So Long At the Fair (60 page)

Carrying Jane in his arms, the tall boatman led the way to a public house, the Steam Packet, which was situated on a corner a short distance away. There the two men left the three survivors in the care of the landlord and his wife and, hardly waiting long enough to receive thanks, disappeared again into the night.

The landlord, Plaister by name, was a tall, heavy-set man in his forties; his wife a short, plump little woman with greying hair tied back in a bun. They were kindness itself and set about doing all they could to make their unexpected guests comfortable. Their barmaid was left in charge of the saloon – though there were no customers present, all having hurried down to the river bank to witness what they could of the drama.

While the landlord took the young man into one room to get dry, the landlord’s wife led Abbie and Jane into another.

In the little parlour leading from the kitchen Jane sank gratefully into a chair. She seemed to be in a state of stunned apathy, and it was only through the efforts of Abbie and Mrs Painter that she could be prevailed upon to get out of her wet clothes, to dry herself and wrap herself in the blankets the older woman provided.

As Abbie and Mrs Plaister helped Jane, it became clear that when leaping into the wreckage-strewn water she had sustained some injuries. Thankfully, however, it appeared that there was nothing really serious, though she had suffered a knock to her head, a grazed shin and, most painful of all, bruising of her ribs on the right side. Abbie herself had been very lucky; her only injuries were a slight bruise on her hip and another on her left elbow. She was aware of a feeling of discomfort in her lower abdomen, but as she had swallowed so much of the filthy, foul-tasting river water she was not in the least surprised by it.

When Mrs Plaister had cleaned and dressed the wound on Jane’s leg she and Abbie helped her back into the kitchen and into a chair before the crackling fire. Abbie, also wrapped in a blanket, sat on a chair at Jane’s side. On Abbie’s right sat the male survivor, also enveloped in a blanket. Abbie knew nothing about him apart from what she had observed. He was of medium height with a lean build, a narrow face, dark hair and a small, neat moustache. There was a dark bruise on the left side of his face and the knuckles of his right hand were skinned raw. He had hardly spoken more than a dozen words since they had come together in the dinghy. Now, like Abbie and Jane, he sat hunched in his chair, staring dully into the flames of the fire.

While Mrs Plaister prepared food for the three her husband wrote down their names and addresses. That done, he hurried off to the local police station to give word of the survivors in his care and seek advice as to how they should be further aided. After he had gone Mrs Plaister poured mugs of hot lentil soup. Abbie and the young man – he gave his name as Henry McGibbon and an address in Pimlico – sat sipping the soup in a slow, mechanical way. Jane did not raise her mug to her mouth but stared into the fire, a look of dull incomprehension in her eyes. There were no tears shed by any of the three and, while no one wept, rarely did anyone speak. Each of them seemed to be stunned by what had happened. Like Jane and the young man, Abbie sat looking into the flames of the fire, while through her mind ran endless questions as to the fate of those she loved.

The landlord returned from Woolwich police station with the information that places of succour were being prepared at the Union Infirmary, the workhouse situated at nearby Plumstead, and that the survivors were to be taken there. So, a little later, dressed in fresh, dry clothing provided by the landlord and his wife, the three were taken by cab to Plumstead. Before they left they were assured by Mrs Plaister that their own clothes would be delivered to them as soon as they were dry.

It was gone midnight by the time they reached their destination. In the workhouse yard they descended from the cab to be met by the director of the house, Dr Rice, and the senior nurse, Miss Wilkinson. Entering the building, they were led to a comfortable room from which, one by one, they were taken into the doctor’s consulting room a short distance along a corridor. Jane was seen first, and when she came out some minutes later Abbie was shown in.

She took a seat in a chair facing the doctor who sat behind a desk. He was a short man in his fifties with a rather dapper appearance that was added to by his neat, close-cropped white hair and beard. The nurse, Miss Wilkinson, sat nearby. She was a tall, stockily built woman in her forties who, in spite of her slightly forbidding no-nonsense air, looked at Abbie with an expression of kindness.

After taking down Abbie’s name and address, the doctor said, ‘This meeting has, of necessity, to be brief, Mrs Randolph – I’m sure you understand.’

‘Of course.’

