‘I think he did, in his way.’ The bereaved mother sighed. ‘He’s a funny man. Never could show his feelings, but I think he loved the boys. And yes, he loved Gillian. She was the apple of his eye.’
Mrs Masterton screwed up her table napkin and forced back her tears.
‘Life can be so hard. All gone, and only you, my comfort, left.’
Mother and daughter squeezed hands across the table, as the afternoon pianist enjoyed his runs and trills. Both women were lost in memories. Julia broke the silence.
‘I ought to go and see him.’
‘I was hoping you would say that, dear.’
‘I’ll go on my day off.’
‘That’s my girl.’
Mrs Masterton paused, fumbling for her lipstick, then said hesitantly, ‘Ask him if he wants to see me, will you, dear? I won’t push myself on him, but if he wants, I’ll come. Poor old Dad. I don’t like to think of him alone and ill. He wasn’t a bad husband. I’m sure he meant well. But we never got on, and the pub always came first.’
Julia went to Poplar early in the morning. She wanted to get there before the Master’s Arms opened. The tram rattled on its rails to an area she had not visited for more than six years. She couldn’t get away fast enough when she was seventeen. Now at the age of twenty-three it filled her with interest, and she eagerly watched for landmarks she had known since childhood. She felt strangely excited, almost exhilarated, which was the opposite of what she had expected after so long an absence.
She got off a stop before the Master’s Arms, in order to walk the last quarter mile, and she noted all the shops she had known: the general store on the corner which sold sweets – she and her brothers had haunted it; the baker’s that always gave off lovely smells; the pawnbrokers, with their three brass balls and ever-open door; the Jewish tailor. She knew them all and felt comforted by the familiarity.
A man was sweeping the pavement outside the Master’s Arms. She accosted him, and asked if Mr Masterton was at home. He was, but he was ill, and not receiving visitors, the man informed her. Julia said ‘He will see me. Can you let me in, please? I’m his daughter.’
The man stopped sweeping, leaned on his broom and stared at her.
‘His daughter! I never knew ’e ’ad a daughter. Said ’is family was all dead.’
The daughter that never was, thought Julia sadly. He doesn’t even mention me. But then, to be fair, she had never mentioned her father to the girls at the telephone exchange; so why would he, who was equally reserved, be likely to talk about her to his employees?
‘I am his only living daughter. Can you let me in?’
The man was immediately respectful.
‘No, ma’am, but Terry ’as a key. ’e was ’ead barman, but ’e’s been manager since ve boss got ill. I’ll take yer to him.’
Terry was equally surprised at the news of a daughter and muttered something about ‘Me mum looks after ve old boy.’ Julia did not like the familiarity.
‘If you mean my father, then please refer to him as Mr Masterton,’ she said coldly. ‘Now please, let me in to the family quarters.’
She ascended the wooden stairs that she knew so well. All was quiet, save for her footsteps. She entered the big rooms where the family had lived together in happier days, where the children had laughed and played before Death spread its dark shadow over them. She saw the door of the room where her brothers had been laid out before burial, but she did not open it. Instead she went into the kitchen – it was clean but cold and appeared to be unused. Was no one there at all? She called out, ‘Dad, are you here?’ A voice answered ‘Who’s there? Is that Mrs Weston?’ She went towards the sound of the voice. ‘No, it’s not Mrs Weston. It’s me, Julia.’
She went into a bedroom. In a single bed by the window lay a man she did not recognise. His face was thin and shrunken, his eyes sunk deep into the eye-sockets. His breathing was fast, difficult and noisy and his neck was so thin it looked as though it might snap. His skin was grey, but two patches of bright red colouring under the eyes made him look as if he had been painted like a clown. Thin hands rested on the sheets, and bony fingers with long nails were plucking at the bedclothes. ‘Is that you, Mrs Weston?’ he croaked. He turned his head, and his dull eyes grew wider as he recognised her.
‘Julia! What are you doing here?’ His voice was husky.
‘I heard you were ill, Dad.’
‘It’s nothing much. Just a passing fancy. The doctor’s been. He says I’m getting along nicely. I’ll be up and doing in a few days. Nice to see you, girl. Sit down.’
She took a chair and sat next to the bed.
‘Why didn’t you let me know you were ill?’
‘No need to bother anyone. You’ve got your own life to lead. I do all right here. Mrs Weston comes in and does for me. I thought you were her just now when you called. I didn’t think for a moment it would be you.’
Julia felt herself choking with emotion.
‘I’m sorry, Dad. I should have come earlier, long ago.’
‘No, no, girl. ’course not. You’ve got your own life. And you’re doing all right, I dare say. Is it still the Telephone Exchange?’ She nodded. ‘A good job, good prospects. You’ll be doing all right – your own life, your own friends – you can’t be looking backwards over your shoulder all the time.’
Julia compared the imaginary contentment his words implied with the bleak reality of her life. She did not know what to say.
‘Do you get enough food?’
‘Mrs Weston comes in and cooks for me, but I don’t want much. Can’t seem to get it down.’
‘Oh, Dad. What can I do?’ Julia felt close to tears.
‘Nothing, girl, nothing. You get on and enjoy your own life. You’re only young once; make the most of it.’
‘But Dad, I must do something.’
‘Don’t take on, girl. I want for nothing. Mrs Weston gets me all I need, and I’ve appointed her son Terry as manager. He’ll keep the pub going until I’m up and doing myself.’
He sank back on the pillows. The effort of speaking had exhausted him. Julia sat quietly, engulfed in remorse, regret and self-reproach. Her own father, whom she had not seen for six years, and he looked to be on the point of death. His eyes were closed, but he stretched out a limp hand towards her and whispered rather than spoke.
‘It’s nice to see you, lass. Good of you to come. I appreciate it.’
