The Bad Penny (3 page)

Mrs Blake looked as if she were about to dissolve into tears once more. ‘It’s broke,’ she whispered. ‘That’s what Alf’s doin’, tryin’ to get some part for it. The handle come off when he were shovin’ a big sheet betwixt the rollers – he’d folded it wrong – and I’m a poor hand at wringing out, which is why everything’s so wet.’

‘Oh, I see,’ Patty said, rather blankly. It was usually the man’s fault when something went wrong, or at least that was Patty’s opinion, but in this case she could scarcely blame Alf Blake for the disintegration of the mangle, since he had been doing his poor masculine best to assist his wife at the time. ‘But look, Mrs Blake, it isn’t going to help either your husband or the children if you become really ill. The doctor will have to send you to hospital and then where would they be?’

‘I dunno,’ Mrs Blake whispered, tears welling up in her eyes once more and trickling down her pale cheeks. ‘I does me best, but it all gets too much for me, honest to God it does, Nurse. The kids is too young to help and me neighbours can’t do me work for me, though they’re mortal good over messages and keepin’ an eye on the little ’uns. Dolly O’Hara is doin’ me bakin’ and Mabel next door has said she’ll iron these sheets when I’ve gorrem dry. They’s awful good but I still feel so … so …’

Patty knew all about the helpless misery and depression which follows losing a child, though privately she thought that most of the women would be a good deal better off with fewer kids and could not truly understand the agony of loss from which they suffered. But she did know that the feeling existed and could be alleviated in one way at least. Accordingly, she unbuttoned her coat and produced the baby, holding it out to Mrs Blake. ‘There’s easier ways to earn money when you’ve just lost a little one of your own,’ she said gently. ‘The mother of this little ’un died giving birth and I’m looking for someone to act as wet nurse until young Merrell here can be weaned. They’ll pay sixpence a day, and of course, anything extra you need …’

Mrs Blake’s whole face lit up and she held out her arms with a sort of desperate hunger which made Patty glad she had never been a mother. In Mrs Blake’s place, she found herself thinking, I wouldn’t have wanted anything to remind me of the baby I’d lost. But it’s different for me – I wouldn’t have wanted the baby I’d lost either. She handed the child, still wrapped in its scrap of blanket, to the other woman and watched as the infant snuggled against her. ‘Does this mean you’re willing to take the job on?’ she asked, as Mrs Blake pulled up her stained jumper and put the baby to her breast. ‘If so, I’ll pay you a week in advance and perhaps you’ll oblige me by not slaving at laundry work until you’re a good deal stronger than you are now.’

‘The job? Oh aye, you mean will I have her,’ Mrs Blake said dreamily, gazing down at the baby’s mossy head as though it was the most beautiful thing in the world. ‘I reckon wi’ three an’ six a week to help out, I won’t need to go launderin’ other folks’ sheets for a while yet.’ She glanced, half shyly, into Patty’s face. ‘Thanks, Nurse, I’m real grateful, but wharrif the feller comes and takes the baby off me? Fellers can be real awkward. He might gerranother woman or decide to have a go at bottle feeding. Will you tell ’im where the little ‘un’s been placed?’

Patty gave a short laugh. ‘He’s got eleven kids already, seven of ’em still at home. He’s a docker so he’s lucky if he works two days out of the seven. He doesn’t want the little ‘un. She’ll go into an orphan asylum once she’s weaned, or that’s his idea at any rate. For myself, I’d sooner see her adopted by a decent family who can afford to take care of a little girl. Some of the orphanages … well, I’ve heard there’s precious little care handed out.’

‘That’s true,’ Mrs Blake said eagerly. ‘But she’ll do grand wi’ me, Nurse, honest to God she will. I’ll treat her like me own and Alf will be that glad of the money, he’ll agree to anything. Merrell, did you say her name was? That’s a rare pretty name.’

‘That’s right, she’s called Merrell,’ Patty confirmed, getting to her feet. ‘You had clean rags and bits of stuff for your own baby which will do this one, won’t they? I remember your Alf made a wooden cradle when young Amy was born; do you still have it?’

