Now, still sitting in the chair, she became vaguely aware of the coldness of the room. It did not matter.
When the knock came she started slightly, then rose and went to answer it. Opening the front door she found Mr and Mrs Soameson standing on the threshold, their faces looking grave and gaunt, their mouths pinched with desperation. The cab that had brought them was still in the street, the driver standing beside the horse. She had known that they would come, must come, but the sight of them brought her heart pounding.
‘Oh – sir – ma’am . . .’ She stepped back a pace.
‘We came at once,’ Mr Soameson said, taking off his hat. ‘As soon as we got your telegraph. We travelled all night.’
‘How is he?’ Mrs Soameson said breathlessly. ‘How is my boy?’
Lily did not answer. She could not, but stood dumbly, one hand up to her throat.
Followed by her husband, Mrs Soameson came into the narrow, dimly-lit passage. Her eyes were fixed on Lily’s face, searching, reading there what she could. Mr Soameson did the same, and they saw in an instant that all reason for hope had gone.
Mrs Soameson gave a moaning little cry and sagged, leaning against the wall. ‘We’re too late,’ she cried out. Then to Lily: ‘Don’t tell me – oh, don’t tell me we’re too late.’
Lily, searching for words, said nothing, and her silence only confirmed their dread.
While the carriage waited in the street, the three sat in the cold kitchen, neither of the two visitors having taken off their coats. After telling them that the boy’s body had been taken to the temporary mortuary at Hillcot, Lily told of how he had fallen ill, and of the rapid onset of his sickness. She spoke of Dr Trinshaw’s visits and of how he had ministered to the child, but had been able to do nothing to save him. Of the child’s suffering at the end she said nothing, choosing to let them believe that he had slipped quietly and painlessly away. Mrs Soameson wept throughout, leaning forward, twisting her wet handkerchief in her fingers, while Mr Soameson sat with a grim expression, his mouth set in a tight line, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. At one point Mrs Soameson straightened a little and protested pathetically, her voice breaking, ‘But he was vaccinated! Everyone was vaccinated. We had to be.’
Lily said, avoiding their eyes, ‘It was my fault. I brought him away. I should not have done.’
Mrs Soameson responded quickly, her words bursting
out on a little sob, ‘No! No, you should not have!’ and then leant forward again, her hands to her face.
Frowning, her husband touched her on the shoulder, and said softly, a little hoarsely, clearly struggling for control, ‘Oh, Edith . . . Edith, dear . . .’ Then to Lily he said, ‘No, Miss Clair, you should not have done. But – but you were not to know. And I do believe that what you did was with the best intentions – trying to give him a little pleasure.’
At his words, Lily wanted to say,
But I did it for me. I wanted him with me
. But she kept silent.
Moments passed with only the sound of Mrs Soameson’s quiet weeping, and then Mr Soameson opened his coat and took out his watch. After consulting it, he slipped it back into his waistcoat pocket, turned to his wife and said gently, ‘My dear, we must go to Hillcot. We can see him there. If we go now we’ll get there before dark.’ He rose from his seat and put on his hat. ‘We must see the doctor as well.’
‘He’s expecting to hear from you, sir,’ Lily said.
She passed him the doctor’s card, and he glanced at it and put it in his pocket. ‘He’ll need to be paid,’ he said. ‘Has he been paid any of his fee?’
‘Very little of it, sir.’
‘I’ll settle with him.’ He turned back to his wife. ‘Come, Edith.’
Mrs Soameson rose from the hard wooden chair, her eyes red and swollen, her mouth contorted with grief. Her shoulders hunched, she followed her husband into the passage. When they reached the front door, she spoke no word to Lily but went straight out to the carriage. Mr Soameson, standing on the threshold, turned to Lily and said:
‘Well, Miss Clair – I doubt that we shall meet again.’ His face was grim, his mouth a thin, tight line.
She did not speak.
He shook his head, then suddenly the remnants of his
fragile composure failed and his chin quivered and tears welled in his eyes. Stifling a sob, he lowered his head, eyes on the ground between them. He remained like this for several seconds, then, raising his head again, some of his control regained, he said, ‘You’ll be leaving here now, will you? Going back to Sherrell, I daresay.’
‘I expect I shall, sir.’ She had given the matter no thought.
He nodded. ‘Just in case I need to get in touch – about things.’
‘Yes, sir.’
