Page 76 of The Shifting Tide (William Monk 14)

Squeaky Robinson came in, looking with disapproval and impatience at Claudine, then hopefully at Mercy.

Claudine glared at him. “Wonderful how you always know to come when the kettle’s on!” she said tartly.

“Saves yer having to send for me,” he replied, sitting down at the table, ready for Mercy to bring him tea when it was brewed.

“And why would we be sending for you?” Claudine demanded, her jaw clenched to swallow back the words as a piece of carrot jumped off the board under the crooked angle of the knife. She stooped awkwardly to pick it up. She had little grace, and she was hurtingly conscious of it.

Squeaky rolled his eyes.

Mercy glanced at Hester and swallowed a giggle.

“Probably ’cos yer’ve run out o’ water again,” Squeaky said wearily. “Beast o’ burden, I am.”

“You’re only getting it from the back door!” Claudine said crossly. “Some other poor devil is carrying it the length of the street, and he can only do that in the dark, for fear people’ll see him and wonder why we aren’t fetching our own. So don’t waste it! You were scrubbing the floor yesterday as if you’d half the ocean to play with.”

“Perhaps you’d better scrub the floor, missus,” Squeaky retorted. “An’ leave me ter chop them carrots. I couldn’t make no worse a job o’ it than you are. No two bits the same, you ’aven’t.”

“Maybe you haven’t noticed it, but the Dear Lord doesn’t make any two carrots the same,” Claudine said instantly, her eyes blazing, the knife clutched in her hand as if she were about to use it as a weapon.

“ ’e don’t do it wi’ pertaters neither,” Squeaky said with pleasure. “Only wi’ peas, an’ we in’t got none o’ them. Yer knows wot peas is, missus?”

“About a penny a hundred,” Claudine responded. “Roughly what you’re worth.”

Squeaky shot to his feet, his face flushed. “Now look, yer vinegar-faced ol’ cow! I’ve had as much o’ your tongue as I’m gonna take! Yer bleedin’ useless! Yer can’t turn the mangle wi’out tearin’ the sheets, like we got ’em ter spare.” He jabbed his finger towards her. “Yer can’t make soap, yer can’t make porridge wi’out more lumps than the coal got in it! Yer can’t light the bleedin’ furnace if it goes out, an’ yer can’t cut a carrot wi’out ’urlin’ bits all over the floor! That poor cow wot died was right-no wonder yer poor bleedin’ ’usband don’t miss yer bein’ ’ere! ’E’s probably got a bit o’ peace for the first time in ’is poor bleedin’ life!”

Claudine went white. She drew in her breath, but found she had no words to defend herself. Suddenly she looked old and plain, and very vulnerable.

Hester was grasped by a pity so fierce she had no idea how to express it or what to say or do. She stood frozen in the grip of it. The fear and the sense of imprisonment was wearing on everyone’s emotions. No one gave it words, but they were all intensely aware that the disease was here with them like a brooding entity, able to strike any of them, or all. Every ache, every weariness, every moment of heat or chill, every twinge of headache could be the beginning. She was not the only one to wonder about every tenderness in the breast or the arm, to look at herself with fear and imagine she could see shadows or the faintest swelling sign.

It was Mercy who interrupted her thoughts. “Mr. Robinson, we appreciate that you are afraid, we all are, but deliberately seeking to hurt each other is only going to make it worse.”

Squeaky blushed, but under his embarrassment he was angry as well. He did not like being criticized, particularly in front of Claudine. He knew he was in the wrong, and it hurt him that Mercy, whom he admired, was the one to point it out. “She’s the one wi’ the tongue pickled in acid!” he said accusingly.

“And you think so well of it you have to do the same?” Mercy raised her eyebrows.

Hester smiled, because the only alternative was to cry, and if she started she might not know how to stop. As it was, she was tired, confused, and would have given anything, except what it would actually cost, to have been able to go home.

The back door opened, startling them all and making them swing around, setting hearts pounding in sharp, urgent fear.

But it was the little terrier, Snoot, with his face half brown, half white, who came scampering in, wagging his tail, Sutton close behind him. Hester breathed out in relief, realizing she should have known it would be he. The men with the dogs would not have permitted anyone else to pass.

Sutton glanced around the room, but if he sensed the tension, he did not show it. He was carrying beef bones, two bottles of brandy, and a pound of tea. “Miss Margaret must a brung ’em,” he said, setting them down on the table. He ran his hand gently over the little dog. “That’s it fer the night,” he said gently. “Now go ter bed.”

The anger in the room subsided, and everyone returned to their duties.

It was in the middle of the night when the incident occurred. Hester had had a few hours’ sleep and was going around to the more seriously ill of the women when she heard a noise on the landing a short distance away. She knew Bessie was doing the rounds as well, so at first she took no notice. Then she heard a long wail, rising into a note of sheer terror, and she put down the cup of water in her hand. She excused herself to the languid, feverish woman she was with, and went out into the passage.

Bessie was struggling with a woman called Martha who had come in with severe bronchitis which had seemed to be getting a little better. Bessie was broad and strong, but Martha was young and handsomely built as well, and she seemed to have a remarkable strength. Bessie’s arms were clasped around her in a bear hug; Martha was leaning away from her, her arms free, her fists beating against Bessie’s chest. As Hester took a step towards her, Martha’s right fist caught Bessie in the face and Bessie let go of her with a yell of pain, blood spurting from her nose.

Martha half fell against the wall, banging herself and twisting awkwardly.

Hester started towards her, but Martha scrambled upright again and charged off along the passage towards the stairs.

“Don’t bother wi’ me!” Bessie shouted, grasping her apron to her bleeding nose. “Stop ’er! She’s makin’ a run fer it! She’s got them black swellin’s.”

Hester barely hesitated. Bessie would have to wait; Martha must be stopped, at any cost. She was already at the top of the stairs and lurching down them, still screaming.

Flo came out of one of the other bedrooms and saw Bessie, her face and bosom scarlet. She screamed as well and ran floundering forward towards her.

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