Little Bones (12 page)

‘But how can he do that, sir?’

The doctor, his voice now so low Jane had to hunch across the papers on his desk, told her that Mr Treble would be supplied with a large phial of tincture, which he would then pour into the girl’s morning coffee.

‘When the pains begin, she will think she is ill, or miscarrying, and Mr Treble will send for us. We will try to save the child, but alas, like many other infants born months too soon, the poor little scrap will perish.’

‘It will?’ Unconsciously, Jane put her hand to her throat.

‘Mr Treble is a very big name in the theatre world,’ the doctor said. ‘A rising star. You have seen him at work. You have seen the enormous pleasure he gives to hundreds at the theatre every night. You can only imagine what would happen to his fledgling career, his reputation, his very livelihood, if word of this gets out. And if it does get out, you know what I would think?’

‘Sir?’

‘I would think that you, Miss Stretch, had broken your very solemn oath, and blabbed to all and sundry.’

‘I would not do that,’ she said, feeling small and lightheaded. ‘I would not break my oath and tell anyone.’

‘And I believe you.’ When the doctor took hold of the teapot, his hands were shaking and Jane felt better for it. ‘We shall have ourselves another cup,’ he smiled. ‘Sugar?’

*

‘It’s spring. The sun is out, the weather is turning, and in its honour I have a new sign,’ said Ned. ‘What do you think?’

Taking a few steps back, Jane pretended to study it. ‘Believe in the Lord,’ she read. ‘Well, it’s certainly to the point.’

Unhooking his sign, which was already slightly battered, they sat side by side on a bench by the Cock. Jane liked his company. She liked the easy way they talked, as if her bones didn’t matter.

‘The doctor, he pays you all right?’ Ned asked.

‘He pays me nothing at all,’ she told him honestly, ‘though I do get bed and board, and sometimes a patient, or Mrs Swift will push some coins into my hand. A girl gave me sixpence this morning.’

‘Why?’ he grinned. ‘Did she think you were a beggar?’

Jane blushed. ‘No,’ she said. ‘The girl was grateful because I was good to her, mopping all her sickly mess with no complaints.’

‘Lovely.’

The bench was sheltered. The sun felt warm. Men with bleary eyes tripped into the doorway of the Cock. Jane watched gangs of flower girls, the way they walked along the gutter, their shoulders slumped, laughing, whispering, and she wondered what it would be like, working with flowers.

‘Do you know any flower girls?’ she asked.

Ned scratched his head. He pulled a dandelion from the edge of the cobbles and proceeded to tear it apart. ‘My sister once sold violets, though she was never fond of the outdoor life, or the singing of “violets, sweet violets”, and so now she burns her fingers moulding wax ornaments.’

‘I’d like to work with flowers,’ said Jane, suddenly seeing herself surrounded by daisies, roses and frilly edged carnations, all scented, and not one of them clawing her arms, though the roses may scratch now and then.

‘What about your doctor?’ said Ned, wiping the squashed yellow mess from his fingers. ‘Fond of a drink is he? I saw him the other day, sliding all over the place he was. Lord, I wouldn’t feel any better with him at my sickbed, all glassy eyed and stinking of the booze.’

Frowning, Jane looked at the men already heading into the tavern. She had noticed the doctor now kept a small bottle of whisky in his bag, and by the end of the day it would almost certainly be empty.

‘It’s the work I don’t like,’ she admitted. ‘I can’t get it out of my head.’

‘Death and gore?’

‘Something like that,’ she said.

Leaving Ned, she watched the flower girls plunging their arms into greenery, their eyes glazed with purple-phlox headaches and the endless monotony, and though some of them were chatting in pale strips of sunlight, most of them were working, hunched across their crates. Jane wondered if they did this in
their
sleep. Did their torn pink hands pick across the blankets? Did they dream of yellow buds and cutting twine? Of the wedding orange blossom, the cold white lilies of the mourning party, the jaunty scented buttonholes of the men-about-town, who wouldn’t look at a flower girl twice?

‘Miss Stretch!’ The apothecary smiled, making a face of mock surprise. ‘Is it Friday already?’

‘No, sir,’ she said, feeling guilty, because Friday was the day she usually collected their supplies, and today was only Wednesday.

‘The doctor must be a very busy man.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘People will always need doctors,’ he said. ‘And then doctors will always need chemists.’

‘Are you a chemist, or an apothecary, sir?’ asked Jane.

‘“Apothecary” has such a nice old-fashioned ring to it,’ he told her. ‘Don’t you think?’