He nodded again. ‘And how are you feeling? Do you feel all right?’
‘Yes, sir – thank you.’
‘Good.’ He touched at his hat and without another word turned and made his way out into the street. There he climbed into the cab beside his wife. Lily, standing at the open door, watched as the vehicle rattled away.
Dr Trinshaw came back to the house just before six.
‘It’s mighty cold in here,’ he said as he preceded Lily into the kitchen, its sparse interior illuminated now by an oil lamp and a single candle. ‘You haven’t got any heating,’ he added. ‘Have you no coal?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I just forgot to light the stove. I’ll do it in a minute.’
‘I hope you’re looking after yourself,’ he said. ‘I told you, you can’t afford to take chances. You’re in a vulnerable state. You don’t look that bright to me.’
‘I’m fine, really.’
He turned and took in the bare sofa. ‘When did they come,’ he asked, ‘the men from the mortuary?’
‘Just before twelve.’ Her voice was dull, flat.
‘Have you heard anything from the child’s parents?’
‘They came here – just after four o’clock. They went off to the mortuary.’
He gave a sorrowful sigh, and set down his bag and hat on the table. ‘I’ve got your vaccine,’ he said, ‘and perhaps this time it won’t get wasted. Better let me have your arm . . .’
While he washed his hands, Lily opened her dress and dragged it down off her left shoulder. The doctor dried his hands then took from his bag a slim glass phial and the container holding the scalpel. As he did his work she stood waiting by the chair. The ache in her head had become all-enveloping, and she was also aware now of a dull ache that had taken hold in the small of her back.
‘Sit down,’ the doctor said, stepping to her side. She perched on one of the hard chairs, and he bent to her. ‘This’ll be just a little scratch.’ He stretched the soft skin of her upper arm between his finger and thumb and scratched into the flesh with the point of the blade. A little blood appeared and he wiped it away with a bit of cotton wool. ‘Now . . .’ He took up the glass phial and shook it, and Lily felt the cool touch of the glass against her skin. Glancing down she saw the pus-like liquid come out of the phial’s opening. Firmly, the doctor rubbed the vaccine into the wound. ‘There you are – all done. Though it should have been done days ago.’ He produced a bandage then, and wrapped it around to cover the little wound. ‘You might want to wear an armband for a while,’ he said, ‘till the scab heals and the painful swelling goes down. A lot of people do, for if somebody knocks into you, you’ll know it.’ He patted her shoulder. ‘You can cover up now.’
While the doctor put his things away, Lily pulled her dress back in place and began to secure the buttons of her bodice. As she finished, he put his hand on her brow. ‘My dear young woman,’ he said, frowning, ‘you’re on fire.’
Even as she asserted that she was feeling well, he was reaching for his thermometer. Moments later it was in her
mouth. Then his watch was out of his waistcoat pocket and he was feeling for the pulse in her wrist.
As he put the thermometer away he said, ‘Your temperature is high and your pulse is rapid. Have you been eating? When did you last eat anything?’
‘Not long ago,’ she lied, then added, ‘I don’t get that hungry.’
He gave a little snort. ‘All living things need food.’ He looked at her for a few moments in silence, then drew up a chair. ‘I hope you’re not taking this too hard,’ he said. ‘How long had you been with the boy?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘You’re employed by the boy’s family, you said. How long had you been with him?’
‘Two months.’
‘Two months. Well, that’s not so very long – though one can get attached to children in a very short time. As I said, they can wind their way into your heart. And a dear little fellow like that . . .’ He leant forward and briefly touched the back of her hand. ‘This will pass, believe me. You mustn’t let it – hold too great a sway.’
She was silent for a moment, then she said, ‘I took him to the aquarium.’
He frowned, as if a little puzzled, then gave a nod. ‘What are you going to do now?’ he asked.
She did not know what to say. It came to her that now that the child’s body had been taken away, and Mr and Mrs Soameson had been to the house, there was no longer any reason for her to remain.
‘I don’t know,’ she said.
He picked up his hat. ‘Well,’ he said, a little gruffly, ‘I’ll come back tomorrow at some time. I want to see how you’re getting on.’
‘Oh, sir,’ she said quickly, ‘it won’t be necessary, truly.’
‘What d’you mean, it won’t be necessary?’
