The Winter Rose (47 page)

"What a bloody shame. Them not even married a year."

"Wouldn't have happened if they'd had a doctor."

"She is a doctor."

"I meant a proper doctor. Someone who knows what he's doing."

India stood quietly out of their view and covered her face with her
dripping hands. Her head was throbbing from the beating she'd just
received. Her throat felt like someone had poured acid down it. And yet
the livid bruises on her neck, her bleeding mouth, and swollen eyes were
nothing compared to the pain of the women's words.

She knew she should attend to her injuries. She also needed to
collect her instruments and wash them. She did neither. Instead, she
hunted for something with which to cover Alison Coburn and her baby.
There was a clothes horse in the kitchen hung with laundry, but there
were no sheets on it. She opened the doors to the small cupboard, but
found only a few dishes, tea, and sugar.

She returned to the front room and spotted a chest of drawers. She
opened the top drawer, but there was only clothing inside it. She was
just closing it again when something on top of the chest caught her eye.
It was a cup. A small porcelain cup with yellow ducklings and the word
Baby painted on it. The rim was chipped. Next to it was a rattle. Most
of its plating was gone but someone had polished it with care. There was
a homemade muslin bonnet and two tiny gowns, each beautifully
embroidered. India picked up one of the gowns. Tate and Lyle, it said
near the hem, in faded blue writing. It had been made from a sugar sack.

It was a layette--a small, meager layette that a poor mother had
assembled for her baby. It spoke of careful economies, of doing without,
of trips to second-hand markets with only pennies to spend. It spoke of
happiness. Of hope.

She traced a line of stitches on the gown and wondered what Alison
Coburn had done without in order buy the thread. Coal? Food? She thought
of how harshly she would have lectured her for spending money that
could have bought milk or greens on a second-hand cup and rattle.

It was all her fault. She had lost them. Both of them. She prided
herself on her skill, on her knowledge and technique, and they had
failed her. If only she'd been faster, more skillful with her forceps,
they might both still be here.

Her legs began to shake so hard that she had to sit down. When the
coroner arrived, some thirty minutes later, he found her holding the
dead woman's hand and whispering, "They were right, Allie. They were
right, lit-tle Harry. You should have had a proper doctor."

"My goodness, Dr. Jones, what on earth happened to you?"

It was Dr. Gifford. India had gone back to the surgery to return the Tarnier forceps in case they were needed.

"I lost a laboring mother. Baby, too. The father became violent."

"Were the police notified? Did you press charges?"

"It hadn't occurred to me."

"But the man beat you quite badly."

"He'd just lost his wife and baby," India said.

"You'll have to have tomorrow off, I suppose. I don't know how we'll manage."

India didn't either, but she didn't care. Nausea was gripping her
gut. She had to get out of Gifford's office before the sandwich she'd
had for lunch landed on his floor.

"Are you quite all right, Dr. Jones?" Dr. Gifford asked, eyeing her closely.

"Fine. Yes. Pardon me, please." She managed to walk out of Gifford's
office but broke into a run as soon as she was in the hallway. She'd
just made it to the loo when she was violently ill. She fell to her
knees in front of the toilet, retching until her eyes watered.

Wonderful, she thought, when she could finally stand again. I could use a nice bout of gastroenteritis right now.

She hobbled to the sink to rinse her mouth and caught sight of
herself in the small mirror hanging over it. She jumped, startled into
thinking that an injured patient had come into the loo behind her, then
realized that she was looking at herself. Her fingers went to her right
eye, which was as black and swollen as a leech. They traveled over her
mottled cheeks to her split lip. Her legs started to shake violently,
just as they had at the Coburns'. A few seconds later she was sick
again.

When she finished, she left the bathroom, grabbed her coat and bag,
and left without saying good night to Dr. Gifford. She hurried down
Varden Street toward the underground, trying to avoid the curious stares
of passersby. Before she reached the station, however, she was seized
by another fit of shaking and had to sit down. She stumbled to a bench.
What is wrong with me? she wondered. The shaking continued, and was
joined by a feeling of fatigue so deep, so oppressive, that she had no
idea how she would even stand up, much less continue to the underground.

