Sapphire Battersea (29 page)

‘I think it’s terribly lax and immoral of
her
to let
you
wait on her hand and foot. Even if she’s totally blind, she can surely
hear
how ill you are every time you cough,’ I said hotly.

‘Ssh! She’ll hear you,’ said Mama. She swung her legs out of bed and tried to get up, but the movement made her cough again. Her hand searched all round the bed as she shook and gasped, looking for her handkerchief. She found it at last and held it to her mouth, while I stood beside her helplessly, patting her poor heaving back. She was so thin that her shoulder blades were as sharp as knives.

‘Please, Mama, get back into bed,’ I begged, but she wouldn’t listen. She stood up, still coughing, staggering over to her washstand in her old nightgown. She stood with one hand clutching the tiled top, her knuckles white. She gave one last heave. I saw the handkerchief at her lips suddenly darken with bright blood.

‘Mama!’ I stared in terror. She tried to hide the handkerchief, but it was too late.

‘You’re coughing blood!’

‘Only a little, because it’s such a hacking cough. Oh, Hetty, don’t stare like that. See, the cough has stopped. I’m better now.’

I had a pain in my own chest, my heart beating fast. This wasn’t just a troublesome cough. This was far more sinister. I knew what I had to do now. I wouldn’t tell Mama because she’d argue with me
and
get agitated.

We both washed and dressed, and then I crept downstairs with Mama and helped her light the range and prepare breakfast.

‘You’re such a grand, capable girl now, Hetty. I’m so proud of you,’ said Mama.

Miss Roberts stayed in bed to have her breakfast, and then fell asleep again as she read the morning newspaper. I peeped round her bedroom door to catch a glimpse of her. She was a stout little old lady who looked as if she’d been stuffed with pillows. I couldn’t tell how many chins she had when she was awake, but she had at least four when lying down dozing. Her mouth was open, showing just two teeth at the top and two at the bottom, like a baby. She was wearing a large flounced nightcap, but from the curled grey wig on its stand on her dressing table I guessed she was as bald as a baby too. She was certainly as helpless as an infant. Mama had to help her wash and dress and visit the WC. It seemed so desperately unfair when Mama was the one who was so ill.

I was determined Mama was going to have the best medical treatment, no matter how costly. I tipped out the entire contents of the housekeeping jar and tied all the coins in a handkerchief in my pocket. I was careful not to chink the coins, not wanting Mama to hear.

When Miss Roberts woke for her mid-morning cup of Camp coffee, I knew Mama was going to be busy getting her up and dressed and ready for luncheon.

‘May I go out for a little walk, Mama?’ I asked.

‘Of course you can, Hetty. It will do you good to have some air. Take care to watch where you’re going, though. I don’t want you to get lost,’ said Mama.

As if I would ever lose my dear Mama now! I set off on my search, walking down to the sea front. I was momentarily distracted by the beach. There were children already playing on the pale sands. I had an urge to rip off my shoes and stockings and run around too. There were bathing machines lined up right along the sands, and quite a few folk bobbing up and down in the waves in maroon and navy bathing dresses, their faces red with sunburn. I’d never swum, but it looked splendid fun.

I watched for a minute, and then looked around. I saw an old gentleman laboriously pushing an elderly lady in a bathchair. They looked as if they must visit a doctor regularly.

‘Excuse me, sir, madam,’ I said, bobbing them a polite little curtsy. ‘Might you know where there is a good doctor here in Bignor?’

‘Are you poorly, little lass? You look as fit as a fiddle to me,’ said the old man.

‘It’s my mama. She’s got a very bad cough. She urgently needs a doctor,’ I said.

‘Then our Dr Jenkins is the man for her. I had a terrible throat this winter and he made a new man of me. He stopped me coughing in no time,’ said the old man. ‘Dr Jenkins, twenty-two Magnolia Square.’

‘What’s that you’re telling her?’ said the old lady, rearing up in her bath chair and squinting at me. ‘She’s a little maid, Henry. She’d never be able to afford Dr Jenkins.’

