Miss Martha Mary Crawford

by Catherine Cookson (Catherine Marchant)

  ‘Oh, not too bad, doctor.’

  ‘Pain?’

  ‘Aye, still a bit, mostly in me hands, though I don’t feel I’ve got any on.’

  ‘Well, you certainly have, and they’re healing. Look at that new skin.’

  ‘Some of it’s hard, doctor, like cracklin’.’

  ‘Pork crackling?’

  ‘Aye.’ She gave a weak laugh.

  ‘Ah.’ He put his hand on her forehead now and stroked her hair back. ‘We’ll soon have you up and about.’

  ‘I’ll be all right, doctor? I’ll be able to walk?’

  ‘Of course you will.’

  ‘I’m stiff.’

  ‘Well, you’re bound to be stiff, you’ve been lying there how many days?’ He turned now and looked at the tall figure standing in the exact place where he had seen her last. It was as if she had never moved from the bottom of that couch.

  But when she didn’t supply him with the number of days he looked down at Peg again and said, ‘Well, let me feel that heart of yours…Ah! That’s better, tapping away like a good drum. Now—’ he put his hands on his knees and asked of her—‘what are we going to do with you?’

  ‘I don’t know, doctor, I only feel I should be up an’ about an’ doin’.’

  ‘Huh! Up and about and doing? It’ll be some time before you’re up and about and doing, me girl.’

  ‘It’s…it’s too much for Miss Martha Mary.’ She now looked towards the foot of the couch. ‘She’s…she’s never off her feet.’

  ‘Well’—he didn’t turn his eyes from Peg as he said, ‘good nurses are always on their feet. What I want you to do is to be a good girl and lie still, and eat because you must get strong again.’ Although he felt it was hitting below the belt he could not resist adding, ‘But when you are strong again there’ll be no more iron kettle lifting, will there?’

  As he poked his chin towards her, she said, ‘Oh, it wasn’t the kettle, doctor; I was used to the kettle, it wasn’t the kettle.’

  ‘It wasn’t the kettle?’ His brows gathered into a deep furrow. ‘But you were scalded by the kettle, child, when you tried to lift it?’

  ‘Oh, I had lifted it, I have the knack of liftin’ it. It was Nick stickin’ his finger…’ She lowered her eyes now and ended, ‘Nippin’ me bum. I jumped an’ that did it.’

  Not for a long time had he had the spontaneous urge to laugh, to bellow, not at the scene as he saw it depicted in his mind with that lout outside taking a liberty with the little one, but at the look on Miss Martha Mary Crawford’s face. Dear! dear! dear! We were easily shocked, weren’t we? Hadn’t she heard the word bum before?

  He forced his expression to change when he looked at Martha and asked, ‘Were you aware that this was how the accident happened?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘That young fellow wants seeing to, doesn’t he?’

  ‘I’ll speak to him.’

  ‘I should. I certainly should; and more than that. Well now.’ He rose to his feet and still looking directly at her, he said, ‘This is where you can use a little of your own remedy. You may now lay her arms on pieces of oiled sheet, also her legs.’ He glanced towards the fire where the ashes were piled high on the hearth and added, ‘And you can get rid of those, I don’t think there’s much risk of infection now. I’ll look in towards the end of the week again.’

  ‘Well now, little maid’—he was again gazing down on Peg—‘you be a good girl and do as I’ve told you, eat and rest, and I’ll see you later.’

  ‘Aye, doctor. An’ ta, thanks.’

  He nodded at her, and only just stopped himself from winking.

  He now went out into the hall, and Martha, after a moment’s hesitation, followed him, but at a distance, and she remained at a distance while he got into his coat, turned the collar up, and drew on his gloves. It was as he stooped to pick his bag up from the chair that he heard her gasp, and he turned his head quickly in her direction. But she was looking upwards towards the stairs.

  In utter amazement now his gaze followed hers and settled on the apparition descending towards them. It was that of a middle-aged woman, naked, except for a pair of corsets over which her sagging breasts hung, and a pair of open drawers, their flaps showing the skin of her inner thighs with each step she took down the stairs.

