moment expressive of his utter contempt. “They have a hundred prevarications, but they all amount to the same thing. They don't care enough!”
“What excuses?” Enid demanded. “What could there possibly be? People are dying, scores of people, and it could be hundreds before it's over. It's monstrous!”
Hester had spent nearly two years as an army nurse. She was used to the workings of the institutional mind. No local authority could be worse than military command, or in her opinion more stubborn or totally fossilized in its thinking. Callandra's late husband had been an army surgeon; she too was familiar with ritual and the almost insuperable force of precedent.
“Money,” Kristian said with disgust. He looked up and down at the length of the now-scrubbed warehouse with satisfaction. It was cold and bare, but it was clean. “To build proper drains would add at least a penny to the rates, and none of them want that,” he added.
“But don't they understand…” Enid began.
“Only a penny…” Callandra snorted.
“At least half of the members are shopkeepers,” Kristian explained with weary patience. “A penny on the rates will hurt their business.”
“Half shopkeepers?” Hester screwed up her face. “That's ridiculous! Why so many of one occupation? Where are the builders, the cobblers or bakers, or ordinary people?”
“Working,” Kristian said simply. “You cannot sit on the council unless you have money, and time to spare. Ordinary men are at their jobs; they cannot afford not to be.”
Hester drew in breath to argue.
Kristian preempted her. “You cannot even vote for council members unless you own property worth over one thousand pounds,” he pointed out. “Or rental of over one hundred a year.
That excludes the vast majority of the men, and naturally all the women.”
“So only those with a vested interest can be elected anyway!” Hester said, her voice rising in fury.
“That's right,” Kristian agreed. “But it helps no one to waste your energy on what you cannot change. Rage is an emotional luxury for which we have no time to spare.”
“Then we must change it!” Callandra almost choked on the words, her frustration was so consuming. She swung around to stare at the empty barn of a place, tears of impotence in her eyes. “We should never have to fill something like this with people we can't save because some damnable little shopkeepers won't pay an extra penny on the rates for us to get the sewage out of the streets!”
Kristian looked at her with an affection so naked that Hester, standing between them, felt an intruder.
“My dear,” he said patiently. “It is very much more complicated than that.
To begin with, what should we do with it? Some people argue for a water-carried system, but then it has to empty somewhere, and what of the river? It would become one vast cesspool. And there are problems with water. If it rains heavily may it not back up, and people's houses would become awash with everyone's waste?”
She stared at him, as much of her emotion drinking in his face, his eyes, his mouth, as thinking of the bitter problem. “But in the summer the dry middens blow all over the place,” she said. ““The very air is filled with the dust of manure and worse.”
“I know,” he replied.
There was a noise on the staircase. Mary returned with an undersized little man in a shiny hat and a jacket several sizes too large for his narrow shoulders.
“This is Mr. Stabb,” she introduced him. “And he will rent us two dozen pots and pans at a penny a day.”
“Each, o' course,” Mr. Stabb put in quickly. “I got a family to feed. But me ma died o' the cholera back in forty- eight, an' I wouldn't want as not ter do me bit, like.”
Hester drew in her breath to bargain with him.
“Thank you,” Callandra said quickly, cutting her off. “We'll have them immediately. And if you know of any other tradesman who would be prepared to assist, please send him to us.”
“Yeah,” Mr. Stabb agreed thoughtfully, his face failing to mask a few rapid calculations.
Further deliberations were prevented by the arrival of several bales of straw and canvas sheets, old sails and sacking, anything that might be used to form acceptable beds, and blankets to cover them.
Hester left to set about procuring fuel for the two potbellied black stoves, which must be kept alight as much of the time as possible, not only for warmth but in order to boil water and cook gruel, or whatever other food was obtainable for anyone who might he well enough to take nourish- ment. Typhoid being a disease of the intestines, that might not be many, but if any survived the worst of it, they would need strengthening after the crisis. And fluid of any sort was of the utmost importance. Frequently it was what made the difference between life and death.
Meat, milk and fruit were unobtainable, as were green vegetables. They might be fortunate with potatoes, although it was a difficult season for them. They would probably have to make do with bread, dried peas and tea, like everyone else in the area. They might find a little bacon, although one had to be very careful. Frequently meat of any sort came from animals which had died of disease, but even then it was extremely scarce. In most families it was only the working man who had such luxuries. It was necessary for everyone's survival that he maintain as much of his strength as he could.
Patients were brought in over the next hours, and indeed all through the night, sometimes one at a time, sometimes several. There was little even Kristian could do for them, except try to keep them as clean and as comfortable as possible with such limited facilities, to wash them with cool water and vinegar to keep the fever down. Several quite quickly lapsed into delirium.
All night, Hester, Callandra and Enid Ravensbrook walked between the makeshift pallets carrying bowls of water and cloths. Kristian had returned to the hospital where he practiced. Mary and another woman went back and forth emptying the ironmonger's buckets into the cesspool and returning. At about half past one there was some easing and Hester took the opportunity to prepare a hot gruel and use half of one of the bottles of gin to clean some dishes and utensils.
There was a noise in the doorway and she looked up to see Mary come limping in carrying two pails of water she had drawn from the well in the next street. In the candlelight she looked like a grotesque milkmaid, her shoulders bent, her hair blowing over her face from the wind and rain outside. Her plain stuff dress was wet across the top and her skirts trailed in the mud. She lived locally and had come to help because her sister was one of those afflicted. She set the pails down with an involuntary grunt of relief, then smiled at Hester.
“There y'are, miss. Bit o' rain in 'em, but I s'pose that don't 'urt none.
Yer want them 'ot?”
“Yes, I'll add them to this,” Hester accepted, indicating the cauldron she was stirring on top of one of the potbellied stoves.
“Were it like this in the Crimea?” Mary asked in a husky whisper, just in case some poor creature should be sleeping rather than insensible. “Yes, a bit,” Hester replied. “Except, of course, we had gunshot wounds as well, and amputations, and gangrene. But we had lots of fever too.” “Think I'd like to 'ave bin there,” Mary said, stretching and bending her back after the weight of the water. “Gotta be better than 'ere. Nearly married a sol'jer once.” She smiled fleetingly at the memory of romance. “Then I went and married Ernie instead. Just a brickie, 'e were, but sort o' gentle.” She sniffed. “ 'E'd a' never made the army. 'Is legs was bad. Rickets Wen 'e were a kid. Does that to yer, rickets does.” She stretched again and moved closer to the stove, her wet skirts slapping against her legs, her boots squelching. “Died o' consumption, 'e did. 'E could read, could Ernie. Captain o' the Men o' Death, 'e called it. Consumption, I mean. Read that somewhere, 'e did.” She eyed the gruel and lifted one of the pails to pour in a gallon of water to thin it.
“Thank you,” Hester acknowledged. “He sounds special.”
“'E were,” Mary said stoically. “Miss 'im I do, poor bleeder. Me sister Dora wanted to get out of 'ere. Never thought it'd be in a coffin, leastways not yet. Not that there's many as gets out ter anythink much different. There were Ginny Motson. Pretty, she were, an' smart as yer like. Dunno wot 'appened to 'er, nor were she went, but up west somewhere.
Real bettered 'erself, she did. Learned ter talk proper, an' Wave like a lady, or least summink like.”
Hester refrained from speculating that it was probably into a brothel. The dream of freedom was too precious to destroy.
“Reckon as she got married,” Mary went on. “'Ope so. Liked 'er I did. D'yer want more water, miss?”
“Not yet, thank you.”
