Shining Threads (67 page)

‘Nay, tha’ musn’t, lass. Not until Doctor Salter ses tha’ might.’

‘So it’s Doctor Salter who is keeping me away now, is it? I thought it was Will who was giving the orders on where I may or I may not go. What’s going on here, Annie?’
She threw off Annie’s restraining hands, barely stopping in her stride, turning heads in the counting house as she stalked by the clerks at their tall desks, Annie at her heels. Neither of
them had taken the time to put on a bonnet and as they reached the yard the sweltering sun struck savagely on their uncovered heads. Tessa called to the stable boy to tell Thomas to fetch round the
carriage and all the while Annie was reaching for her, shouting above the clamour of the yard that she was not to go, that Will would be furious, that Doctor Salter would blame her if she brought
Mrs Greenwood where it really wasn’t necessary for her to go. There were a dozen other good reasons why Tessa should stop right here, or better yet, get on home to her husband.

Tessa swung round to face her, still holding the pretty parasol, making no attempt to put it up to protect her white skin from the sun’s rays.

‘What are you trying to save me from, Annie? Why is it that suddenly I’m not allowed to visit Ashton Lane? Why can’t I see for myself these people who have been struck down by
something which may or may not be fever, which may or may not be scarletina, or measles? What is there that . . . that Will . . . Dear God, it’s Will, isn’t it? He doesn’t want me
to . . . to see what? Tell me what it is he doesn’t want me to see?’

‘Nay, lass, don’t. I give ’im me word . . .’

‘To do what, Annie?’ All the while the terror grew and grew within her, threatening to crush her heart and freeze the blood in her veins. ‘Tell me the truth, Annie. You might
as well because, whatever you say, I shall go to Ashton Lane and find out. As soon as the carriage comes I mean to go there, or the infirmary, or wherever Doctor Salter and Will are, and find out
whatever it is you’re keeping from me.’

‘Tha can’t, lass. Doctor Salter won’t let thi . . .’

‘
Won’t!
Doctor Salter has no authority over me, Annie Beale, and neither have you. See, here is the carriage. Now, will you come with me or will I go alone?’

She climbed into the carriage, nodding at Thomas who helped her in, giving him instructions to drive her to the old Clegg warehouse in Ashton Lane. Annie sat beside her, saying nothing, for what
was the use?

It was the stench which hit her first, the foetid, appalling air, so hot it lay thickly against her skin. It was dim in that first moment and she could not make out what it was that retched and
gasped and groaned and cried out as she moved beyond the open doorway which led from the warehouse yard to the ground floor of the building.

The room was crowded with iron bedsteads, cots, even mattresses laid out on the bare floor. Some sort of attempt had been made to keep the beds separate from one another but to Tessa it seemed
that it was impossible to get from one side of the room to the other without stepping on the prone figures that crowded it. There were men and women, children, tiny and silent, others writhing and
vomiting, and moving from one to another was Doctor Salter and half a dozen women, some of whom she recognised from her own recently opened pin-heading factory.

‘Dear, sweet Jesus,’ she whispered. ‘What is it . . . ?’

‘Now yer ’ere, lass and thy’ve seen it, yer might as well know. Dr Ellison reckons it’s cholera.’

‘
Cholera!
Oh, dear God . . .’

‘Aye.’

‘But what is being done about it?’

‘There’s not much can be done ’cept let it run its course. They’re tryin’ ter keep ’em separate from . . . the rest. There’s none o’t suspects
gone to’t th’infirmary since weekend. Authorities ’ve bin informed an’ all them ’ouses in’t back o’ Jagger Lane, where it began, ’ave bin limewashed
an’ t’bodies an’ all.

‘Dear God, why was I not told?’

‘What good would that a’ done?’

‘I could have . . . helped . . .’

‘’Ow, lass? Tha’ knows that ’usband o’ thine wouldn’t let yer come ’ere ’elpin’ out. I wanted to mesen but . . . I were persuaded I could do
more good in other quarters . . . as you can.’

‘Where is Will, Annie?’

Annie’s disjointed words dried up abruptly and she put a hand on Tessa’s arm as she began to move forward into the packed mass of suffering humanity. Flies buzzed lazily over a pool
of excrement which dripped on to the floor from the cot of a quiet child and Tessa knew quite definitely that the child was dead. There was vomit on the blankets which covered the shivering,
sighing bodies and bluebottles gorged there, but still Tessa pressed on.

