Isabella Rockwell's War (9 page)

Neither of
them spoke until they were nearly home.

“I can’t
believe you just done that.” Midge was overawed. Isabella pulled
him into a doorway.

“Come on let’s
see what’s in them.”

Mouths
watering they unpacked sausage rolls, honey cakes and oranges from
one and from the other four bottles of Mead and a medium sized
ham.

“We’ll be
having our own Christmas tonight then,” said Midge, pink with
excitement. “Come on let’s run!”

It was as
Isabella climbed the warehouse stairs, labouring under the heavy
basket and joking with Midge that she felt the first finger of fear
touch her gently on the shoulder. Pausing on the landing, she
watched the last ray of weak sunlight creep down the buildings over
the water. Her chest tightened and, dropping her basket to the
floor, she ran up the remainder of the stairs, Midge following in
her wake.

One of the
dogs sat by the doorway his ears back, the sacks, which would
normally bar their way, pushed to one side. Her heart fell further.
Inside the den, it was quiet; too quiet. There was an unfamiliar
smell, sweet and cloying.

Close to the
fire, curled like a seahorse, lay Lily. She was fighting for every
breath and her lips were blue. Next to her sat Ruby with tears
pouring silently down her cheeks as she bathed Lily’s white face.
Zachariah held Lily’s hand and seemed to be muttering something,
prayers maybe, whilst rocking back and forth. His eyes never left
Lily’s face and Isabella could hardly bear to look at him, such was
the pain she could see there.

Barely knowing
what she was doing, Isabella took her bag off.

“When did she
become sick?” she asked quietly.

“Since this
morning. She seemed so tired so I let her sleep, but when I tried
to wake her I found I…” Ruby gulped, “I couldn’t.”

“Has she woken
at all since then?”

“Only
once.”

“Did she
recognise you?”

Ruby nodded,
eyes filling again.

“That is
good.” Isabella looked at Lily closely. With her face so still her
resemblance to Zachariah was more pronounced. Isabella felt her
skin. It was hot to the touch as if a furnace burned away deep
inside her.

“She is very
ill,” she said, almost to herself.

Zachariah
seemed to see her for the first time.

“What are you
doing here? Go away, leave us in peace.” Such was the anger in his
face, it took all of Isabella’s courage to stay put.

“I have a
little experience of healing.”

“So?”
Zachariah’s eyes were bleak. Isabella had seen this look before
and, despite his indifference to her, she felt compassion for him.
How well she knew what he faced. She reached out and touched his
sleeve.

“I helped to
nurse people who were sick at home. I know a little. At least I
could make her more comfortable.” As if in response to this Lily
took a deep and rattling breath and let out a little moan.

“Let her,
Zachariah. Please. Otherwise we’ll have to get Doc Rogers,” begged
Ruby, but Zachariah interrupted her, never taking his eyes from
Lily’s face.

“I’m not
having that sawbones anywhere near her…” Isabella didn’t stop to
listen, she was on her feet stoking the fire as high as she
dared.

“We don’t have
much time,” she said gathering up some bedding and placing it
against the warm brick of the wall. “Bring her over here and sit
her up gently against this. If she sits up the water in her lungs
will drain downwards and she will find it easier to breathe.”
Zachariah glared at her, but did as she suggested.

“We must now
see about her fever. We need water, which is warm, but not hot – as
if you are feeling nothing – that is the temperature it must be.”
Ruby, glad to be asked to do something, leapt to her feet, but
William was ahead of her, filling pots from the jugs of water they
collected each morning from a pump on the street corner.

Isabella took
out her medicine pouch and unrolled it. Each little pocket bulged
with its remedy and Isabella sent up a silent prayer of thanks to
Abhaya. Taking a tiny dried yellow flower from one pocket she
handed it carefully to Ruby.

“Let William
finish the bathing water. This is Aremenia Asia and is powerful
against fever. You need to boil this flower in one cup of water for
exactly three minutes. If it cooks for too long the medicine in it
will be lost.”

As Isabella
crushed the flower into the cup of water, a smell was released
driving away the dense smell of infection and replacing it with the
scent of lemon and the clean air of the mountains where the flower
had grown. Isabella unwrapped Lily from her bed linen, her every
move watched by Zachariah and then dropped a few drops of mint
essence into the tepid water William carried over to her. She
ripped a piece of cloth in half and gave one piece to
Zachariah.

