Anne Perry - The Shifting Tide

“I’m sure you have plenty of slops to spare,” Ruth said icily. “You smell as if you bathe in them.”

“Silence!” Hester raised her voice sharply.

But it was to no effect. Flo lost her temper and hurled herself forward onto the bed, landing on Ruth, then raising her hand to hit her.

Hester grabbed at it, catching it almost across her own face, and was dragged forward and off balance half onto the floor. Both Flo and Ruth were still cursing each other, but Ruth had no strength to lash back physically.

It was at that moment that Bessie burst in, saw the scene, and charged across to pick Flo up bodily, swing around with her, and drop her on the floor.

“Wot the bleedin’ ’ell d’yer think yer doin’, yer crazy lard arse?” she yelled, first at Flo. Then, turning on Ruth, she went on. “An’ as fer you, yer spotty slag, you mind yer tongue or I’ll put yer out inter the gutter, money or no money! In’t surprisin’ yer lover threw yer out, yer iggerant mare! Yer got a mouth on yer like a midden! One more order out o’ yer an’ I’ll throw yer out meself. Just shut yer face, y’ear me?”

There was total silence.

Slowly, Hester climbed to her feet. “Thank you, Bessie,” she said gravely. She stared at the woman in the bed. Ruth was flushed and weak, but her eyes were spitting venom. “Miss Clark, go back to sleep. Bessie will come to see you in a while. Flo! You come with me!” And seizing Flo by the arm, she strode out, half dragging her along, down the stairs and into the kitchen before she spoke again. “Kettle!” she commanded. “Make some tea.”

“In’t surprised ’e threw ’er out, the turd,” Flo retorted, but she did as she was told. “Din’t give yer much of a kip, did she! Ungrateful trollop!” She took the kettle from the stove. “Thinks ’cos one man keeps ’er, not twenty, that she’s suffink special! Talks like she was a lady-she’s a common slut, like the rest of us.”

“Probably,” Hester agreed, too tired to care what the fight was about this time. It had been thirty-five minutes since she lay down on the bed upstairs. She felt as if she could have slept on the kitchen table-or the floor, for that matter.

“An’ yer got rats,” Flo called, pouring water out of the pail into the kettle. “Yer’ll ’ave ter get the rat catcher in. D’yer know one?”

“Of course I do,” Hester said wearily. “I’ll send a message to Sutton in the morning.”

“I’ll take it,” Flo offered. “Yer don’t want no more tea, or yer’ll be up an’ down all night like a dancer’s knees.”

“What night ?” Hester responded bitterly.

Bessie came into the room, her hair restored to its tight knot at the back of her head and her face scrubbed and ready for business.

“I’ll go an’ see ’er in a couple of hours,” she announced, looking at Hester. “Me an’ Flo’ll take care o’ the rest o’ the night.” She glared at Flo. “In’t that right?”

“Yeah,” Flo agreed, grinning at Hester and showing several gaps in her teeth. “I won’t kill ’er, ’onest! Swear on me mother’s grave!”

“Yer ma in’t dead,” Bessie growled.

Flo shrugged and put the kettle onto the stove, then bent to open the range and poke the coals to make them burn. “Yer need more coke,” she said with a sniff. “S’pose that’s why yer ’as ter take that kind o’ pig.”

Hester went back upstairs with profound gratitude, and sank into a dreamless sleep until nearly seven o’clock, when the day’s duties began. Mercifully, when she looked in on Ruth, she seemed to be quietly asleep, hot but not delirious, and breathing fairly well.

Downstairs in the kitchen, Bessie was making gruel for those who were well enough to eat, and Flo was asleep in one of the chairs, her head fallen forward onto the table.

When Margaret arrived shortly after ten o’clock, she took one look at Hester’s face, and then Bessie’s. “What’s happened?” she asked, her eyes wide with alarm.

“We need more ’elp,” Bessie replied before Hester could say anything.

“And the rat catcher,” Hester added. Flo was already fetching more water from the well along the street.

Margaret made a slight flinch of distaste, but she was not surprised. Rats were a condition of life in places like Portpool Lane.

“How’s Ruth Clark?” she asked Hester.

“She’ll live, more’s the pity,” Bessie replied. She jerked her head towards Hester. “Bin up most o’ the night, wot wi’ m’lady Clark, ’er an’ the poor bint wot come in wi’ a knife cut in ’er arm. Which ’minds me, I in’t never took ’er no breakfast yet.” And suiting the deed to the word, she ladled out a dish of gruel and went out of the room with it, leaving Hester and Margaret alone.

“We do need more help,” Hester admitted. “But we’ve got no money to pay anyone, so it’ll have to be voluntary. Heaven knows, it’s hard enough to get money. I’ve no idea how we’re going to persuade someone to give up their time to a place like this.” She glanced around the candlelit kitchen with its stone sink, pails of water, and wooden bins of flour and oatmeal. “Unfortunately, heaven’s not telling me!”

Margaret made tea for both of them, and toast from one of the loaves of bread she had brought. She even had a jar of marmalade, taken surreptitiously from her mother’s kitchen. She had left a note in the larder, in case the cook or one of the other servants got the blame for its disappearance.

“I’m not sure where I’ll ask,” she said when they were both sitting down. “But I have one or two places at least to start. There are women who have no money they can dispose of without their husbands’ approval, but they do have time. It is possible to be very comfortably well-off and bored silly.”

Hester was in no position to quibble. She would be very grateful for any help at all, and she said so.

It was a hard day. Two more women were admitted with bad bronchitis, and a third with a dislocated shoulder which took Hester and Bessie considerable difficulty to reduce, and of course was extremely painful for the woman. She let out a fearful scream as Hester laid her on the ground, put her foot as gently as she could into the woman’s armpit, and then pulled steadily on the hand.

Flo came rushing in, demanding to know what had happened, and then was furious to discover it was nothing she could do anything about. The woman, gasping to cry abuse, staggered to her feet and only then realized that her shoulder was back to normal.

Just before five there was a knock on the back door and Hester opened it to find the costermonger in the yard, his barrow behind him.

“Hello, Toddy. How are you?” she asked with a smile.

“Not bad, missus,” he replied with a lopsided grin. “Just got me usual. Yer don’t think as it’s summink serious, do yer?” A flicker of anxiety showed for a moment in his eyes.

She affected to give his aches their proper consideration. “I’ll get you some elder ointment that you can rub in. Bessie swears by it for her knees.”

“That’s right nice o’ yer,” he said, obviously comforted. “I got ’alf a dozen pounds o’ apples it in’t worth me takin’ ’ome. More trouble than it’d be worth. D’yer like ’em ’ere?”

“That would be very nice,” she accepted, going inside to fetch the ointment. She returned and gave it to him in a small jar, and found him standing there with the apples and a small sack of mixed potatoes, carrots, and parsnips.

Margaret left to go home at eight o’clock, and it seemed a long night. Hester was able to snatch no more than an hour or two of sleep, in bits and pieces, catnaps when the chance arose. Flo fetched and carried, but her quarrel with Ruth Clark rumbled on, and by daylight everyone was exhausted. The best that could be said was that none of the patients gave cause for fear that they were close to death.