Poor Tom Is Cold (8 page)

“I don’t care a frigging toss about your feet. I want to get out of this goddam tub.”

The woman wagged her forefinger. “Nasty words like that won’t get you anywhere except into trouble.”

Peg felt a wave of terror pinch her stomach. This attendant seemed quite kind really but she was like all of them. If you offended, retribution was inevitable. Sometimes it was angry and overt, more often subtle. Small withholdings. Leave her there longer, just fifteen minutes longer in the solitary room. Fifteen minutes that would make the difference between sanity and madness.

She tried to gain back some control. “I’m sorry, truly I am. Please forgive me. I didn’t mean it. I was …”

She was interrupted by her neighbour bursting into sobs again. The attendant nodded over at her.

“Don’t worry about Miss Anderson. She’s quite harmless.”

“Why is she crying like that?”

“She is afraid she won’t go to heaven. She was a missionary most of her life.”

She went over to the white-haired woman and leaned over close to her face.

“Why don’t you sing us another hymn now, Miss Anderson? I do dearly love to hear ‘Waiting by the River.’”

Almost without pause, the woman changed from crying to singing. Her voice was hoarse but the rendition was tuneful, years of habit still strong. The attendant came back to Peg and turned on the taps at the end of the tub.

“Is that better? Do you want it hotter?”

“No, thank you. I’m sorry I was so rude. What is your name please?”

“Trayling.”

“How long have I been in here?”

“In the bath or in the asylum?”

“The bath.”

Trayling consulted the steel watch pinned to her grey apron. Peg noticed the swell of her large breasts which seemed soft even beneath the starched bib. Her sleeve was rolled up past the plump forearm and her skin was freckled and reddened from the water. Peg had to fight hard to keep back a rush of tears. The attendant reminded her of somebody but she couldn’t quite recover the memory. It was somebody who had appeared in her
dreams many times. Familiar yet unidentifiable, like a place you know you must have visited some time in the past, but cannot name. She’d been told a neighbour had delivered her to Dr. Barnardo’s orphanage when her mother disappeared and she thought it might be her she dreamed of.

“You were admitted this afternoon. Dr. Clark thought a bath would calm you and you’ve been in here for two hours. He wants you to stay for at least three.”

She must have seen the fear because she picked up a sponge from a basket beside the tub, and dipping it in a bowl of cool water, she wiped Peg’s brow.

“Best thing is not to fight so. You’ll feel better before you know it.”

“What is going to happen to me?”

“That’s for the doctors to decide. If you act like a good Christian woman, no cussing like you did just now, do what you’re told, and you’ll soon be allowed to go home.”

“And if I’m not good?”

“Then you’ll have to stay in here with all the other lunatics.”

As if in answer, the woman who hadn’t said a word up to now burst into loud laughter. They could hear her splashing her feet in the water. Trayling clucked her tongue disapprovingly.

“Mrs. Stratton, stop that noise. You sound like a heathen if ever I heard one.”

She got up stiffly from her stool, rolled down her sleeve, and started to dry her hands on the piece of holland towelling on the chair. She smiled down at Peg. “I’ll leave you for now. See if you can get some rest.”

She left, her clogs splashing against the water-splattered brick floor.

Peg was so afraid again, she felt nauseated. Her mouth was dry and she wished she had asked for a drink of water. She didn’t want to call again, though. She couldn’t risk using up the goodwill that the attendant was showing toward her. She lay back, her eyes open wide, looking at the ceiling, which was stained with watermarks from the steam. She forced herself to be calm, to think.

Her memories were returning and at first she wanted to shy away from them, to get lost in the fog of the drug.

No! Think. Get it back
.

They’d broken down the door. It had splintered when somebody, Frank probably, wielded an axe. They had all come in, Dr. Ferrier behind them with his black bag. He had talked to her, she remembered that, but she didn’t know how long that had taken. He had turned away to his bag, and when he faced her again, he was holding a syringe. She had screamed and kicked it out of his hand. Then Frank and Peter had held her in the chair and Dr. Ferrier got another syringe.

At that moment, she had stepped out of her body
and stood to one side, watching. The two men holding her were exerting painful pressure and Frank was cursing because she was fighting so. “I must ask you to temper your language,” said the doctor, and she thought what an old-fashioned expression that was. The woman who was struggling to get free was very strong and could easily throw them off if she wanted to but somehow she was being slowed down. She was falling asleep; she was so tired she couldn’t help herself.