‘I – I shall be all right. Really. Besides, I haven’t the money to –’
He broke in, cutting off her words: ‘I’m not concerned only with money.’ His voice was sharp with disapproval. ‘I’m not in this to make my fortune.’ He put on his hat and reached for his bag. ‘As I said, I’ll come back tomorrow. And I hope, when I do, that I find this place a bit warmer – and that you’ve had something to eat.’
After he had let himself out, she continued to sit there.
Millie came in later. It was so cold in the kitchen, she remarked. She looked at the sofa in silence for a moment, but said nothing of it. She had brought some food in a basin. It was still hot. She set it down on the table. ‘Look, miss, I brought you a little lamb stew. There’s not much meat, but the vegetables are nice, and it’ll be good for you. Grandma said I was to see that you ate it. While you do, I’ll light a bit of fire. Get the place warmed up a bit.’
She set out a plate and a fork and spoon, and stood for a moment as if waiting for Lily to begin eating. Then she turned away and busied herself at the range, raking out the ashes and setting paper and kindling. She soon had a fire going. When she gave her attention back to Lily a little while later, she saw that the basin of food was still untouched.
Millie left the house not long afterwards, and Lily sat alone. The kitchen was growing warmer now. She looked at the watch. It was after eight. Soon she would go to bed. There was nothing to sit up for. The ache in her head was stronger now, as was the ache in the small of her back, and she felt a fatigue that seemed to drain her body of all vitality. A wind had sprung up again, rattling the window and sighing around the walls. She was lulled by it, and when the knock came at the front door she was startled, and sat up in the chair. It could not be Millie, not at this time, and she could think of no one else who might be likely to call.
The knock came again. She waited a moment longer, and then, taking up the candle, rose from the chair and went into the passage. At the door she stopped, one hand on the doorknob. ‘Who is it?’ she said, her mouth close to the wood.
‘Lily? Lily, is that you?’ She could hear the voice clearly. ‘It’s Joel.’
She stood stock still, her breath held.
His voice came again. ‘Lily? Are you there? It’s Joel.’ She pulled back the bolt and opened the door onto the night. Joel was standing on the step. Beyond him, in the street, stood a horse and carriage.
‘Lily,’ Joel said, peering in at her through the gloom. ‘Oh, thank God you’re here.’
She remained as if frozen, one hand on the door, the other grasping the candlestick. He took a step forward. ‘Aren’t you going to let me in?’
She moved back, and he came over the threshold. As he did so he gestured back towards the carriage. ‘I have to keep the cab waiting there. I’ve only got a few minutes, then I must get to the station.’
She closed the door and turned and moved along the passage. Joel followed. In the kitchen she set down the candlestick on the dresser and moved to stand at the other end of the table. Her heart was pounding. He took off his hat and set it down, along with his leather case, on the table. He wore no gloves. ‘I won’t take my coat off,’ he said. ‘I have to get a train to Bath. I feel as if I’ve been running for days.’ He looked at her in silence, then asked, ‘May I sit down?’
She spoke now. ‘Yes. Yes, of course.’
He pulled out a chair and sat, and then gave a sigh and briefly closed his eyes in a gesture of relief. ‘Oh, Lily, you can’t imagine how glad I am to see you. To have found you.’
She could think of no words. Through the lingering shock at his appearance she continued to be aware of the ache in her head. For a little while it had seemed to recede. Now it was back, stronger than ever, and filling her skull with a blunt pain that pushed against her eye sockets and pounded in her ears. Her arm too, where she had been vaccinated, was starting to throb.
‘Are you alone here?’ he said.
She nodded. ‘Yes.’
Briefly he smiled his familiar smile, his teeth bright in the glow of the lamp and the candle. She took in everything about him – the shape of his nose, his jaw, the cut of his hair, the angle of his brow. Of course nothing had changed. Had she expected it to? Every tone and shade of his colouring, every inch of his flesh, every line of his tall, rangy form, was the same, unaltered, inevitable.
‘Please,’ he said, ‘aren’t you going to sit down? You look as if you’re about to run away.’
Obediently she pulled out a chair and faced him across the table. He peered at her in the soft light for some moments then said, ‘Are you all right, Lily? You don’t look quite yourself. You look a bit – pale.’
‘I’m fine, I’m fine,’ she said.
‘Good.’ He nodded. ‘You’re shocked to see me, I know. And at this hour. But I had to come. I wish I could have written first, but I didn’t have the time. I had to see you.’