“Here, bathe
her gently. This will help to bring the fever down too.” Zachariah
took the cloth and began to bathe Lily’s skin, which was white and
stretched tightly over her bones, like skin on a gourd. Her golden
hair was black with sweat. The other children huddled silently in
their beds, on the far side of the den, the dogs lying with them,
with ears back.

When the tea
was ready, Ruby brought it to Isabella who stirred it until it was
cool. Lily felt cooler to the touch after the sponging, but
Isabella could feel under her fingers, as if far off in the
distance, the fever pushing through, like a snake seeking a bird’s
egg.

“We need to
sit her up more. Zachariah, I will hold her and you must spoon this
into her mouth. We must get it all into her.”

“But she’s
barely conscious, she won’t be able to swallow.”

“She will,”
interrupted Isabella. “The fever has not yet reached her brain. If
we get it far enough into her mouth, she will swallow.” Zachariah
looked at her, hollow eyed and desperate. “We have no choice.”

“No.” His eyes
blazed as he looked at her. “But if you harm one hair on her head,
I will kill you.”

Isabella
nodded. “I know.”

It took one
hour to spoon all of the mixture into Lily ensuring it all went
down her throat and not down the bedcovers. Ruby continued to bathe
her with the mint-scented water and William kept the pots warming
on the fire. Wrapping her back up into her blankets, they laid her
gently back against the pillowed wall.

“How long
before we will know if she’s to get better… or not?” asked
Zachariah, darting a low glance over to Isabella, devoid, for the
first time, of anger.

“Soon I
hope.”

Lily started
to cough with a tight rasp, not the loose rattle for which Isabella
had hoped. She pulled back the blanket and took a quick look at
Lily’s chest, fear making its presence known again. Lily’s little
chest, and now stomach, was pulling in with the effort of her
breathing. Isabella’s heart sank.

“What is it?”
asked Zachariah who she’d felt watching her every expression.

“I need to
make a rub for her chest. I need to loosen what’s inside her. It’s
drowning her. Though I can rid her of fever, it means nothing
unless she can bring up what’s in her chest. The infection will
just return.”

“What do you
need?” Zachariah was on his feet, but Isabella was silent.

“Come on, what
do you need? Speak to me!”

“I need Olive
Oil, Oil of Cloves and, and…”

“What!”

“Oil of
Amber.”

Zachariah’s
face fell.

“How
much?”

“Four
tablespoons.”

Zachariah put
his head in his hands.

“Well, that’s
that then. We can’t afford it.” Isabella nodded. Oil of Amber was
equal in price to gold. She took a deep breath, unsure and afraid.
Every part of her wished she weren’t in this situation, wished
she’d never met Midge, wished, of all the children who could have
become ill, it hadn’t been Lily. Beneath her feet she felt a cliff
crumble, but she reached deep into her father’s bag and brought out
Mrs Trotter’s emerald earrings. They sparkled in the firelight as
she held them out to Zachariah.

“We can afford
it… just make sure you give me the change.”

For the first
time ever Zachariah smiled at her, a genuine smile which reached
his eyes. For a moment the worry was erased.

“What else
have you got in there I ought to know about?” He nodded toward the
bag.

“Not a single
thing,” she smiled back at him, tiredly.

She’d just
given away part of her ticket home not even sure it would help, but
she knew what Abhaya would have done in her position.

Zachariah was
back within the hour.

Isabella ran
her hands gently over Lily’s back as Lily lay on her front over
Isabella’s lap and gradually brought up mouthful after mouthful of
thick green phlegm from her infected lungs. Isabella lay her back
down on her bed for a rest. Was it her imagination or was Lily’s
colour just a little better? The sky was drifting from black to
snowy grey and the bells of St Paul’s were tolling for Matins. All
around the den were sleeping children. She pulled the blankets
around Lily and then sat silent for a moment. Zachariah moved next
to her and smoothed Lily’s hair from her forehead.

Lily opened
her eyes.

“Zachariah?”

Zachariah
leaned down with a tender look on his face.

