“The little fellow has taken a turn,” the old woman said as she stepped inside and looked curiously round. Of late Norah’s compartment had had a curious interest for her: how many times each night between the hours of six and twelve did she come to the door and listen to all that was going on inside. “I thought that ye’d never hear,” she said. “I was knockin’ and knockin’.”
“He’ll soon be better now,” Norah said in a voice so tensely strained that it caused the listener to look at her with surprise. “I can now pay for doctors, dresses, everything. D’ye hear that, Meg Morraws?” The last sentence sounded like a threat.
The child was doubled up on Meg’s bed, and perspiring freely. The old woman had put on a fire that was now blazing merrily.
“I had twa stanes of coal, and I put them all on because of the kid,” said the woman. “Have ye a penny and I’ll get some oil. There’s not a drop in the house and I’m clean broke.”
Norah handed the woman a sovereign and told her to keep it. Meg ejaculated a grunt of surprise, made a remark about the shops being closed, promptly discovered that she really had some oil, and put the coin in her pocket.
The night wore on; the child, breathing heavily and coughing, lay in Meg’s bed, one little hand showing over the blue lettered sentence on the blanket. The light burned fretfully, the old woman remarked that the oil was mixed with water and that she had got poor value for her money. Norah talked of removing the child into the other room; Meg said it would be madness, and scraping up more coal, heaped it on the fire. In the morning the old woman intended to get very drunk in the pub outside.
A clatter was heard on the stairs; then the sound of a falling body throbbed through the building. Meg went out and found a man—the one-armed soldier—asleep on the landing. She bent down, fumbled with the man’s coat, discovered a bottle of whisky, drank and returned the bottle to the sleeper’s pocket. She entered the room again, smacking her lips, threw herself down by the fire and started to weep. In a little while she fell asleep.
She woke instinctively at eight o’clock, the hour when the taverns were opening, and rising to her feet, she rubbed her eyes vigorously with her fingers. She found Norah sitting on the edge of the bed, one hand pressed tightly against her knee, one resting lightly on the head of the child.
“Are the pubs open yet?” asked Meg, then in a lower voice: “I mean, is the child better, the dear little thing?”
“He’s dead,” said Norah quietly. “He died over an hour ago.”