The Wild Rose (53 page)

CHAPTER NINETY

“Where am I?” Jennie Finnegan said, looking around herself. She was lying in a bed that was not her own, in some sort of nightgown that was not her own, in a room she didn’t recognize, next to people she had never seen before.

Frightened, she sat up. She swung her feet over the side of the bed and tried to get up but was gripped by a fit of coughing so severe, it left her weak and breathless.

“Mrs. Finnegan!” a voice said. “Please lie still! You mustn’t bring the coughing on.”

Jennie looked up and saw a young woman—a nurse—hovering over her. She wore a white cotton mask over her face.

“Where am I? What’s happened?” Jennie asked, panic-stricken.

“You’re in hospital, Mrs. Finnegan. On the quarantine ward. You’re very ill, ma’am. It’s the flu. The Spanish flu,” the nurse said, easing Jennie back into bed.

“The flu? My God,” Jennie said, slumping back against her pillow.

She remembered now. She remembered standing in her father’s kitchen, devastated by what she had learned about Max von Brandt. She remembered being sick, and dizzy, and the blood . . . she remembered the blood.

“What day is it? How did I get here?” she asked. And then a terrifying new thought occurred to her. “Where’s my son? Where’s James?”

“Please calm down, ma’am. Everything is all right,” the nurse said. “It’s Wednesday. Your father brought you here last night. He wanted to stay with you, but of course we couldn’t allow it. He told me that if you woke, I was to tell you he had a neighbor woman, a Mrs. Barnes, come to stay with James last night. And that he would be taking the boy to your sister-in-law’s—a Mrs. Bristow’s—later today.”

Jennie felt so relieved. James was in good hands; he would be well cared for.

“I’m Sister Connors, by the way,” the nurse said. “I’m one of the nurses who’ll be looking after you.”

Jennie nodded. “Are my things here?” she asked her. “My carpetbag?”

“No. Your father didn’t bring anything with him. Is there something you need? Something I can get for you?”

“Listen to me, please,” Jennie said urgently. She had remembered something else—her determination to stop Max, to stop the flow of military secrets to Berlin. “You must get my brother-in-law here. Joseph Bristow. He’s an MP. Something terrible is going on and he must know about it immediately.”

“I’m afraid he won’t be allowed on the quarantine ward, either,” Sister Connors said gently.

“I must get word to him. Can I write him?”

“I’m afraid not. We can’t pass along anything handled by the infected.”

“What am I going to do, then?” Jennie said, agitatedly.

“I can’t just go summoning MPs, Mrs. Finnegan. If you could just tell me what it’s about,” Sister Connors said kindly.

Jennie didn’t want to, but it seemed she had no choice. “There is a spy ring at work in London. They’re passing secrets to Berlin through a network of tunnels under the river. I know about it because I helped them,” she said. “Now, can you please get Mr. Bristow? He has a telephone at his home and also at the House of Commons. Do you have a telephone on the ward? Perhaps I could get word to him that way.”

“One moment, please, Mrs. Finnegan,” Sister Connors said.

Jennie watched as she walked to the center of the room, where the ward sister was standing with a clipboard, writing something down. Sister Connors tried to keep her voice down, but Jennie heard every word that she said.

“The new patient—Mrs. Finnegan—she’s talking about spies, Sister Matthews, and says she’s helping them. I believe she’s delirious.”

The ward sister nodded. She came over to Jennie’s bed. Her eyes were troubled. “Hello, dear. I’m Sister Matthews. Sister Connors tells me that you’re rather upset. You must calm yourself,” she said through her mask. “You are very ill and you need to rest.”

“I know you think I’m off my head,” Jennie said. “I promise you I’m not. My husband, and many others in the Mediterranean, are in great danger. I must speak with my brother-in-law.”

Sister Matthews nodded. “Get Dr. Howell, please,” she said to Sister Connors.

Thank God, Jennie thought. The doctor would listen to her. He would ring up Joe and tell him she needed to see him.

A few minutes later, a brisk, bearded man appeared. He looked weary and careworn. A stethoscope hung from his neck. The front of his white coat was flecked with spots of dried blood. He was holding a cup.

