Dangerous Decisions (10 page)

‘Dr Carstairs?' The voice was urgent, even peremptory, and Nicholas turned to see a staff nurse hurrying towards him. ‘Please could you spare a minute?'

‘Of course.' Nicholas swiftly followed the rustling figure, her starched cap slightly awry. ‘It's this young boy,' she explained. ‘He's been admitted as an emergency and is screaming blue murder. He refuses to let the duty doctor examine him. All he can say is that he wants to see Doc Carstairs. Honestly, as if these people can ask for any doctor they like … I don't like to bother you, but …'

‘I don't mind, Nurse Barton,' he turned his head to smile at her. ‘It's just lucky I'm here, I rarely am these days unless one of my patients is admitted.'

‘I know – we miss you. To be honest his mother looks as if she's ill herself. It's scandalous that such poverty should exist – but what do the Government do about it? Nothing!' She glanced over her shoulder at him. ‘I do miss those political debates we used to have when you were on the staff.' Nicholas recalled that she had been a staunch supporter of women's suffrage even to the point of active involvement in the movement. Now, even before they reached their destination, he could hear the boy howling. ‘Now then, my lad,' she said as they went in. ‘Here's Dr Carstairs come to see you.'

The small boy clinging to his mother's skirts turned a grimy face streaked with tears. Nicholas nodded at the red-faced young doctor in attendance then remembered when he had last seen them. It had been a breech birth in one of the hovels down near the docks. This boy had stood terrified in a corner, thinking his Ma was about to die. But fortunately – and Nicholas knew it was solely due to his care – the baby had been born alive and the woman had recovered. Although judging by her present appearance, it had been only to suffer even more hardship.

‘His name's Robbie,' Nurse Forbes said.

‘Hello, Robbie.' Nicholas bent down to him. ‘I remember you, do you remember me?'

The five-year-old child gave a sob and nodded.

‘So are you going to let me see where it hurts?' Nicholas lifted the boy and placed him on the bed. Talking slowly and gently, telling Robbie exactly what he was going to do, Nicholas examined his thin frame, compressing his lips at the sight of bruises and welts, and eliciting a scream when he pressed first in the centre of the abdomen and then on the right side. He turned to the mother. ‘Has he been sick?'

‘Yes, doctor.' Her voice was a whisper.

‘Now will you let the nurse take your temperature, Robbie? She'll put something underneath your tongue, but you mustn't bite it. Do you understand?' Minutes later, Nicholas said, ‘Acute appendicitis. He needs immediate surgery.' He bent down to the child and took his small hand in his own warm one. ‘Now look, Robbie, you know I'm a doctor and I take care of people, don't you? Well, there are other doctors here, just as clever as I am, and they'll be able to take the pain away. Will you be a good boy for them, to please me?'

The other doctor came forward. ‘Thank you, Dr Carstairs. He fought me like a whirling Dervish.'

‘Fear,' Nicholas said abruptly. ‘Did you notice the bruising?'

‘I'm afraid so.'

Nicholas turned round, his voice sharp. ‘Is it his father who beats him?'

Robbie's mother gazed at him with scared eyes. ‘He doesn't mean to, it's the drink. He's not a bad man …'

‘What about the baby? Does he harm it?'

She shook her head. ‘There's not a mark on 'er.'

Nicholas sighed and went outside the room with Dr Sangster. ‘I don't know what we can do. There's only one alternative – the workhouse – but would his life be any better there?'

Dr Sangster shrugged. ‘Who knows? We can't even be sure if he'll have a life, not until after the operation.'

Later, after he had satisfied himself as to the progress of his own patient, Nicholas was about to put on his warm overcoat and top hat ready to go home when Nurse Barton appeared outside the ward. ‘I'm glad I caught you,' she said. ‘I'm going to hear Sylvia Pankhurst and Annie Kenney speak tonight. I don't suppose you'd be willing to come, Dr Carstairs? I may be a feminist, but I'm not blind to the fact that every male presence adds weight to our cause.'

Nicholas gazed at her, admiring her courage in the way she stood up for her principles and made a sudden decision. ‘Of course I will. Just tell me where it's being held and when.'

