God's Children Page 10

  I started as I heard the stout wooden door open, scraping upon the flagstoned floor. Footsteps, and then Monsieur Vilenbakhov appeared at my side. He had taken off his hat and carried it in restless hands. He looked anxious. I confess I found it difficult to meet his gaze and returned to staring at the modest altar.

  ‘Madame Marsden? The packs have been loaded. We are ready to depart.’

  I nodded and did my utmost to appear composed but he saw at once how I battled with my innermost thoughts.

  ‘Forgive me,’ he said, shuffling his feet. ‘I should not have intruded…’

  ‘It cannot work. Do you see that?’ I asked of him, unfairly, of course.

  ‘You are referring to the plant…?

  ‘The flower. The thing they guard so fiercely, it cannot be the cure I had been promised. If it were, why would the shaman not use it, if only to line his own pockets and improve his exalted position further? I have been chasing a myth, Monsieur Vilenbakhov. A powerless whisper of hope. Nothing more.’

  The young man came to sit on the pew beside me then, clutching his hat in his hands.

  ‘You will turn back?’ he asked.

  I stared at him then, astonished.

  ‘I most certainly will not.’

  ‘But without the cure, that is to say, I understood…’

  ‘It is a blow, I admit it, but to give up? To abandon those I have been sent to save? Never!’ I jumped to my feet. ‘What manner of nurse would I be to do so? What poor shadow of a Christian woman? There is now more than ever a need for the hospital I will build, for what else can we offer the afflicted now but solace, comfort, companionship and care?’ I saw in that moment that God had indeed sent me a sign. This well-meaning young man had questioned my resolve, and I had found it to be every bit as strong as ever it had been. I strode down the aisle, calling back as I did so. ‘Quickly, if you please, monsieur! Many miles lie ahead of us.’

  Lying here, my limbs so frail, at times I believe I have a sense of what it must be like to feel one’s body dying by inches. There are days I can wriggle my toes, but I cannot feel them. I can move my fingers, but not stir strength in them. As now, today, my entire being seems almost weightless. But then, I am fortunate to be resting in a comfortable bed, with clean linen, the care of trained nurses, food that my poor dear Yakuts could only dream of, placed in my hand. Not a sack of turnips and potatoes left such a distance from my sick bed that I would have to crawl to fetch it.

  I found many Yakuts lepers frozen in the snow having failed to reach their pitiful supplies. If we happened across them in summer the animals of the forest would have reached them first, so that their bones were scattered and gnawed. How many, I wonder, lost their lives to the bears? Those fearsome beasts were, for me, the spectres of the taiga. We were ever alert for signs of them. Scratchings on a tree. Scent markings. Spoor. A distant sound among the woodland. The horses sensed them, of course, hearing and smelling what we could not. So terrified were they that they would take off, galloping from the path, running blindly. I knew that to fall would be catastrophic, but staying aboard was also perilous. My legs were bashed against rough trunks as the animal twisted and turned at speed. I was compelled to throw myself forward, clinging to the pony’s neck, in order to avoid being cracked upon the head by a low bough, or knocked to the ground.

  And how was it that you fell from favour in New Zealand?

  There were misunderstandings.

  Surely it was more than that! The newspapers vilified you. You were accused of… well, would you like to defend yourself now?

  There will always be those who seek to make themselves look better by making someone else look worse.

  But don’t you want to clear your name? You tried to do so before. You even brought a law suit.

  Which I chose to drop.

  Which lack of money forced you to drop. How that must have rankled! To have to let your accusers go unchallenged. Their accusations unanswered.

  I did answer them, many times. Those who know me know the truth of it. As does God.

  There were some who said you hid behind God. That you were not, perhaps, the pious, godly woman you would have everyone believe.

  I was only ever engaged in God’s work.

  Lucky for you that work saw you elevated, then. Mixing with royalty. Money being given you in the name of your causes.