He introduced himself, and then before Jennie could speak, he said, “Now, now, Mrs. Finnegan. What’s all this I’m hearing about spies? You mustn’t worry yourself about such things. Your husband is quite safe, I’m sure. We have spies of our own, you know, working very hard to catch the baddies. That’s their job. Yours is to get better. Now, drink this, please.”

Jennie eyed the cup suspiciously. “What is it?” she asked.

“Medicine,” the doctor replied.

Jennie shook her head. “It’s a sedative, isn’t it? You think I’m raving, but I’m not. You have to believe me, Dr. Howell. You have to—”

“Mrs. Finnegan,” Dr. Howell said, interrupting her, “if you will not drink the medicine willingly, I shall have to resort to other means.”

“No! I can’t. I must speak with Joseph Bristow! Please!” Jennie said, her voice rising. Her agitation set off another round of coughing. It was so harsh and racking that blood dripped from her nose again.

Dr. Howell wiped the blood with a cloth and showed it to her. “You have a young son, do you not? And a husband,” he said. “What would they say to you if they knew you were not doing all in your power to recover and return to them? What would they say to me for allowing it?”

Jennie realized that Dr. Howell did not believe her and that he would not be sending for Joe. She realized, too, what he was trying to say—that she was gravely ill and that there was a very real possibility that she might not return to her husband and son . . . ever.

With tears in her eyes, Jennie took the cup from Dr. Howell’s hand and downed the bitter liquid inside it. It took only seconds to work. Almost before she knew it, her eyes were closing, and she felt herself being pulled under, into a deep and heavy sleep.

The last thing she felt was Sister Connors’s gentle hands smoothing her hair back from her face. The last thing she heard was the nurse’s voice saying, “Poor woman. I’m sure the barmy things she’s saying are all coming from her worries about her husband, from him being in the war and all.”

And Sister Matthews replying, “She should worry about herself. She has a fight ahead of her as bad as any of our boys on the front are facing. And about as much chance of winning it.”

CHAPTER NINETY-ONE

“Hello, Mum! You all right?” Gladys Bigelow said loudly, poking her head into their small sitting room. Her mum was a bit hard of hearing. Gladys had just put her umbrella in the hallway stand and her bag of marketing on the floor and was now unbuttoning her dripping raincoat.

Mrs. Bigelow, in her usual seat by the window, smiled tiredly and said, “Right as rain, love. How was your day?”

“Beastly. I’m glad it’s over.”

“And I’m glad you’re home. It’s a filthy night. Awfully wet for September.”

“You don’t have to tell me. I’m half-drowned. I bought us some nice gammon steaks for our tea. And a tin of pineapple rings to put on them. And peas. I think I’ll make some mash, too. I know you’re partial to gammon steaks with mash.”

“Oh, Gladys. You shouldn’t have to do it.”

“Do what, Mum?” Gladys said, shrugging out of her raincoat.

“Work so hard all day, then come home and cook for me. It’s too much for one person,” Mrs. Bigelow said, fretting at the kerchief in her hands.

Gladys frowned at that. She put her raincoat on a peg near the door, sat down next to her mother, and took hold of her shaking hands. “What’s the matter, Mum? Are you feeling low again today? What’s happened?”

Mrs. Bigelow turned her head away.

“Come on now. Out with it. Tell me.”

“Well, Mrs. Karcher came over today. She brought me some biscuits she’d made. . . .”

“That sounds very nice,” Gladys said.

“Oh, it was. She’s a lovely woman is Mrs. Karcher. She told me that her middle girl—Emily, her name is—is engaged to be married. Her fiancé’s fighting in France, but he wrote her a letter and asked her would she marry him and said he’s sorry he couldn’t put a ring in the envelope, but he’ll buy her one as soon as he gets home.”

“Why would that make you sad, Mum?” Gladys asked. “That’s a lovely story.”

“It
is
a lovely story, Gladys, that’s why it makes me sad. You should be telling stories like that. You should have lads asking you to marry them. But you don’t. Because you can’t. Because you’re saddled with me.”

“Oh, Mum, you silly thing. Is that what has you all teary?”

“I’m not silly, Gladys. It’s not natural, a young girl like you stuck looking after her mother. You should have a lad of your own. And a place of your own. And children one day.”

“I will, Mum. One day I will,” Gladys said.

