Miss Clare Remembers and Emily Davis (49 page)

She could have added that her own husband's attitude was much the same as Ethel's, but loyalty kept her silent.

'We might be able to get the old lady into a home, you know.'

'She'd never hear of it. And I wouldn't want to send her away, despite all the work. It's the washing and drying that gets me down. I have to wash bedding and nightgowns every day—sometimes twice a day. It's far worse than having a baby to look after. Still, it's got to be done. I wouldn't have her moved. She's my mother, after all.'

'Do the young ones help?'

Elaine Burton gave a hard laugh.

'They take the tray up now and again, and switch on the radio for her, but that's about the lot. They nag me to send her away, and she nags me to keep them quiet, and tells me I've not brought them up respectful. You know how it is.'

Doctor Martin nodded sympathetically. He knew indeed.

He felt sorry for them all—the unhappy, cross old lady, confined to her bed; the exuberant young people criticised at every turn, the husband condemned to watch his wife's health slowly seeping away and, chiefly, Elaine Burton torn this way and that, by the demands of all, and fast becoming too tired to carry the heavy burden of the combined duties of daughter, wife and mother.

'You should get away with your husband for a holiday,' he told her seriously. 'If your brother won't have your mother, I can arrange for her to go into hospital for a fortnight. Now, talk it over. I know it won't be easy, but it's no good knocking yourself up. Where will the family be, if you have to give up?'

The woman was visibly moved and gave him a shaky smile, as she held out her hand for the prescription.

'I'll think about it, but I can't see it coming off,' she said honestly.

Doctor Martin showed her to the door.

'I'll drop in and see the old lady one day soon,' he promised. 'Meanwhile, take those tablets, and some good food.'

He watched her go sadly, then returned for his bag. Off to see two of his patients in Caxley Cottage Hospital, and then he must set about his rounds, he told himself.

He locked his desk, and the drugs cupboard, and went thoughtfully to his car.

C
AXLEY
Cottage Hospital was a small building erected in the twenties, and opened by the Mayor of the day with considerable civic pomp.

It served the area well, but now there were rumours of its closure, much to the indignation of the local people. As they pointed out to each other, by the time you had been dragged all the way to the county hospital, twenty miles distant, and waited in the queues of traffic which had to be encountered on the way, you would probably be dead on admission.

'And who wants to go all that distance to visit relatives?' they demanded. 'And who can afford the fares there, anyway? A dam' silly idea shutting the Cottage. Hope it never happens.'

Doctor Martin agreed with them. He could quite see that a more modern operating theatre was necessary, and that the place was uneconomic to run, but there was still plenty of minor surgery and certain illnesses which could be dealt with in this little place, thus relieving pressure on the larger hospitals at the neighbouring towns.

His first patient was in high spirits when he went to see her in the children's ward. Mary Wood was seven years old, and had had her tonsils removed.

'Mummy's fetching me tomorrow,' she told him triumphantly. 'And I'm going to be home for tea. And I'm going to have a puppy.'

'What? For tea?'

The child smiled indulgently at this little joke, revealing a gap where her two front milk teeth had vanished.

'I'm not a
cannibal,
' she answered, bringing out this new, half-understood word with considerable pride.

The remark amused Doctor Martin for the rest of the day.

His other hospital patient was less cheerful. Old George Smith was recovering from acute bronchitis, and was fearful of what the future might hold.

'My old woman ain't up to nursing me, sir, and we can't abear the idea of living with our Nell, good girl though she be. They've got them two strapping boys, hollering about all day, and playing that electric guitar all night fit to blow yer 'ead off. Us old folks couldn't stand it, and they don't want us anyway.'

'Would she be able to look in to your home and give a hand? The district nurse could call each morning. We'll fix up something, never fear.'

'We likes to be independent,' said the old man obstinately. 'And anyway, our Nell goes out cleaning every morning; she's got enough to do. No, let's face it, doctor, you keeps us old folks alive too long these days—and we're not wanted. Time was, this bronchitis of mine would've carried me off. Now I'm still 'ere, and a nuisance to everybody.'

Tears of self-pity rose to his eyes.

'Rubbish!' said Doctor Martin robustly, patting the wrinkled hand on the coverlet. 'You're just a little low in spirits. Wait till you're home again! You'll be as fit as ever.

'If there's one thing I 'ates,' continued the old man, 'it's the work-house. I knows things is better now, but I can recall the time when 'usbands and wives were parted at the gate, and
sometimes never saw each other no more. 'Twas a terrible thing that—to be treated worse than animals.'

'Things like that don't happen now,' the doctor assured him, but the old man rambled on, unconscious of interruptions.

'Seems to me the young people ain't got no respect for their parents today. They do say that in China the old folks are looked up to because they're reckoned to be the wisest of the family. Don't see much o' that in these parts. It's time I was dead, doctor, and that's the truth of it.'

Doctor Martin did his best to speak comfortingly to the old man, but it was clear that he was sunk too deeply in his own miseries and fears to heed much that was said.

Doctor Martin returned to his car and drove carefully through Caxley High Street. It was with a sigh of relief that he turned the nose of the car northwest, and regained the leafy lanes leading to Beech Green, Springbourne and Fairacre.

'Thank God,' he said aloud, 'my practice is in the country.'

He pulled off the road, as he so often did, on the brow of a hill. Here there was a fine view of the countryside, backed by the splendid whaleback of the downs.

The doctor wound down the window and breathed in the fresh air, tugging a pipe from his pocket as he did so.

He filled it, meditating upon his morning's work, and the people with whom it had brought him in contact.

What problems people had! If one believed all one read in newspapers and magazines, or saw at the theatre or on the ubiquitous "Box", the only problem besetting people these days was sex. Good grief, thought the doctor impatiently, that was a pretty minor problem, taking all ages of men and women into account! He'd put the problems of health, family and money, as being quite as important as sex—certainly from the age of forty-odd onward, which included a goodly proportion of the nation, after all.

