Essex 30th June Cora, I’ve had no letter from you – did I speak too freely? Or did I not speak freely enough?
I’m afraid for Stella. Sometimes I think her mind wanders, then she’s her old self and she tells me how St Osyth has a new vicar and he doesn’t yet have a wife, or how up in Colchester there’s a new shop opened and the pastries come direct from Paris.
She writes all day in a blue book. She won’t let me see.
Tomorrow we go to London. Think of us both.
Yours in Christ,
WILLIAM RANSOME
5
Stella flinched under the stethoscope and breathed under instruction: as deeply as she could, and never mind the coughing. The fit, when it came, was not one of her worst, but bad enough: it threw her forward in the chair, it let loose a little urine; she called out for a fresh handkerchief.
‘It’s not always so bad,’ she said, dabbing at her mouth, feeling sorry for the three men surveying her sombrely: how alarmed they were! Had they themselves never been sick? There was Will, who out of distress or discomfort could barely meet her eye. And there was the Imp, who stood far back in the corner, his black gaze even from that distance missing nothing. There, too – the elder of the men and the most gracious, having had longer to cultivate a soothing manner at bedsides both tawdry and grand – was Dr Butler, who withdrew the stethoscope, and with a gentle hand tugged his patient’s blouse into place. ‘No doubt in my mind of tuberculosis,’ he said, seeing – as Luke had promised – the pretty flush on the woman’s cheek: ‘Though naturally we’ll take a sputum sample, in order to be certain.’ His full white beard compensated for a high domed head which was completely bald (it was said by his students that his thoughts moved at such a speed that over the years their friction made any hair growth impossible).
‘Captain among these men of death,’ said Stella into her handkerchief, whispering to the forget-me-nots embroidered there. There was no need for all this: she’d have told them months ago, if anyone had asked. The high open window showed the white sky splitting open to show a fragment of blue. ‘I did that myself,’ she said confidingly (not that anyone heard).
‘Certain? How?’ said Will, wondering if the room really did darken at that moment, or if it was only his own dread. There, beneath the couch where she lay still smiling, he imagined something in the shadows moving, and with it the scent of the river. ‘How can you be sure? There has been none of it in her family – none – Stella, you must tell them.’ But how could he have missed it – had he really been so blinded by what had come to Aldwinter? ‘Flu, the doctor said: it had gone round the village, and everyone after was weak …’
‘Family’s got nothing to do with it,’ said Luke. ‘It doesn’t pass from father to son. It’s just the tuberculosis bacteria, nothing more than that.’ His dislike for Will came to the fore, and he said with nasty precision: ‘Bacteria, Reverend, are microorganisms that can carry infectious disease.’
‘I’d like to be certain,’ said Dr Butler again, casting a troubled glance at his colleague, who to be sure was not known for his manners but was rarely so rude: ‘Mrs Ransome, can you bear to cough again – just a little – and spit into a dish?’
‘I’ve birthed five children,’ said Stella, with a little flash of temper: ‘Two of them dead. Spitting is nothing to me.’ It was a steel dish they brought, and in it the fragment of sky showed clearly. She obliterated it with a brownish substance drawn painfully up from her lungs, and handed it to Dr Butler with a gracious tip of her head.
‘What are you going to do with it?’ said Will: ‘How will it help?’ And how oblivious she was to it all: how calm! It was not natural – it was a kind of hysteria: shouldn’t she weep, and ask him to sit by her, and hold her hand?
‘We can now stain the bacillus so that it’s easily visible under a microscope,’ said Dr Butler, enthusiasm making him brisk: ‘And it may be that we are wrong, and that Mrs Ransome has pneumonia, or a milder disease –’
A microscope! thought Stella. Joanna had taken to asking for one, wanting to see for herself how apples and onions were built of cells just as houses were built of bricks. ‘I want to see it,’ she said. ‘I want you to show me.’
It was not an unusual request, thought Dr Butler, though ordinarily it was the young men so intent on looking the enemy square in the eye. Whoever would’ve thought this slight woman with her silver hair would be so sanguine. Though it was part delirium, of course: the curious state of detached peace so many patients reached had come to her early.
‘If you can wait an hour, I’ll bring it to you,’ he said, seeing the husband begin to demur: ‘Though I hope, of course, there’ll be nothing to see.’
‘Stella,’ said Will, imploring: ‘Stella, do you need to?’ It was all happening so fast: surely only minutes had passed since he’d walked home in winter from World’s End with Cracknell’s gift of rabbits hanging from his belt, and seen his family lamp-lit and waiting, and now it was all breaking up in pieces. He closed his eyes and saw in the darkness the bright eye of the Essex Serpent, gleaming, gleeful.
‘Pray for me then,’ said Stella out of pity, and because she wanted it. Dr Butler left with the covered dish, and the Imp followed; Will knelt beside her chair. But what place did prayer have, there among the vials and lenses that unpicked every mystery? What ought he to pray for, besides? The disease must’ve lodged in there long ago while they went on in happy ignorance – should he ask that the clock’s hands go back, and if so why stop there: why not ask for the raising up of every last one of Aldwinter’s dead? Was Stella really so singular and precious God might intervene on her behalf when generally He kept Himself to Himself? But there were the words of the Sunday schoolboy making mischief, he knew – their prayers were not for favours but submission. ‘Not our will but thine be done,’ he said. ‘God give us grace.’
When they came back it was sombrely, and Will was taken aside, as if it was his disease and not hers. The message was relayed like a game of Chinese whispers, so that by the time it reached her – ‘Love, you aren’t well, but they’re going to help’ – the truth had dwindled to nothing. ‘Consumption,’ said Stella, animated by the news: ‘The White Death. Phthisis. Scrofula. I know its names. What’s that you’re holding? Give it to me.’ It was the glass slide on which her future was etched, and after some persuasion the microscope was brought, and she said, ‘Is that all? Just like grains of rice.’
Another coughing fit took her, and left her dazed, so that lying with her cheek on the rough arm of the couch she could only overhear her future unfolding.
‘She should be isolated as much as possible, and the children should be sent away when her symptoms worsen,’ said Luke, dispensing with pity: what use was that to a deadly disease?
‘Take your time, Reverend: it’s a shock, I know,’ said Dr Butler. ‘But modern medicine can do so much: I personally would recommend injections of tuberculin, which Robert Koch has recently introduced in Germany –’
Will – a little dazed still – thought of needles piercing Stella’s fragile skin and fought against nausea. He turned to Luke Garrett, and said, ‘And you? What do you say? Are you going to bring out your knives?’
‘Perhaps a therapeutic pneumothorax –’
‘Dr Garrett!’ Dr Butler was shocked. ‘I wouldn’t hear of it – only two or three undertaken so far and none in this country: now is not the time to test the waters.’
‘I don’t want you touching her,’ said Will, feeling nauseous again, recalling how the Imp had crouched whispering over Joanna.