The Winter Rose (29 page)

Joe shook his head. "No," he said. "No, I won't."

There were sounds of astonishment, boos, and guffaws. Joe waited them
out, then said, "Why would I waste ratepayers' money like that? There
are enough constables here already. Enough station houses."

The booing died down; the crowd quieted.

"Lytton promises you more constables," Joe said, "because it makes
for good headlines. Sometimes he even gives them to you, but it doesn't
matter. He could send in a thousand more constables and it wouldn't
matter. You want to get rid of crime? Get rid of its causes--poverty,
igno-rance, hunger, disease. No, I won't get you more police officers or
jails, I'll get you more schools and more hospitals. I'll get you
better wages for your work and compensation for your injuries. You want
more rozzers, vote for Freddie Lytton. You want a living wage, a better
life, a future... vote for me."

A cheer went up. There were whistles and applause.

Fiona watched Joe, amazed. "It's as if he were born to this," she said to Mel.

Mel nodded. "I think he was, Mrs. B. He's a coster like you said.
Selling's in their blood, and what's politics if it ain't selling? Only
difference is, it ain't apples he's selling now, it's himself."

"And it looks like the crowd is buying," she said.

Fiona had been shocked the morning Joe told her he wanted to run for
the Tower Hamlets seat, but she'd soon recovered herself and said it was
a wonderful idea, that he must do it, and that she would support him
every step of the way. She knew he would need her support, and the
support of many others besides, for he had a tremendous battle ahead of
him.

During the last general election, in '95, the Independent Labour
Party had failed to get even one of its candidates elected. A new Labour
Party had come into being just this year, when the ILP combined with
another political group, the Social Democratic Federation, and a handful
of trade unions to form the Labour Representation Committee. Joe would
be an untried candidate running under the banner of an untried party.
The odds were totally against him, but he was determined to run anyway.
He planned to make his status as a political outsider an asset instead
of a liability. He would make it very clear that were he to be elected,
it would not be busi-ness as usual. His would be a new voice in
Parliament, one not bound by tradition or title, one who spoke solely
for East London and its people.

"Why should we trust you?" a man in a flat cap yelled out. "You're
not a working man. You're running on the Labour ticket, but you're not
Labour, you're Capital!"

Joe smiled. "Too right I am!" he said. "I'm one of the richest men in
the whole flipping country!" There was surprise at his answer, then
delighted laughter at the honesty of it. "I'm rich enough that no one
owns me and no one ever will," he continued. "But make no mistake, I
didn't start out that way. I was selling apples on the streets in the
wind and the rain when I was five years old. Costers had no union when I
was coming up. We still don't. If I was ill or injured and couldn't
work, I went hungry. I never forgot that. Never forgot what it's like to
be on the outside looking in. I know what you're up against, the others
don't. Do you think Lytton or Lambert ever went without a meal? Ever
shivered because they hadn't the money for coal? I'm Capital, all right,
but I'm Capital with a conscience."

"That's a good one, that. He should put that on a banner," Mel said ap-provingly.

Fiona shushed him. Another man was speaking.

"Why should we vote Labour?" he asked. "Why should we vote at all?
What's Parliament to us? The toffs in government don't give a toss about
the working man. They never have. Any power we've won for ourselves,
we've won through the unions."

A cheer went up. Joe waited until it died down, then he said, "Yes,
you've won power--through a great deal of courage and sacrifice, I might
add--but how long can you keep it?"

No one answered.

"Capital wants it back, and they've formed a group called the
Employers' Parliamentary Council to get it. You read the papers same as
me, you've heard of it. And you know what they're doing. They're not
going to fight you on the picket line anymore; they're going to fight
you in Parliament. They've got blokes lobbying the government day and
night to stop any bills favor-able to the working man. And they're
succeeding. They're breaking strikes with lockouts and blacklegs, and
they won't stop there. Rumor has it they're trying to get a law on the
books that will allow them to sue unions for damages, and even take away
the right to strike."

"What'll you do about it?" someone shouted.

"I'll meet them on their own battlefield," Joe shouted back. "I'll
take the fight from the factory floor and the sweatshop and the
waterfront all the way to Westminster. You live in the wealthiest city
in the wealthiest coun-try in the entire world. That's wealth you--each
and every one of you-- helped to create. With your graft, your sweat,
your blood."

