It was almost midnight when Maisie sped off once again, this time balancing regard for the comfort of her passengers with the need to get Lizzie to the fever hospital. She had not said as much to Billy and his wife, but Maisie knew only too well that Lizzie’s chances of clinging to life would have increased greatly had she been admitted to hospital three days ago. Each day without medical care following onset of the disease increased the mortality rate in young children. The knowledge that one in five children left untreated at five days after first signs of sickness would die caused Maisie to press down on the accelerator. Parking the car in front of the hospital, Maisie put her arm around Doreen’s shoulders as they rushed into the dour Victorian building. A doctor was summoned and Maisie gave an immediate diagnosis and details of symptoms and Lizzie Beale was taken away. The women were instructed to remain in the waiting room until the doctor came out to give a prognosis, though Maisie suspected it would be a long wait, for she knew that the child was bound for the operating theater, where she would be given injections of antitoxin to protect her vital organs from the vicious disease. Without doubt, she would have a tracheotomy to clear the upper airway obstruction, plus removal of her tonsils and adenoids. Would her little heart be able to bear such a dangerous operation?
“Oh, my precious Lizzie. My precious girl.” Doreen Beale broke down in Maisie’s arms, tears coursing down her face. “We could’ve sold something, pawned my wedding ring. I blame myself, I should’ve said to Billy, ‘Sell my ring.’ I wish I had, I wish I had known. I didn’t think.” Her heaving sobs seemed to crush her chest, such was the grief and self-recrimination.
“Don’t blame yourself, Doreen, you mustn’t. It’s not your fault. Some children don’t display the usual signs until the disease has progressed. It must have looked just like a cold to start with.” As she clutched the woman to her, she concentrated on pouring strength into the mother who would need every ounce of resolve in the hours and, if they were fortunate, days ahead. It had been a long evening, and as they stood in the hospital waiting room, Maisie thought back to the party, to those who would never need to think twice about money to help a sick child, or adult, for that matter. Though she had taken an instant dislike to him, she could see why the man whom Georgina predicted would one day be prime minister had begun to appeal to both rich and poor alike. He promised a government that would look after its own first. He promised hope. And the people desperately needed reason to hope.
Maisie’s thoughts turned to Billy. “Look, Doreen, Billy should be here with you and Lizzie. The doctor will be out as soon as he has some news, and after he’s seen you, they’ll likely advise you to leave. I’ll go and get Billy, and”—she reached into her shoulder bag—“here’s the money for a taxi-cab home.”
Doreen began to object, but Maisie countered immediately. “Please, Doreen, take it. I’m too tired to argue my point, and you’re too worn out to be proud.”
The woman nodded, still sobbing, and Maisie left.
Later, having dropped Billy at the hospital, with an instruction to send word if there was anything else she could do, Maisie returned home. The cold silence of the drawing room barely touched her, for she was as numb now as she had ever been when faced with the prospect of death. She had blamed herself all the way home: She should have insisted on coming to see Lizzie earlier. But now, even in her own home, and even from a distance of some miles, she was not without resources. There was a part she could play to help the little girl win her fight for life. She did not bother to remove her coat, but took her place in one of the armchairs and closed her eyes. With her feet square on the ground, her hands resting on her lap, she allowed herself to descend into a deep meditation, as she had been taught by the wise man Khan, and as he had been taught by his elders before him. She sought the timeless state where, according to her teacher, everything was possible.
Maisie had been so full of doubt in earlier days, wondering what this strange practice was supposed to do, and why Dr. Blanche took her to receive instruction in something so embarrassing, so seemingly useless. But later, in her darkest hours, the worth of those lessons was proven to her time and time again, and she had come to hold the word of her teacher in high account. Opening her mind, she imagined the sweet face of Lizzie Beale, the mop of curls, her chuckle when amused, the rosy cheeks and red, red sweetheart lips. She saw her in the hospital and began to speak to the child who was in another part of London. She told Lizzie that her heart was strong, that she could rest now, and that when she awoke, she would be well again. Maisie imagined the child giggling in her bed, her mother and father at her side. And before she opened her eyes, and brought her consciousness back to the room, she petitioned the little Lizzie Beale of her imagination to choose life.
When she finally slipped into her cold bed, pulling the blankets around her, Maisie could not sleep at first, the events of the past week playing over and over again in her mind, with conversations repeated as if the needle were stuck on a gramophone record. To her surprise, the emotion that weighed heavy upon her was anger. She appreciated that her view of the world was blighted by the events of the evening, but even so, she found that, like Billy, she was becoming resentful of the very people who provided both her bread and butter and the roof over her head. Of course, she had been fortunate in life, for hadn’t she managed to straddle the barriers of class, of education and opportunity? But when she considered the money that passed hands, the seeming inequity of a society where people would spend thousands on a painting, while a child could die for want of a few pounds worth of medical attention, she was left with a sour taste in her mouth. At the end of the day, wasn’t it all about who had money, and who hadn’t; who could make money, and who couldn’t? And no matter how pleasant the people might be, wasn’t it just plain unfair that there were those who had the wherewithal to paint all day, when others knew only the bitterness of unemployment, the gnawing hunger of want?