The Dressmaker’s Daughter. Nancy Carson

grocery, but had provided plated hot dinners for the workers at the brass foundries and the other little factories in the immediate streets. Venturing into fish and chips seemed a logical progression, and everybody wished him well, since he was well liked.

      Jesse called the horse to a halt outside Lizzie’s home. The two girls thanked him for the lift and turned to step down. Jesse braced himself, about to suggest that Lizzie stay on the float so he could talk to her. He could say he needed her advice on what to buy Sylvia for her birthday present. He said: ‘May, I wonder if you’d mind …’

      ‘No need to mention it, Jesse,’ May said, interrupting him as she and Lizzie stepped down. ‘I’ll not breathe a word to a soul. Nor will Lizzie. Will you, Lizzie?’ Lizzie shook her head. ‘Give Sylvia our love, just the same. We don’t see much of her these days. Not since you’ve been courting her, keeping her so busy. Why don’t you and Sylvia come and visit us, Jesse? Bring her round for supper one of the nights. Joe would like that.’

      ‘Eh? … Oh, I will.’ He sighed with frustration. It must be God’s will. He must accept that Lizzie Bishop would never be his, and perhaps be thankful for it. Fate was preventing a liaison; and fate had prevented him making a fool of himself in the nick of time. How could he reasonably expect Lizzie to have anything to do with him when he was Sylvia’s sweetheart? They were a close family and no decent girl would stoop that low. In any case, any girl who would steal her own cousin’s man was not the sort he wanted. It was thus an impossible situation; if this girl, whom he yearned for so much, was prepared to take him under those circumstances, he ought not to want her for having him.

      ‘Cheerio then,’ he called and flicked the reins once more. As the horse moved on, Jesse turned and waved, and the two girls stood, waving back, smiling graciously. ‘There. I told you I was a bloody fool,’ he muttered to the horse, who responded with a turbulent emission of wind.

      May chuckled as they walked into the entry. ‘If that was Jesse he needs a dose of liquid paraffin.’

      ‘May!’ Lizzie admonished with a snigger. ‘It was the horse.’

      ‘Let’s hope and pray as it was … But fancy that Jesse not being interested in marrying Sylvia, Lizzie.’

      ‘I know. It’s a bit of shock.’

      ‘Not half as much of a shock to us as it’ll be to Sarah. God, there’ll be hell to pay.’

      ‘He might not say anything, May. He might just go along with it – for years.’

      They opened the door and went in the house. Eve was sitting in her usual chair, but she was pale, her eyes were rolling, and she seemed to be fighting for breath. Lizzie was at once alarmed.

      ‘Mother, Mother, what’s up?’ She went straight to her and felt her forehead.

      Eve was sweating, but her skin felt cold and clammy. She looked up at her daughter. ‘Thank God you’m back,’ she said wearily. ‘Oh, I’m that hungry, our Lizzie, but I didn’t want to start me dinner till you got back.’

      ‘Sit there nice and quiet, Mother. May and me can put the sandwiches up. Have a biscuit to keep you going.’ Lizzie went to the cupboard at the side of the fire grate and took out the biscuit barrel. She opened it and put it in her mother’s lap.

      ‘The sandwiches am already done, our Lizzie,’ Eve remarked. ‘They’m under a cloth on the shelf at the top of the cellar steps.’

      May brought them to the table.

      ‘D’you think I ought to send for the doctor, May?’

      ‘It’ll do no harm.’ May cast a glance at Eve who was tucking into her meal ravenously. ‘Is she often like this?’

      ‘Lately she says she starts to get weak just before mealtimes. She eats like a horse, yet I’m certain she’s losing weight. And drink? All the time she’s drinking water.’

      ‘It don’t sound right, Lizzie. We’d best fetch the doctor. I’ll get Joe to fetch him tonight after he’s had his tea.’

      ‘I’ll go and fetch him myself when I’ve had my dinner.’

      ‘No, leave it till tonight … I should … From what I can hear of Donald Clark you won’t catch him at his surgery yet awhile. He’ll be in The Shoulder of Mutton. You know he likes a drink.’

      That afternoon Eve seemed to improve, though she had little of her usual energy. The two girls blackleaded the grate as usual and, when they lit the fire, the first thing Eve requested was that the kettle be put on to boil for a pot of tea. Lizzie scrutinised her mother carefully for other signs that she was unwell. It was not till then that she noticed how often she was getting up to go to the privy.

      *

      It was at about eight o’ clock that evening when Joe returned to his mother’s house with young Dr. Donald Clark, who had recently taken over his father’s practice. Donald was twenty-seven and a likeable young man. He wasn’t especially handsome, but neither was he repulsive. He had wavy, reddish hair, a ruddy complexion and a substantial nose. There was a gap between his two front teeth, which, when he smiled, seemed to enhance his affability. As they rode together to the Bishops’ house on the ancient dog cart that old Doctor Clark had always used, Joe anxiously described Eve’s symptoms. Donald knew the family well, and Eve had fed him often enough when he and Ted were pals. He was thus concerned about her, and eager to help.

      After the pleasantries, Donald took out his stethoscope.

      Without being asked, Eve undid the top buttons of her frock. ‘Should I strip off?’

      ‘No need, Mrs Bishop,’ Donald replied. ‘I just want to listen to your heartbeat.’ He slid the end of his stethoscope over her chest while he listened. ‘Mmm … sound as a bell … Now I want to smell your breath.’ He put his nose near Eve’s mouth and she breathed self-consciously into his face. ‘Mmm … Tell me how you’ve been feeling, Mrs Bishop. What sort of things that have been happening recently that don’t seem normal?’

      Lizzie had to repeat the question for her.

      ‘I’m feelin’ tired all the while, Donald,’ Eve answered. ‘And every half hour I’m havin’ to make water.’

      ‘Are you having to do that in the middle of the night, too?’

      ‘Two or three times a night. I’m sick of emptying the slops of a morning.’

      ‘Are your bowels loose?’

      ‘Me bones loose?’

      ‘No, your bowels. Have you been constipated?’

      ‘Oh … yes … terrible.’

      ‘Anything else?’

      ‘I get that weak with hunger, Donald. I tell you, I could eat a man off his hoss. And I could drink a marl hole dry, I’m that thirsty.’

      He turned to Lizzie. ‘Anything else, Lizzie? You live with your mother. Have you noticed anything?’

      ‘Only that she eats well, but I think she’s losing weight.’

      He rubbed his chin. ‘Losing a bit of weight wouldn’t do her any harm under normal circumstances, but to me it’s a symptom of her illness.’

      ‘What d’you think’s up with her, then, Donald?’ Joe asked.

      Donald sighed and took the stethoscope from around his neck, folded it and put it in his bag. He looked at Joe, then at Lizzie. ‘Her symptoms are consistent with diabetes.’

      ‘Diabetes?’ Lizzie said. ‘I’ve heard of it.’

      ‘All we know is that it’s a disease that affects the way the body uses sugars and, to a lesser degree, fats. The problem’s caused by a little thing in the belly called the pancreas gland. The disease causes certain of its cells to degenerate so that it can’t cope with sugar and so the body passes the sugar out through the