Paper Doll (23 page)

‘If they’ll have me.’

‘Thank your lucky stars that you’ve got skills you can fall back on, otherwise you’d be doing this sort of job for the rest of your life, like I’ll have to. This is the best I’ll ever be. I was lucky to get back from the war with nothing more than a bullet in my arse. I married a widow to save her and her kids from starving. She’s a good woman who rarely complains. Four kids now, and we live in a two up, two down terrace with a coldwater pump and a lavatory in the backyard shared with the occupants of half a dozen other terraces, with built-in rats and cockroaches. If I were a doctor I’d be going to where I could do the most good . . . and not be doing a job where a lesser man could be employed.’

Martin took his advice. He drew his pay, and left.

A few days later he cut a picture from the newspaper. Julia had a wide smile on her face as she supported a newly bathed orphan with a pale skin, stick-thin limbs and starving eyes, who was clutching a soft toy. A glass of milk would have done the child more good.

Harold had been right in that he did possess skills, Martin thought. And he could put them to good use once he’d updated them.

He gazed at Julia again, and could see the tension behind her brilliant smile. She was wearing a saucy-looking hat with a feather in it. Latham gazed fondly down at her, his hand possessing her shoulder.

Separating her from her husband, Martin put the picture in the frame behind that of his parents. It was a pity Latham’s hand was still there, keeping her under his thumb.

He had an appointment with Hugh Cahill later in the day. Hugh and two other eminent doctors would comprise his board of examiners.

He was given a physical medical examination and asked questions on various aspects of doctoring, as well as his war service. They quizzed him for an hour, then pronounced him fit to resume his career.

Hugh Cahill invited him to dinner at his club afterwards. ‘You look well, Martin. What are your plans now, back to surgery?’

‘I’ve been out of the system too long. I was thinking of gaining some experience in obstetrics and gynaecology, then working as a locum before going into general practice with my own rooms in Bournemouth. I have the premises.’

‘A good idea, since there has been a steady upsurge of babies being born since the war ended. I might be able to help you out with both at the same time, if you don’t mind moving out of London.’

‘To where?’

‘The Northeast . . . a slum area. Colifield to be exact.’

‘I’ve never heard of it.’

‘It’s not far from Newcastle. You’ll get plenty of experience . . . and some repair work from the occasional home curettage.’

‘You’re supposed to report such cases, aren’t you?’

Hugh shrugged. ‘Sometimes it’s better to turn a blind eye. Many of the women have large families, and very little else. Why add to their troubles?’

‘But it’s illegal and I disapprove of the practice.’

‘We all do, and of course it is . . . but the women who decide to go through with the process are usually desperate. They’d have to be to consider risking septicaemia by going to a butcher in a backstreet hovel. It’s the person who performs the procedure who needs prosecuting.

‘Anyway, it’s not your responsibility. They’re shunted off to Newcastle Infirmary if need be. You can leave all the paperwork to Jack Tomlinson. His wife helps out on the nursing side. If you take the job, as soon as you learn what’s what, he’ll be taking a month off come spring. He’s worked without a break for four years and is worn out.’

‘Friend of yours?’

‘We went through medical school together. I thought I’d take him to Scotland in the spring for a spot of fly fishing while the wives get together for a gossip.’

Martin chuckled. ‘So, you’ve got a vested interest in this.’

‘I certainly have. Catherine, his wife, is my sister. It will be an eighteen months’ contract, by the way. By that time your replacement will be trained.’

Like Hugh said, he’d get plenty of experience. There was nothing to keep Martin in London, except the hope that he might run into Julia, which would torture him even more. A clean break would be better – so why did he feel as though he was deserting her?

A lot could happen in eighteen months. He gave a small huff of laughter at the next ironic thought that occurred to him. He might even get over her. When Hugh gave him a look of enquiry, he said, ‘I promise to consider it. Give me a couple of days to think it over. I need to look at my finances.’

‘A salary comes with the job, courtesy of the local Quakers fund. It’s not generous, but it’s enough to live on with a bit left over. Accommodation is free – a two-roomed furnished flat at the back of the surgery, bedroom and living room with gas cooker. You’ll be on permanent night call, I’m afraid. The lavatory is in the yard and you’ll be provided with a tin tub to wash in. It’s a bit primitive from what I gather, but like I said, if it’s experience you’re after . . .’