‘Our priority for the moment,’ he added, ‘is to get you and the other lady and gentleman to bed to get some rest.’ His manner was brisk but sympathetic. ‘For the time being I just want to make sure you’re not suffering from any injury that needs immediate treatment.’

She told him that all things considered she felt well and that she was not suffering from anything other than the odd bruise. For a moment she debated whether to mention her pregnancy, but she did not. She was more concerned about those who were missing, and in the knowledge that preparations were underway to receive relatively large numbers of survivors, she was in hope that there might be news of Louis and the others. When she gave the names to the doctor, however, he gave a slow, sad shake of his head.

‘I’m very sorry,’ he said. ‘Your friend Mrs Gilmore asked me the same thing. But I’m afraid that so far only eleven survivors have been brought in – including you and Mrs Gilmore and the gentleman, Mr McGibbon.’

‘Eleven? Only eleven?’

‘So far, yes. But you mustn’t give up hope. We’re certainly expecting more to arrive. We understand from the police that survivors have been taken to various other houses and places in the vicinity – to be cared for for the time being. We expect them to come to us before long. Others, we’re given to understand, have almost certainly managed to find their way home.’

Abbie dully nodded acknowledgement of his words, though she found no comfort in them.

The doctor went on, ‘I understand that you and Mrs Gilmore are old friends.’

‘Yes. We’ve known one another since we were children.’

‘Right.’ He glanced round at the nurse. ‘We’ll make sure that you have adjacent beds in the infirmary.’

Abbie thanked him. ‘Jane – Mrs Gilmore –’ she said, ‘is she all right?’

‘Do you have doubts about her?’

She gave a little shrug. ‘Well, I don’t think she came through it as well as I. I know that she’s got a few aches and pains . . . Her ribs and . . .’

He gave a slow nod. ‘I shouldn’t worry about her. She’s suffering from shock, of course. Though she’s also sustained some considerable contusions and a few other minor injuries. I don’t think there’s anything to be unduly worried about, but we shall keep an eye on her. Don’t worry.’

Abbie left the doctor and returned to the room where Jane and the young man waited. When the nurse appeared a minute or two later she took the young man off to see the doctor, then came back to Abbie and Jane.

‘Well,’ she said, ‘let’s get you to bed, shall we? I’m sure you must be very tired. First of all, though, let me have the names of your husbands and other relatives and friends . . . As the doctor said, we’re expecting more survivors to be brought in tonight.’

Abbie and Jane gave her the required information, which she carefully wrote down. Then at her request they got up and followed her out of the room. Walking at Jane’s side, half supporting her, Abbie went after the nurse down a long, narrow corridor of the women’s wing. The place seemed vast and gloomy, and their echoing footsteps took them past door after door, each of which, Abbie imagined, was closed upon a little cell in which slept some destitute female.

Eventually they arrived at one of the newly prepared infirmary wards, a large, high-ceilinged room containing some thirty beds. The room next door, the nurse said, held a further twenty of the total of fifty beds set aside for surviving females, though so far only three were occupied. Looking into the dimly lit room Abbie could see the three occupied beds. in them their occupants lay still and covered up.

Abbie and Jane were shown to adjacent beds a little distance from those already taken. Speaking in a low voice so as not to disturb the other inmates, the nurse told Abbie and Jane where the WC was located and made sure they knew how to find their way to her office if she should be needed. ‘I shall be up all night receiving more admissions,’ she said, ‘so don’t hesitate to come for my help if you need it. Though in any case, one of my assistants will be making the rounds from time to time.’

After checking they had everything they needed for the time being, she said goodnight and left them.

The large, plain, spotlessly clean room was simply furnished with a locker and a chair beside each bed. Over Abbie’s bed hung a cheap print depicting Christ surrounded by children of all nations. There was a screen there, and Abbie pulled it around the beds, and behind it helped Jane change into the coarse cotton nightgown that had been supplied. That done, she saw Jane into bed, where she lay silent and unmoving. She had spoken barely more than a word since being brought ashore in the dinghy.

