Long Acre Page 3

  ‘I know, my love, I do know! I yearn, I truly yearn for such a gown as that one there. You see? The lady standing there waiting for the crossing sweeper to make way for her —’

  She brightened then. ‘We could be much more distressed, you know. Suppose we were crossing sweepers! Then indeed we would be bereft!’

  They both watched the scrawny little boy who looked to be no more than twelve, going by his height, though he had the wizened and resigned face of a man five times his years, at his bruised and blood-spattered legs — for clearly the wagon and cart drivers saw no harm in whipping out at the little creatures who dodged among the traffic trying to clear a clean way for the gentry to pass — and at the few pitiful rags that clung to his bony frame. And then Fenton said sharply, ‘You can be real dumb, Amy! How can you compare us with that sort of creature? They are not people — it is these others we have to look at. The ones with rich houses and so much money that these goddam shopkeepers come crawling out on their bellies to get ‘em into their shops to spend it. There has to be a way to part some of ‘em from enough cash to set me up — there just has to be. I’m sure as hell not going to go on as we are much longer —’

  Amy tucked her hand into his arm. ‘No, love, of course not,’ she said soothingly again, and suddenly felt very old and tired and lonely, for her voice had sounded in her own ears the way her mother’s voice had been used to sound when she spoke to Fenton. All the years of worrying about Fenton, of deferring to Fenton, of putting Fenton in the first place — where had they led her poor mother, after all? She had died barely three years after her fortieth birthday, exhausted and frightened for her beloved son’s future welfare, thinking only of him. And what care had Fenton given to her death? Hardly any.

  Amy remembered suddenly, standing there in the middle of the pavement in the Strand in London, how she had sat beside her dead mother’s bed in the old frame house in Boston with tears blotching her face, and how Fenton had come creeping in and stared down at the face on the pillow, so still and grey, and had said softly, ‘Amy — what is happening?’

  ‘Oh, Fenton,’ she had said huskily, ‘Dear Fenton, you must be strong — poor Mamma — she has died, my dear one, she has left us —’

  And he had lifted his head and stared at her with his eyes bright and sparkling, yet quite blank, and said in a tight hard voice, ‘We are on our own, then! We are on our own. And must take care of ourselves —’

  She shook herself a little. It had been a long time since she had allowed herself to remember that afternoon, how for the first time in all her life she had looked at her adored brother and found him wanting. She had managed to persuade herself she had imagined it, that exultant note she had thought that she had heard, that he had in fact been expressing the same grief that she had felt, and had closed her mind to the memory of his glittering eyes with a firm determination never to think of it again. And yet, now, three thousand miles away from Boston and many many months away from that time, it had all come back to her —

  Perhaps it was because she was so abstracted that it happened; perhaps it was because she was tired — for worrying and fretting always made one weary — or perhaps it was because she had been weakened by her hunger. Whatever the cause, she obeyed Fenton’s irritable twitch on her arm and stepped forwards to the pavement edge to set out on the crossing to the other side where lay the jeweller who displayed the three brass balls of promise outside his establishment.

  And instead of doing as she had learned to do on her very first day in London, and looking to the right to see what traffic was bearing down upon her, she behaved as she had always behaved at home, and looked to the left. And seeing nothing approaching, had stepped out confidently.

  Quite what happened then she was never able to remember with any clarity. She heard shrieks and shouting and a terrifying clatter and rattling of hooves and wheels coming at her from her other side, and turned her head and saw with a sudden intense clarity a horse rearing high above her. Its hooves were flailing in the air, its great leather-strapped belly seemed to be about to come down to crush her, while its teeth, hugely yellow in its wide open mouth, looked as vast and as menacing as gravestones.

  She screamed and tried to pull back, but then she felt herself pushed forwards with enormous strength and had to go that way, almost falling as her feet scrabbled against the cobbles, and finally losing her balance so that she went sprawling in the middle of the roadway.