‘Aye. No one don’t throw baby stuff away until they’s a lot older than me,’ Mrs Blake said absently. She smiled down at the baby in her arms, then up at Patty. ‘You’ll be poppin’ in from time to time, I take it, Nurse? You’ll be able to see for yourself I’m doin’ right by her.’

Patty began to count out three and sixpence upon the wooden draining board, then added three round brown pennies to the sum. ‘A penny each for the kids for some sweets and tell ’em not to spend it all in the same shop,’ she said grandly. She had heard the expression from others handing out largesse but had never used it herself before. ‘Yes, of course I’ll be visiting regularly, Mrs Blake, but I know you’ll take good care of the baby; that’s why I chose to bring her here. You’re a very good mother – Merrell’s a lucky little girl.’

Patty continued with her visits, finally wending her way back to her lodgings at ten o’clock at night. She was not as tired as she might have been since her long sleepin that day had considerably refreshed her, but as she entered the shared kitchen, got out her loaf and began to make herself some toast she was aware of some rather strange, conflicting emotions. She had experienced considerable relief upon leaving the Blakes’ house; she felt she had shed her responsibility for the tiny baby without a stain on her conscience. Now she could take her time in finding just the right place for little Merrell. Yet simultaneously with this feeling came another. She was actually missing the warm little bundle tucked inside her coat and found herself far more interested than usual in the mothers and babies as she did her rounds. She began to compare the infants with little Merrell, always to their detriment, and she realised, with considerable surprise, that she thought ‘her’ baby was by far the prettiest.

To be sure, there was not a great deal of competition. Many of the babies she delivered were far from perfect. Often after a ninth or tenth child the mother would be weary and worn out at forty and the new baby was already destined to suffer from a thousand ailments – rickets, skin disorders and lung disease being just some of them.

But Gladys Mullins must have been at least forty and was clearly undernourished, Patty found herself thinking as she held a slice of bread nearer the fire. Her other children are skinny and ill looking, yet Merrell is pretty and looks healthy too. I admit she’s small – she weighed less than five pounds at birth – but her skin’s clear and in all the time I had her she never cried once. Most babies I deliver cry a good deal, poor little brats.

So absorbing were her thoughts that Patty only realised the round was done when a thin thread of blue smoke arose from it. Shaking her head at her own preoccupation, she got margarine out of the pantry and spread it on the toast, then devoured it hungrily. She had not eaten all day and Patty was fond of her food. Indeed, it was one of the reasons why she had elected to live outside the hospital, because hospital food was boring, badly cooked and seldom sufficient to satisfy the appetites of hungry and hardworking young girls.

Patty impaled another slice of bread on the toasting fork. She had worked her way through almost half the loaf before she felt even partly satisfied and had drunk a great deal of tea, mixed with the best part of a tin of condensed milk. The loaf was hers but the tea and the conny-onny were not and Patty knew that old Ma Bogget would be bound to guess who had taken them. But I think I’m entitled since I missed supper, Patty told herself rebelliously, replacing the remainder of the loaf in the bread bin and rinsing the teapot so that the tea leaves swirled down the sink. She checked that the kitchen was tidy, with no signs of her recent feast, closed the front of the stove and damped it down. The girls all had a key to the back door, for nurses doing shift work often come home at peculiar hours, but Patty checked that the door was locked before making her way up to her room.

Higgins was already in bed and judging from the bubbling snores emanating from her had been asleep for some time. Patty checked her fob watch; it was almost midnight and she was suddenly aware how tired she was. She undressed quickly as she always did, folding her garments neatly and checking that her bag was provided with everything she might need should she get an unexpected call-out. Only when she was satisfied that all was as it should be did she climb into bed and snuggle down. She expected to fall asleep immediately but instead she was aware of a funny little sense of loss. Puzzling over it, she realised with true astonishment that she was missing the baby, missing the soft warmth of it of course, but also missing the delightful sense of responsibility of which she had been conscious when the child had snuggled into her arms.

I must be going mad, Patty told herself. If I needed companionship I could get a kitten or a puppy. They would be far less trouble than young Merrell and just as good a friend, I’m sure. Anyway, I’m not going to let myself wallow in sentimentality, because that’s what it would be. I don’t want to see the kid stuck in an orphan asylum, or farmed out to someone who doesn’t care for her. But I don’t want her hanging round my neck and dragging me down either. I’ll get her adopted the way I planned and never think of her again; it’ll be best for her and for me too.