She dug in her coat pocket for loose coins and counted them. One
pound, twelve pence. More than enough for cab fare. As she looked at the
coins, droplets of water splashed onto them. Tears? She stared up at
the darkening night sky and saw clouds. It was raindrops, not tears. She
had no tears.

Don't feel, Fenwick had said. And India found, finally, that she
didn't. She didn't feel anything. She tried to cry, to force her tears.
But she couldn't. Nothing came. Her beloved Wish was gone. He'd died
three days ago. A suicide, most likely. And with him, her hopes for a
clinic. A brand-new baby had just died. And his mother. She should be
weeping, keening, prostrate with grief. But she wasn't. Because she
couldn't feel a thing. She was totally numb.

Fenwick's voice echoed in her ears. Don't feel, don't feel. His words
had always sounded imperious to her. Like a command. But now she heard
them differently, she heard them as he'd intended her to--not as an
order, but as a warning. Feel for all the men who worked in mills and
factories, dockyards and coal mines until they dropped, yet never saw
their children warm and well fed; feel for the women whose worn and
stunted bodies brought forth life in an agony of pain and blood, only to
see it snatched away for want of a bit of meat or milk; feel for all
the hungry, hollow-eyed children who made matchboxes and paper flowers
and learned to weep silently. Feel for them, and you were lost.

"Here now, what's wrong, lassie?" a male voice said. "Who gave you such a hiding? Your husband? Shame on him!"

India looked up into a pair of kind brown eyes and laughed mirthlessly.

"No, it wasn't my husband. It was somebody else's husband. Thing is,
he's not a husband anymore. He's a widower. Because of me. His wife died
tonight. His baby, too. I could have saved them if I'd been a better
doctor." She remembered tiny Harry Coburn, how he'd looked nestled in
the crook of his dead mother's arm. "I wanted to help," she said. "I
wanted to change things. That's why I became a doctor. To make a
difference. But I haven't.

I wanted to open a clinic, but I haven't. I wanted to try to stop the suffering in this Godforsaken place, but I haven't."

The man, elderly and ragged, frowned. "Well, missus, that does sound
terrible. But it can't be all bad. There must be something good. That's
the thing to do when you're down, think about something good in your
life. Maybe you've got a nice home. Or a nice husband. What about
childer? They're always a bright spot. Have you any childer?"

"No, I haven't. I live alone."

"Friends, then? People you work with?"

"I can't bear the man I work with. Work for. He's careless,
negligent, a mer-cenary," she said, the words pouring out of her in a
flood. "He should be in jail, not treating patients. My oldest, dearest
friend just died. Killed himself. He was my cousin. I do have a flanc�A
wonderful man. A good man. But I don't love him. I love someone else,
you see, but he's the wrong man entirely."

"Bloody hell, missus, that is all bad," the dosser said. He sat
silently for a bit, sucking his teeth. Then he reached into his jacket
pocket and pulled out a flask. "Don't know what to tell yer," he said.
"It's a right cock-up." He handed the flask to her. "Here, help
yourself. It's a bit of comfort."

Comfort from a flask. If only Sid were here to see her. How he would
laugh at her. Have you never needed comfort? he'd asked her. Her words
came back to her now. She cringed at them. If I have, Mr. Malone, I
haven't sought it in a gin bottle. She took the flask and drank deeply.
She coughed as the alcohol burned her throat, then drank again. Let him
laugh, she thought. He deserved to, for he was right. About her. About
porridge. About everything. He was right and she was wrong.

India drank again and again. "Here," she finally said to the man,
giving him the coins in her pocket. "For more. I've nearly drunk you
dry."

The man brightened. "Why, thank you, missus." He clapped her on the back. "It'll look better in the morning. You'll see."

"Actually, it won't. Because it's hopeless. Bloody hopeless. It's one
bloody big bloody circle of bloody hopelessness. How can it ever get
better? Tell me, how?" She took one final pull, a sloppy one. Gin
dribbled down her chin. She wiped it off with the back of her hand.
"You've no answer, have you? Well, not to worry. I haven't either.
Doesn't matter, though."

"Why's that, missus?"

"Because I bloody well quit. That's why."

