Except the Dying

Beatrice had found a hole and was busy darning across it. “Have you recovered all of the clothes?”

“There was no, er, undergarment.”

“Drawers or chemise?”

“No drawers.”

“Hmm. Those are easy things to hide. You just wear ’em.”

Murdoch knew for certain that Alice didn’t have them. Perhaps Ettie did.

He sneezed. He’d started to feel under the weather, feverish and runny-nosed. Beatrice regarded him over her glasses like a bird contemplating a tasty morsel.

“My oh my. You look as if you’re coming down with a cold.”

He sneezed again. “’Fraid so.”

She got up. “You just sit right there. We’ll have you right as rain.”

“Don’t bother yourself, Mrs. K. I’m off to bed soon.”

“No bother. I’ve got to tend to Father, anyway.”

She left him and Murdoch grimaced. He was already familiar with Mrs. Kitchen’s home remedies, and some of them were worse than the illness they were curing.

Arthur noticed the expression on Murdoch’s face and started to laugh. Immediately the laughter turned into a violent attack of coughing that left him panting and weak in his chair. He spat bloody froth into the cup. Murdoch thought the smell was worse daily.

“Can I get you anything?” he asked.

“New pair of lungs is about the only thing that’d do me any good, and I doubt you’ve got a set of them in your pocket.”

“Wish I had.”

Kitchen waved his hand in the general direction of the door. “Forgot to tell you, Mother’s trying a new cure on me.”

The door opened at that and Mrs. Kitchen returned carrying an enamel bowl of steaming water. Murdoch jumped up to help her.

“Here, let me.” He took the bowl out of her hands.

“Put it down there close to the fire. Arthur, we’ll have to build up the coals a bit. Mr. Murdoch should be warm.”

Murdoch started to protest but she cut him short.

“Take off your slippers and socks. Come on.”

She sprinkled some mustard powder into the hot water.

“Now put your feet in. Careful, it’s hot.” He eased his feet into the bowl, watching the skin immediately turn pink.

“Sit back,” she said and pulled the mohair shawl up around his shoulders.

He grinned. “I feel like I’m a boy again.”

She patted his shoulder. “Good. You could do with a bit of mothering now and again.”

She went back to her own chair, unobtrusively moving the tin cup from her husband’s side table and putting a fresh one down.

“Arthur said you’re trying a new cure.”

She nodded. “I was out at the market this morning and there was a new egg-seller at Mr. Howard’s table. Apparently he’s getting too old to come down from the farm now, so this woman is selling the eggs and chicken for him. Odd thing she was, brown as a berry. Probably got gypsy blood. Anyway, we got to talking and I told her about Arthur here and his sickness. ‘That’s easy fixed,’ she says. ‘Make him take twelve raw eggs a day in some heavy cream. Keep him cold at night and don’t let up ’til he’s cured.’ Well, I thinks to myself, it’s all very well for you to say that, seeing as how you’re in the business of selling eggs. She must have read my mind. ‘Cured my father and my own sister,’ she says. ‘And tell you what, I’ll sell you a dozen for the price of ten. How’s that?’”

“Course Mother agreed,” interjected Arthur. “Even though we can’t afford it.”

“We’ll manage. I’m going to advertise for another boarder. Should be all right if they keep to themselves, don’t you think?”

“Anybody who stays here is lucky,” said Murdoch. He stirred his feet in the mustard water, making a tidal wave in the bowl. He grinned at the other two. “I used to do this when I was a boy in Nova Scotia with the pools of seawater left behind at low tide. I’d sit on the rocks, put my feet into the pool and pretend I was God sending a storm.”

As he watched the water slap in the enamel bowl he remembered his old game vividly. In the middle of the pool he floated a piece of driftwood to represent the Bluebell, which was the unlikely name of the fishing trawler his father sailed on. Gradually he stirred the water higher and higher until the waves overwhelmed the flimsy boat and it capsized with all hands on board. He played this over and over, each time with a mixture of Catholic guilt and a pagan delight that he had destroyed his hated father.

“… dear child, God rest her soul.”

Mrs. K. was saying something. He caught the last bit. Ever since Beatrice had heard that Therese was of the faith, her attitude had changed. The girl had risen from one of doubtful character to a child rapidly approaching sainthood.