  The screams and shouts went on, and she turned her head, stunned and bewildered by it all, and managed to scramble to her feet and stand with her eyes closed, swaying as she tried to regain her equilibrium. And then she opened them and looked, and her eyes widened and she heard a scream coming from somewhere very near.

  There, lying on the ground almost under the wheels of the wagon to which the horse was harnessed, lay Fenton. His face was white, with one cheek incongruously streaked with mud, and his eyes were half open and quite, quite blank, so that he seemed to be staring into depths unknown. One leg was stretched out awkwardly to one side and the other — the other was bent in a most unnatural way, and the fabric of his trousers was so ripped away that the strong muscular curve of the outer side of his thigh could be seen — but it was the lower part of his leg upon which her gaze was fixed. Bent horribly in the middle of the shin and with a great wound stretching almost from ankle to knee, it was pouring blood, and already a little pool had formed on the cobble stones, making them gleam redly in the reflected light from the shops.

  It was then that she realized that the screaming she could hear was coming from her own throat.

  CHAPTER THREE

  ‘You are very kind, sir. You are very kind,’ she said again, and sat back on her haunches, and rubbed her face with one hand, unaware of the streak of mud she left upon one pale cheek. And the young man kneeling beside her looked at her and in spite of his anxiety about his patient, lying there on the cobblestones before him, felt a twinge of admiration. This was a handsome young woman, by gad, he told himself. Quite remarkable handsome.

  ‘It is my pleasure, ma’am,’ he said formally, and looked down again at Fenton. ‘Indeed it is. I think, you know, that we have stopped the bleeding. It was that which most alarmed me. He has not lost more than is reasonable, thanks be — there, you see? He regains his senses —’

  He leaned forwards and set his hand on Fenton’s forehead and said softly, ‘There, there, old man — take it easy, will you? You are safe enough now, I promise you —’

  Fenton’s head turned a little restlessly on the fabric of the coat someone had bunched up and set under his head and he blinked as his gaze cleared, and he saw Amy, leaning over him with her face white with anxiety and shock. ‘You dumb cluck — damn near killed yourself —’ he murmured, and Amy’s face crumpled and she burst into tears.

  ‘Oh, Fenton, my dear, dearest one, you saved my life, you truly did, and your poor leg — your leg is all cut, and it is all my fault —’

  ‘No, do not fret yourself, ma’am,’ the young man beside her said, and looked up at the crowd of people standing staring with great interest at the little group in the middle of the road. ‘Is someone fetching a shutter? Good — there, you see, ma’am?’ He turned back to Amy. ‘There is help coming to transport your — er — this gentleman to the hospital, where I can promise you —’

  Her eyes darkened with fear, and she turned to stare at him. ‘The hospital? Oh, no — surely not! Why, if he goes to a hospital he will never — oh, no — please not, sir. He needs much care and —’

  The young man shook his head and ventured to put out his hand to pat one of hers reassuringly. ‘Please do not distress yourself, ma’am. The hospital to which I wish to take you is Queen Eleanor’s. It is an excellent establishment, and —’

  ‘That’s right, missie!’ A voice came out of the crowd of eager starers, who were pressing so close they threatened to quite overwhelm the three of them, down there on the cobblestones. ‘There ain’t nowhere so good as
Nellie’s — you’ll be all right there, you and yer ‘usban’ — don’t you fret —’

  ‘Fenton is my brother,’ she said absently, still staring at the young man, whose countenance lifted unaccountably at her words. ‘Is it true, sir? Is this a good place? I know so little of such matters. Except that at home, hospitals —’ she shivered.

  ‘Indeed, it is true,’ the young man said. ‘No one likes to be ill and in hospital, of course, but Nellie’s — Queen Eleanor’s — is indeed a suitable place for a gentleman like your brother to be — I can promise you that.’

