She's Leaving Home (13 page)

‘Of course someone lives there. And that’s why I want to know.’ He glanced with distaste at the child who was wiping a greenly snotted nose on a sleeve. He tried to guess its age. From the diminutive size, barely four foot four, it could be six or seven years old. But that wizened pinched face and sharp manner suggested otherwise. More like twelve or thirteen. The product of dreadful diet and poor parental habits, no doubt. Far too many like that around here.

Thomas Leadenthall pulled out a handful of change and selected a shiny copper penny. ‘Tell me straight, young man, and it’s yours.’

For answer the child pointed towards a jumble of houses, their blackened walls overshadowed by the gritty outpourings of a thousand chimneys. In the still air the smoke hung acrid and immovable. ‘By the baths in Cornwallis Street,’ it mumbled, then grabbed the penny and ran.

The streets were full of such urchins. They crouched in the gutter and played marbles, the brilliant blues and fiery reds aglow in the hazy sunlight. They sat on broken walls and swung their bare legs and scarred knees at him. Little girls in torn dresses and overlarge hand-me-down shoes pushed rackety toy prams and crooned to dolls. As Leadenthall passed they stopped their play to observe him, at once curious, indifferent and hostile. Some called to mothers who came to doorways, their hands sudsy from washing, and watched with suspicious eyes. One or two recognised him and turned away. A Catholic mother crossed herself and hurried her children inside.

He found the address he wanted, knocked on the door and waited. On the door jamb was nailed the tiny metal capsule the Jewish people called the
mezzuzah
, which one of his patients had informed him contained religious scriptures and was supposed to protect the household from harm.
Nothing else distinguished this terraced house from its neighbours, except that the curtains of the front bay window were tightly drawn. The doorstep had been scrubbed recently and an effort made to remove grime from the window ledges, but in this area that was a thankless job. From inside came voices and a door slammed. He knocked again.

The front door creaked open. On the threshold stood a small, thick-set woman.

‘You’re not taking him to no sanatorium.’

Thomas Leadenthall was accustomed to such a greeting on doorsteps but still it made him sigh.

‘If I let you take him away, he won’t ever come back.’ The woman folded her arms obstinately over a substantial bosom. She filled the narrow doorway as if she would physically prevent his entry. He had the right, since the disease was notifiable, but co-operation was sought wherever possible. He took a deep breath and removed his hat. A red weal from its brim and beads of sweat marked his brow.

‘Madam, my name is Tom Leadenthall.
Doctor
Leadenthall. I am employed by the Corporation of this city under its distinguished Medical Officer of Health. Now do you want us to conduct the rest of this discourse on the pavement, or may I enter and examine the patient?’

The woman grunted and hesitated. On the opposite side of the street a small crowd of children had gathered. Under their unbending gaze, still unwilling, she gave way and stepped back. As the two trudged into the gloom towards the back of the house, she wiped her hands on her apron as if absolving herself of responsibility.

He was not shown into the parlour. That, he guessed, was where the invalid might be. Instead it was the kitchen with its black-leaded range emitting excessive heat, the kettle pushed to one side. A wooden rack near the ceiling held damp under-garments and sheets. Through the open back door he could glimpse a tiny yard strewn with old wheels, a mangle and tub, a couple of empty tea chests, a broken hutch. He put the Homburg and his black doctor’s bag down on the kitchen table with a slight thump, as if to grant himself greater authority.

It was his task to try to overcome her fears. Consumptives had little chance in conditions like these. Those great open air hospitals in their own parkland, developed in the years before and after the war, had done untold good. Based on Swiss and German ideas they practised the virtues of healthy outdoor living, a strictly disciplined regime, plain food, abstinence from strong drink and the rigour of hard work, at least for those patients well enough to undertake it. Beds were strung out on verandas in all weathers. It was reasoned that if the lungs were diseased the more fresh air that could be forced into them the better. And since it was widely known that foetid overheated rooms and smoky atmospheres, not to speak of the ale-house and staying up late at dances – in other words, ignorance – were among the causes of the higher incidence of the disease among the labouring classes than the gentility, the doctors were clearly right. To persuade the indigent to accept their superiors’ knowledge and advice had however proved an insurmountable problem, especially in the slums of Liverpool.

