Come along now, Timmy, and don't you be scratchin' again.”
Douglas leaned back in his chair, running his hands through his thick hair as the door closed behind his patients. He looked at the penny on the table, then scooped it into the palm of his hand and dropped it into a tin box. It made a hollow
clink
as it joined the very small group of its fellows at the bottom.
A baby wailed from beyond the surgery door and Douglas pushed back his chair to go and call in his next patient.
It was a long and as always frustrating evening. He couldn't help everyone; so many of his patients suffered from the intractable ailments of poverty, and while medicine could help, he couldn't lay hands on sufficient free medicine for everyone in need. He was bone-weary as he locked up and headed for home.
Home was a lodging house on the Cromwell Road. The usual smell of boiling cabbage and fish heads greeted him as he stepped into the dark, narrow hallway and closed the door.
His landlady popped her head out of the kitchen. “'Evenin', Dr. F. You're late. I 'ope the fish is not dried up.”
“So do I, Mrs. Harris, so do I,” the doctor murmured, heading for the stairs. “I'll be down in a minute.”
“'Tis all laid out in the parlor for you,” she said. “A nice piece of bream, it is.”
“Or was,” murmured the doctor, mounting the linoleum-covered stairs.
“Should I send our Colin to the Red Lion to get a jug o' mild-and-bitter for you, Dr. F?” the landlady's voice drifted up the stairs after him.
Douglas contemplated dried-up bream and the inevitable mashed potatoes and soggy cabbage, accompanied only by water, and dug into his pocket. He returned downstairs and handed Mrs. Harris a threepenny piece. “A pint, if you please, Mrs. Harris.”
“Right y'are, Dr. F.” She ducked back into the kitchen and shouted for her son.
Douglas went upstairs to take off his outdoor clothes. The bathroom, usually occupied by the tenant from No. 2, was free for once. He washed his hands and face, combed his hair, and went down for his supper.
He chewed his way through the bream, which was as dried-up and flavorless as he'd feared, and opened the letter from his mother. Folded within the five pages was a bank draft for one hundred pounds. The attached note said, “I'm sure you must have some good cause that could benefit from this. Fergus says it's due you from the trust.”
Douglas folded the draft and put it in his breast pocket. Fergus was the family banker and he was not in the habit of pressing hundred-pound drafts on his clients, even if the trust in question was a substantial one, which this one most certainly was not. It had been set up by Douglas's father for his son's education, and Douglas was well aware that very little now remained in it. There was very little loose change in the Farrell finances. His mother was well provided for. His sisters all had husbands who were comfortably situated, but they also all had children. Douglas was to have kept himself and a suitable Society wife in proper style by continuing his father's practice.
He drummed his fingers on the stained tablecloth, the memory of Marianne once again rising in his mind. By giving up the lucrative practice in favor of a slum clinic that absorbed all his personal finances, he had lost Marianne, the prospective suitable Society wife, and effectively reduced himself to penury, although he did his best to hide the latter fact from his overly solicitous mother. Not too successfully, it would seem, judging by the bank draft. It was typical that she had couched the gift in such terms that he couldn't possibly refuse it.
He turned to the letter itself. It was five pages covered with her tiny handwriting, full of news of his sisters and their various progeny, of the antics of their neighbors, of whom his mother in general did not approve, the whole interlarded with advice as to the well-being of her youngest born, who also happened to be her only son.
Douglas took
Douglas leaned back in his chair, running his hands through his thick hair as the door closed behind his patients. He looked at the penny on the table, then scooped it into the palm of his hand and dropped it into a tin box. It made a hollow
clink
as it joined the very small group of its fellows at the bottom.
A baby wailed from beyond the surgery door and Douglas pushed back his chair to go and call in his next patient.
It was a long and as always frustrating evening. He couldn't help everyone; so many of his patients suffered from the intractable ailments of poverty, and while medicine could help, he couldn't lay hands on sufficient free medicine for everyone in need. He was bone-weary as he locked up and headed for home.
Home was a lodging house on the Cromwell Road. The usual smell of boiling cabbage and fish heads greeted him as he stepped into the dark, narrow hallway and closed the door.
His landlady popped her head out of the kitchen. “'Evenin', Dr. F. You're late. I 'ope the fish is not dried up.”
“So do I, Mrs. Harris, so do I,” the doctor murmured, heading for the stairs. “I'll be down in a minute.”
“'Tis all laid out in the parlor for you,” she said. “A nice piece of bream, it is.”
“Or was,” murmured the doctor, mounting the linoleum-covered stairs.
“Should I send our Colin to the Red Lion to get a jug o' mild-and-bitter for you, Dr. F?” the landlady's voice drifted up the stairs after him.
Douglas contemplated dried-up bream and the inevitable mashed potatoes and soggy cabbage, accompanied only by water, and dug into his pocket. He returned downstairs and handed Mrs. Harris a threepenny piece. “A pint, if you please, Mrs. Harris.”
“Right y'are, Dr. F.” She ducked back into the kitchen and shouted for her son.
Douglas went upstairs to take off his outdoor clothes. The bathroom, usually occupied by the tenant from No. 2, was free for once. He washed his hands and face, combed his hair, and went down for his supper.
He chewed his way through the bream, which was as dried-up and flavorless as he'd feared, and opened the letter from his mother. Folded within the five pages was a bank draft for one hundred pounds. The attached note said, “I'm sure you must have some good cause that could benefit from this. Fergus says it's due you from the trust.”
Douglas folded the draft and put it in his breast pocket. Fergus was the family banker and he was not in the habit of pressing hundred-pound drafts on his clients, even if the trust in question was a substantial one, which this one most certainly was not. It had been set up by Douglas's father for his son's education, and Douglas was well aware that very little now remained in it. There was very little loose change in the Farrell finances. His mother was well provided for. His sisters all had husbands who were comfortably situated, but they also all had children. Douglas was to have kept himself and a suitable Society wife in proper style by continuing his father's practice.
He drummed his fingers on the stained tablecloth, the memory of Marianne once again rising in his mind. By giving up the lucrative practice in favor of a slum clinic that absorbed all his personal finances, he had lost Marianne, the prospective suitable Society wife, and effectively reduced himself to penury, although he did his best to hide the latter fact from his overly solicitous mother. Not too successfully, it would seem, judging by the bank draft. It was typical that she had couched the gift in such terms that he couldn't possibly refuse it.
He turned to the letter itself. It was five pages covered with her tiny handwriting, full of news of his sisters and their various progeny, of the antics of their neighbors, of whom his mother in general did not approve, the whole interlarded with advice as to the well-being of her youngest born, who also happened to be her only son.
Douglas took
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