On that thought she fell asleep and if she dreamed of puppies with babies’ faces, and kittens whose nappies needed changing, they were only dreams.

Patty stood on the balcony of the Ashfield Place landing houses, looking down on the quiet cul-de-sac below and feeling a thrill of proprietorial pride as she did so. She had agreed to rent No. 24, which was the last house on the top landing and was ideal, she decided. The road was quiet with no through traffic, and because landing houses had modern amenities they were much sought after, so she knew she had been very lucky to be offered this one. She also knew whom she had to thank for her good fortune. It had been her friend and mentor, Mrs Ruskin, who had given her the name of the landlord and told her that a property was about to become vacant in the landing house.

It had been January when Mrs Bogget had given Patty notice to leave, but it was actually March before she found the sort of accommodation she had been seeking. To be sure, she had had to leave Great Homer Street barely five days after Merrell’s birth, and had moved into another lodging house where even more girls were crammed into the small space available. Higgins, of course, had returned to the hospital as she had planned, far happier to be amongst her own kind in the nurses’ home even though it meant constant interference and criticism from more senior nurses, and even those doctors who deigned to notice her existence.

Patty had chosen midwifery as a career chiefly because it gave her the independence she had craved for so long. Moving into the hospital as a probationer after her years in the orphan asylum had merely been changing one sort of slavery for another. Probationers were considered the very lowest form of life in the hospital hierarchy. They were condemned to doing all the really dirty and unpleasant jobs, to working the most unsociable hours, to eating whatever food was plonked before them and to being constantly bullied and harassed by anyone who had worked at the hospital longer than they.

Patty’s brains and determination had quickly singled her out from the crowd, but that did not make her either popular or particularly well regarded. Her fellow nurses frequently referred to her as ‘Peel, that nasty little swot’ and Patty, who had grown used to abuse at the orphanage, had had to grow an even thicker skin as a consequence.

When she had qualified, she had known at once where her future must lie, for her happiest days in the hospital had, in fact, been spent out of it, when she was doing her ‘midder’ training. For six whole months she had ‘lived out’ with Mrs Ruskin, an experienced midwife, and had revelled in her first real taste of freedom. At the orphanage, she and the other girls, once they were old enough, had done most of the housework, which included preparing vegetables, washing up piles of dishes and scrubbing the vast flagstones on the kitchen floor. Cooking on such a large scale had been beyond them, however, so when Patty had moved in with Mrs Ruskin she had been unable to boil so much as an egg. Under her mentor’s guidance this had soon changed, Mrs Ruskin informing her grimly that she had always believed in sharing work equally. She had taught Patty to boil, bake and fry, to make bread, cakes and pastry, to cook a blind scouse when money was short and to whip up a light omelette when eggs were the only thing available.

Alongside this domesticity came an excellent grounding in midwifery itself. Mrs Ruskin, despite her title, was a single woman and had as little time for men as had Patty herself. ‘They has their fun with some foolish young gal and leaves us to set all to rights nine months later,’ she told Patty severely. ‘Most of ’em drinks their wages away and expects their woman to gerrup from childbed and cook ’em a good meal. What’s more, they think she ought to work outside of a house, no matter how many brats they wish on her. Oh aye, when you’ve been a midwife as long as I have, you won’t think much to men, queen.’

Mrs Ruskin’s area had been a very poor one, with mothers frequently unable to provide any sort of clothing for their babies, let alone equipment. Patty grew accustomed to bathing new infants in old toffee tins, to sterilising her instruments by baking them in the bread oven or dipping them briefly in a kettle of boiling water and to wrapping her new babies in any bit of rag available. Mrs Ruskin taught her to respect the women who had so little in the way of material possessions and from whom so much was expected. The midwife herself loved both the women and children in her charge but this was something Patty was unable to emulate. Instinctively she had sensed that involvement was dangerous for one who wanted independence and self-sufficiency, but even so she had begun to admire the women in her charge and had been genuinely fond of Mrs Ruskin. The midwife had retired officially some two years earlier, but Patty often visited her and usually found her busily making baby clothes out of odd scraps of material begged from neighbours or from the stallholders on Paddy’s market, or knitting bootees and matinee jackets to keep some fortunate child warm.