‘Where is Will, Annie?’ She knew if she did not find him soon, if she did not see his tall, dependable, strong and beloved figure bending over some bed she would run, screaming his
name, into the warehouse yard. She could feel the panic, the horror, the dread, the awful, awful fear fill and expand her lungs until she knew they would burst. She could feel it rise in her
throat, threatening to choke her. She wanted to cry out his name, shout his name at the top of her voice, but Annie had her by the arm, struggling to drag her back from the appalling, writhing
misery.

‘Tell me where he is, Annie.’

‘No, lass, tha’ can’t. He asked me ter keep thi away.’

‘Where is he, Annie? Take me to him or, by God, I’ll search every bed in this place until I find him.’ And Annie, perhaps with the picture in her mind of the elegant Mrs Drew
Greenwood handling every stinking, shivering body in the makeshift hospital in her search for Will Broadbent, led her to him.

He had been put in a corner beneath a window which someone, with a decent attempt at cleanliness had tried to wipe over. He lay on his back, his unfocused gaze on the high ceiling. His short
hair lay limply to the shape of his head and his face was grey and withered. A blanket covered him and his large hands plucked at the wool, bony somehow, the flesh already burned away, as it was
from the rest of his big frame, by this disease which could kill a healthy man in twenty-four hours. He muttered and mumbled, his head turning towards her as she bent over him, though he
didn’t know her, then away again as he heaved convulsively in a great spasm of vomiting.

‘Will . . . Will . . . Oh, Lord God . . . Will . . .’ She reached for his hand and from behind Annie tried to stop her from touching him but she sank down beside his bed, oblivious
to the stench which came from him, her hands smoothing his forehead and cheeks. ‘Oh my dearest, what . . . ?’

‘Dear God in heaven, woman, what d’you think you’re doing? Get away from that man, Annie Beale, and who in hell’s that . . . ? Goddammit, woman, have you no more sense
than to touch that man? Oh, Mrs Greenwood, I beg your pardon, but would you come away from my patient? Do you not realise how . . . how unwell he is and how dangerous . . . ? You could take the
illness with you . . .’

Doctor Salter, his young face old and hard and lined, tired beyond endurance, dragged quite forcibly at her shoulder, not caring any more for the niceties of their differing social position in
his desperation to get her, not only from the dying man in the bed, but from this hospital. But she struck his hand away, bending, incredibly, to place her lips on the man’s brow.

‘Mrs Greenwood!’ This was not, of course, the time for amazement at Mrs Greenwood’s behaviour, though that was incredible enough. He simply could not cope with
visitors
,
for God’s sake, in the midst of this catastrophe which had come upon the town of Crossfold. ‘Please, Mrs Greenwood, this man needs attention . . .’

She rose crisply, no hint of the soft anguish she had just displayed lingering in her decisive manner.

‘Which he shall have, Doctor Salter, but not here.’

‘I don’t understand you, Mrs Greenwood, and I’m afraid I have not the time to stand and discuss it with you. As you can see, I am an extremely busy man.’ He waved his
exhausted hand in the direction of the dozens of people who lay about them awaiting his attention.

‘Which I shall help to alleviate at once, Doctor Salter.’

‘I cannot imagine what you mean, ma’am, so if you will excuse me.’ He began to turn away but she had not yet done.

‘What nursing does this man need, Doctor Salter? Is there anything special in the way of . . .’

‘No, ma’am. All we can do is try to make their passing a little easier . . . more comfortable . . .’

Her face spasmed in horror and he relented somewhat. ‘Go home, Mrs Greenwood. There is nothing you or Miss Beale can do here. It will run its course, this . . . fever, and you are needed
and can do so much more elsewhere. We are deeply grateful for all the help you have . . .’

‘Thank you, doctor, but I have done nothing. Now, if you could find me some men . . . you have men to carry the patients in, I presume? . . . Good, then if you would be so kind as to fetch
them, and my coachman . . . no . . . very well, I suppose it would not be fair to ask him to risk himself . . . some blankets which I will replace, naturally. I shall take Mr Broadbent to . . . oh,
no, not to Greenacres, there are children there, but to the home of my good friend, Miss Beale. I intend to nurse Mr Broadbent myself, Doctor Salter.’

‘Tha can’t do this, Tessa,’ Annie said, all the way back to the cottage at Edgeclough.