‘Oh yes I can, ma’am,’ I said, and I marched off, jingling the coins in my pocket.

I went back down the promenade to the painted map and found Magnolia Square easily enough. The houses were tall and grand, with beautiful pink flowering trees in their front gardens. I found number twenty-two – and there was a gentleman walking briskly down the steps, carrying a black bag.

I’d seen a black bag like that before, when the doctor was called to the hospital. I’d been very ill, but he had made me better.

‘Oh please, sir, are you Dr Jenkins?’ I asked, rushing up to him.

‘I am indeed, my dear. I’m off on my rounds now.’

‘Oh please, could you call at number eighteen Saltdean Lane? It’s very urgent!’

‘Is your mistress ill?’

‘No, it’s Mama – but don’t worry, I have lots of money and can pay you royally.’

His mouth quivered. ‘What ails your mama, child?’

‘She has a very frightening cough, so much that she spits blood. She’s grown very thin and tired, and has a burning fever,’ I gabbled.

Dr Jenkins looked grave now. ‘I will fit her in at the end of my rounds.’

‘Oh thank you! Number eighteen – you won’t forget? And do you think you will be able to make her better?’

‘I will do what I can to help her,’ he said.

‘Shall I give you the money now?’ I said, fumbling for my handkerchief of coins.

‘No, no, wait until I’ve seen your mama. Number eighteen Saltdean Lane – you see, I haven’t forgotten.’

I ran all the way back to Mama’s house, in spite of the hidden coins jingling in my pocket. I glanced up at the windows of number eighteen and there was Miss Roberts, dressed now, peering down at me. I had to look away quickly and walk on down the road purposefully, then steal back ten minutes later. There was no sign of her now. I nipped round to the back door and tapped softly for Mama.

‘There you are, dearie! My, your walk has done you good. You’ve got lovely pink cheeks! But we’ll have to find you a sunhat. Redheads burn easily –
they’ve
got such fine white skin.’

‘Have I really got fine skin, Mama? I thought my blue eyes were my only good feature.’

‘You’re fine all over, Hetty – the best girl in the whole world – though you’re not good, you’re very, very bad, cheeking your master so terribly. But I’ve been thinking carefully about your predicament.’

‘Mama, I told you, I’m not contacting Miss Smith. I’m not leaving you now.’

‘Listen to me, Hetty! I’ve been thinking hard while I’ve been fussing round Miss Roberts. She’s got several old lady friends she takes tea with from time to time. I hear them all a-moaning and a-grumbling about their own maids. They’ve all got to the stage where they need nurses as well as maids, but they don’t want to pay a double wage. I’ve heard them say that Miss Roberts is a very lucky lady having me—’

‘And she
is
!’

‘So I was wondering—’ Mama broke off to cough, her face flushing painfully. ‘Perhaps we could find you a position with one of these old girls – and then we could write to Miss Smith and ask if
she
could give you a character, like she did me.’

‘Oh, Mama! What would she put?
Hetty Feather has a temper to match her red hair. She shrieks like a banshee if thwarted. She attacks her employer if
he
confiscates her property
. These old ladies might be a bit dotty, but surely they’d not be impressed by that.’

‘I agree with you! I know we can’t expect Miss Smith to tell an outright lie, but she could temper her words a little. She could write something like:
Hetty Feather is a warm-hearted, willing girl who works well and will be very true and loyal if treated kindly
.’

‘
You
give me a character, Mama!’

‘I wish I could! There’s no better daughter in the whole world,’ said Mama. Then she started coughing again – so badly that she had to sit down at the kitchen table. I ran to get her linctus and poured her two great spoonfuls, but it didn’t seem to have any effect. By the time the paroxysm stopped we were both in tears.

I took Mama in my arms and held her tightly. I could feel all her little sparrow bones. She was trembling, but she relaxed against me for a moment, and then feebly tried to push me away.