As soon as Patty had told her about Merrell, Mrs Ruskin had begun to work on some nightgowns for the child. Patty had handed them over to Mrs Blake and felt a thrill of pride the first time she saw Merrell appropriately dressed. The baby was progressing satisfactorily, putting on weight, seldom crying and smiling at anyone whose face swam into focus before her blue eyes. Patty was far too busy looking for lodgings and keeping up with her job to spare the time to take Merrell round to see her friend, but she determined that as soon as the lighter evenings came she would do so. She reminded herself that she meant to have the baby adopted, that there was no point in introducing her to Mrs Ruskin, but somehow she had done nothing about finding prospective parents for the child. It was another task for the morrow.

She had gone round to visit Mrs Ruskin one evening and admitted to her friend that she had had no luck in her search for a small house or even a few rooms to let. ‘The nice places are too expensive and the cheaper places aren’t really what I want,’ she explained. ‘I need a bit of quiet, Mrs Ruskin, as you well know. When you’re working mostly nights, you don’t want to get yourself into an area where there’s a lot of noise during the day. I remember all too well what it was like living on Great Homer Street; the traffic never stopped and what with vendors shouting their wares and passers-by simply shouting, I seldom managed to drop off. Not getting your sleep is really bad because when you start work again, your concentration goes.’

‘And that’s no good in our line of work,’ Mrs Ruskin had said placidly. ‘Tell you what, queen, have you ever thought of trying a landing house? I happen to know there’s one coming vacant shortly in Ashfield Place, behind Ashfield Street, and it ain’t likely to be popular with old folk because it’s on the top landing, right at the far end. It’ll be quiet, too, because no one will have to pass your door to reach their own, if you understand me. What’s more, the rents are that little bit higher, which means them with a dozen kids aren’t likely to be able to afford it. What do you say?’

Patty had been cautiously enthusiastic. She had visited the landing houses several times and had been much struck by the compact and modern homes. Since Ashfield Place was right in the middle of her area it would be extremely handy for work, and she knew that landlords regarded midwives as good tenants because of their regular salary and high standing with the locals. Although such a house would cost a little more, she told herself that she would manage somehow, and was delighted when she went to see the landlord to hear that, in order to have a nurse on his premises, he was willing to reduce her rent. ‘Don’t tell anyone else though, Nurse,’ he had said, grinning at her, ‘or they’ll all be expecting a reduction. But it’s worth a lower rent to me to have a real, professional nurse in our lane. Gives folk a sense of security, like.’

So now here she was, standing on the balcony outside her very own home and wondering when she would be able to move in. She would need a bed, a chair, a table and some curtains. A washing-up bowl would be useful but not essential; her little house had running water and, to her great surprise, electricity – or electric light at any rate. There was a big living kitchen, and three other reasonably sized rooms which she could use as she wished. To Patty, still sharing one small room with three other girls, it seemed like a palace. She actually considered whether she should get someone to share it with her, which would reduce the rent even further, then decided against it. If money grew tight as the weeks passed, then she might consider sharing again, but for now, at least, she would enjoy her independence and revel in her solitude.

The clatter of feet as someone climbed the metal steps below her brought Patty’s thoughts abruptly back to the present. She glanced down at her fob watch; if she was to see Merrell before returning to her lodgings for supper, she had better get a move on. She decided she would go to Paddy’s market as soon as she was able, and buy a mattress and one of the old iron bedsteads which she had seen stashed up behind one of the stalls. Then she would be able to move in. If she furnished her house bit by bit, whenever she could afford an item, it would soon be a proper home.

She was halfway along the landing when a young woman came bounding up the last flight of stairs towards her. She had untidy brown hair and was dressed in a shabby grey flannel coat and a pair of black boots. She was pulling off a bright blue headscarf as she approached and grinned amiably at Patty, showing a set of excellent teeth. ‘Mornin’, queen,’ she said cheerfully. ‘Was you after me? I bin to the clinic on Brougham Terrace, only just got back. Or was it Mrs Knight or Mrs Clitheroe you was after?’

