Deathly still.
TEN
“…at the top of the house, and separated from all the other apartments by a gallery and staircase, I kept my workshop of filthy creation…”
“Hold still just a moment more.”
With one hand, Graham steadied the little boy’s chin, and with the other, fished about in the lad’s ear using the tip of a long-handled hemostat. A simple procedure. One that would have a satisfying ending, unlike Mr. Balfour’s mysterious collapse the previous night. Oh, the man had come ’round well enough after a pinch of smelling salts beneath his nose, but it was thewhyof the matter that yet haunted Graham. There’d been no reason for Balfour to have so instantaneously languished in such a fashion. A puzzle Graham had been unable to solve as he’d roamed Bristol’s streets well into the witching hours, and after that, pored over his medical journals until the break of dawn.
The metal tip he gently guided in the boy’s ear hit something hard, where no bone should be, driving away thoughts of Balfour. Carefully, Graham followed the solid shape until the narrow forceps hit a soft wall of tissue. The boy squirmed, but he didn’t cry out. Brave fellow!
“Hold on now. Just a moment more and—” In one swift movement, Graham pinched the object and pulled out a big seed showing the first signs of sprouting. “There we have it.”
He held up the navy bean for all to see, the boy, his mother, and the small girl that hadn’t let go of the woman’s patched skirts since he’d ushered them into the surgery.
“Grimmety grouse!” The boy’s mother popped her fists onto her hips. “Charlie, I told you time and again to stop playing blow-the-bean with them neighbour boys.”
“Your mother is a wise woman, Master Charles.” Graham pointed to the tiny white finger of a root just breaking through the shell. “Had this grown any further and lodged in your ear, you would have lost your hearing. So listen to your mother while you still can, eh?”
The lad’s face blanched. “Y–yes, sir.”
Graham sighed. Hopefully the boy would act on his word, for he had no idea the haunting sorrows that would attend him if he didn’t. How different things might’ve been had he listened to his own mother when she’d pleaded with him not to join the navy.
Shrugging off the old regret, Graham clapped young Charlie on the shoulder. “Good man.” He dropped the bean into a porcelain bowl with a plink then helped the boy off the table.
“Thank you, Doctor.” Charlie’s mother fumbled with the drawstrings of her reticule. “What do I owe you?”
“Five shillings, ma’am.”
Her mouth pinched as she rooted about in her bag. One by one she pulled out pennies and farthings, pushing them about in the palm of her other hand. Her lips moved as she silently counted. The small girl buried her face in the woman’s skirts, and Charlie set about walking the perimeter of the room, eyeing all the medical instruments while keeping the heel of one hand pressed against his sore ear.
“I, em…” A great lump traveled the length of the woman’s throat as she peered up at him, her face as ashen as young Charlie’s had been just moments ago. “I don’t seem to have five shillings, Mr. Lambert. If you like, I could send Charlie here to work for you until my debt is fully paid. Times is tough, sir, and my man’s not been home since he sailed nigh on eight month ago.”
The distress folding her brow weighed heavy on his chest. Was that how it’d been for his mother after Father had been lost at sea, leaving her to her own wits?
“Oh, did I say five?” He feigned a distracted shrug. “My mistake, madam. I meant to say three.”
The weight of the world fell from her shoulders, and she stood a full inch taller. “Very good, sir. Here you are.” She offered her handful of coins.
He pocketed the money, knowing full well he’d have to make up the difference from his own dwindling funds. A sore spot, that. After a month of service to Mr. Peckwood, he ought to be seeing some remuneration, especially since increasing the man’s business. When the doctor returned later today, he’d have a word with him.
The woman lifted the small girl to her hip, then held out her free hand towards the boy. “Come along, Charlie.”
“Allow me to see you out.” Graham crossed to the door and ushered them into the receiving room, where a bristly-headed man sat on the waiting bench. A stink wafted about him, like a cloud of thick fog, smelling so strongly of gin that the little family whisked past him in a trice.
“Mama, why does that man smell—”
The clatter of the door shutting cut the boy off.
Graham stepped forward. After years of living amongst unwashed sailors who reeked of bilge water and damp rot, the odour didn’t bother him. “May I help you, sir?”
“Yes.” The fellow rose, surprisingly steady on his feet. Other than the bulbous nose pitted from years of blue ruin and the eye-burning scent of spirits oozing out of his pores, nothing else gave so much as a hint of intoxication. Apparently, he was an even-keeled sort of drunkard. The kind that could imbibe daylong without so much as the tremor of a hand.
“I should like to see Mr. Peckwood.”
Graham shook his head. “I am afraid he’s gone out.”
“We were to meet here at one o’clock.” He tugged the chain on his pocket watch, sliding out the gold timepiece, then flicked open the lid. After a glance, he tucked the thing away and lifted washed-out blue eyes to Graham. “It is now five past the hour, sir. I cannot abide tardiness.”
