A Mother's Trust by Dilly Court Read Free Book Online Page A

and her cravings to the back of her mind, Phoebe broke into a run. It was not far to Bleeding Heart Yard and the Fowlers lived in one small room behind the cobbler’s shop where Henry had plied his trade. There was a new man working there now. He was tiny, with a cruelly misshapen body and a hunchback that made the poor man look as though he was permanently bent over his last. He barely looked up from hammering hobnails into a boot as they hurried past his open door, making their way along the narrow passage towards the back of the building. Their footsteps echoed on the bare floorboards and Phoebe almost lost her balance as she skidded on a large piece of plaster which had fallen off the wall leaving the laths exposed like the ribs of a skeleton. The heat was intense and the smell of stale beer and rotting cabbage mingled with the stench of urine and unwashed bodies. It grew steadily worse as they reached the Fowlers’ lodgings.
    ‘What’ll I do if she’s croaked?’ Biddy muttered. ‘I’ll have to move south of the river.’
    Phoebe was too anxious about Dolly to worry about what might happen to Biddy, and she opened the door peering nervously inside the room. With one small window as the only means of ventilation, which was covered in grime both inside and out, the Fowlers lived in a permanent twilight. She could just make out a figure slumped on the floor by the empty grate. Dolly Fowler was not quite fifteen but she had the body of a ten-year-old child. Phoebe went to kneel at her side. She held her hand close to Dolly’s mouth and felt a faint whisper of a breath. ‘She’s not dead,’ she said, breathing a sigh of relief. ‘Go and find her mother. I’ll stay with her. She’ll need a doctor too, or else we’ll have to get her to the hospital.’
    ‘She’ll kill me. She’ll do for me, she will.’ Still mumbling beneath her breath Biddy retreated.
    Phoebe turned Dolly onto her back and cushioned her head on her lap, stroking the matted mouse-brown hair back from the unconscious girl’s forehead. ‘Speak to me, Dolly. It’s Phoebe Giamatti. I’ve come to help you.’
    Dolly’s eyelids fluttered and opened briefly before closing again. Phoebe chafed her cold hands. ‘Come on now, my girl. This won’t do at all.’ She spoke firmly, hoping that, used as Dolly was to obeying orders, she might respond to authority but to no avail. Phoebe untied her apron and made a pillow of it which she laid beneath Dolly’s head. She rose to her feet and went in search of water and a reasonably clean cup or mug. It was difficult to make out anything in the semidarkness, but she could see that the table in the centre of the room was littered with dirty crockery. Flies buzzed inside an empty jug, feasting off the remains of milk that had turned sour and coated the bottom in a thick gelatinous mess. She had hoped there might be some water or even a bottle of small beer so that she could wet poor Dolly’s lips, but there was nothing. She did not want to leave her, but Dolly was deathly pale and her breathing thready. Perhaps she had suffered some kind of fit, or maybe she had simply fallen and hit her head on the hearthstone. Whatever ailed her it was obvious that she needed prompt attention. Phoebe waited for a little longer but Biddy had not returned and, in desperation, she went in search of help. There seemed little point in requesting assistance from the cobbler, who resolutely turned his back on her as she went past his window, and the rest of the house seemed deserted.
    As soon as she put a foot outside the building the heat hit her with such force that she gasped for breath. The air was thick with dust and the yard was deserted except for a few ragged children playing blind man’s buff, seemingly oblivious to the oppressive weather. Picking up her skirts, Phoebe ran towards the steps taking two at a time. In Charles Street, she stopped to look around, hoping to find someone who might help, but the passers-by