He paused here, paced back and forth, then suddenly rounded on his
audience and shouted, "So why are your kids hungry? Why do your wives go
without? Why do you work twelve, fourteen, sixteen hour days and still
have to choose between shoes for your son and a coat for your daughter?"

There were more cheers, urgent and impassioned. Joe held up his hands
for silence. Fiona could see his sides heaving. He was panting, nearly
played out.

"We can't hope to win playing by their rules. It's time we made a few
of our own. Marches and strikes were the first step, legislation is the
next. Let's go to Westminster together. Let's change the old laws and
write some new ones. Laws that protect your wages, your jobs, your
families. What do you say? Will you take that step with me?"

Another enormous roar went up. It gathered and rose like a tidal
wave, rolling over the brick canyon that was Wapping High Street,
engulfing everything in its path. Hats were flung into the air. Hands
reached up, straining to touch Joe.

John Burns stepped up onto one of the wagon's wheels. "What do you say, lads?" he shouted. "Shall we give him a crack at it?"

The roar grew louder. The reaching hands grasped Joe and pulled him
down. The crowd closed over him like turbulent water. Fiona's heart
skipped a beat, her hands came to her mouth, and then he suddenly bobbed
up like a cork, seated on the shoulders of two burly workmen. The crowd
parted for him and he was paraded down the High Street, past wharves
and warehouses, where he was cheered from loopholes and gangways. Fiona
saw him waving as he was carried around a bend and out of sight.

"That clinches it. You're on your own for dinner, Mrs. B," Mel said.

"I think you're right. I wonder if they'll bring him back in time for
supper." She squinted after her husband. "I wonder where they're taking
him?"

"Where?" Mel echoed, laughing. "Why, Mrs. B, he's on his way to Westminster!"

"Mary Ellerton, the little girl with TB, had a bad night. You'll want
to see her first," the matron said. "And there's a Mr. Randall, a
builder, came in

an hour ago with a broken arm. Dr. Gifford set it, but wanted you to check on him."

"Dr. Gifford's here?" India asked, surprised.

"Yes. He had emergency surgery this morning. Gallstones. Sister Moskowitz assisted. Here's the entire roster."

India took the clipboard and thanked the woman. She paged through the
names. Twenty at least. It was already eight a.m., and she was
sup-posed to see patients at Varden Street at ten. She finished reading
the ros-ter, drained her cup of tea, and prepared to start her day. She
had just pulled her stethoscope out of her bag when she heard a knock at
the door. It opened before India could say "Come in" and a beaming Ella
appeared, followed by what seemed to be two enormous fruit baskets on
legs. The baskets were breathtaking--lined with moss and decorated with
ribbons and fresh flowers--and were piled so high with fruits, nuts,
biscuits, and sweets that India could not see the faces of the men
carrying them.

"Gorgeous, aren't they?" Ella said.

"Oi! Ella! These ain't light. Tell us where to put them."

"I'll tell you where to put them, all right."

"Come on, will you? Me back's breaking!"

"Ella? What's going on?" India asked.

"Put them on the floor, right there," Ella said.

The men did as she said. When they'd put down the baskets, India saw who they were--Sid Malone's men.

"Mr. Betts, Mr. Smith, why have you brought these?" she asked.

"They're a thank-you, missus. From the guv. And from us. For fixin' him up."

"Mr. Betts, I can't--"

"Believe how generous this is," Ella said. "It's much too kind of
you. Isn't it, Dr. Jones?" She turned so that only India could see her
face and gave her a warning look.

"Why... yes. It certainly is."

"Thanks, El," Frankie said. He leaned over and kissed her cheek.

"Wasn't me. It's Dr. Jones you want to be thanking," Ella said.

Frankie looked as alarmed as India felt at the prospect of a kiss. He
doffed his hat instead. "Yeah, well... thanks, missus," he said.

"Your thanks are not required, Mr. Betts. I was only doing my job."

Frankie looked as if he'd been gobsmacked. Ella shook her head and
India felt she'd said something terribly wrong. A wave of irritation
washed over her. Why was it always so hard for her to talk to these
people?

"Well, we're off now. Ta-ra, El. See you at the caff."

"Ta-ra, lads. Thanks again."