  This then was the Miss Sophie Crawford that Doctor Pippin had spoken of as the cross on the house, the tender cross he had called her.

  Martha didn’t utter a word, but as if she had been fired from a gun she shot across the hall, then bounded up the stairs. But when she reached Sophie and went to shield her and made an effort to turn her about, Sophie did an unusual thing, she slapped her beloved niece, in fact she pushed her so roughly that if Martha hadn’t clutched at the banister she would have fallen backwards down the stairs. Then she exclaimed in a sweetly authoritative voice, ‘You can say what you like, Martha Mary, I am going down to dinner. Yes, yes I am…now let me pass.’

  ‘Aunt Sophie!’

  For a moment Harry watched them struggling in such a way that both could at any moment tumble headlong into the hall. Then he took the stairs two at a time and when he put his hands on Aunt Sophie’s bare shoulders she became still, turned her head and looked into his face and smiled a childish smile as she said, ‘Have you come to see George? Are you staying to dinner?’

  Their faces were all close, so close that he felt Martha’s agitated breath on his cheek, and when he looked into her eyes he was, for a moment, touched by her distress. ‘Get a rug. Let go of her, go on, let go and get a rug.’ His voice was low and soft, his tone kindly.

  When she hesitated, looking first upstairs and then down as if fearful of letting go of this almost naked creature he quickly unbuttoned his top coat and, pulling it off, put it around Aunt Sophie’s shoulders, before turning her gently about and saying, ‘This way, eh?’

  ‘We’re not going into dinner?’

  ‘Not yet, later.’

  His arm about her, he led her up the stairs and on to the landing, there to be confronted by the other two sisters, both showing their horror, Nancy with her hand tight across her mouth and Mildred with both hands cupping her face.

  ‘The gentleman has come to see George, Nancy.’ Sophie smiled from one to the other.

  Nancy, staring at Aunt Sophie’s bare breasts, which the coat failed to cover, uttered no word, but Mildred turned her head away as if the sight of her aunt’s body was sacrilege to gaze upon.

  When suddenly Sophie’s steps began to falter and she slumped against him, he jerked his head towards Martha, saying quickly, ‘Give a hand, put your arm around her.’

  But again Martha hesitated a moment too long; perhaps it was the thought of bringing her hand into proximity with his.

  ‘Get out of the way!’ He now thrust one arm under Sophie’s legs and the other under her shoulder and, lifting her bodily up, carried her to where Nancy was now holding wide the bedroom door. Going straight to the bed, he now laid the limp form on it, then turned and looked at the three faces surveying him and exclaimed angrily, ‘For God’s sake don’t look as if you’re all going to faint because you’ve seen bare flesh! Human beings come in two sorts, male and female.’

  His attention was brought from the three even more startled faces now back to the bed where Aunt Sophie’s mouth was going into one wide gap and from it was issuing an unearthly cry.

  Now it was his turn to find himself thrust aside as Martha reached out and grabbed a bone letter opener from a side table and pushed it lengthwise across the gaping mouth, and as she then caught hold of one thrashing arm Harry held on to the other.

  When the spasm finally subsided they both released their holds almost at the same time, and as Martha hastily drew the covers over the now sweating, heaving relaxed form, he asked, ‘How long has she been having fits?’

  ‘Fits!’ The word was a denial. ‘My aunt has had turns for some years.’

  He turned from the bed and glared at her. ‘Give them what n
ame you like, Miss Crawford, but that was an epileptic fit. How long has she had them, precisely how many years?’

  ‘She’s had her turns…since…’—she hesitated. How long had her Aunt Sophie had her turns? Long before she had come here. But this man, this horrible individual calling them fits! She had come to recognise hate through her father, and she had hated his woman, but the combined feeling was nothing compared to that which she felt towards this individual.

  ‘Well, how long?’

  ‘I…I can’t recall.’

  ‘What do you give her?’

  ‘Give her?’

  ‘I mean in the way of medicine?’

  ‘I give her no medicine.’

  ‘Does Doctor Pippin not prescribe for her?’