Her face was like stone.

‘I am doing it, Annie.’ She held his mumbling, tossing head in her lap, drawing the blankets more closely about his heaving shoulders though the sun’s heat struck fiercely even
through the carriage top which Thomas had put up.

‘Tha can’t do it, lass. Doctor Salter said . . .’

‘I heard what he said and it appears to me that Will had just as much chance, more, of . . . of surviving in your cottage than he has in that stinking . . .’

‘Tha knows what I mean, Tessa.’

‘No, I don’t, unless it is that you do not want us in your house. I’m sorry, Annie, I had not thought. The fever is infectious, dangerous, I suppose, and Will could bring it
with him.’

‘Now then, madam.’ Annie’s voice was sharp and biting. ‘Don’t tek that tone wi’ me. Will . . . an’ thissen are welcome in my ’ouse whenever tha
wants, illness or no. I told thi that years ago, but it’s thi ’usband an’ family I’m thinkin’ on. Tha knows ’ow it’ll look ter folk, Mrs Drew Greenwood
nursin’ a man who was once overlooker in ’er family’s own mill. It does look a mite strange, don’t tha think?’

‘You’ll be there, Annie, to safeguard my reputation, if that’s what concerns you.’

But it was clear to Annie that Tessa was not really listening to what she was saying. She bent over the delirious man, her face no more than six inches from his foetid breath, her arms holding
his head to her breast, supporting him on the carriage seat. Her face was strained and pale and her eyes enormous in her anxiety. She stroked his cheek and murmured his name, soothing him,
whispering to him that they were almost there, my darling, telling him that soon he would be in a clean bed and she would give him a sip of soup, broth to keep up his strength, and soon, soon he
would better. She had not the slightest notion of what she was taking on, Annie could see, believing naively that once had Will away from that dreadful place, which surely had been doing him no
good at all, he would begin to recover. A warm bath, a hot drink and a good night’s sleep: wasn’t that the remedy for all the illness Tessa Greenwood had yet seen in her life and
wasn’t that what she would give to her love, Will Broadbent, her attitude said? Annie knew that Drew Greenwood was away from home on one of his frequent visits to his autocratic and
privileged friends. Was it shooting, fishing or just some drunken debauch which they got up to with such regular monotony? She didn’t know or care. She only knew that when he came home and
found his wife had taken the carriage to Edgeclough with the intention of helping to nurse Mr Will Broadbent, a director on the Chapman’s own board, he was not likely to be charitable about
it.

They got him out of the carriage and up the stairs to Annie’s bedroom with the help of Thomas who couldn’t stand by and see his mistress and her strange friend struggle with a sick
man, whatever he was supposed to have.

‘You must go home now, Thomas,’ Mrs Greenwood said crisply, ‘and tell them I shall stay here for a day or two to help Miss Beale nurse her . . . friend. Mr Broadbent has no one
at his own home to . . . to look after him, you see, so we shall keep him here until he has recovered. Now then, here is a list of the things I . . . we shall need. See that I . . . we have them
within the hour.’

And Thomas had driven home to Greenacres as though the devil himself sat in his carriage, declaring to the ring of fascinated servants who, thankfully, were not aware of the growing epidemic in
the town, nor of Thomas’s involvement with one of its sufferers, that Miss Tessa had taken leave of her senses, really she had. There would be holy war when
he
came back from his jaunt
to Cheshire and found her gone!

They bathed him first with cooling water, stripping him naked on Annie’s plain bed which had known the weight of no man. Together, without embarrassment, they performed the intimate task
of cleansing every part of his body as he mumbled and fretted under their hands, knowing neither of them. They dressed him in a nightshirt which had come from Greenacres, watching with dismay as it
was stained with the thin contents of his bowels. They changed him, and the bed linen, again and again since he had no control of his bodily functions and they were both obsessed with the need to
make him as comfortable as they could. The boiler in which Annie washed her own garments was never taken off the fire and on Annie’s clothes-line in the strip of yard at the back of the
cottage, sheets and blankets hung limp and unmoving in the humid heat.

‘Tha’ll ’ave ter leave ’im naked,’ Annie said wearily, as she watched Tessa shake out the last dry nightshirt, ready to drag it over Will’s head.
‘’E don’t know any difference an tha’s only tirin’ thissen over what don’t matter.’

‘But the sheets?’