No Cure for Love (12 page)

Robert was glad to be finished. He hadn’t been sleeping at all well and he
still
had Caroline’s letter to finish.

He settled down to complete his notes and observations when the door bell jingled. Closing the ledger, he got up and walked back into the dispensary.

A slight woman in her middle to late forties with a work-worn face was standing there. Although her dress was old, the threadbare patches had been neatly darned by a skilled hand. Her face and hands were clean and under the tartan shawl that swathed her head, her thick grey hair was tied back in a neat knot. She looked familiar. She rushed over to him.

‘Please, sir,’ she said, stopping at a respectable distance.

Robert could hear her wheezing. He glanced at her ankles. They were swollen.

‘What is it, Mr ...?’ he said, studying her closely.

‘Mrs Shannahan, sir. Oh, it’s not me,’ she said, putting the flat of her hand on her chest as if to slow her breathing. ‘It’s my granddaughter. She’s sick in her throat like, and burning up with fever, so she is. We only live in Anthony Street. ‘’Tis but a short stroll from here.’

Robert scratched his chin thoughtfully. There had been a number of cases of typhus in the workhouse. That often started with a raw throat and burning temperature.

‘Anthony Street, you say?’ Robert took his coat from Thomas.

The woman nodded. ‘Number two, at the corner.’

‘I’m leaving for the hospital in ten minutes or so, I’ll call on my way.’

Fifteen minutes later Robert made his way along Chapman Street, then turned right into Anthony Street. The cobbled road and piles of rotting rubbish in the street didn’t distinguish it from any one of the other dirty streets in the parish, and he wondered in passing what conditions he would find in Mrs Shannahan’s house.

To his surprise, when he stopped in front of number two, he was confronted by a white scrubbed step and polished wooden knocker. Before he could make use of it Mrs Shannahan appeared at the door.

‘Thank you for coming,’ she said, as he squeezed past her into the small downstairs room.

The cottage, like the rest in the street, comprised one room downstairs and another above it, the access to which was via a flight of narrow stairs boxed in by a thin partition at one side of the room. He looked around. The furniture in the room, though poor, was well maintained. There were two armchairs with threadbare upholstery, but both had patchwork covers over them, giving the room a cheerful appearance, as did the glowing kitchen range. The floor, although made of beaten earth, was swept and a large rag rug covered the centre of it. A faint smell of meat emanated from the pot simmering on the back of the range, while cups sparkled on hooks from the mantelshelf above. There were faded pictures around the walls of what Robert guessed must be Irish country scenes.

‘If you please, Doctor, my granddaughter is this way,’ Mrs Shannahan said, leading him towards the stairs. Robert left the cosy living room and ascended the stairs after her.

He found the same degree of order and tidiness in the bedroom. There was a large bed in the middle of which lay a young girl of about twelve, covered with clean sheets and a large eiderdown. She clutched an old rag doll. Robert walked over the rag rug and gazed down at his patient.

‘I fetched the doctor to see you, Josie,’ the older woman said, resting an affectionate hand on her granddaughter’s forehead.

Josie swallowed visibly and winced. ‘It hurts, Gran,’ she said.

‘Aroon, aroon,
my angel,’ the older woman said, sitting down on the bed beside her. ‘Yer Mammy’ll be back soon, I’m sure.’

‘Who’s this then?’ Robert said, smiling widely at his young patient and pointing to the doll clutched to her.

‘It’s Waisy,’ Josie said, swallowing and grimacing as she did.

‘Waisey? I’ve never heard that name before. Is it Irish?’ Robert asked, laying his hands on her forehead lightly. It was hot but not dangerously so.

Josie looked up at him with bright green eyes and gave him a wide smile. ‘It’s not Irish. I just couldn’t say Daisy when I got her.’

Robert saw a smile hover around the young girl’s mouth and smiled down at her.

‘Now, Josie, let me look at your throat.’

Under the anxious eye of her grandmother, Robert looked down Josie’s throat and felt her pulse. Then he opened his bag and listened to her chest with his newly acquired stethoscope of polished cow’s horn and leather. He stood up.

