even faster, the wheels jolting over the cobbled street, and Beatrice was thrown against his solid frame.

  ‘Oh, it’s just as well Charles can’t see me,’ she breathed. She imagined her brother-in-law’s rather stern expression, which always softened at the sight of Sylvia, but was often puzzled and sometimes even disappointed when it rested on his boisterous sister-in-law. ‘Charles wouldn’t approve,’ Beatrice went on. ‘He would tell me I’m too "fast".’

  Dr Lawrence glanced down at her. ‘Who is Charles?’

  ‘Captain Osborne. He’s my sister’s husband. He’s in India with his regiment. Poor Sylvia has been very low.’

  Beatrice caught herself up. She hadn’t meant to confide in Dr Lawrence, and was surprised how easy she’d found it to tell him of her worries.

  ‘I see,’ he said steadily. ‘You must be a great comfort to your sister. But it’s not unusual, you know, for women to feel very low in spirits after giving birth. It can happen even to the happiest of women.’

  ‘Really?’ Beatrice raised her face to his. ‘Is such unhappiness common for mothers?’ She gave a sigh. ‘Oh, how little I know, and how much I want to help her.’

  Dr Lawrence didn’t reply. He was frowning a little, but the next minute the car bumped over a stone on the road, and Beatrice was forced to catch hold of the side of the door.

  They were climbing uphill out of the town, away from the smoke of the mill chimneys, where the moors spread out around them, lush and green in the sun. Beatrice twisted in her seat to enjoy the glorious sight. As she did so, she caught sight of a young girl running behind them, dressed in the clogs and pinafore worn by the mill girls.

  ‘Stop, Dr Lawrence, do stop,’ Beatrice cried.

  The doctor brought the car to a rumbling halt and turned, surprised, but Beatrice opened her door and jumped out.

  ‘Mary Collinge!’

  The girl lifted her head but didn’t slacken her pace. ‘Miss Diamond,’ she panted.

  ‘Are you late for school, Mary?’

  ‘Aye, miss.’ The girl’s breath was laboured, and it became obvious as she reached Beatrice that she was near tears. ‘Me mam were badly this morning an’ I were late for t’ mill. Overlooker said I could mek up time, but now I’m late for class, an’ all, an’ Miss Clarke’ll bray us.’

  Beatrice took her hand. ‘Dr Lawrence here will take you up as far as the school.’

  The girl came to a halt, eyes wide. ‘In t’ motor, miss?’

  Dr Lawrence readily agreed to the proposal. ‘Yes, indeed in the motor, young lady. Jump in. It won’t do to have Miss Clarke "bray" you.’

  Beatrice beamed her gratitude. The doctor returned his attention to the road, and the car was soon rumbling forward, with Mary Collinge now installed in the back seat. Beatrice cast a quick glance over her shoulder. The young girl was staring about her as the road disappeared beneath their wheels. Beatrice saw that despite her recent exertion, she was deathly pale, and there were dark shadows beneath her eyes.

  Soon they reached the entrance to the school – a small, squat building set back a little from the road.

  ‘There.’ Beatrice turned and touched Mary’s hand. ‘Tell your mother our hens have been over-laying again and I’ll bring her some of our eggs. And some chicken liver for you.’

  A comical expression of dismay crossed Mary’s face.

  Beatrice laughed. ‘I know. It’s hideous. But liver is very good for you. Think of it as medicine for your tiredness.’

  The girl scrambled out of the car. ‘All right, miss.’ Her pinched features spread into a grin. ‘Ta, doctor. Worth a braying to tell t’ lads I were fetched to school in a motor car.’

  She darted away through the school entrance, her clogs ringing on the stone flags.

  Dr Lawrence set the car in motion again. ‘Poor mite,’ he said. ‘She looks worn to death.’

  Beatrice sighed. Miss Clarke’s school was full of "half-timers" like Lucy – children who spent half their day working in the mill and the other half in the classroom. The headmistress said that by the time they got to school, the mill girls were ready to put their heads down on their desks and sleep.

  ‘Mary’s very bright, but her mother is a widow and the family needs her wage.’ She paused, biting her lip. ‘Did you see how pale she is? And her complexion has a greenish tinge. I wonder if it might be chlorosis.’

  She cast Dr Lawrence a quick glance and looked away. She remembered she was talking to a medical man – a man who had had every opportunity to study in a university. Perhaps he might think her diagnosis ridiculous.

  But the doctor merely nodded. ‘You would make a good doctor, Miss Diamond. And not many doctors would prescribe their own eggs and liver.’

