The Wedding Game by Jane Feather Page B

as if willing the water to boil.
    “Run down and tell him you've a new baby brother,” Douglas said, lifting the pan off the coals.
    “'E'll be drunk,” the child said listlessly.
    “Tell him to get back here. Tell him
I
said so.” For the first time a sternness entered his voice. It was enough to bring the boy to his feet.
    “'E'll clip me one,” he said.
    “Not if you duck,” Douglas said aridly. “You can move faster than he can when he's drunk. I've seen you.”
    A faint grin lit the grimy face. “Aye, that I can, Doctor,” he said. He went to the door. “Is Ma all right?”
    “She's fine, and the baby,” Douglas returned. “I'm going to take the water to Ellie. Run and fetch your da.” The boy scampered off, his bare feet slapping on the icy cobbles of the street.
    Douglas took the water into the back room, gave the child some further instructions, and then left, ducking through the door into the street, fastening the buttons of his greatcoat as he went.
    He stood for a minute, pulling on his gloves, turning up his collar, looking up and down the alleyway. He glanced towards the pub on the far corner, watching for Daniel Jones to emerge, red-eyed and bleary, into the gray day. He waited until the man limped out, Charlie dancing just a little ahead of him, and then Douglas went on his own way. Daniel wasn't a bad man when he was sober, and even when he was drunk had a tendency to maudlin sentimentality rather than violence. He'd be pleased enough at the advent of yet another mouth to feed, not feeling himself in general responsible for putting the bread in that mouth or any of the others he had sired.
    Douglas stopped off at Mrs. Beedle's on his way to his surgery behind St. Mary Abbot's. She greeted him with her usual cheery warmth. “Bit parky, isn't it, Doctor? Been busy, have you?”
    “Delivering a baby,” he said. “Fine healthy boy.”
    “Oh, that's nice,” she said. “Postman brought a couple of letters for you this morning.” She reached up to the shelf behind the counter and handed him his post.
    He took it with a murmur of thanks, bade her good afternoon, and went out into the street, examining the envelopes as he emerged from the warmth of the shop. One was from his mother. The handwriting of the other, on thick vellum, was also immediately recognizable. He had a response from the Go-Between.
    He tucked them both into his coat pocket and walked briskly to his surgery. It was the lower rooms of a two-up, two-down row house just behind the church. As usual the front room was thronged with women and runny-nosed children. It was cold and gloomy, the fire in the grate burning low. He greeted them all by name as he threw more coal on the fire and lit the candles. Then he beckoned to a woman with a baby at her breast and a toddler clinging to her apron. “Come on in, Mrs. Good. How's Timmy today?”
    “Oh, the rash is summat awful, Doctor,” the woman said. She turned on the scratching child and clipped him over the ear. “Stop that, you 'ear.” She sighed as the child rubbed his ear and whimpered. “'E won't stop scratchin', Doctor. Not no 'ow.”
    Douglas sat down behind the scarred table that served as his desk. “Let's have a look, Timmy.” He examined the oozing eczema sores on the child's arms and reached up to a shelf to take down a tub of ointment. “Put this on three times a day, Mrs. Good. It should clear up quickly, but bring him back in a week.”
    “Thank you, Doctor.” The woman put the tub into the capacious pocket of her apron. Hesitantly she drew out a copper coin. “What do I owe you, Doctor?”
    The coin, as Douglas could see, was a penny. It would buy a loaf of bread or a pint of milk. It would go nowhere towards the cost of the ointment. But these people had their pride; indeed, in general, it was all they had. He smiled. “Just a penny, Mrs. Good.”
    She laid it on the table with the firm nod of one discharging an obligation. “Well, I thank you, Doctor.