‘What’s the doctor said?’
Briony shrugged. ‘Not a lot. Just that her nerves are not all they could be. She drinks port wine every day for her blood and eats plenty of liver, once more for her blood, and takes a lot of rest. In fact, she ain’t got out of bed this last three weeks. I reckon she should be made to have a walk or something. The room stinks of her. I know that’s horrible but it’s a bitter smell. It’s in her sweat, I think.’
Mariah grimaced.
‘I’ve heard her talking to herself and all. That’s how she was before, when it all started. She’s definitely out of her tree. I don’t know what’s going to happen once the child comes. I’ll look after it, and she’ll have to go back to Sea View, I suppose. I feel like shaking her sometimes, telling her to pull herself together, but of course, I don’t.’
Mariah sighed softly.
‘It must be hard, Briony.’
‘It is. Watching someone you love going down hill by the day, and unlike the doctor I don’t think it’s the pregnancy that’s making her ill. I remember her as she was before. It’s a symptom, but not the whole reason, if you know what I mean. I don’t think the pregnancy’s helping, but I think she wants to die. Honestly, that’s the conclusion I’ve come to.’
Mariah got up and put her arm around her little friend’s shoulders.
‘You can’t know that, Bri. No one wants to die.’
Briony smiled grimly.
‘I know Eileen. She’s weak, God love her, and too much has happened to her. She ain’t like us, Mariah. She’s different. Highly strung, me mum calls it. “Sensitive” the doctor calls it. I call it plain and simple nuttiness. She’s as daft as a yard brush, and that’s the truth of it. I only hope this nun coming will snap her out of it for a while.’
Sister Mary Magdalene cast a shadow over the house for the first few hours after her arrival. Everyone, including Briony, was watching their language, watching what they spoke about, and all were acting completely out of character. Kerry was terrified the nun would find out Liselle was illegitimate, Molly was terrified she’d find out Briony owned brothels. And Bernadette had told a rather subdued Marcus that he couldn’t stay with her while the nun was under their roof. Cissy took to curtsying at her every time she laid eyes on her, Mrs Horlock avoided her like the plague, and only Eileen acted natural around her. Natural only in the fact that she was the same as she was every day, except she smiled every now and then at the young nun.
Sister Mary Magdalene, for her part, felt the different tensions in the house but was more concerned for Eileen, who looked dreadful. The doctor visited every day, she knew, and was the best money could buy, and yet Eileen looked like a dead person already. Her face was covered by thin stretched skin, and her bones protruded through it. Her stomach was huge, a great lump that made her arms and legs look painfully thin in comparison. Even her hair looked dead, no lustre or sheen on it. Her blue eyes were flat, the colour of slate. They moved in her head slowly, as if the action was painful. The nun started praying within minutes of walking into Eileen’s bedroom.
Later, as she sat down to eat with Kerry, Bernadette and Briony, she said: ‘This is a lovely piece of beef. I like good food. Though I suppose I shouldn’t, being with the Sisters of Mercy!’
Briony smiled at her. She had a wonderfully soft voice, an Irish lilt that held authority and carried without her having to raise it.
‘How do you find Eileen, Sister Mary Magdalene?’
The young nun flapped her hand at Briony.
‘Sister Mary will be fine, or just plain old Mary. I was lucky, my name was already Mary. We’ve a nun at Sea View called Sister John the Baptist! Now that’s a mouthful, and she insists on it all as well. Behind her back, I call her JB.’
Bernadette and Kerry laughed, scandalised.
Briony smiled.
‘You haven’t answered my question, Mary?’ It felt strange to address a nun thus and Briony wasn’t at all sure she liked doing it.
‘Shall I tell you the truth? I think she’s dying.’
Hearing the words so plain, so true, threw Briony. She dropped her fork with a loud clatter on to the parquet flooring of her dining room.
‘Well, you did ask. I’ve never seen a person so ill-looking in all my life. God love her, she’s had more than a body can cope with.’
Bernadette put down her cutlery. Kerry just sat staring at the tiny Irish nun. She was sure the sister was about to get a slap across her wimple from Briony for daring to say such a thing.
