wytchcroft

The Lord Mayor, Hospital Director, Chief Medical Secretary, Chief Surgeon and Chief Orderly were moving at pace through the long draughty corridors. A gaggle of affiliates swam behind them, like ducks, quacking politely, and there was the Press, which is to say, there was Charlie Pike of the Tymes, glowing with that specific journalistic warmth ignited by the word ‘exclusive’.

“I don’t know” grumbled the Lord Mayor as he fussed over his elaborate tie once again, “all these women – makes a chap nervous, what? Smacks of suffrage.”

The tapping of his boot heels seemed to echo his concern. Pike had given up trying to work out the separation of voices as they flowed over him, he had a good memory and he'd enjoy playing the quote attribution game later back in the office with his editor, even if they didn’t print any of them, which was likely, everything would be recorded, everything would be filed away for a rainy day. “We’re a new breed, Charlie my boy,” his editor would say with a dry chuckle, “all we have to do is wait for our audience, they’ll be along soon enough.”

Not that Pike wasn’t regarded with some suspicion here in the Hospital.

“I say,” The CMS had murmured earlier as he watched Pike scribbling hurriedly into his notebook, “not taking this down are we?”

The journalist had assured him that the notes were simply on the architecture of the place, but had decided at the same time to keep his visible writing to a minimum - even though the candid conversations he was eavesdropping upon simply begged for an amanuensis.

“You’d rather they were all nuns I suppose?” Someone was saying.

And, “Now, now - The religious Hospitals are very good,” came back an answer, “always have been – and we cannot be forgetful of our history can we?”

Pike glanced surreptiously at the fobs, chains and rings of the men – most, he was sure, were actually members of some religious order or other.

“And of course we don’t have to pay for them.”

Their small crowd had halted temporarily before a large wooden door and etiquette demanded that they wait for it to be opened by a servant before they could pass through.

“Really Geoffrey, so cynical?”

Ah, right, thought Pike, that would be the Chief Orderly, Geoffrey Murlough, older than he but young enough still to risk over-egging his pudding. “Believe me Your Lordship,” Murlough said, “the duties here, caring, tendering, nurturing – strictly a woman’s role – we, I mean men of course, are just not equipped for it.”

“Ah, true – when you look at it like that…” The Lord Mayor was nodding now.

“But ever since that damned Blackwell woman,” That testy voice had probably belonged to the Director, from behind, and with all the cloaks and hats – Pike couldn’t be certain, “Hmmph! They’ll want wages next! Bad enough all that trouble in the Colonies – minimum wage – I ask you. And that, I need hardly remind you, was all because of a children’s hospital!”

“Well I must say it’s all rather political – I’ve no interest in such things.” Another voice said smoothly.
Pike recognised the speaker, Sir Reginald Splendour, a powerfully built man, whose veneer of urbanity did little to quell the panic his startling physique induced.

Indeed, Murlough quailed. “R-Really?” he stammered, “Only it seems…” Clearly NOT in his element, unused to mixing in such company, the man was making a dreadful ass of himself.

“Seems? Seems? Heavens man,” The smooth voice had hardened in a blink, “I’m a Doctor, my interest and speciality is health! Do you really think that…?”

“I apologise if I have offended…”

“Damned presumptuous.” The door was open now and the entourage swept through, Pike stepped smartly to one side, catching yet another trailing piece of conversation as he did so.

“That blasted Plantagenet wants to hold forth in the House of Commons!”

“Maybe they’ll throw vegetables – they’re rather a low breed.”

……………………….

Blinking in the Spring Sunshine Tilly emerged from the caverns of the main building and made her ways across the lawns toward Cromwell House, there was a breeze and it carried across to her the sound of children playing, skipping songs and yells of fierce pursuit, the solid sound of wooden footwear and hard leather. These sounds never failed in their impact on her, the spectre of the Workhouse was in them, but somehow lighter, freer in tone. Or thus it seemed to her at any rate. Just as Cromwell House had been built away from the unclean Miasma of the main wards, so to it seemed to her that the air was free from the contagion of the past.

Yesterday had been Mothering Sunday, and she had a box in her hand full of simnel cakes, made possible by the cake drive held a week ago - and oh, the children would be glad of them , the nurses too, the warm spices and marzipan, what a way to celebrate the opening!

A new Nursery was something to be proud of after all. Cromwell House was fast gaining an international reputation, it made Tilly’s chest tighten, the care of sick children, the births in the Maternity Unit, the fostering that had already taken place as a trial scheme, all were precedents. “We’re helping to make history,” Hester had said in an unguarded moment over a gas-fired piece of toast back in the dorm, and Hester was right.

Tilly had nodded to a wounded man in a bath chair and his warden and had now crossed into Cromwell grounds. She turned up a short gravel drive to the servants’ entrance which would bring her in turn to the kitchen and the pantry where the cakes could be stored.

The kitchen was always busy and Tilly simply nodded with a quick polite smile to the domestic staff as she went in. There was old Barker the handyman too, spending his luncheon, as he often did, peering down at the workings of some clockwork thingumy-bob spread out before him on a napkin. He obviously enjoyed the company of women since he didn’t take his food in his lodge – or perhaps he simply liked the cosy atmosphere and foodie smells. Either way, he never said. All the same, he looked up now, squinting through a jeweller’s eye-glass, and said with a smile, “Aha! The cake’s arrived.”

“And what have you got their Mr Barker?” Tilly asked politely.

Barker frowned. “Oh, part of a part of a part of something everyone else has forgotten how to use.” It was his own personal lament and he sang it often.

“Don’t dawdle girl!” snapped the kitchen’s ruler, Mrs Dinsdale, from behind her.
Nobody liked Mrs Dinsdale, she was commonly known as the Kitchen Kaiser – and heaven forbid that she should find that out! Tilly’s hands were not the steadiest as she put the cake-box onto the pantry shelf.

end of pt 2.

A lot of names in this chapter - sorry about that!