The Lorimer Line (33 page)

By now all the children who could walk were crowded below the opening high in the wall. They were too frightened to jostle, but all of them were coughing and most were crying. Margaret lifted each in turn up to Matron, hurrying away in between to carry one of the more helpless children nearer. She took a moment to throw a mattress over the open trapdoor in the hope of reducing the smoke. But the floorboards were badly fitting and full of knotholes. With every moment that passed the air became thicker and more choking. There was no piped water on this floor, so Margaret soaked her scarf in the nurses' kettle for a mask, and set the eldest children to tear up a sheet and dip the strips for the others to use as they waited.

It was a time for instant decisions. Chest cases must go quickly: broken bones were best left till last, in the hope that a ladder would arrive in time. Long after she had reached the point of exhaustion Margaret worked on, choosing and carrying and lifting, her eyes streaming and her head swimming. She could not see what was happening
in the street, and she could hear nothing but the sounds of coughing and crying and the quick gasps – not yet quite screams – as the children began to panic. Not even the clanging of the fire brigade's great brass bell penetrated the fog outside and the confusion within: not even the crashing of ladders against the side of the platform. When the first two firemen appeared in the opening and jumped down into the ward, it came as a surprise as well as an overwhelming relief.

They were followed by the young surgeon. He stood for a moment on the platform, looking round, and then ran across to Margaret's side.

‘Are you all right?'

Margaret nodded and allowed him to take from her arms the little girl she was holding. But she knew that it would be fatal to relax her efforts. One by one the wooden pillars which supported the floor were collapsing and the planks nearest to the trapdoor were already smouldering. It could only be a matter of moments before this drier wood began to blaze. Revitalized by companionship, she worked even faster than before.

Two ladders now were propped against the outside platform, so that while one fireman carried a young patient down one side, a second could be seen climbing up the other. Matron and the second nurse had been sent down to the street with armfuls of scarlet blankets snatched off the beds to protect the children already rescued against the weather. To them, safe from the fire, the rescue had become an excitement.

Inside the ward it was different. Margaret had been frightened on the children's behalf ever since the fire started, but on her own account had been conscious only of discomfort and tiredness. Now she became apprehensive for her own safety. She could hear the roaring of flames below one end of the ward, and the air was as hot as a baker's oven. Once she had to stop and stamp on the smouldering hem of her skirt before it flared up. To move
away from the comparative safety of the opening towards one of the further beds required more courage each time. Yet the surgeon was not hesitating, nor were the firemen. Margaret forced herself to keep going.

At long last the ward was empty. One of the firemen pulled her on to the platform and steadied her as she staggered. The surgeon, just about to follow, suddenly stopped.

‘The lad I operated on this morning. Is he out?'

Margaret caught her breath in horror. To minimize the disturbance to him, young Kelly had been left at the far end of the ward, in the cubicle which had served as an emergency operating theatre. She pointed, unable to speak, and the surgeon vanished into the smoke. He was gone only for a moment, but to Margaret it seemed a lifetime. She held her breath until he reappeared, and it was as though the world stood still. She could hear no sound, see no movement. All she could do was to lean against the wall, exhausted and wait.

When he returned he was walking more slowly, looking grimly down at the boy he carried in his arms. Margaret signed for him to go first down the ladder, since she herself felt unable to move. One of the firemen, realizing that she was at the point of collapse, lifted her over his shoulder and carried her down. She was too tired even to think how undignified this was.

Once on the pavement outside, she sat down regardless of the dirt, for her legs would not support her. Fog and smoke combined to make the rest of the world invisible, but there was a great deal of noise. She could hear water hissing from hoses, axes chopping at wood, flames crackling as they devoured the building, children crying, onlookers shouting. And, nearer at hand, the surgeon talking to Matron.

‘Any casualties?'

‘I'm afraid so,' said Matron. ‘The weakest, as you would
expect. Three of the babies, one asthma case and one haemorrhage.'