Briony stared as well. She held back her natural urge to give this chit a piece of her mind because she knew the girl was merely stating a fact, a fact Briony also knew to be true. Instead she said, ‘I’ve thought that myself. Tell me, Mary, what can we do? What can we do to make her better?’
The little nun finished chewing her piece of beef and said truthfully, ‘All we can do is pray. Pray that the child’s safely delivered. We don’t want to lose them both, now do we? If she survives the birth, then I think she’ll be fine. But there’s not an ounce of meat on her, and worst of all she’s lost the will to live. You only have to talk to her to realise that. Who’s been emptying her chamber?’
Kerry looked startled at the question and said, ‘I have, we all have, why?’
‘She’s sicking up her food, I’ve seen it before. Is the chamber covered with a cloth or paper?’
‘Of course it is, we ain’t going to walk round with a big Richard, are we!’ Bernadette’s voice was high and Kerry kicked her under the table.
‘I thought as much. She’s been emptying her stomach after every meal. That’s why she’s no weight on her. I only hope the child’s been nourished properly.’
Briony licked dry lips. All along she had guessed at something like this.
‘I make sure she drinks her milk and her port wine. I give her that myself. The doctor also prescribed a tonic, she takes that regularly. She has warm milk with honey in it before she sleeps, and one of us sleeps in the room with her so she must be keeping that down.’
The little nun nodded.
Bernadette started to cry.
‘Don’t you be crying now. We’ll all work together to get her over the birth. I’ll stay up at nights with her, as well as during the day, and we’ll see she can’t get rid of any more food. She’ll have to keep it down if we’re watching her, won’t she? Then, once she’s safely delivered, we’ll see about getting her properly well. So she can look after her child.’
Briony nodded. ‘Maybe the baby will give her the will to live again?’
The nun nodded and cut herself another slice of beef. ‘I’m starving! Look at me, eating like a battalion!’ She carried on eating her meal, but didn’t answer Briony’s last question because she didn’t want to say out loud what she really thought.
It was the child that was killing Eileen Cavanagh.
Jonathan la Billière and Rupert Charles were enjoying themselves immensely. Kerry was up on stage belting out a fast number, the club was buzzing. Everywhere people were chatting, dancing or drinking. The air was thick with cigarette smoke, and the atmosphere was genial. Jonathan and a young lady called Helen were holding hands. On the left of Jonathan was Rupert and his amour Peter Hockley, also holding hands. More than a few people who saw them gave a second glance in their direction. Peter was wearing make-up: his eyes were lined with kohl and his lips stained ruby red. He had on a man’s suit and open-toed sandals with his toenails painted the same colour as his lips. The effect was startling.
Jonathan was drunk, and quite oblivious of the stares they were gathering. His film
The Changeling
had been a success. He was now famous and many people gave him a second look. Now that Hollywood was calling, this was his farewell party, given by Rupert for his old friend. Everything had been provided by him, including the young and attractive Helen. Now Jonathan was out of his head, on a mixture of cocaine, brandy and champagne that made him ignore the stares and jibes around them.
Peter jumped from his seat, a cigarette in a gold holder dangling from limp fingers.
‘Oh, come on, let’s dance!’ He was an exhibitionist who loved to shock, loved being stared at - half the reason for his garb - and also loved to irritate. He was like the child to whom a smack is as good as a kiss. He walked unsteadily to the dance floor where, lurching sideways, he careered into a table full of people. There was a loud crash. A woman shrieked as an ice bucket hit her lap and a large man stood up. Angrily picking up Peter by the scruff of his neck, he threw him towards Rupert, shouting, ‘Take this disgusting excuse for a man home! You should be ashamed of yourself, walking in here with this creature! I’ve a good mind to call the police.’
Two bouncers appeared as if by magic and the table was righted, the champagne replaced and the man soothed by promises of a free night at the club.
Peter laughed out loud, but his expression changed when Briony appeared. Her face was stark white, two large red spots of anger standing out on her cheekbones.
‘This is it, you’re finished here, Rupert. I want you out now! You can either walk out under your own steam or I’ll have you all thrown out!’
Jonathan shook his head and looked at her blearily. He seemed unaware of the recent scene.
