Hope - Lesley Pearse [115]
Bennett did admire Mary for her compassion, intelligence and drive, but he wasn’t so keen on her impervious manner, or the way she would often browbeat friends and acquaintances into doing her bidding. He had escaped this until tonight; she’d often invited him to fundraising events, and sought his opinion on treatment for minor ailments, but this was the first time she’d pressed him into making a house call.
She said there was something intriguing about the girl called Hope who had asked for her help. ‘She is not typical of the young girls in Lewins Mead,’ she said, shaking her head as if mystified. ‘She is intelligent, well-mannered and very clean. I shudder to think about the conditions she is living in, but she cares desperately about her two sick friends and I felt compelled to do something to help her.’
Bennett wanted to refuse. Everyone knew the rookery was home to the most brutal and depraved people in Bristol. Even the police wouldn’t go in there for fear of an attack. Mary insisted that his doctor’s bag should be enough protection, and if challenged, he was to say she sent him, but from what he’d heard from other sources, the residents in that neighbourhood would rob their own grandmother for a tot of rum.
He had to agree to go though. If a slight, middle-aged woman was brave enough to go in there daily to teach, it would look very bad if a young and fit doctor wouldn’t do likewise to attend the sick.
But his heart had been thumping with fear as he made his way through the rabbit warren of narrow, stinking alleys. He was disgusted by the filth, appalled by the number of drunken men and women slumped in doorways, and horrified that even after dark so many almost naked, malnourished and dirty children were abroad.
His nervousness had increased as he climbed the stairs to the attic room, for although it was too dark there to see the filth, he could sense it, covering his nose to keep out the stench. Raised, angry voices were all around him, and he felt a rat brush past his ankles. This, he thought, was as close to hell as a man could get, and had it not been for the sweet voice calling down to ask if he was the doctor, he might very well have turned tail and run away.
Mary Carpenter’s description of Hope had formed a picture in his mind of a very plain but kindly girl. But as he reached the top landing and saw her lit up by her candle, he was astounded to see that she was beautiful.
Her grey dress was ragged and stained, she smelled of sickness and sweat, and her dark hair was plastered to her head. But her face! Huge, limpid dark eyes, plump lips and a perfectly formed nose. It was like discovering a rose growing on a dung heap. He was so staggered that for a moment he could only stare at her in amazement.
‘Will you look at them now?’ she asked, bringing him sharply back to the purpose of his visit. ‘I’ve tried to make them drink, but they aren’t taking it any more. I’m so afraid for them.’
Bennett had been into the homes of hundreds of poor people since he came to Bristol, but he had never seen anywhere as grim as this girl’s room. By the light of three or four candles, he could see there was no furniture, just a couple of wooden crates which acted as tables, and sacks filled with straw for beds. Hope’s friends were lying on two of these and the air was rank with sickness and excrement, yet he could see by the rags hanging to dry by the window that this young girl had done her best to keep her patients clean.
He went to the sick woman first, kneeling down on the floor to examine her. Her pulse was almost indiscernible, she seemed unaware of him or her surroundings,