No Cure for Love (10 page)

She wiped the orange juice on her hands down her skirt and stood up. ‘I’ll have to go, but I’ll call after Mass on Saturday.’

‘Saint you are, Ellen,’ Kitty said again, her blue eyes soft as they rested on Ellen. ‘And give my love to yer Mammy and Josie.’

Ellen wagged her finger at her with a mock frown on her face. ‘Eat your orange, drink your tea and I’ll see you on Saturday.’

 

The sewage that ran down the centre of the narrow passageway crept over the welts of Robert’s shoes. Beside him he could hear Mr Dawson, clerk of works for St George’s parish, gag. Watching them from out of the doors and windows that fronted the alleyway were the sunken-eyed residents of Anchor and Hope Passage. Robert took in the appalling scene and then stepped forward towards the communal pump.

‘Surely you’re not going down there, Doctor,’ Dawson asked in a horrified tone.

‘Of course,’ Robert replied.

Dawson signalled to the two men lounging against the warehouse on the other side of Tench Street. They stood away from the wall, pulled the front of their short jackets down and straightened their half-crown hats. In Robert’s view it was totally unnecessary to have two parish constables accompany him as he inspected the parish but Dawson had insisted. After a short discussion Robert had agreed. Flanked by Dawson and the constables, Robert entered Anchor and Hope passage.

Although the day was bright the narrow alley, the sides of which could be touched by a man with outstretched arms standing in its centre, was in almost total shadow. The houses had been built a century ago as fine, three-storey terraces, but had long since lapsed into crumbling dosshouses.

Robert unfolded the leather wallet in his hand and scribbled a few notes.

As the inhabitants of the surrounding houses watched them, Robert and his small entourage continued further down the airless alley. They stopped at the hand pump, the sole water supply to the houses of the area. It looked as if it had been adapted from an old cannon and sat six inches or so off the upright. The handle dangled listlessly.

Robert took hold of the handle and wrenched it up. There was a loud creak and after some resistance it moved. Having got it to its full height, he pushed it back down. There was another creak and a small spurt of discoloured water fell on the cobbles.

He turned to Dawson, who at least had the decency to look embarrassed. Robert opened the leather file again.

‘According to my records, this pump was replaced six months ago.’ He fixed Dawson with an iron stare.

‘That was my understanding too, sir,’ Dawson replied.

‘Didn’t you check the work before you paid the bill?’

Dawson looked indignant. ‘We have dealt with Mr Cashman for many years and I have
never
had cause to query his work.’

‘Well, I shall have to do so on behalf of the emergency committee,’ Robert told him, and noticed the two constables shoot a look at each other.

Dawson’s indignation turned to alarm. I am sure there is some mistake,’ he said.

Mr and Mrs Trundle flashed into Robert’s mind.
Some mistake
. That was Danny Donovan’s explanation for the discrepancies in the workhouse accounts.

The two constables had been introduced to Robert on his arrival at St George’s that morning but, other than acknowledging their presence on his morning’s walk, he hadn’t given them much thought. Now he studied them more closely. Both were big men, clean-shaven, with hands like shovels. They were neatly dressed - dapper, as the locals would put it - and looked as if they had been fashioned from the same mould. He turned away from the pump and walked to the end of the alley.

At the far end the stench from the rotting vegetation and human excrement was overpowering. He felt his eyes sting with the vapours drifting up from the floor.

God have mercy
.

He had seen enough. He strode back to Dawson and the constables. They had remained at the pump and he could understand why. Even he was having problems with the contents of his stomach now.

Dawson looked visibly relieved when he saw Robert making his way back and took up his place behind him as they walked back up the alley. Half hidden in one of the doorways, a man watched them. Robert changed direction and marched over to him. Neither Dawson nor the constable followed.

The man regarding Robert from the low doorway stood at about five foot three or four. He wore a threadbare waistcoat over a stained shirt and breeches of an indeterminate dark colour, with bare legs and feet. He eyed Robert suspiciously.

‘Who are you?’ he asked before Robert could speak.

‘I’m Doctor Munroe,’ Robert told him, trying not to look at the lice crawling around the collar of the man’s shirt. ‘I am looking into the public works in the parish.’