A month later and Martin had arranged storage for his goods and was on his way to Colifield, suitcase in one hand and the cats in a roomy cardboard box secured with string in the other. They were a gift from Julia that he couldn’t bear to leave behind, even though his landlady had offered to take them in.

There was a branch line that went through Colifield and served the coal industry. A passenger car had been added to the empty coal wagons, and there were two passengers besides himself. The station was black with smuts.

Beyond the houses in the distance was the wheel that supported the miners’ cage, but the gates to the pit entrance were padlocked. Beyond that was a towering pile of slag.

Martin understood in a telephone call from Jack Tomlinson that the mine had flooded and now stood abandoned. Some of the younger men had been employed at neighbouring pits, some had not. Some had managed to find work at the ironworks. The smoke from the works sent out a sooty smell and peppered everything with smuts.

There was no one to meet him. It was a wet and miserable day. He asked directions of a lad with a cart and hired him for a shilling. Martin loaded the cats’ container and his suitcase on the cart and they walked through the grimy rows of streets to the surgery. It was a red brick house on a corner site, and the ugly building looked as though it had once been a shop, with a window either side of a door recessed into the corner.

The door was open and he walked in, his nose twitching at the overwhelmingly nostalgic smell of disinfectant.

A thin woman with greying hair smiled at him. ‘You must be Doctor Lee-Trafford?’

‘Yes, I am.’ The cats set up a pathetic clamour at the sound of her voice and he smiled. ‘I’m afraid they’ve been travelling all day and have reason to complain. They’re hungry, unsettled and a little bit afraid, though being cats they wouldn’t admit to the latter. You must be Mrs Tomlinson, Hugh’s sister. There’s a definite resemblance, but I must say that you’re much prettier.’

She laughed. ‘Call me Sister Catherine, most of the patients do . . . Bring the cats through, Doctor. We’ll have a cup of tea first since I daresay you could do with one. I’ll find them some milk and make a fuss of them. They’ll soon settle down in front of the fire, and if they can help keep the rat population down, all the better.’

His rooms were small and dimly lit, rather depressing after his London flat, but big enough for himself and his companions. The cats drank their milk, stretched their legs by exploring their new accommodation and lapped up Sister Catherine’s attention with appreciative mews of pleasure and chin rubs against her ankles.

‘I’d forgotten how wonderfully soothing cats are; they’ll be nice to have around,’ she said when they finally settled down in an armchair in front of the fire on one of Martin’s pullovers. ‘There’s a yard out the back if they need to go out. I’m sorry nobody was able to meet you. I was doing the afternoon mothers’ clinic and Jack was called out to an emergency.’

‘Is there anything I can help with?’

‘It will be throwing you in the deep end, but would you mind taking evening surgery? It will mostly be temperatures and coughs. Bronchial in the men; some of them have been exposed to black damp, especially those who have been in the pits for a long time. The wet weather makes the condition flourish. German measles is doing the rounds, and there was a case of whooping cough two weeks ago. I’ve isolated the patient, but she’s a baby and will be lucky if she survives. One of the Quaker women comes in to help out in the evening. She mixes the medicines, does the files, cleans wounds and is there in case you need to examine a female patient. She’ll show you where everything is kept and will keep you organized. Her name is Joanna Seeble.’

‘She sounds like an angel.’

‘Believe me, she is. I don’t know what we’d do without her. One of her sons will eventually join the practice when he finishes training. Jack takes him out on the rounds with him, when he’s home. I think that’s about all you need to know for now.’

‘Thank you, it was most helpful.’

‘I’ll have time to cook Jack a decent dinner for a change. You’ll join us, won’t you? Our last assistant used to eat dinner with us and put towards the food bill. That way you’ll get one decent meal a day. You can manage your own breakfast and lunch. We live in the adjoining house, so you won’t have to travel far. There’s a general store, a greengrocer and a butcher in the next street. I’ve got the basics for your cupboard and you owe me for that. The receipt is on the dresser. We can take it from your salary if you like.’

It was indeed mostly coughs and colds, boils and blisters, with several blossoming cases of German measles. The women and children tended to be pale, malnourished and anxious looking.

