The Apothecary’s Apprentice 19
The Apothecary's Apprentice
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- 1. The Apothecary’s Apprentice 19
Thomas, panting and hurting all over, was conscious of Goodwife Parry bending over him.
A cup was put to his lips.
“Sip,” she ordered him. “’Twill clear your tubes.”
“Ned?” The query ended with wheezing coughs.
“Alive, praise be. The men are rigging up a stretcher to get him home.”
“Thomas?” That was Jennet.
Grit and sand filled Thomas’s eyes, marring his vision, but he would have have known her anywhere.
The lavender and sandalwood scent of her was sweet in his nostrils, and her touch gentle on his skinned flesh.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
“All right,” Thomas assured her, feeling life returning to his quivering, over-strained limbs.
He could hear Alice talking softly to her injured man, then male voices encouraging their foreman as he was lifted on to a stretcher and carried away.
“Go with them,” Thomas croaked to the women. “I’ll be fine. Others may be needing help. I’m staying here for now.”
A linen swab of something damp and fresh-smelling was pressed into his hand.
“Dab your eyes with this. ’Twill wash out the grit and soothe the inflammation.
“I will do what I can for the ailing. Jennet will attend to Ned,” Goodwife Parry told him. “Well done, Thomas. God be with you.”
A movement, and the figure with the soft lilt of the valleys in her tone was gone.
Thomas rested the blessedly soothing cloth against his streaming eyes and fought for strength to carry out his resolve.
To judge by the moans, gasps and the reek of scorched flesh around him, there was much to be done.
In the mine-worker’s cottage on Queen Street, Ned’s life hung in the balance for the next days.
Tended diligently by his wife and mother, neither of whom knew little rest throughout the long hours, he slowly rallied.
It was the injury to his back that gave rise to problems.
As time went on, and the damaging effect upon his limbs became more obvious, despite all Eira’s skills, doubt set in as to if Ned would ever work again, though none dared voice it aloud.
Thomas, a frequent caller to the house, did his utmost to boost the suffering man’s confidence.
“Take heart, Ned. Early days yet.”
In a bed made up in a corner of the houseplace, Ned, supported by straw-filled bolsters of coarse cotton, turned sunken, weary eyes on him.
“You saved my life, Thomas. I am for ever in your debt.”
“If it hadn’t been me, someone else would have got you free. I just happened to be there and heard you call out.”
Ned continued to fret.
“I cannot lie here indefinitely. Lounging abed won’t pay the rent.”
“We shall manage,” Alice insisted. “We have my earnings from the lace and Jennet’s wage at the shop.”
Which would not amount to much, Thomas thought.
“And we have what my goodwifery attentions bring in,” Eira added. “I shall have to forbear in treating the poor free of charge, though it grieves me.
“But there, every penny helps and payment in kind is most acceptable. A new-laid egg or small sack of flour can be a godsend when the shelf is bare.”
Brave words, which nonetheless left Thomas wondering how the family would continue to function without Ned’s income.
He observed the troubled glances that passed between the women and felt helpless.
“We shall manage,” Alice repeated. “Providing we keep the rent up to date, our rooftree is assured. We are not exactly starving.”
Goodwife Parry nodded.
“No, indeed. We must not give up. There are treatments for regaining the use of the legs.
“I shall try a massage oil recommended by Master Gerard in his recent paper on physic herbs. He also gives exercises to bring life to slackened muscles.”
“Hear that, Ned?” Thomas felt his support necessary. “A pair of crutches might be in order once you’re on your feet again.
“’Twill help you get about till you are properly mended.”
Ned said nothing, but his face darkened, and Thomas was conscious of the depression of what had once been an active and vigorous man.
He helped where possible, without offending dignity: never visiting empty-handed, taking some small offering that Cecily Tewke happened to have spare.
A wedge of the goats’ cheese that was her speciality, a fresh-baked manchet loaf, and once, a pot of broth from Agnetta, rich with meat and herbs and blessedly good.
Neighbours did what they could, but no-one had much to spare, and if times were hard before, this was proving far, far worse.