  You seem determined to goad me into anger. I can’t think why. What is it you want me to say? Do you expect me to defend myself all over again? Do you truly believe that now, at this point in my life, I have the strength to do it all again?

  And yet you are writing another book, aren’t you?

  I do that to order my thoughts. I do that so that I might remember clearly.

  I wonder what it is you wish to remember most? Tell me just this: what was the most hurtful accusation? Which blow caused the most pain?

  What would that reveal? If you seek truth, that may not be the path to it.

  I could give you a list, to make it easier. Where shall we start?

  Please, do not.

  Fraud. Embezzlement. Lying. Self-aggrandisement. Assault.

  The only sensible way to travel from Irkutsk to Yakutsk was, of course, to use the river. This wide, smooth waterway was the main connection between the two places before the completion of the Trans-Siberian railway line. I am a fair sailor, not given to sickness, and I could, if called upon to do so, swim passably well, so that I was not anxious when considering this section of the journey. I had not, however, understood the nature of the vessel on which I would be berthed. This was no recreational river boat. Indeed, it was not designed for passengers at all. It was a barge, no more no less, and its cargo potatoes. My billet was atop the sacking that covered these muddy, musty vegetables. We were fortunate that the journey was no more than 3,000 miles, for 3,000 miles was quite enough.

  We had not long begun the task of reorganising the hospital linen cupboard, but already the store room was half-filled with stacks of neatly folded sheets and pillow cases. I had two nurses to help me, Nurse Wilson and a newcomer, Nurse Treharn, a shy little thing given to blushing. Ours was not a difficult task that day, but it was an extra bit of work on top of our normal duties, and as such we all viewed it as a nuisance. Still, it could not be put off indefinitely.

  ‘Nurse Wilson, put the newest linen upon the far end of the table. I wish to sort the wheat from the chaff. We will inspect each piece and anything requiring further mending can go on a separate pile over there.’ I indicated the top of the cupboard in the corner of the room.

  ‘We are up to date with the needlework, Sister,’ she told me. ‘We should find nothing that is not suitable for use.’

  ‘We should not, but I wager that we shall,’ I replied, handing her another armful of whiteness. The smell of bleach and starch was disturbed the more we unloaded the cupboard. Nurse Treharn scurried back and fore with the pillow slips. She reminded me of a house mouse, darting for the skirting. ‘Nurse Treharn, kindly fetch the stepladder. I shall need it if I am to reach the top shelf.’

  She did as she was instructed, and together we positioned the wooden steps as near to the cupboard as was possible.

  ‘They seem very rickety, Sister Marsden. Are you quite certain they are safe?’ she asked, her voice little more than a whisper. She had the perplexing habit of not looking one in the eye when she spoke.

  ‘They are perfectly serviceable, Nurse,’ I told her. ‘Now, you hold onto them like so,’ I took her hands and placed them upon the wooden uprights. ‘That’s it. Just to keep them steady. Really, Nurse, you must learn to raise your face when someone is speaking to you.’

  ‘Sorry, Sister.’

  ‘It truly is disconcerting to be always addressing the top of your head.’

  ‘Sorry, Sister,’ she said again, only this time she lifted her chin and met my eye. At once her face flushed deepest pink.

  ‘That’s better. Now, don’t let go,’ I said as I mounted the ladder.

/>   I recall reaching the penultimate step and finding that still I could not reach the back of the highest shelf of the tallboy. ‘Hold tight, I shall have to stand on the top.’ Even as I spoke I felt the steps give a slight wobble. I placed my feet squarely in the centre of the tread, my shins leaning my weight forwards against the hand rail above it. By stretching forwards I was able to take hold of the last bundle of linen and pull it towards myself. It was as I did so that I the ladder gave way. I heard both nurses cry out, there was the sound of snapping wood, and then I fell. I fell heavily, I landed awkwardly, my head connecting with the hard tiles of the floor so that I was instantly rendered unconscious.