The shop was full of coloured glass. There were shelves of white jars. High, scalloped mirrors. Standing in a pool of oily light, Jane handed him the note and watched him move behind the counter. She felt sick. She could hear the Frenchman humming. A picture of a thin green snake hung next to framed and sealed certificates. The light fittings shivered and Jane glanced towards the ceiling.

It was common knowledge: the apothecary had a beautiful young wife, Claudine, who spent her days in the rooms above the shop, the windows open wide whatever the weather, the air full of garlic and rich
spicy
sausage. She sang French songs to her little fat canary. She wore fine silk scarves and gold embroidered slippers.

‘Here.’ The Frenchman handed Jane a small white package. He looked serious. ‘Be careful,’ he told her. ‘Please.’

‘Careful, sir?’

‘What I meant to say is, don’t drop it,’ he smiled.

Clutching the small paper bag, she stepped onto the street, and turning the corner she looked back up at the window, where a birdcage held a fluttering of yellow, and behind it Claudine was moving her hands, her eyes tightly closed, dancing.

Jane felt relieved, and in all honesty more than slightly thrilled to find Mr Treble waiting in the corner of the coffee shop. He looked quite inconspicuous in a plain black overcoat. He had the collar up and his head pulled down. If Jane hadn’t been looking for him in particular, she might not have known he was there.

‘I ordered you a cup,’ he said, looking up. ‘Do you drink coffee?’

‘Yes, sir.’

He laughed quietly, showing his perfect white teeth. ‘You don’t have to call me sir. Mr Treble will do.’ Then after taking a sip of his coffee, he looked somewhat abashed. ‘I didn’t mean it,’ he said. ‘My name’s Johnny. You must call me Johnny.’

‘I thought your show was very good,’ she whispered, in case talk of the theatre might attract some attention. ‘Thank you for the ticket.’

He lifted his head properly now, his hair almost free
of
that sticky dark pomade. A strand fell over his forehead, his eyes the colour of peat. ‘Did you? Did you really like it?’ he said. ‘Mind you, with all this blasted trouble I was hardly at my best. You’ll have to come again when this rotten mess is over. Then you’ll see how good I really am.’

‘The audience would never have guessed,’ she told him honestly. ‘They thought you were wonderful.’

‘Wonderful?’ He looked sad for a moment, circling a teaspoon around the fine white rim of his cup. He closed his eyes. ‘Then perhaps they’re easily pleased,’ he said.

Jane’s coffee tasted bitter. Her hands were shaking so badly, a fierce brown storm was crashing into the saucer.

‘Have you brought the medicine?’ he asked.

Reaching into her pocket she pulled out the small paper bag.

His eyes widened. ‘Is that it?’

‘Yes.’

‘Really?’

She nodded.

‘It just looks very small,’ he said. ‘Like nothing.’

Pushing it carefully into his own pocket, Jane could hear him breathing heavily. His hands on the table looked soft, like they’d never really been used.

‘Does your lady friend take sugar in her coffee?’ she asked.

‘Sugar?’ he said. ‘I don’t know. She might do.’

‘You see, I’ve been told it’s very bitter, and if she doesn’t take sugar, then she’ll taste it.’

He frowned. ‘Really? I must remember that.’

The shop was overheated and it suddenly felt hard work, sitting opposite Mr Treble, talking.

‘I don’t want to hurt her,’ he said suddenly. ‘But I suppose I’m going to, aren’t I?’

Jane looked away.

‘Girls,’ he said. ‘They kill you.’ He watched Jane as she kept her eyes on the street outside, then leant forward. ‘Do you know something?’ he said. ‘Almost everything in my life is a lie. Half the time I don’t know whether I’m coming or going. I’m not a cockney. I was born in Reigate of all places. My name isn’t Treble, it’s Simpson. Oh, I do work hard, and I like being popular with the ladies, show me a man who doesn’t, but the truth is, the only girl I’ve ever really loved went and married somebody else.’

‘I’m sorry.’

He smiled. ‘I’ve never told anyone that before, but I like talking to you. It’s easy, because what with you being a cripple you’re not after anything else – I mean, they all want a piece of me, have you noticed that? And I was rotten to you the other day. I behaved very badly and I’m sorry.’

‘I have to go,’ she told him.

‘Of course you do,’ he said, tapping at the phial now sitting in his pocket. ‘Tell me, does it always work?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then it’s my reprieve,’ he said.