‘Don’t get too near, Hetty,’ she whispered. ‘I’d tear my own heart out if I infected you.’

‘It’s all right, Mama. Don’t worry. We’re going to get you well again,’ I said fiercely. ‘Just you wait.’

I was on tenterhooks for the rest of the morning, waiting for Dr Jenkins to come calling. But he didn’t come and didn’t come and didn’t come.
Mama
cooked Miss Roberts a mutton chop for her lunch, with a little mashed potato. We had a big plate of mash sprinkled with grated cheese – though Mama barely touched hers.

‘You must eat, Mama. You’ve got so thin,’ I said. I tried holding the fork to her lips, coaxing her like a baby.

When we’d done the washing-up together, Mama set about writing a letter to Miss Smith. I saw how long it took her to spell out the simplest words and my heart ached for her.

‘You must tell me when I make mistakes, Hetty. I know I’m very ignorant,’ she said, blushing.

‘No you’re not! You write a lovely letter,’ I lied firmly.

Then at last I heard a knocking at the front door.

‘I’ll go!’ I said, jumping up.

‘No! No, Hetty, let me—’ said Mama, struggling to her feet, but it made her cough again, and she had to cling to the table to stay upright.

I ran through the kitchen and out into the hallway to the front door. I flung it open, and there was Dr Jenkins, carrying his black bag.

‘You came after all!’ I said.

‘I am a man of my word,’ he said. ‘Now, where is the patient?’

He looked towards the stairs, expecting to be taken up to a bedroom, but I led him down the
hallway
and through to the kitchen.

‘Hetty!’ Mama gasped. ‘What are you
doing
, showing the gentleman into the kitchen! I’m so sorry, sir. I’ll take you to the drawing room directly. Have you come to see Miss Roberts?’

‘No, I rather think I’ve come to see you,’ said Dr Jenkins. ‘You don’t look at all well, my dear.’ He put a hand on Mama’s forehead. ‘You have a fever – and I heard you coughing when I was in the hall.’

‘No, sir, not me. I am fine,’ Mama insisted, looked terribly flustered.

‘It’s all right, Mama. Tell the gentleman all your symptoms. I’ve fetched him for you. He’s a doctor so he’ll make you better.’

‘Oh, Hetty, what have you
done
?’ said Mama, starting to cry.

‘Mama, don’t. You
need
a doctor. And don’t worry about money – I’m going to pay. Look, I have lots of money hidden in my handkerchief.’

‘Hush, child,’ said Dr Jenkins. ‘Perhaps you can make us a cup of tea while I examine your mother.’

I did as I was told. Mama continued weeping while he listened to her chest and asked her many questions. She answered in a monotone, barely polite, but the doctor treated her gently, with respect.

‘I think you know my diagnosis, don’t you?’ he said eventually, sitting down beside Mama and sipping his tea.

Mama nodded.

‘You have an advanced case of phthisis,’ Dr Jenkins said quietly.

‘What’s that? Please, is it serious, Doctor?’ I asked fearfully, hating the hissing sound of the sinister little word.

‘I’m afraid it is, Hetty. Your mother is consumptive, and has been for some while. It’s a wonder she has been able to keep her position,’ he said.

‘But I’m going to lose it now, aren’t I?’ Mama said, and started coughing again.

He waited until the paroxysms stopped. ‘My dear, how
can
you carry on in this state? And you know and I know that I have to tell your mistress.’

‘And
you
know and
I
know that she will cast me out, and I will have nowhere to go. I doubt even the workhouse will take me in this state,’ said Mama.

‘I am going to see if I can admit you to the local infirmary,’ said Dr Jenkins. ‘There is a special ward for consumptive patients.’

‘And will they make Mama better there?’ I asked.

‘They will give her every care,’ he said.

‘Yes, but can they
cure
her?’ I said desperately.

‘I think you are going to have to be a good brave girl, Hetty, and learn one of life’s saddest lessons. We often lose the people we love the most.’