She rose on unsteady legs, picked up her doctor's bag, and heaved it
into the street. It opened as it landed, spilling instruments and
dressings every-where.

She smiled at the mess.

"Good night," she told the man.

"Good night, missus," he said.

And then she turned her back on Whitechapel and headed home to Bedford Square.

Ella, basket in hand, jumped off the omnibus as it slowed to a stop
at Bedford Square. It had taken her more than two hours to get there.
The evening traffic had been heavy to begin with and a milk wagon had
overturned on Gower Street. Ella's pace was brisk as she headed to
India's building. India had not come to work for two days, and she was
worried. Dr. Gifford told her what had happened at the Coburns'. He also
said that India would be taking one day off but would be back the
following morning-- yesterday. But she hadn't come back.

Ella had wanted to go to her flat right away, but it wasn't possible.
The surgery had been diabolically busy. Dr. Gifford had had to cancel
his after-noon hours in Harley Street to cope with the backlog. Because
of India, the demand for appointments at Varden Street had quadrupled.

When Mrs. Moskowitz had heard what had happened to India, and that
Ella was going to see her, she made sure her daughter had food to bring.
Ella reached the third-floor landing huffing and puffing under the
weight of her basket. She knocked on the door. There was no answer. She
tried again, saw that it was ajar, and let herself in. She heard the
voices immediately. They were coming from India's bedroom.

"How can you still have the slightest doubt, India? My God, just look at yourself! This is madness--sheer, bloody madness!"

Ella recognized that voice. She had met Freddie Lytton a week ago.

"Freddie's right, darling. You could have been killed."

The second voice, a woman's, was unfamiliar.

Ella hesitated, unsure whether or not she should intrude on what was obviously a private conversation.

"This is not what you should be doing. I've always said as much. You
should be spending your time on public health policy. You should put
your skills and knowledge where they will benefit the greatest number of
people. A cow doctor can pull a baby out. You're better than that."

"I thought I could do more good in Whitechapel than in Westminster."

"Well, you were wrong. You're no good to anyone if you get yourself killed."

"India, for once in your life, listen to reason. Please." That was the woman again.

There was silence for several seconds, and then in a flat, weak
voice--a voice Ella barely recognized as her friend's--India said, "All
right. I'll resign."

"Chas v'cholileh! Bist meshuganah?" Ella whispered.

"It's the right decision, my darling. Truly. You're completely
wrecked. You need a rest. And you'll have one. We'll marry quietly and
then I'll take you somewhere marvelous on honeymoon. What would you say
to--"

Freddie didn't get to share his travel plans, for Ella came bustling
through the doorway and cut him off. "Here you are, Dr. Jones! Havin'
yourself a right skive, are you?" she asked brightly.

"Hello, Ella," India said dully.

She looked terrible. Ella had to stop herself from flinching at the sight of her.

"We didn't hear you knock," Freddie said tightly.

"Didn't you? Probably because you were too busy gassing."

Freddie's eyes narrowed. Ella affected not to notice and introduced
her-self to Maud. Then she bustled Freddie out of his place at India's
bedside and sat down herself. She took India's chin in her hand and
peered closely at her injuries. "Gave you a right gobsmacking, the
bastard. You should have had stitches in that lip. Gifford let you go
home without any?" she asked, without waiting for an answer. "You
shouldn't have gone alone. I should have been with you. He couldn't have
bashed the both of us."

"She shouldn't have gone at all," Freddie said.

Ella turned to him. With a grave smile she said, "Mr. Lytton, Miss
Sel-wyn Jones, would you excuse us for a few minutes? I'm a bit
concerned about lividity and tumescence in the orbicularis oris and I'd
like to do an examination. Make sure the good doctor is healing
properly."

"Of course," Maud said.

Freddie followed her unwillingly. When they'd left, India looked at
Ella and said, "My lip is fat? You need to examine me because my lip is
fat?"

"Never mind that," Ella said, taking India's wrist. "What's this rubbish I heard about resigning?"

"Heard? Do you mean overheard?"

"Sixty-five. Your pulse is fine." She felt India's head. "You don't feel warm. What was your last reading?"