‘And the boy with gangrene, I'm sorry to say. Still, that might have happened in any case. Oh, and the big man I found below. It looked as though he'd knocked himself unconscious. He was badly burned before I got to him.'

‘Poor Jamie!' sighed Matron. There was a moment's silence. ‘I felt it was going to be a bad day. But not as bad as this.' She sighed again, and then spoke with a little of her old briskness. ‘Well, I must find somewhere for these children to sleep. I've sent messages to their families. As many as possible will have to go home for the night. It won't be good for them, but what else can I do?'

‘I told my cabbie to come back for me after he'd raised the firemen,' said the surgeon. ‘I'll call in at Bart's on my way back and get them to send you some help. The Registrar's a friend of mine. If he hasn't got room for all the children himself, he'll send messengers and find out who can take them.' He paused. ‘The young woman,' he said. ‘She was here when I came this morning. Who is she?'

‘Miss L? Medical student. Acting as clinical clerk to Dr Ferguson. I must find her and thank her. What we'd have done without her today, God only knows. Miss L! Miss L, where are you?'

Margaret tried to call in reply, but was too weak to utter a word. She was discovered only when Matron tripped over her.

‘Miss L, are you all right? You saved their lives, you know. I shall tell Dr Ferguson. Are you hurt?'

Still sitting on the high kerb of the pavement, Margaret found to her shame that she was crying. She buried her head in her hands, for there was simply no strength left in her to lift it. She could see Matron's blue skirt, dirty and tattered now, close to her own feet - and a pair of boots which came to stand beside it.

‘There's some shock here, I think,' said the surgeon. ‘I'll get her home. Cabbie! Cabbie!'

The cab-driver had led his horse well away from the flames which would have terrified it, so several calls were necessary before an answering shout was heard. Matron took the opportunity to praise Margaret and thank her over and over again. Margaret did her best to respond, but was relieved to feel herself being helped into the cab.

‘Where do you live?' asked the surgeon.

‘Bart's first for you,' muttered Margaret. ‘More important.'

‘Are you sure?' His tone was solicitous, but she could tell from it that he agreed with her order of priority. ‘St Bartholomew's Hospital,' he said to the cabbie. ‘And quickly!'

‘On a night like this, guv'nor?' The driver moved off at a pace which might be sensible in the thick fog, but which seemed unbearably slow to his passengers.

As the tension of mind and body relaxed, Margaret found herself trembling and shivering with cold. She was conscious of an arm round her waist, pulling her close against her companion's side: she felt her head topple sideways, like a broken puppet's, to rest on his shoulders. On the verge of fainting, she had ceased to be capable of any further effort or even thought.

As they neared St Bartholomew's the plodding steps of the cabhorse became even more hesitant. The hospital was next to the meat market at Smithfield, and already the cobbled streets around were rumbling with huge drays and wagons, bringing in from the country the carcasses which would be sold in the early hours of the morning. Margaret, her head steadier now, felt the surgeon fidgeting with impatience.

‘I could make better speed on foot,' he muttered to himself.

‘Then please don't delay on my account,' Margaret
urged. ‘If you prefer to walk from here, the cab can take me home and return to the hospital for you.'

‘Are you sure? Do you promise me you are not hurt at all? Will there be someone to look after you when you arrive?'

‘I shall be treated like an invalid and put straight into a warm bed, although there is nothing wrong with me at all,' she assured him. ‘Whom should the driver ask for when he returns to Bart's?'

‘There is no reason for him to come back. I have no further use for him. Earlier in the evening I was in a hurry to call on my young patient on my way to a theatre, but by now I have missed my evening's entertainment. If you are quite sure, then …' He knocked on the glass to bring the cab to a halt. After dismounting, he leaned inside and held out his hand. His firm grip as she took it restored some of her spirits.

‘You will allow me, I hope, to express my profound admiration for your efforts this evening,' he said. ‘A great number of those children must owe their lives to you.'