As soon as the door closed behind them, India said, "Ella, throw the baskets out."

"What?"

"I don't want them here. We both know how they were paid for. From
theft and drugs and God knows what else. I don't want any part of Sid
Malone's illgotten gains. Get rid of them."

Ella snorted. "The hell I will."

India blinked at her, taken aback.

"Your eyes all right? You see in color? Blue, red, green, yellow?" Ella asked.

"Of course I do."

"Then why is everything so bleedin' black and white to you? There's a
whole ward of sick kids downstairs. The poor little blighters would
love a biscuit or an orange."

"So it's all right to corrupt children, is it?" India asked, stung by
Ella's criticism. "Feed them on the profits of others' misery?"

"I don't care if Sid Malone has hooves and a pointy tail. Those kiddies are getting that fruit."

"Fine, Ella. Do what you like," India said stiffly, returning to her roster.

"For God's sake, let your hair down a bit, will you? Let a bad man do a good deed. Even if it's us doing it for him."

India wanted to ask Ella how she, an upstanding woman who dutifully
observed the Sabbath, could banter and joke with criminals, but she
couldn't. Ella had left.

A sudden knock on the door startled her. A junior sister, Alison Fitch, poked her head in.

"You're needed, Dr. Jones. A Miss Milo just came into the emergency ward. Won't tell us what's wrong. Says she's your patient."

India was out the door before the girl had stopped talking. "Milo...
Milo..." she murmured. The name sounded familiar. It came to her. The
young woman who'd asked for contraceptives.

Emma Milo was leaning against the wall in the admitting area. Even
from yards away, India could see there was something terribly wrong. Her
eyes were half closed. Her face was drained of all color.

"Miss Milo?" she said. "Miss Milo, what is it?"

With effort, Emma Milo opened her eyes. "Please help me," she said.

"Can you walk? There's a bed right over here."

Miss Milo pushed herself off the wall. She took one slow step, then an-other, keeping her eyes fixed on India.

"Good Lord," Fitch said. She was looking at the floor where Miss Milo
had been standing. India followed her gaze. There was blood on the
tiles. Far too much of it.

India rushed to the woman, catching her just as she slumped. "Get me a trolley!" she barked.

Fitch raced off and returned with one. Together they lifted Miss Milo
onto it. She cried out as they did, then drew her knees up to her
chest. The back of her dress was soaked with blood.

India collared another nurse. "Take her to Surgery One," she ordered.

"Dr. Gifford used it this morning. It's still being cleaned," the woman said.

"Two, then. Go!" The nurses rolled the trolley away. India ran ahead
of it and burst through the surgery doors. She knew she should scrub,
get a clean apron, but there was no time. She raced to the sink, fumbled
for a bottle of carbolic and poured it over her hands, then rushed to
Miss Milo's side. Fitch was assembling a tray of instruments. The other
sister-- Arnold--had cut the waistbands of her skirt and undergarments
and pulled them off. They lay in a bloodstained heap on the floor.

"Miscarriage?" she asked.

"I don't think so," India said. She'd seen this kind of bleeding
before. A long time ago. In a hospital in Wales. Images of Bea and Hugh
came flooding back to her, and with them feelings of panic and grief.
She clamped down on them.

"Miss Milo, can you hear me? Miss Milo? Salts, Fitch." Her voice was
low, confident, and full of authority. It did not betray the fear she
felt. She would not allow it to. Fitch waved smelling salts. Miss Milo
coughed and tried to turn away.

"Good girl. Stay with me now," India said. "Fitch, get the stirrups up. We'll lift her onto the table."

"This table doesn't have them, Doctor. Only Surgery One," Fitch said.

Fury flared inside India. Gifford had used One for his patient. A
male patient. He should have left it open. "Take her left leg, Fitch.
Arnold, take the right." The two nurses lifted Miss Milo's legs and bent
them at the knee. Her bottom and thighs were covered with blood. More
was pouring out of her. India tried to get a speculum in. Miss Milo
arched and screamed; the instrument slipped out and clattered to the
floor. A piece of Fenwick's ad-vice came back to her: Screaming is good.
Encourage it. It means your patient is still alive. Once, she'd been
horrifled by his flip statements. Now she un-derstood why he used them:
they were the only armor a doctor had in the face of such suffering.