Chapter 6 #2
An old pain throbbed through Ellen’s core at those words, a reminder of all the years and the events that had changed her. She stiffened against the pain and the handsome intruder, not looking over her shoulder as she mounted the two steps to the door. “That girl grew up.”
The overhead bell rang as she entered the dim room. Mrs. Daugherty had several paraffin lamps lit, but it wasn’t the same as the bright electric interiors of Mayfair homes.
“Want us to leave the door open?” Ellen inquired.
Mrs. Daugherty, an elderly Black woman with the barest hints of a Jamaican accent, greeted them. “Yes, please. I’m trying to mix up some throat lozenges and my eyesight isn’t what it used to be.” She glanced up, spectacles shining. “You brought a man.”
Embarrassment surged through Ellen. “Um, yes. Today only. Mrs. Daugherty, this is First Lt. Mark Glenfall.” She rushed through the introduction, hoping the retired midwife wouldn’t make the connection.
“Mrs. Daugherty was a midwife for nearly fifty years here in London, and we’re lucky to have her.
She keeps us in line and dispenses the medicines and keeps Dr. Hart’s appointments. ”
Mrs. Daugherty stared at them, her dark brown eyes sharp and all-seeing. “Is this man your husband?”
Ellen winced. “He retired from the Navy.”
The short, rotund woman threw off her apron and rounded the counter, stepping into the room. “Lieutenant Glenfall, a pleasure to meet you.” She looked him up and down. “Are you going to treat our lady right?”
“Um?” Mark replied, taken aback.
Mrs. Daugherty clucked her tongue. “Wrong answer, son.”
“I will.” Mark flushed and rubbed the back of his neck.
“Where is Amelia?” Ellen was desperate to switch the subject.
The older woman jerked her head back toward the exam room. “With a sprained ankle.” She eyed Mark. “You look strong. Care to help an old lady move some boxes?”
A clatter on the steps caught Ellen’s attention. A young woman with a wailing baby staggered through the doorway. Her blond hair hung dirty and loose, and her skirt was torn and ragged. The baby in her arms flailed angrily, screaming those thin, high-pitched hungry screeches.
Poorly fed, Ellen diagnosed by the cries and the thinness of its arms and legs.
“Is the doctor here?” the young woman gasped. She couldn’t be more than seventeen.
Mrs. Daugherty took the girl by her elbow and guided her to an empty bench along the bay windows. “Have a seat, dearie. What’s the matter?”
“The baby won’t stop crying!” Her broad, East End accent could scarcely be heard over the baby’s cries.
Mark winced, and his hands clenched at his sides. Ellen hid a smirk at his obvious attempt to be polite and not cover his ears.
She hurried over and, after a mute request, took the wriggling baby out of his young mother’s arms. “Is this your first?”
“Yes.” The poor girl drooped with exhaustion. “Won’t stop screaming no matter how many times I offer my teat. My husband’s a lampman and is about ready to throw us out of the house so he can get some rest during the day.”
Ellen pursed her lips. She unwrapped the dirty blanket as she bounced the squalling child. “How old?”
“Nigh two months.” The girl slumped against the bench. “This child is going to kill me, I swear it.”
Ellen checked under the nappy for any rashes, then slid her pinky along the baby’s chin and cheek. He immediately turned and sucked it into his mouth. After a moment, when no milk came from her finger, he spit it out and wailed.
“He’s hungry,” Mrs. Daugherty explained to the girl. “How often do you feed him?”
“All the time!” the girl exploded, pale face turning pink. “All the bleedin’ time!”
“You may not be producing enough to keep his belly full.” Mrs. Daugherty sat beside the girl.
“I’m doing everything my ma taught me, and it still ain’t enough.” She looked like she couldn’t decide whether to be angry or cry.
“Is there a friend of yours who makes extra milk? Someone to act as wetnurse until we can get your supply up?”
“She wants to charge a farthing for each feeding. We don’t have that kind of blunt.” The girl’s face crumpled. “Do you mean I’m starving my son?”
Mrs. Daugherty rubbed her back. “No, darling. We can see you’re feeding him everything you can. He just needs a little extra.”
The girl’s face brightened. “My uncle has a cow. Perhaps I could give the baby a glass bottle every now and again?”
In infants fed artificially with sterilized cow milk, we have seen green diarrhea and been surprised at the foul smell of the diapers and vomiting.