  The barge, or pauzok, was typical of its kind in that it was designed to float in shallow water, so that I was able to embark directly from the pier at Irkutsk. As I reached for the hand that was offered me I wondered if this was not to be a more testing mode of transport even that the dreaded tarantass. It was little more than a covered raft. The covered part providing not accommodation for passengers – for this was in no way a pleasure cruiser! – but protection for its cargo, in this instance potatoes. There was a small area to the rear which was open, and upon which deck the pilot of the vessel and his single crew member stood or sat so that they might navigate the river. At times one of them would stand at the front of the boat to use one of the long poles with which he would punt to help steer the boat, another being similarly employed at the rear. As I set foot aboard I was immediately aware of two things. The first was the uneasy movement of the boat, for something with no keel can only bob and bounce upon the water, even though it be a river free of larger waves. Whilst I am not given to suffering from mal de mer I did wonder if I might not fall victim to mal de rivière. Happily, this proved not to be the case. The second unforgettable characteristic of the barge was its smell. There was a musty, damp, dankness that emanated from the hold that seemed to cling to one’s clothes, so that in the days and weeks to come I would feel myself as reeking as the vegetables with which I travelled. The odour placed a bitterness upon one’s palette, so that it tainted every morsel eaten or drunk for the entirety of the voyage.

  The Lena is a majestic river, the proportions of which it will be hard for me to adequately describe to anyone who has not travelled beyond the small countries of Europe. Imagine, if you can, a steel grey surface that stretches towards the horizon in both directions. You might conjure this spectacle if you think of looking first up and then downstream on the longest stretch of river you have ever encountered. Now adjust your thinking to comprehend that this is not the length of the river, but its width. Indeed, on some days, it was only possible to see one bank of the river. To see the other, we must travel past the midway point. This gave the curious impression that we were off the coast on some swirling sea, rather than following the course of an inland waterway of freshwater, rather than salt.

  The owner of the vessel – the name of which I was never told – showed me with unconcealed pride the quarters that were to be mine during my stay aboard. These consisted of a pile of sacking placed atop the cargo in the hold on the left hand side, as near to the entrance as it was possible to get. This position at least allowed for some air and a little light. My billet was in the corner curtained off on the remaining two sides by further hessian, and included a tiny area next the wall, which was sacrificed to my needs, being free from potatoes, so that the boards of the deck were revealed. Here was space enough for me to use the bucket provided when nature compelled me to do so. In addition, there was space for my cases, upon which I would be able to sit, and a small tin cupboard for my food. The sight of the limit of my comforts for the coming weeks gave me a moment of near despair, causing me to think I would prefer to take my chances with wolves, bears and thawing ice, if only it meant fresh air and freedom of movement. But then I thought of how comparatively quickly I would cover the thousands of miles between Irkutsk and Yakutsk on the barge, and how every moment which delayed me prolonged the suffering of my poor lepers, and I silently rebuked myself for my selfishness.

  After the first few days I believed I had settled into a way of managing the new challenges presented me. The captain of the boat and his crew spoke nothing but a dialect of Russian that was impenetrable to me. Indeed, having enjoyed the services of two translators I had acquired very little Russian at all. The few guides who travelled with me and who still included Yuri, the trusty Cossack and his dog, chose to ‘camp’ on top of the cover of the barge towards its prow, beneath a tent of their own construction. To reach them would require scrambling over the uneven rooftop, so that we would be able to do little more than wave acknowledgement of one another occasionally, unless we put into a port along the way. How I missed Ada. How I missed Monsieur Vilenbakhov. It is such a fundamental human desire to communicate. I would have to content myself with directing my thoughts and fears to the ready ear of God.

