pans or buckets of some type. Typhoid is such a beastly disease. So much waste to dispose of, and heaven only knows how we are going to do that.” She was now at the far end of the space and almost inaudible to Hester. She turned and started to pace the width. “There isn’t a midden or a cesspit within miles of here that isn’t overflowing already.”
“Has Dr. Beck spoken to the local council of authority yet?” Hester asked, picking up her bucket and going over to the window to tip it out. There were no drains, and the water was full of vinegar anyway, so it would be more likely to improve the gutters than harm them.
Callandra reached the far side and lost count. She had loved Kristian Beck since before the wretched business at the Royal Free Hospital the previous summer. Hester was aware of it, but it was something they never discussed. It was too delicate, and too painful. The depth of Kristian’s feeling in return only added to the poignancy of the situation. Callandra was a widow, but Kristian’s wife was still alive. She had long ceased to care for him, if indeed she ever had in the manner he longed for, but she clung to her rights and all the status and the comfort they afforded. To Callandra he could give nothing but an intense friendship, humor, warmth, admiration, and shared passions for causes in which they both believed with ardor and dedication.
Even the mention of his name could still jar her concentration, so vulnerable was she even now. She turned and began to pace back, beginning to count the width again.
Hester looked out of the window to make sure no one was passing beneath, then emptied the bucket.
“I think we could get about ninety people in here,” Callandra announced. Then her face pinched. “I wish to God I could think that was all we should need. We have forty-seven cases already, not counting seventeen dead and another thirteen too ill to move. I’ll be surprised if they livethe night.” Her voice rose. “I feel so helpless! It’s like fighting the incoming tide with a mop and bucket!”
The door opened behind Hester and a striking-looking woman came in, a bottle of gin under one arm and another in each hand. It was Enid Ravensbrook.
“I suppose it’s better than nothing,” she said with a tight smile. “I’ve sent Mary out to get some clean straw. She can try the ostler at the end of the lane. His mother’s one of the victims. He’ll do what he can.” She set the gin down on the floor. “I don’t know what to do about the well. I’ve pumped the water, but it smells like next-door’s pigsty.”
“Probably with good reason,” Hester said, tightening her lips. “There’s a well in Phoebe Street that smells all right, but it’ll be an awful nuisance to carry water over. And we’re desperately short of buckets.”
“We’ll have to borrow them,” Enid said resolutely. “If every family spared us one, we’d quickly have sufficient for all purposes.”
“They haven’t got them,” Hester pointed out, setting her bucket, scrubbing brush and cloth away tidily. “Most families around here have only one pan between them anyway.”
“One pan for what?” Enid pressed. “Perhaps they can use their night bucket for scrubbing the floor as well?”
“One pan for everything,” Hester explained. “The same one for scrubbing the floor, for bathing the baby, for waste at night, and for cooking in.”
“Oh God!” Enid stood still, then blushed, robbed of speech for an instant. She took a deep breath. “I’m sorry. I suppose I’m still very ignorant. I’ll go out and buy some.” She turned on her heel and was about to leave when she almost bumped into Kristian Beck coming in. His face was set in anger, his cheeks burned with color which had nothing to do with the cold outside, and his beautiful mouth was set in a tight line. There was no need to ask if he had met with success or failure with the local authority.
Callandra was the first to
“Has Dr. Beck spoken to the local council of authority yet?” Hester asked, picking up her bucket and going over to the window to tip it out. There were no drains, and the water was full of vinegar anyway, so it would be more likely to improve the gutters than harm them.
Callandra reached the far side and lost count. She had loved Kristian Beck since before the wretched business at the Royal Free Hospital the previous summer. Hester was aware of it, but it was something they never discussed. It was too delicate, and too painful. The depth of Kristian’s feeling in return only added to the poignancy of the situation. Callandra was a widow, but Kristian’s wife was still alive. She had long ceased to care for him, if indeed she ever had in the manner he longed for, but she clung to her rights and all the status and the comfort they afforded. To Callandra he could give nothing but an intense friendship, humor, warmth, admiration, and shared passions for causes in which they both believed with ardor and dedication.
Even the mention of his name could still jar her concentration, so vulnerable was she even now. She turned and began to pace back, beginning to count the width again.
Hester looked out of the window to make sure no one was passing beneath, then emptied the bucket.
“I think we could get about ninety people in here,” Callandra announced. Then her face pinched. “I wish to God I could think that was all we should need. We have forty-seven cases already, not counting seventeen dead and another thirteen too ill to move. I’ll be surprised if they livethe night.” Her voice rose. “I feel so helpless! It’s like fighting the incoming tide with a mop and bucket!”
The door opened behind Hester and a striking-looking woman came in, a bottle of gin under one arm and another in each hand. It was Enid Ravensbrook.
“I suppose it’s better than nothing,” she said with a tight smile. “I’ve sent Mary out to get some clean straw. She can try the ostler at the end of the lane. His mother’s one of the victims. He’ll do what he can.” She set the gin down on the floor. “I don’t know what to do about the well. I’ve pumped the water, but it smells like next-door’s pigsty.”
“Probably with good reason,” Hester said, tightening her lips. “There’s a well in Phoebe Street that smells all right, but it’ll be an awful nuisance to carry water over. And we’re desperately short of buckets.”
“We’ll have to borrow them,” Enid said resolutely. “If every family spared us one, we’d quickly have sufficient for all purposes.”
“They haven’t got them,” Hester pointed out, setting her bucket, scrubbing brush and cloth away tidily. “Most families around here have only one pan between them anyway.”
“One pan for what?” Enid pressed. “Perhaps they can use their night bucket for scrubbing the floor as well?”
“One pan for everything,” Hester explained. “The same one for scrubbing the floor, for bathing the baby, for waste at night, and for cooking in.”
“Oh God!” Enid stood still, then blushed, robbed of speech for an instant. She took a deep breath. “I’m sorry. I suppose I’m still very ignorant. I’ll go out and buy some.” She turned on her heel and was about to leave when she almost bumped into Kristian Beck coming in. His face was set in anger, his cheeks burned with color which had nothing to do with the cold outside, and his beautiful mouth was set in a tight line. There was no need to ask if he had met with success or failure with the local authority.
Callandra was the first to
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