  ‘You know it well?’ Her anxiety was still piteous, and she looked down again at Fenton, who had slipped into a half faint, half sleep, and she put out her hand to touch his forehead, to reassure herself that he was all right, and was comforted when he turned his head away fretfully and muttered.

  ‘I am a surgeon of Queen Eleanor’s,’ the young man said, and his voice took on a note of importance. ‘My name is Foster, ma’am. Graham Foster, at your service.’

  ‘Oh, Dr Foster, how glad I am to make your acquaintance!’ She put out a hand towards him in a touchingly formal gesture. ‘You have indeed been a good Samaritan to us — I am deeply indebted to you, sir, for your friendship —’

  ‘Er — thank you, ma’am — er — I am Mr Foster, in point of fact, ma’am, since I am a surgeon and not a physician, you know. Or to be quite precise, will be. I am still in the last year of my studies, you must understand, but confidently expect to be admitted to the Royal College at the end of the year — I am a pupil of Mr Abel Lackland, you see, and —’

  ‘Well, you are a very remarkable surgeon, sir, whether you have completed your studies or not, so to have saved my brother from bleeding to death, as I am sure you must have done but for you — I thank you most gratefully —’

  ‘My pleasure, ma’am,’ Foster said gruffly and got to his feet as the crowd surrounding them shifted, and then separated to allow two men carrying a shop shutter between them to come to the side of the little group in the road. ‘Now, we must take great care — if someone will perhaps lend me his shoulders — aye, you’ll do —’

  There was a little bustle as two of the gawpers came forward and, with Foster carefully instructing them, helped the shutter bearers to lift Fenton, who woke and swore and then seemed to faint again as his leg was moved, on to the rigid slatted board.

  Amy, her face whiter than ever, clung to one of Foster’s arms, at which he made no demur whatever, and then as the man slowly lifted the shutter with Fenton on it she ran forwards, and pulling her cloak from her back laid it tenderly across him. And then, walking as close beside the shutter as she could, and with Foster on its other side, they made their way to the side of the road, and the starers, the spectacle over, drifted away, and the traffic once more began to rumble over the patch of bloodstreaked cobbles where Fenton had lain.

  Amy gazed back over the road and saw the clock over the jeweller’s shop to which they had been making their way, and marvelled, for barely ten minutes had passed since she had looked the wrong way and set her foot into the roadway, and now here they were, she shivering and mud spattered, and Fenton lying on a shutter with one leg heavily bandaged. And she shook her head, and tried to speak but all that came out of her lips was a silly giggling sound.

  She turned her head and looked at Foster who seemed to understand, for at once he came round the shutter to stand beside her and set his arm about her shoulders, and she turned her head and laid her face against the rough fabric of his coat and wept hugely and bitterly.

  ‘Come along now, come along, my dear Miss — er — please to come along,’ he murmured, and jerking his head at the two men carrying Fenton, set out towards the streets behind the Strand where the hospital lay, and Amy, almost unaware of what was happening, so deep in her distress was she, allowed herself to be led along with Mr Foster’s arm firmly holding her against his swelling chest.

  The next hour was a nightmare. The journey through the narrow streets with passers-by staring and jostling them, the climb up the steps that led to the hospital, and the noise and smell of the place as they made their way through echoing stone-floored corridors was bad enough; but the hubbub and horror of the casualty ward was even worse.

  They had lifted Fenton from his shutter, a manoeuvre which made him cry out in agony as his leg was awkwardly moved by one of the bearers, and set him down on a table in the middle of a big room vividly lighted with big gas flares and so full of people and noise and movement that Amy felt almost dizzy at it all. There were rows of benches upon which sat grey-faced men and women and haggard children, and there were young men in heavy black frock coats who bustled about and looked important, and women in sober print gowns and unbleached calico aprons, their hair tied up in severe mob caps, hustling the people on the benches, shouting instructions at each other, and generally adding to the hubbub. Threading through it all were the moans and groans and shouts that came from the people who lay on tables similar to the one upon which Fenton had been put, and who were being attended by the men in frock coats; and overlying all that was the smell — of unwashed humanity, the reek of beer and gin, of mud, and a thick sweetish cloying odour that she knew instinctively was blood. And she closed her eyes and felt her throat tighten with nausea and wished she could sink into the same oblivion in which Fenton lay.

