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Authors: Rita Bradshaw
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were back at the surgery and shortly afterwards bowling through the snowy roads in the good doctor’s horse and trap.
The scene which met their eyes at the cottage was fractionally better than earlier in as much as the farmer’s wife had been true to her word and sent a good supply of logs and a sack of coal, along with another sack containing a whole ham, fresh milk, eggs and some other foodstuffs which were spread out on the table by the window. However, in spite of the roaring fire now blazing in the range the two rooms were still cold, and when Doctor Turnbull walked through to the bedroom, after a cursory glance at the drawer, his voice was sharp when he turned to Peggy – ensconced in front of the fire with her shawl pulled tight around her and her arthritis deepening the wrinkles of pain on her face – and said, ‘How long, exactly, has she been like this?’
Peggy shrugged wearily. ‘The bairn gave her a bowl of broth once she’d cleaned her up just gone midnight, but after that. . .’
The doctor glanced at the golden-haired child standing just within the bedroom, her brother perched on her hip, and his voice was tinged with the sense of failure and frustration he always felt in such situations when he said, ‘You looked after your mother, did you? That’s a good girl. You were quite right to give her the broth, she needed something inside her to fight the fever.’
‘Is . . . is me mam goin’a be all right?’
‘Of course she is.’ It was too hearty, and as Doctor Turnbull’s eyes met those of Dan – who was standing by the front door – he swallowed deeply, moderating his tone as he added, ‘But not for a few weeks I’m afraid. Do you think you can take care of her?’
Connie nodded vigorously. Of course she could. It was her mam, wasn’t it!
‘I’ll give you some medicine for her, and you carry on giving her the broth several times a day, eh? And milk. Lots and lots of milk.’
Hark at him. Lots and lots of milk. Peggy’s thoughts were bitter. And where would the money come from for this milk and broth he was rabbiting on about? That’s what she’d like to know. The doctor was a good man, oh aye, she’d give him that, but he lived in a different world to half his patients, and wasn’t that the truth. When had he and his good wife ever been so desperate for coal that they had sent their bairns out following the coal carts for the loose pieces of coke which rolled into the road when the wheels of the carts bumped and shook? Bairns as young as three and four darting under the wheels at risk of life and limb, and dragging their sack home at the end of the day, often with lacerated, bleeding feet.
And how often had they seen the inside of a pawn shop? Aye, she’d like to know the answer to that one. When she’d been a bairn, come Monday morning, regular as clockwork, anything worth pawning would be wrapped in a parcel and taken to the pawn for a few pennies to see them through the week. If they’d been lucky it might be out on the Friday night, but by the end of the weekend the whole scenario would be repeated.
And she dare bet he didn’t get his fruit down at the market like some of a Saturday night, scrabbling under the stalls and in the gutter for dirt-encrusted, mouldy bits that were perhaps all they’d eat that day. No, his maid would go out to see the fruit man in the back lane when he called, choosing this and that and having it on account most likely. And would one of his bairns be down the mines from as young as seven or eight? Twelve it was supposed to be, legal like, but who could afford to take notice of the law when it was either sending the bairns out for any work they could get or the workhouse?
And now here was her bonny lass, as near death as dammit. The gates of the workhouse were opening in front of Peggy’s eyes and filling her with dread. But her Sadie wouldn’t die, not now, not with the doctor to see to her and the
The scene which met their eyes at the cottage was fractionally better than earlier in as much as the farmer’s wife had been true to her word and sent a good supply of logs and a sack of coal, along with another sack containing a whole ham, fresh milk, eggs and some other foodstuffs which were spread out on the table by the window. However, in spite of the roaring fire now blazing in the range the two rooms were still cold, and when Doctor Turnbull walked through to the bedroom, after a cursory glance at the drawer, his voice was sharp when he turned to Peggy – ensconced in front of the fire with her shawl pulled tight around her and her arthritis deepening the wrinkles of pain on her face – and said, ‘How long, exactly, has she been like this?’
Peggy shrugged wearily. ‘The bairn gave her a bowl of broth once she’d cleaned her up just gone midnight, but after that. . .’
The doctor glanced at the golden-haired child standing just within the bedroom, her brother perched on her hip, and his voice was tinged with the sense of failure and frustration he always felt in such situations when he said, ‘You looked after your mother, did you? That’s a good girl. You were quite right to give her the broth, she needed something inside her to fight the fever.’
‘Is . . . is me mam goin’a be all right?’
‘Of course she is.’ It was too hearty, and as Doctor Turnbull’s eyes met those of Dan – who was standing by the front door – he swallowed deeply, moderating his tone as he added, ‘But not for a few weeks I’m afraid. Do you think you can take care of her?’
Connie nodded vigorously. Of course she could. It was her mam, wasn’t it!
‘I’ll give you some medicine for her, and you carry on giving her the broth several times a day, eh? And milk. Lots and lots of milk.’
Hark at him. Lots and lots of milk. Peggy’s thoughts were bitter. And where would the money come from for this milk and broth he was rabbiting on about? That’s what she’d like to know. The doctor was a good man, oh aye, she’d give him that, but he lived in a different world to half his patients, and wasn’t that the truth. When had he and his good wife ever been so desperate for coal that they had sent their bairns out following the coal carts for the loose pieces of coke which rolled into the road when the wheels of the carts bumped and shook? Bairns as young as three and four darting under the wheels at risk of life and limb, and dragging their sack home at the end of the day, often with lacerated, bleeding feet.
And how often had they seen the inside of a pawn shop? Aye, she’d like to know the answer to that one. When she’d been a bairn, come Monday morning, regular as clockwork, anything worth pawning would be wrapped in a parcel and taken to the pawn for a few pennies to see them through the week. If they’d been lucky it might be out on the Friday night, but by the end of the weekend the whole scenario would be repeated.
And she dare bet he didn’t get his fruit down at the market like some of a Saturday night, scrabbling under the stalls and in the gutter for dirt-encrusted, mouldy bits that were perhaps all they’d eat that day. No, his maid would go out to see the fruit man in the back lane when he called, choosing this and that and having it on account most likely. And would one of his bairns be down the mines from as young as seven or eight? Twelve it was supposed to be, legal like, but who could afford to take notice of the law when it was either sending the bairns out for any work they could get or the workhouse?
And now here was her bonny lass, as near death as dammit. The gates of the workhouse were opening in front of Peggy’s eyes and filling her with dread. But her Sadie wouldn’t die, not now, not with the doctor to see to her and the
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