a compassionate smile, “Although I do not suppose the scientific words make it any less painful.”
The fifteen-year-old African slave’s face puckered into tears. She had been brave while Tiola examined the damage as gently as she could, but the courage was fading fast. “It hurts,” she wailed, cradling the arm to her chest, the wrist and hand hanging limp, tears streaming. “Oh, it hurts so!”
It had been a silly accident, one that could happen to anyone. Kisty had slipped in the soapy residue of the slopped laundry water puddling Bella’s rectangular courtyard, her foot skidding on the wet cobblestones that glistened like fish scales in the sunlight. She had tried to save herself from falling by putting out her arm, the sound of the bone fracturing distinctly audible as she came down.
Wet linen sheets and underpetticoats pegged along the washing lines strung to and fro, flapped in the boisterous wind. The yard, with its central well and seat of ease – a flimsy wooden hut containing nothing more than a board with a hole in it over the stink of the cess pit – was an almost unique amenity in this quarter of Cape Town. Bella was a wealthy woman who could afford the choice of luxuries. The southern end was dissected by a dark passageway three feet wide. It ran beneath the first floor of Bella’s double-fronted property, which faced into Harbour Street. Although most people tended to call it Grope Lane.
Bella’s personal apartment was to the left of the passage, the business side to the right, and at its courtyard end a flight of wooden stairs led steeply up to the two light airy rooms of a first floor lodging. Tiola and Jenna had made them into a comfortable home.
Drawn by the noise, Bella appeared with two of her girls, Amber-Rose and Crystal, towing behind. Kisty, purchased from the slave market as a housemaid, was aware she had a good place of employment and that Bella was a fair woman to work for, but despite her employer’s repeated assurances, she remained dubious about not being required to work ‘upstairs.’ Frequently, Bella told the girl she was unsuitable, not being in possession of the correct assets that were a prerequisite for entertaining gentlemen. Kisty’s face was pretty but her bosoms were as flat as unleavened bread and had no prospect of filling out.
“Stop snivelling, child,” Bella snapped. “Do you need to make such a caterwauling fuss?” All the same, she leant over Tiola’s shoulder to inspect the injury for herself, her mouth making a small moue of concern. Bella Dubois was often blustering wind on the surface, underneath she valued her girls, from kitchen slave to prima prostitute.
“You had best send for Doctor Paterson,” Tiola suggested, being practical. “I am no bone surgeon.”
Both Amber-Rose and Crystal shrieked in unison, horrified. “Him? Oh no, not that charlatan! He is always drunk and his breeches stink of piss.”
“But this needs setting,” Tiola protested.
“You can do it though dear, can you not?” Bella answered, confidently patting Tiola’s arm. “You mended a dog’s leg a few weeks past.”
“That was a dog!”
“Is there a difference to bones then? Are those of a dog’s softer or harder, or something?” Bella agreed with her girls, there would be no doubting the form of payment the useless drunkard of a quack doctor would be asking. And the better physicians, those who served the gentry residing on the other side of town, would never condescend to set foot in the brothel area to tend a black slave, for all Bella’s pile of accumulated wealth.
Tiola protested again, adamant. “What does it matter if a stray cur runs lame? If I cannot set Kisty’s arm straight, she will have a crooked limb all her life.”
“I agree, but will an oaf such as he do any better?” Bella countered. “He is a drunken fool. His diagnosis would be to saw the arm off.”
Kisty gave a quivering, alarmed cry, cradled her arm closer. “Oh no, no
The fifteen-year-old African slave’s face puckered into tears. She had been brave while Tiola examined the damage as gently as she could, but the courage was fading fast. “It hurts,” she wailed, cradling the arm to her chest, the wrist and hand hanging limp, tears streaming. “Oh, it hurts so!”
It had been a silly accident, one that could happen to anyone. Kisty had slipped in the soapy residue of the slopped laundry water puddling Bella’s rectangular courtyard, her foot skidding on the wet cobblestones that glistened like fish scales in the sunlight. She had tried to save herself from falling by putting out her arm, the sound of the bone fracturing distinctly audible as she came down.
Wet linen sheets and underpetticoats pegged along the washing lines strung to and fro, flapped in the boisterous wind. The yard, with its central well and seat of ease – a flimsy wooden hut containing nothing more than a board with a hole in it over the stink of the cess pit – was an almost unique amenity in this quarter of Cape Town. Bella was a wealthy woman who could afford the choice of luxuries. The southern end was dissected by a dark passageway three feet wide. It ran beneath the first floor of Bella’s double-fronted property, which faced into Harbour Street. Although most people tended to call it Grope Lane.
Bella’s personal apartment was to the left of the passage, the business side to the right, and at its courtyard end a flight of wooden stairs led steeply up to the two light airy rooms of a first floor lodging. Tiola and Jenna had made them into a comfortable home.
Drawn by the noise, Bella appeared with two of her girls, Amber-Rose and Crystal, towing behind. Kisty, purchased from the slave market as a housemaid, was aware she had a good place of employment and that Bella was a fair woman to work for, but despite her employer’s repeated assurances, she remained dubious about not being required to work ‘upstairs.’ Frequently, Bella told the girl she was unsuitable, not being in possession of the correct assets that were a prerequisite for entertaining gentlemen. Kisty’s face was pretty but her bosoms were as flat as unleavened bread and had no prospect of filling out.
“Stop snivelling, child,” Bella snapped. “Do you need to make such a caterwauling fuss?” All the same, she leant over Tiola’s shoulder to inspect the injury for herself, her mouth making a small moue of concern. Bella Dubois was often blustering wind on the surface, underneath she valued her girls, from kitchen slave to prima prostitute.
“You had best send for Doctor Paterson,” Tiola suggested, being practical. “I am no bone surgeon.”
Both Amber-Rose and Crystal shrieked in unison, horrified. “Him? Oh no, not that charlatan! He is always drunk and his breeches stink of piss.”
“But this needs setting,” Tiola protested.
“You can do it though dear, can you not?” Bella answered, confidently patting Tiola’s arm. “You mended a dog’s leg a few weeks past.”
“That was a dog!”
“Is there a difference to bones then? Are those of a dog’s softer or harder, or something?” Bella agreed with her girls, there would be no doubting the form of payment the useless drunkard of a quack doctor would be asking. And the better physicians, those who served the gentry residing on the other side of town, would never condescend to set foot in the brothel area to tend a black slave, for all Bella’s pile of accumulated wealth.
Tiola protested again, adamant. “What does it matter if a stray cur runs lame? If I cannot set Kisty’s arm straight, she will have a crooked limb all her life.”
“I agree, but will an oaf such as he do any better?” Bella countered. “He is a drunken fool. His diagnosis would be to saw the arm off.”
Kisty gave a quivering, alarmed cry, cradled her arm closer. “Oh no, no
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