  But then there was a sudden hush and the babble of voices became subdued and she opened her eyes and looked up and saw that standing beside Fenton was a tall old man wearing a very stained frock coat. He had a face that seemed to have been cut out of solid wood, so deep were the crevasses that divided his cheeks, and so sharp were the lines between his narrow green eyes. He had very white hair that swept back from his forehead in a thick springing mane, and his expression was tight and watchful. Looking at him, Amy was aware suddenly of a feeling of authority, the sort of feeling she had been used to experience when she was in the presence of her Cabot and Fenton uncles. When she had been with them this had made her irritable and truculent, for it had always seemed to hem her in, to make her a smaller and lesser person. But this man’s authority conveyed to her only comfort, a secure sensation, a feeling that here was someone who knew all the secrets of the world and could make her feel happy again. And she sighed tremulously and let her shoulders slump a little.

  A man standing beside the tall white-haired one looked up, almost as though her small movement had called his attention to her, and glanced at her sharply. He was a stocky man, clearly much younger than the man he accompanied, being perhaps in his later thirties, and his head was crowned with as thick a crop of red hair as the white thatch beside him, and suddenly she wanted to giggle, and bit her lip hard. She was not going to give in again to the great wave of hysteria that had swept over her earlier, and which had left her shaking and ashamed.

  The old man was bending over Fenton now, and with very tender fingers was unwrapping the bloody bandage which covered his leg; Fenton whimpered suddenly, and like a flash Amy left the bench where Foster had set her, and ran to stand at Fenton’s head.

  The old man looked up and stared at her from under his heavy white brows. ‘Who might she be, then?’ he said gruffly, and his voice seemed to match his face, so hard and dark in tone was it.

  ‘Er — she is the sister of the patient, sir.’ Foster spoke timidly but with some resolve from his place on the other side of the table, and looking at him Amy realized suddenly just how young and unsure of himself he was. But he stood now with his eyes bright and determined and a rather mulish expression on his face. It was almost as though she could read his mind; she knew that he was thinking that this was his patient, and no one, not even this clearly very important man, was going to take him away.

  ‘I was walking in the Strand and saw the whole affair, sir. This young lady, who is clearly a newcomer to London, stepped into the road under the hooves of a carrier’s horse, and her brother, sir, was very gallant and pushed her out of danger and thus sustained his
own injury.’

  He lifted his chin as the old man stared at him, his eyebrows raised, and shakily but with some resolution, Foster went on. ‘I recalled your teaching, sir, about the importance of preventing too great a loss of blood, and set a tourniquet to the injured leg, and —’

  ‘Humph! Did you so!’ the old man said, and bent his head again, quite ignoring Amy. ‘I hope you thought to take it off again, then. For if you did not he’s lost his leg as sure as eggs —’

  Amy’s hand flew to her mouth and she cried out in horror, and the old man looked up at her and said harshly, ‘If you are going to stand there and squeak, madam, then you can go elsewhere to do it, for I will have no truck with screaming women.’

  ‘I am not screaming!’ she retorted sharply, her distress receding under a wave of anger, and she lifted her chin at him and he smiled, a thin sardonic little flicker of a smile, and said, ‘Aye, I thought you’d more meat on your bones than was to be seen at first sight. You are from America, I collect?’

  ‘And what is wrong with that?’ Amy said, sharply. The sense of security had gone now, and she felt once again that she was faced with a dry-as-dust authoritarian old broomstick of just the same sort as her uncles, and was not going to tolerate from this one what she had always had to put up with from her mother’s relations.