A Brighter Tomorrow by Maggie Ford (read with me .txt) 📕

He’d sent her to a sanatorium as soon as he’d realized what it was, but it had been of no use. She’d become thin, listless, the flush of her cheeks not the rosy glow of health but the trademark of the disease; she’d died, pale and wasted, like this young girl standing on his doorstep, though this girl’s pallor came from the smoke-filled atmosphere of London’s East End, lack of fresh air and good healthy food. But underneath that, he knew this skinny waif was strong with a natural instinct for self-preservation. At this moment she was holding out a folded sheet of paper to him with a firm, determined hand.

‘Thanks very much for yer kind thought,’ she began, her green eyes a steady, almost aggressive stare. ‘But we don’t ’ave no need of yer ’elp.’

He experienced a moment of confusion. ‘It was given with the best of intentions. You seemed as though you needed help in some way.’

‘It would of been better ’elp if you’d of come when I called at yer surgery while me mum was alive. She might be better now if yer’d come when I asked. I know I didn’t ’ave no money for a doctor’s visit, but she’s dead now. If I’d ’ad money then, she might still be alive, so I don’t feel it’s right you giving me money now it’s too late, and I don’t think I ought ter take it. So I’m giving it back. But thanks for the thought.’

It was a long speech and Bertram Lowe stood silent and stunned throughout, finally finding his voice.

‘I want you to have it, child. With no one to bring in a wage – you said your father had left and your brother run off – you could end up destitute.’

‘I can’t remember saying me dad’s left and me brother’s gone.’

‘Few remember what is said in the shock of bereavement.’

She shrugged off the comment. ‘Anyway, I ain’t that destitute as ter be obliged ter take charity.’

‘It was not charity, child, merely given out of kindness of heart.’

‘As I see it,’ she broke in calmly, ‘it was out of need to ease yer conscience at not coming when yer was most wanted.’

He stared down at her. She thought she had hit the nail on the head. How wrong she was. How could he tell her she bore such a likeness to his dead daughter that she had reawakened a grief he’d thought he’d begun at last to overcome? This gesture of helping her because God hadn’t blessed him enough to help another had been his natural reaction.

He had spent his morning’s surgery half-regretting having sent her that money. How else could she have taken it but in the way she had? She was nothing to him – just another child of the East End. Yet somehow he hadn’t wanted to lose touch with her. Unknowingly she’d prompted in him a need to cling to the memory of his sweet, darling Millicent.

‘I’d rather yer take it back,’ she was saying.

He watched her bend down to lay the note he’d sent her with its contents on the lower of the two stone steps leading up to his door. But as she turned away he came to life, waddling down the steps, holding on to the wrought-iron railings for support, in time to catch her thin wrist.

‘Please, my dear. Let me explain.’

She pulled against his grip. ‘I ain’t taking it back! I don’t want yer blood-money!’

He hung on, thankful no one was passing, though perhaps curtains might be twitching. ‘My dear, you look cold. Come inside for a moment. My wife will give you a warm drink. I didn’t intend to insult you. I understand.’

He did understand this strange pride of the poor – at least, of those who had pride. Those who didn’t had hands ever outstretched for easy handouts. This girl, he felt with an odd prick of satisfaction, wasn’t one of them.

‘Please accept my hospitality,’ he urged.

He saw her glance over her shoulder at the cold-enwrapped street and her thin body gave a small shiver. She had ceased pulling against him, her pride dissipating, and he was able to draw her up the two steps and into the house, closing the door. Momentary panic flashed in the wide, green eyes as he did so, but faded as his wife returned along the hallway.

‘You poor child,’ she began. She held out a hand while he released his from Ellie’s thin arm. ‘I overheard what my husband said. I shall have a warming drink made straight away to take the chill out of you, my dear.’

She was a small woman. Her roundness made her look even smaller as she conducted Ellie gently across the wide, brightly lit hallway, the gas lamps lit despite it being daylight outside. It seemed to Ellie as astonishing that some people were able to burn gas with no thought at all to the cost.

The room she was shown into was bright, without need of lamps. There were two upholstered easy chairs and sofa in green brocade, flowery wallpaper with pictures and framed photos suspended all around the room from picture rails. Side tables held large potted plants. The sideboard held a clutter of family photos, vases and ornaments under glass domes, and there was a large oval mirror behind it – all typically Victorian; tasselled runners everywhere.

The mantelshelf above the fireplace, in which a huge fire blazed, held more ornaments, a gilt clock, also under a glass dome, and another mirror. A patterned rug almost covering the floor completed the sense of the room’s being warm and cosy, if just a little overstuffed. Ellie had never seen such a room.

The doctor’s wife guided her to the sofa, told her gently to sit down as she hesitated. ‘I’ll have our maid bring you a mug of warm milk. Or would you prefer cocoa?’

Cocoa. When had she last had cocoa? If Mum had a good day’s work