“Goat!” Ellen exclaimed over the screaming infant, bouncing him a little to soothe him. “Not cow milk, if you can avoid it. Goat milk is so much better.” She thought of the notes Madame Henry had copied for her, and of her own experience dealing with sick newborns drinking primarily cow milk.
The girl looked doubtful. “Milk is milk, innit? And it’s so much easier to get my uncle’s cow than track down a goat.”
“I know several people who own goats and will sell the milk cheaply,” Ellen promised.
She handed the baby to Mrs. Daugherty and opened her reticule.
“Here’s a sixpence. The doctor shall pay for your first three visits.
” She rattled off directions to a woman in Covent Garden while Mrs. Daugherty, baby in one hand, went behind the counter and came back with two small glass bottles and rubber teats.
“How’s this, dear? I’ll watch your baby for you while you pop off to Covent Garden. Get you some peace and quiet.” Mrs. Daugherty rocked the baby back and forth while he nuzzled at her large bosom, seeking sustenance.
The young mother looked ready to kiss Mrs. Daugherty’s feet. “Are you sure?”
“Positive.” Mrs. Daugherty waved the girl away as if the screaming baby in her arms didn’t bother her at all. “Take your time. It’s hard being a new mother.”
The girl slipped out the door, probably the first time she’d been away from her baby in days, if not weeks.
“This is what you do every day?” Mark shouted to be heard, his eyes wide as he looked around the room.
Ellen nodded. “More or less. You never know what the day might bring.”
The exam door opened and a man limped out, one crutch and one bandaged foot on his left side. The man scowled at Mrs. Daugherty and the crying baby as he left.
“I expect that crutch to be returned in a fortnight, Mr. O’Malley!” Amelia called after him. “Those aren't cheap, you know.” She glanced to Mark. “Hello, are you a new patient today?”
Mark smiled and stepped closer to Ellen. “Ellen is showing me around.”
This wasn’t going how Ellen imagined it.
At first, she’d been delighted at the idea to share her passion and work with someone who would listen without yawning.
But now she realized exactly who she was showing: Mark, the person she hated most in the entire world.
Ellen gritted her teeth against the wave of conflicting feelings washing over her.
“Lieutenant Glenfall, this is Dr. Hart.”
“Amelia Hart.” Amelia leaned forward and shook Mark’s hand.
Mark betrayed no surprise at the unusual gesture, pumping her hand in return. “I hear you are Ellen’s friend and colleague.”
Amelia looked at Ellen. “Is this…?”
Ellen sighed. “My husband unexpectedly retired from the Navy. He insisted I show him where I spend most of my time.”
Amelia’s eyebrows twitched. “I see.”
The baby in Mrs. Daugherty’s arms fell to whimpering, exhausted by his own screaming. Ellen’s ears rang in the semi-quiet.
“Ellen told me about the work you do here.” Mark looked around the plain waiting room, with the wall full of medicines and herbs behind the counter, the bare wooden floor, and the faded wallpaper.
Ellen prepared herself for an insult. Instead, Mark shook his head. “I worked with men of all backgrounds in the Navy, but I had no idea the troubles doctors faced here in London.”
Amelia gave a hesitant smile. Ellen knew she was used to men who looked down at her and laughed when she told them she’d gone to medical school. “It certainly keeps us on our toes.”
Mark opened his mouth to say more, but the next group of patients walked into the building.
A few were still hungover, while the others loudly argued about the timing of their appointment.
Ellen counted the seven people crowding the room, cataloguing quickly who'd the worst illness or injury.
She took the sleeping baby from Mrs. Daugherty so the woman could do her job assessing needs and checking the appointment ledger, then slipped into the semi-quiet of the exam room.
“Do you still need some boxes moved?” Ellen heard Mark ask, and she sighed in relief. She needed to get away from him for a few moments to settle her nerves.
Amelia ducked into the exam room with her. “What is he doing here?” she hissed, shutting the thin door.
Ellen gave an elaborate one-shoulder shrug, careful not to jostle the sleeping child. “It was a condition to move back in with him.”
“You’re moving in with your husband?” Amelia’s eyes widened. “I thought we hated him!” Before she could interrogate Ellen, the door swung open and a patient walked in, clutching his stomach.
“Hurts real bad, doc,” the adolescent boy mumbled.
Ellen took that opportunity to escape Amelia’s questions, sitting at Amelia’s stool, one hand cradling the baby, and opened the rolltop desk to scratch out a list of duties for the day. She needed the routine to calm her mind.