  ‘Doctor Pippin says what she needs is quiet and care.’ She now glanced to where Mildred and Nancy were standing gazing wide-eyed at them both and she said, ‘Stay with her.’ Then looking directly at Harry, she added, ‘I would like a word with you…doctor.’

  He returned her hard stare for a moment before nodding while saying, ‘Yes, that would suit me too.’ Then stooping, he picked up his coat that had fallen to the floor by the side of the bed and followed her out of the room, down the stairs, across the hall and into what was their sitting room.

  What struck him immediately about the room was its chill. There was no fire in the grate; its clutter and knick-knacks passed unnoticed. Most of the houses he visited in this class were much the same; some people went as far as putting trousers on the table legs to prevent their being scratched.

  They were standing facing each other in the middle of the room. A weak shaft of winter sun penetrated between the heavy curtains and passed over her shoulder and across her chest in front of which her hands were joined, and tightly he noted. And what he also noted in this moment was that she was greatly distressed. The business of that poor soul up there appearing almost naked must have seemed like the last straw to her.

  Remembering what Doctor Pippin had advised, he took a deep breath and clamped down on the irritation she had the knack of arousing in him, and said quietly, ‘Well now, what do you wish to say to me?’

  He watched her gulp and her throat swell, and then he was actually startled by her answer. ‘I don’t wish you to attend anyone in this house again; I prefer to have Doctor Pippin, and I will write to him to that effect.’

  The heat from the colour flooding his face seemed to surge downwards through his body; he was filled with an anger which he knew in his mind was far and above that which the situation warranted; she was just a narrow-minded, ignorant, stupid young female…But was she? No, she wasn’t. At least she wasn’t stupid, and that statement she had just made was not, he felt sure, against himself as a doctor, but himself as a man. She hated him, he could feel it emanating from her. He had felt it from the beginning. But why? Why? In the name of God! Why? He had never seen her until he entered this house. Or had he? On first sight he thought that he had come across her somewhere, and if so, then it must have been a fleeting meeting, for she had left no impression on him.

  ‘Miss Crawford’—he spoke her name as if there was a heavy weight attached to it—‘I want a straight answer to a straight question. Why have you adopted this attitude towards me? You have shown me nothing but animosity from our first meeting.’

  He now watched a faint colour seep into her pale skin and his eyes rested on her lips as they pressed hard one against the other before she replied, ‘I…I don’t like your manner.’

  His face was screwed up, and he made a small movement with his head, then said slowly, ‘You mean to say you’ve taken this attitude towards me just because you don’t like my manner?’

  There was a moment of complete silence, during which he stared hard into her face before adding, ‘I don’t believe you. A lot of people don’t like my manner, especially females who have their own idea of how a doctor should look, talk and act, but I feel with you there is more in this than just dislike of my manner…And let me tell you something at this point, Miss Crawford. If you refuse my services you won’t be able to call on those of Doctor Pippin, for he is past travelling this journey, he’s a sick man himself. And what is more, you might find it difficult to persuade another medical man to come out here because, and you force me to say this, generally they won’t run up accounts with new patients, they like their fees on the spot.’

  Martha could hardly believe her ears; even the grocer and the coal merchant would never have been so tactless, so coarse. He was even worse than she had imagined at first. But then, he would want money, wouldn’t he? Like her father, he too would want money with which to supply his mistress.

  She was experiencing that choking feeling again. There was spittle on her lips now as she almost spluttered, ‘You shall have your fees, doctor. Oh yes, I shall see to it that you are paid immediately because I understand how badly you need money. Mistresses have to be well provided for, they take a lot of keeping up…’

  Her fingers were now over her lips, her hand looking as if it had an ague. She swayed slightly, looked from side to side for support, then felt her arms gripped and her body thrust down into a chair. And there she sat, her head back, her breath coming in deep gasps, staring up into his face now hanging above hers. She blinked twice as she watched it slowly recede; then her vision clearing, she saw that he was standing upright.

  She continued to stare at him in the eerie silence that picked up the sounds in the rest of the house, a door closing, footsteps on the stairs, a cough, then from outside a dog’s whimpering bark.