‘It is my duty to urge you to reconsider this question of Fazakerley –’ he began again, but she cut him short with a snort.

‘You tell me then, doctor. How many patients leave there alive? If you’ve got nothing infectious when you arrive, you have for certain within a week. And more’s the point, how many last five minutes after they’ve come home? Many’s the one I’ve seen sent back here a wraith, supposedly discharged “cured” because it improves your damn-fool statistics. Well: they ain’t cured. Helps you get more money from charity women, them rich ladies as likes to do good for the rest of us.’

She made as if to spit, then caught the look of alarm in his face and stopped herself. The two glared at each other with equal belligerence. Leadenthall could have answered that three-quarters of all sanatorium patients died within five years of discharge, and that her criticisms were increasingly being voiced by public health specialists including his own boss. Those who were claimed as cures,
particularly the younger ones, were more likely to have been the victims of malnutrition. To have given her that satisfaction, however, was neither in his brief nor his character. Nor did he have much else to offer.

‘I will not dispute with you, madam. I can see your mind is set. The young patient can be cared for under the auspices of the Netherfield Road clinic, which I believe is the nearest. Not as good as the sanatorium, but…’ The mother turned from him and he shrugged.

He was ushered at last into the front parlour. Its drawn curtains made the room dark, while the spluttering coal fire rendered it airless and stiflingly hot. A narrow bed filled most of the space; the normal furniture of the room, a large sofa and an armchair, had been pushed to one corner and covered in an old rug. A small table by the bed held a bottle of lemonade and a glass, a packet of Woodbines and an ashtray in which a cigarette burned. A fusty smell came from the bed, in which lay the fragile shape of Daniel.

Dr Leadenthall motioned at the curtain. ‘Mother, I cannot see to examine him. Would you please allow us a chink of light?’ His voice was suddenly gentle as he removed his jacket and placed it over an armchair.

For several minutes the doctor concentrated and made notes. Deftly he wielded his stethoscope like a talisman, listened to the noises in the thin chest, examined the tongue, palpated, checked the shallow pulse. For a quiet moment he placed his cool hand on the sweaty brow and held the boy steady, as if his own goodwill might enter and purge the contagion, or at least sustain the youth. Then from his bag he pulled out a small glass bottle and from a selection found a wide cork that fitted. ‘For the sputum,’ he said, and handed the bottle to the woman. He rose.

‘If it isn’t TB, Mother, I shall be surprised,’ he murmured. ‘The tests on what he brings up will tell us for sure.’

The mother clutched the bottle and bridled again. ‘There’s no bad blood in our family,’ she protested. ‘It could be something else.’

‘There is nothing whatever wrong with your family, madam. We have known for nearly half a century that the disease is caused by the tubercle bacillus. That idea of inheritance, of bad blood, is nought but foolish superstition. No stigma should be attached to this infection, for that is what it is, and you should permit none to attach to your son. Nor to any member of this household.’

She pursed her lips. ‘Well, then, tell me what I have to do.’

‘First, he must have light and air. As much fresh air as you can get into him. Simple hot food, eggs and butter, Ovaltine before he sleeps. Make sure you only buy TT tested milk – none of your cheap milk-cart rubbish. Plenty of fluids – your Jewish chicken soup is as fine a remedy as can be devised. There is disagreement as to whether consumptives should be kept warm or not, but I prefer it – stone hot water bottles rather than stuffy rooms, if you please. And clean, simple surroundings: all this stuff harbours dust and dirt,’ at her glare he added hastily, ‘though I can tell you are very
house-proud
. Look, I’ll show you.’

He always enjoyed this part of the consultation, the expression of surprise and horror on the faces of relatives who preferred to hide what they believed was their familial shame. He rose, his bulk filling the crowded room, approached the window, flung the curtains open wide and wrenched open the upper frame, pushing it out as far as it would go on its hinges. A blast of cool air entered and the patient began to expectorate.

‘Good! Excellent! That’s what we want. Get it up, but don’t share it with anybody – that’s how the contagion is spread.’