Her face lit up as she told him. ‘I knew you would if it were possible.'

There were times, Nicholas thought as he put on his warm overcoat and top hat and left to go home, when he despaired of the human race. Not only were women living in a democracy deprived of their legal rights, but the excuse of drunkenness for ill-treating a defenceless young child or abusing women was one he often heard. Yet ministering to the poor and sick as he had these past two years, he often found patients protesting that their husbands or fathers were ‘good men when they weren't in drink'. Nicholas would never forget when a burly docker had lurched in from the local alehouse and, finding a doctor in attendance, had savagely thrown his tin plate of dinner across the room. The sight of an eight-year-old girl crouching to scoop the mess of potatoes and meat off the floor to cram into her hungry mouth had sickened him. Yet in all conscience he could not turn his back on these people; Nicholas hadn't taken the Hippocratic oath that ‘he would use treatments for the benefit of the ill' only to apply them exclusively to those with wealth. Although he was no saint; he was as ambitious as the next man, and well aware that he valued, even at times coveted, the finer things of life.

The meeting hall was large and chilly, sparsely furnished with rows of wooden chairs before a stage framed by limp, faded maroon curtains. On it stood a table behind which were three chairs. Two well-dressed women were arranging carafes of water and glasses and checking watches on their lapels. The centre chair was still empty, and Nicholas guessed they were still awaiting their distinguished guest. He glanced around for Nurse Barton then saw a gloved hand wave to him from the third row. The audience held a majority of women, many of whom were busy taking out hatpins in order to remove their large feather-bedecked hats so that those seated behind would be able to see the anticipated speaker.

‘I didn't recognise you out of uniform,' he whispered as he sat beside her.

‘Just look for the nose.'

He chuckled. ‘You don't change.'

‘I'm a born spinster, Dr Carstairs, but not, as we're accused of being, a sour one.'

He glanced around the room. ‘You seem to have very wealthy supporters.'

‘You tell me how a working class woman, especially if married with children, could find the time? That doesn't mean she doesn't want the vote.'

‘I take your point.'

The room was now crowded to full capacity, with people standing at the back, and then with a stir, Sylvia Pankhurst and Annie Kenney arrived, the latter a much younger woman than Nicholas had imagined. But her words were no less powerful, her delivery no less stirring. Afterwards, a few men at the back threw out derisory remarks, but the overall reaction was one of enthusiastic applause.

‘Did you notice that she had lost one of her fingers?' he said as they made their way out of the hall.

‘Yes, as a child she was a weaver in a cotton mill, and I heard it was an accident with a bobbin. Inspiring, isn't she?'

He agreed, and was thoughtful as he made his way home. The evening may have been unplanned but the experience had certainly been an interesting one.

It was a week later when Nicholas was visiting his patient in Cadogan Square, and saw the tall four-storey house where he had first seen Helena, that the memories came flooding back. He now found it difficult to believe that he had actually gone to wait outside St Margaret's Church on that cold January morning. And was infuriated to find that as he neared the house – even though he knew there was little chance of seeing Helena, whose husband would undoubtedly have his own residence in the capital – he found it impossible not to glance up at the casement window. And there
was
someone there, a small face pressed against the glass, her swollen jaw bound in a blue silk scarf, and he guessed she was suffering from mumps. The child looked so disconsolate that Nicholas smiled up at her and she gave a shy wave in return.

The house must be one of those on lease during the summer Season. It was in a way a salutary lesson, illustrating that life had moved on, and that, Nicholas thought grimly, was what he needed to do.

At Graylings, illness was also prevalent. Oliver, to his fury, had succumbed to a severe bout of influenza and his ill humour was affecting everyone around him.

The local doctor had emerged from Oliver's bedroom with a flushed face and tight lips, but Nurse Bowers, despite her youthful appearance, had a backbone of steel and remained with her patient. ‘We don't want any bad temper, now do we,' she said, briskly undoing the buttons on his pyjama jacket.

‘You are far too familiar, Nurse.'

She ignored him as she scooped out goose fat and camphor and spread it over his chest. ‘I'm only doing my duty.'

