Читать книгу The Way of All Flesh - Ambrose Parry - Страница 12

SIX

arah surveyed the waiting room and observed with a frown that there were a good many patients still to be seen. Dr Simpson’s sudden departure had resulted in an inevitable delay as Dr George Keith, his assistant, was left to deal alone with all those who remained. Sarah liked George, but he was slow and had a tendency to lecture the patients, which she didn’t care for. She wondered if she should request that Dr Duncan come and help but decided it was unlikely. He was always too busy with his experiments, though this was perhaps no bad thing. He had the coldest of manner and seemed better suited to dealing with chemicals than with people.

She much preferred watching Dr Simpson work, but that was a relatively rare occurrence. He mostly saw the well-to-do patients upstairs, where Jarvis had the equivalent to Sarah’s role. To be fair, Jarvis was better equipped to deal with the clientele up above, being seldom cowed by their complaints. He exhibited a healthy disregard for their position in society and as a result was seldom intimidated, browbeaten or lost for words.

Jarvis was a tall man, which made it difficult for others to physically look down on him. He was also very particular about his appearance, carrying himself with great elegance and dignity, and was confidently articulate. Sarah often thought that with a different set of clothes Jarvis could easily pass for a member of the upper orders himself. On one occasion she had seen a gentleman approach the butler, waving a rolled-up newspaper in a rather threatening manner. ‘I have been waiting to see Dr Simpson for more than an hour,’ he had said, ‘which I find to be quite unacceptable. I have come all the way from Jedburgh.’

‘Is that so?’ Jarvis had replied witheringly. ‘The last patient was from Japan.’

Sarah looked again at the sorry assembly littering the downstairs waiting room that was her domain. They were poor-looking souls suffering a variety of maladies that Sarah could often diagnose merely by looking at them. Scrofula, consumption, ringworm and scabies were all frequently in evidence. The sound of coughing and expectoration was so commonplace that she was no longer aware of it, although it was always there.

She sighed as she noticed the time on the clock above the fireplace. There was always so much work to be done and so little time for the pleasures that others took for granted. She patted the books still weighing down her pocket and wondered if she would have the opportunity to open them today.

She was shaken from her musings by the sound of someone coming down the stairs. She looked up, expecting to see Jarvis, but it was Mina.

‘Sarah, I have been ringing the bell in the drawing room repeatedly and no one has answered.’

‘Mrs Lyndsay doesn’t always hear the bell when she’s in the scullery, ma’am.’

That was certainly what Mrs Lyndsay claimed to be the case. The cook insisted that she was deaf in one ear, which was why the bell sometimes went unanswered, but Sarah suspected otherwise. Mrs Lyndsay resented being interrupted when she was cooking.

‘I am in need of tea. I have been struggling with the same piece of embroidery for the past hour. Such a difficult pattern.’

‘Wouldn’t it calm your spirits to be reading a book instead?’ Sarah suggested.

Mina’s expression indicated that this was a notion so self-evident as to be stupid, and was about to explain why.

‘Of course I would rather be reading. I would spend all my days reading if I could. But for reasons passing understanding, embroidery is considered a desirable accomplishment in a prospective wife, and therefore it is incumbent upon me to master it, such is my lot. So for pity’s sake, bring tea or I shall run mad.’

Sarah looked again at the waiting patients. She was unlikely to be called upon to escort any of them to the consulting room soon, as a dependably garrulous old woman had only recently been shown in.

‘I shall bring up some tea directly,’ Sarah said as Mina retreated swiftly back up the stairs with her handkerchief at her nose, evidently having caught a whiff of the waiting room.

Sarah plodded down to the kitchen, wondering if she should ask Mrs Lyndsay about Rose, the Sheldrakes’ missing housemaid. In her time at Queen Street, Sarah had developed a degree of scepticism about the veracity of Mina’s accounts of things. Her stories always contained a kernel of truth but this was frequently obscured by the embellishments she so liberally applied.

The cook was bent over a large pot on the range. The kitchen was filled with a rich, meaty aroma and Sarah’s stomach rumbled in response to it.

‘Game pie is it, Mrs Lyndsay?’

Sarah liked to guess what was on the menu by the smell of it. She had a good nose and was usually correct in interpreting what it told her.

‘The doctor delivered the heir to a great estate last week and received a brace of pheasants and some rabbits for his efforts. Is her ladyship wanting tea?’ Mrs Lyndsay looked towards the ceiling as she said this, indicating that she had indeed heard the bell.

‘Yes. She’s doing battle with a troublesome bit of sewing,’ Sarah said as she filled the kettle.

Mrs Lyndsay chortled, the laughter rippling through her large frame. ‘Still busy upstairs?’