If you go to sleep now you will die
, said the separate self. She moved further away from her body as if she were actually floating near the ceiling. She saw the other Peg tied to the chair with some binding the doctor had brought with him. Then they were carrying her downstairs.

Don’t give in. Stay awake
.

But sleep was inviting – safe and irresistible. They were outside. She saw Cullie and was sorry the young servant was afraid. Then she was looking at a tall man in a fur hat and a long coat. He had a dark moustache and his eyes were noticing. The Peg in the chair spoke to him.

Help me. Please help me
.

He was worried. “I’ll help you,” he said, although his lips didn’t move.

“Psst, you, new woman.”

She turned her head to the left. Mrs. Stratton was watching her.

“Yes?” She tried to make her voice friendly.

“Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Mrs. Harold Stratton of Chatham, Ontario. What is your name?”

“Margaret Eakin.”

“Are you married?”

“Yes.”

“Children?”

“Ye-no. That is, I did have a son but he died.”

Mrs. Stratton gazed over at her; her eyes were fierce. “Murdered, was he?”

Peg turned her head away as abruptly as if she had been struck.

“Yes,” she said. “Yes, he was.”

W
EARILY
, M
URDOCH HEADED FOR
Ontario Street and the comfort of Mrs. Kitchen’s parlour. He was cold and hungry, his back ached from walking so long, and the pain in his jaw was all-consuming. Between them, he and Crabtree had questioned virtually every household member on Wicken’s beat, but nothing significant had come of it. Many of the people were familiar with the young constable; some of them were sincerely distressed. One or two of the women wept openly. “Such a nice, polite young man,” cried Mrs. Jackson, who was the cook at a grand house on Gerrard Street. But she hadn’t seen him since the end of the summer when she’d been sitting on the front veranda, it was so scorching that day. “Madam allowed all us servants, even young Eddie, to come outside after evening chores. Very kind it was. The constable went by and we joked at him. He looked so hot, he did, in his uniform.”

Most people tried to be helpful, would have manufactured information if they could, but essentially nobody told him anything new. Nobody other than Mr. Lee had actually seen Wicken or his companion. It was a night when everybody was as snug as they could be in their own houses.

Lamps were lit along the street, the macadam black and slick in the rain. Not for the first time Murdoch wished he were coming home to Liza. Closely following on that thought, however, like a herding dog on the heels of a sheep, was an image of Enid Jones, the young widow who was also a boarder at the Kitchens. Under different circumstances, Murdoch had to admit he would have been paying court to her but she was a devout Baptist, he, a Roman Catholic, although not so devout. Those differences of faith seemed irreconcilable.

He was passing one of the big houses on Wilton Street. The curtains were not drawn and he could see into the front sitting room. Two men, one about his own age, were lounging in their armchairs in front of the fire. They were wearing claret-coloured smoking jackets and he saw them both, in unconscious unison, take a protracted luxurious pull on their respective cigars. The furnishings were opulent and the room was golden from the bright firelight. Murdoch knew the two men slightly, knew they were both lawyers and that the son had joined his father’s firm. He felt a sharp stab of envy. He walked on by, realising it wasn’t the affluence of the men
that he was jealous of, so much as the feeling of security surrounding them and how comfortable they seemed to be in each other’s company. He hadn’t thought about his own father in a while, deliberately keeping his memories as buried as possible, but he wondered if he was even still alive. The life of a fisherman was a dangerous one, after all. However, he assumed somebody would have informed him of any catastrophe.

Murdoch didn’t particularly like his own envy. He’d seen too much of it in his father and had experienced over and over again the man’s rancour, his unrelenting jealousy of his own son. Once again his thoughts flew to Liza. If she had lived they would be married by now, probably with a babe, and he himself would have been struggling with the complexity of fatherhood.

Oh, but I would have wanted it
. The words were so strong in his mind, he thought for a moment he’d said them out loud. At times, his grief at her death seemed as fresh as ever. He looked for her in the women he passed on the street, dreamed of holding her in his arms, dreamed that she wasn’t dead but merely gone away. After those dreams he awoke angry; after the loving dreams he awoke aching.