‘And I can easily dismiss you.'

‘Now that wouldn't be very sensible, would it? Sit up now, Mr Faraday, and let me plump your pillows.'

Oliver felt her support his aching and sweating head and felt too weak to argue. At least he had issued instructions that Helena was not to enter the room. For all he knew she could already be pregnant and there must be no risk of infection or risk of a miscarriage …

Having to rely on regular updates from Nurse Bowers during the next three weeks, Helena felt a useless onlooker, her only distraction the music lessons, her only outside company that of the music tutor.

James Longford's visits to Graylings were frequent ones. ‘I'm so appreciative of your tuition,' she said to him one day. ‘I already feel more confident when I play.'

‘Believe me, the pleasure is all mine, Mrs Faraday.'

Helena wondered if she would ever become used to such formality. Her instinct was to say, ‘Please, you must call me Helena,' but she knew that Oliver would think she was being too familiar.

She smiled at him, liking the relaxed way he sat on one of the gold velvet chairs, one long leg draped over the other. ‘You never tell me anything of your personal life. Are you married, for instance?'

He laughed. ‘And who would marry me.'

‘I'm sure there would be several young ladies.'

‘It's kind of you to say so.'

‘I shall of course see you again on Friday?'

‘At the usual time, yes.'

Helena smiled at him and left, leaving him to tidy away his music.

On Friday morning, Nurse Bowers came to say goodbye and to say that Mr Faraday was now well enough to resume normal life. Helena was relieved. Surely that would mean that Oliver would soon make plans for their honeymoon. She was becoming desperate for distraction, to shake off the ennui that seemed to be with her these days. Later, when James Longford arrived for their lesson, she thought with some mystification that he seemed different, almost like a coiled spring.

‘That was excellent,' he said after she finished playing a sonata. ‘As I have said before, Mrs Faraday, you have an exceptional ear. And how I envy you to be able to indulge it in this beautiful music room … I've always longed for a Steinway.' He glanced at the grand piano. ‘I make do with an upright one that belonged to my father. Although it does have a mellow tone, and of course I keep it regularly tuned.'

‘Did you never wish to play professionally?'

‘I had dreams, yes, but I am afraid that in this world one needs patronage to succeed, even to achieve one's potential. You have been kind enough to say when I have played for you that I have talent, a gift even. But I have to eat, so that is why I …'

‘Have to teach idle women such as myself.' Helena turned to him only for her sympathetic smile to falter as within seconds he was crouching before her, taking her hands and cradling them in his own. ‘Mrs Faraday … my lovely Helena … you must know that I'm madly in love with you …'

‘Mr Longford!' Appalled, she began to struggle to free her hands. At that same moment, the door opened, and on hearing Helena's horrified gasp the tutor turned to see Oliver's glowering face. Crimson-faced, the tutor scrambled to his feet.

Oliver's voice was like a whip. ‘Good morning, Helena. Perhaps you would do me the courtesy of an introduction to this young man.'

She felt sick and struggled to keep her voice even. ‘Oliver, this is my music tutor, Mr Longford.'

‘And I am Mr Faraday, you impudent fellow. Get out! If you ever set foot on my land again I'll have you horsewhipped.'

With bowed shoulders, the tutor grabbed his music case and, after a despairing glance at Helena, hurried out.

Oliver walked across to examine the chaise longue at one side of the room.

Helena was aghast. ‘What you saw was not how it appeared!'

He turned. ‘Then pray what was it, Helena?'

She flung out her hands. ‘The man just suddenly declared that he was in love with me … I was as shocked and surprised as you.'

‘Yet you allowed him to hold your hands, to crouch before you in that ridiculous manner?'

‘He gave me no choice!' She backed away as Oliver came towards her. ‘For heaven's sake, you can't think that I gave him any encouragement?'

‘Didn't you? You are a beautiful woman, Helena. Did you never think that your familiarity of manner, of which I've had cause to chide you, might give the wrong impression?' He seized her wrist so roughly that Helena flinched. ‘You're not a young and silly girl any more, you're my wife, the mistress of Graylings, and I'll thank you to uphold that position. Do you hear me?'