Hester spoke quietly. “The best way I ever found of dealing with it is to stop imagining the details of other people’s lives, particularly the parts that ought to be private, and try to help some of the mess. I’ve made the odd error myself.”
“Well, we’re none of us saints,” Claudine said awkwardly.
Before she could have any further thought the woman on the bed made a dry little sound in her throat and stopped breathing. Hester leaned closer to her and felt for the pulse in her neck. There was nothing. She folded the woman’s hands and stood up slowly.
Claudine was staring at her, her face ashen. “Is she. .”
“Yes.”
“Oh. .” Suddenly, and to her fury, she started to shiver, and the tears welled up in her eyes. She turned on her heel and marched out of the room, and Hester heard her footsteps along the passageway.
Hester tidied the bed a little, then went out and closed the door. She was walking towards Ruth Clark’s room, and from several feet away she heard the voices. They were not loud, but tight and hard with anger. The words were muffled, only one or two distinct. There was something about leaving, and a threat so choked with emotion that the individual words ran into a blur. Only the rage was clear, a pain so intense and so savage that it made the sweat prickle on her skin and her heart pound as if it could reach out and damage her where she stood.
She shrank from intruding. She wanted to pretend she had not heard it at all, that it was some kind of mistake, a momentary nightmare from which she had awoken into reality.
She had not steeled herself to do anything, or even been quite sure what she should do, when the door opened and Mercy came out, carrying a bowl of water and a cloth over her arm. Mercy looked angry and frightened. She stopped abruptly when she saw Hester.
“She thinks she’s better,” she said huskily. “She wants to leave, perhaps tomorrow. She isn’t well enough. . I’m. . I’m trying to convince her.” Her face was pale, her eyes hollow with exhaustion. She looked close to tears.
“I was told she had family coming for her soon,” Hester replied, trying to be comforting. “If they do, then they will look after her. I imagine that’s what she was referring to. Don’t worry about it. She isn’t well enough to leave without someone to care for her, and she must know that.”
“Family?” Mercy said in amazement. “Who?”
“I don’t know.” She was about to add that it was Clement Louvain who had spoken of them, then she changed her mind. Perhaps Mercy had no idea of her brother’s private life, or that of his friend, supposing he existed. “But don’t worry about her,” she said instead. “We can’t keep her here if she wants to leave, but I’ll try to persuade her how foolish it would be.” She looked at Mercy’s drawn face. “She’s a difficult woman. She’s always quarreling with Flo, even accused her of being a thief, and really upset her. Flo’s all kinds of things, and it doesn’t matter. But she’s not a thief and she really cares about that. If someone comes for Ruth, it would be a good thing.”
Mercy stood still. “I’m sorry,” she said very quietly.
“Go and have a cup of tea,” Hester said. “And something to eat. When did you last sit down?” She put her hand on Mercy’s arm. “We can’t help everyone; some people just won’t be helped. We have to do what we can, and then go on to think of the next person.”
Mercy moved as if to say something, then the words died on her lips.
“I know it’s difficult. But it’s the only way to survive.”
If Mercy found any comfort in that, it did not reflect in her face. She nodded, but more as a matter of form than agreement, and went on down the stairs.
The rest of the night passed with little incident. Hester managed to get several hours’ sleep. In the morning she sent Squeaky to the undertaker to have him come and remove the body of the dead woman, then set about making breakfast for everyone able to eat.
Claudine looked tired and withdrawn, but she carried out her duties with slightly increased skill. She even took a dish of gruel up to Ruth Clark and helped her to eat most of it.
“I’m bothered whether I know if that woman’s better or not,” she said when she returned to the kitchen with the dish. “One minute I think she is, then she has that fever back and looks like she’ll not make it to nightfall.” She put the uneaten gruel down the drain and the dish in the sink. “I’ll go down the street and fetch water,” she added through pursed lips. “It’s as cold as the grave out there.”
Hester thanked her sincerely and decided to go up and see Ruth herself. She found her propped up very slightly on the pillows, her face flushed, her eyes bright and angry.
“How are you?” Hester asked briskly. “Claudine says you were able to eat a little.”
A slightly sour smile touched Ruth’s lips. “Better to swallow it than choke. She has hands like a horse, your pinched-up Mrs. Burroughs. She despises the rest of your help, but I daresay you can see that.” A curious, knowing look crossed her face. “Even if you haven’t the wit to see why,” she added.
Hester felt a moment’s chill, an acute ugliness in the room, but she refused to entertain it. “I am not concerned why, Miss Clark,” she replied sharply. “Any more than I care why your lover put you out for some friend to bring to a charity clinic to care for you. You are sick and we can help; that is all that concerns me. I am glad you were able to eat a little.”
“Charity clinic!” Ruth said in a choking voice, as if, had she the strength, she would laugh, but there was hatred in her eyes.
Hester looked at her and saw fear also. “We’ll do our best,” she said more gently. “See if you can rest for a while. I’ll come back soon.”
Ruth did not answer her.
The undertaker came and Squeaky saw to the necessary details, including paying him. It was another strain on their dwindling resources which he complained about vociferously.
Just before midday the rat catcher arrived. Hester had completely forgotten she had sent for him, and for a moment she was so startled she did not recognize his outline. He was thin, a little square-shouldered, only an inch or two taller than she. Then he moved into the light and she saw his wry, humorous face, and the small brown- and-white terrier at his feet.
“Mr. Sutton! You gave me a fright. I’d forgotten what day it was. I’m sorry.”
He smiled at her, lopsidedly because his face was pleasantly asymmetrical, one eyebrow higher than the other. “I guess that these rats in’t too bad then, or yer’d be a day ahead o’ yerself, rather than a day be’ind. But yer look fair wore out, an’ that’s the truth.”
“We’ve got a lot of sick people in just now,” she replied. “Time of the year, I suppose.”
“It’s blowin’ fit ter snow out there,” he agreed. “I reckon as it’ll freeze by dark. Even the rats’ll ’ave more sense than ter be out then. Got a lot, ’ave yer?” He glanced around the kitchen, noting the food bins, the clean floor, the pails of water. “Don’t take no bad feelin’ if you ’ave. Rats din’t mind it warm and tidy, no more’n we do. Bit o’ spilled flour or crumbs an’ they’re ’appy.”
“They’re not bad, actually,” she answered. “I just want the few we’ve got discouraged.”
He grinned broadly. “Wot’d yer like me ter do, miss? I can sing to ’em? That’d discourage anyone. Rats a got very good ’earin’. ’Alf an hour o’ me singin’ me ’eart out, an’ they’d be beggin’ fer peace. Like or not, most of ’em’d be in the next street. An’ yer staff wif ’em.”
Hester smiled at him. “If that were sufficient, Mr. Sutton, I could do that myself. My mother always said I could make money singing-they’d pay me to move on.”
“I thought all young ladies could sing.” He looked at her curiously.
“Most of us can,” she answered, taking a loaf of bread out of the bin and picking up the serrated knife. “Of those of us who can’t, some have the sense not to try, some haven’t. I have, so I still need your help with the rats. Would you like some lunch?”
“Yeah, that’d be nice o’ yer,” he accepted the invitation, sitting down at the scrubbed wooden table and motioning the dog to sit also.
She toasted some of the bread, holding it up to the open stove, piece by piece, on the three-pronged fork, then when it was brown, passing it over to him to set in the rack. Then she fetched the butter and cheese, and a fresh pot of tea.
They sat down together in the warm, candlelit kitchen, and for over half an hour no one interrupted them. She liked Sutton. He had a vast string of tales about his adventures, and a dry wit describing people and their