Patty gave the young woman her most professional up and down glance, the look that could reduce an angry and difficult patient to mumbling acquiescence. ‘I haven’t come to visit anyone,’ she said severely. ‘Good afternoon.’

She went to pass the girl, who put a detaining hand on her arm. ‘I’m Mrs Clarke,’ she said eagerly. ‘You’re a nurse, ain’t you? Are you sure you’re not coming to visit me?’

Patty, wearing her uniform, was used to being accosted as she went around the streets in her area and guessed immediately that this young woman was a new mother-to-be and was expecting a visit from someone like herself. That would account for her visit to Brougham Terrace and for the air of eagerness with which she had approached Patty. She allowed herself to be detained, therefore, merely sighing before saying briskly: ‘I’m Nurse Peel and this is my district, but I don’t believe I’ve been given your name yet. No doubt, however, I shall be seeing you quite soon.’

She tried to detach the young woman’s hand from her sleeve but Mrs Clarke said impetuously: ‘Aw, c’mon! I’ll put the kettle on and make us both a cuppa, then you can tell me wharrever I need to know. Save yourself a journey, see?’

‘Mrs Clarke, I’ve a great deal to do …’ Patty was beginning, but the other woman tugged at her arm, smiling blindingly up into her face.

‘It won’t take five minutes to boil a kettle ’cos I keeps the fire lit all day in this cold weather,’ she said coaxingly. ‘Be a sport, Nurse!’

Patty hesitated, but only for a moment. She knew it would not be sensible to make an enemy of a patient, and a patient, moreover, who was living on the same landing as herself, but she could not miss her visit to Merrell. The child was eight weeks old and beginning to respond in a way which delighted Patty. Besides, if she let this woman persuade her once, you never knew where it might end. Accordingly, she pulled herself free from Mrs Clarke’s clasp and set off down the stairs, saying over her shoulder: ‘I have a great many patients to see, Mrs Clarke, and cannot favour one above another; I shall doubtless be seeing you shortly. Good afternoon.’

Making her way briskly along Ashfield Place, she thought, a trifle ruefully, that it was a pity she had not gone in for that cup of tea, but decided she had done the right thing. She had no wish for a neighbour who was always popping in for free advice or a cup of sugar, and she thought that Mrs Clarke was very likely to be the chatty sort who lay in wait for any passers-by who might want to share a bit of gossip. Patty had always held aloof from neighbours and had made no friends amongst her nursing colleagues (apart from Mrs Ruskin, of course) and this had suited her very well. To be sure, she had always lived in poor neighbourhoods where the other women had clearly considered her to be very different from themselves and had not attempted to draw her into their circle. She decided, as she left Ashfield Place behind her, that she must make it plain to her new neighbours that she preferred her own company to other people’s. If it was necessary, that was. People generally found her attitude so off-putting that they did not attempt to get to know her.

Now, walking along Limekiln Lane, she reached Wright Street and was about to turn down it when, out of the corner of her eye, she saw that Mr Glenny’s shop was empty and, on impulse, went inside. After two minutes she came out again, carrying a bag of broken biscuits, a screw of tea and a tin of condensed milk. She had grown quite fond of Mrs Blake and thought that a small present for the other woman would be rather nice. After all, she had drunk a good few cups of tea in the Blakes’ kitchen, sitting with little Merrell tucked into the crook of her arm. This would show Mrs Blake that she was not ungrateful.

Patty clicked along the pavement and turned down the jigger which led to the back of the Blakes’ small house, crossed the courtyard and, after the briefest of knocks on the back door, entered the kitchen. The children were playing with an empty cardboard box, Horace towing the youngest child, Annie, around the floor by a piece of rope tied around the box, whilst Amy pranced behind shouting: ‘Make way for St George!’ in shrill tones.

Mrs Blake was sitting in the chair nearest the fire, with the baby on her lap. She appeared to be endeavouring to spoon some sort of food into Merrell’s mouth and Patty stopped short. ‘Mrs Blake! Whatever are you doing?’