  As Harry kept his eyes fixed on hers he came to the conclusion that she was ill. That was the girl’s trouble, she was ill, mentally so. He wouldn’t be surprised if, like her aunt, she had…turns, as they called them. She was in her twenties, unmarried, likely sitting tight on the lid of her emotions and natural desires. The forbidden pleasures denied her, every man would become a target for supposed sin, so she had tacked a mistress on to him. He felt a deep pity rising in him for her, but it was immediately checked as she spoke.

  ‘She was my father’s mistress; he ruined himself through her. For years I understood he was visiting my great uncle in Newcastle and all the while it was her. He gave her my mother’s jewellery; we are on the verge of ruin, penury. I went to see my great uncle to ask for his help and what did I find…her, and…and you visiting her too.’

  Her voice had gradually risen and she was shouting now, like Dilly or Peg, and what was more she couldn’t stop herself. ‘Well! So now you know. Now you have the reason for my dislike and…and why out of decency you should not visit this house again…’

  It was his turn to gape.

  That’s where he had seen her, that morning on his way to Newcastle when she didn’t know how to purchase a ticket; it must have been her first train journey. He hadn’t known the name of Angela’s latest supporter, but it must have been Crawford. Good God! She had every right to be bitter against him…But Angela his mistress? Huh! He laughed ironically inside. He would as soon think of taking a boa constrictor to his bed, at least a boa constrictor would finish you off, it wouldn’t keep squeezing you till almost dry as Angela had done to three men to his knowledge, and that wasn’t counting this one’s father.

  As if in relief he now pulled a chair towards her, and sat down in front of her, and his knees were almost touching hers when, leaning forward, he said softly, ‘If your accusation had any truth in it I’d agree with you, you’d have every right to hate me, but Mrs Mear is not my mistress. In a way I wish she were, for then I could be rid of her. Unfortunately, she is my sister-in-law. I married her elder sister nine years ago. Mrs Mear…Angela was then barely fifteen. My wife died within a short time of our marriage and I was left with the responsibility of the girl, because the sisters were orphans. When I failed to support her in the style she expected, she took matters into her own hands and chose her own career, and one might say ironically that she has made a success of it, yet she never has enough for
her wants. I happened to be there that particular morning to warn her that if she used my name to purchase goods just once more I should put a notice in the papers disclaiming any responsibility.’

  He stopped talking but continued to look at her. Her body had slumped, her head hung slack against the back of the chair, her mouth was open, she made an attempt to speak, but swallowed deeply, then closed her mouth again.

  Shaking her head slowly now she murmured, ‘Oh, I’m…I’m very sorry, very sorry. Please forgive me. I…I don’t know what to say.’

  As her chin drooped towards her chest he rose to his feet, saying, ‘There’s nothing you need say, nor need you be sorry. As I see it now you were quite justified in your attitude. And I understand your feelings. Oh yes, yes’—he nodded at her—‘If I’d been in your place I think I’d have kicked you…or me, out of the door.’ He pursed his lips now. ‘But ladies are not supposed to do that, are they?’

  His lightness of tone, his little joke, did not cause her expression to alter, nor did she move from the chair, she only continued to stare at him, while she thought, Dear God! What a fool I have made of myself. He must have thought me mad. He did think me a little mad, I could see it in his eyes. And over the past half hour he must have been connecting me with Aunt Sophie. And who can blame him? Oh, I feel so…so …

  She made an effort and pulled herself upwards. She wanted to apologise again, she wanted to go on apologising, but she felt weak, tired, and rather ill.

  His voice came to her saying quietly, ‘I shall leave you some pills for your aunt. Give her one every twelve hours and she will sleep on and off for the next two or three days. This will give you some respite. You must get out into the air. Look’—he pointed—‘the sun is shining and although it’s still very cold a brisk walk will do you good. On my next visit I shall bring a tonic.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Well, I must be off.’

  He did not turn immediately from her but said quietly, ‘Don’t blame yourself, we all make mistakes. I once hated an aunt because she refused to have me for a holiday in the summer. It wasn’t that I missed seeing her but there was a stream with fish in it that ran by her cottage. I hated her all that summer. She died in the autumn from a disease of the liver and she left me twenty pounds.’