Opening her fingers, Ellie gazed again at the coin now warming in her hand. She could do such a lot with this money: twenty-one shillings – more than she’d ever held in her life, and all hers.
Dora too was gaping. ‘Cor! It’s a blooming fortune! We could really do with that.’
The words brought Ellie’s thoughts back into line. She closed her hand abruptly over the guinea and glared at her sister.
‘No, it’s for Mum. A stone for ’er grave, just a small one. She worked ’ard all ’er life. She wanted respect ’spite all the odds and she never ever got none, not from Dad or Charlie. An’ we all took ’er fer granted. And now she’s gone, taken by pneumonia, which she didn’t deserve, out in all weathers to take ’er work back and collect more, and working all hours God sent just to keep us. It just ain’t fair. Now at least we can show ’er a little bit of respect by her ’aving a gravestone of some sort.’
She bit back a catch in her throat as she spoke, and turned viciously on her sister as Dora pouted, ‘But what about us?’
‘What about us?’ she cried. ‘We’re still here. We’ll fend for ourselves.’
‘What on?’ Dora retaliated, glaring up at her.
‘We’ll manage. But we should at least give Mum something to be proud of. She deserves that much. And if there is a bit left over…’
She suddenly stopped. What was she saying? This money didn’t belong to them. She’d been about to take the doctor’s money – money he’d sent so that he could ease his conscience. Well, she wasn’t going to make it that easy for him.
‘I’m returning this to the doctor – telling him we don’t need his charity.’
‘What?’
‘No, I’ve made up me mind, Dora. Mum never took a penny off anyone she didn’t earn honestly. She certainly wouldn’t want ter start now. So I’ve decided. I’m sending it back.’ Dora was looking at her, horrified. ‘What about us? We could do with the money. And what about Mum’s gravestone?’
‘She’d understand. I know we could do with the money, but I don’t intend ter let ’er standards down now.’
Resolutely she folded the coin back into the note, ignoring Dora’s protests. She would go there this afternoon, be polite but firm and hand it back to him, telling him thank you for the kind thought but she didn’t need it. It would make her feel much better than if she kept it, even if it had promised to be a small bit of salvation to their plight.
Two
Doctor Bertram Lowe glanced up briefly to the tinkle of the front-door bell. Lowering his midday newspaper, he watched the chubby figure of Florrie, his housemaid, hurry past the open door of the morning room to answer it. Her high, youthful, slightly nasal voice rang out.
‘I’m sorry, miss. The doctor’s surgery is closed till two o’clock unless it’s an emergency, and you must go round the back like everyone else.’
‘This is a personal call,’ returned a young voice, pleasantly low, but the accent strongly East End.
‘I’m sorry, miss. Unless you’re a personal friend of the doctor you’ve still got to go round the back.’
‘I need to speak to ’im now.’ The tone was becoming argumentative. ‘It’s a private matter. It ain’t nothing to do with illnesses.’
‘Well, I’m really sorry, love.’ Florrie’s tone had begun to match that of the caller. ‘You must come back at two. The doctor’s not available at any old time. He’s just had his lunch and unless someone’s urgently sick…’
‘No, I need to see him now. Tell him…’
‘Look, miss, if it’s not nothing medical, I’m afraid the doctor can’t help you.’
Bertram glimpsed his wife Mary hurrying past the room. ‘What is it, Florrie?’
‘A young lady, madam. She won’t go away.’
Mary reached the street door. ‘I’m Doctor Lowe’s wife; can I help?’
There was a moment’s hesitation. ‘Would yer give ’im this?’
‘What is it?’
‘He’ll know what it is. I’ve come to give it back.’
Bertram Lowe suddenly recognized the voice. Letting his Manchester Guardian fall to the floor, he got up and lumbered out to the hallway.
‘I’ll deal with this, Mary. I know the young lady.’
The two women withdrew, Florrie gratefully, his wife reluctantly, as he turned his attention to the wan face looking up at him and smiled gently.
Again came that poignant sensation experienced on first seeing the girl. It had struck him how much like his daughter she was. Millicent had been taken from him and his wife eighteen months ago, despite all his efforts. He had tended hundreds of patients in his time yet had been unable to cure his own daughter.
This girl was about the age his daughter would have been now. Though Millicent, enjoying the advantages of good upbringing, had been healthy and robust, her blue-green eyes bright and sparkling until TB had claimed her, wasting away her health while cruelly bestowing on her cheeks that high colour that belied the ravages of the disease.
TB was rife among the poor. Called consumption, or the wasting disease, it could spread like wildfire in any cramped, unsavoury locality. Yet it was no respecter of persons: despite wealth or privilege, with upper- and middle-class people going to great pains to avoid contact with those among whom it played havoc, it could still sneak its way into fine homes.
As a professional man he could hardly avoid contact with those who had it but had done his best to keep his small family from the diseased. Then, five years ago,