‘There seems to be no end to it today.’

‘Having the new apprentice should help. And then perhaps you will be able to concentrate upon the job you’re actually employed to do.’

‘But I like helping out with the patients,’ Sarah said. ‘It’s the best part of my duties.’

‘That’s as may be, Sarah, but the floors won’t wash themselves. The medical work should be left to those who have been trained to do it. Don’t you think?’

Sarah could see no point in arguing. ‘Yes, Mrs Lyndsay,’ she said with a sigh.

As she placed the teapot and cups on a tray she thought she might risk bringing up the subject of Rose Campbell. As a general rule Mrs Lyndsay disliked gossip, but would often divulge small pieces of information if asked directly.

‘Miss Grindlay says that the Sheldrakes’ housemaid has run away.’

‘Apparently so.’

‘Why would she do such a thing? The Sheldrakes are good people are they not?’

‘Who is to say what happens when the doors are closed and the world’s not watching.’

Sarah waited for elaboration but there was none. Mrs Lyndsay’s aversion to gossip often meant things were referred to rather elliptically.

Any request for further information was curtailed by a very insistent ringing of the drawing-room bell.

‘Best take that up,’ the cook said, indicating the tea tray.

Sarah lifted it and left the kitchen before anything further could be ascertained.

She entered the drawing room, happy that she had managed to navigate stairs and door without any spillage. Mina was propped up on a chaise-longue reading a book, her embroidery discarded on the floor beside her. Mrs Simpson was in an armchair by the window staring at the view outside. She looked pale and tired, her fatigue exacerbated by the black she was obliged to wear.

‘Are there any ginger biscuits?’ Mrs Simpson asked.

‘Yes,’ said Sarah. She was happy that she had anticipated this need – Mrs Simpson frequently suffered with her digestion – though she began to fear she hadn’t brought enough as Mina was already hovering above the tray.

‘Sarah, I wish to go shopping tomorrow,’ Mina said, biting into a biscuit before her tea was even poured.

Sarah groaned inwardly at the prospect. Shopping with Mina was usually a prolonged affair. There was likely to be no time for books today and there certainly would be no time tomorrow.

She had just finished pouring when another bell sounded, the front door this time. She excused herself and exited in time to see Jarvis escorting one of the upstairs ladies into the consulting room.

Sarah trudged down the stairs feeling increasingly irritated. On her way through the hall she passed the lower waiting room, where the same patients (to her mind suffering from more pressing complaints than the ones upstairs) sat listlessly, staring at their shoes.

Sarah opened the door and what little patience she still possessed drained from her. She was confronted by two women who were, without doubt, of the upstairs variety. They were extravagantly dressed in what Sarah assumed to be the latest fashion: ermine-trimmed coats, kid gloves, boots with no mud on them (how did they manage that?), and elaborate hats perched precariously upon their coiffured heads. Compared to those already waiting they seemed to be in robust good health, though one kept dipping her head as if attempting to hide her face beneath her hat. Large, perfectly formed ringlets dipped down below the border of her bonnet. Her hair was the most remarkable shade of red.

‘Is the doctor at home? We should like to consult him,’ said the one with the bigger hat, the less retiring of the two. Her companion’s gloved hand was resting in the crook of her arm and she gave it a reassuring pat as she spoke. Sarah was momentarily distracted by the huge piece of millinery balanced at an improbable angle on her head. There was a profusion of feathers, brightly coloured ribbon and lace. Sarah could imagine magpies nesting in it.

The lady looked at Sarah with disdain, as though she had expected the doctor to answer the door himself and was disgruntled at having to deal with an intermediary. Her gaze was so disapproving that Sarah initially thought she must have something unseemly on her apron to cause such offence. But there had been no contact with pus or blood that morning and a quick look confirmed that her apron was in fact quite clean.

‘I’m afraid the doctor is from home. An urgent visit,’ she said, hoping that this explanation would suffice.

The lady in the bigger hat sighed and turned to her companion. ‘Shall we wait, dear? I think that we shall wait.’

Her companion did not respond.

Sarah took a deep breath and explained that there were already more patients waiting than could reasonably be seen upon Dr Simpson’s return, thinking while she did so that she might have been better fetching Mr Jarvis to deal with this.

Both ladies now looked at her as though she was being deliberately obstructive. Did they think she was lying about the doctor’s absence and the waiting patients?

The lady with the large hat looked down her aquiline nose and spoke firmly. ‘My dear girl, I am sure we can be admitted. Take my name. Dr Simpson knows me!’

Sarah looked back at the accumulated mass of human misery already installed in the waiting room. There were almost as many upstairs too.

‘Madam, Dr Simpson knows the Queen,’ she said, then closed the door.