“Whatever happened to that one you were seeing . . . that Peter lad? A sailor, he was.”

“I’ve told you, Mum. He was killed in the war. Early on.”

“That’s right, you did. What a shame, that. He sounded like such a nice lad, too. And none since? In all this time?”

“Well, they’re a bit thin on the ground just now, aren’t they?” Gladys said. “I mean, with a war on and all.”

“I suppose they are,” Mrs. Bigelow said.

“Just wait until the war’s over and they all come back home. They’ll be so tired of living in the trenches, with only other blokes for company, that they’ll all be mad to find a girl. Then all of us unmarried girls, we’ll just be able to pick and choose, won’t we?” Gladys said, smiling, trying to jolly her mother into a better mood.

“I hope so,” Mrs. Bigelow said.

“And I know so. No more of this silly talk from you. You’re no trouble at all. I love to come home and tell you all about my day. What would I do if I didn’t have you to talk to? Have to get a budgie, wouldn’t I? And I can’t stand the bloody things.”

“Gladys!” Mrs. Bigelow said. “You shouldn’t use such language. It’s not ladylike.”

But Gladys could see she was trying not to laugh. She kissed her mother’s cheek and said she would have to start their tea, or they wouldn’t be eating until midnight.

“Did the postman come today, Mum?” she asked on her way out of the sitting room.

“Yes, he brought a letter or two. Mrs. Karcher put them on the kitchen table.”

Gladys picked up her marketing and walked down the short hallway into the kitchen. She put her groceries away in the icebox, then grabbed her pinafore from its hook on the back door and tied it around herself. She was worried about her mother. Her spirits were often poor, but lately the bouts of tears and anxiety had grown more frequent. She had talked to Dr. Morse about it just yesterday, and he said low spirits were common in the housebound. She’d asked, too, if there was any hope that the palsy that afflicted her mother so badly—Parkinson’s disease, the doctor called it—would ever improve.

“I’m afraid it will not, Miss Bigelow,” he’d said. “Parkinson’s is a progressive disease. It will continue to cause degeneration in the central nervous system. Your mother’s motor functions, and her speech, will only grow worse. You must be prepared for that.”

Gladys did not know what she would do when her mother got worse. It was hard enough to care for her now. She wished she could be at home with her all day, but that was impossible. She had to work. They needed the money that she earned. The neighbors were wonderful, of course, and looked in on her during the day, but what would happen when she could no longer walk at all? Or talk? Or eat?

Gladys sighed. She wouldn’t think of that now. Not tonight. She would get the tea, that’s what she would do. Then she would wash the dishes and get her mother to bed. And then scrub the floor or wash a few things. Anything to keep herself busy. Gladys needed to be busy. Being busy kept her from thinking too much.

She set a pot of water to boil on the stove and smiled as she turned the knob on her new cooker. She’d just bought it last week. The old one had finally given out, and the man at Ginn’s Appliances said it would be better to buy a new one than to keep repairing the old one. So she had. She’d splurged on a deluxe model. It was the best one in the shop Mr. Ginn had said—all cream enamel with bits of green here and there, four burners, a grill, and a roomy oven. It was a gas oven and ever so much nicer than the old one, which had been coal-fired. There was just one thing to be careful about, Mr. Ginn had said, and that was to make sure the knobs were turned off completely when she was finished using it.

“Otherwise, you’ll gas yourself to death, Gladys,” he said, “and we certainly don’t want that. You’re one of me best customers!”

She was, too. Just last year, she’d bought the icebox from him.

When Gladys had the potatoes boiling and the peas opened and on the stove, she set the table. Then she turned her attention to the day’s post. There was a bill from the gas company and something from the savings and loan about buying war bonds. There was another envelope, too—a small buff-colored one with her name and address on it and nothing else, no return address. The postmark was from Camden Town. It had been mailed yesterday. Puzzled, Gladys opened it. She gave a small cry when she saw what was inside.

“Gladys? Was that you?” her mother called from the sitting room. “Are you all right?”

Gladys swallowed hard. “I’m fine, Mum!” she called back. “Just burned myself on the pot handle, that’s all.”

“Be careful, love.”

“I will.”