‘They are still in need of help,' Margaret reminded him. ‘Should I come with you?'

‘No, no,' he replied. ‘I forbid it absolutely. You are in no state to do more.'

His expression was troubled, reflecting the responsibility which he still faced, but he smiled at her as he released her hand. Then the puzzled look that she had noticed once before returned briefly to his face. He drew in a breath as though to ask her something, but must have realized that his business at the hospital was more urgent. The question became the more necessary one of asking the address to which the cab should take her. He repeated it to the driver, and Margaret heard the chink of money changing hands. Then she was jolted off again over the slippery cobbles of the market area, the horse clattering and wheezing between the shafts.

Lydia hurried down from their first-floor apartments to
meet Margaret as soon as the cab came to a halt in front of the house. She had been so worried, she exclaimed, and then her eyes opened in astonishment at the sight of her friend's appearance. In the hallway, Margaret glanced at herself in the glass which hung at the end of the passage. She could not suppress a burst of hysterical laughter.

‘What is it?' asked Lydia, more worried than ever. ‘Are you all right? What has happened to you?'

Margaret stifled her laughter, but continued to stare for a moment at her torn and charred skirt, the untidy red hair which had long ago escaped from its tight bun to fall in smoky tresses over her shoulders, and her face, smeared with black where she had wiped away the sweat of the last hot, terrifying half hour inside the hospital and later the tears of relief.

‘It has been a terrible evening,' she said. The very memory of it made her shudder again. ‘It is curious, isn't it, that when something horrible occurs, one seems to grasp at even the most frivolous excuse for shutting the scene out of one's mind. I was thinking - today I met a gentleman whom I found interesting. I couldn't help hoping that he in turn might be interested in me. Now suddenly I see what a peculiarly unattractive appearance I presented to him. But really I feel more like crying than laughing.'

Lydia helped her upstairs to sit by the fire. Betty - who had willingly abandoned her training as a lady's maid after the bank crash to become instead a maid of all work for Lydia and Margaret - was sent bustling on a series of errands: to fill the copper warming pan for Margaret's bed, to ask in the kitchen that water should be heated for a bath, to bring up the meal which had been kept warm. Only then did Lydia allow Margaret to tell her what had happened.

In bed that night, Margaret was awakened more than once by a nightmare. She saw the young surgeon turn and hurry away from her. Sometimes he was walking down the long ward: sometimes it was an unfamiliar room that he
was leaving. But always his errand was urgent, making him break into a run. Margaret knew that he was hurrying into danger, even when she could not tell what the danger was. She tried each time to call him back, but could not do it because she did not know his name.

That was always the moment when she woke up. Her mouth was open ready to warn him, but she had no word to shout. Once awake, she reminded herself each time that the danger was over, but the nightmare recurred as soon as she closed her eyes again. In the end, she had to force herself to stay awake for long enough to consider honestly what was troubling her. The fire, which had done so much harm, could do no more now. Gould the uneasiness which disturbed her sleep be caused by the simple fact that a man she would like to meet again did not know her name, nor she his? What was so frightening about that? She knew where he worked. He knew where she lived. If he wanted to see her again he would have no trouble in finding her. He might not wish to do so, but that was another matter. If he felt any interest in her at all, he would come.

She remembered the way in which his arm had tightened round her waist, the look in his eyes as he said goodbye, and felt no real doubt in the matter. She would see him again. Little by little her tired body relaxed in the warm bed and she fell into a dreamless sleep.

Flowers may speak the language of love, but what use are their messages if they bear no signature? On the day after the fire, Margaret returned wearily to her lodgings in the evening. Her broken night had been followed by an exhausting series of visits to all the dispersed children, to see how much they had been harmed by their experience. The sight of the out-of-season roses which had arrived by
messenger during the afternoon cheered her at once. She tore open the tiny envelope which accompanied them and studied the card inside with eagerness.

‘Who is your admirer?' asked Lydia, who had finished her own duty earlier.