However, over the past few months he had found himself actively seeking for a sweetheart. He had started dancing lessons, taken to it quite well really, even though his only dancing partner at first was the instructor himself, Professor Otranto, who took the lady’s part.
Then in the summer he’d attended his first mixed class and met a young woman who worked at the music store on King Street. She had seemed most receptive toward him until she discovered he was Roman Catholic. She was Methodist. “My father would disown me. And I’m all he’s got now,” she had said sadly. As a result, Murdoch had given up his dancing classes, reluctant to see her there and be tantalised by what he couldn’t have.

And now, stronger all the time, were his feelings for Enid. Would he change his faith in order to fit with a woman’s? He tried to be honest with himself, sighed, and had to admit, fair or not, he couldn’t see himself doing that. He’d never even set foot in a church other than a Catholic one. In that respect he’d been thoroughly indoctrinated by the priests of his childhood. About time I gave this some thought, he said to himself, again not for the first time. But later, not when his head was pounding, not when the rain had washed all colour from the world, and certainly not on the same day a fine young man had been ripped from life before he’d even lived much of it.

As he approached the house, he experienced a rush of pleasure. The lamps were lit in the front parlour and he knew Mrs. Kitchen would have his supper waiting for him. She prided herself on being a “plain cook,” which meant that the meat was often overdone and the potatoes boiled into tastelessness, but he didn’t mind.
Since he had moved in with the Kitchens three years ago, they had become dear friends. The closest thing to a family he had ever known. He opened the door and entered the narrow hall, also well-lit tonight. He had hardly taken off his hat and coat when his landlady came hurrying out of the kitchen.

“Oh my, what dreadful weather. Come and get yourself warm this minute. The fire’s going in the parlour and your tea is all ready. I’ll bring it right in.”

Murdoch blew on his cold hands.

“I forgot my gloves this morning.”

Then he noticed that the chenille curtains across the rear door were lowered.

He nodded in that direction. “How’s Arthur?”

“A bit poorly. This damp weather is hard for him.”

She took his astrakhan hat from the coat tree where he’d hung it and shook off the rain drops. “I’ve minced up some lamb for you and mashed potatoes. And I’ve boiled up the rutabaga. I thought you’d be glad of soft food. I’m sure that tooth is bothersome. I don’t suppose you’ve had it tended to, have you?”

“I confess I have not. Cowardice won out.”

“I’ll bring you some more clove oil.”

“Thank you, Mrs. K. Can I go and see him?”

“Of course. He’s been brooding too much. See if you can take his mind off things.”

As he lifted the curtain aside, Mrs. Kitchen said, “He asked me to close them, said the draft was bothering
him. Fact is he’s wrapped up tight so I don’t know what it could be.”

The ever-present worry about her husband was close to the surface tonight. Usually, she acted as if he were suffering from a bad head cold that would clear up before long.

She returned to the kitchen and Murdoch went into the room.

Arthur Kitchen was wrapped in a tartan blanket, sitting in his wicker Bath chair. He seemed to be asleep, but at Murdoch’s entrance, he opened his eyes and grinned with pleasure.

“Hello, Will. You’re late tonight. Something happen?”

“I’m afraid so. I’ll tell you about it after my tea.”

They both knew Mrs. Kitchen wouldn’t let them talk until Murdoch had been properly fed. But he valued their chats and both the Kitchens loved to hear about his experiences with what Arthur termed “the fascinating diversity of the criminal strand in the fabric of society.” Arthur almost never went out and certainly hadn’t stirred from home during the entire last six weeks of wet, chilly weather.

“How’s your tooth?”

“Making itself known. You’ve been a bit poorly today, Mrs. K. said.”

Arthur nodded and suddenly coughed. He had a cloth which he held close to his mouth, but Murdoch
could see how much blood he expectorated. There was a fetid odour in the room that not even the bucket of carbolic Mrs. Kitchen had placed in the corner of the room could disguise. The window was closed tonight. Another deviation from the usual routine. Even in the bitterly cold winter months, Mrs. Kitchen had kept the window open in the hope that fresh air would arrest the progress of the disease. She tried out every treatment she heard of and Murdoch couldn’t tell whether it was, in fact, the efficacy of these cures or her desire that had kept Arthur alive this long.