Gladys stared at the ugly photograph in her hand. It was of her. Max von Brandt had taken it nearly four years ago. In a boardinghouse in Wapping. Feeling sick to her stomach, she turned it over. There was nothing written on the back of it. There was nothing else in the envelope. There was no message at all, but there didn’t have to be. It was a warning. Something had gone wrong. And the person who’d sent the photograph was telling her she’d better put it right.

But what could have gone wrong? Whatever it was, Gladys was certain it involved Jennie Finnegan. She immediately thought back to last night, and the conversation she’d had with her on the bus on their way home from the suffrage meeting; she’d been able to think of nothing else the entire day.

Jennie had wanted to know about Max. She’d wanted to know what was in the envelope Gladys had given her. She’d even talked about going to the authorities. Had she actually done so? Could she have been that foolish? Gladys had warned her. She’d told Jennie to not open the envelope, to deliver it just as she’d always done, or she’d find out exactly what Max von Brandt was capable of. Surely Jennie had listened to her.

But if Jennie
had
listened, then why had this picture been sent?

Maybe, a small voice inside her said, someone else had been listening, too. There had been other people on the bus—a handful of men. Was it possible one of them was working for Max, had been told to watch his couriers, and had overheard them? Yes, Gladys realized with a cold dread, it was. Anything was possible where Max von Brandt was concerned.

The photograph was a warning, all right—a warning to her to keep Jennie Finnegan in line.

“My God, what am I going to do?” Gladys whispered, numb with fear.

If Jennie decided to open the envelope, and discovered what was really in it, she would certainly go to the authorities. And when she did, government men would come for her—Gladys. She would be arrested, tried, and found guilty of treason. If she wasn’t executed, she would spend her life in jail.

To prevent this, she would have to frighten Jennie. She’d have to intimidate her into continuing to deliver Max’s envelopes. But how? She believed that Jennie honestly hadn’t known she was helping German spies smuggle British military secrets to Berlin. Jennie was an innocent; Max had told her he was on Britain’s side and she believed him. But for some reason, she now no longer believed him. And what was she, Gladys, supposed to do about that? Force an innocent woman to betray her own country? Even if she had an idea how to go about such a thing, she had no stomach for it. She would not do to someone else the dreadful thing Max von Brandt had done to her.

Just as she had the first time Max had shown her the pictures, Gladys once again thought of killing herself. But now, as then, she could not bring herself to do it, because she did not want her mother to be taken to a home where no one would look after her properly.

“What am I going to do?” she whispered again, in despair.

Moving woodenly, she tore the picture into bits and put the pieces into the rubbish bin. She opened the tin of pineapple rings, took the gammon steaks out of the icebox, put them in a bowl, and poured the juice from the tin over them. While they sat in their marinade, she mashed the potatoes, drained the peas, then added butter and salt to both. Next, she put the kettle on for a pot of tea, struck a match, and lit the grill. As the gas hissed, then whooshed into bright orange flames, she found her answer.

When she finished grilling the steaks, she put them on two plates and decorated them with the pineapple rings. Then she put the mash and peas on the table, followed by tea made in the best teapot. The meal looked very inviting. She thought her mother would like it very much.

“Tea’s ready, Mum!” she shouted as she went down the hall to get her mother. “It looks good, if I do say so myself. I hope you’ve an appetite tonight.”

Gladys helped her mother down the hallway to the kitchen and eased her into her chair.

“Sit down now, Gladys,” Mrs. Bigelow said. “You must get off your feet for a bit.”

“I will do, Mum. It’s drafty in here. I’m just going to close the window so we don’t get a chill.”

She did so, and then kicked a floor rug up against the bottom of the back door. Just before she sat down, she turned the gas on for all four burners, the grill, and the oven, pretending, as she did, that she was turning them off. She knew that her mother, with her bad ears, would never hear the hissing.

“This is lovely, Gladys!” Mrs. Bigelow said, as she struggled to cut her steak with her trembling hands. “It’s just the thing to take the gloom off a miserable, rainy night.”

“Thank you, Mum. I’m glad you like it,” Gladys said.

Mrs. Bigelow must’ve heard the sad, strange note in Gladys’s voice, for she suddenly looked up. “You all right, Gladys?” she said.

Gladys nodded. She smiled.

She had wiped away her tears before her mother could see them.