Letters from Alice: A tale of hardship and hope. A search for the truth.. Petrina Banfield
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way, and a puddle thick with brown sludge. ‘What is it, Sidney?’ Her eyes fell to the bulky sheet between them, from which she kept a respectful distance away.
The mortician pulled a face. ‘Forty-summat gent fell from t’roof first thing this morning,’ he said, scratching his belly. A flock of black-gowned barristers swept past them, their destination perhaps their courtyard chambers, or one of the gentlemen’s clubs nearby that were popular retreats for upper-middle-class men.
‘Oh no, how terribly sad,’ Alice said.
‘A sorry situation, I’ll give you that,’ Sidney said in his broad country accent. He rubbed his pink head and frowned up at the building. ‘But I just can’t make head nor tail of it.’
Alice grimaced. ‘Desperate times for some, Sidney. It’s why we do what we do, isn’t it?’
The mortician pulled his cap back on and looked at her. ‘Aye, happen it is. But I still can’t work it out.’
‘What?’
‘Well, how can a person fall from all t’way up there and still manage to land in this sheet?’
Alice gave a slow blink and shook her head at him. ‘Sometimes, Sidney …’
He grinned. ‘Oh, don’t look at me like that, lass. You’ve gotta laugh, or else t’pavements’d be full with all of us spread-eagled over them.’
Sidney recounted the exchange inside the basement half an hour later, Frank banging his barrelled chest and chuckling into his pipe nearby. The smell of smoke, damp wool and dusty shelves smouldered together in an atmosphere that would likely asphyxiate a twenty-first-century visitor, though none of its occupants seemed to mind the fug. ‘Never was a man more suited to his job than you, Sid,’ Frank said, gasping. ‘You were born for it, man. What do you say, Alex?’
Alexander Hargreaves, philanthropist, local magistrate and chief fundraiser for the hospital, was a tall, highly polished individual, from his Brilliantine-smoothed hair and immaculate tweed suit all the way down to his shiny shoes. A slim man in his late thirties, his well-groomed eyebrows arched over eyes of light grey. In the fashion of the day, an equally distinguished, narrow moustache framed his thin lips. There was a pause before he answered. ‘I prefer “Alexander”, as well you know, Frank,’ he said, without looking up from the file on his desk. ‘In point of fact,’ he added in a tone that was liquid and smooth after years of delivering speeches after dinner parties, ‘I don’t happen to think there’s anything remotely amusing about mocking the dead.’
The walls behind Alexander’s desk were lined with letters thanking him for his fundraising efforts, as well as certificates testifying to the considerable funds he had donated to various voluntary hospitals over the years. Framed monochrome photographs of himself posing beside the equipment he had managed to procure, developed in his own personal darkroom, were displayed alongside them.
Sidney’s podgy features crumpled in an expression of genuine hurt. Years in the mortuary had twisted his once gentle humour out of shape until it was dark, wry and, to some, wildly offensive, but his respect for the gate-keeping role he played between this life and the grave never wavered. ‘Right,’ he said a little forlornly, clapping his hands on his podgy knees. ‘I reckon I’d best get back to the knacker’s yard.’
Alexander’s nostrils flared. Frank arched his unkempt brows. ‘Come on, Alex, where’s your sense of humour?’
‘Lying dormant for the time being,’ came Alexander’s reply. ‘To re-emerge whenever someone manages to display some wit.’
Stocky office typist Winnie Bertram blew her nose into a hanky and tucked it back into the handbag that rarely left her lap. ‘God rest his soul,’ she said, her reedy, wavering voice momentarily cutting through the office banter.
Alexander glanced up from his work. ‘Are you coping, Winnie?’
Winnie adjusted the black silk shawl she was wearing around her shoulders, the one she had worn religiously since Queen Victoria had been interred next to Prince Albert in Windsor Great Park more than two decades earlier. ‘Not particularly, dear, no,’ she said, straightening her spectacles with a mottled hand.
Winnie could be relied upon to mourn every loss the hospital notched up, even if the first she had heard of the patient was after they’d departed. She too was in the ideal job in that regard, especially with Sidney keeping her abreast of every last gasp, choke and coronary going on above them.
‘You look tired,’ Alexander pressed gently. ‘Perhaps you should consider spending the day at home?’
Winnie patted down her short grey hair and gave Alexander a wan smile. ‘I’ve been tired since 1890, dear. Don’t worry about me, I’ll soldier on.’
Alice rolled her eyes. Witnessing the aftermath of war had left her with a sense of urgency to improve the lives of society’s most unfortunate, as well as a lack of patience for those with a tendency to complain about trifling issues.
She herself recognised her good fortune, having enjoyed a largely happy childhood. Quick intuition made her the ideal student and as she grew older, she delighted in the new opportunities becoming available to women. Influenced by her parents, who were both pacifists and active peace campaigners, Alice became aware of society’s ills at an early age. She and her elder brother, Frederick, sat quietly in the corner of the sofa during the meetings of the National Peace Council – a body coordinating smaller groups dedicated to furthering the cause of non-violent opposition across Britain – that took place in the living room of their Clapham home.
In later years Alice became brave enough to interject, shaping the skills of negotiation and the moral compass that were to guide her as she tended to wounded soldiers on the battlefield, the ear-splitting crack of shell-fire in the distance, plumes of gas looming high above her head.
‘But I don’t understand why they had to invade!’ thirteen-year-old Alice had burst out passionately, in response to an argument about the Austro-Hungarian annexing of Bosnia-Herzegovina.
Her father glanced at her tenderly. ‘The Austrians are flexing their muscles, love. They want to ensure their empire is taken seriously. We’ll see where their flag-waving nationalism gets them soon enough, I suspect.’
‘War, in the Balkans and beyond, you mark my words,’ one of the men, a Quaker, answered hotly, causing a great deal of muttering and concern on the faces of those present.
A hiss of steam from the old boiler caught everyone’s attention. In the lull that followed, Alice asked Frank if he was ready to join her in outpatients. She was scheduled to spend the day conducting assessments on some of those waiting, all the while keeping an eye out for cases of fraud. It was an information-gathering exercise, and the ideal opportunity for Frank to gain a sense of her work.
‘I’ve decided to carry on with my review of the paperwork down here this morning, dear Alice,’ Frank said, checking his pocket watch and slipping it back into his waistcoat. ‘Besides, you females are so much better with the ailing than us men.’
‘But I have juggled everything around, as you asked me to. I haven’t been through the inpatients lists yet, and I need to organise wigs and prosthetics for several patients.’
‘Don’t you worry about that,’ Frank said. There was a hopeful glance from Alice, before he continued. ‘It will still be here when you get back.’
‘That doesn’t sound particularly fair,’ Alexander offered from the other side of the room.
‘No,’ Alice said, turning to him. ‘But then some men believe a woman’s sole purpose is to bend to their every whim. In fact, I suspect that some would prefer it if we didn’t exist at all.’
‘Ha! Not true, if indeed the lady is referring to me,’ Frank said. He stuck out the tip of his tongue, removed a flake of tobacco and planted it back in his pipe. ‘I love the female of the species. Fascinating creatures.’
Alice