That night, lying in bed, she could hear an unsteady pattering of rain falling onto the roof tiles. Her face felt very cold, and the words of Johnny’s song kept going through her mind.
I wonder where she is, I wonder
what
she’s doin’?
Underneath the blankets she pressed her hands together and closed her eyes tight.

‘Dear God in heaven and St Jude,’ she whispered, ‘please let Mr Treble change his mind.’

*

The waiting gave her stomach ache. The doctor had said she should stay at Gilder Terrace, and in due course a boy would be sent with a message. Mr Treble and his lady friend were staying at a modest hotel in Clerkenwell, and when his friend became sick, he would call for them.

‘I must go to Axford Square,’ he said, clumsily buttoning his overcoat. ‘It’s a simple enough case, and I shan’t be gone too long. If I’m not back in time, you’ll have to fetch me from there, so walk quickly. Remember, when we get to the hotel, I am a perfectly ordinary medical doctor. If she needs to take more tincture, then the tincture is a medicine, and we are trying to make her better. Understand?’

Jane now sat in the kitchen while Alice swept around her feet. The floor was awash with cake crumbs and lentils. The house was always a mess, Edie said, because they were paid next to nothing, and the Swifts didn’t care. ‘Where is the doctor anyway?’ said Edie.

‘Axford Square,’ Jane told her.

‘Another girl? They’re all mad if you ask me – oh, the boy will say he loves them more than his own true heart, or his mother, which always gets a fast result.’

‘I’d rather die,’ said Alice.

*

The doctor returned at lunchtime, though it was almost three o’clock before the messenger arrived, a thin rake of a boy, a dirty red cap squashed between his hands.

‘Yes?’ said Jane, trying her best not to look too concerned.

‘Didn’t you hear me shouting?’ the boy panted. ‘The doctor’s needed. It’s urgent.’

‘Where?’

‘The Dragon Hotel, Clerkenwell. It’s off Leather Lane, a big place on the corner, you can’t miss it, a lady’s there and very sick.’

‘I’ll tell him straight away.’

The doctor appeared in the hall, carrying his bag. ‘Here,’ he said, pressing a few coins into the boy’s sweaty hand. ‘I’ll be there as soon as I can.’

‘The name’s Lincoln,’ he said, as if he’d only just remembered. ‘Room 28.’

Jane suggested a cab, but as the doctor was quick to point out, a cab would mean yet another person knowing where they were.

They walked quickly at first, the doctor chewing a peppermint to hide the scent of whisky on his breath. For the first time that year the air almost felt humid, and after twenty minutes walking Jane began to envy the horses being watered at the roadside.

When they arrived in Leather Lane, the doctor suggested they pause for a moment outside the hotel in order to compose themselves. ‘Get your breath back,’ he ordered, dabbing a handkerchief across his own beaded forehead. After only a couple of minutes, he looked remarkably unruffled. ‘Remember what we are
here
to do,’ he said. ‘And you must do as you are told, without any question.’

The hotel was a sprawling, shabby hostelry. The painted dragon emblazoned on its gable end was peeling green scales across the pavement. When they reached its open yard, the doctor stopped at a small pile of rubbish, picking out a boot box.

‘A boot box, sir?’

‘Just take it,’ he said, pushing it roughly into her hands.

Jane’s knees dipped as they approached the reception desk, where a man was busy hunting for a key. Instead of waiting, the doctor nodded towards a painted arrow, and they followed it past an empty dining room, up three creaking stairs, and down another corridor to Room 28.

‘Leave the box out here,’ the doctor whispered, taking off his hat and running a hand through his rough springy hair. When he knocked on the door, Jane’s heart jumped with the raps of his knuckles, which he then rubbed across his coat when Mr Treble answered.

‘What took you so long?’ he hissed.

The room was stifling and airless. Mr Treble, his shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows, his braces dangling, led them to a woman sitting in a giant double bed.

‘You are not my doctor,’ she said, alarmed. ‘Where is Dr Grey?’

Smiling, Dr Swift put down his bag and held out his hand. ‘I’m Mr Treble’s personal physician,’ he explained. ‘He sent for me.’

‘Sent for you?’ Frowning, the woman looked at Mr Treble, who was pacing near the window. ‘But Johnny, I particularly asked for Dr Grey, he knows my
situation
, he knows everything. Eugene Grey is my doctor.’

Mr Treble looked annoyed. ‘Dr Swift was nearer and available,’ he said. ‘He’s a good doctor. The best.’