Don Gutteridge - Minor Corruption

Cobb’s heavy brows shot up. “That old witchstill at it, is she?”

“You know very well she is. There’s a lot offolks north of Hospital Street who can’t afford anybody else. Andat one time, Elsie knew what she was doin’.”

Elsie Trigger had acted as midwife for thepoorest families in the northwest section of the city where it hadbegun to sprawl indiscriminately. Dora did much of the older eastend, while several newcomers had set up in the wealthiersouth-western part of town.

“Maybe so,” Cobb said, “but since she movedher own carcase inta Irishtown she’s gone straight downhill,eh?”

“Taken to the drink, she has.”

“So what’s so new about the old bat that yougotta break our rules?”

Dora sighed, a gesture that made her largebosom undulate alarmingly under the bib of her apron. “Two deadbabes, that’s what.”

Cobb tried to look sympathetic. “There’s deadbabes all over the city.”

“These two shouldn’t’ve died. I got calledout this afternoon to a shack up on Brock Street. I told the fellawho come fer me that I didn’t service the northwest, but he wasdesperate. He said Mrs. Trigger had been tendin’ his wife in herconfinement, but when the babe started comin’ out crooked, shethrew up her hands and skedadelled. He couldn’t afford a doctor, sohe come lookin’ fer me.”

“What happened then?”

“He drove me to his shack. The poor girl, nottwenty, was near death. The babe was big and comin’ out posterior.Elsie could’ve turned it easy, I figure, or pulled it out by hand,but she was too drunk to do anythin’ sensible.”

“Jesus!”

While Dora was the strongest and most stoicperson Cobb knew, male or female, on rare occasions she let herfeelings show. A single plump tear slid down her right cheek. “Icouldn’t save the babe, but the mother survived. Barely.”

Cobb patted a pocket in search of histobacco. “You said there was two.”

“That’s right. I didn’t tell you, but lastweek I went up near Irishtown and found a woman bleedin’ to death.Elsie’d been tendin’ her and fell asleep beside her. The husbandthrew her out and come fer me. The lass may’ve bled to deathanyway, at least Dr. Smollett thought so when he come later.”

“Both mother and babe died?”

“Yes.”

“And you think Elsie might’ve beenresponsible?”

Dora reached over and grasped Cobb’s hand.“Mister Cobb, that woman’s gotta be stopped.”

“But how c’n I – ”

“I want you to go inta Irishtown, find her,and warn her off. Tell her you’ll toss her inta jail if she don’tgive up bein’ a midwife.”

Cobb found his tobacco but couldn’t rememberwhere he left his pipe. “All right, then, I’ll do it. But just feryou. I’ll haveta take Wilkie with me ‘cause it’s gettin’ toodangerous fer a patrolman to go into that rat’s nest alone. ButI’ll find her and put the fear of the Lord into her.”

Dora smiled through her tears. “Fear of Cobbwill do,” she said.

***

Cobb never got a chance to warn Elsie Trigger off.About eleven o’clock that night, both Cobb and Dora were awakenedby a frantic pounding on the front door. Delia and Fabian were soused to this phenomenon that they seldom were disturbed. But Dorawould waken instantly, as she used to when her own babies wouldcall out to her in the dark. And Dora’s near three-hundred poundsrolling over in bed invariably woke up her husband. As soon as Cobbfelt Dora abandon their warm cocoon, however, he would slump backinto it and, seconds later, would be snoring anew. It was the onlyway he could cope with her unpredictable comings and goings, andnot be perpetually sleep-deprived.

He was just drifting back off this night whenhe felt her fingers poking him awake.

“I gotta go off with the lad at the door,”she whispered.

“Why are you tellin’ me , then?” Cobbcomplained.

“’Cause it may be about Mrs. Triggeragain.”

Cobb sat up, blinking in the moonlight.“What’s she done now?”

“Maybe nothin’, but the lad lives next doorto the girl in trouble and was sent here by her father to fetch me.It’s up north, past Brock Street. I told him I don’t go outta town,but the lad says they’re desperate fer a midwife.”

“And that’s Elsie’s territory, ain’t it?”

“Uh huh. The lad says it’s past Spadina.There’s a bunch of houses near the mill up there. Where themill-hands live.”

“I don’t want you goin’ on yer own away upthere.”

“I know, but the lad said he was sentspecially to fetch me , not Mrs. Trigger. The father told himMrs. Trigger was unavailable. Drunk, I reckon. So I’ll havetago.”

Cobb grunted his assent. “The lad’s got abuggy?” he said.

“Borrowed from the mill. We’ll get therepretty quick. And I ain’t worried. Nobody’s ever bothered a midwifein this town. At least not yet.”

“Did the lad say who the girl was?”

“Daughter of a mill-hand, one Thomas Thurgood- name of Betsy.”

They drove at a brisk trot west along King Street,Dora and the twelve-year-old messenger. Fortunately a near fullmoon provided sufficient light for them to keep to the middle ofthe wide, rutted street. On either side the houses and shops roseup dark and inhospitable. It was October and there was a chill inthe air, but Dora was accustomed to night travel. Her capaciouswool shawl was gathered around her, and the lad kindly placed abuffalo-robe over her knees. He said nothing, however, and Dorarefrained from probing him for any further information because sheknew from experience that those involved in these emergency runs,however peripheral, were anxious and often confused. She would, asusual, wait for her arrival at the scene to assess the situation asshe found it.

They turned north up Yonge Street and passedthe British-American coffee house, where the eerie moon-shadows nowchanged shape. At Newgate they swung west again. Dora could smellthe stink from the tannery there, and farther along she could seethe red glow from a foundry furnace. At Brock Street they turnednorth. The pony was panting now, exhaling huge skeins of visiblebreath. The boy brushed him with a whip, and he stepped up the paceonce more. Where Brock Street ended at Queen (formerly Lot Street),they met the bush road that led northwest to Spadina. Here theyentered the forest, and if it had not been for the moon, they wouldhave had to have moved at a snail’s pace and, even then, haverelied on the pony’s instincts to keep them on track.

Soon they began to jounce and lurch as theroadbed roughened, but Dora, who often boasted of it, had beensupplied by her Maker with a pair of comfortable rear-side cushionsfor the sole purpose of absorbing such shocks on missions of mercyin His name. Still, she was glad when, about a quarter-mile fromSpadina, they veered to the right onto a washboard path just wideenough to accommodate the buggy. Several bumpy minutes later theyrumbled across the log-bridge that spanned the stream used by themiller to power his machinery (Trout Creek the locals called it).They rattled past a distant, shadowy farmstead, then the tall,moonlit mill and the mill-race. Soon they were on open ground,where they had to move at a walk to avoid being upset. Fortunatelya straggle of workers’ shanties was soon silhouetted against thenorthwest sky.

“It’s the first house,” said the boy. “Mr.Thurgood’s.”

“I’ll walk from here, laddie. Here’s athrupenny piece fer yer good work. May the Lord bless you.”

“Thank you, mum,” the boy said. Then heslumped forward and began sobbing. “Oh, poor, poor Betsy.”

“I’ll see she’s all right,” Dora said,stepping down and reaching back for her bag. “You wait here, willya? ‘Least fer a little while.”