The man’s face lost its belligerence. ‘Doctor Munroe, from Chapman Street?’ Robert nodded. The man snatched the hat from his head and touched his forelock. ‘Fergus Ryan’s me name and begging your pardon, sir.’ A grin spread across his face revealing a few lopsided yellow teeth. ‘We have all ’eard of how you have been fixing up the folks around ’ere, like.’ He screwed the hat in his hand. ‘And right pleased I am to meet you.’

‘Have you seen anyone come to fix the pump?’ Robert asked Ryan.

‘Me, sir? No, I ain’t seen no one. That old pump been like that since I came to live here three year ago.’ Ryan looked around and added quietly. ‘You’re a good man, sir, so I’ll tell you this and no more. There are a lot of people around here who say they are going to do this and that. But does any of it come our way? No. Because before the crumbs have fallen on the floor some fat Irish bird has swooped it away.’

Robert felt the two constables draw up behind him. Ryan gave them both a furtive look and stepped back into the house.

‘As I said, sir, I don’t know nothing,’ he said slamming the door.

Robert turned to face the two men standing behind him. They stood, as they had all morning, with impassive expressions on their freshly shaved faces.

Some fat Irish bird! As a prominent member of St George’s Parish Council, Danny Donovan would have had a say on any man appointed as a constable. It was a lucrative post in any parish and greatly sought after. He studied the constables again. It occurred to Robert that it might not have been only Dawson who was keen that he have the St George’s parish constables accompany him on his investigations.

 

The door creaked as Kitty pushed it open with a trembling hand. Inside the gloomy room, two small children sat together on the bare earth floor in front of the fire while an older child of about six or seven tried to feed them putty-coloured gruel. All three of them looked her way with wide-eyed wonder but didn’t utter a sound.

Holding her breath against the stench of stale beer, Kitty glanced around the room. Her room in Thomas Court was lavishly furnished compared to the one she was now standing in. Apart from the unlit fire, over which hung a pot on a chain, there was a small table barely sufficient for two people. In its centre was a bowl of what looked like three-day-old stew with a couple of flies darting around it. The floor was without the comfort of a rag rug which was the standard feature of even the poorest homes in the area. At the far end of the room was a old iron-framed bed with a striped ticking mattress on which Old Annie was taking her afternoon nap.

Kitty paused. Guilt gnawed at her. She had promised Ellen she would not seek Old Annie out but what else could she do? Danny’s child refused to budge. She had even drunk the last of the Gentlewoman’s Restorative, but she had nothing to show from it but an acid stomach and cramping bowels.

Nervously she clutched the two shillings in her hand and listened as a faint snoring came from the huddled form on the bed.

After Ellen left her she had dreamed of the possibility of going to America with her unborn child, making a new life in a new land. But in the cold light of day it was clear that the child inside her was determined to stay put and she would have to seek out Old Annie to persuade it otherwise.

‘Missus,’ the young child called in the direction of the bed.

Old Annie stirred and looked around her. She spotted Kitty and heaved herself off the bed.

The old woman, who was almost as wide as she was tall, scratched through her greasy hair and yawned. Discovering a nit, she cracked it between her finger and thumb then discarded it behind her.

The rumour around the streets was that Annie had been a beauty once but if that were so, Kitty could see no evidence of it now under the layer of grime that covered the older woman’s face. In an attempt to revive her youth Annie had daubed French rouge on both cheeks, but it only served to highlight the jaundice hue of her complexion. Kitty judged that the old, high-waisted dress stretched around the abortionist’s substantial frame was of some quality, but the delicate pink and blue of the pattern was hardly distinguishable amongst the stains of beer and food spattered down the front.

‘What can I do for you today, Kitty my love?’ Annie asked, pushing back a tangled strand of hair from her face. ‘Is it still your little inconvenience?’

Not able to speak, Kitty nodded.

‘Have you got the required?’

Kitty opened her hand and held out the two shillings. Annie took the coins, scraping Kitty’s palm with her overgrown nails. She slid her fee into her clothing and smiled, displaying a yellowing set of teeth. Close to her now, Kitty could smell gin.