  They rounded a corner and were soon approaching the villa belonging to Captain Osborne. What with giving the doctor directions, and clinging to the passenger door as they made the sharp turn through the gates, Beatrice had no time to ponder his words. They bounced up the bumpy drive, designed to accommodate the captain’s horses and not the wheels of a car. At one point, as they neared the house, Beatrice thought she might be thrown right out. She held on to her hat and laughed out loud.

  The front door flew open as they drew up, and there was Sylvia, standing at the top of the steps in her shawl, a look of amazement on her face. Beatrice stood and waved, beaming, and her sister dashed down the steps.

  ‘A motor car!’ There was a sparkle in Sylvia’s eyes that Beatrice had missed for too long. Her sister’s reaction was everything she could have hoped for. She jumped down.

  ‘This is Dr Lawrence. He’s driven me up from Miss Moonshine’s.’

  In any other circumstances, Sylvia might have frowned a little at the thought of her younger sister driving through town with an unknown young man, but she was standing by the engine, her eyes on the bonnet, transfixed.

  The doctor kept the engine idling and climbed out. ‘Would you like to look under the bonnet?’

  ‘Oh, wouldn’t I!’

  Beatrice joined them, though she had no interest in engines. ‘Once Sylvia gets sight of an engine, there’s no getting her away. I remember the time our parents took us to the funfair, and Sylvia spent the entire afternoon at the merry-go-round, pestering the men who ran it to tell her how the steam engine worked. My mother had to drag her away.’

  But Sylvia took no notice. The doctor had folded open the bonnet to reveal a shiny, greasy-looking engine, and she was bending over it.

  She pointed. ‘Look, Beatrice, these are the pistons. And these must be the spark plugs, which fire up when you crank the handle. What a wonderful invention.’ She gave a sigh. ‘How lucky you are to own a motor, Dr Lawrence.’

  The doctor was standing back a little, his arms folded across his chest.

  ‘I’m afraid I’m more knowledgeable about the human body than an engine. But in any case, the car isn’t mine. It belongs to my mother.’

  Beatrice and Sylvia turned to look at him as one. His mother – a woman – owned a motor car?

  ‘But maybe you know her,’ he went on, smiling. ‘Her name is Constance Lawrence.’

  Beatrice gasped aloud. Constance Lawrence! This smart young doctor was the son of the woman who wrote wonderfully daring books with intrepid heroines and thrilling heroes. The sort of books that made you want to stay up all night, turning the pages. The sort of books Captain Osborne had once said he thought were ‘utter bilge’.

  ‘Oh, we adore your mother’s books,’ breathed Sylvia.
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  ‘Totally adore them,’ echoed Beatrice. ‘We’ve read all of them. Miss Moonshine stocks them as soon as they’re out in print.’ She whirled round to her sister as she remembered. ‘And Sylvia, while I was at Miss Moonshine’s, you’ll never guess what I discovered. Dr Sawbones has it all wrong. We need to bring Evie out in the sunshine.’

  The light in Sylvia’s eyes dimmed. Her face fell. ‘Oh dear, Bea, do you really think…? But Dr Sandbone seemed so sure…’

  ‘Evie isn’t getting better with Dr Sandbone’s treatment,’ Beatrice said gently. ‘I’m positive some sunshine and fresh air will do her good.’

  Sylvia continued to look uncertain, but Dr Lawrence broke in, ‘I have an idea. I’ll be taking up a post at the Infirmary soon, but until then I have a free week. Why don’t I call in and take you all out in the motor every day? You can bring the baby, and while you show me the sights, Evie can enjoy the sun.’

  Sylvia continued to look doubtful, but Beatrice noted how her eyes had brightened at the thought of the drive. She turned to Dr Lawrence.

  ‘Would you really take us out? That would be too good of you.’

  ‘You would be doing me a favour,’ he said. ‘I don’t know anyone in Haven Bridge apart from Miss Moonshine. You would brighten my week by keeping me company.’

  Sylvia came to a decision and nodded. ‘Thank you so much,’ she said. ‘And – if you have time,’ she added shyly, ‘Evie has just had her feed. Do you think we could take a drive with her now?’

  Dr Lawrence grinned back. ‘Of course.’

  Sylvia ran lightly back up the steps to fetch the baby, and Beatrice turned to the doctor.

  ‘I can’t thank you enough,’ she said earnestly. ‘That’s the first time Sylvia has shown any interest in leaving the house for weeks.’

  Dr Lawrence’s brown eyes met hers, serious for a moment, and then he gave another of his warm smiles. ‘We must thank Miss Moonshine for introducing us. My mother says she has a gift for making everything come right.’