Page 51 of The Shifting Tide (William Monk 14)

“We need her,” Hester pointed out. “Thank you for getting the coal in. How much have we left?”

“Need more day arter termorrer,” Flo replied. “I know where ter get more cheap. Yer want it?”

“No thank you. I can’t afford to have the police here.”

“I said cheap!” Flo was insulted, not on behalf of her honesty but her intelligence. “I din’t say free!”

“Do what you can,” Hester accepted. “Sorry.”

Flo smiled patiently. “That’s all right. I don’ take no offense. Yer can’t ’elp it.”

Hester finished the beef tea, put more water in the kettle and replaced it on the stove, then with the tea in a large cup she went up the stairs to see how Ruth Clark was this morning. Bessie had been up with her most of the night, but had reported she now seemed no worse than some of the other women with fever and bronchitis.

“If yer ask me,” Bessie said briskly, “ ’alf ’er trouble’s that ’er lover threw ’er out! Took in someone else with a softer tongue, I daresay, an’ ’oo knows wot side ’er bread’s butter’d on. Now she’s got no bread at all, butter’d or not, an’ she’s crosser’n a wet cat. She in’t no sicker’n nob’dy else.”

Hester did not argue, there was no time and no point. At the top of the stairs she met Mercy Louvain with an armful of dirty laundry.

“I’ve left most of it,” the girl said with a smile. “That Agnes is feeling pretty bad, and I changed hers. She’s got a very high fever. I don’t think the poor creature has had a decent meal in weeks, maybe months. I’ll take these to Claudine.” A flash of amusement crossed her face. She said nothing, but Hester knew precisely what was in her mind.

“Perhaps you can give her a little help?” she suggested. “Especially with the mangle.”

“I’m no better at it,” Mercy confessed. “I got my own apron caught up in it yesterday. Tore the strings off and had to stitch them back on again. And that’s something I’m not very good at either. I can paint pretty well, but what use is that?”

“Everything that’s beautiful is of use,” Hester replied. “There are times when it is the only thing that helps.”

Mercy smiled. “But this certainly isn’t one of them. I’ll take these down and help Claudine mangle the last lot. Between the two of us we’ll make a passable job of it. I might even make her laugh, although I doubt it.” She dropped one of the sheets and bent to pick it up again. “Although if she gets herself caught in the mangle again, it might make me laugh! And if Flo’s there, she’ll never stop!” She gave a tiny little giggle, then it died as she heard someone along the passage call out and Hester went to her.

Margaret came in just after midday, bringing with her a bag of potatoes, three loaves of bread, two very large mutton bones, and three pounds, six shillings, and ninepence in money. She was dressed for work, and she looked vigorous and ready to tackle anything, and enormously pleased with herself.

Hester was so relieved she almost laughed just to see her.

“I’ve got jam,” Margaret said conspiratorially. “And I brought a couple of slices of cold mutton for your lunch. Eat it quickly; there isn’t enough to share. It was all I could take without getting Cook into trouble. I made a sandwich for you.” She unwrapped it as she spoke. “When did you last go home? Poor William must think you’ve abandoned him.” She passed the sandwich across. It was sliced a little crookedly, but had been made with plenty of butter, mint jelly, and thick meat. Hester knew Margaret had done it herself.

“Thank you,” she said with profound gratitude, biting into it and feeling the taste fill her.

Margaret made fresh tea and brought it to the table, pouring a cup for each of them. “How is everyone?” she asked.

“Much the same,” Hester replied with her mouth full. “Where did you get the money?”

“A friend of Sir Oliver’s,” Margaret answered. She looked down at her cup. She was annoyed with herself for allowing her feelings to be so clear, and yet she also wanted to share them with Hester. There was a need in her not to be alone in the turmoil, the vulnerability she felt, and the acute anxiety in case Lady Hordern carried out her threat to call on Mrs. Ballinger and repeat the conversation from the soiree. Margaret had actually broached the subject herself, in order to forestall disaster, but she was not at all sure that she had succeeded.

“I think he put a certain amount of pressure on the poor man to contribute,” she said with an uncomfortable memory, raising her eyes to meet Hester’s. “You know, in spite of himself, he’s awfully proud of you and what we do here.” She bit her lip self-consciously, not because she had said Rathbone was proud of Hester, which was true, but because his emotions were caught up with Margaret, and they both knew that. It had been unmistakable since he had been willing to help gain this building because Margaret had asked him.

Tired as she was, Hester found herself smiling. She understood exactly the mixture of modesty, of hope and fear, which made Margaret phrase it as she had. “If he’s prepared to admit it, then he certainly is,” she agreed. “And I’m grateful for anything he is able to coerce out of people. I suppose it’s the time of year, but we have far more women in here with bronchitis and pneumonia than a month or two ago.”

“I’d have pneumonia if I were walking the streets at night,” Margaret said with feeling. “I wish I could persuade people to give regularly, but you should see their faces when they think I’m collecting for missionary work, or something like that, and then the change in them when they know it’s for street women. I’ve been sorely tempted to decorate the truth a little, and just take the money.”

“I think it has something to do with acute discomfort that we allowed the misery to happen in the first place,” Hester replied. “Leprosy isn’t our fault, but tuberculosis or syphilis might be. And there’s the other side of it too. We don’t mind thinking about leprosy, because we don’t believe there’s any chance of our catching it. With the other things we might, in spite of everything we try to do to prevent it.”

“Syphilis?” Margaret questioned.

“Especially that,” Hester answered. “Street women are seen as the ones who pass it on. Husbands use them, wives get the disease.” She looked down. “You can’t blame them for anger-and fear.”

“I hadn’t thought of it like that,” Margaret admitted. “No, perhaps I wouldn’t be so willing either, when you think of that. Perhaps my judgment was a little quick.”

Margaret stayed and worked hard all afternoon. She was there to help when an injured woman was brought in, several bones broken in her fingers, but her most serious distress was fever and a hacking cough. She looked worn until her strength and will were exhausted, and when they helped her upstairs and into a bed, she lay silent and white-faced, oblivious of all they could do to help her.

Margaret left shortly after eight in the evening, intending to purchase more of the most important supplies, such as quinine-which was expensive and not easy to find-and such simple things as bandages and good surgical silk and gut.

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