Abbie put on the nightgown that had been left for her, then climbed into the bed next to Jane’s and lay there looking up at the ceiling. She felt somehow unreal. It was as if she were living in a dream. There was a strange feeling of numbness about her – as if there were a shield that somehow kept much of the reality at bay. And not only she herself was affected in such a way; she thought of Jane lying beside her, silent and dry-eyed, and also of the young man, Henry McGibbon. On their arrival at the workhouse she had heard him making enquiries after his wife and two small daughters. There had been no tears in his eyes, no sound of hysteria or any kind of emotion in his voice. He had been strangely matter-of-fact, his words delivered in a dull monotone, as if he were slightly removed from it all. And perhaps he had been. Perhaps they all were – by that cocoon that protected them from the reality of the horror.

Perhaps it was nature’s way of ensuring one’s survival. For how could one take in all that had happened, all the horror that had taken place? That day she had seen hundreds of people dying before her eyes – men, women, children – shouting and screaming as they had vainly struggled to stay afloat in the water. She had been one of the lucky ones, as had Jane. But what of the others – Louis, Iris and Alfred, Arthur, little Emma, and Emma’s nurse Flora . . . ?

Now here she was, lying in a narrow bed in the workhouse infirmary of a south-east London suburb. In the next bed lay Jane, her old, much loved friend – her friend whom she had thought never to see, never to love again. She turned on her side to face Jane’s back. She could hear her breathing. For the most part it was regular, though now and again it stuttered out of its rhythmical pattern as though she was disturbed by a bad dream or some physical discomfort.

As if in sympathy for Jane’s physical hurts, a little stab of pain pierced Abbie’s lower abdomen and lingered there with a small, burning intensity. Over the past couple of hours she had frequently experienced a similar pain – a kind of sharp, biting cramp – but it had never been this intense. Now she gritted her teeth, held her breath and waited for the discomfort to pass. It was due to the filthy river water, she told herself again; there was no telling what diseases one might not pick up from it. To her relief the cramps began to fade slightly after a few moments and she let out her breath on a sigh of relief.

Then, just as she felt the pain diminish to little more than an echo, it suddenly returned more sharply than ever, biting with a fierceness that made her catch her breath and sent her body into a spasmodic jerk. The pain lessened again, but did not go away. Instead, it lingered just below the threshold of unbearableness, all the while threatening at any moment to clutch at her again. Lying there, holding her breath and waiting for the next attack, she knew what she had tried not to face all along – that the pain had nothing whatsoever to do with having swallowed water from the river.

As she sat up the pain stabbed at her abdomen and she sucked in her breath. She swung her legs out of bed, took from the chair the towel that had been left for her, hitched up her nightdress and wrapped the towel about her loins. Then, holding it in place, she opened the locker and took out the shoes and the cape lent to her by Mrs Plaister. She put them on, gave one last look at Jane’s still form beneath the bedclothes, and crept swiftly from the room.

The bleeding had started by the time she reached the WC. When, in the cold glow of the gaslight, she pulled up her nightgown and removed the towel she saw how bright – much, much too bright – was the blood.

How long she sat there, hunched over, forearms crossed over her belly, head hanging down, she did not know. Half an hour? An hour? When at last, wrapped in the towel again, she made her way along the corridor, her joints felt stiff.

Miss Wilkinson was still up and in her office. Standing at her desk, she looked round in surprise when Abbie appeared in the doorway.

‘Mrs Randolph,’ she said, frowning, ‘is there something wrong?’

Abbie came into the room. ‘I wonder . . .’ she said after a brief hesitation, ‘I wonder whether I might take a bath.’

The nurse’s frown deepened. ‘Take a bath . . . ? At this hour? It’s almost three o’clock. Why don’t you –’ Becoming aware that Abbie was in some distress, she came to a stop. Then she saw the way Abbie was holding the towel around her beneath the nightgown; saw too the traces of blood on Abbie’s hands.

‘What’s happened?’ she asked, moving towards her.

Abbie steeled herself. ‘I – I was pregnant. Getting on for eight weeks. And I’ve just . . .’ Unable to bring herself to speak the final words, she came to a stop and stood holding herself, hands gripping the towel through the coarse fabric of the nightgown. She knew that she had lost the baby. There could not have been so much blood without that loss. But she would not cry. She must not allow herself to cry. There would be another time for tears and perhaps others to weep for. ‘Please,’ she said, struggling to control herself, ‘I must wash myself . . .’