The doctor began to whirl round the room like a dervish, thumping furniture as he went. Clouds of dust danced after him in the sunbeams. ‘Get rid of this dreadful stuff – take it out at once. And take up the carpets. Bare floors, Mother, scrubbed every day. The bacillus likes to lurk and will reinfect whenever it can. Ah, that’s better!’

In demonstration he stood in the bay window and sucked in lungfuls of murky air. He found himself observed by a dozen astonished children who had crossed the road and had their noses pressed to the lower pane. Impatiently he waved them away; they did not budge, but murmured to one other.

‘Can he smoke or not? He likes his cigarettes.’

‘Oh, yes, no problem there. Helps clear the lungs. Good for him. And cod liver oil, every morning. But no alcohol. Drink is one of the root causes.’

He rummaged in his bag, took out a notepad and began to write busily. ‘You will present yourself with this and the sputum sample this afternoon to the clinic, where you will be issued with medicine. A teaspoon three times a day to begin. If it does not agree with the patient, continue but reduce the dose. It can cause a rash and sickness, but it is efficacious, I assure you.’

‘What’ll it cost? And what do we owe you?’ The woman stood upright and proud. A gust of wind slammed the kitchen door shut. The boy in the bed gagged at the noise and began to moan softly.

‘Madam, my services come free. The government says we should charge, but opinion in this city as in Manchester and Birmingham is that to attempt to recover charges from such as yourself would deter…’ The bitterness on her face at such condescension halted him. He was at heart a kindly man, or he would not have sacrificed a promising medical career, in which he might have had rooms in Rodney Street and tended women in furs for substantial fees, for this dreary employment.

Hurriedly he continued, ‘We are obliged to make a charge for the medicine as it contains gold. That seems to be the best treatment at present. It will cost twelve shillings a bottle.’

The woman gasped and staggered. ‘His insurance benefit comes to fifteen shillings a week and we’ve lost his wages,’ she muttered. ‘And after three months off sick it’ll go down to half that.’

‘At least he was an insured worker when he contracted the condition, or he’d get nothing – or have to go to the Poor Law Guardians. There is that consolation. And if you take care of him as I’ve instructed he has every chance. Now: any more questions?’

She shook her head, and with an effort at politeness showed him first to the kitchen where he washed his hands then to the front door. ‘Thank you, doctor.’ It was the first time she had called him that. ‘I don’t know how we’ll manage, but we will. My son will recover. I swear to God Almighty.’ She touched the
mezzuzah
on the door jamb lightly with her fingertips then raised her fingers to her lips, as if to seal a bond.

The doctor was halfway down the street and surrounded by a chirruping crowd of awed children before he realised he had forgotten his hat. He turned back and found the woman on the doorstep, the Homburg in her hand. With her forearm she brushed the battered felt respectfully, and without a word she handed it to him. Her face, he noted, was wet with tears.

Mrs Majinsky was as good as her word. By dusk the sickroom had been emptied of unnecessary furnishings including the carpets. The floor was scrubbed with vicious energy. A smell of carbolic pervaded the room briefly until dissipated by the breeze wafted in from the window, by now propped open with a stick. Security was not a consideration: nobody would be leaving this house for months and anyway there was nothing whatever to steal.

The father came and went silently. In the synagogue he lingered and brokenly mouthed prayers. As the weeks passed with little apparent change but no worsening, the old man became more bowed and silent. It was as if he had offered his own life and vitality for his son’s as Abraham once did for Isaac, and the offer had been accepted.

The smell of cooking pervaded the house as marrow bones were scrounged for soups and stews, as nourishing as could be afforded. Whereas in normal times such tantalising odours would have attracted those even poorer than themselves, particularly from other nearby Jewish families who
would then be invited in to share, now nobody appeared except those overcome by morbid curiosity who stayed but briefly and would not enter the parlour. This TB thing was infectious. That was why patients were taken away and isolated. Hadn’t it once been compared to leprosy, and didn’t it carry the same terrible fears?

Izzy his brother considered staying with friends for the duration but nobody would have him. Who was to say that he wasn’t infected too, or a carrier? So he trudged off to work and at night read his brother the paper borrowed from a workmate. Money became a matter of silent desperation. Every penny was needed to sustain the cost of the illness. Nothing could be spared.