Annie took her elbow and led her towards the bed. The urge to snatch her arm away and flee from the squalid house swept over Kitty.

Leave, leave, her mind shouted, but her feet continued to follow the older woman. Halfway across the room Annie stopped and turned her attention to the children on the floor.

‘Take the babies in next door to Rose for an hour,’ she told the older child. ‘Tell her I have a bit of business and I’ll see her right for her help.’

Without a word the child gathered up the babies and carried them out of the room. Annie watched her go then turned back to Kitty.

‘Let us begin to solve your little problem, eh? It won’t take but a minute.’ She pushed Kitty back on the bed.

Kitty’s heart was galloping and her mouth was dry. She stared at the bare plaster wall beside the bed. From somewhere in her clothing Annie produced a bottle and thrust it at Kitty.

‘Have a mouthful of this,’ she commanded. ‘It’ll steady your nerves.’

Kitty did as she was told and swallowed a burning mouthful of cheap brandy.

Other women do this all the time. Belle told me she had seen Annie on three occasions and was none the worse for it,
Kitty argued with herself as she heard Annie open the cupboard. The brandy was already swimming though her brain, so she stole a quick glance. Annie had pulled out an enamel bowl and placed it on the top. Beside it was a china jug. Kitty swallowed and looked.

After this I swear I’ll not let Danny have his way with me any more,
she vowed at the sound of Annie pouring water into the jug.

Annie knocked her arm with the bottle of brandy. ‘Take another.’

Kitty did. Again it burnt on the way down but now it joined its predecessor. It was making her thoughts swim. Her head rolled towards where Annie was preparing her equipment.

There was a flash of metal as she wiped a strangely curved blade with an almost clean rag. Kitty watched.

Carefully covering the bowl containing her implements Annie turned to Kitty.

‘Now, my sweet,’ she sniffed, and wiped her nose on the back of her hand. ‘It’s going to hurt like your monthlies but worse, that’s what the brandy’s for. And you won’t be able to do much until the child falls away but you should be as right as rain in a week. Do you understand?’

Kitty nodded.

‘Right then, lift your skirts, open your legs and let me get on with it.’

Kitty nodded and, pulling up her skirt, positioned herself so Annie had access. Turning her head away and staring at the wall, again she heard the scrape of metal on enamel.

The woman in the bed looked as white as the sheet she was lying on. Her blue eyes had smudgy dark rings around them and were sunk deep in her head. Her almost-white blonde hair was plastered to her skull with sweat. She stared up at Robert.

‘I’m done for ain’t I, sir.’ It was a statement rather than a question.

‘I am afraid you are, Miss Henry,’ he agreed. ‘Who did this to you?’

‘Call me Kitty,’ she said, in a whisper of a voice. ‘I did it to myself when I let that pig Danny at me again.’

‘I mean who helped you abort the child?’ Robert said, moved by the stoical manner in which the young woman on the bed approached her death.

‘I don’t know her name, sir.’

‘What did she use?’ Robert asked in a tender voice.

Kitty gulped. ‘A small hook on a long stick-like thing.’

‘Have you been to her before?’

‘All the girls go to her from time to time if the mother’s ruin and a bath don’t work,’ Kitty told him.

He had seen the result of too many mismanaged efforts to be rid of an unwanted child. Most women got away with it, for a time, but for some, like Kitty, a trip to the local old woman was a trip to the grave and a painful trip at that. For one awful second a picture of Ellen under the hand of this abortionist came into Robert’s mind.

Kitty’s face contorted in agony and she grabbed hold of her stomach, drawing up her legs. Robert left his uneasy thoughts and beckoned the nurse.

‘Sister Perry, if you please, a measure of laudanum for Miss Henry every three hours.’

‘Yes, Doctor Munroe.’ Sister Perry made her way to the chest in the corner of the room and took her keys from under her white apron.

Robert sighed and placed a hand on Kitty’s clammy forehead. She shivered as a rigor swept over her and her teeth chattered. Sister Perry bustled back and spooned in a measure of syrup, then adjusted the covers. Kitty settled and Robert stepped back to consult with the two medical students. He shook his head and glanced back at the now quiet young woman.