  I decided routine was key to making the journey tolerable. I arose with the dawn, which was signified by a grey light creeping through the cracks between the boards forming the sides of the covered area. This early in the season – it was nearing the end of March – daylight did not visit this distant land until nearly nine o’clock. I would rise and fetch water from one of the tin cans stored on the other side of my curtain. With this gritty liquid I would do my best to make my ablutions, before pinning back the hessian so that there was sufficient light by which to read. I spent an hour or so then with the Gospels, happy to set my thoughts on higher things, to strengthen my resolve and remind me of my purpose. On the fourth day, however, when the temperature had risen considerably even, it seemed to me, before the sun was up, the air in the hold was oppressively thick with potato fumes. What was worse, this warmth brought other changes, for it stirred from slumber other passengers with which I shared my billet. Of course there were mice, and I was so accustomed to these I barely registered their presence. If I spied a rat I called out and one of the men would appear with a shovel and dash about beating at the sacks and floor until the thing had either escaped or been despatched. If he was successful the captain would treat me to a gummy smile. If he was unsuccessful he would merely shrug, a gesture which he sometimes chose to underline with a hearty spit.

  But there was something else. As I sat upon my chair of luggage, my book in hand, my mind happily taken up with the familiar words and their message, I became dimly aware of a movement. Thinking it likely a mouse, I ignored it and read on. I then felt something nudging against my foot. Slowly, cautiously, expecting a particularly bold rat, I lowered my book so that I might see what company I had. I am not given to shrieking, and I am of the opinion that when a woman screams from fear of something she finds repulsive it does our sex no good at all, for it underlines that spurious notion that we are but a muddle of hysterical female physiology, and should be kept silent and at home. However, the sight of the monstrous centipede that was now lifting its front legs to climb my boot brought forth from me such a screech as wolf and bear had so far failed to elicit. The thing was longer than any rat and almost as broad. As I leapt from my seat, dropping my precious copy of the Gospels, the vile creature wriggled and undulated, its orange body raising up as its countless black legs felt about it for my boot. There was no space to step away from the thing, and even as I hesitated in horror I watched it gain purchase on the leather toe and begin its ascent with terrifying speed, so that I knew in seconds it would scale my leg. I cannot say I was in control of my actions as I beat at my skirts and hopped and jumped and shook my foot. When the captain appeared in the doorway it was to see a woman in a frenzy of violence beating at the twitching corpse of the assailant with a (mercifully empty!) bucket. He uttered words that needed no translation, the astonishment on his face being entirely eloquent.

  I took myself up on deck, such as it was, and exchanged incomprehensible good mornings with the captain and his crew. The sight and sound of the samovar was always able to lift my spirits, and the men appeared cheerful enough, and content to h
ave me sit with them. They laughed as they chatted on this occasion, and I feel certain their amusement was at my own expense, but I was too shaken to care. It was only as I sipped my tea and watched the smooth water of the Lena slipping by that I began to feel calmer. The captain had led me to understand, through an elaborate mime, that many more of the loathsome centipedes inhabited the cargo. I feared I might never sleep properly in my ‘cabin’ now that I knew whom I shared it with, and the thought depressed me. I must find a way to endure the weeks ahead, and refreshing sleep was a crucial part of this. It occurred to me that such insects preferred to dwell in darkness, and so I reasoned that Yuri and his companions were not troubled by them in their ‘encampment’ out in the open on the top of the boat. I finished my tea, and then, to the amazement of the captain and his man, climbed onto the roof of the barge and made my precarious way to the front of the boat. Yuri and the others were sitting or reclining and on seeing me attempted to stand up. I signalled to them not to bother. Yuri’s dog wagged his tail in welcome. Through halting Russian on my part, great patience on their part, and no small amount of mime, I was able to tell them my plan. I was shamed by my inability to speak their language and determined to use the remainder of the voyage to learn what Russian I could from them. The rest of the day was taken up moving my bed and extending their canvas shelter to accommodate it. Most of my things I kept below, so that I could still return to them during the day when I needed to, to give the men and myself a brief period of privacy.