‘Would you like Mum to come?’
‘Your mother? I don’t know as she would want to.’
‘She says she will if you would like her to. She won’t push herself on you she says.’ He did not reply, but sighed deeply, closed his eyes and appeared to drift off to sleep. Julia sat beside him looking at the tragic waste of the man she had always called Dad but had never really known. A man who had always been so alive and vital, who commanded instant respect and obedience from his staff, who excelled them all in strength and energy, who ran the Master’s Arms with a Master’s efficiency.
She knew what she must do. She would leave the telephone exchange without notice and quit her room. She need not leave her father even to collect things – her landlady could send them on, there was little enough to send. She pondered all that she would have to do – see the doctor, arrange for a day nurse, get advice on diet, exercise and how best to keep her father comfortable. She felt nervous of her own inexperience and longed for her mother to be there to advise her.
Her father slept, so she left his side and wandered round the flat, which was big and spacious. She perched on the corner seat between the two windows where she and her brothers had sat looking down on the changing scenes in the street below. She climbed the narrow stairs up to the attic full of junk where they had played hide and seek. The same junk, which had belonged to her grandparents, was there, a bit more dust and decay, but the same. She would have been outraged if anything had been changed! She went into the big kitchen, once so full of life and nice smells enticing to a child, but now cold and unused. She went into the bedroom she and her sister had shared and decided at once that she would occupy the same room. But one of the beds must go up to the attic – she could not sleep with Gillian’s cold, empty bed in the room. She shuddered and returned to the kitchen to make a cup of tea.
Footsteps were heard on the stairs, and a man entered. He was youngish, cleanly dressed and carried a black bag. They met in the hallway and shook hands. He introduced himself as Dr Fuller.
‘And I understand from Terry, the barman, that you are Miss Masterton, my patient’s only living daughter?’
Julia nodded.
‘I wish we had known about you a year ago. He said his family was dead.’
Julia felt herself blush with shame, and did not know what to say. Together they went into the sick room.
Expertly he examined the emaciated body. Julia winced to see the rib-cage exposed, with barely any flesh covering the bones. The doctor felt for enlarged lymph glands and neck rigidity. He palpated the chest at various points and listened through his stethoscope to the heart and the sounds of laboured breathing. He tested for muscular strength, which was almost nil. He looked into her father’s eyes, and at his fingernails, which were a curious shape, Julia noticed. He examined the sputum in the pot. He said, ‘You are doing nicely. Warmth, good food, and rest are what you need. I’m glad your daughter is here.’
‘Yes. She has just come for the day. It’s her day off work. It’s nice to see her. A nice surprise.’
‘I was hoping she would be staying,’ said the doctor pointedly, knowing that Julia was just behind him.
‘Oh no, no. She’s got her own life to lead. She’s doing well as a telegraphist. I don’t want to be a drag on her. She’s got her own friends, her own life.’
‘I see,’ said the doctor with a sigh. ‘Well, I will return again in a few days.’
In the sitting room, Julia informed the doctor that she did intend staying, but had not told her father of her decision. She wanted to know more about his condition, and said that her four brothers and a sister had died of tuberculosis. The doctor told her that Mr Masterton had probably had a primary infection of the tubercle bacillus for many years, which had passed unnoticed. Any symptoms, such as fever or coughing, would have been put down to ’flu. However, about a year previously, a secondary infection had probably occurred, involving the mediastinal glands. ‘I’m afraid that tuberculosis is now widespread throughout his lungs.’
Julia asked what treatment was available.
The doctor explained that treatment consisted of rest, warmth, good food, plentiful fluids, inhalations, postural drainage, fresh air and syrup of codeine linctus, and that later he would prescribe morphine.
Julia asked if her father would get better. The doctor looked unwilling to reply, but she insisted.
‘I must know.’
‘A year ago, my partner and I advised your father to go for six months’ sanatorium treatment in the Swiss Alps. But he refused. He said he could not leave the pub for so long.’
‘Typical,’ said Julia angrily. ‘He could never leave his pub, not even to save his own life. But do go on.’
‘The clean air of the Alps might have saved his life, but it is too late now. Anyway, he seemed to improve for a while, or at least stabilise, and his decision seemed to be the right one. But two months ago he deteriorated rapidly. There is no drug available at this advanced stage that will effect a cure. In some cases, injection of sodium-gold thiosulphate is beneficial in diminishing the lung deposits, but we tried the gold injections weekly, with no effect. Your father, I am afraid, has now reached the stage of advanced phthisis, from which recovery cannot be expected.’
Julia sat quietly looking at the floor. She was not really surprised, just deeply sad.
‘Can he go to a sanatorium now? The air of Poplar is notoriously bad, you know.’
The doctor smiled. ‘Yes, I know, but there is no evidence that the air of Poplar causes tuberculosis. People living in ideal surroundings get the disease and do not recover. But your father cannot be moved now. It would kill him.’
Julia thought of her mother, toiling across Europe, a two-day journey by boat and train, with a sick child who had died shortly after arrival, and agreed with the doctor. ‘So what can be done?’ she whispered.
‘You can make his life as comfortable as possible. He can eat what he likes, if he can eat at all. He can get up if he feels able to. Keep him warm. Inhalations are very soothing. You will need a nurse. I recommend the Nursing Sisters of St Raymund Nonnatus, an order of nuns who have worked in these parts for many years.’
Julia set about the massive task of tuberculous nursing with no knowledge or experience whatsoever. She did not tell her father of her plan to stay because she thought his pride might make him refuse her. Instead, she told him a story about having lost her job, and being unable to find another; that she had no money to pay the rent, and had been turned out of her lodgings.
Her father immediately said, ‘That’s hard, girl, you can come and stay here, of course, until you get on your feet again.’