‘Hello, Briony. How are you?’
She sighed heavily. Looking at her men, she said: ‘Get rid of them, now.’
Rupert stood up and said loudly, ‘Madam, no one speaks to me like that!’
Briony looked him up and down and said scathingly, ‘Why don’t you just piss off before I really lose my rag?’ Her voice was low and menacing.
All around people were watching the spectacle. On stage Kerry had started another number, her voice straining to rise over the hubbub. People were muttering among themselves and Briony, seeing the ruin of a good evening, was getting more annoyed by the second.
As Rupert and Peter were ejected from the club she said to Jonathan, ‘I can’t believe you could still associate with those two! You’re the one who told me they were on a downward slide. Now go home and sober up, man. You sicken me like this.’
Jonathan bowed low, his drink-fuddled brain unable to comprehend what had taken place around him.
When they had left, Briony apologised personally to her customers, and told the doorman that under no circumstances were Rupert and Peter ever to be allowed entry into the club again.
Briony arrived home at just after four in the morning. She was tired out. In her Hyde Park house there had been trouble. A valued customer had contracted syphilis and Briony had had to tell the girl responsible. She had gone mad, saying the customer had given it to her. After what seemed an age, Briony had finally sorted out the situation. The girl’s working life was suspended until a treatment of arsphenamines was working. The man in question, not a very amiable person at the best of times, was a well-known industrialist who had lost two wives through his philandering and was now eager to get into parliament. A scandal was not in his best interests but nevertheless the man raged and blasphemed until Briony felt an urge to slap his face for him. Instead she had smiled, and smoothed everything over. When she finally got home she was fed up, tired out and in need of a good night’s sleep. Peter was bad enough, but the trouble at the house had made a bad evening even worse.
She poured herself a large brandy and tiptoed up the stairs to her bedroom. As she undressed, she heard a tap on the door.
‘Come in.’
It was Sister Mary Magdalene.
‘I’m sorry to disturb you, but I think you’d better come and look at Eileen.’
Briony sighed heavily. Pulling off her dress, she grabbed a wrapper and followed the nun from the room. In Eileen’s bedroom she froze. Her sister was lying in bed wide awake. Her eyes were bright and she was smiling.
‘Hello, Bri. Come and talk to me for a minute. You look all in.’
Briony smiled in wonder.
‘Eileen? How come you’re all bright eyed and bushy-tailed at this hour?’
Eileen shrugged.
‘I feel fine. I was just thinking about when we were kids. Sit down for a while. I feel the urge to talk to you. You’ve been very good to me, Briony, you know that, don’t you?’
She sat on the bed, her tiredness forgotten, and took her sister’s hot hand in hers. Close to, in the lamplight, she could see the feverish glow to her sister’s face.
‘I’ll go down and make us all some tea, shall I?’ The nun’s voice was low.
‘Please, Mary. If you don’t mind.’
‘I could drink a gallon of tea. I’ve got a thirst on me, Bri. A real thirst.’ Eileen’s voice was stronger than Briony could remember for a long time.
When the nun left the room, Eileen said: ‘Remember when Kerry used to put on her shows down the basements? All her rude songs! Then when the priest come she’d change to a hymn and we’d all join in?’
Briony smiled, remembering.
‘Yeah. I remember. We had some good laughs.’
‘I liked living in the basements. I wish we’d stayed there, Bri. We were much safer in a lot of ways. Remember how cold it used to get in winter, though? The walls would freeze up inside.’
Briony frowned. ‘How could I forget?’
Eileen nodded seriously.
‘Mrs Jacobs’ baby froze to death one Christmas, remember that? And they had to put it outside in the snow ’til the ground was soft enough to bury it.’
Briony squeezed her sister’s hand tightly.
‘Don’t think about things like that, Ei, just think of the nice things. The summer days when we’d all swim in the Beam river, or walk out to Rainham and go pea picking.’
‘I liked the basements. It was when we left them, or when I left them, that all my troubles started... I don’t think I was ever meant to be happy, Bri. But I was as a little kid. Dad used to make us laugh, didn’t he, sometimes?’
Briony swallowed hard.
‘Yeah, I suppose he did.’