His mind dwelt on poor old George Smith's worries. Here was the age-old difficulty of keeping the older generation happy and cared-for. Something had gone amiss with the pattern of family life today, making this problem even greater than it had been in earlier generations.

Yes, George had a point about being kept alive too long—but a doctor's first duty was to his patient, and he must do his best to prolong life. Nevertheless, it created problems for all.

He looked back upon his own memories. His grandmother had lived in a tall town house, four storeys high, and two unmarried daughters and an unmarried son lived with her. She had borne twelve children and eight had survived. The house always seemed full of nieces and nephews, of all ages, coming and going, bearing little presents, chattering about their families, showing Grandma their new babies, or pirouetting before the old matriarch as they displayed the latest fashions. There was a lot said against those large Victorian families, but at least there was a feeling of belonging—and even if there were battles now and again, a common enemy had only to appear to weld the clan into solid unity.

And then, there was always someone with time to spare. His maiden aunts seemed to be able to drop whatever they were doing to play shops with him. When Grandma's sight began to fail, one or other read out the items of news from the daily paper with real kindliness, it seemed to the child. No one seemed cross, or in a hurry, or resented serving the old lady, although no doubt there were times when they found her as
tiresome as George Smith's grandchildren and poor Elaine Burton found their ancient relatives.

Of course, the burden had always fallen hardest on the unmarried daughters, and still did, for that matter. And then, so much depended on the old people's attitude to life. If they could keep busy, and avoid self-pity, it was half the battle against depression.

His grandmother, he remembered, always made herself responsible for the midday meal. She spent the morning preparing it, and the rest of the day planning for the next day's menu. She did little else in the house, but this one important chore eased the strain for everyone and, above all, gave her the inestimable reward of knowing she was useful.

He took out a match, struck it, and drew his pipe into life. Through the blue clouds, he gazed at the view spread out below him. The spire of Beech Green church pierced the surrounding trees, and his thoughts turned to his last visit there, when Emily Davis had been buried.

Now, there was a family which had managed its life well, he mused! When he first met them all, most of Mrs Davis's family were out in the world, and Emily went out to her teaching at Springbourne each day, but returned at night.

Every Sunday there seemed to be a family reunion. Sons and daughters from Caxley brought over their children for Sunday tea, and news was exchanged. They were a lively collection, Doctor Martin recalled, and there was plenty of laughter in the tiny cottage.

Perhaps that was the secret of happy family life—or one of the secrets. Nowadays people didn't seem to have time to laugh. All too busy rushing from place to place, like scalded cats, mused the old doctor, stirring the tobacco in his pipe bowl with a match-stick.

The Davises travelled very little. Poverty had its rewards sometimes. If one had to remain in the same place, then one made one's pleasures there. Certainly the Davis family created their own delights. They gardened, and saw the results of their labours in the fine string of onions hanging in the shed, the sack of home-grown potatoes, the jams and jellies ranged upon the kitchen shelf. They knitted and they sewed. Doctor Martin remembered the beautiful dolls' clothes which Mrs Davis made each Christmas for her granddaughters' presents. He had admired tucks and feather-stitching on the minute petticoats—work which no modern parent would bother to do—but which would be prized by the owner of the lucky doll, and give pleasure too to the needlewoman.

The little cottage overflowed with the results of their handiwork. The walls were papered by one son, the paintwork done by another. Rugs, cushions, chair-covers, all were made at home, and most of their clothes, too, were hand-made. It was a way of life which had endured for centuries, but which was now fast vanishing.

Doctor Martin recalled one of his favourite characters who had lived in the eighteenth century and kept a diary. Parson James Woodforde, although a fellow of New College, Oxford, did things with his own hands just as the Davises did. He brewed his own beer, he salted pigs, he kept his house to rights, he pruned and dug in his garden, as well as visiting his parishioners and serving the church. He had a great deal in common with the country folk of Doctor Martin's earlier memories, and his sense of family duty was as keen. He was concerned about Brother Jack, the black sheep of the
family, and considerate to his niece Nancy who lived with him.

The latest over-worked word 'involved' came into the old doctor's mind. Those earlier people really were involved. Emily Davis, a good daughter, cared for her mother until her death, and did it cheerfully, just as she did her duty towards the many school children who passed through her hands.

She had been a wonderful person—perhaps the finest character in that fine family. One did not meet many quite as selfless these days. That perhaps was one of the causes of Emily's strength.

She was completely devoid of self-pity, unlike poor Elaine Burton and George Smith.

She shouldered responsibility bravely, unlike Mrs Barber who thought that the school alone should tell her daughter the facts of life.

She had an unswerving sense of justice, based on her Victorian upbringing of recognising right from wrong. It may have been too rigid a code, but it produced some good steadfast people who engendered those old-fashioned virtues of respect and duty.

Doctor Martin looked at the clock on the dashboard. It was time he moved on. His pipe was almost finished, and he had day-dreamed long enough. He must blame Emily Davis for much of it!

He wished he could tell her so. She would have enjoyed the joke. She always did.

He switched on the engine and drove gently down the hill to Beech Green.

A
S
Doctor Martin slowly descended the steep, winding hill, he caught a glimpse of the tall figure of Dolly Clare moving about in her garden. On impulse, he drew into the side of the lane, and made his way up the garden path.

Miss Clare was cutting a few late roses, and she held them up for the doctor to admire.

'For Emily's grave,' she told him. 'Now that all those lovely funeral flowers have gone, it is beginning to look rather bare.'

The doctor nodded. He approved of the way in which Dolly Clare talked so lovingly, and yet so calmly, of her dead friend.