Mrs Seeble was quiet and respectful, and went about her job efficiently.

He got the bulk of evening patients out of the way quickly, dispensing bottles of cough medicine and diagnosing two pregnancies – to which pronouncement one earned him a sour look.

‘It’s not my fault; you should take precautions,’ he said.

‘Aye . . . well, that’s all reet for thee, mon, but tell it to my husband and yon pope in his Italian palace,’ the woman said.

Just as Mrs Seeble was about to lock the door, a boy came in, blood flowing from an ugly gash in his arm.

‘Joe Harris,’ Mrs Seeble murmured, reaching for the iodine bottle.

‘How did this happen, Joe?’ Martin asked the boy

‘I climbed over a wall and it had broken glass on the top. Are you the new doctor?’

‘I am that.’

‘You talk posh.’

‘Do I?’ He examined the jagged edges of the wound.

‘Do you reckon you’ll have to stitch it, Doc?’

Martin looked up at him and smiled. ‘I reckon I will, at that. What were you doing climbing over the wall?’

‘I got locked out, didn’t I . . . sides, it ain’t no business of your’n.’

‘Would you prefer me to stitch it with, or without, an injection, Joe?’

‘What’s a jection?’

‘A needle with anaesthesia in it to numb the pain.’

‘I ain’t no bleddy girl, and I don’t want any jection . . . You won’t get a soddin’ yelp of me.’

Martin gave him a sharp look. ‘Don’t swear in front of the lady.’

‘Sorry, Mrs,’ and the lad gazed with some alarm at the instruments Mrs Seeble was laying out. ‘Ere, what are all them things for?’

‘The iodine will sterilize the skin so germs won’t enter the wound. This thread is for the stitches, and this needle—’

Joe Harris fainted clean away.

Martin swabbed the wound with iodine. ‘Fetch the procaine if you would, Mrs Seeble. Master Harris isn’t as tough as he imagines.’

The woman smiled. ‘Yes, Doctor,’ then a few minutes later, ‘Very neat embroidery. I’d heard you were good.’

Astonished, he gazed at her. ‘Have you? From whom?’

‘A man called Stanley Bridges. He said you saved both his legs and his life during the war.’

‘I can’t say I recall his name. There were many casualties at the front . . . too many of them to remember names.’
Too many legs, arms, guts!

‘He has cause to remember you, Dr Lee-Trafford. I imagine many other people would remember you, and be grateful for the diligent practise of your profession under duress.’

‘I suppose there
would
be people who remember me. How odd, when I only seem to remember the ones who died.’ He didn’t know why this motherly woman invited his confidence, but she did. ‘It all caught up with me eventually, you know . . . a mental collapse. I’ve only just returned to my profession.’

‘Mental turmoil under extreme stress can be expected if a man has any degree of sensitivity. You’re being too hard on yourself. You were endowed with the skill to heal and comfort, and that can only be used to the greater good. You were not born with the power to select those poor unfortunates to whom your gift would be of the most benefit.’

Her words gave his spirits a lift as he injected the procaine around the wound.

Half an hour later Joe Harris swaggered off with his arm in a sling and with a reminder to come back in ten days to have the stitches removed.

Mrs Seeble called after him, ‘Tell your mother that the bill will be two shillings and sixpence, and you’re to bring it the next time you come.’

‘It didn’t hurt a bit,’ Joe bragged, as he went off.

‘Wait until the anaesthetic wears off you cheeky little tyke,’ Martin muttered and turned to his companion. ‘Why do I feel we’ll be lucky to see that particular bill settled?’

‘It doesn’t take much working out. They’re poor and the boy thieves. His mother will probably remove the stitches herself, and use dirty scissors. If it gets infected they’ll blame us and use it for an excuse not to pay.’

Martin was relieved to discover he’d performed the simple procedure without so much as even thinking about flinching.

He helped Mrs Seeble to clean the surgery and instruments ready for use the next day. ‘You needn’t do this. You go next door and get your dinner while I wash the floor,’ she said.

‘I’ll make sure you get home safely first.’

‘Don’t worry about me; my son will be here with the car in a few minutes.’

There was the sound of a car sputtering to a halt, and the door was thrust open pushing a splatter of wet wind before it, ‘What ho! What have you done with all the patients, Mrs Seeble?’