‘I’m pleased to tell you, Mrs Shannahan, that your granddaughter has no more than the quinsy,’ Robert said, to the obvious relief of the older woman. ‘Call in tomorrow and I’ll get my assistant to mix you up a gargle and some Peruvian willow powder for her. Until then give her plenty to drink and keep her cool.’ He turned to the girl on the bed. ‘You’ll be up and around by the end of the week, Josie, or I’m not a Scotsman.’

‘Thank you, Doctor,’ she croaked, putting on a brave smile.

He followed Bridget down into the snug living room, thankful that the last patient he would see that day would make a speedy recovery.

‘Can I offer you a dish of tea before you go?’ Mr Shannahan asked, turning her motherly instincts on him.

A polite refusal sprang to Robert’s lips, but it stayed there. He was weary and, comfortable though his rooms at the hospital were, they were not a home. Although the room he now stood in was poor, it was a home, and a loving home at that. He dropped his bag onto the table and smiled at Bridget.

‘That would be most kind of you, Mrs Shannahan.’

As his hostess collected the cups and arranged them on the table Robert took the opportunity to look around the room more closely. His eyes fell on a stack of books on the mantelshelf. There was a Bible, a couple of almanacs, and three of four copies of the
Penny Magazine
amongst others. He reached up and took down a book. It was a much-mangled copy of
Pride and
Prejudice.
The cover was missing and there was a brown stain that ran though the first few pages, but after that the text was clear. He placed it back beside
Munster Village, Thaddeus of Warsaw and The Mysteries of Udolpho.

‘You enjoy reading, Mrs Shannahan,’ he said, holding up the slim volume and trying not to look surprised that she could read at all.

‘God bless you, Doctor, I can make out my name but no more. Those,’ she indicated the books on the shelf with her head as she poured the boiling water into the teapot, ‘are my daughter Ellie’s. It’s her that’s the reader. Like her father is my Ellie, clever like,’ Bridget glanced at the window. ‘I’m surprised she’s not back by now.’

She handed Robert the cup of tea. He sat down, weariness stealing over him as he sank back into the bright patchwork. ‘She only went out to deliver the done laundry. I wonder what could be keeping her.’

‘It’s just the three of you living here?’ he asked. She nodded. He noticed that the family food was not left out as in most poor homes he had visited. Even the milk that had been used to whiten his tea was taken from a covered jug. ‘You and your daughter take in washing then, Mrs Shannahan?’

‘Indeed, sir. We wash in the morning, iron and return in the afternoon and sew in the evening. Josie helps, as she goes to school twice a week to learn her letters. Ellie insists on it, she does.’

Robert’s eyebrows nearly disappeared under the rebellious hair on his forehead at this piece of news. It all came together. Mrs Shannahan and her educated daughter were obviously of respectable Irish stock who had fallen on hard times. The neat clean house, the washing that gave the family its income without asking for parish relief. Mrs Shannahan’s genteel Irish accent, and spending money on what most of the neighbourhood would be considered unnecessary - schooling - all pointed to that conclusion. He drained the last of the tea.

The front door opened.

‘Here’s Ellie now, Doctor,’ Bridget said.

Robert stood up and found himself face to face with Ellen O’Casey.

 

It was just twilight as Ellen crossed over from Katharine Street and saw the light already in the window of her home. Thank God she didn’t have to sing tonight and could spend the time with Josie. With a quick wave at the rat-catcher, with his day’s work dangling head down from his pole and his terrier at his heels, Ellen put her hand to the door and walked in.

Her breath fled her body and her head spun as she found herself staring into the equally astonished face of Robert Munroe. She looked to her mother then back to the doctor.

‘Josie,’ she shouted, dropping her basket. Its contents spilled on the floor as she fled to the stairs. Doctor Munroe caught her arm.

‘There is no need for alarm. Josie is quite well, Mrs O’Casey,’ he said, as she turned to him. His eyes were tired but as they rested on her they were warm and tender. She melted for a second, then she snatched her arm away and glared at him.

‘You know my Ellie?’ Bridget said to the doctor as she gathered up the shopping from off the floor.

‘I have had the pleasure of hearing her sing on several occasions in the Angel and Crown,’ he said, still looking at her with an unreadable expression on his face. Ellen strode over to the corner kitchen range and whipped open the ash grate underneath. Picking up a set of fire tongs from the hearth she fished around for a moment or two, then pulled out a battered tin box. Flipping the lid back carefully she reached in and retrieved something then closed the box and shoved it back into the ashes.

