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"Pick the lock," Callandra said without hesitation. "Or sneak in and out when he’s got his back turned. He’s as careful as he can be."
"But he knows there are losses?"
"Oh, yes. He doesn’t like Thorpe any more than we do. Well, not much. He’ll not report it till he has to. He knows what chaos it will be. But he can’t carry on hiding it much longer."
There was a knock on the door. Callandra opened it, and Cleo stood there, a look of polite enquiry on her face. "Yer ’ungry, love?" she said cheerfully. "There’s a nice bit o’ cold beef an’ pickle goin’ if yer fancy it. An’ fresh bread. A glass o’ porter?"
Hester had not realized it, but at mention of the food she was aware of how long it had been since she last ate, or sat down comfortably, without the need to find words to comfort a frightened, inarticulate old man or woman, powerless as she was to give any real help.
"Yes," she accepted quickly. "Please."
Cleo jerked her hand to the right. "Along there, love, same as usual." She withdrew, and they heard her feet clattering away on the hard floor.
They went together up to the staff room and sat at one of the plain wood tables. All around them other women were eating with relish, and the porter glasses were lifted even more often than the forks. There was a little cheerful conversation in between mouthfuls, or during. They overheard many snatches.
"... dead ’e were, in a week, poor devil. But wot can yer ’spect, eh? ’Ad no choice but ter cut ’im open. Went bad, it
did. Seen it comin’."
"Yeah. Well, ’appens, don’ it? ’Ere, ’ave another glass o’ porter."
"Fanks. I’m that tired I need summink ter keep me eyes open. I gorn an’ popped that ’at, like yer told me. Got one and tenpence fer it. Bastard. I’d ’a thought ’e’d ’a given me two bob. Still, it’ll do the rent, like."
"Your Edie still alive, is she?"
"Poorol’ sod, yeah. Coughin’ ’er ’eartup, she is. Forty-six, lookin’ like ninety."
"Yer gonner get ’er up ’ere, then, ter see the doc?"
"Not likely! ’Oo’s gonner pay fer it? I can’t, an’ Lizzie in’t got nuffink. Fred’s mean as muck. Makin’ shillin’s, ’e is, at the fish market most days, but drinks more’n ’alf of it."
"Tell me! My Bert’s the same. Still, knocked seven bells outta Joe Pake t’other day, and got ’isself locked up fer a while. Good riddance, I say. Yer got any more o’ that pickle? I’m that ’ungry. Ta."
Hester had heard a hundred conversations like it, the small details of life for the women who were entrusted with the care of frightened and ignorant people after the surgeon’s knife had done its best to remove the cause of their pain and the long road to recovery lay ahead of them.
"Perhaps if I got figures together?" Hester said softly, as much to herself as to Callandra. "I could prove to Thorpe the practical results of having women with some degree of training!" She kept her voice low, not to be overheard. "Women with an intelligence and an aptitude for it, like Cleo Anderson. I know it would cost more, as he would be the first to point out, but it would be richly rewarded. Money’s only the excuse, I’m sure of that." She was reaching for reasons, arguments, the weakness in his armor. "If he thought he would get the credit... if his hospital were to have greater success than any other..."
Callandra looked up from her bread and pickle. "I’ve tried that." A heavy bunch of hair fell out of its pins, and she poked it back, leaving the ends sticking out. "I thought I’d catch his vanity. Nothing he’d like better than to outdo Dr. Gilman at Guy’s Hospital. But he hasn’t the courage to try anything he isn’t sure of. If he spent money, and there were no results, soon enough ..." She left the rest unsaid. They had been around and around these arguments, or ones like them, so many times. It was all a matter of convincing Thorpe of something he did not want to know.
"I suppose it’s back to writing more letters," Hester said wearily, taking another slice of bread.
Callandra nodded, her mouth full. She swallowed. "How’s William?"
"Bored," Hester said with a smile. "Longing for a case to stretch his wits."
When Hester arrived home at Fitzroy Street it was a little after seven o’clock that evening. Monk had already returned and was waiting for her. There were faint lines of tiredness in his face, but nothing disguised his pleasure in seeing her. She still found it extraordinary; it brought a strange quickening of the heart and tightness in the stomach to remember that she belonged here now, in his rooms, that when night came she would not stand up and say good-bye, uncertain when she would see him again. There was no more pretending between them, no more defense of their separateness. They might go to the bedroom one at a time, but underlying everything was the certainty that they would both be there, together, all night, and waken together in the morning. She did not even realize she was smiling as she thought of it, but the warmth was always in her mind, like sunshine on a landscape, lighting everything.
She kissed him now when he rose to greet her, feeling his arms close around her. The gentleness of his touch perhaps surprised him more than her.
"What’s for dinner?" was the first thing he said after he let her go.
It had not crossed her mind that she would need to cook for him. She had eaten at the hospital as a matter of habit. The food was there. She was thinking of the missing medicines and Thorpe’s stubbornness.
There was food in their small kitchen, of course, but it would require preparing and cooking. Even so, it would not take more than three quarters of an hour at most. She could not bear the thought of eating again so soon.
But she could not possibly tell him. To have forgotten about him was inexcusable.
She turned away, thinking frantically. "There’s cold mutton. Would you like it with vegetables? And there’s cake."