“Lily-Loo.
There you are. You’ve been a-wanderin’.”

“I’m
thirsty.”

Zachariah
lifted some water to her dry white lips and then laid her back
down. She went straight back to sleep.

He looked at
Isabella.

“Thank
you.”

The evening
after Lily’s illness, Isabella and Midge had done a couple of hours
down at Smithfield, leaving a pale, but sulky, Lily in her brother
and Ruby’s tender care. Isabella had been glad to escape the
sickroom for a few hours and she and Midge had strolled down to
London Bridge to see the new gas lanterns which had been lit all
along it. It was a cloudy night again, but not so cold as before
and she and Midge lingered on London Bridge looking in the windows
of the jewellery shops and gazing at the eerie yellow glow the
lamps made in the foggy air. Isabella found a gap between the
houses and leant out. Beneath her lay the docks filled with masted
ships too tall to get under the bridge. Her breath smoked in front
of her as she sought out the Wentworth, but it was too misty and
she couldn’t read any of the ships’ names.

“Wotcha
looking at?” Midge joined her at the wooden rail.

“Nothing
really,” she replied, not wanting to appear weak, when really she
was breathless with homesickness.

“I’d love to
go on one of them boats, when I’m older. I can join the navy when
I’m twelve.” Isabella smiled and Midge continued. “What was it like
on your ship? Was it exciting?”

Isabella
raised her eyebrows.

“Not exactly,”
thinking of the tedium of Mrs Trotter’s company. “But I saw some
amazing things like Dolphins off the coast of Africa and flying
fish and even pirates!”

Midge’s eyes
were on stalks.

“Pirates? You
wasn’t robbed though?”

Isabella shook
her head.

“No, nothing
so exciting. They were in a ship far far away from us, but I heard
the crew talking about it and I went to look. I could see the ship,
but I couldn’t see their flag.”

“I expect it
was a skull and crossbones,” Midge thought for a moment. “Maybe
I’ll be a pirate instead. Then when you teach me your trick I’ll be
able to make them gamble all their doubloons and I’ll buy me own
ship and I’ll sail the seven seas and I’ll be rich.” But Isabella
wasn’t listening. Midge talked so much she’d found she could only
realistically absorb only half of what he said, the rest of the
time she just smiled and nodded.

Had it really
been only six weeks since she’d arrived? Her arrival at this very
dock seemed faded and hazy in her memory. She must have changed a
great deal since she’d been here.

“Let’s walk
down there,” she headed off down to where the cobbled road led down
from the bridge to the riverside. Noise came from every direction
for this part of London never slept. Its rhythms were the tides and
winds, and its clocks were the moon’s quarters which changed every
day. A large and noisy party passed them. Isabella’s nose caught
the familiar smells of tamarind and cumin and heard an exasperated
voice speak in Hindi.

“Just tell her
she will have to wait! We will be on board soon. Hai Mai, which god
is it I have so displeased that he sends me these women to deal
with?” The owner of the voice was round, fiftyish and in possession
of a fine set of grey moustaches. His turban and cummerbund were
deep pink and he had the air of a wealthy trader. He rode a fine
black horse and in an open carriage behind him rode an assortment
of women and children chattering like parakeets, beautiful in their
plumage.

Isabella felt
as if someone had pulled her in from the cold and, without
thinking, she attached herself to the running board of the
carriage, Midge hitching a lift unseen at the back.

“Gerrof
there!” Snapped the driver, cracking his whip at Isabella, but she
spoke hastily to the women.

“Good day,
honourable Sahibas. From which ship is it you sail to our homeland?
Or is it not my beloved India to which you return?” One of the
women, the oldest and most senior, wife held up her hand for the
carriage to stop.

“What is this?
A child of Belait who speaks our tongue as her own? I would never
have expected to see such a thing. What are you doing here child?”
She opened the carriage door and Isabella salaamed as deeply as she
could from where she was standing.

“I find myself
here as my father, a British soldier, is dead and I was sent here
to learn a profession until I am of age.”

“But you do
not look like the child of a regiment. You look like an urchin, a
vagabond. It is only because your accent shows you are well born
that I have stopped this carriage for you. How is it you come to be
thus?” By this time the merchant had ridden his horse back to the
side of the carriage.