William Monk 14 - The Shifting Tide

to the clinic. She had probably come in wearing her own gaudy street dress, which would show too much flesh and give no protection from the cold.
    Hester touched the thin neck with the backs of her fingers. The girl did not stir. She looked about eighteen, but more likely was far less. Her collarbone protruded and her skin was very white, but her pulse was steady enough. Margaret was probably right, it was no more than chronic hunger and exhaustion. When she woke up they would give her more to eat, but after that she would probably have to go. They could not afford to feed her regularly.
    Hester wondered who she was. A prostitute without sufficient skill or beauty? A servant thrown out because she had lost her character, either willingly or unwillingly, with one of the men in the house? A girl who had had a baby, and perhaps lost it? An abandoned wife? A petty thief? The possibilities were legion.
    She went back out and closed the door. She returned to the main room, which had been created with rather simplistic carpentry from two smaller rooms a few months ago. Margaret was sitting at the table and Bessie was carrying a tray from the kitchen with a teapot and two cups. Bessie was a big woman with a fierce countenance and hair which she screwed back off her brow and twisted into a tight knot on the back of her head. She would never have said so—it would have been a sign of unforgivable sentimentality—but she was devoted to Hester, and even Margaret was earning considerable favor in her eyes.
    “Tea,” she said unnecessarily, putting the tray down on the middle of the table. “And toast,” she added, indicating the rack with five pieces propped up to remain crisp. “We in’t got much jam left, an’ I dunno where we’re gonna get any more, ’less we get it given us! An’ ’oo’s gonna give jam ter the likes of us? Beggin’ yer pardon, Mrs. Monk!” And without waiting for an answer she swept out.
    “Are we really out of jam?” Hester said unhappily. “And so low we can’t afford any more?” She would have liked to bring some from home, but she was far more aware of the need for economy there than she had allowed Monk to know. She already bought less meat, and cheaper cuts; and herring more often than cod or haddock. She had told the woman who came in to do the heavy cleaning that she was no longer needed, and when she had time she meant to do the work herself.
    Before Margaret could respond there was a sharp bang on the door and a moment later, without waiting for an answer, Squeaky Robinson came in. He was a thin man, dried up and bent over. He was dressed in a very old velvet jacket that had lost whatever its original color had been. His trousers were thick and gray and he wore slippers. He carried a leather-bound ledger in his arms. He put it on the table, eyeing the tea and toast, and sat down in the third chair opposite Hester.
    “We cut it down,” he said with satisfaction. “But you’ll ’ave ter do better.” He had the air of a schoolmaster with a promising student who had unaccountably fallen short of expectation. “Yer can’t put out more’n you get in.”
    Hester looked at him patiently, but it required a certain effort. “You’ve balanced the books, Squeaky. What do we have left?”
    “Of course I’ve balanced the books!” he said with satisfaction, even if he was masking it by a pretense of being offended. “That’s wot I’m ’ere fer!” He was there under constant protest, because at first he had had nowhere else to go when Hester and Margaret had very neatly tricked him out of his appalling brothel business, and at a stroke gained the building for use as a clinic. But as he had busied himself with small jobs there, he had gained a certain pleasure from it, even if he would sooner have given blood than admitted it.
    “So how much have we left?” she repeated.
    He looked at her lugubriously. “Not enough, Mrs. Monk, not enough. We’ll manage food for another five or six days, if yer careful. No jam!” He pulled his lips down at the corners. “ ’Ceptin’ fer yerself, pr’aps, an’ Miss Ballinger. No jam fer these women! An’ careful wi’ the soap an’ vinegar an’ the like.” He took a breath. “An’ don’t tell me yer gotta scrub! I know that, just scrub careful. An’ boil them bandages up an’ use ’em again,” he added unnecessarily. He nodded, pleased with himself. He was becoming more and more proprietary each time they discussed the