‘Sixpence is the usual fee for a physician’s time, is it not?’ Ellen said, thrusting a still hot coin at him.

‘That’s quite all right, Mrs O’Casey.’ Ellen thrust it at him again.

‘We may be poor but we don’t have to take charity yet, thank you,’ she said, daring him to refuse the payment again. He took it and slipped the coin into the breast pocket of his waistcoat.

She could barely spare the coin from her funds but Ellen wasn’t going to be indebted to Robert Munroe.

He looked around the room, a friendly, open smile crossing his face and crinkling the corners of his eyes. She reminded herself that he wasn’t to be trusted.

‘You have a cosy and welcoming home, Mrs O’Casey,’ he said. Ellen saw her mother simper at the compliment. ‘But I am surprised to find you live here.’

‘Surprised? Why so? Where did you think I lived, Brighton Pavilion?’ she snapped back tartly.

‘Ellen Marie,’ her mother said, in a voice that she hadn’t used with Ellen since she was a child.

‘I thought you lived with...’ He trailed off.

Her mother gave her a sharp look. ‘Doctor Munroe is as tired as a pony pulling slate. He has been good enough to come by to see Josie on his way back from the dispensary.’

Ellen could feel her mouth drop open. ‘You are the Chapman Street doctor?’ she said.

When she heard that a parish dispensary had opened in Chapman Street she didn’t think for one moment that Doctor Munroe was the new doctor.

‘I am,’ he answered, then a puzzled look crossed his face. ‘Didn’t Mr Donovan tell you?’

‘Mr Donovan? What has he got to do with this?’

‘In view of your relationship, I thought...’

Anger surged up in Ellen. ‘Relationship!’ Under her blistering gaze Doctor Munroe shifted uneasily. ‘Tell me, if you please, Doctor Munroe, what
relationship
would that be?’

He hooked his finger into his collar and stretched his neck. ‘Aren’t you his...?’

Realisation washed over her like a bucket of cold water. ‘How dare you assume that I am Danny Donovan’s mistress!’

‘I didn’t assume anything. He told me,’ he said glaring at her in turn.

Ellen drew herself up to her full five foot five. ‘What? He told you that I was his bit of slap?’

Shock registered on both Doctor Munroe’s and her mother’s face.

‘Mr Donovan did not use that express—’

Ellen jabbed her index finger at the doctor.

‘Don’t you give me
Mr
Donovan,’ she said through gritted teeth. ‘That scum Irishman, God rot him, with the breath of a sow and a belly to match, told you I was his mistress?’

‘Not in so many wor—’

Ellen drew in a breath and gave Robert a furious look. ‘And
you
, Doctor Munroe,
believed
him?’

‘Why should I not?’ he said.

‘Pardon me.
Why should you not?’ Her voice was razor-sharp with sarcasm. ‘I am, after all, just a supper-room singer, a woman who walks the boards for money, who puts herself up for men to gawp at and one of those who, everyone knows, are no better than common
whores.
’ She saw Robert Munroe wince and his mouth take on a hard line.

‘I did not say that,’ Robert said, coming towards her.

‘I’m sure that most of the fine society women of your acquaintance, Doctor Munroe, don’t take in washing and sing in public supper rooms as part of their daily social rounds.’ She took a step towards him, but this time he stood his ground. ‘But nor are they two steps away from the workhouse, are they?’

‘But he told me—’ he stopped.

‘He may have done the
telling
, but you, Doctor Munroe,’ she jabbed her finger at him again, ‘did the
believing
.’

Deep in Robert’s gaze Ellen saw rage, and something else, something most unsettling. The doctor’s mouth changed subtly as did his eyes. For one heady moment, she thought he was going to take hold of her. Then he pressed his shoulders back and tugged at the front of his waistcoat.

‘I’ll tell you this, Doctor Munroe,’ she spat. ‘Although God only knows, it is none of your business. There’s been only one man who has ever known me and he was my husband and he’s been in his grave these ten years. I never have been and never will be Danny Donovan’s mistress or any other man’s for that matter. So if that shit—’

‘Ellen!’ shouted Bridget.

Ellen’s eyes flickered to her mother. ‘Sorry, Mammy.’ She looked back at Robert Munroe giving him her coldest stare. ‘So if Danny Donovan tells you different, you can now put him right.’